Doyle, Arthur Conan: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
Doyle, Arthur Conan: The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
Doyle, Arthur Conan: The Return of Sherlock Holmes
Doyle, Arthur Conan: The Adventures of Gerard
Doyle, Arthur Conan: Beyond the City
Doyle, Arthur Conan: A Duet, With an Occasional Chorus
Doyle, Arthur Conan: The Great Boer War
Doyle, Arthur Conan: The Hound of the Baskervilles
Doyle, Arthur Conan: The Lost World
Doyle, Arthur Conan: The New Revelation
Doyle, Arthur Conan: Rodney Stone
Doyle, Arthur Conan: The Sign of the Four
Doyle, Arthur Conan: Sir Nigel
Doyle, Arthur Conan: Songs of Action
Doyle, Arthur Conan: Tales of Terror and Mystery


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Title: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

Author: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

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THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE




   I. A Scandal in Bohemia
  II. The Red-headed League
 III. A Case of Identity
  IV. The Boscombe Valley Mystery
   V. The Five Orange Pips
  VI. The Man with the Twisted Lip
 VII. The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
VIII. The Adventure of the Speckled Band
  IX. The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb
   X. The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
  XI. The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
 XII. The Adventure of the Copper Beeches




ADVENTURE I. A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA

I.

To Sherlock Holmes she is always THE woman. I have seldom heard
him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses
and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt
any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that
one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but
admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect
reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a
lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never
spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They
were admirable things for the observer--excellent for drawing the
veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner
to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely
adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which
might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a
sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power
lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a
nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and
that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable
memory.

I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us
away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the
home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first
finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to
absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of
society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in
Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from
week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the
drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still,
as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his
immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in
following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which
had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time
to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons
to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up
of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee,
and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so
delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland.
Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely
shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of
my former friend and companion.

One night--it was on the twentieth of March, 1888--I was
returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to
civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I
passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated
in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the
Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes
again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers.
His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw
his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against
the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head
sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who
knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their
own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his
drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new
problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which
had formerly been in part my own.

His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I
think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly
eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars,
and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he
stood before the fire and looked me over in his singular
introspective fashion.

"Wedlock suits you," he remarked. "I think, Watson, that you have
put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you."

"Seven!" I answered.

"Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more,
I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not
tell me that you intended to go into harness."

"Then, how do you know?"

"I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting
yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and
careless servant girl?"

"My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much. You would certainly
have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true
that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful
mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can't imagine how you
deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has
given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see how you work it
out."

He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands
together.

"It is simplicity itself," said he; "my eyes tell me that on the
inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it,
the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they
have been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round
the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it.
Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile
weather, and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting
specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a
gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black
mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge
on the right side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted
his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce
him to be an active member of the medical profession."

I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his
process of deduction. "When I hear you give your reasons," I
remarked, "the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously
simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each
successive instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you
explain your process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good
as yours."

"Quite so," he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing
himself down into an armchair. "You see, but you do not observe.
The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen
the steps which lead up from the hall to this room."

"Frequently."

"How often?"

"Well, some hundreds of times."

"Then how many are there?"

"How many? I don't know."

"Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is
just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps,
because I have both seen and observed. By-the-way, since you are
interested in these little problems, and since you are good
enough to chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you
may be interested in this." He threw over a sheet of thick,
pink-tinted note-paper which had been lying open upon the table.
"It came by the last post," said he. "Read it aloud."

The note was undated, and without either signature or address.

"There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight
o'clock," it said, "a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a
matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of
the royal houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may
safely be trusted with matters which are of an importance which
can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have from all
quarters received. Be in your chamber then at that hour, and do
not take it amiss if your visitor wear a mask."

"This is indeed a mystery," I remarked. "What do you imagine that
it means?"

"I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize before
one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit
theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself.
What do you deduce from it?"

I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was
written.

"The man who wrote it was presumably well to do," I remarked,
endeavouring to imitate my companion's processes. "Such paper
could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly
strong and stiff."

"Peculiar--that is the very word," said Holmes. "It is not an
English paper at all. Hold it up to the light."

I did so, and saw a large "E" with a small "g," a "P," and a
large "G" with a small "t" woven into the texture of the paper.

"What do you make of that?" asked Holmes.

"The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather."

"Not at all. The 'G' with the small 't' stands for
'Gesellschaft,' which is the German for 'Company.' It is a
customary contraction like our 'Co.' 'P,' of course, stands for
'Papier.' Now for the 'Eg.' Let us glance at our Continental
Gazetteer." He took down a heavy brown volume from his shelves.
"Eglow, Eglonitz--here we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking
country--in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. 'Remarkable as being
the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous
glass-factories and paper-mills.' Ha, ha, my boy, what do you
make of that?" His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue
triumphant cloud from his cigarette.

"The paper was made in Bohemia," I said.

"Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you
note the peculiar construction of the sentence--'This account of
you we have from all quarters received.' A Frenchman or Russian
could not have written that. It is the German who is so
uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover
what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper and
prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if
I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts."

As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses' hoofs and
grating wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the
bell. Holmes whistled.

"A pair, by the sound," said he. "Yes," he continued, glancing
out of the window. "A nice little brougham and a pair of
beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There's money in
this case, Watson, if there is nothing else."

"I think that I had better go, Holmes."

"Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my
Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity
to miss it."

"But your client--"

"Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he
comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best
attention."

A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and
in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there
was a loud and authoritative tap.

"Come in!" said Holmes.

A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six
inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His
dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked
upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed
across the sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while
the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined
with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch
which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended
halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with
rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence
which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a
broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper
part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black
vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment,
for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower
part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character,
with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive
of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.

"You had my note?" he asked with a deep harsh voice and a
strongly marked German accent. "I told you that I would call." He
looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to
address.

"Pray take a seat," said Holmes. "This is my friend and
colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me
in my cases. Whom have I the honour to address?"

"You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman.
I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour
and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most
extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate
with you alone."

I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me
back into my chair. "It is both, or none," said he. "You may say
before this gentleman anything which you may say to me."

The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. "Then I must begin," said
he, "by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at
the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At
present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it
may have an influence upon European history."

"I promise," said Holmes.

"And I."

"You will excuse this mask," continued our strange visitor. "The
august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to
you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have
just called myself is not exactly my own."

"I was aware of it," said Holmes dryly.

"The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution
has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense
scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of
Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House
of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia."

"I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, settling himself
down in his armchair and closing his eyes.

Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid,
lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him
as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe.
Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his
gigantic client.

"If your Majesty would condescend to state your case," he
remarked, "I should be better able to advise you."

The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in
uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he
tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. "You
are right," he cried; "I am the King. Why should I attempt to
conceal it?"

"Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes. "Your Majesty had not spoken
before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich
Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and
hereditary King of Bohemia."

"But you can understand," said our strange visitor, sitting down
once more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, "you
can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in
my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not
confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I
have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting
you."

"Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.

"The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a
lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known
adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you."

"Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor," murmured Holmes without
opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of
docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it
was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not
at once furnish information. In this case I found her biography
sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a
staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea
fishes.

"Let me see!" said Holmes. "Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year
1858. Contralto--hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera
of Warsaw--yes! Retired from operatic stage--ha! Living in
London--quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled
with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and
is now desirous of getting those letters back."

"Precisely so. But how--"

"Was there a secret marriage?"

"None."

"No legal papers or certificates?"

"None."

"Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should
produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is
she to prove their authenticity?"

"There is the writing."

"Pooh, pooh! Forgery."

"My private note-paper."

"Stolen."

"My own seal."

"Imitated."

"My photograph."

"Bought."

"We were both in the photograph."

"Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an
indiscretion."

"I was mad--insane."

"You have compromised yourself seriously."

"I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now."

"It must be recovered."

"We have tried and failed."

"Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought."

"She will not sell."

"Stolen, then."

"Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked
her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice
she has been waylaid. There has been no result."

"No sign of it?"

"Absolutely none."

Holmes laughed. "It is quite a pretty little problem," said he.

"But a very serious one to me," returned the King reproachfully.

"Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the
photograph?"

"To ruin me."

"But how?"

"I am about to be married."

"So I have heard."

"To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the
King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her
family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a
doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end."

"And Irene Adler?"

"Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I
know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul
of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and
the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry
another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not
go--none."

"You are sure that she has not sent it yet?"

"I am sure."

"And why?"

"Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the
betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday."

"Oh, then we have three days yet," said Holmes with a yawn. "That
is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to
look into just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in
London for the present?"

"Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the
Count Von Kramm."

"Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress."

"Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety."

"Then, as to money?"

"You have carte blanche."

"Absolutely?"

"I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom
to have that photograph."

"And for present expenses?"

The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak
and laid it on the table.

"There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in
notes," he said.

Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and
handed it to him.

"And Mademoiselle's address?" he asked.

"Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's Wood."

Holmes took a note of it. "One other question," said he. "Was the
photograph a cabinet?"

"It was."

"Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon
have some good news for you. And good-night, Watson," he added,
as the wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. "If
you will be good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three
o'clock I should like to chat this little matter over with you."


II.

At three o'clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had
not yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the
house shortly after eight o'clock in the morning. I sat down
beside the fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him,
however long he might be. I was already deeply interested in his
inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim and
strange features which were associated with the two crimes which
I have already recorded, still, the nature of the case and the
exalted station of his client gave it a character of its own.
Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which my
friend had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of
a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a
pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the
quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most
inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable
success that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to
enter into my head.

It was close upon four before the door opened, and a
drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an
inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room.
Accustomed as I was to my friend's amazing powers in the use of
disguises, I had to look three times before I was certain that it
was indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence he
emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old.
Putting his hands into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in
front of the fire and laughed heartily for some minutes.

"Well, really!" he cried, and then he choked and laughed again
until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the
chair.

"What is it?"

"It's quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I
employed my morning, or what I ended by doing."

"I can't imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the
habits, and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler."

"Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you,
however. I left the house a little after eight o'clock this
morning in the character of a groom out of work. There is a
wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be one of
them, and you will know all that there is to know. I soon found
Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but
built out in front right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock
to the door. Large sitting-room on the right side, well
furnished, with long windows almost to the floor, and those
preposterous English window fasteners which a child could open.
Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window
could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked round
it and examined it closely from every point of view, but without
noting anything else of interest.

"I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that
there was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the
garden. I lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses,
and received in exchange twopence, a glass of half and half, two
fills of shag tobacco, and as much information as I could desire
about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people in
the neighbourhood in whom I was not in the least interested, but
whose biographies I was compelled to listen to."

"And what of Irene Adler?" I asked.

"Oh, she has turned all the men's heads down in that part. She is
the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the
Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts,
drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for
dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings.
Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark,
handsome, and dashing, never calls less than once a day, and
often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See
the advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven him
home a dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him.
When I had listened to all they had to tell, I began to walk up
and down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my plan
of campaign.

"This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the
matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the
relation between them, and what the object of his repeated
visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the
former, she had probably transferred the photograph to his
keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this
question depended whether I should continue my work at Briony
Lodge, or turn my attention to the gentleman's chambers in the
Temple. It was a delicate point, and it widened the field of my
inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to
let you see my little difficulties, if you are to understand the
situation."

"I am following you closely," I answered.

"I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab
drove up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a
remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached--
evidently the man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a
great hurry, shouted to the cabman to wait, and brushed past the
maid who opened the door with the air of a man who was thoroughly
at home.

"He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch
glimpses of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and
down, talking excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see
nothing. Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than
before. As he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from
his pocket and looked at it earnestly, 'Drive like the devil,' he
shouted, 'first to Gross & Hankey's in Regent Street, and then to
the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if
you do it in twenty minutes!'

"Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do
well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau,
the coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under
his ear, while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of
the buckles. It hadn't pulled up before she shot out of the hall
door and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment,
but she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for.

"'The Church of St. Monica, John,' she cried, 'and half a
sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.'

"This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing
whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her
landau when a cab came through the street. The driver looked
twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could
object. 'The Church of St. Monica,' said I, 'and half a sovereign
if you reach it in twenty minutes.' It was twenty-five minutes to
twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was in the wind.

"My cabby drove fast. I don't think I ever drove faster, but the
others were there before us. The cab and the landau with their
steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid
the man and hurried into the church. There was not a soul there
save the two whom I had followed and a surpliced clergyman, who
seemed to be expostulating with them. They were all three
standing in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side
aisle like any other idler who has dropped into a church.
Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the altar faced round to
me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could towards
me.

"'Thank God,' he cried. 'You'll do. Come! Come!'

"'What then?' I asked.

"'Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won't be legal.'

"I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was
I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear,
and vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally
assisting in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to
Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and
there was the gentleman thanking me on the one side and the lady
on the other, while the clergyman beamed on me in front. It was
the most preposterous position in which I ever found myself in my
life, and it was the thought of it that started me laughing just
now. It seems that there had been some informality about their
license, that the clergyman absolutely refused to marry them
without a witness of some sort, and that my lucky appearance
saved the bridegroom from having to sally out into the streets in
search of a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I mean
to wear it on my watch-chain in memory of the occasion."

"This is a very unexpected turn of affairs," said I; "and what
then?"

"Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if
the pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate
very prompt and energetic measures on my part. At the church
door, however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and
she to her own house. 'I shall drive out in the park at five as
usual,' she said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove
away in different directions, and I went off to make my own
arrangements."

"Which are?"

"Some cold beef and a glass of beer," he answered, ringing the
bell. "I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to
be busier still this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want
your co-operation."

"I shall be delighted."

"You don't mind breaking the law?"

"Not in the least."

"Nor running a chance of arrest?"

"Not in a good cause."

"Oh, the cause is excellent!"

"Then I am your man."

"I was sure that I might rely on you."

"But what is it you wish?"

"When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to
you. Now," he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that
our landlady had provided, "I must discuss it while I eat, for I
have not much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must
be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns
from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her."

"And what then?"

"You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to
occur. There is only one point on which I must insist. You must
not interfere, come what may. You understand?"

"I am to be neutral?"

"To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small
unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being
conveyed into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the
sitting-room window will open. You are to station yourself close
to that open window."

"Yes."

"You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you."

"Yes."

"And when I raise my hand--so--you will throw into the room what
I give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of
fire. You quite follow me?"

"Entirely."

"It is nothing very formidable," he said, taking a long cigar-
shaped roll from his pocket. "It is an ordinary plumber's smoke-
rocket, fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting.
Your task is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire,
it will be taken up by quite a number of people. You may then
walk to the end of the street, and I will rejoin you in ten
minutes. I hope that I have made myself clear?"

"I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you,
and at the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry
of fire, and to wait you at the corner of the street."

"Precisely."

"Then you may entirely rely on me."

"That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I
prepare for the new role I have to play."

He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in
the character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist
clergyman. His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white
tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and
benevolent curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could have
equalled. It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His
expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every
fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as
science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in
crime.

It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still
wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in
Serpentine Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just
being lighted as we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge,
waiting for the coming of its occupant. The house was just such
as I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes' succinct description,
but the locality appeared to be less private than I expected. On
the contrary, for a small street in a quiet neighbourhood, it was
remarkably animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed men
smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissors-grinder with his
wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a nurse-girl, and
several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down with
cigars in their mouths.

"You see," remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of
the house, "this marriage rather simplifies matters. The
photograph becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are
that she would be as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey
Norton, as our client is to its coming to the eyes of his
princess. Now the question is, Where are we to find the
photograph?"

"Where, indeed?"

"It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is
cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman's
dress. She knows that the King is capable of having her waylaid
and searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made. We
may take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her."

"Where, then?"

"Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But
I am inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive,
and they like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it
over to anyone else? She could trust her own guardianship, but
she could not tell what indirect or political influence might be
brought to bear upon a business man. Besides, remember that she
had resolved to use it within a few days. It must be where she
can lay her hands upon it. It must be in her own house."

"But it has twice been burgled."

"Pshaw! They did not know how to look."

"But how will you look?"

"I will not look."

"What then?"

"I will get her to show me."

"But she will refuse."

"She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is
her carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter."

As he spoke the gleam of the side-lights of a carriage came round
the curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which
rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of
the loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in
the hope of earning a copper, but was elbowed away by another
loafer, who had rushed up with the same intention. A fierce
quarrel broke out, which was increased by the two guardsmen, who
took sides with one of the loungers, and by the scissors-grinder,
who was equally hot upon the other side. A blow was struck, and
in an instant the lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was
the centre of a little knot of flushed and struggling men, who
struck savagely at each other with their fists and sticks. Holmes
dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but just as he reached
her he gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the blood
running freely down his face. At his fall the guardsmen took to
their heels in one direction and the loungers in the other, while
a number of better-dressed people, who had watched the scuffle
without taking part in it, crowded in to help the lady and to
attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her,
had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top with her
superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking
back into the street.

"Is the poor gentleman much hurt?" she asked.

"He is dead," cried several voices.

"No, no, there's life in him!" shouted another. "But he'll be
gone before you can get him to hospital."

"He's a brave fellow," said a woman. "They would have had the
lady's purse and watch if it hadn't been for him. They were a
gang, and a rough one, too. Ah, he's breathing now."

"He can't lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?"

"Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable
sofa. This way, please!"

Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out
in the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings
from my post by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the
blinds had not been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay
upon the couch. I do not know whether he was seized with
compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I
know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life
than when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I was
conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which she waited
upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery
to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had intrusted
to me. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under
my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are
but preventing her from injuring another.

Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man
who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the
window. At the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the
signal I tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of "Fire!" The
word was no sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of
spectators, well dressed and ill--gentlemen, ostlers, and
servant-maids--joined in a general shriek of "Fire!" Thick clouds
of smoke curled through the room and out at the open window. I
caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later the voice
of Holmes from within assuring them that it was a false alarm.
Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way to the corner
of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my
friend's arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar.
He walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we
had turned down one of the quiet streets which lead towards the
Edgeware Road.

"You did it very nicely, Doctor," he remarked. "Nothing could
have been better. It is all right."

"You have the photograph?"

"I know where it is."

"And how did you find out?"

"She showed me, as I told you she would."

"I am still in the dark."

"I do not wish to make a mystery," said he, laughing. "The matter
was perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the
street was an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening."

"I guessed as much."

"Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in
the palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand
to my face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick."

"That also I could fathom."

"Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else
could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room
which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was
determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for
air, they were compelled to open the window, and you had your
chance."

"How did that help you?"

"It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on
fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she
values most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have
more than once taken advantage of it. In the case of the
Darlington substitution scandal it was of use to me, and also in
the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby;
an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to
me that our lady of to-day had nothing in the house more precious
to her than what we are in quest of. She would rush to secure it.
The alarm of fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting were
enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The
photograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the
right bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught a
glimpse of it as she half-drew it out. When I cried out that it
was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed
from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose, and, making
my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether to
attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had
come in, and as he was watching me narrowly it seemed safer to
wait. A little over-precipitance may ruin all."

"And now?" I asked.

"Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King
to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be
shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is
probable that when she comes she may find neither us nor the
photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain
it with his own hands."

"And when will you call?"

"At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall
have a clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage
may mean a complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to
the King without delay."

We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was
searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:

"Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the
greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had
hurried by.

"I've heard that voice before," said Holmes, staring down the
dimly lit street. "Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have
been."


III.

I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our
toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed
into the room.

"You have really got it!" he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by
either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.

"Not yet."

"But you have hopes?"

"I have hopes."

"Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone."

"We must have a cab."

"No, my brougham is waiting."

"Then that will simplify matters." We descended and started off
once more for Briony Lodge.

"Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes.

"Married! When?"

"Yesterday."

"But to whom?"

"To an English lawyer named Norton."

"But she could not love him."

"I am in hopes that she does."

"And why in hopes?"

"Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future
annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your
Majesty. If she does not love your Majesty, there is no reason
why she should interfere with your Majesty's plan."

"It is true. And yet--Well! I wish she had been of my own
station! What a queen she would have made!" He relapsed into a
moody silence, which was not broken until we drew up in
Serpentine Avenue.

The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood
upon the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped
from the brougham.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?" said she.

"I am Mr. Holmes," answered my companion, looking at her with a
questioning and rather startled gaze.

"Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She
left this morning with her husband by the 5:15 train from Charing
Cross for the Continent."

"What!" Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and
surprise. "Do you mean that she has left England?"

"Never to return."

"And the papers?" asked the King hoarsely. "All is lost."

"We shall see." He pushed past the servant and rushed into the
drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was
scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and
open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before
her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small
sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a
photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler
herself in evening dress, the letter was superscribed to
"Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for." My friend
tore it open and we all three read it together. It was dated at
midnight of the preceding night and ran in this way:

"MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,--You really did it very well. You
took me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a
suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I
began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had
been told that if the King employed an agent it would certainly
be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with all this,
you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became
suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind
old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress
myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage
of the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to
watch you, ran up stairs, got into my walking-clothes, as I call
them, and came down just as you departed.

"Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was
really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock
Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and
started for the Temple to see my husband.

"We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by
so formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when
you call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in
peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may
do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly
wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a
weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might
take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to
possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

                                      "Very truly yours,
                                   "IRENE NORTON, née ADLER."

"What a woman--oh, what a woman!" cried the King of Bohemia, when
we had all three read this epistle. "Did I not tell you how quick
and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen?
Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?"

"From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to be on a
very different level to your Majesty," said Holmes coldly. "I am
sorry that I have not been able to bring your Majesty's business
to a more successful conclusion."

"On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the King; "nothing could be
more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The
photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire."

"I am glad to hear your Majesty say so."

"I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can
reward you. This ring--" He slipped an emerald snake ring from
his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand.

"Your Majesty has something which I should value even more
highly," said Holmes.

"You have but to name it."

"This photograph!"

The King stared at him in amazement.

"Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish it."

"I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the
matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good-morning." He
bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the
King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his
chambers.

And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom
of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were
beaten by a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the
cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And
when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her
photograph, it is always under the honourable title of the woman.



ADVENTURE II. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the
autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a
very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair.
With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when
Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door
behind me.

"You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear
Watson," he said cordially.

"I was afraid that you were engaged."

"So I am. Very much so."

"Then I can wait in the next room."

"Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and
helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no
doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of
greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small
fat-encircled eyes.

"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and
putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in
judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love
of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum
routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by
the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you
will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own
little adventures."

"Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I
observed.

"You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we
went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary
Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary
combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more
daring than any effort of the imagination."

"A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."

"You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my
view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you
until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to
be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call
upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to
be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some
time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique
things are very often connected not with the larger but with the
smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for
doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I
have heard it is impossible for me to say whether the present
case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is
certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to.
Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to
recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend
Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the
peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every
possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some
slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide
myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my
memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the
facts are, to the best of my belief, unique."

The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some
little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the
inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the
advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper
flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man and
endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read the
indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance.

I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor
bore every mark of being an average commonplace British
tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey
shepherd's check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat,
unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy
Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as
an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a
wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether,
look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save
his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and
discontent upon his features.

Sherlock Holmes' quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook
his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances.
"Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual
labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has
been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of
writing lately, I can deduce nothing else."

Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger
upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

"How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr.
Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, that I did
manual labour. It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's
carpenter."

"Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger
than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more
developed."

"Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"

"I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,
especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you
use an arc-and-compass breastpin."

"Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?"

"What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for
five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the
elbow where you rest it upon the desk?"

"Well, but China?"

"The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right
wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small
study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature
of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes' scales of a
delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I
see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter
becomes even more simple."

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said he. "I
thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see
that there was nothing in it, after all."

"I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a mistake
in explaining. 'Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you know, and my
poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I
am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?"

"Yes, I have got it now," he answered with his thick red finger
planted halfway down the column. "Here it is. This is what began
it all. You just read it for yourself, sir."

I took the paper from him and read as follows:

"TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late
Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now
another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a
salary of 4 pounds a week for purely nominal services. All
red-headed men who are sound in body and mind and above the age
of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at
eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7
Pope's Court, Fleet Street."

"What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated after I had twice
read over the extraordinary announcement.

Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when
in high spirits. "It is a little off the beaten track, isn't it?"
said he. "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us
all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this
advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a note,
Doctor, of the paper and the date."

"It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months
ago."

"Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?"

"Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes," said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; "I have a small
pawnbroker's business at Coburg Square, near the City. It's not a
very large affair, and of late years it has not done more than
just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two assistants,
but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but
that he is willing to come for half wages so as to learn the
business."

"What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth,
either. It's hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter
assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better
himself and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after
all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?"

"Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employé who
comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience
among employers in this age. I don't know that your assistant is
not as remarkable as your advertisement."

"Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never was such a
fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought
to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar
like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his
main fault, but on the whole he's a good worker. There's no vice
in him."

"He is still with you, I presume?"

"Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple
cooking and keeps the place clean--that's all I have in the
house, for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very
quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads
and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.

"The first thing that put us out was that advertisement.
Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight
weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says:

"'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.'

"'Why that?' I asks.

"'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the League of the
Red-headed Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who
gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than
there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits' end what
to do with the money. If my hair would only change colour, here's
a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.'

"'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a
very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of
my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting
my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn't know much of what
was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.

"'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?' he
asked with his eyes open.

"'Never.'

"'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one
of the vacancies.'

"'And what are they worth?' I asked.

"'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight,
and it need not interfere very much with one's other
occupations.'

"Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears,
for the business has not been over-good for some years, and an
extra couple of hundred would have been very handy.

"'Tell me all about it,' said I.

"'Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can see for
yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address
where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out,
the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah
Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself
red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men;
so when he died it was found that he had left his enormous
fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the
interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of
that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to
do.'

"'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men who
would apply.'

"'Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 'You see it is
really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had
started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the
old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your
applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but
real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr.
Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be
worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a
few hundred pounds.'

"Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves,
that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed
to me that if there was to be any competition in the matter I
stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent
Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might
prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for
the day and to come right away with me. He was very willing to
have a holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for
the address that was given us in the advertisement.

"I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From
north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in
his hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement.
Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's Court
looked like a coster's orange barrow. I should not have thought
there were so many in the whole country as were brought together
by that single advertisement. Every shade of colour they
were--straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay;
but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real
vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I
would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear
of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and
pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up
to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream
upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back
dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found
ourselves in the office."

"Your experience has been a most entertaining one," remarked
Holmes as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge
pinch of snuff. "Pray continue your very interesting statement."

"There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs
and a deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that
was even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate
as he came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in
them which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem
to be such a very easy matter, after all. However, when our turn
came the little man was much more favourable to me than to any of
the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he
might have a private word with us.

"'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he is
willing to fill a vacancy in the League.'

"'And he is admirably suited for it,' the other answered. 'He has
every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so
fine.' He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and
gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he
plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my
success.

"'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You will,
however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.'
With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I
yelled with the pain. 'There is water in your eyes,' said he as
he released me. 'I perceive that all is as it should be. But we
have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and
once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler's wax which
would disgust you with human nature.' He stepped over to the
window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the
vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below,
and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there
was not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the
manager.

"'My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of
the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are
you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?'

"I answered that I had not.

"His face fell immediately.

"'Dear me!' he said gravely, 'that is very serious indeed! I am
sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the
propagation and spread of the red-heads as well as for their
maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a
bachelor.'

"My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was
not to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for
a few minutes he said that it would be all right.

"'In the case of another,' said he, 'the objection might be
fatal, but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a
head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your
new duties?'

"'Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,'
said I.

"'Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent Spaulding.
'I should be able to look after that for you.'

"'What would be the hours?' I asked.

"'Ten to two.'

"Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an evening, Mr.
Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just
before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in
the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man,
and that he would see to anything that turned up.

"'That would suit me very well,' said I. 'And the pay?'

"'Is 4 pounds a week.'

"'And the work?'

"'Is purely nominal.'

"'What do you call purely nominal?'

"'Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the
building, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole
position forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You
don't comply with the conditions if you budge from the office
during that time.'

"'It's only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,'
said I.

"'No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross; 'neither sickness
nor business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose
your billet.'

"'And the work?'

"'Is to copy out the "Encyclopaedia Britannica." There is the first
volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and
blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be
ready to-morrow?'

"'Certainly,' I answered.

"'Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you
once more on the important position which you have been fortunate
enough to gain.' He bowed me out of the room and I went home with
my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased
at my own good fortune.

"Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in
low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the
whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its
object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past
belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay
such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the
'Encyclopaedia Britannica.' Vincent Spaulding did what he could to
cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the
whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to have a look
at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a
quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started off for
Pope's Court.

"Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as
possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross
was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off
upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from
time to time to see that all was right with me. At two o'clock he
bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had
written, and locked the door of the office after me.

"This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the
manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my
week's work. It was the same next week, and the same the week
after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I
left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only
once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in at
all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for an
instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet
was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not risk
the loss of it.

"Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about
Abbots and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and
hoped with diligence that I might get on to the B's before very
long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly
filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the whole
business came to an end."

"To an end?"

"Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as
usual at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a
little square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the
panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself."

He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet
of note-paper. It read in this fashion:

                  THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

                           IS

                        DISSOLVED.

                     October 9, 1890.

Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the
rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so
completely overtopped every other consideration that we both
burst out into a roar of laughter.

"I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried our
client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. "If you can
do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."

"No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from
which he had half risen. "I really wouldn't miss your case for
the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you
will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it.
Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the
door?"

"I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called
at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything
about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant
living on the ground-floor, and I asked him if he could tell me
what had become of the Red-headed League. He said that he had
never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan
Ross was. He answered that the name was new to him.

"'Well,' said I, 'the gentleman at No. 4.'

"'What, the red-headed man?'

"'Yes.'

"'Oh,' said he, 'his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor
and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new
premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.'

"'Where could I find him?'

"'Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17
King Edward Street, near St. Paul's.'

"I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was
a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever
heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."

"And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.

"I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my
assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say
that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite
good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place
without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough
to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right
away to you."

"And you did very wisely," said Holmes. "Your case is an
exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it.
From what you have told me I think that it is possible that
graver issues hang from it than might at first sight appear."

"Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why, I have lost four
pound a week."

"As far as you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes, "I do
not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary
league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some
30 pounds, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have
gained on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have
lost nothing by them."

"No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are,
and what their object was in playing this prank--if it was a
prank--upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it
cost them two and thirty pounds."

"We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first,
one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who
first called your attention to the advertisement--how long had he
been with you?"

"About a month then."

"How did he come?"

"In answer to an advertisement."

"Was he the only applicant?"

"No, I had a dozen."

"Why did you pick him?"

"Because he was handy and would come cheap."

"At half-wages, in fact."

"Yes."

"What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"

"Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face,
though he's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon
his forehead."

Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. "I thought
as much," said he. "Have you ever observed that his ears are
pierced for earrings?"

"Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he
was a lad."

"Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. "He is still
with you?"

"Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him."

"And has your business been attended to in your absence?"

"Nothing to complain of, sir. There's never very much to do of a
morning."

"That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an
opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is
Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion."

"Well, Watson," said Holmes when our visitor had left us, "what
do you make of it all?"

"I make nothing of it," I answered frankly. "It is a most
mysterious business."

"As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is the less
mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless
crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is
the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this
matter."

"What are you going to do, then?" I asked.

"To smoke," he answered. "It is quite a three pipe problem, and I
beg that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes." He curled
himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his
hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his
black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird.
I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and
indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his
chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and put
his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

"Sarasate plays at the St. James's Hall this afternoon," he
remarked. "What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare
you for a few hours?"

"I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very
absorbing."

"Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City
first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that
there is a good deal of German music on the programme, which is
rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is
introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along!"

We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short
walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular
story which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky,
little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy
two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in
enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded
laurel-bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and
uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with
"JABEZ WILSON" in white letters, upon a corner house, announced
the place where our red-headed client carried on his business.
Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side
and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between
puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down
again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally
he returned to the pawnbroker's, and, having thumped vigorously
upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up
to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a
bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step
in.

"Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you how you would
go from here to the Strand."

"Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant promptly,
closing the door.

"Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes as we walked away. "He is,
in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring
I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known
something of him before."

"Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good
deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you
inquired your way merely in order that you might see him."

"Not him."

"What then?"

"The knees of his trousers."

"And what did you see?"

"What I expected to see."

"Why did you beat the pavement?"

"My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We
are spies in an enemy's country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg
Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it."

The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the
corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a
contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was
one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City
to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense
stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward,
while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of
pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as we looked at the line
of fine shops and stately business premises that they really
abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square
which we had just quitted.

"Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing
along the line, "I should like just to remember the order of the
houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of
London. There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the little
newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank,
the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building
depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now,
Doctor, we've done our work, so it's time we had some play. A
sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where
all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no
red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."

My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a
very capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All
the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect
happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the
music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes
were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the
relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was
possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual nature
alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and
astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction
against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally
predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from
extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was
never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been
lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his
black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase
would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning
power would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were
unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on a
man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him
that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St. James's Hall I
felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set
himself to hunt down.

"You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor," he remarked as we
emerged.

"Yes, it would be as well."

"And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This
business at Coburg Square is serious."

"Why serious?"

"A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to
believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being
Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help
to-night."

"At what time?"

"Ten will be early enough."

"I shall be at Baker Street at ten."

"Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger,
so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket." He waved his
hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the
crowd.

I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was
always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings
with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had
seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that
he saw clearly not only what had happened but what was about to
happen, while to me the whole business was still confused and
grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought
over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed
copier of the "Encyclopaedia" down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg
Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me.
What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed?
Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from
Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker's assistant was a
formidable man--a man who might play a deep game. I tried to
puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter aside
until night should bring an explanation.

It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my
way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker
Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered
the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering
his room I found Holmes in animated conversation with two men,
one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the official police
agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a
very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.

"Ha! Our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his
pea-jacket and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack.
"Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me
introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in
to-night's adventure."

"We're hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see," said Jones in
his consequential way. "Our friend here is a wonderful man for
starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do
the running down."

"I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,"
observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

"You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir," said
the police agent loftily. "He has his own little methods, which
are, if he won't mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical
and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It
is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of
the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly
correct than the official force."

"Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said the
stranger with deference. "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber.
It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I
have not had my rubber."

"I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you will
play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and
that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather,
the stake will be some 30,000 pounds; and for you, Jones, it will
be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands."

"John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's a
young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his
profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on
any criminal in London. He's a remarkable man, is young John
Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been
to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and
though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to
find the man himself. He'll crack a crib in Scotland one week,
and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next.
I've been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him
yet."

"I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night.
I've had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I
agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is
past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two
will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the
second."

Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive
and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in
the afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit
streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.

"We are close there now," my friend remarked. "This fellow
Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the
matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is
not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession.
He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as
tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we
are, and they are waiting for us."

We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had
found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and,
following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a
narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us.
Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive
iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding
stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr.
Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us
down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a
third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all
round with crates and massive boxes.

"You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked as he
held up the lantern and gazed about him.

"Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon
the flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds quite
hollow!" he remarked, looking up in surprise.

"I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!" said Holmes
severely. "You have already imperilled the whole success of our
expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit
down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a
very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his
knees upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens,
began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few
seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again
and put his glass in his pocket.

"We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, "for they can
hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed.
Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their
work the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at
present, Doctor--as no doubt you have divined--in the cellar of
the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr.
Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to
you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of
London should take a considerable interest in this cellar at
present."

"It is our French gold," whispered the director. "We have had
several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."

"Your French gold?"

"Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources
and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of
France. It has become known that we have never had occasion to
unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The
crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between
layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at
present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the
directors have had misgivings upon the subject."

"Which were very well justified," observed Holmes. "And now it is
time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an
hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr.
Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern."

"And sit in the dark?"

"I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and
I thought that, as we were a partie carrée, you might have your
rubber after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations have
gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And,
first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men,
and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us
some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate,
and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a
light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no
compunction about shooting them down."

I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case
behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front
of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness--such an absolute
darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot
metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready
to flash out at a moment's notice. To me, with my nerves worked
up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and
subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the
vault.

"They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. "That is back
through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have
done what I asked you, Jones?"

"I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door."

"Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent
and wait."

What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but
an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must
have almost gone and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs
were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my
nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my
hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle
breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper,
heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note
of the bank director. From my position I could look over the case
in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint
of a light.

At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then
it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then,
without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand
appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the
centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the
hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then
it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark
again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between
the stones.

Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending,
tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon
its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed
the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut,
boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand
on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and
waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In another
instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after
him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face
and a shock of very red hair.

"It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and the
bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"

Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the
collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of
rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed
upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes' hunting crop came
down on the man's wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone
floor.

"It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly. "You have no
chance at all."

"So I see," the other answered with the utmost coolness. "I fancy
that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his
coat-tails."

"There are three men waiting for him at the door," said Holmes.

"Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I
must compliment you."

"And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was very new
and effective."

"You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones. "He's quicker
at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the
derbies."

"I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,"
remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists.
"You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have
the goodness, also, when you address me always to say 'sir' and
'please.'"

"All right," said Jones with a stare and a snigger. "Well, would
you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry
your Highness to the police-station?"

"That is better," said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow
to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the
detective.

"Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them
from the cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank you or
repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated
in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts
at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience."

"I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr.
John Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some small expense over
this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond
that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in
many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of
the Red-headed League."


"You see, Watson," he explained in the early hours of the morning
as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, "it
was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible
object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of
the League, and the copying of the 'Encyclopaedia,' must be to get
this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of
hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but,
really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was
no doubt suggested to Clay's ingenious mind by the colour of his
accomplice's hair. The 4 pounds a week was a lure which must draw
him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands?
They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary
office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and
together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the
week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for
half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive
for securing the situation."

"But how could you guess what the motive was?"

"Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a
mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The
man's business was a small one, and there was nothing in his
house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and
such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something
out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant's
fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the
cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then
I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I
had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in
London. He was doing something in the cellar--something which
took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once
more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel
to some other building.

"So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I
surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was
ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind.
It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the
assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had
never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his
face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have
remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of
those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they
were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and
Suburban Bank abutted on our friend's premises, and felt that I
had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I
called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank
directors, with the result that you have seen."

"And how could you tell that they would make their attempt
to-night?" I asked.

"Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that
they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence--in other
words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential
that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the
bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than
any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape.
For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night."

"You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed in unfeigned
admiration. "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings
true."

"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I already
feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort
to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little
problems help me to do so."

"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of
some little use," he remarked. "'L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre
c'est tout,' as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."



ADVENTURE III. A CASE OF IDENTITY

"My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side
of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely
stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We
would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere
commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window
hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the
roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the
strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the
wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and
leading to the most outré results, it would make all fiction with
its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and
unprofitable."

"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases which
come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and
vulgar enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to
its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed,
neither fascinating nor artistic."

"A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a
realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the
police report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the
platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, which to an
observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend
upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."

I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your thinking
so." I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser
and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout
three continents, you are brought in contact with all that is
strange and bizarre. But here"--I picked up the morning paper
from the ground--"let us put it to a practical test. Here is the
first heading upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his
wife.' There is half a column of print, but I know without
reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of
course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the
bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of
writers could invent nothing more crude."

"Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,"
said Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. "This
is the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged
in clearing up some small points in connection with it. The
husband was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the
conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of
winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling
them at his wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely
to occur to the imagination of the average story-teller. Take a
pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over
you in your example."

He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in
the centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his
homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon
it.

"Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks.
It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my
assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."

"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which
sparkled upon his finger.

"It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in
which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it
even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of
my little problems."

"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with interest.

"Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of
interest. They are important, you understand, without being
interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in
unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation,
and for the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the
charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the
simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule, is
the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter
which has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing
which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however,
that I may have something better before very many minutes are
over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken."

He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted
blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street.
Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite
there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck,
and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was
tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her
ear. From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous,
hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated
backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her glove
buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves
the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp
clang of the bell.

"I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, throwing his
cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement always
means an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure
that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet
even here we may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously
wronged by a man she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom
is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a love
matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or
grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts."

As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons
entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself
loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed
merchant-man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed
her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and,
having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked
her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was
peculiar to him.

"Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is a
little trying to do so much typewriting?"

"I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where the letters
are without looking." Then, suddenly realising the full purport
of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear
and astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. "You've
heard about me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "else how could you know
all that?"

"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my business to know
things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others
overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?"

"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege,
whose husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had
given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as
much for me. I'm not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in
my own right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and
I would give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?" asked
Sherlock Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to
the ceiling.

Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss
Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house," she said,
"for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr.
Windibank--that is, my father--took it all. He would not go to
the police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he
would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm done,
it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came right away
to you."

"Your father," said Holmes, "your stepfather, surely, since the
name is different."

"Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny,
too, for he is only five years and two months older than myself."

"And your mother is alive?"

"Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased, Mr.
Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death, and
a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father
was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy
business behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the
foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the
business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in wines.
They got 4700 pounds for the goodwill and interest, which wasn't
near as much as father could have got if he had been alive."

I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this
rambling and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he
had listened with the greatest concentration of attention.

"Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out of the
business?"

"Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle
Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4 1/2 per
cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can
only touch the interest."

"You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And since you draw so
large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the
bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in
every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely
upon an income of about 60 pounds."

"I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you
understand that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a
burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while
I am staying with them. Of course, that is only just for the
time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter and pays it
over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I
earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can
often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day."

"You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes.
"This is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as
freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your
connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel."

A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked
nervously at the fringe of her jacket. "I met him first at the
gasfitters' ball," she said. "They used to send father tickets
when he was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and
sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He
never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I
wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But this time I
was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he to
prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all
father's friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing
fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much
as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do,
he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went,
mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it
was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came back from
France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball."

"Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and
shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying
anything to a woman, for she would have her way."

"I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as I understand, a
gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if
we had got home all safe, and after that we met him--that is to
say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father
came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house
any more."

"No?"

"Well, you know father didn't like anything of the sort. He
wouldn't have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to
say that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But
then, as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to
begin with, and I had not got mine yet."

"But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see
you?"

"Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer
wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each
other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he
used to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so
there was no need for father to know."

"Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that
we took. Hosmer--Mr. Angel--was a cashier in an office in
Leadenhall Street--and--"

"What office?"

"That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don't know."

"Where did he live, then?"

"He slept on the premises."

"And you don't know his address?"

"No--except that it was Leadenhall Street."

"Where did you address your letters, then?"

"To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called
for. He said that if they were sent to the office he would be
chaffed by all the other clerks about having letters from a lady,
so I offered to typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn't
have that, for he said that when I wrote them they seemed to come
from me, but when they were typewritten he always felt that the
machine had come between us. That will just show you how fond he
was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that he would think
of."

"It was most suggestive," said Holmes. "It has long been an axiom
of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.
Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?"

"He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me
in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to
be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his
voice was gentle. He'd had the quinsy and swollen glands when he
was young, he told me, and it had left him with a weak throat,
and a hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was always
well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just
as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare."

"Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather,
returned to France?"

"Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we
should marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest
and made me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever
happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was quite
right to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his passion.
Mother was all in his favour from the first and was even fonder
of him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within the
week, I began to ask about father; but they both said never to
mind about father, but just to tell him afterwards, and mother
said she would make it all right with him. I didn't quite like
that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask his leave, as
he was only a few years older than me; but I didn't want to do
anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the
company has its French offices, but the letter came back to me on
the very morning of the wedding."

"It missed him, then?"

"Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived."

"Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for
the Friday. Was it to be in church?"

"Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour's, near
King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St.
Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were
two of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a
four-wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the
street. We got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler
drove up we waited for him to step out, but he never did, and
when the cabman got down from the box and looked there was no one
there! The cabman said that he could not imagine what had become
of him, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was
last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything
since then to throw any light upon what became of him."

"It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated," said
Holmes.

"Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all
the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to
be true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to
separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him,
and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed
strange talk for a wedding-morning, but what has happened since
gives a meaning to it."

"Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some
unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?"

"Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he
would not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw
happened."

"But you have no notion as to what it could have been?"

"None."

"One more question. How did your mother take the matter?"

"She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter
again."

"And your father? Did you tell him?"

"Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had
happened, and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said,
what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of
the church, and then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my
money, or if he had married me and got my money settled on him,
there might be some reason, but Hosmer was very independent about
money and never would look at a shilling of mine. And yet, what
could have happened? And why could he not write? Oh, it drives me
half-mad to think of it, and I can't sleep a wink at night." She
pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff and began to sob
heavily into it.

"I shall glance into the case for you," said Holmes, rising, "and
I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the
weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind
dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel
vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life."

"Then you don't think I'll see him again?"

"I fear not."

"Then what has happened to him?"

"You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an
accurate description of him and any letters of his which you can
spare."

"I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle," said she.
"Here is the slip and here are four letters from him."

"Thank you. And your address?"

"No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."

"Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is your
father's place of business?"

"He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers
of Fenchurch Street."

"Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will
leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given
you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it
to affect your life."

"You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be
true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back."

For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was
something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which
compelled our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon
the table and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever
she might be summoned.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips
still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him,
and his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down
from the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a
counsellor, and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with
the thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of
infinite languor in his face.

"Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he observed. "I found
her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way,
is rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you
consult my index, in Andover in '77, and there was something of
the sort at The Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however,
there were one or two details which were new to me. But the
maiden herself was most instructive."

"You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite
invisible to me," I remarked.

"Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to
look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring
you to realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of
thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace.
Now, what did you gather from that woman's appearance? Describe
it."

"Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a
feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads
sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her
dress was brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little
purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and
were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn't
observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a
general air of being fairly well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable,
easy-going way."

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.

"'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have
really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed
everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and
you have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general
impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My
first glance is always at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is
perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you
observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is a most
useful material for showing traces. The double line a little
above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table,
was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand type,
leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side
of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the
broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and,
observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I
ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed
to surprise her."

"It surprised me."

"But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and
interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots
which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were
really odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and
the other a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower
buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and
fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly
dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned,
it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry."

"And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by
my friend's incisive reasoning.

"I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving
home but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right
glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see
that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had
written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been
this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger.
All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back
to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised
description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?"

I held the little printed slip to the light.

"Missing," it said, "on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman
named Hosmer Angel. About five ft. seven in. in height;
strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in
the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted
glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen,
in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert
chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over
elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in
Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing--"

"That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters," he continued,
glancing over them, "they are very commonplace. Absolutely no
clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There
is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike
you."

"They are typewritten," I remarked.

"Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the
neat little 'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you
see, but no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is
rather vague. The point about the signature is very suggestive
--in fact, we may call it conclusive."

"Of what?"

"My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it
bears upon the case?"

"I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able
to deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were
instituted."

"No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters,
which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the
other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking
him whether he could meet us here at six o'clock tomorrow
evening. It is just as well that we should do business with the
male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the
answers to those letters come, so we may put our little problem
upon the shelf for the interim."

I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle powers
of reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that
he must have some solid grounds for the assured and easy
demeanour with which he treated the singular mystery which he had
been called upon to fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in
the case of the King of Bohemia and of the Irene Adler
photograph; but when I looked back to the weird business of the
Sign of Four, and the extraordinary circumstances connected with
the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it would be a strange tangle
indeed which he could not unravel.

I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the
conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would
find that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up
to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary
Sutherland.

A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own
attention at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at
the bedside of the sufferer. It was not until close upon six
o'clock that I found myself free and was able to spring into a
hansom and drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too
late to assist at the dénouement of the little mystery. I found
Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long, thin
form curled up in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable
array of bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly smell
of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent his day in the
chemical work which was so dear to him.

"Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered.

"Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta."

"No, no, the mystery!" I cried.

"Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon.
There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said
yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only drawback
is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel."

"Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss
Sutherland?"

The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet
opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the
passage and a tap at the door.

"This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank," said
Holmes. "He has written to me to say that he would be here at
six. Come in!"

The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some
thirty years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a
bland, insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and
penetrating grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of
us, placed his shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a
slight bow sidled down into the nearest chair.

"Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "I think that
this typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an
appointment with me for six o'clock?"

"Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not
quite my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland
has troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far
better not to wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite
against my wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable,
impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she is not easily
controlled when she has made up her mind on a point. Of course, I
did not mind you so much, as you are not connected with the
official police, but it is not pleasant to have a family
misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless
expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?"

"On the contrary," said Holmes quietly; "I have every reason to
believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel."

Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. "I am
delighted to hear it," he said.

"It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, "that a typewriter has
really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting. Unless
they are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some
letters get more worn than others, and some wear only on one
side. Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that
in every case there is some little slurring over of the 'e,' and
a slight defect in the tail of the 'r.' There are fourteen other
characteristics, but those are the more obvious."

"We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office,
and no doubt it is a little worn," our visitor answered, glancing
keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes.

"And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study,
Mr. Windibank," Holmes continued. "I think of writing another
little monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its
relation to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some
little attention. I have here four letters which purport to come
from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case, not
only are the 'e's' slurred and the 'r's' tailless, but you will
observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen
other characteristics to which I have alluded are there as well."

Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. "I
cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,"
he said. "If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know
when you have done it."

"Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in
the door. "I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"

"What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips
and glancing about him like a rat in a trap.

"Oh, it won't do--really it won't," said Holmes suavely. "There
is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too
transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that
it was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That's
right! Sit down and let us talk it over."

Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a
glitter of moisture on his brow. "It--it's not actionable," he
stammered.

"I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves,
Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a
petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the
course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong."

The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his
breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up
on the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands
in his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed,
than to us.

"The man married a woman very much older than himself for her
money," said he, "and he enjoyed the use of the money of the
daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a considerable
sum, for people in their position, and the loss of it would have
made a serious difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it.
The daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate
and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with
her fair personal advantages, and her little income, she would
not be allowed to remain single long. Now her marriage would
mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what does her
stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of
keeping her at home and forbidding her to seek the company of
people of her own age. But soon he found that that would not
answer forever. She became restive, insisted upon her rights, and
finally announced her positive intention of going to a certain
ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He conceives an
idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the
connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised himself,
covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with
a moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice
into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the
girl's short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off
other lovers by making love himself."

"It was only a joke at first," groaned our visitor. "We never
thought that she would have been so carried away."

"Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very
decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that
her stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never
for an instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the
gentleman's attentions, and the effect was increased by the
loudly expressed admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began
to call, for it was obvious that the matter should be pushed as
far as it would go if a real effect were to be produced. There
were meetings, and an engagement, which would finally secure the
girl's affections from turning towards anyone else. But the
deception could not be kept up forever. These pretended journeys
to France were rather cumbrous. The thing to do was clearly to
bring the business to an end in such a dramatic manner that it
would leave a permanent impression upon the young lady's mind and
prevent her from looking upon any other suitor for some time to
come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a Testament, and
hence also the allusions to a possibility of something happening
on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished Miss
Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as to
his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not
listen to another man. As far as the church door he brought her,
and then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished
away by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a
four-wheeler and out at the other. I think that was the chain of
events, Mr. Windibank!"

Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes
had been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold
sneer upon his pale face.

"It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes," said he, "but if you
are so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is
you who are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing
actionable from the first, but as long as you keep that door
locked you lay yourself open to an action for assault and illegal
constraint."

"The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said Holmes, unlocking
and throwing open the door, "yet there never was a man who
deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a
friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!"
he continued, flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon
the man's face, "it is not part of my duties to my client, but
here's a hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat
myself to--" He took two swift steps to the whip, but before he
could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs,
the heavy hall door banged, and from the window we could see Mr.
James Windibank running at the top of his speed down the road.

"There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes, laughing, as he
threw himself down into his chair once more. "That fellow will
rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and
ends on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not
entirely devoid of interest."

"I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning," I
remarked.

"Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr.
Hosmer Angel must have some strong object for his curious
conduct, and it was equally clear that the only man who really
profited by the incident, as far as we could see, was the
stepfather. Then the fact that the two men were never together,
but that the one always appeared when the other was away, was
suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious voice,
which both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My
suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in
typewriting his signature, which, of course, inferred that his
handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognise even
the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts,
together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same
direction."

"And how did you verify them?"

"Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I
knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed
description. I eliminated everything from it which could be the
result of a disguise--the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I
sent it to the firm, with a request that they would inform me
whether it answered to the description of any of their
travellers. I had already noticed the peculiarities of the
typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at his business
address asking him if he would come here. As I expected, his
reply was typewritten and revealed the same trivial but
characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from
Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the
description tallied in every respect with that of their employé,
James Windibank. Voilà tout!"

"And Miss Sutherland?"

"If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old
Persian saying, 'There is danger for him who taketh the tiger
cub, and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.'
There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much
knowledge of the world."



ADVENTURE IV. THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY

We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the
maid brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran
in this way:

"Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from
the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy.
Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect.
Leave Paddington by the 11:15."

"What do you say, dear?" said my wife, looking across at me.
"Will you go?"

"I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly long list at
present."

"Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking
a little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good,
and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes' cases."

"I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained
through one of them," I answered. "But if I am to go, I must pack
at once, for I have only half an hour."

My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the
effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were
few and simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a
cab with my valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock
Holmes was pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt
figure made even gaunter and taller by his long grey
travelling-cloak and close-fitting cloth cap.

"It is really very good of you to come, Watson," said he. "It
makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on
whom I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless
or else biassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall
get the tickets."

We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of
papers which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged
and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until
we were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a
gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack.

"Have you heard anything of the case?" he asked.

"Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days."

"The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just
been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the
particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those
simple cases which are so extremely difficult."

"That sounds a little paradoxical."

"But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a
clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more
difficult it is to bring it home. In this case, however, they
have established a very serious case against the son of the
murdered man."

"It is a murder, then?"

"Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for
granted until I have the opportunity of looking personally into
it. I will explain the state of things to you, as far as I have
been able to understand it, in a very few words.

"Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in
Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a
Mr. John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned
some years ago to the old country. One of the farms which he
held, that of Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was
also an ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the
colonies, so that it was not unnatural that when they came to
settle down they should do so as near each other as possible.
Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his
tenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect
equality, as they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son,
a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an only daughter of the same
age, but neither of them had wives living. They appear to have
avoided the society of the neighbouring English families and to
have led retired lives, though both the McCarthys were fond of
sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of the
neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants--a man and a girl.
Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the
least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the
families. Now for the facts.

"On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at
Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the
Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out
of the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been
out with his serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told
the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of
importance to keep at three. From that appointment he never came
back alive.

"From Hatherley Farm-house to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a
mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One
was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was
William Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both
these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The
game-keeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr.
McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the
same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the
father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was
following him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in
the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.

"The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder,
the game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly
wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the
edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of
the lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the
woods picking flowers. She states that while she was there she
saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr.
McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a
violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very
strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his
hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their
violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached
home that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near
Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to
fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came
running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead
in the wood, and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper. He was
much excited, without either his gun or his hat, and his right
hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On
following him they found the dead body stretched out upon the
grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated
blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as
might very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son's
gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the
body. Under these circumstances the young man was instantly
arrested, and a verdict of 'wilful murder' having been returned
at the inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought before the
magistrates at Ross, who have referred the case to the next
Assizes. Those are the main facts of the case as they came out
before the coroner and the police-court."

"I could hardly imagine a more damning case," I remarked. "If
ever circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so
here."

"Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing," answered Holmes
thoughtfully. "It may seem to point very straight to one thing,
but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it
pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something
entirely different. It must be confessed, however, that the case
looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very
possible that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people
in the neighbourhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the
daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who believe in his
innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect
in connection with the Study in Scarlet, to work out the case in
his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the
case to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are
flying westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly
digesting their breakfasts at home."

"I am afraid," said I, "that the facts are so obvious that you
will find little credit to be gained out of this case."

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact," he
answered, laughing. "Besides, we may chance to hit upon some
other obvious facts which may have been by no means obvious to
Mr. Lestrade. You know me too well to think that I am boasting
when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory by
means which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of
understanding. To take the first example to hand, I very clearly
perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the right-hand
side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have noted
even so self-evident a thing as that."

"How on earth--"

"My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness
which characterises you. You shave every morning, and in this
season you shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less
and less complete as we get farther back on the left side, until
it becomes positively slovenly as we get round the angle of the
jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less illuminated
than the other. I could not imagine a man of your habits looking
at himself in an equal light and being satisfied with such a
result. I only quote this as a trivial example of observation and
inference. Therein lies my métier, and it is just possible that
it may be of some service in the investigation which lies before
us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out in
the inquest, and which are worth considering."

"What are they?"

"It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after
the return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary
informing him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not
surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts.
This observation of his had the natural effect of removing any
traces of doubt which might have remained in the minds of the
coroner's jury."

"It was a confession," I ejaculated.

"No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence."

"Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at
least a most suspicious remark."

"On the contrary," said Holmes, "it is the brightest rift which I
can at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be,
he could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the
circumstances were very black against him. Had he appeared
surprised at his own arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I
should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because such
surprise or anger would not be natural under the circumstances,
and yet might appear to be the best policy to a scheming man. His
frank acceptance of the situation marks him as either an innocent
man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint and
firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not
unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of
his father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very day
so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and
even, according to the little girl whose evidence is so
important, to raise his hand as if to strike him. The
self-reproach and contrition which are displayed in his remark
appear to me to be the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a
guilty one."

I shook my head. "Many men have been hanged on far slighter
evidence," I remarked.

"So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged."

"What is the young man's own account of the matter?"

"It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters,
though there are one or two points in it which are suggestive.
You will find it here, and may read it for yourself."

He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire
paper, and having turned down the sheet he pointed out the
paragraph in which the unfortunate young man had given his own
statement of what had occurred. I settled myself down in the
corner of the carriage and read it very carefully. It ran in this
way:

"Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called
and gave evidence as follows: 'I had been away from home for
three days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon the
morning of last Monday, the 3rd. My father was absent from home at
the time of my arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he
had driven over to Ross with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after
my return I heard the wheels of his trap in the yard, and,
looking out of my window, I saw him get out and walk rapidly out
of the yard, though I was not aware in which direction he was
going. I then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of
the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting the rabbit
warren which is upon the other side. On my way I saw William
Crowder, the game-keeper, as he had stated in his evidence; but
he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my father. I had
no idea that he was in front of me. When about a hundred yards
from the pool I heard a cry of "Cooee!" which was a usual signal
between my father and myself. I then hurried forward, and found
him standing by the pool. He appeared to be much surprised at
seeing me and asked me rather roughly what I was doing there. A
conversation ensued which led to high words and almost to blows,
for my father was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that his
passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned
towards Hatherley Farm. I had not gone more than 150 yards,
however, when I heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me
to run back again. I found my father expiring upon the ground,
with his head terribly injured. I dropped my gun and held him in
my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I knelt beside him for
some minutes, and then made my way to Mr. Turner's lodge-keeper,
his house being the nearest, to ask for assistance. I saw no one
near my father when I returned, and I have no idea how he came by
his injuries. He was not a popular man, being somewhat cold and
forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far as I know, no
active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter.'

"The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before
he died?

"Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some
allusion to a rat.

"The Coroner: What did you understand by that?

"Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was
delirious.

"The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father
had this final quarrel?

"Witness: I should prefer not to answer.

"The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.

"Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can
assure you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which
followed.

"The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point
out to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case
considerably in any future proceedings which may arise.

"Witness: I must still refuse.

"The Coroner: I understand that the cry of 'Cooee' was a common
signal between you and your father?

"Witness: It was.

"The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw
you, and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?

"Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.

"A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions
when you returned on hearing the cry and found your father
fatally injured?

"Witness: Nothing definite.

"The Coroner: What do you mean?

"Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into
the open, that I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet
I have a vague impression that as I ran forward something lay
upon the ground to the left of me. It seemed to me to be
something grey in colour, a coat of some sort, or a plaid perhaps.
When I rose from my father I looked round for it, but it was
gone.

"'Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?'

"'Yes, it was gone.'

"'You cannot say what it was?'

"'No, I had a feeling something was there.'

"'How far from the body?'

"'A dozen yards or so.'

"'And how far from the edge of the wood?'

"'About the same.'

"'Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen
yards of it?'

"'Yes, but with my back towards it.'

"This concluded the examination of the witness."

"I see," said I as I glanced down the column, "that the coroner
in his concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy.
He calls attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his
father having signalled to him before seeing him, also to his
refusal to give details of his conversation with his father, and
his singular account of his father's dying words. They are all,
as he remarks, very much against the son."

Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon
the cushioned seat. "Both you and the coroner have been at some
pains," said he, "to single out the very strongest points in the
young man's favour. Don't you see that you alternately give him
credit for having too much imagination and too little? Too
little, if he could not invent a cause of quarrel which would
give him the sympathy of the jury; too much, if he evolved from
his own inner consciousness anything so outré as a dying
reference to a rat, and the incident of the vanishing cloth. No,
sir, I shall approach this case from the point of view that what
this young man says is true, and we shall see whither that
hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket Petrarch, and
not another word shall I say of this case until we are on the
scene of action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be
there in twenty minutes."

It was nearly four o'clock when we at last, after passing through
the beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn,
found ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A
lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for
us upon the platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and
leather-leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic
surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognising Lestrade, of
Scotland Yard. With him we drove to the Hereford Arms where a
room had already been engaged for us.

"I have ordered a carriage," said Lestrade as we sat over a cup
of tea. "I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be
happy until you had been on the scene of the crime."

"It was very nice and complimentary of you," Holmes answered. "It
is entirely a question of barometric pressure."

Lestrade looked startled. "I do not quite follow," he said.

"How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud
in the sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need
smoking, and the sofa is very much superior to the usual country
hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I
shall use the carriage to-night."

Lestrade laughed indulgently. "You have, no doubt, already formed
your conclusions from the newspapers," he said. "The case is as
plain as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer
it becomes. Still, of course, one can't refuse a lady, and such a
very positive one, too. She has heard of you, and would have your
opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there was nothing
which you could do which I had not already done. Why, bless my
soul! here is her carriage at the door."

He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the
most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her
violet eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her
cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve lost in her
overpowering excitement and concern.

"Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she cried, glancing from one to the
other of us, and finally, with a woman's quick intuition,
fastening upon my companion, "I am so glad that you have come. I
have driven down to tell you so. I know that James didn't do it.
I know it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it,
too. Never let yourself doubt upon that point. We have known each
other since we were little children, and I know his faults as no
one else does; but he is too tender-hearted to hurt a fly. Such a
charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him."

"I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner," said Sherlock Holmes.
"You may rely upon my doing all that I can."

"But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion?
Do you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself
think that he is innocent?"

"I think that it is very probable."

"There, now!" she cried, throwing back her head and looking
defiantly at Lestrade. "You hear! He gives me hopes."

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid that my colleague
has been a little quick in forming his conclusions," he said.

"But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did
it. And about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the
reason why he would not speak about it to the coroner was because
I was concerned in it."

"In what way?" asked Holmes.

"It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had
many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that
there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always
loved each other as brother and sister; but of course he is young
and has seen very little of life yet, and--and--well, he
naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet. So there
were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of them."

"And your father?" asked Holmes. "Was he in favour of such a
union?"

"No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in
favour of it." A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as
Holmes shot one of his keen, questioning glances at her.

"Thank you for this information," said he. "May I see your father
if I call to-morrow?"

"I am afraid the doctor won't allow it."

"The doctor?"

"Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for
years back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken
to his bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his
nervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive
who had known dad in the old days in Victoria."

"Ha! In Victoria! That is important."

"Yes, at the mines."

"Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner
made his money."

"Yes, certainly."

"Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to
me."

"You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you
will go to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do
tell him that I know him to be innocent."

"I will, Miss Turner."

"I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if
I leave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking." She
hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we
heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.

"I am ashamed of you, Holmes," said Lestrade with dignity after a
few minutes' silence. "Why should you raise up hopes which you
are bound to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I
call it cruel."

"I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy," said
Holmes. "Have you an order to see him in prison?"

"Yes, but only for you and me."

"Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have
still time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?"

"Ample."

"Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very
slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours."

I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through
the streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel,
where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a
yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin,
however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we were
groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the
action to the fact, that I at last flung it across the room and
gave myself up entirely to a consideration of the events of the
day. Supposing that this unhappy young man's story were
absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely
unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between
the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when,
drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade? It was
something terrible and deadly. What could it be? Might not the
nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts?
I rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper, which
contained a verbatim account of the inquest. In the surgeon's
deposition it was stated that the posterior third of the left
parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been
shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot
upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck from
behind. That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when
seen quarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still, it
did not go for very much, for the older man might have turned his
back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worth while to call
Holmes' attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying
reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be
delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become
delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how
he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I cudgelled my
brains to find some possible explanation. And then the incident
of the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true the
murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his
overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to
return and to carry it away at the instant when the son was
kneeling with his back turned not a dozen paces off. What a
tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing was! I
did not wonder at Lestrade's opinion, and yet I had so much faith
in Sherlock Holmes' insight that I could not lose hope as long
as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of young
McCarthy's innocence.

It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone,
for Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.

"The glass still keeps very high," he remarked as he sat down.
"It is of importance that it should not rain before we are able
to go over the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his
very best and keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not
wish to do it when fagged by a long journey. I have seen young
McCarthy."

"And what did you learn from him?"

"Nothing."

"Could he throw no light?"

"None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew
who had done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced
now that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very
quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, I should think,
sound at heart."

"I cannot admire his taste," I remarked, "if it is indeed a fact
that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as
this Miss Turner."

"Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly,
insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was
only a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away
five years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get
into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a
registry office? No one knows a word of the matter, but you can
imagine how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not
doing what he would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows
to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of this sort
which made him throw his hands up into the air when his father,
at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss
Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself,
and his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would
have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with
his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in
Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that
point. It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however,
for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious
trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and
has written to him to say that she has a husband already in the
Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between them. I
think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all
that he has suffered."

"But if he is innocent, who has done it?"

"Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two
points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with
someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his
son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would
return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry
'Cooee!' before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the
crucial points upon which the case depends. And now let us talk
about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all
minor matters until to-morrow."

There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke
bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock Lestrade called for us with
the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe
Pool.

"There is serious news this morning," Lestrade observed. "It is
said that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is
despaired of."

"An elderly man, I presume?" said Holmes.

"About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life
abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This
business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend
of McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I
have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free."

"Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes.

"Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody
about here speaks of his kindness to him."

"Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this
McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have
been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of
marrying his son to Turner's daughter, who is, presumably,
heiress to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner,
as if it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would
follow? It is the more strange, since we know that Turner himself
was averse to the idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not
deduce something from that?"

"We have got to the deductions and the inferences," said
Lestrade, winking at me. "I find it hard enough to tackle facts,
Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies."

"You are right," said Holmes demurely; "you do find it very hard
to tackle the facts."

"Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it
difficult to get hold of," replied Lestrade with some warmth.

"And that is--"

"That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that
all theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine."

"Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes,
laughing. "But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley
Farm upon the left."

"Yes, that is it." It was a widespread, comfortable-looking
building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches
of lichen upon the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless
chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight
of this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door,
when the maid, at Holmes' request, showed us the boots which her
master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the
son's, though not the pair which he had then had. Having measured
these very carefully from seven or eight different points, Holmes
desired to be led to the court-yard, from which we all followed
the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent
as this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of
Baker Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed
and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines,
while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter.
His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips
compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long,
sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal
lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely concentrated
upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell
unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick,
impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way
along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of
the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is
all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon
the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either
side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and
once he made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and
I walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous,
while I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the
conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a
definite end.

The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water
some fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the
Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner.
Above the woods which lined it upon the farther side we could see
the red, jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich
landowner's dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods
grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass
twenty paces across between the edge of the trees and the reeds
which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the exact spot at which
the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was the ground,
that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by the
fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager
face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read
upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking
up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.

"What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.

"I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon
or other trace. But how on earth--"

"Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its
inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and
there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all
have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo
and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the
lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or
eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of
the same feet." He drew out a lens and lay down upon his
waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to
himself than to us. "These are young McCarthy's feet. Twice he
was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are
deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his
story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are
the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It
is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this?
Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite
unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again--of course
that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?" He ran up
and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we
were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a
great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced
his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon
his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he
remained there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks,
gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and
examining with his lens not only the ground but even the bark of
the tree as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying among
the moss, and this also he carefully examined and retained. Then
he followed a pathway through the wood until he came to the
highroad, where all traces were lost.

"It has been a case of considerable interest," he remarked,
returning to his natural manner. "I fancy that this grey house on
the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a
word with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done
that, we may drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab,
and I shall be with you presently."

It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove
back into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he
had picked up in the wood.

"This may interest you, Lestrade," he remarked, holding it out.
"The murder was done with it."

"I see no marks."

"There are none."

"How do you know, then?"

"The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few
days. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It
corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other
weapon."

"And the murderer?"

"Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears
thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian
cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his
pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be
enough to aid us in our search."

Lestrade laughed. "I am afraid that I am still a sceptic," he
said. "Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a
hard-headed British jury."

"Nous verrons," answered Holmes calmly. "You work your own
method, and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon,
and shall probably return to London by the evening train."

"And leave your case unfinished?"

"No, finished."

"But the mystery?"

"It is solved."

"Who was the criminal, then?"

"The gentleman I describe."

"But who is he?"

"Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a
populous neighbourhood."

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am a practical man," he said,
"and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking
for a left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the
laughing-stock of Scotland Yard."

"All right," said Holmes quietly. "I have given you the chance.
Here are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before
I leave."

Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where
we found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in
thought with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds
himself in a perplexing position.

"Look here, Watson," he said when the cloth was cleared "just sit
down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don't
know quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a
cigar and let me expound."

 "Pray do so."

"Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about
young McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly,
although they impressed me in his favour and you against him. One
was the fact that his father should, according to his account,
cry 'Cooee!' before seeing him. The other was his singular dying
reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but
that was all that caught the son's ear. Now from this double
point our research must commence, and we will begin it by
presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true."

"What of this 'Cooee!' then?"

"Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The
son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that
he was within earshot. The 'Cooee!' was meant to attract the
attention of whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But
'Cooee' is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used
between Australians. There is a strong presumption that the
person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was
someone who had been in Australia."

"What of the rat, then?"

Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened
it out on the table. "This is a map of the Colony of Victoria,"
he said. "I wired to Bristol for it last night." He put his hand
over part of the map. "What do you read?"

"ARAT," I read.

"And now?" He raised his hand.

"BALLARAT."

"Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his
son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter
the name of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat."

"It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.

"It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down
considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point
which, granting the son's statement to be correct, was a
certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite
conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak."

"Certainly."

"And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only
be approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could
hardly wander."

"Quite so."

"Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the
ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that
imbecile Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal."

"But how did you gain them?"

"You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of
trifles."

"His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length
of his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces."

"Yes, they were peculiar boots."

"But his lameness?"

"The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than
his left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped--he
was lame."

"But his left-handedness."

"You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded
by the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from
immediately behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can
that be unless it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind
that tree during the interview between the father and son. He had
even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar, which my special
knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian
cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some attention to this, and
written a little monograph on the ashes of 140 different
varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found the
ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss
where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety
which are rolled in Rotterdam."

"And the cigar-holder?"

"I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he
used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the
cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife."

"Holmes," I said, "you have drawn a net round this man from which
he cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as
truly as if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the
direction in which all this points. The culprit is--"

"Mr. John Turner," cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of
our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.

The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His
slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of
decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and
his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual
strength of body and of character. His tangled beard, grizzled
hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air
of dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an
ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were
tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear to me at a glance that
he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease.

"Pray sit down on the sofa," said Holmes gently. "You had my
note?"

"Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to
see me here to avoid scandal."

"I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall."

"And why did you wish to see me?" He looked across at my
companion with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question
was already answered.

"Yes," said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. "It
is so. I know all about McCarthy."

The old man sank his face in his hands. "God help me!" he cried.
"But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you
my word that I would have spoken out if it went against him at
the Assizes."

"I am glad to hear you say so," said Holmes gravely.

"I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It
would break her heart--it will break her heart when she hears
that I am arrested."

"It may not come to that," said Holmes.

"What?"

"I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter
who required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests.
Young McCarthy must be got off, however."

"I am a dying man," said old Turner. "I have had diabetes for
years. My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a
month. Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a gaol."

Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand
and a bundle of paper before him. "Just tell us the truth," he
said. "I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson
here can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the
last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall
not use it unless it is absolutely needed."

"It's as well," said the old man; "it's a question whether I
shall live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I
should wish to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the
thing clear to you; it has been a long time in the acting, but
will not take me long to tell.

"You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil
incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of
such a man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty years,
and he has blasted my life. I'll tell you first how I came to be
in his power.

"It was in the early '60's at the diggings. I was a young chap
then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at
anything; I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck
with my claim, took to the bush, and in a word became what you
would call over here a highway robber. There were six of us, and
we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station from time
to time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings.
Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party
is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.

"One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and
we lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers
and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of
their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed,
however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of
the wagon-driver, who was this very man McCarthy. I wish to the
Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his
wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every
feature. We got away with the gold, became wealthy men, and made
our way over to England without being suspected. There I parted
from my old pals and determined to settle down to a quiet and
respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be in
the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money,
to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too,
and though my wife died young she left me my dear little Alice.
Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down
the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned
over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All was
going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me.

"I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in
Regent Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his
foot.

"'Here we are, Jack,' says he, touching me on the arm; 'we'll be
as good as a family to you. There's two of us, me and my son, and
you can have the keeping of us. If you don't--it's a fine,
law-abiding country is England, and there's always a policeman
within hail.'

"Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking
them off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land
ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness;
turn where I would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my
elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more
afraid of her knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he
wanted he must have, and whatever it was I gave him without
question, land, money, houses, until at last he asked a thing
which I could not give. He asked for Alice.

"His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was
known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that
his lad should step into the whole property. But there I was
firm. I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that
I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that
was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do
his worst. We were to meet at the pool midway between our houses
to talk it over.

"When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I
smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone.
But as I listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in
me seemed to come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my
daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she
were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I
and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a
man as this. Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and
a desperate man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb,
I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl!
Both could be saved if I could but silence that foul tongue. I
did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned,
I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl
should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more
than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction
than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought
back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I
was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in
my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that
occurred."

"Well, it is not for me to judge you," said Holmes as the old man
signed the statement which had been drawn out. "I pray that we
may never be exposed to such a temptation."

"I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?"

"In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you
will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the
Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is
condemned I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be
seen by mortal eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or
dead, shall be safe with us."

"Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly. "Your own deathbeds,
when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace
which you have given to mine." Tottering and shaking in all his
giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room.

"God help us!" said Holmes after a long silence. "Why does fate
play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such
a case as this that I do not think of Baxter's words, and say,
'There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.'"

James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a
number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and
submitted to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven
months after our interview, but he is now dead; and there is
every prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily
together in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their
past.



ADVENTURE V. THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS

When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes
cases between the years '82 and '90, I am faced by so many which
present strange and interesting features that it is no easy
matter to know which to choose and which to leave. Some, however,
have already gained publicity through the papers, and others have
not offered a field for those peculiar qualities which my friend
possessed in so high a degree, and which it is the object of
these papers to illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his
analytical skill, and would be, as narratives, beginnings without
an ending, while others have been but partially cleared up, and
have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture and
surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to
him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable
in its details and so startling in its results that I am tempted
to give some account of it in spite of the fact that there are
points in connection with it which never have been, and probably
never will be, entirely cleared up.

The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater
or less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my
headings under this one twelve months I find an account of the
adventure of the Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant
Society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a
furniture warehouse, of the facts connected with the loss of the
British barque "Sophy Anderson", of the singular adventures of the
Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and finally of the
Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be remembered,
Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man's watch, to
prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that
therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time--a
deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the
case. All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of
them present such singular features as the strange train of
circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe.

It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales
had set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had
screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that
even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced
to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and
to recognise the presence of those great elemental forces which
shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like
untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew
higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a child in
the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the
fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the
other was deep in one of Clark Russell's fine sea-stories until
the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend with the text,
and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of
the sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother's, and for a
few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker
Street.

"Why," said I, glancing up at my companion, "that was surely the
bell. Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?"

"Except yourself I have none," he answered. "I do not encourage
visitors."

"A client, then?"

"If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out
on such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more
likely to be some crony of the landlady's."

Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there
came a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He
stretched out his long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and
towards the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit.

"Come in!" said he.

The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the
outside, well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of
refinement and delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella
which he held in his hand, and his long shining waterproof told
of the fierce weather through which he had come. He looked about
him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I could see that his
face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a man who is
weighed down with some great anxiety.

"I owe you an apology," he said, raising his golden pince-nez to
his eyes. "I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have
brought some traces of the storm and rain into your snug
chamber."

"Give me your coat and umbrella," said Holmes. "They may rest
here on the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from
the south-west, I see."

"Yes, from Horsham."

"That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is
quite distinctive."

"I have come for advice."

"That is easily got."

"And help."

"That is not always so easy."

"I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast
how you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal."

"Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards."

"He said that you could solve anything."

"He said too much."

"That you are never beaten."

"I have been beaten four times--three times by men, and once by a
woman."

"But what is that compared with the number of your successes?"

"It is true that I have been generally successful."

"Then you may be so with me."

"I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me
with some details as to your case."

"It is no ordinary one."

"None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of
appeal."

"And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you
have ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of
events than those which have happened in my own family."

"You fill me with interest," said Holmes. "Pray give us the
essential facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards
question you as to those details which seem to me to be most
important."

The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out
towards the blaze.

"My name," said he, "is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have,
as far as I can understand, little to do with this awful
business. It is a hereditary matter; so in order to give you an
idea of the facts, I must go back to the commencement of the
affair.

"You must know that my grandfather had two sons--my uncle Elias
and my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry,
which he enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He
was a patentee of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business
met with such success that he was able to sell it and to retire
upon a handsome competence.

"My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and
became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done
very well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson's army,
and afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When
Lee laid down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where
he remained for three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came
back to Europe and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham.
He had made a very considerable fortune in the States, and his
reason for leaving them was his aversion to the negroes, and his
dislike of the Republican policy in extending the franchise to
them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered, very
foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring
disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I
doubt if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or
three fields round his house, and there he would take his
exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave
his room. He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very
heavily, but he would see no society and did not want any
friends, not even his own brother.

"He didn't mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the
time when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This
would be in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years
in England. He begged my father to let me live with him and he
was very kind to me in his way. When he was sober he used to be
fond of playing backgammon and draughts with me, and he would
make me his representative both with the servants and with the
tradespeople, so that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite
master of the house. I kept all the keys and could go where I
liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him in
his privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he
had a single room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was
invariably locked, and which he would never permit either me or
anyone else to enter. With a boy's curiosity I have peeped
through the keyhole, but I was never able to see more than such a
collection of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in such
a room.

"One day--it was in March, 1883--a letter with a foreign stamp
lay upon the table in front of the colonel's plate. It was not a
common thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all
paid in ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. 'From
India!' said he as he took it up, 'Pondicherry postmark! What can
this be?' Opening it hurriedly, out there jumped five little
dried orange pips, which pattered down upon his plate. I began to
laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my lips at the sight
of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were protruding, his
skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope which he
still held in his trembling hand, 'K. K. K.!' he shrieked, and
then, 'My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!'

"'What is it, uncle?' I cried.

"'Death,' said he, and rising from the table he retired to his
room, leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope
and saw scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the
gum, the letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else
save the five dried pips. What could be the reason of his
overpowering terror? I left the breakfast-table, and as I
ascended the stair I met him coming down with an old rusty key,
which must have belonged to the attic, in one hand, and a small
brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.

"'They may do what they like, but I'll checkmate them still,'
said he with an oath. 'Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my
room to-day, and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.'

"I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to
step up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the
grate there was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned
paper, while the brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I
glanced at the box I noticed, with a start, that upon the lid was
printed the treble K which I had read in the morning upon the
envelope.

"'I wish you, John,' said my uncle, 'to witness my will. I leave
my estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to
my brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to
you. If you can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you
cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest
enemy. I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can't
say what turn things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper
where Mr. Fordham shows you.'

"I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with
him. The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest
impression upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every
way in my mind without being able to make anything of it. Yet I
could not shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left
behind, though the sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed
and nothing happened to disturb the usual routine of our lives. I
could see a change in my uncle, however. He drank more than ever,
and he was less inclined for any sort of society. Most of his
time he would spend in his room, with the door locked upon the
inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy
and would burst out of the house and tear about the garden with a
revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no man,
and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by
man or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would
rush tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him,
like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the terror
which lies at the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen
his face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as though it
were new raised from a basin.

"Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to
abuse your patience, there came a night when he made one of those
drunken sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when
we went to search for him, face downward in a little
green-scummed pool, which lay at the foot of the garden. There
was no sign of any violence, and the water was but two feet deep,
so that the jury, having regard to his known eccentricity,
brought in a verdict of 'suicide.' But I, who knew how he winced
from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade myself
that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed,
however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and
of some 14,000 pounds, which lay to his credit at the bank."

"One moment," Holmes interposed, "your statement is, I foresee,
one of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me
have the date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and
the date of his supposed suicide."

"The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks
later, upon the night of May 2nd."

"Thank you. Pray proceed."

"When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my
request, made a careful examination of the attic, which had been
always locked up. We found the brass box there, although its
contents had been destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a
paper label, with the initials of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and
'Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register' written beneath.
These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers which had
been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was
nothing of much importance in the attic save a great many
scattered papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle's life in
America. Some of them were of the war time and showed that he had
done his duty well and had borne the repute of a brave soldier.
Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern
states, and were mostly concerned with politics, for he had
evidently taken a strong part in opposing the carpet-bag
politicians who had been sent down from the North.

"Well, it was the beginning of '84 when my father came to live at
Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the
January of '85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my
father give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the
breakfast-table. There he was, sitting with a newly opened
envelope in one hand and five dried orange pips in the
outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what
he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but he looked
very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon
himself.

"'Why, what on earth does this mean, John?' he stammered.

"My heart had turned to lead. 'It is K. K. K.,' said I.

"He looked inside the envelope. 'So it is,' he cried. 'Here are
the very letters. But what is this written above them?'

"'Put the papers on the sundial,' I read, peeping over his
shoulder.

"'What papers? What sundial?' he asked.

"'The sundial in the garden. There is no other,' said I; 'but the
papers must be those that are destroyed.'

"'Pooh!' said he, gripping hard at his courage. 'We are in a
civilised land here, and we can't have tomfoolery of this kind.
Where does the thing come from?'

"'From Dundee,' I answered, glancing at the postmark.

"'Some preposterous practical joke,' said he. 'What have I to do
with sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such
nonsense.'

"'I should certainly speak to the police,' I said.

"'And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.'

"'Then let me do so?'

"'No, I forbid you. I won't have a fuss made about such
nonsense.'

"It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate
man. I went about, however, with a heart which was full of
forebodings.

"On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went
from home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is
in command of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad
that he should go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from
danger when he was away from home. In that, however, I was in
error. Upon the second day of his absence I received a telegram
from the major, imploring me to come at once. My father had
fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the
neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull. I
hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered
his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from
Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him,
and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in
bringing in a verdict of 'death from accidental causes.'
Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death, I
was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of
murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no
robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads.
And yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease,
and that I was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been
woven round him.

"In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me
why I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well
convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon an
incident in my uncle's life, and that the danger would be as
pressing in one house as in another.

"It was in January, '85, that my poor father met his end, and two
years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time
I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that
this curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended
with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon,
however; yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in
which it had come upon my father."

The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and
turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried
orange pips.

"This is the envelope," he continued. "The postmark is
London--eastern division. Within are the very words which were
upon my father's last message: 'K. K. K.'; and then 'Put the
papers on the sundial.'"

"What have you done?" asked Holmes.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"To tell the truth"--he sank his face into his thin, white
hands--"I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor
rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in
the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight
and no precautions can guard against."

"Tut! tut!" cried Sherlock Holmes. "You must act, man, or you are
lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for
despair."

"I have seen the police."

"Ah!"

"But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that
the inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all
practical jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really
accidents, as the jury stated, and were not to be connected with
the warnings."

Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. "Incredible
imbecility!" he cried.

"They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in
the house with me."

"Has he come with you to-night?"

"No. His orders were to stay in the house."

Again Holmes raved in the air.

"Why did you come to me," he cried, "and, above all, why did you
not come at once?"

"I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major
Prendergast about my troubles and was advised by him to come to
you."

"It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have
acted before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than
that which you have placed before us--no suggestive detail which
might help us?"

"There is one thing," said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat
pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted
paper, he laid it out upon the table. "I have some remembrance,"
said he, "that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I
observed that the small, unburned margins which lay amid the
ashes were of this particular colour. I found this single sheet
upon the floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that it
may be one of the papers which has, perhaps, fluttered out from
among the others, and in that way has escaped destruction. Beyond
the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us much. I think
myself that it is a page from some private diary. The writing is
undoubtedly my uncle's."

Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper,
which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from
a book. It was headed, "March, 1869," and beneath were the
following enigmatical notices:

"4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.

"7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and
      John Swain, of St. Augustine.

"9th. McCauley cleared.

"10th. John Swain cleared.

"12th. Visited Paramore. All well."

"Thank you!" said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it
to our visitor. "And now you must on no account lose another
instant. We cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told
me. You must get home instantly and act."

"What shall I do?"

"There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must
put this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass
box which you have described. You must also put in a note to say
that all the other papers were burned by your uncle, and that
this is the only one which remains. You must assert that in such
words as will carry conviction with them. Having done this, you
must at once put the box out upon the sundial, as directed. Do
you understand?"

"Entirely."

"Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I
think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our
web to weave, while theirs is already woven. The first
consideration is to remove the pressing danger which threatens
you. The second is to clear up the mystery and to punish the
guilty parties."

"I thank you," said the young man, rising and pulling on his
overcoat. "You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall
certainly do as you advise."

"Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in
the meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that
you are threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you
go back?"

"By train from Waterloo."

"It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that
you may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too
closely."

"I am armed."

"That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case."

"I shall see you at Horsham, then?"

"No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek
it."

"Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news
as to the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every
particular." He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside
the wind still screamed and the rain splashed and pattered
against the windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come
to us from amid the mad elements--blown in upon us like a sheet
of sea-weed in a gale--and now to have been reabsorbed by them
once more.

Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk
forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he
lit his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue
smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling.

"I think, Watson," he remarked at last, "that of all our cases we
have had none more fantastic than this."

"Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four."

"Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems
to me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the
Sholtos."

"But have you," I asked, "formed any definite conception as to
what these perils are?"

"There can be no question as to their nature," he answered.

"Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue
this unhappy family?"

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the
arms of his chair, with his finger-tips together. "The ideal
reasoner," he remarked, "would, when he had once been shown a
single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the
chain of events which led up to it but also all the results which
would follow from it. As Cuvier could correctly describe a whole
animal by the contemplation of a single bone, so the observer who
has thoroughly understood one link in a series of incidents
should be able to accurately state all the other ones, both
before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which the
reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study
which have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the
aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest
pitch, it is necessary that the reasoner should be able to
utilise all the facts which have come to his knowledge; and this
in itself implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all
knowledge, which, even in these days of free education and
encyclopaedias, is a somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so
impossible, however, that a man should possess all knowledge
which is likely to be useful to him in his work, and this I have
endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember rightly, you on one
occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my limits
in a very precise fashion."

"Yes," I answered, laughing. "It was a singular document.
Philosophy, astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I
remember. Botany variable, geology profound as regards the
mud-stains from any region within fifty miles of town, chemistry
eccentric, anatomy unsystematic, sensational literature and crime
records unique, violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and
self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I think, were the
main points of my analysis."

Holmes grinned at the last item. "Well," he said, "I say now, as
I said then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic
stocked with all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the
rest he can put away in the lumber-room of his library, where he
can get it if he wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which
has been submitted to us to-night, we need certainly to muster
all our resources. Kindly hand me down the letter K of the
'American Encyclopaedia' which stands upon the shelf beside you.
Thank you. Now let us consider the situation and see what may be
deduced from it. In the first place, we may start with a strong
presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason for
leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all their
habits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for
the lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love
of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of
someone or something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis
that it was fear of someone or something which drove him from
America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by
considering the formidable letters which were received by himself
and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those
letters?"

"The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the
third from London."

"From East London. What do you deduce from that?"

"They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship."

"Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that
the probability--the strong probability--is that the writer was
on board of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the
case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and
its fulfilment, in Dundee it was only some three or four days.
Does that suggest anything?"

"A greater distance to travel."

"But the letter had also a greater distance to come."

"Then I do not see the point."

"There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man
or men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send
their singular warning or token before them when starting upon
their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign
when it came from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a
steamer they would have arrived almost as soon as their letter.
But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those
seven weeks represented the difference between the mail-boat which
brought the letter and the sailing vessel which brought the
writer."

"It is possible."

"More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly
urgency of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to
caution. The blow has always fallen at the end of the time which
it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one
comes from London, and therefore we cannot count upon delay."

"Good God!" I cried. "What can it mean, this relentless
persecution?"

"The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital
importance to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think
that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them.
A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way
as to deceive a coroner's jury. There must have been several in
it, and they must have been men of resource and determination.
Their papers they mean to have, be the holder of them who it may.
In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be the initials of an
individual and becomes the badge of a society."

"But of what society?"

"Have you never--" said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and
sinking his voice--"have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?"

"I never have."

Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. "Here it
is," said he presently:

"'Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to
the sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret
society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the
Southern states after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local
branches in different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee,
Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. Its power was
used for political purposes, principally for the terrorising of
the negro voters and the murdering and driving from the country
of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually
preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic
but generally recognised shape--a sprig of oak-leaves in some
parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this
the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or might
fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death would
unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and
unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organisation of the
society, and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a
case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with
impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the
perpetrators. For some years the organisation flourished in spite
of the efforts of the United States government and of the better
classes of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year
1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have
been sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.'

"You will observe," said Holmes, laying down the volume, "that
the sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the
disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may
well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his
family have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track.
You can understand that this register and diary may implicate
some of the first men in the South, and that there may be many
who will not sleep easy at night until it is recovered."

"Then the page we have seen--"

"Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, 'sent
the pips to A, B, and C'--that is, sent the society's warning to
them. Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or
left the country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a
sinister result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let
some light into this dark place, and I believe that the only
chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I have
told him. There is nothing more to be said or to be done
to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for
half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable
ways of our fellow-men."


It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a
subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the
great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came
down.

"You will excuse me for not waiting for you," said he; "I have, I
foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of
young Openshaw's."

"What steps will you take?" I asked.

"It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries.
I may have to go down to Horsham, after all."

"You will not go there first?"

"No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the
maid will bring up your coffee."

As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and
glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a
chill to my heart.

"Holmes," I cried, "you are too late."

"Ah!" said he, laying down his cup, "I feared as much. How was it
done?" He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.

"My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading 'Tragedy
Near Waterloo Bridge.' Here is the account:

"Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H
Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and
a splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and
stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it
was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was
given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was
eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman
whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his
pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham.
It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch
the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and
the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked over the edge
of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body
exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that
the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident,
which should have the effect of calling the attention of the
authorities to the condition of the riverside landing-stages."

We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and
shaken than I had ever seen him.

"That hurts my pride, Watson," he said at last. "It is a petty
feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal
matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my
hand upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that
I should send him away to his death--!" He sprang from his chair
and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a
flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and
unclasping of his long thin hands.

"They must be cunning devils," he exclaimed at last. "How could
they have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the
direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too
crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson,
we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now!"

"To the police?"

"No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may
take the flies, but not before."

All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in
the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes
had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he
entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard,
and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously,
washing it down with a long draught of water.

"You are hungry," I remarked.

"Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since
breakfast."

"Nothing?"

"Not a bite. I had no time to think of it."

"And how have you succeeded?"

"Well."

"You have a clue?"

"I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not
long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish
trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!"

"What do you mean?"

He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he
squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and
thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote
"S. H. for J. O." Then he sealed it and addressed it to "Captain
James Calhoun, Barque 'Lone Star,' Savannah, Georgia."

"That will await him when he enters port," said he, chuckling.
"It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a
precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him."

"And who is this Captain Calhoun?"

"The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first."

"How did you trace it, then?"

He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with
dates and names.

"I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's registers
and files of the old papers, following the future career of every
vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in
'83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were
reported there during those months. Of these, one, the 'Lone Star,'
instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported
as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to
one of the states of the Union."

"Texas, I think."

"I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must
have an American origin."

"What then?"

"I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque
'Lone Star' was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a
certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present
in the port of London."

"Yes?"

"The 'Lone Star' had arrived here last week. I went down to the
Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by
the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired
to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and
as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the
Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight."

"What will you do, then?"

"Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I
learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are
Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away
from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has
been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship
reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and
the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these
three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder."

There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans,
and the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the
orange pips which would show them that another, as cunning and as
resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very
severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for
news of the "Lone Star" of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We
did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a
shattered stern-post of a boat was seen swinging in the trough
of a wave, with the letters "L. S." carved upon it, and that is
all which we shall ever know of the fate of the "Lone Star."



ADVENTURE VI. THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP

Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal
of the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to
opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some
foolish freak when he was at college; for having read De
Quincey's description of his dreams and sensations, he had
drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the
same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that the
practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many
years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of
mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see
him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point
pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble
man.

One night--it was in June, '89--there came a ring to my bell,
about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the
clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work
down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.

"A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."

I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps
upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in
some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

"You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then,
suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms
about my wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in
such trouble!" she cried; "I do so want a little help."

"Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney.
How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when
you came in."

"I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That was
always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds
to a light-house.

"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine
and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or
should you rather that I sent James off to bed?"

"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's about
Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about
him!"

It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her
husband's trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend
and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words
as we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it
possible that we could bring him back to her?

It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late
he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the
farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been
confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and
shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him
eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the
dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the
effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar
of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How could
she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place and
pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?

There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of
it. Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second
thought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical
adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could manage it
better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I would
send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the
address which she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had left
my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding
eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at
the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to
be.

But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my
adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the
high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east
of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached
by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the
mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search.
Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in
the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and by the
light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch
and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the
brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the
forecastle of an emigrant ship.

Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying
in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads
thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a
dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black
shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright,
now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of
the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to
themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low,
monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then
suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own
thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour. At
the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside
which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old
man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon
his knees, staring into the fire.

As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe
for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

"Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend
of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."

There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and
peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and
unkempt, staring out at me.

"My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of
reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what
o'clock is it?"

"Nearly eleven."

"Of what day?"

"Of Friday, June 19th."

"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What
d'you want to frighten a chap for?" He sank his face onto his
arms and began to sob in a high treble key.

"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting
this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here
a few hours, three pipes, four pipes--I forget how many. But I'll
go home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate--poor little Kate.
Give me your hand! Have you a cab?"

"Yes, I have one waiting."

"Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I
owe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."

I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of
sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying
fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed
the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my
skirt, and a low voice whispered, "Walk past me, and then look
back at me." The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I
glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my
side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very
wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between
his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his
fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my
self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of
astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him
but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull
eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and
grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He
made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he
turned his face half round to the company once more, subsided
into a doddering, loose-lipped senility.

"Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this den?"

"As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If you
would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend
of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with
you."

"I have a cab outside."

"Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he
appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should
recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to
say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait
outside, I shall be with you in five minutes."

It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests, for
they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with
such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney
was once confined in the cab my mission was practically
accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better
than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular
adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In a
few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led him
out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a
very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den,
and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two
streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot.
Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and
burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have added
opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little
weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical
views."

"I was certainly surprised to find you there."

"But not more so than I to find you."

"I came to find a friend."

"And I to find an enemy."

"An enemy?"

"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural
prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable
inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent
ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been
recognised in that den my life would not have been worth an
hour's purchase; for I have used it before now for my own
purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have
vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that
building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell some
strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless
nights."

"What! You do not mean bodies?"

"Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had 1000 pounds
for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It
is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that
Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But our
trap should be here." He put his two forefingers between his
teeth and whistled shrilly--a signal which was answered by a
similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle
of wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs.

"Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through
the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from
its side lanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you?"

"If I can be of use."

"Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still
more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."

"The Cedars?"

"Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there while I
conduct the inquiry."

"Where is it, then?"

"Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us."

"But I am all in the dark."

"Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump up
here. All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half a
crown. Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her
head. So long, then!"

He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through
the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which
widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad
balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly
beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and
mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of
the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of
revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a
star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of
the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his
breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat
beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which
seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in
upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles,
and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban
villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up
his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he
is acting for the best.

"You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he. "It makes
you quite invaluable as a companion. 'Pon my word, it is a great
thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are
not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear
little woman to-night when she meets me at the door."

"You forget that I know nothing about it."

"I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before
we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can
get nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I
can't get the end of it into my hand. Now, I'll state the case
clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a
spark where all is dark to me."

"Proceed, then."

"Some years ago--to be definite, in May, 1884--there came to Lee
a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have
plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very
nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he made
friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter
of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children. He had no
occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into
town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon
Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of
age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very
affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know
him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far
as we have been able to ascertain, amount to 88 pounds 10s., while
he has 220 pounds standing to his credit in the Capital and
Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money
troubles have been weighing upon his mind.

"Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier
than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important
commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy
home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife
received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his
departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable
value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at the
offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up
in your London, you will know that the office of the company is
in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where
you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for
the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company's office,
got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking through
Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed me
so far?"

"It is very clear."

"If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St.
Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab,
as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself.
While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly
heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her
husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning
to her from a second-floor window. The window was open, and she
distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly
agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her, and then
vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that
he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind.
One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that
although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town
in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

"Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the
steps--for the house was none other than the opium den in which
you found me to-night--and running through the front room she
attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At
the foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of
whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who
acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street. Filled
with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the
lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Street a number of
constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat. The
inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the
continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to
the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no
sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was
no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who,
it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly
swore that no one else had been in the front room during the
afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was
staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had
been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box
which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell
a cascade of children's bricks. It was the toy which he had
promised to bring home.

"This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple
showed, made the inspector realise that the matter was serious.
The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an
abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a
sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon
the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom
window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered
at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water. The
bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On
examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill,
and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of
the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were
all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of
his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch--all were
there. There were no signs of violence upon any of these
garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St.
Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no
other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon
the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by
swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of
the tragedy.

"And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately
implicated in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the
vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was
known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few
seconds of her husband's appearance at the window, he could
hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His defence
was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no
knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he
could not account in any way for the presence of the missing
gentleman's clothes.

"So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who
lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was
certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St.
Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which
is familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is a
professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police
regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some
little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand
side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the
wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat,
cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he
is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the
greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I
have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of
making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised
at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His
appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him
without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a pale face
disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has
turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a
pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular
contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid
the common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he
is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be
thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we now
learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been
the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest."

"But a cripple!" said I. "What could he have done single-handed
against a man in the prime of life?"

"He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in
other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man.
Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that
weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional
strength in the others."

"Pray continue your narrative."

"Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the
window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her
presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.
Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful
examination of the premises, but without finding anything which
threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not
arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes
during which he might have communicated with his friend the
Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized and
searched, without anything being found which could incriminate
him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his right
shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been
cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from
there, adding that he had been to the window not long before, and
that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from
the same source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr.
Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in
his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to
Mrs. St. Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband
at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad or
dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to the
police-station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in
the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue.

"And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they
had feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair's coat, and not
Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And
what do you think they found in the pockets?"

"I cannot imagine."

"No, I don't think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with
pennies and half-pennies--421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It
was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a
human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between
the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that the
weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been sucked
away into the river."

"But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the
room. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?"

"No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose
that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the
window, there is no human eye which could have seen the deed.
What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike him
that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seize
the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it
would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little
time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried
to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his
Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street.
There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret
hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he
stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the
pockets to make sure of the coat's sinking. He throws it out, and
would have done the same with the other garments had not he heard
the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the
window when the police appeared."

"It certainly sounds feasible."

"Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a
better. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the
station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before
been anything against him. He had for years been known as a
professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very
quiet and innocent one. There the matter stands at present, and
the questions which have to be solved--what Neville St. Clair was
doing in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where is
he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance--are
all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot
recall any case within my experience which looked at the first
glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties."

While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of
events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great
town until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and
we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us.
Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered
villages, where a few lights still glimmered in the windows.

"We are on the outskirts of Lee," said my companion. "We have
touched on three English counties in our short drive, starting in
Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent.
See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside
that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I have
little doubt, caught the clink of our horse's feet."

"But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?" I
asked.

"Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here.
Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and
you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for
my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have
no news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!"

We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its
own grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse's head, and
springing down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding
gravel-drive which led to the house. As we approached, the door
flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad
in some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy
pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure
outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one
half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head
and face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing
question.

"Well?" she cried, "well?" And then, seeing that there were two
of us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw
that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"No good news?"

"None."

"No bad?"

"No."

"Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have
had a long day."

"This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to
me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it
possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this
investigation."

"I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand warmly.
"You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our
arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so
suddenly upon us."

"My dear madam," said I, "I am an old campaigner, and if I were
not I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of
any assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be
indeed happy."

"Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered a
well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had
been laid out, "I should very much like to ask you one or two
plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain
answer."

"Certainly, madam."

"Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given
to fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion."

"Upon what point?"

"In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?"

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question.
"Frankly, now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking
keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.

"Frankly, then, madam, I do not."

"You think that he is dead?"

"I do."

"Murdered?"

"I don't say that. Perhaps."

"And on what day did he meet his death?"

"On Monday."

"Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how
it is that I have received a letter from him to-day."

Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been
galvanised.

"What!" he roared.

"Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of
paper in the air.

"May I see it?"

"Certainly."

He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out
upon the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I
had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The
envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend
postmark and with the date of that very day, or rather of the day
before, for it was considerably after midnight.

"Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely this is not your
husband's writing, madam."

"No, but the enclosure is."

"I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go
and inquire as to the address."

"How can you tell that?"

"The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried
itself. The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that
blotting-paper has been used. If it had been written straight
off, and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This
man has written the name, and there has then been a pause before
he wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not
familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is
nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha!
there has been an enclosure here!"

"Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring."

"And you are sure that this is your husband's hand?"

"One of his hands."

"One?"

"His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual
writing, and yet I know it well."

"'Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a
huge error which it may take some little time to rectify.
Wait in patience.--NEVILLE.' Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf
of a book, octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in
Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been
gummed, if I am not very much in error, by a person who had been
chewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that it is your husband's
hand, madam?"

"None. Neville wrote those words."

"And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair,
the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the
danger is over."

"But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes."

"Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent.
The ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from
him."

"No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!"

"Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only
posted to-day."

"That is possible."

"If so, much may have happened between."

"Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is
well with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I
should know if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him
last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room
rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that
something had happened. Do you think that I would respond to such
a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?"

"I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman
may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical
reasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong
piece of evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husband
is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away
from you?"

"I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable."

"And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?"

"No."

"And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?"

"Very much so."

"Was the window open?"

"Yes."

"Then he might have called to you?"

"He might."

"He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?"

"Yes."

"A call for help, you thought?"

"Yes. He waved his hands."

"But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the
unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?"

"It is possible."

"And you thought he was pulled back?"

"He disappeared so suddenly."

"He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the
room?"

"No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and
the Lascar was at the foot of the stairs."

"Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his
ordinary clothes on?"

"But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare
throat."

"Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?"

"Never."

"Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?"

"Never."

"Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about
which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little
supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day
to-morrow."

A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our
disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary
after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however,
who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for
days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over,
rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view
until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his
data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he was now
preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his coat and
waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then wandered
about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from
the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of
Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with
an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front
of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an
old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the
corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him,
silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set
aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he
sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found
the summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe was still
between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room was
full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap of
shag which I had seen upon the previous night.

"Awake, Watson?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Game for a morning drive?"

"Certainly."

"Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the
stable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." He
chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed
a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous night.

As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one
was stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly
finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was
putting in the horse.

"I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on his
boots. "I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the
presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve
to be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the
key of the affair now."

"And where is it?" I asked, smiling.

"In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not joking," he
continued, seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just been
there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this
Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will
not fit the lock."

We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into
the bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and
trap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both
sprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road. A few country
carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but
the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as
some city in a dream.

"It has been in some points a singular case," said Holmes,
flicking the horse on into a gallop. "I confess that I have been
as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than
never to learn it at all."

In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily
from their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey
side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the
river, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the
right and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well
known to the force, and the two constables at the door saluted
him. One of them held the horse's head while the other led us in.

"Who is on duty?" asked Holmes.

"Inspector Bradstreet, sir."

"Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?" A tall, stout official had come
down the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged
jacket. "I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet."
"Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here." It was a small,
office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and a
telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his
desk.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

"I called about that beggarman, Boone--the one who was charged
with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St.
Clair, of Lee."

"Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries."

"So I heard. You have him here?"

"In the cells."

"Is he quiet?"

"Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel."

"Dirty?"

"Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his
face is as black as a tinker's. Well, when once his case has been
settled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you
saw him, you would agree with me that he needed it."

"I should like to see him very much."

"Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave
your bag."

"No, I think that I'll take it."

"Very good. Come this way, if you please." He led us down a
passage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and
brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each
side.

"The third on the right is his," said the inspector. "Here it
is!" He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door
and glanced through.

"He is asleep," said he. "You can see him very well."

We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his
face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and
heavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his
calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his
tattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremely
dirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its
repulsive ugliness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran right
across it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned up
one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a
perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low over
his eyes and forehead.

"He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector.

"He certainly needs a wash," remarked Holmes. "I had an idea that
he might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me."
He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my
astonishment, a very large bath-sponge.

"He! he! You are a funny one," chuckled the inspector.

"Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very
quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable
figure."

"Well, I don't know why not," said the inspector. "He doesn't
look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?" He slipped his
key into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The
sleeper half turned, and then settled down once more into a deep
slumber. Holmes stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge,
and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down the
prisoner's face.

"Let me introduce you," he shouted, "to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of
Lee, in the county of Kent."

Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man's face peeled
off under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the
coarse brown tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had
seamed it across, and the twisted lip which had given the
repulsive sneer to the face! A twitch brought away the tangled
red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale,
sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned,
rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment.
Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a scream and
threw himself down with his face to the pillow.

"Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, indeed, the missing
man. I know him from the photograph."

The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons
himself to his destiny. "Be it so," said he. "And pray what am I
charged with?"

"With making away with Mr. Neville St.-- Oh, come, you can't be
charged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of
it," said the inspector with a grin. "Well, I have been
twenty-seven years in the force, but this really takes the cake."

"If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime
has been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally
detained."

"No crime, but a very great error has been committed," said
Holmes. "You would have done better to have trusted you wife."

"It was not the wife; it was the children," groaned the prisoner.
"God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My
God! What an exposure! What can I do?"

Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him
kindly on the shoulder.

"If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up," said
he, "of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand,
if you convince the police authorities that there is no possible
case against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the
details should find their way into the papers. Inspector
Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you
might tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The case
would then never go into court at all."

"God bless you!" cried the prisoner passionately. "I would have
endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left
my miserable secret as a family blot to my children.

"You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a
schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent
education. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and
finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day
my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the
metropolis, and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point
from which all my adventures started. It was only by trying
begging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which to
base my articles. When an actor I had, of course, learned all the
secrets of making up, and had been famous in the green-room for
my skill. I took advantage now of my attainments. I painted my
face, and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a good
scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a
small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head of
hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business
part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a
beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned
home in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received no
less than 26s. 4d.

"I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until,
some time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ
served upon me for 25 pounds. I was at my wit's end where to get
the money, but a sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight's
grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers,
and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise. In
ten days I had the money and had paid the debt.

"Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous
work at 2 pounds a week when I knew that I could earn as much in
a day by smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on
the ground, and sitting still. It was a long fight between my
pride and the money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw up
reporting and sat day after day in the corner which I had first
chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets
with coppers. Only one man knew my secret. He was the keeper of a
low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I could
every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the evenings
transform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This fellow,
a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew that
my secret was safe in his possession.

"Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of
money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London
could earn 700 pounds a year--which is less than my average
takings--but I had exceptional advantages in my power of making
up, and also in a facility of repartee, which improved by
practice and made me quite a recognised character in the City.
All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me,
and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take 2 pounds.

"As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the
country, and eventually married, without anyone having a
suspicion as to my real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had
business in the City. She little knew what.

"Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my
room above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw,
to my horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the
street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of
surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my
confidant, the Lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone from
coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that
she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on
those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife's
eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it
occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that
the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening
by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in
the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was
weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from
the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of
the window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes
would have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of
constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather,
I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr.
Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer.

"I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I
was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and
hence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would
be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the
Lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, together
with a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to
fear."

"That note only reached her yesterday," said Holmes.

"Good God! What a week she must have spent!"

"The police have watched this Lascar," said Inspector Bradstreet,
"and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to
post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor
customer of his, who forgot all about it for some days."

"That was it," said Holmes, nodding approvingly; "I have no doubt
of it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?"

"Many times; but what was a fine to me?"

"It must stop here, however," said Bradstreet. "If the police are
to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone."

"I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take."

"In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps
may be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out.
I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for
having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your
results."

"I reached this one," said my friend, "by sitting upon five
pillows and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if
we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast."



VII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE

I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second
morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the
compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a
purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the
right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly
studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and
on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and disreputable
hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in several
places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair
suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the
purpose of examination.

"You are engaged," said I; "perhaps I interrupt you."

"Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss
my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one"--he jerked his
thumb in the direction of the old hat--"but there are points in
connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and
even of instruction."

I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his
crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows
were thick with the ice crystals. "I suppose," I remarked, "that,
homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to
it--that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of
some mystery and the punishment of some crime."

"No, no. No crime," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "Only one of
those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have
four million human beings all jostling each other within the
space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so
dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events
may be expected to take place, and many a little problem will be
presented which may be striking and bizarre without being
criminal. We have already had experience of such."

"So much so," I remarked, "that of the last six cases which I
have added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any
legal crime."

"Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler
papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the
adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt
that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category.
You know Peterson, the commissionaire?"

"Yes."

"It is to him that this trophy belongs."

"It is his hat."

"No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will
look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual
problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon
Christmas morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I
have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson's
fire. The facts are these: about four o'clock on Christmas
morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was
returning from some small jollification and was making his way
homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in
the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and
carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the
corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger
and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the
man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and,
swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him.
Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his
assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and
seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him,
dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the
labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham
Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of
Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of
battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this
battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose."

"Which surely he restored to their owner?"

"My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that 'For
Mrs. Henry Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied to
the bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H.
B.' are legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are
some thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in
this city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any
one of them."

"What, then, did Peterson do?"

"He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning,
knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me.
The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs
that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it
should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried
it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose,
while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who
lost his Christmas dinner."

"Did he not advertise?"

"No."

"Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?"

"Only as much as we can deduce."

"From his hat?"

"Precisely."

"But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered
felt?"

"Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather
yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this
article?"

I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather
ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round
shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of
red silk, but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker's
name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials "H. B." were
scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a
hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was
cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several places,
although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the
discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.

"I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend.

"On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail,
however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in
drawing your inferences."

"Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?"

He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective
fashion which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less
suggestive than it might have been," he remarked, "and yet there
are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others
which represent at least a strong balance of probability. That
the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious upon the
face of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the
last three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. He
had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to a
moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his
fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink,
at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that
his wife has ceased to love him."

"My dear Holmes!"

"He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," he
continued, disregarding my remonstrance. "He is a man who leads a
sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is
middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the
last few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are
the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also,
by the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid
on in his house."

"You are certainly joking, Holmes."

"Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you
these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?"

"I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I
am unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that
this man was intellectual?"

For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right
over the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. "It is
a question of cubic capacity," said he; "a man with so large a
brain must have something in it."

"The decline of his fortunes, then?"

"This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge
came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the
band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could
afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no
hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world."

"Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the
foresight and the moral retrogression?"

Sherlock Holmes laughed. "Here is the foresight," said he putting
his finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer.
"They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a
sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his
way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see
that he has broken the elastic and has not troubled to replace
it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than formerly,
which is a distinct proof of a weakening nature. On the other
hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some of these stains upon the
felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not
entirely lost his self-respect."

"Your reasoning is certainly plausible."

"The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is
grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses
lime-cream, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the
lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of
hair-ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They all
appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of
lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, grey
dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house,
showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while
the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the
wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in
the best of training."

"But his wife--you said that she had ceased to love him."

"This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear
Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and
when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear
that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's
affection."

"But he might be a bachelor."

"Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his
wife. Remember the card upon the bird's leg."

"You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce
that the gas is not laid on in his house?"

"One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I
see no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt
that the individual must be brought into frequent contact with
burning tallow--walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in
one hand and a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never
got tallow-stains from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?"

"Well, it is very ingenious," said I, laughing; "but since, as
you said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm
done save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a
waste of energy."

Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew
open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment
with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with
astonishment.

"The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!" he gasped.

"Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off
through the kitchen window?" Holmes twisted himself round upon
the sofa to get a fairer view of the man's excited face.

"See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!" He held out
his hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly
scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but
of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric
point in the dark hollow of his hand.

Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. "By Jove, Peterson!" said
he, "this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you
have got?"

"A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though
it were putty."

"It's more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone."

"Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle!" I ejaculated.

"Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I
have read the advertisement about it in The Times every day
lately. It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be
conjectured, but the reward offered of 1000 pounds is certainly
not within a twentieth part of the market price."

"A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!" The commissionaire
plumped down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.

"That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are
sentimental considerations in the background which would induce
the Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but
recover the gem."

"It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan," I
remarked.

"Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner,
a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady's
jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case
has been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the
matter here, I believe." He rummaged amid his newspapers,
glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed one out,
doubled it over, and read the following paragraph:

"Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was
brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst.,
abstracted from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the
valuable gem known as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder,
upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his evidence to the effect
that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room of the Countess
of Morcar upon the day of the robbery in order that he might
solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He had
remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been
called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared,
that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco
casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was
accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the
dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was
arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found
either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to
the Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder's cry of dismay on
discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room,
where she found matters as described by the last witness.
Inspector Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest
of Horner, who struggled frantically, and protested his innocence
in the strongest terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for
robbery having been given against the prisoner, the magistrate
refused to deal summarily with the offence, but referred it to
the Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of intense emotion
during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and was
carried out of court."

"Hum! So much for the police-court," said Holmes thoughtfully,
tossing aside the paper. "The question for us now to solve is the
sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to
the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You
see, Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much
more important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the
stone came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry
Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and all the other
characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we must set
ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and
ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To
do this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie
undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If
this fail, I shall have recourse to other methods."

"What will you say?"

"Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: 'Found at
the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr.
Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at
221B, Baker Street.' That is clear and concise."

"Very. But will he see it?"

"Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor
man, the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his
mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson
that he thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must
have bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his
bird. Then, again, the introduction of his name will cause him to
see it, for everyone who knows him will direct his attention to
it. Here you are, Peterson, run down to the advertising agency
and have this put in the evening papers."

"In which, sir?"

"Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James's, Evening News,
Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you."

"Very well, sir. And this stone?"

"Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say,
Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here
with me, for we must have one to give to this gentleman in place
of the one which your family is now devouring."

When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and
held it against the light. "It's a bonny thing," said he. "Just
see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and
focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet
baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a
bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found
in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China and is remarkable
in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is
blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has
already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a
vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about
for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal.
Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the
gallows and the prison? I'll lock it up in my strong box now and
drop a line to the Countess to say that we have it."

"Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?"

"I cannot tell."

"Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had
anything to do with the matter?"

"It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an
absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he
was carrying was of considerably more value than if it were made
of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a very simple
test if we have an answer to our advertisement."

"And you can do nothing until then?"

"Nothing."

"In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall
come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I
should like to see the solution of so tangled a business."

"Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I
believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I
ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop."

I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past
six when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I
approached the house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a
coat which was buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the
bright semicircle which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I
arrived the door was opened, and we were shown up together to
Holmes' room.

"Mr. Henry Baker, I believe," said he, rising from his armchair
and greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he
could so readily assume. "Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr.
Baker. It is a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is
more adapted for summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have
just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?"

"Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat."

He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a
broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of
grizzled brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight
tremor of his extended hand, recalled Holmes' surmise as to his
habits. His rusty black frock-coat was buttoned right up in
front, with the collar turned up, and his lank wrists protruded
from his sleeves without a sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a
slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with care, and gave the
impression generally of a man of learning and letters who had had
ill-usage at the hands of fortune.

"We have retained these things for some days," said Holmes,
"because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your
address. I am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise."

Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. "Shillings have not
been so plentiful with me as they once were," he remarked. "I had
no doubt that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off
both my hat and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a
hopeless attempt at recovering them."

"Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to
eat it."

"To eat it!" Our visitor half rose from his chair in his
excitement.

"Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so.
But I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is
about the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your
purpose equally well?"

"Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of
relief.

"Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of
your own bird, so if you wish--"

The man burst into a hearty laugh. "They might be useful to me as
relics of my adventure," said he, "but beyond that I can hardly
see what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are
going to be to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I
will confine my attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive
upon the sideboard."

Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug
of his shoulders.

"There is your hat, then, and there your bird," said he. "By the
way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one
from? I am somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a
better grown goose."

"Certainly, sir," said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly
gained property under his arm. "There are a few of us who
frequent the Alpha Inn, near the Museum--we are to be found in
the Museum itself during the day, you understand. This year our
good host, Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which,
on consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to
receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the
rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a
Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity." With
a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and
strode off upon his way.

"So much for Mr. Henry Baker," said Holmes when he had closed the
door behind him. "It is quite certain that he knows nothing
whatever about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?"

"Not particularly."

"Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow
up this clue while it is still hot."

"By all means."

It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped
cravats about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly
in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out
into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out
crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctors' quarter,
Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into
Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at
the Alpha Inn, which is a small public-house at the corner of one
of the streets which runs down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open
the door of the private bar and ordered two glasses of beer from
the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.

"Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,"
said he.

"My geese!" The man seemed surprised.

"Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker,
who was a member of your goose club."

"Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them's not our geese."

"Indeed! Whose, then?"

"Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden."

"Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?"

"Breckinridge is his name."

"Ah! I don't know him. Well, here's your good health landlord,
and prosperity to your house. Good-night."

"Now for Mr. Breckinridge," he continued, buttoning up his coat
as we came out into the frosty air. "Remember, Watson that though
we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we
have at the other a man who will certainly get seven years' penal
servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible
that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we
have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police,
and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us
follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and
quick march!"

We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a
zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest
stalls bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor
a horsey-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was
helping a boy to put up the shutters.

"Good-evening. It's a cold night," said Holmes.

The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my
companion.

"Sold out of geese, I see," continued Holmes, pointing at the
bare slabs of marble.

"Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning."

"That's no good."

"Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare."

"Ah, but I was recommended to you."

"Who by?"

"The landlord of the Alpha."

"Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen."

"Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?"

To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the
salesman.

"Now, then, mister," said he, with his head cocked and his arms
akimbo, "what are you driving at? Let's have it straight, now."

"It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the
geese which you supplied to the Alpha."

"Well then, I shan't tell you. So now!"

"Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know why you
should be so warm over such a trifle."

"Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am.
When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end
of the business; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and 'Who did you
sell the geese to?' and 'What will you take for the geese?' One
would think they were the only geese in the world, to hear the
fuss that is made over them."

"Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been
making inquiries," said Holmes carelessly. "If you won't tell us
the bet is off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my
opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the
bird I ate is country bred."

"Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town bred," snapped
the salesman.

"It's nothing of the kind."

"I say it is."

"I don't believe it."

"D'you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled
them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that
went to the Alpha were town bred."

"You'll never persuade me to believe that."

"Will you bet, then?"

"It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But
I'll have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be
obstinate."

The salesman chuckled grimly. "Bring me the books, Bill," said
he.

The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great
greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging
lamp.

"Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the salesman, "I thought that I
was out of geese, but before I finish you'll find that there is
still one left in my shop. You see this little book?"

"Well?"

"That's the list of the folk from whom I buy. D'you see? Well,
then, here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers
after their names are where their accounts are in the big ledger.
Now, then! You see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a
list of my town suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just
read it out to me."

"Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road--249," read Holmes.

"Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger."

Holmes turned to the page indicated. "Here you are, 'Mrs.
Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.'"

"Now, then, what's the last entry?"

"'December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.'"

"Quite so. There you are. And underneath?"

"'Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.'"

"What have you to say now?"

Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from
his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the
air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off
he stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless
fashion which was peculiar to him.

"When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the 'Pink 'un'
protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,"
said he. "I daresay that if I had put 100 pounds down in front of
him, that man would not have given me such complete information
as was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on a
wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our
quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is
whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or
whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear from what
that surly fellow said that there are others besides ourselves
who are anxious about the matter, and I should--"

His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke
out from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a
little rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of
yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while
Breckinridge, the salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was
shaking his fists fiercely at the cringing figure.

"I've had enough of you and your geese," he shouted. "I wish you
were all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more
with your silly talk I'll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs.
Oakshott here and I'll answer her, but what have you to do with
it? Did I buy the geese off you?"

"No; but one of them was mine all the same," whined the little
man.

"Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it."

"She told me to ask you."

"Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I've had
enough of it. Get out of this!" He rushed fiercely forward, and
the inquirer flitted away into the darkness.

"Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road," whispered Holmes.
"Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this
fellow." Striding through the scattered knots of people who
lounged round the flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook
the little man and touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang
round, and I could see in the gas-light that every vestige of
colour had been driven from his face.

"Who are you, then? What do you want?" he asked in a quavering
voice.

"You will excuse me," said Holmes blandly, "but I could not help
overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now.
I think that I could be of assistance to you."

"You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other
people don't know."

"But you can know nothing of this?"

"Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to
trace some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton
Road, to a salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr.
Windigate, of the Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr.
Henry Baker is a member."

"Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet," cried
the little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers.
"I can hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter."

Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. "In that
case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this
wind-swept market-place," said he. "But pray tell me, before we
go farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting."

The man hesitated for an instant. "My name is John Robinson," he
answered with a sidelong glance.

"No, no; the real name," said Holmes sweetly. "It is always
awkward doing business with an alias."

A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. "Well then,"
said he, "my real name is James Ryder."

"Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray
step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you
everything which you would wish to know."

The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with
half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure
whether he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe.
Then he stepped into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in
the sitting-room at Baker Street. Nothing had been said during
our drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new companion, and
the claspings and unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous
tension within him.

"Here we are!" said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room.
"The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold,
Mr. Ryder. Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my
slippers before we settle this little matter of yours. Now, then!
You want to know what became of those geese?"

"Yes, sir."

"Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in
which you were interested--white, with a black bar across the
tail."

Ryder quivered with emotion. "Oh, sir," he cried, "can you tell
me where it went to?"

"It came here."

"Here?"

"Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don't wonder that
you should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was
dead--the bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen.
I have it here in my museum."

Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece
with his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up
the blue carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold,
brilliant, many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a
drawn face, uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.

"The game's up, Ryder," said Holmes quietly. "Hold up, man, or
you'll be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair,
Watson. He's not got blood enough to go in for felony with
impunity. Give him a dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little
more human. What a shrimp it is, to be sure!"

For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy
brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring
with frightened eyes at his accuser.

"I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I
could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me.
Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case
complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the
Countess of Morcar's?"

"It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it," said he in a
crackling voice.

"I see--her ladyship's waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of
sudden wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has
been for better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous
in the means you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the
making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man
Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter
before, and that suspicion would rest the more readily upon him.
What did you do, then? You made some small job in my lady's
room--you and your confederate Cusack--and you managed that he
should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you rifled
the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man
arrested. You then--"

Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my
companion's knees. "For God's sake, have mercy!" he shrieked.
"Think of my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I
never went wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I'll
swear it on a Bible. Oh, don't bring it into court! For Christ's
sake, don't!"

"Get back into your chair!" said Holmes sternly. "It is very well
to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this
poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing."

"I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the
charge against him will break down."

"Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account
of the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came
the goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies
your only hope of safety."

Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. "I will tell you
it just as it happened, sir," said he. "When Horner had been
arrested, it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get
away with the stone at once, for I did not know at what moment
the police might not take it into their heads to search me and my
room. There was no place about the hotel where it would be safe.
I went out, as if on some commission, and I made for my sister's
house. She had married a man named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton
Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All the way there
every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a detective;
and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring down
my face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me
what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her that I
had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went
into the back yard and smoked a pipe and wondered what it would
be best to do.

"I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and
has just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met
me, and fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they
could get rid of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to
me, for I knew one or two things about him; so I made up my mind
to go right on to Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my
confidence. He would show me how to turn the stone into money.
But how to get to him in safety? I thought of the agonies I had
gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at any moment be
seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my waistcoat
pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and looking at
the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and suddenly
an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the
best detective that ever lived.

"My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the
pick of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she
was always as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in
it I would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in
the yard, and behind this I drove one of the birds--a fine big
one, white, with a barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill
open, I thrust the stone down its throat as far as my finger
could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone pass
along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature flapped
and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the
matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and
fluttered off among the others.

"'Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?' says she.

"'Well,' said I, 'you said you'd give me one for Christmas, and I
was feeling which was the fattest.'

"'Oh,' says she, 'we've set yours aside for you--Jem's bird, we
call it. It's the big white one over yonder. There's twenty-six
of them, which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen
for the market.'

"'Thank you, Maggie,' says I; 'but if it is all the same to you,
I'd rather have that one I was handling just now.'

"'The other is a good three pound heavier,' said she, 'and we
fattened it expressly for you.'

"'Never mind. I'll have the other, and I'll take it now,' said I.

"'Oh, just as you like,' said she, a little huffed. 'Which is it
you want, then?'

"'That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the
flock.'

"'Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.'

"Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird
all the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was
a man that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed
until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My
heart turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I
knew that some terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird,
rushed back to my sister's, and hurried into the back yard. There
was not a bird to be seen there.

"'Where are they all, Maggie?' I cried.

"'Gone to the dealer's, Jem.'

"'Which dealer's?'

"'Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.'

"'But was there another with a barred tail?' I asked, 'the same
as the one I chose?'

"'Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never
tell them apart.'

"Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my
feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the
lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they
had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always
answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad.
Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now--and now I am myself
a branded thief, without ever having touched the wealth for which
I sold my character. God help me! God help me!" He burst into
convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his hands.

There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and
by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes' finger-tips upon the
edge of the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.

"Get out!" said he.

"What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!"

"No more words. Get out!"

And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon
the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running
footfalls from the street.

"After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his
clay pipe, "I am not retained by the police to supply their
deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another thing;
but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must
collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just
possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong
again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to gaol now, and
you make him a gaol-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of
forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and
whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you
will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin
another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief
feature."



VIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND

On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I
have during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend
Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number
merely strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did
rather for the love of his art than for the acquirement of
wealth, he refused to associate himself with any investigation
which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the fantastic.
Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which
presented more singular features than that which was associated
with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran.
The events in question occurred in the early days of my
association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors
in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed them
upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the
time, from which I have only been freed during the last month by
the untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It
is perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I
have reasons to know that there are widespread rumours as to the
death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the matter even
more terrible than the truth.

It was early in April in the year '83 that I woke one morning to
find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my
bed. He was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the
mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I
blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little
resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits.

"Very sorry to knock you up, Watson," said he, "but it's the
common lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she
retorted upon me, and I on you."

"What is it, then--a fire?"

"No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a
considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She
is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander
about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock
sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is
something very pressing which they have to communicate. Should it
prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to
follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I should
call you and give you the chance."

"My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything."

I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his
professional investigations, and in admiring the rapid
deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded on a
logical basis with which he unravelled the problems which were
submitted to him. I rapidly threw on my clothes and was ready in
a few minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting-room. A
lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in
the window, rose as we entered.

"Good-morning, madam," said Holmes cheerily. "My name is Sherlock
Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson,
before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am
glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the
fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot
coffee, for I observe that you are shivering."

"It is not cold which makes me shiver," said the woman in a low
voice, changing her seat as requested.

"What, then?"

"It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror." She raised her veil as
she spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable
state of agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless
frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features
and figure were those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot
with premature grey, and her expression was weary and haggard.
Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick,
all-comprehensive glances.

"You must not fear," said he soothingly, bending forward and
patting her forearm. "We shall soon set matters right, I have no
doubt. You have come in by train this morning, I see."

"You know me, then?"

"No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm
of your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had
a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached
the station."

The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my
companion.

"There is no mystery, my dear madam," said he, smiling. "The left
arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven
places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a
dog-cart which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you
sit on the left-hand side of the driver."

"Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct," said
she. "I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at
twenty past, and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I
can stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues.
I have no one to turn to--none, save only one, who cares for me,
and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard of you,
Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you
helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from her that I had
your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help me,
too, and at least throw a little light through the dense darkness
which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward
you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be
married, with the control of my own income, and then at least you
shall not find me ungrateful."

Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small
case-book, which he consulted.

"Farintosh," said he. "Ah yes, I recall the case; it was
concerned with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time,
Watson. I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote
the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to
reward, my profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty
to defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which
suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay before us
everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the
matter."

"Alas!" replied our visitor, "the very horror of my situation
lies in the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions
depend so entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to
another, that even he to whom of all others I have a right to
look for help and advice looks upon all that I tell him about it
as the fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can
read it from his soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have
heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold
wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me how to walk amid
the dangers which encompass me."

"I am all attention, madam."

"My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who
is the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in
England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of
Surrey."

Holmes nodded his head. "The name is familiar to me," said he.

"The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the
estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north,
and Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four
successive heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition,
and the family ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the
days of the Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground,
and the two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under
a heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence
there, living the horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but
his only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to
the new conditions, obtained an advance from a relative, which
enabled him to take a medical degree and went out to Calcutta,
where, by his professional skill and his force of character, he
established a large practice. In a fit of anger, however, caused
by some robberies which had been perpetrated in the house, he
beat his native butler to death and narrowly escaped a capital
sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment and
afterwards returned to England a morose and disappointed man.

"When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner,
the young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery.
My sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old
at the time of my mother's re-marriage. She had a considerable
sum of money--not less than 1000 pounds a year--and this she
bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely while we resided with him,
with a provision that a certain annual sum should be allowed to
each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly after our return
to England my mother died--she was killed eight years ago in a
railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his
attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us
to live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The
money which my mother had left was enough for all our wants, and
there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness.

"But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time.
Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our
neighbours, who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of
Stoke Moran back in the old family seat, he shut himself up in
his house and seldom came out save to indulge in ferocious
quarrels with whoever might cross his path. Violence of temper
approaching to mania has been hereditary in the men of the
family, and in my stepfather's case it had, I believe, been
intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of
disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the
police-court, until at last he became the terror of the village,
and the folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of
immense strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.

"Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a
stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I
could gather together that I was able to avert another public
exposure. He had no friends at all save the wandering gipsies,
and he would give these vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few
acres of bramble-covered land which represent the family estate,
and would accept in return the hospitality of their tents,
wandering away with them sometimes for weeks on end. He has a
passion also for Indian animals, which are sent over to him by a
correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and a baboon,
which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the
villagers almost as much as their master.

"You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I
had no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with
us, and for a long time we did all the work of the house. She was
but thirty at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already
begun to whiten, even as mine has."

"Your sister is dead, then?"

"She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish
to speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I
have described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own
age and position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother's maiden
sister, Miss Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we
were occasionally allowed to pay short visits at this lady's
house. Julia went there at Christmas two years ago, and met there
a half-pay major of marines, to whom she became engaged. My
stepfather learned of the engagement when my sister returned and
offered no objection to the marriage; but within a fortnight of
the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the terrible event
occurred which has deprived me of my only companion."

Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes
closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his
lids now and glanced across at his visitor.

"Pray be precise as to details," said he.

"It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful
time is seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have
already said, very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The
bedrooms in this wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms
being in the central block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms
the first is Dr. Roylott's, the second my sister's, and the third
my own. There is no communication between them, but they all open
out into the same corridor. Do I make myself plain?"

"Perfectly so."

"The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That
fatal night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we
knew that he had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled
by the smell of the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom
to smoke. She left her room, therefore, and came into mine, where
she sat for some time, chatting about her approaching wedding. At
eleven o'clock she rose to leave me, but she paused at the door
and looked back.

"'Tell me, Helen,' said she, 'have you ever heard anyone whistle
in the dead of the night?'

"'Never,' said I.

"'I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in
your sleep?'

"'Certainly not. But why?'

"'Because during the last few nights I have always, about three
in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper,
and it has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from--perhaps
from the next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would
just ask you whether you had heard it.'

"'No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the
plantation.'

"'Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you
did not hear it also.'

"'Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.'

"'Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.' She smiled
back at me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her
key turn in the lock."

"Indeed," said Holmes. "Was it your custom always to lock
yourselves in at night?"

"Always."

"And why?"

"I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah
and a baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were
locked."

"Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement."

"I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending
misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect,
were twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two
souls which are so closely allied. It was a wild night. The wind
was howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing
against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the gale,
there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew
that it was my sister's voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a
shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my door
I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and
a few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had
fallen. As I ran down the passage, my sister's door was unlocked,
and revolved slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it
horror-stricken, not knowing what was about to issue from it. By
the light of the corridor-lamp I saw my sister appear at the
opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands groping for
help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a
drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that
moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground.
She writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were
dreadfully convulsed. At first I thought that she had not
recognised me, but as I bent over her she suddenly shrieked out
in a voice which I shall never forget, 'Oh, my God! Helen! It was
the band! The speckled band!' There was something else which she
would fain have said, and she stabbed with her finger into the
air in the direction of the doctor's room, but a fresh convulsion
seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling loudly for
my stepfather, and I met him hastening from his room in his
dressing-gown. When he reached my sister's side she was
unconscious, and though he poured brandy down her throat and sent
for medical aid from the village, all efforts were in vain, for
she slowly sank and died without having recovered her
consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved sister."

"One moment," said Holmes, "are you sure about this whistle and
metallic sound? Could you swear to it?"

"That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is
my strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of
the gale and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have
been deceived."

"Was your sister dressed?"

"No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the
charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box."

"Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when
the alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did
the coroner come to?"

"He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott's
conduct had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable
to find any satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that
the door had been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows
were blocked by old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars,
which were secured every night. The walls were carefully sounded,
and were shown to be quite solid all round, and the flooring was
also thoroughly examined, with the same result. The chimney is
wide, but is barred up by four large staples. It is certain,
therefore, that my sister was quite alone when she met her end.
Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon her."

"How about poison?"

"The doctors examined her for it, but without success."

"What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?"

"It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock,
though what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine."

"Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?"

"Yes, there are nearly always some there."

"Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band--a
speckled band?"

"Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of
delirium, sometimes that it may have referred to some band of
people, perhaps to these very gipsies in the plantation. I do not
know whether the spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them wear
over their heads might have suggested the strange adjective which
she used."

Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.

"These are very deep waters," said he; "pray go on with your
narrative."

"Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until
lately lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend,
whom I have known for many years, has done me the honour to ask
my hand in marriage. His name is Armitage--Percy Armitage--the
second son of Mr. Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My
stepfather has offered no opposition to the match, and we are to
be married in the course of the spring. Two days ago some repairs
were started in the west wing of the building, and my bedroom
wall has been pierced, so that I have had to move into the
chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very bed in
which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last
night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I
suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which
had been the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the
lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to
go to bed again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was
daylight I slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which
is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on
this morning with the one object of seeing you and asking your
advice."

"You have done wisely," said my friend. "But have you told me
all?"

"Yes, all."

"Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather."

"Why, what do you mean?"

For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which
fringed the hand that lay upon our visitor's knee. Five little
livid spots, the marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed
upon the white wrist.

"You have been cruelly used," said Holmes.

The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. "He
is a hard man," she said, "and perhaps he hardly knows his own
strength."

There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin
upon his hands and stared into the crackling fire.

"This is a very deep business," he said at last. "There are a
thousand details which I should desire to know before I decide
upon our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If
we were to come to Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for
us to see over these rooms without the knowledge of your
stepfather?"

"As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some
most important business. It is probable that he will be away all
day, and that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a
housekeeper now, but she is old and foolish, and I could easily
get her out of the way."

"Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?"

"By no means."

"Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?"

"I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am
in town. But I shall return by the twelve o'clock train, so as to
be there in time for your coming."

"And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some
small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and
breakfast?"

"No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have
confided my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you
again this afternoon." She dropped her thick black veil over her
face and glided from the room.

"And what do you think of it all, Watson?" asked Sherlock Holmes,
leaning back in his chair.

"It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business."

"Dark enough and sinister enough."

"Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls
are sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable,
then her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her
mysterious end."

"What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the
very peculiar words of the dying woman?"

"I cannot think."

"When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of
a band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor,
the fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has
an interest in preventing his stepdaughter's marriage, the dying
allusion to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner
heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of
those metal bars that secured the shutters falling back into its
place, I think that there is good ground to think that the
mystery may be cleared along those lines."

"But what, then, did the gipsies do?"

"I cannot imagine."

"I see many objections to any such theory."

"And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going
to Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are
fatal, or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of
the devil!"

The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that
our door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had
framed himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar
mixture of the professional and of the agricultural, having a
black top-hat, a long frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters,
with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand. So tall was he that his
hat actually brushed the cross bar of the doorway, and his
breadth seemed to span it across from side to side. A large face,
seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun, and
marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the other
of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin,
fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old
bird of prey.

"Which of you is Holmes?" asked this apparition.

"My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said my
companion quietly.

"I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran."

"Indeed, Doctor," said Holmes blandly. "Pray take a seat."

"I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I
have traced her. What has she been saying to you?"

"It is a little cold for the time of the year," said Holmes.

"What has she been saying to you?" screamed the old man
furiously.

"But I have heard that the crocuses promise well," continued my
companion imperturbably.

"Ha! You put me off, do you?" said our new visitor, taking a step
forward and shaking his hunting-crop. "I know you, you scoundrel!
I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler."

My friend smiled.

"Holmes, the busybody!"

His smile broadened.

"Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!"

Holmes chuckled heartily. "Your conversation is most
entertaining," said he. "When you go out close the door, for
there is a decided draught."

"I will go when I have said my say. Don't you dare to meddle with
my affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her!
I am a dangerous man to fall foul of! See here." He stepped
swiftly forward, seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with
his huge brown hands.

"See that you keep yourself out of my grip," he snarled, and
hurling the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the
room.

"He seems a very amiable person," said Holmes, laughing. "I am
not quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him
that my grip was not much more feeble than his own." As he spoke
he picked up the steel poker and, with a sudden effort,
straightened it out again.

"Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official
detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation,
however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer
from her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now,
Watson, we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk
down to Doctors' Commons, where I hope to get some data which may
help us in this matter."


It was nearly one o'clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his
excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled
over with notes and figures.

"I have seen the will of the deceased wife," said he. "To
determine its exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the
present prices of the investments with which it is concerned. The
total income, which at the time of the wife's death was little
short of 1100 pounds, is now, through the fall in agricultural
prices, not more than 750 pounds. Each daughter can claim an
income of 250 pounds, in case of marriage. It is evident,
therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would have
had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to
a very serious extent. My morning's work has not been wasted,
since it has proved that he has the very strongest motives for
standing in the way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson,
this is too serious for dawdling, especially as the old man is
aware that we are interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you
are ready, we shall call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I should be
very much obliged if you would slip your revolver into your
pocket. An Eley's No. 2 is an excellent argument with gentlemen
who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a tooth-brush
are, I think, all that we need."

At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for
Leatherhead, where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove
for four or five miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a
perfect day, with a bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the
heavens. The trees and wayside hedges were just throwing out
their first green shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant
smell of the moist earth. To me at least there was a strange
contrast between the sweet promise of the spring and this
sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in
the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over
his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the
deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the
shoulder, and pointed over the meadows.

"Look there!" said he.

A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope,
thickening into a grove at the highest point. From amid the
branches there jutted out the grey gables and high roof-tree of a
very old mansion.

"Stoke Moran?" said he.

"Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott," remarked
the driver.

"There is some building going on there," said Holmes; "that is
where we are going."

"There's the village," said the driver, pointing to a cluster of
roofs some distance to the left; "but if you want to get to the
house, you'll find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by
the foot-path over the fields. There it is, where the lady is
walking."

"And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner," observed Holmes, shading
his eyes. "Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest."

We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way
to Leatherhead.

"I thought it as well," said Holmes as we climbed the stile,
"that this fellow should think we had come here as architects, or
on some definite business. It may stop his gossip.
Good-afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see that we have been as good as
our word."

Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a
face which spoke her joy. "I have been waiting so eagerly for
you," she cried, shaking hands with us warmly. "All has turned
out splendidly. Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely
that he will be back before evening."

"We have had the pleasure of making the doctor's acquaintance,"
said Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had
occurred. Miss Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.

"Good heavens!" she cried, "he has followed me, then."

"So it appears."

"He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What
will he say when he returns?"

"He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone
more cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself
up from him to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to
your aunt's at Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our
time, so kindly take us at once to the rooms which we are to
examine."

The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high
central portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab,
thrown out on each side. In one of these wings the windows were
broken and blocked with wooden boards, while the roof was partly
caved in, a picture of ruin. The central portion was in little
better repair, but the right-hand block was comparatively modern,
and the blinds in the windows, with the blue smoke curling up
from the chimneys, showed that this was where the family resided.
Some scaffolding had been erected against the end wall, and the
stone-work had been broken into, but there were no signs of any
workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes walked slowly up and
down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep attention the
outsides of the windows.

"This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep,
the centre one to your sister's, and the one next to the main
building to Dr. Roylott's chamber?"

"Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one."

"Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does
not seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end
wall."

"There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from
my room."

"Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow
wing runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There
are windows in it, of course?"

"Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass
through."

"As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were
unapproachable from that side. Now, would you have the kindness
to go into your room and bar your shutters?"

Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination
through the open window, endeavoured in every way to force the
shutter open, but without success. There was no slit through
which a knife could be passed to raise the bar. Then with his
lens he tested the hinges, but they were of solid iron, built
firmly into the massive masonry. "Hum!" said he, scratching his
chin in some perplexity, "my theory certainly presents some
difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they were
bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon
the matter."

A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which
the three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third
chamber, so we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss
Stoner was now sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her
fate. It was a homely little room, with a low ceiling and a
gaping fireplace, after the fashion of old country-houses. A
brown chest of drawers stood in one corner, a narrow
white-counterpaned bed in another, and a dressing-table on the
left-hand side of the window. These articles, with two small
wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the room save
for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards round and
the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old
and discoloured that it may have dated from the original building
of the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat
silent, while his eyes travelled round and round and up and down,
taking in every detail of the apartment.

"Where does that bell communicate with?" he asked at last
pointing to a thick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the
tassel actually lying upon the pillow.

"It goes to the housekeeper's room."

"It looks newer than the other things?"

"Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago."

"Your sister asked for it, I suppose?"

"No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we
wanted for ourselves."

"Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there.
You will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to
this floor." He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in
his hand and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining
minutely the cracks between the boards. Then he did the same with
the wood-work with which the chamber was panelled. Finally he
walked over to the bed and spent some time in staring at it and
in running his eye up and down the wall. Finally he took the
bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug.

"Why, it's a dummy," said he.

"Won't it ring?"

"No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting.
You can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where
the little opening for the ventilator is."

"How very absurd! I never noticed that before."

"Very strange!" muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. "There are
one or two very singular points about this room. For example,
what a fool a builder must be to open a ventilator into another
room, when, with the same trouble, he might have communicated
with the outside air!"

"That is also quite modern," said the lady.

"Done about the same time as the bell-rope?" remarked Holmes.

"Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that
time."

"They seem to have been of a most interesting character--dummy
bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your
permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into
the inner apartment."

Dr. Grimesby Roylott's chamber was larger than that of his
step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small
wooden shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an
armchair beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a
round table, and a large iron safe were the principal things
which met the eye. Holmes walked slowly round and examined each
and all of them with the keenest interest.

"What's in here?" he asked, tapping the safe.

"My stepfather's business papers."

"Oh! you have seen inside, then?"

"Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of
papers."

"There isn't a cat in it, for example?"

"No. What a strange idea!"

"Well, look at this!" He took up a small saucer of milk which
stood on the top of it.

"No; we don't keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon."

"Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a
saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I
daresay. There is one point which I should wish to determine." He
squatted down in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat
of it with the greatest attention.

"Thank you. That is quite settled," said he, rising and putting
his lens in his pocket. "Hullo! Here is something interesting!"

The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on
one corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself
and tied so as to make a loop of whipcord.

"What do you make of that, Watson?"

"It's a common enough lash. But I don't know why it should be
tied."

"That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it's a wicked world,
and when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst
of all. I think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and
with your permission we shall walk out upon the lawn."

I had never seen my friend's face so grim or his brow so dark as
it was when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We
had walked several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss
Stoner nor myself liking to break in upon his thoughts before he
roused himself from his reverie.

"It is very essential, Miss Stoner," said he, "that you should
absolutely follow my advice in every respect."

"I shall most certainly do so."

"The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may
depend upon your compliance."

"I assure you that I am in your hands."

"In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in
your room."

Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.

"Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the
village inn over there?"

"Yes, that is the Crown."

"Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?"

"Certainly."

"You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a
headache, when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him
retire for the night, you must open the shutters of your window,
undo the hasp, put your lamp there as a signal to us, and then
withdraw quietly with everything which you are likely to want
into the room which you used to occupy. I have no doubt that, in
spite of the repairs, you could manage there for one night."

"Oh, yes, easily."

"The rest you will leave in our hands."

"But what will you do?"

"We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate
the cause of this noise which has disturbed you."

"I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,"
said Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion's sleeve.

"Perhaps I have."

"Then, for pity's sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister's
death."

"I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak."

"You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and
if she died from some sudden fright."

"No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more
tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if
Dr. Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain.
Good-bye, and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you,
you may rest assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers
that threaten you."

Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and
sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and
from our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and
of the inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw
Dr. Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside
the little figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some
slight difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard
the hoarse roar of the doctor's voice and saw the fury with which
he shook his clinched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a few
minutes later we saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as
the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms.

"Do you know, Watson," said Holmes as we sat together in the
gathering darkness, "I have really some scruples as to taking you
to-night. There is a distinct element of danger."

"Can I be of assistance?"

"Your presence might be invaluable."

"Then I shall certainly come."

"It is very kind of you."

"You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms
than was visible to me."

"No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine
that you saw all that I did."

"I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose
that could answer I confess is more than I can imagine."

"You saw the ventilator, too?"

"Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to
have a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a
rat could hardly pass through."

"I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to
Stoke Moran."

"My dear Holmes!"

"Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her
sister could smell Dr. Roylott's cigar. Now, of course that
suggested at once that there must be a communication between the
two rooms. It could only be a small one, or it would have been
remarked upon at the coroner's inquiry. I deduced a ventilator."

"But what harm can there be in that?"

"Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A
ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the
bed dies. Does not that strike you?"

"I cannot as yet see any connection."

"Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?"

"No."

"It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened
like that before?"

"I cannot say that I have."

"The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same
relative position to the ventilator and to the rope--or so we may
call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull."

"Holmes," I cried, "I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at.
We are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible
crime."

"Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong
he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge.
Palmer and Pritchard were among the heads of their profession.
This man strikes even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall
be able to strike deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough
before the night is over; for goodness' sake let us have a quiet
pipe and turn our minds for a few hours to something more
cheerful."


About nine o'clock the light among the trees was extinguished,
and all was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours
passed slowly away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of
eleven, a single bright light shone out right in front of us.

"That is our signal," said Holmes, springing to his feet; "it
comes from the middle window."

As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord,
explaining that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance,
and that it was possible that we might spend the night there. A
moment later we were out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing
in our faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of us
through the gloom to guide us on our sombre errand.

There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for
unrepaired breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way
among the trees, we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about
to enter through the window when out from a clump of laurel
bushes there darted what seemed to be a hideous and distorted
child, who threw itself upon the grass with writhing limbs and
then ran swiftly across the lawn into the darkness.

"My God!" I whispered; "did you see it?"

Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like
a vice upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low
laugh and put his lips to my ear.

"It is a nice household," he murmured. "That is the baboon."

I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor affected. There
was a cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders
at any moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when,
after following Holmes' example and slipping off my shoes, I
found myself inside the bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed
the shutters, moved the lamp onto the table, and cast his eyes
round the room. All was as we had seen it in the daytime. Then
creeping up to me and making a trumpet of his hand, he whispered
into my ear again so gently that it was all that I could do to
distinguish the words:

"The least sound would be fatal to our plans."

I nodded to show that I had heard.

"We must sit without light. He would see it through the
ventilator."

I nodded again.

"Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your
pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of
the bed, and you in that chair."

I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.

Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon
the bed beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the
stump of a candle. Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left
in darkness.

How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a
sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my
companion sat open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same
state of nervous tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut
off the least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness.

From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at
our very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that
the cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the
deep tones of the parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of
an hour. How long they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and
one and two and three, and still we sat waiting silently for
whatever might befall.

Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the
direction of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was
succeeded by a strong smell of burning oil and heated metal.
Someone in the next room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle
sound of movement, and then all was silent once more, though the
smell grew stronger. For half an hour I sat with straining ears.
Then suddenly another sound became audible--a very gentle,
soothing sound, like that of a small jet of steam escaping
continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it, Holmes
sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with
his cane at the bell-pull.

"You see it, Watson?" he yelled. "You see it?"

But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I
heard a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my
weary eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which
my friend lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that his face
was deadly pale and filled with horror and loathing. He had
ceased to strike and was gazing up at the ventilator when
suddenly there broke from the silence of the night the most
horrible cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled up louder
and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all mingled
in the one dreadful shriek. They say that away down in the
village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the
sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I
stood gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it
had died away into the silence from which it rose.

"What can it mean?" I gasped.

"It means that it is all over," Holmes answered. "And perhaps,
after all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will
enter Dr. Roylott's room."

With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the
corridor. Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply
from within. Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his
heels, with the cocked pistol in my hand.

It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a
dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant
beam of light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar.
Beside this table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott
clad in a long grey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding
beneath, and his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers.
Across his lap lay the short stock with the long lash which we
had noticed during the day. His chin was cocked upward and his
eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at the corner of the
ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow band, with
brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round his
head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion.

"The band! the speckled band!" whispered Holmes.

I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began
to move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat
diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.

"It is a swamp adder!" cried Holmes; "the deadliest snake in
India. He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence
does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls
into the pit which he digs for another. Let us thrust this
creature back into its den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to
some place of shelter and let the county police know what has
happened."

As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man's lap,
and throwing the noose round the reptile's neck he drew it from
its horrid perch and, carrying it at arm's length, threw it into
the iron safe, which he closed upon it.

Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of
Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a
narrative which has already run to too great a length by telling
how we broke the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed
her by the morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow,
of how the slow process of official inquiry came to the
conclusion that the doctor met his fate while indiscreetly
playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet to learn
of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled back
next day.

"I had," said he, "come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which
shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from
insufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of
the word 'band,' which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to
explain the appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of
by the light of her match, were sufficient to put me upon an
entirely wrong scent. I can only claim the merit that I instantly
reconsidered my position when, however, it became clear to me
that whatever danger threatened an occupant of the room could not
come either from the window or the door. My attention was
speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to this
ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The
discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to
the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was
there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and
coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me,
and when I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was
furnished with a supply of creatures from India, I felt that I
was probably on the right track. The idea of using a form of
poison which could not possibly be discovered by any chemical
test was just such a one as would occur to a clever and ruthless
man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity with which such
a poison would take effect would also, from his point of view, be
an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who could
distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where
the poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the
whistle. Of course he must recall the snake before the morning
light revealed it to the victim. He had trained it, probably by
the use of the milk which we saw, to return to him when summoned.
He would put it through this ventilator at the hour that he
thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl down the
rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite the
occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but
sooner or later she must fall a victim.

"I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his
room. An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in
the habit of standing on it, which of course would be necessary
in order that he should reach the ventilator. The sight of the
safe, the saucer of milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough to
finally dispel any doubts which may have remained. The metallic
clang heard by Miss Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfather
hastily closing the door of his safe upon its terrible occupant.
Having once made up my mind, you know the steps which I took in
order to put the matter to the proof. I heard the creature hiss
as I have no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit the
light and attacked it."

"With the result of driving it through the ventilator."

"And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master
at the other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and
roused its snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person
it saw. In this way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr.
Grimesby Roylott's death, and I cannot say that it is likely to
weigh very heavily upon my conscience."



IX. THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER'S THUMB

Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, for solution during the years of our intimacy,
there were only two which I was the means of introducing to his
notice--that of Mr. Hatherley's thumb, and that of Colonel
Warburton's madness. Of these the latter may have afforded a
finer field for an acute and original observer, but the other was
so strange in its inception and so dramatic in its details that
it may be the more worthy of being placed upon record, even if it
gave my friend fewer openings for those deductive methods of
reasoning by which he achieved such remarkable results. The story
has, I believe, been told more than once in the newspapers, but,
like all such narratives, its effect is much less striking when
set forth en bloc in a single half-column of print than when the
facts slowly evolve before your own eyes, and the mystery clears
gradually away as each new discovery furnishes a step which leads
on to the complete truth. At the time the circumstances made a
deep impression upon me, and the lapse of two years has hardly
served to weaken the effect.

It was in the summer of '89, not long after my marriage, that the
events occurred which I am now about to summarise. I had returned
to civil practice and had finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker
Street rooms, although I continually visited him and occasionally
even persuaded him to forgo his Bohemian habits so far as to come
and visit us. My practice had steadily increased, and as I
happened to live at no very great distance from Paddington
Station, I got a few patients from among the officials. One of
these, whom I had cured of a painful and lingering disease, was
never weary of advertising my virtues and of endeavouring to send
me on every sufferer over whom he might have any influence.

One morning, at a little before seven o'clock, I was awakened by
the maid tapping at the door to announce that two men had come
from Paddington and were waiting in the consulting-room. I
dressed hurriedly, for I knew by experience that railway cases
were seldom trivial, and hastened downstairs. As I descended, my
old ally, the guard, came out of the room and closed the door
tightly behind him.

"I've got him here," he whispered, jerking his thumb over his
shoulder; "he's all right."

"What is it, then?" I asked, for his manner suggested that it was
some strange creature which he had caged up in my room.

"It's a new patient," he whispered. "I thought I'd bring him
round myself; then he couldn't slip away. There he is, all safe
and sound. I must go now, Doctor; I have my dooties, just the
same as you." And off he went, this trusty tout, without even
giving me time to thank him.

I entered my consulting-room and found a gentleman seated by the
table. He was quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed with a
soft cloth cap which he had laid down upon my books. Round one of
his hands he had a handkerchief wrapped, which was mottled all
over with bloodstains. He was young, not more than
five-and-twenty, I should say, with a strong, masculine face; but
he was exceedingly pale and gave me the impression of a man who
was suffering from some strong agitation, which it took all his
strength of mind to control.

"I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor," said he, "but I
have had a very serious accident during the night. I came in by
train this morning, and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I
might find a doctor, a worthy fellow very kindly escorted me
here. I gave the maid a card, but I see that she has left it upon
the side-table."

I took it up and glanced at it. "Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic
engineer, 16A, Victoria Street (3rd floor)." That was the name,
style, and abode of my morning visitor. "I regret that I have
kept you waiting," said I, sitting down in my library-chair. "You
are fresh from a night journey, I understand, which is in itself
a monotonous occupation."

"Oh, my night could not be called monotonous," said he, and
laughed. He laughed very heartily, with a high, ringing note,
leaning back in his chair and shaking his sides. All my medical
instincts rose up against that laugh.

"Stop it!" I cried; "pull yourself together!" and I poured out
some water from a caraffe.

It was useless, however. He was off in one of those hysterical
outbursts which come upon a strong nature when some great crisis
is over and gone. Presently he came to himself once more, very
weary and pale-looking.

"I have been making a fool of myself," he gasped.

"Not at all. Drink this." I dashed some brandy into the water,
and the colour began to come back to his bloodless cheeks.

"That's better!" said he. "And now, Doctor, perhaps you would
kindly attend to my thumb, or rather to the place where my thumb
used to be."

He unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. It gave even
my hardened nerves a shudder to look at it. There were four
protruding fingers and a horrid red, spongy surface where the
thumb should have been. It had been hacked or torn right out from
the roots.

"Good heavens!" I cried, "this is a terrible injury. It must have
bled considerably."

"Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I think that I must
have been senseless for a long time. When I came to I found that
it was still bleeding, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very
tightly round the wrist and braced it up with a twig."

"Excellent! You should have been a surgeon."

"It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came within my own
province."

"This has been done," said I, examining the wound, "by a very
heavy and sharp instrument."

"A thing like a cleaver," said he.

"An accident, I presume?"

"By no means."

"What! a murderous attack?"

"Very murderous indeed."

"You horrify me."

I sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, and finally covered
it over with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. He lay back
without wincing, though he bit his lip from time to time.

"How is that?" I asked when I had finished.

"Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage, I feel a new man.
I was very weak, but I have had a good deal to go through."

"Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is evidently
trying to your nerves."

"Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the police;
but, between ourselves, if it were not for the convincing
evidence of this wound of mine, I should be surprised if they
believed my statement, for it is a very extraordinary one, and I
have not much in the way of proof with which to back it up; and,
even if they believe me, the clues which I can give them are so
vague that it is a question whether justice will be done."

"Ha!" cried I, "if it is anything in the nature of a problem
which you desire to see solved, I should strongly recommend you
to come to my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the
official police."

"Oh, I have heard of that fellow," answered my visitor, "and I
should be very glad if he would take the matter up, though of
course I must use the official police as well. Would you give me
an introduction to him?"

"I'll do better. I'll take you round to him myself."

"I should be immensely obliged to you."

"We'll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to
have a little breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it?"

"Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my story."

"Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with you in an
instant." I rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my
wife, and in five minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my
new acquaintance to Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his
sitting-room in his dressing-gown, reading the agony column of The
Times and smoking his before-breakfast pipe, which was composed
of all the plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the day
before, all carefully dried and collected on the corner of the
mantelpiece. He received us in his quietly genial fashion,
ordered fresh rashers and eggs, and joined us in a hearty meal.
When it was concluded he settled our new acquaintance upon the
sofa, placed a pillow beneath his head, and laid a glass of
brandy and water within his reach.

"It is easy to see that your experience has been no common one,
Mr. Hatherley," said he. "Pray, lie down there and make yourself
absolutely at home. Tell us what you can, but stop when you are
tired and keep up your strength with a little stimulant."

"Thank you," said my patient. "but I have felt another man since
the doctor bandaged me, and I think that your breakfast has
completed the cure. I shall take up as little of your valuable
time as possible, so I shall start at once upon my peculiar
experiences."

Holmes sat in his big armchair with the weary, heavy-lidded
expression which veiled his keen and eager nature, while I sat
opposite to him, and we listened in silence to the strange story
which our visitor detailed to us.

"You must know," said he, "that I am an orphan and a bachelor,
residing alone in lodgings in London. By profession I am a
hydraulic engineer, and I have had considerable experience of my
work during the seven years that I was apprenticed to Venner &
Matheson, the well-known firm, of Greenwich. Two years ago,
having served my time, and having also come into a fair sum of
money through my poor father's death, I determined to start in
business for myself and took professional chambers in Victoria
Street.

"I suppose that everyone finds his first independent start in
business a dreary experience. To me it has been exceptionally so.
During two years I have had three consultations and one small
job, and that is absolutely all that my profession has brought
me. My gross takings amount to 27 pounds 10s. Every day, from
nine in the morning until four in the afternoon, I waited in my
little den, until at last my heart began to sink, and I came to
believe that I should never have any practice at all.

"Yesterday, however, just as I was thinking of leaving the
office, my clerk entered to say there was a gentleman waiting who
wished to see me upon business. He brought up a card, too, with
the name of 'Colonel Lysander Stark' engraved upon it. Close at
his heels came the colonel himself, a man rather over the middle
size, but of an exceeding thinness. I do not think that I have
ever seen so thin a man. His whole face sharpened away into nose
and chin, and the skin of his cheeks was drawn quite tense over
his outstanding bones. Yet this emaciation seemed to be his
natural habit, and due to no disease, for his eye was bright, his
step brisk, and his bearing assured. He was plainly but neatly
dressed, and his age, I should judge, would be nearer forty than
thirty.

"'Mr. Hatherley?' said he, with something of a German accent.
'You have been recommended to me, Mr. Hatherley, as being a man
who is not only proficient in his profession but is also discreet
and capable of preserving a secret.'

"I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man would at such an
address. 'May I ask who it was who gave me so good a character?'

"'Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell you that just
at this moment. I have it from the same source that you are both
an orphan and a bachelor and are residing alone in London.'

"'That is quite correct,' I answered; 'but you will excuse me if
I say that I cannot see how all this bears upon my professional
qualifications. I understand that it was on a professional matter
that you wished to speak to me?'

"'Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all I say is really to
the point. I have a professional commission for you, but absolute
secrecy is quite essential--absolute secrecy, you understand, and
of course we may expect that more from a man who is alone than
from one who lives in the bosom of his family.'

"'If I promise to keep a secret,' said I, 'you may absolutely
depend upon my doing so.'

"He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it seemed to me that I
had never seen so suspicious and questioning an eye.

"'Do you promise, then?' said he at last.

"'Yes, I promise.'

"'Absolute and complete silence before, during, and after? No
reference to the matter at all, either in word or writing?'

"'I have already given you my word.'

"'Very good.' He suddenly sprang up, and darting like lightning
across the room he flung open the door. The passage outside was
empty.

"'That's all right,' said he, coming back. 'I know that clerks are
sometimes curious as to their master's affairs. Now we can talk
in safety.' He drew up his chair very close to mine and began to
stare at me again with the same questioning and thoughtful look.

"A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin to fear had begun
to rise within me at the strange antics of this fleshless man.
Even my dread of losing a client could not restrain me from
showing my impatience.

"'I beg that you will state your business, sir,' said I; 'my time
is of value.' Heaven forgive me for that last sentence, but the
words came to my lips.

"'How would fifty guineas for a night's work suit you?' he asked.

"'Most admirably.'

"'I say a night's work, but an hour's would be nearer the mark. I
simply want your opinion about a hydraulic stamping machine which
has got out of gear. If you show us what is wrong we shall soon
set it right ourselves. What do you think of such a commission as
that?'

"'The work appears to be light and the pay munificent.'

"'Precisely so. We shall want you to come to-night by the last
train.'

"'Where to?'

"'To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little place near the borders
of Oxfordshire, and within seven miles of Reading. There is a
train from Paddington which would bring you there at about
11:15.'

"'Very good.'

"'I shall come down in a carriage to meet you.'

"'There is a drive, then?'

"'Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. It is a good
seven miles from Eyford Station.'

"'Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I suppose there
would be no chance of a train back. I should be compelled to stop
the night.'

"'Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down.'

"'That is very awkward. Could I not come at some more convenient
hour?'

"'We have judged it best that you should come late. It is to
recompense you for any inconvenience that we are paying to you, a
young and unknown man, a fee which would buy an opinion from the
very heads of your profession. Still, of course, if you would
like to draw out of the business, there is plenty of time to do
so.'

"I thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very useful they
would be to me. 'Not at all,' said I, 'I shall be very happy to
accommodate myself to your wishes. I should like, however, to
understand a little more clearly what it is that you wish me to
do.'

"'Quite so. It is very natural that the pledge of secrecy which
we have exacted from you should have aroused your curiosity. I
have no wish to commit you to anything without your having it all
laid before you. I suppose that we are absolutely safe from
eavesdroppers?'

"'Entirely.'

"'Then the matter stands thus. You are probably aware that
fuller's-earth is a valuable product, and that it is only found
in one or two places in England?'

"'I have heard so.'

"'Some little time ago I bought a small place--a very small
place--within ten miles of Reading. I was fortunate enough to
discover that there was a deposit of fuller's-earth in one of my
fields. On examining it, however, I found that this deposit was a
comparatively small one, and that it formed a link between two
very much larger ones upon the right and left--both of them,
however, in the grounds of my neighbours. These good people were
absolutely ignorant that their land contained that which was
quite as valuable as a gold-mine. Naturally, it was to my
interest to buy their land before they discovered its true value,
but unfortunately I had no capital by which I could do this. I
took a few of my friends into the secret, however, and they
suggested that we should quietly and secretly work our own little
deposit and that in this way we should earn the money which would
enable us to buy the neighbouring fields. This we have now been
doing for some time, and in order to help us in our operations we
erected a hydraulic press. This press, as I have already
explained, has got out of order, and we wish your advice upon the
subject. We guard our secret very jealously, however, and if it
once became known that we had hydraulic engineers coming to our
little house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and then, if the facts
came out, it would be good-bye to any chance of getting these
fields and carrying out our plans. That is why I have made you
promise me that you will not tell a human being that you are
going to Eyford to-night. I hope that I make it all plain?'

"'I quite follow you,' said I. 'The only point which I could not
quite understand was what use you could make of a hydraulic press
in excavating fuller's-earth, which, as I understand, is dug out
like gravel from a pit.'

"'Ah!' said he carelessly, 'we have our own process. We compress
the earth into bricks, so as to remove them without revealing
what they are. But that is a mere detail. I have taken you fully
into my confidence now, Mr. Hatherley, and I have shown you how I
trust you.' He rose as he spoke. 'I shall expect you, then, at
Eyford at 11:15.'

"'I shall certainly be there.'

"'And not a word to a soul.' He looked at me with a last long,
questioning gaze, and then, pressing my hand in a cold, dank
grasp, he hurried from the room.

"Well, when I came to think it all over in cool blood I was very
much astonished, as you may both think, at this sudden commission
which had been intrusted to me. On the one hand, of course, I was
glad, for the fee was at least tenfold what I should have asked
had I set a price upon my own services, and it was possible that
this order might lead to other ones. On the other hand, the face
and manner of my patron had made an unpleasant impression upon
me, and I could not think that his explanation of the
fuller's-earth was sufficient to explain the necessity for my
coming at midnight, and his extreme anxiety lest I should tell
anyone of my errand. However, I threw all fears to the winds, ate
a hearty supper, drove to Paddington, and started off, having
obeyed to the letter the injunction as to holding my tongue.

"At Reading I had to change not only my carriage but my station.
However, I was in time for the last train to Eyford, and I
reached the little dim-lit station after eleven o'clock. I was the
only passenger who got out there, and there was no one upon the
platform save a single sleepy porter with a lantern. As I passed
out through the wicket gate, however, I found my acquaintance of
the morning waiting in the shadow upon the other side. Without a
word he grasped my arm and hurried me into a carriage, the door
of which was standing open. He drew up the windows on either
side, tapped on the wood-work, and away we went as fast as the
horse could go."

"One horse?" interjected Holmes.

"Yes, only one."

"Did you observe the colour?"

"Yes, I saw it by the side-lights when I was stepping into the
carriage. It was a chestnut."

"Tired-looking or fresh?"

"Oh, fresh and glossy."

"Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted you. Pray continue
your most interesting statement."

"Away we went then, and we drove for at least an hour. Colonel
Lysander Stark had said that it was only seven miles, but I
should think, from the rate that we seemed to go, and from the
time that we took, that it must have been nearer twelve. He sat
at my side in silence all the time, and I was aware, more than
once when I glanced in his direction, that he was looking at me
with great intensity. The country roads seem to be not very good
in that part of the world, for we lurched and jolted terribly. I
tried to look out of the windows to see something of where we
were, but they were made of frosted glass, and I could make out
nothing save the occasional bright blur of a passing light. Now
and then I hazarded some remark to break the monotony of the
journey, but the colonel answered only in monosyllables, and the
conversation soon flagged. At last, however, the bumping of the
road was exchanged for the crisp smoothness of a gravel-drive,
and the carriage came to a stand. Colonel Lysander Stark sprang
out, and, as I followed after him, pulled me swiftly into a porch
which gaped in front of us. We stepped, as it were, right out of
the carriage and into the hall, so that I failed to catch the
most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The instant that
I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily behind us,
and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage
drove away.

"It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel fumbled
about looking for matches and muttering under his breath.
Suddenly a door opened at the other end of the passage, and a
long, golden bar of light shot out in our direction. It grew
broader, and a woman appeared with a lamp in her hand, which she
held above her head, pushing her face forward and peering at us.
I could see that she was pretty, and from the gloss with which
the light shone upon her dark dress I knew that it was a rich
material. She spoke a few words in a foreign tongue in a tone as
though asking a question, and when my companion answered in a
gruff monosyllable she gave such a start that the lamp nearly
fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered
something in her ear, and then, pushing her back into the room
from whence she had come, he walked towards me again with the
lamp in his hand.

"'Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a
few minutes,' said he, throwing open another door. It was a
quiet, little, plainly furnished room, with a round table in the
centre, on which several German books were scattered. Colonel
Stark laid down the lamp on the top of a harmonium beside the
door. 'I shall not keep you waiting an instant,' said he, and
vanished into the darkness.

"I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my
ignorance of German I could see that two of them were treatises
on science, the others being volumes of poetry. Then I walked
across to the window, hoping that I might catch some glimpse of
the country-side, but an oak shutter, heavily barred, was folded
across it. It was a wonderfully silent house. There was an old
clock ticking loudly somewhere in the passage, but otherwise
everything was deadly still. A vague feeling of uneasiness began
to steal over me. Who were these German people, and what were
they doing living in this strange, out-of-the-way place? And
where was the place? I was ten miles or so from Eyford, that was
all I knew, but whether north, south, east, or west I had no
idea. For that matter, Reading, and possibly other large towns,
were within that radius, so the place might not be so secluded,
after all. Yet it was quite certain, from the absolute stillness,
that we were in the country. I paced up and down the room,
humming a tune under my breath to keep up my spirits and feeling
that I was thoroughly earning my fifty-guinea fee.

"Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst of the
utter stillness, the door of my room swung slowly open. The woman
was standing in the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind
her, the yellow light from my lamp beating upon her eager and
beautiful face. I could see at a glance that she was sick with
fear, and the sight sent a chill to my own heart. She held up one
shaking finger to warn me to be silent, and she shot a few
whispered words of broken English at me, her eyes glancing back,
like those of a frightened horse, into the gloom behind her.

"'I would go,' said she, trying hard, as it seemed to me, to
speak calmly; 'I would go. I should not stay here. There is no
good for you to do.'

"'But, madam,' said I, 'I have not yet done what I came for. I
cannot possibly leave until I have seen the machine.'

"'It is not worth your while to wait,' she went on. 'You can pass
through the door; no one hinders.' And then, seeing that I smiled
and shook my head, she suddenly threw aside her constraint and
made a step forward, with her hands wrung together. 'For the love
of Heaven!' she whispered, 'get away from here before it is too
late!'

"But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and the more ready to
engage in an affair when there is some obstacle in the way. I
thought of my fifty-guinea fee, of my wearisome journey, and of
the unpleasant night which seemed to be before me. Was it all to
go for nothing? Why should I slink away without having carried
out my commission, and without the payment which was my due? This
woman might, for all I knew, be a monomaniac. With a stout
bearing, therefore, though her manner had shaken me more than I
cared to confess, I still shook my head and declared my intention
of remaining where I was. She was about to renew her entreaties
when a door slammed overhead, and the sound of several footsteps
was heard upon the stairs. She listened for an instant, threw up
her hands with a despairing gesture, and vanished as suddenly and
as noiselessly as she had come.

"The newcomers were Colonel Lysander Stark and a short thick man
with a chinchilla beard growing out of the creases of his double
chin, who was introduced to me as Mr. Ferguson.

"'This is my secretary and manager,' said the colonel. 'By the
way, I was under the impression that I left this door shut just
now. I fear that you have felt the draught.'

"'On the contrary,' said I, 'I opened the door myself because I
felt the room to be a little close.'

"He shot one of his suspicious looks at me. 'Perhaps we had
better proceed to business, then,' said he. 'Mr. Ferguson and I
will take you up to see the machine.'

"'I had better put my hat on, I suppose.'

"'Oh, no, it is in the house.'

"'What, you dig fuller's-earth in the house?'

"'No, no. This is only where we compress it. But never mind that.
All we wish you to do is to examine the machine and to let us
know what is wrong with it.'

"We went upstairs together, the colonel first with the lamp, the
fat manager and I behind him. It was a labyrinth of an old house,
with corridors, passages, narrow winding staircases, and little
low doors, the thresholds of which were hollowed out by the
generations who had crossed them. There were no carpets and no
signs of any furniture above the ground floor, while the plaster
was peeling off the walls, and the damp was breaking through in
green, unhealthy blotches. I tried to put on as unconcerned an
air as possible, but I had not forgotten the warnings of the
lady, even though I disregarded them, and I kept a keen eye upon
my two companions. Ferguson appeared to be a morose and silent
man, but I could see from the little that he said that he was at
least a fellow-countryman.

"Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last before a low door, which
he unlocked. Within was a small, square room, in which the three
of us could hardly get at one time. Ferguson remained outside,
and the colonel ushered me in.

"'We are now,' said he, 'actually within the hydraulic press, and
it would be a particularly unpleasant thing for us if anyone were
to turn it on. The ceiling of this small chamber is really the
end of the descending piston, and it comes down with the force of
many tons upon this metal floor. There are small lateral columns
of water outside which receive the force, and which transmit and
multiply it in the manner which is familiar to you. The machine
goes readily enough, but there is some stiffness in the working
of it, and it has lost a little of its force. Perhaps you will
have the goodness to look it over and to show us how we can set
it right.'

"I took the lamp from him, and I examined the machine very
thoroughly. It was indeed a gigantic one, and capable of
exercising enormous pressure. When I passed outside, however, and
pressed down the levers which controlled it, I knew at once by
the whishing sound that there was a slight leakage, which allowed
a regurgitation of water through one of the side cylinders. An
examination showed that one of the india-rubber bands which was
round the head of a driving-rod had shrunk so as not quite to
fill the socket along which it worked. This was clearly the cause
of the loss of power, and I pointed it out to my companions, who
followed my remarks very carefully and asked several practical
questions as to how they should proceed to set it right. When I
had made it clear to them, I returned to the main chamber of the
machine and took a good look at it to satisfy my own curiosity.
It was obvious at a glance that the story of the fuller's-earth
was the merest fabrication, for it would be absurd to suppose
that so powerful an engine could be designed for so inadequate a
purpose. The walls were of wood, but the floor consisted of a
large iron trough, and when I came to examine it I could see a
crust of metallic deposit all over it. I had stooped and was
scraping at this to see exactly what it was when I heard a
muttered exclamation in German and saw the cadaverous face of the
colonel looking down at me.

"'What are you doing there?' he asked.

"I felt angry at having been tricked by so elaborate a story as
that which he had told me. 'I was admiring your fuller's-earth,'
said I; 'I think that I should be better able to advise you as to
your machine if I knew what the exact purpose was for which it
was used.'

"The instant that I uttered the words I regretted the rashness of
my speech. His face set hard, and a baleful light sprang up in
his grey eyes.

"'Very well,' said he, 'you shall know all about the machine.' He
took a step backward, slammed the little door, and turned the key
in the lock. I rushed towards it and pulled at the handle, but it
was quite secure, and did not give in the least to my kicks and
shoves. 'Hullo!' I yelled. 'Hullo! Colonel! Let me out!'

"And then suddenly in the silence I heard a sound which sent my
heart into my mouth. It was the clank of the levers and the swish
of the leaking cylinder. He had set the engine at work. The lamp
still stood upon the floor where I had placed it when examining
the trough. By its light I saw that the black ceiling was coming
down upon me, slowly, jerkily, but, as none knew better than
myself, with a force which must within a minute grind me to a
shapeless pulp. I threw myself, screaming, against the door, and
dragged with my nails at the lock. I implored the colonel to let
me out, but the remorseless clanking of the levers drowned my
cries. The ceiling was only a foot or two above my head, and with
my hand upraised I could feel its hard, rough surface. Then it
flashed through my mind that the pain of my death would depend
very much upon the position in which I met it. If I lay on my
face the weight would come upon my spine, and I shuddered to
think of that dreadful snap. Easier the other way, perhaps; and
yet, had I the nerve to lie and look up at that deadly black
shadow wavering down upon me? Already I was unable to stand
erect, when my eye caught something which brought a gush of hope
back to my heart.

"I have said that though the floor and ceiling were of iron, the
walls were of wood. As I gave a last hurried glance around, I saw
a thin line of yellow light between two of the boards, which
broadened and broadened as a small panel was pushed backward. For
an instant I could hardly believe that here was indeed a door
which led away from death. The next instant I threw myself
through, and lay half-fainting upon the other side. The panel had
closed again behind me, but the crash of the lamp, and a few
moments afterwards the clang of the two slabs of metal, told me
how narrow had been my escape.

"I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking at my wrist, and
I found myself lying upon the stone floor of a narrow corridor,
while a woman bent over me and tugged at me with her left hand,
while she held a candle in her right. It was the same good friend
whose warning I had so foolishly rejected.

"'Come! come!' she cried breathlessly. 'They will be here in a
moment. They will see that you are not there. Oh, do not waste
the so-precious time, but come!'

"This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice. I staggered to
my feet and ran with her along the corridor and down a winding
stair. The latter led to another broad passage, and just as we
reached it we heard the sound of running feet and the shouting of
two voices, one answering the other from the floor on which  we
were and from the one beneath. My guide stopped and looked about
her like one  who is at her wit's end. Then she threw open a door
which led into a bedroom, through the window of which the moon
was shining brightly.

"'It is your only chance,' said she. 'It is high, but it may be
that you can jump it.'

"As she spoke a light sprang into view at the further end of the
passage, and I saw the lean figure of Colonel Lysander Stark
rushing forward with a lantern in one hand and a weapon like a
butcher's cleaver in the other. I rushed across the bedroom,
flung open the window, and looked out. How quiet and sweet and
wholesome the garden looked in the moonlight, and it could not be
more than thirty feet down. I clambered out upon the sill, but I
hesitated to jump until I should have heard what passed between
my saviour and the ruffian who pursued me. If she were ill-used,
then at any risks I was determined to go back to her assistance.
The thought had hardly flashed through my mind before he was at
the door, pushing his way past her; but she threw her arms round
him and tried to hold him back.

"'Fritz! Fritz!' she cried in English, 'remember your promise
after the last time. You said it should not be again. He will be
silent! Oh, he will be silent!'

"'You are mad, Elise!' he shouted, struggling to break away from
her. 'You will be the ruin of us. He has seen too much. Let me
pass, I say!' He dashed her to one side, and, rushing to the
window, cut at me with his heavy weapon. I had let myself go, and
was hanging by the hands to the sill, when his blow fell. I was
conscious of a dull pain, my grip loosened, and I fell into the
garden below.

"I was shaken but not hurt by the fall; so I picked myself up and
rushed off among the bushes as hard as I could run, for I
understood that I was far from being out of danger yet. Suddenly,
however, as I ran, a deadly dizziness and sickness came over me.
I glanced down at my hand, which was throbbing painfully, and
then, for the first time, saw that my thumb had been cut off and
that the blood was pouring from my wound. I endeavoured to tie my
handkerchief round it, but there came a sudden buzzing in my
ears, and next moment I fell in a dead faint among the
rose-bushes.

"How long I remained unconscious I cannot tell. It must have been
a very long time, for the moon had sunk, and a bright morning was
breaking when I came to myself. My clothes were all sodden with
dew, and my coat-sleeve was drenched with blood from my wounded
thumb. The smarting of it recalled in an instant all the
particulars of my night's adventure, and I sprang to my feet with
the feeling that I might hardly yet be safe from my pursuers. But
to my astonishment, when I came to look round me, neither house
nor garden were to be seen. I had been lying in an angle of the
hedge close by the highroad, and just a little lower down was a
long building, which proved, upon my approaching it, to be the
very station at which I had arrived upon the previous night. Were
it not for the ugly wound upon my hand, all that had passed
during those dreadful hours might have been an evil dream.

"Half dazed, I went into the station and asked about the morning
train. There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The
same porter was on duty, I found, as had been there when I
arrived. I inquired of him whether he had ever heard of Colonel
Lysander Stark. The name was strange to him. Had he observed a
carriage the night before waiting for me? No, he had not. Was
there a police-station anywhere near? There was one about three
miles off.

"It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I determined
to wait until I got back to town before telling my story to the
police. It was a little past six when I arrived, so I went first
to have my wound dressed, and then the doctor was kind enough to
bring me along here. I put the case into your hands and shall do
exactly what you advise."

We both sat in silence for some little time after listening to
this extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down
from the shelf one of the ponderous commonplace books in which he
placed his cuttings.

"Here is an advertisement which will interest you," said he. "It
appeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this:
'Lost, on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged
twenty-six, a hydraulic engineer. Left his lodgings at ten
o'clock at night, and has not been heard of since. Was
dressed in,' etc., etc. Ha! That represents the last time that
the colonel needed to have his machine overhauled, I fancy."

"Good heavens!" cried my patient. "Then that explains what the
girl said."

"Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel was a cool and
desperate man, who was absolutely determined that nothing should
stand in the way of his little game, like those out-and-out
pirates who will leave no survivor from a captured ship. Well,
every moment now is precious, so if you feel equal to it we shall
go down to Scotland Yard at once as a preliminary to starting for
Eyford."

Some three hours or so afterwards we were all in the train
together, bound from Reading to the little Berkshire village.
There were Sherlock Holmes, the hydraulic engineer, Inspector
Bradstreet, of Scotland Yard, a plain-clothes man, and myself.
Bradstreet had spread an ordnance map of the county out upon the
seat and was busy with his compasses drawing a circle with Eyford
for its centre.

"There you are," said he. "That circle is drawn at a radius of
ten miles from the village. The place we want must be somewhere
near that line. You said ten miles, I think, sir."

"It was an hour's good drive."

"And you think that they brought you back all that way when you
were unconscious?"

"They must have done so. I have a confused memory, too, of having
been lifted and conveyed somewhere."

"What I cannot understand," said I, "is why they should have
spared you when they found you lying fainting in the garden.
Perhaps the villain was softened by the woman's entreaties."

"I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more inexorable face
in my life."

"Oh, we shall soon clear up all that," said Bradstreet. "Well, I
have drawn my circle, and I only wish I knew at what point upon
it the folk that we are in search of are to be found."

"I think I could lay my finger on it," said Holmes quietly.

"Really, now!" cried the inspector, "you have formed your
opinion! Come, now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it is
south, for the country is more deserted there."

"And I say east," said my patient.

"I am for west," remarked the plain-clothes man. "There are
several quiet little villages up there."

"And I am for north," said I, "because there are no hills there,
and our friend says that he did not notice the carriage go up
any."

"Come," cried the inspector, laughing; "it's a very pretty
diversity of opinion. We have boxed the compass among us. Who do
you give your casting vote to?"

"You are all wrong."

"But we can't all be."

"Oh, yes, you can. This is my point." He placed his finger in the
centre of the circle. "This is where we shall find them."

"But the twelve-mile drive?" gasped Hatherley.

"Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You say yourself that the
horse was fresh and glossy when you got in. How could it be that
if it had gone twelve miles over heavy roads?"

"Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough," observed Bradstreet
thoughtfully. "Of course there can be no doubt as to the nature
of this gang."

"None at all," said Holmes. "They are coiners on a large scale,
and have used the machine to form the amalgam which has taken the
place of silver."

"We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work,"
said the inspector. "They have been turning out half-crowns by
the thousand. We even traced them as far as Reading, but could
get no farther, for they had covered their traces in a way that
showed that they were very old hands. But now, thanks to this
lucky chance, I think that we have got them right enough."

But the inspector was mistaken, for those criminals were not
destined to fall into the hands of justice. As we rolled into
Eyford Station we saw a gigantic column of smoke which streamed
up from behind a small clump of trees in the neighbourhood and
hung like an immense ostrich feather over the landscape.

"A house on fire?" asked Bradstreet as the train steamed off
again on its way.

"Yes, sir!" said the station-master.

"When did it break out?"

"I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has got worse,
and the whole place is in a blaze."

"Whose house is it?"

"Dr. Becher's."

"Tell me," broke in the engineer, "is Dr. Becher a German, very
thin, with a long, sharp nose?"

The station-master laughed heartily. "No, sir, Dr. Becher is an
Englishman, and there isn't a man in the parish who has a
better-lined waistcoat. But he has a gentleman staying with him,
a patient, as I understand, who is a foreigner, and he looks as
if a little good Berkshire beef would do him no harm."

The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all
hastening in the direction of the fire. The road topped a low
hill, and there was a great widespread whitewashed building in
front of us, spouting fire at every chink and window, while in
the garden in front three fire-engines were vainly striving to
keep the flames under.

"That's it!" cried Hatherley, in intense excitement. "There is
the gravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That
second window is the one that I jumped from."

"Well, at least," said Holmes, "you have had your revenge upon
them. There can be no question that it was your oil-lamp which,
when it was crushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls,
though no doubt they were too excited in the chase after you to
observe it at the time. Now keep your eyes open in this crowd for
your friends of last night, though I very much fear that they are
a good hundred miles off by now."

And Holmes' fears came to be realised, for from that day to this
no word has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the
sinister German, or the morose Englishman. Early that morning a
peasant had met a cart containing several people and some very
bulky boxes driving rapidly in the direction of Reading, but
there all traces of the fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes'
ingenuity failed ever to discover the least clue as to their
whereabouts.

The firemen had been much perturbed at the strange arrangements
which they had found within, and still more so by discovering a
newly severed human thumb upon a window-sill of the second floor.
About sunset, however, their efforts were at last successful, and
they subdued the flames, but not before the roof had fallen in,
and the whole place been reduced to such absolute ruin that, save
some twisted cylinders and iron piping, not a trace remained of
the machinery which had cost our unfortunate acquaintance so
dearly. Large masses of nickel and of tin were discovered stored
in an out-house, but no coins were to be found, which may have
explained the presence of those bulky boxes which have been
already referred to.

How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the garden to
the spot where he recovered his senses might have remained
forever a mystery were it not for the soft mould, which told us a
very plain tale. He had evidently been carried down by two
persons, one of whom had remarkably small feet and the other
unusually large ones. On the whole, it was most probable that the
silent Englishman, being less bold or less murderous than his
companion, had assisted the woman to bear the unconscious man out
of the way of danger.

"Well," said our engineer ruefully as we took our seats to return
once more to London, "it has been a pretty business for me! I
have lost my thumb and I have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what
have I gained?"

"Experience," said Holmes, laughing. "Indirectly it may be of
value, you know; you have only to put it into words to gain the
reputation of being excellent company for the remainder of your
existence."



X. THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR

The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have
long ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles
in which the unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have
eclipsed it, and their more piquant details have drawn the
gossips away from this four-year-old drama. As I have reason to
believe, however, that the full facts have never been revealed to
the general public, and as my friend Sherlock Holmes had a
considerable share in clearing the matter up, I feel that no
memoir of him would be complete without some little sketch of
this remarkable episode.

It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I
was still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came
home from an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table
waiting for him. I had remained indoors all day, for the weather
had taken a sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and
the Jezail bullet which I had brought back in one of my limbs as
a relic of my Afghan campaign throbbed with dull persistence.
With my body in one easy-chair and my legs upon another, I had
surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers until at last,
saturated with the news of the day, I tossed them all aside and
lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram upon the
envelope upon the table and wondering lazily who my friend's
noble correspondent could be.

"Here is a very fashionable epistle," I remarked as he entered.
"Your morning letters, if I remember right, were from a
fish-monger and a tide-waiter."

"Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety," he
answered, smiling, "and the humbler are usually the more
interesting. This looks like one of those unwelcome social
summonses which call upon a man either to be bored or to lie."

He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.

"Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after all."

"Not social, then?"

"No, distinctly professional."

"And from a noble client?"

"One of the highest in England."

"My dear fellow, I congratulate you."

"I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my
client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his
case. It is just possible, however, that that also may not be
wanting in this new investigation. You have been reading the
papers diligently of late, have you not?"

"It looks like it," said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in
the corner. "I have had nothing else to do."

"It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I
read nothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The
latter is always instructive. But if you have followed recent
events so closely you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his
wedding?"

"Oh, yes, with the deepest interest."

"That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord
St. Simon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn
over these papers and let me have whatever bears upon the matter.
This is what he says:

"'MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES:--Lord Backwater tells me that I
may place implicit reliance upon your judgment and discretion. I
have determined, therefore, to call upon you and to consult you
in reference to the very painful event which has occurred in
connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is
acting already in the matter, but he assures me that he sees no
objection to your co-operation, and that he even thinks that
it might be of some assistance. I will call at four o'clock in
the afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement at that
time, I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter is of
paramount importance. Yours faithfully, ST. SIMON.'

"It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen,
and the noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink
upon the outer side of his right little finger," remarked Holmes
as he folded up the epistle.

"He says four o'clock. It is three now. He will be here in an
hour."

"Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon
the subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in
their order of time, while I take a glance as to who our client
is." He picked a red-covered volume from a line of books of
reference beside the mantelpiece. "Here he is," said he, sitting
down and flattening it out upon his knee. "'Lord Robert Walsingham
de Vere St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral.' Hum! 'Arms:
Azure, three caltrops in chief over a fess sable. Born in 1846.'
He's forty-one years of age, which is mature for marriage. Was
Under-Secretary for the colonies in a late administration. The
Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for Foreign Affairs.
They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and Tudor on
the distaff side. Ha! Well, there is nothing very instructive in
all this. I think that I must turn to you Watson, for something
more solid."

"I have very little difficulty in finding what I want," said I,
"for the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as
remarkable. I feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew
that you had an inquiry on hand and that you disliked the
intrusion of other matters."

"Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square
furniture van. That is quite cleared up now--though, indeed, it
was obvious from the first. Pray give me the results of your
newspaper selections."

"Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal
column of the Morning Post, and dates, as you see, some weeks
back: 'A marriage has been arranged,' it says, 'and will, if
rumour is correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert
St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty
Doran, the only daughter of Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San
Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.' That is all."

"Terse and to the point," remarked Holmes, stretching his long,
thin legs towards the fire.

"There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society
papers of the same week. Ah, here it is: 'There will soon be a
call for protection in the marriage market, for the present
free-trade principle appears to tell heavily against our home
product. One by one the management of the noble houses of Great
Britain is passing into the hands of our fair cousins from across
the Atlantic. An important addition has been made during the last
week to the list of the prizes which have been borne away by
these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon, who has shown himself
for over twenty years proof against the little god's arrows, has
now definitely announced his approaching marriage with Miss Hatty
Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss
Doran, whose graceful figure and striking face attracted much
attention at the Westbury House festivities, is an only child,
and it is currently reported that her dowry will run to
considerably over the six figures, with expectancies for the
future. As it is an open secret that the Duke of Balmoral has
been compelled to sell his pictures within the last few years,
and as Lord St. Simon has no property of his own save the small
estate of Birchmoor, it is obvious that the Californian heiress
is not the only gainer by an alliance which will enable her to
make the easy and common transition from a Republican lady to a
British peeress.'"

"Anything else?" asked Holmes, yawning.

"Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the Morning Post
to say that the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it
would be at St. George's, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen
intimate friends would be invited, and that the party would
return to the furnished house at Lancaster Gate which has been
taken by Mr. Aloysius Doran. Two days later--that is, on
Wednesday last--there is a curt announcement that the wedding had
taken place, and that the honeymoon would be passed at Lord
Backwater's place, near Petersfield. Those are all the notices
which appeared before the disappearance of the bride."

"Before the what?" asked Holmes with a start.

"The vanishing of the lady."

"When did she vanish, then?"

"At the wedding breakfast."

"Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite
dramatic, in fact."

"Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common."

"They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during
the honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt
as this. Pray let me have the details."

"I warn you that they are very incomplete."

"Perhaps we may make them less so."

"Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a
morning paper of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is
headed, 'Singular Occurrence at a Fashionable Wedding':

"'The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown into the
greatest consternation by the strange and painful episodes which
have taken place in connection with his wedding. The ceremony, as
shortly announced in the papers of yesterday, occurred on the
previous morning; but it is only now that it has been possible to
confirm the strange rumours which have been so persistently
floating about. In spite of the attempts of the friends to hush
the matter up, so much public attention has now been drawn to it
that no good purpose can be served by affecting to disregard what
is a common subject for conversation.

"'The ceremony, which was performed at St. George's, Hanover
Square, was a very quiet one, no one being present save the
father of the bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral,
Lord Backwater, Lord Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon (the
younger brother and sister of the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia
Whittington. The whole party proceeded afterwards to the house of
Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster Gate, where breakfast had been
prepared. It appears that some little trouble was caused by a
woman, whose name has not been ascertained, who endeavoured to
force her way into the house after the bridal party, alleging
that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was only after a
painful and prolonged scene that she was ejected by the butler
and the footman. The bride, who had fortunately entered the house
before this unpleasant interruption, had sat down to breakfast
with the rest, when she complained of a sudden indisposition and
retired to her room. Her prolonged absence having caused some
comment, her father followed her, but learned from her maid that
she had only come up to her chamber for an instant, caught up an
ulster and bonnet, and hurried down to the passage. One of the
footmen declared that he had seen a lady leave the house thus
apparelled, but had refused to credit that it was his mistress,
believing her to be with the company. On ascertaining that his
daughter had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction with
the bridegroom, instantly put themselves in communication with
the police, and very energetic inquiries are being made, which
will probably result in a speedy clearing up of this very
singular business. Up to a late hour last night, however, nothing
had transpired as to the whereabouts of the missing lady. There
are rumours of foul play in the matter, and it is said that the
police have caused the arrest of the woman who had caused the
original disturbance, in the belief that, from jealousy or some
other motive, she may have been concerned in the strange
disappearance of the bride.'"

"And is that all?"

"Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is
a suggestive one."

"And it is--"

"That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance,
has actually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a
danseuse at the Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom
for some years. There are no further particulars, and the whole
case is in your hands now--so far as it has been set forth in the
public press."

"And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would
not have missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell,
Watson, and as the clock makes it a few minutes after four, I
have no doubt that this will prove to be our noble client. Do not
dream of going, Watson, for I very much prefer having a witness,
if only as a check to my own memory."

"Lord Robert St. Simon," announced our page-boy, throwing open
the door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face,
high-nosed and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about
the mouth, and with the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose
pleasant lot it had ever been to command and to be obeyed. His
manner was brisk, and yet his general appearance gave an undue
impression of age, for he had a slight forward stoop and a little
bend of the knees as he walked. His hair, too, as he swept off
his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled round the edges and thin
upon the top. As to his dress, it was careful to the verge of
foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat, white waistcoat,
yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and light-coloured gaiters.
He advanced slowly into the room, turning his head from left to
right, and swinging in his right hand the cord which held his
golden eyeglasses.

"Good-day, Lord St. Simon," said Holmes, rising and bowing. "Pray
take the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr.
Watson. Draw up a little to the fire, and we will talk this
matter over."

"A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine,
Mr. Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you
have already managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir,
though I presume that they were hardly from the same class of
society."

"No, I am descending."

"I beg pardon."

"My last client of the sort was a king."

"Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?"

"The King of Scandinavia."

"What! Had he lost his wife?"

"You can understand," said Holmes suavely, "that I extend to the
affairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to
you in yours."

"Of course! Very right! very right! I'm sure I beg pardon. As to
my own case, I am ready to give you any information which may
assist you in forming an opinion."

"Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public
prints, nothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct--
this article, for example, as to the disappearance of the bride."

Lord St. Simon glanced over it. "Yes, it is correct, as far as it
goes."

"But it needs a great deal of supplementing before anyone could
offer an opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most
directly by questioning you."

"Pray do so."

"When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?"

"In San Francisco, a year ago."

"You were travelling in the States?"

"Yes."

"Did you become engaged then?"

"No."

"But you were on a friendly footing?"

"I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was
amused."

"Her father is very rich?"

"He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope."

"And how did he make his money?"

"In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold,
invested it, and came up by leaps and bounds."

"Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady's--your
wife's character?"

The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down
into the fire. "You see, Mr. Holmes," said he, "my wife was
twenty before her father became a rich man. During that time she
ran free in a mining camp and wandered through woods or
mountains, so that her education has come from Nature rather than
from the schoolmaster. She is what we call in England a tomboy,
with a strong nature, wild and free, unfettered by any sort of
traditions. She is impetuous--volcanic, I was about to say. She
is swift in making up her mind and fearless in carrying out her
resolutions. On the other hand, I would not have given her the
name which I have the honour to bear"--he gave a little stately
cough--"had not I thought her to be at bottom a noble woman. I
believe that she is capable of heroic self-sacrifice and that
anything dishonourable would be repugnant to her."

"Have you her photograph?"

"I brought this with me." He opened a locket and showed us the
full face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph but an
ivory miniature, and the artist had brought out the full effect
of the lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the
exquisite mouth. Holmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then he
closed the locket and handed it back to Lord St. Simon.

"The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed your
acquaintance?"

"Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I
met her several times, became engaged to her, and have now
married her."

"She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?"

"A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family."

"And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a
fait accompli?"

"I really have made no inquiries on the subject."

"Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the
wedding?"

"Yes."

"Was she in good spirits?"

"Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our
future lives."

"Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the
wedding?"

"She was as bright as possible--at least until after the
ceremony."

"And did you observe any change in her then?"

"Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had
ever seen that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident
however, was too trivial to relate and can have no possible
bearing upon the case."

"Pray let us have it, for all that."

"Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went towards
the vestry. She was passing the front pew at the time, and it
fell over into the pew. There was a moment's delay, but the
gentleman in the pew handed it up to her again, and it did not
appear to be the worse for the fall. Yet when I spoke to her of
the matter, she answered me abruptly; and in the carriage, on our
way home, she seemed absurdly agitated over this trifling cause."

"Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew. Some of
the general public were present, then?"

"Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is
open."

"This gentleman was not one of your wife's friends?"

"No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite a
common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But
really I think that we are wandering rather far from the point."

"Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a less
cheerful frame of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do
on re-entering her father's house?"

"I saw her in conversation with her maid."

"And who is her maid?"

"Alice is her name. She is an American and came from California
with her."

"A confidential servant?"

"A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed
her to take great liberties. Still, of course, in America they
look upon these things in a different way."

"How long did she speak to this Alice?"

"Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of."

"You did not overhear what they said?"

"Lady St. Simon said something about 'jumping a claim.' She was
accustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she
meant."

"American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did your
wife do when she finished speaking to her maid?"

"She walked into the breakfast-room."

"On your arm?"

"No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like that.
Then, after we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose
hurriedly, muttered some words of apology, and left the room. She
never came back."

"But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went to
her room, covered her bride's dress with a long ulster, put on a
bonnet, and went out."

"Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park in
company with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in custody, and who
had already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran's house that
morning."

"Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this young lady,
and your relations to her."

Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows.
"We have been on a friendly footing for some years--I may say on
a very friendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I have
not treated her ungenerously, and she had no just cause of
complaint against me, but you know what women are, Mr. Holmes.
Flora was a dear little thing, but exceedingly hot-headed and
devotedly attached to me. She wrote me dreadful letters when she
heard that I was about to be married, and, to tell the truth, the
reason why I had the marriage celebrated so quietly was that I
feared lest there might be a scandal in the church. She came to
Mr. Doran's door just after we returned, and she endeavoured to
push her way in, uttering very abusive expressions towards my
wife, and even threatening her, but I had foreseen the
possibility of something of the sort, and I had two police
fellows there in private clothes, who soon pushed her out again.
She was quiet when she saw that there was no good in making a
row."

"Did your wife hear all this?"

"No, thank goodness, she did not."

"And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards?"

"Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks upon as
so serious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out and laid
some terrible trap for her."

"Well, it is a possible supposition."

"You think so, too?"

"I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look upon
this as likely?"

"I do not think Flora would hurt a fly."

"Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray
what is your own theory as to what took place?"

"Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I
have given you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may
say that it has occurred to me as possible that the excitement of
this affair, the consciousness that she had made so immense a
social stride, had the effect of causing some little nervous
disturbance in my wife."

"In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?"

"Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her back--I
will not say upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired to
without success--I can hardly explain it in any other fashion."

"Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis," said
Holmes, smiling. "And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have
nearly all my data. May I ask whether you were seated at the
breakfast-table so that you could see out of the window?"

"We could see the other side of the road and the Park."

"Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain you longer.
I shall communicate with you."

"Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem," said our
client, rising.

"I have solved it."

"Eh? What was that?"

"I say that I have solved it."

"Where, then, is my wife?"

"That is a detail which I shall speedily supply."

Lord St. Simon shook his head. "I am afraid that it will take
wiser heads than yours or mine," he remarked, and bowing in a
stately, old-fashioned manner he departed.

"It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by putting
it on a level with his own," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "I
think that I shall have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all
this cross-questioning. I had formed my conclusions as to the
case before our client came into the room."

"My dear Holmes!"

"I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as I
remarked before, which were quite as prompt. My whole examination
served to turn my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial
evidence is occasionally very convincing, as when you find a
trout in the milk, to quote Thoreau's example."

"But I have heard all that you have heard."

"Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases which
serves me so well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen some
years back, and something on very much the same lines at Munich
the year after the Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these
cases--but, hullo, here is Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade!
You will find an extra tumbler upon the sideboard, and there are
cigars in the box."

The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat,
which gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a
black canvas bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated
himself and lit the cigar which had been offered to him.

"What's up, then?" asked Holmes with a twinkle in his eye. "You
look dissatisfied."

"And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon marriage
case. I can make neither head nor tail of the business."

"Really! You surprise me."

"Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clue seems to slip
through my fingers. I have been at work upon it all day."

"And very wet it seems to have made you," said Holmes laying his
hand upon the arm of the pea-jacket.

"Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine."

"In heaven's name, what for?"

"In search of the body of Lady St. Simon."

Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

"Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?" he
asked.

"Why? What do you mean?"

"Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in
the one as in the other."

Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. "I suppose you
know all about it," he snarled.

"Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up."

"Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in
the matter?"

"I think it very unlikely."

"Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found
this in it?" He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the
floor a wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin
shoes and a bride's wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked
in water. "There," said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the
top of the pile. "There is a little nut for you to crack, Master
Holmes."

"Oh, indeed!" said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air.
"You dragged them from the Serpentine?"

"No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-keeper.
They have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me
that if the clothes were there the body would not be far off."

"By the same brilliant reasoning, every man's body is to be found
in the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope
to arrive at through this?"

"At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance."

"I am afraid that you will find it difficult."

"Are you, indeed, now?" cried Lestrade with some bitterness. "I
am afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your
deductions and your inferences. You have made two blunders in as
many minutes. This dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar."

"And how?"

"In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the
card-case is a note. And here is the very note." He slapped it
down upon the table in front of him. "Listen to this: 'You will
see me when all is ready. Come at once. F.H.M.' Now my theory all
along has been that Lady St. Simon was decoyed away by Flora
Millar, and that she, with confederates, no doubt, was
responsible for her disappearance. Here, signed with her
initials, is the very note which was no doubt quietly slipped
into her hand at the door and which lured her within their
reach."

"Very good, Lestrade," said Holmes, laughing. "You really are
very fine indeed. Let me see it." He took up the paper in a
listless way, but his attention instantly became riveted, and he
gave a little cry of satisfaction. "This is indeed important,"
said he.

"Ha! you find it so?"

"Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly."

Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. "Why," he
shrieked, "you're looking at the wrong side!"

"On the contrary, this is the right side."

"The right side? You're mad! Here is the note written in pencil
over here."

"And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel
bill, which interests me deeply."

"There's nothing in it. I looked at it before," said Lestrade.
"'Oct. 4th, rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s., lunch 2s.
6d., glass sherry, 8d.' I see nothing in that."

"Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the
note, it is important also, or at least the initials are, so I
congratulate you again."

"I've wasted time enough," said Lestrade, rising. "I believe in
hard work and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories.
Good-day, Mr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom
of the matter first." He gathered up the garments, thrust them
into the bag, and made for the door.

"Just one hint to you, Lestrade," drawled Holmes before his rival
vanished; "I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady
St. Simon is a myth. There is not, and there never has been, any
such person."

Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me,
tapped his forehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and
hurried away.

He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose to put on
his overcoat. "There is something in what the fellow says about
outdoor work," he remarked, "so I think, Watson, that I must
leave you to your papers for a little."

It was after five o'clock when Sherlock Holmes left me, but I had
no time to be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a
confectioner's man with a very large flat box. This he unpacked
with the help of a youth whom he had brought with him, and
presently, to my very great astonishment, a quite epicurean
little cold supper began to be laid out upon our humble
lodging-house mahogany. There were a couple of brace of cold
woodcock, a pheasant, a pâté de foie gras pie with a group of
ancient and cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these luxuries,
my two visitors vanished away, like the genii of the Arabian
Nights, with no explanation save that the things had been paid
for and were ordered to this address.

Just before nine o'clock Sherlock Holmes stepped briskly into the
room. His features were gravely set, but there was a light in his
eye which made me think that he had not been disappointed in his
conclusions.

"They have laid the supper, then," he said, rubbing his hands.

"You seem to expect company. They have laid for five."

"Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in," said he. "I
am surprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived. Ha! I
fancy that I hear his step now upon the stairs."

It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who came bustling in,
dangling his glasses more vigorously than ever, and with a very
perturbed expression upon his aristocratic features.

"My messenger reached you, then?" asked Holmes.

"Yes, and I confess that the contents startled me beyond measure.
Have you good authority for what you say?"

"The best possible."

Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his hand over his
forehead.

"What will the Duke say," he murmured, "when he hears that one of
the family has been subjected to such humiliation?"

"It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that there is any
humiliation."

"Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint."

"I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly see how the
lady could have acted otherwise, though her abrupt method of
doing it was undoubtedly to be regretted. Having no mother, she
had no one to advise her at such a crisis."

"It was a slight, sir, a public slight," said Lord St. Simon,
tapping his fingers upon the table.

"You must make allowance for this poor girl, placed in so
unprecedented a position."

"I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed, and I have
been shamefully used."

"I think that I heard a ring," said Holmes. "Yes, there are steps
on the landing. If I cannot persuade you to take a lenient view
of the matter, Lord St. Simon, I have brought an advocate here
who may be more successful." He opened the door and ushered in a
lady and gentleman. "Lord St. Simon," said he "allow me to
introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Francis Hay Moulton. The lady, I
think, you have already met."

At the sight of these newcomers our client had sprung from his
seat and stood very erect, with his eyes cast down and his hand
thrust into the breast of his frock-coat, a picture of offended
dignity. The lady had taken a quick step forward and had held out
her hand to him, but he still refused to raise his eyes. It was
as well for his resolution, perhaps, for her pleading face was
one which it was hard to resist.

"You're angry, Robert," said she. "Well, I guess you have every
cause to be."

"Pray make no apology to me," said Lord St. Simon bitterly.

"Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real bad and that I
should have spoken to you before I went; but I was kind of
rattled, and from the time when I saw Frank here again I just
didn't know what I was doing or saying. I only wonder I didn't
fall down and do a faint right there before the altar."

"Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend and me to leave
the room while you explain this matter?"

"If I may give an opinion," remarked the strange gentleman,
"we've had just a little too much secrecy over this business
already. For my part, I should like all Europe and America to
hear the rights of it." He was a small, wiry, sunburnt man,
clean-shaven, with a sharp face and alert manner.

"Then I'll tell our story right away," said the lady. "Frank here
and I met in '84, in McQuire's camp, near the Rockies, where pa
was working a claim. We were engaged to each other, Frank and I;
but then one day father struck a rich pocket and made a pile,
while poor Frank here had a claim that petered out and came to
nothing. The richer pa grew the poorer was Frank; so at last pa
wouldn't hear of our engagement lasting any longer, and he took
me away to 'Frisco. Frank wouldn't throw up his hand, though; so
he followed me there, and he saw me without pa knowing anything
about it. It would only have made him mad to know, so we just
fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said that he would go and
make his pile, too, and never come back to claim me until he had
as much as pa. So then I promised to wait for him to the end of
time and pledged myself not to marry anyone else while he lived.
'Why shouldn't we be married right away, then,' said he, 'and
then I will feel sure of you; and I won't claim to be your
husband until I come back?' Well, we talked it over, and he had
fixed it all up so nicely, with a clergyman all ready in waiting,
that we just did it right there; and then Frank went off to seek
his fortune, and I went back to pa.

"The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and then
he went prospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him from New
Mexico. After that came a long newspaper story about how a
miners' camp had been attacked by Apache Indians, and there was
my Frank's name among the killed. I fainted dead away, and I was
very sick for months after. Pa thought I had a decline and took
me to half the doctors in 'Frisco. Not a word of news came for a
year and more, so that I never doubted that Frank was really
dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to 'Frisco, and we came to London,
and a marriage was arranged, and pa was very pleased, but I felt
all the time that no man on this earth would ever take the place
in my heart that had been given to my poor Frank.

"Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I'd have done
my duty by him. We can't command our love, but we can our
actions. I went to the altar with him with the intention to make
him just as good a wife as it was in me to be. But you may
imagine what I felt when, just as I came to the altar rails, I
glanced back and saw Frank standing and looking at me out of the
first pew. I thought it was his ghost at first; but when I looked
again there he was still, with a kind of question in his eyes, as
if to ask me whether I were glad or sorry to see him. I wonder I
didn't drop. I know that everything was turning round, and the
words of the clergyman were just like the buzz of a bee in my
ear. I didn't know what to do. Should I stop the service and make
a scene in the church? I glanced at him again, and he seemed to
know what I was thinking, for he raised his finger to his lips to
tell me to be still. Then I saw him scribble on a piece of paper,
and I knew that he was writing me a note. As I passed his pew on
the way out I dropped my bouquet over to him, and he slipped the
note into my hand when he returned me the flowers. It was only a
line asking me to join him when he made the sign to me to do so.
Of course I never doubted for a moment that my first duty was now
to him, and I determined to do just whatever he might direct.

"When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in California,
and had always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but
to get a few things packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to
have spoken to Lord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard before
his mother and all those great people. I just made up my mind to
run away and explain afterwards. I hadn't been at the table ten
minutes before I saw Frank out of the window at the other side of
the road. He beckoned to me and then began walking into the Park.
I slipped out, put on my things, and followed him. Some woman
came talking something or other about Lord St. Simon to
me--seemed to me from the little I heard as if he had a little
secret of his own before marriage also--but I managed to get away
from her and soon overtook Frank. We got into a cab together, and
away we drove to some lodgings he had taken in Gordon Square, and
that was my true wedding after all those years of waiting. Frank
had been a prisoner among the Apaches, had escaped, came on to
'Frisco, found that I had given him up for dead and had gone to
England, followed me there, and had come upon me at last on the
very morning of my second wedding."

"I saw it in a paper," explained the American. "It gave the name
and the church but not where the lady lived."

"Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank was all
for openness, but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as if I
should like to vanish away and never see any of them again--just
sending a line to pa, perhaps, to show him that I was alive. It
was awful to me to think of all those lords and ladies sitting
round that breakfast-table and waiting for me to come back. So
Frank took my wedding-clothes and things and made a bundle of
them, so that I should not be traced, and dropped them away
somewhere where no one could find them. It is likely that we
should have gone on to Paris to-morrow, only that this good
gentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to us this evening, though how
he found us is more than I can think, and he showed us very
clearly and kindly that I was wrong and that Frank was right, and
that we should be putting ourselves in the wrong if we were so
secret. Then he offered to give us a chance of talking to Lord
St. Simon alone, and so we came right away round to his rooms at
once. Now, Robert, you have heard it all, and I am very sorry if
I have given you pain, and I hope that you do not think very
meanly of me."

Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid attitude, but
had listened with a frowning brow and a compressed lip to this
long narrative.

"Excuse me," he said, "but it is not my custom to discuss my most
intimate personal affairs in this public manner."

"Then you won't forgive me? You won't shake hands before I go?"

"Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure." He put out
his hand and coldly grasped that which she extended to him.

"I had hoped," suggested Holmes, "that you would have joined us
in a friendly supper."

"I think that there you ask a little too much," responded his
Lordship. "I may be forced to acquiesce in these recent
developments, but I can hardly be expected to make merry over
them. I think that with your permission I will now wish you all a
very good-night." He included us all in a sweeping bow and
stalked out of the room.

"Then I trust that you at least will honour me with your
company," said Sherlock Holmes. "It is always a joy to meet an
American, Mr. Moulton, for I am one of those who believe that the
folly of a monarch and the blundering of a minister in far-gone
years will not prevent our children from being some day citizens
of the same world-wide country under a flag which shall be a
quartering of the Union Jack with the Stars and Stripes."

"The case has been an interesting one," remarked Holmes when our
visitors had left us, "because it serves to show very clearly how
simple the explanation may be of an affair which at first sight
seems to be almost inexplicable. Nothing could be more natural
than the sequence of events as narrated by this lady, and nothing
stranger than the result when viewed, for instance, by Mr.
Lestrade of Scotland Yard."

"You were not yourself at fault at all, then?"

"From the first, two facts were very obvious to me, the one that
the lady had been quite willing to undergo the wedding ceremony,
the other that she had repented of it within a few minutes of
returning home. Obviously something had occurred during the
morning, then, to cause her to change her mind. What could that
something be? She could not have spoken to anyone when she was
out, for she had been in the company of the bridegroom. Had she
seen someone, then? If she had, it must be someone from America
because she had spent so short a time in this country that she
could hardly have allowed anyone to acquire so deep an influence
over her that the mere sight of him would induce her to change
her plans so completely. You see we have already arrived, by a
process of exclusion, at the idea that she might have seen an
American. Then who could this American be, and why should he
possess so much influence over her? It might be a lover; it might
be a husband. Her young womanhood had, I knew, been spent in
rough scenes and under strange conditions. So far I had got
before I ever heard Lord St. Simon's narrative. When he told us
of a man in a pew, of the change in the bride's manner, of so
transparent a device for obtaining a note as the dropping of a
bouquet, of her resort to her confidential maid, and of her very
significant allusion to claim-jumping--which in miners' parlance
means taking possession of that which another person has a prior
claim to--the whole situation became absolutely clear. She had
gone off with a man, and the man was either a lover or was a
previous husband--the chances being in favour of the latter."

"And how in the world did you find them?"

"It might have been difficult, but friend Lestrade held
information in his hands the value of which he did not himself
know. The initials were, of course, of the highest importance,
but more valuable still was it to know that within a week he had
settled his bill at one of the most select London hotels."

"How did you deduce the select?"

"By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed and eightpence
for a glass of sherry pointed to one of the most expensive
hotels. There are not many in London which charge at that rate.
In the second one which I visited in Northumberland Avenue, I
learned by an inspection of the book that Francis H. Moulton, an
American gentleman, had left only the day before, and on looking
over the entries against him, I came upon the very items which I
had seen in the duplicate bill. His letters were to be forwarded
to 226 Gordon Square; so thither I travelled, and being fortunate
enough to find the loving couple at home, I ventured to give them
some paternal advice and to point out to them that it would be
better in every way that they should make their position a little
clearer both to the general public and to Lord St. Simon in
particular. I invited them to meet him here, and, as you see, I
made him keep the appointment."

"But with no very good result," I remarked. "His conduct was
certainly not very gracious."

"Ah, Watson," said Holmes, smiling, "perhaps you would not be
very gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and
wedding, you found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of
fortune. I think that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully
and thank our stars that we are never likely to find ourselves in
the same position. Draw your chair up and hand me my violin, for
the only problem we have still to solve is how to while away
these bleak autumnal evenings."



XI. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET

"Holmes," said I as I stood one morning in our bow-window looking
down the street, "here is a madman coming along. It seems rather
sad that his relatives should allow him to come out alone."

My friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood with his hands
in the pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my shoulder. It
was a bright, crisp February morning, and the snow of the day
before still lay deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the
wintry sun. Down the centre of Baker Street it had been ploughed
into a brown crumbly band by the traffic, but at either side and
on the heaped-up edges of the foot-paths it still lay as white as
when it fell. The grey pavement had been cleaned and scraped, but
was still dangerously slippery, so that there were fewer
passengers than usual. Indeed, from the direction of the
Metropolitan Station no one was coming save the single gentleman
whose eccentric conduct had drawn my attention.

He was a man of about fifty, tall, portly, and imposing, with a
massive, strongly marked face and a commanding figure. He was
dressed in a sombre yet rich style, in black frock-coat, shining
hat, neat brown gaiters, and well-cut pearl-grey trousers. Yet
his actions were in absurd contrast to the dignity of his dress
and features, for he was running hard, with occasional little
springs, such as a weary man gives who is little accustomed to
set any tax upon his legs. As he ran he jerked his hands up and
down, waggled his head, and writhed his face into the most
extraordinary contortions.

"What on earth can be the matter with him?" I asked. "He is
looking up at the numbers of the houses."

"I believe that he is coming here," said Holmes, rubbing his
hands.

"Here?"

"Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me professionally. I
think that I recognise the symptoms. Ha! did I not tell you?" As
he spoke, the man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and
pulled at our bell until the whole house resounded with the
clanging.

A few moments later he was in our room, still puffing, still
gesticulating, but with so fixed a look of grief and despair in
his eyes that our smiles were turned in an instant to horror and
pity. For a while he could not get his words out, but swayed his
body and plucked at his hair like one who has been driven to the
extreme limits of his reason. Then, suddenly springing to his
feet, he beat his head against the wall with such force that we
both rushed upon him and tore him away to the centre of the room.
Sherlock Holmes pushed him down into the easy-chair and, sitting
beside him, patted his hand and chatted with him in the easy,
soothing tones which he knew so well how to employ.

"You have come to me to tell your story, have you not?" said he.
"You are fatigued with your haste. Pray wait until you have
recovered yourself, and then I shall be most happy to look into
any little problem which you may submit to me."

The man sat for a minute or more with a heaving chest, fighting
against his emotion. Then he passed his handkerchief over his
brow, set his lips tight, and turned his face towards us.

"No doubt you think me mad?" said he.

"I see that you have had some great trouble," responded Holmes.

"God knows I have!--a trouble which is enough to unseat my
reason, so sudden and so terrible is it. Public disgrace I might
have faced, although I am a man whose character has never yet
borne a stain. Private affliction also is the lot of every man;
but the two coming together, and in so frightful a form, have
been enough to shake my very soul. Besides, it is not I alone.
The very noblest in the land may suffer unless some way be found
out of this horrible affair."

"Pray compose yourself, sir," said Holmes, "and let me have a
clear account of who you are and what it is that has befallen
you."

"My name," answered our visitor, "is probably familiar to your
ears. I am Alexander Holder, of the banking firm of Holder &
Stevenson, of Threadneedle Street."

The name was indeed well known to us as belonging to the senior
partner in the second largest private banking concern in the City
of London. What could have happened, then, to bring one of the
foremost citizens of London to this most pitiable pass? We
waited, all curiosity, until with another effort he braced
himself to tell his story.

"I feel that time is of value," said he; "that is why I hastened
here when the police inspector suggested that I should secure
your co-operation. I came to Baker Street by the Underground and
hurried from there on foot, for the cabs go slowly through this
snow. That is why I was so out of breath, for I am a man who
takes very little exercise. I feel better now, and I will put the
facts before you as shortly and yet as clearly as I can.

"It is, of course, well known to you that in a successful banking
business as much depends upon our being able to find remunerative
investments for our funds as upon our increasing our connection
and the number of our depositors. One of our most lucrative means
of laying out money is in the shape of loans, where the security
is unimpeachable. We have done a good deal in this direction
during the last few years, and there are many noble families to
whom we have advanced large sums upon the security of their
pictures, libraries, or plate.

"Yesterday morning I was seated in my office at the bank when a
card was brought in to me by one of the clerks. I started when I
saw the name, for it was that of none other than--well, perhaps
even to you I had better say no more than that it was a name
which is a household word all over the earth--one of the highest,
noblest, most exalted names in England. I was overwhelmed by the
honour and attempted, when he entered, to say so, but he plunged
at once into business with the air of a man who wishes to hurry
quickly through a disagreeable task.

"'Mr. Holder,' said he, 'I have been informed that you are in the
habit of advancing money.'

"'The firm does so when the security is good.' I answered.

"'It is absolutely essential to me,' said he, 'that I should have
50,000 pounds at once. I could, of course, borrow so trifling a
sum ten times over from my friends, but I much prefer to make it
a matter of business and to carry out that business myself. In my
position you can readily understand that it is unwise to place
one's self under obligations.'

"'For how long, may I ask, do you want this sum?' I asked.

"'Next Monday I have a large sum due to me, and I shall then most
certainly repay what you advance, with whatever interest you
think it right to charge. But it is very essential to me that the
money should be paid at once.'

"'I should be happy to advance it without further parley from my
own private purse,' said I, 'were it not that the strain would be
rather more than it could bear. If, on the other hand, I am to do
it in the name of the firm, then in justice to my partner I must
insist that, even in your case, every businesslike precaution
should be taken.'

"'I should much prefer to have it so,' said he, raising up a
square, black morocco case which he had laid beside his chair.
'You have doubtless heard of the Beryl Coronet?'

"'One of the most precious public possessions of the empire,'
said I.

"'Precisely.' He opened the case, and there, imbedded in soft,
flesh-coloured velvet, lay the magnificent piece of jewellery
which he had named. 'There are thirty-nine enormous beryls,' said
he, 'and the price of the gold chasing is incalculable. The
lowest estimate would put the worth of the coronet at double the
sum which I have asked. I am prepared to leave it with you as my
security.'

"I took the precious case into my hands and looked in some
perplexity from it to my illustrious client.

"'You doubt its value?' he asked.

"'Not at all. I only doubt--'

"'The propriety of my leaving it. You may set your mind at rest
about that. I should not dream of doing so were it not absolutely
certain that I should be able in four days to reclaim it. It is a
pure matter of form. Is the security sufficient?'

"'Ample.'

"'You understand, Mr. Holder, that I am giving you a strong proof
of the confidence which I have in you, founded upon all that I
have heard of you. I rely upon you not only to be discreet and to
refrain from all gossip upon the matter but, above all, to
preserve this coronet with every possible precaution because I
need not say that a great public scandal would be caused if any
harm were to befall it. Any injury to it would be almost as
serious as its complete loss, for there are no beryls in the
world to match these, and it would be impossible to replace them.
I leave it with you, however, with every confidence, and I shall
call for it in person on Monday morning.'

"Seeing that my client was anxious to leave, I said no more but,
calling for my cashier, I ordered him to pay over fifty 1000
pound notes. When I was alone once more, however, with the
precious case lying upon the table in front of me, I could not
but think with some misgivings of the immense responsibility
which it entailed upon me. There could be no doubt that, as it
was a national possession, a horrible scandal would ensue if any
misfortune should occur to it. I already regretted having ever
consented to take charge of it. However, it was too late to alter
the matter now, so I locked it up in my private safe and turned
once more to my work.

"When evening came I felt that it would be an imprudence to leave
so precious a thing in the office behind me. Bankers' safes had
been forced before now, and why should not mine be? If so, how
terrible would be the position in which I should find myself! I
determined, therefore, that for the next few days I would always
carry the case backward and forward with me, so that it might
never be really out of my reach. With this intention, I called a
cab and drove out to my house at Streatham, carrying the jewel
with me. I did not breathe freely until I had taken it upstairs
and locked it in the bureau of my dressing-room.

"And now a word as to my household, Mr. Holmes, for I wish you to
thoroughly understand the situation. My groom and my page sleep
out of the house, and may be set aside altogether. I have three
maid-servants who have been with me a number of years and whose
absolute reliability is quite above suspicion. Another, Lucy
Parr, the second waiting-maid, has only been in my service a few
months. She came with an excellent character, however, and has
always given me satisfaction. She is a very pretty girl and has
attracted admirers who have occasionally hung about the place.
That is the only drawback which we have found to her, but we
believe her to be a thoroughly good girl in every way.

"So much for the servants. My family itself is so small that it
will not take me long to describe it. I am a widower and have an
only son, Arthur. He has been a disappointment to me, Mr.
Holmes--a grievous disappointment. I have no doubt that I am
myself to blame. People tell me that I have spoiled him. Very
likely I have. When my dear wife died I felt that he was all I
had to love. I could not bear to see the smile fade even for a
moment from his face. I have never denied him a wish. Perhaps it
would have been better for both of us had I been sterner, but I
meant it for the best.

"It was naturally my intention that he should succeed me in my
business, but he was not of a business turn. He was wild,
wayward, and, to speak the truth, I could not trust him in the
handling of large sums of money. When he was young he became a
member of an aristocratic club, and there, having charming
manners, he was soon the intimate of a number of men with long
purses and expensive habits. He learned to play heavily at cards
and to squander money on the turf, until he had again and again
to come to me and implore me to give him an advance upon his
allowance, that he might settle his debts of honour. He tried
more than once to break away from the dangerous company which he
was keeping, but each time the influence of his friend, Sir
George Burnwell, was enough to draw him back again.

"And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a man as Sir George
Burnwell should gain an influence over him, for he has frequently
brought him to my house, and I have found myself that I could
hardly resist the fascination of his manner. He is older than
Arthur, a man of the world to his finger-tips, one who had been
everywhere, seen everything, a brilliant talker, and a man of
great personal beauty. Yet when I think of him in cold blood, far
away from the glamour of his presence, I am convinced from his
cynical speech and the look which I have caught in his eyes that
he is one who should be deeply distrusted. So I think, and so,
too, thinks my little Mary, who has a woman's quick insight into
character.

"And now there is only she to be described. She is my niece; but
when my brother died five years ago and left her alone in the
world I adopted her, and have looked upon her ever since as my
daughter. She is a sunbeam in my house--sweet, loving, beautiful,
a wonderful manager and housekeeper, yet as tender and quiet and
gentle as a woman could be. She is my right hand. I do not know
what I could do without her. In only one matter has she ever gone
against my wishes. Twice my boy has asked her to marry him, for
he loves her devotedly, but each time she has refused him. I
think that if anyone could have drawn him into the right path it
would have been she, and that his marriage might have changed his
whole life; but now, alas! it is too late--forever too late!

"Now, Mr. Holmes, you know the people who live under my roof, and
I shall continue with my miserable story.

"When we were taking coffee in the drawing-room that night after
dinner, I told Arthur and Mary my experience, and of the precious
treasure which we had under our roof, suppressing only the name
of my client. Lucy Parr, who had brought in the coffee, had, I am
sure, left the room; but I cannot swear that the door was closed.
Mary and Arthur were much interested and wished to see the famous
coronet, but I thought it better not to disturb it.

"'Where have you put it?' asked Arthur.

"'In my own bureau.'

"'Well, I hope to goodness the house won't be burgled during the
night.' said he.

"'It is locked up,' I answered.

"'Oh, any old key will fit that bureau. When I was a youngster I
have opened it myself with the key of the box-room cupboard.'

"He often had a wild way of talking, so that I thought little of
what he said. He followed me to my room, however, that night with
a very grave face.

"'Look here, dad,' said he with his eyes cast down, 'can you let
me have 200 pounds?'

"'No, I cannot!' I answered sharply. 'I have been far too
generous with you in money matters.'

"'You have been very kind,' said he, 'but I must have this money,
or else I can never show my face inside the club again.'

"'And a very good thing, too!' I cried.

"'Yes, but you would not have me leave it a dishonoured man,'
said he. 'I could not bear the disgrace. I must raise the money
in some way, and if you will not let me have it, then I must try
other means.'

"I was very angry, for this was the third demand during the
month. 'You shall not have a farthing from me,' I cried, on which
he bowed and left the room without another word.

"When he was gone I unlocked my bureau, made sure that my
treasure was safe, and locked it again. Then I started to go
round the house to see that all was secure--a duty which I
usually leave to Mary but which I thought it well to perform
myself that night. As I came down the stairs I saw Mary herself
at the side window of the hall, which she closed and fastened as
I approached.

"'Tell me, dad,' said she, looking, I thought, a little
disturbed, 'did you give Lucy, the maid, leave to go out
to-night?'

"'Certainly not.'

"'She came in just now by the back door. I have no doubt that she
has only been to the side gate to see someone, but I think that
it is hardly safe and should be stopped.'

"'You must speak to her in the morning, or I will if you prefer
it. Are you sure that everything is fastened?'

"'Quite sure, dad.'

"'Then, good-night.' I kissed her and went up to my bedroom
again, where I was soon asleep.

"I am endeavouring to tell you everything, Mr. Holmes, which may
have any bearing upon the case, but I beg that you will question
me upon any point which I do not make clear."

"On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid."

"I come to a part of my story now in which I should wish to be
particularly so. I am not a very heavy sleeper, and the anxiety
in my mind tended, no doubt, to make me even less so than usual.
About two in the morning, then, I was awakened by some sound in
the house. It had ceased ere I was wide awake, but it had left an
impression behind it as though a window had gently closed
somewhere. I lay listening with all my ears. Suddenly, to my
horror, there was a distinct sound of footsteps moving softly in
the next room. I slipped out of bed, all palpitating with fear,
and peeped round the corner of my dressing-room door.

"'Arthur!' I screamed, 'you villain! you thief! How dare you
touch that coronet?'

"The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy boy,
dressed only in his shirt and trousers, was standing beside the
light, holding the coronet in his hands. He appeared to be
wrenching at it, or bending it with all his strength. At my cry
he dropped it from his grasp and turned as pale as death. I
snatched it up and examined it. One of the gold corners, with
three of the beryls in it, was missing.

"'You blackguard!' I shouted, beside myself with rage. 'You have
destroyed it! You have dishonoured me forever! Where are the
jewels which you have stolen?'

"'Stolen!' he cried.

"'Yes, thief!' I roared, shaking him by the shoulder.

"'There are none missing. There cannot be any missing,' said he.

"'There are three missing. And you know where they are. Must I
call you a liar as well as a thief? Did I not see you trying to
tear off another piece?'

"'You have called me names enough,' said he, 'I will not stand it
any longer. I shall not say another word about this business,
since you have chosen to insult me. I will leave your house in
the morning and make my own way in the world.'

"'You shall leave it in the hands of the police!' I cried
half-mad with grief and rage. 'I shall have this matter probed to
the bottom.'

"'You shall learn nothing from me,' said he with a passion such
as I should not have thought was in his nature. 'If you choose to
call the police, let the police find what they can.'

"By this time the whole house was astir, for I had raised my
voice in my anger. Mary was the first to rush into my room, and,
at the sight of the coronet and of Arthur's face, she read the
whole story and, with a scream, fell down senseless on the
ground. I sent the house-maid for the police and put the
investigation into their hands at once. When the inspector and a
constable entered the house, Arthur, who had stood sullenly with
his arms folded, asked me whether it was my intention to charge
him with theft. I answered that it had ceased to be a private
matter, but had become a public one, since the ruined coronet was
national property. I was determined that the law should have its
way in everything.

"'At least,' said he, 'you will not have me arrested at once. It
would be to your advantage as well as mine if I might leave the
house for five minutes.'

"'That you may get away, or perhaps that you may conceal what you
have stolen,' said I. And then, realising the dreadful position
in which I was placed, I implored him to remember that not only
my honour but that of one who was far greater than I was at
stake; and that he threatened to raise a scandal which would
convulse the nation. He might avert it all if he would but tell
me what he had done with the three missing stones.

"'You may as well face the matter,' said I; 'you have been caught
in the act, and no confession could make your guilt more heinous.
If you but make such reparation as is in your power, by telling
us where the beryls are, all shall be forgiven and forgotten.'

"'Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,' he answered,
turning away from me with a sneer. I saw that he was too hardened
for any words of mine to influence him. There was but one way for
it. I called in the inspector and gave him into custody. A search
was made at once not only of his person but of his room and of
every portion of the house where he could possibly have concealed
the gems; but no trace of them could be found, nor would the
wretched boy open his mouth for all our persuasions and our
threats. This morning he was removed to a cell, and I, after
going through all the police formalities, have hurried round to
you to implore you to use your skill in unravelling the matter.
The police have openly confessed that they can at present make
nothing of it. You may go to any expense which you think
necessary. I have already offered a reward of 1000 pounds. My
God, what shall I do! I have lost my honour, my gems, and my son
in one night. Oh, what shall I do!"

He put a hand on either side of his head and rocked himself to
and fro, droning to himself like a child whose grief has got
beyond words.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with his brows
knitted and his eyes fixed upon the fire.

"Do you receive much company?" he asked.

"None save my partner with his family and an occasional friend of
Arthur's. Sir George Burnwell has been several times lately. No
one else, I think."

"Do you go out much in society?"

"Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for
it."

"That is unusual in a young girl."

"She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so very young. She
is four-and-twenty."

"This matter, from what you say, seems to have been a shock to
her also."

"Terrible! She is even more affected than I."

"You have neither of you any doubt as to your son's guilt?"

"How can we have when I saw him with my own eyes with the coronet
in his hands."

"I hardly consider that a conclusive proof. Was the remainder of
the coronet at all injured?"

"Yes, it was twisted."

"Do you not think, then, that he might have been trying to
straighten it?"

"God bless you! You are doing what you can for him and for me.
But it is too heavy a task. What was he doing there at all? If
his purpose were innocent, why did he not say so?"

"Precisely. And if it were guilty, why did he not invent a lie?
His silence appears to me to cut both ways. There are several
singular points about the case. What did the police think of the
noise which awoke you from your sleep?"

"They considered that it might be caused by Arthur's closing his
bedroom door."

"A likely story! As if a man bent on felony would slam his door
so as to wake a household. What did they say, then, of the
disappearance of these gems?"

"They are still sounding the planking and probing the furniture
in the hope of finding them."

"Have they thought of looking outside the house?"

"Yes, they have shown extraordinary energy. The whole garden has
already been minutely examined."

"Now, my dear sir," said Holmes. "is it not obvious to you now
that this matter really strikes very much deeper than either you
or the police were at first inclined to think? It appeared to you
to be a simple case; to me it seems exceedingly complex. Consider
what is involved by your theory. You suppose that your son came
down from his bed, went, at great risk, to your dressing-room,
opened your bureau, took out your coronet, broke off by main
force a small portion of it, went off to some other place,
concealed three gems out of the thirty-nine, with such skill that
nobody can find them, and then returned with the other thirty-six
into the room in which he exposed himself to the greatest danger
of being discovered. I ask you now, is such a theory tenable?"

"But what other is there?" cried the banker with a gesture of
despair. "If his motives were innocent, why does he not explain
them?"

"It is our task to find that out," replied Holmes; "so now, if
you please, Mr. Holder, we will set off for Streatham together,
and devote an hour to glancing a little more closely into
details."

My friend insisted upon my accompanying them in their expedition,
which I was eager enough to do, for my curiosity and sympathy
were deeply stirred by the story to which we had listened. I
confess that the guilt of the banker's son appeared to me to be
as obvious as it did to his unhappy father, but still I had such
faith in Holmes' judgment that I felt that there must be some
grounds for hope as long as he was dissatisfied with the accepted
explanation. He hardly spoke a word the whole way out to the
southern suburb, but sat with his chin upon his breast and his
hat drawn over his eyes, sunk in the deepest thought. Our client
appeared to have taken fresh heart at the little glimpse of hope
which had been presented to him, and he even broke into a
desultory chat with me over his business affairs. A short railway
journey and a shorter walk brought us to Fairbank, the modest
residence of the great financier.

Fairbank was a good-sized square house of white stone, standing
back a little from the road. A double carriage-sweep, with a
snow-clad lawn, stretched down in front to two large iron gates
which closed the entrance. On the right side was a small wooden
thicket, which led into a narrow path between two neat hedges
stretching from the road to the kitchen door, and forming the
tradesmen's entrance. On the left ran a lane which led to the
stables, and was not itself within the grounds at all, being a
public, though little used, thoroughfare. Holmes left us standing
at the door and walked slowly all round the house, across the
front, down the tradesmen's path, and so round by the garden
behind into the stable lane. So long was he that Mr. Holder and I
went into the dining-room and waited by the fire until he should
return. We were sitting there in silence when the door opened and
a young lady came in. She was rather above the middle height,
slim, with dark hair and eyes, which seemed the darker against
the absolute pallor of her skin. I do not think that I have ever
seen such deadly paleness in a woman's face. Her lips, too, were
bloodless, but her eyes were flushed with crying. As she swept
silently into the room she impressed me with a greater sense of
grief than the banker had done in the morning, and it was the
more striking in her as she was evidently a woman of strong
character, with immense capacity for self-restraint. Disregarding
my presence, she went straight to her uncle and passed her hand
over his head with a sweet womanly caress.

"You have given orders that Arthur should be liberated, have you
not, dad?" she asked.

"No, no, my girl, the matter must be probed to the bottom."

"But I am so sure that he is innocent. You know what woman's
instincts are. I know that he has done no harm and that you will
be sorry for having acted so harshly."

"Why is he silent, then, if he is innocent?"

"Who knows? Perhaps because he was so angry that you should
suspect him."

"How could I help suspecting him, when I actually saw him with
the coronet in his hand?"

"Oh, but he had only picked it up to look at it. Oh, do, do take
my word for it that he is innocent. Let the matter drop and say
no more. It is so dreadful to think of our dear Arthur in
prison!"

"I shall never let it drop until the gems are found--never, Mary!
Your affection for Arthur blinds you as to the awful consequences
to me. Far from hushing the thing up, I have brought a gentleman
down from London to inquire more deeply into it."

"This gentleman?" she asked, facing round to me.

"No, his friend. He wished us to leave him alone. He is round in
the stable lane now."

"The stable lane?" She raised her dark eyebrows. "What can he
hope to find there? Ah! this, I suppose, is he. I trust, sir,
that you will succeed in proving, what I feel sure is the truth,
that my cousin Arthur is innocent of this crime."

"I fully share your opinion, and I trust, with you, that we may
prove it," returned Holmes, going back to the mat to knock the
snow from his shoes. "I believe I have the honour of addressing
Miss Mary Holder. Might I ask you a question or two?"

"Pray do, sir, if it may help to clear this horrible affair up."

"You heard nothing yourself last night?"

"Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak loudly. I heard
that, and I came down."

"You shut up the windows and doors the night before. Did you
fasten all the windows?"

"Yes."

"Were they all fastened this morning?"

"Yes."

"You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I think that you remarked
to your uncle last night that she had been out to see him?"

"Yes, and she was the girl who waited in the drawing-room, and
who may have heard uncle's remarks about the coronet."

"I see. You infer that she may have gone out to tell her
sweetheart, and that the two may have planned the robbery."

"But what is the good of all these vague theories," cried the
banker impatiently, "when I have told you that I saw Arthur with
the coronet in his hands?"

"Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to that. About this
girl, Miss Holder. You saw her return by the kitchen door, I
presume?"

"Yes; when I went to see if the door was fastened for the night I
met her slipping in. I saw the man, too, in the gloom."

"Do you know him?"

"Oh, yes! he is the green-grocer who brings our vegetables round.
His name is Francis Prosper."

"He stood," said Holmes, "to the left of the door--that is to
say, farther up the path than is necessary to reach the door?"

"Yes, he did."

"And he is a man with a wooden leg?"

Something like fear sprang up in the young lady's expressive
black eyes. "Why, you are like a magician," said she. "How do you
know that?" She smiled, but there was no answering smile in
Holmes' thin, eager face.

"I should be very glad now to go upstairs," said he. "I shall
probably wish to go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps
I had better take a look at the lower windows before I go up."

He walked swiftly round from one to the other, pausing only at
the large one which looked from the hall onto the stable lane.
This he opened and made a very careful examination of the sill
with his powerful magnifying lens. "Now we shall go upstairs,"
said he at last.

The banker's dressing-room was a plainly furnished little
chamber, with a grey carpet, a large bureau, and a long mirror.
Holmes went to the bureau first and looked hard at the lock.

"Which key was used to open it?" he asked.

"That which my son himself indicated--that of the cupboard of the
lumber-room."

"Have you it here?"

"That is it on the dressing-table."

Sherlock Holmes took it up and opened the bureau.

"It is a noiseless lock," said he. "It is no wonder that it did
not wake you. This case, I presume, contains the coronet. We must
have a look at it." He opened the case, and taking out the diadem
he laid it upon the table. It was a magnificent specimen of the
jeweller's art, and the thirty-six stones were the finest that I
have ever seen. At one side of the coronet was a cracked edge,
where a corner holding three gems had been torn away.

"Now, Mr. Holder," said Holmes, "here is the corner which
corresponds to that which has been so unfortunately lost. Might I
beg that you will break it off."

The banker recoiled in horror. "I should not dream of trying,"
said he.

"Then I will." Holmes suddenly bent his strength upon it, but
without result. "I feel it give a little," said he; "but, though
I am exceptionally strong in the fingers, it would take me all my
time to break it. An ordinary man could not do it. Now, what do
you think would happen if I did break it, Mr. Holder? There would
be a noise like a pistol shot. Do you tell me that all this
happened within a few yards of your bed and that you heard
nothing of it?"

"I do not know what to think. It is all dark to me."

"But perhaps it may grow lighter as we go. What do you think,
Miss Holder?"

"I confess that I still share my uncle's perplexity."

"Your son had no shoes or slippers on when you saw him?"

"He had nothing on save only his trousers and shirt."

"Thank you. We have certainly been favoured with extraordinary
luck during this inquiry, and it will be entirely our own fault
if we do not succeed in clearing the matter up. With your
permission, Mr. Holder, I shall now continue my investigations
outside."

He went alone, at his own request, for he explained that any
unnecessary footmarks might make his task more difficult. For an
hour or more he was at work, returning at last with his feet
heavy with snow and his features as inscrutable as ever.

"I think that I have seen now all that there is to see, Mr.
Holder," said he; "I can serve you best by returning to my
rooms."

"But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?"

"I cannot tell."

The banker wrung his hands. "I shall never see them again!" he
cried. "And my son? You give me hopes?"

"My opinion is in no way altered."

"Then, for God's sake, what was this dark business which was
acted in my house last night?"

"If you can call upon me at my Baker Street rooms to-morrow
morning between nine and ten I shall be happy to do what I can to
make it clearer. I understand that you give me carte blanche to
act for you, provided only that I get back the gems, and that you
place no limit on the sum I may draw."

"I would give my fortune to have them back."

"Very good. I shall look into the matter between this and then.
Good-bye; it is just possible that I may have to come over here
again before evening."

It was obvious to me that my companion's mind was now made up
about the case, although what his conclusions were was more than
I could even dimly imagine. Several times during our homeward
journey I endeavoured to sound him upon the point, but he always
glided away to some other topic, until at last I gave it over in
despair. It was not yet three when we found ourselves in our
rooms once more. He hurried to his chamber and was down again in
a few minutes dressed as a common loafer. With his collar turned
up, his shiny, seedy coat, his red cravat, and his worn boots, he
was a perfect sample of the class.

"I think that this should do," said he, glancing into the glass
above the fireplace. "I only wish that you could come with me,
Watson, but I fear that it won't do. I may be on the trail in
this matter, or I may be following a will-o'-the-wisp, but I
shall soon know which it is. I hope that I may be back in a few
hours." He cut a slice of beef from the joint upon the sideboard,
sandwiched it between two rounds of bread, and thrusting this
rude meal into his pocket he started off upon his expedition.

I had just finished my tea when he returned, evidently in
excellent spirits, swinging an old elastic-sided boot in his
hand. He chucked it down into a corner and helped himself to a
cup of tea.

"I only looked in as I passed," said he. "I am going right on."

"Where to?"

"Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may be some time
before I get back. Don't wait up for me in case I should be
late."

"How are you getting on?"

"Oh, so so. Nothing to complain of. I have been out to Streatham
since I saw you last, but I did not call at the house. It is a
very sweet little problem, and I would not have missed it for a
good deal. However, I must not sit gossiping here, but must get
these disreputable clothes off and return to my highly
respectable self."

I could see by his manner that he had stronger reasons for
satisfaction than his words alone would imply. His eyes twinkled,
and there was even a touch of colour upon his sallow cheeks. He
hastened upstairs, and a few minutes later I heard the slam of
the hall door, which told me that he was off once more upon his
congenial hunt.

I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his return, so
I retired to my room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away
for days and nights on end when he was hot upon a scent, so that
his lateness caused me no surprise. I do not know at what hour he
came in, but when I came down to breakfast in the morning there
he was with a cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the
other, as fresh and trim as possible.

"You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson," said he, "but
you remember that our client has rather an early appointment this
morning."

"Why, it is after nine now," I answered. "I should not be
surprised if that were he. I thought I heard a ring."

It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked by the
change which had come over him, for his face which was naturally
of a broad and massive mould, was now pinched and fallen in,
while his hair seemed to me at least a shade whiter. He entered
with a weariness and lethargy which was even more painful than
his violence of the morning before, and he dropped heavily into
the armchair which I pushed forward for him.

"I do not know what I have done to be so severely tried," said
he. "Only two days ago I was a happy and prosperous man, without
a care in the world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishonoured
age. One sorrow comes close upon the heels of another. My niece,
Mary, has deserted me."

"Deserted you?"

"Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in, her room was
empty, and a note for me lay upon the hall table. I had said to
her last night, in sorrow and not in anger, that if she had
married my boy all might have been well with him. Perhaps it was
thoughtless of me to say so. It is to that remark that she refers
in this note:

"'MY DEAREST UNCLE:--I feel that I have brought trouble upon you,
and that if I had acted differently this terrible misfortune
might never have occurred. I cannot, with this thought in my
mind, ever again be happy under your roof, and I feel that I must
leave you forever. Do not worry about my future, for that is
provided for; and, above all, do not search for me, for it will
be fruitless labour and an ill-service to me. In life or in       
death, I am ever your loving,--MARY.'

"What could she mean by that note, Mr. Holmes? Do you think it
points to suicide?"

"No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the best possible
solution. I trust, Mr. Holder, that you are nearing the end of
your troubles."

"Ha! You say so! You have heard something, Mr. Holmes; you have
learned something! Where are the gems?"

"You would not think 1000 pounds apiece an excessive sum for
them?"

"I would pay ten."

"That would be unnecessary. Three thousand will cover the matter.
And there is a little reward, I fancy. Have you your check-book?
Here is a pen. Better make it out for 4000 pounds."

With a dazed face the banker made out the required check. Holmes
walked over to his desk, took out a little triangular piece of
gold with three gems in it, and threw it down upon the table.

With a shriek of joy our client clutched it up.

"You have it!" he gasped. "I am saved! I am saved!"

The reaction of joy was as passionate as his grief had been, and
he hugged his recovered gems to his bosom.

"There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder," said Sherlock
Holmes rather sternly.

"Owe!" He caught up a pen. "Name the sum, and I will pay it."

"No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble apology to that
noble lad, your son, who has carried himself in this matter as I
should be proud to see my own son do, should I ever chance to
have one."

"Then it was not Arthur who took them?"

"I told you yesterday, and I repeat to-day, that it was not."

"You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at once to let him
know that the truth is known."

"He knows it already. When I had cleared it all up I had an
interview with him, and finding that he would not tell me the
story, I told it to him, on which he had to confess that I was
right and to add the very few details which were not yet quite
clear to me. Your news of this morning, however, may open his
lips."

"For heaven's sake, tell me, then, what is this extraordinary
mystery!"

"I will do so, and I will show you the steps by which I reached
it. And let me say to you, first, that which it is hardest for me
to say and for you to hear: there has been an understanding
between Sir George Burnwell and your niece Mary. They have now
fled together."

"My Mary? Impossible!"

"It is unfortunately more than possible; it is certain. Neither
you nor your son knew the true character of this man when you
admitted him into your family circle. He is one of the most
dangerous men in England--a ruined gambler, an absolutely
desperate villain, a man without heart or conscience. Your niece
knew nothing of such men. When he breathed his vows to her, as he
had done to a hundred before her, she flattered herself that she
alone had touched his heart. The devil knows best what he said,
but at least she became his tool and was in the habit of seeing
him nearly every evening."

"I cannot, and I will not, believe it!" cried the banker with an
ashen face.

"I will tell you, then, what occurred in your house last night.
Your niece, when you had, as she thought, gone to your room,
slipped down and talked to her lover through the window which
leads into the stable lane. His footmarks had pressed right
through the snow, so long had he stood there. She told him of the
coronet. His wicked lust for gold kindled at the news, and he
bent her to his will. I have no doubt that she loved you, but
there are women in whom the love of a lover extinguishes all
other loves, and I think that she must have been one. She had
hardly listened to his instructions when she saw you coming
downstairs, on which she closed the window rapidly and told you
about one of the servants' escapade with her wooden-legged lover,
which was all perfectly true.

"Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his interview with you but
he slept badly on account of his uneasiness about his club debts.
In the middle of the night he heard a soft tread pass his door,
so he rose and, looking out, was surprised to see his cousin
walking very stealthily along the passage until she disappeared
into your dressing-room. Petrified with astonishment, the lad
slipped on some clothes and waited there in the dark to see what
would come of this strange affair. Presently she emerged from the
room again, and in the light of the passage-lamp your son saw
that she carried the precious coronet in her hands. She passed
down the stairs, and he, thrilling with horror, ran along and
slipped behind the curtain near your door, whence he could see
what passed in the hall beneath. He saw her stealthily open the
window, hand out the coronet to someone in the gloom, and then
closing it once more hurry back to her room, passing quite close
to where he stood hid behind the curtain.

"As long as she was on the scene he could not take any action
without a horrible exposure of the woman whom he loved. But the
instant that she was gone he realised how crushing a misfortune
this would be for you, and how all-important it was to set it
right. He rushed down, just as he was, in his bare feet, opened
the window, sprang out into the snow, and ran down the lane,
where he could see a dark figure in the moonlight. Sir George
Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur caught him, and there was
a struggle between them, your lad tugging at one side of the
coronet, and his opponent at the other. In the scuffle, your son
struck Sir George and cut him over the eye. Then something
suddenly snapped, and your son, finding that he had the coronet
in his hands, rushed back, closed the window, ascended to your
room, and had just observed that the coronet had been twisted in
the struggle and was endeavouring to straighten it when you
appeared upon the scene."

"Is it possible?" gasped the banker.

"You then roused his anger by calling him names at a moment when
he felt that he had deserved your warmest thanks. He could not
explain the true state of affairs without betraying one who
certainly deserved little enough consideration at his hands. He
took the more chivalrous view, however, and preserved her
secret."

"And that was why she shrieked and fainted when she saw the
coronet," cried Mr. Holder. "Oh, my God! what a blind fool I have
been! And his asking to be allowed to go out for five minutes!
The dear fellow wanted to see if the missing piece were at the
scene of the struggle. How cruelly I have misjudged him!"

"When I arrived at the house," continued Holmes, "I at once went
very carefully round it to observe if there were any traces in
the snow which might help me. I knew that none had fallen since
the evening before, and also that there had been a strong frost
to preserve impressions. I passed along the tradesmen's path, but
found it all trampled down and indistinguishable. Just beyond it,
however, at the far side of the kitchen door, a woman had stood
and talked with a man, whose round impressions on one side showed
that he had a wooden leg. I could even tell that they had been
disturbed, for the woman had run back swiftly to the door, as was
shown by the deep toe and light heel marks, while Wooden-leg had
waited a little, and then had gone away. I thought at the time
that this might be the maid and her sweetheart, of whom you had
already spoken to me, and inquiry showed it was so. I passed
round the garden without seeing anything more than random tracks,
which I took to be the police; but when I got into the stable
lane a very long and complex story was written in the snow in
front of me.

"There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, and a second
double line which I saw with delight belonged to a man with naked
feet. I was at once convinced from what you had told me that the
latter was your son. The first had walked both ways, but the
other had run swiftly, and as his tread was marked in places over
the depression of the boot, it was obvious that he had passed
after the other. I followed them up and found they led to the
hall window, where Boots had worn all the snow away while
waiting. Then I walked to the other end, which was a hundred
yards or more down the lane. I saw where Boots had faced round,
where the snow was cut up as though there had been a struggle,
and, finally, where a few drops of blood had fallen, to show me
that I was not mistaken. Boots had then run down the lane, and
another little smudge of blood showed that it was he who had been
hurt. When he came to the highroad at the other end, I found that
the pavement had been cleared, so there was an end to that clue.

"On entering the house, however, I examined, as you remember, the
sill and framework of the hall window with my lens, and I could
at once see that someone had passed out. I could distinguish the
outline of an instep where the wet foot had been placed in coming
in. I was then beginning to be able to form an opinion as to what
had occurred. A man had waited outside the window; someone had
brought the gems; the deed had been overseen by your son; he had
pursued the thief; had struggled with him; they had each tugged
at the coronet, their united strength causing injuries which
neither alone could have effected. He had returned with the
prize, but had left a fragment in the grasp of his opponent. So
far I was clear. The question now was, who was the man and who
was it brought him the coronet?

"It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the
impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the
truth. Now, I knew that it was not you who had brought it down,
so there only remained your niece and the maids. But if it were
the maids, why should your son allow himself to be accused in
their place? There could be no possible reason. As he loved his
cousin, however, there was an excellent explanation why he should
retain her secret--the more so as the secret was a disgraceful
one. When I remembered that you had seen her at that window, and
how she had fainted on seeing the coronet again, my conjecture
became a certainty.

"And who could it be who was her confederate? A lover evidently,
for who else could outweigh the love and gratitude which she must
feel to you? I knew that you went out little, and that your
circle of friends was a very limited one. But among them was Sir
George Burnwell. I had heard of him before as being a man of evil
reputation among women. It must have been he who wore those boots
and retained the missing gems. Even though he knew that Arthur
had discovered him, he might still flatter himself that he was
safe, for the lad could not say a word without compromising his
own family.

"Well, your own good sense will suggest what measures I took
next. I went in the shape of a loafer to Sir George's house,
managed to pick up an acquaintance with his valet, learned that
his master had cut his head the night before, and, finally, at
the expense of six shillings, made all sure by buying a pair of
his cast-off shoes. With these I journeyed down to Streatham and
saw that they exactly fitted the tracks."

"I saw an ill-dressed vagabond in the lane yesterday evening,"
said Mr. Holder.

"Precisely. It was I. I found that I had my man, so I came home
and changed my clothes. It was a delicate part which I had to
play then, for I saw that a prosecution must be avoided to avert
scandal, and I knew that so astute a villain would see that our
hands were tied in the matter. I went and saw him. At first, of
course, he denied everything. But when I gave him every
particular that had occurred, he tried to bluster and took down a
life-preserver from the wall. I knew my man, however, and I
clapped a pistol to his head before he could strike. Then he
became a little more reasonable. I told him that we would give
him a price for the stones he held--1000 pounds apiece. That
brought out the first signs of grief that he had shown. 'Why,
dash it all!' said he, 'I've let them go at six hundred for the
three!' I soon managed to get the address of the receiver who had
them, on promising him that there would be no prosecution. Off I
set to him, and after much chaffering I got our stones at 1000
pounds apiece. Then I looked in upon your son, told him that all
was right, and eventually got to my bed about two o'clock, after
what I may call a really hard day's work."

"A day which has saved England from a great public scandal," said
the banker, rising. "Sir, I cannot find words to thank you, but
you shall not find me ungrateful for what you have done. Your
skill has indeed exceeded all that I have heard of it. And now I
must fly to my dear boy to apologise to him for the wrong which I
have done him. As to what you tell me of poor Mary, it goes to my
very heart. Not even your skill can inform me where she is now."

"I think that we may safely say," returned Holmes, "that she is
wherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is equally certain, too, that
whatever her sins are, they will soon receive a more than
sufficient punishment."



XII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES

"To the man who loves art for its own sake," remarked Sherlock
Holmes, tossing aside the advertisement sheet of the Daily
Telegraph, "it is frequently in its least important and lowliest
manifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be derived. It is
pleasant to me to observe, Watson, that you have so far grasped
this truth that in these little records of our cases which you
have been good enough to draw up, and, I am bound to say,
occasionally to embellish, you have given prominence not so much
to the many causes célèbres and sensational trials in which I
have figured but rather to those incidents which may have been
trivial in themselves, but which have given room for those
faculties of deduction and of logical synthesis which I have made
my special province."

"And yet," said I, smiling, "I cannot quite hold myself absolved
from the charge of sensationalism which has been urged against my
records."

"You have erred, perhaps," he observed, taking up a glowing
cinder with the tongs and lighting with it the long cherry-wood
pipe which was wont to replace his clay when he was in a
disputatious rather than a meditative mood--"you have erred
perhaps in attempting to put colour and life into each of your
statements instead of confining yourself to the task of placing
upon record that severe reasoning from cause to effect which is
really the only notable feature about the thing."

"It seems to me that I have done you full justice in the matter,"
I remarked with some coldness, for I was repelled by the egotism
which I had more than once observed to be a strong factor in my
friend's singular character.

"No, it is not selfishness or conceit," said he, answering, as
was his wont, my thoughts rather than my words. "If I claim full
justice for my art, it is because it is an impersonal thing--a
thing beyond myself. Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it
is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you should
dwell. You have degraded what should have been a course of
lectures into a series of tales."

It was a cold morning of the early spring, and we sat after
breakfast on either side of a cheery fire in the old room at
Baker Street. A thick fog rolled down between the lines of
dun-coloured houses, and the opposing windows loomed like dark,
shapeless blurs through the heavy yellow wreaths. Our gas was lit
and shone on the white cloth and glimmer of china and metal, for
the table had not been cleared yet. Sherlock Holmes had been
silent all the morning, dipping continuously into the
advertisement columns of a succession of papers until at last,
having apparently given up his search, he had emerged in no very
sweet temper to lecture me upon my literary shortcomings.

"At the same time," he remarked after a pause, during which he
had sat puffing at his long pipe and gazing down into the fire,
"you can hardly be open to a charge of sensationalism, for out of
these cases which you have been so kind as to interest yourself
in, a fair proportion do not treat of crime, in its legal sense,
at all. The small matter in which I endeavoured to help the King
of Bohemia, the singular experience of Miss Mary Sutherland, the
problem connected with the man with the twisted lip, and the
incident of the noble bachelor, were all matters which are
outside the pale of the law. But in avoiding the sensational, I
fear that you may have bordered on the trivial."

"The end may have been so," I answered, "but the methods I hold
to have been novel and of interest."

"Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant
public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or a
compositor by his left thumb, care about the finer shades of
analysis and deduction! But, indeed, if you are trivial. I cannot
blame you, for the days of the great cases are past. Man, or at
least criminal man, has lost all enterprise and originality. As
to my own little practice, it seems to be degenerating into an
agency for recovering lost lead pencils and giving advice to
young ladies from boarding-schools. I think that I have touched
bottom at last, however. This note I had this morning marks my
zero-point, I fancy. Read it!" He tossed a crumpled letter across
to me.

It was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening, and
ran thus:

"DEAR MR. HOLMES:--I am very anxious to consult you as to whether
I should or should not accept a situation which has been offered
to me as governess. I shall call at half-past ten to-morrow if I
do not inconvenience you. Yours faithfully,
                                               "VIOLET HUNTER."

"Do you know the young lady?" I asked.

"Not I."

"It is half-past ten now."

"Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring."

"It may turn out to be of more interest than you think. You
remember that the affair of the blue carbuncle, which appeared to
be a mere whim at first, developed into a serious investigation.
It may be so in this case, also."

"Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very soon be solved,
for here, unless I am much mistaken, is the person in question."

As he spoke the door opened and a young lady entered the room.
She was plainly but neatly dressed, with a bright, quick face,
freckled like a plover's egg, and with the brisk manner of a
woman who has had her own way to make in the world.

"You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure," said she, as my
companion rose to greet her, "but I have had a very strange
experience, and as I have no parents or relations of any sort
from whom I could ask advice, I thought that perhaps you would be
kind enough to tell me what I should do."

"Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to do anything
that I can to serve you."

I could see that Holmes was favourably impressed by the manner
and speech of his new client. He looked her over in his searching
fashion, and then composed himself, with his lids drooping and
his finger-tips together, to listen to her story.

"I have been a governess for five years," said she, "in the
family of Colonel Spence Munro, but two months ago the colonel
received an appointment at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, and took his
children over to America with him, so that I found myself without
a situation. I advertised, and I answered advertisements, but
without success. At last the little money which I had saved began
to run short, and I was at my wit's end as to what I should do.

"There is a well-known agency for governesses in the West End
called Westaway's, and there I used to call about once a week in
order to see whether anything had turned up which might suit me.
Westaway was the name of the founder of the business, but it is
really managed by Miss Stoper. She sits in her own little office,
and the ladies who are seeking employment wait in an anteroom,
and are then shown in one by one, when she consults her ledgers
and sees whether she has anything which would suit them.

"Well, when I called last week I was shown into the little office
as usual, but I found that Miss Stoper was not alone. A
prodigiously stout man with a very smiling face and a great heavy
chin which rolled down in fold upon fold over his throat sat at
her elbow with a pair of glasses on his nose, looking very
earnestly at the ladies who entered. As I came in he gave quite a
jump in his chair and turned quickly to Miss Stoper.

"'That will do,' said he; 'I could not ask for anything better.
Capital! capital!' He seemed quite enthusiastic and rubbed his
hands together in the most genial fashion. He was such a
comfortable-looking man that it was quite a pleasure to look at
him.

"'You are looking for a situation, miss?' he asked.

"'Yes, sir.'

"'As governess?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'And what salary do you ask?'

"'I had 4 pounds a month in my last place with Colonel Spence
Munro.'

"'Oh, tut, tut! sweating--rank sweating!' he cried, throwing his
fat hands out into the air like a man who is in a boiling
passion. 'How could anyone offer so pitiful a sum to a lady with
such attractions and accomplishments?'

"'My accomplishments, sir, may be less than you imagine,' said I.
'A little French, a little German, music, and drawing--'

"'Tut, tut!' he cried. 'This is all quite beside the question.
The point is, have you or have you not the bearing and deportment
of a lady? There it is in a nutshell. If you have not, you are
not fitted for the rearing of a child who may some day play a
considerable part in the history of the country. But if you have
why, then, how could any gentleman ask you to condescend to
accept anything under the three figures? Your salary with me,
madam, would commence at 100 pounds a year.'

"You may imagine, Mr. Holmes, that to me, destitute as I was,
such an offer seemed almost too good to be true. The gentleman,
however, seeing perhaps the look of incredulity upon my face,
opened a pocket-book and took out a note.

"'It is also my custom,' said he, smiling in the most pleasant
fashion until his eyes were just two little shining slits amid
the white creases of his face, 'to advance to my young ladies
half their salary beforehand, so that they may meet any little
expenses of their journey and their wardrobe.'

"It seemed to me that I had never met so fascinating and so
thoughtful a man. As I was already in debt to my tradesmen, the
advance was a great convenience, and yet there was something
unnatural about the whole transaction which made me wish to know
a little more before I quite committed myself.

"'May I ask where you live, sir?' said I.

"'Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Copper Beeches, five miles
on the far side of Winchester. It is the most lovely country, my
dear young lady, and the dearest old country-house.'

"'And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know what they would
be.'

"'One child--one dear little romper just six years old. Oh, if
you could see him killing cockroaches with a slipper! Smack!
smack! smack! Three gone before you could wink!' He leaned back
in his chair and laughed his eyes into his head again.

"I was a little startled at the nature of the child's amusement,
but the father's laughter made me think that perhaps he was
joking.

"'My sole duties, then,' I asked, 'are to take charge of a single
child?'

"'No, no, not the sole, not the sole, my dear young lady,' he
cried. 'Your duty would be, as I am sure your good sense would
suggest, to obey any little commands my wife might give, provided
always that they were such commands as a lady might with
propriety obey. You see no difficulty, heh?'

"'I should be happy to make myself useful.'

"'Quite so. In dress now, for example. We are faddy people, you
know--faddy but kind-hearted. If you were asked to wear any dress
which we might give you, you would not object to our little whim.
Heh?'

"'No,' said I, considerably astonished at his words.

"'Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be offensive to
you?'

"'Oh, no.'

"'Or to cut your hair quite short before you come to us?'

"I could hardly believe my ears. As you may observe, Mr. Holmes,
my hair is somewhat luxuriant, and of a rather peculiar tint of
chestnut. It has been considered artistic. I could not dream of
sacrificing it in this offhand fashion.

"'I am afraid that that is quite impossible,' said I. He had been
watching me eagerly out of his small eyes, and I could see a
shadow pass over his face as I spoke.

"'I am afraid that it is quite essential,' said he. 'It is a
little fancy of my wife's, and ladies' fancies, you know, madam,
ladies' fancies must be consulted. And so you won't cut your
hair?'

"'No, sir, I really could not,' I answered firmly.

"'Ah, very well; then that quite settles the matter. It is a
pity, because in other respects you would really have done very
nicely. In that case, Miss Stoper, I had best inspect a few more
of your young ladies.'

"The manageress had sat all this while busy with her papers
without a word to either of us, but she glanced at me now with so
much annoyance upon her face that I could not help suspecting
that she had lost a handsome commission through my refusal.

"'Do you desire your name to be kept upon the books?' she asked.

"'If you please, Miss Stoper.'

"'Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you refuse the
most excellent offers in this fashion,' said she sharply. 'You
can hardly expect us to exert ourselves to find another such
opening for you. Good-day to you, Miss Hunter.' She struck a gong
upon the table, and I was shown out by the page.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodgings and found
little enough in the cupboard, and two or three bills upon the
table. I began to ask myself whether I had not done a very
foolish thing. After all, if these people had strange fads and
expected obedience on the most extraordinary matters, they were
at least ready to pay for their eccentricity. Very few
governesses in England are getting 100 pounds a year. Besides,
what use was my hair to me? Many people are improved by wearing
it short and perhaps I should be among the number. Next day I was
inclined to think that I had made a mistake, and by the day after
I was sure of it. I had almost overcome my pride so far as to go
back to the agency and inquire whether the place was still open
when I received this letter from the gentleman himself. I have it
here and I will read it to you:

                       "'The Copper Beeches, near Winchester.
"'DEAR MISS HUNTER:--Miss Stoper has very kindly given me your
address, and I write from here to ask you whether you have
reconsidered your decision. My wife is very anxious that you
should come, for she has been much attracted by my description of
you. We are willing to give 30 pounds a quarter, or 120 pounds a
year, so as to recompense you for any little inconvenience which
our fads may cause you. They are not very exacting, after all. My
wife is fond of a particular shade of electric blue and would
like you to wear such a dress indoors in the morning. You need
not, however, go to the expense of purchasing one, as we have one
belonging to my dear daughter Alice (now in Philadelphia), which
would, I should think, fit you very well. Then, as to sitting
here or there, or amusing yourself in any manner indicated, that
need cause you no inconvenience. As regards your hair, it is no
doubt a pity, especially as I could not help remarking its beauty
during our short interview, but I am afraid that I must remain
firm upon this point, and I only hope that the increased salary
may recompense you for the loss. Your duties, as far as the child
is concerned, are very light. Now do try to come, and I shall
meet you with the dog-cart at Winchester. Let me know your train.
Yours faithfully, JEPHRO RUCASTLE.'

"That is the letter which I have just received, Mr. Holmes, and
my mind is made up that I will accept it. I thought, however,
that before taking the final step I should like to submit the
whole matter to your consideration."

"Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that settles the
question," said Holmes, smiling.

"But you would not advise me to refuse?"

"I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to
see a sister of mine apply for."

"What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?"

"Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself
formed some opinion?"

"Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr.
Rucastle seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not
possible that his wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the
matter quiet for fear she should be taken to an asylum, and that
he humours her fancies in every way in order to prevent an
outbreak?"

"That is a possible solution--in fact, as matters stand, it is
the most probable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a
nice household for a young lady."

"But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!"

"Well, yes, of course the pay is good--too good. That is what
makes me uneasy. Why should they give you 120 pounds a year, when
they could have their pick for 40 pounds? There must be some
strong reason behind."

"I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would
understand afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so
much stronger if I felt that you were at the back of me."

"Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure you that
your little problem promises to be the most interesting which has
come my way for some months. There is something distinctly novel
about some of the features. If you should find yourself in doubt
or in danger--"

"Danger! What danger do you foresee?"

Holmes shook his head gravely. "It would cease to be a danger if
we could define it," said he. "But at any time, day or night, a
telegram would bring me down to your help."

"That is enough." She rose briskly from her chair with the
anxiety all swept from her face. "I shall go down to Hampshire
quite easy in my mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once,
sacrifice my poor hair to-night, and start for Winchester
to-morrow." With a few grateful words to Holmes she bade us both
good-night and bustled off upon her way.

"At least," said I as we heard her quick, firm steps descending
the stairs, "she seems to be a young lady who is very well able
to take care of herself."

"And she would need to be," said Holmes gravely. "I am much
mistaken if we do not hear from her before many days are past."

It was not very long before my friend's prediction was fulfilled.
A fortnight went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts
turning in her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of
human experience this lonely woman had strayed into. The unusual
salary, the curious conditions, the light duties, all pointed to
something abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether
the man were a philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond
my powers to determine. As to Holmes, I observed that he sat
frequently for half an hour on end, with knitted brows and an
abstracted air, but he swept the matter away with a wave of his
hand when I mentioned it. "Data! data! data!" he cried
impatiently. "I can't make bricks without clay." And yet he would
always wind up by muttering that no sister of his should ever
have accepted such a situation.

The telegram which we eventually received came late one night
just as I was thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling down
to one of those all-night chemical researches which he frequently
indulged in, when I would leave him stooping over a retort and a
test-tube at night and find him in the same position when I came
down to breakfast in the morning. He opened the yellow envelope,
and then, glancing at the message, threw it across to me.

"Just look up the trains in Bradshaw," said he, and turned back
to his chemical studies.

The summons was a brief and urgent one.

"Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at midday
to-morrow," it said. "Do come! I am at my wit's end.  HUNTER."

"Will you come with me?" asked Holmes, glancing up.

"I should wish to."

"Just look it up, then."

"There is a train at half-past nine," said I, glancing over my
Bradshaw. "It is due at Winchester at 11:30."

"That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had better postpone my
analysis of the acetones, as we may need to be at our best in the
morning."

By eleven o'clock the next day we were well upon our way to the
old English capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning papers
all the way down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border he
threw them down and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal
spring day, a light blue sky, flecked with little fleecy white
clouds drifting across from west to east. The sun was shining
very brightly, and yet there was an exhilarating nip in the air,
which set an edge to a man's energy. All over the countryside,
away to the rolling hills around Aldershot, the little red and
grey roofs of the farm-steadings peeped out from amid the light
green of the new foliage.

"Are they not fresh and beautiful?" I cried with all the
enthusiasm of a man fresh from the fogs of Baker Street.

But Holmes shook his head gravely.

"Do you know, Watson," said he, "that it is one of the curses of
a mind with a turn like mine that I must look at everything with
reference to my own special subject. You look at these scattered
houses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them,
and the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of their
isolation and of the impunity with which crime may be committed
there."

"Good heavens!" I cried. "Who would associate crime with these
dear old homesteads?"

"They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief,
Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest
alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin
than does the smiling and beautiful countryside."

"You horrify me!"

"But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public opinion
can do in the town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no
lane so vile that the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of
a drunkard's blow, does not beget sympathy and indignation among
the neighbours, and then the whole machinery of justice is ever
so close that a word of complaint can set it going, and there is
but a step between the crime and the dock. But look at these
lonely houses, each in its own fields, filled for the most part
with poor ignorant folk who know little of the law. Think of the
deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on,
year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser. Had this
lady who appeals to us for help gone to live in Winchester, I
should never have had a fear for her. It is the five miles of
country which makes the danger. Still, it is clear that she is
not personally threatened."

"No. If she can come to Winchester to meet us she can get away."

"Quite so. She has her freedom."

"What CAN be the matter, then? Can you suggest no explanation?"

"I have devised seven separate explanations, each of which would
cover the facts as far as we know them. But which of these is
correct can only be determined by the fresh information which we
shall no doubt find waiting for us. Well, there is the tower of
the cathedral, and we shall soon learn all that Miss Hunter has
to tell."

The Black Swan is an inn of repute in the High Street, at no
distance from the station, and there we found the young lady
waiting for us. She had engaged a sitting-room, and our lunch
awaited us upon the table.

"I am so delighted that you have come," she said earnestly. "It
is so very kind of you both; but indeed I do not know what I
should do. Your advice will be altogether invaluable to me."

"Pray tell us what has happened to you."

"I will do so, and I must be quick, for I have promised Mr.
Rucastle to be back before three. I got his leave to come into
town this morning, though he little knew for what purpose."

"Let us have everything in its due order." Holmes thrust his long
thin legs out towards the fire and composed himself to listen.

"In the first place, I may say that I have met, on the whole,
with no actual ill-treatment from Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle. It is
only fair to them to say that. But I cannot understand them, and
I am not easy in my mind about them."

"What can you not understand?"

"Their reasons for their conduct. But you shall have it all just
as it occurred. When I came down, Mr. Rucastle met me here and
drove me in his dog-cart to the Copper Beeches. It is, as he
said, beautifully situated, but it is not beautiful in itself,
for it is a large square block of a house, whitewashed, but all
stained and streaked with damp and bad weather. There are grounds
round it, woods on three sides, and on the fourth a field which
slopes down to the Southampton highroad, which curves past about
a hundred yards from the front door. This ground in front belongs
to the house, but the woods all round are part of Lord
Southerton's preserves. A clump of copper beeches immediately in
front of the hall door has given its name to the place.

"I was driven over by my employer, who was as amiable as ever,
and was introduced by him that evening to his wife and the child.
There was no truth, Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to
us to be probable in your rooms at Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is
not mad. I found her to be a silent, pale-faced woman, much
younger than her husband, not more than thirty, I should think,
while he can hardly be less than forty-five. From their
conversation I have gathered that they have been married about
seven years, that he was a widower, and that his only child by
the first wife was the daughter who has gone to Philadelphia. Mr.
Rucastle told me in private that the reason why she had left them
was that she had an unreasoning aversion to her stepmother. As
the daughter could not have been less than twenty, I can quite
imagine that her position must have been uncomfortable with her
father's young wife.

"Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in mind as well as
in feature. She impressed me neither favourably nor the reverse.
She was a nonentity. It was easy to see that she was passionately
devoted both to her husband and to her little son. Her light grey
eyes wandered continually from one to the other, noting every
little want and forestalling it if possible. He was kind to her
also in his bluff, boisterous fashion, and on the whole they
seemed to be a happy couple. And yet she had some secret sorrow,
this woman. She would often be lost in deep thought, with the
saddest look upon her face. More than once I have surprised her
in tears. I have thought sometimes that it was the disposition of
her child which weighed upon her mind, for I have never met so
utterly spoiled and so ill-natured a little creature. He is small
for his age, with a head which is quite disproportionately large.
His whole life appears to be spent in an alternation between
savage fits of passion and gloomy intervals of sulking. Giving
pain to any creature weaker than himself seems to be his one idea
of amusement, and he shows quite remarkable talent in planning
the capture of mice, little birds, and insects. But I would
rather not talk about the creature, Mr. Holmes, and, indeed, he
has little to do with my story."

"I am glad of all details," remarked my friend, "whether they
seem to you to be relevant or not."

"I shall try not to miss anything of importance. The one
unpleasant thing about the house, which struck me at once, was
the appearance and conduct of the servants. There are only two, a
man and his wife. Toller, for that is his name, is a rough,
uncouth man, with grizzled hair and whiskers, and a perpetual
smell of drink. Twice since I have been with them he has been
quite drunk, and yet Mr. Rucastle seemed to take no notice of it.
His wife is a very tall and strong woman with a sour face, as
silent as Mrs. Rucastle and much less amiable. They are a most
unpleasant couple, but fortunately I spend most of my time in the
nursery and my own room, which are next to each other in one
corner of the building.

"For two days after my arrival at the Copper Beeches my life was
very quiet; on the third, Mrs. Rucastle came down just after
breakfast and whispered something to her husband.

"'Oh, yes,' said he, turning to me, 'we are very much obliged to
you, Miss Hunter, for falling in with our whims so far as to cut
your hair. I assure you that it has not detracted in the tiniest
iota from your appearance. We shall now see how the electric-blue
dress will become you. You will find it laid out upon the bed in
your room, and if you would be so good as to put it on we should
both be extremely obliged.'

"The dress which I found waiting for me was of a peculiar shade
of blue. It was of excellent material, a sort of beige, but it
bore unmistakable signs of having been worn before. It could not
have been a better fit if I had been measured for it. Both Mr.
and Mrs. Rucastle expressed a delight at the look of it, which
seemed quite exaggerated in its vehemence. They were waiting for
me in the drawing-room, which is a very large room, stretching
along the entire front of the house, with three long windows
reaching down to the floor. A chair had been placed close to the
central window, with its back turned towards it. In this I was
asked to sit, and then Mr. Rucastle, walking up and down on the
other side of the room, began to tell me a series of the funniest
stories that I have ever listened to. You cannot imagine how
comical he was, and I laughed until I was quite weary. Mrs.
Rucastle, however, who has evidently no sense of humour, never so
much as smiled, but sat with her hands in her lap, and a sad,
anxious look upon her face. After an hour or so, Mr. Rucastle
suddenly remarked that it was time to commence the duties of the
day, and that I might change my dress and go to little Edward in
the nursery.

"Two days later this same performance was gone through under
exactly similar circumstances. Again I changed my dress, again I
sat in the window, and again I laughed very heartily at the funny
stories of which my employer had an immense répertoire, and which
he told inimitably. Then he handed me a yellow-backed novel, and
moving my chair a little sideways, that my own shadow might not
fall upon the page, he begged me to read aloud to him. I read for
about ten minutes, beginning in the heart of a chapter, and then
suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he ordered me to cease and
to change my dress.

"You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how curious I became as to
what the meaning of this extraordinary performance could possibly
be. They were always very careful, I observed, to turn my face
away from the window, so that I became consumed with the desire
to see what was going on behind my back. At first it seemed to be
impossible, but I soon devised a means. My hand-mirror had been
broken, so a happy thought seized me, and I concealed a piece of
the glass in my handkerchief. On the next occasion, in the midst
of my laughter, I put my handkerchief up to my eyes, and was able
with a little management to see all that there was behind me. I
confess that I was disappointed. There was nothing. At least that
was my first impression. At the second glance, however, I
perceived that there was a man standing in the Southampton Road,
a small bearded man in a grey suit, who seemed to be looking in
my direction. The road is an important highway, and there are
usually people there. This man, however, was leaning against the
railings which bordered our field and was looking earnestly up. I
lowered my handkerchief and glanced at Mrs. Rucastle to find her
eyes fixed upon me with a most searching gaze. She said nothing,
but I am convinced that she had divined that I had a mirror in my
hand and had seen what was behind me. She rose at once.

"'Jephro,' said she, 'there is an impertinent fellow upon the
road there who stares up at Miss Hunter.'

"'No friend of yours, Miss Hunter?' he asked.

"'No, I know no one in these parts.'

"'Dear me! How very impertinent! Kindly turn round and motion to
him to go away.'

"'Surely it would be better to take no notice.'

"'No, no, we should have him loitering here always. Kindly turn
round and wave him away like that.'

"I did as I was told, and at the same instant Mrs. Rucastle drew
down the blind. That was a week ago, and from that time I have
not sat again in the window, nor have I worn the blue dress, nor
seen the man in the road."

"Pray continue," said Holmes. "Your narrative promises to be a
most interesting one."

"You will find it rather disconnected, I fear, and there may
prove to be little relation between the different incidents of
which I speak. On the very first day that I was at the Copper
Beeches, Mr. Rucastle took me to a small outhouse which stands
near the kitchen door. As we approached it I heard the sharp
rattling of a chain, and the sound as of a large animal moving
about.

"'Look in here!' said Mr. Rucastle, showing me a slit between two
planks. 'Is he not a beauty?'

"I looked through and was conscious of two glowing eyes, and of a
vague figure huddled up in the darkness.

"'Don't be frightened,' said my employer, laughing at the start
which I had given. 'It's only Carlo, my mastiff. I call him mine,
but really old Toller, my groom, is the only man who can do
anything with him. We feed him once a day, and not too much then,
so that he is always as keen as mustard. Toller lets him loose
every night, and God help the trespasser whom he lays his fangs
upon. For goodness' sake don't you ever on any pretext set your
foot over the threshold at night, for it's as much as your life
is worth.'

"The warning was no idle one, for two nights later I happened to
look out of my bedroom window about two o'clock in the morning.
It was a beautiful moonlight night, and the lawn in front of the
house was silvered over and almost as bright as day. I was
standing, rapt in the peaceful beauty of the scene, when I was
aware that something was moving under the shadow of the copper
beeches. As it emerged into the moonshine I saw what it was. It
was a giant dog, as large as a calf, tawny tinted, with hanging
jowl, black muzzle, and huge projecting bones. It walked slowly
across the lawn and vanished into the shadow upon the other side.
That dreadful sentinel sent a chill to my heart which I do not
think that any burglar could have done.

"And now I have a very strange experience to tell you. I had, as
you know, cut off my hair in London, and I had placed it in a
great coil at the bottom of my trunk. One evening, after the
child was in bed, I began to amuse myself by examining the
furniture of my room and by rearranging my own little things.
There was an old chest of drawers in the room, the two upper ones
empty and open, the lower one locked. I had filled the first two
with my linen, and as I had still much to pack away I was
naturally annoyed at not having the use of the third drawer. It
struck me that it might have been fastened by a mere oversight,
so I took out my bunch of keys and tried to open it. The very
first key fitted to perfection, and I drew the drawer open. There
was only one thing in it, but I am sure that you would never
guess what it was. It was my coil of hair.

"I took it up and examined it. It was of the same peculiar tint,
and the same thickness. But then the impossibility of the thing
obtruded itself upon me. How could my hair have been locked in
the drawer? With trembling hands I undid my trunk, turned out the
contents, and drew from the bottom my own hair. I laid the two
tresses together, and I assure you that they were identical. Was
it not extraordinary? Puzzle as I would, I could make nothing at
all of what it meant. I returned the strange hair to the drawer,
and I said nothing of the matter to the Rucastles as I felt that
I had put myself in the wrong by opening a drawer which they had
locked.

"I am naturally observant, as you may have remarked, Mr. Holmes,
and I soon had a pretty good plan of the whole house in my head.
There was one wing, however, which appeared not to be inhabited
at all. A door which faced that which led into the quarters of
the Tollers opened into this suite, but it was invariably locked.
One day, however, as I ascended the stair, I met Mr. Rucastle
coming out through this door, his keys in his hand, and a look on
his face which made him a very different person to the round,
jovial man to whom I was accustomed. His cheeks were red, his
brow was all crinkled with anger, and the veins stood out at his
temples with passion. He locked the door and hurried past me
without a word or a look.

"This aroused my curiosity, so when I went out for a walk in the
grounds with my charge, I strolled round to the side from which I
could see the windows of this part of the house. There were four
of them in a row, three of which were simply dirty, while the
fourth was shuttered up. They were evidently all deserted. As I
strolled up and down, glancing at them occasionally, Mr. Rucastle
came out to me, looking as merry and jovial as ever.

"'Ah!' said he, 'you must not think me rude if I passed you
without a word, my dear young lady. I was preoccupied with
business matters.'

"I assured him that I was not offended. 'By the way,' said I,
'you seem to have quite a suite of spare rooms up there, and one
of them has the shutters up.'

"He looked surprised and, as it seemed to me, a little startled
at my remark.

"'Photography is one of my hobbies,' said he. 'I have made my
dark room up there. But, dear me! what an observant young lady we
have come upon. Who would have believed it? Who would have ever
believed it?' He spoke in a jesting tone, but there was no jest
in his eyes as he looked at me. I read suspicion there and
annoyance, but no jest.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, from the moment that I understood that there
was something about that suite of rooms which I was not to know,
I was all on fire to go over them. It was not mere curiosity,
though I have my share of that. It was more a feeling of duty--a
feeling that some good might come from my penetrating to this
place. They talk of woman's instinct; perhaps it was woman's
instinct which gave me that feeling. At any rate, it was there,
and I was keenly on the lookout for any chance to pass the
forbidden door.

"It was only yesterday that the chance came. I may tell you that,
besides Mr. Rucastle, both Toller and his wife find something to
do in these deserted rooms, and I once saw him carrying a large
black linen bag with him through the door. Recently he has been
drinking hard, and yesterday evening he was very drunk; and when
I came upstairs there was the key in the door. I have no doubt at
all that he had left it there. Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were both
downstairs, and the child was with them, so that I had an
admirable opportunity. I turned the key gently in the lock,
opened the door, and slipped through.

"There was a little passage in front of me, unpapered and
uncarpeted, which turned at a right angle at the farther end.
Round this corner were three doors in a line, the first and third
of which were open. They each led into an empty room, dusty and
cheerless, with two windows in the one and one in the other, so
thick with dirt that the evening light glimmered dimly through
them. The centre door was closed, and across the outside of it
had been fastened one of the broad bars of an iron bed, padlocked
at one end to a ring in the wall, and fastened at the other with
stout cord. The door itself was locked as well, and the key was
not there. This barricaded door corresponded clearly with the
shuttered window outside, and yet I could see by the glimmer from
beneath it that the room was not in darkness. Evidently there was
a skylight which let in light from above. As I stood in the
passage gazing at the sinister door and wondering what secret it
might veil, I suddenly heard the sound of steps within the room
and saw a shadow pass backward and forward against the little
slit of dim light which shone out from under the door. A mad,
unreasoning terror rose up in me at the sight, Mr. Holmes. My
overstrung nerves failed me suddenly, and I turned and ran--ran
as though some dreadful hand were behind me clutching at the
skirt of my dress. I rushed down the passage, through the door,
and straight into the arms of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting
outside.

"'So,' said he, smiling, 'it was you, then. I thought that it
must be when I saw the door open.'

"'Oh, I am so frightened!' I panted.

"'My dear young lady! my dear young lady!'--you cannot think how
caressing and soothing his manner was--'and what has frightened
you, my dear young lady?'

"But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He overdid it. I
was keenly on my guard against him.

"'I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,' I answered.
'But it is so lonely and eerie in this dim light that I was
frightened and ran out again. Oh, it is so dreadfully still in
there!'

"'Only that?' said he, looking at me keenly.

"'Why, what did you think?' I asked.

"'Why do you think that I lock this door?'

"'I am sure that I do not know.'

"'It is to keep people out who have no business there. Do you
see?' He was still smiling in the most amiable manner.

"'I am sure if I had known--'

"'Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put your foot over
that threshold again'--here in an instant the smile hardened into
a grin of rage, and he glared down at me with the face of a
demon--'I'll throw you to the mastiff.'

"I was so terrified that I do not know what I did. I suppose that
I must have rushed past him into my room. I remember nothing
until I found myself lying on my bed trembling all over. Then I
thought of you, Mr. Holmes. I could not live there longer without
some advice. I was frightened of the house, of the man, of the
woman, of the servants, even of the child. They were all horrible
to me. If I could only bring you down all would be well. Of
course I might have fled from the house, but my curiosity was
almost as strong as my fears. My mind was soon made up. I would
send you a wire. I put on my hat and cloak, went down to the
office, which is about half a mile from the house, and then
returned, feeling very much easier. A horrible doubt came into my
mind as I approached the door lest the dog might be loose, but I
remembered that Toller had drunk himself into a state of
insensibility that evening, and I knew that he was the only one
in the household who had any influence with the savage creature,
or who would venture to set him free. I slipped in in safety and
lay awake half the night in my joy at the thought of seeing you.
I had no difficulty in getting leave to come into Winchester this
morning, but I must be back before three o'clock, for Mr. and
Mrs. Rucastle are going on a visit, and will be away all the
evening, so that I must look after the child. Now I have told you
all my adventures, Mr. Holmes, and I should be very glad if you
could tell me what it all means, and, above all, what I should
do."

Holmes and I had listened spellbound to this extraordinary story.
My friend rose now and paced up and down the room, his hands in
his pockets, and an expression of the most profound gravity upon
his face.

"Is Toller still drunk?" he asked.

"Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do
nothing with him."

"That is well. And the Rucastles go out to-night?"

"Yes."

"Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?"

"Yes, the wine-cellar."

"You seem to me to have acted all through this matter like a very
brave and sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could
perform one more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not
think you a quite exceptional woman."

"I will try. What is it?"

"We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven o'clock, my friend
and I. The Rucastles will be gone by that time, and Toller will,
we hope, be incapable. There only remains Mrs. Toller, who might
give the alarm. If you could send her into the cellar on some
errand, and then turn the key upon her, you would facilitate
matters immensely."

"I will do it."

"Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into the affair. Of
course there is only one feasible explanation. You have been
brought there to personate someone, and the real person is
imprisoned in this chamber. That is obvious. As to who this
prisoner is, I have no doubt that it is the daughter, Miss Alice
Rucastle, if I remember right, who was said to have gone to
America. You were chosen, doubtless, as resembling her in height,
figure, and the colour of your hair. Hers had been cut off, very
possibly in some illness through which she has passed, and so, of
course, yours had to be sacrificed also. By a curious chance you
came upon her tresses. The man in the road was undoubtedly some
friend of hers--possibly her fiancé--and no doubt, as you wore
the girl's dress and were so like her, he was convinced from your
laughter, whenever he saw you, and afterwards from your gesture,
that Miss Rucastle was perfectly happy, and that she no longer
desired his attentions. The dog is let loose at night to prevent
him from endeavouring to communicate with her. So much is fairly
clear. The most serious point in the case is the disposition of
the child."

"What on earth has that to do with it?" I ejaculated.

"My dear Watson, you as a medical man are continually gaining
light as to the tendencies of a child by the study of the
parents. Don't you see that the converse is equally valid. I have
frequently gained my first real insight into the character of
parents by studying their children. This child's disposition is
abnormally cruel, merely for cruelty's sake, and whether he
derives this from his smiling father, as I should suspect, or
from his mother, it bodes evil for the poor girl who is in their
power."

"I am sure that you are right, Mr. Holmes," cried our client. "A
thousand things come back to me which make me certain that you
have hit it. Oh, let us lose not an instant in bringing help to
this poor creature."

"We must be circumspect, for we are dealing with a very cunning
man. We can do nothing until seven o'clock. At that hour we shall
be with you, and it will not be long before we solve the
mystery."

We were as good as our word, for it was just seven when we
reached the Copper Beeches, having put up our trap at a wayside
public-house. The group of trees, with their dark leaves shining
like burnished metal in the light of the setting sun, were
sufficient to mark the house even had Miss Hunter not been
standing smiling on the door-step.

"Have you managed it?" asked Holmes.

A loud thudding noise came from somewhere downstairs. "That is
Mrs. Toller in the cellar," said she. "Her husband lies snoring
on the kitchen rug. Here are his keys, which are the duplicates
of Mr. Rucastle's."

"You have done well indeed!" cried Holmes with enthusiasm. "Now
lead the way, and we shall soon see the end of this black
business."

We passed up the stair, unlocked the door, followed on down a
passage, and found ourselves in front of the barricade which Miss
Hunter had described. Holmes cut the cord and removed the
transverse bar. Then he tried the various keys in the lock, but
without success. No sound came from within, and at the silence
Holmes' face clouded over.

"I trust that we are not too late," said he. "I think, Miss
Hunter, that we had better go in without you. Now, Watson, put
your shoulder to it, and we shall see whether we cannot make our
way in."

It was an old rickety door and gave at once before our united
strength. Together we rushed into the room. It was empty. There
was no furniture save a little pallet bed, a small table, and a
basketful of linen. The skylight above was open, and the prisoner
gone.

"There has been some villainy here," said Holmes; "this beauty
has guessed Miss Hunter's intentions and has carried his victim
off."

"But how?"

"Through the skylight. We shall soon see how he managed it." He
swung himself up onto the roof. "Ah, yes," he cried, "here's the
end of a long light ladder against the eaves. That is how he did
it."

"But it is impossible," said Miss Hunter; "the ladder was not
there when the Rucastles went away."

"He has come back and done it. I tell you that he is a clever and
dangerous man. I should not be very much surprised if this were
he whose step I hear now upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it
would be as well for you to have your pistol ready."

The words were hardly out of his mouth before a man appeared at
the door of the room, a very fat and burly man, with a heavy
stick in his hand. Miss Hunter screamed and shrunk against the
wall at the sight of him, but Sherlock Holmes sprang forward and
confronted him.

"You villain!" said he, "where's your daughter?"

The fat man cast his eyes round, and then up at the open
skylight.

"It is for me to ask you that," he shrieked, "you thieves! Spies
and thieves! I have caught you, have I? You are in my power. I'll
serve you!" He turned and clattered down the stairs as hard as he
could go.

"He's gone for the dog!" cried Miss Hunter.

"I have my revolver," said I.

"Better close the front door," cried Holmes, and we all rushed
down the stairs together. We had hardly reached the hall when we
heard the baying of a hound, and then a scream of agony, with a
horrible worrying sound which it was dreadful to listen to. An
elderly man with a red face and shaking limbs came staggering out
at a side door.

"My God!" he cried. "Someone has loosed the dog. It's not been
fed for two days. Quick, quick, or it'll be too late!"

Holmes and I rushed out and round the angle of the house, with
Toller hurrying behind us. There was the huge famished brute, its
black muzzle buried in Rucastle's throat, while he writhed and
screamed upon the ground. Running up, I blew its brains out, and
it fell over with its keen white teeth still meeting in the great
creases of his neck. With much labour we separated them and
carried him, living but horribly mangled, into the house. We laid
him upon the drawing-room sofa, and having dispatched the sobered
Toller to bear the news to his wife, I did what I could to
relieve his pain. We were all assembled round him when the door
opened, and a tall, gaunt woman entered the room.

"Mrs. Toller!" cried Miss Hunter.

"Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back before he
went up to you. Ah, miss, it is a pity you didn't let me know
what you were planning, for I would have told you that your pains
were wasted."

"Ha!" said Holmes, looking keenly at her. "It is clear that Mrs.
Toller knows more about this matter than anyone else."

"Yes, sir, I do, and I am ready enough to tell what I know."

"Then, pray, sit down, and let us hear it for there are several
points on which I must confess that I am still in the dark."

"I will soon make it clear to you," said she; "and I'd have done
so before now if I could ha' got out from the cellar. If there's
police-court business over this, you'll remember that I was the
one that stood your friend, and that I was Miss Alice's friend
too.

"She was never happy at home, Miss Alice wasn't, from the time
that her father married again. She was slighted like and had no
say in anything, but it never really became bad for her until
after she met Mr. Fowler at a friend's house. As well as I could
learn, Miss Alice had rights of her own by will, but she was so
quiet and patient, she was, that she never said a word about them
but just left everything in Mr. Rucastle's hands. He knew he was
safe with her; but when there was a chance of a husband coming
forward, who would ask for all that the law would give him, then
her father thought it time to put a stop on it. He wanted her to
sign a paper, so that whether she married or not, he could use
her money. When she wouldn't do it, he kept on worrying her until
she got brain-fever, and for six weeks was at death's door. Then
she got better at last, all worn to a shadow, and with her
beautiful hair cut off; but that didn't make no change in her
young man, and he stuck to her as true as man could be."

"Ah," said Holmes, "I think that what you have been good enough
to tell us makes the matter fairly clear, and that I can deduce
all that remains. Mr. Rucastle then, I presume, took to this
system of imprisonment?"

"Yes, sir."

"And brought Miss Hunter down from London in order to get rid of
the disagreeable persistence of Mr. Fowler."

"That was it, sir."

"But Mr. Fowler being a persevering man, as a good seaman should
be, blockaded the house, and having met you succeeded by certain
arguments, metallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your
interests were the same as his."

"Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free-handed gentleman," said
Mrs. Toller serenely.

"And in this way he managed that your good man should have no
want of drink, and that a ladder should be ready at the moment
when your master had gone out."

"You have it, sir, just as it happened."

"I am sure we owe you an apology, Mrs. Toller," said Holmes, "for
you have certainly cleared up everything which puzzled us. And
here comes the country surgeon and Mrs. Rucastle, so I think,
Watson, that we had best escort Miss Hunter back to Winchester,
as it seems to me that our locus standi now is rather a
questionable one."

And thus was solved the mystery of the sinister house with the
copper beeches in front of the door. Mr. Rucastle survived, but
was always a broken man, kept alive solely through the care of
his devoted wife. They still live with their old servants, who
probably know so much of Rucastle's past life that he finds it
difficult to part from them. Mr. Fowler and Miss Rucastle were
married, by special license, in Southampton the day after their
flight, and he is now the holder of a government appointment in
the island of Mauritius. As to Miss Violet Hunter, my friend
Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no further
interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of one
of his problems, and she is now the head of a private school at
Walsall, where I believe that she has met with considerable success.





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Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle




Adventure I


Silver Blaze


"I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go," said 
Holmes, as we sat down together to our breakfast one
morning.

"Go! Where to?"

"To Dartmoor; to King's Pyland."

I was not surprised.  Indeed, my only wonder was that
he had not already been mixed upon this extraordinary
case, which was the one topic of conversation through
the length and breadth of England.  For a whole day my
companion had rambled about the room with his chin
upon his chest and his brows knitted, charging and
recharging his pipe with the strongest black tobacco,
and absolutely deaf to any of my questions or remarks. 
Fresh editions of every paper had been sent up by our
news agent, only to be glanced over and tossed down
into a corner.  Yet, silent as he was, I knew
perfectly well what it was over which he was brooding. 
There was but one problem before the public which
could challenge his powers of analysis, and that was
the singular disappearance of the favorite for the
Wessex Cup, and the tragic murder of its trainer. 
When, therefore, he suddenly announced his intention
of setting out for the scene of the drama it was only
what I had both expected and hoped for.

"I should be most happy to go down with you if I
should not be in the way," said I.

"My dear Watson, you would confer a great favor upon
me by coming.  And I think that your time will not be
misspent, for there are points about the case which
promise to make it an absolutely unique one.  We have,
I think, just time to catch our train at Paddington,
and I will go further into the matter upon our
journey.  You would oblige me by bringing with you
your very excellent field-glass."

And so it happened that an hour or so later I found
myself in the corner of a first-class carriage flying
along en route for Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes, with
his sharp, eager face framed in his ear-flapped
travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle of
fresh papers which he had procured at Paddington.  We
had left Reading far behind us before he thrust the
last one of them under the seat, and offered me his
cigar-case.

"We are going well," said he, looking out the window
and glancing at his watch.  "Our rate at present is
fifty-three and a half miles an hour."

"I have not observed the quarter-mile posts," said I.  

"Nor have I.  But the telegraph posts upon this line
are sixty yards apart, and the calculation is a simple
one.  I presume that you have looked into this matter
of the murder of John Straker and the disappearance of
Silver Blaze?"

"I have seen what the Telegraph and the Chronicle have
to say."

"It is one of those cases where the art of the
reasoner should be used rather for the sifting of
details than for the acquiring of fresh evidence.  The
tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete and of such
personal importance to so many people, that we are
suffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and
hypothesis.  The difficulty is to detach the framework
of fact--of absolute undeniable fact--from the
embellishments of theorists and reporters.  Then,
having established ourselves upon this sound basis, it
is our duty to see what inferences may be drawn and
what are the special points upon which the whole
mystery turns.  On Tuesday evening I received
telegrams from both Colonel Ross, the owner of the
horse, and from Inspector Gregory, who is looking
after the case, inviting my cooperation.

"Tuesday evening!" I exclaimed.  "And this is Thursday
morning.  Why didn't you go down yesterday?"

"Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson--which is, I
am afraid, a more common occurrence than any one would
think who only knew me through your memoirs.  The fact
is that I could not believe is possible that the most
remarkable horse in England could long remain
concealed, especially in so sparsely inhabited a place
as the north of Dartmoor.  From hour to hour yesterday
I expected to hear that he had been found, and that
his abductor was the murderer of John Straker.  When,
however, another morning had come, and I found that
beyond the arrest of young Fitzroy Simpson nothing had
been done, I felt that it was time for me to take
action.  Yet in some ways I feel that yesterday has
not been wasted."

"You have formed a theory, then?"

"At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of
the case.  I shall enumerate them to you, for nothing
clears up a case so much as stating it to another
person, and I can hardly expect your co-operation if I
do not show you the position from which we start."

I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar,
while Holmes, leaning forward, with his long, thin
forefinger checking off the points upon the palm of
his left hand, gave me a sketch of the events which
had led to our journey.

"Silver Blaze," said he, "is from the Somomy stock,
and holds as brilliant a record as his famous
ancestor.  He is now in his fifth year, and has
brought in turn each of the prizes of the turf to
Colonel Ross, his fortunate owner.  Up to the time of
the catastrophe he was the first favorite for the
Wessex Cup, the betting being three to one on him.  He
has always, however, been a prime favorite with the
racing public, and has never yet disappointed them, so
that even at those odds enormous sums of money have
been laid upon him.  It is obvious, therefore, that
there were many people who had the strongest interest
in preventing Silver Blaze from being there at the
fall of the flag next Tuesday.

"The fact was, of course, appreciated at King's
Pyland, where the Colonel's training-stable is
situated.  Every precaution was taken to guard the
favorite.  The trainer, John Straker, is a retired
jockey who rode in Colonel Ross's colors before he
became too heavy for the weighing-chair.  He has
served the Colonel for five years as jockey and for
seven as trainer, and has always shown himself to be a
zealous and honest servant.  Under him were three
lads; for the establishment was a small one,
containing only four horses in all.  One of these lads
sat up each night in the stable, while the others
slept in the loft.  All three bore excellent
characters.  John Straker, who is a married man, lived
in a small villa about two hundred yards from the
stables.  He has no children, keeps one maid-servant,
and is comfortably off.  The country round is very
lonely, but about half a mile to the north there is a
small cluster of villas which have been built by a
Tavistock contractor for the use of invalids and
others who may wish to enjoy the pure Dartmoor air. 
Tavistock itself lies two miles to the west, while
across the moor, also about two miles distant, is the
larger training establishment of Mapleton, which
belongs to Lord Backwater, and is managed by Silas
Brown.  In every other direction the moor is a
complete wilderness, inhabited only by a few roaming
gypsies.  Such was the general situation last Monday
night when the catastrophe occurred.

"On that evening the horses had been exercised and
watered as usual, and the stables were locked up at
nine o'clock.  Two of the lads walked up to the
trainer's house, where they had supper in the kitchen,
while the third, Ned Hunter, remained on guard.  At a
few minutes after nine the maid, Edith Baxter, carried
down to the stables his supper, which consisted of a
dish of curried mutton.  She took no liquid, as there
was a water-tap in the stables, and it was the rule
that the lad on duty should drink nothing else.  The
maid carried a lantern with her, as it was very dark
and the path ran across the open moor.

"Edith Baxter was within thirty yards of the stables,
when a man appeared out of the darkness and called to
her to stop.  As he stepped into the circle of yellow
light thrown by the lantern she saw that he was a
person of gentlemanly bearing, dressed in a gray suit
of tweeds, with a cloth cap.  He wore gaiters, and
carried a heavy stick with a knob to it.  She was most
impressed, however, by the extreme pallor of his face
and by the nervousness of his manner.  His age, she
thought, would be rather over thirty than under it.

"'Can you tell me where I am?' he asked. 'I had almost
made up my mind to sleep on the moor, when I saw the
light of your lantern.'

"'You are close to the King's Pyland
training-stables,' said she.

"'Oh, indeed!  What a stroke of luck!' he cried.  'I
understand that a stable-boy sleeps there alone every
night.  Perhaps that is his supper which you are
carrying to him.  Now I am sure that you would not be
too proud to earn the price of a new dress, would
you?'  He took a piece of white paper folded up out of
his waistcoat pocket.  'See that the boy has this
to-night, and you shall have the prettiest frock that
money can buy.'

"She was frightened by the earnestness of his manner,
and ran past him to the window through which she was
accustomed to hand the meals.  It was already opened,
and Hunter was seated at the small table inside.  She
had begun to tell him of what had happened, when the
stranger came up again.

"'Good-evening,' said he, looking through the window. 
'I wanted to have a word with you.'  The girl has
sworn that as he spoke she noticed the corner of the
little paper packet protruding from his closed hand.

"'What business have you here?' asked the lad.

"'It's business that may put something into your
pocket,' said the other.  'You've two horses in for
the Wessex Cup--Silver Blaze and Bayard.  Let me have
the straight tip and you won't be a loser.  Is it a
fact that at the weights Bayard could give the other a
hundred yards in five furlongs, and that the stable
have put their money on him?'

"'So, you're one of those damned touts!' cried the
lad.  'I'll show you how we serve them in King's
Pyland.'  He sprang up and rushed across the stable to
unloose the dog.  The girl fled away to the house, but
as she ran she looked back and saw that the stranger
was leaning through the window.  A minute later,
however, when Hunter rushed out with the hound he was
gone, and though he ran all round the buildings he
failed to find any trace of him."

"One moment," I asked.  "Did the stable-boy, when he
ran out with the dog, leave the door unlocked behind
him?"

"Excellent, Watson, excellent!" murmured my companion. 
"The importance of the point struck me so forcibly
that I sent a special wire to Dartmoor yesterday to
clear the matter up.  The boy locked the door before
he left it.  The window, I may add, was not large
enough for a man to get through.

"Hunter waited until his fellow-grooms had returned,
when he sent a message to the trainer and told him
what had occurred.  Straker was excited at hearing the
account, although he does not seem to have quite
realized its true significance.  It left him, however,
vaguely uneasy, and Mrs. Straker, waking at one in the
morning, found that he was dressing.  In reply to her
inquiries, he said that he could not sleep on account
of his anxiety about the horses, and that he intended
to walk down to the stables to see that all was well. 
She begged him to remain at home, as she could hear
the rain pattering against the window, but in spite of
her entreaties he pulled on his large mackintosh and
left the house.

"Mrs. Straker awoke at seven in the morning, to find
that her husband had not yet returned.  She dressed
herself hastily, called the maid, and set off for the
stables.  The door was open; inside, huddled together
upon a chair, Hunter was sunk in a state of absolute
stupor, the favorite's stall was empty, and there were
no signs of his trainer.

"The two lads who slept in the chaff-cutting loft
above the harness-room were quickly aroused.  They had
heard nothing during the night, for they are both
sound sleepers.  Hunter was obviously under the
influence of some powerful drug, and as no sense could
be got out of him, he was left to sleep it off while
the two lads and the two women ran out in search of
the absentees.  They still had hopes that the trainer
had for some reason taken out the horse for early
exercise, but on ascending the knoll near the house,
from which all the neighboring moors were visible,
they not only could see no signs of the missing
favorite, but they perceived something which warned
them that they were in the presence of a tragedy.

"About a quarter of a mile from the stables John
Straker's overcoat was flapping from a furze-bush. 
Immediately beyond there was a bowl-shaped depression
in the moor, and at the bottom of this was found the
dead body of the unfortunate trainer.  His head had
been shattered by a savage blow from some heavy
weapon, and he was wounded on the thigh, where there
was a long, clean cut, inflicted evidently by some
very sharp instrument.  It was clear, however, that
Straker had defended himself vigorously against his
assailants, for in his right hand he held a small
knife, which was clotted with blood up to the handle,
while in his left he clasped a red and black silk
cravat, which was recognized by the maid as having
been worn on the preceding evening by the stranger who
had visited the stables.  Hunter, on recovering from
his stupor, was also quite positive as to the
ownership of the cravat.  He was equally certain that
the same stranger had, while standing at the window,
drugged his curried mutton, and so deprived the
stables of their watchman.  As to the missing horse,
there were abundant proofs in the mud which lay at the
bottom of the fatal hollow that he had been there at
the time of the struggle.  But from that morning he
has disappeared, and although a large reward has been
offered, and all the gypsies of Dartmoor are on the
alert, no news has come of him.  Finally, an analysis
has shown that the remains of his supper left by the
stable-lad contain an appreciable quantity of powdered
opium, while the people at the house partook of the
same dish on the same night without any ill effect.

"Those are the main facts of the case, stripped of all
surmise, and stated as baldly as possible.  I shall
now recapitulate what the police have done in the
matter.

"Inspector Gregory, to whom the case has been
committed, is an extremely competent officer.  Were he
but gifted with imagination he might rise to great
heights in his profession.  On his arrival he promptly
found and arrested the man upon whom suspicion
naturally rested.  There was little difficulty in
finding him, for he inhabited one of those villas
which I have mentioned.  His name, it appears, was
Fitzroy Simpson.  He was a man of excellent birth and
education, who had squandered a fortune upon the turf,
and who lived now by doing a little quiet and genteel
book-making in the sporting clubs of London.  An
examination of his betting-book shows that bets to the
amount of five thousand pounds had been registered by
him against the favorite.  On being arrested he
volunteered that statement that he had come down to
Dartmoor in the hope of getting some information about
the King's Pyland horses, and also about Desborough,
the second favorite, which was in charge of Silas
Brown at the Mapleton stables.  He did not attempt to
deny that he had acted as described upon the evening
before, but declared that he had no sinister designs,
and had simply wished to obtain first-hand
information.  When confronted with his cravat, he
turned very pale, and was utterly unable to account
for its presence in the hand of the murdered man.  His
wet clothing showed that he had been out in the storm
of the night before, and his stick, which was a
Penang-lawyer weighted with lead, was just such a
weapon as might, by repeated blows, have inflicted the
terrible injuries to which the trainer had succumbed. 
On the other hand, there was no wound upon his person,
while the state of Straker's knife would show that one
at least of his assailants must bear his mark upon
him.  There you have it all in a nutshell, Watson, and
if you can give me any light I shall be infinitely
obliged to you."

I had listened with the greatest interest to the
statement which Holmes, with characteristic clearness,
had laid before me.  Though most of the facts were
familiar to me, I had not sufficiently appreciated
their relative importance, nor their connection to
each other.

"Is in not possible," I suggested, "that the incised
would upon Straker may have been caused by his own
knife in the convulsive struggles which follow any
brain injury?"

"It is more than possible; it is probable," said
Holmes.  "In that case one of the main points in favor
of the accused disappears."

"And yet," said I, "even now I fail to understand what
the theory of the police can be."

"I am afraid that whatever theory we state has very
grave objections to it," returned my companion.  "The
police imagine, I take it, that this Fitzroy Simpson,
having drugged the lad, and having in some way
obtained a duplicate key, opened the stable door and
took out the horse, with the intention, apparently, of
kidnapping him altogether.  His bridle is missing, so
that Simpson must have put this on.  Then, having left
the door open behind him, he was leading the horse
away over the moor, when he was either met or
overtaken by the trainer.  A row naturally ensued. 
Simpson beat out the trainer's brains with his heavy
stick without receiving any injury from the small
knife which Straker used in self-defence, and then the
thief either led the horse on to some secret
hiding-place, or else it may have bolted during the
struggle, and be now wandering out on the moors.  That
is the case as it appears to the police, and
improbable as it is, all other explanations are more
improbable still.  However, I shall very quickly test
the matter when I am once upon the spot, and until
then I cannot really see how we can get much further
than our present position."

It was evening before we reached the little town of
Tavistock, which lies, like the boss of a shield, in
the middle of the huge circle of Dartmoor.  Two
gentlemen were awaiting us in the station--the one a
tall, fair man with lion-like hair and beard and
curiously penetrating light blue eyes; the other  a
small, alert person, very neat and dapper, in a
frock-coat and gaiters, with trim little side-whiskers
and an eye-glass.  The latter was Colonel Ross, the
well-known sportsman; the other, Inspector Gregory, a
man who was rapidly making his name in the English
detective service.

"I am delighted that you have come down, Mr. Holmes,"
said the Colonel.  "The Inspector here has done all
that could possibly be suggested, but I wish to leave
no stone unturned in trying to avenge poor Straker and
in recovering my horse."

"Have there been any fresh developments?" asked
Holmes.

"I am sorry to say that we have made very little
progress," said the Inspector.  "We have an open
carriage outside, and as you would no doubt like to
see the place before the light fails, we might talk it
over as we drive."

A minute later we were all seated in a comfortable
landau, and were rattling through the quaint old
Devonshire city.  Inspector Gregory was full of his
case, and poured out a stream of remarks, while Holmes
threw in an occasional question or interjection. 
Colonel Ross leaned back with his arms folded and his
hat tilted over his eyes, while I listened with
interest to the dialogue of the two detectives. 
Gregory was formulating his theory, which was almost
exactly what Holmes had foretold in the train.

"The net is drawn pretty close round Fitzroy Simpson,"
he remarked, "and I believe myself that he is our man. 
At the same time I recognize that the evidence is
purely circumstantial, and that some new development
may upset it."

"How about Straker's knife?"

"We have quite come to the conclusion that he wounded
himself in his fall."

"My friend Dr. Watson made that suggestion to me as we
came down.  If so, it would tell against this man
Simpson."

"Undoubtedly.  He has neither a knife nor any sign of
a wound.  The evidence against him is certainly very
strong.  He had a great interest in the disappearance
of the favorite.  He lies under suspicion of having
poisoned the stable-boy, he was undoubtedly out in the
storm, he was armed with a heavy stick, and his cravat
was found in the dead man's hand.  I really think we
have enough to go before a jury."

Holmes shook his head.  "A clever counsel would tear
it all to rags," said he.  "Why should he take the
horse out of the stable?  If he wished to injure it
why could he not do it there?  Has a duplicate key
been found in his possession?  What chemist sold him
the powdered opium?  Above all, where could he, a
stranger to the district, hide a horse, and such a
horse as this?  What is his own explanation as to the
paper which he wished the maid to give to the
stable-boy?"

"He says that it was a ten-pound note.  One was found
in his purse.  But your other difficulties are not so
formidable as they seem.  He is not a stranger to the
district.  He has twice lodged at Tavistock in the
summer.  The opium was probably brought from London. 
The key, having served its purpose, would be hurled
away.  The horse may be at the bottom of one of the
pits or old mines upon the moor."

"What does he say about the cravat?"

"He acknowledges that it is his, and declares that he
had lost it.  But a new element has been introduced
into the case which may account for his leading the
horse from the stable."

Holmes pricked up his ears.

"We have found traces which show that a party of
gypsies encamped on Monday night within a mile of the
spot where the murder took place.  On Tuesday they
were gone.  Now, presuming that there was some
understanding between Simpson and these gypsies, might
he not have been leading the horse to them when he was
overtaken, and may they not have him now?"

"It is certainly possible."

"The moor is being scoured for these gypsies.  I have
also examined every stable and out-house in Tavistock,
and for a radius of ten miles."

"There is another training-stable quite close, I
understand?"

"Yes, and that is a factor which we must certainly not
neglect.  As Desborough, their horse, was second in
the betting, they had an interest in the disappearance
of the favorite.  Silas Brown, the trainer, is known
to have had large bets upon the event, and he was no
friend to poor Straker.  We have, however, examined
the stables, and there is nothing to connect him with
the affair."

"And nothing to connect this man Simpson with the
interests of the Mapleton stables?"

"Nothing at all."

Holmes leaned back in the carriage, and the
conversation ceased.  A few minutes later our driver
pulled up at a neat little red-brick villa with
overhanging eaves which stood by the road.  Some
distance off, across a paddock, lay a long gray-tiled
out-building.  In every other direction the low curves
of the moor, bronze-colored from the fading ferns,
stretched away to the sky-line, broken only by the
steeples of Tavistock, and by a cluster of houses away
to the westward which marked the Mapleton stables.  We
all sprang out with the exception of Holmes, who
continued to lean back with his eyes fixed upon the
sky in front of him, entirely absorbed in his own
thoughts.  It was only when I touched his arm that he
roused himself with a violent start and stepped out of
the carriage.

"Excuse me," said he, turning to  Colonel Ross, who
had looked at him in some surprise.  "I was
day-dreaming."  There was a gleam in his eyes and a
suppressed excitement in his manner which convinced
me, used as I was to his ways, that his hand was upon
a clue, though I could not imagine where he had found
it.

"Perhaps you would prefer at once to go on to the
scene of the crime, Mr. Holmes?" said Gregory.

"I think that I should prefer to stay here a little
and go into one or two questions of detail.  Straker
was brought back here, I presume?"

"Yes; he lies upstairs.  The inquest is to-morrow."

"He has been in your service some years, Colonel
Ross?"

"I have always found him an excellent servant."

"I presume that you made an inventory of what he had
in this pockets at the time of his death, Inspector?"

"I have the things themselves in the sitting-room, if
you would care to see them."

"I should be very glad."  We all filed into the front
room and sat round the central table while the
Inspector unlocked a square tin box and laid a small
heap of things before us.  There was a box of vestas,
two inches of tallow candle, an A D P brier-root pipe,
a pouch of seal-skin with half an ounce of long-cut
Cavendish, a silver watch with a gold chain, five
sovereigns in gold, an aluminum pencil-case, a few
papers, and an ivory-handled knife with a very
delicate, inflexible bade marked Weiss & Co., London.

"This is a very singular knife," said Holmes, lifting
it up and examining it minutely.  "I presume, as I see
blood-stains upon it, that it is the one which was
found in the dead man's grasp.  Watson, this knife is
surely in your line?"

"It is what we call a cataract knife," said I.

"I thought so.  A very delicate blade devised for very
delicate work.  A strange thing for a man to carry
with him upon a rough expedition, especially as it
would not shut in his pocket."

"The tip was guarded by a disk of cork which we found
beside his body," said the Inspector.  "His wife tells
us that the knife had lain upon the dressing-table,
and that he had picked it up as he left the room.  It
was a poor weapon, but perhaps the best that he could
lay his hands on at the moment."

"Very possible.  How about these papers?"

"Three of them are receipted hay-dealers' accounts. 
One of them is a letter of instructions from Colonel
Ross.  This other is a milliner's account for
thirty-seven pounds fifteen made out by Madame
Lesurier, of Bond Street, to William Derbyshire.  Mrs.
Straker tells us that Derbyshire was a friend of her
husband's and that occasionally his letters were
addressed here."

"Madam Derbyshire had somewhat expensive tastes,"
remarked Holmes, glancing down the account. 
"Twenty-two guineas is rather heavy for a single
costume.  However there appears to be nothing more to
learn, and we may now go down to the scene of the
crime."

As we emerged from the sitting-room a woman, who had
been waiting in the passage, took a step forward and
laid her hand upon the Inspector's sleeve.  Her face
was haggard and thin and eager, stamped with the print
of a recent horror.

"Have you got them?  Have you found them?" she panted.

"No, Mrs. Straker.  But Mr. Holmes here has come from
London to help us, and we shall do all that is
possible."

"Surely I met you in Plymouth at a garden-party some
little time ago, Mrs. Straker?" said Holmes.

"No, sir; you are mistaken."

"Dear me!  Why, I could have sworn to it.  You wore a
costume of dove-colored silk with ostrich-feather
trimming."

"I never had such a dress, sir," answered the lady.

"Ah, that quite settles it," said Holmes.  And with an
apology he followed the Inspector outside.  A short
walk across the moor took us to the hollow in which
the body had been found.  At the brink of it was the
furze-bush upon which the coat had been hung.

"There was no wind that night, I understand," said
Holmes.

"None; but very heavy rain."

"In that case the overcoat was not blown against the
furze-bush, but placed there."

"Yes, it was laid across the bush."

"You fill me with interest,  I perceive that the
ground has been trampled up a good deal.  No doubt
many feet have been here since Monday night."

"A piece of matting has been laid here at the side,
and we have all stood upon that."

"Excellent."

"In this bag I have one of the boots which Straker
wore, one of Fitzroy Simpson's shoes, and a cast
horseshoe of Silver Blaze."

"My dear Inspector, you surpass yourself!"  Homes took
the bag, and, descending into the hollow, he pushed
the matting into a more central position.  Then
stretching himself upon his face and leaning his chin
upon his hands, he made a careful study of the
trampled mud in front of him.  "Hullo!" said he,
suddenly.  "What's this?"  It was a wax vesta half
burned, which was so coated with mud that it looked at
first like a little chip of wood.

"I cannot think how I came to overlook it," said the
Inspector, with an expression of annoyance.

"It was invisible, buried in the mud.  I only saw it
because I was looking for it."

"What! You expected to find it?"

"I thought it not unlikely."

He took the boots from the bag, and compared the
impressions of each of them with marks upon the
ground.  Then he clambered up to the rim of the
hollow, and crawled about among the ferns and bushes.

"I am afraid that there are no more tracks," said the
Inspector.  "I have examined the ground very carefully
for a hundred yards in each direction."

"Indeed!" said Holmes, rising.  "I should not have the
impertinence to do it again after what you say.  But I
should like to take a little walk over the moor before
it grows dark, that I may know my ground to-morrow,
and I think that I shall put this horseshoe into my
pocket for luck."

Colonel Ross, who had shown some signs of impatience
at my companion's quiet and systematic method of work,
glanced at his watch.  "I wish you would come back
with me, Inspector," said he.  "There are several
points on which I should like your advice, and
especially as to whether we do not owe it to the
public to remove our horse's name from the entries for
the Cup."

"Certainly not," cried Holmes, with decision.  "I
should let the name stand."

The Colonel bowed.  "I am very glad to have had your
opinion, sir," said he.  "You will find us at poor
Straker's house when you have finished your walk, and
we can drive together into Tavistock."

He turned back with the Inspector, while Holmes and I
walked slowly across the moor.  The sun was beginning
to sink behind the stables of Mapleton, and the long,
sloping plain in front of us was tinged with gold,
deepening into rich, ruddy browns where the faded
ferns and brambles caught the evening light.  But the
glories of the landscape were all wasted upon my
companion, who was sunk in the deepest thought.

"It's this way, Watson," said he at last.  "We may
leave the question of who killed John Straker for the
instant, and confine ourselves to finding out what has
become of the horse.  Now, supposing that he broke
away during or after the tragedy, where could he have
gone to?  The horse is a very gregarious creature.  If
left to himself his instincts would have been either
to return to King's Pyland or go over to Mapleton. 
Why should he run wild upon the moor?  He would surely
have been seen by now.  And why should gypsies kidnap
him?  These people always clear out when they hear of
trouble, for they do not wish to be pestered by the
police.  They could not hope to sell such a horse. 
They would run a great risk and gain nothing by taking
him.  Surely that is clear."

"Where is he, then?"

"I have already said that he must have gone to King's
Pyland or to Mapleton.  He is not at King's Pyland. 
Therefore he is at Mapleton.  Let us take that as a
working hypothesis and see what it leads us to.  This
part of the moor, as the Inspector remarked, is very
hard and dry.  But if falls away towards Mapleton, and
you can see from here that there is a long hollow over
yonder, which must have been very wet on Monday night. 
If our supposition is correct, then the horse must
have crossed that, and there is the point where we
should look for his tracks."

We had been walking briskly during this conversation,
and a few more minutes brought us to the hollow in
question.  At Holmes' request I walked down the bank
to the right, and he to the left, but I had not taken
fifty paces before I heard him give a shout, and saw
him waving his hand to me.  The track of a horse was
plainly outlined in the soft earth in front of him,
and the shoe which he took from his pocket exactly
fitted the impression.

"See the value of imagination," said Holmes.  "It is
the one quality which Gregory lacks.  We imagined what
might have happened, acted upon the supposition, and
find ourselves justified.  Let us proceed."

We crossed the marshy bottom and passed over a quarter
of a mile of dry, hard turf.  Again the ground sloped,
and again we came on the tracks.  Then we lost them
for half a mile, but only to pick them up once more
quite close to Mapleton.  It was Holmes who saw them
first, and he stood pointing with a look of triumph
upon his face.  A man's track was visible beside the
horse's.

"The horse was alone before," I cried.

"Quite so.  It was alone before.  Hullo, what is
this?"

The double track turned sharp off and took the
direction of King's Pyland.  Homes whistled, and we
both followed along after it.  His eyes were on the
trail, but I happened to look a little to one side,
and saw to my surprise the same tracks coming back
again in the opposite direction.

"One for you, Watson," said Holmes, when I pointed it
out.  "You have saved us a long walk, which would have
brought us back on our own traces.  Let us follow the
return track."

We had not to go far.  It ended at the paving of
asphalt which led up to the gates of the Mapleton
stables.  As we approached, a groom ran out from them.

"We don't want any loiterers about here," said he.

"I only wished to ask a question," said Holmes, with
his finger and thumb in his waistcoat pocket.  "Should
I be too early to see your master, Mr. Silas Brown, if
I were to call at five o'clock to-morrow morning?"

"Bless you, sir, if any one is about he will be, for
he is always the first stirring.  But here he is, sir,
to answer your questions for himself.  No, sir, no; it
is as much as my place is worth to let him see me
touch your money.  Afterwards, if you like."

As Sherlock Holmes replaced the half-crown which he
had drawn from his pocket, a fierce-looking elderly
man strode out from the gate with a hunting-crop
swinging in his hand.

"What's this, Dawson!" he cried.  "No gossiping!  Go
about your business!  And you, what the devil do you
want here?"

"Ten minutes' talk with you, my good sir," said Holmes
in the sweetest of voices.

"I've no time to talk to every gadabout.  We want no
stranger here.  Be off, or you may find a dog at your
heels."

Holmes leaned forward and whispered something in the
trainer's ear.  He started violently and flushed to
the temples.

"It's a lie!" he shouted, "an infernal lie!"

"Very good.  Shall we argue about it here in public or
talk it over in your parlor?"

"Oh, come in if you wish to."

Holmes smiled.  "I shall not keep you more than a few
minutes, Watson," said he.  "Now, Mr. Brown, I am
quite at your disposal."

It was twenty minutes, and the reds had all faded into
grays before Holmes and the trainer reappeared.  Never
have I seen such a change as had been brought about in
Silas Brown in that short time.  His face was ashy
pale, beads of perspiration shone upon his brow, and
his hands shook until the hunting-crop wagged like a
branch in the wind.  His bullying, overbearing manner
was all gone too, and he cringed along at my
companion's side like a dog with its master.

"You instructions will be done.  It shall all be
done," said he.

"There must be no mistake," said Holmes, looking round
at him.  The other winced as he read the menace in his
eyes.

"Oh no, there shall be no mistake.  It shall be there. 
Should I change it first or not?"

Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing. 
"No, don't," said he; "I shall write to you about it. 
No tricks, now, or--"

"Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!"

"Yes, I think I can.  Well, you shall hear from me
to-morrow."  He turned upon his heel, disregarding the
trembling hand which the other held out to him, and we
set off for King's Pyland.

"A more perfect compound of the bully, coward, and
sneak than Master Silas Brown I have seldom met with,"
remarked Holmes as we trudged along together.

"He has the horse, then?"

"He tried to bluster out of it, but I described to him
so exactly what his actions had been upon that morning
that he is convinced that I was watching him.  Of
course you observed the peculiarly square toes in the
impressions, and that his own boots exactly
corresponded to them.  Again, of course no subordinate
would have dared to do such a thing.  I described to
him how, when according to his custom he was the first
down, he perceived a strange horse wandering over the
moor.  How he went out to it, and his astonishment at
recognizing, from the white forehead which has given
the favorite its name, that chance had put in his
power the only horse which could beat the one upon
which he had put his money.  Then I described how his
first impulse had been to lead him back to King's
Pyland, and how the devil had shown him how he could
hide the horse until the race was over, and how he had
led it back and concealed it at Mapleton.  When I told
him every detail he gave it up and thought only of
saving his own skin."

"But his stables had been searched?"

"Oh, and old horse-fakir like him has many a dodge."

"But are you not afraid to leave the horse in his
power now, since he has every interest in injuring
it?"

"My dear fellow, he will guard it as the apple of his
eye.  He knows that his only hope of mercy is to
produce it safe."

"Colonel Ross did not impress me as a man who would be
likely to show much mercy in any case."

"The matter does not rest with Colonel Ross.  I follow
my own methods, and tell as much or as little as I
choose.  That is the advantage of being unofficial.  I
don't know whether you observed it, Watson, but the
Colonel's manner has been just a trifle cavalier to
me.  I am inclined now to have a little amusement at
his expense.  Say nothing to him about the horse."

"Certainly not without your permission."

"And of course this is all quite a minor point
compared to the question of who killed John Straker."

"And you will devote yourself to that?"

"On the contrary, we both go back to London by the
night train."

I was thunderstruck by my friend's words.  We had only
been a few hours in Devonshire, and that he should
give up an investigation which he had begun so
brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to me.  Not a
word more could I draw from him until we were back at
the trainer's house.  The Colonel and the Inspector
were awaiting us in the parlor.

"My friend and I return to town by the night-express,"
said Holmes.  "We have had a charming little breath of
your beautiful Dartmoor air."

The Inspector opened his eyes, and the Colonel's lip
curled in a sneer.

"So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor
Straker," said he.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.  "There are certainly
grave difficulties in the way," said he.  "I have
every hope, however, that your horse will start upon
Tuesday, and I beg that you will have your jockey in
readiness.  Might I ask for a photograph of Mr. John
Straker?"

The Inspector took one from an envelope and handed it
to him.

"My dear Gregory, you anticipate all my wants.  If I
might ask you to wait here for an instant, I have a
question which I should like to put to the maid."

"I must say that I am rather disappointed in our
London consultant," said Colonel Ross, bluntly, as my
friend left the room.  "I do not see that we are any
further than when he came."

"At least you have his assurance that your horse will
run," said I.

"Yes, I have his assurance," said the Colonel, with a
shrug of his shoulders.  "I should prefer to  have the
horse."

I was about to make some reply in defence of my friend
when he entered the room again.

"Now, gentlemen," said he, "I am quite ready for
Tavistock."

As we stepped into the carriage one of the stable-lads
held the door open for us.  A sudden idea seemed to
occur to Holmes, for he leaned forward and touched the
lad upon the sleeve.

"You have a few sheep in the paddock," he said.  "Who
attends to them?"

"I do, sir."

"Have you noticed anything amiss with them of late?"

"Well, sir, not of much account; but three of them
have gone lame, sir."

I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he
chuckled and rubbed his hands together.

"A long shot, Watson; a very long shot," said he,
pinching my arm.  "Gregory, let me recommend to your
attention this singular epidemic among the sheep. 
Drive on, coachman!"

Colonel Ross still wore an expression which showed the
poor opinion which he had formed of my companion's
ability, but I saw by the Inspector's face that his
attention had been keenly aroused.

"You consider that to be important?" he asked.

"Exceedingly so."

"Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my
attention?"

"To the curious incident of the dog in the
night-time."

"The dog did nothing in the night-time."

"That was the curious incident," remarked Sherlock
Holmes.




Four days later Holmes and I were again in the train,
bound for Winchester to see the race for the Wessex
Cup.  Colonel Ross met us by appointment outside the
station, and we drove in his drag to the course beyond
the town.  His face was grave, and his manner was cold
in the extreme.

"I have seen nothing of my horse," said he.

"I suppose that you would know him when you saw him?"
asked Holmes.

The Colonel was very angry.  "I have been on the turf
for twenty years, and never was asked such a question
as that before," said he.  "A child would know Silver
Blaze, with his white forehead and his mottled
off-foreleg."

"How is the betting?"

"Well, that is the curious part of it.  You could have
got fifteen to one yesterday, but the price has become
shorter and shorter, until you can hardly get three to
one now."

"Hum!" said Holmes.  "Somebody knows something, that
is clear."

As the drag drew up in the enclosure near the grand
stand I glanced at the card to see the entries.

Wessex Plate [it ran] 50 sovs each h ft with 1000 sovs
added for four and five year olds.  Second, L300. 
Third, L200.  New course (one mile and five furlongs).
Mr. Heath Newton's The Negro.  Red cap.  Cinnamon
jacket.
Colonel Wardlaw's Pugilist.  Pink cap.  Blue and black
jacket.
Lord Backwater's Desborough.  Yellow cap and sleeves.
Colonel Ross's Silver Blaze.  Black cap.  Red jacket.
Duke of Balmoral's Iris.  Yellow and black stripes.
Lord Singleford's Rasper.  Purple cap. Black sleeves.

"We scratched our other one, and put all hopes on your
word," said the Colonel.  "Why, what is that?  Silver
Blaze favorite?"

"Five to four against Silver Blaze!" roared the ring. 
"Five to four against Silver Blaze!  Five to fifteen
against Desborough!  Five to four on the field!"

"There are the numbers up," I cried.  "They are all
six there."

"All six there?  Then my horse is running," cried the
Colonel in great agitation.  "But I don't see him.  My
colors have not passed."

"Only five have passed.  This must be he."

As I spoke a powerful bay horse swept out from the
weighting enclosure and cantered past us, bearing on
it back the well-known black and red of the Colonel.

"That's not my horse," cried the owner.  "That beast
has not a white hair upon its body.  What is this that
you have done, Mr. Holmes?"

"Well, well, let us see how he gets on," said my
friend, imperturbably.  For a few minutes he gazed
through my field-glass.  "Capital!  An excellent
start!" he cried suddenly.  "There they are, coming
round the curve!"

From our drag we had a superb view as they came up the
straight.  The six horses were so close together that
a carpet could have covered them, but half way up the
yellow of the Mapleton stable showed to the front. 
Before they reached us, however, Desborough's bolt was
shot, and the Colonel's horse, coming away with a
rush, passed the post a good six lengths before its
rival, the Duke of Balmoral's Iris making a bad third.

"It's my race, anyhow," gasped the Colonel, passing
his hand over his eyes.  "I confess that I can make
neither head nor tail of it.  Don't you think that you
have kept up your mystery long enough, Mr. Holmes?"

"Certainly, Colonel, you shall know everything.  Let
us all go round and have a look at the horse together. 
Here he is," he continued, as we made our way into the
weighing enclosure, where only owners and their
friends find admittance.  "You have only to wash his
face and his leg in spirits of wine, and you will find
that he is the same old Silver Blaze as ever."

"You take my breath away!"

"I found him in the hands of a fakir, and took the
liberty of running him just as he was sent over."

"My dear sir, you have done wonders.  The horse looks
very fit and well.  It never went better in its life. 
I owe you a thousand apologies for having doubted your
ability.  You have done me a great service by
recovering my horse.  You would do me a greater still
if you could lay your hands on the murderer of John
Straker."

"I have done so," said Holmes quietly.

The Colonel and I stared at him in amazement.  "You
have got him!  Where is he, then?"

"He is here."

"Here!  Where?"

"In my company at the present moment."

The Colonel flushed angrily.  "I quite recognize that
I am under obligations to you, Mr.  Holmes," said he,
"but I must regard what you have just said as either a
very bad joke or an insult."

Sherlock Holmes laughed.  "I assure you that I have
not associated you with the crime, Colonel," said he. 
"The real murderer is standing immediately behind
you."  He stepped past and laid his hand upon the
glossy neck of the thoroughbred.

"The horse!" cried both the Colonel and myself.

"Yes, the horse.  And it may lessen his guilt if I say
that it was done in self-defence, and that John
Straker was a man who was entirely unworthy of your
confidence.  But there goes the bell, and as I stand
to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a
lengthy explanation until a more fitting time."




We had the corner of a Pullman car to ourselves that
evening as we whirled back to London, and I fancy that
the journey was a short one to Colonel Ross as well as
to myself, as we listened to our companion's narrative
of the events which had occurred at the Dartmoor
training-stables upon the Monday night, and the means
by which he had unravelled them.

"I confess," said he, "that any theories which I had
formed from the newspaper reports were entirely
erroneous.  And yet there were indications there, had
they not been overlaid by other details which
concealed their true import.  I went to Devonshire
with the conviction that Fitzroy Simpson was the true
culprit, although, of course, I saw that the evidence
against him was by no means complete.  It was while I
was in the carriage, just as we reached the trainer's
house, that the immense significance of the curried
mutton occurred to me.  You may remember that I was
distrait, and remained sitting after you had all
alighted.  I was marvelling in my own mind how I could
possibly have overlooked so obvious a clue."

"I confess," said the Colonel, "that even now I cannot
see how it helps us."

"It was the first link in my chain of reasoning. 
Powdered opium is by no means tasteless.  The flavor
is not disagreeable, but it is perceptible.  Were it
mixed with any ordinary dish the eater would
undoubtedly detect it, and would probably eat no more. 
A curry was exactly the medium which would disguise
this taste.  By no possible supposition could this
stranger, Fitzroy Simpson, have caused curry to be
served in the trainer's family that night, and it is
surely too monstrous a coincidence to suppose that he
happened to come along with powdered opium upon the
very night when a dish happened to be served which
would disguise the flavor.  That is unthinkable. 
Therefore Simpson becomes eliminated from the case,
and our attention centers upon Straker and his wife,
the only two people who could have chosen curried
mutton for supper that night.  The opium was added
after the dish was set aside for the stable-boy, for
the others had the same for supper with no ill
effects.  Which of them, then, had access to that dish
without the maid seeing them?

"Before deciding that question I had grasped the
significance of the silence of the dog, for one true
inference invariably suggests others.  The Simpson
incident had shown me that a dog was kept in the
stables, and yet, though some one had been in and had
fetched out a horse, he had not barked enough to
arouse the two lads in the loft.  Obviously the
midnight visitor was some one whom the dog knew well.

"I was already convinced, or almost convinced, that
John Straker went down to the stables in the dead of
the night and took out Silver Blaze.  For what
purpose?  For a dishonest one, obviously, or why
should he drug his own stable-boy?  And yet I was at a
loss to know why.  There have been cases before now
where trainers have made sure of great sums of money
by laying against their own horses, through agents,
and then preventing them from winning by fraud. 
Sometimes it is a pulling jockey.  Sometimes it is
some surer and subtler means.  What was it here?  I
hoped that the contents of his pockets might help me
to form a conclusion.

"And they did so.  You cannot have forgotten the
singular knife which was found in the dead man's hand,
a knife which certainly no sane man would choose for a
weapon.  It was, as Dr. Watson told us, a form of
knife which is used for the most delicate operations
known in surgery.  And it was to be used for a
delicate operation that night.  You must know, with
your wide experience of turf matters, Colonel Ross,
that it is possible to make a slight nick upon the
tendons of a horse's ham, and to do it subcutaneously,
so as to leave absolutely no trace.  A horse so
treated would develop a slight lameness, which would
be put down to a strain in exercise or a touch of
rheumatism, but never to foul play."

"Villain!  Scoundrel!" cried the Colonel.

"We have here the explanation of why John Straker
wished to take the horse out on to the moor.  So
spirited a creature would have certainly roused the
soundest of sleepers when it felt the prick of the
knife.  It was absolutely necessary to do it in the
open air."

"I have been blind!" cried the Colonel.  "Of course
that was why he needed the candle, and struck the
match."

"Undoubtedly.  But in examining his belongings I was
fortunate enough to discover not only the method of
the crime, but even its motives.  As a man of the
world, Colonel, you know that men do not carry other
people's bills about in their pockets.  We have most
of us quite enough to do to settle our own.  I at once
concluded that Straker was leading a double life, and
keeping a second establishment.  The nature of the
bill showed that there was a lady in the case, and one
who had expensive tastes.  Liberal as you are with
your servants, one can hardly expect that they can buy
twenty-guinea walking dresses for their ladies.  I
questioned Mrs. Straker as to the dress without her
knowing it, and having satisfied myself that it had
never reached her, I made a note of the milliner's
address, and felt that by calling there with Straker's
photograph I could easily dispose of the mythical
Derbyshire.

"From that time on all was plain.  Straker had led out
the horse to a hollow where his light would be
invisible.  Simpson in his flight had dropped his
cravat, and Straker had picked it up--with some idea,
perhaps, that he might use it in securing the horse's
leg.  Once in the hollow, he had got behind the horse
and had struck a light; but the creature frightened at
the sudden glare, and with the strange instinct of
animals feeling that some mischief was intended, had
lashed out, and the steel shoe had struck Straker full
on the forehead.  He had already, in spite of the
rain, taken off his overcoat in order to do his
delicate task, and so, as he fell, his knife gashed
his thigh.  Do I make it clear?"

"Wonderful!" cried the Colonel.  "Wonderful!  You
might have been there!"

"My final shot was, I confess a very long one.  It
struck me that so astute a man as Straker would not
undertake this delicate tendon-nicking without a
little practice.  What could he practice on?  My eyes
fell upon the sheep, and I asked a question which,
rather to my surprise, showed that my surmise was
correct.

"When I returned to London I called upon the milliner,
who had recognized Straker as an excellent customer of
the name of Derbyshire, who had a very dashing wife,
with a strong partiality for expensive dresses.  I
have no doubt that this woman had plunged him over
head and ears in debt, and so led him into this
miserable plot."

"You have explained all but one thing," cried the
Colonel.  "Where was the horse?"

"Ah, it bolted, and was cared for by one of your
neighbors.  We must have an amnesty in that direction,
I think.  This is Clapham Junction, if I am not
mistaken, and we shall be in Victoria in less than ten
minutes.  If you care to smoke a cigar in our rooms,
Colonel, I shall be happy to give you any other
details which might interest you."



Adventure II


The Yellow Face


[In publishing these short sketches based upon the
numerous cases in which my companion's singular gifts
have made us the listeners to, and eventually the
actors in, some strange drama, it is only natural that
I should dwell rather upon his successes than upon his
failures.  And this not so much for the sake of his
reputations--for, indeed, it was when he was at his
wits' end that his energy and his versatility were
most admirable--but because where he failed it
happened too often that no one else succeeded, and
that the tale was left forever without a conclusion. 
Now and again, however, it chanced that even when he
erred, the truth was still discovered.  I have noted
of some half-dozen cases of the kind the Adventure of
the Musgrave Ritual and that which I am about to
recount are the two which present the strongest
features of interest.]

Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for
exercise's sake.  Few men were capable of greater
muscular effort, and he was undoubtedly one of the
finest boxers of his weight that I have ever seen; but
he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of
energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save when
there was some professional object to be served.  Then
he was absolutely untiring and indefatigable.  That he
should have kept himself in training under such
circumstances is remarkable, but his diet was usually
of the sparest, and his habits were simple to the
verge of austerity.  Save for the occasional use of
cocaine, he had no vices, and he only turned to the
drug as a protest against the monotony of existence
when cases were scanty and the papers uninteresting.

One day in early spring he had so far relaxed as to
go for a walk with me in the Park, where the first
faint shoots of green were breaking out upon the elms,
and the sticky spear-heads of the chestnuts were just
beginning to burst into their five-fold leaves.  For
two hours we rambled about together, in silence for
the most part, as befits two men who know each other
intimately.  It was nearly five before we were back in
Baker Street once more.

"Beg pardon, sir," said our page-boy, as he opened the
door.  "There's been a gentleman here asking for you,
sir."

Holmes glanced reproachfully at me.  "So much for
afternoon walks!" said he.  "Has this gentleman gone,
then?"

"Yes, sir."

"Didn't you ask him in?"

"Yes, sir; he came in."

"How long did he wait?"

"Half an hour, sir.  He was a very restless gentleman,
sir, a-walkin' and a-stampin' all the time he was
here.  I was waitin' outside the door, sir, and I
could hear him.  At last he outs into the passage, and
he cries, 'Is that man never goin' to come?'  Those
were his very words, sir.  'You'll only need to wait a
little longer,' says I.  'Then I'll wait in the open
air, for I feel half choked,' says he.  'I'll be back
before long.'  And with that he ups and he outs, and
all I could say wouldn't hold him back."

"Well, well, you did you best," said Holmes, as we
walked into our room.  "It's very annoying, though,
Watson.  I was badly in need of a case, and this
looks, from the man's impatience, as if it were of
importance.  Hullo! That's not your pipe on the table. 
He must have left his behind him.  A nice old brier
with a good long stem of what the tobacconists call
amber.  I wonder how many real amber mouthpieces there
are in London?  Some people think that a fly in it is
a sign.  Well, he must have been disturbed in his mind
to leave a pipe behind him which he evidently values
highly."

"How do you know that he values it highly?" I asked.

"Well, I should put the original cost of the pipe at
seven and sixpence.  Now it has, you see, been twice
mended, once in the wooden stem and once in the
amber.  Each of these mends, done, as you observe,
with silver bands, must have cost more than the pipe
did originally.  The man must value the pipe highly
when he prefers to patch it up rather than buy a new
one with the same money."

"Anything else?" I asked, for Holmes was turning the
pipe about in his hand, and staring at it in his
peculiar pensive way.

He held it up and tapped on it with his long, thin
fore-finger, as a professor might who was lecturing on
a bone.

"Pipes are occasionally of extraordinary interest,"
said he.  "Nothing has more individuality, save
perhaps watches and bootlaces.  The indications here,
however, are neither very marked nor very important. 
The owner is obviously a muscular man, left-handed,
with an excellent set of teeth, careless in his
habits, and with no need to practise economy."

My friend threw out the information in a very offhand
way, but I saw that he cocked his eye at me to see if
I had followed his reasoning.

"You think a man must be well-to-do if he smokes a
seven-shilling pipe," said I.

"This is Grosvenor mixture at eightpence an ounce,"
Holmes answered, knocking a little out on his palm. 
"As he might get an excellent smoke for half the
price, he has no need to practise economy."

"And the other points?"

"He has been in the habit of lighting his pipe at
lamps and gas-jets.  You can see that it is quite
charred all down one side.  Of course a match could
not have done that.  Why should a man hold a match to
the side of his pipe?  But you cannot light it at a
lamp without getting the bowl charred.  And it is all
on the right side of the pipe.  From that I gather
that he is a left-handed man.  You hold your own pipe
to the lamp, and see how naturally you, being
right-handed, hold the left side to the flame.  You
might do it once the other way, but not as a
constancy.  This has always been held so.  Then he has
bitten through his amber.  It takes a muscular,
energetic fellow, and one with a good set of teeth, to
do that.  But if I am not mistaken I hear him upon the
stair, so we shall have something more interesting
than his pipe to study."

An instant later our door opened, and a tall young man
entered the room.  He was well but quietly dressed in
a dark-gray suit, and carried a brown wide-awake in
his hand.  I should have put him at about thirty,
though he was really some years older.

"I beg your pardon," said he, with some embarrassment;
"I suppose I should have knocked.  Yes, of course I
should have knocked.  The fact is that I am a little
upset, and you must put it all down to that."  He
passed his hand over his forehead like a man who is
half dazed, and then fell rather than sat down upon a
chair.

"I can see that you have not slept for a night or
two," said Holmes, in his easy, genial way.  "That
tries a man's nerves more than work, and more even
than pleasure.  May I ask how I can help you?"

"I wanted your advice, sir.  I don't know what to do
and my whole life seems to have gone to pieces."

"You wish to employ me as a consulting detective?"

"Not that only.  I want your opinion as a judicious
man--as a man of the world.  I want to know what I
ought to do next.  I hope to God you'll be able to
tell me."

He spoke in little, sharp, jerky outbursts, and it
seemed to me that to speak at all was very painful to
him, and that his will all through was overriding his
inclinations.

"It's a very delicate thing," said he.  "One does not
like to speak of one's domestic affairs to strangers. 
It seems dreadful to discuss the conduct of one's wife
with two men whom I have never seen before.  It's
horrible to have to do it.  But I've got to the end of
my tether, and I must have advice."

"My dear Mr. Grant Munro--" began Holmes.

Our visitor sprang from his char. "What!" he cried,
"you know my mane?"

"If you wish to preserve your incognito,' said Holmes,
smiling, "I would suggest that you cease to write your
name upon the lining of your hat, or else that you
turn the crown towards the person whom you are
addressing.  I was about to say that my friend and I
have listened to a good many strange secrets in this
room, and that we have had the good fortune to bring
peace to many troubled souls.  I trust that we may do
as much for you.  Might I beg you, as time may prove
to be of importance, to furnish me with the facts of
your case without further delay?"

Our visitor again passed his hand over his forehead,
as if he found it bitterly hard.  From every gesture
and expression I could see that he was a reserved,
self-contained man, with a dash of pride in his
nature, more likely to hide his wounds than to expose
them.  Then suddenly, with a fierce gesture of his
closed hand, like one who throws reserve to the winds,
he began.

"The facts are these, Mr. Holmes," said he.  "I am a
married man, and have been so for three years.  During
that time my wife and I have loved each other as
fondly and lived as happily as any two that ever were
joined.  We have not had a difference, not one, in
thought or word or deed.  And now, since last Monday,
there has suddenly sprung up a barrier between us, and
I find that there is something in her life and in her
thought of which I know as little as if she were the
woman who brushes by me in the street.  We are
estranged, and I want to know why.

"Now there is one thing that I want to impress upon
you before I go any further, Mr. Holmes.  Effie loves
me.  Don't let there be any mistake about that.  She
loves me with her whole heart and soul, and never more
than now.  I know it.  I feel it.  I don't want to
argue about that.  A man can tell easily enough when a
woman loves him.  But there's this secret between us,
and we can never be the same until it is cleared."

"Kindly let me have the facts, Mr. Munro," said
Holmes, with some impatience.

"I'll tell you what I know about Effie's history.  She
was a widow when I met her first, though quite
young--only twenty-five.  Her name then was Mrs.
Hebron.  She went out to America when she was young,
and lived in the town of Atlanta, where she married
this Hebron, who was a lawyer with a good practice. 
They had one child, but the yellow fever broke out
badly in the place, and both husband and child died of
it.  I have seen his death certificate.  This sickened
her of America, and she came back to live with a
maiden aunt at Pinner, in Middlesex.  I may mention
that her husband had left her comfortably off, and
that she had a capital of about four thousand five
hundred pounds, which had been so well invested by him
that it returned an average of seven per cent.  She
had only been six months at Pinner when I met her; we
fell in love with each other, and we married a few
weeks afterwards.

"I am a hop merchant myself, and as I have an income
of seven or eight hundred, we found ourselves
comfortably off, and took a nice eighty-pound-a-year
villa at Norbury.  Our little place was very
countrified, considering that it is so close to town. 
We had an inn and two houses a little above us, and a
single cottage at the other side of the field which
faces us, and except those there were no houses until
you got half way to the station.  My business took me
into town at certain seasons, but in summer I had less
to do, and then in our country home my wife and I were
just as happy as could be wished.  I tell you that
there never was a shadow between us until this
accursed affair began.

"There's one thing I ought to tell you before I go
further.  When we married, my wife made over all her
property to me--rather against my will, for I saw how
awkward it would be if my business affairs went wrong. 
However, she would have it so, and it was done.  Well,
about six weeks ago she came to me.

"'Jack,' said she, 'when you took my money you said
that if ever I wanted any I was to ask you for it.'

"'Certainly,' said I.  'It's all your own.'

"'Well,' said she, 'I want a hundred pounds.'

"I was a bit staggered at this, for I had imagined it
was simply a new dress or something of the kind that
she was after.

"'What on earth for?' I asked.

"'Oh,' said she, in her playful way, 'you said that
you were only my banker, and bankers never ask
questions, you know.'

"'If you really mean it, of course you shall have the
money,' said I.

"'Oh, yes, I really mean it.'

"'And you won't tell me what you want it for?'

"'Some day, perhaps, but not just at present, Jack.'

"So I had to be content with that, thought it was the
first time that there had ever been any secret between
us.  I gave her a check, and I never thought any more
of the matter.  It may have nothing to do with what
came afterwards, but I thought it only right to
mention it.

"Well, I told you just now that there is a cottage not
far from our house.  There is just a field between us,
but to reach it you have to go along the road and then
turn down a lane.  Just beyond it is a nice little
grove of Scotch firs, and I used to be very fond of
strolling down there, for trees are always a
neighborly kind of things.  The cottage had been
standing empty this eight months, and it was a pity,
for it was a pretty two storied place, with an
old-fashioned porch and honeysuckle about it.  I have
stood many a time and thought what a neat little
homestead it would make.

"Well, last Monday evening I was taking a stroll down
that way, when I met an empty van coming up the lane,
and saw a pile of carpets and things lying about on
the grass-plot beside the porch.  It was clear that
the cottage had at last been let.  I walked past it,
and wondered what sort of folk they were who had come
to live so near us.  And as I looked I suddenly became
aware that a face was watching me out of one of the
upper windows.

"I don't know what there was about that face, Mr.
Holmes, but it seemed to send a chill right down my
back.  I was some little way off, so that I could not
make out the features, but there was something
unnatural and inhuman about the face.  That was the
impression that I had, and I moved quickly forwards to
get a nearer view of the person who was watching me. 
But as I did so the face suddenly disappeared, so
suddenly that it seemed to have been plucked away into
the darkness of the room.  I stood for five minutes
thinking the business over, and trying to analyze my
impressions.  I could not tell if the face were that
of a man or a woman.  It had been too far from me for
that.  But its color was what had impressed me most. 
It was of a livid chalky white, and with something set
and rigid about it which was shockingly unnatural.  So
disturbed was I that I determined to see a little more
of the new inmates of the cottage.  I approached and
knocked at the door, which was instantly opened by a
tall, gaunt woman with a harsh, forbidding face.

"'What may you be wantin'?' she asked, in a Northern
accent.

"'I am your neighbor over yonder,' said I, nodding
towards my house.  'I see that you have only just
moved in, so I thought that if I could be of any help
to you in any--'

"'Ay, we'll just ask ye when we want ye,' said she,
and shut the door in my face.  Annoyed at the churlish
rebuff, I turned my back and walked home.  All
evening, though I tried to think of other things, my
mind would still turn to the apparition at the window
and the rudeness of the woman.  I determined to say
nothing about the former to my wife, for she is a
nervous, highly strung woman, and I had no wish that
she would share the unpleasant impression which had
been produced upon myself.  I remarked to her,
however, before I fell asleep, that the cottage was
now occupied, to which she returned no reply.

"I am usually an extremely sound sleeper.  It has been
a standing jest in the family that nothing could ever
wake me during the night.  And yet somehow on that
particular night, whether it may have been the slight
excitement produced by my little adventure or not I
know not, but I slept much more lightly than usual. 
Half in my dreams I was dimly conscious that something
was going on in the room, and gradually became aware
that my wife had dressed herself and was slipping on
her mantle and her bonnet.  My lips were parted to
murmur out some sleepy words of surprise or
remonstrance at this untimely preparation, when
suddenly my half-opened eyes fell upon her face,
illuminated by the candle-light, and astonishment held
me dumb.  She wore an expression such as I had never
seen before--such as I should have thought her
incapable of assuming.  She was deadly pale and
breathing fast, glancing furtively towards the bed as
she fastened her mantle, to see if she had disturbed
me.  Then, thinking that I was still asleep, she
slipped noiselessly from the room, and an instant
later I heard a sharp creaking which could only come
from the hinges of the front door.  I sat up in bed
and rapped my knuckles against the rail to make
certain that I was truly awake.  Then I took my watch
from under the pillow.  It was three in the morning. 
What on this earth could my wife be doing out on the
country road at three in the morning?

"I had sat for about twenty minutes turning the thing
over in my mind and trying to find some possible
explanation.  The more I thought, the more
extraordinary and inexplicable did it appear.  I was
still puzzling over it when I heard the door gently
close again, and her footsteps coming up the stairs.

"'Where in the world have you been, Effie?' I asked as
she entered.

"She gave a violent start and a kind of gasping cry
when I spoke, and that cry and start troubled me more
than all the rest, for there was something
indescribably guilty about them.  My wife had always
been a woman of a frank, open nature, and it gave me a
chill to see her slinking into her own room, and
crying out and wincing when her own husband spoke to
her.

"'You awake, Jack!' she cried, with a nervous laugh. 
'Why, I thought that nothing could awake you.'

"'Where have you been?' I asked, more sternly.

"'I don't wonder that you are surprised,' said she,
and I could see that her fingers were trembling as she
undid the fastenings of her mantle.  'Why, I never
remember having done such a thing in my life before. 
The fact is that I felt as though I were choking, and
had a perfect longing for a breath of fresh air.  I
really think that I should have fainted if I had not
gone out.  I stood at the door for a few minutes, and
now I am quite myself again.'

"All the time that she was telling me this story she
never once looked in my direction, and her voice was
quite unlike her usual tones.  It was evident to me
that she was saying what was false.  I said nothing in
reply, but turned my face to the wall, sick at heart,
with my mind filled with a thousand venomous doubts
and suspicions.  What was it that my wife was
concealing from me?  Where had she been during that
strange expedition?  I felt that I should have no
peace until I knew, and yet I shrank from asking her
again after once she had told me what was false.  All
the rest of the night I tossed and tumbled, framing
theory after theory, each more unlikely than the last.

"I should have gone to the City that day, but I was
too disturbed in my mind to be able to pay attention
to business matters.  My wife seemed to be as upset as
myself, and I could see from the little questioning
glances which she kept shooting at me that she
understood that I disbelieved her statement, and that
she was at her wits' end what to do.  We hardly
exchanged a word during breakfast, and immediately
afterwards I went out for a walk, that I might think
the matter out in the fresh morning air.

"I went as far as the Crystal Palace, spent an hour in
the grounds, and was back in Norbury by one o'clock. 
It happened that my way took me past the cottage, and
I stopped for an instant to look at the windows, and
to see if I could catch a glimpse of the strange face
which had looked out at me on the day before.  As I
stood there, imagine my surprise, Mr. Holmes, when the
door suddenly opened and my wife walked out.

"I was struck dumb with astonishment at the sight of
her; but my emotions were nothing to those which
showed themselves upon her face when our eyes met. 
She seemed for an instant to wish to shrink back
inside the house again; and then, seeing how useless
all concealment must be, she came forward, with a very
white face and frightened eyes which belied the smile
upon her lips.

"'Ah, Jack,' she said, 'I have just been in to see if
I can be of any assistance to our new neighbors.  Why
do you look at me like that, Jack?  You are not angry
with me?'

"'So,' said I, 'this is where you went during the
night.'

"'What do you mean?" she cried.

"'You came here.  I am sure of it.  Who are these
people, that you should visit them at such an hour?'

"'I have not been here before.'

"'How can you tell me what you know is false?' I
cried.  'Your very voice changes as you speak.  When
have I ever had a secret from you?  I shall enter that
cottage, and I shall probe the matter to the bottom.'

"'No, no, Jack, for God's sake!' she gasped, in
uncontrollable emotion.  Then, as I approached the
door, she seized my sleeve and pulled me back with
convulsive strength.

"'I implore you not to do this, Jack,' she cried.  'I
swear that I will tell you everything some day, but
nothing but misery can come of it if you enter that
cottage.'  Then, as I tried to shake her off, she
clung to me in a frenzy of entreaty.

"'Trust me, Jack!' she cried.  'Trust me only this
once.  You will never have cause to regret it.  You
know that I would not have a secret from you if it
were not for your own sake.  Our whole lives are at
stake in this.  If you come home with me, all will be
well.  If you force your way into that cottage, all is
over between us.'

"There was such earnestness, such despair, in her
manner that her words arrested me, and I stood
irresolute before the door.

"'I will trust you on one condition, and on one
condition only,' said I at last.  'It is that this
mystery comes to an end from now.  You are at liberty
to preserve your secret, but you must promise me that
there shall be no more nightly visits, no more doings
which are kept from my knowledge.  I am willing to
forget those which are passed if you will promise that
there shall be no more in the future.'

"'I was sure that you would trust me,' she cried, with
a great sigh of relief.  'It shall be just as you
wish.  Come away--oh, come away up to the house.'

"Still pulling at my sleeve, she led me away from the
cottage.  As we went I glanced back, and there was
that yellow livid face watching us out of the upper
window.  What link could there be between that
creature and my wife?  Or how could the coarse, rough
woman whom I had seen the day before be connected with
her?  It was a strange puzzle, and yet I knew that my
mind could never know ease again until I had solved
it.

"For two days after this I stayed at home, and my wife
appeared to abide loyally by our engagement, for, as
far as I know, she never stirred out of the house.  On
the third day, however, I had ample evidence that her
solemn promise was not enough to hold her back from
this secret influence which drew her away from her
husband and her duty.

"I had gone into town on that day, but I returned by
the 2.40 instead of the 3.36, which is my usual train. 
As I entered the house the maid ran into the hall with
a startled face.

"'Where is your mistress?' I asked.

"'I think that she has gone out for a walk,' she
answered.

"My mind was instantly filled with suspicion.  I
rushed upstairs to make sure that she was not in the
house.  As I did so I happened to glance out of one of
the upper windows, and saw the maid with whom I had
just been speaking running across the field in the
direction of the cottage.  Then of course I saw
exactly what it all meant.  My wife had gone over
there, and had asked the servant to call her if I
should return.  Tingling with anger, I rushed down and
hurried across, determined to end the matter once and
forever.  I saw my wife and the maid hurrying back
along the lane, but I did not stop to speak with them. 
In the cottage lay the secret which was casting a
shadow over my life.  I vowed that, come what might,
it should be a secret no longer.  I did not even knock
when I reached it, but turned the handle and rushed
into the passage.

"It was all still and quiet upon the ground floor.  In
the kitchen a kettle was singing on the fire, and a
large black cat lay coiled up in the basket; but there
was no sign of the woman whom I had seen before.  I
ran into the other room, but it was equally deserted. 
Then I rushed up the stairs, only to find two other
rooms empty and deserted at the top.  There was no one
at all in the whole house.  The furniture and pictures
were of the most common and vulgar description, save
in the one chamber at the window of which I had seen
the strange face.  That was comfortable and elegant,
and all my suspicions rose into a fierce bitter flame
when I saw that on the mantelpiece stood a copy of a
fell-length photograph of my wife, which had been
taken at my request only three months ago.

"I stayed long enough to make certain that the house
was absolutely empty.  Then I left it, feeling a
weight at my heart such as I had never had before.  My
wife came out into the hall as I entered my house; but
I was too hurt and angry to speak with her, and
pushing past her, I made my way into my study.  She
followed me, however, before I could close the door.

"'I am sorry that I broke my promise, Jack,' said she;
'but if you knew all the circumstances I am sure that
you would forgive me.'

"'Tell me everything, then,' said I.

"'I cannot, Jack, I cannot,' she cried.

"'Until you tell me who it is that has been living in
that cottage, and who it is to whom you have given
that photograph, there can never be any confidence
between us,' said I, and breaking away from her, I
left the house.  That was yesterday, Mr. Holmes, and I
have not seen her since, nor do I know anything more
about this strange business.  It is the first shadow
that has come between us, and it has so shaken me that
I do not know what I should do for the best.  Suddenly
this morning it occurred to me that you were the man
to advise me, so I have hurried to you now, and I
place myself unreservedly in your hands.  If there is
any point which I have not made clear, pray question
me about it.  But, above all, tell me quickly what I
am to do, for this misery is more than I can bear."

Holmes and I had listened with the utmost interest to
this extraordinary statement, which had been delivered
in the jerky, broken fashion of a man who is under the
influence of extreme emotions.  My companion sat
silent for some time, with his chin upon his hand,
lost in thought.

"Tell me," said he at last, "could you swear that this
was a man's face which you saw at the window?"

"Each time that I saw it I was some distance away from
it, so that it is impossible for me to say."

"You appear, however, to have been disagreeably
impressed by it."

"It seemed to be of an unnatural color, and to have a
strange rigidity about the features.  When I
approached, it vanished with a jerk."

"How long is it since your wife asked you for a
hundred pounds?"

"Nearly two months."

"Have you ever seen a photograph of her first
husband?"

"No; there was a great fire at Atlanta very shortly
after his death, and all her papers were destroyed."

"And yet she had a certificate of death.  You say that
you saw it."

"Yes; she got a duplicate after the fire."

"Did you ever meet any one who knew her in America?"

"No."

"Did she ever talk of revisiting the place?"

"No."

"Or get letters from it?"

"No."

"Thank you.  I should like to think over the matter a
little now.  If the cottage is now permanently
deserted we may have some difficulty.  If, on the
other hand, as I fancy is more likely, the inmates
were warned of you coming, and left before you entered
yesterday, then they may be back now, and we should
clear it all up easily.  Let me advise you, then, to
return to Norbury, and to examine the windows of the
cottage again.  If you have reason to believe that is
inhabited, do not force your way in, but send a wire
to my friend and me.  We shall be with you within an
hour of receiving it, and we shall then very soon get
to the bottom of the business."

"And if it is still empty?"

"In that case I shall come out to-morrow and talk it
over with you.  Good-by; and, above all, do not fret
until you know that you really have a cause for it."

"I am afraid that this is a bad business, Watson,"
said my companion, as he returned after accompanying
Mr. Grant Munro to the door.  "What do you make of
it?"

"It had an ugly sound," I answered.

"Yes.  There's blackmail in it, or I am much
mistaken."

"And who is the blackmailer?"

"Well, it must be the creature who lives in the only
comfortable room in the place, and has her photograph
above his fireplace.  Upon my word, Watson, there is
something very attractive about that livid face at the
window, and I would not have missed the case for
worlds."

"You have a theory?"

"Yes, a provisional one.  But I shall be surprised if
it does not turn out to be correct.  This woman's
first husband is in that cottage."

"Why do you think so?"

"How else can we explain her frenzied anxiety that her
second one should not enter it?  The facts, as I read
them, are something like this:  This woman was married
in America.  Her husband developed some hateful
qualities; or shall we say that he contracted some
loathsome disease, and became a leper or an imbecile? 
She flies from him at last, returns to England,
changes her name, and starts her life, as she thinks,
afresh.  She has been married three years, and
believes that her position is quite secure, having
shown her husband the death certificate of some man
whose name she has assumed, when suddenly her
whereabouts is discovered by her first husband; or, we
may suppose, by some unscrupulous woman who has
attached herself to the invalid.  They write to the
wife, and threaten to come and expose her.  She asks
for a hundred pounds, and endeavors to buy them off. 
They come in spite of it, and when the husband
mentions casually to the wife that there a new-comers
in the cottage, she knows in some way that they are
her pursuers.  She waits until her husband is asleep,
and then she rushes down to endeavor to persuade them
to leave her in peace.  Having no success, she goes
again next morning, and her husband meets her, as he
has told us, as she comes out.  She promises him then
not to go there again, but two days afterwards the
hope of getting rid of those dreadful neighbors was
too strong for her, and she made another attempt,
taking down with her the photograph which had probably
been demanded from her.  In the midst of this
interview the maid rushed in to say that the master
had come home, on which the wife, knowing that he
would come straight down to the cottage, hurried the
inmates out at the back door, into the grove of
fir-trees, probably, which was mentioned as standing
near.  In this way he found the place deserted.  I
shall be very much surprised, however, if it still so
when he reconnoitres it this evening.  What do you
think of my theory?"

"It is all surmise."

"But at least it covers all the facts.  When new facts
come to our knowledge which cannot be covered by it,
it will be time enough to reconsider it.  We can do
nothing more until we have a message from our friend
at Norbury."

But we had not a very long time to wait for that.  It
came just as we had finished our tea.  "The cottage is
still tenanted," it said.  "Have seen the face again
at the window.  Will meet the seven o'clock train, and
will take no steps until you arrive."


He was waiting on the platform when we stepped out,
and we could see in the light of the station lamps
that he was very pale, and quivering with agitation.

"They are still there, Mr. Holmes," said he, laying
his hand hard upon my friend's sleeve.  "I saw lights
in the cottage as I came down.  We shall settle it now
once and for all."

"What is your plan, then?" asked Holmes, as he walked
down the dark tree-lined road.

"I am going to force my way in and see for myself who
is in the house.  I wish you both to be there as
witnesses."

"You are quite determined to do this, in spite of your
wife's warning that it is better that you should not
solve the mystery?"

"Yes, I am determined."

"Well, I think that you are in the right.  Any truth
is better than indefinite doubt.  We had better go up
at once.  Of course, legally, we are putting ourselves
hopelessly in the wrong; but I think that it is worth
it."

It was a very dark night, and a thin rain began to
fall as we turned from the high road into a narrow
lane, deeply rutted, with hedges on either side.  Mr.
Grant Munro pushed impatiently forward, however, and
we stumbled after him as best we could.

"There are the lights of my house," he murmured,
pointing to a glimmer among the trees.  "And here is
the cottage which I am going to enter."

We turned a corner in the lane as he spoke, and there
was the building close beside us.  A yellow bar
falling across the black foreground showed that the
door was not quite closed, and one window in the upper
story was brightly illuminated.  As we looked, we saw
a dark blur moving across the blind.

"There is that creature!" cried Grant Munro.  "You can
see for yourselves that some one is there.  Now follow
me, and we shall soon know all."

We approached the door; but suddenly a woman appeared
out of the shadow and stood in the golden track of the
lamp-light.  I could not see her face in the he
darkness, but her arms were thrown out in an attitude
of entreaty.

"For God's sake, don't Jack!" she cried.  "I had a
presentiment that you would come this evening.  Think
better of it, dear!  Trust me again, and you will
never have cause to regret it."

"I have trusted you tool long, Effie," he cried,
sternly.  "Leave go of me!  I must pass you.  My
friends and I are going to settle this matter once and
forever!"  He pushed her to one side, and we followed
closely after him.  As he threw the door open an old
woman ran out in front of him and tried to bar his
passage, but he thrust her back, and an instant
afterwards we were all upon the stairs.  Grant Munro
rushed into the lighted room at the top, and we
entered at his heels.

It was a cosey, well-furnished apartment, with two
candles burning upon the table and two upon the
mantelpiece.  In the corner, stooping over a desk,
there sat what appeared to be a little girl.  Her face
was turned away as we entered, but we could see that
she was dressed in a red frock, and that she had long
white gloves on.  As she whisked round to us, I gave a
cry of surprise and horror.  The face which she turned
towards us was of the strangest livid tint, and the
features were absolutely devoid of any expression.  An
instant later the mystery was explained.  Holmes, with
a laugh, passed his hand behind the child's ear, a
mask peeled off from her countenance, an there was a
little coal black negress, with all her white teeth
flashing in amusement at our amazed faces.  I burst
out laughing, out of sympathy with her merriment; but
Grant Munro stood staring, with his hand clutching his
throat.

"My God!" he cried.  "What can be the meaning of
this?"

"I will tell you the meaning of it," cried the lady,
sweeping into the room with a proud, set face.  "You
have forced me, against my own judgment, to tell you,
and now we must both make the best of it.  My husband
died at Atlanta.  My child survived."

"Your child?"

She drew a large silver locket from her bosom.  "You
have never seen this open."

"I understood that it did not open."

She touched a spring, and the front hinged back. 
There was a portrait within of a man strikingly
handsome and intelligent-looking, but bearing
unmistakable signs upon his features of his African
descent.

"That is John Hebron, of Atlanta," said the lady, "and
a nobler man never walked the earth.  I cut myself off
from my race in order to wed him, but never once while
he lived did I for an instant regret it.  It was our
misfortune that our only child took after his people
rather than mine.  It is often so in such matches, and
little Lucy is darker far than ever her father was. 
But dark or fair, she is my own dear little girlie,
and her mother's pet."  The little creature ran across
at the words and nestled up against the lady's dress. 
"When I left her in America," she continued, "it was
only because her health was weak, and the change might
have done her harm.  She was given to the care of a
faithful Scotch woman who had once been our servant. 
Never for an instant did I dream of disowning her as
my child.  But when chance threw you in my way, Jack,
and I learned to love you, I feared to tell you about
my child.  God forgive me, I feared that I should lose
you, and I had not the courage to tell you.  I had to
choose between you, and in my weakness I turned away
from my own little girl.  For three years I have kept
her existence a secret from you, but I heard from the
nurse, and I knew that all was well with her.  At
last, however, there came an overwhelming desire to
see the child once more.  I struggled against it, but
in vain.  Though I knew the danger, I determined to
have the child over, if it were but for a few weeks. 
I sent a hundred pounds to the nurse, and I gave her
instructions about this cottage, so that she might
come as a neighbor, without my appearing to be in any
way connected with her.  I pushed my precautions so
far as to order her to keep the child in the house
during the daytime, and to cover up her little face
and hands so that even those who might see her at the
window should not gossip about there being a black
child in the neighborhood.  If I had been less
cautious I might have been more wise, but I was half
crazy with fear that you should learn the truth.

"It was you who told me first that the cottage was
occupied.  I should have waited for the morning, but I
could not sleep for excitement, and so at last I
slipped out, knowing how difficult it is to awake you. 
But you saw me go, and that was the beginning of my
troubles.  Next day you had my secret at your mercy,
but you nobly refrained from pursuing your advantage. 
Three days later, however, the nurse and child only
just escaped from the back door as you rushed in at
the front one.  And now to-night you at last know all,
and I ask you what is to become of us, my child and
me?"  She clasped her hands and waited for an answer.

It was a long ten minutes before Grant Munro broke the
silence, and when his answer came it was one of which
I love to think.  He lifted the little child, kissed
her, and then, still carrying her, he held his other
hand out to his wife and turned towards the door.

"We can talk it over more comfortably at home," said
he.  "I am not a very good man, Effie, but I think
that I am a better one than you have given me credit
for being."

Holmes and I followed them down the lane, and my
friend plucked at my sleeve as we came out.

"I think," said he, "that we shall be of more use in
London than in Norbury."

Not another word did he say of the case until late
that night, when he was turning away, with his lighted
candle, for his bedroom.

"Watson," said he, "if it should ever strike you that
I am getting a little over-confident in my powers, or
giving less pains to a case than it deserves, kindly
whisper 'Norbury' in my ear, and I shall be infinitely
obliged to you." 



Adventure III


The Stock-Broker's Clerk


Shortly after my marriage I had bought a connection in
the Paddington district.  Old Mr. Farquhar, from whom
I purchased it, had at one time an excellent general
practice; but his age, and an affliction of the nature
of St. Vitus's dance from which he suffered, had very
much thinned it.  The public not unnaturally goes on
the principle that he who would heal others must
himself be whole, and looks askance at the curative
powers of the man whose own case is beyond the reach
of his drugs.  Thus as my predecessor weakened his
practice declined, until when I purchased it from him
it had sunk from twelve hundred to little more than
three hundred a year.  I had confidence, however, in
my own youth and energy, and was convinced that in a
very few years the concern would be as flourishing as
ever.

For three months after taking over the practice I was
kept very closely at work, and saw little of my friend
Sherlock Holmes, for I was too busy to visit Baker
Street, and he seldom went anywhere himself save upon
professional business.  I was surprised, therefore,
when, one morning in June, as I sat reading the
British Medical Journal after breakfast, I heard a
ring at the bell, followed by the high, somewhat
strident tones of my old companion's voice.

"Ah, my dear Watson," said he, striding into the room,
"I am very delighted to see you!  I trust that Mrs.
Watson has entirely recovered from all the little
excitements connected with our adventure of the Sign
of Four."

"Thank you, we are both very well," said I, shaking
him warmly by the hand.

"And I hope, also," he continued, sitting down in the
rocking-chair, "that the cares of medical practice
have not entirely obliterated the interest which you
used to take in our little deductive problems."

"On the contrary," I answered, "it was only last night
that I was looking over my old notes, and classifying
some of our past results."

"I trust that you don't consider your collection
closed."

"Not at all.  I should wish nothing better than to
have some more of such experiences."

"To-day, for example?"

"Yes, to-day, if you like."

"And as far off as Birmingham?"

"Certainly, if you wish it."

"And the practice?"

"I do my neighbor's when he goes.  He is always ready
to work off the debt."

"Ha! Nothing could be better," said Holmes, leaning
back in his chair and looking keenly at me from under
his half closed lids.  "I perceive that you have been
unwell lately.  Summer colds are always a little
trying."

"I was confined to the house by a sever chill for
three days last week.  I thought, however, that I had
cast off every trace of it."

"So you have.  You look remarkably robust."

"How, then, did you know of it?"

"My dear fellow, you know my methods."

"You deduced it, then?"

"Certainly."

"And from what?"

"From your slippers."

I glanced down at the new patent leathers which I was
wearing.  "How on earth--" I began, but Holmes
answered my question before it was asked.

"Your slippers are new," he said.  "You could not have
had them more than a few weeks. The soles which you
are at this moment presenting to me are slightly
scorched.  For a moment I thought they might have got
wet and been burned in the drying. But near the instep
there is a small circular wafer of paper with the
shopman's hieroglyphics upon it.  Damp would of course
have removed this.  You had, then, been sitting with
our feet outstretched to the fire, which a man would
hardly do even in so wet a June as this if he were in
his full health."

Like all Holmes's reasoning the thing seemed
simplicity itself when it was once explained.  He read
the thought upon my features, and his smile had a
tinge of bitterness.

"I am afraid that I rather give myself away when I
explain," said he.  "Results without causes are much
more impressive.  You are ready to come to Birmingham,
then?"

"Certainly.  What is the case?"

"You shall hear it all in the train.  My client is
outside in a four-wheeler.  Can you come at once?"

"In an instant."  I scribbled a note to my neighbor,
rushed upstairs to explain the matter to my wife, and
joined Holmes upon the door-step.

"Your neighbor is a doctor," said he, nodding at the
brass plate.

"Yes; he bought a practice as I did."

"An old-established one?"

"Just the same as mine.  Both have been ever since the
houses were built."

"Ah! Then you got hold of the best of the two."

"I think I did.  But how do you know?"

"By the steps, my boy.  Yours are worn three inches
deeper than his.  But this gentleman in the cab is my
client, Mr. Hall Pycroft.  Allow me to introduce you
to him.  Whip your horse up, cabby, for we have only
just time to catch our train."

The man whom I found myself facing was a well built,
fresh- complexioned young fellow, with a frank, honest
face and a slight, crisp, yellow mustache.  He wore a
very shiny top hat and a neat suit of sober black,
which made him look what he was--a smart young City
man, of the class who have been labeled cockneys, but
who give us our crack volunteer regiments, and who
turn out more fine athletes and sportsmen than any
body of men in these islands.  His round, ruddy face
was naturally full of cheeriness, but the corners of
his mouth seemed to me to be pulled down in a
half-comical distress.  It was not, however, until we
were all in a first-class carriage and well started
upon our journey to Birmingham that I was able to
learn what the trouble was which had driven him to
Sherlock Holmes.

"We have a clear run here of seventy minutes," Holmes
remarked.  "I want you, Mr. Hall Pycroft, to tell my
friend your very interesting experience exactly as you
have told it to me, or with more detail if possible. 
It will be of use to me to hear the succession of
events again.  It is a case, Watson, which may prove
to have something in it, or may prove to have nothing,
but which, at least, presents those unusual and outré
features which are as dear to you as they are to me. 
Now, Mr. Pycroft, I shall not interrupt you again."

Our young companion looked at me with a twinkle in his
eye.

The worst of the story is, said he, that I show myself
up as such a confounded fool.  Of course it may work
out all right, and I don't see that I could have done
otherwise; but if I have lost my crib and get nothing
in exchange I shall feel what a soft Johnnie I have
been.  I'm not very good at telling a story, Dr.
Watson, but it is like this with me"

I used to have a billet at Coxon & Woodhouse's, of
Draper's Gardens, but they were let in early in the
spring through the Venezuelan loan, as no doubt you
remember, and came a nasty cropper.  I had been with
them five years, and old Coxon gave me a ripping good
testimonial when the smash came, but of course we
clerks were all turned adrift, the twenty-seven of us. 
I tried here and tried there, but there were lots of
other chaps on the same lay as myself, and it was a
perfect frost for a long time.  I had been taking
three pounds a week at Coxon's, and I had saved about
seventy of them, but I soon worked my way through that
and out at the other end.  I was fairly at the end of
my tether at last, and could hardly find the stamps to
answer the advertisements or the envelopes to stick
them to.  I had worn out my boots paddling up office
stairs, and I seemed just as far from getting a billet
as ever.

At last I saw a vacancy at Mawson & Williams's, the
great stock-broking firm in Lombard Street.  I dare
say E. C. Is not much in your line, but I can tell you
that this is about the richest house in London.  The
advertisement was to be answered by letter only.  I
sent in my testimonial and application, but without
the least hope of getting it.  Back came an answer by
return, saying that if I would appear next Monday I
might take over my new duties at once, provided that
my appearance was satisfactory.  No one knows how
these things are worked.  Some people say that the
manager just plunges his hand into the heap and takes
the first that comes.  Anyhow it was my innings that
time, and I don't ever wish to feel better pleased. 
The screw was a pound a week rise, and the duties just
about the same as at Coxon's.

And now I come to the queer part of the business.  I
was in diggings out Hampstead way, 17 Potter's
Terrace.  Well, I was sitting doing a smoke that very
evening after I had been promised the appointment,
when up came my landlady with a card which had "Arthur
Pinner, Financial Agent," printed upon it.  I had
never heard the name before and could not imagine what
he wanted with me; but, of course, I asked her to show
him up.  In he walked, a middle-sized, dark- haired,
dark-eyed, black-bearded man, with a touch of the
Sheeny about his nose.  He had a brisk kind of way
with him and spoke sharply, like a man who knew the
value of time.

"Mr. Hall Pycroft, I believe?" said he.

"Yes, sir," I answered, pushing a chair towards him.

"Lately engaged at Coxon & Woodhouse's?"

"Yes, sir."

"And now on the staff of Mawson's."

"Quite so."

"Well," said he, "the fact is that I have heard some
really extraordinary stories about your financial
ability.  You remember Parker, who used to be Coxon's
manager?  He can never say enough about it."

Of course I was pleased to hear this.  I had always
been pretty sharp in the office, but I had never
dreamed that I was talked about in the City in this
fashion.

"You have a good memory?" said he.

"Pretty fair," I answered, modestly.

"Have you kept in touch with the market while you have
been out of work?" he asked.

"Yes.  I read the stock exchange list every morning."

"Now that shows real application!" he cried.  "That is
the way to prosper!  You won't mind my testing you,
will you?  Let me see.  How are Ayrshires?"

"A hundred and six and a quarter to a hundred and five
and seven-eighths."

"And New Zealand consolidated?"

"A hundred and four."

"And British Broken Hills?"

"Seven to seven-and-six."

"Wonderful!" he cried, with his hands up.  "This quite
fits in with all that I had heard.  My boy, my boy,
you are very much too good to be a clerk at Mawson's!"

This outburst rather astonished me, as you can think. 
"Well," said I, "other people don't think quite so
much of me as you seem to do, Mr. Pinner.  I had a
hard enough fight to get this berth, and I am very
glad to have it."

"Pooh, man; you should soar above it.  You are not in
your true sphere.  Now, I'll tell you how it stands
with me.  What I have to offer is little enough when
measured by your ability, but when compared with
Mawson's, it's light to dark.  Let me see.  When do
you go to Mawson's?"

"On Monday."

"Ha, ha!  I think I would risk a little sporting
flutter that you don't go there at all."

"Not go to Mawson's?"

"No, sir.  By that day you will be the business
manager of the Franco-Midland Hardware Company,
Limited, with a hundred and thirty-four branches in
the towns and villages of France, not counting one in
Brussels and one in San Remo."

This took my breath away.  "I never heard of it," said
I.

"Very likely not.  It has been kept very quiet, for
the capital was all privately subscribed, and it's too
good a thing to let the public into.  My brother,
Harry Pinner, is promoter, and joins the board after
allotment as managing director.  He knew I was in the
swim down here, and asked me to pick up a good man
cheap.  A young, pushing man with plenty of snap about
him.  Parker spoke of you, and that brought me here
tonight.  We can only offer you a beggarly five
hundred to start with."

"Five hundred a year!" I shouted.

"Only that at the beginning; but you are to have an
overriding commission of one per cent on all business
done by your agents, and you may take my word for it
that this will come to more than your salary."

"But I know nothing about hardware."

"Tut, my boy; you know about figures."

My head buzzed, and I could hardly sit still in my
chair.  But suddenly a little chill of doubt came upon
me.

"I must be frank with you," said I.  "Mawson only
gives me two hundred, but Mawson is safe.  Now,
really, I know so little about your company that--"

"Ah, smart, smart!" he cried, in a kind of ecstasy of
delight.  "You are the very man for us.  You are not
to be talked over, and quite right, too.  Now, here's
a note for a hundred pounds, and if you think that we
can do business you may just slip it into your pocket
as an advance upon your salary."

"That is very handsome," said I.  "When should I take
over my new duties?"

"Be in Birmingham to-morrow at one," said he.  "I have
a note in my pocket here which you will take to my
brother.  You will find him at 126b Corporation
Street, where the temporary offices of the company are
situated.  Of course he must confirm your engagement,
but between ourselves it will be all right."

"Really, I hardly know how to express my gratitude,
Mr. Pinner," said I.

"Not at all, my boy.  You have only got your desserts. 
There are one or two small things--mere
formalities--which I must arrange with you.  You have
a bit of paper beside you there.  Kindly write upon it
'I am perfectly willing to act as business manager to
the Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, at a
minimum salary of L500."

I did as he asked, and he put the paper in his pocket.

"There is one other detail," said he.  "What do you
intend to do about Mawson's?"

I had forgotten all about Mawson's in my joy.  "I'll
write and resign," said I.

"Precisely what I don't want you to do.  I had a row
over you with Mawson's manager.  I had gone up to ask
him about you, and he was very offensive; accused me
of coaxing you away from the service of the firm, and
that sort of thing.  At last I fairly lost my temper. 
'If you want good men you should pay them a good
price,' said I.

"'He would rather have our small price than your big
one,' said he.

"'I'll lay you a fiver,' said I, 'that when he has my
offer you'll never so much as hear from him again.'

"'Done!' said he.  'We picked him out of the gutter,
and he won't leave us so easily.'  Those were his very
words."

"The impudent scoundrel!" I cried.  "I've never so
much as seen him in my life.  Why should I consider
him in any way?  I shall certainly not write if you
would rather I didn't."

"Good!  That's a promise," said he, rising from his
chair.  "Well, I'm delighted to have got so good a man
for my brother.  Here's your advance of a hundred
pounds, and here is the letter.  Make a note of the
address, 126b Corporation Street, and remember that
one o'clock to-morrow is your appointment. 
Good-night; and may you have all the fortune that you
deserve!"

That's just about all that passed between us, as near
as I can remember.  You can imagine, Dr. Watson, how
pleased I was at such an extraordinary bit of good
fortune.  I sat up half the night hugging myself over
it, and next day I was off to Birmingham in a train
that would take me in plenty time for my appointment. 
I took my things to a hotel in New Street, and then I
made my way to the address which had been given me.

It was a quarter of an hour before my time, but I
thought that would make no difference.  126b was a
passage between two large shops, which led to a
winding stone stair, from which there were many flats,
let as offices to companies or professional men.  The
names of the occupants were painted at the bottom on
the wall, but there was no such name as the
Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited.  I stood for
a few minutes with my heart in my boots, wondering
whether the whole thing was an elaborate hoax or not,
when up came a man and addressed me.  He was very like
the chap I had seen the night before, the same figure
and voice, but he was clean shaven and his hair was
lighter.

"Are you Mr. Hall Pycroft?" he asked.

"Yes," said I.

"Oh! I was expecting you, but you are a trifle before
your time.  I had a note from my brother this morning
in which he sang your praises very loudly."

"I was just looking for the offices when you came."

"We have not got our name up yet, for we only secured
these temporary premises last week.  Come up with me,
and we will talk the matter over."

I followed him to the top of a very lofty stair, and
there, right under the slates, were a couple of empty,
dusty little rooms, uncarpeted and uncurtained, into
which he led me.  I had thought of a great office with
shining tables and rows of clerks, such as I was used
to, and I dare say I stared rather straight at the two
deal chairs and one little table, which, with a ledger
and a waste paper basket, made up the whole furniture.

"Don't be disheartened, Mr. Pycroft," said my new
acquaintance, seeing the length of my face.  "Rome was
not built in a day, and we have lots of money at our
backs, though we don't cut much dash yet in offices. 
Pray sit down, and let me have your letter."

I gave it to him, and her read it over very carefully.

"You seem to have made a vast impression upon my
brother Arthur," said he; "and I know that he is a
pretty shrewd judge.  Hew swears by London, you know;
and I by Birmingham; but this time I shall follow his
advice.  Pray consider yourself definitely engaged."

"What are my duties?" I asked.

"You will eventually manage the great depot in Paris,
which will pour a flood of English crockery into the
shops of a hundred and thirty-four agents in France. 
The purchase will be completed in a week, and
meanwhile you will remain in Birmingham and make
yourself useful."

"How?"

For answer, he took a big red book out of a drawer.

"This is a directory of Paris," said he, "with the
trades after the names of the people.  I want you to
take it home with you, and to mark off all the hardware
sellers, with their addresses.  It would be of the
greatest use to me to have them."

"Surely there are classified lists?" I suggested.

"Not reliable ones.  Their system is different from
ours.  Stick at it, and let me have the lists by
Monday, at twelve.  Good-day, Mr. Pycroft.  If you
continue to show zeal and intelligence you will find
the company a good master."

I went back to the hotel with the big book under my
arm, and with very conflicting feelings in my breast. 
On the one hand, I was definitely engaged and had a
hundred pounds in my pocket; on the other, the look of
the offices, the absence of name on the wall, and
other of the points which would strike a business man
had left a bad impression as to the position of my
employers.  However, come what might, I had my money,
so I settled down to my task.  All Sunday I was kept
hard at work, and yet by Monday I had only got as far
as H.  I went round to my employer, found him in the
same dismantled kind of room, and was told to keep at
it until Wednesday, and then come again.  On Wednesday
it was still unfinished, so I hammered away until
Friday--that is, yesterday.  Then I brought it round
to Mr. Harry Pinner.

"Thank you very much," said he; "I fear that I
underrated the difficulty of the task.  This list will
be of very material assistance to me."

"It took some time," said I.

"And now," said he, "I want you to make a list of the
furniture shops, for they all sell crockery."

"Very good."

"And you can come up to-morrow evening, at seven, and
let me know how you are getting on.  Don't overwork
yourself.  A couple of hours at Day's Music Hall in
the evening would do you no harm after your labors." 
He laughed as he spoke, and I saw with a thrill that
his second tooth upon the left-hand side had been very
badly stuffed with gold.


Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands with delight, and I
stared with astonishment at our client.

"You may well look surprised, Dr. Watson; but it is
this way," said he:  "When I was speaking to the other
chap in London, at the time that he laughed at my not
going to Mawson's, I happened to notice that his tooth
was stuffed in this very identical fashion.  The glint
of the gold in each case caught my eye, you see.  When
I put that with the voice and figure being the same,
and only those things altered which might be changed
by a razor or a wig, I could not doubt that it was the
same man.  Of course you expect two brothers to be
alike, but not that they should have the same tooth
stuffed in the same way.  He bowed me out, and I found
myself in the street, hardly knowing whether I was on
my head or my heels.  Back I went to my hotel, put my
head in a basin of cold water, and tried to think it
out.  Why had he sent me from London to Birmingham? 
Why had he got there before me?  And why had he
written a letter from himself to himself?  It was
altogether too much for me, and I could make no sense
of it.  And then suddenly it struck me that what was
dark to me might be very light to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. 
I had just time to get up to town by the night train
to see him this morning, and to bring you both back
with me to Birmingham."

There was a pause after the stock-broker's clerk had
concluded his surprising experience.  Then Sherlock
Holmes cocked his eye at me, leaning back on the
cushions with a pleased and yet critical face, like a
connoisseur who has just taken his first sip of a
comet vintage.

"Rather fine, Watson, is it not?" said he.  "There are
points in it which please me.  I think that you will
agree with me that an interview with Mr. Arthur Harry
Pinner in the temporary offices of the Franco-Midland
Hardware Company, Limited, would be a rather
interesting experience for both of us."

"But how can we do it?" I asked.

"Oh, easily enough," said Hall Pycroft, cheerily. 
"You are two friends of mine who are in want of a
billet, and what could be more natural than that I
should bring you both round to the managing director?"

"Quite so, of course," said Holmes.  "I should like to
have a look at the gentleman, and see if I can make
anything of his little game.  What qualities have you,
my friend, which would make your services so valuable?
or is it possible that--" He began biting his nails
and staring blankly out of the window, and we hardly
drew another word from him until we were in New
Street.

At seven o'clock that evening we were walking, the
three of us, down Corporation Street to the company's
offices.

"It is no use our being at all before our time," said
our client.  "He only comes there to see me,
apparently, for the place is deserted up to the very
hour he names."

"That is suggestive," remarked Holmes.

"By Jove, I told you so!" cried the clerk.  "That's he
walking ahead of us there."

He pointed to a smallish, dark, well-dressed man who
was bustling along the other side of the road.  As we
watched him he looked across at a boy who was bawling
out the latest edition of the evening paper, and
running over among the cabs and busses, he bought one
from him.  Then, clutching it in his hand, he vanished
through a door-way.

"There he goes!" cried Hall Pycroft.  "These are the
company's offices into which he has gone.  Come with
me, and I'll fix it up as easily as possible."

Following his lead, we ascended five stories, until we
found ourselves outside a half-opened door, at which
our client tapped.  A voice within bade us enter, and
we entered a bare, unfurnished room such as Hall
Pycroft had described.  At the single table sat the
man whom we had seen in the street, with his evening
paper spread out in front of him, and as he looked up
at us it seemed to me that I had never looked upon a
face which bore such marks of grief, and of something
beyond grief--of a horror such as comes to few men in
a lifetime.  His brow glistened with perspiration, his
cheeks were of the dull, dead white of a fish's belly,
and his eyes were wild and staring.  He looked at his
clerk as though he failed to recognize him, and I
could see by the astonishment depicted upon our
conductor's face that this was by no means the usual
appearance of his employer.

"You look ill, Mr. Pinner!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, I am not very well," answered the other, making
obvious efforts to pull himself together, and licking
his dry lips before he spoke.  "Who are these
gentlemen whom you have brought with you?"

"One is Mr. Harris, of Bermondsey, and the other is
Mr. Price, of this town," said our clerk, glibly. 
"They are friends of mine and gentlemen of experience,
but they have been out of a place for some little
time, and they hoped that perhaps you might find an
opening for them in the company's employment."

"Very possibly! Very possibly!" cried Mr. Pinner with
a ghastly smile.  "Yes, I have no doubt that we shall
be able to do something for you.  What is your
particular line, Mr. Harris?"

"I am an accountant," said Holmes.

"Ah yes, we shall want something of the sort.  And
you, Mr. Price?"

"A clerk," said I.

"I have every hope that the company may accommodate
you.  I will let you know about it as soon as we come
to any conclusion.  And now I beg that you will go. 
For God's sake leave me to myself!"

These last words were shot out of him, as though the
constraint which he was evidently setting upon himself
had suddenly and utterly burst asunder.  Holmes and I
glanced at each other, and Hall Pycroft took a step
towards the table.

"You forget, Mr. Pinner, that I am here by appointment
to receive some directions from you," said he.

"Certainly, Mr. Pycroft, certainly," the other resumed
in a calmer tone.  "You may wait here a moment; and
there is no reason why your friends should not wait
with you.  I will be entirely at your service in three
minutes, if I might trespass upon your patience so
far."  He rose with a very courteous air, and, bowing
to us, he passed out through a door at the farther end
of the room, which he closed behind him.

"What now?" whispered Holmes.  "Is he giving us the
slip?"

"Impossible," answered Pycroft.

"Why so?"

"That door leads into an inner room."

"There is no exit?"

"None."

"Is it furnished?"

"It was empty yesterday."

"Then what on earth can he be doing?  There is
something which I don't understand in his manner.  If
ever a man was three parts mad with terror, that man's
name is Pinner.  What can have put the shivers on
him?"

"He suspects that we are detectives," I suggested.

"That's it," cried Pycroft.

Holmes shook his head.  "He did not turn pale.  He was
pale when we entered the room," said he.  "It is just
possible that--"

His words were interrupted by a sharp rat-tat from the
direction of the inner door.

"What the deuce is he knocking at his own door for?"
cried the clerk.

Again and much louder cam the rat-tat-tat.  We all
gazed expectantly at the closed door.  Glancing at
Holmes, I saw his face turn rigid, and he leaned
forward in intense excitement.  Then suddenly came a
low guggling, gargling sound, and a brisk drumming
upon woodwork.  Holmes sprang frantically across the
room and pushed at the door.  It was fastened on the
inner side.  Following his example, we threw ourselves
upon it with all our weight.  One hinge snapped, then
the other, and down came the door with a crash. 
Rushing over it, we found ourselves in the inner room. 
It was empty.

But it was only for a moment that we were at fault. 
At one corner, the corner nearest the room which we
had left, there was a second door.  Holmes sprang to
it and pulled it open.  A coat and waistcoat were
lying on the floor, and from a hook behind the door,
with his own braces round his neck, was hanging the
managing director of the Franco-Midland Hardware
Company.  His knees were drawn up, his head hung at a
dreadful angle to his body, and the clatter of his
heels against the door made the noise which had broken
in upon our conversation.  In an instant I had caught
him round the waist, and held him up while Holmes and
Pycroft untied the elastic bands which had disappeared
between the livid creases of skin.  Then we carried
him into the other room, where he lay with a
clay-colored face, puffing his purple lips in and out
with every breath--a dreadful wreck of all that he had
been but five minutes before.

"What do you think of him, Watson?" asked Holmes.

I stooped over him and examined him.  His pulse was
feeble and intermittent, but his breathing grew
longer, and there was a little shivering of his
eyelids, which showed a thin white slit of ball
beneath.

"It has been touch and go with him," said I, "but
he'll live now.  Just open that window, and hand me
the water carafe."  I undid his collar, poured the
cold water over his face, and raised and sank his arms
until he drew a long, natural breath.  "It's only a
question of time now," said I, as I turned away from
him.

Holmes stood by the table, with his hands deep in his
trouser's pockets and his chin upon his breast.

"I suppose we ought to call the police in now," said
he.  "And yet I confess that I'd like to give them a
complete case when they come."

"It's a blessed mystery to me," cried Pycroft,
scratching his head.  "Whatever they wanted to bring
me all the way up here for, and then--"

"Pooh!  All that is clear enough," said Holmes
impatiently.  "It is this last sudden move."

"You understand the rest, then?"

"I think that it is fairly obvious.  What do you say,
Watson?"

I shrugged my shoulders.  "I must confess that I am
out of my depths," said I.

"Oh surely if you consider the events at first they
can only point to one conclusion."

"What do you make of them?"

"Well, the whole thing hinges upon two points.  The
first is the making of Pycroft write a declaration by
which he entered the service of this preposterous
company.  Do you not see how very suggestive that is?"

"I am afraid I miss the point."

"Well, why did they want him to do it?  Not as a
business matter, for these arrangements are usually
verbal, and there was no earthly business reason why
this should be an exception.  Don't you see, my young
friend, that they were very anxious to obtain a
specimen of your handwriting, and had no other way of
doing it?"

"And why?"

"Quite so.  Why?  When we answer that we have made
some progress with our little problem.  Why?  There
can be only one adequate reason.  Some one wanted to
learn to imitate your writing, and had to procure a
specimen of it first.  And now if we pass on to the
second point we find that each throws light upon the
other.  That point is the request made by Pinner that
you should not resign your place, but should leave the
manager of this important business in the full
expectation that a Mr. Hall Pycroft, whom he had never
seen, was about to enter the office upon the Monday
morning."

"My God!" cried our client, "what a blind beetle I
have been!"

"Now you see the point about the handwriting.  Suppose
that some one turned up in your place who wrote a
completely different hand from that in which you had
applied for the vacancy, of course the game would have
been up.  But in the interval the rogue had learned to
imitate you, and his position was therefore secure, as
I presume that nobody in the office had ever set eyes
upon you."

"Not a soul," groaned Hall Pycroft.

"Very good.  Of course it was of the utmost importance
to prevent you from thinking better of it, and also to
keep you from coming into contact with any one who
might tell you that your double was at work in
Mawson's office.  Therefore they gave you a handsome
advance on your salary, and ran you off to the
Midlands, where they gave you enough work to do to
prevent your going to London, where you might have
burst their little game up.  That is all plain
enough."

"But why should this man pretend to be his own
brother?"

"Well, that is pretty clear also.  There are evidently
only two of them in it.  The other is impersonating you
at the office.  This one acted as your engager, and
then found that he could not find you an employer
without admitting a third person into his plot.  That
he was most unwilling to do.  He changed his
appearance as far as he could, and trusted that the
likeness, which you could not fail to observe, would
be put down to a family resemblance.  But for the
happy chance of the gold stuffing, your suspicions
would probably never have been aroused."

Hall Pycroft shook his clinched hands in the air. 
"Good Lord!" he cried, "while I have been fooled in
this way, what has this other Hall Pycroft been doing
at Mawson's?  What should we do, Mr. Holmes?  Tell me
what to do."

"We must wire to Mawson's."

"They shut at twelve on Saturdays."

"Never mind.  There may be some door-keeper or
attendant--"

"Ah yes, they keep a permanent guard there on account
of the value of the securities that they hold.  I
remember hearing it talked of in the City."

"Very good; we shall wire to him, and see if all is
well, and if a clerk of your name is working there. 
That is clear enough; but what is not so clear is why
at sight of us one of the rogues should instantly walk
out of the room and hang himself."

"The paper!" croaked a voice behind us.  The man was
sitting up, blanched and ghastly, with returning
reason in his eyes, and hands which rubbed nervously
at the broad red band which still encircled his
throat.

"The paper!  Of course!" yelled Holmes, in a paroxysm
of excitement.  "Idiot that I was!  I thought so must
of our visit that the paper never entered my head for
an instant.  To be sure, the secret must be there." 
He flattened it out upon the table, and a cry of
triumph burst from his lips.  "Look at this, Watson,"
he cried.  "It is a London paper, an early edition of
the Evening Standard.  Here is what we want.  Look at
the headlines: 'Crime in the City.  Murder at Mawson &
Williams's.  Gigantic attempted Robbery.  Capture of
the Criminal.'  Here, Watson, we are all equally
anxious to hear it, so kindly read it aloud to us."

It appeared from its position in the paper to have
been the one event of importance in town, and the
account of it ran in this way:

"A desperate attempt at robbery, culminating in the
death of one man and the capture of the criminal,
occurred this afternoon in the City.  For some time
back Mawson & Williams, the famous financial house,
have been the guardians of securities which amount in
the aggregate to a sum of considerably over a million
sterling.  So conscious was the manager of the
responsibility which devolved upon him in consequence
of the great interests at stake that safes of the very
latest construction have been employed, and an armed
watchman has been left day and night in the building. 
It appears that last week a new clerk named Hall
Pycroft was engaged by the firm.  This person appears
to have been none other that Beddington, the famous
forger and cracksman, who, with his brother, had only
recently emerged from a five years' spell of penal
servitude.  By some mean, which are not yet clear, he
succeeded in wining, under a false name, this official
position in the office, which he utilized in order to
obtain moulding of various locks, and a thorough
knowledge of the position of the strong room and the
safes.

"It is customary at Mawson's for the clerks to leave
at midday on Saturday.  Sergeant Tuson, of the City
Police, was somewhat surprised, therefore to see a
gentleman with a carpet bag come down the steps at
twenty minutes past one.  His suspicions being
aroused, the sergeant followed the man, and with the
aid of Constable Pollack succeeded, after a most
desperate resistance, in arresting him.  It was at
once clear that a daring and gigantic robbery had been
committed.  Nearly a hundred thousand pounds' worth of
American railway bonds, with a large amount of scrip
in mines and other companies, was discovered in the
bag.  On examining the premises the body of the
unfortunate watchman was found doubled up and thrust
into the largest of the safes, where it would not have
been discovered until Monday morning had it not been
for the prompt action of Sergeant Tuson.  The man's
skull had been shattered by a blow from a poker
delivered from behind.  There could be no doubt that
Beddington had obtained entrance by pretending that he
had left something behind him, and having murdered the
watchman, rapidly rifled the large safe, and then made
off with his booty.  His brother, who usually works
with him, has not appeared in this job as far as can
at present be ascertained, although the police are
making energetic inquiries as to his whereabouts."

"Well, we may save the police some little trouble in
that direction," said Holmes, glancing at the haggard
figure huddled up by the window.  "Human nature is a
strange mixture, Watson.  You see that even a villain
and murderer can inspire such affection that his
brother turns to suicide when he learns that his neck
is forfeited.  However, we have no choice as to our
action.  The doctor and I will remain on guard, Mr.
Pycroft, if you will have the kindness to step out for
the police."



Adventure IV


The "Gloria Scott"


I have some papers here," said my friend Sherlock
Holmes, as we sat one winter's night on either side of
the fire, "which I really think, Watson, that it would
be worth your while to glance over.  These are the
documents in the extraordinary case of the Gloria
Scott, and this is the message which struck Justice of
the Peace Trevor dead with horror when he read it."

He had picked from a drawer a little tarnished
cylinder, and, undoing the tape, he handed me a short
note scrawled upon a half-sheet of slate gray-paper.

"The supply of game for London is going steadily up,"
it ran.  "Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, had been now
told to receive all orders for fly-paper and for
preservation of your hen-pheasant's life."

As I glanced up from reading this enigmatical message,
I saw Holmes chuckling at the expression upon my face.

"You look a little bewildered," said he.

"I cannot see how such a message as this could inspire
horror.  It seems to me to be rather grotesque than
otherwise."

"Very likely.  Yet the fact remains that the reader,
who was a fine, robust old man, was knocked clean down
by it as if it had been the butt end of a pistol."

"You arouse my curiosity," said I.  "But why did you
say just now that there were very particular reasons
why I should study this case?"

"Because it was the first in which I was ever
engaged."

I had often endeavored to elicit from my companion
what had first turned is mind in the direction of
criminal research, but had never caught him before in
a communicative humor.  Now he sat forward in this arm
chair and spread out the documents upon his knees. 
Then he lit his pipe and sat for some time smoking and
turning them over.

"You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?" he asked. 
"He was the only friend I made during the two years I
was at college.  I was never a very sociable fellow,
Watson, always rather fond of moping in my rooms and
working out my own little methods of thought, so that
I never mixed much with the men of my year.  Bar
fencing and boxing I had few athletic tastes, and then
my line of study was quite distinct from that of the
other fellows, so that we had no points of contact at
all.  Trevor was the only man I knew, and that only
through the accident of his bull terrier freezing on
to my ankle one morning as I went down to chapel.

"It was a prosaic way of forming a friendship, but it
was effective.  I was laid by the heels for ten days,
but Trevor used to come in to inquire after me.  At
first it was only a minute's chat, but soon his visits
lengthened, and before the end of the term we were
close friends.  He was a hearty, full-blooded fellow,
full of spirits and energy, the very opposite to me in
most respects, but we had some subjects in common, and
it was a bond of union when I found that he was as
friendless as I.  Finally, he invited me down to his
father's place at Donnithorpe, in Norfolk, and I
accepted his hospitality for a month of the long
vacation.

"Old Trevor was evidently a man of some wealth and
consideration, a J.P., and a landed proprietor. 
Donnithorpe is a little hamlet just to the north of
Langmere, in the country of the Broads.  The house was
and old-fashioned, wide-spread, oak-beamed brick
building, with a fine lime-lined avenue leading up to
it.  There was excellent wild-duck shooting in the
fens, remarkably good fishing, a small but select
library, taken over, as I understood, from a former
occupant, and a tolerable cook, so that he would be a
fastidious man who could not put in a pleasant month
there.

"Trevor senior was a widower, and my friend his only
son.

"There had been a daughter, I heard, but she had died
of diphtheria while on a visit to Birmingham.  The
father interested me extremely.  He was a man of
little culture, but with a considerable amount of rude
strength, both physically and mentally.  He knew
hardly any books, but he had traveled far, had seen
much of the world. And had remembered all that he had
learned.  In person he was a thick-set, burly man with
a shock of grizzled hair, a brown, weather-beaten
face, and blue eyes which were keen to the verge of
fierceness.  Yet he had a reputation for kindness and
charity on the country-side, and was noted for the
leniency of his sentences from the bench.

"One evening, shortly after my arrival, we were
sitting over a glass of port after dinner, when young
Trevor began to talk about those habits of observation
and inference which I had already formed into a
system, although I had not yet appreciated the part
which they were to play in my life.  The old man
evidently thought that his son was exaggerating in his
description of one or two trivial feats which I had
performed.

"'Come, now, Mr. Holmes,' said he, laughing
good-humoredly.  'I'm an excellent subject, if you can
deduce anything from me.'

"'I fear there is not very much,' I answered; 'I might
suggest that you have gone about in fear of some
personal attack with the last twelvemonth.'

"The laugh faded from his lips, and he stared at me in
great surprise.

"'Well, that's true enough,' said he.  'You know,
Victor,' turning to his son, 'when we broke up that
poaching gang they swore to knife us, and Sir Edward
Holly has actually been attacked.  I've always been on
my guard since then, though I have no idea how you
know it.'

"'You have a very handsome stick,' I answered.  'By
the inscription I observed that you had not had it
more than a year.  But you have taken some pains to
bore the head of it and pour melted lead into the hole
so as to make it a formidable weapon.  I argued that
you would not take such precautions unless you had
some danger to fear.'

"'Anything else?' he asked, smiling.

"'You have boxed a good deal in your youth.'

"'Right again.  How did you know it?  Is my nose
knocked a little out of the straight?'

"'No,' said I.  'It is your ears.  They have the
peculiar flattening and thickening which marks the
boxing man.'

"'Anything else?'

"'You have done a good deal of digging by your
callosities.'

"'Made all my money at the gold fields.'

"'You have been in New Zealand.'

"'Right again.'

"'You have visited Japan.'

"'Quite true.'

"'And you have been most intimately associated with
some one whose initials were J. A., and whom you
afterwards were eager to entirely forget.'

"Mr. Trevor stood slowly up, fixed his large blue eyes
upon me with a strange wild stare, and then pitched
forward, with his face among the nutshells which
strewed the cloth, in a dead faint.

"You can imagine, Watson, how shocked both his son and
I were.  His attack did not last long, however, for
when we undid his collar, and sprinkled the water from
one of the finger-glasses over his face, he gave a
gasp or two and sat up.

"'Ah, boys,' said he, forcing a smile, 'I hope I
haven't frightened you.  Strong as I look, there is a
weak place in my heart, and it does not take much to
knock me over.  I don't know how you manage this, Mr.
Holmes, but it seems to me that all the detectives of
fact and of fancy would be children in your hands. 
That's your line of life, sir, and you may take the
word of a man who has seen something of the world.'

"And that recommendation, with the exaggerated
estimate of my ability with which he prefaced it, was,
if you will believe me, Watson, the very first thing
which ever made me feel that a profession might be
made out of what had up to that time been the merest
hobby.  At the moment, however, I was too much
concerned at the sudden illness of my host to think of
anything else.

"'I hope that I have said nothing to pain you?' said
I.

"'Well, you certainly touched upon rather a tender
point.  Might I ask how you know, and how much you
know?'  He spoke now in a half-jesting fashion, but a
look of terror still lurked at the back of his eyes.

"'It is simplicity itself,' said I.  'When you bared
your arm to draw that fish into the boat I saw that J.
A. Had been tattooed in the bend of the elbow.  The
letters were still legible, but it was perfectly clear
from their blurred appearance, and from the staining
of the skin round them, that efforts had been made to
obliterate them.  It was obvious, then, that those
initials had once been very familiar to you, and that
you had afterwards wished to forget them.'

"What an eye you have!" he cried, with a sigh of
relief.  'It is just as you say.  But we won't talk of
it.  Of all ghosts the ghosts of our old lovers are
the worst.  Come into the billiard-room and have a
quiet cigar.'


"From that day, amid all his cordiality, there was
always a touch of suspicion in Mr. Trevor's manner
towards me.  Even his son remarked it.  'You've given
the governor such a turn,' said he, 'that he'll never
be sure again of what you know and what you don't
know.'  He did not mean to show it, I am sure, but it
was so strongly in his mind that it peeped out at
every action.  At last I became so convinced that I
was causing him uneasiness that I drew my visit to a
close.  On the very day, however, before I left, and
incident occurred which proved in the sequel to be of
importance.

"We were sitting out upon the lawn on garden chairs,
the three of us, basking in the sun and admiring the
view across the Broads, when a maid came out to say
that there was a man at the door who wanted to see Mr.
Trevor.

"'What is his name?' asked my host.

"'He would not give any.'

"'What does he want, then?'

"'He says that you know him, and that he only wants a
moment's conversation.'

"'Show him round here.'  An instant afterwards there
appeared a little wizened fellow with a cringing
manner and a shambling style of walking.  He wore an
open jacket, with a splotch of tar on the sleeve, a
red-and-black check shirt, dungaree trousers, and
heavy boots badly worn.  His face was thin and brown
and crafty, with a perpetual smile upon it, which
showed an irregular line of yellow teeth, and his
crinkled hands were half closed in a way that is
distinctive of sailors.  As he came slouching across
the lawn I heard Mr. Trevor make a sort of hiccoughing
noise in his throat, and jumping out of his chair, he
ran into the house.  He was back in a moment, and I
smelt a strong reek of brandy as he passed me.

"'Well, my man,' said he.  'What can I do for you?'

"The sailor stood looking at him with puckered eyes,
and with the same loose-lipped smile upon his face.

"'You don't know me?' he asked.

"'Why, dear me, it is surely Hudson,' said Mr. Trevor
in a tone of surprise.

"'Hudson it is, sir,' said the seaman.  'Why, it's
thirty year and more since I saw you last.  Here you
are in your house, and me still picking my salt meat
out of the harness cask.'

"'Tut, you will find that I have not forgotten old
times,' cried Mr. Trevor, and, walking towards the
sailor, he said something in a low voice.  'Go into
the kitchen,' he continued out loud, 'and you will get
food and drink.  I have no doubt that I shall find you
a situation.'

"'Thank you, sir,' said the seaman, touching his
fore-lock.  'I'm just off a two-yearer in an
eight-knot tramp, short-handed at that, and I wants a
rest.  I thought I'd get it either with Mr. Beddoes or
with you.'

"'Ah!' cried Trevor.  'You know where Mr. Beddoes is?'

"'Bless you, sir, I know where all my old friends
are,' said the fellow with a sinister smile, and he
slouched off after the maid to the kitchen.  Mr.
Trevor mumbled something to us about having been
shipmate with the man when he was going back to the
diggings, and then, leaving us on the lawn, he went
indoors.  An hour later, when we entered the house, we
found him stretched dead drunk upon the dining-room
sofa.  The whole incident left a most ugly impression
upon my mind, and I was not sorry next day to leave
Donnithorpe behind me, for I felt that my presence
must be a source of embarrassment to my friend.

"All this occurred during the first month of the long
vacation.  I went up to my London rooms, where I spent
seven weeks working out a few experiments in organic
chemistry.  On day, however, when the autumn was far
advanced and the vacation drawing to a close, I
received a telegram from my friend imploring me to
return to Donnithorpe, and saying that he was in great
need of my advice and assistance.  Of course I dropped
everything and set out for the North once more.

"He met me with the dog-cart at the station, and I saw
at a glance that the last two months had been very
trying ones for him.  He had grown thin and careworn,
and had lost the loud, cheery manner for which he had
been remarkable.

"'The governor is dying,' were the first words he
said.

"'Impossible!' I cried.  'What is the matter?'

"'Apoplexy.  Nervous shock,  He's been on the verge
all day.  I doubt if we shall find him alive.'

"I was, as you may think, Watson, horrified at this
unexpected news.

"'What has caused it?' I asked.

"'Ah, that is the point.  Jump in and we can talk it
over while we drive.  You remember that fellow who
came upon the evening before you left us?'

"'Perfectly.'

"'Do you know who it was that we let into the house
that day?'

"'I have no idea.'

"'It was the devil, Holmes,' he cried.

"I stared at him in astonishment.

"'Yes, it was the devil himself.  We have not had a
peaceful hour since--not one.  The governor has never
held up his head from that evening, and now the life
has been crushed out of him and his heart broken, all
through this accursed Hudson.'

"'What power had he, then?'

"'Ah, that is what I would give so much to know.  The
kindly, charitable, good old governor--how could he
have fallen into the clutches of such a ruffian!  But
I am so glad that you have come, Holmes.  I trust very
much to your judgment and discretion, and I know that
you will advise me for the best.'

"We were dashing along the smooth white country road,
with the long stretch of the Broads in front of us
glimmering in the red light of the setting sun.  From
a grove upon our left I could already see the high
chimneys and the flag-staff which marked the squire's
dwelling.

"'My father made the fellow gardener,' said my
companion, 'and then, as that did not satisfy him, he
was promoted to be butler.  The house seemed to be at
his mercy, and he wandered about and did what he chose
in it.  The maids complained of his drunken habits and
his vile language.  The dad raised their wages all
round to recompense them for the annoyance.  The
fellow would take the boat and my father's best gun
and treat himself to little shooting trips.  And all
this with such a sneering, leering, insolent face that
I would have knocked him down twenty times over if he
had been a man of my own age.  I tell you, Holmes, I
have had to keep a tight hold upon myself all this
time; and now I am asking myself whether, if I had let
myself go a little more, I might not have been a wiser
man.

"'Well, matters went from bad to worse with us, and
this animal Hudson became more and more intrusive,
until at last, on making some insolent reply to my
father in my presence one day, I took him by the
shoulders and turned him out of the room.  He slunk
away with a livid face and two venomous eyes which
uttered more threats than his tongue could do.  I
don't know what passed between the poor dad and him
after that, but the dad came to me next day and asked
me whether I would mind apologizing to Hudson.  I
refused, as you can imagine, and asked my father how
he could allow such a wretch to take such liberties
with himself and his household.

"'"Ah, my boy," said he, "it is all very well to talk,
but you don't know how I am placed.  But you shall
know, Victor.  I'll see that you shall know, come what
may.  You wouldn't believe harm of your poor old
father, would you, lad?"  He was very much moved, and
shut himself up in the study all day, where I could
see through the window that he was writing busily.

"'That evening there came what seemed to me to be a
grand release, for Hudson told us that he was going to
leave us.  He walked into the dining-room as we sat
after dinner, and announced his intention in the thick
voice of a half-drunken man.

"'"I've had enough of Norfolk," said he.  "I'll run
down to Mr. Beddoes in Hampshire.  He'll be as glad to
see me as you were, I dare say."

"'"You're not going away in any kind of spirit,
Hudson, I hope," said my father, with a tameness which
mad my blood boil.

"'"I've not had my 'pology," said he sulkily, glancing
in my direction.

"'"Victor, you will acknowledge that you have used
this worthy fellow rather roughly," said the dad,
turning to me.

"'"On the contrary, I think that we have both shown
extraordinary patience towards him," I answered.

"'"Oh, you do, do you?" he snarls.  "Very good, mate. 
We'll see about that!"

"'He slouched out of the room, and half an hour
afterwards left the house, leaving my father in a
state of pitiable nervousness.  Night after night I
heard him pacing his room, and it was just as he was
recovering his confidence that the blow did at last
fall.'

"'And how?' I asked eagerly.

"'In a most extraordinary fashion.  A letter arrived
for my father yesterday evening, bearing the
Fordingbridge post-mark.  My father read it, clapped
both his hands to his head, and began running round
the room in little circles like a man who has been
driven out of his senses.  When I at last drew him
down on to the sofa, his mouth and eyelids were all
puckered on one side, and I saw that he had a stroke. 
Dr. Fordham came over at once.  We put him to bed; but
the paralysis has spread, he has shown no sign of
returning consciousness, and I think that we shall
hardly find him alive.'

"'You horrify me, Trevor!' I cried.  'What then could
have been in this letter to cause so dreadful a
result?'

"'Nothing.  There lies the inexplicable part of it. 
The message was absurd and trivial.  Ah, my God, it is
as I feared!'

"As he spoke we came round the curve of the avenue,
and saw in the fading light that every blind in the
house had been drawn down.  As we dashed up to the
door, my friend's face convulsed with grief, a
gentleman in black emerged from it.

"'When did it happen, doctor?' asked Trevor.

"'Almost immediately after you left.'

"'Did he recover consciousness?'

"'For an instant before the end.'

"'Any message for me.'

"'Only that the papers were in the back drawer of the
Japanese cabinet.'

"My friend ascended with the doctor to the chamber of
death, while I remained in the study, turning the
whole matter over and over in my head, and feeling as
sombre as ever I had done in my life.  What was the
past of this Trevor, pugilist, traveler, and
gold-digger, and how had he placed himself in the
power of this acid-faced seaman?  Why, too, should he
faint at an allusion to the half-effaced initials upon
his arm, and die of fright when he had a letter from
Fordingham?  Then I remembered that Fordingham was in
Hampshire, and that this Mr. Beddoes, whom the seaman
had gone to visit and presumably to blackmail, had
also been mentioned as living in Hampshire.  The
letter, then, might either come from Hudson, the
seaman, saying that he had betrayed the guilty secret
which appeared to exist, or it might come from
Beddoes, warning an old confederate that such a
betrayal was imminent.  So far it seemed clear enough. 
But then how could this letter be trivial and
grotesque, as describe by the son?  He must have
misread it.  If so, it must have been one of those
ingenious secret codes which mean one thing while they
seem to mean another.  I must see this letter.  If
there were a hidden meaning in it, I was confident
that I could pluck it forth.  For an hour I sat
pondering over it in the gloom, until at last a
weeping maid brought in a lamp, and close at her heels
came my friend Trevor, pale but composed, with these
very papers which lie upon my knee held in his grasp. 
He sat down opposite to me, drew the lamp to the edge
of the table, and handed me a short note scribbled, as
you see, upon a single sheet of gray paper.  "The
supply of game for London is going steadily up,' it
ran.  'Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now
told to receive all orders for fly-paper and for
preservation of your hen-pheasant's life.'

"I dare say my face looked as bewildered as your did
just now when first I read this message.  Then I
reread it very carefully.  It was evidently as I had
thought, and some secret meaning must lie buried in
this strange combination of words.  Or could it be
that there was a prearranged significance to such
phrases as 'fly-paper' and hen-pheasant'?  Such a
meaning would be arbitrary and could not be deduced in
any way.  And yet I was loath to believe that this was
the case, and the presence of the word Hudson seemed
to show that the subject of the message was as I had
guessed, and that it was from Beddoes rather than the
sailor.  I tried it backwards, but the combination
'life pheasant's hen' was not encouraging.  Then I
tried alternate words, but neither 'the of for' nor
'supply game London' promised to throw any light upon
it.

"And then in an instant the key of the riddle was in
my hands, and I saw that every third word, beginning
with the first, would give a message which might well
drive old Trevor to despair.

"It was short and terse, the warning, as I now read it
to my companion:

"'The game is up.  Hudson has told all.  Fly for your
life.'

"Victor Trevor sank his face into his shaking hands,
'It must be that, I suppose,' said he.  "This is worse
than death, for it means disgrace as well.  But what
is the meaning of these "head-keepers" and
"hen-pheasants"?

"'It means nothing to the message, but it might mean a
good deal to us if we had no other means of
discovering the sender.  You see that he has begun by
writing "The...game...is," and so on.  Afterwards he
had, to fulfill the prearranged cipher, to fill in any
two words in each space.  He would naturally use the
first words which came to his mind, and if there were
so many which referred to sport among them, you may be
tolerably sure that he is either an ardent shot or
interested in breeding.  Do you know anything of this
Beddoes?'

"'Why, now that you mention it,' said he, 'I remember
that my poor father used to have an invitation from
him to shoot over his preserves every autumn.'

"'Then it is undoubtedly from him that the note
comes,' said I.  'It only remains for us to find out
what this secret was which the sailor Hudson seems to
have held over the heads of these two wealthy and
respected men.'

"'Alas, Holmes, I fear that it is one of sin and
shame!' cried my friend.  'But from you I shall have
no secrets.  Here is the statement which was drawn up
by my father when he knew that the danger from Hudson
had become imminent.  I found it in the Japanese
cabinet, as he told the doctor.  Take it and read it
to me, for I have neither the strength nor the courage
to do it myself.'

"These are the very papers, Watson, which he handed to
me, and I will read them to you, as I read them in the
old study that night to him.  They are endorsed
outside, as you see, 'Some particulars of the voyage
of the bark Gloria Scott, from her leaving Falmouth on
the 8th October, 1855, to her destruction in N. Lat.
15 degrees 20', W. Long. 25 degrees 14' on Nov. 6th.'
It is in the form of a letter, and runs in this way:

"'My dear, dear son, now that approaching disgrace
begins to darken the closing years of my life, I can
write with all truth and honesty that it is not the
terror of the law, it is not the loss of my position
in the county, nor is it my fall in the eyes of all
who have known me, which cuts me to the heart; but it
is the thought that you should come to blush for
me--you who love me and who have seldom, I hope, had
reason to do other than respect me.  But if the blow
falls which is forever hanging over me, then I should
wish you to read this, that you may know straight from
me how far I have been to blame.  On the other hand,
if all should go well (which may kind God Almighty
grant!), then if by any chance this paper should be
still undestroyed and should fall into your hands, I
conjure you, by all you hold sacred, by the memory of
your dear mother, and by the love which had been
between us, to hurl it into the fire and to never give
one thought to it again.

"'If then your eye goes onto read this line, I know
that I shall already have been exposed and dragged
from my home, or as is more likely, for you know that
my heart is weak, by lying with my tongue sealed
forever in death.  In either case the time for
suppression is past, and every word which I tell you
is the naked truth, and this I swear as I hope for
mercy.

"'My name, dear lad, is not Trevor.  I was James
Armitage in my younger days, and you can understand
now the shock that it was to me a few weeks ago when
your college friend addressed me in words which seemed
to imply that he had surprised my secret.  As Armitage
it was that I entered a London banking-house, and as
Armitage I was convicted of breaking my country's
laws, and was sentenced to transportation.  Do not
think very harshly of me, laddie.  It was a debt of
honor, so called, which I had to pay, and I used money
which was not my own to do it, in the certainty that I
could replace it before there could be any possibility
of its being missed.  But the most dreadful ill-luck
pursued me.  The money which I had reckoned upon never
came to hand, and a premature examination of accounts
exposed my deficit.  The case might have been dealt
leniently with, but the laws were more harshly
administered thirty years ago than now, and on my
twenty-third birthday I found myself chained as a
felon with thirty-seven other convicts in 'tween-decks
of the bark Gloria Scott, bound for Australia.

"'It was the year '55 when the Crimean war was at its
height, and the old convict ships had been largely used
as transports in the Black Sea.  The government was
compelled, therefore, to use smaller and less suitable
vessels for sending out their prisoners.  The Gloria
Scott had been in the Chinese tea-trade, but she was
an old-fashioned, heavy-bowed, broad-beamed craft, and
the new clippers had cut her out.  She was a
five-hundred-ton boat; and besides her thirty-eight
jail-birds, she carried twenty-six of a crew, eighteen
soldiers, a captain, three mates, a doctor, a
chaplain, and four warders.  Nearly a hundred souls
were in her, all told, when we set said from Falmouth.

"'The partitions between the cells of the convicts,
instead of being of thick oak, as is usual in
convict-ships, were quite thin and frail.  The man
next to me, upon the aft side, was one whom I had
particularly noticed when we were led down the quay. 
He was a young man with a clear, hairless face, a
long, thin nose, and rather nut-cracker jaws.  He
carried his head very jauntily in the air, had a
swaggering style of walking, and was, above all else,
remarkable for his extraordinary height.  I don't
think any of our heads would have come up to his
shoulder, and I am sure that he could not have
measured less than six and a half feet.  It was
strange among so many sad and weary faces to see one
which was full of energy and resolution.  The sight of
it was to me like a fire in a snow-storm.  I was glad,
then, to find that he was my neighbor, and gladder
still when, in the dead of the night, I heard a
whisper close to my ear, and found that he had managed
to cut an opening in the board which separated us.

"'"Hullo, chummy!" said he, "what's your name, and
what are you here for?"

"'I answered him, and asked in turn who I was talking
with.

"'"I'm Jack Prendergast," said he, "and by God! You'll
learn to bless my name before you've done with me."

"'I remembered hearing of his case, for it was one
which had made an immense sensation throughout the
country some time before my own arrest.  He was a man
of good family and of great ability, but on incurably
vicious habits, who had be an ingenious system of
fraud obtained huge sums of money from the leading
London merchants.

"'"Ha, ha!  You remember my case!" said he proudly.

"'"Very well, indeed."

"'"Then maybe you remember something queer about it?"

"'"What was that, then?"

"'"I'd had nearly a quarter of a million, hadn't I?"

"'"So it was said."

"'"But none was recovered, eh?"

"'"No."

"'"Well, where d'ye suppose the balance is?" he asked.

"'"I have no idea," said I.

"'"Right between my finger and thumb," he cried.  "By
God!  I've go more pounds to my name than you've hairs
on your head.  And if you've money, my son, and know
how to handle it and spread it, you can do anything. 
Now, you don't think it likely that a man who could do
anything is going to wear his breeches out sitting in
the stinking hold of a rat-gutted, beetle-ridden,
mouldy old coffin of a Chin China coaster.  No, sir,
such a man will look after himself and will look after
his chums.  You may lay to that!  You hold on to him,
and you may kiss the book that he'll haul you
through."

"'That was his style of talk, and at first I thought
it meant nothing; but after a while, when he had
tested me and sworn me in with all possible solemnity,
he let me understand that there really was a plot to
gain command of the vessel.  A dozen of the prisoners
had hatched it before they came aboard, Prendergast
was the leader, and his money was the motive power.

"'"I'd a partner," said he, "a rare good man, as true
as a stock to a barrel.  He's got the dibbs, he has,
and where do you think he is at this moment?  Why,
he's the chaplain of this ship--the chaplain, no less! 
He came aboard with a black coat, and his papers
right, and money enough in his box to buy the thing
right up from keel to main-truck.  The crew are his,
body and soul.  He could buy 'em at so much a gross
with a cash discount, and he did it before ever they
signed on.  He's got two of the warders and Mereer,
the second mate, and he'd get the captain himself, if
he thought him worth it."

"'"What are we to do, then?" I asked.

"'"What do you think?" said he.  "We'll make the coats
of some of these soldiers redder than ever the tailor
did."

"'"But they are armed," said I.

"'"And so shall we be, my boy.  There's a brace of
pistols for every mother's son of us, and if we can't
carry this ship, with the crew at our back, it's time
we were all sent to a young misses' boarding-school. 
You speak to your mate upon the left to-night, and see
if he is to be trusted."

"'I did so, and found my other neighbor to be a young
fellow in much the same position as myself, whose
crime had been forgery.  His name was Evans, but he
afterwards changed it, like myself, and his is now a
rich and prosperous man in the south of England.  He
was ready enough to join the conspiracy, as the only
means of saving ourselves, and before we had crossed
the Bay there were only two of the prisoners who were
not in the secret.  One of these was of weak mind, and
we did not dare to trust him, and the other was
suffering from jaundice, and could not be of any use
to us.

"'From the beginning there was really nothing to
prevent us from taking possession of the ship.  The
crew were a set of ruffians, specially picked for the
job.  The sham chaplain came into our cells to exhort
us, carrying a black bag, supposed to be full of
tracts, and so often did he come that by the third day
we had each stowed away at the foot of our beds a
file, a brace of pistols, a pound of powder, and
twenty slugs.  Two of the warders were agents of
Prendergast, and the second mate was his right-hand
man.  The captain, the two mates, two warders
Lieutenant Martin, his eighteen soldiers, and the
doctor were all that we had against us.  Yet, safe as
it was, we determined to neglect no precaution, and to
make our attack suddenly by night.  It came, however,
more quickly than we expected, and in this way.

"'One evening, about the third week after our start,
the doctor had come down to see one of the prisoners
who was ill, and putting his hand down on the bottom
of his bunk he felt the outline of the pistols.  If he
had been silent he might have blown the whole thing,
but he was a nervous little chap, so he gave a cry of
surprise and turned so pale that the man knew what was
up in an instant and seized him.  He was gagged before
he could give the alarm, and tied down upon the bed. 
He had unlocked the door that led to the deck, and we
were through it in a rush.  The two sentries were shot
down, and so was a corporal who came running to see
what was the matter.  There were two more soldiers at
the door of the state-room, and their muskets seemed
not to be loaded, for they never fired upon us, and
they were shot while trying to fix their bayonets. 
Then we rushed on into the captain's cabin, but as we
pushed open the door there was an explosion from
within, and there he lay wit his brains smeared over
the chart of the Atlantic which was pinned upon the
table, while the chaplain stood with a smoking pistol
in his hand at his elbow.  The two mates had both been
seized by the crew, and the whole business seemed to
be settled.

"'The state-room was next the cabin, and we flocked in
there and flopped down on the settees, all speaking
together, for we were just mad with the feeling that
we were free once more.  There were lockers all round,
and Wilson, the sham chaplain, knocked one of them in,
and pulled out a dozen of brown sherry.  We cracked
off the necks of the bottles, poured the stuff out
into tumblers, and were just tossing them off, when in
an instant without warning there came the roar of
muskets in our ears, and the saloon was so full of
smoke that we could not see across the table.  When it
cleared again the place was a shambles.  Wilson and
eight others were wriggling on the top of each other
on the floor, and the blood and the brown sherry on
that table turn me sick now when I think of it.  We
were so cowed by the sight that I think we should have
given the job up if had not been for Prendergast.  He
bellowed like a bull and rushed for the door with all
that were left alive at his heels.  Out we ran, and
there on the poop were the lieutenent and ten of his
men.  The swing skylights above the saloon table had
been a bit open, and they had fired on us through the
slit.  We got on them before they could load, and they
stood to it like men; but we had the upper hand of
them, and in five minutes it was all over.  My God!
Was there ever a slaughter-house like that ship! 
Predergast was like a raging deveil, and he picked the
soldiers up as if they had been children and threw
them overboard alive or dead.  There was one sergeant
that was horribly wounded and yet kept on swimming for
a surprising time, until some one in mercy blew out
his brains.  When the fighting was over there was no
one left of our enemies except just the warders the
mates, and the doctor.

"'It was over them that the great quarrel arose. 
There were many of us who were glad enough to win back
our freedom, and yet who had no wish to have murder on
our souls.  It was one thing to knock the soldiers
over with their muskets in their hands, and it was
another to stand by while men were being killed in
cold blood.  Eight of us, five convicts and three
sailors, said that we would not see it done.  But
there was no moving Predergast and those who were with
him.  Our only chance of safety lay in making a clean
job of it, said he, and he would not leave a tongue
with power to wag in a witness-box.  It nearly came to
our sharing the fate of the prisoners, but at last he
said that if we wished we might take a boat and go. 
We jumped at the offer, for we were already sick of
these blookthirsty doings, and we saw that there would
be worse before it was done.  We were given a suit of
sailor togs each, a barrel of water, two casks, one of
junk and one of biscuits, and a compass.  Prendergast
threw us over a chart, told us that we were
shipwrecked mariners whose ship had foundered in Lat.
15 degrees and Long 25 degrees west, and then cut the painter and
let us go.

"'And now I come to the most surprising part of my
story, my dear son.  The seamen had hauled the
fore-yard aback during the rising, but now as we left
them they brought it square again, and as there was a
light wind from the north and east the bark began to
draw slowly away from us.  Our boat lay, rising and
falling, upon the long, smooth rollers, and Evans and
I, who were the most educated of the party, were
sitting in the sheets working out our position and
planning what coast we should make for.  It was a nice
question, for the Cape de Verds were about five
hundred miles to the north of us, and the African
coast about seven hundred to the east.  On the whole,
as the wind was coming round to the north, we thought
that Sierra Leone might be best, and turned our head
in that direction, the bark being at that time nearly
hull down on our starboard quarter.  Suddenly as we
looked at her we saw a dense black cloud of smoke
shoot up from her, which hung like a monstrous tree
upon the sky line.  A few seconds later a roar like
thunder burst upon our ears, and as the smoke thinned
away there was no sign left of the Gloria Scott.  In
an instant we swept the boat's head round again and
pulled with all our strength for the place where the
haze still trailing over the water marked the scene of
this catastrophe.

"'It was a long hour before we reached it, and at
first we feared that we had come too late to save any
one.  A splintered boat and a number of crates and
fragments of spars rising and falling on the waves
showed us where the vessel had foundered; but there
was no sign of life, and we had turned away in despair
when we heard a cry for help, and saw at some distance
a piece of wreckage with a man lying stretched across
it.  When we pulled him aboard the boat he proved to
be a young seaman of the name of Hudson, who was so
burned and exhausted that he could give us no account
of what had happened until the following morning.

"'It seemed that after we had left, Prendergast and
his gang had proceeded to put to death the five
remaining prisoners.  The two warders had been shot
and thrown overboard, and so also had the third mate. 
Prendergast then descended into the 'tween-decks and
with his own hands cut the throat of the unfortunate
surgeon.  There only remained the first mate, who was
a bold and active man.  When he saw the convict
approaching him with the bloody knife in his hand he
kicked off his bonds, which he had somehow contrived
to loosen, and rushing down the deck he plunged into
the after-hold.  A dozen convicts, who descended with
their pistols in search of him, found him with a
match-box in his hand seated beside an open
powder-barrel, which was one of a hundred carried on
board, and swearing that he would blow all hands up if
he were in any way molested.  An instant later the
explosion occurred, though Hudson thought it was
caused by the misdirected bullet of one of the
convicts rather than the mate's match.  Be the cause
what I may, it was the end of the Gloria Scott and of
the rabble who held command of her.

"'Such, in a few words, my dear boy, is the history of
this terrible business in which I was involved.  Next
day we were picked up by the brig Hotspur, bound for
Australia, whose captain found no difficulty in
believing that we were the survivors of a passenger
ship which had foundered.  The transport ship Gloria
Scott was set down by the Admiralty as being lost at
sea, and no word has ever leaked out as to her true
fate.  After an excellent voyage the Hotspur landed us
at Sydney, where Evans and I changed our names and
made our way to the diggings, where, among the crowds
who were gathered from all nations, we had no
difficulty in losing our former identities.  The rest
I need not relate.  We prospered, we traveled, we came
back as rich colonials to England, and we bought
country estates.  For more than twenty years we have
led peaceful and useful lives, and we hoped that our
past was forever buried.  Imagine, then, my feelings
when in the seaman who came to us I recognized
instantly the man who had been picked off the wreck. 
He had tracked us down somehow, and had set himself to
live upon our fears.  You will understand now how it
was that I strove to keep the peace with him, and you
will in some measure sympathize with me in the fears
which fill me, now that he has gone from me to his
other victim with threats upon his tongue.'

"Underneath is written in a hand so shaky as to be
hardly legible, 'Beddoes writes in cipher to say H.
Has told all.  Sweet Lord, have mercy on our souls!'


"That was the narrative which I read that night to
young Trevor, and I think, Watson, that under the
circumstances it was a dramatic one.  The good fellow
was heart-broken at it, and went out to the Terai tea
planting, where I hear that he is doing well.  As to
the sailor and Beddoes, neither of them was ever heard
of again after that day on which the letter of warning
was written.  They both disappeared utterly and
completely.  No complaint had been lodged with he
police, so that Beddoes had mistaken a threat for a
deed.  Hudson had been seen lurking about, and it was
believed by the police that he had done away with
Beddoes and had fled.  For myself I believe that the
truth was exactly the opposite.  I think that it is
most probable that Beddoes, pushed to desperation and
believing himself to have been already betrayed, had
revenged himself upon Hudson, and had fled from the
country with as much money as he could lay his hands
on.  Those are the facts of the case, Doctor, and if
they are of any use to your collection, I am sure that
they are very heartily at your service."



Adventure V


The Musgrave Ritual


An anomaly which often struck me in the character of
my friend Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his
methods of thought he was the neatest and most
methodical of mankind, and although also he affected a
certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the less
in his personal habits one of the most untidy men that
ever drove a fellow-lodger to distraction.  Not that I
am in the least conventional in that respect myself. 
The rough-and-tumble work in Afghanistan, coming on
the top of a natural Bohemianism of disposition, has
made me rather more lax than befits a medical man.
But with me there is a limit, and when I find a man who
keeps his cigars in the coal-scuttle, his tobacco in
the toe end of a Persian slipper, and his unanswered
correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the
very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin to
give myself virtuous airs.  I have always held, too,
that pistol practice should be distinctly an open-air
pastime; and when Holmes, in one of his queer humors,
would sit in an arm-chair with his hair-trigger and a
hundred Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the
opposite wall with a patriotic V. R. done in
bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that neither the
atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was improved
by it.

Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of
criminal relics which had a way of wandering into
unlikely positions, and of turning up in the
butter-dish or in even less desirable places.  But his
papers were my great crux.  He had a horror of
destroying documents, especially those which were
connected with his past cases, and yet it was only
once in every year or two that he would muster energy
to docket and arrange them; for, as I have mentioned
somewhere in these incoherent memoirs, the outbursts
of passionate energy when he performed the remarkable
feats with which his name is associated were followed
by reactions of lethargy during which he would lie
about with his violin and his books, hardly moving
save from the sofa to the table.  Thus month after
month his papers accumulated, until every corner of
the room was stacked with bundles of manuscript which
were on no account to be burned, and which could not
be put away save by their owner.  One winter's night,
as we sat together by the fire, I ventured to suggest
to him that, as he had finished pasting extracts into
his common-place book, he might employ the next two
hours in making our room a little more habitable.  He
could not deny the justice of my request, so with a
rather rueful face he went off to his bedroom, from which
he returned presently pulling a large tin box behind
him.  This he placed in the middle of the floor and,
squatting down upon a stool in front of it, he threw
back the lid.  I could see that it was already a third
full of bundles of paper tied up with red tape into
separate packages.

"There are cases enough here, Watson," said he,
looking at me with mischievous eyes.  "I think that if
you knew all that I had in this box you would ask me
to pull some out instead of putting others in."

"These are the records of your early work, then?" I
asked.  "I have often wished that I had notes of those
cases."

"Yes, my boy, these were all done prematurely before
my biographer had come to glorify me."  He lifted
bundle after bundle in a tender, caressing sort of
way.  "They are not all successes, Watson," said he. 
"But there are some pretty little problems among them. 
Here's the record of the Tarleton murders, and the
case of Vamberry, the wine merchant, and the adventure
of the old Russian woman, and the singular affair of
the aluminium crutch, as well as a full account of
Ricoletti of the club-foot, and his abominable wife. 
And here--ah, now, this really is something a little
recherché."

He dived his arm down to the bottom of the chest, and
brought up a small wooden box with a sliding lid, such
as children's toys are kept in.  From within he
produced a crumpled piece of paper, and old-fashioned
brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string
attached to it, and three rusty old disks of metal.

"Well, my boy, what do you make of this lot?" he
asked, smiling at my expression.

"It is a curious collection."

"Very curious, and the story that hangs round it will
strike you as being more curious still."

"These relics have a history then?"

"So much so that they are history."

"What do you mean by that?"

Sherlock Holmes picked them up one by one, and laid
them along the edge of the table.  Then he reseated
himself in his chair and looked them over with a gleam
of satisfaction in his eyes.

"These," said he, "are all that I have left to remind
me of the adventure of the Musgrave Ritual."

I had heard him mention the case more than once,
though I had never been able to gather the details. 
"I should be so glad," said I, "if you would give me
an account of it."

"And leave the litter as it is?" he cried,
mischievously.  "Your tidiness won't bear much strain
after all, Watson.  But I should be glad that you
should add this case to your annals, for there are
points in it which make it quite unique in the
criminal records of this or, I believe, of any other
country.  A collection of my trifling achievements
would certainly be incomplete which contained no
account of this very singular business.

"You may remember how the affair of the Gloria Scott,
and my conversation with the unhappy man whose fate I
told you of, first turned my attention in the
direction of the profession which has become my life's
work.  You see me now when my name has become known
far and wide, and when I am generally recognized both
by the public and by the official force as being a
final court of appeal in doubtful cases.  Even when
you knew me first, at the time of the affair which you
have commemorated in 'A Study in Scarlet,' I had
already established a considerable, though not a very
lucrative, connection.  You can hardly realize, then,
how difficult I found it at first, and how long I had
to wait before I succeeded in making any headway.

"When I first came up to London I had rooms in
Montague Street, just round the corner from the
British Museum, and there I waited, filling in my too
abundant leisure time by studying all those branches
of science which might make me more efficient.  Now
and again cases came in my way, principally through
the introduction of old fellow-students, for during my
last years at the University there was a good deal of
talk there about myself and my methods.  The third of
these cases was that of the Musgrave Ritual, and it is
to the interest which was aroused by that singular
chain of events, and the large issues which proved to
be at stake, that I trace my first stride towards to
position which I now hold.

"Reginald Musgrave had been in the same college as
myself, and I had some slight acquaintance with him. 
He was not generally popular among the undergraduates,
though it always seemed to me that what was set down
as pride was really an attempt to cover extreme
natural diffidence.  In appearance he was a man of
exceedingly aristocratic type, thin, high-nosed, and
large-eyed, with languid and yet courtly manners.  He
was indeed a scion of one of the very oldest families
in the kingdom, though his branch was a cadet one
which had separated from the northern Musgraves some
time in the sixteenth century, and had established
itself in western Sussex, where the Manor House of
Hurlstone is perhaps the oldest inhabited building in
the county.  Something of his birth place seemed to
cling to the man, and I never looked at his pale, keen
face or the poise of his head without associating him
with gray archways and mullioned windows and all the
venerable wreckage of a feudal keep.  Once or twice we
drifted into talk, and I can remember that more than
once he expressed a keen interest in my methods of
observation and inference.

"For four years I had seen nothing of him until one
morning he walked into my room in Montague Street.  He
had changed little, was dressed like a young man of
fashion--he was always a bit of a dandy--and preserved
the same quiet, suave manner which had formerly
distinguished him.

"'How has all gone with you Musgrave?" I asked, after
we had cordially shaken hands.

"'You probably heard of my poor father's death,' said
he; 'he was carried off about two years ago.  Since
then I have of course had the Hurlstone estates to
manage, and as I am member for my district as well, my
life has been a busy one.  But I understand, Holmes,
that you are turning to practical ends those powers
with which you used to amaze us?"

"'Yes,' said I, 'I have taken to living by my wits.'

"'I am delighted to hear it, for your advice at
present would be exceedingly valuable to me.  We have
had some very strange doings at Hurlstone, and the
police have been able to throw no light upon the
matter.  It is really the most extraordinary and
inexplicable business.'

"You can imagine with what eagerness I listened to
him, Watson, for the very chance for which I had been
panting during all those months of inaction seemed to
have come within my reach.  In my inmost heart I
believed that I could succeed where others failed, and
now I had the opportunity to test myself.

"'Pray, let me have the details,' I cried.

"Reginald Musgrave sat down opposite to me, and lit
the cigarette which I had pushed towards him.

"'You must know,' said he, 'that though I am a
bachelor, I have to keep up a considerable staff of
servants at Hurlstone, for it is a rambling old place,
and takes a good deal of looking after.  I preserve,
too, and in the pheasant months I usually have a
house-party, so that it would not do to be
short-handed.  Altogether there are eight maids, the
cook, the butler, two footmen, and a boy.  The garden
and the stables of course have a separate staff.

"'Of these servants the one who had been longest in
our service was Brunton the butler.  He was a young
school-master out of place when he was first taken up
by my father, but he was a man of great energy and
character, and he soon became quite invaluable in the
household.  He was a well-grown, handsome man, with a
splendid forehead, and though he has been with us for
twenty years he cannot be more than forty now.  With
his personal advantages and his extraordinary
gifts--for he can speak several languages and play
nearly every musical instrument--it is wonderful that
he should have been satisfied so long in such a
position, but I suppose that he was comfortable, and
lacked energy to make any change.  The butler of
Hurlstone is always a thing that is remembered by all
who visit us.

"'But this paragon has one fault.  He is a bit of a
Don Juan, and you can imagine that for a man like him
it is not a very difficult part to play in a quiet
country district.  When he was married it was all
right, but since he has been a widower we have had no
end of trouble with him.  A few months ago we were in
hopes that he was about to settle down again for he
became engaged to Rachel Howells, our second
house-maid; but he has thrown her over since then and
taken up with Janet Tregellis, the daughter of the
head game-keeper.  Rachel--who is a very good girl,
but of an excitable Welsh temperament--had a sharp
touch of brain-fever, and goes about the house now--or
did until yesterday--like a black-eyed shadow of her
former self.  That was our first drama at Hurlstone;
but a second one came to drive it from our minds, and
it was prefaced by the disgrace and dismissal of
butler Brunton.

"'This was how it came about.  I have said that the
man was intelligent, and this very intelligence has
caused his ruin, for it seems to have led to an
insatiable curiosity about things which did not in the
least concern him.  I had no idea of the lengths to
which this would carry him, until the merest accident
opened my eyes to it.

"'I have said that the house is a rambling one.  One
day last week--on Thursday night, to be more exact--I
found that I could not sleep, having foolishly taken a
cup of strong café noir after my dinner.  After
struggling against it until two in the morning, I felt
that it was quite hopeless, so I rose and lit the
candle with the intention of continuing a novel which
I was reading.  The book, however, had been left in
the billiard-room, so I pulled on my dressing-gown and
started off to get it.

"'In order to reach the billiard-room I had to descend
a flight of stairs and then to cross the head of a
passage which led to the library and the gun-room. 
You can imagine my surprise when, as I looked down
this corridor, I saw a glimmer of light coming from
the open door of the library.  I had myself
extinguished the lamp and closed the door before
coming to bed.  Naturally my first thought was of
burglars.  The corridors at Hurlstone have their walls
largely decorated with trophies of old weapons.  From
one of these I picked a battle-axe, and then, leaving
my candle behind me, I crept on tiptoe down the
passage and peeped in at the open door.

"'Brunton, the butler, was in the library.  He was
sitting, fully dressed, in an easy-chair, with a slip
of paper which looked like a map upon his knee, and
his forehead sunk forward upon his hand in deep
thought.  I stood dumb with astonishment, watching him
from the darkness.  A small taper on the edge of the
table shed a feeble light which sufficed to show me
that he was fully dressed.  Suddenly, as I looked, he
rose from his chair, and walking over to a bureau at
the side, he unlocked it and drew out one of the
drawers.  From this he took a paper, and returning to
his seat he flattened it out beside the taper on the
edge of the table, and began to study it with minute
attention.  My indignation at this calm examination of
our family documents overcame me so far that I took a
step forward, and Brunton, looking up, saw me standing
in the doorway.  He sprang to his feet, his face
turned livid with fear, and he thrust into his breast
the chart-like paper which he had been originally
studying.

"'"So!" said I.  "This is how you repay the trust
which we have reposed in you.  You will leave my
service to-morrow."

"'He bowed with the look of a man who is utterly
crushed, and slunk past me without a word.  The taper
was still on the table, and by its light I glanced to
see what the paper was which Brunton had taken from
the bureau.  To my surprise it was nothing of any
importance at all, but simply a copy of the questions
and answers in the singular old observance called the
Musgrave Ritual.  It is a sort of ceremony peculiar to
our family, which each Musgrave for centuries past has
gone through on his coming of age--a thing of private
interest, and perhaps of some little importance to the
archaeologist, like our own blazonings and charges,
but of no practical use whatever.'

"'We had better come back to the paper afterwards,'
said I.

"'If you think it really necessary,' he answered, with
some hesitation.  'To continue my statement, however: 
I relocked the bureau, using the key which Brunton had
left, and I had turned to go when I was surprised to
find that the butler had returned, and was standing
before me.

"'"Mr. Musgrave, sir," he cried, in a voice which was
hoarse with emotion, "I can't bear disgrace, sir. 
I've always been proud above my station in life, and
disgrace would kill me.  My blood will be on your
head, sir--it will, indeed--if you drive me to
despair.  If you cannot keep me after what has passed,
then for God's sake let me give you notice and leave
in a month, as if of my own free will.  I could stand
that, Mr. Musgrave, but not to be cast out before all
the folk that I know so well."

"'"You don't deserve much consideration, Brunton," I
answered.  "Your conduct has been most infamous. 
However, as you have been a long time in the family, I
have no wish to bring public disgrace upon you.  A
month, however is too long.  Take yourself away in a
week, and give what reason you like for going."

"'"Only a week, sir?" he cried, in a despairing voice. 
"A fortnight--say at least a fortnight!"

"'"A week," I repeated, "and you may consider yourself
to have been very leniently dealt with."

"'He crept away, his face sunk upon his breast, like a
broken man, while I put out the light and returned to
my room.


""For two days after this Brunton was most assiduous
in his attention to his duties.  I made no allusion to
what had passed, and waited with some curiosity to see
how he would cover his disgrace.  On the third
morning, however he did not appear, as was his custom,
after breakfast to receive my instructions for the
day.  As I left the dining-room I happened to meet
Rachel Howells, the maid.  I have told you that she
had only recently recovered from an illness, and was
looking so wretchedly pale and wan that I remonstrated
with her for being at work.

"'"You should be in bed," I said.  "Come back to your
duties when you are stronger."

"'She looked at me with so strange an expression that
I began to suspect that her brain was affected.

"'"I am strong enough, Mr. Musgrave," said she.

"'"We will see what the doctor says," I answered. 
"You must stop work now, and when you go downstairs
just say that I wish to see Brunton."

"'"The butler is gone," said she.

"'"Gone!  Gone where?"

"'"He is gone.  No one has seen him. He is not in his
room.  Oh, yes, he is gone, he is gone!"  She fell
back against the wall with shriek after shriek of
laughter, while I, horrified at this sudden hysterical
attack, rushed to the bell to summon help.  The girl
was taken to her room, still screaming and sobbing,
while I made inquiries about Brunton.  There was no
doubt about it that he had disappeared.  His bed had
not been slept in, he had been seen by no one since he
had retired to his room the night before, and yet it
was difficult to see how he could have left the house,
as both windows and doors were found to be fastened in
the morning.  His clothes, his watch, and even his
money were in his room, but the black suit which he
usually wore was missing.  His slippers, too, were
gone, but his boots were left behind.  Where then
could butler Brunton have gone in the night, and what
could have become of him now?

"'Of course we searched the house from cellar to
garret, but there was no trace of him.  It is, as I
have said, a labyrinth of an old house, especially the
original wing, which is now practically uninhabited;
but we ransacked every room and cellar without
discovering the least sign of the missing man.  It was
incredible to me that he could have gone away leaving
all his property behind him, and yet where could he
be?  I called in the local police, but without
success.  Rain had fallen on the night before and we
examined the lawn and the paths all round the house,
but in vain.  Matters were in this state, when a new
development quite drew our attention away from the
original mystery.

"'For two days Rachel Howells had been so ill,
sometimes delirious, sometimes hysterical, that a
nurse had been employed to sit up with her at night. 
On the third night after Brunton's disappearance, the
nurse, finding her patient sleeping nicely, had
dropped into a nap in the arm-chair, when shoe woke in
the early morning to find the bed empty, the window
open, and no signs of the invalid.  I was instantly
aroused, and, with the two footmen, started off at
once in search of the missing girl.  It was not
difficult to tell the direction which she had taken,
for, starting from under her window, we could follow
her footmarks easily across the lawn to the edge of
the mere, where they vanished close to the gravel path
which leads out of the grounds.  The lake there is
eight feet deep, and you can imagine our feelings when
we saw that the trail of the poor demented girl came
to an end at the edge of it.

"'Of course, we had the drags at once, and set to work
to recover the remains, but no trace of the body could
we find.  On the other hand, we brought to the surface
an object of a most unexpected kind.  It was a linen
bag which contained within it a mass of old rusted and
discolored metal and several dull-colored pieces of
pebble or glass.  This strange find was all that we
could get from the mere, and, although we made every
possible search and inquiry yesterday, we know nothing
of the fate either of Rachel Howells or of Richard
Brunton.  The county police are at their wits' end,
and I have come up to you as a last resource.'

"You can imagine, Watson, with what eagerness I
listened to this extraordinary sequence of events, and
endeavored to piece them together, and to devise some
common thread upon which they might all hang.  The
butler was gone.  The maid was gone.  The maid had
loved the butler, but had afterwards had cause to hate
him.  She was of Welsh blood, fiery and passionate. 
She had been terribly excited immediately after his
disappearance.  She had flung into the lake a bag
containing some curious contents.  These were all
factors which had to be taken into consideration, and
yet none of them got quite to the heart of the matter. 
What was the starting-point of this chain of events? 
There lay the end of this tangled line.

"'I must see that paper, Musgrave,' said I, 'which
this butler of your thought it worth his while to
consult, even at the risk of the loss of his place.'

"'It is rather an absurd business, this ritual of
ours,' he answered.  'But it has at least the saving
grace of antiquity to excuse it.  I have a copy of the
questions and answers here if you care to run your eye
over them.'

"He handed me the very paper which I have here,
Watson, and this is the strange catechism to which
each Musgrave had to submit when he came to man's
estate.  I will read you the questions and answers as
they stand.

"'Whose was it?'

"'His who is gone.'

"'Who shall have it?'

"'He who will come.'

"'Where was the sun?'

"'Over the oak.'

"'Where was the shadow?'

"'Under the elm.'

"How was it stepped?'

"'North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five,
south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and
so under.'

"'What shall we give for it?'

"'All that is ours.'

"'Why should we give it?'

"'For the sake of the trust.'

"'The original has no date, but is in the spelling of
the middle of the seventeenth century,' remarked
Musgrave.  'I am afraid, however, that it can be of
little help to you in solving this mystery.'

"'At least,' said I, 'it gives us another mystery, and
one which is even more interesting than the first.  It
may be that the solution of the one may prove to be
the solution of the other.  You will excuse me,
Musgrave, if I say that your butler appears to me to
have been a very clever man, and to have had a clearer
insight that ten generations of his masters.'

"'I hardly follow you,' said Musgrave.  'The paper
seems to me to be of no practical importance.'

"'But to me it seems immensely practical, and I fancy
that Brunton took the same view.  He had probably seen
it before that night on which you caught him.'

"'It is very possible.  We took no pains to hide it.'

"'He simply wished, I should imagine, to refresh his
memory upon that last occasion.  He had, as I
understand, some sort of map or chart which he was
comparing with the manuscript, and which he thrust
into his pocket when you appeared.'

"'That is true.  But what could he have to do with
this old family custom of ours, and what does this
rigmarole mean?'

"'I don't think that we should have much difficulty in
determining that,' said I; 'with your permission we
will take the first train down to Sussex, and go a
little more deeply into the matter upon the spot.'


"The same afternoon saw us both at Hurlstone. 
Possibly you have seen pictures and read descriptions
of the famous old building, so I will confine my
account of it to saying that it is built in the shape
of an L, the long arm being the more modern portion,
and the shorter the ancient nucleus, from which the
other had developed.  Over the low, heavily-lintelled
door, in the centre of this old part, is chiseled the
date, 1607, but experts are agreed that the beams and
stone-work are really much older than this.  The
enormously thick walls and tiny windows of this part
had in the last century driven the family into
building the new wing, and the old one was used now as
a store-house and a cellar, when it was used at all. 
A splendid park with fine old timber surrounds the
house, and the lake, to which my client had referred,
lay close to the avenue, about two hundred yards from
the building.

"I was already firmly convinced, Watson, that there
were not three separate mysteries here, but one only,
and that if I could read the Musgrave Ritual aright I
should hold in my hand the clue which would lead me to
the truth concerning both the butler Brunton and the
maid Howells.  To that then I turned all my energies. 
Why should this servant be so anxious to master this
old formula?  Evidently because he saw something in it
which had escaped all those generations of country
squires, and from which he expected some personal
advantage.  What was it then, and how had it affected
his fate?

"It was perfectly obvious to me, on reading the
ritual, that the measurements must refer to some spot
to which the rest of the document alluded, and that if
we could find that spot, we should be in a fair way
towards finding what the secret was which the old
Musgraves had thought it necessary to embalm in so
curious a fashion.  There were two guides given us to
start with, an oak and an elm.  As to the oak there
could be no question at all.  Right in front of the
house, upon the left-hand side of the drive, there
stood a patriarch among oaks, one of the most
magnificent trees that I have ever seen.

"'That was there when you ritual was drawn up,' said
I, as we drove past it.

"'It was there at the Norman Conquest in all
probability,' he answered.  'It has a girth of
twenty-three feet.'

"'Have you any old elms?' I asked.

"'There used to be a very old one over yonder but it
was struck by lightning ten years ago, and we cut down
the stump,'

"'You can see where it used to be?'

"'Oh, yes.'

"'There are no other elms?'

"'No old ones, but plenty of beeches.'

"'I should like to see where it grew.'

"We had driven up in a dogcart, and my client led me
away at once, without our entering the house, to the
scar on the lawn where the elm had stood.  It was
nearly midway between the oak and the house.  My
investigation seemed to be progressing.

"'I suppose it is impossible to find out how high the
elm was?' I asked.

"'I can give you it at once.  It was sixty-four feet.'

"'How do you come to know it?' I asked, in surprise.

"'When my old tutor used to give me an exercise in
trigonometry, it always took the shape of measuring
heights.  When I was a lad I worked out every tree and
building in the estate.'

"This was an unexpected piece of luck.  My data were
coming more quickly than I could have reasonably
hoped.

"'Tell me,' I asked, 'did your butler ever ask you
such a question?'

"Reginald Musgrave looked at me in astonishment.  'Now
that you call it to my mind,' he answered, 'Brunton
did ask me about the height of the tree some months
ago, in connection with some little argument with the
groom,'

"This was excellent news, Watson, for it showed me
that I was on the right road.  I looked up at the sun. 
It was low in the heavens, and I calculated that in
less than an hour it would lie just above the topmost
branches of the old oak.  One condition mentioned in
the Ritual would then be fulfilled.  And the shadow of
the elm must mean the farther end of the shadow,
otherwise the trunk would have been chosen as the
guide.  I had, then, to find where the far end of the
shadow would fall when the sun was just clear of the
oak."

"That must have been difficult, Holmes, when the elm
was no longer there."

"Well, at least I knew that if Brunton could do it, I
could also.  Besides, there was no real difficulty.  I
went with Musgrave to his study and whittled myself
this peg, to which I tied this long string with a knot
at each yard.  Then I took two lengths of a
fishing-rod, which came to just six feet, and I went
back with my client to where the elm had been.  The
sun was just grazing the top of the oak.  I fastened
the rod on end, marked out the direction of the
shadow, and measured it.  It was nine feet in length.

"Of course the calculation now was a simple one.  If a
rod of six feet threw a shadow of nine, a tree of
sixty-four feet would throw one of ninety-six, and the
line of the one would of course the line of the other. 
I measured out the distance, which brought me almost
to the wall of the house, and I thrust a peg into the
spot.  You can imagine my exultation, Watson, when
within two inches of my peg I saw a conical depression
in the ground.  I knew that it was the mark made by
Brunton in his measurements, and that I was still upon
his trail.

"From this starting-point I proceeded to step, having
first taken the cardinal points by my pocket-compass. 
Ten steps with each foot took me along parallel with
the wall of the house, and again I marked my spot with
a peg.  Then I carefully paced off five to the east
and two to the south.  It brought me to the very
threshold of the old door.  Two steps to the west
meant now that I was to go two paces down the
stone-flagged passage, and this was the place
indicated by the Ritual.

"Never have I felt such a cold chill of
disappointment, Watson.  For a moment is seemed to me
that there must be some radical mistake in my
calculations.  The setting sun shone full upon the
passage floor, and I could see that the old, foot-worn
gray stones with which it was paved were firmly
cemented together, and had certainly not been moved
for many a long year.  Brunton had not been at work
here.  I tapped upon the floor, but it sounded the
same all over, and there was no sign of any crack or
crevice.  But, Fortunately, Musgrave, who had begun to
appreciate the meaning of my proceedings, and who was
now as excited as myself, took out his manuscript to
check my calculation.

"'And under,' he cried.  'You have omitted the "and
under."'

"I had thought that it meant that we were to dig, but
now, of course, I saw at once that I was wrong. 
'There is a cellar under this then?' I cried.

"'Yes, and as old as the house.  Down here, through
this door.'

"We went down a winding stone stair, and my companion,
striking a match, lit a large lantern which stood on a
barrel in the corner.  In an instant it was obvious
that we had at last come upon the true place, and that
we had not been the only people to visit the spot
recently.

"It had been used for the storage of wood, but the
billets, which had evidently been littered over the
floor, were now piled at the sides, so as to leave a
clear space in the middle.  In this space lay a large
and heavy flagstone with a rusted iron ring in the
centre to which a thick shepherd's-check muffler was
attached.

"'By Jove!' cried my client.  'That's Brunton's
muffler.  I have seen it on him, and could swear to
it.  What has the villain been doing here?'

"At my suggestion a couple of the county police were
summoned to be present, and I then endeavored to raise
the stone by pulling on the cravat.  I could only move
it slightly, and it was with the aid of one of the
constables that I succeeded at last in carrying it to
one side.  A black hole yawned beneath into which we
all peered, while Musgrave, kneeling at the side,
pushed down the lantern.

"A small chamber about seven feet deep and four feet
square lay open to us.  At one side of this was a
squat, brass-bound wooden box, the lid of which was
hinged upwards, with this curious old-fashioned key
projecting from the lock.  It was furred outside by a
thick layer of dust, and damp and worms had eaten
through the wood, so that a crop of livid fungi was
growing on the inside of it.  Several discs of metal,
old coins apparently, such as I hold here, were
scattered over the bottom of the box, but it contained
nothing else.

"At the moment, however, we had no thought for the old
chest, for our eyes were riveted upon that which
crouched beside it.  It was the figure of a man, clad
in a suit of black, who squatted down upon him hams
with his forehead sunk upon the edge of the box and
his two arms thrown out on each side of it.  The
attitude had drawn all the stagnant blood to the face,
and no man could have recognized that distorted
liver-colored countenance; but his height, his dress,
and his hair were all sufficient to show my client,
when we had drawn the body up, that it was indeed his
missing butler.  He had been dead some days, but there
was no wound or bruise upon his person to show how he
had met his dreadful end.  When his body had been
carried from the cellar we found ourselves still
confronted with a problem which was almost as
formidable as that with which we had started.

"I confess that so far, Watson, I had been
disappointed in my investigation.  I had reckoned upon
solving the matter when once I had found the place
referred to in the Ritual; but now I was there, and
was apparently as far as ever from knowing what it was
which the family had concealed with such elaborate
precautions.  It is true that I had thrown a light
upon the fate of Brunton, but now I had to ascertain
how that fate had come upon him, and what part had
been played in the matter by the woman who had
disappeared.  I sat down upon a keg in the corner and
thought the whole matter carefully over.

"You know my methods in such cases, Watson.  I put
myself in the man's place and, having first gauged his
intelligence, I try to imagine how I should myself
have proceeded under the same circumstances.  In this
case the matter was simplified by Brunton's
intelligence being quite first-rate, so that it was
unnecessary to make any allowance for the personal
equation, as the astronomers have dubbed it.  He know
that something valuable was concealed.  He had spotted
the place.  He found that the stone which covered it
was just too heavy for a man to move unaided.  What
would he do next?  He could not get help from outside,
even if he had some one whom he could trust, without
the unbarring of doors and considerable risk of
detection.  It was better, if he could, to have his
helpmate inside the house.  But whom could he ask? 
This girl had been devoted to him.  A man always finds
it hard to realize that he may have finally lost a
woman's love, however badly he may have treated her. 
He would try by a few attentions to make his peace
with the girl Howells, and then would engage her as
his accomplice.  Together they would come at night to
the cellar, and their united force would suffice to
raise the stone.  So far I could follow their actions
as if I had actually seen them.

"But for two of them, and one a woman, it must have
been heavy work the raising of that stone.  A burly
Sussex policeman and I had found it no light job. 
What would they do to assist them?  Probably what I
should have done myself.  I rose and examined
carefully the different billets of wood which were
scattered round the floor.  Almost at once I came upon
what I expected.  One piece, about three feet in
length, had a very marked indentation at one end,
while several were flattened at the sides as if they
had been compressed by some considerable weight. 
Evidently, as they had dragged the stone up they had
thrust the chunks of wood into the chink, until at
last, when the opening was large enough to crawl
through, they would hold it open by a billet placed
lengthwise, which might very well become indented at
the lower end, since the whole weight of the stone
would press it down on to the edge of this other slab. 
So far I was still on safe ground.

"And now how was I to proceed to reconstruct this
midnight drama?  Clearly, only one could fit into the
hole, and that one was Brunton.  The girl must have
waited above.  Brunton then unlocked the box, handed
up the contents presumably--since they were not to be
found--and then--and then what happened?

"What smouldering fire of vengeance had suddenly
sprung into flame in this passionate Celtic woman's
soul when she saw the man who had wronged her--wronged
her, perhaps, far more than we suspected--in her
power?  Was it a chance that the wood had slipped, and
that the stone had shut Brunton into what had become
his sepulchre?  Had she only been guilty of silence as
to his fate?  Or had some sudden blow from her hand
dashed the support away and sent the slab crashing
down into its place?  Be that as it might, I seemed to
see that woman's figure still clutching at her
treasure trove and flying wildly up the winding stair,
with her ears ringing perhaps with the muffled screams
from behind her and with the drumming of frenzied
hands against the slab of stone which was choking her
faithless lover's life out.

"Here was the secret of her blanched face, her shaken
nerves, her peals of hysterical laughter on the next
morning.  But what had been in the box?  What had she
done with that?  Of course, it must have been the old
metal and pebbles which my client had dragged from the
mere.  She had thrown them in there at the first
opportunity to remove the last trace of her crime.

"For twenty minutes I had sat motionless, thinking the
matter out.  Musgrave still stood with a very pale
face, swinging his lantern and peering down into the
hole.

"'These are coins of Charles the First,' said he,
holding out the few which had been in the box; 'you
see we were right in fixing our date for the Ritual.'

"'We may find something else of Charles the First,' I
cried, as the probable meaning of the first two
question of the Ritual broke suddenly upon me.  'Let
me see the contents of the bag which you fished from
the mere.'


"We ascended to his study, and he laid the debris
before me.  I could understand his regarding it as of
small importance when I looked at it, for the metal
was almost black and the stones lustreless and dull. 
I rubbed one of them on my sleeve, however, and it
glowed afterwards like a spark in the dark hollow of
my hand.  The metal work was in the form of a double
ring, but it had been bent and twisted out of its
original shape.

"'You must bear in mind,' said I, 'that the royal
party made head in England even after the death of the
king, and that when they at last fled they probably
left many of their most precious possessions buried
behind them, with the intention of returning for them
in more peaceful times.'

"'My ancestor, Sir Ralph Musgrave, as a prominent
Cavalier and the right-hand man of Charles the Second
in his wanderings,' said my friend.

"'Ah, indeed!' I answered.  'Well now, I think that
really should give us the last link that we wanted.  I
must congratulate you on coming into the possession,
though in rather a tragic manner of a relic which is
of great intrinsic value, but of even greater
importance as an historical curiosity.'

"'What is it, then?' he gasped in astonishment.

"'It is nothing less than the ancient crown of the
kings of England.'

"'The crown!'

"'Precisely.  Consider what the Ritual says:  How does
it run?  "Whose was it?"  "His who is gone."  That was
after the execution of Charles.  Then, "Who shall have
it?"  "He who will come."  That was Charles the
Second, whose advent was already foreseen.  There can,
I think, be no doubt that this battered and shapeless
diadem once encircled the brows of the royal Stuarts.'

"'And how came it in the pond?'

"'Ah, that is a question that will take some time to
answer.'  And with that I sketched out to him the
whole long chain of surmise and of proof which I had
constructed.  The twilight had closed in and the moon
was shining brightly in the sky before my narrative
was finished.

"'And how was it then that Charles did not get his
crown when he returned?' asked Musgrave, pushing back
the relic into its linen bag.

"'Ah, there you lay your finger upon the one point
which we shall probably never be able to clear up.  It
is likely that the Musgrave who held the secret died
in the interval, and by some oversight left this guide
to his descendant without explaining the meaning of
it.  From that day to this it has been handed down
from father to son, until at last it came within reach
of a man who tore its secret out of it and lost his
life in the venture.'


"And that's the story of the Musgrave Ritual, Watson. 
They have the crown down at Hurlstone--though they had
some legal bother and a considerable sum to pay before
they were allowed to retain it.  I am sure that if you
mentioned my name they would be happy to show it to
you.  Of the woman nothing was ever heard, and the
probability is that she got away out of England and
carried herself and the memory of her crime to some
land beyond the seas."



Adventure VI


The Reigate Puzzle


It was some time before the health of my friend Mr.
Sherlock Holmes recovered from the strain caused by
his immense exertions in the spring of '87.  The whole
question of the Netherland-Sumatra Company and of the
colossal schemes of Baron Maupertuis are too recent in
the minds of the public, and are too intimately
concerned with politics and finance to be fitting
subjects for this series of sketches.  They led,
however, in an indirect fashion to a singular and
complex problem which gave my friend an opportunity of
demonstrating the value of a fresh weapon among the
many with which he waged his life-long battle against
crime.

On referring to my notes I see that it was upon the
14th of April that I received a telegram from Lyons
which informed me that Holmes was lying ill in the
Hotel Dulong.  Within twenty-four hours I was in his
sick-room, and was relieved to find that there was
nothing formidable in his symptoms.  Even his iron
constitution, however, had broken down under the
strain of an investigation which had extended over two
months, during which period he had never worked less
than fifteen hours a day, and had more than once, as
he assured me, kept to his task for five days at a
stretch.  Even the triumphant issue of his labors
could not save him from reaction after so terrible an
exertion, and at a time when Europe was ringing with
his name and when his room was literally ankle-deep
with congratulatory telegrams I found him a prey to
the blackest depression.  Even the knowledge that he
had succeeded where the police of three countries had
failed, and that he had outmanoeuvred at every point
the most accomplished swindler in Europe, was
insufficient to rouse him from his nervous
prostration.

Three days later we were back in Baker Street
together; but it was evident that my friend would be
much the better for a change, and the thought of a
week of spring time in the country was full of
attractions to me also.  My old friend, Colonel
Hayter, who had come under my professional care in
Afghanistan, had now taken a house near Reigate in
Surrey, and had frequently asked me to come down to
him upon a visit.  On the last occasion he had
remarked that if my friend would only come with me he
would be glad to extend his hospitality to him also. 
A little diplomacy was needed, but when Holmes
understood that the establishment was a bachelor one,
and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom, he
fell in with my plans and a week after our return from
Lyons we were under the Colonel's roof.  Hayter was a
fine old soldier who had seen much of the world, and
he soon found, as I had expected, that Holmes and he
had much in common.

On the evening of our arrival we were sitting in the
Colonel's gun-room after dinner, Holmes stretched upon
the sofa, while Hayter and I looked over his little
armory of Eastern weapons.

"By the way," said he suddenly, "I think I'll take one
of these pistols upstairs with me in case we have an
alarm."

"An alarm!" said I.

"Yes, we've had a scare in this part lately.  Old
Acton, who is one of our county magnates, had his
house broken into last Monday.  No great damage done,
but the fellows are still at large."

"No clue?" asked Holmes, cocking his eye at the
Colonel.

"None as yet.  But the affair is a pretty one, one of
our little country crimes, which must seem too small
for your attention, Mr. Holmes, after this great
international affair."

Holmes waved away the compliment, though his smile
showed that it had pleased him.

"Was there any feature of interest?"

"I fancy not.  The thieves ransacked the library and
got very little for their pains.  The whole place was
turned upside down, drawers burst open, and presses
ransacked, with the result that an odd volume of
Pope's 'Homer,' two plated candlesticks, an ivory
letter-weight, a small oak barometer, and a ball of
twine are all that have vanished."

"What an extraordinary assortment!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, the fellows evidently grabbed hold of everything
they could get."

Holmes grunted from the sofa.

"The county police ought to make something of that,"
said he; "why, it is surely obvious that--"

But I held up a warning finger.

"You are here for a rest, my dear fellow.  For
Heaven's sake don't get started on a new problem when
your nerves are all in shreds."

Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of comic
resignation towards the Colonel, and the talk drifted
away into less dangerous channels.

It was destined, however, that all my professional
caution should be wasted, for next morning the problem
obtruded itself upon us in such a way that it was
impossible to ignore it, and our country visit took a
turn which neither of us could have anticipated.  We
were at breakfast when the Colonel's butler rushed in
with all his propriety shaken out of him.

"Have you heard the news, sir?" he gasped.  "At the
Cunningham's sir!"

"Burglary!" cried the Colonel, with his coffee-cup in
mid-air.

"Murder!"

The Colonel whistled.  "By Jove!" said he.  "Who's
killed, then?  The J.P. or his son?"

"Neither, sir.  It was William the coachman.  Shot
through the heart, sir, and never spoke again."

"Who shot him, then?"

"The burglar, sir.  He was off like a shot and got
clean away.  He'd just broke in at the pantry window
when William came on him and met his end in saving his
master's property."

"What time?"

"It was last night, sir, somewhere about twelve."

"Ah, then, we'll step over afterwards," said the
Colonel, coolly settling down to his breakfast again. 
"It's a baddish business," he added when the butler
had gone; "he's our leading man about here, is old
Cunningham, and a very decent fellow too.  He'll be
cut up over this, for the man has been in his service
for years and was a good servant.  It's evidently the
same villains who broke into Acton's."

"And stole that very singular collection," said
Holmes, thoughtfully.

"Precisely."

"Hum!  It may prove the simplest matter in the world,
but all the same at first glance this is just a little
curious, is it not?  A gang of burglars acting in the
country might be expected to vary the scene of their
operations, and not to crack two cribs in the same
district within a few days.  When you spoke last night
of taking precautions I remember that it passed
through my mind that this was probably the last parish
in England to which the thief or thieves would be
likely to turn their attention--which shows that I
have still much to learn."

"I fancy it's some local practitioner," said the
Colonel.  "In that case, of course, Acton's and
Cunningham's are just the places he would go for,
since they are far the largest about here."

"And richest?"

"Well, they ought to be, but they've had a lawsuit for
some years which has sucked the blood out of both of
them, I fancy.  Old Acton has some claim on half
Cunningham's estate, and the lawyers have been at it
with both hands."

"If it's a local villain there should not be much
difficulty in running him down," said Holmes with a
yawn.  "All right, Watson, I don't intend to meddle."

"Inspector Forrester, sir," said the butler, throwing
open the door.

The official, a smart, keen-faced young fellow,
stepped into the room.  "Good-morning, Colonel," said
he; "I hope I don't intrude, but we hear that Mr.
Holmes of Baker Street is here."

The Colonel waved his hand towards my friend, and the
Inspector bowed.

"We thought that perhaps you would care to step
across, Mr. Holmes."

"The fates are against you, Watson," said he,
laughing.  "We were chatting about the matter when you
came in, Inspector.  Perhaps you can let us have a few
details."  As he leaned back in his chair in the
familiar attitude I knew that the case was hopeless.

"We had no clue in the Acton affair.  But here we have
plenty to go on, and there's no doubt it is the same
party in each case.  The man was seen."

"Ah!"

"Yes, sir.  But he was off like a deer after the shot
that killed poor William Kirwan was fired.  Mr.
Cunningham saw him from the bedroom window, and Mr.
Alec Cunningham saw him from the back passage.  It was
quarter to twelve when the alarm broke out.  Mr.
Cunningham had just got into bed, and Mr. Alec was
smoking a pipe in his dressing-gown.  They both heard
William the coachman calling for help, and Mr. Alec
ran down to see what was the matter.  The back door
was open, and as he came to the foot of the stairs he
saw two men wrestling together outside.  One of them
fired a shot, the other dropped, and the murderer
rushed across the garden and over the hedge.  Mr.
Cunningham, looking out of his bedroom, saw the fellow
as he gained the road, but lost sight of him at once. 
Mr. Alec stopped to see if he could help the dying
man, and so the villain got clean away.  Beyond the
fact that he was a middle-sized man and dressed in
some dark stuff, we have no personal clue; but we are
making energetic inquiries, and if he is a stranger we
shall soon find him out."

"What was this William doing there?  Did he say
anything before he died?"

"Not a word.  He lives at the lodge with his mother,
and as he was a very faithful fellow we imagine that
he walked up to the house with the intention of seeing
that all was right there.  Of course this Acton
business has put every one on their guard.  The robber
must have just burst open the door--the lock has been
forced--when William came upon him."

"Did William say anything to his mother before going
out?"

"She is very old and deaf, and we can get no
information from her.  The shock has made her
half-witted, but I understand that she was never very
bright.  There is one very important circumstance,
however.  Look at this!"

He took a small piece of torn paper from a note-book
and spread it out upon his knee.

"This was found between the finger and thumb of the
dead man.  It appears to be a fragment torn from a
larger sheet.  You will observe that the hour
mentioned upon it is the very time at which the poor
fellow met his fate.  You see that his murderer might
have torn the rest of the sheet from him or he might
have taken this fragment from the murderer.  It reads
almost as though it were an appointment."

Holmes took up the scrap of paper, a fac-simile of
which is here reproduced.

d at quarter to twelve
learn what
maybe

"Presuming that it is an appointment," continued the
Inspector, "it is of course a conceivable theory that
this William Kirwan--though he had the reputation of
being an honest man, may have been in league with the
thief.  He may have met him there, may even have
helped him to break in the door, and then they may
have fallen out between themselves."

"This writing is of extraordinary interest," said
Holmes, who had been examining it with intense
concentration.  "These are much deeper waters than I
had though."  He sank his head upon his hands, while
the Inspector smiled at the effect which his case had
had upon the famous London specialist.

"Your last remark," said Holmes, presently, "as to the
possibility of there being an understanding between
the burglar and the servant, and this being a note of
appointment from one to the other, is an ingenious and
not entirely impossible supposition.  But this writing
opens up--" He sank his head into his hands again and
remained for some minutes in the deepest thought. 
When he raised his face again, I was surprised to see
that his cheek was tinged with color, and his eyes as
bright as before his illness.  He sprang to his feet
with all his old energy.

"I'll tell you what," said he, "I should like to have
a quiet little glance into the details of this case. 
There is something in it which fascinates me
extremely.  If you will permit me, Colonel, I will
leave my friend Watson and you, and I will step round
with the Inspector to test the truth of one or two
little fancies of mine.  I will be with you again in
half an hour."

An hour and half had elapsed before the Inspector
returned alone.

"Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the field
outside," said he.  "He wants us all four to go up to
the house together."

"To Mr. Cunningham's?"

"Yes, sir."

"What for?"

The Inspector shrugged his shoulders.  "I don't quite
know, sir.  Between ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes had
not quite got over his illness yet.  He's been
behaving very queerly, and he is very much excited."

"I don't think you need alarm yourself," said I.  "I
have usually found that there was method in his
madness."

"Some folks might say there was madness in his
method," muttered the Inspector.  "But he's all on
fire to start, Colonel, so we had best go out if you
are ready."

We found Holmes pacing up and down in the field, his
chin sunk upon his breast, and his hands thrust into
his trousers pockets.

"The matter grows in interest," said he.  "Watson,
your country-trip has been a distinct success.  I have
had a charming morning."

"You have been up to the scene of the crime, I
understand," said the Colonel.

"Yes; the Inspector and I have made quite a little
reconnaissance together."

"Any success?"

"Well, we have seen some very interesting things. 
I'll tell you what we did as we walk.  First of all,
we saw the body of this unfortunate man.  He certainly
died from a revolved wound as reported."

"Had you doubted it, then?"

"Oh, it is as well to test everything.  Our inspection
was not wasted.  We then had an interview with Mr.
Cunningham and his son, who were able to point out the
exact spot where the murderer had broken through the
garden-hedge in his flight.  That was of great
interest."

"Naturally."

"Then we had a look at this poor fellow's mother.  We
could get no information from her, however, as she is
very old and feeble."

"And what is the result of your investigations?"

"The conviction that the crime is a very peculiar one. 
Perhaps our visit now may do something to make it less
obscure.  I think that we are both agreed, Inspector
that the fragment of paper in the dead man's hand,
bearing, as it does, the very hour of his death
written upon it, is of extreme importance."

"It should give a clue, Mr. Holmes."

"It does give a clue.  Whoever wrote that note was the
man who brought William Kirwan out of his bed at that
hour.  But where is the rest of that sheet of paper?"

"I examined the ground carefully in the hope of
finding it," said the Inspector.

"It was torn out of the dead man's hand.  Why was some
one so anxious to get possession of it?  Because it
incriminated him.  And what would he do with it? 
Thrust it into his pocket, most likely, never noticing
that a corner of it had been left in the grip of the
corpse.  If we could get the rest of that sheet it is
obvious that we should have gone a long way towards
solving the mystery."

"Yes, but how can we get at the criminal's pocket
before we catch the criminal?"

"Well, well, it was worth thinking over.  Then there
is another obvious point.  The note was sent to
William.  The man who wrote it could not have taken
it; otherwise, of course, he might have delivered his
own message by word of mouth.  Who brought the note,
then?  Or did it come through the post?"

"I have made inquiries," said the Inspector.  "William
received a letter by the afternoon post yesterday. 
The envelope was destroyed by him."

"Excellent!" cried Holmes, clapping the Inspector on
the back.  "You've seen the postman.  It is a pleasure
to work with you.  Well, here is the lodge, and if you
will come up, Colonel, I will show you the scene of
the crime."

We passed the pretty cottage where the murdered man
had lived, and walked up an oak-lined avenue to the
fine old Queen Anne house, which bears the date of
Malplaquet upon the lintel of the door.  Holmes and
the Inspector led us round it until we came to the
side gate, which is separated by a stretch of garden
from the hedge which lines the road.  A constable was
standing at the kitchen door.

"Throw the door open, officer," said Holmes.  "Now, it
was on those stairs that young Mr. Cunningham stood
and saw the two men struggling just where we are.  Old
Mr. Cunningham was at that window--the second on the
left--and he saw the fellow get away just to the left
of that bush.  Then Mr. Alec ran out and knelt beside
the wounded man.  The ground is very hard, you see,
and there are no marks to guide us."  As he spoke two
men came down the garden path, from round the angle of
the house.  The one was an elderly man, with a strong,
deep-lined, heavy-eyed face; the other a dashing young
fellow, whose bright, smiling expression and showy
dress were in strange contract with the business which
had brought us there.

"Still at it, then?" said he to Holmes.  "I thought
you Londoners were never at fault.  You don't seem to
be so very quick, after all."

"Ah, you must give us a little time," said Holmes
good-humoredly.

"You'll want it," said young Alec Cunningham.  "Why, I
don't see that we have any clue at all."

"There's only one," answered the Inspector.  "We
thought that if we could only find--Good heavens, Mr.
Holmes!  What is the matter?"

My poor friend's face had suddenly assumed the most
dreadful expression.  His eyes rolled upwards, his
features writhed in agony, and with a suppressed groan
he dropped on his face upon the ground.  Horrified at
the suddenness and severity of the attack, we carried
him into the kitchen, where he lay back in a large
chair, and breathed heavily for some minutes. 
Finally, with a shamefaced apology for his weakness,
he rose once more.

"Watson would tell you that I have only just recovered
from a severe illness," he explained.  "I am liable to
these sudden nervous attacks."

"Shall I send you home in my trap?" asked old
Cunningham.

"Well, since I am here, there is one point on which I
should like to feel sure.  We can very easily verify
it."

"What was it?"

"Well, it seems to me that it is just possible that
the arrival of this poor fellow William was not
before, but after, the entrance of the burglary into
the house.  You appear to take it for granted that,
although the door was forced, the robber never got
in."

"I fancy that is quite obvious," said Mr. Cunningham,
gravely.  "Why, my son Alec had not yet gone to bed,
and he would certainly have heard any one moving
about."

"Where was he sitting?"

"I was smoking in my dressing-room."

"Which window is that?"

"The last on the left next my father's."

"Both of your lamps were lit, of course?"

"Undoubtedly."

"There are some very singular points here," said
Holmes, smiling.  "Is it not extraordinary that a
burglary--and a burglar who had had some previous
experience--should deliberately break into a house at
a time when he could see from the lights that two of
the family were still afoot?"

"He must have been a cool hand."

"Well, of course, if the case were not an odd one we
should not have been driven to ask you for an
explanation," said young Mr. Alec.  "But as to your
ideas that the man had robbed the house before William
tackled him, I think it a most absurd notion. 
Wouldn't we have found the place disarranged, and
missed the things which he had taken?"

"It depends on what the things were," said Holmes. 
"You must remember that we are dealing with a burglar
who is a very peculiar fellow, and who appears to work
on lines of his own.  Look, for example, at the queer
lot of things which he took from Acton's--what was
it?--a ball of string, a letter-weight, and I don't
know what other odds and ends."

"Well, we are quite in your hands, Mr. Holmes," said
old Cunningham.  "Anything which you or the Inspector
may suggest will most certainly be done."

"In the first place," said Holmes, "I should like you
to offer a reward--coming from yourself, for the
officials may take a little time before they would
agree upon the sum, and these things cannot be done
too promptly.  I have jotted down the form here, if
you would not mind signing it.  Fifty pound was quite
enough, I thought."

"I would willingly give five hundred," said the J.P.,
taking the slip of paper and the pencil which Holmes
handed to him.  "This is not quite correct, however,"
he added, glancing over the document.

"I wrote it rather hurriedly."

"You see you begin, 'Whereas, at about a quarter to
one on Tuesday morning an attempt was made,' and so
on.  It was at a quarter to twelve, as a matter of
fact."

I was pained at the mistake, for I knew how keenly
Holmes would feel any slip of the kind.  It was his
specialty to be accurate as to fact, but his recent
illness had shaken him, and this one little incident
was enough to show me that he was still far from being
himself.  He was obviously embarrassed for an instant,
while the Inspector raised his eyebrows, and Alec
Cunningham burst into a laugh.  The old gentleman
corrected the mistake, however, and handed the paper
back to Holmes.

"Get it printed as soon as possible," he said; "I
think your idea is an excellent one."

Holmes put the slip of paper carefully away into his
pocket-book.

"And now," said he, "it really would be a good thing
that we should all go over the house together and make
certain that this rather erratic burglar did not,
after all, carry anything away with him."

Before entering, Holmes made an examination of the
door which had been forced.  It was evident that a
chisel or strong knife had been thrust in, and the
lock forced back with it.  We could see the marks in
the wood where it had been pushed in.

"You don't use bars, then?" he asked.

"We have never found it necessary."

"You don't keep a dog?"

"Yes, but he is chained on the other side of the
house."

"When do the servants go to bed?"

"About ten."

"I understand that William was usually in bed also at
that hour."

"Yes."

"It is singular that on this particular night he
should have been up.  Now, I should be very glad if
you would have the kindness to show us over the house,
Mr. Cunningham."

A stone-flagged passage, with the kitchens branching
away from it, led by a wooden staircase directly to
the first floor of the house.  It came out upon the
landing opposite to a second more ornamental stair
which came up from the front hall.  Out of this
landing opened the drawing-room and several bedrooms,
including those of Mr. Cunningham and his son.  Holmes
walked slowly, taking keen note of the architecture of
the house.  I could tell from his expression that he
was on a hot scent, and yet I could not in the least
imagine in what direction his inferences were leading
him.

"My good sir," said Mr. Cunningham with some
impatience, "this is surely very unnecessary.  That is
my room at the end of the stairs, and my son's is the
one beyond it.  I leave it to your judgment whether it
was possible for the thief to have come up here
without disturbing us."

"You must try round and get on a fresh scent, I
fancy," said the son with a rather malicious smile.

"Still, I must ask you to humor me a little further. 
I should like, for example, to see how far the windows
of the bedrooms command the front.  This, I understand
is your son's room"--he pushed open the door--"and
that, I presume, is the dressing-room in which he sat
smoking when the alarm was given.  Where does the
window of that look out to?"  He stepped across the
bedroom, pushed open the door, and glanced round the
other chamber.

"I hope that you are satisfied now?" said Mr.
Cunningham, tartly.

"Thank you, I think I have seen all that I wished."

"Then if it is really necessary we can go into my
room."

"If it is not too much trouble."

The J. P. shrugged his shoulders, and led the way into
his own chamber, which was a plainly furnished and
commonplace room.  As we moved across it in the
direction of the window, Holmes fell back until he and
I were the last of the group.  Near the foot of the
bed stood a dish of oranges and a carafe of water.  As
we passed it Holmes, to my unutterable astonishment,
leaned over in front of me and deliberately knocked
the whole thing over.  The glass smashed into a
thousand pieces and the fruit rolled about into every
corner of the room.

"You've done it now, Watson," said he, coolly.  "A
pretty mess you've made of the carpet."

I stooped in some confusion and began to pick up the
fruit, understanding for some reason my companion
desired me to take the blame upon myself.  The others
did the same, and set the table on its legs again.

"Hullo!" cried the Inspector, "where's he got to?"

Holmes had disappeared.

"Wait here an instant," said young Alec Cunningham. 
"The fellow is off his head, in my opinion.  Come with
me, father, and see where he has got to!"

They rushed out of the room, leaving the Inspector,
the Colonel, and me staring at each other.

"'Pon my word, I am inclined to agree with Master
Alec," said the official.  "It may be the effect of
this illness, but it seems to me that--"

His words were cut short by a sudden scream of "Help! 
Help!  Murder!"  With a thrill I recognized the voice
of that of my friend.  I rushed madly from the room on
to the landing.  The cries, which had sunk down into a
hoarse, inarticulate shouting, came from the room
which we had first visited.  I dashed in, and on into
the dressing-room beyond.  The two Cunninghams were
bending over the prostrate figure of Sherlock Holmes,
the younger clutching his throat with both hands,
while the elder seemed to be twisting one of his
wrists.  In an instant the three of us had torn them
away from him, and Holmes staggered to his feet, very
pale and evidently greatly exhausted.

"Arrest these men, Inspector," he gasped.

"On what charge?"

"That of murdering their coachman, William Kirwan."

The Inspector stared about him in bewilderment.  "Oh,
come now, Mr. Holmes," said he at last, "I'm sure you
don't really mean to--"

"Tut, man, look at their faces!" cried Holmes, curtly.

Never certainly have I seen a plainer confession of
guilt upon human countenances.  The older man seemed
numbed and dazed with a heavy, sullen expression upon
his strongly-marked face.  The son, on the other hand,
had dropped all that jaunty, dashing style which had
characterized him, and the ferocity of a dangerous
wild beast gleamed in his dark eyes and distorted his
handsome features.  The Inspector said nothing, but,
stepping to the door, he blew his whistle.  Two of his
constables came at the call.

"I have no alternative, Mr. Cunningham," said he.  "I
trust that this may all prove to be an absurd mistake,
but you can see that--Ah, would you?  Drop it!"  He
struck out with his hand, and a revolver which the
younger man was in the act of cocking clattered down
upon the floor.

"Keep that," said Holmes, quietly putting his foot
upon it; "you will find it useful at the trial.  But
this is what we really wanted."  He held up a little
crumpled piece of paper.

"The remainder of the sheet!" cried the Inspector.

"Precisely."

"And where was it?"

"Where I was sure it must be.  I'll make the whole
matter clear to you presently.  I think, Colonel, that
you and Watson might return now, and I will be with
you again in an hour at the furthest.  The Inspector
and I must have a word with the prisoners, but you
will certainly see me back at luncheon time."


Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word, for about one
o'clock he rejoined us in the Colonel's smoking-room. 
He was accompanied by a little elderly gentleman, who
was introduced to me as the Mr. Acton whose house had
been the scene of the original burglary.

"I wished Mr. Acton to be present while I demonstrated
this small matter to you," said Holmes, "for it is
natural that he should take a keen interest in the
details.  I am afraid, my dear Colonel, that you must
regret the hour that you took in such a stormy petrel
as I am."

"On the contrary," answered the Colonel, warmly, "I
consider it the greatest privilege to have been
permitted to study your methods of working.  I confess
that they quite surpass my expectations, and that I am
utterly unable to account for you result.  I have not
yet seen the vestige of a clue."

"I am afraid that my explanation may disillusion you
but it has always been my habit to hide none of my
methods, either from my friend Watson or from any one
who might take an intelligent interest in them.  But,
first, as I am rather shaken by the knocking about
which I had in the dressing-room, I think that I shall
help myself to a dash of your brandy, Colonel.  My
strength had been rather tried of late."

"I trust that you had no more of those nervous
attacks."

Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily.  "We will come to
that in its turn," said he.  "I will lay an account of
the case before you in its due order, showing you the
various points which guided me in my decision.  Pray
interrupt me if there is any inference which is not
perfectly clear to you.

"It is of the highest importance in the art of
detection to be able to recognize, out of a number of
facts, which are incidental and which vital. 
Otherwise your energy and attention must be dissipated
instead of being concentrated.  Now, in this case
there was not the slightest doubt in my mind from the
first that the key of the whole matter must be looked
for in the scrap of paper in the dead man's hand.

"Before going into this, I would draw your attention
to the fact that, if Alec Cunningham's narrative was
correct, and if the assailant, after shooting William
Kirwan, had instantly fled, then it obviously could
not be he who tore the paper from the dead man's hand. 
But if it was not he, it must have been Alec
Cunningham himself, for by the time that the old man
had descended several servants were upon the scene. 
The point is a simple one, but the Inspector had
overlooked it because he had started with the
supposition that these county magnates had had nothing
to do with the matter.  Now, I make a point of never
having any prejudices, and of following docilely
wherever fact may lead me, and so, in the very first
stage of the investigation, I found myself looking a
little askance at the part which had been played by
Mr. Alec Cunningham.

"And now I made a very careful examination of the
corner of paper which the Inspector had submitted to
us.  It was at once clear to me that it formed part of
a very remarkable document.  Here it is.  Do you not
now observed something very suggestive about it?"

"It has a very irregular look," said the Colonel.

"My dear sir," cried Holmes, "there cannot be the
least doubt in the world that it has been written by
two persons doing alternate words.  When I draw your
attention to the strong t's of 'at' and 'to', and ask
you to compare them with the weak ones of 'quarter'
and 'twelve,' you will instantly recognize the fact. 
A very brief analysis of these four words would enable
you to say with the utmost confidence that the 'learn'
and the 'maybe' are written in the stronger hand, and
the 'what' in the weaker."

"By Jove, it's as clear as day!" cried the Colonel. 
"Why on earth should two men write a letter in such a
fashion?"

"Obviously the business was a bad one, and one of the
men who distrusted the other was determined that,
whatever was done, each should have an equal hand in
it.  Now, of the two men, it is clear that the one who
wrote the 'at' and 'to' was the ringleader."

"How do you get at that?"

"We might deduce it from the mere character of the one
hand as compared with the other.  But we have more
assured reasons than that for supposing it.  If you
examine this scrap with attention you will come to the
conclusion that the man with the stronger hand wrote
all his words first, leaving blanks for the other to
fill up.  These blanks were not always sufficient, and
you can see that the second man had a squeeze to fit
his 'quarter' in between the 'at' and the 'to,'
showing that the latter were already written.  The man
who wrote all his words first in undoubtedly the man
who planned the affair."

"Excellent!" cried Mr. Acton.

"But very superficial," said Holmes.  "We come now,
however, to a point which is of importance.  You may
not be aware that the deduction of a man's age from
his writing is one which has brought to considerable
accuracy by experts.  In normal cases one can place a
man in his true decade with tolerable confidence.  I
say normal cases, because ill-health and physical
weakness reproduce the signs of old age, even when the
invalid is a youth.  In this case, looking at the
bold, strong hand of the one, and the rather
broken-backed appearance of the other, which still
retains its legibility although the t's have begun to
lose their crossing, we can say that the one was a
young man and the other was advanced in years without
being positively decrepit."

"Excellent!" cried Mr. Acton again.

"There is a further point, however, which is subtler
and of greater interest.  There is something in common
between these hands.  They belong to men who are
blood-relatives.  It may be most obvious to you in the
Greek e's, but to me there are many small points which
indicate the same thing.  I have no doubt at all that
a family mannerism can be traced in these two
specimens of writing.  I am only, of course, giving
you the leading results now of my examination of the
paper.  There were twenty-three other deductions which
would be of more interest to experts than to you. 
They all tend to deepen the impression upon my mind
that the Cunninghams, father and son, had written this
letter.

"Having got so far, my next step was, of course, to
examine into the details of the crime, and to see how
far they would help us.  I went up to the house with
the Inspector, and saw all that was to be seen.  The
wound upon the dead man was, as I was able to
determine with absolute confidence, fired from a
revolver at the distance of something over four yards. 
There was no powder-blackening on the clothes. 
Evidently, therefore,  Alec Cunningham had lied when
he said that the two men were struggling when the shot
was fired.  Again, both father and son agreed as to
the place where the man escaped into the road.  At
that point, however, as it happens, there is a 
broadish ditch, moist at the bottom.  As there were no
indications of bootmarks about this ditch, I was
absolutely sure not only that the Cunninghams had
again lied, but that there had never been any unknown
man upon the scene at all.

"And now I have to consider the motive of this
singular crime.  To get at this, I endeavored first of
all to solve the reason of the original burglary at
Mr. Acton's.  I understood, from something which the
Colonel told us, that a lawsuit had been going on
between you, Mr. Acton, and the Cunninghams.  Of
course, it instantly occurred to me that they had
broken into your library with the intention of getting
at some document which might be of importance in the
case."

"Precisely so," said Mr. Acton.  "There can be no
possible doubt as to their intentions.  I have the
clearest claim upon half of their present estate, and
if they could have found a single paper--which,
fortunately, was in the strong-box of my
solicitors--they would undoubtedly have crippled our
case."

"There you are," said Holmes, smiling.  "It was a
dangerous, reckless attempt, in which I seem to trace
the influence of young Alec.  Having found nothing
they tried to divert suspicion by making it appear to
be an ordinary burglary, to which end they carried off
whatever they could lay their hands upon.  That is all
clear enough, but there was much that was still
obscure.  What I wanted above all was to get the
missing part of that note.  I was certain that Alec
had torn it out of the dead man's hand, and almost
certain that he must have thrust it into the pocket of
his dressing-gown.  Where else could he have put it? 
The only question was whether it was still there.  It
was worth an effort to find out, and for that object
we all went up to the house.

"The Cunninghams joined us, as you doubtless remember,
outside the kitchen door.  It was, of course, of the
very first importance that they should not be reminded
of the existence of this paper, otherwise they would
naturally destroy it without delay.  The Inspector was
about to tell them the importance which we attached to
it when, by the luckiest chance in the world, I
tumbled down in a sort of fit and so changed the
conversation.

"Good heavens!" cried the Colonel, laughing, "do you
mean to say all our sympathy was wasted and your fit
an imposture?"

"Speaking professionally, it was admirably done,"
cried I, looking in amazement at this man who was
forever confounding me with some new phase of his
astuteness.

"It is an art which is often useful," said he.  "When
I recovered I managed, by a device which had perhaps
some little merit of ingenuity, to get old Cunningham
to write the word 'twelve,' so that I might compare it
with the 'twelve' upon the paper."

"Oh, what an ass I have been!" I exclaimed.

"I could see that you were commiserating me over my
weakness," said Holmes, laughing.  "I was sorry to
cause you the sympathetic pain which I know that you
felt.  We then went upstairs together, and having
entered the room and seen the dressing-gown hanging up
behind the door, I contrived, by upsetting a table, to
engage their attention for the moment, and slipped
back to examine the pockets.  I had hardly got the
paper, however--which was, as I had expected, in one
of them--when the two Cunninghams were on me, and
would, I verily believe, have murdered me then and
there but for your prompt and friendly aid.  As it is,
I feel that young man's grip on my throat now, and the
father has twisted my wrist round in the effort to get
the paper out of my hand.  They saw that I must know
all about it, you see, and the sudden change from
absolute security to complete despair made them
perfectly desperate.

"I had a little talk with old Cunningham afterwards as
to the motive of the crime.  He was tractable enough,
though his son was a perfect demon, ready to blow out
his own or anybody else's brains if he could have got
to his revolver.  When Cunningham saw that the case
against him was so strong he lost all heart and made a
clean breast of everything.  It seems that William had
secretly followed his two masters on the night when
they made their raid upon Mr. Acton's, and having thus
got them into his power, proceeded, under threats of
exposure, to levy black-mail upon them.  Mr. Alec,
however, was a dangerous man to play games of that
sort with.  It was a stroke of positive genius on his
part to see in the burglary scare which was convulsing
the country side an opportunity of plausibly getting
rid of the man whom he feared.  William was decoyed up
and shot, and had they only got the whole of the note
and paid a little more attention to detail in the
accessories, it is very possible that suspicion might
never have been aroused."

"And the note?" I asked.

Sherlock Holmes placed the subjoined paper before us.

If you will only come around
to the east gate you will
will very much surprise you and
be of the greatest service to you and also
to Annie Morrison.  But say nothing to
anyone upon the matter

"It is very much the sort of thing that I expected,"
said he.  "Of course, we do not yet know what the
relations may have been between Alec Cunningham,
William Kirwan, and Annie Morrison.  The results shows
that the trap was skillfully baited.  I am sure that
you cannot fail to be delighted with the traces of
heredity shown in the p's and in the tails of the g's. 
The absence of the i-dots in the old man's writing is
also most characteristic.  Watson, I think our quiet
rest in the country has been a distinct success, and I
shall certainly return much invigorated to Baker
Street to-morrow." 



Adventure VII


The Crooked Man


One summer night, a few months after my marriage, I
was seated by my own hearth smoking a last pipe and
nodding over a novel, for my day's work had been an
exhausting one.  My wife had already gone upstairs,
and the sound of the locking of the hall door some
time before told me that the servants had also
retired.  I had risen from my seat and was knocking
out the ashes of my pipe when I suddenly heard the
clang of the bell.

I looked at the clock.  It was a quarter to twelve. 
This could not be a visitor at so late an hour.  A
patient, evidently, and possibly an all-night sitting. 
With a wry face I went out into the hall and opened
the door.  To my astonishment it was Sherlock Holmes
who stood upon my step.

"Ah, Watson," said he, "I hoped that I might not be
too late to catch you."

"My dear fellow, pray come in."

"You look surprised, and no wonder!  Relieved, too, I
fancy!  Hum!  You still smoke the Arcadia mixture of
your bachelor days then!  There's no mistaking that
fluffy ash upon your coat.  It's easy to tell that you
have been accustomed to wear a uniform, Watson. 
You'll never pass as a pure-bred civilian as long as
you keep that habit of carrying your handkerchief in
your sleeve.  Could you put me up tonight?"

"With pleasure."

"You told me that you had bachelor quarters for one,
and I see that you have no gentleman visitor at
present.  Your hat-stand proclaims as much."

"I shall be delighted if you will stay."

"Thank you.  I'll fill the vacant peg then.  Sorry to
see that you've had the British workman in the house. 
He's a token of evil.  Not the drains, I hope?"

"No, the gas."

"Ah!  He has left two nail-marks from his boot upon
your linoleum just where the light strikes it.  No,
thank you, I had some supper at Waterloo, but I'll
smoke a pipe with you with pleasure."

I handed him my pouch, and he seated himself opposite
to me and smoked for some time in silence.  I was well
aware that nothing but business of importance would
have brought him to me at such an hour, so I waited
patiently until he should come round to it.

"I see that you are professionally rather busy just
now," said he, glancing very keenly across at me.

"Yes, I've had a busy day," I answered.  "It may seem
very foolish in your eyes," I added, "but really I
don't know how you deduced it."

Holmes chuckled to himself.

"I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear
Watson," said he.  "When your round is a short one you
walk, and when it is a long one you use a hansom.  As
I perceive that your boots, although used, are by no
means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are at present
busy enough to justify the hansom."

"Excellent!" I cried.

"Elementary," said he.  "It is one of those instances
where the reasoner can produce an effect which seems
remarkable to his neighbor, because the latter has
missed the one little point which is the basis of the
deduction.  The same may be said, my dear fellow, for
the effect of some of these little sketches of yours,
which is entirely meretricious, depending as it does
upon your retaining in your own hands some factors in
the problem which are never imparted to the reader. 
Now, at present I am in the position of these same
readers, for I hold in this hand several threads of
one of the strangest cases which ever perplexed a
man's brain, and yet I lack the one or two which are
needful to complete my theory.  But I'll have them,
Watson, I'll have them!"  His eyes kindled and a
slight flush sprang into his thin cheeks.  For an
instant only.  When I glanced again his face had
resumed that red-Indian composure which had made so
many regard him as a machine rather than a man.

"The problem presents features of interest," said he. 
"I may even say exceptional features of interest.  I
have already looked into the matter, and have come, as
I think, within sight of my solution.  If you could
accompany me in that last step you might be of
considerable service to me."

"I should be delighted."

"Could you go as far as Aldershot to-morrow?"

"I have no doubt Jackson would take my practice."

"Very good.  I want to start by the 11.10 from
Waterloo."

"That would give me time."

"Then, if you are not too sleepy, I will give you a
sketch of what has happened, and of what remains to be
done."

"I was sleepy before you came.  I am quite wakeful
now."

"I will compress the story as far as may be done
without omitting anything vital to the case.  It is
conceivable that you may even have read some account
of the matter.  It is the supposed murder of Colonel
Barclay, of the Royal Munsters, at Aldershot, which I
am investigating."

"I have heard nothing of it."

"It has not excited much attention yet, except
locally.  The facts are only two days old.  Briefly
they are these:

"The Royal Munsters is, as you know, one of the most
famous Irish regiments in the British army.  It did
wonders both in the Crimea and the Mutiny, and has
since that time distinguished itself upon every
possible occasion.  It was commanded up to Monday
night by James Barclay, a gallant veteran, who started
as a full private, was raised to commissioned rank for
his bravery at the time of the Mutiny, and so lived to
command the regiment in which he had once carried a
musket.

"Colonel Barclay had married at the time when he was a
sergeant, and his wife, whose maiden name was Miss
Nancy Devoy, was the daughter of a former
color-sergeant in the same corps.  There was,
therefore, as can be imagined, some little social
friction when the young couple (for they were still
young) found themselves in their new surroundings. 
They appear, however, to have quickly adapted
themselves, and Mrs. Barclay has always, I understand,
been as popular with the ladies of the regiment as her
husband was with his brother officers.  I may add that
she was a woman of great beauty, and that even now,
when she has been married for upwards of thirty years,
she is still of a striking and queenly appearance.

"Colonel Barclay's family life appears to have been a
uniformly happy one.  Major Murphy, to whom I owe most
of my facts, assures me that he has never heard of any
misunderstanding between the pair.  On the whole, he
thinks that Barclay's devotion to his wife was greater
than his wife's to Barclay.  He was acutely uneasy if
he were absent from her for a day.  She, on the other
hand, though devoted and faithful, was less
obtrusively affectionate.  But they were regarded in
the regiment as the very model of a middle-aged
couple.  There was absolutely nothing in their mutual
relations to prepare people for the tragedy which was
to follow.

"Colonel Barclay himself seems to have had some
singular traits in his character.  He was a dashing,
jovial old solder in his usual mood, but there were
occasions on which he seemed to show himself capable
of considerable violence and vindictiveness.  This
side of his nature, however, appears never to have
been turned towards his wife.  Another fact, which had
struck Major Murphy and three out of five of the other
officers with whom I conversed, was the singular sort
of depression which came upon him at times.  As the
major expressed it, the smile had often been struck
from his mouth, as if by some invisible hand, when he
has been joining the gayeties and chaff of the
mess-table.  For days on end, when the mood was on
him, he has been sunk in the deepest gloom.  This and
a certain tinge of superstition were the only unusual
traits in his character which his brother officers had
observed.  The latter peculiarity took the form of a
dislike to being left alone, especially after dark. 
This puerile feature in a nature which was
conspicuously manly had often given rise to comment
and conjecture.

"The first battalion of the Royal Munsters (which is
the old 117th) has been stationed at Aldershot for
some years.  The married officers live out of
barracks, and the Colonel has during all this time
occupied a villa called Lachine, about half a mile
from the north camp.  The house stands in its own
grounds, but the west side of it is not more than
thirty yards from the high-road.  A coachman and two
maids form the staff of servants.  These with their
master and mistress were the sole occupants of
Lachine, for the Barclays had no children, nor was it
usual for them to have resident visitors.

"Now for the events at Lachine between nine and ten on
the evening of last Monday."

"Mrs. Barclay was, it appears, a member of the Roman
Catholic Church, and had interested herself very much
in the establishment of the Guild of St. George, which
was formed in connection with the Watt Street Chapel
for the purpose of supplying the poor with cast-off
clothing.  A meeting of the Guild had been held that
evening at eight, and Mrs. Barclay had hurried over
her dinner in order to be present at it.  When leaving
the house she was heard by the coachman to make some
commonplace remark to her husband, and to assure him
that she would be back before very long. She then
called for Miss Morrison, a young lady who lives in
the next villa, and the two went off together to their
meeting.  It lasted forty minutes, and at a
quarter-past nine Mrs. Barclay returned home, having
left Miss Morrison at her door as she passed.

"There is a room which is used as a morning-room at
Lachine.  This faces the road and opens by a large
glass folding-door on to the lawn.  The lawn is thirty
yards across, and is only divided from the highway by
a low wall with an iron rail above it.  It was into
this room that Mrs. Barclay went upon her return.  The
blinds were not down, for the room was seldom used in
the evening, but Mrs. Barclay herself lit the lamp and
then rang the bell, asking Jane Stewart, the
house-maid, to bring her a cup of tea, which was quite
contrary to her usual habits.  The Colonel had been
sitting in the dining-room, but hearing that his wife
had returned he joined her in the morning-room.  The
coachman saw him cross the hall and enter it.  He was
never seen again alive.

"The tea which had been ordered was brought up at the
end of ten minutes; but the maid, as she approached
the door, was surprised to hear the voices of her
master and mistress in furious altercation.  She
knocked without receiving any answer, and even turned
the handle, but only to find that the door was locked
upon the inside.  Naturally enough she ran down to
tell the cook, and the two women with the coachman
came up into the hall and listened to the dispute
which was still raging.  They all agreed that only two
voices were to be heard, those of Barclay and of his
wife.  Barclay's remarks were subdued and abrupt, so
that none of them were audible to the listeners.  The
lady's, on the other hand, were most bitter, and when
she raised her voice could be plainly heard.  'You
coward!' she repeated over and over again.  'What can
be done now?  What can be done now?  Give me back my
life.  I will never so much as breathe the same air
with you again!  You coward!  You Coward!'  Those were
scraps of her conversation, ending in a sudden
dreadful cry in the man's voice, with a crash, and a
piercing scream from the woman.  Convinced that some
tragedy had occurred, the coachman rushed to the door
and strove to force it, while scream after scream
issued from within.  He was unable, however, to make
his way in, and the maids were too distracted with
fear to be of any assistance to him.  A sudden thought
struck him, however, and he ran through the hall door
and round to the lawn upon which the long French
windows open.  One side of the window was open, which
I understand was quite usual in the summer-time, and
he passed without difficulty into the room.  His
mistress had ceased to scream and was stretched
insensible upon a couch, while with his feet tilted
over the side of an arm-chair, and his head upon the
ground near the corner of the fender, was lying the
unfortunate soldier stone dead in a pool of his own
blood.

"Naturally, the coachman's first thought, on finding
that he could do nothing for his master, was to open
the door.  But here an unexpected and singular
difficulty presented itself.  The key was not in the
inner side of the door, nor could he find it anywhere
in the room.  He went out again, therefore, through
the window, and having obtained the help of a
policeman and of a medical man, he returned.  The
lady, against whom naturally the strongest suspicion
rested, was removed to her room, still in a state of
insensibility.  The Colonel's body was then placed
upon the sofa, and a careful examination made of the
scene of the tragedy.

"The injury from which the unfortunate veteran was
suffering was found to be a jagged cut some two inches
long at the back part of his head, which had evidently
been caused by a violent blow from a blunt weapon. 
Nor was it difficult to guess what that weapon may
have been.  Upon the floor, close to the body, was
lying a singular club of hard carved wood with a bone
handle.  The Colonel possessed a varied collection of
weapons brought from the different countries in which
he had fought, and it is conjectured by the police
that his club was among his trophies.  The servants
deny having seen it before, but among the numerous
curiosities in the house it is possible that it may
have been overlooked.  Nothing else of importance was
discovered in the room by the police, save the
inexplicable fact that neither upon Mrs. Barclay's
person nor upon that of the victim nor in any part of
the room was the missing key to be found.  The door
had eventually to be opened by a locksmith from
Aldershot.

"That was the state of things, Watson, when upon the
Tuesday morning I, at the request of Major Murphy,
went down to Aldershot to supplement the efforts of
the police.  I think that you will acknowledge that
the problem was already one of interest, but my
observations soon made me realize that it was in truth
much more extraordinary than would at first sight
appear.

"Before examining the room I cross-questioned the
servants, but only succeeded in eliciting the facts
which I have already stated.  One other detail of
interest was remembered by Jane Stewart, the
housemaid.  You will remember that on hearing the
sound of the quarrel she descended and returned with
the other servants.  On that first occasion, when she
was alone, she says that the voices of her master and
mistress were sunk so low that she could hear hardly
anything, and judged by their tones rather than their
words that they had fallen out.  On my pressing her,
however, she remembered that she heard the word David
uttered twice by the lady.  The point is of the utmost
importance as guiding us towards the reason of the
sudden quarrel.  The Colonel's name, you remember, was
James.

"There was one thing in the case which had made the
deepest impression both upon the servants and the
police.  This was the contortion of the Colonel's
face.  It had set, according to their account, into
the most dreadful expression of fear and horror which
a human countenance is capable of assuming.  More than
one person fainted at the mere sight of him, so
terrible was the effect.  It was quite certain that he
had foreseen his fate, and that it had caused him the
utmost horror.  This, of course, fitted in well enough
with the police theory, if the Colonel could have seen
his wife making a murderous attack upon him.  Nor was
the fact of the wound being on the back of his head a
fatal objection to this, as he might have turned to
avoid the blow.  No information could be got from the
lady herself, who was temporarily insane from an acute
attack of brain-fever.

"From the police I learned that Miss Morrison, who you
remember went out that evening with Mrs. Barclay,
denied having any knowledge of what it was which had
caused the ill-humor in which her companion had
returned.

"Having gathered these facts, Watson, I smoked several
pipes over them, trying to separate those which were
crucial from others which were merely incidental. 
There could be no question that the most distinctive
and suggestive point in the case was the singular
disappearance of the door-key.  A most careful search
had failed to discover it in the room.  Therefore it
must have been taken from it.  But neither the Colonel
nor the Colonel's wife could have taken it.  That was
perfectly clear.  Therefore a third person must have
entered the room.  And that third person could only
have come in through the window.  It seemed to me that
a careful examination of the room and the lawn might
possibly reveal some traces of this mysterious
individual.  You know my methods, Watson.  There was
not one of them which I did not apply to the inquiry. 
And it ended by my discovering traces, but very
different ones from those which I had expected.  There
had been a man in the room, and he had crossed the lawn
coming from the road.  I was able to obtain five very
clear impressions of his foot-marks:  one in the
roadway itself, at the point where he had climbed the
low wall, two on the lawn, and two very faint ones
upon the stained boards near the window where he had
entered.  He had apparently rushed across the lawn,
for his toe-marks were much deeper than his heels. 
But it was not the man who surprised me.  It was his
companion."

"His companion!"

Holmes pulled a large sheet of tissue-paper out of his
pocket and carefully unfolded it upon his knee.

"What do you make of that?" he asked.

The paper was covered with he tracings of the
foot-marks of some small animal.  It had five
well-marked foot-pads, an indication of long nails,
and the whole print might be nearly as large as  a
dessert-spoon.

"It's a dog," said I.

"Did you ever hear of a dog running up a curtain?  I
found distinct traces that this creature had done so."

"A monkey, then?"

"But it is not the print of a monkey."

"What can it be, then?"

"Neither dog nor cat nor monkey nor any creature that
we are familiar with.  I have tried to reconstruct it
from the measurements.  Here are four prints where the
beast has been standing motionless.  You see that it
is no less than fifteen inches from fore-foot to hind. 
Add to that the length of neck and head, and you get a
creature not much less than two feet long--probably
more if there is any tail.  But now observe this other
measurement.  The animal has been moving, and we have
the length of its stride.  In each case it is only
about three inches.  You have an indication, you see,
of a long body with very short legs attached to it. 
It has not been considerate enough to leave any of its
hair behind it.  But its general shape must be what I
have indicated, and it can run up a curtain, and it is
carnivorous."

"How do you deduce that?"

"Because it ran up the curtain.  A canary's cage was
hanging in the window, and its aim seems to have been
to get at the bird."

"Then what was the beast?"

"Ah, if I could give it a name it might go a long way
towards solving the case.  On the whole, it was
probably some creature of the weasel and stoat
tribe--and yet it is larger than any of these that I
have seen."

"But what had it to do with the crime?"

"That, also, is still obscure.  But we have learned a
good deal, you perceive.  We know that a man stood in
the road looking at the quarrel between the
Barclays--the blinds were up and the room lighted.  We
know, also, that he ran across the lawn, entered the
room, accompanied by a strange animal, and that he
either struck the Colonel or, as is equally possible,
that the Colonel fell down from sheer fright at the
sight of him, and cut his head on the corner of the
fender.  Finally, we have the curious fact that the
intruder carried away the key with him when he left."

"Your discoveries seem to have left the business more
obscure that it was before," said I.

"Quite so.  They undoubtedly showed that the affair
was much deeper than was at first conjectured.  I
thought the matter over, and I came to the conclusion
that I must approach the case from another aspect. 
But really, Watson, I am keeping you up, and I might
just as well tell you all this on our way to Aldershot
to-morrow."

"Thank you, you have gone rather too far to stop."

"It is quite certain that when Mrs. Barclay left the
house at half-past seven she was on good terms with
her husband.  She was never, as I think I have said,
ostentatiously affectionate, but she was heard by the
coachman chatting with the Colonel in a friendly
fashion.  Now, it was equally certain that,
immediately on her return, she had gone to the room in
which she was least likely to see her husband, had
flown to tea as an agitated woman will, and finally,
on his coming in to her, had broken into violent
recriminations.  Therefore something had occurred
between seven-thirty and nine o'clock which had
completely altered her feelings towards him.  But Miss
Morrison had been with her during the whole of that
hour and a half.  It was absolutely certain,
therefore, in spite of her denial, that she must know
something of the matter.

"My first conjecture was, that possibly there had been
some passages between this young lady and the old
soldier, which the former had now confessed to the
wife.  That would account for the angry return, and
also for the girl's denial that anything had occurred. 
Nor would it be entirely incompatible with most of the
words overhead.  But there was the reference to David,
and there was the known affection of the Colonel for
his wife, to weigh against it, to say nothing of the
tragic intrusion of this other man, which might, of
course, be entirely disconnected with what had gone
before.  It was not easy to pick one's steps, but, on
the whole, I was inclined to dismiss the idea that
there had been anything between the Colonel and Miss
Morrison, but more than ever convinced that the young
lady held the clue as to what it was which had turned
Mrs. Barclay to hatred of her husband.  I took the
obvious course, therefore, of calling upon Miss M., of
explaining to her that I was perfectly certain that
she held the facts in her possession, and of assuring
her that her friend, Mrs. Barclay, might find herself
in the dock upon a capital charge unless the matter
were cleared up.

"Miss Morrison is a little ethereal slip of a girl,
with timid eyes and blond hair, but I found her by no
means wanting in shrewdness and common-sense.  She sat
thinking for some time after I had spoken, and then,
turning to me with a brisk air of resolution, she
broke into a remarkable statement which I will
condense for your benefit.

"'I promised my friend that I would say nothing of the
matter, and a promise is a promise,; said she; 'but if
I can really help her when so serious a charge is laid
against her, and when her own mouth, poor darling, is
closed by illness, then I think I am absolved from my
promise.  I will tell you exactly what happened upon
Monday evening.

"'We were returning from the Watt Street Mission about
a quarter to nine o'clock.  On our way we had to pass
through Hudson Street, which is a very quiet
thoroughfare.  There is only one lamp in it, upon the
left-hand side, and as we approached this lamp I saw a
man coming towards us with is back very bent, and
something like a box slung over one of his shoulders. 
He appeared to be deformed, for he carried his head
low and walked with his knees bent.  We were passing
him when he raised his face to look at us in the
circle of light thrown by the lamp, and as he did so
he stopped and screamed out in a dreadful voice, "My
God, it's Nancy!"  Mrs. Barclay turned as white as
death, and would have fallen down had the
dreadful-looking creature not caught hold of her.  I
was going to call for the police, but she, to my
surprise, spoke quite civilly to the fellow.

"'"I thought you had been dead this thirty years,
Henry," said she, in a shaking voice.

"'"So I have," said he, and it was awful to hear the
tones that he said it in.  He had a very dark,
fearsome face, and a gleam in his eyes that comes back
to me in my dreams.  His hair and whiskers were shot
with gray, and his face was all crinkled and puckered
like a withered apple.

"'"Just walk on a little way, dear," said Mrs.
Barclay; "I want to have a word with this man.  There
is nothing to be afraid of."  She tried to speak
boldly, but she was still deadly pale and could hardly
get her words out for the trembling of her lips.

"'I did as she asked me, and they talked together for
a few minutes.  Then she came down the street with her
eyes blazing, and I saw the crippled wretch standing
by the lamp-post and shaking his clenched fists in the
air as if he were made with rage.  She never said a
word until we were at the door here, when she took me
by the hand and begged me to tell no one what had
happened.

"'"It's an old acquaintance of mine who has come down
in the world," said she.  When I promised her I would
say nothing she kissed me, and I have never seen her
since.  I have told you now the whole truth, and if I
withheld it from the police it is because I did not
realize then the danger in which my dear friend stood. 
I know that it can only be to her advantage that
everything should be known.'

"There was her statement, Watson, and to me, as you
can imagine, it was like a light on a dark night. 
Everything which had been disconnected before began at
once to assume its true place, and I had a shadowy
presentiment of the whole sequence of events.  My next
step obviously was to find the man who had produced
such a remarkable impression upon Mrs. Barclay.  If he
were still in Aldershot it should not be a very
difficult matter.  There are not such a very great
number of civilians, and a deformed man was sure to
have attracted attention.  I spent a day in the
search, and by evening--this very evening, Watson--I
had run him down.  The man's name is Henry Wood, and
he lives in lodgings in this same street in which the
ladies met him.  He has only been five days in the
place.  In the character of a registration-agent I had
a most interesting gossip with his landlady.  The man
is by trade a conjurer and performer, going round the
canteens after nightfall, and giving a little
entertainment at each.  He carries some creature about
with him in that box; about which the landlady seemed
to be in considerable trepidation, for she had never
seen an animal like it.  He uses it in some of his
tricks according to her account.  So much the woman
was able to tell me, and also that it was a wonder the
man lived, seeing how twisted he was, and that he
spoke in a strange tongue sometimes, and that for the
last two nights she had heard him groaning and weeping
in his bedroom.  He was all right, as far as money
went, but in his deposit he had given her what looked
like a bad florin.  She showed it to me, Watson, and
it was an Indian rupee.

"So now, my dear fellow, you see exactly how we stand
and why it is I want you.  It is perfectly plain that
after the ladies parted from this man he followed them
at a distance, that he saw the quarrel between husband
and wife through the window, that he rushed in, and
that the creature which he carried in his box got
loose.  That is all very certain.  But he is the only
person in this world who can tell us exactly what
happened in that room."

"And you intend to ask him?"

"Most certainly--but in the presence of a witness."

"And I am the witness?"

"If you will be so good.  If he can clear the matter
up, well and good.  If he refuses, we have no
alternative but to apply for a warrant."

"But how do you know he'll be there when we return?"

"You may be sure that I took some precautions.  I have
one of my Baker Street boys mounting guard over him
who would stick to him like a burr, go where he might. 
We shall find him in Hudson Street to-morrow, Watson,
and meanwhile I should be the criminal myself if I
kept you out of bed any longer."

It was midday when we found ourselves at the scene of
the tragedy, and, under my companion's guidance, we
made our way at once to Hudson Street.  In spite of
his capacity for concealing his emotions, I could
easily see that Holmes was in a state of suppressed
excitement, while I was myself tingling with that
half-sporting, half-intellectual pleasure which I
invariably experienced when I associated myself with
him in his investigations.

"This is the street," said he, as we turned into a
short thoroughfare lined with plain two-storied brick
houses.  "Ah, here is Simpson to report."

"He's in all right, Mr. Holmes," cried a small street
Arab, running up to us.

"Good, Simpson!" said Holmes, patting him on the head. 
"Come along, Watson.  This is the house."  He sent in
his card with a message that he had come on important
business, and a moment later we were face to face with
the man whom we had come to see.  In spite of the warm
weather he was crouching over a fire, and the little
room was like an oven.  The man sat all twisted and
huddled in his chair in a way which gave an
indescribably impression of deformity; but the face
which he turned towards us, though worn and swarthy,
must at some time have been remarkable for its beauty. 
He looked suspiciously at us now out of yellow-shot,
bilious eyes, and, without speaking or rising, he
waved towards two chairs.

"Mr. Henry Wood, late of India, I believe," said
Holmes, affably.  "I've come over this little matter
of Colonel Barclay's death."

"What should I know about that?"

"That's what I want to ascertain.  You know, I
suppose, that unless the matter is cleared up, Mrs.
Barclay, who is an old friend of yours, will in all
probability be tried for murder."

The man gave a violent start.

"I don't know who you are," he cried, "nor how you
come to know what you do know, but will you swear that
this is true that you tell me?"

"Why, they are only waiting for her to come to her
senses to arrest her."

"My God!  Are you in the police yourself?"

"No."

"What business is it of yours, then?"

"It's every man's business to see justice done."

"You can take my word that she is innocent."

"Then you are guilty."

"No, I am not."

"Who killed Colonel James Barclay, then?"

"It was a just providence that killed him.  But, mind
you this, that if I had knocked his brains out, as it
was in my heart to do, he would have had no more than
his due from my hands.  If his own guilty conscience
had not struck him down it is likely enough that I
might have had his blood upon my soul.  You want me to
tell the story.  Well, I don't know why I shouldn't,
for there's no cause for me to be ashamed of it.

"It was in this way, sir.  You see me now with my back
like a camel and by ribs all awry, but there was a
time when Corporal Henry Wood was the smartest man in
the 117th foot.  We were in India then, in
cantonments, at a place we'll call Bhurtee.  Barclay,
who died the other day, was sergeant in the same
company as myself, and the belle of the regiment, ay,
and the finest girl that ever had the breath of life
between her lips, was Nancy Devoy, the daughter of the
color-sergeant.  There were two men that loved her,
and one that she loved, and you'll smile when you look
at this poor thing huddled before the fire, and hear
me say that it was for my good looks that she loved
me.

"Well, though I had her heart, her father was set upon
her marrying Barclay.  I was a harum-scarum, reckless
lad, and he had had an education, and was already
marked for the sword-belt.  But the girl held true to
me, and it seemed that I would have had her when the
Mutiny broke out, and all hell was loose in the
country.

"We were shut up in Bhurtee, the regiment of us with
half a battery of artillery, a company of Sikhs, and a
lot of civilians and women-folk.  There were ten
thousand rebels round us, and they were as keen as a
set of terriers round a rat-cage.  About the second
week of it our water gave out, and it was a question
whether we could communicate with General Neill's
column, which was moving up country.  It was our only
chance, for we could not hope to fight our way out
with all the women and children, so I volunteered to
go out and to warn General Neill of our danger.  My
offer was accepted, and I talked it over with Sergeant
Barclay, who was supposed to know the ground better
than any other man, and who drew up a route by which I
might get through the rebel lines.  At ten o'clock the
same night I started off upon my journey.  There were
a thousand lives to save, but it was of only one that
I was thinking when I dropped over the wall that
night.

"My way ran down a dried-up watercourse, which we
hoped would screen me from the enemy's sentries; but
as I crept round the corner of it I walked right into
six of them, who were crouching down in the dark
waiting for me.  In an instant I was stunned with a
blow and bound hand and foot.  But the real blow was
to my heart and not to my head, for as I came to and
listened to as much as I could understand of their
talk, I heard enough to tell me that my comrade, the
very man who had arranged the way that I was to take,
had betrayed me by means of a native servant into the
hands of the enemy.

"Well, there's no need for me to dwell on that part of
it.  You know now what James Barclay was capable of. 
Bhurtee was relieved by Neill next day, but the rebels
took me away with them in their retreat, and it was
many a long year before ever I saw a white face again. 
I was tortured and tried to get away, and was captured
and tortured again.  You can see for yourselves the
state in which I was left.  Some of them that fled
into Nepaul took me with them, and then afterwards I
was up past Darjeeling.  The hill-folk up there
murdered the rebels who had me, and I became their
slave for a time until I escaped; but instead of going
south I had to go north, until I found myself among
the Afghans.  There I wandered about for many a year,
and at last came back to the Punjaub, where I lived
mostly among the natives and picked up a living by the
conjuring tricks that I had learned.  What use was it
for me, a wretched cripple, to go back to England or
to make myself known to my old comrades?  Even my wish
for revenge would not make me do that.  I had rather
that Nancy and my old pals should think of Harry Wood
as having died with a straight back, than see him
living and crawling with a stick like a chimpanzee. 
They never doubted that I was dead, and I meant that
they never should.  I heard that Barclay had married
Nancy, and that he was rising rapidly in the regiment,
but even that did not make me speak.

"But when one gets old one has a longing for home. 
For years I've been dreaming of the bright green
fields and the hedges of England.  At last I
determined to see them before I died.  I saved enough
to bring me across, and then I came here where the
soldiers are, for I know their ways and how to amuse
them and so earn enough to keep me."

"Your narrative is most interesting," said Sherlock
Holmes.  "I have already heard of your meeting with
Mrs. Barclay, and your mutual recognition.  You then,
as I understand, followed her home and saw through the
window an altercation between her husband and her, in
which she doubtless cast his conduct to you in his
teeth.  Your own feelings overcame you, and you ran
across the lawn and broke in upon them."

"I did, sir, and at the sight of me he looked as I
have never seen a man look before, and over he went
with his head on the fender.  But he was dead before
he fell.  I read death on his face as plain as I can
read that text over the fire.  The bare sight of me
was like a bullet through his guilty heart."

"And then?"

"Then Nancy fainted, and I caught up the key of the
door from her hand, intending to unlock it and get
help.  But as I was doing it it seemed to me better to
leave it alone and get away, for the thing might look
black against me, and any way my secret would be out
if I were taken.  In my haste I thrust the key into my
pocket, and dropped my stick while I was chasing
Teddy, who had run up the curtain.  When I got him
into his box, from which he had slipped, I was off as
fast as I could run."

"Who's Teddy?" asked Holmes.

The man leaned over and pulled up the front of a kind
of hutch in the corner.  In an instant out there
slipped a beautiful reddish-brown creature, thin and
lithe, with the legs of a stoat, a long, thin nose,
and a pair of the finest red eyes that ever I saw in
an animal's head.

"It's a mongoose," I cried.

"Well, some call them that, and some call them
ichneumon," said the man.  "Snake-catcher is what I
call them, and Teddy is amazing quick on cobras.  I
have one here without the fangs, and Teddy catches it
every night to please the folk in the canteen.

"Any other point, sir?"

"Well, we may have to apply to you again if Mrs.
Barclay should prove to be in serious trouble."

"In that case, of course, I'd come forward."

"But if not, there is no object in raking up this
scandal against a dead man, foully as he has acted. 
You have at least the satisfaction of knowing that for
thirty years of his life his conscience bitterly
reproached him for this wicked deed.  Ah, there goes
Major Murphy on the other side of the street. 
Good-by, Wood.  I want to learn if anything has
happened since yesterday."

We were in time to overtake the major before he
reached the corner.

"Ah, Holmes," he said:  "I suppose you have heard that
all this fuss has come to nothing?"

"What then?"

"The inquest is just over.  The medical evidence
showed conclusively that death was due to apoplexy. 
You see it was quite a simple case after all."

"Oh, remarkably superficial," said Holmes, smiling. 
"Come, Watson, I don't think we shall be wanted in
Aldershot any more."

"There's one thing," said I, as we walked down to the
station.  "If the husband's name was James, and the
other was Henry, what was this talk about David?"

"That one word, my dear Watson, should have told me
the whole story had I been the ideal reasoner which
you are so fond of depicting.  It was evidently a term
of reproach."

"Of reproach?"

"Yes; David strayed a little occasionally, you know,
and on one occasion in the same direction as Sergeant
James Barclay.  You remember the small affair of Uriah
and Bathsheba?  My biblical knowledge is a trifle
rusty, I fear, but you will find the story in the
first or second of Samuel."



Adventure VIII


The Resident Patient


Glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of
Memoirs with which I have endeavored to illustrate a
few of the mental peculiarities of my friend Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, I have been struck by the difficulty
which I have experienced in picking out examples which
shall in every way answer my purpose.  For in those
cases in which Holmes has performed some tour de force
of analytical reasoning, and has demonstrated the
value of his peculiar methods of investigation, the
facts themselves have often been so slight or so
commonplace that I could not feel justified in laying
them before the public.  On the other hand, it has
frequently happened that he has been concerned in some
research where the facts have been of the most
remarkable and dramatic character, but where the share
which he has himself taken in determining their causes
has been less pronounced than I, as his biographer,
could wish.  The small matter which I have chronicled
under the heading of "A Study in Scarlet," and that
other later one connected with the loss of the Gloria
Scott, may serve as examples of this Scylla and
Charybdis which are forever threatening the historian. 
It may be that in the business of which I am now about
to write the part which my friend played is not
sufficiently accentuated; and yet the whole train of
circumstances is so remarkable that I cannot bring
myself to omit it entirely from this series.

It had been a close, rainy day in October.  Our blinds
were half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the sofa,
reading and re-reading a letter which he had received
by the morning post.  For myself, my term of service
in India had trained me to stand heat better than
cold, and a thermometer of 90 was no hardship.  But
the paper was uninteresting.  Parliament had risen. 
Everybody  was out of town, and I yearned for the
glades of the New Forest or the shingle of Southsea. 
A depleted bank account had caused me to postpone my
holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country
nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him. 
He loved to lie in the very centre of five millions of
people, with his filaments stretching out and running
through them, responsive to every little rumor or
suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of Nature
found no place among his many gifts, and his only
change was when he turned his mind from the evil-doer
of the town to track down his brother of the country.

Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation,
I had tossed aside the barren paper, and leaning back
in my chair, I fell into a brown study.  Suddenly my
companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts.

"You are right, Watson," said he.  "It does seem a
very preposterous way of settling a dispute."

"Most preposterous!" I exclaimed, and then, suddenly
realizing how he had echoed the inmost thought of my
soul, I sat up in my chair and stared at him in blank
amazement.

"What is this, Holmes?" I cried.  "This is beyond
anything which I could have imagined."

He laughed heartily at my perplexity.

"You remember," said he, "that some little time ago,
when I read you the passage in one of Poe's sketches,
in which a close reasoner follows the unspoken thought
of his companion, you were inclined to treat the
matter as a mere tour de force of the author.  On my
remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing
the same thing you expressed incredulity."

"Oh, no!"

"Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but
certainly with your eyebrows.  So when I saw you throw
down your paper and enter upon a train of thought, I
was very happy to have the opportunity of reading it
off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof
that I had been in rapport with you."

But I was still far from satisfied.  "In the example
which you read to me," said I, "the reasoner drew his
conclusions from the actions of the man whom he
observed.  If I remember right, he stumbled over a
heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on. 
But I have been seated quietly in my chair, and what
clues can I have given you?"

"You do yourself an injustice.  The features are given
to man as the means by which he shall express his
emotions, and yours are faithful servants."

"Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts
from my features?"

"Your features, and especially your eyes.  Perhaps you
cannot yourself recall how your reverie commenced?"

"No, I cannot."

"Then I will tell you.  After throwing down your
paper, which was the action which drew my attention to
you, you sat for half a minute with a vacant
expression.  Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your
newly-framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by
the alteration in your face that a train of thought
had been started.  But it did not lead very far.  Your
eyes turned across to the unframed portrait of Henry
Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books. 
You then glanced up at the wall, and of course your
meaning was obvious.  You were thinking that if the
portrait were framed it would just cover that bare
space and correspond with Gordon's picture over
there."

"You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.

"So far I could hardly have gone astray.  But now your
thoughts went back to Beecher, and you looked hard
across as if you were studying the character in his
features.  Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but you
continued to look across, and your face was
thoughtful.  You were recalling the incidents of
Beecher's career.  I was well aware that you could not
do this without thinking of the mission which he
undertook on behalf of the North at the time of the
Civil War, for I remember you expressing your
passionate indignation at the way in which he was
received by the more turbulent of our people.  You
felt so strongly about it that I knew you could not
think of Beecher without thinking of that also.  When
a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the
picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to
the Civil War, and when I observed that your lips set,
your eyes sparkled, and your hands clinched, I was
positive that you were indeed thinking of the
gallantry which was shown by both sides in that
desperate struggle.  But then, again, your face grew
sadder; you shook your head.  You were dwelling upon
the sadness and horror and useless waste of life. 
Your hand stole towards your own old wound, and a
smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the
ridiculous side of this method of settling
international questions had forced itself upon your
mind.  At this point I agreed with you that it was
preposterous, and was glad to find that all my
deductions had been correct."

"Absolutely!" said I.  "And now that you have
explained it, I confess that I am as amazed as
before."

"It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure
you.  I should not have intruded it upon your
attention had you not shown some incredulity the other
day.  But the evening has brought a breeze with it. 
What do you say to a ramble through London?"

I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly
acquiesced.  For three hours we strolled about
together, watching the ever-changing kaleidoscope of
life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet Street and the
Strand.  His characteristic talk, with its keen
observance of detail and subtle power of inference
held me amused and enthralled.  It was ten o'clock
before we reached Baker Street again.  A brougham was
waiting at our door.

"Hum!  A doctor's--general practitioner, I perceive,"
said Holmes.  "Not been long in practice, but has had
a good deal to do.  Come to consult us, I fancy! 
Lucky we came back!"

I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes's methods to
be able to follow his reasoning, and to see that the
nature and state of the various medical instruments in
the wicker basket which hung in the lamplight inside
the brougham had given him the data for his swift
deduction.  The light in our window above showed that
this late visit was indeed intended for us.  With some
curiosity as to what could have sent a brother medico
to us at such an hour, I followed Holmes into our
sanctum.

A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up
from a chair by the fire as we entered.  His age may
not have been more than three or four and thirty, but
his haggard expression and unhealthy hue told of a
life which has sapped his strength and robbed him of
his youth.  His manner was nervous and shy, like that
of a sensitive gentleman, and the thin white hand
which he laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was that
of an artist rather than of a surgeon.  His dress was
quiet and sombre--a black frock-coat, dark trousers,
and a touch of color about his necktie.

"Good-evening, doctor," said Holmes, cheerily.  "I am
glad to see that you have only been waiting a very few
minutes."

"You spoke to my coachman, then?"

"No, it was the candle on the side-table that told me. 
Pray resume your seat and let me know how I can serve
you."

"My name is Doctor Percy Trevelyan," said our visitor,
"and I live at 403 Brook Street."

"Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure
nervous lesions?" I asked.

His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that
his work was known to me.

"I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was
quite dead," said he.  "My publishers gave me a most
discouraging account of its sale.  You are yourself, I
presume, a medical man?"

"A retired army surgeon."

"My own hobby has always been nervous disease.  I
should wish to make it an absolute specialty, but, of
course, a man must take what he can get at first. 
This, however, is beside the question, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your time
is.  The fact is that a very singular train of events
has occurred recently at my house in Brook Street, and
to-night they came to such a head that I felt it was
quite impossible for me to wait another hour before
asking for your advice and assistance."

Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe.  "You are
very welcome to both," said he.  "Pray let me have a
detailed account of what the circumstances are which
have disturbed you."

"One or two of them are so trivial," said Dr.
Trevelyan, "that really I am almost ashamed to mention
them.  But the matter is so inexplicable, and the
recent turn which it has taken is so elaborate, that I
shall lay it all before you, and you shall judge what
is essential and what is not.

"I am compelled, to begin with, to say something of my
own college career.  I am a London University man, you
know, and I am sure that your will not think that I am
unduly singing my own praises if I say that my student
career was considered by my professors to be a very
promising one.  After I had graduated I continued to
devote myself to research, occupying a minor position
in King's College Hospital, and I was fortunate enough
to excite considerable interest by my research into
the pathology of catalepsy, and finally to win the
Bruce Pinkerton prize and medal by the monograph on
nervous lesions to which your friend has just alluded. 
I should not go too far if I were to say that there
was a general impression at that time that a
distinguished career lay before me.

"But the one great stumbling-block lay in my want of
capital.  As you will readily understand, a specialist
who aims high is compelled to start in one of a dozen
streets in the Cavendish Square quarter, all of which
entail enormous rents and furnishing expenses. 
Besides this preliminary outlay, he must be prepared
to keep himself for some years, and to hire a
presentable carriage and horse.  To do this was quite
beyond my power, and I could only hope that by economy
I might in ten years' time save enough to enable me to
put up my plate.  Suddenly, however, an unexpected
incident opened up quite a new prospect to me.

"This was a visit from a gentleman of the name of
Blessington, who was a complete stranger to me.  He
came up to my room one morning, and plunged into
business in an instant.

"'You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so
distinguished a career and own a great prize lately?'
said he.

"I bowed.

"'Answer me frankly,' he continued, 'for you will find
it to your interest to do so.  You have all the
cleverness which makes a successful man.  Have you the
tact?'

"I could not help smiling at the abruptness of the
question.

"'I trust that I have my share,' I said.

"'Any bad habits?  Not drawn towards drink, eh?'

"'Really, sir!' I cried.

"'Quite right!  That's all right!  But I was bound to
ask.  With all these qualities, why are you not in
practice?'

"I shrugged my shoulders.

"'Come, come!' said he, in his bustling way.  'It's
the old story.  More in your brains than in your
pocket, eh?  What would you say if I were to start you
in Brook Street?'

"I stared at him in astonishment.

"'Oh, it's for my sake, not for yours,' he cried. 
'I'll be perfectly frank with you, and if it suits you
it will suit me very well.  I have a few thousands to
invest, d'ye see, and I think I'll sink them in you.'

"'But why?' I gasped.

"'Well, it's just like any other speculation, and
safer than most.'

"'What am I to do , then?'

"'I'll tell you.  I'll take the house, furnish it, pay
the maids, and run the whole place.  All you have to
do is just to wear out your chair in the
consulting-room.  I'll let you have pocket-money and
everything.  Then you hand over to me three quarters
of what you earn, and you keep the other quarter for
yourself.'

"This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which
the man Blessington approached me.  I won't weary you
with the account of how we bargained and negotiated. 
It ended in my moving into the house next Lady-day,
and starting in practice on very much the same
conditions as he had suggested.  He came himself to
live with me in the character of a resident patient. 
His heart was weak, it appears, and he needed constant
medical supervision.  He turned the two best rooms of
the first floor into a sitting-room and bedroom for
himself.  He was a man of singular habits, shunning
company and very seldom going out.  His life was
irregular, but in one respect he was regularity
itself.  Every evening, at the same hour, he walked
into the consulting-room, examined the books, put down
five and three-pence for every guinea that I had
earned, and carried the rest off to the strong-box in
his own room.

"I may say with confidence that he never had occasion
to regret his speculation.  From the first it was a
success.  A few good cases and the reputation which I
had won in the hospital brought me rapidly to the
front, and during the last few years I have made him a
rich man.

"So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my
relations with Mr. Blessington.  It only remains for
me now to tell you what has occurred to bring me her
to-night.

"Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me in, as
it seemed to me, a state of considerable agitation. 
He spoke of some burglary which, he said, had been
committed in the West End, and he appeared, I
remember, to be quite unnecessarily excited about it,
declaring that a day should not pass before we should
add stronger bolts to our windows and doors.  For a
week he continued to be in a peculiar state of
restlessness, peering continually out of the windows,
and ceasing to take the short walk which had usually
been the prelude to his dinner.  From his manner it
struck me that he was in mortal dread of something or
somebody, but when I questioned him upon the point he
became so offensive that I was compelled to drop the
subject.  Gradually, as time passed, his fears
appeared to die away, and he had renewed his former
habits, when a fresh event reduced him to the pitiable
state of prostration in which he now lies.

"What happened was this.  Two days ago I received the
letter which I now read to you.  Neither address nor
date is attached to it.

"'A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England,'
it runs, 'would be glad to avail himself of the
professional assistance of Dr. Percy Trevelyan.  He
has been for some years a victim to cataleptic
attacks, on which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is
an authority.  He proposes to call at about quarter
past six to-morrow evening, if Dr. Trevelyan will make
it convenient to be at home.'

"This letter interest me deeply, because the chief
difficulty in the study of catalepsy is the rareness
of the disease.  You may believe, than, that I was in
my consulting-room when, at the appointed hour, the
page showed in the patient.

He was an elderly man, thin, demure, and
common-place--by no means the conception one forms of
a Russian nobleman.  I was much more struck by the
appearance of his companion.  This was a tall young
man, surprisingly handsome, with a dark, fierce face,
and the limbs and chest of a Hercules.  He had his
hand under the other's arm as they entered, and helped
him to a chair with a tenderness which one would
hardly have expected from his appearance.

"'You will excuse my coming in, doctor,' said he to
me, speaking English with a slight lisp.  'This is my
father, and his health is a matter of the most
overwhelming importance to me.'

"I was touched by this filial anxiety.  'You would,
perhaps, care to remain during the consultation?' said
I.

"'Not for the world,' he cried with a gesture of
horror.  'It is more painful to me than I can express. 
If I were to see my father in one of these dreadful
seizures I am convinced that I should never survive
it.  My own nervous system is an exceptionally
sensitive one.  With your permission, I will remain in
the waiting-room while you go into my father's case.'

"To this, of course, I assented, and the young man
withdrew.  The patient and I then plunged into a
discussion of his case, of which I took exhaustive
notes.  He was not remarkable for intelligence, and
his answers were frequently obscure, which I
attributed to his limited acquaintance with our
language.  Suddenly, however, as I sat writing, he
ceased to give any answer at all to my inquiries, and
on my turning towards him I was shocked to see that he
was sitting bolt upright in his chair, staring at me
with a perfectly blank and rigid face.  He was again
in the grip of his mysterious malady.

"My first feeling, as I have just said, was one of
pity and horror.  My second, I fear, was rather one of
professional satisfaction.  I made notes of my
patient's pulse and temperature, tested the rigidity
of his muscles, and examined his reflexes.  There was
nothing markedly abnormal in any of these conditions,
which harmonized with my former experiences.  I had
obtained good results in such cases by the inhalation
of nitrite of amyl, and the present seemed an
admirable opportunity of testing its virtues.  The
bottle was downstairs in my laboratory, so leaving my
patient seated in his chair, I ran down to get it. 
There was some little delay in finding it--five
minutes, let us say--and then I returned.  Imagine my
amazement to find the room empty and the patient gone.

"Of course, my first act was to run into the
waiting-room.  The son had gone also.  The hall door
had been closed, but not shut.  My page who admits
patients is a new boy and by no means quick.  He waits
downstairs, and runs up to show patients out when I
ring the consulting-room bell.  He had heard nothing,
and the affair remained a complete mystery.  Mr.
Blessington came in from his walk shortly afterwards,
but I did not say anything to him upon the subject,
for, to tell the truth, I have got in the way of late
of holding as little communication with him as
possible.

"Well, I never thought that I should see anything more
of the Russian and his son, so you can imagine my
amazement when, at the very same hour this evening,
they both came marching into my consulting-room, just
as they had done before.

"'I feel that I owe you a great many apologies for my
abrupt departure yesterday, doctor,' said my patient.

"'I confess that I was very much surprised at it,'
said I.

"'Well, the fact is,' he remarked, 'that when I
recover from these attacks my mind is always very
clouded as to all that has gone before.  I woke up in
a strange room, as it seemed to me, and made my way
out into the street in a sort of dazed way when you
were absent.'

"'And I,' said the son, 'seeing my father pass the
door of the waiting-room, naturally thought that the
consultation had come to an end.  It was not until we
had reached home that I began to realize the true
state of affairs.'

"'Well,' said I, laughing, 'there is no harm done
except that you puzzled me terribly; so if you, sir,
would kindly step into the waiting-room I shall be
happy to continue our consultation which was brought
to so abrupt an ending.'

"'For half an hour or so I discussed that old
gentleman's symptoms with him, and then, having
prescribed for him, I saw him go off upon the arm of
his son.

"I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally chose
this hour of the day for his exercise.  He came in
shortly afterwards and passed upstairs.  An instant
later I heard him running down, and he burst into my
consulting-room like a man who is mad with panic.

"'Who has been in my room?' he cried.

"'No one,' said I.

"'It's a lie! He yelled.  'Come up and look!'

"I passed over the grossness of his language, as he
seemed half out of his mind with fear.  When I went
upstairs with him he pointed to several footprints
upon the light carpet.

"'D'you mean to say those are mine?' he cried.

"They were certainly very much larger than any which
he could have made, and were evidently quite fresh. 
It rained hard this afternoon, as you know, and my
patients were the only people who called.  It must
have been the case, then, that the man in the
waiting-room had, for some unknown reason, while I was
busy with the other, ascended to the room of my
resident patient.  Nothing has been touched or taken,
but there were the footprints to prove that the
intrusion was an undoubted fact.

"Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter
than I should have thought possible, though of course
it was enough to disturb anybody's peace of mind.  He
actually sat crying in an arm-chair, and I could
hardly get him to speak coherently.  It was his
suggestion that I should come round to you, and of
course I at once saw the propriety of it, for
certainly the incident is a very singular one, though
he appears to completely overtake its importance.  If
you would only come back with me in my brougham, you
would at least be able to soothe him, though I can
hardly hope that you will be able to explain this
remarkable occurrence."

Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative
with an intentness which showed me that his interest
was keenly aroused.  His face was as impassive as
ever, but his lids had drooped more heavily over his
eyes, and his smoke had curled up more thickly from
his pipe to emphasize each curious episode in the
doctor's tale.  As our visitor concluded, Holmes
sprang up without a word, handed me my hat, picked his
own from the table, and followed Dr. Trevelyan to the
door.  Within a quarter of an hour we had been dropped
at the door of the physician's residence in Brook
Street, one of those sombre, flat-faced houses which
one associates with a West-End practice.  A small page
admitted us, and we began at once to ascend the broad,
well-carpeted stair.

But a singular interruption brought us to a
standstill.  The light at the top was suddenly whisked
out, and from the darkness came a reedy, quivering
voice.

"I have a pistol," it cried.  "I give you my word that
I'll fire if you come any nearer."

"This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington," cried
Dr. Trevelyan.

"Oh, then it is you, doctor," said the voice, with a
great heave of relief.  "But those other gentlemen,
are they what they pretend to be?"

We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the
darkness.

"Yes, yes, it's all right," said the voice at last. 
"You can come up, and I am sorry if my precautions
have annoyed you."

He relit the stair gas as he spoke, and we saw before
us a singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well
as his voice, testified to his jangled nerves.  He was
very fat, but had apparently at some time been much
fatter, so that the skin hung about his face in loose
pouches, like the cheeks of a blood-hound.  He was of
a sickly color, and his thin, sandy hair seemed to
bristle up with the intensity of his emotion.  In his
hand he held a pistol, but he thrust it into his
pocket as we advanced.

"Good-evening, Mr. Holmes," said he.  "I am sure I am
very much obliged to you for coming round.  No one
ever needed your advice more than I do.  I suppose
that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this most
unwarrantable intrusion into my rooms."

"Quite so," said Holmes.  "Who are these two men Mr.
Blessington, and why do they wish to molest you?"

"Well, well," said the resident patient, in a nervous
fashion, "of course it is hard to say that.  You can
hardly expect me to answer that, Mr. Holmes."

"Do you mean that you don't know?"

"Come in here, if you please.  Just have the kindness
to step in here."

He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and
comfortably furnished.

"You see that," said he, pointing to a big black box
at the end of his bed.  "I have never been a very rich
man, Mr. Holmes--never made but one investment in my
life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell you.  But I don't
believe in bankers.  I would never trust a banker, Mr.
Holmes.  Between ourselves, what little I have is in
that box, so you can understand what it means to me
when unknown people force themselves into my rooms."

Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way
and shook his head.

"I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive
me," said he.

"But I have told you everything."

Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust. 
"Good-night, Dr. Trevelyan," said he.

"And no advice for me?" cried Blessington, in a
breaking voice.

"My advice to your, sir, is to speak the truth."

A minute later we were in the street and walking for
home.  We had crossed Oxford Street and were half way
down Harley Street before I could get a word from my
companion.

"Sorry to bring you out on such a fool's errand,
Watson," he said at last.  "It is an interesting case,
too, at the bottom of it."

"I can make little of it," I confessed.

"Well, it is quite evident that there are two
men--more, perhaps, but at least two--who are
determined for some reason to get at this fellow
Blessington.  I have no doubt in my mind that both on
the first and on the second occasion that young man
penetrated to Blessington's room, while his
confederate, by an ingenious device, kept the doctor
from interfering."

"And the catalepsy?"

"A fraudulent imitation, Watson, though I should
hardly dare to hint as much to our specialist.  It is
a very easy complaint to imitate.  I have done it
myself."

"And then?"

"By the purest chance Blessington was out on each
occasion.  Their reason for choosing so unusual an
hour for a consultation was obviously to insure that
there should be no other patient in the waiting-room. 
It just happened, however, that this hour coincided
with Blessington's constitutional, which seems to show
that they were not very well acquainted with his daily
routine.  Of course, if they had been merely after
plunder they would at least have made some attempt to
search for it.  Besides, I can read in a man's eye
when it is his own skin that he is frightened for.  It
is inconceivable that this fellow could have made two
such vindictive enemies as these appear to be without
knowing of it.  I hold it, therefore, to be certain
that he does know who these men are, and that for
reasons of his own he suppresses it.  It is just
possible that to-morrow may find him in a more
communicative mood."

"Is there not one alternative," I suggested,
"grotesquely improbably, no doubt, but still just
conceivable?  Might the whole story of the cataleptic
Russian and his son be a concoction of Dr.
Trevelyan's, who has, for his own purposes, been in
Blessington's rooms?"

I saw in the gaslight that Holmes wore an amused smile
at this brilliant departure of mine.

"My dear fellow," said he, "it was one of the first
solutions which occurred to me, but I was soon able to
corroborate the doctor's tale.  This young man has
left prints upon the stair-carpet which made it quite
superfluous for me to ask to see those which he had
made in the room.  When I tell you that his shoes were
square-toed instead of being pointed like
Blessington's, and were quite an inch and a third
longer than the doctor's, you will acknowledge that
there can be no doubt as to his individuality.  But we
may sleep on it now, for I shall be surprised if we do
not hear something further from Brook Street in the
morning."


Sherlock Holmes's prophecy was soon fulfilled, and in
a dramatic fashion.  At half-past seven next morning,
in the first glimmer of daylight, I found him standing
by my bedside in his dressing-gown.

"There's a brougham waiting for us, Watson," said he.

"What's the matter, then?"

"The Brook Street business."

"Any fresh news?"

"Tragic, but ambiguous," said he, pulling up the
blind.  "Look at this--a sheet from a note-book, with
'For God's sake come at once--P. T.,' scrawled upon it
in pencil.  Our friend, the doctor, was hard put to it
when he wrote this.  Come along, my dear fellow, for
it's an urgent call."

In a quarter of an hour or so we were back at the
physician's house.  He came running out to meet us
with a face of horror.

"Oh, such a business!" he cried, with his hands to his
temples.

"What then?"

"Blessington has committed suicide!"

Holmes whistled.

"Yes, he hanged himself during the night."

We had entered, and the doctor had preceded us into
what was evidently his waiting-room.

"I really hardly know what I am doing," he cried. 
"The police are already upstairs.  It has shaken me
most dreadfully."

"When did you find it out?"

"He has a cup of tea taken in to him early every
morning.  When the maid entered, about seven, there
the unfortunate fellow was hanging in the middle of
the room.  He had tied his cord to the hook on which
the heavy lamp used to hang, and he had jumped off
from the top of the very box that he showed us
yesterday."

Holmes stood for a moment in deep thought.

"With your permission," said he at last, "I should
like to go upstairs and look into the matter."

We both ascended, followed by the doctor.

It was a dreadful sight which met us as we entered the
bedroom door.  I have spoken of the impression of
flabbiness which this man Blessington conveyed.  As he
dangled from the hook it was exaggerated and
intensified until he was scarce human in his
appearance.  The neck was drawn out like a plucked
chicken's, making the rest of him seem the more obese
and unnatural by the contrast.  He was clad only in
his long night-dress, and his swollen ankles and
ungainly feet protruded starkly from beneath it. 
Beside him stood a smart-looking police-inspector, who
was taking notes in a pocket-book.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," said he, heartily, as my friend
entered, "I am delighted to see you."

"Good-morning, Lanner," answered Holmes; "you won't
think me an intruder, I am sure.  Have you heard of
the events which led up to this affair?"

"Yes, I heard something of them."

"Have you formed any opinion?"

"As far as I can see, the man has been driven out of
his senses by fright.  The bed has been well slept in,
you see.  There's his impression deep enough.  It's
about five in the morning, you know, that suicides are
most common.  That would be about his time for hanging
himself.  It seems to have been a very deliberate
affair."

"I should say that he has been dead about three hours,
judging by the rigidity of the muscles," said I.

"Noticed anything peculiar about the room?" asked
Holmes.

"Found a screw-driver and some screws on the wash-hand
stand.  Seems to have smoked heavily during the night,
too.  Here are four cigar-ends that I picked out of
the fireplace."

"Hum!" said Holmes, "have you got his cigar-holder?"

"No, I have seen none."

"His cigar-case, then?"

"Yes, it was in his coat-pocket."

Holmes opened it and smelled the single cigar which it
contained.

"Oh, this is an Havana, and these others are cigars of
the peculiar sort which are imported by the Dutch from
their East Indian colonies.  They are usually wrapped
in straw, you know, and are thinner for their length
than any other brand."  He picked up the four ends and
examined them with his pocket-lens.

"Two of these have been smoked from a holder and two
without," said he.  "Two have been cut by a not very
sharp knife, and two have had the ends bitten off by a
set of excellent teeth.  This is no suicide, Mr.
Lanner.  It is a very deeply planned and cold-blooded
murder."

"Impossible!" cried the inspector.

"And why?"

"Why should any one murder a man in so clumsy a
fashion as by hanging him?"

"That is what we have to find out."

"How could they get in?"

"Through the front door."

"It was barred in the morning."

"Then it was barred after them."

"How do you know?"

"I saw their traces.  Excuse me a moment, and I may be
able to give you some further information about it."

He went over to the door, and turning the lock he
examined it in his methodical way.  Then he took out
the key, which was on the inside, and inspected that
also.  The bed, the carpet, the chairs the
mantelpiece, the dead body, and the rope were each in
turn examined, until at last he professed himself
satisfied, and with my aid and that of the inspector
cut down the wretched object and laid it reverently
under a sheet.

"How about this rope?" he asked.

"It is cut off this," said Dr. Trevelyan, drawing a
large coil from under the bed.  "He was morbidly
nervous of fire, and always kept this beside him, so
that he might escape by the window in case the stairs
were burning."

"That must have saved them trouble," said Holmes,
thoughtfully.  "Yes, the actual facts are very plain,
and I shall be surprised if by the afternoon I cannot
give you the reasons for them as well.  I will take
this photograph of Blessington, which I see upon the
mantelpiece, as it may help me in my inquiries."

"But you have told us nothing!" cried the doctor.

"Oh, there can be no doubt as to the sequence of
events," said Holmes.  "There were three of them in
it:  the young man, the old man, and a third, to whose
identity I have no clue.  The first two, I need hardly
remark, are the same who masqueraded as the Russian
count and his son, so we can give a very full
description of them.  They were admitted by a
confederate inside the house.  If I might offer you a
word of advice, Inspector, it would be to arrest the
page, who, as I understand, has only recently come
into your service, Doctor."

"The young imp cannot be found," said Dr. Trevelyan;
"the maid and the cook have just been searching for
him."

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"He has played a not unimportant part in this drama,"
said he.  "The three men having ascended the stairs,
which they did on tiptoe, the elder man first, the
younger man second, and the unknown man in the rear--"

"My dear Holmes!" I ejaculated.

"Oh, there could be no question as to the
superimposing of the footmarks.  I had the advantage
of learning which was which last night.  They
ascended, then, to Mr. Blessington's room, the door of
which they found to be locked.  With the help of a
wire, however, they forced round the key.  Even
without the lens you will perceive, by the scratches
on this ward, where the pressure was applied.

"On entering the room their first proceeding must have
been to gag Mr. Blessington.  He may have been asleep,
or he may have been so paralyzed with terror as to
have been unable to cry out.  These walls are thick,
and it is conceivable that his shriek, if he had time
to utter one, was unheard.

"Having secured him, it is evident to me that a
consultation of some sort was held.  Probably it was
something in the nature of a judicial proceeding.  It
must have lasted for some time, for it was then that
these cigars were smoke.  The older man sat in that
wicker chair; it was he who used the cigar-holder. 
The younger man sat over yonder; he knocked his ash
off against the chest of drawers.  The third fellow
paced up and down.  Blessington, I think, sat upright
in the bed, but of that I cannot be absolutely
certain.

"Well, it ended by their taking Blessington and
hanging him.  The matter was so prearranged that it is
my belief that they brought with them some sort of
block or pulley which might serve as a gallows.  That
screw-driver and those screws were, as I conceive, for
fixing it up.  Seeing the hook, however they naturally
saved themselves the trouble.  Having finished their
work they made off, and the door was barred behind
them by their confederate."

We had all listened with the deepest interest to this
sketch of the night's doings, which Holmes had deduced
from signs so subtle and minute that, even when he had
pointed them out to us, we could scarcely follow him
in his reasoning.  The inspector hurried away on the
instant to make inquiries about the page, while Holmes
and I returned to Baker Street for breakfast.

"I'll be back by three," said he, when we had finished
our meal.  "Both the inspector and the doctor will
meet me here at that hour, and I hope by that time to
have cleared up any little obscurity which the case
may still present."


Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but it was
a quarter to four before my friend put in an
appearance.  From his expression as he entered,
however, I could see that all had gone well with him.

"Any news, Inspector?"

"We have got the boy, sir."

"Excellent, and I have got the men."

"You have got them!" we cried, all three.

"Well, at least I have got their identity.  This
so-called Blessington is, as I expected, well known at
headquarters, and so are his assailants.  Their names
are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat."

"The Worthingdon bank gang," cried the inspector.

"Precisely," said Holmes.

"Then Blessington must have been Sutton."

"Exactly," said Holmes.

"Why, that makes it as clear as crystal," said the
inspector.

But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in
bewilderment.

"You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank
business," said Holmes.  "Five men were in it--these
four and a fifth called Cartwright.  Tobin, the
care-taker, was murdered, and the thieves got away
with seven thousand pounds.  This was in 1875.  They
were all five arrested, but the evidence against them
was by no means conclusive.  This Blessington or
Sutton, who was the worst of the gang, turned
informer.  On his evidence Cartwright was hanged and
the other three got fifteen years apiece.  When they
got out the other day, which was some years before
their full term, they set themselves, as you perceive,
to hunt down the traitor and to avenge the death of
their comrade upon him.  Twice they tried to get at
him and failed; a third time, you see, it came off. 
Is there anything further which I can explain, Dr.
Trevelyan?"

"I think you have made it all remarkable clear," said
the doctor.  "No doubt the day on which he was
perturbed was the day when he had seen of their
release in the newspapers."

"Quite so.  His talk about a burglary was the merest
blind."

"But why could he not tell you this?"

"Well, my dear sir, knowing the vindictive character
of his old associates, he was trying to hide his own
identity from everybody as long as he could.  His
secret was a shameful one, and he could not bring
himself to divulge it.  However, wretch as he was, he
was still living under the shield of British law, and
I have no doubt, Inspector, that you will see that,
though that shield may fail to guard, the sword of
justice is still there to avenge."


Such were the singular circumstances in connection
with the Resident Patient and the Brook Street Doctor. 
From that night nothing has been seen of the three
murderers by the police, and it is surmised at
Scotland Yard that they were among the passengers of
the ill-fated steamer Norah Creina, which was lost
some years ago with all hands upon the Portuguese
coast, some leagues to the north of Oporto.  The
proceedings against the page broke down for want of
evidence, and the Brook Street Mystery, as it was
called, has never until now been fully dealt with in
any public print.



Adventure IX


The Greek Interpreter


During my long and intimate acquaintance with Mr.
Sherlock Holmes I had never heard him refer to his
relations, and hardly ever to his own early life. 
This reticence upon his part had increased the
somewhat inhuman effect which he produced upon me,
until sometimes I found myself regarding him as an
isolated phenomenon, a brain without a heart, as
deficient in human sympathy as he was pre-eminent in
intelligence.  His aversion to women and his
disinclination to form new friendships were both
typical of his unemotional character, but not more so
than his complete suppression of every reference to
his own people.  I had come to believe that he was an
orphan with no relatives living, but one day, to my
very great surprise, he began to talk to me about his
brother.

It was after tea on a summer evening, and the
conversation, which had roamed in a desultory,
spasmodic fashion from golf clubs to the causes of the
change in the obliquity of the ecliptic, came round at
last to the question of atavism and hereditary
aptitudes.  The point under discussion was, how far
any singular gift in an individual was due to his
ancestry and how far to his own early training.

"In your own case," said I, "from all that you have
told me, it seems obvious that your faculty of
observation and your peculiar facility for deduction
are due to your own systematic training."

"To some extent," he answered, thoughtfully.  "My
ancestors were country squires, who appear to have led
much the same life as is natural to their class.  But,
none the less, my turn that way is in my veins, and
may have come with my grandmother, who was the sister
of Vernet, the French artist.  Art in the blood is
liable to take the strangest forms."

"But how do you know that it is hereditary?"

"Because my brother Mycroft possesses it in a larger
degree than I do."

This was news to me indeed.  If there were another man
with such singular powers in England, how was it that
neither police nor public had heard of him?  I put the
question, with a hint that it was my companion's
modesty which made him acknowledge his brother as his
superior.  Holmes laughed at my suggestion.

"My dear Watson," said he, "I cannot agree with those
who rank modesty among the virtues.  To the logician
all things should be seen exactly as they are, and to
underestimate one's self is as much a departure from
truth as to exaggerate one's own powers.  When I say,
therefore, that Mycroft has better powers of
observation than I, you may take it that I am speaking
the exact and literal truth."

"Is he your junior?"

"Seven years my senior."

"How comes it that he is unknown?"

"Oh, he is very well known in his own circle."

"Where, then?"

"Well, in the Diogenes Club, for example."

I had never heard of the institution, and my face must
have proclaimed as much, for Sherlock Holmes pulled
out his watch.

"The Diogenes Club is the queerest club in London, and
Mycroft one of the queerest men.  He's always there
from quarter to five to twenty to eight.  It's six
now, so if you care for a stroll this beautiful
evening I shall be very happy to introduce you to two
curiosities."

"Five minutes later we were in the street, walking
towards Regent's Circus.

"You wonder," said my companion, "why it is that
Mycroft does not use his powers for detective work. 
He is incapable of it."

"But I thought you said--"

"I said that he was my superior in observation and
deduction.  If the art of the detective began and
ended in reasoning from an arm-chair, my brother would
be the greatest criminal agent that ever lived.  But
he has no ambition and no energy.  He will not even go
out of his way to verify his own solution, and would
rather be considered wrong than take the trouble to
prove himself right.  Again and again I have taken a
problem to him, and have received an explanation which
has afterwards proved to be the correct one.  And yet
he was absolutely incapable of working out the
practical points which must be gone into before a case
could be laid before a judge or jury."

"It is not his profession, then?"

"By no means.  What is to me a means of livelihood is
to him the merest hobby of a dilettante.  He has an
extraordinary faculty for figures, and audits the
books in some of the government departments.  Mycroft
lodges in Pall Mall, and he walks round the corner
into Whitehall every morning and back every evening. 
From year's end to year's end he takes no other
exercise, and is seen nowhere else, except only in the
Diogenes Club, which is just opposite his rooms."

"I cannot recall the name."

"Very likely not.  There are many men in London, you
know, who, some from shyness, some from misanthropy,
have no wish for the company of their fellows.  Yet
they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the
latest periodicals.  It is for the convenience of
these that the Diogenes Club was started, and it now
contains the most unsociable and unclubable men in
town.  No member is permitted to take the least notice
of any other one.  Save in the Stranger's Room, no
talking is, under any circumstances, allowed, and
three offences, if brought to the notice of the
committee, render the talker liable to expulsion.  My
brother was one of the founders, and I have myself
found it a very soothing atmosphere."

We had reached Pall Mall as we talked, and were
walking down it from the St. James's end.  Sherlock
Holmes stopped at a door some little distance from the
Carlton, and, cautioning me not to speak, he led the
way into the hall.  Through the glass paneling I
caught a glimpse of a large and luxurious room, in
which a considerable number of men were sitting about
and reading papers, each in his own little nook. 
Holmes showed me into a small chamber which looked out
into Pall Mall, and then, leaving me for a minute, he
came back with a companion whom I knew could only be
his brother.

Mycroft Holmes was a much larger and stouter man than
Sherlock.  His body was absolutely corpulent, but is
face, though massive, had preserved something of the
sharpness of expression which was so remarkable in
that of his brother.  His eyes, which were of a
peculiarly light, watery gray, seemed to always retain
that far-away, introspective look which I had only
observed in Sherlock's when he was exerting his full
powers.

"I am glad to meet you, sir," said he, putting out a
broad, fat hand like the flipper of a seal.  "I hear
of Sherlock everywhere since you became his
chronicler.  By the way, Sherlock, I expected to see
you round last week, to consult me over that Manor
House case.  I thought you might be a little out of
your depth."

"No, I solved it," said my friend, smiling.

"It was Adams, of course."

"Yes, it was Adams."

"I was sure of it from the first."  The two sat down
together in the bow-window of the club.  "To any one
who wishes to study mankind this is the spot," said
Mycroft.  "Look at the magnificent types!  Look at
these two men who are coming towards us, for example."

"The billiard-marker and the other?"

"Precisely.  What do you make of the other?"

The two men had stopped opposite the window.  Some
chalk marks over the waistcoat pocket were the only
signs of billiards which I could see in one of them. 
The other was a very small, dark fellow, with his hat
pushed back and several packages under his arm.

"An old soldier, I perceive," said Sherlock.

"And very recently discharged," remarked the brother.

"Served in India, I see."

"And a non-commissioned officer."

"Royal Artillery, I fancy," said Sherlock.

"And a widower."

"But with a child."

"Children, my dear boy, children."

"Come," said I, laughing, "this is a little too much."

"Surely," answered Holmes, "it is not hard to say that
a man with that bearing, expression of authority, and
sunbaked skin, is a soldier, is more than a private,
and is not long from India."

"That he has not left the service long is shown by his
still wearing is ammunition boots, as they are
called," observed Mycroft.

"He had not the cavalry stride, yet he wore his hat on
one side, as is shown by the lighter skin of that side
of his brow.  His weight is against his being a
sapper.  He is in the artillery."

"Then, of course, his complete mourning shows that he
has lost some one very dear.  The fact that he is
doing his own shopping looks as though it were his
wife.  He has been buying things for children, you
perceive.  There is a rattle, which shows that one of
them is very young.  The wife probably died in
childbed.  The fact that he has a picture-book under
his arm shows that there is another child to be
thought of."

I began to understand what my friend meant when he
said that his brother possessed even keener faculties
that he did himself.  He glanced across at me and
smiled.  Mycroft took snuff from a tortoise-shell box,
and brushed away the wandering grains from his coat
front with a large, red silk handkerchief.

"By the way, Sherlock," said he, "I have had something
quite after your own heart--a most singular
problem--submitted to my judgment.  I really had not
the energy to follow it up save in a very incomplete
fashion, but it gave me a basis for some pleasing
speculation.  If you would care to hear the facts--"

"My dear Mycroft, I should be delighted."

The brother scribbled a note upon a leaf of his
pocket-book, and, ringing the bell, he handed it to
the waiter.

"I have asked Mr. Melas to step across," said he.  "He
lodges on the floor above me, and I have some slight
acquaintance with him, which led him to come to me in
his perplexity.  Mr. Melas is a Greek by extraction,
as I understand, and he is a remarkable linguist.  He
earns his living partly as interpreter in the law
courts and partly by acting as guide to any wealthy
Orientals who may visit the Northumberland Avenue
hotels.  I think I will leave him to tell his very
remarkable experience in his own fashion."

A few minutes later we were joined by a short, stout
man whose olive face and coal-black hair proclaimed
his Southern origin, though his speech was that of an
educated Englishman.  He shook hands eagerly with
Sherlock Holmes, and his dark eyes sparkled with
pleasure when he understood that the specialist was
anxious to hear his story.

"I do not believe that the police credit me--on my
word, I do not," said he in a wailing voice.  "Just
because they have never heard of it before, they think
that such a thing cannot be.  But I know that I shall
never be easy in my mind until I know what has become
of my poor man with the sticking-plaster upon his
face."

"I am all attention," said Sherlock Holmes.

"This is Wednesday evening," said Mr. Melas.  "Well
then, it was Monday night--only two days ago, you
understand--that all this happened.  I am an
interpreter, as perhaps my neighbor there has told
you.  I interpret all languages--or nearly all--but as
I am a Greek by birth and with a Grecian name, it is
with that particular tongue that I am principally
associated.  For many years I have been the chief
Greek interpreter in London, and my name is very well
known in the hotels.

It happens not unfrequently that I am sent for at
strange hours by foreigners who get into difficulties,
or by travelers who arrive late and wish my services. 
I was not surprised, therefore, on Monday night when a
Mr. Latimer, a very fashionably dressed young man,
came up to my rooms and asked me to accompany him in a
cab which was waiting at the door.  A Greek friend had
come to see him upon business, he said, and as he
could speak nothing but his own tongue, the services
of an interpreter were indispensable.  He gave me to
understand that his house was some little distance
off, in Kensington, and he seemed to be in a great
hurry, bustling me rapidly into the cab when we had
descended to the street.

"I say into the cab, but I soon became doubtful as to
whether it was not a carriage in which I found myself. 
It was certainly more roomy than the ordinary
four-wheeled disgrace to London, and the fittings,
though frayed, were of rich quality.  Mr. Latimer
seated himself opposite to me and we started off
through Charing Cross and up the Shaftesbury Avenue. 
We had come out upon Oxford Street and I had ventured
some remark as to this being a roundabout way to
Kensington, when my words were arrested by the
extraordinary conduct of my companion.

"He began by drawing a most formidable-looking
bludgeon loaded with lead from his pocket, and
switching it backward and forward several times, as if
to test its weight and strength.  Then he placed it
without a word upon the seat beside him.  Having done
this, he drew up the windows on each side, and I found
to my astonishment that they were covered with paper
so as to prevent my seeing through them.

"'I am sorry to cut off your view, Mr. Melas,' said
he.  'The fact is that I have no intention that you
should see what the place is to which we are driving. 
It might possibly be inconvenient to me if you could
find your way there again.'

"As you can imagine, I was utterly taken aback by such
an address.  My companion was a powerful,
broad-shouldered young fellow, and, apart from the
weapon, I should not have had the slightest chance in
a struggle with him.

"'This is very extraordinary conduct, Mr. Latimer,' I
stammered.  'You must be aware that what you are doing
is quite illegal.'

"'It is somewhat of a liberty, no doubt,' said he,
'but we'll make it up to you.  I must warn you,
however, Mr. Melas, that if at any time to-night you
attempt to raise an alarm or do anything which is
against my interests, you will find it a very serious
thing.  I beg you to remember that no one knows where
you are, and that, whether you are in this carriage or
in my house, you are equally in my power.'

"His words were quiet, but he had a rasping way of
saying them which was very menacing.  I sat in silence
wondering what on earth could be his reason for
kidnapping me in this extraordinary fashion.  Whatever
it might be, it was perfectly clear that there was no
possible use in my resisting, and that I could only
wait to see what might befall.

"For nearly two hours we drove without my having the
least clue as to where we were going.  Sometimes the
rattle of the stones told of a paved causeway, and at
others our smooth, silent course suggested asphalt;
but, save by this variation in sound, there was
nothing at all which could in the remotest way help me
to form a guess as to where we were.  The paper over
each window was impenetrable to light, and a blue
curtain was drawn across the glass work in front.  It
was a quarter-past seven when we left Pall Mall, and
my watch showed me that it was ten minutes to nine
when we at last came to a standstill.  My companion
let down the window, and I caught a glimpse of a low,
arched doorway with a lamp burning above it.  As I was
hurried from the carriage it swung open, and I found
myself inside the house, with a vague impression of a
lawn and trees on each side of me as I entered. 
Whether these were private grounds, however, or
bona-fide country was more than I could possibly
venture to say.

"There was a colored gas-lamp inside which was turned
so low that I could see little save that the hall was
of some size and hung with pictures.  In the dim light
I could make out that the person who had opened the
door was a small, mean-looking, middle-aged man with
rounded shoulders.  As he turned towards us the glint
of the light showed me that he was wearing glasses.

"'Is this Mr. Melas, Harold?' said he.

"'Yes.'

"'Well done, well done!  No ill-will, Mr. Melas, I
hope, but we could not get on without you.  If you
deal fair with us you'll not regret it, but if you try
any tricks, God help you!'  He spoke in a nervous,
jerky fashion, and with little giggling laughs in
between, but somehow he impressed me with fear more
than the other.

"'What do you want with me?' I asked.

"'Only to ask a few questions of a Greek gentleman who
is visiting us, and to let us have the answers.  But
say no more than you are told to say, or--' here came
the nervous giggle again--'you had better never have
been born.'

"As he spoke he opened a door and showed the way into
a room which appeared to be very richly furnished, but
again the only light was afforded by a single lamp
half-turned down.  The chamber was certainly large,
and the way in which my feet sank into the carpet as I
stepped across it told me of its richness.  I caught
glimpses of velvet chairs, a high white marble
mantel-piece, and what seemed to be a suit of Japanese
armor at one side of it.  There was a chair just under
the lamp, and the elderly man motioned that I should
sit in it.  The younger had left us, but he suddenly
returned through another door, leading with him a
gentleman clad in some sort of loose dressing-gown who
moved slowly towards us.  As he came into the circle
of dim light which enables me to see him more clearly
I was thrilled with horror at his appearance.  He was
deadly pale and terribly emaciated, with the
protruding, brilliant eyes of a man whose spirit was
greater than his strength.  But what shocked me more
than any signs of physical weakness was that his face
was grotesquely criss-crossed with sticking-plaster,
and that one large pad of it was fastened over his
mouth.

"'Have you the slate, Harold?' cried the older man, as
this strange being fell rather than sat down into a
chair.  'Are his hands loose?  Now, then, give him the
pencil.  You are to ask the questions, Mr. Melas, and
he will write the answers.  Ask him first of all
whether he is prepared to sign the papers?'

"The man's eyes flashed fire.

"'Never!' he wrote in Greek upon the slate.

"'On no condition?' I asked, at the bidding of our
tyrant.

"'Only if I see her married in my presence by a Greek
priest whom I know.'

"The man giggled in his venomous way.

"'You know what awaits you, then?'

"'I care nothing for myself.'

"These are samples of the questions and answers which
made up our strange half-spoken, half-written
conversation.  Again and again I had to ask him
whether he would give in and sign the documents. 
Again and again I had the same indignant reply.  But
soon a happy thought came to me.  I took to adding on
little sentences of my own to each question, innocent
ones at first, to test whether either of our
companions knew anything of the matter, and then, as I
found that they showed no signs I played a more
dangerous game.  Our conversation ran something like
this:

"'You can do no good by this obstinacy.  Who are you?'

"'I care not.  I am a stranger in London.'

"'Your fate will be upon your own head.  How long have
you been here?'

"'Let it be so.  Three weeks.'

"'The property can never be yours.  What ails you?'

"'It shall not go to villains.  They are starving me.'

"'You shall go free if you sign.  What house is this?'

"'I will never sign.  I do not know.'

"'You are not doing her any service.  What is your
name?'

"'Let me hear her say so.  Kratides.'

"'You shall see her if you sign.  Where are you from?'

"'Then I shall never see her.  Athens.'

"Another five minutes, Mr. Holmes, and I should have
wormed out the whole story under their very noses.  My
very next question might have cleared the matter up,
but at that instant the door opened and a woman
stepped into the room.  I could not see her clearly
enough to know more than that she was tall and
graceful, with black hair, and clad in some sort of
loose white gown.

"'Harold,' said she, speaking English with a broken
accent.  'I could not stay away longer.  It is so
lonely up there with only--Oh, my God, it is Paul!'

"These last words were in Greek, and at the same
instant the man with a convulsive effort tore the
plaster from his lips, and screaming out 'Sophy! 
Sophy!' rushed into the woman's arms.  Their embrace
was but for an instant, however, for the younger man
seized the woman and pushed her out of the room, while
the elder easily overpowered his emaciated victim, and
dragged him away through the other door.  For a moment
I was left alone in the room, and I sprang to my feet
with some vague idea that I might in some way get a
clue to what this house was in which I found myself. 
Fortunately, however, I took no steps, for looking up
I saw that the older man was standing in the door-way
with his eyes fixed upon me.

"'That will do, Mr. Melas,' said he.  'You perceive
that we have taken you into our confidence over some
very private business.  We should not have troubled
you, only that our friend who speaks Greek and who
began these negotiations has been forced to return to
the East.  It was quite necessary for us to find some
one to take his place, and we were fortunate in
hearing of your powers.'

"I bowed.

"'There are five sovereigns here,' said he, walking up
to me, 'which will, I hope, be a sufficient fee.  But
remember,' he added, tapping me lightly on the chest
and giggling, 'if you speak to a human soul about
this--one human soul, mind--well, may God have mercy
upon your soul!"

"I cannot tell you the loathing and horror with which
this insignificant-looking man inspired me.  I could
see him better now as the lamp-light shone upon him. 
His features were peaky and sallow, and his little
pointed beard was thready and ill-nourished.  He
pushed his face forward as he spoke and his lips and
eyelids were continually twitching like a man with St.
Vitus's dance.  I could not help thinking that his
strange, catchy little laugh was also a symptom of
some nervous malady.  The terror of his face lay in
his eyes, however, steel gray, and glistening coldly
with a malignant, inexorable cruelty in their depths.

"'We shall know if you speak of this,' said he.  'We
have our own means of information.  Now you will find
the carriage waiting, and my friend will see you on
your way.'

"I was hurried through the hall and into the vehicle,
again obtaining that momentary glimpse of trees and a
garden.  Mr. Latimer followed closely at my heels, and
took his place opposite to me without a word.  In
silence we again drove for an interminable distance
with the windows raised, until at last, just after
midnight, the carriage pulled up.

"'You will get down here, Mr. Melas,' said my
companion.  'I am sorry to leave you so far from your
house, but there is no alternative.  Any attempt upon
your part to follow the carriage can only end in
injury to yourself.'

"He opened the door as he spoke, and I had hardly time
to spring out when the coachman lashed the horse and
the carriage rattled away.  I looked around me in
astonishment.  I was on some sort of a heathy common
mottled over with dark clumps of furze-bushes.  Far
away stretched a line of houses, with a light here and
there in the upper windows.  On the other side I saw
the red signal-lamps of a railway.

"The carriage which had brought me was already out of
sight.  I stood gazing round and wondering where on
earth I might be, when I saw some one coming towards
me in the darkness.  As he came up to me I made out
that he was a railway porter.

"'Can you tell me what place this is?' I asked.

"'Wandsworth Common,' said he.

"'Can I get a train into town?'

"'If you walk on a mile or so to Clapham Junction,'
said he, 'you'll just be in time for the last to
Victoria.'

"So that was the end of my adventure, Mr. Holmes.  I
do not know where I was, nor whom I spoke with, nor
anything save what I have told you.  But I know that
there is foul play going on, and I want to help that
unhappy man if I can.  I told the whole story to Mr.
Mycroft Holmes next morning, and subsequently to the
police."

We all sat in silence for some little time after
listening to this extraordinary narrative.  Then
Sherlock looked across at his brother.

"Any steps?" he asked.

Mycroft picked up the Daily News, which was lying on
the side-table.

"'Anybody supplying any information to the whereabouts
of a Greek gentleman named Paul Kratides, from Athens,
who is unable to speak English, will be rewarded.  A
similar reward paid to any one giving information
about a Greek lady whose first name is Sophy.  X
2473.'  That was in all the dailies.  No answer."

"How about the Greek Legation?"

"I have inquired.  They know nothing."

"A wire to the head of the Athens police, then?"

"Sherlock has all the energy of the family," said
Mycroft, turning to me.  "Well, you take the case up
by all means, and let me know if you do any good."

"Certainly," answered my friend, rising from his
chair.  "I'll let you know, and Mr. Melas also.  In
the meantime, Mr. Melas, I should certainly be on my
guard, if I were you, for of course they must know
through these advertisements that you have betrayed
them."

As we walked home together, Holmes stopped at a
telegraph office and sent off several wires.

"You see, Watson," he remarked, "our evening has been
by no means wasted.  Some of my most interesting cases
have come to me in this way through Mycroft.  The
problem which we have just listened to, although it
can admit of but one explanation, has still some
distinguishing features."

"You have hopes of solving it?"

"Well, knowing as much as we do, it will be singular
indeed if we fail to discover the rest.  You must
yourself have formed some theory which will explain
the facts to which we have listened."

"In a vague way, yes."

"What was your idea, then?"

"It seemed to me to be obvious that this Greek girl
had been carried off by the young Englishman named
Harold Latimer."

"Carried off from where?"

"Athens, perhaps."

Sherlock Holmes shook his head.  "This young man could
not talk a word of Greek.  The lady could talk English
fairly well.  Inference--that she had been in England
some little time, but he had not been in Greece."

"Well, then, we will presume that she had come on a
visit to England, and that this Harold had persuaded
her to fly with him."

"That is more probable."

"Then the brother--for that, I fancy, must be the
relationship--comes over from Greece to interfere.  He
imprudently puts himself into the power of the young
man and his older associate.  They seize him and use
violence towards him in order to make him sign some
papers to make over the girl's fortune--of which he
may be trustee--to them.  This he refuses to do.  In
order to negotiate with him they have to get an
interpreter , and they pitch upon this Mr. Melas,
having used some other one before.  The girl is not
told of the arrival of her brother, and finds it out
by the merest accident."

"Excellent, Watson!" cried Holmes.  "I really fancy
that you are not far from the truth.  You see that we
hold all the cards, and we have only to fear some
sudden act of violence on their part.  If they give us
time we must have them."

"But how can we find where this house lies?"

"Well, if our conjecture is correct and the girl's
name is or was Sophy Kratides, we should have no
difficulty in tracing her.  That must be our main
hope, for the brother is, of course, a complete
stranger.  It is clear that some time has elapsed
since this Harold established these relations with the
girl--some weeks, at any rate--since the brother in
Greece has had time to hear of it and come across.  If
they have been living in the same place during this
time, it is probable that we shall have some answer to
Mycroft's advertisement."

We had reached our house in Baker Street while we had
been talking.  Holmes ascended the stair first, and as
he opened the door of our room he gave a start of
surprise.  Looking over his shoulder, I was equally
astonished.  His brother Mycroft was sitting smoking
in the arm-chair.

"Come in, Sherlock!  Come in, sir," said he blandly,
smiling at our surprised faces.  "You don't expect
such energy from me, do you, Sherlock?  But somehow
this case attracts me."

"How did you get here?"

"I passed you in a hansom."

"There has been some new development?"

"I had an answer to my advertisement."

"Ah!"

"Yes, it came within a few minutes of your leaving."

"And to what effect?"

Mycroft Holmes took out a sheet of paper.

"Here it is," said he, "written with a J pen on royal
cream paper by a middle-aged man with a weak
constitution.  'Sir,' he says, 'in answer to your
advertisement of to-day's date, I beg to inform you
that I know the young lady in question very well.  If
you should care to call upon me I could give you some
particulars as to her painful history.  She is living
at present at The Myrtles, Beckenham.  Yours
faithfully, J. Davenport.'

"He writes from Lower Brixton," said Mycroft Holmes. 
"Do you not think that we might drive to him now,
Sherlock, and learn these particulars?"

"My dear Mycroft, the brother's life is more valuable
than the sister's story.  I think we should call at
Scotland Yard for Inspector Gregson, and go straight
out to Beckenham.  We know that a man is being done to
death, and every hour may be vital."

"Better pick up Mr. Melas on our way," I suggested. 
"We may need an interpreter."

"Excellent," said Sherlock Holmes.  "Send the boy for
a four-wheeler, and we shall be off at once."  He
opened the table-drawer as he spoke, and I noticed
that he slipped his revolver into his pocket.  "Yes,"
said he, in answer to my glance; "I should say from
what we have heard, that we are dealing with a
particularly dangerous gang."

It was almost dark before we found ourselves in Pall
Mall, at the rooms of Mr. Melas.  A gentleman had just
called for him, and he was gone.

"Can you tell me where?" asked Mycroft Holmes.

"I don't know, sir," answered the woman who had opened
the door; "I only know that he drove away with the
gentleman in a carriage."

"Did the gentleman give a name?"

"No, sir."

"He wasn't a tall, handsome, dark young man?"

"Oh, no, sir.  He was a little gentleman, with
glasses, thin in the face, but very pleasant in his
ways, for he was laughing al the time that he was
talking."

"Come along!" cried Sherlock Holmes, abruptly.  "This
grows serious," he observed, as we drove to Scotland
Yard.  "These men have got hold of Melas again.  He is
a man of no physical courage, as they are well aware
from their experience the other night.  This villain
was able to terrorize him the instant that he got into
his presence.  No doubt they want his professional
services, but, having used him, they may be inclined
to punish him for what they will regard as his
treachery."

Our hope was that, by taking train, we might get to
Beckenham as soon or sooner than the carriage.  On
reaching Scotland Yard, however, it was more than an
hour before we could get Inspector Gregson and comply
with the legal formalities which would enable us to
enter the house.  It was a quarter to ten before we
reached London Bridge, and half past before the four
of us alighted on the Beckenham platform.  A drive of
half a mile brought us to The Myrtles--a large, dark
house standing back from the road in its own grounds. 
Here we dismissed our cab, and made our way up the
drive together.

"The windows are all dark," remarked the inspector. 
"The house seems deserted."

"Our birds are flown and the nest empty," said Holmes.

"Why do you say so?"

"A carriage heavily loaded with luggage has passed out
during the last hour."

The inspector laughed.  "I saw the wheel-tracks in the
light of the gate-lamp, but where does the luggage
come in?"

"You may have observed the same wheel-tracks going the
other way.  But the outward-bound ones were very much
deeper--so much so that we can say for a certainty
that there was a very considerable weight on the
carriage."

"You get a trifle beyond me there," said the
inspector, shrugging his shoulder.  "It will not be an
easy door to force, but we will try if we cannot make
some one hear us."

He hammered loudly at the knocker and pulled at the
bell, but without any success.  Holmes had slipped
away, but he came back in a few minutes.

"I have a window open," said he.

"It is a mercy that you are on the side of the force,
and not against it, Mr. Holmes," remarked the
inspector, as he noted the clever way in which my
friend had forced back the catch.  "Well, I think that
under the circumstances we may enter without an
invitation."

One after the other we made our way into a large
apartment, which was evidently that in which Mr. Melas
had found himself.  The inspector had lit his lantern,
and by its light we could see the two doors, the
curtain, the lamp, and the suit of Japanese mail as he
had described them.  On the table lay two glasses, and
empty brandy-bottle, and the remains of a meal.

"What is that?" asked Holmes, suddenly.

We all stood still and listened.  A low moaning sound
was coming from somewhere over our heads.  Holmes
rushed to the door and out into the hall.  The dismal
noise came from upstairs.  He dashed up, the inspector
and I at his heels, while his brother Mycroft followed
as quickly as his great bulk would permit.

Three doors faced up upon the second floor, and it was
from the central of these that the sinister sounds
were issuing, sinking sometimes into a dull mumble and
rising again into a shrill whine.  It was locked, but
the key had been left on the outside.  Holmes flung
open the door and rushed in, but he was out again in
an instant, with his hand to his throat."

"It's charcoal," he cried.  "Give it time.  It will
clear."

Peering in, we could see that the only light in the
room came from a dull blue flame which flickered from
a small brass tripod in the centre.  It threw a livid,
unnatural circle upon the floor, while in the shadows
beyond we saw the vague loom of two figures which
crouched against the wall.  From the open door there
reeked a horrible poisonous exhalation which set us
gasping and coughing.  Holmes rushed to the top of the
stairs to draw in the fresh air, and then, dashing
into the room, he threw up the window and hurled the
brazen tripod out into the garden.

"We can enter in a minute," he gasped, darting out
again.  "Where is a candle?  I doubt if we could
strike a match in that atmosphere.  Hold the light at
the door and we shall get them out, Mycroft, now!"

With a rush we got to the poisoned men and dragged
them out into the well-lit hall.  Both of them were
blue-lipped and insensible, with swollen, congested
faces and protruding eyes.  Indeed, so distorted were
their features that, save for his black beard and
stout figure, we might have failed to recognize in one
of them the Greek interpreter who had parted from us
only a few hours before at the Diogenes Club.  His
hands and feet were securely strapped together, and he
bore over one eye the marks of a violent blow.  The
other, who was secured in a similar fashion, was a
tall man in the last stage of emaciation, with several
strips of sticking-plaster arranged in a grotesque
pattern over his face.  He had ceased to moan as we
laid him down, and a glance showed me that for him at
least our aid had come too late.  Mr. Melas, however,
still lived, and in less than an hour, with the aid of
ammonia and brandy I had the satisfaction of seeing
him open his eyes, and of knowing that my hand had
drawn him back from that dark valley in which all
paths meet.

It was a simple story which he had to tell, and one
which did but confirm our own deductions.  His
visitor, on entering his rooms, had drawn a
life-preserver from his sleeve, and had so impressed
him with the fear of instant and inevitable death that
he had kidnapped him for the second time.  Indeed, it
was almost mesmeric, the effect which this giggling
ruffian had produced upon the unfortunate linguist,
for he could not speak of him save with trembling
hands and a blanched cheek.  He had been taken swiftly
to Beckenham, and had acted as interpreter in a second
interview, even more dramatic than the first, in which
the two Englishmen had menaced their prisoner with
instant death if he did not comply with their demands. 
Finally, finding him proof against every threat, they
had hurled him back into his prison, and after
reproaching Melas with his treachery, which appeared
from the newspaper advertisement, they had stunned him
with a blow from a stick, and he remembered nothing
more until he found us bending over him.

And this was the singular case of the Grecian
Interpreter, the explanation of which is still
involved in some mystery.  We were able to find out,
by communicating with the gentleman who had answered
the advertisement, that the unfortunate young lady
came of a wealthy Grecian family, and that she had
been on a visit to some friends in England.  While
there she had met a young man named Harold Latimer,
who had acquired an ascendancy over he and had
eventually persuaded her to fly with him.  Her
friends, shocked at the event, had contented
themselves with informing her brother at Athens, and
had then washed their hands of the matter.  The
brother, on his arrival in England, had imprudently
placed himself in the power of Latimer and of his
associate, whose name was Wilson Kemp--that through
his ignorance of the language he was helpless in their
hands, had kept him a prisoner, and had endeavored by
cruelty and starvation to make him sign away his own
and his sister's property.  They had kept him in the
house without the girl's knowledge, and the plaster
over the face had been for the purpose of making
recognition difficult in case she should ever catch a
glimpse of him.  Her feminine perception, however, had
instantly seen through the disguise when, on the
occasion of the interpreter's visit, she had seen him
for the first time.  The poor girl, however, was
herself a prisoner, for there was no one about the
house except the man who acted as coachman, and his
wife, both of whom were tools of the conspirators. 
Finding that their secret was out, and that their
prisoner was not to be coerced, the two villains with
the girl had fled away at a few hours' notice from the
furnished house which they had hired, having first, as
they thought, taken vengeance both upon the man who
had defied and the one who had betrayed them.

Months afterwards a curious newspaper cutting reached
us from Buda-Pesth.  It told how two Englishmen who
had been traveling with a woman had met with a tragic
end.  They had each been stabbed, it seems, and the
Hungarian police were of opinion that they had
quarreled and had inflicted mortal injuries upon each
other.  Holmes, however, is, I fancy, of a different
way of thinking, and holds to this day that, if one
could find the Grecian girl, one might learn how the
wrongs of herself and her brother came to be avenged.



Adventure X


The Naval Treaty


The July which immediately succeeded my marriage was
made memorable by three cases of interest, in which I
had the privilege of being associated with Sherlock
Holmes and of studying his methods.  I find them
recorded in my notes under the headings of "The
Adventure of the Second Stain," "The Adventure of the
Naval Treaty," and "The Adventure of the Tired
Captain."  The first of these, however, deals with
interest of such importance and implicates so many of
the first families in the kingdom that for many years
it will be impossible to make it public.  No case,
however, in which Holmes was engaged has ever
illustrated the value of his analytical methods so
clearly or has impressed those who were associated
with him so deeply.  I still retain an almost verbatim
report of the interview in which he demonstrated the
true facts of the case to Monsieur Dubugue of the
Paris police, and Fritz von Waldbaum, the well-known
specialist of Dantzig, both of whom had wasted their
energies upon what proved to be side-issues.  The new
century will have come, however, before the story can
be safely told.  Meanwhile I pass on to the second on
my list, which promised also at one time to be of
national importance, and was marked by several
incidents which give it a quite unique character.

During my school-days I had been intimately associated
with a lad named Percy Phelps, who was of much the
same age as myself, though he was two classes ahead of
me.  He was a very brilliant boy, and carried away
every prize which the school had to offer, finished
his exploits by winning a scholarship which sent him
on to continue his triumphant career at Cambridge.  He
was, I remember, extremely well connected, and even
when we were all little boys together we knew that his
mother's brother was Lord Holdhurst, the great
conservative politician.  This gaudy relationship did
him little good at school.  On the contrary, it seemed
rather a piquant thing to us to chevy him about the
playground and hit him over the shins with a wicket. 
But it was another thing when he came out into the
world.  I heard vaguely that his abilities and the
influences which he commanded had won him a good
position at the Foreign Office, and then he passed
completely out of my mind until the following letter
recalled his existence:


Briarbrae, Woking.
My dear Watson,--I have no doubt that you can remember
"Tadpole" Phelps, who was in the fifth form when you
were in the third.  It is possible even that you may
have heard that through my uncle's influence I
obtained a good appointment at the Foreign Office, and
that I was in a situation of trust and honor until a
horrible misfortune came suddenly to blast my career.

There is no use writing of the details of that
dreadful event.  In the event of your acceding to my
request it is probably that I shall have to narrate
them to you.  I have only just recovered from nine
weeks of brain-fever, and am still exceedingly weak. 
Do you think that you could bring your friend Mr.
Holmes down to see me?  I should like to have his
opinion of the case, though the authorities assure me
that nothing more can be done.  Do try to bring him
down, and as soon as possible.  Every minute seems an
hour while I live in this state of horrible suspense. 
Assure him that if I have not asked his advice sooner
it was not because I did not appreciate his talents,
but because I have been off my head ever since the
blow fell.  Now I am clear again, though I dare not
think of it too much for fear of a relapse.  I am still
so weak that I have to write, as you see, by dictating.
Do try to bring him.

Your old school-fellow,

Percy Phelps.


There was something that touched me as I read this
letter, something pitiable in the reiterated appeals
to bring Holmes.  So moved was I that even had it been
a difficult matter I should have tried it, but of
course I knew well that Holmes loved his art, so that
he was ever as ready to bring his aid as his client
could be to receive it.  My wife agreed with me that
not a moment should be lost in laying the matter
before him, and so within an hour of breakfast-time I
found myself back once more in the old rooms in Baker
Street.

Holmes was seated at his side-table clad in his
dressing-gown, and working hard over a chemical
investigation.  A large curved retort was boiling
furiously in the bluish flame of a Bunsen burner, and
the distilled drops were condensing into a two-litre
measure.  My friend hardly glanced up as I entered,
and I, seeing that his investigation must be of
importance, seated myself in an arm-chair and waited. 
He dipped into this bottle or that, drawing out a few
drops of each with his glass pipette, and finally
brought a test-tube containing a solution over to the
table.  In his right hand he held a slip of
litmus-paper.

"You come at a crisis, Watson," said he.  "If this
paper remains blue, all is well.  If it turns red, it
means a man's life."  He dipped it into the test-tube
and it flushed at once into a dull, dirty crimson. 
"Hum!  I thought as much!" he cried.  "I will be at
your service in an instant, Watson.  You will find
tobacco in the Persian slipper."  He turned to his
desk and scribbled off several telegrams, which were
handed over to the page-boy.  Then he threw himself
down into the chair opposite, and drew up his knees
until his fingers clasped round his long, thin shins.

"A very commonplace little murder," said he.  "You've
got something better, I fancy.  You are the stormy
petrel of crime, Watson.  What is it?"

I handed him the letter, which he read with the most
concentrated attention.

"It does not tell us very much, does it?" he remarked,
as he handed it back to me.

"Hardly anything."

"And yet the writing is of interest."

"But the writing is not his own."

"Precisely.  It is a woman's."

"A man's surely," I cried.

"No, a woman's, and a woman of rare character.  You
see, at the commencement of an investigation it is
something to know that your client is in close contact
with some one who, for good or evil, has an
exceptional nature.  My interest is already awakened
in the case.  If you are ready we will start at once
for Woking, and see this diplomatist who is in such
evil case, and the lady to whom he dictates his
letters."

We were fortunate enough to catch an early train at
Waterloo, and in a little under an hour we found
ourselves among the fir-woods and the heather of
Woking.  Briarbrae proved to be a large detached house
standing in extensive grounds within a few minutes'
walk of the station.  On sending in our cards we were
shown into an elegantly appointed drawing-room, where
we were joined in a few minutes by a rather stout man
who received us with much hospitality.  His age may
have been nearer forty than thirty, but his cheeks
were so ruddy and his eyes so merry that he still
conveyed the impression of a plump and mischievous
boy.

"I am so glad that you have come," said he, shaking
our hands with effusion.  "Percy has been inquiring
for you all morning.  Ah, poor old chap, he clings to
any straw!  His father and his mother asked me to see
you, for the mere mention of the subject is very
painful to them."

"We have had no details yet," observed Holmes.  "I
perceive that you are not yourself a member of the
family."

Our acquaintance looked surprised, and then, glancing
down, he began to laugh.

"Of course you saw the J H monogram on my locket,"
said he.  "For a moment I thought you had done
something clever.  Joseph Harrison is my name, and as
Percy is to marry my sister Annie I shall at least be
a relation by marriage.  You will find my sister in
his room, for she has nursed him hand-and-foot this
two months back.  Perhaps we'd better go in at once,
for I know how impatient he is."

The chamber in which we were shown was on the same
floor as the drawing-room.  It was furnished partly as
a sitting and partly as a bedroom, with flowers
arranged daintily in every nook and corner.  A young
man, very pale and worn, was lying upon a sofa near
the open window, through which came the rich scent of
the garden and the balmy summer air.  A woman was
sitting beside him, who rose as we entered.

"Shall I leave, Percy?" she asked.

He clutched her hand to detain her.  "How are you,
Watson?" said he, cordially.  "I should never have
known you under that moustache, and I dare say you
would not be prepared to swear to me.  This I presume
is your celebrated friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

I introduced him in a few words, and we both sat down. 
The stout young man had left us, but his sister still
remained with her hand in that of the invalid.  She
was a striking-looking woman, a little short and thick
for symmetry, but with a beautiful olive complexion,
large, dark, Italian eyes, and a wealth of deep black
hair.  Her rich tints made the white face of her
companion the more worn and haggard by the contrast.

"I won't waste your time," said he, raising himself
upon the sofa.  "I'll plunge into the matter without
further preamble.  I was a happy and successful man,
Mr. Holmes, and on the eve of being married, when a
sudden and dreadful misfortune wrecked all my
prospects in life.

"I was, as Watson may have told you, in the Foreign
Office, and through the influences of my uncle, Lord
Holdhurst, I rose rapidly to a responsible position. 
When my uncle became foreign minister in this
administration he gave me several missions of trust,
and as I always brought them to a successful
conclusion, he came at last to have the utmost
confidence in my ability and tact.

"Nearly ten weeks ago--to be more accurate, on the 23d
of May--he called me into his private room, and, after
complimenting me on the good work which I had done, he
informed me that he had a new commission of trust for
me to execute.

"'This,' said he, taking a gray roll of paper from his
bureau, 'is the original of that secret treaty between
England and Italy of which, I regret to say, some
rumors have already got into the public press.  It is
of enormous importance that nothing further should
leak out.  The French or the Russian embassy would pay
an immense sum to learn the contents of these papers. 
They should not leave my bureau were it not that it is
absolutely necessary to have them copied.  You have a
desk in your office?"

"'Yes, sir.'

"'Then take the treaty and lock it up there.  I shall
give directions that you may remain behind when the
others go, so that you may copy it at your leisure
without fear of being overlooked.  When you have
finished, relock both the original and the draft in
the desk, and hand them over to me personally
to-morrow morning.'

"I took the papers and--"

"Excuse me an instant," said Holmes.  "Were you alone
during this conversation?"

"Absolutely."

"In a large room?"

"Thirty feet each way."

"In the centre?"

"Yes, about it."

"And speaking low?"

"My uncle's voice is always remarkably low.  I hardly
spoke at all."

"Thank you," said Holmes, shutting his eyes; "pray go
on."

"I did exactly what he indicated, and waited until the
other clerks had departed.  One of them in my room,
Charles Gorot, had some arrears of work to make up, so
I left him there and went out to dine.  When I
returned he was gone.  I was anxious to hurry my work,
for I knew that Joseph--the Mr. Harrison whom you saw
just now--was in town, and that he would travel down
to Woking by the eleven-o'clock train, and I wanted if
possible to catch it.

"When I came to examine the treaty I saw at once that
it was of such importance that my uncle had been
guilty of no exaggeration in what he had said. 
Without going into details, I may say that it defined
the position of Great Britain towards the Triple
Alliance, and fore-shadowed the policy which this
country would pursue in the event of the French fleet
gaining a complete ascendancy over that of Italy in
the Mediterranean.  The questions treated in it were
purely naval.  At the end were the signatures of the
high dignitaries who had signed it.  I glanced my eyes
over it, and then settled down to my task of copying.

"It was a long document, written in the French
language, and containing twenty-six separate articles. 
I copied as quickly as I could, but at nine o'clock I
had only done nine articles, and it seemed hopeless
for me to attempt to catch my train.  I was feeling
drowsy and stupid, partly from my dinner and also from
the effects of a long day's work.  A cup of coffee
would clear my brain.  A commissionnaire remains all
night in a little lodge at the foot of the stairs, and
is in the habit of making coffee at his spirit-lamp
for any of the officials who may be working over time. 
I rang the bell, therefore, to summon him.

"To my surprise, it was a woman who answered the
summons, a large, coarse-faced, elderly woman, in an
apron.  She explained that she was the
commissionnaire's wife, who did the charing, and I
gave her the order for the coffee.

"I wrote two more articles and then, feeling more
drowsy than ever, I rose and walked up and down the
room to stretch my legs.  My coffee had not yet come,
and I wondered what was the cause of the delay could
be.  Opening the door, I started down the corridor to
find out.  There was a straight passage, dimly
lighted, which led from the room in which I had been
working, and was the only exit from it.  It ended in a
curving staircase, with the commissionnaire's lodge in
the passage at the bottom.  Half way down this
staircase is a small landing, with another passage
running into it at right angles.  This second one
leads by means of a second small stair to a side door,
used by servants, and also as a short cut by clerks
when coming from Charles Street.  Here is a rough
chart of the place."

"Thank you.  I think that I quite follow you," said
Sherlock Holmes.

"It is of the utmost importance that you should notice
this point.  I went down the stairs and into the hall,
where I found the commissionnaire fast asleep in his
box, with the kettle boiling furiously upon the
spirit-lamp.  I took off the kettle and blew out the
lamp, for the water was spurting over the floor.  Then
I put out my hand and was about to shake the man, who
was still sleeping soundly, when a bell over his head
rang loudly, and he woke with a start.

"'Mr. Phelps, sir!' said he, looking at me in
bewilderment.

"'I came down to see if my coffee was ready.'

"'I was boiling the kettle when I fell asleep, sir.' 
He looked at me and then up at the still quivering
bell with an ever-growing astonishment upon his face.

"'If you was here, sir, then who rang the bell?' he
asked.

"'The bell!' I cried.  'What bell is it?'

"'It's the bell of the room you were working in.'

"A cold hand seemed to close round my heart.  Some
one, then, was in that room where my precious treaty
lay upon the table.  I ran frantically up the stair
and along the passage.  There was no one in the
corridors, Mr. Holmes.  There was no one in the room. 
All was exactly as I left it, save only that the
papers which had been committed to my care had been
taken from the desk on which they lay.  The copy was
there, and the original was gone."

Holmes sat up in his chair and rubbed his hands.  I
could see that the problem was entirely to his heart. 
"Pray, what did you do then?" he murmured.

"I recognized in an instant that the thief must have
come up the stairs from the side door.  Of course I
must have met him if he had come the other way."

"You were satisfied that he could not have been
concealed in the room all the time, or in the corridor
which you have just described as dimly lighted?"

"It is absolutely impossible.  A rat could not conceal
himself either in the room or the corridor.  There is
no cover at all."

"Thank you.  Pray proceed."

"The commissionnaire, seeing by my pale face that
something was to be feared, had followed me upstairs. 
Now we both rushed along the corridor and down the
steep steps which led to Charles Street.  The door at
the bottom was closed, but unlocked.  We flung it open
and rushed out.  I can distinctly remember that as we
did so there came three chimes from a neighboring
clock.  It was quarter to ten."

"That is of enormous importance," said Holmes, making
a note upon his shirt-cuff.

"The night was very dark, and a thin, warm rain was
falling.  There was no one in Charles Street, but a
great traffic was going on, as usual, in Whitehall, at
the extremity.  We rushed along the pavement,
bare-headed as we were, and at the far corner we found
a policeman standing.

"'A robbery has been committed,' I gasped.  'A
document of immense value has been stolen from the
Foreign Office.  Has any one passed this way?'

"'I have been standing here for a quarter of an hour,
sir,' said he; 'only one person has passed during that
time--a woman, tall and elderly, with a Paisley
shawl.'

"'Ah, that is only my wife,' cried the
commissionnaire; 'has no one else passed?'

"'No one.'

"'Then it must be the other way that the thief took,'
cried the fellow, tugging at my sleeve.

"'But I was not satisfied, and the attempts which he
made to draw me away increased my suspicions.

"'Which way did the woman go?' I cried.

"'I don't know, sir.  I noticed her pass, but I had no
special reason for watching her.  She seemed to be in
a hurry.'

"'How long ago was it?'

"'Oh, not very many minutes.'

"'Within the last five?'

"'Well, it could not be more than five.'

"'You're only wasting your time, sir, and every minute
now is of importance,' cried the commissionnaire;
'take my word for it that my old woman has nothing to
do with it, and come down to the other end of the
street.  Well, if you won't, I will.'  And with that
he rushed off in the other direction.

"But I was after him in an instant and caught him by
the sleeve.

"'Where do you live?' said I.

"'16 Ivy Lane, Brixton,' he answered.  'But don't let
yourself be drawn away upon a false scent, Mr. Phelps. 
Come to the other end of the street and let us see if
we can hear of anything.'

"Nothing was to be lost by following his advice.  With
the policeman we both hurried down, but only to find
the street full of traffic, many people coming and
going, but all only too eager to get to a place of
safety upon so wet a night.  There was no lounger who
could tell us who had passed.

"Then we returned to the office, and searched the
stairs and the passage without result.  The corridor
which led to the room was laid down with a kind of
creamy linoleum which shows an impression very easily. 
We examined it very carefully, but found no outline of
any footmark."

"Had it been raining all evening?"

"Since about seven."

"How is it, then, that the woman who came into the
room about nine left no traces with her muddy boots?"

"I am glad you raised the point.  It occurred to me at
the time.  The charwomen are in the habit of taking
off their boots at the commissionnaire's office, and
putting on list slippers."

"That is very clear.  There were no marks, then,
though the night was a wet one?  The chain of events
is certainly one of extraordinary interest.  What did
you do next?

"We examined the room also.  There is no possibility
of a secret door, and the windows are quite thirty
feet from the ground.  Both of them were fastened on
the inside.  The carpet prevents any possibility of a
trap-door, and the ceiling is of the ordinary
whitewashed kind.  I will pledge my life that whoever
stole my papers could only have come through the
door."

"How about the fireplace?"

"They use none.  There is a stove.  The bell-rope
hangs from the wire just to the right of my desk. 
Whoever rang it must have come right up to the desk to
do it. But why should any criminal wish to ring the
bell?  It is a most insoluble mystery."

""Certainly the incident was unusual.  What were your
next steps?  You examined the room, I presume, to see
if the intruder had left any traces--any cigar-end or
dropped glove or hairpin or other trifle?"

"There was nothing of the sort."

"No smell?"

"Well,  we never thought of that."

"Ah, a scent of tobacco would have been worth a great
deal to us in such an investigation."

"I never smoke myself, so I think I should have
observed it if there had been any smell of tobacco. 
There was absolutely no clue of any kind.  The only
tangible fact was that the commissionnaire's wife-Mrs.
Tangey was the name--had hurried out of the place.  He
could give no explanation save that it was about the
time when the woman always went  home.  The policeman
and I agreed that our best plan would be to seize the
woman before she could get rid of the papers,
presuming that she had them.

"The alarm had reached Scotland Yard by this time, and
Mr. Forbes, the detective, came round at once and took
up the case with a great deal of energy.  We hired a
hansom, and in half an hour we were at the address
which had been given to us.  A young woman opened the
door, who proved to be Mrs. Tangey's eldest daughter. 
Her mother had not come back yet, and we were shown
into the front room to wait.

"About ten minutes later a knock came at the door, and
here we made the one serious mistake for which I blame
myself.  Instead of opening the door ourselves, we
allowed the girl to do so.  We heard her say, 'Mother,
there are two men in the house waiting to see you,'
and an instant afterwards we heard the patter of feet
rushing down the passage.  Forbes flung open the door,
and we both ran into the back room or kitchen, but the
woman had got there before us.  She stared at us with
defiant eyes, and then, suddenly recognizing me, an
expression of absolute astonishment came over her
face.

"'Why, if it isn't Mr. Phelps, of the office!' she
cried.

"'Come, come, who did you think we were when you ran
away from us?' asked my companion.

"'I thought you were the brokers,' said she, 'we have
had some trouble with a tradesman.'

"'That's not quite good enough,' answered Forbes.  'We
have reason to believe that you have taken a paper of
importance fro the Foreign Office, and that you ran in
here to dispose of it.  You must come back with us to
Scotland Yard to be searched.'

"It was in vain that she protested and resisted.  A
four-wheeler was brought, and we all three drove back
in it.  We had first made an examination of the
kitchen, and especially of the kitchen fire, to see
whether she might have made away with the papers
during the instant that she was alone.  There were no
signs, however, of any ashes or scraps.  When we
reached Scotland Yard she was handed over at once to
the female searcher.  I waited in an agony of suspense
until she came back with her report.  There were no
signs of the papers.

"Then for the first time the horror of my situation
came in its full force.  Hitherto I had been acting,
and action had numbed thought.  I had been so
confident of regaining the treaty at once that I had
not dared to think of what would be the consequence if
I failed to do so.  But now there was nothing more to
be done, and I had leisure to realize my position.  It
was horrible.  Watson there would tell you that I was
a nervous, sensitive boy at school.  It is my nature. 
I thought of my uncle and of his colleagues in the
Cabinet, of the shame which I had brought upon him,
upon myself, upon every one connected with me.  What
though I was the victim of an extraordinary accident? 
No allowance is made for accidents where diplomatic
interests are at stake.  I was ruined, shamefully,
hopelessly ruined.  I don't know what I did.  I fancy
I must have made a scene.  I have a dim recollection
of a group of officials who crowded round me,
endeavoring to soothe me.  One of them drove down with
me to Waterloo, and saw me into the Woking train.  I
believe that he would have come all the way had it not
been that Dr. Ferrier, who lives near me, was going
down by that very train.  The doctor most kindly took
charge of me, and it was well he did so, for I had a
fit in the station, and before we reached home I was
practically a raving maniac.

"You can imagine the state of things here when they
were roused from their beds by the doctor's ringing
and found me in this condition.  Poor Annie here and
my mother were broken-hearted.  Dr. Ferrier had just
heard enough from the detective at the station to be
able to give an idea of what had happened, and his
story did not mend matters.  It was evident to all
that I was in for a long illness, so Joseph was
bundled out of this cheery bedroom, and it was turned
into a sick-room for me.  Here I have lain, Mr.
Holmes, for over nine weeks, unconscious, and raving
with brain-fever.  If it had not been for Miss
Harrison here and for the doctor's care I should not
be speaking to you now.  She has nursed me by day and
a hired nurse has looked after me by night, for in my
mad fits I was capable of anything.  Slowly my reason
has cleared, but it is only during the last three days
that my memory has quite returned.  Sometimes I wish
that it never had.  The first thing that I did was to
wire to Mr. Forbes, who had the case in hand.  He came
out, and assures me that, though everything has been
done, no trace of a clue has been discovered.  The
commissionnaire and his wife have been examined in
every way without any light being thrown upon the
matter.  The suspicions of the police then rested upon
young Gorot, who, as you may remember, stayed over
time in the office that night.  His remaining behind
and his French name were really the only two points
which could suggest suspicion; but, as a matter of
fact, I did not begin work until he had gone, and his
people are of Huguenot extraction, but as English in
sympathy and tradition as you and I are.  Nothing was
found to implicate him in any way, and there the
matter dropped.  I turn to you, Mr. Holmes, as
absolutely my last hope.  If you fail me, then my
honor as well as my position are forever forfeited."

The invalid sank back upon his cushions, tired out by
this long recital, while his nurse poured him out a
glass of some stimulating medicine.  Holmes sat
silently, with his head thrown back and his eyes
closed, in an attitude which might seem listless to a
stranger, but which I knew betokened the most intense
self-absorption.

"You statement has been so explicit," said he at last,
"that you have really left me very few questions to
ask.  There is one of the very utmost importance,
however.  Did you tell any one that you had this
special task to perform?"

"No one."

"Not Miss Harrison here, for example?"

"No.  I had not been back to Woking between getting
the order and executing the commission."

"And none of your people had by chance been to see
you?"

"None."

"Did any of them know their way about in the office?"

"Oh, yes, all of them had been shown over it."

"Still, of course, if you said nothing to any one
about the treaty these inquiries are irrelevant."

"I said nothing."

"Do you know anything of the commissionnaire?"

"Nothing except that he is an old soldier."

"What regiment?"

"Oh, I have heard--Coldstream Guards."

"Thank you.  I have no doubt I can get details from
Forbes.  The authorities are excellent at amassing
facts, though they do not always use them to
advantage.  What a lovely thing a rose is!"

He walked past the couch to the open window, and held
up the drooping stalk of a moss-rose, looking down at
the dainty blend of crimson and green.  It was a new
phase of his character to me, for I had never before
seen him show any keen interest in natural objects.

"There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary
as in religion," said he, leaning with his back
against the shutters.  "It can be built up as an exact
science by the reasoner.  Our highest assurance of the
goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the
flowers.  All other things, our powers our desires,
our food, are all really necessary for our existence
in the first instance.  But this rose is an extra. 
Its smell and its color are an embellishment of life,
not a condition of it.  It is only goodness which
gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to
hope from the flowers.

Percy Phelps and his nurse looked at Holmes during
this demonstration with surprise and a good deal of
disappointment written upon their faces.  He had
fallen into a reverie, with the moss-rose between his
fingers.  It had lasted some minutes before the young
lady broke in upon it.

"Do you see any prospect of solving this mystery, Mr.
Holmes?" she asked, with a touch of asperity in her
voice.

"Oh, the mystery!" he answered, coming back with a
start to the realities of life.  "Well, it would be
absurd to deny that the case is a very abstruse and
complicated one, but I can promise you that I will
look into the matter and let you know any points which
may strike me."

"Do you see any clue?"

"You have furnished me with seven, but, of course, I
must test them before I can pronounce upon their
value."

"You suspect some one?"

"I suspect myself."

"What!"

"Of coming to conclusions too rapidly."

"Then go to London and test your conclusions."

"Your advice is very excellent, Miss Harrison," said
Holmes, rising.  "I think, Watson, we cannot do
better.  Do not allow yourself to indulge in false
hopes, Mr. Phelps.  The affair is a very tangled one."

"I shall be in a fever until I see you again," cried
the diplomatist.

"Well, I'll come out be the same train to-morrow,
though it's more than likely that my report will be a
negative one."

"God bless you for promising to come," cried our
client.  "It gives me fresh life to know that
something is being done.  By the way, I have had a
letter from Lord Holdhurst."

"Ha!  What did he say?"

"He was cold, but not harsh.  I dare say my severe
illness prevented him from being that.  He repeated
that the matter was of the utmost importance, and
added that no steps would be taken about my future--by
which he means, of course, my dismissal--until my
health was restored and I had an opportunity of
repairing my misfortune."

"Well, that was reasonable and considerate," said
Holmes.  "Come, Watson, for we have a goody day's work
before us in town."

Mr. Joseph Harrison drove us down to the station, and
we were soon whirling up in a Portsmouth train. 
Holmes was sunk in profound thought, and hardly opened
his mouth until we had passed Clapham Junction.

"It's a very cheery thing to come into London by any
of these lines which run high, and allow you to look
down upon the houses like this."

I thought he was joking, for the view was sordid
enough, but he soon explained himself.

"Look at those big, isolated clumps of building rising
up above the slates, like brick islands in a
lead-colored sea."

"The board-schools."

"Light-houses, my boy!  Beacons of the future! 
Capsules with hundreds of bright little seeds in each,
out of which will spring the wise, better England of
the future.  I suppose that man Phelps does not
drink?"

"I should not think so."

"Nor should I, but we are bound to take every
possibility into account.  The poor devil has
certainly got himself into very deep water, and it's a
question whether we shall ever be able to get him
ashore.  What did you think of Miss Harrison?"

"A girl of strong character."

"Yes, but she is a good sort, or I am mistaken.  She
and her brother are the only children of an
iron-master somewhere up Northumberland way.  He got
engaged to her when traveling last winter, and she
came down to be introduced to his people, with her
brother as escort.  Then came the smash, and she
stayed on to nurse her lover, while brother Joseph,
finding himself pretty snug, stayed on too.  I've been
making a few independent inquiries, you see.  But
to-day must be a day of inquiries."

"My practice--" I began.

"Oh, if you find your own cases more interesting than
mine--" said Holmes, with some asperity.

"I was going to say that my practice could get along
very well for a day or two, since it is the slackest
time in the year."

"Excellent," said he, recovering his good-humor. 
"Then we'll look into this matter together.  I think
that we should begin be seeing Forbes.  He can
probably tell us all the details we want until we know
from what side the case is to be approached.

"You said you had a clue?"

"Well, we have several, but we can only test their
value by further inquiry.  The most difficult crime to
track is the one which is purposeless.  Now this is
not purposeless.  Who is it who profits by it?  There
is the French ambassador, there is the Russian, there
is who-ever might sell it to either of these, and
there is Lord Holdhurst."

"Lord Holdhurst!"

"Well, it is just conceivable that a statesman might
find himself in a position where he was not sorry to
have such a document accidentally destroyed."

"Not a statesman with the honorable record of Lord
Holdhurst?"

"It is a possibility and we cannot afford to disregard
it.  We shall see the noble lord to-day and find out
if he can tell us anything.  Meanwhile I have already
set inquiries on foot."

"Already?"

"Yes, I sent wires from Woking station to every
evening paper in London.  This advertisement will
appear in each of them."

He handed over a sheet torn from a note-book.  On it
was scribbled in pencil:  "L10 reward.  The number of
the cab which dropped a fare at or about the door of
the Foreign Office in Charles Street at quarter to ten
in the evening of May 23d.  Apply 221 B, Baker
Street."

"You are confident that the thief came in a cab?"

"If not, there is no harm done.  But if Mr. Phelps is
correct in stating that there is no hiding-place
either in the room or the corridors, then the person
must have come from outside.  If he came from outside
on so wet a night, and yet left no trace of damp upon
the linoleum, which was examined within a few minutes
of his passing, then it is exceeding probably that he
came in a cab.  Yes, I think that we may safely deduce
a cab."

"It sounds plausible."

"That is one of the clues of which I spoke.  It may
lead us to something.  And then, of course, there is
the bell--which is the most distinctive feature of the
case.  Why should the bell ring?  Was it the thief who
did it out of bravado?  Or was it some one who was
with the thief who did it in order to prevent the
crime?  Or was it an accident?  Or was it--?"  He sank
back into the state of intense and silent thought from
which he had emerged; but it seemed to me, accustomed
as I was to his every mood, that some new possibility
had dawned suddenly upon him.

It was twenty past three when we reached our terminus,
and after a hasty luncheon at the buffet we pushed on
at once to Scotland Yard.  Holmes had already wired to
Forbes, and we found him waiting to receive us--a
small, foxy man with a sharp but by no means amiable
expression.  He was decidedly frigid in his manner to
us, especially when he heard the errand upon which we
had come.

"I've heard of your methods before now, Mr. Holmes,"
said he, tartly.  "You are ready enough to use all the
information that the police can lay at your disposal,
and then you try to finish the case yourself and bring
discredit on them."

"On the contrary," said Holmes, "out of my last
fifty-three cases my name has only appeared in four,
and the police have had all the credit in forty-nine. 
I don't blame you for not knowing this, for you are
young and inexperienced, but if you wish to get on in
your new duties you will work with me and not against
me."

"I'd be very glad of a hint or two," said the
detective, changing his manner.  "I've certainly had
no credit from the case so far."

"What steps have you taken?"

"Tangey, the commissionnaire, has been shadowed.  He
left the Guards with a good character and we can find
nothing against him.  His wife is a bad lot, though. 
I fancy she knows more about this than appears."

"Have you shadowed her?"

"We have set one of our women on to her.  Mrs. Tangey
drinks, and our woman has been with her twice when she
was well on, but she could get nothing out of her."

"I understand that they have had brokers in the
house?"

"Yes, but they were paid off."

"Where did the money come from?"

"That was all right.  His pension was due.  They have
not shown any sign of being in funds."

"What explanation did she give of having answered the
bell when Mr. Phelps rang for the coffee?"

"She said that he husband was very tired and she
wished to relieve him."

"Well, certainly that would agree with his being found
a little later asleep in his chair.  There is nothing
against them then but the woman's character.  Did you
ask her why she hurried away that night?  Her haste
attracted the attention of the police constable."

"She was later than usual and wanted to get home."

"Did you point out to her that you and Mr. Phelps, who
started at least twenty minutes after he, got home
before her?"

"She explains that by the difference between a 'bus
and a hansom."

"Did she make it clear why, on reaching her house, she
ran into the back kitchen?"

"Because she had the money there with which to pay off
the brokers."

"She has at least an answer for everything.  Did you
ask her whether in leaving she met any one or saw any
one loitering about Charles Street?"

"She saw no one but the constable."

"Well, you seem to have cross-examined her pretty
thoroughly.  What else have you done?"

"The clerk Gorot has been shadowed all these nine
weeks, but without result.  We can show nothing
against him."

"Anything else?"

"Well, we have nothing else to go upon--no evidence of
any kind."

"Have you formed a theory about how that bell rang?"

"Well, I must confess that it beats me.  It was a cool
hand, whoever it was, to go and give the alarm like
that."

"Yes, it was queer thing to do.  Many thanks to you
for what you have told me.  If I can put the man into
your hands you shall hear from me.  Come along,
Watson."

"Where are we going to now?" I asked, as we left the
office.

"We are now going to interview Lord Holdhurst, the
cabinet minister and future premier of England."

We were fortunate in finding that Lord Holdhurst was
still in his chambers in Downing Street, and on Holmes
sending in his card we were instantly shown up.  The
statesman received us with that old-fashioned courtesy
for which he is remarkable, and seated us on the two
luxuriant lounges on either side of the fireplace. 
Standing on the rug between us, with his slight, tall
figure, his sharp features, thoughtful face, and
curling hair prematurely tinged with gray, he seemed
to represent that not to common type, a nobleman who
is in truth noble.

"Your name is very familiar to me, Mr. Holmes," said
he, smiling.  "And, of course, I cannot pretend to be
ignorant of the object of your visit.  There has only
been one occurrence in these offices which could call
for your attention.  In whose interest are you acting,
may I ask?"

"In that of Mr. Percy Phelps," answered Holmes.

"Ah, my unfortunate nephew!  You can understand that
our kinship makes it the more impossible for me to
screen him in any way.  I fear that the incident must
have a very prejudicial effect upon his career."

"But if the document is found?"

"Ah, that, of course, would be different."

"I had one or two questions which I wished to ask you,
Lord Holdhurst."

"I shall be happy to give you any information in my
power."

"Was it in this room that you gave your instructions
as to the copying of the document?"

"It was."

"Then you could hardly have been overheard?"

"It is out of the question."

"Did you ever mention to any one that it was your
intention to give any one the treaty to be copied?"

"Never."

"You are certain of that?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, since you never said so, and Mr. Phelps never
said so, and nobody else knew anything of the matter,
then the thief's presence in the room was purely
accidental.  He saw his chance and he took it."

The statesman smiled.  "You take me out of my province
there," said he.

Holmes considered for a moment.  "There is another
very important point which I wish to discuss with
you," said he.  "You feared, as I understand, that
very grave results might follow from the details of
this treaty becoming known."

A shadow passed over the expressive face of the
statesman.  "Very grave results indeed."

"Any have they occurred?"

"Not yet."

"If the treaty had reached, let us say, the French or
Russian Foreign Office, you would expect to hear of
it?"

"I should," said Lord Holdhurst, with a wry face.

"Since nearly ten weeks have elapsed, then, and
nothing has been heard, it is not unfair to suppose
that for some reason the treaty has not reached them."

Lord Holdhurst shrugged his shoulders.

"We can hardly suppose, Mr. Holmes, that the thief
took the treaty in order to frame it and hang it up."

"Perhaps he is waiting for a better price."

"If he waits a little longer he will get no price at
all.  The treaty will cease to be secret in a few
months."

"That is most important," said Holmes.  "Of course, it
is a possible supposition that the thief has had a
sudden illness--"

"An attack of brain-fever, for example?" asked the
statesman, flashing a swift glance at him.

"I did not say so," said Holmes, imperturbably.  "And
now, Lord Holdhurst, we have already taken up too much
of your valuable time, and we shall wish you
good-day."

"Every success to your investigation, be the criminal
who it may," answered the nobleman, as he bowed us out
the door.

"He's a fine fellow," said Holmes, as we came out into
Whitehall.  "But he has a struggle to keep up his
position.  He is far from rich and has many calls. 
You noticed, of course, that his boots had been
resoled.  Now, Watson, I won't detain you from your
legitimate work any longer.  I shall do nothing more
to-day, unless I have an answer to my cab
advertisement.  But I should be extremely obliged to
you if you would come down with me to Woking
to-morrow, by the same train which we took yesterday."


I met him accordingly next morning and we traveled
down to Woking together.  He had had no answer to his
advertisement, he said, and no fresh light had been
thrown upon the case.  He had, when he so willed it,
the utter immobility of countenance of a red Indian,
and I could not gather from his appearance whether he
was satisfied or not with the position of the case. 
His conversation, I remember, was about the Bertillon
system of measurements, and he expressed his
enthusiastic admiration of the French savant.

We found our client still under the charge of his
devoted nurse, but looking considerably better than
before.  He rose from the sofa and greeted us without
difficulty when we entered.

"Any news?" he asked, eagerly.

"My report, as I expected, is a negative one," said
Holmes.  "I have seen Forbes, and I have seen your
uncle, and I have set one or two trains of inquiry
upon foot which may lead to something."

"You have not lost heart, then?"

"By no means."

"God bless you for saying that!" cried Miss Harrison. 
"If we keep our courage and our patience the truth
must come out."

"We have more to tell you than you have for us," said
Phelps, reseating himself upon the couch.

"I hoped you might have something."

"Yes, we have had an adventure during the night, and
one which might have proved to be a serious one."  His
expression grew very grave as he spoke, and a look of
something akin to fear sprang up in his eyes.  "Do you
know," said he, "that I begin to believe that I am the
unconscious centre of some monstrous conspiracy, and
that my life is aimed at as well as my honor?"

"Ah!" cried Holmes.

"It sounds incredible, for I have not, as far as I
know, an enemy in the world.  Yet from last night's
experience I can come to no other conclusion."

"Pray let me hear it."

"You must know that last night was the very first
night that I have ever slept without a nurse in the
room.  I was so much better that I thought I could
dispense with one.  I had a night-light burning,
however.  Well, about two in the morning I had sunk
into a light sleep when I was suddenly aroused by a
slight noise.  It was like the sound which a mouse
makes when it is gnawing a plank, and I lay listening
to it for some time under the impression that it must
come from that cause.  Then it grew louder, and
suddenly there came from the window a sharp metallic
snick.  I sat up in amazement.  There could be no
doubt what the sounds were now.  The first ones had
been caused by some one forcing an instrument through
the slit between the sashes, and the second by the
catch being pressed back.

"There was a pause then for about ten minutes, as if
the person were waiting to see whether the noise had
awakened me.  Then I heard a gentle creaking as the
window was very slowly opened.  I could stand it no
longer, for my nerves are not what they used to be.  I
sprang out of bed and flung open the shutters.  A man
was crouching at the window.  I could see little of
him, for he was gone like a flash.  He was wrapped in
some sort of cloak which came across the lower part of
his face.  One thing only I am sure of, and that is
that he had some weapon in his hand.  It looked to me
like a long knife.  I distinctly saw the gleam of it
as he turned to run."

"This is most interesting," said Holmes.  "Pray what
did you do then?"

"I should have followed him through the open window if
I had been stronger.  As it was, I rang the bell and
roused the house.  It took me some little time, for
the bell rings in the kitchen and the servants all
sleep upstairs.  I shouted, however, and that brought
Joseph down, and he roused the others.  Joseph and the
groom found marks on the bed outside the window, but
the weather has been so dry lately that they found it
hopeless to follow the trail across the grass. 
There's a place, however, on the wooden fence which
skirts the road which shows signs, they tell me, as if
some one had got over, and had snapped the top of the
rail in doing so.  I have said nothing to the local
police yet, for I thought I had best have your opinion
first."

This tale of our client's appeared to have an
extraordinary effect upon Sherlock Holmes.  He rose
from his chair and paced about the room in
uncontrollable excitement.

"Misfortunes never come single," said Phelps, smiling,
though it was evident that his adventure had somewhat
shaken him.

"You have certainly had your share," said Holmes.  "Do
you think you could walk round the house with me?"

"Oh, yes, I should like a little sunshine.  Joseph
will come, too."

"And I also," said Miss Harrison.

"I am afraid not," said Holmes, shaking his head.  "I
think I must ask you to remain sitting exactly where
you are."

The young lady resumed her seat with an air of
displeasure.  Her brother, however, had joined us and
we set off all four together.  We passed round the
lawn to the outside of the young diplomatist's window. 
There were, as he had said, marks upon the bed, but
they were hopelessly blurred and vague.  Holmes
stopped over them for an instant, and then rose
shrugging his shoulders.

"I don't think any one could make much of this," said
he.  "Let us go round the house and see why this
particular room was chose by the burglar.  I should
have thought those larger windows of the drawing-room
and dining-room would have had more attractions for
him."

"They are more visible from the road," suggested Mr.
Joseph Harrison.

"Ah, yes, of course.  There is a door here which he
might have attempted.  What is it for?"

"It is the side entrance for trades-people.  Of course
it is locked at night."

"Have you ever had an alarm like this before?"

"Never," said our client.

"Do you keep plate in the house, or anything to
attract burglars?"

"Nothing of value."

Holmes strolled round the house with his hands in his
pockets and a negligent air which was unusual with
him.

"By the way," said he to Joseph Harrison, "you found
some place, I understand, where the fellow scaled the
fence.  Let us have a look at that!"

The plump young man led us to a spot where the top of
one of the wooden rails had been cracked.  A small
fragment of the wood was hanging down.  Holmes pulled
it off and examined it critically.

"Do you think that was done last night?  It looks
rather old, does it not?"

"Well, possibly so."

"There are no marks of any one jumping down upon the
other side.  No, I fancy we shall get no help here. 
Let us go back to the bedroom and talk the matter
over."

Percy Phelps was walking very slowly, leaning upon the
arm of his future brother-in-law.  Holmes walked
swiftly across the lawn, and we were at the open
window of the bedroom long before the others came up.

"Miss Harrison," said Holmes, speaking with the utmost
intensity of manner, "you must stay where you are all
day.  Let nothing prevent you from staying where you
are all day.  It is of the utmost importance."

"Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Holmes," said the girl
in astonishment.

"When you go to bed lock the door of this room on the
outside and keep the key.  Promise to do this."

"But Percy?"

"He will come to London with us."

"And am I to remain here?"

"It is for his sake.  You can serve him.  Quick! 
Promise!"

She gave a quick nod of assent just as the other two
came up.

"Why do you sit moping there, Annie?" cried her
brother.  "Come out into the sunshine!"

"No, thank you, Joseph.  I have a slight headache and
this room is deliciously cool and soothing."

"What do you propose now, Mr. Holmes?" asked our
client.

"Well, in investigating this minor affair we must not
lose sight of our main inquiry.  It would be a very
great help to me if you would come up to London with
us."

"At once?"

"Well, as soon as you conveniently can.  Say in an
hour."

"I feel quite strong enough, if I can really be of any
help."

"The greatest possible."

"Perhaps you would like me the stay there to-night?"

"I was just going to propose it."

"Then, if my friend of the night comes to revisit me,
he will find the bird flown.  We are all in your
hands, Mr. Holmes, and you must tell us exactly what
you would like done.  Perhaps you would prefer that
Joseph came with us so as to look after me?"

"Oh, no; my friend Watson is a medical man, you know,
and he'll look after you.  We'll have our lunch here,
if you will permit us, and then we shall all three set
off for town together."

It was arranged as he suggested, though Miss Harrison
excused herself from leaving the bedroom, in
accordance with Holmes's suggestion.  What the object
of my friend's manoeuvres was I could not conceive,
unless it were to keep the lady away from Phelps, who,
rejoiced by his returning health and by the prospect
of action, lunched with us in the dining-room.  Holmes
had still more startling surprise for us, however,
for, after accompanying us down to the station and
seeing us into our carriage, he calmly announced that
he had no intention of leaving Woking.

"There are one or two small points which I should
desire to clear up before I go," said he.  "Your
absence, Mr. Phelps, will in some ways rather assist
me.  Watson, when you reach London you would oblige me
by driving at once to Baker Street with our friend
here, and remaining with him until I see you again. 
It is fortunate that you are old school-fellows, as
you must have much to talk over.  Mr. Phelps can have
the spare bedroom to-night, and I will be with you in
time for breakfast, for there is a train which will
take me into Waterloo at eight."

"But how about our investigation in London?" asked
Phelps, ruefully.

"We can do that to-morrow.  I think that just at
present I can be of more immediate use here."

"You might tell them at Briarbrae that I hope to be
back to-morrow night," cried Phelps, as we began to
move from the platform.

"I hardly expect to go back to Briarbrae," answered
Holmes, and waved his hand to us cheerily as we shot
out from the station.

Phelps and I talked it over on our journey, but
neither of us could devise a satisfactory reason for
this new development.

"I suppose he wants to find out some clue as to the
burglary last night, if a burglar it was.  For myself,
I don't believe it was an ordinary thief."

"What is your own idea, then?"

"Upon my word, you may put it down to my weak nerves
or not, but I believe there is some deep political
intrigue going on around me, and that for some reason
that passes my understanding my life is aimed at by
the conspirators.  It sounds high-flown and absurd,
but consider the fats!  Why should a thief try to
break in at a bedroom window, where there could be no
hope of any plunder, and why should he come with a
long knife in his hand?"

"You are sure it was not a house-breaker's jimmy?"

"Oh, no, it was a knife.  I saw the flash of the blade
quite distinctly."

"But why on earth should you be pursued with such
animosity?"

"Ah, that is the question."

"Well, if Holmes takes the same view, that would
account for his action, would it not?  Presuming that
your theory is correct, if he can lay his hands upon
the man who threatened you last night he will have
gone a long way towards finding who took the naval
treaty.  It is absurd to suppose that you have two
enemies, one of whom robs you, while the other
threatens your life."

"But Holmes said that he was not going to Briarbrae."

"I have known him for some time," said I, "but I never
knew him do anything yet without a very good reason,"
and with that our conversation drifted off on to other
topics.

But it was a weary day for me.  Phelps was still weak
after his long illness, and his misfortune made him
querulous and nervous.  In vain I endeavored to
interest him in Afghanistan, in India, in social
questions, in anything which might take his mind out
of the groove.  He would always come back to his lost
treaty, wondering, guessing, speculating, as to what
Holmes was doing, what steps Lord Holdhurst was
taking, what news we should have in the morning.  As
the evening wore on his excitement became quite
painful.

"You have implicit faith in Holmes?" he asked.

"I have seen him do some remarkable things."

"But he never brought light into anything quite so
dark as this?"

"Oh, yes; I have known him solve questions which
presented fewer clues than yours."

"But not where such large interests are at stake?"

"I don't know that.  To my certain knowledge he has
acted on behalf of three of the reigning houses of
Europe in very vital matters."

"But you know him well, Watson.  He is such an
inscrutable fellow that I never quite know what to
make of him.  Do you think he is hopeful?  Do you
think he expects to make a success of it?"

"He has said nothing."

"That is a bad sign."

"On the contrary, I have noticed that when he is off
the trail he generally says so.  It is when he is on a
scent and is not quite absolutely sure yet that it is
the right one that he is most taciturn.  Now, my dear
fellow, we can't help matters by making ourselves
nervous about them, so let me implore you to go to bed
and so be fresh for whatever may await us to-morrow."

I was able at last to persuade my companion to take my
advice, though I knew from his excited manner that
there was not much hope of sleep for him.  Indeed, his
mood was infectious, for I lay tossing half the night
myself, brooding over this strange problem, and
inventing a hundred theories, each of which was more
impossible than the last.  Why had Holmes remained at
Woking?  Why had he asked Miss Harrison to remain in
the sick-room all day?  Why had he been so careful not
to inform the people at Briarbrae that he intended to
remain near them?  I cudgelled my brains until I fell
asleep in the endeavor to find some explanation which
would cover all these facts.

It was seven o'clock when I awoke, and I set off at
once for Phelps's room, to find him haggard and spent
after a sleepless night.  His first question was
whether Holmes had arrived yet.

"He'll be here when he promised," said I, "and not an
instant sooner or later."

And my words were true, for shortly after eight a
hansom dashed up to the door and our friend got out of
it.  Standing in the window we saw that his left hand
was swathed in a bandage and that his face was very
grim and pale.  He entered the house, but it was some
little time before he came upstairs.

"He looks like a beaten man," cried Phelps.

I was forced to confess that he was right.  "After
all," said I, "the clue of the matter lies probably
here in town."

Phelps gave a groan.

"I don't know how it is," said he, "but I had hoped
for so much from his return.  But surely his hand was
not tied up like that yesterday.  What can be the
matter?"

"You are not wounded, Holmes?" I asked, as my friend
entered the room.

"Tut, it is only a scratch through my own clumsiness,"
he answered, nodding his good-mornings to us.  "This
case of yours, Mr. Phelps, is certainly one of the
darkest which I have ever investigated."

"I feared that you would find it beyond you."

"It has been a most remarkable experience."

"That bandage tells of adventures," said I.  "Won't
you tell us what has happened?"

"After breakfast, my dear Watson.  Remember that I
have breathed thirty miles of Surrey air this morning. 
I suppose that there has been no answer from my cabman
advertisement?  Well, well, we cannot expect to score
every time."

The table was all laid, and just as I was about to
ring Mrs. Hudson entered with the tea and coffee.  A
few minutes later she brought in three covers, and we
all drew up to the table, Holmes ravenous, I curious,
and Phelps in the gloomiest state of depression.

"Mrs. Hudson has risen to the occasion," said Holmes,
uncovering a dish of curried chicken.  "Her cuisine is
a little limited, but she has as good an idea of
breakfast as a Scotch-woman.  What have you here,
Watson?"

"Ham and eggs," I answered.

"Good!  What are you going to take, Mr.
Phelps--curried fowl or eggs, or will you help
yourself?"

"Thank you.  I can eat nothing," said Phelps.

"Oh, come!  Try the dish before you."

"Thank you, I would really rather not."

"Well, then," said Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle,
"I suppose that you have no objection to helping me?"

Phelps raised the cover, and as he did so he uttered a
scream, and sat there staring with a face as white as
the plate upon which he looked.  Across the centre of
it was lying a little cylinder of blue-gray paper.  He
caught it up, devoured it with his eyes, and then
danced madly about the room, passing it to his bosom
and shrieking out in his delight.  Then he fell back
into an arm-chair so limp and exhausted with his own
emotions that we had to pour brandy down his throat to
keep him from fainting.

"There!  there!" said Holmes, soothing, patting him
upon the shoulder.  "It was too bad to spring it on
you like this, but Watson here will tell you that I
never can resist a touch of the dramatic."

Phelps seized his hand and kissed it.  "God bless
you!" he cried.  "You have saved my honor."

"Well, my own was at stake, you know," said Holmes. 
"I assure you it is just as hateful to me to fail in a
case as it can be to you to blunder over a
commission."

Phelps thrust away the precious document into the
innermost pocket of his coat.

"I have not the heart to interrupt your breakfast any
further, and yet I am dying to know how you got it and
where it was."

Sherlock Holmes swallowed a cup of coffee, and turned
his attention to the ham and eggs.  Then he rose, lit
his pipe, and settled himself down into his chair.

"I'll tell you what I did first, and how I came to do
it afterwards," said he.  "After leaving you at the
station I went for a charming walk through some
admirable Surrey scenery to a pretty little village
called Ripley, where I had my tea at an inn, and took
the precaution of filling my flask and of putting a
paper of sandwiches in my pocket.  There I remained
until evening, when I set off for Woking again, and
found myself in the high-road outside Briarbrae just
after sunset.

"Well, I waited until the road was clear--it is never
a very frequented one at any time, I fancy--and then I
clambered over the fence into the grounds."

"Surely the gate was open!" ejaculated Phelps.

"Yes, but I have a peculiar taste in these matters.  I
chose the place where the three fir-trees stand, and
behind their screen I got over without the least
chance of any one in the house being able to see me. 
I crouched down among the bushes on the other side,
and crawled from one to the other--witness the
disreputable state of my trouser knees--until I had
reached the clump of rhododendrons just opposite to
your bedroom window.  There I squatted down and
awaited developments.

"The blind was not down in your room, and I could see
Miss Harrison sitting there reading by the table.  It
was quarter-past ten when she closed her book,
fastened the shutters, and retired.

"I heard her shut the door, and felt quite sure that
she had turned the key in the lock."

"The key!" ejaculated Phelps.

"Yes; I had given Miss Harrison instructions to lock
the door on the outside and take the key with her when
she went to bed.  She carried out every one of my
injunctions to the letter, and certainly without her
cooperation you would not have that paper in you
coat-pocket.  She departed then and the lights went
out, and I was left squatting in the
rhododendron-bush.

"The night was fine, but still it was a very weary
vigil.  Of course it has the sort of excitement about
it that the sportsman feels when he lies beside the
water-course and waits for the big game.  It was very
long, though--almost as long, Watson, as when you and
I waited in that deadly room when we looked into the
little problem of the Speckled Band.  There was a
church-clock down at Woking which struck the quarters,
and I thought more than once that it had stopped.  At
last however about two in the morning, I suddenly
heard the gentle sound of a bolt being pushed back and
the creaking of a key.  A moment later the servant's
door was opened, and Mr. Joseph Harrison stepped out
into the moonlight."

"Joseph!" ejaculated Phelps.

"He was bare-headed, but he had a black coat thrown
over his shoulder so that he could conceal his face in
an instant if there were any alarm.  He walked on
tiptoe under the shadow of the wall, and when he
reached the window he worked a long-bladed knife
through the sash and pushed back the catch.  Then he
flung open the window, and putting his knife through
the crack in the shutters, he thrust the bar up and
swung them open.

"From where I lay I had a perfect view of the inside
of the room and of every one of his movements.  He lit
the two candles which stood upon the mantelpiece, and
then he proceeded to turn back the corner of the
carpet in the neighborhood of the door.  Presently he
stopped and picked out a square piece of board, such
as is usually left to enable plumbers to get at the
joints of the gas-pipes.  This one covered, as a
matter of fact, the T joint which gives off the pipe
which supplies the kitchen underneath.  Out of this
hiding-place he drew that little cylinder of paper,
pushed down the board, rearranged the carpet, blew out
the candles, and walked straight into my arms as I
stood waiting for him outside the window.

"Well, he has rather more viciousness than I gave him
credit for, has Master Joseph.  He flew at me with his
knife, and I had to grasp him twice, and got a cut
over the knuckles, before I had the upper hand of him. 
He looked murder out of the only eye he could see with
when we had finished, but he listened to reason and
gave up the papers.  Having got them I let my man go,
but I wired full particulars to Forbes this morning. 
If he is quick enough to catch is bird, well and good. 
But if, as I shrewdly suspect, he finds the nest empty
before he gets there, why, all the better for the
government.  I fancy that Lord Holdhurst for one, and
Mr. Percy Phelps for another, would very much rather
that the affair never got as far as a police-court.

"My God!" gasped our client.  "Do you tell me that
during these long ten weeks of agony the stolen papers
were within the very room with me all the time?"

"So it was."

"And Joseph!  Joseph a villain and a thief!"

"Hum!  I am afraid Joseph's character is a rather
deeper and more dangerous one than one might judge
from his appearance.  From what I have heard from him
this morning, I gather that he has lost heavily in
dabbling with stocks, and that he is ready to do
anything on earth to better his fortunes.  Being an
absolutely selfish man, when a chance presented itself
he did not allow either his sister's happiness or your
reputation to hold his hand."

Percy Phelps sank back in his chair.  "My head
whirls," said he.  "Your words have dazed me."

"The principal difficulty in your case," remarked
Holmes, in his didactic fashion, "lay in the fact of
there being too much evidence.  What was vital was
overlaid and hidden by what was irrelevant.  Of all
the facts which were presented to us we had to pick
just those which we deemed to be essential, and then
piece them together in their order, so as to
reconstruct this very remarkable chain of events.  I
had already begun to suspect Joseph, from the fact
that you had intended to travel home with him that
night, and that therefore it was a likely enough thing
that he should call for you, knowing the Foreign
Office well, upon his way.  When I heard that some one
had been so anxious to get into the bedroom, in which
no one but Joseph could have concealed anything--you
told us in your narrative how you had turned Joseph
out when you arrived with the doctor--my suspicions
all changed to certainties, especially as the attempt
was made on the first night upon which the nurse was
absent, showing that the intruder was well acquainted
with the ways of the house."

"How blind I have been!"

"The facts of the case, as far as I have worked them
out, are these:  this Joseph Harrison entered the
office through the Charles Street door, and knowing
his way he walked straight into your room the instant
after you left it.  Finding no one there he promptly
rang the bell, and at the instant that he did so his
eyes caught the paper upon the table.  A glance showed
him that chance had put in his way a State document of
immense value, and in an instant he had thrust it into
his pocket and was gone.  A few minutes elapsed, as
you remember, before the sleepy commissionnaire drew
your attention to the bell, and those were just enough
to give the thief time to make his escape.

"He made his way to Woking by the first train, and
having examined his booty and assured himself that it
really was of immense value, he had concealed it in
what he thought was a very safe place, with the
intention of taking it out again in a day or two, and
carrying it to the French embassy, or wherever he
thought that a long price was to be had.  Then came
your sudden return.  He, without a moment's warning,
was bundled out of his room, and from that time onward
there were always at least two of you there to prevent
him from regaining his treasure.  The situation to him
must have been a maddening one.  But at last he
thought he saw his chance.  He tried to steal in, but
was baffled by your wakefulness.  You remember that
you did not take your usual draught that night."

"I remember."

"I fancy that he had taken steps to make that draught
efficacious, and that he quite relied upon your being
unconscious.  Of course, I understood that he would
repeat the attempt whenever it could be done with
safety.  Your leaving the room gave him the chance he
wanted.  I kept Miss Harrison in it all day so that he
might not anticipate us.  Then, having given him the
idea that the coast was clear, I kept guard as I have
described.  I already knew that the papers were
probably in the room, but I had no desire to rip up
all the planking and skirting in search of them.  I
let him take them, therefore, from the hiding-place,
and so saved myself an infinity of trouble.  Is there
any other point which I can make clear?"

"Why did he try the window on the first occasion," I
asked, "when he might have entered by the door?"

"In reaching the door he would have to pass seven
bedrooms.  On the other hand, he could get out on to
the lawn with ease.  Anything else?"

"You do not think," asked Phelps, "that he had any
murderous intention?  The knife was only meant as a
tool."

"It may be so," answered Holmes, shrugging his
shoulders.  "I can only say for certain that Mr.
Joseph Harrison is a gentleman to whose mercy I should
be extremely unwilling to trust."



Adventure XI


The Final Problem


It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to
write these the last words in which I shall ever
record the singular gifts by which my friend Mr.
Sherlock Holmes was distinguished.  In an incoherent
and, as I deeply feel, an entirely inadequate fashion,
I have endeavored to give some account of my strange
experiences in his company from the chance which first
brought us together at the period of the "Study in
Scarlet," up to the time of his interference in the
matter of the "Naval Treaty"--and interference which
had the unquestionable effect of preventing a serious
international complication.  It was my intention to
have stopped there, and to have said nothing of that
event which has created a void in my life which the
lapse of two years has done little to fill.  My hand
has been forced, however, by the recent letters in
which Colonel James Moriarty defends the memory of his
brother, and I have no choice but to lay the facts
before the public exactly as they occurred.  I alone
know the absolute truth of the matter, and I am
satisfied that the time has come when on good purpose
is to be served by its suppression.  As far as I know,
there have been only three accounts in the public
press:  that in the Journal de Geneve on May 6th,
1891, the Reuter's despatch in the English papers on
May 7th, and finally the recent letter to which I have
alluded.  Of these the first and second were extremely
condensed, while the last is, as I shall now show, an
absolute perversion of the facts.  It lies with me to
tell for the first time what really took place between
Professor Moriarty and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

It may be remembered that after my marriage, and my
subsequent start in private practice, the very
intimate relations which had existed between Holmes
and myself became to some extent modified.  He still
came to me from time to time when he desired a
companion in his investigation, but these occasions
grew more and more seldom, until I find that in the
year 1890 there were only three cases of which I
retain any record.  During the winter of that year and
the early spring of 1891, I saw in the papers that he
had been engaged by the French government upon a
matter of supreme importance, and I received two notes
from Holmes, dated from Narbonne and from Nimes, from
which I gathered that his stay in France was likely to
be a long one.  It was with some surprise, therefore,
that I saw him walk into my consulting-room upon the
evening of April 24th.  It struck me that he was
looking even paler and thinner than usual.

"Yes, I have been using myself up rather too freely,"
he remarked, in answer to my look rather than to my
words; "I have been a little pressed of late.  Have
you any objection to my closing your shutters?"

The only light in the room came from the lamp upon the
table at which I had been reading.  Holmes edged his
way round the wall and flinging the shutters together,
he bolted them securely.

"You are afraid of something?" I asked.

"Well, I am."

"Of what?"

"Of air-guns."

"My dear Holmes, what do you mean?"

"I think that you know me well enough, Watson, to
understand that I am by no means a nervous man.  At
the same time, it is stupidity rather than courage to
refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you. 
Might I trouble you for a match?"  He drew in the
smoke of his cigarette as if the soothing influence
was grateful to him.

"I must apologize for calling so late," said he, "and
I must further beg you to be so unconventional as to
allow me to leave your house presently by scrambling
over your back garden wall."

"But what does it all mean?" I asked.

He held out his hand, and I saw in the light of the
lamp that two of his knuckles were burst and bleeding.

"It is not an airy nothing, you see," said he,
smiling.  "On the contrary, it is solid enough for a
man to break his hand over.  Is Mrs. Watson in?"

"She is away upon a visit."

"Indeed!  You are alone?"

"Quite."

"Then it makes it the easier for me to propose that
you should come away with me for a week to the
Continent."

"Where?"

"Oh, anywhere.  It's all the same to me."

There was something very strange in all this.  It was
not Holmes's nature to take an aimless holiday, and
something about his pale, worn face told me that his
nerves were at their highest tension.  He saw the
question in my eyes, and, putting his finger-tips
together and his elbows upon his knees, he explained
the situation.

"You have probably never heard of Professor Moriarty?"
said he.

"Never."

"Aye, there's the genius and the wonder of the thing!"
he cried.  "The man pervades London, and no one has
heard of him.  That's what puts him on a pinnacle in
the records of crime.  I tell you, Watson, in all
seriousness, that if I could beat that man, if I could
free society of him, I should feel that my own career
had reached its summit, and I should be prepared to
turn to some more placid line in life.  Between
ourselves, the recent cases in which I have been of
assistance to the royal family of Scandinavia, and to
the French republic, have left me in such a position
that I could continue to live in the quiet fashion
which is most congenial to me, and to concentrate my
attention upon my chemical researches.  But I could
not rest, Watson, I could not sit quiet in my chair,
if I thought that such a man as Professor Moriarty
were walking the streets of London unchallenged."

"What has he done, then?"

"His career has been an extraordinary one.  He is a
man of good birth and excellent education, endowed by
nature with a phenomenal mathematical faculty.  At the
age of twenty-one he wrote a treatise upon the
Binomial Theorem, which has had a European vogue.  On
the strength of it he won the Mathematical Chair at
one of our smaller universities, and had, to all
appearance, a most brilliant career before him.  But
the man had hereditary tendencies of the most
diabolical kind.  A criminal strain ran in his blood,
which, instead of being modified, was increased and
rendered infinitely more dangerous by his
extraordinary mental powers.  Dark rumors gathered
round him in the university town, and eventually he
was compelled to resign his chair and to come down to
London, where he set up as an army coach.  So much is
known to the world, but what I am telling you now is
what I have myself discovered.

"As you are aware, Watson, there is no one who knows
the higher criminal world of London so well as I do. 
For years past I have continually been conscious of
some power behind the malefactor, some deep organizing
power which forever stands in the way of the law, and
throws its shield over the wrong-doer.  Again and again
in cases of the most varying sorts--forgery cases,
robberies, murders--I have felt the presence of this
force, and I have deduced its action in many of those
undiscovered crimes in which I have not been
personally consulted.  For years I have endeavored to
break through the veil which shrouded it, and at last
the time came when I seized my thread and followed it,
until it led me, after a thousand cunning windings, to
ex-Professor Moriarty of mathematical celebrity.

He is the Napoleon of crime, Watson.  He is the
organizer of half that is evil and of nearly all that
is undetected in this great city.  He is a genius, a
philosopher, an abstract thinker.  He has a brain of
the first order.  He sits motionless, like a spider in
the center of its web, but that web has a thousand
radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of
them.  He does little himself.  He only plans.  But
his agents are numerous and splendidly organized.  Is
there a crime to be done, a paper to be abstracted, we
will say, a house to be rifled, a man to be
removed--the word is passed to the Professor, the
matter is organized and carried out.  The agent may be
caught.  In that case money is found for his bail or
his defence.  But the central power which uses the
agent is never caught--never so much as suspected. 
This was the organization which I deduced, Watson, and
which I devoted my whole energy to exposing and
breaking up.

"But the Professor was fenced round with safeguards so
cunningly devised that, do what I would, it seemed
impossible to get evidence which would convict in a
court of law.  You know my powers, my dear Watson, and
yet at the end of three months I was forced to confess
that I had at last met an antagonist who was my
intellectual equal.  My horror at his crimes was lost
in my admiration at his skill.  But at last he made a
trip--only a little, little trip--but it was more than
he could afford when I was so close upon him.  I had
my chance, and, starting from that point, I have woven
my net round him until now it is all ready to close. 
In three days--that is to say, on Monday next--matters
will be ripe, and the Professor, with all the
principal members of his gang, will be in the hands of
the police.  Then will come the greatest criminal
trial of the century, the clearing up of over forty
mysteries, and the rope for all of them; but if we
move at all prematurely, you understand, they may slip
out of our hands even at the last moment.

"Now, if I could have done this without the knowledge
of Professor Moriarty, all would have been well.  But
he was too wily for that.  He saw every step which I
took to draw my toils round him.  Again and again he
strove to break away, but I as often headed him off. 
I tell you, my friend, that if a detailed account of
that silent contest could be written, it would take
its place as the most brilliant bit of
thrust-and-parry work in the history of detection. 
Never have I risen to such a height, and never have I
been so hard pressed by an opponent.  He cut deep, and
yet I just undercut him.  This morning the last steps
were taken, and three days only were wanted to
complete the business.  I was sitting in my room
thinking the matter over, when the door opened and
Professor Moriarty stood before me.

"My nerves are fairly proof, Watson, but I must
confess to a start when I saw the very man who had
been so much in my thoughts standing there on my
threshhold.  His appearance was quite familiar to me. 
He is extremely tall and thin, his forehead domes out
in a white curve, and his two eyes are deeply sunken
in this head.  He is clean-shaven, pale, and
ascetic-looking, retaining something of the professor
in his features.  His shoulders are rounded from much
study, and his face protrudes forward, and is forever
slowly oscillating from side to side in a curiously
reptilian fashion.  He peered at me with great
curiosity in his puckered eyes.

"'You have less frontal development that I should have
expected,' said he, at last.  'It is a dangerous habit
to finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one's
dressing-gown.'

"The fact is that upon his entrance I had instantly
recognized the extreme personal danger in which I lay. 
The only conceivable escape for him lay in silencing
my tongue.  In an instant I had slipped the revolved
from the drawer into my pocket, and was covering him
through the cloth.  At his remark I drew the weapon
out and laid it cocked upon the table.  He still
smiled and blinked, but there was something about his
eyes which made me feel very glad that I had it there.

"'You evidently don't now me,' said he.

"'On the contrary,' I answered, 'I think it is fairly
evident that I do.  Pray take a chair.  I can spare
you five minutes if you have anything to say.'

"'All that I have to say has already crossed your
mind,' said he.

"'Then possibly my answer has crossed yours,' I
replied.

"'You stand fast?'

"'Absolutely.'

"He clapped his hand into his pocket, and I raised the
pistol from the table.  But he merely drew out a
memorandum-book in which he had scribbled some dates.

"'You crossed my patch on the 4th of January,' said
he.  'On the 23d you incommoded me; by the middle of
February I was seriously inconvenienced by you; at the
end of March I was absolutely hampered in my plans;
and now, at the close of April, I find myself placed
in such a position through your continual persecution
that I am in positive danger of losing my liberty. 
The situation is becoming an impossible one.'

"'Have you any suggestion to make?' I asked.

"'You must drop it, Mr. Holmes,' said he, swaying his
face about.  'You really must, you know.'

"'After Monday,' said I.

"'Tut, tut,' said he.  'I am quite sure that a man of
your intelligence will see that there can be but one
outcome to this affair.  It is necessary that you
should withdraw.  You have worked things in such a
fashion that we have only one resource left.  It has been
an intellectual treat to me to see the way in which
you have grappled with this affair, and I say,
unaffectedly, that it would be a grief to me to be
forced to take any extreme measure.  You smile, sir,
abut I assure you that it really would.'

"'Danger is part of my trade,' I remarked.

"'That is not danger,' said he.  'It is inevitable
destruction.  You stand in the way not merely of an
individual, but of a mighty organization, the full
extent of which you, with all your cleverness, have
been unable to realize.  You must stand clear, Mr.
Holmes, or be trodden under foot.'

"'I am afraid,' said I, rising, 'that in the pleasure
of this conversation I am neglecting business of
importance which awaits me elsewhere.'

"He rose also and looked at me in silence, shaking his
head sadly.

"'Well, well,' said he, at last.  'It seems a pity,
but I have done what I could.  I know every move of
your game.  You can do nothing before Monday.  It has
been a duel between you and me, Mr. Holmes.  You hope
to place me in the dock.  I tell you that I will never
stand in the dock.  You hope to beat me.  I tell you
that you will never beat me.  If you are clever enough
to bring destruction upon me, rest assured that I
shall do as much to you.'

"'You have paid me several compliments, Mr. Moriarty,'
said I.  'Let me pay you one in return when I say that
if I were assured of the former eventuality I would,
in the interests of the public, cheerfully accept the
latter.'

"'I can promise you the one, but not the other,' he
snarled, and so turned his rounded back upon me, and
went peering and blinking out of the room.

"That was my singular interview with Professor
Moriarty.  I confess that it left an unpleasant effect
upon my mind.  His soft, precise fashion of speech
leaves a conviction of sincerity which a mere bully
could not produce.  Of course, you will say:  'Why not
take police precautions against him?'  the reason is
that I am well convinced that it is from his agents
the blow will fall.  I have the best proofs that it
would be so."

"You have already been assaulted?"

"My dear Watson, Professor Moriarty is not a man who
lets the grass grow under his feet.  I went out about
mid-day to transact some business in Oxford Street. 
As I passed the corner which leads from Bentinck
Street on to the Welbeck Street crossing a two-horse
van furiously driven whizzed round and was on me like
a flash.  I sprang for the foot-path and saved myself
by the fraction of a second.  The van dashed round by
Marylebone Lane and was gone in an instant.  I kept to
the pavement after that, Watson, but as I walked down
Vere Street a brick came down from the roof of one of
the houses, and was shattered to fragments at my feet. 
I called the police and had the place examined.  There
were slates and bricks piled up on the roof
preparatory to some repairs, and they would have me
believe that the wind had toppled over one of these. 
Of course I knew better, but I could prove nothing.  I
took a cab after that and reached my brother's rooms
in Pall Mall, where I spent the day.  Now I have come
round to you, and on my way I was attacked by a rough
with a bludgeon.  I knocked him down, and the police
have him in custody; but I can tell you with the most
absolute confidence that no possible connection will
ever be traced between the gentleman upon whose front
teeth I have barked my knuckles and the retiring
mathematical coach, who is, I dare say, working out
problems upon a black-board ten miles away.  You will
not wonder, Watson, that my first act on entering your
rooms was to close your shutters, and that I have been
compelled to ask your permission to leave the house by
some less conspicuous exit than the front door."

I had often admired my friend's courage, but never
more than now, as he sat quietly checking off a series
of incidents which must have combined to make up a day
of horror.

"You will spend the night here?" I said.

"No, my friend, you might find me a dangerous guest. 
I have my plans laid, and all will be well.  Matters
have gone so far now that they can move without my
help as far as the arrest goes, though my presence is
necessary for a conviction.  It is obvious, therefore,
that I cannot do better than get away for the few days
which remain before the police are at liberty to act. 
It would be a great pleasure to me, therefore, if you
could come on to the Continent with me."

"The practice is quiet," said I, "and I have an
accommodating neighbor.  I should be glad to come."

"And to start to-morrow morning?"

"If necessary."

"Oh yes, it is most necessary.  Then these are your
instructions, and I beg, my dear Watson, that you will
obey them to the letter, for you are now playing a
double-handed game with me against the cleverest rogue
and the most powerful syndicate of criminals in
Europe.  Now listen!  You will dispatch whatever
luggage you intend to take by a trusty messenger
unaddressed to Victoria to-night.  In the morning you
will send for a hansom, desiring your man to take
neither the first nor the second which may present
itself.  Into this hansom you will jump, and you will
drive to the Strand end of the Lowther Arcade,
handling the address to the cabman upon a slip of
paper, with a request that he will not throw it away. 
Have your fare ready, and the instant that your cab
stops, dash through the Arcade, timing yourself to
reach the other side at a quarter-past nine.  You will
find a small brougham waiting close to the curb,
driven by a fellow with a heavy black cloak tipped at
the collar with red.  Into this you will step, and you
will reach Victoria in time for the Continental
express."

"Where shall I meet you?"

"At the station.  The second first-class carriage from
the front will be reserved for us."

"The carriage is our rendezvous, then?"

"Yes."

It was in vain that I asked Holmes to remain for the
evening.  It was evident to me that he though he might
bring trouble to the roof he was under, and that that
was the motive which impelled him to go.  With a few
hurried words as to our plans for the morrow he rose
and came out with me into the garden, clambering over
the wall which leads into Mortimer Street, and
immediately whistling for a hansom, in which I heard
him drive away.

In the morning I obeyed Holmes's injunctions to the
letter.  A hansom was procured with such precaution as
would prevent its being one which was placed ready for
us, and I drove immediately after breakfast to the
Lowther Arcade, through which I hurried at the top of
my speed.  A brougham was waiting with a very massive
driver wrapped in a dark cloak, who, the instant that
I had stepped in, whipped up the horse and rattled off
to Victoria Station.  On my alighting there he turned
the carriage, and dashed away again without so much as
a look in my direction.

So far all had gone admirably.  My luggage was waiting
for me, and I had no difficulty in finding the
carriage which Holmes had indicated, the less so as it
was the only one in the train which was marked
"Engaged."  My only source of anxiety now was the
non-appearance of Holmes.  The station clock marked
only seven minutes from the time when we were due to
start.  In vain I searched among the groups of
travellers and leave-takers for the little figure of
my friend.  There was no sign of him.  I spent a few
minutes in assisting a venerable Italian priest, who
was endeavoring to make a porter understand, in his
broken English, that his luggage was to be booked
through to Paris.  Then, having taken another look
round, I returned to my carriage, where I found that
the porter, in spite of the ticket, had given me my
decrepit Italian friend as a traveling companion.  It
was useless for me to explain to him that his presence
was an intrusion, for my Italian was even more limited
than his English, so I shrugged my shoulders
resignedly, and continued to look out anxiously for my
friend.  A chill of fear had come over me, as I
thought that his absence might mean that some blow had
fallen during the night.  Already the doors had all
been shut and the whistle blown, when--

"My dear Watson," said a voice, "you have not even
condescended to say good-morning."

I turned in uncontrollable astonishment.  The aged
ecclesiastic had turned his face towards me.  For an
instant the wrinkles were smoothed away, the nose drew
away from the chin, the lower lip ceased to protrude
and the mouth to mumble, the dull eyes regained their
fire, the drooping figure expanded.  The next the
whole frame collapsed again, and Holmes had gone as
quickly as he had come.

"Good heavens!" I cried; "how you startled me!"

"Every precaution is still necessary," he whispered. 
"I have reason to think that they are hot upon our
trail.  Ah, there is Moriarty himself."

The train had already begun to move as Holmes spoke. 
Glancing back, I saw a tall man pushing his way
furiously through the crowd, and waving his hand as if
he desired to have the train stopped.  It was too
late, however, for we were rapidly gathering momentum,
and an instant later had shot clear of the station.

"With all our precautions, you see that we have cut it
rather fine," said Holmes, laughing.  He rose, and
throwing off the black cassock and hat which had
formed his disguise, he packed them away in a
hand-bag.

"Have you seen the morning paper, Watson?"

"No."

"You haven't' seen about Baker Street, then?"

"Baker Street?"

"They set fire to our rooms last night.  No great harm
was done."

"Good heavens, Holmes! this is intolerable."

"They must have lost my track completely after their
bludgeon-man was arrested.  Otherwise they could not
have imagined that I had returned to my rooms.  They
have evidently taken the precaution of watching you,
however, and that is what has brought Moriarty to
Victoria.  You could not have made any slip in
coming?"

"I did exactly what you advised."

"Did you find your brougham?"

"Yes, it was waiting."

"Did you recognize your coachman?"

"No."

"It was my brother Mycroft.  It is an advantage to get
about in such a case without taking a mercenary into
your confidence.  But we must plan what we are to do
about Moriarty now."

"As this is an express, and as the boat runs in
connection with it, I should think we have shaken him
off very effectively."

"My dear Watson, you evidently did not realize my
meaning when I said that this man may be taken as
being quite on the same intellectual plane as myself. 
You do not imagine that if I were the pursuer I should
allow myself to be baffled by so slight an obstacle. 
Why, then, should you think so meanly of him?"

"What will he do?"

"What I should do?"

"What would you do, then?"

"Engage a special."

"But it must be late."

"By no means.  This train stops at Canterbury; and
there is always at least a quarter of an hour's delay
at the boat.  He will catch us there."

"One would think that we were the criminals.  Let us
have him arrested on his arrival."

"It would be to ruin the work of three months.  We
should get the big fish, but the smaller would dart
right and left out of the net.  On Monday we should
have them all.  No, an arrest is inadmissible."

"What then?"

"We shall get out at Canterbury."

"And then?"

"Well, then we must make a cross-country journey to
Newhaven, and so over to Dieppe.  Moriarty will again
do what I should do.  He will get on to Paris, mark
down our luggage, and wait for two days at the depot. 
In the meantime we shall treat ourselves to a couple
of carpet-bags, encourage the manufactures of the
countries through which we travel, and make our way at
our leisure into Switzerland, via Luxembourg and
Basle."

At Canterbury, therefore, we alighted, only to find
that we should have to wait an hour before we could
get a train to Newhaven.

I was still looking rather ruefully after the rapidly
disappearing luggage-van which contained my wardrobe,
when Holmes pulled my sleeve and pointed up the line.

"Already, you see," said he.

Far away, from among the Kentish woods there rose a
thin spray of smoke.  A minute later a carriage and
engine could be seen flying along the open curve which
leads to the station.  We had hardly time to take our
place behind a pile of luggage when it passed with a
rattle and a roar, beating a blast of hot air into our
faces.

"There he goes," said Holmes, as we watched the
carriage swing and rock over the point. "There are
limits, you see, to our friend's intelligence.  It
would have been a coup-de-maitre had he deduced what I
would deduce and acted accordingly."

"And what would he have done had he overtaken us?"

"There cannot be the least doubt that he would have
made a murderous attack upon me.  It is, however, a
game at which two may play.  The question, now is
whether we should take a premature lunch here, or run
our chance of starving before we reach the buffet at
Newhaven."


We made our way to Brussels that night and spent two
days there, moving on upon the third day as far as
Strasburg.  On the Monday morning Holmes had
telegraphed to the London police, and in the evening
we found a reply waiting for us at our hotel.  Holmes
tore it open, and then with a bitter curse hurled it
into the grate.

"I might have known it!" he groaned.  "He has
escaped!"

"Moriarty?"

"They have secured the whole gang with the exception
of him.  He has given them the slip.  Of course, when
I had left the country there was no one to cope with
him.  But I did think that I had put the game in their
hands.  I think that you had better return to England,
Watson."

"Why?"

"Because you will find me a dangerous companion now. 
This man's occupation is gone.  He is lost if he
returns to London.  If I read his character right he
will devote his whole energies to revenging himself
upon me.  He said as much in our short interview, and
I fancy that he meant it.  I should certainly
recommend you to return to your practice."

It was hardly an appeal to be successful with one who
was an old campaigner as well as an old friend.  We
sat in the Strasburg salle-àamanger arguing the
question for half an hour, but the same night we had
resumed our journey and were well on our way to
Geneva.

For a charming week we wandered up the Valley of the
Rhone, and then, branching off at Leuk, we made our
way over the Gemmi Pass, still deep in snow, and so,
by way of Interlaken, to Meiringen.  It was a lovely
trip, the dainty green of the spring below, the virgin
white of the winter above; but it was clear to me that
never for one instant did Holmes forget the shadow
which lay across him.  In the homely Alpine villages
or in the lonely mountain passes, I could tell by his
quick glancing eyes and his sharp scrutiny of every
face that passed us, that he was well convinced that,
walk where we would, we could not walk ourselves clear
of the danger which was dogging our footsteps.

Once, I remember, as we passed over the Gemmi, and
walked along the border of the melancholy Daubensee, a
large rock which had been dislodged from the ridge
upon our right clattered down and roared into the lake
behind us.  In an instant Holmes had raced up on to
the ridge, and, standing upon a lofty pinnacle, craned
his neck in every direction.  It was in vain that our
guide assured him that a fall of stones was a common
chance in the spring-time at that spot.  He said
nothing, but he smiled at me with the air of a man who
sees the fulfillment of that which he had expected.

And yet for all his watchfulness he was never
depressed.  On the contrary, I can never recollect
having seen him in such exuberant spirits.  Again and
again he recurred to the fact that if he could be
assured that society was freed from Professor Moriarty
he would cheerfully bring his own career to a
conclusion.

"I think that I may go so far as to say, Watson, that
I have not lived wholly in vain," he remarked.  "If my
record were closed to-night I could still survey it
with equanimity.  The air of London is the sweeter for
my presence.  In over a thousand cases I am not aware
that I have ever used my powers upon the wrong side. 
Of late I have been tempted to look into the problems
furnished by nature rather than those more superficial
ones for which our artificial state of society is
responsible.  Your memoirs will draw to an end,
Watson, upon the day that I crown my career by the
capture or extinction of the most dangerous and
capable criminal in Europe."

I shall be brief, and yet exact, in the little which
remains for me to tell.  It is not a subject on which
I would willingly dwell, and yet I am conscious that a
duty devolves upon me to omit no detail.

It was on the 3d of May that we reached the little
village of Meiringen, where we put up at the
Englischer Hof, then kept by Peter Steiler the elder. 
Our landlord was an intelligent  man, and spoke
excellent English, having served for three years as
waiter at the Grosvenor Hotel in London.  At his
advice, on the afternoon of the 4th we set off
together, with the intention of crossing the hills and
spending the night at the hamlet of Rosenlaui.  We had
strict injunctions, however, on no account to pass the
falls of Reichenbach, which are about half-way up the
hill, without making a small detour to see them.

It is indeed, a fearful place.  The torrent, swollen
by the melting snow, plunges into a tremendous abyss,
from which the spray rolls up like the smoke from a
burning house.  The shaft into which the river hurls
itself is a immense chasm, lined by glistening
coal-black rock, and narrowing into a creaming,
boiling pit of incalculable depth, which brims over
and shoots the stream onward over its jagged lip.  The
long sweep of green water roaring forever down, and
the thick flickering curtain of spray hissing forever
upward, turn a man giddy with their constant whirl and
clamor.  We stood near the edge peering down at the
gleam of the breaking water far below us against the
black rocks, and listening to the half-human shout
which came booming up with the spray out of the abyss.

The path has been cut half-way round the fall to
afford a complete view, but it ends abruptly, and the
traveler has to return as he came.  We had turned to
do so, when we saw a Swiss lad come running along it
with a letter in his hand.  It bore the mark of the
hotel which we had just left, and was addressed to me
by the landlord.  It appeared that within a very few
minutes of our leaving, an English lady had arrived
who was in the last stage of consumption.  She had
wintered at Davos Platz, and was journeying now to
join her friends at Lucerne, when a sudden hemorrhage
had overtaken her.  It was thought that she could
hardly live a few hours, but it would be a great
consolation to her to see an English doctor, and, if I
would only return, etc.  The good Steiler assured me
in a postscript that he would himself look upon my
compliance as a very great favor, since the lady
absolutely refused to see a Swiss physician, and he
could not but feel that he was incurring a great
responsibility.

The appeal was one which could not be ignored.  It was
impossible to refuse the request of a
fellow-countrywoman dying in a strange land.  Yet I
had my scruples about leaving Holmes.  It was finally
agreed, however, that he should retain the young Swiss
messenger with him as guide and companion while I
returned to Meiringen.  My friend would stay some
little time at the fall, he said, and would then walk
slowly over the hill to Rosenlaui, where I was to
rejoin him in the evening.  As I turned away I saw
Holmes, with his back against a rock and his arms
folded, gazing down at the rush of the waters.  It was
the last that I was ever destined to see of him in
this world.

When I was near the bottom of the descent I looked
back.  It was impossible, from that position, to see
the fall, but I could see the curving path which winds
over the shoulder of the hill and leads to it.  Along
this a man was, I remember, walking very rapidly.

I could see his black figure clearly outlined against
the green behind him.  I noted him, and the energy with
which he walked but he passed from my mind again as I
hurried on upon my errand.

It may have been a little over an hour before I
reached Meiringen.  Old Steiler was standing at the
porch of his hotel.

"Well," said I, as I came hurrying up, "I trust that
she is no worse?"

A look of surprise passed over his face, and at the
first quiver of his eyebrows my heart turned to lead
in my breast.

"You did not write this?" I said, pulling the letter
from my pocket.  "There is no sick Englishwoman in the
hotel?"

"Certainly not!" he cried.  "But it has the hotel mark
upon it!  Ha, it must have been written by that tall
Englishman who came in after you had gone.  He said--"

But I waited for none of the landlord's explanations. 
In a tingle of fear I was already running down the
village street, and making for the path which I had so
lately descended.  It had taken me an hour to come
down.  For all my efforts two more had passed before I
found myself at the fall of Reichenbach once more. 
There was Holmes's Alpine-stock still leaning against
the rock by which I had left him.  But there was no
sign of him, and it was in vain that I shouted.  My
only answer was my own voice reverberating in a
rolling echo from the cliffs around me.

It was the sight of that Alpine-stock which turned me
cold and sick.  He had not gone to Rosenlaui, then. 
He had remained on that three-foot path, with sheer
wall on one side and sheer drop on the other, until
his enemy had overtaken him.  The young Swiss had gone
too.  He had probably been in the pay of Moriarty, and
had left the two men together.  And then what had
happened?  Who was to tell us what had happened then?

I stood for a minute or two to collect myself, for I
was dazed with the horror of the thing.  Then I began
to think of Holmes's own methods and to try to
practise them in reading this tragedy.  It was, alas,
only too easy to do.  During our conversation we had
not gone to the end of the path, and the Alpine-stock
marked the place where we had stood.  The blackish
soil is kept forever soft by the incessant drift of
spray, and a bird would leave its tread upon it.  Two
lines of footmarks were clearly marked along the
farther end of the path, both leading away from me. 
There were none returning.  A few yards from the end
the soil was all ploughed up into a patch of mud, and
the branches and ferns which fringed the chasm were
torn and bedraggled.  I lay upon my face and peered
over with the spray spouting up all around me.  It had
darkened since I left, and now I could only see here
and there the glistening of moisture upon the black
walls, and far away down at the end of the shaft the
gleam of the broken water.  I shouted; but only the
same half-human cry of the fall was borne back to my
ears.

But it was destined that I should after all have a
last word of greeting from my friend and comrade.  I
have said that his Alpine-stock had been left leaning
against a rock which jutted on to the path.  From the
top of this bowlder the gleam of something bright
caught my eye, and, raising my hand, I found that it
came from the silver cigarette-case which he used to
carry.  As I took it up a small square of paper upon
which it had lain fluttered down on to the ground. 
Unfolding it, I found that it consisted of three pages
torn from his note-book and addressed to me.  It was
characteristic of the man that the direction was a
precise, and the writing as firm and clear, as though
it had been written in his study.

My dear Watson [it said], I write these few lines
through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my
convenience for the final discussion of those
questions which lie between us.  He has been giving me
a sketch of the methods by which he avoided the
English police and kept himself informed of our
movements.  They certainly confirm the very high
opinion which I had formed of his abilities.  I am
pleased to think that I shall be able to free society
from any further effects of his presence, though I
fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my
friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you.  I
have already explained to you, however, that my career
had in any case reached its crisis, and that no
possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to
me than this.  Indeed, if I may make a full confession
to you, I was quite convinced that the letter from
Meiringen was a hoax, and I allowed you to depart on
that errand under the persuasion that some development
of this sort would follow.  Tell Inspector Patterson
that the papers which he needs to convict the gang are
in pigeonhole M., done up in a blue envelope and
inscribed "Moriarty."  I made every disposition of my
property before leaving England, and handed it to my
brother Mycroft.  Pray give my greetings to Mrs.
Watson, and believe me to be, my dear fellow,

Very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes


A few words may suffice to tell the little that
remains.  An examination by experts leaves little
doubt that a personal contest between the two men
ended, as it could hardly fail to end in such a
situation, in their reeling over, locked in each
other's arms.  Any attempt at recovering the bodies
was absolutely hopeless, and there, deep down in that
dreadful caldron of swirling water and seething foam,
will lie for all time the most dangerous criminal and
the foremost champion of the law of their generation. 
The Swiss youth was never found again, and there can
be no doubt that he was one of the numerous agents
whom Moriarty kept in this employ.  As to the gang, it
will be within the memory of the public how completely
the evidence which Holmes had accumulated exposed
their organization, and how heavily the hand of the
dead man weighted upon them.  Of their terrible chief
few details came out during the proceedings, and if I
have now been compelled to make a clear statement of
his career it is due to those injudicious champions
who have endeavored to clear his memory by attacks
upon him whom I shall ever regard as the best and the
wisest man whom I have ever known.





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The Return of Sherlock Holmes, A Collection of Holmes Adventures

by

SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE



THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE


It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was interested,
and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of the Honourable
Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable circumstances.
The public has already learned those particulars of the crime which
came out in the police investigation, but a good deal was suppressed
upon that occasion, since the case for the prosecution was so overwhelmingly
strong that it was not necessary to bring forward all the facts.  Only now,
at the end of nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply those missing
links which make up the whole of that remarkable chain.  The crime
was of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to me
compared to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the
greatest shock and surprise of any event in my adventurous life. 
Even now, after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as
I think of it, and feeling once more that sudden flood of joy,
amazement, and incredulity which utterly submerged my mind.
Let me say to that public, which has shown some interest in those
glimpses which I have occasionally given them of the thoughts
and actions of a very remarkable man, that they are not to blame
me if I have not shared my knowledge with them, for I should
have considered it my first duty to do so, had I not been barred
by a positive prohibition from his own lips, which was only
withdrawn upon the third of last month.

It can be imagined that my close intimacy with Sherlock Holmes
had interested me deeply in crime, and that after his
disappearance I never failed to read with care the various
problems which came before the public.  And I even attempted,
more than once, for my own private satisfaction, to employ his
methods in their solution, though with indifferent success. 
There was none, however, which appealed to me like this tragedy
of Ronald Adair.  As I read the evidence at the inquest, which
led up to a verdict of willful murder against some person or
persons unknown, I realized more clearly than I had ever done
the loss which the community had sustained by the death of
Sherlock Holmes.  There were points about this strange business
which would, I was sure, have specially appealed to him, and the
efforts of the police would have been supplemented, or more
probably anticipated, by the trained observation and the alert
mind of the first criminal agent in Europe.  All day, as I drove
upon my round, I turned over the case in my mind and found no
explanation which appeared to me to be adequate.  At the risk of
telling a twice-told tale, I will recapitulate the facts as they
were known to the public at the conclusion of the inquest.

The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl of
Maynooth, at that time governor of one of the Australian
colonies.  Adair's mother had returned from Australia to undergo
the operation for cataract, and she, her son Ronald, and her
daughter Hilda were living together at 427 Park Lane.  The youth
moved in the best society--had, so far as was known, no enemies
and no particular vices.  He had been engaged to Miss Edith
Woodley, of Carstairs, but the engagement had been broken off by
mutual consent some months before, and there was no sign that it
had left any very profound feeling behind it.  For the rest {sic}
the man's life moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for
his habits were quiet and his nature unemotional.  Yet it was
upon this easy-going young aristocrat that death came, in most
strange and unexpected form, between the hours of ten and
eleven-twenty on the night of March 30, 1894.

Ronald Adair was fond of cards--playing continually, but never
for such stakes as would hurt him.  He was a member of the
Baldwin, the Cavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs.  It was
shown that, after dinner on the day of his death, he had played
a rubber of whist at the latter club.  He had also played there
in the afternoon.  The evidence of those who had played with him--
Mr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran--showed that the
game was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall of the
cards.  Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more.  His
fortune was a considerable one, and such a loss could not in any
way affect him.  He had played nearly every day at one club or
other, but he was a cautious player, and usually rose a winner. 
It came out in evidence that, in partnership with Colonel Moran,
he had actually won as much as four hundred and twenty pounds in
a sitting, some weeks before, from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral.  
So much for his recent history as it came out at the inquest.

On the evening of the crime, he returned from the club exactly
at ten.  His mother and sister were out spending the evening with
a relation.  The servant deposed that she heard him enter the
front room on the second floor, generally used as his
sitting-room.  She had lit a fire there, and as it smoked she had
opened the window.  No sound was heard from the room until
eleven-twenty, the hour of the return of Lady Maynooth and her
daughter.  Desiring to say good-night, she attempted to enter her
son's room.  The door was locked on the inside, and no answer
could be got to their cries and knocking.  Help was obtained, and
the door forced.  The unfortunate young man was found lying near
the table.  His head had been horribly mutilated by an expanding
revolver bullet, but no weapon of any sort was to be found in
the room.  On the table lay two banknotes for ten pounds each and
seventeen pounds ten in silver and gold, the money arranged in
little piles of varying amount.  There were some figures also
upon a sheet of paper, with the names of some club friends
opposite to them, from which it was conjectured that before his
death he was endeavouring to make out his losses or winnings at cards.

A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make
the case more complex.  In the first place, no reason could be
given why the young man should have fastened the door upon the
inside.  There was the possibility that the murderer had done
this, and had afterwards escaped by the window.  The drop was at
least twenty feet, however, and a bed of crocuses in full bloom
lay beneath.  Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any sign
of having been disturbed, nor were there any marks upon the
narrow strip of grass which separated the house from the road. 
Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had
fastened the door.  But how did he come by his death?  No one
could have climbed up to the window without leaving traces. 
Suppose a man had fired through the window, he would indeed be
a remarkable shot who could with a revolver inflict so deadly a
wound.  Again, Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare; there is
a cab stand within a hundred yards of the house.  No one had
heard a shot.  And yet there was the dead man and there the
revolver bullet, which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets
will, and so inflicted a wound which must have caused
instantaneous death.  Such were the circumstances of the Park
Lane Mystery, which were further complicated by entire absence
of motive, since, as I have said, young Adair was not known to
have any enemy, and no attempt had been made to remove the money
or valuables in the room.

All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to
hit upon some theory which could reconcile them all, and to find
that line of least resistance which my poor friend had declared
to be the starting-point of every investigation.  I confess that
I made little progress.  In the evening I strolled across the
Park, and found myself about six o'clock at the Oxford Street
end of Park Lane.  A group of loafers upon the pavements, all
staring up at a particular window, directed me to the house
which I had come to see.  A tall, thin man with coloured glasses,
whom I strongly suspected of being a plain-clothes detective,
was pointing out some theory of his own, while the others
crowded round to listen to what he said.  I got as near him as I
could, but his observations seemed to me to be absurd, so I
withdrew again in some disgust.  As I did so I struck against an
elderly, deformed man, who had been behind me, and I knocked
down several books which he was carrying.  I remember that as I
picked them up, I observed the title of one of them, THE ORIGIN
OF TREE WORSHIP, and it struck me that the fellow must be some
poor bibliophile, who, either as a trade or as a hobby, was a
collector of obscure volumes.  I endeavoured to apologize for the
accident, but it was evident that these books which I had so
unfortunately maltreated were very precious objects in the eyes
of their owner.  With a snarl of contempt he turned upon his
heel, and I saw his curved back and white side-whiskers
disappear among the throng.

My observations of No. 427 Park Lane did little to clear up the
problem in which I was interested.  The house was separated from
the street by a low wall and railing, the whole not more than
five feet high.  It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to
get into the garden, but the window was entirely inaccessible,
since there was no waterpipe or anything which could help the
most active man to climb it.  More puzzled than ever, I retraced
my steps to Kensington.  I had not been in my study five minutes
when the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me.  To
my astonishment it was none other than my strange old book
collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of
white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least,
wedged under his right arm.

"You're surprised to see me, sir," said he, in a strange,
croaking voice.

I acknowledged that I was.

"Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go
into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to
myself, I'll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell
him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm
meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my books."

"You make too much of a trifle," said I.  "May I ask how you knew
who I was?"

"Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of
yours, for you'll find my little bookshop at the corner of
Church Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure.  Maybe you
collect yourself, sir.  Here's BRITISH BIRDS, and CATULLUS, and
THE HOLY WAR--a bargain, every one of them.  With five volumes
you could just fill that gap on that second shelf.  It looks
untidy, does it not, sir?"

I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me.  When I turned
again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my
study table.  I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds
in utter amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted
for the first and the last time in my life.  Certainly a gray
mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my
collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon
my lips.  Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.

"My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a
thousand apologies.  I had no idea that you would be so affected."

I gripped him by the arms.

"Holmes!" I cried. "Is it really you?  Can it indeed be that you
are alive?  Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of
that awful abyss?"

"Wait a moment," said he.  "Are you sure that you are really fit
to discuss things?  I have given you a serious shock by my
unnecessarily dramatic reappearance."

"I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my
eyes.  Good heavens! to think that you--you of all men--should be
standing in my study." Again I gripped him by the sleeve, and
felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it.  "Well, you're not a spirit
anyhow," said I.  "My dear chap, I'm overjoyed to see you.  Sit
down, and tell me how you came alive out of that dreadful chasm."

He sat opposite to me, and lit a cigarette in his old,
nonchalant manner.  He was dressed in the seedy frockcoat of the
book merchant, but the rest of that individual lay in a pile of
white hair and old books upon the table.  Holmes looked even
thinner and keener than of old, but there was a dead-white tinge
in his aquiline face which told me that his life recently had
not been a healthy one.

"I am glad to stretch myself, Watson," said he.  "It is no joke
when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several
hours on end.  Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these
explanations, we have, if I may ask for your cooperation, a hard
and dangerous night's work in front of us.  Perhaps it would be
better if I gave you an account of the whole situation when that
work is finished."

"I am full of curiosity.  I should much prefer to hear now."

"You'll come with me to-night?"

"When you like and where you like."

"This is, indeed, like the old days.  We shall have time for a
mouthful of dinner before we need go.  Well, then, about that
chasm.  I had no serious difficulty in getting out of it, for the
very simple reason that I never was in it."

"You never were in it?"

"No, Watson, I never was in it.  My note to you was absolutely
genuine.  I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my
career when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late
Professor Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which led to
safety.  I read an inexorable purpose in his gray eyes.  I
exchanged some remarks with him, therefore, and obtained his
courteous permission to write the short note which you
afterwards received.  I left it with my cigarette-box and my
stick, and I walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my
heels.  When I reached the end I stood at bay.  He drew no weapon,
but he rushed at me and threw his long arms around me.  He knew
that his own game was up, and was only anxious to revenge
himself upon me.  We tottered together upon the brink of the
fall.  I have some knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the
Japanese system of wrestling, which has more than once been very
useful to me.  I slipped through his grip, and he with a horrible
scream kicked madly for a few seconds, and clawed the air with
both his hands.  But for all his efforts he could not get his
balance, and over he went.  With my face over the brink, I saw
him fall for a long way.  Then he struck a rock, bounded off, and
splashed into the water."

I listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes
delivered between the puffs of his cigarette.

"But the tracks!" I cried.  "I saw, with my own eyes, that two
went down the path and none returned."

"It came about in this way.  The instant that the Professor had
disappeared, it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky
chance Fate had placed in my way.  I knew that Moriarty was not
the only man who had sworn my death.  There were at least three
others whose desire for vengeance upon me would only be
increased by the death of their leader.  They were all most
dangerous men.  One or other would certainly get me.  On the other
hand, if all the world was convinced that I was dead they would
take liberties, these men, they would soon lay themselves open,
and sooner or later I could destroy them.  Then it would be time
for me to announce that I was still in the land of the living. 
So rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had thought this
all out before Professor Moriarty had reached the bottom of the
Reichenbach Fall.

"I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me.  In your
picturesque account of the matter, which I read with great
interest some months later, you assert that the wall was sheer. 
That was not literally true.  A few small footholds presented
themselves, and there was some indication of a ledge.  The cliff
is so high that to climb it all was an obvious impossibility,
and it was equally impossible to make my way along the wet path
without leaving some tracks.  I might, it is true, have reversed
my boots, as I have done on similar occasions, but the sight of
three sets of tracks in one direction would certainly have
suggested a deception.  On the whole, then, it was best that I
should risk the climb.  It was not a pleasant business, Watson. 
The fall roared beneath me.  I am not a fanciful person, but I
give you my word that I seemed to hear Moriarty's voice
screaming at me out of the abyss.  A mistake would have been
fatal.  More than once, as tufts of grass came out in my hand or
my foot slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I thought that
I was gone.  But I struggled upward, and at last I reached a
ledge several feet deep and covered with soft green moss, where
I could lie unseen, in the most perfect comfort.  There I was
stretched, when you, my dear Watson, and all your following were
investigating in the most sympathetic and inefficient manner the
circumstances of my death.

"At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally
erroneous conclusions, you departed for the hotel, and I was
left alone.  I had imagined that I had reached the end of my
adventures, but a very unexpected occurrence showed me that
there were surprises still in store for me.  A huge rock, falling
from above, boomed past me, struck the path, and bounded over
into the chasm.  For an instant I thought that it was an
accident, but a moment later, looking up, I saw a man's head
against the darkening sky, and another stone struck the very
ledge upon which I was stretched, within a foot of my head.  Of
course, the meaning of this was obvious.  Moriarty had not been
alone.  A confederate--and even that one glance had told me how
dangerous a man that confederate was--had kept guard while the
Professor had attacked me.  From a distance, unseen by me, he had
been a witness of his friend's death and of my escape.  He had
waited, and then making his way round to the top of the cliff,
he had endeavoured to succeed where his comrade had failed.

"I did not take long to think about it, Watson.  Again I saw that
grim face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the
precursor of another stone.  I scrambled down on to the path.  I
don't think I could have done it in cold blood.  It was a hundred
times more difficult than getting up.  But I had no time to think
of the danger, for another stone sang past me as I hung by my
hands from the edge of the ledge.  Halfway down I slipped, but,
by the blessing of God, I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the
path.  I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in
the darkness, and a week later I found myself in Florence, with
the certainty that no one in the world knew what had become of me.

"I had only one confidant--my brother Mycroft.  I owe you many
apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it
should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you
would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy
end had you not yourself thought that it was true.  Several times
during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to
you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me
should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my
secret.  For that reason I turned away from you this evening when
you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any
show of surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn
attention to my identity and led to the most deplorable and
irreparable results.  As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in
order to obtain the money which I needed.  The course of events
in London did not run so well as I had hoped, for the trial of
the Moriarty gang left two of its most dangerous members, my own
most vindictive enemies, at liberty.  I travelled for two years
in Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa, and
spending some days with the head lama.  You may have read of the
remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am
sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news
of your friend.  I then passed through Persia, looked in at
Mecca, and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at
Khartoum the results of which I have communicated to the Foreign
Office.  Returning to France, I spent some months in a research
into the coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a laboratory
at Montpellier, in the south of France.  Having concluded this to
my satisfaction and learning that only one of my enemies was now
left in London, I was about to return when my movements were
hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane Mystery,
which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which
seemed to offer some most peculiar personal opportunities.  I
came over at once to London, called in my own person at Baker
Street, threw Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics, and found that
Mycroft had preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they had
always been.  So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o'clock
to-day I found myself in my old armchair in my own old room, and
only wishing that I could have seen my old friend Watson in the
other chair which he has so often adorned."

Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that
April evening--a narrative which would have been utterly
incredible to me had it not been confirmed by the actual sight
of the tall, spare figure and the keen, eager face, which I had
never thought to see again.  In some manner he had learned of my
own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner
rather than in his words.  "Work is the best antidote to sorrow,
my dear Watson," said he; "and I have a piece of work for us
both to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful
conclusion, will in itself justify a man's life on this planet."  
In vain I begged him to tell me more.  "You will hear and see
enough before morning," he answered.  "We have three years of the
past to discuss.  Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we
start upon the notable adventure of the empty house."

It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself
seated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and the
thrill of adventure in my heart.  Holmes was cold and stern and
silent.  As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his
austere features, I saw that his brows were drawn down in
thought and his thin lips compressed.  I knew not what wild beast
we were about to hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal
London, but I was well assured, from the bearing of this master
huntsman, that the adventure was a most grave one--while the
sardonic smile which occasionally broke through his ascetic
gloom boded little good for the object of our quest.

I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but Holmes
stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square.  I observed
that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right
and left, and at every subsequent street corner he took the
utmost pains to assure that he was not followed.  Our route was
certainly a singular one.  Holmes's knowledge of the byways of
London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he passed rapidly
and with an assured step through a network of mews and stables,
the very existence of which I had never known.  We emerged at
last into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which led
us into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street.  Here he
turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden
gate into a deserted yard, and then opened with a key the back
door of a house.  We entered together, and he closed it behind us.

The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it was
an empty house.  Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare
planking, and my outstretched hand touched a wall from which the
paper was hanging in ribbons.  Holmes's cold, thin fingers closed
round my wrist and led me forward down a long hall, until I
dimly saw the murky fanlight over the door.  Here Holmes turned
suddenly to the right and we found ourselves in a large, square,
empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in
the centre from the lights of the street beyond.  There was no
lamp near, and the window was thick with dust, so that we could
only just discern each other's figures within.  My companion put
his hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.

"Do you know where we are?" he whispered.

"Surely that is Baker Street" I answered, staring through the
dim window.

"Exactly.  We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our
own old quarters."

"But why are we here?"

"Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque
pile.  Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little
nearer to the window, taking every precaution not to show
yourself, and then to look up at our old rooms--the starting-
point of so many of your little fairy-tales?  We will see if my
three years of absence have entirely taken away my power to
surprise you."

I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window.  As my
eyes fell upon it, I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement.  The
blind was down, and a strong light was burning in the room.  The
shadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in
hard, black outline upon the luminous screen of the window. 
There was no mistaking the poise of the head, the squareness of
the shoulders, the sharpness of the features.  The face was
turned half-round, and the effect was that of one of those black
silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame.  It was a
perfect reproduction of Holmes.  So amazed was I that I threw out
my hand to make sure that the man himself was standing beside
me.  He was quivering with silent laughter.

"Well?" said he.

"Good heavens!" I cried.  "It is marvellous."

"I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite
variety," said he, and I recognized in his voice the joy and
pride which the artist takes in his own creation.  "It really is
rather like me, is it not?"

"I should be prepared to swear that it was you."

"The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier,
of Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding.  It is a
bust in wax.  The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker
Street this afternoon."

"But why?"

"Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reason
for wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was
really elsewhere."

"And you thought the rooms were watched?"

"I KNEW that they were watched."

"By whom?"

"By my old enemies, Watson.  By the charming society whose leader
lies in the Reichenbach Fall.  You must remember that they knew,
and only they knew, that I was still alive.  Sooner or later they
believed that I should come back to my rooms.  They watched them
continuously, and this morning they saw me arrive."

"How do you know?"

"Because I recognized their sentinel when I glanced out of my
window.  He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a
garroter by trade, and a remarkable performer upon the
jew's-harp.  I cared nothing for him.  But I cared a great deal
for the much more formidable person who was behind him, the
bosom friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks over the
cliff, the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London.  That
is the man who is after me to-night Watson, and that is the man
who is quite unaware that we are after him."

My friend's plans were gradually revealing themselves.  From this
convenient retreat, the watchers were being watched and the
trackers tracked.  That angular shadow up yonder was the bait,
and we were the hunters.  In silence we stood together in the
darkness and watched the hurrying figures who passed and
repassed in front of us.  Holmes was silent and motionless; but
I could tell that he was keenly alert, and that his eyes were
fixed intently upon the stream of passers-by.  It was a bleak and
boisterous night and the wind whistled shrilly down the long
street.  Many people were moving to and fro, most of them muffled
in their coats and cravats.  Once or twice it seemed to me that
I had seen the same figure before, and I especially noticed two
men who appeared to be sheltering themselves from the wind in
the doorway of a house some distance up the street.  I tried to
draw my companion's attention to them; but he gave a little
ejaculation of impatience, and continued to stare into the
street.  More than once he fidgeted with his feet and tapped
rapidly with his fingers upon the wall.  It was evident to me
that he was becoming uneasy, and that his plans were not working
out altogether as he had hoped.  At last, as midnight approached
and the street gradually cleared, he paced up and down the room
in uncontrollable agitation.  I was about to make some remark to
him, when I raised my eyes to the lighted window, and again
experienced almost as great a surprise as before.  I clutched
Holmes's arm, and pointed upward.

"The shadow has moved!" I cried.

It was indeed no longer the profile, but the back, which was
turned towards us.

Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his
temper or his impatience with a less active intelligence than
his own.

"Of course it has moved," said he.  "Am I such a farcical
bungler, Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and
expect that some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived
by it?  We have been in this room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has
made some change in that figure eight times, or once in every
quarter of an hour.  She works it from the front, so that her
shadow may never be seen.  Ah!"  He drew in his breath with a
shrill, excited intake.  In the dim light I saw his head thrown
forward, his whole attitude rigid with attention.  Outside the
street was absolutely deserted.  Those two men might still be
crouching in the doorway, but I could no longer see them.  All
was still and dark, save only that brilliant yellow screen in
front of us with the black figure outlined upon its centre. 
Again in the utter silence I heard that thin, sibilant note
which spoke of intense suppressed excitement.  An instant later
he pulled me back into the blackest corner of the room, and I
felt his warning hand upon my lips.  The fingers which clutched
me were quivering.  Never had I known my friend more moved, and
yet the dark street still stretched lonely and motionless before us.

But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener senses had
already distinguished.  A low, stealthy sound came to my ears,
not from the direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the
very house in which we lay concealed.  A door opened and shut.  An
instant later steps crept down the passage--steps which were
meant to be silent, but which reverberated harshly through the
empty house.  Holmes crouched back against the wall, and I did
the same, my hand closing upon the handle of my revolver. 
Peering through the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man, a
shade blacker than the blackness of the open door.  He stood for
an instant, and then he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into
the room.  He was within three yards of us, this sinister figure,
and I had braced myself to meet his spring, before I realized
that he had no idea of our presence.  He passed close beside us,
stole over to the window, and very softly and noiselessly raised
it for half a foot.  As he sank to the level of this opening, the
light of the street, no longer dimmed by the dusty glass, fell
full upon his face.  The man seemed to be beside himself with
excitement.  His two eyes shone like stars, and his features were
working convulsively.  He was an elderly man, with a thin,
projecting nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled
moustache.  An opera hat was pushed to the back of his head, and
an evening dress shirt-front gleamed out through his open
overcoat.  His face was gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep,
savage lines.  In his hand he carried what appeared to be a
stick, but as he laid it down upon the floor it gave a metallic
clang.  Then from the pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky
object, and he busied himself in some task which ended with a
loud, sharp click, as if a spring or bolt had fallen into its
place.  Still kneeling upon the floor he bent forward and threw
all his weight and strength upon some lever, with the result
that there came a long, whirling, grinding noise, ending once
more in a powerful click.  He straightened himself then, and I
saw that what he held in his hand was a sort of gun, with a
curiously misshapen butt.  He opened it at the breech, put
something in, and snapped the breech-lock.  Then, crouching down,
he rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the open
window, and I saw his long moustache droop over the stock and
his eye gleam as it peered along the sights.  I heard a little
sigh of satisfaction as he cuddled the butt into his shoulder;
and saw that amazing target, the black man on the yellow ground,
standing clear at the end of his foresight.  For an instant he
was rigid and motionless.  Then his finger tightened on the
trigger.  There was a strange, loud whiz and a long, silvery
tinkle of broken glass.  At that instant Holmes sprang like a
tiger on to the marksman's back, and hurled him flat upon his
face.  He was up again in a moment, and with convulsive strength
he seized Holmes by the throat, but I struck him on the head
with the butt of my revolver, and he dropped again upon the
floor.  I fell upon him, and as I held him my comrade blew a
shrill call upon a whistle.  There was the clatter of running
feet upon the pavement, and two policemen in uniform, with one
plain-clothes detective, rushed through the front entrance and
into the room.

"That you, Lestrade?" said Holmes.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes.  I took the job myself.  It's good to see you
back in London, sir."

"I think you want a little unofficial help.  Three undetected
murders in one year won't do, Lestrade.  But you handled the
Molesey Mystery with less than your usual--that's to say, you
handled it fairly well."

We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with
a stalwart constable on each side of him.  Already a few
loiterers had begun to collect in the street.  Holmes stepped up
to the window, closed it, and dropped the blinds.  Lestrade had
produced two candles, and the policemen had uncovered their
lanterns.  I was able at last to have a good look at our prisoner.

It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was
turned towards us.  With the brow of a philosopher above and the
jaw of a sensualist below, the man must have started with great
capacities for good or for evil.  But one could not look upon his
cruel blue eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the
fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow,
without reading Nature's plainest danger-signals.  He took no
heed of any of us, but his eyes were fixed upon Holmes's face with
an expression in which hatred and amazement were equally blended. 
"You fiend!" he kept on muttering.  "You clever, clever fiend!"

"Ah, Colonel!" said Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar. 
"`Journeys end in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says.  I
don't think I have had the pleasure of seeing you since you
favoured me with those attentions as I lay on the ledge above
the Reichenbach Fall."

The colonel still stared at my friend like a man in a trance. 
"You cunning, cunning fiend!" was all that he could say.

"I have not introduced you yet," said Holmes.  "This, gentlemen,
is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty's Indian Army,
and the best heavy-game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever
produced.  I believe I am correct Colonel, in saying that your
bag of tigers still remains unrivalled?"

The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared at my
companion.  With his savage eyes and bristling moustache he was
wonderfully like a tiger himself.

"I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a
SHIKARI," said Holmes.  "It must be very familiar to you.  Have
you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with
your rifle, and waited for the bait to bring up your tiger?  This
empty house is my tree, and you are my tiger.  You have possibly
had other guns in reserve in case there should be several
tigers, or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing
you.  These," he pointed around, "are my other guns.  The parallel
is exact."

Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl of rage, but the
constables dragged him back.  The fury upon his face was terrible
to look at.

"I confess that you had one small surprise for me," said Holmes.
"I did not anticipate that you would yourself make use of this
empty house and this convenient front window.  I had imagined you
as operating from the street, where my friend, Lestrade and his
merry men were awaiting you.  With that exception, all has gone
as I expected."

Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

"You may or may not have just cause for arresting me," said he,
"but at least there can be no reason why I should submit to the
gibes of this person.  If I am in the hands of the law, let
things be done in a legal way."

"Well, that's reasonable enough," said Lestrade.  "Nothing
further you have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?"

Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor, and
was examining its mechanism.

"An admirable and unique weapon," said he, "noiseless and of
tremendous power:  I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic,
who constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty. 
For years I have been aware of its existance though I have never
before had the opportunity of handling it.  I commend it very
specially to your attention, Lestrade and also the bullets which
fit it."

"You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes," said
Lestrade, as the whole party moved towards the door.  "Anything
further to say?"

"Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?"

"What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted murder of Mr.
Sherlock Holmes."

"Not so, Lestrade.  I do not propose to appear in the matter at
all.  To you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the
remarkable arrest which you have effected.  Yes, Lestrade, I
congratulate you!  With your usual happy mixture of cunning and
audacity, you have got him."

"Got him!  Got whom, Mr. Holmes?"

"The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain--Colonel
Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an
expanding bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the
second-floor front of No. 427 Park Lane, upon the thirtieth of
last month.  That's the charge, Lestrade.  And now, Watson, if you
can endure the draught from a broken window, I think that half
an hour in my study over a cigar may afford you some profitable
amusement."

Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision
of Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson.  As I
entered I saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old
landmarks were all in their place.  There were the chemical
corner and the acid-stained, deal-topped table.  There upon a
shelf was the row of formidable scrap-books and books of
reference which many of our fellow-citizens would have been so
glad to burn.  The diagrams, the violin-case, and the pipe-rack--
even the Persian slipper which contained the tobacco--all met my
eyes as I glanced round me.  There were two occupants of the
room--one, Mrs. Hudson, who beamed upon us both as we entered--
the other, the strange dummy which had played so important a
part in the evening's adventures.  It was a wax-coloured model of
my friend, so admirably done that it was a perfect facsimile.  It
stood on a small pedestal table with an old dressing-gown of
Holmes's so draped round it that the illusion from the street
was absolutely perfect.

"I hope you observed all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?" said Holmes.

"I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you told me."

"Excellent.  You carried the thing out very well.  Did you observe
where the bullet went?"

"Yes, sir.  I'm afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust, for it
passed right through the head and flattened itself on the wall. 
I picked it up from the carpet.  Here it is!"

Holmes held it out to me.  "A soft revolver bullet, as you
perceive, Watson.  There's genius in that, for who would expect
to find such a thing fired from an airgun?  All right, Mrs.
Hudson.  I am much obliged for your assistance.  And now, Watson,
let me see you in your old seat once more, for there are several
points which I should like to discuss with you."

He had thrown off the seedy frockcoat, and now he was the Holmes
of old in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he took from
his effigy.

"The old SHIKARI'S nerves have not lost their steadiness, nor
his eyes their keenness," said he, with a laugh, as he inspected
the shattered forehead of his bust.

"Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through
the brain.  He was the best shot in India, and I expect that
there are few better in London.  Have you heard the name?"

"No, I have not."

"Well, well, such is fame!  But, then, if I remember right, you
had not heard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who had one
of the great brains of the century.  Just give me down my index
of biographies from the shelf."

He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair and
blowing great clouds from his cigar.

"My collection of M's is a fine one," said he.  "Moriarty himself
is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the
poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who
knocked out my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross,
and, finally, here is our friend of to-night."

He handed over the book, and I read:

MORAN, SEBASTIAN, COLONEL.  Unemployed.  Formerly 1st Bangalore
Pioneers.  Born London, 1840.  Son of Sir Augustus Moran, C. B.,
once British Minister to Persia.  Educated Eton and Oxford. 
Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab
(despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul.  Author of HEAVY GAME OF THE
WESTERN HIMALAYAS (1881); THREE MONTHS IN THE JUNGLE (1884). 
Address:  Conduit Street.  Clubs:  The Anglo-Indian, the
Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card Club.


On the margin was written, in Holmes's precise hand:


The second most dangerous man in London.


"This is astonishing," said I, as I handed back the volume. 
"The man's career is that of an honourable soldier."

"It is true," Holmes answered.  "Up to a certain point he did
well.  He was always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still
told in India how he crawled down a drain after a wounded
man-eating tiger.  There are some trees, Watson, which grow to a
certain height, and then suddenly develop some unsightly
eccentricity.  You will see it often in humans.  I have a theory
that the individual represents in his development the whole
procession of his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good
or evil stands for some strong influence which came into the
line of his pedigree.  The person becomes, as it were, the
epitome of the history of his own family."

"It is surely rather fanciful."

"Well, I don't insist upon it.  Whatever the cause, Colonel Moran
began hot to hold him.  He retired, came to London, and again
acquired an evil name.  It was at this time that he was sought
out by Professor Moriarty, to whom for a time he was chief of
the staff.  Moriarty supplied him liberally with money, and used
him only in one or two very high-class jobs, which no ordinary
criminal could have undertaken.  You may have some recollection
of the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887.  Not?  Well, I
am sure Moran was at the bottom of it, but nothing could be
proved.  So cleverly was the colonel concealed that, even when
the Moriarty gang was broken up, we could not incriminate him. 
You remember at that date, when I called upon you in your rooms,
how I put up the shutters for fear of air-guns?  No doubt you
thought me fanciful.  I knew exactly what I was doing, for I knew
of the existence of this remarkable gun, and I knew also that
one of the best shots in the world would be behind it.  When we
were in Switzerland he followed us with Moriarty, and it was
undoubtedly he who gave me that evil five minutes on the
Reichenbach ledge.

"You may think that I read the papers with some attention during
my sojourn in France, on the look-out for any chance of laying
him by the heels.  So long as he was free in London, my life
would really not have been worth living.  Night and day the
shadow would have been over me, and sooner or later his chance
must have come.  What could I do?  I could not shoot him at sight,
or I should myself be in the dock.  There was no use appealing to
a magistrate.  They cannot interfere on the strength of what
would appear to them to be a wild suspicion.  So I could do
nothing.  But I watched the criminal news, knowing that sooner or
later I should get him.  Then came the death of this Ronald
Adair.  My chance had come at last.  Knowing what I did, was it
not certain that Colonel Moran had done it?  He had played cards
with the lad, he had followed him home from the club, he had
shot him through the open window.  There was not a doubt of it. 
The bullets alone are enough to put his head in a noose.  I came
over at once.  I was seen by the sentinel, who would, I knew,
direct the colonel's attention to my presence.  He could not fail
to connect my sudden return with his crime, and to be terribly
alarmed.  I was sure that he would make an attempt to get me out
of the way AT once, and would bring round his murderous weapon
for that purpose.  I left him an excellent mark in the window,
and, having warned the police that they might be needed--by the
way, Watson, you spotted their presence in that doorway with
unerring accuracy--I took up what seemed to me to be a judicious
post for observation, never dreaming that he would choose the
same spot for his attack.  Now, my dear Watson, does anything
remain for me to explain?"

"Yes," said I.  "You have not made it clear what was Colonel
Moran's motive in murdering the Honourable Ronald Adair?"

"Ah! my dear Watson, there we come into those realms of
conjecture, where the most logical mind may be at fault.  Each
may form his own hypothesis upon the present evidence, and yours
is as likely to be correct as mine."

"You have formed one, then?"

"I think that it is not difficult to explain the facts.  It came
out in evidence that Colonel Moran and young Adair had, between
them, won a considerable amount of money.  Now, undoubtedly
played foul--of that I have long been aware.  I believe that on
the day of the murder Adair had discovered that Moran was
cheating.  Very likely he had spoken to him privately, and had
threatened to expose him unless he voluntarily resigned his
membership of the club, and promised not to play cards again.  It
is unlikely that a youngster like Adair would at once make a
hideous scandal by exposing a well known man so much older than
himself.  Probably he acted as I suggest.  The exclusion from his
clubs would mean ruin to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten
card-gains.  He therefore murdered Adair, who at the time was
endeavouring to work out how much money he should himself
return, since he could not profit by his partner's foul play.  He
locked the door lest the ladies should surprise him and insist
upon knowing what he was doing with these names and coins.  Will
it pass?"

"I have no doubt that you have hit upon the truth."

"It will be verified or disproved at the trial.  Meanwhile, come
what may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more.  The famous
air-gun of Von Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum,
and once again Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to
examining those interesting little problems which the complex
life of London so plentifully presents."



THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER


"From the point of view of the criminal expert," said Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, "London has become a singularly uninteresting city since
the death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty."

"I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens to
agree with you," I answered.

"Well, well, I must not be selfish," said he, with a smile, as
be pushed back his chair from the breakfast-table.  "The
community is certainly the gainer, and no one the loser, save
the poor out-of-work specialist, whose occupation has gone.  With
that man in the field, one's morning paper presented infinite
possibilities.  Often it was only the smallest trace, Watson, the
faintest indication, and yet it was enough to tell me that the
great malignant brain was there, as the gentlest tremors of the
edges of the web remind one of the foul spider which lurks in
the centre.  Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage--
to the man who held the clue all could be worked into one
connected whole.  To the scientific student of the higher
criminal world, no capital in Europe offered the advantages
which London then possessed.  But now----" He shrugged his
shoulders in humorous deprecation of the state of things which
he had himself done so much to produce.

At the time of which I speak, Holmes had been back for some
months, and I at his request had sold my practice and returned
to share the old quarters in Baker Street.  A young doctor, named
Verner, had purchased my small Kensington practice, and given
with astonishingly little demur the highest price that I
ventured to ask--an incident which only explained itself some
years later, when I found that Verner was a distant relation of
Holmes, and that it was my friend who had really found the money.

Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he had
stated, for I find, on looking over my notes, that this period
includes the case of the papers of ex-President Murillo, and
also the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship FRIESLAND, which
so nearly cost us both our lives.  His cold and proud nature was
always averse, however, from anything in the shape of public
applause, and he bound me in the most stringent terms to say no
further word of himself, his methods, or his successes--a
prohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been removed.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his
whimsical protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in a
leisurely fashion, when our attention was arrested by a
tremendous ring at the bell, followed immediately by a hollow
drumming sound, as if someone were beating on the outer door
with his fist.  As it opened there came a tumultuous rush into
the hall, rapid feet clattered up the stair, and an instant
later a wild-eyed and frantic young man, pale, disheveled, and
palpitating, burst into the room.  He looked from one to the
other of us, and under our gaze of inquiry he became conscious
that some apology was needed for this unceremonious entry.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," he cried.  "You mustn't blame me.  I am
nearly mad.  Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane."

He made the announcement as if the name alone would explain both
his visit and its manner, but I could see, by my companion's
unresponsive face, that it meant no more to him than to me.

"Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane," said he, pushing his case
across.  "I am sure that, with your symptoms, my friend Dr.
Watson here would prescribe a sedative.  The weather has been so
very warm these last few days.  Now, if you feel a little more
composed, I should be glad if you would sit down in that chair,
and tell us very slowly and quietly who you are, and what it is
that you want.  You mentioned your name, as if I should recognize
it, but I assure you that, beyond the obvious facts that you are
a bachelor, a solicitor, a Freemason, and an asthmatic, I know
nothing whatever about you."

Familiar as I was with my friend's methods, it was not difficult
for me to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidiness
of attire, the sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the
breathing which had prompted them.  Our client, however, stared
in amazement.

"Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes; and, in addition, I am the most
unfortunate man at this moment in London.  For heaven's sake,
don't abandon me, Mr. Holmes!  If they come to arrest me before
I have finished my story, make them give me time, so that I may
tell you the whole truth.  I could go to jail happy if I knew
that you were working for me outside."

"Arrest you!" said Holmes.  "This is really most grati--most
interesting.  On what charge do you expect to be arrested?"

"Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood."

My companion's expressive face showed a sympathy which was not,
I am afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.

"Dear me," said he, "it was only this moment at breakfast that
I was saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational cases
had disappeared out of our papers."

Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up the
DAILY TELEGRAPH, which still lay upon Holmes's knee.

"If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance
what the errand is on which I have come to you this morning. 
I feel as if my name and my misfortune must be in every man's
mouth."  He turned it over to expose the central page.  "Here it
is, and with your permission I will read it to you.  Listen to
this, Mr. Holmes.  The headlines are:  `Mysterious Affair at Lower
Norwood.  Disappearance of a Well Known Builder.  Suspicion of
Murder and Arson.  A Clue to the Criminal.'  That is the clue
which they are already following, Mr. Holmes, and I know that it
leads infallibly to me.  I have been followed from London Bridge
Station, and I am sure that they are only waiting for the
warrant to arrest me.  It will break my mother's heart--it will
break her heart!"  He wrung his hands in an agony of
apprehension, and swayed backward and forward in his chair.

I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of being
the perpetrator of a crime of violence.  He was flaxen-haired and
handsome, in a washed-out negative fashion, with frightened blue
eyes, and a clean-shaven face, with a weak, sensitive mouth.  His
age may have been about twenty-seven, his dress and bearing that
of a gentleman.  From the pocket of his light summer overcoat
protruded the bundle of indorsed papers which proclaimed his
profession.

"We must use what time we have," said Holmes.  "Watson, would you have
the kindness to take the paper and to read the paragraph in question?"

Underneath the vigorous headlines which our client had quoted,
I read the following suggestive narrative:

"Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred at
Lower Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime. 
Mr. Jonas Oldacre is a well known resident of that suburb, where
he has carried on his business as a builder for many years.  Mr.
Oldacre is a bachelor, fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep
Dene House, at the Sydenham end of the road of that name.  He has
had the reputation of being a man of eccentric habits, secretive
and retiring.  For some years he has practically withdrawn from
the business, in which he is said to have massed considerable
wealth.  A small timber-yard still exists, however, at the back
of the house, and last night, about twelve o'clock, an alarm was
given that one of the stacks was on fire.  The engines were soon
upon the spot, but the dry wood burned with great fury, and it
was impossible to arrest the conflagration until the stack had
been entirely consumed.  Up to this point the incident bore the
appearance of an ordinary accident, but fresh indications seem
to point to serious crime.  Surprise was expressed at the absence
of the master of the establishment from the scene of the fire,
and an inquiry followed, which showed that he had disappeared
from the house.  An examination of his room revealed that the bed
had not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open,
that a number of important papers were scattered about the room,
and finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle,
slight traces of blood being found within the room, and an oaken
walking-stick, which also showed stains of blood upon the
handle.  It is known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre had received a late
visitor in his bedroom upon that night, and the stick found has
been identified as the property of this person, who is a young
London solicitor named John Hector McFarlane, junior partner of
Graham and McFarlane, of 426 Gresham Buildings, E. C.  The police
believe that they have evidence in their possession which
supplies a very convincing motive for the crime, and altogether
it cannot be doubted that sensational developments will follow.

"LATER.--It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector
McFarlane has actually been arrested on the charge of the murder
of Mr. Jonas Oldacre.  It is at least certain that a warrant has
been issued.  There have been further and sinister developments
in the investigation at Norwood.  Besides the signs of a struggle
in the room of the unfortunate builder it is now known that the
French windows of his bedroom (which is on the ground floor)
were found to be open, that there were marks as if some bulky
object had been dragged across to the wood-pile, and, finally,
it is asserted that charred remains have been found among the
charcoal ashes of the fire.  The police theory is that a most
sensational crime has been committed, that the victim was
clubbed to death in his own bedroom, his papers rifled, and his
dead body dragged across to the wood-stack, which was then
ignited so as to hide all traces of the crime.  The conduct of
the criminal investigation has been left in the experienced
hands of Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is following
up the clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity."

Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and fingertips
together to this remarkable account.

"The case has certainly some points of interest," said he, in
his languid fashion.  "May I ask, in the first place, Mr.
McFarlane, how it is that you are still at liberty, since there
appears to be enough evidence to justify your arrest?"

"I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents, Mr.
Holmes, but last night, having to do business very late with Mr.
Jonas Oldacre, I stayed at an hotel in Norwood, and came to my
business from there.  I knew nothing of this affair until I was
in the train, when I read what you have just heard.  I at once
saw the horrible danger of my position, and I hurried to put the
case into your hands.  I have no doubt that I should have been
arrested either at my city office or at my home.  A man followed
me from London Bridge Station, and I have no doubt--Great
heaven! what is that?"

It was a clang of the bell, followed instantly by heavy steps
upon the stair.  A moment later, our old friend Lestrade appeared
in the doorway.  Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of one or
two uniformed policemen outside.

"Mr. John Hector McFarlane?" said Lestrade.

Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

"I arrest you for the wilful murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of
Lower Norwood."

McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair, and sank into
his chair once more like one who is crushed.

"One moment, Lestrade," said Holmes.  "Half an hour more or less
can make no difference to you, and the gentleman was about to
give us an account of this very interesting affair, which might
aid us in clearing it up."

"I think there will be no difficulty in clearing it up," said
Lestrade, grimly.

"None the less, with your permission, I should be much
interested to hear his account."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult for me to refuse you
anything, for you have been of use to the force once or twice in
the past, and we owe you a good turn at Scotland Yard," said
Lestrade.  "At the same time I must remain with my prisoner, and
I am bound to warn him that anything he may say will appear in
evidence against him."

"I wish nothing better," said our client.  "All I ask is that you
should hear and recognize the absolute truth."

Lestrade looked at his watch.  "I'll give you half an hour," said he.

"I must explain first," said McFarlane, "that I knew nothing of
Mr. Jonas Oldacre.  His name was familiar to me, for many years
ago my parents were acquainted with him, but they drifted apart. 
I was very much surprised therefore, when yesterday, about three
o'clock in the afternoon, he walked into my office in the city. 
But I was still more astonished when he told me the object of
his visit.  He had in his hand several sheets of a notebook,
covered with scribbled writing--here they are--and he laid them
on my table.

"`Here is my will,' said he. `I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast
it into proper legal shape.  I will sit here while you do so.'

"I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment
when I found that, with some reservations, he had left all his
property to me.  He was a strange little ferret-like man, with
white eyelashes, and when I looked up at him I found his keen
gray eyes fixed upon me with an amused expression.  I could
hardly believe my own as I read the terms of the will; but he
explained that he was a bachelor with hardly any living
relation, that he had known my parents in his youth, and that he
had always heard of me as a very deserving young man, and was
assured that his money would be in worthy hands.  Of course, I
could only stammer out my thanks.  The will was duly finished,
signed, and witnessed by my clerk.  This is it on the blue paper,
and these slips, as I have explained, are the rough draft.  Mr.
Jonas Oldacre then informed me that there were a number of
documents--building leases, title-deeds, mortgages, scrip, and
so forth--which it was necessary that I should see and
understand.  He said that his mind would not be easy until the
whole thing was settled, and he begged me to come out to his
house at Norwood that night, bringing the will with me, and to
arrange matters.  `Remember, my boy, not one word to your parents
about the affair until everything is settled.  We will keep it as
a little surprise for them.'  He was very insistent upon this
point, and made me promise it faithfully.

"You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to
refuse him anything that he might ask.  He was my benefactor, and
all my desire was to carry out his wishes in every particular. 
I sent a telegram home, therefore, to say that I had important
business on hand, and that it was impossible for me to say how
late I might be.  Mr. Oldacre had told me that he would like me
to have supper with him at nine, as he might not be home before
that hour.  I had some difficulty in finding his house, however,
and it was nearly half-past before I reached it.  I found him----"

"One moment!" said Holmes.  "Who opened the door?"

"A middle-aged woman, who was, I suppose, his housekeeper."

"And it was she, I presume, who mentioned your name?"

"Exactly," said McFarlane.

"Pray proceed."

McFarlane wiped his damp brow, and then continued his narrative:

"I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room, where a frugal
supper was laid out.  Afterwards, Mr. Jonas Oldacre led me into
his bedroom, in which there stood a heavy safe.  This he opened
and took out a mass of documents, which we went over together. 
It was between eleven and twelve when we finished.  He remarked
that we must not disturb the housekeeper.  He showed me out
through his own French window, which had been open all this time."

"Was the blind down?" asked Holmes.

"I will not be sure, but I believe that it was only half down. 
Yes, I remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the
window.  I could not find my stick, and he said, `Never mind, my
boy, I shall see a good deal of you now, I hope, and I will keep
your stick until you come back to claim it.'  I left him there,
the safe open, and the papers made up in packets upon the table. 
It was so late that I could not get back to Blackheath, so I
spent the night at the Anerley Arms, and I knew nothing more
until I read of this horrible affair in the morning."

"Anything more that you would like to ask, Mr. Holmes?" said
Lestrade, whose eyebrows had gone up once or twice during this
remarkable explanation.

"Not until I have been to Blackheath."

"You mean to Norwood," said Lestrade.

"Oh, yes, no doubt that is what I must have meant," said Holmes,
with his enigmatical smile.  Lestrade had learned by more
experiences than he would care to acknowledge that that brain
could cut through that which was impenetrable to him.  I saw him
look curiously at my companion.

"I think I should like to have a word with you presently, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes," said he.  "Now, Mr. McFarlane, two of my
constables are at the door, and there is a four-wheeler
waiting."  The wretched young man arose, and with a last
beseeching glance at us walked from the room.  The officers
conducted him to the cab, but Lestrade remained.

Holmes had picked up the pages which formed the rough draft of
the will, and was looking at them with the keenest interest upon
his face.

"There are some points about that document, Lestrade, are there
not?" said he, pushing them over.

The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

"I can read the first few lines and these in the middle of the
second page, and one or two at the end.  Those are as clear as
print," said he, "but the writing in between is very bad, and
there are three places where I cannot read it at all."

"What do you make of that?" said Holmes.

"Well, what do YOU make of it?"

"That it was written in a train.  The good writing represents
stations, the bad writing movement, and the very bad writing
passing over points.  A scientific expert would pronounce at once
that this was drawn up on a suburban line, since nowhere save in
the immediate vicinity of a great city could there be so quick
a succession of points.  Granting that his whole journey was
occupied in drawing up the will, then the train was an express,
only stopping once between Norwood and London Bridge."

Lestrade began to laugh.

"You are too many for me when you begin to get on your theories,
Mr. Holmes," said he.  "How does this bear on the case?"

"Well, it corroborates the young man's story to the extent that
the will was drawn up by Jonas Oldacre in his journey yesterday. 
It is curious--is it not?--that a man should draw up so
important a document in so haphazard a fashion.  It suggests that
he did not think it was going to be of much practical
importance.  If a man drew up a will which he did not intend ever
to be effective, he might do it so."

"Well, he drew up his own death warrant at the same time," said
Lestrade.

"Oh, you think so?"

"Don't you?"

"Well, it is quite possible, but the case is not clear to me yet."

"Not clear?  Well, if that isn't clear, what COULD be clear?  Here
is a young man who learns suddenly that, if a certain older man
dies, he will succeed to a fortune.  What does he do?  He says
nothing to anyone, but he arranges that he shall go out on some
pretext to see his client that night.  He waits until the only
other person in the house is in bed, and then in the solitude of
a man's room he murders him, burns his body in the wood-pile,
and departs to a neighbouring hotel.  The blood-stains in the
room and also on the stick are very slight.  It is probable that
he imagined his crime to be a bloodless one, and hoped that if
the body were consumed it would hide all traces of the method of
his death--traces which, for some reason, must have pointed to
him.  Is not all this obvious?"

"It strikes me, my good Lestrade, as being just a trifle too
obvious," said Holmes.  "You do not add imagination to your other
great qualities, but if you could for one moment put yourself in
the place of this young man, would you choose the very night
after the will had been made to commit your crime?  Would it not
seem dangerous to you to make so very close a relation between
the two incidents?  Again, would you choose an occasion when you
are known to be in the house, when a servant has let you in?  
And, finally, would you take the great pains to conceal the
body, and yet leave your own stick as a sign that you were the
criminal?  Confess, Lestrade, that all this is very unlikely."

"As to the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that a
criminal is often flurried, and does such things, which a cool
man would avoid.  He was very likely afraid to go back to the
room.  Give me another theory that would fit the facts."

"I could very easily give you half a dozen," said Holmes.  "Here
for example, is a very possible and even probable one.  I make
you a free present of it.  The older man is showing documents
which are of evident value.  A passing tramp sees them through
the window, the blind of which is only half down.  Exit the
solicitor.  Enter the tramp!  He seizes a stick, which he observes
there, kills Oldacre, and departs after burning the body."

"Why should the tramp burn the body?"

"For the matter of that, why should McFarlane?"

"To hide some evidence."

"Possibly the tramp wanted to hide that any murder at all had
been committed."

"And why did the tramp take nothing?"

"Because they were papers that he could not negotiate."

Lestrade shook his head, though it seemed to me that his manner
was less absolutely assured than before.

"Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you may look for your tramp, and
while you are finding him we will hold on to our man.  The future
will show which is right.  Just notice this point, Mr. Holmes:  
that so far as we know, none of the papers were removed, and
that the prisoner is the one man in the world who had no reason
for removing them, since he was heir-at-law, and would come into
them in any case."

My friend seemed struck by this remark.

"I don't mean to deny that the evidence is in some ways very
strongly in favour of your theory," said he.  "I only wish to
point out that there are other theories possible.  As you say,
the future will decide.  Good-morning!  I dare say that in the
course of the day I shall drop in at Norwood and see how you are
getting on."

When the detective departed, my friend rose and made his
preparations for the day's work with the alert air of a man who
has a congenial task before him.

"My first movement Watson," said he, as he bustled into his
frockcoat, "must, as I said, be in the direction of Blackheath."

"And why not Norwood?"

"Because we have in this case one singular incident coming close
to the heels of another singular incident.  The police are making
the mistake of concentrating their attention upon the second,
because it happens to be the one which is actually criminal.  But
it is evident to me that the logical way to approach the case is
to begin by trying to throw some light upon the first incident--
the curious will, so suddenly made, and to so unexpected an
heir.  It may do something to simplify what followed.  No, my dear
fellow, I don't think you can help me.  There is no prospect of
danger, or I should not dream of stirring out without you.  I
trust that when I see you in the evening, I will be able to
report that I have been able to do something for this
unfortunate youngster, who has thrown himself upon my protection."

It was late when my friend returned, and I could see, by a
glance at his haggard and anxious face, that the high hopes with
which be had started had not been fulfilled.  For an hour he
droned away upon his violin, endeavouring to soothe his own
ruffled spirits.  At last he flung down the instrument, and
plunged into a detailed account of his misadventures.

"It's all going wrong, Watson--all as wrong as it can go.  I kept
a bold face before Lestrade, but, upon my soul, I believe that
for once the fellow is on the right track and we are on the
wrong.  All my instincts are one way, and all the facts are the
other, and I much fear that British juries have not yet attained
that pitch of intelligence when they will give the preference to
my theories over Lestrade's facts."

"Did you go to Blackheath?"

"Yes, Watson, I went there, and I found very quickly that the
late lamented Oldacre was a pretty considerable blackguard.  The
father was away in search of his son.  The mother was at home--a
little, fluffy, blue-eyed person, in a tremor of fear and
indignation.  Of course, she would not admit even the possibility
of his guilt.  But she would not express either surprise or
regret over the fate of Oldacre.  On the contrary, she spoke of
him with such bitterness that she was unconsciously considerably
strengthening the case of the police for, of course, if her son
had heard her speak of the man in this fashion, it would
predispose him towards hatred and violence.  `He was more like a
malignant and cunning ape than a human being,' said she, `and he
always was, ever since he was a young man.'

"`You knew him at that time?' said I.

"`Yes, I knew him well, in fact, he was an old suitor of mine. 
Thank heaven that I had the sense to turn away from him and to
marry a better, if poorer, man.  I was engaged to him, Mr.
Holmes, when I heard a shocking story of how he had turned a cat
loose in an aviary, and I was so horrified at his brutal cruelty
that I would have nothing more to do with him.'  She rummaged in
a bureau, and presently she produced a photograph of a woman,
shamefully defaced and mutilated with a knife.  `That is my own
photograph,' she said.  `He sent it to me in that state, with his
curse, upon my wedding morning.'

"`Well,' said I, `at least he has forgiven you now, since he has
left all his property to your son.'

"`Neither my son nor I want anything from Jonas Oldacre, dead or
alive!' she cried, with a proper spirit.  `There is a God in
heaven, Mr. Holmes, and that same God who has punished that
wicked man will show, in His own good time, that my son's hands
are guiltless of his blood.'

"Well, I tried one or two leads, but could get at nothing which
would help our hypothesis, and several points which would make
against it.  I gave it up at last and off I went to Norwood.

"This place, Deep Dene House, is a big modern villa of staring
brick, standing back in its own grounds, with a laurel-clumped
lawn in front of it.  To the right and some distance back from
the road was the timber-yard which had been the scene of the
fire.  Here's a rough plan on a leaf of my notebook.  This window
on the left is the one which opens into Oldacre's room.  You can
look into it from the road, you see.  That is about the only bit
of consolation I have had to-day.  Lestrade was not there, but
his head constable did the honours.  They had just found a great
treasure-trove.  They had spent the morning raking among the
ashes of the burned wood-pile, and besides the charred organic
remains they had secured several discoloured metal discs.  I
examined them with care, and there was no doubt that they were
trouser buttons.  I even distinguished that one of them was
marked with the name of `Hyams,' who was Oldacres tailor.  I then
worked the lawn very carefully for signs and traces, but this
drought has made everything as hard as iron.  Nothing was to be
seen save that some body or bundle had been dragged through a
low privet hedge which is in a line with the wood-pile.  All
that, of course, fits in with the official theory.  I crawled
about the lawn with an August sun on my back, but I got up at
the end of an hour no wiser than before.

"Well, after this fiasco I went into the bedroom and examined
that also.  The blood-stains were very slight, mere smears and
discolourations, but undoubtedly fresh.  The stick had been
removed, but there also the marks were slight.  There is no doubt
about the stick belonging to our client.  He admits it.  Footmarks
of both men could be made out on the carpet, but none of any
third person, which again is a trick for the other side.  They
were piling up their score all the time and we were at a
standstill.

"Only one little gleam of hope did I get--and yet it amounted to
nothing.  I examined the contents of the safe, most of which had
been taken out and left on the table.  The papers had been made
up into sealed envelopes, one or two of which had been opened by
the police.  They were not, so far as I could judge, of any great
value, nor did the bank-book show that Mr. Oldacre was in such
very affluent circumstances.  But it seemed to me that all the
papers were not there.  There were allusions to some deeds--
possibly the more valuable--which I could not find.  This, of
course, if we could definitely prove it, would turn Lestrade's
argument against himself, for who would steal a thing if he knew
that he would shortly inherit it?

"Finally, having drawn every other cover and picked up no scent,
I tried my luck with the housekeeper.  Mrs. Lexington is her
name--a little, dark, silent person, with suspicious and
sidelong eyes.  She could tell us something if she would--I am
convinced of it.  But she was as close as wax.  Yes, she had let
Mr. McFarlane in at half-past nine.  She wished her hand had
withered before she had done so.  She had gone to bed at
half-past ten.  Her room was at the other end of the house, and
she could hear nothing of what had passed.  Mr. McFarlane had
left his hat, and to the best of her had been awakened by the
alarm of fire.  Her poor, dear master had certainly been
murdered.  Had he any enemies?  Well, every man had enemies, but
Mr. Oldacre kept himself very much to himself, and only met
people in the way of business.  She had seen the buttons, and was
sure that they belonged to the clothes which he had worn last
night.  The wood-pile was very dry, for it had not rained
for a month.  It burned like tinder, and by the time she reached
the spot, nothing could be seen but flames.  She and all the
firemen smelled the burned flesh from inside it.  She knew
nothing of the papers, nor of Mr. Oldacre's private affairs.

"So, my dear Watson, there's my report of a failure.  And yet--
and yet--" he clenched his thin hands in a paroxysm of
conviction--"I KNOW it's all wrong.  I feel it in my bones.  There
is something that has not come out, and that housekeeper knows
it.  There was a sort of sulky defiance in her eyes, which only
goes with guilty knowledge.  However, there's no good talking any
more about it, Watson; but unless some lucky chance comes our
way I fear that the Norwood Disappearance Case will not figure
in that chronicle of our successes which I foresee that a
patient public will sooner or later have to endure."

"Surely," said I, "the man's appearance would go far with any jury?"

"That is a dangerous argument my dear Watson.  You remember that
terrible murderer, Bert Stevens, who wanted us to get him off in
'87?  Was there ever a more mild-mannered, Sunday-school young man?"

"It is true."

"Unless we succeed in establishing an alternative theory, this
man is lost.  You can hardly find a flaw in the case which can
now be presented against him, and all further investigation has
served to strengthen it.  By the way, there is one curious little
point about those papers which may serve us as the
starting-point for an inquiry.  On looking over the bank-book I
found that the low state of the balance was principally due to
large checks which have been made out during the last year to
Mr. Cornelius.  I confess that I should be interested to know who
this Mr. Cornelius may be with whom a retired builder has such
very large transactions.  Is it possible that he has had a
hand in the affair?  Cornelius might be a broker, but we have
found no scrip to correspond with these large payments.  Failing
any other indication, my researches must now take the direction
of an inquiry at the bank for the gentleman who has cashed these
checks.  But I fear, my dear fellow, that our case will end
ingloriously by Lestrade hanging our client, which will
certainly be a triumph for Scotland Yard."

I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep that night,
but when I came down to breakfast I found him pale and harassed,
his bright eyes the brighter for the dark shadows round them. 
The carpet round his chair was littered with cigarette-ends and
with the early editions of the morning papers.  An open telegram
lay upon the table.

"What do you think of this, Watson?" he asked, tossing it across.

It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:


Important fresh evidence to hand.  McFarlane's guilt definitely
established.  Advise you to abandon case.
                                              LESTRADE.


"This sounds serious," said I.

"It is Lestrade's little cock-a-doodle of victory," Holmes
answered, with a bitter smile.  "And yet it may be premature to
abandon the case.  After all, important fresh evidence is a
two-edged thing, and may possibly cut in a very different
direction to that which Lestrade imagines.  Take your breakfast,
Watson, and we will go out together and see what we can do.  I
feel as if I shall need your company and your moral support today."

My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was one of his
peculiarities that in his more intense moments he would permit
himself no food, and I have known him presume upon his iron
strength until he has fainted from pure inanition.  "At present
I cannot spare energy and nerve force for digestion," he would
say in answer to my medical remonstrances.  I was not surprised,
therefore, when this morning he left his untouched meal behind
him, and started with me for Norwood.  A crowd of morbid
sightseers were still gathered round Deep Dene House, which was
just such a suburban villa as I had pictured.  Within the gates
Lestrade met us, his face flushed with victory, his manner
grossly triumphant.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, have you proved us to be wrong yet?  Have you
found your tramp?" he cried.

"I have formed no conclusion whatever," my companion answered.

"But we formed ours yesterday, and now it proves to be correct,
so you must acknowledge that we have been a little in front of
you this time, Mr. Holmes."

"You certainly have the air of something unusual having
occurred," said Holmes.

Lestrade laughed loudly.

"You don't like being beaten any more than the rest of us do,"
said he.  "A man can't expect always to have it his own way, can
he, Dr. Watson?  Step this way, if you please, gentlemen, and I
think I can convince you once for all that it was John McFarlane
who did this crime."

He led us through the passage and out into a dark hall beyond.

"This is where young McFarlane must have come out to get his hat
after the crime was done," said he.  "Now look at this."  With
dramatic suddenness he struck a match, and by its light exposed
a stain of blood upon the whitewashed wall.  As he held the match
nearer, I saw that it was more than a stain.  It was the
well-marked print of a thumb.

"Look at that with your magnifying glass, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, I am doing so."

"You are aware that no two thumb-marks are alike?"

"I have heard something of the kind."

"Well, then, will you please compare that print with this wax
impression of young McFarlane's right thumb, taken by my orders
this morning?"

As he held the waxen print close to the blood-stain, it did not
take a magnifying glass to see that the two were undoubtedly
from the same thumb.  It was evident to me that our unfortunate
client was lost.

"That is final," said Lestrade.

"Yes, that is final," I involuntarily echoed.

"It is final," said Holmes.

Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at
him.  An extraordinary change had come over his face.  It was
writhing with inward merriment.  His two eyes were shining like
stars.  It seemed to me that he was making desperate efforts to
restrain a convulsive attack of laughter.

"Dear me!  Dear me!" he said at last.  "Well, now, who would have
thought it?  And how deceptive appearances may be, to be sure!  
Such a nice young man to look at!  It is a lesson to us not to
trust our own judgment, is it not, Lestrade?"

"Yes, some of us are a little too much inclined to be cock-sure,
Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade.  The man's insolence was maddening,
but we could not resent it.

"What a providential thing that this young man should press his
right thumb against the wall in taking his hat from the peg!  
Such a very natural action, too, if you come to think of it."  
Holmes was outwardly calm, but his whole body gave a wriggle of
suppressed excitement as he spoke.

"By the way, Lestrade, who made this remarkable discovery?"

"It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who drew the night
constable's attention to it."

"Where was the night constable?"

"He remained on guard in the bedroom where the crime was
committed, so as to see that nothing was touched."

"But why didn't the police see this mark yesterday?"

"Well, we had no particular reason to make a careful examination of
the hall.  Besides, it's not in a very prominent place, as you see."

"No, no--of course not.  I suppose there is no doubt that the
mark was there yesterday?"

Lestrade looked at Holmes as if he thought he was going out of
his mind.  I confess that I was myself surprised both at his
hilarious manner and at his rather wild observation.

"I don't know whether you think that McFarlane came out of jail
in the dead of the night in order to strengthen the evidence
against himself," said Lestrade.  "I leave it to any expert in
the world whether that is not the mark of his thumb."

"It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb."

"There, that's enough," said Lestrade.  "I am a practical man,
Mr. Holmes, and when I have got my evidence I come to my
conclusions.  If you have anything to say, you will find me
writing my report in the sitting-room."

Holmes had recovered his equanimity, though I still seemed to
detect gleams of amusement in his expression.

"Dear me, this is a very sad development, Watson, is it not?"
said he.  "And yet there are singular points about it which hold
out some hopes for our client."

"I am delighted to hear it," said I, heartily.  "I was afraid it
was all up with him."

"I would hardly go so far as to say that, my dear Watson.  The
fact is that there is one really serious flaw in this evidence
to which our friend attaches so much importance."

"Indeed, Holmes!  What is it?"

"Only this:  that I KNOW that that mark was not there when I examined
the hall yesterday.  And now, Watson, let us have a little stroll
round in the sunshine."

With a confused brain, but with a heart into which some warmth
of hope was returning, I accompanied my friend in a walk round
the garden.  Holmes took each face of the house in turn, and
examined it with great interest.  He then led the way inside, and
went over the whole building from basement to attic.  Most of the
rooms were unfurnished, but none the less Holmes inspected them
all minutely.  Finally, on the top corridor, which ran outside
three untenanted bedrooms, he again was seized with a spasm of
merriment.

"There are really some very unique features about this case,
Watson," said he.  "I think it is time now that we took our
friend Lestrade into our confidence.  He has had his little smile
at our expense, and perhaps we may do as much by him, if my
reading of this problem proves to be correct.  Yes, yes, I think
I see how we should approach it."

The Scotland Yard inspector was still writing in the parlour
when Holmes interrupted him.

"I understood that you were writing a report of this case," said he.

"So I am."

"Don't you think it may be a little premature?  I can't help
thinking that your evidence is not complete."

Lestrade knew my friend too well to disregard his words.  He laid
down his pen and looked curiously at him.

"What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?"

"Only that there is an important witness whom you have not seen."

"Can you produce him?"

"I think I can."

"Then do so."

"I will do my best.  How many constables have you?"

"There are three within call."

"Excellent!" said Holmes.  "May I ask if they are all large,
able-bodied men with powerful voices?"

"I have no doubt they are, though I fail to see what their
voices have to do with it."

"Perhaps I can help you to see that and one or two other things
as well," said Holmes.  "Kindly summon your men, and I will try."

Five minutes later, three policemen had assembled in the hall.

"In the outhouse you will find a considerable quantity of
straw," said Holmes.  "I will ask you to carry in two bundles of
it.  I think it will be of the greatest assistance in producing
the witness whom I require.  Thank you very much.  I believe you
have some matches in your pocket Watson.  Now, Mr. Lestrade, I
will ask you all to accompany me to the top landing."

As I have said, there was a broad corridor there, which ran
outside three empty bedrooms.  At one end of the corridor we were
all marshalled by Sherlock Holmes, the constables grinning and
Lestrade staring at my friend with amazement, expectation, and
derision chasing each other across his features.  Holmes stood
before us with the air of a conjurer who is performing a trick.

"Would you kindly send one of your constables for two buckets of
water?  Put the straw on the floor here, free from the wall on
either side.  Now I think that we are all ready."

Lestrade's face had begun to grow red and angry.  "I don't know
whether you are playing a game with us, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,"
said he.  "If you know anything, you can surely say it without
all this tomfoolery."

"I assure you, my good Lestrade, that I have an excellent reason
for everything that I do.  You may possibly remember that you
chaffed me a little, some hours ago, when the sun seemed on your
side of the hedge, so you must not grudge me a little pomp and
ceremony now.  Might I ask you, Watson, to open that window, and
then to put a match to the edge of the straw?"

I did so, and driven by the draught a coil of gray smoke swirled
down the corridor, while the dry straw crackled and flamed.

"Now we must see if we can find this witness for you, Lestrade. 
Might I ask you all to join in the cry of `Fire!'?  Now then;
one, two, three----"

"Fire!" we all yelled.

"Thank you. I will trouble you once again."

"Fire!"

"Just once more, gentlemen, and all together."

"Fire!"  The shout must have rung over Norwood.

It had hardly died away when an amazing thing happened.  A door
suddenly flew open out of what appeared to be solid wall at the
end of the corridor, and a little, wizened man darted out of it,
like a rabbit out of its burrow.

"Capital!" said Holmes, calmly.  "Watson, a bucket of water over
the straw.  That will do!  Lestrade, allow me to present you with
your principal missing witness, Mr. Jonas Oldacre."

The detective stared at the newcomer with blank amazement.  The
latter was blinking in the bright light of the corridor, and
peering at us and at the smouldering fire.  It was an odious
face--crafty, vicious, malignant, with shifty, light-gray eyes
and white lashes.

"What's this, then?" said Lestrade, at last.  "What have you been
doing all this time, eh?"

Oldacre gave an uneasy laugh, shrinking back from the furious
red face of the angry detective.

"I have done no harm."

"No harm?  You have done your best to get an innocent man hanged. 
If it wasn't for this gentleman here, I am not sure that you would
not have succeeded."

The wretched creature began to whimper.

"I am sure, sir, it was only my practical joke."

"Oh! a joke, was it?  You won't find the laugh on your side,
I promise you.  Take him down, and keep him in the sitting-room
until I come.  Mr. Holmes," he continued, when they had gone,
"I could not speak before the constables, but I don't mind saying,
in the presence of Dr. Watson, that this is the brightest thing that
you have done yet, though it is a mystery to me how you did it. 
You have saved an innocent man's life, and you have prevented a very
grave scandal, which would have ruined my reputation in the Force."

Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.

"Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your
reputation has been enormously enhanced.  Just make a few
alterations in that report which you were writing, and they will
understand how hard it is to throw dust in the eyes of Inspector
Lestrade."

"And you don't want your name to appear?"

"Not at all.  The work is its own reward.  Perhaps I shall get the
credit also at some distant day, when I permit my zealous
historian to lay out his foolscap once more--eh, Watson?  Well,
now, let us see where this rat has been lurking."

A lath-and-plaster partition had been run across the passage six
feet from the end, with a door cunningly concealed in it.  It was
lit within by slits under the eaves.  A few articles of furniture
and a supply of food and water were within, together with a
number of books and papers.

"There's the advantage of being a builder," said Holmes, as we
came out.  "He was able to fix up his own little hiding-place
without any confederate--save, of course, that precious
housekeeper of his, whom I should lose no time in adding to your
bag, Lestrade."

"I'll take your advice.  But how did you know of this place, Mr. Holmes?"

"I made up my mind that the fellow was in hiding in the house. 
When I paced one corridor and found it six feet shorter than the
corresponding one below, it was pretty clear where he was.  I
thought he had not the nerve to lie quiet before an alarm of
fire.  We could, of course, have gone in and taken him, but it
amused me to make him reveal himself.  Besides, I owed you a
little mystification, Lestrade, for your chaff in the morning."

"Well, sir, you certainly got equal with me on that.  But how in
the world did you know that he was in the house at all?"

"The thumb-mark, Lestrade.  You said it was final; and so it was,
in a very different sense.  I knew it had not been there the day
before.  I pay a good deal of attention to matters of detail, as
you may have observed, and I had examined the hall, and was sure
that the wall was clear.  Therefore, it had been put on during
the night."

"But how?"

"Very simply.  When those packets were sealed up, Jonas Oldacre
got McFarlane to secure one of the seals by putting his thumb
upon the soft wax.  It would be done so quickly and so naturally,
that I daresay the young man himself has no recollection of it. 
Very likely it just so happened, and Oldacre had himself no
notion of the use he would put it to.  Brooding over the case in
that den of his, it suddenly struck him what absolutely damning
evidence he could make against McFarlane by using that
thumb-mark.  It was the simplest thing in the world for him to
take a wax impression from the seal, to moisten it in as much
blood as he could get from a pin-prick, and to put the mark upon
the wall during the night, either with his own hand or with that
of his housekeeper.  If you examine among those documents which
he took with him into his retreat, I will lay you a wager that
you find the seal with the thumb-mark upon it."

"Wonderful!" said Lestrade.  "Wonderful!  It's all as clear as
crystal, as you put it.  But what is the object of this deep
deception, Mr. Holmes?"

It was amusing to me to see how the detective's overbearing
manner had changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions
of its teacher.

"Well, I don't think that is very hard to explain.  A very deep,
malicious, vindictive person is the gentleman who is now waiting
us downstairs.  You know that he was once refused by McFarlane's
mother?  You don't!  I told you that you should go to Blackheath
first and Norwood afterwards.  Well, this injury, as he would
consider it, has rankled in his wicked, scheming brain, and all
his life he has longed for vengeance, but never seen his chance. 
During the last year or two, things have gone against him--
secret speculation, I think--and he finds himself in a bad way. 
He determines to swindle his creditors, and for this purpose he
pays large checks to a certain Mr. Cornelius, who is, I imagine,
himself under another name.  I have not traced these checks yet,
but I have no doubt that they were banked under that name at
some provincial town where Oldacre from time to time led a
double existence.  He intended to change his name altogether,
draw this money, and vanish, starting life again elsewhere."

"Well, that's likely enough."

"It would strike him that in disappearing he might throw all
pursuit off his track, and at the same time have an ample and
crushing revenge upon his old sweetheart, if he could give the
impression that he had been murdered by her only child.  It was
a masterpiece of villainy, and he carried it out like a master. 
The idea of the will, which would give an obvious motive for the
crime, the secret visit unknown to his own parents, the
retention of the stick, the blood, and the animal remains and
buttons in the wood-pile, all were admirable.  It was a net from
which it seemed to me, a few hours ago, that there was no
possible escape.  But he had not that supreme gift of the artist,
the knowledge of when to stop.  He wished to improve that which
was already perfect--to draw the rope tighter yet round the neck
of his unfortunate victim--and so he ruined all.  Let us descend,
Lestrade.  There are just one or two questions that I would ask him."

The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour, with a
policeman upon each side of him.

"It was a joke, my good sir--a practical joke, nothing more," he
whined incessantly.  "I assure you, sir, that I simply concealed
myself in order to see the effect of my disappearance, and I am
sure that you would not be so unjust as to imagine that I would
have allowed any harm to befall poor young Mr. McFarlane."

"That's for a jury to decide," said Lestrade.  "Anyhow, we shall
have you on a charge of conspiracy, if not for attempted murder."

"And you'll probably find that your creditors will impound the
banking account of Mr. Cornelius," said Holmes.

The little man started, and turned his malignant eyes upon my friend.

"I have to thank you for a good deal," said he.  "Perhaps I'll
pay my debt some day."

Holmes smiled indulgently.

"I fancy that, for some few years, you will find your time very
fully occupied," said he.  "By the way, what was it you put into
the wood-pile besides your old trousers?  A dead dog, or rabbits,
or what?  You won't tell?  Dear me, how very unkind of you!  Well,
well, I daresay that a couple of rabbits would account both for
the blood and for the charred ashes.  If ever you write an
account, Watson, you can make rabbits serve your turn."




THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN



Holmes had been seated for some hours in silence with his long,
thin back curved over a chemical vessel in which he was brewing
a particularly malodorous product.  His head was sunk upon his
breast, and he looked from my point of view like a strange, lank
bird, with dull gray plumage and a black top-knot.

"So, Watson," said he, suddenly, "you do not propose to invest
in South African securities?"

I gave a start of astonishment.  Accustomed as I was to Holmes's
curious faculties, this sudden intrusion into my most intimate
thoughts was utterly inexplicable.

"How on earth do you know that?" I asked.

He wheeled round upon his stool, with a steaming test-tube in
his hand, and a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes.

"Now, Watson, confess yourself utterly taken aback," said he.

"I am."

"I ought to make you sign a paper to that effect."

"Why?"

"Because in five minutes you will say that it is all so
absurdly simple."

"I am sure that I shall say nothing of the kind."

"You see, my dear Watson"--he propped his test-tube in the rack,
and began to lecture with the air of a professor addressing his
class--"it is not really difficult to construct a series of
inferences, each dependent upon its predecessor and each simple
in itself.  If, after doing so, one simply knocks out all the
central inferences and presents one's audience with the
starting-point and the conclusion, one may produce a startling,
though possibly a meretricious, effect.  Now, it was not really
difficult, by an inspection of the groove between your left
forefinger and thumb, to feel sure that you did NOT propose to
invest your small capital in the gold fields."

"I see no connection."

"Very likely not; but I can quickly show you a close connection. 
Here are the missing links of the very simple chain:  1. You had
chalk between your left finger and thumb when you returned from
the club last night.  2. You put chalk there when you play
billiards, to steady the cue.  3. You never play billiards except
with Thurston.  4. You told me, four weeks ago, that Thurston had
an option on some South African property which would expire in
a month, and which he desired you to share with him.  5. Your
check book is locked in my drawer, and you have not asked for the
key.  6. You do not propose to invest your money in this manner."

"How absurdly simple!" I cried.

"Quite so!" said he, a little nettled.  "Every problem becomes
very childish when once it is explained to you.  Here is an
unexplained one.  See what you can make of that, friend Watson."  
He tossed a sheet of paper upon the table, and turned once more
to his chemical analysis.

I looked with amazement at the absurd hieroglyphics upon the paper.

"Why, Holmes, it is a child's drawing," I cried.

"Oh, that's your idea!"

"What else should it be?"

"That is what Mr. Hilton Cubitt, of Riding Thorpe Manor,
Norfolk, is very anxious to know.  This little conundrum came by
the first post, and he was to follow by the next train.  There's
a ring at the bell, Watson.  I should not be very much surprised
if this were he."

A heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and an instant later
there entered a tall, ruddy, clean-shaven gentleman, whose clear
eyes and florid cheeks told of a life led far from the fogs of
Baker Street.  He seemed to bring a whiff of his strong, fresh,
bracing, east-coast air with him as he entered.  Having shaken
hands with each of us, he was about to sit down, when his eye
rested upon the paper with the curious markings, which I had
just examined and left upon the table.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you make of these?" he cried.  "They
told me that you were fond of queer mysteries, and I don't think
you can find a queerer one than that.  I sent the paper on ahead,
so that you might have time to study it before I came."

"It is certainly rather a curious production," said Holmes.  "At
first sight it would appear to be some childish prank.  It
consists of a number of absurd little figures dancing across the
paper upon which they are drawn.  Why should you attribute any
importance to so grotesque an object?"

"I never should, Mr. Holmes.  But my wife does.  It is frightening
her to death.  She says nothing, but I can see terror in her
eyes.  That's why I want to sift the matter to the bottom."

Holmes held up the paper so that the sunlight shone full upon
it.  It was a page torn from a notebook.  The markings were done
in pencil, and ran in this way:


GRAPHIC


Holmes examined it for some time, and then, folding it carefully
up, he placed it in his pocketbook.

"This promises to be a most interesting and unusual case," said
he.  "You gave me a few particulars in your letter, Mr. Hilton
Cubitt, but I should be very much obliged if you would kindly go
over it all again for the benefit of my friend, Dr. Watson."

"I'm not much of a story-teller," said our visitor, nervously
clasping and unclasping his great, strong hands.  "You'll just
ask me anything that I don't make clear.  I'll begin at the time
of my marriage last year, but I want to say first of all that,
though I'm not a rich man, my people have been at Riding Thorpe
for a matter of five centuries, and there is no better known
family in the County of Norfolk.  Last year I came up to London
for the Jubilee, and I stopped at a boarding-house in Russell
Square, because Parker, the vicar of our parish, was staying in
it.  There was an American young lady there--Patrick was the
name--Elsie Patrick.  In some way we became friends, until before
my month was up I was as much in love as man could be.  We were
quietly married at a registry office, and we returned to Norfolk
a wedded couple.  You'll think it very mad, Mr. Holmes, that a
man of a good old family should marry a wife in this fashion,
knowing nothing of her past or of her people, but if you saw her
and knew her, it would help you to understand.

"She was very straight about it, was Elsie.  I can't say that she
did not give me every chance of getting out of it if I wished to
do so.  `I have had some very disagreeable associations in my
life,' said she, `I wish to forget all about them.  I would
rather never allude to the past, for it is very painful to me. 
If you take me, Hilton, you will take a woman who has nothing
that she need be personally ashamed of, but you will have to be
content with my word for it, and to allow me to be silent as to
all that passed up to the time when I became yours.  If these
conditions are too hard, then go back to Norfolk, and leave me
to the lonely life in which you found me.'  It was only the day
before our wedding that she said those very words to me.  I told
her that I was content to take her on her own terms, and I have
been as good as my word.

"Well we have been married now for a year, and very happy we
have been.  But about a month ago, at the end of June, I saw for
the first time signs of trouble.  One day my wife received a
letter from America.  I saw the American stamp.  She turned deadly
white, read the letter, and threw it into the fire.  She made no
allusion to it afterwards, and I made none, for a promise is a
promise, but she has never known an easy hour from that moment. 
There is always a look of fear upon her face--a look as if she
were waiting and expecting.  She would do better to trust me.  She
would find that I was her best friend.  But until she speaks, I
can say nothing.  Mind you, she is a truthful woman, Mr. Holmes,
and whatever trouble there may have been in her past life it has
been no fault of hers.  I am only a simple Norfolk squire, but
there is not a man in England who ranks his family honour more
highly than I do.  She knows it well, and she knew it well before
she married me.  She would never bring any stain upon it--of that
I am sure.

"Well, now I come to the queer part of my story.  About a week
ago--it was the Tuesday of last week--I found on one of the
window-sills a number of absurd little dancing figures like
these upon the paper.  They were scrawled with chalk.  I thought
that it was the stable-boy who had drawn them, but the lad swore
he knew nothing about it.  Anyhow, they had come there during the
night.  I had them washed out, and I only mentioned the matter to
my wife afterwards.  To my surprise, she took it very seriously,
and begged me if any more came to let her see them.  None did
come for a week, and then yesterday morning I found this paper
lying on the sundial in the garden.  I showed it to Elsie, and
down she dropped in a dead faint.  Since then she has looked like
a woman in a dream, half dazed, and with terror always lurking
in her eyes.  It was then that I wrote and sent the paper to you,
Mr. Holmes.  It was not a thing that I could take to the police,
for they would have laughed at me, but you will tell me what to
do.  I am not a rich man, but if there is any danger threatening
my little woman, I would spend my last copper to shield her."

He was a fine creature, this man of the old English soil--simple,
straight, and gentle, with his great, earnest blue eyes and
broad, comely face.  His love for his wife and his trust in her
shone in his features.  Holmes had listened to his story with the
utmost attention, and now he sat for some time in silent thought.

"Don't you think, Mr. Cubitt," said he, at last, "that your best
plan would be to make a direct appeal to your wife, and to ask
her to share her secret with you?"

Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.

"A promise is a promise, Mr. Holmes.  If Elsie wished to tell me
she would.  If not, it is not for me to force her confidence.  But
I am justified in taking my own line--and I will."

"Then I will help you with all my heart.  In the first place,
have you heard of any strangers being seen in your neighbourhood?"

"No."

"I presume that it is a very quiet place.  Any fresh face would
cause comment?"

"In the immediate neighbourhood, yes.  But we have several small
watering-places not very far away.  And the farmers take in lodgers."

"These hieroglyphics have evidently a meaning.  If it is a purely
arbitrary one, it may be impossible for us to solve it.  If, on
the other hand, it is systematic, I have no doubt that we shall
get to the bottom of it.  But this particular sample is so short
that I can do nothing, and the facts which you have brought me
are so indefinite that we have no basis for an investigation.  I
would suggest that you return to Norfolk, that you keep a keen
lookout, and that you take an exact copy of any fresh dancing
men which may appear.  It is a thousand pities that we have not
a reproduction of those which were done in chalk upon the
window-sill.  Make a discreet inquiry also as to any strangers in
the neighbourhood.  When you have collected some fresh evidence,
come to me again.  That is the best advice which I can give you,
Mr. Hilton Cubitt.  If there are any pressing fresh developments,
I shall be always ready to run down and see you in your Norfolk home."

The interview left Sherlock Holmes very thoughtful, and several
times in the next few days I saw him take his slip of paper from
his notebook and look long and earnestly at the curious figures
inscribed upon it.  He made no allusion to the affair, however,
until one afternoon a fortnight or so later.  I was going out
when he called me back.

"You had better stay here, Watson."

"Why?"

"Because I had a wire from Hilton Cubitt this morning.  You
remember Hilton Cubitt, of the dancing men?  He was to reach
Liverpool Street at one-twenty.  He may be here at any moment.  I
gather from his wire that there have been some new incidents of
importance."

We had not long to wait, for our Norfolk squire came straight
from the station as fast as a hansom could bring him.  He was
looking worried and depressed, with tired eyes and a lined
forehead.

"It's getting on my nerves, this business, Mr. Holmes," said he,
as he sank, like a wearied man, into an armchair.  "It's bad
enough to feel that you are surrounded by unseen, unknown folk,
who have some kind of design upon you, but when, in addition to
that, you know that it is just killing your wife by inches, then
it becomes as much as flesh and blood can endure.  She's wearing
away under it--just wearing away before my eyes."

"Has she said anything yet?"

"No, Mr. Holmes, she has not.  And yet there have been times when
the poor girl has wanted to speak, and yet could not quite bring
herself to take the plunge.  I have tried to help her, but I
daresay I did it clumsily, and scared her from it.  She has
spoken about my old family, and our reputation in the county,
and our pride in our unsullied honour, and I always felt it was
leading to the point, but somehow it turned off before we got there."

"But you have found out something for yourself?"

"A good deal, Mr. Holmes. I have several fresh dancing-men
pictures for you to examine, and, what is more important, I have
seen the fellow."

"What, the man who draws them?"

"Yes, I saw him at his work.  But I will tell you everything in
order.  When I got back after my visit to you, the very first
thing I saw next morning was a fresh crop of dancing men.  They
had been drawn in chalk upon the black wooden door of the
tool-house, which stands beside the lawn in full view of the
front windows.  I took an exact copy, and here it is."  He
unfolded a paper and laid it upon the table.  Here is a copy of
the hieroglyphics:


GRAPHIC


"Excellent!" said Holmes.  "Excellent!  Pray continue."

"When I had taken the copy, I rubbed out the marks, but, two
mornings later, a fresh inscription had appeared.  I have a copy
of it here":


GRAPHIC


Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.

"Our material is rapidly accumulating," said he.

"Three days later a message was left scrawled upon paper,
and placed under a pebble upon the sundial.  Here it is.  The
characters are, as you see, exactly the same as the last one. 
After that I determined to lie in wait, so I got out my revolver
and I sat up in my study, which overlooks the lawn and garden. 
About two in the morning I was seated by the window, all being
dark save for the moonlight outside, when I heard steps behind
me, and there was my wife in her dressing-gown.  She implored me
to come to bed.  I told her frankly that I wished to see who it
was who played such absurd tricks upon us.  She answered that it
was some senseless practical joke, and that I should not take
any notice of it.

"`If it really annoys you, Hilton, we might go and travel, you
and I, and so avoid this nuisance.'

"`What, be driven out of our own house by a practical joker?'
said I. `Why, we should have the whole county laughing at us.'

"`Well, come to bed,' said she, `and we can discuss it in the morning.'

"Suddenly, as she spoke, I saw her white face grow whiter yet in
the moonlight, and her hand tightened upon my shoulder. 
Something was moving in the shadow of the tool-house.  I saw a
dark, creeping figure which crawled round the corner and
squatted in front of the door.  Seizing my pistol, I was rushing
out, when my wife threw her arms round me and held me with
convulsive strength.  I tried to throw her off, but she clung to
me most desperately.  At last I got clear, but by the time I had
opened the door and reached the house the creature was gone.  He
had left a trace of his presence, however, for there on the door
was the very same arrangement of dancing men which had already
twice appeared, and which I have copied on that paper.  There was
no other sign of the fellow anywhere, though I ran all over the
grounds.  And yet the amazing thing is that he must have been
there all the time, for when I examined the door again in the
morning, he had scrawled some more of his pictures under the
line which I had already seen."

"Have you that fresh drawing?"

"Yes, it is very short, but I made a copy of it, and here it is."

Again he produced a paper.  The new dance was in this form:


GRAPHIC


"Tell me," said Holmes--and I could see by his eyes that he was
much excited--"was this a mere addition to the first or did it
appear to be entirely separate?"

"It was on a different panel of the door."

"Excellent!  This is far the most important of all for our
purpose.  It fills me with hopes.  Now, Mr. Hilton Cubitt, please
continue your most interesting statement."

"I have nothing more to say, Mr. Holmes, except that I was angry
with my wife that night for having held me back when I might
have caught the skulking rascal.  She said that she feared that
I might come to harm.  For an instant it had crossed my mind that
perhaps what she really feared was that HE might come to harm,
for I could not doubt that she knew who this man was, and what
he meant by these strange signals.  But there is a tone in my
wife's voice, Mr. Holmes, and a look in her eyes which forbid
doubt, and I am sure that it was indeed my own safety that was
in her mind.  There's the whole case, and now I want your advice
as to what I ought to do.  My own inclination is to put half a
dozen of my farm lads in the shrubbery, and when this fellow
comes again to give him such a hiding that he will leave us in
peace for the future."

"I fear it is too deep a case for such simple remedies," said
Holmes.  "How long can you stay in London?"

"I must go back to-day.  I would not leave my wife alone all night
for anything.  She is very nervous, and begged me to come back."

"I daresay you are right.  But if you could have stopped, I might
possibly have been able to return with you in a day or two. 
Meanwhile you will leave me these papers, and I think that it is
very likely that I shall be able to pay you a visit shortly and
to throw some light upon your case."

Sherlock Holmes preserved his calm professional manner until our
visitor had left us, although it was easy for me, who knew him
so well, to see that he was profoundly excited.  The moment that
Hilton Cubitt's broad back had disappeared through the door my
comrade rushed to the table, laid out all the slips of paper
containing dancing men in front of him, and threw himself into
an intricate and elaborate calculation.  For two hours I watched
him as he covered sheet after sheet of paper with figures and
letters, so completely absorbed in his task that he had
evidently forgotten my presence.  Sometimes he was making
progress and whistled and sang at his work; sometimes he was
puzzled, and would sit for long spells with a furrowed brow and
a vacant eye.  Finally he sprang from his chair with a cry of
satisfaction, and walked up and down the room rubbing his hands
together.  Then he wrote a long telegram upon a cable form.  "If
my answer to this is as I hope, you will have a very pretty case
to add to your collection, Watson," said he.  "I expect that we
shall be able to go down to Norfolk tomorrow, and to take our
friend some very definite news as to the secret of his annoyance."

I confess that I was filled with curiosity, but I was aware that
Holmes liked to make his disclosures at his own time and in his
own way, so I waited until it should suit him to take me into
his confidence.

But there was a delay in that answering telegram, and two days
of impatience followed, during which Holmes pricked up his ears
at every ring of the bell.  On the evening of the second there came
a letter from Hilton Cubitt.  All was quiet with him, save that
a long inscription had appeared that morning upon the pedestal
of the sundial.  He inclosed a copy of it, which is here reproduced:


GRAPHIC


Holmes bent over this grotesque frieze for some minutes, and
then suddenly sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise
and dismay.  His face was haggard with anxiety.

"We have let this affair go far enough," said he.  "Is there a
train to North Walsham to-night?"

I turned up the time-table.  The last had just gone.

"Then we shall breakfast early and take the very first in the
morning," said Holmes.  "Our presence is most urgently needed. 
Ah! here is our expected cablegram.  One moment, Mrs. Hudson,
there may be an answer.  No, that is quite as I expected.  This
message makes it even more essential that we should not lose an
hour in letting Hilton Cubitt know how matters stand, for it is
a singular and a dangerous web in which our simple Norfolk
squire is entangled."

So, indeed, it proved, and as I come to the dark conclusion of
a story which had seemed to me to be only childish and bizarre,
I experience once again the dismay and horror with which I was
filled.  Would that I had some brighter ending to communicate to
my readers, but these are the chronicles of fact, and I must
follow to their dark crisis the strange chain of events which
for some days made Riding Thorpe Manor a household word through
the length and breadth of England.

We had hardly alighted at North Walsham, and mentioned the name
of our destination, when the station-master hurried towards us.
"I suppose that you are the detectives from London?" said he.

A look of annoyance passed over Holmes's face.

"What makes you think such a thing?"

"Because Inspector Martin from Norwich has just passed through. 
But maybe you are the surgeons.  She's not dead--or wasn't by
last accounts.  You may be in time to save her yet--though it be
for the gallows."

Holmes's brow was dark with anxiety.

"We are going to Riding Thorpe Manor," said he, "but we have
heard nothing of what has passed there."

"It's a terrible business," said the stationmaster.  "They are
shot, both Mr. Hilton Cubitt and his wife.  She shot him and then
herself--so the servants say.  He's dead and her life is
despaired of.  Dear, dear, one of the oldest families in the
county of Norfolk, and one of the most honoured."

Without a word Holmes hurried to a carriage, and during the long
seven miles' drive he never opened his mouth.  Seldom have I seen
him so utterly despondent.  He had been uneasy during all our
journey from town, and I had observed that he had turned over
the morning papers with anxious attention, but now this sudden
realization of his worst fears left him in a blank melancholy. 
He leaned back in his seat, lost in gloomy speculation.  Yet
there was much around to interest us, for we were passing
through as singular a countryside as any in England, where a few
scattered cottages represented the population of to-day, while
on every hand enormous square-towered churches bristled up from
the flat green landscape and told of the glory and prosperity of
old East Anglia.  At last the violet rim of the German Ocean
appeared over the green edge of the Norfolk coast, and the
driver pointed with his whip to two old brick and timber gables
which projected from a grove of trees.  "That's Riding Thorpe
Manor," said he.

As we drove up to the porticoed front door, I observed in front
of it, beside the tennis lawn, the black tool-house and the
pedestalled sundial with which we had such strange associations. 
A dapper little man, with a quick, alert manner and a waxed
moustache, had just descended from a high dog-cart.  He
introduced himself as Inspector Martin, of the Norfolk
Constabulary, and he was considerably astonished when he heard
the name of my companion.

"Why, Mr. Holmes, the crime was only committed at three this
morning.  How could you hear of it in London and get to the spot
as soon as I?"

"I anticipated it.  I came in the hope of preventing it."

"Then you must have important evidence, of which we are
ignorant, for they were said to be a most united couple."

"I have only the evidence of the dancing men," said Holmes.  "I
will explain the matter to you later.  Meanwhile, since it is too
late to prevent this tragedy, I am very anxious that I should
use the knowledge which I possess in order to insure that
justice be done.  Will you associate me in your investigation, or
will you prefer that I should act independently?"

"I should be proud to feel that we were acting together, Mr.
Holmes," said the inspector, earnestly.

"In that case I should be glad to hear the evidence and to
examine the premises without an instant of unnecessary delay."

Inspector Martin had the good sense to allow my friend to do
things in his own fashion, and contented himself with carefully
noting the results.  The local surgeon, an old, white-haired man,
had just come down from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt's room, and he
reported that her injuries were serious, but not necessarily
fatal.  The bullet had passed through the front of her brain, and
it would probably be some time before she could regain
consciousness.  On the question of whether she had been shot or
had shot herself, he would not venture to express any decided
opinion.  Certainly the bullet had been discharged at very close
quarters.  There was only the one pistol found in the room, two
barrels of which had been emptied.  Mr. Hilton Cubitt had been
shot through the heart.  It was equally conceivable that he had
shot her and then himself, or that she had been the criminal,
for the revolver lay upon the floor midway between them.

"Has he been moved?" asked Holmes.

"We have moved nothing except the lady.  We could not leave her
lying wounded upon the floor."

"How long have you been here, Doctor?"

"Since four o'clock."

"Anyone else?"

"Yes, the constable here."

"And you have touched nothing?"

"Nothing."

"You have acted with great discretion.  Who sent for you?"

"The housemaid, Saunders."

"Was it she who gave the alarm?"

"She and Mrs. King, the cook."

"Where are they now?"

"In the kitchen, I believe."

"Then I think we had better hear their story at once."

The old hall, oak-panelled and high-windowed, had been turned
into a court of investigation.  Holmes sat in a great,
old-fashioned chair, his inexorable eyes gleaming out of his
haggard face.  I could read in them a set purpose to devote his
life to this quest until the client whom he had failed to save
should at last be avenged.  The trim Inspector Martin, the old,
gray-headed country doctor, myself, and a stolid village
policeman made up the rest of that strange company.

The two women told their story clearly enough.  They had been
aroused from their sleep by the sound of an explosion, which had
been followed a minute later by a second one.  They slept in
adjoining rooms, and Mrs. King had rushed in to Saunders. 
Together they had descended the stairs.  The door of the study
was open, and a candle was burning upon the table.  Their master
lay upon his face in the centre of the room.  He was quite dead. 
Near the window his wife was crouching, her head leaning against
the wall.  She was horribly wounded, and the side of her face was
red with blood.  She breathed heavily, but was incapable of
saying anything.  The passage, as well as the room, was full of
smoke and the smell of powder.  The window was certainly shut and
fastened upon the inside.  Both women were positive upon the
point.  They had at once sent for the doctor and for the
constable.  Then, with the aid of the groom and the stable-boy,
they had conveyed their injured mistress to her room.  Both she
and her husband had occupied the bed.  She was clad in her dress--
he in his dressing-gown, over his night-clothes.  Nothing had
been moved in the study.  So far as they knew, there had never
been any quarrel between husband and wife.  They had always
looked upon them as a very united couple.

These were the main points of the servants' evidence.  In answer
to Inspector Martin, they were clear that every door was
fastened upon the inside, and that no one could have escaped
from the house.  In answer to Holmes, they both remembered that
they were conscious of the smell of powder from the moment that
they ran out of their rooms upon the top floor.  "I commend that
fact very carefully to your attention," said Holmes to his
professional colleague.  "And now I think that we are in a
position to undertake a thorough examination of the room."

The study proved to be a small chamber, lined on three sides
with books, and with a writing-table facing an ordinary window,
which looked out upon the garden.  Our first attention was given
to the body of the unfortunate squire, whose huge frame lay
stretched across the room.  His disordered dress showed that he
had been hastily aroused from sleep.  The bullet had been fired
at him from the front, and had remained in his body, after
penetrating the heart.  His death had certainly been
instantaneous and painless.  There was no powder-marking either
upon his dressing-gown or on his hands.  According to the country
surgeon, the lady had stains upon her face, but none upon her hand.

"The absence of the latter means nothing, though its presence
may mean everything," said Holmes.  "Unless the powder from a
badly fitting cartridge happens to spurt backward, one may fire
many shots without leaving a sign.  I would suggest that Mr.
Cubitt's body may now be removed.  I suppose, Doctor, you have
not recovered the bullet which wounded the lady?"

"A serious operation will be necessary before that can be done. 
But there are still four cartridges in the revolver.  Two have
been fired and two wounds inflicted, so that each bullet can be
accounted for."

"So it would seem," said Holmes. "Perhaps you can account also for
the bullet which has so obviously struck the edge of the window?"

He had turned suddenly, and his long, thin finger was pointing
to a hole which had been drilled right through the lower
window-sash, about an inch above the bottom.

"By George!" cried the inspector.  "How ever did you see that?"

"Because I looked for it."

"Wonderful!" said the country doctor.  "You are certainly right,
sir.  Then a third shot has been fired, and therefore a third
person must have been present.  But who could that have been, and
how could he have got away?"

"That is the problem which we are now about to solve," said
Sherlock Holmes.  "You remember, Inspector Martin, when the
servants said that on leaving their room they were at once
conscious of a smell of powder, I remarked that the point was an
extremely important one?"

"Yes, sir; but I confess I did not quite follow you."

"It suggested that at the time of the firing, the window as well
as the door of the room had been open.  Otherwise the fumes of
powder could not have been blown so rapidly through the house. 
A draught in the room was necessary for that.  Both door and
window were only open for a very short time, however."

"How do you prove that?"

"Because the candle was not guttered."

"Capital!" cried the inspector.  "Capital!

"Feeling sure that the window had been open at the time of the
tragedy, I conceived that there might have been a third person
in the affair, who stood outside this opening and fired through
it.  Any shot directed at this person might hit the sash.  I
looked, and there, sure enough, was the bullet mark!"

"But how came the window to be shut and fastened?"

"The woman's first instinct would be to shut and fasten the
window.  But, halloa!  What is this?"

It was a lady's hand-bag which stood upon the study table--a
trim little handbag of crocodile-skin and silver.  Holmes opened
it and turned the contents out.  There were twenty fifty-pound
notes of the Bank of England, held together by an india-rubber
band--nothing else.

"This must be preserved, for it will figure in the trial" said
Holmes, as he handed the bag with its contents to the inspector. 
"It is now necessary that we should try to throw some light upon
this third bullet, which has clearly, from the splintering of
the wood, been fired from inside the room.  I should like to see
Mrs. King, the cook, again.  You said, Mrs. King, that you were
awakened by a LOUD explosion.  When you said that, did you mean
that it seemed to you to be louder than the second one?"

"Well, sir, it wakened me from my sleep, so it is hard to judge. 
But it did seem very loud."

"You don't think that it might have been two shots fired almost
at the same instant?"

"I am sure I couldn't say, sir."

"I believe that it was undoubtedly so.  I rather think, Inspector
Martin, that we have now exhausted all that this room can teach
us.  If you will kindly step round with me, we shall see what
fresh evidence the garden has to offer."

A flower-bed extended up to the study window, and we all broke
into an exclamation as we approached it.  The flowers were
trampled down, and the soft soil was imprinted all over with
footmarks.  Large, masculine feet they were, with peculiarly
long, sharp toes.  Holmes hunted about among the grass and leaves
like a retriever after a wounded bird.  Then, with a cry of
satisfaction, he bent forward and picked up a little brazen cylinder.

"I thought so," said he, "the revolver had an ejector, and here
is the third cartridge.  I really think, Inspector Martin, that
our case is almost complete."

The country inspector's face had shown his intense amazement at
the rapid and masterful progress of Holmes's investigation.  At
first he had shown some disposition to assert his own position,
but now he was overcome with admiration, and ready to follow
without question wherever Holmes led.

"Whom do you suspect?" he asked.

"I'll go into that later.  There are several points in this
problem which I have not been able to explain to you yet.  Now
that I have got so far, I had best proceed on my own lines, and
then clear the whole matter up once and for all."

"Just as you wish, Mr. Holmes, so long as we get our man."

"I have no desire to make mysteries, but it is impossible at the
moment of action to enter into long and complex explanations.  I
have the threads of this affair all in my hand.  Even if this
lady should never recover consciousness, we can still
reconstruct the events of last night and insure that justice be
done.  First of all, I wish to know whether there is any inn in
this neighbourhood known as `Elrige's'?"

The servants were cross-questioned, but none of them had heard
of such a place.  The stable-boy threw a light upon the matter by
remembering that a farmer of that name lived some miles off, in
the direction of East Ruston.

"Is it a lonely farm?"

"Very lonely, sir."

"Perhaps they have not heard yet of all that happened here
during the night?"

"Maybe not, sir."

Holmes thought for a little, and then a curious smile played
over his face.

"Saddle a horse, my lad," said he.  "I shall wish you to take a
note to Elrige's Farm."

He took from his pocket the various slips of the dancing men. 
With these in front of him, he worked for some time at the
study-table.  Finally he handed a note to the boy, with
directions to put it into the hands of the person to whom it was
addressed, and especially to answer no questions of any sort
which might be put to him.  I saw the outside of the note,
addressed in straggling, irregular characters, very unlike
Holmes's usual precise hand.  It was consigned to Mr. Abe Slaney,
Elriges Farm, East Ruston, Norfolk.

"I think, Inspector," Holmes remarked, "that you would do well
to telegraph for an escort, as, if my calculations prove to be
correct, you may have a particularly dangerous prisoner to
convey to the county jail.  The boy who takes this note could no
doubt forward your telegram.  If there is an afternoon train to
town, Watson, I think we should do well to take it, as I have a
chemical analysis of some interest to finish, and this
investigation draws rapidly to a close."

When the youth had been dispatched with the note, Sherlock
Holmes gave his instructions to the servants.  If any visitor
were to call asking for Mrs. Hilton Cubitt, no information
should be given as to her condition, but he was to be shown at
once into the drawing-room.  He impressed these points upon them
with the utmost earnestness.  Finally he led the way into the
drawing-room, with the remark that the business was now out of
our hands, and that we must while away the time as best we might
until we could see what was in store for us.  The doctor had
departed to his patients, and only the inspector and myself
remained.

"I think that I can help you to pass an hour in an interesting
and profitable manner," said Holmes, drawing his chair up to the
table, and spreading out in front of him the various papers upon
which were recorded the antics of the dancing men.  "As to you,
friend Watson, I owe you every atonement for having allowed your
natural curiosity to remain so long unsatisfied.  To you,
Inspector, the whole incident may appeal as a remarkable
professional study.  I must tell you, first of all, the
interesting circumstances connected with the previous
consultations which Mr. Hilton Cubitt has had with me in Baker
Street."  He then shortly recapitulated the facts which have
already been recorded.  "I have here in front of me these
singular productions, at which one might smile, had they not
proved themselves to be the forerunners of so terrible a
tragedy.  I am fairly familiar with all forms of secret writings,
and am myself the author of a trifling monograph upon the
subject, in which I analyze one hundred and sixty separate
ciphers, but I confess that this is entirely new to me.  The
object of those who invented the system has apparently been to
conceal that these characters convey a message, and to give the
idea that they are the mere random sketches of children.

"Having once recognized, however, that the symbols stood for
letters, and having applied the rules which guide us in all
forms of secret writings, the solution was easy enough.  The
first message submitted to me was so short that it was
impossible for me to do more than to say, with some confidence,
that the symbol XXX stood for E.  As you are aware, E is the most
common letter in the English alphabet, and it predominates to so
marked an extent that even in a short sentence one would expect
to find it most often.  Out of fifteen symbols in the first message,
four were the same, so it was reasonable to set this down as E.  It
is true that in some cases the figure was bearing a flag, and in
some cases not, but it was probable, from the way in which the
flags were distributed, that they were used to break the
sentence up into words.  I accepted this as a hypothesis, and
noted that E was represented by XXX.

"But now came the real difficulty of the inquiry.  The order of
the English letters after E is by no means well marked, and any
preponderance which may be shown in an average of a printed
sheet may be reversed in a single short sentence.  Speaking
roughly, T, A, O, I, N, S, H, R, D, and L are the numerical
order in which letters occur, but T, A, O, and I are very nearly
abreast of each other, and it would be an endless task to try
each combination until a meaning was arrived at.  I therefore
waited for fresh material.  In my second interview with Mr.
Hilton Cubitt he was able to give me two other short sentences
and one message, which appeared--since there was no flag--to be
a single word.  Here are the symbols.  Now, in the single word I
have already got the two E's coming second and fourth in a word
of five letters.  It might be `sever,' or `lever,' or `never.'
There can be no question that the latter as a reply to an appeal
is far the most probable, and the circumstances pointed to its
being a reply written by the lady.  Accepting it as correct, we
are now able to say that the symbols stand respectively for N,
V, and R.

"Even now I was in considerable difficulty, but a happy thought
put me in possession of several other letters.  It occurred to me
that if these appeals came, as I expected, from someone who had
been intimate with the lady in her early life, a combination
which contained two E's with three letters between might very
well stand for the name `ELSIE.'  On examination I found that
such a combination formed the termination of the message which
was three times repeated.  It was certainly some appeal to
`Elsie.'  In this way I had got my L, S, and I.  But what appeal
could it be?  There were only four letters in the word which
preceded `Elsie,' and it ended in E.  Surely the word must be
`COME.'  I tried all other four letters ending in E, but could
find none to fit the case.  So now I was in possession of C, O,
and M, and I was in a position to attack the first message once
more, dividing it into words and putting dots for each symbol
which was still unknown.  So treated, it worked out in this fashion:


         .M .ERE ..E SL.NE.


"Now the first letter CAN only be A, which is a most useful
discovery, since it occurs no fewer than three times in this
short sentence, and the H is also apparent in the second word. 
Now it becomes:


         AM HERE A.E SLANE.


Or, filling in the obvious vacancies in the name:


         AM HERE ABE SLANEY.


I had so many letters now that I could proceed with considerable
confidence to the second message, which worked out in this fashion:


         A. ELRI. ES.


Here I could only make sense by putting T and G for the missing
letters, and supposing that the name was that of some house or
inn at which the writer was staying."

Inspector Martin and I had listened with the utmost interest to
the full and clear account of how my friend had produced results
which had led to so complete a command over our difficulties.

"What did you do then, sir?" asked the inspector.

"I had every reason to suppose that this Abe Slaney was an
American, since Abe is an American contraction, and since a
letter from America had been the starting-point of all the
trouble.  I had also every cause to think that there was some
criminal secret in the matter.  The lady's allusions to her past,
and her refusal to take her husband into her confidence, both
pointed in that direction.  I therefore cabled to my friend,
Wilson Hargreave, of the New York Police Bureau, who has more
than once made use of my knowledge of London crime.  I asked him
whether the name of Abe Slaney was known to him.  Here is his
reply:  `The most dangerous crook in Chicago.'  On the very
evening upon which I had his answer, Hilton Cubitt sent me the
last message from Slaney.  Working with known letters, it took
this form:


          ELSIE .RE.ARE TO MEET THY GO.


The addition of a P and a D completed a message which showed me
that the rascal was proceeding from persuasion to threats, and my
knowledge of the crooks of Chicago prepared me to find that he
might very rapidly put his words into action.  I at once came to
Norfolk with my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, but, unhappily,
only in time to find that the worst had already occurred."

"It is a privilege to be associated with you in the handling of
a case," said the inspector, warmly.  "You will excuse me,
however, if I speak frankly to you.  You are only answerable to
yourself, but I have to answer to my superiors.  If this Abe
Slaney, living at Elrige's, is indeed the murderer, and if he
has made his escape while I am seated here, I should certainly
get into serious trouble."

"You need not be uneasy.  He will not try to escape."

"How do you know?"

"To fly would be a confession of guilt."

"Then let us go arrest him."

"I expect him here every instant."

"But why should he come."

"Because I have written and asked him."

"But this is incredible, Mr. Holmes!  Why should he come because
you have asked him?  Would not such a request rather rouse his
suspicions and cause him to fly?"

"I think I have known how to frame the letter," said Sherlock
Holmes.  "In fact, if I am not very much mistaken, here is the
gentleman himself coming up the drive."

A man was striding up the path which led to the door.  He was
a tall, handsome, swarthy fellow, clad in a suit of gray flannel,
with a Panama hat, a bristling black beard, and a great, aggressive
hooked nose, and flourishing a cane as he walked.  He swaggered
up a path as if as if the place belonged to him, and we heard
his loud, confident peal at the bell.

"I think, gentlemen," said Holmes, quietly, "that we had best
take up our position behind the door.  Every precaution is
necessary when dealing with such a fellow.  You will need your
handcuffs, Inspector.  You can leave the talking to me."

We waited in silence for a minute--one of those minutes which
one can never forget.  Then the door opened and the man stepped
in.  In an instant Holmes clapped a pistol to his head, and
Martin slipped the handcuffs over his wrists.  It was all done so
swiftly and deftly that the fellow was helpless before he knew
that he was attacked.  He glared from one to the other of us with
a pair of blazing black eyes.  Then he burst into a bitter laugh.

"Well, gentlemen, you have the drop on me this time.  I seem to
have knocked up against something hard.  But I came here in
answer to a letter from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt.  Don't tell me that
she is in this?  Don't tell me that she helped to set a trap for me?"

"Mrs. Hilton Cubitt was seriously injured, and is at death's door."

The man gave a hoarse cry of grief, which rang through the house.

"You're crazy!" he cried, fiercely.  "It was he that was hurt,
not she.  Who would have hurt little Elsie?  I may have threatened
her--God forgive me!--but I would not have touched a hair of her
pretty head.  Take it back--you!  Say that she is not hurt!"

"She was found badly wounded, by the side of her dead husband."

He sank with a deep groan on the settee and buried his face in
his manacled hands.  For five minutes he was silent.  Then he
raised his face once more, and spoke with the cold composure of
despair.

"I have nothing to hide from you, gentlemen," said he.  "If I
shot the man he had his shot at me, and there's no murder in
that.  But if you think I could have hurt that woman, then you
don't know either me or her.  I tell you, there was never a man
in this world loved a woman more than I loved her.  I had a right
to her.  She was pledged to me years ago.  Who was this Englishman
that he should come between us?  I tell you that I had the first
right to her, and that I was only claiming my own.

"She broke away from your influence when she found the man that
you are," said Holmes, sternly.  "She fled from America to avoid
you, and she married an honourable gentleman in England.  You
dogged her and followed her and made her life a misery to her,
in order to induce her to abandon the husband whom she loved and
respected in order to fly with you, whom she feared and hated. 
You have ended by bringing about the death of a noble man and
driving his wife to suicide.  That is your record in this
business, Mr. Abe Slaney, and you will answer for it to the law."

"If Elsie dies, I care nothing what becomes of me," said the
American.  He opened one of his hands, and looked at a note
crumpled up in his palm.  "See here, mister! he cried, with a
gleam of suspicion in his eyes, "you're not trying to scare me
over this, are you?  If the lady is hurt as bad as you say, who
was it that wrote this note?"  He tossed it forward on to the table.

"I wrote it, to bring you here."

"You wrote it?  There was no one on earth outside the Joint who
knew the secret of the dancing men.  How came you to write it?"

"What one man can invent another can discover," said Holmes. 
There is a cab coming to convey you to Norwich, Mr. Slaney.  But
meanwhile, you have time to make some small reparation for the
injury you have wrought.  Are you aware that Mrs. Hilton Cubitt
has herself lain under grave suspicion of the murder of her
husband, and that it was only my presence here, and the
knowledge which I happened to possess, which has saved her from
the accusation?  The least that you owe her is to make it clear
to the whole world that she was in no way, directly or
indirectly, responsible for his tragic end."

"I ask nothing better," said the American.  "I guess the very
best case I can make for myself is the absolute naked truth."

"It is my duty to warn you that it will be used against you,"
cried the inspector, with the magnificent fair play of the
British criminal law.

Slaney shrugged his shoulders.

"I'll chance that," said he.  "First of all, I want you gentlemen
to understand that I have known this lady since she was a child. 
There were seven of us in a gang in Chicago, and Elsie's father
was the boss of the Joint.  He was a clever man, was old Patrick. 
It was he who invented that writing, which would pass as a
child's scrawl unless you just happened to have the key to it. 
Well, Elsie learned some of our ways, but she couldn't stand the
business, and she had a bit of honest money of her own, so she
gave us all the slip and got away to London.  She had been
engaged to me, and she would have married me, I believe, if I
had taken over another profession, but she would have nothing to
do with anything on the cross.  It was only after her marriage to
this Englishman that I was able to find out where she was.  I
wrote to her, but got no answer.  After that I came over, and, as
letters were no use, I put my messages where she could read them.

"Well, I have been here a month now.  I lived in that farm, where
I had a room down below, and could get in and out every night,
and no one the wiser.  I tried all I could to coax Elsie away.  I
knew that she read the messages, for once she wrote an answer
under one of them.  Then my temper got the better of me, and I
began to threaten her.  She sent me a letter then, imploring me
to go away, and saying that it would break her heart if any
scandal should come upon her husband.  She said that she would
come down when her husband was asleep at three in the morning,
and speak with me through the end window, if I would go away
afterwards and leave her in peace.  She came down and brought
money with her, trying to bribe me to go.  This made me mad, and
I caught her arm and tried to pull her through the window.  At
that moment in rushed the husband with his revolver in his hand. 
Elsie had sunk down upon the floor, and we were face to face.  I
was heeled also, and I held up my gun to scare him off and let
me get away.  He fired and missed me.  I pulled off almost at the
same instant, and down he dropped.  I made away across the
garden, and as I went I heard the window shut behind me.  That's
God's truth, gentlemen, every word of it, and I heard no more
about it until that lad came riding up with a note which made me
walk in here, like a jay, and give myself into your hands."

A cab had driven up whilst the American had been talking.  Two
uniformed policemen sat inside.  Inspector Martin rose and
touched his prisoner on the shoulder.

"It is time for us to go."

"Can I see her first?"

"No, she is not conscious.  Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I only hope that
if ever again I have an important case, I shall have the good
fortune to have you by my side."

We stood at the window and watched the cab drive away.  As I
turned back, my eye caught the pellet of paper which the
prisoner had tossed upon the table.  It was the note with which
Holmes had decoyed him.

"See if you can read it, Watson," said he, with a smile.

It contained no word, but this little line of dancing men:


GRAPHIC


"If you use the code which I have explained," said Holmes, "you
will find that it simply means `Come here at once.'  I was
convinced that it was an invitation which he would not refuse,
since he could never imagine that it could come from anyone but
the lady.  And so, my dear Watson, we have ended by turning the
dancing men to good when they have so often been the agents of
evil, and I think that I have fulfilled my promise of giving you
something unusual for your notebook.  Three-forty is our train,
and I fancy we should be back in Baker Street for dinner."

Only one word of epilogue.  The American, Abe Slaney, was
condemned to death at the winter assizes at Norwich, but his
penalty was changed to penal servitude in consideration of
mitigating circumstances, and the certainty that Hilton Cubitt
had fired the first shot.  Of Mrs. Hilton Cubitt I only know that
I have heard she recovered entirely, and that she still remains
a widow, devoting her whole life to the care of the poor and to
the administration of her husband's estate.




THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST



From the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was
a very busy man.  It is safe to say that there was no public case
of any difficulty in which he was not consulted during those
eight years, and there were hundreds of private cases, some of
them of the most intricate and extraordinary character, in which
he played a prominent part.  Many startling successes and a few
unavoidable failures were the outcome of this long period of
continuous work.  As I have preserved very full notes of all
these cases, and was myself personally engaged in many of them,
it may be imagined that it is no easy task to know which I
should select to lay before the public.  I shall, however,
preserve my former rule, and give the preference to those cases
which derive their interest not so much from the brutality of
the crime as from the ingenuity and dramatic quality of the
solution.  For this reason I will now lay before the reader the
facts connected with Miss Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist of
Charlington, and the curious sequel of our investigation, which
culminated in unexpected tragedy.  It is true that the
circumstance did not admit of any striking illustration of those
powers for which my friend was famous, but there were some
points about the case which made it stand out in those long
records of crime from which I gather the material for these
little narratives.

On referring to my notebook for the year 1895, I find that it
was upon Saturday, the 23rd of April, that we first heard of
Miss Violet Smith.  Her visit was, I remember, extremely
unwelcome to Holmes, for he was immersed at the moment in a very
abstruse and complicated problem concerning the peculiar
persecution to which John Vincent Harden, the well known tobacco
millionaire, had been subjected.  My friend, who loved above all
things precision and concentration of thought, resented anything
which distracted his attention from the matter in hand.  And yet,
without a harshness which was foreign to his nature, it was
impossible to refuse to listen to the story of the young and
beautiful woman, tall, graceful, and queenly, who presented
herself at Baker Street late in the evening, and implored his
assistance and advice.  It was vain to urge that his time was
already fully occupied, for the young lady had come with the
determination to tell her story, and it was evident that nothing
short of force could get her out of the room until she had done
so.  With a resigned air and a somewhat weary smile, Holmes
begged the beautiful intruder to take a seat, and to inform us
what it was that was troubling her.

"At least it cannot be your health," said he, as his keen eyes
darted over her, "so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy."

She glanced down in surprise at her own feet, and I observed the
slight roughening of the side of the sole caused by the friction
of the edge of the pedal.

"Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has something
to do with my visit to you to-day."

My friend took the lady's ungloved hand, and examined it with as
close an attention and as little sentiment as a scientist would
show to a specimen.

"You will excuse me, I am sure.  It is my business," said he, as
he dropped it.  "I nearly fell into the error of supposing that
you were typewriting.  Of course, it is obvious that it is music. 
You observe the spatulate finger-ends, Watson, which is common
to both professions?  There is a spirituality about the face,
however"--she gently turned it towards the light--"which the
typewriter does not generate.  This lady is a musician."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music."

"In the country, I presume, from your complexion."

"Yes, sir, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey."

"A beautiful neighbourhood, and full of the most interesting
associations.  You remember, Watson, that it was near there that
we took Archie Stamford, the forger.  Now, Miss Violet, what has
happened to you, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?"

The young lady, with great clearness and composure, made the
following curious statement:

"My father is dead, Mr. Holmes.  He was James Smith, who
conducted the orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre.  My mother
and I were left without a relation in the world except one
uncle, Ralph Smith, who went to Africa twenty-five years ago,
and we have never had a word from him since.  When father died,
we were left very poor, but one day we were told that there was
an advertisement in the TIMES, inquiring for our whereabouts. 
You can imagine how excited we were, for we thought that someone
had left us a fortune.  We went at once to the lawyer whose name
was given in the paper.  There we, met two gentlemen, Mr.
Carruthers and Mr. Woodley, who were home on a visit from South
Africa.  They said that my uncle was a friend of theirs, that he
had died some months before in great poverty in Johannesburg,
and that he had asked them with his last breath to hunt up his
relations, and see that they were in no want.  It seemed strange
to us that Uncle Ralph, who took no notice of us when he was
alive, should be so careful to look after us when he was dead,
but Mr. Carruthers explained that the reason was that my uncle
had just heard of the death of his brother, and so felt
responsible for our fate."

"Excuse me," said Holmes.  "When was this interview?"

"Last December--four months ago."

"Pray proceed."

"Mr. Woodley seemed to me to be a most odious person.  He was for
ever making eyes at me--a coarse, puffy-faced, red-moustached
young man, with his hair plastered down on each side of his
forehead.  I thought that he was perfectly hateful--and I was
sure that Cyril would not wish me to know such a person."

"Oh, Cyril is his name!" said Holmes, smiling.

The young lady blushed and laughed.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer, and we
hope to be married at the end of the summer.  Dear me, how DID I
get talking about him?  What I wished to say was that Mr. Woodley
was perfectly odious, but that Mr. Carruthers, who was a much
older man, was more agreeable.  He was a dark, sallow,
clean-shaven, silent person, but he had polite manners and a
pleasant smile.  He inquired how we were left, and on finding
that we were very poor, he suggested that I should come and
teach music to his only daughter, aged ten.  I said that I did
not like to leave my mother, on which he suggested that I should
go home to her every week-end, and he offered me a hundred a
year, which was certainly splendid pay.  So it ended by my
accepting, and I went down to Chiltern Grange, about six miles
from Farnham.  Mr. Carruthers was a widower, but he had engaged
a lady housekeeper, a very respectable, elderly person, called
Mrs. Dixon, to look after his establishment.  The child was a
dear, and everything promised well.  Mr. Carruthers was very kind
and very musical, and we had most pleasant evenings together. 
Every week-end I went home to my mother in town.

"The first flaw in my happiness was the arrival of the
red-moustached Mr. Woodley.  He came for a visit of a week, and
oh! it seemed three months to me. He was a dreadful person--a
bully to everyone else, but to me something infinitely worse.  He
made odious love to me, boasted of his wealth, said that if I
married him I could have the finest diamonds in London, and
finally, when I would have nothing to do with him, he seized me
in his arms one day after dinner--he was hideously strong--and
swore that he would not let me go until I had kissed him.  Mr.
Carruthers came in and tore him from me, on which he turned upon
his own host, knocking him down and cutting his face open.  That
was the end of his visit, as you can imagine.  Mr. Carruthers
apologized to me next day, and assured me that I should never be
exposed to such an insult again.  I have not seen Mr. Woodley since.

"And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the special thing which
has caused me to ask your advice to-day.  You must know that
every Saturday forenoon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham Station,
in order to get the 12:22 to town.  The road from Chiltern Grange
is a lonely one, and at one spot it is particularly so, for it
lies for over a mile between Charlington Heath upon one side and
the woods which lie round Charlington Hall upon the other.  You
could not find a more lonely tract of road anywhere, and it is
quite rare to meet so much as a cart, or a peasant, until you
reach the high road near Crooksbury Hill.  Two weeks ago I was
passing this place, when I chanced to look back over my
shoulder, and about two hundred yards behind me I saw a man,
also on a bicycle.  He seemed to be a middle-aged man, with a
short, dark beard.  I looked back before I reached Farnham, but
the man was gone, so I thought no more about it.  But you can
imagine how surprised I was, Mr. Holmes, when, on my return on
the Monday, I saw the same man on the same stretch of road.  My
astonishment was increased when the incident occurred again,
exactly as before, on the following Saturday and Monday.  He
always kept his distance and did not molest me in any way, but
still it certainly was very odd.  I mentioned it to Mr.
Carruthers, who seemed interested in what I said, and told me
that he had ordered a horse and trap, so that in future I should
not pass over these lonely roads without some companion.

"The horse and trap were to have come this week, but for some
reason they were not delivered, and again I had to cycle to the
station.  That was this morning.  You can think that I looked out
when I came to Charlington Heath, and there, sure enough, was
the man, exactly as he had been the two weeks before.  He always
kept so far from me that I could not clearly see his face, but
it was certainly someone whom I did not know.  He was dressed in
a dark suit with a cloth cap.  The only thing about his face that
I could clearly see was his dark beard.  To-day I was not
alarmed, but I was filled with curiosity, and I determined to
find out who he was and what he wanted.  I slowed down my
machine, but he slowed down his.  Then I stopped altogether, but
he stopped also.  Then I laid a trap for him.  There is a sharp
turning of the road, and I pedalled very quickly round this, and
then I stopped and waited.  I expected him to shoot round and
pass me before he could stop.  But he never appeared.  Then I went
back and looked round the corner.  I could see a mile of road,
but he was not on it.  To make it the more extraordinary, there
was no side road at this point down which he could have gone."

Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands.  "This case certainly
presents some features of its own," said he.  "How much time
elapsed between your turning the corner and your discovery that
the road was clear?"

"Two or three minutes."

"Then he could not have retreated down the road, and you say
that there are no side roads?"

"None."

"Then he certainly took a footpath on one side or the other."

"It could not have been on the side of the heath, or I should
have seen him."

"So, by the process of exclusion, we arrive at the fact that he
made his way toward Charlington Hall, which, as I understand, is
situated in its own grounds on one side of the road.  Anything else?"

"Nothing, Mr. Holmes, save that I was so perplexed that I felt
I should not be happy until I had seen you and had your advice."

Holmes sat in silence for some little time.

"Where is the gentleman to whom you are engaged?" he asked at last.

"He is in the Midland Electrical Company, at Coventry."

"He would not pay you a surprise visit?"

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!  As if I should not know him!"

"Have you had any other admirers?"

"Several before I knew Cyril."

"And since?"

"There was this dreadful man, Woodley, if you can call him an admirer."

"No one else?"

Our fair client seemed a little confused.

"Who was he?" asked Holmes.

"Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine; but it had seemed to me
sometimes that my employer, Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal
of interest in me.  We are thrown rather together.  I play his
accompaniments in the evening.  He has never said anything.  He is
a perfect gentleman.  But a girl always knows."

"Ha!"  Holmes looked grave.  "What does he do for a living?"

"He is a rich man."

"No carriages or horses?"

"Well, at least he is fairly well-to-do.  But he goes into the
city two or three times a week.  He is deeply interested in South
African gold shares."

"You will let me know any fresh development, Miss Smith.  I am
very busy just now, but I will find time to make some inquiries
into your case.  In the meantime, take no step without letting me
know.  Good-bye, and I trust that we shall have nothing but good
news from you."

"It is part of the settled order of Nature that such a girl
should have followers," said Holmes, he pulled at his meditative
pipe, "but for choice not on bicycles in lonely country roads. 
Some secretive lover, beyond all doubt.  But there are curious
and suggestive details about the case, Watson."

"That he should appear only at that point?"

"Exactly.  Our first effort must be to find who are the tenants
of Charlington Hall.  Then, again, how about the connection
between Carruthers and Woodley, since they appear to be men of
such a different type?  How came they BOTH to be so keen upon
looking up Ralph Smith's relations?  One more point.  What sort of
a menage is it which pays double the market price for a
governess but does not keep a horse, although six miles from the
station?  Odd, Watson--very odd!"

"You will go down?"

"No, my dear fellow, YOU will go down.  This may be some trifling
intrigue, and I cannot break my other important research for the
sake of it.  On Monday you will arrive early at Farnham; you will
conceal yourself near Charlington Heath; you will observe these
facts for yourself, and act as your own judgment advises.  Then,
having inquired as to the occupants of the Hall, you will come
back to me and report.  And now, Watson, not another word of the
matter until we have a few solid stepping-stones on which we may
hope to get across to our solution."

We had ascertained from the lady that she went down upon the
Monday by the train which leaves Waterloo at 9:50, so I started
early and caught the 9:13.  At Farnham Station I had no
difficulty in being directed to Charlington Heath.  It was
impossible to mistake the scene of the young lady's adventure, for
the road runs between the open heath on one side and an old yew
hedge upon the other, surrounding a park which is studded with
magnificent trees.  There was a main gateway of lichen-studded
stone, each side pillar surmounted by mouldering heraldic
emblems, but besides this central carriage drive I observed
several points where there were gaps in the hedge and paths
leading through them.  The house was invisible from the road, but
the surroundings all spoke of gloom and decay.

The heath was covered with golden patches of flowering gorse,
gleaming magnificently in the light of the bright spring sunshine. 
Behind one of these clumps I took up my position, so as to
command both the gateway of the Hall and a long stretch of the
road upon either side.  It had been deserted when I left it, but
now I saw a cyclist riding down it from the opposite direction
to that in which I had come.  He was clad in a dark suit, and I
saw that he had a black beard.  On reaching the end of the
Charlington grounds, he sprang from his machine and led it
through a gap in the hedge, disappearing from my view.

A quarter of an hour passed, and then a second cyclist appeared. 
This time it was the young lady coming from the station.  I saw
her look about her as she came to the Charlington hedge.  An
instant later the man emerged from his hiding-place, sprang upon
his cycle, and followed her.  In all the broad landscape those
were the only moving figures, the graceful girl sitting very
straight upon her machine, and the man behind her bending low
over his handle-bar with a curiously furtive suggestion in every
movement.  She looked back at him and slowed her pace.  He slowed
also.  She stopped.  He at once stopped, too, keeping two hundred
yards behind her.  Her next movement was as unexpected as it was
spirited.  She suddenly whisked her wheels round and dashed
straight at him.  He was as quick as she, however, and darted off
in desperate flight.  Presently she came back up the road again,
her head haughtily in the air, not deigning to take any further
notice of her silent attendant.  He had turned also, and still
kept his distance until the curve of the road hid them from my sight.

I remained in my hiding-place, and it was well that I did so,
for presently the man reappeared, cycling slowly back.  He turned
in at the Hall gates, and dismounted from his machine.  For some
minutes I could see him standing among the trees.  His hands were
raised, and he seemed to be settling his necktie.  Then he
mounted his cycle, and rode away from me down the drive towards
the Hall.  I ran across the heath and peered through the trees. 
Far away I could catch glimpses of the old gray building with
its bristling Tudor chimneys, but the drive ran through a dense
shrubbery, and I saw no more of my man.

However, it seemed to me that I had done a fairly good morning's
work, and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham.  The local
house agent could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and
referred me to a well known firm in Pall Mall.  There I halted on
my way home, and met with courtesy from the representative.  No,
I could not have Charlington Hall for the summer.  I was just too
late.  It had been let about a month ago.  Mr. Williamson was the
name of the tenant.  He was a respectable, elderly gentleman.  The
polite agent was afraid he could say no more, as the affairs of
his clients were not matters which he could discuss.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report
which I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not
elicit that word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should
have valued.  On the contrary, his austere face was even more
severe than usual as he commented upon the things that I had
done and the things that I had not.

"Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very faulty.  You should
have been behind the hedge, then you would have had a close view
of this interesting person.  As it is, you were some hundreds of
yards away and can tell me even less than Miss Smith.  She thinks
she does not know the man; I am convinced she does.  Why,
otherwise, should he be so desperately anxious that she should
not get so near him as to see his features?  You describe him as
bending over the handle-bar.  Concealment again, you see.  You
really have done remarkably badly.  He returns to the house, and
you want to find out who he is.  You come to a London house agent!"

"What should I have done?" I cried, with some heat.

"Gone to the nearest public-house.  That is the centre of country
gossip.  They would have told you every name, from the master to
the scullery-maid.  Williamson?  It conveys nothing to my mind.  If
he is an elderly man he is not this active cyclist who sprints
away from that young lady's athletic pursuit.  What have we
gained by your expedition?  The knowledge that the girl's story
is true.  I never doubted it.  That there is a connection between
the cyclist and the Hall.  I never doubted that either.  That the
Hall is tenanted by Williamson.  Who's the better for that?  Well,
well, my dear sir, don't look so depressed.  We can do little
more until next Saturday, and in the meantime I may make one or
two inquiries myself."

Next morning, we had a note from Miss Smith, recounting shortly
and accurately the very incidents which I had seen, but the pith
of the letter lay in the postscript:

I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr. Holmes, when
I tell you that my place here has become difficult, owing to the
fact that my employer has proposed marriage to me.  I am
convinced that his feelings are most deep and most honourable. 
At the same time, my promise is of course given.  He took my
refusal very seriously, but also very gently.  You can
understand, however, that the situation is a little strained. 
"Our young friend seems to be getting into deep waters," said
Holmes, thoughtfully, as he finished the letter.  "The case
certainly presents more features of interest and more
possibility of development than I had originally thought.  I
should be none the worse for a quiet, peaceful day in the
country, and I am inclined to run down this afternoon and test
one or two theories which I have formed."

Holmes's quiet day in the country had a singular termination,
for he arrived at Baker Street late in the evening, with a cut
lip and a discoloured lump upon his forehead, besides a general
air of dissipation which would have made his own person the
fitting object of a Scotland Yard investigation.  He was
immensely tickled by his own adventures and laughed heartily as
he recounted them.

"I get so little active exercise that it is always a treat" said
he.  "You are aware that I have some proficiency in the good old
British sport of boxing.  Occasionally, it is of service, to-day,
for example, I should have come to very ignominious grief
without it."

I begged him to tell me what had occurred.

"I found that country pub which I had already recommended to
your notice, and there I made my discreet inquiries.  I was in
the bar, and a garrulous landlord was giving me all that I
wanted.  Williamson is a white-bearded man, and he lives alone
with a small staff of servants at the Hall.  There is some rumor
that he is or has been a clergyman, but one or two incidents of
his short residence at the Hall struck me as peculiarly
unecclesiastical.  I have already made some inquiries at a
clerical agency, and they tell me that there WAS a man of that
name in orders, whose career has been a singularly dark one.  The
landlord further informed me that there are usually week-end
visitors--`a warm lot, sir'--at the Hall, and especially one
gentleman with a red moustache, Mr. Woodley by name, who was
always there.  We had got as far as this, when who should walk in
but the gentleman himself, who had been drinking his beer in the
tap-room and had heard the whole conversation.  Who was I?  What
did I want?  What did I mean by asking questions?  He had a fine
flow of language, and his adjectives were very vigorous.  He
ended a string of abuse by a vicious backhander, which I failed
to entirely avoid.  The next few minutes were delicious.  It was
a straight left against a slogging ruffian.  I emerged as you see
me.  Mr. Woodley went home in a cart.  So ended my country trip,
and it must be confessed that, however enjoyable, my day on the
Surrey border has not been much more profitable than your own."

The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.

You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes [said she] to hear that I
am leaving Mr. Carruthers's employment.  Even the high pay cannot
reconcile me to the discomforts of my situation.  On Saturday I
come up to town, and I do not intend to return.  Mr. Carruthers
has got a trap, and so the dangers of the lonely road, if there
ever were any dangers, are now over.

As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not merely the
strained situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the
reappearance of that odious man, Mr. Woodley.  He was always
hideous, but he looks more awful than ever now, for he appears
to have had an accident and he is much disfigured.  I saw him out
of the window, but I am glad to say I did not meet him.  He had
a long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed much excited
afterwards.  Woodley must be staying in the neighbourhood, for he
did not sleep here, and yet I caught a glimpse of him again this
morning, slinking about in the shrubbery.  I would sooner have a
savage wild animal loose about the place.  I loathe and fear him
more than I can say.  How CAN Mr. Carruthers endure such a creature
for a moment?  However, all my troubles will be over on Saturday.

"So I trust, Watson, so I trust," said Holmes, gravely.  "There is
some deep intrigue going on round that little woman, and it is
our duty to see that no one molests her upon that last journey. 
I think, Watson, that we must spare time to run down together on
Saturday morning and make sure that this curious and inclusive
investigation has no untoward ending."

I confess that I had not up to now taken a very serious view of
the case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre
than dangerous.  That a man should lie in wait for and follow a
very handsome woman is no unheard-of thing, and if he has so
little audacity that he not only dared not address her, but even
fled from her approach, he was not a very formidable assailant. 
The ruffian Woodley was a very different person, but, except on
one occasion, he had not molested our client, and now he visited
the house of Carruthers without intruding upon her presence.  The
man on the bicycle was doubtless a member of those week-end
parties at the Hall of which the publican had spoken, but who he
was, or what he wanted, was as obscure as ever.  It was the
severity of Holmes's manner and the fact that he slipped a
revolver into his pocket before leaving our rooms which
impressed me with the feeling that tragedy might prove to lurk
behind this curious train of events.

A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning, and the
heath-covered countryside, with the glowing clumps of flowering
gorse, seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which were weary of
the duns and drabs and slate grays of London.  Holmes and I
walked along the broad, sandy road inhaling the fresh morning
air and rejoicing in the music of the birds and the fresh breath
of the spring.  From a rise of the road on the shoulder of
Crooksbury Hill, we could see the grim Hall bristling out from
amidst the ancient oaks, which, old as they were, were still
younger than the building which they surrounded.  Holmes pointed
down the long tract of road which wound, a reddish yellow band,
between the brown of the heath and the budding green of the
woods.  Far away, a black dot, we could see a vehicle moving in
our direction.  Holmes gave an exclamation of impatience.

"I have given a margin of half an hour," said he.  "If that is
her trap, she must be making for the earlier train.  I fear,
Watson, that she will be past Charlington before we can possibly
meet her."

From the instant that we passed the rise, we could no longer see
the vehicle, but we hastened onward at such a pace that my
sedentary life began to tell upon me, and I was compelled to
fall behind.  Holmes, however, was always in training, for he had
inexhaustible stores of nervous energy upon which to draw.  His
springy step never slowed until suddenly, when he was a hundred
yards in front of me, he halted, and I saw him throw up his hand
with a gesture of grief and despair.  At the same instant an
empty dog-cart, the horse cantering, the reins trailing, appeared
round the curve of the road and rattled swiftly towards us.

"Too late, Watson, too late!" cried Holmes, as I ran panting to
his side.  "Fool that I was not to allow for that earlier train!  
It's abduction, Watson--abduction!  Murder!  Heaven knows what!  
Block the road!  Stop the horse!  That's right.  Now, jump in, and
let us see if I can repair the consequences of my own blunder."

We had sprung into the dog-cart, and Holmes, after turning the
horse, gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew back along
the road.  As we turned the curve, the whole stretch of road
between the Hall and the heath was opened up.  I grasped Holmes's arm.

"That's the man!" I gasped.  A solitary cyclist was coming
towards us.  His head was down and his shoulders rounded, as he
put every ounce of energy that he possessed on to the pedals.  He
was flying like a racer.  Suddenly he raised his bearded face,
saw us close to him, and pulled up, springing from his machine. 
That coal-black beard was in singular contrast to eyes were as
bright as if he had a fever.  He stared at us and at the
dog-cart.  Then a look of amazement came over his face.

"Halloa! Stop there!" he shouted, holding his bicycle to block
our road.  "Where did you get that dog-cart?  Pull up, man!" he
yelled, drawing a pistol from his side "Pull up, I say, or, by
George, I'll put a bullet into your horse."

Holmes threw the reins into my lap and sprang down from the cart.

"You're the man we want to see.  Where is Miss Violet Smith?" he
said, in his quick, clear way.

"That's what I'm asking you.  You're in her dog-cart.  You ought
to know where she is."

"We met the dog-cart on the road.  There was no one in it.  We
drove back to help the young lady."

"Good Lord!  Good Lord!  What shall I do?" cried the stranger, in
an ecstasy of despair.  "They've got her, that hell-hound Woodley
and the blackguard parson.  Come, man, come, if you really are
her friend.  Stand by me and we'll save her, if I have to leave
my carcass in Charlington Wood."

He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards a gap in
the hedge.  Holmes followed him, and I, leaving the horse grazing
beside the road, followed Holmes.

"This is where they came through," said he, pointing to the
marks of several feet upon the muddy path.  "Halloa!  Stop a
minute!  Who's this in the bush?"

It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler,
with leather cords and gaiters.  He lay upon his back, his knees
drawn up, a terrible cut upon his head.  He was insensible, but
alive.  A glance at his wound told me that it had not penetrated
the bone.

"That's Peter, the groom," cried the stranger.  "He drove her. 
The beasts have pulled him off and clubbed him.  Let him lie; we
can't do him any good, but we may save her from the worst fate
that can befall a woman."

We ran frantically down the path, which wound among the trees. 
We had reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house when
Holmes pulled up.

"They didn't go to the house.  Here are their marks on the left--
here, beside the laurel bushes.  Ah! I said so."

As he spoke, a woman's shrill scream--a scream which vibrated
with a frenzy of horror--burst from the thick, green clump of
bushes in front of us.  It ended suddenly on its highest note
with a choke and a gurgle.

"This way!  This way!  They are in the bowling-alley," cried the
stranger, darting through the bushes.  "Ah, the cowardly dogs!  
Follow me, gentlemen!  Too late! too late! by the living Jingo!"

We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greensward
surrounded by ancient trees.  On the farther side of it, under
the shadow of a mighty oak, there stood a singular group of three
people.  One was a woman, our client, drooping and faint, a
handkerchief round her mouth.  Opposite her stood a brutal,
heavy-faced, red-moustached young man, his gaitered legs
parted wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding crop, his
whole attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado.  Between them an
elderly, gray-bearded man, wearing a short surplice over a light
tweed suit, had evidently just completed the wedding service,
for he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared, and slapped the
sinister bridegroom upon the back in jovial congratulation.

"They're married!" I gasped.

"Come on!" cried our guide, "come on!"  He rushed across the
glade, Holmes and I at his heels.  As we approached, the lady
staggered against the trunk of the tree for support.  Williamson,
the ex-clergyman, bowed to us with mock politeness, and the
bully, Woodley, advanced with a shout of brutal and exultant
laughter.

"You can take your beard off, Bob," said he. "I know you, right
enough.  Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to
be able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley."

Our guide's answer was a singular one.  He snatched off the dark
beard which had disguised him and threw it on the ground,
disclosing a long, sallow, clean-shaven face below it.  Then he
raised his revolver and covered the young ruffian, who was
advancing upon him with his dangerous riding-crop swinging in
his hand.

"Yes," said our ally, "I am Bob Carruthers, and I'll see this
woman righted, if I have to swing for it.  I told you what I'd do
if you molested her, and, by the Lord!  I'll be as good as my word."

"You're too late.  She's my wife."

"No, she's your widow."

His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the front
of Woodley's waistcoat.  He spun round with a scream and fell
upon his back, his hideous red face turning suddenly to a
dreadful mottled pallor.  The old man, still clad in his
surplice, burst into such a string of foul oaths as I have never
heard, and pulled out a revolver of his own, but, before he
could raise it, he was looking down the barrel of Holmes's weapon.

"Enough of this," said my friend, coldly.  "Drop that pistol!  
Watson, pick it up!  Hold it to his head.  Thank you.  You,
Carruthers, give me that revolver.  We'll have no more violence. 
Come, hand it over!"

"Who are you, then?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Good Lord!"

"You have heard of me, I see.  I will represent the official
police until their arrival.  Here, you!" he shouted to a
frightened groom, who had appeared at the edge of the glade. 
"Come here.  Take this note as hard as you can ride to Farnham."  
He scribbled a few words upon a leaf from his notebook.  "Give it
to the superintendent at the police-station.  Until he comes, I
must detain you all under my personal custody."

The strong, masterful personality of Holmes dominated the tragic
scene, and all were equally puppets in his hands.  Williamson and
Carruthers found themselves carrying the wounded Woodley into
the house, and I gave my arm to the frightened girl.  The injured
man was laid on his bed, and at Holmes's request I examined him. 
I carried my report to where he sat in the old tapestry-hung
dining-room with his two prisoners before him.

"He will live," said I.

"What!" cried Carruthers, springing out of his chair.  "I'll go
upstairs and finish him first.  Do you tell me that that angel,
is to be tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?"

"You need not concern yourself about that," said Holmes.  "There
are two very good reasons why she should, under no
circumstances, be his wife.  In the first place, we are very safe
in questioning Mr. Williamson's right to solemnize a marriage."

"I have been ordained," cried the old rascal.

"And also unfrocked."

"Once a clergyman, always a clergyman."

"I think not.  How about the license?"

"We had a license for the marriage.  I have it here in my pocket."

"Then you got it by trick.  But, in any case a forced marriage is
no marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you will
discover before you have finished.  You'll have time to think the
point out during the next ten years or so, unless I am mistaken. 
As to you, Carruthers, you would have done better to keep your
pistol in your pocket."

"I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes, but when I thought of all the
precaution I had taken to shield this girl--for I loved her, Mr.
Holmes, and it is the only time that ever I knew what love was--
it fairly drove me mad to think that she was in the power of the
greatest brute and bully in South Africa--a man whose name is a
holy terror from Kimberley to Johannesburg.  Why, Mr. Holmes,
you'll hardly believe it, but ever since that girl has been in
my employment I never once let her go past this house, where I
knew the rascals were lurking, without following her on my bicycle,
just to see that she came to no harm.  I kept my distance from her,
and I wore a beard, so that she should not recognize me, for she
is a good and high-spirited girl, and she wouldn't have stayed
in my employment long if she had thought that I was following
her about the country roads."

"Why didn't you tell her of her danger?"

"Because then, again, she would have left me, and I couldn't
bear to face that.  Even if she couldn't love me, it was a great
deal to me just to see her dainty form about the house, and to
hear the sound of her voice."

"Well," said I, "you call that love, Mr. Carruthers, but I
should call it selfishness."

"Maybe the two things go together.  Anyhow, I couldn't let her
go.  Besides, with this crowd about, it was well that she should
have someone near to look after her.  Then, when the cable came,
I knew they were bound to make a move."

"What cable?"

Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket "That's it," said he.

It was short and concise:

          The old man is dead.

"Hum!" said Holmes.  "I think I see how things worked, and I can
understand how this message would, as you say, bring them to a
head.  But while you wait, you might tell me what you can.

The old reprobate with the surplice burst into a volley of bad
language.

"By heaven!" said he, "if you squeal on us, Bob Carruthers, I'll
serve you as you served Jack Woodley.  You can bleat about the
girl to your heart's content, for that's your own affair, but if
you round on your pals to this plain-clothes copper, it will be
the worst day's work that ever you did."

"Your reverence need not be excited," said Holmes, lighting a
cigarette.  "The case is clear enough against you, and all I ask
is a few details for my private curiosity.  However, if there's
any difficulty in your telling me, I'll do the talking, and then
you will see how far you have a chance of holding back your
secrets.  In the first place, three of you came from South Africa
on this game--you Williamson, you Carruthers, and Woodley."

"Lie number one," said the old man; "I never saw either of them
until two months ago, and I have never been in Africa in my
life, so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr.
Busybody Holmes!"

"What he says is true," said Carruthers.

"Well, well, two of you came over.  His reverence is our own
homemade article.  You had known Ralph Smith in South Africa.  You
had reason to believe he would not live long.  You found out that
his niece would inherit his fortune.  How's that--eh?"

Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.

"She was next of kin, no doubt, and you were aware that the old
fellow would make no will."

"Couldn't read or write," said Carruthers.

"So you came over, the two of you, and hunted up the girl.  The
idea was that one of you was to marry her, and the other have a
share of the plunder.  For some reason, Woodley was chosen as the
husband.  Why was that?"

"We played cards for her on the voyage.  He won."

"I see.  You got the young lady into your service, and there
Woodley was to do the courting.  She recognized the drunken brute
that he was, and would have nothing to do with him.  Meanwhile,
your arrangement was rather upset by the fact that you had
yourself fallen in love with the lady.  You could no longer bear
the idea of this ruffian owning her?"

"No, by George, I couldn't!"

"There was a quarrel between you.  He left you in a rage, and
began to make his own plans independently of you."

"It strikes me, Williamson, there isn't very much that we can
tell this gentleman," cried Carruthers, with a bitter laugh. 
"Yes, we quarreled, and he knocked me down.  I am level with him
on that, anyhow.  Then I lost sight of him.  That was when he
picked up with this outcast padre here.  I found that they had
set up housekeeping together at this place on the line that she
had to pass for the station.  I kept my eye on her after that,
for I knew there was some devilry in the wind.  I saw them from
time to time, for I was anxious to know what they were after. 
Two days ago Woodley came up to my house with this cable, which
showed that Ralph Smith was dead.  He asked me if I would stand
by the bargain.  I said I would not.  He asked me if I would marry
the girl myself and give him a share.  I said I would willingly
do so, but that she would not have me.  He said, `Let us get her
married first and after a week or two she may see things a bit
different.'  I said I would have nothing to do with violence.  So
he went off cursing, like the foul-mouthed blackguard that he
was, and swearing that he would have her yet.  She was leaving me
this week-end, and I had got a trap to take her to the station,
but I was so uneasy in my mind that I followed her on my
bicycle.  She had got a start, however, and before I could catch
her, the mischief was done.  The first thing I knew about it was
when I saw you two gentlemen driving back in her dog-cart"

Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette into the grate. 
"I have been very obtuse, Watson," said he.  "When in your report
you said that you had seen the cyclist as you thought arrange
his necktie in the shrubbery, that alone should have told me
all.  However, we may congratulate ourselves upon a curious and,
in some respects, a unique case.  I perceive three of the county
constabulary in the drive, and I am glad to see that the little
ostler is able to keep pace with them, so it is likely that
neither he nor the interesting bridegroom will be permanently
damaged by their morning's adventures.  I think, Watson, that in
your medical capacity, you might wait upon Miss Smith and tell
her that if she is sufficiently recovered, we shall be happy to
escort her to her mother's home.  If she is not quite
convalescent you will find that a hint that we were about to
telegraph to a young electrician in the Midlands would probably
complete the cure.  As to you, Mr. Carruthers, I think that you
have done what you could to make amends for your share in an
evil plot.  There is my card, sir, and if my evidence can be of
help in your trial, it shall be at your disposal."

In the whirl of our incessant activity, it has often been
difficult for me, as the reader has probably observed, to round
off my narratives, and to give those final details which the
curious might expect.  Each case has been the prelude to another,
and the crisis once over, the actors have passed for ever out of
our busy lives.  I find, however, a short note at the end of my
manuscript dealing with this case, in which I have put it upon
record that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large
fortune, and that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, the
senior partner of Morton & Kennedy, the famous Westminster
electricians.  Williamson and Woodley were both tried for
abduction and assault, the former getting seven years the latter
ten.  Of the fate of Carruthers, I have no record, but I am sure
that his assault was not viewed very gravely by the court, since
Woodley had the reputation of being a most dangerous ruffian,
and I think that a few, months were sufficient to satisfy the
demands of justice.




THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL



We have had some dramatic entrances and exits upon our small
stage at Baker Street, but I cannot recollect anything more
sudden and startling than the first appearance of Thorneycroft
Huxtable, M.A., Ph.D., etc.  His card, which seemed too small to
carry the weight of his academic distinctions, preceded him by
a few seconds, and then he entered himself--so large, so
pompous, and so dignified that he was the very embodiment of
self-possession and solidity.  And yet his first action, when the
door had closed behind him, was to stagger against the table,
whence he slipped down upon the floor, and there was that
majestic figure prostrate and insensible upon our bearskin
hearth-rug.

We had sprung to our feet, and for a few moments we stared in
silent amazement at this ponderous piece of wreckage, which told
of some sudden and fatal storm far out on the ocean of life. 
Then Holmes hurried with a cushion for his head, and I with
brandy for his lips.  The heavy, white face was seamed with lines
of trouble, the hanging pouches under the closed eyes were
leaden in colour, the loose mouth drooped dolorously at the
corners, the rolling chins were unshaven.  Collar and shirt bore
the grime of a long journey, and the hair bristled unkempt from
the well-shaped head.  It was a sorely stricken man who lay
before us.

"What is it, Watson?" asked Holmes.

"Absolute exhaustion--possibly mere hunger and fatigue," said I,
with my finger on the thready pulse, where the stream of life
trickled thin and small.

"Return ticket from Mackleton, in the north of England," said
Holmes, drawing it from the watch-pocket.  "It is not twelve
o'clock yet.  He has certainly been an early starter."

The puckered eyelids had begun to quiver, and now a pair of
vacant gray eyes looked up at us.  An instant later the man had
scrambled on to his feet, his face crimson with shame.

"Forgive this weakness, Mr. Holmes, I have been a little
overwrought.  Thank you, if I might have a glass of milk and a
biscuit, I have no doubt that I should be better.  I came
personally, Mr. Holmes, in order to insure that you would return
with me.  I feared that no telegram would convince you of the
absolute urgency of the case."

"When you are quite restored----"

"I am quite well again.  I cannot imagine how I came to be so
weak.  I wish you, Mr. Holmes, to come to Mackleton with me by
the next train."

My friend shook his head.

"My colleague, Dr. Watson, could tell you that we are very busy
at present.  I am retained in this case of the Ferrers Documents,
and the Abergavenny murder is coming up for trial.  Only a very
important issue could call me from London at present."

"Important!"  Our visitor threw up his hands.  "Have you heard
nothing of the abduction of the only son of the Duke of
Holdernesse?"

"What! the late Cabinet Minister?"

"Exactly.  We had tried to keep it out of the papers, but there
was some rumor in the GLOBE last night.  I thought it might have
reached your ears."

Holmes shot out his long, thin arm and picked out Volume "H" in
his encyclopaedia of reference.

"`Holdernesse, 6th Duke, K.G., P.C.'--half the alphabet!  `Baron
Beverley, Earl of Carston'--dear me, what a list! `Lord
Lieutenant of Hallamshire since 1900.  Married Edith, daughter of
Sir Charles Appledore, 1888.  Heir and only child, Lord Saltire. 
Owns about two hundred and fifty thousand acres.  Minerals in
Lancashire and Wales.  Address: Carlton House Terrace;
Holdernesse Hall, Hallamshire; Carston Castle, Bangor, Wales. 
Lord of the Admiralty, 1872; Chief Secretary of State for----'
Well, well, this man is certainly one of the greatest subjects
of the Crown!"

"The greatest and perhaps the wealthiest.  I am aware, Mr.
Holmes, that you take a very high line in professional matters,
and that you are prepared to work for the work's sake.  I may
tell you, however, that his Grace has already intimated that a
check for five thousand pounds will be handed over to the person
who can tell him where his son is, and another thousand to him
who can name the man or men who have taken him."

"It is a princely offer," said Holmes.  "Watson, I think that we
shall accompany Dr. Huxtable back to the north of England.  And
now, Dr. Huxtable, when you have consumed that milk, you will
kindly tell me what has happened, when it happened, how it
happened, and, finally, what Dr. Thorneycroft Huxtable, of the
Priory School, near Mackleton, has to do with the matter, and
why he comes three days after an event--the state of your chin
gives the date--to ask for my humble services."

Our visitor had consumed his milk and biscuits.  The light had
come back to his eyes and the colour to his cheeks, as he set
himself with great vigour and lucidity to explain the situation.

"I must inform you, gentlemen, that the Priory is a preparatory
school, of which I am the founder and principal.  HUXTABLE'S
SIDELIGHTS ON HORACE may possibly recall my name to your
memories.  The Priory is, without exception, the best and most
select preparatory school in England.  Lord Leverstoke, the Earl
of Blackwater, Sir Cathcart Soames--they all have intrusted
their sons to me.  But I felt that my school had reached its
zenith when, weeks ago, the Duke of Holdernesse sent Mr. James
Wilder, his secretary, with intimation that young Lord Saltire,
ten years old, his only son and heir, was about to be committed
to my charge.  Little did I think that this would be the prelude
to the most crushing misfortune of my life.

"On May 1st the boy arrived, that being the beginning of the
summer term.  He was a charming youth, and he soon fell into our
ways.  I may tell you--I trust that I am not indiscreet, but
half-confidences are absurd in such a case--that he was not
entirely happy at home.  It is an open secret that the Duke's
married life had not been a peaceful one, and the matter had
ended in a separation by mutual consent, the Duchess taking up
her residence in the south of France.  This had occurred very
shortly before, and the boy's sympathies are known to have been
strongly with his mother.  He moped after her departure from
Holdernesse Hall, and it was for this reason that the Duke
desired to send him to my establishment.  In a fortnight the boy
was quite at home with us and was apparently absolutely happy.

"He was last seen on the night of May 13th--that is, the night
of last Monday.  His room was on the second floor and was
approached through another larger room, in which two boys were
sleeping.  These boys saw and heard nothing, so that it is
certain that young Saltire did not pass out that way.  His window
was open, and there is a stout ivy plant leading to the ground. 
We could trace no footmarks below, but it is sure that this is
the only possible exit.

"His absence was discovered at seven o'clock on Tuesday morning. 
His bed had been slept in.  He had dressed himself fully, before
going off, in his usual school suit of black Eton jacket and
dark gray trousers.  There were no signs that anyone had entered
the room, and it is quite certain that anything in the nature of
cries or ones struggle would have been heard, since Caunter, the
elder boy in the inner room, is a very light sleeper.

"When Lord Saltire's disappearance was discovered, I at once
called a roll of the whole establishment--boys, masters, and
servants.  It was then that we ascertained that Lord Saltire had
not been alone in his flight.  Heidegger, the German master, was
missing.  His room was on the second floor, at the farther end of
the building, facing the same way as Lord Saltire's.  His bed had
also been slept in, but he had apparently gone away partly
dressed, since his shirt and socks were lying on the floor.  He
had undoubtedly let himself down by the ivy, for we could see
the marks of his feet where he had landed on the lawn.  His
bicycle was kept in a small shed beside this lawn, and it also
was gone.

"He had been with me for two years, and came with the best
references, but he was a silent, morose man, not very popular
either with masters or boys.  No trace could be found of the
fugitives, and now, on Thursday morning, we are as ignorant as
we were on Tuesday.  Inquiry was, of course, made at once at
Holdernesse Hall.  It is only a few miles away, and we imagined
that, in some sudden attack of homesickness, he had gone back to
his father, but nothing had been heard of him.  The Duke is
greatly agitated, and, as to me, you have seen yourselves the
state of nervous prostration to which the suspense and the
responsibility have reduced me.  Mr. Holmes, if ever you put
forward your full powers, I implore you to do so now, for never
in your life could you have a case which is more worthy of them."

Sherlock Holmes had listened with the utmost intentness to the
statement of the unhappy schoolmaster.  His drawn brows and the
deep furrow between them showed that he needed no exhortation to
concentrate all his attention upon a problem which, apart from
the tremendous interests involved must appeal so directly to his
love of the complex and the unusual.  He now drew out his
notebook and jotted down one or two memoranda.

"You have been very remiss in not coming to me sooner," said he,
severely.  "You start me on my investigation with a very serious
handicap.  It is inconceivable, for example, that this ivy and
this lawn would have yielded nothing to an expert observer."

"I am not to blame, Mr. Holmes.  His Grace was extremely desirous
to avoid all public scandal.  He was afraid of his family
unhappiness being dragged before the world.  He has a deep horror
of anything of the kind."

"But there has been some official investigation?"

"Yes, sir, and it has proved most disappointing.  An apparent
clue was at once obtained, since a boy and a young man were
reported to have been seen leaving a neighbouring station by an
early train.  Only last night we had news that the couple had
been hunted down in Liverpool, and they prove to have no
connection whatever with the matter in hand.  Then it was that in
my despair and disappointment, after a sleepless night, I came
straight to you by the early train."

"I suppose the local investigation was relaxed while this false
clue was being followed up?"

"It was entirely dropped."

"So that three days have been wasted.  The affair has been most
deplorably handled."

"I feel it and admit it."

"And yet the problem should be capable of ultimate solution.  I
shall be very happy to look into it.  Have you been able to trace
any connection between the missing boy and this German master?"

"None at all."

"Was he in the master's class?"

"No, he never exchanged a word with him, so far as I know."

"That is certainly very singular.  Had the boy a bicycle?"

"No."

"Was any other bicycle missing?"

"No."

"Is that certain?"

"Quite."

"Well, now, you do not mean to seriously suggest that this
German rode off upon a bicycle in the dead of the night, bearing
the boy in his arms?"

"Certainly not."

"Then what is the theory in your mind?"

"The bicycle may have been a blind.  It may have been hidden
somewhere, and the pair gone off on foot."

"Quite so, but it seems rather an absurd blind, does it not?  
Were there other bicycles in this shed?"

"Several."

"Would he not have hidden a couple, had he desired to give the
idea that they had gone off upon them?"

"I suppose he would."

"Of course he would.  The blind theory won't do.  But the incident
is an admirable starting-point for an investigation.  After all,
a bicycle is not an easy thing to conceal or to destroy.  One
other question.  Did anyone call to see the boy on the day before
he disappeared?"

"No."

"Did he get any letters?"

"Yes, one letter."

"From whom?"

"From his father."

"Do you open the boys' letters?"

"No."

"How do you know it was from the father?"

"The coat of arms was on the envelope, and it was addressed in
the Duke's peculiar stiff hand.  Besides, the Duke remembers
having written."

"When had he a letter before that?"

"Not for several days."

"Had he ever one from France?"

"No, never.

"You see the point of my questions, of course.  Either the boy
was carried off by force or he went of his own free will.  In the
latter case, you would expect that some prompting from outside
would be needed to make so young a lad do such a thing.  If he
has had no visitors, that prompting must have come in letters;
hence I try to find out who were his correspondents."

"I fear I cannot help you much.  His only correspondent, so far
as I know, was his own father."

"Who wrote to him on the very day of his disappearance.  Were the
relations between father and son very friendly?"

"His Grace is never very friendly with anyone.  He is completely
immersed in large public questions, and is rather inaccessible
to all ordinary emotions.  But he was always kind to the boy in
his own way."

"But the sympathies of the latter were with the mother?"

"Yes."

"Did he say so?"

"No."

"The Duke, then?"

"Good heaven, no!"

"Then how could you know?"

"I have had some confidential talks with Mr. James Wilder, his
Graces secretary.  It was he who gave me the information about
Lord Saltire's feelings."

"I see.  By the way, that last letter of the Dukes--was it found
in the boy's room after he was gone?"

"No, he had taken it with him.  I think, Mr. Holmes, it is time
that we were leaving for Euston."

"I will order a four-wheeler.  In a quarter of an hour, we shall
be at your service.  If you are telegraphing home, Mr. Huxtable,
it would be well to allow the people in your neighbourhood to
imagine that the inquiry is still going on in Liverpool, or
wherever else that red herring led your pack.  In the meantime I
will do a little quiet work at your own doors, and perhaps the
scent is not so cold but that two old hounds like Watson and
myself may get a sniff of it."

That evening found us in the cold, bracing atmosphere of the
Peak country, in which Dr. Huxtable's famous school is situated. 
It was already dark when we reached it.  A card was lying on the
hall table, and the butler whispered something to his master,
who turned to us with agitation in every heavy feature.

"The Duke is here," said he.  "The Duke and Mr. Wilder are in the
study.  Come, gentlemen, and I will introduce you."

I was, of course, familiar with the pictures of the famous
statesman, but the man himself was very different from his
representation.  He was a tall and stately person, scrupulously
dressed, with a drawn, thin face, and a nose which was
grotesquely curved and long.  His complexion was of a dead
pallor, which was more startling by contrast with a long,
dwindling beard of vivid red, which flowed down over his white
waistcoat with his watch-chain gleaming through its fringe.  Such
was the stately presence who looked stonily at us from the
centre of Dr. Huxtable's hearthrug.  Beside him stood a very
young man, whom I understood to be Wilder, the private
secretary.  He was small, nervous, alert with intelligent
light-blue eyes and mobile features.  It was he who at once, in
an incisive and positive tone, opened the conversation.

"I called this morning, Dr. Huxtable, too late to prevent you
from starting for London.  I learned that your object was to
invite Mr. Sherlock Holmes to undertake the conduct of this
case.  His Grace is surprised, Dr. Huxtable, that you should have
taken such a step without consulting him."

"When I learned that the police had failed----"

"His Grace is by no means convinced that the police have failed."

"But surely, Mr. Wilder----"

"You are well aware, Dr. Huxtable, that his Grace is
particularly anxious to avoid all public scandal.  He prefers to
take as few people as possible into his confidence."

"The matter can be easily remedied," said the brow-beaten doctor;
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes can return to London by the morning train."

"Hardly that, Doctor, hardly that," said Holmes, in his blandest
voice.  "This northern air is invigorating and pleasant, so I
propose to spend a few days upon your moors, and to occupy my
mind as best I may.  Whether I have the shelter of your roof or
of the village inn is, of course, for you to decide."

I could see that the unfortunate doctor was in the last stage of
indecision, from which he was rescued by the deep, sonorous
voice of the red-bearded Duke, which boomed out like a
dinner-gong.

"I agree with Mr. Wilder, Dr. Huxtable, that you would have done
wisely to consult me.  But since Mr. Holmes has already been
taken into your confidence, it would indeed be absurd that we
should not avail ourselves of his services.  Far from going to
the inn, Mr. Holmes, I should be pleased if you would come and
stay with me at Holdernesse Hall."

"I thank your Grace.  For the purposes of my investigation, I
think that it would be wiser for me to remain at the scene of
the mystery."

"Just as you like, Mr. Holmes.  Any information which Mr. Wilder
or I can give you is, of course, at your disposal."

"It will probably be necessary for me to see you at the Hall,"
said Holmes.  "I would only ask you now, sir, whether you have
formed any explanation in your own mind as to the mysterious
disappearance of your son?"

"No sir I have not."

"Excuse me if I allude to that which is painful to you, but I
have no alternative.  Do you think that the Duchess had anything
to do with the matter?"

The great minister showed perceptible hesitation.

"I do not think so," he said, at last.

"The other most obvious explanation is that the child has been
kidnapped for the purpose of levying ransom.  You have not had
any demand of the sort?"

"No, sir."

"One more question, your Grace.  I understand that you wrote to
your son upon the day when this incident occurred."

"No, I wrote upon the day before."

"Exactly.  But he received it on that day?"

"Yes."

"Was there anything in your letter which might have unbalanced
him or induced him to take such a step?"

"No, sir, certainly not."

"Did you post that letter yourself?"

The nobleman's reply was interrupted by his secretary, who broke
in with some heat.

"His Grace is not in the habit of posting letters himself," said
he.  "This letter was laid with others upon the study table, and
I myself put them in the post-bag."

"You are sure this one was among them?"

"Yes, I observed it."

"How many letters did your Grace write that day?"

"Twenty or thirty.  I have a large correspondence.  But surely
this is somewhat irrelevant?"

"Not entirely," said Holmes.

"For my own part," the Duke continued, "I have advised the
police to turn their attention to the south of France.  I have
already said that I do not believe that the Duchess would
encourage so monstrous an action, but the lad had the most
wrong-headed opinions, and it is possible that he may have fled
to her, aided and abetted by this German.  I think, Dr. Huxtable,
that we will now return to the Hall."

I could see that there were other questions which Holmes would
have wished to put, but the nobleman's abrupt manner showed that
the interview was at an end.  It was evident that to his
intensely aristocratic nature this discussion of his intimate
family affairs with a stranger was most abhorrent, and that he
feared lest every fresh question would throw a fiercer light
into the discreetly shadowed corners of his ducal history.

When the nobleman and his secretary had left, my friend flung
himself at once with characteristic eagerness into the
investigation.

The boy's chamber was carefully examined, and yielded nothing
save the absolute conviction that it was only through the window
that he could have escaped.  The German master's room and effects
gave no further clue.  In his case a trailer of ivy had given way
under his weight, and we saw by the light of a lantern the mark
on the lawn where his heels had come down.  That one dint in the
short, green grass was the only material witness left of this
inexplicable nocturnal flight.

Sherlock Holmes left the house alone, and only returned after
eleven.  He had obtained a large ordnance map of the
neighbourhood, and this he brought into my room, where he laid
it out on the bed, and, having balanced the lamp in the middle
of it, he began to smoke over it, and occasionally to point out
objects of interest with the reeking amber of his pipe.

"This case grows upon me, Watson," said he.  "There are decidedly
some points of interest in connection with it.  In this early
stage, I want you to realize those geographical features which
may have a good deal to do with our investigation.

"Look at this map.  This dark square is the Priory School.  I'll
put a pin in it.  Now, this line is the main road.  You see that
it runs east and west past the school, and you see also that
there is no side road for a mile either way.  If these two folk
passed away by road, it was THIS road."


GRAPHIC


"Exactly."

"By a singular and happy chance, we are able to some extent to
check what passed along this road during the night in question. 
At this point, where my pipe is now resting, a county constable
was on duty from twelve to six.  It is, as you perceive, the
first cross-road on the east side.  This man declares that he was
not absent from his post for an instant, and he is positive that
neither boy nor man could have gone that way unseen.  I have
spoken with this policeman to-night and he appears to me to be
a perfectly reliable person.  That blocks this end.  We have now
to deal with the other.  There is an inn here, the Red Bull, the
landlady of which was ill.  She had sent to Mackleton for a
doctor, but he did not arrive until morning, being absent at
another case.  The people at the inn were alert all night,
awaiting his coming, and one or other of them seems to have
continually had an eye upon the road.  They declare that no one
passed.  If their evidence is good, then we are fortunate enough
to be able to block the west, and also to be able to say that
the fugitives did NOT use the road at all."

"But the bicycle?" I objected.

"Quite so.  We will come to the bicycle presently.  To continue
our reasoning:  if these people did not go by the road, they must
have traversed the country to the north of the house or to the
south of the house.  That is certain.  Let us weigh the one
against the other.  On the south of the house is, as you
perceive, a large district of arable land, cut up into small
fields, with stone walls between them.  There, I admit that a
bicycle is impossible.  We can dismiss the idea.  We turn to the
country on the north.  Here there lies a grove of trees, marked
as the `Ragged Shaw,' and on the farther side stretches a great
rolling moor, Lower Gill Moor, extending for ten miles and
sloping gradually upward.  Here, at one side of this wilderness,
is Holdernesse Hall, ten miles by road, but only six across the
moor.  It is a peculiarly desolate plain.  A few moor farmers have
small holdings, where they rear sheep and cattle.  Except these,
the plover and the curlew are the only inhabitants until you
come to the Chesterfield high road.  There is a church there, you
see, a few cottages, and an inn.  Beyond that the hills become
precipitous.  Surely it is here to the north that our quest must lie."

"But the bicycle?" I persisted.

"Well, well!" said Holmes, impatiently.  "A good cyclist does not
need a high road.  The moor is intersected with paths, and the
moon was at the full.  Halloa! what is this?"

There was an agitated knock at the door, and an instant
afterwards Dr. Huxtable was in the room.  In his hand he held a
blue cricket-cap with a white chevron on the peak.

"At last we have a clue!" he cried.  "Thank heaven! at last we
are on the dear boy's track!  It is his cap."

"Where was it found?"

"In the van of the gipsies who camped on the moor.  They left on
Tuesday.  To-day the police traced them down and examined their
caravan.  This was found."

"How do they account for it?"

"They shuffled and lied--said that they found it on the moor on
Tuesday morning.  They know where he is, the rascals!  Thank
goodness, they are all safe under lock and key.  Either the fear
of the law or the Duke's purse will certainly get out of them
all that they know."

"So far, so good," said Holmes, when the doctor had at last left
the room.  "It at least bears out the theory that it is on the
side of the Lower Gill Moor that we must hope for results.  The
police have really done nothing locally, save the arrest of
these gipsies.  Look here, Watson!  There is a watercourse across
the moor.  You see it marked here in the map.  In some parts it
widens into a morass.  This is particularly so in the region
between Holdernesse Hall and the school.  It is vain to look
elsewhere for tracks in this dry weather, but at THAT point
there is certainly a chance of some record being left.  I will
call you early to-morrow morning, and you and I will try if we
can throw some little light upon the mystery."

The day was just breaking when I woke to find the long, thin
form of Holmes by my bedside.  He was fully dressed, and had
apparently already been out.

"I have done the lawn and the bicycle shed," said, he.  "I have
also had a rumble through the Ragged Shaw.  Now, Watson, there is
cocoa ready in the next room.  I must beg you to hurry, for we
have a great day before us."

His eyes shone, and his cheek was flushed with the exhilaration
of the master workman who sees his work lie ready before him.  A
very different Holmes, this active, alert man, from the
introspective and pallid dreamer of Baker Street.  I felt, as I
looked upon that supple, figure, alive with nervous energy, that
it was indeed a strenuous day that awaited us.

And yet it opened in the blackest disappointment.  With high
hopes we struck across the peaty, russet moor, intersected with
a thousand sheep paths, until we came to the broad, light-green
belt which marked the morass between us and Holdernesse. 
Certainly, if the lad had gone homeward, he must have passed
this, and he could not pass it without leaving his traces.  But
no sign of him or the German could be seen.  With a darkening
face my friend strode along the margin, eagerly observant of
every muddy stain upon the mossy surface.  Sheep-marks there were
in profusion, and at one place, some miles down, cows had left
their tracks.  Nothing more.

"Check number one," said Holmes, looking gloomily over the
rolling expanse of the moor.  "There is another morass down
yonder, and a narrow neck between.  Halloa! halloa! halloa! what
have we here?"

We had come on a small black ribbon of pathway.  In the middle of
it, clearly marked on the sodden soil, was the track of a bicycle.

"Hurrah!" I cried.  "We have it."

But Holmes was shaking his head, and his face was puzzled and
expectant rather than joyous.

"A bicycle, certainly, but not THE bicycle," said he. "I am
familiar with forty-two different impressions left by tires. 
This, as you perceive, is a Dunlop, with a patch upon the outer
cover.  Heidegger's tires were Palmer's, leaving longitudinal
stripes.  Aveling, the mathematical master, was sure upon the
point.  Therefore, it is not Heidegger's track."

"The boy's, then?"

"Possibly, if we could prove a bicycle to have been in his
possession.  But this we have utterly failed to do.  This track,
as you perceive, was made by a rider who was going from the
direction of the school."

"Or towards it?"

"No, no, my dear Watson.  The more deeply sunk impression is,
of course, the hind wheel, upon which the weight rests.  You
perceive several places where it has passed across and
obliterated the more shallow mark of the front one.  It was
undoubtedly heading away from the school.  It may or may not be
connected with our inquiry, but we will follow it backwards
before we go any farther."

We did so, and at the end of a few hundred yards lost the tracks
as we emerged from the boggy portion of the moor.  Following the
path backwards, we picked out another spot, where a spring
trickled across it.  Here, once again, was the mark of the
bicycle, though nearly obliterated by the hoofs of cows.  After
that there was no sign, but the path ran right on into Ragged Shaw,
the wood which backed on to the school.  From this wood the
cycle must have emerged.  Holmes sat down on a boulder and rested
his chin in his hands.  I had smoked two cigarettes before he moved.

"Well, well," said he, at last.  "It is, of course, possible that
a cunning man might change the tires of his bicycle in order to
leave unfamiliar tracks.  A criminal who was capable of such a
thought is a man whom I should be proud to do business with.  We
will leave this question undecided and hark back to our morass
again, for we have left a good deal unexplored."

We continued our systematic survey of the edge of the sodden
portion of the moor, and soon our perseverance was gloriously
rewarded.  Right across the lower part of the bog lay a miry
path.  Holmes gave a cry of delight as he approached it.  An
impression like a fine bundle of telegraph wires ran down the
centre of it.  It was the Palmer tires.

"Here is Herr Heidegger, sure enough!" cried Holmes, exultantly. 
"My reasoning seems to have been pretty sound, Watson."

"I congratulate you."

"But we have a long way still to go.  Kindly walk clear of the
path.  Now let us follow the trail.  I fear that it will not lead
very far."

We found, however, as we advanced that this portion of the moor
is intersected with soft patches, and, though we frequently lost
sight of the track, we always succeeded in picking it up once more.

"Do you observe," said Holmes, "that the rider is now
undoubtedly forcing the pace?  There can be no doubt of it.  Look
at this impression, where you get both tires clear.  The one is
as deep as the other.  That can only mean that the rider is
throwing his weight on to the handle-bar, as a man does when he
is sprinting.  By Jove! he has had a fall."

There was a broad, irregular smudge covering some yards of the
track.  Then there were a few footmarks, and the tire reappeared
once more.

"A side-slip," I suggested.

Holmes held up a crumpled branch of flowering gorse.  To my
horror I perceived that the yellow blossoms were all dabbled
with crimson.  On the path, too, and among the heather were dark
stains of clotted blood.

"Bad!" said Holmes.  "Bad!  Stand clear, Watson!  Not an
unnecessary footstep!  What do I read here?  He fell wounded--he
stood up--he remounted--he proceeded.  But there is no other
track.  Cattle on this side path.  He was surely not gored by a
bull?  Impossible!  But I see no traces of anyone else.  We must
push on, Watson.  Surely, with stains as well as the track to
guide us, he cannot escape us now."

Our search was not a very long one.  The tracks of the tire began
to curve fantastically upon the wet and shining path.  Suddenly,
as I looked ahead, the gleam of metal caught my eye from amid the
thick gorse-bushes.  Out of them we dragged a bicycle,
Palmer-tired, one pedal bent, and the whole front of it horribly
smeared and slobbered with blood.  On the other side of the
bushes a shoe was projecting.  We ran round, and there lay the
unfortunate rider.  He was a tall man, full-bearded, with
spectacles, one glass of which had been knocked out.  The cause
of his death was a frightful blow upon the head, which had
crushed in part of his skull.  That he could have gone on after
receiving such an injury said much for the vitality and courage of
the man.  He wore shoes, but no socks, and his open coat disclosed
a nightshirt beneath it.  It was undoubtedly the German master.

Holmes turned the body over reverently, and examined it with
great attention.  He then sat in deep thought for a time, and I
could see by his ruffled brow that this grim discovery had not,
in his opinion, advanced us much in our inquiry.

"It is a little difficult to know what to do, Watson," said he,
at last.  "My own inclinations are to push this inquiry on, for
we have already lost so much time that we cannot afford to waste
another hour.  On the other hand, we are bound to inform the
police of the discovery, and to see that this poor fellow's body
is looked after."

"I could take a note back."

"But I need your company and assistance.  Wait a bit!  There is a
fellow cutting peat up yonder.  Bring him over here, and he will
guide the police."

I brought the peasant across, and Holmes dispatched the
frightened man with a note to Dr. Huxtable.

"Now, Watson," said he, "we have picked up two clues this
morning.  One is the bicycle with the Palmer tire, and we see
what that has led to.  The other is the bicycle with the patched
Dunlop.  Before we start to investigate that, let us try to
realize what we do know, so as to make the most of it, and to
separate the essential from the accidental."

"First of all, I wish to impress upon you that the boy certainly
left of his own free-will.  He got down from his window and he
went off, either alone or with someone.  That is sure."

I assented.

"Well, now, let us turn to this unfortunate German master.  The
boy was fully dressed when he fled.  Therefore, he foresaw what
he would do.  But the German went without his socks.  He certainly
acted on very short notice."

"Undoubtedly."

"Why did he go?  Because, from his bedroom window, he saw the
flight of the boy, because he wished to overtake him and bring
him back.  He seized his bicycle, pursued the lad, and in
pursuing him met his death."

"So it would seem."

"Now I come to the critical part of my argument.  The natural
action of a man in pursuing a little boy would be to run after
him.  He would know that he could overtake him.  But the German
does not do so.  He turns to his bicycle.  I am told that he was
an excellent cyclist.  He would not do this, if he did not see
that the boy had some swift means of escape."

"The other bicycle."

"Let us continue our reconstruction.  He meets his death five
miles from the school--not by a bullet, mark you, which even a
lad might conceivably discharge, but by a savage blow dealt by
a vigorous arm.  The lad, then, HAD a companion in his flight. 
And the flight was a swift one, since it took five miles before
an expert cyclist could overtake them.  Yet we survey the ground
round the scene of the tragedy.  What do we find?  A few
cattle-tracks, nothing more.  I took a wide sweep round, and
there is no path within fifty yards.  Another cyclist could have
had nothing to do with the actual murder, nor were there any
human foot-marks."

"Holmes," I cried, "this is impossible."

"Admirable!" he said.  "A most illuminating remark.  It IS
impossible as I state it, and therefore I must in some respect
have stated it wrong.  Yet you saw for yourself.  Can you suggest
any fallacy?"

"He could not have fractured his skull in a fall?"

"In a morass, Watson?"

"I am at my wit's end."

"Tut, tut, we have solved some worse problems.  At least we have
plenty of material, if we can only use it.  Come, then, and,
having exhausted the Palmer, let us see what the Dunlop with the
patched cover has to offer us."

We picked up the track and followed it onward for some distance,
but soon the moor rose into a long, heather-tufted curve, and we
left the watercourse behind us.  No further help from tracks
could be hoped for.  At the spot where we saw the last of the
Dunlop tire it might equally have led to Holdernesse Hall, the
stately towers of which rose some miles to our left, or to a
low, gray village which lay in front of us and marked the
position of the Chesterfield high road.

As we approached the forbidding and squalid inn, with the sign
of a game-cock above the door, Holmes gave a sudden groan, and
clutched me by the shoulder to save himself from falling.  He had
had one of those violent strains of the ankle which leave a man
helpless.  With difficulty he limped up to the door, where a
squat, dark, elderly man was smoking a black clay pipe.

"How are you, Mr. Reuben Hayes?" said Holmes.

"Who are you, and how do you get my name so pat?" the countryman
answered, with a suspicious flash of a pair of cunning eyes.

"Well, it's printed on the board above your head.  It's easy to
see a man who is master of his own house.  I suppose you haven't
such a thing as a carriage in your stables?"

"No, I have not."

"I can hardly put my foot to the ground."

"Don't put it to the ground."

"But I can't walk."

"Well, then hop."

Mr. Reuben Hayes's manner was far from gracious, but Holmes took
it with admirable good-humour.

"Look here, my man," said he.  "This is really rather an awkward
fix for me.  I don't mind how I get on."

"Neither do I," said the morose landlord.

"The matter is very important.  I would offer you a sovereign for
the use of a bicycle."

The landlord pricked up his ears.

"Where do you want to go?"

"To Holdernesse Hall."

"Pals of the Dook, I suppose?" said the landlord, surveying our
mud-stained garments with ironical eyes.

Holmes laughed good-naturedly.

"He'll be glad to see us, anyhow."

"Why?"

"Because we bring him news of his lost son."

The landlord gave a very visible start.

"What, you're on his track?"

"He has been heard of in Liverpool.  They expect to get him every hour."

Again a swift change passed over the heavy, unshaven face.  His
manner was suddenly genial.

"I've less reason to wish the Dook well than most men," said he,
"for I was head coachman once, and cruel bad he treated me.  It
was him that sacked me without a character on the word of a
lying corn-chandler.  But I'm glad to hear that the young lord
was heard of in Liverpool, and I'll help you to take the news to
the Hall."

"Thank you," said Holmes.  "Well have some food first.  Then you
can bring round the bicycle."

"I haven't got a bicycle."

Holmes held up a sovereign.

"I tell you, man, that I haven't got one.  I'll let you have two
horses as far as the Hall."

"Well, well," said Holmes, "well talk about it when we've had
something to eat."

When we were left alone in the stone-flagged kitchen, it was
astonishing how rapidly that sprained ankle recovered.  It was
nearly nightfall, and we had eaten nothing since early morning,
so that we spent some time over our meal.  Holmes was lost in
thought, and once or twice he walked over to the window and
stared earnestly out.  It opened on to a squalid courtyard.  In
the far corner was a smithy, where a grimy lad was at work.  On
the other side were the stables.  Holmes had sat down again after
one of these excursions, when he suddenly sprang out of his
chair with a loud exclamation.

"By heaven, Watson, I believe that I've got it!" he cried.  "Yes,
yes, it must be so.  Watson, do you remember seeing any
cow-tracks to-day?"

"Yes, several."

"Were?"

"Well, everywhere.  They were at the morass, and again on the
path, and again near where poor Heidegger met his death."

"Exactly.  Well, now, Watson, how many cows did you see on the moor?"

"I don't remember seeing any."

"Strange, Watson, that we should see tracks all along our line,
but never a cow on the whole moor.  Very strange, Watson, eh?"

"Yes, it is strange."

"Now, Watson, make an effort, throw your mind back.  Can you see
those tracks upon the path?"

"Yes, I can."

"Can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that,
Watson"--he arranged a number of bread-crumbs in this fashion--
: : : : :--"and sometimes like this"--: . : . : . : .--"and
occasionally like this"--. : . : . : .  "Can you remember that?"

"No, I cannot."

"But I can.  I could swear to it.  However, we will go back at our
leisure and verify it.  What a blind beetle I have been, not to
draw my conclusion."

"And what is your conclusion?"

"Only that it is a remarkable cow which walks, canters, and
gallops.  By George!  Watson, it was no brain of a country
publican that thought out such a blind as that.  The coast seems
to be clear, save for that lad in the smithy.  Let us slip out
and see what we can see."

There were two rough-haired, unkempt horses in the tumble-down
stable.  Holmes raised the hind leg of one of them and laughed aloud.

"Old shoes, but newly shod--old shoes, but new nails.  This case
deserves to be a classic.  Let us go across to the smithy."

The lad continued his work without regarding us.  I saw Holmes's
eye darting to right and left among the litter of iron and wood
which was scattered about the floor.  Suddenly, however, we heard
a step behind us, and there was the landlord, his heavy eyebrows
drawn over his savage eyes, his swarthy features convulsed with
passion.  He held a short, metal-headed stick in his hand, and he
advanced in so menacing a fashion that I was right glad to feel
the revolver in my pocket.

"You infernal spies!" the man cried.  "What are you doing there?"

"Why, Mr. Reuben Hayes," said Holmes, coolly, "one might think
that you were afraid of our finding something out."

The man mastered himself with a violent effort, and his grim
mouth loosened into a false laugh, which was more menacing than
his frown.

"You're welcome to all you can find out in my smithy," said he. 
"But look here, mister, I don't care for folk poking about my
place without my leave, so the sooner you pay your score and get
out of this the better I shall be pleased."

"All right, Mr. Hayes, no harm meant," said Holmes.  "We have
been having a look at your horses, but I think I'll walk, after
all.  It's not far, I believe."

"Not more than two miles to the Hall gates.  That's the road to
the left."  He watched us with sullen eyes until we had left his
premises.

We did not go very far along the road, for Holmes stopped the
instant that the curve hid us from the landlord's view.

"We were warm, as the children say, at that inn," said he.  "I
seem to grow colder every step that I take away from it.  No, no,
I can't possibly leave it."

"I am convinced," said I, "that this Reuben Hayes knows all
about it.  A more self-evident villain I never saw."

"Oh! he impressed you in that way, did he?  There are the horses,
there is the smithy.  Yes, it is an interesting place, this
Fighting Cock.  I think we shall have another look at it in an
unobtrusive way."

A long, sloping hillside, dotted with gray limestone boulders,
stretched behind us.  We had turned off the road, and were making
our way up the hill, when, looking in the direction of
Holdernesse Hall, I saw a cyclist coming swiftly along.

"Get down, Watson!" cried Holmes, with a heavy hand upon my
shoulder.  We had hardly sunk from view when the man flew past us
on the road.  Amid a rolling cloud of dust, I caught a glimpse of
a pale, agitated face--a face with horror in every lineament,
the mouth open, the eyes staring wildly in front.  It was like
some strange caricature of the dapper James Wilder whom we had
seen the night before.

"The Duke's secretary!" cried Holmes.  "Come, Watson, let us see
what he does."

We scrambled from rock to rock, until in a few moments we had
made our way to a point from which we could see the front door
of the inn.  Wilder's bicycle was leaning against the wall beside
it.  No one was moving about the house, nor could we catch a
glimpse of any faces at the windows.  Slowly the twilight crept
down as the sun sank behind the high towers of Holdernesse Hall. 
Then, in the gloom, we saw the two side-lamps of a trap light up
in the stable-yard of the inn, and shortly afterwards heard the
rattle of hoofs, as it wheeled out into the road and tore off at
a furious pace in the direction of Chesterfield.

"What do you make of that, Watson?" Holmes whispered.

"It looks like a flight."

"A single man in a dog-cart, so far as I could see.  Well, it
certainly was not Mr. James Wilder, for there he is at the door."

A red square of light had sprung out of the darkness.  In the
middle of it was the black figure of the secretary, his head
advanced, peering out into the night.  It was evident that he was
expecting someone.  Then at last there were steps in the road, a
second figure was visible for an instant against the light, the
door shut, and all was black once more.  Five minutes later a
lamp was lit in a room upon the first floor.

"It seems to be a curious class of custom that is done by the
Fighting Cock," said Holmes.

"The bar is on the other side."

"Quite so.  These are what one may call the private guests.  Now,
what in the world is Mr. James Wilder doing in that den at this
hour of night, and who is the companion who comes to meet him
there?  Come, Watson, we must really take a risk and try to
investigate this a little more closely."

Together we stole down to the road and crept across to the door
of the inn.  The bicycle still leaned against the wall.  Holmes
struck a match and held it to the back wheel, and I heard him
chuckle as the light fell upon a patched Dunlop tire.  Up above
us was the lighted window.

"I must have a peep through that, Watson.  If you bend your back
and support yourself upon the wall, I think that I can manage."

An instant later, his feet were on my shoulders, but he was
hardly up before he was down again.

"Come, my friend," said he, "our day's work has been quite long
enough.  I think that we have gathered all that we can.  It's a
long walk to the school, and the sooner we get started the better."

He hardly opened his lips during that weary trudge across the
moor, nor would he enter the school when he reached it, but went
on to Mackleton Station, whence he could send some telegrams. 
Late at night I heard him consoling Dr. Huxtable, prostrated by
the tragedy of his master's death, and later still he entered my
room as alert and vigorous as he had been when he started in the
morning.  "All goes well, my friend," said he.  "I promise that
before to-morrow evening we shall have reached the solution of
the mystery."

At eleven o'clock next morning my friend and I were walking up
the famous yew avenue of Holdernesse Hall.  We were ushered
through the magnificent Elizabethan doorway and into his Grace's
study.  There we found Mr. James Wilder, demure and courtly, but
with some trace of that wild terror of the night before still
lurking in his furtive eyes and in his twitching features.

"You have come to see his Grace?  I am sorry, but the fact is
that the Duke is far from well.  He has been very much upset by
the tragic news.  We received a telegram from Dr. Huxtable
yesterday afternoon, which told us of your discovery."

"I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder."

"But he is in his room."

"Then I must go to his room."

"I believe he is in his bed."

"I will see him there."

Holmes's cold and inexorable manner showed the secretary that it
was useless to argue with him.

"Very good, Mr. Holmes, I will tell him that you are here."

After an hour's delay, the great nobleman appeared.  His face was
more cadaverous than ever, his shoulders had rounded, and he
seemed to me to be an altogether older man than he had been the
morning before.  He greeted us with a stately courtesy and seated
himself at his desk, his red beard streaming down on the table.

"Well, Mr. Holmes?" said he.

But my friend's eyes were fixed upon the secretary, who stood by
his master's chair.

"I think, your Grace, that I could speak more freely in Mr.
Wilder's absence."

The man turned a shade paler and cast a malignant glance at Holmes.

"If your Grace wishes----"

"Yes, yes, you had better go.  Now, Mr. Holmes, what have you to say?"

My friend waited until the door had closed behind the retreating
secretary.

"The fact is, your Grace," said he, "that my colleague, Dr.
Watson, and myself had an assurance from Dr. Huxtable that a
reward had been offered in this case.  I should like to have this
confirmed from your own lips."

"Certainly, Mr. Holmes."

"It amounted, if I am correctly informed, to five thousand
pounds to anyone who will tell you where your son is?"

"Exactly."

"And another thousand to the man who will name the person or
persons who keep him in custody?"

"Exactly."

"Under the latter heading is included, no doubt, not only those
who may have taken him away, but also those who conspire to keep
him in his present position?"

"Yes, yes," cried the Duke, impatiently.  "If you do your work
well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you will have no reason to complain
of niggardly treatment."

My friend rubbed his thin hands together with an appearance of
avidity which was a surprise to me, who knew his frugal tastes.

"I fancy that I see your Grace's check-book upon the table,"
said he.  "I should be glad if you would make me out a check for
six thousand pounds.  It would be as well, perhaps, for you to
cross it.  The Capital and Counties Bank, Oxford Street branch
are my agents."

His Grace sat very stern and upright in his chair and looked
stonily at my friend.

"Is this a joke, Mr. Holmes?  It is hardly a subject for pleasantry."

"Not at all, your Grace.  I was never more earnest in my life."

"What do you mean, then?"

"I mean that I have earned the reward.  I know where your son is,
and I know some, at least, of those who are holding him."

The Duke's beard had turned more aggressively red than ever
against his ghastly white face.

"Where is he?" he gasped.

"He is, or was last night, at the Fighting Cock Inn, about two
miles from your park gate."

The Duke fell back in his chair.

"And whom do you accuse?"

Sherlock Holmes's answer was an astounding one.  He stepped
swiftly forward and touched the Duke upon the shoulder.

"I accuse YOU," said he.  "And now, your Grace, I'll trouble you
for that check."

Never shall I forget the Duke's appearance as he sprang up and
clawed with his hands, like one who is sinking into an abyss. 
Then, with an extraordinary effort of aristocratic self-command,
he sat down and sank his face in his hands.  It was some minutes
before he spoke.

"How much do you know?" he asked at last, without raising his head.

"I saw you together last night."

"Does anyone else beside your friend know?"

"I have spoken to no one."

The Duke took a pen in his quivering fingers and opened his
check-book.

"I shall be as good as my word, Mr. Holmes.  I am about to write
your check, however unwelcome the information which you have
gained may be to me.  When the offer was first made, I little
thought the turn which events might take.  But you and your
friend are men of discretion, Mr. Holmes?"

"I hardly understand your Grace."

"I must put it plainly, Mr. Holmes.  If only you two know of this
incident, there is no reason why it should go any farther.  I
think twelve thousand pounds is the sum that I owe you, is it not?"

But Holmes smiled and shook his head.

"I fear, your Grace, that matters can hardly be arranged so easily. 
There is the death of this schoolmaster to be accounted for."

"But James knew nothing of that.  You cannot hold him responsible
for that.  It was the work of this brutal ruffian whom he had the
misfortune to employ."

"I must take the view, your Grace, that when a man embarks upon
a crime, he is morally guilty of any other crime which may
spring from it."

"Morally, Mr. Holmes.  No doubt you are right.  But surely not in
the eyes of the law.  A man cannot be condemned for a murder at
which he was not present, and which he loathes and abhors as
much as you do.  The instant that he heard of it he made a
complete confession to me, so filled was he with horror and
remorse.  He lost not an hour in breaking entirely with the
murderer.  Oh, Mr. Holmes, you must save him--you must save him!
I tell you that you must save him!"  The Duke had dropped the
last attempt at self-command, and was pacing the room with a
convulsed face and with his clenched hands raving in the air.  At
last he mastered himself and sat down once more at his desk.  "I
appreciate your conduct in coming here before you spoke to
anyone else," said he.  "At least, we may take counsel how far we
can minimize this hideous scandal."

"Exactly," said Holmes.  "I think, your Grace, that this can only
be done by absolute frankness between us.  I am disposed to help
your Grace to the best of my ability, but, in order to do so, I
must understand to the last detail how the matter stands.  I
realize that your words applied to Mr. James Wilder, and that he
is not the murderer."

"No, the murderer has escaped."

Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.

"Your Grace can hardly have heard of any small reputation which
I possess, or you would not imagine that it is so easy to escape
me.  Mr. Reuben Hayes was arrested at Chesterfield, on my
information, at eleven o'clock last night.  I had a telegram from
the head of the local police before I left the school this morning."

The Duke leaned back in his chair and stared with amazement at
my friend.

"You seem to have powers that are hardly human," said he.  "So
Reuben Hayes is taken?  I am right glad to hear it, if it will
not react upon the fate of James."

"Your secretary?"

"No, sir, my son."

It was Holmes's turn to look astonished.

"I confess that this is entirely new to me, your Grace.  I must
beg you to be more explicit."

"I will conceal nothing from you.  I agree with you that complete
frankness, however painful it may be to me, is the best policy
in this desperate situation to which James's folly and jealousy
have reduced us.  When I was a very young man, Mr. Holmes, I
loved with such a love as comes only once in a lifetime.  I
offered the lady marriage, but she refused it on the grounds
that such a match might mar my career.  Had she lived, I would
certainly never have married anyone else.  She died, and left
this one child, whom for her sake I have cherished and cared
for.  I could not acknowledge the paternity to the world, but I
gave him the best of educations, and since he came to manhood I
have kept him near my person.  He surprised my secret, and has
presumed ever since upon the claim which he has upon me, and
upon his power of provoking a scandal which would be abhorrent
to me.  His presence had something to do with the unhappy issue
of my marriage.  Above all, he hated my young legitimate heir
from the first with a persistent hatred.  You may well ask me
why, under these circumstances, I still kept James under my
roof.  I answer that it was because I could see his mother's face
in his, and that for her dear sake there was no end to my
long-suffering.  All her pretty ways too--there was not one of
them which he could not suggest and bring back to my memory.  I
COULD not send him away.  But I feared so much lest he should do
Arthur--that is, Lord Saltire--a mischief, that I dispatched him
for safety to Dr. Huxtable's school.

"James came into contact with this fellow Hayes, because the man
was a tenant of mine, and James acted as agent.  The fellow was
a rascal from the beginning, but, in some extraordinary way,
James became intimate with him.  He had always a taste for low
company.  When James determined to kidnap Lord Saltire, it was of
this man's service that he availed himself.  You remember that I
wrote to Arthur upon that last day.  Well, James opened the
letter and inserted a note asking Arthur to meet him in a little
wood called the Ragged Shaw, which is near to the school.  He
used the Duchess's name, and in that way got the boy to come. 
That evening James bicycled over--I am telling you what he has
himself confessed to me--and he told Arthur, whom he met in the
wood, that his mother longed to see him, that she was awaiting
him on the moor, and that if he would come back into the wood at
midnight he would find a man with a horse, who would take him to
her.  Poor Arthur fell into the trap.  He came to the appointment,
and found this fellow Hayes with a led pony.  Arthur mounted, and
they set off together.  It appears--though this James only heard
yesterday--that they were pursued, that Hayes struck the pursuer
with his stick, and that the man died of his injuries.  Hayes
brought Arthur to his public-house, the Fighting Cock, where he
was confined in an upper room, under the care of Mrs. Hayes, who
is a kindly woman, but entirely under the control of her brutal
husband.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, that was the state of affairs when I first
saw you two days ago.  I had no more idea of the truth than you. 
You will ask me what was James's motive in doing such a deed.  I
answer that there was a great deal which was unreasoning and
fanatical in the hatred which he bore my heir.  In his view he
should himself have been heir of all my estates, and he deeply
resented those social laws which made it impossible.  At the same
time, he had a definite motive also.  He was eager that I should
break the entail, and he was of opinion that it lay in my power
to do so.  He intended to make a bargain with me--to restore
Arthur if I would break the entail, and so make it possible for
the estate to be left to him by will.  He knew well that I should
never willingly invoke the aid of the police against him.  I say
that he would have proposed such a bargain to me, but he did not
actually do so, for events moved too quickly for him, and he
had not time to put his plans into practice.

"What brought all his wicked scheme to wreck was your discovery
of this man Heidegger's dead body.  James was seized with horror
at the news.  It came to us yesterday, as we sat together in this
study.  Dr. Huxtable had sent a telegram.  James was so
overwhelmed with grief and agitation that my suspicions, which
had never been entirely absent, rose instantly to a certainty,
and I taxed him with the deed.  He made a complete voluntary
confession.  Then he implored me to keep his secret for three
days longer, so as to give his wretched accomplice a chance of
saving his guilty life.  I yielded--as I have always yielded--to
his prayers, and instantly James hurried off to the Fighting
Cock to warn Hayes and give him the means of flight.  I could not
go there by daylight without provoking comment, but as soon as
night fell I hurried off to see my dear Arthur.  I found him safe
and well, but horrified beyond expression by the dreadful deed
he had witnessed.  In deference to my promise, and much against
my will, I consented to leave him there for three days, under
the charge of Mrs. Hayes, since it was evident that it was
impossible to inform the police where he was without telling
them also who was the murderer, and I could not see how that
murderer could be punished without ruin to my unfortunate James. 
You asked for frankness, Mr. Holmes, and I have taken you at
your word, for I have now told you everything without an attempt
at circumlocution or concealment.  Do you in turn be as frank
with me."

"I will," said Holmes.  "In the first place, your Grace, I am
bound to tell you that you have placed yourself in a most
serious position in the eyes of the law.  You have condoned a
felony, and you have aided the escape of a murderer, for I
cannot doubt that any money which was taken by James Wilder to
aid his accomplice in his flight came from your Grace's purse."

The Duke bowed his assent.

"This is, indeed, a most serious matter.  Even more culpable in
my opinion, your Grace, is your attitude towards your younger
son.  You leave him in this den for three days."

"Under solemn promises----"

"What are promises to such people as these?  You have no
guarantee that he will not be spirited away again.  To humour
your guilty elder son, you have exposed your innocent younger
son to imminent and unnecessary danger.  It was a most
unjustifiable action."

The proud lord of Holdernesse was not accustomed to be so rated
in his own ducal hall.  The blood flushed into his high forehead,
but his conscience held him dumb.

"I will help you, but on one condition only.  It is that you ring
for the footman and let me give such orders as I like."

Without a word, the Duke pressed the electric bell.  A servant entered.

"You will be glad to hear," said Holmes, "that your young master
is found.  It is the Duke's desire that the carriage shall go at
once to the Fighting Cock Inn to bring Lord Saltire home.

"Now," said Holmes, when the rejoicing lackey had disappeared,
"having secured the future, we can afford to be more lenient
with the past.  I am not in an official position, and there is no
reason, so long as the ends of justice are served, why I should
disclose all that I know.  As to Hayes, I say nothing.  The
gallows awaits him, and I would do nothing to save him from it. 
What he will divulge I cannot tell, but I have no doubt that
your Grace could make him understand that it is to his interest
to be silent.  From the police point of view he will have
kidnapped the boy for the purpose of ransom.  If they do not
themselves find it out, I see no reason why I should prompt them
to take a broader point of view.  I would warn your Grace,
however, that the continued presence of Mr. James Wilder in your
household can only lead to misfortune."

"I understand that, Mr. Holmes, and it is already settled that he
shall leave me forever, and go to seek his fortune in Australia."

"In that case, your Grace, since you have yourself stated that
any unhappiness in your married life was caused by his presence
I would suggest that you make such amends as you can to the
Duchess, and that you try to resume those relations which have
been so unhappily interrupted."

"That also I have arranged, Mr. Holmes.  I wrote to the Duchess
this morning."

"In that case," said Holmes, rising, "I think that my friend and
I can congratulate ourselves upon several most happy results
from our little visit to the North.  There is one other small
point upon which I desire some light.  This fellow Hayes had shod
his horses with shoes which counterfeited the tracks of cows. 
Was it from Mr. Wilder that he learned so extraordinary a device?"

The Duke stood in thought for a moment, with a look of intense
surprise on his face.  Then he opened a door and showed us into
a large room furnished as a museum.  He led the way to a glass
case in a corner, and pointed to the inscription.

"These shoes," it ran, "were dug up in the moat of Holdernesse
Hall.  They are for the use of horses, but they are shaped below
with a cloven foot of iron, so as to throw pursuers off the
track.  They are supposed to have belonged to some of the
marauding Barons of Holdernesse in the Middle Ages."

Holmes opened the case, and moistening his finger he passed it
along the shoe.  A thin film of recent mud was left upon his skin.

"Thank you," said he, as he replaced the glass.  "It is the
second most interesting object that I have seen in the North."

"And the first?"

Holmes folded up his check and placed it carefully in his
notebook.  "I am a poor man," said he, as he patted it
affectionately, and thrust it into the depths of his inner
pocket.




THE ADVENTURE OF BLACK PETER



I have never known my friend to be in better form, both mental
and physical, than in the year '95.  His increasing fame had
brought with it an immense practice, and I should be guilty of
an indiscretion if I were even to hint at the identity of some
of the illustrious clients who crossed our humble threshold in
Baker Street.  Holmes, however, like all great artists, lived for
his art's sake, and, save in the case of the Duke of
Holdernesse, I have seldom known him claim any large reward for
his inestimable services.  So unworldly was he--or so capricious--
that he frequently refused his help to the powerful and wealthy
where the problem made no appeal to his sympathies, while he
would devote weeks of most intense application to the affairs of
some humble client whose case presented those strange and
dramatic qualities which appealed to his imagination and
challenged his ingenuity.

In this memorable year '95, a curious and incongruous succession
of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous
investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca--an inquiry
which was carried out by him at the express desire of His
Holiness the Pope--down to his arrest of Wilson, the notorious
canary-trainer, which removed a plague-spot from the East End of
London.  Close on the heels of these two famous cases came the
tragedy of Woodman's Lee, and the very obscure circumstances
which surrounded the death of Captain Peter Carey.  No record of
the doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be complete which did
not include some account of this very unusual affair.

During the first week of July, my friend had been absent so
often and so long from our lodgings that I knew he had something
on hand.  The fact that several rough-looking men called during
that time and inquired for Captain Basil made me understand that
Holmes was working somewhere under one of the numerous disguises
and names with which he concealed his own formidable identity. 
He had at least five small refuges in different parts of London,
in which he was able to change his personality.  He said nothing
of his business to me, and it was not my habit to force a
confidence.  The first positive sign which he gave me of the
direction which his investigation was taking was an
extraordinary one.  He had gone out before breakfast, and I had
sat down to mine when he strode into the room, his hat upon his
head and a huge barbed-headed spear tucked like an umbrella
under his arm.

"Good gracious, Holmes!" I cried.  "You don't mean to say that
you have been walking about London with that thing?"

"I drove to the butcher's and back."

"The butcher's?"

"And I return with an excellent appetite.  There can be no
question, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before
breakfast.  But I am prepared to bet that you will not guess the
form that my exercise has taken."

"I will not attempt it."

He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.

"If you could have looked into Allardyce's back shop, you would
have seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling, and a
gentleman in his shirt sleeves furiously stabbing at it with
this weapon.  I was that energetic person, and I have satisfied
myself that by no exertion of my strength can I transfix the pig
with a single blow.  Perhaps you would care to try?"

"Not for worlds.  But why were you doing this?"

"Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon the
mystery of Woodman's Lee.  Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire last
night, and I have been expecting you.  Come and join us."

Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of age,
dressed in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing
of one who was accustomed to official uniform.  I recognized him
at once as Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector, for whose
future Holmes had high hopes, while he in turn professed the
admiration and respect of a pupil for the scientific methods of
the famous amateur.  Hopkins's brow was clouded, and he sat down
with an air of deep dejection.

"No, thank you, sir.  I breakfasted before I came round.  I spent
the night in town, for I came up yesterday to report."

"And what had you to report?"

"Failure, sir, absolute failure."

"You have made no progress?"

"None."

"Dear me!  I must have a look at the matter."

"I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes.  It's my first big
chance, and I am at my wit's end.  For goodness' sake, come down
and lend me a hand."

"Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all the
available evidence, including the report of the inquest, with
some care.  By the way, what do you make of that tobacco pouch,
found on the scene of the crime?  Is there no clue there?"

Hopkins looked surprised.

"It was the man's own pouch, sir.  His initials were inside it. 
And it was of sealskin,--and he was an old sealer."

"But he had no pipe."

"No, sir, we could find no pipe.  Indeed, he smoked very little,
and yet he might have kept some tobacco for his friends."

"No doubt.  I only mention it because, if I had been handling the
case, I should have been inclined to make that the
starting-point of my investigation.  However, my friend, Dr.
Watson, knows nothing of this matter, and I should be none the
worse for hearing the sequence of events once more.  Just give us
some short sketches of the essentials."

Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

"I have a few dates here which will give you the career of the
dead man, Captain Peter Carey.  He was born in '45--fifty years
of age.  He was a most daring and successful seal and whale
fisher.  In 1883 he commanded the steam sealer SEA UNICORN, of
Dundee.  He had then had several successful voyages in
succession, and in the following year, 1884, he retired.  After
that he travelled for some years, and finally he bought a small
place called Woodman's Lee, near Forest Row, in Sussex.  There he
has lived for six years, and there he died just a week ago to-day.

"There were some most singular points about the man.  In ordinary
life, he was a strict Puritan--a silent, gloomy fellow.  His
household consisted of his wife, his daughter, aged twenty, and
two female servants.  These last were continually changing, for
it was never a very cheery situation, and sometimes it became
past all bearing.  The man was an intermittent drunkard, and when
he had the fit on him he was a perfect fiend.  He has been known
to drive his wife and daughter out of doors in the middle of the
night and flog them through the park until the whole village
outside the gates was aroused by their screams.

"He was summoned once for a savage assault upon the old vicar,
who had called upon him to remonstrate with him upon his
conduct.  In short, Mr. Holmes, you would go far before you found
a more dangerous man than Peter Carey, and I have heard that he
bore the same character when he commanded his ship.  He was known
in the trade as Black Peter, and the name was given him, not
only on account of his swarthy features and the colour of his
huge beard, but for the humours which were the terror of all
around him.  I need not say that he was loathed and avoided by
every one of his neighbours, and that I have not heard one
single word of sorrow about his terrible end.

"You must have read in the account of the inquest about the
man's cabin, Mr. Holmes, but perhaps your friend here has not
heard of it.  He had built himself a wooden outhouse--he always
called it the `cabin'--a few hundred yards from his house, and
it was here that he slept every night.  It was a little,
single-roomed hut, sixteen feet by ten.  He kept the key in his
pocket, made his own bed, cleaned it himself, and allowed no
other foot to cross the threshold.  There are small windows on
each side, which were covered by curtains and never opened.  One
of these windows was turned towards the high road, and when the
light burned in it at night the folk used to point it out to
each other and wonder what Black Peter was doing in there. 
That's the window, Mr. Holmes, which gave us one of the few bits
of positive evidence that came out at the inquest.

"You remember that a stonemason, named Slater, walking from
Forest Row about one o'clock in the morning--two days before the
murder--stopped as he passed the grounds and looked at the
square of light still shining among the trees.  He swears that
the shadow of a man's head turned sideways was clearly visible
on the blind, and that this shadow was certainly not that of
Peter Carey, whom he knew well.  It was that of a bearded man,
but the beard was short and bristled forward in a way very
different from that of the captain.  So he says, but he had been
two hours in the public-house, and it is some distance from the
road to the window.  Besides, this refers to the Monday, and the
crime was done upon the Wednesday.

"On the Tuesday, Peter Carey was in one of his blackest moods,
flushed with drink and as savage as a dangerous wild beast.  He
roamed about the house, and the women ran for it when they heard
him coming.  Late in the evening, he went down to his own hut. 
About two o'clock the following morning, his daughter, who slept
with her window open, heard a most fearful yell from that
direction, but it was no unusual thing for him to bawl and shout
when he was in drink, so no notice was taken.  On rising at
seven, one of the maids noticed that the door of the hut was
open, but so great was the terror which the man caused that it
was midday before anyone would venture down to see what had
become of him.  Peeping into the open door, they saw a sight
which sent them flying, with white faces, into the village. 
Within an hour, I was on the spot and had taken over the case.

"Well, I have fairly steady nerves, as you know, Mr. Holmes, but
I give you my word, that I got a shake when I put my head into
that little house.  It was droning like a harmonium with the
flies and bluebottles, and the floor and walls were like a
slaughter-house.  He had called it a cabin, and a cabin it was,
sure enough, for you would have thought that you were in a ship. 
There was a bunk at one end, a sea-chest, maps and charts, a
picture of the SEA UNICORN, a line of logbooks on a shelf, all
exactly as one would expect to find it in a captain's room.  And
there, in the middle of it, was the man himself--his face
twisted like a lost soul in torment, and his great brindled
beard stuck upward in his agony.  Right through his broad breast
a steel harpoon had been driven, and it had sunk deep into the
wood of the wall behind him.  He was pinned like a beetle on a
card.  Of course, he was quite dead, and had been so from the
instant that he had uttered that last yell of agony.

"I know your methods, sir, and I applied them.  Before I
permitted anything to be moved, I examined most carefully the
ground outside, and also the floor of the room.  There were no
footmarks."

"Meaning that you saw none?"

"I assure you, sir, that there were none."

"My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes, but I have
never yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature.  As
long as the criminal remains upon two legs so long must there be
some indentation, some abrasion, some trifling displacement
which can be detected by the scientific searcher.  It is
incredible that this blood-bespattered room contained no trace
which could have aided us.  I understand, however, from the
inquest that there were some objects which you failed to overlook?"

The young inspector winced at my companion's ironical comments.

"I was a fool not to call you in at the time Mr. Holmes. 
However, that's past praying for now.  Yes, there were several
objects in the room which called for special attention.  One was
the harpoon with which the deed was committed.  It had been
snatched down from a rack on the wall.  Two others remained
there, and there was a vacant place for the third.  On the stock
was engraved `SS. SEA UNICORN, Dundee.'  This seemed to establish
that the crime had been done in a moment of fury, and that the
murderer had seized the first weapon which came in his way.  The
fact that the crime was committed at two in the morning, and yet
Peter Carey was fully dressed, suggested that he had an
appointment with the murderer, which is borne out by the fact
that a bottle of rum and two dirty glasses stood upon the table."

"Yes," said Holmes; "I think that both inferences are
permissible.  Was there any other spirit but rum in the room?"

"Yes, there was a tantalus containing brandy and whisky on the
sea-chest.  It is of no importance to us, however, since the
decanters were full, and it had therefore not been used."

"For all that, its presence has some significance," said Holmes. 
"However, let us hear some more about the objects which do seem
to you to bear upon the case."

"There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table."

"What part of the table?"

"It lay in the middle.  It was of coarse sealskin--the
straight-haired skin, with a leather thong to bind it.  Inside
was `P.C.' on the flap.  There was half an ounce of strong ship's
tobacco in it."

"Excellent!  What more?"

Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered notebook. 
The outside was rough and worn, the leaves discoloured.  On the
first page were written the initials "J.H.N." and the date
"1883."  Holmes laid it on the table and examined it in his
minute way, while Hopkins and I gazed over each shoulder.  On the
second page were the printed letters "C.P.R.," and then came
several sheets of numbers.  Another heading was "Argentine,"
another "Costa Rica," and another "San Paulo," each with pages
of signs and figures after it.

"What do you make of these?" asked Holmes.

"They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities.  I thought
that `J.H.N.' were the initials of a broker, and that `C.P.R.'
may have been his client."

"Try Canadian Pacific Railway," said Holmes.

Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth, and struck his thigh
with his clenched hand.

"What a fool I have been!" he cried.  "Of course, it is as you
say.  Then `J.H.N.' are the only initials we have to solve.  I
have already examined the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can
find no one in 1883, either in the house or among the outside
brokers, whose initials correspond with these.  Yet I feel that
the clue is the most important one that I hold.  You will admit,
Mr. Holmes, that there is a possibility that these initials are
those of the second person who was present--in other words, of
the murderer.  I would also urge that the introduction into the
case of a document relating to large masses of valuable
securities gives us for the first time some indication of a
motive for the crime."

Sherlock Holmes's face showed that he was thoroughly taken aback
by this new development.

"I must admit both your points," said he.  "I confess that this
notebook, which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any
views which I may have formed.  I had come to a theory of the
crime in which I can find no place for this.  Have you
endeavoured to trace any of the securities here mentioned?"

"Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that
the complete register of the stockholders of these South
American concerns is in South America, and that some weeks must
elapse before we can trace the shares."

Holmes had been examining the cover of the notebook with his
magnifying lens.

"Surely there is some discolouration here," said he.

"Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain.  I told you that I picked the
book off the floor."

"Was the blood-stain above or below?"

"On the side next the boards."

"Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the
crime was committed."

"Exactly, Mr. Holmes.  I appreciated that point, and I
conjectured that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried
flight.  It lay near the door."

"I suppose that none of these securities have been found among
the property of the dead man?"

"No, sir."

"Have you any reason to suspect robbery?"

"No, sir.  Nothing seemed to have been touched."

"Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case.  Then there
was a knife, was there not?"

"A sheath-knife, still in its sheath.  It lay at the feet of the
dead man.  Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband's
property."

Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

"Well," said he, at last, "I suppose I shall have to come out
and have a look at it."

Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.

"Thank you, sir.  That will, indeed, be a weight off my mind."

Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

"It would have been an easier task a week ago," said he.  "But
even now my visit may not be entirely fruitless.  Watson, if you
can spare the time, I should be very glad of your company.  If
you will call a four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to
start for Forest Row in a quarter of an hour."

Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles
through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of
that great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at
bay--the impenetrable "weald," for sixty years the bulwark of
Britain.  Vast sections of it have been cleared, for this is the
seat of the first iron-works of the country, and the trees have
been felled to smelt the ore.  Now the richer fields of the North
have absorbed the trade, and nothing save these ravaged groves
and great scars in the earth show the work of the past.  Here, in
a clearing upon the green slope of a hill, stood a long, low,
stone house, approached by a curving drive running through the
fields.  Nearer the road, and surrounded on three sides by
bushes, was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing in
our direction.  It was the scene of the murder.

Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced
us to a haggard, gray-haired woman, the widow of the murdered
man, whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of
terror in the depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years
of hardship and ill-usage which she had endured.  With her was
her daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed
defiantly at us as she told us that she was glad that her father
was dead, and that she blessed the hand which had struck him
down.  It was a terrible household that Black Peter Carey had
made for himself, and it was with a sense of relief that we
found ourselves in the sunlight again and making our way along
a path which had been worn across the fields by the feet of the
dead man.

The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the
farther side.  Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket and
had stooped to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention
and surprise upon his face.

Somone has been tampering with it," he said.

There could be no doubt of the fact.  The woodwork was cut, and
the scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had
been that instant done.  Holmes had been examining the window.

"Someone has tried to force this also.  Whoever it was has failed
to make his way in.  He must have been a very poor burglar."

"This is a most extraordinary thing," said the inspector, "I
could swear that these marks were not here yesterday evening."

"Some curious person from the village, perhaps," I suggested.

"Very unlikely.  Few of them would dare to set foot in the
grounds, far less try to force their way into the cabin.  What do
you think of it, Mr. Holmes?"

"I think that fortune is very kind to us."

"You mean that the person will come again?"

"It is very probable.  He came expecting to find the door open. 
He tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife.  He
could not manage it.  What would he do?"

"Come again next night with a more useful tool."

"So I should say.  It will be our fault if we are not there to
receive him.  Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin."

The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture
within the little room still stood as it had been on the night
of the crime.  For two hours, with most intense concentration,
Holmes examined every object in turn, but his face showed that
his quest was not a successful one.  Once only he paused in his
patient investigation.

"Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?"

"No, I have moved nothing."

"Something has been taken.  There is less dust in this corner of
the shelf than elsewhere.  It may have been a book lying on its
side.  It may have been a box.  Well, well, I can do nothing more. 
Let us walk in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few
hours to the birds and the flowers.  We shall meet you here
later, Hopkins, and see if we can come to closer quarters with
the gentleman who has paid this visit in the night."

It was past eleven o'clock when we formed our little ambuscade. 
Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was
of the opinion that this would rouse the suspicions of the
stranger.  The lock was a perfectly simple one, and only a strong
blade was needed to push it back.  Holmes also suggested that we
should wait, not inside the hut, but outside it, among the
bushes which grew round the farther window.  In this way we
should be able to watch our man if he struck a light, and see
what his object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.

It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it
something of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies
beside the water-pool, and waits for the coming of the thirsty
beast of prey.  What savage creature was it which might steal
upon us out of the darkness?  Was it a fierce tiger of crime,
which could only be taken fighting hard with flashing fang and
claw, or would it prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous
only to the weak and unguarded?

In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for
whatever might come.  At first the steps of a few belated
villagers, or the sound of voices from the village, lightened
our vigil, but one by one these interruptions died away, and an
absolute stillness fell upon us, save for the chimes of the
distant church, which told us of the progress of the night, and
for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid the
foliage which roofed us in.

Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which
precedes the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click
came from the direction of the gate.  Someone had entered the
drive.  Again there was a long silence, and I had begun to fear
that it was a false alarm, when a stealthy step was heard upon
the other side of the hut, and a moment later a metallic
scraping and clinking.  The man was trying to force the lock. 
This time his skill was greater or his tool was better, for
there was a sudden snap and the creak of the hinges.  Then a
match was struck, and next instant the steady light from a
candle filled the interior of the hut.  Through the gauze curtain
our eyes were all riveted upon the scene within.

The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a
black moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his
face.  He could not have been much above twenty years of age.  I
have never seen any human being who appeared to be in such a
pitiable fright, for his teeth were visibly chattering, and he
was shaking in every limb.  He was dressed like a gentleman, in
Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon his
head.  We watched him staring round with frightened eyes.  Then he
laid the candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view
into one of the corners.  He returned with a large book, one of
the logbooks which formed a line upon the shelves.  Leaning on
the table, he rapidly turned over the leaves of this volume
until he came to the entry which he sought.  Then, with an angry
gesture of his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it in
the corner, and put out the light.  He had hardly turned to leave
the hut when Hopkin's hand was on the fellow's collar, and I heard
his loud gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken.  The
candle was relit, and there was our wretched captive, shivering and
cowering in the grasp of the detective.  He sank down upon the
sea-chest, and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.

"Now, my fine fellow," said Stanley Hopkins, "who are you, and
what do you want here?"

The man pulled himself together, and faced us with an effort at
self-composure.

"You are detectives, I suppose?" said he.  "You imagine I am
connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey.  I assure you
that I am innocent."

"We'll see about that," said Hopkins.  "First of all, what is
your name?"

"It is John Hopley Neligan."

I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

"What are you doing here?"

"Can I speak confidentially?"

"No, certainly not."

"Why should I tell you?"

"If you have no answer, it may go badly with you at the trial."

The young man winced.

"Well, I will tell you," he said.  "Why should I not?  And yet I
hate to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life. 
Did you ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?"

I could see, from Hopkins's face, that he never had, but Holmes
was keenly interested.

"You mean the West Country bankers," said he.  "They failed for
a million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and
Neligan disappeared."

"Exactly.  Neligan was my father."

At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a
long gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey
pinned against the wall with one of his own harpoons.  We all
listened intently to the young man's words.

"It was my father who was really concerned.  Dawson had retired. 
I was only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to
feel the shame and horror of it all.  It has always been said
that my father stole all the securities and fled.  It is not
true.  It was his belief that if he were given time in which to
realize them, all would be well and every creditor paid in full. 
He started in his little yacht for Norway just before the
warrant was issued for his arrest.  I can remember that last
night when he bade farewell to my mother.  He left us a list of
the securities he was taking, and he swore that he would come
back with his honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him
would suffer.  Well, no word was ever heard from him again.  Both
the yacht and he vanished utterly.  We believed, my mother and I,
that he and it, with the securities that he had taken with him,
were at the bottom of the sea.  We had a faithful friend,
however, who is a business man, and it was he who discovered
some time ago that some of the securities which my father had
with him had reappeared on the London market.  You can imagine
our amazement.  I spent months in trying to trace them, and at
last, after many doubtings and difficulties, I discovered that
the original seller had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of
this hut.

"Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man.  I found that he
had been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the
Arctic seas at the very time when my father was crossing to
Norway.  The autumn of that year was a stormy one, and there was
a long succession of southerly gales.  My father's yacht may well
have been blown to the north, and there met by Captain Peter
Carey's ship.  If that were so, what had become of my father?  In
any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey's evidence how these
securities came on the market it would be a proof that my father
had not sold them, and that he had no view to personal profit
when he took them.

"I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain,
but it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred.  I
read at the inquest a description of his cabin, in which it
stated that the old logbooks of his vessel were preserved in it. 
It struck me that if I could see what occurred in the month of
August, 1883, on board the SEA UNICORN, I might settle the
mystery of my father's fate.  I tried last night to get at these
logbooks, but was unable to open the door.  To-night I tried
again and succeeded, but I find that the pages which deal with
that month have been torn from the book.  It was at that moment
I found myself a prisoner in your hands."

"Is that all?" asked Hopkins.

"Yes, that is all."  His eyes shifted as he said it.

"You have nothing else to tell us?"

He hesitated.

"No, there is nothing."

"You have not been here before last night?"

"No.

"Then how do you account for THAT?" cried Hopkins, as he held up
the damning notebook, with the initials of our prisoner on the
first leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.

The wretched man collapsed.  He sank his face in his hands, and
trembled all over.

"Where did you get it?" he groaned.  "I did not know.  I thought
I had lost it at the hotel."

"That is enough," said Hopkins, sternly.  "Whatever else you have
to say, you must say in court.  You will walk down with me now to
the police-station.  Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to
you and to your friend for coming down to help me.  As it turns
out your presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought the
case to this successful issue without you, but, none the less,
I am grateful.  Rooms have been reserved for you at the
Brambletye Hotel, so we can all walk down to the village together."

"Well, Watson, what do you think of it?" asked Holmes, as we
travelled back next morning.

"I can see that you are not satisfied."

"Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied.  At the same
time, Stanley Hopkins's methods do not commend themselves to me. 
I am disappointed in Stanley Hopkins.  I had hoped for better
things from him.  One should always look for a possible
alternative, and provide against it.  It is the first rule of
criminal investigation."

"What, then, is the alternative?"

"The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing.  It
may give us nothing.  I cannot tell.  But at least I shall follow
it to the end."

Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street.  He
snatched one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a
triumphant chuckle of laughter.

"Excellent, Watson!  The alternative develops.  Have you telegraph
forms?  Just write a couple of messages for me:  `Sumner, Shipping
Agent, Ratcliff Highway.  Send three men on, to arrive ten
to-morrow morning.--Basil.'  That's my name in those parts.  The
other is:  `Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46 Lord Street, Brixton. 
Come breakfast to-morrow at nine-thirty.  Important.  Wire if
unable to come.--Sherlock Holmes.'  There, Watson, this infernal
case has haunted me for ten days.  I hereby banish it completely
from my presence.  To-morrow, I trust that we shall hear the last
of it forever."

Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and
we sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs.
Hudson had prepared.  The young detective was in high spirits at
his success.

"You really think that your solution must be correct?" asked Holmes.

"I could not imagine a more complete case."

"It did not seem to me conclusive."

"You astonish me, Mr. Holmes.  What more could one ask for?"

"Does your explanation cover every point?"

"Undoubtedly.  I find that young Neligan arrived at the
Brambletye Hotel on the very day of the crime.  He came on the
pretence of playing golf.  His room was on the ground-floor, and
he could get out when he liked.  That very night he went down to
Woodman's Lee, saw Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him,
and killed him with the harpoon.  Then, horrified by what he had
done, he fled out of the hut, dropping the notebook which he had
brought with him in order to question Peter Carey about these
different securities.  You may have observed that some of them
were marked with ticks, and the others--the great majority--were
not.  Those which are ticked have been traced on the London
market, but the others, presumably, were still in the possession
of Carey, and young Neligan, according to his own account, was
anxious to recover them in order to do the right thing by his
father's creditors.  After his flight he did not dare to approach
the hut again for some time, but at last he forced himself to do
so in order to obtain the information which he needed.  Surely
that is all simple and obvious?"

Holmes smiled and shook his head.  "It seems to me to have only
one drawback, Hopkins, and that is that it is intrinsically
impossible.  Have you tried to drive a harpoon through a body?  
No?  Tut, tut my dear sir, you must really pay attention to these
details.  My friend Watson could tell you that I spent a whole
morning in that exercise.  It is no easy matter, and requires a
strong and practised arm.  But this blow was delivered with such
violence that the head of the weapon sank deep into the wall.  Do
you imagine that this anaemic youth was capable of so frightful
an assault?  Is he the man who hobnobbed in rum and water with
Black Peter in the dead of the night?  Was it his profile that
was seen on the blind two nights before?  No, no, Hopkins, it is
another and more formidable person for whom we must seek."

The detective's face had grown longer and longer during Holmes's
speech.  His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about
him.  But he would not abandon his position without a struggle.

"You can't deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes. 
The book will prove that.  I fancy that I have evidence enough to
satisfy a jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it. 
Besides, Mr. Holmes, I have laid my hand upon MY man.  As to this
terrible person of yours, where is he?"

"I rather fancy that he is on the stair," said Holmes, serenely. 
"I think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver
where you can reach it."  He rose and laid a written paper upon
a side-table.  "Now we are ready," said he.

There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now
Mrs. Hudson opened the door to say that there were three men
inquiring for Captain Basil.

"Show them in one by one," said Holmes.

"The first who entered was a little Ribston pippin of a man,
with ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers.  Holmes had
drawn a letter from his pocket.

"What name?" he asked.

"James Lancaster."

"I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full.  Here is half a
sovereign for your trouble.  Just step into this room and wait
there for a few minutes."

The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and
sallow cheeks.  His name was Hugh Pattins.  He also received his
dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the order to wait.

The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance.  A fierce
bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two
bold, dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted,
overhung eyebrows.  He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning
his cap round in his hands.

"Your name?" asked Holmes.

"Patrick Cairns."

"Harpooner?"

"Yes, sir.  Twenty-six voyages."

"Dundee, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir."

"And ready to start with an exploring ship?"

"Yes, sir."

"What wages?"

"Eight pounds a month."

"Could you start at once?"

"As soon as I get my kit."

"Have you your papers?"

"Yes, sir."  He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his
pocket.  Holmes glanced over them and returned them.

"You are just the man I want," said he.  "Here's the agreement on
the side-table.  If you sign it the whole matter will be settled."

The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.

"Shall I sign here?" he asked, stooping over the table.

Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his neck.

"This will do," said he.

I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull.  The
next instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground
together.  He was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with
the handcuffs which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his
wrists, he would have very quickly overpowered my friend had
Hopkins and I not rushed to his rescue.  Only when I pressed the
cold muzzle of the revolver to his temple did he at last
understand that resistance was vain.  We lashed his ankles with
cord, and rose breathless from the struggle.

"I must really apologize, Hopkins," said Sherlock Holmes.  "I
fear that the scrambled eggs are cold.  However, you will enjoy
the rest of your breakfast all the better, will you not, for the
thought that you have brought your case to a triumphant conclusion."

Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

"I don't know what to say, Mr. Holmes," he blurted out at last,
with a very red face.  "It seems to me that I have been making a
fool of myself from the beginning.  I understand now, what I
should never have forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the
master.  Even now I see what you have done, but I don't know how
you did it or what it signifies."

"Well, well," said Holmes, good-humouredly.  "We all learn by
experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never
lose sight of the alternative.  You were so absorbed in young
Neligan that you could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns,
the true murderer of Peter Carey."

The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.

"See here, mister," said he, "I make no complaint of being
man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call things by
their right names.  You say I murdered Peter Carey, I say I
KILLED Peter Carey, and there's all the difference.  Maybe you
don't believe what I say.  Maybe you think I am just slinging you
a yarn."

"Not at all," said Holmes.  "Let us hear what you have to say."

"It's soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth.  I
knew Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a
harpoon through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me. 
That's how he died.  You can call it murder.  Anyhow, I'd as soon
die with a rope round my neck as with Black Peter's knife in my
heart."

"How came you there?" asked Holmes.

"I'll tell it you from the beginning.  Just sit me up a little,
so as I can speak easy.  It was in '83 that it happened--August
of that year.  Peter Carey was master of the SEA UNICORN, and I
was spare harpooner.  We were coming out of the ice-pack on our
way home, with head winds and a week's southerly gale, when we
picked up a little craft that had been blown north.  There was
one man on her--a landsman.  The crew had thought she would
founder and had made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy.  I
guess they were all drowned.  Well, we took him on board, this
man, and he and the skipper had some long talks in the cabin. 
All the baggage we took off with him was one tin box.  So far as
I know, the man's name was never mentioned, and on the second
night he disappeared as if he had never been.  It was given out
that he had either thrown himself overboard or fallen overboard
in the heavy weather that we were having.  Only one man knew what
had happened to him, and that was me, for, with my own eyes, I
saw the skipper tip up his heels and put him over the rail in
the middle watch of a dark night, two days before we sighted the
Shetland Lights.  "Well, I kept my knowledge to myself, and
waited to see what would come of it.  When we got back to Scotland
it was easily hushed up, and nobody asked any questions.  A
stranger died by accident and it was nobody's business to
inquire.  Shortly after Peter Carey gave up the sea, and it was
long years before I could find where he was.  I guessed that he
had done the deed for the sake of what was in that tin box, and
that he could afford now to pay me well for keeping my mouth
shut.  "I found out where he was through a sailor man that had
met him in London, and down I went to squeeze him.  The first
night he was reasonable enough, and was ready to give me what
would make me free of the sea for life.  We were to fix it all
two nights later.  When I came, I found him three parts drunk and
in a vile temper.  We sat down and we drank and we yarned about
old times, but the more he drank the less I liked the look on
his face.  I spotted that harpoon upon the wall, and I thought I
might need it before I was through.  Then at last he broke out at
me, spitting and cursing, with murder in his eyes and a great
clasp-knife in his hand.  He had not time to get it from the
sheath before I had the harpoon through him.  Heavens! what a
yell he gave! and his face gets between me and my sleep.  I stood
there, with his blood splashing round me, and I waited for a
bit, but all was quiet, so I took heart once more.  I looked
round, and there was the tin box on the shelf.  I had as much
right to it as Peter Carey, anyhow, so I took it with me and
left the hut.  Like a fool I left my baccy-pouch upon the table.

"Now I'll tell you the queerest part of the whole story.  I had
hardly got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I
hid among the bushes.  A man came slinking along, went into the
hut, gave a cry as if he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard
as he could run until he was out of sight.  Who he was or what he
wanted is more than I can tell.  For my part I walked ten miles,
got a train at Tunbridge Wells, and so reached London, and no
one the wiser.

"Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money
in it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell.  I
had lost my hold on Black Peter and was stranded in London
without a shilling.  There was only my trade left.  I saw these
advertisements about harpooners, and high wages, so I went to
the shipping agents, and they sent me here.  That's all I know,
and I say again that if I killed Black Peter, the law should
give me thanks, for I saved them the rice of a hempen rope."

"A very clear statement said Holmes, rising and lighting his
pipe.  "I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in
conveying your prisoner to a place of safety.  This room is not
well adapted for a cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns occupies too
large a proportion of our carpet."

"Mr. Holmes," said Hopkins, "I do not know how to express my
gratitude.  Even now I do not understand how you attained this
result."

"Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from
the beginning.  It is very possible if I had known about this
notebook it might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. 
But all I heard pointed in the one direction.  The amazing
strength, the skill in the use of the harpoon, the rum and
water, the sealskin tobacco-pouch with the coarse tobacco--all
these pointed to a seaman, and one who had been a whaler.  I was
convinced that the initials `P.C.' upon the pouch were a
coincidence, and not those of Peter Carey, since he seldom
smoked, and no pipe was found in his cabin.  You remember that I
asked whether whisky and brandy were in the cabin.  You said they
were.  How many landsmen are there who would drink rum when they
could get these other spirits?  Yes, I was certain it was a seaman."

"And how did you find him?"

"My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one.  If it
were a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him
on the SEA UNICORN.  So far as I could learn he had sailed in no
other ship.  I spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the
end of that time I had ascertained the names of the crew of the
SEA UNICORN in 1883.  When I found Patrick Cairns among the
harpooners, my research was nearing its end.  I argued that the
man was probably in London, and that he would desire to leave the
country for a time.  I therefore spent some days in the East End,
devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms for harpooners
who would serve under Captain Basil--and behold the result!"

"Wonderful!" cried Hopkins.  "Wonderful!"

"You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as
possible," said Holmes.  "I confess that I think you owe him some
apology.  The tin box must be returned to him, but, of course,
the securities which Peter Carey has sold are lost forever. 
There's the cab, Hopkins, and you can remove your man.  If you
want me for the trial, my address and that of Watson will be
somewhere in Norway--I'll send particulars later."




THE ADVENTURE OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON



It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and
yet it is with diffidence that I allude to them.  For a long
time, even with the utmost discretion and reticence, it would
have been impossible to make the facts public, but now the
principal person concerned is beyond the reach of human law, and
with due suppression the story may be told in such fashion as to
injure no one.  It records an absolutely unique experience in the
career both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself.  The reader
will excuse me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which
he might trace the actual occurrence.

We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and I,
and had returned about six o'clock on a cold, frosty winter's
evening.  As Holmes turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card
on the table.  He glanced at it, and then, with an ejaculation of
disgust, threw it on the floor.  I picked it up and read:

                   CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,
                                   Appledore Towers,
                                          Hampstead.
          Agent.

"Who is he?" I asked.

"The worst man in London," Holmes answered, as he sat down and
stretched his legs before the fire.  "Is anything on the back of
the card?"

I turned it over.

"Will call at 6:30--C.A.M.," I read.

"Hum!  He's about due.  Do you feel a creeping, shrinking
sensation, Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the
Zoo, and see the slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with
their deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces?  Well, that's how
Milverton impresses me.  I've had to do with fifty murderers in
my career, but the worst of them never gave me the repulsion
which I have for this fellow.  And yet I can't get out of doing
business with him--indeed, he is here at my invitation."

"But who is he?"

"I'll tell you, Watson.  He is the king of all the blackmailers. 
Heaven help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and
reputation come into the power of Milverton!  With a smiling face
and a heart of marble, he will squeeze and squeeze until he has
drained them dry.  The fellow is a genius in his way, and would
have made his mark in some more savoury trade.  His method is as
follows:  He allows it to be known that he is prepared to pay
very high sums for letters which compromise people of wealth and
position.  He receives these wares not only from treacherous
valets or maids, but frequently from genteel ruffians, who have
gained the confidence and affection of trusting women.  He deals
with no niggard hand.  I happen to know that he paid seven
hundred pounds to a footman for a note two lines in length, and
that the ruin of a noble family was the result.  Everything which
is in the market goes to Milverton, and there are hundreds in
this great city who turn white at his name.  No one knows where
his grip may fall, for he is far too rich and far too cunning to
work from hand to mouth.  He will hold a card back for years in
order to play it at the moment when the stake is best worth
winning.  I have said that he is the worst man in London, and I
would ask you how could one compare the ruffian, who in hot
blood bludgeons his mate, with this man, who methodically and
at his leisure tortures the soul and  wrings the nerves in order
to add to his already swollen money-bags?"

I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of feeling.

"But surely," said I, "the fellow must be within the grasp of
the law?"

"Technically, no doubt, but practically not.  What would it
profit a woman, for example, to get him a few months'
imprisonment if her own ruin must immediately follow?  His
victims dare not hit back.  If ever he blackmailed an innocent
person, then indeed we should have him, but he is as cunning as
the Evil One.  No, no, we must find other ways to fight him."

"And why is he here?"

"Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in my
hands.  It is the Lady Eva Blackwell, the most beautiful
debutante of last season.  She is to be married in a fortnight to
the Earl of Dovercourt.  This fiend has several imprudent
letters--imprudent, Watson, nothing worse--which were written to
an impecunious young squire in the country.  They would suffice
to break off the match.  Milverton will send the letters to the
Earl unless a large sum of money is paid him.  I have been
commissioned to meet him, and--to make the best terms I can."

At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the street
below.  Looking down I saw a stately carriage and pair, the
brilliant lamps gleaming on the glossy haunches of the noble
chestnuts.  A footman opened the door, and a small, stout man in
a shaggy astrakhan overcoat descended.  A minute later he was in
the room.

Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large,
intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual
frozen smile, and two keen gray eyes, which gleamed brightly
from behind broad, gold-rimmed glasses.  There was something of
Mr. Pickwick's benevolence in his appearance, marred only by the
insincerity of the fixed smile and by the hard glitter of those
restless and penetrating eyes.  His voice was as smooth and suave
as his countenance, as he advanced with a plump little hand
extended, murmuring his regret for having missed us at his first
visit.  Holmes disregarded the outstretched hand and looked at
him with a face of granite.  Milverton's smile broadened, he
shrugged his shoulders removed his overcoat, folded it with
great deliberation over the back of a chair, and then took a seat.

"This gentleman?" said he, with a wave in my direction.  "Is it
discreet?  Is it right?"

"Dr. Watson is my friend and partner."

"Very good, Mr. Holmes.  It is only in your client's interests
that I protested.  The matter is so very delicate----"

"Dr. Watson has already heard of it."

"Then we can proceed to business.  You say that you are acting
for Lady Eva.  Has she empowered you to accept my terms?"

"What are your terms?"

"Seven thousand pounds."

"And the alternative?"

"My dear sir, it is painful for me to discuss it, but if the
money is not paid on the 14th, there certainly will be no
marriage on the 18th."  His insufferable smile was more
complacent than ever.

Holmes thought for a little.

"You appear to me," he said, at last, "to be taking matters too
much for granted.  I am, of course, familiar with the contents of
these letters.  My client will certainly do what I may advise.  I
shall counsel her to tell her future husband the whole story and
to trust to his generosity."

Milverton chuckled.

"You evidently do not know the Earl," said he.

From the baffled look upon Holmes's face, I could see clearly
that he did.

"What harm is there in the letters?" he asked.

"They are sprightly--very sprightly," Milverton answered.  "The
lady was a charming correspondent.  But I can assure you that the
Earl of Dovercourt would fail to appreciate them.  However, since
you think otherwise, we will let it rest at that.  It is purely
a matter of business.  If you think that it is in the best
interests of your client that these letters should be placed in
the hands of the Earl, then you would indeed be foolish to pay
so large a sum of money to regain them."  He rose and seized his
astrakhan coat.

Holmes was gray with anger and mortification.

"Wait a little," he said.  "You go too fast.  We should certainly
make every effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter."

Milverton relapsed into his chair.

"I was sure that you would see it in that light," he purred.

"At the same time," Holmes continued, "Lady Eva is not a wealthy
woman.  I assure you that two thousand pounds would be a drain
upon her resources, and that the sum you name is utterly beyond
her power.  I beg, therefore, that you will moderate your
demands, and that you will return the letters at the price I
indicate, which is, I assure you, the highest that you can get."

Milverton's smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously.

"I am aware that what you say is true about the lady's
resources," said he.  "At the same time you must admit that the
occasion of a lady's marriage is a very suitable time for her
friends and relatives to make some little effort upon her
behalf.  They may hesitate as to an acceptable wedding present. 
Let me assure them that this little bundle of letters would give
more joy than all the candelabra and butter-dishes in London."

"It is impossible," said Holmes.

"Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!" cried Milverton, taking out
a bulky pocketbook.  "I cannot help thinking that ladies are
ill-advised in not making an effort.  Look at this!"  He held up
a little note with a coat-of-arms upon the envelope.  "That
belongs to--well, perhaps it is hardly fair to tell the name
until to-morrow morning.  But at that time it will be in the
hands of the lady's husband.  And all because she will not find
a beggarly sum which she could get by turning her diamonds into
paste.  It IS such a pity!  Now, you remember the sudden end of
the engagement between the Honourable Miss Miles and Colonel
Dorking?  Only two days before the wedding, there was a paragraph
in the MORNING POST to say that it was all off.  And why?  It is
almost incredible, but the absurd sum of twelve hundred pounds
would have settled the whole question.  Is it not pitiful?  And
here I find you, a man of sense, boggling about terms, when your
client's future and honour are at stake.  You surprise me, Mr. Holmes."

"What I say is true," Holmes answered.  "The money cannot be
found.  Surely it is better for you to take the substantial sum
which I offer than to ruin this woman's career, which can profit
you in no way?"

"There you make a mistake, Mr. Holmes.  An exposure would profit
me indirectly to a considerable extent.  I have eight or ten
similar cases maturing.  If it was circulated among them that I
had made a severe example of the Lady Eva, I should find all of
them much more open to reason.  You see my point?"

Holmes sprang from his chair.

"Get behind him, Watson!  Don't let him out!  Now, sir, let us see
the contents of that notebook."

Milverton had glided as quick as a rat to the side of the room
and stood with his back against the wall.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes," he said, turning the front of his coat
and exhibiting the butt of a large revolver, which projected
from the inside pocket.  "I have been expecting you to do
something original.  This has been done so often, and what good
has ever come from it?  I assure you that I am armed to the
teeth, and I am perfectly prepared to use my weapons, knowing
that the law will support me.  Besides, your supposition that I
would bring the letters here in a notebook is entirely mistaken. 
I would do nothing so foolish.  And now, gentlemen, I have one or
two little interviews this evening, and it is a long drive to
Hampstead."  He stepped forward, took up his coat, laid his hand
on his revolver, and turned to the door.  I picked up a chair,
but Holmes shook his head, and I laid it down again.  With bow,
a smile, and a twinkle, Milverton was out of the room, and a few
moments after we heard the slam of the carriage door and the
rattle of the wheels as he drove away.

Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his
trouser pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed
upon the glowing embers.  For half an hour he was silent and
still.  Then, with the gesture of a man who has taken his
decision, he sprang to his feet and passed into his bedroom.  A
little later a rakish young workman, with a goatee beard and a
swagger, lit his clay pipe at the lamp before descending into
the street.  "I'll be back some time, Watson," said he, and
vanished into the night.  I understood that he had opened his
campaign against Charles Augustus Milverton, but I little dreamed
the strange shape which that campaign was destined to take.

For some days Holmes came and went at all hours in this attire,
but beyond a remark that his time was spent at Hampstead, and
that it was not wasted, I knew nothing of what he was doing.  At
last, however, on a wild, tempestuous evening, when the wind
screamed and rattled against the windows, he returned from his
last expedition, and having removed his disguise he sat before
the fire and laughed heartily in his silent inward fashion.

"You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?"

"No, indeed!"

"You'll be interested to hear that I'm engaged."

"My dear fellow!  I congrat----"

"To Milverton's housemaid."

"Good heavens, Holmes!"

"I wanted information, Watson."

"Surely you have gone too far?"

"It was a most necessary step.  I am a plumber with a rising
business, Escott, by name.  I have walked out with her each
evening, and I have talked with her.  Good heavens, those talks!  
However, I have got all I wanted.  I know Milverton's house as I
know the palm of my hand."

"But the girl, Holmes?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"You can't help it, my dear Watson.  You must play your cards as
best you can when such a stake is on the table.  However, I
rejoice to say that I have a hated rival, who will certainly cut
me out the instant that my back is turned.  What a splendid night
it is!"

"You like this weather?"

"It suits my purpose.  Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton's house
to-night."

I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went cold at the
words, which were slowly uttered in a tone of concentrated
resolution.  As a flash of lightning in the night shows up in an
instant every detail of a wild landscape, so at one glance I
seemed to see every possible result of such an action--the
detection, the capture, the honoured career ending in
irreparable failure and disgrace, my friend himself lying
at the mercy of the odious Milverton.

"For heaven's sake, Holmes, think what you are doing," I cried.

"My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration.  I am never
precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and,
indeed, so dangerous a course, if any other were possible.  Let
us look at the matter clearly and fairly.  I suppose that you
will admit that the action is morally justifiable, though
technically criminal.  To burgle his house is no more than to
forcibly take his pocketbook--an action in which you were
prepared to aid me."

I turned it over in my mind.

"Yes," I said, "it is morally justifiable so long as our object
is to take no articles save those which are used for an illegal
purpose."

Exactly.  Since it is morally justifiable, I have only to
consider the question of personal risk.  Surely a gentleman
should not lay much stress upon this, when a lady is in most
desperate need of his help?"

"You will be in such a false position."

"Well, that is part of the risk.  There is no other possible way
of regaining these letters.  The unfortunate lady has not the
money, and there are none of her people in whom she could
confide.  To-morrow is the last day of grace, and unless we can
get the letters to-night, this villain will be as good as his
word and will bring about her ruin.  I must, therefore, abandon
my client to her fate or I must play this last card.  Between
ourselves, Watson, it's a sporting duel between this fellow
Milverton and me.  He had, as you saw, the best of the first
exchanges, but my self-respect and my reputation are concerned
to fight it to a finish."

"Well, I don't like it, but I suppose it must be," said I.  "When
do we start?"

"You are not coming."

"Then you are not going," said I.  "I give you my word of honour--
and I never broke it in my life--that I will take a cab straight
to the police-station and give you away, unless you let me share
this adventure with you."

"You can't help me."

"How do you know that?  You can't tell what may happen.  Anyway,
my resolution is taken.  Other people besides you have
self-respect, and even reputations."

Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped
me on the shoulder.

"Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so.  We have shared this same
room for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by
sharing the same cell.  You know, Watson, I don't mind confessing
to you that I have always had an idea that I would have made a
highly efficient criminal.  This is the chance of my lifetime in
that direction.  See here!"  He took a neat little leather case
out of a drawer, and opening it he exhibited a number of shining
instruments.  "This is a first-class, up-to-date burgling kit,
with nickel-plated jemmy, diamond-tipped glass-cutter, adaptable
keys, and every modern improvement which the march of
civilization demands.  Here, too, is my dark lantern.  Everything
is in order.  Have you a pair of silent shoes?"

"I have rubber-soled tennis shoes."

"Excellent!  And a mask?"

"I can make a couple out of black silk."

"I can see that you have a strong, natural turn for this sort of
thing.  Very good, do you make the masks.  We shall have some cold
supper before we start.  It is now nine-thirty.  At eleven we
shall drive as far as Church Row.  It is a quarter of an hour's
walk from there to Appledore Towers.  We shall be at work before
midnight.  Milverton is a heavy sleeper, and retires punctually
at ten-thirty.  With any luck we should be back here by two, with
the Lady Eva's letters in my pocket."

Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might appear
to be two theatre-goers homeward bound.  In Oxford Street we
picked up a hansom and drove to an address in Hampstead.  Here we
paid off our cab, and with our great coats buttoned up, for it
was bitterly cold, and the wind seemed to blow through us, we
walked along the edge of the heath.

"It's a business that needs delicate treatment," said Holmes. 
"These documents are contained in a safe in the fellow's study,
and the study is the ante-room of his bed-chamber.  On the other
hand, like all these stout, little men who do themselves well,
he is a plethoric sleeper.  Agatha--that's my fiancee--says it is
a joke in the servants' hall that it's impossible to wake the
master.  He has a secretary who is devoted to his interests, and
never budges from the study all day.  That's why we are going at
night.  Then he has a beast of a dog which roams the garden.  I
met Agatha late the last two evenings, and she locks the brute
up so as to give me a clear run.  This is the house, this big one
in its own grounds.  Through the gate--now to the right among the
laurels.  We might put on our masks here, I think.  You see, there
is not a glimmer of light in any of the windows, and everything
is working splendidly."

With our black silk face-coverings, which turned us into two of
the most truculent figures in London, we stole up to the silent,
gloomy house.  A sort of tiled veranda extended along one side of
it, lined by several windows and two doors.

"That's his bedroom," Holmes whispered.  "This door opens
straight into the study.  It would suit us best, but it is bolted
as well as locked, and we should make too much noise getting in. 
Come round here.  There's a greenhouse which opens into the
drawing-room."

The place was locked, but Holmes removed a circle of glass and
turned the key from the inside.  An instant afterwards he had
closed the door behind us, and we had become felons in the eyes
of the law.  The thick, warm air of the conservatory and the
rich, choking fragrance of exotic plants took us by the throat. 
He seized my hand in the darkness and led me swiftly past banks
of shrubs which brushed against our faces.  Holmes had remarkable
powers, carefully cultivated, of seeing in the dark.  Still
holding my hand in one of his, he opened a door, and I was
vaguely conscious that we had entered a large room in which a
cigar had been smoked not long before.  He felt his way among the
furniture, opened another door, and closed it behind us.  Putting
out my hand I felt several coats hanging from the wall, and I
understood that I was in a passage.  We passed along it and
Holmes very gently opened a door upon the right-hand side. 
Something rushed out at us and my heart sprang into my mouth,
but I could have laughed when I realized that it was the cat.  A
fire was burning in this new room, and again the air was heavy
with tobacco smoke.  Holmes entered on tiptoe, waited for me to
follow, and then very gently closed the door.  We were in
Milverton's study, and a portiere at the farther side showed the
entrance to his bedroom.

It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it.  Near the
door I saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it was
unnecessary, even if it had been safe, to turn it on.  At one
side of the fireplace was a heavy curtain which covered the bay
window we had seen from outside.  On the other side was the door
which communicated with the veranda.  A desk stood in the centre,
with a turning-chair of shining red leather.  Opposite was a
large bookcase, with a marble bust of Athene on the top.  In the
corner, between the bookcase and the wall, there stood a tall,
green safe, the firelight flashing back from the polished brass
knobs upon its face.  Holmes stole across and looked at it.  Then
he crept to the door of the bedroom, and stood with slanting
head listening intently.  No sound came from within.  Meanwhile it
had struck me that it would be wise to secure our retreat
through the outer door, so I examined it.  To my amazement, it
was neither locked nor bolted.  I touched Holmes on the arm, and
he turned his masked face in that direction.  I saw him start,
and he was evidently as surprised as I.

"I don't like it," he whispered, putting his lips to my very ear. 
"I can't quite make it out.  Anyhow, we have no time to lose."

"Can I do anything?"

"Yes, stand by the door.  If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the
inside, and we can get away as we came.  If they come the other
way, we can get through the door if our job is done, or hide
behind these window curtains if it is not.  Do you understand?"

I nodded, and stood by the door.  My first feeling of fear had
passed away, and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had
ever enjoyed when we were the defenders of the law instead of
its defiers.  The high object of our mission, the consciousness
that it was unselfish and chivalrous, the villainous character
of our opponent, all added to the sporting interest of the
adventure.  Far from feeling guilty, I rejoiced and exulted in
our dangers.  With a glow of admiration I watched Holmes
unrolling his case of instruments and choosing his tool with the
calm, scientific accuracy of a surgeon who performs a delicate
operation.  I knew that the opening of safes was a particular
hobby with him, and I understood the joy which it gave him to be
confronted with this green and gold monster, the dragon which
held in its maw the reputations of many fair ladies.  Turning up
the cuffs of his dress-coat--he had placed his overcoat on a
chair--Holmes laid out two drills, a jemmy, and several skeleton
keys.  I stood at the centre door with my eyes glancing at each
of the others, ready for any emergency, though, indeed, my plans
were somewhat vague as to what I should do if we were
interrupted.  For half an hour, Holmes worked with concentrated
energy, laying down one tool, picking up another, handling each
with the strength and delicacy of the trained mechanic.  Finally
I heard a click, the broad green door swung open, and inside I
had a glimpse of a number of paper packets, each tied, sealed,
and inscribed.  Holmes picked one out, but it was as hard to read
by the flickering fire, and he drew out his little dark lantern,
for it was too dangerous, with Milverton in the next room, to
switch on the electric light.  Suddenly I saw him halt, listen
intently, and then in an instant he had swung the door of the
safe to, picked up his coat, stuffed his tools into the pockets,
and darted behind the window curtain, motioning me to do the same.

It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had
alarmed his quicker senses.  There was a noise somewhere within
the house.  A door slammed in the distance.  Then a confused, dull
murmur broke itself into the measured thud of heavy footsteps
rapidly approaching.  They were in the passage outside the room. 
They paused at the door.  The door opened.  There was a sharp
snick as the electric light was turned on.  The door closed once
more, and the pungent reek of a strong cigar was borne to our
nostrils.  Then the footsteps continued backward and forward,
backward and forward, within a few yards of us.  Finally there
was a creak from a chair, and the footsteps ceased.  Then a key
clicked in a lock, and I heard the rustle of papers.

So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the
division of the curtains in front of me and peeped through.  From
the pressure of Holmes's shoulder against mine, I knew that he
was sharing my observations.  Right in front of us, and almost
within our reach, was the broad, rounded back of Milverton.  It
was evident that we had entirely miscalculated his movements,
that he had never been to his bedroom, but that he had been
sitting up in some smoking or billiard room in the farther wing
of the house, the windows of which we had not seen.  His broad,
grizzled head, with its shining patch of baldness, was in the
immediate foreground of our vision.  He was leaning far back in
the red leather chair, his legs outstretched, a long, black
cigar projecting at an angle from his mouth.  He wore a
semi-military smoking jacket, claret-coloured, with a black
velvet collar.  In his hand he held a long, legal document which
he was reading in an indolent fashion, blowing rings of tobacco
smoke from his lips as he did so.  There was no promise of a
speedy departure in his composed bearing and his comfortable
attitude.

I felt Holmes's hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring
shake, as if to say that the situation was within his powers,
and that he was easy in his mind.  I was not sure whether he had
seen what was only too obvious from my position, that the door
of the safe was imperfectly closed, and that Milverton might at
any moment observe it.  In my own mind I had determined that if
I were sure, from the rigidity of his gaze, that it had caught
his eye, I would at once spring out, throw my great coat over
his head, pinion him, and leave the rest to Holmes.  But
Milverton never looked up.  He was languidly interested by the
papers in his hand, and page after page was turned as he
followed the argument of the lawyer.  At least, I thought, when
he has finished the document and the cigar he will go to his
room, but before he had reached the end of either, there came a
remarkable development, which turned our thoughts into quite
another channel.

Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch,
and once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of
impatience.  The idea, however, that he might have an appointment
at so strange an hour never occurred to me until a faint sound
reached my ears from the veranda outside.  Milverton dropped his
papers and sat rigid in his chair.  The sound was repeated, and
then there came a gentle tap at the door.  Milverton rose and
opened it.

"Well," said he, curtly, "you are nearly half an hour late."

So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the
nocturnal vigil of Milverton.  There was the gentle rustle of a
woman's dress.  I had closed the slit between the curtains as
Milverton's face had turned in our direction, but now I ventured
very carefully to open it once more.  He had resumed his seat,
the cigar still projecting at an insolent angle from the corner
of his mouth.  In front of him, in the full glare of the electric
light, there stood a tall, slim, dark woman, a veil over her
face, a mantle drawn round her chin.  Her breath came quick and
fast, and every inch of the lithe figure was quivering with
strong emotion.

"Well," said Milverton, "you made me lose a good night's rest,
my dear.  I hope you'll prove worth it.  You couldn't come any
other time--eh?"

The woman shook her head.

"Well, if you couldn't you couldn't.  If the Countess is a hard
mistress, you have your chance to get level with her now.  Bless
the girl, what are you shivering about?  That's right.  Pull
yourself together.  Now, let us get down to business."  He took a
notebook from the drawer of his desk.  "You say that you have
five letters which compromise the Countess d'Albert.  You want to
sell them.  I want to buy them.  So far so good.  It only remains
to fix a price.  I should want to inspect the letters, of course. 
If they are really good specimens--Great heavens, is it you?"

The woman, without a word, had raised her veil and dropped the
mantle from her chin.  It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face
which confronted Milverton--a face with a curved nose, strong,
dark eyebrows shading hard, glittering eyes, and a straight,
thin-lipped mouth set in a dangerous smile.

"It is I," she said, "the woman whose life you have ruined."

Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice.  "You were so
very obstinate," said he.  "Why did you drive me to such
extremities?  I assure you I wouldn't hurt a fly of my own
accord, but every man has his business, and what was I to do?  I
put the price well within your means.  You would not pay."

"So you sent the letters to my husband, and he--the noblest
gentleman that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy
to lace--he broke his gallant heart and died.  You remember that
last night, when I came through that door, I begged and prayed
you for mercy, and you laughed in my face as you are trying to
laugh now, only your coward heart cannot keep your lips from
twitching.  Yes, you never thought to see me here again, but it
was that night which taught me how I could meet you face to
face, and alone.  Well, Charles Milverton, what have you to say?"

"Don't imagine that you can bully me," said he, rising to his
feet.  "I have only to raise my voice and I could call my
servants and have you arrested.  But I will make allowance for
your natural anger.  Leave the room at once as you came, and I
will say no more."

The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same
deadly smile on her thin lips.

"You will ruin no more lives as you have ruined mine.  You will
wring no more hearts as you wrung mine.  I will free the world of
a poisonous thing.  Take that, you hound--and that!--and that!--
and that!"

She had drawn a little gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel
after barrel into Milverton's body, the muzzle within two feet
of his shirt front.  He shrank away and then fell forward upon
the table, coughing furiously and clawing among the papers.  Then
he staggered to his feet, received another shot, and rolled upon
the floor.  "You've done me," he cried, and lay still.  The woman
looked at him intently, and ground her heel into his upturned
face.  She looked again, but there was no sound or movement.  I
heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew into the heated room,
and the avenger was gone.

No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his
fate, but, as the woman poured bullet after bullet into
Milverton's shrinking body I was about to spring out, when I
felt Holmes's cold, strong grasp upon my wrist.  I understood the
whole argument of that firm, restraining grip--that it was no
affair of ours, that justice had overtaken a villain, that we
had our own duties and our own objects, which were not to be
lost sight of.  But hardly had the woman rushed from the room
when Holmes, with swift, silent steps, was over at the other
door.  He turned the key in the lock.  At the same instant we
heard voices in the house and the sound of hurrying feet.  The
revolver shots had roused the household.  With perfect coolness
Holmes slipped across to the safe, filled his two arms with
bundles of letters, and poured them all into the fire.  Again and
again he did it, until the safe was empty.  Someone turned the
handle and beat upon the outside of the door.  Holmes looked
swiftly round.  The letter which had been the messenger of death
for Milverton lay, all mottled with his blood, upon the table. 
Holmes tossed it in among the blazing papers.  Then he drew the
key from the outer door, passed through after me, and locked it
on the outside.  "This way, Watson," said he, "we can scale the
garden wall in this direction."

I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so
swiftly.  Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light. 
The front door was open, and figures were rushing down the
drive.  The whole garden was alive with people, and one fellow
raised a view-halloa as we emerged from the veranda and followed
hard at our heels.  Holmes seemed to know the grounds perfectly,
and he threaded his way swiftly among a plantation of small
trees, I close at his heels, and our foremost pursuer panting
behind us.  It was a six-foot wall which barred our path, but he
sprang to the top and over.  As I did the same I felt the hand of
the man behind me grab at my ankle, but I kicked myself free and
scrambled over a grass-strewn coping.  I fell upon my face among
some bushes, but Holmes had me on my feet in an instant, and
together we dashed away across the huge expanse of Hampstead
Heath.  We had run two miles, I suppose, before Holmes at last
halted and listened intently.  All was absolute silence behind
us.  We had shaken off our pursuers and were safe.

We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on the day
after the remarkable experience which I have recorded, when Mr.
Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive, was
ushered into our modest sitting-room.

"Good-morning, Mr. Holmes," said he; "good-morning.  May I ask if
you are very busy just now?"

"Not too busy to listen to you."

"I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on hand,
you might care to assist us in a most remarkable case, which
occurred only last night at Hampstead."

"Dear me!" said Holmes.  "What was that?"

"A murder--a most dramatic and remarkable murder.  I know how
keen you are upon these things, and I would take it as a great
favour if you would step down to Appledore Towers, and give us
the benefit of your advice.  It is no ordinary crime.  We have had
our eyes upon this Mr. Milverton for some time, and, between
ourselves, he was a bit of a villain.  He is known to have held
papers which he used for blackmailing purposes.  These papers
have all been burned by the murderers.  No article of value was
taken, as it is probable that the criminals were men of good
position, whose sole object was to prevent social exposure."

"Criminals?" said Holmes.  "Plural?"

"Yes, there were two of them.  They were as nearly as possible
captured red-handed.  We have their footmarks, we have their
description, it's ten to one that we trace them.  The first
fellow was a bit too active, but the second was caught by the
under-gardener, and only got away after a struggle.  He was a
middle-sized, strongly built man--square jaw, thick neck,
moustache, a mask over his eyes."

"That's rather vague," said Sherlock Holmes.  "My, it might be a
description of Watson!"

"It's true," said the inspector, with amusement.  "It might be a
description of Watson."

"Well, I'm afraid I can't help you, Lestrade," said Holmes.  "The
fact is that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him
one of the most dangerous men in London, and that I think there
are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which
therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge.  No, it's no
use arguing.  I have made up my mind.  My sympathies are with the
criminals rather than with the victim, and I will not handle
this case."

Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we
had witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his
most thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his
vacant eyes and his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving
to recall something to his memory.  We were in the middle of our
lunch, when he suddenly sprang to his feet.  "By Jove, Watson,
I've got it!" he cried.  "Take your hat!  Come with me!"  He
hurried at his top speed down Baker Street and along Oxford
Street, until we had almost reached Regent Circus.  Here, on the
left hand, there stands a shop window filled with photographs of
the celebrities and beauties of the day.  Holmes's eyes fixed
themselves upon one of them, and following his gaze I saw the
picture of a regal and stately lady in Court dress, with a high
diamond tiara upon her noble head.  I looked at that delicately
curved nose, at the marked eyebrows, at the straight mouth, and
the strong little chin beneath it.  Then I caught my breath as I
read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman and statesman
whose wife she had been.  My eyes met those of Holmes, and he put
his finger to his lips as we turned away from the window.




THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS



It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard,
to look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to
Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all
that was going on at the police headquarters.  In return for the
news which Lestrade would bring, Holmes was always ready to
listen with attention to the details of any case upon which the
detective was engaged, and was able occasionally, without any
active interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn from
his own vast knowledge and experience.

On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken of the weather
and the newspapers.  Then he had fallen silent, puffing
thoughtfully at his cigar.  Holmes looked keenly at him.

"Anything remarkable on hand?" he asked.

"Oh, no, Mr. Holmes--nothing very particular."

"Then tell me about it."

Lestrade laughed.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there IS
something on my mind.  And yet it is such an absurd business,
that I hesitated to bother you about it.  On the other hand,
although it is trivial, it is undoubtedly queer, and I know that
you have a taste for all that is out of the common.  But, in my
opinion, it comes more in Dr. Watson's line than ours."

"Disease?" said I.

"Madness, anyhow.  And a queer madness, too.  You wouldn't think
there was anyone living at this time of day who had such a
hatred of Napoleon the First that he would break any image of
him that he could see."

Holmes sank back in his chair.

"That's no business of mine," said he.

"Exactly.  That's what I said.  But then, when the man commits
burglary in order to break images which are not his own, that
brings it away from the doctor and on to the policeman."

Holmes sat up again.

"Burglary!  This is more interesting.  Let me hear the details."

Lestrade took out his official notebook and refreshed his memory
from its pages.

"The first case reported was four days ago," said he.  "It was at
the shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of
pictures and statues in the Kennington Road.  The assistant had
left the front shop for an instant, when he heard a crash, and
hurrying in he found a plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood
with several other works of art upon the counter, lying shivered
into fragments.  He rushed out into the road, but, although
several passers-by declared that they had noticed a man run out
of the shop, he could neither see anyone nor could he find any
means of identifying the rascal.  It seemed to be one of those
senseless acts of Hooliganism which occur from time to time, and
it was reported to the constable on the beat as such.  The
plaster cast was not worth more than a few shillings, and the
whole affair appeared to be too childish for any particular
investigation.

"The second case, however, was more serious, and also more
singular.  It occurred only last night.

"In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse
Hudson's shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner,
named Dr. Barnicot, who has one of the largest practices upon
the south side of the Thames.  His residence and principal
consulting-room is at Kennington Road, but he has a branch
surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away. 
This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and
his house is full of books, pictures, and relics of the French
Emperor.  Some little time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson two
duplicate plaster casts of the famous head of Napoleon by the
French sculptor, Devine.  One of these he placed in his hall in
the house at Kennington Road, and the other on the mantelpiece
of the surgery at Lower Brixton.  Well, when Dr. Barnicot came
down this morning he was astonished to find that his house had
been burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken
save the plaster head from the hall.  It had been carried out and
had been dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which
its splintered fragments were discovered."

Holmes rubbed his hands.

"This is certainly very novel," said he.

"I thought it would please you.  But I have not got to the end
yet.  Dr. Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o'clock, and
you can imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he found
that the window had been opened in the night and that the broken
pieces of his second bust were strewn all over the room.  It had
been smashed to atoms where it stood.  In neither case were there
any signs which could give us a clue as to the criminal or
lunatic who had done the mischief.  Now, Mr. Holmes, you have got
the facts."

"They are singular, not to say grotesque," said Holmes.  "May I
ask whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot's rooms were
the exact duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse
Hudson's shop?"

"They were taken from the same mould."

"Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who
breaks them is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. 
Considering how many hundreds of statues of the great Emperor
must exist in London, it is too much to suppose such a
coincidence as that a promiscuous iconoclast should chance to
begin upon three specimens of the same bust."

"Well, I thought as you do," said Lestrade.  "On the other hand,
this Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of
London, and these three were the only ones which had been in his
shop for years.  So, although, as you say, there are many
hundreds of statues in London, it is very probable that these
three were the only ones in that district.  Therefore, a local
fanatic would begin with them.  What do you think, Dr. Watson?"

"There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania," I
answered.  "There is the condition which the modern French
psychologists have called the `IDEE FIXE,' which may be trifling
in character, and accompanied by complete sanity in every other
way.  A man who had read deeply about Napoleon, or who had
possibly received some hereditary family injury through the
great war, might conceivably form such an IDEE FIXE and under
its influence be capable of any fantastic outrage."

"That won't do, my dear Watson," said Holmes, shaking his head,
"for no amount of IDEE FIXE would enable your interesting
monomaniac to find out where these busts were situated."

"Well, how do YOU explain it?"

"I don't attempt to do so.  I would only observe that there is a
certain method in the gentleman's eccentric proceedings.  For
example, in Dr. Barnicot's hall, where a sound might arouse the
family, the bust was taken outside before being broken, whereas
in the surgery, where there was less danger of an alarm, it was
smashed where it stood.  The affair seems absurdly trifling, and
yet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that some of my
most classic cases have had the least promising commencement. 
You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the
Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by the depth
which the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day.  I
can't afford, therefore, to smile at your three broken busts,
Lestrade, and I shall be very much obliged to you if you will
let me hear of any fresh development of so singular a chain of
events."


The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker
and an infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. 
I was still dressing in my bedroom next morning, when there was
a tap at the door and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand.  He
read it aloud:


          "Come instantly, 131 Pitt Street, Kensington.
                                                     "LESTRADE."


"What is it, then?" I asked.

"Don't know--may be anything.  But I suspect it is the sequel of
the story of the statues.  In that case our friend the
image-breaker has begun operations in another quarter of London. 
There's coffee on the table, Watson, and I have a cab at the door."

In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little
backwater just beside one of the briskest currents of London
life.  No. 131 was one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable,
and most unromantic dwellings.  As we drove up, we found the
railings in front of the house lined by a curious crowd.  Holmes
whistled.

"By George!  It's attempted murder at the least.  Nothing less
will hold the London message-boy.  There's a deed of violence
indicated in that fellow's round shoulders and outstretched
neck.  What's this, Watson?  The top steps swilled down and the
other ones dry.  Footsteps enough, anyhow!  Well, well, there's
Lestrade at the front window, and we shall soon know all about it."

The official received us with a very grave face and showed us
into a sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated
elderly man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and
down.  He was introduced to us as the owner of the house--Mr.
Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate.

"It's the Napoleon bust business again," said Lestrade.  "You
seemed interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps
you would be glad to be present now that the affair has taken a
very much graver turn."

"What has it turned to, then?"

"To murder.  Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly
what has occurred?"

The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most
melancholy face.

"It's an extraordinary thing," said he, "that all my life I have
been collecting other people's news, and now that a real piece
of news has come my own way I am so confused and bothered that
I can't put two words together.  If I had come in here as a
journalist, I should have interviewed myself and had two columns
in every evening paper.  As it is, I am giving away valuable copy
by telling my story over and over to a string of different
people, and I can make no use of it myself.  However, I've heard
your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you'll only explain this
queer business, I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you
the story."

Holmes sat down and listened.

"It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I
bought for this very room about four months ago.  I picked it up
cheap from Harding Brothers, two doors from the High Street
Station.  A great deal of my journalistic work is done at night,
and I often write until the early morning.  So it was to-day.  I
was sitting in my den, which is at the back of the top of the
house, about three o'clock, when I was convinced that I heard
some sounds downstairs.  I listened, but they were not repeated,
and I concluded that they came from outside.  Then suddenly,
about five minutes later, there came a most horrible yell--the
most dreadful sound, Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard.  It will ring
in my ears as long as I live.  I sat frozen with horror for a
minute or two.  Then I seized the poker and went downstairs.  When
I entered this room I found the window wide open, and I at once
observed that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece.  Why any
burglar should take such a thing passes my understanding, for it
was only a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.

"You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that
open window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long
stride.  This was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went
round and opened the door.  Stepping out into the dark, I nearly
fell over a dead man, who was lying there.  I ran back for a
light and there was the poor fellow, a great gash in his throat
and the whole place swimming in blood.  He lay on his back, his
knees drawn up, and his mouth horribly open.  I shall see him in
my dreams.  I had just time to blow on my police-whistle, and
then I must have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found
the policeman standing over me in the hall."

"Well, who was the murdered man?" asked Holmes.

"There's nothing to show who he was," said Lestrade.  "You shall
see the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up
to now.  He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more
than thirty.  He is poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be
a labourer.  A horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool of
blood beside him.  Whether it was the weapon which did the deed,
or whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not know.  There was
no name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save an
apple, some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph. 
Here it is."

It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera.  It
represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man, with thick
eyebrows and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the
face, like the muzzle of a baboon.

"And what became of the bust?" asked Holmes, after a careful
study of this picture.

"We had news of it just before you came.  It has been found in
the front garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was
broken into fragments.  I am going round now to see it.  Will you come?"

"Certainly.  I must just take one look round."  He examined the
carpet and the window.  "The fellow had either very long legs or
was a most active man," said he.  "With an area beneath, it was
no mean feat to reach that window ledge and open that window. 
Getting back was comparatively simple.  Are you coming with us to
see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?"

The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a
writing-table.

"I must try and make something of it," said he, "though I have
no doubt that the first editions of the evening papers are out
already with full details.  It's like my luck!  You remember when
the stand fell at Doncaster?  Well, I was the only journalist in
the stand, and my journal the only one that had no account of
it, for I was too shaken to write it.  And now I'll be too late
with a murder done on my own doorstep."

As we left the room, we heard his pen travelling shrilly over
the foolscap.

The spat where the fragments of the bust had been found was only
a few hundred yards away.  For the first time our eyes rested
upon this presentment of the great emperor, which seemed to
raise such frantic and destructive hatred in the mind of the
unknown.  It lay scattered, in splintered shards, upon the grass. 
Holmes picked up several of them and examined them carefully.  I
was convinced, from his intent face and his purposeful manner,
that at last he was upon a clue.

"Well?" asked Lestrade.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"We have a long way to go yet," said he.  "And yet--and yet--
well, we have some suggestive facts to act upon.  The possession
of this trifling bust was worth more, in the eyes of this
strange criminal, than a human life.  That is one point.  Then
there is the singular fact that he did not break it in the
house, or immediately outside the house, if to break it was his
sole object."

"He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow.  He
hardly knew what he was doing."

"Well, that's likely enough.  But I wish to call your attention
very particularly to the position of this house, in the garden
of which the bust was destroyed."

Lestrade looked about him.

"It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be
disturbed in the garden."

"Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street
which he must have passed before he came to this one.  Why did he
not break it there, since it is evident that every yard that he
carried it increased the risk of someone meeting him?"

"I give it up," said Lestrade.

Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.

"He could see what he was doing here, and he could not there. 
That was his reason."

"By Jove! that's true," said the detective.  "Now that I come to
think of it, Dr. Barnicot's bust was broken not far from his red
lamp.  Well, Mr. Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?"

"To remember it--to docket it.  We may come on something later
which will bear upon it.  What steps do you propose to take now,
Lestrade?"

"The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to
identify the dead man.  There should be no difficulty about that. 
When we have found who he is and who his associates are, we
should have a good start in learning what he was doing in Pitt
Street last night, and who it was who met him and killed him on
the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker.  Don't you think so?"

"No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should
approach the case."

"What would you do then?"

"Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way.  I suggest
that you go on your line and I on mine.  We can compare notes
afterwards, and each will supplement the other."

"Very good," said Lestrade.

"If you are going back to Pitt Street, you might see Mr. Horace
Harker.  Tell him for me that I have quite made up my mind, and
that it is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic, with
Napoleonic delusions, was in his house last night.  It will be
useful for his article."

Lestrade stared.

"You don't seriously believe that?"

Holmes smiled.

"Don't I?  Well, perhaps I don't.  But I am sure that it will
interest Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central
Press Syndicate.  Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we
have a long and rather complex day's work before us.  I should be
glad, Lestrade, if you could make it convenient to meet us at
Baker Street at six o'clock this evening.  Until then I should
like to keep this photograph, found in the dead man's pocket.  It
is possible that I may have to ask your company and assistance
upon a small expedition which will have be undertaken to-night,
if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct.  Until then
good-bye and good luck!"

Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where
we stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had
been purchased.  A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding
would be absent until afternoon, and that he was himself a
newcomer, who could give us no information.  Holmes's face showed
his disappointment and annoyance.

"Well, well, we can't expect to have it all our own way,
Watson," he said, at last.  "We must come back in the afternoon,
if Mr. Harding will not be here until then.  I am, as you have no
doubt surmised, endeavouring to trace these busts to their
source, in order to find if there is not something peculiar
which may account for their remarkable fate.  Let us make for Mr.
Morse Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see if he can throw
any light upon the problem."

A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer's
establishment.  He was a small, stout man with a red face and a
peppery manner.

"Yes, sir.  On my very counter, sir," said he.  "What we pay rates
and taxes for I don't know, when any ruffian can come in and
break one's goods.  Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his
two statues.  Disgraceful, sir!  A Nihilist plot--that's what I
make it.  No one but an anarchist would go about breaking
statues.  Red republicans--that's what I call 'em.  Who did I get
the statues from?  I don't see what that has to do with it.  Well,
if you really want to know, I got them from Gelder & Co., in
Church Street, Stepney.  They are a well-known house in the
trade, and have been this twenty years.  How many had I?  Three--
two and one are three--two of Dr. Barnicot's, and one smashed in
broad daylight on my own counter.  Do I know that photograph?  No,
I don't.  Yes, I do, though.  Why, it's Beppo.  He was a kind of
Italian piece-work man, who made himself useful in the shop.  He
could carve a bit, and gild and frame, and do odd jobs.  The
fellow left me last week, and I've heard nothing of him since. 
No, I don't know where he came from nor where he went to.  I had
nothing against him while he was here.  He was gone two days
before the bust was smashed."

"Well, that's all we could reasonably expect from Morse Hudson,"
said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop.  We have this Beppo as
a common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that
is worth a ten-mile drive.  Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder
& Co., of Stepney, the source and origin of the busts.  I shall
be surprised if we don't get some help down there."

In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable
London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London,
commercial London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came
to a riverside city of a hundred thousand souls, where the
tenement houses swelter and reek with the outcasts of Europe. 
Here, in a broad thoroughfare, once the abode of wealthy City
merchants, we found the sculpture works for which we searched. 
Outside was a considerable yard full of monumental masonry. 
Inside was a large room in which fifty workers were carving or
moulding.  The manager, a big blond German, received us civilly
and gave a clear answer to all Holmes's questions.  A reference
to his books showed that hundreds of casts had been taken from
a marble copy of Devine's head of Napoleon, but that the three
which had been sent to Morse Hudson a year or so before had been
half of a batch of six, the other three being sent to Harding
Brothers, of Kensington.  There was no reason why those six
should be different from any of the other casts.  He could
suggest no possible cause why anyone should wish to destroy
them--in fact, he laughed at the idea.  Their wholesale price was
six shillings, but the retailer would get twelve or more.  The
cast was taken in two moulds from each side of the face, and
then these two profiles of plaster of Paris were joined together
to make the complete bust.  The work was usually done by
Italians, in the room we were in.  When finished, the busts were
put on a table in the passage to dry, and afterwards stored. 
That was all he could tell us.

But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect
upon the manager.  His face flushed with anger, and his brows
knotted over his blue Teutonic eyes.

"Ah, the rascal!" he cried.  "Yes, indeed, I know him very well. 
This has always been a respectable establishment, and the only
time that we have ever had the police in it was over this very
fellow.  It was more than a year ago now.  He knifed another
Italian in the street, and then he came to the works with the
police on his heels, and he was taken here.  Beppo was his name--
his second name I never knew.  Serve me right for engaging a man
with such a face.  But he was a good workman--one of the best."

"What did he get?"

"The man lived and he got off with a year.  I have no doubt he is
out now, but he has not dared to show his nose here.  We have a
cousin of his here, and I daresay he could tell you where he is."

"No, no," cried Holmes, "not a word to the cousin--not a word,
I beg of you.  The matter is very important, and the farther I go
with it, the more important it seems to grow.  When you referred
in your ledger to the sale of those casts I observed that the
date was June 3rd of last year.  Could you give me the date when
Beppo was arrested?"

"I could tell you roughly by the pay-list," the manager
answered.  "Yes," he continued, after some turning over of pages,
"he was paid last on May 20th."

"Thank you," said Holmes. "I don't think that I need intrude
upon your time and patience any more."  With a last word of
caution that he should say nothing as to our researches, we
turned our faces westward once more.

The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a
hasty luncheon at a restaurant.  A news-bill at the entrance
announced "Kensington Outrage.  Murder by a Madman," and the
contents of the paper showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his
account into print after all.  Two columns were occupied with a
highly sensational and flowery rendering of the whole incident. 
Holmes propped it against the cruet-stand and read it while he
ate.  Once or twice he chuckled.

"This is all right, Watson," said he.  "Listen to this:


"It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of
opinion upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most
experienced members of the official force, and Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, the well known consulting expert, have each come to the
conclusion that the grotesque series of incidents, which have
ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy rather than from
deliberate crime.  No explanation save mental aberration can
cover the facts.


The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution, if you only
know how to use it.  And now, if you have quite finished, we will
hark back to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding
Brothers has to say on the matter."

The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp
little person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a
ready tongue.

"Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening
papers.  Mr. Horace Harker is a customer of ours.  We supplied him
with the bust some months ago.  We ordered three busts of that
sort from Gelder & Co., of Stepney.  They are all sold now.  To
whom?  Oh, I daresay by consulting our sales book we could very
easily tell you.  Yes, we have the entries here.  One to Mr.
Harker you see, and one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of Laburnum Lodge,
Laburnum Vale, Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of Lower Grove
Road, Reading.  No, I have never seen this face which you show me
in the photograph.  You would hardly forget it, would you, sir,
for I've seldom seen an uglier.  Have we any Italians on the
staff?  Yes, sir, we have several among our workpeople and
cleaners.  I daresay they might get a peep at that sales book if
they wanted to.  There is no particular reason for keeping a
watch upon that book.  Well, well, it's a very strange business,
and I hope that you will let me know if anything comes of your
inquiries."

Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding's evidence,
and I could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn
which affairs were taking.  He made no remark, however, save
that, unless we hurried, we should be late for our appointment
with Lestrade.  Sure enough, when we reached Baker Street the
detective was already there, and we found him pacing up and down
in a fever of impatience.  His look of importance showed that his
day's work had not been in vain.

"Well?" he asked.  "What luck, Mr. Holmes?"

"We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one," my
friend explained.  "We have seen both the retailers and also the
wholesale manufacturers.  I can trace each of the busts now from
the beginning."

"The busts" cried Lestrade.  "Well, well, you have your own
methods, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word
against them, but I think I have done a better day's work than
you.  I have identified the dead man."

"You don't say so?"

"And found a cause for the crime."

"Splendid!"

"We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and
the Italian Quarter.  Well, this dead man had some Catholic
emblem round his neck, and that, along with his colour, made me
think he was from the South.  Inspector Hill knew him the moment
he caught sight of him.  His name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples,
and he is one of the greatest cut-throats in London.  He is
connected with the Mafia, which, as you know, is a secret
political society, enforcing its decrees by murder.  Now, you see
how the affair begins to clear up.  The other fellow is probably
an Italian also, and a member of the Mafia.  He has broken the
rules in some fashion.  Pietro is set upon his track.  Probably
the photograph we found in his pocket is the man himself, so
that he may not knife the wrong person.  He dogs the fellow, he
sees him enter a house, he waits outside for him, and in the
scuffle he receives his own death-wound.  How is that, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes?"

Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.

"Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!" he cried.  "But I didn't quite
follow your explanation of the destruction of the busts."

"The busts!  You never can get those busts out of your head. 
After all, that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the
most.  It is the murder that we are really investigating, and I
tell you that I am gathering all the threads into my hands."

"And the next stage?"

"Is a very simple one.  I shall go down with Hill to the Italian
Quarter, find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest
him on the charge of murder.  Will you come with us?"

"I think not.  I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way.  I
can't say for certain, because it all depends--well, it all
depends upon a factor which is completely outside our control. 
But I have great hopes--in fact, the betting is exactly two to
one--that if you will come with us to-night I shall be able to
help you to lay him by the heels."

"In the Italian Quarter?"

"No, I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find
him.  If you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade,
I'll promise to go to the Italian Quarter with you to-morrow,
and no harm will be done by the delay.  And now I think that a
few hours' sleep would do us all good, for I do not propose to
leave before eleven o'clock, and it is unlikely that we shall be
back before morning.  You'll dine with us, Lestrade, and then you
are welcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start.  In the
meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for an
express messenger, for I have a letter to send and it is
important that it should go at once."

Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old
daily papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed.  When
at last he descended, it was with triumph in his eyes, but he
said nothing to either of us as to the result of his researches. 
For my own part, I had followed step by step the methods by
which he had traced the various windings of this complex case,
and, though I could not yet perceive the goal which we would
reach, I understood clearly that Holmes expected this grotesque
criminal to make an attempt upon the two remaining busts, one of
which, I remembered, was at Chiswick.  No doubt the object of our
journey was to catch him in the very act, and I could not but
admire the cunning with which my friend had inserted a wrong
clue in the evening paper, so as to give the fellow the idea
that he could continue his scheme with impunity.  I was not
surprised when Holmes suggested that I should take my revolver
with me.  He had himself picked up the loaded hunting-crop, which
was his favourite weapon.

A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to
a spot at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge.  Here the cabman
was directed to wait.  A short walk brought us to a secluded road
fringed with pleasant houses, each standing in its own grounds. 
In the light of a street lamp we read "Laburnum Villa" upon the
gate-post of one of them.  The occupants had evidently retired to
rest, for all was dark save for a fanlight over the hall door,
which shed a single blurred circle on to the garden path.  The
wooden fence which separated the grounds from the road threw a
dense black shadow upon the inner side, and here it was that we
crouched.

"I fear that you'll have a long wait," Holmes whispered.  "We may
thank our stars that it is not raining.  I don't think we can
even venture to smoke to pass the time.  However, it's a two to
one chance that we get something to pay us for our trouble."

It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as
Holmes had led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and
singular fashion.  In an instant, without the least sound to warn
us of his coming, the garden gate swung open, and a lithe, dark
figure, as swift and active as an ape, rushed up the garden
path.  We saw it whisk past the light thrown from over the door
and disappear against the black shadow of the house.  There was
a long pause, during which we held our breath, and then a very
gentle creaking sound came to our ears.  The window was being
opened.  The noise ceased, and again there was a long silence. 
The fellow was making his way into the house.  We saw the sudden
flash of a dark lantern inside the room.  What he sought was
evidently not there, for again we saw the flash through another
blind, and then through another.

"Let us get to the open window.  We will nab him as he climbs
out," Lestrade whispered.

But before we could move, the man had emerged again.  As he came
out into the glimmering patch of light, we saw that he carried
something white under his arm.  He looked stealthily all round
him.  The silence of the deserted street reassured him.  Turning
his back upon us he laid down his burden, and the next instant
there was the sound of a sharp tap, followed by a clatter and
rattle.  The man was so intent upon what he was doing that he
never heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot.  With
the bound of a tiger Holmes was on his back, and an instant
later Lestrade and I had him by either wrist, and the handcuffs
had been fastened.  As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallow
face, with writhing, furious features, glaring up at us, and I
knew that it was indeed the man of the photograph whom we had
secured.

But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his
attention.  Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most
carefully examining that which the man had brought from the
house.  It was a bust of Napoleon, like the one which we had seen
that morning, and it had been broken into similar fragments. 
Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to the light, but in
no way did it differ from any other shattered piece of plaster. 
He had just completed his examination when the hall lights flew
up, the door opened, and the owner of the house, a jovial,
rotund figure in shirt and trousers, presented himself.

"Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?" said Holmes.

"Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes?  I had the
note which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly
what you told me.  We locked every door on the inside and awaited
developments.  Well, I'm very glad to see that you have got the
rascal.  I hope, gentlemen, that you will come in and have some
refreshment."

However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters,
so within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were
all four upon our way to London.  Not a word would our captive
say, but he glared at us from the shadow of his matted hair, and
once, when my hand seemed within his reach, he snapped at it
like a hungry wolf.  We stayed long enough at the police-station
to learn that a search of his clothing revealed nothing save a
few shillings and a long sheath knife, the handle of which bore
copious traces of recent blood.

"That's all right," said Lestrade, as we parted.  "Hill knows all
these gentry, and he will give a name to him.  You'll find that
my theory of the Mafia will work out all right.  But I'm sure I
am exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike
way in which you laid hands upon him.  I don't quite understand
it all yet."

"I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations," said
Holmes.  "Besides, there are one or two details which are not
finished off, and it is one of those cases which are worth
working out to the very end.  If you will come round once more to
my rooms at six o'clock to-morrow, I think I shall be able to
show you that even now you have not grasped the entire meaning
of this business, which presents some features which make it
absolutely original in the history of crime.  If ever I permit
you to chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I
foresee that you will enliven your pages by an account of the
singular adventure of the Napoleonic busts."

When we met again next evening, Lestrade was furnished with much
information concerning our prisoner.  His name, it appeared, was
Beppo, second name unknown.  He was a well-known ne'er-do-well
among the Italian colony.  He had once been a skilful sculptor
and had earned an honest living, but he had taken to evil
courses and had twice already been in jail--once for a petty
theft, and once, as we had already heard, for stabbing a
fellow-countryman.  He could talk English perfectly well.  His
reasons for destroying the busts were still unknown, and he
refused to answer any questions upon the subject, but the police
had discovered that these same busts might very well have been
made by his own hands, since he was engaged in this class of
work at the establishment of Gelder & Co.  To all this
information, much of which we already knew, Holmes listened with
polite attention, but I, who knew him so well, could clearly see
that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a mixture of
mingled uneasiness and expectation beneath that mask which he
was wont to assume.  At last he started in his chair, and his
eyes brightened.  There had been a ring at the bell.  A minute
later we heard steps upon the stairs, and an elderly red-faced
man with grizzled side-whiskers was ushered in.  In his right
hand he carried an old-fashioned carpet-bag, which he placed
upon the table.

"Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?"

My friend bowed and smiled.  "Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I
suppose?" said he.

"Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late, but the trains were
awkward.  You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession."

"Exactly."

"I have your letter here.  You said, `I desire to possess a copy
of Devine's Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for
the one which is in your possession.' Is that right?"

"Certainly."

"I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not
imagine how you knew that I owned such a thing."

"Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is
very simple.  Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they
had sold you their last copy, and he gave me your address."

"Oh, that was it, was it?  Did he tell you what I paid for it?"

"No, he did not."

"Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one.  I only
gave fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to
know that before I take ten pounds from you.

"I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford.  But I
have named that price, so I intend to stick to it."

"Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes.  I brought the
bust up with me, as you asked me to do.  Here it is!"  He opened
his bag, and at last we saw placed upon our table a complete
specimen of that bust which we had already seen more than once
in fragments.

Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note
upon the table.

"You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence
of these witnesses.  It is simply to say that you transfer every
possible right that you ever had in the bust to me.  I am a
methodical man, you see, and you never know what turn events
might take afterwards.  Thank you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your
money, and I wish you a very good evening."

When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes's movements
were such as to rivet our attention.  He began by taking a clean
white cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table.  Then he
placed his newly acquired bust in the centre of the cloth. 
Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a
sharp blow on the top of the head.  The figure broke into
fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered remains. 
Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph he held up one
splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in
a pudding.

"Gentlemen," he cried, "let me introduce you to the famous black
pearl of the Borgias."

Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a
spontaneous impulse, we both broke at clapping, as at the
well-wrought crisis of a play.  A flush of colour sprang to
Holmes's pale cheeks, and he bowed to us like the master
dramatist who receives the homage of his audience.  It was
at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be a
reasoning machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration
and applause.  The same singularly proud and reserved nature
which turned away with disdain from popular notoriety was
capable of being moved to its depths by spontaneous wonder
and praise from a friend.

"Yes, gentlemen," said he, "it is the most famous pearl now
existing in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a
connected chain of inductive reasoning, to trace it from the
Prince of Colonna's bedroom at the Dacre Hotel, where it was
lost, to the interior of this, the last of the six busts of
Napoleon which were manufactured by Gelder & Co., of Stepney. 
You will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the
disappearance of this valuable jewel and the vain efforts of the
London police to recover it.  I was myself consulted upon the
case, but I was unable to throw any light upon it.  Suspicion
fell upon the maid of the Princess, who was an Italian, and it
was proved that she had a brother in London, but we failed to
trace any connection between them.  The maid's name was Lucretia
Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this Pietro who
was murdered two nights ago was the brother.  I have been looking
up the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the
disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest
of Beppo, for some crime of violence--an event which took place in
the factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these busts
were being made.  Now you clearly see the sequence of events,
though you see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way
in which they presented themselves to me.  Beppo had the pearl in
his possession.  He may have stolen it from Pietro, he may have
been Pietro's confederate, he may have been the go-between of
Pietro and his sister.  It is of no consequence to us which is
the correct solution.

"The main fact is that he HAD the pearl, and at that moment,
when it was on his person, he was pursued by the police.  He made
for the factory in which he worked, and he knew that he had only a
few minutes in which to conceal this enormously valuable prize,
which would otherwise be found on him when he was searched.  Six
plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage.  One of
them was still soft.  In an instant Beppo, a skilful workman,
made a small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and
with a few touches covered over the aperture once more.  It was
an admirable hiding-place.  No one could possibly find it.  But
Beppo was condemned to a year's imprisonment, and in the
meanwhile his six busts were scattered over London.  He could not
tell which contained his treasure.  Only by breaking them could
he see.  Even shaking would tell him nothing, for as the plaster
was wet it was probable that the pearl would adhere to it--as, in
fact, it has done.  Beppo did not despair, and he conducted his
search with considerable ingenuity and perseverance.  Through a
cousin who works with Gelder, he found out the retail firms who
had bought the busts.  He managed to find employment with Morse
Hudson, and in that way tracked down three of them.  The pearl
was not there.  Then, with the help of some Italian employe, he
succeeded in finding out where the other three busts had gone. 
The first was at Harker's.  There he was dogged by his
confederate, who held Beppo responsible for the loss of the
pearl, and he stabbed him in the scuffle which followed."

"If he was his confederate, why should he carry his photograph?"
I asked.

"As a means of tracing him, if he wished to inquire about him
from any third person.  That was the obvious reason.  Well, after
the murder I calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather
than delay his movements.  He would fear that the police would
read his secret, and so he hastened on before they should get
ahead of him.  Of course, I could not say that he had not found
the pearl in Harker's bust.  I had not even concluded for certain
that it was the pearl, but it was evident to me that he was
looking for something, since he carried the bust past the other
houses in order to break it in the garden which had a lamp
overlooking it.  Since Harker's bust was one in three, the
chances were exactly as I told you--two to one against the pearl
being inside it.  There remained two busts, and it was obvious
that he would go for the London one first.  I warned the inmates
of the house, so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we went down,
with the happiest results.  By that time, of course, I knew for
certain that it was the Borgia pearl that we were after.  The
name of the murdered man linked the one event with the other. 
There only remained a single bust--the Reading one--and the
pearl must be there.  I bought it in your presence from the
owner--and there it lies."

We sat in silence for a moment.

"Well," said Lestrade, "I've seen you handle a good many cases,
Mr. Holmes, but I don't know that I ever knew a more workmanlike
one than that.  We're not jealous of you at Scotland Yard.  No,
sir, we are very proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow,
there's not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest
constable, who wouldn't be glad to shake you by the hand."

"Thank you!" said Holmes.  "Thank you!" and as he turned away, it
seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human
emotions than I had ever seen him.  A moment later he was the
cold and practical thinker once more.  "Put the pearl in the
safe, Watson," said he, "and get out the papers of the
Conk-Singleton forgery case.  Good-bye, Lestrade.  If any little
problem comes your way, I shall be happy, if I can, to give you
a hint or two as to its solution."




THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE STUDENTS



It was in the year '95 that a combination of events, into which
I need not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend
some weeks in one of our great university towns, and it was
during this time that the small but instructive adventure which
I am about to relate befell us.  It will be obvious that any
details which would help the reader exactly to identify the
college or the criminal would be injudicious and offensive.  So
painful a scandal may well be allowed to die out.  With due
discretion the incident itself may, however, be described, since
it serves to illustrate some of those qualities for which my
friend was remarkable.  I will endeavour, in my statement, to
avoid such terms as would serve to limit the events to any
particular place, or give a clue as to the people concerned.

We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a
library where Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious
researches in early English charters--researches which led to
results so striking that they may be the subject of one of my
future narratives.  Here it was that one evening we received a
visit from an acquaintance, Mr. Hilton Soames, tutor and
lecturer at the College of St. Luke's.  Mr. Soames was a tall,
spare man, of a nervous and excitable temperament.  I had always
known him to be restless in his manner, but on this particular
occasion he was in such a state of uncontrollable agitation that
it was clear something very unusual had occurred.

"I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare me a few hours of your
valuable time.  We have had a very painful incident at St.
Luke's, and really, but for the happy chance of your being in
town, I should have been at a loss what to do."

"I am very busy just now, and I desire no distractions," my
friend answered.  "I should much prefer that you called in the
aid of the police."

"No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly impossible.  When
once the law is evoked it cannot be stayed again, and this is
just one of those cases where, for the credit of the college, it
is most essential to avoid scandal.  Your discretion is as well
known as your powers, and you are the one man in the world who
can help me.  I beg you, Mr. Holmes, to do what you can."

My friend's temper had not improved since he had been deprived
of the congenial surroundings of Baker Street.  Without his
scrapbooks, his chemicals, and his homely untidiness, he was an
uncomfortable man.  He shrugged his shoulders in ungracious
acquiescence, while our visitor in hurried words and with much
excitable gesticulation poured forth his story.

"I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that to-morrow is the first
day of the examination for the Fortescue Scholarship.  I am one
of the examiners.  My subject is Greek, and the first of the
papers consists of a large passage of Greek translation which
the candidate has not seen.  This passage is printed on the
examination paper, and it would naturally be an immense
advantage if the candidate could prepare it in advance.  For this
reason, great care is taken to keep the paper secret.

"To-day, about three o'clock, the proofs of this paper arrived
from the printers.  The exercise consists of half a chapter of
Thucydides.  I had to read it over carefully, as the text must be
absolutely correct.  At four-thirty my task was not yet
completed.  I had, however, promised to take tea in a friend's
rooms, so I left the proof upon my desk.  I was absent rather
more than an hour.

"You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college doors are double--a
green baize one within and a heavy oak one without.  As I
approached my outer door, I was amazed to see a key in it.  For
an instant I imagined that I had left my own there, but on
feeling in my pocket I found that it was all right.  The only
duplicate which existed, so far as I knew, was that which
belonged to my servant, Bannister--a man who has looked after my
room for ten years, and whose honesty is absolutely above
suspicion.  I found that the key was indeed his, that he had
entered my room to know if I wanted tea, and that he had very
carelessly left the key in the door when he came out.  His visit
to my room must have been within a very few minutes of my
leaving it.  His forgetfulness about the key would have mattered
little upon any other occasion, but on this one day it has
produced the most deplorable consequences.

"The moment I looked at my table, I was aware that someone had
rummaged among my papers.  The proof was in three long slips.  I
had left them all together.  Now, I found that one of them was
lying on the floor, one was on the side table near the window,
and the third was where I had left it."

Holmes stirred for the first time.

"The first page on the floor, the second in the window, the
third where you left it," said he.

"Exactly, Mr. Holmes.  You amaze me.  How could you possibly know that?"

"Pray continue your very interesting statement."

"For an instant I imagined that Bannister had taken the
unpardonable liberty of examining my papers.  He denied it,
however, with the utmost earnestness, and I am convinced that he
was speaking the truth.  The alternative was that someone passing
had observed the key in the door, had known that I was out, and
had entered to look at the papers.  A large sum of money is at
stake, for the scholarship is a very valuable one, and an
unscrupulous man might very well run a risk in order to gain an
advantage over his fellows.

"Bannister was very much upset by the incident.  He had nearly
fainted when we found that the papers had undoubtedly been
tampered with.  I gave him a little brandy and left him collapsed
in a chair, while I made a most careful examination of the room. 
I soon saw that the intruder had left other traces of his
presence besides the rumpled papers.  On the table in the window
were several shreds from a pencil which had been sharpened.  A
broken tip of lead was lying there also.  Evidently the rascal
had copied the paper in a great hurry, had broken his pencil,
and had been compelled to put a fresh point to it."

"Excellent!" said Holmes, who was recovering his good-humour as
his attention became more engrossed by the case.  "Fortune has
been your friend."

"This was not all.  I have a new writing-table with a fine
surface of red leather.  I am prepared to swear, and so is
Bannister, that it was smooth and unstained.  Now I found a clean
cut in it about three inches long--not a mere scratch, but a
positive cut.  Not only this, but on the table I found a small
ball of black dough or clay, with specks of something which
looks like sawdust in it.  I am convinced that these marks were
left by the man who rifled the papers.  There were no footmarks
and no other evidence as to his identity.  I was at my wit's end,
when suddenly the happy thought occurred to me that you were in
the town, and I came straight round to put the matter into your
hands.  Do help me, Mr. Holmes.  You see my dilemma.  Either I must
find the man or else the examination must be postponed until
fresh papers are prepared, and since this cannot be done without
explanation, there will ensue a hideous scandal, which will
throw a cloud not only on the college, but on the university. 
Above all things, I desire to settle the matter quietly and
discreetly."

"I shall be happy to look into it and to give you such advice as
I can," said Holmes, rising and putting on his overcoat.  "The
case is not entirely devoid of interest.  Had anyone visited you
in your room after the papers came to you?"

"Yes, young Daulat Ras, an Indian student, who lives on the same
stair, came in to ask me some particulars about the examination."

"For which he was entered?"

"Yes."

"And the papers were on your table?"

"To the best of my belief, they were rolled up."

"But might be recognized as proofs?"

"Possibly."

"No one else in your room?"

"No."

"Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?"

"No one save the printer."

"Did this man Bannister know?"

"No, certainly not.  No one knew."

"Where is Bannister now?"

"He was very ill, poor fellow.  I left him collapsed in the
chair.  I was in such a hurry to come to you."

"You left your door open?"

"I locked up the papers first."

"Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames:  that, unless the Indian
student recognized the roll as being proofs, the man who
tampered with them came upon them accidentally without knowing
that they were there."

"So it seems to me."

Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.

"Well," said he, "let us go round.  Not one of your cases,
Watson--mental, not physical.  All right; come if you want to. 
Now, Mr. Soames--at your disposal!"

The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, latticed
window on to the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college. 
A Gothic arched door led to a worn stone staircase.  On the
ground floor was the tutor's room.  Above were three students,
one on each story.  It was already twilight when we reached the
scene of our problem.  Holmes halted and looked earnestly at the
window.  Then he approached it, and, standing on tiptoe with his
neck craned, he looked into the room.

"He must have entered through the door.  There is no opening
except the one pane," said our learned guide.

"Dear me!" said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as he
glanced at our companion.  "Well, if there is nothing to be
learned here, we had best go inside."

The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his
room.  We stood at the entrance while Holmes made an examination
of the carpet.

"I am afraid there are no signs here," said he.  "One could
hardly hope for any upon so dry a day.  Your servant seems to
have quite recovered.  You left him in a chair, you say.  Which
chair?"

"By the window there."

"I see.  Near this little table.  You can come in now.  I have
finished with the carpet.  Let us take the little table first.  Of
course, what has happened is very clear.  The man entered and
took the papers, sheet by sheet, from the central table.  He
carried them over to the window table, because from there he
could see if you came across the courtyard, and so could effect
an escape."

"As a matter of fact, he could not," said Soames, "for I entered
by the side door."

"Ah, that's good!  Well, anyhow, that was in his mind.  Let me see
the three strips.  No finger impressions--no!  Well, he carried
over this one first, and he copied it.  How long would it take
him to do that, using every possible contraction?  A quarter of
an hour, not less.  Then he tossed it down and seized the next. 
He was in the midst of that when your return caused him to make
a very hurried retreat--VERY hurried, since he had not time to
replace the papers which would tell you that he had been there. 
You were not aware of any hurrying feet on the stair as you
entered the outer door?"

"No, I can't say I was."

"Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and had,
as you observe, to sharpen it again.  This is of interest,
Watson.  The pencil was not an ordinary one.  It was above the
usual size, with a soft lead, the outer colour was dark blue,
the maker's name was printed in silver lettering, and the piece
remaining is only about an inch and a half long.  Look for such
a pencil, Mr. Soames, and you have got your man.  When I add that
he possesses a large and very blunt knife, you have an
additional aid."

Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed by this flood of
information.  "I can follow the other points," said he, "but
really, in this matter of the length----"

Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space of
clear wood after them.

"You see?"

"No, I fear that even now----"

"Watson, I have always done you an injustice.  There are others. 
What could this NN be?  It is at the end of a word.  You are aware
that Johann Faber is the most common maker's name.  Is it not
clear that there is just as much of the pencil left as usually
follows the Johann?"  He held the small table sideways to the
electric light.  "I was hoping that if the paper on which he
wrote was thin, some trace of it might come through upon this
polished surface.  No, I see nothing.  I don't think there is
anything more to be learned here.  Now for the central table. 
This small pellet is, I presume, the black, doughy mass you
spoke of.  Roughly pyramidal in shape and hollowed out, I
perceive.  As you say, there appear to be grains of sawdust in
it.  Dear me, this is very interesting.  And the cut--a positive
tear, I see.  It began with a thin scratch and ended in a jagged
hole.  I am much indebted to you for directing my attention to
this case, Mr. Soames.  Where does that door lead to?"

"To my bedroom."

"Have you been in it since your adventure?"

"No, I came straight away for you."

"I should like to have a glance round.  What a charming,
old-fashioned room!  Perhaps you will kindly wait a minute, until
I have examined the floor.  No, I see nothing.  What about this
curtain?  You hang your clothes behind it.  If anyone were forced
to conceal himself in this room he must do it there, since the
bed is too low and the wardrobe too shallow.  No one there, I
suppose?"

As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little
rigidity and alertness of his attitude, that he was prepared for
an emergency.  As a matter of fact, the drawn curtain disclosed
nothing but three or four suits of clothes hanging from a line
of pegs.  Holmes turned away, and stooped suddenly to the floor.

"Halloa!  What's this?" said he.

It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like stuff, exactly like
the one upon the table of the study.  Holmes held it out on his
open palm in the glare of the electric light.

"Your visitor seems to have left traces in your bedroom as well
as in your sitting-room, Mr. Soames."

"What could he have wanted there?"

"I think it is clear enough.  You came back by an unexpected way,
and so he had no warning until you were at the very door.  What
could he do?  He caught up everything which would betray him, and
he rushed into your bedroom to conceal himself"

"Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that, all the
time I was talking to Bannister in this room, we had the man
prisoner if we had only known it?"

"So I read it."

"Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes.  I don't know
whether you observed my bedroom window?"

"Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one
swinging on hinge, and large enough to admit a man."

"Exactly.  And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as to
be partly invisible.  The man might have effected his entrance
there, left traces as he passed through the bedroom, and
finally, finding the door open, have escaped that way."

Holmes shook his head impatiently.

"Let us be practical," said he.  "I understand you to say that
there are three students who use this stair, and are in the
habit of passing your door?"

"Yes, there are."

"And they are all in for this examination?"

"Yes."

"Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than the others?"

Soames hesitated.

"It is a very delicate question," said he.  "One hardly likes to
throw suspicion where there are no proofs."

"Let us hear the suspicions.  I will look after the proofs."

"I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the
three men who inhabit these rooms.  The lower of the three is
Gilchrist, a fine scholar and athlete, plays in the Rugby team
and the cricket team for the college, and got his Blue for the
hurdles and the long jump.  He is a fine, manly fellow.  His
father was the notorious Sir Jabez Gilchrist, who ruined himself
on the turf.  My scholar has been left very poor, but he is
hard-working and industrious.  He will do well.

"The second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian.  He is
a quiet, inscrutable fellow; as most of those Indians are.  He is
well up in his work, though his Greek is his weak subject.  He is
steady and methodical.

"The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren.  He is a brilliant
fellow when he chooses to work--one of the brightest intellects
of the university; but he is wayward, dissipated, and
unprincipled.  He was nearly expelled over a card scandal in his
first year.  He has been idling all this term, and he must look
forward with dread to the examination."

"Then it is he whom you suspect?"

"I dare not go so far as that.  But, of the three, he is perhaps
the least unlikely."

"Exactly.  Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your servant,
Bannister."

He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired
fellow of fifty.  He was still suffering from this sudden
disturbance of the quiet routine of his life.  His plump face was
twitching with his nervousness, and his fingers could not keep still.

"We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister," said
his master.

"Yes, sir."

"I understand," said Holmes, "that you left your key in the door?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the
very day when there were these papers inside?"

"It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the
same thing at other times."

"When did you enter the room?"

"It was about half-past four.  That is Mr. Soames' tea time."

"How long did you stay?"

"When I saw that he was absent, I withdrew at once."

"Did you look at these papers on the table?"

"No, sir--certainly not."

"How came you to leave the key in the door?"

"I had the tea-tray in my hand.  I thought I would come back for
the key.  Then I forgot."

"Has the outer door a spring lock?"

"No, sir."

"Then it was open all the time?"

"Yes, sir."

"Anyone in the room could get out?"

"Yes, sir."

"When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were very much
disturbed?"

"Yes, sir.  Such a thing has never happened during the many years
that I have been here.  I nearly fainted, sir."

"So I understand.  Where were you when you began to feel bad?"

"Where was I, sir?  Why, here, near the door."

"That is singular, because you sat down in that chair over
yonder near the corner.  Why did you pass these other chairs?"

"I don't know, sir, it didn't matter to me where I sat."

"I really don't think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes.  He was
looking very bad--quite ghastly."

"You stayed here when your master left?"

"Only for a minute or so.  Then I locked the door and went to my room."

"Whom do you suspect?"

"Oh, I would not venture to say, sir.  I don't believe there is
any gentleman in this university who is capable of profiting by
such an action.  No, sir, I'll not believe it."

"Thank you, that will do," said Holmes.  "Oh, one more word.  You
have not mentioned to any of the three gentlemen whom you attend
that anything is amiss?"

"No, sir--not a word."

"You haven't seen any of them?"

"No, sir."

"Very good.  Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the
quadrangle, if you please."

Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering gloom.

"Your three birds are all in their nests," said Holmes, looking
up.  "Halloa!  What's that?  One of them seems restless enough."

It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon
his blind.  He was pacing swiftly up and down his room.

"I should like to have a peep at each of them," said Holmes.  "Is
it possible?"

"No difficulty in the world," Soames answered.  "This set of
rooms is quite the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual
for visitors to go over them.  Come along, and I will personally
conduct you."

"No names, please!" said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist's
door.  A tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and
made us welcome when he understood our errand.  There were some
really curious pieces of mediaeval domestic architecture within. 
Holmes was so charmed with one of them that he insisted on
drawing it in his notebook, broke his pencil, had to borrow one
from our host and finally borrowed a knife to sharpen his own. 
The same curious accident happened to him in the rooms of the
Indian--a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us
askance, and was obviously glad when Holmes's architectural
studies had come to an end.  I could not see that in either case
Holmes had come upon the clue for which he was searching.  Only
at the third did our visit prove abortive.  The outer door would
not open to our knock, and nothing more substantial than a
torrent of bad language came from behind it.  "I don't care who
you are.  You can go to blazes!" roared the angry voice. 
"Tomorrow's the exam, and I won't be drawn by anyone."

"A rude fellow," said our guide, flushing with anger as we
withdrew down the stair.  "Of course, he did not realize that it
was I who was knocking, but none the less his conduct was very
uncourteous, and, indeed, under the circumstances rather suspicious."

Holmes's response was a curious one.

"Can you tell me his exact height?" he asked.

"Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say.  He is taller
than the Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist.  I suppose five foot
six would be about it."

"That is very important," said Holmes.  "And now, Mr. Soames, I
wish you good-night."

Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay.  "Good
gracious, Mr. Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in
this abrupt fashion!  You don't seem to realize the position. 
To-morrow is the examination.  I must take some definite action
to-night.  I cannot allow the examination to be held if one of
the papers has been tampered with.  The situation must be faced."

"You must leave it as it is.  I shall drop round early to-morrow
morning and chat the matter over.  It is possible that I may be
in a position then to indicate some course of action.  Meanwhile,
you change nothing--nothing at all."

"Very good, Mr. Holmes."

"You can be perfectly easy in your mind.  We shall certainly find
some way out of your difficulties.  I will take the black clay
with me, also the pencil cuttings.  Good-bye."

When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle, we again
looked up at the windows.  The Indian still paced his room.  The
others were invisible.

"Well, Watson, what do you think of it?" Holmes asked, as we
came out into the main street.  "Quite a little parlour game--
sort of three-card trick, is it not?  There are your three men. 
It must be one of them.  You take your choice.  Which is yours?"

"The foul-mouthed fellow at the top.  He is the one with the
worst record.  And yet that Indian was a sly fellow also.  Why
should he be pacing his room all the time?"

"There is nothing in that.  Many men do it when they are trying
to learn anything by heart."

"He looked at us in a queer way."

"So would you, if a flock of strangers came in on you when you
were preparing for an examination next day, and every moment was
of value.  No, I see nothing in that.  Pencils, too, and knives--
all was satisfactory.  But that fellow DOES puzzle me."

"Who?"

"Why, Bannister, the servant.  What's his game in the matter?"

"He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man."

"So he did me.  That's the puzzling part.  Why should a perfectly
honest man--Well, well, here's a large stationer's.  We shall
begin our researches here."

There were only four stationers of any consequences in the town,
and at each Holmes produced his pencil chips, and bid high for
a duplicate.  All were agreed that one could be ordered, but that
it was not a usual size of pencil and that it was seldom kept in
stock.  My friend did not appear to be depressed by his failure,
but shrugged his shoulders in half-humorous resignation.

"No good, my dear Watson.  This, the best and only final clue,
has run to nothing.  But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can
build up a sufficient case without it.  By Jove! my dear fellow,
it is nearly nine, and the landlady babbled of green peas at
seven-thirty.  What with your eternal tobacco, Watson, and your
irregularity at meals, I expect that you will get notice to
quit, and that I shall share your downfall--not, however, before
we have solved the problem of the nervous tutor, the careless
servant, and the three enterprising students."

Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though
he sat lost in thought for a long time after our belated dinner. 
At eight in the morning, he came into my room just as I finished
my toilet.

"Well, Watson," said he, "it is time we went down to St. Luke's. 
Can you do without breakfast?"

"Certainly."

"Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell
him something positive."

"Have you anything positive to tell him?"

"I think so."

"You have formed a conclusion?"

"Yes, my dear Watson, I have solved the mystery."

"But what fresh evidence could you have got?"

"Aha!  It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed
at the untimely hour of six.  I have put in two hours' hard work
and covered at least five miles, with something to show for it. 
Look at that!"

He held out his hand.  On the palm were three little pyramids of
black, doughy clay.

"Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday."

"And one more this morning.  It is a fair argument that wherever
No. 3 came from is also the source of Nos. 1 and 2.  Eh, Watson?  
Well, come along and put friend Soames out of his pain."

The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable
agitation when we found him in his chambers.  In a few hours
the examination would commence, and he was still in the dilemma
between making the facts public and allowing the culprit to
compete for the valuable scholarship.  He could hardly stand
still so great was his mental agitation, and he ran towards
Holmes with two eager hands outstretched.

"Thank heaven that you have come!  I feared that you had given it
up in despair.  What am I to do?  Shall the examination proceed?"

"Yes, let it proceed, by all means."

"But this rascal?"

"He shall not compete."

"You know him?"

"I think so.  If this matter is not to become public, we must
give ourselves certain powers and resolve ourselves into a small
private court-martial.  You there, if you please, Soames!  Watson
you here!  I'll take the armchair in the middle.  I think that we
are now sufficiently imposing to strike terror into a guilty
breast.  Kindly ring the bell!"

Bannister entered, and shrank back in evident surprise and fear
at our judicial appearance.

"You will kindly close the door," said Holmes.  "Now, Bannister,
will you please tell us the truth about yesterday's incident?"

The man turned white to the roots of his hair.

"I have told you everything, sir."

"Nothing to add?"

"Nothing at all, sir."

"Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you.  When you sat
down on that chair yesterday, did you do so in order to conceal
some object which would have shown who had been in the room?"

Bannister's face was ghastly.

"No, sir, certainly not."

"It is only a suggestion," said Holmes, suavely.  "I frankly
admit that I am unable to prove it.  But it seems probable
enough, since the moment that Mr. Soames's back was turned, you
released the man who was hiding in that bedroom."

Bannister licked his dry lips.

"There was no man, sir."

"Ah, that's a pity, Bannister.  Up to now you may have spoken the
truth, but now I know that you have lied."

The man's face set in sullen defiance.

"There was no man, sir."

"Come, come, Bannister!"

"No, sir, there was no one."

"In that case, you can give us no further information.  Would you
please remain in the room?  Stand over there near the bedroom
door.  Now, Soames, I am going to ask you to have the great
kindness to go up to the room of young Gilchrist, and to ask him
to step down into yours."

An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the
student.  He was a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile,
with a springy step and a pleasant, open face.  His troubled blue
eyes glanced at each of us, and finally rested with an
expression of blank dismay upon Bannister in the farther corner.

"Just close the door," said Holmes.  "Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are
all quite alone here, and no one need ever know one word of what
passes between us.  We can be perfectly frank with each other.  We
want to know, Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an honourable man, ever
came to commit such an action as that of yesterday?"

The unfortunate young man staggered back, and cast a look full
of horror and reproach at Bannister.

"No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir, I never said a word--never one
word!" cried the servant.

"No, but you have now," said Holmes.  "Now, sir, you must see
that after Bannister's words your position is hopeless, and that
your only chance lies in a frank confession."

For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his
writhing features.  The next he had thrown himself on his knees
beside the table, and burying his face in his hands, he had
burst into a storm of passionate sobbing.

"Come, come," said Holmes, kindly, "it is human to err, and at
least no one can accuse you of being a callous criminal.  Perhaps
it would be easier for you if I were to tell Mr. Soames what
occurred, and you can check me where I am wrong.  Shall I do so?  
Well, well, don't trouble to answer.  Listen, and see that I do
you no injustice.

"From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no one,
not even Bannister, could have told that the papers were in your
room, the case began to take a definite shape in my mind.  The
printer one could, of course, dismiss.  He could examine the
papers in his own office.  The Indian I also thought nothing of. 
If the proofs were in a roll, he could not possibly know what
they were.  On the other hand, it seemed an unthinkable
coincidence that a man should dare to enter the room, and that
by chance on that very day the papers were on the table.  I
dismissed that.  The man who entered knew that the papers were
there.  How did he know?

"When I approached your room, I examined the window.  You amused
me by supposing that I was contemplating the possibility of
someone having in broad daylight, under the eyes of all these
opposite rooms, forced himself through it.  Such an idea was
absurd.  I was measuring how tall a man would need to be in order
to see, as he passed, what papers were on the central table.  I
am six feet high, and I could do it with an effort.  No one less
than that would have a chance.  Already you see I had reason to
think that, if one of your three students was a man of unusual
height, he was the most worth watching of the three.

"I entered, and I took you into my confidence as to the
suggestions of the side table.  Of the centre table I could make
nothing, until in your description of Gilchrist you mentioned
that he was a long-distance jumper.  Then the whole thing came to
me in an instant, and I only needed certain corroborative
proofs, which I speedily obtained.

"What happened with{sic} this:  This young fellow had employed his
afternoon at the athletic grounds, where he had been practising
the jump.  He returned carrying his jumping-shoes, which are
provided, as you are aware, with several sharp spikes.  As he
passed your window he saw, by means of his great height, these
proofs upon your table, and conjectured what they were.  No
harm would have been done had it not been that, as he passed
your door, he perceived the key which had been left by the
carelessness of your servant.  A sudden impulse came over him to
enter, and see if they were indeed the proofs.  It was not a
dangerous exploit for he could always pretend that he had simply
looked in to ask a question.

"Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was then
that he yielded to temptation.  He put his shoes on the table. 
What was it you put on that chair near the window?"

"Gloves," said the young man.

Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister.  "He put his gloves on
the chair, and he took the proofs, sheet by sheet, to copy them. 
He thought the tutor must return by the main gate and that he
would see him.  As we know, he came back by the side gate. 
Suddenly he heard him at the very door.  There was no possible
escape.  He forgot his gloves but he caught up his shoes and
darted into the bedroom.  You observe that the scratch on that
table is slight at one side, but deepens in the direction of the
bedroom door.  That in itself is enough to show us that the shoe
had been drawn in that direction, and that the culprit had taken
refuge there.  The earth round the spike had been left on the
table, and a second sample was loosened and fell in the bedroom. 
I may add that I walked out to the athletic grounds this
morning, saw that tenacious black clay is used in the
jumping-pit and carried away a specimen of it, together with
some of the fine tan or sawdust which is strewn over it to
prevent the athlete from slipping.  Have I told the truth, Mr.
Gilchrist?"

The student had drawn himself erect.

"Yes, sir, it is true," said he.

"Good heavens! have you nothing to add?" cried Soames.

"Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this disgraceful exposure
has bewildered me.  I have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I
wrote to you early this morning in the middle of a restless
night.  It was before I knew that my sin had found me out.  Here
it is, sir.  You will see that I have said, `I have determined
not to go in for the examination.  I have been offered a
commission in the Rhodesian Police, and I am going out to South
Africa at once.'"

"I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit
by your unfair advantage," said Soames.  "But why did you change
your purpose?"

Gilchrist pointed to Bannister.

"There is the man who set me in the right path," said he.

"Come now, Bannister," said Holmes.  "It will be clear to you,
from what I have said, that only you could have let this young
man out, since you were left in the room, and must have locked
the door when you went out.  As to his escaping by that window,
it was incredible.  Can you not clear up the last point in this
mystery, and tell us the reasons for your action?"

"It was simple enough, sir, if you only had known, but, with all
your cleverness, it was impossible that you could know.  Time
was, sir, when I was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this
young gentleman's father.  When he was ruined I came to the
college as servant, but I never forgot my old employer because
he was down in the world.  I watched his son all I could for the
sake of the old days.  Well, sir, when I came into this room
yesterday, when the alarm was given, the very first thing I saw
was Mr. Gilchrist's tan gloves a-lying in that chair.  I knew those
gloves well, and I understood their message.  If Mr. Soames saw
them, the game was up.  I flopped down into that chair, and
nothing would budge me until Mr. Soames he went for you.  Then out
came my poor young master, whom I had dandled on my knee, and
confessed it all to me.  Wasn't it natural, sir, that I should
save him, and wasn't it natural also that I should try to speak
to him as his dead father would have done, and make him
understand that he could not profit by such a deed?  Could you
blame me, sir?"

"No, indeed," said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet. 
"Well, Soames, I think we have cleared your little problem up,
and our breakfast awaits us at home.  Come, Watson!  As to you,
sir, I trust that a bright future awaits you in Rhodesia.  For
once you have fallen low.  Let us see, in the future, how high
you can rise."




THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLDEN PINCE-NEZ



When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which
contain our work for the year 1894, I confess that it is very
difficult for me, out of such a wealth of material, to select
the cases which are most interesting in themselves, and at the
same time most conducive to a display of those peculiar powers
for which my friend was famous.  As I turn over the pages, I see
my notes upon the repulsive story of the red leech and the
terrible death of Crosby, the banker.  Here also I find an
account of the Addleton tragedy, and the singular contents of
the ancient British barrow.  The famous Smith-Mortimer succession
case comes also within this period, and so does the tracking and
arrest of Huret, the Boulevard assassin--an exploit which won
for Holmes an autograph letter of thanks from the French
President and the Order of the Legion of Honour.  Each of these
would furnish a narrative, but on the whole I am of opinion that
none of them unites so many singular points of interest as the
episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes not only the
lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith, but also those
subsequent developments which threw so curious a light upon the
causes of the crime.

It was a wild, tempestuous night, towards the close of November. 
Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged
with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original
inscription upon a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon
surgery.  Outside the wind howled down Baker Street, while the
rain beat fiercely against the windows.  It was strange there, in
the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man's handiwork
on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be
conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London was no
more than the molehills that dot the fields.  I walked to the
window, and looked out on the deserted street.  The occasional
lamps gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement. 
A single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.

"Well, Watson, it's as well we have not to turn out to-night,"
said Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the
palimpsest.  "I've done enough for one sitting.  It is trying work
for the eyes.  So far as I can make out, it is nothing more
exciting than an Abbey's accounts dating from the second half of
the fifteenth century.  Halloa! halloa! halloa!  What's this?"

Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a
horse's hoofs, and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against
the curb.  The cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.

"What can he want?" I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.

"Want?  He wants us.  And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and
cravats and goloshes, and every aid that man ever invented to
fight the weather.  Wait a bit, though!  There's the cab off
again!  There's hope yet.  He'd have kept it if he had wanted us
to come.  Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all
virtuous folk have been long in bed."

When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor,
I had no difficulty in recognizing him.  It was young Stanley
Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had
several times shown a very practical interest.

"Is he in?" he asked, eagerly.

"Come up, my dear sir," said Holmes's voice from above.  "I hope
you have no designs upon us such a night as this."

The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his
shining waterproof.  I helped him out of it, while Holmes knocked
a blaze out of the logs in the grate.

"Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes," said he. 
"Here's a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing
hot water and a lemon, which is good medicine on a night like
this.  It must be something important which has brought you out
in such a gale."

"It is indeed, Mr. Holmes.  I've had a bustling afternoon, I
promise you.  Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the
latest editions?"

"I've seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day."

"Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you
have not missed anything.  I haven't let the grass grow under my
feet.  It's down in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from
the railway line.  I was wired for at 3:15, reached Yoxley Old
Place at 5, conducted my investigation, was back at Charing
Cross by the last train, and straight to you by cab."

"Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your case?"

"It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it.  So far as
I can see, it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled,
and yet at first it seemed so simple that one couldn't go wrong. 
There's no motive, Mr. Holmes.  That's what bothers me--I can't
put my hand on a motive.  Here's a man dead--there's no denying
that--but, so far as I can see, no reason on earth why anyone
should wish him harm."

Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

"Let us hear about it," said he.

"I've got my facts pretty clear," said Stanley Hopkins.  "All I
want now is to know what they all mean.  The story, so far as I
can make it out, is like this.  Some years ago this country
house, Yoxley Old Place, was taken by an elderly man, who gave
the name of Professor Coram.  He was an invalid, keeping his bed
half the time, and the other half hobbling round the house with
a stick or being pushed about the grounds by the gardener in a
Bath chair.  He was well liked by the few neighbours who called
upon him, and he has the reputation down there of being a very
learned man.  His household used to consist of an elderly
housekeeper, Mrs. Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarlton.  These
have both been with him since his arrival, and they seem to be
women of excellent character.  The professor is writing a learned
book, and he found it necessary, about a year ago, to engage a
secretary.  The first two that he tried were not successes, but
the third, Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man straight from
the university, seems to have been just what his employer
wanted.  His work consisted in writing all the morning to the
professor's dictation, and he usually spent the evening in
hunting up references and passages which bore upon the next
day's work.  This Willoughby Smith has nothing against him,
either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young man at Cambridge.  I
have seen his testimonials, and from the first he was a decent,
quiet, hard-working fellow, with no weak spot in him at all. 
And yet this is the lad who has met his death this morning in
the professor's study under circumstances which can point only
to murder."

The wind howled and screamed at the windows.  Holmes and I drew
closer to the fire, while the young inspector slowly and point
by point developed his singular narrative.

"If you were to search all England," said he, "I don't suppose
you could find a household more self-contained or freer from
outside influences.  Whole weeks would pass, and not one of them
go past the garden gate.  The professor was buried in his work
and existed for nothing else.  Young Smith knew nobody in the
neighbourhood, and lived very much as his employer did.  The two
women had nothing to take them from the house.  Mortimer, the
gardener, who wheels the Bath chair, is an army pensioner--an
old Crimean man of excellent character.  He does not live in the
house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end of the
garden.  Those are the only people that you would find within the
grounds of Yoxley Old Place.  At the same time, the gate of the
garden is a hundred yards from the main London to Chatham road. 
It opens with a latch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone
from walking in.

"Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the
only person who can say anything positive about the matter.  It
was in the forenoon, between eleven and twelve.  She was engaged
at the moment in hanging some curtains in the upstairs front
bedroom.  Professor Coram was still in bed, for when the weather
is bad he seldom rises before midday.  The housekeeper was busied
with some work in the back of the house.  Willoughby Smith had
been in his bedroom, which he uses as a sitting-room, but the
maid heard him at that moment pass along the passage and descend
to the study immediately below her.  She did not see him, but she
says that she could not be mistaken in his quick, firm tread. 
She did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later
there was a dreadful cry in the room below.  It was a wild,
hoarse scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come
either from a man or a woman.  At the same instant there was a
heavy thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence. 
The maid stood petrified for a moment, and then, recovering her
courage, she ran downstairs.  The study door was shut and she
opened it.  Inside, young Mr. Willoughby Smith was stretched upon
the floor.  At first she could see no injury, but as she tried to
raise him she saw that blood was pouring from the underside of
his neck.  It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound,
which had divided the carotid artery.  The instrument with which
the injury had been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him.  It
was one of those small sealing-wax knives to be found on
old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a stiff
blade.  It was part of the fittings of the professor's own desk.

"At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead,
but on pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he
opened his eyes for an instant.  `The professor,' he
murmured--`it was she.'  The maid is prepared to swear that those
were the exact words.  He tried desperately to say something
else, and he held his right hand up in the air.  Then he fell
back dead.

"In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the
scene, but she was just too late to catch the young man's dying
words.  Leaving Susan with the body, she hurried to the
professors room.  He was sitting up in bed, horribly agitated,
for he had heard enough to convince him that something terrible
had occurred.  Mrs. Marker is prepared to swear that the
professor was still in his night-clothes, and indeed it was
impossible for him to dress without the help of Mortimer, whose
orders were to come at twelve o'clock.  The professor declares
that he heard the distant cry, but that he knows nothing more. 
He can give no explanation of the young man's last words, `The
professor--it was she,' but imagines that they were the outcome
of delirium.  He believes that Willoughby Smith had not an enemy
in the world, and can give no reason for the crime.  His first
action was to send Mortimer, the gardener, for the local police. 
A little later the chief constable sent for me.  Nothing was
moved before I got there, and strict orders were given that no
one should walk upon the paths leading to the house.  It was a
splendid chance of putting your theories into practice, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes.  There was really nothing wanting."

"Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said my companion, with a somewhat
bitter smile.  "Well, let us hear about it.  What sort of a job
did you make of it?"

"I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan,
which will give you a general idea of the position of the
professor's study and the various points of the case.  It will
help you in following my investigation."

He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce,


GRAPHIC


and he laid it across Holmes's knee.  I rose and, standing
behind Holmes, studied it over his shoulder.

"It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points
which seem to me to be essential.  All the rest you will see
later for yourself.  Now, first of all, presuming that the
assassin entered the house, how did he or she come in? 
Undoubtedly by the garden path and the back door, from which
there is direct access to the study.  Any other way would have
been exceedingly complicated.  The escape must have also been
made along that line, for of the two other exits from the room
one was blocked by Susan as she ran downstairs and the other
leads straight to the professor's bedroom.  I therefore directed
my attention at once to the garden path, which was saturated
with recent rain, and would certainly show any footmarks.

"My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and
expert criminal.  No footmarks were to be found on the path. 
There could be no question, however, that someone had passed
along the grass border which lines the path, and that he had
done so in order to avoid leaving a track.  I could not find
anything in the nature of a distinct impression, but the grass
was trodden down, and someone had undoubtedly passed.  It could
only have been the murderer, since neither the gardener nor
anyone else had been there that morning, and the rain had only
begun during the night."

"One moment," said Holmes. "Where does this path lead to?"

"To the road."

"How long is it?"

"A hundred yards or so."

"At the point where the path passes through the gate, you could
surely pick up the tracks?"

"Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point."

"Well, on the road itself?"

"No, it was all trodden into mire."

"Tut-tut!  Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they
coming or going?"

"It was impossible to say.  There was never any outline."

"A large foot or a small?"

"You could not distinguish."

Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience.

"It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since,"
said he.  "It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest. 
Well, well, it can't be helped.  What did you do, Hopkins, after
you had made certain that you had made certain of nothing?"

"I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes.  I knew that
someone had entered the house cautiously from without.  I next
examined the corridor.  It is lined with cocoanut matting and had
taken no impression of any kind.  This brought me into the study
itself.  It is a scantily furnished room.  The main article is a
large writing-table with a fixed bureau.  This bureau consists of
a double column of drawers, with a central small cupboard
between them.  The drawers were open, the cupboard locked.  The
drawers, it seems, were always open, and nothing of value was
kept in them.  There were some papers of importance in the
cupboard, but there were no signs that this had been tampered
with, and the professor assures me that nothing was missing.  It
is certain that no robbery has been committed.

"I come now to the body of the young man.  It was found near the
bureau, and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart. 
The stab was on the right side of the neck and from behind
forward, so that it is almost impossible that it could have been
self-inflicted."

"Unless he fell upon the knife," said Holmes.

"Exactly.  The idea crossed my mind.  But we found the knife some
feet away from the body, so that seems impossible.  Then, of
course, there are the man's own dying words.  And, finally, there
was this very important piece of evidence which was found
clasped in the dead man's right hand."

From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet.  He
unfolded it and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken
ends of black silk cord dangling from the end of it.  "Willoughby
Smith had excellent sight," he added.  "There can be no question
that this was snatched from the face or the person of the assassin."

Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand, and examined
them with the utmost attention and interest.  He held them on his
nose, endeavoured to read through them, went to the window and
stared up the street with them, looked at them most minutely in
the full light of the lamp, and finally, with a chuckle, seated
himself at the table and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of
paper, which he tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.

"That's the best I can do for you," said he.  "It may prove to be
of some use."

The astonished detective read the note aloud.  It ran as follows:


"Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady.  She has
a remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon
either side of it.  She has a puckered forehead, a peering
expression, and probably rounded shoulders.  There are
indications that she has had recourse to an optician at least
twice during the last few months.  As her glasses are of
remarkable strength, and as opticians are not very numerous,
there should be no difficulty in tracing her."


Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must have
been reflected upon my features.  "Surely my deductions are
simplicity itself," said he.  "It would be difficult to name any
articles which afford a finer field for inference than a pair of
glasses, especially so remarkable a pair as these.  That they
belong to a woman I infer from their delicacy, and also, of
course, from the last words of the dying man.  As to her being a
person of refinement and well dressed, they are, as you
perceive, handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is
inconceivable that anyone who wore such glasses could be
slatternly in other respects.  You will find that the clips are
too wide for your nose, showing that the lady's nose was very
broad at the base.  This sort of nose is usually a short and
coarse one, but there is a sufficient number of exceptions to
prevent me from being dogmatic or from insisting upon this point
in my description.  My own face is a narrow one, and yet I find
that I cannot get my eyes into the centre, nor near the centre,
of these glasses.  Therefore, the lady's eyes are set very near
to the sides of the nose.  You will perceive, Watson, that the
glasses are concave and of unusual strength.  A lady whose vision
has been so extremely contracted all her life is sure to have
the physical characteristics of such vision, which are seen in
the forehead, the eyelids, and the shoulders."

"Yes," I said, "I can follow each of your arguments.  I confess,
however, that I am unable to understand how you arrive at the
double visit to the optician."

Holmes took the glasses in his hand.

"You will perceive," he said, "that the clips are lined with
tiny bands of cork to soften the pressure upon the nose.  One of
these is discoloured and worn to some slight extent, but the
other is new.  Evidently one has fallen off and been replaced.  I
should judge that the older of them has not been there more than
a few months.  They exactly correspond, so I gather that the lady
went back to the same establishment for the second."

"By George, it's marvellous!" cried Hopkins, in an ecstasy of
admiration.  "To think that I had all that evidence in my hand
and never knew it!  I had intended, however, to go the round of
the London opticians."

"Of course you would.  Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell
us about the case?"

"Nothing, Mr. Holmes.  I think that you know as much as I do
now--probably more.  We have had inquiries made as to any
stranger seen on the country roads or at the railway station.  We
have heard of none.  What beats me is the utter want of all
object in the crime.  Not a ghost of a motive can anyone suggest."

"Ah! there I am not in a position to help you.  But I suppose you
want us to come out to-morrow?"

"If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes.  There's a train from
Charing Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, and we should be
at Yoxley Old Place between eight and nine."

"Then we shall take it.  Your case has certainly some features of
great interest, and I shall be delighted to look into it.  Well,
it's nearly one, and we had best get a few hours' sleep.  I
daresay you can manage all right on the sofa in front of the
fire.  I'll light my spirit lamp, and give you a cup of coffee
before we start."

The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitter
morning when we started upon our journey.  We saw the cold winter
sun rise over the dreary marshes of the Thames and the long,
sullen reaches of the river, which I shall ever associate with
our pursuit of the Andaman Islander in the earlier days of our
career.  After a long and weary journey, we alighted at a small
station some miles from Chatham.  While a horse was being put
into a trap at the local inn, we snatched a hurried breakfast,
and so we were all ready for business when we at last arrived at
Yoxley Old Place.  A constable met us at the garden gate.

"Well, Wilson, any news?"

"No, sir--nothing."

"No reports of any stranger seen?"

"No, sir.  Down at the station they are certain that no stranger
either came or went yesterday."

"Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?"

"Yes, sir:  there is no one that we cannot account for."

"Well, it's only a reasonable walk to Chatham.  Anyone might stay
there or take a train without being observed.  This is the garden
path of which I spoke, Mr. Holmes.  I'll pledge my word there was
no mark on it yesterday."

"On which side were the marks on the grass?"

"This side, sir.  This narrow margin of grass between the path
and the flower-bed.  I can't see the traces now, but they were
clear to me then."

"Yes, yes:  someone has passed along," said Holmes, stooping over
the grass border.  "Our lady must have picked her steps
carefully, must she not, since on the one side she would leave
a track on the path, and on the other an even clearer one on the
soft bed?"

"Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand."

I saw an intent look pass over Holmes's face.

"You say that she must have come back this way?"

"Yes, sir, there is no other."

"On this strip of grass?"

"Certainly, Mr. Holmes."

"Hum!  It was a very remarkable performance--very remarkable. 
Well, I think we have exhausted the path.  Let us go farther. 
This garden door is usually kept open, I suppose?  Then this
visitor had nothing to do but to walk in.  The idea of murder was
not in her mind, or she would have provided herself with some
sort of weapon, instead of having to pick this knife off the
writing-table.  She advanced along this corridor, leaving no
traces upon the cocoanut matting.  Then she found herself in this
study.  How long was she there?  We have no means of judging."

"Not more than a few minutes, sir.  I forgot to tell you that
Mrs. Marker, the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not
very long before--about a quarter of an hour, she says."

"Well, that gives us a limit.  Our lady enters this room, and
what does she do?  She goes over to the writing-table.  What for? 
Not for anything in the drawers.  If there had been anything
worth her taking, it would surely have been locked up.  No, it
was for something in that wooden bureau.  Halloa! what is that
scratch upon the face of it?  Just hold a match, Watson.  Why did
you not tell me of this, Hopkins?"

The mark which he was examining began upon the brass-work on the
right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four
inches, where it had scratched the varnish from the surface.

"I noticed it, Mr. Holmes, but you'll always find scratches
round a keyhole."

"This is recent, quite recent.  See how the brass shines where it
is cut.  An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface. 
Look at it through my lens.  There's the varnish, too, like earth
on each side of a furrow.  Is Mrs. Marker there?"

A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.

"Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you notice this scratch?"

"No, sir, I did not."

"I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these
shreds of varnish.  Who has the key of this bureau?"

"The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain."

"Is it a simple key?"

"No, sir, it is a Chubb's key."

"Very good.  Mrs. Marker, you can go.  Now we are making a little
progress.  Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and
either opens it or tries to do so.  While she is thus engaged,
young Willoughby Smith enters the room.  In her hurry to withdraw
the key, she makes this scratch upon the door.  He seizes her,
and she, snatching up the nearest object, which happens to be
this knife, strikes at him in order to make him let go his hold. 
The blow is a fatal one.  He falls and she escapes, either with
or without the object for which she has come.  Is Susan, the
maid, there?  Could anyone have got away through that door after
the time that you heard the cry, Susan?"

"No sir, it is impossible.  Before I got down the stair, I'd have
seen anyone in the passage.  Besides, the door never opened, or
I would have heard it."

"That settles this exit.  Then no doubt the lady went out the way
she came.  I understand that this other passage leads only to the
professor's room.  There is no exit that way?"

"No, sir."

"We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the professor. 
Halloa, Hopkins! this is very important, very important indeed. 
The professor's corridor is also lined with cocoanut matting."

"Well, sir, what of that?"

"Don't you see any bearing upon the case?  Well, well.  I don't
insist upon it.  No doubt I am wrong.  And yet it seems to me to
be suggestive.  Come with me and introduce me."

We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that
which led to the garden.  At the end was a short flight of steps
ending in a door.  Our guide knocked, and then ushered us into
the professor's bedroom.

It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes,
which had overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the
corners, or were stacked all round at the base of the cases.  The
bed was in the centre of the room, and in it, propped up with
pillows, was the owner of the house.  I have seldom seen a more
remarkable-looking person.  It was a gaunt, aquiline face which
was turned towards us, with piercing dark eyes, which lurked in
deep hollows under overhung and tufted brows.  His hair and beard
were white, save that the latter was curiously stained with
yellow around his mouth.  A cigarette glowed amid the tangle of
white hair, and the air of the room was fetid with stale tobacco
smoke.  As he held out his hand to Holmes, I perceived that it
was also stained with yellow nicotine.

"A smoker, Mr. Holmes?" said he, speaking in well-chosen
English, with a curious little mincing accent.  "Pray take a
cigarette.  And you, sir?  I can recommend them, for I have them
especially prepared by Ionides, of Alexandria.  He sends me a
thousand at a time, and I grieve to say that I have to arrange
for a fresh supply every fortnight.  Bad, sir, very bad, but an
old man has few pleasures.  Tobacco and my work--that is all that
is left to me."

Holmes had lit a cigarette and was shooting little darting
glances all over the room.

"Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco," the old man
exclaimed.  "Alas! what a fatal interruption!  Who could have
foreseen such a terrible catastrophe?  So estimable a young man! 
I assure you that, after a few months' training, he was an
admirable assistant.  What do you think of the matter, Mr. Holmes?"

"I have not yet made up my mind."

"I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light
where all is so dark to us.  To a poor bookworm and invalid like
myself such a blow is paralyzing.  I seem to have lost the
faculty of thought.  But you are a man of action--you are a man
of affairs.  It is part of the everyday routine of your life.  You
can preserve your balance in every emergency.  We are fortunate,
indeed, in having you at our side."

Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst the
old professor was talking.  I observed that he was smoking with
extraordinary rapidity.  It was evident that he shared our host's
liking for the fresh Alexandrian cigarettes.

"Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow," said the old man.  "That is my
MAGNUM OPUS--the pile of papers on the side table yonder.  It is
my analysis of the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of
Syria and Egypt, a work which will cut deep at the very
foundation of revealed religion.  With my enfeebled health I do
not know whether I shall ever be able to complete it, now that
my assistant has been taken from me.  Dear me!  Mr. Holmes, why,
you are even a quicker smoker than I am myself."

Holmes smiled.

"I am a connoisseur," said he, taking another cigarette from the
box--his fourth--and lighting it from the stub of that which he
had finished.  "I will not trouble you with any lengthy
cross-examination, Professor Coram, since I gather that you were
in bed at the time of the crime, and could know nothing about
it.  I would only ask this:  What do you imagine that this poor
fellow meant by his last words:  `The professor--it was she'?"

The professor shook his head.

"Susan is a country girl," said he, "and you know the incredible
stupidity of that class.  I fancy that the poor fellow murmured
some incoherent delirious words, and that she twisted them into
this meaningless message."

"I see.  You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?"

"Possibly an accident, possibly--I only breathe it among
ourselves--a suicide.  Young men have their hidden troubles--some
affair of the heart, perhaps, which we have never known.  It is
a more probable supposition than murder."

"But the eyeglasses?"

"Ah!  I am only a student--a man of dreams.  I cannot explain the
practical things of life.  But still, we are aware, my friend,
that love-gages may take strange shapes.  By all means take
another cigarette.  It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate
them so.  A fan, a glove, glasses--who knows what article may be
carried as a token or treasured when a man puts an end to his
life?  This gentleman speaks of footsteps in the grass, but,
after all, it is easy to be mistaken on such a point.  As to the
knife, it might well be thrown far from the unfortunate man as
he fell.  It is possible that I speak as a child, but to me it
seems that Willoughby Smith has met his fate by his own hand."

Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he
continued to walk up and down for some time, lost in thought and
consuming cigarette after cigarette.

"Tell me, Professor Coram," he said, at last, "what is in that
cupboard in the bureau?"

"Nothing that would help a thief.  Family papers, letters from my
poor wife, diplomas of universities which have done me honour. 
Here is the key.  You can look for yourself."

Holmes picked up the key, and looked at it for an instant, then
he handed it back.

"No, I hardly think that it would help me," said he.  "I should
prefer to go quietly down to your garden, and turn the whole
matter over in my head.  There is something to be said for the
theory of suicide which you have put forward.  We must apologize
for having intruded upon you, Professor Coram, and I promise
that we won't disturb you until after lunch.  At two o'clock we
will come again, and report to you anything which may have
happened in the interval."

Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down the
garden path for some time in silence.

"Have you a clue?" I asked, at last.

"It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked," said he.  "It is
possible that I am utterly mistaken.  The cigarettes will show me."

"My dear Holmes," I exclaimed, "how on earth----"

"Well, well, you may see for yourself.  If not, there's no harm
done.  Of course, we always have the optician clue to fall back
upon, but I take a short cut when I can get it.  Ah, here is the
good Mrs. Marker!  Let us enjoy five minutes of instructive
conversation with her."

I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a
peculiarly ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily
established terms of confidence with them.  In half the time
which he had named, he had captured the housekeeper's goodwill
and was chatting with her as if he had known her for years.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir.  He does smoke something
terrible.  All day and sometimes all night, sir.  I've seen that
room of a morning--well, sir, you'd have thought it was a London
fog.  Poor young Mr. Smith, he was a smoker also, but not as bad
as the professor.  His health--well, I don't know that it's
better nor worse for the smoking."

"Ah!" said Holmes, "but it kills the appetite."

"Well, I don't know about that, sir."

"I suppose the professor eats hardly anything?"

"Well, he is variable.  I'll say that for him."

"I'll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won't face
his lunch after all the cigarettes I saw him consume."

"Well, you're out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a
remarkable big breakfast this morning.  I don't know when I've
known him make a better one, and he's ordered a good dish of
cutlets for his lunch.  I'm surprised myself, for since I came
into that room yesterday and saw young Mr. Smith lying there on
the floor, I couldn't bear to look at food.  Well, it takes all
sorts to make a world, and the professor hasn't let it take his
appetite away."

We loitered the morning away in the garden.  Stanley Hopkins had
gone down to the village to look into some rumours of a strange
woman who had been seen by some children on the Chatham Road the
previous morning.  As to my friend, all his usual energy seemed
to have deserted him.  I had never known him handle a case in
such a half-hearted fashion.  Even the news brought back by
Hopkins that he had found the children, and that they had
undoubtedly seen a woman exactly corresponding with Holmes's
description, and wearing either spectacles or eyeglasses, failed
to rouse any sign of keen interest.  He was more attentive when
Susan, who waited upon us at lunch, volunteered the information
that she believed Mr. Smith had been out for a walk yesterday
morning, and that he had only returned half an hour before the
tragedy occurred.  I could not myself see the bearing of this
incident, but I clearly perceived that Holmes was weaving it
into the general scheme which he had formed in his brain. 
Suddenly he sprang from his chair and glanced at his watch.  "Two
o'clock, gentlemen," said he.  "We must go up and have it out
with our friend, the professor."

The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty
dish bore evidence to the good appetite with which his
housekeeper had credited him.  He was, indeed, a weird figure as
he turned his white mane and his glowing eyes towards us.  The
eternal cigarette smouldered in his mouth.  He had been dressed
and was seated in an armchair by the fire.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?"  He shoved
the large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him
towards my companion.  Holmes stretched out his hand at the same
moment, and between them they tipped the box over the edge.  For
a minute or two we were all on our knees retrieving stray
cigarettes from impossible places.  When we rose again, I
observed Holmes's eyes were shining and his cheeks tinged with
colour.  Only at a crisis have I seen those battle-signals flying.

"Yes," said he, "I have solved it."

Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement.  Something like a
sneer quivered over the gaunt features of the old professor.

"Indeed!  In the garden?"

"No, here."

"Here!  When?"

"This instant."

"You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.  You compel me to
tell you that this is too serious a matter to be treated in such
a fashion."

"I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor
Coram, and I am sure that it is sound.  What your motives are, or
what exact part you play in this strange business, I am not yet
able to say.  In a few minutes I shall probably hear it from your
own lips.  Meanwhile I will reconstruct what is past for your
benefit, so that you may know the information which I still require.

"A lady yesterday entered your study.  She came with the
intention of possessing herself of certain documents which were
in your bureau.  She had a key of her own.  I have had an
opportunity of examining yours, and I do not find that slight
discolouration which the scratch made upon the varnish would
have produced.  You were not an accessory, therefore, and she
came, so far as I can read the evidence, without your knowledge
to rob you."

The professor blew a cloud from his lips.  "This is most
interesting and instructive," said he.  "Have you no more to add? 
Surely, having traced this lady so far, you can also say what
has become of her."

"I will endeavour to do so.  In the first place she was seized by
your secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape.  This
catastrophe I am inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for
I am convinced that the lady had no intention of inflicting so
grievous an injury.  An assassin does not come unarmed.  Horrified
by what she had done, she rushed wildly away from the scene of
the tragedy.  Unfortunately for her, she had lost her glasses in
the scuffle, and as she was extremely short-sighted she was
really helpless without them.  She ran down a corridor, which she
imagined to be that by which she had come--both were lined with
cocoanut matting--and it was only when it was too late that she
understood that she had taken the wrong passage, and that her
retreat was cut off behind her.  What was she to do?  She could
not go back.  She could not remain where she was.  She must go on. 
She went on.  She mounted a stair, pushed open a door, and found
herself in your room."

The old man sat with his mouth open, staring wildly at Holmes. 
Amazement and fear were stamped upon his expressive features. 
Now, with an effort, he shrugged his shoulders and burst into
insincere laughter.

"All very fine, Mr. Holmes," said he.  "But there is one little
flaw in your splendid theory.  I was myself in my room, and I
never left it during the day."

"I am aware of that, Professor Coram."

"And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be
aware that a woman had entered my room?"

"I never said so.  You WERE aware of it.  You spoke with her.  You
recognized her.  You aided her to escape."

Again the professor burst into high-keyed laughter.  He had risen
to his feet, and his eyes glowed like embers.

"You are mad!" he cried.  "You are talking insanely.  I helped her
to escape?  Where is she now?"

"She is there," said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase
in the corner of the room.

I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion
passed over his grim face, and he fell back in his chair.  At the
same instant the bookcase at which Holmes pointed swung round
upon a hinge, and a woman rushed out into the room.  "You are
right!" she cried, in a strange foreign voice.  "You are right!
I am here."

She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which
had come from the walls of her hiding-place.  Her face, too, was
streaked with grime, and at the best she could never have been
handsome, for she had the exact physical characteristics which
Holmes had divined, with, in addition, a long and obstinate
chin.  What with her natural blindness, and what with the change
from dark to light, she stood as one dazed, blinking about her
to see where and who we were.  And yet, in spite of all these
disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in the woman's
bearing--a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised
head, which compelled something of respect and admiration.

Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed her
as his prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet with an
over-mastering dignity which compelled obedience.  The old man
lay back in his chair with a twitching face, and stared at her
with brooding eyes.

"Yes, sir, I am your prisoner," she said.  "From where I stood I
could hear everything, and I know that you have learned the
truth.  I confess it all.  It was I who killed the young man.  But
you are right--you who say it was an accident.  I did not even
know that it was a knife which I held in my hand, for in my
despair I snatched anything from the table and struck at him to
make him let me go.  It is the truth that I tell."

"Madam," said Holmes, "I am sure that it is the truth.  I fear
that you are far from well."

She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the
dark dust-streaks upon her face.  She seated herself on the side
of the bed; then she resumed.

"I have only a little time here," she said, "but I would have
you to know the whole truth.  I am this man's wife.  He is not an
Englishman.  He is a Russian.  His name I will not tell."

For the first time the old man stirred.  "God bless you, Anna!"
he cried.  "God bless you!"

She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction.  "Why
should you cling so hard to that wretched life of yours,
Sergius?" said she.  "It has done harm to many and good to
none--not even to yourself.  However, it is not for me to cause
the frail thread to be snapped before God's time.  I have enough
already upon my soul since I crossed the threshold of this
cursed house.  But I must speak or I shall be too late.

"I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man's wife.  He was fifty
and I a foolish girl of twenty when we married.  It was in a city
of Russia, a university--I will not name the place."

"God bless you, Anna!" murmured the old man again.

"We were reformers--revolutionists--Nihilists, you understand. 
He and I and many more.  Then there came a time of trouble, a
police officer was killed, many were arrested, evidence was
wanted, and in order to save his own life and to earn a great
reward, my husband betrayed his own wife and his companions. 
Yes, we were all arrested upon his confession.  Some of us found
our way to the gallows, and some to Siberia.  I was among these
last, but my term was not for life.  My husband came to England
with his ill-gotten gains and has lived in quiet ever since,
knowing well that if the Brotherhood knew where he was not a
week would pass before justice would be done."

The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to
a cigarette.  "I am in your hands, Anna," said he.  "You were
always good to me."

"I have not yet told you the height of his villainy," said she. 
"Among our comrades of the Order, there was one who was the
friend of my heart.  He was noble, unselfish, loving--all that my
husband was not.  He hated violence.  We were all guilty--if that
is guilt--but he was not.  He wrote forever dissuading us from
such a course.  These letters would have saved him.  So would my
diary, in which, from day to day, I had entered both my feelings
towards him and the view which each of us had taken.  My husband
found and kept both diary and letters.  He hid them, and he tried
hard to swear away the young man's life.  In this he failed, but
Alexis was sent a convict to Siberia, where now, at this moment,
he works in a salt mine.  Think of that, you villain, you
villain!--now, now, at this very moment, Alexis, a man whose
name you are not worthy to speak, works and lives like a slave,
and yet I have your life in my hands, and I let you go."

"You were always a noble woman, Anna," said the old man, puffing
at his cigarette.

She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.

"I must finish," she said.  "When my term was over I set myself
to get the diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian
government, would procure my friend's release.  I knew that my
husband had come to England.  After months of searching I
discovered where he was.  I knew that he still had the diary, for
when I was in Siberia I had a letter from him once, reproaching
me and quoting some passages from its pages.  Yet I was sure
that, with his revengeful nature, he would never give it to me
of his own free-will.  I must get it for myself.  With this object
I engaged an agent from a private detective firm, who entered my
husband's house as a secretary--it was your second secretary,
Sergius, the one who left you so hurriedly.  He found that papers
were kept in the cupboard, and he got an impression of the key. 
He would not go farther.  He furnished me with a plan of the
house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study was always
empty, as the secretary was employed up here.  So at last I took
my courage in both hands, and I came down to get the papers for
myself.  I succeeded; but at what a cost!

"I had just taken the paper; and was locking the cupboard, when
the young man seized me.  I had seen him already that morning.  He
had met me on the road, and I had asked him to tell me where
Professor Coram lived, not knowing that he was in his employ."

"Exactly!  Exactly!" said Holmes.  "The secretary came back, and
told his employer of the woman he had met.  Then, in his last
breath, he tried to send a message that it was she--the she whom
he had just discussed with him."

"You must let me speak," said the woman, in an imperative voice,
and her face contracted as if in pain.  "When he had fallen I
rushed from the room, chose the wrong door, and found myself in
my husband's room.  He spoke of giving me up.  I showed him that
if he did so, his life was in my hands.  If he gave me to the
law, I could give him to the Brotherhood.  It was not that I
wished to live for my own sake, but it was that I desired to
accomplish my purpose.  He knew that I would do what I said--that
his own fate was involved in mine.  For that reason, and for no
other, he shielded me.  He thrust me into that dark
hiding-place--a relic of old days, known only to himself.  He
took his meals in his own room, and so was able to give me part
of his food.  It was agreed that when the police left the house
I should slip away by night and come back no more.  But in some
way you have read our plans."  She tore from the bosom of her
dress a small packet.  "These are my last words," said she; "here
is the packet which will save Alexis.  I confide it to your
honour and to your love of justice.  Take it!  You will deliver it
at the Russian Embassy.  Now, I have done my duty, and----"

"Stop her!" cried Holmes.  He had bounded across the room and had
wrenched a small phial from her hand.

"Too late!" she said, sinking back on the bed.  "Too late!  I took
the poison before I left my hiding-place.  My head swims!  I am
going!  I charge you, sir, to remember the packet."

"A simple case, and yet, in some ways, an instructive one,"
Holmes remarked, as we travelled back to town.  "It hinged from
the outset upon the pince-nez.  But for the fortunate chance of
the dying man having seized these, I am not sure that we could
ever have reached our solution.  It was clear to me, from the
strength of the glasses, that the wearer must have been very
blind and helpless when deprived of them.  When you asked me to
believe that she walked along a narrow strip of grass without
once making a false step, I remarked, as you may remember, that
it was a noteworthy performance.  In my mind I set it down as an
impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that she had
a second pair of glasses.  I was forced, therefore, to consider
seriously the hypothesis that she had remained within the house. 
On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors, it became
clear that she might very easily have made such a mistake, and,
in that case, it was evident that she must have entered the
professor's room.  I was keenly on the alert, therefore, for
whatever would bear out this supposition, and I examined the
room narrowly for anything in the shape of a hiding-place.  The
carpet seemed continuous and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the
idea of a trap-door.  There might well be a recess behind the
books.  As you are aware, such devices are common in old
libraries.  I observed that books were piled on the floor at all
other points, but that one bookcase was left clear.  This, then,
might be the door.  I could see no marks to guide me, but the
carpet was of a dun colour, which lends itself very well to
examination.  I therefore smoked a great number of those
excellent cigarettes, and I dropped the ash all over the space
in front of the suspected bookcase.  It was a simple trick, but
exceedingly effective.  I then went downstairs, and I
ascertained, in your presence, Watson, without your perceiving
the drift of my remarks, that Professor Coram's consumption of
food had increased--as one would expect when he is supplying a
second person.  We then ascended to the room again, when, by
upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained a very excellent view of
the floor, and was able to see quite clearly, from the traces
upon the cigarette ash, that the prisoner had in our absence
come out from her retreat.  Well, Hopkins, here we are at Charing
Cross, and I congratulate you on having brought your case to a
successful conclusion.  You are going to headquarters, no doubt. 
I think, Watson, you and I will drive together to the Russian Embassy."




THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-QUARTER



We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker
Street, but I have a particular recollection of one which
reached us on a gloomy February morning, some seven or eight
years ago, and gave Mr. Sherlock Holmes a puzzled quarter of an
hour.  It was addressed to him, and ran thus:



Please await me.  Terrible misfortune.  Right wing three-quarter
missing, indispensable to-morrow.
                                                      OVERTON.


"Strand postmark, and dispatched ten thirty-six," said Holmes,
reading it over and over.  "Mr. Overton was evidently
considerably excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in
consequence.  Well, well, he will be here, I daresay, by the time
I have looked through the TIMES, and then we shall know all
about it.  Even the most insignificant problem would be welcome
in these stagnant days."

Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to
dread such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my
companion's brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous
to leave it without material upon which to work.  For years I had
gradually weaned him from that drug mania which had threatened
once to check his remarkable career.  Now I knew that under
ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this artificial
stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was not dead but
sleeping, and I have known that the sleep was a light one and
the waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen the
drawn look upon Holmes's ascetic face, and the brooding of his
deep-set and inscrutable eyes.  Therefore I blessed this Mr.
Overton whoever he might be, since he had come with his enigmatic
message to break that dangerous calm which brought more peril
to my friend than all the storms of his tempestuous life.

As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its
sender, and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College,
Cambridge, announced the arrival of an enormous young man,
sixteen stone of solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorway
with his broad shoulders, and looked from one of us to the other
with a comely face which was haggard with anxiety.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

My companion bowed.

"I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes.  I saw Inspector
Stanley Hopkins.  He advised me to come to you.  He said the case,
so far as he could see, was more in your line than in that of
the regular police."

"Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter."

"It's awful, Mr. Holmes--simply awfull I wonder my hair isn't
gray.  Godfrey Staunton--you've heard of him, of course?  He's
simply the hinge that the whole team turns on.  I'd rather spare
two from the pack, and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. 
Whether it's passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there's no one
to touch him, and then, he's got the head, and can hold us all
together.  What am I to do?  That's what I ask you, Mr. Holmes. 
There's Moorhouse, first reserve, but he is trained as a half,
and he always edges right in on to the scrum instead of keeping
out on the touchline.  He's a fine place-kick, it's true, but
then he has no judgment, and he can't sprint for nuts.  Why,
Morton or Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could romp round him. 
Stevenson is fast enough, but he couldn't drop from the
twenty-five line, and a three-quarter who can't either punt or
drop isn't worth a place for pace alone.  No, Mr. Holmes, we are
done unless you can help me to find Godfrey Staunton."

My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech,
which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and
earnestness, every point being driven home by the slapping of a
brawny hand upon the speaker's knee.  When our visitor was silent
Holmes stretched out his hand and took down letter "S" of his
commonplace book.  For once he dug in vain into that mine of
varied information.

"There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger," said he,
"and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but
Godfrey Staunton is a new name to me."

It was our visitor's turn to look surprised.

"Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things," said he.  "I
suppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton, you
don't know Cyril Overton either?"

Holmes shook his head good humouredly.

"Great Scott!" cried the athlete.  "Why, I was first reserve for
England against Wales, and I've skippered the  'Varsity all this
year.  But that's nothing!  I didn't think there was a soul in
England who didn't know Godfrey Staunton, the crack
three-quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and five Internationals. 
Good Lord!  Mr. Holmes, where HAVE you lived?"

Holmes laughed at the young giant's naive astonishment.

"You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton--a sweeter and
healthier one.  My ramifications stretch out into many sections
of society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport,
which is the best and soundest thing in England.  However, your
unexpected visit this morning shows me that even in that world
of fresh air and fair play, there may be work for me to do.  So
now, my good sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me, slowly
and quietly, exactly what it is that has occurred, and how you
desire that I should help you."

Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look of the man who is
more accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but by
degrees, with many repetitions and obscurities which I may omit
from his narrative, he laid his strange story before us.

"It's this way, Mr. Holmes.  As I have said, I am the skipper of
the Rugger team of Cambridge 'Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is
my best man.  To-morrow we play Oxford.  Yesterday we all came up,
and we settled at Bentley's private hotel.  At ten o'clock I went
round and saw that all the fellows had gone to roost, for I
believe in strict training and plenty of sleep to keep a team
fit.  I had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned in.  He
seemed to me to be pale and bothered.  I asked him what was the
matter.  He said he was all right--just a touch of headache.  I
bade him good-night and left him.  Half an hour later, the porter
tells me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a
note for Godfrey.  He had not gone to bed, and the note was taken
to his room.  Godfrey read it, and fell back in a chair as if he
had been pole-axed.  The porter was so scared that he was going
to fetch me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water, and
pulled himself together.  Then he went downstairs, said a few
words to the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of
them went off together.  The last that the porter saw of them,
they were almost running down the street in the direction of the
Strand.  This morning Godfrey's room was empty, his bed had never
been slept in, and his things were all just as I had seen them
the night before.  He had gone off at a moment's notice with this
stranger, and no word has come from him since.  I don't believe
he will ever come back.  He was a sportsman, was Godfrey, down to
his marrow, and he wouldn't have stopped his training and let in
his skipper if it were not for some cause that was too strong
for him.  No:  I feel as if he were gone for good, and we should
never see him again."

Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this
singular narrative.

"What did you do?" he asked.

"I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him
there.  I have had an answer.  No one has seen him."

"Could he have got back to Cambridge?"

"Yes, there is a late train--quarter-past eleven."

"But, so far as you can ascertain, he did not take it?"

"No, he has not been seen."

"What did you do next?"

"I wired to Lord Mount-James."

"Why to Lord Mount-James?"

"Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest
relative--his uncle, I believe."

"Indeed.  This throws new light upon the matter.  Lord Mount-James
is one of the richest men in England."

"So I've heard Godfrey say."

"And your friend was closely related?"

"Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty--cram
full of gout, too.  They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with
his knuckles.  He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for
he is an absolute miser, but it will all come to him right enough."

"Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?"

"No."

"What motive could your friend have in going to Lord
Mount-James?"

"Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it
was to do with money it is possible that he would make for his
nearest relative, who had so much of it, though from all I have
heard he would not have much chance of getting it.  Godfrey was
not fond of the old man.  He would not go if he could help it."

"Well, we can soon determine that.  If your friend was going to
his relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the
visit of this rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the
agitation that was caused by his coming."

Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head.  "I can make nothing
of it," said he.

"Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look
into the matter," said Holmes.  "I should strongly recommend you
to make your preparations for your match without reference to
this young gentleman.  It must, as you say, have been an
overpowering necessity which tore him away in such a fashion,
and the same necessity is likely to hold him away.  Let us step
round together to the hotel, and see if the porter can throw any
fresh light upon the matter."

Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a humble
witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey
Staunton's abandoned room, he had extracted all that the porter
had to tell.  The visitor of the night before was not a
gentleman, neither was he a workingman.  He was simply what the
porter described as a "medium-looking chap," a man of fifty,
beard grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed.  He seemed himself to
be agitated.  The porter had observed his hand trembling when he
had held out the note.  Godfrey Staunton had crammed the note
into his pocket.  Staunton had not shaken hands with the man in
the hall.  They had exchanged a few sentences, of which the
porter had only distinguished the one word "time."  Then they had
hurried off in the manner described.  It was just half-past ten
by the hall clock.

"Let me see," said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton's bed. 
"You are the day porter, are you not?"

"Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven."

"The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?"

"No, sir, one theatre party came in late.  No one else."

"Were you on duty all day yesterday?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?"

"Yes, sir, one telegram."

"Ah! that's interesting.  What o'clock was this?"

"About six."

"Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?"

"Here in his room."

"Were you present when he opened it?"

"Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer."

"Well, was there?"

"Yes, sir, he wrote an answer."

"Did you take it?"

"No, he took it himself."

"But he wrote it in your presence."

"Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back
turned at that table.  When he had written it, he said:  `All
right, porter, I will take this myself.'"

"What did he write it with?"

"A pen, sir."

"Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?"

"Yes, sir, it was the top one."

Holmes rose.  Taking the forms, he carried them over to the
window and carefully examined that which was uppermost.

"It is a pity he did not write in pencil," said he, throwing
them down again with a shrug of disappointment.  "As you have no
doubt frequently observed, Watson, the impression usually goes
through--a fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage. 
However, I can find no trace here.  I rejoice, however, to
perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill pen, and I can
hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this
blotting-pad.  Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!"

He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us
the following hieroglyphic:


GRAPHIC


Cyril Overton was much excited.  "Hold it to the glass!" he cried.

"That is unnecessary," said Holmes.  "The paper is thin, and the
reverse will give the message.  Here it is."  He turned it over,
and we read:


GRAPHIC [Stand by us for Gods sake]


"So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton
dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance.  There are at
least six words of the message which have escaped us; but what
remains--`Stand by us for God's sake!'--proves that this young
man saw a formidable danger which approached him, and from which
someone else could protect him.  `US,' mark you!  Another person
was involved.  Who should it be but the pale-faced, bearded man,
who seemed himself in so nervous a state?  What, then, is the
connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded man?  And
what is the third source from which each of them sought for help
against pressing danger?  Our inquiry has already narrowed down
to that."

"We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed," I
suggested.

"Exactly, my dear Watson.  Your reflection, though profound, had
already crossed my mind.  But I daresay it may have come to your
notice that, counterfoil of another man's message, there may be
some disinclination on the part of the officials to oblige you. 
There is so much red tape in these matters.  However, I have no
doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the end may be
attained.  Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr.
Overton, to go through these papers which have been left upon
the table."

There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks, which
Holmes turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and
darting, penetrating eyes.  "Nothing here," he said, at last.  "By
the way, I suppose your friend was a healthy young
fellow--nothing amiss with him?"

"Sound as a bell."

"Have you ever known him ill?"

"Not a day.  He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped
his knee-cap, but that was nothing."

"Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose.  I should think he
may have had some secret trouble.  With your assent, I will put
one or two of these papers in my pocket, in case they should
bear upon our future inquiry."

"One moment--one moment!" cried a querulous voice, and we looked
up to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the
doorway.  He was dressed in rusty black, with a very
broad-brimmed top-hat and a loose white necktie--the whole
effect being that of a very rustic parson or of an undertaker's
mute.  Yet, in spite of his shabby and even absurd appearance,
his voice had a sharp crackle, and his manner a quick intensity
which commanded attention.

"Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this
gentleman's papers?" he asked.

"I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his
disappearance."

"Oh, you are, are you?  And who instructed you, eh?"

"This gentleman, Mr. Staunton's friend, was referred to me by
Scotland Yard."

"Who are you, sir?"

"I am Cyril Overton."

"Then it is you who sent me a telegram.  My name is Lord
Mount-James.  I came round as quickly as the Bayswater bus would
bring me.  So you have instructed a detective?"

"Yes, sir."

"And are you prepared to meet the cost?"

"I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him,
will be prepared to do that."

"But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!"

"In that case, no doubt his family----"

"Nothing of the sort, sir!" screamed the little man.  "Don't look
to me for a penny--not a penny!  You understand that, Mr.
Detective!  I am all the family that this young man has got, and
I tell you that I am not responsible.  If he has any expectations
it is due to the fact that I have never wasted money, and I do
not propose to begin to do so now.  As to those papers with which
you are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should
be anything of any value among them, you will be held strictly
to account for what you do with them."

"Very good, sir," said Sherlock Holmes.  "May I ask, in the
meanwhile, whether you have yourself any theory to account for
this young man's disappearance?"

"No, sir, I have not.  He is big enough and old enough to look
after himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I
entirely refuse to accept the responsibility of hunting for him."

"I quite understand your position," said Holmes, with a
mischievous twinkle in his eyes.  "Perhaps you don't quite
understand mine.  Godfrey Staunton appears to have been a poor
man.  If he has been kidnapped, it could not have been for
anything which he himself possesses.  The fame of your wealth has
gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely possible that
a gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to gain from
him some information as to your house, your habits, and your treasure."

The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his
neckcloth.

"Heavens, sir, what an idea!  I never thought of such villainy! 
What inhuman rogues there are in the world!  But Godfrey is a
fine lad--a staunch lad.  Nothing would induce him to give his
old uncle away.  I'll have the plate moved over to the bank this
evening.  In the meantime spare no pains, Mr. Detective!  I beg
you to leave no stone unturned to bring him safely back.  As to
money, well, so far as a fiver or even a tenner goes you can
always look to me."

Even in his chastened frame of mind, the noble miser could give
us no information which could help us, for he knew little of the
private life of his nephew.  Our only clue lay in the truncated
telegram, and with a copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth
to find a second link for his chain.  We had shaken off Lord
Mount-James, and Overton had gone to consult with the other
members of his team over the misfortune which had befallen them.

There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel. 
We halted outside it.

"It's worth trying, Watson," said Holmes.  "Of course, with a
warrant we could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not
reached that stage yet.  I don't suppose they remember faces in
so busy a place.  Let us venture it."

"I am sorry to trouble you," said he, in his blandest manner, to
the young woman behind the grating; "there is some small mistake
about a telegram I sent yesterday.  I have had no answer, and I
very much fear that I must have omitted to put my name at the
end.  Could you tell me if this was so?"

The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.

"What o'clock was it?" she asked.

"A little after six."

"Whom was it to?"

Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me.  "The last
words in it were  `For God's sake,'" he whispered,
confidentially; "I am very anxious at getting no answer."

The young woman separated one of the forms.

"This is it.  There is no name," said she, smoothing it out upon
the counter.

"Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer," said
Holmes.  "Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure! 
Good-morning, miss, and many thanks for having relieved my
mind."  He chuckled and rubbed his hands when we found ourselves
in the street once more.

"Well?" I asked.

"We progress, my dear Watson, we progress.  I had seven different
schemes for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could
hardly hope to succeed the very first time."

"And what have you gained?"

"A starting-point for our investigation."  He hailed a cab. 
"King's Cross Station," said he.

"We have a journey, then?"

"Yes, I think we must run down to Cambridge together.  All the
indications seem to me to point in that direction."

"Tell me," I asked, as we rattled up Gray's Inn Road, "have you
any suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance?  I don't
think that among all our cases I have known one where the
motives are more obscure.  Surely you don't really imagine that
he may be kidnapped in order to give information against his
wealthy uncle?"

"I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me as
a very probable explanation.  It struck me, however, as being the
one which was most likely to interest that exceedingly
unpleasant old person."

"It certainly did that; but what are your alternatives?"

"I could mention several.  You must admit that it is curious and
suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this
important match, and should involve the only man whose presence
seems essential to the success of the side.  It may, of course,
be a coincidence, but it is interesting.  Amateur sport is free
from betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes on among
the public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone's
while to get at a player as the ruffians of the turf get at a
race-horse.  There is one explanation.  A second very obvious one
is that this young man really is the heir of a great property,
however modest his means may at present be, and it is not
impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be concocted."

"These theories take no account of the telegram."

"Quite true, Watson.  The telegram still remains the only solid
thing with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our
attention to wander away from it.  It is to gain light upon the
purpose of this telegram that we are now upon our way to
Cambridge.  The path of our investigation is at present obscure,
but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have not
cleared it up, or made a considerable advance along it."

It was already dark when we reached the old university city. 
Holmes took a cab at the station and ordered the man to drive to
the house of Dr. Leslie Armstrong.  A few minutes later, we had
stopped at a large mansion in the busiest thoroughfare.  We were
shown in, and after a long wait were at last admitted into the
consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated behind his table.

It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my
profession that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. 
Now I am aware that he is not only one of the heads of the
medical school of the university, but a thinker of European
reputation in more than one branch of science.  Yet even without
knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed
by a mere glance at the man, the square, massive face, the
brooding eyes under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding
of the inflexible jaw.  A man of deep character, a man with an
alert mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable--so I read
Dr. Leslie Armstrong.  He held my friend's card in his hand, and
he looked up with no very pleased expression upon his dour features.

"I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of
your profession--one of which I by no means approve."

"In that, Doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every
criminal in the country," said my friend, quietly.

"So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of
crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable
member of the community, though I cannot doubt that the official
machinery is amply sufficient for the purpose.  Where your
calling is more open to criticism is when you pry into the
secrets of private individuals, when you rake up family matters
which are better hidden, and when you incidentally waste the
time of men who are more busy than yourself.  At the present
moment, for example, I should be writing a treatise instead of
conversing with you."

"No doubt, Doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more
important than the treatise.  Incidentally, I may tell you that
we are doing the reverse of what you very justly blame, and that
we are endeavouring to prevent anything like public exposure of
private matters which must necessarily follow when once the case
is fairly in the hands of the official police.  You may look upon
me simply as an irregular pioneer, who goes in front of the
regular forces of the country.  I have come to ask you about Mr.
Godfrey Staunton."

"What about him?"

"You know him, do you not?"

"He is an intimate friend of mine."

"You are aware that he has disappeared?"

"Ah, indeed!"  There was no change of expression in the rugged
features of the doctor.

"He left his hotel last night--he has not been heard of."

"No doubt he will return."

"To-morrow is the 'Varsity football match."

"I have no sympathy with these childish games.  The young man's
fate interests me deeply, since I know him and like him.  The
football match does not come within my horizon at all."

"I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr.
Staunton's fate.  Do you know where he is?"

"Certainly not."

"You have not seen him since yesterday?"

"No, I have not."

"Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?"

"Absolutely."

"Did you ever know him ill?"

"Never."

Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor's eyes.  "Then
perhaps you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen
guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie
Armstrong, of Cambridge.  I picked it out from among the papers
upon his desk."

The doctor flushed with anger.

"I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an
explanation to you, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook.  "If you prefer a
public explanation, it must come sooner or later," said he.  "I
have already told you that I can hush up that which others will
be bound to publish, and you would really be wiser to take me
into your complete confidence."

"I know nothing about it."

"Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?"

"Certainly not."

"Dear me, dear me--the postoffice again!" Holmes sighed,
wearily.  "A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from
London by Godfrey Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening--a
telegram which is undoubtedly associated with his disappearance--
and yet you have not had it.  It is most culpable.  I shall
certainly go down to the office here and register a complaint."

Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his
dark face was crimson with fury.

"I'll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir," said he.  "You
can tell your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to
have anything to do either with him or with his agents.  No,
sir--not another word!"  He rang the bell furiously.  "John, show
these gentlemen out!"  A pompous butler ushered us severely to
the door, and we found ourselves in the street.  Holmes burst out
laughing.

"Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and
character," said he.  "I have not seen a man who, if he turns his
talents that way, was more calculated to fill the gap left by
the illustrious Moriarty.  And now, my poor Watson, here we are,
stranded and friendless in this inhospitable town, which we
cannot leave without abandoning our case.  This little inn just
opposite Armstrong's house is singularly adapted to our needs. 
If you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries
for the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries."

These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy
proceeding than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to
the inn until nearly nine o'clock.  He was pale and dejected,
stained with dust, and exhausted with hunger and fatigue.  A cold
supper was ready upon the table, and when his needs were
satisfied and his pipe alight he was ready to take that half
comic and wholly philosophic view which was natural to him when
his affairs were going awry.  The sound of carriage wheels caused
him to rise and glance out of the window.  A brougham and pair of
grays, under the glare of a gas-lamp, stood before the doctor's door.

"It's been out three hours," said Holmes; "started at half-past
six, and here it is back again.  That gives a radius of ten or
twelve miles, and he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day."

"No unusual thing for a doctor in practice."

"But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice.  He is a
lecturer and a consultant, but he does not care for general
practice, which distracts him from his literary work.  Why, then,
does he make these long journeys, which must be exceedingly
irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?"

"His coachman----"

"My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first
applied?  I do not know whether it came from his own innate
depravity or from the promptings of his master, but he was rude
enough to set a dog at me.  Neither dog nor man liked the look of
my stick, however, and the matter fell through.  Relations were
strained after that, and further inquiries out of the question. 
All that I have learned I got from a friendly native in the yard
of our own inn.  It was he who told me of the doctor's habits and
of his daily journey.  At that instant, to give point to his
words, the carriage came round to the door."

"Could you not follow it?"

"Excellent, Watson!  You are scintillating this evening.  The idea
did cross my mind.  There is, as you may have observed, a bicycle
shop next to our inn.  Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and
was able to get started before the carriage was quite out of
sight.  I rapidly overtook it, and then, keeping at a discreet
distance of a hundred yards or so, I followed its lights until
we were clear of the town.  We had got well out on the country
road, when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred.  The carriage
stopped, the doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I had
also halted, and told me in an excellent sardonic fashion that
he feared the road was narrow, and that he hoped his carriage
did not impede the passage of my bicycle.  Nothing could have
been more admirable than his way of putting it.  I at once rode
past the carriage, and, keeping to the main road, I went on for
a few miles, and then halted in a convenient place to see if the
carriage passed.  There was no sign of it, however, and so it
became evident that it had turned down one of several side roads
which I had observed.  I rode back, but again saw nothing of the
carriage, and now, as you perceive, it has returned after me.  Of
course, I had at the outset no particular reason to connect
these journeys with the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and
was only inclined to investigate them on the general grounds
that everything which concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of
interest to us, but, now that I find he keeps so keen a look-out
upon anyone who may follow him on these excursions, the affair
appears more important, and I shall not be satisfied until I
have made the matter clear."

"We can follow him to-morrow."

"Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think.  You are not
familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend
itself to concealment.  All this country that I passed over
to-night is as flat and clean as the palm of your hand, and the
man we are following is no fool, as he very clearly showed
to-night.  I have wired to Overton to let us know any fresh
London developments at this address, and in the meantime we can
only concentrate our attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name
the obliging young lady at the office allowed me to read upon
the counterfoil of Staunton's urgent message.  He knows where the
young man is--to that I'll swear, and if he knows, then it must
be our own fault if we cannot manage to know also.  At present it
must be admitted that the odd trick is in his possession, and,
as you are aware, Watson, it is not my habit to leave the game
in that condition."

And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of the
mystery.  A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes
passed across to me with a smile.


SIR [it ran]:

I can assure you that you are wasting your time in dogging my
movements.  I have, as you discovered last night, a window at the
back of my brougham, and if you desire a twenty-mile ride which
will lead you to the spot from which you started, you have only
to follow me.  Meanwhile, I can inform you that no spying upon me
can in any way help Mr. Godfrey Staunton, and I am convinced
that the best service you can do to that gentleman is to return
at once to London and to report to your employer that you are
unable to trace him.  Your time in Cambridge will certainly be
wasted.
                         Yours faithfully,
                              LESLIE ARMSTRONG.


"An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor," said Holmes. 
"Well, well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know
before I leave him."

"His carriage is at his door now," said I.  "There he is stepping
into it.  I saw him glance up at our window as he did so.  Suppose
I try my luck upon the bicycle?"

"No, no, my dear Watson!  With all respect for your natural
acumen, I do not think that you are quite a match for the worthy
doctor.  I think that possibly I can attain our end by some
independent explorations of my own.  I am afraid that I must
leave you to your own devices, as the appearance of TWO
inquiring strangers upon a sleepy countryside might excite more
gossip than I care for.  No doubt you will find some sights to
amuse you in this venerable city, and I hope to bring back a
more favourable report to you before evening."

Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disappointed. 
He came back at night weary and unsuccessful.

"I have had a blank day, Watson.  Having got the doctor's general
direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon
that side of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and
other local news agencies.  I have covered some ground. 
Chesterton, Histon, Waterbeach, and Oakington have each been
explored, and have each proved disappointing.  The daily
appearance of a brougham and pair could hardly have been
overlooked in such Sleepy Hollows.  The doctor has scored once
more.  Is there a telegram for me?"

"Yes, I opened it.  Here it is:


"Ask for Pompey from Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.


I don't understand it."

"Oh, it is clear enough.  It is from our friend Overton, and is
in answer to a question from me.  I'll just send round a note to
Mr. Jeremy Dixon, and then I have no doubt that our luck will
turn.  By the way, is there any news of the match?"

"Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its
last edition.  Oxford won by a goal and two tries.  The last
sentences of the description say:


"The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely attributed to the
unfortunate absence of the crack International, Godfrey
Staunton, whose want was felt at every instant of the game.  The
lack of combination in the three-quarter line and their weakness
both in attack and defence more than neutralized the efforts of
a heavy and hard-working pack."


"Then our friend Overton's forebodings have been justified,"
said Holmes.  "Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong,
and football does not come within my horizon.  Early to bed
to-night, Watson, for I foresee that to-morrow may be an
eventful day."

I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, for
he sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe.  I
associated that instrument with the single weakness of his nature,
and I feared the worst when I saw it glittering in his hand.  He
laughed at my expression of dismay and laid it upon the table.

"No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm.  It is not
upon this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather
prove to be the key which will unlock our mystery.  On this
syringe I base all my hopes.  I have just returned from a small
scouting expedition, and everything is favourable.  Eat a good
breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr. Armstrong's
trail to-day, and once on it I will not stop for rest or food
until I run him to his burrow."

"In that case," said I, "we had best carry our breakfast with
us, for he is making an early start.  His carriage is at the door."

"Never mind.  Let him go.  He will be clever if he can drive where
I cannot follow him.  When you have finished, come downstairs
with me, and I will introduce you to a detective who is a very
eminent specialist in the work that lies before us."

When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard, where
he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat, lop-eared,
white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a foxhound.

"Let me introduce you to Pompey," said he.  "Pompey is the pride
of the local draghounds--no very great flier, as his build will
show, but a staunch hound on a scent.  Well, Pompey, you may not
be fast, but I expect you will be too fast for a couple of
middle-aged London gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of
fastening this leather leash to your collar.  Now, boy, come
along, and show what you can do."  He led him across to the
doctor's door.  The dog sniffed round for an instant, and then
with a shrill whine of excitement started off down the street,
tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster.  In half an
hour, we were clear of the town and hastening down a country road.

"What have you done, Holmes?" I asked.

"A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occasion.  I
walked into the doctor's yard this morning, and shot my syringe
full of aniseed over the hind wheel.  A draghound will follow
aniseed from here to John o'Groat's, and our friend, Armstrong,
would have to drive through the Cam before he would shake Pompey
off his trail.  Oh, the cunning rascal!  This is how he gave me
the slip the other night."

The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a
grass-grown lane.  Half a mile farther this opened into another
broad road, and the trail turned hard to the right in the
direction of the town, which we had just quitted.  The road took
a sweep to the south of the town, and continued in the opposite
direction to that in which we started.

"This DETOUR has been entirely for our benefit, then?" said
Holmes.  "No wonder that my inquiries among those villagers led
to nothing.  The doctor has certainly played the game for all it
is worth, and one would like to know the reason for such
elaborate deception.  This should be the village of Trumpington
to the right of us.  And, by Jove! here is the brougham coming
round the corner.  Quick, Watson--quick, or we are done!"

He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the reluctant
Pompey after him.  We had hardly got under the shelter of the
hedge when the carriage rattled past.  I caught a glimpse of Dr.
Armstrong within, his shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his
hands, the very image of distress.  I could tell by my
companion's graver face that he also had seen.

"I fear there is some dark ending to our quest," said he.  "It
cannot be long before we know it.  Come, Pompey!  Ah, it is the
cottage in the field!"

There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our
journey.  Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate,
where the marks of the brougham's wheels were still to be seen. 
A footpath led across to the lonely cottage.  Holmes tied the dog
to the hedge, and we hastened onward.  My friend knocked at the
little rustic door, and knocked again without response.  And yet
the cottage was not deserted, for a low sound came to our
ears--a kind of drone of misery and despair which was
indescribably melancholy.  Holmes paused irresolute, and then he
glanced back at the road which he had just traversed.  A brougham
was coming down it, and there could be no mistaking those gray horses.

"By Jove, the doctor is coming back!" cried Holmes.  "That
settles it.  We are bound to see what it means before he comes."

He opened the door, and we stepped into the hall.  The droning
sound swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long,
deep wail of distress.  It came from upstairs.  Holmes darted up,
and I followed him.  He pushed open a half-closed door, and we
both stood appalled at the sight before us.

A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed.  Her
calm pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked upward
from amid a great tangle of golden hair.  At the foot of the bed,
half sitting, half kneeling, his face buried in the clothes, was
a young man, whose frame was racked by his sobs.  So absorbed was
he by his bitter grief, that he never looked up until Holmes's
hand was on his shoulder.

"Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?"

"Yes, yes, I am--but you are too late.  She is dead."

The man was so dazed that he could not be made to understand
that we were anything but doctors who had been sent to his
assistance.  Holmes was endeavouring to utter a few words of
consolation and to explain the alarm which had been caused to
his friends by his sudden disappearance when there was a step
upon the stairs, and there was the heavy, stern, questioning
face of Dr. Armstrong at the door.

"So, gentlemen," said he, "you have attained your end and have
certainly chosen a particularly delicate moment for your
intrusion.  I would not brawl in the presence of death, but I can
assure you that if I were a younger man your monstrous conduct
would not pass with impunity."

"Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a little at
cross-purposes," said my friend, with dignity.  "If you could
step downstairs with us, we may each be able to give some light
to the other upon this miserable affair."

A minute later, the grim doctor and ourselves were in the
sitting-room below.

"Well, sir?" said he.

"I wish you to understand, in the first place, that I am not
employed by Lord Mount-James, and that my sympathies in this
matter are entirely against that nobleman.  When a man is lost it
is my duty to ascertain his fate, but having done so the matter
ends so far as I am concerned, and so long as there is nothing
criminal I am much more anxious to hush up private scandals than to
give them publicity.  If, as I imagine, there is no breach of the
law in this matter, you can absolutely depend upon my discretion
and my cooperation in keeping the facts out of the papers."

Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and wrung Holmes by the hand.

"You are a good fellow," said he.  "I had misjudged you.  I thank
heaven that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all alone in
this plight caused me to turn my carriage back and so to make
your acquaintance.  Knowing as much as you do, the situation is
very easily explained.  A year ago Godfrey Staunton lodged in
London for a time and became passionately attached to his
landlady's daughter, whom he married.  She was as good as she was
beautiful and as intelligent as she was good.  No man need be
ashamed of such a wife.  But Godfrey was the heir to this crabbed
old nobleman, and it was quite certain that the news of his
marriage would have been the end of his inheritance.  I knew the
lad well, and I loved him for his many excellent qualities.  I
did all I could to help him to keep things straight.  We did our
very best to keep the thing from everyone, for, when once such
a whisper gets about, it is not long before everyone has heard
it.  Thanks to this lonely cottage and his own discretion,
Godfrey has up to now succeeded.  Their secret was known to no
one save to me and to one excellent servant, who has at present
gone for assistance to Trumpington.  But at last there came a
terrible blow in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife.  It
was consumption of the most virulent kind.  The poor boy was half
crazed with grief, and yet he had to go to London to play this
match, for he could not get out of it without explanations which
would expose his secret.  I tried to cheer him up by wire, and he
sent me one in reply, imploring me to do all I could.  This was
the telegram which you appear in some inexplicable way to have
seen.  I did not tell him how urgent the danger was, for I knew
that he could do no good here, but I sent the truth to the
girl's father, and he very injudiciously communicated it to
Godfrey.  The result was that he came straight away in a state
bordering on frenzy, and has remained in the same state,
kneeling at the end of her bed, until this morning death put an
end to her sufferings.  That is all, Mr. Holmes, and I am sure
that I can rely upon your discretion and that of your friend."

Holmes grasped the doctor's hand.

"Come, Watson," said he, and we passed from that house of grief
into the pale sunlight of the winter day.




THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE



It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning, towards the end of
the winter of '97, that I was awakened by a tugging at my shoulder. 
It was Holmes.  The candle in his hand shone upon his eager,
stooping face, and told me at a glance that something was amiss.

"Come, Watson, come!" he cried.  "The game is afoot.  Not a word! 
Into your clothes and come!"

Ten minutes later we were both in a cab, and rattling through
the silent streets on our way to Charing Cross Station.  The
first faint winter's dawn was beginning to appear, and we could
dimly see the occasional figure of an early workman as he passed
us, blurred and indistinct in the opalescent London reek.  Holmes
nestled in silence into his heavy coat, and I was glad to do the
same, for the air was most bitter, and neither of us had broken
our fast.

It was not until we had consumed some hot tea at the station and
taken our places in the Kentish train that we were sufficiently
thawed, he to speak and I to listen.  Holmes drew a note from his
pocket, and read aloud:

                              Abbey Grange, Marsham, Kent,
                                                   3:30 A.M.
MY DEAR MR. HOLMES:

I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what
promises to be a most remarkable case.  It is something quite in
your line.  Except for releasing the lady I will see that
everything is kept exactly as I have found it, but I beg you not
to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave Sir Eustace there.
                                         Yours faithfully,
                                             STANLEY HOPKINS.


"Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his
summons has been entirely justified," said Holmes.  "I fancy that
every one of his cases has found its way into your collection,
and I must admit, Watson, that you have some power of selection,
which atones for much which I deplore in your narratives.  Your
fatal habit of looking at everything from the point of view of
a story instead of as a scientific exercise has ruined what
might have been an instructive and even classical series of
demonstrations.  You slur over work of the utmost finesse and
delicacy, in order to dwell upon sensational details which may
excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader."

"Why do you not write them yourself?" I said, with some bitterness.

"I will, my dear Watson, I will.  At present I am, as you know,
fairly busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the
composition of a textbook, which shall focus the whole art of
detection into one volume.  Our present research appears to be a
case of murder."

"You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?"

"I should say so.  Hopkins's writing shows considerable
agitation, and he is not an emotional man.  Yes, I gather there
has been violence, and that the body is left for our inspection. 
A mere suicide would not have caused him to send for me.  As to
the release of the lady, it would appear that she has been
locked in her room during the tragedy.  We are moving in high
life, Watson, crackling paper, `E.B.' monogram, coat-of-arms,
picturesque address.  I think that friend Hopkins will live up to
his reputation, and that we shall have an interesting morning. 
The crime was committed before twelve last night."

"How can you possibly tell?"

"By an inspection of the trains, and by reckoning the time.  The
local police had to be called in, they had to communicate with
Scotland Yard, Hopkins had to go out, and he in turn had to send
for me.  All that makes a fair night's work.  Well, here we are at
Chiselhurst Station, and we shall soon set our doubts at rest."

A drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes
brought us to a park gate, which was opened for us by an old
lodge-keeper, whose haggard face bore the reflection of some
great disaster.  The avenue ran through a noble park, between
lines of ancient elms, and ended in a low, widespread house,
pillared in front after the fashion of Palladio.  The central
part was evidently of a great age and shrouded in ivy, but the
large windows showed that modern changes had been carried out,
and one wing of the house appeared to be entirely new.  The
youthful figure and alert, eager face of Inspector Stanley
Hopkins confronted us in the open doorway.

"I'm very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes.  And you, too, Dr.
Watson.  But, indeed, if I had my time over again, I should not
have troubled you, for since the lady has come to herself, she
has given so clear an account of the affair that there is not much
left for us to do.  You remember that Lewisham gang of burglars?"

"What, the three Randalls?"

"Exactly; the father and two sons.  It's their work.  I have not
a doubt of it.  They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago and
were seen and described.  Rather cool to do another so soon and
so near, but it is they, beyond all doubt.  It's a hanging matter
this time."

"Sir Eustace is dead, then?"

"Yes, his head was knocked in with his own poker."

"Sir Eustace Brackenstall, the driver tells me."

"Exactly--one of the richest men in Kent--Lady Brackenstall is
in the morning-room.  Poor lady, she has had a most dreadful
experience.  She seemed half dead when I saw her first.  I think
you had best see her and hear her account of the facts.  Then we
will examine the dining-room together."

Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person.  Seldom have I seen so
graceful a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a
face.  She was a blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would no
doubt have had the perfect complexion which goes with such
colouring, had not her recent experience left her drawn and
haggard.  Her sufferings were physical as well as mental, for
over one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling, which her
maid, a tall, austere woman, was bathing assiduously with
vinegar and water.  The lady lay back exhausted upon a couch, but
her quick, observant gaze, as we entered the room, and the alert
expression of her beautiful features, showed that neither her
wits nor her courage had been shaken by her terrible experience. 
She was enveloped in a loose dressing-gown of blue and silver,
but a black sequin-covered dinner-dress lay upon the couch
beside her.

"I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins," she said,
wearily.  "Could you not repeat it for me?  Well, if you think it
necessary, I will tell these gentlemen what occurred.  Have they
been in the dining-room yet?"

"I thought they had better hear your ladyship's story first."

"I shall be glad when you can arrange matters.  It is horrible to
me to think of him still lying there."  She shuddered and buried
her face in her hands.  As she did so, the loose gown fell back
from her forearms.  Holmes uttered an exclamation.

"You have other injuries, madam!  What is this?"  Two vivid red
spots stood out on one of the white, round limbs.  She hastily
covered it.

"It is nothing.  It has no connection with this hideous business
to-night.  If you and your friend will sit down, I will tell you
all I can.

"I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall.  I have been married
about a year.  I suppose that it is no use my attempting to
conceal that our marriage has not been a happy one.  I fear that
all our neighbours would tell you that, even if I were to
attempt to deny it.  Perhaps the fault may be partly mine.  I was
brought up in the freer, less conventional atmosphere of South
Australia, and this English life, with its proprieties and its
primness, is not congenial to me.  But the main reason lies in
the one fact, which is notorious to everyone, and that is that
Sir Eustace was a confirmed drunkard.  To be with such a man for
an hour is unpleasant.  Can you imagine what it means for a
sensitive and high-spirited woman to be tied to him for day and
night?  It is a sacrilege, a crime, a villainy to hold that such
a marriage is binding.  I say that these monstrous laws of yours
will bring a curse upon the land--God will not let such
wickedness endure."  For an instant she sat up, her cheeks
flushed, and her eyes blazing from under the terrible mark upon
her brow.  Then the strong, soothing hand of the austere maid
drew her head down on to the cushion, and the wild anger died
away into passionate sobbing.  At last she continued:

"I will tell you about last night.  You are aware, perhaps, that
in this house all the servants sleep in the modern wing.  This
central block is made up of the dwelling-rooms, with the kitchen
behind and our bedroom above.  My maid, Theresa, sleeps above my
room.  There is no one else, and no sound could alarm those who
are in the farther wing.  This must have been well known to the
robbers, or they would not have acted as they did.

"Sir Eustace retired about half-past ten.  The servants had
already gone to their quarters.  Only my maid was up, and she had
remained in her room at the top of the house until I needed her
services.  I sat until after eleven in this room, absorbed in a
book.  Then I walked round to see that all was right before I
went upstairs.  It was my custom to do this myself, for, as I
have explained, Sir Eustace was not always to be trusted.  I went
into the kitchen, the butler's pantry, the gun-room, the
billiard-room, the drawing-room, and finally the dining-room.  As
I approached the window, which is covered with thick curtains,
I suddenly felt the wind blow upon my face and realized that it
was open.  I flung the curtain aside and found myself face to
face with a broad-shouldered elderly man, who had just stepped
into the room.  The window is a long French one, which really
forms a door leading to the lawn.  I held my bedroom candle lit
in my hand, and, by its light, behind the first man I saw two
others, who were in the act of entering.  I stepped back, but the
fellow was on me in an instant.  He caught me first by the wrist
and then by the throat.  I opened my mouth to scream, but he
struck me a savage blow with his fist over the eye, and felled
me to the ground.  I must have been unconscious for a few
minutes, for when I came to myself, I found that they had torn
down the bell-rope, and had secured me tightly to the oaken
chair which stands at the head of the dining-table.  I was so
firmly bound that I could not move, and a handkerchief round my
mouth prevented me from uttering a sound.  It was at this instant
that my unfortunate husband entered the room.  He had evidently
heard some suspicious sounds, and he came prepared for such a
scene as he found.  He was dressed in nightshirt and trousers,
with his favourite blackthorn cudgel in his hand.  He rushed at
the burglars, but another--it was an elderly man--stooped,
picked the poker out of the grate and struck him a horrible blow
as he passed.  He fell with a groan and never moved again.  I
fainted once more, but again it could only have been for a very
few minutes during which I was insensible.  When I opened my eyes
I found that they had collected the silver from the sideboard,
and they had drawn a bottle of wine which stood there.  Each of
them had a glass in his hand.  I have already told you, have I
not, that one was elderly, with a beard, and the others young,
hairless lads.  They might have been a father with his two sons. 
They talked together in whispers.  Then they came over and made
sure that I was securely bound.  Finally they withdrew, closing
the window after them.  It was quite a quarter of an hour before
I got my mouth free.  When I did so, my screams brought the maid
to my assistance.  The other servants were soon alarmed, and we
sent for the local police, who instantly communicated with
London.  That is really all that I can tell you, gentlemen, and
I trust that it will not be necessary for me to go over so
painful a story again."

"Any questions, Mr. Holmes?" asked Hopkins.

"I will not impose any further tax upon Lady Brackenstall's
patience and time," said Holmes.  "Before I go into the
dining-room, I should like to hear your experience."  He looked
at the maid.

"I saw the men before ever they came into the house," said she. 
"As I sat by my bedroom window I saw three men in the moonlight
down by the lodge gate yonder, but I thought nothing of it at
the time.  It was more than an hour after that I heard my
mistress scream, and down I ran, to find her, poor lamb, just as
she says, and him on the floor, with his blood and brains over
the room.  It was enough to drive a woman out of her wits, tied
there, and her very dress spotted with him, but she never wanted
courage, did Miss Mary Fraser of Adelaide and Lady Brackenstall
of Abbey Grange hasn't learned new ways.  You've questioned her
long enough, you gentlemen, and now she is coming to her own room,
just with her old Theresa, to get the rest that she badly needs."

With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm round her
mistress and led her from the room.

"She has been with her all her life," said Hopkins.  "Nursed her
as a baby, and came with her to England when they first left
Australia, eighteen months ago.  Theresa Wright is her name, and
the kind of maid you don't pick up nowadays.  This way, Mr.
Holmes, if you please!"

The keen interest had passed out of Holmes's expressive face,
and I knew that with the mystery all the charm of the case had
departed.  There still remained an arrest to be effected, but
what were these commonplace rogues that he should soil his hands
with them?  An abstruse and learned specialist who finds that he
has been called in for a case of measles would experience
something of the annoyance which I read in my friend's eyes.  Yet
the scene in the dining-room of the Abbey Grange was
sufficiently strange to arrest his attention and to recall his
waning interest.

It was a very large and high chamber, with carved oak ceiling,
oaken panelling, and a fine array of deer's heads and ancient
weapons around the walls.  At the further end from the door was
the high French window of which we had heard.  Three smaller
windows on the right-hand side filled the apartment with cold
winter sunshine.  On the left was a large, deep fireplace, with
a massive, overhanging oak mantelpiece.  Beside the fireplace was
a heavy oaken chair with arms and cross-bars at the bottom.  In
and out through the open woodwork was woven a crimson cord,
which was secured at each side to the crosspiece below.  In
releasing the lady, the cord had been slipped off her, but the
knots with which it had been secured still remained.  These
details only struck our attention afterwards, for our thoughts
were entirely absorbed by the terrible object which lay upon the
tigerskin hearthrug in front of the fire.

It was the body of a tall, well-made man, about forty years of
age.  He lay upon his back, his face upturned, with his white
teeth grinning through his short, black beard.  His two clenched
hands were raised above his head, and a heavy, blackthorn stick
lay across them.  His dark, handsome, aquiline features were
convulsed into a spasm of vindictive hatred, which had set his
dead face in a terribly fiendish expression.  He had evidently
been in his bed when the alarm had broken out, for he wore a
foppish, embroidered nightshirt, and his bare feet projected
from his trousers.  His head was horribly injured, and the whole
room bore witness to the savage ferocity of the blow which had
struck him down.  Beside him lay the heavy poker, bent into a
curve by the concussion.  Holmes examined both it and the
indescribable wreck which it had wrought.

"He must be a powerful man, this elder Randall," he remarked.

"Yes," said Hopkins.  "I have some record of the fellow, and he
is a rough customer."

"You should have no difficulty in getting him."

"Not the slightest.  We have been on the look-out for him, and
there was some idea that he had got away to America.  Now that we
know that the gang are here, I don't see how they can escape.  We
have the news at every seaport already, and a reward will be
offered before evening.  What beats me is how they could have
done so mad a thing, knowing that the lady could describe them
and that we could not fail to recognize the description."

"Exactly.  One would have expected that they would silence Lady
Brackenstall as well."

"They may not have realized," I suggested, "that she had
recovered from her faint."

"That is likely enough.  If she seemed to be senseless, they
would not take her life.  What about this poor fellow, Hopkins? 
I seem to have heard some queer stories about him."

"He was a good-hearted man when he was sober, but a perfect
fiend when he was drunk, or rather when he was half drunk, for
he seldom really went the whole way.  The devil seemed to be in
him at such times, and he was capable of anything.  From what I
hear, in spite of all his wealth and his title, he very nearly
came our way once or twice.  There was a scandal about his
drenching a dog with petroleum and setting it on fire--her
ladyship's dog, to make the matter worse--and that was only
hushed up with difficulty.  Then he threw a decanter at that
maid, Theresa Wright--there was trouble about that.  On the
whole, and between ourselves, it will be a brighter house
without him.  What are you looking at now?"

Holmes was down on his knees, examining with great attention the
knots upon the red cord with which the lady had been secured. 
Then he carefully scrutinized the broken and frayed end where it
had snapped off when the burglar had dragged it down.

"When this was pulled down, the bell in the kitchen must have
rung loudly," he remarked.

"No one could hear it.  The kitchen stands right at the back of
the house."

"How did the burglar know no one would hear it?  How dared he
pull at a bell-rope in that reckless fashion?"

"Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly.  You put the very question which
I have asked myself again and again.  There can be no doubt that
this fellow must have known the house and its habits.  He must
have perfectly understood that the servants would all be in bed
at that comparatively early hour, and that no one could possibly
hear a bell ring in the kitchen.  Therefore, he must have been in
close league with one of the servants.  Surely that is evident. 
But there are eight servants, and all of good character."

"Other things being equal," said Holmes, "one would suspect the
one at whose head the master threw a decanter.  And yet that
would involve treachery towards the mistress to whom this woman
seems devoted.  Well, well, the point is a minor one, and when
you have Randall you will probably find no difficulty in
securing his accomplice.  The lady's story certainly seems to be
corroborated, if it needed corroboration, by every detail which
we see before us."  He walked to the French window and threw it
open.  "There are no signs here, but the ground is iron hard,
and one would not expect them.  I see that these candles in the
mantelpiece have been lighted."

"Yes, it was by their light and that of the lady's bedroom
candle, that the burglars saw their way about."

"And what did they take?"

"Well, they did not take much--only half a dozen articles of
plate off the sideboard.  Lady Brackenstall thinks that they were
themselves so disturbed by the death of Sir Eustace that they
did not ransack the house, as they would otherwise have done."

"No doubt that is true, and yet they drank some wine, I understand."

"To steady their nerves."

"Exactly.  These three glasses upon the sideboard have been
untouched, I suppose?"

"Yes, and the bottle stands as they left it."

"Let us look at it.  Halloa, halloa!  What is this?"

The three glasses were grouped together, all of them tinged with
wine, and one of them containing some dregs of beeswing.  The
bottle stood near them, two-thirds full, and beside it lay a
long, deeply stained cork.  Its appearance and the dust upon the
bottle showed that it was no common vintage which the murderers
had enjoyed.

A change had come over Holmes's manner.  He had lost his listless
expression, and again I saw an alert light of interest in his
keen, deep-set eyes.  He raised the cork and examined it minutely.

"How did they draw it?" he asked.

Hopkins pointed to a half-opened drawer.  In it lay some table
linen and a large corkscrew.

"Did Lady Brackenstall say that screw was used?"

"No, you remember that she was senseless at the moment when the
bottle was opened."

"Quite so.  As a matter of fact, that screw was not used.  This
bottle was opened by a pocket screw, probably contained in a
knife, and not more than an inch and a half long.  If you will
examine the top of the cork, you will observe that the screw was
driven in three times before the cork was extracted.  It has
never been transfixed.  This long screw would have transfixed it
and drawn it up with a single pull.  When you catch this fellow,
you will find that he has one of these multiplex knives in his
possession."

"Excellent!" said Hopkins.

"But these glasses do puzzle me, I confess.  Lady Brackenstall
actually SAW the three men drinking, did she not?"

"Yes; she was clear about that."

"Then there is an end of it.  What more is to be said?  And yet,
you must admit, that the three glasses are very remarkable,
Hopkins.  What?  You see nothing remarkable?  Well, well, let it
pass.  Perhaps, when a man has special knowledge and special
powers like my own, it rather encourages him to seek a complex
explanation when a simpler one is at hand.  Of course, it must be
a mere chance about the glasses.  Well, good-morning, Hopkins.  I
don't see that I can be of any use to you, and you appear to
have your case very clear.  You will let me know when Randall is
arrested, and any further developments which may occur.  I trust
that I shall soon have to congratulate you upon a successful
conclusion.  Come, Watson, I fancy that we may employ ourselves
more profitably at home."

During our return journey, I could see by Holmes's face that he
was much puzzled by something which he had observed.  Every now
and then, by an effort, he would throw off the impression, and
talk as if the matter were clear, but then his doubts would
settle down upon him again, and his knitted brows and abstracted
eyes would show that his thoughts had gone back once more to the
great dining-room of the Abbey Grange, in which this midnight
tragedy had been enacted.  At last, by a sudden impulse, just as
our train was crawling out of a suburban station, he sprang on
to the platform and pulled me out after him.

"Excuse me, my dear fellow," said he, as we watched the rear
carriages of our train disappearing round a curve, "I am sorry
to make you the victim of what may seem a mere whim, but on my
life, Watson, I simply CAN'T leave that case in this condition. 
Every instinct that I possess cries out against it.  It's wrong--
it's all wrong--I'll swear that it's wrong.  And yet the lady's
story was complete, the maid's corroboration was sufficient, the
detail was fairly exact.  What have I to put up against that? 
Three wine-glasses, that is all.  But if I had not taken things
for granted, if I had examined everything with care which I
should have shown had we approached the case DE NOVO and had no
cut-and-dried story to warp my mind, should I not then have
found something more definite to go upon?  Of course I should. 
Sit down on this bench, Watson, until a train for Chiselhurst
arrives, and allow me to lay the evidence before you, imploring
you in the first instance to dismiss from your mind the idea
that anything which the maid or her mistress may have said must
necessarily be true.  The lady's charming personality must not be
permitted to warp our judgment.

"Surely there are details in her story which, if we looked at in
cold blood, would excite our suspicion.  These burglars made a
considerable haul at Sydenham a fortnight ago.  Some account of
them and of their appearance was in the papers, and would
naturally occur to anyone who wished to invent a story in which
imaginary robbers should play a part.  As a matter of fact,
burglars who have done a good stroke of business are, as a rule,
only too glad to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet without
embarking on another perilous undertaking.  Again, it is unusual
for burglars to operate at so early an hour, it is unusual for
burglars to strike a lady to prevent her screaming, since one
would imagine that was the sure way to make her scream, it is
unusual for them to commit murder when their numbers are
sufficient to overpower one man, it is unusual for them to be
content with a limited plunder when there was much more within
their reach, and finally, I should say, that it was very unusual
for such men to leave a bottle half empty.  How do all these
unusuals strike you, Watson?"

"Their cumulative effect is certainly considerable, and yet each
of them is quite possible in itself.  The most unusual thing of all,
as it seems to me, is that the lady should be tied to the chair."

"Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson, for it is evident
that they must either kill her or else secure her in such a way
that she could not give immediate notice of their escape.  But at
any rate I have shown, have I not, that there is a certain
element of improbability about the lady's story?  And now, on the
top of this, comes the incident of the wineglasses."

"What about the wineglasses?"

"Can you see them in your mind's eye?"

"I see them clearly."

"We are told that three men drank from them.  Does that strike
you as likely?"

"Why not?  There was wine in each glass."

"Exactly, but there was beeswing only in one glass.  You must
have noticed that fact.  What does that suggest to your mind?"

"The last glass filled would be most likely to contain beeswing."

"Not at all.  The bottle was full of it, and it is inconceivable
that the first two glasses were clear and the third heavily
charged with it.  There are two possible explanations, and only
two.  One is that after the second glass was filled the bottle
was violently agitated, and so the third glass received the
beeswing.  That does not appear probable.  No, no, I am sure that
I am right."

"What, then, do you suppose?"

"That only two glasses were used, and that the dregs of both
were poured into a third glass, so as to give the false
impression that three people had been here.  In that way all the
beeswing would be in the last glass, would it not?  Yes, I am
convinced that this is so.  But if I have hit upon the true
explanation of this one small phenomenon, then in an instant the
case rises from the commonplace to the exceedingly remarkable,
for it can only mean that Lady Brackenstall and her maid have
deliberately lied to us, that not one word of their story is to
be believed, that they have some very strong reason for covering
the real criminal, and that we must construct our case for
ourselves without any help from them.  That is the mission which
now lies before us, and here, Watson, is the Sydenham train."

The household at the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our
return, but Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had
gone off to report to headquarters, took possession of the
dining-room, locked the door upon the inside, and devoted
himself for two hours to one of those minute and laborious
investigations which form the solid basis on which his brilliant
edifices of deduction were reared.  Seated in a corner like an
interested student who observes the demonstration of his
professor, I followed every step of that remarkable research. 
The window, the curtains, the carpet, the chair, the rope--each
in turn was minutely examined and duly pondered.  The body of the
unfortunate baronet had been removed, and all else remained as
we had seen it in the morning.  Finally, to my astonishment,
Holmes climbed up on to the massive mantelpiece.  Far above his
head hung the few inches of red cord which were still attached
to the wire.  For a long time he gazed upward at it, and then in
an attempt to get nearer to it he rested his knee upon a wooden
bracket on the wall.  This brought his hand within a few inches
of the broken end of the rope, but it was not this so much as
the bracket itself which seemed to engage his attention. 
Finally, he sprang down with an ejaculation of satisfaction.

"It's all right, Watson," said he.  "We have got our case--one of
the most remarkable in our collection.  But, dear me, how
slow-witted I have been, and how nearly I have committed the
blunder of my lifetime!  Now, I think that, with a few missing
links, my chain is almost complete."

"You have got your men?"

"Man, Watson, man.  Only one, but a very formidable person. 
Strong as a lion--witness the blow that bent that poker!  Six
foot three in height, active as a squirrel, dexterous with his
fingers, finally, remarkably quick-witted, for this whole
ingenious story is of his concoction.  Yes, Watson, we have come
upon the handiwork of a very remarkable individual.  And yet, in
that bell-rope, he has given us a clue which should not have
left us a doubt."

"Where was the clue?"

"Well, if you were to pull down a bell-rope, Watson, where would
you expect it to break?  Surely at the spot where it is attached
to the wire.  Why should it break three inches from the top, as
this one has done?"

"Because it is frayed there?"

"Exactly.  This end, which we can examine, is frayed.  He was
cunning enough to do that with his knife.  But the other end is
not frayed.  You could not observe that from here, but if you
were on the mantelpiece you would see that it is cut clean off
without any mark of fraying whatever.  You can reconstruct what
occurred.  The man needed the rope.  He would not tear it down for
fear of giving the alarm by ringing the bell.  What did he do?  He
sprang up on the mantelpiece, could not quite reach it, put his
knee on the bracket--you will see the impression in the dust--
and so got his knife to bear upon the cord.  I could not reach
the place by at least three inches--from which I infer that he
is at least three inches a bigger man than I.  Look at that mark
upon the seat of the oaken chair!  What is it?"

"Blood."

"Undoubtedly it is blood.  This alone puts the lady's story out
of court.  If she were seated on the chair when the crime was
done, how comes that mark?  No, no, she was placed in the chair
AFTER the death of her husband.  I'll wager that the black dress
shows a corresponding mark to this.  We have not yet met our
Waterloo, Watson, but this is our Marengo, for it begins in
defeat and ends in victory.  I should like now to have a few
words with the nurse, Theresa.  We must be wary for a while, if
we are to get the information which we want."

She was an interesting person, this stern Australian nurse--
taciturn, suspicious, ungracious, it took some time before
Holmes's pleasant manner and frank acceptance of all that she
said thawed her into a corresponding amiability.  She did not
attempt to conceal her hatred for her late employer.

"Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me.  I heard
him call my mistress a name, and I told him that he would not
dare to speak so if her brother had been there.  Then it was that
he threw it at me.  He might have thrown a dozen if he had but
left my bonny bird alone.  He was forever ill-treating her, and
she too proud to complain.  She will not even tell me all that he
has done to her.  She never told me of those marks on her arm
that you saw this morning, but I know very well that they come
from a stab with a hatpin.  The sly devil--God forgive me that I
should speak of him so, now that he is dead!  But a devil he was,
if ever one walked the earth.  He was all honey when first we met
him--only eighteen months ago, and we both feel as if it were
eighteen years.  She had only just arrived in London.  Yes, it was
her first voyage--she had never been from home before.  He won
her with his title and his money and his false London ways.  If
she made a mistake she has paid for it, if ever a woman did. 
What month did we meet him?  Well, I tell you it was just after
we arrived.  We arrived in June, and it was July.  They were
married in January of last year.  Yes, she is down in the
morning-room again, and I have no doubt she will see you, but
you must not ask too much of her, for she has gone through all
that flesh and blood will stand."

Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same couch, but looked
brighter than before.  The maid had entered with us, and began
once more to foment the bruise upon her mistress's brow.

"I hope," said the lady, "that you have not come to
cross-examine me again?"

"No," Holmes answered, in his gentlest voice, "I will not cause
you any unnecessary trouble, Lady Brackenstall, and my whole
desire is to make things easy for you, for I am convinced that
you are a much-tried woman.  If you will treat me as a friend and
trust me, you may find that I will justify your trust."

"What do you want me to do?"

"To tell me the truth."

"Mr. Holmes!"

"No, no, Lady Brackenstall--it is no use.  You may have heard of
any little reputation which I possess.  I will stake it all on
the fact that your story is an absolute fabrication."

Mistress and maid were both staring at Holmes with pale faces
and frightened eyes.

"You are an impudent fellow!" cried Theresa.  "Do you mean to say
that my mistress has told a lie?"

Holmes rose from his chair.

"Have you nothing to tell me?"

"I have told you everything."

"Think once more, Lady Brackenstall.  Would it not be better to
be frank?"

For an instant there was hesitation in her beautiful face.  Then
some new strong thought caused it to set like a mask.

"I have told you all I know."

Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders.  "I am sorry," he
said, and without another word we left the room and the house. 
There was a pond in the park, and to this my friend led the way. 
It was frozen over, but a single hole was left for the
convenience of a solitary swan.  Holmes gazed at it, and then
passed on to the lodge gate.  There he scribbled a short note for
Stanley Hopkins, and left it with the lodge-keeper.

"It may be a hit, or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do
something for friend Hopkins, just to justify this second
visit," said he.  "I will not quite take him into my confidence
yet.  I think our next scene of operations must be the shipping
office of the Adelaide-Southampton line, which stands at the end
of Pall Mall, if I remember right.  There is a second line of
steamers which connect South Australia with England, but we will
draw the larger cover first."

Holmes's card sent in to the manager ensured instant attention,
and he was not long in acquiring all the information he needed. 
In June of '95, only one of their line had reached a home port. 
It was the ROCK OF GIBRALTAR, their largest and best boat.  A
reference to the passenger list showed that Miss Fraser, of
Adelaide, with her maid had made the voyage in her.  The boat was
now somewhere south of the Suez Canal on her way to Australia. 
Her officers were the same as in '95, with one exception.  The
first officer, Mr. Jack Crocker, had been made a captain and was
to take charge of their new ship, the BASS ROCK, sailing in two
days' time from Southampton.  He lived at Sydenham, but he was
likely to be in that morning for instructions, if we cared to
wait for him.

No, Mr. Holmes had no desire to see him, but would be glad to
know more about his record and character.

His record was magnificent.  There was not an officer in the
fleet to touch him.  As to his character, he was reliable on
duty, but a wild, desperate fellow off the deck of his ship--
hot-headed, excitable, but loyal, honest, and kind-hearted.  That
was the pith of the information with which Holmes left the
office of the Adelaide-Southampton company.  Thence he drove to
Scotland Yard, but, instead of entering, he sat in his cab with
his brows drawn down, lost in profound thought.  Finally he drove
round to the Charing Cross telegraph office, sent off a message,
and then, at last, we made for Baker Street once more.

"No, I couldn't do it, Watson," said he, as we reentered our
room.  "Once that warrant was made out, nothing on earth would
save him.  Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done
more real harm by my discovery of the criminal than ever he had
done by his crime.  I have learned caution now, and I had rather
play tricks with the law of England than with my own conscience. 
Let us know a little more before we act."

Before evening, we had a visit from Inspector Stanley Hopkins. 
Things were not going very well with him.

"I believe that you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes.  I really do
sometimes think that you have powers that are not human.  Now,
how on earth could you know that the stolen silver was at the
bottom of that pond?"

"I didn't know it."

"But you told me to examine it."

"You got it, then?"

"Yes, I got it."

"I am very glad if I have helped you."

"But you haven't helped me.  You have made the affair far more
difficult.  What sort of burglars are they who steal silver and
then throw it into the nearest pond?"

"It was certainly rather eccentric behaviour.  I was merely going
on the idea that if the silver had been taken by persons who did
not want it--who merely took it for a blind, as it were--then
they would naturally be anxious to get rid of it."

"But why should such an idea cross your mind?"

"Well, I thought it was possible.  When they came out through the
French window, there was the pond with one tempting little hole
in the ice, right in front of their noses.  Could there be a
better hiding-place?"

"Ah, a hiding-place--that is better!" cried Stanley Hopkins. 
"Yes, yes, I see it all now!  It was early, there were folk upon
the roads, they were afraid of being seen with the silver, so
they sank it in the pond, intending to return for it when the
coast was clear.  Excellent, Mr. Holmes--that is better than your
idea of a blind."

"Quite so, you have got an admirable theory.  I have no doubt
that my own ideas were quite wild, but you must admit that they
have ended in discovering the silver."

"Yes, sir--yes.  It was all your doing.  But I have had a bad setback."

"A setback?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes.  The Randall gang were arrested in New York
this morning."

"Dear me, Hopkins!  That is certainly rather against your theory
that they committed a murder in Kent last night."

"It is fatal, Mr. Holmes--absolutely fatal.  Still, there are
other gangs of three besides the Randalls, or it may be some new
gang of which the police have never heard."

"Quite so, it is perfectly possible.  What, are you off?"

Yes, Mr. Holmes, there is no rest for me until I have got to the
bottom of the business.  I suppose you have no hint to give me?"

"I have given you one."

"Which?"

"Well, I suggested a blind."

"But why, Mr. Holmes, why?"

"Ah, that's the question, of course.  But I commend the idea to
your mind.  You might possibly find that there was something in
it.  You won't stop for dinner?  Well, good-bye, and let us know
how you get on."

Dinner was over, and the table cleared before Holmes alluded to
the matter again.  He had lit his pipe and held his slippered
feet to the cheerful blaze of the fire.  Suddenly he looked at
his watch.

"I expect developments, Watson."

"When?"

"Now--within a few minutes.  I dare say you thought I acted
rather badly to Stanley Hopkins just now?"

"I trust your judgment."

"A very sensible reply, Watson.  You must look at it this way: 
what I know is unofficial, what he knows is official.  I have the
right to private judgment, but he has none.  He must disclose
all, or he is a traitor to his service.  In a doubtful case I
would not put him in so painful a position, and so I reserve my
information until my own mind is clear upon the matter."

"But when will that be?"

"The time has come.  You will now be present at the last scene of
a remarkable little drama."

There was a sound upon the stairs, and our door was opened to
admit as fine a specimen of manhood as ever passed through it. 
He was a very tall young man, golden-moustached, blue-eyed, with
a skin which had been burned by tropical suns, and a springy
step, which showed that the huge frame was as active as it was
strong.  He closed the door behind him, and then he stood with
clenched hands and heaving breast, choking down some
overmastering emotion.

"Sit down, Captain Crocker.  You got my telegram?"

Our visitor sank into an armchair and looked from one to the
other of us with questioning eyes.

"I got your telegram, and I came at the hour you said.  I heard
that you had been down to the office.  There was no getting away
from you.  Let's hear the worst.  What are you going to do with
me?  Arrest me?  Speak out, man!  You can't sit there and play with
me like a cat with a mouse."

"Give him a cigar," said Holmes.  "Bite on that, Captain Crocker,
and don't let your nerves run away with you.  I should not sit
here smoking with you if I thought that you were a common
criminal, you may be sure of that.  Be frank with me and we may
do some good.  Play tricks with me, and I'll crush you."

"What do you wish me to do?"

"To give me a true account of all that happened at the Abbey
Grange last night--a TRUE account, mind you, with nothing added
and nothing taken off.  I know so much already that if you go one
inch off the straight, I'll blow this police whistle from my
window and the affair goes out of my hands forever."

The sailor thought for a little.  Then he struck his leg with his
great sunburned hand.

"I'll chance it," he cried.  "I believe you are a man of your
word, and a white man, and I'll tell you the whole story.  But
one thing I will say first.  So far as I am concerned, I regret
nothing and I fear nothing, and I would do it all again and be
proud of the job.  Damn the beast, if he had as many lives as a
cat, he would owe them all to me!  But it's the lady, Mary--Mary
Fraser--for never will I call her by that accursed name.  When I
think of getting her into trouble, I who would give my life just
to bring one smile to her dear face, it's that that turns my
soul into water.  And yet--and yet--what less could I do?  I'll
tell you my story, gentlemen, and then I'll ask you, as man to
man, what less could I do?

"I must go back a bit.  You seem to know everything, so I expect
that you know that I met her when she was a passenger and I was
first officer of the ROCK OF GIBRALTAR.  From the first day I met
her, she was the only woman to me.  Every day of that voyage I
loved her more, and many a time since have I kneeled down in the
darkness of the night watch and kissed the deck of that ship
because I knew her dear feet had trod it.  She was never engaged
to me.  She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated a man. 
I have no complaint to make.  It was all love on my side, and all
good comradeship and friendship on hers.  When we parted she was
a free woman, but I could never again be a free man.

"Next time I came back from sea, I heard of her marriage.  Well,
why shouldn't she marry whom she liked?  Title and money--who
could carry them better than she?  She was born for all that is
beautiful and dainty.  I didn't grieve over her marriage.  I was
not such a selfish hound as that.  I just rejoiced that good luck
had come her way, and that she had not thrown herself away on a
penniless sailor.  That's how I loved Mary Fraser.

"Well, I never thought to see her again, but last voyage I was
promoted, and the new boat was not yet launched, so I had to
wait for a couple of months with my people at Sydenham.  One day
out in a country lane I met Theresa Wright, her old maid.  She
told me all about her, about him, about everything.  I tell you,
gentlemen, it nearly drove me mad.  This drunken hound, that he
should dare to raise his hand to her, whose boots he was not
worthy to lick!  I met Theresa again.  Then I met Mary herself--
and met her again.  Then she would meet me no more.  But the other
day I had a notice that I was to start on my voyage within a
week, and I determined that I would see her once before I left. 
Theresa was always my friend, for she loved Mary and hated this
villain almost as much as I did.  From her I learned the ways of
the house.  Mary used to sit up reading in her own little room
downstairs.  I crept round there last night and scratched at the
window.  At first she would not open to me, but in her heart I
know that now she loves me, and she could not leave me in the
frosty night.  She whispered to me to come round to the big front
window, and I found it open before me, so as to let me into the
dining-room.  Again I heard from her own lips things that made my
blood boil, and again I cursed this brute who mishandled the
woman I loved.  Well, gentlemen, I was standing with her just
inside the window, in all innocence, as God is my judge, when he
rushed like a madman into the room, called her the vilest name
that a man could use to a woman, and welted her across the face
with the stick he had in his hand.  I had sprung for the poker,
and it was a fair fight between us.  See here, on my arm, where
his first blow fell.  Then it was my turn, and I went through him
as if he had been a rotten pumpkin.  Do you think I was sorry? 
Not I!  It was his life or mine, but far more than that, it was
his life or hers, for how could I leave her in the power of this
madman?  That was how I killed him.  Was I wrong?  Well, then, what
would either of you gentlemen have done, if you had been in my position?"

"She had screamed when he struck her, and that brought old
Theresa down from the room above.  There was a bottle of wine on
the sideboard, and I opened it and poured a little between
Mary's lips, for she was half dead with shock.  Then I took a
drop myself.  Theresa was as cool as ice, and it was her plot as
much as mine.  We must make it appear that burglars had done the
thing.  Theresa kept on repeating our story to her mistress,
while I swarmed up and cut the rope of the bell.  Then I lashed
her in her chair, and frayed out the end of the rope to make it
look natural, else they would wonder how in the world a burglar
could have got up there to cut it.  Then I gathered up a few
plates and pots of silver, to carry out the idea of the robbery,
and there I left them, with orders to give the alarm when I had
a quarter of an hour's start.  I dropped the silver into the
pond, and made off for Sydenham, feeling that for once in my
life I had done a real good night's work.  And that's the truth
and the whole truth, Mr. Holmes, if it costs me my neck."

Holmes smoked for some time in silence.  Then he crossed the
room, and shook our visitor by the hand.

"That's what I think," said he.  "I know that every word is true,
for you have hardly said a word which I did not know.  No one but
an acrobat or a sailor could have got up to that bell-rope from
the bracket, and no one but a sailor could have made the knots
with which the cord was fastened to the chair.  Only once had
this lady been brought into contact with sailors, and that was
on her voyage, and it was someone of her own class of life,
since she was trying hard to shield him, and so showing that she
loved him.  You see how easy it was for me to lay my hands upon
you when once I had started upon the right trail."

"I thought the police never could have seen through our dodge."

"And the police haven't, nor will they, to the best of my
belief.  Now, look here, Captain Crocker, this is a very serious
matter, though I am willing to admit that you acted under the
most extreme provocation to which any man could be subjected.  I
am not sure that in defence of your own life your action will
not be pronounced legitimate.  However, that is for a British
jury to decide.  Meanwhile I have so much sympathy for you that,
if you choose to disappear in the next twenty-four hours, I will
promise you that no one will hinder you."

"And then it will all come out?"

"Certainly it will come out."

The sailor flushed with anger.

"What sort of proposal is that to make a man?  I know enough of
law to understand that Mary would be held as accomplice.  Do you
think I would leave her alone to face the music while I slunk
away?  No, sir, let them do their worst upon me, but for heaven's
sake, Mr. Holmes, find some way of keeping my poor Mary out of
the courts."

Holmes for a second time held out his hand to the sailor.

"I was only testing you, and you ring true every time.  Well, it
is a great responsibility that I take upon myself, but I have
given Hopkins an excellent hint and if he can't avail himself of
it I can do no more.  See here, Captain Crocker, we'll do this in
due form of law.  You are the prisoner.  Watson, you are a British
jury, and I never met a man who was more eminently fitted to
represent one.  I am the judge.  Now, gentleman of the jury, you
have heard the evidence.  Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty, my lord," said I.

"VOX POPULI, VOX DEI.  You are acquitted, Captain Crocker.  So
long as the law does not find some other victim you are safe
from me.  Come back to this lady in a year, and may her future
and yours justify us in the judgment which we have pronounced
this night!"




THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND STAIN



I had intended "The Adventure of the Abbey Grange" to be the
last of those exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which
I should ever communicate to the public.  This resolution of mine
was not due to any lack of material, since I have notes of many
hundreds of cases to which I have never alluded, nor was it
caused by any waning interest on the part of my readers in the
singular personality and unique methods of this remarkable man. 
The real reason lay in the reluctance which Mr. Holmes has shown
to the continued publication of his experiences.  So long as he
was in actual professional practice the records of his successes
were of some practical value to him, but since he has definitely
retired from London and betaken himself to study and bee-farming
on the Sussex Downs, notoriety has become hateful to him, and he
has peremptorily requested that his wishes in this matter should
be strictly observed.  It was only upon my representing to him
that I had given a promise that "The Adventure of the Second
Stain" should be published when the times were ripe, and
pointing out to him that it is only appropriate that this long
series of episodes should culminate in the most important
international case which he has ever been called upon to handle,
that I at last succeeded in obtaining his consent that a
carefully guarded account of the incident should at last be laid
before the public.  If in telling the story I seem to be somewhat
vague in certain details, the public will readily understand
that there is an excellent reason for my reticence.

It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, that shall be
nameless, that upon one Tuesday morning in autumn we found two
visitors of European fame within the walls of our humble room in
Baker Street.  The one, austere, high-nosed, eagle-eyed, and
dominant, was none other than the illustrious Lord Bellinger,
twice Premier of Britain.  The other, dark, clear-cut, and
elegant, hardly yet of middle age, and endowed with every beauty
of body and of mind, was the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope,
Secretary for European Affairs, and the most rising statesman in
the country.  They sat side by side upon our paper-littered
settee, and it was easy to see from their worn and anxious faces
that it was business of the most pressing importance which had
brought them.  The Premier's thin, blue-veined hands were clasped
tightly over the ivory head of his umbrella, and his gaunt,
ascetic face looked gloomily from Holmes to me.  The European
Secretary pulled nervously at his moustache and fidgeted with
the seals of his watch-chain.

"When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes, which was at eight
o'clock this morning, I at once informed the Prime Minister. 
It was at his suggestion that we have both come to you."

"Have you informed the police?"

"No, sir," said the Prime Minister, with the quick, decisive
manner for which he was famous.  "We have not done so, nor is it
possible that we should do so.  To inform the police must, in the
long run, mean to inform the public.  This is what we
particularly desire to avoid."

"And why, sir?"

"Because the document in question is of such immense importance
that its publication might very easily--I might almost say
probably--lead to European complications of the utmost moment. 
It is not too much to say that peace or war may hang upon the
issue.  Unless its recovery can be attended with the utmost
secrecy, then it may as well not be recovered at all, for all
that is aimed at by those who have taken it is that its contents
should be generally known."

"I understand.  Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I should be much obliged
if you would tell me exactly the circumstances under which this
document disappeared."

"That can be done in a very few words, Mr. Holmes.  The letter--for
it was a letter from a foreign potentate--was received six days
ago.  It was of such importance that I have never left it in my
safe, but have taken it across each evening to my house in Whitehall
Terrace, and kept it in my bedroom in a locked despatch-box.  It was
there last night.  Of that I am certain.  I actually opened the box
while I was dressing for dinner and saw the document inside.  This
morning it was gone.  The despatch-box had stood beside the glass
upon my dressing-table all night.  I am a light sleeper, and so is
my wife.  We are both prepared to swear that no one could have
entered the room during the night.  And yet I repeat that the
paper is gone."

"What time did you dine?"

"Half-past seven."

"How long was it before you went to bed?"

"My wife had gone to the theatre.  I waited up for her.  It was
half-past eleven before we went to our room."

"Then for four hours the despatch-box had lain unguarded?"

"No one is ever permitted to enter that room save the house-maid
in the morning, and my valet, or my wife's maid, during the rest
of the day.  They are both trusty servants who have been with us
for some time.  Besides, neither of them could possibly have
known that there was anything more valuable than the ordinary
departmental papers in my despatch-box."

"Who did know of the existence of that letter?"

"No one in the house."

"Surely your wife knew?"

"No, sir.  I had said nothing to my wife until I missed the paper
this morning."

The Premier nodded approvingly.

"I have long known, sir, how high is your sense of public duty,"
said he.  "I am convinced that in the case of a secret of this
importance it would rise superior to the most intimate domestic ties.

The European Secretary bowed.

"You do me no more than justice, sir.  Until this morning I have
never breathed one word to my wife upon this matter."

"Could she have guessed?"

"No, Mr. Holmes, she could not have guessed--nor could anyone
have guessed."

"Have you lost any documents before?"

"No, sir."

"Who is there in England who did know of the existence of
this letter?"

"Each member of the Cabinet was informed of it yesterday, but
the pledge of secrecy which attends every Cabinet meeting was
increased by the solemn warning which was given by the Prime
Minister.  Good heavens, to think that within a few hours I
should myself have lost it!"  His handsome face was distorted
with a spasm of despair, and his hands tore at his hair.  For a
moment we caught a glimpse of the natural man, impulsive,
ardent, keenly sensitive.  The next the aristocratic mask was
replaced, and the gentle voice had returned.  "Besides the
members of the Cabinet there are two, or possibly three,
departmental officials who know of the letter.  No one else in
England, Mr. Holmes, I assure you."

"But abroad?"

"I believe that no one abroad has seen it save the man who wrote
it.  I am well convinced that his Ministers--that the usual
official channels have not been employed."

Holmes considered for some little time.

"Now, sir, I must ask you more particularly what this document
is, and why its disappearance should have such momentous
consequences?"

The two statesmen exchanged a quick glance and the Premier's
shaggy eyebrows gathered in a frown.

"Mr. Holmes, the envelope is a long, thin one of pale blue
colour.  There is a seal of red wax stamped with a crouching
lion.  It is addressed in large, bold handwriting to----"

"I fear, sir," said Holmes, "that, interesting and indeed
essential as these details are, my inquiries must go more to the
root of things.  What WAS the letter?"

"That is a State secret of the utmost importance, and I fear
that I cannot tell you, nor do I see that it is necessary.  If by
the aid of the powers which you are said to possess you can find
such an envelope as I describe with its enclosure, you will have
deserved well of your country, and earned any reward which it
lies in our power to bestow."

Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile.

"You are two of the most busy men in the country," said he, "and
in my own small way I have also a good many calls upon me.  I
regret exceedingly that I cannot help you in this matter, and
any continuation of this interview would be a waste of time."

The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick, fierce gleam of
his deep-set eyes before which a Cabinet has cowered.  "I am not
accustomed, sir," he began, but mastered his anger and resumed
his seat.  For a minute or more we all sat in silence.  Then the
old statesman shrugged his shoulders.

"We must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes.  No doubt you are right,
and it is unreasonable for us to expect you to act unless we
give you our entire confidence."

"I agree with you," said the younger statesman.

"Then I will tell you, relying entirely upon your honour and
that of your colleague, Dr. Watson.  I may appeal to your
patriotism also, for I could not imagine a greater misfortune
for the country than that this affair should come out."

"You may safely trust us."

"The letter, then, is from a certain foreign potentate who has
been ruffled by some recent Colonial developments of this
country.  It has been written hurriedly and upon his own
responsibility entirely.  Inquiries have shown that his Ministers
know nothing of the matter.  At the same time it is couched in so
unfortunate a manner, and certain phrases in it are of so
provocative a character, that its publication would undoubtedly
lead to a most dangerous state of feeling in this country.  There
would be such a ferment, sir, that I do not hesitate to say that
within a week of the publication of that letter this country
would be involved in a great war."

Holmes wrote a name upon a slip of paper and handed it to the Premier.

"Exactly.  It was he.  And it is this letter--this letter which
may well mean the expenditure of a thousand millions and the
lives of a hundred thousand men--which has become lost in this
unaccountable fashion."

"Have you informed the sender?"

"Yes, sir, a cipher telegram has been despatched."

"Perhaps he desires the publication of the letter."

"No, sir, we have strong reason to believe that he already
understands that he has acted in an indiscreet and hot-headed
manner.  It would be a greater blow to him and to his country
than to us if this letter were to come out."

"If this is so, whose interest is it that, the letter should
come out?  Why should anyone desire to steal it or to publish it?"

"There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of high
international politics.  But if you consider the European
situation you will have no difficulty in perceiving the motive. 
The whole of Europe is an armed camp.  There is a double league
which makes a fair balance of military power.  Great Britain
holds the scales.  If Britain were driven into war with one
confederacy, it would assure the supremacy of the other
confederacy, whether they joined in the war or not. 
Do you follow?"

"Very clearly.  It is then the interest of the enemies of this
potentate to secure and publish this letter, so as to make a
breach between his country and ours?"

"Yes, sir."

"And to whom would this document be sent if it fell into the
hands of an enemy?"

"To any of the great Chancelleries of Europe.  It is probably
speeding on its way thither at the present instant as fast as
steam can take it."

Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head on his chest and groaned
aloud.  The Premier placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder.

"It is your misfortune, my dear fellow.  No one can blame you. 
There is no precaution which you have neglected.  Now, Mr.
Holmes, you are in full possession of the facts.  What course do
you recommend?"

Holmes shook his head mournfully.

"You think, sir, that unless this document is recovered there
will be war?"

"I think it is very probable."

"Then, sir, prepare for war."

"That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes."

"Consider the facts, sir.  It is inconceivable that it was taken
after eleven-thirty at night, since I understand that Mr. Hope
and his wife were both in the room from that hour until the loss
was found out.  It was taken, then, yesterday evening between
seven-thirty and eleven-thirty, probably near the earlier hour,
since whoever took it evidently knew that it was there and would
naturally secure it as early as possible.  Now, sir, if a
document of this importance were taken at that hour, where can
it be now?  No one has any reason to retain it.  It has been
passed rapidly on to those who need it.  What chance have we now
to overtake or even to trace it?  It is beyond our reach."

The Prime Minister rose from the settee.

"What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes.  I feel that the
matter is indeed out of our hands."

"Let us presume, for argument's sake, that the document was
taken by the maid or by the valet----"

"They are both old and tried servants."

"I understand you to say that your room is on the second floor,
that there is no entrance from without, and that from within no
one could go up unobserved.  It must, then, be somebody in the
house who has taken it.  To whom would the thief take it?  To one
of several international spies and secret agents, whose names
are tolerably familiar to me.  There are three who may be said to
be the heads of their profession.  I will begin my research by
going round and finding if each of them is at his post.  If one
is missing--especially if he has disappeared since last night--
we will have some indication as to where the document has gone."

"Why should he be missing?" asked the European Secretary.  "He
would take the letter to an Embassy in London, as likely as not."

"I fancy not.  These agents work independently, and their
relations with the Embassies are often strained."

The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence.

"I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes.  He would take so valuable
a prize to headquarters with his own hands.  I think that your
course of action is an excellent one.  Meanwhile, Hope, we cannot
neglect all our other duties on account of this one misfortune. 
Should there be any fresh developments during the day we shall
communicate with you, and you will no doubt let us know the
results of your own inquiries."

The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely from the room.

When our illustrious visitors had departed Holmes lit his pipe
in silence and sat for some time lost in the deepest thought.  I
had opened the morning paper and was immersed in a sensational
crime which had occurred in London the night before, when my
friend gave an exclamation, sprang to his feet, and laid his
pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

"Yes," said he, "there is no better way of approaching it.  The
situation is desperate, but not hopeless.  Even now, if we could
be sure which of them has taken it, it is just possible that it
has not yet passed out of his hands.  After all, it is a question
of money with these fellows, and I have the British treasury
behind me.  If it's on the market I'll buy it--if it means
another penny on the income-tax.  It is conceivable that the
fellow might hold it back to see what bids come from this side
before he tries his luck on the other.  There are only those
three capable of playing so bold a game--there are Oberstein, La
Rothiere, and Eduardo Lucas.  I will see each of them."

I glanced at my morning paper.

"Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?"

"Yes."

"You will not see him."

"Why not?"

"He was murdered in his house last night."

My friend has so often astonished me in the course of our
adventures that it was with a sense of exultation that I
realized how completely I had astonished him.  He stared in
amazement, and then snatched the paper from my hands.  This was
the paragraph which I had been engaged in reading when he rose
from his chair.


                    MURDER IN WESTMINSTER


A crime of mysterious character was committed last night at 16
Godolphin Street, one of the old-fashioned and secluded rows of
eighteenth century houses which lie between the river and the
Abbey, almost in the shadow of the great Tower of the Houses of
Parliament.  This small but select mansion has been inhabited for
some years by Mr. Eduardo Lucas, well known in society circles
both on account of his charming personality and because he has
the well-deserved reputation of being one of the best amateur
tenors in the country.  Mr. Lucas is an unmarried man,
thirty-four years of age, and his establishment consists of Mrs.
Pringle, an elderly housekeeper, and of Mitton, his valet.  The
former retires early and sleeps at the top of the house.  The
valet was out for the evening, visiting a friend at Hammersmith. 
From ten o'clock onward Mr. Lucas had the house to himself.  What
occurred during that time has not yet transpired, but at a
quarter to twelve Police-constable Barrett, passing along
Godolphin Street observed that the door of No. 16 was ajar.  He
knocked, but received no answer.  Perceiving a light in the front
room, he advanced into the passage and again knocked, but
without reply.  He then pushed open the door and entered.  The
room was in a state of wild disorder, the furniture being all
swept to one side, and one chair lying on its back in the
centre.  Beside this chair, and still grasping one of its legs,
lay the unfortunate tenant of the house.  He had been stabbed to
the heart and must have died instantly.  The knife with which the
crime had been committed was a curved Indian dagger, plucked
down from a trophy of Oriental arms which adorned one of the
walls.  Robbery does not appear to have been the motive of the
crime, for there had been no attempt to remove the valuable
contents of the room.  Mr. Eduardo Lucas was so well known and
popular that his violent and mysterious fate will arouse painful
interest and intense sympathy in a widespread circle of friends.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of this?" asked Holmes, after a
long pause.

"It is an amazing coincidence."

"A coincidence!  Here is one of the three men whom we had named
as possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent death
during the very hours when we know that that drama was being
enacted.  The odds are enormous against its being coincidence.  No
figures could express them.  No, my dear Watson, the two events
are connected--MUST be connected.  It is for us to find the
connection."

"But now the official police must know all."

"Not at all.  They know all they see at Godolphin Street.  They
know--and shall know--nothing of Whitehall Terrace.  Only WE know
of both events, and can trace the relation between them.  There
is one obvious point which would, in any case, have turned my
suspicions against Lucas.  Godolphin Street, Westminster, is only
a few minutes' walk from Whitehall Terrace.  The other secret
agents whom I have named live in the extreme West End.  It was
easier, therefore, for Lucas than for the others to establish a
connection or receive a message from the European Secretary's
household--a small thing, and yet where events are compressed
into a few hours it may prove essential.  Halloa! what have we here?"

Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady's card upon her salver. 
Holmes glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it
over to me.

"Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be kind enough to
step up," said he.

A moment later our modest apartment, already so distinguished
that morning, was further honoured by the entrance of the most
lovely woman in London.  I had often heard of the beauty of the
youngest daughter of the Duke of Belminster, but no description
of it, and no contemplation of colourless photographs, had
prepared me for the subtle, delicate charm and the beautiful
colouring of that exquisite head.  And yet as we saw it that
autumn morning, it was not its beauty which would be the first
thing to impress the observer.  The cheek was lovely but it was
paled with emotion, the eyes were bright but it was the
brightness of fever, the sensitive mouth was tight and drawn in
an effort after self-command.  Terror--not beauty--was what
sprang first to the eye as our fair visitor stood framed for an
instant in the open door.

"Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, madam, he has been here."

"Mr. Holmes. I implore you not to tell him that I came here." 
Holmes bowed coldly, and motioned the lady to a chair.

"Your ladyship places me in a very delicate position.  I beg that
you will sit down and tell me what you desire, but I fear that
I cannot make any unconditional promise."

She swept across the room and seated herself with her back to
the window.  It was a queenly presence--tall, graceful, and
intensely womanly.  "Mr. Holmes," she said--and her white-gloved
hands clasped and unclasped as she spoke--"I will speak frankly
to you in the hopes that it may induce you to speak frankly in
return.  There is complete confidence between my husband and me
on all matters save one.  That one is politics.  On this his lips
are sealed.  He tells me nothing.  Now, I am aware that there was
a most deplorable occurrence in our house last night.  I know
that a paper has disappeared.  But because the matter is
political my husband refuses to take me into his complete
confidence.  Now it is essential--essential, I say--that I should
thoroughly understand it.  You are the only other person, save
only these politicians, who knows the true facts.  I beg you
then, Mr. Holmes, to tell me exactly what has happened and what
it will lead to.  Tell me all, Mr. Holmes.  Let no regard for your
client's interests keep you silent, for I assure you that his
interests, if he would only see it, would be best served by
taking me into his complete confidence.  What was this paper
which was stolen?"

"Madam, what you ask me is really impossible."

She groaned and sank her face in her hands.

"You must see that this is so, madam.  If your husband thinks fit
to keep you in the dark over this matter, is it for me, who has
only learned the true facts under the pledge of professional
secrecy, to tell what he has withheld?  It is not fair to ask it. 
It is him whom you must ask."

"I have asked him.  I come to you as a last resource.  But without
your telling me anything definite, Mr. Holmes, you may do a
great service if you would enlighten me on one point."

"What is it, madam?"

"Is my husband's political career likely to suffer through this
incident?"

"Well, madam, unless it is set right it may certainly have a
very unfortunate effect."

"Ah!"  She drew in her breath sharply as one whose doubts are resolved.

"One more question, Mr. Holmes.  From an expression which my
husband dropped in the first shock of this disaster I understood
that terrible public consequences might arise from the loss of
this document."

"If he said so, I certainly cannot deny it."

"Of what nature are they?"

"Nay, madam, there again you ask me more than I can possibly answer."

"Then I will take up no more of your time.  I cannot blame you,
Mr. Holmes, for having refused to speak more freely, and you on
your side will not, I am sure, think the worse of me because I
desire, even against his will, to share my husband's anxieties. 
Once more I beg that you will say nothing of my visit."

She looked back at us from the door, and I had a last impression
of that beautiful haunted face, the startled eyes, and the drawn
mouth.  Then she was gone.

"Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department," said Holmes,
with a smile, when the dwindling frou-frou of skirts had ended
in the slam of the front door.  "What was the fair lady's game? 
What did she really want?"

"Surely her own statement is clear and her anxiety very natural."

"Hum!  Think of her appearance, Watson--her manner, her
suppressed excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking
questions.  Remember that she comes of a caste who do not lightly
show emotion."

"She was certainly much moved."

"Remember also the curious earnestness with which she assured us
that it was best for her husband that she should know all.  What
did she mean by that?  And you must have observed, Watson, how
she manoeuvred to have the light at her back.  She did not wish
us to read her expression."

"Yes, she chose the one chair in the room."

"And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable.  You remember
the woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason.  No
powder on her nose--that proved to be the correct solution.  How
can you build on such a quicksand?  Their most trivial action may
mean volumes, or their most extraordinary conduct may depend
upon a hairpin or a curling tongs.  Good-morning, Watson."

"You are off?"

"Yes, I will while away the morning at Godolphin Street with our
friends of the regular establishment.  With Eduardo Lucas lies
the solution of our problem, though I must admit that I have not
an inkling as to what form it may take.  It is a capital mistake
to theorize in advance of the facts.  Do you stay on guard, my
good Watson, and receive any fresh visitors.  I'll join you at
lunch if I am able."

All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood
which his friends would call taciturn, and others morose.  He ran
out and ran in, smoked incessantly, played snatches on his
violin, sank into reveries, devoured sandwiches at irregular
hours, and hardly answered the casual questions which I put to
him.  It was evident to me that things were not going well with
him or his quest.  He would say nothing of the case, and it was
from the papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest,
and the arrest with the subsequent release of John Mitton, the
valet of the deceased.  The coroner's jury brought in the obvious
Wilful Murder, but the parties remained as unknown as ever.  No
motive was suggested.  The room was full of articles of value,
but none had been taken.  The dead man's papers had not been
tampered with.  They were carefully examined, and showed that he
was a keen student of international politics, an indefatigable
gossip, a remarkable linguist, and an untiring letter writer.  He
had been on intimate terms with the leading politicians of
several countries.  But nothing sensational was discovered among
the documents which filled his drawers.  As to his relations with
women, they appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial. 
He had many acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no
one whom he loved.  His habits were regular, his conduct
inoffensive.  His death was an absolute mystery and likely to
remain so.

As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it was a council of
despair as an alternative to absolute inaction.  But no case
could be sustained against him.  He had visited friends in
Hammersmith that night.  The ALIBI was complete.  It is true that
he started home at an hour which should have brought him to
Westminster before the time when the crime was discovered, but
his own explanation that he had walked part of the way seemed
probable enough in view of the fineness of the night.  He had
actually arrived at twelve o'clock, and appeared to be
overwhelmed by the unexpected tragedy.  He had always been on
good terms with his master.  Several of the dead man's
possessions--notably a small case of razors--had been found in
the valet's boxes, but he explained that they had been presents
from the deceased, and the housekeeper was able to corroborate
the story.  Mitton had been in Lucas's employment for three
years.  It was noticeable that Lucas did not take Mitton on the
Continent with him.  Sometimes he visited Paris for three months
on end, but Mitton was left in charge of the Godolphin Street
house.  As to the housekeeper, she had heard nothing on the night
of the crime.  If her master had a visitor he had himself
admitted him.

So for three mornings the mystery remained, so far as I could
follow it in the papers.  If Holmes knew more, he kept his own
counsel, but, as he told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken
him into him into his confidence in the case, I knew that he was
in close touch with every development.  Upon the fourth day there
appeared a long telegram from Paris which seemed to solve the
whole question.

A discovery has just been made by the Parisian police [said the
DAILY TELEGRAPH] which raises the veil which hung round the
tragic fate of Mr. Eduardo Lucas, who met his death by violence
last Monday night at Godolphin Street, Westminster.  Our readers
will remember that the deceased gentleman was found stabbed in
his room, and that some suspicion attached to his valet, but
that the case broke down on an ALIBI.  Yesterday a lady, who has
been known as Mme. Henri Fournaye, occupying a small villa in
the Rue Austerlitz, was reported to the authorities by her
servants as being insane.  An examination showed she had indeed
developed mania of a dangerous and permanent form.  On inquiry,
the police have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye only
returned from a journey to London on Tuesday last, and there is
evidence to connect her with the crime at Westminster.  A
comparison of photographs has proved conclusively that M. Henri
Fournaye and Eduardo Lucas were really one and the same person,
and that the deceased had for some reason lived a double life in
London and Paris.  Mme. Fournaye, who is of Creole origin, is of
an extremely excitable nature, and has suffered in the past from
attacks of jealousy which have amounted to frenzy.  It is
conjectured that it was in one of these that she committed the
terrible crime which has caused such a sensation in London.  Her
movements upon the Monday night have not yet been traced, but it
is undoubted that a woman answering to her description attracted
much attention at Charing Cross Station on Tuesday morning by
the wildness of her appearance and the violence of her gestures. 
It is probable, therefore, that the crime was either committed
when insane, or that its immediate effect was to drive the
unhappy woman out of her mind.  At present she is unable to give
any coherent account of the past, and the doctors hold out no
hopes of the reestablishment of her reason.  There is evidence
that a woman, who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen for
some hours upon Monday night watching the house in Godolphin Street.

"What do you think of that, Holmes?"  I had read the account
aloud to him, while he finished his breakfast.

"My dear Watson," said he, as he rose from the table and paced
up and down the room, "You are most long-suffering, but if I
have told you nothing in the last three days, it is because
there is nothing to tell.  Even now this report from Paris does
not help us much."

"Surely it is final as regards the man's death."

"The man's death is a mere incident--a trivial episode--in
comparison with our real task, which is to trace this document
and save a European catastrophe.  Only one important thing has
happened in the last three days, and that is that nothing has
happened.  I get reports almost hourly from the government, and
it is certain that nowhere in Europe is there any sign of
trouble.  Now, if this letter were loose--no, it CAN'T be
loose--but if it isn't loose, where can it be?  Who has it?  Why
is it held back?  That's the question that beats in my brain like
a hammer.  Was it, indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet
his death on the night when the letter disappeared?  Did the
letter ever reach him?  If so, why is it not among his papers? 
Did this mad wife of his carry it off with her?  If so, is it in
her house in Paris?  How could I search for it without the French
police having their suspicions aroused?  It is a case, my dear
Watson, where the law is as dangerous to us as the criminals
are.  Every man's hand is against us, and yet the interests at
stake are colossal.  Should I bring it to a successful
conclusion, it will certainly represent the crowning glory of my
career.  Ah, here is my latest from the front!"  He glanced
hurriedly at the note which had been handed in.  "Halloa!
Lestrade seems to have observed something of interest.  Put on
your hat, Watson, and we will stroll down together to Westminster."

It was my first visit to the scene of the crime--a high, dingy,
narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century
which gave it birth.  Lestrade's bulldog features gazed out at us
from the front window, and he greeted us warmly when a big
constable had opened the door and let us in.  The room into which
we were shown was that in which the crime had been committed,
but no trace of it now remained save an ugly, irregular stain
upon the carpet.  This carpet was a small square drugget in the
centre of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse of beautiful,
old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks, highly polished. 
Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one of
which had been used on that tragic night.  In the window was a
sumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of the apartment, the
pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to a taste
which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.

"Seen the Paris news?" asked Lestrade.

Holmes nodded.

"Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time.  No
doubt it's just as they say.  She knocked at the door--surprise
visit, I guess, for he kept his life in water-tight
compartments--he let her in, couldn't keep her in the street. 
She told him how she had traced him, reproached him.  One thing
led to another, and then with that dagger so handy the end soon
came.  It wasn't all done in an instant, though, for these chairs
were all swept over yonder, and he had one in his hand as if he
had tried to hold her off with it.  We've got it all clear as if
we had seen it."

Holmes raised his eyebrows.

"And yet you have sent for me?"

"Ah, yes, that's another matter--a mere trifle, but the sort of
thing you take an interest in--queer, you know, and what you
might call freakish.  It has nothing to do with the main
fact--can't have, on the face of it."

"What is it, then?"

"Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful
to keep things in their position.  Nothing has been moved. 
Officer in charge here day and night.  This morning, as the man
was buried and the investigation over--so far as this room is
concerned--we thought we could tidy up a bit.  This carpet.  You
see, it is not fastened down, only just laid there.  We had
occasion to raise it.  We found----"

"Yes?  You found----"

Holmes's face grew tense with anxiety.

"Well, I'm sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we
did find.  You see that stain on the carpet?  Well, a great deal
must have soaked through, must it not?"

"Undoubtedly it must."

"Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on
the white woodwork to correspond."

"No stain!  But there must----"

"Yes, so you would say.  But the fact remains that there isn't."

He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it
over, he showed that it was indeed as he said.

"But the under side is as stained as the upper.  It must have
left a mark."

Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous expert.

"Now, I'll show you the explanation.  There IS a second stain,
but it does not correspond with the other.  See for yourself."  As
he spoke he turned over another portion of the carpet, and
there, sure enough, was a great crimson spill upon the square
white facing of the old-fashioned floor.  "What do you make of
that, Mr. Holmes?"

"Why, it is simple enough.  The two stains did correspond, but
the carpet has been turned round.  As it was square and
unfastened it was easily done."

The official police don't need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them
that the carpet must have been turned round.  That's clear
enough, for the stains lie above each other--if you lay it over
this way.  But what I want to know is, who shifted the carpet,
and why?"

I could see from Holmes's rigid face that he was vibrating with
inward excitement.

"Look here, Lestrade," said he, "has that constable in the
passage been in charge of the place all the time?"

"Yes, he has."

"Well, take my advice.  Examine him carefully.  Don't do it before
us.  Well wait here.  You take him into the back room.  You'll be
more likely to get a confession out of him alone.  Ask him how he
dared to admit people and leave them alone in this room.  Don't
ask him if he has done it.  Take it for granted.  Tell him you
KNOW someone has been here.  Press him.  Tell him that a full
confession is his only chance of forgiveness.  Do exactly what I
tell you!"

"By George, if he knows I'll have it out of him!" cried
Lestrade.  He darted into the hall, and a few moments later his
bullying voice sounded from the back room.

"Now, Watson, now!" cried Holmes with frenzied eagerness.  All
the demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless
manner burst out in a paroxysm of energy.  He tore the drugget
from the floor, and in an instant was down on his hands and
knees clawing at each of the squares of wood beneath it.  One
turned sideways as he dug his nails into the edge of it.  It
hinged back like the lid of a box.  A small black cavity opened
beneath it.  Holmes plunged his eager hand into it and drew it
out with a bitter snarl of anger and disappointment.  It was empty.

"Quick, Watson, quick!  Get it back again!"  The wooden lid was
replaced, and the drugget had only just been drawn straight when
Lestrade's voice was heard in the passage.  He found Holmes
leaning languidly against the mantelpiece, resigned and patient,
endeavouring to conceal his irrepressible yawns.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes . I can see that you are
bored to death with the whole affair.  Well, he has confessed,
all right.  Come in here, MacPherson.  Let these gentlemen hear of
your most inexcusable conduct."

The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.

"I meant no harm, sir, I'm sure.  The young woman came to the
door last evening--mistook the house, she did.  And then we got
talking.  It's lonesome, when you're on duty here all day."

"Well, what happened then?"

"She wanted to see where the crime was done--had read about it
in the papers, she said.  She was a very respectable, well-spoken
young woman, sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have a peep. 
When she saw that mark on the carpet, down she dropped on the
floor, and lay as if she were dead.  I ran to the back and got
some water, but I could not bring her to.  Then I went round the
corner to the Ivy Plant for some brandy, and by the time I had
brought it back the young woman had recovered and was
off--ashamed of herself, I daresay, and dared not face me."

"How about moving that drugget?"

"Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back. 
You see, she fell on it and it lies on a polished floor with
nothing to keep it in place.  I straightened it out afterwards."

"It's a lesson to you that you can't deceive me, Constable
MacPherson," said Lestrade, with dignity.  "No doubt you thought
that your breach of duty could never be discovered, and yet a
mere glance at that drugget was enough to convince me that
someone had been admitted to the room.  It's lucky for you, my
man, that nothing is missing, or you would find yourself in
Queer Street.  I'm sorry to have called you down over such a
petty business, Mr. Holmes, but I thought the point of the
second stain not corresponding with the first would interest you."

"Certainly, it was most interesting.  Has this woman only been
here once, constable?"

"Yes, sir, only once."

"Who was she?"

"Don't know the name, sir.  Was answering an advertisement about
typewriting and came to the wrong number--very pleasant, genteel
young woman, sir."

"Tall?  Handsome?"

"Yes, sir, she was a well-grown young woman.  I suppose you might
say she was handsome.  Perhaps some would say she was very
handsome.  `Oh, officer, do let me have a peep!' says she.  She
had pretty, coaxing ways, as you might say, and I thought there
was no harm in letting her just put her head through the door."

"How was she dressed?"

"Quiet, sir--a long mantle down to her feet."

"What time was it?"

"It was just growing dusk at the time.  They were lighting the
lamps as I came back with the brandy."

"Very good," said Holmes.  "Come, Watson, I think that we have
more important work elsewhere."

As we left the house Lestrade remained in the front room, while
the repentant constable opened the door to let us out.  Holmes
turned on the step and held up something in his hand.  The
constable stared intently.

"Good Lord, sir!" he cried, with amazement on his face.  Holmes
put his finger on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast
pocket, and burst out laughing as we turned down the street. 
"Excellent!" said he.  "Come, friend Watson, the curtain rings up
for the last act.  You will be relieved to hear that there will
be no war, that the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope will suffer
no setback in his brilliant career, that the indiscreet
Sovereign will receive no punishment for his indiscretion, that
the Prime Minister will have no Europe an complication to deal
with, and that with a little tact and management upon our part
nobody will be a penny the worse for what might have been a very
ugly incident."

My mind filled with admiration for this extraordinary man.

"You have solved it!" I cried.

"Hardly that, Watson.  There are some points which are as dark as
ever.  But we have so much that it will be our own fault if we
cannot get the rest.  We will go straight to Whitehall Terrace
and bring the matter to a head."

When we arrived at the residence of the European Secretary it
was for Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Holmes inquired. 
We were shown into the morning-room.

"Mr. Holmes!" said the lady, and her face was pink with her
indignation.  "This is surely most unfair and ungenerous upon
your part.  I desired, as I have explained, to keep my visit to
you a secret, lest my husband should think that I was intruding
into his affairs.  And yet you compromise me by coming here and
so showing that there are business relations between us."

"Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible alternative.  I have
been commissioned to recover this immensely important paper.  I
must therefore ask you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in
my hands."

The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour all dashed in an
instant from her beautiful face.  Her eyes glazed--she
tottered--I thought that she would faint.  Then with a grand
effort she rallied from the shock, and a supreme astonishment
and indignation chased every other expression from her features.

"You--you insult me, Mr. Holmes."

"Come, come, madam, it is useless.  Give up the letter."

She darted to the bell.

"The butler shall show you out."

"Do not ring, Lady Hilda.  If you do, then all my earnest efforts
to avoid a scandal will be frustrated.  Give up the letter and
all will be set right.  If you will work with me I can arrange
everything.  If you work against me I must expose you."

She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her eyes fixed upon
his as if she would read his very soul.  Her hand was on the
bell, but she had forborne to ring it.

"You are trying to frighten me.  It is not a very manly thing,
Mr. Holmes, to come here and browbeat a woman.  You say that you
know something.  What is it that you know?"

"Pray sit down, madam.  You will hurt yourself there if you fall. 
I will not speak until you sit down.  Thank you."

"I give you five minutes, Mr. Holmes."

"One is enough, Lady Hilda.  I know of your visit to Eduardo
Lucas, of your giving him this document, of your ingenious
return to the room last night, and of the manner in which you
took the letter from the hiding-place under the carpet."

She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she
could speak.

"You are mad, Mr. Holmes--you are mad!" she cried, at last.

He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket.  It was the
face of a woman cut out of a portrait.

"I have carried this because I thought it might be useful," said
he.  "The policeman has recognized it."

She gave a gasp, and her head dropped back in the chair.

"Come, Lady Hilda.  You have the letter.  The matter may still be
adjusted.  I have no desire to bring trouble to you.  My duty ends
when I have returned the lost letter to your husband.  Take my
advice and be frank with me.  It is your only chance."

Her courage was admirable.  Even now she would not own defeat.

"I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are under some absurd illusion."

Holmes rose from his chair.

"I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda.  I have done my best for you.  I
can see that it is all in vain."

He rang the bell.  The butler entered.

"Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?"

"He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one."

Holmes glanced at his watch.

"Still a quarter of an hour," said he.  "Very good, I shall wait."

The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady Hilda
was down on her knees at Holmes's feet, her hands outstretched,
her beautiful face upturned and wet with her tears.

"Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes!  Spare me!" she pleaded, in a frenzy
of supplication.  "For heaven's sake, don't tell him!  I love him
so!  I would not bring one shadow on his life, and this I know
would break his noble heart."

Holmes raised the lady.  "I am thankful, madam, that you have
come to your senses even at this last moment!  There is not an
instant to lose.  Where is the letter?"

She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and drew out
a long blue envelope.

"Here it is, Mr. Holmes.  Would to heaven I had never seen it!"

"How can we return it?"  Holmes muttered.  "Quick, quick, we must
think of some way!  Where is the despatch-box?"

"Still in his bedroom."

"What a stroke of luck!  Quick, madam, bring it here!"  A moment
later she had appeared with a red flat box in her hand.

"How did you open it before?  You have a duplicate key?  Yes, of
course you have.  Open it!"

From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn a small key.  The box
flew open.  It was stuffed with papers.  Holmes thrust the blue
envelope deep down into the heart of them, between the leaves of
some other document.  The box was shut, locked, and returned to
the bedroom.

"Now we are ready for him," said Holmes.  "We have still ten
minutes.  I am going far to screen you, Lady Hilda.  In return you
will spend the time in telling me frankly the real meaning of
this extraordinary affair."

"Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything," cried the lady.  "Oh,
Mr. Holmes, I would cut off my right hand before I gave him a
moment of sorrow!  There is no woman in all London who loves her
husband as I do, and yet if he knew how I have acted--how I have
been compelled to act--he would never forgive me.  For his own
honour stands so high that he could not forget or pardon a lapse
in another.  Help me, Mr. Holmes!  My happiness, his happiness,
our very lives are at stake!"

"Quick, madam, the time grows short!"

"It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes, an indiscreet letter
written before my marriage--a foolish letter, a letter of an
impulsive, loving girl.  I meant no harm, and yet he would have
thought it criminal.  Had he read that letter his confidence
would have been forever destroyed.  It is years since I wrote it. 
I had thought that the whole matter was forgotten.  Then at last
I heard from this man, Lucas, that it had passed into his hands,
and that he would lay it before my husband.  I implored his
mercy.  He said that he would return my letter if I would bring
him a certain document which he described in my husband's
despatch-box.  He had some spy in the office who had told him of
its existence.  He assured me that no harm could come to my
husband.  Put yourself in my position, Mr. Holmes!  What was I to do?"

"Take your husband into your confidence."

"I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not!  On the one side seemed
certain ruin, on the other, terrible as it seemed to take my
husband's paper, still in a matter of politics I could not
understand the consequences, while in a matter of love and trust
they were only too clear to me.  I did it, Mr. Holmes!  I took an
impression of his key.  This man, Lucas, furnished a duplicate.
I opened his despatch-box, took the paper, and conveyed it to
Godolphin Street."

"What happened there, madam?"

"I tapped at the door as agreed.  Lucas opened it.  I followed him
into his room, leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I
feared to be alone with the man.  I remember that there was a
woman outside as I entered.  Our business was soon done.  He had
my letter on his desk, I handed him the document.  He gave me the
letter.  At this instant there was a sound at the door.  There
were steps in the passage.  Lucas quickly turned back the
drugget, thrust the document into some hiding-place there, and
covered it over.

"What happened after that is like some fearful dream.  I have a
vision of a dark, frantic face, of a woman's voice, which
screamed in French, `My waiting is not in vain.  At last, at last
I have found you with her!'  There was a savage struggle.  I saw
him with a chair in his hand, a knife gleamed in hers.  I rushed
from the horrible scene, ran from the house, and only next
morning in the paper did I learn the dreadful result.  That night
I was happy, for I had my letter, and I had not seen yet what
the future would bring.

"It was the next morning that I realized that I had only
exchanged one trouble for another.  My husband's anguish at the
loss of his paper went to my heart.  I could hardly prevent
myself from there and then kneeling down at his feet and telling
him what I had done.  But that again would mean a confession of
the past.  I came to you that morning in order to understand the
full enormity of my offence.  From the instant that I grasped it
my whole mind was turned to the one thought of getting back my
husband's paper.  It must still be where Lucas had placed it, for
it was concealed before this dreadful woman entered the room.  If
it had not been for her coming, I should not have known where
his hiding-place was.  How was I to get into the room?  For two
days I watched the place, but the door was never left open.  Last
night I made a last attempt.  What I did and how I succeeded, you
have already learned.  I brought the paper back with me, and
thought of destroying it, since I could see no way of returning
it without confessing my guilt to my husband.  Heavens, I hear
his step upon the stair!"

The European Secretary burst excitedly into the room.  "Any
news, Mr. Holmes, any news?" he cried.

"I have some hopes."

"Ah, thank heaven!"  His face became radiant.  "The Prime Minister
is lunching with me.  May he share your hopes?  He has nerves of
steel, and yet I know that he has hardly slept since this
terrible event.  Jacobs, will you ask the Prime Minister to come
up?  As to you, dear, I fear that this is a matter of politics. 
We will join you in a few minutes in the dining-room."

The Prime Minister's manner was subdued, but I could see by the
gleam of his eyes and the twitchings of his bony hands that he
shared the excitement of his young colleague.

"I understand that you have something to report, Mr. Holmes?"

"Purely negative as yet," my friend answered.  "I have inquired
at every point where it might be, and I am sure that there is no
danger to be apprehended."

"But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes.  We cannot live forever on
such a volcano.  We must have something definite."

"I am in hopes of getting it.  That is why I am here.  The more I
think of the matter the more convinced I am that the letter has
never left this house."

"Mr. Holmes!"

"If it had it would certainly have been public by now."

"But why should anyone take it in order to keep it in his house?"

"I am not convinced that anyone did take it."

"Then how could it leave the despatch-box?"

"I am not convinced that it ever did leave the despatch-box."

"Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed.  You have my
assurance that it left the box."

"Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?"

"No.  It was not necessary."

"You may conceivably have overlooked it."

"Impossible, I say."

"But I am not convinced of it.  I have known such things to
happen.  I presume there are other papers there.  Well, it may
have got mixed with them."

"It was on the top."

"Someone may have shaken the box and displaced it."

"No, no, I had everything out."

"Surely it is easily, decided, Hope," said the Premier.  "Let us
have the despatch-box brought in."

The Secretary rang the bell.

"Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box.  This is a farcical waste of
time, but still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall be
done.  Thank you, Jacobs, put it here.  I have always had the key
on my watch-chain.  Here are the papers, you see.  Letter from
Lord Merrow, report from Sir Charles Hardy, memorandum from
Belgrade, note on the Russo-German grain taxes, letter from
Madrid, note from Lord Flowers----Good heavens! what is this? 
Lord Bellinger! Lord Bellinger!"

The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.

"Yes, it is it--and the letter is intact.  Hope, I congratulate you."

"Thank you!  Thank you!  What a weight from my heart.  But this is
inconceivable--impossible.  Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a
sorcerer!  How did you know it was there?"

"Because I knew it was nowhere else."

"I cannot believe my eyes!"  He ran wildly to the door.  "Where is
my wife?  I must tell her that all is well.  Hilda!  Hilda!" we
heard his voice on the stairs.

The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.

"Come, sir," said he.  "There is more in this than meets the eye. 
How came the letter back in the box?"

Holmes turned away smiling from the keen scrutiny of those
wonderful eyes.

"We also have our diplomatic secrets," said he and, picking up
his hat, he turned to the door.


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THE ADVENTURES OF GERARD

BY
A. CONAN DOYLE




"Il etait brave mais avec cette graine de foilie dans sa
bravoure que les Francais aiment."

FRENCH BIOGRAPHY.



PREFACE

I hope that some readers may possibly be interested in these
little tales of the Napoleonic soldiers to the extent of
following them up to the springs from which they flow.  The age
was rich in military material, some of it the most human and the
most picturesque that I have ever read.  Setting aside historical
works or the biographies of the leaders there is a mass of
evidence written by the actual fighting men themselves, which
describes their feelings and their experiences, stated always
from the point of view of the particular branch of the service to
which they belonged.  The Cavalry were particularly happy in
their writers of memoirs.  Thus De Rocca in his "Memoires sur la
guerre des Francais en Espagne" has given the narrative of a
Hussar, while De Naylies in his "Memoires sur la guerre
d'Espagne" gives the same campaigns from the point of view of the
Dragoon.  Then we have the "Souvenirs Militaires du Colonel de
Gonneville," which treats a series of wars, including that of
Spain, as seen from under the steel-brimmed hair-crested helmet
of a Cuirassier.  Pre-eminent among all these works, and among
all military memoirs, are the famous reminiscences of Marbot,
which can be obtained in an English form.  Marbot was a Chasseur,
so again we obtain the Cavalry point of view.  Among other books
which help one to an understanding of the Napoleonic soldier I
would specially recommend "Les Cahiers du Capitaine Coignet,"
which treat the wars from the point of view of the private of the
Guards, and "Les Memoires du Sergeant Bourgoyne," who was a
non-commissioned officer in the same corps.  The Journal of
Sergeant Fricasse and the Recollections of de Fezenac and of de
Segur complete the materials from which I have worked in my
endeavour to give a true historical and military atmosphere to an
imaginary figure.

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.

March, 1903.


CONTENTS

I.      HOW BRIGADIER GERARD LOST HIS EAR

II.     HOW THE. BRIGADIER CAPTURED SARAGOSSA

III.    HOW THE BRIGADIER SLEW THE FOX

IV.     HOW THE BRIGADIER SAVED THE ARMY 

V.      HOW THE BRIGADIER TRIUMPHED IN ENGLAND

VI.     HOW THE BRIGADIER RODE TO MINSK

VII.    HOW THE BRIGADE BORE HIMSELF AT WATERLOO

VIII.   THE LAST ADVENTURE OF THE BRIGADIER




I. How Brigadier Gerard Lost His Ear


It was the old Brigadier who was talking in the cafe.

I have seen a great many cities, my friends.  I would not dare to
tell you how many I have entered as a conqueror with eight
hundred of my little fighting devils clanking and jingling behind
me.  The cavalry were in front of the Grande Armee, and the
Hussars of Conflans were in front of the cavalry, and I was in
front of the Hussars.  But of all the cities which we visited
Venice is the most ill-built and ridiculous.  I cannot imagine
how the people who laid it out thought that the cavalry could
manoeuvre.  It would puzzle Murat or Lassalle to bring a squadron
into that square of theirs.  For this reason we left Kellermann's
heavy brigade and also my own Hussars at Padua on the mainland. 
But Suchet with the infantry held the town, and he had chosen me
as his aide- de-camp for that winter, because he was pleased
about the affair of the Italian fencing-master at Milan.  The
fellow was a good swordsman, and it was fortunate for the credit
of French arms that it was I who was opposed to him.  Besides, he
deserved a lesson, for if one does not like a prima donna's
singing one can always be silent, but it is intolerable that a
public affront should be put upon a pretty woman.  So the
sympathy was all with me, and after the affair had blown over and
the man's widow had been pensioned Suchet chose me as his own
galloper, and I followed him to Venice, where I had the strange
adventure which I am about to tell you.

You have not been to Venice?  No, for it is seldom that the
French travel.  We were great travellers in those days.  From
Moscow to Cairo we had travelled everywhere, but we went in
larger parties than were convenient to those whom we visited, and
we carried our passports in our limbers.  It will be a bad day
for Europe when the French start travelling again, for they are
slow to leave their homes, but when they have done so no one can
say how far they will go if they have a guide like our little man
to point out the way.  But the great days are gone and the great
men are dead, and here am I, the last of them, drinking wine of
Suresnes and telling old tales in a cafe.

But it is of Venice that I would speak.  The folk there live like
water-rats upon a mud-bank, but the houses are very fine, and the
churches, especially that of St. Mark, are as great as any I have
seen.  But above all they are proud of their statues and their
pictures, which are the most famous in Europe.  There are many
soldiers who think that because one's trade is to make war one
should never have a thought above fighting and plunder.  There
was old Bouvet, for example--the one who was killed by the
Prussians on the day that I won the Emperor's medal; if you took
him away from the camp and the canteen, and spoke to him of books
or of art, he would sit and stare at you.  But the highest
soldier is a man like myself who can understand the things of the
mind and the soul.  It is true that I was very young when I
joined the army, and that the quarter- master was my only
teacher, but if you go about the world with your eyes open you
cannot help learning a great deal.

Thus I was able to admire the pictures in Venice, and to know the
names of the great men, Michael Titiens, and Angelus, and the
others, who had painted them.  No one can say that Napoleon did
not admire them also, for the very first thing which he did when
he captured the town was to send the best of them to Paris.  We
all took what we could get, and I had two pictures for my share.

One of them, called "Nymphs Surprised," I kept for myself, and
the other, "Saint Barbara," I sent as a present for my mother.

It must be confessed, however, that some of our men behaved very
badly in this matter of the statues and the pictures.  The people
at Venice were very much attached to them, and as to the four
bronze horses which stood over the gate of their great church,
they loved them as dearly as if they had been their children.  I
have always been a judge of a horse, and I had a good look at
these ones, but I could not see that there was much to be said
for them.  They were too coarse-limbed for light cavalry charges
and they had not the weight for the gun-teams.

However, they were the only four horses, alive or dead, in the
whole town, so it was not to be expected that the people would
know any better.  They wept bitterly when they were sent away,
and ten French soldiers were found floating in the canals that
night.  As a punishment for these murders a great many more of
their pictures were sent away, and the soldiers took to breaking
the statues and firing their muskets at the stained-glass
windows.

This made the people furious, and there was very bad feeling in
the town.  Many officers and men disappeared during that winter,
and even their bodies were never found.

For myself I had plenty to do, and I never found the time heavy
on my hands.  In every country it has been my custom to try to
learn the language.  For this reason I always look round for some
lady who will be kind enough to teach it to me, and then we
practise it together.  This is the most interesting way of
picking it up, and before I was thirty I could speak nearly every
tongue in Europe; but it must be confessed that what you learn is
not of much use for the ordinary purposes of life.  My business,
for example, has usually been with soldiers and peasants, and
what advantage is it to be able to say to them that I love only
them, and that I will come back when the wars are over?

Never have I had so sweet a teacher as in Venice.  Lucia was her
first name, and her second--but a gentleman forgets second names. 
I can say this with all discretion, that she was of one of the
senatorial families of Venice and that her grandfather had been
Doge of the town.

She was of an exquisite beauty--and when I, Etienne Gerard, use
such a word as "exquisite," my friends, it has a meaning.  I have
judgment, I have memories, I have the means of comparison.  Of
all the women who have loved me there are not twenty to whom I
could apply such a term as that.  But I say again that Lucia was
exquisite.

Of the dark type I do not recall her equal unless it were Dolores
of Toledo.  There was a little brunette whom I loved at Santarem
when I was soldiering under Massena in Portugal--her name has
escaped me.  She was of a perfect beauty, but she had not the
figure nor the grace of Lucia.  There was Agnes also.  I could
not put one before the other, but I do none an injustice when I
say that Lucia was the equal of the best.

It was over this matter of pictures that I had first met her, for
her father owned a palace on the farther side of the Rialto
Bridge upon the Grand Canal, and it was so packed with
wall-paintings that Suchet sent a party of sappers to cut some of
them out and send them to Paris.

I had gone down with them, and after I had seen Lucia in tears it
appeared to me that the plaster would crack if it were taken from
the support of the wall.  I said so, and the sappers were
withdrawn.  After that I was the friend of the family, and many a
flask of Chianti have I cracked with the father and many a sweet
lesson have I had from the daughter.  Some of our French officers
married in Venice that winter, and I might have done the same,
for I loved her with all my heart; but Etienne Gerard has his
sword, his horse, his regiment, his mother, his Emperor, and his
career.  A debonair Hussar has room in his life for love, but
none for a wife.  So I thought then, my friends, but I did not
see the lonely days when I should long to clasp those vanished
hands, and turn my head away when I saw old comrades with their
tall children standing round their chairs.  This love which I had
thought was a joke and a plaything--it is only now that I
understand that it is the moulder of one's life, the most solemn
and sacred of all things--  Thank you, my friend, thank you!  It
is a good wine, and a second bottle cannot hurt.

And now I will tell you how my love for Lucia was the cause of
one of the most terrible of all the wonderful adventures which
have ever befallen me, and how it was that I came to lose the top
of my right ear.  You have often asked me why it was missing. 
To-night for the first time I will tell you.

Suchet's head-quarters at that time was the old palace of the
Doge Dandolo, which stands on the lagoon not far from the place
of San Marco.  It was near the end of the winter, and I had
returned one night from the Theatre Goldini, when I found a note
from Lucia and a gondola waiting.  She prayed me to come to her
at once as she was in trouble.  To a Frenchman and a soldier
there was but one answer to such a note.  In an instant I was in
the boat and the gondolier was pushing out into the dark lagoon.

I remember that as I took my seat in the boat I was struck by the
man's great size.  He was not tall, but he was one of the
broadest men that I have ever seen in my life.  But the
gondoliers of Venice are a strong breed, and powerful men are
common enough among them.  The fellow took his place behind me
and began to row.

A good soldier in an enemy's country should everywhere and at all
times be on the alert.  It has been one of the rules of my life,
and if I have lived to wear grey hairs it is because I have
observed it.  And yet upon that night I was as careless as a
foolish young recruit who fears lest he should be thought to be
afraid.  My pistols I had left behind in my hurry.  My sword was
at my belt, but it is not always the most convenient of weapons. 
I lay back in my seat in the gondola, lulled by the gentle swish
of the water and the steady creaking of the oar.  Our way lay
through a network of narrow canals with high houses towering on
either side and a thin slit of star-spangled sky above us.  Here
and there, on the bridges which spanned the canal, there was the
dim glimmer of an oil lamp, and sometimes there came a gleam from
some niche where a candle burned before the image of a saint. 
But save for this it was all black, and one could only see the
water by the white fringe which curled round the long black nose
of our boat.  It was a place and a time for dreaming.  I thought
of my own past life, of all the great deeds in which I had been
concerned, of the horses that I had handled, and of the women
that I had loved.  Then I thought also of my dear mother, and I
fancied her joy when she heard the folk in the village talking
about the fame of her son.  Of the Emperor also I thought, and of
France, the dear fatherland, the sunny France, mother of
beautiful daughters and of gallant sons.  My heart glowed within
me as I thought of how we had brought her colours so many hundred
leagues beyond her borders.  To her greatness I would dedicate my
life.  I placed my hand upon my heart as I swore it, and at that
instant the gondolier fell upon me from behind.

When I say that he fell upon me I do not mean merely that he
attacked me, but that he really did tumble upon me with all his
weight.  The fellow stands behind you and above you as he rows,
so that you can neither see him nor can you in any way guard
against such an assault.

One moment I had sat with my mind filled with sublime
resolutions, the next I was flattened out upon the bottom of the
boat, the breath dashed out of my body, and this monster pinning
me down.  I felt the fierce pants of his hot breath upon the back
of my neck.  In an instant he had torn away my sword, had slipped
a sack over my head, and had tied a rope firmly round the outside
of it.

There I was at the bottom of the gondola as helpless as a trussed
fowl.  I could not shout, I could not move; I was a mere bundle. 
An instant later I heard once more the swishing of the water and
the creaking of the oar.

This fellow had done his work and had resumed his journey as
quietly and unconcernedly as if he were accustomed to clap a sack
over a colonel of Hussars every day of the week.

I cannot tell you the humiliation and also the fury which filled
my mind as I lay there like a helpless sheep being carried to the
butcher's.  I, Etienne Gerard, the champion of the six brigades
of light cavalry and the first swordsman of the Grand Army, to be
overpowered by a single unarmed man in such a fashion!  Yet I lay
quiet, for there is a time to resist and there is a time to save
one's strength.  I had felt the fellow's grip upon my arms, and I
knew that I would be a child in his hands.  I waited quietly,
therefore, with a heart which burned with rage, until my
opportunity should come.

How long I lay there at the bottom of the boat I can not tell;
but it seemed to me to be a long time, and always there were the
hiss of the waters and the steady creaking of the oar.  Several
times we turned corners, for I heard the long, sad cry which
these gondoliers give when they wish to warn their fellows that
they are coming.  At last, after a considerable journey, I felt
the side of the boat scrape up against a landing-place.  The
fellow knocked three times with his oar upon wood, and in answer
to his summons I heard the rasping of bars and the turning of
keys.  A great door creaked back upon its hinges.

"Have you got him?" asked a voice, in Italian.

My monster gave a laugh and kicked the sack in which I lay.

"Here he is," said he.

"They are waiting."  He added something which I could not
understand.

"Take him, then," said my captor.  He raised me in his arms,
ascended some steps, and I was thrown down upon a hard floor.  A
moment later the bars creaked and the key whined once more.  I
was a prisoner inside a house.

From the voices and the steps there seemed now to be several
people round me.  I understand Italian a great deal better than I
speak it, and I could make out very well what they were saying.

"You have not killed him, Matteo?"

"What matter if I have?"

"My faith, you will have to answer for it to the tribunal."

"They will kill him, will they not?"

"Yes, but it is not for you or me to take it out of their hands."

"Tut!  I have not killed him.  Dead men do not bite, and his
cursed teeth met in my thumb as I pulled the sack over his head."

"He lies very quiet."

"Tumble him out and you will find that he is lively enough."

The cord which bound me was undone and the sack drawn from over
my head.  With my eyes closed I lay motionless upon the floor.

"By the saints, Matteo, I tell you that you have broken his
neck."

"Not I.  He has only fainted.  The better for him if he never
came out of it again."

I felt a hand within my tunic.

"Matteo is right," said a voice.  "His heart beats like a hammer. 
Let him lie and he will soon find his senses."

I waited for a minute or so and then I ventured to take a
stealthy peep from between my lashes.  At first I could see
nothing, for I had been so long in darkness and it was but a dim
light in which I found myself.  Soon, however, I made out that a
high and vaulted ceiling covered with painted gods and goddesses
was arching over my head.  This was no mean den of cut-throats
into which I had been carried, but it must be the hall of some
Venetian palace.  Then, without movement, very slowly and
stealthily I had a peep at the men who surrounded me.  There was
the gondolier, a swart, hard-faced, murderous ruffian, and beside
him were three other men, one of them a little, twisted fellow
with an air of authority and several keys in his hand, the other
two tall young servants in a smart livery.  As I listened to
their talk I saw that the small man was the steward of the house,
and that the others were under his orders.

There were four of them, then, but the little steward might be
left out of the reckoning.  Had I a weapon I should have smiled
at such odds as those.  But, hand to hand, I was no match for the
one even without three others to aid him.  Cunning, then, not
force, must be my aid.  I wished to look round for some mode of
escape, and in doing so I gave an almost imperceptible movement
of my head.  Slight as it was it did not escape my guardians.

"Come, wake up, wake up!" cried the steward.

"Get on your feet, little Frenchman," growled the gondolier. 
"Get up, I say," and for the second time he spurned me with his
foot.

Never in the world was a command obeyed so promptly as that one. 
In an instant I had bounded to my feet and rushed as hard as I
could to the back of the hall.  They were after me as I have seen
the English hounds follow a fox, but there was a long passage
down which I tore.

It turned to the left and again to the left, and then I found
myself back in the hall once more.  They were almost within touch
of me and there was no time for thought.  I turned toward the
staircase, but two men were coming down it.  I dodged back and
tried the door through which I had been brought, but it was
fastened with great bars and I could not loosen them.  The
gondolier was on me with his knife, but I met him with a kick on
the body which stretched him on his back.  His dagger flew with a
clatter across the marble floor.  I had no time to seize it, for
there were half a dozen of them now clutching at me.  As I rushed
through them the little steward thrust his leg before me and I
fell with a crash, but I was up in an instant, and breaking from
their grasp I burst through the very middle of them and made for
a door at the other end of the hall.  I reached it well in front
of them, and I gave a shout of triumph as the handle turned
freely in my hand, for I could see that it led to the outside and
that all was clear for my escape.  But I had forgotten this
strange city in which I was.  Every house is an island.  As I
flung open the door, ready to bound out into the street, the
light of the hall shone upon the deep, still, black water which
lay flush with the topmost step.

I shrank back, and in an instant my pursuers were on me.

But I am not taken so easily.  Again I kicked and fought my way
through them, though one of them tore a handful of hair from my
head in his effort to hold me.  The little steward struck me with
a key and I was battered and bruised, but once more I cleared a
way in front of me.

Up the grand staircase I rushed, burst open the pair of huge
folding doors which faced me, and learned at last that my efforts
were in vain.

The room into which I had broken was brilliantly lighted.  With
its gold cornices, its massive pillars, and its painted walls and
ceilings it was evidently the grand hall of some famous Venetian
palace.  There are many hundred such in this strange city, any
one of which has rooms which would grace the Louvre or
Versailles.  In the centre of this great hall there was a raised
dais, and upon it in a half circle there sat twelve men all clad
in black gowns, like those of a Franciscan monk, and each with a
mask over the upper part of his face.

A group of armed men--rough-looking rascals--were standing round
the door, and amid them facing the dais was a young fellow in the
uniform of the light infantry.  As he turned his head I
recognised him.  It was Captain Auret, of the 7th, a young Basque
with whom I had drunk many a glass during the winter.

He was deadly white, poor wretch, but he held himself manfully
amid the assassins who surrounded him.  Never shall I forget the
sudden flash of hope which shone in his dark eyes when he saw a
comrade burst into the room, or the look of despair which
followed as he understood that I had come not to change his fate
but to share it.

You can think how amazed these people were when I hurled myself
into their presence.  My pursuers had crowded in behind me and
choked the doorway, so that all further flight was out of the
question.  It is at such instants that my nature asserts itself. 
With dignity I advanced toward the tribunal.  My jacket was torn,
my hair was dishevelled, my head was bleeding, but there was that
in my eyes and in my carriage which made them realise that no
common man was before them.  Not a hand was raised to arrest me
until I halted in front of a formidable old man, whose long grey
beard and masterful manner told me that both by years and by
character he was the man in authority.

"Sir," said I, "you will, perhaps, tell me why I have been
forcibly arrested and brought to this place.  I am an honourable
soldier, as is this other gentleman here, and I demand that you
will instantly set us both at liberty."

There was an appalling silence to my appeal.  It was not pleasant
to have twelve masked faces turned upon you and to see twelve
pairs of vindictive Italian eyes fixed with fierce intentness
upon your face.  But I stood as a debonair soldier should, and I
could not but reflect how much credit I was bringing upon the
Hussars of Conflans by the dignity of my bearing.  I do not think
that anyone could have carried himself better under such
difficult circumstances.  I looked with a fearless face from one
assassin to another, and I waited for some reply.

It was the grey-beard who at last broke the silence.

"Who is this man?" he asked.

"His name is Gerard," said the little steward at the door.

"Colonel Gerard," said I.  "I will not deceive you.  I am Etienne
Gerard, THE Colonel Gerard, five times mentioned in despatches
and recommended for the sword of honour.  I am aide-de-camp to
General Suchet, and I demand my instant release, together with
that of my comrade in arms."

The same terrible silence fell upon the assembly, and the same
twelve pairs of merciless eyes were bent upon my face.  Again it
was the grey-beard who spoke.

"He is out of his order.  There are two names upon our list
before him."

"He escaped from our hands and burst into the room."

"Let him await his turn.  Take him down to the wooden cell."

"If he resist us, your Excellency?"

"Bury your knives in his body.  The tribunal will uphold you. 
Remove him until we have dealt with the others."

They advanced upon me, and for an instant I thought of
resistance.  It would have been a heroic death, but who was there
to see it or to chronicle it?  I might be only postponing my
fate, and yet I had been in so many bad places and come out
unhurt that I had learned always to hope and to trust my star.  I
allowed these rascals to seize me, and I was led from the room,
the gondolier walking at my side with a long naked knife in his
hand.  I could see in his brutal eyes the satisfaction which it
would give him if he could find some excuse for plunging it into
my body.

They are wonderful places, these great Venetian houses, palaces,
and fortresses, and prisons all in one.  I was led along a
passage and down a bare stone stair until we came to a short
corridor from which three doors opened.  Through one of these I
was thrust and the spring lock closed behind me.  The only light
came dimly through a small grating which opened on the passage.

Peering and feeling, I carefully examined the chamber in which I
had been placed.  I understood from what I had heard that I
should soon have to leave it again in order to appear before this
tribunal, but still it is not my nature to throw away any
possible chances.

The stone floor of the cell was so damp and the walls for some
feet high were so slimy and foul that it was evident they were
beneath the level of the water.  A single slanting hole high up
near the ceiling was the only aperture for light or air.  Through
it I saw one bright star shining down upon me, and the sight
filled me with comfort and with hope.  I have never been a man of
religion, though I have always had a respect for those who were,
but I remember that night that the star shining down the shaft
seemed to be an all-seeing eye which was upon me, and I felt as a
young and frightened recruit might feel in battle when he saw the
calm gaze of his colonel turned upon him.

Three of the sides of my prison were formed of stone, but the
fourth was of wood, and I could see that it had only recently
been erected.  Evidently a partition had been thrown up to divide
a single large cell into two smaller ones.  There was no hope for
me in the old walls, in the tiny window, or in the massive door. 
It was only in this one direction of the wooden screen that there
was any possibility of exploring.  My reason told me that if I
should pierce it--which did not seem very difficult--it would
only be to find myself in another cell as strong as that in which
I then was.  Yet I had always rather be doing something than
doing nothing, so I bent all my attention and all my energies
upon the wooden wall.  Two planks were badly joined, and so loose
that I was certain I could easily detach them.  I searched about
for some tool, and I found one in the leg of a small bed which
stood in the corner.  I forced the end of this into the chink of
the planks, and I was about to twist them outward when the sound
of rapid footsteps caused me to pause and to listen.

I wish I could forget what I heard.  Many a hundred men have I
seen die in battle, and I have slain more myself than I care to
think of, but all that was fair fight and the duty of a soldier. 
It was a very different matter to listen to a murder in this den
of assassins.  They were pushing someone along the passage,
someone who resisted and who clung to my door as he passed.  They
must have taken him into the third cell, the one which was
farthest from me.  "Help!  Help!" cried a voice, and then I heard
a blow and a scream.  "Help!  Help!" cried the voice again, and
then "Gerard!  Colonel Gerard!"  It was my poor captain of
infantry whom they were slaughtering.

"Murderers!  Murderers!"  I yelled, and I kicked at my door, but
again I heard him shout and then everything was silent.  A minute
later there was a heavy splash, and I knew that no human eye
would ever see Auret again.  He had gone as a hundred others had
gone whose names were missing from the roll-calls of their
regiments during that winter in Venice.

The steps returned along the passage, and I thought that they
were coming for me.  Instead of that they opened the door of the
cell next to mine and they took someone out of it.  I heard the
steps die away up the stair.

At once I renewed my work upon the planks, and within a very few
minutes I had loosened them in such a way that I could remove and
replace them at pleasure.  Passing through the aperture I found
myself in the farther cell, which, as I expected, was the other
half of the one in which I had been confined.  I was not any
nearer to escape than I had been before, for there was no other
wooden wall which I could penetrate and the spring lock of the
door had been closed.  There were no traces to show who was my
companion in misfortune.  Closing the two loose planks behind me
I returned to my own cell and waited there with all the courage
which I could command for the summons which would probably be my
death knell.

It was a long time in coming, but at last I heard the sound of
feet once more in the passage, and I nerved myself to listen to
some other odious deed and to hear the cries of the poor victim. 
Nothing of the kind occurred, however, and the prisoner was
placed in the cell without violence.  I had no time to peep
through my hole of communication, for next moment my own door was
flung open and my rascally gondolier, with the other assassins,
came into the cell.

"Come, Frenchman," said he.  He held his blood- stained knife in
his great, hairy hand, and I read in his fierce eyes that he only
looked for some excuse in order to plunge it into my heart. 
Resistance was useless.  I followed without a word.  I was led up
the stone stair and back into that gorgeous chamber in which I
had left the secret tribunal.  I was ushered in, but to my
surprise it was not on me that their attention was fixed.  One of
their own number, a tall, dark young man, was standing before
them and was pleading with them in low, earnest tones.  His voice
quivered with anxiety and his hands darted in and out or writhed
together in an agony of entreaty.  "You cannot do it!  You cannot
do it!" he cried.

"I implore the tribunal to reconsider this decision."

"Stand aside, brother," said the old man who presided.

"The case is decided and another is up for judgment."

"For Heaven's sake be merciful!" cried the young man.

"We have already been merciful," the other answered.

"Death would have been a small penalty for such an offence.  Be
silent and let judgment take its course."

I saw the young man throw himself in an agony of grief into his
chair.  I had no time, however, to speculate as to what it was
which was troubling him, for his eleven colleagues had already
fixed their stern eyes upon me.

The moment of fate had arrived.

"You are Colonel Gerard?" said the terrible old man.

"I am."

"Aide-de-camp to the robber who calls himself General Suchet, who
in turn represents that arch-robber Buonaparte?"

It was on my lips to tell him that he was a liar, but there is a
time to argue and a time to be silent.

"I am an honourable soldier," said I.  "I have obeyed my orders
and done my duty."

The blood flushed into the old man's face and his eyes blazed
through his mask.

"You are thieves and murderers, every man of you," he cried. 
"What are you doing here?  You are Frenchmen.

Why are you not in France?  Did we invite you to Venice?  By what
right are you here?  Where are our pictures?  Where are the
horses of St. Mark?  Who are you that you should pilfer those
treasures which our fathers through so many centuries have
collected?  We were a great city when France was a desert.  Your
drunken, brawling, ignorant soldiers have undone the work of
saints and heroes.  What have you to say to it?"

He was, indeed, a formidable old man, for his white beard
bristled with fury and he barked out the little sentences like a
savage hound.  For my part I could have told him that his
pictures would be safe in Paris, that his horses were really not
worth making a fuss about, and that he could see heroes--I say
nothing of saints--without going back to his ancestors or even
moving out of his chair.  All this I could have pointed out, but
one might as well argue with a Mameluke about religion.  I
shrugged my shoulders and said nothing.

"The prisoner has no defence," said one of my masked judges.

"Has any one any observation to make before judgment is passed?" 
The old man glared round him at the others.

"There is one matter, your Excellency," said another.

"It can scarce be referred to without reopening a brother's
wounds, but I would remind you that there is a very particular
reason why an exemplary punishment should be inflicted in the
case of this officer."

"I had not forgotten it," the old man answered.

"Brother, if the tribunal has injured you in one direction, it
will give you ample satisfaction in another."

The young man who had been pleading when I entered the room
staggered to his feet.

"I cannot endure it," he cried.  "Your Excellency must forgive
me.  The tribunal can act without me.  I am ill.

I am mad."  He flung his hands out with a furious gesture and
rushed from the room.

"Let him go! Let him go!" said the president.  "It is, indeed,
more than can be asked of flesh and blood that he should remain
under this roof.  But he is a true Venetian, and when the first
agony is over he will understand that it could not be otherwise."

I had been forgotten during this episode, and though I am not a
man who is accustomed to being overlooked I should have been all
the happier had they continued to neglect me.  But now the old
president glared at me again like a tiger who comes back to his
victim.

"You shall pay for it all, and it is but justice that you
should," he said.  "You, an upstart adventurer and foreigner,
have dared to raise your eyes in love to the grand daughter of a
Doge of Venice who was already betrothed to the heir of the
Loredans.  He who enjoys such privileges must pay a price for
them."

"It cannot be higher than they are worth," said I.

"You will tell us that when you have made a part payment," said
he.  "Perhaps your spirit may not be so proud by that time. 
Matteo, you will lead this prisoner to the wooden cell.  To-night
is Monday.  Let him have no food or water, and let him be led
before the tribunal again on Wednesday night.  We shall then
decide upon the death which he is to die."

It was not a pleasant prospect, and yet it was a reprieve.  One
is thankful for small mercies when a hairy savage with a
blood-stained knife is standing at one's elbow.  He dragged me
from the room and I was thrust down the stairs and back into my
cell.  The door was locked and I was left to my reflections.

My first thought was to establish connection with my neighbour in
misfortune.  I waited until the steps had died away, and then I
cautiously drew aside the two boards and peeped through.  The
light was very dim, so dim that I could only just discern a
figure huddled in the corner, and I could hear the low whisper of
a voice which prayed as one prays who is in deadly fear.  The
boards must have made a creaking.  There was a sharp exclamation
of surprise.

"Courage, friend, courage!" I cried.  "All is not lost.

Keep a stout heart, for Etienne Gerard is by your side."

"Etienne!"  It was a woman's voice which spoke--a voice which was
always music to my ears.  I sprang through the gap and I flung my
arms round her.

"Lucia!  Lucia!" I cried.

It was "Etienne!" and "Lucia!" for some minutes, for one does not
make speeches at moments like that.  It was she who came to her
senses first.

"Oh, Etienne, they will kill you.  How came you into their
hands?"

"In answer to your letter."

"I wrote no letter."

"The cunning demons!  But you?"

"I came also in answer to your letter."

"Lucia, I wrote no letter."

"They have trapped us both with the same bait."

"I care nothing about myself, Lucia.  Besides, there is no
pressing danger with me.  They have simply returned me to my
cell."

"Oh, Etienne, Etienne, they will kill you.  Lorenzo is there."

"The old greybeard?"

"No, no, a young dark man.  He loved me, and I thought I loved
him until--until I learned what love is, Etienne.  He will never
forgive you.  He has a heart of stone."

"Let them do what they like.  They cannot rob me of the past,
Lucia.  But you--what about you?"

"It will be nothing, Etienne.  Only a pang for an instant and
then all over.  They mean it as a badge of infamy, dear, but I
will carry it like a crown of honour since it was through you
that I gained it."

Her words froze my blood with horror.  All my adventures were
insignificant compared to this terrible shadow which was creeping
over my soul.

"Lucia!  Lucia!" I cried.  "For pity's sake tell me what these
butchers are about to do.  Tell me, Lucia!

Tell me!"

"I will not tell you, Etienne, for it would hurt you far more
than it would me.  Well, well, I will tell you lest you should
fear it was something worse.  The president has ordered that my
ear be cut off, that I may be marked for ever as having loved a
Frenchman."

Her ear!  The dear little ear which I had kissed so often.  I put
my hand to each little velvet shell to make certain that this
sacrilege had not yet been committed.

Only over my dead body should they reach them.  I swore it to her
between my clenched teeth.

"You must not care, Etienne.  And yet I love that you should care
all the same."

"They shall not hurt you--the fiends!"

"I have hopes, Etienne.  Lorenzo is there.  He was silent while I
was judged, but he may have pleaded for me after I was gone."

"He did.  I heard him."

"Then he may have softened their hearts."

I knew that it was not so, but how could I bring myself to tell
her?  I might as well have done so, for with the quick instinct
of woman my silence was speech to her.

"They would not listen to him!  You need not fear to tell me,
dear, for you will find that I am worthy to be loved by such a
soldier.  Where is Lorenzo now?"

"He left the hall."

"Then he may have left the house as well."

"I believe that he did."

"He has abandoned me to my fate.  Etienne, Etienne, they are
coming!"

Afar off I heard those fateful steps and the jingle of distant
keys.  What were they coming for now, since there were no other
prisoners to drag to judgment?  It could only be to carry out the
sentence upon my darling.

I stood between her and the door, with the strength of a lion in
my limbs.  I would tear the house down before they should touch
her.


"Go back!  Go back!" she cried.  "They will murder you, Etienne. 
My life, at least, is safe.  For the love you bear me, Etienne,
go back.  It is nothing.  I will make no sound.  You will not
hear that it is done."

She wrestled with me, this delicate creature, and by main force
she dragged me to the opening between the cells.  But a sudden
thought had crossed my mind.

"We may yet be saved," I whispered.  "Do what I tell you at once
and without argument.  Go into my cell.

Quick!"

I pushed her through the gap and helped her to replace the
planks.  I had retained her cloak in my hands, and with this
wrapped round me I crept into the darkest corner of her cell. 
There I lay when the door was opened and several men came in.  I
had reckoned that they would bring no lantern, for they had none
with them before.

To their eyes I was only a dark blur in the corner.

"Bring a light," said one of them.

"No, no; curse it!" cried a rough voice, which I knew to be that
of the ruffian, Matteo.  "It is not a job that I like, and the
more I saw it the less I should like it.  I am sorry, signora,
but the order of the tribunal has to be obeyed."

My impulse was to spring to my feet and to rush through them all
and out by the open door.  But how would that help Lucia? 
Suppose that I got clear away, she would be in their hands until
I could come back with help, for single-handed I could not hope
to clear a way for her.  All this flashed through my mind in an
instant, and I saw that the only course for me was to lie still,
take what came, and wait my chance.  The fellow's coarse hand
felt about among my curls--those curls in which only a woman's
fingers had ever wandered.  The next instant he gripped my ear
and a pain shot through me as if I had been touched with a hot
iron.  I bit my lip to stifle a cry, and I felt the blood run
warm down my neck and back.

"There, thank Heaven, that's over," said the fellow, giving me a
friendly pat on the head.  "You're a brave girl, signora, I'll
say that for you, and I only wish you'd have better taste than to
love a Frenchman.  You can blame him and not me for what I have
done."

What could I do save to lie still and grind my teeth at my own
helplessness?  At the same time my pain and my rage were always
soothed by the reflection that I had suffered for the woman whom
I loved.  It is the custom of men to say to ladies that they
would willingly endure any pain for their sake, but it was my
privilege to show that I had said no more than I meant.  I
thought also how nobly I would seem to have acted if ever the
story came to be told, and how proud the regiment of Conflans
might well be of their colonel.  These thoughts helped me to
suffer in silence while the blood still trickled over my neck and
dripped upon the stone floor.  It was that sound which nearly led
to my destruction.


"She's bleeding fast," said one of the valets.  "You had best
fetch a surgeon or you will find her dead in the morning."

"She lies very still and she has never opened her mouth," said
another.  "The shock has killed her."

"Nonsense; a young woman does not die so easily." It was Matteo
who spoke.  "Besides, I did but snip off enough to leave the
tribunal's mark upon her.  Rouse up, signora, rouse up!"

He shook me by the shoulder, and my heart stood still for fear he
should feel the epaulet under the mantle.

"How is it with you now?" he asked.

I made no answer.

"Curse it, I wish I had to do with a man instead of a woman, and
the fairest woman in Venice," said the gondolier.  "Here,
Nicholas, lend me your handkerchief and bring a light."

It was all over.  The worst had happened.  Nothing could save me. 
I still crouched in the corner, but I was tense in every muscle,
like a wild cat about to spring.

If I had to die I was determined that my end should be worthy of
my life.

One of them had gone for a lamp and Matteo was stooping over me
with a handkerchief.  In another instant my secret would be
discovered.  But he suddenly drew himself straight and stood
motionless.  At the same instant there came a confused murmuring
sound through the little window far above my head.  It was the
rattle of oars and the buzz of many voices.  Then there was a
crash upon the door upstairs, and a terrible voice roared: 
"Open! Open in the name of the Emperor!"

The Emperor!  It was like the mention of some saint which, by its
very sound, can frighten the demons.

Away they ran with cries of terror--Matteo, the valets, the
steward, all of the murderous gang.  Another shout and then the
crash of a hatchet and the splintering of planks.  There were the
rattle of arms and the cries of French soldiers in the hall. 
Next instant feet came flying down the stair and a man burst
frantically into my cell.

"Lucia!" he cried, "Lucia!"  He stood in the dim light, panting
and unable to find his words.  Then he broke out again.  "Have I
not shown you how I love you, Lucia?  What more could I do to
prove it?  I have betrayed my country, I have broken my vow, I
have ruined my friends, and I have given my life in order to save
you."

It was young Lorenzo Loredan, the lover whom I had superseded. 
My heart was heavy for him at the time, but after all it is every
man for himself in love, and if one fails in the game it is some
consolation to lose to one who can be a graceful and considerate
winner.

I was about to point this out to him, but at the first word I
uttered he gave a shout of astonishment, and, rushing out, he
seized the lamp which hung in the corridor and flashed it in my
face.

"It is you, you villain!" he cried.  "You French coxcomb.  You
shall pay me for the wrong which you have done me."

But the next instant he saw the pallor of my face and the blood
which was still pouring from my head.

"What is this?" he asked.  "How come you to have lost your ear?"

I shook off my weakness, and pressing my handkerchief to my wound
I rose from my couch, the debonair colonel of Hussars.

"My injury, sir, is nothing.  With your permission we will not
allude to a matter so trifling and so personal."

But Lucia had burst through from her cell and was pouring out the
whole story while she clasped Lorenzo's arm.

"This noble gentleman--he has taken my place, Lorenzo!  He has
borne it for me.  He has suffered that I might be saved."

I could sympathise with the struggle which I could see in the
Italian's face.  At last he held out his hand to me.

"Colonel Gerard," he said, "you are worthy of a great love.  I
forgive you, for if you have wronged me you have made a noble
atonement.  But I wonder to see you alive.  I left the tribunal
before you were judged, but I understood that no mercy would be
shown to any Frenchman since the destruction of the ornaments of
Venice."

"He did not destroy them," cried Lucia.  "He has helped to
preserve those in our palace."

"One of them, at any rate," said I, as I stooped and kissed her
hand.

This was the way, my friends, in which I lost my ear.  Lorenzo
was found stabbed to the heart in the Piazza of St. Mark within
two days of the night of my adventure.  Of the tribunal and its
ruffians, Matteo and three others were shot, the rest banished
from the town.

Lucia, my lovely Lucia, retired into a convent at Murano after
the French had left the city, and there she still may be, some
gentle lady abbess who has perhaps long forgotten the days when
our hearts throbbed together, and when the whole great world
seemed so small a thing beside the love which burned in our
veins.  Or perhaps it may not be so.  Perhaps she has not
forgotten.

There may still be times when the peace of the cloister is broken
by the memory of the old soldier who loved her in those distant
days.  Youth is past and passion is gone, but the soul of the
gentleman can never change, and still Etienne Gerard would bow
his grey head before her and would very gladly lose his other ear
if he might do her a service. 



II. How the Brigadier Captured Saragossa

Have I ever told you, my friends, the circumstances connected
with my joining the Hussars of Conflans at the time of the siege
of Saragossa and the very remarkable exploit which I performed in
connection with the taking of that city?  No?  Then you have
indeed something still to learn.  I will tell it to you exactly
as it occurred.  Save for two or three men and a score or two of
women, you are the first who have ever heard the story.

You must know, then, that it was in the Second Hussars--called
the Hussars of Chamberan--that I had served as a lieutenant and
as a junior captain.  At the time I speak of I was only
twenty-five years of age, as reckless and desperate a man as any
in that great army.

It chanced that the war had come to a halt in Germany, while it
was still raging in Spain, so the Emperor, wishing to reinforce
the Spanish army, transferred me as senior captain to the Hussars
of Conflans, which were at that time in the Fifth Army Corps
under Marshal Lannes.

It was a long journey from Berlin to the Pyrenees.

My new regiment formed part of the force which, under Marshal
Lannes, was then besieging the Spanish town of Saragossa.  I
turned my horse's head in that direction, therefore, and behold
me a week or so later at the French headquarters, whence I was
directed to the camp of the Hussars of Conflans.

You have read, no doubt, of this famous siege of Saragossa, and I
will only say that no general could have had a harder task than
that with which Marshal Lannes was confronted.  The immense city
was crowded with a horde of Spaniards--soldiers, peasants,
priests --all filled with the most furious hatred of the French,
and the most savage determination to perish before they would
surrender.  There were eighty thousand men in the town and only
thirty thousand to besiege them.  Yet we had a powerful
artillery, and our engineers were of the best.  There was never
such a siege, for it is usual that when the fortifications are
taken the city falls, but here it was not until the
fortifications were taken that the real fighting began.  Every
house was a fort and every street a battle-field, so that slowly,
day by day, we had to work our way inwards, blowing up the houses
with their garrisons until more than half the city had
disappeared.  Yet the other half was as determined as ever and in
a better position for defence, since it consisted of enormous
convents and monasteries with walls like the Bastille, which
could not be so easily brushed out of our way.  This was the
state of things at the time that I joined the army.

I will confess to you that cavalry are not of much use in a
siege, although there was a time when I would not have permitted
anyone to have made such an observation.  The Hussars of Conflans
were encamped to the south of the town, and it was their duty to
throw out patrols and to make sure that no Spanish force was
advancing from that quarter.  The colonel of the regiment was not
a good soldier, and the regiment was at that time very far from
being in the high condition which it afterwards attained.  Even
in that one evening I saw several things which shocked me, for I
had a high standard, and it went to my heart to see an ill-
arranged camp, an ill-groomed horse, or a slovenly trooper.  That
night I supped with twenty-six of my new brother-officers, and I
fear that in my zeal I showed them only too plainly that I found
things very different to what I was accustomed in the army of
Germany.

There was silence in the mess after my remarks, and I felt that I
had been indiscreet when I saw the glances that were cast at me. 
The colonel especially was furious, and a great major named
Olivier, who was the fire-eater of the regiment, sat opposite to
me curling his huge black moustaches, and staring at me as if he
would eat me.  However, I did not resent his attitude, for I felt
that I had indeed been indiscreet, and that it would give a bad
impression if upon this my first evening I quarrelled with my
superior officer.

So far I admit that I was wrong, but now I come to the sequel. 
Supper over, the colonel and some other officers left the room,
for it was in a farm-house that the mess was held.  There
remained a dozen or so, and a goat-skin of Spanish wine having
been brought in we all made merry.  Presently this Major Olivier
asked me some questions concerning the army of Germany and as to
the part which I had myself played in the campaign.  Flushed with
the wine, I was drawn on from story to story.  It was not
unnatural, my friends.

You will sympathise with me.  Up there I had been the model for
every officer of my years in the army.  I was the first
swordsman, the most dashing rider, the hero of a hundred
adventures.  Here I found myself not only unknown, but even
disliked.  Was it not natural that I should wish to tell these
brave comrades what sort of man it was that had come among them? 
Was it not natural that I should wish to say, "Rejoice, my
friends, rejoice!  It is no ordinary man who has joined you
to-night, but it is I, THE Gerard, the hero of Ratisbon, the
victor of Jena, the man who broke the square at Austerlitz"?  I
could not say all this.  But I could at least tell them some
incidents which would enable them to say it for themselves.  I
did so.  They listened unmoved.  I told them more.  At last,
after my tale of how I had guided the army across the Danube, one
universal shout of laughter broke from them all.  I sprang to my
feet, flushed with shame and anger.  They had drawn me on.  They
were making game of me.  They were convinced that they had to do
with a braggart and a liar.  Was this my reception in the Hussars
of Conflans?

I dashed the tears of mortification from my eyes, and they
laughed the more at the sight.

"Do you know, Captain Pelletan, whether Marshal Lannes is still
with the army?" asked the major.

"I believe that he is, sir," said the other.

"Really, I should have thought that his presence was hardly
necessary now that Captain Gerard has arrived."

Again there was a roar of laughter.  I can see the ring of faces,
the mocking eyes, the open mouths-- Olivier with his great black
bristles, Pelletan thin and sneering, even the young
sub-lieutenants convulsed with merriment.  Heavens, the indignity
of it!  But my rage had dried my tears.  I was myself again,
cold, quiet, self-contained, ice without and fire within.

"May I ask, sir," said I to the major, "at what hour the regiment
is paraded?"

"I trust, Captain Gerard, that you do not mean to alter our
hours," said he, and again there was a burst of laughter, which
died away as I looked slowly round the circle.

"What hour is the assembly?" I asked, sharply, of Captain
Pelletan.

Some mocking answer was on his tongue, but my glance kept it
there.  "The assembly is at six," he answered.

"I thank you," said I.  I then counted the company and found that
I had to do with fourteen officers, two of whom appeared to be
boys fresh from St. Cyr.  I could not condescend to take any
notice of their indiscretion.

There remained the major, four captains, and seven lieutenants.

"Gentlemen," I continued, looking from one to the other of them,
"I should feel myself unworthy of this famous regiment if I did
not ask you for satisfaction for the rudeness with which you have
greeted me, and I should hold you to be unworthy of it if on any
pretext you refused to grant it."

"You will have no difficulty upon that score," said the major. 
"I am prepared to waive my rank and to give you every
satisfaction in the name of the Hussars of Conflans."

"I thank you," I answered.  "I feel, however, that I have some
claim upon these other gentlemen who laughed at my expense."

"Whom would you fight, then?" asked Captain Pelletan.

"All of you," I answered.

They looked in surprise from one to the other.  Then they drew
off to the other end of the room, and I heard the buzz of their
whispers.  They were laughing.  Evidently they still thought that
they had to do with some empty braggart.  Then they returned.

"Your request is unusual," said Major Olivier, "but it will be
granted.  How do you propose to conduct such a duel?  The terms
lie with you."

"Sabres," said I.  "And I will take you in order of seniority,
beginning with you, Major Olivier, at five o'clock.  I will thus
be able to devote five minutes to each before the assembly is
blown.  I must, however, beg you to have the courtesy to name the
place of meeting, since I am still ignorant of the locality."

They were impressed by my cold and practical manner.

Already the smile had died away from their lips.

Olivier's face was no longer mocking, but it was dark and stern.

"There is a small open space behind the horse lines," said he. 
"We have held a few affairs of honour there and it has done very
well.  We shall be there, Captain Gerard, at the hour you name."

I was in the act of bowing to thank them for their acceptance
when the door of the mess-room was flung open and the colonel
hurried into the room, with an agitated face.

"Gentlemen," said he, "I have been asked to call for a volunteer
from among you for a service which involves the greatest possible
danger.  I will not disguise from you that the matter is serious
in the last degree, and that Marshal Lannes has chosen a cavalry
officer because he can be better spared than an officer of
infantry or of engineers.  Married men are not eligible.  Of the
others, who will volunteer?"

I need not say that all the unmarried officers stepped to the
front.  The colonel looked round in some embarrassment.

I could see his dilemma.  It was the best man who should go, and
yet it was the best man whom he could least spare.

"Sir," said I, "may I be permitted to make a suggestion?"

He looked at me with a hard eye.  He had not forgotten my
observations at supper.  "Speak!" said he.

"I would point out, sir," said I, "that this mission is mine both
by right and by convenience."

"Why so, Captain Gerard?"

"By right because I am the senior captain.  By convenience
because I shall not be missed in the regiments since the men have
not yet learned to know me."

The colonel's features relaxed.

"There is certainly truth in what you say, Captain Gerard," said
he.  "I think that you are indeed best fitted to go upon this
mission.  If you will come with me I will give you your
instructions."

I wished my new comrades good-night as I left the room, and I
repeated that I should hold myself at their disposal at five
o'clock next morning.  They bowed in silence, and I thought that
I could see from the expression of their faces that they had
already begun to take a more just view of my character.

I had expected that the colonel would at once inform me what it
was that I had been chosen to do, but instead of that he walked
on in silence, I following behind him.

We passed through the camp and made our way across the trenches
and over the ruined heaps of stones which marked the old wall of
the town.  Within, there was a labyrinth of passages formed among
the debris of the houses which had been destroyed by the mines of
the engineers.  Acres and acres were covered with splintered
walls and piles of brick which had once been a populous suburb. 
Lanes had been driven through it and lanterns placed at the
corners with inscriptions to direct the wayfarer.  The colonel
hurried onward until at last, after a long walk, we found our way
barred by a high grey wall which stretched right across our path.

Here behind a barricade lay our advance guard.  The colonel led
me into a roofless house, and there I found two general officers,
a map stretched over a drum in front of them, they kneeling
beside it and examining it carefully by the light of a lantern. 
The one with the clean-shaven face and the twisted neck was
Marshal Lannes, the other was General Razout, the head of the
engineers.

"Captain Gerard has volunteered to go," said the colonel.

Marshal Lannes rose from his knees and shook me by the hand.

"You are a brave man, sir," said he.  "I have a present to make
to you," he added, handing me a very tiny glass tube.  "It has
been specially prepared by Dr. Fardet.  At the supreme moment you
have but to put it to your lips and you will be dead in an
instant."

This was a cheerful beginning.  I will confess to you, my
friends, that a cold chill passed up my back and my hair rose
upon my head.

"Excuse me, sir," said I, as I saluted, "I am aware that I have
volunteered for a service of great danger, but the exact details
have not yet been given to me."

"Colonel Perrin," said Lannes, severely, "it is unfair to allow
this brave officer to volunteer before he has learned what the
perils are to which he will be exposed."

But already I was myself once more.

"Sir," said I, "permit me to remark that the greater the danger
the greater the glory, and that I could only repent of
volunteering if I found that there were no risks to be run."

It was a noble speech, and my appearance gave force to my words. 
For the moment I was a heroic figure.

As I saw Lannes's eyes fixed in admiration upon my face it
thrilled me to think how splendid was the debut which I was
making in the army of Spain.  If I died that night my name would
not be forgotten.  My new comrades and my old, divided in all
else, would still have a point of union in their love and
admiration of Etienne Gerard.

"General Razout, explain the situation!" said Lannes, briefly.

The engineer officer rose, his compasses in his hand.

He led me to the door and pointed to the high grey wall which
towered up amongst the debris of the shattered houses.

"That is the enemy's present line of defence," said he.  "It is
the wall of the great Convent of the Madonna.  If we can carry it
the city must fall, but they have run countermines all round it,
and the walls are so enormously thick that it would be an immense
labour to breach it with artillery.  We happen to know, however,
that the enemy have a considerable store of powder in one of the
lower chambers.  If that could be exploded the way would be clear
for us."

"How can it be reached?" I asked.

"I will explain.  We have a French agent within the town named
Hubert.  This brave man has been in constant communication with
us, and he had promised to explode the magazine.  It was to be
done in the early morning, and for two days running we have had a
storming party of a thousand Grenadiers waiting for the breach to
be formed.  But there has been no explosion, and for these two
days we have had no communication from Hubert.

The question is, what has become of him?"

"You wish me to go and see?"

"Precisely.  Is he ill, or wounded, or dead?  Shall we still wait
for him, or shall we attempt the attack elsewhere?

We cannot determine this until we have heard from him.  This is a
map of the town, Captain Gerard.

You perceive that within this ring of convents and monasteries
are a number of streets which branch off from a central square. 
If you come so far as this square you will find the cathedral at
one corner.  In that corner is the street of Toledo.  Hubert
lives in a small house between a cobbler's and a wine-shop, on
the right-hand side as you go from the cathedral.  Do you follow
me?"

"Clearly."

"You are to reach that house, to see him, and to find out if his
plan is still feasible or if we must abandon it."

He produced what appeared to be a roll of dirty brown flannel. 
"This is the dress of a Franciscan friar," said he.  "You will
find it the most useful disguise."

I shrank away from it.

"It turns me into a spy," I cried.  "Surely I can go in my
uniform?"

"Impossible!  How could you hope to pass through the streets of
the city?  Remember, also, that the Spaniards take no prisoners,
and that your fate will be the same in whatever dress you are
taken."

It was true, and I had been long enough in Spain to know that
that fate was likely to be something more serious than mere
death.  All the way from the frontier I had heard grim tales of
torture and mutilation.  I enveloped myself in the Franciscan
gown.

"Now I am ready."

"Are you armed?"

"My sabre."

"They will hear it clank.  Take this knife, and leave your sword. 
Tell Hubert that at four o'clock, before dawn, the storming party
will again be ready.  There is a sergeant outside who will show
you how to get into the city.  Good-night, and good luck!"

Before I had left the room, the two generals had their cocked
hats touching each other over the map.  At the door an
under-officer of engineers was waiting for me.

I tied the girdle of my gown, and taking off my busby, I drew the
cowl over my head.  My spurs I removed.  Then in silence I
followed my guide.

It was necessary to move with caution, for the walls above were
lined by the Spanish sentries, who fired down continually at our
advance posts.  Slinking along under the very shadow of the great
convent, we picked our way slowly and carefully among the piles
of ruins until we came to a large chestnut tree.  Here the
sergeant stopped.

"It is an easy tree to climb," said he.  "A scaling ladder would
not be simpler.  Go up it, and you will find that the top branch
will enable you to step upon the roof of that house.  After that
it is your guardian angel who must be your guide, for I can help
you no more."

Girding up the heavy brown gown, I ascended the tree as directed. 
A half moon was shining brightly, and the line of roof stood out
dark and hard against the purple, starry sky.  The tree was in
the shadow of the house.

Slowly I crept from branch to branch until I was near the top.  I
had but to climb along a stout limb in order to reach the wall. 
But suddenly my ears caught the patter of feet, and I cowered
against the trunk and tried to blend myself with its shadow.  A
man was coming toward me on the roof.  I saw his dark figure
creeping along, his body crouching, his head advanced, the barrel
of his gun protruding.  His whole bearing was full of caution and
suspicion.  Once or twice he paused, and then came on again until
he had reached the edge of the parapet within a few yards of me. 
Then he knelt down, levelled his musket, and fired.

I was so astonished at this sudden crash at my very elbow that I
nearly fell out of the tree.  For an instant I could not be sure
that he had not hit me.  But when I heard a deep groan from
below, and the Spaniard leaned over the parapet and laughed
aloud, I understood what had occurred.  It was my poor, faithful
sergeant, who had waited to see the last of me.  The Spaniard had
seen him standing under the tree and had shot him.  You will
think that it was good shooting in the dark, but these people
used trabucos, or blunderbusses, which were filled up with all
sorts of stones and scraps of metal, so that they would hit you
as certainly as I have hit a pheasant on a branch.  The Spaniard
stood peering down through the darkness, while an occasional
groan from below showed that the sergeant was still living.  The
sentry looked round and everything was still and safe.

Perhaps he thought that he would like to finish of this accursed
Frenchman, or perhaps he had a desire to see what was in his
pockets; but whatever his motive, he laid down his gun, leaned
forward, and swung himself into the tree.  The same instant I
buried my knife in his body, and he fell with a loud crashing
through the branches and came with a thud to the ground.  I heard
a short struggle below and an oath or two in French.

The wounded sergeant had not waited long for his vengeance.

For some minutes I did not dare to move, for it seemed certain
that someone would be attracted by the noise.

However, all was silent save for the chimes striking midnight in
the city.  I crept along the branch and lifted myself on to the
roof.  The Spaniard's gun was lying there, but it was of no
service to me, since he had the powder-horn at his belt.  At the
same time, if it were found, it would warn the enemy that
something had happened, so I thought it best to drop it over the
wall.

Then I looked round for the means of getting of the roof and down
into the city.

It was very evident that the simplest way by which I could get
down was that by which the sentinel had got up, and what this was
soon became evident.  A voice along the roof called "Manuelo! 
Manuelo!" several times, and, crouching in the shadow, I saw in
the moonlight a bearded head, which protruded from a trap- door.

Receiving no answer to his summons, the man climbed through,
followed by three other fellows, all armed to the teeth.  You
will see here how important it is not to neglect small
precautions, for had I left the man's gun where I found it, a
search must have followed and I should certainly have been
discovered.  As it was, the patrol saw no sign of their sentry,
and thought, no doubt, that he had moved along the line of the
roofs.

They hurried on, therefore, in that direction, and I, the instant
that their backs were turned, rushed to the open trap-door and
descended the flight of steps which led from it.  The house
appeared to be an empty one, for I passed through the heart of it
and out, by an open door, into the street beyond.

It was a narrow and deserted lane, but it opened into a broader
road, which was dotted with fires, round which a great number of
soldiers and peasants were sleeping.

The smell within the city was so horrible that one wondered how
people could live in it, for during the months that the siege had
lasted there had been no attempt to cleanse the streets or to
bury the dead.  Many people were moving up and down from fire to
fire, and among them I observed several monks.  Seeing that they
came and went unquestioned, I took heart and hurried on my way in
the direction of the great square.  Once a man rose from beside
one of the fires and stopped me by seizing my sleeve.  He pointed
to a woman who lay motionless on the road, and I took him to mean
that she was dying, and that he desired me to administer the last
offices of the Church.  I sought refuge, however, in the very
little Latin that was left to me.  "Ora pro nobis," said I, from
the depths of my cowl.  "Te Deum laudamus.

Ora pro nobis."  I raised my hand as I spoke and pointed forward. 
The fellow released my sleeve and shrank back in silence, while
I, with a solemn gesture, hurried upon my way.

As I had imagined, this broad boulevard led out into the central
square, which was full of troops and blazing with fires.  I
walked swiftly onward, disregarding one or two people who
addressed remarks to me.  I passed the cathedral and followed the
street which had been described to me.  Being upon the side of
the city which was farthest from our attack, there were no troops
encamped in it, and it lay in darkness, save for an occasional
glimmer in a window.  It was not difficult to find the house to
which I had been directed, between the wine- shop and the
cobbler's.  There was no light within and the door was shut. 
Cautiously I pressed the latch, and I felt that it had yielded. 
Who was within I could not tell, and yet I must take the risk.  I
pushed the door open and entered.

It was pitch-dark within--the more so as I had closed the door
behind me.  I felt round and came upon the edge of a table.  Then
I stood still and wondered what I should do next, and how I could
gain some news of this Hubert, in whose house I found myself. 
Any mistake would cost me not only my life but the failure of my
mission.  Perhaps he did not live alone.  Perhaps he was only a
lodger in a Spanish family, and my visit might bring ruin to him
as well as to myself.  Seldom in my life have I been more
perplexed.  And then, suddenly, something turned my blood cold in
my veins.  It was a voice, a whispering voice, in my very ear. 
"Mon Dieu!" cried the voice, in a tone of agony.  "Oh, mon Dieu!
mon Dieu!"  Then there was a dry sob in the darkness, and all was
still once more.

It thrilled me with horror, that terrible voice, but it thrilled
me also with hope, for it was the voice of a Frenchman.

"Who is there?" I asked.

There was a groaning, but no reply.

"Is that you, Monsieur Hubert?"

"Yes, yes," sighed the voice, so low that I could hardly hear it. 
"Water, water, for Heaven's sake, water!"

I advanced in the direction of the sound, but only to come in
contact with the wall.  Again I heard a groan, but this time
there could be no doubt that it was above my head.  I put up my
hands, but they felt only empty air.

"Where are you?" I cried.

"Here!  Here!" whispered the strange, tremulous voice.

I stretched my hand along the wall and I came upon a man's naked
foot.  It was as high as my face, and yet, so far as I could
feel, it had nothing to support it.  I staggered back in
amazement.  Then I took a tinder- box from my pocket and struck a
light.  At the first flash a man seemed to be floating in the air
in front of me, and I dropped the box in my amazement.  Again
with tremulous fingers I struck the flint against the steel, and
this time I lit not only the tinder but the wax taper.  I held it
up, and if my amazement was lessened my horror was increased by
that which it revealed.

The man had been nailed to the wall as a weasel is nailed to the
door of a barn.  Huge spikes had been driven through his hands
and his feet.  The poor wretch was in his last agony, his head
sunk upon his shoulder and his blackened tongue protruding from
his lips.  He was dying as much from thirst as from his wounds,
and these inhuman wretches had placed a beaker of wine upon the
table in front of him to add a fresh pang to his tortures.

I raised it to his lips.  He had still strength enough to
swallow, and the light came back a little to his dim eyes.

"Are you a Frenchman?" he whispered.

"Yes.  They have sent me to learn what had befallen you."

"They discovered me.  They have killed me for it.

But before I die let me tell you what I know.  A little more of
that wine, please!  Quick!  Quick! I am very near the end.  My
strength is going.  Listen to me!

The powder is stored in the Mother Superior's room.

The wall is pierced, and the end of the train is in Sister
Angela's cell, next the chapel.  All was ready two days ago.  But
they discovered a letter and they tortured me."

"Good heavens! have you been hanging here for two days?"

"It seems like two years.  Comrade, I have served France, have I
not?  Then do one little service for me.

Stab me to the heart, dear friend!  I implore you, I entreat you,
to put an end to my sufferings."

The man was indeed in a hopeless plight, and the kindest action
would have been that for which he begged.

And yet I could not in cold blood drive my knife into his body,
although I knew how I should have prayed for such a mercy had I
been in his place.  But a sudden thought crossed my mind.  In my
pocket I held that which would give an instant and a painless
death.  It was my own safeguard against torture, and yet this
poor soul was in very pressing need of it, and he had deserved
well of France.  I took out my phial and emptied it into the cup
of wine.  I was in the act of handing it to him when I heard a
sudden clash of arms outside the door.

In an instant I put out my light and slipped behind the
window-curtains.  Next moment the door was flung open and two
Spaniards strode into the room, fierce, swarthy men in the dress
of citizens, but with muskets slung over their shoulders.  I
looked through the chink in the curtains in an agony of fear lest
they had come upon my traces, but it was evident that their visit
was simply in order to feast their eyes upon my unfortunate
compatriot.

One of them held the lantern which he carried up in front of the
dying man, and both of them burst into a shout of mocking
laughter.  Then the eyes of the man with the lantern fell upon
the flagon of wine upon the table.  He picked it up, held it,
with a devilish grin, to the lips of Hubert, and then, as the
poor wretch involuntarily inclined his head forward to reach it,
he snatched it back and took a long gulp himself.  At the same
instant he uttered a loud cry, clutched wildly at his own throat,
and fell stone-dead upon the floor.  His comrade stared at him in
horror and amazement.  Then, overcome by his own superstitious
fears, he gave a yell of terror and rushed madly from the room. 
I heard his feet clattering wildly on the cobble-stones until the
sound died away in the distance.

The lantern had been left burning upon the table, and by its
light I saw, as I came out from behind my curtain, that the
unfortunate Hubert's head had fallen forward upon his chest and
that he also was dead.  That motion to reach the wine with his
lips had been his last.  A clock ticked loudly in the house, but
otherwise all was absolutely still.  On the wall hung the twisted
form of the Frenchman, on the floor lay the motionless body of
the Spaniard, all dimly lit by the horn lantern.  For the first
time in my life a frantic spasm of terror came over me.  I had
seen ten thousand men in every conceivable degree of mutilation
stretched upon the ground, but the sight had never affected me
like those two silent figures who were my companions in that
shadowy room.  I rushed into the street as the Spaniard had done,
eager only to leave that house of gloom behind me, and I had run
as far as the cathedral before my wits came back to me.

There I stopped, panting, in the shadow, and, my hand pressed to
my side, I tried to collect my scattered senses and to plan out
what I should do.  As I stood there, breathless, the great brass
bells roared twice above my head.  It was two o'clock.  Four was
the hour when the storming-party would be in its place.  I had
still two hours in which to act.

The cathedral was brilliantly lit within, and a number of people
were passing in and out; so I entered, thinking that I was less
likely to be accosted there, and that I might have quiet to form
my plans.  It was certainly a singular sight, for the place had
been turned into an hospital, a refuge, and a store-house.  One
aisle was crammed with provisions, another was littered with sick
and wounded, while in the centre a great number of helpless
people had taken up their abode, and had even lit their cooking
fires upon the mosaic floors.  There were many at prayer, so I
knelt in the shadow of a pillar, and I prayed with all my heart
that I might have the good luck to get out of this scrape alive,
and that I might do such a deed that night as would make my name
as famous in Spain as it had already become in Germany.  I waited
until the clock struck three, and then I left the cathedral and
made my way toward the Convent of the Madonna, where the assault
was to be delivered.  You will understand, you who know me so
well, that I was not the man to return tamely to the French camp
with the report that our agent was dead and that other means must
be found of entering the city.  Either I should find some means
to finish his uncompleted task or there would be a vacancy for a
senior captain in the Hussars of Conflans.

I passed unquestioned down the broad boulevard, which I have
already described, until I came to the great stone convent which
formed the outwork of the defence.

It was built in a square with a garden in the centre.  In this
garden some hundreds of men were assembled, all armed and ready,
for it was known, of course, within the town that this was the
point against which the French attack was likely to be made.  Up
to this time our fighting all over Europe had always been done
between one army and another.  It was only here in Spain that we
learned how terrible a thing it is to fight against a people.

On the one hand there is no glory, for what glory could be gained
by defeating this rabble of elderly shopkeepers, ignorant
peasants, fanatical priests, excited women, and all the other
creatures who made up the garrison?  On the other hand there were
extreme discomfort and danger, for these people would give you no
rest, would observe no rules of war, and were desperately earnest
in their desire by hook or by crook to do you an injury.  I began
to realise how odious was our task as I looked upon the motley
but ferocious groups who were gathered round the watch-fires in
the garden of the Convent of the Madonna.  It was not for us
soldiers to think about politics, but from the beginning there
always seemed to be a curse upon this war in Spain.

However, at the moment I had no time to brood over such matters
as these.  There was, as I have said, no difficulty in getting as
far as the convent garden, but to pass inside the convent
unquestioned was not so easy.

The first thing which I did was to walk round the garden, and I
was soon able to pick out one large stained-glass window which
must belong to the chapel.  I had understood from Hubert that the
Mother Superior's room, in which the powder was stored, was near
to this, and that the train had been laid through a hole in the
wall from some neighbouring cell.  I must, at all costs, get into
the convent.  There was a guard at the door, and how could I get
in without explanations?  But a sudden inspiration showed me how
the thing might be done.  In the garden was a well, and beside
the well were a number of empty buckets.  I filled two of these,
and approached the door.  The errand of a man who carries a
bucket of water in each hand does not need to be explained.  The
guard opened to let me through.  I found myself in a long,
stone-flagged corridor, lit with lanterns, with the cells of the
nuns leading out from one side of it.  Now at last I was on the
high road to success.  I walked on without hesitation, for I knew
by my observations in the garden which way to go for the chapel.

A number of Spanish soldiers were lounging and smoking in the
corridor, several of whom addressed me as I passed.  I fancy it
was for my blessing that they asked, and my "Ora pro nobis"
seemed to entirely satisfy them.  Soon I had got as far as the
chapel, and it was easy enough to see that the cell next door was
used as a magazine, for the floor was all black with powder in
front of it.  The door was shut, and two fierce-looking fellows
stood on guard outside it, one of them with a key stuck in his
belt.  Had we been alone, it would not have been long before it
would have been in my hand, but with his comrade there it was
impossible for me to hope to take it by force.  The cell next
door to the magazine on the far side from the chapel must be the
one which belonged to Sister Angela.  It was half open.  I took
my courage in both hands and, leaving my buckets in the corridor,
I walked unchallenged into the room.

I was prepared to find half a dozen fierce Spanish desperadoes
within, but what actually met my eyes was even more embarrassing. 
The room had apparently been set aside for the use of some of the
nuns, who for some reason had refused to quit their home.  Three
of them were within, one an elderly, stern-faced dame, who was
evidently the Mother Superior, the others, young ladies of
charming appearance.  They were seated together at the far side
of the room, but they all rose at my entrance, and I saw with
some amazement, by their manner and expressions, that my coming
was both welcome and expected.  In a moment my presence of mind
had returned, and I saw exactly how the matter lay.

Naturally, since an attack was about to be made upon the convent,
these sisters had been expecting to be directed to some place of
safety.  Probably they were under vow not to quit the walls, and
they had been told to remain in this cell until they received
further orders.

In any case I adapted my conduct to this supposition, since it
was clear that I must get them out of the room, and this would
give me a ready excuse to do so.  I first cast a glance at the
door and observed that the key was within.  I then made a gesture
to the nuns to follow me.  The Mother Superior asked me some
question, but I shook my head impatiently and beckoned to her
again.

She hesitated, but I stamped my foot and called them forth in so
imperious a manner that they came at once.

They would be safer in the chapel, and thither I led them,
placing them at the end which was farthest from the magazine.  As
the three nuns took their places before the altar my heart
bounded with joy and pride within me, for I felt that the last
obstacle had been lifted from my path.

And yet how often have I not found that that is the very moment
of danger?  I took a last glance at the Mother Superior, and to
my dismay I saw that her piercing dark eyes were fixed, with an
expression in which surprise was deepening into suspicion, upon
my right hand.  There were two points which might well have
attracted her attention.  One was that it was red with the blood
of the sentinel whom I had stabbed in the tree.  That alone might
count for little, as the knife was as familiar as the breviary to
the monks of Saragossa.

But on my forefinger I wore a heavy gold ring --the gift of a
certain German baroness whose name I may not mention.  It shone
brightly in the light of the altar lamp.  Now, a ring upon a
friar's hand is an impossibility, since they are vowed to
absolute poverty.

I turned quickly and made for the door of the chapel, but the
mischief was done.  As I glanced back I saw that the Mother
Superior was already hurrying after me.  I ran through the chapel
door and along the corridor, but she called out some shrill
warning to the two guards in front.  Fortunately I had the
presence of mind to call out also, and to point down the passage
as if we were both pursuing the same object.  Next instant I had
dashed past them, sprang into the cell, slammed the heavy door,
and fastened it upon the inside.

With a bolt above and below and a huge lock in the centre it was
a piece of timber that would take some forcing.

Even now if they had had the wit to put a barrel of powder
against the door I should have been ruined.  It was their only
chance, for I had come to the final stage of my adventure.  Here
at last, after such a string of dangers as few men have ever
lived to talk of, I was at one end of the powder train, with the
Saragossa magazine at the other.  They were howling like wolves
out in the passage, and muskets were crashing against the door. 
I paid no heed to their clamour, but I looked eagerly around for
that train of which Hubert had spoken.  Of course, it must be at
the side of the room next to the magazine.  I crawled along it on
my hands and knees, looking into every crevice, but no sign could
I see.  Two bullets flew through the door and flattened
themselves against the wall.  The thudding and smashing grew ever
louder.  I saw a grey pile in a corner, flew to it with a cry of
joy, and found that it was only dust.  Then I got back to the
side of the door where no bullets could ever reach me--they were
streaming freely into the room--and I tried to forget this
fiendish howling in my ear and to think out where this train
could be.  It must have been carefully laid by Hubert lest these
nuns should see it.  I tried to imagine how I should myself have
arranged it had I been in his place.

My eye was attracted by a statue of St. Joseph which stood in the
corner.  There was a wreath of leaves along the edge of the
pedestal, with a lamp burning amidst them.  I rushed across to it
and tore the leaves aside.

Yes, yes, there was a thin black line, which disappeared through
a small hole in the wall.  I tilted over the lamp and threw
myself on the ground.  Next instant came a roar like thunder, the
walls wavered and tottered around me, the ceiling clattered down
from above, and over the yell of the terrified Spaniards was
heard the terrific shout of the storming column of Grenadiers. 
As in a dream--a happy dream--I heard it, and then I heard no
more.

When I came to my senses two French soldiers were propping me up,
and my head was singing like a kettle.

I staggered to my feet and looked around me.  The plaster had
fallen, the furniture was scattered, and there were rents in the
bricks, but no signs of a breach.  In fact, the walls of the
convent had been so solid that the explosion of the magazine had
been insufficient to throw them down.  On the other hand, it had
caused such a panic among the defenders that our stormers had
been able to carry the windows and throw open the doors almost
without assistance.  As I ran out into the corridor I found it
full of troops, and I met Marshal Lannes himself, who was
entering with his staff.  He stopped and listened eagerly to my
story.

"Splendid, Captain Gerard, splendid!" he cried.

"These facts will certainly be reported to the Emperor."

"I would suggest to your Excellency," said I, "that I have only
finished the work that was planned and carried out by Monsieur
Hubert, who gave his life for the cause."

"His services will not be forgotten," said the Marshal.

"Meanwhile, Captain Gerard, it is half-past four, and you must be
starving after such a night of exertion.

My staff and I will breakfast inside the city.  I assure you that
you will be an honoured guest."

"I will follow your Excellency," said I.  "There is a small
engagement which detains me."

He opened his eyes.

"At this hour?"

"Yes, sir," I answered.  "My fellow-officers, whom I never saw
until last night, will not be content unless they catch another
glimpse of me the first thing this morning."

"Au revoir, then," said Marshal Lannes, as he passed upon his
way.

I hurried through the shattered door of the convent.

When I reached the roofless house in which we had held the
consultation the night before, I threw of my gown and I put on
the busby and sabre which I had left there.

Then, a Hussar once more, I hurried onward to the grove which was
our rendezvous.  My brain was still reeling from the concussion
of the powder, and I was exhausted by the many emotions which had
shaken me during that terrible night.  It is like a dream, all
that walk in the first dim grey light of dawn, with the
smouldering camp-fires around me and the buzz of the waking army. 
Bugles and drums in every direction were mustering the infantry,
for the explosion and the shouting had told their own tale.  I
strode onward until, as I entered the little clump of cork oaks
behind the horse lines, I saw my twelve comrades waiting in a
group, their sabres at their sides.  They looked at me curiously
as I approached.  Perhaps with my powder- blackened face and my
blood-stained hands I seemed a different Gerard to the young
captain whom they had made game of the night before.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said I.  "I regret exceedingly if I
have kept you waiting, but I have not been master of my own
time."

They said nothing, but they still scanned me with curious eyes. 
I can see them now, standing in a line before me, tall men and
short men, stout men and thin men:  Olivier, with his warlike
moustache; the thin, eager face of Pelletan; young Oudin, flushed
by his first duel; Mortier, with the sword-cut across his
wrinkled brow.

I laid aside my busby and drew my sword.

"I have one favour to ask you, gentlemen," said I.

"Marshal Lannes has invited me to breakfast and I cannot keep him
waiting."

"What do you suggest?" asked Major Olivier.

"That you release me from my promise to give you five minutes
each, and that you will permit me to attack you all together."  I
stood upon my guard as I spoke.

But their answer was truly beautiful and truly French.  With one
impulse the twelve swords flew from their scabbards and were
raised in salute.  There they stood, the twelve of them,
motionless, their heels together, each with his sword upright
before his face.

I staggered back from them.  I looked from one to the other.  For
an instant I could not believe my own eyes.  They were paying me
homage, these, the men who had jeered me!  Then I understood it
all.  I saw the effect that I had made upon them and their desire
to make reparation.  When a man is weak he can steel himself
against danger, but not against emotion.

"Comrades," I cried, "comrades--!" but I could say no more.

Something seemed to take me by the throat and choke me.  And then
in an instant Olivier's arms were round me, Pelletan had seized
me by the right hand, Mortier by the left, some were patting me
on the shoulder, some were clapping me on the back, on every side
smiling faces were looking into mine; and so it was that I knew
that I had won my footing in the Hussars of Conflans. 



III. 
How the Brigadier Slew the Fox[*]


[*] This story, already published in The Green Flag, is included
here so that all of the Brigadier Gerard stories may appear
together.


In all the great hosts of France there was only one officer
toward whom the English of Wellington's Army retained a deep,
steady, and unchangeable hatred.

There were plunderers among the French, and men of violence,
gamblers, duellists, and roues.  All these could be forgiven, for
others of their kidney were to be found among the ranks of the
English.  But one officer of Massena's force had committed a
crime which was unspeakable, unheard of, abominable; only to be
alluded to with curses late in the evening, when a second bottle
had loosened the tongues of men.  The news of it was carried back
to England, and country gentlemen who knew little of the details
of the war grew crimson with passion when they heard of it, and
yeomen of the shires raised freckled fists to Heaven and swore. 
And yet who should be the doer of this dreadful deed but our
friend the Brigadier, Etienne Gerard, of the Hussars of Conflans,
gay-riding, plume-tossing, debonair, the darling of the ladies
and of the six brigades of light cavalry.

But the strange part of it is that this gallant gentleman did
this hateful thing, and made himself the most unpopular man in
the Peninsula, without ever knowing that he had done a crime for
which there is hardly a name amid all the resources of our
language.  He died of old age, and never once in that
imperturbable self- confidence which adorned or disfigured his
character knew that so many thousand Englishmen would gladly have
hanged him with their own hands.  On the contrary, he numbered
this adventure among those other exploits which he has given to
the world, and many a time he chuckled and hugged himself as he
narrated it to the eager circle who gathered round him in that
humble cafe where, between his dinner and his dominoes, he would
tell, amid tears and laughter, of that inconceivable Napoleonic
past when France, like an angel of wrath, rose up, splendid and
terrible, before a cowering continent.  Let us listen to him as
he tells the story in his own way and from his own point of view.

You must know, my friends, said he, that it was toward the end of
the year eighteen hundred and ten that I and Massena and the
others pushed Wellington backward until we had hoped to drive him
and his army into the Tagus.  But when we were still twenty-five
miles from Lisbon we found that we were betrayed, for what had
this Englishman done but build an enormous line of works and
forts at a place called Torres Vedras, so that even we were
unable to get through them!  They lay across the whole Peninsula,
and our army was so far from home that we did not dare to risk a
reverse, and we had already learned at Busaco that it was no
child's play to fight against these people.  What could we do,
then, but sit down in front of these lines and blockade them to
the best of our power?  There we remained for six months, amid
such anxieties that Massena said afterward that he had not one
hair which was not white upon his body.

For my own part, I did not worry much about our situation, but I
looked after our horses, who were in much need of rest and green
fodder.  For the rest, we drank the wine of the country and
passed the time as best we might.  There was a lady at
Santarem--but my lips are sealed.  It is the part of a gallant
man to say nothing, though he may indicate that he could say a
great deal.

One day Massena sent for me, and I found him in his tent with a
great plan pinned upon the table.  He looked at me in silence
with that single piercing eye of his, and I felt by his
expression that the matter was serious.  He was nervous and ill
at ease, but my bearing seemed to reassure him.  It is good to be
in contact with brave men.

"Colonel Etienne Gerard," said he, "I have always heard that you
are a very gallant and enterprising officer."

It was not for me to confirm such a report, and yet it would be
folly to deny it, so I clinked my spurs together and saluted.

"You are also an excellent rider."

I admitted it.

"And the best swordsman in the six brigades of light cavalry."

Massena was famous for the accuracy of his information.

"Now," said he, "if you will look at this plan you will have no
difficulty in understanding what it is that I wish you to do. 
These are the lines of Torres Vedras.  You will perceive that
they cover a vast space, and you will realise that the English
can only hold a position here and there.  Once through the lines
you have twenty-five miles of open country which lie between them
and Lisbon.  It is very important to me to learn how Wellington's
troops are distributed throughout that space, and it is my wish
that you should go and ascertain."

His words turned me cold.

"Sir," said I, "it is impossible that a colonel of light cavalry
should condescend to act as a spy."

He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder.

"You would not be a Hussar if you were not a hot- head," said he. 
"If you will listen you will understand that I have not asked you
to act as a spy.  What do you think of that horse?"

He had conducted me to the opening of his tent, and there was a
chasseur who led up and down a most admirable creature.  He was a
dapple grey, not very tall, a little over fifteen hands perhaps,
but with the short head and splendid arch of the neck which comes
with the Arab blood.  His shoulders and haunches were so
muscular, and yet his legs so fine, that it thrilled me with joy
just to gaze upon him.  A fine horse or a beautiful woman--I
cannot look at them unmoved, even now when seventy winters have
chilled my blood.  You can think how it was in the year '10.

"This," said Massena, "is Voltigeur, the swiftest horse in our
army.  What I desire is that you should start tonight, ride round
the lines upon the flank, make your way across the enemy's rear,
and return upon the other flank, bringing me news of his
disposition.  You will wear a uniform, and will, therefore, if
captured, be safe from the death of a spy.  It is probable that
you will get through the lines unchallenged, for the posts are
very scattered.  Once through, in daylight you can outride
anything which you meet, and if you keep off the roads you may
escape entirely unnoticed.  If you have not reported yourself by
to-morrow night, I will understand that you are taken, and I will
offer them Colonel Petrie in exchange."

Ah, how my heart swelled with pride and joy as I sprang into the
saddle and galloped this grand horse up and down to show the
Marshal the mastery which I had of him!  He was magnificent--we
were both magnificent, for Massena clapped his hands and cried
out in his delight.

It was not I, but he, who said that a gallant beast deserves a
gallant rider.  Then, when for the third time, with my panache
flying and my dolman streaming behind me, I thundered past him, I
saw upon his hard old face that he had no longer any doubt that
he had chosen the man for his purpose.  I drew my sabre, raised
the hilt to my lips in salute, and galloped on to my own
quarters.

Already the news had spread that I had been chosen for a mission,
and my little rascals came swarming out of their tents to cheer
me.  Ah! it brings the tears to my old eyes when I think how
proud they were of their Colonel.

And I was proud of them also.  They deserved a dashing leader.

The night promised to be a stormy one, which was very much to my
liking.  It was my desire to keep my departure most secret, for
it was evident that if the English heard that I had been detached
from the army they would naturally conclude that something
important was about to happen.  My horse was taken, therefore,
beyond the picket line, as if for watering, and I followed and
mounted him there.  I had a map, a compass, and a paper of
instructions from the Marshal, and with these in the bosom of my
tunic and my sabre at my side I set out upon my adventure.

A thin rain was falling and there was no moon, so you may imagine
that it was not very cheerful.  But my heart was light at the
thought of the honour which had been done me and the glory which
awaited me.  This exploit should be one more in that brilliant
series which was to change my sabre into a baton.  Ah, how we
dreamed, we foolish fellows, young, and drunk with success! 
Could I have foreseen that night as I rode, the chosen man of
sixty thousand, that I should spend my life planting cabbages on
a hundred francs a month!  Oh, my youth, my hopes, my comrades! 
But the wheel turns and never stops.  Forgive me, my friends, for
an old man has his weakness.

My route, then, lay across the face of the high ground of Torres
Vedras, then over a streamlet, past a farmhouse which had been
burned down and was now only a landmark, then through a forest of
young cork oaks, and so to the monastery of San Antonio, which
marked the left of the English position.  Here I turned south and
rode quietly over the downs, for it was at this point that
Massena thought that it would be most easy for me to find my way
unobserved through the position.  I went very slowly, for it was
so dark that I could not see my hand in front of me.  In such
cases I leave my bridle loose and let my horse pick its own way. 
Voltigeur went confidently forward, and I was very content to sit
upon his back and to peer about me, avoiding every light.

For three hours we advanced in this cautious way, until it seemed
to me that I must have left all danger behind me.  I then pushed
on more briskly, for I wished to be in the rear of the whole army
by daybreak.  There are many vineyards in these parts which in
winter become open plains, and a horseman finds few difficulties
in his way.

But Massena had underrated the cunning of these English, for it
appears that there was not one line of defence but three, and it
was the third, which was the most formidable, through which I was
at that instant passing.  As I rode, elated at my own success, a
lantern flashed suddenly before me, and I saw the glint of
polished gun-barrels and the gleam of a red coat.

"Who goes there?" cried a voice--such a voice!  I swerved to the
right and rode like a madman, but a dozen squirts of fire came
out of the darkness, and the bullets whizzed all round my ears. 
That was no new sound to me, my friends, though I will not talk
like a foolish conscript and say that I have ever liked it.  But
at least it had never kept me from thinking clearly, and so I
knew that there was nothing for it but to gallop hard and try my
luck elsewhere.  I rode round the English picket, and then, as I
heard nothing more of them, I concluded rightly that I had at
last come through their defences.

For five miles I rode south, striking a tinder from time to time
to look at my pocket compass.  And then in an instant-- I feel
the pang once more as my memory brings back the moment--my horse,
without a sob or staggers fell stone-dead beneath me!

I had never known it, but one of the bullets from that infernal
picket had passed through his body.  The gallant creature had
never winced nor weakened, but had gone while life was in him. 
One instant I was secure on the swiftest, most graceful horse in
Massena's army.  The next he lay upon his side, worth only the
price of his hide, and I stood there that most helpless, most
ungainly of creatures, a dismounted Hussar.  What could I do with
my boots, my spurs, my trailing sabre?  I was far inside the
enemy's lines.  How could I hope to get back again?

I am not ashamed to say that I, Etienne Gerard, sat upon my dead
horse and sank my face in my hands in my despair.

Already the first streaks were whitening the east.

In half an hour it would be light.  That I should have won my way
past every obstacle and then at this last instant be left at the
mercy of my enemies, my mission ruined, and myself a
prisoner--was it not enough to break a soldier's heart?

But courage, my friends!  We have these moments of weakness, the
bravest of us; but I have a spirit like a slip of steel, for the
more you bend it the higher it springs.

One spasm of despair, and then a brain of ice and a heart of
fire.  All was not yet lost.  I who had come through so many
hazards would come through this one also.  I rose from my horse
and considered what had best be done.

And first of all it was certain that I could not get back.  Long
before I could pass the lines it would be broad daylight.  I must
hide myself for the day, and then devote the next night to my
escape.  I took the saddle, holsters, and bridle from poor
Voltigeur, and I concealed them among some bushes, so that no one
finding him could know that he was a French horse.  Then, leaving
him lying there, I wandered on in search of some place where I
might be safe for the day.  In every direction I could see camp
fires upon the sides of the hills, and already figures had begun
to move around them.  I must hide quickly, or I was lost.

But where was I to hide?  It was a vineyard in which I found
myself, the poles of the vines still standing, but the plants
gone.  There was no cover there.  Besides, I should want some
food and water before another night had come.  I hurried wildly
onward through the waning darkness, trusting that chance would be
my friend.

And I was not disappointed.  Chance is a woman, my friends, and
she has her eye always upon a gallant Hussar.

Well, then, as I stumbled through the vineyard, something loomed
in front of me, and I came upon a great square house with another
long, low building upon one side of it.  Three roads met there,
and it was easy to see that this was the posada, or wine-shop.

There was no light in the windows, and everything was dark and
silent, but, of course, I knew that such comfortable quarters
were certainly occupied, and probably by someone of importance. 
I have learned, however, that the nearer the danger may really be
the safer place, and so I was by no means inclined to trust
myself away from this shelter.  The low building was evidently
the stable, and into this I crept, for the door was unlatched.

The place was full of bullocks and sheep, gathered there, no
doubt, to be out of the clutches of marauders.

A ladder led to a loft, and up this I climbed and concealed
myself very snugly among some bales of hay upon the top.  This
loft had a small open window, and I was able to look down upon
the front of the inn and also upon the road.  There I crouched
and waited to see what would happen.

It was soon evident that I had not been mistaken when I had
thought that this might be the quarters of some person of
importance.  Shortly after daybreak an English light dragoon
arrived with a despatch, and from then onward the place was in a
turmoil, officers continually riding up and away.  Always the
same name was upon their lips:  "Sir Stapleton--Sir Stapleton."

It was hard for me to lie there with a dry moustache and watch
the great flagons which were brought out by the landlord to these
English officers.  But it amused me to look at their
fresh-coloured, clean-shaven, careless faces, and to wonder what
they would think if they knew that so celebrated a person was
lying so near to them.  And then, as I lay and watched, I saw a
sight which filled me with surprise.

It is incredible the insolence of these English!  What do you
suppose Milord Wellington had done when he found that Massena had
blockaded him and that he could not move his army?  I might give
you many guesses.  You might say that he had raged, that he had
despaired, that he had brought his troops together and spoken to
them about glory and the fatherland before leading them to one
last battle.  No, Milord did none of these things.  But he sent a
fleet ship to England to bring him a number of fox-dogs; and he
with his officers settled himself down to chase the fox.  It is
true what I tell you.  Behind the lines of Torres Vedras these
mad Englishmen made the fox chase three days in the week.

We had heard of it in the camp, and now I was myself to see that
it was true.

For, along the road which I have described, there came these very
dogs, thirty or forty of them, white and brown, each with its
tail at the same angle, like the bayonets of the Old Guard.  My
faith, but it was a pretty sight!  And behind and amidst them
there rode three men with peaked caps and red coats, whom I
understood to be the hunters.  After them came many horsemen with
uniforms of various kinds, stringing along the roads in twos and
threes, talking together and laughing.

They did not seem to be going above a trot, and it appeared to me
that it must indeed be a slow fox which they hoped to catch. 
However, it was their affair, not mine, and soon they had all
passed my window and were out of sight.  I waited and I watched,
ready for any chance which might offer.

Presently an officer, in a blue uniform not unlike that of our
flying artillery, came cantering down the road--an elderly, stout
man he was, with grey side-whiskers.  He stopped and began to
talk with an orderly officer of dragoons, who waited outside the
inn, and it was then that I learned the advantage of the English
which had been taught me.  I could hear and understand all that
was said.

"Where is the meet?" said the officer, and I thought that he was
hungering for his bifstek.  But the other answered him that it
was near Altara, so I saw that it was a place of which he spoke.

"You are late, Sir George," said the orderly.

"Yes, I had a court-martial.  Has Sir Stapleton Cotton gone?"

At this moment a window opened, and a handsome young man in a
very splendid uniform looked out of it.

"Halloa, Murray!" said he.  "These cursed papers keep me, but I
will be at your heels."

"Very good, Cotton.  I am late already, so I will ride on."

"You might order my groom to bring round my horse," said the
young General at the window to the orderly below, while the other
went on down the road.

The orderly rode away to some outlying stable, and then in a few
minutes there came a smart English groom with a cockade in his
hat, leading by the bridle a horse-- and, oh, my friends, you
have never known the perfection to which a horse can attain until
you have seen a first- class English hunter.  He was superb:
tall, broad, strong, and yet as graceful and agile as a deer. 
Coal black he was in colour, and his neck, and his shoulder, and
his quarters, and his fetlocks--how can I describe him all to
you?  The sun shone upon him as on polished ebony, and he raised
his hoofs in a little playful dance so lightly and prettily,
while he tossed his mane and whinnied with impatience.  Never
have I seen such a mixture of strength and beauty and grace.  I
had often wondered how the English Hussars had managed to ride
over the chasseurs of the Guards in the affair at Astorga, but I
wondered no longer when I saw the English horses.

There was a ring for fastening bridles at the door of the inn,
and the groom tied the horse there while he entered the house. 
In an instant I had seen the chance which Fate had brought to me. 
Were I in that saddle I should be better off than when I started. 
Even Voltigeur could not compare with this magnificent creature. 
To think is to act with me.  In one instant I was down the ladder
and at the door of the stable.  The next I was out and the bridle
was in my hand.  I bounded into the saddle.

Somebody, the master or the man, shouted wildly behind me.  What
cared I for his shouts!  I touched the horse with my spurs and he
bounded forward with such a spring that only a rider like myself
could have sat him.  I gave him his head and let him go--it did
not matter to me where, so long as we left this inn far behind
us.  He thundered away across the vineyards, and in a very few
minutes I had placed miles between myself and my pursuers.  They
could no longer tell in that wild country in which direction I
had gone.  I knew that I was safe, and so, riding to the top of a
small hill, I drew my pencil and note-book from my pocket and
proceeded to make plans of those camps which I could see and to
draw the outline of the country.

He was a dear creature upon whom I sat, but it was not easy to
draw upon his back, for every now and then his two ears would
cock, and he would start and quiver with impatience.  At first I
could not understand this trick of his, but soon I observed that
he only did it when a peculiar noise--"yoy, yoy, yoy"--came from
somewhere among the oak woods beneath us.  And then suddenly this
strange cry changed into a most terrible screaming, with the
frantic blowing of a horn.  Instantly he went mad--this horse. 
His eyes blazed.  His mane bristled.  He bounded from the earth
and bounded again, twisting and turning in a frenzy.  My pencil
flew one way and my note-book another.  And then, as I looked
down into the valley, an extraordinary sight met my eyes.

The hunt was streaming down it.  The fox I could not see, but the
dogs were in full cry, their noses down, their tails up, so close
together that they might have been one great yellow and white
moving carpet.  And behind them rode the horsemen--my faith, what
a sight!  Consider every type which a great army could show. 
Some in hunting dress, but the most in uniforms: blue dragoons,
red dragoons, red-trousered hussars, green riflemen,
artillerymen, gold-slashed lancers, and most of all red, red,
red, for the infantry officers ride as hard as the cavalry.

Such a crowd, some well mounted, some ill, but all flying along
as best they might, the subaltern as good as the general,
jostling and pushing, spurring and driving, with every thought
thrown to the winds save that they should have the blood of this
absurd fox!  Truly, they are an extraordinary people, the
English!

But I had little time to watch the hunt or to marvel at these
islanders, for of all these mad creatures the very horse upon
which I sat was the maddest.  You understand that he was himself
a hunter, and that the crying of these dogs was to him what the
call of a cavalry trumpet in the street yonder would be to me. 
It thrilled him.  It drove him wild.  Again and again he bounded
into the air, and then, seizing the bit between his teeth, he
plunged down the slope and galloped after the dogs.

I swore, and tugged, and pulled, but I was powerless.

This English General rode his horse with a snaffle only, and the
beast had a mouth of iron.  It was useless to pull him back.  One
might as well try to keep a grenadier from a wine-bottle.  I gave
it up in despair, and, settling down in the saddle, I prepared
for the worst which could befall.

What a creature he was!  Never have I felt such a horse between
my knees.  His great haunches gathered under him with every
stride, and he shot forward ever faster and faster, stretched
like a greyhound, while the wind beat in my face and whistled
past my ears.  I was wearing our undress jacket, a uniform simple
and dark in itself--though some figures give distinction to any
uniform--and I had taken the precaution to remove the long
panache from my busby.  The result was that, amidst the mixture
of costumes in the hunt, there was no reason why mine should
attract attention, or why these men, whose thoughts were all with
the chase, should give any heed to me.  The idea that a French
officer might be riding with them was too absurd to enter their
minds.  I laughed as I rode, for, indeed, amid all the danger,
there was something of comic in the situation.

I have said that the hunters were very unequally mounted, and so
at the end of a few miles, instead of being one body of men, like
a charging regiment, they were scattered over a considerable
space, the better riders well up to the dogs and the others
trailing away behind.

Now, I was as good a rider as any, and my horse was the best of
them all, and so you can imagine that it was not long before he
carried me to the front.  And when I saw the dogs streaming over
the open, and the red-coated huntsman behind them, and only seven
or eight horsemen between us, then it was that the strangest
thing of all happened, for I, too, went mad--I, Etienne Gerard!

In a moment it came upon me, this spirit of sport, this desire to
excel, this hatred of the fox.  Accursed animal, should he then
defy us?  Vile robber, his hour was come!

Ah, it is a great feeling, this feeling of sport, my friends,
this desire to trample the fox under the hoofs of your horse.  I
have made the fox chase with the English.  I have also, as I may
tell you some day, fought the box-fight with the Bustler, of
Bristol.  And I say to you that this sport is a wonderful
thing--full of interest as well as madness.

The farther we went the faster galloped my horse, and soon there
were but three men as near the dogs as I was.

All thought of fear of discovery had vanished.  My brain
throbbed, my blood ran hot--only one thing upon earth seemed
worth living for, and that was to overtake this infernal fox.  I
passed one of the horsemen--a Hussar like myself.  There were
only two in front of me now: the one in a black coat, the other
the blue artilleryman whom I had seen at the inn.  His grey
whiskers streamed in the wind, but he rode magnificently.  For a
mile or more we kept in this order, and then, as we galloped up a
steep slope, my lighter weight brought me to the front.

I passed them both, and when I reached the crown I was riding
level with the little, hard-faced English huntsman.

In front of us were the dogs, and then, a hundred paces beyond
them, was a brown wisp of a thing, the fox itself, stretched to
the uttermost.  The sight of him fired my blood.  "Aha, we have
you then, assassin!" I cried, and shouted my encouragement to the
huntsman.  I waved my hand to show him that there was one upon
whom he could rely.

And now there were only the dogs between me and my prey.  These
dogs, whose duty it is to point out the game, were now rather a
hindrance than a help to us, for it was hard to know how to pass
them.  The huntsman felt the difficulty as much as I, for he rode
behind them, and could make no progress toward the fox.  He was a
swift rider, but wanting in enterprise.  For my part, I felt that
it would be unworthy of the Hussars of Conflans if I could not
overcome such a difficulty as this.

Was Etienne Gerard to be stopped by a herd of fox-dogs?

It was absurd.  I gave a shout and spurred my horse.

"Hold hard, sir!  Hold hard!" cried the huntsman.

He was uneasy for me, this good old man, but I reassured him by a
wave and a smile.  The dogs opened in front of me.  One or two
may have been hurt, but what would you have?  The egg must be
broken for the omelette.  I could hear the huntsman shouting his
congratulations behind me.  One more effort, and the dogs were
all behind me.  Only the fox was in front.

Ah, the joy and pride of that moment!  To know that I had beaten
the English at their own sport.  Here were three hundred, all
thirsting for the life of this animal, and yet it was I who was
about to take it.  I thought of my comrades of the light cavalry
brigade, of my mother, of the Emperor, of France.  I had brought
honour to each and all.  Every instant brought me nearer to the
fox.  The moment for action had arrived, so I unsheathed my
sabre.  I waved it in the air, and the brave English all shouted
behind me.

Only then did I understand how difficult is this fox chase, for
one may cut again and again at the creature and never strike him
once.  He is small, and turns quickly from a blow.  At every cut
I heard those shouts of encouragement from behind me, and they
spurred me to yet another effort.  And then at last the supreme
moment of my triumph arrived.  In the very act of turning I
caught him fair with such another back-handed cut as that with
which I killed the aide-de-camp of the Emperor of Russia.  He
flew into two pieces, his head one way and his tail another.  I
looked back and waved the blood- stained sabre in the air.  For
the moment I was exalted --superb!

Ah! how I should have loved to have waited to have received the
congratulations of these generous enemies.

There were fifty of them in sight, and not one who was not waving
his hand and shouting.  They are not really such a phlegmatic
race, the English.  A gallant deed in war or in sport will always
warm their hearts.  As to the old huntsman, he was the nearest to
me, and I could see with my own eyes how overcome he was by what
he had seen.  He was like a man paralysed, his mouth open, his
hand, with outspread fingers, raised in the air.  For a moment my
inclination was to return and to embrace him.

But already the call of duty was sounding in my ears, and these
English, in spite of all the fraternity which exists among
sportsmen, would certainly have made me prisoner.  There was no
hope for my mission now, and I had done all that I could do.  I
could see the lines of Massena's camp no very great distance off,
for, by a lucky chance, the chase had taken us in that direction.

I turned from the dead fox, saluted with my sabre, and galloped
away.

But they would not leave me so easily, these gallant huntsmen.  I
was the fox now, and the chase swept bravely over the plain.  It
was only at the moment when I started for the camp that they
could have known that I was a Frenchman, and now the whole swarm
of them were at my heels.  We were within gunshot of our pickets
before they would halt, and then they stood in knots and would
not go away, but shouted and waved their hands at me.  No, I will
not think that it was in enmity.  Rather would I fancy that a
glow of admiration filled their breasts, and that their one
desire was to embrace the stranger who had carried himself so
gallantly and well. 



IV. How the Brigadier Saved the Army

I have told you, my friends, how we held the English shut up for
six months, from October, 1810, to March, 1811, within their
lines of Torres Vedras.  It was during this time that I hunted
the fox in their company, and showed them that amidst all their
sportsmen there was not one who could outride a Hussar of
Conflans.  When I galloped back into the French lines with the
blood of the creature still moist upon my blade the outposts who
had seen what I had done raised a frenzied cry in my honour,
whilst these English hunters still yelled behind me, so that I
had the applause of both armies.  It made the tears rise to my
eyes to feel that I had won the admiration of so many brave men. 
These English are generous foes.  That very evening there came a
packet under a white flag addressed "To the Hussar officer who
cut down the fox."  Within, I found the fox itself in two pieces,
as I had left it.  There was a note also, short but hearty, as
the English fashion is, to say that as I had slaughtered the fox
it only remained for me to eat it.  They could not know that it
was not our French custom to eat foxes, and it showed their
desire that he who had won the honours of the chase should also
partake of the game.  It is not for a Frenchman to be outdone in
politeness, and so I returned it to these brave hunters, and
begged them to accept it as a side-dish for their next dejeuner
de la chasse.

It is thus that chivalrous opponents make war.

I had brought back with me from my ride a clear plan of the
English lines, and this I laid before Massena that very evening.

I had hoped that it would lead him to attack, but all the
marshals were at each other's throats, snapping and growling like
so many hungry hounds.  Ney hated Massena, and Massena hated
Junot, and Soult hated them all.  For this reason, nothing was
done.  In the meantime food grew more and more scarce, and our
beautiful cavalry was ruined for want of fodder.  With the end of
the winter we had swept the whole country bare, and nothing
remained for us to eat, although we sent our forage parties far
and wide.  It was clear even to the bravest of us that the time
had come to retreat.  I was myself forced to admit it.

But retreat was not so easy.  Not only were the troops weak and
exhausted from want of supplies, but the enemy had been much
encouraged by our long inaction.  Of Wellington we had no great
fear.  We had found him to be brave and cautious, but with little
enterprise.  Besides, in that barren country his pursuit could
not be rapid.

But on our flanks and in our rear there had gathered great
numbers of Portuguese militia, of armed peasants, and of
guerillas.  These people had kept a safe distance all the winter,
but now that our horses were foundered they were as thick as
flies all round our outposts, and no man's life was worth a sou
when once he fell into their hands.  I could name a dozen
officers of my own acquaintance who were cut off during that
time, and the luckiest was he who received a ball from behind a
rock through his head or his heart.  There were some whose deaths
were so terrible that no report of them was ever allowed to reach
their relatives.  So frequent were these tragedies, and so much
did they impress the imagination of the men, that it became very
difficult to induce them to leave the camp.

There was one especial scoundrel, a guerilla chief named Manuelo,
"The Smiler," whose exploits filled our men with horror.  He was
a large, fat man of jovial aspect, and he lurked with a fierce
gang among the mountains which lay upon our left flank.  A volume
might be written of this fellow's cruelties and brutalities, but
he was certainly a man of power, for he organised his brigands in
a manner which made it almost impossible for us to get through
his country.  This he did by imposing a severe discipline upon
them and enforcing it by cruel penalties, a policy by which he
made them formidable, but which had some unexpected results, as I
will show you in my story.  Had he not flogged his own
lieutenant--but you will hear of that when the time comes.

There were many difficulties in connection with a retreat, but it
was very evident that there was no other possible course, and so
Massena began to quickly pass his baggage and his sick from
Torres Novas, which was his headquarters, to Coimbra, the first
strong post on his line of communications.  He could not do this
unperceived, however, and at once the guerillas came swarming
closer and closer upon our flanks.  One of our divisions, that of
Clausel, with a brigade of Montbrun's cavalry, was far to the
south of the Tagus, and it became very necessary to let them know
that we were about to retreat, for Otherwise they would be left
unsupported in the very heart of the enemy's country.  I remember
wondering how Massena would accomplish this, for simple couriers
could not get through, and small parties would be certainly
destroyed.  In some way an order to fall back must be conveyed to
these men, or France would be the weaker by fourteen thousand
men.  Little did I think that it was I, Colonel Gerard, who was
to have the honour of a deed which might have formed the crowning
glory of any other man's life, and which stands high among those
exploits which have made my own so famous.

At that time I was serving on Massena's staff, and he had two
other aides-de-camp, who were also very brave and intelligent
officers.  The name of one was Cortex and of the other Duplessis. 
They were senior to me in age, but junior in every other respect. 
Cortex was a small, dark man, very quick and eager.  He was a
fine soldier, but he was ruined by his conceit.  To take him at
his own valuation, he was the first man in the army.

Duplessis was a Gascon, like myself, and he was a very fine
fellow, as all Gascon gentlemen are.  We took it in turn, day
about, to do duty, and it was Cortex who was in attendance upon
the morning of which I speak.  I saw him at breakfast, but
afterward neither he nor his horse was to be seen.  All day
Massena was in his usual gloom, and he spent much of his time
staring with his telescope at the English lines and at the
shipping in the Tagus.

He said nothing of the mission upon which he had sent our
comrade, and it was not for us to ask him any questions.

That night, about twelve o'clock, I was standing outside the
Marshal's headquarters when he came out and stood motionless for
half an hour, his arms folded upon his breast, staring through
the darkness toward the east.

So rigid and intent was he that you might have believed the
muffled figure and the cocked hat to have been the statue of the
man.  What he was looking for I could not imagine; but at last he
gave a bitter curse, and, turning on his heel, he went back into
the house, banging the door behind him.

Next day the second aide-de-camp, Duplessis, had an interview
with Massena in the morning, after which neither he nor his horse
was seen again.  That night, as I sat in the ante-room, the
Marshal passed me, and I observed him through the window standing
and staring to the east exactly as he had done before.  For fully
half an hour he remained there, a black shadow in the gloom.

Then he strode in, the door banged, and I heard his spurs and his
scabbard jingling and clanking through the passage.  At the best
he was a savage old man, but when he was crossed I had almost as
soon face the Emperor himself.  I heard him that night cursing
and stamping above my head, but he did not send for me, and I
knew him too well to go unsought.

Next morning it was my turn, for I was the only aide- de-camp
left.  I was his favourite aide-de-camp.  His heart went out
always to a smart soldier.  I declare that I think there were
tears in his black eyes when he sent for me that morning.

"Gerard," said he.  "Come here!"

With a friendly gesture he took me by the sleeve and he led me to
the open window which faced the east.  Beneath us was the
infantry camp, and beyond that the lines of the cavalry with the
long rows of picketed horses.

We could see the French outposts, and then a stretch of open
country, intersected by vineyards.  A range of hills lay beyond,
with one well-marked peak towering above them.  Round the base of
these hills was a broad belt of forest.  A single road ran white
and clear, dipping and rising until it passed through a gap in
the hills.

"This," said Massena, pointing to the mountain, "is the Sierra de
Merodal.  Do you perceive anything upon the top?"

I answered that I did not.

"Now?" he asked, and he handed me his field-glass.

With its aid I perceived a small mound or cairn upon the crest.

"What you see," said the Marshal, "is a pile of logs which was
placed there as a beacon.  We laid it when the country was in our
hands, and now, although we no longer hold it, the beacon remains
undisturbed.  Gerard, that beacon must be lit to-night.  France
needs it, the Emperor needs it, the army needs it.  Two of your
comrades have gone to light it, but neither has made his way to
the summit.  To-day it is your turn, and I pray that you may have
better luck."

It is not for a soldier to ask the reason for his orders, and so
I was about to hurry from the room, but the Marshal laid his hand
upon my shoulder and held me.

"You shall know all, and so learn how high is the cause for which
you risk your life," said he.  "Fifty miles to the south of us,
on the other side of the Tagus, is the army of General Clausel. 
His camp is situated near a peak named the Sierra d'Ossa.  On the
summit of this peak is a beacon, and by this beacon he has a
picket.  It is agreed between us that when at midnight he shall
see our signal-fire he shall light his own as an answer, and
shall then at once fall back upon the main army.  If he does not
start at once I must go without him.  For two days I have
endeavoured to send him his message.  It must reach him to-day,
or his army will be left behind and destroyed."

Ah, my friends, how my heart swelled when I heard how high was
the task which Fortune had assigned to me!

If my life were spared, here was one more splendid new leaf for
my laurel crown.  If, on the other hand, I died, then it would be
a death worthy of such a career.  I said nothing, but I cannot
doubt that all the noble thoughts that were in me shone in my
face, for Massena took my hand and wrung it.

"There is the hill and there the beacon," said he.

"There is only this guerilla and his men between you and it.  I
cannot detach a large party for the enterprise and a small one
would be seen and destroyed.  Therefore to you alone I commit it. 
Carry it out in your own way, but at twelve o'clock this night
let me see the fire upon the hill."

"If it is not there," said I, "then I pray you, Marshal Massena,
to see that my effects are sold and the money sent to my mother." 
So I raised my hand to my busby and turned upon my heel, my heart
glowing at the thought of the great exploit which lay before me.

I sat in my own chamber for some little time considering how I
had best take the matter in hand.  The fact that neither Cortex
nor Duplessis, who were very zealous and active officers, had
succeeded in reaching the summit of the Sierra de Merodal, showed
that the country was very closely watched by the guerillas.  I
reckoned out the distance upon a map.  There were ten miles of
open country to be crossed before reaching the hills.  Then came
a belt of forest on the lower slopes of the mountain, which may
have been three or four miles wide.  And then there was the
actual peak itself, of no very great height, but without any
cover to conceal me.  Those were the three stages of my journey.

It seemed to me that once I had reached the shelter of the wood
all would be easy, for I could lie concealed within its shadows
and climb upward under the cover of night.

From eight till twelve would give me four hours of darkness in
which to make the ascent.  It was only the first stage, then,
which I had seriously to consider.

Over that flat country there lay the inviting white road, and I
remembered that my comrades had both taken their horses.  That
was clearly their ruin, for nothing could be easier than for the
brigands to keep watch upon the road, and to lay an ambush for
all who passed along it.  It would not be difficult for me to
ride across country, and I was well horsed at that time, for I
had not only Violette and Rataplan, who were two of the finest
mounts in the army, but I had the splendid black English hunter
which I had taken from Sir Cotton.  However, after much thought,
I determined to go upon foot, since I should then be in a better
state to take advantage of any chance which might offer.  As to
my dress, I covered my Hussar uniform with a long cloak, and I
put a grey forage cap upon my head.  You may ask me why I did not
dress as a peasant, but I answer that a man of honour has no
desire to die the death of a spy.  It is one thing to be
murdered, and it is another to be justly executed by the laws of
war.  I would not run the risk of such an end.

In the late afternoon I stole out of the camp and passed through
the line of our pickets.  Beneath my cloak I had a field-glass
and a pocket pistol, as well as my sword.  In my pocket were
tinder, flint, and steel.

For two or three miles I kept under cover of the vineyards, and
made such good progress that my heart was high within me, and I
thought to myself that it only needed a man of some brains to
take the matter in hand to bring it easily to success.  Of
course, Cortex and Duplessis galloping down the high-road would
be easily seen, but the intelligent Gerard lurking among the
vines was quite another person.  I dare say I had got as far as
five miles before I met any check.  At that point there is a
small wine-house, round which I perceived some carts and a number
of people, the first that I had seen.  Now that I was well
outside the lines I knew that every person was my enemy, so I
crouched lower while I stole along to a point from which I could
get a better view of what was going on.  I then perceived that
these people were peasants, who were loading two waggons with
empty wine- casks.  I failed to see how they could either help or
hinder me, so I continued upon my way.

But soon I understood that my task was not so simple as had
appeared.  As the ground rose the vineyards ceased, and I came
upon a stretch of open country studded with low hills.  Crouching
in a ditch I examined them with a glass, and I very soon
perceived that there was a watcher upon every one of them, and
that these people had a line of pickets and outposts thrown
forward exactly like our own.  I had heard of the discipline
which was practised by this scoundrel whom they called "The
Smiler," and this, no doubt, was an example of it.

Between the hills there was a cordon of sentries, and though I
worked some distance round to the flank I still found myself
faced by the enemy.  It was a puzzle what to do.

There was so little cover that a rat could hardly cross without
being seen.  Of course, it would be easy enough to slip through
at night, as I had done with the English at Torres Vedras, but I
was still far from the mountain and I could not in that case
reach it in time to light the midnight beacon.  I lay in my ditch
and I made a thousand plans, each more dangerous than the last. 
And then suddenly I had that flash of light which comes to the
brave man who refuses to despair.

You remember I have mentioned that two waggons were loading up
with empty casks at the inn.  The heads of the oxen were turned
to the east, and it was evident that those waggons were going in
the direction which I desired.  Could I only conceal myself upon
one of them, what better and easier way could I find of passing
through the lines of the guerillas?  So simple and so good was
the plan that I could not restrain a cry of delight as it crossed
my mind, and I hurried away instantly in the direction of the
inn.  There, from behind some bushes, I had a good look at what
was going on upon the road.

There were three peasants with red montero caps loading the
barrels, and they had completed one waggon and the lower tier of
the other.  A number of empty barrels still lay outside the
wine-house waiting to be put on.

Fortune was my friend--I have always said that she is a woman and
cannot resist a dashing young Hussar.  As I watched, the three
fellows went into the inn, for the day was hot and they were
thirsty after their labour.  Quick as a flash I darted out from
my hiding-place, climbed on to the waggon, and crept into one of
the empty casks.

It had a bottom but no top, and it lay upon its side with the
open end inward.  There I crouched like a dog in its kennel, my
knees drawn up to my chin, for the barrels were not very large
and I am a well-grown man.  As I lay there, out came the three
peasants again, and presently I heard a crash upon the top of me
which told that I had another barrel above me.  They piled them
upon the cart until I could not imagine how I was ever to get out
again.  However, it is time to think of crossing the Vistula when
you are over the Rhine, and I had no doubt that if chance and my
own wits had carried me so far they would carry me farther.

Soon, when the waggon was full, they set forth upon their way,
and I within my barrel chuckled at every step, for it was
carrying me whither I wished to go.  We travelled slowly, and the
peasants walked beside the waggons.

This I knew, because I heard their voices close to me. They
seemed to me to be very merry fellows, for they laughed heartily
as they went.  What the joke was I could not understand.  Though
I speak their language fairly well I could not hear anything
comic in the scraps of their conversation which met my ear.

I reckoned that at the rate of walking of a team of oxen we
covered about two miles an hour.  Therefore, when I was sure that
two and a half hours had passed-- such hours, my friends,
cramped, suffocated, and nearly poisoned with the fumes of the
lees--when they had passed, I was sure that the dangerous open
country was behind us, and that we were upon the edge of the
forest and the mountain.  So now I had to turn my mind upon how I
was to get out of my barrel.  I had thought of several ways, and
was balancing one against the other when the question was decided
for me in a very simple but unexpected manner.

The waggon stopped suddenly with a jerk, and I heard a number of
gruff voices in excited talk.  "Where, where?" cried one.  "On
our cart," said another.  "Who is he?" said a third.  "A French
officer; I saw his cap and his boots."  They all roared with
laughter.  "I was looking out of the window of the posada and I
saw him spring into the cask like a toreador with a Seville bull
at his heels."  "Which cask, then?"  "It was this one," said the
fellow, and sure enough his fist struck the wood beside my head.

What a situation, my friends, for a man of my standing!

I blush now, after forty years, when I think of it.

To be trussed like a fowl and to listen helplessly to the rude
laughter of these boors--to know, too, that my mission had come
to an ignominious and even ridiculous end --I would have blessed
the man who would have sent a bullet through the cask and freed
me from my misery.

I heard the crashing of the barrels as they hurled them off the
waggon, and then a couple of bearded faces and the muzzles of two
guns looked in at me.  They seized me by the sleeves of my coat,
and they dragged me out into the daylight.  A strange figure I
must have looked as I stood blinking and gaping in the blinding
sunlight.

My body was bent like a cripple's, for I could not straighten my
stiff joints, and half my coat was as red as an English soldier's
from the lees in which I had lain.

They laughed and laughed, these dogs, and as I tried to express
by my bearing and gestures the contempt in which I held them
their laughter grew all the louder.  But even in these hard
circumstances I bore myself like the man I am, and as I cast my
eye slowly round I did not find that any of the laughers were
very ready to face it.

That one glance round was enough to tell me exactly how I was
situated.  I had been betrayed by these peasants into the hands
of an outpost of guerillas.  There were eight of them,
savage-looking, hairy creatures, with cotton handkerchiefs under
their sombreros, and many- buttoned jackets with coloured sashes
round the waist.

Each had a gun and one or two pistols stuck in his girdle.

The leader, a great, bearded ruffian, held his gun against my ear
while the others searched my pockets, taking from me my overcoat,
my pistol, my glass, my sword, and, worst of all, my flint and
steel and tinder.  Come what might, I was ruined, for I had no
longer the means of lighting the beacon even if I should reach
it.

Eight of them, my friends, with three peasants, and I unarmed! 
Was Etienne Gerard in despair?  Did he lose his wits?  Ah, you
know me too well; but they did not know me yet, these dogs of
brigands.  Never have I made so supreme and astounding an effort
as at this very instant when all seemed lost.  Yet you might
guess many times before you would hit upon the device by which I
escaped them.  Listen and I will tell you.

They had dragged me from the waggon when they searched me, and I
stood, still twisted and warped, in the midst of them.  But the
stiffness was wearing off, and already my mind was very actively
looking out for some method of breaking away.  It was a narrow
pass in which the brigands had their outpost.  It was bounded on
the one hand by a steep mountain side.  On the other the ground
fell away in a very long slope, which ended in a bushy valley
many hundreds of feet below.  These fellows, you understand, were
hardy mountaineers, who could travel either up hill or down very
much quicker than I.  They wore abarcas, or shoes of skin, tied
on like sandals, which gave them a foothold everywhere.  A less
resolute man would have despaired.  But in an instant I saw and
used the strange chance which Fortune had placed in my way.  On
the very edge of the slope was one of the wine-barrels.  I moved
slowly toward it, and then with a tiger spring I dived into it
feet foremost, and with a roll of my body I tipped it over the
side of the hill.

Shall I ever forget that dreadful journey--how I bounded and
crashed and whizzed down that terrible slope?  I had dug in my
knees and elbows, bunching my body into a compact bundle so as to
steady it; but my head projected from the end, and it was a
marvel that I did not dash out my brains.  There were long,
smooth slopes, and then came steeper scarps where the barrel
ceased to roll, and sprang into the air like a goat, coming down
with a rattle and crash which jarred every bone in my body.  How
the wind whistled in my ears, and my head turned and turned until
I was sick and giddy and nearly senseless!  Then, with a swish
and a great rasping and crackling of branches, I reached the
bushes which I had seen so far below me.  Through them I broke my
way, down a slope beyond, and deep into another patch of
underwood, where, striking a sapling, my barrel flew to pieces. 
From amid a heap of staves and hoops I crawled out, my body
aching in every inch of it, but my heart singing loudly with joy
and my spirit high within me, for I knew how great was the feat
which I had accomplished, and I already seemed to see the beacon
blazing on the hill.

A horrible nausea had seized me from the tossing which I had
undergone, and I felt as I did upon the ocean when first I
experienced those movements of which the English have taken so
perfidious an advantage.  I had to sit for a few moments with my
head upon my hands beside the ruins of my barrel.  But there was
no time for rest.

Already I heard shouts above me which told that my pursuers were
descending the hill.  I dashed into the thickest part of the
underwood, and I ran and ran until I was utterly exhausted.  Then
I lay panting and listened with all my ears, but no sound came to
them.  I had shaken off my enemies.

When I had recovered my breath I travelled swiftly on, and waded
knee-deep through several brooks, for it came into my head that
they might follow me with dogs.

On gaining a clear place and looking round me, I found to my
delight that in spite of my adventures I had not been much out of
my way.  Above me towered the peak of Merodal, with its bare and
bold summit shooting out of the groves of dwarf oaks which
shrouded its flanks.

These groves were the continuation of the cover under which I
found myself, and it seemed to me that I had nothing to fear now
until I reached the other side of the forest.  At the same time I
knew that every man's hand was against me, that I was unarmed,
and that there were many people about me.  I saw no one, but
several times I heard shrill whistles, and once the sound of a
gun in the distance.

It was hard work pushing one's way through the bushes, and so I
was glad when I came to the larger trees and found a path which
led between them.  Of course, I was too wise to walk upon it, but
I kept near it and followed its course.  I had gone some
distance, and had, as I imagined, nearly reached the limit of the
wood, when a strange, moaning sound fell upon my ears.  At first
I thought it was the cry of some animal, but then there came
words, of which I only caught the French exclamation, "Mon Dieu!" 
With great caution I advanced in the direction from which the
sound proceeded, and this is what I saw.

On a couch of dried leaves there was stretched a man dressed in
the same grey uniform which I wore myself.

He was evidently horribly wounded, for he held a cloth to his
breast which was crimson with his blood.  A pool had formed all
round his couch, and he lay in a haze of flies, whose buzzing and
droning would certainly have called my attention if his groans
had not come to my ear.

I lay for a moment, fearing some trap, and then, my pity and
loyalty rising above all other feelings, I ran forward and knelt
by his side.  He turned a haggard face upon me, and it was
Duplessis, the man who had gone before me.  It needed but one
glance at his sunken cheeks and glazing eyes to tell me that he
was dying.

"Gerard!" said he; "Gerard!"

I could but look my sympathy, but he, though the life was ebbing
swiftly out of him, still kept his duty before him, like the
gallant gentleman he was.

"The beacon, Gerard!  You will light it?"

"Have you flint and steel?"

"It is here!"

"Then I will light it to-night."

"I die happy to hear you say so.  They shot me, Gerard.

But you will tell the Marshal that I did my best."

"And Cortex?"

"He was less fortunate.  He fell into their hands and died
horribly.  If you see that you cannot get away, Gerard, put a
bullet into your own heart.  Don't die as Cortex did."

I could see that his breath was failing, and I bent low to catch
his words.

"Can you tell me anything which can help me in my task?" I asked.

"Yes, yes; de Pombal.  He will help you.  Trust de Pombal."  With
the words his head fell back and he was dead.

"Trust de Pombal.  It is good advice."  To my amazement a man was
standing at the very side of me.

So absorbed had I been in my comrade's words and intent on his
advice that he had crept up without my observing him.  Now I
sprang to my feet and faced him.  He was a tall, dark fellow,
black-haired, black-eyed, black-bearded, with a long, sad face. 
In his hand he had a wine-bottle and over his shoulder was slung
one of the trabucos or blunderbusses which these fellows bear. 
He made no effort to unsling it, and I understood that this was
the man to whom my dead friend had commended me.

"Alas, he is gone!" said he, bending over Duplessis.

"He fled into the wood after he was shot, but I was fortunate
enough to find where he had fallen and to make his last hours
more easy.  This couch was my making, and I had brought this wine
to slake his thirst."

"Sir," said I, "in the name of France I thank you.  I am but a
colonel of light cavalry, but I am Etienne Gerard, and the name
stands for something in the French army.  May I ask----"

"Yes, sir, I am Aloysius de Pombal, younger brother of the famous
nobleman of that name.  At present I am the first lieutenant in
the band of the guerilla chief who is usually known as Manuelo,
'The Smiler.' "

My word, I clapped my hand to the place where my pistol should
have been, but the man only smiled at the gesture.

"I am his first lieutenant, but I am also his deadly enemy," said
he.  He slipped off his jacket and pulled up his shirt as he
spoke.  "Look at this!" he cried, and he turned upon me a back
which was all scored and lacerated with red and purple weals. 
"This is what 'The Smiler' has done to me, a man with the noblest
blood of Portugal in my veins.  What I will do to 'The Smiler'
you have still to see."

There was such fury in his eyes and in the grin of his white
teeth that I could no longer doubt his truth, with that clotted
and oozing back to corroborate his words.

"I have ten men sworn to stand by me," said he.  "In a few days I
hope to join your army, when I have done my work here.  In the
meanwhile--"  A strange change came over his face, and he
suddenly slung his musket to the front:  "Hold up your hands, you
French hound!" he yelled.  "Up with them, or I blow your head
of!"

You start, my friends!  You stare!  Think, then, how I stared and
started at this sudden ending of our talk.

There was the black muzzle and there the dark, angry eyes behind
it.  What could I do?  I was helpless.  I raised my hands in the
air.  At the same moment voices sounded from all parts of the
wood, there were crying and calling and rushing of many feet.  A
swarm of dreadful figures broke through the green bushes, a dozen
hands seized me, and I, poor, luckless, frenzied I, was a
prisoner once more.  Thank God, there was no pistol which I could
have plucked from my belt and snapped at my own head.  Had I been
armed at that moment I should not be sitting here in this cafe
and telling you these old-world tales.

With grimy, hairy hands clutching me on every side I was led
along the pathway through the wood, the villain de Pombal giving
directions to my Captors.  Four of the brigands carried up the
dead body of Duplessis.

The shadows of evening were already falling when we cleared the
forest and came out upon the mountain-side.

Up this I was driven until we reached the headquarters of the
guerillas, which lay in a cleft close to the summit of the
mountain.  There was the beacon which had cost me so much, a
square stack of wood, immediately above our heads.  Below were
two or three huts which had belonged, no doubt, to goatherds, and
which were now used to shelter these rascals.  Into one of these
I was cast, bound and helpless, and the dead body of my poor
comrade was laid beside me.

I was lying there with the one thought still consuming me, how to
wait a few hours and to get at that pile of fagots above my head,
when the door of my prison opened and a man entered.  Had my
hands been free I should have flown at his throat, for it was
none other than de Pombal.  A couple of brigands were at his
heels, but he ordered them back and closed the door behind him.

"You villain!" said I.

"Hush!" he cried.  "Speak low, for I do not know who may be
listening, and my life is at stake.  I have some words to say to
you, Colonel Gerard; I wish well to you, as I did to your dead
companion.  As I spoke to you beside his body I saw that we were
surrounded, and that your capture was unavoidable.  I should have
shared your fate had I hesitated.  I instantly captured you
myself, so as to preserve the confidence of the band.

Your own sense will tell you that there was nothing else for me
to do.  I do not know now whether I can save you, but at least I
will try."

This was a new light upon the situation.  I told him that I could
not tell how far he spoke the truth, but that I would judge him
by his actions.

"I ask nothing better," said he.  "A word of advice to you!  The
chief will see you now.  Speak him fair, or he will have you sawn
between two planks.  Contradict nothing he says.  Give him such
information as he wants.  It is your only chance.  If you can
gain time something may come in our favour.  Now, I have no more
time.  Come at once, or suspicion may be awakened."

He helped me to rise, and then, opening the door, he dragged me
out very roughly, and with the aid of the fellows outside he
brutally pushed and thrust me to the place where the guerilla
chief was seated, with his rude followers gathered round him.

A remarkable man was Manuelo, "The Smiler."  He was fat and
florid and comfortable, with a big, clean- shaven face and a bald
head, the very model of a kindly father of a family.  As I looked
at his honest smile I could scarcely believe that this was,
indeed, the infamous ruffian whose name was a horror through the
English Army as well as our own.  It is well known that Trent,
who was a British officer, afterward had the fellow hanged for
his brutalities.  He sat upon a boulder and he beamed upon me
like one who meets an old acquaintance.

I observed, however, that one of his men leaned upon a long saw,
and the sight was enough to cure me of all delusions.

"Good evening, Colonel Gerard," said he.  "We have been highly
honoured by General Massena's staff: Major Cortex one day,
Colonel Duplessis the next, and now Colonel Gerard.  Possibly the
Marshal himself may be induced to honour us with a visit.  You
have seen Duplessis, I understand.  Cortex you will find nailed
to a tree down yonder.  It only remains to be decided how we can
best dispose of yourself."

It was not a cheering speech; but all the time his fat face was
wreathed in smiles, and he lisped out his words in the most
mincing and amiable fashion.  Now, however, he suddenly leaned
forward, and I read a very real intensity in his eyes.

"Colonel Gerard," said he, "I cannot promise you your life, for
it is not our custom, but I can give you an easy death or I can
give you a terrible one.  Which shall it be?"

"What do you wish me to do in exchange?"

"If you would die easy I ask you to give me truthful answers to
the questions which I ask."

A sudden thought flashed through my mind.

"You wish to kill me," said I; "it cannot matter to you how I
die.  If I answer your questions, will you let me choose the
manner of my own death?"

"Yes, I will," said he, "so long as it is before midnight
to-night."

"Swear it!" I cried.

"The word of a Portuguese gentleman is sufficient," said he.

"Not a word will I say until you have sworn it."

He flushed with anger and his eyes swept round toward the saw. 
But he understood from my tone that I meant what I said, and that
I was not a man to be bullied into submission.  He pulled a cross
from under his zammara or jacket of black sheepskin.

"I swear it," said he.

Oh, my joy as I heard the words!  What an end-- what an end for
the first swordsman of France!  I could have laughed with delight
at the thought.

"Now, your questions!" said I.

"You swear in turn to answer them truly?"

"I do, upon the honour of a gentleman and a soldier."

It was, as you perceive, a terrible thing that I promised, but
what was it compared to what I might gain by compliance?

"This is a very fair and a very interesting bargain," said he,
taking a note-book from his pocket.

"Would you kindly turn your gaze toward the French camp?"

Following the direction of his gesture, I turned and looked down
upon the camp in the plain beneath us.  In spite of the fifteen
miles, one could in that clear atmosphere see every detail with
the utmost distinctness.

There were the long squares of our tents and our huts, with the
cavalry lines and the dark patches which marked the ten batteries
of artillery.  How sad to think of my magnificent regiment
waiting down yonder, and to know that they would never see their
colonel again!  With one squadron of them I could have swept all
these cut-throats of the face of the earth.  My eager eyes filled
with tears as I looked at the corner of the camp where I knew
that there were eight hundred men, any one of whom would have
died for his colonel.  But my sadness vanished when I saw beyond
the tents the plumes of smoke which marked the headquarters at
Torres Novas.  There was Massena, and, please God, at the cost of
my life his mission would that night be done.  A spasm of pride
and exultation filled my breast.  I should have liked to have had
a voice of thunder that I might call to them, "Behold it is I,
Etienne Gerard, who will die in order to save the army of
Clausel!"  It was, indeed, sad to think that so noble a deed
should be done, and that no one should be there to tell the tale.

"Now," said the brigand chief, "you see the camp and you see also
the road which leads to Coimbra.  It is crowded with your
fourgons and your ambulances.  Does this mean that Massena is
about to retreat?"

One could see the dark moving lines of waggons with an occasional
flash of steel from the escort.  There could, apart from my
promise, be no indiscretion in admitting that which was already
obvious.

"He will retreat," said I.

"By Coimbra?"

"I believe so."

"But the army of Clausel?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Every path to the south is blocked.  No message can reach them. 
If Massena falls back the army of Clausel is doomed."

"It must take its chance," said I.

"How many men has he?"

"I should say about fourteen thousand."

"How much cavalry?"

"One brigade of Montbrun's Division."

"What regiments?"

"The 4th Chasseurs, the 9th Hussars, and a regiment of
Cuirassiers."

"Quite right," said he, looking at his note-book.  "I can tell
you speak the truth, and Heaven help you if you don't."  Then,
division by division, he went over the whole army, asking the
composition of each brigade.

Need I tell you that I would have had my tongue torn out before I
would have told him such things had I not a greater end in view? 
I would let him know all if I could but save the army of Clausel.

At last he closed his note-book and replaced it in his pocket. 
"I am obliged to you for this information, which shall reach Lord
Wellington to-morrow," said he.

"You have done your share of the bargain; it is for me now to
perform mine.  How would you wish to die?  As a soldier you
would, no doubt, prefer to be shot, but some think that a jump
over the Merodal precipice is really an easier death.  A good few
have taken it, but we were, unfortunately, never able to get an
opinion from them afterward.  There is the saw, too, which does
not appear to be popular.  We could hang you, no doubt, but it
would involve the inconvenience of going down to the wood. 
However, a promise is a promise, and you seem to be an excellent
fellow, so we will spare no pains to meet your wishes."

"You said," I answered, "that I must die before midnight.

I will choose, therefore, just one minute before that hour."

"Very good," said he.  "Such clinging to life is rather childish,
but your wishes shall be met."

"As to the method," I added, "I love a death which all the world
can see.  Put me on yonder pile of fagots and burn me alive, as
saints and martyrs have been burned before me.  That is no common
end, but one which an Emperor might envy."

The idea seemed to amuse him very much.  "Why not?" said he.  "If
Massena has sent you to spy upon us, he may guess what the fire
upon the mountain means."

"Exactly," said I.  "You have hit upon my very reason.  He will
guess, and all will know, that I have died a soldier's death."

"I see no objection whatever," said the brigand, with his
abominable smile.  "I will send some goat's flesh and wine into
your hut.  The sun is sinking and it is nearly eight o'clock.  In
four hours be ready for your end."

It was a beautiful world to be leaving.  I looked at the golden
haze below, where the last rays of the sinking sun shone upon the
blue waters of the winding Tagus and gleamed upon the white sails
of the English transports.

Very beautiful it was, and very sad to leave; but there are
things more beautiful than that.  The death that is died for the
sake of others, honour, and duty, and loyalty, and love--these
are the beauties far brighter than any which the eye can see.  My
breast was filled with admiration for my own most noble conduct,
and with wonder whether any soul would ever come to know how I
had placed myself in the heart of the beacon which saved the army
of Clausel.  I hoped so and I prayed so, for what a consolation
it would be to my mother, what an example to the army, what a
pride to my Hussars!  When de Pombal came at last into my hut
with the food and the wine, the first request I made him was that
he would write an account of my death and send it to the French
camp.

He answered not a word, but I ate my supper with a better
appetite from the thought that my glorious fate would not be
altogether unknown.

I had been there about two hours when the door opened again, and
the chief stood looking in.  I was in darkness, but a brigand
with a torch stood beside him, and I saw his eyes and his teeth
gleaming as he peered at me.

"Ready?" he asked.

"It is not yet time."

"You stand out for the last minute?"

"A promise is a promise."

"Very good.  Be it so.  We have a little justice to do among
ourselves, for one of my fellows has been misbehaving.

We have a strict rule of our own which is no respecter of
persons, as de Pombal here could tell you.

Do you truss him and lay him on the faggots, de Pombal, and I
will return to see him die."

De Pombal and the man with the torch entered, while I heard the
steps of the chief passing away.  De Pombal closed the door.

"Colonel Gerard," said he, "you must trust this man, for he is
one of my party.  It is neck or nothing.  We may save you yet. 
But I take a great risk, and I want a definite promise.  If we
save you, will you guarantee that we have a friendly reception in
the French camp and that all the past will be forgotten?"

"I do guarantee it."

"And I trust your honour.  Now, quick, quick, there is not an
instant to lose!  If this monster returns we shall die horribly,
all three."

I stared in amazement at what he did.  Catching up a long rope he
wound it round the body of my dead comrade, and he tied a cloth
round his mouth so as to almost cover his face.

"Do you lie there!" he cried, and he laid me in the place of the
dead body.  "I have four of my men waiting, and they will place
this upon the beacon."  He opened the door and gave an order. 
Several of the brigands entered and bore out Duplessis.  For
myself I remained upon the floor, with my mind in a turmoil of
hope and wonder.

Five minutes later de Pombal and his men were back.

"You are laid upon the beacon," said he; "I defy anyone in the
world to say it is not you, and you are so gagged and bound that
no one can expect you to speak or move.  Now, it only remains to
carry forth the body of Duplessis and to toss it over the Merodal
precipice."

Two of them seized me by the head and two by the heels, and
carried me, stiff and inert, from the hut.  As I came into the
open air I could have cried out in my amazement.  The moon had
risen above the beacon, and there, clear outlined against its
silver light, was the figure of the man stretched upon the top. 
The brigands were either in their camp or standing round the
beacon, for none of them stopped or questioned our little party. 
De Pombal led them in the direction of the precipice.  At the
brow we were out of sight, and there I was allowed to use my feet
once more.  De Pombal pointed to a narrow, winding track.

"This is the way down," said he, and then, suddenly,

"Dios mio, what is that?"

A terrible cry had risen out of the woods beneath us.

I saw that de Pombal was shivering like a frightened horse.

"It is that devil," he whispered.  "He is treating another as he
treated me.  But on, on, for Heaven help us if he lays his hands
upon us."

One by one we crawled down the narrow goat track.

At the bottom of the cliff we were back in the woods once more. 
Suddenly a yellow glare shone above us, and the black shadows of
the tree-trunks started out in front.

They had fired the beacon behind us.  Even from where we stood we
could see that impassive body amid the flames, and the black
figures of the guerillas as they danced, howling like cannibals,
round the pile.  Ha! how I shook my fist at them, the dogs, and
how I vowed that one day my Hussars and I would make the
reckoning level!

De Pombal knew how the outposts were placed and all the paths
which led through the forest.  But to avoid these villains we had
to plunge among the hills and walk for many a weary mile.  And
yet how gladly would I have walked those extra leagues if only
for one sight which they brought to my eyes!  It may have been
two o'clock in the morning when we halted upon the bare shoulder
of a hill over which our path curled.  Looking back we saw the
red glow of the embers of the beacon as if volcanic fires were
bursting from the tall peak of Merodal.  And then, as I gazed, I
saw something else-- something which caused me to shriek with joy
and to fall upon the ground, rolling in my delight.  For, far
away upon the southern horizon, there winked and twinkled one
great yellow light, throbbing and flaming, the light of no house,
the light of no star, but the answering beacon of Mount d'Ossa,
which told that the army of Clausel knew what Etienne Gerard had
been sent to tell them.


V. How the Brigadier Triumphed in England

I have told you, my friends, how I triumphed over the English at
the fox-hunt when I pursued the animal so fiercely that even the
herd of trained dogs was unable to keep up, and alone with my own
hand I put him to the sword.  Perhaps I have said too much of the
matter, but there is a thrill in the triumphs of sport which even
warfare cannot give, for in warfare you share your successes with
your regiment and your army, but in sport it is you yourself
unaided who have won the laurels.  It is an advantage which the
English have over us that in all classes they take great interest
in every form of sport.  It may be that they are richer than we,
or it may be that they are more idle: but I was surprised when I
was a prisoner in that country to observe how widespread was this
feeling, and how much it filled the minds and the lives of the
people.  A horse that will run, a cock that will fight, a dog
that will kill rats, a man that will box--they would turn away
from the Emperor in all his glory in order to look upon any of
these.

I could tell you many stories of English sport, for I saw much of
it during the time that I was the guest of Lord Rufton, after the
order for my exchange had come to England.  There were months
before I could be sent back to France, and during this time I
stayed with this good Lord Rufton at his beautiful house of High
Combe, which is at the northern end of Dartmoor.  He had ridden
with the police when they had pursued me from Princetown, and he
had felt toward me when I was overtaken as I would myself have
felt had I, in my own country, seen a brave and debonair soldier
without a friend to help him.  In a word, he took me to his
house, clad me, fed me, and treated me as if he had been my
brother.  I will say this of the English, that they were always
generous enemies, and very good people with whom to fight.

In the Peninsula the Spanish outposts would present their muskets
at ours, but the British their brandy-flasks.  And of all these
generous men there was none who was the equal of this admirable
milord, who held out so warm a hand to an enemy in distress.

Ah! what thoughts of sport it brings back to me, the very name of
High Combe!  I can see it now, the long, low brick house, warm
and ruddy, with white plaster pillars before the door.  He was a
great sportsman, this Lord Rufton, and all who were about him
were of the same sort.  But you will be pleased to hear that
there were few things in which I could not hold my own, and in
some I excelled.  Behind the house was a wood in which pheasants
were reared, and it was Lord Rufton's joy to kill these birds,
which was done by sending in men to drive them out while he and
his friends stood outside and shot them as they passed.  For my
part, I was more crafty, for I studied the habits of the bird,
and stealing out in the evening I was able to kill a number of
them as they roosted in the trees.  Hardly a single shot was
wasted, but the keeper was attracted by the sound of the firing,
and he implored me in his rough English fashion to spare those
that were left.  That night I was able to place twelve birds as a
surprise upon Lord Rufton's supper- table, and he laughed until
he cried, so overjoyed was he to see them.  "Gad, Gerard, you'll
be the death of me yet!" he cried.  Often he said the same thing,
for at every turn I amazed him by the way in which I entered into
the sports of the English.

There is a game called cricket which they play in the summer, and
this also I learned.  Rudd, the head gardener, was a famous
player of cricket, and so was Lord Rufton himself.  Before the
house was a lawn, and here it was that Rudd taught me the game. 
It is a brave pastime, a game for soldiers, for each tries to
strike the other with the ball, and it is but a small stick with
which you may ward it off.  Three sticks behind show the spot
beyond which you may not retreat.  I can tell you that it is no
game for children, and I will confess that, in spite of my nine
campaigns, I felt myself turn pale when first the ball flashed
past me.  So swift was it that I had not time to raise my stick
to ward it off, but by good fortune it missed me and knocked down
the wooden pins which marked the boundary.  It was for Rudd then
to defend himself and for me to attack.  When I was a boy in
Gascony I learned to throw both far and straight, so that I made
sure that I could hit this gallant Englishman.

With a shout I rushed forward and hurled the ball at him.  It
flew as swift as a bullet toward his ribs, but without a word he
swung his staff and the ball rose a surprising distance in the
air.  Lord Rufton clapped his hands and cheered.  Again the ball
was brought to me, and again it was for me to throw.  This time
it flew past his head, and it seemed to me that it was his turn
to look pale.

But he was a brave man, this gardener, and again he faced me. 
Ah, my friends, the hour of my triumph had come!  It was a red
waistcoat that he wore, and at this I hurled the ball.  You would
have said that I was a gunner, not a hussar, for never was so
straight an aim.  With a despairing cry--the cry of the brave man
who is beaten --he fell upon the wooden pegs behind him, and they
all rolled upon the ground together.  He was cruel, this English
milord, and he laughed so that he could not come to the aid of
his servant.  It was for me, the victor, to rush forward to
embrace this intrepid player, and to raise him to his feet with
words of praise, and encouragement, and hope.  He was in pain and
could not stand erect, yet the honest fellow confessed that there
was no accident in my victory.  "He did it a-purpose!  He did it
a-purpose!"

Again and again he said it.  Yes, it is a great game this
cricket, and I would gladly have ventured upon it again but Lord
Rufton and Rudd said that it was late in the season, and so they
would play no more.

How foolish of me, the old, broken man, to dwell upon these
successes, and yet I will confess that my age has been very much
soothed and comforted by the memory of the women who have loved
me and the men whom I have overcome.  It is pleasant to think
that five years afterward, when Lord Rufton came to Paris after
the peace, he was able to assure me that my name was still a
famous one in the north of Devonshire for the fine exploits that
I had performed.  Especially, he said, they still talked over my
boxing match with the Honourable Baldock.  It came about in this
way.  Of an evening many sportsmen would assemble at the house of
Lord Rufton, where they would drink much wine, make wild bets,
and talk of their horses and their foxes.  How well I remember
those strange creatures.  Sir Barrington, Jack Lupton, of
Barnstable, Colonel Addison, Johnny Miller, Lord Sadler, and my
enemy, the Honourable Baldock.  They were of the same stamp all
of them, drinkers, madcaps, fighters, gamblers, full of strange
caprices and extraordinary whims.  Yet they were kindly fellows
in their rough fashion, save only this Baldock, a fat man, who
prided himself on his skill at the box-fight.  It was he who, by
his laughter against the French because they were ignorant of
sport, caused me to challenge him in the very sport at which he
excelled.  You will say that it was foolish, my friends, but the
decanter had passed many times, and the blood of youth ran hot in
my veins.  I would fight him, this boaster; I would show him that
if we had not skill at least we had courage.  Lord Rufton would
not allow it.  I insisted.  The others cheered me on and slapped
me on the back.  "No, dash it, Baldock, he's our guest," said
Rufton.  "It's his own doing," the other answered.  "Look here,
Rufton, they can't hurt each other if they wear the mawleys,"
cried Lord Sadler.  And so it was agreed.

What the mawleys were I did not know, but presently they brought
out four great puddings of leather, not unlike a fencing glove,
but larger.  With these our hands were covered after we had
stripped ourselves of our coats and our waistcoats.  Then the
table, with the glasses and decanters, was pushed into the corner
of the room, and behold us; face to face!  Lord Sadler sat in the
arm-chair with a watch in his open hand.  "Time!" said he.

I will confess to you, my friends, that I felt at that moment a
tremor such as none of my many duels have ever given me.  With
sword or pistol I am at home, but here I only understood that I
must struggle with this fat Englishman and do what I could, in
spite of these great puddings upon my hands, to overcome him. 
And at the very outset I was disarmed of the best weapon that was
left to me.  "Mind, Gerard, no kicking!" said Lord Rufton in my
ear.  I had only a pair of thin dancing slippers, and yet the man
was fat, and a few well-directed kicks might have left me the
victor.  But there is an etiquette just as there is in fencing,
and I refrained.  I looked at this Englishman and I wondered how
I should attack him.  His ears were large and prominent.  Could I
seize them I might drag him to the ground.  I rushed in, but I
was betrayed by this flabby glove, and twice I lost my hold.  He
struck me, but I cared little for his blows, and again I seized
him by the ear.  He fell, and I rolled upon him and thumped his
head upon the ground.

How they cheered and laughed, these gallant Englishmen, and how
they clapped me on the back!

"Even money on the Frenchman," cried Lord Sadler.

"He fights foul," cried my enemy, rubbing his crimson ears.  "He
savaged me on the ground."

"You must take your chance of that," said Lord Rufton, coldly.

"Time!" cried Lord Sadler, and once again we advanced to the
assault.

He was flushed, and his small eyes were as vicious as those of a
bull-dog.  There was hatred on his face.  For my part I carried
myself lightly and gaily.  A French gentleman fights but he does
not hate.  I drew myself up before him, and I bowed as I have
done in the duello.

There can be grace and courtesy as well as defiance in a bow; I
put all three into this one, with a touch of ridicule in the
shrug which accompanied it.  It was at this moment that he struck
me.  The room spun round me.  I fell upon my back.  But in an
instant I was on my feet again and had rushed to a close combat. 
His ear, his hair, his nose, I seized them each in turn.  Once
again the mad joy of the battle was in my veins.  The old cry of
triumph rose to my lips.  "Vive l'Empereur!" I yelled as I drove
my head into his stomach.  He threw his arm round my neck, and
holding me with one hand he struck me with the other.  I buried
my teeth in his arm, and he shouted with pain.  "Call him off,
Rufton!" he screamed.

"Call him off, man!  He's worrying me!"  They dragged me away
from him.  Can I ever forget it?--the laughter, the cheering, the
congratulations!  Even my enemy bore me no ill-will, for he shook
me by the hand.  For my part I embraced him on each cheek.  Five
years afterward I learned from Lord Rufton that my noble bearing
upon that evening was still fresh in the memory of my English
friends.

It is not, however, of my own exploits in sport that I wish to
speak to you to-night, but it is of the Lady Jane Dacre and the
strange adventure of which she was the cause.  Lady Jane Dacre
was Lord Rufton's sister and the lady of his household.  I fear
that until I came it was lonely for her, since she was a
beautiful and refined woman with nothing in common with those who
were about her.  Indeed, this might be said of many women in the
England of those days, for the men were rude and rough and
coarse, with boorish habits and few accomplishments, while the
women were the most lovely and tender that I have ever known.  We
became great friends, the Lady Jane and I, for it was not
possible for me to drink three bottles of port after dinner like
those Devonshire gentlemen, and so I would seek refuge in her
drawing-room, where evening after evening she would play the
harpsichord and I would sing the songs of my own land.  In those
peaceful moments I would find a refuge from the misery which
filled me, when I reflected that my regiment was left in the
front of the enemy without the chief whom they had learned to
love and to follow.

Indeed, I could have torn my hair when I read in the English
papers of the fine fighting which was going on in Portugal and on
the frontiers of Spain, all of which I had missed through my
misfortune in falling into the hands of Milord Wellington.

From what I have told you of the Lady Jane you will have guessed
what occurred, my friends.  Etienne Gerard is thrown into the
company of a young and beautiful woman.  What must it mean for
him?  What must it mean for her?  It was not for me, the guest,
the captive, to make love to the sister of my host.  But I was
reserved.

I was discreet.  I tried to curb my own emotions and to
discourage hers.  For my own part I fear that I betrayed myself,
for the eye becomes more eloquent when the tongue is silent. 
Every quiver of my fingers as I turned over her music-sheets told
her my secret.  But she--she was admirable.  It is in these
matters that women have a genius for deception.  If I had not
penetrated her secret I should often have thought that she forgot
even that I was in the house.  For hours she would sit lost in a
sweet melancholy, while I admired her pale face and her curls in
the lamp-light, and thrilled within me to think that I had moved
her so deeply.  Then at last I would speak, and she would start
in her chair and stare at me with the most admirable pretence of
being surprised to find me in the room.  Ah! how I longed to hurl
myself suddenly at her feet, to kiss her white hand, to assure
her that I had surprised her secret and that I would not abuse
her confidence.

But no, I was not her equal, and I was under her roof as a
castaway enemy.  My lips were sealed.  I endeavoured to imitate
her own wonderful affectation of indifference, but, as you may
think?  I was eagerly alert for any opportunity of serving her.

One morning Lady Jane had driven in her phaeton to Okehampton,
and I strolled along the road which led to that place in the hope
that I might meet her on her return.

It was the early winter, and banks of fading fern sloped down to
the winding road.  It is a bleak place this Dartmoor, wild and
rocky--a country of wind and mist.

I felt as I walked that it is no wonder Englishmen should suffer
from the spleen.  My own heart was heavy within me, and I sat
upon a rock by the wayside looking out on the dreary view with my
thoughts full of trouble and foreboding.  Suddenly, however, as I
glanced down the road, I saw a sight which drove everything else
from my mind, and caused me to leap to my feet with a cry of
astonishment and anger.

Down the curve of the road a phaeton was coming, the pony tearing
along at full gallop.  Within was the very lady whom I had come
to meet.  She lashed at the pony like one who endeavours to
escape from some pressing danger, glancing ever backward over her
shoulder.  The bend of the road concealed from me what it was
that had alarmed her, and I ran forward not knowing what to
expect.

The next instant I saw the pursuer, and my amazement was
increased at the sight.  It was a gentleman in the red coat of an
English fox-hunter, mounted on a great grey horse.  He was
galloping as if in a race, and the long stride of the splendid
creature beneath him soon brought him up to the lady's flying
carriage.  I saw him stoop and seize the reins of the pony, so as
to bring it to a halt.  The next instant he was deep in talk with
the lady, he bending forward in his saddle and speaking eagerly,
she shrinking away from him as if she feared and loathed him.

You may think, my dear friends, that this was not a sight at
which I could calmly gaze.  How my heart thrilled within me to
think that a chance should have been given to me to serve the
Lady Jane!  I ran--oh, good Lord, how I ran!  At last,
breathless, speechless, I reached the phaeton.  The man glanced
up at me with his blue English eyes, but so deep was he in his
talk that he paid no heed to me, nor did the lady say a word. 
She still leaned back, her beautiful pale face gazing up at him. 
He was a good-looking fellow--tall, and strong, and brown; a pang
of jealousy seized me as I looked at him.  He was talking low and
fast, as the English do when they are in earnest.

"I tell you, Jinny, it's you and only you that I love," said he. 
"Don't bear malice, Jinny.  Let by-gones be by-gones.  Come now,
say it's all over."

"No, never, George, never!" she cried.

A dusky red suffused his handsome face.  The man was furious.

"Why can't you forgive me, Jinny?"

"I can't forget the past."

"By George, you must!  I've asked enough.  It's time to order
now.  I'll have my rights, d'ye hear?"  His hand closed upon her
wrist.

At last my breath had returned to me.

"Madame," I said, as I raised my hat, "do I intrude, or is there
any possible way in which I can be of service to you?"

But neither of them minded me any more than if I had been a fly
who buzzed between them.  Their eyes were locked together.

"I'll have my rights, I tell you.  I've waited long enough."

"There's no use bullying, George."

"Do you give in?"

"No, never!"

"Is that your final answer?"

"Yes, it is."

He gave a bitter curse and threw down her hand.

"All right, my lady, we'll see about this."

"Excuse me, sir!" said I, with dignity.

"Oh, go to blazes!" he cried, turning on me with his furious
face.  The next instant he had spurred his horse and was
galloping down the road once more.

Lady Jane gazed after him until he was out of sight, and I was
surprised to see that her face wore a smile and not a frown. 
Then she turned to me and held out her hand.

"You are very kind, Colonel Gerard.  You meant well, I am sure."

"Madame," said I, "if you can oblige me with the gentleman's name
and address I will arrange that he shall never trouble you
again."

"No scandal, I beg of you," she cried.

"Madame, I could not so far forget myself.  Rest assured that no
lady's name would ever be mentioned by me in the course of such
an incident.  In bidding me to go to blazes this gentleman has
relieved me from the embarrassment of having to invent a cause of
quarrel."

"Colonel Gerard," said the lady, earnestly, "you must give me
your word as a soldier and a gentleman that this matter goes no
farther, and also that you will say nothing to my brother about
what you have seen.  Promise me!"

"If I must."

"I hold you to your word.  Now drive with me to High Combe, and I
will explain as we go."

The first words of her explanation went into me like a
sabre-point.

"That gentleman," said she, "is my husband."

"Your husband!"

"You must have known that I was married."  She seemed surprised
at my agitation.

"I did not know."

"This is Lord George Dacre.  We have been married two years. 
There is no need to tell you how he wronged me.  I left him and
sought a refuge under my brother's roof.  Up till to-day he has
left me there unmolested.

What I must above all things avoid is the chance of a duel
betwixt my husband and my brother.  It is horrible to think of. 
For this reason Lord Rufton must know nothing of this chance
meeting of to-day."

"If my pistol could free you from this annoyance ----"

"No, no, it is not to be thought of.  Remember your promise,
Colonel Gerard.  And not a word at High Combe of what you have
seen!"

Her husband!  I had pictured in my mind that she was a young
widow.  This brown-faced brute with his "go to blazes" was the
husband of this tender dove of a woman.  Oh, if she would but
allow me to free her from so odious an encumbrance!  There is no
divorce so quick and certain as that which I could give her.  But
a promise is a promise, and I kept it to the letter.  My mouth
was sealed.

In a week I was to be sent back from Plymouth to St. Malo, and it
seemed to me that I might never hear the sequel of the story. 
And yet it was destined that it should have a sequel and that I
should play a very pleasing and honourable part in it.


It was only three days after the event which I have described
when Lord Rufton burst hurriedly into my room.

His face was pale and his manner that of a man in extreme
agitation.

"Gerard," he cried, "have you seen Lady Jane Dacre?"

I had seen her after breakfast and it was now mid-day.

"By Heaven, there's villainy here!" cried my poor friend, rushing
about like a madman.  "The bailiff has been up to say that a
chaise and pair were seen driving full split down the Tavistock
Road.  The blacksmith heard a woman scream as it passed his
forge.  Jane has disappeared.  By the Lord, I believe that she
has been kidnapped by this villain Dacre."  He rang the bell
furiously.  "Two horses, this instant!" he cried.  "Colonel
Gerard, your pistols!  Jane comes back with me this night from
Gravel Hanger or there will be a new master in High Combe Hall."

Behold us then within half an hour, like two knight- errants of
old, riding forth to the rescue of this lady in distress.  It was
near Tavistock that Lord Dacre lived, and at every house and
toll-gate along the road we heard the news of the flying
post-chaise in front of us, so there could be no doubt whither
they were bound.  As we rode Lord Rufton told me of the man whom
we were pursuing.

His name, it seems, was a household word throughout all England
for every sort of mischief.  Wine, women, dice, cards, racing--in
all forms of debauchery he had earned for himself a terrible
name.  He was of an old and noble family, and it had been hoped
that he had sowed his wild oats when he married the beautiful
Lady Jane Rufton.

For some months he had indeed behaved well, and then he had
wounded her feelings in their most tender part by some unworthy
liaison.  She had fled from his house and taken refuge with her
brother, from whose care she had now been dragged once more,
against her will.  I ask you if two men could have had a fairer
errand than that upon which Lord Rufton and myself were riding.

"That's Gravel Hanger," he cried at last, pointing with his crop,
and there on the green side of a hill was an old brick and timber
building as beautiful as only an English country-house can be. 
"There's an inn by the park-gate, and there we shall leave our
horses," he added.

For my own part it seemed to me that with so just a cause we
should have done best to ride boldly up to his door and summon
him to surrender the lady.  But there I was wrong.  For the one
thing which every Englishman fears is the law.  He makes it
himself, and when he has once made it it becomes a terrible
tyrant before whom the bravest quails.  He will smile at breaking
his neck, but he will turn pale at breaking the law.  It seems,
then, from what Lord Rufton told me as we walked through the
park, that we were on the wrong side of the law in this matter. 
Lord Dacre was in the right in carrying off his wife, since she
did indeed belong to him, and our own position now was nothing
better than that of burglars and trespassers.  It was not for
burglars to openly approach the front door.  We could take the
lady by force or by craft, but we could not take her by right,
for the law was against us.  This was what my friend explained to
me as we crept up toward the shelter of a shrubbery which was
close to the windows of the house.  Thence we could examine this
fortress, see whether we could effect a lodgment in it, and,
above all, try to establish some communication with the beautiful
prisoner inside.

There we were, then, in the shrubbery, Lord Rufton and I, each
with a pistol in the pockets of our riding coats, and with the
most resolute determination in our hearts that we should not
return without the lady.

Eagerly we scanned every window of the wide-spread house.

Not a sign could we see of the prisoner or of anyone else; but on
the gravel drive outside the door were the deep- sunk marks of
the wheels of the chaise.  There was no doubt that they had
arrived.  Crouching among the laurel bushes we held a whispered
council of wary but a singular interruption brought it to an end.

Out of the door of the house there stepped a tall, flaxen- haired
man, such a figure as one would choose for the flank of a
Grenadier company.  As he turned his brown face and his blue eyes
toward us I recognised Lord Dacre.

With long strides he came down the gravel path straight for the
spot where we lay.

"Come out, Ned!" he shouted; "you'll have the game- keeper
putting a charge of shot into you.  Come out, man, and don't
skulk behind the bushes."

It was not a very heroic situation for us.  My poor friend rose
with a crimson face.  I sprang to my feet also and bowed with
such dignity as I could muster.

"Halloa! it's the Frenchman, is it?" said he, without returning
my bow.  "I've got a crow to pluck with him already.  As to you,
Ned, I knew you would be hot on our scent, and so I was looking
out for you.  I saw you cross the park and go to ground in the
shrubbery.  Come in, man, and let us have all the cards on the
table."

He seemed master of the situation, this handsome giant of a man,
standing at his ease on his own ground while we slunk out of our
hiding-place.  Lord Rufton had said not a word, but I saw by his
darkened brow and his sombre eyes that the storm was gathering. 
Lord Dacre led the way into the house, and we followed close at
his heels.

He ushered us himself into an oak-panelled sitting-room, closing
the door behind us.  Then he looked me up and down with insolent
eyes.

"Look here, Ned," said he, "time was when an English family could
settle their own affairs in their own way.

What has this foreign fellow got to do with your sister and my
wife?"

"Sir," said I, "permit me to point out to you that this is not a
case merely of a sister or a wife, but that I am the friend of
the lady in question, and that I have the privilege which every
gentleman possesses of protecting a woman against brutality.  It
is only by a gesture that I can show you what I think of you."  I
had my riding glove in my hand, and I flicked him across the face
with it.  He drew back with a bitter smile and his eyes were as
hard as flint.

"So you've brought your bully with you, Ned?" said he.  "You
might at least have done your fighting yourself, if it must come
to a fight."

"So I will," cried Lord Rufton.  "Here and now."

"When I've killed this swaggering Frenchman," said Lord Dacre. 
He stepped to a side table and opened a brass-bound case.  "By
Gad," said he, "either that man or I go out of this room feet
foremost.  I meant well by you, Ned; I did, by George, but I'll
shoot this led- captain of yours as sure as my name's George
Dacre.

Take your choice of pistols, sir, and shoot across this table. 
The barkers are loaded.  Aim straight and kill me if you can, for
by the Lord if you don't, you're done."

In vain Lord Rufton tried to take the quarrel upon himself.  Two
things were clear in my mind--one that the Lady Jane had feared
above all things that her husband and brother should fight, the
other that if I could but kill this big milord, then the whole
question would be settled forever in the best way.  Lord Rufton
did not want him.  Lady Jane did not want him.  Therefore, I,
Etienne Gerard, their friend, would pay the debt of gratitude
which I owed them by freeing them of this encumbrance.  But,
indeed, there was no choice in the matter, for Lord Dacre was as
eager to put a bullet into me as I could be to do the same
service to him.  In vain Lord Rufton argued and scolded.  The
affair must continue.

"Well, if you must fight my guest instead of myself, let it be
to-morrow morning with two witnesses," he cried, at last; "this
is sheer murder across the table."

"But it suits my humour, Ned," said Lord Dacre.

"And mine, sir," said I.

"Then I'll have nothing to do with it," cried Lord Rufton.  "I
tell you, George, if you shoot Colonel Gerard under these
circumstances you'll find yourself in the dock instead of on the
bench.  I won't act as second, and that's flat."

"Sir," said I, "I am perfectly prepared to proceed without a
second."

"That won't do.  It's against the law," cried Lord Dacre.  "Come,
Ned, don't be a fool.  You see we mean to fight.  Hang it, man,
all I want you to do is to drop a handkerchief."

"I'll take no part in it."

"Then I must find someone who will," said Lord Dacre.

He threw a cloth over the pistols which lay upon the table, and
he rang the bell.  A footman entered.  "Ask Colonel Berkeley if
he will step this way.  You will find him in the billiard-room."

A moment later there entered a tall thin Englishman with a great
moustache, which was a rare thing amid that clean-shaven race.  I
have heard since that they were worn only by the Guards and the
Hussars.  This Colonel Berkeley was a guardsman.  He seemed a
strange, tired, languid, drawling creature with a long black
cigar thrusting out, like a pole from a bush, amidst that immense
moustache.  He looked from one to the other of us with true
English phlegm, and he betrayed not the slightest surprise when
he was told our intention.

"Quite so," said he; "quite so."

"I refuse to act, Colonel Berkeley," cried Lord Rufton.

"Remember, this duel cannot proceed without you, and I hold you
personally responsible for anything that happens."

This Colonel Berkeley appeared to be an authority upon the
question, for he removed the cigar from his mouth and he laid
down the law in his strange, drawling voice.

"The circumstances are unusual but not irregular, Lord Rufton,"
said he.  "This gentleman has given a blow and this other
gentleman has received it.  That is a clear issue.  Time and
conditions depend upon the person who demands satisfaction.  Very
good.  He claims it here and now, across the table.  He is acting
within his rights.  I am prepared to accept the responsibility."

There was nothing more to be said.  Lord Rufton sat moodily in
the corner with his brows drawn down and his hands thrust deep
into the pockets of his riding-breeches.

Colonel Berkeley examined the two pistols and laid them both in
the centre of the table.  Lord Dacre was at one end and I at the
other, with eight feet of shining mahogany between us.  On the
hearth-rug with his back to the fire, stood the tall colonel, his
handkerchief in his left hand, his cigar between two fingers of
his right.

"When I drop the handkerchief," said he, "you will pick up your
pistols and you will fire at your own convenience.

Are you ready?"

"Yes," we cried.

His hand opened and the handkerchief fell.  I bent swiftly
forward and seized a pistol, but the table, as I have said, was
eight feet across, and it was easier for this long-armed milord
to reach the pistols than it was for me.

I had not yet drawn myself straight before he fired, and to this
it was that I owe my life.  His bullet would have blown out my
brains had I been erect.  As it was it whistled through my curls. 
At the same instant, just as I threw up my own pistol to fire,
the door flew open and a pair of arms were thrown round me.  It
was the beautiful, flushed, frantic face of Lady Jane which
looked up into mine.

"You sha'n't fire!  Colonel Gerard, for my sake don't fire," she
cried.  "It is a mistake, I tell you, a mistake, a mistake!  He
is the best and dearest of husbands.  Never again shall I leave
his side."  Her hands slid down my arm and closed upon my pistol.

"Jane, Jane," cried Lord Rufton; "come with me.

You should not be here.  Come away."

"It is all confoundedly irregular," said Colonel Berkeley.

"Colonel Gerard, you won't fire, will you?  My heart would break
if he were hurt."

"Hang it all, Jinny, give the fellow fair play," cried Lord
Dacre.  "He stood my fire like a man, and I won't see him
interfered with.  Whatever happens I can't get worse than I
deserve."

But already there had passed between me and the lady a quick
glance of the eyes which told her everything.

Her hands slipped from my arm.  "I leave my husband's life and my
own happiness to Colonel Gerard," said she.

How well she knew me, this admirable woman!  I stood for an
instant irresolute, with the pistol cocked in my hand.  My
antagonist faced me bravely, with no blenching of his sunburnt
face and no flinching of his bold, blue eyes.

"Come, come, sir, take your shot!" cried the colonel from the
mat.

"Let us have it, then," said Lord Dacre.

I would, at least, show them how completely his life was at the
mercy of my skill.  So much I owed to my own self-respect.  I
glanced round for a mark.  The colonel was looking toward my
antagonist, expecting to see him drop.  His face was sideways to
me, his long cigar projecting from his lips with an inch of ash
at the end of it.

Quick as a flash I raised my pistol and fired.

"Permit me to trim your ash, sir," said I, and I bowed with a
grace which is unknown among these islanders.

I am convinced that the fault lay with the pistol and not with my
aim.  I could hardly believe my own eyes when I saw that I had
snapped off the cigar within half an inch of his lips.  He stood
staring at me with the ragged stub of the cigar-end sticking out
from his singed mustache.  I can see him now with his foolish,
angry eyes and his long, thin, puzzled face.  Then he began to
talk.  I have always said that the English are not really a
phlegmatic or a taciturn nation if you stir them out of their
groove.  No one could have talked in a more animated way than
this colonel.  Lady Jane put her hands over her ears.

"Come, come, Colonel Berkeley," said Lord Dacre, sternly, "you
forget yourself.  There is a lady in the room."

The colonel gave a stiff bow.

"If Lady Dacre will kindly leave the room," said he,

"I will be able to tell this infernal little Frenchman what I
think of him and his monkey tricks."

I was splendid at that moment, for I ignored the words that he
had said and remembered only the extreme provocation.

"Sir," said I, "I freely offer you my apologies for this unhappy
incident.  I felt that if I did not discharge my pistol Lord
Dacre's honour might feel hurt, and yet it was quite impossible
for me, after hearing what this lady has said, to aim it at her
husband.  I looked round for a mark, therefore, and I had the
extreme misfortune to blow your cigar out of your mouth when my
intention had merely been to snuff the ash.  I was betrayed by my
pistol.  This is my explanation, sir, and if after listening to
my apologies you still feel that I owe you satisfaction, I need
not say that it is a request which I am unable to refuse."

It was certainly a charming attitude which I had assumed, and it
won the hearts of all of them.  Lord Dacre stepped forward and
wrung me by the hand.  "By George, sir," said he, "I never
thought to feel toward a Frenchman as I do to you.  You're a man
and a gentleman, and I can't say more."  Lord Rufton said
nothing, but his hand-grip told me all that he thought.  Even
Colonel Berkeley paid me a compliment, and declared that he would
think no more about the unfortunate cigar.

And she--ah, if you could have seen the look she gave me, the
flushed cheek, the moist eye, the tremulous lip!

When I think of my beautiful Lady Jane it is at that moment that
I recall her.  They would have had me stay to dinner, but you
will understand, my friends, that this was no time for either
Lord Rufton or myself to remain at Gravel Hanger.  This
reconciled couple desired only to be alone.  In the chaise he had
persuaded her of his sincere repentance, and once again they were
a loving husband and wife.  If they were to remain so it was best
perhaps that I should go.  Why should I unsettle this domestic
peace?  Even against my own will my mere presence and appearance
might have their effect upon the lady.  No, no, I must tear
myself away--even her persuasions were unable to make me stop. 
Years afterward I heard that the household of the Dacres was
among the happiest in the whole country, and that no cloud had
ever come again to darken their lives.  Yet I dare say if he
could have seen into his wife's mind--but there, I say no more! 
A lady's secret is her own, and I fear that she and it are buried
long years ago in some Devonshire churchyard.  Perhaps all that
gay circle are gone and the Lady Jane only lives now in the
memory of an old half-pay French brigadier.  He at least can
never forget.



VI. How the Brigadier Rode to Minsk

I would have a stronger wine to-night, my friends, a wine of
Burgundy rather than of Bordeaux.  It is that my heart, my old
soldier heart, is heavy within me.  It is a strange thing, this
age which creeps upon one.  One does not know, one does not
understand; the spirit is ever the same, and one does not
remember how the poor body crumbles.  But there comes a moment
when it is brought home, when quick as the sparkle of a whirling
sabre it is clear to us, and we see the men we were and the men
we are.  Yes, yes, it was so to-day, and I would have a wine of
Burgundy to-night.  White Burgundy--Montrachet --Sir, I am your
debtor!

It was this morning in the Champ de Mars.  Your pardon, friends,
while an old man tells his trouble.  You saw the review.  Was it
not splendid?  I was in the enclosure for veteran officers who
have been decorated.

This ribbon on my breast was my passport.  The cross itself I
keep at home in a leathern pouch.  They did us honour, for we
were placed at the saluting point, with the Emperor and the
carriages of the Court upon our right.

It is years since I have been to a review, for I cannot approve
of many things which I have seen.  I do not approve of the red
breeches of the infantry.  It was in white breeches that the
infantry used to fight.  Red is for the cavalry.  A little more,
and they would ask our busbies and our spurs!  Had I been seen at
a review they might well have said that I, Etienne Gerard, had
condoned it.  So I have stayed at home.  But this war of the
Crimea is different.  The men go to battle.

It is not for me to be absent when brave men gather.

My faith, they march well, those little infantrymen!

They are not large, but they are very solid and they carry
themselves well.  I took off my hat to them as they passed.  Then
there came the guns.  They were good guns, well horsed and well
manned.  I took off my hat to them.  Then came the Engineers, and
to them also I took off my hat.  There are no braver men than the
Engineers.  Then came the cavalry, Lancers, Cuirassiers,
Chasseurs, and Spahis.  To all of them in turn I was able to take
off my hat, save only to the Spahis.

The Emperor had no Spahis.  But when all of the others had
passed, what think you came at the close?  A brigade of Hussars,
and at the charge!

Oh, my friends, the pride and the glory and the beauty, the flash
and the sparkle, the roar of the hoofs and the jingle of chains,
the tossing manes, the noble heads, the rolling cloud, and the
dancing waves of steel!  My heart drummed to them as they passed. 
And the last of all, was it not my own old regiment?  My eyes
fell upon the grey and silver dolmans, with the leopard-skin
shabraques, and at that instant the years fell away from me and I
saw my own beautiful men and horses, even as they had swept
behind their young colonel, in the pride of our youth and our
strength, just forty years ago.  Up flew my cane.  "Chargez! En
avant!  Vive l'Empereur!"

It was the past calling to the present.  But oh, what a thin,
piping voice!  Was this the voice that had once thundered from
wing to wing of a strong brigade?  And the arm that could scarce
wave a cane, were these the muscles of fire and steel which had
no match in all Napoleon's mighty host?  They smiled at me.  They
cheered me.  The Emperor laughed and bowed.  But to me the
present was a dim dream, and what was real were my eight hundred
dead Hussars and the Etienne of long ago.

Enough--a brave man can face age and fate as he faced Cossacks
and Uhlans.  But there are times when Montrachet is better than
the wine of Bordeaux.

It is to Russia that they go, and so I will tell you a story of
Russia.  Ah, what an evil dream of the night it seems!  Blood and
ice.  Ice and blood.  Fierce faces with snow upon the whiskers. 
Blue hands held out for succour.  And across the great white
plain the one long black line of moving figures, trudging,
trudging, a hundred miles, another hundred, and still always the
same white plain.  Sometimes there were fir-woods to limit it,
sometimes it stretched away to the cold blue sky, but the black
line stumbled on and on.  Those weary, ragged, starving men, the
spirit frozen out of them, looked neither to right nor left, but
with sunken faces and rounded backs trailed onward and ever
onward, making for France as wounded beasts make for their lair. 
There was no speaking, and you could scarce hear the shuffle of
feet in the snow.  Once only I heard them laugh.  It was outside
Wilna, when an aide-de-camp rode up to the head of that dreadful
column and asked if that were the Grand Army.  All who were
within hearing looked round, and when they saw those broken men,
those ruined regiments, those fur-capped skeletons who were once
the Guard, they laughed, and the laugh crackled down the column
like a feu de joie.  I have heard many a groan and cry and scream
in my life, but nothing so terrible as the laugh of the Grand
Army.

But why was it that these helpless men were not destroyed by the
Russians?  Why was it that they were not speared by the Cossacks
or herded into droves, and driven as prisoners into the heart of
Russia?  On every side as you watched the black snake winding
over the snow you saw also dark, moving shadows which came and
went like cloud drifts on either flank and behind.  They were the
Cossacks, who hung round us like wolves round the flock.

But the reason why they did not ride in upon us was that all the
ice of Russia could not cool the hot hearts of some of our
soldiers.  To the end there were always those who were ready to
throw themselves between these savages and their prey.  One man
above all rose greater as the danger thickened, and won a higher
name amid disaster than he had done when he led our van to
victory.  To him I drink this glass--to Ney, the red-maned Lion,
glaring back over his shoulder at the enemy who feared to tread
too closely on his heels.  I can see him now, his broad white
face convulsed with fury, his light blue eyes sparkling like
flints, his great voice roaring and crashing amid the roll of the
musketry.  His glazed and featherless cocked hat was the ensign
upon which France rallied during those dreadful days.

It is well known that neither I nor the regiment of Hussars of
Conflans were at Moscow.  We were left behind on the lines of
communication at Borodino.  How the Emperor could have advanced
without us is incomprehensible to me, and, indeed, it was only
then that I understood that his judgment was weakening and that
he was no longer the man that he had been.  However, a soldier
has to obey orders, and so I remained at this village, which was
poisoned by the bodies of thirty thousand men who had lost their
lives in the great battle.  I spent the late autumn in getting my
horses into condition and reclothing my men, so that when the
army fell back on Borodino my Hussars were the best of the
cavalry, and were placed under Ney in the rear-guard.

What could he have done without us during those dreadful days? 
"Ah, Gerard," said he one evening-- but it is not for me to
repeat the words.  Suffice it that he spoke what the whole army
felt.  The rear-guard covered the army and the Hussars of
Conflans covered the rear-guard.  There was the whole truth in a
sentence.

Always the Cossacks were on us.  Always we held them off.  Never
a day passed that we had not to wipe our sabres.  That was
soldiering indeed.

But there came a time between Wilna and Smolensk when the
situation became impossible.  Cossacks and even cold we could
fight, but we could not fight hunger as well.  Food must be got
at all costs.  That night Ney sent for me to the waggon in which
he slept.  His great head was sunk on his hands.  Mind and body
he was wearied to death.

"Colonel Gerard," said he, "things are going very badly with us. 
The men are starving.  We must have food at all costs."

"The horses," I suggested.

"Save your handful of cavalry; there are none left."

"The band," said I.

He laughed, even in his despair.

"Why the band?" he asked.

"Fighting men are of value."

"Good," said he.  "You would play the game down to the last card
and so would I.  Good, Gerard, good!"

He clasped my hand in his.  "But there is one chance for us yet,
Gerard."  He unhooked a lantern from the roof of the waggon and
he laid it on a map which was stretched before him.  "To the
south of us," said he, "there lies the town of Minsk.  I have
word from a Russian deserter that much corn has been stored in
the town- hall.  I wish you to take as many men as you think
best, set forth for Minsk, seize the corn, load any carts which
you may collect in the town, and bring them to me between here
and Smolensk.  If you fail it is but a detachment cut off.  If
you succeed it is new life to the army."

He had not expressed himself well, for it was evident that if we
failed it was not merely the loss of a detachment.  It is quality
as well as quantity which counts.

And yet how honourable a mission and how glorious a risk!  If
mortal men could bring it, then the corn should come from Minsk. 
I said so, and spoke a few burning words about a brave man's duty
until the Marshal was so moved that he rose and, taking me
affectionately by the shoulders, pushed me out of the waggon.

It was clear to me that in order to succeed in my enterprise I
should take a small force and depend rather upon surprise than
upon numbers.  A large body could not conceal itself, would have
great difficulty in getting food, and would cause all the
Russians around us to concentrate for its certain destruction. 
On the other hand, if a small body of cavalry could get past the
Cossacks unseen it was probable that they would find no troops to
oppose them, for we knew that the main Russian army was several
days' march behind us.  This corn was meant, no doubt, for their
consumption.  A squadron of Hussars and thirty Polish Lancers
were all whom I chose for the venture.  That very night we rode
out of the camp, and struck south in the direction of Minsk.

Fortunately there was but a half moon, and we were able to pass
without being attacked by the enemy.  Twice we saw great fires
burning amid the snow, and around them a thick bristle of long
poles.  These were the lances of Cossacks, which they had stood
upright while they slept.  It would have been a great joy to us
to have charged in amongst them, for we had much to revenge, and
the eyes of my comrades looked longingly from me to those red
flickering patches in the darkness.  My faith, I was sorely
tempted to do it, for it would have been a good lesson to teach
them that they must keep a few miles between themselves and a
French army.  It is the essence of good generalship, however, to
keep one thing before one at a time, and so we rode silently on
through the snow, leaving these Cossack bivouacs to right and
left.  Behind us the black sky was all mottled with a line of
flame which showed where our own poor wretches were trying to
keep themselves alive for another day of misery and starvation.

All night we rode slowly onward, keeping our horses' tails to the
Pole Star.  There were many tracks in the snow, and we kept to
the line of these, that no one might remark that a body of
cavalry had passed that way.

These are the little precautions which mark the experienced
officer.  Besides, by keeping to the tracks we were most likely
to find the villages, and only in the villages could we hope to
get food.  The dawn of day found us in a thick fir-wood, the
trees so loaded with snow that the light could hardly reach us. 
When we had found our way out of it it was full daylight, the rim
of the rising sun peeping over the edge of the great snow-plain
and turning it crimson from end to end.  I halted my Hussars and
Lancers under the shadow of the wood, and I studied the country. 
Close to us there was a small farm-house.  Beyond, at the
distance of several miles, was a village.  Far away on the
sky-line rose a considerable town all bristling with church
towers.  This must be Minsk.  In no direction could I see any
signs of troops.  It was evident that we had passed through the
Cossacks and that there was nothing between us and our goal.  A
joyous shout burst from my men when I told them our position, and
we advanced rapidly toward the village.

I have said, however, that there was a small farm- house
immediately in front of us.  As we rode up to it I observed that
a fine grey horse with a military saddle was tethered by the
door.  Instantly I galloped forward, but before I could reach it
a man dashed out of the door, flung himself on to the horse, and
rode furiously away, the crisp, dry snow flying up in a cloud
behind him.  The sunlight gleamed upon his gold epaulettes, and I
knew that he was a Russian officer.  He would raise the whole
country-side if we did not catch him.  I put spurs to Violette
and flew after him.  My troopers followed; but there was no horse
among them to compare with Violette, and I knew well that if I
could not catch the Russian I need expect no help from them.

But it is a swift horse indeed and a skilful rider who can hope
to escape from Violette with Etienne Gerard in the saddle.  He
rode well, this young Russian, and his mount was a good one, but
gradually we wore him down.

His face glanced continually over his shoulder--dark, handsome
face, with eyes like an eagle--and I saw as I closed with him
that he was measuring the distance between us.  Suddenly he half
turned; there were a flash and a crack as his pistol bullet
hummed past my ear.

Before he could draw his sword I was upon him; but he still
spurred his horse, and the two galloped together over the plain,
I with my leg against the Russian's and my left hand upon his
right shoulder.  I saw his hand fly up to his mouth.  Instantly I
dragged him across my pommel and seized him by the throat, so
that he could not swallow.  His horse shot from under him, but I
held him fast and Violette came to a stand.  Sergeant Oudin of
the Hussars was the first to join us.  He was an old soldier, and
he saw at a glance what I was after.

"Hold tight, Colonel," said he, "I'll do the rest."

He slipped out his knife, thrust the blade between the clenched
teeth of the Russian, and turned it so as to force his mouth
open.  There, on his tongue, was the little wad of wet paper
which he had been so anxious to swallow.  Oudin picked it out and
I let go of the man's throat.  From the way in which, half
strangled as he was, he glanced at the paper I was sure that it
was a message of extreme importance.  His hands twitched as if he
longed to snatch it from me.  He shrugged his shoulders, however,
and smiled good-humouredly when I apologised for my roughness.

"And now to business," said I, when he had done coughing and
hawking.  "What is your name?"

"Alexis Barakoff."

"Your rank and regiment?"

"Captain of the Dragoons of Grodno."

"What is this note which you were carrying?"

"It is a line which I had written to my sweetheart."

"Whose name," said I, examining the address, "is the Hetman
Platoff.  Come, come, sir, this is an important military
document, which you are carrying from one general to another. 
Tell me this instant what it is."

"Read it and then you will know."  He spoke perfect French, as do
most of the educated Russians.  But he knew well that there is
not one French officer in a thousand who knows a word of Russian. 
The inside of the note contained one single line, which ran like
this:--

"Pustj Franzuzy pridutt v Minsk.  Min gotovy."

I stared at it, and I had to shake my head.  Then I showed it to
my Hussars, but they could make nothing of it.  The Poles were
all rough fellows who could not read or write, save only the
sergeant, who came from Memel, in East Prussia, and knew no
Russian.  It was maddening, for I felt that I had possession of
some important secret upon which the safety of the army might
depend, and yet I could make no sense of it.  Again I entreated
our prisoner to translate it, and offered him his freedom if he
would do so.  He only smiled at my request.

I could not but admire him, for it was the very smile which I
should have myself smiled had I been in his position.

"At least," said I, "tell us the name of this village."

"It is Dobrova."

"And that is Minsk over yonder, I suppose."

"Yes, that is Minsk."

"Then we shall go to the village and we shall very soon find some
one who will translate this despatch."

So we rode onward together, a trooper with his carbine unslung on
either side of our prisoner.  The village was but a little place,
and I set a guard at the ends of the single street, so that no
one could escape from it.  It was necessary to call a halt and to
find some food for the men and horses, since they had travelled
all night and had a long journey still before them.

There was one large stone house in the centre of the village, and
to this I rode.  It was the house of the priest --a snuffy and
ill-favoured old man who had not a civil answer to any of our
questions.  An uglier fellow I never met, but, my faith, it was
very different with his only daughter, who kept house for him. 
She was a brunette, a rare thing in Russia, with creamy skin,
raven hair, and a pair of the most glorious dark eyes that ever
kindled at the sight of a Hussar.  From the first glance I saw
that she was mine.  It was no time for love-making when a
soldier's duty had to be done, but still, as I took the simple
meal which they laid before me, I chatted lightly with the lady,
and we were the best of friends before an hour had passed. 
Sophie was her first name, her second I never knew.  I taught her
to call me Etienne, and I tried to cheer her up, for her sweet
face was sad and there were tears in her beautiful dark eyes.  I
pressed her to tell me what it was which was grieving her.

"How can I be otherwise," said she, speaking French with a most
adorable lisp, "when one of my poor countrymen is a prisoner in
your hands?  I saw him between two of your Hussars as you rode
into the village."

"It is the fortune of war," said I.  "His turn to-day; mine,
perhaps, to-morrow."

"But consider, Monsieur--" said she.

"Etienne," said I.

"Oh, Monsieur----"

"Etienne," said I.

"Well, then," she cried, beautifully flushed and desperate,
"consider, Etienne, that this young officer will be taken back to
your army and will be starved or frozen, for if, as I hear, your
own soldiers have a hard march, what will be the lot of a
prisoner?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"You have a kind face, Etienne," said she; "you would not condemn
this poor man to certain death.  I entreat you to let him go."

Her delicate hand rested upon my sleeve, her dark eyes looked
imploringly into mine.

A sudden thought passed through my mind.  I would grant her
request, but I would demand a favour in return.

At my order the prisoner was brought up into the room.

"Captain Barakoff," said I, "this young lady has begged me to
release you, and I am inclined to do so.  I would ask you to give
your parole that you will remain in this dwelling for twenty-four
hours, and take no steps to inform anyone of our movements."

"I will do so," said he.

"Then I trust in your honour.  One man more or less can make no
difference in a struggle between great armies, and to take you
back as a prisoner would be to condemn you to death.  Depart,
sir, and show your gratitude not to me, but to the first French
officer who falls into your hands."

When he was gone I drew my paper from my pocket.

"Now, Sophie," said I, "I have done what you asked me, and all
that I ask in return is that you will give me a lesson in
Russian."

"With all my heart," said she.

"Let us begin on this," said I, spreading out the paper before
her.  "Let us take it word for word and see what it means."

She looked at the writing with some surprise.  "It means," said
she, "if the French come to Minsk all is lost."  Suddenly a look
of consternation passed over her beautiful face.  "Great
Heavens!" she cried, "what is it that I have done?  I have
betrayed my country!  Oh, Etienne, your eyes are the last for
whom this message is meant.  How could you be so cunning as to
make a poor, simple-minded, and unsuspecting girl betray the
cause of her country?"

I consoled my poor Sophie as best I might, and I assured her that
it was no reproach to her that she should be outwitted by so old
a campaigner and so shrewd a man as myself.  But it was no time
now for talk.  This message made it clear that the corn was
indeed at Minsk, and that there were no troops there to defend
it.  I gave a hurried order from the window, the trumpeter blew
the assembly, and in ten minutes we had left the village behind
us and were riding hard for the city, the gilded domes and
minarets of which glimmered above the snow of the horizon. 
Higher they rose and higher, until at last, as the sun sank
toward the west, we were in the broad main street, and galloped
up it amid the shouts of the moujiks and the cries of frightened
women until we found ourselves in front of the great town-hall. 
My cavalry I drew up in the square, and I, with my two sergeants,
Oudin and Papilette, rushed into the building.

Heavens! shall I ever forget the sight which greeted us?  Right
in front of us was drawn up a triple line of Russian Grenadiers. 
Their muskets rose as we entered, and a crashing volley burst
into our very faces.  Oudin and Papilette dropped upon the floor,
riddled with bullets.

For myself, my busby was shot away and I had two holes through my
dolman.  The Grenadiers ran at me with their bayonets. 
"Treason!" I cried.  "We are betrayed!  Stand to your horses!" I
rushed out of the hall, but the whole square was swarming with
troops.

From every side street Dragoons and Cossacks were riding down
upon us, and such a rolling fire had burst from the surrounding
houses that half my men and horses were on the ground.  "Follow
me!" I yelled, and sprang upon Violette, but a giant of a Russian
Dragoon officer threw his arms round me and we rolled on the
ground together.

He shortened his sword to kill me, but, changing his mind, he
seized me by the throat and banged my head against the stones
until I was unconscious.  So it was that I became the prisoner of
the Russians.

When I came to myself my only regret was that my captor had not
beaten out my brains.  There in the grand square of Minsk lay
half my troopers dead or wounded, with exultant crowds of
Russians gathered round them.

The rest in a melancholy group were herded into the porch of the
town-hall, a sotnia of Cossacks keeping guard over them.  Alas!
what could I say, what could I do?  It was evident that I had led
my men into a carefully- baited trap.  They had heard of our
mission and they had prepared for us.  And yet there was that
despatch which had caused me to neglect all precautions and to
ride straight into the town.  How was I to account for that?  The
tears ran down my cheeks as I surveyed the ruin of my squadron,
and as I thought of the plight of my comrades of the Grand Army
who awaited the food which I was to have brought them.  Ney had
trusted me and I had failed him.  How often he would strain his
eyes over the snow-fields for that convoy of grain which should
never gladden his sight!  My own fate was hard enough.  An exile
in Siberia was the best which the future could bring me.  But you
will believe me, my friends, that it was not for his own sake,
but for that of his starving comrades, that Etienne Gerard's
cheeks were lined by his tears, frozen even as they were shed.

"What's this?" said a gruff voice at my elbow; and I turned to
face the huge, black-bearded Dragoon who had dragged me from my
saddle.  "Look at the Frenchman crying!  I thought that the
Corsican was followed by brave men and not by children."

"If you and I were face to face and alone, I should let you see
which is the better man," said I.

For answer the brute struck me across the face with his open
hand.  I seized him by the throat, but a dozen of his soldiers
tore me away from him, and he struck me again while they held my
hands.

"You base hound," I cried, "is this the way to treat an officer
and a gentleman?"

"We never asked you to come to Russia," said he.  "If you do you
must take such treatment as you can get.  I would shoot you
off-hand if I had my way."

"You will answer for this some day," I cried, as I wiped the
blood from my moustache.

"If the Hetman Platoff is of my way of thinking you will not be
alive this time to-morrow," he answered, with a ferocious scowl. 
He added some words in Russian to his troops, and instantly they
all sprang to their saddles.

Poor Violette, looking as miserable as her master, was led round
and I was told to mount her.  My left arm was tied with a thong
which was fastened to the stirrup- iron of a sergeant of
Dragoons.  So in most sorry plight I and the remnant of my men
set forth from Minsk.

Never have I met such a brute as this man Sergine, who commanded
the escort.  The Russian army contains the best and the worst in
the world, but a worse than Major Sergine of the Dragoons of
Kieff I have never seen in any force outside of the guerillas of
the Peninsula.

He was a man of great stature, with a fierce, hard face and a
bristling black beard, which fell over his cuirass.

I have been told since that he was noted for his strength and his
bravery, and I could answer for it that he had the grip of a
bear, for I had felt it when he tore me from my saddle.  He was a
wit, too, in his way, and made continual remarks in Russian at
our expense which set all his Dragoons and Cossacks laughing. 
Twice he beat my comrades with his riding-whip, and once he
approached me with the lash swung over his shoulder, but there
was something in my eyes which prevented it from falling.

So in misery and humiliation, cold and starving, we rode in a
disconsolate column across the vast snow-plain.  The sun had
sunk, but still in the long northern twilight we pursued our
weary journey.  Numbed and frozen, with my head aching from the
blows it had received, I was borne onward by Violette, hardly
conscious of where I was or whither I was going.  The little mare
walked with a sunken head, only raising it to snort her contempt
for the mangy Cossack ponies who were round her.

But suddenly the escort stopped, and I found that we had halted
in the single street of a small Russian village.

There was a church on one side, and on the other was a large
stone house, the outline of which seemed to me to be familiar.  I
looked around me in the twilight, and then I saw that we had been
led back to Dobrova, and that this house at the door of which we
were waiting was the same house of the priest at which we had
stopped in the morning.  Here it was that my charming Sophie in
her innocence had translated the unlucky message which had in
some strange way led us to our ruin.  To think that only a few
hours before we had left this very spot with such high hopes and
all fair prospects for our mission, and now the remnants of us
waited as beaten and humiliated men for whatever lot a brutal
enemy might ordain!  But such is the fate of the soldier, my
friends --kisses to-day, blows to-morrow.  Tokay in a palace,
ditch-water in a hovel, furs or rags, a full purse or an empty
pocket, ever swaying from the best to the worst, with only his
courage and his honour unchanging.

The Russian horsemen dismounted, and my poor fellows were ordered
to do the same.  It was already late, and it was clearly their
intention to spend the night in this village.  There were great
cheering and joy amongst the peasants when they understood that
we had all been taken, and they flocked out of their houses with
flaming torches, the women carrying out tea and brandy for the
Cossacks.  Amongst others the old priest came forth-- the same
whom we had seen in the morning.  He was all smiles now, and he
bore with him some hot punch on a salver, the reek of which I can
remember still.  Behind her father was Sophie.  With horror I saw
her clasp Major Sergine's hand as she congratulated him upon the
victory he had won and the prisoners he had made.  The old
priest, her father, looked at me with an insolent face and made
insulting remarks at my expense, pointing at me with his lean and
grimy hand.  His fair daughter Sophie looked at me also, but she
said nothing, and I could read her tender pity in her dark eyes. 
At last she turned to Major Sergine and said something to him in
Russian, on which he frowned and shook his head impatiently.

She appeared to plead with him, standing there in the flood of
light which shone from the open door of her father's house.  My
eyes were fixed upon the two faces, that of the beautiful girl
and of the dark, fierce man, for my instinct told me that it was
my own fate which was under debate.  For a long time the soldier
shook his head, and then, at last softening before her pleadings,
he appeared to give way.  He turned to where I stood with my
guardian sergeant beside me.

"These good people offer you the shelter of their roof for the
night," said he to me, looking me up and down with vindictive
eyes.  "I find it hard to refuse them, but I tell you straight
that for my part I had rather see you on the snow.  It would cool
your hot blood, you rascal of a Frenchman!"

I looked at him with the contempt that I felt.

"You were born a savage and you will die one," said I.

My words stung him, for he broke into an oath, raising his whip
as if he would strike me.

"Silence, you crop-eared dog!" he cried.  "Had I my way some of
the insolence would be frozen out of you before morning." 
Mastering his passion, he turned upon Sophie with what he meant
to be a gallant manner.  "If you have a cellar with a good lock,"
said he, "the fellow may lie in it for the night, since you have
done him the honour to take an interest in his comfort.  I must
have his parole that he will not attempt to play us any tricks,
as I am answerable for him until I hand him over to the Hetman
Platoff to-morrow."

His supercilious manner was more than I could endure.

He had evidently spoken French to the lady in order that I might
understand the humiliating way in which he referred to me.

"I will take no favour from you," said I.  "You may do what you
like, but I will never give you my parole."

The Russian shrugged his great shoulders, and turned away as if
the matter were ended.

"Very well, my fine fellow, so much the worse for your fingers
and toes.  We shall see how you are in the morning after a night
in the snow."

"One moment, Major Sergine," cried Sophie.  "You must not be so
hard upon this prisoner.  There are some special reasons why he
has a claim upon our kindness and mercy."

The Russian looked with suspicion upon his face from her to me.

"What are the special reasons?  You certainly seem to take a
remarkable interest in this Frenchman," said he.

"The chief reason is that he has this very morning of his own
accord released Captain Alexis Barakoff, of the Dragoons of
Grodno."

"It is true," said Barakoff, who had come out of the house.  "He
captured me this morning, and he released me upon parole rather
than take me back to the French army, where I should have been
starved."

"Since Colonel Gerard has acted so generously you will surely,
now that fortune has changed, allow us to offer him the poor
shelter of our cellar upon this bitter night," said Sophie.  "It
is a small return for his generosity."

But the Dragoon was still in the sulks.

"Let him give me his parole first that he will not attempt to
escape," said he.  "Do you hear, sir?  Do you give me your
parole?"

"I give you nothing," said I.

"Colonel Gerard," cried Sophie, turning to me with a coaxing
smile, "you will give me your parole, will you not?"

"To you, mademoiselle, I can refuse nothing.  I will give you my
parole, with pleasure."

"There, Major Sergine," cried Sophie, in triumph,

"that is surely sufficient.  You have heard him say that he gives
me his parole.  I will be answerable for his safety ."

In an ungracious fashion my Russian bear grunted his consent, and
so I was led into the house, followed by the scowling father and
by the big, black-bearded Dragoon.  In the basement there was a
large and roomy chamber, where the winter logs were stored. 
Thither it was that I was led, and I was given to understand that
this was to be my lodging for the night.  One side of this bleak
apartment was heaped up to the ceiling with fagots of firewood. 
The rest of the room was stone- flagged and bare-walled, with a
single, deep-set window upon one side, which was safely guarded
with iron bars.  For light I had a large stable lantern, which
swung from a beam of the low ceiling.  Major Sergine smiled as he
took this down, and swung it round so as to throw its light into
every corner of that dreary chamber.

"How do you like our Russian hotels, monsieur?" he asked, with
his hateful sneer.  "They are not very grand, but they are the
best that we can give you.  Perhaps the next time that you
Frenchmen take a fancy to travel you will choose some other
country where they will make you more comfortable."  He stood
laughing at me, his white teeth gleaming through his beard.  Then
he left me, and I heard the great key creak in the lock.

For an hour of utter misery, chilled in body and soul, I sat upon
a pile of fagots, my face sunk upon my hands and my mind full of
the saddest thoughts.  It was cold enough within those four
walls, but I thought of the sufferings of my poor troopers
outside, and I sorrowed with their sorrow.  Then.  I paced up and
down, and I clapped my hands together and kicked my feet against
the walls to keep them from being frozen.  The lamp gave out some
warmth, but still it was bitterly cold, and I had had no food
since morning.  It seemed to me that everyone had forgotten me,
but at last I heard the key turn in the lock, and who should
enter but my prisoner of the morning, Captain Alexis Barakoff.  A
bottle of wine projected from under his arm, and he carried a
great plate of hot stew in front of him.

"Hush!" said he; "not a word!  Keep up your heart!

I cannot stop to explain, for Sergine is still with us.

Keep awake and ready!"  With these hurried words he laid down the
welcome food and ran out of the room.

"Keep awake and ready!"  The words rang in my ears.  I ate my
food and I drank my wine, but it was neither food nor wine which
had warmed the heart within me.  What could those words of
Barakoff mean?

Why was I to remain awake?  For what was I to be ready?  Was it
possible that there was a chance yet of escape?  I have never
respected the man who neglects his prayers at all other times and
yet prays when he is in peril.  It is like a bad soldier who pays
no respect to the colonel save when he would demand a favour of
him.  And yet when I thought of the salt-mines of Siberia on the
one side and of my mother in France upon the other, I could not
help a prayer rising, not from my lips, but from my heart, that
the words of Barakoff might mean all that I hoped.  But hour
after hour struck upon the village clock, and still I heard
nothing save the call of the Russian sentries in the street
outside.

Then at last my heart leaped within me, for I heard a light step
in the passage.  An instant later the key turned, the door
opened, and Sophie was in the room.

"Monsieur--" she cried.

"Etienne," said I.

"Nothing will change you," said she.  "But is it possible that
you do not hate me?  Have you forgiven me the trick which I
played you?"

"What trick?" I asked.

"Good heavens!  Is it possible that even now you have not
understood it?  You have asked me to translate the despatch.  I
have told you that it meant, 'If the French come to Minsk all is
lost.' "

"What did it mean, then?"

"It means, 'Let the French come to Minsk.  We are awaiting
them."'

I sprang back from her.

"You betrayed me!" I cried.  "You lured me into this trap.  It is
to you that I owe the death and capture of my men.  Fool that I
was to trust a woman!"

"Do not be unjust, Colonel Gerard.  I am a Russian woman, and my
first duty is to my country.  Would you not wish a French girl to
have acted as I have done?

Had I translated the message correctly you would not have gone to
Minsk and your squadron would have escaped.

Tell me that you forgive me!"

She looked bewitching as she stood pleading her cause in front of
me.  And yet, as I thought of my dead men, I could not take the
hand which she held out to me.

"Very good," said she, as she dropped it by her side.

"You feel for your own people and I feel for mine, and so we are
equal.  But you have said one wise and kindly thing within these
walls, Colonel Gerard.  You have said, 'One man more or less can
make no difference in a struggle between two great armies.'  Your
lesson of nobility is not wasted.  Behind those fagots is an
unguarded door.  Here is the key to it.  Go forth, Colonel
Gerard, and I trust that we may never look upon each other's
faces again."

I stood for an instant with the key in my hand and my head in a
whirl.  Then I handed it back to her.

"I cannot do it," I said.

"Why not?"

"I have given my parole."

"To whom?" she asked.

"Why, to you."

"And I release you from it."

My heart bounded with joy.  Of course, it was true what she said. 
I had refused to give my parole to Sergine.  I owed him no duty. 
If she relieved me from my promise my honour was clear.  I took
the key from her hand.

"You will find Captain Barakoff at the end of the village
street," said she.  "We of the North never forget either an
injury or a kindness.  He has your mare and your sword waiting
for you.  Do not delay an instant, for in two hours it will be
dawn."

So I passed out into the star-lit Russian night, and had that
last glimpse of Sophie as she peered after me through the open
door.  She looked wistfully at me as if she expected something
more than the cold thanks which I gave her, but even the humblest
man has his pride, and I will not deny that mine was hurt by the
deception which she had played upon me.  I could not have brought
myself to kiss her hand, far less her lips.  The door led into a
narrow alley, and at the end of it stood a muffled figure, who
held Violette by the bridle.

"You told me to be kind to the next French officer whom I found
in distress," said he.  "Good luck!  Bon voyage!" he whispered,
as I bounded into the saddle.

"Remember, 'Poltava' is the watchword."

It was well that he had given it to me, for twice I had to pass
Cossack pickets before I was clear of the lines.

I had just ridden past the last vedettes and hoped that I was a
free man again, when there was a soft thudding in the snow behind
me, and a heavy man upon a great black horse came swiftly after
me.  My first impulse was to put spurs to Violette.  My second,
as I saw a long black beard against a steel cuirass, was to halt
and await him.

"I thought that it was you, you dog of a Frenchman," he cried,
shaking his drawn sword at me.  "So you have broken your parole,
you rascal!"

"I gave no parole."

"You lie, you hound!"

I looked around and no one was coming.  The vedettes were
motionless and distant.  We were all alone, with the moon above
and the snow beneath.  Fortune has ever been my friend.

"I gave you no parole."

"You gave it to the lady."

"Then I will answer for it to the lady."

"That would suit you better, no doubt.  But, unfortunately, you
will have to answer for it to me."

"I am ready."

"Your sword, too!  There is treason in this!  Ah, I see it all! 
The woman has helped you.  She shall see Siberia for this night's
work."

The words were his death-warrant.  For Sophie's sake I could not
let him go back alive.  Our blades crossed, and an instant later
mine was through his black beard and deep in his throat.  I was
on the ground almost as soon as he, but the one thrust was
enough.  He died, snapping his teeth at my ankles like a savage
wolf.

Two days later I had rejoined the army at Smolensk, and was a
part once more of that dreary procession which tramped onward
through the snow, leaving a long weal of blood to show the path
which it had taken.

Enough, my friends; I would not re-awaken the memory of those
days of misery and death.  They still come to haunt me in my
dreams.  When we halted at last in Warsaw we had left behind us
our guns, our transport, and three-fourths of our comrades.  But
we did not leave behind us the honour of Etienne Gerard.  They
have said that I broke my parole.  Let them beware how they say
it to my face, for the story is as I tell it, and old as I am my
forefinger is not too weak to press a trigger when my honour is
in question.



VII . How the Brigadier Bore Himself at Waterloo

I. THE STORY OF THE FOREST INN

Of all the great battles in which I had the honour of drawing my
sword for the Emperor and for France there was not one which was
lost.  At Waterloo, although, in a sense, I was present, I was
unable to fight, and the enemy was victorious.  It is not for me
to say that there is a connection between these two things.  You
know me too well, my friends, to imagine that I would make such a
claim.  But it gives matter for thought, and some have drawn
flattering conclusions from it.

After all, it was only a matter of breaking a few English squares
and the day would have been our own.  If the Hussars of Conflans,
with Etienne Gerard to lead them, could not do this, then the
best judges are mistaken.

But let that pass.  The Fates had ordained that I should hold my
hand and that the Empire should fall.  But they had also ordained
that this day of gloom and sorrow should bring such honour to me
as had never come when I swept on the wings of victory from
Boulogne to Vienna.

Never had I burned so brilliantly as at that supreme moment when
the darkness fell upon all around me.  You are aware that I was
faithful to the Emperor in his adversity, and that I refused to
sell my sword and my honour to the Bourbons.  Never again was I
to feel my war horse between my knees, never again to hear the
kettledrums and silver trumpets behind me as I rode in front of
my little rascals.  But it comforts my heart, my friends, and it
brings the tears to my eyes, to think how great I was upon that
last day of my soldier life, and to remember that of all the
remarkable exploits which have won me the love of so many
beautiful women, and the respect of so many noble men, there was
none which, in splendour, in audacity, and in the great end which
was attained, could compare with my famous ride upon the night of
June 18th, 1815.  I am aware that the story is often told at
mess-tables and in barrack-rooms, so that there are few in the
army who have not heard it, but modesty has sealed my lips, until
now, my friends, in the privacy of these intimate gatherings, I
am inclined to lay the true facts before you.

In the first place, there is one thing which I can assure you. 
In all his career Napoleon never had so splendid an army as that
with which he took the field for that campaign.  In 1813 France
was exhausted.  For every veteran there were five children--Marie
Louises, as we called them; for the Empress had busied herself in
raising levies while the Emperor took the field.  But it was very
different in 1815.  The prisoners had all come back-- the men
from the snows of Russia, the men from the dungeons of Spain, the
men from the hulks in England.

These were the dangerous men, veterans of twenty battles, longing
for their old trade, and with hearts filled with hatred and
revenge.  The ranks were full of soldiers who wore two and three
chevrons, every chevron meaning five years' service.  And the
spirit of these men was terrible.  They were raging, furious,
fanatical, adoring the Emperor as a Mameluke does his prophet,
ready to fall upon their own bayonets if their blood could serve
him.  If you had seen these fierce old veterans going into
battle, with their flushed faces, their savage eyes, their
furious yells, you would wonder that anything could stand against
them.  So high was the spirit of France at that time that every
other spirit would have quailed before it; but these people,
these English, had neither spirit nor soul, but only solid,
immovable beef, against which we broke ourselves in vain.  That
was it, my friends!  On the one side, poetry, gallantry, self-
sacrifice--all that is beautiful and heroic.  On the other side,
beef.  Our hopes, our ideals, our dreams--all were shattered on
that terrible beef of Old England.

You have read how the Emperor gathered his forces, and then how
he and I, with a hundred and thirty thousand veterans, hurried to
the northern frontier and fell upon the Prussians and the
English.  On the 16th of June, Ney held the English in play at
Quatre-Bras while we beat the Prussians at Ligny.  It is not for
me to say how far I contributed to that victory, but it is well
known that the Hussars of Conflans covered themselves with glory. 
They fought well, these Prussians, and eight thousand of them
were left upon the field.  The Emperor thought that he had done
with them, as he sent Marshal Grouchy with thirty-two thousand
men to follow them up and to prevent their interfering with his
plans.  Then with nearly eighty thousand men, he turned upon
these "Goddam" Englishmen.  How much we had to avenge upon them,
we Frenchmen--the guineas of Pitt, the hulks of Portsmouth, the
invasion of Wellington, the perfidious victories of Nelson!  At
last the day of punishment seemed to have arisen.

Wellington had with him sixty-seven thousand men, but many of
them were known to be Dutch and Belgian, who had no great desire
to fight against us.  Of good troops he had not fifty thousand. 
Finding himself in the presence of the Emperor in person with
eighty thousand men, this Englishman was so paralysed with fear
that he could neither move himself nor his army.  You have seen
the rabbit when the snake approaches.  So stood the English upon
the ridge of Waterloo.  The night before, the Emperor, who had
lost an aide-de- camp at Ligny, ordered me to join his staff, and
I had left my Hussars to the charge of Major Victor.  I know not
which of us was the most grieved, they or I, that I should be
called away upon the eve of battle, but an order is an order, and
a good soldier can but shrug his shoulders and obey.  With the
Emperor I rode across the front of the enemy's position on the
morning of the 18th, he looking at them through his glass and
planning which was the shortest way to destroy them.  Soult was
at his elbow, and Ney and Foy and others who had fought the
English in Portugal and Spain.  "Have a care, Sire," said Soult. 
"The English infantry is very solid."

"You think them good soldiers because they have beaten you," said
the Emperor, and we younger men turned away our faces and smiled. 
But Ney and Foy were grave and serious.  All the time the English
line, chequered with red and blue and dotted with batteries, was
drawn up silent and watchful within a long musket- shot of us. 
On the other side of the shallow valley our own people, having
finished their soup, were assembling for the battle.  It had
rained very heavily, but at this moment the sun shone out and
beat upon the French army, turning our brigades of cavalry into
so many dazzling rivers of steel, and twinkling and sparkling on
the innumerable bayonets of the infantry.  At the sight of that
splendid army, and the beauty and majesty of its appearance, I
could contain myself no longer, but, rising in my stirrups, I
waved my busby and cried, "Vive l'Empereur!" a shout which
growled and roared and clattered from one end of the line to the
other, while the horsemen waved their swords and the footmen held
up their shakos upon their bayonets.  The English remained
petrified upon their ridge.  They knew that their hour had come.

And so it would have come if at that moment the word had been
given and the whole army had been permitted to advance.  We had
but to fall upon them and to sweep them from the face of the
earth.  To put aside all question of courage, we were the more
numerous, the older soldiers, and the better led.  But the
Emperor desired to do all things in order, and he waited until
the ground should be drier and harder, so that his artillery
could manoeuvre.  So three hours were wasted, and it was eleven
o'clock before we saw Jerome Buonaparte's columns advance upon
our left and heard the crash of the guns which told that the
battle had begun.  The loss of those three hours was our
destruction.  The attack upon the left was directed upon a
farm-house which was held by the English Guards, and we heard the
three loud shouts of apprehension which the defenders were
compelled to utter.  They were still holding out, and D'Erlon's
corps was advancing upon the right to engage another portion of
the English line, when our attention was called away from the
battle beneath our noses to a distant portion of the field of
action.

The Emperor had been looking through his glass to the extreme
left of the English line, and now he turned suddenly to the Duke
of Dalmatia, or Soult, as we soldiers preferred to call him.

"What is it, Marshal?" said he.

We all followed the direction of his gaze, some raising our
glasses, some shading our eyes.  There was a thick wood over
yonder, then a long, bare slope, and another wood beyond.  Over
this bare strip between the two woods there lay something dark,
like the shadow of a moving cloud.

"I think that they are cattle, Sire," said Soult.

At that instant there came a quick twinkle from amid the dark
shadow.

"It is Grouchy," said the Emperor, and he lowered his glass. 
"They are doubly lost, these English.  I hold them in the hollow
of my hand.  They cannot escape me."

He looked round, and his eyes fell upon me.

"Ah! here is the prince of messengers," said he.  "Are you well
mounted, Colonel Gerard?"

I was riding my little Violette, the pride of the brigade.

I said so.

"Then ride hard to Marshal Grouchy, whose troops you see over
yonder.  Tell him that he is to fall upon the left flank and rear
of the English while I attack them in front.  Together we should
crush them and not a man escape."

I saluted and rode off without a word, my heart dancing with joy
that such a mission should be mine.  I looked at that long, solid
line of red and blue looming through the smoke of the guns, and I
shook my fist at it as I went.  "We shall crush them and not a
man escape."

They were the Emperor's words, and it was I, Etienne Gerard, who
was to turn them into deeds.  I burned to reach the Marshal, and
for an instant I thought of riding through the English left wing,
as being the shortest cut.  I have done bolder deeds and come out
safely, but I reflected that if things went badly with me and I
was taken or shot the message would be lost and the plans of the
Emperor miscarry.  I passed in front of the cavalry, therefore,
past the Chasseurs, the Lancers of the Guard, the Carabineers,
the Horse Grenadiers, and, lastly, my own little rascals, who
followed me wistfully with their eyes.  Beyond the cavalry the
Old Guard was standing, twelve regiments of them, all veterans of
many battles, sombre and severe, in long blue overcoats and high
bearskins from which the plumes had been removed.  Each bore
within the goatskin knapsack upon his back the blue and white
parade uniform which they would use for their entry into Brussels
next day.  As I rode past them I reflected that these men had
never been beaten, and as I looked at their weather-beaten faces
and their stern and silent bearing, I said to myself that they
never would be beaten.  Great heavens, how little could I foresee
what a few more hours would bring!

On the right of the Old Guard were the Young Guard and the 6th
Corps of Lobau, and then I passed Jacquinot's Lancers and
Marbot's Hussars, who held the extreme flank of the line.  All
these troops knew nothing of the corps which was coming toward
them through the wood, and their attention was taken up in
watching the battle which raged upon their left.  More than a
hundred guns were thundering from each side, and the din was so
great that of all the battles which I have fought I cannot recall
more than half-a-dozen which were as noisy.  I looked back over
my shoulder, and there were two brigades of Cuirassiers, English
and French, pouring down the hill together, with the sword-blades
playing over them like summer lightning.  How I longed to turn
Violette, and to lead my Hussars into the thick of it!  What a
picture!  Etienne Gerard with his back to the battle, and a fine
cavalry action raging behind him.

But duty is duty, so I rode past Marbot's vedettes and on in the
direction of the wood, passing the village of Frishermont upon my
left.

In front of me lay the great wood, called the Wood of Paris,
consisting mostly of oak trees, with a few narrow paths leading
through it.  I halted and listened when I reached it, but out of
its gloomy depths there came no blare of trumpet, no murmur of
wheels, no tramp of horses to mark the advance of that great
column which, with my own eyes, I had seen streaming toward it. 
The battle roared behind me, but in front all was as silent as
that grave in which so many brave men would shortly sleep.  The
sunlight was cut off by the arches of leaves above my head, and a
heavy damp smell rose from the sodden ground.  For several miles
I galloped at such a pace as few riders would care to go with
roots below and branches above.  Then, at last, for the first
time I caught a glimpse of Grouchy's advance guard.  Scattered
parties of Hussars passed me on either side, but some distance
of, among the trees.  I heard the beating of a drum far away, and
the low, dull murmur which an army makes upon the march.  Any
moment I might come upon the staff and deliver my message to
Grouchy in person, for I knew well that on such a march a Marshal
of France would certainly ride with the van of his army.

Suddenly the trees thinned in front of me, and I understood with
delight that I was coming to the end of the wood? whence I could
see the army and find the Marshal.

Where the track comes out from amid the trees there is a small
cabaret, where wood-cutters and waggoners drink their wine. 
Outside the door of this I reined up my horse for an instant
while I took in the scene which was before me.  Some few miles
away I saw a second great forest, that of St. Lambert, out of
which the Emperor had seen the troops advancing.  It was easy to
see, however, why there had been so long a delay in their leaving
one wood and reaching the other, because between the two ran the
deep defile of the Lasnes, which had to be crossed.  Sure enough,
a long column of troops --horse, foot, and guns--was streaming
down one side of it and swarming up the other, while the advance
guard was already among the trees on either side of me.  A
battery of Horse Artillery was coming along the road, and I was
about to gallop up to it and ask the officer in command if he
could tell me where I should find the Marshal, when suddenly I
observed that, though the gunners were dressed in blue, they had
not the dolman trimmed with red brandenburgs as our own
horse-gunners wear it.  Amazed at the sight, I was looking at
these soldiers to left and right when a hand touched my thigh,
and there was the landlord, who had rushed from his inn.

"Madman!" he cried, "why are you here?  What are you doing?"

"I am seeking Marshal Grouchy."

"You are in the heart of the Prussian army.  Turn and fly!"

"Impossible; this is Grouchy's corps."

"How do you know?"

"Because the Emperor has said it."

"Then the Emperor has made a terrible mistake!  I tell you that a
patrol of Silesian Hussars has this instant left me.  Did you not
see them in the wood?"

"I saw Hussars."

"They are the enemy."

"Where is Grouchy?"

"He is behind.  They have passed him."

"Then how can I go back?  If I go forward I may see him yet.  I
must obey my orders and find him where- ever{sic} he is."

The man reflected for an instant.

"Quick! quick!" he cried, seizing my bridle.  "Do what I say and
you may yet escape.  They have not observed you yet.  Come with
me and I will hide you until they pass."

Behind his house there was a low stable, and into this he thrust
Violette.  Then he half led and half dragged me into the kitchen
of the inn.  It was a bare, brick- floored room.  A stout,
red-faced woman was cooking cutlets at the fire.

"What's the matter now?" she asked, looking with a frown from me
to the innkeeper.  "Who is this you have brought in?"

"It is a French officer, Marie.  We cannot let the Prussians take
him."

"Why not?"

"Why not?  Sacred name of a dog, was I not myself a soldier of
Napoleon?  Did I not win a musket of honour among the Velites of
the Guard?  Shall I see a comrade taken before my eyes?  Marie,
we must save him."  But the lady looked at me with most
unfriendly eyes.

"Pierre Charras," she said, "you will not rest until you have
your house burned over your head.  Do you not understand, you
blockhead, that if you fought for Napoleon it was because
Napoleon ruled Belgium?  He does so no longer.  The Prussians are
our allies and this is our enemy.  I will have no Frenchman in
this house.

Give him up!"

The innkeeper scratched his head and looked at me in despair, but
it was very evident to me that it was neither for France nor for
Belgium that this woman cared, but that it was the safety of her
own house that was nearest her heart.

"Madame," said I, with all the dignity and assurance I could
command, "the Emperor is defeating the English, and the French
army will be here before evening.

If you have used me well you will be rewarded, and if you have
denounced me you will be punished and your house will certainly
be burned by the provost-martial."

She was shaken by this, and I hastened to complete my victory by
other methods.

"Surely," said I, "it is impossible that anyone so beautiful can
also be hard-hearted?  You will not refuse me the refuge which I
need."

She looked at my whiskers and I saw that she was softened.  I
took her hand, and in two minutes we were on such terms that her
husband swore roundly that he would give me up himself if I
pressed the matter farther.

"Besides, the road is full of Prussians," he cried.

"Quick! quick! into the loft!"

"Quick! quick! into the loft!" echoed his wife, and together they
hurried me toward a ladder which led to a trap-door in the
ceiling.  There was loud knocking at the door, so you can think
that it was not long before my spurs went twinkling through the
hole and the board was dropped behind me.  An instant later I
heard the voices of the Germans in the rooms below me.

The place in which I found myself was a single long attic, the
ceiling of which was formed by the roof of the house.  It ran
over the whole of one side of the inn, and through the cracks in
the flooring I could look down either upon the kitchen, the
sitting-room, or the bar at my pleasure.  There were no windows,
but the place was in the last stage of disrepair, and several
missing slates upon the roof gave me light and the means of
observation.

The place was heaped with lumber-fodder at one end and a huge
pile of empty bottles at the other.  There was no door or window
save the hole through which I had come up.

I sat upon the heap of hay for a few minutes to steady myself and
to think out my plans.  It was very serious that the Prussians
should arrive upon the field of battle earlier than our reserves,
but there appeared to be only one corps of them, and a corps more
or less makes little difference to such a man as the Emperor.  He
could afford to give the English all this and beat them still.

The best way in which I could serve him, since Grouchy was
behind, was to wait here until they were past, and then to resume
my journey, to see the Marshal, and to give him his orders.  If
he advanced upon the rear of the English instead of following the
Prussians all would be well.  The fate of France depended upon my
judgment and my nerve.  It was not the first time, my friends, as
you are well aware, and you know the reasons that I had to trust
that neither nerve nor judgment would ever fail me.  Certainly,
the Emperor had chosen the right man for his mission.  "The
prince of messengers" he had called me.  I would earn my title.

It was clear that I could do nothing until the Prussians had
passed, so I spent my time in observing them.  I have no love for
these people, but I am compelled to say that they kept excellent
discipline, for not a man of them entered the inn, though their
lips were caked with dust and they were ready to drop with
fatigue.  Those who had knocked at the door were bearing an
insensible comrade, and having left him they returned at once to
the ranks.  Several others were carried in in the same fashion
and laid in the kitchen, while a young surgeon, little more than
a boy, remained behind in charge of them.

Having observed them through the cracks in the floor, I next
turned my attention to the holes in the roof, from which I had an
excellent view of all that was passing outside.  The Prussian
corps was still streaming past.  It was easy to see that they had
made a terrible march and had little food, for the faces of the
men were ghastly, and they were plastered from head to foot with
mud from their falls upon the foul and slippery roads.  Yet,
spent as they were, their spirit was excellent, and they pushed
and hauled at the gun-carriages when the wheels sank up to the
axles in the mire, and the weary horses were floundering
knee-deep unable to draw them through.

The officers rode up and down the column encouraging the more
active with words of praise, and the laggards with blows from the
flat of their swords.  All the time from over the wood in front
of them there came the tremendous roar of the battle, as if all
the rivers on earth had united in one gigantic cataract, booming
and crashing in a mighty fall.  Like the spray of the cataract
was the long veil of smoke which rose high over the trees.

The officers pointed to it with their swords, and with hoarse
cries from their parched lips the mud-stained men pushed onward
to the battle.  For an hour I watched them pass, and I reflected
that their vanguard must have come into touch with Marbot's
vedettes and that the Emperor knew already of their coming.  "You
are going very fast up the road, my friends, but you will come
down it a great deal faster," said I to myself, and I consoled
myself with the thought.

But an adventure came to break the monotony of this long wait.  I
was seated beside my loophole and congratulating myself that the
corps was nearly past, and that the road would soon be clear for
my journey, when suddenly I heard a loud altercation break out in
French in the kitchen.

"You shall not go!" cried a woman's voice.

"I tell you that I will!" said a man's, and there was a sound of
scuffling.

In an instant I had my eye to the crack in the floor.

There was my stout lady, like a faithful watch-dog, at the bottom
of the ladder, while the young German surgeon, white with anger,
was endeavouring to come up it.

Several of the German soldiers who had recovered from their
prostration were sitting about on the kitchen floor and watching
the quarrel with stolid, but attentive, faces.

The landlord was nowhere to be seen.

"There is no liquor there," said the woman.

"I do not want liquor; I want hay or straw for these men to lie
upon.  Why should they lie on the bricks when there is straw
overhead?"

"There is no straw."

"What is up there?"

"Empty bottles."

"Nothing else?"

"No."

For a moment it looked as if the surgeon would abandon his
intention, but one of the soldiers pointed up to the ceiling.  I
gathered from what I could understand of his words that he could
see the straw sticking out between the planks.  In vain the woman
protested.  Two of the soldiers were able to get upon their feet
and to drag her aside, while the young surgeon ran up the ladder,
pushed open the trap-door, and climbed into the loft.

As he swung the door back I slipped behind it, but as luck would
have it he shut it again behind him, and there we were left
standing face to face.

Never have I seen a more astonished young man.

"A French officer!" he gasped.

"Hush!" said I, "hush!  Not a word above a whisper."

I had drawn my sword.

"I am not a combatant," he said; "I am a doctor.

Why do you threaten me with your sword?  I am not armed."

"I do not wish to hurt you, but I must protect myself.  I am in
hiding here."

"A spy!"

"A spy does not wear such a uniform as this, nor do you find
spies on the staff of an army.  I rode by mistake into the heart
of this Prussian corps, and I concealed myself here in the hope
of escaping when they are past.

I will not hurt you if you do not hurt me, but if you do not
swear that you will be silent as to my presence you will never go
down alive from this attic."

"You can put up your sword, sir," said the surgeon, and I saw a
friendly twinkle in his eyes.  "I am a Pole by birth, and I have
no ill-feeling to you or your people.

I will do my best for my patients, but I will do no more.

Capturing Hussars is not one of the duties of a surgeon.

With your permission I will now descend with this truss of hay to
make a couch for these poor fellows below."

I had intended to exact an oath from him, but it is my experience
that if a man will not speak the truth he will not swear the
truth, so I said no more.  The surgeon opened the trap-door,
threw out enough hay for his purpose, and then descended the
ladder, letting down the door behind him.  I watched him
anxiously when he rejoined his patients, and so did my good
friend the landlady, but he said nothing and busied himself with
the needs of his soldiers.

By this time I was sure that the last of the army corps was past,
and I went to my loophole confident that I should find the coast
clear, save, perhaps, for a few stragglers, whom I could
disregard.  The first corps was indeed past, and I could see the
last files of the infantry disappearing into the wood; but you
can imagine my disappointment when out of the Forest of St.
Lambert I saw a second corps emerging, as numerous as the first.

There could be no doubt that the whole Prussian army, which we
thought we had destroyed at Ligny, was about to throw itself upon
our right wing while Marshal Grouchy had been coaxed away upon
some fool's errand.

The roar of guns, much nearer than before, told me that the
Prussian batteries which had passed me were already in action. 
Imagine my terrible position!  Hour after hour was passing; the
sun was sinking toward the west.

And yet this cursed inn, in which I lay hid, was like a little
island amid a rushing stream of furious Prussians.

It was all important that I should reach Marshal Grouchy, and yet
I could not show my nose without being made prisoner.  You can
think how I cursed and tore my hair.  How little do we know what
is in store for us!

Even while I raged against my ill-fortune, that same fortune was
reserving me for a far higher task than to carry a message to
Grouchy--a task which could not have been mine had I not been
held tight in that little inn on the edge of the Forest of Paris.

Two Prussian corps had passed and a third was coming up, when I
heard a great fuss and the sound of several voices in the
sitting-room.  By altering my position I was able to look down
and see what was going on.

Two Prussian generals were beneath me, their heads bent over a
map which lay upon the table.  Several aides- de-camp and staff
officers stood round in silence.  Of the two generals, one was a
fierce old man, white-haired and wrinkled, with a ragged,
grizzled moustache and a voice like the bark of a hound.  The
other was younger, but long-faced and solemn.  He measured
distances upon the map with the air of a student, while his
companion stamped and fumed and cursed like a corporal of
Hussars.  It was strange to see the old man so fiery and the
young one so reserved.  I could not understand all that they
said, but I was very sure about their general meaning.

"I tell you we must push on and ever on!" cried the old fellow,
with a furious German oath.  "I promised Wellington that I would
be there with the whole army even if I had to be strapped to my
horse.  Bulow's corps is in action, and Ziethen's shall support
it with every man and gun.  Forward, Gneisenau, forward!"

The other shook his head.

"You must remember, your Excellency, that if the English are
beaten they will make for the coast.  What will your position be
then, with Grouchy between you and the Rhine?"

"We shall beat them, Gneisenau; the Duke and I will grind them to
powder between us.  Push on, I say!  The whole war will be ended
in one blow.  Bring Pirsch up, and we can throw sixty thousand
men into the scale while Thielmann holds Grouchy beyond Wavre."

Gneisenau shrugged his shoulders, but at that instant an orderly
appeared at the door.

"An aide-de-camp from the Duke of Wellington," said he.

"Ha, ha!" cried the old man; "let us hear what he has to say!"

An English officer, with mud and blood all over his scarlet
jacket, staggered into the room.  A crimson- stained handkerchief
was knotted round his arm, and he held the table to keep himself
from falling.

"My message is to Marshal Blucher," said he;

"I am Marshal Blucher.  Go on! go on!" cried the impatient old
man.

"The Duke bade me to tell you, sir, that the British Army can
hold its own and that he has no fears for the result.  The French
cavalry has been destroyed, two of their divisions of infantry
have ceased to exist, and only the Guard is in reserve.  If you
give us a vigorous support the defeat will be changed to absolute
rout and--" His knees gave way under him and he fell in a heap
upon the floor.

"Enough! enough!" cried Blucher.  "Gneisenau, send an
aide-de-camp to Wellington and tell him to rely upon me to the
full.  Come on, gentlemen, we have our work to do!"  He bustled
eagerly out of the room with all his staff clanking behind him,
while two orderlies carried the English messenger to the care of
the surgeon.

Gneisenau, the Chief of the Staff, had lingered behind for an
instant, and he laid his hand upon one of the aides- de-camp. 
The fellow had attracted my attention, for I have always a quick
eye for a fine man.  He was tall and slender, the very model of a
horseman; indeed, there was something in his appearance which
made it not unlike my own.  His face was dark and as keen as that
of a hawk, with fierce black eyes under thick, shaggy brows, and
a moustache which would have put him in the crack squadron of my
Hussars.  He wore a green coat with white facings, and a
horse-hair helmet--a Dragoon, as I conjectured, and as dashing a
cavalier as one would wish to have at the end of one's
sword-point.

"A word with you, Count Stein," said Gneisenau.  "If the enemy
are routed, but if the Emperor escapes, he will rally another
army, and all will have to be done again.

But if we can get the Emperor, then the war is indeed ended.  It
is worth a great effort and a great risk for such an object as
that."

The young Dragoon said nothing, but he listened attentively.

"Suppose the Duke of Wellington's words should prove to be
correct, and the French army should be driven in utter rout from
the field, the Emperor will certainly take the road back through
Genappe and Charleroi as being the shortest to the frontier.  We
can imagine that his horses will be fleet, and that the fugitives
will make way for him.  Our cavalry will follow the rear of the
beaten army, but the Emperor will be far away at the front of the
throng."

The young Dragoon inclined his head.

"To you, Count Stein, I commit the Emperor.  If you take him your
name will live in history.  You have the reputation of being the
hardest rider in our army.

Do you choose such comrades as you may select--ten or a dozen
should be enough.  You are not to engage in the battle, nor are
you to follow the general pursuit, but you are to ride clear of
the crowd, reserving your energies for a nobler end.  Do you
understand me?"

Again the Dragoon inclined his head.  This silence impressed me. 
I felt that he was indeed a dangerous man.

"Then I leave the details in your own hands.  Strike at no one
except the highest.  You cannot mistake the Imperial carriage,
nor can you fail to recognise the figure of the Emperor.  Now I
must follow the Marshal.

Adieu!  If ever I see you again I trust that it will be to
congratulate you upon a deed which will ring through Europe."

The Dragoon saluted and Gneisenau hurried from the room.  The
young officer stood in deep thought for a few moments.  Then he
followed the Chief of the Staff.

I looked with curiosity from my loophole to see what his next
proceeding would be.  His horse, a fine, strong chestnut with two
white stockings, was fastened to the rail of the inn.  He sprang
into the saddle, and, riding to intercept a column of cavalry
which was passing, he spoke to an officer at the head of the
leading regiment.

Presently after some talk I saw two Hussars--it was a Hussar
regiment--drop out of the ranks and take up their position beside
Count Stein.  The next regiment was also stopped, and two Lancers
were added to his escort.  The next furnished him with two
Dragoons and the next with two Cuirassiers.  Then he drew his
little group of horsemen aside and he gathered them round him,
explaining to them what they had to do.  Finally the nine
soldiers rode off together and disappeared into the Wood of
Paris.

I need not tell you, my friends, what all this portended.

Indeed, he had acted exactly as I should have done in his place. 
From each colonel he had demanded the two best horsemen in the
regiment, and so he had assembled a band who might expect to
catch whatever they should follow.  Heaven help the Emperor if,
without an escort, he should find them on his track!

And I, dear friends--imagine the fever, the ferment, the madness
of my mind!  All thought of Grouchy had passed away.  No guns
were to be heard to the east.  He could not be near.  If he
should come up he would not now be in time to alter the event of
the day.  The sun was already low in the sky and there could not
be more than two or three hours of daylight.  My mission might be
dismissed as useless.  But here was another mission, more
pressing, more immediate, a mission which meant the safety, and
perhaps the life, of the Emperor.  At all costs, through every
danger, I must get back to his side.

But how was I to do it?  The whole Prussian army was now between
me and the French lines.  They blocked every road, but they could
not block the path of duty when Etienne Gerard sees it lie before
him.  I could not wait longer.  I must be gone.

There was but the one opening to the loft, and so it was only
down the ladder that I could descend.  I looked into the kitchen
and I found that the young surgeon was still there.  In a chair
sat the wounded English aide-de- camp, and on the straw lay two
Prussian soldiers in the last stage of exhaustion.  The others
had all recovered and been sent on.  These were my enemies, and I
must pass through them in order to gain my horse.  From the
surgeon I had nothing to fear; the Englishman was wounded, and
his sword stood with his cloak in a corner; the two Germans were
half insensible, and their muskets were not beside them.  What
could be simpler?  I opened the trap-door, slipped down the
ladder, and appeared in the midst of them, my sword drawn in my
hand.

What a picture of surprise!  The surgeon, of course, knew all,
but to the Englishman and the two Germans it must have seemed
that the god of war in person had descended from the skies.  With
my appearance, with my figure, with my silver and grey uniform,
and with that gleaming sword in my hand, I must indeed have been
a sight worth seeing.  The two Germans lay petrified with staring
eyes.  The English officer half rose, but sat down again from
weakness, his mouth open and his hand on the back of his chair.

"What the deuce!" he kept on repeating, "what the deuce!"

"Pray do not move," said I; "I will hurt no one, but woe to the
man who lays hands upon me to stop me.  You have nothing to fear
if you leave me alone, and nothing to hope if you try to hinder
me.  I am Colonel Etienne Gerard, of the Hussars of Conflans."

"The deuce!" said the Englishman.  "You are the man that killed
the fox."  A terrible scowl had darkened his face.  The jealousy
of sportsmen is a base passion.  He hated me, this Englishman,
because I had been before him in transfixing the animal.  How
different are our natures!  Had I seen him do such a deed I would
have embraced him with cries of joy.  But there was no time for
argument.

"I regret it, sir," said I; "but you have a cloak here and I must
take it."

He tried to rise from his chair and reach his sword, but I got
between him and the corner where it lay.

"If there is anything in the pockets----"

"A case," said he.

"I would not rob you," said I; and raising the cloak I took from
the pockets a silver flask, a square wooden case and a
field-glass.  All these I handed to him.  The wretch opened the
case, took out a pistol, and pointed it straight at my head.

"Now, my fine fellow," said he, "put down your sword and give
yourself up."

I was so astounded at this infamous action that I stood petrified
before him.  I tried to speak to him of honour and gratitude, but
I saw his eyes fix and harden over the pistol.

"Enough talk!" said he.  "Drop it!"

Could I endure such a humiliation?  Death were better than to be
disarmed in such a fashion.  The word

"Fire!" was on my lips when in an instant the English man
vanished from before my face, and in his place was a great pile
of hay, with a red-coated arm and two Hessian boots waving and
kicking in the heart of it.  Oh, the gallant landlady!  It was my
whiskers that had saved me.

"Fly, soldier, fly!" she cried, and she heaped fresh trusses of
hay from the floor on to the struggling Englishman.  In an
instant I was out in the courtyard, had led Violette from her
stable, and was on her back.  A pistol bullet whizzed past my
shoulder from the window, and I saw a furious face looking out at
me.  I smiled my contempt and spurred out into the road.  The
last of the Prussians had passed, and both my road and my duty
lay clear before me.  If France won, all well.  If France lost,
then on me and my little mare depended that which was more than
victory or defeat--the safety and the life of the Emperor.  "On,
Etienne, on!" I cried.

"Of all your noble exploits, the greatest, even if it be the
last, lies now before you!"


II.  THE STORY OF THE NINE PRUSSIAN HORSEMEN

I told you when last we met, my friends, of the important mission
from the Emperor to Marshal Grouchy, which failed through no
fault of my own, and I described to you how during a long
afternoon I was shut up in the attic of a country inn, and was
prevented from coming out because the Prussians were all around
me.  You will remember also how I overheard the Chief of the
Prussian Staff give his instructions to Count Stein, and so
learned the dangerous plan which was on foot to kill or capture
the Emperor in the event of a French defeat.  At first I could
not have believed in such a thing, but since the guns had
thundered all day, and since the sound had made no advance in my
direction, it was evident that the English had at least held
their own and beaten off all our attacks.

I have said that it was a fight that day between the soul of
France and the beef of England, but it must be confessed that we
found the beef was very tough.  It was clear that if the Emperor
could not defeat the English when alone, then it might, indeed,
go hard with him now that sixty thousand of these cursed
Prussians were swarming on his flank.  In any case, with this
secret in my possession, my place was by his side.

I had made my way out of the inn in the dashing manner which I
have described to you when last we met, and I left the English
aide-de-camp shaking his foolish fist out of the window.  I could
not but laugh as I looked back at him, for his angry red face was
framed and frilled with hay.  Once out on the road I stood erect
in my stirrups, and I put on the handsome black riding- coat,
lined with red, which had belonged to him.  It fell to the top of
my high boots, and covered my tell-tale uniform completely.  As
to my busby, there are many such in the German service, and there
was no reason why it should attract attention.  So long as no one
spoke to me there was no reason why I should not ride through the
whole of the Prussian army; but though I understood German, for I
had many friends among the German ladies during the pleasant
years that I fought all over that country, still I spoke it with
a pretty Parisian accent which could not be confounded with their
rough, unmusical speech.  I knew that this quality of my accent
would attract attention, but I could only hope and pray that I
would be permitted to go my way in silence.

The Forest of Paris was so large that it was useless to think of
going round it, and so I took my courage in both hands and
galloped on down the road in the track of the Prussian army.  It
was not hard to trace it, for it was rutted two feet deep by the
gun-wheels and the caissons.  Soon I found a fringe of wounded
men, Prussians and French, on each side of it, where Bulow's
advance had come into touch with Marbot's Hussars.  One old man
with a long white beard, a surgeon, I suppose, shouted at me, and
ran after me still shouting, but I never turned my head and took
no notice of him save to spur on faster.  I heard his shouts long
after I had lost sight of him among the trees.

Presently I came up with the Prussian reserves.  The infantry
were leaning on their muskets or lying exhausted on the wet
ground, and the officers stood in groups listening to the mighty
roar of the battle and discussing the reports which came from the
front.  I hurried past at the top of my speed, but one of them
rushed out and stood in my path with his hand up as a signal to
me to stop.  Five thousand Prussian eyes were turned upon me. 
There was a moment!  You turn pale, my friends, at the thought of
it.  Think how every hair upon me stood on end.  But never for
one instant did my wits or my courage desert me.  "General
Blucher!" I cried.  Was it not my guardian angel who whispered
the words in my ear?  The Prussian sprang from my path, saluted,
and pointed forward.  They are well disciplined, these Prussians,
and who was he that he should dare to stop the officer who bore a
message to the general?

It was a talisman that would pass me out of every danger, and my
heart sang within me at the thought.  So elated was I that I no
longer waited to be asked, but as I rode through the army I
shouted to right and left,

"General Blucher!  General Blucher!" and every man pointed me
onward and cleared a path to let me pass.

There are times when the most supreme impudence is the highest
wisdom.  But discretion must also be used, and I must admit that
I became indiscreet.  For as I rode upon my way, ever nearer to
the fighting line, a Prussian officer of Uhlans gripped my bridle
and pointed to a group of men who stood near a burning farm. 
"There is Marshal Blucher.  Deliver your message!" said he, and
sure enough, my terrible old grey-whiskered veteran was there
within a pistol-shot, his eyes turned in my direction.

But the good guardian angel did not desert me.

Quick as a flash there came into my memory the name of the
general who commanded the advance of the Prussians.


{illust. caption = "There is Marshal Blucher.  Deliver your
message!"}


"General Bulow!" I cried.  The Uhlan let go my bridle.  "General
Bulow!  General Bulow!" I shouted, as every stride of the dear
little mare took me nearer my own people.  Through the burning
village of Planchenoit I galloped, spurred my way between two
columns of Prussian infantry, sprang over a hedge, cut down a
Silesian Hussar who flung himself before me, and an instant
afterward, with my coat flying open to show the uniform below, I
passed through the open files of the tenth of the line, and was
back in the heart of Lobau's corps once more.  Outnumbered and
outflanked, they were being slowly driven in by the pressure of
the Prussian advance.  I galloped onward, anxious only to find
myself by the Emperor's side.

But a sight lay before me which held me fast as though I had been
turned into some noble equestrian statue.  I could not move, I
could scarce breathe, as I gazed upon it.  There was a mound over
which my path lay, and as I came out on the top of it I looked
down the long, shallow valley of Waterloo.  I had left it with
two great armies on either side and a clear field between them. 
Now there were but long, ragged fringes of broken and exhausted
regiments upon the two ridges, but a real army of dead and
wounded lay between.  For two miles in length and half a mile
across the ground was strewed and heaped with them.  But
slaughter was no new sight to me, and it was not that which held
me spellbound.  It was that up the long slope of the British
position was moving a walking forest-black, tossing, waving,
unbroken.  Did I not know the bearskins of the Guard?  And did I
not also know, did not my soldier's instinct tell me, that it was
the last reserve of France; that the Emperor, like a desperate
gamester, was staking all upon his last card?  Up they went and
up--grand, solid, unbreakable, scourged with musketry, riddled
with grape, flowing onward in a black, heavy tide, which lapped
over the British batteries.  With my glass I could see the
English gunners throw themselves under their pieces or run to the
rear.  On rolled the crest of the bearskins, and then, with a
crash which was swept across to my ears, they met the British
infantry.  A minute passed, and another, and another.  My heart
was in my mouth.

They swayed back and forward; they no longer advanced; they were
held.  Great Heaven! was it possible that they were breaking? 
One black dot ran down the hill, then two, then four, then ten,
then a great, scattered, struggling mass, halting, breaking,
halting, and at last shredding out and rushing madly downward. 
"The Guard is beaten!  The Guard is beaten!"  From all around me
I heard the cry.  Along the whole line the infantry turned their
faces and the gunners flinched from their guns.

"The Old Guard is beaten!  The Guard retreats!"  An officer with
a livid face passed me yelling out these words of woe.  "Save
yourselves!  Save yourselves!  You are betrayed!" cried another. 
"Save yourselves!  Save yourselves!" Men were rushing madly to
the rear, blundering and jumping like frightened sheep.  Cries
and screams rose from all around me.  And at that moment, as I
looked at the British position, I saw what I can never forget.  A
single horseman stood out black and clear upon the ridge against
the last red angry glow of the setting sun.  So dark, so
motionless, against that grim light, he might have been the very
spirit of Battle brooding over that terrible valley.  As I gazed,
he raised his hat high in the air, and at the signal, with a low,
deep roar like a breaking wave, the whole British army flooded
over their ridge and came rolling down into the valley.

Long steel-fringed lines of red and blue, sweeping waves of
cavalry, horse batteries rattling and bounding--down they came on
to our crumbling ranks.  It was over.  A yell of agony, the agony
of brave men who see no hope, rose from one flank to the other,
and in an instant the whole of that noble army was swept in a
wild, terror- stricken crowd from the field.  Even now, dear
friends, I cannot, as you see, speak of that dreadful moment with
a dry eye or with a steady voice.

At first I was carried away in that wild rush, whirled off like a
straw in a flooded gutter.  But, suddenly, what should I see
amongst the mixed regiments in front of me but a group of stern
horsemen, in silver and grey, with a broken and tattered standard
held aloft in the heart of them!  Not all the might of England
and of Prussia could break the Hussars of Conflans.  But when I
joined them it made my heart bleed to see them.  The major, seven
captains, and five hundred men were left upon the field.  Young
Captain Sabbatier was in command, and when I asked him where were
the five missing squadrons he pointed back and answered:  "You
will find them round one of those British squares."  Men and
horses were at their last gasp, caked with sweat and dirt, their
black tongues hanging out from their lips; but it made me thrill
with pride to see how that shattered remnant still rode knee to
knee, with every man, from the boy trumpeter to the
farrier-sergeant, in his own proper place.

Would that I could have brought them on with me as an escort for
the Emperor!  In the heart of the Hussars of Conflans he would be
safe indeed.  But the horses were too spent to trot.  I left them
behind me with orders to rally upon the farm-house of St. Aunay,
where we had camped two nights before.  For my own part, I forced
my horse through the throng in search of the Emperor.

There were things which I saw then, as I pressed through that
dreadful crowd, which can never be banished from my mind.  In
evil dreams there comes back to me the memory of that flowing
stream of livid, staring, screaming faces upon which I looked
down.  It was a nightmare.  In victory one does not understand
the horror of war.  It is only in the cold chill of defeat that
it is brought home to you.  I remember an old Grenadier of the
Guard lying at the side of the road with his broken leg doubled
at a right angle.  "Comrades, comrades, keep off my leg!" he
cried, but they tripped and stumbled over him all the same.  In
front of me rode a Lancer officer without his coat.  His arm had
just been taken off in the ambulance.  The bandages had fallen. 
It was horrible.  Two gunners tried to drive through with their
gun.  A Chasseur raised his musket and shot one of them through
the head.  I saw a major of Cuirassiers draw his two holster
pistols and shoot first his horse and then himself.  Beside the
road a man in a blue coat was raging and raving like a madman. 
His face was black with powder, his clothes were torn, one
epaulette was gone, the other hung dangling over his breast. 
Only when I came close to him did I recognise that it was Marshal
Ney.  He howled at the flying troops and his voice was hardly
human.  Then he raised the stump of his sword-- it was broken
three inches from the hilt.  "Come and see how a Marshal of
France can die!" he cried.  Gladly would I have gone with him,
but my duty lay elsewhere.

He did not, as you know, find the death he sought, but he met it
a few weeks later in cold blood at the hands of his enemies.

There is an old proverb that in attack the French are more than
men, in defeat they are less than women.  I knew that it was true
that day.  But even in that rout I saw things which I can tell
with pride.  Through the fields which skirt the road moved
Cambronne's three reserve battalions of the Guard, the cream of
our army.

They walked slowly in square, their colours waving over the
sombre line of the bearskins.  All round them raged the English
cavalry and the black Lancers of Brunswick, wave after wave
thundering up, breaking with a crash, and recoiling in ruin. 
When last I saw them, the English guns, six at a time, were
smashing grape-shot through their ranks and the English infantry
were closing in upon three sides and pouring volleys into them;
but still, like a noble lion with fierce hounds clinging to its
flanks, the glorious remnant of the Guard, marching slowly,
halting, closing up, dressing, moved majestically from their last
battle.  Behind them the Guard's battery of twelve- pounders was
drawn up upon the ridge.  Every gunner was in his place, but no
gun fired.  "Why do you not fire?" I asked the colonel as I
passed.  "Our powder is finished."  "Then why not retire?"  "Our
appearance may hold them back for a little.  We must give the
Emperor time to escape."  Such were the soldiers of France.

Behind this screen of brave men the others took their breath, and
then went on in less desperate fashion.  They had broken away
from the road, and all over the countryside in the twilight I
could see the timid, scattered, frightened crowd who ten hours
before had formed the finest army that ever went down to battle. 
I with my splendid mare was soon able to get clear of the throng,
and just after I passed Genappe I overtook the Emperor with the
remains of his Staff.  Soult was with him still, and so were
Drouot, Lobau, and Bertrand, with five Chasseurs of the Guard,
their horses hardly able to move.

The night was falling, and the Emperor's haggard face gleamed
white through the gloom as he turned it toward me.

"Who is that?" he asked.

"It is Colonel Gerard," said Soult.

"Have you seen Marshal Grouchy?"

"No, Sire.  The Prussians were between."

"It does not matter.  Nothing matters now.  Soult, I will go
back."

He tried to turn his horse, but Bertrand seized his bridle.  "Ah,
Sire," said Soult, "the enemy has had good fortune enough
already."  They forced him on among them.  He rode in silence
with his chin upon his breast, the greatest and the saddest of
men.  Far away behind us those remorseless guns were still
roaring.  Sometimes out of the darkness would come shrieks and
screams and the low thunder of galloping hoofs.  At the sound we
would spur our horses and hasten onward through the scattered
troops.  At last, after riding all night in the clear moonlight,
we found that we had left both pursued and pursuers behind.  By
the time we passed over the bridge at Charleroi the dawn was
breaking.  What a company of spectres we looked in that cold,
clear, searching light, the Emperor with his face of wax, Soult
blotched with powder, Lobau dabbled with blood!  But we rode more
easily now, and had ceased to glance over our shoulders, for
Waterloo was more than thirty miles behind us.  One of the
Emperor's carriages had been picked up at Charleroi, and we
halted now on the other side of the Sambre, and dismounted from
our horses.

You will ask me why it was that during all this time I had said
nothing of that which was nearest my heart, the need for guarding
the Emperor.  As a fact, I had tried to speak of it both to Soult
and to Lobau, but their minds were so overwhelmed with the
disaster and so distracted by the pressing needs of the moment
that it was impossible to make them understand how urgent was my
message.  Besides, during this long flight we had always had
numbers of French fugitives beside us on the road, and, however
demoralised they might be, we had nothing to fear from the attack
of nine men.  But now, as we stood round the Emperor's carriage
in the early morning, I observed with anxiety that not a single
French soldier was to be seen upon the long, white road behind
us.  We had outstripped the army.  I looked round to see what
means of defence were left to us.  The horses of the Chasseurs of
the Guard had broken down, and only one of them, a grey-whiskered
sergeant, remained.

There were Soult, Lobau, and Bertrand; but, for all their
talents, I had rather, when it came to hard knocks, have a single
quartermaster-sergeant of Hussars at my side than the three of
them put together.  There remained the Emperor himself, the
coachman, and a valet of the household who had joined us at
Charleroi--eight all told; but of the eight only two, the
Chasseur and I, were fighting soldiers who could be depended upon
at a pinch.  A chill came over me as I reflected how utterly
helpless we were.  At that moment I raised my eyes, and there
were the nine Prussian horsemen coming over the hill.

On either side of the road at this point are long stretches of
rolling plain, part of it yellow with corn and part of it rich
grass land watered by the Sambre.  To the south of us was a low
ridge, over which was the road to France.  Along this road the
little group of cavalry was riding.  So well had Count Stein
obeyed his instructions that he had struck far to the south of us
in his determination to get ahead of the Emperor.  Now he was
riding from the direction in which we were going-- the last in
which we could expect an enemy.  When I caught that first glimpse
of them they were still half a mile away.

"Sire!" I cried, "the Prussians!"

They all started and stared.  It was the Emperor who broke the
silence.

"Who says they are Prussians?"

"I do, Sire--I, Etienne Gerard!"

Unpleasant news always made the Emperor furious against the man
who broke it.  He railed at me now in the rasping, croaking,
Corsican voice which only made itself heard when he had lost his
self-control.

"You were always a buffoon," he cried.  "What do you mean, you
numskull, by saying that they are Prussians?

How could Prussians be coming from the direction of France?  You
have lost any wits that you ever possessed."

His words cut me like a whip, and yet we all felt toward the
Emperor as an old dog does to its master.

His kick is soon forgotten and forgiven.  I would not argue or
justify myself.  At the first glance I had seen the two white
stockings on the forelegs of the leading horse, and I knew well
that Count Stein was on its back.

For an instant the nine horsemen had halted and surveyed us.  Now
they put spurs to their horses, and with a yell of triumph they
galloped down the road.  They had recognised that their prey was
in their power.

At that swift advance all doubt had vanished.  "By heavens, Sire,
it is indeed the Prussians!" cried Soult.

Lobau and Bertrand ran about the road like two frightened hens. 
The sergeant of Chasseurs drew his sabre with a volley of curses. 
The coachman and the valet cried and wrung their hands.  Napoleon
stood with a frozen face, one foot on the step of the carriage. 
And I--ah, my friends, I was magnificent!  What words can I use
to do justice to my own bearing at that supreme instant of my
life?  So coldly alert, so deadly cool, so clear in brain and
ready in hand.  He had called me a numskull and a buffoon.  How
quick and how noble was my revenge!  When his own wits failed
him, it was Etienne Gerard who supplied the want.

To fight was absurd; to fly was ridiculous.  The Emperor was
stout, and weary to death.  At the best he was never a good
rider.  How could he fly from these, the picked men of an army? 
The best horseman in Prussia was among them.  But I was the best
horseman in France.  I, and only I, could hold my own with them. 
If they were on my track instead of the Emperor's, all might
still be well.  These were the thoughts which flashed so swiftly
through my mind that in an instant I had sprung from the first
idea to the final conclusion.  Another instant carried me from
the final conclusion to prompt and vigorous action.  I rushed to
the side of the Emperor, who stood petrified, with the carriage
between him and our enemies.  "Your coat, Sire! your hat!" I
cried.  I dragged them of him.

Never had he been so hustled in his life.  In an instant I had
them on and had thrust him into the carriage.  The next I had
sprung on to his famous white Arab and had ridden clear of the
group upon the road.

You have already divined my plan; but you may well ask how could
I hope to pass myself off as the Emperor.

My figure is as you still see it, and his was never beautiful,
for he was both short and stout.  But a man's height is not
remarked when he is in the saddle, and for the rest one had but
to sit forward on the horse and round one's back and carry
oneself like a sack of flour.  I wore the little cocked hat and
the loose grey coat with the silver star which was known to every
child from one end of Europe to the other.  Beneath me was the
Emperor's own famous white charger.  It was complete.

Already as I rode clear the Prussians were within two hundred
yards of us.  I made a gesture of terror and despair with my
hands, and I sprang my horse over the bank which lined the road. 
It was enough.  A yell of exultation and of furious hatred broke
from the Prussians.

It was the howl of starving wolves who scent their prey.  I
spurred my horse over the meadow-land and looked back under my
arm as I rode.  Oh, the glorious moment when one after the other
I saw eight horsemen come over the bank at my heels!  Only one
had stayed behind, and I heard shouting and the sounds of a
struggle.  I remembered my old sergeant of Chasseurs, and I was
sure that number nine would trouble us no more.  The road was
clear and the Emperor free to continue his journey.

But now I had to think of myself.  If I were overtaken the
Prussians would certainly make short work of me in their
disappointment.  If it were so--if I lost my life--I should still
have sold it at a glorious price.  But I had hopes that I might
shake them off.  With ordinary horsemen upon ordinary horses I
should have had no difficulty in doing so, but here both steeds
and riders were of the best.  It was a grand creature that I
rode, but it was weary with its long night's work, and the
Emperor was one of those riders who do not know how to manage a
horse.  He had little thought far them and a heavy hand upon
their mouths.  On the other hand, Stein and his men had come both
far and fast.  The race was a fair one.

So quick had been my impulse, and so rapidly had I acted upon it,
that I had not thought enough of my own safety.  Had I done so in
the first instance I should, of course, have ridden straight back
the way we had come, for so I should have met our own people. 
But I was off the road and had galloped a mile over the plain
before this occurred to me.  Then when I looked back I saw that
the Prussians had spread out into a long line, so as to head me
off from the Charleroi road.  I could not turn back, but at least
I could edge toward the north.  I knew that the whole face of the
country was covered with our flying troops, and that sooner or
later I must come upon some of them.

But one thing I had forgotten--the Sambre.  In my excitement I
never gave it a thought until I saw it, deep and broad, gleaming
in the morning sunlight.  It barred my path, and the Prussians
howled behind me.  I galloped to the brink, but the horse refused
the plunge.  I spurred him, but the bank was high and the stream
deep.

He shrank back trembling and snorting.  The yells of triumph were
louder every instant.  I turned and rode for my life down the
river bank.  It formed a loop at this part, and I must get across
somehow, for my retreat was blocked.  Suddenly a thrill of hope
ran through me, for I saw a house on my side of the stream and
another on the farther bank.  Where there are two such houses it
usually means that there is a ford between them.  A sloping path
led to the brink and I urged my horse down it.  On he went, the
water up to the saddle, the foam flying right and left.  He
blundered once and I thought we were lost, but he recovered and
an instant later was clattering up the farther slope.  As we came
out I heard the splash behind me as the first Prussian took the
water.  There was just the breadth of the Sambre between us.

I rode with my head sunk between my shoulders in Napoleon's
fashion, and I did not dare to look back for fear they should see
my moustache.  I had turned up the collar of the grey coat so as
partly to hide it.  Even now if they found out their mistake they
might turn and overtake the carriage.  But when once we were on
the road I could tell by the drumming of their hoofs how far
distant they were, and it seemed to me that the sound grew
perceptibly louder, as if they were slowly gaining upon me.  We
were riding now up the stony and rutted lane which led from the
ford.  I peeped back very cautiously from under my arm and I
perceived that my danger came from a single rider, who was far
ahead of his comrades.

He was a Hussar, a very tiny fellow, upon a big black horse, and
it was his light weight which had brought him into the foremost
place.  It is a place of honour; but it is also a place of
danger, as he was soon to learn.  I felt the holsters, but, to my
horror, there were no pistols.  There was a field-glass in one
and the other was stuffed with papers.  My sword had been left
behind with Violette.

Had I only my own weapons and my own little mare I could have
played with these rascals.  But I was not entirely unarmed.  The
Emperor's own sword hung to the saddle.  It was curved and short,
the hilt all crusted with gold--a thing more fitted to glitter at
a review than to serve a soldier in his deadly need.  I drew it,
such as it was, and I waited my chance.  Every instant the clink
and clatter of the hoofs grew nearer.  I heard the panting of the
horse, and the fellow shouted some threat at me.  There was a
turn in the lane, and as I rounded it I drew up my white Arab on
his haunches.  As we spun round I met the Prussian Hussar face to
face.  He was going too fast to stop, and his only chance was to
ride me down.  Had he done so he might have met his own death,
but he would have injured me or my horse past all hope of escape. 
But the fool flinched as he saw me waiting and flew past me on my
right.  I lunged over my Arab's neck and buried my toy sword in
his side.  It must have been the finest steel and as sharp as a
razor, for I hardly felt it enter, and yet his blood was within
three inches of the hilt.  His horse galloped on and he kept his
saddle for a hundred yards before he sank down with his face on
the mane and then dived over the side of the neck on to the road. 
For my own part I was already at his horse's heels.  A few
seconds had sufficed for all that I have told.

I heard the cry of rage and vengeance which rose from the
Prussians as they passed their dead comrade, and I could not but
smile as I wondered what they could think of the Emperor as a
horseman and a swordsman.  I glanced back cautiously as before,
and I saw that none of the seven men stopped.  The fate of their
comrade was nothing compared to the carrying out of their
mission.

They were as untiring and as remorseless as bloodhounds.

But I had a good lead and the brave Arab was still going well.  I
thought that I was safe.  And yet it was at that very instant
that the most terrible danger befell me.  The lane divided, and I
took the smaller of the two divisions because it was the more
grassy and the easier for the horse's hoofs.  Imagine my horror
when, riding through a gate, I found myself in a square of
stables and farm-buildings, with no way out save that by which I
had come!  Ah, my friends, if my hair is snowy white, have I not
had enough to make it so?

To retreat was impossible.  I could hear the thunder of the
Prussians' hoofs in the lane.  I looked round me, and Nature has
blessed me with that quick eye which is the first of gifts to any
soldier, but most of all to a leader of cavalry.  Between a long,
low line of stables and the farm-house there was a pig-sty.  Its
front was made of bars of wood four feet high; the back was of
stone, higher than the front.  What was beyond I could not tell. 
The space between the front and the back was not more than a few
yards.  It was a desperate venture, and yet I must take it. 
Every instant the beating of those hurrying hoofs was louder and
louder.  I put my Arab at the pig-sty.  She cleared the front
beautifully and came down with her forefeet upon the sleeping pig
within, slipping forward upon her knees.  I was thrown over the
wall beyond, and fell upon my hands and face in a soft
flower-bed.  My horse was upon one side of the wall, I upon the
other, and the Prussians were pouring into the yard.  But I was
up in an instant and had seized the bridle of the plunging horse
over the top of the wall.  It was built of loose stones, and I
dragged down a few of them to make a gap.  As I tugged at the
bridle and shouted the gallant creature rose to the leap, and an
instant afterward she was by my side and I with my foot on the
stirrup.

An heroic idea had entered my mind as I mounted into the saddle. 
These Prussians, if they came over the pig- sty, could only come
one at once, and their attack would not be formidable when they
had not had time to recover from such a leap.  Why should I not
wait and kill them one by one as they came over?  It was a
glorious thought.  They would learn that Etienne Gerard was not a
safe man to hunt.  My hand felt for my sword, but you can imagine
my feelings, my friends, when I came upon an empty scabbard.  It
had been shaken out when the horse had tripped over that infernal
pig.  On what absurd trifles do our destinies hang--a pig on one
side, Etienne Gerard on the other!  Could I spring over the wall
and get the sword?  Impossible!  The Prussians were already in
the yard.  I turned my Arab and resumed my flight.

But for a moment it seemed to me that I was in a far worse trap
than before.  I found myself in the garden of the farm-house, an
orchard in the centre and flower- beds all round.  A high wall
surrounded the whole place.  I reflected, however, that there
must be some point of entrance, since every visitor could not be
expected to spring over the pig-sty.  I rode round the wall.  As
I expected, I came upon a door with a key upon the inner side.  I
dismounted, unlocked it, opened it, and there was a Prussian
Lancer sitting his horse within six feet of me.

For a moment we each stared at the other.  Then I shut the door
and locked it again.  A crash and a cry came from the other end
of the garden.  I understood that one of my enemies had come to
grief in trying to get over the pig-sty.  How could I ever get
out of this cul-de-sac?  It was evident that some of the party
had galloped round, while some had followed straight upon my
tracks.  Had I my sword I might have beaten off the Lancer at the
door, but to come out now was to be butchered.  And yet if I
waited some of them would certainly follow me on foot over the
pig-sty, and what could I do then?  I must act at once or I was
lost.  But it is at such moments that my wits are most active and
my actions most prompt.  Still leading my horse, I ran for a
hundred yards by the side of the wall away from the spot where
the Lancer was watching.  There I stopped, and with an effort I
tumbled down several of the loose stones from the top of the
wall.  The instant I had done so I hurried back to the door.  As
I had expected, he thought I was making a gap for my escape at
that point, and I heard the thud of his horse's hoofs as he
galloped to cut me off.  As I reached the gate I looked back, and
I saw a green-coated horseman, whom I knew to be Count Stein,
clear the pig-sty and gallop furiously with a shout of triumph
across the garden.

"Surrender, your Majesty, surrender!" he yelled; "we will give
you quarter!"  I slipped through the gate, but had no time to
lock it on the other side.  Stein was at my very heels, and the
Lancer had already turned his horse.  Springing upon my Arab's
back, I was off once more with a clear stretch of grass land
before me.  Stein had to dismount to open the gate, to lead his
horse through, and to mount again before he could follow.

It was he that I feared rather than the Lancer, whose horse was
coarse-bred and weary.  I galloped hard for a mile before I
ventured to look back, and then Stein was a musket-shot from me,
and the Lancer as much again, while only three of the others were
in sight.  My nine Prussians were coming down to more manageable
numbers, and yet one was too much for an unarmed man.

It had surprised me that during this long chase I had seen no
fugitives from the army, but I reflected that I was considerably
to the west of their line of flight, and that I must edge more
toward the east if I wished to join them.  Unless I did so it was
probable that my pursuers, even if they could not overtake me
themselves, would keep me in view until I was headed off by some
of their comrades coming from the north.  As I looked to the
eastward I saw afar off a line of dust which stretched for miles
across the country.  This was certainly the main road along which
our unhappy army was flying.  But I soon had proof that some of
our stragglers had wandered into these side tracks, for I came
suddenly upon a horse grazing at the corner of a field, and
beside him, with his back against the bank, his master, a French
Cuirassier, terribly wounded and evidently on the point of death. 
I sprang down, seized his long, heavy sword, and rode on with it. 
Never shall I forget the poor man's face as he looked at me with
his failing sight.  He was an old, grey-moustached soldier, one
of the real fanatics, and to him this last vision of his Emperor
was like a revelation from on high.

Astonishment, love, pride--all shone in his pallid face.  He said
something--I fear they were his last words --but I had no time to
listen, and I galloped on my way.

All this time I had been on the meadow-land, which was
intersected in this part by broad ditches.  Some of them could
not have been less than from fourteen to fifteen feet, and my
heart was in my mouth as I went at each of them, for a slip would
have been my ruin.

But whoever selected the Emperor's horses had done his work well. 
The creature, save when it balked on the bank of the Sambre,
never failed me for an instant.

We cleared everything in one stride.  And yet we could not shake
off! those infernal Prussians.  As I left each water-course
behind me I looked back with renewed hope; but it was only to see
Stein on his white-legged chestnut flying over it as lightly as I
had done myself.  He was my enemy, but I honoured him for the way
in which he carried himself that day.

Again and again I measured the distance which separated him from
the next horseman.  I had the idea that I might turn and cut him
down, as I had the Hussar, before his comrade could come to his
help.  But the others had closed up and ere not far behind.  I
reflected that this Stein was probably as fine a swordsman as he
was a rider, and that it might take me some little time to get
the better of him.  In that case the others would come to his aid
an I should be lost.  On the whole, it was wiser to continue my
flight.

A road with poplars on either side ran across the plain from east
to west.  It would lead me toward that long line of dust which
marked the French retreat.  I wheeled my horse, therefore, and
galloped down it.  As I rode I saw a single house in front of me
upon the right, with a great bush hung over the door to mark it
as an inn.  Outside there were several peasants, but for them I
cared nothing.  What frightened me was to see the gleam of a red
coat, which showed that there were British in the place. 
However, I could not turn and I could not stop, so there was
nothing for it but to gallop on and to take my chance.  There
were no troops in sight, so these men must be stragglers or
marauders, from whom I had little to fear.  As I approached I saw
that there were two of them sitting drinking on a bench outside
the inn door.  I saw them stagger to their feet, and it was
evident that they were both very drunk.  One stood swaying in the
middle of the road.

"It's Boney!  So help me, it's Boney!" he yelled.  He ran with
his hands out to catch me, but luckily for himself his drunken
feet stumbled and he fell on his face on the road.  The other was
more dangerous.  He had rushed into the inn, and just as I passed
I saw him run out with his musket in his hand.  He dropped upon
one knee, and I stooped forward over my horse's neck.

A single shot from a Prussian or an Austrian is a small matter,
but the British were at that time the best shots in Europe, and
my drunkard seemed steady enough when he had a gun at his
shoulder.  I heard the crack, and my horse gave a convulsive
spring which would have unseated many a rider.  For an instant I
thought he was killed, but when I turned in my saddle I saw a
stream of blood running down the off hind-quarter.  I looked back
at the Englishman, and the brute had bitten the end off another
cartridge and was ramming it into his musket, but before he had
it primed we were beyond his range.  These men were foot-soldiers
and could not join in the chase, but I heard them whooping and
tally-hoing behind me as if I had been a fox.  The peasants also
shouted and ran through the fields flourishing their sticks. 
From all sides I heard cries, and everywhere were the rushing,
waving figures of my pursuers.  To think of the great Emperor
being chivvied over the country-side in this fashion!  It made me
long to have these rascals within the sweep of my sword.

But now I felt that I was nearing the end of my course.  I had
done all that a man could be expected to do--some would say
more--but at last I had come to a point from which I could see no
escape.  The horses of my pursuers were exhausted, but mine was
exhausted and wounded also.  It was losing blood fast, and we
left a red trail upon the white, dusty road.  Already his pace
was slackening, and sooner or later he must drop under me.  I
looked back, and there were the five inevitable Prussians--Stein
a hundred yards in front, then a Lancer, and then three others
riding together.

Stein had drawn his sword, and he waved it at me.  For my own
part I was determined not to give myself up.

I would try how many of these Prussians I could take with me into
the other world.  At this supreme moment all the great deeds of
my life rose in a vision before me, and I felt that this, my last
exploit, was indeed a worthy close to such a career.  My death
would be a fatal blow to those who loved me, to my dear mother,
to my Hussars, to others who shall be nameless.  But all of them
had my honour and my fame at heart, and I felt that their grief
would be tinged with pride when they learned how I had ridden and
how I had fought upon this last day.  Therefore I hardened my
heart and, as my Arab limped more and more upon his wounded leg,
I drew the great sword which I had taken from the Cuirassier, and
I set my teeth for my supreme struggle.  My hand was in the very
act of tightening the bridle, for I feared that if I delayed
longer I might find myself on foot fighting against five mounted
men.

At that instant my eye fell upon something which brought hope to
my heart and a shout of joy to my lips.

From a grove of trees in front of me there projected the steeple
of a village church.  But there could not be two steeples like
that, for the corner of it had crumbled away or been struck by
lightning, so that it was of a most fantastic shape.  I had seen
it only two daye{sic} before, and it was the church of the
village of Gosselies.  It was not the hope of reaching the
village which set my heart singing with joy, but it was that I
knew my ground now, and that farm-house not half a mile ahead,
with its gable end sticking out from amid the trees, must be that
very farm of St. Aunay where we had bivouacked, and which I had
named to Captain Sabbatier as the rendezvous of the Hussars of
Conflans.  There they were, my little rascals, if I could but
reach them.  With every bound my horse grew weaker.  Each instant
the sound of the pursuit grew louder.  I heard a gust of
crackling German oaths at my very heels.  A pistol bullet sighed
in my ears.  Spurring frantically and beating my poor Arab with
the flat of my sword I kept him at the top of his speed.  The
open gate of the farm-yard lay before me.  I saw the twinkle of
steel within.  Stein's horse's head was within ten yards of me as
I thundered through.

"To me, comrades!  To me!" I yelled.  I heard a buzz as when the
angry bees swarm from their nest.  Then my splendid white Arab
fell dead under me and I was hurled on to the cobble-stones of
the yard, where I can remember no more.

Such was my last and most famous exploit, my dear friends, a
story which rang through Europe and has made the name of Etienne
Gerard famous in history.

Alas! that all my efforts could only give the Emperor a few weeks
more liberty, since he surrendered upon the 15th of July to the
English.  But it was not my fault that he was not able to collect
the forces still waiting for him in France, and to fight another
Waterloo with a happier ending.  Had others been as loyal as I
was the history of the world might have been changed, the Emperor
would have preserved his throne, and such a soldier as I would
not have been left to spend his life in planting cabbages or to
while away his old age telling stories in a cafe.  You ask me
about the fate of Stein and the Prussian horsemen!  Of the three
who dropped upon the way I know nothing.  One you will remember
that I killed.  There remained five, three of whom were cut down
by my Hussars, who, for the instant, were under the impression
that it was indeed the Emperor whom they were defending.  Stein
was taken, slightly wounded, and so was one of the Uhlans.  The
truth was not told to them, for we thought it best that no news,
or false news, should get about as to where the Emperor was, so
that Count Stein still believed that he was within a few yards of
making that tremendous capture.  "You may well love and honour
your Emperor," said he, "for such a horseman and such a swordsman
I have never seen."  He could not understand why the young
colonel of Hussars laughed so heartily at his words--but he has
learned since.



VIII. The Last Adventure of the Brigadier

I will tell you no more stories, my dear friends.  It is said
that man is like the hare, which runs in a circle and comes back
to die at the point from which it started.

Gascony has been calling to me of late.  I see the blue Garonne
winding among the vineyards and the bluer ocean toward which its
waters sweep.  I see the old town also, and the bristle of masts
from the side of the long stone quay.  My heart hungers for the
breath of my native air and the warm glow of my native sun.

Here in Paris are my friends, my occupations, my pleasures. 
There all who have known me are in their grave.  And yet the
southwest wind as it rattles on my windows seems always to be the
strong voice of the motherland calling her child back to that
bosom into which I am ready to sink.  I have played my part in my
time.  The time has passed.  I must pass also.

Nay, dear friends, do not look sad, for what can be happier than
a life completed in honour and made beautiful with friendship and
love?  And yet it is solemn also when a man approaches the end of
the long road and sees the turning which leads him into the
unknown.  But the Emperor and all his Marshals have ridden round
that dark turning and passed into the beyond.  My Hussars,
too--there are not fifty men who are not waiting yonder.  I must
go.  But on this the last night I will tell you that which is
more than a tale--it is a great historical secret.  My lips have
been sealed, but I see no reason why I should not leave behind me
some account of this remarkable adventure, which must otherwise
be entirely lost, since I and only I, of all living men, have a
knowledge of the facts.

I will ask you to go back with me to the year 1821.

In that year our great Emperor had been absent from us for six
years, and only now and then from over the seas we heard some
whisper which showed that he was still alive.  You cannot think
what a weight it was upon our hearts for us who loved him to
think of him in captivity eating his giant soul out upon that
lonely island.  From the moment we rose until we closed our eyes
in sleep the thought was always with us, and we felt dishonoured
that he, our chief and master, should be so humiliated without
our being able to move a hand to help him.  There were many who
would most willingly have laid down the remainder of their lives
to bring him a little ease, and yet all that we could do was to
sit and grumble in our cafes and stare at the map, counting up
the leagues of water which lay between us.

It seemed that he might have been in the moon for all that we
could do to help him.  But that was only because we were all
soldiers and knew nothing of the sea.

Of course, we had our own little troubles to make us bitter, as
well as the wrongs of our Emperor.  There were many of us who had
held high rank and would hold it again if he came back to his
own.  We had not found it possible to take service under the
white flag of the Bourbons, or to take an oath which might turn
our sabres against the man whom we loved.  So we found ourselves
with neither work nor money.  What could we do save gather
together and gossip and grumble, while those who had a little
paid the score and those who had nothing shared the bottle?  Now
and then, if we were lucky, we managed to pick a quarrel with one
of the Garde du Corps, and if we left him on his hack in the Bois
we felt that we had struck a blow for Napoleon once again.  They
came to know our haunts in time, and they avoided them as if they
had been hornets' nests.

There was one of these--the Sign of the Great Man --in the Rue
Varennes, which was frequented by several of the more
distinguished and younger Napoleonic officers.  Nearly all of us
had been colonels or aides- de-camp, and when any man of less
distinction came among us we generally made him feel that he had
taken a liberty.  There were Captain Lepine, who had won the
medal of honour at Leipzig; Colonel Bonnet, aide-de-camp to
Macdonald; Colonel Jourdan, whose fame in the army was hardly
second to my own; Sabbatier of my own Hussars, Meunier of the Red
Lancers, Le Breton of the Guards, and a dozen others.

Every night we met and talked, played dominoes, drank a glass or
two, and wondered how long it would be before the Emperor would
be back and we at the head of our regiments once more.  The
Bourbons had already lost any hold they ever had upon the
country, as was shown a few years afterward, when Paris rose
against them and they were hunted for the third time out of
France.  Napoleon had but to show himself on the coast, and he
would have marched without firing a musket to the capital,
exactly as he had done when he came back from Elba.

Well, when affairs were in this state there arrived one night in
February, in our cafe, a most singular little man.  He was short
but exceedingly broad, with huge shoulders, and a head which was
a deformity, so large was it.  His heavy brown face was scarred
with white streaks in a most extraordinary manner, and he had
grizzled whiskers such as seamen wear.  Two gold earrings in his
ears, and plentiful tattooing upon his hands and arms, told us
also that he was of the sea before he introduced himself to us as
Captain Fourneau, of the Emperor's navy.  He had letters of
introduction to two of our number, and there could be no doubt
that he was devoted to the cause.  He won our respect, too, for
he had seen as much fighting as any of us, and the burns upon his
face were caused by his standing to his post upon the Orient, at
the Battle of the Nile, until the vessel blew up underneath him. 
Yet he would say little about himself, but he sat in the corner
of the cafe watching us all with a wonderfully sharp pair of eyes
and listening intently to our talk.

One night I was leaving the cafe when Captain Fourneau followed
me, and touching me on the arm he led me without saying a word
for some distance until we reached his lodgings.  "I wish to have
a chat with you," said he, and so conducted me up the stair to
his room.  There he lit a lamp and handed me a sheet of paper
which he took from an envelope in his bureau.  It was dated a few
months before from the Palace of Schonbrunn at Vienna.  "Captain
Fourneau is acting in the highest interests of the Emperor
Napoleon.

Those who love the Emperor should obey him without
question.--Marie Louise."  That is what I read.  I was familiar
with the signature of the Empress, and I could not doubt that
this was genuine.

"Well," said he, "are you satisfied as to my credentials?"

"Entirely."

"Are you prepared to take your orders from me?"

"This document leaves me no choice."

"Good!  In the first place, I understand from something you said
in the cafe that you can speak English?"

"Yes, I can."

"Let me hear you do so."

I said in English, "Whenever the Emperor needs the help of
Etienne Gerard I am ready night and day to give my life in his
service."  Captain Fourneau smiled.

"It is funny English," said he, "but still it is better than no
English.  For my own part I speak English like an Englishman.  It
is all that I have to show for six years spent in an English
prison.  Now I will tell you why I have come to Paris.  I have
come in order to choose an agent who will help me in a matter
which affects the interests of the Emperor.  I was told that it
was at the cafe of the Great Man that I would find the pick of
his old officers, and that I could rely upon every man there
being devoted to his interests.  I studied you all, therefore,
and I have come to the conclusion that you are the one who is
most suited for my purpose."

I acknowledged the compliment.  "What is it that you wish me to
do?" I asked.

"Merely to keep me company for a few months," said he.  "You must
know that after my release in England I settled down there,
married an English wife, and rose to command a small English
merchant ship, in which I have made several voyages from
Southampton to the Guinea coast.  They look on me there as an
Englishman.

You can understand, however, that with my feelings about the
Emperor I am lonely sometimes, and that it would be an advantage
to me to have a companion who would sympathize with my thoughts. 
One gets very bored on these long voyages, and I would make it
worth your while to share my cabin."

He looked hard at me with his shrewd grey eyes all the time that
he was uttering this rigmarole, and I gave him a glance in return
which showed him that he was not dealing with a fool.  He took
out a canvas bag full of money.

"There are a hundred pounds in gold in this bag," said he.  "You
will be able to buy some comforts for your voyage.  I should
recommend you to get them in Southampton, whence we will start in
ten days.  The name of the vessel is the Black Swan.  I return to
Southampton to-morrow, and I shall hope to see you in the course
of the next week."

"Come now," said I.  "Tell me frankly what is the destination of
our voyage?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" he answered.  "We are bound for the
Guinea coast of Africa."

"Then how can that be in the highest interests of the Emperor?" I
asked.

"It is in his highest interests that you ask no indiscreet
questions and I give no indiscreet replies," he answered,
sharply.  So he brought the interview to an end, and I found
myself back in my lodgings with nothing save this bag of gold to
show that this singular interview had indeed taken place.

There was every reason why I should see the adventure to a
conclusion, and so within a week I was on my way to England.  I
passed from St. Malo to Southampton, and on inquiry at the docks
I had no difficulty in finding the Black Swan, a neat little
vessel of a shape which is called, as I learned afterward, a
brig.  There was Captain Fourneau himself upon the deck, and
seven or eight rough fellows hard at work grooming her and making
her ready for sea.  He greeted me and led me down to his cabin.

"You are plain Mr. Gerard now," said he, "and a Channel Islander. 
I would be obliged to you if you would kindly forget your
military ways and drop your cavalry swagger when you walk up and
down my deck.

A beard, too, would seem more sailor-like than those moustaches."

I was horrified by his words, but, after all, there are no ladies
on the high seas, and what did it matter?  He rang for the
steward.

"Gustav," said he, "you will pay every attention to my friend,
Monsieur Etienne Gerard, who makes this voyage with us.  This is
Gustav Kerouan, my Breton steward," he explained, "and you are
very safe in his hands."

This steward, with his harsh face and stern eyes, looked a very
warlike person for so peaceful an employment.

I said nothing, however, though you may guess that I kept my eyes
open.  A berth had been prepared for me next the cabin, which
would have seemed comfortable enough had it not contrasted with
the extraordinary splendour of Fourneau's quarters.  He was
certainly a most luxurious person, for his room was new-fitted
with velvet and silver in a way which would have suited the yacht
of a noble better than a little West African trader.

So thought the mate, Mr. Burns, who could not hide his amusement
and contempt whenever he looked at it.

This fellow, a big, solid, red-headed Englishman, had the other
berth connected with the cabin.  There was a second mate named
Turner, who lodged in the middle of the ship, and there were nine
men and one boy in the crew, three of whom, as I was informed by
Mr. Burns, were Channel Islanders like myself.  This Burns, the
first mate, was much interested to know why I was coming with
them.

"I come for pleasure," said I.

He stared at me.

"Ever been to the West Coast?" he asked.

I said that I had not.

"I thought not," said he.  "You'll never come again for that
reason, anyhow."

Some three days after my arrival we untied the ropes by which the
ship was tethered and we set off upon our journey.  I was never a
good sailor, and I may confess that we were far out of sight of
any land before I was able to venture upon deck.  At last,
however, upon the fifth day I drank the soup which the good
Kerouan brought me, and I was able to crawl from my bunk and up
the stair.  The fresh air revived me, and from that time onward I
accommodated myself to the motion of the vessel.  My beard had
begun to grow also, and I have no doubt that I should have made
as fine a sailor as I have a soldier had I chanced to be born to
that branch of the service.  I learned to pull the ropes which
hoisted the sails, and also to haul round the long sticks to
which they are attached.  For the most part, however, my duties
were to play ecarte with Captain Fourneau, and to act as his
companion.  It was not strange that he should need one, for
neither of his mates could read or write, though each of them was
an excellent seaman.

If our captain had died suddenly I cannot imagine how we should
have found our way in that waste of waters, for it was only he
who had the knowledge which enabled him to mark our place upon
the chart.  He had this fixed upon the cabin wall, and every day
he put our course upon it so that we could see at a glance how
far we were from our destination.  It was wonderful how well he
could calculate it, for one morning he said that we should see
the Cape Verd light that very night, and there it was, sure
enough, upon our left front the moment that darkness came.  Next
day, however, the land was out of sight, and Burns, the mate,
explained to me that we should see no more until we came to our
port in the Gulf of Biafra.  Every day we flew south with a
favouring wind, and always at noon the pin upon the chart was
moved nearer and nearer to the African coast.  I may explain that
palm oil was the cargo which we were in search of, and that our
own lading consisted of coloured cloths, old muskets, and such
other trifles as the English sell to the savages.

At last the wind which had followed us so long died away, and for
several days we drifted about on a calm and oily sea, under a sun
which brought the pitch bubbling out between the planks upon the
deck.  We turned and turned our sails to catch every wandering
puff, until at last we came out of this belt of calm and ran
south again with a brisk breeze, the sea all round us being alive
with flying fishes.  For some days Burns appeared to be uneasy,
and I observed him continually shading his eyes with his hand and
staring at the horizon as if he were looking for land.  Twice I
caught him with his red head against the chart in the cabin,
gazing at that pin, which was always approaching and yet never
reaching the African coast.  At last one evening, as Captain
Fourneau and I were playing ecarte in the cabin, the mate entered
with an angry look upon his sunburned face.

"I beg your pardon, Captain Fourneau," said he.

"But do you know what course the man at the wheel is steering?"

"Due south," the captain answered, with his eyes fixed upon his
cards.

"And he should be steering due east."

"How do you make that out?"

The mate gave an angry growl.

"I may not have much education," said he, "but let me tell you
this, Captain Fourneau, I've sailed these waters since I was a
little nipper of ten, and I know the line when I'm on it, and I
know the doldrums, and I know how to find my way to the oil
rivers.  We are south of the line now, and we should be steering
due east instead of due south if your port is the port that the
owners sent you to."

"Excuse me, Mr. Gerard.  Just remember that it is my lead," said
the captain, laying down his cards.

"Come to the map here, Mr. Burns, and I will give you a lesson in
practical navigation.  Here is the trade wind from the southwest
and here is the line, and here is the port that we want to make,
and here is a man who will have his own way aboard his own ship." 
As he spoke he seized the unfortunate mate by the throat and
squeezed him until he was nearly senseless.  Kerouan, the
steward, had rushed in with a rope, and between them they gagged
and trussed the man, so that he was utterly helpless.

"There is one of our Frenchmen at the wheel.  We had best put the
mate overboard," said the steward.

"That is safest," said Captain Fourneau.

But that was more than I could stand.  Nothing would persuade me
to agree to the death of a helpless man.

With a bad grace Captain Fourneau consented to spare him, and we
carried him to the after-hold, which lay under the cabin.  There
he was laid among the bales of Manchester cloth.

"It is not worth while to put down the hatch," said Captain
Fourneau.  "Gustav, go to Mr. Turner and tell him that I would
like to have a word with him."

The unsuspecting second mate entered the cabin, and was instantly
gagged and secured as Burns had been.

He was carried down and laid beside his comrade.  The hatch was
then replaced.

"Our hands have been forced by that red-headed dolt," said the
captain, "and I have had to explode my mine before I wished. 
However, there is no great harm done, and it will not seriously
disarrange my plans.

"Kerouan, you will take a keg of rum forward to the crew and tell
them that the captain gives it to them to drink his health on the
occasion of crossing the line.

"They will know no better.  As to our own fellows, bring them
down to your pantry so that we may me sure that they are ready
for business.  Now, Colonel Gerard, with your permission we will
resume our game of ecarte."

It is one of those occasions which one does not forget.

This captain, who was a man of iron, shuffled and cut, dealt and
played as if he were in his cafe.  From below we heard the
inarticulate murmurings of the two mates, half smothered by the
handkerchiefs which gagged them.  Outside the timbers creaked and
the sails hummed under the brisk breeze which was sweeping us
upon our way.  Amid the splash of the waves and the whistle of
the wind we heard the wild cheers and shoutings of the English
sailors as they broached the keg of rum.  We played half-a-dozen
games and then the captain rose.  "I think they are ready for us
now," said he.  He took a brace of pistols from a locker, and he
handed one of them to me.

But we had no need to fear resistance, for there was no one to
resist.  The Englishman of those days, whether soldier or sailor,
was an incorrigible drunkard.

Without drink he was a brave and good man.  But if drink were
laid before him it was a perfect madness-- nothing could induce
him to take it with moderation.

In the dim light of the den which they inhabited, five senseless
figures and two shouting, swearing, singing madmen represented
the crew of the Black Swan.  Coils of rope were brought forward
by the steward, and with the help of two French seamen (the third
was at the wheel) we secured the drunkards and tied them up, so
that it was impossible for them to speak or move.  They were
placed under the fore-hatch, as their officers had been under the
after one, and Kerouan was directed twice a day to give them food
and drink.  So at last we found that the Black Swan was entirely
our own.

Had there been bad weather I do not know what we should have
done, but we still went gaily upon our way with a wind which was
strong enough to drive us swiftly south, but not strong enough to
cause us alarm.  On the evening of the third day I found Captain
Fourneau gazing eagerly out from the platform in the front of the
vessel.  "Look, Gerard, look!" he cried, and pointed over the
pole which stuck out in front.

A light blue sky rose from a dark blue sea, and far away, at the
point where they met, was a shadowy something like a cloud, but
more definite in shape.

"What is it?" I cried.

"It is land."

"And what land?"

I strained my ears for the answer, and yet I knew already what
the answer would be.

"It is St. Helena."

Here, then, was the island of my dreams!  Here was the cage where
our great Eagle of France was confined!

All those thousands of leagues of water had not sufficed to keep
Gerard from the master whom he loved.

There he was, there on that cloud-bank yonder over the dark blue
sea.  How my eyes devoured it!  How my soul flew in front of the
vessel--flew on and on to tell him that he was not forgotten,
that after many days one faithful servant was coming to his side. 
Every instant the dark blur upon the water grew harder and
clearer.

Soon I could see plainly enough that it was indeed a mountainous
island.  The night fell, but still I knelt upon the deck, with my
eyes fixed upon the darkness which covered the spot where I knew
that the great Emperor was.  An hour passed and another one, and
then suddenly a little golden twinkling light shone out exactly
ahead of us.  It was the light of the window of some
house--perhaps of his house.  It could not be more than a mile or
two away.  Oh, how I held out my hands to it!--they were the
hands of Etienne Gerard, but it was for all France that they were
held out.

Every light had been extinguished aboard our ship, and presently,
at the direction of Captain Fourneau, we all pulled upon one of
the ropes, which had the effect of swinging round one of the
sticks above us, and so stopping the vessel.  Then he asked me to
step down to the cabin.

"You understand everything now, Colonel Gerard," said he, "and
you will forgive me if I did not take you into my complete
confidence before.  In a matter of such importance I make no man
my confidant.  I have long planned the rescue of the Emperor, and
my remaining in England and joining their merchant service was
entirely with that design.  All has worked out exactly as I
expected.  I have made several successful voyages to the West
Coast of Africa, so that there was no difficulty in my obtaining
the command of this one.  One by one I got these old French
man-of-war's-men among the hands.  As to you, I was anxious to
have one tried fighting man in case of resistance, and I also
desired to have a fitting companion for the Emperor during his
long homeward voyage.  My cabin is already fitted up for his use. 
I trust that before to-morrow morning he will be inside it, and
we out of sight of this accursed island."

You can think of my emotion, my friends, as I listened to these
words.  I embraced the brave Fourneau, and implored him to tell
me how I could assist him.

"I must leave it all in your hands," said he.  "Would that I
could have been the first to pay him homage, but it would not be
wise for me to go.  The glass is falling, there is a storm
brewing, and we have the land under our lee.  Besides, there are
three English cruisers near the island which may be upon us at
any moment.  It is for me, therefore, to guard the ship and for
you to bring off the Emperor."

I thrilled at the words.

"Give me your instructions!" I cried.

"I can only spare you one man, for already I can hardly pull
round the yards," said he.  "One of the boats has been lowered,
and this man will row you ashore and await your return.  The
light which you see is indeed the light of Longwood.  All who are
in the house are your friends, and all may be depended upon to
aid the Emperor's escape.  There is a cordon of English sentries,
but they are not very near to the house.  Once you have got as
far as that you will convey our plans to the Emperor, guide him
down to the boat, and bring him on board."

The Emperor himself could not have given his instructions more
shortly and clearly.  There was not a moment to be lost.  The
boat with the seaman was waiting alongside.  I stepped into it,
and an instant afterward we had pushed off.  Our little boat
danced over the dark waters, but always shining before my eyes
was the light of Longwood, the light of the Emperor, the star of
hope.  Presently the bottom of the boat grated upon the pebbles
of the beach.  It was a deserted cove, and no challenge from a
sentry came to disturb us.  I left the seaman by the boat and I
began to climb the hillside.

There was a goat track winding in and out among the rocks, so I
had no difficulty in finding my way.  It stands to reason that
all paths in St. Helena would lead to the Emperor.  I came to a
gate.  No sentry--and I passed through.  Another gate--still no
sentry!  I wondered what had become of this cordon of which
Fourneau had spoken.  I had come now to the top of my climb, for
there was the light burning steadily right in front of me.  I
concealed myself and took a good look round, but still I could
see no sign of the enemy.  As I approached I saw the house, a
long, low building with a veranda.  A man was walking up and down
upon the path in front.  I crept nearer and had a look at him.

Perhaps it was this cursed Hudson Lowe.  What a triumph if I
could not only rescue the Emperor, but also avenge him!  But it
was more likely that this man was an English sentry.  I crept
nearer still, and the man stopped in front of the lighted window,
so that I could see him.  No; it was no soldier, but a priest.  I
wondered what such a man could be doing there at two in the
morning.  Was he French or English?  If he were one of the
household I might take him into my confidence.  If he were
English he might ruin all my plans.

I crept a little nearer still, and at that moment he entered the
house, a flood of light pouring out through the open door.  All
was clear for me now and I understood that not an instant was to
be lost.  Bending myself double I ran swiftly forward to the
lighted window.

Raising my head I peeped through, and there was the Emperor lying
dead before me.

My friends, I fell down upon the gravel walk as senseless as if a
bullet had passed through my brain.  So great was the shock that
I wonder that I survived it.

And yet in half an hour I had staggered to my feet again,
shivering in every limb, my teeth chattering, and there I stood
staring with the eyes of a maniac into that room of death.

He lay upon a bier in the centre of the chamber, calm, composed,
majestic, his face full of that reserve power which lightened our
hearts upon the day of battle.  A half-smile was fixed upon his
pale lips, and his eyes, half-opened, seemed to be turned on
mine.  He was stouter than when I had seen him at Waterloo, and
there was a gentleness of expression which I had never seen in
life.  On either side of him burned rows of candles, and this was
the beacon which had welcomed us at sea, which had guided me over
the water, and which I had hailed as my star of hope.  Dimly I
became conscious that many people were kneeling in the room; the
little Court, men and women, who had shared his fortunes,
Bertrand, his wife, the priest, Montholon--all were there.  I
would have prayed too, but my heart was too heavy and bitter for
prayer.  And yet I must leave, and I could not leave him without
a sign.  Regardless of whether I was seen or not, I drew myself
erect before my dead leader, brought my heels together, and
raised my hand in a last salute.  Then I turned and hurried of
through the darkness, with the picture of the wan, smiling lips
and the steady grey eyes dancing always before me.

It had seemed to me but a little time that I had been away, and
yet the boatman told me that it was hours.

Only when he spoke of it did I observe that the wind was blowing
half a gale from the sea and that the waves were roaring in upon
the beach.  Twice we tried to push out our little boat, and twice
it was thrown back by the sea.  The third time a great wave
filled it and stove the bottom.  Helplessly we waited beside it
until the dawn broke, to show a raging sea and a flying scud
above it.  There was no sign of the Black Swan.  Climbing the
hill we looked down, but on all the great torn expanse of the
ocean there was no gleam of a sail.  She was gone.  Whether she
had sunk, or whether she was recaptured by her English crew, or
what strange fate may have been in store for her, I do not know. 
Never again in this life did I see Captain Fourneau to tell him
the result of my mission.  For my own part I gave myself up to
the English, my boatman and I pretending that we were the only
survivors of a lost vessel--though, indeed, there was no pretence
in the matter.  At the hands of their officers I received that
generous hospitality which I have always encountered, but it was
many a long month before I could get a passage back to the dear
land outside of which there can be no happiness for so true a
Frenchman as myself.

And so I tell you in one evening how I bade good-bye to my
master, and I take my leave also of you, my kind friends, who
have listened so patiently to the long- winded stories of an old
broken soldier.  Russia, Italy, Germany, Spain, Portugal, and
England, you have gone with me to all these countries, and you
have seen through my dim eyes something of the sparkle and
splendour of those great days, and I have brought back to you
some shadow of those men whose tread shook the earth.  Treasure
it in your minds and pass it on to your children, for the memory
of a great age is the most precious treasure that a nation can
possess.  As the tree is nurtured by its own cast leaves so it is
these dead men and vanished days which may bring out another
blossoming of heroes, of rulers, and of sages.  I go to Gascony,
but my words stay here in your memory, and long after Etienne
Gerard is forgotten a heart may be warmed or a spirit braced by
some faint echo of the words that he has spoken.  Gentlemen, an
old soldier salutes you and bids you farewell.





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Beyond the City

by Arthur Conan Doyle

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BEYOND THE CITY.


CHAPTER I.


THE NEW-COMERS.


"If you please, mum," said the voice of a domestic
from somewhere round the angle of the door, "number three
is moving in.

Two little old ladies, who were sitting at either
side of a table, sprang to their feet with ejaculations
of interest, and rushed to the window of the
sitting-room.

"Take care, Monica dear," said one, shrouding herself
in the lace curtain; "don't let them see us.

"No, no, Bertha.  We must not give them reason to say
that their neighbors are inquisitive.  But I think that
we are safe if we stand like this."

The open window looked out upon a sloping lawn, well
trimmed and pleasant, with fuzzy rosebushes and a
star-shaped bed of sweet-william.  It was bounded by
a low wooden fence, which screened it off from a broad,
modern, new metaled road.  At the other side of this road
were three large detached deep-bodied villas with peaky
eaves and small wooden balconies, each standing in its
own little square of grass and of flowers.  All three
were equally new, but numbers one and two were curtained
and sedate, with a human, sociable look to them; while
number three, with yawning door and unkempt garden, had
apparently only just received its furniture and made
itself ready for its occupants.  A four-wheeler had
driven up to the gate, and it was at this that the old
ladies, peeping out bird-like from behind their curtains,
directed an eager and questioning gaze.

The cabman had descended, and the passengers within
were handing out the articles which they desired him to
carry up to the house.  He stood red-faced and blinking,
with his crooked arms outstretched, while a male hand,
protruding from the window, kept piling up upon him a
series of articles the sight of which filled the curious
old ladies with bewilderment.

"My goodness me!" cried Monica, the smaller, the
drier, and the more wizened of the pair.  "What do you
call that, Bertha?  It looks to me like four batter
puddings."

"Those are what young men box each other with,"
said Bertha, with a conscious air of superior worldly
knowledge.

"And those?"

Two great bottle-shaped pieces of yellow shining wood
had been heaped upon the cabman.

"Oh, I don't know what those are," confessed Bertha. 
Indian clubs had never before obtruded themselves upon
her peaceful and very feminine existence.

These mysterious articles were followed, however, by
others which were more within their, range of
comprehension--by a pair of dumb-bells, a purple
cricket-bag, a set of golf clubs, and a tennis racket. 
Finally, when the cabman, all top-heavy and bristling,
had staggered off up the garden path, there emerged in a
very leisurely way from the cab a big, powerfully built
young man, with a bull pup under one arm and a pink
sporting paper in his hand.  The paper he crammed into
the pocket of his light yellow dust-coat, and extended
his hand as if to assist some one else from the vehicle. 
To the surprise of the two old ladies, however, the only
thing which his open palm received was a violent slap,
and a tall lady bounded unassisted out of the cab.  With
a regal wave she motioned the young man towards the door,
and then with one hand upon her hip she stood in a
careless, lounging attitude by the gate, kicking her
toe against the wall and listlessly awaiting the return
of the driver.

As she turned slowly round, and the sunshine struck
upon her face, the two watchers were amazed to see that
this very active and energetic lady was far from being in
her first youth, so far that she had certainly come of
age again since she first passed that landmark in life's
journey.  Her finely chiseled, clean-cut face, with
something red Indian about the firm mouth and strongly
marked cheek bones, showed even at that distance traces
of the friction of the passing years.  And yet she was
very handsome.  Her features were as firm in repose as
those of a Greek bust, and her great dark eyes were
arched over by two brows so black, so thick, and so
delicately curved, that the eye turned away from the
harsher details of the face to marvel at their grace and
strength.  Her figure, too, was straight as a dart, a
little portly, perhaps, but curving into magnificent
outlines, which were half accentuated by the strange
costume which she wore.  Her hair, black but plentifully
shot with grey, was brushed plainly back from her high
forehead, and was gathered under a small round felt hat,
like that of a man, with one sprig of feather in the band
as a concession to her sex.  A double-breasted jacket of
some dark frieze-like material fitted closely to her
figure, while her straight blue skirt, untrimmed and
ungathered, was cut so short that the lower curve of her
finely-turned legs was plainly visible beneath it,
terminating in a pair of broad, flat, low-heeled and
square-toed shoes.  Such was the lady who lounged at the
gate of number three, under the curious eyes of her two
opposite neighbors.

But if her conduct and appearance had already
somewhat jarred upon their limited and precise sense of
the fitness of things, what were they to think of the
next little act in this tableau vivant?  The cabman,
red and heavy-jowled, had come back from his labors, and
held out his hand for his fare.  The lady passed him a
coin, there was a moment of mumbling and gesticulating,
and suddenly she had him with both hands by the red
cravat which girt his neck, and was shaking him as a
terrier would a rat.  Right across the pavement she
thrust him, and, pushing him up against the wheel, she
banged his head three several times against the side of
his own vehicle.

"Can I be of any use to you, aunt?" asked the large
youth, framing himself in the open doorway.

"Not the slightest," panted the enraged lady. 
"There, you low blackguard, that will teach you to be
impertinent to a lady."

The cabman looked helplessly about him with a
bewildered, questioning gaze, as one to whom alone of
all men this unheard-of and extraordinary thing had
happened.  Then, rubbing his head, he mounted slowly on
to the box and drove away with an uptossed hand appealing
to the universe.  The lady smoothed down her dress,
pushed back her hair under her little felt hat, and
strode in through the hall-door, which was closed behind
her.  As with a whisk her short skirts vanished into the
darkness, the two spectators--Miss Bertha and Miss Monica
Williams--sat looking at each other in speechless
amazement.  For fifty years they had peeped through that
little window and across that trim garden, but never yet
had such a sight as this come to confound them.

"I wish," said Monica at last, "that we had kept the
field."

"I am sure I wish we had," answered her sister.



----


CHAPTER II.


BREAKING THE ICE.


The cottage from the window of which the Misses
Williams had looked out stands, and has stood for many a
year, in that pleasant suburban district which lies
between Norwood, Anerley, and Forest Hill.  Long
before there had been a thought of a township there, when
the Metropolis was still quite a distant thing, old Mr.
Williams had inhabited "The Brambles," as the little
house was called, and had owned all the fields about it. 
Six or eight such cottages scattered over a rolling
country-side were all the houses to be found there in the
days when the century was young.  From afar, when the
breeze came from the north, the dull, low roar of the
great city might be heard, like the breaking of the tide
of life, while along the horizon might be seen the dim
curtain of smoke, the grim spray which that tide threw
up.  Gradually, however, as the years passed, the City
had thrown out a long brick-feeler here and there,
curving, extending, and coalescing, until at last the
little cottages had been gripped round by these red
tentacles, and had been absorbed to make room for the
modern villa.  Field by field the estate of old Mr.
Williams had been sold to the speculative builder, and
had borne rich crops of snug suburban dwellings, arranged
in curving crescents and tree-lined avenues.  The father
had passed away before his cottage was entirely bricked
round, but his two daughters, to whom the property had
descended, lived to see the last vestige of country taken
from them.  For years they had clung to the one field
which faced their windows, and it was only after much
argument and many heartburnings, that they had at last
consented that it should share the fate of the others. 
A broad road was driven through their quiet domain, the
quarter was re-named "The Wilderness," and three square,
staring, uncompromising villas began to sprout up on the
other side.  With sore hearts, the two shy little old
maids watched their steady progress, and speculated as to
what fashion of neighbors chance would bring into the
little nook which had always been their own.

And at last they were all three finished.  Wooden
balconies and overhanging eaves had been added to them,
so that, in the language of the advertisement, there were
vacant three eligible Swiss-built villas, with sixteen
rooms, no basement, electric bells, hot and cold water,
and every modern convenience, including a common tennis
lawn, to be let at L100 a year, or L1,500 purchase.  So
tempting an offer did not long remain open.  Within a few
weeks the card had vanished from number one, and it was
known that Admiral Hay Denver, V. C., C. B., with Mrs.
Hay Denver and their only son, were about to move into
it.  The news brought peace to the hearts of the Williams
sisters.  They had lived with a settled conviction that
some wild impossible colony, some shouting, singing
family of madcaps, would break in upon their peace. 
This establishment at least was irreproachable.  A
reference to "Men of the Time" showed them that Admiral
Hay Denver was a most distinguished officer, who had
begun his active career at Bomarsund, and had ended it at
Alexandria, having managed between these two episodes to
see as much service as any man of his years.  From the
Taku Forts and the _Shannon_ brigade, to dhow-harrying
off Zanzibar, there was no variety of naval work which
did not appear in his record; while the Victoria Cross,
and the Albert Medal for saving life, vouched for it that
in peace as in war his courage was still of the same true
temper.  Clearly a very eligible neighbor this, the more
so as they had been confidentially assured by the estate
agent that Mr. Harold Denver, the son, was a most quiet
young gentleman, and that he was busy from morning to
night on the Stock Exchange.

The Hay Denvers had hardly moved in before number two
also struck its placard, and again the ladies found that
they had no reason to be discontented with their
neighbors.  Doctor Balthazar Walker was a very well-known 
name in the medical world.  Did not his qualifications,
his membership, and the record of his writings fill a
long half-column in the "Medical Directory," from his
first little paper on the "Gouty Diathesis" in 1859 to
his exhaustive treatise upon "Affections of the
Vaso-Motor System" in 1884?  A successful medical career
which promised to end in a presidentship of a college and
a baronetcy, had been cut short by his sudden inheritance
of a considerable sum from a grateful patient, which had
rendered him independent for life, and had enabled him to
turn his attention to the more scientific part of his
profession, which had always had a greater charm for him
than its more practical and commercial aspect.  To this
end he had given up his house in Weymouth Street, and had
taken this opportunity of moving himself, his scientific
instruments, and his two charming daughters (he had been
a widower for some years) into the more peaceful
atmosphere of Norwood.

There was thus but one villa unoccupied, and it was
no wonder that the two maiden ladies watched with a keen
interest, which deepened into a dire apprehension, the
curious incidents which heralded the coming of the new
tenants.  They had already learned from the agent that
the family consisted of two only, Mrs. Westmacott, a
widow, and her nephew, Charles Westmacott.  How simple
and how select it had sounded!  Who could have foreseen
from it these fearful portents which seemed to threaten
violence and discord among the dwellers in The
Wilderness?  Again the two old maids cried in
heartfelt chorus that they wished they had not sold their
field.

"Well, at least, Monica," remarked Bertha, as they
sat over their teacups that afternoon, "however strange
these people may be, it is our duty to be as polite to
them as to the others."

"Most certainly," acquiesced her sister.

"Since we have called upon Mrs. Hay Denver and upon
the Misses Walker, we must call upon this Mrs. Westmacott
also."

"Certainly, dear.  As long as they are living upon
our land I feel as if they were in a sense our guests,
and that it is our duty to welcome them."

"Then we shall call to-morrow," said Bertha, with
decision.

"Yes, dear, we shall.  But, oh, I wish it was over!"

At four o'clock on the next day, the two maiden
ladies set off upon their hospitable errand.  In their
stiff, crackling dresses of black silk, with
jet-bespangled jackets, and little rows of cylindrical
grey curls drooping down on either side of their black
bonnets, they looked like two old fashion plates which
had wandered off into the wrong decade.  Half curious and
half fearful, they knocked at the door of number three,
which was instantly opened by a red-headed page-boy.

Yes, Mrs. Westmacott was at home.  He ushered them
into the front room, furnished as a drawing-room, where
in spite of the fine spring weather a large fire was
burning in the grate.  The boy took their cards, and
then, as they sat down together upon a settee, he set
their nerves in a thrill by darting behind a curtain with
a shrill cry, and prodding at something with his foot. 
The bull pup which they had seen upon the day before
bolted from its hiding-place, and scuttled snarling from
the room.

"It wants to get at Eliza," said the youth, in a
confidential whisper.  "Master says she would give him
more'n he brought."  He smiled affably at the two little
stiff black figures, and departed in search of his
mistress.

"What--what did he say?" gasped Bertha.

"Something about a----  Oh, goodness gracious!  Oh,
help, help, help, help, help!"  The two sisters had
bounded on to the settee, and stood there with staring
eyes and skirts gathered in, while they filled the whole
house with their yells.  Out of a high wicker-work basket
which stood by the fire there had risen a flat
diamond-shaped head with wicked green eyes which came
flickering upwards, waving gently from side to side,
until a foot or more of glossy scaly neck was visible. 
Slowly the vicious head came floating up, while at every
oscillation a fresh burst of shrieks came from
the settee.


"What in the name of mischief!" cried a voice, and
there was the mistress of the house standing in the
doorway.  Her gaze at first had merely taken in the fact
that two strangers were standing screaming upon her red
plush sofa.  A glance at the fireplace, however, showed
her the cause of the terror, and she burst into a hearty
fit of laughter.

"Charley," she shouted, "here's Eliza misbehaving
again."

"I'll settle her," answered a masculine voice, and
the young man dashed into the room.  He had a brown
horse-cloth in his hand, which he threw over the basket,
making it fast with a piece of twine so as to effectually
imprison its inmate, while his aunt ran across to
reassure her visitors.

"It is only a rock snake, " she explained.

"Oh, Bertha!"  "Oh, Monica!" gasped the poor
exhausted gentlewomen.

"She's hatching out some eggs.  That is why we have
the fire.  Eliza always does better when she is warm. 
She is a sweet, gentle creature, but no doubt she thought
that you had designs upon her eggs.  I suppose that you
did not touch any of them?"

"Oh, let us get away, Bertha!' cried Monica, with her
thin, black-gloved hands thrown forwards in abhorrence.

"Not away, but into the next room," said Mrs.
Westmacott, with the air of one whose word was law. 
"This way, if you please!  It is less warm here."  She
led the way into a very handsomely appointed library,
with three great cases of books, and upon the fourth side
a long yellow table littered over with papers and
scientific instruments.  "Sit here, and you, there," she
continued.  "That is right.  Now let me see, which of you
is Miss Williams, and which Miss Bertha Williams?"

"I am Miss Williams," said Monica, still palpitating,
and glancing furtively about in dread of some new horror.

"And you live, as I understand, over at the pretty
little cottage.  It is very nice of you to call so early. 
I don't suppose that we shall get on, but still the
intention is equally good."  She crossed her legs and
leaned her back against the marble mantelpiece.

"We thought that perhaps we might be of some
assistance," said Bertha, timidly.  "If there is anything
which we could do to make you feel more at home----"

"Oh, thank you, I am too old a traveler to feel
anything but at home wherever I go.  I've just come back
from a few months in the Marquesas Islands, where I had
a very pleasant visit.  That was where I got Eliza.  In
many respects the Marquesas Islands now lead the world." 

"Dear me!" ejaculated Miss Williams.  "In what
respect?"

"In the relation of the sexes.  They have worked out
the great problem upon their own lines, and their
isolated geographical position has helped them to come to
a conclusion of their own.  The woman there is, as she
should be, in every way the absolute equal of the male. 
Come in, Charles, and sit down.  Is Eliza all right?"

"All right, aunt."

"These are our neighbors, the Misses Williams. 
Perhaps they will have some stout.  You might bring in a
couple of bottles, Charles."

"No, no, thank you!  None for us!" cried her two
visitors, earnestly.

"No?  I am sorry that I have no tea to offer you.  I
look upon the subserviency of woman as largely due to her
abandoning nutritious drinks and invigorating exercises
to the male.  I do neither."  She picked up a pair of
fifteen-pound dumb-bells from beside the fireplace and
swung them lightly about her head.  "You see what may be
done on stout," said she.

"But don't you think," the elder Miss Williams
suggested timidly, "don't you think, Mrs. Westmascott,
that woman has a mission of her own?"

The lady of the house dropped her dumb-bells with a
crash upon the floor.

"The old cant!" she cried.  "The old shibboleth! 
What is this mission which is reserved for woman?  All
that is humble, that is mean, that is soul-killing, that
is so contemptible and so ill-paid that none other will
touch it.  All that is woman's mission.  And who imposed
these limitations upon her?  Who cooped her up within
this narrow sphere?  Was it Providence?  Was it nature? 
No, it was the arch enemy.  It was man."

"Oh, I say, auntie!" drawled her nephew.

"It was man, Charles.  It was you and your fellows I
say that woman is a colossal monument to the selfishness
of man.  What is all this boasted chivalry--these fine
words and vague phrases?  Where is it when we wish to put
it to the test?  Man in the abstract will do anything to
help a woman.  Of course.  How does it work when his
pocket is touched?  Where is his chivalry then?  Will the
doctors help her to qualify? will the lawyers help her to
be called to the bar? will the clergy tolerate her in the
Church?  Oh, it is close your ranks then and refer poor
woman to her mission!  Her mission!  To be thankful for
coppers and not to interfere with the men while they
grabble for gold, like swine round a trough, that is
man's reading of the mission of women.  You may sit there
and sneer, Charles, while you look upon your victim, but
you know that it is truth, every word of it. 

Terrified as they were by this sudden torrent of
words, the two gentlewomen could not but smile at the
sight of the fiery, domineering victim and the big
apologetic representative of mankind who sat meekly
bearing all the sins of his sex.  The lady struck a
match, whipped a cigarette from a case upon the
mantelpiece, and began to draw the smoke into her lungs.

"I find it very soothing when my nerves are at all
ruffled," she explained.  "You don't smoke?  Ah, you miss
one of the purest of pleasures--one of the few pleasures
which are without a reaction."

Miss Williams smoothed out her silken lap.

"It is a pleasure," she said, with some approach to
self-assertion, "which Bertha and I are rather too
old-fashioned to enjoy."

"No doubt, It would probably make you very ill if you
attempted it.  By the way, I hope that you will come to
some of our Guild meetings.  I shall see that tickets are
sent you."

"Your Guild?"

"It is not yet formed, but I shall lose no time in
forming a committee.  It is my habit to establish a
branch of the Emancipation Guild wherever I go.  There is
a Mrs. Sanderson in Anerley who is already one of the
emancipated, so that I have a nucleus.  It is only by
organized resistance, Miss Williams, that we can hope to
hold our own against the selfish sex.  Must you go,
then?"

"Yes, we have one or two other visits to pay," said
the elder sister.  "You will, I am sure, excuse us.  I
hope that you will find Norwood a pleasant residence."

"All places are to me simply a battle-field," she
answered, gripping first one and then the other with a
grip which crumpled up their little thin fingers.  "The
days for work and healthful exercise, the evenings to
Browning and high discourse, eh, Charles?  Good-bye!" 
She came to the door with them, and as they glanced back
they saw her still standing there with the yellow bull
pup cuddled up under one forearm, and the thin blue reek
of her cigarette ascending from her lips.

"Oh, what a dreadful, dreadful woman!" whispered
sister Bertha, as they hurried down the street.  "Thank
goodness that it is over."

"But she'll return the visit," answered the other. 
"I think that we had better tell Mary that we are not at
home.



----


CHAPTER III.


DWELLERS IN THE WILDERNESS.


How deeply are our destinies influenced by the most
trifling causes!  Had the unknown builder who erected and
owned these new villas contented himself by simply
building each within its own grounds, it is probable that
these three small groups of people would have remained
hardly conscious of each other's existence, and that
there would have been no opportunity for that action and
reaction which is here set forth.  But there was a common
link to bind them together.  To single himself out from
all other Norwood builders the landlord had devised and
laid out a common lawn tennis ground, which stretched
behind the houses with taut-stretched net, green
close-cropped sward, and widespread whitewashed lines. 
Hither in search of that hard exercise which is as
necessary as air or food to the English temperament, came
young Hay Denver when released from the toil of the City;
hither, too, came Dr. Walker and his two fair daughters,
Clara and Ida, and hither also, champions of the lawn,
came the short-skirted, muscular widow and her athletic
nephew.  Ere the summer was gone they knew each other in
this quiet nook as they might not have done after years
of a stiffer and more formal acquaintance.

And especially to the Admiral and the Doctor were
this closer intimacy and companionship of value.  Each
had a void in his life, as every man must have who with
unexhausted strength steps out of the great race, but
each by his society might help to fill up that of his
neighbor.  It is true that they had not much in
common, but that is sometimes an aid rather than a bar to
friendship.  Each had been an enthusiast in his
profession, and had retained all his interest in it.  The
Doctor still read from cover to cover his Lancet and
his Medical Journal, attended all professional
gatherings, worked himself into an alternate state of
exaltation and depression over the results of the
election of officers, and reserved for himself a den of
his own, in which before rows of little round bottles
full of glycerine, Canadian balsam, and staining agents,
he still cut sections with a microtome, and peeped
through his long, brass, old-fashioned microscope at the
arcana of nature.  With his typical face, clean shaven on
lip and chin, with a firm mouth, a strong jaw, a steady
eye, and two little white fluffs of whiskers, he could
never be taken for anything but what he was, a high-class
British medical consultant of the age of fifty, or
perhaps just a year or two older.

The Doctor, in his hey-day, had been cool over great
things, but now, in his retirement, he was fussy over
trifles.  The man who had operated without the quiver of
a finger, when not only his patient's life but his own
reputation and future were at stake, was now shaken to
the soul by a mislaid book or a careless maid.  He
remarked it himself, and knew the reason.  "When Mary
was alive," he would say, "she stood between me and the
little troubles.  I could brace myself for the big ones. 
My girls are as good as girls can be, but who can know a
man as his wife knows him?"  Then his memory would
conjure up a tuft of brown hair and a single white, thin
hand over a coverlet, and he would feel, as we have all
felt, that if we do not live and know each other after
death, then indeed we are tricked and betrayed by all the
highest hopes and subtlest intuitions of our nature.

The Doctor had his compensations to make up for his
loss.  The great scales of Fate had been held on a level
for him; for where in all great London could one find two
sweeter girls, more loving, more intelligent, and more
sympathetic than Clara and Ida Walker?  So bright were
they, so quick, so interested in all which interested
him, that if it were possible for a man to be compensated
for the loss of a good wife then Balthazar Walker might
claim to be so.

Clara was tall and thin and supple, with a graceful,
womanly figure.  There was something stately and
distinguished in her carriage, "queenly" her friends
called her, while her critics described her as reserved
and distant.

Such as it was, however, it was part and parcel of
herself, for she was, and had always from her
childhood been, different from any one around her.  There
was nothing gregarious in her nature.  She thought with
her own mind, saw with her own eyes, acted from her own
impulse.  Her face was pale, striking rather than pretty,
but with two great dark eyes, so earnestly questioning,
so quick in their transitions from joy to pathos, so
swift in their comment upon every word and deed around
her, that those eyes alone were to many more attractive
than all the beauty of her younger sister.  Hers was a
strong, quiet soul, and it was her firm hand which had
taken over the duties of her mother, had ordered the
house, restrained the servants, comforted her father, and
upheld her weaker sister, from the day of that great
misfortune.

Ida Walker was a hand's breadth smaller than Clara,
but was a little fuller in the face and plumper in the
figure.  She had light yellow hair, mischievous blue eyes
with the light of humor ever twinkling in their depths,
and a large, perfectly formed mouth, with that slight
upward curve of the corners which goes with a keen
appreciation of fun, suggesting even in repose that a
latent smile is ever lurking at the edges of the lips. 
She was modern to the soles of her dainty little
high-heeled shoes, frankly fond of dress and of pleasure,
devoted to tennis and to comic opera, delighted with a
dance, which came her way only too seldom, longing
ever for some new excitement, and yet behind all this
lighter side of her character a thoroughly good,
healthy-minded English girl, the life and soul of the
house, and the idol of her sister and her father.  Such
was the family at number two.  A peep into the remaining
villa and our introductions are complete.

Admiral Hay Denver did not belong to the florid,
white-haired, hearty school of sea-dogs which is more
common in works of fiction than in the Navy List.  On the
contrary, he was the representative of a much more common
type which is the antithesis of the conventional sailor. 
He was a thin, hard-featured man, with an ascetic,
acquiline cast of face, grizzled and hollow-cheeked,
clean-shaven with the exception of the tiniest curved
promontory of ash-colored whisker.  An observer,
accustomed to classify men, might have put him down as a
canon of the church with a taste for lay costume and a
country life, or as the master of a large public school,
who joined his scholars in their outdoor sports.  His
lips were firm, his chin prominent, he had a hard, dry
eye, and his manner was precise and formal.  Forty years
of stern discipline had made him reserved and silent. 
Yet, when at his ease with an equal, he could readily
assume a less quarter-deck style, and he had a fund of
little, dry stories of the world and its ways which were
of interest from one who had seen so many phases of
life.  Dry and spare, as lean as a jockey and as tough as
whipcord, he might be seen any day swinging his
silver-headed Malacca cane, and pacing along the suburban
roads with the same measured gait with which he had been
wont to tread the poop of his flagship.  He wore a good
service stripe upon his cheek, for on one side it was
pitted and scarred where a spurt of gravel knocked up by
a round-shot had struck him thirty years before, when he
served in the Lancaster gun-battery.  Yet he was hale and
sound, and though he was fifteen years senior to his
friend the Doctor, he might have passed as the younger
man.

Mrs. Hay Denver's life had been a very broken one,
and her record upon land represented a greater amount of
endurance and self-sacrifice than his upon the sea.  They
had been together for four months after their marriage,
and then had come a hiatus of four years, during which he
was flitting about between St. Helena and the Oil Rivers
in a gunboat.  Then came a blessed year of peace and
domesticity, to be followed by nine years, with only a
three months' break, five upon the Pacific station, and
four on the East Indian.  After that was a respite in the
shape of five years in the Channel squadron, with
periodical runs home, and then again he was off to the
Mediterranean for three years and to Halifax for
four.  Now, at last, however, this old married couple,
who were still almost strangers to one another, had come
together in Norwood, where, if their short day had been
chequered and broken, the evening at least promised to be
sweet and mellow.  In person Mrs. Hay Denver was tall and
stout, with a bright, round, ruddy-cheeked face still
pretty, with a gracious, matronly comeliness.  Her whole
life was a round of devotion and of love, which was
divided between her husband and her only son, Harold.

This son it was who kept them in the neighborhood of
London, for the Admiral was as fond of ships and of salt
water as ever, and was as happy in the sheets of a
two-ton yacht as on the bridge of his sixteen-knot
monitor.  Had he been untied, the Devonshire or Hampshire
coast would certainly have been his choice.  There was
Harold, however, and Harold's interests were their chief
care.  Harold was four-and-twenty now.  Three years
before he had been taken in hand by an acquaintance of
his father's, the head of a considerable firm of
stock-brokers, and fairly launched upon 'Change.  His
three hundred guinea entrance fee paid, his three
sureties of five hundred pounds each found, his name
approved by the Committee, and all other formalities
complied with, he found himself whirling round, an
insignificant unit, in the vortex of the money market
of the world.  There, under the guidance of his father's
friend, he was instructed in the mysteries of bulling and
of bearing, in the strange usages of 'Change in the
intricacies of carrying over and of transferring.  He
learned to know where to place his clients' money, which
of the jobbers would make a price in New Zealands, and
which would touch nothing but American rails, which might
be trusted and which shunned.  All this, and much more,
he mastered, and to such purpose that he soon began to
prosper, to retain the clients who had been recommened to
him, and to attract fresh ones.  But the work was never
congenial.  He had inherited from his father his love of
the air of heaven, his affection for a manly and natural
existence.  To act as middleman between the pursuer of
wealth, and the wealth which he pursued, or to stand as
a human barometer, registering the rise and fall of the
great mammon pressure in the markets, was not the work
for which Providence had placed those broad shoulders and
strong limbs upon his well knit frame.  His dark open
face, too, with his straight Grecian nose, well opened
brown eyes, and round black-curled head, were all those
of a man who was fashioned for active physical work. 
Meanwhile he was popular with his fellow brokers,
respected by his clients, and beloved at home, but his
spirit was restless within him and his mind chafed
unceasingly against his surroundings.

"Do you know, Willy," said Mrs. Hay Denver one
evening as she stood behind her husband's chair, with her
hand upon his shoulder, "I think sometimes that Harold is
not quite happy."

"He looks happy, the young rascal," answered the
Admiral, pointing with his cigar.  It was after dinner,
and through the open French window of the dining-room a
clear view was to be had of the tennis court and the
players.  A set had just been finished, and young Charles
Westmacott was hitting up the balls as high as he could
send them in the middle of the ground.  Doctor Walker and
Mrs. Westmacott were pacing up and down the lawn, the
lady waving her racket as she emphasized her remarks, and
the Doctor listening with slanting head and little nods
of agreement.  Against the rails at the near end Harold
was leaning in his flannels talking to the two sisters,
who stood listening to him with their long dark shadows
streaming down the lawn behind them.  The girls were
dressed alike in dark skirts, with light pink tennis
blouses and pink bands on their straw hats, so that as
they stood with the soft red of the setting sun tinging
their faces, Clara, demure and quiet, Ida, mischievous
and daring, it was a group which might have pleased
the eye of a more exacting critic than the old sailor.

"Yes, he looks happy, mother," he repeated, with a
chuckle.  "It is not so long ago since it was you and I
who were standing like that, and I don't remember that we
were very unhappy either.  It was croquet in our time,
and the ladies had not reefed in their skirts quite so
taut.  What year would it be?  Just before the commission
of the Penelope."

Mrs. Hay Denver ran her fingers through his grizzled
hair.  "It was when you came back in the Antelope, just
before you got your step."

"Ah, the old Antelope!  What a clipper she was! 
She could sail two points nearer the wind than anything
of her tonnage in the service.  You remember her, mother. 
You saw her come into Plymouth Bay.  Wasn't she a
beauty?"

"She was indeed, dear.  But when I say that I think
that Harold is not happy I mean in his daily life.  Has
it never struck you how thoughtful, he is at times, and
how absent-minded?"

"In love perhaps, the young dog.  He seems to have
found snug moorings now at any rate."

"I think that it is very likely that you are right,
Willy," answered the mother seriously.  "But with which
of them?"

"I cannot tell."

"Well, they are very charming girls, both of
them.  But as long as he hangs in the wind between
the two it cannot be serious.  After all, the boy is
four-and-twenty, and he made five hundred pounds last
year.  He is better able to marry than I was when I was
lieutenant."

"I think that we can see which it is now," remarked
the observant mother.  Charles Westmacott had ceased to
knock the tennis balls about, and was chatting with Clara
Walker, while Ida and Harold Denver were still talking by
the railing with little outbursts of laughter.  Presently
a fresh set was formed, and Doctor Walker, the odd man
out, came through the wicket gate and strolled up the
garden walk.

"Good evening, Mrs. Hay Denver," said he, raising his
broad straw hat.  "May I come in?"

"Good evening, Doctor!  Pray do!"

"Try one of these," said the Admiral, holding out his
cigar-case.  "They are not bad.  I got them on the
Mosquito Coast.  I was thinking of signaling to you, but
you seemed so very happy out there."

"Mrs. Westmacott is a very clever woman," said the
Doctor, lighting the cigar.  "By the way, you spoke about
the Mosquito Coast just now.  Did you see much of the
Hyla when you were out there?"

"No such name on the list," answered the seaman,
with decision.  "There's the Hydra, a harbor defense
turret-ship, but she never leaves the home waters."

The Doctor laughed.  "We live in two separate
worlds," said he.  "The Hyla is the little green tree
frog, and Beale has founded some of his views on
protoplasm upon the appearancer, of its nerve cells.  It
is a subject in which I take an interest."

"There were vermin of all sorts in the woods.  When
I have been on river service I have heard it at night
like the engine-room when you are on the measured mile. 
You can't sleep for the piping, and croaking, and
chirping.  Great Scott! what a woman that is!  She was
across the lawn in three jumps.  She would have made a
captain of the foretop in the old days."

"She is a very remarkable woman.

"A very cranky one."

"A very sensible one in some things," remarked Mrs.
Hay Denver.

"Look at that now!" cried the Admiral, with a lunge
of his forefinger at the Doctor.  "You mark my words,
Walker, if we don't look out that woman will raise a
mutiny with her preaching.  Here's my wife disaffected
already, and your girls will be no better.  We must
combine, man, or there's an end of all discipline."

"No doubt she is a little excessive in her views."
said the Doctor, "but in the main I think as she does." 

"Bravo, Doctor!" cried the lady.

"What, turned traitor to your sex!  We'll
court-martial you as a deserter."

"She is quite right.  The professions are not
sufficiently open to women.  They are still far too much
circumscribed in their employments.  They are a feeble
folk, the women who have to work for their bread--poor,
unorganized, timid, taking as a favor what they might
demand as a right.  That is why their case is not more
constantly before the public, for if their cry for
redress was as great as their grievance it would fill the
world to the exclusion of all others.  It is all very
well for us to be courteous to the rich, the refined,
those to whom life is already made easy.  It is a mere
form, a trick of manner.  If we are truly courteous, we
shall stoop to lift up struggling womanhood when she
really needs our help--when it is life and death to her
whether she has it or not.  And then to cant about it
being unwomanly to work in the higher professions.  It is
womanly enough to starve, but unwomanly to use the brains
which God has given them.  Is it not a monstrous
contention?"

The Admiral chuckled.  "You are like one of these
phonographs, Walker," said he; "you have had all this
talked into you, and now you are reeling it off again. 
It's rank mutiny, every word of it, for man has his
duties and woman has hers, but they are as separate
as their natures are.  I suppose that we shall have a
woman hoisting her pennant on the flagship presently, and
taking command of the Channel Squadron."

"Well, you have a woman on the throne taking command
of the whole nation," remarked his wife; "and everybody
is agreed that she does it better than any of the men." 

The Admiral was somewhat staggered by this
home-thrust.  "That's quite another thing," said he.

"You should come to their next meeting.  I am to take
the chair.  I have just promised Mrs. Westmacott that I
will do so.  But it has turned chilly, and it is time
that the girls were indoors.  Good night!  I shall look
out for you after breakfast for our constitutional,
Admiral."

The old sailor looked after his friend with a twinkle
in his eyes.

"How old is he, mother?"

"About fifty, I think."

"And Mrs. Westmacott?"

"I heard that she was forty-three."

The Admiral rubbed his hands, and shook with
amusement.  "We'll find one of these days that three and
two make one," said he.  I'll bet you a new bonnet on it,
mother.



CHAPTER IV.


A SISTER'S SECRET.


"Tell me, Miss Walker!  You know how things should
be.  What would you say was a good profession for a young
man of twenty-six who has had no education worth speaking
about, and who is not very quick by nature?"  The speaker
was Charles Westmacott, and the time this same summer
evening in the tennis ground, though the shadows had
fallen now and the game been abandoned.

The girl glanced up at him, amused and surprised.

"Do you mean yourself?"

"Precisely."

"But how could I tell?"

"I have no one to advise me.  I believe that you
could do it better than any one.  I feel confidence in
your opinion."

"It is very flattering." She glanced up again at his
earnest, questioning face, with its Saxon eyes and
drooping flaxen mustache, in some doubt as to whether he
might be joking.  On the contrary, all his attention
seemed to be concentrated upon her answer.

"It depends so much upon what you can do, you
know.  I do not know you sufficiently to be able to say
what natural gifts you have."  They were walking slowly
across the lawn in the direction of the house.

"I have none.  That is to say none worth mentioning. 
I have no memory and I am very slow."

"But you are very strong."

"Oh, if that goes for anything.  I can put up a
hundred-pound bar till further orders; but what sort of
a calling is that?"

Some little joke about being called to the bar
flickered up in Miss Walker's mind, but her companion was
in such obvious earnest that she stifled down her
inclination to laugh.

"I can do a mile on the cinder-track in 4:50 and
across-country in 5:20, but how is that to help me?  I
might be a cricket professional, but it is not a very
dignified position.  Not that I care a straw about
dignity, you know, but I should not like to hurt the old
lady's feelings.

"Your aunt's?"

"Yes, my aunt's.  My parents were killed in the
Mutiny, you know, when I was a baby, and she has looked
after me ever since.  She has been very good to me.  I'm
sorry to leave her."

"But why should you leave her?"  They had reached the
garden gate, and the girl leaned her racket upon the top
of it, looking up with grave interest at her big
white-flanneled companion. 

"It's, Browning," said he.

"What!"

"Don't tell my aunt that I said it"--he sank his
voice to a whisper--"I hate Browning."

Clara Walker rippled off into such a merry peal of
laughter that he forgot the evil things which he had
suffered from the poet, and burst out laughing too.

"I can't make him out," said he.  "I try, but he is
one too many.  No doubt it is very stupid of me; I don't
deny it.  But as long as I cannot there is no use
pretending that I can.  And then of course she feels
hurt, for she is very fond of him, and likes to read him
aloud in the evenings.  She is reading a piece now `Pippa
Passes,' and I assure you, Miss Walker, that I don't even
know what the title means.  You must think me a dreadful
fool."

"But surely he is not so incomprehensible as all
that?" she said, as an attempt at encouragement.

"He is very bad.  There are some things, you know,
which are fine.  That ride of the three Dutchmen, and
Herve Riel and others, they are all right.  But there was
a piece we read last week.  The first line stumped my
aunt, and it takes a good deal to do that, for she rides
very straight.  `Setebos and Setebos and Setebos.'  That
was the line."

"It sounds like a charm."

"No, it is a gentleman's name.  Three gentlemen, I
thought, at first, but my aunt says one.  Then he goes
on, `Thinketh he dwelleth in the light of the moon.'  It
was a very trying piece."

Clara Walker laughed again.

"You must not think of leaving your aunt," she said. 
"Think how lonely she would be without you."

"Well, yes, I have thought of that.  But you must
remember that my aunt is to all intents hardly
middle-aged, and a very eligible person.  I don't think
that her dislike to mankind extends to individuals.  She
might form new ties, and then I should be a third wheel
in the coach.  It was all very well as long as I was only
a boy, when her first husband was alive."

"But, good gracious, you don't mean that Mrs.
Westmacott is going to marry again?" gasped Clara.

The young man glanced down at her with a question in
his eyes  "Oh, it is only a remote, possibility, you
know," said he.  "Still, of course, it might happen, and
I should like to know what I ought to turn my hand to."

"I wish I could help you," said Clara.  "But I really
know very little about such things.  However, I could
talk to my father, who knows a very great deal of the
world."

"I wish you would.  I should be so glad if you
would."

"Then I certainly will.  And now I must say
good-night, Mr. Westmacott, for papa will be wondering
where I am."

"Good night, Miss Walker." He pulled off his flannel
cap, and stalked away through the gathering darkness.

Clara had imagined that they had been the last on the
lawn, but, looking back from the steps which led up to
the French windows, she saw two dark figures moving
across towards the house.  As they came nearer she could
distinguish that they were Harold Denver and her sister
Ida.  The murmur of their voices rose up to her ears, and
then the musical little child-like laugh which she knew
so well.  "I am so delighted," she heard her sister say. 
"So pleased and proud.  I had no idea of it.  Your words
were such a surprise and a joy to me.  Oh, I am so glad."

"Is that you, Ida?"

"Oh, there is Clara.  I must go in, Mr. Denver. 
Good-night!"

There were a few whispered words, a laugh from Ida,
and a "Good-night, Miss Walker," out of the darkness. 
Clara took her sister's hand, and they passed together
through the long folding window.  The Doctor had gone
into his study, and the dining-room was empty.  A single
small red lamp upon the sideboard was reflected tenfold
by the plate about it and the mahogany beneath it,
though its single wick cast but a feeble light into the
large, dimly shadowed room.  Ida danced off to the big
central lamp, but Clara put her hand upon her arm.  "I
rather like this quiet light," said she.  "Why should we
not have a chat?"  She sat in the Doctor's large red
plush chair, and her sister cuddled down upon the
footstool at her feet, glancing up at her elder with a
smile upon her lips and a mischievous gleam in her eyes. 
There was a shade of anxiety in Clara's face, which
cleared away as she gazed into her sister's frank blue
eyes.

"Have you anything to tell me, dear?" she asked.

Ida gave a little pout and shrug to her shoulder. 
"The Solicitor-General then opened the case for the
prosecution," said she.  "You are going to cross-examine
me, Clara, so don't deny it.  I do wish you would have
that grey satin foulard of yours done up.  With a little
trimming and a new white vest it would look as good as
new, and it is really very dowdy."

"You were quite late upon the lawn," said the
inexorable Clara.

"Yes, I was rather.  So were you.  Have you anything
to tell me?"  She broke away into her merry musical
laugh.

"I was chatting with Mr. Westmacott."

"And I was chatting with Mr. Denver.  By the way,
Clara, now tell me truly, what do you think of Mr.
Denver?  Do you like him?  Honestly now!"

"I like him very much indeed.  I think that he is one
of the most gentlemanly, modest, manly young men that I
have ever known.  So now, dear, have you nothing to tell
me?"  Clara smoothed down her sister's golden hair with
a motherly gesture, and stooped her face to catch the
expected confidence.  She could wish nothing better than
that Ida should be the wife of Harold Denver, and from
the words which she had overheard as they left the lawn
that evening, she could not doubt that there was some
understanding between them.

But there came no confession from Ida.  Only the same
mischievous smile and amused gleam in her deep blue eyes.

"That grey foulard dress----" she began.

"Oh, you little tease!  Come now, I will ask you what
you have just asked me.  Do you like Harold Denver?"

"Oh, he's a darling!"

"Ida!"

"Well, you asked me.  That's what I think of him. 
And now, you dear old inquisitive, you will get nothing
more out of me; so you must wait and not be too curious. 
I'm going off to see what papa is doing."  She sprang to
her feet, threw her arms round her sister's neck,
gave her a final squeeze, and was gone.  A chorus from
Olivette, sung in her clear contralto, grew fainter and
fainter until it ended in the slam of a distant door.

But Clara Walker still sat in the dim-lit room with
her chin upon her hands, and her dreamy eyes looking out
into the gathering gloom.  It was the duty of her, a
maiden, to play the part of a mother--to guide another in
paths which her own steps had not yet trodden.  Since her
mother died not a thought had been given to herself, all
was for her father and her sister.  In her own eyes she
was herself very plain, and she knew that her manner was
often ungracious when she would most wish to be gracious. 
She saw her face as the glass reflected it, but she did
not see the changing play of expression which gave it its
charm--the infinite pity, the sympathy, the sweet
womanliness which drew towards her all who were in doubt
and in trouble, even as poor slow-moving Charles
Westmacott had been drawn to her that night.  She was
herself, she thought, outside the pale of love.  But it
was very different with Ida, merry, little, quick-witted,
bright-faced Ida.  She was born for love.  It was her
inheritance.  But she was young and innocent.  She must
not be allowed to venture too far without help in those
dangerous waters.  Some understanding there was between
her and Harold Denver.  In her heart of hearts Clara,
like every good woman, was a match-maker, and already she
had chosen Denver of all men as the one to whom she could
most safely confide Ida.  He had talked to her more than
once on the serious topics of life, on his aspirations,
on what a man could do to leave the world better for his
presence.  She knew that he was a man of a noble nature,
high-minded and earnest.  And yet she did not like this
secrecy, this disinclination upon the part of one so
frank and honest as Ida to tell her what was passing. 
She would wait, and if she got the opportunity next day
she would lead Harold Denver himself on to this topic. 
It was possible that she might learn from him what her
sister had refused to tell her.



----


CHAPTER  V.


A NAVAL CONQUEST.


It was the habit of the Doctor and the Admiral to
accompany each other upon a morning ramble between
breakfast and lunch.  The dwellers in those quiet
tree-lined roads were accustomed to see the two figures,
the long, thin, austere seaman, and the short, bustling,
tweed-clad physician, pass and repass with such
regularity that a stopped clock has been reset by them. 
The Admiral took two steps to his companion's three, but
the younger man was the quicker, and both were equal to
a good four and a half miles an hour.

It was a lovely summer day which followed the events
which have been described.  The sky was of the deepest
blue, with a few white, fleecy clouds drifting lazily
across it, and the air was filled with the low drone of
insects or with a sudden sharper note as bee or bluefly
shot past with its quivering, long-drawn hum, like an
insect tuning-fork.  As the friends topped each rise
which leads up to the Crystal Palace, they could see the
dun clouds of London stretching along the northern
sky-line, with spire or dome breaking through the
low-lying haze.  The Admiral was in high spirits, for the
morning post had brought good news to his son.

"It is wonderful, Walker," he was saying, "positively
wonderful, the way that boy of mine has gone ahead during
the last three years.  We heard from Pearson to-day. 
Pearson is the senior partner, you know, and my boy the
junior--Pearson and Denver the firm.  Cunning old dog is
Pearson, as cute and as greedy as a Rio shark.  Yet he
goes off for a fortnight's leave, and puts my boy in full
charge, with all that immense business in his hands,
and a freehand to do what he likes with it.  How's that
for confidence, and he only three years upon 'Change?"

"Any one would confide in him.  His face is a
surety," said the Doctor.

"Go on, Walker!"  The Admiral dug his elbow at him. 
"You know my weak side.  Still it's truth all the same. 
I've been blessed with a good wife and a good son, and
maybe I relish them the more for having been cut off from
them so long.  I have much to be thankful for!"

"And so have I.  The best two girls that ever
stepped.  There's Clara, who has learned up as much
medicine as would give her the L.S.A., simply in order
that she may sympathize with me in my work.  But hullo,
what is this coming along?"

"All drawing and the wind astern!" cried the Admiral. 
"Fourteen knots if it's one.  Why, by George, it is that
woman!"

A rolling cloud of yellow dust had streamed round the
curve of the road, and from the heart of it had emerged
a high tandem tricycle flying along at a breakneck pace. 
In front sat Mrs. Westmacott clad in a heather tweed
pea-jacket, a skirt which just{?} passed her knees and a
pair of thick gaiters of the same material.  She had a
great bundle of red papers under her arm, while
Charles, who sat behind her clad in Norfolk jacket and
knickerbockers, bore a similar roll protruding from
either pocket.  Even as they watched, the pair eased up,
the lady sprang off, impaled one of her bills upon the
garden railing of an empty house, and then jumping on to
her seat again was about to hurry onwards when her nephew
drew her attention to the two gentlemen upon the
footpath.

"Oh, now, really I didn't notice you," said she,
taking a few turns of the treadle and steering the
machine across to them.  "Is it not a beautiful morning?"

"Lovely," answered the Doctor.  "You seem to be very
busy."

"I am very busy." She pointed to the colored paper
which still fluttered from the railing.  "We have been
pushing our propaganda, you see.  Charles and I have been
at it since seven o'clock.  It is about our meeting.  I
wish it to be a great success.  See!"  She smoothed out
one of the bills, and the Doctor read his own name in
great black letters across the bottom.

"We don't forget our chairman, you see.  Everybody is
coming.  Those two dear little old maids opposite, the
Williamses, held out for some time; but I have their
promise now.  Admiral, I am sure that you wish us well."

"Hum!  I wish you no harm, ma'am."

"You will come on the platform?"

"I'll be---- No, I don't think I can do that."

"To our meeting, then?"

"No, ma'am; I don't go out after dinner."

"Oh yes, you will come.  I will call in if I may, and
chat it over with you when you come home.  We have not
breakfasted yet.  Goodbye!"  There was a whir of wheels,
and the yellow cloud rolled away down the road again.  By
some legerdemain the Admiral found that he was clutching
in his right hand one of the obnoxious bills.  He
crumpled it up, and threw it into the roadway.

"I'll be hanged if I go, Walker," said he, as be
resumed his walk.  "I've never been hustled into doing a
thing yet, whether by woman or man."

"I am not a betting man," answered the Doctor, "but
I rather think that the odds are in favor of your going."

The Admiral had hardly got home, and had just seated
himself in his dining-room, when the attack upon him was
renewed.  He was slowly and lovingly unfolding the
Times preparatory to the long read which led up to
luncheon, and had even got so far as to fasten his golden
pince-nez on to his thin, high-bridged nose, when he
heard a crunching of gravel, and, looking over the top of
his paper, saw Mrs. Westmacott coming up the garden walk. 
She was still dressed in the singular costume which
offended the sailor's old-fashioned notions of propriety,
but he could not deny, as he looked at her, that she was
a very fine woman.  In many climes he had looked upon
women of all shades and ages, but never upon a more
clearcut, handsome face, nor a more erect, supple, and
womanly figure.  He ceased to glower as he gazed upon
her, and the frown smoothed away from his rugged brow.

"May I come in?" said she, framing herself in the
open window, with a background of green sward and blue
sky.  "I feel like an invader deep in an enemy's
country."

"It is a very welcome invasion, ma'am," said he,
clearing his throat and pulling at his high collar.  "Try
this garden chair.  What is there that I can do for you? 
Shall I ring and let Mrs. Denver know that you are here?"

"Pray do not trouble, Admiral.  I only looked in with
reference to our little chat this morning.  I wish that
you would give us your powerful support at our coming
meeting for the improvement of the condition of woman."

"No, ma'am, I can't do that." He pursed up his lips
and shook his grizzled head.

"And why not?"

"Against my principles, ma'am."

"But why?"

"Because woman has her duties and man has his. 
I may be old-fashioned, but that is my view.  Why, what
is the world coming to?  I was saying to Dr. Walker only
last night that we shall have a woman wanting to command
the Channel Fleet next."

"That is one of the few professions which cannot be
improved," said Mrs. Westmacott, with her sweetest smile. 
"Poor woman must still look to man for protection."

"I don't like these new-fangled ideas, ma'am.  I tell
you honestly that I don't.  I like discipline, and I
think every one is the better for it.  Women have got a
great deal which they had not in the days of our fathers. 
They have universities all for themselves, I am told, and
there are women doctors, I hear.  Surely they should rest
contented.  What more can they want?"

"You are a sailor, and sailors are always chivalrous. 
If you could see how things really are, you would change
your opinion. What are the poor things to do?  There
are so many of them and so few things to which they can
turn their hands.  Governesses?  But there are hardly any
situations.  Music and drawing?  There is not one in
fifty who has any special talent in that direction.   
Medicine?  It is still surrounded with difficulties for
women, and it takes many years and a small fortune to
qualify.  Nursing?  It is hard work ill paid, and none
but the strongest can stand it.  What would you have
them do then, Admiral?  Sit down and starve?"

"Tut, tut!  It is not so bad as that."

"The pressure is terrible.  Advertise for a lady
companion at ten shillings a week, which is less than a
cook's wage, and see how many answers you get.  There is
no hope, no outlook, for these struggling thousands. 
Life is a dull, sordid struggle, leading down to a
cheerless old age.  Yet when we try to bring some little
ray of hope, some chance, however distant, of something
better, we are told by chivalrous gentlemen that it is
against their principles to help."

The Admiral winced, but shook his head in dissent.

"There is banking, the law, veterinary surgery,
government offices, the civil service, all these at least
should be thrown freely open to women, if they have
brains enough to compete successfully for them.  Then if
woman were unsuccessful it would be her own fault, and
the majority of the population of this country could no
longer complain that they live under a different law to
the minority, and that they are held down in poverty and
serfdom, with every road to independence sealed to them."

"What would you propose to do, ma'am?"

"To set the more obvious injustices right, and so
to pave the way for a reform.  Now look at that man
digging in the field.  I know him.  He can neither read
nor write, he is steeped in whisky, and he has as much
intelligence as the potatoes that he is digging.  Yet the
man has a vote, can possibly turn the scale of an
election, and may help to decide the policy of this
empire.  Now, to take the nearest example, here am I, a
woman who have had some education, who have traveled, and
who have seen and studied the institutions of many
countries.  I hold considerable property, and I pay more
in imperial taxes than that man spends in whisky, which
is saying a great deal, and yet I have no more direct
influence upon the disposal of the money which I pay than
that fly which creeps along the wall.  Is that right?  Is
it fair?"

The Admiral moved uneasily in his chair.  "Yours is
an exceptional case," said he.

"But no woman has a voice.  Consider that the women
are a majority in the nation.  Yet if there was a
question of legislation upon which all women were agreed
upon one side and all the men upon the other, it would
appear that the matter was settled unanimously when more
than half the population were opposed to it.   Is that
right?"

Again the Admiral wriggled.  It was very awkward for 
the gallant seaman to have a handsome woman opposite
to him, bombarding him with questions to none of which he
could find an answer.  "Couldn't even get the tompions
out of his guns," as he explained the matter to the
Doctor that evening.

"Now those are really the points that we shall lay
stress upon at the meeting.  The free and complete
opening of the professions, the final abolition of the
zenana I call it, and the franchise to all women who pay
Queen's taxes above a certain sum.  Surely there is
nothing unreasonable in that.  Nothing which could offend
your principles.  We shall have medicine, law, and the
church all rallying that night for the protection of
woman.  Is the navy to be the one profession absent?"

The Admiral jumped out of his chair with an evil word
in his throat.  "There, there, ma'am," he cried.  "Drop
it for a time.  I have heard enough.  You've turned me a
point or two.  I won't deny it.  But let it stand at
that.  I will think it over."

"Certainly, Admiral.  We would not hurry you in your
decision.  But we still hope to see you on our platform." 
She rose and moved about in her lounging masculine
fashion from one picture to another, for the walls were
thickly covered with reminiscences of the Admiral's
voyages.

"Hullo!" said she.  "Surely this ship would have
furled all her lower canvas and reefed her topsails if
she found herself on a lee shore with the wind on her
quarter."

"Of course she would.  The artist was never past
Gravesend, I swear.  It's the Penelope as she was on
the 14th of June, 1857, in the throat of the Straits of
Banca, with the Island of Banca on the starboard bow, and
Sumatra on the port.  He painted it from description, but
of course, as you very sensibly say, all was snug below
and she carried storm sails and double-reefed topsails,
for it was blowing a cyclone from the sou'east.  I
compliment you, ma'am, I do indeed! "

"Oh, I have done a little sailoring myself--as much
as a woman can aspire to, you know.  This is the Bay of
Funchal.  What a lovely frigate!"

"Lovely, you say!  Ah, she was lovely!  That is the
Andromeda.  I was a mate aboard of her--sub-lieutenant
they call it now, though I like the old name best."

"What a lovely rake her masts have, and what a curve
to her bows!  She must have been a clipper."

The old sailor rubbed his hands and his eyes
glistened.  His old ships bordered close upon his wife
and his son in his affections.

"I know Funchal," said the lady carelessly.  "A
couple of years ago I had a seven-ton cutter-rigged
yacht, the Banshee, and we ran over to Madeira from
Falmouth."

"You ma'am, in a seven-tonner?"

"With a couple of Cornish lads for a crew.  Oh, it
was glorious!  A fortnight right out in the open, with no
worries, no letters, no callers, no petty thoughts,
nothing but the grand works of God, the tossing sea and
the great silent sky.  They talk of riding, indeed, I am
fond of horses, too, but what is there to compare with
the swoop of a little craft as she pitches down the long
steep side of a wave, and then the quiver and spring as
she is tossed upwards again?  Oh, if our souls could
transmigrate I'd be a seamew above all birds that fly! 
But I keep you, Admiral.  Adieu!"

The old sailor was too transported with sympathy to
say a word.  He could only shake her broad muscular hand. 
She was half-way down the garden path before she heard
him calling her, and saw his grizzled head and
weather-stained face looking out from behind the
curtains.

"You may put me down for the platform," he cried, and
vanished abashed behind the I curtain of his Times,
where his wife found him at lunch time.

"I hear that you have had quite a long chat with Mrs.
Westmacott," said she.

"Yes, and I think that she is one of the most
sensible women that I ever knew.

"Except on the woman's rights question, of course."

"Oh, I don't know.  She had a good deal to say for
herself on that also.  In fact, mother, I have taken a
platfom ticket for her meeting."



----


CHAPTER VI.


AN OLD STORY.


But this was not to be the only eventful conversation
which Mrs. Westmacott held that day, nor was the Admiral
the only person in the Wilderness who was destined to
find his opinions considerably changed.  Two neighboring
families, the Winslows from Anerley, and the
Cumberbatches from Gipsy Hill, had been invited to tennis
by Mrs. Westmacott, and the lawn was gay in the evening
with the blazers of the young men and the bright dresses
of the girls.  To the older people, sitting round in
their wicker-work garden chairs, the darting, stooping,
springing white figures, the sweep of skirts, and twinkle
of canvas shoes, the click of the rackets and sharp whiz
of the balls, with the continual "fifteen love--fifteen
all!" of the marker, made up a merry and exhilarating
scene.  To see their sons and daughters so flushed and
healthy and happy, gave them also a reflected glow,
and it was hard to say who had most pleasure from the
game, those who played or those who watched.

Mrs. Westmacott had just finished a set when she
caught a glimpse of Clara Walker sitting alone at the
farther end of the ground.  She ran down the court,
cleared the net to the amazement of the visitors, and
seated herself beside her.  Clara's reserved and refined
nature shrank somewhat from the boisterous frankness and
strange manners of the widow, and yet her feminine
instinct told her that beneath all her peculiarities
there lay much that was good and noble.  She smiled up at
her, therefore, and nodded a greeting.

"Why aren't you playing, then?  Don't, for goodness'
sake, begin to be languid and young ladyish!  When you
give up active sports you give up youth."

"I have played a set, Mrs. Westmacott."

"That's right, my dear." She sat down beside her, and
tapped her upon the arm with her tennis racket.  "I like
you, my dear, and I am going to call you Clara.  You are
not as aggressive as I should wish, Clara, but still I
like you very much.  Self-sacrifice is all very well, you
know, but we have had rather too much of it on our side,
and should like to see a little on the other.  What do
you think of my nephew Charles?"

The question was so sudden and unexpected that Clara
gave quite a jump in her chair.  "I--I--I hardly ever
have thought of your nephew Charles."

"No?  Oh, you must think him well over, for I want to
speak to you about him."

"To me?  But why?"

"It seemed to me most delicate.  You see, Clara, the
matter stands in this way.  It is quite possible that I
may soon find myself in a completely new sphere of life,
which will involve fresh duties and make it impossible
for me to keep up a household which Charles can share."

Clara stared.  Did this mean that she was about to
marry again?  What else could it point to?

"Therefore Charles must have a household of his own. 
That is obvious.  Now, I don't approve of bachelor
establishments.  Do you?"

"Really, Mrs. Westmacott, I have never thought of the
matter."

"Oh, you little sly puss!  Was there ever a girl who
never thought of the matter?  I think that a young man of
six-and-twenty ought to be married."

Clara felt very uncomfortable.  The awful thought had
come upon her that this ambassadress had come to her as
a proxy with a proposal of marriage.  But how could that
be?  She had not spoken more than three or four times
with her nephew, and knew nothing more of him than he had
told her on the evening before.  It was impossible, then. 
And yet what could his aunt mean by this discussion of
his private affairs?

"Do you not think yourself," she persisted, "that a
young man of six-and-twenty is better married?"

"I should think that he is old enough to decide for
himself."

"Yes, yes.  He has done so.  But Charles is just a
little shy, just a little slow in expressing himself.  I
thought that I would pave the way for him.  Two women can
arrange these things so much better.  Men sometimes have
a difficulty in making themselves clear."

"I really hardly follow you, Mrs. Westmacott," cried
Clara in despair.

"He has no profession.  But he has nice tastes.  He
reads Browning every night.  And he is most amazingly
strong.  When he was younger we used to put on the gloves
together, but I cannot persuade him to now, for he says
he cannot play light enough.  I should allow him five
hundred, which should be enough at first."

"My dear Mrs. Westmacott," cried Clara, "I assure you
that I have not the least idea what it is that you are
talking of."

"Do you think your sister Ida would have my nephew
Charles?"

Her sister Ida?  Quite a little thrill of relief and
of pleasure ran through her at the thought.  Ida and
Charles Westmacott.  She had never thought of it.  And
yet they had been a good deal together.  They had played
tennis.  They had shared the tandem tricycle.  Again came
the thrill of joy, and close at its heels the cold
questionings of conscience.  Why this joy?  What was the
real source of it?  Was it that deep down, somewhere
pushed back in the black recesses of the soul, there was
the thought lurking that if Charles prospered in his
wooing then Harold Denver would still be free?  How mean,
how unmaidenly, how unsisterly the thought!  She crushed
it down and thrust it aside, but still it would push up
its wicked little head.  She crimsoned with shame at her
own baseness, as she turned once more to her companion.

"I really do not know," she said.

"She is not engaged?"

"Not that I know of."

"You speak hesitatingly."

"Because I am not sure.  But he may ask.  She cannot
but be flattered."

"Quite so.  I tell him that it is the most practical
compliment which a man can pay to a woman.  He is a
little shy, but when he sets himself to do it he will
do it.  He is very much in love with her, I assure
you.  These little lively people always do attract
the slow and heavy ones, which is nature's device for the
neutralizing of bores.  But they are all going in.  I
think if you will allow me that I will just take the
opportunity to tell him that, as far as you know, there
is no positive obstacle in the way."

"As far as I know, "Clara repeated, as the widow
moved away to where the players were grouped round the
net, or sauntering slowly towards the house.  She rose to
follow her, but her head was in a whirl with new
thoughts, and she sat down again.  Which would be best
for Ida, Harold or Charles?  She thought it over with as
much solicitude as a mother who plans for her only child. 
Harold had seemed to her to be in many ways the noblest
and the best young man whom she had known.  If ever she
was to love a man it would be such a man as that.  But
she must not think of herself.  She had reason to believe
that both these men loved her sister.  Which would be the
best for her?  But perhaps the matter was already
decided.  She could not forget the scrap of conversation
which she had heard the night before, nor the secret
which her sister had refused to confide to her.  If Ida
would not tell her, there was but one person who could. 
She raised her eyes and there was Harold Denver
standing before her.

"You were lost in your thoughts," said he, smiling. 
"I hope that they were pleasant ones."

"Oh, I was planning," said she, rising.  "It seems
rather a waste of time as a rule, for things have a way
of working themselves out just as you least expect."

"What were you planning, then?"

"The future."

"Whose?"

"Oh, my own and Ida's."

"And was I included in your joint futures?

"I hope all our friends were included."

"Don't go in," said he, as she began to move slowly
towards the house.  "I wanted to have a word.  Let us
stroll up and down the lawn.  Perhaps you are cold.  If
you are, I could bring you out a shawl."

"Oh, no, I am not cold."

"I was speaking to your sister Ida last night." She
noticed that there was a slight quiver in his voice, and,
glancing up at his dark, clear-cut face, she saw that he
was very grave.  She felt that it was settled, that he
had come to ask her for her sister's hand.

"She is a charming girl," said he, after a pause.

"Indeed she is," cried Clara warmly.  "And no one who
has not lived with her and known her intimately can
tell how charming and good she is.  She is like a sunbeam
in the house."

"No one who was not good could be so absolutely happy
as she seems to be.  Heaven's last gift, I think, is a
mind so pure and a spirit so high that it is unable even
to see what is impure and evil in the world around us. 
For as long as we can see it, how can we be truly happy?"

"She has a deeper side also.  She does not turn it to
the world, and it is not natural that she should, for she
is very young.  But she thinks, and has aspirations of
her own."

"You cannot admire her more than I do.  Indeed, Miss
Walker, I only ask to be brought into nearer relationship
with her, and to feel that there is a permanent bond
between us."

It had come at last.  For a moment her heart was
numbed within her, and then a flood of sisterly love
carried all before it.  Down with that dark thought which
would still try to raise its unhallowed head!  She turned
to Harold with sparkling eyes and words of pleasure upon
her lips.

"I should wish to be near and dear to both of you,"
said he, as he took her hand.  "I should wish Ida to be
my sister, and you my wife."

She said nothing.  She only stood looking at him with
parted lips and great, dark, questioning eyes.  The
lawn had vanished away, the sloping gardens, the brick
villas, the darkening sky with half a pale moon beginning
to show over the chimney-tops.  All was gone, and she was
only conscious of a dark, earnest, pleading face, and of
a voice, far away, disconnected from herself, the voice
of a man telling a woman how he loved her.  He was
unhappy, said the voice, his life was a void; there was
but one thing that could save him; he had come to the
parting of the ways, here lay happiness and honor, and
all that was high and noble; there lay the soul-killing
round, the lonely life, the base pursuit of money, the
sordid, selfish aims.  He needed but the hand of the
woman that he loved to lead him into the better path. 
And how he loved her his life would show.  He loved her
for her sweetness, for her womanliness, for her strength. 
He had need of her.  Would she not come to him?  And then
of a sudden as she listened it came home to her that the
man was Harold Denver, and that she was the woman, and
that all God's work was very beautiful--the green sward
beneath her feet, the rustling leaves, the long orange
slashes in the western sky.  She spoke; she scarce knew
what the broken words were, but she saw the light of joy
shine out on his face, and her hand was still in his as
they wandered amid the twilight.  They said no more
now, but only wandered and felt each other's presence. 
All was fresh around them, familiar and yet new, tinged
with the beauty of their new-found happiness.

"Did you not know it before?" he asked.  "I did not
dare to think it."

"What a mask of ice I must wear!  How could a man
feel as I have done without showing it?  Your sister at
least knew."

"Ida!"

"It was last night.  She began to praise you, I said
what I felt, and then in an instant it was all out."

"But what could you--what could you see in me?  Oh,
I do pray that you may not repent it!"  The gentle heart
was ruffled amid its joy by the thought of its own
unworthiness.

"Repent it!  I feel that I am a saved man.  You do
not know how degrading this city life is, how debasing,
and yet how absorbing.  Money for ever clinks in your
ear.  You can think of nothing else.  From the bottom of
my heart I hate it, and yet how can I draw back without
bringing grief to my dear old father?  There was but one
way in which I could defy the taint, and that was by
having a home influence so pure and so high that it may
brace me up against all that draws me down.  I have felt
that influence already.  I know that when I am talking to
you I am a better man.  It is you who, must go with
me through life, or I must walk for ever alone."

"Oh, Harold, I am so happy!"  Still they wandered
amid the darkening shadows, while one by one the stars
peeped out in the blue black sky above them.  At last a
chill night wind blew up from the east, and brought them
back to the realities of life.

"You must go in.  You will be cold."

"My father will wonder where I am.  Shall I say
anything to him?"

"If you like, my darling.  Or I will in the morning. 
I must tell my mother to-night.  I know how delighted she
will be."

"I do hope so."

"Let me take you up the garden path.  It is so dark. 
Your lamp is not lit yet.  There is the window.  Till
to-morrow, then, dearest."

"Till to-morrow, Harold."

"My own darling!"  He stooped, and their lips met for
the first time.  Then, as she pushed open the folding
windows she heard his quick, firm step as it passed down
the graveled path.  A lamp was lit as she entered the
room, and there was Ida, dancing about like a mischievous
little fairy in front of her.

"And have you anything to tell me?" she asked, with
a solemn face.  Then, suddenly throwing her arms round
her sister's neck, "Oh, you dear, dear old Clara!  I am
so pleased.  I am so pleased."




CHAPTER VII.


VENIT TANDEM FELICITAS.


It was just three days after the Doctor and the
Admiral had congratulated each other upon the closer tie
which was to unite their two families, and to turn their
friendship into something even dearer and more intimate,
that Miss Ida Walker received a letter which caused her
some surprise and considerable amusement.  It was dated
from next door, and was handed in by the red-headed page
after breakfast.

"Dear Miss Ida," began this curious document, and
then relapsed suddenly into the third person.  "Mr. 
Charles Westmacott hopes that he may have the extreme
pleasure of a ride with Miss Ida Walker upon his tandem
tricycle.  Mr. Charles Westmacott will bring it round in
half an hour.  You in front.  Yours very truly, Charles
Westmacott."  The whole was written in a large,
loose-jointed, and school-boyish hand, very thin on the
up strokes and thick on the down, as though care and
pains had gone to the fashioning of it.

Strange as was the form, the meaning was clear
enough; so Ida hastened to her room, and had hardly
slipped on her light grey cycling dress when she
saw the tandem with its large occupant at the door.  He
handed her up to her saddle with a more solemn and
thoughtful face than was usual with him, and a few
moments later they were flying along the beautiful,
smooth suburban roads in the direction of Forest Hill. 
The great limbs of the athlete made the heavy machine
spring and quiver with every stroke; while the mignon
grey figure with the laughing face, and the golden curls
blowing from under the little pink-banded straw hat,
simply held firmly to her perch, and let the treadles
whirl round beneath her feet.  Mile after mile they flew,
the wind beating in her face, the trees dancing past in
two long ranks on either side, until they had passed
round Croydon and were approaching Norwood once more from
the further side.

"Aren't you tired?" she asked, glancing over her
shoulder and turning towards him a little pink ear, a
fluffy golden curl, and one blue eye twinkling from the
very corner of its lid.

"Not a bit.  I am just getting my swing."

"Isn't it wonderful to be strong?  You always remind
me of a steamengine."

"Why a steamengine?"

"Well, because it is so powerful, and reliable, and
unreasoning.  Well, I didn't mean that last, you know,
but--but--you know what I mean.  What is the matter with
you?"

"Why?"

"Because you have something on your mind.  You have
not laughed once."

He broke into a gruesome laugh.  "I am quite jolly,"
said he.

"Oh, no, you are not.  And why did you write me such
a dreadfully stiff letter?"

"There now," he cried, "I was sure it was stiff.  I
said it was absurdly stiff."

"Then why write it?"

"It wasn't my own composition."

"Whose then?  Your aunt's?"

"Oh, no.  It was a person of the name of Slattery."

"Goodness!  Who is he?"

"I knew it would come out, I felt that it would. 
You've heard of Slattery the author?"

"Never."

"He is wonderful at expressing himself.  He wrote a
book called `The Secret Solved; or, Letter-writing Made
Easy.'  It gives you models of all sorts of letters."

Ida burst out laughing.  "So you actually copied
one."

"It was to invite a young lady to a picnic, but I set
to work and soon got it changed so that it would do very
well.  Slattery seems never to have asked any one to ride
a tandem.  But when I had written it, it seemed so
dreadfully stiff that I had to put a little beginning and
end of my own, which seemed to brighten it up a good
deal."


"I thought there was something funny about the
beginning and end."

"Did you?  Fancy your noticing the difference in
style.  How quick you are!  I am very slow at things like
that.  I ought to have been a woodman, or game-keeper, or
something.  I was made on those lines.  But I have found
something now."

"What is that, then?"

"Ranching.  I have a chum in Texas, and he says it is
a rare life.  I am to buy a share in his business.  It is
all in the open air--shooting, and riding, and sport. 
Would it--would it inconvenience you much, Ida, to come
out there with me?"

Ida nearly fell off her perch in her amazement.  The
only words of which she could think were  "My goodness
me!" so she said them.

"If it would not upset your plans, or change your
arrangements in any way."  He had slowed down and let go
of the steering handle, so that the great machine crawled
aimlessly about from one side of the road to the other. 
"I know very well that I am not clever or anything of
that sort, but still I would do all I can to make you
very happy.  Don't you think that in time you might come
to like me a little bit?"

Ida gave a cry of fright.  "I won't like you if you
run me against a brick wall," she said, as the machine
rasped up against the curb "Do attend to the steering."

"Yes, I will.  But tell me, Ida, whether you will
come with me."

"Oh, I don't know.  It's too absurd!  How can we talk
about such things when I cannot see you?  You speak to
the nape of my neck, and then I have to twist my head
round to answer."

"I know.  That was why I put `You in front' upon my
letter.  I thought that it would make it easier.  But if
you would prefer it I will stop the machine, and then you
can sit round and talk about it."

"Good gracious!" cried Ida.  "Fancy our sitting face
to face on a motionless tricycle in the middle of the
road, and all the people looking out of their windows at
us!"

"It would look rather funny, wouldn't it?  Well,
then, suppose that we both get off and push the tandem
along in front of us?"

"Oh, no, this is better than that."

"Or I could carry the thing."

Ida burst out laughing.  "That would be more absurd
still."

"Then we will go quietly, and I will look out for the
steering.  I won't talk about it at all if you would
rather not.  But I really do love you very much, and you
would make me happy if you came to Texas with me, and I
think that perhaps after a time I could make you happy
too."

"But your aunt?"

"Oh, she would like it very much.  I can understand
that your father might not like to lose you.  I'm sure I
wouldn't either, if I were he.  But after all, America is
not very far off nowadays, and is not so very wild.  We
would take a grand piano, and--and--a copy of Browning. 
And Denver and his wife would come over to see us.  We
should be quite a family party.  It would be jolly."

Ida sat listening to the stumbling words and awkward
phrases which were whispered from the back of her, but
there was something in Charles Westmacott's clumsiness of
speech which was more moving than the words of the most
eloquent of pleaders.  He paused, he stammered, he caught
his breath between the words, and he blurted out in
little blunt phrases all the hopes of his heart.  If love
had not come to her yet, there was at least pity and
sympathy, which are nearly akin to it.  Wonder there was
also that one so weak and frail as she should shake this
strong man so, should have the whole course of his life
waiting for her decision.  Her left hand was on the
cushion at her side.  He leaned forward and took it
gently in his own.    She did not try to draw it back
from him.

"May I have it," said he, "for life?"

"Oh, do attend to your steering," said she, smiling
round at him; "and don't say any more about this to-day. 
Please don't!"

"When shall I know, then?"

"Oh, to-night, to-morrow, I don't know.  I must ask
Clara.  Talk about something else."

And they did talk about something else; but her left
hand was still enclosed in his, and he knew, without
asking again, that all was well.



----


CHAPTER VIII.


SHADOWS BEFORE.


Mrs. Westmacott's great meeting for the
enfranchisement of woman had passed over, and it had been
a triumphant success.  All the maids and matrons of the
southern suburbs had rallied at her summons, there was an
influential platform with Dr. Balthazar Walker in the
chair, and Admiral Hay Denver among his more prominent
supporters.  One benighted male had come in from the
outside darkness and had jeered from the further end of
the hall, but he had been called to order by the chair,
petrified by indignant glances from the unenfranchised
around him, and finally escorted to the door by Charles
Westmacott.  Fiery resolutions were passed, to be
forwarded to a large number of leading statesmen, and the
meeting broke up with the conviction that a shrewd
blow had been struck for the cause of woman.

But there was one woman at least to whom the meeting
and all that was connected with it had brought anything
but pleasure.  Clara Walker watched with a heavy heart
the friendship and close intimacy which had sprung up
between her father and the widow.  From week to week it
had increased until no day ever passed without their
being together.  The coming meeting had been the excuse
for these continual interviews, but now the meeting was
over, and still the Doctor would refer every point which
rose to the judgment of his neighbor.  He would talk,
too, to his two daughters of her strength of character,
her decisive mind, and of the necessity of their
cultivating her acquaintance and following her example,
until at last it had become his most common topic of
conversation.

All this might have passed as merely the natural
pleasure which an elderly man might take in the society
of an intelligent and handsome woman, but there were
other points which seemed to Clara to give it a deeper
meaning.  She could not forget that when Charles
Westmacott had spoken to her one night he had alluded to
the possibility of his aunt marrying again.  He must have
known or noticed something before he would speak upon
such a subject.  And then again Mrs. Westmacott had
herself said that she hoped to change her style of
living shortly and take over completely new duties.  What
could that mean except that she expected to marry?  And
whom?  She seemed to see few friends outside their own
little circle.  She must have alluded to her father.  It
was a hateful thought, and yet it must be faced.

One evening the Doctor had been rather late at his
neighbor's.  He used to go into the Admiral's after
dinner, but now he turned more frequently in the other
direction.  When he returned Clara was sitting alone in
the drawing-room reading a magazine.  She sprang up as he
entered, pushed forward his chair, and ran to fetch his
slippers.

"You are looking a little pale, dear," he remarked.

"Oh, no, papa, I am very well."

"All well with Harold?"

"Yes.  His partner, Mr. Pearson, is still away, and
he is doing all the work."

"Well done.  He is sure to succeed.  Where is Ida?"

"In her room, I think."

"She was with Charles Westmacott on the lawn not very
long ago.  He seems very fond of her.  He is not very
bright, but I think he will make her a good husband."

"I am sure of it, papa.  He is very manly and
reliable."

"Yes, I should think that he is not the sort of man
who goes wrong.  There is nothing hidden about him.  As
to his brightness, it really does not matter, for his
aunt, Mrs. Westmacott, is very rich, much richer than you
would think from her style of living, and she has made
him a handsome provision."

"I am glad of that."

"It is between ourselves.  I am her trustee, and so
I know something of her arrangements.  And when are you
going to marry, Clara?"

"Oh, papa, not for some time yet.  We have not
thought of a date.

"Well, really, I don't know that there is any reason
for delay.  He has a competence and it increases yearly. 
As long as you are quite certain that your mind is made
up----"

"Oh, papa!"

"Well, then, I really do not know why there should be
any delay.  And Ida, too, must be married within the next
few months.  Now, what I want to know is what I am to do
when my two little companions run away from me."  He
spoke lightly, but his eyes were grave as he looked
questioningly at his daughter.

"Dear papa, you shall not be alone.  It will be years
before Harold and I think of marrying, and when we do you
must come and live with us."

"No, no, dear.  I know that you mean what you
say, but I have seen something of the world, and I know
that such arrangements never answer.  There cannot be two
masters in a house, and yet at my age my freedom is very
necessary to me."

"But you would be completely free."

"No, dear, you cannot be that if you are a guest in
another man's house.  Can you suggest no other
alternative?"

"That we remain with you."

"No, no.  That is out of the question.  Mrs.
Westmacott herself says that a woman's first duty is to
marry.  Marriage, however, should be an equal
partnership, as she points out.  I should wish you both
to marry, but still I should like a suggestion from you,
Clara, as to what I should do."

"But there is no hurry, papa.  Let us wait.  I do not
intend to marry yet."

Doctor Walker looked disappointed.  "Well, Clara, if
you can suggest nothing, I suppose that I must take the
initiative myself," said he.

"Then what do you propose, papa?"  She braced herself
as one who sees the blow which is about to fall.

He looked at her and hesitated.  "How like your poor
dear mother you are, Clara!" he cried.  "As I looked at
you then it was as if she had come back from the grave." 
He stooped towards her and kissed her.  "There, run
away to your sister, my dear, and do not trouble yourself
about me.  Nothing is settled yet, but you will find that
all will come right."

Clara went upstairs sad at heart, for she was sure
now that what she had feared was indeed about to come to
pass, and that her father was going to take Mrs.
Westmacott to be his wife.  In her pure and earnest mind
her mother's memory was enshrined as that of a saint, and
the thought that any one should take her place seemed a
terrible desecration.  Even worse, however, did this
marriage appear when looked at from the point of view of
her father's future.  The widow might fascinate him by
her knowledge of the world, her dash, her strength, her
unconventionality--all these qualities Clara was willing
to allow her--but she was convinced that she would be
unendurable as a life companion.  She had come to an age
when habits are not lightly to be changed, nor was she a
woman who was at all likely to attempt to change them. 
How would a sensitive man like her father stand the
constant strain of such a wife, a woman who was all
decision, with no softness, and nothing soothing in her
nature?  It passed as a mere eccentricity when they heard
of her stout drinking, her cigarette smoking, her
occasional whiffs at a long clay pipe, her horsewhipping
of a drunken servant, and her companionship with the
snake Eliza, whom she was in the habit of bearing about
in her pocket.  All this would become unendurable to her
father when his first infatuation was past.  For his own
sake, then, as well as for her mother's memory, this
match must be prevented.  And yet how powerless she was
to prevent it!  What could she do?  Could Harold aid her? 
Perhaps.  Or Ida?  At least she would tell her sister and
see what she could suggest.

Ida was in her boudoir, a tiny little tapestried
room, as neat and dainty as herself, with low walls hung
with Imari plaques and with pretty little Swiss brackets
bearing blue Kaga ware, or the pure white Coalport china. 
In a low chair beneath a red shaded standing lamp sat
Ida, in a diaphanous evening dress of mousseline de
soie, the ruddy light tinging her sweet childlike face,
and glowing on her golden curls.  She sprang up as her
sister entered, and threw her arms around her.

"Dear old Clara!  Come and sit down here beside me. 
I have not had a chat for days.  But, oh, what a troubled
face!  What is it then?"  She put up her forefinger and
smoothed her sister's brow with it.

Clara pulled up a stool, and sitting down beside her
sister, passed her arm round her waist.  "I am so sorry
to trouble you, dear Ida," she said.  "But I do not know
what to do.

"There's nothing the matter with Harold?"

"Oh, no, Ida."

"Nor with my Charles?"

"No, no."

Ida gave a sigh of relief.  "You quite frightened me,
dear," said she.  "You can't think how solemn you look. 
What is it, then?"

"I believe that papa intends to ask Mrs. Westmacott
to marry him."

Ida burst out laughing.  "What can have put such a
notion into your head, Clara?"

"It is only too true, Ida.  I suspected it before,
and he himself almost told me as much with his own lips
to-night.  I don't think that it is a laughing matter."

"Really, I could not help it.  If you had told me
that those two dear old ladies opposite, the Misses
Williams, were both engaged, you would not have surprised
me more.  It is really too funny."

"Funny, Ida!  Think of any one taking the place of
dear mother.

But her sister was of a more practical and less
sentimental nature.  "I am sure," said she, "that dear
mother would like papa to do whatever would make him most
happy.  We shall both be away, and why should papa not
please himself?"

"But think how unhappy he will be.  You know how
quiet he is in his ways, and how even a little thing
will upset him.  How could he live with a wife who would
make his whole life a series of surprises?  Fancy what a
whirlwind she must be in a house.  A man at his age
cannot change his ways.  I am sure he would be
miserable."

Ida's face grew graver, and she pondered over the
matter for a few minutes.  "I really think that you are
right as usual," said she at last.  "I admire Charlie's
aunt very much, you know, and I think that she is a very
useful and good person, but I don't think she would do as
a wife for poor quiet papa."

"But he will certainly ask her, and I really think
that she intends to accept him.  Then it would be too
late to interfere.  We have only a few days at the most. 
And what can we do?  How can we hope to make him change
his mind?"

Again Ida pondered.  "He has never tried what it is
to live with a strong-minded woman," said she.  "If we
could only get him to realize it in time.  Oh, Clara, I
have it; I have it!  Such a lovely plan!"  She leaned
back in her chair and burst into a fit of laughter so
natural and so hearty that Clara had to forget her
troubles and to join in it.

"Oh, it is beautiful!" she gasped at last. "Poor
papa!  What a time he will have!  But it's all for his
own good, as he used to say when we had to be
punished when we were little.  Oh, Clara, I do hope your
heart won't fail you.

"I would do anything to save him, dear."

"That's it.  You must steel yourself by that
thought."

"But what is your plan?"

"Oh, I am so proud of it.  We will tire him for ever
of the widow, and of all emancipated women.  Let me see,
what are Mrs. Westmacott's main ideas?  You have listened
to her more than I.  Women should attend less to
household duties.  That is one, is it not?"

"Yes, if they feel they have capabilities for higher
things.  Then she thinks that every woman who has leisure
should take up the study of some branch of science, and
that, as far as possible, every woman should qualify
herself for some trade or profession, choosing for
preference those which have been hitherto monopolized by
men.  To enter the others would only be to intensify the
present competition."

" Quite so.  That is glorious!"  Her blue eyes were
dancing with mischief, and she clapped her hands in her
delight.  "What else?  She thinks that whatever a man
can do a woman should be allowed to do also--does she
not?"

"She says so."

"And about dress?  The short skirt, and the
divided skirt are what she believes in?"

"Yes."

"We must get in some cloth."

"Why?"

"We must make ourselves a dress each.  A brand-new,
enfranchised, emancipated dress, dear.  Don't you see my
plan?  We shall act up to all Mrs. Westmacott's views in
every respect, and improve them when we can.  Then papa
will know what it is to live with a woman who claims all
her rights.  Oh, Clara, it will be splendid."

Her milder sister sat speechless before so daring a
scheme.  "But it would be wrong, Ida!" she cried at last.

"Not a bit.  It is to save him."

"I should not dare."

"Oh, yes, you would.  Harold will help.  Besides,
what other plan have you?"

"I have none."

"Then you must take mine."

"Yes.  Perhaps you are right.  Well, we do it for a
good motive.

"You will do it?"

"I do not see any other way."

"You dear good Clara!  Now I will show you what you
are to do.  We must not begin too suddenly.  It might
excite suspicion."

"What would you do, then?"

"To-morrow we must go to Mrs. Westmacott, and sit
at her feet and learn all her views."

"What hypocrites we shall feel!"

"We shall be her newest and most enthusiastic
converts.  Oh, it will be such fun, Clara!  Then we shall
make our plans and send for what we want, and begin our
new life."

"I do hope that we shall not have to keep it up long. 
It seems so cruel to dear papa.

"Cruel!  To save him!"

"I wish I was sure that we were doing right.  And yet
what else can we do?  Well, then, Ida, the die is cast,
and we will call upon Mrs. Westmacott tomorrow.



----


CHAPTER IX.


A FAMILY PLOT.


Little did poor Doctor Walker imagine as he sat at
his breakfast-table next morning that the two sweet girls
who sat on either side of him were deep in a conspiracy,
and that he, munching innocently at his muffins, was the
victim against whom their wiles were planned.  Patiently
they waited until at last their opening came.

"It is a beautiful day," he remarked.  "It will do
for Mrs. Westmacott.  She was thinking of having a spin
upon the tricycle."

"Then we must call early.  We both intended to see
her after breakfast."

"Oh, indeed!"  The Doctor looked pleased.

"You know, pa," said Ida, "it seems to us that we
really have a very great advantage in having Mrs.
Westmacott living so near."

"Why so, dear?"

"Well, because she is so advanced, you know.  If we
only study her ways we may advance ourselves also."

"I think I have heard you say, papa," Clara remarked,
"that she is the type of the woman of the future."

"I am very pleased to hear you speak so sensibly, my
dears.  I certainly think that she is a woman whom you
may very well take as your model.  The more intimate you
are with her the better pleased I shall be."

"Then that is settled," said Clara demurely, and the
talk drifted to other matters.

All the morning the two girls sat extracting from
Mrs. Westmacott her most extreme view as to the duty of
the one sex and the tyranny of the other.  Absolute
equality, even in details, was her ideal.  Enough of the
parrot cry of unwomanly and unmaidenly.  It had been
invented by man to scare woman away when she poached too
nearly upon his precious preserves.  Every woman should
be independent.  Every woman should learn a trade.  It
was their duty to push in where they were least
welcome.  Then they were martyrs to the cause, and
pioneers to their weaker sisters.  Why should the
wash-tub, the needle, and the housekeeper's book be
eternally theirs?  Might they not reach higher, to the
consulting-room, to the bench, and even to the pulpit? 
Mrs. Westmacott sacrificed her tricycle ride in her
eagerness over her pet subject, and her two fair
disciples drank in every word, and noted every suggestion
for future use.  That afternoon they went shopping in
London, and before evening strange packages began to be
handed in at the Doctor's door.  The plot was ripe for
execution, and one of the conspirators was merry and
jubilant, while the other was very nervous and troubled.

When the Doctor came down to the dining-room next
morning, he was surprised to find that his daughters had
already been up some time.  Ida was installed at one end
of the table with a spirit-lamp, a curved glass flask,
and several bottles in front of her.   The contents of
the flask were boiling furiously, while a villainous
smell filled the room.  Clara lounged in an arm-chair
with her feet upon a second one, a blue-covered book in
her hand, and a huge map of the British Islands spread
across her lap.  "Hullo!" cried the Doctor, blinking and
sniffing, "where's the breakfast?"

"Oh, didn't you order it?" asked Ida.

"I!  No; why should I?"  He rang the bell.  "Why have
you not laid the breakfast, Jane?"

"If you please, sir, Miss Ida was a workin' at the
table."

"Oh, of course, Jane," said the young lady calmly. 
"I am so sorry.  I shall be ready to move in a few
minutes."

"But what on earth are you doing, Ida?" asked the
Doctor.  "The smell is most offensive.  And, good
gracious, look at the mess which you have made upon the
cloth!  Why, you have burned a hole right through."

"Oh, that is the acid," Ida answered contentedly. 
"Mrs. Westmacott said that it would burn holes."

"You might have taken her word for it without
trying," said her father dryly.

"But look here, pa!  See what the book says:  `The
scientific mind takes nothing upon trust.  Prove all
things!'  I have proved that."

"You certainly have.  Well, until breakfast is ready
I'll glance over the Times.  Have you seen it?"

"The Times?  Oh, dear me, this is it which I have
under my spirit-lamp.  I am afraid there is some acid
upon that too, and it is rather damp and torn.  Here it
is."

The Doctor took the bedraggled paper with a rueful
face.  "Everything seems to be wrong to-day," he
remarked.  "What is this sudden enthusiasm about
chemistry, Ida?"

"Oh, I am trying to live up to Mrs. Westmacott's
teaching."

"Quite right! quite right!" said he, though perhaps
with less heartiness than he had shown the day before. 
"Ah, here is breakfast at last!"

But nothing was comfortable that morning.  There were
eggs without egg-spoons, toast which was leathery from
being kept, dried-up rashers, and grounds in the coffee. 
Above all, there was that dreadful smell which pervaded
everything and gave a horrible twang to every mouthful.

"I don't wish to put a damper upon your studies,
Ida," said the Doctor, as he pushed back his chair.  "But
I do think it would be better if you did your chemical
experiments a little later in the day."

"But Mrs. Westmacott says that women should rise
early, and do their work before breakfast."

"Then they should choose some other room besides the
breakfast-room."  The Doctor was becoming just a little
ruffled.  A turn in the open air would soothe him, he
thought.  "Where are my boots?" he asked.

But they were not in their accustomed corner by his
chair.  Up and down he searched, while the three servants
took up the quest, stooping and peeping under
book-cases and drawers.  Ida had returned to her studies,
and Clara to her blue-covered volume, sitting absorbed
and disinterested amid the bustle and the racket.  At
last a general buzz of congratulation announced that the
cook had discovered the boots hung up among the hats in
the hall.  The Doctor, very red and flustered, drew them
on, and stamped off to join the Admiral in his morning
walk.

As the door slammed Ida burst into a shout of
laughter.  "You see, Clara," she cried, "the charm works
already.  He has gone to number one instead of to number
three.  Oh, we shall win a great victory.  You've been
very good, dear; I could see that you were on thorns to
help him when he was looking for his boots."

"Poor papa!  It is so cruel.  And yet what are we to
do?"

"Oh, he will enjoy being comfortable all the more if
we give him a little discomfort now.  What horrible
work this chemistry is!  Look at my frock!  It is ruined. 
And this dreadful smell!"  She threw open the window, and
thrust her little golden-curled head out of it.  Charles
Westmacott was hoeing at the other side of the garden
fence.

"Good morning, sir," said Ida.

"Good morning!"  The big man leaned upon his hoe and
looked up at her.

"Have you any cigarettes, Charles?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Throw me up two."

"Here is my case.  Can you catch!"

A seal-skin case came with a soft thud on to the
floor.  Ida opened it.  It was full.

"What are these?" she asked.

"Egyptians."

"What are some other brands?"

"Oh, Richmond Gems, and Turkish, and Cambridge.  But
why?"

"Never mind!"  She nodded to him and closed the
window.  "We must remember all those, Clara," said she. 
"We must learn to talk about such things.  Mrs.
Westmacott knows all about the brands of cigarettes.  Has
your rum come?"

"Yes, dear.  It is here."

"And I have my stout.  Come along up to my room now. 
This smell is too abominable.  But we must be ready for
him when he comes back.  If we sit at the window we shall
see him coming down the road."

The fresh morning air, and the genial company of the
Admiral had caused the Doctor to forget his troubles, and
he came back about midday in an excellent humor.  As he
opened the hall door the vile smell of chemicals which
had spoilt his breakfast met him with a redoubled
virulence.  He threw open the hall window, entered the
dining-room, and stood aghast at the sight which met his
eyes.

Ida was still sitting among her bottles, with a lit
cigarette in her left hand and a glass of stout on the
table beside her.  Clara, with another cigarette, was
lounging in the easy chair with several maps spread out
upon the floor around.  Her feet were stuck up on the
coal scuttle, and she had a tumblerful of some
reddish-brown composition on the smoking table close at
her elbow.  The Doctor gazed from one to the other of
them through the thin grey haze of smoke, but his eyes
rested finally in a settled stare of astonishment upon
his elder and more serious daughter.

"Clara!" he gasped, "I could not have believed it!"

"What is it, papa?"

"You are smoking!"

"Trying to, papa.  I find it a little difficult, for
I have not been used to it."

"But why, in the name of goodness--"

"Mrs. Westmacott recommends it."

"Oh, a lady of mature years may do many things which
a young girl must avoid."

"Oh, no," cried Ida, "Mrs. Westmacott says that there
should be one law for all.  Have a cigarette, pa?"

"No, thank you.  I never smoke in the morning."

"No?  Perhaps you don't care for the brand. What
are these, Clara?"

"Egyptians."

"Ah, we must have some Richmond Gems or Turkish.  I
wish, pa, when you go into town, you would get me some
Turkish."

"I will do nothing of the kind.  I do not at all
think that it is a fitting habit for young ladies.  I do
not agree with Mrs. Westmacott upon the point."

"Really, pa!  It was you who advised us to imitate
her."

"But with discrimination.  What is it that you are
drinking, Clara?"

"Rum, papa."

"Rum?  In the morning?"  He sat down and rubbed his
eyes as one who tries to shake off some evil dream.  "Did
you say rum?"

"Yes, pa.  They all drink it in the profession which
I am going to take up."

"Profession, Clara?"

"Mrs. Westmacott says that every woman should follow
a calling, and that we ought to choose those which women
have always avoided."

"Quite so."

"Well, I am going to act upon her advice.  I am going
to be a pilot."

"My dear Clara!  A pilot!  This is too much."

"This is a beautiful book, papa.  `The Lights,
Beacons, Buoys, Channels, and Landmarks of Great
Britain.'  Here is another, `The Master Mariner's
Handbook.'  You can't imagine how interesting it is."

"You are joking, Clara.  You must be joking!"

"Not at all, pa.  You can't think what a lot I have
learned already.  I'm to carry a green light to starboard
and a red to port, with a white light at the mast-head,
and a flare-up every fifteen minutes."

"Oh, won't it look pretty at night!" cried her
sister.

"And I know the fog-signals.  One blast means that a
ship steers to starboard, two to port, three astern, four
that it is unmanageable.  But this man asks such dreadful
questions at the end of each chapter.  Listen to this: 
`You see a red light.  The ship is on the port tack and
the wind at north; what course is that ship steering to
a point?'"

The Doctor rose with a gesture of despair.  "I can't
imagine what has come over you both," said he.

"My dear papa, we are trying hard to live up to Mrs.
Westmacott's standard."

"Well, I must say that I do not admire the result. 
Your chemistry, Ida, may perhaps do no harm; but your
scheme, Clara, is out of the question.  How a girl of
your sense could ever entertain such a notion is more
than I can imagine.  But I must absolutely forbid you to
go further with it."

"But, pa," asked Ida, with an air of innocent
inquiry in her big blue eyes, "what are we to do when
your commands and Mrs. Westmacott's advice are opposed? 
You told us to obey her.  She says that when women try to
throw off their shackles, their fathers, brothers and
husbands are the very first to try to rivet them on
again, and that in such a matter no man has any
authority."

"Does Mrs. Westmacott teach you that I am not the
head of my own house?"  The Doctor flushed, and his
grizzled hair bristled in his anger.

"Certainly.  She says that all heads of houses are
relics of the dark ages."

The Doctor muttered something and stamped his foot
upon the carpet.  Then without a word he passed out into
the garden and his daughters could see him striding
furiously up and down, cutting off the heads of the
flowers with a switch.

"Oh, you darling!  You played your part so
splendidly!" cried Ida.

"But how cruel it is!  When I saw the sorrow and
surprise in his eyes I very nearly put my arms about him
and told him all.  Don't you think we have done enough?"

"No, no, no.  Not nearly enough.  You must not turn
weak now, Clara.  It is so funny that I should be leading
you.  It is quite a new experience.  But I know I am
right.  If we go an as we are doing, we shall be able
to say all our lives that we have saved him.  And if we
don't, oh, Clara, we should never forgive ourselves."



----


CHAPTER X.


WOMEN OF THE FUTURE.


From that day the Doctor's peace was gone.  Never was
a quiet and orderly household transformed so suddenly
into a bear garden, or a happy man turned into such a
completely miserable one.  He had never realized before
how entirely his daughters had shielded him from all the
friction of life.  Now that they had not only ceased to
protect him, but had themselves become a source of
trouble to him, he began to understand how great the
blessing was which he had enjoyed, and to sigh for the
happy days before his girls had come under the influence
of his neighbor.

"You don't look happy," Mrs. Westmacott had remarked
to him one morning.  "You are pale and a little off
color.  You should come with me for a ten mile spin upon
the tandem."

"I am troubled about my girls."  They were walking up
and down in the garden.  From time to time there sounded
from the house behind them the long, sad wail of a French
horn.

"That is Ida," said he.  "She has taken to
practicing on that dreadful instrument in the
intervals of her chemistry.  And Clara is quite as bad. 
I declare it is getting quite unendurable."

"Ah, Doctor, Doctor!" she cried, shaking her
forefinger, with a gleam of her white teeth.  "You must
live up to your principles--you must give your daughters
the same liberty as you advocate for other women."

"Liberty, madam, certainly!  But this approaches to
license."

"The same law for all, my friend."  She tapped him
reprovingly on the arm with her sunshade.  "When you were
twenty your father did not, I presume, object to your
learning chemistry or playing a musical instrument.  You
would have thought it tyranny if he had."

"But there is such a sudden change in them both."

"Yes, I have noticed that they have been very
enthusiastic lately in the cause of liberty.  Of all my
disciples I think that they promise to be the most
devoted and consistent, which is the more natural since
their father is one of our most trusted champions."

The Doctor gave a twitch of impatience.  "I seem to
have lost all authority," he cried.

"No, no, my dear friend.  They are a little exuberant
at having broken the trammels of custom.  That is all."

"You cannot think what I have had to put up with,
madam.  It has been a dreadful experience.  Last night,
after I had extinguished the candle in my bedroom, I
placed my foot upon something smooth and hard, which
scuttled from under me.  Imagine my horror!  I lit the
gas, and came upon a well-grown tortoise which Clara has
thought fit to introduce into the house.  I call it a
filthy custom to have such pets."

Mrs. Westmacott dropped him a little courtesy. 
"Thank you, sir," said she.  "That is a nice little side
hit at my poor Eliza."

"I give you my word that I had forgotten about her,"
cried the Doctor, flushing.  "One such pet may no doubt
be endured, but two are more than I can bear.  Ida has a
monkey which lives on the curtain rod.  It is a most
dreadful creature.  It will remain absolutely motionless
until it sees that you have forgotten its presence, and
then it will suddenly bound from picture to picture all
round the walls, and end by swinging down on the
bell-rope and jumping on to the top of your head.  At
breakfast it stole a poached egg and daubed it all over
the door handle.  Ida calls these outrages amusing
tricks."

"Oh, all will come right," said the widow
reassuringly.

"And Clara is as bad, Clara who used to be so
good and sweet, the very image of her poor mother.  She
insists upon this preposterous scheme of being a pilot,
and will talk of nothing but revolving lights and hidden
rocks, and codes of signals, and nonsense of the kind."

"But why preposterous?" asked his companion.  "What
nobler occupation can there be than that of stimulating
commerce, and aiding the mariner to steer safely into
port?  I should think your daughter admirably adapted for
such duties."

"Then I must beg to differ from you, madam."

"Still, you are inconsistent."

"Excuse me, madam, I do not see the matter in the
same light.  And I should be obliged to you if you would
use your influence with my daughter to dissuade her."

"You wish to make me inconsistent too."

"Then you refuse?"

"I am afraid that I cannot interfere."

The Doctor was very angry.  "Very well, madam," said
he.  "In that case I can only say that I have the honor
to wish you a very good morning."  He raised his broad
straw hat and strode away up the gravel path, while the
widow looked after him with twinkling eyes.  She was
surprised herself to find that she liked the Doctor
better the more masculine and aggressive he became.  It
was unreasonable and against all principle, and yet so it
was and no argument could mend the matter.

Very hot and angry, the Doctor retired into his room
and sat down to read his paper.  Ida had retired, and the
distant wails of the bugle showed that she was upstairs
in her boudoir.  Clara sat opposite to him with her
exasperating charts and her blue book.  The Doctor
glanced at her and his eyes remained fixed in
astonishment upon the front of her skirt.

"My dear Clara," he cried, "you have torn your
skirt!"

His daughter laughed and smoothed out her frock.  To
his horror he saw the red plush of the chair where the
dress ought to have been.  "It is all torn!" he
cried.  "What have you done?"

"My dear papa!" said she, "what do you know about the
mysteries of ladies' dress?  This is a divided skirt."

Then he saw that it was indeed so arranged, and that
his daughter was clad in a sort of loose, extremely long
knickerbockers.

"It will be so convenient for my sea-boots," she
explained.

Her father shook his head sadly.  "Your dear mother
would not have liked it, Clara," said he.

For a moment the conspiracy was upon the point of
collapsing.  There was something in the gentleness of his
rebuke, and in his appeal to her mother, which brought
the tears to her eyes, and in another instant she would
have been kneeling beside him with everything
confessed, when the door flew open and her sister Ida
came bounding into the room.  She wore a short grey
skirt, like that of Mrs. Westmacott, and she held it up
in each hand and danced about among the furniture.

"I feel quite the Gaiety girl!" she cried.  "How
delicious it must be to be upon the stage!  You can't
think how nice this dress is, papa.  One feels so free in
it.  And isn't Clara charming?"

"Go to your room this instant and take it off!"
thundered the Doctor.  "I call it highly improper, and no
daughter of mine shall wear it."

"Papa!  Improper!  Why, it is the exact model of Mrs.
Westmacott's."

"I say it is improper.  And yours also, Clara!  Your
conduct is really outrageous.  You drive me out of the
house.  I am going to my club in town.  I have no comfort
or peace of mind in my own house.  I will stand it no
longer.  I may be late to-night--I shall go to the
British Medical meeting.  But when I return I shall hope
to find that you have reconsidered your conduct, and that
you have shaken yourself clear of the pernicious
influences which have recently made such an alteration in
your conduct."  He seized his hat, slammed the
dining-room door, and a few minutes later they heard the
crash of the big front gate.

"Victory, Clara, victory!" cried Ida, still
pirouetting around the furniture.  "Did you hear what he
said?  Pernicious influences!  Don't you understand,
Clara?  Why do you sit there so pale and glum?  Why don't
you get up and dance?"

"Oh, I shall be so glad when it is over, Ida.  I do
hate to give him pain.  Surely he has learned now that it
is very unpleasant to spend one's life with reformers."

"He has almost learned it, Clara.  Just one more
little lesson.  We must not risk all at this last
moment."

"What would you do, Ida?  Oh, don't do anything too
dreadful.  I feel that we have gone too far already."

"Oh, we can do it very nicely.  You see we are both
engaged and that makes it very easy.  Harold will do what
you ask him, especially as you have told him the reason
why, and my Charles will do it without even wanting to
know the reason.  Now you know what Mrs. Westmacott
thinks about the reserve of young ladies.  Mere prudery,
affectation, and a relic of the dark ages of the Zenana. 
Those were her words, were they not?"

"What then?"

"Well, now we must put it in practice.  We are
reducing all her other views to practice, and we must not
shirk this one.

"But what would you do?  Oh, don't look so wicked,
Ida!  You look like some evil little fairy, with your
golden hair and dancing, mischievous eyes.  I know that
you are going to propose something dreadful!"

"We must give a little supper to-night."

"We?  A supper!"

"Why not?  Young gentlemen give suppers. Why not
young ladies?"

"But whom shall we invite?"

"Why, Harold and Charles of course."

"And the Admiral and Mrs. Hay Denver?"

"Oh, no.  That would be very old-fashioned. We must 
keep up with the times, Clara."

"But what can we give them for supper?"

"Oh, something with a nice, fast, rollicking,
late-at-night-kind of flavor to it.   Let me see! 
Champagne, of course--and oysters.  Oysters will do.  In
the novels, all the naughty people take champagne and
oysters.  Besides, they won't need any cooking.  How is
your pocket-money, Clara?"

"I have three pounds."

"And I have one.  Four pounds.  I have no idea how
much champagne costs.  Have you?"

"Not the slightest."

"How many oysters does a man eat?"

"I can't imagine."

"I'll write and ask Charles.  No, I won't.  I'll ask
Jane.  Ring for her, Clara.  She has been a cook, and is
sure to know.

Jane, on being cross-questioned, refused to commit
herself beyond the statement that it depended upon the
gentleman, and also upon the oysters.  The united
experience of the kitchen, however, testified that three
dozen was a fair provision.

"Then we shall have eight dozen altogether, said Ida,
jotting down all her requirements upon a sheet of paper. 
"And two pints of champagne.  And some brown bread, and
vinegar, and pepper.  That's all, I think.  It is not so
very difficult to give a supper after all, is it, Clara?"

"I don't like it, Ida.  It seems to me to be so very
indelicate."

"But it is needed to clinch the matter.  No, no,
there is no drawing back now, Clara, or we shall ruin
everything.  Papa is sure to come back by the 9:45.  He
will reach the door at 10.  We must have everything ready
for him.  Now, just sit down at once, and ask Harold to
come at nine o'clock, and I shall do the same to
Charles."

The two invitations were dispatched, received and
accepted.  Harold was already a confidant, and he
understood that this was some further development of the
plot.  As to Charles, he was so accustomed to feminine
eccentricity, in the person of his aunt, that the only
thing which could surprise him would be a rigid
observance of etiquette.   At nine o'clock they
entered the dining-room of Number 2, to find the master
of the house absent, a red-shaded lamp, a snowy cloth, a
pleasant little feast, and the two whom they would have
chosen, as their companions.  A merrier party never met,
and the house rang with their laughter and their chatter.

"It is three minutes to ten," cried Clara, suddenly,
glancing at the clock.

"Good gracious!  So it is!  Now for our little
tableau!"  Ida pushed the champagne bottles obtrusively
forward, in the direction of the door, and scattered
oyster shells over the cloth.

"Have you your pipe, Charles?"

"My pipe!  Yes."

"Then please smoke it.  Now don't argue about it, but
do it, for you will ruin the effect otherwise."

The large man drew out a red case, and extracted a
great yellow meerschaum, out of which, a moment later, he
was puffing thick wreaths of smoke.  Harold had lit a
cigar, and both the girls had cigarettes.

"That looks very nice and emancipated," said Ida,
glancing round.  "Now I shall lie on this sofa.  So! 
Now, Charles, just sit here, and throw your arm
carelessly over the back of the sofa.  No, don't stop
smoking.  I like it.  Clara, dear, put your feet upon the
coal-scuttle, and  do try to look a little
dissipated.  I wish we could crown ourselves with
flowers.  There are some lettuces on the sideboard.  Oh
dear, here he is!  I hear his key."  She began to sing in
her high, fresh voice a little snatch from a French song,
with a swinging tra la-la chorus.

The Doctor had walked home from the station in a
peaceable and relenting frame of mind, feeling that,
perhaps, he had said too much in the morning, that his
daughters had for years been models in every way, and
that, if there had been any change of late, it was, as
they said themselves, on account of their anxiety to
follow his advice and to imitate Mrs. Westmacott.  He
could see clearly enough now that that advice was unwise,
and that a world peopled with Mrs. Westmacotts would not
be a happy or a soothing one.  It was he who was,
himself, to blame, and he was grieved by the thought that
perhaps his hot words had troubled and saddened his two
girls.

This fear, however, was soon dissipated.  As he
entered his hall he heard the voice of Ida uplifted in a
rollicking ditty, and a very strong smell of tobacco was
borne to his nostrils.  He threw open the dining-room
door, and stood aghast at the scene which met his eyes.

The room was full of the blue wreaths of smoke, and
the lamp-light shone through the thin haze upon
gold-topped bottles, plates, napkins, and a litter
of oyster shells and cigarettes.  Ida, flushed and
excited, was reclining upon the settee, a wine-glass at
her elbow, and a cigarette between her fingers, while
Charles Westmacott sat beside her, with his arm thrown
over the head of the sofa, with the suggestion of a
caress.  On the other side of the room, Clara was
lounging in an arm-chair, with Harold beside her, both
smoking, and both with wine-glasses beside them.  The
Doctor stood speechless in the doorway, staring at the
Bacchanalian scene.

"Come in, papa!  Do!" cried Ida.  "Won't you have a
glass of champagne?"

"Pray excuse me," said her father, coldly, "I feel
that I am intruding.  I did not know that you were
entertaining. Perhaps you will kindly let me know
when you have finished.  You will find me in my study." 
He ignored the two young men completely, and, closing the
door, retired, deeply hurt and mortified, to his room. 
A quarter of an hour afterwards he heard the door slam,
and his two daughters came to announce that the guests
were gone.

"Guests!  Whose guests?" he cried angrily.  "What is
the meaning of this exhibition?"

"We have been giving a little supper, papa.  They
were our guests."

"Oh, indeed!"  The Doctor laughed sarcastically. 
"You think it right, then, to entertain young
bachelors late at night, to, smoke and drink with them,
to----  Oh, that I should ever have lived to blush for my
own daughters!  I thank God that your dear mother never
saw the day."

"Dearest papa," cried Clara, throwing her arms about
him.  "Do not be angry with us.  If you understood all,
you would see that there is no harm in it."

"No harm, miss!  Who is the best judge of that?"

"Mrs. Westmacott," suggested Ida, slyly.

The Doctor sprang from his chair.  "Confound Mrs.
Westmacott!" he cried, striking frenziedly into the air
with his hands.  "Am I to hear of nothing but this woman? 
Is she to confront me at every turn?  I will endure it no
longer."

"But it was your wish, papa."

"Then I will tell you now what my second and wiser
wish is, and we shall see if you will obey it as you have
the first."

"Of course we will, papa."

"Then my wish is, that you should forget these odious
notions which you have imbibed, that you should dress and
act as you used to do, before ever you saw this woman,
and that, in future, you confine your intercourse with
her to such civilities as are necessary between
neighbors."

"We are to give up Mrs. Westmacott?"

"Or give up me."

"Oh, dear dad, how can you say anything so cruel?"
cried Ida, burrowing her towsy golden hair into her
father's shirt front, while Clara pressed her cheek
against his whisker.  "Of course we shall give her up, if
you prefer it."

"Of course we shall, papa."

The Doctor patted the two caressing heads.  "These
are my own two girls again," he cried.  "It has been my
fault as much as yours.  I have been astray, and you have
followed me in my error.  It was only by seeing your
mistake that I have become conscious of my own.  Let us
set it aside, and neither say nor think anything more
about it."



----


CHAPTER XI.


A BLOT FROM THE BLUE.


So by the cleverness of two girls a dark cloud was
thinned away and turned into sunshine.  Over one of them,
alas, another cloud was gathering, which could not be so
easily dispersed.  Of these three households which fate
had thrown together, two had already been united by ties
of love.  It was destined, however, that a bond of
another sort should connect the Westmacotts with the Hay
Denvers.

Between the Admiral and the widow a very cordial
feeling had existed since the day when the old seaman had
hauled down his flag and changed his opinions; granting
to the yachts-woman all that he had refused to the
reformer.  His own frank and downright nature respected
the same qualities in his neighbor, and a friendship
sprang up between them which was more like that which
exists between two men, founded upon esteem and a
community of tastes.

"By the way, Admiral," said Mrs. Westmacott one
morning, as they walked together down to the station, "I
understand that this boy of yours in the intervals of
paying his devotions to Miss Walker is doing something
upon 'Change."

"Yes, ma'am, and there is no man of his age who is
doing so well.  He's drawing ahead, I can tell you,
ma'am.  Some of those that started with him are hull down
astarn now.  He touched his five hundred last year, and
before he's thirty he'll be making the four figures."

"The reason I asked is that I have small investments
to make myself from time to time, and my present broker
is a rascal.  I should be very glad to do it through your
son."

"It is very kind of you, ma'am.  His partner is away
on a holiday, and Harold would like to push on a bit and
show what he can do.  You know the poop isn't big
enough to hold the lieutenant when the skipper's on
shore."

"I suppose he charges the usual half per cent?"

"Don't know, I'm sure, ma'am.  I'll swear that he
does what is right and proper."

"That is what I usually pay--ten shillings in the
hundred pounds.  If you see him before I do just ask him
to get me five thousand in New Zealands.  It is at four
just now, and I fancy it may rise."

"Five thousand!" exclaimed the Admiral, reckoning it
in his own mind.  "Lemme see!  That's twenty-five pounds
commission.  A nice day's work, upon my word.  It is a
very handsome order, ma'am."

"Well, I must pay some one, and why not him?"

"I'll tell him, and I'm sure he'll lose no time."

"Oh, there is no great hurry.  By the way, I
understand from what you said just now that he has a
partner."

"Yes, my boy is the junior partner.  Pearson is the
senior.  I was introduced to him years ago, and he
offered Harold the opening.  Of course we had a pretty
stiff premium to pay."

Mrs. Westmacott had stopped, and was standing very
stiffly with her Red Indian face even grimmer than usual.

"Pearson?" said she.  "Jeremiah Pearson?"

"The same."

"Then it's all off," she cried.  "You need not carry
out that investment."

"Very well, ma'am."

They walked on together side by side, she brooding
over some thought of her own, and he a little crossed and
disappointed at her caprice and the lost commission for
Harold.

"I tell you what, Admiral," she exclaimed suddenly,
"if I were you I should get your boy out of this
partnership."

"But why, madam?"

"Because he is tied to one of the deepest, slyest
foxes in the whole city of London."

"Jeremiah Pearson, ma'am?  What can you know of him? 
He bears a good name."

"No one in this world knows Jeremiah Pearson as I
know him, Admiral.  I warn you because I have a friendly
feeling both for you and for your son.  The man is a
rogue and you had best avoid him."

"But these are only words, ma'am.  Do you tell me
that you know him better than the brokers and jobbers in
the City?"

"Man," cried Mrs. Westmacott, "will you allow that I
know him when I tell you that my maiden name was Ada
Pearson, and that Jeremiah is my only brother?"

The Admiral whistled.  "Whew! " cried he.  "Now that
I think of it, there is a likeness."

"He is a man of iron, Admiral--a man without a
heart.  I should shock you if I were to tell you what I
have endured from my brother.  My father's wealth was
divided equally between us.  His own share he ran through
in five years, and he has tried since then by every trick
of a cunning, low-minded man, by base cajolery, by legal
quibbles, by brutal intimidation, to juggle me out of my
share as well.  There is no villainy of which the man is
not capable.  Oh, I know my brother Jeremiah.  I know him
and I am prepared for him."

"This is all new to me, ma'am.  'Pon my word, I
hardly know what to say to it.  I thank you for having
spoken so plainly.  From what you say, this is a poor
sort of consort for a man to sail with.  Perhaps Harold
would do well to cut himself adrift."

"Without losing a day."

"Well, we shall talk it over.  You may be sure of
that.  But here we are at the station, so I will just see
you into your carriage and then home to see what my wife
says to the matter."

As he trudged homewards, thoughtful and perplexed, he
was surprised to hear a shout behind him, and to see
Harold running down the road after him.

"Why, dad," he cried, "I have just come from town,
and the first thing I saw was your back as you marched
away.  But you are such a quick walker that I had to
run to catch you."

The Admiral's smile of pleasure had broken his stern
face into a thousand wrinkles.  "You are early to-day,"
said he.

"Yes, I wanted to consult you."

"Nothing wrong?"

"Oh no, only an inconvenience."

"What is it, then?"

"How much have we in our private account?"

"Pretty fair.  Some eight hundred, I think."

"Oh, half that will be ample.  It was rather
thoughtless of Pearson."

"What then?"

"Well, you see, dad, when he went away upon this
little holiday to Havre he left me to pay accounts and so
on.  He told me that there was enough at the bank for all
claims.  I had occasion on Tuesday to pay away two
cheques, one for L80, and the other for L120, and here
they are returned with a bank notice that we have already
overdrawn to the extent of some hundreds."

The Admiral looked very grave.  "What's the meaning
of that, then?" he asked.

"Oh, it can easily be set right.  You see Pearson
invests all the spare capital and keeps as small a margin
as possible at the bank.  Still it was too bad for him to
allow me even to run a risk of having a cheque returned. 
I have written to him and demanded his authority to
sell out some stock, and I have written an explanation to
these people.  In the meantime, however, I have had to
issue several cheques; so I had better transfer part of
our private account to meet them."

"Quite so, my boy.  All that's mine is yours.  But
who do you think this Pearson is?  He is Mrs.
Westmacott's brother."

"Really.  What a singular thing!  Well, I can see a
likeness now that you mention it.  They have both the
same hard type of face."

"She has been warning me against him--says he is the
rankest pirate in London.  I hope that it is all right,
boy, and that we may not find ourselves in broken water."

Harold had turned a little pale as he heard Mrs.
Westmacott's opinion of his senior partner.  It gave
shape and substance to certain vague fears and suspicions
of his own which had been pushed back as often as they
obtruded themselves as being too monstrous and fantastic
for belief.

"He is a well-known man in the City, dad," said he.

"Of course he is--of course he is.  That is what I
told her.  They would have found him out there if
anything had been amiss with him.  Bless you, there's
nothing so bitter as a family quarrel.  Still it is just
as well that you have written about this affair, for
we may as well have all fair and aboveboard."

But Harold's letter to his partner was crossed by a
letter from his partner to Harold.  It lay awaiting him
upon the breakfast table next morning, and it sent the
heart into his mouth as he read it, and caused him to
spring up from his chair with a white face and staring
eyes.

"My boy!  My boy!"

"I am ruined, mother--ruined!"  He stood gazing
wildly in front of him, while the sheet of paper
fluttered down on the carpet.  Then he dropped back into
the chair, and sank his face into his hands.  His mother
had her arms round him in an instant, while the Admiral,
with shaking fingers, picked up the letter from the floor
and adjusted his glasses to read it.


"My DEAR DENVER," it ran.  "By the time that this
reaches you I shall be out of the reach of yourself or of
any one else who may desire an interview.  You need not
search for me, for I assure you that this letter is
posted by a friend, and that you will have your trouble
in vain if you try to find me.  I am sorry to leave you
in such a tight place, but one or other of us must be
squeezed, and on the whole I prefer that it should be
you.  You'll find nothing in the bank, and about L13,000
unaccounted for.  I'm not sure that the best thing you
can do is not to realize what you can, and imitate
your senior's example.  If you act at once you may get
clean away.  If not, it's not only that you must put up
your shutters, but I am afraid that this missing money
could hardly be included as an ordinary debt, and of
course you are legally responsible for it just as much as
I am.  Take a friend's advice and get to America.  A
young man with brains can always do something out there,
and you can live down this little mischance.  It will be
a cheap lesson if it teaches you to take nothing upon
trust in business, and to insist upon knowing exactly
what your partner is doing, however senior he may be to
you.

"Yours faithfully,

"JEREMIAH PEARSON."


"Great Heavens!" groaned the Admiral, "he has
absconded."

"And left me both a bankrupt and a thief."

"No, no, Harold," sobbed his mother.  "All will be
right.  What matter about money!"

"Money, mother!  It is my honor."

"The boy is right.  It is his honor, and my honor,
for his is mine.  This is a sore trouble, mother, when we
thought our life's troubles were all behind us, but we
will bear it as we have borne others."  He held out his
stringy hand, and the two old folk sat with bowed
grey heads, their fingers intertwined, strong in
each other's love and sympathy.

"We were too happy," she sighed.

"But it is God's will, mother."

"Yes, John, it is God's will."

"And yet it is bitter to bear.  I could have lost
all, the house, money, rank--I could have borne it.  But
at my age--my honor--the honor of an admiral of the
fleet."

"No honor can be lost, John, where no dishonor has
been done.  What have you done?  What has Harold done? 
There is no question of honor."

The old man shook his head, but Harold had already
called together his clear practical sense, which for an
instant in the presence of this frightful blow had
deserted him.

"The mater is right, dad," said he.  "It is bad
enough, Heaven knows, but we must not take too dark a
view of it.  After all, this insolent letter is in itself
evidence that I had nothing to do with the schemes of the
base villain who wrote it."

"They may think it prearranged."

"They could not.  My whole life cries out against the
thought.  They could not look me in the face and
entertain it."

"No, boy, not if they have eyes in their heads,"
cried the Admiral, plucking up courage at the sight of
the flashing eyes and brave, defiant face.  "We have
the letter, and we have your character.  We'll weather it
yet between them.  It's my fault from the beginning for
choosing such a land-shark for your consort.  God help
me, I thought I was finding such an opening for you."

"Dear dad!  How could you possibly know?  As he says
in his letter, it has given me a lesson.  But he was so
much older and so much more experienced, that it was hard
for me to ask to examine his books.  But we must waste no
time.  I must go to the City."

"What will you do?"

"What an honest man should do.  I will write to all
our clients and creditors, assemble them, lay the whole
matter before them, read them the letter and put myself
absolutely in their hands."

"That's it, boy--yard-arm to yard-arm, and have it
over."

"I must go at once."  He put on his top-coat and his
hat.  "But I have ten minutes yet before I can catch a
train.   There is one little thing which I must do before
I start."

He had caught sight through the long glass folding
door of the gleam of a white blouse and a straw hat in
the tennis ground.  Clara used often to meet him there of
a morning to say a few words before he hurried away into
the City.  He walked out now with the quick, firm
step of a man who has taken a momentous resolution, but
his face was haggard and his lips pale.

"Clara," said he, as she came towards him with words
of greeting, "I am sorry to bring ill news to you, but
things have gone wrong in the City, and--and I think that
I ought to release you from your engagement."

Clara stared at him with her great questioning dark
eyes, and her face became as pale as his.

"How can the City affect you and me, Harold?"

"It is dishonor.  I cannot ask you to share it."

"Dishonor!  The loss of some miserable gold and
silver coins!"

"Oh, Clara, if it were only that!  We could be far
happier together in a little cottage in the country than
with all the riches of the City.  Poverty could not cut
me to the heart, as I have been cut this morning.  Why,
it is but twenty minutes since I had the letter, Clara,
and it seems to me to be some old, old thing which
happened far away in my past life, some horrid black
cloud which shut out all the freshness and the peace from
it."

"But what is it, then?  What do you fear worse than
poverty?"

"To have debts that I cannot meet.  To be
hammered upon 'Change and declared a bankrupt.  To
know that others have a just claim upon me and to feel
that I dare not meet their eyes.  Is not that worse than
poverty?"

"Yes, Harold, a thousand fold worse!  But all this
may be got over.  Is there nothing more?"

"My partner has fled and left me responsible for
heavy debts, and in such a position that I may be
required by the law to produce some at least of this
missing money.  It has been confided to him to invest,
and he has embezzled it.  I, as his partner, am liable
for it.  I have brought misery on all whom I love--my
father, my mother.  But you at least shall not be under
the shadow.  You are free, Clara.  There is no tie
between us."

"It takes two to make such a tie, Harold," said she,
smiling and putting her hand inside his arm.  "It takes
two to make it, dear, and also two to break it.  Is that
the way they do business in the City, sir, that a man can
always at his own sweet will tear up his engagement?"

"You hold me to it, Clara?"

"No creditor so remorseless as I, Harold.  Never,
never shall you get from that bond."

"But I am ruined.  My whole life is blasted."

"And so you wish to ruin me, and blast my life also. 
No indeed, sir, you shall not get away so lightly.  But
seriously now, Harold, you would hurt me if it were
not so absurd.  Do you think that a woman's love is like
this sunshade which I carry in my hand, a thing only
fitted for the sunshine, and of no use when the winds
blow and the clouds gather?"

"I would not drag you down, Clara."

"Should I not be dragged down indeed if I left your
side at such a time?  It is only now that I can be of use
to you, help you, sustain you.  You have always been so
strong, so above me.  You are strong still, but then two
will be stronger.  Besides, sir, you have no idea what a
woman of business I am.  Papa says so, and he knows."

Harold tried to speak, but his heart was too full. 
He could only press the white hand which curled round his
sleeve.  She walked up and down by his side, prattling
merrily, and sending little gleams of cheeriness through
the gloom which girt him in.  To listen to her he might
have thought that it was Ida, and not her staid and
demure sister, who was chatting to him.

"It will soon be cleared up," she said, "and then we
shall feel quite dull.  Of course all business men have
these little ups and downs.  Why, I suppose of all the
men you meet upon 'Change, there is not one who has not
some such story to tell.  If everything was always
smooth, you know, then of course every one would
turn stockbroker, and you would have to hold your
meetings in Hyde Park.  How much is it that you need?"

"More than I can ever get.  Not less than thirteen
thousand pounds."

Clara's face fell as she heard the amount.  "What do
you purpose doing?"

"I shall go to the City now, and I shall ask all our
creditors to meet me to-morrow.  I shall read them
Pearson's letter, and put myself into their hands."

"And they, what will they do?"

"What can they do?  They will serve writs for their
money, and the firm will be declared bankrupt."

"And the meeting will be to-morrow, you say.  Will
you take my advice?"

"What is it, Clara?"

"To ask them for a few days of delay.  Who knows what
new turn matters may take?"

"What turn can they take?  I have no means of raising
the money."

"Let us have a few days."

"Oh, we should have that in the ordinary course of
business.  The legal formalities would take them some
little time.  But I must go, Clara, I must not seem to
shirk.  My place now must be at my offices."

"Yes, dear, you are right.  God bless you and guard
you!  I shall be here in The Wilderness, but all day
I shall be by your office table at Throgmorton Street in
spirit, and if ever you should be sad you will hear my
little whisper in your ear, and know that there is one
client whom you will never be able to get rid of--never
as long as we both live, dear."



----


CHAPTER XII.


FRIENDS IN NEED.


"Now, papa," said Clara that morning, wrinkling her
brows and putting her finger-tips together with the air
of an experienced person of business, "I want to have a
talk to you about money matters."

"Yes, my dear."  He laid down his paper, and looked
a question.

"Kindly tell me again, papa, how much money I have in
my very own right.  You have often told me before, but I
always forget figures."

"You have two hundred and fifty pounds a year of your
own, under your aunt's will.

"And Ida?"

"Ida has one hundred and fifty."

"Now, I think I can live very well on fifty pounds a
year, papa.  I am not very extravagant, and I could
make my own dresses if I had a sewing-machine."

"Very likely, dear."

"In that case I have two hundred a year which I could
do without."

"If it were necessary."

"But it is necessary.  Oh, do help me, like a good,
dear, kind papa, in this matter, for my whole heart is
set upon it.  Harold is in sore need of money, and
through no fault of his own."  With a woman's tact and
eloquence, she told the whole story.  "Put yourself in my
place, papa.  What is the money to me?  I never think of
it from year's end to year's end.  But now I know how
precious it is.  I could not have thought that money
could be so valuable.  See what I can do with it.  It may
help to save him.  I must have it by to-morrow.  Oh, do,
do advise me as to what I should do, and how I should get
the money."

The Doctor smiled at her eagerness.  "You are as
anxious to get rid of money as others are to gain it,"
said he.  "In another case I might think it rash, but I
believe in your Harold, and I can see that he has had
villainous treatment.  You will let me deal with the
matter."

"You, papa?"

"It can be done best between men.  Your capital,
Clara, is some five thousand pounds, but it is out
on a mortgage, and you could not call it in."

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

"But we can still manage.  I have as much at my bank. 
I will advance it to the Denvers as coming from you, and
you can repay it to me, or the interest of it, when your
money becomes due."

"Oh, that is beautiful!  How sweet and kind of you!"

"But there is one obstacle:  I do not think that you
would ever induce Harold to take this money."

Clara's face fell.  "Don't you think so, really?"

"I am sure that he would not."

"Then what are you to do?  What horrid things money
matters are to arrange!"

"I shall see his father.  We can manage it all
between us."

"Oh, do, do, papa!  And you will do it soon?"

"There is no time like the present.  I will go in at
once."  He scribbled a cheque, put it in an envelope, put
on his broad straw hat, and strolled in through the
garden to pay his morning call.

It was a singular sight which met his eyes as he
entered the sitting-room of the Admiral.  A great sea
chest stood open in the center, and allround upon
the carpet were little piles of jerseys, oil-skins,
books, sextant boxes, instruments, and sea-boots.  The
old seaman sat gravely amidst this lumber, turning it
over, and examining it intently; while his wife, with the
tears running silently down her ruddy cheeks, sat upon
the sofa, her elbows upon her knees and her chin upon her
hands, rocking herself slowly backwards and forwards.

"Hullo, Doctor," said the Admiral, holding out his
hand, "there's foul weather set in upon us, as you may
have heard, but I have ridden out many a worse squall,
and, please God, we shall all three of us weather this
one also, though two of us are a little more cranky than
we were."

"My dear friends, I came in to tell you how deeply we
sympathize with you all.  My girl has only just told me
about it."

"It has come so suddenly upon us, Doctor," sobbed
Mrs. Hay Denver.  "I thought that I had John to myself
for the rest of our lives--Heaven knows that we have not
seen very much of each other--but now he talks of going
to sea again.

"Aye, aye, Walker, that's the only way out of it. 
When I first heard of it I was thrown up in the wind with
all aback.  I give you my word that I lost my bearings
more completely than ever since I strapped a middy's dirk
to my belt.  You see, friend, I know something of
shipwreck or battle or whatever may come upon the waters,
but the shoals in the City of London on which my poor boy
has struck are clean beyond me.  Pearson had been my
pilot there, and now I know him to be a rogue.  But I've
taken my bearings now, and I see my course right before
me."

"What then, Admiral?"

"Oh, I have one or two little plans.  I'll have some
news for the boy.  Why, hang it, Walker man, I may be a
bit stiff in the joints, but you'll be my witness that I
can do my twelve miles under the three hours.  What then? 
My eyes are as good as ever except just for the
newspaper.  My head is clear.  I'm three-and-sixty, but
I'm as good a man as ever I was--too good a man to lie up
for another ten years.  I'd be the better for a smack of
the salt water again, and a whiff of the breeze.  Tut,
mother, it's not a four years' cruise this time.  I'll be
back every month or two.  It's no more than if I went for
a visit in the country."  He was talking boisterously,
and heaping his sea-boots and sextants back into his
chest.

"And you really think, my dear friend, of hoisting
your pennant again?"

"My pennant, Walker?  No, no.  Her Majesty, God bless
her, has too many young men to need an old hulk like me. 
I should be plain Mr. Hay Denver, of the merchant
service.  I daresay that I might find some owner who
would give me a chance as second or third officer.  It
will be strange to me to feel the rails of the bridge
under my fingers once more."

"Tut! tut! this will never do, this will never do,
Admiral!"  The Doctor sat down by Mrs. Hay Denver and
patted her hand in token of friendly sympathy.  "We must
wait until your son has had it out with all these people,
and then we shall know what damage is done, and how best
to set it right.  It will be time enough then to begin to
muster our resources to meet it."

"Our resources!"  The Admiral laughed.  "There's the
pension.  I'm afraid, Walker, that our resources won't
need much mustering."

"Oh, come, there are some which you may not have
thought of.  For example, Admiral, I had always intended
that my girl should have five thousand from me when she
married.  Of course your boy's trouble is her trouble,
and the money cannot be spent better than in helping to
set it right.  She has a little of her own which she
wished to contribute, but I thought it best to work it
this way.  Will you take the cheque, Mrs. Denver, and I
think it would be best if you said nothing to Harold
about it, and just used it as the occasion served?"

"God bless you, Walker, you are a true friend.  I
won't forget this, Walker.  "The Admiral sat down on his
sea chest and mopped his brow with his red handkerchief.

"What is it to me whether you have it now or then? 
It may be more useful now.  There's only one stipulation. 
If things should come to the worst, and if the business
should prove so bad that nothing can set it right, then
hold back this cheque, for there is no use in pouring
water into a broken basin, and if the lad should fall, he
will want something to pick himself up again with."

"He shall not fall, Walker, and you shall not have
occasion to be ashamed of the family into which your
daughter is about to marry.  I have my own plan.  But we
shall hold your money, my friend, and it will strengthen
us to feel that it is there."

"Well, that is all right," said Doctor Walker,
rising.  "And if a little more should be needed, we must
not let him go wrong for the want of a thousand or two. 
And now, Admiral, I'm off for my morning walk.  Won't you
come too?"

"No, I am going into town."

"Well, good-bye.  I hope to have better news, and
that all will come right.  Good-bye, Mrs. Denver.  I
feel as if the boy were my own, and I shall not be easy
until all is right with him."



----


CHAPTER XIII.


IN STRANGE WATERS.


When Doctor Walker had departed, the Admiral packed
all his possessions back into his sea chest with the
exception of one little brass-bound desk.  This he
unlocked, and took from it a dozen or so blue sheets of
paper all mottled over with stamps and seals, with very
large V.  R.'s printed upon the heads of them.  He tied
these carefully into a small bundle, and placing them in
the inner pocket of his coat, he seized his stick and
hat.

"Oh, John, don't do this rash thing," cried Mrs.
Denver, laying her hands upon his sleeve.  "I have seen
so little of you, John.  Only three years since you left
the service.  Don't leave me again.  I know it is weak of
me, but I cannot bear it."

"There's my own brave lass," said he, smoothing down
the grey-shot hair.  "We've lived in honor together,
mother, and please God in honor we'll die.  No matter how
debts are made, they have got to be met, and what the boy
owes we owe.  He has not the money, and how is he to find
it?  He can't find it.  What then?  It becomes my
business, and there's only one way for it."

"But it may not be so very bad, John.  Had we not
best wait until after he sees these people to-morrow?"

"They may give him little time, lass.  But I'll have
a care that I don't go so far that I can't put back
again.  Now, mother, there's no use holding me.  It's got
to be done, and there's no sense in shirking it."  He
detached her fingers from his sleeve, pushed her gently
back into an arm-chair, and hurried from the house.

In less than half an hour the Admiral was whirled
into Victoria Station and found himself amid a dense
bustling throng, who jostled and pushed in the crowded
terminus.  His errand, which had seemed feasible enough
in his own room, began now to present difficulties in the
carrying out, and he puzzled over how he should take the
first steps.  Amid the stream of business men, each
hurrying on his definite way, the old seaman in his grey
tweed suit and black soft hat strode slowly along, his
head sunk and his brow wrinkled in perplexity.  Suddenly
an idea occurred to him.  He walked back to the railway
stall and bought a daily paper.  This he turned and
turned until a certain column met his eye, when he
smoothed it out, and carrying it over to a seat,
proceeded to read it at his leisure.

And, indeed, as a man read that column, it
seemed strange to him that there should still remain
any one in this world of ours who should be in straits
for want of money.  Here were whole lines of gentlemen
who were burdened with a surplus in their incomes, and
who were loudly calling to the poor and needy to come and
take it off their hands.  Here was the guileless person
who was not a professional moneylender, but who would be
glad to correspond, etc.  Here too was the accommodating
individual who advanced sums from ten to ten thousand
pounds without expense, security, or delay.  "The money
actually paid over within a few hours," ran this
fascinating advertisement, conjuring up a vision of swift
messengers rushing with bags of gold to the aid of the
poor struggler.  A third gentleman did all business by
personal application, advanced money on anything or
nothing; the lightest and airiest promise was enough to
content him according to his circular, and finally he
never asked for more than five per cent.  This struck the
Admiral as far the most promising, and his wrinkles
relaxed, and his frown softened away as he gazed at it. 
He folded up the paper rose from the seat, and found
himself face to face with Charles Westmacott.

"Hullo, Admiral!"

"Hullo, Westmacott!" Charles had always been a
favorite of the seaman's.  "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I have been doing a little business for my aunt. 
But I have never seen you in London before."

"I hate the place.  It smothers me.  There's not a
breath of clean air on this side of Greenwich.  But maybe
you know your way about pretty well in the City?"

"Well, I know something about it.  You see I've never
lived very far from it, and I do a good deal of my aunt's
business."

"Maybe you know Bread Street?"

"It is out of Cheapside."

"Well then, how do you steer for it from here?  You
make me out a course and I'll keep to it."

"Why, Admiral, I have nothing to do.  I'll take you
there with pleasure."

"Will you, though?  Well, I'd take it very kindly if
you would.  I have business there.  Smith and Hanbury,
financial agents, Bread Street."

The pair made their way to the river-side, and so
down the Thames to St. Paul's landing--a mode of travel
which was much more to the Admiral's taste than 'bus or
cab.  On the way, he told his companion his mission and
the causes which had led to it.  Charles Westmacott knew
little enough of City life and the ways of business, but
at least he had more experience in both than the Admiral,
and he made up his mind not to leave him until the
matter was settled.

"These are the people," said the Admiral, twisting
round his paper, and pointing to the advertisement which
had seemed to him the most promising.  "It sounds honest
and above-board, does it not?  The personal interview
looks as if there were no trickery, and then no one could
object to five per cent."

"No, it seems fair enough."

"It is not pleasant to have to go hat in hand
borrowing money, but there are times, as you may find
before you are my age, Westmacott, when a man must stow
away his pride.  But here's their number, and their plate
is on the corner of the door."

A narrow entrance was flanked on either side by a row
of brasses, ranging upwards from the shipbrokers and the
solicitors who occupied the ground floors, through a long
succession of West Indian agents, architects, surveyors,
and brokers, to the firm of which they were in quest.  A
winding stone stair, well carpeted and railed at first
but growing shabbier with every landing, brought them
past innumerable doors until, at last, just under the
ground-glass roofing, the names of Smith and Hanbury were
to be seen painted in large white letters across a panel,
with a laconic invitation to push beneath it.  Following
out the suggestion, the Admiral and his companion
found themselves in a dingy apartment, ill lit from a
couple of glazed windows.  An ink-stained table, littered
with pens, papers, and almanacs, an American cloth sofa,
three chairs of varying patterns, and a much-worn carpet,
constituted all the furniture, save only a very large and
obtrusive porcelain spittoon, and a gaudily framed and
very somber picture which hung above the fireplace. 
Sitting in front of this picture, and staring gloomily at
it, as being the only thing which he could stare at, was
a small sallow-faced boy with a large head, who in the
intervals of his art studies munched sedately at an
apple.

"Is Mr. Smith or Mr. Hanbury in?" asked the Admiral.

"There ain't no such people," said the small boy.

"But you have the names on the door."

"Ah, that is the name of the firm, you see.  It's
only a name.  It's Mr. Reuben Metaxa that you wants."

"Well then, is he in?"

"No, he's not."

"When will he be back?"

"Can't tell, I'm sure.  He's gone to lunch. 
Sometimes he takes one hour, and sometimes two.  It'll be
two to-day, I 'spect, for he said he was hungry afore he
went."

"Then I suppose that we had better call again, " said
the Admiral.

"Not a bit," cried Charles.  "I know how to manage
these little imps.  See here, you young varmint, here's
a shilling for you.  Run off and fetch your master.  If
you don't bring him here in five minutes I'll clump you
on the side of the head when you get back.  Shoo!  Scat!" 
He charged at the youth, who bolted from the room and
clattered madly down-stairs.

"He'll fetch him," said Charles.  "Let us make
ourselves at home.  This sofa does not feel over and
above safe.  It was not meant for fifteen-stone men. 
But this doesn't look quite the sort of place where one
would expect to pick up money."

"Just what I was thinking," said the Admiral, looking
ruefully about him.

"Ah, well!  I have heard that the best furnished
offices generally belong to the poorest firms.   Let us
hope it's the opposite here.  They can't spend much on
the management anyhow.  That pumpkin-headed boy was the
staff, I suppose.  Ha, by Jove, that's his voice, and
he's got our man, I think!"

As he spoke the youth appeared in the doorway with a
small, brown, dried-up little chip of a man at his heels. 
He was clean-shaven and blue-chinned, with bristling
black hair, and keen brown eyes which shone out very
brightly from between pouched under-lids and drooping
upper ones.  He advanced, glancing keenly from one
to the other of his visitors, and slowly rubbing together
his thin, blue-veined hands.  The small boy closed the
door behind him, and discreetly vanished.

"I am Mr. Reuben Metaxa," said the moneylender.  "Was
it about an advance you wished to see me?"

"Yes."

"For you, I presume?" turning to Charles Westmacott.

"No, for this gentleman."

The moneylender looked surprised.  "How much did you
desire?"

"I thought of five thousand pounds," said the
Admiral.

"And on what security?"

"I am a retired admiral of the British navy.  You
will find my name in the Navy List.  There is my card. 
I have here my pension papers.  I get L850 a year.  I
thought that perhaps if you were to hold these papers it
would be security enough that I should pay you.  You
could draw my pension, and repay yourselves at the rate,
say, of L500 a year, taking your five per cent interest
as well."

"What interest?"

"Five per cent per annum.

Mr. Metaxa laughed.  "Per annum!" he said.  "Five per
cent a month."

"A month!  That would be sixty per cent a year."

"Precisely."

"But that is monstrous."

"I don't ask gentlemen to come to me.  They come of
their own free will.  Those are my terms, and they can
take it or leave it."

"Then I shall leave it."  The Admiral rose angrily
from his chair.

"But one moment, sir.  Just sit down and we shall
chat the matter over.  Yours is a rather unusual case and
we may find some other way of doing what you wish.  Of
course the security which you offer is no security at
all, and no sane man would advance five thousand pennies
on it."

"No security?  Why not, sir?"

"You might die to-morrow.  You are not a young man. 
What age are you?"

"Sixty-three."

Mr. Metaxa turned over a long column of figures. 
"Here is an actuary's table," said he.  "At your time of
life the average expectancy of life is only a few years
even in a well-preserved man."

"Do you mean to insinuate that I am not a
well-preserved man?"

"Well, Admiral, it is a trying life at sea.  Sailors
in their younger days are gay dogs, and take it out of
themselves.  Then when they grow older thy are still hard
at it, and have no chance of rest or peace.  I do not
think a sailor's life a good one."

"I'll tell you what, sir," said the Admiral hotly. 
"If you have two pairs of gloves I'll undertake to knock
you out under three rounds.  Or I'll race you from here
to St. Paul's, and my friend here will see fair.  I'll
let you see whether I am an old man or not."

"This is beside the question," said the moneylender
with a deprecatory shrug.  "The point is that if you died
to-morrow where would be the security then?"

"I could insure my life, and make the policy over to
you."

"Your premiums for such a sum, if any office would
have you, which I very much doubt, would come to close on
five hundred a year.  That would hardly suit your book."

"Well, sir, what do you intend to propose?" asked the
Admiral.

"I might, to accommodate you, work it in another way. 
I should send for a medical man, and have an opinion upon
your life.  Then I might see what could be done."

"That is quite fair.  I have no objection to that."

"There is a very clever doctor in the street here. 
Proudie is his name.  John, go and fetch Doctor Proudie." 
The youth was dispatched upon his errand, while Mr.
Metaxa sat at his desk, trimming his nails, and shooting
out little comments upon the weather.  Presently feet
were heard upon the stairs, the moneylender hurried
out, there was a sound of whispering, and he returned
with a large, fat, greasy-looking man, clad in a much
worn frock-coat, and a very dilapidated top hat.

"Doctor Proudie, gentlemen," said Mr. Metaxa.

The doctor bowed, smiled, whipped off his hat, and
produced his stethoscope from its interior with the air
of a conjurer upon the stage.  "Which of these gentlemen
am I to examine?" he asked, blinking from one to the
other of them.  "Ah, it is you!  Only your waistcoat! 
You need not undo your collar.  Thank you!  A full
breath!  Thank you!  Ninety-nine!  Thank you!  Now hold
your breath for a moment.  Oh, dear, dear, what is this
I hear?"

"What is it then?" asked the Admiral coolly.

"Tut! tut!  This is a great pity.  Have you had
rheumatic fever?"

"Never."

"You have had some serious illness?"

"Never."

"Ah, you are an admiral.  You have been abroad,
tropics, malaria, ague--I know."

"I have never had a day's illness."

"Not to your knowledge; but you have inhaled
unhealthy air, and it has left its effect.  You have an
organic murmur--slight but distinct."

"Is it dangerous?"

"It might at anytime become so.  You should not take
violent exercise."

"Oh, indeed.  It would hurt me to run a half mile?"

"It would be very dangerous."

"And a mile?"

"Would be almost certainly fatal."

"Then there is nothing else the matter?"

"No.  But if the heart is weak, then everything is
weak, and the life is not a sound one."

"You see, Admiral," remarked Mr. Metaxa, as the
doctor secreted his stethoscope once more in his hat, "my
remarks were not entirely uncalled for.  I am sorry that
the doctor's opinion is not more favorable, but this is
a matter of business, and certain obvious precautions
must be taken."

"Of course.  Then the matter is at an end."

"Well, we might even now do business.  I am most
anxious to be of use to you.  How long do you think,
doctor, that this gentleman will in all probability
live?"

"Well, well, it's rather a delicate question to
answer," said Dr. Proudie, with a show of embarrassment.

"Not a bit, sir.  Out with it!  I have faced death
too often to flinch from it now, though I saw it as near
me as you are."

"Well, well, we must go by averages of course.  Shall
we say two years?  I should think that you have a full
two years before you."

"In two years your pension would bring you in L1,600. 
Now I will do my very best for you, Admiral!  I will
advance you L2,000, and you can make over to me your
pension for your life.  It is pure speculation on my
part.  If you die to-morrow I lose my money.  If the
doctor's prophecy is correct I shall still be out of
pocket.  If you live a little longer, then I may see my
money again.  It is the very best I can do for you."

"Then you wish to buy my pension?"

"Yes, for two thousand down."

"And if I live for twenty years?"

"Oh, in that case of course my speculation would be
more successful.  But you have heard the doctor's
opinion."

"Would you advance the money instantly?"

"You should have a thousand at once.  The other
thousand I should expect you to take in furniture."

"In furniture?"

"Yes, Admiral.  We shall do you a beautiful houseful
at that sum.  It is the custom of my clients to take half
in furniture."

The Admiral sat in dire perplexity.  He had come out
to get money, and to go back without any, to be powerless
to help when his boy needed every shilling to save him
from disaster, that would be very bitter to him.  On the
other hand, it was so much that he surrendered, and
so little that he received.  Little, and yet
something.  Would it not be better than going back
empty-handed?  He saw the yellow backed cheque-book upon
the table.  The moneylender opened it and dipped his pen
into the ink.

"Shall I fill it up?" said he.

"I think, Admiral," remarked Westmacott, "that we had
better have a little walk and some luncheon before we
settle this matter."

"Oh, we may as well do it at once.  It would be
absurd to postpone it now," Metaxa spoke with some heat,
and his eyes glinted angrily from between his narrow lids
at the imperturbable Charles.  The Admiral was simple in
money matters, but he had seen much of men and had
learned to read them.  He saw that venomous glance, and
saw too that intense eagerness was peeping out from
beneath the careless air which the agent had assumed.

"You're quite right, Westmacott," said he.  "We'll
have a little walk before we settle it."

"But I may not be here this afternoon."

"Then we must choose another day."

"But why not settle it now?"

"Because I prefer not," said the Admiral shortly.

"Very well.  But remember that my offer is only for
to-day.  It is off unless you take it at once."

"Let it be off, then.

"There's my fee," cried the doctor.

"How much?"

"A guinea."

The Admiral threw a pound and a shilling upon the
table.  "Come, Westmacott," said he, and they walked
together from the room.

"I don't like it," said Charles, when they found
themselves in the street once more; "I don't profess to
be a very sharp chap, but this is a trifle too thin. 
What did he want to go out and speak to the doctor for? 
And how very convenient this tale of a weak heart was! 
I believe they are a couple of rogues, and in league with
each other."

"A shark and a pilot fish," said the Admiral.

"I'll tell you what I propose, sir.  There's a lawyer
named McAdam who does my aunt's business.  He is a very
honest fellow, and lives at the other side of Poultry. 
We'll go over to him together and have his opinion about
the whole matter."

"How far is it to his place?"

"Oh, a mile at least.  We can have a cab."

"A mile?  Then we shall see if there is any truth in
what that swab of a doctor said.  Come, my boy, and clap
on all sail, and see who can stay the longest."

Then the sober denizens of the heart of business
London saw a singular sight as they returned from their
luncheons.  Down the roadway, dodging among cabs and
carts, ran a weather-stained elderly man, with wide
flapping black hat, and homely suit of tweeds.  With
elbows braced back, hands clenched near his armpits, and
chest protruded, he scudded along, while close at his
heels lumbered a large-limbed, heavy, yellow mustached
young man, who seemed to feel the exercise a good deal
more than his senior.  On they dashed, helter-skelter,
until they pulled up panting at the office where the
lawyer of the Westmacotts was to be found.

"There now!" cried the Admiral in triumph.  "What
d'ye think of that?  Nothing wrong in the engine-room,
eh?"

"You seem fit enough, sir.

"Blessed if I believe the swab was a certificated
doctor at all.  He was flying false colors, or I am
mistaken."

"They keep the directories and registers in this
eating-house," said Westmacott.  "We'll go and look him
out."

They did so, but the medical rolls contained no such
name as that of Dr. Proudie, of Bread Street.

"Pretty villainy this!" cried the Admiral, thumping
his chest.  "A dummy doctor and a vamped up disease. 
Well, we've tried the rogues, Westmacott!  Let us see
what we can do with your honest man."



----


CHAPTER XIV.


EASTWARD HO!


Mr. McAdam, of the firm of McAdam and Squire, was a
highly polished man who dwelt behind a highly polished
table in the neatest and snuggest of offices.  He was
white-haired and amiable, with a deep-lined aquiline
face, was addicted to low bows, and indeed, always seemed
to carry himself at half-cock, as though just descending
into one, or just recovering himself.  He wore a
high-buckled stock, took snuff, and adorned his
conversation with little scraps from the classics.

"My dear Sir," said he, when he had listened to their
story, "any friend of Mrs. Westmacott's is a friend of
mine.  Try a pinch.  I wonder that you should have gone
to this man Metaxa.  His advertisement is enough to
condemn him.  Habet foenum in cornu.  They are all
rogues."

"The doctor was a rogue too.  I didn't like the look
of him at the time."

"Arcades ambo.  But now we must see what we can do
for you.  Of course what Metaxa said was perfectly right. 
The pension is in itself no security at all, unless it
were accompanied by a life assurance which would be
an income in itself.  It is no good whatever."

His clients' faces fell.

"But there is the second alternative.  You might sell
the pension right out.  Speculative investors
occasionally deal in such things.  I have one client, a
sporting man, who would be very likely to take it up if
we could agree upon terms.  Of course, I must follow
Metaxa's example by sending for a doctor."

For the second time was the Admiral punched and
tapped and listened to.  This time, however, there could
be no question of the qualifications of the doctor, a
well-known Fellow of the College of Surgeons, and his
report was as favorable as the other's had been adverse.

"He has the heart and chest of a man of forty," said
he.  "I can recommend his life as one of the best of his
age that I have ever examined."

"That's well," said Mr. McAdam, making a note of the
doctor's remarks, while the Admiral disbursed a second
guinea.  "Your price, I understand, is five thousand
pounds.  I can communicate with Mr. Elberry, my client,
and let you know whether he cares to touch the matter. 
Meanwhile you can leave your pension papers here, and I
will give you a receipt for them."

"Very well.  I should like the money soon."

"That is why I am retaining the papers.  If I
can see Mr. Elberry to-day we may let you have a cheque
to-morrow.  Try another pinch.  No?  Well, good-bye.  I
am very happy to have been of service."  Mr. McAdam bowed
them out, for he was a very busy man, and they found
themselves in the street once more with lighter hearts
than when they bad left it.

"Well, Westmacott, I am sure I am very much obliged
to you," said the Admiral.  "You have stood by me when I
was the better for a little help, for I'm clean out of my
soundings among these city sharks.  But I've something to
do now which is more in my own line, and I need not
trouble you any more."

"Oh, it is no trouble.  I have nothing to do.  I
never have anything to do.  I don't suppose I could do it
if I had.  I should be delighted to come with you, sir,
if I can be of any use."

"No, no, my lad.  You go home again.  It would be
kind of you, though, if you would look in at number one
when you get back and tell my wife that all's well with
me, and that I'll be back in an hour or so."

"All right, sir.  I'll tell her."  Westmacott raised
his hat and strode away to the westward, while the
Admiral, after a hurried lunch, bent his steps towards
the east.

It was a long walk, but the old seaman swung along at
a rousing pace, leaving street after street behind him. 
The great business places dwindled down into
commonplace shops and dwellings, which decreased and
became more stunted, even as the folk who filled them
did, until he was deep in the evil places of the eastern
end.  It was a land of huge, dark houses and of garish
gin-shops, a land, too, where life moves irregularly and
where adventures are to be gained--as the Admiral was to
learn to his cost.

He was hurrying down one of the long, narrow,
stone-flagged lanes between the double lines of
crouching, disheveled women and of dirty children who sat
on the hollowed steps of the houses, and basked in the
autumn sun.  At one side was a barrowman with a load of
walnuts, and beside the barrow a bedraggled woman with a
black fringe and a chequered shawl thrown over her head. 
She was cracking walnuts and picking them out of the
shells, throwing out a remark occasionally to a rough man
in a rabbit-skin cap, with straps under the knees of his
corduroy trousers, who stood puffing a black clay pipe
with his back against the wall.  What the cause of the
quarrel was, or what sharp sarcasm from the woman's lips
pricked suddenly through that thick skin may never be
known, but suddenly the man took his pipe in his left
hand, leaned forward, and deliberately struck her across
the face with his right.  It was a slap rather than a
blow, but the woman gave a sharp cry and cowered up
against the barrow with her hand to her cheek.

"You infernal villain!" cried the Admiral, raising
his stick.  "You brute and blackguard!"

"Garn!" growled the rough, with the deep rasping
intonation of a savage.  "Garn out o' this or I'll----" 
He took a step forward with uplifted hand, but in an
instant down came cut number three upon his wrist, and
cut number five across his thigh, and cut number one 
full in the center of his rabbit-skin cap.  It was not a
heavy stick, but it was strong enough to leave a good red
weal wherever it fell.  The rough yelled with pain, and
rushed in, hitting with both hands, and kicking with his
iron-shod boots, but the Admiral had still a quick foot
and a true eye, so that he bounded backwards and
sideways, still raining a shower, of blows upon his
savage antagonist.  Suddenly, however, a pair of arms
closed round his neck, and glancing backwards he caught
a glimpse of the black coarse fringe of the woman whom he
had befriended, "I've got him!" she shrieked.  "I'll 'old
'im.  Now, Bill, knock the tripe out of him!"  Her grip
was as strong as a man's, and her wrist pressed like an
iron bar upon the Admiral's throat.  He made a
desperate effort to disengage himself, but the most that
he could do was to swing her round, so as to place her
between his adversary and himself.  As it proved, it
was the very best thing that he could have done.  The
rough, half-blinded and maddened by the blows which he
had received, struck out with all his ungainly strength,
just as his partner's head swung round in front of him. 
There was a noise like that of a stone hitting a wall, a
deep groan, her grasp relaxed, and she dropped a dead
weight upon the pavement, while the Admiral sprang back
and raised his stick once more, ready either for attack
or defense.  Neither were needed, however, for at that
moment there was a scattering of the crowd, and two
police constables, burly and helmeted, pushed their way
through the rabble.  At the sight of them the rough took
to his heels, and was instantly screened from view by a
veil of his friends and neighbors.

"I have been assaulted," panted the Admiral.  "This
woman was attacked and I had to defend her."

"This is Bermondsey Sal," said one police officer,
bending over the bedraggled heap of tattered shawl and
dirty skirt.  "She's got it hot this time."

"He was a shortish man, thick, with a beard."

"Ah, that's Black Davie.  He's been up four times for
beating her.  He's about done the job now.  If I were you
I would let that sort settle their own little affairs,
sir."

"Do you think that a man who holds the Queen's
commission will stand by and see a woman struck?" cried
the Admiral indignantly.

"Well, just as you like, sir.  But you've lost your
watch, I see."

"My watch!"  He clapped his hand to his waistcoat. 
The chain was hanging down in front, and the watch gone.

He passed his hand over his forehead.  "I would not
have lost that watch for anything," said he.  "No money
could replace it.  It was given me by the ship's company
after our African cruise.  It has an inscription."

The policeman shrugged his shoulders.  "It comes from
meddling," said he.

"What'll you give me if I tell yer where it is?" said
a sharp-faced boy among the crowd.  "Will you gimme a
quid?"

"Certainly."

"Well, where's the quid?"

The Admiral took a sovereign from his pocket.  "Here
it is."

"Then 'ere's the ticker!"  The boy pointed to the
clenched hand of the senseless woman.  A glimmer of gold
shone out from between the fingers, and on opening them
up, there was the Admiral's chronometer.  This
interesting victim had throttled her protector with one
hand, while she had robbed him with the other.

The Admiral left his address with the policeman,
satisfied that the woman was only stunned, not dead,
and then set off upon his way once more, the poorer
perhaps in his faith in human nature, but in very good
spirits none the less.  He walked with dilated nostrils
and clenched hands, all glowing and tingling with the
excitement of the combat, and warmed with the thought
that he could still, when there was need, take his own
part in a street brawl in spite of his three-score and
odd years.

His way now led towards the river-side regions, and
a cleansing whiff of tar was to be detected in the
stagnant autumn air.  Men with the blue jersey and peaked
cap of the boatman, or the white ducks of the dockers,
began to replace the cardurys and fustian of the
laborers.  Shops with nautical instruments in the
windows, rope and paint sellers, and slop shops with long
rows of oilskins dangling from hooks, all proclaimed the
neighborhood of the docks.  The Admiral quickened his
pace and straightened his figure as his surroundings
became more nautical, until at last, peeping between two
high, dingy wharfs, he caught a glimpse of the
mud-colored waters of the Thames, and of the bristle of
masts and funnels which rose from its broad bosom.  To
the right lay a quiet street, with many brass plates upon
either side, and wire blinds in all of the windows.  The
Admiral walked slowly down it until "The Saint Lawrence
Shipping Company" caught his eye.  He crossed the
road, pushed open the door, and found himself in a
low-ceilinged office, with a long counter at one end and
a great number of wooden sections of ships stuck upon
boards and plastered all over the walls.

"Is Mr. Henry in?" asked the Admiral.

"No, sir," answered an elderly man from a high seat
in the corner.  "He has not come into town to-day.  I can
manage any business you may wish seen to."

"You don't happen to have a first or second officer's
place vacant, do you?"

The manager looked with a dubious eye at his singular
applicant.

"Do you hold certificates?" he asked.

"I hold every nautical certificate there is."

"Then you won't do for us."

"Why not?"

"Your age, sir.

"I give you my word that I can see as well as ever,
and am as good a man in every way."

"I don't doubt it."

"Why should my age be a bar, then?"

"Well, I must put it plainly.  If a man of your age,
holding certificates, has not got past a second officer's
berth, there must be a black mark against him somewhere. 
I don't know what it is, drink or temper, or want of
judgment, but something there must be."

"I assure you there is nothing, but I find myself
stranded, and so have to turn to the old business again."

"Oh, that's it," said the manager, with suspicion in
his eye.  "How long were you in your last billet?"

"Fifty-one years."

"What!"

"Yes, sir, one-and-fifty years."

"In the same employ?"

"Yes."

"Why, you must have begun as a child."

"I was twelve when I joined."

"It must be a strangely managed business," said the
manager, "which allows men to leave it who have served
for fifty years, and who are still as good as ever.  Who
did you serve?"

"The Queen.  Heaven bless her!"

"Oh, you were in the Royal Navy.  What rating did you
hold?"

"I am Admiral of the Fleet."

The manager started, and sprang down from his high
stool.

"My name is Admiral Hay Denver.  There is my card. 
And here are the records of my service.  I don't, you
understand, want to push another man from his billet; but
if you should chance to have a berth open, I should be
very glad of it.  I know the navigation from the Cod
Banks right up to Montreal a great deal better than I
know the streets of London."

The astonished manager glanced over the blue papers
which his visitor had handed him.  "Won't you take a
chair, Admiral?" said he.

"Thank you!  But I should be obliged if you would
drop my title now.  I told you because you asked me, but
I've left the quarter-deck, and I am plain Mr. Hay Denver
now."

"May I ask," said the manager, "are you the same
Denver who commanded at one time on the North American
station?"

"I did."

"Then it was you who got one of our boats, the
Comus, off the rocks in the Bay of Fundy?  The
directors voted you three hundred guineas as salvage, and
you refused them."

"It was an offer which should not have been made,"
said the Admiral sternly.

"Well, it reflects credit upon you that you should
think so.  If Mr. Henry were here I am sure that he would
arrange this matter for you at once.  As it is, I shall
lay it before the directors to-day, and I am sure that
they will be proud to have you in our employment, and, I
hope, in some more suitable position than that which you
suggest."

"I am very much obliged to you, sir," said the
Admiral, and started off again, well pleased, upon his
homeward journey.




CHAPTER XV.


STILL AMONG SHOALS.


Next day brought the Admiral a cheque for L5,000 from
Mr. McAdam, and a stamped agreement by which he made over
his pension papers to the speculative investor.  It
was not until he had signed and sent it off that the full
significance of all that he had done broke upon him.  He
had sacrificed everything.  His pension was gone.  He had
nothing save only what he could earn.  But the stout old
heart never quailed.  He waited eagerly for a letter from
the Saint Lawrence Shipping Company, and in the meanwhile
he gave his landlord a quarter's notice.  Hundred pound
a year houses would in future be a luxury which he could
not aspire to.  A small lodging in some inexpensive part
of London must be the substitute for his breezy Norwood
villa.  So be it, then!  Better that a thousand fold than
that his name should be associated with failure and
disgrace.

On that morning Harold Denver was to meet the
creditors of the firm, and to explain the situation to
them.  It was a hateful task, a degrading task, but he
set himself to do it with quiet resolution.  At home they
waited in intense anxiety to learn the result of the
meeting.  It was late before he returned,
haggard pale, like a man who has done and suffered much.

"What's this board in front of the house? he asked.

"We are going to try a little change of scene," said
the Admiral.  "This place is neither town nor
country.  But never mind that, boy.  Tell us what
happened in the City."

"God help me!  My wretched business driving you out
of house and home!" cried Harold, broken down by this
fresh evidence of the effects of his misfortunes.  "It is
easier for me to meet my creditors than to see you two
suffering so patiently for my sake."

"Tut, tut!" cried the Admiral.  "There's no suffering
in the matter.  Mother would rather be near the theaters. 
That's at the bottom of it, isn't it, mother?  You come
and sit down here between us and tell us all about it."

Harold sat down with a loving hand in each of his.

"It's not so bad as we thought," said he, "and yet it
is bad enough. I have about ten days to find the money,
but I don't know which way to turn for it.  Pearson,
however, lied, as usual, when he spoke of L13,000.  The
amount is not quite L7,000."

The Admiral claped his hands.  "I knew we should
weather it after all!  Hurrah my boy!  Hip, hip, hip,
hurrah!"

Harold gazed at him in surprise, while the old seaman
waved his arm above his head and bellowed out three
stentorian cheers.  "Where am I to get seven thousand
pounds from, dad?" he asked.

"Never mind.  You spin your yarn."

"Well, they were very good and very kind, but of
course they must have either their money or their money's
worth.  They passed a vote of sympathy with me, and
agreed to wait ten days before they took any proceedings. 
Three of them, whose claim came to L3,500, told me that
if I would give them my personal I.O.U., and pay interest
at the rate of five per cent, their amounts might stand
over as long as I wished.  That would be a charge of L175
upon my income, but with economy I could meet it, and it
diminishes the debt by one-half."

Again the Admiral burst out cheering.

"There remains, therefore, about L3,200 which has to
be found within ten days.  No man shall lose by me.  I
gave them my word in the room that if I worked my soul
out of my body every one of them should be paid.  I shall
not spend a penny upon myself until it is done.  But some
of them can't wait.  They are poor men themselves, and
must have their money.  They have issued a warrant for
Pearson's arrest.  But they think that he has got away
the States."

"These men shall have their money," said the
Admiral.

"Dad!"

"Yes, my boy, you don't know the resources of the
family.  One never does know until one tries.  What have
you yourself now?"

"I have about a thousand pounds invested."

"All right.  And I have about as much more.  There's
a good start.  Now, mother, it is your turn.  What is
that little bit of paper of yours?"

Mrs. Denver unfolded it, and placed it upon Harold's
knee.

"Five thousand pounds!" he gasped.

"Ah, but mother is not the only rich one.  Look at
this!"  And the Admiral unfolded his cheque, and placed
it upon the other knee.

Harold gazed from one to the other in bewilderment. 
"Ten thousand pounds!" he cried.  "Good heavens! where
did these come from?"

"You will not worry any longer, dear," murmured his
mother, slipping her arm round him.

But his quick eye had caught the signature upon one
of the cheques.  "Doctor Walker!" he cried, flushing. 
"This is Clara's doing.  Oh, dad, we cannot take this
money.  It would not be right nor honorable."

"No, boy, I am glad you think so.  It is something,
however, to have proved one's friend, for a real good
friend he is.  It was he who brought it in, though
Clara sent him.  But this other money will be enough to
cover everything, and it is all my own."

"Your own?  Where did you get it, dad?"

"Tut, tut!  See what it is to have a City man to deal
with.  It is my own, and fairly earned, and that is
enough."

"Dear old dad!"  Harold squeezed his gnarled hand. 
"And you, mother!  You have lifted the trouble from my
heart.  I feel another man.  You have saved my honor, my
good name, everything.  I cannot owe you more, for I owe
you everything already."

So while the autumn sunset shone ruddily through the
broad window these three sat together hand in hand, with
hearts which were too full to speak.  Suddenly the soft
thudding of tennis balls was heard, and Mrs. Westmacott
bounded into view upon the lawn with brandished racket
and short skirts fluttering in the breeze.  The sight
came as a relief to their strained nerves, and they burst
all three into a hearty fit of laughter.

"She is playing with her nephew," said Harold at
last.  "The Walkers have not come out yet.  I think that
it would be well if you were to give me that cheque,
mother, and I were to return it in person."

"Certainly, Harold.  I think it would be very nice.

He went in through the garden.  Clara and the Doctor
were sitting together in the dining-room.  She sprang to
her feet at the sight of him.

"Oh, Harold, I have been waiting for you so
impatiently," she cried; "I saw you pass the front
windows half an hour ago.  I would have come in if I
dared.  Do tell us what has happened."

"I have come in to thank you both.  How can I repay
you for your kindness?  Here is your cheque, Doctor.  I
have not needed it.  I find that I can lay my hands on
enough to pay my creditors."

"Thank God!" said Clara fervently.

"The sum is less than I thought, and our resources
considerably more.  We have been able to do it with
ease."

"With ease!"  The Doctor's brow clouded and his
manner grew cold.  "I think, Harold, that you would do
better to take this money of mine, than to use that which
seems to you to be gained with ease."

"Thank you, sir.  If I borrowed from any one it would
be from you.  But my father has this very sum, five
thousand pounds, and, as I tell him, I owe him so much
that I have no compunction about owing him more."

"No compunction!  Surely there are some sacrifices
which a son should not allow his parents to make."

"Sacrifices!  What do you mean?"

"Is it possible that you do not know how this money
has been obtained?"

"I give you my word, Doctor Walker, that I have no
idea.  I asked my father, but he refused to tell me."

"I thought not," said the Doctor, the gloom clearing
from his brow.  "I was sure that you were not a man who,
to clear yourself from a little money difficulty, would
sacrifice the happiness of your mother and the health of
your father."

"Good gracious! what do you mean?"

"It is only right that you should know.  That money
represents the commutation of your father's pension.  He
has reduced himself to poverty, and intends to go to sea
again to earn a living."

"To sea again!  Impossible!"

"It is the truth.  Charles Westmacott has told Ida. 
He was with him in the City when he took his poor pension
about from dealer to dealer trying to sell it.  He
succeeded at last, and hence the money."

"He has sold his pension!" cried Harold, with his
hands to his face.  "My dear old dad has sold his
pension!"  He rushed from the room, and burst wildly into
the presence of his parents once more.  "I cannot take
it, father," he cried.  "Better bankruptcy than that. 
Oh, if I had only known your plan!  We must have
back the pension.  Oh, mother, mother, how could you
think me capable of such selfishness?  Give me the
cheque, dad, and I will see this man to-night, for I
would sooner die like a dog in the ditch than touch a
penny of this money."



----


CHAPTER XVI.


A MIDNIGHT VISITOR.


Now all this time, while the tragi-comedy of life was
being played in these three suburban villas, while on a
commonplace stage love and humor and fears and lights and
shadows were so swiftly succeeding each other, and while
these three families, drifted together by fate, were
shaping each other's destinies and working out in their
own fashion the strange, intricate ends of human life,
there were human eyes which watched over every stage of
the performance, and which were keenly critical of every
actor on it.  Across the road beyond the green palings
and the close-cropped lawn, behind the curtains of their
creeper-framed windows, sat the two old ladies, Miss
Bertha and Miss Monica Williams, looking out as from a
private box at all that was being enacted before
them.  The growing friendship of the three families, the
engagement of Harold Denver with Clara Walker, the
engagement of Charles Westmacott with her sister, the
dangerous fascination which the widow exercised over the
Doctor, the preposterous behavior of the Walker girls and
the unhappiness which they had caused their father, not
one of these incidents escaped the notice of the two
maiden ladies.  Bertha the younger had a smile or a sigh
for the lovers, Monica the elder a frown or a shrug for
the elders.  Every night they talked over what they had
seen, and their own dull, uneventful life took a warmth
and a coloring from their neighbors as a blank wall
reflects a beacon fire.

And now it was destined that they should experience
the one keen sensation of their later years, the one
memorable incident from which all future incidents should
be dated.

It was on the very night which succeeded the events
which have just been narrated, when suddenly into Monica
William's head, as she tossed upon her sleepless bed,
there shot a thought which made her sit up with a thrill
and a gasp.

"Bertha," said she, plucking at the shoulder of her
sister, "I have left the front window open."

"No, Monica, surely not."  Bertha sat up also, and
thrilled in sympathy.

"I am sure of it.  You remember I had forgotten to
water the pots, and then I opened the window, and Jane
called me about the jam, and I have never been in the
room since."

"Good gracious, Monica, it is a mercy that we have
not been murdered in our beds.  There was a house broken
into at Forest Hill last week.  Shall we go down and shut
it?"

"I dare not go down alone, dear, but if you will come
with me.  Put on your slippers and dressing-gown.  We do
not need a candle.  Now, Bertha, we will go down
together."

Two little white patches moved vaguely through the
darkness, the stairs creaked, the door whined, and they
were at the front room window.  Monica closed it gently
down, and fastened the snib.

"What a beautiful moon!" said she, looking out.  "We
can see as clearly as if it were day.  How peaceful and
quiet the three houses are over yonder!  It seems quite
sad to see that `To Let' card upon number one.  I wonder
how number two will like their going.  For my part I
could better spare that dreadful woman at number three
with her short skirts and her snake.  But, oh, Bertha,
look! look!! look!!!"  Her voice had fallen suddenly to
a quivering whisper and she was pointing to the
Westmacotts' house.  Her sister gave a gasp of horror,
and stood with a clutch at Monica's arm, staring in the
same direction.

There was a light in the front room, a slight,
wavering light such as would be given by a small candle
or taper.  The blind was down, but the light shone dimly
through.  Outside in the garden, with his figure outlined
against the luminous square, there stood a man, his back
to the road, his two hands upon the window ledge, and his
body rather bent as though he were trying to peep in past
the blind.  So absolutely still and motionless was he
that in spite of the moon they might well have overlooked
him were it not for that tell-tale light behind.

"Good heaven!" gasped Bertha, "it is a burglar."

But her sister set her mouth grimly and shook her
head.  "We shall see," she whispered.  "It may be
something worse."

Swiftly and furtively the man stood suddenly erect,
and began to push the window slowly up.  Then he put one
knee upon the sash, glanced round to see that all was
safe, and climbed over into the room.  As he did so he
had to push the blind aside.  Then the two spectators saw
where the light came from.  Mrs. Westmacott was standing,
as rigid as a statue, in the center of the room, with a
lighted taper in her right hand.  For an instant they
caught a glimpse of her stern face and her white collar. 
Then the blind fell back into position, and the two
figures disappeared from their view.

"Oh, that dreadful woman!" cried Monica.  "That
dreadful, dreadful woman!  She was waiting for him.  You
saw it with your own eyes, sister Bertha!"

"Hush, dear, hush and listen!" said her more
charitable companion.  They pushed their own window up
once more, and watched from behind the curtains.

For a long time all was silent within the house.  The
light still stood motionless as though Mrs. Westmacott
remained rigidly in the one position, while from time to
time a shadow passed in front of it to show that her
midnight visitor was pacing up and down in front of her. 
Once they saw his outline clearly, with his hands
outstretched as if in appeal or entreaty.  Then suddenly
there was a dull sound, a cry, the noise of a fall, the
taper was extinguished, and a dark figure fled in the
moonlight, rushed across the garden, and vanished amid
the shrubs at the farther side.

Then only did the two old ladies understand that they
had looked on whilst a tragedy had been enacted.  "Help!"
they cried, and "Help!" in their high, thin voices,
timidly at first, but gathering volume as they went on,
until the Wilderness rang with their shrieks.  Lights
shone in all the windows opposite, chains rattled,
bars were unshot, doors opened, and out rushed friends to
the rescue.  Harold, with a stick; the Admiral, with his
sword, his grey head and bare feet protruding from either
end of a long brown ulster; finally, Doctor Walker, with
a poker, all ran to the help of the Westmacotts.  Their
door had been already opened, and they crowded
tumultuously into the front room.

Charles Westmacott, white to his lips, was kneeling
an the floor, supporting his aunt's head upon his knee. 
She lay outstretched, dressed in her ordinary clothes,
the extinguished taper still grasped in her hand, no mark
or wound upon her--pale, placid, and senseless.

"Thank God you are come, Doctor," said Charles,
looking up.  "Do tell me how she is, and what I should
do."

Doctor Walker kneeled beside her, and passed his left
hand over her head, while he grasped her pulse with the
right.

"She has had a terrible blow," said he.  "It must
have been with some blunt weapon.  Here is the place
behind the ear.  But she is a woman of extraordinary
physical powers.  Her pulse is full and slow.  There is
no stertor.  It is my belief that she is merely stunned,
and that she is in no danger at all."

"Thank God for that!"

"We must get her to bed.  We shall carry her
upstairs, and then I shall send my girls in to her.  But
who has done this?"

"Some robber" said Charles.  "You see that the window
is open.  She must have heard him and come down, for she
was always perfectly fearless.  I wish to goodness she
had called me.

"But she was dressed."

"Sometimes she sits up very late."

"I did sit up very late," said a voice.  She had
opened her eyes, and was blinking at them in the
lamplight.  "A villain came in through the window and
struck me with a life-preserver.  You can tell the police
so when they come.  Also that it was a little fat man. 
Now, Charles, give me your arm and I shall go upstairs."

But her spirit was greater than her strength, for, as
she staggered to her feet, her head swam round, and she
would have fallen again had her nephew not thrown his
arms round her.  They carried her upstairs among them and
laid her upon the bed, where the Doctor watched beside
her, while Charles went off to the police-station, and
the Denvers mounted guard over the frightened maids.




CHAPTER XVII.


IN PORT AT LAST.


Day had broken before the several denizens of the
Wilderness had all returned to their homes, the police
finished their inquiries, and all come back to its normal
quiet.  Mrs. Westmacott had been left sleeping peacefully
with a small chloral draught to steady her nerves and a
handkerchief soaked in arnica bound round her head.  It
was with some surprise, therefore, that the Admiral
received a note from her about ten o'clock, asking him to
be good enough to step in to her.  He hurried in, fearing
that she might have taken some turn for the worse, but he
was reassured to find her sitting up in her bed, with
Clara and Ida Walker in attendance upon her.  She had
removed the handkerchief, and had put on a little cap
with pink ribbons, and a maroon dressing-jacket, daintily
fulled at the neck and sleeves.

"My dear friend," said she as he entered, "I wish to
make a last few remarks to you.  No, no," she continued,
laughing, as she saw a look of dismay upon his face.  "I
shall not dream of dying for at least another thirty
years.  A woman should be ashamed to die before she is
seventy.  I wish, Clara, that you would ask
your father to step up.  And you, Ida, just pass me
my cigarettes, and open me a bottle of stout."

"Now then," she continued, as the doctor joined their
party.  "I don't quite know what I ought to say to you,
Admiral.  You want some very plain speaking to."

"'Pon my word, ma'am, I don't know what you are
talking about."

"The idea of you at your age talking of going to sea,
and leaving that dear, patient little wife of yours at
home, who has seen nothing of you all her life!  It's all
very well for you.  You have the life, and the change,
and the excitement, but you don't think of her eating her
heart out in a dreary London lodging.  You men are all
the same."

"Well, ma'am, since you know so much, you probably
know also that I have sold my pension.  How am I to live
if I do not turn my hand to work?"

Mrs. Westmacott produced a large registered envelope
from beneath the sheets and tossed it over to the old
seaman.

"That excuse won't do.  There are your pension
papers.  Just see if they are right."

He broke the seal, and out tumbled the very papers
which he had made over to McAdam two days before.

"But what am I to do with these now?" he cried in
bewilderment.

"You will put them in a safe place, or get a friend
to do so, and, if you do your duty, you will go to your
wife and beg her pardon for having even for an instant
thought of leaving her."

The Admiral passed his hand over his rugged forehead. 
"This is very good of you, ma'am" said he, "very good and
kind, and I know that you are a staunch friend, but for
all that these papers mean money, and though we may have
been in broken water lately, we are not quite in such
straits as to have to signal to our friends.  When we do,
ma'am, there's no one we would look to sooner than to
you."

"Don't be ridiculous!" said the widow.  "You know
nothing whatever about it, and yet you stand there laying
down the law.  I'll have my way in the matter, and you
shall take the papers, for it is no favor that I am doing
you, but simply a restoration of stolen property."

"How that, ma'am?"

"I am just going to explain, though you might take a
lady's word for it without asking any questions.  Now,
what I am going to say is just between you four, and must
go no farther.  I have my own reasons for wishing to keep
it from the police.  Who do you think it was who struck
me last night, Admiral?"

"Some villain, ma'am.  I don't know his name."

"But I do.  It was the same man who ruined or tried
to ruin your son.  It was my only brother, Jeremiah."

"Ah!"

"I will tell you about him--or a little about him,
for he has done much which I would not care to talk of,
nor you to listen to.  He was always a villain,
smooth-spoken and plausible, but a dangerous, subtle
villain all the same.  If I have some hard thoughts about
mankind I can trace them back to the childhood which I
spent with my brother.  He is my only living relative,
for my other brother, Charles's father, was killed in the
Indian mutiny.

"Our father was rich, and when he died he made a good
provision both for Jeremiah and for me.  He knew Jeremiah
and he mistrusted him, however; so instead of giving him
all that he meant him to have he handed me over a part of
it, telling me, with what was almost his dying breath, to
hold it in trust for my brother, and to use it in his
behalf when he should have squandered or lost all that he
had.  This arrangement was meant to be a secret between
my father and myself, but unfortunately his words were
overheard by the nurse, and she repeated them afterwards
to my brother, so that he came to know that I held some
money in trust for him.  I suppose tobacco will not harm
my head, Doctor?  Thank you, then I shall trouble
you for the matches, Ida."  She lit a cigarette, and
leaned back upon the pillow, with the blue wreaths
curling from her lips.

"I cannot tell you how often he has attempted to get
that money from me.  He has bullied, cajoled, threatened,
coaxed, done all that a man could do.  I still held it
with the presentiment that a need for it would come. 
When I heard of this villainous business, his flight, and
his leaving his partner to face the storm, above all that
my old friend had been driven to surrender his income in
order to make up for my brother's defalcations, I felt
that now indeed I had a need for it.  I sent in Charles
yesterday to Mr. McAdam, and his client, upon hearing the
facts of the case, very graciously consented to give back
the papers, and to take the money which he had advanced. 
Not a word of thanks to me, Admiral.  I tell you that it
was very cheap benevolence, for it was all done with his
own money, and how could I use it better?

"I thought that I should probably hear from him soon,
and I did.  Last evening there was handed in a note of
the usual whining, cringing tone.  He had come back from
abroad at the risk of his life and liberty, just in order
that he might say good-bye to the only sister he ever
had, and to entreat my forgiveness for any pain
which he had caused me.  He would never trouble me again,
and he begged only that I would hand over to him the sum
which I held in trust for him.  That, with what he had
already, would be enough to start him as an honest man in
the new world, when he would ever remember and pray for
the dear sister who had been his savior.  That was the
style of the letter, and it ended by imploring me to
leave the window-latch open, and to be in the front room
at three in the morning, when he would come to receive my
last kiss and to bid me farewell.

"Bad as he was, I could not, when he trusted me,
betray him.  I said nothing, but I was there at the hour. 
He entered through the window, and implored me to give
him the money.  He was terribly changed; gaunt, wolfish,
and spoke like a madman.  I told him that I had spent the
money.  He gnashed his teeth at me, and swore it was his
money.  I told him that I had spent it on him.  He asked
me how.  I said in trying to make him an honest man, and
in repairing the results of his villainy.  He shrieked
out a curse, and pulling something out of the breast of
his coat--a loaded stick, I think--he struck me with it,
and I remembered nothing more."

"The blackguard!" cried the Doctor, "but the police
must be hot upon his track."

"I fancy not," Mrs. Westmacott answered calmly.  "As
my brother is a particularly tall, thin man, and as the
police are looking for a short, fat one, I do not think
that it is very probable that they will catch him.  It is
best, I think, that these little family matters should be
adjusted in private."

"My dear ma'am," said the Admiral, "if it is indeed
this man's money that has bought back my pension, then I
can have no scruples about taking it.  You have brought
sunshine upon us, ma'am, when the clouds were at their
darkest, for here is my boy who insists upon returning
the money which I got.  He can keep it now to pay his
debts.  For what you have done I can only ask God to
bless you, ma'am, and as to thanking you I can't even----"

"Then pray don't try," said the widow.  "Now run
away, Admiral, and make your peace with Mrs. Denver.  I
am sure if I were she it would be a long time before I
should forgive you.  As for me, I am going to America
when Charles goes.  You'll take me so far, won't you,
Ida?  There is a college being built in Denver which is
to equip the woman of the future for the struggle of
life, and especially for her battle against man.  Some
months ago the committee offered me a responsible
situation upon the staff, and I have decided now to
accept it, for Charles's marriage removes the last tie
which binds me to England.  You will write to me
sometimes, my friends, and you will address your letters
to Professor Westmacott, Emancipation College, Denver. 
From there I shall watch how the glorious struggle goes
in conservative old England, and if I am needed you will
find me here again fighting in the forefront of the fray. 
Good-bye--but not you, girls; I have still a word I wish
to say to you.

"Give me your hand, Ida, and yours, Clara," said she
when they were alone.  "Oh, you naughty little pusses,
aren't you ashamed to look me in the face?  Did you
think--did you really think that I was so very blind, and
could not see your little plot?  You did it very well, I
must say that, and really I think that I like you better
as you are.  But you had all your pains for nothing, you
little conspirators, for I give you my word that I had
quite made up my mind not to have him."

And so within a few weeks our little ladies from
their observatory saw a mighty bustle in the Wilderness,
when two-horse carriages came, and coachmen with favors,
to bear away the twos who were destined to come back one. 
And they themselves in their crackling silk dresses went
across, as invited, to the big double wedding breakfast
which was held in the house of Doctor Walker.  Then there
was health-drinking, and laughter, and changing of
dresses, and rice-throwing when the carriages drove
up again, and two more couples started on that journey
which ends only with life itself.

Charles Westmacott is now a flourishing ranchman in
the western part of Texas, where he and his sweet little
wife are the two most popular persons in all that county. 
Of their aunt they see little, but from time to time they
see notices in the papers that there is a focus of light
in Denver, where mighty thunderbolts are being forged
which will one day bring the dominant sex upon their
knees.  The Admiral and his wife still live at number
one, while Harold and Clara have taken number two, where
Doctor Walker continues to reside.  As to the business,
it had been reconstructed, and the energy and ability of
the junior partner had soon made up for all the ill that
had been done by his senior.  Yet with his sweet and
refined home atmosphere he is able to realize his wish,
and to keep himself free from the sordid aims and base
ambitions which drag down the man whose business lies too
exclusively in the money market of the vast Babylon.  As
he goes back every evening from the crowds of Throgmorton
Street to the tree-lined peaceful avenues of Norwood, so
he has found it possible in spirit also to do one's
duties amidst the babel of the City, and yet to live
beyond it.





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Title: A Duet

Author: A. Conan Doyle

Release Date: March, 2004  [EBook #5260]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on June 18, 2002]
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, A DUET ***




Transcribed from the 1899 Grant Richards edition by David Price,
email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk





A DUET
WITH AN OCCASIONAL CHORUS




TO MRS. MAUDE CROSSE



Dear Maude,--All the little two-oared boats which put out into the
great ocean have need of some chart which will show them how to lay
their course.  Each starts full of happiness and confidence, and yet
we know how many founder, for it is no easy voyage, and there are
rocks and sandbanks upon the way.  So I give a few pages of your own
private log, which tell of days of peace, and days of storm--such
storms as seem very petty from the deck of a high ship, but are
serious for the two-oared boats.  If your peace should help another
to peace, or your storm console another who is storm-tossed, then I
know that you will feel repaid for this intrusion upon your privacy.
May all your voyage be like the outset, and when at last the oars
fall from your hands, and those of Frank, may other loving ones be
ready to take their turn of toil--and so, bon voyage!

Ever your friend,
THE AUTHOR.
Jan. 20, 1899.




CHAPTER I--THE OVERTURE--ABOUT THAT DATE



These are the beginnings of some of the letters which they wrote
about that time.

Woking, May 20th.

My Dearest Maude,--You know that your mother suggested, and we
agreed, that we should be married about the beginning of September.
Don't you think that we might say the 3rd of August?  It is a
Wednesday, and in every sense suitable.  Do try to change the date,
for it would in many ways be preferable to the other.  I shall be
eager to hear from you about it.  And now, dearest Maude . . . (The
rest is irrelevant.)

St. Albans, May 22nd.

My Dearest Frank,--Mother sees no objection to the 3rd of August, and
I am ready to do anything which will please you and her.  Of course
there are the guests to be considered, and the dressmakers and other
arrangements, but I have no doubt that we shall be able to change the
date all right.  O Frank . . . (What follows is beside the point.)

Woking, May 25th.

My Dearest Maude,--I have been thinking over that change of date, and
I see one objection which had not occurred to me when I suggested it.
August the 1st is Bank holiday, and travelling is not very pleasant
about that time.  My idea now is that we should bring it off before
that date.  Fancy, for example, how unpleasant it would be for your
Uncle Joseph if he had to travel all the way from Edinburgh with a
Bank-holiday crowd.  It would be selfish of us if we did not fit in
our plans so as to save our relatives from inconvenience.  I think
therefore, taking everything into consideration, that the 20th of
July, a Wednesday, would be the very best day that we could select.
I do hope that you will strain every nerve, my darling, to get your
mother to consent to this change.  When I think . . . (A digression
follows.)

St. Albans, May 27th.

My Dearest Frank,--I think that what you say about the date is very
reasonable, and it is so sweet and unselfish of you to think about
Uncle Joseph.  Of course it would be very unpleasant for him to have
to travel at such a time, and we must strain every nerve to prevent
it.  There is only one serious objection which my mother can see.
Uncle Percival (that is my mother's second brother) comes back from
Rangoon about the end of July, and will miss the wedding (O Frank,
think of its being OUR wedding!) unless we delay it.  He has always
been very fond of me, and he might be hurt if we were married so
immediately before his arrival.  Don't you think it would be as well
to wait?  Mother leaves it all in your hands, and we shall do exactly
as you advise.  O Frank . . . (The rest is confidential.)

Woking, May 29th.

My Own Dearest,--I think that it would be unreasonable upon the part
of your Uncle Percival to think that we ought to have changed the
date of a matter so important to ourselves, simply in order that he
should be present.  I am sure that on second thoughts your mother and
yourself will see the thing in this light.  I must say, however, that
in one point I think you both show great judgment.  It would
certainly be invidious to be married IMMEDIATELY before his arrival.
I really think that he would have some cause for complaint if we did
that.  To prevent any chance of hurting his feelings, I think that it
would be far best, if your mother and you agree with me, that we
should be married upon July 7th.  I see that it is a Thursday, and in
every way suitable.  When I read your last letter . . . (The
remainder is unimportant.)

St. Albans, June 1st.

Dearest Frank,--I am sure that you are right in thinking that it
would be as well not to have the ceremony too near the date of Uncle
Percival's arrival in England.  We should be so sorry to hurt his
feelings in any way.  Mother has been down to Madame Mortimer's about
the dresses, and she thinks that everything could be hurried up so as
to be ready by July 7th.  She is so obliging, and her skirts DO hang
so beautifully.  O Frank, it is only a few weeks' time, and then . .
.

Woking, June 3rd.

My Own Darling Maude,--How good you are--and your mother also--in
falling in with my suggestions!  Please, please don't bother your
dear self about dresses.  You only want the one travelling-dress to
be married in, and the rest we can pick up as we go.  I am sure that
white dress with the black stripe--the one you were playing tennis
with at the Arlingtons'--would do splendidly.  You looked simply
splendid that day.  I am inclined to think that it is my favourite of
all your dresses, with the exception of the dark one with the light-
green front.  That shows off your figure so splendidly.  I am very
fond also of the grey Quaker-like alpaca dress.  What a little dove
you do look in it!  I think those dresses, and of course your satin
evening-dress, are my favourites.  On second thoughts, they are the
only dresses I have ever seen you in.  But I like the grey best,
because you wore it the first time I ever--you remember!  You must
NEVER get rid of those dresses.  They are too full of associations.
I want to see you in them for years, and years, and years.

What I wanted to say was that you have so many charming dresses, that
we may consider ourselves independent of Madame Mortimer.  If her
things should be late, they will come in very usefully afterwards.  I
don't want to be selfish or inconsiderate, my own dearest girlie, but
it would be rather too much if we allowed my tailor or your
dressmaker to be obstacles to our union.  I just want you--your
dainty little self--if you had only your 'wee coatie,' as Burns says.
Now look here!  I want you to bring your influence to bear upon your
mother, and so make a small change in our plans.  The earlier we can
have our honeymoon, the more pleasant the hotels will be.  I do want
your first experiences with me to be without a shadow of discomfort.
In July half the world starts for its holiday.  If we could get away
at the end of this mouth, we should just be ahead of them.  This
month, this very month!  Oh, do try to manage this, my own dearest
girl.  The 30th of June is a Tuesday, and in every way suitable.
They could spare me from the office most excellently.  This would
just give us time to have the banns three times, beginning with next
Sunday.  I leave it in your hands, dear.  Do try to work it.


St. Albans, June 4th.

My Dearest Frank,--We nearly called in the doctor after your dear old
preposterous letter.  My mother gasped upon the sofa while I read her
some extracts.  That I, the daughter of the house, should be married
in my old black and white tennis-dress, which I wore at the
Arlingtons' to save my nice one!  Oh, you are simply splendid
sometimes!  And the learned way in which you alluded to my alpaca.
As a matter of fact, it's a merino, but that doesn't matter.  Fancy
your remembering my wardrobe like that!  And wanting me to wear them
all for years!  So I shall, dear, secretly, when we are quite quite
alone.  But they are all out of date already, and if in a year or so
you saw your poor dowdy wife with tight sleeves among a roomful of
puff-shouldered young ladies, you would not be consoled even by the
memory that it was in that dress that you first . . . you know!

As a matter of fact, I MUST have my dress to be married in.  I don't
think mother would regard it as a legal marriage if I hadn't, and if
you knew how nice it will be, you would not have the heart to
interfere with it.  Try to picture it, silver-grey--I know how fond
you are of greys--a little white chiffon at neck and wrists, and the
prettiest pearl trimming.  Then the hat en suite, pale-grey lisse,
white feather and brilliant buckle.  All these details are wasted
upon you, sir, but you will like it when you see it.  It fulfils your
ideal of tasteful simplicity, which men always imagine to be an
economical method of dressing, until they have wives and milliners'
bills of their own.

And now I have kept the biggest news to the last.  Mother has been to
Madame, and she says that if she works all night, she will have
everything ready for the 30th.  O Frank, does it not seem incredible!
Next Tuesday three weeks.  And the banns!  Oh my goodness, I am
frightened when I think about it!  Dear old boy, you won't tire of
me, will you?  Whatever should I do if I thought you had tired of me!
And the worst of it is, that you don't know me a bit.  I have a
hundred thousand faults, and you arc blinded by your love and cannot
see them.  But then some day the scales will fall from your eyes, and
you will perceive the whole hundred thousand at once.  Oh, what a
reaction there will be!  You will see me as I am, frivolous, wilful,
idle, petulant, and altogether horrid.  But I do love you, Frank,
with all my heart, and soul, and mind, and strength, and you'll count
that on the other side, won't you?  Now I am so glad I have said all
this, because it is best that you should know what you should expect.
It will be nice for you to look back and to say, 'She gave me fair
warning, and she is no worse than she said.'  O Frank, think of the
30th.

P.S.--I forgot to say that I had a grey silk cape, lined with cream,
to go with the dress.  It is just sweet!

So that is how they arranged about the date.



CHAPTER II--THE OVERTURE CONTINUED--IN A MINOR KEY



Woking, June 7th.

My Own Dearest Maude,--How I wish you were here, for I have been
down, down, down, in the deepest state of despondency all day.  I
have longed to hear the sound of your voice, or to feel the touch of
your hand!  How can I be despondent, when in three weeks I shall be
the husband of the dearest girl in England?  That is what I ask
myself, and then the answer comes that it is just exactly on that
account that my wretched conscience is gnawing at me.  I feel that I
have not used you well; I owe you reparation, and I don't know what
to do.

In your last dear letter you talk about being frivolous.  YOU have
never been frivolous.  But I have been frivolous--for ever since I
have learned to love you, I have been so wrapped up in my love, with
my happiness gilding everything about me, that I have never really
faced the prosaic facts of life or discussed with you what our
marriage will really necessitate.  And now, at this eleventh hour, I
realise that I have led you on in ignorance to an act which will
perhaps take a great deal of the sunshine out of your life.  What
have I to offer you in exchange for the sacrifice which you will make
for me?  Myself, my love, and all that I have--but how little it all
amounts to!  You are a girl in a thousand, in ten thousand--bright,
beautiful, sweet, the dearest lady in all the land.  And I an average
man--or perhaps hardly that--with little to boast of in the past, and
vague ambitions for the future.  It is a poor bargain for you, a most
miserable bargain.  You have still time.  Count the cost, and if it
be too great, then draw back even now without fear of one word or
inmost thought of reproach from me.  Your whole life is at stake.
How can I hold you to a decision which was taken before you realised
what it meant?  Now I shall place the facts before you, and then,
come what may, my conscience will be at rest, and I shall be sure
that you are acting with your eyes open.

You have to compare your life as it is, and as it will be.  Your
father is rich, or at least comfortably off, and you have been
accustomed all your life to have whatever you desired.  From what I
know of your mother's kindness, I should imagine that no wish of
yours has ever remained ungratified.  You have lived well, dressed
well, a sweet home, a lovely garden, your collie, your canary, your
maid.  Above all, you have never had anxiety, never had to worry
about the morrow.  I can see all your past life so well.  In the
mornings, your music, your singing, your gardening, your reading.  In
the afternoons, your social duties, the visit and the visitor.  In
the evening, tennis, a walk, music again, your father's return from
the City, the happy family-circle, with occasionally the dinner, the
dance, and the theatre.  And so smoothly on, month after month, and
year after year, your own sweet, kindly, joyous nature, and your
bright face, making every one round you happy, and so reacting upon
your own happiness.  Why should you bother about money?  That was
your father's business.  Why should you trouble about housekeeping?
That was your mother's duty.  You lived like the birds and the
flowers, and had no need to take heed for the future.  Everything
which life could offer was yours.

And now you must turn to what is in store for you, if you are still
content to face the future with me.  Position I have none to offer.
What is the exact position of the wife of the assistant-accountant of
the Co-operative Insurance Office?  It is indefinable.  What are my
prospects?  I may become head-accountant.  If Dinton died--and I hope
he won't, for he is an excellent fellow--I should probably get his
berth.  Beyond that I have no career.  I have some aspirations after
literature--a few critical articles in the monthlies--but I don't
suppose they will ever lead to anything of consequence.

And my income, 400 pounds a year with a commission on business I
introduce.  But that amounts to hardly anything.  You have 50 pounds.
Our total, then, is certainly under 500 pounds.  Have you considered
what it will mean to leave that charming house at St. Albans--the
breakfast-room, the billiard-room, the lawn--and to live in the
little 50 pounds a year house at Woking, with its two sitting-rooms
and pokey garden?  Have I a right to ask you to do such a thing?  And
then the housekeeping, the planning, the arranging, the curtailing,
the keeping up appearances upon a limited income.  I have made myself
miserable, because I feel that you are marrying me without a
suspicion of the long weary uphill struggle which lies before you.  O
Maude, my darling Maude, I feel that you sacrifice too much for me!
If I were a man I should say to you, 'Forget me--forget it all!  Let
our relations be a closed chapter in your life.  You can do better.
I and my cares come like a great cloud-bank to keep the sunshine from
your young life.  You who are so tender and dainty!  How can I bear
to see you exposed to the drudgery and sordid everlasting cares of
such a household!  I think of your graces, your pretty little ways,
the elegancies of your life, and how charmingly you carry them off.
You are born and bred for just such an atmosphere as the one which
you breathe.  And I take advantage of my good-fortune in winning your
love to drag you down, to take the beauty and charm from your life,
to fill it with small and vulgar cares, never-ending and soul-
killing.  Selfish beast that I am, why should I allow you to come
down into the stress and worry of life, when I found you so high
above it?  And what can I offer you in exchange?'  These are the
thoughts which come back and back all day, and leave me in the
blackest fit of despondency.  I confessed to you that I had dark
humours, but never one so hopeless as this.  I do not wish my worst
enemy to be as unhappy as I have been to-day.

Write to me, my own darling Maude, and tell me all you think, your
very inmost soul, in this matter.  Am I right?  Have I asked too much
of you?  Does the change frighten you?  You will have this in the
morning, and I should have my answer by the evening post.  I shall
meet the postman.  How hard I shall try not to snatch the letter from
him, or to give myself away.  Wilson has been in worrying me with
foolish talk, while my thoughts were all of our affairs.  He worked
me up into a perfectly homicidal frame of mind, but I hope that I
kept on smiling and was not discourteous to him.  I wonder which is
right, to be polite but hypocritical, or to be inhospitable but
honest.

Good-bye, my own dearest sweetheart--all the dearer when I feel that
I may lose you.--Ever your devoted

FRANK.

St. Albans, June 8th.

Frank, tell me for Heaven's sake what your letter means!  You use
words of love, and yet you talk of parting.  You speak as if our love
were a thing which we might change or suppress.  O Frank, you cannot
take my love away from me.  You don't know what you are to me, my
heart, my life, my all.  I would give my life for you willingly,
gladly--every beat of my heart is for you.  You don't know what you
have become to me.  My every thought is yours, and has been ever
since that night at the Arlingtons'.  My love is so deep and strong,
it rules my whole life, my every action from morning to night.  It is
the very breath and heart of my life--unchangeable.  I could not
alter my love any more than I could stop my heart from beating.  How
could you, could you suggest such a thing!  I know that you really
love me just as much as I love you, or I should not open my heart
like this.  I should be too proud to give myself away.  But I feel
that pride is out of place when any mistake or misunderstanding may
mean lifelong misery to both of us.  I would only say good-bye if I
thought your love had changed or grown less.  But I know that it has
not.  O my darling, if you only knew what terrible agony the very
thought of parting is, you would never have let such an idea even for
an instant, on any pretext, enter your mind.  The very possibility is
too awful to think of.  When I read your letter just now up in my
room, I nearly fainted.  I can't write.  O Frank, don't take my love
away from me.  I can't bear it.  Oh no, it is my everything.  If I
could only see you now, I know that you would kiss these heart-
burning tears away.  I feel so lonely and tired.  I cannot follow all
your letter.  I only know that you talked of parting, and that I am
weary and miserable.

MAUDE.

(COPY OF TELEGRAM)
From Frank Crosse, to Miss Maude Selby,
The Laurels, St. Albans
Coming up eight-fifteen, arrive midnight.

June 10th.

How good of you, dear old boy, to come racing across two counties at
a minute's notice, simply in order to console me and clear away my
misunderstandings.  Of course it was most ridiculous of me to take
your letter so much to heart, but when I read any suggestion about
our parting, it upset me so dreadfully, that I was really incapable
of reasoning about anything else.  Just that one word PART seemed to
be written in letters of fire right across the page, to the exclusion
of everything else.  So then I wrote an absurd letter to my boy, and
the dear came scampering right across the South of England, and
arrived at midnight in the most demoralised state.  It was just sweet
of you to come, dear, and I shall never forget it.

I am so sorry that I have been so foolish, but you must confess, sir,
that you have been just a little bit foolish also.  The idea of
supposing that when I love a man my love can be affected by the size
of his house or the amount of his income.  It makes me smile to think
of it.  Do you suppose a woman's happiness is affected by whether she
has a breakfast-room, or a billiard-board, or a collie dog, or any of
the other luxuries which you enumerated?  But these things are all
the merest trimmings of life.  They are not the essentials.  YOU and
your love are the essentials.  Some one who will love me with all his
heart.  Some one whom I can love with all my heart.  Oh the
difference it makes in life!  How it changes everything!  It
glorifies and beautifies everything.  I always felt that I was
capable of a great love--and now I have it.

Fancy your imagining that you had come into my life in order to
darken it.  Why, you ARE my life.  If you went out of it, what would
be left?  You talk about my happiness before I met you--but oh, how
empty it all was!  I read, and played, and sang as you say, but what
a void there was!  I did it to please mother, but there really seemed
no very clear reason why I should continue to do it.  Then you came,
and everything was changed.  I read because you are fond of reading
and because I wanted to talk about books with you.  I played because
you are fond of music.  I sang in the hope that it might please you.
Whatever I did, you were always in my mind.  I tried and tried to
become a better and nobler woman, because I wanted to be worthy of
the love you bore me.  I have changed, and developed, and improved
more in the last three months than in all my life before.  And then
you come and tell me that you have darkened my life.  You know better
now.  My life has become full and rich, for Love fills my life.  It
is the keynote of my nature, the foundation, the motive power.  It
inspires me to make the most of any gift or talent that I have.  How
could I tell you all this if I did not know that your own feeling was
as deep.  I could not have given the one, great, and only love of my
life in exchange for a half-hearted affection from you.  But you will
never again make the mistake of supposing that any material
consideration can affect our love.

And now we won't be serious any longer.  Dear mother was very much
astounded by your tumultuous midnight arrival, and equally
precipitate departure next morning.  Dear old boy, it was so nice of
you!  But you won't ever have horrid black humours and think
miserable things any more, will you?  But if you must have dark days,
now is your time, for I can't possibly permit any after the 30th.--
Ever your own

MAUDE.

Woking, June 11th.

My Own Dearest Girlie,--How perfectly sweet you are!  I read and re-
read your letter, and I understand more and more how infinitely your
nature is above mine.  And your conception of love--how lofty and
unselfish it is!  How could I lower it by thinking that any worldly
thing could be weighed for an instant against it!  And yet it was
just my jealous love for you, and my keenness that you should never
be the worse through me, which led me to write in that way, so I will
not blame myself too much.  I am really glad that the cloud came, for
the sunshine is so much brighter afterwards.  And I seem to know you
so much better, and to see so much more deeply into your nature.  I
knew that my own passion for you was the very essence of my soul--oh,
how hard it is to put the extreme of emotion into the terms of human
speech!--but I did not dare to hope that your feelings were as deep.
I hardly ventured to tell even you how I really felt.  Somehow, in
these days of lawn-tennis and afternoon tea, a strong strong passion,
such a passion as one reads of in books and poems, seems out of
place.  I thought that it would surprise, even frighten you, perhaps,
if I were to tell you all that I felt.  And now you have written me
two letters, which contain all that I should have said if I had
spoken from my heart.  It is all my own inmost thought, and there is
not a feeling that I do not share.  O Maude, I may write lightly and
speak lightly, perhaps, sometimes, but there never was a woman,
never, never in all the story of the world, who was loved more
passionately than you are loved by me.  Come what may, while the
world lasts and the breath of life is between my lips, you are the
one woman to me.  If we are together, I care nothing for what the
future may bring.  If we are not together, all the world cannot fill
the void.

You say that I have given an impulse to your life:  that you read
more, study more, take a keener interest in everything.  You could
not possibly have said a thing which could have given me more
pleasure than that.  It is splendid!  It justifies me in aspiring to
you.  It satisfies my conscience over everything which I have done.
It must be right if that is the effect.  I have felt so happy and
light-hearted ever since you said it.  It is rather absurd to think
that _I_ should improve you, but if you in your sweet frankness say
that it is so, why, I can only marvel and rejoice.

But you must not study and work too hard.  You say that you do it to
please me, but that would not please me.  I'll tell you an anecdote
as a dreadful example.  I had a friend who was a great lover of
Eastern literature, Sanskrit, and so on.  He loved a lady.  The lady
to please him worked hard at these subjects also.  In a month she had
shattered her nervous system, and will perhaps never be the same
again.  It was impossible.  She was not meant for it, and yet she
made herself a martyr over it.  I don't mean by this parable that it
will be a strain upon your intellect to keep up with mine.  But I do
mean that a woman's mind is DIFFERENT from a man's.  A dainty rapier
is a finer thing than a hatchet, but it is not adapted for cutting
down trees all the same.

Rupton Hale, the architect, one of the few friends I have down here,
has some most deplorable views about women.  I played a round of the
Byfleet Golf Links with him upon Wednesday afternoon, and we
discussed the question of women's intellects.  He would have it that
they have never a light of their own, but are always the reflectors
of some other light which you cannot see.  He would allow that they
were extraordinarily quick in assimilating another person's views,
but that was all.  I quoted some very shrewd remarks which a lady had
made to me at dinner.  'Those are the traces of the last man,' said
he.  According to his preposterous theory, you could in conversation
with a woman reconstruct the last man who had made an impression to
her.  'She will reflect you upon the next person she talks to,' said
he.  It was ungallant, but it was ingenious.

Dearest sweetheart, before I stop, let me tell you that if I have
brought any happiness into your life, you have brought far, far more
into mine.  My soul seemed to come into full being upon the day when
I loved you.  It was so small, and cramped, and selfish, before--and
life was so hard, and stupid, and purposeless.  To live, to sleep, to
eat, for some years, and then to die--it was so trivial and so
material.  But now the narrow walls seem in an instant to have
fallen, and a boundless horizon stretches around me.  And everything
appears beautiful.  London Bridge, King William Street, Abchurch
Lane, the narrow stair, the office with the almanacs and the shining
desks, it has all become glorified, tinged with a golden haze.  I am
stronger:  I step out briskly and breathe more deeply.  And I am a
better man too.  God knows there was room for it.  But I do try to
make an ideal, and to live up to it.  I feel such a fraud when I
think of being put upon a pedestal by you, when some little hole
where I am out of sight is my true place.  I am like the man in
Browning who mourned over the spots upon his 'speckled hide,' but
rejoiced in the swansdown of his lady.  And so, my own dear sweet
little swansdown lady, good-night to you, with my heart's love now
and for ever from your true lover,

FRANK.

Saturday!  Saturday!  Saturday! oh, how I am longing for Saturday,
when I shall see you again!  We will go on Sunday and hear the banns
together.



CHAPTER III--THE OVERTURE CONCLUDED



St. Albans, June 14th.

Dearest Frank,--What a dreadful thing it is to have your name shouted
out in public!  And what a voice the man had!  He simply bellowed
'Maude Selby of this parish' as if he meant all this parish to know
about it.  And then he let you off so easily.  I suppose he thought
that there was no local interest in Frank Crosse of Woking.  But when
he looked round expectantly, after asking whether there was any known
cause or just impediment why we should not be joined together, it
gave me quite a thrill.  I felt as if some one would jump up like a
Jack-in-the-box and make a scene in the church.  How relieved I was
when he changed the subject!  I sank my face in my hands, but I know
that I was blushing all down my neck.  Then I looked at you between
my fingers, and there you were sitting quite cool and cheerful, as if
you rather liked it.  I think that we shall go to evening-service
next week.  Papa has given up going altogether since the new organist
came.  He says he cannot face the music.

What a sweet time we had together.  I shall never, never forget it!
O Frank, how good you are to me!  And how I hope you won't regret
what you are doing.  It is all very well just now, when I am young
and you think that I am pretty.  I love that you should think so, but
I am compelled to tell you that it is not really so.  I can't imagine
how you came to think it!  I suppose it was from seeing me so often
beside papa.  If you saw me near Nelly Sheridan, or any other REALLY
pretty girl, you would at once see the difference.  It just happens
that you like grey eyes and brown hair, and the other things, but
that does not mean that I am really pretty.  I should be so sorry if
there were any misunderstanding about this, and you only found out
when too late.  You ought to keep this letter for reference, as papa
always says, and then it will be interesting to you afterwards.

I should like you to see me now--or rather I wouldn't have you see me
for the world.  I am so flushed and untidy, for I have been cooking.
Is it not absurd, if you come to think of it, that we girls should be
taught the irregular French verbs, and the geography of China, and
never to cook the simplest thing?  It really does seem ridiculous.

But it is never too late to mend, so I went into the kitchen this
morning and made a tart.  You can't imagine what a lot of things one
needs even for such a simple thing as that.  I thought cook was
joking when she put them all down in front of me.  It was like a
conjurer giving his performance.  There was an empty bowl, and a bowl
full of sliced apples, and a big board, and a rolling-pin, and eggs,
and butter, and sugar, and cloves, and of course flour.  We broke
eggs and put them into a bowl--you can't think what a mess an egg
makes when it misses the bowl.  Then we stirred them up with flour
and butter and things.  I stirred until I was perfectly exhausted.
No wonder a cook has usually a great thick arm.  Then when it had
formed a paste, we rolled it out, and put the apples in the dish, and
roofed it in, and trimmed the edges, and stuck flat leaves made of
paste all over it, and the dearest little crown in the middle.  Then
we put it into the oven until it was brown.  It looked a very nice
tart, and mamma said that I had made it very solidly.  It certainly
did feel very heavy for its size.  Mamma would not taste it, because
she said that she thought Dr. Tristram would not approve of her doing
so, but I had a piece, and really it was not so bad.  Mamma said the
servants might have it at dinner, but the servants said that the poor
window-cleaner had a large family, and so we gave it to him.  It is
so sweet to feel that one is of any use to any one.

What do you think happened this morning?  Two wedding-presents
arrived.  The first was a very nice fish slice and fork in a case.
It was from dear old Mrs. Jones Beyrick, on whom we really had no
claim whatever.  We all think it so kind of her, and such a nice
fish-slice.  The other was a beautiful travelling-bag from Uncle
Arthur.  Stamped in gold upon it were the letters M.C., I said, 'Oh,
what a pity!  They have put the wrong initials.'  That made mamma
laugh.  I suppose one soon gets used to it.  Fancy how you would feel
if it were the other way about, and you changed your name to mine.
They might call you Selby, but you would continue to feel Crosse.  I
didn't mean that for a joke, but women make jokes without intending
it.  The other day the curate drove up in his donkey-cart, and mother
said, 'Oh, what a nice tandem!'  I think that she meant to say 'turn-
out'; but papa said it was the neatest thing he had heard for a long
time, so mamma is very pleased, but I am sure that she does not know
even now why it should be so funny.

What stupid letters I write!  Doesn't it frighten you when you read
them and think that is the person with whom I have to spend my life.
Yet you never seem alarmed about it.  I think it is so BRAVE of you.
That reminds me that I never finished what I wanted to say at the
beginning of this letter.  Even supposing that I am pretty (and my
complexion sometimes is simply awful), you must bear in mind how
quickly the years slip by, and how soon a woman alters.  Why, we
shall hardly be married before you will find me full of wrinkles, and
without a tooth in my head.  Poor boy, how dreadful for you!  Men
seem to change so little and so slowly.  Besides, it does not matter
for them, for nobody marries a man because he is pretty.  But you
must marry me, Frank, not for what I look but for what I am--for my
inmost, inmost self, so that if I had no body at all, you would love
me just the same.  That is how I love you, but I do prefer you with
your body on all the same.  I don't know how I love you, dear.  I
only know that I am in a dream when you are near me--just a beautiful
dream.  I live for those moments.--Ever your own little

MAUDE.

P.S.--Papa gave us such a fright, for he came in just now and said
that the window-cleaner and all his family were very ill.  This was a
joke, because the coachman had told him about my tart.  Wasn't it
horrid of him?


Woking, June 17th.

My own sweetest Maude,--I do want you to come up to town on Saturday
morning.  Then I will see you home to St. Albans in the evening, and
we shall have another dear delightful week end.  I think of nothing
else, and I count the hours.  Now please to manage it, and don't let
anything stop you.  You know that you can always get your way.  Oh
yes, you can, miss!  I know.

We shall meet at the bookstall at Charing Cross railway station at
one o'clock, but if anything should go wrong, send me a wire to the
Club.  Then we can do some shopping together, and have some fun also.
Tell your mother that we shall be back in plenty of time for dinner.
Make another tart, and I shall eat it.  Things are slack at the
office just now, and I could be spared for a few days.

So you have had a fish-slice.  It is so strange, because on that very
day I had my first present, and it was a fish-slice also.  We shall
have fish at each end when we give a dinner.  If we get another fish-
slice, then we shall give a fish-dinner--or keep one of the slices to
give to your friend Nelly Sheridan when SHE gets married.  They will
always come in useful.  And I have had two more presents.  One is a
Tantalus spirit-stand from my friends in the office.  The other is a
pair of bronzes from the cricket club.  They got it up without my
knowing anything about it, and I was amazed when a deputation came up
to my rooms with them last night.  'May your innings be long and your
partnership unbroken until you each make a hundred not out.'  That
was the inscription upon a card.

I have something very grave to tell you.  I've been going over my
bills and things, and I owe ever so much more than I thought.  I have
always been so careless, and never known exactly how I stood.  It did
not matter when one was a bachelor, for one always felt that one
could live quite simply for a few months, and so set matters
straight.  But now it is more serious.  The bills come to more than a
hundred pounds; the biggest one is forty-two pounds to Snell and
Walker, the Conduit Street tailors.  However, I am ordering my
marriage-suit from them, and that will keep them quiet.  I have
enough on hand to pay most of the others.  But we must not run short
upon our honeymoon--what an awful idea!  Perhaps there may be some
cheques among our presents.  We will hope for the best.

But there is a more serious thing upon which I want to consult you.
You asked me never to have any secrets from you, or else I should not
bother you about such things.  I should have kept it for Saturday
when we meet, but I want you to have time to think about it, so that
we may come to some decision then.

I am surety to a man for an indefinite sum of money.  It sounds
rather dreadful, does it not?  But it is not so bad as it sounds, for
there is no harm done yet.  But the question is what we should do in
the future about it, and the answer is not a very easy one.  He is a
very pleasant fellow, an insurance agent, and he got into some
trouble about his accounts last year.  The office would have
dismissed him, but as I knew his wife and his family, I became surety
that he should not go wrong again, and so I saved him from losing his
situation.  His name is Farintosh.  He is one of those amiable, weak,
good fellows whom you cannot help loving, although you never can
trust them.  Of course we could give notice that we should not be
responsible any longer, but it would be a thunderbolt to this poor
family, and the man would certainly be ruined.  We don't want to
begin our own happiness by making any one else unhappy, do we?  But
we shall talk it over, and I shall do what you advise.  You
understand that we are only liable in case he defaults, and surely it
is very unlikely that he will do so after the lesson that he has
already had.

I think the house will do splendidly.  The Lindens is the name, and
it is on the Maybury Road, not more than a quarter of a mile from the
station.  If your mother and you could come down on Tuesday or
Wednesday, I should get a half-day off, and you would be able to
inspect it.  Such a nice little lawn in front, and garden behind.  A
conservatory, if you please, dining-room and drawing-room.  You can
never assemble more than four or five guests.  On your at-home days,
we shall put up little placards as they do outside the theatres,
'Drawing-room full,' 'Dining-room full,' 'Room in the Conservatory.'
There are two good bedrooms, one large maid's room, and a lumber-
room.  One cook and one housemaid could run it beautifully.  Rent 50
pounds on a three years' lease--with taxes, about 62 pounds.  I think
it was just built for us.  Rupton Hale says that we must be careful
not to brush against the walls, and that it would be safer to go
outside to sneeze--but that is only his fun.

What a dull, stupid letter!  I do hope that I shall be in good form
on Saturday.  I am a man of moods--worse luck! and they come quite
regardless of how I wish to be, or even of how I have cause to be.  I
do hope that I shall make your day bright for you--the last day that
we shall have together before THE day.  There have been times when I
have been such bad company to you, just when I wished to be at my
best.  But you are always so sweet and patient and soothing.  Until
Saturday, then, my own darling.--Ever your lover, FRANK.

P.S.--I open this to tell you that such a gorgeous fish-knife, with
our monograms upon it, has just arrived from Mrs. Preston, my
father's old friend.  I went to the Goldsmith's Company in Regent
Street yesterday afternoon, and I bought--what do you think?  It
looks so beautiful upon its snow-white cotton wadding.  I like them
very broad and rather flat.  I do hope you will think it all right.
It fills me with the strangest feelings when I look at it.  Come what
may, foul weather or fair, sorrow or joy, that little strip of gold
will still be with us--we shall see it until we can see no more.

P.P.S.--Saturday!  Saturday!!  Saturday!!!



CHAPTER IV--THE TWO SOLOS



Their tryst was at the Charing Cross bookstall at one o'clock, and so
Mr. Frank Crosse was there at quarter-past twelve, striding
impatiently up and down, and stopping dead whenever a woman emerged
from the entrance, like a pointer dog before a partridge.  Before he
came he had been haunted by the idea that possibly Maude might have
an impulse to come early--and what if she were to arrive and not find
him there!  Every second of her company was so dear to him, that when
driving to meet her he had sometimes changed from one cab to another
upon the way, because the second seemed to have the faster horse.
But now that he was on the ground he realised that she was very exact
to her word, and that she would neither be early nor late.  And yet,
in the illogical fashion of a lover, he soon forgot that it was he
who was too soon, and he chafed and chafed as the minutes passed,
until at about quarter to one he was striding gloomily about with
despondent features and melancholy forebodings, imagining a thousand
miserable reasons for her inexplicable delay.  A good many people
stared at him as they passed, and we may do so among the number.

In person Frank Crosse was neither tall nor short, five feet eight
and a half to be exact, with the well-knit frame and springy step of
a young man who had been an athlete from his boyhood.  He was slim,
but wiry, and carried his head with a half-defiant backward slant
which told of pluck and breed.  His face was tanned brown, in spite
of his City hours, but his hair and slight moustache were flaxen, and
his eyes, which were his best features, were of a delicate blue, and
could vary in expression from something very tender to something
particularly hard.  He was an orphan, and had inherited nothing from
his parents save a dash of the artist from his mother.  It was not
enough to help him to earn a living, but it transformed itself into a
keen appreciation and some ambitions in literature, and it gave a
light and shade to his character which made him rather complex, and
therefore interesting.  His best friends could not deny the shade,
and yet it was but the shadow thrown by the light.  Strength,
virility, emotional force, power of deep feeling--these are traits
which have to be paid for.  There was sometimes just a touch of the
savage, or at least there were indications of the possibility of a
touch of the savage, in Frank Crosse.  His intense love of the open
air and of physical exercise was a sign of it.  He left upon women
the impression, not altogether unwelcome, that there were unexplored
recesses of his nature to which the most intimate of them had never
penetrated.  In those dark corners of the spirit either a saint or a
sinner might be lurking, and there was a pleasurable excitement in
peering into them, and wondering which it was.  No woman ever found
him dull.  Perhaps it would have been better for him if they had, for
his impulsive nature had never been long content with a chilly
friendship.  He was, as we may see, a man with a past, but it WAS a
past, now that Maude Selby had come like an angel of light across the
shadowed path of his life.  In age he was nearly twenty-seven.

There are one or two things which might be said for him which he
would not have said for himself.  He was an only child and an orphan,
but he had adopted his grandparents, who had been left penniless
through his father's death, and through all his struggles he had
managed to keep them happy and comfortable in a little cottage in
Worcestershire.  Nor did he ever tell them that he had a struggle--
fearing lest it should make their position painful; and so when their
quarterly cheque arrived, they took it as a kindly but not remarkable
act of duty upon the part of their wealthy grandson in the City, with
no suspicion as to the difference which their allowance was making to
him.  Nor did he himself look upon his action as a virtuous one, but
simply as a thing which must obviously be done.  In the meantime, he
had stuck closely to his work, had won rapid promotion in the
Insurance Office in which he had started as junior clerk, had gained
the goodwill of his superiors through his frank, unaffected ways, and
had been asked to play for the second Surrey eleven at cricket.  So
without going the length of saying that he was worthy of Maude Selby,
one might perhaps claim--if it could be done without endangering that
natural modesty which was one of his charms--that he was as worthy as
any other young man who was available.

That unfortunate artistic soul of his, which had been in the tropics
of expectation, and was now in the arctic of reaction, had just
finally settled down to black despair, with a grim recognition of the
fact that Maude had certainly and absolutely given him up, when one
boomed from the station clock, and on the very stroke she hurried on
to the platform.  How could he have strained his eyes after other
women, as if a second glance were ever needed when it was really she!
The perfectly graceful figure, the trimness and neatness of it, the
beautiful womanly poise of the head, the quick elastic step, he could
have sworn to her among ten thousand.  His heart gave a bound at the
sight of her, but he had the English aversion to giving himself away,
and so he walked quickly forward to meet her with an impassive face,
but with a look in his eyes which was all that she wanted.

'How are you?'

'How do you do?'

He stood for a few moments looking at her in silence.  She had on the
dress which he loved so much, a silver-grey merino skirt and jacket,
with a blouse of white pongee silk showing in front.  Some lighter
coloured trimming fringed the cloth.  She wore a grey toque, with a
dash of white at the side, and a white veil which softened without
concealing the dark brown curls and fresh girlish face beneath it.
Her gloves were of grey suede, and the two little pointed tan shoes
peeping from the edge of her skirt were the only touches of a darker
tint in her attire.  Crosse had the hereditary artist's eye, and he
could only stand and stare and enjoy it.  He was filled with
admiration, with reverence, and with wonder that this perfect thing
should really proclaim itself to be all his own.  Whatever had he
done, or could he do, to deserve it?

She looked up at him in a roguish sidelong way, with the bright
mischievous smile which was one of her charms.

'Well, sir, do you approve?'

'By Jove, it is splendid--beautiful!'

'So glad!  I hoped you would, since you are so fond of greys.
Besides, it is cooler in this weather.  I hope you have not been
waiting.'

'Oh no, that's all right.'

'You looked so solemn when first I saw you.'

'Did I?'

'And then you just jumped.'

'Did I?  I'm sorry.'

'Why?'

'I don't know.  I like our feelings to be our very very own, and
never to show them to any one else at all.  I dare say it is absurd,
but that is my instinct.'

'Never mind, dear, it wasn't such a big jump as all that.  Where are
we going?'

'Come here, Maude, into the waiting-room.'

She followed him into the gloomy, smoky, dingy room.  Bare yellow
benches framed an empty square of brown linoleum.  A labouring man
with his wife and a child sat waiting with the stolid patience of the
poor in one corner.  They were starting on some Saturday afternoon
excursion, and had mistimed their train.  Maude Selby and Frank
Crosse took the other corner.  He drew a jeweller's box from his
pocket and removed the lid.  Something sparkled among the wadding.

'O Frank!  Is that really it?'

'Do you like it?'

'What a broad one it is!  Mother's is quite thin.'

'They wear thin in time.'

'It is beautiful.  Shall I try it on?'

'No, don't.  There is some superstition about it.'

'But suppose it won't fit?'

'That is quite safe.  I measured it with your sapphire ring.'

'I haven't half scolded you enough about that sapphire ring.  How
could you go and give twenty-two guineas for a ring?--oh yes, sir,
that was the price, for I saw a duplicate yesterday in the
Goldsmith's Company.  You dear extravagant old boy!'

'I had saved the money.'

'But not for that!'

'For nothing half or quarter as important.  But I had the other to
the same size, so it is sure to fit.'

Maude had pushed up her veil, and sat with the little golden circlet
in her hand, looking down at it, while the dim watery London sunlight
poured through the window, and tagged all her wandering curls with a
coppery gleam.  It was a face beautiful in itself, but more beautiful
for its expression--sensitive, refined, womanly, full of innocent
archness and girlish mischief, but with a depth of expression in the
eyes, and a tender delicacy about the mouth, which spoke of a great
spirit with all its capacities for suffering and devotion within.
The gross admirer of merely physical charms might have passed her
over unnoticed.  So might the man who is attracted only by outward
and obvious signs of character.  But to the man who could see, to the
man whose own soul had enough of spirituality to respond to hers, and
whose eye could appreciate the subtlety of a beauty which is of the
mind as well as of the body, there was not in all wide London upon
that midsummer day a sweeter girl than Maude Selby, as she sat in her
grey merino dress with the London sun tagging her brown curls with
that coppery glimmer.

She handed back the ring, and a graver expression passed over her
mobile face.

'I feel as you said in your letter, Frank.  There IS something tragic
in it.  It will be with me for ever.  All the future will arrange
itself round that little ring.'

'Are you afraid of it?'

'Afraid!' her grey glove rested for an instant upon the back of his
hand.  'I COULDN'T be afraid of anything if you were with me.  It is
really extraordinary, for by nature I am so easily frightened.  But
if I were with you in a railway accident or anywhere, it would be
just the same.  You see I become for the time part of you, as it
were, and you are brave enough for two.'

'I don't profess to be so brave as all that,' said Frank.  'I expect
I have as many nerves as my neighbours.'

Maude's grey toque nodded up and down.  'I know all about that,' said
she.

'You have such a false idea of me.  It makes me happy at the time and
miserable afterwards, for I feel such a rank impostor.  You imagine
me to be a hero, and a genius, and all sorts of things, while I KNOW
that I am about as ordinary a young fellow as walks the streets of
London, and no more worthy of you than--well, than any one else is.'

She laughed with shining eyes.

'I like to hear you talk like that,' said she.  'That is just what is
so beautiful about you.'

It is hopeless to prove that you are not a hero when your disclaimers
are themselves taken as a proof of heroism.  Frank shrugged his
shoulders.

'I only hope you'll find me out gradually and not suddenly,' said he.
'Now, Maude, we have all day and all London before us.  What shall we
do?  I want you to choose.'

'I am quite happy whatever we do.  I am content to sit here with you
until evening.'

Her idea of a happy holiday set them both laughing.

'Come along,' said he, 'we shall discuss it as we go.'

The workman's family was still waiting, and Maude handed the child a
shilling as she went out.  She was so happy herself that she wanted
every one else to be happy also.  The people turned to look at her as
she passed.  With the slight flush upon her cheeks and the light in
her eyes, she seemed the personification of youth, and life, and
love.  One tall old gentleman started as he looked, and watched her
with a rapt face until she disappeared.  Some cheek had flushed and
some eye had brightened at his words once, and sweet old days had for
an instant lived again.

'Shall we have a cab?'

'O Frank, we must learn to be economical.  Let us walk.'

'I can't and won't be economical to-day.'

'There now!  See what a bad influence I have upon you.'

'Most demoralising!  But we have not settled yet where we are to go
to.'

'What DOES it matter, if we are together?'

'There is a good match at the Oval, the Australians against Surrey.
Would you care to see that?'

'Yes, dear, if you would.'

'And there are matinees at all the theatres.'

'You would rather be in the open air.'

'All I want is that you should enjoy yourself.'

'Never fear.  I shall do that.'

'Well, then, first of all I vote that we go and have some lunch.'

They started across the station yard, and passed the beautiful old
stone cross.  Among the hansoms and the four-wheelers, the hurrying
travellers, and the lounging cabmen, there rose that lovely
reconstruction of mediaevalism, the pious memorial of a great
Plantagenet king to his beloved wife.

'Six hundred years ago,' said Frank, as they paused and looked up,
'that old stone cross was completed, with heralds and armoured
knights around it to honour her whose memory was honoured by the
king.  Now the corduroyed porters stand where the knights stood, and
the engines whistle where the heralds trumpeted, but the old cross is
the same as ever in the same old place.  It is a little thing of that
sort which makes one realise the unbroken history of our country.'

Maude insisted upon hearing about Queen Eleanor, and Frank imparted
the little that he knew as they walked out into the crowded Strand.

'She was Edward the First's wife, and a splendid woman.  It was she,
you remember, who sucked the wound when he was stabbed with a
poisoned dagger.  She died somewhere in the north, and he had the
body carried south to bury it in Westminster Abbey.  Wherever it
rested for a night he built a cross, and so you have a line of
crosses all down England to show where that sad journey was broken.'

They had turned down Whitehall, and passed the big cuirassiers upon
their black chargers at the gate of the Horse Guards.  Frank pointed
to one of the windows of the old banqueting-hall.

'You've seen a memorial of a queen of England,' said he.  'That
window is the memorial of a king.'

'Why so, Frank?'

'I believe that it was through that window that Charles the First
passed out to the scaffold when his head was cut off.  It was the
first time that the people had ever shown that they claimed authority
over their king.'

'Poor fellow!' said Maude.  'He was so handsome, and such a good
husband and father.'

'It is the good kings who may be the dangerous ones.'

'O Frank!'

'If a king thinks only of pleasure, then he does not interfere with
matters of state.  But if he is conscientious, he tries to do what he
imagines to be his duty, and so he causes trouble.  Look at Charles,
for example.  He was a very good man, and yet he caused a civil war.
George the Third was a most exemplary character, but his stupidity
lost us America, and nearly lost us Ireland.  They were each
succeeded by thoroughly bad men, who did far less harm.'

They had reached the end of Whitehall, and the splendid panorama of
Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament lay before them.  The
most stately of ancient English buildings was contrasted with the
most beautiful of modern ones.  How anything so graceful came to be
built by this tasteless and utilitarian nation must remain a marvel
to the traveller.  The sun was shining upon the gold-work of the
roof, and the grand towers sprang up amid the light London haze, like
some gorgeous palace in a dream.  It was a fit centre for the rule to
whose mild sway one-fifth of the human race acquiesces--a rule upheld
by so small a force that only the consent of the governed can sustain
it.

Frank and Maude stood together looking up at it.

'How beautiful it is!' she cried.  'How the gilding lights up the
whole building!'

'And how absurd it is not to employ it more in our gloomy London
architecture!' said Frank.  'Imagine how grand a gilded dome of St.
Paul's would look, hanging like a rising sun over the City.  But here
is our restaurant, Maude, and Big Ben says that it is a quarter to
two.



CHAPTER V--IN BRITAIN'S VALHALLA



They had discussed the rooms in their new house, and the bridesmaids'
dresses, and Maude's cooking, and marriage-presents, and the merits
of Brighton, and the nature of love, and volleying at tennis (Maude
was the lady-champion of a tennis club), and season tickets, and the
destiny of the universe--to say nothing of a small bottle of Perrier
Jouet.  It was reprehensibly extravagant, but this would be their
last unmarried excursion, and so they drank to the dear days of the
past, and the dearer ones of the future.  Good comrades as well as
lovers, they talked freely, and with pleasure.  Frank never made the
common mistake of talking down, and Maude justified his confidence by
eagerly keeping up.  To both of them silence was preferable to
conventional small talk.

'We'll just get down there after lunch,' said Frank, as he paid his
bill.  'You have not seen the Australians, have you?'

'Yes, dear, I saw them at Clifton four years ago.'

'But this is a new lot.  There are nine of the present team who have
never played in England before.'

'They are very good, are they not?'

'Very good indeed.  And the dry summer has helped them.  It is the
sticky English wickets which put them off.  The wickets are very fast
over there.  Giffen is their best all-round man, but Darling and
Iredale and young Hill are good enough for anything.  Well, then--O
Lord, what a pity!'

He had turned towards the window as he rose, and saw one of those
little surprises by which Nature relieves the monotony of life in
these islands.  The sun had gone, a ragged slate-coloured cloud was
drifting up from over the river, and the rain was falling with a soft
persistency which is more fatal than the most boisterous shower.
There would be no more cricket that day.

'Two coffees and two benedictines,' cried Frank, and they relapsed
into their chairs.  But a half-hour passed and the grey cloud was
thicker and the rain more heavy.  The cheerless leaden river flowed
slowly under drifting skies.  Beyond an expanse of shining pavement
the great black Abbey towered amidst the storm.

'Have you ever done the Abbey, Maude?'

'No, Frank; I should love to.'

'I have only been once--more shame to me to say so!  Is it not a sin
that we young Englishmen should be familiar with every music-hall in
London and should know so little of this which is the centre of the
British race, the most august and tremendous monument that ever a
nation owned.  Six hundred years ago the English looked upon it as
their holiest and most national shrine, and since then our kings and
our warriors and our thinkers and our poets have all been laid there,
until there is such an accumulation that the huge Abbey has hardly
space for another monument.  Let us spend an hour inside it.'

They made for Solomon's porch, since it was the nearest and they had
but the one umbrella.  Under its shelter they brushed themselves dry
before they entered.

'Whom does the Abbey belong to, Frank?'

'To you and me!'

'Now you are joking!'

'Not at all.  It belongs in the long-run to the British taxpayer.
You have heard the story of the Scotch visitor who came on board one
of our battleships and asked to see the captain.  "Who shall I say?"
said the sentry.  "One of the proprietors," said the Scotchman.
That's OUR position towards the Abbey.  Let us inspect our property.'

They were smiling as they entered, but the smile faded from their
lips as the door closed behind them.  In this holy of holies, this
inner sanctuary of the race, there was a sense of serene and
dignified solemnity which would have imposed itself upon the most
thoughtless.  Frank and Maude stood in mute reverence.  The high
arches shot up in long rows upon either side of them, straight and
slim as beautiful trees, until they curved off far up near the
clerestory and joined their sister curves to form the lightest, most
delicate tracery of stone.  In front of them a great rose-window of
stained glass, splendid with rich purples and crimsons, shone through
a subdued and reverent gloom.  Here and there in the aisles a few
spectators moved among the shadows, but all round along the walls two
and three deep were ranged the illustrious dead, the perishable body
within, the lasting marble without, and the more lasting name
beneath.  It was very silent in the home of the great dead--only a
distant footfall or a subdued murmur here and there.  Maude knelt
down and sank her face in her hands.  Frank prayed also with that
prayer which is a feeling rather than an utterance.

Then they began to move round the short transept in which they found
themselves--a part of the Abbey reserved for the great statesmen.
Frank tried to quote the passage in which Macaulay talks about the
men worn out by the stress and struggle of the neighbouring
parliament-hall, and coming hither for peace and rest.  Here were the
men who had been strong enough to grasp the helm, and who, sometimes
wisely, sometimes foolishly, but always honestly, had tried to keep
the old ship before the wind.  Canning and Peel were there, with
Pitt, Fox, Grattan and Beaconsfield.  Governments and oppositions
moulder behind the walls.  Beaconsfield alone among all the statues
showed the hard-lined face of the self-made man.  These others look
so plump and smooth one can hardly realise how strong they were, but
they sprang from those ruling castes to whom strength came by easy
inheritance.  Frank told Maude the little which he knew of each of
them--of Grattan, the noblest Irishman of them all, of Castlereagh,
whose coffin was pursued to the gates of the Abbey by a raging mob
who wished to tear out his corpse, of Fox the libertine philosopher,
of Palmerston the gallant sportsman, who rode long after he could
walk.  They marvelled together at the realism of the sculptor who had
pitted Admiral Warren with the smallpox, and at the absurdity of that
other one who had clad Robert Peel in a Roman toga.

Then turning to the right at the end of the Statesmen's Transept,
they wandered aimlessly down the huge nave.  It was overwhelming, the
grandeur of the roof above and of the contents below.  Any one of
hundreds of these tombs was worth a devout pilgrimage, but how could
one raise his soul to the appreciation of them all.  Here was Darwin
who revolutionised zoology, and here was Isaac Newton who gave a new
direction to astronomy.  Here were old Ben Jonson, and Stephenson the
father of railways, and Livingstone of Africa, and Wordsworth, and
Kingsley, and Arnold.  Here were the soldiers of the mutiny--Clyde
and Outram and Lawrence,--and painters, and authors, and surgeons,
and all the good sons who in their several degrees had done loyal
service to the old mother.  And when their service was done the old
mother had stretched out that long arm of hers and had brought them
home, and always for every good son brought home she had sent another
forth, and her loins were ever fruitful, and her children loving and
true.  Go into the Abbey and think, and as the nation's past is borne
in upon you, you will have no fear for its future.

Frank was delighted with some of the monuments and horrified by
others, and he communicated both his joy and his anger to Maude.
They noticed together how the moderns and the Elizabethans had much
in common in their types of face, their way of wearing the hair, and
their taste in monuments, while between them lie the intolerable
affectations--which culminated towards the end of last century.

'It all rings false--statue, inscription, everything,' said Frank.
'These insufferable allegorical groups sprawling round a dead hero
are of the same class as the pompous and turgid prose of Doctor
Johnson.  The greatest effects are the simplest effects, and so it
always was and so it always will be.  But that little bit of Latin is
effective, I confess.'

It was a very much defaced inscription underneath a battered
Elizabethan effigy, whose feet had been knocked off, and whose
features were blurred into nothing.  Two words of the inscription had
caught Frank's eye.

'Moestissima uxor!  It was his "most sad wife" who erected it!  Look
at it now!  The poor battered monument of a woman's love.  Now,
Maude, come with me, and we shall visit the famous Poets' Corner.'

What an assembly it would be if at some supreme day each man might
stand forth from the portals of his tomb.  Tennyson, the last and
almost the greatest of that illustrious line, lay under the white
slab upon the floor.  Maude and Frank stood reverently beside it.


'"Sunset and evening Star
And one clear call for me."'


Frank quoted.  'What lines for a very old man to write!  I should put
him second only to Shakespeare had I the marshalling of them.'

'I have read so little,' said Maude.

'We will read it all together after next week.  But it makes your
reading so much more real and intimate when you have stood at the
grave of the man who wrote.  That's Chaucer, the big tomb there.  He
is the father of British poetry.  Here is Browning beside Tennyson--
united in life and in death.  He was the more profound thinker, but
music and form are essential also.'

'What a splendid face!' cried Maude.

'It is a bust to Longfellow, the American.'  They read the
inscription.  'This bust was placed among the memorials of the poets
of England by English admirers of an American poet.'

'I am so glad to have seen that.  I know his poems so well,' said
Maude.

'I believe he is more read than any poet in England.'

'Who is that standing figure?'

'It is Dryden.  What a clever face, and what a modern type.  Here is
Walter Scott beside the door.  How kindly and humorous his expression
was!  And see how high his head was from the ear to the crown.  It
was a great brain.  There is Burns, the other famous Scot.  Don't you
think there is a resemblance between the faces?  And here are
Dickens, and Thackeray, and Macaulay.  I wonder whether, when
Macaulay was writing his essays, he had a premonition that he would
be buried in Westminster Abbey.  He is continually alluding to the
Abbey and its graves.  I always think that we have a vague intuition
as to what will occur to us in life.'

'We can guess what is probable.'

'It amounts to more than that.  I had an intuition that I should
marry you from the first day that I saw you, and yet it did not seem
probable.  But deep down in my soul I knew that I should marry you.'

'I knew that I should marry you, Frank, or else that I should never
marry at all.'

'There now!  We both had it.  Well, that IS really wonderful!'

They stood among the memorials of all those great people, marvelling
at the mysteries of their own small lives.  A voice at their elbows
brought them back to the present.

'This way, if you please, for the kings,' said the voice.  'They are
now starting for the kings.'

'They' proved to be a curiously mixed little group of people who were
waiting at the entrance through the enclosure for the arrival of the
official guide.  There were a tall red-bearded man with a very Scotch
accent and a small gentle wife, also an American father with his two
bright and enthusiastic daughters, a petty-officer of the navy in his
uniform, two young men whose attention was cruelly distracted from
the monuments by the American girls, and a dozen other travellers of
various sexes and ages.  Just as Maude and Frank joined them the
guide, a young fresh-faced fellow, came striding up, and they passed
through the opening into the royal burying-ground.

'This way, ladies and gentlemen,' cried the hurrying guide, and they
all clattered over the stone pavement.  He stopped beside a tomb upon
which a lady with a sad worn face was lying.  'Mary, Queen of Scots,'
said he, 'the greatest beauty of her day.  This monument was erected
by her son, James the First.'

'Isn't she just perfectly sweet?' said one of the American girls.

'Well, I don't know.  I expected more of her than that,' the other
answered.

'I reckon,' remarked the father, 'that if any one went through as
much as that lady did, it would not tend to improve her beauty.  Now
what age might the lady be, sir?'

'Forty-four years of age at the time of her execution,' said the
guide.

'Ah weel, she's young for her years,' muttered the Scotchman, and the
party moved on.  Frank and Maude lingered to have a further look at
the unfortunate princess, the bright French butterfly, who wandered
from the light and warmth into that grim country, a land of blood and
of psalms.

'She was as hard as nails under all her gentle grace,' said Frank.
'She rode eighty miles and hardly drew rein after the battle of
Langside.'

'She looks as if she were tired, poor dear!' said Maude; 'I don't
think that she was sorry to be at rest.'

The guide was narrating the names of the owners of the tombs at the
further end of the chapel.  'Queen Anne is here, and Mary the wife of
William the Third is beside her.  And here is William himself.  The
king was very short and the queen very tall, so in the sculptures the
king is depicted standing upon a stool so as to bring their heads
level.  In the vaults beyond there are thirty-eight Stuarts.'

Thirty-eight Stuarts!  Princes, bishops, generals, once the salt of
the earth, the mightiest of men, and now lumped carelessly together
as thirty-eight Stuarts.  So Death the Republican and Time the
Radical can drag down the highest from his throne.

They had followed the guide into another small chapel, which bore the
name of Henry VII. upon the door.  Surely they were great builders
and great designers in those days!  Had stone been as pliable as wax
it could not have been twisted and curved into more exquisite spirals
and curls, so light, so delicate, so beautiful, twining and turning
along the walls, and drooping from the ceiling.  Never did the hand
of man construct anything more elaborately ornate, nor the brain of
man think out a design more absolutely harmonious and lovely.  In the
centre, with all the pomp of mediaeval heraldry, starred and spangled
with the Tudor badges, the two bronze figures of Henry and his wife
lay side by side upon their tomb.  The guide read out the quaint
directions in the king's will, by which they were to be buried 'with
some respect to their Royal dignity, but avoiding damnable pomp and
outrageous superfluities!'  There was, as Frank remarked, a fine
touch of the hot Tudor blood in the adjectives.  One could guess
where Henry the Eighth got his masterful temper.  Yet it was an
ascetic and priest-like face which looked upwards from the tomb.

They passed the rifled tombs of Cromwell, Blake, and Ireton--the
despicable revenge of the men who did not dare to face them in the
field,--and they marked the grave of James the First, who erected no
monument to himself, and so justified in death the reputation for
philosophy which he had aimed at in his life.  Then they inspected
the great tomb of Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, as surprising and as
magnificent as his history, cast a glance at the covering of plucky
little George the Second, the last English king to lead his own army
into battle, and so onwards to see the corner of the Innocents, where
rest the slender bones of the poor children murdered in the Tower.

But now the guide had collected his little flock around him again,
with the air of one who has something which is not to be missed.
'You will stand upon the step to see the profile,' said he, as he
indicated a female figure upon a tomb.  'It is the great Queen
Elizabeth.'

It was a profile and a face worth seeing--the face of a queen who was
worthy of her Shakespeares upon the land and her Drakes upon the sea.
Had the Spanish king seen her, he would have understood that she was
not safe to attack--this grim old lady with the eagle nose and the
iron lips.  You could understand her grip upon her cash-box, you
could explain her harshness to her lovers, you could realise the
confidence of her people, you could read it all in that wonderful
face.

'She's splendid,' said Frank.

'She's terrible,' said Maude.

'Did I understand you to say, sir,' asked the American, 'that it was
this lady who beheaded the other lady, Queen of Scotland, whom we saw
'way back in the other compartment?'

'Yes, sir, she did.'

'Well, I guess if there was any beheading to be done, this was the
lady to see that it was put through with promptness and despatch.
Not a married lady, I gather?'

'No, sir.'

'And a fortunate thing for somebody.  That woman's husband would have
a mean time of it, sir, in my opinion.'

'Hush, poppa,' said the two daughters, and the procession moved on.
They were entering the inner chapel of all, the oldest and the
holiest, in which, amid the ancient Plantagenet kings, there lies
that one old Saxon monarch, confessor and saint, the holy Edward,
round whose honoured body the whole of this great shrine has
gradually risen.  A singular erection once covered with mosaic work,
but now bare and gaunt, stood in the centre.

'The body of Edward the Confessor is in a case up at the top,' said
the guide.  'This hollow place below was filled with precious relics,
and the pilgrims used to kneel in these niches, which are just large
enough to hold a man upon his knees.  The mosaic work has been picked
out by the pilgrims.'

'What is the date of the shrine?' asked Frank.

'About 1250, sir.  The early kings were all buried as near to it as
they could get, for it was their belief in those days that the devil
might carry off the body, and so the nearer they got to the shrine
the safer they felt.  Henry the Fifth, who won the battle of
Agincourt, is there.  Those are the actual helmet, shield, and saddle
which he used in the battle upon the crossbeam yonder.  That king
with the grave face and the beard is Edward the Third, the father of
the Black Prince.  The Black Prince never lived to ascend the throne,
but he was the father of the unfortunate Richard the Second, who lies
here--this clean-shaven king with the sharp features.  Now, ladies
and gentlemen, if you will turn this way, I will show you one of the
most remarkable objects in the Abbey.'

The object in question proved to be nothing more singular than a
square block of stone placed under an old chair.  And yet as the
guide continued to speak, they felt that he had justified his words.

'This is the sacred stone of Scone upon which the kings of Scotland
have been crowned from time immemorial.  When Edward the First
overran Scotland 600 years ago, he had it brought here, and since
then every monarch of England has also sat upon it when crowned.'

'The present Queen?' asked some one.

'Yes, she also.  The legend was that it was the stone upon which
Jacob rested his head when he dreamed, but the geologists have proved
that it is red sandstone of Scotland.'

'Then I understand, sir, that this other throne is the Scottish
throne,' said the American gentleman.

'No, sir, the Scottish throne and the English throne are the same
throne.  But at the time of William and Mary it was necessary to
crown her as well as him, and so a second throne was needed.  But
that of course was modern.'

'Only a couple of hundred years ago.  I wonder they let it in.  But I
guess they might have taken better care of it.  Some one has carved
his name upon it.'

'A Westminster boy bet his schoolfellows that he would sleep among
the tombs, and to prove that he had done it, he carved his name upon
the throne.'

'You don't say!' cried the American.  'Well, I guess that boy ended
pretty high up.'

'As high as the gallows, perhaps,' said Frank, and every one
tittered, but the guide hurried on with a grave face, for the dignity
of the Abbey was in his keeping.

'This tomb is that of Queen Eleanor,' said he.

Frank twitched Maude by the sleeve.  'Eleanor of Charing Cross,' said
he.  'See how one little bit of knowledge links on with another.'

'And here is the tomb of her husband, Edward the First.  It was he
who brought the stone from Scone.  At the time of his death the
conquest of Scotland was nearly done, and he gave orders that his
burial should be merely temporary until Scotland was thoroughly
subdued.  He is still, as you perceive, in his temporary tomb.'

The big Scotchman laughed loudly and derisively.  All the others
looked sadly at him with the pitying gaze which the English use
towards the more excitable races when their emotion gets the better
of them.  A stream from a garden hose could not have damped him more.

'They opened the grave last century,' said the guide.  'Inside was an
inscription, which said, "Here lies the hammer of the Scots."  He was
a fine man, six feet two inches from crown to sole.'

They wandered out of the old shrine where the great Plantagenet kings
lie like a bodyguard round the Saxon saint.  Abbots lay on one side
of them as they passed, and dead crusaders with their legs crossed,
upon the other.  And then, in an instant, they were back in
comparatively modern times again.

'This is the tomb of Wolfe, who died upon the Heights of Abraham,'
said the guide.  'It was due to him and to his soldiers that all
America belongs to the English-speaking races.  There is a picture of
his Highlanders going up to the battle along the winding path which
leads from Wolfe's Cove.  He died in the moment of victory.'

It was bewildering, the way in which they skipped from age to age.
The history of England appeared to be not merely continuous, but
simultaneous, as they turned in an instant from the Georgian to the
Elizabethan, the one monument as well preserved as the other.  They
passed the stately de Vere, his armour all laid out in fragments upon
a marble slab, as a proof that he died at peace with all men; and
they saw the terrible statue of the onslaught of Death, which, viewed
in the moonlight, made a midnight robber drop his booty and fly
panic-stricken out of the Abbey.  So awful and yet so fascinating is
it, that the shuffling feet of the party of sightseers had passed out
of hearing before Maude and Frank could force themselves away from
it.

In the base of the statue is an iron door, which has been thrown
open, and the sculptor's art has succeeded wonderfully in convincing
you that it has been thrown open violently.  The two leaves of it
seem still to quiver with the shock, and one could imagine that one
heard the harsh clang of the metal.  Out of the black opening had
sprung a dreadful thing, something muffled in a winding-sheet, one
bony hand clutching the edge of the pedestal, the other upraised to
hurl a dart at the woman above him.  She, a young bride of twenty-
seven, has fallen fainting, while her husband, with horror in his
face, is springing forward, his hand outstretched, to get between his
wife and her loathsome assailant.

'I shall dream of this,' said Maude.  She had turned pale, as many a
woman has before this monument.

'It is awful!'  Frank walked backwards, unable to take his eyes from
it.  'What pluck that sculptor had!  It is an effect which must be
either ludicrous or great, and he has made it great.'

'Roubillac is his name,' said Maude, reading it from the pedestal.

'A Frenchman, or a man of French descent.  Isn't that characteristic!
In the whole great Abbey the one monument which has impressed us with
its genius and imagination is by a foreigner.  We haven't got it in
us.  We are too much afraid of letting ourselves go and of giving
ourselves away.  We are heavy-handed and heavy-minded.'

'If we can't produce the monuments, we can produce the men who
deserve them,' said Maude, and Frank wrote the aphorism down upon his
shirt-cuff.

'We are too severe both in sculpture and architecture,' said he.
'More fancy and vigour in our sculptors, more use of gold and more
ornament in our architects--that is what we want.  But I think it is
past praying for.  It would be better to subdivide the work of the
world, according to the capacity of the different nations.  Let Italy
and France embellish us.  We might do something in exchange--organise
the French colonies, perhaps, or the Italian exchequer.  That is our
legitimate work, but we will never do anything at the other.'

The guide had already reached the end of his round, an iron gate
corresponding to that by which they had entered, and they found him
waiting impatiently and swinging his keys.  But Maude's smile and
word of thanks as she passed him brought content into his face once
more.  A ray of living sunshine is welcome to the man who spends his
days among the tombs.

They walked down the North Transept and out through Solomon's Porch.
The rain-cloud had swept over, and the summer sun was shining upon
the wet streets, turning them all to gold.  This might have been that
fabled London of which young Whittington dreamed.  In front of them
lay the lawns of vivid green, with the sunlit raindrops gleaming upon
the grass.  The air was full of the chirping of the sparrows.  Across
their vision, from the end of Whitehall to Victoria Street, the black
ribbon of traffic whirled and circled, one of the great driving-belts
of the huge city.  Over it all, to their right, towered those
glorious Houses of Parliament, the very sight of which made Frank
repent his bitter words about English architecture.  They stood in
the old porch gazing at the scene.  It was so wonderful to come back
at one stride from the great country of the past to the greater
country of the present.  Here was the very thing which these dead men
lived and died to build.

'It's not much past three,' said Frank.  'What a gloomy place to take
you to!  Good heavens, we have one day together, and I take you to a
cemetery!  Shall we go to a matinee to counteract it?'

But Maude laid her hand upon his arm.

'I don't think, Frank, that I was ever more impressed, or learned
more in so short a time, in my life.  It was a grand hour--an hour
never to be forgotten.  And you must not think that I am ever with
you to be amused.  I am with you to accompany you in whatever seems
to you to be highest and best.  Now before we leave the dear old
Abbey, promise me that you will always live your own highest and
never come down to me.'

'I can very safely promise that I will never come down to you,' said
Frank.  'I may climb all my life, and yet there are parts of your
soul which will be like snow-peaks in the clouds to me.  But you will
be now and always my own dear comrade as well as my sweetest wife.
And now, Maude, what shall it be, the theatre or the Australians?'

'Do you wish to go to either very much?'

'Not unless you do.'

'Well, then, I feel as if either would be a profanation.  Let us walk
together down to the Embankment, and sit on one of the benches there,
and watch the river flowing in the sunshine, and talk and think of
all that we have seen.'



CHAPTER VI--TWO SOLOS AND A DUET



The night before the wedding, Frank Crosse and his best man, Rupton
Hale, dined at the Raleigh Club with Maude's brother, Jack Selby, who
was a young lieutenant in a Hussar regiment.  Jack was a horsy,
slangy young sportsman who cared nothing about Frank's worldly
prospects, but had given the match his absolute approval from the
moment that he realised that his future brother had played for the
Surrey Second.  'What more can you want?' said he.  'You won't
exactly be a Mrs. W. G., but you will be on the edge of first-class
cricket.'  And Maude, who rejoiced in his approval, without quite
understanding the grounds for it, kissed him, and called him the best
of brothers.

The marriage was to be at eleven o'clock at St. Monica's Church, and
the Selbys were putting up at the Langham.  Frank stayed at the
Metropole, and so did Rupton Hale.  They were up early, their heads
and nerves none the better for Jack Selby's hospitality of the night
before.

Frank could eat no breakfast, and he shunned publicity in his
wedding-garments, so they remained in the upstairs sitting-room.  He
stood by the window, drumming his fingers upon the pane, and looking
down into Northumberland Avenue.  He had often pictured this day, and
associated it with sunshine and flowers and every emblem of joy.  But
Nature had not risen to the occasion.  A thick vapour, half smoke
half cloud, drifted along the street, and a thin persistent rain was
falling steadily.  It pit-patted upon the windows, splashed upon the
sills, and gurgled in the water-pipes.  Far down beneath him on the
drab-coloured slimy road stood the lines of wet cabs, looking like
beetles with glistening backs.  Round black umbrellas hurried along
the shining pavements.  A horse had fallen at the door of the
Constitutional Club, and an oil-skinned policeman was helping the
cabman to raise it.  Frank watched it until the harness had been
refastened, and it had vanished into Trafalgar Square.  Then he
turned and examined himself in the mirror.  His trim black frock-coat
and pearl grey trousers set off his alert athletic figure to
advantage.  His glossy hat, too, his lavender gloves, and dark-blue
tie, were all absolutely irreproachable.  And yet he was not
satisfied with himself.  Maude ought to have something better than
that.  What a fool he had been to take so much wine last night!  On
this day of all days in their lives she surely had a right to find
him at his best.  He was restless, and his nerves were all quivering.
He would have given anything for a cigarette, but he did not wish to
scent himself with tobacco.  He had cut himself in shaving, and his
nose was peeling from a hot day on the cricket-field.  What a silly
thing to expose his nose to the sun before his wedding!  Perhaps when
Maude saw it she would--well, she could hardly break it off, but at
least she might be ashamed of him.  He worked himself into a fever
over that unfortunate nose.

'You are off colour, Crosse,' said his best man.

'I was just thinking that my nose was.  It's very kind of you to come
and stand by me.'

'That's all right.  We shall see it through together.'

Hale was a despondent man, though the most loyal of friends, and he
spoke in a despondent way.  His gloomy manner, the London drizzle,
and the nervousness proper to the occasion, were all combining to
make Frank more and more wretched.  Fortunately Jack Selby burst like
a gleam of sunshine into the room.  The sight of his fresh-coloured
smiling face--or it may have been some reminder of Maude which he
found in it--brought consolation to the bridegroom.

'How are you, Crosse?  How do, Hale?  Excuse my country manners!  The
old Christmas-tree in the hall wanted to send for you, but I knew
your number.  You're looking rather green about the gills, old chap.'

'I feel a little chippy to-day.'

'That's the worst of these cheap champagnes.  Late hours are bad for
the young.  Have a whisky and soda with me.  No?  Hale, you must buck
him up, for they'll all be down on you if you don't bring your man up
to time in the pink of condition.  We certainly did ourselves up to
the top hole last night.  Couldn't face your breakfast, eh?  Neither
could I.  A strawberry and a bucket of soda-water.'

'How are they all at the Langham?' asked Frank eagerly.

'Oh, splendid!  At least I haven't seen Maude.  She's been getting
into parade order.  But mother is full of beans.  We had to take her
up one link in the curb, or there would have been no holding her.'

Frank's eyes kept turning to the slow-moving minute-hand.  It was not
ten o'clock yet.

'Don't you think that I might go round to the Langham and see them?'

'Good Lord, no!  Clean against regulations.  Stand by his head, Hale!
Wo, boy, steady!'

'It won't do, Crosse, it really won't!' said Hale solemnly.

'What rot it is!  Here am I doing nothing, and I might be of some use
or encouragement to her.  Let's get a cab!'

'Wo, laddie, wo then, boy!  Keep him in hand, Hale!  Get to his
head.'

Frank flung himself down into an armchair, and muttered about absurd
conventions.

'It can't be helped, my boy.  It is correct.'

'Buck up, Crosse, buck up!  We'll make the thing go with a buzz when
we do begin.  Two of our Johnnies are coming, regular fizzers, and
full of blood both of them.  We'll paint the Langham a fine bright
solferino, when the church parade is over.'

Frank sat rather sulkily watching the slow minute-hand, and listening
to the light-hearted chatter of the boy-lieutenant, and the more
deliberate answers of his best man.  At last he jumped up and seized
his hat and gloves.

'Half-past,' said he.  'Come on.  I can't wait any longer.  I must do
SOMETHING.  It is time we went to the church.'

'Fall in for the church!' cried Jack.  'Wait a bit!  I know this
game, for I was best man myself last month.  Inspect his kit, Hale.
See that he's according to regulations.  Ring?  All right.  Parson's
money?  Right oh!  Small change?  Good!  By the right, quick march!'

Frank soon recovered his spirits now that he had something to do.
Even that drive through the streaming streets, with the rain
pattering upon the top of their four-wheeler, could not depress him
any longer.  He rose to the level of Jack Selby, and they chattered
gaily together.

'Ain't we bringing him up fighting fit?' cried Jack exultingly.
'Shows that all the care we have taken of him in the last twenty-four
hours has not been wasted.  That's the sort I like--game as a pebble!
You can't buy 'em, you have to breed 'em.  A regular fizzer HE is,
and full of blood.  And here we are on the ground.'

It was a low, old-fashioned, grey church, with a Gothic entrance and
two niches on either side, which spoke of pre-Lutheran days.  Cheap
modern shops, which banked it in, showed up the quaint dignity of the
ancient front.  The side-door was open, and they passed into its dim-
lit interior, with high carved pews, and rich, old, stained glass.
Huge black oak beams curved over their heads, and dim inscriptions of
mediaeval Latin curled and writhed upon the walls.  A single step
seemed to have taken them from the atmosphere of the nineteenth to
that of the fifteenth century.

'What a ripping old church!' Jack whispered.

'You can't buy 'em.  But it's as festive as an ice-house.  There's a
friendly native coming down the aisle.  He's your man, Hale, if you
want the news.'

The verger was not in the best of tempers.  'It's at a quarter to
four,' said he, as Hale met him.

'No, no, at eleven.'

'Quarter to four, I tell you.  The vicar says so.'

'Why, it's not possible.'

'We have them at all hours.'

'Have what?'

'Buryin's.'

'But this is a marriage.'

'I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir.  I thought when I looked at you as
you was the party about the child's funeral.'

'Good heavens, no.'

'It was something in your expression, sir, but now that I can see the
colour of your clothes, why of course I know better.  There's three
marriages--which was it?'

'Crosse and Selby are the names.'

The verger consulted an old crumpled notebook.

'Yes, sir, I have it here.  Mr. or Miss Crosse to Mr. or Miss Selby.
Eleven o'clock, sir, SHARP.  The vicar's a terrible punctual man, and
I should advise you to take your places.'

'Any hitch?' asked Frank nervously, as Hale returned.

'No, no.'

'What was he talking about?'

'Oh, nothing.  Some little confusion of ideas.'

'Shall we go up?'

'Yes, I think that we had better.'

Their steps clattered and reverberated through the empty church as
they passed up the aisle.  They stood in an aimless way before the
altar rails.  Frank fidgeted about, and made sure that the ring was
in his ticket-pocket.  He also took a five-pound note and placed it
where he knew he could lay his hands upon it easily.  Then he sprang
round with a flush upon his cheeks, for one of the side-doors had
been flung open with a great bustle and clanging.  A stout charwoman
entered with a tin pail and a mop.

'Put up the wrong bird that time,' whispered Jack, and sniggered at
Frank's change of expression.

But almost at the same instant, the Selbys entered the church at the
further end.  Mr. Selby, with his red face and fluffy side-whiskers,
had Maude upon his arm.  She looked very pale and very sweet, with
downcast eyes and solemn mouth, while behind her walked her younger
sister Mary and her pretty friend Nelly Sheridan, both in pink
dresses with broad pink hats and white curling feathers.  The bride
was herself in the grey travelling-dress with which Frank was already
familiar by its description in her letter.  Its gentle tint and her
tenderly grave expression made a charming effect.  Behind them was
the mother, still young and elegant, with something of Maude's grace
in her figure and carriage.  As the party came up the aisle, Frank
was to be restrained no longer.  'Get to his head!' cried Jack to
Hale in an excited whisper, but their man was already hurrying to
shake hands with Maude.  He walked up on her right, and they took
their position in two little groups, the happy couple in the centre.
At the same moment the clang of the church-clock sounded above them,
and the vicar, shrugging his shoulders to get his white surplice into
position, came bustling out of the vestry.  To him it was all the
most usual, commonplace, and unimportant thing in the world, and both
Frank and Maude were filled with amazement at the nonchalant way in
which he whipped out a prayer-book, and began to rapidly perform the
ceremony.  It was all so new and solemn and all-important to them,
that they had expected something mystic and overpowering in the
function, and yet here was this brisk little man, with an obvious
cold in his head, tying them up in as business-like a fashion as a
grocer uniting two parcels.  After all, he had to do it a thousand
times a year, and so he could not be extravagant in his emotions.

The singular service was read out to them, the exhortations, and the
explanations, sometimes stately, sometimes beautiful, sometimes
odious.  Then the little vicar turned upon Frank--'Wilt thou have
this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance
in the holy estate of matrimony?  Wilt thou love her, comfort her,
honour her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all other, keep
thee only unto her as long as ye both shall live?'

'I will,' cried Frank, with conviction.

'And wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together
after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?  Wilt thou
obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him, in sickness and
in health, and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him so long
as ye both shall live?'

'I will,' said Maude, from her heart.

'Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?'

'I do.  Mr. John Selby--her father, you know.'

And then in turn they repeated the fateful words--'I take thee to
have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for
richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and
obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance, and
thereto I give thee my troth.'

'Ring!  Ring!' said Hale.

'Ring, you Juggins!' whispered Jack Selby.

Frank thrust his hands frantically into all his pockets.  The ring
was in the last one which he attempted.  But the bank-note was not to
be found.  He remembered that he had put it in some safe place.
Where could it have been?  Was it in his boot, or in the lining of
his hat?  No, surely he could not have done anything so infatuated.
Again he took his pockets two at a time, while a dreadful pause came
in the ceremony.

'Vestry--afterwards,' whispered the clergyman.

'Here you are!' gasped Frank.  He had come upon it in a last
desperate dive into his watch-pocket, in which he never by any chance
kept anything.  Of course it was for that very reason, that it might
be alone and accessible, that he had placed it there.  Ring and note
were handed to the vicar, who deftly concealed the one and returned
the other.  Then Maude's little white hand was outstretched, and over
the third finger Frank slipped the circlet of gold.

'With this ring I thee wed,' said Frank, 'and with my body I thee
worship (he paused, and made a mental emendation of 'with my soul
also'), and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.'

There was a prayer, and then the vicar joined the two hands, the
muscular sunburned one and the dainty white one, with the new ring
gleaming upon it.

'Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder,' said
he.  'Forasmuch as Francis Crosse and Maude Selby have consented
together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and
this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth, either
to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a
ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife
together.'

There now, it was done!  They were one, never more to part until the
coffin-lid closed over one or the other.  They were kneeling together
now, and the vicar was rapidly repeating some psalms and prayers.
But Frank's mind was not with the ritual.  He looked slantwise at the
graceful, girlish figure by his side.  Her hair hung beautifully over
her white neck, and the reverent droop of her head was lovely to his
eyes.  So gentle, so humble, so good, so beautiful, and all his, his
sworn life-companion for ever!  A gush of tenderness flowed through
his heart for her.  His love had always been passionate, but, for the
instant, it was heroic, tremendous in its unselfishness.  Might he
bring her happiness, the highest which woman could wish for!  God
grant that he might do so!  But if he were to make her unhappy, or to
take anything from her beauty and her goodness, then he prayed that
he might die now, at this supreme moment, kneeling at her side before
the altar rails.  So intense was his prayer that he looked up
expectantly at the altar, as if in the presence of an imminent
catastrophe.  But every one had risen to their feet, and the service
was at an end.  The vicar led the way, and they all followed him,
into the vestry.  There was a general murmur all round them of
congratulation and approval.

'Heartiest congratulations, Crosse!' said Hale.

'Bravo, Maude, you looked ripping!' cried Jack, kissing his sister.
'By Jove, it simply went with a buzz from the word "go."'

'You sign it here and here,' said the vicar, 'and the witnesses here
and here.  Thank you very much.  I am sure that I wish you every
happiness.  I need not detain you by any further formality.'

And so, with a curious dream-like feeling, Frank Crosse and Maude
found themselves walking down the aisle, he very proud and erect, she
very gentle and shy, while the organ thundered the wedding-march.
Carriages were waiting:  he handed in his wife, stepped in after her,
and they drove off, amidst a murmur of sympathy from a little knot of
idlers who had gathered in the porch, partly from curiosity, and
partly to escape the rain.

Maude had often driven alone with Frank before, but now she felt
suddenly constrained and shy.  The marriage-service, with all its
half-understood allusions and exhortations, had depressed and
frightened her.  She hardly dared to glance at her husband.  But he
soon led her out of her graver humour.

'Name, please?' said he.

'O Frank!'

'Name, if YOU please?'

'Why, you know.'

'Say it.'

'Maude.'

'That all?'

'Maude Crosse--O Frank!'

'You blessing!  How grand it sounds!  O Maude, what a jolly old world
it is!  Isn't it pretty to see the rain falling?  And aren't the
shining pavements lovely?  And isn't everything splendid, and am I
not the luckiest--the most incredibly lucky of men.  Dear girlie,
give me your hand!  I can feel IT under the glove.  Now, sweetheart,
you are not frightened, are you?'

'Not now.'

'You were?'

'Yes, I was a little.  O Frank, you won't tire of me, will you?  I
should break my heart if you did.'

'Tire of you!  Good heavens!  Now you'll never guess what I was doing
while the parson was telling us about what Saint Paul said to the
Colossians, and all the rest of it.'

'I know perfectly well what you were doing.  And you shouldn't have
done it.'

'What was I doing, then?'

'You were staring at me.'

'Oh, you saw that, did you?'

'I felt it.'

'Well, I was.  But I was praying also.'

'Were you, Frank?'

'When I saw you kneeling there, so sweet and pure and good, I seemed
to realise how you had been given into my keeping for life, and I
prayed with all my heart that if I should ever injure you in thought,
or word, or deed, I might drop dead now before I had time to do it.'

'O Frank, what a dreadful prayer!'

'But I felt it and I wished it, and I could not help it.  My own
darling, there you are just a living angel, the gentlest, most
sensitive, and beautiful living creature that walks the earth, and
please God I shall keep you so, and ever higher and higher if such a
thing is possible, and if ever I say a word or do a deed that seems
to lower you, then remind me of this moment, and send me back to try
to live up to our highest ideal again.  And I for my part will try to
improve myself and to live up to you, and to bridge more and more the
gap that is between us, that I may feel myself not altogether
unworthy of our love.  And so we shall act and re-act upon each
other, ever growing better and wiser, and dating what is best and
brightest in our minds and souls from the day that we were married.
And that's MY idea of a marriage-service, and here endeth the first
lesson, and the windows are blurred with rain, and hang the coachman,
and it's hard lines if a man may not kiss his own wife--you
blessing!'

A broad-brimmed hat with a curling feather is not a good shape for
driving with an ardent young bridegroom in a discreetly rain-blurred
carriage.  Frank demonstrated the fact, and it took them all the way
to the Langham to get those pins driven home again.  And then after
an abnormal meal, which was either a very late breakfast or a very
early lunch, they drove on to Victoria Station, from which they were
to start for Brighton.  Jack Selby and the two regimental fizzers,
who had secured immortality for the young couple, if the deep and
constant drinking of healths could have done it, had provided
themselves with packages of rice, old slippers, and other time-
honoured missiles.  On a hint from Maude, however, that she would
prefer a quiet departure, Frank coaxed the three back into the
luncheon-room with a perfectly guileless face, and then locking the
door on the outside, handed the key and a half-sovereign to the head-
waiter, with instructions to release the prisoners when the carriage
had gone--an incident which in itself would cause the judicious
observer to think that, given the opportunity, Mister Frank Crosse
had it in him to go pretty far in life.  And so, quietly and soberly,
they rolled away upon their first journey--the journey which was the
opening of that life's journey, the goal of which no man may see.



CHAPTER VII--KEEPING UP APPEARANCES



It was in the roomy dining-room of the Hotel Metropole at Brighton.
Maude and Frank were seated at the favourite small round table near
the window, where they always lunched.  Their immediate view was a
snowy-white tablecloth with a shining centre dish of foppish little
cutlets, each with a wisp of ornamental paper, and a surrounding bank
of mashed potatoes.  Beyond, from the very base of the window, as it
seemed, there stretched the huge expanse of the deep blue sea, its
soothing mass of colour broken only by a few white leaning sails upon
the furthest horizon.  Along the sky-line the white clouds lay in
carelessly piled cumuli, like snow thrown up from a clearing.  It was
restful and beautiful, that distant view, but just at the moment it
was the near one which interested them most.  Though they lose from
this moment onwards the sympathy of every sentimental reader, the
truth must be told that they were thoroughly enjoying their lunch.

With the wonderful adaptability of women--a hereditary faculty, which
depends upon the fact that from the beginning of time the sex has
been continually employed in making the best of situations which were
not of their own choosing--Maude carried off her new character easily
and gracefully.  In her trim blue serge dress and sailor hat, with
the warm tint of yesterday's sun upon her cheeks, she was the very
picture of happy and healthy womanhood.  Frank was also in a blue
serge boating-suit, which was appropriate enough, for they spent most
of their time upon the water, as a glance at his hands would tell.
Their conversation was unhappily upon a very much lower plane than
when we overheard them last.

'I've got such an appetite!'

'So have I, Frank.'

'Capital.  Have another cutlet.'

'Thank you, dear.'

'Potatoes?'

'Please.'

'I always thought that people on their honeymoon lived on love.'

'Yes, isn't it dreadful, Frank?  We must be so material.'

'Good old mother Nature!  Cling on to her skirt and you never lose
your way.  One wants a healthy physical basis for a healthy spiritual
emotion.  Might I trouble you for the pickles?'

'Are you happy, Frank?'

'Absolutely and completely.'

'Quite, QUITE sure?'

'I never was quite so sure of anything.'

'It makes me so happy to hear you say so.'

'And you?'

'O Frank, I am just floating upon golden clouds in a dream.  But your
poor hands!  Oh, how they must pain you!'

'Not a bit.'

'It was that heavy oar.'

'I get no practice at rowing.  There is no place to row in at Woking,
unless one used the canal.  But it was worth a blister or two.  By
Jove, wasn't it splendid, coming back in the moonlight with that
silver lane flickering on the water in front of us?  We were so
completely alone.  We might have been up in the interstellar spaces,
you and I, travelling from Sirius to Arcturus in one of those
profound gulfs of the void which Hardy talks about.  It was
overpowering.'

'I can never forget it.'

'We'll go again to-night.'

'But the blisters!'

'Hang the blisters!  And we'll take some bait with us and try to
catch something.'

'What fun!'

'And we'll drive to Rottingdean this afternoon, if you feel inclined.
Have this last cutlet, dear!'

'No, thank you.'

'Well, it seems a pity to waste it.  Here goes!  By the way, Maude, I
must speak very severely to you.  I can't if you look at me like
that.  But really, joking apart, you must be more careful before the
waiters.'

'Why, dear?'

'Well, we have carried it off splendidly so far.  No one has found us
out yet, and no one will if we are reasonably careful.  The fat
waiter is convinced that we are veterans.  But last night at dinner
you very nearly gave the thing away.'

'Did I, Frank?'

'Don't look so sweetly penitent, you blessing.  The fact is that you
make a shocking bad conspirator.  Now I have a kind of talent for
that, as I have for every other sort of depravity, so it will be
pretty safe in my hands.  You are as straight as a line by nature,
and you can't be crooked when you try.'

'But what did I say?  Oh, I AM so sorry!  I tried to be so careful.'

'Well, about the curry, you know.  It was an error of judgment to ask
if I took chutnee.  And then . . . '

'Something else?'

'About the boots.  Did I get them in London or Woking.'

'Oh dear, dear!'

'And then . . . '

'Not another!  O Frank!'

'Well, the use of the word "my."  You must give that word up.  It
should be "our."'

'I know, I know.  It was when I said that the salt water had taken
the curl out of the feather in my--no, in our--well, in THE hat.'

'That was all right.  But it is OUR luggage, you know, and OUR room,
and so on.'

'Of course it is.  How foolish I am!  Then the waiter knows!  O
Frank, what shall we do?'

'Not he.  He knows nothing.  I am sure of it.  He is a dull sort of
person.  I had my eye on him all the time.  Besides, I threw in a few
remarks just to set the thing right.'

'That was when you spoke about our travels in the Tyrol?'

'Yes.'

'O Frank, how COULD you?  And you said how lonely it was when we were
the only visitors at the Swiss hotel.'

'That was an inspiration.  That finished him.'

'And about the closeness of the Atlantic staterooms.  I blushed to
hear you.'

'But he listened eagerly to it all.  I could see it.'

'I wonder if he really believed it.  I have noticed that the maids
and the waiters seem to look at us with a certain interest.'

'My dear girlie, you will find as you go through life that every man
will always look at you with a certain interest.'

Maude smiled, but was unconvinced.

'Cheese, dear?'

'A little butter, please.'

'Some butter, waiter, and the Stilton.  You know the real fact is,
that we make the mistake of being much too nice to each other in
public.  Veterans don't do that.  They take the small courtesies for
granted--which is all wrong, but it shows that they ARE veterans.
That is where we give ourselves away.'

'That never occurred to me.'

'If you want to settle that waiter for ever, and remove the last
lingering doubt from his mind, the thing is for you to be rude to
me.'

'Or you to me, Frank.'

'Sure you won't mind?'

'Not a bit.'

'Oh, hang it, I can't--not even for so good an object.'

'Well, then, I can't either.'

'But this is absurd.  It is only acting.'

'Quite so.  It is only fun.'

'Then why won't you do it?'

'Why won't you?'

'He'll be back before we settle it.  Look here!  I've a shilling
under my hand.  Heads or tails, and the loser has to be rude.  Do you
agree?'

'Very well.'

'Your call.'

'Heads.'

'It's tails.'

'Oh goodness!'

'You've got to be rude.  Now mind you are.  Here he comes.'

The waiter had come up the room bearing the pride of the hotel, the
grand green Stilton with the beautiful autumn leaf heart shading away
to rich plum-coloured cavities.  He placed it on the table with a
solemn air.

'It's a beautiful Stilton,' Frank remarked.

Maude tried desperately to be rude.

'Well, dear, I don't think it is so very beautiful,' was the best
that she could do.

It was not much, but it had a surprising effect upon the waiter.  He
turned and hurried away.

'There now, you've shocked him?' cried Frank.

'Where HAS he gone, Frank?'

'To complain to the management about your language.'

'No, Frank.  Please tell me!  Oh, I wish I hadn't been so rude.  Here
he is again.'

'All right.  Sit tight,' said Frank.

A sort of procession was streaming up the hall.  There was their fat
waiter in front with a large covered cheese-dish.  Behind him was
another with two smaller ones, and a third with some yellow powder
upon a plate was bringing up the rear.

'This is Gorgonzola, main,' said the waiter, with a severe manner.
'And there's Camembert and Gruyere behind, and powdered Parmesan as
well.  I'm sorry that the Stilton don't give satisfaction.'

Maude helped herself to Gorgonzola and looked very guilty and
uncomfortable.  Frank began to laugh.

'I meant you to be rude to ME, not to the cheese,' said he, when the
procession had withdrawn.

'I did my best, Frank.  I contradicted you.'

'Oh, it was a shocking display of temper.'

'And I hurt the poor waiter's feelings.'

'Yes, you'll have to apologise to his Stilton before he will forgive
you.'

'And I don't believe he is a bit more convinced that we are veterans
than he was before.'

'All right, dear; leave him to me.  Those reminiscences of mine must
have settled him.  If they didn't, then I feel it is hopeless.'

It was as well for his peace of mind that Frank could not hear the
conversation between the fat waiter and their chambermaid, for whom
he nourished a plethoric attachment.  They had half an hour off in
the afternoon, and were comparing notes.

'Nice-lookin' couple, ain't they, John?' said the maid, with the air
of an expert.  'I don't know as we've 'ad a better since the spring
weddin's.'

'I don't know as I'd go as far as that,' said the fat waiter
critically.  ''E'd pass all right.  'E's an upstandin' young man with
a good sperrit in 'im.'

'What's wrong with 'er, then?'

'It's a matter of opinion,' said the waiter.  'I likes 'em a bit more
full-flavoured myself.  And as to 'er taste, why there, if you 'ad
seen 'er turn up 'er nose at the Stilton at lunch.'

'Turn up 'er nose, did she?  Well, she seemed to me a very soft-
spoken, obligin' young lady.'

'So she may be, but they're a queer couple, I tell you.  It's as well
they are married at last.'

'Why?'

'Because they 'ave been goin' on most owdacious before'and.  I 'ave
it from their own lips, and it fairly made me blush to listen to it.
Awful, it was, AWFUL!'

'You don't say that, John!'

'I tell you, Jane, I couldn't 'ardly believe my ears.  They was
married on Tuesday last, as we know well, and to-day's Times to prove
it, and yet if you'll believe me, they was talkin' about 'ow they 'ad
travelled alone abroad--'

'Never, John!'

'And alone in a Swiss 'otel!'

'My goodness!'

'And a steamer too.'

'Well, there!  I'll never trust any one again.'

'Oh, a perfec' pair of scorchers.  But I'll let 'im see as I knows
it.  I'll put that Times before 'im to-night at dinner as sure as my
name's John.'

'And a good lesson to them, too!  If you didn't say you'd 'eard it
from their own lips, John, I never could 'ave believed it.  It's
things like that as shakes your trust in 'uman nature.'

Maude and Frank were lingering at the table d'hote over their walnuts
and a glass of port wine, when their waiter came softly behind them.

'Beg pardon, sir, but did you see it in the Times?'

'See what?'

'THAT, sir.  I thought that it might be of interest to you and to
your good lady to see it.'

He had laid one page of the paper before them, with his forefinger
upon an item in the left-hand top corner.  Then he discreetly
withdrew.  Frank stared at it in horror.

'Maude, your people have gone and put it in.'

'Our marriage!'

'Here it is!  Listen!  "Crosse--Selby.  30th June, at St. Monica's
Church, by the Rev. John Tudwell, M.A., Vicar of St. Monica's, Frank
Crosse, of Maybury Road, Woking, to Maude Selby, eldest daughter of
Robert Selby, Esq., of St. Albans."  Great Scot, Maude! what shall we
do?'

'Well, dear, does it matter?'

'Matter!  It's simply awful!'

'I don't mind much if they do know.'

'But my reminiscences, Maude!  The travels in the Tyrol!  The Swiss
Hotel!  The Stateroom!  Great goodness, how I have put my foot into
it.'

Maude burst out laughing.

'You old dear!' she cried, 'I don't believe you are a bit better as a
conspirator than I am.  There's only one thing you can do.  Give the
waiter half a crown, tell him the truth, and don't conspire any
more.'

And so ignominiously ended the attempt which so many have made, and
at which so many have failed.  Take warning, gentle reader, and you
also, gentler reader still, when your own turn comes.



CHAPTER VIII--THE HOME-COMING



The days of holiday were over, and for each of them the duties of
life were waiting.  For him it was his work, and for her, her
housekeeping.  They both welcomed the change, for there was a rush
and a want of privacy about the hotel life which had been amusing at
first, but was now becoming irksome.  It was pleasant, as they rolled
out of Waterloo Station that summer night, to know that their cosy
little home was awaiting them just five-and-twenty miles down the
line.  They had a first-class carriage to themselves--it is
astonishing how easy it is for two people to fit into one of those
armchair partitions,--and they talked all the way down about their
plans for the future.  Golden visions of youth, how they can glorify
even a suburban villa and four hundred a year!  They exulted together
over the endless vista of happy days which stretched before them.

Mrs. Watson, Frank's trusty housekeeper, had been left in charge of
The Lindens, and he had sent her a telegram the evening before to
tell her that they were coming.  She had already engaged the two
servants, so everything would be ready for them.  They pictured her
waiting at the door, the neat little rooms with all their useful
marriage-presents in their proper places, the lamplight and the snowy
cloth laid for supper in the dining-room.  It would be ten o'clock
before they got there, and that supper would be a welcome sight.  It
was all delightful to look forward to, and this last journey was the
happiest of all their wanderings.  Maude wanted to see her kitchen.
Frank wanted to see his books.  Both were eager for the fight.

But they found a small annoyance waiting for them at Woking.  A
crowded train had preceded them, and there was not a single cab left
at the station.  Some would be back soon, but nobody could tell when.

'You don't mind walking, Maude?'

'I should prefer it.'

So a friendly porter took charge of their trunks, and promised to
send them up when a conveyance had arrived.  In the meantime they
started off together down an ill-lit and ill-kept road, which opened
into that more important thoroughfare in which their own villa was
situated.  They walked quickly, full of eager anticipations.

'It's just past the third lamp-post on the right,' said Frank.  'Now
it's only the second lamp-post.  You see it will not be far from the
station.  Those windows among the trees are where Hale lives--my best
man, you know!  Now it is only one lamp-post!'  They quickened their
pace almost to a run, and so arrived at the gate of The Lindens.

It was a white gate leading into a short path--'carriage sweep' the
house-agent called it,--and so to a low but comfortable-looking
little house.  The night was so dark that one could only see its
outline.  To their surprise, there was no sign of a light either
above the door or at any of the windows.

'Well, I'm blessed!' cried Frank.

'Never mind, dear.  They live at the back, no doubt.'

'But I gave them the hour.  This is too bad.  I am so sorry.'

'It will be all the more cosy inside.  What a dear little gate this
is!  The whole place is perfectly charming.'

But in spite of her brave attempts at making the best of it, it could
not be denied that this black house was not what they had pictured in
their dreams.  Frank strode angrily up the path and pulled at the
bell.  There was no answer, so he knocked violently.  Then he knocked
with one hand while he rang with the other, but no sound save that of
the clanging bell came from the gloomy house.  As they stood
forlornly in front of their own hall-door, a soft rain began to
rustle amidst the bushes.  At this climax of their troubles Maude
burst into such a quiet, hearty, irresistible fit of laughter, that
the angry Frank was forced to laugh also.

'My word, it will be no laughing matter for Mrs. Watson if she cannot
give a good reason for it,' said he.

'Perhaps the poor woman is ill.'

'But there should be two other people, the cook and the housemaid.
It is just as well that we did not bring up our trunks, or we should
have had to dump them down in the front garden.  You wait here, dear,
under the shelter of the porch, and I will walk round and see if I
can burgle it.'

He tried the back, but it was as dark as the front, and the kitchen-
door was locked.  Then he prowled unhappily in the rain from window
to window.  They were all fastened.  He came back to the kitchen-
door, poked his stick through the glass which formed the upper panel,
and then putting his hand through the hole, he turned the key, and so
stumbled into the obscurity of his own hall.  He passed through it,
unlocked the front door, and received Maude into his open arms.

'Welcome to your home, my own darling girl.  May you never have one
sad hour under this roof!  What a dismal home-coming!  What can I do
to make amends?  But good comes out of evil, you see, for in no other
possible way could I have been inside to welcome you when you
entered.'

They stayed in the hall in the dark some time, these wet and foolish
young people.  Then Frank struck a match, and tried to light the
hall-lamp.  There was no oil in it.  He muttered something vigorous,
and carried his burning vesta into the dining-room.  Two candles were
standing on the sideboard.  He lit them both, and things began to
look a little more cheerful.  They took a candle each and began to
explore their own deserted house.

The dining-room was excellent--small, but very snug.  The Tantalus
spirit-stand--stood upon the walnut sideboard, and the bronzes from
the cricket-club looked splendid upon each side of the mantelpiece.
Beside the clock in the centre lay an open telegram.  Frank seized it
eagerly.

'There now!' he cried.  'Listen to this.  "Expect us on Thursday
evening about ten."  It was TUESDAY evening, I said.  That's the
telegraphic clerk.  We've come two days before our time.'

It was good to have any sort of explanation, although it left a great
deal unexplained.  They passed through the hall with its shining
linoleum, and into the drawing-room.  It was not a very good room,
too square for elegance, but they were in no humour for criticism,
and it was charming to see all the old knick-knacks, and the
photographs of friends in their frames.  A big wrought-iron and
brass-work standing lamp towered up near the fireplace, but again
there was no oil.

'I think that Mrs. Watson has arranged it all splendidly,' said
Maude, whose active fingers were already beginning to reconstruct.
'But where can she be?'

'She must be out, for, of course, she lives in the house.  But it is
the absence of the servants which amazes me, for I understood that
they had arrived.  What would you like to do?'

'Aren't you hungry, Frank?'

'Simply starving.'

'So am I.'

'Well, then, let us forage and see if we cannot find something to
eat.'

So hand in hand, and each with a candle in the other hand, like a
pair of young penitents, they continued their explorations with more
purpose than before.  The kitchen, into which they penetrated, had
clearly been much used of late, for there were dirty dishes scattered
about, and the fire had been lighted, though it was now out.  In one
corner was what seemed to be a pile of drab-coloured curtains.  In
the other, an armchair lay upon its side with legs projecting.  A
singular disorder, very alien to Mrs. Watson's habits, pervaded the
apartment.  A dresser with a cupboard over it claimed the first
attention of the hungry pair.  With a cheer from Frank and hand-
clapping from Maude, they brought out a new loaf of bread, some
butter, some cheese, a tin of cocoa, and a bowl full of eggs.  Maude
tied an apron over her pretty russet dress, seized some sticks and
paper, and had a fire crackling in a very few minutes.

'Put some water in the kettle, Frank.'

'Here you are!  Anything else?'

'Some in the small saucepan for the eggs.'

'I believe they are "cookers,"' said he, sniffing at them
suspiciously.

'Hold them up to the light, sir.  There, they are quite bright and
nice.  In with them!  Now, if you will cut some bread and butter it,
we shall soon have our supper ready.'

'It's too new to cut,' cried Frank, sawing away upon the kitchen
table.  'Besides, new bread is better in chunks.  Here are some
cloths and knives and forks in the dresser drawer.  I will go and lay
the table.'

'And leave me here alone.  No please, Frank, if I am cook, you must
be scullery-maid.  Get the cups down and put the cocoa in them.  What
fun it all is!  I think it is simply SPLENDID to be mistress of a
house.'

'With one scullery-maid.'

'And she perfectly incompetent, and much given to embracing her
mistress.  I must take my hat off.  Get the sugar for the cocoa out
of the cupboard.  The kettle is singing, so it won't be long.  Do you
know, Frank'--she paused, listening, with the egg-saucepan in her
hands.  'There's a dog or something in the room.'

They had both become aware of a sort of sibilant breathing, and they
looked round them in bewilderment.

'Where is it?' asked Maude.  'Frank, I believe it's a mouse.'

'Hope for the best.  Don't frighten yourself unnecessarily.  I fancy
it comes from under these curtains.'  He approached them with his
candle, and was suddenly aware of a boot which was projecting from
them.  'Great Scot!' he cried, 'there's a woman here asleep.'

Reassured as to the mouse, Maude approached with her saucepan still
clutched in her hand.  There could be no doubt either as to the woman
or the sleep.  She lay in an untidy heap, her head under the table,
and her figure sprawling.  She appeared to be a very large woman.

'Hullo!' cried Frank, shaking her by the shoulder.  'Hullo, you
there!'

But the woman slumbered peacefully on.

'Heh, wake up, wake up!' he shouted, and pulled her up into a sitting
position.  But she slept as soundly sitting as lying.

'The poor thing must be ill,' said Maude.  'O Frank, shall I run for
a doctor?'

'Wake up, woman, wake up!' Frank yelled, and danced her up and down.
She flopped about like a sawdust doll, with her arms swinging in
front of her.  He panted with his exertions, but she was serenely
unconscious.  At last he had to lower her on to the floor again,
putting a footstool under her head.

'It's no go,' said he.  'I can make nothing of her.  She will sleep
it off.'

'You don't mean to say, Frank, that she is--'

'Indeed I do.'

'How horrible!'

'That kettle is boiling now.  Suppose we have our supper.'

'Dear Frank, I could not enjoy my supper with that unfortunate woman
lying there.  O Frank, I know that you could not either.'

'Bless her!' said Frank bitterly, as he gazed at the inert lump.  'I
really don't see why we should put ourselves out for her.  She is
quite comfortable.'

'Oh I couldn't, Frank.  It would seem inhuman.'

'What are we to do, then?'

'We must put her to bed.'

'Great heavens!'

'Yes, dear, it is our duty to put her to bed.'

'But look here, my dear girl, we must be practical.  The woman weighs
half a ton, and the bedrooms are at the top of the house.  It's
simply impossible.'

'Don't you think, Frank, that if you took her head and I took her
feet, we might get her up?'

'Not up the stair, dear.  She is enormous.'

'Well, then, on to the drawing-room sofa,' said Maude.  'I could have
my supper, if I knew that she was safe upon the sofa.'

So Frank, seeing that there was no help for it, seized her under the
arms, and Maude took her ankles, and they bore her, bulging but
serene, down the passage.  They staggered exhausted into the drawing-
room, and the new sofa groaned beneath the weight.  It was a curious
and unsavoury inaugural ceremony.  Maude put a rug over the prostrate
form, and they returned to their boiling kettle and their uncooked
eggs.  Then they laid the table, and served the supper, and enjoyed
this picnic meal of their own creating as no conventional meal could
ever have been enjoyed.  Everything seemed beautiful to the young
wife--the wall-paper, the pictures, the carpet, the rug; but to him,
she was so beautiful in mind, and soul, and body, that her presence
turned the little room into an enchanted chamber.  They sat long
together, and marvelled at their own happiness--that pure serene
happiness of mere companionship, which is so much more intimate and
deeper than all the transports of passion.

But suddenly he sprang from his chair.  There was the sound of steps,
of several steps, outside upon the gravel path.  Then a key clicked,
and a burst of cold air told them that the door was open.

'It's agin' the law for me to enter,' said a gruff voice.

'I tell you she's very strong and violent,' said a second voice,
which Frank recognised as that of Mrs. Watson.  'She chased the maid
out of the house, and I can do nothing with her.'

'Very sorry, mum, but it's clean agin' the law of England.  Give me a
warrant, and in I come.  If you will bring her to the doorstep, I
will be answerable for her removal.'

'She's in the dining-room.  I can see the lights,' said Mrs. Watson;
and then, 'Good Lord, Mr. Crosse, what a fright you gave me!  Oh dear
me, that you should have come when I was out, and I not expecting you
for another two days yet.  Well, now, I shall never forgive myself
for this.'

But all the mistakes and misfortunes were very quickly explained.
The telegram was the root of the evil.  And then the new cook had
proved to be a violent, intermittent drunkard.  She had chased the
other maid out of the house, and then, while Mrs. Watson rushed for
the police, she had drunk herself into the stupor in which she had
been found.  But now, in the nick of time, the station cab came up
with the luggage, and so the still placidly slumbering culprit was
carried out to it, and sent off in the charge of the policeman.  Such
was the first entry of Mr. and Mrs. Crosse into their home at The
Lindens.



CHAPTER IX--LAYING A COURSE



Frank Crosse was a methodical young man--his enemies might sometimes
have called him pedantic,--and he loved to reduce his life to rule
and order.  It was one of his peculiarities.  But how about this new
life into which he was entering?  It took two to draw up the rules
for that.  The little two-oared craft who put out upon that voyage
have to lay their own course, each for itself; and all round them, as
they go, they see the floating timbers and broken keels of other
little boats, which had once started out full of hope and confidence.
There are currents and eddies, low sand-banks and sunken reefs, and
happy the crews who see them ahead, and trim their course to avoid
them.  Frank brooded over it all.  He had seen something of life, for
his years.  He was observant and reflective.  He had watched his
friends who were happy, and he had watched his friends who were not.
And now, as a result of all this wise cogitation, he sat down at a
table one evening, with a solemn face, and a sheet of foolscap.

'Now, Maude,' said he, 'I want to have a serious talk.'

Maude looked up in surprise from the linen which she was marking.

'Oh dear!' she cried.

'Why "oh dear"?'

'There's something wrong?'

'Nothing in the world.'

'You looked so solemn, Frank.  I thought you had been looking at the
tradesman's books.  What is it, dear?'

'Well, Maude, I have been thinking of married life in general.  Don't
you think it would be a good thing if we were to make some
resolutions as to how it should be conducted--some fundamental
principles, as it were?'

'Oh do, dear, do!  What fun it will be!'

'But it's serious, Maude.'

'Yes, dear, I am quite serious.'

'It seemed to me, that if we could reduce it to certain rules, then,
whatever came upon us in the future, we should always know exactly
how to act.'

'What are the rules, dear?'

'Well, we can only arrive at them by talking it over between
ourselves.  I could not draw up a set of rules, and ask you to submit
to them.  That is not my idea of a partnership.  But if we found that
we were agreed upon certain points, then we could both adopt them by
mutual consent.'

'How charming, Frank!  Do please tell me some of the points.'

'I have a few in my mind, and I should like to hear any which you may
have--any ideas, you know, how to get the very highest and best out
of our life.  Now, first of all, there is the subject of
quarrelling.'

'O Frank, how horrid!'

'Dear girl, we must look into the future.  We are going to live all
our lives together.  We must foresee and prepare for all the chances
of life.'

'But that is absurd.'

'You can't live all your life and never be in a bad temper!'

'But not with YOU, Frank.'

'Oh, I can be very aggravating sometimes.  Now, my idea is this.
Ill-humour passes and hurts nobody.  But if two people are ill-
humoured, then each excites the other, and they say ever so much more
than they mean.  Let us make a compact never both to be ill-humoured
at the same time.  If YOU are cross, then it is your turn, and I
stand clear.  If _I_ am cross, you let me work it off.  When either
hoists the danger-signal, the other is on guard.  What do you think
of that?'

'I think you are the funniest old boy--'

'Do you agree?'

'Yes, dear, of course I agree.'

'Article number one,' said Frank, and scribbled upon his paper.

'Your turn, now.'

'No, dear, I have not thought of anything.'

'Well, then, here is another point.  Never take each other for
granted.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'Never relax those attentions which one lover shows to another.  Some
husbands seem to forget that their wives are ladies.  Some wives
speak to their husbands with less courtesy and consideration than to
any casual male visitor.  They mean no harm, but they get into a
slack way.  We must not do that.'

'I don't think we are likely to.'

'People get into it unconsciously.  Pull me up sharply at the first
sign.'

'Yes, sir, I will.'

'The next point that I have noted is an extension of the last.  Let
each strive to be worthy of the love of the other.  People get
slovenly and slipshoddy, as if it didn't matter now that they were
married.  If each were very keen to please the other, that would not
be so.  How many women neglect their music after marriage.'

'My goodness, I haven't practised for a week!' cried Maude.

'And their dress and their hair'--Maude's hand flew up to her curls.
'My darling, yours is just perfect.  But you know how often a woman
grows careless.  "He will love me anyhow," she says to herself, and
perhaps she is right, but still it is not as it should be.'

'Why, Frank, I had no idea you knew so much.'

'I have heard my friends' experiences.--And the man too:  he should
consider his wife's feelings as much as he did his sweetheart's.  If
she dislikes smoke, he should not smoke.  He should not yawn in her
presence.  He should keep himself well-groomed and attractive.  Look
at that dirty cuff!  I have no business to have it.'

'As if it could make any difference to me.'

'There now!  That is what is so demoralising.  You should stand out
for the highest.  When I came to you at St Albans, I had not dirty
cuffs.'

'You forgive me the music, Frank, and I'll forgive you the cuff.  But
I agree to all you say.  I think it is so wise and good.  Now I've
got something to add.'

'Good.  What is it?'

'Each should take an interest in the other's department.'

'Why, of course they should.'

'But it is not done.'

'Why naturally, dear, you take an interest in my City work.'

'Yes, sir, but do you take as keen an interest in my housekeeping?'

'Perhaps I have been a little thoughtless.'

'No, no, dear, you haven't.  You are always full of consideration.
But I have noticed it with mother, and with others also.  The husband
pulls out his cheque-book at the end of the week or month, and he
says, "Well, this is rather more than we can afford," or "This is
less than I expected," but he never really takes any interest in his
wife's efforts to keep things nice on a little.  He does not see it
with her eyes and try to realise her difficulties.  Oh, I wish I
could express myself better, but I know that the interest is one-
sided.'

'I think what you say is quite right.  I'll try to remember that.
How shall we enter it upon our list?'

'That Interests should be mutual.'

'Quite right.  I have it down.  Well, any more points?'

'It is your turn.'

'Well, there is this, and I feel that it is just the holiest thing in
matrimony, and its greatest justification--that love should never
degenerate into softness, that each should consciously stimulate the
better part of the other and discourage the worse, that there should
be a discipline in our life, and that we should brace each other up
to a higher ideal.  The love that says, "I know it is wrong, but I
love him or her so much that I can't refuse," is a poor sort of love
for the permanent use of married life.  The self-respect which
refuses to let the most lofty ideal of love down by an inch is a far
nobler thing, and it wears better too.'

'How will you express all that?'

'Mutual respect is necessary for mutual love.'

'Yes, I am sure that that is right.'

'It sounds obvious, but the very intensity of love makes love soft
and blind.  Now I have another, which I am convinced that you will
not agree with.'

'Let me hear it.'

'I have put it in this way, "The tight cord is the easiest to snap."'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, I mean that married couples should give each other a certain
latitude and freedom.  If they don't, one or other will sooner or
later chafe at the restriction.  It is only human nature, which is an
older and more venerable thing than marriage.'

'I don't like that at all, Frank.'

'I feared you wouldn't, dear, but I believe you'll see it with me
when I explain what I mean.  If you don't, then I must try to see it
with you.  When one talks of freedom in married life, it means, as a
rule, freedom only for the man.  He does what he likes, but still
claims to be a strict critic of his wife.  That, I am sure, is wrong.
To take an obvious example of what I mean, has a husband a right to
read his wife's letters?  Certainly not, any more than she has a
right to read his without his permission.  To read them as a matter
of course would be stretching the chain too tight.'

'Chain is a horrid word, Frank.'

'Well, it is only a metaphor.  Or take the subject of friendships.
Is a married man to be debarred from all friendship and intimacy with
another woman?'

Maude looked doubtful.

'I should like to see the woman first,' she said.

'Or is a married woman to form no friendship with another man who
might interest or improve her?  There is such a want of mutual
confidence in such a view.  People who are sure of each other should
give each other every freedom in that.  If they don't, they are again
stretching it tight.'

'If they do, it may become so slack that it might as well not be
there at all.'

'I felt sure that we should have an argument over this.  But I have
seen examples.  Look at the Wardrops.  THERE were a couple who were
never apart.  It was their boast that everything was in common with
them.  If he was not in, she opened his letters, and he hers.  And
then there came a most almighty smash.  The tight cord had snapped.
Now, I believe that for some people, it is a most excellent thing
that they should take their holidays at different times.'

'O Frank!'

'Yes, I do.  No, not for us, by Jove!  I am generalising now.  But
for some couples, I am sure that it is right.  They reconsider each
other from a distance, and they like each other the better.'

'Yes, but these rules are for our guidance, not for that of other
people.'

'Quite right, dear.  I was off the rails.  "As you were," as your
brother Jack would say.  But I am afraid that I am not going to
convince you over this point.'

Maude looked charmingly mutinous.

'No, Frank, you are not.  I don't think marriage can be too close.  I
believe that every hope, and thought, and aspiration should be in
common.  I could never get as near to your heart and soul as I should
wish to do.  I want every year to draw me closer and closer, until we
really are as nearly the same person as it is possible to be upon
earth.'

When you have to surrender, it is well to do so gracefully.  Frank
stooped down and kissed his wife's hand, and apologised.  'The wisdom
of the heart is greater than the wisdom of the brain,' said he.  But
the love of man comes from the brain, far more than the love of
woman, and so it is that there will always be some points upon which
they will never quite see alike.

'Then we scratch out that item.'

'No, dear.  'Put "The cord which is held tight is the easiest to
snap."  That will be all right.  The cord of which I speak is never
held at all.  The moment it is necessary to hold it, it is of no
value.  It must be voluntary, natural, unavoidable.'

So Frank amended his aphorism.

'Anything more, dear?'

'Yes, I have thought of one other,' said she.  'It is that if ever
you had to find fault with me about anything, it should be when we
are alone.'

'And the same in your case with me.  That is excellent.  What can be
more vulgar and degrading than a public difference of opinion?
People do it half in fun sometimes, but it is wrong all the same.
Duly entered upon the minutes.  Anything else?'

'Only material things.'

'Yes, but they count also.  Now, in the matter of money, I feel that
every husband should allow his wife a yearly sum of her own, to be
paid over to her, and kept by her, so that she may make her own
arrangements for herself.  It is degrading to a woman to have to
apply to her husband every time she wants a sovereign.  On the other
hand, if the wife has any money, she should have the spending of it.
If she chooses to spend part of it in helping the establishment, that
is all right, but I am sure that she should have her own separate
account, and her own control of it.'

'If a woman really loves a man, Frank, how can she grudge him
everything she has?  If my little income would take one worry from
your mind, what a joy it would be to me to feel that you were using
it!'

'Yes, but the man has his self-respect to think of.  In a great
crisis one might fall back upon one's wife--since our interests are
the same, but only that could justify it.  So much for the wife's
money.  Now for the question of housekeeping.'

'That terrible question!'

'It is only hard because people try to do so much upon a little.  Why
should they try to do so much?  The best pleasures of life are
absolutely inexpensive.  Books, music, pleasant intimate evenings,
the walk among the heather, the delightful routine of domestic life,
my cricket and my golf--these things cost very little.'

'But you must eat and drink, Frank.  And as to Jemima and the cook,
it is really extraordinary the amount which they consume.'

'But the tendency is for meals to become much too elaborate.  Why
that second vegetable?'

'There now!  I knew that you were going to say something against that
poor vegetable.  It costs so little.'

'On an average, I have no doubt that it costs threepence a day.  Come
now, confess that it does.  Do you know what threepence a day comes
to in a year?  There is no use in having an accountant for a husband,
if you can't get at figures easily.  It is four pounds eleven
shillings and threepence.'

'It does not seem very much.'

'But for that money, and less, one could become a member of the
London Library, with the right to take out fifteen books at a time,
and all the world's literature to draw from.  Now just picture it:
on one side, all the books in the world, all the words of the wise,
and great, and witty; on the other side, a lot of cauliflowers and
vegetable-marrows and French beans.  Which is the better bargain?'

'Good gracious, we shall never have a second vegetable again!'

'And pudding?'

'My dear, you always eat the pudding.'

'I know I do.  It seems an obvious thing to do when the pudding is
there in front of me.  But if it were not there, I should neither eat
it nor miss it, and I know that you care nothing about it.  There
would be another five or six pounds a year.'

'We'll have a compromise, dear.  Second vegetable one day, pudding
the next.'

'Very good.'

'I notice that it is always after you have had a substantial meal
that you discuss economy in food.  I wonder if you will feel the same
when you come back starving from the City to-morrow?  Now, sir, any
other economy?'

'I don't think money causes happiness.  But debt causes unhappiness.
And so we must cut down every expense until we have a reserve fund to
meet any unexpected call.  If you see any way in which I could save,
or any money I spend which you think is unjustifiable, I do wish that
you would tell me.  I got into careless ways in my bachelor days.'

'That red golfing-coat.'

'I know.  It was idiotic of me.'

'Never mind, dear.  You look very nice in it.  After all, it was only
thirty shillings.  Can you show me any extravagance of mine?'

'Well, dear, I looked at that dressmaker's bill yesterday.'

'O Frank, it is such a pretty dress, and you said you liked it, and
you have to pay for a good cut, and you said yourself that a wife
must not become dowdy after marriage, and it would have cost double
as much in Regent Street.'

'I didn't think the dress dear.'

'What was it, then?'

'The silk lining of the skirt.'

'You funny boy!'

'It cost thirty shillings extra.  Now, what can it matter if it is
lined with silk or not?'

'Oh, doesn't it?  Just you try one and see.'

'But no one can know that it is lined with silk.'

'When I rustle into a room, dear, every woman in it knows that my
skirt is lined with silk.'

Frank felt that he had ventured out of his depth, so he struck out
for land again.

'There's only one economy which I don't think is justifiable,' said
he, 'and that is, to cut down your subscriptions to charities.  It is
such a very cheap way of doing things.  Not that I do much in that
line--too little, perhaps.  But to say that because WE want to
economise, therefore some poor people are to suffer, is a very poor
argument.  We must save at our own expense.'

So now Frank, in his methodical fashion, had all his results
tabulated upon his sheet of foolscap.  It was not a very brilliant
production, but it might serve as a chart for the little two-oared
boats until a better one is forthcoming.  It ran in this way -


Maxims for the Married

1.  Since you ARE married, you may as well make the best of it.

2.  So make some maxims and try to live up to them.

3.  And don't be discouraged if you fail.  You WILL fail, but perhaps
you won't always fail.

4.  Never both be cross at the same time.  Wait your turn.

5.  Never cease to be lovers.  If you cease, some one else may begin.

6.  You were gentleman and lady before you were husband and wife.
Don't forget it.

7.  Keep yourself at your best.  It is a compliment to your partner.

8.  Keep your ideal high.  You may miss it, but it is better to miss
a high one than to hit a low one.

9.  A blind love is a foolish love.  Encourage the best in each
other's nature.

10.  Permanent mutual respect is necessary for a permanent mutual
love.  A woman can love without respect, but a man cannot.

11.  The tight cord is the easiest to snap.

12.  Let there be one law for both.

13.  There is only one thing worse than quarrels in public.  That is
caresses.

14.  Money is not essential to happiness, but happy people usually
have enough.

15.  So save some.

16.  The easiest way of saving is to do without things.

17.  If you can't, then you had better do without a wife.

18.  The man who respects his wife does not turn her into a
mendicant.  Give her a purse of her own.

19.  If you save, save at your own expense.

20.  In all matters of money, prepare always for the worst and hope
for the best.


Such was their course as far as this ambitious young couple could lay
it.  They may correct it by experience, and improve it by use, but it
is good enough to guide them safely out to sea.



CHAPTER X--CONFESSIONS



'Tell me, Frank, did you ever love any one before me?'

'How badly trimmed the lamp is to-night!' said he.  It was so bad
that he went off instantly into the dining-room to get another.  It
was some time before he returned.

She waited inexorably until he had settled down again.

'Did you, Frank?' she asked.

'Did I what?'

'Ever love any one else?'

'My dear Maude, what IS the use of asking questions like that?'

'You said that there were no secrets between us.'

'No, but there are some things better left alone.'

'That is what I should call a secret.'

'Of course, if you make a point of it--'

'I do.'

'Well, then, I am ready to answer anything that you ask.  But you
must not blame me if you do not like my answers.'

'Who was she, Frank?'

'Which?'

'O Frank, more than one!'

'I told you that you would not like it.'

'Oh, I wish I had not asked you!'

'Then do let us drop it.'

'No, I can't drop it now, Frank.  You have gone too far.  You must
tell me everything.'

'Everything?'

'Yes, everything, Frank.'

'I am not sure that I can.'

'Is it so dreadful as that?'

'No, there is another reason.'

'Do tell me, Frank.'

'There is a good deal of it.  You know how a modern poet excused
himself to his wife for all his pre-matrimonial experiences.  He said
that he was looking for her.'

'Well, I do like that!' she cried indignantly.

'I was looking for you.'

'You seem to have looked a good deal.'

'But I found you at last.'

'I had rather you had found me at first, Frank.'  He said something
about supper, but she was not to be turned.

'How many did you really love?' she asked.  'Please don't joke about
it, Frank.  I really want to know.'

'If I choose to tell you a lie--'

'But you won't!'

'No, I won't.  I could never feel the same again.'

'Well, then, how many did you love?'

'Don't exaggerate what I say, Maude, or take it to heart.  You see it
depends upon what you mean by love.  There are all sorts and degrees
of love, some just the whim of a moment, and others the passion of a
lifetime; some are founded on mere physical passion, and some on
intellectual sympathy, and some on spiritual affinity.'

'Which do you love me with?'

'All three.'

'Sure?'

'Perfectly sure.'

She came over and the cross-examination was interrupted.  But in a
few minutes she had settled down to it again.

'Well, now--the first?' said she.

'Oh, I can't, Maude--don't.'

'Come, sir--her name?'

'No, no, Maude, that is going a little too far.  Even to you, I
should never mention another woman's name.'

'Who was she, then?'

'Please don't let us go into details.  It is perfectly HORRIBLE.  Let
me tell things in my own way.'

She made a little grimace.

'You are wriggling, sir.  But I won't be hard upon you.  Tell it your
own way.'

'Well, in a word, Maude, I was always in love with some one.'

Her face clouded over.

'Your love must be very cheap,' said she.

'It's almost a necessity of existence for a healthy young man who has
imagination and a warm heart.  It was all--or nearly all--quite
superficial.'

'I should think all your love was superficial, if it can come so
easily.'

'Don't be cross, Maude.  I had never seen you at the time.  I owed no
duty to you.'

'You owed a duty to your own self-respect.'

'There, I knew we should have trouble over it.  What do you want to
ask such questions for?  I dare say I am a fool to be so frank.'

She sat for a little with her face quite cold and set.  In his inmost
heart Frank was glad that she should be jealous, and he watched her
out of the corner of his eye.

'Well!' said she at last.

'Must I go on?'

'Yes, I may as well hear it.'

'You'll only be cross.'

'We've gone too far to stop.  And I'm not cross, Frank.  Only pained
a little.  But I do appreciate your frankness.  I had no idea you
were such a--such a Mormon.'  She began to laugh.

'I used to take an interest in every woman.'

'"Take an interest" is good.'

'That was how it began.  And then if circumstances were favourable
the interest deepened, until at last, naturally--well, you can
understand.'

'How many did you take an interest in?'

'Well, in pretty nearly all of them.'

'And how many deepened?'

'Oh, I don't know.'

'Twenty?'

'Well--rather more than that, I think.'

'Thirty?'

'Quite thirty.'

'Forty?'

'Not more than forty, I think.'

Maude sat aghast at the depths of his depravity.

'Let me see:  you are twenty-seven now, so you have loved four women
a year since you were seventeen.'

'If you reckon it that way,' said Frank, 'I am afraid that it must
have been more than forty.'

'It's dreadful,' said Maude, and began to cry.

Frank knelt down in front of her and kissed her hands.  She had sweet
little plump hands, very soft and velvety.

'You make me feel such a brute,' said he.  'Anyhow, I love you now
with all my heart and mind and soul.'

'Forty-firstly and lastly,' she sobbed, half laughing and half
crying.  Then she pulled his hair to reassure him.

'I can't be angry with you,' said she.  'Besides, it would be
ungenerous to be angry when you tell me things of your own free will.
You are not forced to tell me.  It is very honourable of you.  But I
do wish you had taken an interest in me first.'

'Well, it was not so fated.  I suppose there are some men who are
quite good when they are bachelors.  But I don't believe they are the
best men.  They are either archangels upon earth--young Gladstones
and Newmans--or else they are cold, calculating, timid, un-virile
creatures, who will never do any good.  The first class must be
splendid.  I never met one except in memoirs.  The others I don't
want to meet.'

Women are not interested in generalities.

'Were they nicer than me?' she asked.

'Who?'

'Those forty women.'

'No, dear, of course not.  Why are you laughing?'

'Well, it came into my head how funny it would be, if the forty were
all gathered into one room, and you were turned loose in the middle
of them.'

'Funny!' Frank ejaculated.  Women have such extraordinary ideas of
humour.  Maude laughed until she was quite tired.

'It doesn't strike you as comic?' she cried at last.

'No, it doesn't,' he answered coldly.

'Of course it wouldn't,' said she, and went off into another ripple
of pretty contralto laughter.  There is a soft, deep, rich laugh,
which some women have, that is the sweetest sound in Nature.

'When you have quite finished,' said he huffily.  Her jealousy was
much more complimentary than her ridicule.

'All right now.  Don't be cross.  If I didn't laugh I should cry.
I'm so sorry if I have annoyed you.'  He had gone back to his chair,
so she paid him a flying visit.  'Satisfied?'

'Not quite.'

'Now?'

'All right.  I forgive you.'

'That's funny too.  Fancy YOU forgiving ME after all these
confessions.  But you never loved one of them all as you love me.'

'Never.'

'Swear it.'

'I do swear it.'

'Morally, and what do you call it, and the other?'

'Not one of them.'

'And never will again?'

'Never.'

'Good boy for ever and ever?'

'For ever and ever.'

'And the forty were horrid?'

'No, hang it, Maude, I can't say that.'

She pouted and hung her head.

'You do like them better, then?'

'How absurd you are, Maude!  If I had liked one better, I should have
married her.'

'Well, yes, I suppose you would.  You must have taken a deeper
interest in me than in the others, since you married me.  I hadn't
thought of that.'

'Silly old girl!  Of course I liked you best.  Let us drop the thing,
and never talk about it any more.'

'Have you their photographs?'

'No.'

'None of them?'

'No.'

'What did you do with them?'

'I never had most of them.'

'And the others?'

'I destroyed some when I married.'

'That was nice of you.  Aren't you sorry?'

'No, I thought it was only right.'

'Were you fondest of dark women or fair?'

'Oh, I don't know.  _I_ was never pernickety in MY tastes.  You know
those lines I read you from Henley:  "Handsome, ugly--all are women."
That's a bachelor's sentiment.'

'But do you mean to say, sir--now, you are speaking on your honour,
that out of all these forty, there was not one who was prettier than
I am?'

'Do let us talk of something else.'

'And not one as clever?'

'How absurd you are to-night, Maude!'

'Come, answer me.'

'I've answered you already.'

'I did not hear you.'

'Oh yes, you did.  I said that I had married you, and that shows that
I liked you best.  I don't compare you quality for quality against
every one in the world.  That would be absurd.  What I say is that
your combination of qualities is the one which is most dear to me.'

'Oh, I see,' said Maude dubiously.  'How nice and frank you are!'

'Now I've hurt you!'

'Oh no, not in the least.  I like you to be frank.  I should hate to
think that there was anything you did not dare to tell me.'

'And you, Maude--would you be equally frank with me?'

'Yes, dear, I will.  I feel that I owe it to you after your
confidence in me.  I have had my little experiences too.'

'You!'

'Perhaps you would rather that I said nothing about them.  What good
can there be in raking up these old stories?'

'No, I had rather you told me.'

'You won't be hurt?'

'No, no--certainly not.'

'You may take it from me, Frank, that if any married woman ever tells
her husband that until she saw him she never felt any emotion at the
sight of another man, it is simple nonsense.  There may be women of
that sort about, but I never met them.  I don't think I should like
them, for they must be dry, cold, unsympathetic, unemotional,
unwomanly creatures.'

'Maude, you have loved some one else!'

'I won't deny that I have been interested deeply interested in
several men.'

'Several!'

'It was before I had met you, dear.  I owed you no duty.'

'You have loved several men.'

'The feeling was for the most part quite superficial.  There are many
different sorts and degrees of love.'

'Good God, Maude!  How many men inspired this feeling in you?'

'The truth is, Frank, that a healthy young woman who has imagination
and a warm heart is attracted by every young man.  I know that you
wish me to be frank and to return your confidence.  But there is a
certain kind of young man with whom I always felt my interest
deepen.'

'Oh, you did discriminate?'

'Now you are getting bitter.  I will say no more.'

'You have said too much.  You must go on now.'

'Well, I was only going to say that dark men always had a peculiar
fascination for me.  I don't know what it is, but the feeling is
quite overpowering.'

'Is that why you married a man with flaxen hair?'

'Well, I couldn't expect to find every quality in my husband, could
I?  It would not be reasonable.  I assure you, dear, that taking your
tout ensemble, I like you far the best of all.  You may not be the
handsomest, and you may not be the cleverest--one cannot expect one's
absolute ideal,--but I love you far, far the best of any.  I do hope
I haven't hurt you by anything I have said.'

'I am sorry I am not your ideal, Maude.  It would be absurd to
suppose myself anybody's ideal, but I hoped always that the eyes of
love transfigured an object and made it seem all right.  My hair is
past praying for, but if you can point out anything that I can mend--
'

'No, no, I want you just as you are.  If I hadn't liked you best, I
shouldn't have married you, Frank, should I?'

'But those other experiences?'

'Oh, we had better drop them.  What good can it possibly do to
discuss my old experiences?  It will only annoy you.'

'Not at all.  I honour you for your frankness in speaking out,
although I acknowledge that it is a little unexpected.  Go on.'

'I forget where I was.'

'You had just remarked that before your marriage you had love-affairs
with a number of men.'

'How horrid it sounds, doesn't it?'

'Well, it did strike me in that way.'

'But that's because you exaggerate what I said.  I said that I had
been attracted by several men.'

'And that dark men thrilled you.'

'Exactly.'

'I had hoped that I was the first.'

'It was not fated to be so.  I could easily tell you a lie, Frank,
and say that you were, but I should never forgive myself if I were to
do such a thing.  You see I left school at seventeen, and I was
twenty-three when I became engaged to you.  There are six years.
Imagine all the dances, picnics, parties, visitings of six years.  I
could not help meeting young men continually.  A good many were
interested in me, and I--'

'You were interested in them.'

'It was natural, Frank.'

'Oh yes, perfectly natural.  And then I understand that the interest
deepened.'

'Sometimes.  When you met a young man who was interested several
times running, at a dance, then in the street, then in the garden,
then a walk home at night--of course your interest began to deepen.'

'Yes.'

'And then--'

'Well, what was the next stage?'

'Sure you're not angry?'

'No, no, not at all.  Why don't you keep the key in the spirit-
stand?'

'It might tempt Jemima.  Shall I get it?'

'No, no, go on!  The next stage was?'

'Well, when you have been deeply interested some time, then you begin
to have experiences.'

'Ah!'

'Don't shout, Frank.'

'Did I shout?  Never mind.  Go on!  You had experiences.'

'Why go into details?'

'You must go on.  You have said too much to stop.  I insist upon
hearing the experiences.'

'Not if you ask for them in that way, Frank.'  Maude had a fine
dignity of her own when she liked.

'Well, I don't insist.  I beg you to have confidence in me, and tell
me some of your experiences.'

She leaned back in her armchair with her eyes half closed, and a
quiet retrospective smile upon her face.

'Well, if you would really like to hear, Frank, as a proof of my
confidence and trust, I will tell you.  You will remember that I had
not seen you at the time.'

'I will make every excuse.'

'I will tell you a single experience.  It was my first of the sort,
and stands out very clearly in my memory.  It all came through my
being left alone with a gentleman who was visiting my mother.'

'Yes!'

'Well, we were alone in the room, you understand.'

'Yes, yes, go on!'

'And he paid me many little compliments:  kept saying how pretty I
was, and that he had never seen a sweeter girl, and so on.  You know
what gentlemen would say?'

'And you?'

'Oh, I hardly answered him, but of course I was young and
inexperienced, and I could not help being flattered and pleased at
his words.  I may have shown him what I felt, for he suddenly--'

'Kissed you!'

'Exactly.  He kissed me.  Don't walk up and down the room, dear.  It
fidgets me.'

'All right.  Go on.  Don't stop.  After this outrage what happened
next?'

'You really want to know?'

'I must know.  What did you do?'

'I am so sorry that I ever began, for I can see that it is exciting
you.  Light your pipe, dear, and let us talk of something else.  It
will only make you cross if I tell you the truth.'

'I won't be cross.  Go on.  What did you do?'

'Well, Frank, since you insist--I kissed him back.'

'You--you kissed him back!'

'You'll have Jemima up if you go on like that.'

'You kissed him back!'

'Yes, dear; it may be wrong, but I did.'

'Good God! why did you do that?'

'Well, I liked him.'

'A dark man?'

'Yes, he was dark.'

'O Maude!  Maude!  Well, don't stop.  What then?'

'Then he kissed me several times.'

'Of course he would, if you kissed him.  What else could you expect?
And then?'

'O Frank, I can't.'

'Go on.  I am ready for anything!'

'Well, do sit down, and don't run about the room.  I am only
agitating you.'

'There, I am sitting.  You can see that I am not agitated.  For
Heaven's sake, go on!'

'He asked me if I would sit upon his knee.'

'Yek!'

Maude began to laugh.

'Why, Frank, you are croaking like a frog.'

'I am glad you think it a laughing matter.  Go on!  Go on!  You
yielded to his very moderate and natural request.  You sat upon his
knee.'

'Well, Frank, I did.'

'Good heavens!'

'Don't be so excitable, dear.  It was long before I ever saw you.'

'You mean to sit there and tell me in cold blood that you sat upon
this ruffian's knee!'

'What else could I do?'

'What could you do?  You could have screamed, you could have rung the
bell, you could have struck him--you could have risen in the dignity
of your insulted womanhood and walked out of the room.'

'It was not so easy for me to walk out of the room.'

'He held you?'

'Yes, he held me.'

'Oh, if I had been there!'

'And there was another reason.'

'What was that?'

'Well, I wasn't very good at walking at that time.  You see, I was
only three years old.'

Frank sat for a few minutes absorbing it.

'You little wretch!' he said at last.

'Oh you dear old goose!  I feel so much better.'

'You horror!'

'I had to get level with you over my forty predecessors.  You old
Bluebeard!  But I did harrow you a little--didn't I?'

'Harrow me!  I'm raw all over.  It's a nightmare.  O Maude, how could
you have the heart?'

'Oh, it was lovely--beautiful!'

'It was dreadful.'

'And how jealous you were!  Oh, I AM so glad!'

'I don't think,' said Frank, as he put his arms round her, 'that I
ever quite realised before--'

And just then Jemima came in with the tray.



CHAPTER XI--CONCERNING MRS. BEETON



Frank Crosse had only been married some months when he first had
occasion to suspect that his wife had some secret sorrow.  There was
a sadness and depression about her at times, for which he was unable
to account.  One Saturday afternoon he happened to come home earlier
than he was expected, and entering her bedroom suddenly, he found her
seated in the basket-chair in the window, with a large book upon her
knees.  Her face, as she looked up at him with a mixed expression of
joy and of confusion, was stained by recent tears.  She put the book
hastily down upon the dressing-stand.

'Maude, you've been crying.'

'No, Frank, no!'

'O Maude, you fibber!  Remove those tears instantly.'  He knelt down
beside her and helped.  'Better now?'

'Yes, dearest, I am quite happy.'

'Tears all gone?'

'Quite gone.'

'Well, then, explain!'

'I didn't mean to tell you, Frank!'  She gave the prettiest, most
provocative little wriggles as her secret was drawn from her.  'I
wanted to do it without your knowing.  I thought it would be a
surprise for you.  But I begin to understand now that my ambition was
much too high.  I am not clever enough for it.  But it is
disappointing all the same.'

Frank took the bulky book off the table.  It was Mrs. Beeton's Book
of Household Management.  The open page was headed, 'General
Observations on the Common Hog,' and underneath was a single large
tear-drop.  It had fallen upon a woodcut of the Common Hog, in spite
of which Frank solemnly kissed it, and turned Maude's trouble into
laughter.

'Now you are all right again.  I do hate to see you crying, though
you never look more pretty.  But tell me, dear, what was your
ambition?'

'To know as much as any woman in England about housekeeping.  To know
as much as Mrs. Beeton.  I wanted to master every page of it, from
the first to the last.'

'There are 1641 of them,' said Frank, turning them over.

'I know.  I felt that I should be quite old before I had finished.
But the last part, you see, is all about wills, and bequests, and
homeopathy, and things of that kind.  We could do it later.  It is
the early part that I want to learn now--but it IS so hard.'

'But why do you wish to do it, Maude?'

'Because I want you to be as happy as Mr. Beeton.'

'I'll bet I am.'

'No, no, you can't be, Frank.  It says somewhere here that the
happiness and comfort of the husband depend upon the housekeeping of
the wife.  Mrs. Beeton must have been the finest housekeeper in the
world.  Therefore, Mr. Beeton must have been the happiest and most
comfortable man.  But why should Mr. Beeton be happier and more
comfortable than my Frank?  From the hour I read that I determined
that he shouldn't be--and he won't be.'

'And he isn't.'

'Oh, you think so.  But then you know nothing about it.  You think it
right because I do it.  But if you were visiting Mrs. Beeton, you
would soon see the difference.'

'What an awkward trick you have of always sitting in a window,' said
Frank, after an interval.  'I'll swear that the wise Mrs. Beeton
never advocates that--with half a dozen other windows within point-
blank range.'

'Well, then, you shouldn't do it.'

'Well, then, you shouldn't be so nice.'

'You really still think that I am nice?'

'Fishing!'

'After all these months?'

'Nicer and nicer every day.'

'Not a bit tired?'

'You blessing!  When I am tired of you, I shall be tired of life.'

'How wonderful it all seems!'

'Does it not?'

'To think of that first day at the tennis-party.  "I hope you are not
a very good player, Mr. Crosse!"--"No, Miss Selby, but I shall be
happy to make one in a set."  That's how we began.  And now!'

'Yes, it is wonderful.'

'And at dinner afterwards.  "Do you like Irving's acting?"--"Yes, I
think that he is a great genius."  How formal and precise we were!
And now I sit curling your hair in a bedroom window.'

'It DOES seem funny.  But I suppose, if you come to think of it,
something of the same kind must have happened to one or two people
before.'

'But never quite like us.'

'Oh no, never quite like us.  But with a kind of family resemblance,
you know.  Married people do usually end by knowing each other a
little better than on the first day they met.'

'What DID you think of me, Frank?'

'I've told you often.'

'Well, tell me again.'

'What's the use when you know?'

'But I like to hear.'

'Well, it's just spoiling you.'

'I love to be spoiled.'

'Well, then, I thought to myself--If I can only have that woman for
my own, I believe I will do something in life yet.  And I also
thought--If I don't get that woman for my own, I will never, never be
the same man again.'

'Really, Frank, the very first day you saw me?'

'Yes, the very first day.'

'And then?'

'And then, day by day, and week by week, that feeling grew deeper and
stronger, until at last you swallowed up all my other hopes, and
ambitions, and interests.  I hardly dare think, Maude, what would
have happened to me if you had refused me.'

She laughed aloud with delight.

'How sweet it is to hear you say so!  And the wonderful thing is that
you have never seemed disappointed.  I always expected that some day
after marriage--not immediately, perhaps, but at the end of a week or
so--you would suddenly give a start, like those poor people who are
hypnotised, and you would say, "Why, I used to think that she was
pretty!  I used to think that she was sweet!  How could I be so
infatuated over a little, insignificant, ignorant, selfish,
uninteresting--"  O Frank, the neighbours will see you?'

'Well, then, you mustn't provoke me.'

'What WILL Mrs. Potter think?'

'You should pull down the blinds before you make speeches of that
sort.'

'Now do sit quiet and be a good boy.'

'Well, then, tell me what you thought.'

'I thought you were a very good tennis-player.'

'Anything else?'

'And you talked nicely.'

'Did I?  I never felt such a stick in my life.  I was as nervous as a
cat.'

'That was so delightful.  I do hate people who are very cool and
assured.  I saw that you were disturbed, and I even thought--'

'Yes?'

'Well, I thought that perhaps it was I who disturbed you.'

'And you liked me?'

'I was very interested in you.'

'Well, that is the blessed miracle which I can never get over.  You,
with your beauty, and your grace, and your rich father, and every
young man at your feet, and I, a fellow with neither good looks, nor
learning, nor prospects, nor--'

'Be quiet, sir!  Yes, you shall!  Now?'

'By Jove, there IS old Mrs. Potter at the window!  We've done it this
time.  Let us get back to serious conversation again.'

'How did we leave it?'

'It was that hog, I believe.  And then Mr. Beeton.  But where does
the hog come in?  Why should you weep over him?  And what are the
Lady's Observations on the Common Hog?'

'Read them for yourself.'

Frank read out aloud:  '"The hog belongs to the order Mammalia, the
genus sus scrofa, and the species pachydermata, or thick-skinned.
Its generic characters are a long, flexible snout, forty-two teeth,
cloven feet, furnished with four toes, and a tail, which is small,
short, and twisted, while, in some varieties, this appendage is
altogether wanting." --But what on earth has all this to do with
housekeeping?'

'That's what _I_ want to know.  It is so disheartening to have to
remember such things.  What does it matter if the hog HAS forty-two
toes.  And yet, if Mrs. Beeton knew it, one feels that one ought to
know it also.  If once I began to skip, there would be no end to it.
But it really is such a splendid book in other ways.  It doesn't
matter what you want, you will find it here.  Take the index
anywhere.  Cream.  If you want cream, it's all there.  Croup.  If you
want--I mean, if you don't want croup, it will teach you how not to
get it.  Crumpets--all about them.  Crullers--I'm sure you don't know
what a cruller is, Frank.'

'No, I don't.'

'Neither do I.  But I could look it up and learn.  Here it is--
paragraph 2847.  It is a sort of pancake, you see.  That's how you
learn things.'

Frank Crosse took the book and dropped it.  It fell with a sulky thud
upon the floor.

'Nothing that it can teach you, dear, can ever make up to me if it
makes you cry, and bothers you.--You bloated, pedantic thing!' he
cried, in sudden fury, aiming a kick at the squat volume.  'It is to
you I owe all those sad, tired looks which I have seen upon my wife's
face.  I know my enemy now.  You pompous, fussy old humbug, I'll kick
the red cover off you!'

But Maude snatched it up, and gathered it to her bosom.  'No, no,
Frank, I don't know what I should do without it.  You have no idea
what a wise old book it is.  Now, sit there on the footstool at my
feet, and I will read to you.'

'Do, dear; it's delightful.'

'Sit quiet, then, and be good.  Now listen to this pearl of wisdom:
"As with the commander of an army, so it is with the mistress of a
house.  Her spirit will be seen through the whole establishment, and,
just in proportion as she performs her duties thoroughly, so will her
domestics follow in her path."'

'From which it follows,' said her husband, 'that Jemima must be a
perfect paragon.'

'On the contrary, it explains all Jemima's shortcomings.  Listen to
this:  "Early rising is one of the most essential qualities.  When a
mistress is an early riser, it is almost certain that her house will
be orderly and well managed."'

'Well, you are down at nine--what more do you want?'

'At nine!  I am sure that Mrs. Beeton was always up at six.'

'I have my doubts about Mrs. B.  Methinks the lady doth protest too
much.  I should not be very much surprised to learn that she had
breakfast in bed every morning.'

'O Frank!  You have no reverence for anything.'

'Let us have some more wisdom.'

'"Frugality and Economy are home virtues without which no household
can prosper.  Dr. Johnson says, 'Frugality may be termed--'"

'Oh, bother Dr. Johnson!  Who cares for a man's opinion.  Now, if it
had been Mrs. Johnson--!'

'Johnson kept house for himself for years--and a queer job he made of
it.'

'So I should think.'  Maude tossed her pretty curls.  'Mrs. Beeton is
all right, but I will not be lectured by Dr. Johnson.  Where was I?
Oh yes--"'We must always remember that to manage a little well, is a
great merit in housekeeping."'

'Hurrah!  Down with the second vegetable!  No pudding on fish days.
Vive la biere de Pilsen!'

'What a noisy boy you are!'

'This book excites me.  Anything more?'

"Friendships should not be hastily formed, nor the heart given at
once to every newcomer--"'

'Well, I should hope not!  Don't let me catch you at it!  You don't
mind my cigarette?  Has Mrs. Beeton a paragraph about smoking in
bedrooms?'

'Such an enormity never occurred to her as a remote possibility.  If
she had known you, dear, she would have had to write an appendix to
her book to meet all the new problems which you would suggest.  Shall
I go on?'

'Please do!'

'She next treats conversation.  "In conversation, trifling
occurrences such as small disappointments, petty annoyances, and
other everyday incidents, should never be mentioned to friends.  If
the mistress be a wife, never let a word in connection with her
husband's failings pass her lips--"'

'By Jove, this book has more wisdom to the square inch than any work
of man,' cried Frank, in enthusiasm.

'I thought that would please you.  "Good temper should be cultivated
by every mistress, as upon it the welfare of the household may be
said to turn."'

'Excellent!'

'"In starting a household, it is always best in the long-run to get
the very best articles of their kind."'

'That is why I got you, Maude.'

'Thank you, sir.  We have a dissertation then upon dress and fashion,
another upon engaging domestics, another about daily duties, another
about visiting, another about fresh air and exercise--'

'The most essential of any,' cried Frank, jumping up, and pulling his
wife by the arms out of her low wicker-chair.  'There is just time
for nine holes at golf before it is dark, if you wilt come exactly as
you are.  But listen to this, young lady.  If ever again I see you
fretting or troubling yourself about your household affairs--'

'No, no, Frank, I won't!'

'Well, if you do, Mrs. Beeton goes into the kitchen-fire.  Now
remember?'

'You are sure you don't envy Mr. Beeton?'

'I don't envy a man upon earth.'

'Then why should I try to be Mrs. Beeton?'

'Why indeed?'

'O Frank, what a load off my mind!  Those sixteen hundred pages have
just lain upon it for months.  Dear old boy! come on!'

And they clattered downstairs for their golf-clubs.



CHAPTER XII--MR. SAMUEL PEPYS



There were few things which Maude liked so much as a long winter
evening when Frank and she dined together, and then sat beside the
fire and made good cheer.  It would be an exaggeration to say that
she preferred it to a dance, but next to that supreme joy, and higher
even than the theatre in her scale of pleasures, were those serene
and intimate evenings when they talked at their will, and were silent
at their will, within their home brightened by those little jokes and
endearments and allusions which make up that inner domestic masonry
which is close-tiled for ever to the outsider.  Five or six evenings
a week, she with her sewing and Frank with his book, settled down to
such enjoyment as men go to the ends of the earth to seek, while it
awaits them, if they will but atune their souls to sympathy, beside
their own hearthstones.  Now and again their sweet calm would be
broken by a ring at the bell, when some friend of Frank's would come
round to pay them an evening visit.  At the sound Maude would say
'bother,' and Frank something shorter and stronger, but, as the
intruder appeared, they would both break into, 'Well, really now it
WAS good of you to drop in upon us in this homely way.'  Without such
hypocrisy, the world would be a hard place to live in.

I may have mentioned somewhere that Frank had a catholic taste in
literature.  Upon a shelf in their bedroom--a relic of his bachelor
days--there stood a small line of his intimate books, the books which
filled all the chinks of his life when no new books were forthcoming.
They were all volumes which he had read in his youth, and many times
since, until they had become the very tie-beams of his mind.  His
tastes were healthy and obvious without being fine.  Macaulay's
Essays, Holmes' Autocrat, Gibbons' History, Jefferies' Story of my
Heart, Carlyle's Life, Pepys' Diary, and Borrow's Lavengro were among
his inner circle of literary friends.  The sturdy East Anglian, half
prize-fighter, half missionary, was a particular favourite of his,
and so was the garrulous Secretary of the Navy.  One day it struck
him that it would be a pleasant thing to induce his wife to share his
enthusiasms, and he suggested that the evenings should be spent in
reading selections from these old friends of his.  Maude was
delighted.  If he had proposed to read the rig-vedas in the original
Sanskrit, Maude would have listened with a smiling face.  It is in
such trifles that a woman's love is more than a man's.

That night Frank came downstairs with a thick well-thumbed volume in
his hand.

'This is Mr. Pepys,' said he solemnly.

'What a funny name!' cried Maude.  'It makes me think of indigestion.
Why?  Oh yes, pepsine, of course.'

'We shall take a dose of him every night after dinner to complete the
resemblance.  But seriously, dear, I think that now that we have
taken up a course of reading, we should try to approach it in a grave
spirit, and endeavour to realise--Oh, I say, don't!'

'I AM so sorry, dear!  I do hope I didn't hurt, you!'

'You did--considerably.'

'It all came from my having the needle in my hand at the time--and
you looked so solemn--and--well, I couldn't help it.'

'Little wretch--!'

'No, dear; Jemima may come in any moment with the coffee.  Now, do
sit down and read about Mr Pepys to me.  And first of all, would you
mind explaining all about the gentleman, from the beginning, and
taking nothing for granted, just as if I had never heard of him
before.'

'I don't believe--'

'Never mind, sir!  Be a good boy and do exactly what you are told.
Now begin!'

'Well, Maude, Mr. Pepys was born--'

'What was his first name?'

'Samuel.'

'Oh dear, I'm sure I should not have liked him.'

'Well, it's too late to change that.  He was born--I could see by
looking, but it really doesn't matter, does it?  He was born
somewhere in sixteen hundred and something or other, and I forget
what his father was.'

'I must try to remember what you tell me.'

'Well, it all amounts to this, that he got on very well in the world,
that he became at last a high official of the navy in the time of
Charles the Second, and that he died in fairly good circumstances,
and left his library, which was a fine one, to one of the
universities, I can't remember which.'

'There is an accuracy about your information, Frank--'

'I know, dear, but it really does not matter.  All this has nothing
to do with the main question.'

'Go on, then!'

'Well, this library was left as a kind of dust-catcher, as such
libraries are, until one day, more than a hundred years after the old
boy's death, some enterprising person seems to have examined his
books, and he found a number of volumes of writing which were all in
cipher, so that no one could make head or tail of them.'

'Dear me, how very interesting!'

'Yes, it naturally excited curiosity.  Why should a man write volumes
of cipher?  Imagine the labour of it!  So some one set to work to
solve the cipher.  This was about the year 1820.  After three years
they succeeded.'

'How in the world did they do it?'

'Well, they say that human ingenuity never yet invented a cipher
which human ingenuity could not also solve.  Anyhow, they did
succeed.  And when they had done so, and copied it all out clean,
they found they had got hold of such a book as was never heard of
before in the whole history of literature.'

Maude laid her sewing on her lap, and looked across with her lips
parted and her eyebrows raised.

'They found that it was an inner Diary of the life of this man, with
all his impressions, and all his doings, and all his thoughts--not
his ought-to-be thoughts, but his real, real thoughts, just as he
thought then at the back of his soul.  You see this man, and you know
him very much better than his own wife knew him.  It is not only that
he tells of his daily doings, and gives us such an intimate picture
of life in those days, as could by no other means have been conveyed,
but it is as a piece of psychology that the thing is so valuable.
Remember the dignity of the man, a high government official, an
orator, a writer, a patron of learning, and here you have the other
side, the little thoughts, the mean ideas which may lurk under a
bewigged head, and behind a solemn countenance.  Not that he is worse
than any of us.  Not a bit.  But he is frank.  And that is why the
book is really a consoling one, for every sinner who reads it can say
to himself, "Well, if this man who did so well, and was so esteemed,
felt like this, it is no very great wonder that I do."'

Maude looked at the fat brown book with curiosity.  'Is it really all
there?' she asked.

'No, dear, it will never all be published.  A good deal of it is, I
believe, quite impossible.  And when he came to the impossible
places, he doubled and trebled his cipher, so as to make sure that it
should never be made out.  But all that is usually published is
here.'  Frank turned over the leaves, which were marked here and
there with pencilings.

'Why are you smiling, Frank?'

'Only at his way of referring to his wife.'

'Oh, he was married?'

'Yes, to a very charming girl.  She must have been a sweet creature.
He married her at fifteen on account of her beauty.  He had a keen
eye for beauty had old Pepys.'

'Were they happy?'

'Oh yes, fairly so.  She was only twenty-nine when she died!'

'Poor girl!'

'She was happy in her life--though he DID blacken her eye once.'

'Not really?'

'Yes, he did.  And kicked the housemaid.'

'Oh, the brute!'

'But on the whole he was a good husband.  He had a few very good
points about him.'

'But how does he allude to his wife?'

'He has a trick of saying, "my wife, poor wretch!"'

'Impertinent!  Frank, you said to-night that other men think what
this odious Mr. Pepys says.  Yes, you did!  Don't deny it!  Does that
mean that you always think of me as "poor wretch"?'

'We have come along a little since then.  But how these passages take
you back to the homely life of those days!'

'Do read some.'

'Well, listen to this, "And then to bed without prayers, to-morrow
being washing-day."  Fancy such a detail coming down to us through
two centuries.'

'Why no prayers?'

'I don't know.  I suppose they had to get up early on washing-days,
and so they wanted to go to sleep soon.'

'I'm afraid, dear, you do the same without as good an excuse.  Read
another!'

'He goes to dine with some one--his uncle, I think.  He says, "An
excellent dinner, but the venison pasty was palpable beef, which was
not handsome."'

'How beautiful!  Mrs. Hunt Mortimer's sole last week was palpable
plaice.  Mr. Pepys is right.  It was not handsome.'

'Here's another grand entry:  "Talked with my wife of the poorness
and meanness of all that the people about us do, compared with what
we do."  I dare say he was right, for they did things very well.
When he dined out, he says that his host gave him "the meanest dinner
of beef, shoulder and umbles of venison, and a few pigeons, and all
in the meanest manner that ever I did see, to the basest degree."

'What are umbles, dear?'

'I have no idea.'

'Well, whatever they are, it sounds to me a very good dinner.  People
must have lived very well in those days.'

'They habitually over-ate and over-drank themselves.  But Pepys gives
us the menu of one of his own entertainments.  I've marked it
somewhere.  Yes, here it is.  "Fricassee of rabbits and chickens, a
leg of mutton boiled, three carps in a dish, a great dish of a side
of lamb, a dish of roasted pigeons, a dish of four lobsters, three
tarts, a lamprey pie (a most rare pie!), a dish of anchovies, good
wine of several sorts, and all things mighty noble and to my great
content."'

'Good gracious!  I told you that I associated him with indigestion.'

'He did them pretty well that time.'

'Who cooked all this?'

'The wife helped in those days.'

'No wonder she died at twenty-nine.  Poor dear!  What a splendid
kitchen-range they must have had!  I never understood before why they
had such enormous grates in the old days.  Naturally, if you have six
pigeons, and a lamprey, and a lobster, and a side of lamb, and a leg
of mutton, and all these other things cooking at the same time, you
would need a huge fire.'

'The wonderful thing about Pepys,' said Frank, looking thoughtfully
over the pages, 'is that he is capable of noting down the mean little
impulses of human nature, which most men would be so ashamed of, that
they would hasten to put them out of their mind.  His occasional
shabbiness in money matters, his jealousies, his envies, all his
petty faults, which are despicable on account of their pettiness.
Fancy any man writing this.  He is describing how he visited a friend
and was reading a book from his library.  "A very good book," says
he, "especially one letter of advice to a courtier, most true and
good, which made me once resolve to tear out the two leaves that it
was writ in, but I forbore it."  Imagine recording such a vile
thought.'

'But what you have never explained to me yet, dear, or if you did, I
didn't understand--you don't mind my being a little stupid, do you?--
is, what object Mr. Pepys had in putting down all this in such a form
that no one could read it.'

'Well, you must bear in mind, dear, that he could read it himself.
Besides he was a fellow with a singularly methodical side to his
mind.  He was, for example, continually adding up how much money he
had, or cataloguing and indexing his library, and so on.  He liked to
have everything shipshape.  And so with his life, it pleased him to
have an exact record which he could turn to.  And yet, after all, I
don't know that that is a sufficient explanation.'

'No, indeed, it is not.  My experience of man--'

'YOUR experience, indeed!'

'Yes, sir, my experience of men--how rude you are, Frank!--tells me
that they have funny little tricks and vanities which take the
queerest shapes.'

'Indeed!  Have I any?'

'You--you are compounded of them.  Not vanity--no, I don't mean that.
But pride--you are as proud as Lucifer, and much too proud to show
it.  That is the most subtle form of pride.  Oh yes, I know perfectly
well what I mean.  But in this man's case, it took the form of
wishing to make a sensation after his death.  He could not publish
such a thing when he lived, could he?'

'Rather not.'

'Well, then, he had to do it after his death.  He had to write it in
cipher, or else some one would have found him out during his
lifetime.  But, very likely, he left a key to the cipher, so that
every one might read it when he was gone, but the key and his
directions were in some way lost.'

'Well, it is very probable.'

The fire had died down, so Maude shipped off her chair, and sat on
the black fur rug, with her back against Frank's knees.  'Now, dear,
read away!' said she.

But the lamp shone down upon her dainty head, and it gleamed upon her
white neck, and upon the fluffy, capricious, untidy, adorable, little
curlets, which broke out along the edges of the gathered strands of
her chestnut hair.  And so, after the fashion of men, his thoughts
flew away from Mr. Pepys and the seventeenth century, and all that is
lofty and instructive, and could fix upon nothing except those dear
little wandering tendrils, and the white column on which they twined.
Alas, that so small a thing can bring the human mind from its
empyrean flights!  Alas, that vague emotions can drag down the
sovereign intellect!  Alas, that even for an hour, a man should
prefer the material to the spiritual!

But the man who doesn't misses a good deal.



CHAPTER XIII--A VISIT TO MR. SAMUEL PEPYS



There are several unjustifiable extravagances which every normal man
commits.  There are also several unjustifiable economies.  Among
others, there is that absurd eagerness to save the striking of a
second match, which occasions so many burned fingers, and such
picturesque language.  And again, there is the desire to compress a
telegraphic message into the minimum sixpennyworth, and so send an
ambiguous and cryptic sentence, when sevenpence would have made it as
clear as light.  We all tend to be stylists in our telegrams.

A week after the conversation about Mr. Pepys, when some progress had
been made with the reading of the Diary, Maude received the following
wire from Frank -


'Mrs. Crosse.  Woking.--Pepys buttered toast suede gloves four
Monument wait late.'

As a sixpennyworth it was a success, but as a message it seemed to
leave something to be desired.  Maude puzzled over it, and tried
every possible combination of the words.  The nearest approach to
sense was when it was divided in this way--Pepys--buttered toast--
suede gloves--four--Monument, wait late.

She wrote it out in this form, and took it section by section.
'Pepys,' that was unintelligible.  'Buttered toast,' no sense in
that.  'Suede gloves,' yes, she had told Frank that when she came to
town, she would buy some suede gloves at a certain shop in the City,
where she could get for three and threepence a pair which would cost
her three and ninepence in Woking.  Maude was so conscientiously
economical, that she was always prepared to spend two shillings in
railway fares to reach a spot where a sixpence was to be saved, and
to lavish her nerve and energy freely in the venture.  Here, then, in
the suede gloves, was a central point of light.  And then her heart
bounded with joy, as she realised that the last part could only mean
that she was to meet Frank at the Monument at four, and that she was
to wait for him if he were late.

So, now, returning to the opening of the message, with the light
which shone from the ending, she realised that buttered toast might
refer to a queer little City hostel, remarkable for that luxury,
where Frank had already taken her twice to tea.  And so leaving Mr.
Pepys to explain himself later, Maude gave hurried orders to Jemima
and the cook, and dashed upstairs to put on her new fawn-coloured
walking-dress--a garment which filled her with an extraordinary
mixture of delight and remorse, for it was very smart, cost seven
guineas, and had not yet been paid for.

The rendezvous was evidently a sudden thought upon the part of Frank,
for he had left very little time for her to reach the trysting-place.
However, she was fortunate in catching a train to Waterloo, and
another thence to the City, and so reached the Monument at five
minutes to four.  The hour was just striking when Frank, with his
well-brushed top-hat and immaculate business frock-coat, came rushing
from the direction of King William Street.  Maude held out her hand
and he shook it, and then they both laughed at the formality.

'I am so glad you were able to come, dearest.  How you do brighten up
the old City!'

'Do I?  I felt quite lonely until you came.  Nothing but droves of
men--and all staring.'

'It's your dress.'

'Oh, thank you, sir!'

'Entirely that pretty brown--'

'Brown!  Fawn colour.'

'Well, that's brown.  Anyhow, it looks charming.  And so do you--by
Jove you do, Maude!  Come this way!'

'Where are we going?'

'By underground.  Here we are.--Two second singles, Mark Lane,
please!--No, that's for the west-end trains.  Down here!  Next train,
the man says.'

They were in the mephitic cellar, with the two long wooden platforms
where the subterranean trains land or load their freights.  A
strangling gas tickled their throats and set them coughing.  It was
all dank and dark and gloomy.  But little youth and love care for
that!  They were bubbling over with the happiness of this abnormal
meeting.  Both talked together in their delight, and Maude patted
Frank's sleeve with every remark.  They could even illuminate all
that was around them, by the beauty and brightness of their own love.
It went the length of open praise for their abominable surroundings.

'Isn't it grand and solemn?' said Maude.  'Look at the black
shadows.'

'When they come to excavate all this some thousands of years hence,
they will think it was constructed by a race of giants,' Frank
answered.

'The modern works for the benefit of the community are really far
greater than those which sprang from the caprice of kings.  The
London and North-Western Railway is an infinitely grander thing than
the pyramids.  Look at the two headlights in the dark!'

Two sullen crimson discs glowed in the black arch of the tunnel.
With a menacing and sinister speed, they grew and grew until roaring
they sprang out of the darkness, and the long, dingy train, with a
whining of brakes, drew up at the platform.

'Here's one nearly empty,' said Frank, with his hand on the handle.

'Don't you think--' said Maude.

'Yes, I do,' cried Frank.

And they got into one which was quite empty.  For the underground
railway is blessed as regards privacy above all other lines, and
where could a loving couple be more happy, who have been torn apart
by cruel fate for seven long hours or so?  It was with a groan that
Frank remarked that they had reached Mark Lane.

'Bother!' said Maude, and wondered if there were any shop near where
she could buy hairpins.  As every lady knows, or will know, there is
a very intimate connection between hairpins and a loving husband.

'Now, Frank, about your telegram.'

'All right, dear.  Come along where I lead you, and you will
understand all about it.'

They passed out of Mark Lane Station and down a steep and narrow
street to the right.  At the bottom lay an old smoke-stained church
with a square tower, and a small open churchyard beside it.

'That's the church of Saint Olave,' said Frank.  'We are going into
it.'

He pushed open a folding oaken door, and they found themselves inside
it.  Rows of modern seats filled the body of it, but the walls and
windows gave an impression of great antiquity.  The stained glass--
especially that which surmounted the altar--contained those rich
satisfying purples and deep deep crimsons which only go with age.  It
was a bright and yet a mellow light, falling in patches of vivid
colour upon the brown woodwork and the grey floors.  Here and there
upon the walls were marble inscriptions in the Latin tongue, with
pompous allegorical figures with trumpets, for our ancestors blew
them in stone as well as in epitaphs over their tombs.  They loved to
die, as they had lived, with dignity and with affectation.  White
statues glimmered in the shadows of the corners.  As Frank and his
wife passed down the side-aisle, their steps clanged through the
empty and silent church.

'Here he is!' said Frank, and faced to the wall.

He was looking up at the modern representation of a gentleman in a
full and curly wig.  It was a well-rounded and comely face, with
shrewd eyes and a sensitive mouth.  The face of a man of affairs, and
a good fellow, with just that saving touch of sensuality about it
which makes an expression human and lovable.  Underneath was printed
-


SAMUEL PEPYS
Erected by public subscription
1883.


'Oh, isn't he nice?' said Maude.

'He's not a bad-looking chap, is he?'

'I don't believe that man ever could have struck his wife or kicked
the maid.'

'That's calling him a liar.'

'Oh dear, I forgot that he said so himself.  Then I suppose he must
have done it.  What a pity it seems.'

'Cheer up!  We must say what the old heathen lady said when they read
the gospels to her.'

'What did she say?'

'She said, "Well, it was a long time ago, and we'll hope that it
wasn't true!"'

'O Frank, how can you tell such stories in a church.  Do you really
suppose that Mr. Pepys is in that wall?'

'I presume that the monument marks the grave.'

'There's a little bit of plaster loose.  Do you think I might take
it?'

'It isn't quite the thing.'

'But it can't matter, and it isn't wrong, and we are quite alone.'
She picked off the little flake of plaster, and her heart sprang into
her mouth as she did so, for there came an indignant snort from her
very elbow, and there was a queer little smoke-dried, black-dressed
person who seemed to have risen, like the Eastern genii or a modern
genius, in a single instant.  A pair of black list slippers explained
the silence of his approach.

'Put that back, young lady,' said he severely.

Poor Maude held out her guilty relic on the palm of her hand.  'I am
so sorry,' said she.  'I am afraid I cannot put it back.'

'We'll 'ave the 'ole church picked to pieces at this rate,' said the
clerk.  'You shouldn't 'ave done it, and it was very wrong.'  He
snorted and shook his head.

'It's of no consequence,' said Frank.  'The plaster was hanging, and
must have fallen in any case.  Don't make a fuss about a trifle.'

The clerk looked at the young gentleman and saw defiance in one of
his eyes and half a crown in the other.

'Well, well!' he grumbled.  'It shows as the young lady takes an
interest, and that's more than most.  Why, sir, if you'll believe me,
there's not one in a hundred that comes to this church that ever
'eard of Pepys.  "Pepys!" says they.  "'Oo's Pepys?"  "The Diarist,"
says I.  "Diarist!" says they, "wot's a Diarist?"  I could sit down
sometimes an' cry.  But maybe, miss, you thought as you were picking
that plaster off 'is grave?'

'Yes, I thought so.'

The clerk chuckled.

'Well, it ain't so.  I'll tell you where 'e really lies, if you'll
promise you won't pick another chunk off that.  Well, then, it's
there--beside the communion.  I saw 'im lyin' there with these very
eyes, and 'is wife in the coffin beneath 'im.'

'You saw him?'

'Yes, sir, I saw 'im, an' that's more than any livin' man could say,
for there were only four of us, and the other three are as dead as
Pepys by now.'

'Oh do tell us about it!' cried Maude.

'Well, it was like this, miss.  We 'ad to examine to see 'ow much
room there was down there, and so we came upon them.'

'And what did you see?'

'Well, miss, 'is coffin lay above, and 'is wife's below, as might be
expected, seeing that she died thirty years or so before 'im.  The
coffins was very much broken, an' we could see 'im as clear us I can
see you.  When we first looked in I saw 'im lying quite plain--a
short thick figure of a man--with 'is 'ands across 'is chest.  And
then, just as we looked at 'im, 'e crumbled in, as you might say,
across 'is breast bone, an' just quietly settled down into a 'uddle
of dust.  It's a way they 'as when the fresh air strikes 'em.  An'
she the same, an' 'is dust just fell through the chinks o' the wood
and mixed itself with 'ers.'

'O Frank!'  Maude's ready tears sprang to her eyes.  She put her hand
upon her husband's and was surprised to find how cold it was.  Women
never realise that the male sex is the more sensitive.  He had not
said, 'O Maude!' because he could not.

'They used some powder like pepper for embalmin' in those days,' said
the clerk.  'And the vicar--it was in old Bellamy's time--'e took a
sniff into the grave, an' 'e sneezed an' sneezed till we thought we
should 'ave to fetch a doctor.  'Ave you seen Mrs. Pepys' tomb?'

'No, we have only just come.'

'That's it on the left of the common.'

'With the woman leaning forward?'

'Yes, sir.  That's Mrs. Pepys herself.'

It was an arch laughing face, the face of a quite young woman; the
sculptor had depicted her as leaning forward in an animated and
natural attitude.  Below was engraved -


Obiit
Xo Novembris
AEtatis 29
Conjugii 15
Anno Domini 1669.


'Poor dear!' whispered Maude.

'It was hard that she should die just as her husband was becoming
famous and successful,' said Frank.  'She who had washed his shirts,
and made up the coal fires, when they lived in a garret together.
What a pity that she could not have a good time!'

'Ah well, if she loved him, dear, she had a good time in the garret.'

Maude was leaning forward with her face raised to look at the bust of
the dead woman, which also leaned forward as if to look down upon
her.  A pair of marble skulls flanked the lady's grave.  A red glow
from the evening sun struck through a side-window and bathed the
whole group in its ruddy light.  As Frank, standing back in the
shadow, ran his eyes from the face of the dead young wife to that of
his own sweet, girlish bride, with those sinister skulls between,
there came over him like a wave, a realisation of the horror which
lies in things, the grim close of the passing pageant, the black
gloom, which swallows up the never-ending stream of life.  Will the
spirit wear better than the body; and if not, what infernal practical
joke is this to which we are subjected!

'It will.  It must,' he said.

'WHY, Frank--Frank dear, what is the matter?  You are quite pale.'

'Come out into the air, Maude.  I have had enough of this stuffy old
church.'

'Stuffy!' said the clerk.  'Well, we've 'ad the Lord Mayor 'ere at
least once a year, an' 'e never found it stuffy.  A cleaner, fresher
church you won't find in the city of London.  It's 'ad its day, I'll
allow.  There was a time--and I can remember it--when folk used to
spend their money where they made it, and the plate would be full of
paper and gold, where now we find it 'ard enough to get coppers.
That was fifty year ago, when I was a young clerk.  You might not
think it, but I've seen a Lord Mayor, a past Lord Mayor, and a Lord
Mayor elect of the city of London, all sitting on one bench in this
very church.  And YOU call it stuffy!'

Frank soothed the wounded feelings of the old clerk, and explained
that by stuffy he meant interesting.  He also shook hands with him in
a peculiar way as he held his palm upturned in the small of his back.
Then Maude and he retraced their steps up the narrow street which is
called Seething Lane.

'Poor old boy!  What was it, then?' asked Maude, looking up with her
sympathetic eyes.  It is at such moments that a man realises what the
companionship of women means.  The clouds melted before the sun.

'What an ass I was!  I began to think of all sorts of horrible
things.  Never mind, Maude!  We are out for a holiday.  Hang the
future!  Let us live in the present.'

'I always do,' said Maude, and she spoke for her sex.

'Well, what now?  Buttered toast or suede gloves?'

'Business first!' said Maude primly, and so proceeded to save her
sixpence on the gloves.  As she was tempted, however ('such a civil
obliging shopman, Frank!'), to buy four yards of so-called Astrakhan
trimming, a frill of torchon lace, six dear little festooned
handkerchiefs, and four pairs of open-work stockings--none of which
were contemplated when she entered the shop--her sixpenny saving was
not as brilliant a piece of finance as she imagined.

And then they finished their excursion in the dark, wainscotted, low-
ceilinged coffee-room of an old-fashioned inn, once the mother of
many coaches, and now barren and deserted, but with a strange cunning
in the matter of buttered toast which had come down from more
prosperous days.  It was a new waiter who served them, and he
imagined them to be lovers and scented an intrigue; but when they
called for a second plate of toast and a jug of boiling water, he
recognised the healthy appetite of the married.  And then, instead of
going home like a good little couple, Maude suddenly got it into her
head that it would cheer away the last traces of Frank's gloom if
they went to see 'Charley's Aunt' at the Globe.  So they loitered and
shopped for a couple of hours, and then squeezed into the back of the
pit; and wedged in among honest, hearty folk who were not ashamed to
show their emotions, they laughed until they were tired.  And so
home, as their friend Pepys would have said, after such a day as
comes into the memory, shining golden among the drab, when old folk
look back, and think of the dear dead past.  May you and I, reader,
if ever we also come to sit in our final armchairs in the chimney
corners, have many such to which our minds may turn, sweet and
innocent and fragrant, to cheer us in those darksome hours to come.



CHAPTER XIV--TROUBLE



One evening Frank came home with a clouded face.  His wife said
nothing, but after dinner she sat on a footstool beside his chair and
waited.  She knew that if it were for the best, he would tell her
everything, and she had confidence enough in his judgment to
acquiesce in his silence if he thought it best to be silent.  As a
matter of fact, it was just this telling her which made his trouble
hard to bear.  And yet he thought it wiser to tell.

'I've had something to worry me, dear.'

'Poor old boy, I know you have.  What was it?'

'Why should I bother you with it?'

'A nice wife I should be, if I shared all your joys and none of your
sorrows!  Anyhow, I had rather share sorrow with you than joy within
any one else.'  She snuggled her head up against his knee.  'Tell me
about it, Frank.'

'You remember my telling you just before our marriage that I was
surety for a man?'

'I remember perfectly well.'

'His name was Farintosh.  He was an insurance-agent, and I became
surety for him in order to save his situation.'

'Yes, dear, it was so noble of you.'

'Well, Maude, he was on the platform this morning, and when he saw
me, he turned on his heel and hurried out of the station.  I read
guilt in his eyes.  I am sure that his accounts are wrong again.'

'Oh, what an ungrateful wretch!'

'Poor devil, I dare say he has had a bad time.  But I was a fool not
to draw out of that.  It was all very well when I was a bachelor.
But here I am as a married man faced with an indefinite liability and
nothing to meet it with.  I don't know what is to become of us,
Maude.'

'How much is it, dearest?'

'I don't know.  That is the worst of it.'

'But surely your own office would not be so hard upon you?'

'It is not my own office.  It is another office--the Hotspur.'

'Oh dear!  What have you done about it, Frank?'

'I called at their office in my lunch-hour, and I requested them to
send down an accountant to examine Farintosh's books.  He will be
here to-morrow morning, and I have leave of absence for the day.'

And so they were to spend an evening and a night without knowing
whether they were merely crippled or absolutely ruined.  Frank's
nature was really a very proud one, and the thought of failing in his
engagements wounded his self-respect most deeply.  His nerves winced
and quivered before it.  But her sweet, strong soul rose high above
all fear, and bore him up with her, into the serenity of love and
trust and confidence.  The really precious things, the things of the
spirit, were permanent, and could not be lost.  What matter if they
lived in an eight-roomed villa, or in a tent out on the heath?  What
matter if they had two servants, or if she worked for him herself?
All this was the merest trifle, the outside of life.  But the
intimate things, their love, their trust, their pleasures of mind and
soul, these could not be taken away from them while they had life to
enjoy them.  And so she soothed Frank with sweet caresses and gentle
words, until this night of gloom had turned to the most beautiful of
all his life, and he had learned to bless the misfortune which had
taught him to know the serene courage and the wholehearted devotion
which can only be felt, like the scent of a fragrant leaf, when Fate
gives us a crush between its iron fingers.

Shortly after breakfast Mr. Wingfield, the accountant from London,
arrived--a tall, gentlemanly man, with a formal manner.

'I'm sorry about this business, Mr. Crosse,' said he.

Frank made a grimace.  'It can't be helped.'

'We will hope that the amount is not very serious.  We have warned
Mr. Farintosh that his books will be inspected to-day.  When you are
ready we shall go round.'

The agent lived in a side-street not far off.  A brass plate, outside
a small brick house, marked it out from the line of other small brick
houses.  A sad-faced woman opened the door, and Farintosh himself,
haggard and white, was seated among his ledgers in the little front
room.  A glance at the man's helpless face turned all Frank's
resentment to pity.

They sat down at the table, the accountant in the centre, Farintosh
on the right, and Frank on the left.  There was no talk save an
occasional abrupt question and answer.  For two hours the swish and
rustle of the great blue pages of the ledgers were the chief sound,
with the scratching of Mr. Wingfield's pen as he totalled up long
columns of figures.  Frank's heart turned to water as he saw the huge
sums which had passed through this man's hands.  How much had
remained there?  His whole future depended upon the answer to that
question.  How prosaic and undramatic are the moments in which a
modern career is made or marred!  In this obscure battlefield, the
squire no longer receives his accolade in public for his work well
done, nor do we see the butcher's cleaver as it hacks off the
knightly spurs, but failure and success come strangely and
stealthily, determined by trifles, and devoid of dignity.  Here was
the crisis of Frank's young life, in this mean front room, amongst
the almanacs and the account-books.

'Can I rely upon these figures?' asked Wingfield at last.

'You can, sir.'

'In that case I congratulate you, Mr. Crosse.  I can only find a
deficiency of fifty pounds.'

Only enough to swallow the whole of their little savings, which they
had carefully invested!  However, it was good news, and Frank shook
the proffered hand of the accountant.

'I will stay for another hour to check these figures,' said
Wingfield.  'But there is no need to detain you.'

'You will come round and lunch with us?'

'With pleasure.'

'Au revoir, then.'  Frank ran all the way home, and burst in upon his
wife.  'It is not so very bad, dear--only fifty pounds.'  They danced
about in their joy like two children.

But Wingfield came to his lunch within a solemn face.

'I am very sorry to disappoint you,' he said, 'but the matter is more
serious than I thought.  We have entered some sums as unpaid which he
has really received, but the receipts for which he has held back.
They amount to another hundred pounds.'

Maude felt inclined to cry as she glanced at Frank, and saw his
resolute effort to look unconcerned.

'Then it's a hundred and fifty.'

'Certainly not less.  I have marked the items down upon this paper
for your inspection.'

Frank glanced his practised eyes over the results of the accountant's
morning's work.

'You have credited him within a hundred and twenty pounds in the
bank, I see.'

'Yes, his bank-book shows a balance of that amount.'

'When was it made out?'

'Last Saturday.'

'He may have drawn it since them.'

'It is certainly possible.'

'We might go round after lunch and make sure.'

'Very good.'

'And in any case, as it is the Company's money, don't you think we
had better take it out of his hands?'

'Yes, I think you are right.'

It was a miserable meal, and they were all glad when it was finished.
Maude drew Frank into the other room before he started.

'I could not let you go without THAT, dearest.  Keep a brave heart,
my own laddie, for I know so well that we shall come through it all
right.'

So Frank set out with a higher courage, and they both returned to the
agent's house.  His white face turned a shade whiter when he
understood their errand.

'Is this necessary, Mr. Wingfield?' he pleaded.  'Won't you take my
word for this money?'

'I am sorry to have to say it, sir, but we have trusted in your word
too often.'

'But the money is there, I swear it.'

'It is the Company's money, and we must have it.'

'It will ruin my credit locally if I draw out my whole account under
compulsion.'

'Then let him keep ten pounds in,' said Frank.  Farintosh agreed with
an ill grace to the compromise, and they all started off for the
bank.  When they reached the door the agent turned upon them with an
appealing face.

'Don't come in with me, gentlemen.  I could never hold up my head
again.'

'It is for Mr. Crosse to decide.'

'I don't want to be unreasonable, Farintosh.  Go in alone and draw
the money.'

They could never understand why he begged for that extra five
minutes.  Perhaps it was that he had some mad hope of persuading the
bank manager to allow him to overdraw to that amount.  If so, the
refusal was a curt one, for he reappeared with a ghastly face and
walked up to Frank.

'I may as well confess to you, Mr. Crosse, I have nothing in the
bank.'

Frank whistled and turned upon his heel.  He could not by reproaches
add to the wretched man's humiliation.  After all, he had himself to
blame.  He had incurred a risk with his eyes open, and he was not the
man to whine now that the thing had gone against him.  Wingfield
walked home with him and murmured some words of sympathy.  At the
gate the accountant left him and went on to the station.

So their liability had risen from fifty to two hundred and seventy
pounds.  Even Maude was for an instant daunted by the sum.  The sale
of their furniture would hardly meet it.  It was the blackest hour of
their lives, and yet, always a strange sweet undercurrent of joy was
running through it, for it is only sorrow, fairly shared and bravely
borne, which can weld two human souls together.

Dinner was over when there came a ring at the bell.

'If you please, sir, Mr. Farintosh would like to see you,' said the
maid Jemima.

'Show him in here.'

'Don't you think, Frank, that I had better go?'

'No, I don't.  I never asked him to come.  If he comes, let him face
us both.  I have not made much of my dealings with him alone.'

He was shown in, downcast, shifty-eyed, and ill at ease.  He laid his
hat upon the floor, and crept humbly towards the chair which Frank
pushed towards him.

'Well, Farintosh?'

'Well, Mr. Crosse, I have come round to tell you, and you too,
missus, the sorrow I feel that I have brought this trouble upon you.
I hoped all would have gone right after that last time, but I've had
to pay up back debts, and that's what has put me wrong.  I've never
had what one may call a fair chance.  But I'm really sorry, sir, that
you who have, as one might say, befriended me, should have to suffer
for it in this way.'

'Words won't mend it, Farintosh.  I only blame you for not coming to
me when first things began to go wrong.'

'Well, sir, I was always hoping that I could turn them right again,
so as you wouldn't need to be troubled at all.  And so it went from
bad to worse until we find ourselves here.  But what I wanted to ask
you, Mr. Crosse, was what you meant to do about it?'

Frank writhed before this home question.

'Well, I suppose I am responsible,' said he.

'You mean to pay the money, sir?'

'Well, somebody must pay it.'

'Do you remember the wording of the bond, Mr. Crosse?'

'Not the exact wording.'

'Well, sir, I should advise you to get your lawyer to read it.  In my
opinion, sir, you are not liable at all.'

'Not liable!'  Frank felt as if his heart had turned suddenly from a
round-shot to an air-balloon.  'Why not liable?'

'You were a little slapdashy, if one might say so, in matters of
business, sir, and perhaps you read that bond less carefully than I
did.  There was a clause in it by which the Company agreed frequently
and periodically to audit my accounts, so as to prevent your
liability being at any time a very high one.'

'So there was!' cried Frank.  'Well, didn't they?'

'No, sir, they didn't.'

'By Jove--Maude, do you hear that?--if that is right, they brought
their own misfortunes upon themselves.  Do you mean to say they never
audited you?'

'Yes, sir, they did so four times.'

'In how long?'

'In fourteen months.'

The air-balloon was gone and the cannon-ball back in its place once
more.

'That will be held to exonerate them.'

'No, sir, I think not.  "Frequently and periodically" does not mean
four times in fourteen months.'

'A jury might take it so.'

'Consider, sir, that the object was that your liability should be
limited.  Thousands of pounds were passing through my hands in that
time, and therefore these four audits were, as one might say,
insufficient for the object of the bond.'

'So I think,' cried Maude, with conviction.  'Frank, we'll have the
best advice upon the subject to-morrow.'

'And meanwhile, Mr. Crosse,' said Farintosh, rising from his chair,
'I am your witness, whether the Company prosecutes me or not.  And I
hope that this will be some humble atonement for the trouble that I
have brought you.'

And so a first rift of light began to shine in the dark place.  But
it was not broadened by the letter which he found waiting upon his
breakfast-table -


Re Farintosh's Accounts.

HOTSPUR INSURANCE OFFICE.

Dear Sir,--On arriving in London I came here at once, and checked
Farintosh's accounts from the books of the head office.  I am sorry
to say that I find a further discrepancy of seventy pounds.  I am
able, however, to assure you that we have now touched bottom.  The
total amount is three hundred and forty pounds, and a cheque for that
sum at your early convenience would oblige us, as we are anxious to
bring so unpleasant a business to a conclusion.--Yours truly,

JAMES WINGFIELD.


To which Frank and Maude in collaboration -


Dear Sir,--I note your claim for 340 pounds on account of the affairs
of your agent Farintosh.  I am advised, however, that there have been
certain irregularities in the matter, about which I must make some
investigation before paying the claim.--Yours truly,

Frank Crosse.


To which the Hotspur Insurance Office -


Sir,--Had your letter been a plea for more time to fulfil your
engagement, we should have been content to wait; but since you appear
disposed to dispute your liability, we have no alternative but to
take immediate steps to enforce payment. -

Yours truly, JOHN WATERS, Secretary.


To which Frank and Maude -


Sir,--My solicitor, A. C. R. Owen, of 14 Shirley Lane, E.C., will be
happy to accept service.


Which is the correct legal English for 'You may go to the devil!'

But this is an anticipation.  In the meantime, having received the
original letter and answered it, Frank went up to town as usual,
while Maude played the more difficult part of waiting quietly at
home.  In his lunch-hour Frank went to see his friend and solicitor,
who in turn obtained leave to see the bond, and came back with a
grave face.

'You have a case,' said he, 'but by no means a certainty.  It all
depends upon how the judge might read the document.  I think that it
would strengthen our case very materially if we had counsel's
opinion.  I'll copy the bond and show it to Manners, and have his
opinion before you go back to-night.'

So Frank went round again after office-hours, and found Owen waiting
in very low spirits, for their relations were closer than those of
mere solicitor and client.

'Very sorry,' said he.

'Opinion against us.'

'Dead against us.'

Frank tried to look as if he didn't mind.

'Let me see it.'

It was a long blue document with the heading, 'The Hotspur Insurance
Company, Limited, v. Frank Crosse.'

'I have perused the case submitted to me, and the papers accompanying
the same,' said the learned counsel, 'and in my opinion the Hotspur
Insurance Company, Limited, are entitled to recover from Mr. Crosse
under his guarantee, the sum of 340 pounds, being monies received by
Mr. Farintosh, and not paid over by him to the said Company.'  There
was a great deal more, but it was anticlimax.

'Well, what shall we do?' asked Frank helplessly.  The British law
makes one feel so.

'Well, I should stand out, if I were you.  There is certainly a
chance.'

'Look here, old chap,' said Frank, 'I may as well be honest with you.
If this thing goes against me, I am stony broke.  I don't know where
your costs are coming from.'

'Don't bother about that,' said Owen kindly.  'After all, Manners is
not infallible.  Let us have Holland, and see what he can make of
it.'

So twenty-four hours later Frank found Owen radiant with another
opinion in his hand.

'Dead for us this time.  Look here!'

And he read out, 'I have carefully considered the case submitted to
me for my opinion, and the documents sent therewith.  In my opinion
the Hotspur Insurance Company, Limited, are not entitled to recover
against Mr. Crosse the sum claimed by them or any part thereof, as
there has been a breach on their part of an essential condition of
the guarantee.'  'He reads "frequently and periodically" as we do,'
continued Owen, glancing over the long document, 'and he is very
clear as to our case.'

'Suppose we have another, and try the best of three,' said Frank.

'It's too expensive a game.  No, Holland is a sound man, and his
opinion would weigh with any judge.  I think we have enough to go on
with.'

'And you think it is safe?'

'No, no, nothing is ever safe in the law.  But we can make a fight of
it now.'

And now Frank was to learn what it meant to be entangled in an
intricate clumsy old machine, incredibly cumbrous and at the same
time incredibly powerful, jolting along with its absurd forms and
abominable English towards an end which might or might not be just,
but was most certainly ruinously expensive.  The game began by a
direct letter from the Queen, of all people, an honour which Frank
had never aspired to before, and certainly never did again.

Victoria, by the grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain
and Ireland, Queen, Defender of the Faith, remarked abruptly to Frank
Crosse of Woking, in the county of Surrey, 'We command you that
within eight days of the service of this writ on you, inclusive of
the day of such service, you cause an appearance to be entered for
you in an action at the suit of the Hotspur Insurance Company,
Limited.'  If he didn't do so, Her Majesty remarked that several very
unpleasant things might occur, and Hardinge Stanley, Earl of
Halsbury, corroborated Her Majesty.  Maude was frightened to death
when she saw the document, and felt as if unawares they must have
butted up against the British Constitution, but Owen explained that
it was only a little legal firework, which meant that there might be
some trouble later.

'Well, at any rate,' said Frank, 'it means that in eight days it will
all be over.'

Owen laughed heartily at the remark.

'It means,' said he, 'that in eight days we must promise that at some
future date we will begin to make preparations for something to
happen in the future.  That is about the meaning of it.  All you can
do now is to be perfectly philosophic, and leave the rest to me.'

But how is a man with a capital of fifty pounds going to be
philosophic when he is fighting an opponent whose assets, as a
certain hoarding near Clapham Junction told him every morning,
exceeded three millions of pounds.  He treated it lightly to Maude,
and she to him, but each suffered horribly, and each was well aware
of the other's real feelings.  Sometimes there was a lull, and they
could almost believe that the whole thing was over.  And then the old
machine gave a creak, and the rusty cog-wheels took one more turn,
and they both felt the horrid thing which held them.

First of all, they had to enter appearances, which meant that they
would dispute the action.  Then the other side had to make an
affidavit verifying their claim.  Then a Master had to pronounce
whether the action should be treated offhand, or whether he would
listen to what they had to say about it.  He decided to listen to
what was to be said.  Then each side claimed to see the other's
documents, 'discovery' they called it, as if the documents were
concealed, and they had to hunt for them stealthily with lanterns.
Then each made remarks about the other's documents, and claimed to
see the remarks so made.  Then the lawyers of the Company made a
statement of their claim, and when she read it Maude burst into
tears, and said that it was all over, and they must make the best of
it, and she should never forgive herself for that new dress in the
spring.  And then Frank's lawyer drew up a defence, and when Frank
heard it, he said, 'Why, what a silly business it seems!  They have
not got a leg to stand upon.'  And so, after all these flourishes and
prancings, the two parties did actually begin to show signs of coming
to a hearing after all, and a day was fixed for the trial.  By a
coincidence it was Frank's birthday.  'There's a good omen!' cried
Maude.

The first herald of the approaching conflict was a seedy person, who
thrust a paper into Frank's hand as he emerged from The Lindens in
the morning.  It was another letter from Her Majesty, in which sub
poena (Her Majesty has not a gracious way of putting things in these
documents), Mr. Frank Crosse had 'to attend at the Royal Courts of
Justice, Strand, at the sittings of the Queen's Bench Division of our
High Court of Justice, to give evidence on behalf of the Hotspur
Company.'

This seemed to Frank to be a most unexpected and fearsome stroke, but
Owen simply laughed.

'That is mere bluff,' said he.  'It makes me think that they are
weakening.  They want to frighten you.'

'They did,' said Frank.

'Two can play at that game.  We must keep a bold front.'

'What do you mean to do?'

'To subpoena all their crowd.'

'Capital!' cried Frank.  So a clerk was sent across to the Hotspur
office with a whole bundle of subpoenas, and served them liberally
out.  And in two days' time was the day of battle.



CHAPTER XV--A RESCUE



As the day fixed for the hearing drew near, Ruin lived with them by
day and slept with them by night.  Its dark shadow covered their
lives, and they moved in the gloom of its presence.  If the trial
went against them, and Owen in his most hopeful moods did not
disguise from them that it might, they would have to pay the double
costs as well as the original claim.  All that they possessed would
not cover it.  On the other hand, if they won, this rich Company
might carry the matter to a higher Appeal Court, and so involve them
in a fresh succession of anxieties and expenses.  Do what they would,
there was always danger.  Frank said little, and he slept little
also.

One night, just before the trial, Wingfield, the accountant of the
Society, came down to Woking.  He had managed the case all through
for the directors.  His visit was a sort of ultimatum.

'We are still ready to pay our own law-costs,' said he, 'if you will
allow the original claim.'

'I can't do that,' said Frank doggedly.

'The costs are piling up at a furious rate, and some one will have to
pay them.'

'I hope that it will be you.'

'Well, don't say afterwards that I did not warn you.  My dear Crosse,
I assure you that you are being misled, and that you have not really
got a leg to stand upon.'

'That's what the trial is about,' said Frank.

He kept a bold face to the enemy, but after Wingfield's departure,
Maude saw that his confidence was greatly shaken.

'He seemed very sure of their case,' said he.  'He would not speak
like that if he did not know.'

But Maude took quite another view.

'If they know that they can recover their money in court, why should
they send Mr. Wingfield down in this way.'

'He is such a good chap--he wants to save us expense.'

Maude was less trusting.

'He is doing the best for his own side,' said she.  'It is his duty,
and we can't blame him.  But if he thought it best to get behind his
own lawyers and come down here, then he must have some doubts about
going into court.  Perhaps he would be willing to consider some
compromise.'

But Frank only shook his head.

'We have drawn the cork, and we must drink the wine,' said he.  'We
have gone too far to stop.  Any compromise which they would accept
would be as much out of our power to pay as the whole sum would be,
and so we may just as well see it through.'  But for once Maude did
not take his opinion as final, but lay awake all night and thought it
over.  She had determined to begin acting upon her own account, and
she was so eager to try what she could do that she lay longing for
the morning to break.  When she came down to breakfast, her plan of
campaign was formed.

'I am coming up to town with you, Frank.'

'Delighted to hear it, dear.'  When she had shopping to do, she
frequently went up with him, so it did not surprise him.  What would
have surprised him was to know that she had despatched three
telegrams, by means of Jemima, before he was up.


'To John Selby, 53 Fenchurch Street, E.C.  Will call eleven o'clock.
Important business. -
MAUDE.'

'To Lieutenant Selby, the Depot, Canterbury.  Please come up next
train, meet me Fenchurch Street, eleven thirty.  Important. -
MAUDE.'

'To Owen, 14 Shirley Lane, E.C.  Will call twelve o'clock.
Important.--MRS. CROSSE.'


So she had opened her campaign.

'By the way, Frank,' said she, as they travelled up together, 'to-
morrow is your birthday.'

'Yes, dear, it is,' he answered lugubriously.

'Dear me!  What shall I give my boy for a birthday present?  Nothing
you particularly want?'

'I have all I want,' said he, looking at her.

'Oh, but I think I could find something.  I must look round when I am
in town.'

She began her looking round by a visit to her father in Fenchurch
Street.  It was something new for him to get telegrams from Maude
upon business, and he was very much surprised.

'Looking remarkably well, my dear.  Your appearance is a certificate
of character to your husband.  Well, and how is all at Woking?  I
hope the second cook proved to be a success.'

But Maude was not there for small talk.  'Dear dad,' said she, 'I
want you to stand by me, for I am in trouble.  Now, my dear good dad,
please see things from my point of view, and don't make objections,
and do exactly what I ask you.'  She threw her arms round his neck
and gave him a hearty squeeze.

'Now I call that exerting undue pressure,' said he, extricating his
white head.  'If this sort of thing is allowed in the city of London,
there is an end of all business.'  However, his eyes twinkled and
looked as if he liked it.  'Now madame, what can I do for you?'

'I'm going to be perfectly business-like,' said she, and gave him
another squeeze before sitting down.  'Look here, dad.  You give me
an income of fifty pounds a year, don't you?'

'My dear girl, I can't raise it.  Jack's expenses in the Hussars--'

'I don't want you to raise it.'

'What do you want?'

'I seem to remember, dad, that you told me that this fifty pounds was
the interest on a thousand pounds which was invested for me.'

'So it is--five per cent. debentures.'

'Well, dad, if I were content with an income of twenty-five pounds a
year instead of fifty pounds, then I could take five hundred pounds
out of my money, and nobody would be the worse.'

'Except yourself.'

Maude laughed at that.

'I want the use of the money just for one day.  I certainly won't
need it all.  I just want to feel that I have as much as that in case
I need it.  Now, my dear old daddy, do please not ask any questions,
but be very nice and good, and tell me how I can get these five
hundred pounds.'

'And you won't tell me why you want them?'

'I had rather not--but I will if you insist.'

Old Selby looked into the brave, clear eyes of his daughter, and he
did not insist.

'Look here!  You've got your own little banking account, have you
not?'

'Yes, dad.'

'That's right.  Never mix it up with your husband's.'  He scribbled a
cheque.  'Pay that in!  It is for five hundred pounds.  I will sell
half your debentures and charge you with brokerage.  I believe in
strict business between relatives.  When you pay back the five
hundred pounds, your allowance will be fifty a year once more.'

Maude then and there endorsed the cheque and posted it to her bank.
Then with a final embrace to her father, she hastened out to further
victories.  Jack Selby was smoking a cigarette upon the doorstep.

'Hullo, Maude!  Calling up the reserves?  What's the matter?  Jolly
lucky it wasn't my day on duty.  You girls think a soldier has
nothing to do.  It was so once, but we are all scientific blokes now.
No, thank you, I won't see the dad!  He'd think I had come for money,
and it would upset him for the day.'

Maude took her brother in the cab with her, and told him the whole
story of Frank's misfortune, with some account of her own intentions.
Jack was vastly interested.

'What did dad say about it?'

'I didn't tell him.  I thought Frank would rather not.'

'Quite right.  He won't mind me.  He knows I'm a bit of a business
man myself.  Only signed a paper once in my life, and quite a small
paper too, and I haven't heard the last of it yet.  The thing wasn't
much bigger than a postcard, but the fuss those people made
afterwards!  I suppose they've been worrying Frank.'

'We have had no peace for months.'

'Worry is bad for the young.  But he should not mind.  He should go
on fizzing like I did.  Now we'll put this thing through together,
Maude.  I see your line, and I'll ride it with you.'

They found Mr. Owen at home, and Maude did the talking.

'I am convinced, Mr. Owen, that they don't want to go into court.
Mr. Wingfield coming down like that proves it.  My husband is too
proud to bargain with them, but I have no scruples.  Don't you think
that I might go to Mr. Wingfield myself, and pay the three hundred
and forty pounds, and so have done with the worry for ever?'

'Speaking as a lawyer,' said Owen, 'I think that it is very
irregular.  Speaking as a man, I think no harm could come of it.  But
I should not like you to offer the whole sum.  Simply say that you
are prepared for a reasonable compromise, and ask them to suggest
what is the lowest sum which the office would accept to close the
business.'

'You leave it with me,' said Jack, winking at the lawyer.  'I am
seeing her through.  I'll keep her on the rails.  I am Number 1,
Class A, at business.  We'll take 'em up one link in the curb if they
try any games with us!  Come on, Maude, and get it over.'

He was an excellent companion for her, for his buoyancy turned the
whole thing into fun.  She could not take it too seriously in his
company.  They called at the Hotspur office and asked to see Mr.
Wingfield.  He was engaged, but Mr. Waters, the secretary, a very
fat, pompous man, came in to them.

'I am very sorry,' said he, 'very sorry, indeed, Mrs. Crosse, but it
is too late for any compromise of the sort.  We have our costs to
consider, and there is no alternative but for the case to go into
court.'

Poor Maude nearly burst into tears.

'But suppose that we were to offer--'

'To give you an hour to think it over,' cried Jack.

Mr. Waters shook, his head despondently.

'I do not think that we should alter our decision.  However, Mr.
Wingfield will be here presently, and he will, of course, listen to
any representations which you may have to make.  In the meantime you
must excuse me, as I have matters of importance to attend to.'

'Why, Maude, you little Juggins,' cried Jack, when the door was shut,
'you were just going to offer to pay their costs.  I only just headed
you off in time.'

'Well, I was going to inquire about it.'

'Great Scot, it's lucky you've got a business man at your elbow.  I
couldn't stand that chap at any price.  A bit too hairy in the
fetlocks for my taste.  Couldn't you see that he was only bluffing?'

'How do you know, Jack?'

'It was shining all over him.  Do you suppose a man has bought as
many hairies as I have, and can't tell when a dealer is bluffing?  He
was piling it on so that when the next Christmas-tree comes along, he
may find a soft job waiting for him.  I tell you you want a friendly
native, like me, when you get into this kind of country.  Now ride
this one on the curb, and don't let him have his head for a moment.'

Mr. Wingfield had entered, and his manner was very different to that
of the secretary.  He had great sympathy with the Crosses, and no
desire to wash the Company's dirty linen in public.  He was,
therefore, more anxious than he dared to show to come to some
arrangement.

'It is rather irregular for me to see you.  I should refer you to our
solicitors,' said he.

'Well, we saw you when you came to Woking,' said Maude.  'I believe
that we are much more likely to come to an arrangement if we talk it
over ourselves.'

'I am sure I earnestly hope so,' Wingfield answered.  'I shall be
delighted to listen to anything which you may suggest.  Do you, in
the first place, admit your liability?'

'To some extent,' said Maude, 'if the Company will admit that they
are in the wrong also.'

'Well, we may go so far as to say that we wish the books had been
inspected more often, and that we regret our misplaced confidence in
our agent.  That should satisfy you, Mrs. Crosse.  And now that you
admit SOME liability, that is a great step in advance.  We have no
desire to be unreasonable, but as long as no liability was admitted,
we had no course open to us but litigation.  We now come to the
crucial point, which is, how much liability should fall upon you.  My
own idea is, that each should pay their own costs, and that you
should, in addition, pay over to the Company--'

'Forty pounds,' said Jack firmly.

Maude expected Mr. Wingfield to rise up and leave the room.  As he
did not do so, nor show any signs of violence, she said, 'Yes, forty
pounds.'

He shook his head.

'Dear me, Mrs. Crosse, this is a very small sum.'

'Forty pounds is our offer,' said Jack.

'But on what is this offer based?'

'We have worked it out,' said Jack, 'and we find that forty pounds is
right.'

Mr. Wingfield rose from his chair.

'Well,' said he, 'of course any offer is better than no offer.  I
cannot say what view the directors may take of this proposal, but
they will hold a board meeting this afternoon, and I will lay it
before them.'

'And when shall we know?'

'I could send you round a line by hand to your solicitor.'

'No hurry about it!  Quite at your own convenience!' said Jack.  When
he got outside, in the privacy of their hansom, he was convulsed with
the sense of his own achievements.

'Class A, Number 1, and mentioned at the Agricultural Hall,' he
cried, hugging himself in his delight.  His sister hugged him also,
so he was a much-embraced young man.  'Am I not a man of business,
Maude?  You can't buy 'em--you must breed 'em.  One shilling with the
basket.  I shook him in the first round, and he never rallied after.'

'You are a dear good boy.  You did splendidly.'

'That's the way to handle 'em.  He saw that I was a real fizzer and
full of blood.  One business man can tell another at a glance.'

Maude laughed, for Jack, with his cavalry swagger and a white weal
all round his sunburned face to show where his chin-strap hung,
looked the most unbusiness-like of mortals.

'Why did you offer forty pounds?' she asked.

'Well, you have to begin somewhere.'

'But why forty?'

'Because it is what we offer when we are buying the hairies--
trooper's chargers, you know.  It's a great thing to have a fixed
rule in business.  I never go higher than forty--rule one, section
one, and no exceptions in the margin.'

They lunched together at the Holborn, and Jack took Maude afterwards
to what he called 'a real instructive show,' which proved to be a
horse-sale at Tattersall's.  They then drove back to the lawyer's,
and there they found a letter waiting addressed to Mrs. Crosse.
Maude tore it open.

'Dear Mrs. Crosse,' said this delightful note, 'I am happy to be able
to inform you that the directors have decided to stop the legal
proceedings, and to accept your offer of forty pounds in full
satisfaction of all claims due against your husband.'

Maude, Jack, and the good Owen performed a triumphant pas de trois.

'You have done splendidly, Mrs. Crosse, splendidly!' cried Owen.  'I
never heard a better day's work in my life.  Now, if you will give me
your cheque and wait here, I will go over and settle everything.'

'And please bring the bond back with you,' said Maude.


So it was that Frank, coming down upon the morning of his birthday,
perceived a pretty silver cigarette-box laid in front of his plate.

'Is this for me, my darling?'

'Yes, Frank, a wee present from your wife.'

'How sweet of you!  I never saw such a lovely case.  Why, there's
something inside it.'

'Cigarettes, I suppose.

'No, it is a paper of some kind.  "Hotspur Insurance Company."  Good
Lord, I never seem for one instant to be able to shake that infernal
thing off!  How on earth did it get in there?  What's this?--"I
hereby guarantee to you--"  What's this?  Maude, Maude, what have you
been doing?'

'Dear old boy,' she cried, as she put her arms round him.  'Dear old
boy!  Oh, I DO feel so happy!'



CHAPTER XVI--THE BROWNING SOCIETY



It all began by Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, the smart little up-to-date wife
of the solicitor, saying to Mrs. Beecher, the young bride of the
banker, that in a place like Woking it was very hard to get any
mental friction, or to escape from the same eternal grooves of
thought and conversation.  The same idea, it seemed, had occurred to
Mrs. Beecher, fortified by a remark from the Lady's Journal that an
internal intellectual life was the surest method by which a woman
could preserve her youth.  She turned up the article--for the
conversation occurred in her drawing-room--and she read extracts from
it.  'Shakespeare as a Cosmetic' was the title.  Maude was very much
struck, and before they separated they had formed themselves into a
Literary Society which should meet and discuss classical authors
every Wednesday afternoon at each other's houses.  That one hour of
concentrated thought and lofty impulse should give a dignity and a
tone to the whole dull provincial week.

What should they read?  It was well that they should decide it before
they separated, so as to start fair upon the next Wednesday.  Maude
suggested Shakespeare, but Mrs. Hunt Mortimer thought that a good
deal of it was improper.

'Does it matter?' said Mrs. Beecher.  'We are all married.'

'Still I don't think it would be quite nice,' said Mrs. Hunt
Mortimer.  She belonged to the extreme right on matters of propriety.

'But surely Mr. Bowdler made Shakespeare quite respectable,' Mrs.
Beecher argued.

'He did his work very carelessly.  He left in much that might be
dispensed with, and he omitted a good deal which was quite innocent.'

'How do you know?'

'Because I once got two copies and read all the omissions.'

'Why did you do that?' asked Maude mischievously.

'Because I wanted to make sure that they HAD been omitted,' said Mrs.
Hunt Mortimer severely.

Mrs. Beecher stooped and picked an invisible hairpin out of the rug.
Mrs. Hunt Mortimer continued.

'There is Byron, of course.  But he is so very suggestive.  There are
passages in his works--'

'I could never see any harm in them,' said Mrs. Beecher.

'That is because you did not know where to look,' said Mrs. Hunt
Mortimer.  'If you have a copy in the house, Mrs. Beecher, I will
undertake to make it abundantly clear to you that he is to be
eschewed by those who wish to keep their thoughts unsullied.  Not?  I
fancy that even quoting from memory I could convince you that it is
better to avoid him.'

'Pass Byron,' said Mrs. Beecher, who was a very pretty little
kittenish person, with no apparent need of any cosmetics, literary or
otherwise.  'How about Shelley?'

'Frank raves about Shelley,' observed Maude.

Mrs. Hunt Mortimer shook her head.

'His work has some dreadful tendencies.  He was, I am informed,
either a theist or an atheist, I cannot for the moment recall which--
I think that we should make our little course as improving as
possible.'

'Tennyson,' Maude suggested.

'I have been told that his meaning is too clear to entitle him to
rank among the great thinkers of our race.  The lofty thought is
necessarily obscure.  There is no merit in following a poem which is
perfectly intelligible.  Which leads us to--'

'Browning!' cried the other ladies.

'Exactly.  We might form a little Browning Society of our own.'

'Charming!  Charming!'

And so it was agreed.

There was only one other point to be settled at this their inaugural
meeting, which was, to choose the other ladies who should be admitted
into their literary circle.  There were to be no men.

'They do distract one so,' said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer.

The great thing was to admit no one save those earnest spirits who
would aspire to get the full benefit from their studies.  Mrs.
Fortescue could not be thought of, she was much too talkative.  And
Mrs. Jones had such a frivolous mind.  Mrs. Charles could think and
talk of nothing but her servants.  And Mrs. Patt-Beatson always
wanted to lay down the law.  Perhaps on the whole it would be better
to start the society quietly among themselves, and then gradually to
increase it.  The first meeting should be next Wednesday, at Mrs.
Crosse's house, and Mrs. Hunt Mortimer would bring her complete two-
volume edition with her.  Mrs. Beecher thought that one volume would
be enough just at first, but Mrs. Hunt Mortimer said that it was
better to have a wide choice.  Maude went home and told Frank in the
evening.  He was pleased, but rather sceptical.

'You must begin with the simpler things first,' said he.  'I should
recommend Herve Riel and Gold Hair.'

But Maude put on the charming air of displeasure which became her so
well.

'We are serious students, sir,' said she.  'We want the very hardest
poem in the book.  I assure you, Frank, that one of your little
faults is that you always underrate a woman's intelligence.  Mrs.
Hunt Mortimer says that though we may be less original than men, we
are more assim--more assmun--'

'Assimulative.'

'That's what I say--assimulative.  Now, you always talk as if--oh
yes, you do!  No, you mustn't!  How absurd you are, Frank!  Whenever
I try to speak seriously to you, you always do that and spoil
everything.  How would you like to discuss Browning if at the end of
every sentence somebody came and kissed you?  You wouldn't mind!  No,
I dare say not.  But you would feel that you were not being taken
seriously.  Wait till the next time YOU are in earnest about
anything--you'll see!'


The meeting was to be at three o'clock, and at ten minutes to the
hour Mrs. Hunt Mortimer arrived with two large brown volumes under
her arm.  She had come early, she said, because there was to be a
rehearsal of the amateur theatricals at the Dixons' at a quarter-past
four.  Mrs. Beecher did not appear until five minutes after the hour.
Her cook had quarrelled with the housemaid, and given instantaneous
notice, with five people coming to dinner on Saturday.  It had upset
the lady very much, and she explained that she would not have come if
she had not promised.  It was so difficult to follow poetry when you
were thinking about the entree all the time.

'Why the entree?' asked Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, looking up from the book
which she held open in front of her.

'My dear,' said Mrs. Beecher, who had the art of saying the most
simple things as if they were profoundly confidential secrets,--'My
dear, my parlourmaid is really an excellent cook, and I shall rely
upon her if Martha really goes.  But she is limited, very limited,
and entrees and savouries are the two things in which I cannot
entirely trust her.  I must, therefore, find some dish which is well
within her capacity.'

Mrs. Hunt Mortimer prided herself upon her housekeeping, so the
problem interested her.  Maude also began to feel the meeting less
dull than she had expected.

'Of course there are many things to be considered,' said Mrs. Hunt
Mortimer, with the air of a Q.C. giving an opinion.  'Oyster patties
or oyster vol-au-vents--'

'Oysters are out of season,' said Maude.

'I was about to say,' Mrs. Hunt Mortimer continued, with admirable
presence of mind, 'that these entrees of oysters are inadmissible
because they are out of season.  Now curried prawns--'

'My husband loathes them.'

'Well, well!  What do you say to sweetbreads en caisse?  All you want
are chopped mushrooms, shalots, parsley, nutmeg, pepper, salt,
breadcrumb, bacon fat--'

'No, no,' cried Mrs. Beecher despairingly.  'Anne would never
remember all that.'

'Cutlets a la Constance,' said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer.  'I am sure that
they are simple enough.  Cutlets, butter, fowls' livers, cocks'
combs, mushrooms--'

'My dear, my dear, remember that she is only a parlourmaid.  It is
unreasonable.'

'Ragout of fowl, chicken patties, croquettes of veal with a little
browning--'

'We've got back to Browning after all,' cried Maude.

'Dear me,' said Mrs. Beecher, 'it is all my fault, and I am so sorry.
Now, Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, do please read us a little of that
delightful poetry.'

'You can always get small entrees sent down from the Stores,' cried
Maude, as a happy thought.

'You dear, good girl, how sweet of you to think of it.  Of course one
can.  That is really an admirable idea.  There now, we may consider
the entree as being removed, so we proceed to--'

'The piece de resistance,' said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer solemnly, glancing
down the index of the first volume.  'I confess that my acquaintance
with the poet has up to now been rather superficial.  Our ambition
must be to so master him that he becomes from this time forward part
and parcel of ourselves.  I fancy that the difficulties in
understanding him have been very much exaggerated, and that with
goodwill and perseverance we shall manage to overcome them.'

It was a relief to Mrs. Beecher and to Maude to realise that Mrs.
Hunt Mortimer knew no more about the matter than themselves.  They
both ventured upon a less diffident air now that it was clear that it
might be done in safety.  Maude frowned thoughtfully, and Mrs.
Beecher cast up her pretty brown eyes at the curtain-rod, as if she
were running over in her memory the whole long catalogue of the
poet's works.

'I will tell you what we should do,' said she.  'We must make a vow
that we shall never pass a line until we understand it.  We will go
over it again and again until we grasp its meaning.'

'What an excellent idea!' cried Maude, with one of her little bursts
of enthusiasm.  'Now that is really splendid, Mrs. Beecher.'

'My friends always call me Nellie,' said the little brunette.

'How nice of you to say so!  I should love to call you so, if you
don't mind.  It is such a pretty name too.  Only you must call me
Maude.'

'You look like a Maude,' said Mrs. Beecher.  'I always picture a
Maude as bright and pretty and blonde.  Isn't it strange how names
associate themselves with characters.  Mary is always domestic, and
Rose is a flirt, and Elizabeth is dutiful, and Evelyn is dashing, and
Alice is colourless, and Helen is masterful--'

'And Matilda is impatient,' said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, laughing.
'Matilda has reason to be, seated here with an index in front of her
while you two are exchanging compliments.'

'Why, we were waiting for you to begin,' said Mrs. Beecher
reproachfully.  'Do let us have something, for really the time is
slipping away.'

'It would be a pity to begin at the beginning, because that
represents his immature genius,' remarked Mrs. Hunt Mortimer.  'I
think that on this the opening day of the Society, we should have the
poet at his best.'

'How are we to know which IS his best?' Maude asked.

'I should be inclined to choose something with a title which suggests
profundity--"A Pretty Woman," "Love in a Life," "Any Wife to any
Husband"--'

'Oh, what DID she say to him?' cried Maude.

'Well, I was about to say that all these subjects rather suggested
frivolity.'

'Besides, it really is a very absurd title,' remarked Mrs. Beecher,
who was fond of generalising from her six months' experience of
matrimony.  '_A_ husband to _A_ wife' would be intelligible, but how
can you know what ANY husband would say to ANY wife?  No one can
really foretell what a man will do.  They really are such
extraordinary creatures.'

But Mrs. Hunt Mortimer had been married for five years, and felt as
competent to lay down the law about husbands as about entrees.

'When you have had a larger experience of them, dear, you will find
that there is usually a reason, or at least a primitive instinct of
some sort, at the root of their actions.  But, seriously, we must
really concentrate our attention upon the poet, for my other
engagement will call me away at four, which only leaves me ten
minutes to reach Maybury.'

Mrs. Beecher and Maude settled down with anxious attention upon their
faces.

'Do please go on!' they cried.

'Here is "The Pied Piper of Hamelin."'

'Now that interests me more than I can tell,' cried Maude, with her
eyes shining with pleasure.  'Do please read us everything there is
about that dear piper.'

'Why so?' asked her two companions.

'Well, the fact is,' said Maude, 'Frank--my husband, you know--came
to a fancy-dress at St. Albans as the Pied Piper.  I had no idea that
it came from Browning.'

'How did he dress for it?' asked Mrs. Beecher.  'We are invited to
the Aston's dress ball, and I want something suitable for George.'

'It was a most charming dress.  Red and black all over, something
like Mephistopheles, you know, and a peaked hat with a bell at the
top.  Then he had a flute, of course, and a thin wire from his waist
with a stuffed rat at the end of it.'

'A rat!  How horrid!'

'Well, that was the story, you know.  The rats all followed the Pied
Piper, and so this rat followed Frank.  He put it in his pocket when
he danced, but once he forgot, and so it got stood upon, and the
sawdust came out all over the floor.'

Mrs. Hunt Mortimer was also invited to the dress ball, and her
thoughts flew away from the book in front of her.

'How did you go, Mrs. Crosse?' she asked.

'I went as "Night."'

'What! you with your brown hair!'

'Well, father said that I was not a very dark night.  I was in black,
you know, just my ordinary black silk dinner-dress.  Then I had a
silver half-moon over my head, and black veils round my hair, and
stars all over my bodice and skirt, with a long comet right across
the front.  Father upset a cup of milk over me at supper, and said
afterwards that it was the milky way.'

'It is simply maddening how men WILL make jokes about the most
important subjects,' said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer.  'But I have no doubt,
dear, that your dress was an exceedingly effective one.  Now, for my
own part, I had some idea of going as the "Duchess of Devonshire."'

'Charming!' cried Mrs. Beecher and Maude.

'It is not a very difficult costume, you know.  I have some old Point
d'Alencon lace which has been in the family for a century.  I make it
the starting-point of my costume.  The gown need not be very
elaborate--'

'Silk?' asked Mrs. Beecher.

'Well, I thought that perhaps a white-flowered brocade--'

'Oh yes, with pearl trimming.'

'No, no, dear, with my lace for trimming.'

'Of course.  You said so.'

'And then a muslin fichu coming over here.'

'How perfectly sweet!' cried Maude.

'And the waist cut high, and ruffles at the sleeves.  And, of course,
a picture hat--you know what I mean--with a curling ostrich feather.'

'Powdered hair, of course?' said Mrs. Beecher.

'Powdered in ringlets.'

'It will suit you admirably--beautifully.  You are tall enough to
carry it off, and you have the figure also.  How I wish I was equally
certain about my own!'

'What had you thought of, dear?'

'Well, I had some idea about "Ophelia."  Do you think that it would
do?'

'Certainly.  Had you worked it out at all?'

'Well, my dear,' said Mrs. Beecher, relapsing into her pleasant
confidential manner.  'I had some views, but, of course, I should be
so glad to have your opinion about it.  I only saw Hamlet once, and
the lady was dressed in white, with a gauzy light nun's-veiling over
it.  I thought that with white pongee silk as an under-dress, and
then some sort of delicate--'

'Crepe de Chine,' Maude suggested.

'But in Ophelia's day such a thing had never been heard of,' said
Mrs. Hunt Mortimer.  'A net of silver thread--'

'Exactly,' cried Mrs. Beecher, 'with some sort of jewelling upon it.
That was just what I had imagined.  Of course it should be cut
classically and draped--my dressmaker is such a treasure--and I
should have a gold embroidery upon the white silk.'

'Crewel work,' said Maude.

'Or a plain cross-stitch pattern.  Then a tiara of pearls on the
head.  Shakespeare--'

At the name of the poet their three consciences pricked
simultaneously.  They looked at each other and then at the clock with
dismay.

'We must--we really MUST go on with our reading,' cried Mrs. Hunt
Mortimer.  'How did we get talking about these dresses?'

'It was my fault,' said Mrs. Beecher, looking contrite.

'No, dear, it was mine,' said Maude.  'You remember it all came from
my saying that Frank had gone to the ball as the Pied Piper.'

'I am going to read the very first poem that I open,' said Mrs. Hunt
Mortimer remorselessly.  'I am afraid that it is almost time that I
started, but we may still be able to skim over a few pages.  Now
then!  There!  Setebos!  What a funny name!'

'What DOES it mean?' asked Maude.

'We shall find out, no doubt, as we proceed,' said Mrs. Hunt
Mortimer.  'We shall take it line by line and draw the full meaning
from it.  The first line is -


'Will sprawl now that the heat of day is best--'


'Who will?' asked Mrs. Beecher.

'I don't know.  That's what it says.'

'The next line will explain, no doubt.'


'Flat on his--'


'Dear me, I had no idea that Browning was like this!'

'Do read it, dear.'

'I couldn't possibly think of doing so.  With your permission we will
pass on to the next paragraph.'

'But we vowed not to skip.'

'But why read what cannot instruct or elevate us.  Let us begin this
next stanza, and hope for something better.  The first line is--I
wonder if it really can be as it is written.'

'Do please read it!'


'Setebos and Setebos and Setebos.'


The three students looked sadly at each other.  'This is worse than
anything I could have imagined,' said the reader.

'We mast skip that line.'

'But we are skipping everything.'

'It's a person's name,' said Mrs. Beecher.

'Or three persons.'

'No, only one, I think.'

'But why should he repeat it three times?'

'For emphasis!'

'Perhaps,' said Mrs. Beecher, 'it was Mr. Setebos, and Mrs. Setebos,
and a little Setebos.'

'Now, if you are going to make fun, I won't read.  But I think we
were wrong to say that we would take it line by line.  It would be
easier sentence by sentence.'

'Quite so.'

'Then we will include the next line, which finishes the sentence.  It
is, "thinketh he dwelleth in the cold of the moon."'

'Then it WAS only one Setebos!' cried Maude.

'So it appears.  It is easy to understand if one will only put it
into ordinary language.  This person Setebos was under the impression
that his life was spent in the moonlight.'

'But what nonsense it is!' cried Mrs. Beecher.  Mrs. Hunt Mortimer
looked at her reproachfully.  'It is very easy to call everything
which we do not understand "nonsense,"' said she.  'I have no doubt
that Browning had a profound meaning in this.'

'What was it, then?'

Mrs. Hunt Mortimer looked at the clock.

'I am very sorry to have to go,' said she, 'but really I have no
choice in the matter.  Just as we were getting on so nicely--it is
really most vexatious.  You'll come to my house next Wednesday, Mrs.
Crosse, won't you?  And you also, Mrs. Beecher.  Good-bye, and thanks
for SUCH a pleasant afternoon!'

But her skirts had hardly ceased to rustle in the passage before the
Browning Society had been dissolved by a two-thirds' vote of the
total membership.

'What is the use?' cried Mrs. Beecher.  'Two lines have positively
made my head ache, and there are two volumes.'

'We must change our poet.'

'His verbosity!' cried Mrs. Beecher.

'His Setebosity!' cried Maude.

'And dear Mrs. Hunt Mortimer pretending to like him!  Shall we
propose Tennyson next week?'

'It would be far better.'

'But Tennyson is quite simple, is he not?'

'Perfectly.'

'Then why should we meet to discuss him if there is nothing to
discuss?'

'You mean that we might as well each read him for herself.'

'I think it would be easier.'

'Why, of course it would.'

And so after one hour of precarious life, Mrs. Hunt Mortimer's Mutual
Improvement Society for the elucidation of Browning came to an
untimely end.



CHAPTER XVII--AN INVESTMENT



'I want your advice, Maude.'

She was looking very sweet and fresh in the morning sunlight.  She
wore a flowered, French print blouse--little sprigs of roses on a
white background--and a lace frill round her pretty, white, smooth
throat.  The buckle of her brown leather belt just gleamed over the
edge of the table-cloth.  In front of her were a litter of
correspondence, a white cup of coffee, and two empty eggshells--for
she was a perfectly healthy young animal with an excellent appetite.

'Well, dear, what is it?'

'I shall take the later train.  Then I need not hurry, and can walk
down at my ease.'

'How nice of you!'

'I am not sure that Dinton will think so.'

'Only one little hour of difference--what can it matter?'

'They don't run offices on those lines.  An hour means a good deal in
the City of London.'

'Oh, I do hate the City of London!  It is the only thing which ever
comes between us.'

'I suppose that it separates a good many loving couples every
morning.'

He had come across and an egg-cup had been upset.  Then he had been
scolded, and they sat together laughing upon the sofa.  When he had
finished admiring her little, shining, patent-leather, Louis shoes
and the two charming curves of open-work black stocking, she reminded
him that he had asked for her advice.

'Yes, dear, what was it?'  She knitted her brows and tried to look as
her father did when he considered a matter of business.  But then her
father was not hampered by having a young man's arm round his neck.
It is so hard to be business-like when any one is curling one's hair
round his finger.

'I have some money to invest.'

'O Frank, how clever of you!'

'It is only fifty pounds.'

'Never mind, dear, it is a beginning.'

'That is what I feel.  It is the foundation-stone of our fortunes.
And so I want Her Majesty to lay it--mustn't wrinkle your brow
though--that is not allowed.'

'But it is a great responsibility, Frank.'

'Yes, we must not lose it.'

'No, dear, we must not lose it.  Suppose we invest it in one of those
modern fifty-guinea pianos.  Our dear old Broadwood was an excellent
piano when I was a girl, but it is getting so squeaky in the upper
notes.  Perhaps they would allow us something for it.'

He shook his head.

'I know that we want one very badly, dear.  And such a musician as
you are should have the best instrument that money can buy.  I
promise you that when we have a little to turn round on, you shall
have a beauty.  But in the meantime we must not buy anything with
this money--I mean nothing for ourselves--we must invest it.  We
cannot tell what might happen.  I might fall ill.  I might die.'

'O Frank, how horrid you are this morning!'

'Well, we have to be ready for anything.  So I want to put this where
we can get it on an emergency, and where in the meantime it will
bring us some interest.  Now what shall we buy?'

'Papa always bought a house.'

'But we have not enough.'

'Not a little house?'

'No, not the smallest.'

'A mortgage, then?'

'The sum is too small.'

'Government stock, Frank--if you think it is safe.'

'Oh, it is safe enough.  But the interest is so low.'

'How much should we get?'

'Well, I suppose the fifty pounds would bring us in about thirty
shillings a year.'

'Thirty shillings!  O Frank!'

'Rather less than more.'

'Fancy a great rich nation like ours taking our fifty pounds and
treating us like that.  How MEAN of them!  Don't let them have it,
Frank.'

'No, I won't.'

'If they want it, they can make us a fair offer for it.'

'I think we'll try something else.'

'Well, they have only themselves to thank.  But you have some plan in
your head, Frank.  What is it?'

He brought the morning paper over from the table.  Then he folded it
so as to bring the financial columns to the top.

'I saw a fellow in the City yesterday who knows a great deal about
gold-mining.  I only had a few minutes' talk, but he strongly advised
me to have some shares in the El Dorado Proprietary Gold Mine.'

'What a nice name!  I wonder if they would let us have any?'

'Oh yes, they are to be bought in the open market.  It is like this,
Maude.  The mine was a very good one, and paid handsome dividends.
Then it had some misfortunes.  First, there was no water, and then
there was too much water, and the workings were flooded.  So, of
course, the price of the shares fell.  Now they are getting the mine
all right again, but the shares are still low.  It certainly seems a
very good chance to pick a few of them up.'

'Are they very dear, Frank?'

'I looked them up in the Mining Register before I came home
yesterday.  The original price of each share was ten shillings, but
as they have had these misfortunes, one would expect to find them
rather lower.'

'Ten shillings!  It does not seem much to pay for a share in a thing
with a name like that.'

'Here it is,' said he, pointing with a pencil to one name in a long
printed list.  'This one, between the Royal Bonanza and the Alabaster
Consols.  You see--El Dorado Proprietary!  Then after it you have
printed, 4.75--4.875.  I don't profess to know much about these
things, but that of course means the price.'

'Yes, dear, it is printed at the top of the column--"Yesterday's
prices."'

'Quito so.  Well, we know that the original price of each share was
ten shillings, and of course they must have dropped with a flood in
the mine, so that these figures must mean that the price yesterday
was four shillings and nine-pence, or thereabouts.'

'What a clear head for business you have, dear!'

'I think we can't do wrong in buying at that price.  You see, with
our fifty pounds we could buy two hundred of them, and then if they
went up again we could sell, and take our profit.'

'How delightful!  But suppose they don't go up.'

'Well, they can't go down.  I should not think that a share at four
shillings and ninepence COULD go down very much.  There is no room.
But it may go up to any extent.'

'Besides, your friend said that they would go up.'

'Yes, he seemed quite confident about it.  Well, what do you think,
Maude?  Is it good enough or not?'

'O Frank, I hardly dare advise you.  Just imagine if we were to lose
it all.  Do you think it would be wiser to get a hundred shares, and
then we could buy twenty-five pounds' worth of Royal Bonanza as well.
It would be impossible for them both to go wrong.'

'The Royal Bonanza shares are dear, and then we have had no
information about it.  I think we had better back our own opinion.'

'All right, Frank.'

'Then that is settled.  I have a telegraph-form here.'

'Could you not buy them yourself when you are in town?'

'No, you can't buy things yourself.  You have to do it through a
broker.'

'I always thought a broker was a horrid man, who came and took your
furniture away.'

'Ah, that's another kind of broker.  He comes afterwards.  I promised
Harrison that he should have any business which I could put in his
way, so here goes.  How is that?' -


'Harrison, 13a Throgmorton Street, E.C.--Buy two hundred El Dorado
Proprietaries.

'CROSSE, Woking.'


'Doesn't it sound rather peremptory, Frank?'

'No, no, that is mere business.'

'I hope he won't be offended.'

'I think I can answer for that.'

'You have not said the price.'

'One cannot say the price because one does not know it.  You see, it
is always going up and down.  By this time it may be a little higher
or a little lower than yesterday.  There cannot be much change, that
is certain.  Great Scot, Maude, it is ten-fifteen.  Three and a half
minutes for a quarter of a mile.  Good-bye, darling!  I just love you
in that bodice.  O Lord--good-bye!'


'Well, has anything happened?'

'Yes, you have come back.  Oh I am so glad to see you, you dear old
boy!'

'Take care of that window, darling!'

'Oh, my goodness, I hope he didn't see.  No, it's all right.  He was
looking the other way.  We have the gold shares all right.'

'Harrison has telegraphed?'

'Yes, here it is.' -


'Crosse, The Lindens, Woking.--Bought two hundred El Dorados at 4.75.

HARRISON.'


'That is capital.  I rather expected to see Harrison in the train.  I
shouldn't be surprised if he calls on his way from the station.  He
has to pass our door, you know, on his way to Maybury.'

'He is sure to call.'

'What are you holding there?'

'It's a paper.'

'What paper?'

'Who is it who talks about woman's curiosity?'

'Let me see it.'

'Well, sir, if you must know, it is the Financial Whisper.'

'Where in the world did you get it?'

'I knew that the Montresors took a financial paper.  I remember Mrs.
Montresor saying once how dreadfully dry it was.  So when you were
gone I sent Jemima round and borrowed it, and I have read it right
through to see if there was anything about our mine in it--OUR mine,
Frank; does it not sound splendid?'

'Well, is there anything?'

She clapped her hands with delight.

'Yes, there is.  "This prosperous mine--" that is what it says.  Look
here, it is under the heading of Australian Notes,' she held out the
paper and pointed, but his face fell as he looked.

'O Maude, it's preposterous.'

'What is preposterous?'

'The word is preposterous and not prosperous--"this preposterous
mine."'

'Frank!'  She turned her face away.

'Never mind, dear!  What's the odds?'

'O Frank, our first investment--our fifty pounds!  And to think that
I should have kept the paper as a surprise for you!'

'Well, the print is a little slurred, and it was a very natural
mistake.  After all, the paper may be wrong.  Oh don't, Maude, please
don't!  It's not worth it--all the gold on the earth is not worth it.
There's a sweet girlie!  Now, are you better?  Oh, damn those open
curtains!'

A tall and brisk young man with a glossy hat was coming through the
garden.  An instant later Jemima had ushered him in.

'Hullo, Harrison!'

'How do you do, Crosse?  How are you, Mrs. Crosse?'

'How do you do?  I'll just order tea if you will excuse me.'

Ordering tea seemed to involve a good deal of splashing water.  Maude
came back with a merrier face.

'Is this a good paper, Mr. Harrison?'

'What is it?  Financial Whisper!  No, the most venal rag in the
city.'

'Oh, I am so glad!'

'Why?'

'Well, you know, we bought some shares to-day, and it calls our mine
a preposterous one.'

'Oh, is that all.  Who cares what the Financial Whisper says!  It
would call the Bank of England a preposterous institution if it
thought it could bear Consols by doing so.  Its opinion is not worth
a halfpenny.  By the way, Crosse, it was about those shares that I
called.'

'I thought you might.  I have only just got back myself, and I saw by
your wire that you had bought them all right.'

'Yes, I thought I had better let you have your contract at once.
Settling day is on Monday, you know.'

'All right.  Thank you.  I will let you have a cheque.  What--what's
this?'

The contract had been laid face upwards upon the table.  Frank
Crosse's face grew whiter and his eyes larger as he stared at it.  It
ran in this way -


13a THROGMORTON STREET.

Bought for Francis Crosse, Esq.

(Subject to the Specific Rules and Regulations of the Stock
Exchange.)                           Pounds
200 El Dorado Proprietaries at 4.75    950   0   0
Stamps and Fees                          4  17   6
Commission                               7  10   0
                                       962   7   6

For the 7th inst.


'I fancy there is some mistake here, Harrison,' said he, speaking
with a very dry pair of lips.

'A mistake!'

'Yes, this is not at all what I expected.'

'O Frank!  Nearly a thousand pounds!' gasped Maude.

Harrison glanced from one of them to the other.  He saw that the
matter was serious.

'I am very sorry if there has been any mistake.  I tried to obey your
instructions.  You wanted two hundred El Dorados, did you not?'

'Yes, at four and ninepence.'

'Four and ninepence!  They are four pound fifteen each.'

'But I read that they were only ten shillings originally, and that
they had been falling.'

'Yes, they have been falling for months.  But they were as high as
ten pounds once.  They are down at four pound fifteen now.'

'Why on earth could the paper not say so?'

'When a fraction is used, it always means a fraction of a pound.'

'Good heavens!  And I have to find this sum before Monday.'

'Monday is settling day.'

'I can't do it, Harrison.  It is impossible.'

'Then there is the obvious alternative.'

'No, I had rather die.  I will never go bankrupt--never!'

Harrison began to laugh, and then turned stonily solemn as he met a
pair of reproachful grey eyes.

'It strikes me that you have not done much at this game, Crosse.'

'Never before--and by Heaven, never again!'

'You take it much too hard.  When I spoke of an alternative, I never
dreamed of bankruptcy.  All you have to do is to sell your stock to-
morrow morning, and pay the difference.'

'Can I do that?'

'Rather.  Why not?'

'What would the difference be?'

Harrison took an evening paper from his pocket.  'We deal in rails
chiefly, and I don't profess to keep in touch with the mining market.
We'll find the quotation here.  By Jove!'  He whistled between his
teeth.

'Well!' said Frank, and felt his wife's little warm palm fall upon
his hand under the table.

'The difference is in your favour.'

'In my favour?'

'Yes, listen to this.  "The mining markets, both the South African
and the Australian, opened dull, but grew more animated as the day
proceeded, prices closing at the best.  Out crops upon the Rand mark
a general advance of one-sixteenth to one-eighth.  The chief feature
in the Australian section was a sharp advance of five-eighths in El
Dorados, upon a telegram that the workings had been pumped dry."
Crosse, I congratulate you.'

'I can really sell them for more than I gave?'

'I should think so.  You have two hundred of them, and a profit of
ten shillings on each.'

'Maude, we'll have the whisky and the soda.  Harrison, you must have
a drink.  Why, that's a hundred pounds.'

'More than a hundred.'

'Without my paying anything?'

'Not a penny.'

'When does the Exchange open to-morrow?'

'The rattle goes at eleven.'

'Well, be there at eleven, Harrison.  Sell them at once.'

'You won't hold on and watch the market?'

'No, no--I won't have an easy moment until they are sold.'

'All right, my boy.  You can rely upon me.  You will get a cheque for
your balance on Tuesday or Wednesday.  Good evening!  I am so glad
that it has all ended well.'

'And the joke of it is, Maude,' said her husband, after they had
talked over the whole adventure from the beginning.  'The joke of it
is that we have still to find an investment for our original fifty
pounds.  I am inclined to put it into Consols after all.'

'Well,' said Maude, 'perhaps it would be the patriotic thing to do.'

Two days later the poor old Broadwood with the squeaky treble and the
wheezy bass was banished for ever from The Lindens, and there arrived
in its place a ninety-five-guinea cottage grand, all dark walnut and
gilding, with notes in it so deep and rich and resonant that Maude
could sit before it by the hour and find music enough in simply
touching one here and one there, and listening to the soft, sweet,
reverberant tones which came swelling from its depths.  Her El Dorado
piano, she called it, and tried to explain to lady visitors how her
husband had been so clever at business that he had earned it in a
single day.  As she was never very clear in her own mind how the
thing had occurred, she never succeeded in explaining it to any one
else, but a vague and solemn impression became gradually diffused
abroad that young Mr. Frank Crosse was a very remarkable man, and
that he had done something exceedingly clever in the matter of an
Australian mine.



CHAPTER XVIII--A THUNDERCLOUD



Blue skies and shining sun, but far down on the horizon one dark
cloud gathers and drifts slowly upwards unobserved.  Frank Crosse was
aware of its shadow when coming down to breakfast he saw an envelope
with a well-remembered handwriting beside his plate.  How he had
loved that writing once, how his heart had warmed and quickened at
the sight of it, how eagerly he had read it--and now a viper coiled
upon the white table-cloth would hardly have given him a greater
shock.  Contradictory, incalculable, whimsical life!  A year ago how
scornfully he would have laughed, what contemptuous unbelief would
have filled his soul, if he had been told that any letter of hers
could have struck him cold with the vague apprehension of coming
misfortune.  He tore off the envelope and threw it into the fire.
But before he could glance at the letter there was the quick patter
of his wife's feet upon the stair, and she burst, full of girlish
health and high spirits, into the little room.  She wore a pink
crepon dressing-gown, with cream guipure lace at the neck and wrists.
Pink ribbon outlined her trim waist.  The morning sun shone upon her,
and she seemed to him to be the daintiest, sweetest tiling upon
earth.  He had thrust his letter into his pocket as she entered.

'You will excuse the dressing-gown, Frank.'

'I just love you in it.  No, you mustn't pass.  Now you can go.'

'I was so afraid that you would breakfast without me that I had no
time to dress.  I shall have the whole day to finish in when you are
gone.  There now--Jemima has forgotten to warm the plates again!  And
your coffee is cold.  I wish you had not waited.'

'Better cold coffee with Maude's society.'

'I always thought men gave up complimenting their wives after they
married them.  I am so glad you don't.  I think on the whole that
women's ideas of men are unfair and severe.  The reason is that the
women who have met unpleasant men run about and make a noise, but the
women who are happy just keep quiet and enjoy themselves.  For
example, I have not time to write a book explaining to every one how
nice Frank Crosse is; but if he were nasty my life would be empty,
and so of course I should write my book.'

'I feel such a fraud when you talk like that.'

'That is part of your niceness.'

'Oh don't, Maude!  It really hurts me.'

'Why, Frank, what is the matter with you to-day?'

'Nothing, dear.'

'Oh yes, there is.  I can tell easily.'

'Perhaps I am not quite myself.'

'No, I am sure that you are not.  I believe that you have a cold
coming on.  O Frank, do take some ammoniated quinine.'

'Good heavens, no!'

'Please!  Please!'

'My dear girlie, there is nothing the matter with me.'

'But it is such splendid stuff.'

'Yes, I know.  But really I don't want it.'

'Have you had any letters, Frank?'

'Yes, one.'

'Anything important?'

'I have hardly glanced at it yet.'

'Glance at it now.'

'Oh, I will keep it for the train.  Good-bye, dearest.  It is time
that I was off.'

'If you would only take the ammoniated quinine.  You men are so proud
and obstinate.  Good-bye, darling.  Eight hours, and then I shall
begin to live again.'

He had a quiet corner of a carriage to himself, so he unfolded his
letter and read it.  Then he read it again with frowning brows and
compressed lips.  It ran in this way -


My Dearest Frankie,--I suppose that I should not address you like
this now that you are a good little married man, but the force of
custom is strong, and, after all, I knew you long before she did.  I
don't suppose you were aware of it, but there was a time when I could
very easily have made you marry me, in spite of all you may know
about my trivial life and adventures, but I thought it all over very
carefully, and I came to the conclusion that it was not good enough.
You were always a dear good chap yourself, but your prospects were
not quite dashing enough for your festive Violet.  I believe in a
merry time even if it is a short one.  But if I had really wanted to
settle down in a humdrum sort of way, you are the man whom I should
have chosen out of the whole batch of them.  I hope what I say won't
make you conceited, for one of your best points used to be your
modesty.

But for all that, my dear Frankie, I by no means give you up
altogether, and don't you make any mistake about that.  It was only
yesterday that I saw Charlie Scott, and he told me all about you, and
gave me your address.  Don't you bless him?  And yet I don't know.
Perhaps you have still a kindly thought of your old friend, and would
like to see her.

But you are going to see her whether you like or not, my dear boy, so
make up your mind to that.  You know how you used to chaff me about
my whims.  Well, I've got a whim now, and I'll have my way as usual.
I am going to see you to-morrow, and if you won't see me under my
conditions in London, I shall call at Woking in the evening.  Oh my
goodness, what a bombshell!  But you know that I am always as good as
my word.  So look out!

Now I'll give you your orders for the day, and don't you forget them.
To-morrow (Thursday, 14th, no excuses about the date) you will leave
your office at 3.30.  I know that you can when you like.  You will
drive to Mariani's, and you will find me at the door.  We shall go up
to our old private room, and we shall have tea together, and a dear
old chat about all sorts of things.  So come!  But if you don't,
there is a train which leaves Waterloo at 6.10 and reaches Woking at
7.  I will come by it and be just in time for dinner.  What a joke it
will be!

Good-bye, old boy!  I hope your wife does not read your letters, or
this will rather give her fits.

- Yours as ever, VIOLET WRIGHT.


At the first reading this letter filled him with anger.  To be wooed
by a very pretty woman is pleasant even to the most austere of
married men (and never again trust the one who denies it), but to be
wooed with a very dangerous threat mixed up with the wooing is no
such pleasant experience.  And it was no empty threat.  Violet was a
woman who prided herself upon being as good as her word.  She had
laughingly said with her accustomed frankness upon one occasion that
it was her sole remaining virtue.  If he did not go to Mariani's, she
would certainly come to Woking.  He shuddered to think of Maude being
annoyed by her.  It was one thing to speak in a general way to his
wife of prematrimonial experiences, and it was another to have this
woman forcing herself upon her and making a scene.  The idea was so
vulgar.  The sweet, pure atmosphere of The Lindens would never be the
same again.

No, there was no getting out of it.  He must go to Mariani's.  He was
sufficiently master of himself to know that no harm could come of
that.  His absolute love for his wife shielded him from all danger.
The very thought of infidelity nauseated him.  And then, as the idea
became more familiar to him, other emotions succeeded that of anger.
There was an audacity about his old flame, a spirit and devilment,
which appealed to his sporting instincts.  Besides, it was
complimentary to him, and flattering to his masculine vanity, that
she should not give him up without a struggle.  Merely as a friend it
would not be disagreeable to see her again.  Before he had reached
Clapham Junction his anger had departed, and by the time that he
arrived at Waterloo he was surprised to find himself looking forward
to the interview.

Mariani's is a quiet restaurant, famous for its lachryma christi
spumante, and situated in the network of sombre streets between Drury
Lane and Covent Garden.  The fact of its being in a by-street was not
unfavourable to its particular class of business.  Its customers were
very free from the modern vice of self-advertisement, and would even
take some trouble to avoid publicity.  Nor were they gregarious or
luxurious in their tastes.  A small, simple apartment was usually
more to their taste than a crowded salon, and they were even prepared
to pay a higher sum for it.

It was five minutes to four when Frank arrived, and the lady had not
yet appeared.  He stood near the door and waited.  Presently a hansom
rattled into the narrow street, and there she sat framed in its
concavity.  A pretty woman never looks prettier than in a hansom,
with the shadows behind to give their Rembrandt effect to the face in
front.  She raised a yellow kid hand, and flashed a smile at him.

'Just the same as ever,' said she, as he handed her down.

'So are you.'

'So glad you think so.  I am afraid I can't quite agree with you.
Thirty-four yesterday.  It's simply awful.  Thank you, I have some
change.  All right, cabby.  Well, have you got a room?'

'No.'

'But you'll come?'

'Oh yes, I should like to have a chat.'

The clean-shaven, round-faced manager, a man of suave voice and
diplomatic manner, was standing in the passage.  His strange life was
spent in standing in the passage.  He remembered the pair at once,
and smiled paternally.

'Not seen you for some time, sir!'

'No, I have been engaged.'

'Married,' said the lady.

'Dear me!' said the proprietor.  'Tea, sir?'

'And muffins.  You used to like the muffins.'

'Oh yes, muffins by all means.'

'Number ten,' said the proprietor, and a waiter showed them upstairs.
'All meals nine shillings each,' he whispered, as Frank passed him at
the door.  He was a new waiter, and so mistook every one for a new
customer, which is an error which runs through life.

It was a dingy little room with a round table covered by a soiled
cloth in the middle.  Two windows, discreetly blinded, let in a dim
London light.  An armchair stood at each side of the empty fireplace,
and an uncomfortable, old-fashioned, horsehair sofa lined the
opposite wall.  There were pink vases upon the mantelpiece, and a
portrait of Garibaldi above it.

The lady sat down and took off her gloves.  Frank stood by the window
and smoked a cigarette.  The waiter rattled and banged and jingled
with the final effect of producing a tea-tray and a hot-water dish.
'You'll ring if you want me, sir,' said he, and shut the door with
ostentatious completeness.

'Now we can talk,' said Frank, throwing his cigarette into the
fireplace.  'That waiter was getting on my nerves.'

'I say, I hope you're not angry.'

'What at?'

'Well, my saying I should come down to Woking, and all that.'

'I should have been angry if I thought you had meant it.'

'Oh, I meant it right enough.'

'But with what object?'

'Just to get level with you, Frankie, if you threw me over too
completely.  Hang it all, she has three hundred and sixty-five days
in the year!  Am I to be grudged a single hour?'

'Well, Violet, we won't quarrel about it.  You see I came all right.
Pull up your chair and have some tea.'

'You haven't even looked at me yet.  I won't take any tea until you
do.'

She stood up in front of him, and pushed up her veil.  It was a face
and a figure worth looking at.  Hazel eyes, dark chestnut hair, a
warm flush of pink in her cheeks, the features and outline of an old
Grecian goddess, but with more of Juno than of Venus, for she might
perhaps err a little upon the side of opulence.  There was a
challenge and defiance dancing in those dark devil-may-care eyes of
hers which might have roused a more cold-blooded man than her
companion.  Her dress was simple and dark, but admirably cut.  She
was clever enough to know that a pretty woman should concentrate
attention upon herself, and a plain one divert it to her adornments.

'Well?'

'By Jove, Violet, you look splendid.'

'Well?'

'The muffins are getting cold.'

'Frankie, what IS the matter with you?'

'Nothing is the matter.'

'Well?'

She put out her two hands and took hold of his.  That well-remembered
sweet, subtle scent of hers rose to his nostrils.  There is nothing
more insidious than a scent which carries suggestions and
associations.  'Frankie, you have not kissed me yet.'

She turned her smiling face upwards and sideways, and for an instant
he leaned forward towards it.  But he had himself in hand again in a
moment.  It gave him confidence to find how quickly and completely he
could do it.  With a laugh, still holding her two hands, he pushed
her back into the chair by the table.

'There's a good girl!' said he.  'Now we'll have some tea, and I'll
give you a small lecture while we do so.'

'You are a nice one to give lectures.'

'Oh, there's no such preacher as a converted sinner.'

'You really are converted then?'

'Rather.  Two lumps, if I remember right.  You ought to do this, not
I.  No milk, and very strong--how you keep your complexion I can't
imagine.  But you do keep it; my word, you do!  Now please don't look
so crossly at me.'

Her flushed cheeks and resentful eyes had drawn forth the
remonstrance.

'You ARE changed,' she said, with surprise as well as anger in her
voice.

'Why, of course I am.  I am married.'

'For that matter Charlie Scott is married.'

'Don't give Charlie Scott away.'

'I think I give myself away.  So you have lost all your love for me.
I thought it was to last for ever.'

'Now, do be sensible, Violet.'

'Sensible!  How I loathe that word!  A man only uses it when he is
going to do something cold-blooded and mean.  It is always the
beginning of the end.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'I want you to be my own Frankie--just the same as before.  Ah do,
Franck--don't leave me!  You know I would give any of them up for
you.  And you have a good influence over me--you have really!  You
call't think how hard I am with other people.  Ask Charlie Scott.  He
will tell you.  I've been so different since I have lost sight of
you.  Now, Frankie, don't be horrid to me!  Kiss and be nice!'  Again
her soft warm hand was upon his, and the faint sweet smell of violets
went to his blood like wine.  He jumped up, lit another cigarette,
and paced about the room.

'You shan't have a cigarette, Frankie.'

'Why not?'

'Because you said once it helped you to control yourself.  I don't
want you to control yourself.  I want you to feel as I feel.'

'Do sit down, like a good girl!'

'Cigarette out!'

'Don't be absurd, Violet!'

'Come, out with it, sir.'

'No, no, leave it alone!'

She had snatched it from his lips and thrown it into the grate.

'What is the use of that?  I have a case full.'

'They shall all follow the first.'

'Well, then, I won't smoke.'

'I'll see that you don't.'

'Well, what the better are you for that?'

'Now, be nice.'

'Go back to your chair and have some more tea.'

'Oh, bother the tea!'

'Well, I won't speak to you unless you sit down and behave yourself.'

'There now!  Speak away.'

'Look here, dear Violet, you must not talk about this any more.  Some
things are possible and some are impossible.  This is absolutely,
finally impossible.  We can never go back upon the past.  It is
finished and done with.'

'Then what did you come here for?'

'To bid you good-bye.'

'A Platonic good-bye.'

'Of course.'

'In a private room at Mariani's.'

'Why not?'

She laughed bitterly.

'You were always a little mad, Frankie.'

He leaned earnestly over the table.

'Look here, Violet, the chances are that we shall never meet again.'

'It takes two to say that.'

'Well, I mean that after to-day I should not meet you again.  If you
were not quite what you are it would be easier.  But as it is I find
it a little too much of a test.  No, don't mistake me or think that I
am weakening.  That is impossible.  But all the same I don't want to
go through it again.'

'So sorry if I have upset you.'

He disregarded her irony.

'We have been very good friends, Violet.  Why should we part as
enemies?'

'Why should we part at all?'

'We won't go back over that.  Now do please look facts in the face
and help me to do the right thing, for it would be so much easier if
you would help me.  If you were a very good and kind girl you would
shake my hand, like any other old pal, and wish me joy of my
marriage.  You know that I should do so if I knew that you were going
to be married.'

But the lady was not to be so easily appeased.  She took her tea in
silence or answered his remarks with monosyllables, while the
occasional flash of her dark eyes as she raised them was like the
distant lightning which heralds the storm.  Suddenly, with a swift
rustle of skirts, she was between the door and his chair.

'Now, Frankie, we have had about enough of this nonsense,' said she.
'Don't imagine that you are going to get out of this thing so easily.
I've got you, and I'll keep you.'

He faced round in his chair and looked helplessly at her with a hand
upon each knee.

'O Lord!  Don't begin it all over again,' said he.

'No, I won't,' she answered with an angry laugh.  'I'll try another
line this time, Master Frank.  I'm not the sort of woman who lets a
thing go easily when once I have set my heart upon it.  I won't try
coaxing any longer--'

'So glad,' he murmured.

'You may say what you like, but you can't do it, my boy.  I knew you
before she did, and I'll keep you, or else I'll make such a row that
you will be sorry that you ever put my back up.  It's all very fine
to sit there and preach, but it won't do, Frankie.  You can't slip
out of things as easily as all that.'

'Why should you turn nasty like this, Violet?  What do you think you
will gain by it?'

'I mean to gain YOU.  I like you, Frankie.  I'm not sure that I don't
really love you--real, real love, you know.  Any way, I don't intend
to let you go, and if you go against my will I give you my word that
I shall make it pretty sultry for you down at Woking.'

He stared moodily into his teacup.

'Besides, what rot it all is!' she continued, laying her hand upon
his shoulder.  'When did you begin to ride the high moral horse?  You
were just as cheerful as the rest of them when last I saw you.  You
speak as if a man ceased to live just because he is married.  What
has changed you?'

'I'll tell you what has changed me,' said he, looking up.  'My wife
has changed me.'

'Oh, bother your wife!'

A look which was new to her came over his face.

'Stop that!' said he sharply.

'Oh, no harm!  How has your wife made this wonderful change?'

His mood softened as his thoughts flew back to Woking.

'By her own goodness--the atmosphere that she makes round her.  If
you knew how wholesome she was, how delicate in her most intimate
thoughts, how fresh and how sweet and how pure, you would understand
that the thought of being false to her is horrible.  When I think of
her as she sat at breakfast this morning, so loving and so innocent--
'

He would have been more discreet if he had been less eloquent.  The
lady's temper suddenly overflowed.

'Innocent!' she cried.  'As innocent as I am.'

He sprang to his feet with eyes which were more angry than her own.

'Hold your tongue!  How dare you talk against my wife!  You are not
fit to mention her name.'

'I'll go to Woking,' she gasped.

'You can go to the devil!' said he, and rang the bell for his bill.
She stared at him with a surprise which had eclipsed her anger, while
she pulled on her gloves with little sharp twitches.  This was a new
Frank Crosse to her.  As long as a woman gets on very well with a
man, she is apt, at the back of her soul, to suspect him of weakness.
It is only when she differs from him that she can see the other side,
and it always comes as a surprise.  She liked him better than ever
for the revelation.

'I'm not joking,' she whispered, as they went down the stair.  'I'll
go, as sure as fate.'

He took no notice, but passed on down the street without a word of
farewell.  When he came to the turning he looked back.  She was
standing by the curb, with her proud head high in the air, while the
manager screamed loudly upon a whistle.  A cab swung round a distant
corner.  Crosse reached her before it did.

'I hope I haven't hurt your feelings,' said he.  'I spoke too
roughly.'

'Trying to coax me away from Woking,' she sneered.  'I'm coming all
the same.'

'That's your affair,' said he, as he handed her into the cab.



CHAPTER XIX--DANGER



Again the bright little dining-room, with the morning sun gleaming
upon the high silver coffee pot and the electro-plated toast-rack--
everything the same, down to the plates which Jemima had once again
forgotten to warm.  Maude, with the golden light playing upon the
fringes of her curls, and throwing two little epaulettes of the
daintiest pink across her shoulders, sat in silence, glancing across
from time to time with interrogative eyes at her husband.  He ate his
breakfast moodily, for he was very ill at ease.  There was a struggle
within him, for his conscience was pulling him one way and his
instincts the other.  Instincts are a fine old conservative force,
while conscience is a thing of yesterday, so it is usually safe to
prophesy which will sway the other.

The matter at issue was whether he should tell Maude about Violet
Wright.  If she were going to carry out her threat, then certainly it
would be better to prepare her.  But after all, his arguments of
yesterday might prevail with her when her first impetuous fit of
passion was over.  Why should he go half-way to meet danger?  If it
came, nothing which he could say would ward it off.  If it did not
come, there was no need for saying anything.  Conscience told him
that it would be better to be perfectly straight with his wife.
Instinct told him that though she would probably be sweet and
sympathetic over it, yet it would rankle in her mind and poison her
thoughts.  And perhaps for once, Instinct may have been better than
Conscience.  Do not ask too many questions, you young wife!  Do not
be too free with your reminiscences, you young husband.  There are
things which can be forgiven, but never, never, can they be
forgotten.  That highest thing on earth, the heart of a loving woman,
is too tender, too sacred, to be bruised by a wanton confidence.  You
are hers.  She is yours.  The future lies with both of you.  It is
wiser to leave the past alone.  The couples who boast that they have
never had a secret are sometimes happy because the boast is sometimes
untrue.

'You won't be late to-day, Frank,' said Maude at last, peeping round
the tall coffee-pot.

'No, dear, I won't.'

'You were yesterday, you know.'

'Yes, I know I was.'

'Were you kept at the office?'

'No, I had tea with a friend.'

'At his house?'

'No, no, at a restaurant.  Where has Jemima put my boots?  I wonder
if she has cleaned them.  I can never tell by looking.  Here they
are.  And my coat?  Anything I can get you in town?  Well, good-bye,
dear, good-bye!'  Maude had never seen him make so hurried an exit.

It is always a mystery to the City man how his wife puts in the seven
hours a day of loneliness while the E.C. has claimed him for its own.
She cannot explain it to him, for she can hardly explain it to
herself.  It is frittered away in a thousand little tasks, each
trivial in itself, and yet making in their sum the difference between
a well-ordered and a neglected household.  Under the illustrious
guidance of the omniscient Mrs. Beeton there is the usual routine to
be gone through.  The cook has to be seen, the larder examined, the
remains cunningly transformed into new and attractive shapes, the
dinner to be ordered (anything will do for lunch), and the new
supplies to be got in.  The husband accepts the excellent little
dinner, the fried sole, the ris de veau en caisse, the lemon pudding,
as if they had grown automatically out of the table-cloth.  He knows
nothing of the care, the judgment, the prevision which ring the
changes with every season, which never relax and never mistake.  He
enjoys the fruits, but he ignores the work which raised them.  And
yet the work goes cheerfully and uncomplainingly on.

Then when every preparation has been made for the dinner--that solemn
climax of the British day, there is plenty for Maude to do.  There is
the white chiffon to be taken out of the neck of that dress, and the
pink to be put in.  Amateur dressmaking is always going on at The
Lindens, and Frank has become more careful in his caresses since he
found one evening that his wife had a row of pins between her lips--
which is not a pleasant discovery to make with your own.  Then there
are drawers to be tidied, and silver to be cleaned, and the leaves of
the gutta-percha plant to be washed, and the feather which was damped
yesterday to be re-curled before the fire.  That leaves just time
before lunch to begin the new novel by glancing at the last two pages
to see what DID happen, and then the three minutes lunch of a lonely
woman.  So much for business, now for the more trying social duties.
The pink dressing-gown is shed and a trim little walking dress--
French grey cloth with white lisse in front and a grey zouave jacket-
-takes its place.  Visiting strangers is not nearly so hard when you
are pleased with your dress, and even entertaining becomes more easy
when your costumiere lives in Regent Street.  On Tuesdays Maude is at
home.  Every other day she hunts through her plate of cards, and is
overwhelmed by the sense of her rudeness towards her neighbours.  But
her task is never finished, though day after day she comes back jaded
with her exertions.  Strangers still call upon her--'hope it is not
too late to do the right thing, and to welcome,' etc., etc.--and they
have to be re-visited.  While she is visiting them, other cards
appear upon her hall table, and so the foolish and tiresome
convention continues to exhaust the time and the energies of its
victim.

Those original receptions were really very difficult.  Jemima
announced a name which might or might not bear some relation to the
visitor's.  The lady entered.  Her name might perhaps be Mrs. Baker.
Maude had no means of knowing who Mrs. Baker might be.  The visitor
seldom descended to an explanation.  Ten minutes of desultory and
forced conversation about pinewoods and golf and cremation.  A cup of
tea and a departure.  Then Maude would rush to the card-tray to try
to find out whom it was that she had been talking to, and what it was
all about.

Maude did not intend to go visiting that particular day, and she had
hoped that no one might visit her.  The hours of danger were almost
past, and it was close upon four o'clock, when there came a brisk
pull at the bell.

'Mrs. White,' said Jemima, opening the drawing-room door.

'Wright,' said the visitor, as she walked in--'Mrs. Violet Wright.'

Maude rose with her pleasant smile.  It was a peculiarly sweet and
kindly smile, for it was inspired by a gentle womanly desire to make
things pleasant for all who were around her.  Amiability was never
artificial with her, for she had the true instincts of a lady--those
instincts so often spoken of, so seldom, so very seldom seen.  Like a
gentleman, or a Christian, or any other ideal, it is but a poor
approximation which is commonly attained.

But the visitor did not respond to the pretty gesture of welcome, nor
did her handsome face return that sympathetic smile.  They stood for
an instant looking at each other, the one tall, masterful, mature,
the other sweet, girlish, and self-distrustful, but each beautiful
and engaging in her own way.  Lucky Master Frank, whose past and
present could take such a form; but luckier still if he could have
closed the past when the present opened.  The visitor was silent, but
her dark eyes looked critically and fixedly at her rival.  Maude,
setting the silence down to the shyness of a first visit, tried to
make matters easier.

'Please try this armchair.  No doubt you have had a tiring walk.  It
is still very warm in the afternoons.  I think it was so kind of you
to call.'

A faint smile flickered upon the dark face.

'Kind of me to call!' said she.

'Yes; for in a rising place like Woking, with so many new arrivals,
it must be quite a task for the older inhabitants to welcome them.  I
have been so surprised by the kindness which every one has shown.'

'Oh, I see,' said her visitor, 'you think that I live here.  I have
really just come down from London.'

'Indeed,' said Maude, and awaited an explanation.  As none was
forthcoming, she added, 'You will find Woking a very nice place.'

'A nice place to be buried in, alive or dead,' said her visitor.

There was something peculiarly ungracious in her tone and manner.  It
seemed to Maude that she had never before been alone with so singular
a person.  There was, in the first place, her striking and yet rather
sinister and voluptuous beauty.

Then there was the absolute carelessness of her manner, the quiet
assumption that she was outside the usual conventionalities of life.
It is a manner only to be met in English life, among some of the
highest of the high world, and some of the highest of the half world.
It was new to Maude, and it made her uncomfortable, while mingled
with it there was something else which made her feel for the first
time in her life that she had incurred the hostility of a fellow-
mortal.  It chilled her, and made her unhappy.

The visitor made no effort to sustain the conversation, but leaned
back in her chair and stared at her hostess with a very critical and
searching glance.  Those two questioning dark eyes played eagerly
over her from her brown curls down to the little shining shoe-tips
which peeped from under the grey skirt.  Especially they dwelt upon
her face, reading it and rereading it.  Never had Maude been so
inspected, and her instinct told her that the inspection was not
altogether a friendly one.

Violet Wright having examined her rival, proceeded now with the same
cool attention to take in her surroundings.  She looked round
deliberately at the furniture of the room, and reconstructed in her
own mind the life of the people who owned it.  Maude ventured upon
one or two conventional remarks, but her visitor was not to be
diverted to the weather or to the slowness of the South-Western train
service.  She continued her quiet and silent inspection.  Suddenly
she rose and swept across to the side-table.  A photograph of Frank
in his volunteer uniform stood upon it.

'This is your husband, Mr. Frank Crosse?'

'Yes, do you know him?'

'Slightly.  We have mutual friends.'  An ambiguous smile played
across her face as she spoke.  'This must have been taken after I saw
him.'

'It was taken just after our marriage.'

'Quite so.  He looks like a good little married man.  The photograph
is flattering.'

'Oh, you think so!' said Maude coldly.  'My own impression is that it
fails to do him justice.'

Her visitor laughed.  'Of course that WOULD be your impression,' said
she.

Maude's gentle soul began to rise in anger.

'It is the truth,' she cried.

'It is right that you should think so,' the other answered, with the
same irritating laugh.

'You must have known him very slightly if you can't see that it is
the truth.'

'Then I must have known him very slightly.'

Maude was very angry indeed.  She began to find sides to her own
nature the very existence of which she had never suspected.  She
tapped her little shoe upon the ground, and she sat with a pale face,
and compressed lips, and bright eyes, quite prepared to be very rude
indeed to this eccentric woman who ventured to criticise her Frank in
so free and easy a style.  Her visitor watched her, and a change had
come over her expression.  Maude's evident anger seemed to amuse and
interest her.  Her eyes lost their critical coldness, and softened
into approval.  She suddenly put her hand upon the other's shoulder
with so natural and yet masterful a gesture, that Maude found it
impossible to resent it.

'He is a lucky man to have such a warm little champion,' said she.

Her strong character and greater knowledge of the world gave her an
ascendency over the girlish wife such as age has over youth.  There
were not ten years between them, and yet Maude felt that for some
reason the conversation between them could not quite be upon equal
terms.  The quiet assurance of her visitor, whatever its cause, made
resentment or remonstrance difficult.  Besides, they were a pair of
very kindly as well as of very shrewd eyes which now looked down into
hers.

'You love him very much, then?'

'Of course I love him.  He is my husband.'

'Does it always follow?'

'You are married yourself.  Don't you love yours?'

'Oh, never mind mine.  HE'S all right.  Did you ever love any one
else?'

'No, not really.'

Maude was astonished at herself, and yet the questions were so
frankly put that a frank answer came naturally to them.  It pleased
her to lose that cold chill of dislike, and to feel that for some
reason her strange visitor had become more friendly to her.

'You lucky girl, you actually married the one love of your life!'

Maude smiled and nodded.

'What a splendid thing to do!  I thought it only happened in books.
How happy you must be!'

'I AM very, very happy.'

'Well, I dare say you deserve to be.  Besides, you really are very
pretty.  If ever you had a rival, I should think that it must be some
consolation to her to know that it was so charming a person who cut
her out.'

Maude laughed at the thought.

'I never had a rival,' said she.  'My husband never REALLY loved
until he met me.'

'Did he--oh yes, quite so!  That is so nice that you should both
start with a clean sheet!  I thought you were very handsome just now
when you were angry with me, but you are quite delightful with that
little flush upon your cheeks.  If I had been a man, your husband
would certainly have had one rival in his wooing.  And so he really
never loved any one but you?  I thought that also only happened in
books.'

There was a hard and ironic tone in the last sentences which jarred
upon Maude's sensitive nature.  She glanced up quickly and was
surprised at the look of pain which had come upon her companion's
face.  It relaxed into a serious serenity.

'That fits in beautifully,' said she.  'But there's one bit of advice
which I should like to give you, if you won't think it a liberty.
Don't be selfish in your married life.'

'Selfish!'

'Yes, there is a kind of family selfishness which is every bit as
bad--I am not sure that it is not worse--than personal selfishness.
People love each other, and they shut out the world, and have no
thought for any one else, and the whole universe can slide to
perdition so long as their love is not disturbed.  That is what I
call family selfishness.  It's a sin and a shame.'

Maude looked at this strange woman in amazement.  She was speaking
fast and hotly, like one whose bitter thoughts have been long penned
up for want of a suitable listener.

'Remember the women who have been less fortunate than you.  Remember
the thousands who are starving, dying, for want of love, and no love
comes their way; whose hearts yearn and faint for that which Nature
owes them, but Nature never pays her debt.  Remember the plain women.
Remember the lonely women.  Above all, remember your unfortunate
sisters; they, the most womanly of all, who have been ruined by their
own kindliness and trust and loving weakness.  It is that family
selfishness which turns every house in the land into a fort to be
held against these poor wanderers.  They make them evil, and then
they revile the very evil which they have made.  When I look back--'

She stopped with a sudden sob.  Her forearm fell upon the
mantelpiece, and her forehead upon her forearm.  In an instant Maude
was by her side, the tears running down her cheeks, for the sight of
grief was always grief to her, and her nerves were weakened by this
singular interview.

'Dear Mrs. Wright, don't cry!' she whispered, and her little white
hand passed in a soothing, hesitating gesture over the coil of rich
chestnut hair.  'Don't cry!  I am afraid you have suffered.  Oh, how
I wish I could help you!  Do tell me how I can help you.'

But Violet's occasional fits of weakness were never of a very long
duration.  She dashed her hand impatiently across her eyes,
straightened her tall figure, and laughed as she glanced at herself
in the mirror.

'Madame Celandine would be surprised if she could see how I have
treated one of her masterpieces,' said she, as she straightened her
crushed hat, and arranged her hair with those quick little deft pats
of the palm with which women can accomplish so much in so short a
time.  Rumpled finery sets the hands of every woman within sight of
it fidgeting, so Maude joined in at the patting and curling and
forgot all about her tears.

'There, that will have to do,' said Violet at last.  'I am so sorry
to have made such a fool of myself.  I don't err upon the sentimental
side as a rule.  I suppose it is about time that I thought of
catching my train for town.  I have a theatre engagement which I must
not miss.'

'How strange it is!' said Maude, looking at her own pretty tear-
marked face in the mirror.  'You have only been here a few minutes,
as time goes, and yet I feel that in some things I am more intimate
with you than with any woman I have ever met.  How can it be?  What
bond can there be to draw us together like this?  And it is the more
extraordinary, because I felt that you disliked me when you entered
the room, and I am sure that you won't be offended if I say that when
you had been here a little I thought that I disliked you.  But I
don't.  On the contrary, I wish you could come every day.  And I want
to come and see you also when I am in town.'

Maude, for all her amiability, was not gushing by nature, and this
long speech caused her great astonishment when she looked back upon
it.  But at the moment it came so naturally from her heart that she
never paused to think of its oddity.  Her enthusiasm was a little
chilled, however, by the way in which her advances were received.
Violet Wright's eyes were more kindly than ever, but she shook her
head.

'No, I don't suppose we shall ever meet again.  I don't think I could
ask you to visit me in London.  I wanted to see you, and I have seen
you, but that, I fear, must be the end of it.'

Maude's lip trembled in a way which it had when she was hurt.

'Why did you wish to see me, then?' she asked.

'On account of that slight acquaintance with your husband.  I thought
it would be interesting to see what sort of wife he had chosen.'

'I hope you are not disappointed,' said Maude, making a roguish face.

'He has done very well--better than I expected.'

'You had not much respect for his taste, then?'

'Oh yes, I always thought highly of his taste.'

'You have such a pretty way of putting things.  You know my husband
very slightly, but still I can see that you know the world very well.
I often wonder if I am really the best kind of woman that he could
have married.  Do you think I am, Mrs. Wright?'

Her visitor looked in silence for a little at the gentle grace and
dainty sympathetic charm of the woman before her.

'Yes,' she said slowly, as one who weighs her words.  'I think you
are.  You are a lady with a lady's soul in you.  A woman can draw a
man down very low, or she can make him live at his very highest.
Don't be soft with him.  Don't give way when you know that your way
is the higher way.  Pull him up, don't let him ever pull you down.
Then his respect for you will strengthen his love for you, and the
two together are so much greater than either one apart.  Your
instinct would be to do this, and therefore you are the best sort of
woman for him.'

Her opinion was given with so much thought, and yet so much decision,
that Maude glowed with pride and with pleasure.  There was knowledge
and authority behind the words of this unaccountable woman.

'How sweet you are!' she cried.  'I feel that what you say is true.
I feel that that is what a wife should be to her husband.  Please
God, I will be so to Frank!'

'And one other piece of advice before I leave you,' said Violet
Wright.  'Don't ever take your husband for granted.  Don't ever
accept his kiss or caress as a routine thing.  Don't ever relax those
little attentions which you showed him in the earliest days.  Don't
let the freshness go out of love, for the love may soon follow it,
even when duty keeps the man true.  It is the commonest mistake which
married women make.  It has caused more unhappiness than any other.
They do not realise it until it is too late.  Be keenly watchful for
your husband's wants and comforts.  It is not the comfort but the
attention which he values.  If it is not there he will say nothing,
if he is a good fellow, but he notices it all the same.  She has
changed, he thinks.  And from that moment he will begin to change
also.  Be on your guard against that.  It is very unselfish of me to
give you all this wise counsel.'

'It is very good of you, and I feel that it is all so true.  But why
is it unselfish of you?'

'I only meant that I had no interest in the matter.  What does it
matter to me whether you keep his love or not.  And yet I don't
know.'  She suddenly put her arms round Maude, and kissed her upon
the cheek.  'You are a good little sort, and I hope you will be
happy.'


Frank Crosse had disentangled himself from the rush of City men
emerging from the Woking station, and he was walking swiftly through
the gathering gloom along the vile, deeply-rutted road, which formed
a short cut to The Lindens.  Suddenly, with a sinking heart, he was
aware of a tall graceful figure which was sweeping towards him.
There could not be two women of that height, who carried themselves
in that fashion.

'Violet!'

'Hullo, Frankie!  I thought it might be you, but those tall hats and
black overcoats make every one alike.  Your wife will be glad to see
you.'

'Violet!  You have ruined our happiness.  How could you have the
heart to do it!  It is not for myself I speak, God knows.  But to
think of her feelings being so abused, her confidence so shaken--'

'All right, Frankie, there is nothing to be tragic about.'

'Haven't you been to my house?'

'Yes, I have.'

'And seen her?'

'Yes.'

'Well then--'

'I didn't give you away, my boy.  I was a model of discretion.  I
give you my word that it is all right.  And she's a dear little soul,
Frankie.  You're not worthy to varnish those pretty patent leathers
of hers.  You know you're not.  And by Jove, Frankie, if you had
stayed with me yesterday I should never have forgiven you--no, never!
I'll resign in her favour.  I will.  But in no one else's, and if
ever I hear of your going wrong, my boy, or doing anything but the
best with that sweet trusting woman, I'll make you curse the day that
ever you knew me--I will, by the living Jingo.'

'Do, Violet--you have my leave.'

'All right.  The least said the soonest mended.  Give me a kiss
before we part.'

She raised her veil, and he kissed her.  He was wearing some withered
flower in his overcoat, and she took it from him.

'It's a souvenir of our friendship, Frankie, and rather a good emblem
of it also.  So-long!' said she, as she turned down the weary road
which leads to the station.  A young golfer, getting in at Byfleet,
was surprised to see a handsome woman weeping bitterly in the corner
of a second-class carriage.  'Comm' up from roastin' somebody at that
damned crematory place,' was his explanation to his companion.

Frank had a long and animated account from Maude of the extraordinary
visitor whom she had entertained.  'It's such a pity, dear, that you
don't know her well, for I should really like to hear every detail
about her.  At first I thought she was mad, and then I thought she
was odious, and then finally she seemed to be the very wisest and
kindest woman that I had ever known.  She made me angry, and
frightened, and grieved, and grateful, and affectionate, one after
the other, and I never in my life was so taken out of myself by any
one.  She IS so sensible!'

'Sensible, is she?'

'And she said that I was--oh!  I can't repeat it--everything that is
nice.'

'Then she IS sensible.'

'And such a high opinion of your taste.'

'Had she indeed.'

'Do you know, Frank, I really believe that in a quiet, secret,
retiring sort of way she has been fond of you herself.'

'O Maude, what funny ideas you get sometimes!  I say, if we are going
out for dinner, it is high time that we began to dress.'



CHAPTER XX--NO. 5 CHEYNE ROW



Frank had brought home the Life of Carlyle, and Maude had been
dipping into it in the few spare half-hours which the many duties of
a young housekeeper left her.  At first it struck her as dry, but
from the moment that she understood that this was, among other
things, an account of the inner life of a husband and a wife, she
became keenly interested, and a passionate and unreasonable partisan.
For Frederick and Cromwell and the other great issues her feelings
were tolerant but lukewarm.  But the great sex-questions of 'How did
he treat her?' and of 'How did she stand it?' filled her with that
eternal and personal interest with which they affect every woman.
Her gentle nature seldom disliked any one, but certainly amongst
those whom she liked least, the gaunt figure of the Chelsea sage
began to bulk largely.  One night, as Frank sat reading in front of
the fire, he suddenly found his wife on her knees upon the rug, and a
pair of beseeching eyes upon his face.

'Frank, dear, I want you to make me a promise.'

'Well, what is it?'

'Will you grant it?'

'How can I tell you when I have not heard it?'

'How horrid you are, Frank!  A year ago you would have promised first
and asked afterwards.'

'But I am a shrewd old married man now.  Well, let me hear it.'

'I want you to promise me that you will never be a Carlyle.'

'No, no, never.'

'Really?'

'Really and truly.'

'You swear it?'

'Yes, I do.'

'O Frank, you can't think what a relief that is to me.  That dear,
good, helpful, little lady--it really made me cry this morning when I
thought how she had been used.'

'How, then?'

'I have been reading that green-covered book of yours, and he seemed
so cold and so sarcastic and so unsympathetic.  He never seemed to
appreciate all that she did for him.  He had no thought for her.  He
lived in his books and never in her--such a harsh, cruel man!'

Frank went upstairs, and returned with a volume in his hand.

'When you have finished the 'Life,' you must read this, dear.'

'What is it?'

'It is her letters.  They were arranged for publication after her
death, while her husband was still alive.  You know that--'

'Please take it for granted, darling, that I know nothing.  It is so
jolly to have some one before whom it is not necessary to keep up
appearances.  Now, begin at the beginning and go ahead.'  She
pillowed her head luxuriously against his knees.

'There's nothing to tell--or very little.  As you say, they had their
troubles in life.  The lady could take particularly good care of
herself, I believe.  She had a tongue like a lancet when she chose to
use it.  He, poor chap, was all liver and nerves, porridge-poisoned
in his youth.  No children to take the angles off them.  Half a dozen
little buffer states would have kept them at peace.  However, to hark
back to what I was about to say, he outlived her by fifteen years or
so.  During that time he collected these letters, and he has
annotated them.  You can read those notes here, and the man who wrote
those notes loved his wife and cherished her memory, if ever a man
did upon earth.'

The graceful head beside his knee shook impatiently.

'What is the use of that to the poor dead woman?  Why could not he
show his love by kindness and thought for her while she was alive?'

'I tell you, Maude, there were two sides to that.  Don't be so
prejudiced!  And remember that no one has ever blamed Carlyle as
bitterly as he has blamed himself.  I could read you bits of these
notes--'

'Well, do.'

'Here's the first letter, in which she is talking about how they
first moved into the house at Cheyne Row.  They spent their early
years in Scotland, you know, and he was a man going on to the forties
when he came to London.  The success of Sartor Resartus encouraged
them to the step.  Her letter describes all the incoming.  Here is
his comment, written after her death:  "In about a week all was swept
and garnished, fairly habitable; and continued incessantly to get
itself polished, civilised, and beautified to a degree that surprised
one.  I have elsewhere alluded to all that, and to my little
Jeannie's conduct of it; heroic, lovely, pathetic, mournfully
beautiful as in the light of Eternity that little scene of time now
looks to me.  From birth upwards she had lived in opulence, and now
became poor for me--so nobly poor.  No such house for beautiful
thrift, quiet, spontaneous, nay, as it were, unconscious minimum of
money reconciled to human comfort and human dignity, have I anywhere
looked upon where I have been."  Now, Maude, did that man appreciate
his wife?'

But the obstinate head still shook.

'Words, words,' said she.

'Yes, but words with the ring of truth in them.  Can't you tell real
feeling from sham?  I don't believe women can, or they would not be
so often taken in.  Here's the heading of the next letter:
"Mournfully beautiful is this letter to me, a clear little household
light shining pure and brilliant in the dark obstructive places of
the past"--a little later comes the note:  "Oh my poor little woman--
become poor for me."'

'I like to hear him talk like that.  Yes, I do like him better after
what you have said, Frank.'

'You must remember two things about him, Maude.  The first, that he
was a Scotchman, who are of all men the least likely to wear their
hearts upon their sleeves; the other, that his mind was always
grappling with some far-away subject which made him forget the
smaller things close by him.'

'But the smaller things are everything to a woman,' said Maude.  'If
ever you forget those smaller things, sir, to be as courteous to your
wife as you would be to any other lady, to be loving and thoughtful
and sympathetic, it will be no consolation to me to know that you
have written the grandest book that ever was.  I should just hate
that book, and I believe that in her inmost heart this poor lady
hated all the books that had taken her husband away from her.  I
wonder if their house is still standing.'

'Certainly it is.  Would you like to visit it?'

'I don't think there is anything I should like more.'

'Why, Maude, we are getting quite a distinguished circle of
acquaintances.  Mr. Pepys last month--and now the Carlyles.  Well, we
could not spend a Saturday afternoon better, so if you will meet me
to-morrow at Charing Cross, we shall have a cosy little lunch
together at Gatti's, and then go down to Chelsea.'


Maude was a rigid economist, and so was Frank in his way, for with
the grand self-respect of the middle classes the thought of debt was
unendurable to them.  A cab in preference to a 'bus gave both of them
a feeling of dissipation, but none the less they treated themselves
to one on the occasion of this, their little holiday.  It is a
delightful thing to snuggle up in, is a hansom; but in order to be
really trim and comfortable one has to put one's arm round one's
companion's waist.  No one can observe it there, for the vehicle is
built upon intelligent principles.  The cabman, it is true, can
overlook you through a hole in the roof.  This cabman did so, and
chuckled in his cravat.  'If that cove's wife could see him--huddup,
then!' said the cabman.

He was an intelligent cabman too, for having heard Frank say 'Thomas
Carlyle's house' after giving the address 5 Cheyne Row, he pulled up
on the Thames Embankment.  Right ahead of them was Chelsea Bridge,
seen through a dim, soft London haze--monstrous, Cyclopean, giant
arches springing over a vague river of molten metal, the whole
daintily blurred, as though out of focus.  The glamour of the London
haze, what is there upon earth so beautiful?  But it was not to
admire it that the cabman had halted.

'I beg your pardin', sir,' said he, in the softly insinuating way of
the Cockney, 'but I thought that maybe the lidy would like to see Mr.
Carlyle's statue.  That's 'im, sir, a-sittin' in the overcoat with
the book in 'is 'and.'

Frank and Maude got out and entered the small railed garden, in the
centre of which the pedestal rose.  It was very simple and plain--an
old man in a dressing-gown, with homely wornout boots, a book upon
his knee, his eyes and thoughts far away.  No more simple statue in
all London, but human to a surprising degree.  They stood for five
minutes and stared at it.

'Well,' said Frank at last, 'small as it is, I think it is worthy of
the man.'

'It is so natural.'

'You can see him think.  By Jove, it is splendid!'  Frank had enough
of the true artist to be able to feel that rush of enthusiasm which
adequate work should cause.  That old man, with his head shamefully
defiled by birds, was a positive joy to him.  Among the soulless,
pompous, unspeakable London statues, here at last there was one over
which it is pleasant to linger.

'What other one is there?'

'Gordon in Trafalgar Square.'

'Well, Gordon, perhaps.  But our Nelsons and Napiers and Havelocks--
to think that we could do no better than that for them!  Now, dear,
we have seen the man--let us look at the house!'

It had evidently been an old-fashioned building when first they came
to it.  1708 was the date at the corner of the street.  Six or seven
drab-coloured, flat-chested, dim-windowed houses stood in a line--
theirs wedged in the middle of them.  A poor medallion with a profile
head of him had been clumsily let into the wall.  Several worn steps
led to the thin high door with an old-fashioned fanlight above it.
Frank rang the bell, and a buxom cheerful matron came at the call.

'Names in this book, sir--AND address, if you please,' said the
cheery matron.  'One shilling each--thank you, sir.  First door to
the left, sir!  This was the dining-room, sir--'

But Frank had come to a dead stop in the dim, dull, wood-panelled
hall.  In front of them rose the stairs with old-fashioned banisters,
cracked, warped, and dusty.

'It's awful to think of, Maude--awful!  To think that she ran up
those stairs as a youngish woman--that he took them two at a time as
an active man, and then that they hobbled and limped down them, old
and weary and broken, and now both dead and gone for ever, and the
stairs standing, the very rails, the very treads--I don't know that I
ever felt so strongly what bubbles of the air we are, so fragile, so
utterly dissolved when the prick comes.'

'How COULD they be happy in such a house?' said Maude.  'I can feel
that there have been sorrow and trouble here.  There is an atmosphere
of gloom.'

The matron-attendant approved of emotion, but in its due order.  One
should be affected in the dining-room first, and then in the hall.
And so at her summons they followed her into the long, low, quaint
room in which this curious couple had lived their everyday life.
Little of the furniture was left, and the walls were lined with
collected pictures bearing upon the life of the Carlyles.

'There's the fireplace that he smoked his pipe up,' said Frank.

'Why up the fireplace?'

'She did not like the smell in the room.  He often at night took his
friends down into the kitchen.'

'Fancy my driving you into the kitchen.'

'Well, the habit of smoking was looked upon much less charitably at
that time.'

'And besides, he smoked clay pipes,' said the matron.  'This is
considered a good print of Mrs. Carlyle.'

It was a peaky eager face, with a great spirit looking out of it, and
possibilities of passion both for good and evil in the keen, alert
features.  Just beside her was the dour, grim outline of her husband.
Their life-histories were in those two portraits.

'Poor dear!' said Maude.

'Ay, you may say so,' said the matron, whose accent showed that she
was from the north of the Tweed.  'He was gey ill to live wi'.  His
own mither said so.  Now, what think you that room was for?'

It was little larger than a cupboard, without window or skylight,
opening out of the end of the dining-room.

'I can't imagine.'

'Well, sir, it was the powdering-room in the days when folk wore
wigs.  The powder made such a mess that they just had a room for
nothing else.  There was a hole in the door, and the man put his head
through the hole, and the barber on the other side powdered him out
of the flour-dredger.'

It was curious to be brought back in this fashion to those far-off
days, and to suddenly realise how many other people had played their
tragi-comedies within these walls.  Wigs!  Only the dressy people
wore wigs.  So people of fashion in the days of the early Georges
trod these same rooms where Carlyle grumbled and his wife fretted.
And they too had grumbled and fretted--or worse perhaps.  It was a
ghostly old house.

'This,' said the matron, when they had passed up the stair, 'used to
be the drawing-room.  That's their sofa.'

'Not THE sofa,' said Frank.

'Yes, sir, the sofa that is mentioned in the letters.'

'She was so proud of it, Maude.  Gave eighteen shillings for it, and
covered and stuffed it herself.  And that, I suppose, is THE screen.
She was a great housekeeper--brought up a spoiled child, according to
her own account, but a great housekeeper all the same.  What's that
writing in the case?'

'It is the history that he was at work on when he died--something
about the kings of Norway, sir.  Those are his corrections in blue.'

'I can't read them.'

'No more could any one else, sir.  Perhaps that's why the book has
never been published.  Those are the portraits of the kings of
Prussia, about whom he wrote a book.'

Frank looked with interest at the old engravings, one of the
schoolmaster face of the great Frederick, the other of the frog-like
features of Frederick William, the half-mad recruiter of the big
Potsdam grenadiers.  When he had finished, the matron had gone down
to open the door, and they were alone.  Maude's hand grasped his.

'Is it not strange, dear?' she said.  'Here they lived, the most
talented couple in the world, and yet with all their wisdom they
missed what we have got--what perhaps that good woman who showed us
round has got--the only thing, as it seems to me, that is really
worth living for.  What are all the wit and all the learning and all
the insight into things compared to love.'

'By Jove, little woman, in all this house of wise sayings, no wiser
or deeper saying has been said than that.  Well, thank God, we have
that anyhow!'  And he kissed his wife, while six grand electors of
Brandenburg and kings of Prussia looked fiercely out upon them from
the wall.

They sat down together in two old chairs in the window, and they
looked out into the dingy street, and Frank tried to recount all the
great men--'the other great men, as Maude said, half chaffing and
half earnest--who had looked through those panes.  Tennyson, Ruskin,
Emerson, Mill, Froude, Mazzini, Leigh Hunt--he had got so far when
the matron returned.

There was a case in the corner with some of the wreckage from those
vanished vessels.  Notes from old Goethe in a singularly neat boyish
writing inscribed upon little ornamented cards.  Here, too, were
small inscriptions which had lain upon presents from Carlyle to his
wife.  It was pleasant among all that jangling of the past to think
of the love which had written them, and that other love which had so
carefully preserved them.  On one was written:  'All good attend my
darling through this gulf of time and through the long ocean it is
leading to.  Amen.  Amen.  T. C.'  On another, dated 1850, and
attached evidently to some birthday present, was:  'Many years to my
poor little Jeannie, and may the worst of them be past.  No good that
is in me to give her shall ever be wanting while I live.  May God
bless her.'  How strange that this apostle of reticence should have
such privacies as these laid open before the curious public within so
few years of his death!

'This is her bedroom,' said the matron.

'And here is the old red bed,' cried Frank.  It looked bare and gaunt
and dreary with its uncurtained posts.

'The bed belonged to Mrs. Carlyle's mother,' the matron explained.
'It's the same bed that Mrs. Carlyle talks about in her letters when
she says how she pulled it to pieces.'

'Why did she pull it to pieces?' asked Maude.

'Better not inquire, dear.'

'Indeed you're right, sir.  If you get them into these old houses, it
is very hard to get them out.  A cleaner woman than Mrs. Carlyle
never came out of Scotland.  This little room behind was his
dressing-room.  There's his stick in the corner.  Look what's written
upon the window!'


Decidedly it was a ghostly house.  Scratched upon one of the panes
with a diamond was the following piece of information--'John Harbel
Knowles cleaned all the windows in this house, and painted part, in
the eighteenth year of age.  March 7th, 1794.'


'Who was HE?' asked Maude.

'Nobody knows, miss!'  It was characteristic of Maude that she was so
gentle in her bearing that every one always took it for granted that
she was Miss.  Frank examined the writing carefully.

'He was the son of the house and a young aristocrat who had never
done a stroke of work before in his life,' said he.

The matron was surprised.

'What makes you say that, sir?'

'What would a workman do with such a name as John Harbel Knowles, or
with a diamond ring for that matter?  And who would dare to disfigure
a window so, if he were not of the family?  And why should he be so
proud of his work, unless work was a new and wondrous thing to him.
To paint PART of the windows also sounds like the amateur and not the
workman.  So I repeat that it was the first achievement of the son of
the house.'

'Well, indeed, I dare say you are right, though I never thought of it
before,' said the matron.  'Now this, up here, is Carlyle's own room,
in which he slept for forty-seven years.  In the case is a cast of
his head taken after death.'

It was strange and rather ghastly to see a plaster head in this room
where the head of flesh had so often lain.  Maude and Frank stood
beside it, and gazed long and silently while the matron, half-bored
and half-sympathetic, waited for them to move on.  It was an aquiline
face, very different from any picture which they had seen, sunken
cheeks, an old man's toothless mouth, a hawk nose, a hollow eye--the
gaunt timbers of what had once been a goodly house.  There was
repose, and something of surprise also, in the features--also a very
subtle serenity and dignity.

'The distance from the ear to the forehead is said to be only
equalled by Napoleon and by Gladstone.  That's what they SAY,' said
the matron, with Scotch caution.

'It's the face of a noble man when all is said and done,' said Frank.
'I believe that the true Thomas Carlyle without the dyspepsia, and
the true Jane Welsh without the nerves, are knowing and loving each
other in some further life.'

'It is sweet to think so,' cried Maude.  'Oh, I do hope that it is
so!  How dear death would be if we could only be certain of that!'

The matron smiled complacently in the superior wisdom of the Shorter
Catechism.  'There is neither marriage nor giving in marriage,' said
she, shaking her head.  'This is the spare bedroom, sir, where Mr.
Emerson slept when he was here.  And now if you will step this way I
will show you the study.'

It was the singular room which Carlyle had constructed in the hopes
that he could shut out all the noises of the universe, the crowing of
cocks, and the jingling of a young lady's five-finger exercise in
particular.  It had cost him a hundred odd pounds, and had ended in
being unendurably hot in summer, impossibly cold in winter, and so
constructed acoustically that it reverberated every sound in the
neighbourhood.  For once even his wild and whirling words could
hardly match the occasion--not all his kraft sprachen would be too
much.  For the rest it was at least a roomy and lofty apartment, with
space for many books, and for an irritable man to wander to and fro.
Prints there were of many historical notables, and slips of letters
and of memoranda in a long glass case.

'That is one of his clay pipes,' said the matron.  'He had them all
sent through to him from Glasgow.  And that is the pen with which he
wrote Frederick.'

It was a worn, stubby old quill, much the worse for its monstrous
task.  It at least of all quill pens might rest content with having
done its work in the world.  Some charred paper beside it caught
Frank's eye.

'Oh look, Maude,' he cried.  'This is a little bit of the burned
French Revolution.'

'Oh, I remember.  He lent the only copy to a friend, and it was
burned by mistake.'

'What a blow!  What a frightful blow!  And to think that his first
comment to his wife was, "Well, Mill, poor fellow, is very much cut
up about this."  There is Carlyle at his best.  And here is actually
a shred of the old manuscript.  How beautifully he wrote in those
days!'

'Read this, sir,' said the matron.

It was part of a letter from Carlyle to his publisher about his
ruined work.  'Do not pity me,' said he; 'forward me rather as a
runner that is tripped but will not lie there, but run and run
again.'

'See what positive misfortune can do for a man,' said Frank.  'It
raised him to a hero.  And yet he could not stand the test of a
crowing cock.  How infinitely complex is the human soul--how
illimitably great and how pitiably small!  Now, if ever I have a
study of my own, this is what I want engraved upon the wall.  This
alone is well worth our pilgrimage to Chelsea.'

It was a short exclamation which had caught his eye.

'Rest!  Rest!  Shall I not have all eternity to rest in!'  That
serene plaster face down yonder gave force to the brave words.  Frank
copied them down onto the back of one of Maude's cards.

And now they had finished the rooms, but the matron, catching a glow
from these enthusiastic pilgrims, had yet other things to show them.
There was the back garden.  Here was the green pottery seat upon
which the unphilosophic philosopher had smoked his pipe--a singularly
cold and uncomfortable perch.  And here was where Mrs. Carlyle had
tried to build a tent and to imagine herself in the country.  And
here was the famous walnut tree--or at least the stumpy bole thereof.
And here was where the dog Nero was buried, best known of small white
mongrels.

And last of all there was the subterranean and gloomy kitchen, in
which there had lived that long succession of serving-maids of whom
we gain shadowy glimpses in the Letters and in the Journal.  Poor
souls, dwellers in the gloom, working so hard for others, so bitterly
reviled when by chance some weakness of humanity comes to break, for
an instant, the routine of their constant labour, so limited in their
hopes and in their pleasures, they are of all folk upon this planet
those for whom a man's heart may most justly soften.  So said Frank
as he gazed around him in the dark-cornered room.  'And never one
word of sympathy for them, or of anything save scorn in all his
letters.  His pen upholding human dignity, but where was the dignity
of these poor girls for whom he has usually one bitter line of
biography in his notes to his wife's letters?  It's the worst thing I
have against him.'

'Jemima wouldn't have stood it,' said Maude.

It was pleasant to be out in the open air once more, but they were in
the pine groves of Woking before Maude had quite shaken off the gloom
of that dark, ghost-haunted house.  'After all, you are only twenty-
seven,' she remarked as they walked up from the station.  She had a
way of occasionally taking a subject by the middle in that way.

'What then, dear?'

'When Carlyle was only twenty-seven I don't suppose he knew he was
going to do all this.'

'No, I don't suppose so.'

'And his wife--if he were married then--would feel as I do to you.'

'No doubt.'

'Then what guarantee have I that you won't do it after all?'

'Do what?'

'Why, turn out a second Carlyle.'

'Hear me swear!' cried Frank, and they turned laughing into their own
little gateway at the Lindens.



CHAPTER XXI--THE LAST NOTE OF THE DUET



Our young married couples may feel that two is company and three is
none, but there comes a little noisy intruder to break into their
sweet intimacy.  The coming of the third is the beginning of a new
life for them as well as for it--a life which is more useful and more
permanent, but never so concentrated as before.  That little pink
thing with the blinking eyes will divert some of the love and some of
the attention, and the very trouble which its coming has caused will
set its mother's heart yearning over it.  Not so the man.  Some vague
resentment mixes with his pride of paternity, and his wife's
sufferings rankle in his memory when she has herself forgotten them.
His pity, his fears, his helplessness, and his discomfort, give him a
share in the domestic tragedy.  It is not without cause that in some
societies it is the man and not the woman who receives the condolence
and the sympathy.

There came a time when Maude was bad, and there came months when she
was better, and then there were indications that a day was
approaching, the very thought of which was a shadow upon her
husband's life.  For her part, with the steadfast, gentle courage of
a woman, she faced the future with a sweet serenity.  But to him it
was a nightmare--an actual nightmare which brought him up damp and
quivering in those gray hours of the dawn, when dark shadows fall
upon the spirit of man.  He had a steady nerve for that which
affected himself, a nerve which would keep him quiet and motionless
in a dentist's chair, but what philosophy or hardihood can steel one
against the pain which those whom we love have to endure.  He fretted
and chafed, and always with the absurd delusion that his fretting and
chafing were successfully concealed.  A hundred failures never
convince a man how impossible it is to deceive a woman who loves him.
Maude watched him demurely, and made her plans.

'Do you know, dear,' said she, one evening, 'if you can get a week of
your holidays now, I think it would be a very good thing for you to
accept that invitation of Mr. Mildmay's, and spend a few days in
golfing at Norwich.'

Frank stared at her open-eyed.

'What!  Now!'

'Yes, dear, now--at once.'

'But NOW of all times.'

Maude looked at him with that glance of absolute obvious candour
which a woman never uses unless she has intent to deceive.

'Yes, dear--but only next week.  I thought it would brace you up for-
-well, for the week afterwards.'

'You think the week afterwards?'

'Yes, dear.  It would help me so, if I knew that you were in your
best form.'

'_I_!  What can it matter what form _I_ am in.  But in any case, it
is out of the question.'

'But you could get leave.'

'Oh yes, easily enough.'

'Then do go.'

'And leave you at such a time!'

'No, no, you would be back.'

'You can't be so sure of that.  No, Maude, I should never forgive
myself.  Such an idea would never enter my head.'

'But for my sake--!'

'That's enough, Maude.  It is settled.'

Master Frank had a heavy foot when he did bring it down, and his wife
recognised a decisive thud this time.  With a curious double current
of feeling, she was pleased and disappointed at the same time, but
more pleased than disappointed, so she kissed the marrer of her
plots.

'What an obstinate old boy it is!  But of course you know best, and I
should much rather have you at home.  As you say, one can never be
certain.'

In a conflict of wits the woman may lose a battle, but the odds are
that she will win the campaign.  The man dissipates over many things,
while she concentrates upon the one.  Maude had made up her mind
absolutely upon one point, and she meant to attain it.  She tried
here, she tried there, through a friend, through her mother, but
Frank was still immovable.  The ordeal coming upon herself never
disturbed her for an instant.  But the thought that Frank would
suffer was unendurable.  She put herself in his place, and realised
what it would be to him if he were in the house at such a time.  With
many cunning devices she tried to lure him off, but still, in his
stubborn way, he refused to be misled.  And then suddenly she
realised that it was too late.

It was early one morning that the conviction came home to her, but
he, at her side, knew nothing of it.  He came up to her before he
left for the City.

'You have not eaten anything, dear.'

'No, Frank, I am not hungry.'

'Perhaps, after you get up--'

'Well, dear, I thought of staying in bed.'

'You are not--?'

'What nonsense, dear!  I want to keep very quiet until next week,
when I may need all my strength.'

'Dear girl, I would gladly give ten years of my life to have next
week past.'

'Silly old boy!  But I do think it would be wiser if I were to keep
in bed.'

'Yes, yes, do.'

'I have a little headache.  Nothing to speak of, but just a little.'

'Don't you think Dr. Jordan had better give you something for it.'

'Do you think so?  Well, just as you like.  You might call as you
pass, and tell him to step up.'

And so, upon a false mission, the doctor was summoned to her side,
but found a very real mission waiting for him when he got there.  She
had written a note for Frank the moment that he had left the house,
and he found both it and a conspiracy of silence waiting for him when
he returned in the late afternoon.  The note was upon the hall-table,
and he eagerly tore it open.

'My dear boy,' said this mendacious epistle, 'my head is still rather
bad, and Dr. Jordan thought that it would be wiser if I were to have
an undisturbed rest, but I will send down to you when I feel better.
Until then I had best, perhaps, remain alone.  Mr. Harrison sent
round to say that he would come to help you to pot the bulbs, so that
will give you something to do.  Don't bother about me, for I only
want a little rest.--MAUDE.'

It seemed very unnatural to him to come back and not to hear the
swift rustle of the dress which followed always so quickly upon the
creak of his latch-key that they might have been the same sound.  The
hall and dining-room seemed unhomely without the bright welcoming
face.  He wandered about in a discontented fashion upon his tiptoes,
and then, looking through the window, he saw Harrison his neighbour
coming up the path with a straw basket in his hand.  He opened the
door for him with his finger upon his lips.

'Don't make a row, Harrison,' said he, 'my wife's bad.'

Harrison whistled softly.

'Not--?'

'No, no, not that.  Only a headache, but she is not to be disturbed.
We expect THAT next week.  Come in here and smoke a pipe with me.  It
was very kind of you to bring the bulbs.'

'I am going back for some more.'

'Wait a little.  You can go back presently.  Sit down and light your
pipe.  There is some one moving about upstairs.  It must be that
heavy-footed Jemima.  I hope she won't wake Maude up.  I suppose one
must expect such attacks at such a time.'

'Yes, my wife was just the same.  No, thank you, I've just had some
tea.  You look worried, Crosse.  Don't take things too hard.'

'I can't get the thought of next week out of my head.  If anything
goes wrong--well there, what can I do?  I never knew how a man's
nerves may be harrowed before.  And she is such a saint, Harrison--
such an absolutely unselfish saint!  You'll never guess what she
tried to do.'

'What, then?'

'She knew what it would mean to me--what it will mean to me--to sit
here in impotence while she goes through this horrible business.  She
guessed in some extraordinary way what my secret feelings were about
it.  And she actually tried to deceive me as to when it was to occur-
-tried to get me out of the house on one pretext or another until it
was all over.  That was her plot, and, by Jove, she tried it so
cleverly that she would have managed it if something had not put me
on my guard.  She was a little too eager, unnaturally so, and I saw
through her game.  But think of it, the absolute unselfishness of it.
To consider ME at such a time, and to face her trouble alone and
unsupported in order to make it easier for me.  She wanted me to go
to Norwich and play golf.'

'She must have thought you pretty guileless, Crosse, to be led away
so easily.'

'Yes, it was a hopeless attempt to deceive me on such a point, or to
dream for an instant that my instincts would not tell me when she had
need of me.  But none the less it was beautiful and characteristic.
You don't mind my talking of these things, Harrison?'

'My dear chap, it is just what you need.  You have been bottling
things up too much.  Your health will break down under it.  After
all, it is not so serious as all that.  The danger is very much
exaggerated.'

'You think so.'

'I've had the experience twice now.  You'll go to the City some fine
morning, and when you come back the whole thing will be over.'

'Indeed it won't.  I have made arrangements at the office, and from
the hour that she first seems bad I will never stir from the house.
For all she may say, I know very well that it gives her strength and
courage to feel that I am there.'

'You may not know that it is coming on?'

Frank laughed incredulously.

'We'll see about that,' said he.  'And you think from your
experience, Harrison, that it is not so very bad after all?'

'Oh no.  It soon passes.'

'Soon!  What do you mean by soon?'

'Jordan was there six hours the first time.'

'Good God!  Six hours!'  Frank wiped his forehead.  'They must have
seemed six years.'

'They WERE rather long.  I kept on working in the garden.  That's the
tip.  Keep on doing something and it helps you along wonderfully.'

'That's a good suggestion, Harrison.  What a curious smell there is
in the air!  Do you notice a sort of low, sweetish, spirity kind of
scent?  Well, perhaps it's my imagination.  I dare say that my nerves
are a bit strung up these days.  But that is a capital idea of yours
about having some work to do.  I should like to work madly for those
hours.  Have everything up out of the back garden and plant it all
again in the front.'

Harrison laughed.

'I'll tell you something less heroic,' said he; 'you could keep all
these bulbs, and pot them then.  By the way, I'll go round and get
the others.  Don't bother about the door.  I shall leave it open, for
I won't be five minutes.'

'And I'll put these in the greenhouse,' said Frank.  He took the
basket of bulbs and he laid them all out on the wooden shelf of the
tiny conservatory which leaned against the back of the house.  When
he came out there was a kitten making a noise somewhere.  It was a
low sound, but persistent, coming in burst after burst.  He took the
rake and jabbed with the handle amongst the laurel bushes under their
bedroom window.  The beast might waken Maude, and so it was worth
some trouble to dislodge it.  He could not see it, but when he had
poked among the bushes and cried 'Skat!' several times, the crying
died away, and he carried his empty basket into the dining-room.
There he lit his pipe again, and waited for Harrison's return.

There was that bothersome kitten again.  He could hear it mewing away
somewhere.  It did not sound so loud as in the garden, so perhaps it
would not matter.  He felt very much inclined to steal upstairs upon
tiptoe and see if Maude were stirring yet.  After all, if Jemima, or
whoever it was, could go clumping about in heavy boots over his head,
there was no fear that he could do any harm.  And yet she had said
that she would ring or send word the moment she could see him, and so
perhaps he had better wait where he was.  He put his head out of the
window and cried 'Shoo!' into the laurel bushes several times.  Then
he sat in the armchair with his back to the door.  Steps came heavily
along the hall, and he saw dimly with the back corner of his eye that
some one was in the doorway carrying something.  He thought that
really Harrison might have brought the bulbs in more quietly, and so
he treated him with some coldness, and did not turn round to him.

'Put it in the out-house,' said he.

'Why the out-house?'

'We keep them there.  But you can put it under the sideboard, or in
the coal-scuttle, or where you like as long as you don't make any
more noise.'

'Why, surely, Crosse--'  But Frank suddenly sprang out of his chair.

'I'm blessed if that infernal kitten isn't somewhere in the room!'

And there when he turned was the grim, kindly face of old Doctor
Jordan facing him.  He carried in the crook of his arm a brown shawl
with something round and small muffled up in it.  There was one slit
in front, and through this came a fist about the size of a marble,
the thumb doubled under the tiny fingers, and the whole limb giving
circular waves, as if the owner were cheering lustily at his own
successful arrival.  'Here am I, good people, hurrah! hurrah!
hurrah!' cried the waving hand.  Then as the slit in the shawl
widened Frank saw that behind the energetic fist there was a huge
open mouth, a little button of a nose, and two eyes which were so
resolutely screwed up that it seemed as if the owner had made a
resolution never under any circumstances to take the least notice of
this new world into which it had been transported.  Frank dropped his
pipe and stood staring at this apparition.

'What!  What's that?'

'The baby!'

'Baby?  Whose baby?'

'Your baby, of course.'

'My baby!  Where--where did you get it?'

Doctor Jordan burst out laughing.

'You are like a man who has just been wakened out of his sleep,' said
he.  'Why, Crosse, your wife has been bad all day, but she's all
right now, and here's your son and heir--a finer lad of the age I
never saw--fighting weight about seven pounds.'

Frank was a very proud man at the roots of his nature.  He did not
readily give himself away.  Perhaps if he had been quite alone he
might at that moment, as the great wave of joy washed through his
soul, bearing all his fears and forebodings away upon its crest, have
dropped upon his knees in prayer.  But prayer comes not from the knee
but from the heart, and the whole strength of his nature breathed
itself out in silent thanks to that great Fate which goes its way
regardless either of thanks or reproaches.  The doctor saw a pale
self-contained young man before him, and thought him strangely
wanting in emotion.

'Well!' said he, impatiently.  'Is she all right?'

'Yes.  Won't you take your son?'

'Could she see me?'

'I don't suppose five minutes would do any harm.'

Dr. Jordan said afterwards that it was three steps which took Frank
up the fifteen stairs.  The nurse who met him at the corner looks
back on it as the escape of her lifetime.  Maude lay in bed with a
face as pale as the pillow which framed it.  Her lips were bloodless
but smiling.

'Frank!'

'My own dear sweet girlie!'

'You never knew.  Did you, Frank?  Tell me that you never knew.'

And at that anxious question the foolish pride which keeps the
emotions of the strong man buried down in his soul as though they
were the least honourable part of his nature, fell suddenly to
nothing, and Frank dropped with his head beside the white face upon
the pillow, and lay with his arm across the woman whom he loved, and
sobbed as he had not sobbed since his childhood.  Her cheek was wet
with his tears.  He never saw the doctor until he came beside him and
touched him on the shoulder.

'I think you had better go now,' said he.

'Sorry to be a fool, doctor,' said Frank, blushing hotly in his
clumsy English fashion.  'It's just more than I can stand.'

'Sir,' the doctor answered, 'I owe you an apology, for I had done you
an injustice.  Meanwhile your son is about to be dressed, and there
is hardly room for three men in one bedroom.'

So Frank went down into the darkening room below, and mechanically
lighting his pipe, he sat with his elbows upon his knees and stared
out into the gathering gloom where one bright evening star twinkled
in a violet sky.  The gentle hush of the gloaming was around him, and
some late bird was calling outside amongst the laurels.  Above he
heard the shuffling of feet, the murmur of voices, and then amid it
all those thin glutinous cries, HIS voice, the voice of this new man
with all a man's possibilities for good and for evil, who had taken
up his dwelling with them.  And as he listened to those cries, a
gentle sadness was mixed with his joy, for he felt that things were
now for ever changed--that whatever sweet harmonies of life might
still be awaiting him, from this hour onwards, they might form
themselves into the subtlest and loveliest of chords, but it must
always be as a trio, and never as the dear duet of the past.



CHAPTER XXII--THE TRIO



(Extract from a letter to the Author from Mrs. Frank Crosse.)

'It is very singular that you should say with such confidence that
you know that our baby is a splendid one, and further on you say that
in some ways it differs from any other baby.  It is so true, but
neither Frank nor I can imagine how you knew.  We both think it so
CLEVER of you to have found it out.  When you write to us, do please
tell us how you discovered it.

'I want to tell you something about baby, since you so kindly ask me,
but Frank says there is no use my beginning as there is only one
quire of paper in the house.  As a matter of fact, I shall be quite
short, which is not because I have not plenty to say--you cannot
think what a DEAR he is--but because he may wake up at any moment.
After that happens I can only write with one hand, while I wave a
feather fan with the other, and it is so difficult then to say
exactly what you mean.  In any case you know that I have not the
habit of collecting and writing down my ideas, so please forgive me
if this seems a stupid letter.  Frank could have done it splendidly.
But he has so many sweet and quite REMARKABLE ways, that I ought to
be able to put some of them down for you.

'It will be easier perhaps if I imagine a day of him--and one of his
days is very much like another.  No one could ever say that he was
irregular in his habits.  First thing in the morning I go over to his
cot to see if he is awake yet--though, of course, I know that he
can't be, for he always lets us know--the darling!  However, I go
over all the same, and I find everything quiet and nothing visible of
baby, but a tiny, turned-up nose.  It is so exactly Frank's nose,
only that his is curved the other way.  Then, as I bend over his cot,
there is a small sigh, such a soft, comfortable sound!  Then a sort
of earthquake takes place under the eider down, and a tightly
clenched fist appears and is waved in the air.  He has such a
pleasant, cheerful way of waving his fists.  Then one eye is half
opened, as if he were looking round to see if it were safe to open
the other one, and then he gives a long, sorrowful wail as he
realises that his bottle is not where he left it when he went to
sleep.  In a moment he is in my arms and quite happy again, playing
with the lace round the neck of my pink dressing-gown.  When he finds
that his nice warm bath is all ready for him, he becomes quite
jovial, and laughs and chuckles to himself.  Something awfully funny
must have happened to him before ever he came into this world at all,
for nothing that has occurred since could account for the intense
expression of amusement that one can often see in his eyes.  When he
laughs, Frank says that he looks like some jolly old clean-shaven
toothless friar--so chubby and good-humoured.  He takes the greatest
interest in everything in the room, watches the nurse moving about,
looks out of the window, and examines my hair and my dress very
critically.  He loves to see untidy hair and a bright tie, or a
brooch will often catch his eye, and make him smile.  His smile is
the most wonderful thing!  As he lies gazing with his great serious
blue eyes, his whole face suddenly lights up, his mouth turns up at
one corner in the most irresistible way, and his cheeks all go off
into dimples.  He looks so sweet and innocent, and at the same time
so humorous and wicked, that his foolish mother wants to laugh at him
and to weep over him at the same time.

'Then comes his bath, and there is a sad display of want of faith
upon his part.  He enjoys the process, but he is convinced that only
his own exertions keep him from drowning, so his little fists are
desperately clenched, his legs kick up and down the whole time, and
he watches every movement of mother and nurse with suspicion.  He
enjoys being dressed, and smiles at first, and then he suddenly
remembers that he has not had his breakfast.  Then the smiles vanish,
the small round face grows so red and angry, and all covered with
little wrinkles, and there is a dismal wailing--poor darling!  If the
bottle is not instantly forthcoming he will howl loudly, and beat the
air with his fists until he gets it.  He DOES remind me so of his
father sometimes.  He is always hunting for his bottle, and will
seize my finger, or a bit of my dress, or anything, and carry it to
his mouth, and when he finds it isn't what he wants, he throws it
away very angrily.  When finally he does get the bottle, he becomes
at once the most contented being in the whole world, and sucks away
with such great long pulls, and such dear little grunts in between.
Then afterwards, a well-washed, well-fed atom, he is ready to look
about him and observe things.  I am sure that he has his father's
brains, and that he is storing up all sorts of impressions and
observations for future use, for he notices EVERYTHING.  I used to
think that babies were stupid and indifferent--and perhaps other
babies are--but HE is never indifferent.  Sometimes he is pleased and
amused, and sometimes angry, and sometimes gravely interested, but he
is always wide awake and taking things in.  When I go into his room,
he always looks at my head, and if I have my garden hat with the
flowers, he is so pleased.  He much prefers chiffon to silk.

'Almost the first thing that struck me when I saw him, and it strikes
me more and more, was, how could any one have got the idea of
original sin?  The people who believe in it can never have looked
into a baby's eyes.  I love to watch them, and sometimes fancy I can
see a faint shade of reminiscence in them, as if he had still some
memories of another life, and could tell me things if he could only
speak.  One day as I sat beside his cot--Oh dear!  I hear his Majesty
calling.  So sorry!  Good-bye.--Yours very truly,

MAUDE CROSSE.'

P.S.--I have not time to read this over, but I may say, in case I
omitted it before, that he really is a very remarkable baby.'




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The Great Boer War

by Arthur Conan Doyle




E-text editor's note: It may come as a surprise that the creator of
Sherlock Holmes wrote a history of the Boer War.  The then 40-year-old
novelist wanted to see the war first hand as a soldier, but the
Victorian army balked at having popular author wielding a pen in its
ranks. The army did accept him as a doctor and Doyle was knighted in
1902 for his work with a field hospital in Bloemfontein. Doyle's vivid
description of the battles are probably thanks to the eye-witness
accounts he got from his patients. This, the best book on the Boer War
I've encountered, is a long out of print lost classic that I stumbled
across in a Cape Town second-hand bookstore.


Preface To The Final Edition

During the course of the war some sixteen Editions of this work have
appeared, each of which was, I hope, a little more full and accurate
than that which preceded it. I may fairly claim, however, that the
absolute mistakes made have been few in number, and that I have never
had occasion to reverse, and seldom to modify, the judgments which I
have formed.  In this final edition the early text has been carefully
revised and all fresh available knowledge has been added within the
limits of a single volume narrative.  Of the various episodes in the
latter half of the war it is impossible to say that the material is
available for a complete and final chronicle. By the aid, however, of
the official dispatches, of the newspapers, and of many private
letters, I have done my best to give an intelligible and accurate
account of the matter.  The treatment may occasionally seem too brief
but some proportion must be observed between the battles of 1899-1900
and the skirmishes of 1901-1902.

My private informants are so numerous that it would be hardly
possible, even if it were desirable, that I should quote their name~.
Of the correspondents upon whose work I have drawn for my materials, I
would acknowledge my obligations to Messrs. Burleigh, Nevinson,
Battersby, Stuart, Amery, Atkins, Baillie, Kinneir, Churchill, James,
Ralph, Barnes, Maxwell, Pearce, Hamilton, and others.  Especially I
would mention the gentleman who represented the `Standard' in the last
year of the war, whose accounts of Vlakfontein, Von Donop's Convoy,
and Tweebosch were the only reliable ones which reached the public.

Arthur Conan Doyle

Undershaw, Hindhead:

September 1902.

CHAPTER I
THE BOER NATIONS

Take a community of Dutchmen of the type of those who defended
themselves for fifty years against all the power of Spain at a time
when Spain was the greatest power in the world. Intermix with them a
strain of those inflexible French Huguenots who gave up home and
fortune and left their country for ever at the time of the revocation
of the Edict of Nantes. The product must obviously be one of the most
rugged, virile, unconquerable races ever seen upon earth.  Take this
formidable people and train them for seven generations in constant
warfare against savage men and ferocious beasts, in circumstances
under which no weakling could survive, place them so that they acquire
exceptional skill with weapons and in horsemanship, give them a
country which is eminently suited to the tactics of the huntsman, the
marksman, and the rider.  Then, finally, put a finer temper upon their
military qualities by a dour fatalistic Old Testament religion and an
ardent and consuming patriotism.  Combine all these qualities and all
these impulses in one individual, and you have the modern Boer -- the
most formidable antagonist who ever crossed the path of Imperial
Britain.  Our military history has largely consisted in our conflicts
with France, but Napoleon and all his veterans have never treated us
so roughly as these hard-bitten farmers with their ancient theology
and their inconveniently modern rifles.

Look at the map of South Africa, and there, in the very centre of the
British possessions, like the stone in a peach, lies the great stretch
of the two republics, a mighty domain for so small a people. How came
they there? Who are these Teutonic folk who have burrowed so deeply
into Africa? It is a twice-told tale, and yet it must be told once
again if this story is to have even the most superficial of
introductions. No one can know or appreciate the Boer who does not
know his past, for he is what his past has made him.

It was about the time when Oliver Cromwell was at his zenith -- in
1652, to be pedantically accurate -- that the Dutch made their first
lodgment at the Cape of Good Hope.  The Portuguese had been there
before them, but, repelled by the evil weather, and lured forwards by
rumours of gold, they had passed the true seat of empire and had
voyaged further to settle along the eastern coast.  Some gold there
was, but not much, and the Portuguese settlements have never been
sources of wealth to the mother country, and never will be until the
day when Great Britain signs her huge cheque for Delagoa Bay.  The
coast upon which they settled reeked with malaria.  A hundred miles of
poisonous marsh separated it from the healthy inland plateau.  For
centuries these pioneers of South African colonisation strove to
obtain some further footing, but save along the courses of the rivers
they made little progress. Fierce natives and an enervating climate
barred their way.

But it was different with the Dutch.  That very rudeness of climate
which had so impressed the Portuguese adventurer was the source of
their success. Cold and poverty and storm are the nurses of the
qualities which make for empire. It is the men from the bleak and
barren lands who master the children of the light and the heat. And so
the Dutchmen at the Cape prospered and grew stronger in that robust
climate. They did not penetrate far inland, for they were few in
number and all they wanted was to be found close at hand. But they
built themselves houses, and they supplied the Dutch East India
Company with food and water, gradually budding off little townlets,
Wynberg, Stellenbosch, and pushing their settlements up the long
slopes which lead to that great central plateau which extends for
fifteen hundred miles from the edge of the Karoo to the Valley of the
Zambesi.  Then came the additional Huguenot emigrants -- the best
blood of France three hundred of them, a handful of the choicest seed
thrown in to give a touch of grace and soul to the solid Teutonic
strain. Again and again in the course of history, with the Normans,
the Huguenots, the Emigrés, one can see the great hand dipping into
that storehouse and sprinkling the nations with the same splendid
seed. France has not founded other countries, like her great rival,
but she has made every other country the richer by the mixture with
her choicest and best.  The Rouxs, Du Toits, Jouberts, Du Plessis,
Villiers, and a score of other French names are among the most
familiar in South Africa.

For a hundred more years the history of the colony was a record of the
gradual spreading ,of the Afrikaners over the huge expanse of veld
which lay to the north of them. Cattle raising became an industry, but
in a country where six acres can hardly support a sheep, large farms
are necessary for even small herds.  Six thousand acres was the usual
size, and five pounds a year the rent payable to Government. The
diseases which follow the white man had in Africa, as in America and
Australia, been fatal to the natives, and an epidemic of smallpox
cleared the country for the newcomers. Further and further north they
pushed, founding little towns here and there, such as Graaf-Reinet and
Swellendam, where a Dutch Reformed Church and a store for the sale of
the bare necessaries of life formed a nucleus for a few scattered
dwellings. Already the settlers were showing that independence of
control and that detachment from Europe which has been their most
prominent characteristic.  Even the sway of the Dutch Company (an
older but weaker brother of John Company in India) had caused them to
revolt. The local rising, however, was hardly noticed in the universal
cataclysm which followed the French Revolution. After twenty years,
during which the world was shaken by the Titanic struggle between
England and France in the final counting up of the game and paying of
the stakes, the Cape Colony was added in 1814 to the British Empire.

In all our vast collection of States there is probably not one the
title-deeds to which are more incontestable than to this one. We had
it by two rights, the right of conquest and the right of purchase.  In
1806 our troops landed, defeated the local forces, and took p05session
of Cape Town.  In 1814 we paid the large sum of six million pounds to
the Stadholder for the transference of this and some South American
land. It was a bargain which was probably made rapidly and carelessly
in that general redistribution which was going on.  As a house of call
upon the way to India the place was seen to be of value, but the
country itself was looked upon as unprofitable and
desert. What would Castlereagh or Liverpool have thought could they
have seen the items which we were buying for our six million pounds?
The inventory would have been a mixed one of good and of evil; nine
fierce Kaffir wars, the greatest diamond mines in the world, the
wealthiest gold mines, two costly and humiliating campaigns with men
whom we respected even when we fought with them, and now at last, we
hope, a South Africa of peace and prosperity, with equal rights and
equal duties for all men.  The future should hold something very good
for us in that land, for if we merely count the past we should be
compelled to say that we should have been stronger, richer, and higher
in the world's esteem had our possessions there never passed beyond
the range of the guns of our men-of-war. But surely the most arduous
is the most honourable, and, looking back from the end of their
journey, our descendants may see that our long record of struggle,
with its mixture of disaster and success, its outpouring of blood and
of treasure, has always tended to some great and enduring goal.

The title-deeds to the estate are, as I have said, good ones, but
there is one singular and ominous flaw in their provisions.  The ocean
has marked three boundaries to it, but the fourth is undefined.  There
is no word of the `Hinterland;' for neither the term nor the idea had
then been thought of.  Had Great Britain bought those vast regions
which extended beyond the settlements? Or were the discontented Dutch
at liberty to pass onwards and found fresh nations to bar the path of
the Anglo-Celtic colonists? In that question lay the germ of all the
trouble to come. An American would realise the point at issue if he
could conceive that after the founding of the United States the Dutch
inhabitants of the State of New York had trekked to the westward and
established fresh communities under a new flag. Then, when the
American population overtook these western States, they would be face
to face with the problem which this country has had to solve. If they
found these new States fiercely anti-American and extremely
unprogressive, they would experience that aggravation of their
difficulties with which our statesmen have had to deal.

At the time of their transference to the British flag the colonists --
Dutch, French, and German -- numbered some thirty thousand.  They were
slaveholders, and the slaves were about as numerous as themselves. The
prospect of complete amalgamation between the British and the original
settlers would have seemed to be a good one, since they were of much
the same stock, and their creeds could only be distinguished by their
varying degrees of bigotry and intolerance.  Five thousand British
emigrants were landed in 1820, settling on the Eastern borders of the
colony, and from that time onwards there was a slow but steady influx
of English speaking colonists.  The Government had the historical
faults and the historical virtues of British rule. It was mild, clean,
honest, tactless, and inconsistent.  On the whole, it might have done
very well had it been content to leave things as it found them.  But
to change the habits of the most conservative of Teutonic races was a
dangerous venture, and one which has led to a long series of
complications, making up the troubled history of South Africa.  The
Imperial Government has always taken an honourable and philanthropic
view of the rights of the native and the claim which he has to the
protection of the law. We hold and rightly, that British justice, if
not blind, should at least be colour-blind.  The view is
irreproachable in theory and incontestable in argument, but it is apt
to be irritating when urged by a Boston moralist or a London
philanthropist upon men whose whole society has been built upon the
assumption that the black is the inferior race.  Such a people like to
find the higher morality for themselves, not to have it imposed upon
them by those who live under entirely different conditions.  They
feel -- and with some reason -- that it is a cheap form of virtue which,
from the serenity of a well-ordered household in Beacon Street or
Belgrave Square, prescribes what the relation shall be between a white
employer and his half-savage, half-childish retainers. Both branches
of the Anglo-Celtic race have grappled with the question, and in each
it has led to trouble.

The British Government in South Africa has always played the unpopular
part of the friend and protector of the native servants.  It was upon
this very point that the first friction appeared between the old
settlers and the new administration.  A rising with bloodshed followed
the arrest of a Dutch farmer who had maltreated his slave.  It was
suppressed, and five of the participants were hanged. This punishment
was unduly severe and exceedingly injudicious. A brave race can forget
the victims of the field of battle, but never those of the scaffold.
The making of political martyrs is the last insanity of statesmanship.
It is true that both the man who arrested and the judge who condemned
the prisoners were Dutch, and that the British Governor interfered on
the side of mercy; but all this was forgotten afterwards in the desire
to make racial capital out of the incident. It is typical of the
enduring resentment which was left behind that when, after the
Jameson raid, it seemed that the leaders of that ill-fated venture
might be hanged, the beam was actually brought from a farmhouse at
Cookhouse Drift to Pretoria, that the Englishmen might die as the
Dutchmen had died in 1816.  Slagter's Nek marked the dividing of the
ways between the British Government and the Afrikaners.

And the separation soon became more marked. There were injudicious
tamperings with the local government and the local ways, with a
substitution of English for Dutch in the law courts. With vicarious
generosity, the English Government gave very lenient terms to the
Kaffir tribes who in 1834 had raided the border farmers. And then,
finally, in this same year there came the emancipation of the slaves
throughout the British Empire, which fanned all smouldering
discontents into an active flame.

It must be confessed that on this occasion the British philanthropist
was willing to pay for what he thought was right.  It was a noble
national action, and one the morality of which was in advance of its
time, that the British Parliament should vote the enormous sum of
twenty million pounds to pay compensation to the slaveholders, and so
to remove an evil with which the mother country bad no immediate
connection. It was as well that the thing should have been done when
it was, for had we waited till the colonies affected had governments
of their own it could never have been done by constitutional methods.
With many a grumble the good British householder drew his purse from
his fob, and he paid for what he thought to be right.  If any special
grace attends the virtuous action which brings nothing but tribulation
in this world, then we may hope for it over this emancipation. We
spent our money, we ruined our West Indian colonies, and we started a
disaffection in South Africa, the end of which we have not seen.  Yet
if it were to be done again we should doubtless do it.  The highest
morality may prove also to be the highest wisdom when the half-told
story comes to be finished.

But the details of the measure were less honourable than the
principle.  It was carried out suddenly, so that the country had no
time to adjust itself to the new conditions.  Three million pounds
were ear-marked for South Africa, which gives a price per slave of
from sixty to seventy pounds, a sum considerably below the current
local rates. Finally, the compensation was made payable in London, so
that the farmers sold their claims at reduced prices to middlemen.
Indignation meetings were held in every little townlet and cattle camp
on the Karoo.  The old Dutch spirit was up -- the spirit of the men
who cut the dykes.  Rebellion was useless. But a vast untenanted land
stretched to the north of them. The nomad life was congenial to them,
and in their huge ox-drawn wagons -- like those bullock-carts in which
some of their old kinsmen came to Gaul -- they had vehicles and homes
and forts all in one. One by one they were loaded up, the huge teams
were inspanned, the women were seated inside, the men, with their
long-barrelled guns, walked alongside, and the great exodus was begun.
Their herds and flocks accompanied the migration, and the children
helped to round them in and drive them.  One tattered little boy of
ten cracked his sjambok whip behind the bullocks. He was a small item
in that singular crowd, but he was of interest to us, for his name was
Paul Stephanus Kruger.

It was a strange exodus, only comparable in modern times to the
sallying forth of the Mormons from Nauvoo upon their search for the
promised laud of Utah.  The country was known and sparsely settled as
far north as the Orange River, but beyond there was a great region
which had never been penetrated save by some daring hunter or
adventurous pioneer. It chanced -- if there be indeed such an element
as chance in the graver affairs of man -- that a Zulu conqueror had
swept over this land and left it untenanted, save by the dwarf
bushmen, the hideous aborigines, lowest of the human race.  There were
fine grazing and good soil for the emigrants.  They traveled in small
detached parties, but their total numbers were considerable, from six
to ten thousand according to their historian, or nearly a quarter of
the whole population of the colony.  Some of the early bands perished
miserably.  A large number made a trysting-place at a high peak to the
east of Bloemfontein in what was lately the Orange Free State. One
party of the emigrants was cut off by the formidable Matabeli, a
branch of the great Zulu nation.  The survivors declared war upon
them, and showed in this, their first campaign, the extraordinary
ingenuity in adapting their tactics to their adversary which has been
their greatest military characteristic.  The commando which rode out
to do battle with the Matabeli numbered, it is said, a hundred and
thirty-five farmers.  Their adversaries were twelve thousand spearmen.
They met at the Marico River, near Mafeking.  The Boers combined the
use of their horses and of their rifles so cleverly that they
slaughtered a third of their antagonists without any loss to
themselves.  Their tactics were to gallop up within range of the
enemy, to fire a volley, and then to ride away again before the
spearmen could reach them. When the savages pursued the Boers
fled. When the pursuit halted the Boers halted and the rifle fire
began anew. The strategy was simple but most effective. When one
remembers how often since then our own horsemen have been pitted
against savages in all parts of the world, one deplores that ignorance
of all military traditions save our own which is characteristic of our
service.

This victory of the `voortrekkers' cleared all the country between the
Orange River and the Limpopo, the sites of what has been known as the
Transvaal and the Orange Free State.  In the meantime another body of
the emigrants had descended into what is now known as Natal, and had
defeated Dingaan, the great Chief of the Zulus.  Being unable, owing
to the presence of their families, to employ the cavalry tactics which
had been so effective against the Matabeli, they again used their
ingenuity to meet this new situation, and received the Zulu warriors
in a square of laagered wagons, the men firing while the women
loaded. Six burghers were killed and three thousand Zulus.  Had such a
formation been used forty years afterwards against these very Zulus,
we should not have had to mourn the disaster of Isandhlwana.

And now at the end of their great journey, after overcoming the
difficulties of distance, of nature, and of savage enemies, the Boers
saw at the end of their travels the very thing which they desired
least -- that which they had come so far to avoid -- the flag of Great
Britain. The Boers had occupied Natal from within, but England had
previously done the same by sea, and a small colony of Englishmen had
settled at Port Natal, now known as Durban.  The home Government,
however, had acted in a vacillating way, and it was only the conquest
of Natal by the Boers which caused them to claim it as a British
colony.  At the same time they asserted the unwelcome doctrine that a
British subject could not at will throw off his allegiance, and that,
go where they might, the wandering farmers were still only the
pioneers of British colonies.  To emphasise the fact three companies
of soldiers were Bent in 1842 to what is now Durban -- the usual
Corporal's guard with which Great Britain starts a new empire.  This
handful of men was waylaid by the Boers and cut up, as their
successors have been so often since.  The survivors, however,
fortified themselves, and held a defensive position -- as also their
successors have done so many times since -- until reinforcements arrived
and the farmers dispersed. It is singular how in history the same
factors will always give the same result.  Here in this first skirmish
is an epitome of all our military relations with these people.  The
blundering headstrong attack, the defeat, the powerlessness of the
farmer against the weakest fortifications -- it is the same tale over and
over again in different scales of importance. Natal from this time
onward became a British colony, and the majority of the Boers trekked
north and east with bitter hearts to tell their wrongs to their
brethren of the Orange Free State and of the Transvaal.

Had they any wrongs to tell? It is difficult to reach that height of
philosophic detachment which enables the historian to deal absolutely
impartially where his own country is a party to the quarrel.  But at
least we may allow that there is a case for our adversary.  Our
annexation of Natal had been by no means definite, and it was they and
not we who first broke that bloodthirsty Zulu power which threw its
shadow across the country.  It was hard after such trials and such
exploits to turn their back upon the fertile land which they had
conquered, and to return to the bare pastures of the upland veldt.
They carried out of Natal a heavy sense of injury, which has helped to
poison our relations with them ever since. It was, in a way, a
momentous episode, this little skirmish of soldiers and emigrants, for
it was the heading off of the Boer from the sea and the confinement of
his ambition to the land.  Had it gone the other way, a new and
possibly formidable flag would have been added to the maritime
nations.

The emigrants who had settled in the huge tract of country between the
Orange River in the south and the Limpopo in the north had been
recruited by newcomers from the Cape Colony until they numbered some
fifteen thousand souls.  This population was scattered over a space as
large as Germany, and larger than Pennsylvania, New York, and New
England.  Their form of government was individualistic and democratic
to the last degree compatible with any sort of cohesion. Their wars
with the Kaffirs and their fear and dislike of the British Government
appear to have been the only ties which held them together.  They
divided and subdivided within their own borders, like a germinating
egg.  The Transvaal was full of lusty little high-mettled communities,
who quarreled among themselves as fiercely as they had done with the
authorities at the Cape.  Lydenburg, Zoutpansberg, and Potchefstroom
were on the point of turning their rifles against each other.  In the
south, between the Orange River and the Vaal, there was no form of
government at all, but a welter of Dutch farmers, Basutos, Hottentots,
and halfbreeds living in a chronic state of turbulence, recognising
neither the British authority to the south of them nor the Transvaal
republics to the north.  The chaos became at last unendurable, and in
1848 a garrison was placed in Bloemfontein and the district
incorporated in the British Empire.  The emigrants made ~ futile
resistance at Boomplats, and after a single defeat allowed themselves
to be drawn into the settled order of civilised rule.

At this period the Transvaal, where most of the Boers had settled,
desired a formal acknowledgment of their independence, which the
British authorities determined once and for all to give them.  The
great barren country, which produced little save marksmen, had no
attractions for a Colonial Office which was bent upon the limitation
of its liabilities. A Convention was concluded between the two
parties, known as the Sand River Convention, which is one of the fixed
points in South African history.  By it the British Government
guaranteed to the Boer farmers the right to manage their own affairs,
and to govern themselves by their own laws without any interference
upon the part of the British.  It stipulated that there should be no
slavery, and with that single reservation washed its hands finally, as
it imagined, of the whole question.  So the South African Republic
came formally into existence.

In the very year after the Sand River Convention a second republic,
the Orange Free State, was created by the deliberate withdrawal of
Great Britain from the territory which she had for eight years
occupied.  The Eastern Question was already becoming acute, and the
cloud of a great war was drifting up, visible to all men. British
statesmen felt that their commitments were very heavy in every part of
the world, and the South African annexations had always been a
doubtful value and an undoubted trouble.  Against the will of a large
part of the inhabitants, whether a majority or not it is impossible to
say, we withdrew our troops as amicably as the Romans withdrew from
Britain, and the new republic was left with absolute and unfettered
independence. On a petition being presented against the withdrawal,
the Home Government actually voted forty-eight thousand pounds to
compensate those who had suffered from the change. Whatever historical
grievance the Transvaal may have against Great Britain, we can at
least, save perhaps in one matter, claim to have a very clear
conscience concerning our dealings with the Orange Free State.  Thus
in 1852 and in 1854 were born those sturdy States who were able for a
time to hold at bay the united forces of the empire.

In the meantime Cape Colony, in spite of these secessions, had
prospered exceedingly, and her population -- English, German, and
Dutch -- had grown by 1870 to over two hundred thousand souls, the
Dutch still slightly predominating.  According to the Liberal colonial
policy of Great Britain, the time had come to cut the cord and let the
young nation conduct its own affairs.  In 1872 complete
self-government was given to it, the Governor, as the representative
of the Queen, retaining a nominal unexercised veto upon
legislation. According to this system the Dutch majority of the colony
could, and did, put their own representatives into power and run the
government upon Dutch lines. Already Dutch law had been restored, and
Dutch put on the same footing as English as the official language of
the country.  The extreme liberality of such measures, and the
uncompromising way in which they have been carried out, however
distasteful the legislation might seem to English ideas, are among the
chief reasons which made the illiberal treatment of British settlers
in the Transvaal so keenly resented at the Cape. A Dutch Government
was ruling the British in a British colony, at a moment when the Boers
would not give an Englishman a vote upon a municipal council in a city
which he had built himself.  Unfortunately, however, 'the evil that
men do lives after them,' and the ignorant Boer farmer continued to
imagine that his southern relatives were in bondage, just as the
descendant of the Irish emigrant still pictures an Ireland of penal
laws and an alien Church.

For twenty-five years after the Sand River Convention the burghers of
the South African Republic had pursued a strenuous and violent
existence, fighting incessantly with the natives and sometimes with
each other, with an occasional fling at the little Dutch republic to
the south.  The semi-tropical sun was waking strange ferments in the
placid Friesland blood, and producing a race who added the turbulence
and restlessness of the south to the formidable tenacity of the north.
Strong vitality and violent ambitions produced feuds and rivalries
worthy of medieval Italy, and the story of the factious little
communities is like a chapter out of Guicciardini.  Disorganisation
ensued.  The burghers would not pay taxes and the treasury was empty.
One fierce Kaffir tribe threatened them from the north, and the Zulus
on the east.  It is an exaggeration of English partisans to pretend
that our intervention saved the Boers, for no one can read their
military history without seeing that they were a match for Zulus and
Sekukuni combined.  But certainly a formidable invasion was pending,
and the scattered farmhouses were as open to the Kaffirs as our
farmers' homesteads were in the American colonies when the Indians
were on the warpath.  Sir Theophilus Shepstone, the British
Commissioner, after an inquiry of three months, solved all questions
by the formal annexation of the country.  The fact that he took
possession of it with a force of some twenty-five men showed the
honesty of his belief that no armed resistance was to be feared. This,
then, in 1877 was a complete reversal of the Sand River Convention and
the opening of a new chapter in the history of South Africa.

There did not appear to be any strong feeling at the time against the
annexation. The people were depressed with their troubles and weary of
contention. Burgers, the President, put in a formal protest, and took
up his abode in Cape Colony, where he had a pension from the British
Government.  A memorial against the measure received the signatures of
a majority of the Boer inhabitants, but there was a fair minority who
took the other view.  Kruger himself accepted a paid office under
Government. There was every sign that the people, if judiciously
handled, would settle down under the British flag.  It is even
asserted that they would themselves have petitioned for annexation had
it been longer withheld.  With immediate constitutional government it
is possible that even the most recalcitrant of them might have been
induced to lodge their protests in the ballot boxes rather than in the
bodies of our soldiers.

But the empire has always had poor luck in South Africa, and never
worse than on that occasion.  Through no bad faith, but simply through
preoccupation and delay, the promises made were not instantly
fulfilled.  Simple primitive men do not understand the ways of our
circumlocution offices, and they ascribe to duplicity what is really
red tape and stupidity.  If the Transvaalers had waited they would
have had their Volksraad and all that they wanted. But the British
Government had some other local matters to set right, the rooting out
of Sekukuni and the breaking of the Zulus, before they would fulfill
their pledges.  The delay was keenly resented. And we were unfortunate
in our choice of Governor. The burghers are a homely folk, and they
like an occasional cup of coffee with the anxious man who tries to
rule them. The three hundred pounds a year of coffee money allowed by
the Transvaal to its President is by no means a mere form. A wise
administrator would fall into the sociable and democratic habits of
the people. Sir Theophilus Shepstone did so. Sir Owen Lanyon did
not. There was no Volksraad and no coffee, and the popular discontent
grew rapidly. In three years the British had broken up the two savage
hordes which had been threatening the land. The finances, too, had
been restored.  The reasons which had made so many favour the
annexation were weakened by the very power which had every interest in
preserving them.

It cannot be too often pointed out that in this annexation, the
starting-point of our troubles, Great Britain, however mistaken she
may have been, had no obvious selfish interest in view.  There were no
Rand mines in those days, nor was there anything in the country to
tempt the most covetous. An empty treasury and two native wars were
the reversion which we took over. It was honestly considered that the
country was in too distracted a state to govern itself, and had, by
its weakness, become a scandal and a danger to its neighbours. There
was nothing sordid in our action, though it may have been both
injudicious and high-handed.

In December 1880 the Boers rose. Every farmhouse sent out its
riflemen, and the trysting-place was the outside of the nearest
British fort. All through the country small detachments were
surrounded and besieged by the farmers.  Standerton, Pretoria,
Potchefstroom, Lydenburg, Wakkerstroom, Rustenberg, and Marabastad
were all invested and all held out until the end of the war.  In the
open country we were less fortunate. At Bronkhorst Spruit a small
British force was taken by surprise and shot down without harm to
their antagonists. The surgeon who treated them has left it on record
that the average number of wounds was five per man. At Laing's Nek an
inferior force of British endeavoured to rush a hill which was held by
Boer riflemen. Half of our men were killed and wounded.  Ingogo may be
called a drawn battle, though our loss was more heavy than that of the
enemy. Finally came the defeat of Majuba Hill, where four hundred
infantry upon a mountain were defeated and driven off by a swarm of
sharpshooters who advanced under the cover of boulders.  Of all these
actions there was not one which was more than a skirmish, and had they
been followed by a final British victory they would now be hardly
remembered. It is the fact that they were skirmishes which succeeded
in their object which has given them an importance which is
exaggerated. At the same time they may mark the beginning of a new
military era, for they drove home the fact -- only too badly learned
by us -- that it is the rifle and not the drill which makes the
soldier.  It is bewildering that after such an experience the British
military authorities continued to serve out only three hundred
cartridges a year for rifle practice, and that they still encouraged
that mechanical volley firing which destroys all individual aim. With
the experience of the first Boer war behind them, little was done,
either in tactics or in musketry, to prepare the soldier for the
second. The value of the mounted rifleman, the shooting with accuracy
at unknown ranges, the art of taking cover -- all were equally
neglected.

The defeat at Majuba Hill was followed by the complete surrender of
the Gladstonian Government, an act which was either the most
pusillanimous or the most magnanimous in recent history.  It is hard
for the big man to draw away from the small before blows are struck
but when the big man has been knocked down three times it is harder
still.  An overwhelming British force was in the field, and the
General declared that he held the enemy in the hollow of his hand.
Our military calculations have been falsified before now by these
farmers, and it may be that the task of Wood and Roberts would have
been harder than they imagined; but on paper, at least, it looked as
if the enemy could be crushed without difficulty. So the public
thought, and yet they consented to the upraised sword being stayed.
With them, as apart from the politicians, the motive was undoubtedly a
moral and Christian one.  They considered that the annexation of the
Transvaal had evidently been an injustice, that the farmers had a
right to the freedom for which they fought, and that it was an
unworthy thing for a great nation to continue an unjust war for the
sake of a military revenge.  It was the height of idealism, and the
result has not been such as to encourage its repetition.

An armistice was concluded on March 5th, 1881, which led up to a peace
on the 23rd of the same month. The Government, after yielding to force
what it had repeatedly refused to friendly representations, made a
clumsy compromise in their settlement.  A policy of idealism and
Christian morality should have been thorough if it were to be tried at
all.  It was obvious that if the annexation were unjust, then the
Transvaal should have reverted to the condition in which it was before
the annexation, as defined by the Sand River Convention.  But the
Government for some reason would not go so far as this.  They niggled
and quibbled and bargained until the State was left as a curious
hybrid thing such as the world has never seen. It was a republic which
was part of the system of a monarchy, dealt with by the Colonial
Office, and included under the heading of `Colonies' in the news
columns of the `Times.' It was autonomous, and yet subject to some
vague suzerainty, the limits of which no one has ever been able to
define. Altogether, in its provisions and in its omissions, the
Convention of Pretoria appears to prove that our political affairs
were as badly conducted as our military in this unfortunate year of
1881.

It was evident from the first that so illogical and contentious an
agreement could not possibly prove to be a final settlement, and
indeed the ink of the signatures was hardly dry before an agitation
was on foot for its revision.  The Boers considered, and with justice,
that if they were to be left as undisputed victors in the war then
they should have the full fruits of victory.  On the other hand, the
English-speaking colonies had their allegiance tested to the
uttermost.  The proud Anglo-Celtic stock is not accustomed to be
humbled, and yet they found themselves through the action of the home
Government converted into members of a beaten race. It was very well
for the citizen of London to console his wounded pride by the thought
that he had done a magnanimous action, but it was different with the
British colonist of Durban or Cape Town, who by no act of his own, and
without any voice in the settlement, found himself humiliated before
his Dutch neighbour. An ugly feeling of resentment was left behind,
which might perhaps have passed away had the Transvaal accepted the
settlement in the spirit in which it was meant, but which grew more
and more dangerous as during eighteen years our people saw, or thought
that they saw, that one concession led always to a fresh demand, and
that the Dutch republics aimed not merely at equality, but at
dominance in South Africa.  Professor Bryce, a friendly critic, after
a personal examination of the country and the question, has left it
upon record that the Boers saw neither generosity nor humanity in our
conduct, but only fear. An outspoken race, they conveyed their
feelings to their neighbours.  Can it be wondered at that South Africa
has been in a ferment ever since, and that the British Africander has
yearned with an intensity of feeling unknown in England for the hour
of revenge?

The Government of the Transvaal after the war was left in the hands of
a triumvirate, but after one year Kruger became President, an office
which he continued to hold for eighteen years.  His career as ruler
vindicates the wisdom of that wise but unwritten provision of the
American Constitution by which there is a limit to the tenure of this
office.  Continued rule for half a generation must turn a man into an
autocrat.  The old President has said himself, in his homely but
shrewd way, that when one gets a good ox to lead the team it is a pity
to change him. If a good ox, however, is left to choose his own
direction without guidance, he may draw his wagon into trouble.

During three years the little State showed signs of a tumultuous
activity.  Considering that it was as large as France and that the
population could not have been more than 50,000, one would have
thought that they might have found room without any inconvenient
crowding.  But the burghers passed beyond their borders in every
direction.  The President cried aloud that he had been shut up in a
kraal, and he proceeded to find ways out of it.  A great trek was
projected for the north, but fortunately it miscarried.  To the east
they raided Zululand, and succeeded, in defiance of the British
settlement of that country, in tearing away one third of it and adding
it to the Transvaal.  To the west, with no regard to the
three-year-old treaty, they invaded Bechuanaland, and set up the two
new republics of Goshen and Stellaland. So outrageous were these
proceedings that Great Britain was forced to fit out in 1884 a new
expedition under Sir Charles Warren for the purpose of turning these
freebooters out of the country. It may be asked, why should these men
be called freebooters if the founders of Rhodesia were pioneers? The
answer is that the Transvaal was limited by treaty to certain
boundaries which these men transgressed, while no pledges were broken
when the British power expanded to the north.  The upshot of these
trespasses was the scene upon which every drama of South Africa rings
down. Once more the purse was drawn from the pocket of the unhappy
taxpayer, and a million or so was paid out to defray the expenses of
the police force necessary to keep these treaty-breakers in order. Let
this be borne in mind when we assess the moral and material damage
done to the Transvaal by that ill-conceived and foolish enterprise, the
Jameson Raid.

In 1884 a deputation from the Transvaal visited England, and at their
solicitation the clumsy Treaty of Pretoria was altered into the still
more clumsy Convention of London.  The changes in the provisions were
all in favour of the Boers, and a second successful war could hardly
have given them more than Lord Derby handed them in time of
peace. Their style was altered from the Transvaal to the South African
Republic, a change which was ominously suggestive of expansion in the
future. The control of Great Britain over their foreign policy was
also relaxed, though a power of veto was retained. But the most
important thing of all, and the fruitful cause of future trouble, lay
in an omission.  A suzerainty is a vague term, but in politics, as in
theology, the more nebulous a thing is the more does it excite the
imagination and the passions of men. This suzerainty was declared in
the preamble of the first treaty, and no mention of it was made in the
second.  Was it thereby abrogated or was it not? The British
contention was that only the articles were changed, and that the
preamble continued to hold good for both treaties.  They pointed out
that not only the suzerainty, but also the independence, of the
Transvaal was proclaimed in that preamble, and that if one lapsed the
other must do so also.  On the other hand, the Boers pointed to the
fact that there was actually a preamble to the second Convention,
which would seem, therefore, to have taken the place of the first. The
point is so technical that it appears to be eminently one of those
questions which might with propriety have been submitted to the
decision of a board of foreign jurists -- or possibly to the Supreme
Court of the United States. If the decision had been given against
Great Britain, we might have accepted it in a chastened spirit as a
fitting punishment for the carelessness of the representative who
failed to make our meaning intelligible.  Carlyle has said that a
political mistake always ends in a broken head for somebody.
Unfortunately the somebody is usually somebody else. We have read the
story of the political mistakes.  Only too soon we shall come to the
broken heads.

This, then, is a synopsis of what had occurred up to the signing of
the Convention, which finally established, or failed to establish, the
position of the South African Republic. We must now leave the larger
questions, and descend to the internal affairs of that small State,
and especially to that train of events which has stirred the mind of
our people more than anything since the Indian Mutiny.

CHAPTER II
THE CAUSE OF QUARREL

There might almost seem to be some subtle connection between the
barrenness and worthlessness of a surface and the value of the
minerals which lie beneath it. The craggy mountains of Western
America, the arid plains of West Australia, the ice-bound gorges of
the Klondyke, and the bare slopes of the Witwatersrand veldt -- these
are the lids which cover the great treasure chests of the world.

Gold had been known to exist in the Transvaal before, but it was only
in 1886 that it was realised that the deposits which lie some thirty
miles south of the capital are of a very extraordinary and valuable
nature. The proportion of gold in the quartz is not particularly high,
nor are the veins of a remarkable thickness, but the peculiarity of
the Rand mines lies in the fact that throughout this 'banket'
formation the metal is so uniformly distributed that the enterprise
can claim a certainty which is not usually associated with the
industry.  It is quarrying rather than mining.  Add to this that the
reefs which were originally worked as outcrops have now been traced to
enormous depths, and present the same features as those at the
surface. A conservative estimate of the value of the gold has placed
it at seven hundred millions of pounds.

Such a discovery produced the inevitable effect. A great number of
adventurers flocked into the country, some desirable and some very
much the reverse.  There were circumstances, however, which kept away
the rowdy and desperado element who usually make for a newly opened
goldfield.  It was not a class of mining which encouraged the
individual adventurer.  There were none of those nuggets which gleamed
through the mud of the dollies at Ballarat, or recompensed the
forty-niners in California for all their travels and their toils.  It
was a field for elaborate machinery, which could only be provided by
capital. Managers, engineers, miners, technical experts, and the
tradesmen and middlemen who live upon them, these were the Uitlanders,
drawn from all the races under the sun, but with the Anglo-Celtic
vastly predominant.  The best engineers were American, the best miners
were Cornish, the best managers were English, the money to run the
mines was largely subscribed in England. As time went on, however, the
German and French interests became more extensive, until their joint
holdings are now probably as heavy as those of the British.  Soon the
population of the mining centres became greater than that of the whole
Boer community, and consisted mainly of men in the prime of life-men,
too, of exceptional intelligence and energy.

The situation was an extraordinary one.  I have already attempted to
bring the problem home to an American by suggesting that the Dutch of
New York had trekked west and founded an anti-American and highly
unprogressive State.  To carry out the analogy we will now suppose
that that State was California, that the gold of that State attracted
a large inrush of American citizens, who came to outnumber the
original inhabitants, that these citizens were heavily taxed and badly
used, and that they deafened Washington with their outcry about their
injuries.  That would be a fair parallel to the relations between the
Transvaal, the Uitlanders, and the British Government.

That these Uitlanders had very real and pressing grievances no one
could possibly deny.  To recount them all would be a formidable task,
for their whole lives were darkened by injustice. There was not a
wrong which had driven the Boer from Gape Colony which he did not now
practise himself upon others -- and a wrong may be excusable in 1885
which is monstrous in 1895.  The primitive virtue which had
characterised the farmers broke down in the face of temptation. The
country Boers were little affected, some of them not at all, but the
Pretoria Government became a most corrupt oligarchy, venal and
incompetent to the last degree. Officials and imported Hollanders
handled the stream of gold which came in from the mines, while the
unfortunate Uitlander who paid nine-tenths of the taxation was fleeced
at every turn, and met with laughter and taunts when he endeavoured to
win the franchise by which he might peaceably set right the wrongs
from which he suffered.  He was not an unreasonable person. On the
contrary, he was patient to the verge of meekness, as capital is
likely to be when it is surrounded by rifles. But his situation was
intolerable, and after successive attempts at peaceful agitation, and
numerous humble petitions to the Volksraad, lie began at last to
realise that he would never obtain redress unless he could find some
way of winning it for himself.

Without attempting to enumerate all the wrongs which embittered the
Uitlanders, the more serious of them may be summed up in this way.

1. That they were heavily taxed and provided about seven-eighths of
the revenue of the country. The revenue of the South African
Republic-which had been 154,000l. in 1886, when the gold fields were
opened-had grown in 1899 to four million pounds, and the country
through the industry of the newcomers had changed from one of the
poorest to the richest in the whole world (per head of population).

2. That in spite of this prosperity which they had brought, they, the
majority of the inhabitants of the country, were left without a vote,
and could by no means influence the disposal of the great sums which
they were providing.  Such a case of taxation without representation
has never been known.

3. That they had no voice in the choice or payment of officials.  Men
of the worst private character might be placed with complete authority
over valuable interests. Upon one occasion the Minister of Mines
attempted himself to jump a mine, having officially learned some flaw
in its title.  The total official salaries had risen in 1899 to a sum
sufficient to pay 40l. per head to the entire male Boer population.

4. That they had no control over education.  Mr. John Robinson, the
Director General of the Johannesburg Educational Council, has reckoned
the sum spent on Uitlander schools as 6501. out of 63,0001. allotted
for education, making one shilling and tenpence per head per annum on
Uitlander children, and eight pounds six shillings per head on Boer
children-the Uitlander, as always, paying seven-eighths of the
original sum.

5. No power of municipal government.  Watercarts instead of pipes,
filthy buckets instead of drains, a corrupt and violent police, a high
death~rate in what should be a health resort -- all this in a city
which they had built themselves.

6. Despotic government in the matter of the press and of the right of
public meeting.

7. Disability from service upon a jury.

8. Continual harassing of the mining interest by vexatious
legislation.  Under this head came many grievances, some special to
the mines and some affecting all Uitlanders.  The dynamite monopoly,
by which the miners had to pay 600,0001. extra per annum in order to
get a worse quality of dynamite; the liquor laws, by which one-third
of the Kaffirs were allowed to be habitually drunk; the incompetence
and extortions of the State-owned railway; the granting of concessions
for numerous articles of ordinary consumption to individuals, by which
high prices were maintained; the surrounding of Johannesburg by tolls
from which the town had no profit -- these were among the economical
grievances, some large, some petty, which ramified through every
transaction of life.

And outside and beyond all these definite wrongs imagine to a free
born progressive man, an American or a Briton, the constant irritation
of being absolutely ruled by a body of twenty-five men, twenty-one of
whom had in the case of the Selati Railway Company been publicly and
circumstantially accused of bribery, with full details of the bribes
received, while to their corruption they added such crass ignorance
that they argue in the published reports of the Volksraad debates that
using dynamite bombs to bring down rain was firing at God, that it is
impious to destroy locusts, that the word 'participate' should not be
used because it is not in the Bible, and that postal pillar boxes are
extravagant and effeminate.  Such OBITER DICTA may be amusing at a
distance, but they are less entertaining when they come from an
autocrat who has complete power over the conditions of your life.

>From the fact that they were a community extremely preoccupied by
their own business, it followed that the Uitlanders were not ardent
politicians, and that they desired to have a share in the government
of the State for the purpose of making the conditions of their own
industry and of their own daily lives more endurable. How far there
was need of such an interference may be judged by any fair-minded man
who reads the list of their complaints. A superficial view may
recognise the Boers as the champions of liberty, but a deeper insight
must see that they (as represented by their elected rulers) have in
truth stood for all that history has shown to be odious in the form of
exclusiveness and oppression. Their conception of liberty has been a
selfish one, and they have consistently inflicted upon others far
heavier wrongs than those against which they had themselves rebelled.

As the mines increased in importance and the miners in numbers, it was
found that these political disabilities affected some of that
cosmopolitan crowd far more than others, in proportion to the amount
of freedom to which their home institutions had made them
accustomed. The continental Uitlanders were more patient of that which
was unendurable to the American and the Briton. The Americans,
however, were in so great a minority that it was upon the British that
the brunt of the struggle for freedom fell.  Apart from the fact that
the British were more numerous than all the other Uitlanders combined,
there were special reasons why they should feel their humiliating
position more than the members of any other race.  In the first place,
many of the British were British South Africans, who knew that in the
neighbouring countries which gave them birth the most liberal possible
institutions had been given to the kinsmen of these very Boers who
were refusing them the management of their own drains and water
supply. And again, every Briton knew that Great Britain claimed to be
the paramount power in South Africa, and so he felt as if his own
land, to which he might have looked for protection, was conniving at
and acquiescing in his ill treatment. As citizens of the paramount
power, it was peculiarly galling that they should be held in political
subjection.  The British, therefore, were the most persistent and
energetic of the agitators.

But it is a poor cause which cannot bear to fairly state and honestly
consider the case of its opponents. The Boers had made, as has been
briefly shown, great efforts to establish a country of their own.
They had travelled far, worked hard, and fought bravely. After all
their efforts they were fated to see an influx of strangers into their
country, some of them men of questionable character, who outnumbered
the original inhabitants.  If the franchise were granted to these,
there could be no doubt that though at first the Boers might control a
majority of the votes, it was only a question of time before the
newcomers would dominate the Raad and elect their own President, who
might adopt a policy abhorrent to the original owners of the
land. Were the Boers to lose by the ballot-box the victory which they
had won by their rifles? Was it fair to expect it?  These newcomers
came for gold.  They got their gold.  Their companies paid a hundred
per cent. Was not that enough to satisfy them? If they did not like
the country why did they not leave it? No one compelled them to stay
there. But if they stayed, let them be thankful that they were
tolerated at all, and not presume to interfere with the laws of those
by whose courtesy they were allowed to enter the country.

That is a fair statement of the Boer position, and at first sight an
impartial man might say that there was a good deal to say for it; but
a closer examination would show that, though it might be tenable in
theory, it is unjust and impossible in practice.

In the present crowded state of the world a policy of Thibet may be
carried out in some obscure corner, but it cannot be done in a great
tract. of country which lies right across the main line of industrial
progress. The position is too absolutely artificial. A handful of
people by the right of conquest take possession of an enormous country
over which they are dotted at such intervals that it is their boast
that one farmhouse cannot see the smoke of another, and yet, though
their numbers are so disproportionate to the area which they cover,
they refuse to admit any other people upon equal terms, but claim to
be a privileged class who shall dominate the newcomers completely.
They are outnumbered in their own land by immigrants who are far more
highly educated and progressive, and yet they hold them down in a way
which exists nowhere else upon earth. What is their right? The right
of conquest.  Then the same right may be justly invoked to reverse so
intolerable a situation.  This they would themselves acknowledge.
'Come on and fight ! Come on!' cried a member of the Volksraad when
the franchise petition of the Uitlanders was presented.  'Protest!
Protest! What is the good of protesting?' said Kruger to
Mr. W. Y. Campbell; 'you have not got the guns, I have.' There was
always the final court of appeal. Judge Creusot and Judge Mauser were
always behind the President.

Again, the argument of the Boers would be more valid had they received
no benefit from these immigrants. If they had ignored them they might
fairly have stated that they did not desire their presence. But even
while they protested they grew rich at the Uitlander's expense. They
could not have it both ways. It would be consistent to discourage him
and not profit by him, or to make him comfortable and build the State
upon his money; but to ill-treat him and at the same time to grow
strong by his taxation must surely be an injustice.

And again, the whole argument is based upon the narrow racial
supposition that every naturalised citizen not of Boer extraction must
necessarily be unpatriotic. This is not borne out by the examples of
history. The newcomer soon becomes 'as proud of his country and as
jealous of her liberty as the old. Had President Kruger given the
franchise generously to the Uitlander, his pyramid would have been
firm upon its base and not balanced upon its apex.  It is true that
the corrupt oligarchy would have vanished, and the spirit of a broader
more tolerant freedom influenced the counsels of the State. But the
republic would have become stronger and more permanent, with a
population who, if they differed in details, were united in
essentials. Whether such a solution would have been to the advantage
of British interests in South Africa is quite another question. In
more ways than one President Kruger has been a good friend to the
empire.

So much upon the general question of the reason why the Uitlander
should agitate and why the Boer was obdurate. The details of the long
struggle between the seekers for the franchise and the refusers of it
may be quickly sketched, but they cannot be entirely ignored by any
one who desires to understand the inception of that great contest
which was the outcome of the dispute.

At the time of the Convention of Pretoria (1881) the rights of
burghership might be obtained by one year's residence. In 1882 it was
raised to five years, the reasonable limit which obtains both in Great
Britain and in the United States. Had it remained so, it is safe to
say that there would never have been either an Uitlander question or a
great Boer war. Grievances would have been righted from the inside
without external interference.

In 1890 the inrush of outsiders alarmed the Boers, and the franchise
was raised so as to be only attainable by those who had lived fourteen
years in the country. The Uitlanders, who were increasing rapidly in
numbers and were suffering from the formidable list of grievances
already enumerated, perceived that their wrongs were so numerous that
it was hopeless to have them set right seriatim, and that only by
obtaining the leverage of the franchise could they hope to move the
heavy burden which weighed them down. In 1893 a petition of 13,000
Uitlanders, couched in most respectful terms, was submitted to the
Raad, but met with contemptuous neglect. Undeterred, however, by this
failure, the National Reform Union, an association which organised the
agitation, came back to the attack in 1894. They drew up a petition
which was signed by 35,000 adult male Uitlanders, a greater number
than the total Boer male population of the country. A small liberal
body in the Raad supported this memorial and endeavoured in vain to
obtain some justice for the newcomers. Mr. Jeppe was the mouthpiece of
this select band. 'They own half the soil, they pay at least three
quarters of the taxes,' said he. 'They are men who in capital, energy,
and education are at least our equals.

What will become of us or our children on that day when we may find
ourselves in a minority of one in twenty without a single friend among
the other nineteen, among those who will then tell us that they wished
to be brothers, but that we by our own act have made them strangers to
the republic?' Such reasonable and liberal sentiments were combated by
members who asserted that the signatures could not belong to
law-abiding citizens, since they were actually agitating against the
law of the franchise, and others whose intolerance was expressed by
the defiance of the member already quoted, who challenged the
Uitlanders to come out and fight. The champions of exclusiveness and
racial hatred won the day.  The memorial was rejected by sixteen votes
to eight, and the franchise law was, on the initiative of the
President, actually made more stringent than ever, being framed in
such a way that during the fourteen years of probation the applicant
should give up his previous nationality, so that for that period he
would really belong to no country at all.  No hopes were held out that
any possible attitude upon the part of the Uitlanders would soften the
determination of the President and his burghers.  One who remonstrated
was led outside the State buildings by the President, who pointed up
at the national flag. 'You see that flag?' said he. 'If I grant the
franchise, I may as well pull it down.' His animosity against the
immigrants was bitter. 'Burghers, friends, thieves, murderers,
newcomers, and others,' is the conciliatory opening of one of his
public addresses.  Though Johannesburg is only thirty-two miles from
Pretoria, and though the State of which he was the head depended for
its revenue upon the gold fields, he paid it only three visits in nine
years.

This settled animosity was deplorable, but not unnatural. A man imbued
with the idea of a chosen people, and unread in any book save the one
which cultivates this very idea, could not be expected to have learned
the historical lessons of the advantages which a State reaps from a
liberal policy. To him it was as if the Ammonites and Moabites had
demanded admission into the twelve tribes. He mistook an agitation
against the exclusive policy of the State for one against the
existence of the State itself. A wide franchise would have made his
republic firm-based and permanent. It was a small minority of the
Uitlanders who had any desire to come into the British system. They
were a cosmopolitan crowd, only united by the bond of a common
injustice. But when every other method had failed, and their petition
for the rights of freemen had been flung back at them, it was natural
that their eyes should turn to that flag which waved to the north, the
west, and the south of them -- the flag which means purity of government
with equal rights and equal duties for all men. Constitutional
agitation was laid aside, arms were smuggled in, and everything
prepared for an organised rising.

The events which followed at the beginning of 1896 have been so
thrashed out that there is, perhaps, nothing left to tell -- except
the truth. So far as the Uitlanders themselves are concerned, their
action was most natural and justifiable, and they have no reason to
exculpate themselves for rising against such oppression as no men of
our race have ever been submitted to. Had they trusted only to
themselves and the justice of their cause, their moral and even their
material position would have been infinitely stronger. But
unfortunately there were forces behind them which were more
questionable, the nature and extent of which have never yet, in spite
of two commissions of investigation, been properly revealed.  That
there should have been any attempt at misleading inquiry, or
suppressing documents in order to shelter individuals, is deplorable,
for the impression left -- I believe an entirely false one -- must be
that the British Government connived at an expedition which was as
immoral as it was disastrous.

It had been arranged that the town was to rise upon a certain night,
that Pretoria should be attacked, the fort seized, and the rifles and
ammunition used to arm the Uitlanders. It was a feasible device,
though it must seem to us, who have had such an experience of the
military virtues of the burghers, a very desperate one. But it is
conceivable that the rebels might have held Johannesburg until the
universal sympathy which their cause excited throughout South Africa
would have caused Great Britain to intervene.  Unfortunately they had
complicated matters by asking for outside help. Mr. Cecil Rhodes was
Premier of the Cape, a man of immense energy, and one who had rendered
great services to the empire.  The motives of his action are obscure
-- certainly, we may say that they were not sordid, for he has always
been a man whose thoughts were large and whose habits were simple. But
whatever they may have been -- whether an ill-regulated desire to
consolidate South Africa under British rule, or a burning sympathy
with the Uitlanders in their fight against injustice -- it is certain
that he allowed his lieutenant, Dr. Jameson, to assemble the mounted
police of the Chartered Company, of which Rhodes was founder and
director, for the purpose of co-operating with the rebels at
Johannesburg.  Moreover, when the revolt at Johannesburg was
postponed, on account of a disagreement as to which flag they were to
rise under, it appears that Jameson (with or without the orders of
Rhodes) forced the hand of the conspirators by invading the country
with a force absurdly inadequate to the work which he had taken in
hand.  Five hundred policemen and three field guns made up the forlorn
hope who started from near Mafeking and crossed the Transvaal border
upon December 29th, 1895.  On January 2nd they were surrounded by the
Boers amid the broken country near Dornkop, and after losing many of
their number killed and wounded, without food and with spent horses,
they were compelled to lay down their arms.  Six burghers lost their
lives in the skirmish.

The Uitlanders have been severely criticised for not having sent out a
force to help Jameson in his difficulties, but it is impossible to see
how they could have acted in any other manner.  They had done all they
could to prevent Jameson coming to their relief, and now it was rather
unreasonable to suppose that they should relieve their reliever.
Indeed, they had an entirely exaggerated idea of the strength of the
force which he was bringing, and received the news of his capture with
incredulity. When it became confirmed they rose, but in a halfhearted
fashion which was not due to want of courage, but to the difficulties
of their position.  On the one hand, the British Government disowned
Jameson entirely, and did all it could to discourage the rising; on
the other, the President had the raiders in his keeping at Pretoria,
and let it be understood that their fate depended upon the behaviour
of the Uitlanders.  They were led to believe that Jameson would be
shot unless they laid down their arms, though, as a matter of fact,
Jameson and his people had surrendered upon a promise of quarter.  So
skillfully did Kruger use his hostages that he succeeded, with the help
of the British Commissioner, in getting the thousands of excited
Johannesburgers to lay down their arms without bloodshed. Completely
out-manoeuvred by the astute old President, the leaders of the reform
movement used all their influence in the direction of peace, thinking
that a general amnesty would follow; but the moment that they and
their people were helpless the detectives and armed burghers occupied
the town, and sixty of their number were hurried to Pretoria Gaol.

To the raiders themselves the President behaved with great generosity.
Perhaps he could not find it in his heart to be harsh to the men who
had managed to put him in the right and won for him the sympathy of
the world. His own illiberal and oppressive treatment of the newcomers
was forgotten in the face of this illegal inroad of filibusters.  The
true issues were so obscured by this intrusion that it has taken years
to clear them, and perhaps they will never be wholly cleared.  It was
forgotten that it was the bad government of the country which was the
real cause of the unfortunate raid. From then onwards the government
might grow worse and worse, but it was always possible to point to the
raid as justifying everything.  Were the Uitlanders to have the
franchise? How could they expect it after the raid? Would Britain
object to the enormous importation of arms and obvious preparations
for war? They were only precautions against a second raid. For years
the raid stood in the way, not only of all progress, but of all
remonstrance.  Through an action over which they had no control, and
which they had done their best to prevent, the British Government was
left with a bad case and a weakened moral authority.

The raiders were sent home, where the rank and file were very properly
released, and the chief officers were condemned to terms of
imprisonment which certainly did not err upon the side of
severity. Cecil Rhodes was left unpunished, he retained his place in
the Privy Council, and his Chartered Company continued to have a
corporate existence. This was illogical and inconclusive. As Kruger
said, 'It is not the dog which should be beaten, but the man who set
him on to me.' Public opinion -- in spite of, or on account of, a
crowd of witnesses -- was ill informed upon the exact bearings of the
question, and it was obvious that as Dutch sentiment at the Cape
appeared already to be thoroughly hostile to us, it would be dangerous
to alienate the British Africanders also by making a martyr of their
favourite leader. But whatever arguments may be founded upon
expediency, it is clear that the Boers bitterly resented, and with
justice, the immunity of Rhodes.

In the meantime, both President Kruger and his burghers had shown a
greater severity to the political prisoners from Johannesburg than to
the armed followers of Jameson.  The nationality of these prisoners is
interesting and suggestive.  There were twenty-three Englishmen,
sixteen South Africans, nine Scotchmen, six Americans, two Welshmen,
one Irishman, one Australian, one Hollander, one Bavarian, one
Canadian, one Swiss, and one Turk. The prisoners were arrested in
January, but the trial did not take place until the end of April. All
were found guilty of high treason. Mr. Lionel Phillips, Colonel Rhodes
(brother of Mr. Cecil Rhodes), George Farrar, and Mr. Hammond, the
American engineer, were condemned to death, a sentence which was
afterwards commuted to the payment of an enormous fine.  The other
prisoners were condemned to two years' imprisonment, with a fine of
2,OOOL. each. The imprisonment was of the most arduous and trying
sort, and was embittered by the harshness of the gaoler, Du
Plessis. One of the unfortunate men cut his throat, and several fell
seriously ill, the diet and the sanitary conditions being equally
unhealthy. At last at the end of May all the prisoners but six were
released. Four of the six soon followed, two stalwarts, Sampson and
Davies, refusing to sign any petition and remaining in prison until
they were set free in 1897. Altogether the Transvaal Government
received in fines from the reform prisoners the enormous sum of
212,000L. A certain comic relief was immediately afterwards given to
so grave an episode by the presentation of a bill to Great Britain for
1,677,938L. 3s. 3d.-- the greater part of which was under the heading
of moral and intellectual damage.

The raid was past and the reform movement was past, but the causes
which produced them both remained. It is hardly conceivable that a
statesman who loved his country would have refrained from making
some effort to remove a state of things which had already caused such
grave dangers, and which must obviously become more serious with every
year that passed. But Paul Kruger had hardened his heart, and was not
to be moved. The grievances of the Uitlanders became heavier than
ever. The one power in the land to which they had been able to appeal
for some sort of redress amid their grievances was the law courts. Now
it was decreed that the courts should be dependent on the
Volksraad. The Chief Justice protested against such a degradation of
his high office, and he was dismissed in consequence without a
pension. The judge who had condemned the reformers was chosen to fill
the vacancy, and the protection of a fixed law was withdrawn from the
Uitlanders.

A commission appointed by the State was sent to examine into the
condition of the mining industry and the grievances from which the
newcomers suffered. The chairman was Mr. Schalk Burger, one of the
most liberal of the Boers, and the proceedings were thorough and
impartial. The result was a report which amply vindicated the
reformers, and suggested remedies which would have gone a long way
towards satisfying the Uitlanders.  With such enlightened legislation
their motives for seeking the franchise would have been less
pressing. But the President and his Raad would have none of the
recommendations of the commission. The rugged old autocrat declared
that Schalk Burger was a traitor to his country for having signed such
a document, and a new reactionary committee was chosen to report upon
the report. Words and papers were the only outcome of the affair. No
amelioration came to the newcomers. But at least they had again put
their case publicly upon record, and it had been endorsed by the most
respected of the burghers. Gradually in the press of the
English-speaking countries the raid was ceasing to obscure the
issue. More and more clearly it was coming out that no permanent
settlement was possible where the majority of the population was
oppressed by the minority. They had tried peaceful means and failed.
They had tried warlike means and failed. What was there left for them
to do? Their own country, the paramount power of South Africa, had
never helped them. Perhaps if it were directly appealed to it might do
so. It could not, if only for the sake of its own imperial prestige,
leave its children for ever in a state of subjection. The Uitlanders
determined upon a petition to the Queen, and in doing so they brought
their grievances out of the limits of a local controversy into the
broader field of international politics. Great Britain must either
protect them or acknowledge that their protection was beyond her
power. A direct petition to the Queen praying for protection was
signed in April 1899 by twenty-one thousand Uitlanders. From that time
events moved inevitably towards the one end. Sometimes the surface was
troubled and sometimes smooth, but the stream always ran swiftly and
the roar of the fall sounded ever louder in the ears.

CHAPTER III
THE NEGOTIATIONS

The British Government and the British people do not desire any direct
authority in South Africa.  Their one supreme interest is that the
various States there should live in concord and prosperity, and that
there should be no need for the presence of a British redcoat within
the whole great peninsula.  Our foreign critics, with their
misapprehension of the British colonial system, can never realise that
whether the four-coloured flag of the Transvaal or the Union Jack of a
self-governing colony waved over the gold mines would not make the
difference of one shilling to the revenue of Great Britain.  The
Transvaal as a British province would have its own legislature, its
own revenue, its own expenditure, and its own tariff against the
mother country, as well as against the rest of the world, and England
be none the richer for the change.  This is so obvious to a Briton
that he has ceased to insist upon it, and it is for that reason
perhaps that it is so universally misunderstood abroad. On the other
hand, while she is no gainer by the change, most of the expense of it
in blood and in money falls upon the home country.  On the face of it,
therefore, Great Britain had every reason to avoid so formidable a
task as the conquest of the South African Republic.  At the best she
had nothing to gain, and at the worst she had an immense deal to lose.
There was no room for ambition or aggression. It was a case of
shirking or fulfilling a most arduous duty.

There could be no question of a plot for the annexation of the
Transvaal. In a free country the Government cannot move in advance of
public opinion, and public opinion is influenced by and reflected in
the newspapers. One may examine the files of the press during all the
months of negotiations and never find one reputable opinion in favour
of such a course, nor did one in society ever meet an advocate of such
a measure.  But a great wrong was being done, and all that was asked
was the minimum change which would set it right, and restore equality
between the white races in Africa.  'Let Kruger only be liberal in the
extension of the franchise,' said the paper which is most
representative of the sanest British opinion, 'and he will find that
the power of the republic will become not weaker, but infinitely more
secure.  Let him once give the majority of the resident males of full
age the full vote, and he will have given the republic a stability and
power which nothing else can. If he rejects all pleas of this kind,
and persists in his present policy, he may possibly stave off the evil
day, and preserve his cherished oligarchy for another few years; but
the end will be the same.'  The extract reflects the tone of all of
the British press, with the exception of one or two papers which
considered that even the persistent ill usage of our people, and the
fact that we were peculiarly responsible for them in this State, did
not justify us in interfering in the internal affairs of the republic.
It cannot be denied that the Jameson raid and the incomplete manner in
which the circumstances connected with it had been investigated had
weakened the force of those who wished to interfere energetically on
behalf of British subjects.  There was a vague but widespread feeling
that perhaps the capitalists were engineering the situation for their
own ends.  It is difficult to imagine how a state of unrest and
insecurity, to say nothing of a state of war, can ever be to the
advantage of capital, and surely it is obvious that if some
arch-schemer were using the grievances of the Uitlanders for his own
ends the best way to checkmate him would be to remove those
grievances.  The suspicion, however, did exist among those who like to
ignore the obvious and magnify the remote, and throughout the
negotiations the hand of Great Britain was weakened, as her adversary
had doubtless calculated that it would be, by an earnest but fussy and
faddy minority.  Idealism and a morbid, restless conscientiousness are
two of the most dangerous evils from which a modern progressive State
has to suffer.

It was in April 1899 that the British Uitlanders sent their petition
praying for protection to their native country. Since the April
previous a correspondence had been going on between Dr. Leyds,
Secretary of State for the South African Republic, and
Mr. Chamberlain, Colonial Secretary, upon the existence or
non-existence of the suzerainty. On the one hand, it was contended
that the substitution of a second convention had entirely annulled the
first; on the other, that the preamble of the first applied also to
the second. If the Transvaal contention were correct it is clear that
Great Britain had been tricked and jockeyed into such a position,
since she had received no quid pro quo in the second convention, and
even the most careless of Colonial Secretaries could hardly have been
expected to give away a very substantial something for nothing. But
the contention throws us back upon the academic question of what a
suzerainty is. The Transvaal admitted a power of veto over their
foreign policy, and this admission in itself, unless they openly tore
up the convention, must deprive them of the position of a sovereign
State. On the whole, the question must be acknowledged to have been
one which might very well have been referred to trustworthy
arbitration.

But now to this debate, which had so little of urgency in it that
seven months intervened between statement and reply, there came the
bitterly vital question of the wrongs and appeal of the
Uitlanders. Sir Alfred Milner, the British Commissioner in South
Africa, a man of liberal views who had been appointed by a
Conservative Government, commanded the respect and confidence of all
parties. His record was that of an able, clear-headed man, too just to
be either guilty of or tolerant of injustice. To him the matter was
referred, and a conference was arranged between President Kruger and
him at Bloemfontein, the capital of the Orange Free State. They met on
May 30th.  Kruger had declared that all questions might be discussed
except the independence of the Transvaal.  'All, all, all!' he cried
emphatically. But in practice it was found that the parties could not
agree as to what did or what did not threaten this independence.  What
was essential to one was inadmissible to the other.  Milner contended
for a five years' retroactive franchise, with provisions to secure
adequate representation for the mining districts.  Kruger offered a
seven years' franchise, coupled with numerous conditions which
whittled down its value very much, promised five members out of
thirty-one to represent a majority of the male population, and added a
provision that all differences should be subject to arbitration by
foreign powers, a condition which is incompatible with any claim to
suzerainty. The proposals of each were impossible to the other, and
early in June Sir Alfred Milner was back in Cape Town and President
Kruger in Pretoria, with nothing settled except the extreme difficulty
of a settlement.  The current was running swift, and the roar of the
fall was already sounding louder in the ear.

On June 12th Sir Alfred Milner received a deputation at Cape Town and
reviewed the situation.  'The principle of equality of races was,' he
said, essential for South Africa.  The one State where inequality
existed kept all the others in a fever. Our policy was one not of
aggression, but of singular patience, which could not, however, lapse
into indifference.' Two days later Kruger addressed the Raad. 'The
other side had not conceded one tittle, and I could not give more. God
has always stood by us. I do not want war, but I will not give more
away. Although our independence has once been taken away, God had
restored it.' He spoke with sincerity no doubt, but it is hard to hear
God invoked with such confidence for the system which encouraged the
liquor traffic to the natives, and bred the most corrupt set of
officials that the modern world has seen.

A dispatch from Sir Alfred Milner, giving his views upon the
situation, made the British public recognise, as nothing else had
done, how serious the position was, and how essential it was that an
earnest national effort should be made to set it right.  In it he
said:

'The case for intervention is overwhelming. The only attempted answer
is that things will right themselves if left alone. But, in fact, the
policy of leaving things alone has been tried for years, and it has
led to their going from bad to worse. It is not true that this is
owing to the raid. They were going from bad to worse before the
raid. We were on the verge of war before the raid, and the Transvaal
was on the verge of revolution.  The effect of the raid has been to
give the policy of leaving things alone a new lease of life, and with
the old consequences.

'The spectacle of thousands of British subjects kept permanently in
the position of helots, constantly chafing under undoubted grievances,
and calling vainly to her Majesty's Government for redress, does
steadily undermine the influence and reputation of Great Britain
within the Queen's dominions.  A section of the press, not in the
Transvaal only, preaches openly and constantly the doctrine of a
republic embracing all South Africa, and supports it by menacing
references to the armaments of the Transvaal, its alliance with the
Orange Free State, and the active sympathy which, in case of war, it
would receive from a section of her Majesty's subjects.  I regret to
say that this doctrine, supported as it is by a ceaseless stream of
malignant lies about the intentions of her Majesty's Government, is
producing a great effect on a large number of our Dutch fellow
colonists.  Language is frequently used which seems to imply that the
Dutch have some superior right, even in this colony, to their
fellow-citizens of British birth. Thousands of men peaceably disposed,
and if left alone perfectly satisfied with their position as British
subjects, are being drawn into disaffection, and there is a
corresponding exasperation upon the part of the British.

'I can see nothing which will put a stop to this mischievous
propaganda but some striking proof of the intention of her Majesty's
Government not to be ousted from its position in South Africa.'

Such were the grave and measured words with which the British
pro-consul warned his countrymen of what was to come.  He saw the
storm-cloud piling in the north, but even his eyes had not yet
discerned how near and how terrible was the tempest.

Throughout the end of June and the early part of July much was hoped
from the mediation of the heads of the Afrikander Bond, the political
union of the Dutch Cape colonists.  On the one hand, they were the
kinsmen of the Boers; on the other, they were British subjects, and
were enjoying the blessings of those liberal institutions which we
were anxious to see extended to the Transvaal.  'Only treat our folk as
we treat yours! Our whole contention was compressed into that
prayer. But nothing came of the mission, though a scheme endorsed by
Mr. Hofmeyer and Mr. Herholdt, of the Bond, with Mr. Fischer of the
Free State, was introduced into the Raad and applauded by
Mr. Schreiner, the Africander Premier of Cape Colony. In its original
form the provisions were obscure and complicated, the franchise
varying from nine years to seven under different conditions.  In
debate, however, the terms were amended until the time was reduced to
seven years, and the proposed representation of the gold fields placed
at five.  The concession was not a great one, nor could the
representation, five out of thirty-one, be considered a generous
provision for the majority of the population; but the reduction of the
years of residence was eagerly hailed in England as a sign that a
compromise might be effected. A sigh of relief went up from the
country. 'If,' said the Colonial Secretary, 'this report is confirmed,
this important change in the proposals of President Kruger, coupled
with previous amendments, leads Government to hope that the new law
may prove to be the basis of a settlement on the lines laid down by
Sir Alfred Milner in the Bloemfontein Conference.'  He added that
there were some vexatious conditions attached, but concluded, 'Her
Majesty's Government feel assured that the President, having accepted
the principle for which they have contended, will be prepared to
reconsider any detail of his scheme which can be shown to be a
possible hindrance to the full accomplishment of the object in view,
and that he will not allow them to be nullified or reduced in value by
any subsequent alterations of the law or acts of administration.'  At
the same time, the 'Times' declared the crisis to be at an end.  'If
the Dutch statesmen of the Cape have induced their brethren in the
Transvaal to carry such a Bill, they will have deserved the lasting
gratitude, not only of their own countrymen and of the English
colonists in South Africa, but of the British Empire and of the
civilised world.'

But this fair prospect was soon destined to be overcast.  Questions of
detail arose which, when closely examined, proved to be matters of
very essential importance.  The Uitlanders and British South Africans,
who had experienced in the past how illusory the promises of the
President might be, insisted upon guarantees.  The seven years offered
were two years more than that which Sir Alfred Milner had declared to
be an irreducible minimum.  The difference of two years would not have
hindered their acceptance, even at the expense of some humiliation to
our representative. But there were conditions which excited distrust
when drawn up by so wily a diplomatist. One was that the alien who
aspired to burghership had to produce a certificate of continuous
registration for a certain time. But the law of registration had
fallen into disuse in the Transvaal, and consequently this provision
might render the whole Bill valueless.  Since it was carefully
retained, it was certainly meant for use.  The door had been opened,
but a stone was placed to block it. Again, the continued burghership
of the newcomers was made to depend upon the resolution of the first
Raad, so that should the mining members propose any measure of reform,
not only their Bill but they also might be swept out of the house by a
Boer majority.  What could an Opposition do if a vote of the
Government might at any moment unseat them all? It was clear that a
measure which contained such provisions must be very carefully sifted
before a British Government could accept it as a final settlement and
a complete concession of justice to its subjects.  On the other hand,
it naturally felt loth to refuse those clauses which offered some
prospect of an amelioration in their condition. It took the course,
therefore, of suggesting that each Government should appoint delegates
to form a joint commission which should inquire into the working of
the proposed Bill before it was put into a final form. The proposal
was submitted to the Raad upon August 7th, with the addition that when
this was done Sir Alfred Milner was prepared to discuss anything else,
including arbitration without the interference of foreign powers.

The suggestion of this joint commission has been criticised as an
unwarrantable intrusion into the internal affairs of another
country. But then the whole question from the beginning was about the
internal affairs of another country, since the internal equality of
the white inhabitants was the condition upon which self-government was
restored to the Transvaal.  It is futile to suggest analogies, and to
imagine what France would do if Germany were to interfere in a
question of French franchise.  Supposing that France contained as many
Germans as Frenchmen, and that they were ill-treated, Germany would
interfere quickly enough and continue to do so until some fair MODUS
VIVENDI was established. The fact is that the case of the Transvaal
stands alone, that such a condition of things has never been known,
and that no previous precedent can apply to it, save the general rule
that a minority of white men cannot continue indefinitely to tax and
govern a majority. Sentiment inclines to the smaller nation, but
reason and justice are all on the side of England.

A long delay followed upon the proposal of the Secretary of the
Colonies. No reply was forthcoming from Pretoria.  But on all sides
there came evidence that those preparations for war which had been
quietly going on even before the Jameson raid were now being hurriedly
perfected.  For so small a State enormous sums were being spent upon
military equipment.  Cases of rifles and boxes of cartridges streamed
into the arsenal, not only from Delagoa Bay, but even, to the
indignation of the English colonists, through Cape Town and Port
Elizabeth. Huge packing-cases, marked 'Agricultural Instruments' and
'Mining Machinery,' arrived from Germany and France, to find their
places in the forts of Johannesburg or Pretoria.  Men of many nations
but of a similar type showed their martial faces in the Boer
towns. The CONDOTTIERI of Europe were as ready as ever to sell their
blood for gold, and nobly in the end did they fulfill their share of
the bargain.  For three weeks and more during which Mr. Kruger was
silent these eloquent preparations went on. But beyond them, and of
infinitely more importance, there was one fact which dominated the
situation. A burgher cannot go to war without his horse, his horse
cannot move without grass, grass will not come until after rain, and it
was still some weeks before the rain would be due.  Negotiations,
then, must not be unduly hurried while the veldt was a bare
russet-coloured dust-swept plain.  Mr. Chamberlain and the British
public waited week after week for their answer. But there was a limit
to their patience, and it was reached on August 26th, when the
Colonial Secretary showed, with a plainness of speech which is as
unusual as it is welcome in diplomacy, that the question could not be
hung up for ever.  'The sands are running down in the glass,' said he.
'If they run out, we shall not hold ourselves limited by that which we
have already offered, but, having taken the matter in hand, we will
not let it go until we have secured conditions which once for all
shall establish which is the paramount power in South Africa, and
shall secure for our fellow-subjects there those equal rights and
equal privileges which were promised them by President Kruger when the
independence of the Transvaal was granted by the Queen, and which is
the least that in justice ought to be accorded them.' Lord Salisbury,
a little time before, had been equally emphatic. 'No one in this
country wishes to disturb the conventions so long as it is recognised
that while they guarantee the independence of the Transvaal on the one
side, they guarantee equal political and civil rights for settlers of
all nationalities upon the other. But these conventions are not like
the laws of the Medes and the Persians. They are mortal, they can be
destroyed... and once destroyed they can never be reconstructed in
the same shape.' The long-enduring patience of Great Britain was
beginning to show signs of giving way.

In the meantime a fresh dispatch had arrived from the Transvaal which
offered as an alternative proposal to the joint commission that the
Boer Government should grant the franchise proposals of Sir Alfred
Milner on condition that Great Britain withdrew or dropped her claim
to a suzerainty, agreed to arbitration, and promised never again to
interfere in the internal affairs of the republic. To this Great
Britain answered that she would agree to arbitration, that she hoped
never again to have occasion to interfere for the protection of her
own subjects, but that with the grant of the franchise all occasion
for such interference would pass away, and, finally, that she would
never consent to abandon her position as suzerain
power. Mr. Chamberlain's dispatch ended by reminding the Government of
the Transvaal that there were other matters of dispute open between
the two Governments apart from the franchise, and that it would be as
well to have them settled at the same time.  By these he meant such
questions as the position of the native races and the treatment of
Anglo-Indians.

On September 2nd the answer of the Transvaal Government was returned.
It was short and uncompromising.  They withdrew their offer of the
franchise. They re-asserted the non-existence of the suzerainty. The
negotiations were at a deadlock.  It was difficult to see how they
could be re-opened. In view of the arming of the burghers, the small
garrison of Natal had been taking up positions to cover the frontier.
The Transvaal asked for an explanation of their presence. Sir Alfred
Milner answered that they were guarding British interests, and
preparing against contingencies. The roar of the fall was sounding
loud and near.

On September 8th there was held a Cabinet Council -- one of the most
important in recent years. A message was sent to Pretoria, which even
the opponents of the Government have acknowledged to be temperate, and
offering the basis for a peaceful settlement.  It begins by
repudiating emphatically the claim of the Transvaal to be a sovereign
international State in the same sense in which the Orange Free State
is one. Any proposal made conditional upon such an acknowledgment
could not be entertained.

The British Government, however, was prepared to accept the five
years' 'franchise' as stated in the note of August 19th, assuming at
the same time that in the Raad each member might talk his own
language.

'Acceptance of these terms by the South African Republic would at once
remove tension between the two Governments, and would in all
probability render unnecessary any future intervention to secure
redress for grievances which the Uitlanders themselves would be able
to bring to the notice of the Executive Council and the Volksraad.

'Her Majesty's Government are increasingly impressed with the danger
of further delay in relieving the strain which has already caused so
much injury to the interests of South Africa, and they earnestly press
for an immediate and definite reply to the present proposal. If it is
acceded to they will be ready to make immediate arrangements... to
settle all details of the proposed tribunal of arbitration... If,
however, as they most anxiously hope will not be the case, the reply
of the South African Republic should be negative or inconclusive, I am
to state that her Majesty's Government must reserve to themselves the
right to reconsider the situation DE NOVO, and to formulate their own
proposals for a final settlement.'

Such was the message, and Great Britain waited with strained attention
for the answer.  But again there was a delay, while the rain came and
the grass grew, and the veldt was as a mounted rifleman would have
it. The burghers were in no humour for concessions.  They knew their
own power, and they concluded with justice that they were for the time
far the strongest military power in South Africa.  'We have beaten
England before, but it is nothing to the licking we shall give her
now,' cried a prominent citizen, and he spoke for his country as he
said it.  So the empire waited and debated, but the sounds of the
bugle were already breaking through the wrangles of the politicians,
and calling1 the nation to be tested once more by that hammer of war and
adversity by which Providence still fashions us to some nobler and
higher end.

CHAPTER IV
THE EVE OF WAR

The message sent from the Cabinet Council of September 8th was
evidently the precursor either of peace or of war.  The cloud must
burst or blow over. As the nation waited in hushed expectancy for a
reply it spent some portion of its time in examining and speculating
upon those military preparations which might be needed.  The War
Office had for some months been arranging for every contingency, and
had made certain dispositions which appeared to them to be adequate,
but which our future experience was to demonstrate to be far too small
for the very serious matter in hand.

It is curious in turning over the files of such a paper as the
'Times' to observe how at first one or two small paragraphs of military
significance might appear in the endless columns of diplomatic and
political reports, how gradually they grew and grew, until at last the
eclipse was complete, and the diplomacy had been thrust into the tiny
paragraphs while the war filled the journal.  Under July 7th comes the
first glint of arms amid the drab monotony of the state papers.  On
that date it was announced that two companies of Royal Engineers and
departmental corps with reserves of supplies and ammunition were being
dispatched.  Two companies of engineers!  Who could have foreseen that
they were the vanguard of the greatest army which ever at any time of
the world's history has crossed an ocean, and far the greatest which a
British general has commanded in the field?

On August 15th, at a time when the negotiations had already assumed a
very serious phase, after the failure of the Bloemfontein conference
and the dispatch of Sir Alfred Milner, the British forces in South
Africa were absolutely and absurdly inadequate for the purpose of the
defence of our own frontier.  Surely such a fact must open the eyes of
those who, in spite of all the evidence, persist that the war was
forced on by the British.  A statesman who forces on a war usually
prepares for a war, and this is exactly what Mr. Kruger did and the
British authorities did not.  The overbearing suzerain power had at
that date, scattered over a huge frontier, two cavalry regiments,
three field batteries, and six and a half infantry battalions -- say
six thousand men. The innocent pastoral States could put in the field
forty or fifty thousand mounted riflemen, whose mobility doubled their
numbers, and a most excellent artillery, including the heaviest guns
which have ever been seen upon a battlefield.  At this time it is most
certain that the Boers could have made their way easily either to
Durban or to Cape Town.  The British force, condemned to act upon the
defensive, could have been masked and afterwards destroyed, while the
main body of the invaders would have encountered nothing but an
irregular local resistance, which would have been neutralised by the
apathy or hostility of the Dutch colonists. It is extraordinary that
our authorities seem never to have contemplated the possibility of the
Boers taking the initiative, or to have understood that in that case
our belated reinforcements would certainly have had to land under the
fire of the republican guns.

In July Natal had taken alarm, and a strong representation had been
sent from the prime minister of the colony to the Governor, Sir
W. Hely Hutchinson, and so to the Colonial Office. It was notorious
that the Transvaal was armed to the teeth, that the Orange Free State
was likely to join her, and that there had been strong attempts made,
both privately and through the press, to alienate the loyalty of the
Dutch citizens of both the British colonies.  Many sinister signs were
observed by those upon the spot.  The veldt had been burned unusually
early to ensure a speedy grass-crop after the first rains, there had
been a collecting of horses, a distribution of rifles and ammunition.
The Free State farmers, who graze their sheep and cattle upon Natal
soil during the winter, had driven them off to places of safety behind
the line of the Drakensberg. Everything pointed to approaching war,
and Natal refused to be satisfied even by the dispatch of another
regiment.  On September 6th a second message was received at the
Colonial Office, which states the case with great clearness and
precision.

'The Prime Minister desires me to urge upon you by the unanimous
advice of the Ministers that sufficient troops should be dispatched to
Natal immediately to enable the colony to be placed in a state of
defence against an attack from the Transvaal and the Orange Free
State. I am informed by the General Officer Commanding, Natal, that he
will not have enough troops, even when the Manchester Regiment
arrives, to do more than occupy Newcastle and at the same time protect
the colony south of it from raids, while Laing's Nek, Ingogo River
and Zululand must be left undefended.  My Ministers know that every
preparation has been made, both in the Transvaal and the Orange Free
State, which would enable an attack to be made on Natal at short
notice. My Ministers believe that the Boers have made up their minds
that war will take place almost certainly, and their best chance will
be, when it seems unavoidable, to deliver a blow before reinforcements
have time to arrive.  Information has been received that raids in
force will be made .by way of Middle Drift and Greytown and by way of
Bond's Drift and Stangar, with a view to striking the railway between
Pietermaritzburg and Durban and cutting off communications of troops
and supplies. Nearly all the Orange Free State farmers in the Klip
River division, who stay in the colony usually till October at least,
have trekked, at great loss to themselves; their sheep are lambing on
the road, and the lambs die or are destroyed.  Two at least of the
Entonjanani district farmers have trekked with all their belongings
into the Transvaal, in the first case attempting to take as hostages
the children of the natives on the farm. Reliable reports have been
received of attempts to tamper with loyal natives, and to set tribe
against tribe in order to create confusion and detail the defensive
forces of the colony.  Both food and warlike stores in large
quantities have been accumulated at Volksrust, Vryheid and
Standerton.  Persons who are believed to be spies have been seen
examining the bridges on the Natal Railway, and it is known that there
are spies in all the principal centres of the colony. In the opinion
of Ministers, such a catastrophe as the seizure of . Laing's Nek and
the destruction of the northern portion of the railway, or a
successful raid or invasion such as they have reason to believe is
contemplated, would produce a most demoralising effect on the natives
and on the loyal Europeans in the colony, and would afford great
encouragement to the Boers and to their sympathisers in the colonies,
who, although armed and prepared, will probably keep quiet unless they
receive some encouragement of the sort.  They concur in the policy of
her Majesty's Government of exhausting all peaceful means to obtain
redress of the grievances of the Uitlanders and authoritatively assert
the supremacy of Great Britain before resorting to war; but they state
that this is a question of defensive precaution, not of making war.'

In answer to these and other remonstrances the garrison of Natal was
gradually increased, partly by troops from Europe, and partly by the
dispatch of five thousand British troops from India. The 2nd
Berkshires, the 1st Royal Munster Fusiliers, the 1st Manchesters, and
the 2nd Dublin Fusiliers arrived in succession with reinforcements of
artillery.  The 5th Dragoon Guards, 9th Lancers, and 19th Hussars came
from India, with the 1st Devonshires, 1st Gloucesters, 2nd King's
Royal Rifles and 2nd Gordon Highlanders.  These with the 21st, 42nd,
and 53rd batteries of Field Artillery made up the Indian
Contingent. Their arrival late in September raised the number of
troops in South Africa to 22,000, a force which was inadequate to a
contest in the open field with the numerous, mobile, and gallant enemy
to whom they were to be opposed, but which proved to be strong enough
to stave off that overwhelming disaster which, with our fuller
knowledge, we can now see to have been impending.

As to the disposition of these troops a difference of opinion broke
out between the ruling powers in Natal and the military chiefs at the
spot.  Prince Kraft has said, 'Both strategy and tactics may have to
yield to politics '; but the political necessity should be very grave
and very clear when it is the blood of soldiers which has to pay for
it.  Whether it arose from our defective intelligence, or from that
caste feeling which makes it hard for the professional soldier to
recognise (in spite of deplorable past experiences) a serious
adversary in the mounted farmer, it is certain that even while our
papers were proclaiming that this time, at least, we would not
underrate our enemy, we were most seriously underrating him.  The
northern third of Natal is as vulnerable a military position as a
player of kriegspiel could wish to have submitted to him.  It runs up
into a thin angle, culminating at the apex in a difficult pass, the
ill-omened Laing's Nek, dominated by the even more sinister bulk of
Majuba.  Each side of this angle is open to invasion, the one from the
Transvaal and the other from the Orange Free State.  A force up at the
apex is in a perfect trap, for the mobile enemy can flood into the
country to the south of them, cut the line of supplies, and throw up a
series of entrenchments which would make retreat a very difficult
matter.  Further down the country, at such positions as Ladysmith or
Dundee, the danger, though not so imminent, is still an obvious one,
unless the defending force is strong enough to hold its own in the
open field and mobile enough to prevent a mounted enemy from getting
round its flanks.  To us, who are endowed with that profound military
wisdom which only comes with a knowledge of the event, it is obvious
that with a defending force which could not place more than 12,000 men
in the fighting line, the true defensible frontier was the line of the
Tugela.  As a matter of fact, Ladysmith was chosen, a place almost
indefensible itself, as it is dominated by high hills in at least two
directions.

Such an event as the siege of the town appears never to have been
contemplated, as no guns of position were asked for or sent.  In spite
of this, an amount of stores, which is said to have been valued at
more than a million of pounds, was dumped down at this small railway
junction, so that the position could not be evacuated without a
crippling loss.  The place was the point of bifurcation of the main
line, which divides at this little town into one branch running to
Harrismith in the Orange Free State, and the other leading through the
Dundee coal fields and Newcastle to the Laing's Nek tunnel and the
Transvaal.  An importance, which appears now to have been an
exaggerated one, was attached by the Government of Natal to the
possession of the coal fields, and it was at their strong suggestion,
but with the concurrence of General Penn Symons, that the defending
force was divided, and a detachment of between three and four thousand
sent to Dundee, about forty miles from the main body, which remained
under General Sir George White at Ladysmith.  General Symons
underrated the power of the invaders, but it is hard to criticise an
error of judgment which has been so nobly atoned and so tragically
paid for.  At the time, then, which our political narrative has
reached, the time of suspense which followed the dispatch of the
Cabinet message of September 8th, the military situation had ceased to
be desperate, but was still precarious.  Twenty-two thousand regular
troops were on the spot who might hope to be reinforced by some ten
thousand colonials, but these forces had to cover a great frontier,
the attitude of Cape Colony was by no means whole-hearted and might
become hostile, while the black population might conceivably throw in
its weight against us.  Only half the regulars could be spared to
defend Natal, and no reinforcements could reach them in less than a
month from the outbreak of hostilities. If Mr. Chamberlain was really
playing a game of bluff, it must be confessed that he was bluffing
from a very weak hand.

For purposes of comparison we may give some idea of the forces which
Mr. Kruger and Mr. Steyn could put in the field, for by this time it
was evident that the Orange Free State, with which we had had no
shadow of a dispute, was going, in a way which some would call wanton
and some chivalrous, to throw in its weight against us.  The general
press estimate of the forces of the two republics varied from 25,000
to 35,000 men.  Mr. J. B. Robinson, a personal friend of President
Kruger's and a man who had spent much of his life among the Boers,
considered the latter estimate to be too high.  The calculation had no
assured basis to start from.  A very scattered and isolated
population, among whom large families were the rule, is a most
difficult thing to estimate. Some reckoned from the supposed natural
increase during eighteen years, but the figure given at that date was
itself an assumption.  Others took their calculation from the number
of voters in the last presidential election: but no one could tell how
many abstentions there had been, and the fighting age is five years
earlier than the voting age in the republics.  We recognise now that
all calculations were far below the true figure. It is probable,
however, that the information of the British Intelligence Department
was not far wrong. According to this the fighting strength of the
Transvaal alone was 32,000 men, and of the Orange Free State
22,000. With mercenaries and rebels from the colonies they would
amount to 60,000, while a considerable rising of the Cape Dutch would
bring them up to 100,000. In artillery they were known to have about a
hundred guns, many of them (and the fact will need much explaining)
more modern and powerful than any which we could bring against them.
Of the quality of this large force there is no need to speak. The men
were brave, hardy, and fired with a strange religious enthusiasm. They
were all of the seventeenth century, except their rifles.  Mounted
upon their hardy little ponies, they possessed a mobility which
practically doubled their numbers and made it an impossibility ever to
outflank them. As marksmen they were supreme. Add to this that they
had the advantage of acting upon internal lines with shorter and safer
communications, and one gathers how formidable a task lay before the
soldiers of the empire. When we turn from such an enumeration of their
strength to contemplate the 12,000 men, split into two detachments,
who awaited them in Natal, we may recognise that, far from bewailing
our disasters, we should rather congratulate ourselves upon our escape
from losing that great province which, situated as it is between
Britain, India, and Australia, must be regarded as the very keystone
of the imperial arch.

At the risk of a tedious but very essential digression, something must
be said here as to the motives with which the Boers had for many years
been quietly preparing for war.  That the Jameson raid was not the
cause is certain, though it probably, by putting the Boer Government
into a strong position, had a great effect in accelerating matters.
What had been done secretly and slowly could be done more swiftly and
openly when so plausible an excuse could be given for it. As a matter
of fact, the preparations were long antecedent to the raid. The
building of the forts at Pretoria and Johannesburg was begun nearly
two years before that wretched incursion, and the importation of arms
was going on apace. In that very year, 1895, a considerable sum was
spent in military equipment.

But if it was not the raid, and if the Boers had no reason to fear the
British Government, with whom the Transvaal might have been as
friendly as the Orange Free State had been for forty years, why then
should they arm? It was a difficult question, and one in answering
which we find ourselves in a region of conjecture and suspicion rather
than of ascertained fact. But the fairest and most unbiased of
historians must confess that there is a large body of evidence to show
that into the heads of some of the Dutch leaders, both in the northern
republics and in the Cape, there had entered the conception of a
single Dutch commonwealth, extending from Cape Town to the Zambesi, in
which flag, speech, and law should all be Dutch.  It is in this
aspiration that many shrewd and well-informed judges see the true
inner meaning of this persistent arming, of the constant hostility, of
the forming of ties between the two republics (one of whom had been
reconstituted and made a sovereign independent State by our own act),
and finally of that intriguing which endeavoured to poison the
affection and allegiance of our own Dutch colonists, who had no
political grievances whatever. They all aimed at one end, and that end
was the final expulsion of British power from South Africa and the
formation of a single great Dutch republic.  The large sum spent by
the Transvaal in secret service money -- a larger sum, I believe, than
that which is spent by the whole British Empire -- would give some
idea of the subterranean influences at work.  An army of emissaries,
agents, and spies, whatever their mission, were certainly spread over
the British colonies. Newspapers were subsidised also, and
considerable sums spent upon the press in France and Germany.

In the very nature of things a huge conspiracy of this sort to
substitute Dutch for British rule in South Africa is not a matter
which can be easily and definitely proved.  Such questions are not
discussed in public documents, and men are sounded before being taken
into the confidence of the conspirators.  But there is plenty of
evidence of the individual ambition of prominent and representative
men in this direction, and it is hard to believe that what many wanted
individually was not striven for collectively, especially when we see
how the course of events did actually work towards the end which they
indicated.  Mr. J. P. FitzPatrick, in 'The Transvaal from Within ' --
a book to which all subsequent writers upon the subject must
acknowledge their obligations -- narrates how in 1896 he was
approached by Mr. D. P. Graaff, formerly a member of the Cape
Legislative Council and a very prominent Afrikander Bondsman, with the
proposition that Great Britain should be pushed out of South Africa.
The same politician made the same proposal to Mr. Beit. Compare with
this the following statement of Mr. Theodore Schreiner, the brother of
the Prime Minister of the Cape:

'I met Mr. Reitz, then a judge of the Orange Free State, in
Bloemfontein between seventeen and eighteen years ago, shortly after
the retrocession of the Transvaal, and when he was busy establishing
the Afrikander Bond. It must be patent to every one that at that time,
at all events, England and its Government had no intention of taking
away the independence of the Transvaal, for she had just
"magnanimously" granted the same; no intention of making war on the
republics, for she had just made peace; no intention to seize the Rand
gold fields, for they were not yet discovered. At that time, then, I
met Mr. Reitz, and he did his best to get me to become a member of his
Afrikander Bond, but, after studying its constitution and programme, I
refused to do so, whereupon the following colloquy in substance took
place between us, which has been indelibly imprinted on my mind ever
since:

'REITZ: Why do you refuse? Is the object of getting the people to take
an interest in political matters not a good one?

'MYSELF: Yes, it is ; but I seem to see plainly here between the lines
of this constitution much more ultimately aimed at than that.

'REITZ : What?

'MYSELF: I see quite clearly that the ultimate object aimed at is the
overthrow of the British power and the expulsion of the British flag
from South Africa.

'REITZ (with his pleasant conscious smile, as of one whose secret
thought and purpose had been discovered, and who was not altogether
displeased that such was the case) : Well, what if it is so?

'MYSELF: You don't suppose, do you, that that flag is going to
disappear from South Africa without a tremendous struggle and fight?

'REITZ (with the same pleasant self-conscious, self satisfied, and yet
semi-apologetic smile) : Well, I suppose not; but even so, what of
that?

'MYSELF: Only this, that when that struggle takes place you and I will
be on opposite sides; and what is more, the God who was on the side of
the Transvaal in the late war, because it had right on its side will
be on the side of England, because He must view with abhorrence any
plotting and scheming to overthrow her power and position in South
Africa, which have been ordained by Him.

'REITZ : We'll see.

'Thus the conversation ended, but during the seventeen years that have
elapsed I have watched the propaganda for the overthrow of British
power in South Africa being ceaselessly spread by every possible means
-- the press, the pulpit, the platform, the schools, the colleges, the
Legislature -- until it has culminated in the present war, of which
Mr. Reitz and his co-workers are the origin and the cause. Believe me,
the day on which F. W. Reitz sat down to pen his ultimatum to Great
Britain was the proudest and happiest moment of his life, and one
which had for long years been looked forward to by him with eager
longing and expectation.'

Compare with these utterances of a Dutch politician of the Cape, and
of a Dutch politician of the Orange Free State, the following passage
from a speech delivered by Kruger at Bloemfontein in the year 1887:

'I think it too soon to speak of a United South Africa under one flag.
Which flag was it to be?  The Queen of England would object to having
her flag hauled down, and we, the burghers of the Transvaal, object to
hauling ours down.  What is to be done? We are now small and of little
importance, but we are growing, and are preparing the way to take our
place among the great nations of the world.'

'The dream of our life,' said another, 'is a union of the States of
South Africa, and this has to come from within, not from without. When
that is accomplished, South Africa will be great.'

Always the same theory from all quarters of Dutch thought, to be
followed by many signs that the idea was being prepared for in
practice. I repeat that the fairest and most unbiased historian
cannot dismiss the conspiracy as a myth.

And to this one may retort, why should they not conspire? Why should
they not have their own views as to the future of South Africa? Why
should they not endeavour to have one universal flag and one common
speech? Why should they not win over our colonists, if they can, and
push us into the sea? I see no reason why they should not. Let them
try if they will. And let us try to prevent them. But let us have an
end of talk about British aggression, of capitalist designs upon the
gold fields, of the wrongs of a pastoral people, and all the other
veils which have been used to cover the issue.  Let those who talk
about British designs upon the republics turn their attention for a
moment to the evidence which there is for republican designs upon the
colonies.  Let them reflect that in the one system all white men are
equal, and that on the other the minority of one race has persecuted
the majority of the other, and let them consider under which the
truest freedom lies, which stands for universal liberty and which for
reaction and racial hatred.  Let them ponder and answer all this
before they determine where their sympathies lie.

Leaving these wider questions of politics, and dismissing for the time
those military considerations which were soon to be of such vital
moment, we may now return to the course of events in the diplomatic
struggle between the Government of the Transvaal and the Colonial
Office. On September 8th, as already narrated, a final message was
sent to Pretoria, which stated the minimum terms which the British
Government could accept as being a fair concession to her subjects in
the Transvaal. A definite answer was demanded, and the nation waited
with sombre patience for the reply.

There were few illusions in this country as to the difficulties of a
Transvaal war.  It was clearly seen that little honour and immense
vexation were in store for us. The first Boer war still smarted in our
minds, and we knew the prowess of the indomitable burghers. But our
people, if gloomy, were none the less resolute, for that national
instinct which is beyond the wisdom of statesmen had borne it in upon
them that this was no local quarrel, but one upon which the whole
existence of the empire hung.  The cohesion of that empire was to be
tested.  Men had emptied their glasses to it in time of peace.  Was it
a meaningless pouring of wine, or were they ready to pour their
hearts' blood also in time of war? Had we really founded a series of
disconnected nations, with no common sentiment or interest, or was the
empire an organic whole, as ready to thrill with one emotion or to
harden into one resolve as are the several States of the Union? That
was the question at issue, and much of the future history of the world
was at stake upon the answer.

Already there were indications that the colonies appreciated the fact
that the contention was no affair of the mother country alone, but
that she was upholding the rights of the empire as a whole, and might
fairly look to them to support her in any quarrel which might arise
from it. As early as July 11th, Queensland, the fiery and
semitropical, had offered a contingent of mounted infantry with
machine guns; New Zealand, Western Australia, Tasmania, Victoria, New
South Wales, and South Australia followed in the order named. Canada,
with the strong but more deliberate spirit of the north, was the last
to speak, but spoke the more firmly for the delay. Her citizens were
the least concerned of any, for Australians were many in South Africa
but Canadians few. None the less, she cheerfully took her share of the
common burden, and grew the readier and the cheerier as that burden
came to weigh more heavily. From all the men of many hues who make up
the British Empire, from Hindoo Rajahs, from West African Houssas,
from Malay police, from Western Indians, there came offers of service.
But this was to be a white man's war, and if the British could not
work out their own salvation then it were well that empire should pass
from such a race.  The magnificent Indian army of 150,000 soldiers,
many of them seasoned veterans, was for the same reason left
untouched.  England has claimed no credit or consideration for such
abstention, but an irresponsible writer may well ask how many of those
foreign critics whose respect for our public morality appears to be as
limited as their knowledge of our principles and history would have
advocated such self denial had their own countries been placed in the
same position.

On September 18th the official reply of the Boer Government to the
message sent from the Cabinet Council was published in London. In
manner it was unbending and unconciliatory; in substance, it was a
complete rejection of all the British demands.  It refused to
recommend or propose to the Raad the five years' franchise and the
other measures which had been defined as the minimum which the Home
Government could accept as a fair measure of justice towards the
Uitlanders.  The suggestion that the debates of the Raad should be
bilingual, as they have been in the Cape Colony and in Canada, was
absolutely waived aside. The British Government had stated in their
last dispatch that if the reply should be negative or inconclusive
they reserved to themselves the right to 'reconsider the situation DE
NOVO and to formulate their own proposals for a final settlement.' The
reply had been both negative and inconclusive, and on September 22nd a
council met to determine what the next message should be. It was short
and firm, but so planned as not to shut the door upon peace.  Its
purport was that the British Government expressed deep regret at the
rejection of the moderate proposals which had been submitted in their
last dispatch, and that now, in accordance with their promise, they
would shortly put forward their own plans for a settlement. The
message was not an ultimatum, but it foreshadowed an ultimatum in the
future.

In the meantime, upon September 21st the Raad of the Orange Free State
had met, and it became more and more evident that this republic, with
whom we had no possible quarrel, but, on the contrary, for whom we had
a great deal of friendship and admiration, intended to throw in its
weight against Great Britain.  Some time before, an offensive and
defensive alliance had been concluded between the two States, which
must, until the secret history of these events comes to be written,
appear to have been a singularly rash and unprofitable bargain for the
smaller one. She had nothing to fear from Great Britain, since she had
been voluntarily turned into an independent republic by her and had
lived in peace with her for forty years. Her laws were as liberal as
our own. But by this suicidal treaty she agreed to share the fortunes
of a State which was deliberately courting war by its persistently
unfriendly attitude, and whose reactionary and narrow legislation
would, one might imagine, have alienated the sympathy of her
progressive neighbour.  There may have been ambitions like those
already quoted from the report of Dr. Reitz's conversation, or there
may have been a complete hallucination as to the comparative strength
of the two combatants and the probable future of South Africa; but
however that may be, the treaty was made, and the time had come to
test how far it would hold.

The tone of President Steyn at the meeting of the Raad, and the
support which he received from the majority of his burghers, showed
unmistakably that the two republics would act as one. In his opening
speech Steyn declared uncompromisingly against the British contention,
and declared that his State was bound to the Transvaal by everything
which was near and dear. Among the obvious military precautions which
could no longer be neglected by the British Government was the sending
of some small force to protect the long and exposed line of railway
which lies just outside the Transvaal border from Kimberley to
Rhodesia. Sir Alfred Milner communicated with President Steyn as to
this movement of troops, pointing out that it was in no way directed
against the Free State.  Sir Alfred Milner added that the Imperial
Government was still hopeful of a friendly settlement with the
Transvaal, but if this hope were disappointed they looked to the
Orange Free State to preserve strict neutrality and to prevent
military intervention by any of its citizens.  They undertook that in
that case the integrity of the Free State frontier would be strictly
preserved. Finally, he stated that there was absolutely no cause to
disturb the good relations between the Free State and Great Britain,
since we were animated by the most friendly intentions towards
them. To this the President returned a somewhat ungracious answer, to
the effect that he disapproved of our action towards the Transvaal,
and that he regretted the movement of troops, which would be
considered a menace by the burghers.  A subsequent resolution of the
Free State Raad, ending with the words, 'Come what may, the Free State
will honestly and faithfully fulfill its obligations towards the
Transvaal by virtue of the political alliance existing between the two
republics,' showed how impossible it was that this country, formed by
ourselves and without a shadow of a cause of quarrel with us, could be
saved from being drawn into the whirlpool. Everywhere, from over both
borders, came the news of martial preparations. Already at the end of
September troops and armed burghers were gathering upon the frontier,
and the most incredulous were beginning at last to understand that the
shadow of a great war was really falling across them.  Artillery, war
munitions, and stores were being accumulated at Volksrust upon the
Natal border, showing where the storm might be expected to break. On
the last day of September, twenty-six military trains were reported to
have left Pretoria and Johannesburg for that point.  At the same time
news came of a concentration at Malmani, upon the Bechuanaland border,
threatening the railway line and the British town of Mafeking, a name
destined before long to be familiar to the world.

On October 3rd there occurred what was in truth an act of war,
although the British Government, patient to the verge of weakness,
refused to regard it as such, and continued to draw up their final
state paper.  The mail train from the Transvaal to Cape Town was
stopped at Vereeniging, and the week's shipment of gold for England,
amounting to about half a million pounds, was taken by the Boer
Government. In a debate at Cape Town upon the same day the Africander
Minister of the Interior admitted that as many as 404 trucks had
passed from the Government line over the frontier and had not been
returned. Taken in conjunction with the passage of arms and cartridges
through the Cape to Pretoria and Bloemfontein, this incident aroused
the deepest indignation among the Colonial English and the British
public, which was increased by the reports of the difficulty which
border towns, such as Kimberley and Vryburg, had had in getting cannon
for their own defence.  The Raads had been dissolved, and the old
President's last words had been a statement that war was certain, and
a stern invocation of the Lord as final arbiter.  England was ready
less obtrusively but no less heartily to refer the quarrel to the same
dread Judge.

On October 2nd President Steyn informed Sir Alfred Milner that he had
deemed it necessary to call out the Free State burghers -- that is, to
mobilise his forces. Sir A. Milner wrote regretting these
preparations, and declaring that he did not yet despair of peace, for
he was sure that any reasonable proposal would be favourably
considered by her Majesty's Government.  Steyn's reply was that there
was no use in negotiating unless the stream of British reinforcements
ceased coming into South Africa.  As our forces were still in a great
minority, it was impossible to stop the reinforcements, so the
correspondence led to nothing.  On October 7th the army reserves for
the First Army Corps were called out in Great Britain and other signs
shown that it had been determined to send a considerable force to
South Africa. Parliament was also summoned that the formal national
assent might be gained for those grave measures which were evidently
pending.

It was on October 9th that the somewhat leisurely proceedings of the
British Colonial Office were brought to a head by the arrival of an
unexpected and audacious ultimatum from the Boer Government. In
contests of wit, as of arms, it must be confessed that the laugh has
been usually upon the side of our simple and pastoral South African
neighbours.  The present instance was no exception to the rule.  While
our Government was cautiously and patiently leading up to an
ultimatum, our opponent suddenly played the very card which we were
preparing to lay upon the table.  The document was very firm and
explicit, but the terms in which it was drawn were so impossible that
it was evidently framed with the deliberate purpose of forcing an
immediate war.  It demanded that the troops upon the borders of the
republic should be instantly withdrawn, that all reinforcements which
had arrived within the last year should leave South Africa, and that
those who were now upon the sea should be sent back without being
landed. Failing a satisfactory answer within forty-eight hours, 'the
Transvaal Government will with great regret be compelled to regard the
action of her Majesty's Government as a formal declaration of war, for
the consequences of which it will not hold itself responsible.' The
audacious message was received throughout the empire with a mixture of
derision and anger.  The answer was dispatched next day through Sir
Alfred Milner.

'10th October.-- Her Majesty's Government have received with great
regret the peremptory demands of the Government of the South African
Republic, conveyed in your telegram of the 9th October. You will
inform the Government of the South African Republic in reply that the
conditions demanded by the Government of the South African Republic
are such as her Majesty's Government deem it impossible to discuss.'

And so we have come to the end of the long road, past the battle of
the pens and the wrangling of tongues, to the arbitration of the
Lee-Metford and the Mauser. It was pitiable that it should come to
this.  These people were as near akin to us as any race which is not
our own.  They were of the same Frisian stock which peopled our own
shores.  In habit of mind, in religion, in respect for law, they were
as ourselves. Brave, too, they were, and hospitable, with those
sporting instincts which are dear to the Anglo-Celtic race.  There was
no people in the world who had more qualities which we might admire,
and not the least of them was that love of independence which it is
our proudest boast' that we have encouraged in others as well as
exercised ourselves. And yet we had come to this pass, that there was
no room in all vast South Africa for both of us. We cannot hold
ourselves blameless in the matter.  ' The evil that men do lives after
them,' and it has been told in this small superficial sketch where we
have erred in the past in South Africa. On our hands, too, is the
Jameson raid, carried out by Englishmen and led by officers who held
the Queen's Commission; to us, also, the blame of the shuffling,
half-hearted inquiry into that most unjustifiable business.  These are
matches which helped to set the great blaze alight, and it is we who
held them. Rut the fagots which proved to be so inflammable, they
were not of our setting.  They were the wrongs done to half the
community, the settled resolution of the minority to tax and vex the
majority, the determination of a people who had lived two generations
in a country to claim that country entirely for themselves.  Behind
them all there may have been the Dutch ambition to dominate South
Africa. It was no petty object for which Britain fought. When a nation
struggles uncomplainingly through months of disaster she may claim to
have proved her conviction of the justice and necessity of the
struggle. Should Dutch ideas or English ideas of government prevail
throughout that huge country? The one means freedom for a single race,
the other means equal rights to all white men beneath one common
law. What each means to the coloured races let history declare. This
was the main issue to be determined from the instant that the clock
struck five upon the afternoon of Wednesday, October the eleventh,
eighteen hundred and ninety-nine. That moment marked the opening of a
war destined to determine the fate of South Africa, to work great
changes in the British Empire, to seriously affect the future history
of the world, and incidentally to alter many of our views as to the
art of war. It is the story of this war which, with limited material
but with much aspiration to care and candour, I shall now endeavour to
tell.


CHAPTER V
TALANA HILL

It was on the morning of October 12th, amid cold and mist, that the
Boer camps at Sandspruit and Volksrust broke up, and the burghers rode
to the war.  Some twelve thousand of them, all mounted, with two
batteries of eight Krupp guns each, were the invading force from the
north, which hoped later to be joined by the Freestaters and by a
contingent of Germans and Transvaalers who were to cross the Free
State border.  It was an hour before dawn that the guns started, and
the riflemen followed close behind the last limber, so that the first
light of day fell upon the black sinuous line winding down between the
hills.  A spectator upon the occasion says of them : 'Their faces were
a study.  For the most part the expression worn was one of
determination and bulldog pertinacity.  No sign of fear there, nor of
wavering. Whatever else may be laid to the charge of the Boer, it may
never truthfully be said that he is a coward or a man unworthy of the
Briton's steel.' The words were written early in the campaign, and the
whole empire will endorse them to-day.  Could we have such men as
willing fellow-citizens, they are worth more than all the gold mines
of their country.

This main Transvaal body consisted of the commando of Pretoria, which
comprised 1,800 men, and those of Heidelberg, Middelburg, Krugersdorp,
Standerton, Wakkerstroom, and Ermelo, with the State Artillery, an
excellent and highly organised body who were provided with the best
guns that have ever been brought on to a battlefield.  Besides their
sixteen Krupps, they dragged with them two heavy six-inch Creusot
guns, which were destined to have a very important effect in the
earlier part of the campaign. In addition to these native forces there
were a certain number of European auxiliaries. The greater part of the
German corps were with the Free State forces, but a few hundred came
down from the north. There was a Hollander corps of about two hundred
and fifty and an Irish -- or perhaps more properly an
Irish-American-corps of the same number, who rode under the green flag
and the harp.

The men might, by all accounts, be divided into two very different
types.  There were the town Boers, smartened and perhaps a little
enervated by prosperity and civilisation, men of business and
professional men, more alert and quicker than their rustic
comrades. These men spoke English rather than Dutch, and indeed there
were many men of English descent among them.  But the others, the most
formidable both in their numbers and in their primitive qualities,
were the back-veldt Boers, the sunburned, tangle-haired, full-bearded
farmers, the men of the Bible and the rifle, imbued with the
traditions of their own guerrilla warfare. These were perhaps the
finest natural warriors upon earth, marksmen, hunters, accustomed to
hard fare and a harder couch.  They were rough in their ways and
speech, but, in spite of many calumnies and some few unpleasant
truths, they might compare with most disciplined armies in their
humanity and their desire to observe the usages of war.

A few words here as to the man who led this singular host.  Piet
Joubert was a Cape Colonist by birth -- a fellow countryman, like
Kruger himself, of those whom the narrow laws of his new country
persisted in regarding as outside the pale.  He came from that French
Huguenot blood which has strengthened and refined every race which it
has touched, and from it he derived a chivalry and generosity which
made him respected and liked even by his opponents.  In many native
broils and in the British campaign of 1881 he had shown himself a
capable leader.  His record in standing out for the independence of
the Transvaal was a very consistent one, for he had not accepted
office under the British, as Kruger had done, but had remained always
an irreconcilable.  Tall and burly, with hard grey eyes and a grim
mouth half hidden by his bushy beard, he was a fine type of the men
whom he led.  He was now in his sixty-fifth year, and the fire of his
youth had, as some of the burghers urged, died down within him; but he
was experienced, crafty, and warwise, never dashing and never
brilliant, but slow, steady, solid, and inexorable.

Besides this northern army there were two other bodies of burghers
converging upon Natal.  One, consisting of the commandoes from Utrecht
and the Swaziland districts, had gathered at Vryheid on the flank of
the British position at Dundee.  The other, much larger, not less
probably than six or seven thousand men, were the contingent from the
Free State and a Transvaal corps, together with Schiel's Germans, who
were making their way through the various passes, the Tintwa Pass, and
Van Reenen's Pass, which lead through the grim range of the
Drakensberg and open out upon the more fertile plains of Western
Natal.  The total force may have been something between twenty and
thirty thousand men. By all accounts they were of an astonishingly
high heart, convinced that a path of easy victory lay before them, and
that nothing could bar their way to the sea.  If the British
commanders underrated their opponents, there is ample evidence that
the mistake was reciprocal.

A few words now as to the disposition of the British forces,
concerning which it must be borne in mind that Sir George White,
though in actual command, had only been a few days in the country
before war was declared, so that the arrangements fell to General Penn
Symons, aided or hampered by the advice of the local political
authorities.  The main position was at Ladysmith, but an advance post
was strongly held at Glencoe, which is five miles from the station of
Dundee and forty from Ladysmith.  The reason for this dangerous
division of force was to secure each end of the Biggarsberg section of
the railway, and also to cover the important collieries of that
district.  The positions chosen seem in each case to show that the
British commander was not aware of the number and power of the Boer
guns, for each was equally defensible against rifle fire and
vulnerable to an artillery attack.  In the case of Glencoe it was
particularly evident that guns upon the hills above would, as they
did, render the position untenable.  This outlying post was held by
the 1st Leicester Regiment, the 2nd Dublin Fusiliers, and the first
battalion of Rifles, with the 18th Hussars, three companies of mounted
infantry, and three batteries of field artillery, the 13th, 67th, and
69th.  The 1st Royal Irish Fusiliers were on their way to reinforce
it, and arrived before the first action. Altogether the Glencoe camp
contained some four thousand men.

The main body of the army remained at Ladysmith. These consisted of
the 1st Devons, the 1st Liverpools, and the 2nd Gordon Highlanders,
with the 1st Gloucesters, the 2nd King's Royal Rifles, and the 2nd
Rifle Brigade, reinforced later by the Manchesters.  The cavalry
included the 5th Dragoon Guards, the 5th Lancers, a detachment of 19th
Hussars, the Natal Carabineers, the Natal Mounted Police, and the
Border Mounted Rifles, reinforced later by the Imperial Light Horse, a
fine body of men raised principally among the refugees from the Rand.
For artillery there were the 21st, 42nd, and 53rd batteries of field
artillery, and No.10 Mountain Battery, with the Natal Field Artillery,
the guns of which were too light to be of service, and the 23rd
Company of Royal Engineers.  The whole force, some eight or nine
thousand strong, was under the immediate command of Sir George White,
with Sir Archibald Hunter, fresh from the Soudan, General French, and
General Ian Hamilton as his lieutenants.

The first shock of the Boers, then, must fall upon 4,000 men.  If
these could be overwhelmed, there were 8,000 more to be defeated or
masked.  Then what was there between them and the sea? Some
detachments of local volunteers, the Durban Light Infantry at Colenso,
and the Natal Royal Rifles, with some naval volunteers at Estcourt.
With the power of the Boers and their mobility it is inexplicable how
the colony was saved.  We are of the same blood, the Boers and we, and
we show it in our failings.  Over-confidence on our part gave them the
chance, and over-confidence on theirs prevented them from instantly
availing themselves of it. If passed, never to come again.

The outbreak of war was upon October 11th.  On the 12th the Boer
forces crossed the frontier both on the north and on the west.  On the
13th they occupied Charlestown at the top angle of Natal. On the 15th
they had reached Newcastle, a larger town some fifteen miles inside
the border. Watchers from the houses saw six miles of canvas-tilted
bullock wagons winding down the passes, and learned that this was not
a raid but an invasion. At the same date news reached the British
headquarters of an advance from the western passes, and of a movement
from the Buffalo River on the east. On the 13th Sir George White had
made a reconnaissance in force, but had not come in touch with the
enemy.  On the 15th six of the Natal Police were surrounded and
captured at one of the drifts of the Buffalo River.  On the 18th our
cavalry patrols came into touch with the Boer scouts at Acton Homes
and Besters Station, these being the voortrekkers of the Orange Free
State force. On the 18th also a detachment was reported from Hadders
Spruit, seven miles north of Glencoe Camp. The cloud was drifting up,
and it could not be long before it would burst.

Two days later, on the early morning of October 20th, the forces came
at last into collision. At half-past three in the morning, well before
daylight, the mounted infantry picket at the junction of the roads
from Landmans and Vants Drifts was fired into by the Doornberg
commando, and retired upon its supports.  Two companies of the Dublin
Fusiliers were sent out, and at five o'clock on a fine but misty
morning the whole of Symons's force was under arms with the knowledge
that the Boers were pushing boldly towards them. The khaki-clad lines
of fighting men stood in their long thin ranks staring up at the
curves of the saddle-back hills to the north and east of them, and
straining their eyes to catch a glimpse of the enemy.  Why these same
saddle-back hills were not occupied by our own people is, it must be
confessed, an insoluble mystery.  In a hollow on one flank were the
18th Hussars and the mounted infantry.  On the other were the eighteen
motionless guns, limbered up and ready, the horses fidgeting and
stamping in the raw morning air.

And then suddenly -- could that be they? An officer with a telescope
stared intently and pointed. Another and another turned a steady field
glass towards the same place.  And then the men could see also, and a
little murmur of interest ran down the ranks.

A long sloping hill -- Talana Hill -- olive-green in hue, was
stretching away in front of them.  At the summit it rose into a
rounded crest.  The mist was clearing, and the curve was hard-outlined
against the limpid blue of the morning sky. On this, some two and a
half miles or three miles off, a little group of black dots had
appeared.  The clear edge of the skyline had become serrated with
moving figures.  They clustered into a knot, then opened again, and
then --

There had been no smoke, but there came a long crescendo hoot, rising
into a shrill wail.  The shell hummed over the soldiers like a great
bee, and sloshed into soft earth behind them.  Then another -- and yet
another -- and yet another.  But there was no time to heed them, for
there was the hillside and there the enemy.  So at it again with the
good old murderous obsolete heroic tactics of the British tradition!
There are times when, in spite of science and book-lore, the best plan
is the boldest plan, and it is well to fly straight at your enemy's
throat, facing the chance that your strength may fail before you can
grasp it.  The cavalry moved off round the enemy's left flank.  The
guns dashed to the front, unlimbered, and opened fire.  The infantry
were moved round in the direction of Sandspruit, passing through the
little town of Dundee, where the women and children came to the doors
and windows to cheer them.  It was thought that the hill was more
accessible from that side.  The Leicesters and one field battery --
the 67th -- were left behind to protect the camp and to watch the
Newcastle Road upon the west. At seven in the morning all was ready
for the assault.

Two military facts of importance had already been disclosed.  One was
that the Boer percussion-shells were useless in soft ground, as hardly
any of them exploded; the other that the Boer guns could outrange our
ordinary fifteen-pounder field gun, which had been the one thing
perhaps in the whole British equipment upon which we were prepared to
pin our faith. The two batteries, the 13th and the 69th, were moved
nearer, first to 3,000, and then at last to 2,300 yards, at which
range they quickly dominated the guns upon the hill. Other guns had
opened from another crest to the east of Talana, but these also were
mastered by the fire of the 13th Battery.  At 7.30 the infantry were
ordered to advance, which they did in open order, extended to ten
paces.  The Dublin Fusiliers formed the first line, the Rifles the
second, and the Irish Fusiliers the third.

The first thousand yards of the advance were over open grassland,
where the range was long, and the yellow brown of the khaki blended
with the withered veldt.  There were few casualties until the wood was
reached, which lay halfway up the long slope of the hill. It was a
plantation of larches, some hundreds of yards across and nearly as
many deep. On the left side of this wood -- that is, the left side to
the advancing troops -- there stretched a long nullah or hollow, which
ran perpendicularly to the hill, and served rather as a conductor of
bullets than as a cover.  So severe was the fire at this point that
both in the wood and in the nullah the troops lay down to avoid it. An
officer of Irish Fusiliers has narrated how in trying to cut the straps
from a fallen private a razor lent him for that purpose by a wounded
sergeant was instantly shot out of his hand. The gallant Symons, who
had refused to dismount, was shot through the stomach and fell from
his horse mortally wounded. With an excessive gallantry, he had not
only attracted the enemy's fire by retaining his horse, but he had
been accompanied throughout the action by an orderly bearing a red
pennon.  'Have they got the hill? Have they got the hill?' was his one
eternal question as they carried him dripping to the rear. It was at
the edge of the wood that Colonel Sherston met his end.

>From now onwards it was as much a soldiers' battle as Inkermann.  In
the shelter of the wood the more eager of the three battalions had
pressed to the front until the fringe of the trees was lined by men
from all of them.  The difficulty of distinguishing particular
regiments where all were clad alike made it impossible in the heat of
action to keep any sort of formation. So hot was the fire that for the
time the advance was brought to a standstill, but the 69th battery,
firing shrapnel at a range of 1,400 yards, subdued the rifle fire, and
about half-past eleven the infantry were able to push on once more.

Above the wood there was an open space some hundreds of yards across,
bounded by a rough stone wall built for herding cattle.  A second wall
ran at right angles to this down towards the wood.  An enfilading
rifle fire had been sweeping across this open space, but the wall in
front does not appear to have been occupied by the enemy, who held the
kopje above it.  To avoid the cross fire the soldiers ran in single
file under the shelter of the wall, which covered them to the right,
and so reached the other wall across their front. Here there was a
second long delay, the men dribbling up from below, and firing over
the top of the wall and between the chinks of the stones.  The Dublin
Fusiliers, through being in a more difficult position, had been unable
to get up as quickly as the others, and most of the hard-breathing
excited men who crowded under the wall were of the Rifles and of the
Irish Fusiliers.  The air was so full of bullets that it seemed
impossible to live upon the other side of this shelter. Two hundred
yards intervened between the wall and the crest of the kopje. And yet
the kopje had to be cleared if the battle were to be won.

Out of the huddled line of crouching men an officer sprang shouting,
and a score of soldiers vaulted over the wall and followed at his
heels. It was Captain Connor, of the Irish Fusiliers, but his personal
magnetism carried up with him some of the Rifles as well as men of his
own command.  He and half his little forlorn hope were struck down --
he, alas! to die the same night -- but there were other leaders as
brave to take his place.  'Forrard away, men, forrard away!' cried
Nugent, of the Rifles. Three bullets struck him, but he continued to
drag himself up the boulder-studded hill.  Others followed, and
others, from all sides they came running, the crouching, yelling,
khaki-clad figures, and the supports rushed up from the rear.  For a
time they were beaten down by their own shrapnel striking into them
from behind, which is an amazing thing when one considers that the
range was under 2,000 yards.  It was here, between the wall and the
summit, that Colonel Gunning, of the Rifles, and many other brave men
met their end, some by our own bullets and some by those of the enemy;
but the Boers thinned away in front of them, and the anxious onlookers
from the plain below saw the waving helmets on the crest, and learned
at last that all was well.

But it was, it must be confessed, a Pyrrhic victory. We had our hill,
but what else had we? The guns which had been silenced by our fire had
been removed from the kopje. The commando which seized the hill was
that of Lucas Meyer, and it is computed that he had with him about
4,000 men. This figure includes those under the command of Erasmus,
who made halfhearted demonstrations against the British flank.  If the
shirkers be eliminated, it is probable that there were not more than a
thousand actual combatants upon the hill. Of this number about fifty
were killed and a hundred wounded.  The British loss at Talana Hill
itself was 41 killed and 180 wounded, but among the killed were many
whom the army could ill spare.  The gallant but optimistic Symons,
Gunning of the Rifles, Sherston, Connor, Hambro, and many other brave
men died that day. The loss of officers was out of all proportion to
that of the men.

An incident which occurred immediately after the action did much to
rob the British of the fruits of the victory. Artillery had pushed up
the moment that the hill was carried, and had unlimbered on Smith's
Nek between the two hills, from which the enemy, in broken groups of
50 and 100, could be seen streaming away. A fairer chance for the use
of shrapnel has never been. But at this instant there ran from an old
iron church on the reverse side of the hill, which had been used all
day as a Boer hospital, a man with a white flag.  It is probable that
the action was in good faith, and that it was simply intended to claim
a protection for the ambulance party which followed him.  But the too
confiding gunner in command appears to have thought that an armistice
had been declared, and held his hand during those precious minutes
which might have turned a defeat into a rout.  The chance passed,
never to return.  The double error of firing into our own advance and
of failing to fire into the enemy's retreat makes the battle one which
cannot be looked back to with satisfaction by our gunners.

In the meantime some miles away another train of events had led to a
complete disaster to our small cavalry force -- a disaster which
robbed our dearly bought infantry victory of much of its
importance. That action alone was undoubtedly a victorious one, but
the net result of the day's fighting cannot be said to have been
certainly in our favour.  It was Wellington who asserted that his
cavalry always got him into scrapes, and the whole of British military
history might furnish examples of what he meant.  Here again our
cavalry got into trouble.  Suffice it for the civilian to chronicle
the fact, and leave it to the military critic to portion out the
blame.

One company of mounted infantry (that of the Rifles) had been told off
to form an escort for the guns. The rest of the mounted infantry with
part of the 18th Hussars (Colonel Moller) had moved round the right
flank until they reached the right rear of the enemy. Such a movement,
had Lucas Meyer been the only opponent, would have been above
criticism; but knowing, as we did, that there were several commandoes
converging upon Glencoe it was obviously taking a very grave and
certain risk to allow the cavalry to wander too far from support.
They were soon entangled in broken country and attacked by superior
numbers of the Boers.  There was a time when they might have exerted
an important influence upon the action by attacking the Boer ponies
behind the hills, but the opportunity was allowed to pass. An attempt
was made to get back to the army, and a series of defensive positions
were held to cover the retreat, but the enemy's fire became too hot to
allow them to be retained. Every route save one appeared to be
blocked, so the horsemen took this, which led them into the heart of a
second commando of the enemy.  Finding no way through, the force took
up a defensive position, part of them in a farm and part on a kopje
which overlooked it.

The party consisted of two troops of Hussars, one company of mounted
infantry of the Dublin Fusiliers, and one section of the mounted
infantry of the Rifles -- about two hundred men in all.  They were
subjected to a hot fire for some hours, many being killed and
wounded. Guns were brought up, and fired shell into the farmhouse. At
4.30 the force, being in a perfectly hopeless position, laid down
their arms. Their ammunition was gone, many of their horses had
stampeded, and they were hemmed in by very superior numbers, so that
no slightest slur can rest upon the survivors for their decision to
surrender, though the movements which brought them to such a pass are
more open to criticism.  They were the vanguard of that considerable
body of humiliated and bitter-hearted men who were to assemble at the
capital of our brave and crafty enemy.  The remainder of the 18th
Hussars, who under Major Knox had been detached from the main force
and sent across the Boer rear, underwent a somewhat similar
experience, but succeeded in extricating themselves with a loss of Six
killed and ten wounded.  Their efforts were by no means lost, as they
engaged the attention of a considerable body of Boers during the day
and were able to bring some prisoners back with them.

The battle of Talana Hill was a tactical victory but a strategic
defeat.  It was a crude frontal attack without any attempt at even a
feint of flanking, but the valour of the troops, from general to
private, carried it through. The force was in a position so radically
false that the only use which they could make of a victory was to
cover their own retreat.  From all points Boer commandoes were
converging upon it, and already it was understood that the guns at
their command were heavier than any which could be placed against
them.  This was made more clear on October 21st, the day after the
battle, when the force, having withdrawn overnight from the useless
hill which they had captured, moved across to a fresh position on the
far side of the railway. At four in the afternoon a very heavy gun
opened from a distant hill, altogether beyond the extreme range of our
artillery, and plumped shell after shell into our camp.  It was the
first appearance of the great Creusot. An officer with several men of
the Leicesters, and some of our few remaining cavalry, were bit.  The
position was clearly impossible, so at two in the morning of the 22nd
the whole force was moved to a point to the south of the town of
Dundee.  On the same day a reconnaissance was made in the direction of
Glencoe Station, but the passes were found to be strongly occupied,
and the little army marched back again to its original position.  The
command had fallen to Colonel Yule, who justly considered that his men
were dangerously and uselessly exposed, and that his correct strategy
was to fall back, if it were still possible, and join the main body at
Ladysmith, even at the cost of abandoning the two hundred sick and
wounded who lay with General Symons in the hospital at Dundee. It was
a painful necessity, but no one who studies the situation can have any
doubt of its wisdom.  The retreat was no easy task, a march by road of
some sixty or seventy miles through a very rough country with an enemy
pressing on every side.  Its successful completion without any loss or
any demoralisation of the troops is perhaps as fine a military exploit
as any of our early victories.  Through the energetic and loyal
co-operation of Sir George White, who fought the actions of
Elandslaagte and of Rietfontein in order to keep the way open for
them, and owing mainly to the skillful guidance of Colonel Dartnell, of
the Natal Police, they succeeded in their critical manoeuvre. On
October 23rd they were at Beith, on the 24th at Waselibank Spruit, on
the 25th at Sunday River, and next morning they marched, sodden with
rain, plastered with mud, dog-tired, but in the best of spirits, into
Ladysmith amid the cheers of their comrades.  A battle, six days
without settled sleep, four days without a proper meal, winding up
with a single march of thirty-two miles over heavy ground and through
a pelting rain storm -- that was the record of the Dundee column. They
had fought and won, they had striven and toiled to the utmost capacity
of manhood, and the end of it all was that they had reached the spot
which they should never have left. But their endurance could not be
lost -- no worthy deed is ever lost.  Like the light division, when
they marched their fifty odd unbroken miles to be present at Talavera,
they leave a memory and a standard behind them which is more important
than success. It is by the tradition of such sufferings and such
endurance that others in other days are nerved to do the like.


CHAPTER VI
ELANDSLAAGTE AND RIETFONTEIN


While the Glencoe force had struck furiously at the army of Lucas
Meyer, and had afterwards by hard marching disengaged itself from the
numerous dangers which threatened it, its comrades at Ladysmith bad
loyally co-operated in drawing off the attention of the enemy and
keeping the line of retreat open.

On October 20th -- the same day as the Battle of Talana Hill -- the
line was cut by the Boers at a point nearly midway between Dundee and
Ladysmith.  A small body of horsemen were the forerunners of a
considerable commando, composed of Freestaters, Transvaalers, and
Germans, who had advanced into Natal through Botha's Pass under the
command of General Koch.  They had with them the two Maxim-Nordenfelds
which had been captured from the Jameson raiders, and were now
destined to return once more to British hands.  Colonel Schiel, the
German artillerist, had charge of these guns.

On the evening of that day General French, with a strong reconnoitering
party, including the Natal Carabineers, the 5th Lancers, and the 21st
battery, had defined the enemy's position.  Next morning (the 21st) he
returned, but either the enemy had been reinforced during the night or
he had underrated them the day before, for the force which he took
with him was too weak for any serious attack. He had one battery of
the Natal artillery, with their little seven-pounder popguns, five
squadrons of the Imperial Horse, and, in the train which slowly
accompanied his advance, half a battalion of the Manchester
Regiment. Elated by the news of Talana Hill, and anxious to emulate
their brothers of Dundee, the little force moved out of Ladysmith in
the early morning.

Some at least of the men were animated by feelings such as seldom find
a place in the breast of the British soldier as he marches into
battle.  A sense of duty, a belief in the justice of his cause, a love
for his regiment and for his country, these are the common incentives
of every soldier.  But to the men of the Imperial Light Horse,
recruited as they were from among the British refugees of the Rand,
there was added a burning sense of injustice, and in many cases a
bitter hatred against the men whose rule had weighed so heavily upon
them. In this singular corps the ranks were full of wealthy men and
men of education, who, driven from their peaceful vocations in
Johannesburg, were bent upon fighting their way back to them again.  A
most unmerited slur had been cast upon their courage in connection
with the Jameson raid -- a slur which they and other similar corps
have washed out for ever in their own blood and that of their enemy.
Chisholm, a fiery little Lancer, was in command, with Karri Davis and
Wools-Sampson, the two stalwarts who had preferred Pretoria Gaol to
the favours of Kruger, as his majors. The troopers were on fire at the
news that a cartel had arrived in Ladysmith the night before,
purporting to come from the Johannesburg Boers and Hollanders, asking
what uniform the Light Horse wore, as they were anxious to meet them
in battle.  These men were fellow townsmen and knew each other well.
They need not have troubled about the uniform, for before evening the
Light Horse were near enough for them to know their faces.

It was about eight o'clock on a bright summer morning that the small
force came in contact with a few scattered Boer outposts, who retired,
firing, before the advance of the Imperial Light Horse.  As they fell
back the green and white tents of the invaders came into view upon the
russet-coloured hillside of Elandslaagte.  Down at the red brick
railway station the Boers could be seen swarming out of the buildings
in which they had spent the night.  The little Natal guns, firing with
obsolete black powder, threw a few shells into the station, one of
which, it is said, penetrated a Boer ambulance which could not be seen
by the gunners. The accident was to be regretted, but as no patients
could have been in the ambulance the mischance was not a serious one.

But the busy, smoky little seven-pounder guns were soon to meet their
master.  Away up on the distant hillside, a long thousand yards beyond
their own furthest range, there was a sudden bright flash.  No smoke,
only the throb of flame, and then the long sibilant scream of the
shell, and the thud as it buried itself in the ground under a limber.
Such judgment of range would have delighted the most martinet of
inspectors at Okehampton.  Bang came another, and another, and
another, right into the heart of the battery.  The six little guns lay
back at their extremest angle, and all barked together in impotent
fury. Another shell pitched over them, and the officer in command
lowered his field-glass in despair as he saw his own shells bursting
far short upon the hillside.  Jameson's defeat does not seem to have
been due to any defect in his artillery. French, peering and
pondering, soon came to the conclusion that there were too many Boers
for him, and that if those fifteen-pounders desired target practice
they should find some other mark than the Natal Field Artillery. A few
curt orders, and his whole force was making its way to the rear.
There, out of range of those perilous guns, they halted, the telegraph
wire was cut, a telephone attachment was made, and French whispered
his troubles into the sympathetic ear of Ladysmith.  He did not
whisper in vain.  What he had to say was that where he had expected a
few hundred riflemen he found something like two thousand, and that
where he expected no guns he found two very excellent ones.  The
reply was that by road and by rail as many men as could be spared were
on their way to join him.

Soon they began to drop in, those useful reinforcements -- first the
Devons, quiet, business-like, reliable; then the Gordons, dashing,
fiery, brilliant.  Two squadrons of the 5th Lancers, the 42nd R.F.A.,
the 21st R.F.A., another squadron of Lancers, a squadron of the 5th
Dragoon Guards -- French began to feel that he was strong enough for the
task in front of him.  He had a decided superiority of numbers and of
guns. But the others were on their favourite defensive on a hill. It
would be a fair fight and a deadly one.

It was late after noon before the advance began.  It was hard, among
those billowing hills, to make out the exact limits of the enemy's
position.  All that was certain was that 'they were there, and that we
meant having them out if it were humanly possible.  'The enemy are
there,' said Ian Hamilton to his infantry; 'I hope you will shift them
out before sunset -- in fact I know you will.'  The men cheered and
laughed. In long open lines they advanced across the veldt, while the
thunder of the two batteries behind them told the Boer gunners that it
was their turn now to know what it was to be outmatched.

The idea was to take the position by a front and a flank attack, but
there seems to have been some difficulty in determining which was the
front and which the flank. In fact, it was only by trying that one
could know. General White with his staff had arrived from Ladysmith,
but refused to take the command out of French's hands. It is typical
of White's chivalrous spirit that within ten days he refused to
identify himself with a victory when it was within his right to do so,
and took the whole responsibility for a disaster at which he was not
present. Now he rode amid the shells and watched the able dispositions
of his lieutenant.

About half-past three the action had fairly begun. In front of the
advancing British there lay a rolling hill, topped by a further
one. The lower hill was not defended, and the infantry, breaking from
column of companies into open order, advanced over it.  Beyond was a
broad grassy valley which led up to the main position, a long kopje
flanked by a small sugar-loaf one Behind the green slope which led to
the ridge of death an ominous and terrible cloud was driving up,
casting its black shadow over the combatants.  There was the stillness
which goes before some great convulsion of nature.  The men pressed on
in silence, the soft thudding of their feet and the rattle of their
sidearms filling the air with a low and continuous murmur.  An
additional solemnity was given to the attack by that huge black cloud
which hung before them.

The British guns had opened at a range of 4,400 yards, and now against
the swarthy background there came the quick smokeless twinkle of the
Boer reply.  It was an unequal fight, but gallantly sustained. A shot
and another to find the range; then a wreath of smoke from a bursting
shell exactly where the guns had been, followed by another and
another.  Overmatched, the two Boer pieces relapsed into a sulky
silence, broken now and again by short spurts of frenzied activity.
The British batteries turned their attention away from them, and began
to search the ridge with shrapnel and prepare the way for the
advancing infantry.

The scheme was that the Devonshires should hold the enemy in front
while the main attack from the left flank was carried out by the
Gordons, the Manchesters, and the Imperial Light Horse.  The words
'front' and 'flank,' however, cease to have any meaning with so mobile
and elastic a force, and the attack which was intended to come from
the left became really a frontal one, while the Devons found
themselves upon the right flank of the Boers.  At the moment of the
final advance the great black cloud had burst, and a torrent of rain
lashed into the faces of the men.  Slipping and sliding upon the wet
grass, they advanced to the assault.

And now amid the hissing of the rain there came the fuller, more
menacing whine of the Mauser bullets, and the ridge rattled from end
to end with the rifle fire. Men fell fast, but their comrades pressed
hotly on. There was a long way to go, for the summit of the position
was nearly 800 feet above the level of the railway.  The hillside,
which had appeared to be one slope, was really a succession of
undulations, so that the advancing infantry alternately dipped into
shelter and emerged into' a hail of bullets.  The line of advance was
dotted with khaki-clad figures, some still in death, some writhing in
their agony. Amid the litter of bodies a major of the Gordons, shot
through the leg, sat philosophically smoking his pipe.  Plucky little
Chisholm, Colonel of the Imperials, had fallen with two mortal wounds
as he dashed forward waving a coloured sash in the air.  So long was
the advance and so trying the hill that the men sank panting upon the
ground, and took their breath before making another rush. As at Talana
Hill, regimental formation was largely gone, and men of the
Manchesters, Gordons, and Imperial Light Horse surged upwards in one
long ragged fringe, Scotchman, Englishman, and British Africander
keeping pace in that race of death.  And now at last they began to see
their enemy.  Here and there among the boulders in front of them there
was the glimpse of a slouched hat, or a peep at a flushed bearded face
which drooped over a rifle barrel.  There was a pause, and then with a
fresh impulse the wave of men gathered themselves together and flung
themselves forward.  Dark figures sprang up from the rocks in front.
Some held up their rifles in token of surrender.  Some ran with heads
sunk between their shoulders, jumping and ducking among the rocks.
The panting breathless climbers were on the edge of the plateau.
There were the two guns which had flashed so brightly, silenced now,
with a litter of dead gunners around them and one wounded officer
standing by a trail. A small body of the Boers still resisted.  Their
appearance horrified some of our men. 'They were dressed in black
frock coats and looked like a lot of rather seedy business men,' said
a spectator. 'It seemed like murder to kill them.'  Some surrendered,
and some fought to the death where they stood.  Their leader Koch, an
old gentleman with a white beard, lay amidst the rocks, wounded in
three places.  lie was treated with all courtesy and attention, but
died in Ladysmith Hospital some days afterwards.

In the meanwhile the Devonshire Regiment had waited until the attack
had developed and had then charged the hill upon the flank, while the
artillery moved up until it was within 2,000 yards of the enemy's
position.  The Devons met with a less fierce resistance than the
others, and swept up to the summit in time to head off some of the
fugitives.  The whole of our infantry were now upon the ridge.

But even so these dour fighters were not beaten. They clung
desperately to the further edges of the plateau, firing from behind
the rocks.  There had been a race for the nearest gun between an
officer of the Manchesters and a drummer sergeant of the Gordons.  The
officer won, and sprang in triumph on to the piece. Men of all
regiments swarmed round yelling and cheering, when upon their
astonished ears there sounded the 'Cease fire ' and then the 'Retire.'
It was incredible, and yet it pealed out again, unmistakable in its
urgency. With the instinct of discipline the men were slowly falling
back.  And then the truth of it came upon the minds of some of them.
The crafty enemy had learned our bugle calls.  ' Retire be damned!
shrieked a little bugler, and blew the 'Advance ' with all the breath
that the hillside had left him. The men, who had retired a hundred
yards and uncovered the guns, flooded back over the plateau, and in
the Boer camp which lay beneath it a white flag showed that the game
was up. A squadron of the 5th Lancers and of the 5th Dragoon Guards,
under Colonel Gore of the latter regiment, had prowled round the base
of the hill, and in the fading light they charged through and through
the retreating Boers, killing several, and making from twenty to
thirty prisoners. It was one of the very few occasions in the war
where the mounted Briton overtook the mounted Boer.

'What price Majuba?' was the cry raised by some of the infantry as
they dashed up to the enemy's position, and the action may indeed be
said to have been in some respects the converse of that famous
fight. It is true that there were many more British at Elandslaagte
than Boers at Majuba, but then the defending force was much more
numerous also, and the British had no guns there.  It is true, also,
that Majuba is very much more precipitous than Elandslaagte, but then
every practical soldier knows that it is easier to defend a moderate
glaçis than an abrupt slope, which gives cover under its boulders to
the attacker while the defender has to crane his head over the edge to
look down.  On the whole, this brilliant little action may be said to
have restored things to their true proportion, and to have shown that,
brave as the Boers undoubtedly are, there is no military feat within
their power which is not equally possible to the British
soldier. Talana Hill and Elandslaagte, fought on successive days, were
each of them as gallant an exploit as Majuba.

We had more to show for our victory than for the previous one at
Dundee.  Two Maxim-Nordenfeld guns, whose efficiency had been
painfully evident during the action, were a welcome addition to our
artillery.  Two hundred and fifty Boers were killed and wounded and
about two hundred taken prisoners, the loss falling most heavily upon
the Johannesburgers, the Germans, and the Hollanders.  General Koch,
Dr. Coster, Colonel Schiel, Pretorius, and other well-known
Transvaalers fell into our hands.  Our own casualty list consisted of
41 killed and 220 wounded, much the same number as at Talana Hill, the
heaviest losses falling upon the Gordon Highlanders and the Imperial
Light Horse.

In the hollow where the Boer tents had stood, amid the laagered wagons
of the vanquished, under a murky sky and a constant drizzle of rain,
the victors spent the night.  Sleep was out of the question, for all
night the fatigue parties were searching the hillside and the wounded
were being carried in.  Camp-fires were lit and soldiers and prisoners
crowded round them, and it is pleasant to recall that the warmest
corner and the best of their rude fare were always reserved for the
downcast Dutchmen, while words of rude praise and sympathy softened
the pain of defeat.  It is the memory of such things which may in
happier days be more potent than all the wisdom of statesmen in
welding our two races into one.

Having cleared the Boer force from the line of the railway, it is
evident that General White could not continue to garrison the point,
as he was aware that considerable forces were moving from the north,
and his first duty was the security of Ladysmith. Early next morning
(October 22nd), therefore, his weary but victorious troops returned to
the town.  Once there he learned, no doubt, that General Yule had no
intention of using the broken railway for his retreat, but that he
intended to come in a circuitous fashion by road. White's problem was
to hold tight to the town and at the same time to strike hard at any
northern force so as to prevent them from interfering with Yule's
retreat. It was in the furtherance of this scheme that he fought upon
October 24th the action of Rietfontein, an engagement slight in
itself, but important on account of the clear road which was secured
for the weary forces retiring from Dundee.

The army from the Free State, of which the commando vanquished at
Elandslaagte was the vanguard, had been slowly and steadily debouching
from the passes, and working south and eastwards to cut the line
between Dundee and Ladysmith. It was White's intention to prevent them
from crossing the Newcastle Road, and for this purpose he sallied out
of Ladysmith on Tuesday the 24th, having with him two regiments of
cavalry, the 5th Lancers and the 19th Hussars, the 42nd and 53rd field
batteries with the 10th mountain battery, four infantry regiments, the
Devons, Liverpools, Gloucesters, and 2nd King's Royal Rifles, the
Imperial Light Horse, and the Natal Volunteers -- some four thousand
men in all.

The enemy were found to be in possession of a line of hills within
seven miles of Ladysmith, the most conspicuous of which is called
Tinta Inyoni. It was no part of General White's plan to attempt to
drive him from this position -- it is not wise generalship to fight
always upon ground of the enemy's choosing -- but it was important to
hold him where he was, and to engage his attention during this last
day of the march of the retreating column. For this purpose, since no
direct attack was intended, the guns were of more importance than the
infantry -- and indeed the infantry should, one might imagine, have
been used solely as an escort for the artillery.  A desultory and
inconclusive action ensued which continued from nine in the morning
until half-past one in the afternoon.  A well-directed fire of the
Boer guns from the hills was dominated and controlled by our field
artillery, while the advance of their riflemen was restrained by
shrapnel. The enemy's guns were more easily marked down than at
Elandslaagte, as they used black powder.  The ranges varied from three
to four thousand yards.  Our losses in the whole action would have
been insignificant had it not happened that the Gloucester Regiment
advanced somewhat incautiously into the open and was caught in a cross
fire of musketry which struck down Colonel Wilford and fifty of his
officers and men. Within four days Colonel Dick-Cunyngham, of the
Gordons, Colonel Chisholm, of the Light Horse, Colonel Gunning, of the
Rifles, and now Colonel Wilford, of the Gloucesters, had all fallen at
the head of their regiments.  In the afternoon General White, having
accomplished his purpose and secured the safety of the Dundee column
while traversing the dangerous Biggarsberg passes, withdrew his force
to Ladysmith.  We have no means of ascertaining the losses of the
Boers, but they were probably slight.  On our side we lost 109 killed
and wounded, of which only 13 cases were fatal.  Of this total 64
belonged to the Gloucesters and 25 to the troops raised in Natal.
Next day, as already narrated, the whole British army was re-assembled
once more at Ladysmith, and the campaign was to enter upon a new
phase.

At the end of this first vigorous week of hostilities it is
interesting to sum up the net result.  The strategical advantage had
lain with the Boers.  They had made our position at Dundee untenable
and had driven us back to Ladysmith.  They had the country and the
railway for tile northern quarter of the colony in their possession.
They had killed and wounded between six and seven hundred of our men,
and they had captured some two hundred of our cavalry, while we had
been compelled at Dundee to leave considerable stores and our wounded,
including General Penn Symons, who actually died while a prisoner in
their hands.  On the other hand, the tactical advantages lay with
us. We had twice driven them from their positions, and captured two of
their guns. We had taken two hundred prisoners. and had probably
killed and wounded as many as we had lost.  On the whole, the honours
of that week's fighting in Natal may be said to have been fairly equal
-- which is more than we could claim for many a weary week to come.


CHAPTER VII
THE BATTLE OF LADYSMITH


Sir George White had now reunited his force, and found himself in
command of a formidable little army some twelve thousand in number.
His cavalry included the 5th Lancers, the 5th Dragoons, part of the
18th and the whole of the 19th Hussars, the Natal Carabineers, the
Border Rifles, some mounted infantry, and the Imperial Light Horse.
Among his infantry were the Royal Irish Fusiliers, the Dublin
Fusiliers, and the King's Royal Rifles, fresh from the ascent of
Talana Hill, the Gordons, the Manchesters, and the Devons who had been
blooded at Elandslaagte, the Leicesters, the Liverpools, the 2nd
battalion of the King's Royal Rifles, the 2nd Rifle Brigade, and the
Gloucesters, who had been so roughly treated at Rietfontein.  He bad
six batteries of excellent field artillery -- the 13th, 21st, 42nd, 53rd,
67th, 69th, and No.10 Mountain Battery of screw guns. No general could
have asked for a more compact and workmanlike little force.

It had been recognised by the British General from the beginning that
his tactics must be defensive, since he was largely outnumbered and
since also any considerable mishap to his force would expose the whole
colony of Natal to destruction.  The actions of Elandslaagte and
Rietfontein were forced upon him in order to disengage his compromised
detachment, but now there was no longer any reason why he should
assume the offensive. He knew that away out on the Atlantic a trail of
transports which already extended from the Channel to Cape de Verde
were hourly drawing nearer to him with the army corps from England. In
a fortnight or less the first of them would be at Durban.  It was his
game, therefore, to keep his army intact, and to let those throbbing
engines and whirling propellers do the work of the empire.  Had he
entrenched himself up to his nose and waited, it would have paid him
best in the end.

But so tame and inglorious a policy is impossible to a fighting
soldier. He could not with his splendid force permit himself to be
shut in without an action.  What policy demands honour may forbid.  On
October 27th there were already Boers and rumours of Boers on every
side of him.  Joubert with his main body was moving across from
Dundee.  The Freestaters were to the north and west.  Their combined
numbers were uncertain, but at least it was already proved that they
were far more numerous and also more formidable than had been
anticipated.  We had had a taste of their artillery also, and the
pleasant delusion that it would be a mere useless encumbrance to a
Boer force had vanished for ever.  It was a grave thing to leave the
town in order to give battle, for the mobile enemy might swing round
and seize it behind us.  Nevertheless White determined to make the
venture.

On the 29th the enemy were visibly converging upon the town. From a
high hill within rifleshot of the houses a watcher could see no fewer
than six Boer camps to the east and north. French, with his cavalry,
pushed out feelers, and coasted along the edge of the advancing host.
His report warned White that if he would strike before all the
scattered bands were united he must do so at once.  The wounded were
sent down to Pietermaritzburg, and it would bear explanation why the
non-combatants did not accompany them.  On the evening of the same day
Joubert in person was said to be only six miles off, and a party of
his men cut the water supply of the town.  The Klip, however, a
fair-sized river, runs through Ladysmith, so that there was no danger
of thirst.  The British had inflated and sent up a balloon, to the
amazement of the back-veldt Boers; its report confirmed the fact that
the enemy was in force in front of and around them.

On the night of the 29th General White detached two of his best
regiments, the Irish Fusiliers and the Gloucesters, with No.10
Mountain Battery, to advance under cover of the darkness and to seize
and hold a long ridge called Nicholson's Nek, which lay about six
miles to the north of Ladysmith. Having determined to give battle on
the next day, his object was to protect his left wing against those
Freestaters who were still moving from the north and west, and also to
keep a pass open by which his cavalry might pursue the Boer fugitives
in case of a British victory.  This small detached column numbered
about a thousand men -- whose fate will be afterwards narrated.

At five o'clock on the morning of the 30th the Boers, who had already
developed a perfect genius for hauling heavy cannon up the most
difficult heights, opened fire from one of the hills which lie to the
north of the town. Before the shot was fired, the forces of the
British had already streamed out of Ladysmith to test the strength of
the invaders.

White's army was divided into three columns.  On the extreme left,
quite isolated from the others, was the small Nicholson's Nek
detachment under the command of Colonel Carleton of the Fusiliers (one
of three gallant brothers each of whom commands a British
regiment). With him was Major Adye of the staff.  On the right British
flank Colonel Grimwood commanded a brigade composed of the 1st and 2nd
battalions of the King's Royal Rifles, the Leicesters, the Liverpools,
and the Royal Dublin Fusiliers.  In the centre Colonel Ian Hamilton
commanded the Devons, the Gordons, the Manchesters, and the 2nd
battalion of the Rifle Brigade, which marched direct into the battle
from the train which had brought them from Durban.  Six batteries of
artillery were massed in the centre under Colonel Downing. French with
the cavalry and mounted infantry was on the extreme right, but found
little opportunity for the use of the mounted arm that day.

The Boer position, so far as it could be seen, was a formidable one.
Their centre lay upon one of the spurs of Signal Hill, about three
miles from the town.  Here they had two forty-pounders and three other
lighter guns, but their artillery strength developed both in numbers
and in weight of metal as the day wore on. Of their dispositions
little could be seen. An observer looking westward might discern with
his glass sprays of mounted riflemen galloping here and there over the
downs, and possibly small groups where the gunners stood by their
guns, or the leaders gazed down at that town which they were destined
to have in view for such a weary while.  On the dun-coloured plains
before the town, the long thin lines, with an occasional shifting
sparkle of steel, showed where Hamilton's and Grimwood's infantry were
advancing.  In the clear cold air of an African morning every detail
could be seen, down to the distant smoke of a train toiling up the
heavy grades which lead from Frere over the Colenso Bridge to
Ladysmith.

The scrambling, inconsequential, unsatisfactory action which ensued is
as difficult to describe as it must have been to direct.  The Boer
front covered some seven or eight miles, with kopjes, like chains of
fortresses, between. They formed a huge semicircle of which our
advance was the chord, and they were able from this position to pour
in a converging artillery fire which grew steadily hotter as the day
advanced.  In the early part of the day our forty-two guns, working
furiously, though with a want of accuracy which may be due to those
errors of refraction which are said to be common in the limpid air of
the veldt, preserved their superiority.  There appears to have been a
want of concentration about our fire, and at some periods of the
action each particular battery was firing at some different point of
the Boer half-circle. Sometimes for an hour on end the Boer reply
would die away altogether, only to break out with augmented violence,
and with an accuracy which increased our respect for their
training. Huge shells -- the largest that ever burst upon a
battlefield -- hurled from distances which were unattainable by our
fifteen-pounders, enveloped our batteries in smoke and flame.  One
enormous Creusot gun on Pepworth Hill threw a 96-pound shell a
distance of four miles, and several 40-pound howitzers outweighted our
field guns.  And on the same day on which we were so roughly taught
how large the guns were which labour and good will could haul on to
the field of battle, we learned also that our enemy -- to the disgrace
of our Board of Ordnance be it recorded -- was more in touch with modern
invention than we were, and could show us not only the largest, but
also the smallest, shell which had yet been used. Would that it had
been our officials instead of our gunners who heard the devilish
little one-pound shells of the Vickers-Maxim automatic gun, exploding
with a continuous string of crackings and bangings, like a huge
cracker, in their faces and about their ears!

Up to seven o'clock our infantry had shown no disposition to press the
attack, for with so huge a position in front of them, and so many
hills which were held by the enemy, it was difficult to know what line
of advance should be taken, or whether the attack should not be
converted into a mere reconnaissance.  Shortly after that hour,
however, the Boers decided the question by themselves developing a
vigorous movement upon Grimwood and the right flank.  With field guns,
Maxims, and rifle fire, they closed rapidly in upon him.  The centre
column was drafted off, regiment by regiment, to reinforce the
right. The Gordons, Devons, Manchesters, and three batteries were sent
over to Grimwood's relief, and the 5th Lancers, acting as infantry,
assisted him to hold on.

At nine o'clock there was a lull, but it was evident that fresh
commandoes and fresh guns were continually streaming into the firing
line.  The engagement opened again with redoubled violence, and
Grimwood's three advanced battalions fell back, abandoning the ridge
which they had held for five hours.  The reason for this withdrawal
was not that they could not continue to hold their position, but it
was that a message had just reached Sir George White from Colonel
Knox, commanding in Ladysmith, to the effect that it looked as if the
enemy was about to rush the town from the other side.  Crossing the
open in some disorder, they lost heavily, and would have done so more
had not the 13th Field Battery, followed after an interval by the
53rd, dashed forward, firing shrapnel at short ranges, in order to
cover the retreat of the infantry.  Amid the bursting of the huge
96-pound shells, and the snapping of the vicious little automatic
one-pounders, with a cross-fire of rifles as well, Abdy's and Dawkins'
gallant batteries swung round their muzzles, and hit back right and
left, flashing and blazing, amid their litter of dead horses and
men. So severe was the fire that the guns were obscured by the dust
knocked up by the little shells of the automatic gun. Then, when their
work was done and the retiring infantry had straggled over the ridge,
the covering guns whirled and bounded after them.  So many horses had
fallen that two pieces were left until the teams could be brought back
for them, which was successfully done through the gallantry of Captain
Thwaites.  The action of these batteries was one of the few gleams of
light in a not too brilliant day's work.  With splendid coolness and
courage they helped each other by alternate retirements after the
retreating infantry had passed them. The 21st Battery (Blewitt's) also
distinguished itself by its staunchness in covering the retirement of
the cavalry, while the 42nd (Goulburn's) suffered the heaviest losses
of any.  On the whole, such honours as fell to our lot were mainly
with the gunners.

White must have been now uneasy for his position, and it had become
apparent that his only course was to fall back and concentrate upon
the town. His left flank was up in the air, and the sound of distant
firing, wafted over five miles of broken country, was the only message
which arrived from them.  His right had been pushed back, and, most
dangerous of all, his centre had ceased to exist, for only the 2nd
Rifle Brigade remained there. What would happen if the enemy burst
rudely through and pushed straight for the town? It was the more
possible, as the Boer artillery had now proved itself to be far
heavier than ours. That terrible 96-pounder, serenely safe and out of
range, was plumping its great projectiles into the masses of retiring
troops.  The men had had little sleep and little food, and this
unanswerable fire was an ordeal for a force which is retreating. A
retirement may very rapidly become a rout under such circumstances.
It was with some misgivings that the officers saw their men quicken
their pace and glance back over their shoulders at the whine and
screech of the shell. They were still some miles from home, and the
plain was open. What could be done to give them some relief?

And at that very moment there came the opportune and unexpected
answer.  That plume of engine smoke which the watcher had observed in
the morning had drawn nearer and nearer, as the heavy train came
puffing and creaking up the steep inclines. Then, almost before it had
drawn up at the Ladysmith siding, there had sprung from it a crowd of
merry bearded fellows, with ready hands and strange sea cries, pulling
and hauling, with rope and purchase to get out the long slim guns
which they had lashed on the trucks.  Singular carriages were there,
specially invented by Captain Percy Scott, and labouring and
straining, they worked furiously to get the 12-pounder quick-firers
into action.  Then at last it was done, and the long tubes swept
upwards to the angle at which they might hope to reach that monster on
the hill at the horizon.  Two of them craned their long inquisitive
necks up and exchanged repartees with the big Creusot.  And so it was
that the weary and dispirited British troops heard a crash which was
louder and sharper than that of their field guns, and saw far away
upon the distant hill a great spurt of smoke and flame to show where
the shell had struck. Another and another and another-and then they
were troubled no more.  Captain Hedworth Lambton and his men had
saved the situation. The masterful gun had met its own master and sank
into silence, while the somewhat bedraggled field force came trailing
back into Ladysmith, leaving three hundred of their number behind
them.  It was a high price to pay, but other misfortunes were in store
for us which made the retirement of the morning seem insignificant.

In the meantime we may follow the unhappy fortunes of the small column
which had, as already described, been sent out by Sir George White in
order, if possible, to prevent the junction of the two Boer armies,
and at the same time to threaten the right wing of the main force,
which was advancing from the direction of Dundee, Sir George White
throughout the campaign consistently displayed one quality which is a
charming one in an individual, but may be dangerous in a commander. He
was a confirmed optimist.  Perhaps his heart might have failed him in
the dark days to come had he not been so.  But whether one considers
the non-destruction of the Newcastle Railway, the acquiescence in the
occupation of Dundee, the retention of the non combatants in Ladysmith
until it was too late to get rid of their useless mouths, or the
failure to make any serious preparations for the defence of the town
until his troops were beaten back into it, we see always the same
evidence of a man who habitually hopes that all will go well, and is
in consequence remiss in making preparations for their going ill. But
unhappily in every one of these instances they did go ill, though the
slowness of the Boers enabled us, both at Dundee and at Ladysmith, to
escape what might have been disaster.

Sir George White has so nobly and frankly taken upon himself the blame
of Nicholson's Nek that an impartial historian must rather regard his
self-condemnation as having been excessive.  The immediate causes of
the failure were undoubtedly the results of pure ill-fortune, and
depended on things outside his control. But it is evident that the
strategic plan which would justify the presence of this column at
Nicholson's Nek was based upon the supposition that the main army won
their action at Lombard's Kop.  In that case White might swing round
his right and pin the Boers between himself and Nicholson's Nek. In
any case he could then re-unite with his isolated wing. But if he
should lose his battle-what then?  What was to become of this
detachment five miles up in the air? How was it to be extricated?  The
gallant Irishman seems to have waved aside the very idea of defeat. An
assurance was, it is reported, given to the leaders of the column that
by eleven o'clock next morning they would be relieved.  So they would
if White had won his action.  But --

The force chosen to operate independently consisted of four and a half
companies of the Gloucester regiment, six companies of the Royal Irish
Fusiliers, and No. 10 Mountain Battery of six seven-pounder
screw-guns. They were both old soldier regiments from India, and the
Fusiliers had shown only ten days before at Talana Hill the stuff of
which they were made.  Colonel Carleton, of the Fusiliers, to whose
exertions much of the success of the retreat from Dundee was due,
commanded the column, with Major Adye as staff officer. On the night
of Sunday, October 29th, they tramped out of Ladysmith, a thousand
men, none better in the army. Little they thought, as they exchanged a
jest or two with the outlying pickets, that they were seeing the last
of their own armed countrymen for many a weary month .

The road was irregular and the night was moonless. On either side the
black loom of the hills bulked vaguely through the darkness.  The
column tramped stolidly along, the Fusiliers in front, the guns and
Gloucesters behind.  Several times a short halt was called to make
sure of the bearings.  At last, in the black cold hours which come
between midnight and morning, the column swung to the left out of the
road.  In front of them, hardly visible, stretched a long black kopje.
It was the very Nicholson's Nek which they had come to
occupy. Carleton and Adye must have heaved a sigh of relief as they
realised that they had actually struck it. The force was but two
hundred yards from the position, and all had gone without a hitch. And
yet in those two hundred yards there came an incident which decided
the fate both of their enterprise and of themselves.

Out of the darkness there blundered and rattled five horsemen, their
horses galloping, the loose stones flying around them.  In the dim
light they were gone as soon as seen.  Whence coming, whither going,
no one knows, nor is it certain whether it was design or ignorance or
panic which sent them riding so wildly through the darkness.  Somebody
fired.  A sergeant of the Fusiliers took the bullet through his hand.
Some one else shouted to fix bayonets.  The mules which carried the
spare ammunition kicked and reared.  There was no question of
treachery, for they were led by our own men, but to hold two
frightened mules, one with either hand, is a feat for a Hercules.
They lashed and tossed and bucked themselves loose, and an instant
afterwards were flying helter skelter through the column.  Nearly all
the mules caught the panic.  In vain the men held on to their heads.
In the mad rush they were galloped over and knocked down by the
torrent of frightened creatures.  In the gloom of that early hour the
men must have thought that they were charged by cavalry. The column
was dashed out of all military order as effectively as if a regiment
of dragoons had ridden over them.  When the cyclone had passed, and
the men had with many a muttered curse gathered themselves into their
ranks once more, they realised how grave was the misfortune which had
befallen them.  There, where those mad hoofs still rattled in the
distance, were their spare cartridges, their shells, and their
cannon. A mountain gun is not drawn upon wheels, but is carried in
adjustable parts upon mule-back. A wheel bad gone south, a trail east,
a chase west.  Some of the cartridges were strewn upon the road. Most
were on their way back to Ladysmith.  There was nothing for it but to
face this new situation and to determine what should be done.

It has been often and naturally asked, why did not Colonel Carleton
make his way back at once upon the loss of his guns and ammunition,
while it was still dark?  One or two considerations are evident.  In
the first place, it is natural to a good soldier to endeavour to
retrieve a situation rather than to abandon his enterprise. His
prudence, did he not do so, might become the subject of public
commendation, but might also provoke some private comment.  A
soldier's training is to take chances, and to do the best he can with
the material at his disposal. Again, Colonel Carleton and Major Adye
knew the general plan of the battle which would be raging within a
very few hours, and they quite understood that by withdrawing they
would expose General White's left flank to attack from the forces
(consisting, as we know now, of the Orange Freestaters and of the
Johannesburg Police) who were coming from the north and west.  He
hoped to be relieved by eleven, and he believed that, come what might,
he could hold out until then.  These are the most obvious of the
considerations which induced Colonel Carleton to determine to carry
out so far as he could the programme which had been laid down for him
and his command. He marched up the hill and occupied the position.

His heart, however, must have sunk when he examined it.  It was very
large -- too large to be effectively occupied by the force which he
commanded.  The length was about a mile and the breadth four hundred
yards. Shaped roughly like the sole of a boot, it was only the heel
end which he could hope to hold.  Other hills all round offered cover
for Boer riflemen. Nothing daunted, however, he set his men to work at
once building sangars with the loose stones. With the full dawn and
the first snapping of Boer Mausers from the hills around they had
thrown up some sort of rude defences which they might hope to hold
until help should come.

But how could help come when there was no means by which they could
let White know the plight in which they found themselves? They had
brought a heliograph with them, but it was on the back of one of those
accursed mules.  The Boers were thick around them, and they could not
send a messenger. An attempt was made to convert a polished biscuit
tin into a heliograph, but with poor success. A Kaffir was dispatched
with promises of a heavy bribe, but he passed out of history.  And
there in the clear cold morning air the balloon hung to the south of
them where the first distant thunder of White's guns was beginning to
sound.  If only they could attract the attention of that balloon!
Vainly they wagged flags at it.  Serene and unresponsive it brooded
over the distant battle.

And now the Boers were thickening round them on every side.  Christian
do Wet, a name soon to be a household word, marshaled the Boer
attack, which was soon strengthened by the arrival of Van Dam and his
Police.  At five o'clock the fire began, at six it was warm, at seven
warmer still.  Two companies of the Gloucesters lined a sangar on the
tread of the sole, to prevent any one getting too near to the heel. A
fresh detachment of Boers, firing from a range of nearly one thousand
yards, took this defence in the rear. Bullets fell among the men, and
smacked up against the stone breastwork. The two companies were
withdrawn, and lost heavily in the open as they crossed it. An
incessant rattle and crackle of rifle fire came from all round,
drawing very slowly but steadily nearer.  Now and then the whisk of a
dark figure from one boulder to another was all that ever was seen of
the attackers.  The British fired slowly and steadily, for every
cartridge counted, but the cover of the Boers was so cleverly taken
that it was seldom that there was much to aim at.  'All you could ever
see,' says one who was present, 'were the barrels of the rifles.'
There was time for thought in that long morning, and to some of the
men it may have occurred what preparation for such fighting had they
ever had in the mechanical exercises of the parade ground, or the
shooting of an annual bagful of cartridges at exposed targets at a
measured range. It is the warfare of Nicholson's Nek, not that of
Laffan's Plain, which has to be learned in the future.

During those weary hours lying on the bullet-swept hill and listening
to the eternal hissing in the air and clicking on the rocks, the
British soldiers could see the fight which raged to the south of them.
It was not a cheering sight, and Carleton and Adye with their gallant
comrades must have felt their hearts grow heavier as they watched.
The Boers' shells bursting among the British batteries, the British
shells bursting short of their opponents.  The Long Toms laid at an
angle of forty-five plumped their huge shells into the British guns at
a range where the latter would not dream of unlimbering.  And then
gradually the rifle fire died away also, crackling more faintly as
White withdrew to Ladysmith. At eleven o'clock Carleton's column
recognised that it had been left to its fate.  As early as nine a
heliogram had been sent to them to retire as the opportunity served,
but to leave the hill was certainly to court annihilation.

The men had then been under fire for six hours, and with their losses
mounting and their cartridges dwindling, all hope had faded from their
minds.  But still for another hour, and yet another, and yet another,
they held doggedly on.  Nine and a half hours they clung to that pile
of stones.  The Fusiliers were still exhausted from the effect of
their march from Glencoe and their incessant work since.  Many fell
asleep behind the boulders. Some sat doggedly with their useless
rifles and empty pouches beside them.  Some picked cartridges off
their dead comrades.  What were they fighting for? It was hopeless,
and they knew it.  But always there was the honour of the flag, the
glory of the regiment, the hatred of a proud and brave man to
acknowledge defeat. And yet it had to come.  There wore some in that
force who were ready for the reputation of the British army, and for
the sake of an example of military virtue, to die stolidly where they
stood, or to lead the 'Faugh-a-ballagh' boys, or the gallant 28th, in
one last death-charge with empty rifles against the unseen enemy. They
may' have been right, these stalwarts. Leonidas and his three hundred
did more for the Spartan cause by their memory than by their living
valour.  Man passes like the brown leaves, but the tradition of a
nation lives on like the oak that sheds them -- and the passing of the
leaves is nothing if the bole be the sounder for it. But a counsel of
perfection is easy at a study table. There are other things to he said
-- the responsibility of officers for the lives of their men, the hope
that they may yet be of service to their country.  All was weighed,
all was thought of, and so at last the white flag went up. The officer
who hoisted it could see no one unhurt save himself, for all in his
sangar were hit, and the others were so placed that he was under the
impression that they had withdrawn altogether.  Whether this hoisting
of the flag necessarily compromised the whole force is a difficult
question, but the Boers instantly left their cover, and the men in the
sangars behind, some of whom had not been so seriously engaged, were
ordered by their officers to desist from firing. In an instant the
victorious Boers were among them.

It was not, as I have been told by those who were there, a sight which
one would wish to have seen or care now to dwell upon.  Haggard
officers cracked their sword-blades and cursed the day that they had
been born.  Privates sobbed with their stained faces buried in their
hands.  Of all tests of discipline that ever they had stood, the
hardest to many was to conform to all that the cursed flapping
handkerchief meant to them.  'Father, father, we had rather have
died,' cried the Fusiliers to their priest.  Gallant hearts, ill paid,
ill thanked, how poorly do the successful of the world compare with
their unselfish loyalty and devotion!

But the sting of contumely or insult was not added to their
misfortunes.  There is a fellowship of brave men which rises above the
feuds of nations, and may at last go far, we hope, to heal them.  From
every rock there rose a Boer -- strange, grotesque figures many of
them -- walnut-brown and shaggy-bearded, and swarmed on to the hill.
No term of triumph or reproach came from their lips.  'You will not
say now that the young Boer cannot shoot,' was the harshest word which
the least restrained of them made use of.  Between one and two hundred
dead and wounded were scattered over the hill.  Those who were within
reach of human help received all that could be given.  Captain Rice,
of the Fusiliers, was carried wounded down the hill on the back of one
giant, and he has narrated how the man refused the gold piece which
was offered him.  Some asked the soldiers for their embroidered
waist-belts as souvenirs of the day.  They will for generations remain
as the most precious ornaments of some colonial farmhouse.  Then the
victors gathered together and sang psalms, not jubilant but sad and
quavering.  The prisoners, in a downcast column, weary, spent, and
unkempt, filed off to the Boer laager at Waschbank, there to take
train for Pretoria.  And at Ladysmith a bugler of Fusiliers, his arm
bound, the marks of battle on his dress and person, burst in upon the
camp with the news that two veteran regiments had covered the flank of
White's retreating army, but at the cost of their own annihilation.

CHAPTER VIII

LORD METHUEN'S ADVANCE


At the end of a fortnight of actual hostilities in Natal the situation
of the Boer army was such as to seriously alarm the public at home,
and to cause an almost universal chorus of ill-natured delight from
the press of all European nations. Whether the reason was hatred of
ourselves, or the sporting instinct which backs the smaller against
the larger, or the influence of the ubiquitous Dr. Leyds and his
secret service fund, it is certain that the continental papers have
never been so unanimous as in their premature rejoicings over what,
with an extraordinary want of proportion, and ignorance of our
national character, they imagined to be a damaging blow to the British
Empire. France, Russia, Austria, and Germany were equally venomous
against us, nor can the visit of the German Emperor, though a
courteous and timely action in itself, entirely atone for the
senseless bitterness of the press of the Fatherland. Great Britain was
roused out of her habitual apathy and disregard for foreign opinion by
this chorus of execration, and braced herself for a greater effort in
consequence. She was cheered by the sympathy of her friends in the
United States, and by the good wishes of the smaller nations of
Europe, notably of Italy, Denmark, Greece. Turkey, and Hungary.

The exact position at the end of this fortnight of hard slogging was
that a quarter of the colony of Natal and a hundred miles of railway
were in the hands of the enemy.  Five distinct actions had been
fought, none of them perhaps coming within the fair meaning of a
battle. Of these one had been a distinct British victory, two had been
indecisive, one had been unfortunate, and one had been a positive
disaster.  We had lost about twelve hundred prisoners and a battery of
small guns. The Boers had lost two fine guns and three hundred
prisoners. Twelve thousand British troops had been shut up in
Ladysmith, and there was no serious force between the invaders and the
sea.  Only in those distant transports, where the grimy stokers
shoveled and strove, were there hopes for the safety of Natal and the
honour of the Empire. In Cape Colony the loyalists waited with bated
breath, knowing well that there was nothing to check a Free State
invasion, and that if it came no bounds could be placed upon how far
it might advance, or what effect it might have upon the Dutch
population.

Leaving Ladysmith now apparently within the grasp of the Boers, who
had settled down deliberately to the work of throttling it, the
narrative must pass to the western side of the seat of war, and give a
consecutive account of the events which began with the siege of
Kimberley and led to the ineffectual efforts of Lord Methuen's column
to relieve it.

On the declaration of war two important movements had been made by the
Boers upon the west.  One was the advance of a considerable body under
the formidable Cronje to attack Mafeking, an enterprise which demands
a chapter of its own.  The other was the investment of Kimberley by a
force which consisted principally of Freestaters under the command of
Wessels and Botha. The place was defended by Colonel Kekewich, aided
by the advice and help of Mr. Cecil Rhodes, who had gallantly thrown
himself into the town by one of the last trains which reached it.  As
the founder and director of the great De Beers diamond mines he
desired to be with his people in the hour of their need, and it was
through his initiative that the town had been provided with the rifles
and cannon with which to sustain the siege.

The troops which Colonel Kekewich had at his disposal consisted of
four companies of the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment (his own
regiment), with some Royal Engineers, a mountain battery, and two
machine guns.  In addition there were the extremely spirited and
capable local forces, a hundred and twenty men of the Cape Police, two
thousand Volunteers, a body of Kimberley Light Horse, and a battery of
light seven-pounder guns.  There were also eight Maxims which were
mounted upon the huge mounds of debris which surrounded the mines and
formed most efficient fortresses.

A small reinforcement of police had, under tragic circumstances,
reached the town.  Vryburg, the capital of British Bechuanaland, lies
145 miles to the north of Kimberley.  The town has strong Dutch
sympathies, and on the news of the approach of a Boer force with
artillery it was evident that it could not be held.  Scott, the
commandant of police, made some attempt to organise a defence, but
having no artillery and finding little sympathy, he was compelled to
abandon his charge to the invaders.  The gallant Scott rode south with
his troopers, and in his humiliation and grief at his inability to
preserve his post he blew out his brains upon the journey. Vryburg was
immediately occupied by the Boers, and British Bechuanaland was
formally annexed to the South African Republic.  This policy of the
instant annexation of all territories invaded was habitually carried
out by the enemy, with the idea that British subjects who joined them
would in this way be shielded from the consequences of treason.
Meanwhile several thousand Freestaters and Transvaalers with artillery
had assembled round Kimberley, and all news of the town was cut off.
Its relief was one of the first tasks which presented itself to the
inpouring army corps.  The obvious base of such a movement must be
Orange River, and there and at De Aar the stores for the advance began
to be accumulated.  At the latter place especially, which is the chief
railway junction in the north of the colony, enormous masses of
provisions, ammunition, and fodder were collected, with thousands of
mules which the long arm of the British Government had rounded up from
many parts of the world. The guard over these costly and essential
supplies seems to have been a dangerously weak one.  Between Orange
River and De Aar, which are sixty miles apart, there were the 9th
Lancers, the Royal Munsters, the 2nd King's Own Yorkshire Light
Infantry, and the 1st Northumberland Fusiliers, under three thousand
men in all, with two million pounds' worth of stores and the Free
State frontier within a ride of them.  Verily if we have something to
deplore in this war we have much also to be thankful for.

Up to the end of October the situation was so dangerous that it is
really inexplicable that no advantage was taken of it by the enemy.
Our main force was concentrated to defend the Orange River railway
bridge, which was so essential for our advance upon Kimberley. This
left only a single regiment without guns for the defence of De Aar and
the valuable stores. A fairer mark for a dashing leader and a raid of
mounted riflemen was never seen.  The chance passed, however, as so
many others of the Boers' had done.  Early in November Colesberg and
Naauwpoort were abandoned by our small detachments, who concentrated
at De Aar. The Berkshires joined the Yorkshire Light Infantry, and
nine field guns arrived also.  General Wood worked hard at the
fortifying of the surrounding kopjes, until within a week the place
had been made tolerably secure.

The first collision between the opposing forces at this part of the
seat of war was upon November 10th, when Colonel Gough of the 9th
Lancers made a reconnaissance from Orange River to the north with two
squadrons of his own regiment, the mounted infantry of the
Northumberland Fusiliers, the Royal Munsters, and the North
Lancashires, with a battery of field artillery.  To the east of
Belmont, about fifteen miles off, he came on a detachment of the enemy
with a gun.  To make out the Boer position the mounted infantry
galloped round one of their flanks, and in doing so passed close to a
kopje which was occupied by sharpshooters. A deadly fire crackled
suddenly out from among the boulders. Of six men hit four were
officers, showing how cool were the marksmen and how dangerous those
dress distinctions which will probably disappear hence forwards upon
the field of battle.  Colonel Keith-Falconer of the Northumberlands,
who had earned distinction in the Soudan, was shot dead.  So was Wood
of the North Lancashires.  Hall and Bevan of the Northumberlands were
wounded.  An advance by train of the troops in camp drove back the
Boers and extricated our small force from what might have proved a
serious position, for the enemy in superior numbers were working round
their wings.  The troops returned to camp without any good object
having been attained, but that must be the necessary fate of many a
cavalry reconnaissance.

On November 12th Lord Methuen arrived at Orange River and proceeded to
organise the column which was to advance to the relief of
Kimberley. General Methuen had had some previous South African
experience when in 1885 he had commanded a large body of irregular
horse in Bechuanaland.  His reputation was that of a gallant fearless
soldier.  He was not yet fifty-five years of age.

The force which gradually assembled at Orange River was formidable
rather from its quality than from its numbers.  It included a brigade
of Guards (the 1st Scots Guards, 3rd Grenadiers, and 1st and 2nd
Coldstreams), the 2nd Yorkshire Light Infantry, the 2nd Northamptons,
the 1st Northumberlands, and a wing of the North Lancashires whose
comrades were holding out at Kimberley, with a naval brigade of seamen
gunners and marines.  For cavalry he had the 9th Lancers, with
detachments of mounted infantry, and for artillery the 75th and 18th
Batteries R.F.A.

Extreme mobility was aimed at in the column, and neither tents nor
comforts of any sort were permitted to officers or men -- no light
matter in a climate where a tropical day is followed by an arctic
night. At daybreak on November 22nd the force, numbering about eight
thousand men, set off upon its eventful journey.  The distance to
Kimberley was not more than sixty miles, and it is probable that there
was not one man in the force who imagined how long that march would
take or how grim the experiences would be which awaited them on the
way. At the dawn of Wednesday, November 22nd, Lord Methuen moved
forward until he came into touch with the Boer position at Belmont.
It was surveyed that evening by Colonel Willoughby Verner, and every
disposition made to attack it in the morning.

The force of the Boers was much inferior to our own, some two or three
thousand in all, but the natural strength of their position made it a
difficult one to carry, while it could not be left behind us as a
menace to our line of communications. A double row of steep hills lay
across the road to Kimberley, and it was along the ridges, snuggling
closely among the boulders, that our enemy was waiting for us.  In
their weeks of preparation they had constructed elaborate shelter pits
in which they could lie in comparative safety while they swept all the
level ground around with their rifle fire.  Mr. Ralph, the American
correspondent, whose letters were among the most vivid of the war, has
described these lairs, littered with straw and the debris of food,
isolated from each other, and each containing its grim and formidable
occupant.  'The eyries of birds of prey' is the phrase with which he
brings them home to us. In these, with nothing visible but their
peering eyes and the barrels of their rifles, the Boer marksmen
crouched, and munched their biltong and their mealies as the day broke
upon the morning of the 23rd. With the light their enemy was upon
them.

It was a soldiers' battle in the good old primeval British style, an
Alma on a small scale and against deadlier weapons.  The troops
advanced in grim silence against the savage-looking, rock-sprinkled,
crag-topped position which confronted them.  They were in a fierce
humour, for they had not breakfasted, and military history from
Agincourt to Talavera shows that want of food wakens a dangerous
spirit among British troops. A Northumberland Fusilier exploded into
words which expressed the gruffness of his comrades.  As a too
energetic staff officer pranced before their line he roared in his
rough North-country tongue, 'Domn thee!  Get thee to hell, and let's
fire! '  In the golden light of the rising sun the men set their teeth
and dashed up the hills, scrambling, falling, cheering, swearing,
gallant men, gallantly led, their one thought to close with that grim
bristle of rifle-barrels which fringed the rocks above them.

Lord Methuen's intention had been an attack from front and from flank,
but whether from the Grenadiers losing their bearings, or from the
mobility of the Boers, which made a flank attack an impossibility, it
is certain that all became frontal.  The battle resolved itself into a
number of isolated actions in which the various kopjes were rushed by
different British regiments, always with success and always with loss.
The honours of the fight, as tested by the grim record of the casualty
returns, lay with the Grenadiers, the Coldstreams, the
Northumberlands, and the Scots Guards.  The brave Guardsmen lay
thickly on the slopes, but their comrades crowned the heights.  The
Boers held on desperately and fired their rifles in the very faces of
the stormers.  One young officer had his jaw blown to pieces by a
rifle which almost touched him. Another, Blundell of the Guards, was
shot dead by a wounded desperado to whom he was offering his
water-bottle. At one point a white flag was waved by the defenders, on
which the British left cover, only to be met by a volley.  It was
there that Mr. E. F. Knight, of the 'Morning Post,' became the victim
of a double abuse of the usages of war, since his wound, from which he
lost his right arm, was from an explosive bullet.  The man who raised
the flag was captured, and it says much for the humanity of British
soldiers that he was not bayoneted upon the spot. Yet it is not fair
to blame a whole people for the misdeeds of a few, and it is probable
that the men who descended to such devices, or who deliberately fired
upon our ambulances, were as much execrated by their own comrades as
by ourselves.

The victory was an expensive one, for fifty killed and two hundred
wounded lay upon the hillside, and, like so many of our skirmishes
with the Boers, it led to small material results. Their losses appear
to have been much about the same as ours, and we captured some fifty
prisoners, whom the soldiers regarded with the utmost interest.  They
were a sullen slouching crowd rudely clad, and they represented
probably the poorest of the burghers, who now, as in the middle ages,
suffer most in battle, since a long purse means a good horse. Most of
the enemy galloped very comfortably away after the action, leaving a
fringe of sharpshooters among the kopjes to hold back our pursuing
cavalry.  The want of horsemen and the want of horse artillery are the
two reasons which Lord Methuen gives why the defeat was not converted
into a rout. As it was, the feelings of the retreating Boers were
exemplified by one of their number, who turned in his saddle in order
to place his outstretched fingers to his nose in derision of the
victors.  He exposed himself to the fire of half a battalion while
doing so, but he probably was aware that with our present musketry
instruction the fire of a British half-battalion against an individual
is not a very serious matter.

The remainder of the 23rd was spent at Belmont Camp, and next morning
an advance was made to Enslin, some ten miles further on. Here lay the
plain of Enslin, bounded by a formidable line of kopjes as dangerous
as those of Belmont.  Lancers and Rimington's Scouts, the feeble but
very capable cavalry of the Army, came in with the report that the
hills were strongly held.  Some more hard slogging was in front of the
relievers of Kimberley.

The advance had been on the line of the Capetown-Kimberley Railway,
and the damage done to it by the Boers had been repaired to the extent
of permitting an armoured train with a naval gun to accompany the
troops.  It was six o' clock upon the morning of Saturday the 25th
that this gun came into action against the kopjes, closely followed by
the guns of the field artillery. One of the lessons of the war has
been to disillusion us as to the effect of shrapnel fire.  Positions
which had been made theoretically untenable have again and again been
found to be most inconveniently tenanted. Among the troops actually
engaged the confidence in the effect of shrapnel fire has steadily
declined with their experience.  Some other method of artillery fire
than the curving bullet from an exploding shrapnel shell must be
devised for dealing with men who lie close among boulders and behind
cover.

These remarks upon shrapnel might be included in the account of half
the battles of the war, but they are particularly apposite to the
action at Enslin.  Here a single large kopje formed the key to the
position, and a considerable time was expended upon preparing it for
the British assault, by directing upon it a fire which swept the face
of it and searched, as was hoped, every corner in which a rifleman
might lurk.  One of the two batteries engaged fired no fewer than five
hundred rounds. Then the infantry advance was ordered, the Guards
being held in reserve on account of their exertions at Belmont.  The
Northumberlands, Northamptons, North Lancashires, and Yorkshires
worked round upon the right, and, aided by the artillery fire, cleared
the trenches in their front. The honours of the assault, however, must
be awarded to the sailors and marines of the Naval Brigade, who
underwent such an ordeal as men have seldom faced and yet come out as
victors.  To them fell the task of carrying that formidable hill which
had been so scourged by our artillery.  With a grand rush they swept
up the slope, but were met by a horrible fire.  Every rock spurted
flame, and the front ranks withered away before the storm of the
Mauser. An eye-witness has recorded that the brigade was hardly
visible amid the sand knocked up by the bullets. For an instant they
fell back into cover, and then, having taken their breath, up they
went again, with a deep-chested sailor roar.  There were but four
hundred in all, two hundred seamen and two hundred marines, and the
losses in that rapid rush were terrible.  Yet they swarmed up, their
gallant officers, some of them little boy-middies, cheering them on.
Ethelston, the commander of the ' Powerful,' was struck down. Plumbe
and Senior of the Marines were killed.  Captain Prothero of the
'Doris' dropped while still yelling to his seamen to 'take that kopje
and be hanged to it!' Little Huddart, the middy, died a death which is
worth many inglorious years.  Jones of the Marines fell wounded, but
rose again and rushed on with his men.  It was on these gallant
marines, the men who are ready to fight anywhere and anyhow, moist or
dry, that the heaviest loss fell.  When at last they made good their
foothold upon the crest of that murderous hill they had left behind
them three officers and eighty-eight men out of a total of 206 -- a
loss within a few minutes of nearly 50 per cent. The bluejackets,
helped by the curve of the hill, got off with a toll of eighteen of
their number. Half the total British losses of the action fell upon
this little body of men, who upheld most gloriously the honour and
reputation of the service from which they were drawn. With such men
under the white ensign we leave our island homes in safety behind us.

The battle of Enslin had cost us some two hundred of killed and
wounded, and beyond the mere fact that we had cleared our way by
another stage towards Kimberley it is difficult to say what advantage
we had from it. We won the kopjes, but we lost our men. The Boer
killed and wounded were probably less than half of our own, and the
exhaustion and weakness of our cavalry forbade us to pursue and
prevented us from capturing their guns.  In three days the men had
fought two exhausting actions in a waterless country and under a
tropical sun.  Their exertions had been great and yet were barren of
result. Why this should be so was naturally the subject of keen
discussion both in the camp and among the public at home.  It always
came back to Lord Methuen's own complaint about the absence of cavalry
and of horse artillery.  Many very unjust charges have been hurled
against our War Office -- a department which in some matters has done
extraordinarily and unexpectedly well -- but in this question of the
delay in the despatch of our cavalry and artillery, knowing as we did
the extreme mobility of our enemy, there is certainly ground for an
inquiry.

The Boers who had fought these two actions had been drawn mainly from
the Jacobsdal and Fauresmith commandoes, with some of the burghers
from Boshof.  The famous Cronje, however, had been descending from
Mafeking with his old guard of Transvaalers, and keen disappointment
was expressed by the prisoners at Belmont and at Enslin that he had
not arrived in time to take command of them.  There were evidences,
however, at this latter action, that reinforcements for the enemy were
coming up and that the labours of the Kimberley relief force were by
no means at an end. In the height of the engagement the Lancer patrols
thrown out upon our right flank reported the approach of a
considerable body of Boer horsemen, who took up a position upon a hill
on our right rear. Their position there was distinctly menacing, and
Colonel Willoughby Verner was despatched by Lord Methuen to order up
the brigade of Guards. The gallant officer had the misfortune in his
return to injure himself seriously through a blunder of his horse. His
mission, however, succeeded in its effect, for the Guards moving
across the plain intervened in such a way that the reinforcements,
without an open attack, which would have been opposed to all Boer
traditions, could not help the defenders, and were compelled to
witness their defeat. This body of horsemen returned north next day
and were no doubt among those whom we encountered at the following
action of the Modder River.

The march from Orange River had begun on the Wednesday. On Thursday
was fought the action of Belmont, on Saturday that of Enslin.  There
was no protection against the sun by day nor against the cold at
night. Water was not plentiful, and the quality of it was occasionally
vile. The troops were in need of a rest, so on Saturday night and
Sunday they remained at Enslin. On the Monday morning (November 27th)
the weary march to Kimberley was resumed.

On Monday, November 27th, at early dawn, the little British army, a
dust-coloured column upon the dusty veldt, moved forwards again
towards their objective. That night they halted at the pools of
Klipfontein, having for once made a whole day's march without coming
in touch with the enemy. Hopes rose that possibly the two successive
defeats had taken the heart out of them and that there would be no
further resistance to the advance.  Some, however, who were aware of
the presence of Cronje, and of his formidable character, took a juster
view of the situation. And this perhaps is where a few words might be
said about the celebrated leader who played upon the western side of
the seat of war the same part which Joubert did upon the east.

Commandant Cronje was at the time of the war sixty-five years of age,
a hard, swarthy man, quiet of manner, fierce of soul, with a
reputation among a nation of resolute men for unsurpassed
resolution. His dark face was bearded and virile, but sedate and
gentle in expression.  He spoke little, but what he said was to the
point, and he had the gift of those fire-words which brace and
strengthen weaker men.  In hunting expeditions and in native wars he
had first won the admiration of his countrymen by his courage and his
fertility of resource.  In the war of 1880 he had led the Boers who
besieged Potchefstroom, and he had pushed the attack with a relentless
vigour which was not hampered by the chivalrous usages of
war. Eventually he compelled the surrender of the place by concealing
from the garrison that a general armistice had been signed, an act
which was afterwards disowned by his own government.  In the
succeeding years he lived as an autocrat and a patriarch amid his
farms and his herds, respected by many and feared by all. For a time
he was Native Commissioner and left a reputation for hard dealing
behind him. Called into the field again by the Jameson raid, he grimly
herded his enemies into an impossible position and desired, as it is
stated, that the hardest measure should be dealt out to the
captives. This was the man, capable, crafty, iron-hard, magnetic, who
lay with a reinforced and formidable army across the path of Lord
Methuen's tired soldiers.  It was a fair match.  On the one side the
hardy men, the trained shots, a good artillery, and the defensive; on
the other the historical British infantry, duty, discipline, and a
fiery courage.  With a high heart the dust-coloured column moved on
over the dusty veldt.

So entirely had hills and Boer fighting become associated in the minds
of our leaders, that when it was known that Modder River wound over a
plain, the idea of a resistance there appears to have passed away from
their minds.  So great was the confidence or so lax the scouting that
a force equaling their own in numbers had assembled with many guns
within seven miles of them, and yet the advance appears to have been
conducted without any expectation of impending battle.  The
supposition, obvious even to a civilian, that a river would be a
likely place to meet with an obstinate resistance, seems to have been
ignored.  It is perhaps not fair to blame the General for a fact which
must have vexed his spirit more than ours -- ones sympathies go out
to the gentle and brave man, who was heard calling out in his sleep
that he 'should have had those two guns ' -- but it is repugnant to
common sense to suppose that no one, neither the cavalry nor the
Intelligence Department, is at fault for so extraordinary a state of
ignorance.[Footnote: Later information makes it certain that the
cavalry did report the presence of the enemy to Lord Methuen.]  On the
morning of Tuesday, November 28th, the British troops were told that
they would march at once, and have their breakfast when they reached
the Modder River-a grim joke to those who lived to appreciate it.

The army had been reinforced the night before by the welcome addition
of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, which made up for the losses
of the week. It was a cloudless morning, and a dazzling sun rose in a
deep blue sky.  The men, though hungry, marched cheerily, the reek of
their tobacco-pipes floating up from their ranks.  It cheered them to
see that the murderous kopjes had, for the time, been left behind, and
that the great plain inclined slightly downwards to where a line of
green showed the course of the river. On the further bank were a few
scattered buildings, with one considerable hotel, used as a week-end
resort by the businessmen of Kimberley.  It lay now calm and innocent,
with its open windows looking out upon a smiling garden; but death
lurked at the windows and death in the garden, and the little dark man
who stood by the door, peering through his glass at the approaching
column, was the minister of death, the dangerous Cronje.  In
consultation with him was one who was to prove even more formidable,
and for a longer time.  Semitic in face, high-nosed, bushy-bearded,
and eagle-eyed, with skin burned brown by a life of the veldt -- it
was De la Rey, one of the trio of fighting chiefs whose name will always
be associated with the gallant resistance of the Boers.  He was there
as adviser, but Cronje was in supreme command.

His dispositions had been both masterly and original. Contrary to the
usual military practice in the defence of rivers, he had concealed his
men upon both banks, placing, as it is stated, those in whose
staunchness he had least confidence upon the British side of the
river, so that they could only retreat under the rifles of their
inexorable companions.  The trenches had been so dug with such a
regard for the slopes of the ground that in some places a triple line
of fire was secured. His artillery, consisting of several heavy pieces
and a number of machine guns (including one of the diabolical
'pompoms'), was cleverly placed upon the further side of the stream,
and was not only provided with shelter pits but had rows of reserve
pits, so that the guns could be readily shifted when their range was
found. Rows of trenches, a broadish river, fresh rows of trenches,
fortified houses, and a good artillery well worked and well placed, it
was a serious task which lay in front of the gallant little army.  The
whole position covered between four and five miles.

An obvious question must here occur to the mind of every non-military
reader -- ' Why should this position be attacked at all? Why should we
not cross higher up where there were no such formidable obstacles?'
The answer, so far as one can answer it, must be that so little was
known of the dispositions of our enemy that we were hopelessly
involved in the action before we knew of it, and that then it was more
dangerous to extricate the army than to push the attack.  A retirement
over that open plain at a range of under a thousand yards would have
been a dangerous and disastrous movement.  Having once got there, it
was wisest and best to see it through.

The dark Cronje still waited reflective in the hotel garden. Across
the veldt streamed the lines of infantry, the poor fellows eager,
after seven miles of that upland air, for the breakfast which had been
promised them. It was a quarter to seven when our patrols of Lancers
were fired upon.  There were Boers, then, between them and their meal!
The artillery was ordered up, the Guards were sent forward on the
right, the 9th Brigade under Pole-Carew on the left, including the
newly arrived Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. They swept onwards
into the fatal fire zone -- and then, and only then, there blazed out
upon them four miles of rifles, cannon, and machine guns, and they
realised, from general to private, that they had walked unwittingly
into the fiercest battle yet fought in the war.

Before the position was understood the Guards were within seven
hundred yards of the Boer trenches, and the other troops about nine
hundred, on the side of a very gentle slope which made it most
difficult to find any cover.  In front of them lay a serene landscape,
the river, the houses, the hotel, no movement of men, no smoke --
everything peaceful and deserted save for an occasional quick flash
and sparkle of flame. But the noise was horrible and appalling. Men
whose nerves had been steeled to the crash of the big guns, or the
monotonous roar of Maxims and the rattle of Mauser fire, found a new
terror in the malignant 'ploop-plooping' of the automatic
quick-firer. The Maxim of the Scots Guards was caught in the
hell-blizzard from this thing -- each shell no bigger than a large
walnut, but flying in strings of a score -- and men and gun were
destroyed in an instant. As to the rifle bullets the air was humming
and throbbing with them, and the sand was mottled like a pond in a
shower.  To advance was impossible, to retire was hateful. The men
fell upon their faces and huddled close to the earth, too happy if
some friendly ant-heap gave them a precarious shelter. And always,
tier above tier, the lines of rifle fire rippled and palpitated in
front of them.  The infantry fired also, and fired, and fired -- but
what was there to fire at? An occasional eye and hand over the edge of
a trench or behind a stone is no mark at seven hundred yards. It would
be instructive to know how many British bullets found a billet that
day.

The cavalry was useless, the infantry was powerless -- there only
remained the guns.  When any arm is helpless and harried it always
casts an imploring eye upon the guns, and rarely indeed is it that the
gallant guns do not respond. Now the 75th and 18th Field Batteries
came rattling and dashing to the front, and unlimbered at one thousand
yards. The naval guns were working at four thousand, but the two
combined were insufficient to master the fire of the pieces of large
calibre which were opposed to them. Lord Methuen must have prayed for
guns as Wellington did for night, and never was a prayer answered more
dramatically.  A strange battery came lurching up from the British
rear, unheralded, unknown, the weary gasping horses panting at the
traces, the men, caked with sweat and dirt, urging them on into a last
spasmodic trot.  The bodies of horses which had died of pure fatigue
marked their course, the sergeants' horses tugged in the gun-teams,
and the sergeants staggered along by the limbers. It was the 62nd
Field Battery, which had marched thirty-two miles in eight hours, and
now, hearing the crash of battle in front of them, had with one last
desperate effort thrown itself into the firing line.  Great credit is
due to Major Granet and his men.  Not even those gallant German
batteries who saved the infantry at Spicheren could boast of a finer
feat.

Now it was guns against guns, and let the best gunners win! We had
eighteen field-guns and the naval pieces against the concealed cannon
of the enemy. Back and forward flew the shells, howling past each
other in mid-air.  The weary men of the 62nd Battery forgot their
labours and fatigues as they stooped and strained at their
clay-coloured 15-pounders. Half of them were within rifle range, and
the limber horses were the centre of a hot fire, as they were destined
to be at a shorter range and with more disastrous effect at the
Tugela.  That the same tactics should have been adopted at two widely
sundered points shows with what care the details of the war had been
pre-arranged by the Boer leaders.  'Before I got my horses out,' says
an officer, 'they shot one of my drivers and two horses and brought
down my own horse. When we got the gun round one of the gunners was
shot through the brain and fell at my feet.  Another was shot while
bringing up shell.  Then we got a look in.' The roar of the cannon was
deafening, but gradually the British were gaining the upper hand. Here
and there the little knolls upon the further side which had erupted
into constant flame lay cold and silent.  One of the heavier guns was
put out of action, and the other had been withdrawn for five hundred
yards. But the infantry fire still crackled and rippled along the
trenches, and the guns could come no nearer with living men and
horses. It was long past midday, and that unhappy breakfast seemed
further off than ever.

As the afternoon wore on, a curious condition of things was
established.  The guns could not advance, and, indeed, it was found
necessary to withdraw them from a 1,200 to a 2,800 yard range, so
heavy were the losses. At the time of the change the 75th Battery had
lost three officers out of five, nineteen men, and twenty-two horses.
The infantry could not advance and would not retire.  The Guards on
the right were prevented from opening out on the flank and getting
round the enemy's line, by the presence of the Riet River, which joins
the Modder almost at a right angle. All day they lay under a
blistering sun, the sleet of bullets whizzing over their heads.  'It
came in solid streaks like telegraph wires,' said a graphic
correspondent.  The men gossiped, smoked, and many of them slept.
They lay on the barrels of their rifles to keep them cool enough for
use.  Now and again there came the dull thud of a bullet which had
found its mark, and a man gasped, or drummed with his feet; but the
casualties at this point were not numerous, for there was some little
cover, and the piping bullets passed for the most part overhead.

But in the meantime there had been a development upon the left which
was to turn the action into a British victory. At this side there was
ample room to extend, and the 9th Brigade spread out, feeling its way
down the enemy's line, until it came to a point where the fire was
less murderous and the approach to the river more in favour of the
attack. Here the Yorkshires, a party of whom under Lieutenant Fox had
stormed a farmhouse, obtained the command of a drift, over which a
mixed force of Highlanders and Fusiliers forced their way, led by
their Brigadier in person.  This body of infantry, which does not
appear to have exceeded five hundred in number, were assailed both by
the Boer riflemen and by the guns of both parties, our own gunners
being unaware that the Modder had been successfully crossed.  A small
hamlet called Rosmead formed, however, a POINT D'APPUI, and to this
the infantry clung tenaciously, while reinforcements dribbled across
to them from the farther side.  'Now, boys, who's for otter hunting?'
cried Major Coleridge, of the North Lancashires, as he sprang into the
water. How gladly on that baking, scorching day did the men jump into
the river and splash over, to climb the opposite bank with their wet
khaki clinging to their figures!  Some blundered into holes and were
rescued by grasping the unwound putties of their comrades. And so
between three and four o'clock a strong party of the British had
established their position upon the right flank of the Boers, and were
holding on like grim death with an intelligent appreciation that the
fortunes of the day depended upon their retaining their grip.

'Hollo, here is a river!' cried Codrington when he led his forlorn
hope to the right and found that the Riet had to be crossed.  'I was
given to understand that the Modder was fordable everywhere,' says
Lord Methuen in his official despatch.  One cannot read the account of
the operations without being struck by the casual, sketchy knowledge
which cost us so dearly.  The soldiers slogged their way through, as
they have slogged it before; but the task might have been made much
lighter for them had we but clearly known what it was that we were
trying to do.  On the other hand, it is but fair to Lord Methuen to
say that his own personal gallantry and unflinching resolution set the
most stimulating example to his troops.  No General could have done
more to put heart into his men.

And now, as the long weary scorching hungry day came to an end, the
Boers began at last to flinch from their trenches.  The shrapnel was
finding them out and this force upon their flank filled them with
vague alarm and with fears for their precious guns. And so as night
fell they stole across the river, the cannon were withdrawn, the
trenches evacuated, and next morning, when the weary British and their
anxious General turned themselves to their grim task once more, they
found a deserted village, a line of empty houses, and a litter of
empty Mauser cartridge-cases to show where their tenacious enemy had
stood.

Lord Methuen, in congratulating the troops upon their achievement,
spoke of 'the hardest-won victory in our annals of war,' and some such
phrase was used in his official despatch.  It is hypercritical, no
doubt, to look too closely at a term used by a wounded man with the
flush of battle still upon him, but still a student of military
history must smile at such a comparison between this action and such
others as Albuera or Inkerman, where the numbers of British engaged
were not dissimilar. A fight in which five hundred men are killed and
wounded cannot be classed in the same category as those stern and
desperate encounters where more of the victors were carried than
walked from the field of battle. And yet there were some special
features which will differentiate the fight at Modder River from any
of the hundred actions which adorn the standards of our regiments. It
was the third battle which the troops had fought within the week, they
were under fire for ten or twelve hours, were waterless under a
tropical sun, and weak from want of food. For the first time they were
called upon to face modern rifle fire and modern machine guns in the
open.  The result tends to prove that those who hold that it will from
now onwards be impossible ever to make such frontal attacks as those
which the English made at the Alma or the French at Waterloo, are
justified in their belief.  It is beyond human hardihood to face the
pitiless beat of bullet and shell which comes from modern quick-firing
weapons. Had our flank not made a lodgment across the river, it is
impossible that we could have carried the position. Once more, too, it
was demonstrated how powerless the best artillery is to disperse
resolute and well-placed riflemen.  Of the minor points of interest
there will always remain the record of the forced march of the 62nd
Battery, and artillerymen will note the use of gun-pits by the Boers,
which ensured that the range of their positions should never be
permanently obtained.

The honours of the day upon the side of the British rested with the
Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, the Yorkshire Light Infantry, the
2nd Coldstreams, and the artillery.  Out of a total casualty list of
about 450, no fewer than 112 came from the gallant Argylls and 69 from
the Coldstreams.  The loss of the Boers is exceedingly difficult to
gauge, as they throughout the war took the utmost pains to conceal it.
The number of desperate and long-drawn actions which have ended,
according to the official Pretorian account, in a loss of one wounded
burgher may in some way be better policy, but does not imply a higher
standard of public virtue, than those long lists which have saddened
our hearts in the halls of the War Office.  What is certain is that
the loss at Modder River could not have been far inferior to our own,
and that it arose almost entirely from artillery fire, since at no
time of the action were any large number of their riflemen visible.
So it ended, this long pelting match, Cronje sullenly withdrawing
under the cover of darkness with his resolute heart filled with fierce
determination for the future, while the British soldiers threw
themselves down on the ground which they occupied and slept the sleep
of exhaustion,

CHAPTER IX

BATTLE OF MAGERSFONTEIN

Lord Methuen's force had now fought three actions in the space of a
single week, losing in killed and wounded about a thousand men, or
rather more than one-tenth of its total numbers. Had there been
evidence that the enemy were seriously demoralised, the General would
no doubt have pushed on at once to Kimberley, which was some twenty
miles distant.  The information which reached him was, however, that
the Boers had fallen back upon the very strong position of
Spytfontein, that they were full of fight, and that they had been
strongly reinforced by a commando from Mafeking. Under these
circumstances Lord Methuen had no choice but to give his men a
well-earned rest, and to await reinforcements.  There was no use in
reaching Kimberley unless he had completely defeated the investing
force. With the history of the first relief of Lucknow in his memory
he was on his guard against a repetition of such an experience.

It was the more necessary that Methuen should strengthen his position,
since with every mile which he advanced the more exposed did his line
of communications become to a raid from Fauresmith and the southern
districts of the Orange Free State. Any serious danger to the railway
behind them would leave the British Army in a very critical position,
and precautions were taken for the protection of the more vulnerable
portions of the line.  It was well that this was so, for on the 8th of
December Commandant Prinsloo, of the Orange Free State, with a
thousand horsemen and two light seven-pounder guns, appeared suddenly
at Enslin and vigorously attacked the two companies of the Northampton
Regiment who held the station. At the same time they destroyed a
couple of culverts and tore up three hundred yards of the permanent
way. For some hours the Northamptons under Captain Godley were closely
pressed, but a telegram had been despatched to Modder Camp, and the
12th Lancers with the ubiquitous 62nd Battery were sent to their
assistance.  The Boers retired with their usual mobility, and in ten
hours the line was completely restored.

Reinforcements were now reaching the Modder River force, which made it
more formidable than when it had started.  A very essential addition
was that of the 12th Lancers and of G battery of Horse Artillery,
which would increase the mobility of the force and make it possible
for the General to follow up a blow after he had struck it. The
magnificent regiments which formed the Highland Brigade -- the 2nd
Black Watch, the 1st Gordons, the 2nd Seaforths, and the 1st Highland
Light Infantry had arrived under the gallant and ill-fated
Wauchope. Four five-inch howitzers had also come to strengthen the
artillery.  At the same time the Canadians, the Australians, and
several line regiments were moved up on the line from De Aar to
Belmont.  It appeared to the public at home that there was the
material for an overwhelming advance; but the ordinary observer, and
even perhaps the military critic, had not yet appreciated how great is
the advantage which is given by modern weapons to the force which acts
upon the defensive. With enormous pains Cronje and De la Rey were
entrenching a most formidable position in front of our advance, with a
confidence, which proved to be justified that it would be on their own
ground and under their own conditions that in this, as in the three
preceding actions, we should engage them.

On the morning of Saturday, December 9th, the British General made an
attempt to find out what lay in front of him amid that semicircle of
forbidding hills.  To this end he sent out a reconnaissance in the
early morning, which included G Battery Horse Artillery, the 9th
Lancers, and the ponderous 4-7 naval gun, which, preceded by the
majestic march of thirty-two bullocks and attended by eighty seamen
gunners, creaked forwards over the plain.  What was there to shoot at
in those sunlit boulder-strewn hills in front? They lay silent and
untenanted in the glare of the African day.  In vain the great gun
exploded its huge shell with its fifty pounds of lyddite over the
ridges, in vain the smaller pieces searched every cleft and hollow
with their shrapnel.  No answer came from the far-stretching hills.
Not a flash or twinkle betrayed the fierce bands who lurked among the
boulders.  The force returned to camp no wiser than when it left.

There was one sight visible every night to all men which might well
nerve the rescuers in their enterprise. Over the northern horizon,
behind those hills of danger, there quivered up in the darkness one
long, flashing, quivering beam, which swung up and down, and up again
like a seraphic sword-blade.  It was Kimberley praying for help,
Kimberley solicitous for news. Anxiously, distractedly, the great De
Beers searchlight dipped and rose.  And back across the twenty miles
of darkness, over the hills where Cronje lurked, there came that other
southern column of light which answered, and promised, and soothed.
'Be of good heart, Kimberley. We are here! The Empire is behind us.
We have not forgotten you.  It may be days, or it may be weeks, but
rest assured that we are coming.'

About three in the afternoon of Sunday, December 10th, the force which
was intended to clear a path for the army through the lines of
Magersfontein moved out upon what proved to be its desperate
enterprise.  The 3rd or Highland Brigade included the Black Watch, the
Seaforths, the Argyll and Sutherlands, and the Highland Light
Infantry.  The Gordons had only arrived in camp that day, and did not
advance until next morning. Besides the infantry, the 9th Lancers, the
mounted infantry, and all the artillery moved to the front.  It was
raining hard, and the men with one blanket between two soldiers
bivouacked upon the cold damp ground, about three miles from the
enemy's position.  At one o'clock, without food, and drenched, they
moved forwards through the drizzle and the darkness to attack those
terrible lines.  Major Benson, R.A., with two of Rimington's scouts,
led them on their difficult way.

Clouds drifted low in the heavens, and the falling rain made the
darkness more impenetrable.  The Highland Brigade was formed into a
column -- the Black Watch in front, then the Seaforths, and the other
two behind.  To prevent the men from straggling in the night the four
regiments were packed into a mass of quarter column as densely as was
possible, and the left guides held a rope in order to preserve the
formation.  With many a trip and stumble the ill-fated detachment
wandered on, uncertain where they were going and what it was that they
were meant to do. Not only among the rank and file, but among the
principal officers also, there was the same absolute
ignorance. Brigadier Wauchope knew, no doubt, but his voice was soon
to be stilled in death.  The others were aware, of course, that they
were advancing either to turn the enemy's trenches or to attack them,
but they may well have argued from their own formation that they could
not be near the riflemen yet.  Why they should be still advancing in
that dense clump we do not now know, nor can we surmise what thoughts
were passing through the mind of the gallant and experienced chieftain
who walked beside them.  There are some who claim on the night before
to have seen upon his strangely ascetic face that shadow of doom which
is summed up in the one word 'fey.'  The hand of coming death may
already have lain cold upon his soul.  Out there, close beside him,
stretched the long trench, fringed with its line of fierce, staring,
eager faces, and its bristle of gun-barrels.  They knew he was
coming. They were ready.  They were waiting.  But still, with the dull
murmur of many feet, the dense column, nearly four thousand strong,
wandered onwards through the rain and the darkness, death and
mutilation crouching upon their path.

It matters not what gave the signal, whether it was the flashing of a
lantern by a Boer scout, or the tripping of a soldier over wire, or
the firing of a gun in the ranks. It may have been any, or it may have
been none, of these things. As a matter of fact I have been assured by
a Boer who was present that it was the sound of the tins attached to
the alarm wires which disturbed them. However this may be, in an
instant there crashed out of the darkness into their faces and ears a
roar of point-blank fire, and the night was slashed across with the
throbbing flame of the rifles. At the moment before this outflame some
doubt as to their whereabouts seems to have flashed across the mind of
their leaders. The order to extend had just been given, but the men
bad not had time to act upon it.  The storm of lead burst upon the
head and right flank of the column, which broke to pieces under the
murderous volley. Wauchope was shot, struggled up, and fell once more
for ever. Rumour has placed words of reproach upon his dying lips, but
his nature, both gentle and soldierly, forbids the supposition.  'What
a pity!' was the only utterance which a brother Highlander ascribes to
him.  Men went down in swathes, and a howl of rage and agony, heard
afar over the veldt, swelled up from the frantic and struggling crowd.
By the hundred they dropped -- some dead, some wounded, some knocked
down by the rush and sway of the broken ranks.  It was a horrible
business. At such a range and in such a formation a single Mauser
bullet may well pass through many men.  A few dashed forwards, and
were found dead at the very edges of the trench. The few survivors of
companies A, B, and C of the Black Watch appear to have never actually
retired, but to have clung on to the immediate front of the Boer
trenches, while the remains of the other five companies tried to turn
the Boer flank.  Of the former body only six got away unhurt in the
evening after lying all day within two hundred yards of the enemy. The
rest of the brigade broke and, disentangling themselves with
difficulty from the dead and the dying, fled back out of that accursed
place.  Some, the most unfortunate of all, became caught in the
darkness in the wire defences, and were found in the morning hung up
'like crows,' as one spectator describes it, and riddled with bullets.

Who shall blame the Highlanders for retiring when they did? Viewed,
not by desperate and surprised men, but in all calmness and sanity, it
may well seem to have been the very best thing which they could do.
Dashed into chaos, separated from their officers, with no one who knew
what was to be done, the first necessity was to gain shelter from this
deadly fire, which had already stretched six hundred of their number
upon the ground.  The danger was that men so shaken would be stricken
with panic, scatter in the darkness over the face of the country, and
cease to exist as a military unit.  But the Highlanders were true to
their character and their traditions.  There was shouting in the
darkness, hoarse voices calling for the Seaforths, for the Argylls,
for Company C, for Company H, and everywhere in the gloom there came
the answer of the clansmen.  Within half an hour with the break of day
the Highland regiments had re-formed, and, shattered and weakened, but
undaunted, prepared to renew the contest. Some attempt at an advance
was made upon the right, ebbing and flowing, one little band even
reaching the trenches and coming back with prisoners and reddened
bayonets.  For the most part the men lay upon their faces, and fired
when they could at the enemy; but the cover which the latter kept was
so excellent that an officer who expended 120 rounds has left it upon
record that he never once had seen anything positive at which to aim.
Lieutenant Lindsay brought the Seaforths' Maxim into the firing-line,
and, though all her crew except two were hit, it continued to do good
service during the day.  The Lancers' Maxim was equally staunch,
though it also was left finally with only the lieutenant in charge and
one trooper to work it.

Fortunately the guns were at hand, and, as usual, they were quick to
come to the aid of the distressed. The sun was hardly up before the
howitzers were throwing lyddite at 4,000 yards, the three field
batteries (18th, 62nd, 75th) were working with shrapnel at a mile, and
the troop of Horse Artillery was up at the right front trying to
enfilade the trenches.  The guns kept down the rifle-fire, and gave
the wearied Highlanders some respite from their troubles.  The whole
situation had resolved itself now into another Battle of Modder
River. The infantry, under a fire at from six hundred to eight hundred
paces, could not advance and would not retire. The artillery only kept
the battle going, and the huge naval gun from behind was joining with
its deep bark in the deafening uproar.  But the Boers had already
learned -- and it is one of their most valuable military qualities
that they assimilate their experience so quickly -- that shell fire is
less dangerous in a trench than among rocks.  These trenches, very
elaborate in character, had been dug some hundreds of yards from the
foot of the hills, so that there was hardly any guide to our artillery
fire.  Yet it is to the artillery fire that all the losses of the
Boers that day were due. The cleverness of Cronje's disposition of his
trenches some hundred yards ahead of the kopjes is accentuated by the
fascination which any rising object has for a gunner.  Prince Kraft
tells the story of how at Sadowa he unlimbered his guns two hundred
yards in front of the church of Chlum, and how the Austrian reply fire
almost invariably pitched upon the steeple.  So our own gunners, even
at a two-thousand yard mark, found it difficult to avoid overshooting
the invisible line, and hitting the obvious mark behind.

As the day wore on reinforcements of infantry came up from the force
which had been left to guard the camp. The Gordons arrived with the
first and second battalions of the Coldstream Guards, and all the
artillery was moved nearer to the enemy's position. At the same time,
as there were some indications of an attack upon our right flank, the
Grenadier Guards with five companies of the Yorkshire Light Infantry
were moved up in that direction, while the three remaining companies
of Barter's Yorkshiremen secured a drift over which the enemy might
cross the Modder.  This threatening movement upon our right flank,
which would have put the Highlanders into an impossible position had
it succeeded, was most gallantly held back all morning, before the
arrival of the Guards and the Yorkshires, by the mounted infantry and
the 12th Lancers, skirmishing on foot.  It was in this long and
successful struggle to cover the flank of the 3rd Brigade that Major
Milton, Major Ray, and many another brave man met his end.  The
Coldstreams and Grenadiers relieved the pressure upon this side, and
the Lancers retired to their horses, having shown, not for the first
time, that the cavalryman with a modern carbine can at a pinch very
quickly turn himself into a useful infantry soldier.  Lord Airlie
deserves all praise for his unconventional use of his men, and for the
gallantry with which he threw both himself and them into the most
critical corner of the fight.

While the Coldstreams, the Grenadiers, and the Yorkshire Light
Infantry were holding back the Boer attack upon our right flank the
indomitable Gordons, the men of Dargai, furious with the desire to
avenge their comrades of the Highland Brigade, had advanced straight
against the trenches and succeeded without any very great loss in
getting within four hundred yards of them.  But a single regiment
could not carry the position, and anything like a general advance upon
it was out of the question in broad daylight after the punishment
which we had received. Any plans of the sort which may have passed
through Lord Methuen's mind were driven away for ever by the sudden
unordered retreat of the stricken brigade.  They had been very roughly
handled in this, which was to most of them their baptism of fire, and
they had been without food and water under a burning sun all day.
They fell back rapidly for a mile, and the guns were for a time left
partially exposed.  Fortunately the lack of initiative on the part of
the Boers which has stood our friend so often came in to save us from
disaster and humiliation. It is due to the brave unshaken face which
the Guards presented to the enemy that our repulse did not deepen into
something still more serious.

The Gordons and the Scots Guards were still in attendance upon the
guns, but they had been advanced very close to the enemy's trenches,
and there were no other troops in support.  Under these circumstances
it was imperative that the Highlanders should rally, and Major Ewart
with other surviving officers rushed among the scattered ranks and
strove hard to gather and to stiffen them.  The men were dazed by what
they had undergone, and Nature shrank back from that deadly zone where
the bullets fell so thickly.  But the pipes blew, and the bugles sang,
and the poor tired fellows, the backs of their legs so flayed and
blistered by lying in the sun that they could hardly bend them,
hobbled back to their duty.  They worked up to the guns once more, and
the moment of danger passed.

But as the evening wore on it became evident that no attack could
succeed, and that therefore there was no use in holding the men in
front of the enemy's position. The dark Cronje, lurking among his
ditches and his barbed wire, was not to be approached, far less
defeated. There are some who think that, had we held on there as we
did at the Modder River, the enemy would again have been accommodating
enough to make way for us during the night, and the morning would have
found the road clear to Kimberley.  I know no grounds for such an
opinion -- but several against it.  At Modder Cronje abandoned his
lines, knowing that he had other and stronger ones behind him. At
Magersfontein a level plain lay behind the Boer position, and to
abandon it was to give up the game altogether.  Besides, why should he
abandon it? He knew that he had hit us hard. We had made absolutely no
impression upon his defences. Is it likely that he would have tamely
given up all his advantages and surrendered the fruits of his victory
without a struggle? It is enough to mourn a defeat without the
additional agony of thinking that a little more perseverance might
have turned it into a victory.  The Boer position could only be taken
by outflanking it, and we were not numerous enough nor mobile enough
to outflank it. There lay the whole secret of our troubles, and no
conjectures as to what might under other circumstances have happened
can alter it.

About half-past five the Boer guns, which had for some unexplained
reason been silent all day, opened upon the cavalry.  Their appearance
was a signal for the general falling back of the centre, and the last
attempt to retrieve the day was abandoned.  The Highlanders were
dead-beat ; the Coldstreams had had enough; the mounted infantry was
badly mauled. There remained the Grenadiers, the Scots Guards, and two
or three line regiments who were available for a new attack.  There
are occasions, such as Sadowa, where a General must play his last
card. There are others where with reinforcements in his rear, he can
do better by saving his force and trying once again.  General Grant
had an axiom that the best time for an advance was when you were
utter]y exhausted, for that was the moment when your enemy was
probably utterly exhausted too, and of two such forces the attacker
has the moral advantage.  Lord Methuen determined -- and no doubt
wisely -- that it was no occasion for counsels of desperation.  His
men were withdrawn -- in some cases withdrew themselves -- outside the
range of the Boer guns, and next morning saw the whole force with
bitter and humiliated hearts on their way back to their camp at Modder
River.

The repulse of Magersfontein cost the British nearly a thousand men,
killed, wounded, and missing, of which over seven hundred belonged to
the Highlanders. Fifty-seven officers had fallen in that brigade alone,
including their Brigadier and Colonel Downman of the Gordons. Colonel
Codrington of the Coldstreams was wounded early, fought through the
action, and came back in the evening on a Maxim gun.  Lord Winchester
of the same battalion was killed, after injudiciously but heroically
exposing himself all day. The Black Watch alone had lost nineteen
officers and over three hundred men killed and wounded, a catastrophe
which can only be matched in all the bloody and glorious annals of
that splendid regiment by their slaughter at Ticonderoga in 1757, when
no fewer than five hundred fell before Montcalm's muskets. Never has
Scotland had a more grievous day than this of Magersfontein. She has
always given her best blood with lavish generosity for the Empire, but
it may be doubted if any single battle has ever put so many families
of high and low into mourning from the Tweed to the Caithness
shore. There is a legend that when sorrow comes upon Scotland the old
Edinburgh Castle is lit by ghostly lights and gleams white at every
window in the mirk of midnight. If ever the watcher could have seen so
sinister a sight, it should have been on this, the fatal night of
December 11, 1899. As to the Boer loss it is impossible to determine
it.  Their official returns stated it to be seventy killed and two
hundred and fifty wounded, but the reports of prisoners and deserters
placed it at a very much higher figure. One unit, the Scandinavian
corps, was placed in an advanced position at Spytfontein, and was
overwhelmed by the Seaforths, who killed, wounded, or took the eighty
men of whom it was composed.  The stories of prisoners and of
deserters all speak of losses very much higher than those which have
been officially acknowledged.

In his comments upon the battle next day Lord Methuen was said to have
given offence to the Highland Brigade, and the report was allowed to
go uncontradicted until it became generally accepted.  It arose,
however, from a complete misunderstanding of the purport of Lord
Methuen's remarks, in which he praised them, as he well might, for
their bravery, and condoled with them over the wreck of their splendid
regiments. The way in which officers and men hung on under conditions
to which no troops have ever been exposed was worthy of the highest
traditions of the British army.  From the death of Wauchope in the
early morning, until the assumption of the command of the brigade by
Hughes-Hallett in the late afternoon, no one seems to have taken the
direction.  'My lieutenant was wounded and my captain was killed,'
says a private. 'The General was dead, but we stayed where we were,
for there was no order to retire.'  That was the story of the whole
brigade, until the flanking movement of the Boers compelled them to
fall back.

The most striking lesson of the engagement is the extreme bloodiness
of modern warfare under some conditions, and its bloodlessness under
others.  Here, out of a total of something under a thousand casualties
seven hundred were incurred in about five minutes, and the whole day
of shell, machine-gun, and rifle fire only furnished the odd three
hundred.  So also at Ladysmith the British forces (White's column)
were under heavy fire from 5.30 to 11.30, and the loss again was
something under three hundred.  With conservative generalship the
losses of the battles of the future will be much less than those of
the past, and as a consequence the battles themselves will last much
longer, and it will be the most enduring rather than the most fiery
which will win.  The supply of food and water to the combatants will
become of extreme importance to keep them up during the prolonged
trials of endurance, which will last for weeks rather than days.  On
the other hand, when a General's force is badly compromised, it will
be so punished that a quick surrender will be the only alternative to
annihilation.

On the subject of the quarter-column formation which proved so fatal
to us, it must be remembered that any other form of advance is hardly
possible during a night attack, though at Tel-el-Kebir the exceptional
circumstance of the march being over an open desert allowed the troops
to move for the last mile or two in a more extended formation.  A line
of battalion double-company columns is most difficult to preserve in
tho darkness, and any confusion may lead to disaster.  The whole
mistake lay in a miscalculation of a few hundred yards in the position
of the trenches.  Had the regiments deployed five minutes earlier it
is probable (though by no means certain) that the position would have
been carried.

The action was not without those examples of military virtue which
soften a disaster, and hold out a brighter promise for the future.
The Guards withdrew from the field as if on parade, with the Boer
shells bursting over their ranks. Fine, too, was the restraint of G
Battery of Horse Artillery on the morning after the battle.  An
armistice was understood to exist, but the naval gun, in ignorance of
it, opened on our extreme left.  The Boers at once opened fire upon
the Horse Artillery, who, recognising the mistake, remained motionless
and unlimbered in a line, with every horse, and gunner and driver in
his place, without taking any notice of the fire, which presently
slackened and stopped as the enemy came to understand the situation.
It is worthy of remark that in this battle the three field batteries
engaged, as well as G Battery, R.ll.A., each fired over 1,000 rounds
and remained for 30 consecutive hours within 1,500 yards of the Boer
position.

But of all the corps who deserve praise, there was none more gallant
than the brave surgeons and ambulance bearers, who encounter all the
dangers and enjoy none of the thrills of warfare. All day under fire
these men worked and toiled among the wounded. Beevor, Ensor, Douglas,
Probyn -- all were equally devoted.  It is almost incredible, and yet
it is true, that by ten o'clock on the morning after the battle,
before the troops had returned to camp, no fewer than five hundred
wounded were in the train and on their way to Cape Town.


CHAPTER X

THE BATTLE OF STORMBERG

Some attempt has now been made to sketch the succession of events
which had ended in the investment of Ladysmith in northern Natal, and
also to show the fortunes of the force which on the western side of
the seat of war attempted to advance to the relief of Kimberley.  The
distance between these forces may be expressed in terms familiar to
the European reader by saying that it was that which separates Paris
from Frankfort, or to the American by suggesting that Ladysmith was at
Boston and that Methuen was trying to relieve Philadelphia. Waterless
deserts and rugged mountain ranges divided the two scenes of action.
In the case of the British there could be no connection between the
two movements, but the Boers by a land journey of something over a
hundred miles had a double choice of a route by which Cronje and
Joubert might join hands, either by the
Bloemfontein-Johannesburg-Laing's-Nek Railway, or by the direct line
from Harrismith to Ladysmith. The possession of these internal lines
should have been of enormous benefit to the Boers, enabling them to
throw the weight of their forces unexpectedly from the one flank to
the other.

In a future chapter it will be recorded how the Army Corps arriving
from England was largely diverted into Natal in order in the first
instance to prevent the colony from being overrun, and in the second
to rescue the beleaguered garrison.  In the meantime it is necessary
to deal with the military operations in the broad space between the
eastern and western armies.

After the declaration of war there was a period of some weeks during
which the position of the British over the whole of the northern part
of Cape Colony was full of danger.  Immense supplies had been gathered
at De Aar which were at the mercy of a Free State raid, and the
burghers, had they possessed a cavalry leader with the dash of a
Stuart or a Sheridan, might have dealt a blow which would have cost us
a million pounds' worth of stores and dislocated the whole plan of
campaign. However, the chance was allowed to pass, and when, on
November 1st, the burghers at last in a leisurely fashion sauntered
over the frontier, arrangements had been made by reinforcement and by
concentration to guard the vital points. The objects of the British
leaders, until the time for a general advance should come, were to
hold the Orange River Bridge (which opened the way to Kimberley), to
cover De Aar Junction, where the stores were, to protect at all costs
the line of railway which led from Cape Town to Kimberley, and to hold
on to as much as possible of those other two lines of railway which
led, the one through Colesberg and the other through Stormberg, into
the Free State.  The two bodies of invaders who entered the colony
moved along the line of these two railways, the one crossing the
Orange River at Norval's Pont and the other at Bethulie.  They
enlisted many recruits among the Cape Colony Dutch as they advanced,
and the scanty British forces fell back in front of them, abandoning
Colesberg on the one line and Stormberg on the other. We have, then,
to deal with the movements of two British detachments.  The one which
operated on the Colesberg line -- which was the more vital of the two, as
a rapid advance of the Boers upon that line would have threatened the
precious Capetown-Kimberley connection -- consisted almost entirely of
mounted troops, and was under the command of the same General French
who had won the battle of Elandslaagte.  By an act of foresight which
was only too rare upon the British side in the earlier stages of this
war, French, who had in the recent large manoeuvres on Salisbury Plain
shown great ability as a cavalry leader, was sent out of Ladysmith
in the very last train which made its way through. His operations,
with his instructive use of cavalry and horse artillery, may be
treated separately.

The other British force which faced the Boers who were advancing
through Stormberg was commanded by General Gatacre, a man who bore a
high reputation for fearlessness and tireless energy, though he had
been criticised, notably during the Soudan campaign, for having called
upon his men for undue and unnecessary exertion.  'General Back-acher'
they called him, with rough soldierly chaff.  A glance at his long
thin figure, his gaunt Don-Quixote face, and his aggressive jaw would
show his personal energy, but might not satisfy the observer that he
possessed those intellectual gifts which qualify for high command. At
the action of the Atbara he, the brigadier in command, was the first
to reach and to tear down with his own hands the zareeba of the enemy
-- a gallant exploit of the soldier, but a questionable position for
the General.  The man's strength and his weakness lay in the incident.

General Gatacre was nominally in command of a division, but so cruelly
had his men been diverted from him, some to Buller in Natal and some
to Methuen, that he could not assemble more than a brigade. Falling
back before the Boer advance, he found himself early in December at
Sterkstroom, while the Boers occupied the very strong position of
Stormberg, some thirty miles to the north of him. With the enemy so
near him it was Gatacre's nature to attack, and the moment that he
thought himself strong enough he did so.  No doubt he had private
information as to the dangerous hold which the Boers were getting upon
the colonial Dutch, and it is possible that while Buller and Methuen
were attacking east and west they urged Gatacre to do something to
hold the enemy in the centre.  On the night of December 9th he
advanced.

The fact that he was about to do so, and even the hour of the start,
appear to have been the common property of the camp some days before
the actual move. The 'Times' correspondent under the date December 7th
details all that it is intended to do. It is to the credit of our
Generals as men, but to their detriment as soldiers, that they seem
throughout the campaign to have shown extraordinarily little power of
dissimulation. They did the obvious, and usually allowed it to be
obvious what they were about to do.  One thinks of Napoleon striking
at Egypt; how he gave it abroad that the real object of the expedition
was Ireland, but breathed into the ears of one or two intimates that
in very truth it was bound for Genoa.  The leading official at Tolilon
had no more idea where the fleet and army of France had gone than the
humblest caulker in the yard. However, it is not fair to expect the
subtlety of the Corsican from the downright Saxon, but it remains
strange and deplorable that in a country filled with spies any one
should have known in advance that a so-called 'surprise' was about to
be attempted.

The force with which General Gatacre advanced consisted of the 2nd
Northumberland Fusiliers, 960 strong, with one Maxim; the 2nd Irish
Rifles, 840 strong, with one Maxim, and 250 Mounted Infantry. There
were two batteries of Field Artillery, the 74th and 77th. The total
force was well under 3,000 men.  About three in the afternoon the men
were entrained in open trucks under a burning sun, and for some
reason, at which the impetuous spirit of the General must have chafed,
were kept waiting for three hours.  At eight o'clock they detrained at
Molteno, and thence after a short rest and a meal they started upon
the night march which was intended to end at the break of day at the
Boer trenches. One feels as if one were describing the operations of
Magersfontein once again and the parallel continues to be painfully
exact.

It was nine o'clock and pitch dark when the column moved out of
Molteno and struck across the black gloom of the veldt, the wheels of
the guns being wrapped in hide to deaden the rattle.  It was known
that the distance was not more than ten miles, and so when hour
followed hour and the guides were still unable to say that they had
reached their point it must have become perfectly evident that they
had missed their way.  The men were dog-tired, a long day's work had
been followed by a long night's march, and they plodded along drowsily
through the darkness.  The ground was broken and irregular. The weary
soldiers stumbled as they marched. Daylight came and revealed the
column still looking for its objective, the fiery General walking in
front and leading his horse behind him.  It was evident that his plans
had miscarried, but his energetic and hardy temperament would not
permit him to turn back without a blow being struck.  However one may
commend his energy, one cannot but stand aghast at his dispositions.
The country was wild and rocky, the very places for those tactics of
the surprise and the ambuscade in which the Boers excelled. And yet
the column still plodded aimlessly on in its dense formation, and if
there were any attempt at scouting ahead and on the flanks the result
showed how ineffectively it was carried out.  It was at a quarter past
four in the clear light of a South African morning that a shot, and
then another, and then a rolling crash of musketry, told that we were
to have one more rough lesson of the result of neglecting the usual
precautions of warfare. High up on the face of a steep line of hill
the Boer riflemen lay hid, and from a short range their fire scourged
our exposed flank.  The men appear to have been chiefly colonial
rebels, and not Boers of the backveldt, and to that happy chance it
may be that the comparative harmlessness of their fire was due. Even
now, in spite of the surprise, the situation might have been saved had
the bewildered troops and their harried officers known exactly what to
do.  It is easy to be wise after the event, but it appears now that
the only course that could commend itself would be to extricate the
troops from their position, and then, if thought feasible, to plan an
attack.  Instead of this a rush was made at the hillside, and the
infantry made their way some distance up it only to find that there
were positive ledges in front of them which could not be climbed. The
advance was at a dead stop, and the men lay down under the boulders
for cover from the hot fire which came from inaccessible marksmen
above them. Meanwhile the artillery had opened behind them, and their
fire (not for the first time in this campaign) was more deadly to
their friends than to their foes.  At least one prominent officer fell
among his men, torn by British shrapnel bullets. Talana Hill and
Modder River have shown also, though perhaps in a less tragic degree,
that what with the long range of modern artillery fire, and what with
the difficulty of locating infantry who are using smokeless powder, it
is necessary that officers commanding batteries should be provided
with the coolest heads and the most powerful glasses of any men in the
service, for a responsibility which will become more and more terrific
rests upon their judgment.

The question now, since the assault had failed, was how to extricate
the men from their position. Many withdrew down the hill, running the
gauntlet of the enemy's fire as they emerged from the boulders on to
the open ground, while others clung to their positions, some from a
soldierly hope that victory might finally incline to them, others
because it was clearly safer to lie among the rocks than to cross the
bullet-swept spaces beyond.  Those portions of the force who
extricated themselves do not appear to have realised how many of their
comrades had remained behind, and so as the gap gradually increased
between the men who were stationary and the men who fell back all hope
of the two bodies reuniting became impossible. All the infantry who
remained upon the hillside were captured.  The rest rallied at a point
fifteen hundred yards from the scene of the surprise, and began an
orderly retreat to Molteno.

In the meanwhile three powerful Boer guns upon the ridge had opened
fire with great accuracy, but fortunately with defective shells.  Had
the enemy's contractors been as trustworthy as their gunners in this
campaign, our losses would have been very much heavier, and it is
possible that here we catch a glimpse of some consequences of that
corruption which was one of the curses of the country.  The guns were
moved with great smartness along the ridge, and opened fire again and
again, but never with great result. Our own batteries, the 74th and
77th, with our handful of mounted men, worked hard in covering the
retreat and holding back the enemy's pursuit.

It is a sad subject to discuss, but it is the one instance in a
campaign containing many reverses which amounts to demoralisation
among the troops engaged. The Guards marching with the steadiness of
Hyde Park off the field of Magersfontein, or the men of Nicholson's
Nek chafing because they were not led in a last hopeless charge, are,
even in defeat, object lessons of military virtue. But here fatigue
and sleeplessness had taken all fire and spirit out of the men.  They
dropped asleep by the roadside and had to be prodded up by their
exhausted officers.  Many were taken prisoners in their slumber by the
enemy who gleaned behind them.  Units broke into small straggling
bodies, and it was a sorry and bedraggled force which about ten
o'clock came wandering into Molteno.  The place of honour in the rear
was kept throughout by the Irish Rifles, who preserved some military
formation to the end.

Our losses in killed and wounded were not severe -- military honour would
have been less sore had they been more so.  Twenty-six killed,
sixty-eight wounded -- that is all.  But between the men on the hillside
and the somnambulists of the column, six hundred, about equally
divided between the Irish Rifles and the Northumberland Fusiliers, had
been left as prisoners. Two guns, too, had been lost in the hurried
retreat.

It is not for the historian -- especially for a civilian historian --
to say a word unnecessarily to aggravate the pain of that brave man
who, having done all that personal courage could do, was seen
afterwards sobbing on the table of the waiting-room at Molteno, and
bewailing his 'poor men.'  He had a disaster, but Nelson had one at
Teneriffe and Napoleon at Acre, and built their great reputations in
spite of it. But the one good thing of a disaster is that by examining
it we may learn to do better in the future, and so it would indeed be
a perilous thing if we agreed that our reverses were not a fit subject
for open and frank discussion.

It is not to the detriment of an enterprise that it should be daring
and call for considerable physical effort on the part of those who are
engaged in it. On the contrary, the conception of such plans is one of
the signs of a great military mind.  But in the arranging of the
details the same military mind should assiduously occupy itself in
foreseeing and preventing every unnecessary thing which may make the
execution of such a plan more difficult.  The idea of a swift sudden
attack upon Stormberg was excellent -- the details of the operation
are continually open to criticism.

How far the Boers suffered at Stormberg is unknown to us, but there
seems in this instance no reason to doubt their own statement that
their losses were very slight.  At no time was any body of them
exposed to our fire, while we, as usual, fought in the open.  Their
numbers were probably less than ours, and the quality of their
shooting and want of energy in pursuit make the defeat the more
galling.  On the other hand, their guns were served with skill and
audacity.  They consisted of commandos from Bethulie, Rouxville, and
Smithfield, under the orders of Olivier, with those colonials whom
they had seduced from their allegiance.

This defeat of General Gatacre's, occurring, as it did, in a
disaffected district and one of great strategic importance, might have
produced the worst consequences.

Fortunately no very evil result followed.  No doubt the recruiting of
rebels was helped, but there was no forward movement and Molteno
remained in our hands. In the meanwhile Gatacre's force was reinforced
by a fresh battery, the 79th, and by a strong regiment, the
Derbyshires, so that with the 1st Royal Scots and the wing of the
Berkshires he was strong enough to hold his own until the time for a
general advance should come.  So in the Stormberg district, as at the
Modder River, the same humiliating and absurd position of stalemate
was established.

CHAPTER XI

BATTLE OF COLENSO


Two serious defeats had within the week been inflicted upon the
British forces in South Africa.  Cronje, lurking behind his trenches
and his barbed wire entanglements barred Methuen's road to Kimberley,
while in the northern part of Cape Colony Gatacre's wearied troops had
been defeated and driven by a force which consisted largely of British
subjects. But the public at home steeled their hearts and fixed their
eyes steadily upon Natal.  There was their senior General and there
the main body of their troops.  As brigade after brigade and battery
after battery touched at Cape Town, and were sent on instantly to
Durban, it was evident that it was in this quarter that the supreme
effort was to be made, and that there the light might at last break.
In club, and dining room, and railway car -- wherever men met and
talked -- the same words might be heard: 'Wait until Buller moves.'
The hopes of a great empire lay in the phrase.

It was upon October 30th that Sir George White had been thrust back
into Ladysmith.  On November 2nd telegraphic communication with the
town was interrupted. On November 3rd the railway line was cut. On
November 10th the Boers held Colenso and the line of the Tugela.  On
the 14th was the affair of the armoured train.  On the 18th the enemy
were near Estcourt. On the 21st they had reached the Mooi River.  On
the 23rd Hildyard attacked them at Willow Grange.  All these actions
will be treated elsewhere.  This last one marks the turn of the tide.
>From then onwards Sir Redvers Ruller was massing his troops at
Chieveley in preparation for a great effort to cross the river and to
relieve Ladysmith, the guns of which, calling from behind the line of
northern hills, told their constant tale of restless attack and
stubborn defence.

But the task was as severe a one as the most fighting General Could
ask for.  On the southern side the banks formed a long slope which
could be shaved as with a razor by the rifle fire of the enemy.  How
to advance across that broad open zone was indeed a problem.  It was
one of many occasions in this war in which one wondered why, if a
bullet-proof shield capable of sheltering a lying man could be
constructed, a trial should not be given to it. Alternate rushes of
companies with a safe rest after each rush would save the troops from
the continued tension of that deadly never ending fire. However, it is
idle to discuss what might have been done to mitigate their trials.
The open ground had to be passed, and then they came to -- not the
enemy, but a broad and deep river, with a single bridge, probably
undermined, and a single ford, which was found not to exist in
practice. Beyond the river was tier after tier of hills, crowned with
stone walls and seamed with trenches, defended by thousands of the
best marksmen in the world, supported by an admirable artillery.  If,
in spite of the advance over the open and in spite of the passage of
the river, a ridge could still be carried, it was only to be commanded
by the next; and so, one behind the other, like the billows of the
ocean, a series of hills and hollows rolled northwards to Ladysmith.
All attacks must be in the open.  All defence was from under cover.
Add to this, that the young and energetic Louis Botha was in command
of the Boers.  It was a desperate task, and yet honour forbade that
the garrison should be left to its fate.  The venture must be made.

The most obvious criticism upon the operation is that if the attack
must be made it should not be made under the enemy's conditions.  We
seem almost to have gone out of our way to make every obstacle -- the
glacislike approach, the river, the trenches -- as difficult as
possible. Future operations were to prove that it was not so difficult
to deceive Boer vigilance and by rapid movements to cross the
Tugela. A military authority has stated, I know not with what truth,
that there is no instance in history of a determined army being
stopped by the line of a river, and from Wellington at the Douro to
the Russians on the Danube many examples of the ease with which they
may be passed will occur to the reader. But Buller had some
exceptional difficulties with which to contend. He was weak in mounted
troops, and was opposed to an enemy of exceptional mobility who might
attack his flank and rear if he exposed them.  He had not that great
preponderance of numbers which came to him later, and which enabled
him to attempt a wide turning movement.  One advantage he had, the
possession of a more powerful artillery, but his heaviest guns were
naturally his least mobile, and the more direct his advance the more
effective would his guns be. For these or other reasons he determined
upon a frontal attack on the formidable Boer position, and he moved
out of Chieveley Camp for that purpose at daybreak on Friday, December
15th.

The force which General Buller led into action was the finest which
any British general had handled since the battle of the Alma.  Of
infantry he had four strong brigades: the 2nd (Hildyard's) consisting
of the 2nd Devons, the 2nd Queen's or West Surrey, the 2nd West
Yorkshire, and the 2nd East Surrey; the 4th Brigade (Lyttelton's)
comprising the 2nd Cameronians, the 3rd Rifles, the 1st Durhams, and
the 1st Rifle Brigade; the 5th Brigade (Hart's) with the 1st
Inniskilling Fusiliers, the 1st Connaught Rangers, 2nd Dublin
Fusiliers, and the Border Regiment, this last taking the place of the
2nd Irish Rifles, who were with Gatacre. There remained the 6th
Brigade (Barton's), which included the 2nd Royal Fusiliers, the 2nd
Scots Fusiliers, the 1st Welsh Fusiliers, and the 2nd Irish Fusiliers
-- in all about 16,000 infantry.  The mounted men, who were commanded
by Lord Dundonald, included the 13th Hussars, the 1st Royals,
Bethune's Mounted Infantry, Thorneycroft's Mounted Infantry, three
squadrons of South African Horse, with a composite regiment formed
from the mounted infantry of the Rifles and of the Dublin Fusiliers
with squadrons of the Natal Carabineers and the Imperial Light Horse.
These irregular troops of horse might be criticised by martinets and
pedants, but they contained some of the finest fighting material in
the army, some urged on by personal hatred of the Boers and some by
mere lust of adventure.  As an example of the latter one squadron of
the South African Horse was composed almost entirely of Texan
muleteers, who, having come over with their animals, had been drawn by
their own gallant spirit into the fighting line of their kinsmen.

Cavalry was General Buller's weakest arm, but his artillery was strong
both in its quality and its number of guns.  There were five batteries
(30 guns) of the Field Artillery, the 7th, 14th, 63rd, 64th, and
66th. Besides these there were no fewer than sixteen naval guns from
H.M.S.'Terrible ' -- fourteen of which were 12-pounders, and the other
two of the 4-7 type which had done such good service both at Ladysmith
and with Methuen. The whole force which moved out from Chieveley Camp
numbered about 21,000 men.

The work which was allotted to the army was simple in conception,
however terrible it might prove in execution.  There were two points
at which the river might be crossed, one three miles off on the left,
named Bridle Drift, the other straight ahead at the Bridge of
Colenso. The 5th or Irish Brigade was to endeavour to cross at Bridle
Drift, and then to work down the river bank on the far side so as to
support the 2nd or English Brigade, -- which was to cross at Colenso.
The 4th Brigade was to advance between these, so as to help either
which should be in difficulties.  Meanwhile on the extreme right the
mounted troops under Dundonald were to cover the flank and to attack
Hlangwane Hill, a formidable position held strongly by the enemy upon
the south bank of the Tugela.  The remaining Fusilier brigade of
infantry was to support this movement on the right.  The guns were to
cover the various attacks, and if possible gain a position from which
the trenches might be enfiladed. This, simply stated, was the work
which lay before the British army. In the bright clear morning
sunshine, under a cloudless blue sky, they advanced with high hopes to
the assault.  Before them lay the long level plain, then the curve of
the river, and beyond, silent and serene, like some peaceful dream
landscape, stretched the lines and lines of gently curving hills. It
was just five o'clock in the morning when the naval guns began to bay,
and huge red dustclouds from the distant foothills showed where the
lyddite was bursting.  No answer came back, nor was there any movement
upon the sunlit hills.  It was almost brutal, this furious violence to
so gentle and unresponsive a countryside.  In no place could the
keenest eye detect a sign of guns or men, and yet death lurked in
every hollow and crouched by every rock.

It is so difficult to make a modern battle intelligible when fought,
as this was, over a front of seven or eight miles, that it is best
perhaps to take the doings of each column in turn, beginning with the
left flank, where Hart's Irish Brigade had advanced to the assault of
Bridle Drift.

Under an unanswered and therefore an unaimed fire from the heavy guns
the Irish infantry moved forward upon the points which they had been
ordered to attack.  The Dublins led, then the Connaughts, the
Inniskillings, and the Borderers.  Incredible as it may appear after
the recent experiences of Magersfontein and of Stormberg, the men in
the two rear regiments appear to have been advanced in quarter column,
and not to have deployed until after the enemy's fire had opened.  Had
shrapnel struck this close formation, as it was within an ace of
doing, the loss of life must have been as severe as it was
unnecessary.

On approaching the Drift -- the position or even the existence of
which does not seem to have been very clearly defined -- it was found
that the troops had to advance into a loop formed by the river, so
that they were exposed to a very heavy cross-fire upon their right
flank, while they were rained on by shrapnel from in front.  No sign
of the enemy could be seen, though the men were dropping fast.  It is
a weird and soul-shaking experience to advance over a sunlit and
apparently a lonely countryside, with no slightest movement upon its
broad face, while the path which you take is marked behind you by
sobbing, gasping, writhing men, who can only guess by the position of
their wounds whence the shots came which struck them down. All round,
like the hissing of fat in the pan, is the monotonous crackle and
rattle of the Mausers; but the air is full of it, and no one can
define exactly whence it comes. Far away on some hill upon the skyline
there hangs the least gauzy veil of thin smoke to indicate whence the
six men who have just all fallen together, as if it were some grim
drill, met their death.  Into such a hell-storm as this it was that
the soldiers have again and again advanced in the course of this war,
but it may be questioned whether they will not prove to be among the
last of mortals to be asked to endure such an ordeal.  Other methods
of attack must be found or attacks must be abandoned, for smokeless
powder, quick-firing guns, and modern rifles make it all odds on the
defence!

The gallant Irishmen pushed on, flushed with battle and careless for
their losses, the four regiments clubbed into one, with all military
organisation rapidly disappearing, and nothing left but their gallant
spirit and their furious desire to come to hand-grips with the enemy.
Rolling on in a broad wave of shouting angry men, they never winced
from the fire until they had swept up to the bank of the river.
Northern Inniskilling and Southern man of Connaught, orange and
green, Protestant and Catholic, Celt and Saxon, their only rivalry
now was who could shed his blood most freely for the common cause.
How hateful seem those provincial politics and narrow sectarian creeds
which can hold such men apart!

The bank of the river had been gained, but where was the ford? The
water swept broad and unruffled in front of them, with no indication
of shallows. A few dashing fellows sprang in, but their cartridges and
rifles dragged them to the bottom.  One or two may even have struggled
through to the further side, but on this there is a conflict of
evidence.  It may be, though it seems incredible, that the river had
been partly dammed to deepen the Drift, or, as is more probable, that
in the rapid advance and attack the position of the Drift was lost.
However this may be, the troops could find no ford, and they lay down,
as had been done in so many previous actions, unwilling to retreat and
unable to advance, with the same merciless pelting from front and
flank.  In every fold and behind every anthill the Irishmen lay thick
and waited for better times.  There are many instances of their cheery
and uncomplaining humour.  Colonel Brooke, of the Connaughts, fell at
the head of his men.  Private Livingstone helped to carry him into
safety, and then, his task done, he confessed to having 'a bit of a
rap meself,' and sank fainting with a bullet through his throat.
Another sat with a bullet through both legs. 'Bring me a tin whistle
and I'll blow ye any tune ye like,' he cried, mindful of the Dargai
piper. Another with his arm hanging by a tendon puffed morosely at his
short black pipe.  Every now and then, in face of the impossible, the
fiery Celtic valour flamed furiously upwards.  'Fix bayonets, men, and
let us make a name for ourselves,' cried a colour sergeant, and he
never spoke again.  For five hours, under the tropical sun, the grimy
parched men held on to the ground they had occupied. British shells
pitched short and fell among them. A regiment in support fired at
them, not knowing that any of the line were so far advanced.  Shot at
from the front, the flank, and the rear, the 5th Brigade held grimly
on.

But fortunately their orders to retire were at hand, and it is certain
that had they not reached them the regiments would have been uselessly
destroyed where they lay.  It seems to have been Buller himself, who
showed extraordinary and ubiquitous personal energy during the day,
that ordered them to fall back. As they retreated there was an entire
absence of haste and panic, but officers and men were hopelessly
jumbled up, and General Hart -- whose judgment may occasionally be
questioned, but whose cool courage was beyond praise -- had hard work
to reform the splendid brigade which six hours before had tramped out
of Chieveley Camp. Between five and six hundred of them had fallen --
a loss which approximates to that of the Highland Brigade at
Magersfontein.  The Dublins and the Connaughts were the heaviest
sufferers.

So much for the mishap of the 5th Brigade.  It is superfluous to point
out that the same old omissions were responsible for the same old
results.  Why were the men in quarter column when advancing against an
unseen foe? Why had no scouts gone forward to be certain of the
position of the ford? Where were the clouds of skirmishers which
should precede such an advance?  The recent examples in the field and
the teachings of the text-books were equally set at naught, as they
had been, and were to be, so often in this campaign.  There may be a
science of war in the lecture-rooms at Camberley, but very little of
it found its way to the veldt.  The slogging valour of the private,
the careless dash of the regimental officer -- these were our military
assets -- but seldom the care and foresight of our commanders.  It is
a thankless task to make such comments, but the one great lesson of
the war has been that the army is too vital a thing to fall into the
hands of a caste, and that it is a national duty for every man to
speak fearlessly and freely what he believes to be the truth.

Passing from the misadventure of the 5th Brigade we come as we move
from left to right upon the 4th, or Lyttelton's Brigade, which was
instructed not to attack itself but to support the attack on either
side of it. With the help of the naval guns it did what it could to
extricate and cover the retreat of the Irishmen, but it could play no
very important part in the action, and its losses were
insignificant. On its right in turn Hildyard's English Brigade had
developed its attack upon Colenso and the bridge.  The regiments under
Hildyard's lead were the 2nd West Surrey, the 2nd Devons (whose first
battalion was doing so well with the Ladysmith force), the East
Surreys, and the West Yorkshires.  The enemy had evidently anticipated
the main attack on this position, and not only were the trenches upon
the other side exceptionally strong, but their artillery converged
upon the bridge, at least a dozen heavy pieces, besides a number of
quick-firers, bearing upon it.  The Devons and the Queens, in open
order (an extended line of khaki dots, blending so admirably with the
plain that they were hardly visible when they halted), led the attack,
being supported by the East Surrey and the West Yorkshires.  Advancing
under a very heavy fire the brigade experienced much the same ordeal
as their comrades of Hart's brigade, which was mitigated by the fact
that from the first they preserved their open order in columns of
half-companies extended to six paces, and that the river in front of
them did not permit that right flank fire which was so fatal to the
Irishmen. With a loss of some two hundred men the leading regiments
succeeded in reaching Colenso, and the West Surrey, advancing by
rushes of fifty yards at a time, had established itself in the
station, but a catastrophe had occurred at an earlier hour to the
artillery which was supporting it which rendered all. further advance
impossible.  For the reason of this we must follow the fortunes of the
next unit upon their right.

This consisted of the important body of artillery who had been told
off to support the main attack.  It comprised two field batteries, the
14th and the 66th, under the command of Colonel Long, and six naval
guns (two of 4.7, and four 12-pounders) under Lieutenant Ogilvy of the
'Terrible.'  Long has the record of being a most zealous and dashing
officer, whose handling of the Egyptian artillery at the battle of the
Atbara had much to do with the success of the action. Unfortunately,
these barbarian campaigns, in which liberties may be taken with
impunity, leave an evil tradition, as the French have found with their
Algerians.  Our own close formations, our adherence to volley firing,
and in this instance the use of our artillery all seem to be legacies
of our savage wars.  Be the cause what it may, at an early stage of
the action Long's guns whirled forwards, outstripped the infantry
brigades upon their flanks, left the slow-moving naval guns with their
ox-teams behind them, and unlimbered within a thousand yards of the
enemy's trenches.  From this position he opened fire upon Fort Wylie,
which was the centre of that portion of the Boer position which faced
him.

But his two unhappy batteries were destined not to turn the tide of
battle, as he had hoped, but rather to furnish the classic example of
the helplessness of artillery against modern rifle fire.  Not even
Mercer's famous description of the effect of a flank fire upon his
troop of horse artillery at Waterloo could do justice to the blizzard
of lead which broke over the two doomed batteries.  The teams fell in
heaps, some dead, some mutilated, and mutilating others in their
frantic struggles. One driver, crazed with horror, sprang on a leader,
cut the traces and tore madly off the field. But a perfect discipline
reigned among the vast majority of the gunners, and the words of
command and the laying and working of the guns were all as methodical
as at Okehampton.  Not only was there a most deadly rifle fire, partly
from the lines in front and partly from the village of Colenso upon
their left flank, but the Boer automatic quick-firers found the range
to a nicety, and the little shells were crackling and banging
continually over the batteries.  Already every gun had its litter of
dead around it, but each was still fringed by its own group of furious
officers and sweating desperate gunners. Poor Long was down, with a
bullet through his arm and another through his liver.  'Abandon be
damned!  We don't abandon guns!' was his last cry as they dragged him
into the shelter of a little donga hard by.  Captain Goldie dropped
dead.  So did Lieutenant Schreiber. Colonel Hunt fell, shot in two
places.  Officers and men were falling fast.  The guns could not be
worked, and yet they could not be removed, for every effort to bring
up teams from the shelter where the limbers lay ended in the death of
the horses.  The survivors took refuge from the murderous fire in that
small hollow to which Long had been carried, a hundred yards or so
from the line of bullet-splashed cannon.  One gun on the right was
still served by four men who refused to leave it. They seemed to bear
charmed lives, these four, as they strained and wrestled with their
beloved 15-pounder, amid the spurting sand and the blue wreaths of the
bursting shells.  Then one gasped and fell against the trail, and his
comrade sank beside the wheel with his chin upon his breast.  The
third threw up his hands and pitched forward upon his face; while the
survivor, a grim powder-stained figure, stood at attention looking
death in the eyes until he too was struck down.  A useless sacrifice,
you may say; but while the men who saw them die can tell such a story
round the camp fire the example of such deaths as these does more than
clang of bugle or roll of drum to stir the warrior spirit of our race.

For two hours the little knot of heart-sick humiliated officers and
men lay in the precarious shelter of the donga and looked out at the
bullet-swept plain and the line of silent guns.  Many of them were
wounded. Their chief lay among them, still calling out in his delirium
for his guns.  They had been joined by the gallant Baptie, a brave
surgeon, who rode across to the donga amid a murderous fire, and did
what he could for the injured men.  Now and then a rush was made into
the open, sometimes in the hope of firing another round, sometimes to
bring a wounded comrade in from the pitiless pelt of the bullets.  How
fearful was that lead-storm may be gathered from the fact that one
gunner was found with sixty-four wounds in his body.  Several men
dropped in these sorties, and the disheartened survivors settled down
once more in the donga.

The hope to which they clung was that their guns were not really lost,
but that the arrival of infantry would enable them to work them once
more. Infantry did at last arrive, but in such small numbers that it
made the situation more difficult instead of easing it. Colonel
Bullock had brought up two companies of the Devons to join the two
companies (A and B) of Scots Fusiliers who had been the original
escort of the guns, but such a handful could not turn the tide.  They
also took refuge in the donga, and waited for better times.

In the meanwhile the attention of Generals Buller and Clery had been
called to the desperate position of the guns, and they had made their
way to that further nullah in the rear where the remaining limber
horses and drivers were.  This was some distance behind that other
donga in which Long, Bullock, and their Devons and gunners were
crouching.  'Will any of you volunteer to save the guns?' cried
Buller.  Corporal Nurse, Gunner Young, and a few others responded.
The desperate venture was led by three aides-de-camp of the Generals,
Congreve, Schofield, and Roberts, the only son of the famous soldier.
Two gun teams were taken down; the horses galloping frantically
through an infernal fire, and each team succeeded in getting back with
a gun.  But the loss was fearful. Roberts was mortally wounded.
Congreve has left an account which shows what a modern rifle fire at a
thousand yards is like.  'My first bullet went through my left sleeve
and made the joint of my elbow bleed, next a clod of earth caught me
smack on the right arm, then my horse got one, then my right leg one,
then my horse another, and that settled us.'  The gallant fellow
managed to crawl to the group of castaways in the donga. Roberts
insisted on being left where he fell, for fear he should hamper the
others.

In the meanwhile Captain Reed, of the 7th Battery, had arrived with
two spare teams of horses, and another determined effort was made
under his leadership to save some of the guns.  But the fire was too
murderous. Two-thirds of his horses and half his men, including
himself, were struck down, and General Buller commanded that all
further attempts to reach the abandoned batteries should be given
up. Both he and General Clery had been slightly wounded, and there
were many operations over the whole field of action to engage their
attention.  But making every allowance for the pressure of many duties
and for the confusion and turmoil of a great action, it does seem one
of the most inexplicable incidents in British military history that
the guns should ever have been permitted to fall into the hands of the
enemy. It is evident that if our gunners could not live under the fire
of the enemy it would be equally impossible for the enemy to remove
the guns under a fire from a couple of battalions of our infantry.
There were many regiments which had hardly been engaged, and which
could have been advanced for such a purpose. The men of the Mounted
Infantry actually volunteered for this work, and none could have been
more capable of carrying it out.  There was plenty of time also, for
the guns were abandoned about eleven and the Boers did not venture to
seize them until four.  Not only could the guns have been saved, but
they might, one would think, have been transformed into an excellent
bait for a trap to tempt the Boers out of their trenches. It must have
been with fear and trembling that Cherry Emmett and his men first
approached them, for how could they believe that such incredible good
fortune had come to them? However, the fact, humiliating and
inexplicable, is that the guns were so left, that the whole force was
withdrawn, and that not only the ten cannon, but also the handful of
Devons, with their Colonel, and the Fusiliers were taken prisoners in
the donga which had sheltered them all day.

We have now, working from left to right, considered the operations of
Hart's Brigade at Bridle Drift, of Lyttelton's Brigade in support, of
Hildyard's which attacked Colenso, and of the luckless batteries which
were to have helped him.  There remain two bodies of troops upon the
right, the further consisting of Dundonald's mounted men who were to
attack Hlangwane Hill, a fortified Boer position upon the south of the
river, while Barton's Brigade was to support it and to connect this
attack with the central operations.

Dundonald's force was entirely too weak for such an operation as the
capture of the formidable entrenched hill, and it is probable that the
movement was meant rather as a reconnaissance than as an assault. He
had not more than a thousand men in all, mostly irregulars, and the
position which faced him was precipitous and entrenched, with
barbed-wire entanglements and automatic guns. But the gallant
colonials were out on their first action, and their fiery courage
pushed the attack home.  Leaving their horses, they advanced a mile
and a half on foot before they came within easy range of the hidden
riflemen, and learned the lesson which had been taught to their
comrades all along the line, that given approximately equal numbers
the attack in the open has no possible chance against the concealed
defence, and that the more bravely it is pushed the more heavy is the
repulse.  The irregulars carried themselves like old soldiers, they
did all that mortal man could do, and they retired coolly and slowly
with the loss of 130 of the brave troopers. The 7th Field Battery did
all that was possible to support the advance and cover the
retirement. In no single place, on this day of disaster, did one least
gleam of success come to warm the hearts and reward the exertions of
our much-enduring men.

Of Barton's Brigade there is nothing to be recorded, for they appear
neither to have supported the attack upon Hlangwane Hill on the one
side nor to have helped to cover the ill-fated guns on the other.
Barton was applied to for help by Dundonald, but refused to detach any
of his troops.  If General Buller's real idea was a reconnaissance in
force in order to determine the position and strength of the Boer
lines, then of course his brigadiers must have felt a. reluctance to
entangle their brigades in a battle which was really the result of a
misunderstanding.  On the other hand, if, as the orders of the day
seem to show, a serious engagement was always intended, it is strange
that two brigades out of four should have played so insignificant a
part.  To Barton's Brigade was given the responsibility of seeing that
no right flank attack was carried out by the Boers, and this held it
back until it was clear that no such attack was contemplated. After
that one would have thought that, had the situation been appreciated,
at least two battalions might have been spared to cover the abandoned
guns with their rifle fire. Two companies of the Scots Fusiliers did
share the fortunes of the guns.  Two others, and one of the Irish
Fusiliers, acted in support, but the brigade as a whole, together with
the 1st Royals and the 13th Hussars, might as well have been at
Aldershot for any bearing which their work had upon the fortunes of
the day.

And so the first attempt at the relief of Ladysmith came to an end.
At twelve o'clock all the troops upon the ground were retreating for
the camp.  There was nothing in the shape of rout or panic, and the
withdrawal was as orderly as the advance; but the fact remained that
we had just 1,200 men in killed, wounded, and missing, and had gained
absolutely nothing. We had not even the satisfaction of knowing that
we had inflicted as well as endured punishment, for the enemy remained
throughout the day so cleverly concealed that it is doubtful whether
more than a hundred casualties occurred in their ranks.  Once more it
was shown how weak an arm is artillery against an enemy who lies in
shelter.

Our wounded fortunately bore a high proportion to our killed, as they
always will do when it is rifle fire rather than shell fire which is
effective. Roughly we had 150 killed and about 720 wounded. A more
humiliating item is the 250 or so who were missing. These men were the
gunners, the Devons, and the Scots Fusiliers, who were taken in the
donga together with small bodies from the Connaughts, the Dublins, and
other regiments who, having found some shelter, were unable to leave
it, and clung on until the retirement of their regiments left them in
a hopeless position. Some of these small knots of men were allowed to
retire in the evening by the Boers, who seemed by no means anxious to
increase the number of their prisoners. Colonel Thackeray, of the
Inniskilling Fusiliers, found himself with a handful of his men
surrounded by the enemy, but owing to their good humour and his own
tact he succeeded in withdrawing them in safety. The losses fell
chiefly on Hart's Brigade, Hildyard's Brigade, and the colonial
irregulars, who bore off the honours of the fight.

In his official report General Buller states that were it not for the
action of Colonel Long and the subsequent disaster to the artillery he
thought that the battle might have been a successful one.  This is a
hard saying, and throws perhaps too much responsibility upon the
gallant but unfortunate gunner.  There have been occasions in the war
when greater dash upon the part of our artillery might have changed
the fate of the day, and it is bad policy to be too severe upon the
man who has taken a risk and failed.  The whole operation, with its
advance over the open against a concealed enemy with a river in his
front, was so absolutely desperate that Long may have seen that only
desperate measures could save the situation. To bring guns into action
in front of the infantry without having clearly defined the position
of the opposing infantry must always remain one of the most hazardous
ventures of war.  'It would certainly be mere folly,' says Prince
Kraft, 'to advance artillery to within 600 or 800 yards of a position
held by infantry unless the latter were under the fire of infantry
from an even shorter range.'  This 'mere folly' is exactly what
Colonel Long did, but it must be remembered in extenuation that he
shared with others the idea that the Boers were up on the hills, and
had no inkling that their front trenches were down at the river.  With
the imperfect means at his disposal he did such scouting as he could,
and if his fiery and impetuous spirit led him into a position which
cost him so dearly it is certainly more easy for the critic to
extenuate his fault than that subsequent one which allowed the
abandoned guns to fall into the hands of the enemy. Nor is there any
evidence that the loss of these guns did seriously affect the fate of
the action, for at those other parts of the field where the infantry
had the full and unceasing support of the artillery the result was not
more favourable than at the centre.

So much for Colenso. A more unsatisfactory and in some ways
inexplicable action is not to be found in the range of British
military history. And the fuller the light which has been poured upon
it, the more extraordinary does the battle appear.  There are a
preface and a sequel to the action which have put a severe strain upon
the charity which the British public has always shown that it is
prepared to extend to a defeated General. The preface is that General
Buller sent word to General White that he proposed to attack upon the
17th, while the actual attack was delivered upon the 15th, so that the
garrison was not prepared to make that demonstration which might have
prevented the besiegers from sending important reinforcements to
Botha, had he needed them.  The sequel is more serious. Losing all
heart at his defeat, General Buller, although he had been officially
informed that White had provisions for seventy days, sent a heliogram
advising the surrender of the garrison. White's first reply, which
deserves to live with the anecdote of Nelson's telescope at his blind
eye, was to the effect that he believed the enemy had been tampering
with Buller's messages. To this Buller despatched an amended message,
which with Sir George White's reply, is here appended:

Message of December 16th, as altered by that of
	December 17th, 1899.

'I tried Colenso yesterday, but failed; the enemy is too strong for my
force except with siege operations, and these will take one full month
to prepare. Can you last so long?

'How many days can you hold out? I suggest you firing away as much
ammunition as you can, and making best terms you can. I can remain
here if you have alternative suggestion, but unaided I cannot break
in. I find my infantry cannot fight more than ten miles from camp, and
then only if water can be got, and it is scarce here. Whatever
happens, recollect to burn your cipher, decipher, and code books, and
all deciphered messages.'

>From Sir G. White to Sir R. Buller.
     December 16th, 1899.

'Yours of today received and understood.  My suggestion is that you
take up strongest available position that will enable you to keep
touch of the enemy and harass him constantly with artillery fire, and
in other ways as much as possible.  I can make food last for much
longer than a month, and will not think of making terms till I am
forced to.  You may have hit enemy harder than you think.  All our
native spies report that your artillery fire made considerable
impression on enemy.  Have your losses been very heavy? If you lose
touch of enemy, it will immensely increase his opportunities of
crushing me, and have worst effect elsewhere.  While you are in touch
with him and in communication with me, he has both of our forces to
reckon with. Make every effort to get reinforcements as early as
possible, including India, and enlist every man in both colonies who
will serve and can ride. Things may look brighter. The loss of 12,000
men here would be a heavy blow to England.  We must not yet think of
it. I fear I could not cut my way to you. Enteric fever is increasing
alarmingly here.  There are now 180 cases, all within last month.
Answer fully. I am keeping everything secret for the present till I
know your plans.'

Much allowance is to be made for a man who is staggering under the
mental shock of defeat and the physical exertions which Buller had
endured.  That the Government made such allowance is clear from the
fact that he was not instantly recalled.  And yet the cold facts are
that we have a British General, at the head of 25,000 men,
recommending another General, at the head of 12,000 men only twelve
miles off, to lay down his arms to an army which was certainly very
inferior in numbers to the total British force; and this because he
had once been defeated, although he knew that there was still time for
the whole resources of the Empire to be poured into Natal in order to
prevent so shocking a disaster.  Such is a plain statement of the
advice which Buller gave and which White rejected. For the instant the
fate not only of South Africa but even, as I believe, of the Empire
hung upon the decision of the old soldier in Ladysmith, who had to
resist the proposals of his own General as sternly as the attacks of
the enemy. He who sorely needed help and encouragement became, as his
message shows, the helper and the encourager. It was a tremendous
test, and Sir George White came through it with a staunchness and a
loyalty which saved us not only from overwhelming present disaster,
but from a hideous memory which must have haunted British military
annals for centuries to come.


CHAPTER XII

THE DARK HOUR

The week which extended from December 10th to December 17th, 1899, was
the blackest one known during our generation, and the most disastrous
for British arms during the century. We had in the short space of
seven days lost, beyond all extenuation or excuse, three separate
actions.  No single defeat was of vital importance in itself, but the
cumulative effect, occurring as they did to each of the main British
forces in South Africa, was very great.  The total loss amounted to
about three thousand men and twelve guns, while the indirect effects
in the way of loss of prestige to ourselves and increased confidence
and more numerous recruits to our enemy were incalculable.

It is singular to glance at the extracts from the European press at
that time and to observe the delight and foolish exultation with which
our reverses were received. That this should occur in the French
journals is not unnatural, since our history has been largely a
contest with that Power, and we can regard with complacency an enmity
which is the tribute to our success.  Russia, too, as the least
progressive of European States, has a natural antagonism of thought,
if not of interests, to the Power which stands most prominently for
individual freedom and liberal institutions.  The same poor excuse may
be made for the organs of the Vatican. But what are we to say of the
insensate railing of Germany, a country whose ally we have been for
centuries? In the days of Marlborough, in the darkest hours of
Frederick the Great, in the great world struggle of Napoleon, we have
been the brothers-in-arms of these people.  So with the Austrians
also. If both these countries were not finally swept from the map by
Napoleon, it is largely to British subsidies and British tenacity that
they owe it. And yet these are the folk who turned most bitterly
against us at the only time in modern history when we had a chance of
distinguishing our friends from our foes.  Never again, I trust, on
any pretext will a British guinea be spent or a British soldier or
sailor shed his blood for such allies.  The political lesson of this
writer has been that we should make ourselves strong within the empire,
and let all outside it, save only our kinsmen of America, go their own
way and meet their own fate without let or hindrance from us. It is
amazing to find that even the Americans could understand the stock
from which they are themselves sprung so little that such papers as
the 'New York Herald' should imagine that our defeat at Colenso was a
good opportunity for us to terminate the war. The other leading
American journals, however, took a more sane view of the situation,
and realised that ten years of such defeats would not find the end
either of our resolution or of our resources.

In the British Islands and in the empire at large our misfortunes were
met by a sombre but unalterable determination to carry the war to a
successful conclusion and to spare no sacrifices which could lead to
that end. Amid the humiliation of our reverses there was a certain
undercurrent of satisfaction that the deeds of our foemen should at
least have made the contention that the strong was wantonly attacking
the weak an absurd one. Under the stimulus of defeat the opposition to
the war sensibly decreased.  It had become too absurd even for the
most unreasonable platform orator to contend that a struggle had been
forced upon the Boers when every fresh detail showed how thoroughly
they had prepared for such a contingency and how much we had to make
up. Many who had opposed the war simply on that sporting instinct
which backs the smaller against the larger began to realise that what
with the geographical position of these people, what with the nature
of their country, and what with the mobility, number, and hardihood of
their forces, we had undertaken a task which would necessitate such a
military effort as we had never before been called upon to make. when
Kipling at the dawn of the war had sung of 'fifty thousand horse and
foot going to Table Bay,' the statement had seemed extreme.  Now it
was growing upon the public mind that four times this number would not
be an excessive estimate. But the nation rose grandly to the effort.
Their only fear, often and loudly expressed, was that Parliament would
deal too tamely with the situation and fail to demand sufficient
sacrifices.  Such was the wave of feeling over the country that it was
impossible to hold a peace meeting anywhere without a certainty of
riot.  The only London daily which had opposed the war, though very
ably edited, was overborne by the general sentiment and compelled to
change its line.  In the provinces also opposition was almost silent,
and the great colonies were even more unanimous than the mother
country.  Misfortune had solidified us where success might have caused
a sentimental opposition.

On the whole, the energetic mood of the nation was reflected by the
decided measures of the Government. Before the deep-sea cables had
told us the lists of our dead, steps had been taken to prove to the
world how great were our latent resources and how determined our
spirit.  On December 18th, two days after Colenso, the following
provisions were made for carrying on the campaign.

1. That as General Buller's hands were full in Natal the supervision
and direction of the whole campaign should be placed in the hands of
Lord Roberts, with Lord Kitchener as his chief of staff. Thus the
famous old soldier and the famous young one were called together to
the assistance of the country.

2. That all the remaining army reserves should be called out.

3. That the 7th Division (10,000 men) should be despatched to Africa,
and that an 8th Division should be formed ready for service.

4. That considerable artillery reinforcements, including a howitzer
brigade, should go out.

5. That eleven Militia battalions be sent abroad.

6. That a strong contingent of Volunteers be sent out.

7. That a Yeomanry mounted force be despatched.

8. That mounted corps be raised at the discretion of the
Commander-in-Chief in South Africa.

9. That the patriotic offers of further contingents from the colonies
be gratefully accepted.

By these measures it was calculated that from seventy to a hundred thousand men would be added to our South African armies, the numbers of which were already not short of a hundred thousand.

It is one thing, however, to draw up paper reinforcements, and it is
another, in a free country where no compulsion would be tolerated, to
turn these plans into actual regiments and squadrons. But if there
were any who doubted that this ancient nation still glowed with the
spirit of its youth his fears must soon have passed away.  For this
far-distant war, a war of the unseen foe and of the murderous
ambuscade, there were so many volunteers that the authorities were
embarrassed by their numbers and their pertinacity. It was a
stimulating sight to see those long queues of top-hatted, frock-coated
young men who waited their turn for the orderly room with as much
desperate anxiety as if hard fare, a veldt bed, and Boer bullets were
all that life had that was worth the holding.  Especially the Imperial
Yeomanry, a corps of riders and shots, appealed to the sporting
instincts of our race. Many could ride and not shoot, many could shoot
and not ride, more candidates were rejected than were accepted, and
yet in a very short time eight thousand men from every class were
wearing the grey coats and bandoliers.  This singular and formidable
force was drawn from every part of England and Scotland, with a
contingent of hard-riding Irish fox-hunters. Noblemen and grooms rode
knee to knee in the ranks, and the officers included many well-known
country gentlemen and masters of hounds.  Well horsed and well armed,
a better force for the work in hand could not be imagined.  So high
did the patriotism run that corps were formed in which the men not
only found their own equipment but contributed their pay to the war
fund. Many young men about town justified their existence for the
first time.  In a single club, which is peculiarly consecrated to the
JEUNESSE DOREE, three hundred members rode to the wars.

Without waiting for these distant but necessary reinforcements, the
Generals in Africa had two divisions to look to, one of which was
actually arriving while the other was on the sea.  These formed the
5th Division under Sir Charles Warren, and the 6th Division under
General Kelly-Kenny. Until these forces should arrive it was obviously
best that the three armies should wait, for, unless there should be
pressing need of help on the part of the besieged garrisons or
imminent prospects of European complications, every week which passed
was in our favour. There was therefore a long lull in the war, during
which Methuen strengthened his position at Modder River, Gatacre held
his own at Sterkstroom, and Buller built up his strength for another
attempt at the relief of Ladysmith. The only connected series of
operations during that time were those of General French in the
neighbourhood of Colesberg, an account of which will be found in their
entirety elsewhere. A short narrative may be given here of the doings
of each of these forces until the period of inaction came to an end.

Methuen after the repulse at Magersfontein had fallen back upon the
lines of Modder River, and had fortified them in such a way that he
felt himself secure against assault. Cronje, on the other hand, had
extended his position both to the right and to the left, and had
strengthened the works which we had already found so formidable.  In
this way a condition of inaction was established which was really very
much to our advantage, since Methuen retained his communications by
rail, while all supplies to Cronje had to come a hundred miles by
road. The British troops, and especially the Highland Brigade, were
badly in need of a rest after the very severe ordeal which they had
undergone. General Hector Macdonald, whose military record had earned
the soldierly name of 'Fighting Mac,' was sent for from India to take
the place of the ill-fated Wauchope. Pending his arrival and that of
reinforcements, Methuen remained quiet, and the Boers fortunately
followed his example. From over the northern horizon those silver
flashes of light told that Kimberley was dauntless in the present and
hopeful of the future.  On January 1st the British post of Kuruman
fell, by which twelve officers and 120 police were captured.  The town
was isolated, and its capture could have no effect upon the general
operations, but it is remarkable as the only capture of a fortified
post up to this point made by the Boers.

The monotony of the long wait was broken by one dashing raid carried
out by a detachment from Methuen's line of communications.  This force
consisted of 200 Queenslanders, 100 Canadians (Toronto Company), 40
mounted Munster Fusiliers, a New South Wales Ambulance, and 200 of the
Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry with one horse battery.  This
singular force, so small in numbers and yet raked from the ends of the
earth, was under the command of Colonel Pilcher.  Moving out suddenly
and rapidly from Belmont, it struck at the extreme right of the Boer
line, which consisted of a laager occupied by the colonial rebels of
that part of the country.  Nothing could exceed the enthusiasm of the
colonists at the prospect of action.  'At last!' was the cry which
went up from the Canadians when they were ordered to advance. The
result was an absolute success. The rebels broke and fled, their camp
was taken, and forty of them fell into our hands.  Our own loss was
slight, three killed and a few wounded.  The flying column occupied
the town of Douglas and hoisted the British flag there; but it was
decided that the time had not yet come when it could be held, and the
force fell back upon Belmont.  The rebel prisoners were sent down to
Cape Town for trial.  The movement was covered by the advance of a
force under Babington from Methuen's force.  This detachment,
consisting of the 9th and 12th Lancers, with some mounted infantry and
G troop of Horse Artillery, prevented any interference with Pilcher's
force from the north. It is worthy of record that though the two
bodies of troops were operating at a distance of thirty miles, they
succeeded in preserving a telephonic connection, seventeen minutes
being the average time taken over question and reply.

Encouraged by this small success, Methuen's cavalry on January 9th
made another raid over the Free State border, which is remarkable for
the fact that, save in the case of Colonel Plumer's Rhodesian Force,
it was the first time that the enemy's frontier had been violated. The
expedition under Babington consisted of the same regiments and the
same battery which had covered Pilcher's advance. The line taken was a
south-easterly one, so as to get far round the left flank of the Boer
position. With the aid of a party of the Victorian Mounted Rifles a
considerable tract of country was overrun, and some farmhouses
destroyed.  The latter extreme measure may have been taken as a
warning to the Boers that such depredations as they had carried out in
parts of Natal could not pass with impunity, but both the policy and
the humanity of such a course appear to be open to question, and there
was some cause for the remonstrance which President Kruger shortly
after addressed to us upon the subject. The expedition returned to
Modder Camp at the end of two days without having seen the enemy. Save
for one or two similar cavalry reconnaissances, an occasional
interchange of long-range shells, a little sniping, and one or two
false alarms at night, which broke the whole front of Magersfontein
into yellow lines of angry light, nothing happened to Methuen's force
which is worthy of record up to the time of that movement of General
Hector Macdonald to Koodoosberg which may be considered in connection
with Lord Roberts's decisive operations, of which it was really a
part.

The doings of General Gatacre's force during the long interval which
passed between his disaster at Stormberg and the final general advance
may be rapidly chronicled.  Although nominally in command of a
division, Gatacre's troops were continually drafted off to east and to
west, so that it was seldom that he had more than a brigade under his
orders.  During the weeks of waiting, his force consisted of three
field batteries, the 74th, 77th, and 79th, some mounted police and
irregular horse, the remains of the Royal Irish Rifles and the 2nd
Northumberland Fusiliers, the 1st Royal Scots, the Derbyshire
regiment, and the Berkshires, the whole amounting to about 5,500 men,
who had to hold the whole district from Sterkstroom to East London on
the coast, with a victorious enemy in front and a disaffected
population around.  Under these circumstances he could not attempt to
do more than to hold his ground at Sterkstroom, and this he did
unflinchingly until the line of the Boer defence broke down.  Scouting
and raiding expeditions, chiefly organised by Captain De Montmorency
-- whose early death cut short the career of one who possessed every
quality of a partisan leader -- broke the monotony of inaction.
During the week which ended the year a succession of small skirmishes,
of which the town of Dordrecht was the centre, exercised the troops in
irregular warfare.

On January 3rd the Boer forces advanced and attacked the camp of the
Cape Mounted Police, which was some eight miles in advance of
Gatacre's main position.  The movement, however, was a half-hearted
one, and was beaten off with small loss upon their part and less upon
ours. From then onwards no movement of importance took place in
Gatacre's column until the general advance along the whole line had
cleared his difficulties from in front of him.

In the meantime General Buller had also been playing a waiting game,
and, secure in the knowledge that Ladysmith could still hold out, he
had been building up his strength for a second attempt to relieve the
hard-pressed and much-enduring garrison.  After the repulse at
Colenso, Hildyard's and Barton's brigades had remained at Chieveley
with the mounted infantry, the naval guns, and two field batteries.
The rest of the force retired to Frere, some miles in the
rear. Emboldened by their success, the Boers sent raiding parties over
the Tugela on either flank, which were only checked by our patrols
being extended from Springfield on the west to Weenen on the east.  A
few plundered farmhouses and a small list of killed and wounded
horsemen on either side were the sole result of these spasmodic and
half-hearted operations.

Time here as elsewhere was working for the British, for reinforcements
were steadily coming to Buller's army. By the new year Sir Charles
Warren's division (the 5th) was nearly complete at Estcourt, whence it
could reach the front at any moment.  This division included the 10th
brigade, consisting of the Imperial Light Infantry, 2nd Somersets, the
2nd Dorsets, and the 2nd Middlesex; also the 11th, called the
Lancashire Brigade, formed by the 2nd Royal Lancaster, the 2nd
Lancashire Fusiliers, the 1st South Lancashire, and the York and
Lancaster. The division also included the 14th Hussars and the 19th,
20th, and 28th batteries of Field Artillery. Other batteries of
artillery, including one howitzer battery, came to strengthen Buller's
force, which amounted now to more than 30,000 men. Immense transport
preparations had to be made, however, before the force could have the
mobility necessary for a flank march, and it was not until January
11th that General Buller's new plans for advance could be set into
action. Before describing what these plans were and the disappointing
fate which awaited them, we will return to the story of the siege of
Ladysmith, and show how narrowly the relieving force escaped the
humiliation -- some would say the disgrace -- of seeing the town which
looked to them for help fall beneath their very eyes. That this did
not occur is entirely due to the fierce tenacity and savage endurance
of the disease-ridden and half-starved men who held on to the frail
lines which covered it.


CHAPTER XIII

THE SIEGE OF LADYSMITH


Monday, October 30th, 1899, is not a date which can be looked back to
with satisfaction by any Briton. In a scrambling and ill-managed
action we had lost our detached left wing almost to a man, while our
right had been hustled with no great loss but with some ignominy into
Ladysmith.  Our guns had been outshot, our infantry checked, and our
cavalry paralysed. Eight hundred prisoners may seem no great loss when
compared with a Sedan, or even with an Ulm; but such matters are
comparative, and the force which laid down its arms at Nicholson's Nek
is the largest British force which has surrendered since the days of
our great grandfathers, when the egregious Duke of York commanded in
Flanders.

Sir George White was now confronted with the certainty of an
investment, an event for which apparently no preparation had been
made, since with an open railway behind him so many useless mouths had
been permitted to remain in the town. Ladysmith lies in a hollow and
is dominated by a ring of hills, some near and some distant.  The near
ones were in our hands, but no attempt had been made in the early days
of the war to fortify and hold Bulwana, Lombard's Kop, and the other
positions from which the town might be shelled. Whether these might or
might not have been successfully held has been much disputed by
military men, the balance of opinion being that Bulwana, at least,
which has a water-supply of its own, might have been retained.  This
question, however, was already academic, as the outer hills were in
the hands of the enemy. As it was, the inner line -- Caesar's Camp,
Wagon Hill, Rifleman's Post, and round to Helpmakaar Hill -- made a
perimeter of fourteen miles, and the difficulty of retaining so
extensive a line goes far to exonerate General White, not only for
abandoning the outer hills, but also for retaining his cavalry in the
town.

After the battle of Ladysmith and the retreat of the British, the
Boers in their deliberate but effective fashion set about the
investment of the town, while the British commander accepted the same
as inevitable, content if he could stem and hold back from the colony
the threatened flood of invasion.  On Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,
and Friday the commandoes gradually closed in upon the south and east,
harassed by some cavalry operations and reconnaissances upon our part,
the effect of which was much exaggerated by the press.  On Thursday,
November 2nd, the last train escaped under a brisk fire, the
passengers upon the wrong side of the seats. At 2 P.M. on the same day
the telegraph line was cut, and the lonely town settled herself
somberly down to the task of holding off the exultant Boers until the
day-supposed to be imminent -- when the relieving army should appear from
among the labyrinth of mountains which lay to the south of them.  Some
there were who, knowing both the enemy and the mountains, felt a cold
chill within their hearts as they asked themselves how an army was to
come through, but the greater number, from General to private, trusted
implicitly in the valour of their comrades and in the luck of the
British Army.

One example of that historical luck was ever before their eyes in the
shape of those invaluable naval guns which had arrived so dramatically
at the very crisis of the fight, in time to check the monster on
Pepworth Hill and to cover the retreat of the army. But for them the
besieged must have lain impotent under the muzzles of the huge
Creusots.  But in spite of the naive claims put forward by the Boers
to some special Providence -- a process which a friendly German critic
described as `commandeering the Almighty' -- it is certain that in a very
peculiar degree, in the early months of this war there came again and
again a happy chance, or a merciful interposition, which saved the
British from disaster. Now in this first week of November, when every
hill, north and south and east and west, flashed and smoked, and the
great 96-pound shells groaned and screamed over the town, it was to
the long thin 4·7's and to the hearty bearded men who worked them,
that soldiers and townsfolk looked for help. These guns of Lambton's,
supplemented by two old-fashioned 6·3 howitzers manned by survivors
from No.10 Mountain Battery, did all that was possible to keep down
the fire of the heavy Boer guns. If they could not save, they could at
least hit back, and punishment is not so bad to bear when one is
giving as well as receiving.

By the end of the first week of November the Boers had established
their circle of fire. On the east of the town, broken by the loops of
the Klip River, is a broad green plain, some miles in extent, which
furnished grazing ground for the horses and cattle of the
besieged. Beyond it rises into a long flat-topped hill the famous
Bulwana, upon which lay one great Creusot and several smaller guns.
To the north, on Pepworth Hill, was another Creusot, and between the
two were the Boer batteries upon Lombard's Kop. The British naval guns
were placed upon this side, for, as the open loop formed by the river
lies at this end, it is the part of the defences which is most liable
to assault. From thence all round the west down to Besters in the
south was a continuous series of hills, each crowned with Boer guns,
which, if they could not harm the distant town, were at least
effective in holding the garrison to its lines.  So formidable were
these positions that, amid much outspoken criticism, it has never been
suggested that White would have been justified with a limited garrison
in incurring the heavy loss of life which must have followed an
attempt to force them.

The first few days of the siege were clouded by the death of
Lieutenant Egerton of the 'Powerful,' one of the most promising
officers in the Navy.  One leg and the other foot were carried off, as
he lay upon the sandbag parapet watching the effect of our fire.
'There's an end of my cricket,' said the gallant sportsman, and he was
carried to the rear with a cigar between his clenched teeth.

On November 3rd a strong cavalry reconnaissance was pushed down the
Colenso road to ascertain the force which the enemy had in that
direction. Colonel Brocklehurst took with him the 18th and 19th
Hussars, the 5th Lancers and the 5th Dragoon Guards, with the Light
Horse and the Natal Volunteers.  Some desultory fighting ensued which
achieved no end, and was chiefly remarkable for the excellent
behaviour of the Colonials, who showed that they were the equals of
the Regulars in gallantry and their superiors in the tactics which
such a country requires.  The death of Major Taunton, Captain Knapp,
and young Brabant, the son of the General who did such good service at
a later stage of the war, was a heavy price to pay for the knowledge
that the Boers were in considerable strength to the south.

By the end of this week the town had already settled down to the
routine of the siege.  General Joubert, with the chivalry which had
always distinguished him, had permitted the garrison to send out the
non-combatants to a place called Intombi Camp (promptly named
Funkersdorp by the facetious) where they were safe from the shells,
though the burden of their support still fell of course upon the
much-tried commissariat.  The hale and male of the townsfolk refused
for the most part to avoid the common danger, and clung tenaciously to
their shot-torn village.  Fortunately the river has worn down its
banks until it runs through a deep channel, in the sides of which it
was found to be possible to hollow out caves which were practically
bomb-proof. Here for some months the townsfolk led a troglodytic
existence, returning to their homes upon that much appreciated seventh
day of rest which was granted to them by their Sabbatarian besiegers.

The perimeter of the defence had been divided off so that each corps
might be responsible for its own section. To the south was the
Manchester Regiment upon the hill called Cæsar's Camp.  Between
Lombard's Kop and the town, on the north-east, were the Devons.  To
the north, at what seemed the vulnerable point, were the Rifle
Brigade, the Rifles, and the remains of the 18th Hussars.  To the west
were the 5th Lancers, 19th Hussars, and 5th Dragoon Guards. The rest
of the force was encamped round the outskirts of the town.

There appears to have been some idea in the Boer mind that the mere
fact that they held a dominant position over the town would soon
necessitate the surrender of the army. At the end of a week they had
realised, however, just as the British had, that a siege lay before
both.  Their fire upon the town was heavy but not deadly, though it
became more effective as the weeks went on.  Their practice at a range
of five miles was exceedingly accurate.  At the same time their
riflemen became more venturesome, and on Tuesday, November 7th, they
made a half-hearted attack upon the Manchesters' position on the
south, which was driven back without difficulty.  On the 9th, however,
their attempt was of a more serious and sustained character.  It began
with a heavy shell-fire and with a demonstration of rifle-fire from
every side, which had for its object the prevention of reinforcements
for the true point of danger, which again was Cæsar's Camp at the
south. It is evident that the Boers had from the beginning made up
their minds that here lay the key of the position, as the two serious
attacks-that of November 9th and that of January 6th-were directed
upon this point.

The Manchesters at Cæsar's Camp had been reinforced by the 1st
battalion 60th Rifles, who held the prolongation of the same ridge,
which is called Waggon Hill. With the dawn it was found that the Boer
riflemen were within eight hundred yards, and from then till evening a
constant fire was maintained upon the hill. The Boer, however, save
when the odds are all in his favour, is not, in spite of his
considerable personal bravery, at his best in attack.  His racial
traditions, depending upon the necessity for economy of human life,
are all opposed to it. As a consequence two regiments well posted were
able to hold them off all day with a loss which did not exceed thirty
killed and wounded, while the enemy, exposed to the shrapnel of the
42nd battery, as well as the rifle-fire of the infantry, must have
suffered very much more severely.  The result of the action was a
well-grounded belief that in daylight there was very little chance of
the Boers being able to carry the lines. As the date was that of the
Prince of Wales's birthday, a salute of twenty-one shotted naval guns
wound up a successful day.

The failure of the attempt upon Ladysmith seems to have convinced the
enemy that a waiting game, in which hunger, shell-fire, and disease
were their allies, would be surer and less expensive than an open
assault. From their distant hilltops they continued to plague the
town, while garrison and citizens sat grimly patient, and learned to
endure if not to enjoy the crash of the 96-pound shells, and the
patter of shrapnel upon their corrugated-iron roofs. The supplies were
adequate, and the besieged were fortunate in the presence of a
first-class organiser, Colonel Ward of Islington fame, who with the
assistance of Colonel Stoneman systematised the collection and issue
of all the food, civil and military, so as to stretch it to its
utmost. With rain overhead and mud underfoot, chafing at their own
idleness and humiliated by their own position1 the soldiers waited
through the weary weeks for the relief which never came.  On some days
there was more shell-fire, on some less; on some there was sniping, on
some none; on some they sent a little feeler of cavalry and guns out
of the town, on most they lay still -- such were the ups and downs of
life in Ladysmith. The inevitable siege paper, 'The Ladysmith Lyre,'
appeared, and did something to relieve the monotony by the
exasperation of its jokes.  Night, morning, and noon the shells rained
upon the town until the most timid learned fatalism if not bravery.
The crash of the percussion, and the strange musical tang of the
shrapnel sounded ever in their ears. With their glasses the garrison
could see the gay frocks and parasols of the Boer ladies who had come
down by train to see the torture of the doomed town.

The Boers were sufficiently numerous, aided by their strong positions
and excellent artillery, to mask the Ladysmith force and to sweep on
at once to the conquest of Natal. Had they done so it is hard to see
what could have prevented them from riding their horses down to salt
water. A few odds and ends, half battalions and local volunteers,
stood between them and Durban. But here, as on the Orange River, a
singular paralysis seems to have struck them. When the road lay clear
before them the first transports of the army corps were hardly past
St. Vincent, but before they had made up their mind to take that road
the harbour of Durban was packed with our shipping and ten thousand
men had thrown themselves across their path.

For a moment we may leave the fortunes of Ladysmith to follow this
southerly movement of the Boers. Within two days of the investment of
the town they had swung round their left flank and attacked Colenso,
twelve miles south, shelling the Durban Light Infantry out of their
post with a long-range fire.  The British fell back twenty-seven miles
and concentrated at Estcourt, leaving the all-important Colenso
railway-bridge in the hands of the enemy. From this onwards they held
the north of the Tugela, and many a widow wore crepe before we got our
grip upon it once more. Never was there a more critical week in the
war, but having got Colenso the Boers did little more. They formally
annexed the whole of Northern Natal to the Orange Free State -- a
dangerous precedent when the tables should be turned. With amazing
assurance the burghers pegged out farms for themselves and sent for
their people to occupy these newly won estates.

On November 5th the Boers had remained so inert that the British
returned in small force to Colenso and removed some stores -- which
seems to suggest that the original retirement was premature. Four days
passed in inactivity -- four precious days for us -- and on the
evening of the fourth, November 9th, the watchers on the signal
station at Table Mountain saw the smoke of a great steamer coming past
Robben Island. It was the 'Roslin Castle' with the first of the
reinforcements. Within the week the 'Moor,' 'Yorkshire,' 'Aurania,'
'Hawarden Castle,' 'Gascon,' Armenian,' 'Oriental,' and a fleet of
others had passed for Durban with 15,000 men. Once again the command
of the sea had saved the Empire.

But, now that it was too late, the Boers suddenly took the initiative,
and in dramatic fashion. North of Estcourt, where General Hildyard was
being daily reinforced from the sea, there are two small townlets, or
at least geographical (and railway) points. Frere is about ten miles
north of Estcourt, and Chieveley is five miles north of that and about
as far to the south of Colenso.  On November 15th an armoured train
was despatched from Estcourt to see what was going on up the
line. Already one disaster had befallen us in this campaign on account
of these clumsy contrivances, and a heavier one was now to confirm the
opinion that, acting alone, they are totally inadmissible. As a means
of carrying artillery for a force operating upon either flank of them,
with an assured retreat behind, there may be a place for them in
modern war, but as a method of scouting they appear to be the most
inefficient and also the most expensive that has ever been
invented. An intelligent horseman would gather more information, be
less visible, and retain some freedom as to route. After our
experience the armoured train may steam out of military history.

The train contained ninety Dublin Fusiliers, eighty Durban Volunteers,
and ten sailors, with a naval 7-pounder gun.  Captain Haldane of the
Gordons, Lieutenant Frankland (Dublin Fusiliers), and Winston
Churchill, the well-known correspondent, accompanied the
expedition. What might have been foreseen occurred. The train steamed
into the advancing Boer army, was fired upon, tried to escape, found
the rails blocked behind it, and upset. Dublins and Durbans were shot
helplessly out of their trucks, under a heavy fire. A railway accident
is a nervous thing, and so is an ambuscade, but the combination of the
two must be appalling.  Yet there were brave hearts which rose to the
occasion.  Haldane and Frankland rallied the troops, and Churchill the
engine-driver.  The engine was disentangled and sent on with its cab
full of wounded. Churchill, who had escaped upon it, came gallantly
back to share the fate of his comrades.  The dazed shaken soldiers
continued a futile resistance for some time, but there was neither
help nor escape and nothing for them but surrender. The most Spartan
military critic cannot blame them.  A few slipped away besides those
who escaped upon the engine.  Our losses were two killed, twenty
wounded, and about eighty taken. It is remarkable that of the three
leaders both Haldane and Churchill succeeded in escaping from
Pretoria.

A double tide of armed men was now pouring into Southern Natal. From
below, trainload after trainload of British regulars were coming up to
the danger point, feted and cheered at every station. Lonely
farmhouses near the line hung out their Union Jacks, and the folk on
the stoep heard the roar of the choruses as the great trains swung
upon their way.  From above the Boers were flooding down, as Churchill
saw them, dour, resolute, riding silently through the rain, or
chanting hymns round their camp fires -- brave honest farmers, but
standing unconsciously for mediævalism and corruption, even as our
rough-tongued Tommies stood for civilisation, progress, and equal
rights for all men.

The invading force, the numbers of which could not have exceeded some
few thousands, formidable only for their mobility, lapped round the
more powerful but less active force at Estcourt, and struck behind it
at its communications. There was for a day or two some discussion as
to a further retreat, but Hildyard, strengthened by the advice and
presence of Colonel Long, determined to hold his ground. On November
21st the raiding Boers were as far south as Nottingham Road, a point
thirty miles south of Estcourt and only forty miles north of the
considerable city of Pietermaritzburg. The situation was
serious. Either the invaders must be stopped, or the second largest
town in the colony would be in their hands.  From all sides came tales
of plundered farms and broken households.  Some at least of the
raiders behaved with wanton brutality. Smashed pianos, shattered
pictures, slaughtered stock, and vile inscriptions, all exhibit a
predatory and violent side to the paradoxical Boer
character.[Footnote: More than once I have heard the farmers in the
Free State acknowledge that the ruin which had come upon them was a
just retribution for the excesses of Natal.]

The next British post behind Hildyard's at Estcourt was Barton's upon
the Mooi River, thirty miles to the south.  Upon this the Boers made a
half-hearted attempt, but Joubert had begun to realise the strength of
the British reinforcements and the impossibility with the numbers at
his disposal of investing a succession of British posts.  He ordered
Botha to withdraw from Mooi River and begin his northerly trek.

The turning-point of the Boer invasion of Natal was marked, though we
cannot claim that it was caused, by the action of Willow Grange.  This
was fought by Hildyard and Walter Kitchener in command of the Estcourt
garrison, against about 2,000 of the invaders under Louis Botha.  The
troops engaged were the East and West Surreys (four companies of the
latter), the West Yorkshires, the Durban Light Infantry, No.7 battery
R.F.A., two naval guns, and some hundreds of Colonial Horse.

The enemy being observed to have a gun upon a hill within striking
distance of Estcourt, this force set out on November 22nd to make a
night attack and to endeavour to capture it.  The hill was taken
without difficulty, but it was found that the gun had been removed.  A
severe counter-attack was made at daylight by the Boers, and the
troops were compelled with no great loss and less glory to return to
the town.  The Surreys and the Yorkshires behaved very well, but were
placed in a difficult position and were badly supported by the
artillery.  Martyn's Mounted Infantry covered the retirement with
great gallantry, but the skirmish ended in a British loss of fourteen
killed and fifty wounded or missing, which was certainly more than
that of the Boers.  From this indecisive action of Willow Grange the
Boer invasion receded until General Buller, coming to the front on
November 27th, found that the enemy was once more occupying the line
of the Tugela.  He himself moved up to Frere, where he devoted his
time and energies to the collection of that force with which he has
destined, after three failures, to make his way into Ladysmith.

One unexpected and little known result of the Boer expedition into
Southern Natal was that their leader, the chivalrous Joubert, injured
himself through his horse stumbling, and was physically incapacitated
for the remainder of the campaign. He returned almost immediately to
Pretoria, leaving the command of the Tugela in the hands of Louis
Botha.

Leaving Buller to organise his army at Frere, and the Boer commanders
to draw their screen of formidable defences along the Tugela, we will
return once more to the fortunes of the unhappy town round which the
interest of the world, and possibly the destiny of the Empire, were
centering. It is very certain that had Ladysmith fallen, and twelve
thousand British soldiers with a million pounds' worth of stores
fallen into the hands of the invaders, we should have been faced with
the alternative of abandoning the struggle, or of reconquering South
Africa from Cape Town northwards. South Africa is the keystone of the
Empire, and for the instant Ladysmith was the keystone of South
Africa. But the courage of the troops who held the shell-torn townlet,
and the confidence of the public who watched them, never faltered for
an instant.

December 8th was marked by a gallant exploit on the part of the
beleaguered garrison. Not a whisper had transpired of the coming
sortie, and a quarter of an hour before the start officers engaged had
no idea of it. 0 SI SIC OMNIA! At ten o'clock a band of men slipped
out of the town. There were six hundred of them, all irregulars, drawn
from the Imperial Light Horse, the Natal Carabineers, and the Border
Mounted Rifles, under the command of Hunter, youngest and most dashing
of British Generals. Edwardes and Boyston were the subcommanders. The
men had no knowledge of where they were going or what they had to do,
but they crept silently along under a drifting sky, with peeps of a
quarter moon, over a mimosa-shadowed plain. At last in front of them
there loomed a dark mass -- it was Gun Hill, from which one of the
great Creusots had plagued them. A strong support (four hundred men)
was left at the base of the hill, and the others, one hundred
Imperials, one hundred Borders and Carabineers, ten Sappers, crept
upwards with Major Henderson as guide. A Dutch outpost challenged, but
was satisfied by a Dutch-speaking Carabineer.  Higher and higher the
men crept, the silence broken only by the occasional slip of a stone
or the rustle of their own breathing. Most of them had left their
boots below. Even in the darkness they kept some formation, and the
right wing curved forward to outflank the defence. Suddenly a Mauser
crack and a spurt of flame-then another and another! 'Come on, boys!
Fix bayonets!' yelled Karri Davies. There were no bayonets, but that
was a detail. At the word the gunners were off, and there in the
darkness in front of the storming party loomed the enormous gun,
gigantic in that uncertain light. Out with the huge breech-block! Wrap
the long lean muzzle round with a collar of gun-cotton! Keep the guard
upon the run until the work is done! Hunter stood by with a night
light in his hand until the charge was in position, and then, with a
crash which brought both armies from their tents, the huge tube reared
up on its mountings and toppled backwards into the pit.  A howitzer
lurked beside it, and this also was blown into ruin. The attendant
Maxim was dragged back by the exultant captors, who reached the town
amid shoutings and laughter with the first break of day. One man
wounded, the gallant Henderson, is the cheap price for the
best-planned and most dashing exploit of the war. Secrecy in
conception, vigour in execution -- they are the root ideas of the
soldier's craft. So easily was the enterprise carried out, and so
defective the Boer watch, that it is probable that if all the guns had
been simultaneously attacked the Boers might have found themselves
without a single piece of ordnance in the morning.[Footnote: The
destruction of the Creusot was not as complete as was hoped. It was
taken back to Pretoria, three feet were sawn off the muzzle, and a new
breech-block provided. The gun was then sent to Kimberley, and it was
the heavy cannon which arrived late in the history of that siege and
caused considerable consternation among the inhabitants.]

On the same morning (December 9th) a cavalry reconnaissance was pushed
in the direction of Pepworth Hill. The object no doubt was to
ascertain whether the enemy were still present in force, and the
terrific roll of the Mausers answered it in the affirmative. Two
killed and twenty wounded was the price which we paid for the
information. There had been three such reconnaissances in the five
weeks of the siege, and it is difficult to see what advantage they
gave or how they are to be justified. Far be it for the civilian to
dogmatise upon such matters, but one can repeat, and to the best of
one's judgment endorse, the opinion of the vast majority of officers.

There were heart burnings among the Regulars that the colonial troops
should have gone in front of them, so their martial jealousy was
allayed three nights later by the same task being given to them. Four
companies of the 2nd Rifle Brigade were the troops chosen, with a few
sappers and gunners, the whole under the command of Colonel Metcalfe
of the same battalion. A single gun, the 4·7 howitzer upon Surprise
Hill, was the objective. Again there was the stealthy advance through
the darkness, again the support was left at the bottom of the hill,
again the two companies carefully ascended, again there was the
challenge, the rush, the flight, and the gun was in the hands of the
stormers.

Here and only here the story varies. For some reason the fuse used for
the guncotton was defective, and half an hour elapsed before the
explosion destroyed the howitzer. When it came it came very
thoroughly, but it was a weary time in coming. Then our men descended
the hill, but the Boers were already crowding in upon them from either
side. The English cries of the soldiers were answered in English by
the Boers, and slouch hat or helmet dimly seen in the mirk was the
only badge of friend or foe. A singular letter is extant from young
Reitz (the son of the Transvaal secretary), who was present. According
to his account there were but eight Boers present, but assertion or
contradiction equally valueless in the darkness of such a night, and
there are some obvious discrepancies in his statement. 'We fired among
them,' says Reitz. 'They stopped and all cried out "Rifle Brigade."
Then one of them said "Charge!" One officer, Captain Paley, advanced,
though he had two bullet wounds already. Joubert gave him another shot
and he fell on the top of us. Four Englishmen got hold of Jan Luttig
and struck him on the head with their rifles and stabbed him in the
stomach with a bayonet. He seized two of them by the throat and
shouted "Help, boys!" His two nearest comrades shot two of them, and
the other two bolted. Then the English came up in numbers, about eight
hundred, along the footpath' (there were two hundred on the hill, but
the exaggeration is pardonable in the darkness), 'and we lay as quiet
as mice along the bank. Farther on the English killed three of our men
with bayonets and wounded two. In the morning we found Captain Paley
and twenty-two of them killed and wounded.' It seems evident that
Reitz means that his own little party were eight men, and not that
that represented the force which intercepted the retiring
riflemen. Within his own knowledge five of his countrymen were killed
in the scuffle, so the total loss was probably considerable. Our own
casualties were eleven dead, forty-three wounded, and six prisoners,
but the price was not excessive for the howitzer and for the MORALE
which arises from such exploits. Had it not been for that unfortunate
fuse, the second success might have been as bloodless as the first.
'I am sorry,' said a sympathetic correspondent to the stricken
Paley. 'But we got the gun,' Paley whispered, and he spoke for the
Brigade.

Amid the shell-fire, the scanty rations, the enteric and the
dysentery, one ray of comfort had always brightened the
garrison. Buller was only twelve miles away -- they could hear his
guns -- and when his advance came in earnest their sufferings would be
at an end. But now in an instant this single light was shut off and
the true nature of their situation was revealed to them. Buller had
indeed moved... but backwards. He had been defeated at Colenso, and
the siege was not ending but beginning. With heavier hearts but
undiminished resolution the army and the townsfolk settled down to the
long, dour struggle. The exultant enemy replaced their shattered guns
and drew their lines closer still round the stricken town.

A record of the siege onwards until the break of the New Year centres
upon the sordid details of the sick returns and of the price of
food. Fifty on one day, seventy on the next, passed under the hands of
the overworked and devoted doctors.  Fifteen hundred, and later two
thousand, of the garrison were down.  The air was poisoned by foul
sewage and dark with obscene flies. They speckled the scanty food.
Eggs were already a shilling each, cigarettes sixpence, whisky five
pounds a bottle: a city more free from gluttony and drunkenness has
never been seen.

Shell-fire has shown itself in this war to be an excellent ordeal for
those who desire martial excitement with a minimum of danger. But now
and again some black chance guides a bomb -- one in five thousand
perhaps -- to a most tragic issue.  Such a deadly missile falling
among Boers near Kimberley is said to have slain nine and wounded
seventeen. In Ladysmith too there are days to be marked in red when
the gunner shot better than he knew. One shell on December 17th killed
six men (Natal Carabineers), wounded three, and destroyed fourteen
horses. The grisly fact has been recorded that five separate human
legs lay upon the ground. On December 22nd another tragic shot killed
five and wounded twelve of the Devons.  On the same day four officers
of the 5th Lancers (including the Colonel) and one sergeant were
wounded -- a most disastrous day.  A little later it was again the
turn of the Devons, who lost one officer killed and ten wounded.
Christmas set in amid misery, hunger, and disease, the more piteous
for the grim attempts to amuse the children and live up to the joyous
season, when the present of Santa Claus was too often a 96-pound
shell. On the top of all other troubles it was now known that the
heavy ammunition was running short and must be husbanded for
emergencies. There was no surcease, however, in the constant hail
which fell upon the town.  Two or three hundred shells were a not
unusual daily allowance.

The monotonous bombardment with which the New Year had commenced was
soon to be varied by a most gallant and spirit-stirring clash of arms.
On January 6th the Boers delivered their great assault upon Ladysmith
-- an onfall so gallantly made and gallantly met that it deserves to
rank among the classic fights of British military history.  It is a
tale which neither side need be ashamed to tell. Honour to the sturdy
infantry who held their grip so long, and honour also to the rough men
of the veldt, who, led by untrained civilians, stretched us to the
utmost capacity of our endurance.

It may be that the Boers wished once for all to have done at all costs
with the constant menace to their rear, or it may be that the
deliberate preparations of Buller for his second advance had alarmed
them, and that they realised that they must act quickly if they were
to act at all.  At any rate, early in the New Year a most determined
attack was decided upon.  The storming party consisted of some
hundreds of picked volunteers from the Heidelberg (Transvaal) and
Harrismith (Free State) contingents, led by de Villiers.  They were
supported by several thousand riflemen, who might secure their success
or cover their retreat. Eighteen heavy guns had been trained upon the
long ridge, one end of which has been called Cæsar's Camp and the
other Waggon Hill.  This hill, three miles long, lay to the south of
the town, and the Boers had early recognised it as being the most
vulnerable point, for it was against it that their attack of November
9th had been directed. Now, after two months, they were about to renew
the attempt with greater resolution against less robust opponents.  At
twelve o'clock our scouts heard the sounds of the chanting of hymns in
the Boer camps. At two in the morning crowds of barefooted men were
clustering round the base of the ridge, and threading their way, rifle
in hand, among the mimosa-bushes and scattered boulders which cover
the slope of the hill. Some working parties were moving guns into
position, and the noise of their labour helped to drown the sound of
the Boer advance. Both at Cæsar's Camp, the east end of the ridge, and
at Waggon Hill, the west end (the points being, I repeat, three miles
apart), the attack came as a complete surprise.  The outposts were
shot or driven in, and the stormers were on the ridge almost as soon
as their presence was detected. The line of rocks blazed with the
flash of their guns.

Cæsar's Camp was garrisoned by one sturdy regiment, the Manchesters,
aided by a Colt automatic gun.  The defence bad been arranged in the
form of small sangars, each held by from ten to twenty men.  Some few
of these were rushed in the darkness, but the Lancashire men pulled
themselves together and held on strenuously to those which remained.
The crash of musketry woke the sleeping town, and the streets
resounded with the shouting of the officers and the rattling of arms
as the men mustered in the darkness and hurried to the points of
danger.

Three companies of the Gordons had been left near Cæsar's Camp, and
these, under Captain Carnegie, threw themselves into the
struggle. Four other companies of Gordons came up in support from the
town, losing upon the way their splendid colonel, Dick-Cunyngham, who
was killed by a chance shot at three thousand yards, on this his first
appearance since he had recovered from his wounds at
Elandslaagte. Later four companies of the Rifle Brigade were thrown
into the firing line, and a total of two and a half infantry
battalions held that end of the position. It was not a man too
much. With the dawn of day it could be seen that the Boers held the
southern and we the northern slopes, while the narrow plateau between
formed a bloody debatable ground. Along a front of a quarter of a
mile fierce eyes glared and rifle barrels flashed from behind every
rock, and the long fight swayed a little back or a little forward with
each upward heave of the stormers or rally of the soldiers. For hours
the combatants were so near that a stone or a taunt could be thrown
from one to the other.  Some scattered sangars still held their own,
though the Boers had passed them.  One such, manned by fourteen
privates of the Manchester Regiment, remained untaken, but had only
two defenders left at the end of the bloody day.

With the coming of the light the 53rd Field Battery, the one which had
already done so admirably at Lombard's Kop, again deserved well of its
country. It was impossible to get behind the Boers and fire straight
at their position, so every shell fired bad to skim over the heads of
our own men upon the ridge and so pitch upon tho reverse slope.  Yet
so accurate was the fire, carried on under an incessant rain of shells
from the big Dutch gun on Bulwana, that not one shot miscarried and
that Major Abdy and his men succeeded in sweeping the further slope
without loss to our own fighting line. Exactly the same feat was
equally well performed at the other end of the position by Major
Blewitt's 21st Battery, which was exposed to an even more searching
fire than the 53rd.  Any one who has seen the iron endurance of
British gunners and marvelled at the answering shot which flashes out
through the very dust of the enemy's exploding shell, will understand
how fine must have been the spectacle of these two batteries working
in the open, with the ground round them sharded with
splinters. Eye-witnesses have left it upon record that the sight of
Major Blewitt strolling up and down among his guns, and turning over
with his toe the last fallen section of iron, was one of the most
vivid and stirring impressions which they carried from The fight.
Here also it was that the gallant Sergeant Bosley, his arm and his leg
stricken off by a Boer shell, cried to his comrades to roll his body
off the trail and go on working the gun.

At the same time as -- or rather earlier than -- the onslaught upon
Caesar's Camp a similar attack had been made with secrecy and
determination upon the western end of the position called Waggon Hill.
The barefooted Boers burst suddenly with a roll of rifle-fire into the
little garrison of Imperial Light Horse and Sappers who held the
position.  Mathias of the former, Digby-Jones and Dennis of the
latter, showed that 'two in the morning' courage which Napoleon rated
as the highest of military virtues.  They and their men were surprised
but not disconcerted, and stood desperately to a slogging match at the
closest quarters.  Seventeen Sappers were down out of thirty, and more
than half the little body of irregulars.  This end of the position was
feebly fortified, and it is surprising that so experienced and sound a
soldier as Ian Hamilton should have left it so. The defence had no
marked advantage as compared with the attack, neither trench, sangar,
nor wire entanglement, and in numbers they were immensely
inferior. Two companies of the 60th Rifles and a small body of the
ubiquitous Gordons happened to be upon the hill and threw themselves
into the fray, but they were unable to turn the tide.  Of thirty-three
Gordons under Lieutenant MacNaughten thirty were wounded.[Footnote:
The Gordons and the Sappers were there that morning to re-escort one
of Lambton's 4·7 guns, which was to be mounted there. Ten seamen were
with the gun, and lost three of their number in the defence.] As our
men retired under the shelter of the northern slope they were
reinforced by another hundred and fifty Gordons under the stalwart
Miller-Wallnutt, a man cast in the mould of a Berserk Viking.  To
their aid also came two hundred of the Imperial Light Horse, burning
to assist their comrades. Another half-battalion of Rifles came with
them. At each end of the long ridge the situation at the dawn of day
was almost identical. In each the stormers had seized one side, but
were brought to a stand by the defenders upon the other, while the
British guns fired over the heads of their own infantry to rake the
further slope.

It was on the Waggon Hill side, however, that the Boer exertions were
most continuous and strenuous and our own resistance most desperate.
There fought the gallant de Villiers, while Ian Hamilton rallied the
defenders and led them in repeated rushes against the enemy's line.
Continually reinforced from below, the Boers fought with extraordinary
resolution. Never will any one who witnessed that Homeric contest
question the valour of our foes.  It was a murderous business on both
sides.  Edwardes of the Light Horse was struck down.  In a
gun-emplacement a strange encounter took place at point-blank range
between a group of Boers and of Britons. De Villiers of the Free State
shot Miller-Wallnut dead, Ian Hamilton fired at de Villiers with his
revolver and missed him. Young Albrecht of the Light Horse shot de
Villiers. A Boer named de Jaeger shot Albrecht. Digby-Jones of the
Sappers shot de Jaeger.  Only a few minutes later the gallant lad, who
had already won fame enough for a veteran, was himself mortally
wounded, and Dennis, his comrade in arms and in glory, fell by his
side.

There has been no better fighting in our time than that upon Waggon
Hill on that January morning, and no better fighters than the Imperial
Light Horsemen who formed the centre of the defence. Here, as at
Elandslaagte, they proved themselves worthy to stand in line with the
crack regiments of the British army.

Through the long day the fight maintained its equilibrium along the
summit of the ridge, swaying a little that way or this, but never
amounting to a repulse of the stormers or to a rout of the
defenders. So intermixed were the combatants that a wounded man more
than once found himself a rest for the rifles of his enemies.  One
unfortunate soldier in this position received six more bullets from
his own comrades in their efforts to reach the deadly rifleman behind
him. At four o'clock a huge bank of clouds which had towered upwards
unheeded by the struggling men burst suddenly into a terrific
thunderstorm with vivid lightnings and lashing rain. It is curious
that the British victory at Elandslaagte was heralded by just such
another storm. Up on the bullet-swept hill the long fringes of
fighting men took no more heed of the elements than would two
bulldogs who have each other by the throat. Up the greasy hillside,
foul with mud and with blood, came the Boer reserves, and up the
northern slope came our own reserve, the Devon Regiment, fit
representatives of that virile county. Admirably led by Park, their
gallant Colonel, the Devons swept the Boers before them, and the
Rifles, Gordons, and Light Horse joined in the wild charge which
finally cleared the ridge.

But the end was not yet. The Boer had taken a risk over this venture,
and now he had to pay the stakes. Down the hill he passed, crouching,
darting, but the spruits behind him were turned into swirling streams,
and as he hesitated for an instant upon the brink the relentless sleet
of bullets came from behind. Many were swept away down the gorges and
into the Klip River, never again to be accounted for in the lists of
their field-cornet. The majority splashed through, found their horses
in their shelter, and galloped off across the great Bulwana Plain, as
fairly beaten in as fair a fight as ever brave men were yet.

The cheers of victory as the Devons swept the ridge had heartened the
weary men upon Cæsar's Camp to a similar effort. Manchesters, Gordons,
and Rifles, aided by the fire of two batteries, cleared the
long-debated position. Wet, cold, weary, and without food for
twenty-six hours, the bedraggled Tommies stood yelling and waving,
amid the litter of dead and of dying.

It was a near thing. Had the ridge fallen the town must have followed,
and history perhaps have been changed. In the old stiff-rank Majuba
days we should have been swept in an hour from the position. But the
wily man behind the rock was now to find an equally wily man in front
of him. The soldier had at last learned something of the craft of the
hunter. He clung to his shelter, he dwelled on his aim, he ignored his
dressings, he laid aside the eighteenth-century traditions of his
pigtailed ancestor, and he hit the Boers harder than they had been hit
yet. No return may ever come to us of their losses on that occasion;
80 dead bodies were returned to them from the ridge alone, while the
slopes, the dongas, and the river each had its own separate tale. No
possible estimate can make it less than three hundred killed and
wounded, while many place it at a much higher figure. Our own
casualties were very serious and the proportion of dead to wounded
unusually high, owing to the fact that the greater part of the wounds
were necessarily of the head.  In killed we lost 13 officers, 135
men. In wounded 28 officers, 244 men -- a total of 420, Lord Ava, the
honoured Son of an honoured father, the fiery Dick-Cunyngham, stalwart
Miller-Wallnutt, the brave boy sappers Digby-Jones and Dennis, Adams
and Packman of the Light Horse, the chivalrous Lafone -- we had to
mourn quality as well as numbers. The grim test of the casualty
returns shows that it was to the Imperial Light Horse (ten officers
down, and the regiment commanded by a junior captain), the
Manchesters, the Gordons, the Devons, and the 2nd Rifle Brigade that
the honours of the day are due.

In the course of the day two attacks had been made upon other points
of the British position, the one on Observation Hill on the north, the
other on the Helpmakaar position on the east. Of these the latter was
never pushed home and was an obvious feint, but in the case of the
other it was not until Schutte, their commander, and forty or fifty
men had been killed and wounded, that the stormers abandoned their
attempt. At every point the assailants found the same scattered but
impenetrable fringe of riflemen, and the same energetic batteries
waiting for them.

Throughout the Empire the course of this great struggle was watched
with the keenest solicitude and with all that painful emotion which
springs from impotent sympathy. By heliogram to Buller, and so to the
farthest ends of that great body whose nerves are the telegraphic
wires, there came the announcement of the attack. Then after an
interval of hours came 'everywhere repulsed, but fighting continues.'
Then, 'Attack continues. Enemy reinforced from the south.'  Then
'Attack renewed. Very hard pressed.'  There the messages ended for the
day, leaving the Empire black with apprehension. The darkest forecasts
and most dreary anticipations were indulged by the most temperate and
best-informed London papers. For the first time the very suggestion
that the campaign might be above our strength was made to the
public. And then at last there came the official news of the repulse
of the assault. Far away at Ladysmith, the weary men and their sorely
tried officers gathered to return thanks to God for His manifold
mercies, but in London also hearts were stricken solemn by the
greatness of the crisis, and lips long unused to prayer joined in the
devotions of the absent warriors.


CHAPTER XIV

THE COLESBERG OPERATIONS


Of the four British armies in the field I have attempted to tell the
story of the western one which advanced to help Kimberley, of the
eastern one which was repulsed at Colenso, and of the central one
which was checked at Stormberg. There remains one other central one,
some account of which must now be given.

It was, as has already been pointed out, a long three weeks after the
declaration of war before the forces of the Orange Free State began to
invade Cape Colony. But for this most providential delay it is
probable that the ultimate fighting would have been, not among the
mountains and kopjes of Stormberg and Colesberg, but amid those
formidable passes which lie in the Hex Valley, immediately to the
north of Cape Town, and that the armies of the invader would have been
doubled by their kinsmen of the Colony. The ultimate result of the war
must have been the same, but the sight of all South Africa in flames
might have brought about those Continental complications which have
always been so grave a menace.

The invasion of the Colony was at two points along the line of the two
railways which connect the countries, the one passing over the Orange
River at Norval's Pont and the other at Bethulie, about forty miles to
the eastward. There were no British troops available (a fact to be
considered by those, if any remain, who imagine that the British
entertained any design against the Republics), and the Boers jogged
slowly southward amid a Dutch population who hesitated between their
unity of race and speech and their knowledge of just and generous
treatment by the Empire. A large number were won over by the invaders,
and, like all apostates, distinguished themselves by their virulence
and harshness towards their loyal neighbours. Here and there in towns
which were off the railway line, in Barkly East or Ladygrey, the
farmers met together with rifle and bandolier, tied orange puggarees
round their hats, and rode off to join the enemy. Possibly these
ignorant and isolated men hardly recognised what it was that they were
doing. They have found out since.  In some of the border districts the
rebels numbered ninety per cent of the Dutch population.

In the meanwhile, the British leaders had been strenuously
endeavouring to scrape together a few troops with which to make some
stand against the enemy. For this purpose two small forces were
necessary -- the one to oppose the advance through Bethulie and
Stormberg, the other to meet the invaders, who, having passed the
river at Norval's Pont, had now occupied Colesberg. The former task
was, as already shown, committed to General Gatacre. The latter was
allotted to General French, the victor of Elandslaagte, who had
escaped in the very last train from Ladysmith, and had taken over this
new and important duty. French's force assembled at Arundel and
Gatacre's at Sterkstroom. It is with the operations of the former that
we have now to deal.

General French, for whom South Africa has for once proved not the
grave but the cradle of a reputation, had before the war gained some
name as a smart and energetic cavalry officer. There were some who,
watching his handling of a considerable body of horse at the great
Salisbury manoeuvres in 1898, conceived the highest opinion of his
capacity, and it was due to the strong support of General Buller, who
had commanded in these peaceful operations, that French received his
appointment for South Africa.  In person he is short and thick, with a
pugnacious jaw.  In character he is a man of cold persistence and of
fiery energy, cautious and yet audacious, weighing his actions well,
but carrying them out with the dash which befits a mounted leader. He
is remarkable for the quickness of his decision -- 'can think at a
gallop,' as an admirer expressed it.  Such was the man, alert,
resourceful, and determined, to whom was entrusted the holding back of
the Colesberg Boers.

Although the main advance of the invaders was along the lines of the
two railways, they ventured, as they realised how weak the forces were
which opposed them, to break off both to the east and west, occupying
Dordrecht on one side and Steynsberg on the other. Nothing of
importance accrued from the possession of these points, and our
attention may be concentrated upon the main line of action.

French's original force was a mere handful of men, scraped together
from anywhere.  Naauwpoort was his base, and thence he made a
reconnaissance by rail on November 23rd towards Arundel, the next
hamlet along the line, taking with him a company of the Black Watch,
forty mounted infantry, and a troop of the New South Wales Lancers.
Nothing resulted from the expedition save that the two forces came
into touch with each other, a touch which was sustained for months
under many vicissitudes, until the invaders were driven back once more
over Norval's Pont. Finding that Arundel was weakly held, French
advanced up to it, and established his camp there towards the end of
December, within six miles of the Boer lines at Rensburg, to the south
of Colesberg. His mission -- with his present forces -- was to prevent
the further advance of the enemy into the Colony, but he was not
strong enough yet to make a serious attempt to drive them out.

Before the move to Arundel on December 13th his detachment had
increased in size, and consisted largely of mounted men, so that it
attained a mobility very unusual for a British force. On December 13th
there was an attempt upon the part of the Boers to advance south,
which was easily held by the British Cavalry and Horse Artillery.  The
country over which French was operating is dotted with those singular
kopjes which the Boer loves -- kopjes which are often so grotesque in
shape that one feels as if they must be due to some error of
refraction when one looks at them.  But, on the other hand, between
these hills there lie wide stretches of the green or russet savanna,
the noblest field that a horseman or a horse gunner could wish.  The
riflemen clung to the hills, French's troopers circled warily upon the
plain, gradually contracting the Boer position by threatening to cut
off this or that outlying kopje, and so the enemy was slowly herded
into Colesberg.  The small but mobile British force covered a very
large area, and hardly a day passed that one or other part of it did
not come in contact with the enemy.  With one regiment of infantry
(the Berkshires) to hold the centre, his hard-riding Tasmanians,
New-Zealanders, and Australians, with the Scots Greys, the
Inniskillings, and the Carabineers, formed an elastic but impenetrable
screen to cover the Colony.  They were aided by two batteries, 0 and
R, of Horse Artillery. Every day General French rode out and made a
close personal examination of the enemy's position, while his scouts
and outposts were instructed to maintain the closest possible touch.

On December 30th the enemy abandoned Rensburg, which had been their
advanced post, and concentrated at Colesberg, upon which French moved
his force up and seized Rensburg. The very next day, December 31st, he
began a vigorous and long-continued series of operations. At five
o'clock on Sunday evening he moved out of Rensburg camp, with R and
half of 0 batteries R.H.A., the 10th Hussars, the Inniskillings, and
the Berkshires, to take up a position on the west of Colesberg.  At
the same time Colonel Porter, with the half-battery of 0, his own
regiment (the Carabineers), and the New Zealand Mounted Rifles, left
camp at two on the Monday morning and took a position on the enemy's
left flank.  The Berkshires under Major McCracken seized hill, driving
a Boer picket off it, and the Horse enfiladed the enemy's right flank,
and after a risk artillery duel succeeded in silencing his guns.  Next
morning, however (January 2nd, 1900), it was found that the Boers,
strongly reinforced, were back near their old positions, and French
had to be content to hold them and to wait for more troops.

These were not long in coming, for the Suffolk Regiment had arrived,
followed by the Composite Regiment (chosen from the Household Cavalry)
and the 4th Battery R.F.A. The Boers, however, had also been
reinforced, and showed great energy in their effort to break the
cordon which was being drawn round them.  Upon the 4th a determined
effort was made by about a thousand of them under General Shoemann to
turn the left flank of the British, and at dawn it was actually found
that they had eluded the vigilance of the outposts and had established
themselves upon a hill to the rear of the position. They were shelled
off of it, however, by the guns of 0 Battery, and in their retreat
across the plain they were pursued by the 10th Hussars and by one
squadron of the Inniskillings, who cut off some of the fugitives. At
the same time, De Lisle with his mounted infantry carried the position
which they had originally held. In this successful and well-managed
action the Boer loss was ninety, and we took in addition twenty-one
prisoners. Our own casualties amounted only to six killed, including
Major Harvey of the 10th, and to fifteen wounded.

Encouraged by this success an attempt was made by the Suffolk Regiment
to carry a hill which formed the key of the enemy's position. The town
of Colesberg lies in a basin surrounded by a ring of kopjes, and the
possession by us of any one of them would have made the place
untenable. The plan has been ascribed to Colonel Watson of the
Suffolks, but it is time that some protest should be raised against
this devolution of responsibility upon subordinates in the event of
failure. When success has crowned our arms we have been delighted to
honour our general; but when our efforts end in failure our attention
is called to Colonel Watson, Colonel Long, or Colonel Thorneycroft. It
is fairer to state that in this instance General French ordered
Colonel Watson to make a night attack upon the hill.

The result was disastrous. At midnight four companies in canvas shoes
or in their stocking feet set forth upon their venture, and just
before dawn they found themselves upon the slope of the hill. They
were in a formation of quarter column with files extended to two
paces; H Company was leading. When half-way up a warm fire was opened
upon them in the darkness. Colonel Watson gave the order to retire,
intending, as it is believed, that the men should get under the
shelter of the dead ground which they had just quitted, but his death
immediately afterwards left matters in a confused condition.  The
night was black, the ground broken, a hail of bullets whizzing through
the ranks.  Companies got mixed in the darkness and contradictory
orders were issued.  The leading company held its ground, though each
of the officers, Brett, Carey, and Butler, was struck down.  The other
companies had retired, however, and the dawn found this fringe of men,
most of them wounded, lying under the very rifles of the Boers. Even
then they held out for some time, but they could neither advance,
retire, or stay where they were without losing lives to no purpose, so
the survivors were compelled to surrender. There is better evidence
here than at Magersfontein that the enemy were warned and ready. Every
one of the officers engaged, from the Colonel to the boy subaltern,
was killed, wounded, or taken. Eleven officers and one hundred and
fifty men were our losses in this unfortunate but not discreditable
affair, which proves once more how much accuracy and how much secrecy
is necessary for a successful night attack.  Four companies of the
regiment were sent down to Port Elizabeth to re-officer, but the
arrival of the 1st Essex enabled French to fill the gap which had been
made in his force.

In spite of this annoying check, French continued to pursue his
original design of holding the enemy in front and working round him on
the east.  On January 9th, Porter, of the Carabineers, with his own
regiment, two squadrons of Household Cavalry, the New-Zealanders, the
New South Wales Lancers, and four guns, took another step forward and,
after a skirmish, occupied a position called Slingersfontein, still
further to the north and east, so as to menace the main road of
retreat to Norval's Pont.  Some skirmishing followed, but the position
was maintained.  On the 15th the Boers, thinking that this long
extension must have weakened us, made a spirited attack upon a
position held by New-Zealanders and a company of the 1st Yorkshires,
this regiment having been sent up to reinforce French. The attempt was
met by a volley and a bayonet charge. Captain Orr, of the Yorkshires,
was struck down; but Captain Madocks, of the New-Zealanders, who
behaved with conspicuous gallantry at a critical instant, took
command, and the enemy was heavily repulsed. Madocks engaged in a
point-blank rifle duel with the frock-coated top-hatted Boer leader,
and had the good fortune to kill his formidable opponent. Twenty-one
Boer dead and many wounded left upon the field made a small set-off to
the disaster of the Suffolks.

The next day, however (January 16th), the scales of fortune, which
swung alternately one way and the other, were again tipped against
us. It is difficult to give an intelligible account of the details of
these operations, because they were carried out by thin fringes of men
covering on both sides a very large area, each kopje occupied as a
fort, and the intervening plains patrolled by cavalry.

As French extended to the east and north the Boers extended also to
prevent him from outflanking them, and so the little armies stretched
and stretched until they were two long mobile skirmishing lines. The
actions therefore resolve themselves into the encounters of small
bodies and the snapping up of exposed patrols -- a game in which the
Boer aptitude for guerrilla tactics gave them some advantage, though
our own cavalry quickly adapted themselves to the new conditions.  On
this occasion a patrol of sixteen men from the South Australian Horse
and New South Wales Lancers fell into an ambush, and eleven were
captured.  Of the remainder, three made their way back to camp, while
one was killed and one was wounded.

The duel between French on the one side and Schoeman and Lambert on
the other was from this onwards one of maneuvering rather than of
fighting. The dangerously extended line of the British at this period,
over thirty miles long, was reinforced, as has been mentioned, by the
1st Yorkshire and later by the 2nd Wiltshire and a section of the 37th
Howitzer Battery. There was probably no very great difference in
numbers between the two little armies, but the Boers now, as always,
were working upon internal lines.  The monotony of the operations was
broken by the remarkable feat of the Essex Regiment, which succeeded
by hawsers and good-will in getting two 15-pounder guns of the 4th
Field Battery on to the top of Coleskop, a hill which rises several
hundred feet from the plain and is so precipitous that it is no small
task for an unhampered man to climb it. From the summit a fire, which
for some days could not be localised by the Boers, was opened upon
their laagers, which had to be shifted in consequence. This energetic
action upon the part of our gunners may be set off against those other
examples where commanders of batteries have shown that they had not
yet appreciated what strong tackle and stout arms can accomplish.  The
guns upon Coleskop not only dominated all the smaller kopjes for a
range of 9,000 yards, but completely commanded the town of Colesberg,
which could not however, for humanitarian and political reasons, be
shelled.

By gradual reinforcements the force under French had by the end of
January attained the respectable figure of ten thousand men, strung
over a large extent of country. His infantry consisted of the 2nd
Berkshires, 1st Royal Irish, 2nd Wiltshires, 2nd Worcesters, 1st
Essex, and 1st Yorkshires; his cavalry, of the 10th Hussars, the 6th
Dragoon Guards, the Inniskillings, the New-Zealanders, the
N.S.W. Lancers, some Rimington Guides, and the composite Household
Regiment; his artillery, the R and 0 batteries of R.H.A., the 4th
R.F.A., and a section of the 37th Howitzer Battery. At the risk of
tedium I have repeated the units of this force, because there are no
operations during the war, with the exception perhaps of those of the
Rhodesian Column, concerning which it is so difficult to get a clear
impression.  The fluctuating forces, the vast range of country
covered, and the petty farms which give their names to positions, all
tend to make the issue vague and the narrative obscure. The British
still lay in a semicircle extending from Slingersfontein upon the
right to Kloof Camp upon the left, and the general scheme of
operations continued to be an enveloping movement upon the
right. General Clements commanded this section of the forces, while
the energetic Porter carried out the successive advances. The lines
had gradually stretched until they were nearly fifty miles in length,
and something of the obscurity in which the operations have been left
is due to the impossibility of any single correspondent having a clear
idea of what was occurring over so extended a front.

On January 25th French sent Stephenson and Brabazon to push a
reconnaissance to the north of Colesberg, and found that the Boers
were making a fresh position at Rietfontein, nine miles nearer their
own border. A small action ensued, in which we lost ten or twelve of
the Wiltshire Regiment, and gained some knowledge of the enemy's
dispositions.  For the remainder of the month the two forces remained
in a state of equilibrium, each keenly on its guard, and neither
strong enough to penetrate the lines of the other. General French
descended to Cape Town to aid General Roberts in the elaboration of
that plan which was soon to change the whole military situation in
South Africa.

Reinforcements were still dribbling into the British force, Hoad's
Australian Regiment, which had been changed from infantry to cavalry,
and J battery R.H.A. from India, being the last arrivals. But very
much stronger reinforcements had arrived for the Boers -- so strong
that they were able to take the offensive. De la Rey had left the
Modder with three thousand men, and their presence infused new life
into the defenders of Colesberg.  At the moment, too, that the Modder
Boers were coming to Colesberg, the British had begun to send cavalry
reinforcements to the Modder in preparation for the march to
Kimberley, so that Clements's Force (as it had now become) was
depleted at the very instant when that of the enemy was largely
increased. The result was that it was all they could do not merely to
hold their own, but to avoid a very serious disaster.

The movements of De la Rey were directed towards turning the right of
the position. On February 9th and 10th the mounted patrols,
principally the Tasmanians, the Australians, and the Inniskillings,
came in contact with the Boers, and some skirmishing ensued, with no
heavy loss upon either side. A British patrol was surrounded and lost
eleven prisoners, Tasmanians and Guides. On the 12th the Boer turning
movement developed itself, and our position on the right at
Slingersfontein was strongly attacked.

The key of the British position at this point was a kopje held by
three companies of the 2nd Worcester Regiment. Upon this the Boers
made a fierce onslaught, but were as fiercely repelled.  They came up
in the dark between the set of moon and rise of sun, as they had done
at the great assault of Ladysmith, and the first dim light saw them in
the advanced sangars. The Boer generals do not favour night attacks,
but they are exceedingly fond of using darkness for taking up a good
position and pushing onwards as soon as it is possible to see.  This
is what they did upon this occasion, and the first intimation which
the outposts had of their presence was the rush of feet and loom of
figures in the cold misty light of dawn. The occupants of the sangars
were killed to a man, and the assailants rushed onwards. As the sun
topped the line of the veldt half the kopje was in their
possession. Shouting and firing, they pressed onwards.

But the Worcester men were steady old soldiers, and the battalion
contained no less than four hundred and fifty marksmen in its
ranks. Of these the companies upon the hill had their due proportion,
and their fire was so accurate that the Boers found themselves unable
to advance any further. Through the long day a desperate duel was
maintained between the two lines of riflemen. Colonel Cuningham and
Major Stubbs were killed while endeavouring to recover the ground
which had been lost.  Hovel and Bartholomew continued to encourage
their men, and the British fire became so deadly that that of the
Boers was dominated. Under the direction of Hacket Pain, who commanded
the nearest post, guns of J battery were brought out into the open and
shelled the portion of the kopje which was held by the Boers. The
latter were reinforced, but could make no advance against the accurate
rifle fire with which they were met. The Bisley champion of the
battalion, with a bullet through his thigh, expended a hundred rounds
before sinking from loss of blood. It was an excellent defence, and a
pleasing exception to those too frequent cases where an isolated force
has lost heart in face of a numerous and persistent foe. With the
coming of darkness the Boers withdrew with a loss of over two hundred
killed and wounded. Orders had come from Clements that the whole right
wing should be drawn in, and in obedience to them the remains of the
victorious companies were called in by Hacket Pain, who moved his
force by night in the direction of Rensburg. The British loss in the
action was twenty-eight killed and nearly a hundred wounded or
missing, most of which was incurred when the sangars were rushed in
the early morning.

While this action was fought upon the extreme right of the British
position another as severe had occurred with much the same result upon
the extreme left, where the 2nd Wiltshire Regiment was stationed. Some
companies of this regiment were isolated upon a kopje and surrounded
by the Boer riflemen when the pressure upon them was relieved by a
desperate attack by about a hundred of the Victorian Rifles. The
gallant Australians lost Major Eddy and six officers out of seven,
with a large proportion of their men, but they proved once for a]l
that amid all the scattered nations who came from the same home there
is not one with a more fiery courage and a higher sense of martial
duty than the men from the great island continent. It is the
misfortune of the historian when dealing with these contingents that,
as a rule, by their very nature they were employed in detached parties
in fulfilling the duties which fall to the lot of scouts and light
cavalry -- duties which fill the casualty lists but not the pages of
the chronicler. Be it said, however, once for all that throughout the
whole African army there was nothing but the utmost admiration for the
dash and spirit of the hard-riding, straight, shooting sons of
Australia and New Zealand.  In a host which held many brave men there
were none braver than they.

It was evident from this time onwards that the turning movement had
failed, and that the enemy had developed such strength that we were
ourselves in imminent danger of being turned.  The situation was a
most serious one: for if Clements's force could be brushed aside there
would be nothing to keep the enemy from cutting the communications of
the army which Roberts had assembled for his march into the Free
State. Clements drew in his wings hurriedly and concentrated his whole
force at Rensburg. It was a difficult operation in the face of an
aggressive enemy, but the movements were well timed and admirably
carried out.  There is always the possibility of a retreat
degenerating into a panic, and a panic at that moment would have been
a most serious matter.  One misfortune occurred, through which two
companies of the Wiltshire regiment were left without definite orders,
and were cut off and captured after a resistance in which a third of
then number was killed and wounded.  No man in that trying time worked
harder than Colonel Carter of the Wiltshires (the night of the retreat
was the sixth which he had spent without sleep), and the loss of the
two companies is to be set down to one of those accidents which may
always occur in warfare.  Some of the Inniskilling Dragoons and
Victorian Mounted Rifles were also cut off in the retreat, but on the
whole Clements was very fortunate in being able to concentrate his
scattered army with so few mishaps.  The withdrawal was heartbreaking
to the soldiers who had worked so hard and so long in extending the
lines, but it might be regarded with equanimity by the Generals, who
understood that the greater strength the enemy developed at Colesberg
the less they would have to oppose the critical movements which were
about to be carried out in the west. Meanwhile Coleskop had also been
abandoned, the guns removed, and the whole force on February 14th
passed through Rensburg and felt back upon Arundel, the spot from
which six weeks earlier French had started upon this stirring series
of operations.  It would not be fair, however, to suppose that they
had failed because they ended where they began.  Their primary object
had been to prevent the further advance of the Freestaters into the
colony, and, during the most critical period of the war, this had been
accomplished with much success and little loss. At last the pressure
had become so severe that the enemy had to weaken the most essential
part of their general position in order to relieve it.  The object of
the operations had really been attained when Clements found himself
back at Arundel once more.  French, the stormy petrel of the war, had
flitted on from Cape Town to Modder River, where a larger prize than
Colesberg awaited him.  Clements continued to cover Naauwport, the
important railway junction, until the advance of Roberts's army caused
a complete reversal of the whole military situation.


CHAPTER XV

SPION KOP


Whilst Methuen and Gatacre were content to hold their own at the
Modder and at Sterkstroom, and whilst the mobile and energetic French
was herding the Boers into Colesberg, Sir Redvers Buller, the heavy,
obdurate, inexplicable man, was gathering and organising his forces
for another advance upon Ladysmith.  Nearly a month had elapsed since
the evil day when his infantry had retired, and his ten guns had not,
from the frontal attack upon Colenso.  Since then Sir Charles Warren's
division of infantry and a considerable reinforcement of artillery had
come to him.  And yet in view of the terrible nature of the ground in
front of him, of the fighting power of the Boers, and of the fact that
they were always acting upon internal lines, his force even now was,
in the opinion of competent judges, too weak for the matter in hand.

There remained, however, several points in his favour. His excellent
infantry were full of zeal and of confidence in their chief.  It
cannot be denied, however much we may criticise some incidents in his
campaign, that he possessed the gift of impressing and encouraging his
followers, and, in spite of Colenso, the sight of his square figure
and heavy impassive face conveyed an assurance of ultimate victory to
those around him.  In artillery he was very much stronger than before,
especially in weight of metal. His cavalry was still weak in
proportion to his other arms.  When at last he moved out on January
10th to attempt to outflank the Boers, he took with him nineteen
thousand infantry, three thousand cavalry, and sixty guns, which
included six howitzers capable of throwing a 50-lb lyddite shell, and
ten long-range naval pieces.  Barton's Brigade and other troops were
left behind to hold the base and line of communications.

An analysis of Buller's force shows that its details were as follows:

Clery's Division
	Hildyard's Brigade
		   2nd West Surrey
                   2nd Devonshire
                   2nd West Yorkshire
                   2nd East Surrey
        Hart's Brigade
	           1st Inniskilling Fusiliers
                   1st Border Regiment
                   1st Connaught Rangers
                   2nd Dublin Fusiliers
        Field Artillery, three batteries, 19th, 28th, 63rd;
        one squadron 13th Hussars;
        Royal Engineers.

Warren's Division
        Lyttelton's Brigade
                   2nd Cameronians
                   3rd King's Royal Rifles
                   1st Durham Light Infantry
                   1st Rifle Brigade
        Woodgate's Brigade
                   2nd Royal Lancaster
	           2nd Lancashire Fusiliers
                   1st South Lancashire
                   York and Lancasters
        Field Artillery, three batteries, 7th, 78th, 73rd ;
        one squadron 13th Hussars.

Corps Troops
        Coke's Brigade
                   Imperial Light Infantry
                   2nd Somersets
                   2nd Dorsets
                   2nd Middlesex
        61st Howitzer Battery; two 4.7 naval guns; eight naval 12-pounder guns;
        one squadron 13th Hussars;
        Royal Engineers.

Cavalry
	1st Royal Dragoons
	14th Hussars
	Four squadrons South African Horse
	One squadron Imperial Light Horse
	Bethune's Mounted Infantry
	Thorneycroft's Mounted Infantry
	One squadron Natal Carabineers
	One squadron Natal Police
	One company King's Royal Rifles Mounted Infantry
	Six machine guns

This is the force whose operations I shall attempt to describe.

About sixteen miles to the westward of Colenso there is a ford over
the Tugela River which is called Potgieter's Drift.  General Buller's
apparent plan was to seize this, together with the ferry which runs at
this point, and so to throw himself upon the right flank of the
Colenso Boers.  Once over the river there is one formidable line of
hills to cross, but if this were passed there would be comparatively
easy ground until the Ladysmith hills were reached. With high hopes
Buller and his men sallied out upon their adventure.

Dundonald's cavalry force pushed rapidly forwards, crossed the Little
Tugela, a tributary of the main river, at Springfield, and established
themselves upon the hills which command the drift. Dundonald largely
exceeded his instructions in going so far, and while we applaud his
courage and judgment in doing so, we must remember and be charitable
to those less fortunate officers whose private enterprise has ended in
disaster and reproof.  There can be no doubt that the enemy intended
to hold all this tract, and that it was only the quickness of our
initial movements which forestalled them.  Early in the morning a
small party of the South African Horse, under Lieutenant Carlisle,
swam the broad river under fire and brought back the ferry boat, an
enterprise which was fortunately bloodless, but which was most coolly
planned and gallantly carried out. The way was now open to our
advance, and could it have been carried out as rapidly as it had begun
the Boers might conceivably have been scattered before they could
concentrate.  It was not the fault of the infantry that it was not so.
They were trudging, mud-spattered and jovial, at the very heels of the
horses, after a forced march which was one of the most trying of the
whole campaign. But an army of 20,000 men cannot be conveyed over a
river twenty miles from any base without elaborate preparations being
made to feed them.  The roads were in such a state that the wagons
could hardly move, heavy rain had just fallen, and every stream was
swollen into a river; bullocks might strain, and traction engines
pant, and horses die, but by no human means could the stores be kept
up if the advance guard were allowed to go at their own pace.  And so,
having ensured an ultimate crossing of the river by the seizure of
Mount Alice, the high hill which commands the drift, the forces waited
day after day, watching in the distance the swarms of strenuous dark
figures who dug and hauled and worked upon the hillsides opposite,
barring the road which they would have to take. Far away on the
horizon a little shining point twinkled amid the purple haze, coming
and going from morning to night. It was the heliograph of Ladysmith,
explaining her troubles and calling for help, and from the heights of
Mount Alice an answering star of hope glimmered and shone, soothing,
encouraging, explaining, while the stern men of the veldt dug
furiously at their trenches in between.  'We are coming!  We are
coming!' cried Mount Alice.  'Over our bodies,' said the men with the
spades and mattocks.

On Thursday, January 12th, Dundonald seized the heights, on the 13th
the ferry was taken and Lyttelton's Brigade came up to secure that
which the cavalry had gained. On the 14th the heavy naval guns were
brought up to cover the crossing.  On the 15th Coke's Brigade and
other infantry concentrated at the drift.  On the 16th the four
regiments of Lyttelton's Brigade went across, and then, and only then,
it began to be apparent that Buller's plan was a more deeply laid one
than had been thought, and that all this business of Potgieter's Drift
was really a demonstration in order to cover the actual crossing which
was to be effected at a ford named Trichard's Drift, five miles to the
westward. Thus, while Lyttelton's and Coke's Brigades were
ostentatiously attacking Potgieter's from in front, three other
brigades (Hart's, Woodgate's, and Hildyard's) were marched rapidly on
the night of the 16th to the real place of crossing, to which
Dundonald's cavalry had already ridden. There, on the 17th, a pontoon
bridge had been erected, and a strong force was thrown over in such a
way as to turn the right of the trenches in front of Potgieter's. It
was admirably planned and excellently carried out, certainly the most
strategic movement, if there could he said to have been any strategic
movement upon the British side, in the campaign up to that date.  On
the 18th the infantry, the cavalry, and most of the guns were safely
across without loss of life.  The Boers, however, still retained their
formidable internal lines, and the only result of a change of position
seemed to be to put them to the trouble of building a new series of
those terrible entrenchments at which they had become such experts.
After all the combinations the British were, it is true, upon the
right side of the river, but they were considerably further from
Ladysmith than when they started.  There are times, however, when
twenty miles are less than fourteen, and it was hoped that this might
prove to be among them. But the first step was the most serious one,
for right across their front lay the Boer position upon the edge of a
lofty plateau, with the high peak of Spion Kop forming the left corner
of it.  If once that main ridge could be captured or commanded, it
would carry them halfway to the goal.  It was for that essential line
of hills that two of the most dogged races upon earth were about to
contend. An immediate advance might have secured the position at once,
but, for some reason which is inexplicable, an aimless march to the
left was followed by a retirement to the original position of Warren's
division, and so two invaluable days were wasted. We have the positive
assurance of Commandant Edwards, who was Chief of Staff to General
Botha, that a vigorous turning movement upon the left would at this
time have completely outflanked the Boer position and opened a way to
Ladysmith.

A small success, the more welcome for its rarity, came to the British
arms on this first day.  Dundonald's men had been thrown out to cover
the left of the infantry advance and to feel for the right of the Boer
position. A strong Boer patrol, caught napping for once, rode into an
ambuscade of the irregulars. some escaped, some held out most
gallantly in a kopje, but the final result was a surrender of
twenty-four unwounded prisoners, and the finding of thirteen killed
and wounded, including de Mentz, the field-cornet of Heilbron.  Two
killed and two wounded were the British losses in this well-managed
affair. Dundonald's force then took its position upon the extreme left
of Warren's advance.

The British were now moving upon the Boers in two separate bodies, the
one which included Lyttelton's and Coke's Brigades from Potgieter's
Drift, making what was really a frontal attack, while the main body
under Warren, who had crossed at Trichard's Drift, was swinging round
upon the Boer right. Midway between the two movements the formidable
bastion of Spion Kop stood clearly outlined against the blue Natal
sky.  The heavy naval guns on Mount Alice (two 4.7's and eight
twelve-pounders) were so placed as to support either advance, and the
howitzer battery was given to Lyttelton to help the frontal
attack. For two days the British pressed slowly but steadily on to the
Boers under the cover of an incessant rain of shells. Dour and long-
suffering the Boers made no reply, save with sporadic rifle-fire, and
refused until the crisis should come to expose their great guns to the
chance of injury.

On January 19th Warren's turning movement began to bring him into
closer touch with the enemy, his thirty-six field guns and the six
howitzers which had returned to him crushing down the opposition which
faced him. The ground in front of him was pleated into long folds, and
his advance meant the carrying of ridge after ridge. In the earlier
stages of the war this would have entailed a murderous loss; but we
had learned our lesson, and the infantry now, with intervals of ten
paces, and every man choosing his own cover, went up in proper Boer
form, carrying position after position, the enemy always retiring with
dignity and decorum. There was no victory on one side or rout on the
other -- only a steady advance and an orderly retirement.  That night
the infantry slept in their fighting line, going on again at three in
the morning, and light broke to find not only rifles, but the
long-silent Boer guns all blazing at the British advance. Again, as at
Colenso, the brunt of the fighting fell upon Hart's Irish Brigade, who
upheld that immemorial tradition of valour with which that name,
either in or out of the British service, has invariably been
associated. Upon the Lancashire Fusiliers and the York and Lancasters
came also a large share of the losses and the glory. Slowly but surely
the inexorable line of the British lapped over the ground which the
enemy had held. A gallant colonial, Tobin of the South African Horse,
rode up one hill and signaled with his hat that it was clear.  His
comrades followed closely at his heels, and occupied the position with
the loss of Childe, their Major.  During this action Lyttelton had
held the Boers in their trenches opposite to him by advancing to
within 1,500 yards of them, but the attack was not pushed further.  On
the evening of this day, January 20th, the British had gained some
miles of ground, and the total losses had been about three hundred
killed and wounded.  The troops were in good heart, and all promised
well for the future. Again the men lay where they had fought, and
again the dawn heard the crash of the great guns and the rattle of the
musketry.

The operations of this day began with a sustained cannonade from the
field batteries and 61st Howitzer Battery, which was as fiercely
answered by the enemy. About eleven the infantry began to go forward
with an advance which would have astonished the martinets of
Aldershot, an irregular fringe of crawlers, wrigglers, writhers,
cronchers, all cool and deliberate, giving away no points in this grim
game of death.  Where now were the officers with their distinctive
dresses and flashing swords, where the valiant rushes over the open,
where the men who were too proud to lie down? -- the tactics of three
months ago seemed as obsolete as those of the Middle Ages. All day the
line undulated forward, and by evening yet another strip of
rock-strewn ground had been gained, and yet another train of
ambulances was bearing a hundred of our wounded back to the base
hospitals at Frere.  It was on Hildyard's Brigade on the left that the
fighting and the losses of this day principally fell. By the morning
of January 22nd the regiments were clustering thickly all round the
edges of the Boer main position, and the day was spent in resting the
weary men, and in determining at what point the final assault should
be delivered.  On the right front, commanding the Boer lines on either
side, towered the stark eminence of Spion Kop, so called because from
its summit the Boer voortrekkers had first in 1835 gazed down upon the
promised land of Natal. If that could only be seized and held!  Buller
and Warren swept its bald summit with their field-glasses. It was a
venture.  But all war is a venture; and the brave man is he who
ventures most.  One fiery rush and the master-key of all these locked
doors might be in our keeping.  That evening there came a telegram to
London which left the whole Empire in a hush of anticipation.  Spion
Kop was to be attacked that night.

The troops which were selected for the task were eight companies of
the 2nd Lancashire Fusiliers, six of the 2nd Royal Lancasters, two of
the 1st South Lancashires, 180 of Thorneycroft's, and half a company
of Sappers. It was to be a North of England job.

Under the friendly cover of a starless night the men, in Indian file,
like a party of Iroquois braves upon the war trail, stole up the
winding and ill-defined path which led to the summit. Woodgate, the
Lancashire Brigadier, and Blomfield of the Fusiliers led the way. It
was a severe climb of 2,000 feet, coming after arduous work over
broken ground, but the affair was well-timed, and it was at that
blackest hour which precedes the dawn that the last steep ascent was
reached.  The Fusiliers crouched down among the rocks to recover their
breath, and saw far down in the plain beneath them the placid lights
which showed where their comrades were resting. A fine rain was
falling, and rolling clouds hung low over their heads.  The men with
unloaded rifles and fixed bayonets stole on once more, their bodies
bent, their eyes peering through the mirk for the first sign of the
enemy -- that enemy whose first sign has usually been a shattering
volley.  Thorneycroft's men with their gallant leader had threaded
their way up into the advance.  Then the leading files found that they
were walking on the level.  The crest had been gained.

With slow steps and bated breath, the open line of skirmishers stole
across it. Was it possible that it had been entirely abandoned?
Suddenly a raucous shout of `Wie da?' came out of the darkness, then a
shot, then a splutter of musketry and a yell, as the Fusiliers sprang
onwards with their bayonets.  The Boer post of Vryheid burghers
clattered and scrambled away into the darkness, and a cheer that
roused both the sleeping armies told that the surprise had been
complete and the position won.

In the grey light of the breaking day the men advanced along the
narrow undulating ridge, the prominent end of which they had
captured. Another trench faced them, but it was weakly held and
abandoned. Then the men, uncertain what remained beyond, halted and
waited for full light to see where they were, and what the work was
which lay before them -- a fatal halt, as the result proved, and yet
one so natural that it is hard to blame the officer who ordered
it. Indeed, he might have seemed more culpable had he pushed blindly
on, and so lost the advantage which had been already gained.

About eight o'clock, with the clearing of the mist, General Woodgate
saw how matters stood.  The ridge, one end of which he held, extended
away, rising and falling for some miles.  Had he the whole of the end
plateau, and had he guns, he might hope to command the rest of the
position.  But he held only half the plateau, and at the further end
of it the Boers were strongly entrenched. The Spion Kop mountain was
really the salient or sharp angle of the Boer position, so that the
British were exposed to a cross fire both from the left and
right. Beyond were other eminences which sheltered strings of riflemen
and several guns.  The plateau which the British held was very much
narrower than was usually represented in the press. In many places the
possible front was not much more than a hundred yards wide, and the
troops were compelled to bunch together, as there was not room for a
single company to take an extended formation.  The cover upon this
plateau was scanty, far too scanty for the force upon it, and the
shell fire -- especially the fire of the pom-poms -- soon became very
murderous. To mass the troops under the cover of the edge of the
plateau might naturally suggest itself, but with great tactical skill
the Boer advanced line from Commandant Prinsloo's Heidelberg and
Carolina commandos kept so aggressive an attitude that the British
could not weaken the lines opposed to them.  Their skirmishers were
creeping round too in such a way that the fire was really coming from
three separate points, left, centre, and. right, and every corner of
the position was searched by their bullets. Early in the action the
gallant Woodgate and many of his Lancashire men were shot down. The
others spread out and held on, firing occasionally at the whisk of a
rifle-barrel or the glimpse of a broad-brimmed hat.

>From morning to midday, the shell, Maxim, and rifle fire swept across
the kop in a continual driving shower. The British guns in the plain
below failed to localise the position of the enemy's, and they were
able to vent their concentrated spite upon the exposed infantry. No
blame attaches to the gunners for this, as a hill intervened to screen
the Boer artillery, which consisted of five big guns and two pom-poms.

Upon the fall of Woodgate, Thorneycroft, who bore the reputation of a
determined fighter, was placed at the suggestion of Buller in charge
of the defence of the hill, and he was reinforced after noon by Coke's
brigade, the Middlesex, the Dorsets, and the Somersets, together with
the Imperial Light Infantry.  The addition of this force to the
defenders of the plateau tended to increase the casualty returns
rather than the strength of the defence.  Three thousand more rifles
could do nothing to check the fire of the invisible cannon, and it was
this which was the main source of the losses, while on the other hand
the plateau had become so cumbered with troops that a shell could
hardly fail to do damage.  There was no cover to shelter them and no
room for them to extend. The pressure was most severe upon the shal]ow
trenches in the front, which had been abandoned by the Boers and were
held by the Lancashire Fusiliers.  They were enfiladed by rifle and
cannon, and the dead and wounded outnumbered the hale. So close were
the skirmishers that on at least one occasion Boer and Briton found
themselves on each side of the same rock.  Once a handful of men,
tormented beyond endurance, sprang up as a sign that they had had
enough, but Thorneycroft, a man of huge physique, rushed forward to
the advancing Boers.  'You may go to hell!' he yelled.  'I command
here, and allow no surrender. Go on with your firing.'  Nothing could
exceed the gallantry of Louis Botha's men in pushing the attack. Again
and again they made their way up to the British firing line, exposing
themselves with a recklessness which, with the exception of the grand
attack upon Ladysmith, was unique in our experience of them. About two
o'clock they rushed one trench occupied by the Fusiliers and secured
the survivors of two companies as prisoners, but were subsequently
driven out again.  A detached group of the South Lancashires was
summoned to surrender.  'When I surrender,' cried Colour-Sergeant
Nolan, 'it will be my dead body!'  Hour after hour of the
unintermitting crash of the shells among the rocks and of the groans
and screams of men torn and burst by the most horrible of all wounds
had shaken the troops badly.  Spectators from below who saw the shells
pitching at the rate of seven a minute on to the crowded plateau
marvelled at the endurance which held the devoted men to their post.
Men were wounded and wounded and wounded yet again, and still went on
fighting.  Never since Inkerman had we had so grim a soldier's battle.
The company officers were superb. Captain Muriel of the Middlesex was
shot through the check while giving a cigarette to a wounded man,
continued to lead his company, and was shot again through the
brain. Scott Moncrieff of the same regiment was only disabled by the
fourth bullet which hit him.  Grenfell of Thorneycroft's was shot, and
exclaimed, 'That's all right.  It's not much.'  A second wound made
him remark, 'I can get on all right.'  The third killed him. Ross of
the Lancasters, who had crawled from a sickbed, was found dead upon
the furthest crest. Young Murray of the Scottish Rifles, dripping from
five wounds, still staggered about among his men. And the men were
worthy of such officers. 'No retreat!  No retreat!' they yelled when
some of the front line were driven in.  In all regiments there are
weaklings and hang-backs, and many a man was wandering down the
reverse slopes when he should have been facing death upon the top, but
as a body British troops have never stood firm through a more fiery
ordeal than on that fatal hill..

The position was so bad that no efforts of officers or men could do
anything to mend it.  They were in a murderous dilemma.  If they fell
back for cover the Boer riflemen would rush the position. If they held
their ground this horrible shell fire must continue, which they had no
means of answering.  Down at Gun Hill in front of the Boer position we
had no fewer than five batteries, the 78th, 7th, 73rd, 63rd, and 61st
howitzer, but a ridge intervened between them and the Boer guns which
were shelling Spion Kop, and this ridge was strongly entrenched.  The
naval guns from distant Mount Alice did what they could, but the range
was very long, and the position of the Boer guns uncertain. The
artillery, situated as it was, could not save the infantry from the
horrible scourging which they were enduring.

There remains the debated question whether the British guns could have
been taken to the top. Mr. Winston Churchill, the soundness of whose
judgment has been frequently demonstrated during the war, asserts that
it might have been done. Without venturing to contradict one who was
personally present, I venture to tbink that there is strong evidence
to show that it could not have been done without blasting and other
measures, for which there was no possible time. Captain Hanwell of the
78th R.F.A., upon the day of the battle had the very utmost difficulty
with the help of four horses in getting a light Maxim on to the top,
and his opinion, with that of other artillery officers, is that the
feat was an impossible one until the path had been prepared.  When
night fell Colonel Sim was despatched with a party of Sappers to clear
the track and to prepare two emplacements upon the top, but in his
advance he met the retiring infantry.

Throughout the day reinforcements had pushed up the hill, until two
full brigades had been drawn into the fight. From the other side of
the ridge Lyttelton sent up the Scottish Rifles, who reached the
summit, and added their share to the shambles upon the top. As the
shades of night closed in, and the glare of the bursting shells became
more lurid, the men lay extended upon the rocky ground, parched and
exhausted.  They were hopelessly jumbled together, with the exception
of the Dorsets, whose cohesion may have been due to superior
discipline, less exposure, or to the fact that their khaki differed
somewhat in colour from that of the others. Twelve hours of so
terrible an experience had had a strange effect upon many of the men.
Some were dazed and battle-struck, incapable of clear understanding.
Some were as incoherent as drunkards.  Some lay in an overpowering
drowsiness.  The most were doggedly patient and long-suffering, with a
mighty longing for water obliterating every other emotion.

Before evening fell a most gallant and successful attempt had been
made by the third battalion of the King's Royal Rifles from
Lyttelton's Brigade to relieve the pressure upon their comrades on
Spion Kop.  In order to draw part of the Boer fire away they ascended
from the northern side and carried the hills which formed a
continuation of the same ridge. The movement was meant to be no more
than a strong demonstration, but the riflemen pushed it until,
breathless but victorious, they stood upon the very crest of the
position, leaving nearly a hundred dead or dying to show the path
which they had taken.  Their advance being much further than was
desired, they were recalled, and it was at the moment that Buchanan
Riddell, their brave Colonel, stood up to read Lyttelton's note that
he fell with a Boer bullet through his brain, making one more of those
gallant leaders who died as they had lived, at the head of their
regiments.  Chisholm, Dick-Cunyngham, Downman, Wilford, Gunning,
Sherston, Thackeray, Sitwell, MacCarthy O'Leary, Airlie -- they have
led their men up to and through the gates of death. It was a fine
exploit of the 3rd Rifles.  'A finer bit of skirmishing, a finer bit
of climbing, and a finer bit of fighting, I have never seen,' said
their Brigadier.  It is certain that if Lyttelton had not thrown his
two regiments into the fight the pressure upon the hill-top might have
become unendurable; and it seems also certain that if he had only held
on to the position which the Rifles had gained, the Boers would never
have reoccupied Spion Kop.

And now, under the shadow of night, but with the shells bursting
thickly over the plateau, the much-tried Thorneycroft had to make up
his mind whether he should hold on for another such day as he had
endured, or whether now, in the friendly darkness, he should remove
his shattered force.  Could he have seen the discouragement of the
Boers and the preparations which they had made for retirement, he
would have held his ground. But this was hidden from him, whille the
horror of his own losses was but too apparent.  Forty per cent. of his
men were down. Thirteen hundred dead and dying are a grim sight upon a
wide-spread battle-field, but when this number is heaped upon a
confined space, where from a single high rock the whole litter of
broken and shattered bodies can be seen, and the groans of the
stricken rise in one long droning chorus to the ear, then it is an
iron mind indeed which can resist such evidence of disaster. In a
harder age Wellington was able to survey four thousand bodies piled in
the narrow compass of the breach of Badajos, but his resolution was
sustained by the knowledge that the military end for which they fell
had been accomplished. Had his task been unfinished it is doubtful
whether even his steadfast soul would not have flinched from its
completion.  Thorneycroft saw the frightful havoc of one day, and he
shrank from the thought of such another.  'Better six battalions
safely down the hill than a mop up in the morning,' said he, and he
gave the word to retire.  One who had met the troops as they staggered
down has told me how far they were from being routed. In mixed array,
but steadily and in order, the long thin line trudged through the
darkness.  Their parched lips would not articulate, but they whispered
'Water! Where is water?' as they toiled upon their way. At the bottom
of the hill they formed into regiments once more, and marched back to
the camp.  In the morning the blood-spattered hill-top, with its piles
of dead and of wounded, were in the hands of Botha and his men, whose
valour and perseverance deserved the victory which they had won. There
is no doubt now that at 3 A.M. of that morning Botha, knowing that the
Rifles had carried Burger's position, regarded the affair as hopeless,
and that no one was more astonished than he when he found, on the
report of two scouts, that it was a victory and not a defeat which had
come to him.

How shall we sum up such an action save that it was a gallant attempt,
gallantly carried out, and as gallantly met? On both sides the results
of artillery fire during the war have been disappointing, but at Spion
Kop beyond all question it was the Boer guns which won the action for
them.  So keen was the disappointment at home that there was a
tendency to criticise the battle with some harshness, but it is
difficult now, with the evidence at our command, to say what was left
undone which could have altered the result. Had Thorneycroft known all
that we know, he would have kept his grip upon the hill.  On the face
of it one finds it difficult to understand why so momentous a
decision, upon which the whole operations depended, should have been
left entirely to the judgment of one who in the morning had been a
simple Lieutenant-Colonel.  'Where are the bosses? ' cried a Fusilier,
and the historian can only repeat the question.  General Warren was at
the bottom of the hill.  Had he ascended and determined that the place
should still be held, he might have sent down the wearied troops,
brought up smaller numbers of fresh ones, ordered the Sappers to
deepen the trenches, and tried to bring up water and guns.  It was for
the divisional commander to lay his hand upon the reins at so critical
an instant, to relieve the weary man who had struggled so hard all
day.

The subsequent publication of the official despatches has served
little purpose, save to show that there was a want of harmony between
Buller and Warren, and that the former lost all confidence in his
subordinate during the course of the operations. In these papers
General Buller expresses the opinion that had Warren's operations been
more dashing, he would have found his turning movement upon the left a
comparatively easy matter.  In this judgment he would probably have
the concurrence of most military critics. He adds, however, 'On the
19th, I ought to have assumed command myself.  I saw that things were
not going well -- indeed, everyone saw that.  I blame myself now for
not having done so.  I did not, because, if I did, I should discredit
General Warren in the estimation of the troops, and, if I were shot,
and he had to withdraw across the Tugela, and they had lost confidence
in him, the consequences might be very serious.  I must leave it to
higher authority whether this argument was a sound one.' It needs no
higher authority than common-sense to say that the argument is an
absolutely unsound one. No consequences could be more serious than
that the operations should miscarry and Ladysmith remain unrelieved,
and such want of success must in any case discredit Warren in the eyes
of his troops. Besides, a subordinate is not discredited because his
chief steps in to conduct a critical operation.  However, these
personal controversies may be suffered to remain in that pigeon-hole
from which they should never have been drawn.

On account of the crowding of four thousand troops into a space which
might have afforded tolerable cover for five hundred the losses in the
action were very heavy, not fewer than fifteen hundred being killed,
wounded, or missing, the proportion of killed being, on account of the
shell fire, abnormally high.  The Lancashire Fusiliers were the
heaviest sufferers, and their Colonel Blomfield was wounded and fell
into the hands of the enemy.  The Royal Lancasters also lost heavily.
Thorneycroft's had 80 men hit out of 180 engaged.  The Imperial Light
Infantry, a raw corps of Rand refugees who were enduring their baptism
of fire, lost 130 men. In officers the losses were particularly heavy,
60 being killed or wounded. The Boer returns show some 50 killed and
150 wounded, which may not be far from the truth. Without the shell
fire the British losses might not have been much more.

General Buller had lost nearly two thousand men since he had crossed
the Tugela, and his purpose was still unfulfilled.  Should he risk the
loss of a large part of his force in storming the ridges in front of
him, or should he recross the river and try for an easier route
elsewhere? To the surprise and disappointment both of the public and
of the army, he chose the latter course, and by January 27th he had
fallen back, unmolested by the Boers, to the other side of the
Tugela. It must be confessed that his retreat was admirably conducted,
and that it was a military feat to bring his men, his guns, and his
stores in safety over a broad river in the face of a victorious enemy.
Stolid and unmoved, his impenetrable demeanour restored serenity and
confidence to the angry and disappointed troops.  There might well be
heavy hearts among both them and the public. After a fortnight's
campaign, and the endurance of great losses and hardships, both
Ladysmith and her relievers found themselves no better off than when
they started. Buller still held the commanding position of Mount
Alice, and this was all that he had to show for such sacrifices and
such exertions.  Once more there came a weary pause while Ladysmith,
sick with hope deferred, waited gloomily upon half-rations of
horse-flesh for the next movement from the South.

CHAPTER XVI

VAALKRANZ

Neither General Buller nor his troops appeared to be dismayed by the
failure of their plans, or by the heavy losses which were entailed by
the movement which culminated at Spion Kop.  The soldiers grumbled, it
is true, at not being let go, and swore that even if it cost them
two-thirds of their number they could and would make heir way through
this labyrinth of hills with its fringe of death.  So doubtless they
might. But from first to last their General had shown a great -- some
said an exaggerated -- respect for human life, and he had no intention
of winning a path by mere slogging, if there were a chance of finding
one by less bloody means.  On the morrow of his return he astonished
both his army and the Empire by announcing that he had found the key
to the position and that he hoped to be in Ladysmith in a week.  Some
rejoiced in the assurance. Some shrugged their shoulders.  Careless of
friends or foes, the stolid Buller proceeded to work out his new
combination.

In the next few days reinforcements trickled in which more than made
up for the losses of the preceding week. A battery of horse artillery,
two heavy guns, two squadrons of the 14th Hussars, and infantry drafts
to the number of twelve or fourteen hundred men came to share the
impending glory or disaster.  On the morning of February 5th the army
sallied forth once more to have another try to win a way to
Ladysmith. It was known that enteric was rife in the town, that shell
and bullet and typhoid germ had struck down a terrible proportion of
the garrison, and that the rations of starved horse and commissariat
mule were running low. With their comrades -- in many cases their
linked battalions -- in such straits within fifteen miles of them,
Buller's soldiers had high motives to brace them for a supreme effort.

The previous attempt had been upon the line immediately to the west of
Spion Kop. If, however, one were to follow to the east of Spion Kop,
one would come upon a high mountain called Doornkloof.  Between these
two peaks, there lies a low ridge, called Brakfontein, and a small
detached hill named Vaalkranz. Buller's idea was that if he could
seize this small Vaalkranz, it would enable him to avoid the high
ground altogether and pass his troops through on to the plateau
beyond. He still held the Ford at Potgieter's and commanded the
country beyond with heavy guns on Mount Alice and at Swartz Kop, so
that he could pass troops over at his will.  He would make a noisy
demonstration against Brakfontein, then suddenly seize Vaalkranz, and
so, as he hoped, hold the outer door which opened on to the passage to
Ladysmith.

The getting of the guns up Swartz Kop was a preliminary which was as
necessary as it was difficult. A road was cut, sailors, engineers, and
gunners worked with a will under the general direction of Majors
Findlay and Apsley Smith.  A mountain battery, two field guns, and six
naval 12-pounders were slung up by steel hawsers, the sailors
yeo-hoing on the halliards. The ammunition was taken up by hand.  At
six o'clock on the morning of the 5th the other guns opened a furious
and probably harmless fire upon Brakfontein, Spion Kop, and all the
Boer positions opposite to them.  Shortly afterwards the feigned
attack upon Brakfontein was commenced and was sustained with much fuss
and appearance of energy until all was ready for the development of
the true one. Wynne's Brigade, which had been Woodgate's, recovered
already from its Spion Kop experience, carried out this part of the
plan, supported by six batteries of field artillery, one howitzer
battery, and two 4.7 naval guns.  Three hours later a telegram was on
its way to Pretoria to tell how triumphantly the burghers had driven
back an attack which was never meant to go forward.  The infantry
retired first, then the artillery in alternate batteries, preserving a
beautiful order and decorum.  The last battery, the 78th, remained to
receive the concentrated fire of the Boer guns, and was so enveloped
in the dust of the exploding. shells that spectators could only see a
gun here or a limber there. Out of this whirl of death it quietly
walked, without a bucket out of its place, the gunners drawing one
wagon, the horses of which had perished, and so effected a leisurely
and contemptuous withdrawal.  The gallantry of the gunners has been
one of the most striking features of the war, but it has never been
more conspicuous than in this feint at Brakfontein.

While the attention of the Boers was being concentrated upon the
Lancashire men, a pontoon bridge was suddenly thrown across the river
at a place called Munger's Drift, some miles to the eastward.  Three
infantry brigades, those of Hart, Lyttelton, and Hildyard, had been
massed all ready to be let slip when the false attack was sufficiently
absorbing.  The artillery fire (the Swartz Kop guns, and also the
batteries which had been withdrawn from the Brakfontein demonstration)
was then turned suddenly, with the crashing effect of seventy pieces,
upon the real object of attack, the isolated Vaalkranz.  It is
doubtful whether any position has ever been subjected to so terrific a
bombardment, for the weight of metal thrown by single guns was greater
than that of a whole German battery in the days of their last great
war.  The 4-pounders and 6-pounders of which Prince Kraft discourses
would have seemed toys beside these mighty howitzers and 4·7's. Yet
though the hillside was sharded off in great flakes, it is doubtful if
this terrific fire inflicted much injury upon the cunning and
invisible riflemen with whom we had to contend.

About midday the infantry began to stream across the bridge, which had
been most gallantly and efficiently constructed under a warm fire, by
a party of sappers, under the command of Major Irvine.  The attack was
led by the Durham Light Infantry of Lyttelton's Brigade, followed by
the 1st Rifle Brigade, with the Scottish and 3rd Rifles in support.
Never did the old Light Division of Peninsular fame go up a Spanish
hillside with greater spirit and dash than these, their descendants,
facing the slope of Vaalkranz. In open order they moved across the
plain, with a superb disregard of the crash and patter of the
shrapnel, and then up they went, the flitting figures, springing from
cover to cover, stooping, darting, crouching, running, until with
their glasses the spectators on Swartz Kop could see the gleam of the
bayonets and the strain of furious rushing men upon the summit, as the
Jast Boers were driven from their trenches.  The position was gained,
but little else.  Seven officers and seventy men were lying killed and
wounded among the boulders. A few stricken Boers, five unwounded
prisoners, and a string of Basuto ponies were the poor fruits of
victory -- those and the arid hill from which so much had been hoped,
and so little was to be gained.

It was during this advance that an incident occurred of a more
picturesque character than is usual in modern warfare.  The
invisibility of combatants and guns, and the absorption of the
individual in the mass, have robbed the battle-field of those episodes
which adorned, if they did not justify it.  On this occasion, a Boer
gun, cut off by the British advance, flew out suddenly from behind its
cover, like a hare from its tussock, and raced for safety across the
plain.  Here and there it wound, the horses stretched to their utmost,
the drivers stooping and lashing, the little gun bounding behind.  To
right to left, behind and before, the British shells burst, lyddite
and shrapnel, crashing and riving.  Over the lip of a hollow, the
gallant gun vanished, and within a few minutes was banging away once
more at the British advance. With cheers and shouts and laughter, the
British infantrymen watched the race for shelter, their sporting
spirit rising high above all racial hatred, and hailing with a 'gone
to ground' whoop the final disappearance of the gun.

The Durhams had cleared the path, but the other regiments of
Lyttelton's Brigade followed hard at their heels, and before night
they had firmly established themselves upon the hill.  But the fatal
slowness which had marred General Buller's previous operations again
prevented him from completing his success.  Twice at least in the
course of these operations there is evidence of sudden impulse to drop
his tools in the midst of his task and to do no more for the day.  So
it was at Colenso, where an order was given at an early hour for the
whole force to retire, and the guns which might have been covered by
infantry fire and withdrawn after nightfall were abandoned.  So it was
also at a critical moment at this action at Vaalkranz.  In the
original scheme of operations it had been planned that an adjoining
hill, called the Green Hill, which partly commanded Vaalkranz, should
be carried also. The two together made a complete position, while
singly each was a very bad neighbour to the other.  On the
aide-de-camp riding up, however, to inquire from General Buller
whether the time had come for this advance, he replied, 'We have done
enough for the day,' and left out this essential portion of his
original scheme, with the result that all miscarried.

Speed was the most essential quality for carrying out his plan
successfully.  So it must always be with the attack.  The defence does
not know where the blow is commg, and has to distribute men and guns
to cover miles of ground.  The attacker knows where he will hit, and
behind a screen of outposts he can mass his force and throw his whole
strength against a mere fraction of that of his enemy.  But in order
to do so he must be quick.  One tiger spring must tear the centre out
of the line before the flanks can come to its assistance.  If time is
given, if the long line can concentrate, if the scattered guns can
mass, if lines of defence can be reduplicated behind, then the one
great advantage which the attack possesses is thrown away. Both at the
second and at the third attempts of Buller the British movements were
so slow that had the enemy been the slowest instead of the most mobile
of armies, they could still always have made any dispositions which
they chose. Warren's dawdling in the first days of the movement which
ended at Spion Kop might with an effort be condoned on account of
possible difficulties of supply, but it would strain the ingenuity of
the most charitable critic to find a sufficient reason for the
lethargy of Vaalkranz.  Though daylight comes a little after four, the
operations were not commenced before seven. Lyttelton's Brigade had
stormed the hill at two, and nothing more was done during the long
evening, while officers chafed and soldiers swore, and the busy Boers
worked furiously to bring up their guns and to bar the path which we
must take.  General Buller remarked a day or two later that the way
was not quite so easy as it had been. One might have deduced the fact
without the aid of a balloon.

The brigade then occupied Vaalkranz and erected sangars and dug
trenches.  On the morning of the 6th, the position of the British
force was not dissimilar to that of Spion Kop.  Again they had some
thousands of men upon a hill-top, exposed to shell fire from several
directions and without any guns upon the hill to support them.  In one
or two points the situation was modified in their favour, and hence
their escape from loss and disaster. A more extended position enabled
the infantry to avoid bunching, but in other respects the situation
was parallel to that in which they had found themselves a fortnight
before.

The original plan was that the taking of Vaalkranz should be the first
step towards the outflanking of Brakfontein and the rolling up of the
whole Boer position. But after the first move the British attitude
became one of defence rather than of attack.  Whatever the general and
ultimate effect of these operations may have been, it is beyond
question that their contemplation was annoying and bewildering in the
extreme to those who were present.  The position on February 6th was
this.  Over the river upon the hill was a singgle British brigade,
exposed to the fire of one enormous gun -- a 96-pound Creusot, the
longest of all Long Toms -- which was stationed upon Doornkloof, and
of several smaller guns and pom-poms which spat at them from nooks and
crevices of the hills.  On our side were seventy-two guns, large and
small, all very noisy and impotent.  It is not too much to say, as it
appears to me, that the Boers have in some ways revolutionised our
ideas in regard to the use of artillery, by bringing a fresh and
healthy common-sense to bear upon a subject which had been unduly
fettered by pedantic rules.  The Boer system is the single stealthy
gun crouching where none can see it.  The British system is the six
brave guns coming into action in line of full interval, and spreading
out into accurate dressing visible to all men. 'Always remember,' says
one of our artillery maxims, 'that one gun is no gun.' Which is
prettier on a field-day, is obvious, but which is business -- let the
many duels between six Boer guns and sixty British declare. With black
powder it was useless to hide the gun, as its smoke must betray
it. With smokeless powder the guns are so invisible that it was only
by the detection with powerful glasses of the dust from the trail on
the recoil that the officers were ever able to localise the guns
against which they were fighting. But if the Boers had had six guns in
line, instead of one behind that kopje, and another between those
distant rocks, it would not have been so difficult to say where they
were. Again, British traditions are all in favour of planting guns
close together. At this very action of Vaalkranz the two largest guns
were so placed that a single shell bursting between them would have
disabled them both.  The officer who placed them there, and so
disregarded in a vital matter the most obvious dictates of
common-sense, would probably have been shocked by any want of
technical smartness, or irregularity in the routine drill. An
over-elaboration of trifles, and a want of grip of common-sense, and
of adaptation to new ideas, is the most serious and damaging criticism
which can be levelled against our army.  That the function of infantry
is to shoot, and not to act like spearmen in the Middle Ages; that the
first duty of artillery is so far as is possible to be invisible --
these are two of the lessons which have been driven home so often
during the war, that even our hidebound conservatism can hardly resist
them.

Lyttelton's Brigade, then, held Vaalkranz; and from three parts of the
compass there came big shells and little shells, with a constant
shower of long-range rifle bullets. Behind them, and as useful as if
it had been on Woolwich Common, there was drawn up an imposing mass of
men, two infantry divisions, and two brigades of cavalry, all
straining at the leash, prepared to shed their blood until the spruits
ran red with it, if only they could win their way to where their
half-starved comrades waited for them. But nothing happened. Hours
passed and nothing happened.  An occasional shell from the big gun
plumped among them.  One, through some freak of gunnery, lobbed slowly
through a division, and the men whooped and threw their caps at it as
it passed. The guns on Swartz Kop, at a range of nearly five miles,
tossed shells at the monster on Doornkloof, and finally blew up his
powder magazine amid the applause of the infantry. For the army it was
a picnic and a spectacle.

But it was otherwise with the men up on Vaalkranz. In spite of sangar
and trench, that cross fire was finding them out; and no feint or
demonstration on either side came to draw the concentrated fire from
their position. Once there was a sudden alarm at the western end of
the hill, and stooping bearded figures with slouch hats and bandoliers
were right up on the ridge before they could be stopped, so cleverly
had their advance been conducted. But a fiery rush of Durhams and
Rifles cleared the crest again, and it was proved once more how much
stronger is the defence than the attack.  Nightfall found the position
unchanged, save that another pontoon bridge had been constructed
during the day. Over this Hildyard's Brigade marched to relieve
Lyttelton's, who came back for a rest under the cover of the Swartz
Kop guns. Their losses in the two days had been under two hundred and
fifty, a trifle if any aim were to be gained, but excessive for a mere
demonstration.

That night Hildyard's men supplemented the defences made by Lyttelton,
and tightened their hold upon the hill. One futile night attack caused
them for an instant to change the spade for the rifle. When in the
morning it was found that the Boers had, as they naturally would,
brought up their outlying guns, the tired soldiers did not regret
their labours of the night.  It was again demonstrated how innocuous a
thing is a severe shell fire, if the position be an extended one with
chances of cover. A total of forty killed and wounded out of a strong
brigade was the result of a long day under an incessant cannonade. And
then at nightfall came the conclusion that the guns were too many,
that the way was too hard, and down came all their high hopes with the
order to withdraw once more across that accursed river. Vaalkranz was
abandoned, and Hildyard's Brigade, seething with indignation, was
ordered back once more to its camp.

281CIIAPTER XVII

BULLER'S FINAL ADVANCE


THE heroic moment of the siege of Ladysmith was that which witnessed
the repulse of the great attack.  The epic should have ended at that
dramatic instant.  But instead of doing so the story falls back to an
anticlimax of crowded hospitals, slaughtered horses, and sporadic
shell fire. For another six weeks of inactivity the brave garrison
endured all the sordid evils which had steadily grown from
inconvenience to misfortune and from misfortune to misery.  Away in
the south they heard the thunder of Buller's guns, and from the hills
round the town they watched with pale faces and bated breath the
tragedy of Spion Kop, preserving a firm conviction that a very little
more would have transformed it into their salvation.  Their hearts
sank with the sinking of the cannonade, and rose again with the roar
of Vaalkranz.  But Vaalkranz also failed them, and they waited on in
the majesty of their hunger and their weakness for the help which was
to come.

It has been already narrated how General Buller had made his three
attempts for the relief of the city. The General who was inclined to
despair was now stimulated by despatches from Lord Roberts, while his
army, who were by no means inclined to despair, were immensely cheered
by the good news from the Kimberley side.  Both General and army
prepared for a last supreme effort.  This time, at least, the soldiers
hoped that they would be permitted to burst their way to the help of
their starving comrades or leave their bones among the hills which had
faced them so long. All they asked was a fight to a finish, and now
they were about to have one.

General Buller had tried the Boers' centre, he had tried their extreme
right, and now he was about to try their extreme left.  There were
some obvious advantages on this side which make it surprising that it
was not the first to be attempted.  In the first place, the enemy's
main position upon that flank was at Hlangwane mountain, which is to
the south of the Tugela, so that in case of defeat the river ran
behind them. In the second, Hlangwane mountain was the one point from
which the Boer position at Colenso could be certainly enfiladed, and
therefore the fruits of victory would be greater on that flank than on
the other. Finally, the operations could be conducted at no great
distance from the railhead, and the force would be exposed to little
danger of having its flank attacked or its communications cut, as was
the case in the Spion Kop advance. Against these potent considerations
there is only to be put the single fact that the turning of the Boer
right would threaten the Freestaters' line of retreat.  On the whole,
the balance of advantage lay entirely with the new attempt, and the
whole army advanced to it with a premonition of success. Of all the
examples which the war has given of the enduring qualities of the
British troops there is none more striking than the absolute
confidence and whole hearted delight with which, after three bloody
repulses, they set forth upon another venture.

On February 9th the movements were started which transferred the
greater part of the force from the extreme left to the centre and
right.  By the 11th Lyttelton's (formerly Clery's) second division and
Warren's fifth division had come eastward, leaving Burn Murdoch's
cavalry brigade to guard the Westem side. On the 12th Lord Dundonald,
with all the colonial cavalry, two battalions of infantry, and a
battery, made a strong reconnaissance towards Hussar Hill, which is
the nearest of the several hills which would have to be occupied in
order to turn the position.  The hill was taken, but was abandoned
again by General Buller after he had used it for some hours as an
observatory. A long-range action between the retiring cavalry and the
Boers ended in a few losses upon each side.

What Buller had seen during the hour or two which he had spent with
his telescope upon Hussar Hill had evidently confirmed him in his
views, for two days later (February 14th) the whole army set forth for
this point. By the morning of the 15th twenty thousand men were
concentrated upon the sides and spurs of this eminence. On the 16th
the heavy guns were in position, and all was ready for the advance.

Facing them now were the formidable Boer lines of Hlangwane Hill and
Green Hill, which would certainly cost several thousands of men if
they were to take them by direct storm. Beyond them, upon the Boer
flank, were the hills of Monte Christo and Cingolo, which appeared to
be the extreme outside of the Boer position. The plan was to engage
the attention of the trenches in front by a terrific artillery fire
and the threat of an assault, while at the same time sending the true
flank attack far round to carry the Cingolo ridge, which must be taken
before any other hill could be approached.

On the 17th, in the early morning, with the first tinge of violet in
the east, the irregular cavalry and the second division (Lyttelton's)
with Wynne's Brigade started upon their widely curving flanking march.
The country through which they passed was so broken that the troopers
led their horses in single file, and would have found themselves
helpless in face of any resistance. Fortunately, Cingolo Hill was very
weakly held, and by evening both our horsemen and our infantry had a
firm grip upon it, thus turning the extreme left flank of the Boer
position.  For once their mountainous fortresses were against them,
for a mounted Boer force is so mobile that in an open position, such
as faced Methuen, it is very hard and requires great celerity of
movement ever to find a flank at all.  On a succession of hills,
however, it was evident that some one hill must mark the extreme end
of their line, and Buller had found it at Cingolo.  Their answer to
this movement was to throw their flank back so as to face the new
position.

Even now, however, the Boer leaders had apparently not realised that
this was the main attack, or it is possible that the intervention of
the river made it difficult for them to send reinforcements. However
that may be, it is certain that the task which the British found
awaiting them on the 18th proved to be far easier than they had dared
to hope.  The honours of the day rested with Hildyard's English
Brigade (East Surrey, West Surrey, West Yorkshires, and 2nd
Devons). In open order and with a rapid advance, taking every
advantage of the cover -- which was better than is usual in South
African warfare -- they gained the edge of the Monte Christo ridge,
and then swiftly cleared the crest. One at least of the regiments
engaged, the Devons, was nerved by the thought that their own first
battalion was waiting for them at Ladysmith.  The capture of the hill
made the line of trenches which faced Buller untenable, and he was at
once able to advance with Barton's Fusilier Brigade and to take
possession of the whole Boer position of Hlangwane and Green Hill.  It
was not a great tactical victory, for they had no trophies to show
save the worthless DEBRIS of the Boer camps.  But it was a very great
strategical victory, for it not only gave them the whole south side of
the Tugela, but also the means of commanding with their guns a great
deal of the north side, including those Colenso trenches which had
blocked the way so long.  A hundred and seventy killed and wounded (of
whom only fourteen were killed) was a trivial price for such a
result. At last from the captured ridges the exultant troops could see
far away the haze which lay over the roofs of Ladysmith, and the
besieged, with hearts beating high with hope, turned their glasses
upon the distant mottled patches which told them that their comrades
were approaching.

By February 20th the British had firmly established themselves along
the whole south bank of the river, Hart's brigade bad occupied
Colenso, and the heavy guns had been pushed up to more advanced
positions. The crossing of the river was the next operation, and the
question arose where it should be crossed. The wisdom which comes with
experience shows us now that it would have been infinitely better to
have crossed on their extreme left flank, as by an advance upon this
line we should have turned their strong Pieters position just as we
had already turned their Colenso one. With an absolutely master card
in our hand we refused to play it, and won the game by a more tedious
and perilous process.  The assumption seems to have been made (on no
other hypothesis can one understand the facts) that the enemy were
demoralised and that the positions would not be strongly held.  Our
flanking advantage was abandoned and a direct advance was ordered from
colenso, involving a frontal attack upon the Pieters position.

On February 21st Buller threw his pontoon bridge over the river near
Colenso, and the same evening his army began to cross. It was at once
evident that the Boer resistance had by no means collapsed. Wynne's
Lancashire Brigade were the first across, and found themselves hotly
engaged before nightfall. The low kopjes in front of them were blazing
with musketry fire.  The brigade held its own, but lost the Brigadier
(the second in a month) and 150 rank and file.  Next morning the main
body of the infantry was passed across, and the army was absolutely
committed to the formidable and unnecessary enterprise of fighting its
way straight to Ladysmith.

The force in front had weakened, however, both in numbers and in
morale.  Some thousands of the Freestaters had left in order to defend
their own country from the advance of Roberts, while the rest were
depressed by as much of the news as was allowed by their leaders to
reach them. But the Boer is a tenacious fighter, and many a brave man
was still to fall before Buller and White should shake hands in the
High Street of Ladysmith.

The first obstacle which faced the army, after crossing the river, was
a belt of low rolling ground, which was gradually cleared by the
advance of our infantry. As night closed in the advance lines of Boers
and British were so close to each other that incessant rifle fire was
maintamed until morning, and at more than one point small bodies of
desperate riflemen charged right up to the bayonets of our
infantry. The morning found us still holding our positions all along
the line, and as more and more of our infantry came up and gun after
gun roared into action we began to push our stubborn enemy northwards.
On the 21st the Dorsets, Middlesex, and Somersets had borne the heat
of the day.  On the 22nd it was the Royal Lancasters, followed by the
South Lancashires, who took up the running. It would take the patience
and also the space of a Kinglake in this scrambling broken fight to
trace the doings of those groups of men who strove and struggled
through the rifle fire. All day a steady advance was maintained over
the low kopjes, until by evening we were faced by the more serious
line of the Pieter's Hills. The operations had been carried out with a
monotony of gallantry. Always the same extended advance, always the
same rattle of Mausers and clatter of pom-poms from a ridge, always
the same victorious soldiers on the barren crest, with a few crippled
Boers before them and many crippled comrades behind. They were
expensive triumphs, and yet every one brought them nearer to their
goal. And now, like an advancing tide, they lapped along the base of
Pieter's Hill. Could they gather volume enough to carry themselves
over? The issue of the long-drawn battle and the fate of Ladysmith
hung upon the question.

Brigadier Fitzroy Hart, to whom the assault was entrusted, is in some
ways as singular and picturesque a type as has been evolved in the
war. A dandy soldier, always the picture of neatness from the top of
his helmet to the heels of his well-polished brown boots, he brings to
military matters the same precision which he affects in
dress. Pedantic in his accuracy, he actually at the battle of Colenso
drilled the Irish Brigade for half an hour before leading them into
action, and threw out markers under a deadly fire in order that his
change from close to extended formation might be academically
correct. The heavy loss of the Brigade at this action was to some
extent ascribed to him and affected his popularity; but as his men
came to know him better, his romantic bravery, his whimsical soldierly
humour, their dislike changed into admiration. His personal disregard
for danger was notorious and reprehensible. 'Where is General Hart?'
asked some one in action. 'I have not seen him, but I know where you
will find him. Go ahead of the skirmish line and you will see him
standing on a rock,' was the answer. He bore a charmed life. It was a
danger to be near him. 'Whom are you going to?'  'General Hart,' said
the aide-de-camp. 'Then good-bye!' cried his fellows. A grim humour
ran through his nature. It is gravely recorded and widely believed
that he lined up a regiment on a hill-top in order to teach them not
to shrink from fire. Amid the laughter of his Irishmen, he walked
through the open files of his firing line holding a laggard by the
ear. This was the man who had put such a spirit into the Irish Brigade
that amid that army of valiant men there were none who held such a
record. 'Their rushes were the quickest, their rushes were the
longest, and they stayed the shortest time under cover,' said a shrewd
military observer. To Hart and his brigade was given the task of
clearing the way to Ladysmith.

The regiments which he took with him on his perilous enterprise were
the 1st Inniskilling Fusiliers, the 2nd Dublin Fusiliers, the 1st
Connaught Rangers, and the Imperial Light Infantry, the whole forming
the famous 5th Brigade. They were already in the extreme British
advance, and now, as they moved forwards, the Durham Light Infantry
and the 1st Rifle Brigade from Lyttelton's Brigade came up to take
their place. The hill to be taken lay on the right, and the soldiers
were compelled to pass in single file under a heavy fire for more than
a mile until they reached the spot which seemed best for their
enterprise. There, short already of sixty of their comrades, they
assembled and began a cautious advance upon the lines of trenches and
sangars which seamed the brown slope above them.

For a time they were able to keep some cover, and the casualties were
comparatively few. But now at last, as the evening sun threw a long
shadow from the hills, the leading regiment, the Inniskillings, found
themselves at the utmost fringe of boulders with a clear slope between
them and the main trench of the enemy. Up there where the shrapnel was
spurting and the great lyddite shells crashing they could dimly see a
line of bearded faces and the black dots of the slouch hats. With a
yell the Inniskillings sprang out, carried with a rush the first
trench, and charged desperately onwards for the second one. It was a
supremely dashing attack against a supremely steady resistance, for
among all their gallant deeds the Boers have never fought better than
on that February evening. Amid such a smashing shell fire as living
mortals have never yet endured they stood doggedly, these hardy men of
the veldt, and fired fast and true into the fiery ranks of the
Irishmen. The yell of the stormers was answered by the remorseless
roar of the Mausers and the deep-chested shouts of the farmers. Up and
up surged the infantry, falling, rising, dashing bull-headed at the
crackling line of the trench. But still the bearded faces glared at
them over the edge, and still the sheet of lead pelted through their
ranks. The regiment staggered, came on, staggered again, was overtaken
by supporting companies of the Dublins and the Connaughts, came on,
staggered once more, and finally dissolved into shreds, who ran
swiftly back for cover, threading their way among their stricken
comrades.  Never on this earth was there a retreat of which the
survivors had less reason to be ashamed. They had held on to the
utmost capacity of human endurance. Their Colonel, ten officers, and
more than half the regiment were lying on the fatal hill. Honour to
them, and honour also to the gallant Dutchmen who, rooted in the
trenches, had faced the rush and fury of such an onslaught! Today to
them, tomorrow to us -- but it is for a soldier to thank the God of
battles for worthy foes.

It is one thing, however, to repulse the British soldier and it is
another to rout him. Within a few hundred yards of their horrible
ordeal at Magersfontein the Highlanders reformed into a military body.
So now the Irishmen fell back no further than the nearest cover, and
there held grimly on to the ground which they had won. If you would
know the advantage which the defence has over the attack, then do you
come and assault this line of tenacious men, now in your hour of
victory and exultation, friend Boer! Friend Boer did attempt it, and
skilfully too, moving a flanking party to sweep the position with
their fire. But the brigade, though sorely hurt, held them off without
difficulty, and was found on the morning of the 24th to be still lying
upon the ground which they had won.

Our losses had been very heavy, Colonel Thackeray of the
Inniskillings, Colonel Sitwell of the Dublins, three majors, twenty
officers, and a total of about six hundred out of 1,200 actually
engaged. To take such punishment and to remain undemoralised is the
supreme test to which troops can be put. Could the loss have been
avoided? By following the original line of advance from Monte Christo,
perhaps, when we should have turned the enemy's left. But otherwise
no. The hill was in the way and had to be taken. In the war game you
cannot play without a stake. You lose and you pay forfeit, and where
the game is fair the best player is he who pays with the best grace.
The attack was well prepared, well delivered, and only miscarried on
account of the excellence of the defence. We proved once more what we
had proved so often before, that all valour and all discipline will
not avail in a frontal attack against brave coolheaded men armed with
quick-firing rifles.

While the Irish Brigade assaulted Railway Hill an attack had been made
upon the left, which was probably meant as a demonstration to keep the
Boers from reinforcing their comrades rather than as an actual attempt
upon their lines. Such as it was, however, it cost the life of at
least one brave soldier, for Colonel Thorold, of the Welsh Fusiliers,
was among the fallen. Thorold, Thackeray, and Sitwell in one
evening. Who can say that British colonels have not given their men a
lead?

The army was now at a deadlock. Railway Hill barred the way, and if
Hart's men could not carry it by assault it was hard to say who
could. The 24th found the two armies facing each other at this
critical point, the Irishmen still clinging to the slopes of the hill
and the Boers lining the top. Fierce rifle firing broke out between
them during the day, but each side was well covered and lay low. The
troops in support suffered somewhat, however, from a random shell
fire. Mr. Winston Churchill has left it upon record that within his
own observation three of their shrapnel shells fired at a venture on
to the reverse slope of a hill accounted for nineteen men and four
horses. The enemy can never have known how hard those three shells had
hit us, and so we may also believe that our artillery fire has often
been less futile than it appeared.

General Buller had now realised that it was no mere rearguard action
which the Boers were fighting, but that their army was standing
doggedly at bay; so he reverted to that flanking movement which, as
events showed, should never have been abandoned. Hart's Irish Brigade
was at present almost the right of the army.  His new plan -- a
masterly one -- was to keep Hart pinning the Boers at that point, and
to move his centre and left across the river, and then back to
envelope the left wing of the enemy. By this manoeuvre Hart became the
extreme left instead of the extreme right, and the Irish Brigade would
be the hinge upon which the whole army should turn. It was a large
conception, finely carried out. The 24th was a day of futile shell
fire -- and of plans for the future. The heavy guns were got across once
more to the Monte Christo ridge and to Hlangwane, and preparations
made to throw the army from the west to the east.  The enemy still
snarled and occasionally snapped in front of Hart's men, but with four
companies of the 2nd Rifle Brigade to protect their flanks their
position remained secure.

In the meantime, through a CONTRETEMPS between our outposts and the
Boers, no leave had been given to us to withdraw our wounded, and the
unfortunate fellows, some hundreds of them, had lain between the lines
in agonies of thirst for thirty-six hours -- one of the most painful
incidents of the campaign. Now, upon the 25th, an armistice was
proclaimed, and the crying needs of the survivors were attended to. On
the same day the hearts of our soldiers sank within them as they saw
the stream of our wagons and guns crossing the river once more. What,
were they foiled again? Was the blood of these brave men to be shed in
vain? They ground their teeth at the thought. The higher strategy was
not for them, but back was back and forward was forward, and they knew
which way their proud hearts wished to go.

The 26th was occupied by the large movements of troops which so
complete a reversal of tactics necessitated. Under the screen of a
heavy artillery fire, the British right became the left and the left
the right. A second pontoon bridge was thrown across near the old Boer
bridge at Hlangwane, and over it was passed a large force of infantry,
Barton's Fusilier Brigade, Kitchener's (VICE Wynne's, VICE Woodgate's)
Lancashire Brigade, and two battalions of Norcott's (formerly
Lyttelton's) Brigade. Coke's Brigade was left at Colenso to prevent a
counter attack upon our left flank and communications.  In this way,
while Hart with the Durhams and the 1st Rifle Brigade held the Boers
in front, the main body of the army was rapidly swung round on to
their left flank. By the morning of the 27th all were in place for the
new attack.

Opposite the point where the troops bad been massed were three Boer
hills; one, the nearest, may for convenience sake be called Barton's
Hill. As the army had formerly been situated the assault upon this
hill would have been a matter of extreme difficulty; but now, with the
heavy guns restored to their commanding position, from which they
could sweep its sides and summits, it had recovered its initial
advantage. In the morning sunlight Barton's Fusiliers crossed the
river, and advanced to the attack under a screaming canopy of
shells. Up they went and up, darting and crouching, until their
gleaming bayonets sparkled upon the summit. The masterful artillery
had done its work, and the first long step taken in this last stage of
the relief of Ladysmith. The loss had been slight and the advantage
enormous. After they had gained the summit the Fusillers were stung
and stung again by clouds of skirmishers who clung to the flanks of
the hill, but their grip was firm and grew firmer with every hour.

Of the three Boer hills which had to be taken the nearest (or eastern
one) was now in the hands of the British. The furthest (or western
one) was that on which the Irish Brigade was still crouching, ready at
any moment for a final spring which would take them over the few
hundred yards which separated them from the trenches. Between the two
intervened a central hill, as yet untouched. Could we carry this the
whole position would be ours. Now for the final effort! Turn every gun
upon it, the guns of Monte Christo, the guns of Hlangwane! Turn every
rifle upon it -- the rifles of Barton's men, the rifles of Hart's men,
the carbines of the distant cavalry!  Scalp its crown with the
machine-gun fire! And now up with you, Lancashire men, Norcott's men!
The summit or a glorious death, for beyond that hill your suffering
comrades are awaiting you! Put every bullet and every man and all of
fire and spirit that you are worth into this last hour; for if you
fail now you have failed for ever, and if you win, then when your
hairs are white your blood will still run warm when you think of that
morning's work. The long drama had drawn to an end, and one short
day's work is to show what that end was to be.

But there was never a doubt of it. Hardly for one instant did the
advance waver at any point of its extended line. It was the supreme
instant of the Natal campaign, as, wave after wave, the long lines of
infantry went shimmering up the hill. On the left the Lancasters, the
Lancashire Fusiliers, the South Lancashires, the York and Lancasters,
with a burr of north country oaths, went racing for the summit. Spion
Kop and a thousand comrades were calling for vengeance. 'Remember,
men, the eyes of Lancashire are watching you,' cried the gallant
MacCarthy O'Leary.  The old 40th swept on, but his dead body marked
the way which they had taken. On the right the East Surrey, the,
Cameronians, the 3rd Rifles, the 1st Rifle Brigade, the Durhams, and
the gallant Irishmen, so sorely stricken and yet so eager, were all
pressing upwards and onwards. The Boer fire lulls, it ceases -- they
are running! Wild hat-waving men upon the Hlangwane uplands see the
silhouette of the active figures of the stormers along the sky-line
and know that the position is theirs.  Exultant soldiers dance and
cheer upon the ridge. The sun is setting in glory over the great
Drakensberg mountains, and so also that night set for ever the hopes
of the Boer invaders of Natal. Out of doubt and chaos, blood and
labour, had come at last the judgment that the lower should not
swallow the higher, that the world is for the man of the twentieth and
not of the seventeenth century. After a fortnight of fighting the
weary troops threw themselves down that night with the assurance that
at last the door was ajar and the light breaking through. One more
effort and it would be open before them.

Behind the line of hills which had been taken there extended a great
plain as far as Bulwana -- that evil neighbour who had wrought such harm
upon Ladysmith. More than half of the Pieters position had fallen into
Buller's hands on the 27th, and the remainder had become untenable. The
Boers had lost some five hundred in killed, wounded, and
prisoners.[Footnote: Accurate figures will probably never be obtained,
but a well-known Boer in Pretoria informed me that Pieters was the
most expensive fight to them of the whole war.] It seemed to the
British General and his men that one more action would bring them
safely into Ladysmith.

But here they miscalculated, and so often have we miscalculated on the
optimistic side in this campaign that it is pleasing to find for once
that our hopes were less than the reality. The Boers had been beaten
-- fairly beaten and disheartened. It will always be a subject for
conjecture whether they were so entirely on the strength of the Natal
campaign, or whether the news of the Cronje disaster from the western
side had warned them that they must draw in upon the east. For my own
part I believe that the honour lies with the gallant men of Natal, and
that, moving on these lines, they would, Cronje or no Cronje, have
forced their way in triumph to Ladysmith.

And now the long-drawn story draws to a swift close. Cautiously
feeling their way with a fringe of horse, the British pushed over the
great plain, delayed here and there by the crackle of musketry, but
finding always that the obstacle gave way and vanished as they
approached it. At last it seemed clear to Dundonald that there really
was no barrier between his horsemen and the beleaguered city. With a
squadron of Imperial Light Horse and a squadron of Natal Carabineers
he rode on until, in the gathering twilight, the Ladysmith picket
challenged the approaching cavalry, and the gallant town was saved.

It is hard to say which had shown the greater endurance, the rescued
or their rescuers.  The town, indefensible, lurking in a hollow under
commanding hills, had held out for 118 days.  They had endured two
assaults and an incessant bombardment, to which, towards the end,
owing to the failure of heavy ammunition, they were unable to make any
adequate reply. It was calculated that 16,000 shells had fallen within
the town.  In two successful sorties they had destroyed three of the
enemy's heavy guns. They had been pressed by hunger, horseflesh was
already running short, and they had been decimated by disease. More
than 2,000 cases of enteric and dysentery had been in hospital at one
time, and the total number of admissions had been nearly as great as
the total number of the garrison. One-tenth of the men had actually
died of wounds or disease. Ragged, bootless, and emaciated, there
still lurked in the gaunt soldiers the martial spirit of warriors. On
the day after their relief 2,000 of them set forth to pursue the
Boers.  One who helped to lead them has left it on record that the
most piteous sight that he has ever seen was these wasted men,
stooping under their rifles and gasping with the pressure of their
accoutrements, as they staggered after their retreating enemy. A
Verestschagen might find a subject these 2,000 indomitable men with
their emaciated horses pursuing a formidable foe. It is God's mercy
they failed to overtake them.

If the record of the besieged force was great, that of the relieving
army was no less so. Through the blackest depths of despondency and
failure they had struggled to absolute success. At Colenso they had
lost 1,200 men, at Spion Kop 1,700, at Vaalkranz 400, and now, in this
last long-drawn effort, 1,600 more. Their total losses were over 5,000
men, more than 20 per cent. of the whole army. Some particular
regiments had suffered horribly. The Dublin and Inniskilling Fusiliers
headed the roll of honour with only five officers and 40 per cent. of
the men left standing. Next to them the Lancashire Fusiliers and the
Royal Lancasters had been the hardest hit. It speaks well for Buller's
power of winning and holding the confidence of his men that in the
face of repulse after repulse the soldiers still went into battle as
steadily as ever under his command.

On March 3rd Buller's force entered Ladysmith in state between the
lines of the defenders. For their heroism the Dublin Fusiliers were
put in the van of the procession, and it is told how, as the soldiers
who lined the streets saw the five officers and small clump of men,
the remains of what had been a strong battalion, realising, for the
first time perhaps, what their relief had cost, many sobbed like
children. With cheer after cheer the stream of brave men flowed for
hours between banks formed by men as brave. But for the purposes of
war the garrison was useless. A month of rest and food would be
necessary before they could be ready to take the field once more.

So the riddle of the Tugela had at last been solved. Even now, with
all the light which has been shed upon the matter, it is hard to
apportion praise and blame. To the cheerful optimism of Symons must be
laid some of the blame of the original entanglement; but man is
mortal, and he laid down his life for his mistake. White, who had been
but a week in the country, could not, if he would, alter the main
facts of the military situation. He did his best, committed one or two
errors, did brilliantly on one or two points, and finally conducted
the defence with a tenacity and a gallantry which are above all
praise. It did not, fortunately, develop into an absolutely desperate
affair, like Masséna's defence of Genoa, but a few more weeks would
have made it a military tragedy. He was fortunate in the troops whom
he commanded -- half of them old soldiers from India -- [Footnote: An
officer in high command in Ladysmith has told me, as an illustration
of the nerve and discipline of the troops, that though false alarms in
the Boer trenches were matters of continual occurrence from the
beginning to the end of the siege, there was not one single occasion
when the British outposts made a mistake.] -- and exceedingly
fortunate in his officers, French (in the operations before the
siege), Archibald Hunter, Ian Hamilton, Hedworth Lambton,
Dick-Cunyngham, Knox, De Courcy Hamilton, and all the other good men
and true who stood (as long as they could stand) by his side. Above
all, he was fortunate in his commissariat officers, and it was in the
offices of Colonels Ward and Stoneman as much as in the trenches and
sangars of Cæsar's Camp that the siege was won.

Buller, like White, had to take the situation as he found it. It is
well known that his own belief was that the line of the Tugela was the
true defence of Natal. When he reached Africa, Ladysmith was already
beleaguered, and he, with his troops, had to abandon the scheme of
direct invasion and to hurry to extricate White's division. Whether
they might not have been more rapidly extricated by keeping to the
original plan is a question which will long furnish an excellent
subject for military debate. Had Buller in November known that
Ladysmith was capable of holding out until March, is it conceivable
that he, with his whole army corps and as many more troops as he cared
to summon from England, would not have made such an advance in four
months through the Free State as would necessitate the abandonment of
the sieges both of Kimberley and of Ladysmith? If the Boers persisted
in these sieges they could not possibly place more than 20,000 men on
the Orange River to face 60,000 whom Buller could have had there by
the first week in December. Methuen's force, French's force, Gatacre's
force, and the Natal force, with the exception of garrisons for
Pietermaritzburg and Durban, would have assembled, with a reserve of
another sixty thousand men in the colony or on the sea ready to fill
the gaps in his advance. Moving over a flat country with plenty of
flanking room, it is probable that he would have been in Bloemfontein
by Christmas and at the Vaal River late in January. What could the
Boers do then? They might remain before Ladysmith, and learn that
their capital and their gold mines had been taken in their absence. Or
they might abandon the siege and trek back to defend their own
homes. This, as it appears to a civilian critic, would have been the
least expensive means of fighting them; but after all the strain had
to come somewhere, and the long struggle of Ladysmith may have meant a
more certain and complete collapse in the future. At least, by the
plan actually adopted we saved Natal from total devastation, and that
must count against a great deal.

Having taken his line, Buller set about his task in a slow,
deliberate, but pertinacious fashion. It cannot be denied, however,
that the pertinacity was largely due to the stiffening counsel of
Roberts and the soldierly firmness of White who refused to acquiesce
in the suggestion of surrender. Let it be acknowledged that Buller's
was the hardest problem of the war, and that he solved it. The mere
acknowledgment goes far to soften criticism. But the singular thing is
that in his proceedings he showed qualities which had not been
generally attributed to him, and was wanting in those very points
which the public had imagined to be charactenstic of him. He had gone
out with the reputation of a downright John Bull fighter, who would
take punishment or give it, but slog his way through without
wincing. There was no reason for attributing any particular
strategical ability to him. But as a matter of fact, setting the
Colenso attempt aside, the crossing for the Spion Kop enterprise, the
withdrawal of the compromised army, the Vaalkranz crossing with the
clever feint upon Brakfontein, the final operations, and especially
the complete change of front after the third day of Pieters, were
strategical movements largely conceived and admirably carried out.  On
the other hand, a hesitation in pushing onwards, and a disinclination
to take a risk or to endure heavy punishment, even in the case of
temporary failure, were consistent characteristics of his generalship.
The Vaalkranz operations are particularly difficult to defend from the
charge of having been needlessly slow and half-hearted.  This
'saturnine fighter,' as he had been called, proved to be exceedingly
sensitive about the lives of his men -- an admirable quality in
itself, but there are occasions when to spare them to-day is to
needlessly imperil them tomorrow.  The victory was his, and yet in the
very moment of it he displayed the qualities which marred him. With
two cavalry brigades in band he did not push the pursuit of the routed
Boers with their guns and endless streams of wagons.  It is true that
he might have lost heavily, but it is true also that a success might
have ended the Boer invasion of Natal, and the lives of our troopers
would be well spent in such a venture. If cavalry is not to be used in
pursuing a retiring enemy encumbered with much baggage, then its day
is indeed past.

The relief of Ladysmith stirred the people of the Empire as nothing,
save perhaps the subsequent relief of Mafeking, has done during our
generation. Even sober unemotional London found its soul for once and
fluttered with joy.  Men, women, and children, rich and poor, clubman
and cabman, joined in the universal delight.  The thought of our
garrison, of their privations, of our impotence to relieve them, of
the impending humiliation to them and to us, had lain dark for many
months across our spirits. It had weighed upon us, until the subject,
though ever present in our thoughts, was too painful for general
talk. And now, in an instant, the shadow was lifted. The outburst of
rejoicing was.not a triumph over the gallant Boers. But it was our own
escape from humiliation, the knowledge that the blood of our sons had
not been shed in vain, above all the conviction that the darkest hour
had now passed and that the light of peace was dimly breaking far away
-- that was why London rang with joy bells that March morning, and why
those bells echoed back from every town and hamlet, in tropical sun
and in Arctic snow, over which the flag of Britain waved.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE SIEGE AND RELIEF OF KIMBERLEY


It has already been narrated how, upon the arrival of the army corps
from England, the greater part was drafted to Natal, while some went
to the western side, and started under Lord Methuen upon the perilous
enterprise of the relief of Kimberley. It has also been hown how,
after three expensive victories, Lord Methuen's force met with a
paralysing reverse, and was compelled to remain inactive within twenty
miles of the town which they had come to succour.  Before describe how
that succour did eventual]y arrive, some attention must be paid to the
incidents which had occurred within the city.

'I am directed to assure you that there is no reason for apprehending
that Kimberley or any part of the colony either is, or in any
contemplated event will be, in danger of attack.  Mr. Schreiner is of
opinion that your fears are groundless and your anticipations in the
matter entirely without foundation.' Such is the official reply to the
remonstrance of the inhabitants, when, with the shadow of war dark
upon them, they appealed for help. It is fortunate, however, that a
progressive British town has usually the capacity for doing things for
itself without the intervention of officials. Kimberley was
particularly lucky in being the centre of the wealthy and alert De
Beers Company, which had laid in sufficient ammunition and supplies to
prevent the town from being helpless in the presence of the enemy. But
the cannon were popguns, firing a 7-pound shell for a short range, and
the garrison contained only seven hundred regulars, while the
remainder were mostly untrained miners and artisans. Among them,
however, there was a sprinkling of dangerous men from the northern
wars, and all were nerved by a knowledge that the ground which they
defended was essential to the Empire. Ladysmith was no more than any
other strategic position, but Kimberley was unique, the centre of the
richest tract of ground for its size in the whole world.  Its loss
would have been a heavy blow to the British cause, and an enormous
encouragement to the Boers.

On October 12th, several hours after the expiration of Kruger's
ultimatum, Cecil Rhodes threw himself into Kimberley.  This remarkable
man, who stood for the future of South Africa as clearly as the Dopper
Boer stood for its past, had, both in features and in character, some
traits which may, without extravagance, be called Napoleonic.  The
restless energy, the fertility of resource, the attention to detail,
the wide sweep of mind, the power of terse comment -- all these recall
the great emperor.  So did the simplicity of private life in the midst
of excessive wealth. And so finally did a want of scruple where an
ambition was to be furthered, shown, for example, in that enormous
donation to the Irish party by which he made a bid for their
parliamentary support, and in the story of the Jameson raid. A certain
cynicism of mind and a grim humour complete the parallel. But Rhodes
was a Napoleon of peace. The consolidation of South Africa under the
freest and most progressive form of government was the large object on
which he had expended his energies and his fortune but the development
of the country in every conceivable respect, from the building of a
railway to the importation of a pedigree bull, engaged his unremitting
attention.

It was on October 15th that the fifty thousand inhabitants of
Kimberley first heard the voice of war. It rose and fell in a
succession of horrible screams and groans which travelled far over the
veldt, and the outlying farmers marvelled at the dreadful clamour from
the sirens and the hooters of the great mines. Those who have endured
all -- the rifle, the cannon, and the hunger -- have said that those
wild whoops from the sirens were what had tried their nerve the most.

The Boers in scattered bands of horsemen were thick around the town,
and had blocked the railroad.  They raided cattle upon the outskirts,
but made no attempt to rush the defence.  The garrison, who, civilian
and military, approached four thousand in number, lay close in rifle
pit and redoubt waiting for an attack which never came.  The perimeter
to be defended was about eight miles, but the heaps of tailings made
admirable fortifications, and the town had none of those inconvenient
heights around it which had been such bad neighbours to
Ladysmith. Picturesque surroundings are not favourable to defence.

On October 24th the garrison, finding that no attack was made,
determined upon a reconnaissance.  The mounted force, upon which most
of the work and of the loss fell, consisted of the Diamond Fields
Horse, a small aumber of Cape Police, a company of Mounted Infantry,
and a body called the Kimberley Light Horse. With two hundred and
seventy volunteers from this force Major Scott-Turner, a redoubtable
fighter, felt his way the north until he came in touch with the
Boers. The latter, who were much superior in numbers, manoeuvred to
cut him off, but the arrival of two companies of the North Lancashire
Regiment turned the scale in our favour. We lost three killed and
twenty-one wounded in the skirmish.  The Boer loss is unknown, but
their commander Botha was slain.

On November 4th Commandant Wessels formally summoned the town, and it
is asserted that he gave Colonel Kekewich leave to send out the women
and children.  That officer has been blamed for not taking advantage
of the permission -- or at the least for not communicating it to the
civil authorities. As a matter of fact the charge rests upon a
misapprehension. In Wessels' letter a distinction is made between
Africander and English women, the former being offered an asylum in
his camp. This offer was made known, and half a dozen persons took
advantage of it. The suggestion, however, in the case of the English
carried with it no promise that they would be conveyed to Orange
River, and a compliance with it would have put them as helpless
hostages into the hands of the enemy. As to not publishing the message
it is not usual to publish such official documents, but the offer was
shown to Mr. Rhodes, who concurred in the impossibility of accepting
it.

It is difficult to allude to this subject without touching upon the
painful but notorious fact that there existed during the siege
considerable friction between the military authorities and a section
of the civilians, of whom Mr. Rhodes was chief. Among other
characteristics Rhodes bore any form of restraint very badly, and
chafed mightily when unable to do a thing in the exact way which he
considered best. He may have been a Napoleon of peace, but his warmest
friends could never describe him as a Napoleon of war, for his
military forecasts have been erroneous, and the management of the
Jameson fiasco certainly inspired no confidence in the judgment of any
one concerned.  That his intentions were of the best, and that he had
the good of the Empire at heart, may be freely granted; but that these
motives should lead him to cabal against, and even to threaten, the
military governor, or that he should attempt to force Lord Roberts's
hand in a military operation, was most deplorable.  Every credit may
be given to him for all his aid to the military -- he gave with a good
grace what the garrison would otherwise have had to commandeer -- but
it is a fact that the town would bave been more united, and therefore
stronger, without his presence. Colonel Kekewich and his chief staff
officer, Major O'Meara, were as much plagued by intrigue within as by
the Boers without.

On November 7th the bombardment of the town commenced from nine
9-pounder guns to which the artillery of the garrison could give no
adequate reply.  The result, however, of a fortnight's fire, during
which seven hundred shells were discharged, was the loss of two
non-combatants.  The question of food was recognised as being of more
importance than the enemy's fire. An early relief appeared probable,
however, as the advance of Methuen's force was already known.  One
pound of bread, two ounces of sugar, and half a pound of meat were
allowed per head.  It was only on the small children that the scarcity
of milk told with tragic effect. At Ladysmith, at Mafeking, and at
Kimberley hundreds of these innocents were sacrificed.

November 25th was a red-letter day with the garrison, who made a
sortie under the impression that Methuen was not far off, and that
they were assisting his operations.  The attack was made upon one of
the Boer positions by a force consisting of a detachment of the Light
Horse and of the Cape Police, and their work was brilliantly
successful.  The actual storming of the redoubt was carried out by
some forty men, of whom but four were killed.  They brought back
thirty-three prisoners as a proof of their victory, but the Boer gun,
as usual, escaped us. In this brilliant affair Scott-Turner was
wounded, which did not prevent him, only three days later, from
leading another sortie, which was as disastrous as the first had been
successful.  Save under very exceptional circumstances it is in modern
warfare long odds always upon the defence, and the garrison would
probably have been better advised had they refrained from attacking
the fortifications of their enemy -- a truth which Baden-Powell
learned also at Game Tree Hill. As it was, after a temporary success
the British were blown back by the fierce Mauser fire, and lost the
indomitable Scott-Turner, with twenty-one of his brave companions
killed and twenty-eight wounded, all belongmg to the colonial corps.
The Empire may reflect with pride that the people in whose cause
mainly they fought showed themselves by their gallantry and their
devotion worthy of any sacrifice which has been made.

Again the siege settled down to a monotonous record of decreasing
rations and of expectation. On December 10 there came a sign of hope
from the outside world. Far on the southern horizon a little golden
speck shimmered against the blue African sky. It was Methuen's balloon
gleaming in the sunshine.  Next morning the low grumble of distant
cannon was the sweetest of music to the listening citizens. But days
passed without further news, and it was not for more than a week that
they learned of the bloody repulse of Magersfontein, and that help was
once more indefinitely postponed.  Helio graphic communication had
been opened with the relieving army, and it is on record that the
first message flashed through from the south was a question about the
number of a horse. With inconceivable stupidity this has been cited as
an example of military levity and incapacity.  Of course the object of
the question was a test as to whether they were really in
communication with the garrison. It must be confessed that the town
seems to have contained some very querulous and unreasonable people.

The New Year found the beleaguered city reduced to a quarter of a
pound of meat per head, while the health of the inhabitants began to
break down under their confinement.  Their interest, however, was
keenly aroused by the attempt made in the De Beers workshops to build
a gun which might reach their opponents. This remarkable piece of
ordnance, constructed by an American named Labram by the help of tools
manufactured for the purpose and of books found in the town, took the
shape eventually of a 28 lb. rifled gun, which proved to be a most
efficient piece of artillery. With grim humour, Mr. Rhodes's
compliments had been inscribed upon the shells -- a fair retort in
view of the openly expressed threat of the enemy that in case of his
capture they would carry him in a cage to Pretoria.

The Boers, though held off for a time by this unexpected piece of
ordnance, prepared a terrible answer to it.  On February 7th an
enormous gun, throwing a 96 lb. shell, opened from Kamfersdam, which
is four miles from the centre of the town. The shells, following the
evil precedent of the Germans in 1870, were fired not at the forts,
but into the thickly populated city. Day and night these huge missiles
exploded, shattering the houses and occasionally killing or maiming
the occupants. Some thousands of the women and children were conveyed
down the mines, wbere, in the electric-lighted tunnels, they lay in
comfort and safety. One surprising revenge the Boers had, for by an
extraordinary chance one of the few men killed by their gun was the
ingenious Labram who had constructed the 28-pounder. By an even more
singular chance, Leon, who was responsible for bringing the big Boer
gun, was struck immediately afterwards by a long-range rifle-shot from
the garrison.

The historian must be content to give a tame account of the siege of
Kimberley, for the thing itself was tame.  Indeed 'siege' is a
misnomer, for it was rather an investment or a blockade. Such as it
was, however, the inhabitants became very restless under it, and
though there were never any prospects of surrender the utmost
impatience began to be manifested at the protracted delay on the part
of the relief force. It was not till later that it was understood how
cunningly Kimberley had been used as a bait to hold the enemy until
final preparations had been made for his destruction.

And at last the great day came.  It is on record how dramatic was the
meeting between the mounted outposts of the defenders and the advance
guard of the relievers, whose advent seems to have been equally
unexpected by friend and foe.  A skirmish was in progress on February
15th between a party of the Kimberley Light Horse and of the Boers,
when a new body of horsemen, unrecognised by either side, appeared
upon the plain and opened fire upon the enemy.  One of the strangers
rode up to the patrol. 'What the dickens does K.L.H. mean on your
shoulder-strap?' he asked.  'It means Kimberley Light Horse.  Who are
you?'  'I am one of the New-Zealanders.'  Macaulay in his wildest
dream of the future of the much-quoted New-Zealander never pictured
him as heading a rescue force for the relief of a British town in the
heart of Africa.

The population had assembled to watch the mighty cloud of dust which
rolled along the south-eastern horizon. What was it which swept
westwards within its reddish heart? Hopeful and yet fearful they saw
the huge bank draw nearer and nearer.  An assault from the whole of
Cronje's army was the thought which passed through many a mind.  And
then the dust-cloud thinned, a mighty host of horsemen spurred out
from it, and in the extended far-flung ranks the glint of spearheads
and the gleam of scabbards told of the Hussars and Lancers, while
denser banks on either flank marked the position of the whirling
guns. Wearied and spent with a hundred miles' ride the dusty riders
and the panting, dripping horses took fresh heart as they saw the
broad city before them, and swept with martial rattle and jingle
towards the cheering crowds.  Amid shouts and tears French rode into
Kimberley while his troopers encamped outside the town.

To know how this bolt was prepared and how launched, the narrative
must go back to the beginning of the month. At that period Methuen and
his men were still faced by Cronje and his entrenched forces, who, in
spite of occasional bombardments, held their position between
Kimberley and the relieving army. French, having handed over the
operations at Colesberg to Clements, had gone down to Cape Town to
confer with Roberts and Kitchener. Thence they all three made their
way to the Modder River, which was evidently about to be the base of a
more largely conceived series of operations than any which had yet
been undertaken,

In order to draw the Boer attention away from the thunderbolt which
was about to fall upon their left flank, a strong demonstration ending
in a brisk action was made early in February upon the extreme right of
Cronje's position.  The force, consisting of the Highland Brigade, two
squadrons of the 9th Lancers, No.7 Co. Royal Engineers, and the 62nd
Battery, was under the command of the famous Hector Macdonald.
'Fighting Mac' as he was called by his men, had joined his regiment as
a private, and had worked through the grades of corporal, sergeant,
captain, major, and colonel, until now, still in the prime of his
manhood, he found himself riding at the bead of a brigade.  A bony,
craggy Scotsman, with a square fighting head and a bulldog jaw, he had
conquered the exclusiveness and routine of the British service by the
same dogged qualities which made him formidable to Dervish and to
Boer. With a cool brain, a steady nerve, and a proud heart, he is an
ideal leader of infantry, and those who saw him manoeuvre his brigade
in the crisis of the battle of Omdurman speak of it as the one great
memory which they carried back from the engagement.  On the field of
battle he turns to the speech of his childhood, the jagged, rasping,
homely words which brace the nerves of the northern soldier.  This was
the man who had come from India to take the place of poor Wauchope,
and to put fresh heart into the gallant but sorely stricken brigade.

The four regiments which composed the infantry of the force -- the
Black Watch, the Argyll and Sutherlands, the Seaforths, and the
Highland Light Infantry -- left Lord Methuen's camp on Saturday,
February 3rd, and halted at Fraser's Drift, passing on next day to
Koodoosberg. The day was very hot, and the going very heavy, and many
men fell out, some never to return.  The drift (or ford) was found,
however, to be undefended, and was seized by Macdonald, who, after
pitching camp on the south side of the river, sent out strong parties
across the drift to seize and entrench the Koodoosberg and some
adjacent kopjes which, lying some three-quarters of a mile to the
north-west of the drift formed the key of the position. A few Boer
scouts were seen hurrying with the news of his coming to the head
laager.

The effect of these messages was evident by Tuesday (February 6th),
when the Boers were seen to be assembling upon the north bank. By next
morning they were there in considerable numbers, and began an attack
upon a crest held by the Seaforths.  Macdonald threw two companies of
the Black Watch and two of the Highland Light Infantry into the
fight. The Boers made excellent practice with a 7-pounder mountain
gun, and their rifle fire, considering the good cover which our men
had, was very deadly.  Poor Tait, of the Black Watch, good sportsman
and gallant soldier, with one wound hardly healed upon his person, was
hit again.  'They've got me this time,' were his dying words. Blair,
of the Seaforths, had his carotid cut by a shrapnel bullet, and lay
for hours while the men of his company took turns to squeeze the
artery. But our artillery silenced the Boer gun, and our infantry
easily held their riflemen. Babington with the cavalry brigade arrived
from the camp about 1.30, moving along the north bank of the river. In
spite of the fact that men and horses were weary from a tiring march,
it was hoped by Macdonald's force that they would work round the Boers
and make an attempt to capture either them or their gun.  But the
horsemen seem not to have realised the position of the parties, or
that possibility of bringing off a considerable coup, so the action
came to a tame conclusion, the Boers retiring unpursued from their
attack. On Thursday, February 8th, they were found to have withdrawn,
and on the same evening our own force was recalled, to the surprise
and disappointment of the public at home, who had not realised that in
directing their attention to their right flank the column had already
produced the effect upon the enemy for which they had been sent.  They
could not be left there, as they were needed for those great
operations which were pending.  It was on the 9th that the brigade
returned; on the 10th they were congratulated by Lord Roberts in
person; and on the 11th those new dispositions were made which were
destined not only to relieve Kimberley, but to inflict a blow upon the
Boer cause from which it was never able to recover.

Small, brown, and wrinkled, with puckered eyes and alert manner, Lord
Roberts in spite of his sixty-seven years preserves the figure and
energy of youth.  The active open-air life of India keeps men fit for
the saddle when in England they would only sit their club armchairs,
and it is hard for any one who sees the wiry figure and brisk step of
Lord Roberts to realise that he has spent forty-one years of
soldiering in what used to be regarded as an unhealthy climate.  He
had carried into late life the habit of martial exercise, and a
Russian traveller has left it on record that the sight which surprised
him most in India was to see the veteran commander of the army ride
forth with his spear and carry off the peg with the skill of a
practised trooper. In his early youth he had shown in the Mutiny that
he possessed the fighting energy of the soldier to a remarkable
degree, but it was only in the Afghan War of 1880 that he had an
opportunity of proving that he had rarer and more valuable gifts, the
power of swift resolution and determined execution.  At the crisis of
the war he and his army disappeared entirely from the public ken only
to emerge dramatically as victors at a point three hundred miles
distant from where they had vanished.

It is not only as a soldier, but as a man, that Lord Roberts possesses
some remarkable characteristics.  He has in a supreme degree that
magnetic quality which draws not merely the respect but the love of
those who know him.  In Chaucer's phrase, he is a very perfect gentle
knight.  Soldiers and regimental officers have for him a feeling of
personal affection such as the unemotional British Army has never had
for any leader in the course of our history.  His chivalrous courtesy,
his unerring tact, his kindly nature, his unselfish and untiring
devotion to their interests have all endeared him to those rough loyal
natures, who would follow him with as much confidence and devotion as
the GROGNARDS of the Guard had in the case of the Great Emperor. There
were some who feared that in Roberts's case, as in so many more, the
donga and kopje of South Africa might form the grave and headstone of
a military reputation, but far from this being so he consistently
showed a wide sweep of strategy and a power of conceiving the effect
of scattered movements over a great extent of country which have
surprised his warmest admirers.  In the second week of February his
dispositions were ready, and there followed the swift series of blows
which brought the Boers upon their knees. Of these we shall only
describe here the exploits of the fine force of cavalry which, after a
ride of a hundred miles, broke out of the heart of that reddish
dustcloud and swept the Boer besiegers away from hard-pressed
Kimberley.

In order to strike unexpectedly, Lord Roberts had not only made a
strong demonstration at Koodoosdrift, at the other end of the Boer
line, but he had withdrawn his main force some forty miles south,
taking them down by rail to Belmont and Enslin with such secrecy that
even commanding officers had no idea whither the troops were going.
The cavalry which had come from French's command at Colesberg had
already reached the rendezvous, travelling by road to Naauwpoort, and
thence by train. This force consisted of the Carabineers, New South
Wales Lancers, Inniskillings, composite regiment of Household Cavalry,
10th Hussars, with some mounted infantry and two batteries of Horse
Artillery, making a force of nearly three thousand sabres.  To this
were added the 9th and 12th Lancers from Modder River, the 16th
Lancers from India, the Scots Greys, which had been patrolling Orange
River from the beginning of the war, Rimington's Scouts, and two
brigades of mounted infantry under Colonels Ridley and Hannay.  The
force under this latter officer had a severe skirmish on its way to
the rendezvous and lost fifty or sixty in killed, wounded, and
missing. Five other batteries of Horse Artillery were added to the
force, making seven in all, with a pontoon section of Royal Engineers.
The total number of men was about five thousand.  By the night of
Sunday, February 11th, this formidable force had concentrated at
Ramdam, twenty miles north-east of Belmont, and was ready to
advance. At two in the morning of Monday, February 12th, the start was
made, and the long sinuous line of night-riders moved off over the
shadowy veldt, the beat of twenty thousand hoofs, the clank of steel,
and the rumble of gunwheels and tumbrils swelling into a deep low roar
like the surge upon the shingle.

Two rivers, the Riet and the Modder, intervened between French and
Kimberley.  By daylight on the 12th the head of his force had reached
Waterval Drift, which was found to be defended by a body of Boers with
a gun.  Leaving a small detachment to hold them, French passed his men
over Dekiel's Drift, higher up the stream, and swept the enemy out of
his position.  This considerable force of Boers had come from
Jacobsdal, and were just too late to get into position to resist the
crossing.  Had we been ten minutes later, the matter would have been
much more serious.  At the cost of a very small loss he held both
sides of the ford, but it was not until midniglit that the whole long
column was brought across, and bivouacked upon the northern bank.  In
the morning the strength of the force was enormously increased by the
arrival of one more horseman.  It was Roberts himself, who had ridden
over to give the men a send-off, and the sight of his wiry erect
figure and mahogany face sent them full of fire and confidence upon
their way.

But the march of this second day (February 13th) was a military
operation of some difficulty.  Thirty long waterless miles had to be
done before they could reach the Modder, and it was possible that even
then they might have to fight an action before winning the drift.  The
weather was very hot, and through the long day the sun beat down from
an unclouded sky, while the soldiers were only shaded by the dust-bank
in which they rode.  A broad arid plain, swelling into stony hills,
surrounded them on every side.  Here and there in the extreme
distance, mounted figures moved over the vast expanse -- Boer scouts
who marked in amazement the advance of this great array.  Once or
twice these men gathered together, and a sputter of rifle fire broke
out upon our left flank, but the great tide swept on and carried them
with it.  Often in this desolate land the herds of mottled springbok
and of grey rekbok could be seen sweeping over the plain, or stopping
with that curiosity upon which the hunter trades, to stare at the
unwonted spectacle.

So all day they rode, hussars, dragoons, and lancers, over the
withered veldt, until men and horses drooped with the heat and the
exertion. A front of nearly two miles was kept, the regiments moving
two abreast in open order; and the sight of this magnificent cloud of
horsemen sweeping over the great barren plain was a glorious one.  The
veldt had caught fire upon the right, and a black cloud of smoke with
a lurid heart to it covered the flank.  The beat of the sun from above
and the swelter of dust from below were overpowering. Gun horses fell
in the traces and died of pure exhaustion. The men, parched and
silent, but cheerful, strained their eyes to pierce the continual
mirage which played over the horizon, and to catch the first glimpse
of the Modder. At last, as the sun began to slope down to the west, a
thin line of green was discerned, the bushes which skirt the banks of
that ill-favoured stream.  With renewed heart the cavalry pushed on
and made for the drift, while Major Rimington, to whom the onerous
duty of guiding the force had been entrusted, gave a sigh of relief as
he saw that he had indeed struck the very point at which he had aimed.

The essential thing in the movements had been speed -- to reach each
point before the enemy could concentrate to oppose them.  Upon this it
depended whether they would find five hundred or five thousand waiting
on the further bank. It must have been with anxious eyes that French
watched his first regiment ride down to Klip Drift.  If the Boers
should have had notice of his coming and have transferred some of
their 40-pounders, he might lose heavily before he forced the stream.
But this time, at last, he had completely outmanoeuvred them.  He came
with the news of his coming, and Broadwood with the 12th Lancers
rushed the drift. The small Boer force saved itself by flight, and the
camp, the wagons, and the supplies remained with the victors.  On the
night of the 13th he had secured the passage of the Modder, and up to
the early morning the horses and the guns were splashing through its
coffee-coloured waters.

French's force had now come level to the main position of the Boers,
but had struck it upon the extreme left wing.  The extreme right wing,
thanks to the Koodoosdrift demonstration, was fifty miles off, and
this line was naturally very thinly held, save only at the central
position of Magersfontein.  Cronje. could not denude this central
position, for he saw Methuen still waiting in front of him, and in any
case Klip Drift is twenty-five miles from Magersfontein.  But the Boer
left wing, though scattered, gathered into some sort of cohesion on
Wednesday (February 14th), and made an effort to check the victorious
progress of the cavalry.  It was necessary on this day to rest at Klip
Drift, until Kelly-Kenny should come up with the infantry to hold what
had been gained. All day the small bodies of Boers came riding in and
taking up positions between the column and its objective.

Next morning the advance was resumed, the column being still forty
miles from Kimberley with the enemy in unknown force between.  Some
four miles out French came upon their position, two hills with a long
low nek between, from which came a brisk rifle fire supported by
artillery. But French was not only not to be stopped, but could not
even be retarded. Disregarding the Boer fire completely the cavalry
swept in wave after wave over the low nek, and so round the base of
the hills.  The Boer riflemen upon the kopjes must have seen a
magnificent military spectacle as regiment after regiment, the 9th
Lancers leading, all in very open order, swept across the plain at a
gallop, and so passed over the nek. A few score horses and half as
many men were left behind them, but forty or fifty Boers were cut down
in the pursuit.  It appears to have been one of the very few occasions
during the campaign when that obsolete and absurd weapon the sword was
anything but a dead weight to its bearer.

And now the force had a straight run in before it, for it had outpaced
any further force of Boers which may have been advancing from the
direction of Magersfontein. The horses, which had come a hundred miles
in four days with insufficient food and water, were so done that it
was no uncommon sight to see the trooper not only walking to ease his
horse, but carrying part of his monstrous weight of saddle gear.  But
in spite of fatigue the force pressed on until in the afternoon a
distant view was seen, across the reddish plain, of the brick houses
and corrugated roofs of Kimberley.  The Boer besiegers cleared off in
front of it, and that night (February 15th) the relieving column
camped on the plain two miles away, while French and his staff rode in
to the rescued city.

The war was a cruel one for the cavalry, who were handicapped
throughout by the nature of the country and by the tactics of the
enemy. They are certainly the branch of the service which had least
opportunity for distinction.  The work of scouting and patrolling is
the most dangerous which a soldier can undertake, and yet from its
very nature it can find no chronicler. The war correspondent, like
Providence, is always with the big battalions, and there never was a
campaign in which there was more unrecorded heroism, the heroism of
the picket and of the vedette which finds its way into no newspaper
paragraph. But in the larger operations of the war it is difficult to
say that cavalry, as cavalry, have justified their existence.  In the
opinion of many the tendency of the future will be to convert the
whole force into mounted infantry.  How little is required to turn our
troopers into excellent foot soldiers was shown at Magersfontein,
where the 12th Lancers, dismounted by the command of their colonel,
Lord Airlie, held back the threatened flank attack all the morning. A
little training in taking cover, leggings instead of boots, and a
rifle instead of a carbine would give us a formidable force of twenty
thousand men who could do all that our cavalry does, and a great deal
more besides.  It is undoubtedly possible on many occasions in this
war, at Colesberg, at Diamond Hill, to say 'Here our cavalry did
well.' They are brave men on good horses, and they may be expected to
do well.  But the champion of the cavalry cause must point out the
occasions where the cavalry did something which could not have been
done by the same number of equally brave and equally well-mounted
infantry.  Only then will the existence of the cavalry be justified.
The lesson both of the South African and of the American civil war is
that the light horseman who is trained to fight on foot is the type of
the future.

A few more words as a sequel to this short sketch of the siege and
relief of Kimberley. Considerable surprise has been expressed that the
great gun at Kamfersdam, a piece which must have weighed many tons and
could not have been moved by bullock teams at a rate of more than two
or three miles an hour, should have eluded our cavalry.  It is indeed
a surprising circumstance, and yet it was due to no inertia on the
part of our leaders, but rather to one of the finest examples of Boer
tenacity in the whole course of the war.  The instant that Kekewich
was sure of relief he mustered every available man and sent him out to
endeavour to get the gun.  It had already been removed, and its
retreat was covered by the strong position of Dronfield, which was
held both by riflemen and by light artillery. Finding himself unable
to force it, Murray, the commander of the detachment, remained in
front of it.  Next morning (Friday) at three o'clock the weary men and
horses of two of French's higades were afoot with the same object. But
still the Boers were obstinately holding on to Dronfield, and still
their position was too strong to force, and too extended to get round
with exhausted horses. It was not until the night after that the Boers
abandoned their excellent rearguard action, leaving one light gun in
the hands of the Cape Police, but having gained such a start for their
heavy one that French, who had other and more important objects in
view, could not attempt to follow it.

CHAPTER XIX

PAARDEBERG


Lord Roberts's operations, prepared with admirable secrecy and carried
out with extreme energy, aimed at two different results, each of which
he was fortunate enough to aftain.  The first was that an overpowering
force of cavalry should ride round the Boer position and raise the
siege of Kimberley: the fate of this expedition has already been
described.  The second was that the infantry, following hard on the
heels of the cavalry, and holding all that they had gained, should
establish itself upon Cronje's left flank and cut his connection with
Bloemfontein. It is this portion of the operations which has now to be
described.

The infantry force which General Roberts had assembled was a very
formidable one.  The Guards he had left under Methuen in front of the
lines of Magersfontein to contain the Boer force. With them he had
also left those regiments which had fought in the 9th Brigade in all
Methuen's actions.  These, as will be remembered, were the 1st
Northumberland Fusiliers, the 2nd Yorkshire Light Infantry, the 2nd
Northamptons, and one wing of the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment.
These stayed to hold Cronje in his position.

There remained tbree divisions of infantry, one of which, the ninth,
was made up on the spot.  These were constituted in this way:

Sixth Division (Kelly-Kenny)
      12th Brigade (Knox)
	     Oxford Light Infantry
             Gloucesters (2nd)
	     West Riding
	     Buffs
      18th Brigade (Stephenson)
             Essex
             Welsh
             Warwicks
             Yorks
Seventh Division (Tucker)
      14th Brigade (Chermside)
	     Scots Borderers
             Lincolns
	     Hampshires
	     Norfolks
      15th Brigade (Wavell)
	     North Staffords
             Cheshires
	     S. Wales Borderers
	     East Lancashires
Ninth Division (Colvile)
       Highland Brigade (Macdonald)
             Black Watch
	     Argyll and Sutherlands
	     Seaforths
	     Highland Light Infantry
       19th Brigade (Smith-Dorrien)
	     Gordons
	     Canadians
	     Shropshire Light Infantry
	     Cornwall Light Infantry

With these were two brigade divisions of artillery under General
Marshall, the first containing the 18th, 62nd, and 75th batteries
(Colonel Hall), the other the 76th, 81st, and 82nd (Colonel
McDonnell).  Besides these there were a howitzer battery, a naval
contingent of four 4.7 guns and four 12-pounders under Captain
Bearcroft of the ' Philomel.' The force was soon increased by the
transfer of the Guards and the arrival of more artillery; but the
numbers which started on Monday, February 12th, amounted roughly to
twenty-five thousand foot and eight thousand horse with 98 guns-a
considerable army to handle in a foodless and almost waterless
country.  Seven hundred wagons drawn by eleven thousand mules and
oxen, all collected by the genius for preparation and organisation
which characterises Lord Kitchener, groaned and creaked behind the
columns.

Both arms had concentrated at Ramdam, the cavalry going down by road,
and the infantry by rail as far as Belmont or Enslin. On Monday,
February 12th, the cavalry had started, and on Tuesday the infantry
were pressing hard after them.  The first thing was to secure a
position upon Cronje's flank, and for that purpose the 6th Division
and the 9th (Kelly-Kenny's and Colvils's) pushed swiftly on and
arrived on Thursday, February 15th, at Klip Drift on the Modder, which
had only been left by the cavalry that same morning. It was obviously
impossible to leave Jacobsdal in the hands of the enemy on our left
flank, so the 7th Division (Tucker's) turned aside to attack the town.
Wavell's brigade carried the place after a sharp skirmish, chiefly
remarkable for the fact that the City Imperial Volunteers found
themselves under fire for the first time and bore themselves with the
gallantry of the old train-bands whose descendants they are. Our loss
was two killed and twenty wounded, and we found ourselves for the
first time firmly established in one of the enemy's towns. In the
excellent German hospital were thirty or forty of our wounded.

On the afternoon of Thursday, February 15th, our cavalry, having left
Klip Drift in the morning, were pushing hard for Kimberley. At Klip
Drift was KellyKenny's 6th Division.  South of Klip Drift at Wegdraai
was Colvile's 9th Division, while the 7th Division was approaching
Jacobsdal.  Altogether the British forces were extended over a line of
forty miles.  The same evening saw the relief of Kimberley and the
taking of Jacobsdal, but it also saw the capture of one of our convoys
by the Boers, a dashing exploit which struck us upon what was
undoubtedly our vulnerable point.

It has never been cleared up whence the force of Boers came which
appeared upon our rear on that occasion.  It seems to have been the
same body which had already had a skirmish with Hannay's Mounted
Infantry as they went up from Orange Biver to join the rendezvous at
Ramdam.  The balance of evidence is that they had not come from
Colesberg or any distant point, but that they were a force under the
command of Piet De Wet, the younger of two famous brothers.
Descending to Waterval Drift, the ford over the Riet, they occupied a
line of kopjes, which ought, one would have imagined, to have been
carefully guarded by us, and opened a brisk fire from rifles and guns
upon the convoy as it ascended the northern bank of the river.
Numbers of bullocks were soon shot down, and the removal of the
hundred and eighty wagons made impossible.  The convoy, which
contained forage and provisions, bad no guard of its own, but the
drift was held by Colonel Ridley with one company of Gordons and one
hundred and fifty mounted infantry without artillery, which certainly
seems an inadequate force to secure the most vital and vulnerable spot
in the line of communications of an army of forty thousand men. The
Boers numbered at the first some five or six hundred men, but their
position was such that they could not be attacked.  On the other hand
they were not strong enough to leave their shelter in order to drive
in the British guard, who, lying in extended order between the wagons
and the assailants, were keeping up a steady and effective fire.
Captain Head, of the East Lancashire Regiment, a fine natural soldier,
commanded the British firing line, and neither he nor any of his men
doubted that they could hold off the enemy for an indefinite time.  In
the course of the afternoon reinforcements arrived for the Boers, but
Kitchener's Horse and a field battery came back and restored the
balance of power.  In the evening the latter swayed altogether in
favour of the British, as Tucker appeared upon the scene with the
whole of the 14th Brigade; but as the question of an assault was being
debated a positive order arrived from Lord Roberts that the convoy
should be abandoned and the force return.

If Lord Roberts needed justification for this decision, the future
course of events will furnish it.  One of Napoleon's maxims in war was
to concentrate all one's energies upon one thing at one
time. Roberts's aim was to outflank and possibly to capture Cronje's
army.  If he allowed a brigade to be involved in a rearguard action,
his whole swift-moving plan of campaign might be dislocated.  It was
very annoying to lose a hundred and eighty wagons, but it only meant a
temporary inconvenience.  The plan of campaign was the essential
thing.  Therefore he sacrificed his convoy and hurried his troops upon
their original mission.  It was with heavy hearts and bitter words
that those who had fought so long abandoned their charge, but now at
least there are probably few of them who do not agree in the wisdom of
the sacrifice.  Our loss in this affair was between fifty and sixty
killed and wounded.  The Boers were unable to get rid of the stores,
and they were eventually distributed among the local farmers and
recovered again as the British forces flowed over the country. Another
small disaster occurred to us on the preceding day in the loss of
fifty men of E company of Kitchener's Horse, which bad been left as a
guard to a well in the desert.

But great events were coming to obscure those small checks which are
incidental to a war carried out over immense distances against a
mobile and enterprising enemy.  Cronje had suddenly become aware of
the net which was closing round him.  To the dark fierce man who had
striven so hard to make his line of kopjes impregnable it must have
been a bitter thing to abandon his trenches and his rifle pits.  But
he was crafty as well as tenacious, and he had the Boer horror of
being cut off -- an hereditary instinct from fathers who had fought on
horseback against enemies on foot.  If at any time during the last ten
weeks Methuen had contained him in front with a thin line of riflemen
with machine guns, and had thrown the rest of his force on Jacobsdal
and the east, he would probably have attained the same result.  Now at
the rumour of English upon his flank Cronje instantly abandoned his
position and his plans, in order to restore those communications with
Bloemfontein upon which he depended for his supplies. With furious
speed he drew in his right wing, and then, one huge mass of horsemen,
guns, and wagons, he swept through the gap between the rear of the
British cavalry bound for Kimberley and the head of the British
infantry at Klip Drift.  There was just room to pass, and at it he
dashed with the furious energy of a wild beast rushing from a trap. A
portion of his force with his heavy guns had gone north round
Kimberley to Warrenton; many of the Freestaters also had slipped away
and returned to their farms.  The remainder, numbering about six
thousand men, the majority of whom were Transvaalers, swept through
between the British forces.

This movement was carried out on the night of February 15th, and had
it been a little quicker it might have been concluded before we were
aware of it. But the lumbering wagons impeded it, and on the Friday
morning, February 16th, a huge rolling cloud of dust on the northern
veldt, moving from west to east, told our outposts at Klip Drift that
Cronje's army had almost slipped through our fingers.  Lord Kitchener,
who was in command at Klip Drift at the moment, instantly unleashed
his mounted infantry in direct pursuit, while Knox's brigade sped
along the northern bank of the river to cling on to the right haunch
of the retreating column. Cronje's men had made a night march of
thirty miles from Magersfontein, and the wagon bullocks were
exhausted.  It was impossible, without an absolute abandonment of his
guns and stores, for him to get away from his pursuers.

This was no deer which they were chasing, however, but rather a grim
old Transvaal wolf, with his teeth flashing ever over his
shoulder. The sight of those distant white-tilted wagons fired the
blood of every mounted infantryman, and sent the Oxfords, the Buffs,
the West Ridings, and the Gloucesters racing along the river bank in
the glorious virile air of an African morning. But there were kopjes
ahead, sown with fierce Dopper Boers, and those tempting wagons were
only to be reached over their bodies.  The broad plain across which
the English were hurrying was suddenly swept with a storm of
bullets. The long infantry line extended yet further and lapped round
the flank of the Boer position, and once more the terrible duet of the
Mauser and the Lee-Metford was sung while the 81st field battery
hurried up in time to add its deep roar to their higher chorus. With
fine judgment Cronje held on to the last moment of safety, and then
with a swift movement to the rear seized a further line two miles off,
and again snapped back at his eager pursuers. All day the grim and
weary rearguard stalled off the fiery advance of the infantry, and at
nightfall the wagons were still untaken.  The pursuing force to the
north of the river was, it must be remembered, numerically inferior to
the pursued, so that in simply retarding the advance of the enemy and
in giving other British troops time to come up, Knox's brigade was
doing splendid work.  Had Cronje been well advised or well informed,
he would have left his guns and wagons in the hope that by a swift
dash over the Modder he might still bring his army away in safety. He
seems to have underrated both the British numbers and the British
activity.

On the night then of Friday, February 16th, Cronje lay upon the
northern bank of the Modder, with his stores and guns still intact,
and no enemy in front of him, though Knox's brigade and Hannay's
Mounted Infantry were behind. It was necessary for Cronje to cross the
river in order to be on the line for Bloemfontein. As the river tended
to the north the sooner he could cross the better.  On the south side
of the river, however, were considerable British forces, and the
obvious strategy was to hurry them forward and to block every drift at
which he could get over.  The river runs between very deep banks, so
steep that one might almost describe them as small cliffs, and there
was no chance of a horseman, far less a wagon, crossing at any point
save those where the convenience of traffic and the use of years had
worn sloping paths down to the shallows.  The British knew exactly
therefore what the places were which had to be blocked.  On the use
made of the next few hours the success or failure of the whole
operation must depend.

The nearest drift to Cronje was only a mile or two distant, Klipkraal
the name; next to that the Paardeberg Drift; next to that the
Wolveskraal Drift, each about seven miles from the other.  Had Cronje
pushed on instant]y after the action, he might have got across at
Klipkraal. But men, horses, and bullocks were equally exhausted after
a long twenty-four hours' marching and fighting.  He gave his weary
soldiers some hours' rest, and then, abandoning seventy-eight of his
wagons, he pushed on Before daylight for the farthest off of the
three fords (Wolveskraal Drift).  Could he reach and cross it before
his enemies, he was safe.  The Klipkraal Drift had in the meanwhile
been secured by the Buffs, the West Ridings, and the Oxfordshire
Light Infantry after a spirited little action which, in the rapid rush
of events, attracted less attention than it deserved.  The brunt of
the fighting fell upon the Oxfords, who lost ten killed and
thirty-nine wounded.  It was not a waste of life, however, for the
action, though small and hardly recorded, was really a very essential
one in the campaign.

But Lord Roberts's energy had infused itself into his divisional
commanders, his brigadiers, his colonels, and so down to the humblest
Tommy who tramped and stumbled through the darkness with a devout
faith that 'Bobs' was going to catch 'old Cronje' this time.  The
mounted infantry had galloped round from the north to the south of the
river, crossing at Klip Drift and securing the southern end of
Klipkraal.  Thither also came Stephenson's brigade from Kelly-Kenny's
Division, while Knox, finding in the morning that Cronje was gone,
marched along the northern bank to the same spot.  As Klipkraal was
safe, the mounted infantry pushed on at once and secured the southern
end of the Paardeberg Drift, whither they were followed the same
evening by Stephenson and Knox.  There remained only the Wolveskraal
Drift to block, and this had already been done by as smart a piece of
work as any in the war. Wherever French has gone he has done well, but
his crowning glory was the movement from Kimberley to head off
Cronje's retreat.

The exertions which the mounted men had made in the relief of
Kimberley have been already recorded. They arrived there on Thursday
with their horses dead beat.  They were afoot at three o'clock on
Friday morning, and two brigades out of three were hard at work all
day in an endeavour to capture the Dronfield position. Yet when on the
same evening an order came that French should start again instantly
from Kimberley and endeavour to head Cronje's army off, he did not
plead inability, as many a commander might, but taking every man whose
horse was still fit to carry him (something under two thousand out of
a column which had been at least five thousand strong), he started
within a few hours and pushed on through the whole night.  Horses died
under their riders, but still the column marched over the shadowy
veldt under the brilliant stars. By happy chance or splendid
calculation they were heading straight for the one drift which was
still open to Cronje. It was a close thing.  At midday on Saturday the
Boer advance guard was already near to the kopjes which command
it. But French's men, still full of fight after their march of thirty
miles, threw themselves in front and seized the position before their
very eyes.  The last of the drifts was closed. If Cronje was to get
across now, he must crawl out of his trench and fight under Roberts's
conditions, or he might remain under his own conditions until
Roberts's forces closed round him.  With him lay the alternative. In
the meantime, still ignorant of the forces about him, but finding
himself headed off by French, he made his way down to the river and
occupied a long stretch of it between Paardeberg Drift and Wolveskraal
Drift, hoping to force his way across.  This was the situation on the
night of Saturday, February 17th.

In the course of that night the British brigades, staggering with
fatigue but indomitably resolute to crush their evasive enemy, were
converging upon Paardeberg. The Highland Brigade, exhausted by a heavy
march over soft sand from Jacobsdal to Klip Drift, were nerved to
fresh exertions by the word 'Magersfontein,' which flew from lip to
lip along the ranks, and pushed on for another twelve miles to
Paardeberg.  Close at their heels came Smith-Dorrien's 19th Brigade,
comprising the Shropshires, the Cornwalls, the Gordons, and the
Canadians, probably the very finest brigade in the whole army.  They
pushed across the river and took up their position upon the north
bank.  The old wolf was now fairly surrounded.  On the west the
Highianders were south of the river, and Smith-Dorrien on the north.
On the east Kelly-Kenny's Division was to the south of the river, and
French with his cavalry and mounted infantry were to the north of it.
Never was a general in a more hopeless plight. Do what he would, there
was no possible loophole for escape.

There was only one thing which apparently should not have been done,
and that was to attack him. His position was a formidable one.  Not
only were the banks of the river fringed with his riflemen under
excellent cover, but from these banks there extended on each side a
number of dongas, which made admirable natural trenches.  The only
possible attack from either side must be across a level plain at least
a thousand or fifteen hundred yards in width, where our numbers would
only swell our losses.  It must be a bold soldier and a far bolder
civilian, who would venture to question an operation carried out under
the immediate personal direction of Lord Kitchener; but the general
consensus of opinion among critics may justify that which might be
temerity in the individual.  Had Cronje not been tightly surrounded,
the action with its heavy losses might have been justified as an
attempt to hold him until his investment should be complete.  There
seems, however, to be no doubt that he was already entirely
surrounded, and that, as experience proved, we had only to sit round
him to insure his surrender.  It is not given to the greatest man to
have every soldierly gift equally developed, and it may be said
without offence that Lord Kitchener's cool judgment upon the actual
field of battle has not yet been proved as conclusively as his
longheaded power of organisation and his iron determination.

Putting aside the question of responsibility, what happened on the
morning of Sunday, February 18th, was that from every quarter an
assault was urged across the level plains, to the north and to the
south, upon the lines of desperate and invisible men who lay in the
dongas and behind the banks of the river. Everywhere there was a
terrible monotony about the experiences of the various regiments which
learned once again the grim lessons of Colenso and Modder River. We
surely did not need to prove once more what had already been so amply
proved, that bravery can be of no avail against concealed riflemen
well entrenched, and that the more hardy is the attack the heavier
must be the repulse. Over the long circle of our attack Knox's
brigade, Stephenson's brigade, the Highland brigade, Smith-Dorrien's
brigade all fared alike.  In each case there was the advance until
they were within the thousand-yard fire zone, then the resistless
sleet of bullets which compelled them to get down and to keep down.
Had they even then recognised that they were attempting the
impossible, no great harm might have been done, but with generous
emulation the men of the various regiments made little rushes, company
by company, towards the river bed, and found themselves ever exposed
to a more withering fire.  On the northern bank Smith-Dorrien's
brigade, and especially the Canadian regiment, distinguished
themselves by the magnificent tenacity with which they persevered in
their attack.  The Cornwalls of the same brigade swept up almost to
the river bank in a charge which was the admiration of all who saw it.
If the miners of Johannesburg had given the impression that the
Cornishman is not a fighter, the record of the county regiment in the
war has for ever exploded the calumny.  Men who were not fighters
could have found no place in Smith-Dorrien's brigade or in the charge
of Paardeberg.

While the infantry had been severely handled by the Boer riflemen, our
guns, the 76th, 81st, and 82nd field batteries, with the 65th howitzer
battery, had been shelling the river bed, though our artillery fire
proved as usual to have little effect against scattered and hidden
riflemen.  At least, however, it distracted their attention, and made
their fire upon the exposed infantry in front of them less
deadly. Now, as in Napoleon's time, the effect of the guns is moral
rather than material.  About midday French's horse-artillery guns came
into action from the north.  Smoke and flames from the dongas told
that some of our shells bad fallen among the wagons and their
combustible stores.

The Boer line had proved itself to be unshakable on each face, but at
its ends the result of the action was to push them up, and to shorten
the stretch of the river which was held by them.  On the north bank
Smith. Dorrien's brigade gained a considerable amount of ground. At
the other end of the position the Welsh, Yorkshire, and Essex
regiments of Stephenson's brigade did some splendid work, and pushed
the Boers for some distance down the river bank. A most gallant but
impossible charge was made by Colonel Hannay and a number of mounted
infantry against the northern bank. He was shot with the majority of
his followers. General Knox of the 12th Brigade and General Macdonald
of the Highlanders were among the wounded.  Colonel Aldworth of the
Cornwalls died at the head of his men.  A bullet struck him dead as he
whooped his West Countrymen on to the charge. Eleven hundred killed
and wounded testified to the fire of our attack and the grimness of
the Boer resistance.  The distribution of the losses among the various
battalions -- eighty among the Canadians, ninety in the West Riding
Regiment, one hundred and twenty in the Seaforths, ninety in the
Yorkshires, seventy-six in the Argyll and Sutherlands, ninetysix in
the Black Watch, thirty-one in the Oxfordshires, fifty-six in the
Coruwnlls, forty-six in the Shropshires -- shows how universal was the
gallantry, and especially how well the Highland Brigade carried
itself. It is to be feared that they had to face, not only the fire of
the enemy, but also that of their own comrades on the further side of
the river. A great military authority has stated that it takes many
years for a regiment to recover its spirit and steadiness if it has
been heavily punished, and yet within two months of Magersfontein we
find the indomitable Highlanders taking without flinching the very
bloodiest share of this bloody day -- and this after a march of thirty
miles with no pause before going into action. A repulse it may have
been, but they hear no name of which they may be more proud upon the
victory scroll of their colours.

What had we got in return for our eleven hundred casualties? We had
contracted the Boer position from about three miles to less than
two. So much was to the good, as the closer they lay the more
effective our artillery fire might be expected to be. But it is
probable that our shrapnel alone, without any loss of life, might have
effected the same thing. It is easy to be wise after the event, but
it does certainly appear that with our present knowledge the action at
Paardeberg was as unnecessary as it was expensive.  The sun descended
on Sunday, February 18th, upon a bloody field and crowded field
hospitals, but also upon an unbroken circle of British troops still
hemming in the desperate men who lurked among the willows and mimosas
which drape the brown steep banks of the Modder.

There was evidence during the action of the presence of an active Boer
force to the south of us, probably the same well-handled and
enterprising body which had captured our convoy at Waterval. A small
party of Kitchener's Horse was surprised by this body, and thirty men
with four officers were taken prisoners. Much has been said of the
superiority of South African scouting to that of the British regulars,
but it must be confessed that a good many instances might be quoted in
which the colonials, though second to none in gallantry, have been
defective in that very quality in which they were expected to excel.

This surprise of our cavalry post had more serious consequences than
can be measured by the loss of men, for by it the Boers obtained
possession of a strong kopje called Kitchener's Hill, lying about two
miles distant on the south-east of our position. The movement was an
admirable one strategically upon their part, for it gave their
beleaguered comrades a first station on the line of their retreat.
Could they only win their way to that kopje, a rearguard action might
be fought from there which would cover the escape of at least a
portion of the force. De Wet, if he was indeed responsible for the
manoeuvres of these Southern Boers, certainly handled his small force
with a discreet audacity which marks him as the born leader which he
afterwards proved himself to be.

If the position of the Boers was desperate on Sunday, it was hopeless
on Monday, for in the course of the morning Lord Roberts came up,
closely followed by the whole of Tucker's Division (7th) from
Jacobsdal. Our artillery also was strongly reinforced. The 18th, 62nd,
and 75th field batteries came up with three naval 4.7 guns and two
naval 12-pounders.  Thirty-five thousand men with sixty guns were
gathered round the little Boer army.  It is a poor spirit which will
not applaud the supreme resolution with which the gallant farmers held
out, and award to Cronje the title of one of the most grimly resolute
leaders of whom we have any record in modern history.

For a moment it seemed as if his courage was giving way.  On Monday
morning a message was transmitted by him to Lord Kitchener asking for
a twenty-four hours' armistice. The answer was of course a curt
refusal. To this he replied that if we were so inhuman as to prevent
him from burying his dead there was nothing for him save surrender. An
answer was given that a messenger with power to treat should be sent
out, but in the interval Cronje had changed his mind, and disappeared
with a snarl of contempt into his burrows. It had become known that
women and children were in the laager, and a message was sent offering
them a place of safety, but even to this a refusal was given.  The
reasons for this last decision are inconceivable.

Lord Roberts's dispositions were simple, efficacious, and above all
bloodless.  Smith-Dorrien's brigade, who were winning in the Western
army something of the reputation which Hart's Irishmen had won in
Natal, were placed astride of the river to the west, with orders to
push gradually up, as occasion served, using trenches for their
approach.  Chermside's brigade occupied the same position on the
east. Two other divisions and the cavalry stood round, alert and
eager, like terriers round a rat-hole, while all day the pitiless guns
crashed their common shell, their shrapnel, and their lyddite into the
river-bed. Already down there, amid slaughtered oxen and dead horses
under a burning sun, a horrible pest-hole had been formed which sent
its mephitic vapours over the countryside.  Occasionally the sentries
down the river saw amid the brown eddies of the rushing water the
floating body of a Boer which had been washed away from the Golgotha
above.  Dark Cronje, betrayer of Potchefstroom, iron-handed ruler of
natives, reviler of the British, stern victor of Magersfontein, at
last there has come a day of reckoning for you!

On Wednesday, the 21st, the British, being now sure of their grip of
Cronje, turned upon the Boer force which had occupied the hill to the
south-east of the drift. It was clear that this force, unless driven
away, would be the vanguard of the relieving army which might be
expected to assemble from Ladysmith, Bloemfontein, Colesberg, or
wherever else the Boers could detach men.  Already it was known that
reinforcements who had left Natal whenever they heard that the Free
State was invaded were drawing near. It was necessary to crush the
force upon the hill before it became too powerful.  For this purpose
the cavalry set forth, Broadwood with the 10th Hussars, 12th Lancers,
and two batteries going round on one side, while French with the 9th
and 16th Lancers, the Household Cavalry, and two other batteries
skirted the other. A force of Boers was met and defeated, while the
defenders of the hill were driven off with considerable loss. In this
well-managed affair the enemy lost at least a hundred, of whom fifty
were prisoners. On Friday, February 23rd, another attempt at rescue
was made from the south, but again it ended disastrously for the
Boers.  A party attacked a kopje held by the Yorkshire regiment and
were blown back by a volley, upon which they made for a second kopje,
where the Buffs gave them an even rougher reception. Eighty prisoners
were marched in. Meantime hardly a night passed that some of the Boers
did not escape from their laager and give themselves up to our
pickets.  At the end of the week we had taken six hundred in all.

In the meantime the cordon was being drawn ever tighter, and the fire
became heavier and more deadly, while the conditions of life in that
fearful place were such that the stench alone might have compelled
surrender. Amid the crash of tropical thunderstorms, the glare of
lightning, and the furious thrashing of rain there was no relaxation
of British vigilance. A balloon floating overhead directed the fire,
which from day to day became more furious, culminating on the 26th
with the arrival of four 5-inch howitzers.  But still there came no
sign from the fierce Boer and his gallant followers.  Buried deep
within burrows in the river bank the greater part of them lay safe
from the shells, but the rattle of their musketry when the outposts
moved showed that the trenches were as alert as ever. The thing could
only have one end, however, and Lord Roberts, with admirable judgment
and patience, refused to hurry it at the expense of the lives of his
soldiers.

The two brigades at either end of the Boer lines had lost no chance of
pushing in, and now they had come within striking distance.  On the
night of February 26th it was determined that Smith-Dorrien's men
should try their luck.  The front trenches of the British were at that
time seven hundred yards from the Boer lines. They were held by the
Gordons and by the Canadians, the latter being the nearer to the
river. It is worth while entering into details as to the arrangement
of the attack, as the success of the campaign was at least accelerated
by it. The orders were that the Canadians were to advance, the Gordons
to support, and the Shropshires to take such a position on the left as
would outflank any counter attack upon the part of the Boers.  The
Canadians advanced in the darkness of the early morning before the
rise of the moon.  The front rank held their rifles in the left hand
and each extended right hand grasped the sleeve of the man next
it. The rear rank had their rifles slung and carried spades. Nearest
the river bank were two companies (G and H.) who were followed by the
7th company of Royal Engineers carrying picks and empty sand bags. The
long line stole through a pitchy darkness, knowing that at any instant
a blaze of fire such as flamed before the Highlanders at Magersfontein
might crash out in front of them. A hundred, two, three, four, five
hundred paces were taken.  They knew that they must be close upon the
trenches.  If they could only creep silently enough, they might spring
upon the defenders unannounced. On and on they stole, step by step,
praying for silence. Would the gentle shuffle of feet be heard by the
men who lay within stone-throw of them?  Their hopes had begun to rise
when there broke upon the silence of the night a resonant metallic
rattle, the thud of a falling man, an empty clatter! They had walked
into a line of meat-cans slung upon a wire. By measurement it was only
ninety yards from the trench. At that instant a single rifle sounded,
and the Canadians hurled themselves down upon the ground. Their bodies
had hardly touched it when from a line six hundred yards long there
came one furious glare of rifle fire, with a hiss like water on a
red-hot plate, of speeding bullets. In that terrible red light the men
as they lay and scraped desperately for cover could see the heads of
the Boers pop up and down, and the fringe of rifle barrels quiver and
gleam. How the regiment, lying helpless under this fire, escaped
destruction is extraordinary.  To rush the trench in the face of such
a continuous blast of lead seemed impossible, and it was equally
impossible to remain where they were. In a short time the moon would
be up, and they would be picked off to a man. The outer companies upon
the plain were ordered to retire. Breaking up into loose order, they
made their way back with surprisingly little loss; but a strange
contretemps occurred, for, leaping suddenly into a trench held by the
Gordons, they transfixed themselves upon the bayonets of the men. A
subaltern and twelve men received bayonet thrusts -- none of them
fortunately of a very serious nature.

While these events had been taking place upon the left of the line,
the right was hardly in better plight. All firing had ceased for the
moment -- the Boers being evidently under the impression that the whole
attack had recoiled. Uncertain whether the front of the small party on
the right of the second line (now consisting of some sixty-five
Sappers and Canadians lying in one mingled line) was clear for firing
should the Boers leave their trenches, Captain Boileau, of the
Sappers, crawled forward along the bank of the river, and discovered
Captain Stairs and ten men of the Canadians, the survivors of the
firing line, firmly ensconced in a crevice of the river bank
overlooking the laager, quite happy on being reassured as to the
proximity of support.  This brought the total number of the daring
band up to seventy-five rifles.  Meanwhile, the Gordons, somewhat
perplexed by the flying phantoms who had been flitting into and over
their trenches for the past few minutes, sent a messenger along the
river bank to ascertain, in their turn, if their own front was clear
to fire, and if not, what state the survivors were in.  To this
message Colonel Kincaid, R.E., now in command of the remains of the
assaulting party, replied that his men would be well entrenched by
daylight.  The little party had been distributed for digging as well
as the darkness and their ignorance of their exact position to the
Boers would permit.  Twice the sound of the picks brought angry
volleys from the darkness, but the work was never stopped, and in the
early dawn the workers found not only that they were secure
themselves, but that they were in a position to enfilade over half a
mile of Boer trenches.  Before daybreak the British crouched low in
their shelter, so that with the morning light the Boers did not
realise the change which the night had wrought. It was only when a
burgher was shot as he filled his pannikin at the river that they
understood how their position was overlooked.  For half an hour a
brisk fire was maintained, at the end of which time a white flag went
up from the trench.  Kincaid stood up on his parapet, and a single
haggard figure emerged from the Boer warren.  'The burghers have had
enough; what are they to do?' said he.  As he spoke his comrades
scrambled out behind him and came walking and running over to the
British lines.  It was not a moment likely to be forgotten by the
parched and grimy warriors who stood up and cheered until the cry came
crashing back to them again from the distant British camps. No doubt
Cronje had already realised that the extreme limit of his resistance
was come, but it was to that handful of Sappers and Canadians that the
credit is immediately due for that white flag which fluttered on the
morning of Majuba Day over the lines of Paardeberg.

It was six o'clock in the morning when General Pretyman rode up to
Lord Roberts's headquarters. Behind him upon a white horse was a
dark-bearded man, with the quick. restless eyes of a hunter,
middle-sized, thickly built, with grizzled hair flowing from under a
tall brown felt hat. He wore the black broadcloth of the burgher with
a green summer overcoat, and carried a small whip in his hands. His
appearance was that of a respectable London vestryman rather than of a
most redoubtable soldier with a particularly sinister career behind
him.

The Generals shook hands, and it was briefly intimated to Cronje that
his surrender must be unconditional, to which, after a short silence,
he agreed. His only stipulations were personal, that his wife, his
grandson, his secretary, his adjutant, and his servant might accompany
him.  The same evening he was despatched to Cape Town, receiving those
honourable attentions which were due to his valour rather than to his
character.  His men, a pallid ragged crew, emerged from their holes
and burrows, and delivered up their rifles. It is pleasant to add
that, with much in their memories to exasperate them, the British
privates treated their enemies with as large-hearted a courtesy as
Lord Roberts had shown to their leader. Our total capture numbered
some three thousand of the Transvaal and eleven hundred of the Free
State.  That the latter were not far more numerous was due to the fact
that many had already shredded off to their farms. Besides Cronje,
Wolverans of the Transvaal, and the German artillerist Albrecht, with
forty-four other field-cornets and commandants, fell into our hands.
Six small guns were also secured.  The same afternoon saw the long
column of the prisoners on its way to Modder River, there to be
entrained for Cape Town, the most singular lot of people to be seen at
that moment upon earth -- ragged, patched, grotesque, some with goloshes,
some with umbrellas, coffee-pots, and Bibles, their favourite baggage.
So they passed out of their ten days of glorious history.

A visit to the laager showed that the horrible smells which had been
carried across to the British lines, and the swollen carcasses which
had swirled down the muddy river were true portents of its condition.
Strong-nerved men came back white and sick from a contemplation of the
place in which women and children had for ten days been living. From
end to end it was a festering mass of corruption, overshadowed by
incredible swarms of flies.  Yet the engineer who could face evil
sights and nauseous smells was repaid by an inspection of the deep
narrow trenches in which a rifleman could crouch with the minimum
danger from shells, and the caves in which the non-combatants remained
in absolute safety. Of their dead we have no accurate knowledge, but
two hundred wounded in a donga represented their losses, not only
during a bombardment of ten days, but also in that Paardeberg
engagement which had cost us eleven hundred casualties. No more
convincing example could be adduced both of the advantage of the
defence over the attack, and of the harmlessness of the fiercest shell
fire if those who are exposed to it bave space and time to make
preparations.

A fortnight had elapsed since Lord Roberts had launched his forces
from Ramdam, and that fortnight had wrought a complete revolution in
the campaign. It is hard to recall any instance in the history of war
where a single movement has created such a change over so many
different operations.  On February 14th Kimberley was in danger of
capture, a victorious Boer army was facing Methuen, the lines of
Magersfontein appeared impregnable, Clements was being pressed at
Colesberg, Gatacre was stopped at Stormberg, Buller could not pass the
Tugela, and Ladysmith was in a perilous condition. On the 28th
Kimberley had been relieved, the Boer army was scattered or taken, the
lines of Magersfontein were in our possession, Clements found his
assailants retiring before him, Gatacre was able to advance at
Stormberg, Buller had a weakening army in front of him, and Ladysmith
was on the eve of relief. And all this had been done at the cost of a
very moderate loss of life, for most of which Lord Roberts was in no
sense answerable. Here at last was a reputation so well founded that
even South African warfare could only confirm and increase it. A
single master hand had in an instant turned England's night to day,
and had brought us out of that nightmare of miscalculation and
disaster which had weighed so long upon our spirits.  His was the
master hand, but there were others at his side without whom that hand
might have been paralysed: Kitchener the organiser, French the cavalry
leader -- to these two men, second only to their chief, are the
results of the operations due.  Henderson, the most capable head of
Intelligence, and Richardson, who under all difficulties fed the army,
may each claim his share in the success.

CHAPTER XX

ROBERTS'S ADVANCE ON BLOEMFONTEIN

The surrender of Cronje had taken place on February 27th, obliterating
for ever the triumphant memories which the Boers had for twenty years
associated with that date. A halt was necessary to provide food for
the hungry troops, and above all to enable the cavalry horses to pick
up.  The supply of forage had been most inadequate, and the beasts had
not yet learned to find a living from the dry withered herbage of the
veldt.[Footnote: A battery which turned out its horses to graze found
that the puzzled creatures simply galloped about the plain, and could
only be reassembled by blowing the call which they associated with
feeding, when they rushed back and waited in lines for their nosebags
to be put on.] In addition to this, they had been worked most
desperately during the fortnight which had elapsed.  Lord Roberts
waited therefore at Osfontein, which is a farmhouse close to
Paardeberg, until his cavalry were fit for an advance. On March 6th he
began his march for Bloemfontein.

The force which had been hovering to the south and east of him during
the Paardeberg operations had meanwhile been reinforced from Colesberg
and from Ladysmith until it had attained considerable
proportions. This army, under the leadership of De Wet, had taken up a
strong position a few miles to the east, covering a considerable range
of kopjes.  On March 3rd a reconnaissance was made of it, in which
some of our guns were engaged; but it was not until three days later
that the army advanced with the intention of turning or forcing it. In
the meantime reinforcements had been arriving in the British camp,
derived partly from the regiments which had been employed at other
points during these operations, and partly from newcomers from the
outer Empire.  The Guards came up from Klip Drift, the City Imperial
Volunteers, the Australian Mounted Infantry, the Burmese Mounted
Infantry and a detachment of light horse from Ceylon helped to form
this strange invading army which was drawn from five continents and
yet had no alien in its ranks.

The position which the enemy had taken up at Poplars Grove (so called
from a group of poplars round a farmhouse in the centre of their
position) extended across the Modder River and was buttressed on
either side by well-marked hills, with intermittent kopjes between.
With guns, trenches, rifle pits, and barbed wire a bull-headed general
might have found it another Magersfontein. But it is only just to Lord
Roberts's predecessors in command to say that it is easy to do things
with three cavalry brigades which it is dilficult to do with two
regiments.  The ultimate blame does not rest with the man who failed
with the two regiments, but with those who gave him inadequate means
for the work which he had to do.  And in this estimate of means our
military authorities, our politicians, and our public were all in the
first instance equally mistaken.

Lord Roberts's plan was absolutely simple, and yet, had it been
carried out as conceived, absolutely effective. It was not his
intention to go near any of that entanglement of ditch and wire which
had been so carefully erected for his undoing.  The weaker party, if
it be wise, atones for its weakness by entrenchments. The stronger
party, if it be wise, leaves the entrenchments alone and uses its
strength to go round them.  Lord Roberts meant to go round. With his
immense preponderance of men and guns the capture or dispersal of the
enemy's army might be reduced to a certainty. Once surrounded, they
must either come out into the open or they must surrender.

On March 6th the cavalry were brought across the river, and in the
early morning of March 7th they were sent off in the darkness to sweep
round the left wing of the Boers and to establish themselves on the
line of their retreat. Kelly-Kenny's Division (6th) had orders to
follow and support this movement.  Meanwhile Tucker was to push
straight along the southern bank of the river, though we may surmise
that his instructions were, in case of resistance, not to push his
attack home. Colvile's 9th Division, with part of the naval brigade,
were north of the river, the latter to shell the drifts in case the
Boers tried to cross, and the infantry to execute a turning movement
which would correspond with that of the cavalry on the other flank.

The plan of action was based, however, upon one supposition which
proved to be fallacious.  It was that after having prepared so
elaborate a position the enemy would stop at least a little time to
defend it.  Nothing of the sort occurred, however, and on the instant
that they realised that the cavalry was on their flank they made off.
The infantry did not fire a shot.

The result of this very decisive flight was to derange all
calculations entirly.  The cavalry was not yet in its place when the
Boer army streamed off between the kopjes.  One would have thought,
however, that they would have had a dash for the wagons and the guns,
even if they were past them.  It is unfair to criticise a movement
until one is certain as to the positive orders which the leader may
have received; but on the face of it it is clear that the sweep of our
cavalry was not wide enough, and that they erred by edging to the left
instead of to the right, so leaving the flying enemies always to the
outside of them.

As it was, however, there seemed every possibility of their getting
the guns, but De Wet very cleverly coveved them by his skirmishers.
Taking possession of a farmhouse on the right flank they kept up a
spirited fire upon the 16th Lancers and upon P battery R.H.A. When at
last the latter drove them out of their shelter, they again formed
upon a low kopje and poured so galling a fire upon the right wing that
the whole movement was interrupted until we had driven this little
body of fifty men from their position. When, after a delay of an hour,
the cavalry at last succeeded in dislodging them -- or possibly it may
be fairer to say when, having accomplished their purpose, they retired
-- the guns and wagons were out of reach, and, what is more important,
the two Presidents, both Steyn and Kruger, who had come to stiffen the
resistance of the burghers, had escaped.

Making every allowance for the weary state of the horses, it is
impossible to say that our cavalry were handled with energy or
judgment on this occasion. That such a force of men and guns should be
held off from an object of such importance by so small a resistance
reflects no credit upon us.  It would have been better to repeat the
Kimberley tactics and to sweep the regiments in extended order past
the obstacle if we could not pass over it. At the other side of that
little ill-defended kopje lay a possible termination of the war, and
our crack cavalry regiments manoeuvred for hours and let it pass out
of their reach. However, as Lord Roberts good-humouredly remarked at
the end of the action, 'In war you can't expect everything to come out
right.'  General French can afford to shed one leaf from his laurel
wreath.  On the other hand, no words can be too high for the gallant
little band of Boers who had the courage to face that overwhelming
mass of horsemen, and to bluff them into regarding this handful as a
force fighting a serious rearguard action. When the stories of the war
are told round the fires in the lonely veldt farmhouses, as they will
be for a century to come, this one deserves an honoured place.

The victory, if such a word can apply to such an action, had cost some
fifty or sixty of the cavalry killed and wounded, while it is doubtful
if the Boers lost as many.  The finest military display on the British
side had been the magnificent marching of Kelly-Kenny's 6th Division,
who had gone for ten hours with hardly a halt.  One 9 lb. Krupp gun
was the only trophy.  On he other hand, Roberts had turned them out of
their strong position, had gained twelve or fifteen miles on he road
to Bloemfontein, and for the first time shown how helpless a Boer army
was in country which gave our numbers a chance. From now onwards it
was only in surprise and ambuscade that they could hope for a success.
We had learned and they had learned that they could not stand in the
open field.

The action of Poplars Grove was fought on March 7th. On the 9th the
army was again on its way, and on the 10th it attacked the new
position which the Boers had occupied at a place called Driefontein,
or Abram's Kraal. They covered a front of some seven miles in such a
formation that their wings were protected, the northern by the river
and the southern by flanking bastions of hill extending for some
distance to the rear. If the position had been defended as well as it
had been chosen, the task would have been a severe one.

Since the Modder covered the enemy's right the turning movement could
only be developed on their left, and Tucker's Division was thrown out
very wide on that side for the purpose. But in the meanwhile a
contretemps had occurred which threw out and seriously hampered the
whole British line of battle. General French was in command of the
left wing, which included Kelly-Kenny's Division, the first cavalry
brigade, and Alderson's Mounted Infantry. His orders had been to keep
in touch with the centre, and to avoid pushing his attack home. In
endeavouring to carry out these instructions French moved his men more
and more to the right, until he had really squeezed in between the
Boers and Lord Roberts's central column, and so masked the latter.
The essence of the whole operation was that the frontal attack should
not be delivered until Tucker had worked round to the rear of the
position.  It is for military critics to decide whether it was that
the flankers were too slow or the frontal assailants were too fast,
but it is certain that Kelly-Kenny's Division attacked before the
cavalry and the 7th Division were in their place.  Kelly-Kenny was
informed that the position in front of him had been abandoned, and
four regiments, the Buffs, the Essex, the Welsh, and the Yorkshires,
were advanced against it. They were passing over the open when the
crash of the Mauser fire burst out in front of them, and the bullets
hissed and thudded among the ranks.  The ordeal was a very severe one.
The Yorkshires were swung round wide upon the right, but the rest of
the brigade, the Welsh Regiment leading, made a frontal attack upon
the ridge.  It was done coolly and deliberately, the men taking
advantage of every possible cover.  Boers could be seen leaving their
position in small bodies as the crackling, swaying line of the British
surged ever higher upon the hillside.  At last, with a cheer, the
Welshmen with their Kent and Essex comrades swept over the crest into
the ranks of that cosmopolitan crew of sturdy adventurers who are
known as the Johannesburg Police.  For once the loss of the defence
was greater than that of the attack.  These mercenaries had not the
instinct which teaches the Boer the right instant for flight, and they
held their position too long to get away. The British had left four
hundred men on the track of that gallant advance, but the vast
majority of them were wounded -- too often by those explosive or
expansive missiles which make war more hideous. Of the Boers we
actually buried over a hundred on the ridge, and their total
casualties must have been considerably in excess of ours.

The action was strategically well conceived; all that Lord Roberts
could do for complete success had been done; but tactically it was a
poor affair, considering his enormous preponderance in men and
guns. There was no glory in it, save for the four regiments who set
their faces against that sleet of lead.  The artillery did not do
well, and were browbeaten by guns which they should have smothered
under their fire.  The cavalry cannot be said to have done well
either. And yet, when all is said, the action is an important one, for
the enemy were badly shaken by the result. The Johannesburg Police,
who had been among their CORPS D'ELITE, had been badly mauled, and the
burghers were impressed by one more example of the impossibility of
standing in anything approaching to open country against disciplined
troops, Roberts had not captured the guns, but the road had been
cleared for him to Bloemfontein and, what is more singular, to
Pretoria; for though hundreds of miles intervene between the field of
Driefontein and the Transvaal capital, he never again met a force
which was willing to look his infantry in the eyes in a pitched
battle.  Surprises and skirmishes were many, but it was the last time,
save only at Doornkop, that a chosen position was ever held for an
effective rifle fire -- to say nothing of the push of bayonet.

And now the army flowed swiftly onwards to the capital.  The
indefatigable 6th Division, which had done march after march, one more
brilliant than another, since they had crossed the Riet River, reached
Asvogel Kop on the evening of Sunday, March 11th, the day after the
battle.  On Monday the army was still pressing onwards, disregarding
all else and striking straight for the heart as Blucher struck at
Paris in 1814. At midday they halted at the farm of Gregorowski, he
who had tried the Reform prisoners after the Raid.  The cavalry pushed
on down Kaal Spruit, and in the evening crossed the Southern railway
line which connects Bloemfontein with the colony, cutting it at a
point some five miles from the town.  In spite of some not very
strenuous opposition from a Boer force a hill was seized by a squadron
of Greys with some mounted infantry and Rimington's Guides, aided by U
battery R.H.A., and was held by them all that night.

On the same evening Major Hunter-Weston, an officer who had already
performed at least one brilliant feat in the war, was sent with
Lieutenant Charles and a handful of Mounted Sappers and Hussars to cut
the line to the north.  After a difficult journey on a very dark night
he reached his object and succeeded in finding and blowing up a
culvert.  There is a Victona Cross gallantry which leads to nothing
save personal decoration, and there is another and far higher
gallantry of calculation, which springs from a cool brain as well as a
hot heart, and it is from the men who possess this rare quality that
great warriors arise.  Such feats as the cutting of this railway or
the subsequent saving of the Bethulie Bridge by Grant and Popham are
of more service to the country than any degree of mere valour
untempered by judgment.  Among other results the cutting of the line
secured for us twenty-eight locomotives, two hundred and fifty trucks,
and one thousand tons of coal, all of which were standing ready to
leave Bloemfontein station.  The gallant little band were nearly cut
off on their return, but fought their way through with the loss of two
horses, and so got back in triumph.

The action of Driefontein was fought on the 10th. The advance began on
the morning of the 11th.  On the morning of the 13th the British were
practically masters of Bloemfontein.  The distance is forty miles.  No
one can say that Lord Roberts cannot follow a victory up as well as
win it.

Some trenches had been dug and sangars erected to the north-west of
the town; but Lord Roberts, with his usual perverseness, took the
wrong turning and appeared upon the broad open plain to the south,
where resistance would have been absurd.  Already Steyn and the
irreconcilables had fled from the town, and the General was met by a
deputation of the Mayor, the Landdrost, and Mr. Fraser to tender the
submission of the capital. Fraser, a sturdy clear-headed Highlander,
had been the one politician in the Free State who combined a perfect
loyalty to his adopted country with a just appreciation of what a
quarrel A L'OUTRANCE with the British Empire would mean.  Had Fraser's
views prevailed, the Orange Free State would still exist as a happy
and independent State.  As it is, he may help her to happiness and
prosperity as the prime minister of the Orange River Colony.

It was at half-past one on Tuesday, March 13th, that General Roberts
and his troops entered Bloemfontein, amid the acclamations of many of
the inhabitants, who, either to propitiate the victor, or as a sign of
their real sympathies, had hoisted union jacks upon their
houses. Spectators have left it upon record how from all that
interminable column of yellow-clad weary men, worn with half rations
and whole-day marches, there came never one jeer, never one taunting
or exultant word, as they tramped into the capital of their enemies.
The bearing of the troops was chivalrous in its gentleness, and not
the least astonishing sight to the inhabitants was the passing of the
Guards, the dandy troops of England, the body-servants of the great
Queen.  Black with sun and dust, staggering after a march of
thirty-eight miles, gaunt and haggard, with their clothes in such a
state that decency demanded that some of the men should be discreetly
packed away in the heart of the dense column, they still swung into
the town with the aspect of Kentish hop-pickers and the bearing of
heroes.  She, the venerable mother, could remember the bearded ranks
who marched past her when they came with sadly thinned files back from
the Crimean winter; even those gallant men could not have endured more
sturdily, nor have served her more loyally, than these their worthy
descendants.

It was just a month after the start from Ramdam that Lord Roberts and
his army rode into the enemy's capital.  Up to that period we had in
Africa Generals who were hampered for want of troops, and troops who
were hampered for want of Generals.  Only when the Commander-in-Chief
took over the main army had we soldiers enough, and a man who knew how
to handle them.  The result was one which has not only solved the
question of the future of South Africa, but has given an illustration
of strategy which will become classical to the military student.  How
brisk was the course of events, how incessant the marching and
fighting, may be shown by a brief recapitulation.  On February 13th
cavalry and infantry were marching to the utmost capacity of men and
horses.  On the 14th the cavalry were halted, but the infantry were
marching hard.  On the 15th the cavalry covered forty miles, fought an
action, and relieved Kimberley.  On the 16th the cavalry were in
pursuit of the Boer guns all day, and were off on a thirty-mile march
to the Modder at night, while the infantry were fighting Cronje's
rearguard action, and closing up all day.  On the 17th the infantry
were marching hard.  On the 18th was the battle of Paardeberg. From
the 19th to the 27th was incessant fighting with Cronje inside the
laager and with De Wet outside.  From the 28th to March 6th was
rest. On March 7th was the action of Poplars Grove with heavy
marching; on March 10th the battle of Driefontein.  On the 11th and
12th the infantry covered forty miles, and on the 13th were in
Bloemfontein. All this was accomplished by men on half-rations, with
horses which could hardly be urged beyond a walk, in a land where
water is scarce and the sun semi-tropical, each infantryman carrying a
weight of nearly forty pounds. There are few more brilliant
achievements in the history of British arms.  The tactics were
occasionally faulty, and the battle of Paardeberg was a blot upon the
operations; but the strategy of the General and the spirit of the
soldier were alike admirable.


CHAPTER XXI

STRATEGIC EFFECTS OF LORD ROBERTS'S MARCH


>From the moment that Lord Roberts with his army advanced from Ramdam
all the other British forces in South Africa, the Colesberg force, the
Stormberg force, Brabant's force, and the Natal force, had the
pressure relieved in front of them, a tendency which increased with
every fresh success of the main body. A short chapter must be devoted
to following rapidly the fortunes of these various armies, and tracing
the effect of Lord Roberts's strategy upon their movements.  They may
be taken in turn from west to east.

The force under General Clements (formerly French's) had, as has
already been told, been denuded of nearly all its cavalry and horse
artillery, and so left in the presence of a very superior body of the
enemy. Under these circumstances Clements had to withdraw his
immensely extended line, and to concentrate at Arundel, closely
followed by the elated enemy.  The situation was a more critical one
than has been appreciated by the public, for if the force had been
defeated the Boers would have been in a position to cut Lord Roberts's
line of communications, and the main army would have been in the air.
Much credit is due, not only to General Clements, but to Carter of the
Wiltshires, Hacket Pain of the Worcesters, Butcher of the 4th R.F.A.,
the admirable Australians, and all the other good men and true who
did their best to hold the gap for the Empire.

The Boer idea of a strong attack upon this point was strategically
admirable, but tactically there was not sufficient energy in pushing
home the advance. The British wings succeeded in withdrawing, and the
concentrated force at Arundel was too strong for attack Yet there was
a time of suspense, a time when every man had become of such
importance that even fifty Indian syces were for the first and last
time in the war, to their own supreme gratification, permitted for
twenty-four hours to play their natural part as soldiers.[Footnote:
There was something piteous in the chagrin of these fine Sikhs at
being held back from their natural work as soldiers. A deputation of
them waited upon Lord Roberts at Bloemfontein to ask, with msny
salaams, whether 'his children were not to see one little fight before
they returned.'] But then with the rapid strokes in front the hour of
danger passed, and the Boer advance became first a halt and then a
retreat.

On February 27th, Major Butcher, supported by the Inniskillings and
Australians, attacked Rensburg and shelled the enemy out of it.  Next
morning Clements's whole force had advanced from Arundel and took up
its old position.  The same afternoon it was clear that the Boers were
retiring, and the British, following them up, marched into Colesherg,
around which they had manoeuvred so long.  A telegram from Steyn to De
Wet found in the town told the whole story of the retirement: 'As long
as you are able to hold the positions you are in with the men you
have, do so.  If not, come here as quickly as circumstances will
allow, as matters here are taking a serious turn.'  The whole force
passed over the Orange River unimpeded, and blew up the Norval's Pont
railway bridge behind it.  Clements's brigade followed on March 4th,
and succeeded in the course of a week in throwing a pontoon bridge
over the river and crossing into the Orange Free State. Roberts having
in the meanwhile seized Bloemfontein, communication was restored by
railway between the forces, and Clements was despatched to
Philippolis, Fauresmith, and the other towns in the south-west to
receive the submission of the inhabitants and to enforce their
disarmament. In the meantime the Engineers worked furiously at the
restoration of the railway bridge over the Orange River, which was
not, however, accomplished until some weeks later.

During the long period which had elapsed since the repulse at
Stormberg, General Gatacre had held his own at Sterkstroom, under
orders not to attack the enemy, repulsing them easily upon the only
occasion when they ventured to attack him.  Now it was his turn also
to profit by the success which Lord Roberts had won.  On February 23rd
he re-occupied Molteno, and on the same day sent out a force to
reconnoitre the enemy's position at Stormberg.  The incident is
memorable as having been the cause of the death of Captain de
Montmorency,[Footnote: De Montmorency had established a remarkable
influence over his rough followers. To the end of the war they could
not speak of him without tears in their eyes. When I asked Sergeant
Howe why his captain went almost alone up the hill, his answer was,
'Because the captain knew no fear.' Byrne, his soldier servant (an
Omdurman V.C. like his master), galloped madly off next morning with a
saddled horse to bring back his captain alive or dead, and had to be
forcibly seized and restrained by our cavalry.] one of the most
promising of the younger officers of the British army.  He had formed
a corps of scouts, consisting originally of four men, but soon
expanding to seventy or eighty.  At the head of these men he confirmed
the reputation for desperate valour which he bad won in the Soudan,
and added to it proofs of the enterprise and judgment which go to make
a leader of light cavalry. In the course of the reconnaissance he
ascended a small kopje accompanied by three companions, Colonel
Hoskier, a London Volunteer soldier, Vice, a civilian, and Sergeant
Howe.  'They are right on the top of us,' he cried to his comrades, as
he reached the summit, and dropped next instant with a bullet through
his heart. Hoskier was shot in five places, and Vice was mortally
wounded, only Howe escaping. The rest of the scouts, being farther
back, were able to get cover and to keep up a fight until they were
extricated by the remainder of the force. Altogether our loss was
formidable rather in quality than in quantity, for not more than a
dozen were hit, while the Boers suffered considerably from the fire of
our guns.

On March 5th General Gatacre found that the Boers were retreating in
front of him -- in response, no doubt, to messages similar to those
which had already been received at Colesberg.  Moving forward he
occupied the position which had confronted him so long.  Thence,
having spent some days in drawing in his scattered detachments and in
mending the railway, he pushed forward on March 12th to Burghersdorp,
and thence on the 13th to Olive Siding, to the south of the Bethulie
Bridge.

There are two bridges which span the broad muddy Orange River, thick
with the washings of the Basutoland mountains.  One of these is the
magnificent high railway bridge, already blown to ruins by the
retreating Boers.  Dead men or shattered horses do not give a more
vivid impression of the unrelenting brutality of war than the sight of
a structure, so graceful and so essential, blown into a huge heap of
twisted girders and broken piers.  Half a mile to the west is the road
bridge, broad and old-fashioned.  The only hope of preserving some
mode of crossing the difficult river lay in the chance that the troops
might anticipate the Boers who were about to destroy this bridge.

In this they were singularly favoured by fortune. On the arrival of a
small party of scouts and of the Cape Police under Major Nolan-Neylan
at the end of the bridge it was found that all was ready to blow it
up, the mine sunk, the detonator fixed, and the wire laid.  Only the
connection between the wire and the charge had not been made.  To make
sure, the Boers had also laid several boxes of dynamite under the last
span, in case the mine should fail in its effect.  The advance guard
of the Police, only six in number, with Nolan-Neylan at their head,
threw themselves into a building which commanded the approaches of the
bridge, and this handful of men opened so spirited and well-aimed a
fire that the Boers were unable to approach it.  As fresh scouts and
policemen came up they were thrown into the firing line, and for a
whole long day they kept the destroyers from the bridge. Had the enemy
known how weak they were and how far from supports, they could have
easily destroyed them, but the game of bluff was admirably played, and
a fire kept up which held the enemy to their rifle pits.

The Boers were in a trench commanding the bridge, and their brisk fire
made it impossible to cross.  On the other hand, our rifle fire
commanded the mine and prevented any one from exploding it.  But at
the approach of darkness it was certain that this would be done. The
situation was saved by the gallantry of young Popham of the
Derbyshires, who crept across with two men and removed the detonators.
There still remained the dynamite under the further span, and this
also they removed, carrying it off across the bridge under a heavy
fire.  The work was made absolutely complete a little later by the
exploit of Captain Grant of the Sappers, who drew the charges from the
holes in which they had been sunk, and dropped them into the river,
thus avoiding the chance that they might be exploded next morning by
shell fire.  The feat of Popham and of Grant was not only most gallant
but of extraordinary service to the country; but the highest credit
belongs to Nolan-Neylan, of the Police, for the great promptitude and
galantry of his attack, and to McNeill for his support.  On that road
bridge and on the pontoon bridge at Norval's Pont Lord Roberts's army
was for a whole month dependent for their supplies.

On March 15th Gatacre's force passed over into the Orange Free State,
took possession of Bethulie, and sent on the cavalry to Springfontein,
which is the junction where the railways from Gape Town and from East
London meet.  Here they came in contact with two battalions of Guards
under Pole-Carew, who had been sent down by train from Lord Roberts's
force in the north.  With Roberts at Bloemfontein, Gatacre at
Springfontein, Clements in the south-west, and Brabant at Aliwal, the
pacification of the southern portion of the Free State appeared to be
complete. Warlike operations seemed for the moment to be at an end,
and scattered parties traversed the country, 'bill-sticking,' as the
troops called it -- that is, carrying Lord Roberts's proclamation to
the lonely farmhouses and outlying villages.

In the meantime the colonial division of that fine old African
fighter, General Brabant, had begun to play its part in the campaign.
Among the many judicious arrangements which Lord Roberts made
immediately after his arrival at the Cape was the assembling of the
greater part of the scattered colonial bands into one division, and
placing over it a General of their own, a man who had defended the
cause of the Empire both in the legislative assembly and the field.
To this force was entrusted the defence of the country lying to the
east of Gatacre's position, and on February 15th they advanced from
Penhoek upon Dordrecht. Their Imperial troops consisted of the Royal
Scots and a section of the 79th R.F.A., the Colonial of Brabant's
Horse, the Kaffrarian Mounted Rifles, the Cape Mounted Rifles and Cape
Police, with Queenstown and East London Volunteers.  The force moved
upon Dordrecht, and on February 18th occupied the town after a
spirited action, in which Brabant's Horse played a distinguished
part. On March 4th the division advanced once more with the object of
attacking the Boer position at Labuschague's Nek, some miles to the
north.

Aided by the accurate fire of the 79th R.F.A., the colonials
succeeded, after a long day of desultory fighting, in driving the
enemy from his position. Leaving a garrison in Dordrecht Brabant
followed up his victory and pushed forward with two thousand men and
eight guns (six of them light 7-pounders) to occupy Jamestown, which
was done without resistance.  On March 10th the colonial force
approached Aliwal, the frontier town, and so rapid was the advance of
Major Henderson with Brabant's Horse that the bridge at Aliwal was
seized before the enemy could blow it up. At the other side of the
bridge there was a strong stand made by the enemy, who had several
Krupp guns in position; but the light horse, in spite of a loss of
some twenty-five men killed and wounded, held on to the heights which
command the river. A week or ten days were spent in pacifying the
large north-eastern portion of Cape Colony, to which Aliwal acts as a
centre.  Barkly East, Herschel, Lady Grey, and other villages were
visited by small detachments of the colonial horsemen, who pushed
forward also into the south-eastern portion of the Free State, passing
through Rouxville, and so along the Basutoland border as far as
Wepener.  The rebellion in the Colony was now absolutely dead in the
northeast, while in the north-west in the Prieska and Carnarvon
districts it was only kept alive by the fact that the distances were
so great and the rebel forces so scattered that it was very difficult
for our flying columns to reach them.  Lord Kitchener had returned
from Paardeberg to attend to this danger upon our line of
communications, and by his exertions all chance of its becoming
serious soon passed. With a considerable force of Yeomanry and Cavalry
he passed swiftly over the country, stamping out the smouldering
embers.

So much for the movements into the Free State of Clements, of Gatacre,
and of Brabant.  It only remains to trace the not very eventful
history of the Natal campaign after the relief of Ladysmith.

General Buller made no attempt to harass the retreat of the Boers,
although in two days no fewer than two thousand wagons were counted
upon the roads to Newcastle and Dundee.  The guns had been removed by
train, the railway being afterwards destroyed. Across the north of
Natal lies the chain of the Biggarsberg mountains, and to this the
Transvaal Boers had retired, while the Freestaters had hurried through
the passes of the Drakensberg in time to make the fruitless opposition
to Roberts's march upon their capital.  No accurate information had
come in as to the strength of the Transvaalers, the estimates ranging
from five to ten thousand, but it was known that their position was
formidable and their guns mounted in such a way as to command the
Dundee and Newcastle roads.

General Lyttelton's Division had camped as far out as Elandslaagte
with Burn Murdoch's cavalry, while Dundonald's brigade covered the
space between Burn Murdoch's western outposts and the Drakensberg
passes.  Few Boers were seen, hut it was known that the passes were
held in some strength.  Meanwhile the line was being restored in the
rear, and on March 9th the gallant White was enabled to take train for
Durban, though it was not until ten days later that the Colenso bridge
was restored. The Ladysmith garrison had been sent down to Colenso to
recruit their health.  There they were formed into a new division, the
4th, the brigades being given to Howard and Knox, and the command to
Lyttelton, who had returned his former division, the second, to Clery.
The 5th and 6th brigades were also formed into one division, the 10th,
which was placed under the capable command of Hunter, who had
confirmed in the south the reputation which he had won in the north of
Africa.  In the first week of April Hunter's Division was sent down to
Durban and transferred to the western side, where they were moved up
to Kimberley, whence they advanced northwards. The man on the horse
has had in this war an immense advantage over the man on foot, but
there have been times when the man on the ship has restored the
balance.  Captain Mahan might find some fresh texts in the
transference of Hunter's Division, or in the subsequent expedition to
Beira.

On April 10th the Boers descended from their mountains and woke up our
sleepy army corps by a brisk artillery fire.  Our own guns silenced
it, and the troops instantly relapsed into their slumber.  There was
no movement for a fortnight afterwards upon either side, save that of
Sir Charles Warren, who left the army in order to take up the
governorship of British Bechuanaland, a district which was still in a
disturbed state, and in which his presence had a peculiar
significance, since he had rescued portions of it from Boer
dornination in the early days of the Transvaal Republic.  Hildyard
took over the command of the 5th Division.  In this state of inertia
the Natal force remained until Lord Roberts, after a six weeks' halt
in Bloenifontein, necessitated by the insecurity of his railway
communication and his want of every sort of military supply, more
especially horses for his cavalry and boots for his infantry, was at
last able on May 2nd to start upon his famous march to Pretoria.
Before accompanying him, however, upon this victorious progress, it is
necessary to devote a chapter to the series of incidents and
operations which had taken place to the east and south-east of
Bloemfontein during this period of compulsory inactivity.

One incident must be recorded in this place, though it was political
rather than military.  This was the interchange of notes concerning
peace between Paul Kruger and Lord Salisbury.  There is an old English
jingle about 'the fault of the Dutch, giving too little and asking too
much,' but surely there was never a more singular example of it than
this.  The united Presidents prepare for war for years, spring an
insulting ultimatum upon us, invade our unfortunate Colonies, solemnly
annex all the portions invaded, and then, when at last driven back,
propose a peace which shall secure for them the whole point originally
at issue.  It is difficult to believe that the proposals could have
been seriously meant, but more probable that the plan may have been to
strengthen the hands of the Peace deputation who were being sent to
endeavour to secure European intervention.  Could they point to a
proposal from the Transvaal and a refusal from England, it might, if
not too curiously examined, excite the sympathy of those who follow
emotions rather than facts.

The documents were as follow:--

`The Prsidents of the Orange Free State and of the South African
Republic to the Marquess of Salisbury.
	    Bloemfontein March 5th, 1900.

`The blood and the tears of the thousands who have suffered by this
war, and the prospect of all the moral and economic ruin with which
South Africa is now threatened, make it necessary for both
belligerents to ask themselves dispassionately and as in the sight of
the Triune God for what they are fighting and whether the aim of each
justifies all this appalling misery and devastation.

`With this object, and in view of the assertions of various British
statesmen to the effect that this war was begun and is carried on with
the set purpose of undermining Her Majesty's authority in South
Africa, and of setting up an administration over all South Africa
independent of Her Majesty's Government, we consider it our duty to
solemnly declare that this war was undertaken solely as a defensive
measure to safeguard the threatened independence of the South African
Republic, and is only continued in order to secure and safeguard the
incontestable independence of both Republics as sovereign
international States, and to obtain the assurance that those of Her
Majesty's subjects who have taken part with us in this war shall
suffer no harm whatsoever in person or property.

`On these conditions, but on these conditions alone, are we now as in
the past desirous of seeing peace re-established in South Africa, and
of putting an end to the evils now reigning over South Africa; while,
if Her Majesty's Government is determined to destroy the independence
of the Republics, there is nothing left to us and to our people but to
persevere to the end in the course already begun, in spite of the
overwhelming pre-eminence of the British Empire, conscious that that
God who lighted the inextinguishable fire of the love of freedom in
our hearts and those of our fathers will not forsake us, but will
accomplish His work in us and in our descendants.

`We hesitated to make this  declaration earlier to your Excellency  as
we feared that, as long  as the advantage was  always on our side, and
as long  as our forces held  defensive positions  far in Her Majesty's
Colonies, such a declaration might hurt the  feelings of honour of the
British people.  But now  that the prestige  of the British Empire may
be considered to be assured  by the capture  of one of our forces, and
that we are  thereby forced to  evacuate other positions  which we had
occupied, that difficulty  is over and  we  can no longer  hesitate to
inform your Government and people in the sight  of the whole civilised
world why   we are fighting  and on  what conditions  we  are ready to
restore peace.

Such was the message, deep in its simplicity and cunning in its
candour, which was sent by the old President, for it is Kruger's style
which we read in every line of it.  One has to get back to facts after
reading it, to the enormous war preparations of the Republics, to the
unprepared state of the British Colonies, to the ultimatum, to the
annexations, to the stirring up of rebeflion, to the silence about
peace in the days of success, to the fact that by 'inextinguishable
love of freedom' is meant inextinguishable determination to hold other
white men as helots -- only then can we form a just opinion of the worth
of his message. One must remember also, behind the homely and pious
phraseology, that one is dealing with a man who has been too cunning
for us again and again -- a man who is as wily as the savages with whom
he has treated and fought.  This Paul Kruger with the simple words of
peace is the same Paul Kruger who with gentle sayings insured the
disarmament of Johannesburg, and then instantly arrested his
enemies -- the man whose name was a by-word for 'slimness' throughout
South Africa.  With such a man the best weapon is absolute naked truth
with which Lord Salisbury confronted him in his reply:--
	   Foreign Office: March 11th.

`I have the honour to acknowledge your Honours' telegram dated March
5th from Bloemfontein, of which the purport was principally to demand
that Her Majesty's Government shall recognise the "incontestable
independence" of the South African Republic and Orange Free State as
"sovereign international States," and to offer on those terms to bring
the war to a conclusion.

`In the beginning of October last peace existed between Her Majesty
and the two Republics under the conventions which then were in
existence. A discussion had been proceeding for some months between
Her Majesty's Government and the South African Republic, of which the
object was to obtain redress for certain very serious grievances under
which British residents in the. Republic were suffering.  In the
course of those negotiations the Republic had, to the knowledge of Her
Majesty's Government, made considerable armaments, and the latter had
consequently taken steps to provide corresponding reinforcements to
the British garrisons of Cape Town and Natal.  No infringement of the
rights guaranteed by the conventions had up to that time taken place
on the British side.  Suddenly, at two days' notice, the South African
Republic, after issuing an insulting ultimatum, declared war, and the
Orange Free State with whom there had not even been any discussion,
took a similar step.  Her Majesty's dominions were immediately invaded
by the two Republics, siege was laid to three towns within the British
frontier, a large portion of the two Colonies was overrun with great
destruction to property and life, and the Republics claimed to treat
the inhabitants as if those dominions had been annexed to one or other
of them.  In anticipation of these operations the South African
Republic had been accumulating for many years past military stores
upon an enormous scale, which by their character could only have been
intended for use against Great Britain.

`Your Honours make some observations of a negative character upon the
object with which these preparations were made.  I do not think it
necessary to discuss the questions which you have raised.  But the
result of these preparations, carried on with great secrecy, has been
that the British Empire has been compelled to confront an invasion
which has entailed a costly war and the loss of thousands of precious
lives.  This great calamity has been the penalty which Great Britain
has suffered for having in recent years acquiesced in the existence of
the two Republics.

`In view of the use to which the two Republics have put the position
which was given to them, and the calamities which their unprovoked
attack has inflicted upon Her Majesty's dominions, Her Majesty's
Government can only answer your Honours' telegram by saying that they
are not prepared to assent to the independence either of the South
African Bepublic or of the Orange Free State.'

With this frank and uncompromising reply the Empire, with the
exception of a small party of dupes and doctrin aires, heartily
agreed.  The pens were dropped, and the Mauser and the Lee-Metford
once more took up the debate.


CHAPTER XXII

THE HALT AT BLOEMFONTEIN


On March 13th Lord Roberts occupied the capital of the Orange Free
State.  On May 1st, more than six weeks later, the advance was
resumed.  This long delay was absolutely necessary in order to supply
the place of the ten thousand horses and mules which are said to have
been used up in the severe work of the preceding month. It was not
merely that a large number of the cavalry chargers had died or been
abandoned, but it was that of those which remained the majority were
in a state wbich made them useless for immediate service. How far this
might have been avoided is open to question, for it is notorious that
General French's reputation as a horsemaster does not stand so high as
his fame as a cavalry leader. But besides the horses there was urgent
need of every sort of supply, from boots to hospitals, and the only
way by which they could come was by two single-line railways which
unite into one single-line railway, with the alternative of passing
over a precarious pontoon bridge at Norval's Pont, or truck by truck
over the road bridge at Bethulie.  To support an army of fifty
thousand men under these circumstances, eight hundred miles from a
base, is no light matter, and a premature advance which could not be
thrust home would be the greatest of misfortunes.  The public at home
and the army in Africa became restless under the inaction, but it was
one more example of the absolute soundness of Lord Roberts's judgment
and the quiet resolution with which he adheres to it.  He issued a
proclamation to the inhabitants of the Free State promising protection
to all who should bring in their arms and settle down upon their
farms.  The most stringent orders were issued against looting or
personal violence, but nothing could exceed the gentleness and good
humour of the troops. Indeed there seemed more need for an order which
should protect them against the extortion of their conquered enemies.
It is strange to think that we are separated by only ninety years from
the savage soldiery of Badajoz and San Sebastian.

The streets of the little Dutch town formed during this interval a
curious object-lesson in the resources of the Empire.  All the
scattered Anglo-Celtic races had sent their best blood to fight for
the common cause. Peace is the great solvent, as war is the powerful
unifier. For the British as for the German Empire much virtue had come
from the stress and strain of battle. To stand in the market square of
Bloemfontein and to see the warrior types around you was to be assured
of the future of the race.  The middle-sized, square-set,
weather-tanned, straw-bearded British regulars crowded the footpaths.
There also one might see the hard-faced Canadians, the loose-limbed
dashing Australians, fireblooded and keen, the dark New-Zealanders,
with a Maori touch here and there in their features, the gallant men
of Tasmania, the gentlemen troopers of India and Ceylon, and
everywhere the wild South African irregulars with their bandoliers and
unkempt wiry horses, Rimington's men with the racoon bands, Roberts's
Horse with the black plumes, some with pink puggarees, some with
birdseye, but all of the same type, hard, rugged, and alert. The man
who could look at these splendid soldiers, and, remembering the
sacrifices of time, money, and comfort which most of them had made
before they found themselves fighting in the heart of Africa, doubt
that the spirit of the race burned now as brightly as ever, must be
devoid of judgment and sympathy.  The real glories of the British race
lie in the future, not in the past.  The Empire walks, and may still
walk, with an uncertain step, but with every year its tread will be
firmer, for its weakness is that of waxing youth and not of waning
age.

The greatest misfortune of the campaign, one which it was obviously
impolitic to insist upon at the time, began with the occupation of
Bloemfontein. This was the great outbreak of enteric among the
troops. For more than two months the hospitals were choked with
sick. One general hospital with five hundred beds held seventeen
hundred sick, nearly all enterics.  A half field hospital with fifty
beds held three hundred and seventy cases. The total number of cases
could not have been less than six or seven thousand -- and this not of
an evanescent and easily treated complaint, but of the most persistent
and debilitating of continued fevers, the one too which requires the
most assiduous attention and careful nursing. How great was the strain
only those who had to meet it can tell.  The exertions of the military
hospitals and of those others which were fitted out by private
benevolence sufficed, after a long struggle, to meet the crisis. At
Bloemfontein alone, as many as fifty men died in one day, and more
than 1,000 new graves in the cemetery testify to the severity of the
epidemic.  No men in the campaign served their country more truly than
the officers and men of the medical service, nor can any one who went
through the epidemic forget the bravery and unselfishness of those
admirable nursing sisters who set the men around them a higher
standard of devotion to duty.

Enteric fever is always endemic in the country, and especially at
Bloemfontein, but there can be no doubt that this severe outbreak had
its origin in the Paardeberg water. All through the campaign, while
the machinery for curing disease was excellent, that for preventing it
was elementary or absent. If bad water can cost us more than all the
bullets of the enemy, then surely it is worth our while to make the
drinking of unboiled water a stringent military offence, and to attach
to every company and squadron the most rapid and efficient means for
boiling it -- for filtering alone is useless. An incessant trouble it
would be, but it would have saved a division for the army. It is
heartrending for the medical man who has emerged from a hospital full
of water-born pestilence to see a regimental watercart being filled,
without protest, at some polluted wayside pool. With precautions and
with inoculation all those lives might have been saved. The fever died
down with the advance of the troops and the coming of the colder
weather.

To return to the military operations: these, although they were
stagnant so far as the main army was concerned, were exceedingly and
inconveniently active in other quarters.  Three small actions, two of
which were disastrous to our arms, and one successful defence marked
the period of the pause at Bloemfontein.

To the north of the town, some twelve miles distant lies the
ubiquitous Modder River, which is crossed by a railway bridge at a
place named Glen. The saving of the bridge was of considerable
importance, and might by the universal testimony of the farmers of
that district have been effected any time within the first few days of
our occupation. We appear, however, to have imperfectly appreciated
how great was the demoralisation of the Boers. In a week or so they
took heart, returned, and blew up the bridge. Roving parties of the
enemy, composed mainly of the redoubtable Johannesburg police,
reappeared even to the south of the river. Young Lygon was killed, and
Colonels Crabbe and Codrington with Captain Trotter, all of the
Guards, were severely wounded by such a body, whom they gallantly but
injudiciously attempted to arrest when armed only with revolvers.

These wandering patrols who kept the country unsettled, and harassed
the farmers who had taken advantage of Lord Roberts's proclamation,
were found to have their centre at a point some six miles to the north
of Glen, named Karee. At Karee a formidable line of hills cut the
British advance, and these had been occupied by a strong body of the
enemy with guns. Lord Roberts determined to drive them off, and on
March 28th Tucker's 7th Division, consisting of Chermside's brigade
(Lincolns, Norfolks, Hampshires, and Scottish Borderers), and Wavell's
brigade (Cheshires, East Lancashires, North Staffords, and South Wales
Borderers), were assembled at Glen. The artillery consisted of the
veteran 18th, 62nd, and 75th R.F.A. Three attenuated cavalry brigades
with some mounted infantry completed the force.

The movement was to be upon the old model, and in result it proved to
be only too truly so. French's cavalry were to get round one flank, Le
Gallais's mounted infantry round the other, and Tucker's Division to
attack in front.  Nothing could be more perfect in theory and nothing
apparently more defective in practice.  Since on this as on other
occasions the mere fact that the cavalry were demonstrating in the
rear caused the complete abandonment of the position, it is difficult
to see what the object of the infantry attack could be.  The ground
was irregular and unexplored, and it was late before the horsemen on
their weary steeds found themselves behind the flank of the
enemy. Some of them, Le Gallais's mounted infantry and Davidson's
guns, had come from Bloemfontein during the night, and the horses were
exhausted by the long march, and by the absurd weight which the
British troop-horse is asked to carry. Tucker advanced his infantry
exactly as Kelly-Kenny had done at Driefontein, and with a precisely
similar result. The eight regiments going forward in echelon of
battalions imagined from the silence of the enemy that the position
had been abandoned.  They were undeceived by a cruel fire which beat
upon two companies of the Scottish Borderers from a range of two
hundred yards. They were driven back, but reformed in a donga. About
half-past two a Boer gun burst shrapnel over the Lincolnshires and
Scottish Borderers with some effect, for a single shell killed five of
the latter regiment.  Chermside's brigade was now all involved in the
fight, and Wavell's came up in support, but the ground was too open
and the position too strong to push the attack home. Fortunately,
about four o'clock, the horse batteries with French began to make
their presence felt from behind, and the Boers instantly quitted their
position and made off through the broad gap which still remained
between French and Le Gallais. The Brandfort plain appears to be ideal
ground for cavalry, but in spite of that the enemy with his guns got
safely away.  The loss of the infantry amounted to one hundred and
sixty killed and wounded, the larger share of the casualties and of
the honour falling to the Scottish Borderers and the East Lancashires.
The infantry was not well handled, the cavalry was slow, and the guns
were inefficient-altogether an inglorious day. Yet strategically it
was of importance, for the ridge captured was the last before one came
to the great plain which stretched, with a few intermissions, to the
north. From March 29th until May 2nd Karee remained the advanced post.

In the meanwhile there had been a series of operations in the east
which had ended in a serious disaster. Immediately after the
occupation of Bloemfontein (on March 18th) Lord Roberts despatched to
the east a small column consisting of the 10th Hussars, the composite
regiment, two batteries (Q and U) of the Horse Artillery, some mounted
infantry, Roberts's Horse, and Rimington's Guides. On the eastern
horizon forty miles from the capital, but in that clear atmosphere
looking only half the distance, there stands the impressive mountain
named Thabanchu (the black mountain). To all Boers it is an historical
spot, for it was at its base that the wagons of the Voortrekkers,
coming by devious ways from various parts, assembled. On the further
side of Thabanchu, to the north and east of it, lies the richest
grain-growing portion of the Free State, the centre of which is
Ladybrand. The forty miles which intervene between Bloemfontein and
Thabanchu are intersected midway by the Modder River. At this point
are the waterworks, erected recently with modern machinery, to take
the place of the insanitary wells on which the town had been
dependent. The force met with no resistance, and the small town of
Thabanchu was occupied.

Colonel Pilcher, the leader of the Douglas raid, was inclined to
explore a little further, and with three squadrons of mounted men he
rode on to the eastward. Two commandos, supposed to be Grobler's and
Olivier's, were seen by them, moving on a line which suggested that
they were going to join Steyn, who was known to be rallying his forces
at Kroonstad, his new seat of government in the north of the Free
State.  Pilcher, with great daring, pushed onwards until with his
little band on their tired horses he found himself in Ladybrand,
thirty miles from his nearest supports.  Entering the town he seized
the landdrost and the field-cornet, but found that strong bodies of
the enemy were moving upon him and that it was impossible for him to
hold the place. He retired, therefore, holding grimly on to his
prisoners, and got back with small loss to the place from which he
started.  It was a dashing piece of bluff, and, when taken with the
Douglas exploit, leads one to hope that Pilcher may have a chance of
showing what he can do witb larger means at his disposal.  Finding
that the enemy was following him in force, he pushed on the same night
for Thabanchu.  His horsemen must have covered between fifty and sixty
miles in the twenty-four hours.

Apparently the effect of Pilcher's exploit was to halt the march of
those commandos which had been seen trekking to the north-west, and to
cause them to swing round upon Thabanchu. Broadwood, a young cavalry
commander who had won a name in Egypt, considered that his position
was unnecessarily exposed and fell back upon Bloemfontein.  He halted
on the first night near the waterworks, halfway upon his journey.

The Boers are great masters in the ambuscade. Never has any race shown
such aptitude for this form of warfare -- a legacy from a long
succession of contests with cunning savages. But never also have they
done anything so clever and so audacious as De Wet's dispositions in
this action.  One cannot go over the ground without being amazed at
the ingenuity of their attack, and also at the luck which favoured
them, for the trap which they had laid for others might easily have
proved an absolutely fatal one for themselves.

The position beside the Modder at which the British camped had
numerous broken hills to the north and east of it.  A force of Boers,
supposed to number about two thousand men, came down in the night,
bringing with them several heavy guns, and with the early morning
opened a brisk fire upon the camp.  The surprise was complete.  But
the refinement of the Boer tactics lay in the fact that they had a
surprise within a surprise -- and it was the second which was the more
deadly.

The force which Broadwood had with him consisted of the 10th Hussars
and the composite regiment, Rimington's Scouts, Roberts's Horse, the
New Zealand and Burmah Mounted Infantry, with Q and U batteries of
Horse Artillery. With such a force, consisting entirely of mounted
men, he could not storm the hills upon which the Boer guns were
placed, and his twelve-pounders were unable to reach the heavier
cannon of the enemy. His best game was obviously to continue his march
to Bloemfontein. He sent on the considerable convoy of wagons and the
guns, while he with the cavalry covered the rear, upon which the
long-range pieces of the enemy kept up the usual well-directed but
harmless fire.

Broadwood's retreating column now found itself on a huge plain which
stretches all the way to Bloemfontein, broken only by two hills, both
of which were known to be in our possession.  The plain was one which
was continually traversed from end to end by our troops and convoys,
so that once out upon its surface all danger seemed at an
end. Broadwood had additional reasons for feeling secure, for he knew
that, in answer to his own wise request, Colvile's Division had been
sent out before daybreak that morning from Bloemfontein to meet him.
In a very few miles their vanguard and his must come together.  There
were obviously no Boers upon the plain, but if there were they would
find themselves between two fires. He gave no thought to his front
therefore, but rode behind, where the Boer guns were roaring, and
whence the Boer riflemen might ride.

But in spite of the obvious there WERE Boers upon the plain, so placed
that they must either bring off a remarkable surprise or be themselves
cut off to a man. Across the veldt, some miles from the waterworks,
there runs a deep donga or watercourse -- one of many, but the
largest. It cuts the rough road at right angles. Its depth and breadth
are such that a wagon would dip down the incline, and disappear for
about two minutes before it would become visible again at the crown of
the other side.  In appearance it was a huge curving ditch with a
stagnant stream at the bottom.  The sloping sides of the ditch were
fringed with Boers, who had ridden thither before dawn and were now
waiting for the unsuspecting column.  There were not more than three
hundred of them, and four times their number were approaching; but no
odds can represent the difference between the concealed man with the
magazine rifle and the man upon the plain.

There were two dangers, however, which the Boers ran, and, skilful as
their dispositions were, their luck was equally great, for the risks
were enormous.  One was that a force coming the other way (Colvile's
was only a few miles off) would arrive, and that they would be ground
between the upper and the lower millstone.  The other was that for
once the British scouts might give the alarm and that Broadwood's
mounted men would wheel swiftly to right and left and secure the ends
of the long donga.  Should that happen, not a man of them could
possibly escape.  But they took their chances like brave men, and
fortune was their friend.  The wagons came on without any scouts.
Behind them was U battery, then Q, with Roberts's Horse abreast of
them and the rest of the cavalry behind.

As the wagons, occupied for the most part only by unarmed sick
soldiers and black transport drivers, came down into the drift, the
Boers quickly but quietly took possession of them, and drove them on
up the further slope.  Thus the troops behind saw their wagons dip
down, reappear, and continue on their course.  The idea of an ambush
could not suggest itself.  Only one thing could avert an absolute
catastrophe, and that was the appearance of a hero who would accept
certain death in order to warn his comrades.  Such a man rode by the
wagons -- though, unhappily, in the stress and rush of the moment there
is no certainty as to his name or rank.  We only know that one was
found brave enough to fire his revolver in the face of certain death.
The outburst of firing which answered his shot was the sequel which
saved the column.  Not often is it given to a man to die so choice a
death as that of this nameless soldier.

But the detachment was already so placed that nothing could save it
from heavy loss.  The wagons had all passed but nine, and the leading
battery of artillery was at the very edge of the donga.  Nothing is so
helpless as a limbered-up battery.  In an instant the teams were shot
down and the gunners were made prisoners.  A terrific fire burst at
the same instant upon Roberts's Horse, who were abreast of the guns.
'Files a bout! gallop!' yelled Colonel Dawson, and by his exertions
and those of Major Pack-Beresford the corps was extricated and
reformed some hundreds of yards further off.  But the loss of horses
and men was heavy. Major Pack-Beresford and other officers were shot
down, and every unhorsed man remained necessarily as a prisoner under
the very muzzles of the riflemen in the donga.

As Roberts's Horse turned and galloped for dear life across the flat,
four out of the six guns [Footnote:Of the other two one overturned and
could not be righted, the other had the wheelers shot and could not be
extricated from the tumult.  It was officially stated that the guns of
Q battery were halted a thousand yards off the donga, but my
impression was, from examining the ground, that it was not more than
six hundred.] of Q battery and one gun (the rearmost) of U battery
swung round nd dashed frantically for a place of safety. At the same
instant every Boer along the line of the donga sprang up and emptied
his magazine into the mass of rushing, shouting soldiers, plunging
horses, and screaming Kaffirs. It was for a few moments a
SAUVE-QUI-PEUT. Serjeant-Major Martin of U, with a single driver on a
wheeler, got away the last gun of his battery.  The four guns which
were extricated of Q, under Major Phipps-Hornby, whirled across the
plain, pulled up, unlimbered, and opened a brisk fire of shrapnel from
about a thousand yards upon the donga. Had the battery gone on for
double the distance, its action would have been more effective, for it
would have been under a less deadly rifle fire, but in any case its
sudden change from flight to discipline and order steadied the whole
force. Roberts's men sprang from their horses, and with the Burmese
and New-Zealanders flung themselves down in a skirmish line.  The
cavalry moved to the left to find some drift by which the donga could
be passed, and out of chaos there came in a few minutes calm and a
settled purpose.

It was for Q battery to cover the retreat of the force, and most nobly
it did it. A fortnight later a pile of horses, visible many hundreds
of yards off across the plain, showed where the guns had stood. It was
the Colenso of the horse gunners.  In a devilish sleet of lead they
stood to their work, loading and firing while a man was left.  Some of
the guns were left with two men to work them, one was loaded and fired
by a single officer.  When at last the order for retirement came, only
ten men, several of them wounded, were left upon their feet. With
scratch teams from the limbers, driven by single gunners, the
twelve-pounders staggered out of action, and the skirmish line of
mounted infantry sprang to their feet amid the hail of bullets to
cheer them as they passed.

It was no slight task to extricate that sorely stricken force from the
close contact of an exultant enemy, and to lead it across that
terrible donga.  Yet, thanks to the coolness of Broadwood and the
steadiness of his rearguard, the thing was done. A practicable passage
had been found two miles to the south by Captain Chester-Master of
Rimington's.  This corps, with Roberts's, the New-Zealanders, and the
3rd Mounted Infantry, covered the withdrawal in turn.  It was one of
those actions in which the horseman who is trained to fight upon foot
did very much better than the regular cavalry. In two hours' time the
drift had been passed and the survivors of the force found themselves
in safety.

The losses in this disastrous but not dishonourable engagement were
severe.  About thirty officers and five hundred men were killed,
wounded, or missing. The prisoners came to more than three hundred.
They lost a hundred wagons, a considerable quantity of stores, and
seven twelve-pounder guns -- five from U battery and two from Q.  Of U
battery only Major Taylor and Sergeant-Major Martin seem to have
escaped, the rest being captured EN BLOC.  Of Q battery nearly every
man was killed or wounded.  Roberts's Horse, the New-Zealanders, and
the mounted infantry were the other corps which suffered most heavily.
Among many brave men who died, none was a greater loss to the service
than Major Booth of the Northumberland Fusiliers, serving in the
mounted infantry. With four comrades he held a position to cover the
retreat, and refused to leave it.  Such men are inspired by the
traditions of the past, and pass on the story of their own deaths to
inspire fresh heroes in the future.

Broadwood, the instant that he had disentangled himself, faced about,
and brought his guns into action. He was not strong enough, however,
nor were his men in a condition, to seriously attack the
enemy. Martyr's mounted infantry had come up, led by the
Queenslanders, and at the cost of some loss to themselves helped to
extricate the disordered force.  Colvile's Division was behind
Bushman's Kop, only a few miles off, and there were hopes that it
might push on and prevent the guns and wagons from being
removed. Colvile did make an advance, but slowly and in a flanking
direction instead of dashing swiftly forward to retrieve the
situation.  It must be acknowledged, however, that the problem which
faced this General was one of great difficulty.  It was almost certain
that before he could throw his men into the action the captured guns
would be beyond his reach, and it was possible that he might swell the
disaster. With all charity, however, one cannot but feel that his
return next morning, after a reinforcement during the night, without
any attempt to force the Boer position, was lacking in
enterprise.[Footnote: It may be urged in General Colvile's defence
that his division had already done a long march from Bloemfontein. A
division, however, which contains two such brigades as Macdonald's and
Smith-Dorrien's may safely be called upon for any exertions. The
gunner officers in Colvile's division heard their comrades' guns in
'section-fire' and knew it to be the sign of a desperate situation.]
The victory left the Boers in possession of the waterworks, and
Bloemfontein had to fall back upon her wells -- a change which reacted
most disastrously upon the enteric which was already decimating the
troops.

The effect of the Sanna's Post defeat was increased by the fact that
only four days later (on April 4th) a second even more deplorable
disaster befell our troops.  This was the surrender of five companies
of infantry, two of them mounted, at Reddersberg.  So many surrenders
of small bodies of troops had occurred during the course of the war
that the public, remembering how seldom the word 'surrender' had ever
been heard in our endless succession of European wars, had become very
restive upon the subject, and were sometimes inclined to question
whether this new and humiliating fact did not imply some deterioration
of our spirit.  The fear was natural, and yet nothing could be more
unjust to this the most splendid army which has ever marched under the
red-crossed flag.  The fact was new because the conditions were new,
and it was inherent in those conditions.  In that country of huge
distances small bodies must be detached, for the amount of space
covered by the large bodies was not sufficient for all military
purposes.  In reconnoitring, in distributing proclamations, in
collecting arms, in overawing outlying districts, weak columns must be
used.  Very often these columns must contain infantry soldiers, as the
demands upon the cavalry were excessive.  Such bodies, moving through
a hilly country with which they were unfamiliar, were always liable to
be surrounded by a mobile enemy.  Once surrounded the length of their
resistance was limited by three things: their cartridges, their water,
and their food.  When they had all three, as at Wepener or Mafeking,
they could hold out indefinitely. When one or other was wanting, as at
Reddersberg or Nicholson's Nek, their position was impossible.  They
could not break away, for how can men on foot break away from
horsemen? Hence those repeated humiliations, which did little or
nothing to impede the course of the war, and which were really to be
accepted as one of the inevitable prices which we had to pay for the
conditions under which the war was fought.  Numbers, discipline, and
resources were with us.  Mobility, distances, nature of the country,
insecurity of supplies, were with them.  We need not take it to heart
therefore if it happened, with all these forces acting against them,
that our soldiers found themselves sometimes in a position whence
neither wisdom nor valour could rescue them.  To travel through that
country, fashioned above all others for defensive warfare, with trench
and fort of superhuman size and strength, barring every path, one
marvels how it was that such incidents were not more frequent and more
serious.  It is deplorable that the white flag should ever have waved
over a company of British troops, but the man who is censorious upon
the subject has never travelled in South Africa.

In the disaster at Reddersberg three of the companies were of the
Irish Rifles, and two of the 2nd Northumberland Fusiliers -- the same
unfortunate regiments which had already been cut up at Stormberg.
They had been detached from Gatacre's 3rd Division, the headquarters
of which was at Springfontein.  On the abandonment of Thabanchu and
the disaster of Sanna's Post, it was obvious that we should draw in
our detached parties to the east; so the five companies were ordered
to leave Dewetsdorp, which they were garrisoning, and to get back to
the railway line.  Either the order was issued too late, or they were
too slow in obeying it, for they were only halfway upon their journey,
near the town of Reddersberg, when the enemy came down upon them with
five guns.  Without artillery they were powerless, but, having seized
a kopje, they took such shelter as they could find, and waited in the
hope of succour.  Their assailants seem to have been detached from De
Wet's force in the north, and contained among them many of the victors
of Sanna's Post.  The attack began at 11 A.M. of April 3rd, and all
day the men lay among the stones, subjected to the pelt of shell and
bullet.  The cover was good, however, and the casualties were not
heavy.  The total losses were under fifty killed and wounded.  More
serious than the enemy's fire was the absence of water, save a very
limited supply in a cart. A message was passed through of the dire
straits in which they found themselves, and by the late afternoon the
news had reached headquarters.  Lord Roberts instantly despatched the
Camerons, just arrived from Egypt, to Bethany, which is the nearest
point upon the line, and telegraphed to Gatacre at Springfontein to
take measures to save his compromised detachment. The telegram should
have reached Gatacre early on the evening of the 3rd, and he had
collected a force of fifteen hundred men, entrained it, journeyed
forty miles up the line, detrained it, and reached Reddersberg, which
is ten or twelve miles from the line, by 10.30 next morning.  Already,
however, it was too late, and the besieged force, unable to face a
second day without water under that burning sun, had laid down their
arms. No doubt the stress of thirst was dreadful, and yet one cannot
say that the defence rose to the highest point of resolution.  Knowing
that help could not be far off, the garrison should have held on while
they could lift a rifle.  If the ammunition was running low, it was
bad management which caused it to be shot away too fast. Captain
McWhinnie, who was in command, behaved with the utmost personal
gallantry.  Not only the troops but General Gatacre also was involved
in the disaster. Blame may have attached to him for leaving a
detachment at Dewetsdorp, and not having a supporting body at
Reddersberg upon which it might fall back; but it must be remembered
that his total foree was small and that he had to cover a long stretch
of the lines of communication.  As to General Gatacre's energy and
gallantry it is a by-word in the army; but coming after the Stormberg
disaster this fresh mishap to his force made the continuance of his
command impossible.  Much sympathy was felt with him in the army,
where he was universally liked and respected by officers and men.  He
returned to England, and his division was taken over by General
Chermside.

In a single week, at a time when the back of the war had seemed to be
broken, we had lost nearly twelve hundred men with seven guns.  The
men of the Free State -- for the fighting was mainly done by commandos
from the Ladybrand, Winburg, Bethlehem, and Harrismith districts --
deserve great credit for this fine effort, and their leader De Wet
confirmed the reputation which he had already gained as a dashing and
indefatigable leader. His force was so weak that when Lord Roberts was
able to really direct his own against it, he brushed it away before
him; but the manner in which De Wet took advantage of Roberts's
enforced immobility, and dared to get behind so mighty an enemy, was a
fine exhibition of courage and enterprise.  The public at home chafed
at this sudden and unexpected turn of affairs; but the General,
constant to his own fixed purpose, did not permit his strength to be
wasted, aud his cavalry to be again disorganised, by flying
excursions, but waited grimly until he should be strong enough to
strike straight at Pretoria.

In this short period of depression there came one gleam of light from
the west.  This was the capture of a commando of sixty Boers, or
rather of sixty foreigners fighting for the Boers, and the death of
the gallant Frenchman, De Villebois-Mareuil, who appears to have had
the ambition of playing Lafayette in South Africa to Kruger's
Washington.  From the time that Kimberley had been reoccupied the
British had been accumulating their force there so as to make a strong
movement which should coincide with that of Roberts from
Bloemfontein. Hunter's Division from Natal was being moved round to
Kimberley, and Methuen already commanded a considerable body of
troops, which included a number of the newly arrived Imperial
Yeomanry. With these Methuen pacified the surrounding country, and
extended his outposts to Barkly West on the one side, to Boshof on the
other, and to Warrenton upon the Vaal River in the centre.  On April
4th news reached Boshof that a Boer commando had been seen some ten
miles to the east of the town, and a force, consisting of Yeomanry,
Kimberley Light Horse, and half of Butcher's veteran 4th battery, was
sent to attack them.  They were found to have taken up their position
upon a kopje which, contrary to all Boer custom, had no other kopjes
to support it.  French generalship was certainly not so astute as Boer
cunning.  The kopje was instantly surrounded, and the small force upon
the summit being without artillery in the face of our guns found
itself in exactly the same position which our men had been in
twenty-four hours before at Reddersberg. Again was shown the advantage
which the mounted rifleman has over the cavalry, for the Yeomanry and
Light Horsemen left their horses and ascended the hill with the
bayonet. In three hours all was over and the Boers had laid down their
arms.  Villebois was shot with seven of his companions, and there were
nearly sixty prisoners. It speaks well for the skirmishing of the
Yeomanry and the way in which they were handled by Lord Chesham that
though they worked their way up the hill under fire they only lost
four killed and a few wounded. The affair was a small one, but it was
complete, and it came at a time when a success was very welcome.  One
bustling week had seen the expensive victory of Karee, the disasters
of Sanna's Post and Reddersberg, and the successful skirmish of
Boshof.  Another chapter must be devoted to the movement towards the
south of the Boer forces and the dispositions which Lord Roberts made
to meet it.


CHAPTER XXIII

THE CLEARING OF THE SOUTH-EAST

Lord Roberts never showed his self-command and fixed purpose more
clearly than during his six weeks' halt at Bloemfontein.  De Wet, the
most enterprising and aggressive of the Boer commanders, was attacking
his eastern posts and menacing his line of communications. A fussy or
nervous general would have harassed his men and worn out his horses by
endeavouring to pursue a number of will-of-the-wisp commandos.
Roberts contented himself by building up his strength at the capital,
and by spreading nearly twenty thousand men along his line of rail
from Bloemfontein to Bethulie. When the time came he would strike, but
until then he rested.  His army was not only being rehorsed and
reshod, but in some respects was being reorganised.  One powerful
weapon which was forged during those weeks was the collection of the
mounted infantry of the central army into one division, which was
placed under the command of Ian Hamilton, with Hutton and Ridley as
brigadiers. Hutton's brigade contained the Canadians, New South Wales
men, West Australians, Queenslanders, New-Zealanders, Victorians,
South Australians, and Tasmanians, with four battalions of Imperial
Mounted Infantry, and several light batteries. Ridley's brigade
contained the South African irregular regiments of cavalry, with some
imperial troops.  The strength of the whole division came to over ten
thousand rifles, and in its ranks there rode the hardiest and best
from every corner of the earth over which the old flag is flying.

A word as to the general distribution of the troops at this instant
while Roberts was gathering himself for his spring.  Eleven divisions
of infantry were in the field.  Of these the 1st (Methuen's) and half
the 10th (Hunter's) were at Kimberley, forming really the
hundred-mile-distant left wing of Lord Roberts's army. On that side
also was a considerable force of Yeomanry, as General Villebois
discovered.  In the centre with Roberts was the 6th division
(Kelly-Kenny's) at Bloemfontein, the 7th (Tucker's) at Karee, twenty
miles north, the 9th (Colvile's) and the 11th (Pole-Carew's) near
Bloemfontein.  French's cavalry division was also in the centre.  As
one descended the line towards the Cape one came on the 3rd division
(Chermside's, late Gatacre's), which had now moved up to Reddersberg,
and then, further south, the 8th (Rundle's), near Rouxville.  To the
south and east was the other half of Hunter's division (Hart's
brigade), and Brabant's Colonial division, half of which was shut up
in Wepener and the rest at Aliwal.  These were the troops operating in
the Free State, with the addition of the division of mounted infantry
in process of formation.

There remained the three divisions in Natal, the 2nd (Clery's), the
4th (Lyttelton's), and the 5th (Hildyard's, late Warren's), with the
cavalry brigades of Burn-Murdoch, Dundonald, and Brocklehurst.  These,
with numerous militia and unbrigaded regiments along the lines of
communication, formed the British army in South Africa.  At Mafeking
some 900 irregulars stood at bay, with another force about as large
under Plumer a little to the north, endeavouring to relieve them.  At
Beira, a Portuguese port through which we have treaty rights by which
we may pass troops, a curious mixed force of Australians,
New-Zealanders and others was being disembarked and pushed through to
Rhodesia, so as to cut off any trek which the Boers might make in tbat
direction.  Carrington, a fierce old soldier with a large experience
of South African warfare, was in command of this picturesque force,
which moved amid tropical forests over crocodile-haunted streams,
while their comrades were shivering in the cold southerly winds of a
Cape winter. Neither our Government, our people, nor the world
understood at the beginning of this campaign how grave was the task
which we had undertaken, but, having once realised it, it must be
acknowledged that it was carried through in no half-hearted way.  So
vast was the scene of operations that the Canadian might almost find
his native climate at one end of it and the Queenslander at the other.

To follow in close detail the movements of the Boers and the counter
movements of the British in the southeast portion of the Free State
during this period would tax the industry of the historian and the
patience of the reader.  Let it be told with as much general truth and
as little geographical detail as possible.  The narrative which is
interrupted by an eternal reference to the map is a narrative spoiled.

The main force of the Freestaters had assembled in the north-eastern
corner of their State, and from this they made their sally southwards,
attacking or avoiding at their pleasure the eastern line of British
outposts. Their first engagement, that of Sanna's Post, was a great
and deserved success.  Three days later they secured the five
companies at Reddersberg. Warned in time, the other small British
bodies closed in upon their supports, and the railway line, that
nourishing artery which was necessary for the very existence of the
army, was held too strongly for attack.  The Bethulie Bridge was a
particularly important point; but though the Boers approached it, and
even went the length of announcing officially that they had destroyed
it, it was not actually attacked.  At Wepener, however, on the
Basutoland border, they found an isolated force, and proceeded at
once, according to their custom, to hem it in and to bombard it, until
one of their three great allies, want of food, want of water, or want
of cartridges, should compel a surrender.

On this occasion, however, the Boers had undertaken a task which was
beyond their strength.  The troops at Wepener were one thousand seven
hundred in number, and formidable in quality.  The place had been
occupied by part of Brabant's Colonial division, consisting of hardy
irregulars, men of the stuff of the defenders of Mafeking. Such men
are too shrewd to be herded into an untenable position and too valiant
to surrender a tenable one.  The force was commanded by a dashing
soldier, Colonel Dalgety, of the Cape Mounted Rifles, as tough a
fighter as his famous namesake.  There were with him nearly a thousand
men of Brabant's Horse, four hundred of the Cape Mounted Rifles, four
hundred Kaffrarian Horse, with some scouts, and one hundred regulars,
including twenty invaluable Sappers.  They were strong in guns -- two
seven-pounders, two naval twelve-pounders, two fifteen-pounders and
several machine guns.  The position which they had taken up,
Jammersberg, three miles north of Wepener, was a very strong one, and
it would have taken a larger force than De Wet had at his disposal to
turn them out of it.  The defence had been arranged by Major Cedric
Maxwell, of the Sappers; and though the huge perimeter, nearly eight
miles, made its defence by so small a force a most difficult matter,
the result proved how good his dispositions were.

At the same time, the Boers came on with every confidence of victory,
for they had a superiority in guns and an immense superiority in men.
But after a day or two of fierce struggle their attack dwindled down
into a mere blockade.  On April 9th they attacked furiously, both by
day and by night, and on the 10th the pressure was equally severe.  In
these two days occurred the vast majority of the casualties.  But the
defenders took cover in a way to which British regulars have not yet
attained, and they outshot their opponents both with their rifles and
their cannon.  Captain Lukin's management of the artillery was
particularly skilful. The weather was vile and the hastily dug
trenches turned into ditches half full of water, but neither
discomfort nor danger shook the courage of the gallant colonials.
Assault after assault was repulsed, and the scourging of the cannon
was met with stolid endurance.  The Boers excelled all their previous
feats in the handling of artillery by dragging two guns up to the
summit of the lofty Jammersberg, whence they fired down upon the camp.
Nearly all the horses were killed and three hundred of the troopers
were hit, a number which is double that of the official return, for
the simple reason that the spirit of the force was so high that only
those who were very severely wounded reported themselves as wounded at
all. None but the serious cases ever reached the hands of
Dr. Faskally, who did admirable work with very slender resources.  How
many the enemy lost can never be certainly known, but as they pushed
home several attacks it is impossible to imagine that their losses
were less than those of the victorious defenders. At the end of
seventeen days of mud and blood the brave irregulars saw an empty
laager and abandoned trenches. Their own resistance and the advance of
Brabant to their rescue had caused a hasty retreat of the
enemy. Wepener, Mafeking, Kimberley, the taking of the first guns at
Ladysmith, the deeds of the Imperial Light Horse -- it cannot be
denied that our irregular South African forces have a brilliant record
for the war.  They are associated with many successes and with few
disasters.  Their fine record cannot, I think, be fairly ascribed to
any greater hardihood which one portion of our race has when compared
with another, for a South African must admit that in the best colonial
corps at least half the men were Britons of Britain.  In the Imperial
Light Horse the proportion was very much higher.  But what may fairly
be argued is that their exploits have proved, what the American war
proved long ago, that the German conception of discipline is an
obsolete fetish, and that the spirit of free men, whose individualism
has been encouraged rather than crushed, is equal to any feat of arms.
The clerks and miners and engineers who went up Elandslaagte Hill
without bayonets, shoulder to shoulder with the Gordons, and who,
according to Sir George White, saved Ladysmith on January 6th, have
shown for ever that with men of our race it is the spirit witbin, and
not the drill or the discipline, that makes a formidable soldier.  An
intligent appreciation of the fact might in the course of the next
few years save us as much money as would go far to pay for the war.

It may well be asked how for so long a period as seventeen days the
British could tolerate a force to the rear of them when with their
great superiority of numbers they could have readily sent an army to
drive it away. The answer must be that Lord Roberts had despatched his
trusty lieutenant, Kitchener, to Aliwal, whence he had been in
heliographic communication with Wepener, that he was sure that the
place could hold out, and that he was using it, as he did Kimberley,
to hold the enemy while he was making his plans for their
destruction. This was the bait to tempt them to their ruin. Had the
trap not been a little slow in closing, the war in the Free State
might have ended then and there. From the 9th to the 25th the Boers
were held in front of Wepener. Let us trace the movements of the other
British detachments during that time.

Brabant's force, with Hart's brigade, which had been diverted on its
way to Kimberley, where it was to form part of Hunter's division, was
moving on the south towards Wepener, advancing through Rouxville, but
going slowly for fear of scaring the Boers away before they were
sufficiently compromised. Chermside's 3rd division approached from the
north-west, moving out from the railway at Bethany, and passing
through Reddersberg towards Dewetsdorp, from which it would directly
threaten the Boer line of retreat.  The movement was made with
reassuring slowness and gentleness, as when the curved hand approaches
the unconscious fly. And then suddenly, on April 21st, Lord Roberts
let everything go.  Had the action of the agents been as swift and as
energetic as the mind of the planner, De Wet could not have escaped
us.

What held Lord Roberts's hand for some few days after he was ready to
strike was the abominable weather. Rain was falling in sheets, and
those who know South African roads, South African mud, and South
African drifts will understand how impossible swift military movements
are under those circumstances.  But with the first clearing of the
clouds the hills to the south and east of Bloemfontein were dotted
with our scouts.  Rundle with his 8th division was brought swiftly up
from. the south, united with Chermside to the east of Reddersberg, and
the whole force, numbering 13,000 rifles with thirty guns, advanced
upon Dewetsdorp, Rundle, as senior officer, being in command.  As they
marched the blue hills of Wepener lined the sky some twenty miles to
the south, eloquent to every man of the aim and object of their march.

On April 20th, Rundle as he advanced found a force with artillery
across his path to Dewetsdorp.  It is always difficult to calculate
the number of hidden men and lurking guns which go to make up a Boer
army, but with some knowledge of their total at Wepener it was certain
that the force opposed to him must be very inferior to his own.  At
Constantia Farm, where he found them in position, it is difficult to
imagine that there were more than three thousand men.  Their left
flank was their weak point, as a movement on that side would cut them
off from Wepener and drive them up towards our main force in the
north.  One would have thought that a containing force of three
thousand men, and a flanking movement from eight thousand, would have
turned them out, as it has turned them out so often before and since.
Yet a long-range action began on Friday, April 20th, and lasted the
whole of the 21st, the 22nd, and the 23rd, in which we sustained few
losses, but made no impression upon the enemy.  Thirty of the 1st
Worcesters wandered at night into the wrong line, and were made
prisoners, but with this exception the four days of noisy fighting
does not appear to have cost either side fifty casualties.  It is
probable that the deliberation with which the operations were
conducted was due to Rundle's instructions to wait until the other
forces were in position.  His subsequent movements showed that he was
not a General who feared to strike.

On Sunday night (April 22nd) Pole-Carew sallied out from Bloemfontein
on a line which would take him round the right flank of the Boers who
were facing Rundle.  The Boers had, however, occupied a strong
position at Leeuw Kop, which barred his path, so that the Dewetsdorp
Boers were covering the Wepener Boers, and being in turn covered by
the Boers of Leeuw Kop.  Before anything could be done, they must be
swept out of the way.  Pole-Carew is one of those finds which help to
compensate us for the war. Handsome, dashing, debonnaire, he
approaches a field of battle as a light-hearted schoolboy approaches a
football field.  On this occasion he acted with energy and discretion.
His cavalry threatened the flanks of the enemy, and Stephenson's
brigade carried the position in front at a small cost. On the same
evening General French arrived and took over the force, which
consisted now of Stephenson's and the Guards brigades (making up the
11th division), with two brigades of cavalry and one corps of mounted
infantry. The next day, the 23rd, the advance was resumed, the cavalry
bearing the brunt of the fighting.  That gallant corps, Roberts's
Horse, whose behaviour at Sanna's Post had been admirable, again
distinguished itself, losing among others its Colonel, Brazier
Creagh. On the 24th again it was to the horsemen that the honour and
the casualties fell.  The 9th Lancers, the regular cavalry regiment
which bears away the honours of the war, lost several men and
officers, and the 8th Hussars also suffered, but the Boers were driven
from their position, and lost more heavily in this skirmish than in
some of the larger battles of the campaign. The 'pom-poms,' which had
been supplied to us by the belated energy of the Ordnance Department,
were used with some effect in this engagement, and the Boers learned
for the first time how unnerving are those noisy but not particularly
deadly fireworks which they had so often crackled round the ears of
our gunners.

On the Wednesday morning Rundle, with the addition cf Pole-Carew's
division, was strong enough for any attack, while French was in a
position upon the flank.  Every requisite for a great victory was
there except the presence of an enemy.  The Wepener siege had been
raised and the force in front of Rundle had disappeared as only Boer
armies can disappear.  The combined movement was an admirable piece of
work on the part of the enemy.  Finding no force in front of them, the
combined troops of French, Rundle, and Chermside occupied Dewetsdorp,
where the latter remained, while the others pushed on to Thabanchu,
the storm centre from which all our troubles had begun nearly a month
before.  All the way they knew that De Wet's retreating army was just
in front of them, and they knew also that a force had been sent out
from Bloemfontein to Thabanchu to head off the Boers. Lord Roberts
might naturally suppose, when he had formed two cordons through which
De Wet must pass, that one or other must hold him.  But with
extraordinary skill and mobility De Wet, aided by the fact that every
inhabitant was a member of his intelligence department, slipped
through the double net which had been laid for him.  The first net was
not in its place in time, and the second was too small to hold him.

While Rundle and French had advanced on Dewets dorp as described, the
other force which was intended to head off De Wet had gone direct to
Thabanchu.  The advance began by a movement of Ian Hamilton on April
22nd with eight hundred mounted infantry upon the waterworks.  The
enemy, who held the hills beyond, allowed Hamilton's force to come
right down to the Modder before they opened fire from three guns.  The
mounted infantry fell back, and encamped for the night out of
range.[Footnote: This was a remarkable exhibition of the harmlessness
of shell-fire against troops in open formation.  I myself saw at least
forty shells, all of which burst, fall among the ranks of the mounted
infantry, who retired at a contemptuos walk.  There were no
casualties.]  Before morning they were reinforced by Smith-Dorrien's
brigade (Gordons, Canadians, and Shropshires -- the Cornwalls had been
left behind) and some more mounted Infantry.  With daylight a fine
advance was begun, the brigade moving up in very extended order and
the mounted men turning the right flank of the defence. By evening we
had regained the waterworks, a most important point for Bloemfontein,
and we held all the line of hills which command it.  This strong
position would not have been gained so easily if it had not been for
Pole-Carew's and French's actions two days before, on their way to
join Rundle, which enabled them to turn it from the south.

Ian Hamilton, who had already done good service in the war, having
commanded the infantry at Elandslaagte, and been one of the most
prominent leaders in the defence of Ladysmith, takes from this time
onwards a more important and a more independent position. A thin,
aquiline man, of soft voice and gentle manners, he had already proved
more than once during his adventurous career that he not only
possessed in a high degree the courage of the soldier, but also the
equanimity and decision of the born leader. A languid elegance in his
bearing covered a shrewd brain and a soul of fire. A distorted and
half-paralysed hand reminded the observer that Hamilton, as a young
lieutenant, had known at Majuba what it was to face the Boer
rifles. Now, in his forty-seventh year, he had returned, matured and
formidable, to reverse the results of that first deplorable campaign.
This was the man to whom Lord Roberts had entrusted the command of
that powerful flanking column which was eventually to form the right
wing of his main advance. Being reinforced upon the morning after the
capture of the Waterworks by the Highland Brigade, the Cornwalls, and
two heavy naval guns, his whole force amounted to not less than seven
thousand men. From these he detached a garrison for the Waterworks,
and with the rest he continued his march over the hilly country which
lies between them and Thabanchu.

One position, Israel's Poort, a nek between two hills, was held
against them on April 25th, but was gained without much trouble, the
Canadians losing one killed and two wonuded.  Colonel Otter, their
gallant leader, was one of the latter, while Marshall's Horse, a
colonial corps raised in Grahamstown, had no fewer than seven of their
officers and several men killed or wounded.  Next morning the town of
Thabanchu was seized, and Hamilton found himself upon the direct line
of the Boer retreat. He seized the pass which commands the road, and
all next day he waited eagerly, and the hearts of his men beat high
when at last they saw a long trail of dust winding up to them from the
south.  At last the wily De Wet had been headed off!  Deep and earnest
were the curses when out of the dust there emerged a khaki column of
horsemen, and it was realised that this was French's pursuing force,
closely followed by Rundle's infantry from Dewetsdorp.  The Boers had
slipped round and were already to the north of us.

It is impossible to withhold our admiration for the way in which the
boer force was manoeuvred thoughout this portion of the campaign. The
mixture of circumspection and audacity, the way in which French and
Rundle were hindered until the Wepener force had disengaged itself,
the manner in which these covering forces were then withdrawn, and
finally the clever way in which they all slipped past Hamilton, make a
brilliant bit of strategy. Louis Botha, the generalissimo, held all
the strings in his hand, and the way in which he pulled them showed
that his countrymen had chosen the right man for that high office, and
that his was a master spirit even among those fine natural warriors
who led the separate commandos.

Having got to the north of the British forces Botha made no effort to
get away, and refused to be hustled by a reconnaissance developing
into an attack, which French made upon April 27th.  In a skirmish the
night before Kitchener's Horse had lost fourteen men, and the action
of the 27th cost us about as many casualties.  It served to show that
the Boer force was a compact body some six or seven thousand strong,
which withdrew in a leisurely fashion, and took up a defensive
position at Houtnek, some miles further on. French remained at
Thabanchu, from which he afterwards joined Lord Roberts' advance,
while Hamilton now assumed complete command of the flanking column,
with which he proceeded to march north upon Winburg.

The Houtnek position is dominated upon the left of the advancing
British force by Thoba Mountain, and it was this point which was the
centre of Hamilton's attack. It was most gallantly seized by
Kitchener's Horse, who were quickly supported by Smith-Dorrien's men.
The mountain became the scene of a brisk action, and night fell before
the crest was cleared. At dawn upon May 1st the fighting was resumed,
and the position was carried by a determined advance of the
Shropshires, the Canadians, and the Gordons: the Boers escaping down
the reverse slope of the hill came under a heavy fire of our infantry,
and fifty of them were wounded or taken. It was in this action, during
the fighting on the hill, that Captain Towse, of the Gordons, though
shot through the eyes and totally blind, encouraged his men to charge
through a group of the enemy who had gathered round them. After this
victory Hamilton's men, who had fought for seven days out of ten,
halted for a rest at Jacobsrust, where they were joined by Broadwood's
cavalry and Bruce Hamilton's infantry brigade.  Ian Hamilton's column
now contained two infantry brigades (Smith.Dorrien's and Bruce
Hamilton's), Ridley's Mounted Infantry, Broadwood's Cavalry Brigade,
five batteries of artillery, two heavy guns, altogether 13,000
men. With this force in constant touch with Botha's rearguard, Ian
Hamilton pushed on once more on May 4th. On May 5th he fought a brisk
cavalry skirmish, in which Kitchener's Horse and the 12th Lancers
distinguished themselves, and on the same day he took possession of
Winburg, thus covering the right of Lord Roberts's great advance.

The distribution of the troops on the eastern side of the Free State
was, at the time of this the final advance of the main army, as
follows -- Ian Hamilton with his mounted infantry, Smith-Dorrien's
brigade, Macdonald's brigade, Bruce Hamilton's brigade, and
Broadwood's cavalry were at Winburg.  Rundle was at Thabanchu, and
Brabant's colonial division was moving up to the same point.
Chermside was at Dewetsdorp, and had detached a force under Lord
Castletown to garrison Wepener. Hart occupied Smithfield, whence he
and his brigade were shortly to be transferred to the Kimberley
force. Altogether there could not have been fewer than thirty thousand
men engaged in clearing and holding down this part of the
country. French's cavalry and Pole-Carew's division had returned to
take part in the central advance.

Before entering upon a description of that great and decisive
movement, one small action calls for comment. This was the cutting off
of twenty men of Lumsden's Horse in a reconnaissance at Karee.  The
small post under Lieutenant Crane found themselves by some
misunderstanding isolated in the midst of the enemy. Befusing to hoist
the flag of shame, they fought their way out, losing half their
number, while of the other half it is said that there was not one who
could not show bullet marks upon his clothes or person.  The men of
this corps, volunteer Anglo-Indians, had abandoned the ease and even
luxury of Eastern life for the hard fare and rough fighting of this
most trying campaign. In coming they had set the whole empire an
object-lesson in spirit, and now on their first field they set the
army an example of military virtue.  The proud traditions of Outram's
Volunteers have been upheld by the men of Lumsden's Horse.  Another
minor action which cannot be ignored is the defence of a convoy on
April 29th by the Derbyshire Yeomanry (Major Dugdale) and a company of
the Scots Guards. The wagons were on their way to Rundle when they
were attacked at a point about ten miles west of Thabanchu. The small
guard beat off their assailants in the most gallant fashion, and held
their own until relieved by Brabazon upon the following morning.

This phase of the war was marked by a certain change in the temper of
the British.  Nothing could have been milder than the original
intentions and proclamations of Lord Roberts, and he was most ably
seconded in his attempts at conciliation by General Pretyman, who had
been made civil administrator of the State.  There was evidence,
however, that this kindness had been construed as weakness by some of
the burghers, and during the Boer incursion to Wepener many who had
surrendered a worthless firearm reappeared with the Mauser which had
been concealed in some crafty hiding-place.  Troops were fired at from
farmhouses which flew the white flag, and the good housewife remained
behind to charge the 'rooinek' extortionate prices for milk and fodder
while her husband shot at him from the hills.  It was felt that the
burghers might have peace or might have war, but could not have both
simultaneously.  Some examples were made therefore of offending
farmhouses, and stock was confiscated where there was evidence of
double dealing upon the part of the owner.  In a country where
property is a more serious thing than life, these measures, together
with more stringent rules about the possession of horses and arms, did
much to stamp out the chances of an insurrection in our rear.  The
worst sort of peace is an enforced peace, but if that can be
established time and justice may do the rest.

The operations which have been here described may be finally summed up
in one short paragraph. A Boer army came south of the British line and
besieged a British garrison.  Three British forces, those of French,
Rundle, and Ian Hamilton, were despatched to cut it off. It
successfully threaded its way among them and escaped. It was followed
to the northward as far as the town of Winburg, which remained in the
British possession. Lord Roberts had failed in his plan of cutting off
De Wet's army, but, at the expense of many marches and skirmishes, the
south-east of the State was cleared of the enemy.


CHAPTER XXIV

THE SIEGE OF MAFEKING


This small place, which sprang in the course of a few weeks from
obscurity to fame, is situated upon the long line of railway which
connects Kimberley in the south with Rhodesia in the north.  In
character it resembles one of those western American townlets which
possess small present assets but immense aspirations.  In its litter
of corrugated-iron roofs, and in the church and the racecourse, which
are the first-fruits everywhere of Anglo-Celtic civilisation, one sees
the seeds of the great city of the future.  It is the obvious depôt
for the western Transvaal upon one side, and the starting-point for
all attempts upon the Kalahari Desert upon the other.  The Transvaal
border runs within a few miles.

It is not clear why the imperial authorities should desire to hold
this place, since it has no natural advantages to help the defence,
but lies exposed in a widespread plain.  A glance at the map must show
that the railway line would surely be cut both to the north and south
of the town, and the garrison isolated at a point some two hundred and
fifty miles from any reinforcements.  Considering that the Boers could
throw any strength of men or guns against the place, it seemed certain
that if they seriously desired to take possession of it they could do
so.  Under ordinary circumstances any force shut up there was doomed
to capture.  But what may have seemed short-sighted policy became the
highest wisdom, owing to the extraordinary tenacity and resource of
Baden-Powell, the officer in command. Through his exertions the town
acted as a bait to the Boers, and occupied a considerable force in a
useless siege at a time when their presence at other seats of war
might have proved disastrous to the British cause.

Colonel Baden-Powell is a soldier of a type which is exceedingly
popular with the British public. A skilled hunter and an expert at many
games, there was always something of the sportsman in his keen
appreciation of war.  In the Matabele campaign he had out-scouted the
savage scouts and found his pleasure in tracking them among their
native mountains, often alone and at night, trusting to his skill in
springing from rock to rock in his rubber-soled shoes to save him from
their pursuit.  There was a brain quality in his bravery which is rare
among our officers.  Full of veldt craft and resource, it was as
difficult to outwit as it was to outfight him.  But there was another
curious side to his complex nature.  The French have said of one of
their heroes, 'Il avait cette graine de folie dans sa bravoure que les
Francais aiment,' and the words might have been written of Powell.  An
impish humour broke out in him, and the mischievous schoolboy
alternated with the warrior and the administrator.  He met the Boer
commandos with chaff and jokes which were as disconcerting as his wire
entanglements and his rifle-pits The amazing variety of his personal
accomplishments was one of his most striking characteristics. From
drawing caricatures with both hands simultaneously, or skirt dancing
to leading a forlorn hope, nothing came amiss to him; and he had that
magnetic quality by which the leader imparts something of his virtues
to his men.  Such was the man who held Mafeking for the Queen.

In a very early stage, before the formal declaration of war, the enemy
had massed several commandos upon the western border, the men being
drawn from Zeerust, Rustenburg, and Lichtenburg. Baden-Powell, with
the aid of an excellent group of special officers, who included
Colonel Gould Adams, Lord Edward Cecil, the soldier son of England's
Premier, and Colonel Hore, had done all that was possible to put the
place into a state of defence. In this he had immense assistance from
Benjamin Weil, a well known South African contractor, who had shown
great energy in provisioning the town.  On the other hand, the South
African Government displayed the same stupidity or treason which had
been exhibited in the case of Kimberley, and had met all demands for
guns and reinforcements with foolish doubts as to the need of such
precautions.  In the endeavour to supply these pressing wants the
first small disaster of the campaign was encountered.  On October
12th, the day after the declaration of war, an armoured train
conveying two 7-pounders for the Mafeking defences was derailed and
captured by a Boer raiding party at Kraaipan, a place forty miles
south of their destination.  The enemy shelled the shattered train
until after five hours Captain Nesbitt, who was in command, and his
men, some twenty in number, surrendered.  It was a small affair, but
it derived importance from being the first blood shed and the first
tactical success of the war.

The garrison of the town, whose fame will certainly live in the
history of South Africa, contained no regular soldiers at all with the
exception of the small group of excellent officers.  They consisted of
irregular troops, three hundred and forty of the Protectorate
Regiment, one hundred and seventy Police, and two hundred volunteers,
made up of that singular mixture of adventurers, younger sons, broken
gentlemen, and irresponsible sportsmen who have always been the
voortrekkers of the British Empire.  These men were of the same stamp
as those other admirable bodies of natural fighters who did so well in
Rhodesia, in Natal, and in the Cape. With them there was associated in
the defence the Town Guard, who included the able-bodied shopkeepers,
business men, and residents, the whole amounting to about nine hundred
men.  Their artillery was feeble in the extreme, two 7-pounder toy
guns and six machine guns, but the spirit of the men and the resource
of their leaders made up for every disadvantage.  Colonel Vyvyan and
Major Panzera planned the defences, and the little trading town soon
began to take on the appearance of a fortress.

On October 13th the Boers appeared before Mafeking. On the same day
Colonel Baden-Powell sent two truckloads of dynamite out of the place.
They were fired into by the invaders, with the result that they
exploded.  On October 14th the pickets around the town were driven in
by the Boers.  On this the armoured train and a squadron of the
Protectorate Regiment went out to support the pickets and drove the
Boers before them. A body of the latter doubled back and interposed
between the British and Mafeking, but two fresh troops with a
7-pounder throwing shrapnel drove them off.  In this spirited little
action the garrison lost two killed and fourteen wounded, but they
inflicted considerable damage on the enemy. To Captain Williams,
Captain FitzClarence, and Lord Charles Bentinck great credit is due
for the way in which they handled their men; but the whole affair was
ill advised, for if a disaster had occurred Mafeking must have fallen,
being left without a garrison.  No possible results which could come
from such a sortie could justify the risk which was run.

On October 16th the siege began in earnest.  On that date the Boers
brought up two 12-pounder guns, and the first of that interminable
flight of shells fell into the town.  The enemy got possession of the
water supply, but the garrison had already dug wells. Before October
20th five thousand Boers, under the formidable Cronje, had gathered
round the town.  'Surrender to avoid bloodshed' was his message.
'When is the bloodshed going to begin?' asked Powell.  When the Boers
had been shelling the town for some weeks the lighthearted Colonel
sent out to say that if they went on any longer he should be compelled
to regard it as equivalent to a declaration of war. It is to be hoped
that Cronje also possessed some sense of humour, or else he must have
been as sorely puzzled by his eccentric opponent as the Spanish
generals were by the vagaries of Lord Peterborough.

Among the many difficulties which had to be met by the defenders of
the town the most serious was the fact that the position had a
circumference of five or six miles to be held by about one thousand
men against a force who at their own time and their own place could at
any moment attempt to gain a footing. An ingenious system of small
forts was devised to meet the situation. Each of these held from ten
to forty riflemen, and was furnished with bomb-proofs and covered
ways. The central bomb-proof was connected by telephone with all the
outlying ones, so as to save the use of orderlies.  A system of bells
was arranged by which each quarter of the town was warned when a shell
was coming in time to enable the inhabitants to scuttle off to
shelter. Every detail showed the ingenuity of the controlling mind.
The armoured train, painted green and tied round with scrub, stood
unperceived among the clumps of bushes which surrounded the town.

On October 24th a savage bombardment commenced, which lasted with
intermissions for seven months.  The Boers had brought an enormous gun
across from Pretoria, throwing a 96-lb. shell, and this, with many
smaller pieces, played upon the town.  The result was as futile as our
own artillery fire has so often been when directed against the Boers.

As the Mafeking guns were too weak to answer the enemy's fire, the
only possible reply lay in a sortie, and upon this Colonel Powell
decided. It was carried out with great gallantry on the evening of
October 27th, when about a hundred men under Captain FitzClarence
moved out against the Boer trenches with instructions to use the
bayonet only.  The position was carried with a rush, and many of the
Boers bayoneted before they could disengage themselves from the
tarpaulins which covered them.  The trenches behind fired wildly in
the darkness, and it is probable that as many of their own men as of
ours were hit by their rifle fire.  The total loss in this gallant
affair was six killed, eleven wounded, and two prisoners.  The loss of
the enemy, though shrouded as usual in darkness, was certainly very
much higher.

On October 31st the Boers ventured upon an attack on Cannon Kopje,
which is a small fort and eminence to the south of the town.  It was
defended by Colonel Walford, of the British South African Police, with
fifty-seven of his men and three small guns.  The attack was repelled
with heavy loss to the Boers. The British casualties were six killed
and five wounded.

Their experience in this attack seems to have determined the Boers to
make no further expensive attempts to rush the town, and for some
weeks the siege degenerated into a blockade.  Cronje had been recalled
for more important work, and Commandant Snyman had taken over the
uncompleted task.  From time to time the great gun tossed its huge
shells into the town, but boardwood walls and corrugated-iron roofs
minimise the dangers of a bombardment.  On November 3rd the garrison
rushed the Brickfields, which had been held by the enemy's
sharpshooters, and on the 7th another small sally kept the game going.
On the 18th Powell sent a message to Snyman that he could not take the
town by sitting and looking at it. At the same time he despatched a
message to the Boer forces generally, advising them to return to their
homes and their families.  Some of the commandos had gone south to
assist Cronje in his stand against Methuen, and the siege languished
more and more, until it was woken up by a desperate sortie on December
26th, which caused the greatest loss which the garrison had sustained.
Once more the lesson was to be enforced that with modern weapons and
equality of forces it is always long odds on the defence.

On this date a vigorous attack was made upon one of the Boer forts on
the north.  There seems to be little doubt that the enemy had some
inkling of our intention, as the fort was found to have been so
strengthened as to be impregnable without scaling ladders.  The
attacking force consisted of two squadrons of the Protectorate
Regiment and one of the Bechuanaland Rifles, backed up by three guns.
So desperate was the onslaught that of the actual attacking party -- a
forlorn hope, if ever there was one -- fifty-three out of eighty were
killed and wounded, twenty-five of the former and twenty-eight of the
latter.  Several of that gallant band of officers who had been the
soul of the defence were among the injured.  Captain FitzClarence was
wounded, Vernon, Sandford, and Paton were killed, all at the very
muzzles of the enemy's guns.  It must have been one of the bitterest
moments of Baden-Powell's life when he shut his field-glass and said,
'Let the ambulance go out!'

Even this heavy blow did not damp the spirits nor diminish the
energies of the defence, though it must have warned Baden-Powell that
he could not afford to drain his small force by any more expensive
attempts at the offensive, and that from then onwards he must content
himself by holding grimly on until Plumer from the north or Methuen
from the south should at last be able to stretch out to him a helping
hand.  Vigilant and indomitable, throwing away no possible point in
the game which he was playing, the new year found him and his hardy
garrison sternly determined to keep the flag flying.

January and February offer in their records that monotony of
excitement which is the fate of every besieged town.  On one day the
shelling was a little more, on another a little less.  Sometimes they
escaped scatheless, sometimes the garrison found itself the poorer by
the loss of Captain Girdwood or Trooper Webb or some other gallant
soldier.  Occasionally they had their little triumph when a too
curious Dutchman, peering for an instant from his cover to see the
effect of his shot, was carried back in the ambulance to the
laager. On Sunday a truce was usually observed, and the snipers who
had exchanged rifle-shots all the week met occasionally on that day
with good-humoured chaff.  Snyman, the Boer General, showed none of
that chivalry at Mafeking which distinguished the gallant old Joubert
at Ladysmith. Not only was there no neutral camp for women or sick,
but it is beyond all doubt or question that the Boer guns were
deliberately turned upon the women's quarters inside Mafeking in order
to bring pressure upon the inhabitants.  Many women and children were
sacrificed to this brutal policy, which must in fairness be set to the
account of the savage leader, and not of the rough but kindly folk
with whom we were fighting.  In every race there are individual
ruffians, and it would be a political mistake to allow our action to
be influenced or our feelings permanently embittered by their
crimes. It is from the man himself, and not from his country, that an
account should be exacted.

The garrison, in the face of increasing losses and decreasing food,
lost none of the high spirits which it reflected from its commander.
The programme of a single day of jubilee - Heaven only knows what they
had to hold jubilee over -- shows a cricket match in the morning,
sports in the afternoon, a concert in the evening, and a dance, given
by the bachelor officers, to wind up. Baden-Powell himself seems to
have descended from the eyrie from which, like a captain on the
bridge, he rang bells and telephoned orders, to bring the house down
with a comic song and a humorous recitation. The ball went admirably,
save that there was an interval to repel an attack which disarranged
the programme.  Sports were zealously cultivated, and the grimy
inhabitants of casemates and trenches were pitted against each other
at cricket or football.[Footnote: Sunday cricket so shocked Snyman
that he threatened to fire upon it if it were continued.] The monotony
was broken by the occasional visits of a postman, who appeared or
vanished from the vast barren lands to the west of the town, which
could not all be guarded by the besiegers.  Sometimes a few words from
home came to cheer the hearts of the exiles, and could be returned by
the same uncertain and expensive means. The documents which found
their way up were not always of an essential or even of a welcome
character. At least one man received an unpaid bill from an angry
tailor.

In one particular Mafeking had, with much smaller resources, rivalled
Kimberley.  An ordnance factory had been started, formed in the
railway workshops, and conducted by Connely and Cloughlan, of the
Locomotive Department. Daniels, of the police, supplemented their
efforts by making both powder and fuses.  The factory turned out
shells, and eventually constructed a 5·5-in. smooth-bore gun, which
threw a round shell with great accuracy to a considerable range.
April found the garrison, in spite of all losses, as efficient and as
resolute as it had been in October.  So close were the advanced
trenches upon either side that both parties had recourse to the
old-fashioned hand grenades, thrown by the Boers, and cast on a
fishing-line by ingenious Sergeant Page, of the Protectorate Regiment.
Sometimes the besiegers and the number of guns diminished, forces
being detached to prevent the advance of Plumer's relieving column
from the north; but as those who remained held their forts, which it
was beyond the power of the British to storm, the garrison was now
much the better for the alleviation. Putting Mafeking for Ladysmith
and Plumer for Buller, the situation was not unlike that which had
existed in Natal.

At this point some account might be given of the doings of that
northern force whose situation was so remote that even the ubiquitous
correspondent hardly appears to have reached it.  No doubt the book
will eventually make up for the neglect of the journal, but some short
facts may be given here of the Rhodesian column.  Their action did not
affect the course of the war, but they clung like bulldogs to a most
difficult task, and eventually, when strengthened by the relieving
column, made their way to Mafeking.

The force was originally raised for the purpose of defending Rhodesia,
and it consisted of fine material pioneers, farmers, and miners from
the great new land which had been added through the energy of
Mr. Rhodes to the British Empire.  Many of the men were veterans of
the native wars, and all were imbued with a hardy and adventurous
spirit.  On the other hand, the men of the northern and western
Transvaal, whom they were called upon to face, the burghers of
Watersberg and Zoutpansberg, were tough frontiersmen living in a land
where a dinner was shot, not bought.  Shaggy, hairy, half-savage men,
handling a rifle as a mediæval Englishman handled a bow, and skilled
in every wile of veldt craft, they were as formidable opponents as the
world could show.

On the war breaking out the first thought of the leaders in Rhodesia
was to save as much of the line which was their connection through
Mafeking with the south as was possible. For this purpose an armoured
train was despatched only three days after the expiration of the
ultimatum to the point four hundred miles south of Bulawayo, where the
frontiers of the Transvaal and of Bechuanaland join. Colonel
Holdsworth commanded the small British force.  The Boers, a thousand
or so in number, had descended upon the railway, and an action
followed in which the train appears to have had better luck than has
usually attended these ill-fated contrivances.  The Boer commando was
driven back and a number were killed. It was probably news of this
affair, and not anything which had occurred at Mafeking, which caused
those rumours of gloom at Pretoria very shortly after the outbreak of
hostilities.  An agency telegraphed that women were weeping in the
streets of the Boer capital. We had not then realised how soon and how
often we should see the same sight in Pall Mall.

The adventurous armoured train pressed on as far as Lobatsi, where it
found the bridges destroyed; so it returned to its original position,
having another brush with the Boer commandos, and again, in some
marvellous way, escaping its obvious fate.  From then until the new
year the line was kept open by an admirable system of patrolling to
within a hundred miles or so of Mafeking.  An aggressive spirit and a
power of dashing initiative were shown in the British operations at
this side of the scene of war such as have too often been absent
elsewhere.  At Sekwani, on November 24th, a considerable success was
gained by a surprise planned and carried out by Colonel Holdsworth.
The Boer laager was approached and attacked in the early morning by a
force of one hundred and twenty frontiersmen, and so effective was
their fire that the Boers estimated their numbers at several thousand.
Thirty Boers were killed or wounded, and the rest scattered.

While the railway line was held in this way there had been some
skirmishing also on the northern frontier of the Transvaal.  Shortly
after the outbreak of the war the gallant Blackburn, scouting with six
comrades in thick bush, found himself in the presence of a
considerable commando.  The British concealed themselves by the path,
but Blackburn's foot was seen by a keen-eyed Kaffir, who pointed it
out to his masters. A sudden volley riddled Blackburn with bullets;
but his men stayed by him and drove off the enemy.  Blackburn dictated
an official report of the action, and then died.

In the same region a small force under Captain Hare was cut off by a
body of Boers.  Of the twenty men most got away, but the chaplain
J. W. Leary, Lieutenant Haserick (who behaved with admirable
gallantry), and six men were taken.[Footnote: Mr. Leary was wounded in
the foot by a shell.  The German artillerist entered the hut in which
he lay. 'Here's a bit of your work!' said Leary good~humouredly.  'I
wish it had been woise,' said the amiable German gunner.] The commando
which attacked this party, and on the same day Colonel Spreckley's
force, was a powerful one, with several guns. No doubt it was
organised because there were fears among the Boers that they would be
invaded from the north. When it was understood that the British
intended no large aggressive movement in that quarter, these burghers
joined other commandos.  Sarel Eloff, who was one of the leaders of
this northern force, was afterwards taken at Mafeking.

Colonel Plumer had taken command of the small army which was now
operating from the north along the railway line with Mafeking for its
objective.  Plumer is an officer of considerable experience in African
warfare, a small, quiet, resolute man, with a knack of gently
enforcing discipline upon the very rough material with which he had to
deal.  With his weak force -- which never exceeded a thousand men, and
was usually from six to seven hundred - he had to keep the long line
behind him open, build up the ruined railway in front of him, and
gradually creep onwards in face of a formidable and enterprising
enemy.  For a long time Gaberones, which is eighty miles north of
Mafeking, remained his headquarters, and thence he kept up precarious
communications with the besieged garrison.  In the middle of March he
advanced as far south as Lobatsi, which is less than fifty miles from
Mafeking; but the enemy proved to be too strong, and Plumer had to
drop back again with some loss to his original position at
Gaberones. Sticking doggedly to his task, Plumer again came south, and
this time made his way as far as Ramathlabama, within a day's march of
Mafeking.  He had with him, however, only three hundred and fifty men,
and had he pushed through the effect mighit have been an addition of
hungry men to the garrison.  The relieving force was fiercely
attacked, however, by the Boers and driven back on to their camp with
a loss of twelve killed, twenty-six wounded, and fourteen
missing. Some of the British were dismounted men, and it says much for
Plumer's conduct of the fight that he was able to extricate these
safely from the midst of an aggressive mounted enemy.  Personally he
set an admirable example, sending away his own horse, and walking with
his rearmost soldiers.  Captain Crewe Robertson and Lieutenant
Milligan, the famous Yorkshire cricketer, were killed, and Rolt,
Jarvis, Maclaren, and Plumer himself were wounded.  The Rhodesian
force withdrew again to near Lobatsi, and collected itself for yet
another effort.

In the meantime Mafeking -- abandoned, as it seemed, to its fate --
was still as formidable as a wounded lion. Far from weakening in its
defence it became more aggressive, and so persistent and skilful were
its riflemen that the big Boer gun had again and again to be moved
further from the town.  Six months of trenches and rifle-pits had
turned every inhabitant into a veteran. Now and then words of praise
and encouragement came to them from without.  Once it was a special
message from the Queen, once a promise of relief from Lord Roberts.
But the rails which led to England were overgrown with grass, and
their brave hearts yearned for the sight of their countrymen and for
the sound of their voices.  'How long, 0 Lord, how long?' was the cry
which was wrung from them in their solitude.  But the flag was still
held high.

April was a trying month for the defence.  They knew that Methuen, who
had advanced as far as Fourteen Streams upon the Vaal River, had
retired again upon Kimberley.  They knew also that Plumer's force had
been weakened by the repulse at Ramathlabama, and that many of his men
were down with fever.  Six weary months had this village withstood the
pitiless pelt of rifle bullet and shell. Help seemed as far away from
them as ever.  But if troubles may be allayed by sympathy, then theirs
should have lain lightly.  The attention of the whole empire had
centred upon them, and even the advance of Roberts's army became
secondary to the fate of this gallant struggling handful of men who
had upheld the flag so long.  On the Continent also their resistance
attracted the utmost interest, and the numerous journals there who
find the imaginative writer cheaper than the war correspondent
announced their capture periodically as they had once done that of
Ladysmith.  From a mere tin-roofed village Mafeking had become a prize
of victory, a stake which should be the visible sign of the
predominating manhood of one or other of the great white races of
South Africa.  Unconscious of the keenness of the emotions which they
had aroused, the garrison manufactured brawn from horsehide, and
captured locusts as a relish for their luncheons, while in the
shot-torn billiard-room of the club an open tournament was started to
fill in their hours off duty.  But their vigilance, and that of the
hawk-eyed man up in the Conning Tower, never relaxed.  The besiegers
had increased in number, and their guns were more numerous than
before.  A less acute man than Baden-Powell might have reasoned that
at least one desperate effort would be made by them to carry the town
before relief could come.

On Saturday, May 12th, the attack was made at the favourite hour of
the Boer -- the first grey of the morning.  It was gallantly delivered
by about three hundred volunteers under the command of Eloff, who had
crept round to the west of the town -- the side furthest from the
lines of the besiegers.  At the first rush they penetrated into the
native quarter, which was at once set on fire by them.  The first
building of any size upon that side is the barracks of the
Protectorate Regiment, which was held by Colonel Hore and about twenty
of his officers and men.  This was carried by the enemy, who sent an
exultant message along the telephone to Baden-Powell to tell him that
they had got it.  Two other positions within the lines, one a stone
kraal and the other a hill, were held by the Boers, but their supports
were slow in coming on, and the movements of the defenders were so
prompt and energetic that all three found themselves isolated and cut
off from their own lines.  They had penetrated the town, but they were
as far as ever from having taken it.  All day the British forces drew
their cordon closer and closer round the Boer positions, making no
attempt to rush them, but ringing them round in such a way that there
could be no escape for them.  A few burghers slipped away in twos and
threes, but the main body found that they had rushed into a prison
from which the only egress was swept with rifle fire.  At seven
o'clock in the evening they recognised that their position was
hopeless, and Eloff with 117 men laid down their arms.  Their losses
had been ten killed and nineteen wounded. For some reason, either of
lethargy, cowardice, or treachery, Snyman had not brought up the
supports which might conceivably have altered the result.  It was a
gallant attack gallantly met, and for once the greater wiliness in
fight was shown by the British.  The end was characteristic.  'Good
evening, Commandant,' said Powell to Eloff; 'won't you come in and
have some dinner?' The prisoners -- burghers, Hollanders, Germans, and
Frenchmen -- were treated to as good a supper as the destitute larders
of the town could furnish.

So in a small blaze of glory ended the historic siege of Mafeking, for
Eloff's attack was the last, though by no means the worst of the
trials which the garrison had to face.  Six killed and ten wounded
were the British losses in this admirably managed affair. On May 17th,
five days after the fight, the relieving force arrived, the besiegers
were scattered, and the long-imprisoned garrison were free men once
more.  Many who had looked at their maps and saw this post isolated in
the very heart of Africa had despaired of ever reaching their heroic
fellow-countrymen, and now one universal outbreak of joybells and
bonfires from Toronto to Melbourne proclaimed that there is no spot so
inaccessible that the long arm of the empire cannot reach it when her
children are in peril.

Colonel Mahon, a young Irish officer who had made his reputation as a
cavalry leader in Egypt, had started early in May from Kimberley with
a small but mobile force consisting of the Imperial Light Horse
(brought round from Natal for the purpose), the Kimberley Mounted
Corps, the Diamond Fields Horse, some Imperial Yeomanry, a detachment
of the Cape Police, and 100 volunteers from the Fusilier brigade, with
M battery R.H.A. and pom-poms, twelve hundred men in all. Whilst
Hunter was fighting his action at Rooidam on May 4th, Mahon with his
men struck round the western flank of the Boers and moved rapidly to
the northwards.  On May 11th they bad left Vryburg, the halfway house,
behind them, having done one hundred and twenty miles in five days.
They pushed on, encountering no opposition save that of nature, though
they knew that they were being closely watched by the enemy.  At
Koodoosrand it was found that a Boer force was in position in front,
but Mahon avoided them by turning somewhat to the westward.  His
detour took him, however, into a bushy country, and here the enemy
headed him off, opening fire at short range upon the ubiquitous
Imperial Light Horse, who led the column.  A short engagement ensued,
in which the casualties amounted to thirty killed and wounded, but
which ended in the defeat and dispersal of the Boers, whose force was
certainly very much weaker than the British.  On May 15th the
relieving column arrived without further opposition at Masibi Stadt,
twenty miles to the west of Mafeking.

In the meantime Plumer's force upon the north had been strengthened by
the addition of C battery of four 12-pounder guns of the Canadian
Artillery under Major Eudon and a body of Queenslanders.  These forces
had been part of the small army which had come with General Carrington
through Beira, and after a detour of thousands of miles, through their
own wonderful energy they had arrived in time to form portion of the
relieving column.  Foreign military critics, whose experience of
warfare is to move troops across a frontier, should think of what the
Empire has to do before her men go into battle.  These contingents had
been assembled by long railway journeys, conveyed across thousands of
miles of ocean to Cape Town, brought round another two thousand or so
to Beira, transferred by a narrow-gauge railway to Bamboo Creek,
changed to a broader gauge to Marandellas, sent on in coaches for
hundreds of miles to Bulawayo, transferred to trains for another four
or five hundred miles to Ootsi, and had finally a forced march of a
hundred miles, which brought them up a few hours before their presence
was urgently needed upon the field.  Their advance, which averaged
twenty-five miles a day on foot for four consecutive days over
deplorable roads, was one of the finest performances of the war.  With
these high-spirited reinforcements and with his own hardy Rhodesians
Plumer pushed on, and the two columns reached the hamlet of Masibi
Stadt within an hour of each other. Their united strength was far
superior to anything which Snyman's force could place against them.

But the gallant and tenacious Boers would not abandon their prey
without a last effort.  As the little army advanced upon Mafeking they
found the enemy waiting in a strong position.  For some hours the
Boers gallantly held their ground, and their artillery fire was, as
usual, most accurate.  But our own guns were more numerous and equally
well served, and the position was soon made untenable.  The Boers
retired past Mafeking and took refuge in the trenches upon the eastern
side, but Baden-Powell with his war-hardened garrison sallied out,
and, supported by the artillery fire of the relieving column, drove
them from their shelter. With their usual admirable tactics their
larger guns had been removed, but one small cannon was secured as a
souvenir by the townsfolk, together with a number of wagons and a
considerable quantity of supplies. A long rolling trail of dust upon
the eastern horizon told that the famous siege of Mafeking had at last
come to an end.

So ended a singular incident, the defence of an open town which
contained no regular soldiers and a most inadequate artillery against
a numerous and enterprising enemy with very heavy guns. All honour to
the towns folk who bore their trial so long and so bravely -- and to
the indomitable men who lined the trenches for seven weary months.
Their constancy was of enormous value to the empire.  In the
all-important early month at least four or five thousand Boers were
detained by them when their presence elsewhere would have been fatal.
During all the rest of the war, two thousand men and eight guns
(including one of the four big Creusots) had been held there.  It
prevented the invasion of Rhodesia, and it gave a rallying-point for
loyal whites and natives in the huge stretch of country from Kimberley
to Bulawayo.  All this had, at a cost of two hundred lives, been done
by this one devoted band of men, who killed, wounded, or took no fewer
than one thousand of their opponents.  Critics may say that the
enthusiasm in the empire was excessive, but at least it was expended
over worthy men and a fine deed of arms.


CHAPTER XXV

THE MARCH ON PRETORIA


IN the early days of May, when the season of the rains was past and
the veldt was green, Lord Roberts's six weeks of enforced inaction
came to an end. He had gathered himself once more for one of those
tiger springs which should be as sure and as irresistible as that
which had brought him from Belmont to Bloemfontein, or that other in
olden days which had carried him from Cabul to Candahar. His army had
been decimated by sickness, and eight thousand men had passed into the
hospitals; but those who were with the colours were of high heart,
longing eagerly for action. Any change which would carry them away
from the pest-ridden, evils-melling capital which had revenged itself
so terribly upon the invader must be a change for the
better. Therefore it was with glad faces and brisk feet that the
centre column left Bloemfontein on May 1st, and streamed, with bands
playing, along the northern road.

On May 3rd the main force was assembled at Karee, twenty miles upon
their way. Two hundred and twenty separated them from Pretoria, but in
little more than a month from the day of starting, in spite of broken
railway, a succession of rivers, and the opposition of the enemy, this
army was marching into the main street of the Transvaal capital. Had
there been no enemy there at all, it would still have been a fine
performance, the more so when one remembers that the army was moving
upon a front of twenty miles or more, each part of which had to be
co-ordinated to the rest.  It is with the story of this great march
that the present chapter deals.

Roberts had prepared the way by clearing out the south-eastern corner
of the State, and at the moment of his advance his forces covered a
semicircular front of about forty miles, the right under Ian Hamilton
near Thabanchu, and the left at Karee.  This was the broad net which
was to be swept from south to north across the Free State, gradually
narrowing as it went.  The conception was admirable, and appears to
have been an adoption of the Boers' own strategy, which had in turn
been borrowed from the Zulus.  The solid centre could hold any force
which faced it, while the mobile flanks, Hutton upon the left and
Hamilton upon the right, could lap round and pin it, as Cronje was
pinned at Paardeberg.  It seems admirably simple when done upon a
small scale.  But when the scale is one of forty miles, since your
front must be broad enough to envelop the front which is opposed to
it, and when the scattered wings have to be fed with no railway line
to help, it takes such a master of administrative detail as Lord
Kitchener to bring the operations to complete success.

On May 3rd, the day of the advance from our most northern post, Karee,
the disposition uf Lord Roberts's army was briefly as follows.  On his
left was Hutton, with his mixed force of mounted infantry drawn from
every quarter of the empire.  This formidable and mobile body, with
some batteries of horse artillery and of pom-poms, kept a line a few
miles to the west of the railroad, moving northwards parallel with it.
Roberts's main column kept on the railroad, which was mended with
extraordinary speed by the Railway Pioneer regiment and the Engineers,
under Girouard and the ill-fated Seymour.  It was amazing to note the
shattered culverts as one passed, and yet to be overtaken by trains
within a day.  This main column consisted of Pole-Carew's 11th
Division, which contained the Guards, and Stephenson's Brigade
(Warwicks, Essex, Welsh, and Yorkshires).  With them were the 83rd,
84th, and 85th R.F.A., with the heavy guns, and a small force of
mounted infantry. Passing along the widespread British line one would
then, after an interval of seven or eight miles, come upon Tucker's
Division (the 7th), which consisted of Maxwell's Brigade (formerly
Chermside's -- the Norfoiks, Lincolns, Hampshires, and Scottish
Borderers) and Wavel's Brigade (North Staffords, Cheshires, East
Lancashires, South Wales Borderers).  To the right of these was
Ridley's mounted infantry. Beyond them, extending over very many miles
of country and with considerable spaces between, there came
Broadwood's cavalry, Bruce Hamilton's Brigade (Derbyshires, Sussex,
Camerons, and C.I.V.), and finally on the extreme right of all Ian
Hamilton's force of Highlanders, Canadians, Shropshires, and
Cornwalls, with cavalry and mounted infantry, starting forty miles
from Lord Roberts, but edging westwards all the way, to merge with the
troops next to it, and to occupy Winburg in the way already described.
This was the army, between forty and fifty thousand strong, with which
Lord Roberts advanced upon the Transvaal.

In the meantime he had anticipated that his mobile and enterprising
opponents would work round and strike at our rear.  Ample means had
been provided for dealing with any attempt of the kind.  Rundle with
the 8th Division aud Brabant's Colonial Division remained in rear of
the right flank to confront any force which might turn it. At
Bloemfontein were Kelly-Kenny's Division (the 6th) and Chermside's
(the 3rd), with a force of cavalry and guns.  Methuen, working from
Kimberley towards Boshof, formed the extreme left wing of the main
advance, though distant a hundred miles from it.  With excellent
judgment Lord Roberts saw that it was on our right flank that danger
was to be feared, and here it was that every precaution had been taken
to meet it.

The objective of the first day's march was the little town of
Brandfort, ten miles north of Karee.  The head of the main column
faced it, while the left arm swept round and drove the Boer force from
their position. Tucker's Division upon the right encountered some
opposition, but overbore it with artillery.  May 4th was a day of rest
for the infantry, but on the 5th they advanced, in the same order as
before, for twenty miles, and found themselves to the south of the Vet
River, where the enemy had prepared for an energetic resistance. A
vigorous artillery duel ensued, the British guns in the open as usual
against an invisible enemy. After three hours of a very hot fire the
mounted infantry got across the river upon the left and turned the
Boer flank, on which they hastily withdrew.  The first lodgment was
effected by two bodies of Canadians and New-Zealanders, who were
energetically supported by Captain Anley's 3rd Mounted Infantry.  The
rushing of a kopje by twenty-three West Australians was another
gallant incident which marked this engagement, in which our losses
were insignificant. A maxim and twenty or thirty prisoners were taken
by Hutton's men.  The next day (May 6th) the army moved across the
difficult drift of the Vet River, and halted that night at Smaldeel,
some five miles to the north of it. At the same time Ian Hamilton had
been able to advance to Winburg, so that the army had contracted its
front by about half, but had preserved its relative positions.
Hamilton, after his junction with his reinforcements at Jacobsrust,
had under him so powerful a force that he overbore all resistance.
His actions between Thabanchu and Winburg had cost the Boers heavy
loss, and in one action the German legion had been overthrown. The
informal warfare which was made upon us by citizens of many nations
without rebuke from their own Governments is a matter of which pride,
and possibly policy, have forbidden us to complain, but it will be
surprising if it does not prove that their laxity has established a
very dangerous precedent, and they will find it difficult to object
when, in the next little war in which either France or Germany is
engaged, they find a few hundred British adventurers carrying a rifle
against them.

The record of the army's advance is now rather geographical than
military, for it rolled northwards with never a check save that which
was caused by the construction of the railway diversions which atoned
for the destruction of the larger bridges.  The infantry now, as
always in the campaign, marched excellently; for though twenty miles
in the day may seem a moderate allowance to a healthy man upon an
English road, it is a considerable performance under an African sun
with a weight of between thirty and forty pounds to be carried. The
good humour of the men was admirable, and they eagerly longed to close
with the elusive enemy who flitted ever in front of them. Huge clouds
of smoke veiled the northern sky, for the Boers had set fire to the
dry grass, partly to cover their own retreat, and partly to show up
our khaki upon the blackened surface.  Far on the flanks the twinkling
heliographs revealed the position of the wide-spread wings.

On May 10th Lord Roberts's force, which had halted for three days at
Smaldeel, moved onwards to Welgelegen.  French's cavalry had come up
by road, and quickly strengthened the centre and left wing of the
army. On the morning of the 10th the invaders found themselves
confronted by a formidable position which the Boers had taken up on
the northern bank of the Sand River.  Their army extended over twenty
miles of country, the two Bothas were in command, and everything
pointed to a pitched battle.  Had the position been rushed from the
front, there was every material for a second Colenso, but the British
had learned that it was by brains rather than by blood that such
battles may be won.  French's cavalry turned the Boers on one side,
and Bruce Hamilton's infantry on the other. Theoretically we never
passed the Boer flanks, but practically their line was so over
extended that we were able to pierce it at any point.  There was never
any severe fighting, but rather a steady advance upon the British side
and a steady retirement upon that of the Boers.  On the left the
Sussex regiment distinguished itself by the dash with which it stormed
an important kopje.  The losses were slight, save among a detached
body of cavalry which found itself suddenly cut off by a strong force
of the enemy and lost Captain Elworthy killed, and Haig of the
Inniskillings, Wilkinson of the Australian Horse, and twenty men
prisoners.  We also secured forty or fifty prisoners, and the enemy's
casualties amounted to about as many more.  The whole straggling
action fought over a front as broad as from London to Woking cost the
British at the most a couple of hundred casualties, and carried their
army over the most formidable defensive position which they were to
encounter. The war in its later phases certainly has the pleasing
characteristic of being the most bloodless, considering the number of
men engaged and the amount of powder burned, that has been known in
history. It was at the expense of their boots and not of their lives
that the infantry won their way.

On May 11th Lord Roberts's army advanced twenty miles to Geneva
Siding, and every preparation was made for a battle next day, as it
was thought certain that the Boers would defend their new capital,
Kroonstad. It proved, however, that even here they would not make a
stand, and on May 12th, at one o'clock, Lord Roberts rode into the
town.  Steyn, Botha, and De Wet escaped, and it was announced that the
village of Lindley had become the new seat of government.  The British
had now accomplished half their journey to Pretoria, and it was
obvious that on the south side of the Vaal no serious resistance
awaited them. Burghers were freely surrendering themselves with their
arms, and returning to their farms. In the south-east Rundle and
Brabant were slowly advancing, while the Boers who faced them fell
back towards Lindley. On the west, Hunter had crossed the Vaal at
Windsorton, and Barton's Fusiller Brigade had fought a sharp action at
Rooidam, while Mahon's Mafeking relief column had slipped past their
flank, escaping the observation of the British public, but certainly
not that of the Boers. The casualties in the Rooidam action were nine
killed and thirty wounded, but the advance of the Fusiliers was
irresistible, and for once the Boer loss, as they were hustled from
kopje to kopje, appears to have been greater than that of the British.
The Yeomanry had an opportunity of showing once more that there are
few more high-mettled troops in South Africa than these good sportsmen
of the shires, who only showed a trace of their origin in their
irresistible inclination to burst into a 'tally-ho!' when ordered to
attack. The Boer forces fell back after the action along the line of
the Vaal, making for Christiana and Bloemhof.  Hunter entered into the
Transvaal in pursuit of them, being the first to cross the border,
with the exception of raiding Rhodesians early in the war. Methuen, in
the meanwhile, was following a course parallel to Hunter but south of
him, Hoopstad being his immediate objective.  The little union jacks
which were stuck in the war maps in so many British households were
now moving swiftly upwards.

Buller's force was also sweeping northwards, and the time had come
when the Ladysmith garrison, restored at last to health and strength,
should have a chance of striking back at those who had tormented them
so long. Many of the best troops had been drafted away to other
portions of the seat of war.  Hart's Brigade and Barton's Fusilier
Brigade had gone with Hunter to form the 10th Division upon the
Kimberley side, and the Imperial Light Horse had been brought over for
the relief of Mafeking.  There remained, however, a formidable force,
the regiments in which had been strengthened by the addition of drafts
and volunteers from home.  Not less than twenty thousand sabres and
bayonets were ready and eager for the passage of the Biggarsberg
mountains.

This line of rugged hills is pierced by only three passes, each of
which was held in strength by the enemy.  Considerable losses must
have ensued from any direct attempt to force them.  Buller, however,
with excellent judgment, demonstrated in front of them with Hildyard's
men, while the rest of the army, marching round, outflanked the line
of resistance, and on May 15th pounced upon Dundee.  Much had happened
since that October day when Penn Symons led his three gallant
regiments up Talana Hill, but now at last, after seven weary months,
the ground was reoccupied which he had gained. His old soldiers
visited his grave, and the national flag was raised over the remains
of as gallant a man as ever died for the sake of it.

The Boers, whose force did not exceed a few thousands, were now rolled
swiftly back through Northern Natal into their own country.  The long
strain at Ladysmith had told upon them, and the men whom we had to
meet were very different from the warriors of Spion Kop and
Nicholson's Nek.  They had done magnificently, but there is a limit to
human endurance, and no longer would these peasants face the bursting
lyddite and the bayonets of angry soldiers. There is little enough for
us to boast of in this.  Some pride might be taken in the campaign
when at a disadvantage we were facing superior numbers, but now we
could but deplore the situation in which these poor valiant burghers
found themselves, the victims of a rotten government and of their own
delusions.  Hofer's Tyrolese, Charette's Vendeans, or Bruce's
Scotchmen never fought a finer fight than these children of the veldt,
but in each case they combated a real and not an imaginary tyrant.  It
is heart-sickening to think of the butchery, the misery, the
irreparable losses, the blood of men, and the bitter tears of women,
all of which might have been spared had one obstinate and ignorant man
been persuaded to allow the State which he ruled to conform to the
customs of every other civilised State upon the earth.

Buller was now moving with a rapidity and decision which contrast
pleasantly with some of his earlier operations.  Although Dundee was
only occupied on May 15th, on May 18th his vanguard was in Newcastle,
fifty miles to the north.  In nine days he had covered 138 miles.  On
the 19th the army lay under the loom of that Majuba which had cast its
sinister shadow for so long over South African politics.  In front was
the historical Laing's Nek, the pass which leads from Natal into the
Transvaal, while through it runs the famous railway tunnel. Here the
Boers had taken up that position which had proved nineteen years
before to be too strong for British troops.  The Rooineks had come
back after many days to try again. A halt was called, for the ten
days' supplies which had been taken with the troops were exhausted,
and it was necessary to wait until the railway should be repaired.
This gave time for Hildyard's 5th Division and Lyttelton's 4th
Division to close up on Clery's 2nd Division, which with Dundonald's
cavalry had formed our vanguard throughout.  The only losses of any
consequence during this fine march fell upon a single squadron of
Bethune's mounted infantry, which being thrown out in the direction of
Vryheid, in order to make sure that our flank was clear, fell into an
ambuscade and was almost annihilated by a close-range fire.  Sixty-six
casualties, of which nearly half were killed, were the result of this
action, which seems to have depended, like most of our reverses, upon
defective scouting.  Buller, having called up his two remaining
divisions and having mended the railway behind him, proceeded now to
manoeuvre the Boers out of Laing's Nek exactly as he had manceuvred
them out of the Biggarsberg. At the end of May Hildyard and Lyttelton
were despatched in an eastern direction, as if there were an intention
of turning the pass from Utrecht.

It was on May 12th that Lord Roberts occupied Kroonstad, and he halted
there for eight days before he resumed his advance.  At the end of
that time his railway had been repaired, and enough supplies brought
up to enable him to advance again without anxiety. The country through
which he passed swarmed with herds and flocks, but, with as scrupulous
a regard for the rights of property as Wellington showed in the south
of France, no hungry soldier was allowed to take so much as a chicken
as he passed.  The punishment for looting was prompt and stern. It is
true that farms were burned occasionally and the stock confiscated,
but this was as a punishment for some particular offence and not part
of a system.  The limping Tommy looked askance at the fat geese which
covered the dam by the roadside, but it was as much as his life was
worth to allow his fingers to close round those tempting white necks.
On foul water and bully beef he tramped through a land of plenty.

Lord Roberts's eight days' halt was spent in consolidating the general
military situation.  We have already shown how Buller had crept
upwards to the Natal Border.  On the west Methuen reached Hoopstad and
Hunter Christiana, settling the country and collecting arms as they
went.  Rundle in the south-east took possession of the rich grain
lands, and on May 21st entered Ladybrand.  In front of him lay that
difilcult hilly country about Senekal, Ficksburg, and Bethlehem which
was to delay him so long.  Ian Hamilton was feeling his way northwards
to the right of the railway line, and for the moment cleared the
district between Lindley and Heilbron, passing through both towns and
causing Steyn to again change his capital, which became Vrede, in the
extreme north-east of the State. During these operations Hamilton had
the two formidable De Wet brothers in front of him, and suffered
nearly a hundred casualties in the continual skirmishing which
accompanied his advance.  His right flank and rear were continually
attacked, and these signs of forces outside our direct line of advance
were full of menace for the future.

On May 22nd the main army resumed its advance, moving forward fifteen
miles to Honing's Spruit. On the 23rd another march of twenty miles
over a fine roiling prairie brought them to Rhenoster River.  The
enemy had made some preparations for a stand, but Hamilton was near
Heilbron upon their left and French was upon their right flank.  The
river was crossed without opposition.  On the 24th the army was at
Vredefort Road, and on the 26th the vanguard crossed the Vaal River at
Viljoen's Drift, the whole army following on the 27th. Hamilton's
force had been cleverly swung across from the right to the left flank
of the British, so that the Boers were massed on the wrong side.

Preparations for resistance had been made on the line of the railway,
but the wide turning movements on the flanks by the indefatigable
French and Hamilton rendered all opposition of no avail.  The British
columns flowed over and onwards without a pause, tramping steadily
northwards to their destination. The bulk of the Free State forces
refused to leave their own country, and moved away to the eastern and
northern portion of the State, where the British Generals thought --
incorrectly, as the future was to prove -- that no further harm would
come from them. The State which they were in arms to defend had really
ceased to exist, for already it had been publicly proclaimed at
Bloemfontein in the Queen's name that the country had been annexed to
the Empire, and that its style henceforth was that of 'The Orange
River Colony.' Those who think this measure unduly harsh must remember
that every mile of land which the Freestaters had conquered in the
early part of the war had been solemnly annexed by them.  At the same
time, those Englishmen who knew the history of this State, which had
once been the model of all that a State should be, were saddened by
the thought that it should have deliberately committed suicide for the
sake of one of the most corrupt governments which have ever been
known. Had the Transvaal been governed as the Orange Free State was,
such an event as the second Boer war could never have occurred.

Lord Roberts's tremendous march was now drawing to a close.  On May
28th the troops advanced twenty miles, and passed Klip River without
fighting.  It was observed with surprise that the Transvaalers were
very much more careful of their own property than they had been of
that of their allies, and that the railway was not damaged at all by
the retreating forces.  The country had become more populous, and far
away upon the low curves of the hills were seen high chimneys and
gaunt iron pumps which struck the north of England soldier with a pang
of homesickness.  This long distant hill was the famous Rand, and
under its faded grasses lay such riches as Solomon never took from
Ophir.  It was the prize of victory; and yet the prize is not to the
victor, for the dust-grimed officers and men looked with little
personal interest at this treasure-house of the world.  Not one penny
the richer would they be for the fact that their blood and their
energy had brought justice and freedom to the gold fields.  They had
opened up an industry for the world, men of all nations would be the
better for their labours, the miner and the financier or the trader
would equally profit by them, but the men in khaki would tramp on,
unrewarded and uncomplaining, to India, to China, to any spot where
the needs of their worldwide empire called them.

The infantry, streaming up from the Vaal River to the famous ridge of
gold, had met with no resistance upon the way, but great mist banks of
cloud by day and huge twinkling areas of flame by night showed the
handiwork of the enemy.  Hamilton and French, moving upon the left
flank, found Boers thick upon the hills, but cleared them off in a
well-managed skirmish which cost us a dozen casualties. On May 29th,
pushing swiftly along, French found the enemy posted very strongly
with several guns at Doornkop, a point west of Klip River Berg.  The
cavalry leader had with him at this stage three horse batteries, four
pom-poms, and 3,000 mounted men. The position being too strong for him
to force, Hamilton's infantry (19th and 21st Brigades) were called up,
and the Boers were driven out. That splendid corps, the Gordons, lost
nearly a hundred men in their advance over the open, and the C.I.V.s
on the other flank fought like a regiment of veterans.  There had been
an inclination to smile at these citizen soldiers when they first came
out, but no one smiled now save the General who felt that he had them
at his back. Hamilton's attack was assisted by the menace rather than
the pressure of French's turning movement on the Boer right, but the
actual advance was as purely frontal as any of those which had been
carried through at the beginning of the war.  The open formation of
the troops, the powerful artillery behind them, and perhaps also the
lowered morale of the enemy combined to make such a movement less
dangerous than of old.  In any case it was inevitable, as the state of
Hamilton's commisariat rendered it necessary that at all hazards he
should force his way through.

Whilst this action of Doornkop was fought by the British left flank,
Henry's mounted infantry in the centre moved straight upon the
important junction of Germiston, which lies amid the huge white heaps
of tailings from the mines.  At this point, or near it, the lines from
Johannesburg and from Natal join the line to Pretoria.  Colonel
Henry's advance was an extremely daring one, for the infantry were
some distance behind; but after an irregular scrambling skirmish, in
which the Boer snipers had to be driven off the mine heaps and from
among the houses, the 8th mounted infantry got their grip of the
railway and held it.  The exploit was a very fine one, and stands out
the more brilliantly as the conduct of the campaign cannot be said to
afford many examples of that well-considered audacity which
deliberately runs the risk of the minor loss for the sake of the
greater gain.  Henry was much assisted by J battery R.H.A., which was
handled with energy and judgment.

French was now on the west of the town, Henry had cut the railway on
the east, and Roberts was coming up from the south. His infantry had
covered 130 miles in seven days, but the thought that every step
brought them nearer to Pretoria was as exhilarating as their fifes and
drums.  On May 30th the victorious troops camped outside the city
while Botha retired with his army, abandoning without a battle the
treasure-house of his country.  Inside the town were chaos and
confusion.  The richest mines in the world lay for a day or more at
the mercy of a lawless rabble drawn from all nations.  The Boer
officials were themselves divided in opinion, Krause standing for law
and order while Judge Koch advocated violence.  A spark would have set
the town blazing, and the worst was feared when a crowd of mercenaries
assembled in front of the Robinson mine with threats of violence.  By
the firmness and tact of Mr. Tucker, the manager, and by the strong
attitude of Commissioner Krause, the situation was saved and the
danger passed.  Upon May 31st, without violence to life or destruction
to property, that great town which British hands have done so much to
build found itself at last under the British flag.  May it wave there
so long as it covers just laws, honest officials, and clean-handed
administrators -- so long and no longer!

And now the last stage of the great journey had been reached.  Two
days were spent at Johannesburg while supplies were brought up, and
then a move was made upon Pretoria thirty miles to the north. Here was
the Boer capital, the seat of government, the home of Kruger, the
centre of all that was anti-British, crouching amid its hills, with
costly forts guarding every face of it.  Surely at last the place had
been found where that great battle should be fought which should
decide for all time whether it was with the Briton or with the
Dutchman that the future of South Africa lay.

On the last day of May two hundred Lancers under the command of Major
Hunter Weston, with Charles of the Sappers and. Burnham the scout, a
man who has played the part of a hero throughout the campaign, struck
off from the main army and endeavoured to descend upon the
Pretoria-Delagoa railway line with the intention of blowing up a bridge
and cutting the Boer line of retreat. It was a most dashing attempt;
but the small party had the misfortune to come into contact with a
strong Boer commando, who headed them off.  After a skirmish they were
compelled to make their way back with a loss of five killed and
fourteen wounded.

The cavalry under French had waited for the issue of this enterprise
at a point nine miles north of Johannesburg.  On June 2nd it began its
advance with orders to make a wide sweep round to the westward, and so
skirt the capital, cutting the Pietersburg railway to the north of it.
The country in the direct line between Johannesburg and Pretoria
consists of a series of rolling downs which are admirably adapted for
cavalry work, but the detour which French had to make carried him into
the wild and broken district which lies to the north of the Little
Crocodile River.  Here he was fiercely attacked on ground where his
troops could not deploy, but with extreme coolness and judgment beat
off the enemy.  To cover thirty-two miles in a day and fight a way out
of an ambuscade in the evening is an ordeal for any leader and for any
troops. Two killed and seven wounded were our trivial losses in a
situation which might have been a serious one.  The Boers appear to
have been the escort of a strong convoy which had passed along the
road some miles in front.  Next morning both convoy and opposition had
disappeared.  The cavalry rode on amid a country of orange groves, the
troopers standing up in their stirrups to pluck the golden fruit.
There was no further fighting, and on June 4th French had establisbed
himself upon the north of the town, where he learned that all
resistance had ceased.

Whilst the cavalry had performed this enveloping movement the main
army had moved swiftly upon its objective, leaving one brigade behind
to secure Johannesburg. Ian Hamilton advanced upon the left, while
Lord Roberts's column kept the line of the railway, Colonel Henry's
mounted infantry scouting in front. As the army topped the low curves
of the veldt they saw in front of them two well-marked hills, each
crowned by a low squat building.  They were the famous southern forts
of Pretoria. Between the hills was a narrow neck, and beyond the Boer
capital.

For a time it appeared that the entry was to be an absolutely
bloodless one, but the booming of cannon and the crash of Mauser fire
soon showed that the enemy was in force upon the ridge.  Botha had
left a strong rearguard to hold off the British while his own stores
and valuables were being withdrawn from the town. The silence of the
forts showed that the guns had been removed and that no prolonged
resistance was intended; but in the meanwhile fringes of determined
riflemen, supported by cannon, held the approaches, and must be driven
off before an entry could be effected. Each fresh corps as it came up
reinforced the firing line.  Henry's mounted infantrymen supported by
the horse-guns of J battery and the guns of Tucker's division began
the action. So hot was the answer, both from cannon and from rifle,
that it seemed for a time as if a real battle were at last about to
take place. The Guards' Brigade, Stephenson's Brigade, and Maxwell's
Brigade streamed up and waited until Hamilton, who was on the enemy's
right flank, should be able to make his presence felt.  The heavy guns
had also arrived, and a huge cloud of DEBRIS rising from the Pretorian
forts told the accuracy of their fire.

But either the burghers were half-hearted or there was no real
intention to make a stand. About half-past two their fire slackened
and Pole-Carew was directed to push on. That debonnaire soldier with
his two veteran brigades obeyed the order with alacrity, and the
infantry swept over the ridge, with some thirty or forty casualties,
the majority of which fell to the Warwicks. The position was taken,
and Hamilton, who came up late, was only able to send on De Lisle's
mounted infantry, chiefly Australians, who ran down one of the Boer
maxims in the open.  The action had cost us altogether about seventy
men.  Among the injured was the Duke of Norfolk, who had shown a high
sense of civic virtue in laying aside the duties and dignity of a
Cabinet Minister in order to serve as a simple captain of
volunteers. At the end of this one fight the capital lay at the mercy
of Lord Roberts. Consider the fight which they made for their chief
city, compare it with that which the British made for the village of
Mafeking, and say on which side is that stern spirit of self-sacrifice
and resolution which are the signs of the better cause.

In the early morning of June 5th, the Coldstream Guards were mounting
the hills which commanded the town.  Beneath them in the clear African
air lay the famous city, embowered in green, the fine central
buildings rising grandly out of the wide circle of villas. Through the
Nek part of the Guards' Brigade and Maxwell's Brigade had passed, and
had taken over the station, from which at least one train laden with
horses had steamed that morning.  Two others, both ready to start,
were only just stopped in time.

The first thought was for the British prisoners, and a small party
headed by the Duke of Marlborough rode to their rescue.  Let it be
said once for all that their treatment by the Boers was excellent and
that their appearance would alone have proved it. One hundred and
twenty-nine officers and thirty-nine soldiers were found in the Model
Schools, which had been converted into a prison.  A day later our
cavalry arrived at Waterval, which is fourteen miles to the north of
Pretoria. Here were confined three thousand soldiers, whose fare had
certainly been of the scantiest, though in other respects they appear
to have been well treated.[Footnote: Further information unfortunately
shows that in the case of the sick and of the Colonial prisoners the
treatment was by no meanu good.]  Nine hundred of their comrades had
been removed by the Boers, but Porter's cavalry was in time to release
the others, under a brisk shell fire from a Boer gun upon the ridge.
Many pieces of good luck we had in the campaign, but this recovery of
our prisoners, which left the enemy without a dangerous lever for
exacting conditions of peace, was the most fortunate of all.

In the centre of the town there is a wide square decorated or
disfigured by a bare pedestal upon which a statue of the President was
to have been placed. Hard by is the bleak barnlike church in which he
preached, and on either side are the Government offices and the Law
Courts, buildings which would grace any European capital.  Here, at
two o'clock on the afternoon of June 5th, Lord Roberts sat his horse
and saw pass in front of him the men who had followed him so far and
so faithfully -- the Guards, the Essex, the Welsh, the Yorks, the
Warwicks, the guns, the mounted infantry, the dashing irregulars, the
Gordons, the Canadians, the Shropshires, the Cornwalls, the Camerons,
the Derbys, the Sussex, and the London Volunteers. For over two hours
the khaki waves with their crests of steel went sweeping by.  High
above their heads from the summit of the Raad-saal the broad Union
Jack streamed for the first time. Through months of darkness we had
struggled onwards to the light.  Now at last the strange drama seemed
to be drawing to its close. The God of battles had given the
long-withheld verdict.  But of all the hearts which throbbed high at
that supreme moment there were few who felt one touch of bitterness
towards the brave men who had been overborne.  They had fought and
died for their ideal.  We had fought and died for ours.  The hope for
the future of South Africa is that they or their descendants may learn
that that banner which has come to wave above Pretoria means no racial
intolerance, no greed for gold, no paltering with injustice or
corruption, but that it means one law for all and one freedom for all,
as it does in every other continent in the whole broad earth. When
that is learned it may happen that even they will come to date a
happier life and a wider liberty from that 5th of June which saw the
symbol of their nation pass for ever from among the ensigns of the
world.

CHAPTER XXVI

DIAMOND HILL -- RUNDLE'S OPERATIONS


THE military situation at the time of the occupation of Pretoria was
roughly as follows.  Lord Roberts with some thirty thousand men was in
possession of the capital, but had left his long line of
communications very imperfectly guarded behind him.  On the flank of
this line of communications, in the eastern and northeastern corner of
the Free State, was an energetic force of unconquered Freestaters who
had rallied round President Steyn.  They were some eight or ten
thousand in number, well horsed, with a fair number of guns, under the
able leadership of De Wet, Prinsloo, and Olivier. Above all, they had
a splendid position, mountainous and broken, from which, as from a
fortress, they could make excursions to the south or west.  This army
included the commandos of Ficksburg, Senekal, and Harrismith, with all
the broken and desperate men from other districts who had left their
farms and fled to the mountains.  It was held in check as a united
force by Rundle's Division and the Colonial Division on the south,
while Colvile, and afterwards Methuen, endeavoured to pen them in on
the west. The task was a hard one, however, and though Rundle
succeeded in holding his line intact, it appeared to be impossible in
that wide country to coop up altogether an enemy so mobile. A strange
game of hide-and-seek ensued, in which De Wet, who led the Boer raids,
was able again and again to strike our line of rails and to get back
without serious loss.  The story of these instructive and humiliating
episodes will be told in their order.  The energy and skill of the
guerilla chief challenge our admiration, and the score of his
successes would be amusing were it not that the points of the game are
marked by the lives of British soldiers.

General Buller had spent the latter half of May in making his way from
Ladysmith to Laing's Nek, and the beginning of June found him with
twenty thousand men in front of that difficult position.  Some talk of
a surrender had arisen, and Christian Botha, who commanded the Boers,
succeeded in gaining several days' armistice, which ended in nothing.
The Transvaal forces at this point were not more than a few thousand
in number, but their position was so formidable that it was a serious
task to turn them out. Van Wyk's Hill, however, had been left
unguarded, and as its possession would give the British the command of
Botha's Pass, its unopposed capture by the South African Light Horse
was an event of great importance.  With guns upon this eminence the
infantry were able, on June 8th, to attack and to carry with little
loss the rest of the high ground, and so to get the Pass into their
complete possession. Botha fired the grass behind him, and withdrew
sullenly to the north. On the 9th and 10th the convoys were passed
over the Pass, and on the 11th the main body of the army followed
them.

The operations were now being conducted in that extremely acute angle
of Natal which runs up between the Transvaal and the Orange Free
State.  In crossing Botha's Pass the army had really entered what was
now the Orange River Colony. But it was only for a very short time, as
the object of the movement was to turn the Laing's Nek position, and
then come back into the Transvaal through Alleman's Pass.  The gallant
South African Light Horse led the way, and fought hard at one point to
clear a path for the army, losing six killed and eight wounded in a
sharp skirmish.  On the morning of the 12th the flanking movement was
far advanced, and it only remained for the army to force Alleman's
Nek, which would place it to the rear of Laing's Nek, and close to the
Transvaal town of Volksrust.

Had the Boers been the men of Colenso and of Spion Kop, this stonuing
of Alleman's Nek would have been a bloody business.  The position was
strong, the cover was slight, and there was no way round.  But the
infantry came on with the old dash without the old stubborn resolution
being opposed to them.  The guns prepared the way, and then the
Dorsets, the Dublins, the Middlesex, the Queen's, and the East Surrey
did the rest.  The door was open and the Transvaal lay before us.  The
next day Volksrust was in our hands.

The whole series of operations were excellently conceived and carried
out.  Putting Colenso on one side, it cannot be denied that General
Buller showed considerable power of manoeuvring large bodies of
troops. The withdrawal of the compromised army after Spion Kop, the
change of the line of attack at Pieter's Hill, and the flanking
marches in this campaign of Northern Natal, were all very workmanlike
achievements. In this case a position which the Boers had been
preparing for months, scored with trenches and topped by heavy
artillery, had been rendered untenable by a clever flank movement, the
total casualties in the whole affair being less than two hundred
killed and wounded. Natal was cleared of the invader, Buller's foot
was on the high plateau of the Transvaal, and Roberts could count on
twenty thousand good men coming up to him from the south-east.  More
important than all, the Natal railway was being brought up, and soon
the central British Army would depend upon Durban instead of Cape Town
for its supplies -- a saving of nearly two-thirds of the distance.
The fugitive Boers made northwards in the Middelburg direction, while
Buller advanced to Standerton, which town he continued to occupy until
Lord Roberts could send a force down through Heidelberg to join hands
with him.  Such was the position of the Natal Field Force at the end
of June. From the west and the south-west British forces were also
converging upon the capital.  The indomitable Baden-Powell sought for
rest and change of scene after his prolonged trial by harrying the
Boers out of Zeerust and Rustenburg.  The forces of Hunter and of
Mahon converged upon Potchefstroom, from which, after settling that
district, they could be conveyed by rail to Krugersdorp and
Johannesburg.

Before briefly recounting the series of events which took place upon
the line of communications, the narrative must return to Lord Roberts
at Pretoria, and describe the operations which followed his occupation
of that city. In leaving the undefeated forces of the Free State
behind him, the British General had unquestionably run a grave risk,
and was well aware that his railway communication was in danger of
being cut.  By the rapidity of his movements he succeeded in gaining
the enemy's capital before that which he had foreseen came to pass;
but if Botha had held him at Pretoria while De Wet struck at him
behind, the situation would have been a serious one. Having once
attained his main object, Roberts could receive with equanimity the
expected news that De Wet with a mobile force of less than two
thousand men had, on June 7th, cut the line at Roodeval to the north
of Kroonstad.  Both rail and telegraph were destroyed, and for a few
days the army was isolated. Fortunately there were enough supplies to
go on with, and immediate steps were taken to drive away the intruder,
though, like a mosquito, he was brushed from one place only to settle
upon another.

Leaving others to restore his broken communications, Lord Roberts
turned his attention once more to Botha, who still retained ten or
fifteen thousand men under his command.  The President had fled from
Pretoria with a large sum of money, estimated at over two millions
sterling, and was known to be living in a saloon railway carriage,
which had been transformed into a seat of government even more mobile
than that of President Steyn.  From Waterval-Boven, a point beyond
Middelburg, he was in a position either to continue his journey to
Delagoa Bay, and so escape out of the country, or to trave] north into
that wild Lydenburg country which had always been proclaimed as the
last ditch of the defence.  Here he remained with his gold-bags
waiting the turn of events.

Botha and his stalwarts had not gone far from the capital.  Fifteen
miles out to the east the railway line runs through a gap in the hills
called Pienaars Poort, and here was such a position as the Boer loves
to hold. It was very strong in front, and it had widely spread
formidable flanking hills to hamper those turning movements which had
so often been fatal to the Boer generals. Behind was the uncut railway
line along which the guns could in case of need be removed.  The whole
position was over fifteen miles from wing to wing, and it was well
known to the Boer general that Lord Roberts had no longer that
preponderance of force which would enable him to execute wide turning
movements, as he had done in his advance from the south. His army had
decreased seriously in numbers. The mounted men, the most essential
branch of all, were so ill horsed that brigades were not larger than
regiments.  One brigade of infantry (the 14th) had been left to
garrison Johannesburg, and another (the 18th) had been chosen for
special duty in Pretoria.  Smith-Dorrien's Brigade had been detached
for duty upon the line of communications. With all these deductions
and the wastage caused by wounds and disease, the force was in no
state to assume a vigorous offensive. So hard pressed were they for
men that the three thousand released prisoners from Waterval were
hurriedly armed with Boer weapons and sent down the line to help to
guard the more vital points.

Had Botha withdrawn to a safe distance, Lord Roberts would certainly
have halted, as he had done at Bloemfontein, and waited for remounts
and reinforcements. But the war could not be allowed to languish when
an active enemy lay only fifteen miles off, within striking distance
of two cities and of the line of rail.  Taking all the troops that he
could muster, the British General moved out once more on Monday, June
11th, to drive Botha from his position. He had with him Pole-Carew's
11th Division, which numbered about six thousand men with twenty guns,
Ian Hamilton's force, which included one infantry brigade (Bruce
Hamilton's), one cavalry brigade, and a corps of mounted infantry,
say, six thousand in all, with thirty guns.  There remained French's
Cavalry Division, with Hutton's Mounted Infantry, which could not have
exceeded two thousand sabres and rifles.  The total force was,
therefore, not more than sixteen or seventeen thousand men, with about
seventy guns. Their task was to carry a carefully prepared position
held by at least ten thousand burghers with a strong artillery.  Had
the Boer of June been the Boer of December, the odds would have been
against the British.

There had been some negotiations for peace between Lord Roberts and
Botha, but the news of De Wet's success from the south had hardened
the Boer general's heart, and on June 9th the cavalry had their orders
to advance.  Hamilton was to work round the left wing of the Boers,
and French round their right, while the infantry came up in the
centre.  So wide was the scene of action that the attack and the
resistance in each flank and in the centre constituted, on June 11th,
three separate actions.  Of these the latter was of least importance,
as it merely entailed the advance of the infantry to a spot whence
they could take advantage of the success of the flanking forces when
they had made their presence felt.  The centre did not on this as on
several other occasions in the campaign make the mistake of advancing
before the way had been prepared for it.

French with his attenuated force found so vigorous a resistance on
Monday and Tuesday that he was hard put to it to hold his own.
Fortunately he had with him three excellent Horse Artillery batteries,
G, 0, and T, who worked until, at the end of the engagement, they had
only twenty rounds in their limbers. The country was an impossible one
for cavalry, and the troopers fought dismounted, with intervals of
twenty or thirty paces between the men. Exposed all day to rifle and
shell fire, unable to advance and unwilling to retreat, it was only
owing to their open formation that they escaped with about thirty
casualties. With Boers on his front, his flank, and even on his rear,
French held grimly on, realising that a retreat upon his part would
mean a greater pressure at all other points of the British advance. At
night his weary men slept upon the ground which they had held.  All
Monday and all Tuesday French kept his grip at Kameelsdrift, stolidly
indifferent to the attempt of the enemy to cut his line of
communications. On Wednesday, Hamilton, upon the other flank, had
gained the upper hand, and the pressure was relaxed. French then
pushed forward, but the horses were so utterly beaten that no
effective pursuit was possible.

During the two days that French had been held up by the Boer right
wing Hamilton had also been seriously engaged upon the left -- so
seriously that at one time the action appeared to have gone against
him. The fight presented some distinctive features, which made it
welcome to soldiers who were weary of the invisible man with his
smokeless gun upon the eternal kopje.  It is true that man, gun, and
kopje were all present upon this occasion, but in the endeavours to
drive him off some new developments took place, which formed for one
brisk hour a reversion to picturesque warfare.  Perceiving a gap in
the enemy's line, Hamilton pushed up the famous Q battery -- the guns
which had plucked glory out of disaster at Sanna's Post.  For the
second time in one campaign they were exposed and in imminent danger
of capture. A body of mounted Boers with great dash and hardihood
galloped down within close range and opened fire.  Instantly the 12th
Lancers were let loose upon them.  How they must have longed for their
big-boned long-striding English troop horses as they strove to raise a
gallop out of their spiritless overworked Argentines!  For once,
however, the lance meant more than five pounds dead weight and an
encumbrance to the rider.  The guns were saved, the Boers fled, and a
dozen were left upon the ground. But a cavalry charge has to end in a
re-formation, and that is the instant of danger if any unbroken enemy
remains within range.  Now a sleet of bullets hissed through their
ranks as they retired, and the gallant Lord Airlie, as modest and
brave a soldier as ever drew sword, was struck through the heart.
'Pray moderate your language!' was his last characteristic remark,
made to a battle-drunken sergeant.  Two officers, seventeen men, and
thirty horses went down with their Colonel, the great majority only
slightly injured.  In the meantime the increasing pressure upon his
right caused Broadwood to order a second charge, of the Life Guards
this time, to drive off the assailants.  The appearance rather than
the swords of the Guards prevailed, and cavalry as cavalry had
vindicated their existence more than they had ever done during the
campaign.  The guns were saved, the flank attack was rolled back, but
one other danger had still to be met, for the Heidelberg commando -- a
corps D'ELITE of the Boers -- had made its way outside Hamilton's
flank and threatened to get past him.  With cool judgment the British
General detached a battalion and a section of a battery, which pushed
the Boers back into a less menacing position.  The rest of Bruce
Hamilton's Brigade were ordered to advance upon the hills in front,
and, aided by a heavy artillery fire, they had succeeded, before the
closing in of the winter night, in getting possession of this first
line of the enemy's defences.  Night fell upon an undecided fight,
which, after swaying this way and that, had finally inclined to the
side of the British.  The Sussex and the City Imperial Volunteers were
clinging to the enemy's left flank, while the 11th Division were
holding them in front.  All promised well for the morrow.

By order of Lord Roberts the Guards were sent round early on Tuesday,
the 12th, to support the flank attack of Bruce Hamilton's infantry. It
was afternoon before all was ready for the advance, and then the
Sussex, the London Volunteers, and the Derbyshires won a position upon
the ridge, followed later by the three regiments of Guards. But the
ridge was the edge of a considerable plateau, swept by Boer fire, and
no advance could be made over its bare expanse save at a considerable
loss.  The infantry clung in a long fringe to the edge of the
position, but for two hours no guns could be brought up to their
support, as the steepness of the slope was insurmountable.  It was all
that the stormers could do to hold their ground, as they were
enfiladed by a Vickers-Maxim, and exposed to showers of shrapnel as
well as to an incessant rifle fire.  Never were guns so welcome as
those of the 82nd battery, brought by Major Connolly into the firing
line.  The enemy's riflemen were only a thousand yards away, and the
action of the artillery might have seemed as foolhardy as that of Long
at Colenso. Ten horses went down on the instant, and a quarter of the
gunners were hit; but the guns roared one by one into action, and
their shrapnel soon decided the day.  Undoubtedly it is with Connolly
and his men that the honours lie.

At four o'clock, as the sun sank towards the west, the tide of fight
had set in favour of the attack.  Two more batteries had come up,
every rifle was thrown into the firing line, and the Boer reply was
decreasing in volume. The temptation to an assault was great, but even
now it might mean heavy loss of life, and Hamilton shrank from the
sacrifice.  In the morning his judgment was justified, for Botha had
abandoned the position, and his army was in full retreat.  The mounted
men followed as far as Elands River Station, which is twenty-five
miles from Pretoria, but the enemy was not overtaken, save by a small
party of De Lisle's Australians and Regular Mounted Infantry.  This
force, less than a hundred in number, gained a kopje which overlooked
a portion of the Boer army.  Had they been more numerous, the effect
would have been incalculable. As it was, the Australians fired every
cartridge which they possessed into the throng, and killed many horses
and men.  It would bear examination why it was that only this small
corps was present at so vital a point, and why, if they could push the
pursuit to such purpose, others should not be able to do the same.
Time was bringing some curious revenges. Already Paardeberg had come
upon Majuba Day. Buller's vietorious soldiers had taken Laing's Nek.
Now, the Spruit at which the retreating Boers were so mishandled by
the Australians was that same Bronkers Spruit at which, nineteen years
before, a regiment had been shot down.  Many might have prophesied
that the deed would be avenged; but who could ever have guessed the
men who would avenge it?

Such was the battle of Diamond Hill, as it was called from the name of
the ridge which was opposite to Hamilton's attack.  The prolonged two
days' struggle showed that there was still plenty of fight in the
burghers. Lord Roberts had not routed them, nor had he captured their
guns; but he had cleared the vicinity of the capital, he had inflicted
a loss upon them which was certainly as great as his own, and he had
again proved to them that it was vain for them to attempt to stand. A
long pause followed at Pretoria, broken by occasional small alarms and
excursions, which served no end save to keep the army from ENNUI. In
spite of occasional breaks in his line of communications, horses and
supplies were coming up rapidly, and, by the middle of July, Roberts
was ready for the field again. At the same time Hunter had come up
from Potchefstroom, and Hamilton had taken Heidelberg, and his force
was about to join hands with Buller at Standerton.  Sporadic warfare
broke out here and there in the west, and in the course of it Snyman
of Mafeking had reappeared, with two guns, which were promptly taken
from him by the Canadian Mounted Rifles.  On all sides it was felt
that if the redoubtable De Wet could be captured there was every hope
that the burghers might discontinue a struggle which was disagreeable
to the British and fatal to themselves.  As a point of honour it was
impossible for Botha to give in while his ally held out.  We will
turn, therefore, to this famous guerilla chief, and give some account
of his exploits.  To understand them some description must be given of
the general military situation in the Free State.

When Lord Roberts had swept past to the north he had brushed aside the
flower of the Orange Free State army, who occupied the considerable
quadrilateral which is formed by the north-east of that State.  The
function of Rundle's 8th Division and of Brabant's Colonial Division
was to separate the sheep from the goats by preventing the fighting
burghers from coming south and disturbing those districts which had
been settled. For this purpose Rundle formed a long line which should
serve as a cordon.  Moving up through Trommel and Clocolan, Ficksburg
was occupied on May 25th by the Colonial Division, while Rundle seized
Senekal, forty miles to the north-west.  A small force of forty
Yeomanry, who entered the town some time in advance of the main body,
was suddenly attacked by the Boers, and the gallant Dalbiac, famous
rider and sportsman, was killed, with four of his men. He was a
victim, as so many have been in this campaign, to his own proud
disregard of danger.

The Boers were in full retreat, but now, as always, they were
dangerous.  One cannot take them for granted, for the very moment of
defeat is that at which they are capable of some surprising effort.
Rundle, following them up from Senekal, found them in strong
possession of the kopjes at Biddulphsberg, and received a check in his
endeavour to drive them off. It was an action fought amid great grass
fires, where the possible fate of the wounded was horrible to
contemplate.  The 2nd Grenadiers, the Scots Guards, the East
Yorkshires, and the West Kents were all engaged, with the 2nd and 79th
Field Batteries and a force of Yeomanry.  Our losses incurred in the
open from unseen rifles were thirty killed and 130 wounded, including
Colonel Lloyd of the Grenadiers.  Two days later Rundle, from Seneka],
joined hands with Brabant from Ficksburg, and a defensive line was
formed between those two places, which was held unbroken for two
months, when the operations ended in the capture of the greater part
of the force opposed to him.  Clements's Brigade, consisting of the
1st Royal Irish, the 2nd Bedfords, the 2nd Worcesters, and the 2nd
Wiltshires, had come to strengthen Rundle, and altogether he may have
had as many as twelve thousand men under his orders.  It was not a
large force with which to hold a mobile adversary at least eight
thousand strong, who might attack him at any point of his extended
line.  So well, however, did he select his positions that every
attempt of the enemy, and there were many, ended in failure. Badly
supplied with food, he and his half-starved men held bravely to their
task, and no soldiers in all that great host deserve better of their
country.

At the end of May, then, the Colonial Division, Rundle's Division, and
Clements's Brigade held the Boers from Ficksburg on the Basuto border
to Senekal.  This prevented them from coming south.  But what was
there to prevent them from coming west, and falling upon the railway
line? There was the weak point of the British position.  Lord Methuen
had been brought across from Boshof, and was available with six
thousand men.  Colvile was on that side also, with the Highland
Brigade.  A few details were scattered up and down the line, waiting
to be gathered up by an enterprising enemy. Kroonstad was held by a
single militia battalion; each separate force had to be nourished by
convoys with weak escorts. Never was there such a field for a mobile
and competent guerilla leader. And, as luck would have it, such a man
was at hand, ready to take full advantage of his opportunities.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE LINES OF COMMUNICATION

Christian de Wet, the elder of two brothers of that name, was at this
time in the prime of life, a little over forty years of age. He was a
burly middle-sized bearded man, poorly educated, but endowed with much
energy and common-sense.  His military experience dated back to Majuba
Hill, and he had a large share of that curious race hatred which is
intelligible in the case of the Transvaal, but inexplicable in a
Freestater who has received no injury from the British Empire.  Some
weakness of his sight compels the use of tinted spectacles, and he had
now turned these, with a pair of particularly observant eyes behind
them, upon the scattered British forces and the long exposed line of
railway.

De Wet's force was an offshoot from the army of Freestaters under De
Villiers, Olivier, and Prinsloo, which lay in the mountainous
north-east of the State. To him were committed five guns, fifteen
hundred men, and the best of the horses.  Well armed, well mounted,
and operating in a country which consisted of rolling plains with
occasional fortress kopjes, his little force had everything in its
favour.  There were so many tempting objects of attack lying before
him that he must have had some difficulty in knowing where to begin.
The tinted spectacles were turned first upon the isolated town of
Lindley.

Colvile with the Highland Brigade had come up from Ventersburg with
instructions to move onward to Heilbron, pacifying the country as he
passed.  The country, however, refused to be pacified, and his march
from Ventersburg to Lindley was harassed by snipers every mile of the
way.  Finding that De Wet and his men were close upon him, he did not
linger at Lindley, but passed on to his destination, his entire march
of 126 miles costing him sixty-three casualties, of which nine were
fatal. It was a difficult and dangerous march, especially for the
handful of Eastern Province Horse, upon whom fell all the mounted
work.  By evil fortune a force of five hundred Yeomanry, the 18th
battalion, including the Duke of Cambridge's Own and the Irish
companies, had been sent from Kroonstad to join Colvile at Lindley.
Colonel Spragge was in command.  On May 27th this body of horsemen
reached their destination only to find that Colvile had already
abandoned it. They appear to have determined to halt for a day in
Lindley, and then follow Colvile to Heilbron.  Within a few hours of
their entering the town they were fiercely attacked by De Wet.

Colonel Spragge seems to have acted for the best. Under a heavy fire
he caused his troopers to fall back upon his transport, which had been
left at a point a few miles out upon the Kroonstad Road, where three
defensible kopjes sheltered a valley in which the cattle and horses
could be herded. A stream ran through it. There were all the materials
there for a stand which would have brought glory to the British
arms. The men were of peculiarly fine quality, many of them from the
public schools and from the universities, and if any would fight to
the death these with their sporting spirit and their high sense of
honour might have been expected to do so.

They had the stronger motive for holding out, as they had taken steps
to convey word of their difficulty to Colvile and to Methuen. The
former continued his march to Heilbron, and it is hard to blame him for
doing so, but Methuen on hearing the message, which was conveyed to
him at great personal peril by Corporal Hankey of the Yeomanry, pushed
on instantly with the utmost energy, though he arrived too late to
prevent, or even to repair, a disaster.  It must be remembered that
Colvile was under orders to reach Heilbron on a certain date, that he
was himself fighting his way, and that the force which he was asked to
relieve was much more mobile than his own.  His cavalry at that date
consisted of 100 men of the Eastern Province Horse.

Colonel Spragge's men had held their own for the first three days of
their investment, during which they had been simply exposed to a
long-range rifle fire which inflicted no very serious loss upon
them. Their principal defence consisted of a stone kraal about twenty
yards square, which sheltered them from rifle bullets, but must
obviously be a perfect death-trap in the not improbable event of the
Boers sending for artillery.  The spirit of the troopers was
admirable.  Several dashing sorties were carried out under the
leadership of Captain Humby and Lord Longford.  The latter was a
particularly dashing business, ending in a bayonet charge which
cleared a neighbouring ridge.  Early in the siege the gallant Keith
met his end.  On the fourth day the Boers brought up five guns. One
would have thought that during so long a time as three days it would
have been possible for the officer in command to make such
preparations against this obvious possibility as were so successfully
taken at a later stage of the war by the handful who garrisoned
Ladybrand.  Surely in this period, even without engineers, it would
not have been hard to construct such trenches as the Boers have again
and again opposed to our own artillery.  But the preparations which
were made proved to be quite inadequate. One of the two smaller kopjes
was carried, and the garrison fled to the other.  This also was
compelled to surrender, and finally the main kopje also hoisted the
white flag.  No blame can rest upon the men, for their presence there
at all is a sufficient proof of their public spirit and their
gallantry.  But the lessons of the war seem to have been imperfectly
learned, especially that very certain lesson that shell fire in a
close formation is insupportable, while in an open formation with a
little cover it can never compel surrender.  The casualty lists (80
killed and wounded out of a force of 470) show that the Yeomanry took
considerable punishment before surrendering, but do not permit us to
call the defence desperate or heroic.  It is only fair to add that
Colonel Spragge was acquitted of all blame by a court of inquiry,
which agreed, however, that the surrender was premature, and
attributed it to the unauthorised hoisting of a white flag upon one of
the detached kopjes. With regard to the subsequent controversy as to
whether General Colvile might have returned to the relief of the
Yeomanry, it is impossible to see how that General could have acted in
any other way than he did.

Some explanation is needed of Lord Methuen's appearance upon the
central scene of warfare, his division having, when last described,
been at Boshof, not far from Kimberley, where early in April he fought
the successful action which led to the death of Villebois. Thence he
proceeded along the Vaal and then south to Kroonstad, arriving there
on May 28th. He had with him the 9th Brigade (Douglas's), which
contained the troops which had started with him for the relief of
Kimberley six months before.  These were the Northumberland Fusiliers,
Loyal North Lancashires, Northamptons, and Yorkshire Light Infantry.
With him also were the Munsters, Lord Chesham's Yeomanry (five
companies), with the 4th and 37th batteries, two howitzers and two
pom-poms.  His total force was about 6,000 men.  On arriving at
Kroonstad he was given the task of relieving Heilbron, where Colvile,
with the Highland Brigade, some Colonial horse, Lovat's Scouts, two
naval guns, and the 5th battery, were short of food and ammunition.
The more urgent message from the Yeomen at Lindley, however, took him
on a fruitless journey to that town on June 1st.  So vigorous was the
pursuit of the Yeomanry that the leading squadrons, consisting of
South Notts Hussars and Sherwood Rangers, actually cut into the Boer
convoy and might have rescued the prisoners had they been supported.
As it was they were recalled, and had to fight their way back to
Lindley with some loss, including Colonel Rolleston, the commander,
who was badly wounded. A garrison was left under Paget, and the rest
of the force pursued its original mission to Heilbron, arriving there
on June 7th, when the Highlanders had been reduced to quarter
rations. 'The Salvation Army' was the nickname by which they expressed
their gratitude to the relieving force.

A previous convoy sent to the same destination had less good fortune.
On June 1st fifty-five wagons started from the railway line to reach
Heilbron.  The escort consisted of one hundred and sixty details
belonging to Highland regiments without any guns, Captain Corballis in
command.  But the gentleman with the tinted glasses was waiting on the
way.  'I have twelve hundred men and five guns.  Surrender at once!'
Such was the message which reached the escort, and in their
defenceless condition there was nothing for it but to comply.  Thus
one disaster leads to another, for, had the Yeomanry held out at
Lindley, De Wet would not on June 4th have laid hands upon our wagons;
and had he not recruited his supplies from our wagons it is doubtful
if he could have made his attack upon Roodeval.  This was the next
point upon which he turned his attention.

Two miles beyond Roodeval station there is a well-marked kopje by the
railway line, with other hills some distance to the right and the
left..  A militia regiment, the 4th Derbyshire, had been sent up to
occupy this post.  There were rumours of Boers on the line, and Major
Haig, who with one thousand details of various regiments commanded at
railhead, had been attacked on June 6th but had beaten off his
assailants.  De Wet, acting sometimes in company with, and sometimes
independcntly of, his lieutenant Nel, passed down the line looking fur
some easier prey, and on the night of June 7th came upon the militia
regiment, which was encamped in a position which could be complet~y
commanded by artillery.  It is not true that they had neglected to
occupy the kopje under which they lay, for two companies had been
posted upon it. But there seems to have been no thought of imminent
danger, and the regiment had pitched its tents and gone very
comfortably to sleep without a thought of the gentleman in the tinted
glasses.  In the middle of the night he was upon them with a hissing
sleet of bullets.  At the first dawn the guns opened and the shells
began to burst among them.  It was a horrible ordeal for raw
troops. The men were miners and agricultural labourers,who had never
seen more bloodshed than a cut finger in their lives.  They had been
four months in the country, but their life had been a picnic, as the
luxury of their baggage shows.  Now in an instant the picnic was
ended, and in the grey cold dawn war was upon them -- grim war with
the whine of bullets, the screams of pain, the crash of shell, the
horrible rending and riving of body and limb.  In desperate straits,
which would have tried the oldest soldiers, the brave miners did
well. They never from the beginning had a chance save to show how
gamely they could take punishment, but that at least they did.
Bullets were coming from all sides at once and yet no enemy was
visible.  They lined one side of the embankment, and they were shot in
the back.  They lined the other, and were again shot in the back.
Baird-Douglas, the Colonel, vowed to shoot the man who should raise
the white flag, and he fell dead himself before he saw the hated
emblem.  But it had to come.  A hundred and forty of the men were
down, many of them suffering from the horrible wounds which shell
inflicts.  The place was a shambles.  Then the flag went up and the
Boers at last became visible. Outnumbered, outgeneralled, and without
guns, there is no shadow of stain upon the good name of the one
militia regiment which was ever seriously engaged during the war.
Their position was hopeless from the first, and they came out of it
with death, mutilation, and honour.

Two miles south of the Rhenoster kopje stands Roodeval station, in
which, on that June morning, there stood a train containing the mails
for the army, a supply of great-coats, and a truck full of enormous
shells. A number of details of various sorts, a hundred or more, had
alighted from the train, twenty of them Post-office volunteers, some
of the Pioneer Railway corps, a few Shropshires, and other waifs and
strays. To them in the early morning came the gentleman with the
tinted glasses, his hands still red with the blood of the Derbies. 'I
have fourteen hundred men and four guns.  Surrender!' said the
messenger. But it is not in nature for a postman to give up his
postbag without a struggle.  'Never!' cried the valiant postmen. But
shell after shell battered the corrugated-iron buildings about their
ears, and it was not possible for them to answer the guns which were
smashing the life out of them.  There was no help for it but to
surrender. De Wet added samples of the British volunteer and of the
British regular to his bag of militia.  The station and train were
burned down, the great-coats looted, the big shells exploded, and the
mails burned.  The latter was the one unsportsmanlike action which can
up to that date be laid to De Wet's charge. Forty thousand men to the
north of him could forego their coats and their food, but they yearned
greatly for those home letters, charred fragments of which are still
blowing about the veldt. [Footnote: Fragments continually met the eye
which must have afforded curious reading for the victors. 'I hope you
have killed all those Boers by now,' was the beginning of one letter
which I could not help observing.]

For three days De Wet held the line, and during all that time he
worked his wicked will upon it. For miles and miles it was wrecked
with most scientific completeness.  The Rhenoster bridge was
destroyed. So, for the second time, was the Roodeval bridge. The rails
were blown upwards with dynamite until they looked like an unfinished
line to heaven.  De Wet's heavy hand was everywhere.  Not a
telegraph-post remained standing within ten miles.  His headquarters
continued to be the kopje at Roodeval.

On June 10th two British forces were converging upon the point of
danger.  One was Methuen's, from Heilbron.  The other was a small
force consisting of the Shropshires, the South Wales Borderers, and a
battery which had come south with Lord Kitchener. The energetic Chief
of the Staff was always sent by Lord Roberts to the point where a
strong man was needed, and it was seldom that he failed to justify his
mission.  Lord Methuen, however, was the first to arrive, and at once
attacked De Wet, who moved swiftly away to the eastward.  With a
tendency to exaggeration, which has been too common during the war,
the affair was described as a victory.  It was really a strategic and
almost bloodless move upon the part of the Boers.  It is not the
business of guerillas to fight pitched battles.  Methuen pushed for
the south, having been informed that Kroonstad had been
captured. Finding this to be untrue, he turned again to the eastward
in search of De Wet.

That wily and indefatigable man was not long out of our ken.  On June
14th he appeared once more at Rhenoster, where the construction
trains, under the famous Girouard, were working furiously at the
repair of the damage which he had already done.  This time the guard
was sufficient to beat him off, and he vanished again to the eastward.
He succeeded, however, in doing some harm, and very nearly captured
Lord Kitchener himself.  A permanent post had been established at
Rhenoster under the charge of Colonel Spens of the Shropshires, with
his own regiment and several guns. Smith-Dorrien, one of the youngest
and most energetic of the divisional commanders, had at the same time
undertaken the supervision and patrolling of the line.

An attack had at this period been made by a cormmando of some hundred
Boers at the Sand River to the south of Kroonstad, where there is a
most important bridge. The attempt was frustrated by the Royal
Lancaster regiment and the Railway Pioneer regiment, helped by some
mounted infantry and Yeomanry.  The fight was for a time a brisk one,
and the Pioneers, upon whom the brunt of it fell, behaved with great
steadiness. The skirmish is principally remarkable for the death of
Major Seymour of the Pioneers, a noble American, who gave his services
and at last his life for what, in the face of all slander and
misrepresentation, he knew to be the cause of justice and of liberty.

It was hoped now, after all these precautions, that the last had been
seen of the gentleman with the tinted glasses, but on June 21st he was
back in his old haunts once more.  Honing Spruit Station, about midway
between Kroonstad and Roodeval, was the scene of his new raid.  On
that date his men appeared suddenly as a train waited in the station,
and ripped up the rails on either side of it.  There were no guns at
this point, and the only available troops were three hundred of the
prisoners from Pretoria, armed with Martini-Henry rifles and obsolete
ammunition. A good man was in command, however -- the same Colonel
Bullock of the Devons who had distinguished himself at Colenso -- and
every tattered, half-starved wastrel was nerved by a recollection of
the humiliations which he had already endured. For seven hours they
lay helpless under the shell-fire, but their constancy was rewarded by
the arrival of Colonel Brookfield with 300 Yeomanry and four guns of
the 17th R.F.A., followed in the evening by a larger force from the
south.  The Boers fled, but left some of their number behind them;
while of the British, Major Hobbs and four men were killed and
nineteen wounded.  This defence of three hundred half-armed men
against seven hundred Boer riflemen, with three guns firing shell and
shrapnel, was a very good performance.  The same body of burghers
immediately afterwards attacked a post held by Colonel Evans with two
companies of the Shropshires and fifty Canadians. They were again
beaten back with loss, the Canadians under Inglis especially
distinguishing themselves by their desperate resistance in an exposed
position.

All these attacks, irritating and destructive as they were, were not
able to hinder the general progress of the war.  After the battle of
Diamond Hill the captured position was occupied by the mounted
infantry, while the rest of the forces returned to their camps round
Pretoria, there to await the much-needed remounts. At other parts of
the seat of war the British cordon was being drawn more tightly round
the Boer forces. Buller had come as far as Standerton, and Ian
Hamilton, in the last week of June, had occupied Heidelberg.  A week
afterwards the two forces were able to join hands, and so to
completely cut off the Free State from the Transvaal armies.  Hamilton
in these operations had the misfortune to break his collar-bone, and
for a time the command of his division passed to Hunter -- the one
man, perhaps, whom the army would regard as an adequate successor.

It was evident now to the British commanders that there would be no
peace and no safety for their communications while an undefeated army
of seven or eight thousand men, under such leaders as De Wet and
Olivier, was lurking amid the hills which flanked their railroad.  A
determined effort was made, therefore, to clear up that corner of the
country.  Having closed the only line of escape by the junction of Ian
Hamilton and of Buller, the attention of six separate bodies of troops
was concentrated upon the stalwart Freestaters. These were the
divisions of Rundle and of Brabant from the south, the brigade of
Clements on their extreme left, the garrison of Lindley under Paget,
the garrison of Heilbron under Macdonald, and, most formidable of all,
a detachment under Hunter which was moving from the north.  A crisis
was evidently approaching.

The nearest Free State town of importance still untaken was Bethlehem
-- a singular name to connect with the operations of war.  The country
on the south of it forbade an advance by Rundle or Brabant, but it was
more accessible from the west. The first operation of the British
consisted, therefore, in massing sufficient troops to be able to
advance from this side.  This was done by effecting a junction between
Clements from Senekal, and Paget who commanded at Lindley, which was
carried out upon July 1st near the latter place.  Clements encountered
some opposition, but besides his excellent infantry regiments, the
Royal Irish, Worcesters, Wiltshires, and Bedfords, he had with him the
2nd Brabant's Horse, with yeomanry, mounted infantry, two 5-in. guns,
and the 8th B.F.A.  Aided by a demonstration on the part of Grenfell
and of Brabant, he pushed his way through after three days of
continual skirmish.

On getting into touch with Clements, Paget sallied out from Lindley,
leaving the Buffs behind to garrison the town.  He had with him
Brookfield's mounted brigade one thousand strong, eight guns, and two
fine battalions of infantry, the Munster Fusiliers and the Yorkshire
Light Infantry.  On July 3rd he found near Leeuw Kop a considerable
force of Boers with three guns opposed to him, Clements being at that
time too far off upon the flank to assist him.  Four guns of the 38th
R.F.A. (Major Oldfield) and two belonging to the City Volunteers came
into action. The Royal Artillery guns appear to have been exposed to a
very severe fire, and the losses were so heavy that for a time they
could not be served.  The escort was inadequate, insufficiently
advanced, and badly handled, for the Boer riflemen were able, by
creeping up a donga, to get right into the 38th battery, and the
gallant major, with Lieutenant Belcher, was killed in the defence of
the guns.  Captain FitzGerald, the only other officer present, was
wounded in two places, and twenty men were struck down, with nearly
all the horses of one section.  Captain Marks, who was brigade-major
of Colonel Brookfield's Yeomanry, with the help of Lieut. Keevil Davis
and the 15th I.Y. came to the rescue of the disorganised and almost
annihilated section.  At the same time the C.I.V. guns were in
imminent danger, but were energetically covered by Captain Budworth,
adjutant of the battery.  Soon, however, the infantry, Munster
Fusiliers, and Yorkshire Light Infantry, which had been carrying out a
turning movement, came into action, and the position was taken.  The
force moved onwards, and on July 6th they were in front of Bethlehem.

The place is surrounded by hills, and the enemy was found strongly
posted. Clements's force was now on the left and Paget's on the right.
>From both sides an attempt was made to turn the Boer flanks, but they
were found to be very wide and strong.  All day a long-range action
was kept up while Clements felt his way in the hope of coming upon
some weak spot in the position, but in the evening a direct attack was
made by Paget's two infantry regiments upon the right, which gave the
British a footing on the Boer position.  The Munster Fusiliers and the
Yorkshire Light Infantry lost forty killed and wounded, including four
officers, in this gallant affair, the heavier loss and the greater
honour going to the men of Munster.

The centre of the position was still held, and on the morning of July
7th Clements gave instructions to the colonel of the Royal Irish to
storm it if the occasion should seem favourable.  Such an order to
such a regiment means that the occasion will seem favourable. Up they
went in three extended lines, dropping forty or fifty on the way, but
arriving breathless and enthusiastic upon the crest of the ridge.
Below them, upon the further side, lay the village of Bethlehem.  On
the slopes beyond hundreds of horsemen were retreating, and a gun was
being hurriedly dragged into the town.  For a moment it seemed as if
nothing had been left as a trophy, but suddenly a keen-eyed sergeant
raised a cheer, which was taken up again and again until it resounded
over the veldt.  Under the crest, lying on its side with a broken
wheel, was a gun -- one of the 15-pounders of Stormberg which it was a
point of honour to regain once more. Many a time had the gunners been
friends in need to the infantry.  Now it was the turn of the infantry
to do something in exchange.  That evening Clements had occupied
Bethlehem, and one more of their towns had passed out of the hands of
the Freestaters.

A word now as to that force under General Hunter which was closing in
from the north.  The gallant and energetic Hamilton, lean, aquiline,
and tireless, had, as already stated, broken his collar-bone at
Heidelberg, and it was as his lieutenant that Hunter was leading these
troops out of the Transvaal into the Orange River Colony. Most of his
infantry was left behind at Heidelberg, but he took with him
Broadwood's cavalry (two brigades) and Bruce Hamilton's 21st infantry
brigade, with Ridley's mounted infantry, some seven thousand men in
all.  On the 2nd of July this force reached Frankfort in the north of
the Free State without resistance, and on July 3rd they were joined
there by Macdonald's force from Heilbron, so that Hunter found himself
with over eleven thousand men under his command.  Here was an
instrument with which surely the COUP DE GRACE could be given to the
dying State.  Passing south, still without meeting serious resistance,
Hunter occupied Reitz, and finally sent on Broadwood's cavalry to
Bethlehem, where on July 8th they joined Paget and Clements.

The net was now in position, and about to be drawn tight, but at this
last moment the biggest fish of all dashed furiously out from it.
Leaving the main Free State force in a hopeless position behind him,
De Wet, with fifteen hundred well-mounted men and five guns, broke
through Slabbert's Nek between Bethlehem and Ficksburg, and made
swiftly for the north-west, closely followed by Paget's and
Broadwood's cavalry. It was on July 16th that he made his dash for
freedom.  On the 19th Little, with the 3rd Cavalry Brigade, had come
into touch with him near Lindley.  De Wet shook himself clear, and
with splendid audacity cut the railway once more to the north of
Honing Spruit, gathering up a train as he passed, and taking two
hundred details prisoners.  On July 22nd De Wet was at Vredefort,
still closely followed by Broadwood, Ridley, and Little, who gleaned
his wagons and his stragglers.  Thence he threw himself into the hilly
country some miles to the south of the Vaal River, where he lurked for
a week or more while Lord Kitchener came south to direct the
operations which would, as it was hoped, lead to a surrender.

Leaving the indomitable guerilla in his hiding-place, the narrative
must return to that drawing of the net which still continued in spite
of the escape of this one important fish.  On all sides the British
forces had drawn closer, and they were both more numerous and more
formidable in quality.  It was evident now that by a rapid advance
from Bethlehem in the direction of the Basuto border all Boers to the
north of Ficksburg would be hemmed in. On July 22nd the columns were
moving. On that date Paget moved out of Bethlehem, and Rundle took a
step forward from Ficksburg.  Bruce Hamilton had already, at the cost
of twenty Cameron Highlanders, got a grip upon a bastion of that rocky
country in which the enemy lurked.  On the 23rd Hunter's force was
held by the Boers at the strong pass of Retief's Nek, but on the 24th
they were compelled to abandon it, as the capture of Slabbert's Nek by
Clements threatened their rear.  This latter pass was fortified most
elaborately. It was attacked upon the 23rd by Brabant's Horse and the
Royal Irish without success.  Later in the day two companies of the
Wiltshire Regiment were also brought to a standstill, but retained a
position until nightfall within stone-throw of the Boer lines, though
a single company had lost 17 killed and wounded.  Part of the Royal
Irish remained also close to the enemy's trenches. Under cover of
darkness, Clements sent four companies of the Royal Irish and two of
the Wiltshires under Colonel Guinness to make a flanking movement
along the crest of the heights.  These six companies completely
surprised the enemy, and caused them to hurriedly evacuate the
position.  Their night march was performed under great difficulties,
the men crawling on hands and knees along a rocky path with a drop of
400 feet upon one side. But their exertions were greatly rewarded.
Upon the success of their turning movement depended the fall of
Slabbert's Nek.  Betief's Nek was untenable if we held Slabbert's Nek,
and if both were in our hands the retreat of Prinsloo was cut off.

At every opening of the hills the British guns were thundering, and
the heads of British columns were appearing on every height.  The
Highland Brigade had fairly established themselves over the Boer
position, though not without hard fighting, in which a hundred men of
the Highland Light Infantry had been killed and wounded.  The
Seaforths and the Sussex had also gripped the positions in front of
them, and taken some punishment in doing so.  The outworks of the
great mountain fortress were all taken, and on July 26th the British
columns were converging on Fouriesburg, while Naauwpoort on the line
of retreat was held by Macdonald. It was only a matter of time now
with the Boers.

On the 28th Clements was still advancing, and contracting still
further the space which was occupied by our stubborn foe.  He found
himself faced by the stiff position of Slaapkrantz, and a hot little
action was needed before the Boers could be dislodged.  The fighting
fell upon Brabant's Horse, the Royal Irish, and the Wiltshires.  Three
companies of the latter seized a farm upon the enemy's left, but lost
ten men in doing so, while their gallant colonel, Carter, was severely
wounded in two places.  The Wiltshires, who were excellently handled
by Captain Bolton, held on to the farm and were reinforced there by a
handful of the Scots Guards.  In the night the position was abandoned
by the Boers, and the advance swept onwards.  On all sides the
pressure was becoming unendurable.  The burghers in the valley below
could see all day the twinkle of British heliographs from every hill,
while at night the constant flash of signals told of the sleepless
vigilance which hemmed them in.  Upon July 29th, Prinsloo sent in a
request for an armistice, which was refused.  Later in the day he
despatched a messenger with the white flag to Hunter, with an
announcement of his unconditional surrender.

On July 30th the motley army which had held the British off so long
emerged from among the mountains. But it soon became evident that in
speaking for all Prinsloo had gone beyond his powers. Discipline was
low and individualism high in the Boer army. Every man might repudiate
the decision of his commandant, as every man might repudiate the white
flag of his comrade.  On the first day no more than eleven hundred men
of the Ficksburg and Ladybrand commandos, with fifteen hundred horses
and two guns, were surrendered. next day seven hundred and fifty more
men came in with eight hundred horses, and by August 6th the total of
the prisoners had mounted to four thousand one hundred and fifty with
three guns, two of which were our own.  But Olivier, with fifteen
hundred men and several guns, broke away from the captured force and
escaped through the hills.  Of this incident General Hunter, an
honourable soldier, remarks in his official report: 'I regard it as a
dishonourable breach of faith upon the part of General Olivier, for
which I hold him personally responsible. He admitted that he knew that
General Prinsloo had included him in the unconditional surrender.'  It
is strange that, on Olivier's capture shortly afterwards, he was not
court-martialled for this breach of the rules of war, but that
good-natured giant, the Empire, is quick -- too quick, perhaps -- to
let byegones be byegones.  On August 4th Harrismith surrendered to
Macdonald, and thus was secured the opening of the Van Reenen's Pass
and the end of the Natal system of railways.  This was of the very
first importance, as the utmost difficulty had been found in supplying
so large a body of troops so far from the Cape base.  In a day the
base was shifted to Durban, and the distance shortened by two-thirds,
while the army came to be on the railway instead of a hundred miles
from it. This great success assured Lord Roberts's communications from
serious attack, and was of the utmost importance in enabling him to
consolidate his position at Pretoria.


CHAPTER XXVIII

THE HALT AT PRETORIA


Lord Roberts had now been six weeks in the capital, and British troops
had overrun the greater part of the south and west of the Transvaal,
but in spite of this there was continued Boer resistance, which flared
suddenly up in places which had been nominally pacified and disarmed.
It was found, as has often been shown in history, that it is easier to
defeat a republican army than to conquer it.  From Klerksdorp, from
Ventersdorp, from Rustenburg, came news of risings against the newly
imposed British authority. The concealed Mauser and the bandolier were
dug up once more from the trampled corner of the cattle kraal, and the
farmer was a warrior once again.  Vague news of the exploits of De Wet
stimulated the fighting burghers and shamed those who had submitted.
A letter was intercepted from the guerilla chief to Cronje's son, who
had surrendered near Rustenburg. De Wet stated that he had gained two
great victories and had fifteen hundred captured rifles with which to
replace those which the burghers had given up.  Not only were the
outlying districts in a state of revolt, but even round Pretoria the
Boers were inclined to take the offensive, while both that town and
Johannesburg were filled with malcontents who were ready to fly to
their arms once more.

Already at the end of June there were signs that the Boers realised
how helpless Lord Roberts was until his remounts should arrive.  The
mosquitoes buzzed round the crippled lion.  On June 29th there was an
attack upon Springs near Johannesburg, which was easily beaten off by
the Canadians. Early in July some of the cavalry and mounted infantry
patrols were snapped up in the neighbourhood of the capital.  Lord
Roberts gave orders accordingly that Hutton and Mahon should sweep the
Boers back upon his right, and push them as far as Bronkhorst Spruit.
This was done on July 6th and 7th, the British advance meeting with
considerable resistance from artillery as well as rifles.  By this
movement the pressure upon the right was relieved, which might have
created a dangerous unrest in Johannesburg, and it was done at the
moderate cost of thirty-four killed and wounded, half of whom belonged
to the Imperial Light Horse.  This famous corps, which had come across
with Mahon from the relief of Mafeking, had, a few days before, ridden
with mixed feelings through the streets of Johannesburg and past, in
many instances, the deserted houses which had once been their
homes. Many weary months were to pass before the survivors might
occupy them.  On July 9th the Boers again attacked, but were again
pushed back to the eastward.

It is probable that all these demonstrations of the enemy upon the
right of Lord Roberts's extended position were really feints in order
to cover the far-reaching plans which Botha had in his mind.  The
disposition of the Boer forces at this time appears to have been as
follows: Botha with his army occupied a position along Delagoa railway
line, further east than Diamond Hill, whence he detached the bodies
which attacked Hutton upon the extreme right of the British position
to the south-east of Pretoria.  To the north of Pretoria a second
force was acting under Grobler, while a third under Delarey had been
despatched secretly across to the left wing of the British, north-west
of Pretoria.  While Botha engaged the attention of Lord Roberts by
energetic demonstrations on his right, Grobler and Delarey were to
make a sudden attack upon his centre and his left, each point being
twelve or fifteen miles from the other.  It was well devised and very
well carried out; but the inherent defect of it was that, when
subdivided in this way, the Boer force was no longer strong enough to
gain more than a mere success of outposts.

De la Rey's attack was delivered at break of day on July 11th at
Uitval's Nek, a post some eighteen miles west of the capital.  This
position could not be said to be part of Lord Roberts's line, but
rather to be a link to connect his army with Rustenburg.  It was
weakly held by three companies of the Lincolns with two others in
support, one squadron of the Scots Greys, and two guns of 0 battery
R.H.A.  The attack came with the first grey light of dawn, and for
many hours the small garrison bore up against a deadly fire, waiting
for the help which never came.  All day they held their assailants at
bay, and it was not until evening that their ammunition ran short and
they were forced to surrender. Nothing could have been better than the
behaviour of the men, both infantry, cavalry, and gunners, but their
position was a hopeless one.  The casualties amounted to eighty killed
and wounded. Nearly two hundred were made prisoners and the two guns
were taken.

On the same day that De la Rey made his COUP at Uitval's Nek, Grobler
had shown his presence on the north side of the town by treating very
roughly a couple of squadrons of the 7th Dragoon Guards which had
attacked him. By the help of a section of the ubiquitous 0 battery and
of the 14th Hussars, Colonel Lowe was able to disengage his cavalry
from the trap into which they had fallen, but it was at the cost of
between thirty and forty officers and men killed, wounded, or taken.
The old 'Black Horse' sustained their historical reputation, and
fought their way bravely out of an almost desperate situation, where
they were exposed to the fire of a thousand riflemen and four guns.

On this same day of skirmishes, July 11th, the Gordons had seen some
hot work twenty miles or so to the south of Uitval's Nek.  Orders had
been given to the 19th Brigade (Smith-Dorrien's) to proceed to
Krugersdorp, and thence to make their way north. The Scottish Yeomanry
and a section of the 78th B.F.A. accompanied them.  The idea seems to
have been that they would be able to drive north any Boers in that
district, who would then find the garrison of Uitval's Nek at their
rear.  The advance was checked, however, at a place called
Dolverkrantz, which was strongly held by Boer riflemen.  The two guns
were insufficiently protected, and the enemy got within short range of
them, killing or wounding many of the gunners.  The lieutenant in
charge, Mr. A. J. Turner, the famous Essex cricketer, worked the gun
with his own hands until he also fell wounded in three places.  The
situation was now very serious, and became more so when news was
flashed of the disaster at Uitval's Nek, and they were ordered to
retire.  They could not retire and abandon the guns, yet the fire was
so hot that it was impossible to remove them.  Gallant attempts were
made by volunteers from the Gordons -- Captain Younger and other brave
men throwing away their lives in the vain effort to reach and to
limber up the guns.  At last, under the cover of night, the teams were
harnessed and the two field-pieces successfully removed, while the
Boers who rushed in to seize them were scattered by a volley.  The
losses in the action were thirty-six and the gain nothing.  Decidedly
July 11th was not a lucky day for the British arms.

It was well known to Botha that every train from the south was
bringing horses for Lord Roberts's army, and that it had become
increasingly difficult for De Wet and his men to hinder their arrival.
The last horse must win, and the Empire had the world on which to
draw. Any movement which the Boers would make must be made at once,
for already both the cavalry and the mounted infantry were rapidly
coming back to their full strength once more.  This consideration must
have urged Botha to deliver an attack on July 16th, which had some
success at first, but was afterwards beaten off with heavy loss to the
enemy.  The fighting fell principally upon Pole-Carew and Hutton, the
corps chiefly engaged being the Royal Irish Fusiliers, the
New-Zealanders, the Shropshires, and the Canadian Mounted Infantry.
The enemy tried repeatedly to assault the position, but were beaten
back each time with a loss of nearly a hundred killed and wounded.
The British loss was about sixty, and included two gallant young
Canadian officers, Borden and Birch, the former being the only son of
the minister of militia.  So ended the last attempt made by Botha upon
the British positions round Pretoria.  The end of the war was not yet,
but already its futility was abundantly evident.  This had become more
apparent since the junction of Hamilton and of Buller had cut off the
Transvaal army from that of the Free State.  Unable to send their
prisoners away, and also unable to feed them, the Freestaters were
compelled to deliver up in Natal the prisoners whom they had taken at
Lindley and Roodeval. These men, a ragged and starving battalion,
emerged at Ladysmith, having made their way through Van Reenen's
Pass. It is a singular fact that no parole appears on these and
similar occasions to have been exacted by the Boers.

Lord Roberts, having remounted a large part of his cavalry, was ready
now to advance eastward and give Botha battle.  The first town of any
consequence along the Delagoa Railway is Middelburg, some seventy
miles from the capital.  This became the British objective, and the
forces of Mahon and Hamilton on the north, of. Pole-Carew in the
centre, and of French and Hutton to the south, all converged upon
There was no serious resistance, though the weather was abominable,
and on July 27th the town was in the hands of the invaders. From that
date until the final advance to the eastward French held this advanced
post, while Pole-Carew guarded the railway line.  Rumours of trouble
in the west had convinced Roberts that it was not yet time to push his
advantage to the east, and he recalled Ian Hamilton's force to act for
a time upon the other side of the seat of the war.  This excellent
little army, consisting of Mahon's and Pilcher's mounted infantry, M
battery R.H.A., the Elswick battery, two 5-in. and two 4.7 guns, with
the Berkshires, the Border Regiment, the Argyle and Sutherlands, and
the Scottish Borderers, put in as much hard work in marching and in
fighting as any body of troops in the whole campaign.

The renewal of the war in the west had begun some weeks before, but
was much accelerated by the transference of De la Rey and his burghers
to that side.  There is no district in the Transvaal which is better
worth fighting for, for it is a fair country side, studded with
farmhouses and green with orange-groves, with many clear streams
running through it.  The first sign of activity appears to have been
on July 7th, when a commando with guns appeared upon the hills above
Rustenburg.  Hanbury Tracy, commandant of Rustenburg, was suddenly
confronted with a summons to surrender. He had only 120 men and one
gun, but he showed a bold front.  Colonel Houldsworth, at the first
whisper of danger, had started from Zeerust with a small force of
Australian bushmen, and arrived at Rustenburg in time to drive the
enemy away in a very spirited action. On the evening of July 8th
Baden-Powell took over the command, the garrison being reinforced by
Plumer's command.

The Boer commando was still in existence, however, and it was
reinforced and reinvigorated by Delarey's success at Uitval's Nek.  On
July 18th they began to close in upon Rustenburg again, and a small
skirmish took place between them and the Australians. Methuen's
division, which had been doing very arduous service in the north of
the Free State during the last six weeks, now received orders to
proceed into the Transvaal and to pass northwards through the
disturbed districts en route for Rustenburg, which appeared to be the
storm centre.  The division was transported by train from Kroonstad to
Krugersdorp, and advanced on the evening of July 18th upon its
mission, through a bare and fire-blackened country.  On the 19th Lord
Methuen manoeuvred the Boers out of a strong position, with little
loss to either side.  On the 21st he forced his way through Olifant's
Nek, in the Magaliesberg range, and so established communication with
Baden-Powell, whose valiant bushmen, under Colonel Airey, had held
their own in a severe conflict near Magato Pass, in which they lost
six killed, nineteen wounded, and nearly two hundred horses.  The
fortunate arrival of Captain FitzClarence with the Protectorate
Regiment helped on this occasion to avert a disaster. The force, only
300 strong, without guns, had walked into an ugly ambuscade, and only
the tenacity and resource of the men enabled them ever to extricate
themselves.

Although Methuen came within reach of Rustenburg, he did not actually
join hands with Baden-Powell.  No doubt he saw and heard enough to
convince him that that astute soldier was very well able to take care
of himself.  Learning of the existence of a Boer force in his rear,
Methuen turned, and on July 29th he was back at Frederickstad on the
Potchefstroom-Krugersdorp railway.  The sudden change in his plans was
caused doubtless by the desire to head off De Wet in case he should
cross the Vaal River.  Lord Roberts was still anxious to clear the
neighbourhood of Rustenburg entirely of the enemy; and he therefore,
since Methuen was needed to complete the cordon round De Wet, recalled
Hamilton's force from the east and despatched it, as already
described, to the west of Pretoria.

Before going into the details of the great De Wet hunt, in which
Methuen's force was to be engaged, I shall follow Hamilton's division
across, and give some account of their services.  On August 1st he set
out from Pretoria for Rustenburg.  On that day and on the next he had
brisk skirmishes which brought him successfully through the
Magaliesberg range with a loss of forty wounded, mostly of the
Berkshires.  On the 5th of August he had made his way to Rustenburg
and drove off the investing force.  A smaller siege had been going on
to westward, where at Elands River another Mafeking man, Colonel Hore,
had been held up by the burghers.  For some days it was feared, and
even officially announced, that the garrison had surrendered. It was
known that an attempt by Carrington to relieve the place on August 5th
had been beaten back, and that the state of the country appeared so
threatening that he had been compelled, or had imagined himself to be
compelled, to retreat as far as Mafeking, evacuating Zeerust and
Otto's Hoop, abandoning the considerable stores which were collected
at those places.  In spite of all these sinister indications the
garrison was still holding its own, and on August 16th it was relieved
by Lord Kitchener.

This stand at Brakfontein on the Elands River appears to have been one
of the very finest deeds of arms of the war.  The Australians have
been so split up during the campaign, that though their valour and
efficiency were universally recognised, they had no single exploit
which they could call their own.  But now they can point to Elands
River as proudly as the Canadians can to Paardeberg.  They were 500 in
number, Victorians, New South Welshmen, and Queenslanders, the latter
the larger unit, with a corps of Rhodesians. Under Hore were Major
Hopper of the Rhodesians, and Major Toubridge of the Queenslanders.
Two thousand five hundred Boers surrounded them, and most favourable
terms of surrender were offered and scouted.  Six guns were trained
upon them, and during 11 days 1,800 shells fell within their
lines. The river was half a mile off, and every drop of water for man
or beast had to come from there.  Nearly all their horses and 75 of
the men were killed or wounded.  With extraordinary energy and
ingenuity the little band dug shelters which are said to have exceeded
in depth and efficiency any which the Boers have devised. Neither the
repulse of Carrington, nor the jamming of their only gun, nor the
death of the gallant Annett, was sufficient to dishearten them.  They
were sworn to die before the white flag should wave above them. And so
fortune yielded, as fortune will when brave men set their teeth, and
Broadwood's troopers, filled with wonder and admiration, rode into the
lines of the reduced and emaciated but indomitable garrison. When the
ballad-makers of Australia seek for a subject, let them turn to Elands
River, for there was no finer resistance in the war.  They will not
grudge a place in their record to the 130 gallant Rhodesians who
shared with them the honours and the dangers of the exploit.

On August 7th Ian Hamilton abandoned Rustenburg, taking Baden-Powell
and his men with him.  It was obviously unwise to scatter the British
forces too widely by attempting to garrison every single town.  For
the instant the whole interest of the war centred upon De Wet and his
dash into the Transvaal.  One or two minor events, however, which
cannot be fitted into any continuous narrative may be here introduced.

One of these was the action at Faber's Put, by which Sir Charles
Warren crushed the rebellion in Griqualand.  In that sparsely
inhabited country of vast distances it was a most difficult task to
bring the revolt to a decisive ending.  This Sir Charles Warren, with
his special local knowledge and interest, was able to do, aud the
success is doubly welcome as bringing additional honour to a man who,
whatever view one may take of his action at Spion Kop, has grown grey
in the service of the Empire.  With a column consisting mainly of
colonials and of yeomanry he had followed the rebels up to a point
within twelve miles of Douglas. Here at the end of May they turned
upon him and delivered a fierce night attack, so sudden and so
strongly pressed that much credit is due both to General and to troops
for having repelled it.  The camp was attacked on all sides in the
early dawn.  The greater part of the horses were stampeded by the
firing, and the enemy's riflemen were found to be at very close
quarters. For an hour the action was warm, but at the end of that time
the Boers fled, leaving a number of dead behind them. The troops
engaged in this very creditable action, which might have tried the
steadiness of veterans, were four hundred of the Duke of Edinburgh's
volunteers, some of Paget's horse and of the 8th Regiment Imperial
Yeomanry, four Canadian guns, and twenty-five of Warren's Scouts.
Their losses were eighteen killed and thirty wounded.  Colonel Spence,
of the volunteers, died at the head of his regiment. A few days
before, on May 27th, Colonel Adye had won a small engagement at Kheis,
some distance to the westward, and the effect of the two actions was
to put an end to open resistance. On June 20th De Villiers, the Boer
leader, finally surrendered to Sir Charles Warren, handing over two
hundred and twenty men with stores, rifles, and ammunition.  The last
sparks had for the time been stamped out in the colony.

There remain to be mentioned those attacks upon trains and upon the
railway which had spread from the Free State to the Transvaal.  On
July 19th a train was wrecked on the way from Potchefstroom to
Krugersdorp without serious injury to the passengers. On July 31st,
however, the same thing occurred with more murderous effect, the train
running at full speed off the metals.  Thirteen of the Shropshires
were killed and thirty-seven injured in this deplorable affair, which
cost us more than many an important engagement. On August 2nd a train
coming up from Bloemfontein was derailed by Sarel Theron and his gang
some miles south of Kroonstad.  Thirty-five trucks of stores were
burned, and six of the passengers (unarmed convalescent soldiers) were
killed or wounded.  A body of mounted infantry followed up the Boers,
who numbered eighty, and succeeded in killing and wounding several of
them.

On July 21st the Boers made a determined attack upon the railhead at a
point thirteen miles east of Heidelberg, where over a hundred Royal
Engineers were engaged upon a bridge.  They were protected by three
hundred Dublin Fusiliers under Major English. For some hours the
little party was hard pressed by the burghers, who had two
field-pieces and a pom-pom. They could make no impression, however,
upon the steady Irish infantry, and after some hours the arrival of
General Hart with reinforcements scattered the assailants, who
succeeded in getting their guns away in safety.

At the beginning of August it must be confessed that the general
situation in the Transvaal was not reassuring.  Springs near
Johannesburg had in some inexplicable way, without fighting, fallen
into the hands of the enemy.  Klerksdorp, an important place in the
south-west, had also been reoccupied, and a handful of men who
garrisoned it had been made prisoners without resistance.  Rustenburg
was about to be abandoned, and the British were known to be falling
back from Zeerust and Otto's Hoop, concentrating upon Mafeking.  The
sequel proved however, that there was no cause for uneasiness in all
this. Lord Roberts was concentrating his strength upon those objects
which were vital, and letting the others drift for a time.  At present
the two obviously important things were to hunt down De Wet and to
scatter the main Boer army under Botha. The latter enterprise must
wait upon the former, so for a fortnight all operations were in
abeyance while the flying columns of the British endeavoured to run
down their extremely active and energetic antagonist.

At the end of July De Wet had taken refuge in some exceedingly
difficult country near Reitzburg, seven miles south of the Vaal
River. The operations were proceeding vigorously at that time against
the main army at Fouriesberg, and sufficient troops could not be
spared to attack him, but he was closely observed by Kitchener and
Broadwood with a force of cavalry and mounted infantry. With the
surrender of Prinsloo a large army was disengaged, and it was obvious
that if De Wet remained where he was he must soon be surrounded.  On
the other hand, there was no place of refuge to the south of him.
With great audacity he determined to make a dash for the Transvaal, in
the hope of joining hands with De la Rey's force, or else of making
his way across the north of Pretoria, and so reaching Botha's army.
President Steyn went with him, and a most singular experience it must
have been for him to be harried like a mad dog through the country in
which he had once been an honoured guest.  De Wet's force was
exceedingly mobile, each man having a led horse, and the ammunition
being carried in light Cape carts.

In the first week of August the British began to thicken round his
lurking-place, and De Wet knew that it was time for him to go.  He
made a great show of fortifying a position, but it was only a ruse to
deceive those who watched him.  Travelling as lightly as possible, he
made a dash on August 7th at the drift which bears his own name, and
so won his way across the Vaal River, Kitchener thundering at his
heels with his cavalry and mounted infantry. Methuen's force was at
that time at Potchefstroom, and instant orders had been sent to him to
block the drifts upon the northern side. It was found as he
approached the river that the vanguard of the enemy was already across
and that it was holding the spurs of the hills which would cover the
crossing of their comrades.  By the dash of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers
and the exertions of the artillery ridge after ridge was carried, but
before evening De Wet with supreme skill had got his convoy across,
and had broken away, first to the eastward and then to the north.  On
the 9th Methuen was in touch with him again, and the two savage little
armies, Methuen worrying at the haunch, and De Wet snapping back over
his shoulder, swept northward over the huge plains. Wherever there was
ridge or kopje the Boer riflemen staved off the eager pursuers.  Where
the ground lay flat and clear the British guns thundered onwards and
fired into the lines of wagons.  Mile after mile the running fight was
sustained, but the other British columns, Broadwood's men and
Kitchener's men, had for some reason not come up.  Methuen alone was
numerically inferior to the men he was chasing, but he held on with
admirable energy and spirit.  The Boers were hustled off the kopjes
from which they tried to cover their rear.  Twenty men of the
Yorkshire Yeomanry carried one hill with the bayonet, though only
twelve of them were left to reach the top.

De Wet trekked onwards during the night of the 9th, shedding wagons
and stores as he went.  He was able to replace some .of his exhausted
beasts from the farmhouses which he passed.  Methuen on the morning of
the 10th struck away to the west, sending messages back to Broadwood
and Kitchener in the rear that they should bear to the east, and so
nurse the Boer column between them. At the same time he sent on a
messenger, who unfortunately never arrived, to warn Smith-Dorrien at
Bank Station to throw himself across De Wet's path. On the 11th it was
realised that De Wet had succeeded, in spite of great exertions upon
the part of Smith-Dorrien's infantry, in crossing the railway line,
and that he had left all his pursuers to the south of him. But across
his front lay the Magaliesberg range.  There are only three passes,
the Magato Pass, Olifant's Nek, and Commando Nek.  It was understood
that all three were held by British troops.  It was obvious,
therefore, that if Methuen could advance in such a way as to cut De
Wet off from slipping through to the west he would be unable to get
away. Broadwood and Kitchener would be behind him, and Pretoria, with
the main British army, to the east.

Methuen continued to act with great energy and judgment.  At three
A.M. on the 12th be started from Fredericstadt, and by 5 P.M. on
Tuesday he had done eighty miles in sixty hours. The force which
accompanied him was all mounted, 1,200 of the Colonial Division (1st
Brabant's, Cape Mounted Rifles, Kaifrarian Rifles, and Border Horse),
and the Yeomanry with ten guns. Douglas with the infantry was to
follow behind, and these brave fellows covered sixty-six miles in
seventy-six hours in their eagerness to be in time.  No men could have
made greater efforts than did those of Methuen, for there was not one
who did not appreciate the importance of the issue and long to come to
close quarters with the wily leader who had baffled us so long.

On the 12th Methuen's van again overtook De Wet's rear, and the old
game of rearguard riflemen on one side, and a pushing artillery on the
other, was once more resumed. All day the Boers streamed over the
veldt with the guns and the horsemen at their heels. A shot from the
78th battery struck one of De Wet's guns, which was abandoned and
captured.  Many stores were taken and much more, with the wagons which
contained them, burned by the Boers.  Fighting incessantly, both
armies traversed thirty-five miles of ground that day.

It was fully understood that Olifant's Nek was held by the British, so
Methuen felt that if he could block the Magato Pass all would be
well. He therefore left De Wet's direct track, knowing that other
British forces were behind him, and he continued his swift advance
until he had reached the desired position.  It really appeared that at
last the elusive raider was in a corner.  But, alas for fallen hopes,
and alas for the wasted efforts of gallant men!  Olifant's Nek had
been abandoned and De Wet had passed safely through it into the plains
beyond, where De la Rey's force was still in possession.  In vain
Methuen's weary column forced the Magato Pass and descended into
Rustenburg.  The enemy was in a safe country once more.  Whose the
fault, or whether there was a fault at all, it is for the future to
determine. At least unalloyed praise can be given to the Boer leader
for the admirable way in which he had extricated himself from so many
dangers. On the 17th,. moving along the northern side of the
mountains, he appeared at Commando Nek on the Little Crocodile River,
where he summoned Baden-Powell to surrender, and received some chaff
in reply from that light-hearted commander. Then, swinging to the
eastward, he endeavoured to cross to the north of Pretoria. On the
19th he was heard of at Hebron. Baden-Powell and Paget had, however,
already barred this path, and De Wet, having sent Steyn on with a
small escort, turned back to the Free State. On the 22nd it was
reported that, with only a handful of his followers, he had crossed
the Magaliesberg range by a bridlepath and was riding southwards.
Lord Roberts was at last free to turn his undivided attention upon
Botha.

Two Boer plots had been discovered during the first half of August,
the one in Pretoria and the other in Johannesburg, each having for its
object a rising against the British in the town. Of these the former,
which was the more serious, involving as it did the kidnapping of Lord
Roberts, was broken up by the arrest of the deviser, Hans Cordua, a
German lieutenant in the Transvaal Artillery. On its merits it is
unlikely that the crime would have been met by the extreme penalty,
especially as it was a question whether the AGENT PROVOCATEUR had not
played a part. But the repeated breaches of parole, by which our
prisoners of one day were in the field against us on the next, called
imperatively for an example, and it was probably rather for his broken
faith than for his hare-brained scheme that Cordua died. At the same
time it is impossible not to feel sorrow for this idealist of
twenty-three who died for a cause which was not his own.  He was shot
in the garden of Pretoria Gaol upon August 24th. A fresh and more
stringent proclamation from Lord Roberts showed that the British
Commander was losing his patience in the face of the wholesale return
of paroled men to the field, and announced that such perfidy would in
future be severely punished.  It was notorious that the same men had
been taken and released more than once.  One man killed in action was
found to have nine signed passes in his pocket.  It was against such
abuses that the extra severity of the British was aimed.


CHAPTER XXIX

THE ADVANCE TO KOMATIPOORT


The time had now come for the great combined movement which was to
sweep the main Boer army off the line of the Delagoa railway, Cut its
source of supplies, and fllow it into that remote and mountainous
Lydenburg district which had always been proclaimed as the last refuge
of the burghers. Before entering upon this most difficult of all his
advances Lord Roberts waited until the cavalry and mounted infantry
were well mounted again. Then, when all was ready, the first step in
this last stage of the regular campaign was taken by General Buller,
who moved his army of Natal veterans off the railway line and advanced
to a position from which he could threaten the flank and rear of Botha
if he held his ground against Lord Roberts. Buller's cavalry had been
reinforced by the arrival of Strathcona's Horse, a fine body of
Canadian troopers, whose services had been presented to the nation by
the public-spirited nobleman whose name they bore. They were
distinguished by their fine physique, and by the lassoes, cowboy
stirrups, and large spurs of the North-Western plains.

It was in the first week of July that Clery joined hands with the
Heidelberg garrison, while Coke with the 10th Brigade cleared the
right flank of the railway by an expedition as far as Amersfoort. On
July 6th the Natal communications were restored, and on the 7th Buller
was able to come through to Pretoria and confer with the
Commander-in-Chief.  A Boer force with heavy guns still hung about the
line, and several small skirmishes were fought between Vlakfontein and
Greylingstad in order to drive it away. By the middle of July the
immediate vicinity of the railway was clear save for some small
marauding parties who endeavoured to tamper with the rails and the
bridges.  Up to the end of the month the whole of the Natal army
remained strung along the line of communications from Heidelberg to
Standerton, waiting for the collection of forage and transport to
enable them to march north against Botha's position.

On August 8th Buller's troops advanced to the northeast from
Paardekop, pushing a weak Boer force with five guns in front of
them. At the cost of twenty-five wounded, principally of the 60th
Rifles, the enemy was cleared off, and the town of Amersfoort was
occupied. On the 13th, moving on the same line, and meeting with very
slight opposition, Buller took possession of Ermelo. His advance was
having a good effect upon the district, for on the 12th the Standerton
commando, which numbered 182 men, surrendered to Clery.  On the 15th,
st~l skirmishing, Buller's men were at Twyfelaar, and had taken
possession of Carolina.  Here and there a distant horseman riding over
the olive-coloured hills showed how closely and incessan~y be was
watched; but, save for a little sniping upon his flanks, there was no
fighting. He was coming now within touch of French's cavalry,
operating from Middelburg, and on the 14th heliographic communication
was established with Gordon's Brigade.

Buller's column had come nearer to its friends, but it was also nearer
to the main body of Boers who were waiting in that very rugged piece
of country which lies between Belfast in the west and Machadodorp in
the east. From this rocky stronghold they had thrown out mobile bodies
to harass the British advance from the south, and every day brought
Buller into closer touch with these advance guards of the enemy.  On
August 21st he had moved eight miles nearer to Belfast, French
operating upon his left flank.  Here he found the Boers in
considerable numbers, but he pushed them northward with his cavalry,
mounted infantry, and artillery, losing between thirty and forty
killed and wounded, the greater part from the ranks of the 18th
Hussars and the Gordon Highlanders.  This march brought him within
fifteen miles of Belfast, which lay due north of him. At the same time
Pole-Carew with the central column of Lord Roberts's force had
advanced along the railway line, and on August 24th he occupied
Belfast with little resistance.  He found, however, that the enemy
were holding the formidable ridges which lie between that place and
Dalmanutha, and that they showed every sign of giving battle,
presenting a firm front to Buller on the south as well as to Roberts's
army on the west.

On the 23rd some successes attended their efforts to check the advance
from the south.  During the day Buller had advanced steadily, though
under incessant fire.  The evening found him only six miles to the
south of Dalmanutha, the centre of the Boer position. By some
misfortune, however, after dark two companies of the Liverpool
Regiment found themselves isolated from their comrades and exposed to
a very heavy fire.  They had pushed forward too far, and were very
near to being surrounded and destroyed.  There were fifty-six
casualties in their ranks, and thirty-two, including their wounded
captain, were taken.  The total losses in the day were 121.

On August 25th it was evident that important events were at hand, for
on that date Lord Roberts arrived at Belfast and held a conference
with Buller, French, and Pole-Carew.  The general communicated his
plans to his three lieutenants, and on the 26th and following days the
fruits of the interview were seen in a succession of rapid manoeuvres
which drove the Boers out of this, the strongest position which they
had held since they left the banks of the Tugela.

The advance of Lord Roberts was made, as his wont is, with two
widespread wings, and a central body to connect them.  Such a movement
leaves the enemy in doubt as to which flank will really be attacked,
while if he denudes his centre in order to strengthen both flanks
there is the chance of a frontal advance which might cut him in two.
French with two cavalry brigades formed the left advance, Pole-Carew
the centre, and Buller the right, the whole operations extending over
thirty miles of infamous country.  It is probable that Lord Roberts
had reckoned that the Boer right was likely to be their strongest
position, since if it were turned it would cut off their retreat upon
Lydenburg, so his own main attack was directed upon their left. This
was carried out by General Buller on August 26th and 27th.

On the first day the movement upon Buller's part consisted in a very
deliberate reconnaissance of and closing in upon the enemy's position,
his troops bivouacking upon the ground which they had won.  On the
second, finding that all further progress was barred by the strong
ridge of Bergendal, he prepared his attack carefully with artillery
and then let loose his infantry upon it. It was a gallant feat of arms
upon either side.  The Boer position was held by a detachment of the
Johannesburg Police, who may have been bullies in peace, but were
certainly heroes in war.  The fire of sixty guns was concentrated for
a couple of hours upon a position only a few hundred yards in
diameter.  In this infernal fire, which left the rocks yellow with
lyddite, the survivors still waited grimly for the advance of the
infantry.  No finer defence was made in the war.  The attack was
carried out across an open glacis by the 2nd Rifle Brigade and by the
Inniskilling Fusiliers, the men of Pieter's Hill.  Through a deadly
fire the gallant infantry swept over the position, though Metcalfe,
the brave colonel of the Rifles, with eight other officers, and
seventy men were killed or wounded. Lysley, Steward, and Campbell were
all killed in leading their companies, but they could not have met
their deaths upon an occasion more honourable to their battalion.
Great credit must also be given to A and B companies of the
Inniskilling Fusiliers, who were actually the first over the Boer
position.  The cessation of the artillery fire was admirably timed.
It was sustained up to the last possible instant.  'As it was,' said
the captain of the leading company, 'a 94-lb. shell burst about thirty
yards in front of the right of our lot.  The smell of the lyddite was
awful.'  A pom-pom and twenty prisoners, including the commander of
the police, were the trophies of the day.  An outwork of the Boer
position had been carried, and the rumour of defeat and disaster had
already spread through their ranks. Braver men than the burghers have
never lived, but they had reached the limits of human endurance, and a
long experience of defeat in the field had weakened their nerve and
lessened their morale.  They were no longer men of the same fibre as
those who had crept up to the trenches of Spion Kop, or faced the lean
warriors of Ladysmith on that grim January morning at Caesar's Camp.
Dutch tenacity would not allow them to surrender, and yet they
realised how hopeless was the fight in which they were engaged.
Nearly fifteen thousand of their best men were prisoners, ten thousand
at the least had returned to their farms and taken the oath.  Another
ten had been killed, wounded, or incapacitated.  Most of the European
mercenaries had left; they held only the ultimate corner of their own
country, they had lost their grip upon the railway line, and their
supply of stores and of ammunition was dwindling.  To such a pass had
eleven months of war reduced that formidable army who had so
confidently advanced to the conquest of South Africa.

While Buller had established himself firmly upon the left of the Boer
position, Pole-Carew had moved forward to the north of the railway
line, and French had advanced as far as Swart Kopjes upon the Boer
right. These operations on August 26th and 27th were met with some
resistance, and entailed a loss of forty or fifty killed and wounded;
but it soon became evident that the punishment which they had received
at Bergendal had taken the fight out of the Boers, and that this
formidable position was to be abandoned as the others had been. On the
28th the burghers were retreating, and Machadodorp, where Kruger had
sat so long in his railway carriage, protesting that he would
eventually move west and not east, was occupied by Buller.  French,
moving on a more northerly route, entered Watervalonder with his
cavalry upon the same date, driving a small Boer force before
him. Amid rain and mist the British columns were pushing rapidly
forwards, but still the burghers held together, and still their
artillery was uncaptured.  The retirement was swift, but it was not
yet a rout.

On the 30th the British cavalry were within touch of Nooitgedacht, and
saw a glad sight in a long trail of ragged men who were hurrying in
their direction along the railway line.  They were the British
prisoners, eighteen hundred in number, half of whom had been brought
from Waterval when Pretoria was captured, while the other half
represented the men who had been sent from the south by De Wet, or
from the west by De la Rey.  Much allowance must be made for the
treatment of prisoners by a belligerent who is himself short of food,
but nothing can excuse the harshness which the Boers showed to the
Colonials who fell into their power, or the callous neglect of the
sick prisoners at Waterval. It is a humiliating but an interesting
fact that from first to last no fewer than seven thousand of our men
passed into their power, all of whom were now recovered save some
sixty officers, who had been carried off by them in their flight.

On September 1st Lord Roberts showed his sense of the decisive nature
of these recent operations by publishing the proclamation which had
been issued as early as July 4th, by which the Transvaal became a
portion of the British Empire.  On the same day General Buller, who
had ceased to advance to the east and retraced his steps as far as
Helvetia, began his northerly movement in the direction of Lydenburg,
which is nearly fifty miles to the north of the railway line.  On that
date his force made a march of fourteen miles, which brought them over
the Crocodile River to Badfontein. Here, on September 2nd, Buller
found that the indomitable Botha was still turning back upon him, for
he was faced by so heavy a shell fire, coming from so formidable a
position, that he had to be content to wait in front of it until some
other column should outflank it.  The days of unnecessary frontal
attacks were for ever over, and his force, though ready for anything
which might be asked of it, had gone through a good deal in the recent
operations.  Since August 21st they had been under fire almost every
day, and their losses, though never great on any one occasion,
amounted in the aggregate during that time to 365. They had crossed
the Tugela, they had relieved Ladysmith, they had forced Laing's Nek,
and now it was to them that the honour had fallen of following the
enemy into this last fastness.  Whatever criticism may be directed
against some episodes in the Natal campaign, it must never be
forgotten that to Buller and to his men have fallen some of the
hardest tasks of the war, and that these tasks have always in the end
been successfully carried out.  The controversy about the unfortunate
message to White, and the memory of the abandoned guns at Colenso,
must not lead us to the injustice of ignoring all that is to be set to
the credit account.

On September 3rd Lord Roberts, finding how strong a position faced
Buller, despatched Ian Hamilton with a force to turn it upon the
right.  Brocklehurst's brigade of cavalry joined Hamilton in his
advance.  On the 4th he was within signalling distance of Buller, and
on the right rear of the Boer position.  The occupation of a mountain
called Zwaggenhoek would establish Hamilton firmly, and the difficult
task of seizing it at night was committed to Colonel Douglas and his
fine regiment of Royal Scots.  It was Spion Kop over again, but with a
happier ending.  At break of day the Boers discovered that their
position had been rendered untenable and withdrew, leaving the road to
Lydenburg clear to Buller. Hamilton and he occupied the town upon the
6th.  The Boers had split into two parties, the larger one with the
guns falling back upon Kruger's Post, and the others retiring to
Pilgrim's Rest.  Amid cloud-girt peaks and hardly passable ravines the
two long-enduring armies still wrestled for the final mastery.

To the north-east of Lydenburg, between that town and Spitzkop, there
is a formidable ridge called the Mauchberg, and here again the enemy
were found to be standing at bay.  They were even better than their
word, for they had always said that they would make their last stand
at Lydenburg, and now they were making one beyond it.  But the
resistance was weakening.  Even this fine position could not be held
against the rush of the three regiments, the Devons, the Royal Irisb,
and the Royal Scots, who were let loose upon it.  The artillery
supported the attack admirably.  'They did nobly,' said one who led
the advance.  'It is impossible to overrate the value of their
support.  They ceased also exactly at the right moment.  One more
shell would have hit us.'  Mountain mists saved the defeated burghers
from a close pursuit, but the hills were carried.  The British losses
on this day, September 8th, were thirteen killed and twenty-five
wounded; but of these thirty-eight no less than half were accounted
for by one of those strange malignant freaks which can neither be
foreseen nor prevented. A shrapnel shell, fired at an incredible
distance, burst right over the Volunteer Company of the Gordons who
were marching in column. Nineteen men fell, but it is worth recording
that, smitten so suddenly and so terribly, the gallant Volunteers
continued to advance as steadily as before this misfortune befell
them.  On the 9th Buller was still pushing forward to Spitzkop, his
guns and the 1st Rifles overpowering a weak rearguard resistance of
the Boers.  On the 10th he had reached Klipgat, which is halfway
between the Mauchberg and Spitzkop.  So close was the pursuit that the
Boers, as they streamed through the passes, flung thirteen of their
ammunition wagons over the cliffs to prevent them from falling into
the hands of the British horsemen.  At one period it looked as if the
gallant Boer guns had waited too long in covering the retreat of the
burghers.  Strathcona's Horse pressed closely upon them.  The
situation was saved by the extreme coolness and audacity of the Boer
gunners.  'When the cavalry were barely half a mile behind the rear
gun' says an eye-witness 'and we regarded its capture as certain, the
LEADING Long Tom deliberately turned to bay and opened with case shot
at the pursuers streaming down the hill in single file over the head
of his brother gun. It was a magnificent coup, and perfectly
successful.  The cavalry had to retire, leaving a few men wounded, and
by the time our heavy guns had arrived both Long Toms had got clean
away.'  But the Boer riflemen would no longer stand. Demoralised after
their magnificent struggle of eleven months the burghers were now a
beaten and disorderly rabble flying wildly to the eastward, and only
held together by the knowledge that in their desperate situation there
was more comfort and safety in numbers. The war seemed to be swiftly
approaching its close. On the 15th Buller occupied Spitzkop in the
north, capturing a quantity of stores, while on the 14th French took
Barberton in the south, releasing all the remaining British prisoners
and taking possession of forty locomotives, which do not appear to
have been injured by the enemy.  Meanwhile Pole-Carew had worked along
the railway line, and had occupied Kaapmuiden, which was the junction
where the Barberton line joins that to Lourenço Marques.  Ian
Hamilton's force, after the taking of Lydenburg and the action which
followed, turned back, leaving Buller to go his own way, and reached
Komatipoort on September 24th, having marched since September 9th
without a halt through a most difficult country.

On September 11th an incident had occurred which must have shown the
most credulous believer in Boer prowess that their cause was indeed
lost.  On that date Paul Kruger, a refugee from the country which he
had ruined, arrived at Lourenço Marques, abandoning his beaten
commandos and his deluded burghers.  How much had happened since those
distant days when as a little herdsboy he had walked behind the
bullocks on the great northward trek. How piteous this ending to all
his strivings and his plottings!  A life which might have closed amid
the reverence of a nation and the admiration of the world was destined
to finish in exile, impotent and undignified.  Strange thoughts must
have come to him during those hours of flight, memories of his virile
and turbulent youth, of the first settlement of those great lands, of
wild wars where his hand was heavy upon the natives, of the triumphant
days of the war of independence, when England seemed to recoil from
the rifles of the burghers. And then the years of prosperity, the
years when the simple farmer found himself among the great ones of the
earth, his name a household word in Europe, his State rich and
powerful, his coffers filled with the spoil of the poor drudges who
worked so hard and paid taxes so readily. Those were his great days,
the days when he hardened his heart against their appeals for justice
and looked beyond his own borders to his kinsmen in the hope of a
South Africa which should be all his own. And now what had come of it
all? A handful of faithful attendants, and a fugitive old man,
clutching in his flight at his papers and his moneybags. The last of
the old-world Puritans, he departed poring over his well-thumbed
Bible, and proclaiming that the troubles of his country arose, not
from his own narrow and corrupt administration, but from some
departure on the part of his fellow burghers from the stricter tenets
of the dopper sect.  So Paul Kruger passed away from the country which
he had loved and ruined.

Whilst the main army of Botha had been hustled out of their position
at Machadodorp and scattered at Lydenburg and at Barberton, a number
of other isolated events had occurred at different points of the seat
of war, each of which deserves some mention.  The chief of these was a
sudden revival of the war in the Orange River Colony, where the band
of Olivier was still wandering in the north-eastern districts.
Hunter, moving northwards after the capitulation of Prinsloo at
Fouriesburg, came into contact on August 15th with this force near
Heilbron, and had forty casualties, mainly of the Highland Light
Infantry, in a brisk engagement. For a time the British seemed to have
completely lost touch with Olivier, who suddenly on August 24th struck
at a small detachment consisting almost entirely of Queenstown Rifle
Volunteers under Colonel Ridley, who were reconnoitring near
Winburg. The Colonial troopers made a gallant defence.  Throwing
themselves into the farmhouse of Helpmakaar, and occupying every post
of vantage around it, they held off more than a thousand assailants,
in spite of the three guns which the latter brought to bear upon them.
A hundred and thirty-two rounds were fired at the house, but the
garrison still refused to surrender.  Troopers who had been present at
Wepener declared that the smaller action was the warmer of the
two. Finally on the morning of the third day a relief force arrived
upon the scene, and the enemy dispersed.  The British losses were
thirty-two killed and wounded. Nothing daunted by his failure, Olivier
turned upon the town of Winburg and attempted to regain it, but was
defeated again and scattered, he and his three sons being taken.  The
result was due to the gallantry and craft of a handful of the
Queenstown Volunteers, who laid an ambuscade in a donga, and disarmed
the Boers as they passed, after the pattern of Sanna's Post.  By this
action one of the most daring and resourceful of the Dutch leaders
fell into the hands of the British.  It is a pity that his record is
stained by his dishonourable conduct in breaking the compact made on
the occasion of the capture of Prinsloo. But for British magnanimity a
drumhead court-martial should have taken the place of the hospitality
of the Ceylon planters.

On September 2nd another commando of Free State Boers under Fourie
emerged from the mountain country on the Basuto border, and fell upon
Ladybrand, which was held by a feeble garrison consisting of one
company of the Worcester regiment and forty-three men of the Wiltshire
Yeomanry.  The Boers, who had several guns with them, appear to have
been the same force which had been repulsed at Winburg.  Major White,
a gallant marine, whose fighting qualities do not seem to have
deteriorated with his distance from salt water, had arranged his
defences upon a hill, after the Wepener model, and held his own most
stoutly.  So great was the disparity of the forces that for days acute
anxiety was felt lest another of those humiliating surrenders should
interrupt the record of victories, and encourage the Boers to further
resistance.  The point was distant, and it was some time before relief
could reach them.  But the dusky chiefs, who from their native
mountains looked down on the military drama which was played so close
to their frontier, were again, as on the Jammersberg, to see the Boer
attack beaten back by the constancy of the British defence. The thin
line of soldiers, 150 of them covering a mile and a half of ground,
endured a heavy shell and rifle fire with unshaken resolution,
repulsed every attempt of the burghers, and held the flag flying until
relieved by the forces under White and Bruce Hamilton.  In this march
to the relief Hamilton's infantry covered eighty miles in four and a
half days.  Lean and hard, inured to warfare, and far from every
temptation of wine or women, the British troops at this stage of the
campaign were in such training, and marched so splendidly, that the
infantry was often very little slower than the cavalry. Methuen's fine
performance in pursuit of De Wet, where Douglas's infantry did
sixty-six miles in seventy-five hours, the City Imperial Volunteers
covering 224 miles in fourteen days, with a single forced march of
thirty miles in seventeen hours, the Shropshires forty-three miles in
thirty-two hours, the forty-five miles in twenty-five hours of the
Essex Regiment, Bruce Hamilton's march recorded above, and many other
fine efforts serve to show the spirit and endurance of the troops.

In spite of the defeat at Winburg and the repulse at Ladybrand, there
still remained a fair number of broken and desperate men in the Free
State who held out among the difficult country of the east. A party of
these came across in the middle of September and endeavoured to cut
the railway near Brandfort.  They were pursued and broken up by
Macdonald, who, much aided in his operations by the band of scouts
which Lord Lovat had brought with him from Scotland, took several
prisoners and a large number of wagons and of oxen.  A party of these
Boers attacked a small post of sixteen Yeomanry under Lieutenant
Slater at Buitfontein, but were held at bay until relief came from
Brandfort.

At two other points the Boer and British forces were in contact during
these operations.  One was to the immediate north of Pretoria1 where
Grobler's commando was faced by Paget's brigade.  On August 18th the
Boers were forced with some loss out of Hornies Nek, which is ten
miles to the north of the capital.  On the 22nd a more important
skirmish took place at Pienaar's River, in the same direction, between
Baden-Powell's men, who had come thither in pursuit of De Wet, and
Grobler's band.  The advance guards of the two forces galloped into
each other, and for once Boer and Briton looked down the muzzles of
each other's rifles. The gallant Rhodesian Regiment, which had done
such splendid service during the war, suffered most heavily. Colonel
Spreckley and four others were killed, and six or seven wounded.  The
Boers were broken, however, and fled, leaving twenty-five prisoners to
the victors. Baden-Powell and Paget pushed forwards as far as
Nylstroom, but finding themselves in wild and profitless country they
returned towards Pretoria, and established the British northern posts
at a place called Warm Baths. Here Paget commanded, while Baden-Powell
shortly afterwards went down to Cape Town to make arrangements for
taking over the police force of the conquered countries, and to
receive the enthusiastic welcome of his colonial
fellow-countrymen. Plumer, with a small force operating from Warm
Baths, scattered a Boer cornmando on September 1st, capturing a few
prisoners and a considerable quantity of munitions of war.  On the 5th
there was another skirmish in the same neighbourhood, during which the
enemy attacked a kopje held by a company of Munster Fusiliers, and was
driven off with loss.  Many thousands of cattle were captured by the
British in this part of the field of operations, and were sent into
Pretoria, whence they helped to supply the army in the east.

There was still considerable effervescence in the western districts of
the Transvaal, and a mounted detachment met with fierce opposition at
the end of August on their journey from Zeerust to
Krugersdorp. Methuen, after his unsuccessful chase of De Wet, had gone
as far as Zeerust, and had then taken his force on to Mafeking to
refit.  Before leaving Zeerust, however, he had despatched Colonel
Little to Pretoria with a column which consisted of his own third
cavalry brigade, 1st Brabant's, the Kaffrarian Rifles, R battery of
Horse Artillery, and four Colonial guns.  They were acting as guard to
a very large convoy of 'returned empties.' The district which they had
to traverse is one of the most fertile in the Transvaal, a land of
clear streams and of orange groves. But the farmers are numerous and
aggressive, and the column, which was 900 strong, could clear all
resistance from its front, but found it impossible to brush off the
snipers upon its flanks and rear.  Shortly after their start the
column was deprived of the services of its gallant leader, Colonel
Little, who was shot while riding with his advance scouts.  Colonel
Dalgety took over the command.  Numerous desultory attacks culminated
in a fierce skirmish at Quaggafontein on August 31st, in which the
column had sixty casualties. The event might have been serious, as De
la Rey's main force appears to have been concentrated upon the British
detachment, the brunt of the action falling upon the Kaffrarian
Rifles.  By a rapid movement the column was able to extricate itself
and win its way safely to Krugersdorp, but it narrowly escaped out of
the wolf's jaws, and as it emerged into the open country De la Rey's
guns were seen galloping for the pass which they had just come
through. This force was sent south to Kroonstad to refit.

Lord Methuen's army, after its long marches and arduous work, arrived
at Mafeking on August 28th for the purpose of refitting. Since his
departure from Boshof on May 14th his men had been marching with
hardly a rest, and he had during that time fought fourteen
engagements. He was off upon the war-path once more, with fresh horses
and renewed energy, on September 8th, and on the 9th, with the
co-operation of General Douglas, he scattered a Boer force at Malopo,
capturing thirty prisoners and a great. quantity of stores.  On the
14th he ran down a convoy and regained one of the Colenso guns and
much ammunition. On the 20th he again made large captures. If in the
early phases of the war the Boers had given Paul Methuen some evil
hours, he was certainly getting his own back again.  At the same time
Clements was despatched from Pretoria with a small mobile force for
the purpose of clearing the Rustenburg and Krugersdorp districts,
which had always been storm centres. These two forces, of Methuen and
of Clements, moved through the country, sweeping the scattered Boer
bands before them, and hunting them down until they dispersed. At
Kekepoort and at Hekspoort Clements fought successful skirmishes,
losing at the latter action Lieutenant Stanley of the Yeomanry, the
Somersetshire cricketer, who showed, as so many have done, how close
is the connection between the good sportsman and the good soldier. On
the 12th Douglas took thirty-nine prisoners near Lichtenburg. On the
18th Rundle captured a gun at Bronkhorstfontein. Hart at
Potchefstroom, Hildyard in the Utrecht district, Macdonald in the
Orange River Colony, everywhere the British Generals were busily
stamping out the remaining embers of what had been so terrible a
conflagration.

Much trouble but no great damage was inflicted upon the British during
this last stage of the war by the incessant attacks upon the lines of
railway by roving bands of Boers.  The actual interruption of traffic
was of little consequence, for the assiduous Sappers with their gangs
of Basuto labourers were always at hand to repair the break. But the
loss of stores, and occasionally of lives, was more serious.  Hardly a
day passed that the stokers and drivers were not made targets of by
snipers among the kopjes,[Footnote: It is to be earnestly hoped that
those in authority will see that these men obtain the medal and any
other reward which can mark our sense of their faithful service. One
of them in the Orange River Colony, after narrating to me his many
hairbreadth escapes, prophesied bitterly that the memory of his
services would pass with the need for them.] and occasionally a train
was entirely destroyed.  Chief among these raiders was the wild
Theron, who led a band which contained men of all nations -- the same
gang who had already, as narrated, held up a train in the Orange River
Colony.  On August 31st he derailed another at Flip River to the south
of Johannesburg, blowing up the engine and burning thirteen
trucks. Almost at the same time a train was captured near Kroonstad,
which appeared to indicate that the great De Wet was back in his old
hunting-grounds.  On the same day the line was cut at Standerton. A
few days later, however, the impunity with which these feats had been
performed was broken, for in a similar venture near Krugersdorp the
dashing Theron and several of his associates lost their lives.

Two other small actions performed at this period of the war demand a
passing notice.  One was a smart engagement near Kraai Railway
Station, in which Major Broke of the Sappers with a hundred men
attacked a superior Boer force upon a kopje and drove them off with
loss -- a feat which it is safe to say he could not have accomplished
six months earlier. The other was the fine defence made by 125 of the
Canadian Mounted Rifles, who, while guarding the railway, were attacked
by a considerable Boer force with two guns.  They proved once more, as
Ladybrand and Elands River had shown, that with provisions,
cartridges, and brains, the smallest force can successfully hold its
own if it confines itself to the defensive.

And now the Boer cause appeared to be visibly tottering to its fall.
The flight of the President had accelerated that process of
disintegration which had already set in. Schalk Burger had assumed the
office of Vice-President, and the notorious Ben Viljoen bad become
first lieutenant of Louis Botha in maintaining the struggle. Lord
Roberts had issued an extremely judicious proclamation, in which he
pointed out the uselessness of further resistance, declared that
guerilla warfare would be ruthlessly suppressed, and informed the
burghers that no fewer than fifteen thousand of their
fellow-countrymen were in his hands as prisoners, and that none of
these could he released until the last rifle had been laid down.  From
all sides in the third week of September the British forces were
converging on Komatipoort, the frontier town. Already wild figures,
stained and tattered after nearly a year of warfare, were walking the
streets of Lourenço Marques, gazed at with wonder and some distrust by
the Portuguese inhabitants.  The exiled burghers moodily pacing the
streets saw their exiled President seated in his corner of the
Governor's verandah, the well-known curved pipe still dangling from
his mouth, the Bible by his chair.  Day by day the number of these
refugees increased.  On September 17th special trains were arriving
crammed with the homeless burghers, and with the mercenaries of many
nations -- French, German, Irish-American, and Russian -- all anxious
to make their way home.  By the 19th no fewer than seven hundred had
passed over.

At dawn on September 22nd a half-hearted attempt was made by the
commando of Erasmus to attack Elands River Station, but it was beaten
back by the garrison.  While it was going on Paget fell upon the camp
which Erasmus had left behind him, and captured his stores.  From all
over the country, from Plumer's Bushmen, from Barton at Krugersdorp,
from the Colonials at Heilbron, from Clements on the west, came the
same reports of dwindling resistance and of the abandoning of cattle,
arms, and ammunition.

On September 24th came the last chapter in this phase of the campaign
in the Eastern Transvaal, when at eight in the morning Pole-Carew and
his Guardsmen occupied Komatipoort.  They had made desperate marches,
one of them through thick bush, where they went for nineteen miles
without water, but nothing could shake the cheery gallantry of the
men.  To them fell the honour, an honour well deserved by their
splendid work throughout the whole campaign, of entering and occupying
the ultimate eastern point which the Boers could hold. Resistance had
been threatened and prepared for, but the grim silent advance of that
veteran infantry took the heart out of the defence.  With hardly a
shot fired the town was occupied.  The bridge which would enable the
troops to receive their supplies from Lourenço Marques was still
intact.  General Pienaar and the greater part of his force, amounting
to over two thousand men, had crossed the frontier and had been taken
down to Delagoa Bay, where they met the respect and attention which
brave men in misfortune deserve.  Small bands had slipped away to the
north and the south, but they were insignificant in numbers and
depressed in spirit. For the time it seemed that the campaign was
over, but the result showed that there was greater vitality in the
resistance of the burghers and less validity in their oaths than any
one had imagined.

One find of the utmost importance was made at Komatipoort, and at
Hector Spruit on the Crocodile River. That excellent artillery which
had fought so gallant a fight against our own more numerous guns, was
found destroyed and abandoned. Pole-Carew at Komatipoort got one Long
Tom (96 lb.) Creusot, and one smaller gun. Ian Hamilton at Hector
Spruit found the remains of many guns, which included two of our horse
artillery twelve-pounders, two large Creusot guns, two Krupps, one
Vickers-Maxim quick firer, two pompoms and four mountain guns.


CHAPTER XXX

THE CAMPAIGN OF DE WET


IT had been hoped that the dispersal of the main Boer army, the
capture of its guns and the expulsion of many both of the burghers and
of the foreign mercenaries, would have marked the end of the war.
These expectations were, however, disappointed, and South Africa was
destined to be afflicted and the British Empire disturbed by a useless
guerilla campaign. After the great and dramatic events which
characterised the earlier phases of the struggle between the Briton
and the Boer for the mastery of South Africa it is somewhat of the
nature of an anticlimax to turn one's attention to those scattered
operations which prolonged the resistance for a turbulent year at the
expense of the lives of many brave men on either side.  These raids
and skirmishes, which had their origin rather in the hope of vengeance
than of victory, inflicted much loss and misery upon the country, but,
although we may deplore the desperate resolution which bids brave men
prefer death to subjugation, it is not for us, the countrymen of
Hereward or Wallace, to condemn it.

In one important respect these numerous, though trivial, conflicts
differed from the battles in the earlier stages of the war.  The
British had learned their lesson so thoroughly that they often turned
the tables upon their instructors. Again and again the surprise was
effected, not by the nation of hunters, but by those roineks whose
want of cunning and of veldt-craft had for so long been a subject of
derision and merriment. A year of the kopje and the donga had altered
all that. And in the proportion of casualties another very marked
change had occurred.  Time was when in battle after battle a tenth
would have been a liberal estimate for the losses of the Boers
compared with those of the Briton. So it was at Stormberg; so it was
at Colenso; so it may have been at Magersfontein.  But in this last
stage of the war the balance was rather in favour of the British. It
may have been because they were now frequently acting on the
defensive, or it may have been from an improvement in their fire, or
it may have come from the more desperate mood of the burghers, but in
any case the fact remains that every encounter diminished the small
reserves of the Boers rather than the ample forces of their opponents.

One other change had come over the war, which caused more distress and
searchings of conscience among some of the people of Great Britain
than the darkest hours of their misfortunes.  This lay in the
increased bitterness of the struggle, and in those more strenuous
measures which the British commanders felt themselves entitled and
compelled to adopt. Nothing could exceed the lenity of Lord Roberts's
early proclainations in the Free State.  But, as the months went on
and the struggle still continued, the war assumed a harsher aspect.
Every farmhouse represented a possible fort, and a probable depôt for
the enemy.  The extreme measure of burning them down was only carried
out after a definite offence, such as affording cover for snipers, or
as a deterrent to railway wreckers, but in either case it is evident
tbat the women or children who were usually the sole occupants of the
farm could not by their own unaided exertions prevent the line from
being cut or the riflemen from firing. It is even probable that the
Boers may have committed these deeds in the vicinity of houses the
destruction of which they would least regret.  Thus, on humanitarian
grounds there were strong arguments against this policy of destruction
being pushed too far, and the political reasons were even stronger,
since a homeless man is necessarily the last man to settle down, and a
burned-out family the last to become contented British citizens. On
the other hand, the impatience of the army towards what they regarded
as the abuses of lenity was very great, and they argued that the war
would be endless if the women in the farm were allowed always to
supply the sniper on the kopje.  The irregular and brigand-like
fashion in which the struggle was carried out had exasperated the
soldiers, and though there were few cases of individual outrage or
unauthorised destruction, the general orders were applied with some
harshness, and repressive measures were taken which warfare may justify
but which civilisation must deplore.

After the dispersal of the main army at Komatipoort there remained a
considerable number of men in arms, some of them irreconcilable
burghers, some of them foreign adventurers, and some of them Cape
rebels, to whom British arms were less terrible than British law.
These men, who were still well armed and well mounted, spread
themselves over the country, and acted with such energy that they gave
the impression of a large force. They made their way into the settled
districts, and brought fresh hope and fresh disaster to many who had
imagined that the war had passed for ever away from them.  Under
compulsion from their irreconcilable countrymen, a large number of the
farmers broke their parole, mounted the horses which British leniency
had left with them, and threw themselves once more into the struggle,
adding their honour to the other sacrifices which they had made for
their country. In any account of the continual brushes between these
scattered bands and the British forces, there must be such a
similarity in procedure and result, that it would be hard for the
writer and intolerable for the reader if they were set forth in
detail. As a general statement it may be said that during the months
to come there was no British garrison in any one of the numerous posts
in the Transvaal, and in that portion of the Orange River Colony which
lies east of the railway, which was not surrounded by prowling
riflemen, there was no convoy sent to supply those garrisons which was
not liable to be attacked upon the road, and there was no train upon
any one of the three lines which might not find a rail up and a
hundred raiders covering it with their Mausers.  With some two
thousand miles of railroad to guard, so many garrisons to provide, and
an escort to be furnished to every convoy, there remained out of the
large body of British troops in the country only a moderate force who
were available for actual operations.  This force was distributed in
different districts scattered over a wide extent of country, and it
was evident that while each was strong enough to suppress local
resistance, still at any moment a concentration of the Boer scattered
forces upon a single British column might place the latter in a
serious position.  The distribution of the British in October and
November was roughly as follows.  Methuen was in the Rustenburg
district, Barton at Krugersdorp and operating down the line to
Klerksdorp, Settle was in the West, Paget at Pienaar's River, Clements
in the Magaliesberg, Hart at Potchefstroom, Lyttelton at Middelburg,
Smith-Dorrien at Belfast, W. Kitchener at Lydenburg, French in the
Eastern Transvaal, Hunter, Rundle, Brabant, and Bruce Hamilton in the
Orange River Colony. Each of these forces was occupied in the same
sort of work, breaking up small bodies of the enemy, hunting for arms,
bringing in refugees, collecting supplies, and rounding up
cattle. Some, however, were confronted with organised resistance and
some were not.  A short account may be given in turn of each separate
column.

I would treat first the operations of General Barton, because they
form the best introduction to that narrative of the doings of
Christian De Wet to which this chapter will be devoted.

The most severe operations during the month of October fell to the lot
of this British General, who, with some of the faithful fusiliers whom
he had led from the first days in Natal, was covering the line from
Krugersdorp to Klerksdorp.  It is a long stretch, and one which, as
the result shows, is as much within striking distance of the Orange
Free Staters as of the men of the Transvaal. Upon October 5th Barton
left Krugersdorp with a force which consisted of the Scots and Welsh
Fusiliers, five hundred mounted men, the 78th R.F.A., three pom-poms,
and a 4.7 naval gun. For a fortnight, as the small army moved slowly
down the line of the railroad, their progress was one continual
skirmish.  On October 6th they brushed the enemy aside in an action in
which the volunteer company of the Scots Fusiliers gained the applause
of their veteran comrades.  On the 8th and 9th there was sharp
skirmishing, the brunt of which on the latter date fell upon the Welsh
Fusiliers, who had three officers and eleven men injured.  The
commandos of Douthwaite, Liebenberg, and Van der Merve seem to have
been occupied in harassing the column during their progress through
the Gatsrand range.  On the 15th the desultory sniping freshened again
into a skirmish in which the honours and the victory belonged mainly
to the Welshmen and to that very keen and efficient body, the Scottish
Yeomanry.  Six Boers were left dead upon the ground. On October 17th
the column reached Frederickstad, where it halted.  On that date six
of Marshall's Horse were cut off while collecting supplies.  The same
evening three hundred of the Imperial Light Horse came in from
Krugersdorp.

Up to this date the Boer forces which dogged the column had been
annoying but not seriously aggressive. On the 19th, however, affairs
took an unexpected turn. The British scouts rode in to report a huge
dust cloud whirling swiftly northwards from the direction of the Vaal
River -- soon plainly visible to all, and showing as it drew nearer
the hazy outline of a long column of mounted men.  The dark coats of
the riders, and possibly the speed of their advance, showed tbat they
were Boers, and soon it was rumoured that it was no other than
Christian De Wet with his merry men, who, with characteristic
audacity, had ridden back into the Transvaal in the hope of
overwhelming Barton's column.

It is some time since we have seen anything of this energetic
gentleman with the tinted glasses, but as the narrative will be much
occupied with him in the future a few words are needed to connect him
with the past. It has been already told how he escaped through the net
which caught so many of his countrymen at the time of the surrender of
Prinsloo, and how he was chased at furious speed from the Vaal River
to the mountains of Magaliesberg.  Here he eluded his pursuers,
separated from Steyn, who desired to go east to confer with Kruger,
and by the end of August was back again in his favourite recruiting
ground in the north of the Orange River Colony.  Here for nearly two
months he had lain very quiet, refitting and reassembling his
scattered force, until now, ready for action once more, and fired by
the hope of cutting off an isolated British force, he rode swiftly
northwards with two thousand men under that rolling cloud which had
been spied by the watchers of Frederickstad.

The problem before him was a more serious one, however, than any which
he had ever undertaken, for this was no isolated regiment or
ill-manned post, but a complete little field force very ready to do
battle with him. De Wet's burghers, as they arrived, sprang from their
ponies and went into action in their usual invisible but effective
fashion, covered by the fire of several guns.  The soldiers had thrown
up lines of sangars, however, and were able, though exposed to a very
heavy fire coming from several directions, to hold their own until
nightfall, when the defences were made more secure.  On the 20th,
21st, 22nd, 23rd, and 24th the cordon of the attack was drawn
gradually closer, the Boers entirely surrounding the British force,
and it was evident that they were feeling round for a point at which
an assault might be delivered.

The position of the defenders upon the morning of October 25th was as
follows.  The Scots Fusiliers were holding a ridge to the
south. General Barton with the rest of his forces occupied a hill some
distance off. Between the two was a valley down which ran the line,
and also the spruit upon which the British depended for their water
supply.  On each side of the line were ditches, and at dawn on this
seventh day of the investment it was found that these had been
occupied by snipers during the night, and that it was impossible to
water the animals. One of two things must follow. Either the force
must shift its position or it must drive these men out of their cover.
No fire could do it, as they lay in perfect safety.  They must be
turned out at the point of the bayonet.

About noon several companies of Scots and Welsh Fusiliers advanced
from different directions in very extended order upon the
ditcbes. Captain Baillie's company of the former regiment first
attracted the fire of the burghers.  Wounded twice the brave officer
staggered on until a third bullet struck him dead.  Six of his men
were found lying beside him.  The other companies were exposed in
their turn to a severe fire, but rushing onwards they closed rapidly
in upon the ditches. There have been few finer infantry advances
during the war, for the veldt was perfectly flat and the fire
terrific. A mile of ground was crossed by the fusiliers.  Three
gallant officers -- Dick, Elliot, and Best -- went down; but the rush
of the men was irresistible. At the edge of the ditches the supports
overtook the firing line, and they all surged into the trenches
together.  Then it was seen how perilous was the situation of the Boer
snipers. They had placed themselves between the upper and the nether
millstone.  There was no escape for them save across the open.  It
says much for their courage that they took that perilous choice rather
than wave the white flag, which would have ensured their safety.

The scene which followed has not often been paralleled. About a
hundred and fifty burghers rushed out of the ditches, streaming across
the veldt upon foot to the spot where their horses had been
secreted. Rifles, pom-poms, and shrapnel played upon them during this
terrible race.  'A black running mob carrying coats, blankets, boots,
rifles, &c., was seen to rise as if from nowhere and rush as fast as
they could, dropping the various things they carried as they ran.'
One of their survivors has described how awful was that wild blind
flight, through a dust-cloud thrown up by the shells. For a mile the
veldt was dotted with those who had fallen. Thirty-six were found
dead, thirty were wounded, and thirty more gave themselves up as
prisoners.  Some were so demoralised that they rushed into the
hospital and surrendered to the British doctor.  The Imperial Light
Horse were for some reason slow to charge.  Had they done so at once,
many eye-witnesses agree that not a fugitive should have escaped.  On
the other hand, the officer in command may have feared that in doing
so he might mask the fire of the British guns.

One incident in the action caused some comment at he time.  A small
party of Imperial Light Horse, gallantly led by Captain Yockney of B
Squadron, came to close quarters with a group of Boers.  Five of the
enemy having held up their hands Yockney passed them and pushed on
against their comrades.  On this the prisoners seized their rifles
once more and fired upon their captors.  A fierce fight ensued with
only a few feet between the muzzles of the rifles.  Three Boers were
shot dead, five wounded, and eight taken.  Of these eight three were
shot next day by order of court-martial for having resumed their
weapons after surrender, while two others were acquitted.  The death
of these men in cold blood is to be deplored, but it is difficult to
see how any rules of civilised warfare can be maintained if a flagrant
breach of them is not promptly and sternly punished.

On receiving this severe blow De Wet promptly raised the investment
and hastencd to regain his favourite haunts. Considerable
reinforcements had reached Barton upon the same day, including the
Dublins, the Essex, Strathcona's Horse, and the Elswick Battery, with
some very welcome supplies of ammunition. As Barton had now more than
a thousand mounted men of most excellent quality it is difficult to
imagine why he did not pursue his defeated enemy. He seems to have
underrated the effect which he had produced, for instead of instantly
assuming the offensive he busied himself in strengthening his
defences. Yet the British losses in the whole operations had not
exceeded one hundred, so that there does not appear to have been any
reason why the force should be crippled. As Barton was in direct and
constant telegraphic communication with Pretoria, it is possible that
he was acting under superior orders in the course which he adopted.

It was not destined, however, that De Wet should be allowed to escape
with his usual impunity. On the 27th, two days after his retreat from
Frederickstad he was overtaken -- stumbled upon by pure chance
apparently -- by the mounted infantry and cavalry of Charles Knox and De
Lisle.  The Boers, a great disorganised cloud of horsemen, swept
swiftly along the northern bank of the Vaal, seeking for a place to
cross, while the British rode furiously after them, spraying them with
shrapnel at every opportunity.  Darkness and a violent storm gave De
Wet his opportunity to cross, but the closeness of the pursuit
compelled him to abandon two of his guns, one of them a Krupp and the
other one of the British twelve-pounders of Sanna's Post, which, to the
delight of the gunners, was regained by that very U battery to which
it belonged.

Once across the river and back in his own country De Wet, having
placed seventy miles between himself and his pursuers, took it for
granted that he was out of their reach, and halted near the village of
Bothaville to refit. But the British were hard upon his track, and for
once they were able to catch this indefatigable man unawares. Yet
their knowledge of his position seems to have been most hazy, and on
the very day before that on which they found him, General Charles
Knox, with the main body of the force, turned north, and was out of
the subsequent action. De Lisle's mounted troops also turned north,
but fortunately not entirely out of call.  To the third and smallest
body of mounted men, that under Le Gallais, fell the honour of the
action which I am about to describe.

It is possible that the move northwards of Charles Knox and of De
Lisle had the effect of a most elaborate stratagem, since it persuaded
the Boer scouts that the British were retiring.  So indeed they were,
save only the small force of Le Gallais, which seems to have taken one
last cast round to the south before giving up the pursuit.  In the
grey of the morning of November 6th, Major Lean with forty men of the
5th Mounted Infantry came upon three weary Boers sleeping upon the
veldt. Having secured the men, and realising that they were an
outpost, Lean pushed on, and topping a rise some hundreds of yards
further, he and his men saw a remarkable scene.  There before them
stretched the camp of the Boers, the men sleeping, the horses grazing,
the guns parked, and the wagons outspanned.

There was little time for consideration. The Kaffir drivers were
already afoot and strolling out for their horses, or lighting the
fires for their masters' coffee. With splendid decision, although he
had but forty men to oppose to over a thousand, Lean sent back for
reinforcements and opened fire upon the camp.  In an instant it was
buzzing like an overturned hive.  Up sprang the sleepers, rushed for
their horses, and galloped away across the veldt, leaving their guns
and wagons behind. A few stalwarts remained, however, and their
numbers were increased by those whose horses had stampeded, and who
were, therefore, unable to get away.  They occupied an enclosed kraal
and a farmhouse in front of the British, whence they opened a sharp
fire. At the same time a number of the Boers who had ridden away came
back again, having realised how weak their assailants were, and worked
round the British flanks upon either side.

Le Gallais, with his men, had come up, but the British force was still
far inferior to that which it was attacking.  A section of U battery
was able to unlimber, and open fire at four hundred yards from the
Boer position.  The British made no attempt to attack, but contented
themselves with holding on to the position from which they could
prevent the Boer guns from being removed.  The burghers tried
desperately to drive off the stubborn fringe of riflemen. A small
stone shed in the possession of the British was the centre of the Boer
fire, and it was within its walls that Ross of the Durhams was
horribly wounded by an explosive ball, and that the brave Jerseyman,
Le Gallais, was killed. Before his fall he had despatched his staff
officer, Major Hickie, to hurry up men from the rear,

On the fall of Ross and Le Gallais the command fell upon Major Taylor
of U battery.  The position at that time was sufficiently alarming.
The Boers were working round each flank in considerable numbers, and
they maintained a heavy fire from a stone enclosure in the centre.
The British forces actually engaged were insignificant, consisting of
forty men of the 5th Mounted Infantry, and two guns in the centre,
forty-six men of the 17th and 18th Imperial Yeomanry upon the right,
and 105 of the 8th Mounted Infantry on the left or 191 rifles in all.
The flanks of this tiny force had to extend to half a mile to hold off
the Boer flank attack, but they were heartened in their resistance by
the knowledge that their comrades were hastening to their assistance.
Taylor, realising that a great effort must be made to tide over the
crisis, sent a messenger back with orders that the convoy should be
parked, and every available man sent up to strengthen the right flank,
which was the weakest.  The enemy got close on to one of the guns, and
swept down the whole detachmcnt, but a handful of the Suffolk Mounted
Infantry under Lieutenant Peebles most galtantly held them off from
it.  For an hour the pressure was extreme.  Then two companies of the
7th Mounted Infantry came up, and were thrown on to each flank.
Shortly afterwards Major Welch, with two more companies of the same
corps, arrived, and the tide began slowly to turn. The Boers were
themselves outflanked by the extension of the British line and were
forced to fall back. At half-past eight De Lisle, whose force had
trotted and galloped for twelve miles, arrived with several companies
of Australians, and the success of the day was assured. The smoke of
the Prussian guns at Waterloo was not a more welcome sight than the
dust of De Lisle's horsemen. But the question now was whether the
Boers, who were in the walled inclosure and farm which formed their
centre, would manage to escape.  The place was shelled, but here, as
often before, it was found how useless a weapon is shrapnel against
buildings. There was nothing for it but to storm it, and a grim little
storming party of fifty men, half British, half Australian, was
actually waiting with fixed bayonets for the whistle which was to be
their signal, when the white flag flew out from the farm, and all was
over.  Warned by many a tragic experience the British still lay low in
spite of the flag.  'Come out! come out!' they shouted. Eighty-two
unwounded Boers filed out of the enclosure, and the total number of
prisoners came to 114, while between twenty and thirty Boers were
killed. Six guns, a pom-pom, and 1,000 head of cattle were the prizes
of the victors.

This excellent little action showed that the British mounted infantry
had reached a point of efficiency at which they were quite able to
match the Boers at their own game. For hours they held them with an
inferior force, and finally, when the numbers became equal, were able
to drive them off and capture their guns.  The credit is largely due
to Major Lean for his prompt initiative on discovering their laager,
and to Major Taylor for his handling of the force during a very
critical time. Above all, it was due to the dead leader, Le Gallais,
who had infected every man under him with his own spirit of reckless
daring.  'If I die, tell my mother that I die happy, as we got the
guns,' said he, with his failing breath.  The British total losses
were twelve killed (four officers) and thirty-three wounded (seven
officers).  Major Welch, a soldier of great promise, much beloved by
his men, was one of the slain. Following closely after the repulse at
Frederickstad this action was a heavy blow to De Wet.  At last, the
British were beginning to take something off the score which they owed
the bold raider, but there was to be many an item on either side
before the long reckoning should be closed.  The Boers, with De Wet,
fled south, where it was not long before they showed that they were
still a military force with which we had to reckon.

In defiance of chronology it may perhaps make a clearer narrative if I
continue at once with the movements of De Wet from the time that he
lost his guns at Bothaville, and then come back to the consideration
of the campaign in the Transvaal, and to a short account of those
scattered and disconnected actions which break the continuity of the
story. Before following De Wet, however, it is necessary to say
something of the general state of the Orange River Colony and of some
military developments which had occurred there.  Under the wise and
conciliatory rule of General Pretyman the farmers in the south and
west were settling down, and for the time it looked as if a large
district was finally pacified.  The mild taxation was cheerfully paid,
schools were reopened, and a peace party made itself apparent, with
Fraser and Piet de Wet, the brother of Christian, among its strongest
advocates.

Apart from the operations of De Wet there appeared to be no large
force in the field in the Orange River Colony, but early in October of
1900 a small but very mobile and efficient Boer force skirted the
eastern outposts of the British, struck the southern line of
communications, and then came up the western flank, attacking, where
an attack was possible, each of the isolated and weakly garrisoned
townlets to which it came, and recruiting its strength from a district
which had been hardly touched by the ravages of war, and which by its
prosperity alone might have proved the amenity of British military
rule.  This force seems to have skirted Wepener without attacking a
place of such evil omen to their cause.  Their subsequent movements
are readily traced by a sequence of military events.

On October 1st Rouxville was threatened.  On the 9th an outpost of the
Cheshire Militia was taken and the railway cut for a few hours in the
neighbourhood of Bethulie. A week later the Boer riders were dotting
the country round Phillipolis, Springfontein and Jagersfontein, the
latter town being occupied upon October 16th, while the garrison held
out upon the nearest kopje. The town was retaken from the enemy by
King Hall and his men, who were Seaforth Highlanders and police.
There was fierce fighting in the streets, and from twenty to thirty of
each side were killed or wounded.  Fauresmith was attacked on October
19th, but was also in the very safe hands of the Seaforths, who held
it against a severe assault.  Phillipolis was continually attacked
between the 18th and the 24th, but made a most notable defence, which
was conducted by Gostling, the resident magistrate, with forty
civilians. For a week this band of stalwarts held their own against
600 Boers, and were finally relieved by a force from the railway.  All
the operations were not, however, as successful as these three
defences.  On October 24th a party of cavalry details belonging to
many regiments were snapped up in an ambuscade.  On the next day
Jacobadal was attacked, with considerable loss to the British.  The
place was entered in the night, and the enemy occupied the houses
which surrounded the square. The garrison, consisting of about sixty
men of the Capetown Highlanders, bad encamped in the square, and were
helpless when fire was opened upon them in the morning.  There was
practically no resistance, and yet for hours a murderous fire was kept
up upon the tents in which they cowered, so that the affair seems not
to have been far removed from murder.  Two-thirds of the little force
were killed or wounded.  The number of the assailants does not appear
to have been great, and they vanished upon the appearance of a
relieving force from Modder River.

After the disaster at Jacobsdal the enemy appeared on November 1st
near Kimberley and captured a small convoy.  The country round was
disturbed, and Settle was sent south with a column to pacify it.  In
this way we can trace this small cyclone from its origin in the old
storm centre in the north-east of the Orange River Colony, sweeping
round the whole country, striking one post after another, and finally
blowing out at the corresponding point upon the other side of the seat
of war.

We have last seen De Wet upon November 6th, when he fled south from
Bothaville, leaving his guns but not his courage behind him. Trekking
across the line, and for a wonder gathering up no train as he passed,
he made for that part of the eastern Orange River Colony which had
been reoccupied by his countrymen. Here, in the neighbourhood of
Thabanchu, he was able to join other forces, probably the commandos of
Haasbroek and Fourie, which still retained some guns. At the head of a
considerable force he attacked the British garrison of Dewetsdorp, a
town some forty miles to the south-east of Bloemfontein.

It was on November 18th that De Wet assailed the place, and it fell
upon the 24th, after a defence which appears to have been a very
creditable one.  Several small British columns were moving in the
south-east of the Colony, but none of them arrived in time to avert
the disaster, which is the more inexplicable as the town is within one
day's ride of Bloemfontein.  The place is a village hemmed in upon its
western side by a semicircle of steep rocky hills broken in the centre
by a gully.  The position was a very extended one, and had the fatal
weakness that the loss of any portion of it meant the loss of it
all. The garrison consisted of one company of Highland Light Infantry
on the southern horn of the semicircle, three companies of the 2nd
Gloucester Regiment on the northern and central part, with two guns of
the 68th battery.  Some of the Royal Irish Mounted Infantry and a
handful of police made up the total of the defenders to something over
four hundred, Major Massy in command

The attack developed at that end of the ridge which was held by the
company of Highlanders. Every night the Boer riflemen drew in closer,
and every morning found the position more desperate.  On the 20th the
water supply of the garrison was cut, though a little was still
brought up by volunteers during the night.  The thirst in the sultry
trenches was terrible, but the garrison still, with black lips and
parched tongues, held on to their lines.  On the 22nd the attack had
made such progress that the post had by the Highlanders became
untenable, and had to be withdrawn. It was occupied next morning by
the Boers, and the whole ridge was at their mercy. Out of eighteen men
who served one of the British guns sixteen were killed or wounded, and
the last rounds were fired by the sergeant-farrier, who carried,
loaded, and fired all by himself.  All day the soldiers held out, but
the thirst was in itself enough to justify if not to compel a
surrender. At half-past five the garrison laid down their arms, having
lost about sixty killed or wounded. There does not, as far as one can
learn, seem to have been any attempt to injure the two guns which fell
into the hands of the enemy. De Wet himself was one of the first to
ride into the British trenches, and the prisoners gazed with interest
at the short strong figure, with the dark tail coat and the
square-topped bowler hat, of the most famous of the Boer leaders.

British columns were converging, however, from several quarters, and
De Wet had to be at once on the move. On the 26th Dewetsdorp was
reoccupied by General Charles Knox with fifteen hundred men. De Wet
had two days' start, but so swift was Knox that on the 27th he had run
him down at Vaalbank, where he shelled his camp.  De Wet broke away,
however, and trekking south for eighteen hours without a halt, shook
off the pursuit. He had with him at this time nearly 8,000 men with
several guns under Haasbroek, Fourie, Philip Botha, and Steyn. It was
his declared intention to invade Cape Colony with his train of weary
footsore prisoners, and the laurels of Dewetsdorp still green upon
him. He was much aided in all his plans by that mistaken leniency
which had refused to recognise that a borse is in that country as much
a weapon as a rifle, and had left great numbers upon the farms with
which he could replace his useless animals.  So numerous were they
that many of the Boers had two or three for their own use.  It is not
too much to say that our weak treatment of the question of horses will
come to be recognised as the one great blot upon the conduct of the
war, and that our undue and fantastic scruples have prolonged
hostilities for months, and cost the country many lives and many
millions of pounds.

De Wet's plan for the invasion of the Colony was not yet destined to
be realised, for a tenacious man had set himself to frustrate it.
Several small but mobile British columns, those of Pilcher, of Barker,
and of Herbert, under the supreme direction of Charles Knox, were
working desperately to head him off.  In torrents of rain which turned
every spruit into a river and every road into a quagmire, the British
horsemen stuck manfully to their work.  De Wet had hurried south,
crossed the Caledon River, and made for Odendaal's Drift. But Knox,
after the skirmish at Vaalbank, had trekked swiftly south to Bethulie,
and was now ready with three mobile columns and a network of scouts
and patrols to strike in any direction.  For a few days he had lost
touch, but his arrangements were such that he must recover it if the
Boers either crossed the railroad or approached the river. On December
2nd he had authentic information that De Wet was crossing the Caledon,
and in an instant the British columns were all off at full cry once
more, sweeping over the country with a front of fifteen miles.  On the
3rd and 4th, in spite of frightful weather, the two little armies of
horsemen struggled on, fetlock-deep in mud, with the rain lashing
their faces. At night without cover, drenched and bitterly cold, the
troopers threw themselves down on the sodden veldt to snatch a few
hours' sleep before renewing the interminable pursuit.  The drift over
the Caledon flowed deep and strong, but the Boer had passed and the
Briton must pass also.  Thirty guns took to the water, diving
completely under the coffee-coloured surface, to reappear glistening
upon the southern bank.  Everywhere there were signs of the passage of
the enemy. A litter of crippled or dying horses marked their track,
and a Krupp gun was found abandoned by the drift. The Dewetsdorp
prisoners, too, had been set loose, and began to stumble and stagger
back to their countrymen, their boots worn off, and their putties
wrapped round their bleeding feet.  It is painful to add that they had
been treated with a personal violence and a brutality in marked
contrast to the elaborate hospitality shown by the British Government
to its involuntary guests.

On December 6th De Wet had at last reached the Orange River a clear
day in front of his pursuers. But it was only to find that his labours
had been in vain. At Odendaal, where he had hoped to cross, the river
was in spate, the British flag waved from a post upon the further
side, and a strong force of expectant Guardsmen eagerly awaited him
there. Instantly recognising that the game was up, the Boer leader
doubled back for the north and safety.  At Rouxvilie he hesitated as
to whether he should snap up the small garrison, but the commandant,
Rundle, showed a bold face, and De Wet passed on to the Coomassie
Bridge over the Caledon. The small post there refused to be bluffed
into a surrender, and the Boers, still dropping their horses fast,
passed on, and got over the drift at Amsterdam, their rearguard being
hardly across before Knox had also reached the river.

On the 10th the British were in touch again near Helvetia, where there
was a rearguard skirmish. On the 11th both parties rode through
Reddersberg, a few hours separating them.  The Boers in their
cross-country trekking go, as one of their prisoners observed,
'slap-bang at everything,' and as they are past-masters in the art of
ox and mule driving, and have such a knowledge of the country that
they can trek as well by night as by day, it says much for the energy
of Knox and his men that he was able for a fortnight to keep in close
touch with them.

It became evident now that there was not much chance of overtaking the
main body of the burghers, and an attempt was therefore made to
interpose a fresh force who might head them off. A line of posts
existed between Thabanchu and Ladybrand, and Colonel Thorneycroft was
stationed there with a movable column.  It was Knox's plan therefore
to prevent the Boers from breaking to the west and to head them
towards the Basuto border. A small column under Parsons had been sent
by Hunter from Bloemfontein, and pushed in upon the flank of De Wet,
who had on the 12th got back to Dewetsdorp. Again the pursuit became
warm, but De Wet's time was not yet come.  He headed for Springhaan
Nek, about fifteen miles east of Thabanchu.  This pass is about four
miles broad, with a British fort upon either side of it.  There was
only one way to safety, for Knox's mounted infantrymen and lancers were
already dotting the southern skyline. Without hesitation the whole
Boer force, now some 2,500 strong, galloped at full speed in open
order through the Nek, braving the long range fire of riflemen and
guns. The tactics were those of French in his ride to Kimberley, and
the success was as complete. De Wet's force passed through the last
barrier which had been held against him, and vanished into the
mountainous country round Ficksburg, where it could safely rest and
refit.

The result then of these bustling operations had been that De Wet and
his force survived, but that he had failed in his purpose of invading
the Colony, and had dropped some five hundred horses, two guns, and
about a hundred of his men. Haasbroek's commando had been detached by
De Wet to make a feint at another pass while he made his way through
the Springhaan.  Parsons's force followed Haasbroek up and engaged
him, but under cover of night he was able to get away and to join his
leader to the north of Thabanchu. On December 13th, this, the second
great chase after De Wet, may be said to have closed.


CHAPTER XXXI

THE GUERILLA WARFARE IN THE TRANSVAAL:
NOOITGEDACHT

Leaving De Wet in the Ficksburg mountains, where he lurked until after
the opening of the New Year, the story of the scattered operations in
the Transvaal may now be carried down to the same point -- a story
comprising many skirmishes and one considerable engagement, but so
devoid of any central thread that it is difficult to know how to
approach it. From Lichtenburg to Komati, a distance of four hundred
miles, there was sporadic warfare everywhere, attacks upon scattered
posts, usually beaten off but occasionally successful, attacks upon
convoys, attacks upon railway trains, attacks upon anything and
everything which could harass the invaders. Each General in his own
district had his own work of repression to perform, and so we had best
trace the doings of each up to the end of the year 1900.

Lord Methuen after his pursuit of De Wet in August had gone to
Mafeking to refit.  From that point, with a force which contained a
large proportion of yeomanry and of Australian bushmen, he conducted a
long series of operations in the difficult and important district
which lies between Rustenburg, Lichtenburg, and Zeerust.  Several
strong and mobile Boer commandos with guns moved about in it, and an
energetic though not very deadly warfare raged between Lemmer, Snyman,
and De la Rey on the one side, and the troops of Methuen, Douglas,
Broadwood, and Lord Errol upon the other. Methuen moved about
incessantly through the broken country, winning small skirmishes and
suffering the indignity of continual sniping.  From time to time he
captured stores, wagons, and small bodies of prisoners. Early in
October he and Douglas had successes.  On the 15th Broadwood was
engaged.  On the 20th there was a convoy action.  On the 25th Methuen
had a success and twenty-eight prisoners.  On November 9th he
surprised Snyman and took thirty prisoners. On the 10th he got a
pom-pom.  Early in this month Douglas separated from Methuen, and
marched south from Zeerust through Ventersdorp to Klerksdorp, passing
over a country which had been hardly touched before, and arriving at
his goal with much cattle and some prisoners. Towards the end of the
month a considerable stock of provisions were conveyed to Zeerust, and
a garrison left to hold that town so as to release Methuen's column
for service elsewhere.

Hart's sphere of action was originaUy round Potchefstroom.  On
September 9th he made a fine forced march to surprise this town, which
bad been left some time before with an entirely inadequate garrison to
fall into the hands of the enemy. His infantry covered thirty-six and
his cavalry fifty-four miles in fifteen hours.  The operation was a
complete success, the town with eighty Boers falling into his hands
with little opposition.  On September 30th Hart returned to
Krugersdorp, where, save for one skirmish upon the Gatsrand on
November 22nd, he appears to have had no actual fighting to do during
the remainder of the year.

After the clearing of the eastern border of the Transvaal by the
movement of Pole-Carew along the railway line, and of Buller aided by
Ian Hamilton in the mountainous country to the north of it, there were
no operations of importance in this district.  A guard was kept upon
the frontier to prevent the return of refugees and the smuggling of
ammunition, while General Kitchener, the brother of the Sirdar, broke
up a few small Boer laagers in the neighbourhood of
Lydenburg. Smith-Dorrien guarded the line at Belfast, and on two
occasions, November 1st and November 6th, he made aggressive movements
against the enemy.  The first, which was a surprise executed in
concert with Colonel Spens of the Shropshires, was frustrated by a
severe blizzard, which prevented the troops from pushing home their
success.  The second was a two days' expedition, which met with a
spirited opposition, and demands a fuller notice.

This was made from Belfast, and the force, which consisted of about
fourteen hundred men, advanced south to the Komati River.  The
infantry were Suffolks and Shropshires, the cavalry Canadians and 5th
Lancers, with two Canadian guns and four of the 84th battery. All day
the Boer snipers clung to the column, as they had done to French's
cavalry in the same district. Mere route marches without a very
definite and adequate objective appear to be rather exasperating than
overawing, for so long as the column is moving onwards the most timid
farmer may be tempted into long-range fire from the flanks or rear.
The river was reached and the Boers driven from a position which they
had taken up, but their signal fires brought mounted riflemen from
every farm, and the retreat of the troops was pressed as they returned
to Belfast. There was all the material for a South African Lexington.
The most difficult of military operations, the covering of a
detachment from a numerous and aggressive enemy, was admirably carried
out by the Canadian gunners and dragoons under the command of Colonel
Lessard.  So severe was the pressure that sixteen of the latter were
for a time in the hands of the enemy, who attempted something in the
nature of a charge upon the steadfast rearguard.  The movement was
repulsed, and the total Boer loss would appear to have been
considerable, since two of their leaders, Commandant Henry Prinsloo
and General Joachim Fourie, were killed, while General Johann Grobler
was wounded.  If the rank and file suffered in proportion the losses
must have been severe. The British casualties in the two days amounted
to eight killed and thirty wounded, a small total when the arduous
nature of the service is considered.  The Canadians and the
Shropshires seem to have borne off the honours of these trying
operations.

In the second week of October, General French, with three brigades of
cavalry (Dickson's, Gordon's, and Mahon's), started for a
cross-country ride from Machadodorp.  Three brigades may seem an
imposing force, but the actual numbers did not exceed two strong
regiments, or about 1,500 sabres in all.  A wing of the Suffolk
Regiment went with them.  On October 13th Mahon's brigade met with a
sharp resistance, and lost ten killed and twenty-nine wounded.  On the
14th the force entered Carolina.  On the 16th they lost six killed and
twenty wounded, and from the day that they started until they reached
Heidelberg on the 27th there was never a day that they could shake
themselves clear of their attendant snipers.  The total losses of the
force were about ninety killed and wounded, but they brought in sixty
prisoners and a large quantity of cattle and stores. The march had at
least the effect of making it clear that the passage of a column of
troops encumbered with baggage through a hostile country is an
inefficient means for quelling a popular resistance. Light and mobile
parties acting from a central depôt were in future to be employed,
with greater hopes of success.

Some appreciable proportion of the British losses during this phase of
the war arose from railway accidents caused by the persistent
tampering with the lines.  In the first ten days of October there were
four such mishaps, in which two Sappers, twenty-three of the Guards
(Coldstreams), and eighteen of the 66th battery were killed or
wounded.  On the last occasion, which occurred on October 10th near
Vlakfontein, the reinforcements who came to aid the sufferers were
themselves waylaid, and lost twenty, mostly of the Rifle Brigade,
killed, wounded, or prisoners.  Hardly a day elapsed that the line was
not cut at some point.  The bringing of supplies was complicated by
the fact that the Boer women and children were coming more and more
into refugee camps, where they had to be fed by the British, and the
strange spectacle was frequently seen of Boer snipers killing or
wounding the drivers and stokers of the very trains which were
bringing up food upon which Boer families were dependent for their
lives. Considering that these tactics were continued for over a year,
and that they resulted in the death or mutilation of many hundreds of
British officers and men, it is really inexplicable that the British
authorities did not employ the means used by all armies under such
circumstances -- which is to place hostages upon the trains. A
truckload of Boers behind every engine would have stopped the practice
for ever.  Again and again in this war the British have fought with
the gloves when their opponents used their knuckles.

We will pass now to a consideration of the doings of General Paget,
who was operating to the north and north-east of Pretoria with a force
which consisted of two regiments of infantry, about a thousand
horsemen, and twelve guns. His mounted men were under the command of
Plumer.  In the early part of November this force had been withdrawn
from Warm Baths and had fllen back upon Pienaar's River, where it had
continual skirmishes with the enemy.  Towards the end of November,
news having reached Pretoria that the enemy under Erasmus and Viljoen
were present in force at a place called Rhenoster Kop, which is about
twenty miles north of the Delagoa Railway line and fifty miles
north-east of the capital, it was arranged that Paget should attack
them from the south, while Lyttelton from Middelburg should endeavour
to get behind them.  The force with which Paget started upon this
enterprise was not a very formidable one. He had for mounted troops
some Queensland, South Australian, New Zealand, and Tasmanian Bushmen,
together with the York, Montgomery, and Warwick Yeomanry.  His
infantry were the 1st West Riding regiment and four companies of the
Munsters. His guns were the 7th and 38th batteries, with two naval
quick-firing twelve-pounders and some smaller pieces.  The total could
not have exceeded some two thousand men.  Here, as at other times, it
is noticeable that in spite of the two hundred thousand soldiers whom
the British kept in the field, the lines of communication absorbed so
many that at the actual point of contact they were seldom superior and
often inferior in numbers to the enemy.  The opening of the Natal and
Delagoa lines though valuable in many ways, had been an additional
drain. Where every culvert needs its picket and every bridge its
company, the guardianship of many hundreds of miles of rail is no
light matter.

In the early morning of November 29th Paget's men came in contact with
the enemy, who were in some force upon an admirable position. A ridge
for their centre, a flanking kopje for their cross fire, and a grass
glacis for the approach-it was an ideal Boer battlefield. The
colonials and the yeomanry under Plumer on the left, and Hickman on
the right, pushed in upon them, until it was evident that they meant
to hold their ground.  Their advance being checked by a very severe
fire, the horsemen dismounted and took such cover as they could.
Paget's original idea had been a turning movement, but the Boers were
the more numerous body, and it was impossible for the smaller British
force to find their flanks, for they extended over at least seven
miles.  The infantry were moved up into the centre, therefore, between
the wings of dismounted horsemen, and the guns were brought up to
cover the advance. The country was ill-suited, however, to the use of
artillery, and it was only possible to use an indirect fire from under
a curve of the grass land.  The guns made good practice, however, one
section of the 38th battery being in action all day within 800 yards
of the Boer line, and putting themselves out of action after 300
rounds by the destruction of their own rifling. Once over the curve
every yard of the veldt was commanded by the hidden riflemen.  The
infantry advanced, but could make no headway against the deadly fire
which met them. By short rushes the attack managed to get within 300
yards of the enemy, and there it stuck.  On the right the Munsters
carried a detached kopje which was in front of them, but could do
little to aid the main attack.  Nothing could have exceeded the
tenacity of the Yorkshiremen and the New-Zealanders, who were
immediately to their left. Though unable to advance they refused to
retire, and indeed they were in a position from which a retirement
would have been a serious operation.  Colonel Lloyd of the West
Ridings was hit in three places and killed. Five out of six officers
of the New Zealand corps were struck down.  There were no reserves to
give a fresh impetus to the attack, and the thin scattered line,
behind bullet-spotted stones or anthills, could but hold its own while
the sun sank slowly upon a day which will not be forgotten by those
who endured it.  The Boers were reinforced in the afternoon, and the
pressure became so severe that the field guns were retired with much
difficulty.  Many of the infantry had shot away all their cartridges
and were helpless.  Just one year before British soldiers had lain
under similar circumstances on the plain which leads to Modder River,
and now on a smaller scale the very same drama was being enacted.
Gradually the violet haze of evening deepened into darkness, and the
incessant rattle of the rifle fire died away on either side. Again, as
at Modder River, the British infantry still lay in their position,
determined to take no backward step, and again the Boers stole away in
the night, leaving the ridge which they had defended so well.  A
hundred killed and wounded was the price paid by the British for that
line of rock studded hills -- a heavier proportion of losses than had
befallen Lord Methuen in the corresponding action.  Of the Boer losses
there was as usual no means of judging, but several grave.mounds,
newly dug, showed that they also had something to deplore.  Their
retreat, however, was not due to exhaustion, but to the demonstration
which Lyttelton had been able to make in their rear. The gunners and
the infantry had all done well in a most trying action, but by common
consent it was with the men from New Zealand that the honours lay. It
was no empty compliment when Sir Alfred Milner telegraphed to the
Premier of New Zealand his congratulations upon the distinguished
behaviour of his fellow countrymen.

>From this time onwards there was nothing of importance in this part of
the seat of war.

It is necessary now to turn from the north-east to the north-west of
Pretoria, where the presence of De la Rey and the cover afforded by
the Magaliesberg mountains had kept alive the Boer resistance. Very
rugged lines of hill, alternating with fertile valleys, afforded a
succession of forts and of granaries to the army which held them.  To
General Clements' column had been committed the task of clearing this
difficult piece of country. His force fluctuated in numbers, but does
not appear at any time to have consisted of more than three thousand
men, which comprised the Border Regiment, the Yorkshire Light
Infantry, the second Northumberland Fusiliers, mounted infantry,
yeomanry, the 8th R.F.A., P battery R.H.A., and one heavy gun. With
this small army he moved about the district, breaking up Boer bands,
capturing supplies, and bringing in refugees.  On November 13th he was
at Krugersdorp, the southern extremity of his beat.  On the 24th he
was moving north again, and found himself as he approached the hills
in the presence of a force of Boers with cannon.  This was the
redoubtable De la Rey, who sometimes operated in Methuen's country to
the north of the Magaliesberg, and sometimes to the south.  He had now
apparently fixed upon Clements as his definite opponent. De la Rey was
numerically inferior, and Clements had no difficulty in this first
encounter in forcing him back with some loss.  On November 26th
Clements was back at Krugersdorp again with cattle and prisoners. In
the early days of December he was moving northwards once more, where a
serious disaster awaited him.  Before narrating the circumstances
connected with the Battle of Nooitgedacht there is one incident which
occurred in this same region which should be recounted.

This consists of the determined attack made by a party of De la Rey's
men, upon December 3rd, on a convoy which was proceeding from Pretoria
to Rustenburg, and had got as far as Buffel's Hoek.  The convoy was a
very large one, consisting of 150 wagons, which covered about three
miles upon the march. It was guarded by two companies of the West
Yorkshires, two guns of the 75th battery, and a handful of the
Victoria Mounted Rifles. The escort appears entirely inadequate when
it is remembered that these stores, which were of great value, were
being taken through a country which was known to be infested by the
enemy. What might have been foreseen occurred.  Five hundred Boers
suddenly rode down upon the helpless line of wagons and took
possession of them. The escort rallied, however, upon a kopje, and,
though attacked all day, succeeded in holding their own until help
arrived.  They prevented the Boers from destroying or carrying off as
much of the convoy as was under their guns, but the rest was looted
and burned.  The incident was a most unfortunate one, as it supplied
the enemy with a large quantity of stores, of which they were badly in
need. It was the more irritating as it was freely rumoured that a Boer
attack was pending; and there is evidence that a remonstrance was
addressed from the convoy before it left Rietfontein to the General of
the district, pointing out the danger to which it was exposed. The
result was the loss of 120 wagons and of more than half the escort.
The severity of the little action and the hardihood of the defence are
indicated by the fact that the small body who held the kopje lost
fifteen killed and twenty-two wounded, the gunners losing nine out of
fifteen. A relieving force appeared at the close of the action, but no
vigorous pursuit was attempted, although the weather was wet and the
Boers had actually carried away sixty loaded wagons, which could only
go very slowly.  It must be confessed that from its feckless start to
its spiritless finish the story of the Buffel's Hoek convoy is not a
pleasant one to tell.

Clements, having made his way once more to the Magaliesberg range, had
pitched his camp at a place called Nooitgedacht -- not to be confused
with the post upon the Delagoa Railway at which the British prisoners
had been confined.  Here, in the very shadow of the mountain, he
halted for five days, during which, with the usual insouciance of
British commanders, he does not seem to have troubled himself with any
entrenching.  He knew, no doubt, that he was too strong for his
opponent De la Rey, but what he did not know, but might have feared,
was that a second Boer force might appear suddenly upon the scene and
join with De la Rey in order to crush him.  This second Boer force was
that of Commandant Beyers from Warm Baths. By a sudden and skilful
movement the two united, and fell like a thunderbolt upon the British
column, which was weakened by the absence of the Border Regiment.  The
result was such a reverse as the British bad not sustained since
Sanna's Post -- a reverse which showed that, though no regular Boer
army might exist, still a sudden coalition of scattered bands could at
any time produce a force which would be dangerous to any British
column which might be taken at a disadvantage.  We had thought that
the days of battles in this war were over, but an action which showed
a missing and casualty roll of 550 proved that in this, as in so many
other things, we were mistaken.

As already stated, the camp of Clements lay under a precipitous cliff,
upon the summit of which he had placed four companies of the 2nd
Northumberland Fusiliers. This strong post was a thousand feet higher
than the camp. Below lay the main body of the force, two more
companies of fusiliers, four of Yorkshire Light Infantry, the 2nd
Mounted Infantry, Kitchener's Horse, yeomanry, and the artillery. The
latter consisted of one heavy naval gun, four guns of the 8th R.F.A.,
and P battery R.H.A. The whole force amounted to about fifteen hundred
men.

It was just at the first break of dawn -- the hour of fate in South
African warfare -- that the battle began. The mounted infantry post
between the camp and the mountains were aware of moving figures in
front of them. In the dim light they could discern that they were
clothed in grey, and that they wore the broad-brimmed hats and
feathers of some of our own irregular corps. They challenged, and the
answer was a shattering volley, instantly returned by the survivors of
the picket.  So hot was the Boer attack that before help could come
every man save one of the picket was on the ground. The sole survivor,
Daley of the Dublins, took no backward step, but continued to steadily
load and fire until help came from the awakened camp.  There followed
a savage conflict at point blank-range.  The mounted infantry men,
rushing half clad to the support of their comrades, were confronted by
an ever-thickening swarm of Boer riflemen, who had already, by working
round on the flank, established their favourite cross fire. Legge, the
leader of the mounted infantry, a hard little Egyptian veteran, was
shot through the head, and his men lay thick around him. For some
minutes it was as hot a corner as any in the war. But Clements himself
had appeared upon the scene, and his cool gallantry turned the tide of
fight. An extension of the line checked the cross fire, and gave the
British in turn a flanking position.  Gradually the Boer riflemen were
pushed back, until at last they broke and fled for their horses in the
rear. A small body were cut off, many of whom were killed and wounded,
while a few were taken prisoners.

This stiff fight of an hour had ended in a complete repulse of the
attack, though at a considerable cost. Both Boers and British had lost
heavily. Nearly all the staff were killed or wounded, though General
Clements had come through untouched.  Fifty or sixty of both sides had
fallen.  But it was noted as an ominous fact that in spite of shell
fire the Boers still lingered upon the western flank.  Were they
coming on again? They showed no signs of it.  And yet they waited in
groups, and looked up towards the beetling crags above them. What were
they waiting for?  The sudden crash of a murderous Mauser fire upon
the summit, with the rolling volleys of the British infantry, supplied
the answer.

Only now must it have been clear to Clements that he was not dealing
merely with some spasmodic attack from his old enemy De la Rey, but
that this was a largely conceived movement, in which a force at least
double the strength of his own had suddenly been concentrated upon
him.  His camp was still menaced by the men whom he had repulsed, and
he could not weaken it by sending reinforcements up the hill. But the
roar of the musketry was rising louder and louder.  It was becoming
clearer that there was the main attack.  It was a Majuba-Hill action
up yonder, a thick swarm of skirmishers closing in from many sides
upon a central band of soldiers.  But the fusiliers were hopelessly
outnumbered, and this rock fighting is that above all others in which
the Boer has an advantage over the regular. A helio on the hill cried
for help.  The losses were heavy, it said, and the assailants
numerous.  The Boers closed swiftly in upon the flanks, and the
fusiliers were no match for their assailants.  Till the very climax
the helio still cried that they were being overpowered, and it is said
that even while working it the soldier in charge was hurled over the
cliff by the onrush of the victorious Boers.

The fight of the mounted infantry men had been at half-past four.  At
six the attack upon the hill had developed, and Clements in response
to those frantic flashes of light had sent up a hundred men of the
yeomanry, from the Fife and Devon squadrons, as a reinforcement.  To
climb a precipitous thousand feet with rifle, bandolier, and spurs, is
no easy feat, yet that roar of battle above them heartened them upon
their way.  But in spite of all their efforts they were only in time
to share the general disaster.  The head of the line of hard-breathing
yeomen reached the plateau just as the Boers, sweeping over the
remnants of the Northumberland Fusiliers, reached the brink of the
cliff. One by one the yeomen darted over the edge, and endeavoured to
find some cover in the face of an infernal point-blank fire. Captain
Mudie of the staff, who went first, was shot down. So was Purvis of
the Fifes, who followed him. The others, springing over their bodies,
rushed for a small trench, and tried to restore the fight. Lieutenant
Campbell, a gallant young fellow, was shot dead as he rallied his men.
Of twenty-seven of the Fifeshires upon the hill six were killed and
eleven wounded.  The statistics of the Devons are equally heroic.
Those yeomen who had not yet reached the crest were in a perfectly
impossible position, as the Boers were firing from complete cover
right down upon them. There was no alternative for them but surrender.
By seven o'clock every British soldier upon the hill, yeoman or
fusilier, had been killed, wounded, or taken.  It is not true that the
supply of csrtridges ran out, and the fusiliers, with the ill-luck
which has pursued the 2nd battalion, were outnumbered and outfought by
better skirmishers than themselves.

Seldom has a General found himself in a more trying position than
Clements, or extricated himself more honourably.  Not only had he lost
nearly half his force, but his camp was no longer tenable, and his
whole army was commanded by the fringe of deadly rifles upon the
cliff.  From the berg to the camp was from 800 to 1,000 yards, and a
sleet of bullets whistled down upon it.  How severe was the fire may
be gauged from the fact that the little pet monkey belonging to the
yeomanry -- a small enough object -- was hit three times, though he
lived to survive as a battle-scarred veteran.  Those wounded in the
early action found themselves in a terrible position, laid out in the
open under a withering fire, 'like helpless Aunt Sallies,' as one of
them described it.  'We must get a red flag up, or we shall be blown
off the face of the earth,' says the same correspondent, a corporal of
the Ceylon Mounted Infantry.  'We had a pillow-case, but no red paint.
Then we saw what would do instead, so they made the upright with my
blood, and the horizontal with Paul's.'  It is pleasant to add that
this grim flag was respected by the Boers.  Bullocks and mules fell in
heaps, and it was evident that the question was not whether the battle
could be restored, but whether the guns could be saved. Leaving a
fringe of yeomen, mounted infantry, and Kitchener's Horse to stave off
the Boers, who were already descending by the same steep kloof up
which the yeomen had climbed, the General bent all his efforts to
getting the big naval gun out of danger. Only six oxen were left out
of a team of forty, and so desperate did the situation appear that
twice dynamite was placed beneath the gun to destroy it. Each time,
however, the General intervened, and at last, under a stimulating rain
of pom-pom shells, the great cannon lurched slowly forward, quickening
its pace as the men pulled on the drag-ropes, and the six oxen broke
into a wheezy canter.  Its retreat was covered by the smaller guns
which rained shrapnel upon the crest of the hill, and upon the Boers
who were descending to the camp.  Once the big gun was out of danger,
the others limbered up and followed, their rear still covered by the
staunch mounted infantry, with whom rest all the honours of the
battle.  Cookson and Brooks with 250 men stood for hours between
Clements and absolute disaster.  The camp was abandoned as it stood,
and all the stores, four hundred picketed horses, and, most serious of
all, two wagons of ammunition, fell into the hands of the victors.  To
have saved all his guns, however, after the destruction of half his
force by an active enemy far superior to him in numbers and in
mobility, was a feat which goes far to condone the disaster, and to
increase rather than to impair the confidence which his troops feel in
General Clements. Having retreated for a couple of miles he turned his
big gun round upon the hill, which is called Yeomanry Hill, and opened
fire upon the camp, which was being looted by swarms of Boers.  So
bold a face did he present that he was able to remain with his
crippled force upon Yeomanry Hill from about nine until four in the
afternoon, and no attack was pressed home, though he lay under both
shell and rifle fire all day. At four in the afternoon he began his
retreat, which did not cease till he had reached Rietfontein, twenty
miles off, at six o'clock upon the following morning.  His weary men
had been working for twenty-six hours, and actually fighting for
fourteen, but the bitterness of defeat was alleviated by the feeling
that every man, from the General downwards, had done all that was
possible, and that there was every prospect of their having a chance
before long of getting their own back.

The British losses at the battle of Nooitgedacht amounted to 60
killed, 180 wounded, and 315 prisoners, all of whom were delivered up
a few days later at Rustenburg.  Of the Boer losses it is, as usual,
impossible to speak with confidence, but all the evidence points to
their actual casualties being as heavy as those of the British.  There
was the long struggle at the camp in which they were heavily punished,
the fight on the mountain, where they exposed themselves with unusual
recklessness, and the final shelling from shrapnel and from lyddite.
All accounts agree that their attack was more open than usual.  'They
were mowed down in twenties that day, but it had no effect.  They
stood like fanatics,' says one who fought against them.  From first to
last their conduct was most gallant, and great credit is due to their
leaders for the skilful sudden concentration by which they threw their
whole strength upon the exposed force. Some eighty miles separate Warm
Baths from Nooitgedacht, and it seems strange that our Intelligence
Department should have remained in ignorance of so large a movement.

General Broadwood's 2nd Cavalry Brigade had been stationed to the
north of Magaliesberg, some twelve miles westward of Clements, and
formed the next link in the long chain of British forces.  Broadwood
does not appear, however, to have appreciated the importance of the
engagement, and made no energetic movement to take part in it.  If
Colvile is open to the charge of having been slow to 'march upon the
cannon' at Sanna's Post, it might be urged that Broadwood in turn
showed some want of energy and judgment upon this occasion.  On the
morning of the 13th his force could hear the heavy firing to the
eastward, and could even see the shells bursting on the top of the
Magaliesberg.  It was but ten or twelve miles distant, and, as his
Elswick guns have a range of nearly five, a very small advance would
have enabled him to make a demonstration against the flank of the
Boers, and so to relieve the pressure upon Clements. It is true that
his force was not large, but it was exceptionally mobile. Whatever the
reasons, no effective advance was made by Broadwood.  On hearing the
result he fell back upon Rustenburg, the nearest British post, his
small force being dangerously isolated.

Those who expected that General Clements would get his own back had
not long to wait. In a few days he was in the field again.  The
remains of his former force had, however, been sent into Pretoria to
refit, and nothing remained of it save the 8th R.F.A. and the
indomitable cow-gun still pocked with the bullets of Nooitgedacht.  He
had also F battery R.H.A., the Inniskillings, the Border regiment, and
a force of mounted infantry under Alderson. More important than all,
however, was the co-operation of General French, who came out from
Pretoria to assist in the operations. On the 19th, only six days after
his defeat, Clements found himself on the very same spot fighting some
at least of the very same men.  This time, however, there was no
element of surprise, and the British were able to approach the task
with deliberation and method.  The result was that both upon the 19th
and 20th the Boers were shelled out of successive positions with
considerable loss, and driven altogether away from that part of the
Magaliesberg.  Shortly afterwards General Clements was recalled to
Pretoria, to take over the command of the 7th Division, General Tucker
having been appointed to the military command of Bloemfontein in the
place of the gallant Hunter, who, to the regret of the whole army, was
invalided home.  General Cunningham henceforward commanded the column
which Clements had led back to the Magaliesberg.

Upon November 13th the first of a series of attacks was made upon the
posts along the Delagoa Railway line.  These were the work of
Viljoen's commando, who, moving swiftly from the north, threw
themselves upon the small garrisons of Balmoral and of Wilge River,
stations which are about six miles apart. At the former was a
detachment of the Buffs, and at the latter of the Royal Fusiliers.
The attack was well delivered, but in each instance was beaten back
with heavy loss to the assailants. A picket of the Buffs was captured
at the first rush, and the detachment lost six killed and nine
wounded.  No impression was made upon the position, however, and the
double attack seems to have cost the Boers a large number of
casualties.

Another incident calling for some mention was the determined attack
made by the Boers upon the town of Vryheid, in the extreme south-east
of the Transvaal near the Natal border.  Throughout November this
district had been much disturbed, and the small British garrison had
evacuated the town and taken up a position on the adjacent hills.
Upon December 11th the Boers attempted to carry the trenches.  The
garrison of the town appears to have consisted of the 2nd Royal
Lancaster regiment, some five hundred strong, a party of the
Lancashire Fusiliers, 150 strong, and fifty men of the Royal Garrison
Artillery, with a small body of mounted infantry.  They held a hill
about half a mile north of the town, and commanding it.  The attack,
which was a surprise in the middle of the night, broke upon the
pickets of the British, who held their own in a way which may have
been injudicious but was certainly heroic.  Instead of falling back
when seriously attacked, the young officers in charge of these
outposts refused to move, and were speedily under such a fire that it
was impossible to reinforce them.  There were four outposts, under
Woodgate, Theobald, Lippert, and Mangles. The attack at 2.15 on a cold
dark morning began at the post held by Woodgate, the Boers coming
hand-to-hand before they were detected.  Woodgate, who was unarmed at
the instant, seized a hammer, and rushed at the nearest Boer, but was
struck by two bullets and killed.  His post was dispersed or taken.
Theobald and Lippert, warned by the firing, held on behind their
sangars, and were ready for the storm which burst over them. Lippert
was unhappily killed, and his ten men all hit or taken, but young
Theobald held his own under a heavy fire for twelve hours.  Mangles
also, the gallant son of a gallant father, held his post all day with
the utmost tenacity.  The troops in the trenches behind were never
seriously pressed, thanks to the desperate resistance of the outposts,
but Colonel Gawne of the Lancasters was unfortunately killed.  Towards
evening the Boers abandoned the attack, leaving fourteen of their
number dead upon the ground, from which it may be guessed that their
total casualties were not less than a hundred.  The British losses
were three officers and five men killed, twenty-two men wounded, and
thirty men with one officer missing -- the latter being the survivors
of those outposts which were overwhelmed by the Boer advance.

A few incidents stand out among the daily bulletins of snipings,
skirmishes, and endless marchings which make the dull chronicle of
these, the last months of the year 1900.  These must be enumerated
without any attempt at connecting them.  The first is the
longdrawn-out siege or investment of Schweizer-Renecke. This small
village stands upon the Harts River, on the western border of the
Transvaal.  It is not easy to understand why the one party should
desire to hold, or the other to attack, a position so insignificant.
>From August 19th onwards it was defended by a garrison of 250 men,
under the very capable command of Colonel Chamier, who handled a small
business in a way which marks him as a leader. The Boer force, which
varied in numbers from five hundred to a thousand, never ventured to
push home an attack, for Chamier, fresh from the experience of
Kimberley, had taken such precautions that his defences were
formidable, if not impregnable. Late in September a relieving force
under Colonel Settle threw fresh supplies into the town, but when he
passed on upon his endless march the enemy closed in once more, and
the siege was renewed.  It lasted for several months, until a column
withdrew the garrison and abandoned the position.

Of all the British detachments, the two which worked hardest and
marched furthest during this period of the war was the 21st Brigade
(Derbysbires, Sussex, and Camerons) under General Bruce Hamilton, and
the column under Settle, which operated down the western border of the
Orange River Colony, and worked round and round with such pertinacity
that it was familiarly known as Settle's Imperial Circus.  Much hard
and disagreeable work, far more repugnant to the soldier than the
actual dangers of war, fell to the lot of Bruce Hamilton and his men.
With Kroonstad as their centre they were continually working through
the dangerous Lindley and Heilbron districts, returning to the railway
line only to start again immediately upon a fresh quest. It was work
for mounted police, not for infantry soldiers, but what they were
given to do they did to the best of their ability. Settle's men had a
similar thankless task. From the neighbourhood of Kimberley he marched
in November with his small column down the border of the Orange River
Colony, capturing supplies and bringing in refugees.  He fought one
brisk action with Hertzog's commando at Kloof, and then, making his
way across the colony, struck the railway line again at Edenburg on
December 7th, with a train of prisoners and cattle.

Rundle also had put in much hard work in his efforts to control the
difficult district in the north-east of the Colony which had been
committed to his care. He traversed in November from north to south
the same country which he had already so painfully traversed from
south to north. With occasional small actions he moved about from
Vrede to Reitz, and so to Bethlehem and Harrismith.  On him, as on all
other commanders, the vicious system of placing small garrisons in the
various towns imposed a constant responsibility lest they should be
starved or overwhelmed.

The year and the century ended by a small reverse to the British arms
in the Transvaal.  This consisted in the capture of a post at Helvetia
defended by a detachment of the Liverpool Regiment and by a 4.7
gun. Lydenburg, being seventy miles off the railway line, had a chain
of posts connecting it with the junction at Machadodorp.  These posts
were seven in number, ten miles apart, each defended by 250 men.  Of
these Helvetia was the second.  The key of the position was a strongly
fortified hill about three-quarters of a mile from the headquarter
camp, and commanding it. This post was held by Captain Kirke with
forty garrison artillery to work the big gun, and seventy Liverpool
infantry.  In spite of the barbed-wire entanglements, the Boers most
gallantly rushed this position, and their advance was so rapid, or the
garrison so slow, that the place was carried with hardly a shot fired.
Major Cotton, who commanded the main lines, found himself deprived in
an instant of nearly half his force and fiercely attacked by a
victorious and exultant enemy. His position was much too extended for
the small force at his disposal, and the line of trenches was pierced
and enfiladed at many points.  It must be acknowledged that the
defences were badly devised -- little barbed wire, frail walls, large
loopholes, and the outposts so near the trenches that the assailants
could reach them as quickly as the supports.  With the dawn Cotton's
position was serious, if not desperate.  He was not only surrounded,
but was commanded from Gun Hill. Perhaps it would have been wiser if,
after being wounded, he had handed over the command to Jones, his
junior officer. A stricken man's judgement can never be so sound as
that of the hale. However that may be, he came to the conclusion that
the position w~s untenable, and that it was best to prevent further
loss of life. Fifty of the Liverpools were killed and wounded, 200
taken.  No ammunition of the gun was captured, but the Boers were able
to get safely away with this humiliating evidence of their victory.
One post, under Captain Wilkinson with forty men, held out with
success, and harassed the enemy in their retreat.  As at Dewetsdorp
and at Nooitgedacht. the Boers were unable to retain their prisoners,
so that the substantial fruits of their enterprise were small, but it
forms none the less one more of those incidents which may cause us to
respect our enemy and to be critical towards ourselves.[Footnote:
Considering that Major Stapelton Cotton was himself wounded in three
places during the action (one of these wounds being in the head), he
has had hard measure in being deprived of his commission by a
court-martial which sat eight months after the event. It is to be
earnestly hoped that there may be sowe revision of this severe
sentence.]

In the last few months of the year some of those corps which had
served their time or which were needed elsewhere were allowed to leave
the seat of war. By the middle of November the three different corps
of the City Imperial Volunteers, the two Canadian contingents,
Lumsden's Horse, the Composite Regiment of Guards, six hundred
Australians, A battery R.H.A., and the volunteer companies of the
regular regiments, were all homeward bound.  This loss of several
thousand veteran troops before the war was over was to be deplored,
and though unavoidable in the case of volunteer contingents, it is
difficult to explain where regular troops are concerned. Early in the
new year the Government was compelled to send out strong
reinforcements to take their place.

Early in December Lord Roberts also left the country, to take over the
duties of Commander-in-Chief. High as his reputation stood when, in
January, he landed at Cape Town, it is safe to say that it had been
immensely enhanced when, ten months later, he saw from the
quarter-deck of the 'Canada' the Table Mountain growing dimmer in the
distance.  He found a series of disconnected operations, in which we
were uniformly worsted.  He speedily converted them into a series of
connected operations in which we were almost uniformly successful.
Proceeding to the front at the beginiung of February, within a
fortnight he had relieved Kimberley, within a month he had destroyed
Cronje's force, and within six weeks he was in Bloemfontein.  Then,
after a six weeks' halt which could not possibly have been shortened,
he made another of his tiger leaps, and within a month had occupied
Johannesburg and Pretoria. From that moment the issue of the campaign
was finally settled, and though a third leap was needed, which carried
him to Komatipoort, and though brave and obstinate men might still
struggle against their destiny, he had done what was essential, and
the rest, however difficult, was only the detail of the campaign. A
kindly gentleman, as well as a great soldier, his nature revolted from
all harshness, and a worse man might. have been a better leader in the
last hopeless phases of the war.  He remembered, no doubt, how Grant
had given Lee's army their horses, but Lee at the time had been
thoroughly beaten, and his men had laid down their arms.  A similar
boon to the partially conquered Boers led to very different results,
and the prolongation of the war is largely due to this act of
clemency.  At the same time political and military considerations were
opposed to each other upon the point, and his moral position in the
use of harsher measures is the stronger since a policy of conciliation
had been tried and failed.  Lord Roberts returned to London with the
respect and love of his soldiers and of his fellow-countrymen.  A
passage from his farewell address to his troops may show the qualities
which endeared him to them

'The service which the South African Force has performed is, I venture
to think, unique in the annals of war, inasmuch as it has been
absolutely almost incessant for a whole year, in some cases for more
than a year. There has been no rest, no days off to recruit, no going
into winter quarters, as in other campaigns which have extended over a
long period. For months together, in fierce heat, in biting cold, in
pouring rain, you, my comrades, have marched and fought without halt,
and bivouacked without shelter from the elements. You frequently have
had to continue marching with your clothes in rags and your boots
without soles, time being of such consequence that it was impossible
for you to remain long enough in one place to refit. When not engaged
in actual battle you have been continually shot at from behind kopjes
by invisible enemies to whom every inch of the country was familiar,
and who, from the peculiar nature of the country, were able to inflict
severe punishment while perfectly safe themselves. You have forced
your way through dense jungles, over precipitous mountains, through
and over which with infinite manual labour you have had to drag heavy
guns and ox-wagons.  You have covered with almost incredible speed
enormous distances, and that often on very short supplies of food. You
have endured the sufferings inevitable in war to sick and wounded men
far from the base, without a murmur and even with cheerfulness.'

The words reflect honour both upon the troops addressed and upon the
man who addressed them. From the middle of December 1900 Lord
Kitchener took over the control of the campaign.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE SECOND INVASION OF CAPE COLONY

(DECEMBER 1900-APRIL 1901)


During the whole war the task of the British had been made very much
more difficult by the openly expressed sympathy with the Boers from
the political association known as the Afrikander Bond, which either
inspired or represented the views which prevailed among the great
majority of the Dutch inhabitants of Cape Colony.  How strong was this
rebel impulse may be gauged by the fact that in some of the border
districts no less than ninety per cent. of the voters joined the Boer
invaders upon the occasion of their first entrance into the Colony.
It is not pretended that these men suffered from any political
grievances whatever, and their action is to be ascribed partly to a
natural sympathy with their northern kinsmen, and partly to racial
ambition and to personal dislike to their British neighbours.  The
liberal British policy towards the natives had especially alienated
the Dutch, and had made as well-marked a line of cleavage in South
Africa as the slave question had done in the States of the Union.

With the turn of the war the discontent in Cape Colony became less
obtrusive, if not less acute, but in the later months of the year 1900
it increased to a degree which became dangerous.  The fact of the
farm-burning in the conquered countries, and the fiction of outrages
by the Brjtish troops, raised a storm of indignation.  The annexation
of the Republics, meaning the final disappearance of any Dutch flag
from South Africa, was a racial humiliation which was bitterly
resented.  The Dutch papers became very violent, and the farmers much
excited.  The agitation culminated in a conference at Worcester upon
December 6th, at which some thousands of delegates were present. It is
suggestive of the Imperial nature of the struggle that the assembly of
Dutch Afrikanders was carried out under the muzzles of Canadian
artillery, and closely watched by Australian cavalry.  Had violent
words transformed themselves into deeds, all was ready for the crisis.

Fortunately the good sense of the assembly prevailed, and the
agitation, though bitter, remained within those wide limits which a
British constitution permits. Three resolutions were passed, one
asking that the war be ended, a second that the independence of the
Republics be restored, and a third protesting against the actions of
Sir Alfred Milner.  A deputation which carried these to the Governor
received a courteous but an uncompromising reply.  Sir Alfred Milner
pointed out that the Home Government, all the great Colonies, and half
the Cape were unanimous in their policy, and that it was folly to
imagine that it could be reversed on account of a local agitation. All
were agreed in the desire to end the war, but the last way of bringing
this aboutwas by encouraging desperate men to go on fighting in a
hopeless cause. Such was the general nature of the Governor's reply,
which was, as might be expected, entirely endorsed by the British
Government and people.

Had De Wet, in the operations which have already been described,
evaded Charles Kiox and crossed the Orange River, his entrance into
the Colony would have been synchronous with the congress at Worcester,
and the situation would have become more acute.  This peril was
fortunately averted.  The agitation in the Colony suggested to the
Boer leaders, however, that here was an untouched recruiting ground,
and that small mobile invading parties might gather strength and
become formidable.  It was obvious, also, that by enlarging the field
of operations the difficulties of the British Commander-in-chief would
be very much increased, and the pressure upon the Boer guerillas in
the Republics relaxed.  Therefore, in spite of De Wet's failure to
penetrate the Colony, several smaller bands under less-known leaders
were despatched over the Orange River.  With the help of the
information and the supplies furnished by the local farmers, these
bands wandered for many months over the great expanse of the Colony,
taking refuge, when hard pressed, among the mountain ranges.  They
moved swiftly about, obtaining remounts from their friends, and
avoiding everything in the nature of an action, save when the odds
were overwhelmingly in their favour.  Numerous small posts or patrols
cut off, many skirmishes, and one or two railway smashes were the
fruits of this invasion, which lasted till the end of the war, and
kept the Colony in an extreme state of unrest during that period.  A
short account must be given here of the movement and exploits of these
hostile bands, avoiding, as far as possible, that catalogue of obscure
'fonteins' and 'kops' which mark their progress.

The invasion was conducted by two main bodies, which shed off numerous
small raiding parties.  Of these two, one operated on the western side
of the Colony, reaching the sea-coast in the Clanwilliam district, and
attaining a point which is less than a hundred miles from Cape Town.
The other penetrated even more deeply down the centre of the Colony,
reaching almost to the sea in the Mossel Bay direction. Yet the
incursion, although so far-reaching, had small effect, since the
invaders held nothing save the ground on which they stood, and won
their way, not by victory, but by the avoidance of danger.  Some
recruits were won to their cause, but they do not seem at that time to
have been more than a few hundreds in number, and to have been drawn
for the most part from the classes of the community which had least to
lose and least to offer.

The Western Boers were commanded by Judge Hertzog of the Free State,
having with him Brand, the son of the former president, and about
twelve hundred well-mounted men.  Crossing the Orange Biver at Sand
Drift, north of Colesberg, upon December 16th, they paused at
Kameelfontein to gather up a small post of thirty yeomen and guardsmen
under Lieutenant Fletcher, the wellknown oar. Meeting with a stout
resistance, and learning that British forces were already converging
upon them, they abandoned the attack, and turning away from Colesberg
they headed west, cutting the railway line twenty miles to the north
of De Aar.  On the 22nd they occupied Britstown, which is eighty miles
inside the border, and on the same day they captured a small body of
yeomanry who had been following them.  These prisoners were released
again some days later.  Taking a sweep round towards Prieska and
Strydenburg, they pushed south again.  At the end of the year
Hertzog's column was 150 miles deep in the Colony, sweeping through
the barren and thinly-inhabited western lands, heading apparently for
Fraserburg and Beaufort West.

The second column was commanded by Kritzinger, a burgher of Zastron,
in the Orange River Colony. His force was about 800 strong.  Crossing
the border at Rhenoster Hoek upon December 16th, they pushed for
Burghersdorp, but were headed off by a British column. Passing through
Venterstad, they made for Steynsberg, fighting two indecisive
skirmishes with small British forces.  The end of the year saw them
crossing the rail road at Sherburne, north of Rosmead Junction, where
they captured a train as they passed, containing some Colonial
troops. At this time they were a hundred miles inside the Colony, and
nearly three hundred from Hertzog's western column.

In the meantime Lord Kitchener, who had descended for a few days to De
Aar, had shown great energy in organising small mobile columns which
should follow and, if possible, destroy the invaders.  Martial law was
proclaimed in the parts of the Colony affected, and as the invaders
came further south the utmost enthusiasm was shown by the loyalists,
who formed themselves everywhere into town guards.  The existing
Colonial regiments, such as Brabant's, the Imperial and South African
Light Horse - Thorneycroft's, Rimington's, and the others -- had
already been brought up to strength again, and now two new regiments
were added, Kitchener's Bodyguard and Kitchener's Fighting Scouts, the
latter being raised by Johann Colenbrander, who had made a name for
himself in the Rhodesian wars.  At this period of the war between
twenty and thirty thousand Cape colonists were under arms.  Many of
these were untrained levies, but they possessed the martial spirit of
the race, and they set free more seasoned troops for other duties.

It will be most convenient and least obscure to follow the movements
of the western force (Hertzog's), and afterwards to consider those of
the eastern (Kritzinger's).  The opening of the year saw the mobile
column of Free Staters 150 miles over the border, pushing swiftly
south over the barren surface of the Karoo.  It is a country of
scattered farms and scanty population; desolate plains curving upwards
until they rise into still more desolate mountain ranges.  Moving in a
very loose formation over a wide front, the Boers swept southwards.
On or about January 4th they took possession of the small town of
Calvinia, which remained their headquarters for more than a
month. From this point their roving bands made their way as far as the
seacoast in the Clanwilliam direction, for they expected at Lanmbert's
Bay to meet with a vessel with mercenaries and guns from Europe.  They
pushed their outposts also as far as Sutherland and Beaufort West in
the south.  On January 15th strange horsemen were seen hovering about
the line at Touws River, and the citizens of Cape Town learned with
amazement that the war had been carried to within a hundred miles of
their own doors.

Whilst the Boers were making this daring raid a force consisting of
several mobile columns was being organised by General Settle to arrest
and finally to repel the western invasion.  The larger body was under
the command of Colonel De Lisle, an oficer who brought to the
operations of war the same energy and thoroughness with which he had
made the polo team of an infantry regiment the champions of the whole
British Army. His troops consisted of the 6th Mounted Infantry, the
New South Wales Mounted Infantry, the Irish Yeomanry, a section of R
battery R.H.A., and a pom-pom. With this small but mobile and hardy
force he threw himself in front of Hertzog's line of advance. On
January 13th be occupied Piquetburg, eighty miles south of the Boer
headquarters.  On the 23rd he was at Clanwilliam, fifty miles
south-~vest of them.  To his right were three other small British
columns under Bethune, Thorneycroft, and Henniker, the latter resting
upon the railway at Matjesfontein, and the whole line extending over
120 miles -- barring the southern path to the invaders.

Though Hertzog at Calvinia and De Lisle at Clanwilliam were only fifty
miles apart, the intervening country is among the most broken and
mountainous in South Africa.  Between the two points, and nearer to De
Lisle than to Hertzog, flows the Doorn River.  The Boers advancing
from Calvinia came into touch with the British scouts at this point,
and drove them in upon January 21st.  On the 28th De Lisle, having
been reinforced by Bethune's column, was able at last to take the
initiative. Bethune's force consisted mainly of Colonials, and
included Kitchener's Fighting Scouts, the Cape Mounted Police, Cape
Mounted Rifles, Brabant's Horse, and the Diamond Field Horse.  At the
end of January the united forces of Bethune and of De Lisle advanced
upon Calvinia.  The difficulties lay rather in the impassable country
than in the resistance of an enemy who was determined to refuse
battle. On February 6th, after a fine march, De Lisle and his men took
possession of Calvinia, which had been abandoned by the Boers. It is
painful to add that during the month that they had held the town they
appear to have behaved with great harshness, especially to the
kaffirs.  The flogging and shooting of a coloured man named Esan forms
one more incident in the dark story of the Boer and his relations to
the native.

The British were now sweeping north on a very extended front.
Colenbrander had occupied Van Rhyns Dorp, to the east of Calvinia,
while Bethune's force was operating to the west of it. De Lisle hardly
halted at Calvinia, but pushed onwards to Williston, covering
seventy-two miles of broken country in forty-eight hours, one of the
most amazing performances of the war. Quick as he was, the Boers were
quicker still, and during his northward march he does not appear to
have actually come into contact with them. Their line of retreat lay
through Carnarvon, and upon February 22nd they crossed the railway
line to the north of De Aar, and joined upon February 26th the new
invading force under De Wet, who had now crossed the Orange River. De
Lisle, who had passed over five hundred miles of barren country since
he advanced from Piquetburg, made for the railway at Victoria West,
and was despatched from that place on February 22nd to the scene of
action in the north. From all parts Boer and Briton were concentrating
in their effort to aid or to repel the inroad of the famous guerilla.

Before describing this attempt it would be well to trace the progress
of the eastern invasion (Kritzinger's), a movement which may be
treated rapidly, since it led to no particular military result at that
time, though it lasted long after Hertzog's force had been finally
dissipated.  Several small columns, those of Williams, Byng, Grenfell,
and Lowe, all under the direction of Haig, were organised to drive
back these commandos; but so nimble were the invaders, so vast the
distances and so broken the country, that it was seldom that the
forces came into contact. The operations were conducted over a portion
of the Colony which is strongly Dutch in sympathy, and the enemy,
though they do not appear to have obtained any large number of
recruits, were able to gather stores, horses, and information wherever
they went.

When last mentioned Kritzinger's men had crossed the railway north of
Rosmead on December 30th, and held up a train containing some Colonial
troops. From then onwards a part of them remained in the Middelburg
and Graaf-Reinet districts, while part moved towards the south.  On
January 11th there was a sharp skirmish near Murraysburg, in which
Byng's column was engaged, at the cost of twenty casualties, all of
Brabant's or the South African Light Horse.  On the 16th a very rapid
movement towards the south began. On that date Boers appeared at
Aberdeen, and on the 18th at Willowmore, having covered seventy miles
in two days.  Their long, thin line was shredded out over 150 miles,
and from Maraisburg, in the north, to Uniondale, which is only thirty
miles from the coast, there was rumour of their presence.  In this
wild district and in that of Oudtshoorn the Boer vanguard flitted in
and out of the hills, Haig's column striving hard to bring them to an
action.  So well-informed were the invaders that they were always able
to avoid the British concentrations, while if a British outpost or
patrol was left exposed it was fortunate if it escaped disaster.  On
February 6th a small body of twenty-five of the 7th King's Dragoon
Guards and of the West Australians, under Captain Oliver, were
overwhelmed at Klipplaat, after a very fine defence, in which they
held their own against 200 Boers for eight hours, and lost nearly
fifty per cent. of their number.  On the 12th a patrol of yeomanry was
surprised and taken near Willowmore.

The coming of De Wet had evidently been the signal for all the Boer
raiders to concentrate, for in the second week of February Kritzinger
also began to fall back, as Hertzog had done in the west, followed
closely by the British columns.  He did not, however, actually join De
Wet, and his evacuation of the country was never complete, as was the
case with Hertzog's force. On the 19th Kritzinger was at Bethesda,
with Gorringe and Lowe at his heels.  On the 23rd an important railway
bridge at Fish River, north of Cradock, was attacked, but the attempt
was foiled by the resistance of a handful of Cape Police and
Lancasters.  On March 6th a party of Boers occupied the village of
Pearston, capturing a few rifles and some ammunition.  On the same
date there was a skirmish between Colonel Parsons's column and a party
of the enemy to the north of Aberdeen. The main body of the invading
force appears to have been lurking in this neighbourhood, as they were
able upon April 7th to cut off a strong British patrol, consisting of
a hundred Lancers and Yeomanry, seventy-five of whom remained as
temporary prisoners in the hands of the enemy. With this success we
may for the time leave Kritzinger and his lieutenant, Scheepers, who
commanded that portion of his force which had penetrated to the south
of the Colony.

The two invasions which have been here described, that of Hertzog in
the west and of Kritzinger in the midlands, would appear in themselves
to be unimportant military operations, since they were carried out by
small bodies of men whose policy was rather to avoid than to overcome
resistance.  Their importance, however, is due to the fact that they
were really the forerunners of a more important incursion upon the
part of De Wet. The object of these two bands of raiders was to spy
out the land, so that on the arival of the main body all might be
ready for that general rising of their kinsmen in the Colony which was
the last chance, not of winning, but of prolonging the war.  It must
be confessed that, however much their reason might approve of the
Government under which they lived, the sentiment of the Cape Dutch had
been cruelly, though unavoidably, hurt in the course of the war.  The
appearance of so popular a leader as De Wet with a few thousand
veterans in the very heart of their country might have stretched their
patience to the breaking-point.  Inflamed, as they were, by that
racial hatred which had always smouldered, and had now been fanned
into a blaze by the speeches of their leaders and by the fictions of
their newspapers, they were ripe for mischief, while they had before
their eyes an object-lesson of the impotence of our military system in
those small bands who had kept the country in a ferment for so
long. All was propitious, therefore, for the attempt which Steyn and
De Wet were about to make to carry the war into the enemy's country.

We last saw De Wet when, after a long chase, he had been headed back
from the Orange River, and, winnining clear from Knox's pursuit, had
in the third week of December passed successfully through the British
cordon between Thabanchu and Ladybrand.  Thence he made his way to
Senekal, and proceeded, in spite of the shaking which he had had, to
recruit and recuperate in the amazing way which a Boer army has.
There is no force so easy to drive and so difficult to destroy.  The
British columns still kept in touch with De Wet, but found it
impossible to bring him to an action in the difficult district to
which he had withdrawn. His force had split up into numerous smaller
bodies, capable of reuniting at a signal from their leader.  These
scattered bodies, mobile as ever, vanished if seriously attacked,
while keenly on the alert to pounce upon any British force which might
be overpowered before assistance could arrive.  Such an opportunity
came to the commando led by Philip Botha, and the result was another
petty reverse to the British arms.

Upon January 3rd Colonel White's small column was pushing north, in
co-operation with those of Knox, Pilcher, and the others.  Upon that
date it had reached a point just north of Lindley, a district which
has never been a fortunate one for the invaders.  A patrol of
Kitchener' s newly raised bodyguard, under Colonel Laing, 120 strong,
was sent forward to reconnoitre upon the road from Lindley to Reitz.

The scouting appears to have been negligently done, there being only
two men out upon each flank. The little force walked into one of those
horse-shoe positions which the Boers love, and learned by a sudden
volley from a kraal upon their right that the enemy was present in
strength.  On attempting to withdraw it was instantly evident that the
Boers were on all sides and in the rear with a force which numbered at
least five to one.  The camp of the main column was only four miles
away, however, and the bodyguard, having sent messages of their
precarious position, did all they could to make a defence until help
could reach them. Colonel Laing had fallen, shot through the heart,
but found a gallant successor in young Nairne, the adjutant.  Part of
the force had thrown themselves, under Nairne and Milne, into a donga,
which gave some shelter from the sleet of bullets.  The others, under
Captain Butters, held on to a ruined kraal.  The Boers pushed the
attack very rapidly, however, and were soon able with their superior
numbers to send a raking fire down the donga, which made it a perfect
death-trap.  Still hoping that the laggard reinforcements would come
up, the survivors held desperately on; but both in the kraal and in
the donga their numbers were from minute to minute diminishing.  There
was no formal surrender and no white flag, for, when fifty per
cent. of the British were down, the Boers closed in swiftly and rushed
the position. Philip Botha, the brother of the commandant, who led the
Boers, behaved with courtesy and humanity to the survivors; but many
of the wounds were inflicted with those horrible explosive and
expansive missiles, the use of which among civilised combatants should
now and always be a capital offence.  To disable one's adversary is a
painful necessity of warfare, but nothing can excuse the wilful
mutilation and torture which is inflicted by these brutal devices.

'How many of you are there?' asked Botha.  'A hundred,' said an
officer.  'It is not true.  There are one hundred and twenty.  I
counted you as you came along.'  The answer of the Boer leader shows
how carefully the small force had been nursed until it was in an
impossible position.  The margin was a narrow one, however, for within
fifteen minutes of the disaster White's guns were at work.  There may
be some question as to whether the rescuing force could have come
sooner, but there can be none as to the resistance of the bodyguard.
They held out to the last cartridge. Colonel Laing and three officers
with sixteen men were killed, four officers and twenty-two men were
wounded. The high proportion of fatal casualties can only be explained
by the deadly character of the Boer bullets. Hardly a single horse of
the bodyguard was left unwounded, and the profit to the victors, since
they were unable to carry away their prisoners, lay entirely in the
captured rifles.  It is worthy of record that the British wounded were
despatched to Heilbron without guard through the Boer forces.  That
they arrived there unmolested is due to the forbearance of the enemy
and to the tact and energy of Surgeon-Captain Porter, who commanded
the convoy.

Encouraged by this small success, and stimulated by the news that
Hertzog and Kritzinger had succeeded in penetrating the Colony without
disaster, De Wet now prepared to follow them.  British scouts to the
north of Kroonstad reported horsemen riding south and east, sometimes
alone, sometimes in small parties They were recruits going to swell
the forces of De Wet. On January 23rd five hundred men crossed the
line, journeying in the same direction.  Before the end of the month,
having gathered together about 2,500 men with fresh horses at the
Doornberg, twenty miles north of Winburg, the Boer leader was ready
for one of his lightning treks once more.  On January 28th he broke
south through the British net, which appears to have had more meshes
than cord. Passing the Bloemfontein-Ladybrand line at Israel Poort he
swept southwards, with British columns still wearily trailing behind
him, like honest bulldogs panting after a greyhound.

Before following him upon this new venture it is necessary to say a
few words about that peace movement in the Boer States to which some
allusion has already been made. On December 20th Lord Kitchener had
issued a proclamation which was intended to have the effect of
affording protection to those burghers who desired to cease fighting,
but who were unable to do so without incurring the enmity of their
irreconcilable brethren.  'It is hereby notified,' said the document,
'to all burghers that if after this date they voluntarily surrender
they will be allowed to live with their families in Government laagers
until such time as the guerilla warfare now being carried on will
admit of their returning safely to their homes.  All stock and
property brought in at the time of the surrender of such burghers will
be respected and paid for if requisitioned.'  This wise and liberal
offer was sedulously concealed from their men by the leaders of the
fighting commandos, but was largely taken advantage of by those Boers
to whom it was conveyed.  Boer refugee camps were formed at Pretoria,
Johannesburg, Kroonstad, Bloemfontein, Warrenton; and other points, to
which by degrees the whole civil population came to be transferred.
It was the reconcentrado system of Cuba over again, with the essential
difference that the guests of the British Government were well fed and
well treated during their detention. Within a few months the camps had
50,000 inmates.

It was natural that some of these people, having experienced the
amenity of British rule, and being convinced of the hopelessness of
the struggle, should desire to convey their feelings to their friends
and relations in the field.  Both in the Transvaal and in the Orange
River Colony Peace Committees were formed, which endeavoured to
persuade their countrymen to bow to the inevitable.  A remarkable
letter was published from Piet de Wet, a man who had fought bravely
for the Boer cause, to his brother, the famous general. 'Which is
better for the Republics,' he asked, 'to continue the struggle and run
the risk of total ruin as a nation, or to submit?  Could we for a
moment think of taking back the country if it were offered to us, with
thousands of people to be supported by a Government which has not a
farthing?... Put passionate feeling aside for a moment and use
common-sense, and you will then agree with me that the best thing for
the people and the country is to give in, to be loyal to the new
government, and to get responsible government...  Should the war
continue a few months longer the nation will become so poor that they
will be the working class in the country, and disappear as a nation in
the future... The British are convinced that they have conquered the
land and its people, and consider the matter ended, and they only try
to treat magnanimously those who are continuing the struggle in order
to prevent unnecessary bloodshed.'

Such were the sentiments of those of the burghers who were in favour
of peace.  Their eyes had been opened and their bitterness was
transferred from the British Government to those individual Britons
who, partly from idealism and partly from party passion, had
encouraged them to their undoing. But their attempt to convey their
feelings to their countrymen in the field ended in tragedy. Two of
their number, Morgendaal and Wessels, who had journeyed to De Wet's
camp, were condemned to death by order of that leader.  In the case of
Morgendaal the execution actually took place, and seems to have been
attended by brutal circumstances, the man having been thrashed with a
sjambok before being put to death.  The circumstances are still
surrounded by such obscurity that it is impossible to say whether the
message of the peace envoys was to the General himself or to the men
under his command.  In the former case the man was murdered.  In the
latter the Boer leader was within his rights, though the rights may
have been harshly construed and brutally enforced.

On January 29th, in the act of breaking south, De Wet's force, or a
portion of it, had a sharp brush with a small British column (Crewe's)
at Tabaksberg, which lies about forty miles north-east of
Bloemfontein; This small force, seven hundred strong, found itself
suddenly in the presence of a very superior body of the enemy, and had
some difficulty in extricating itself. A pom-pom was lost in this
affair.  Crewe fell back upon Knox, and the combined columns made for
Bloemfontein, whence they could use the rails for their transport. De
Wet meanwhile moved south as far as Smithfield, and then, detaching
several small bodies to divert the attention of the British, he struck
due west, and crossed the track between Springfontein and
Jagersfontein road, capturing the usual supply train as he passed. On
February 9th he had reached Philippolis, well ahead of the British
pursuit, and spent a day or two in making his final arrangements
before carrying the war over the border. His force consisted at this
time of nearly 8,000 men, with two 15-pounders, one pom-pom, and one
maxim.  The garrisons of all the towns in the southwest of the Orange
River Colony had been removed in accordance with the policy of
concentration, so De Wet found himself for the moment in a friendly
country.

The British, realising how serious a situation might arise should De
Wet succeed in penetrating the Colony and in joining Hertzog and
Kritzinger, made every effort both to head him off and to bar his
return.  General Lyttelton at Naauwpoort directed the operations, and
the possession of the railway line enabled him to concentrate his
columns rapidly at the point of danger. On February 11th De Wet forded
the Orange River at Zand Drift, and found himself once more upon
British territory.  Lyttelton's plan of campaign appears to have been
to allow De Wet to come some distance south, and then to hold him in
front by De Lisle's force, while a number of small mobile columns
under Plumer, Crabbe, Henniker, Bethune, Haig, and Thorneycroft should
shepherd him behind.  On crossing, De Wet at once moved westwards,
where, upon February 12th, Plumer's column, consisting of the
Queensland Mounted Infantry, the Imperial Bushmen, and part of the
King's Dragoon Guards, came into touch with his rearguard. All day
upon the 13th and 14th, amid terrific rain, Plumer's hardy troopers
followed close upon the enemy, gleaning a few ammunition wagons, a
maxim, and some prisoners.  The invaders crossed the railway line near
Houtnek, to the north of De Aar, in the early hours of the 15th,
moving upon a front of six or eight miles.  Two armoured trains from
the north and the south closed in upon him as he passed, Plumer still
thundered in his rear, and a small column under Crabbe came pressing
from the south.  This sturdy Colonel of Grenadiers had already been
wounded four times in the war, so that he might be excused if he felt
some personal as well as patriotic reasons for pushing a relentless
pursuit.  On crossing the railroad De Wet turned furiously upon his
pursuers, and, taking an excellent position upon a line of kopjes
rising out of the huge expanse of the Karoo, he fought a stubborn
rearguard action in order to give time for his convoy to get ahead. He
was hustled off the hills, however, the Australian Bushmen with great
dash carrying the central kopje, and the guns driving the invaders to
the westward. Leaving all his wagons and his reserve ammunition behind
him, the guerilla chief struck north-west, moving with great
swiftness, but never succeeding in shaking off Plumer's pursuit.  The
weather continued, however, to be atrocious, rain and hail falling
with such violence that the horses could hardly be induced to face it.
For a week the two sodden, sleepless, mud-splashed little armies swept
onwards over the Karoo.  De Wet passed northwards through Strydenburg,
past Hopetown, and so to the Orange River, which was found to be too
swollen with the rains to permit of his crossing. Here upon the 23rd,
after a march of forty-five miles on end, Plumer ran into him once
more, and captured with very little fighting a fifteen-pounder, a
pom-pom, and close on to a hundred prisoners.  Slipping away to the
east, De Wet upon February 24th crossed the railroad again between
Krankuil and Orange River Station, with Thorneycroft's column hard
upon his heels.  The Boer leader was now more anxious to escape from
the Colony than ever he had been to enter it, and he rushed
distractedly from point to point, endeavouring to find a ford over the
great turbid river which cut him off from his own country. Here he was
joined by Hertzog's commando with a number of invaluable spare
horses. It is said also that he had been able to get remounts in the
Hopetown district, which had not been cleared -- an omission for
which, it is to be hoped, someone has been held responsible.  The Boer
ponies, used to the succulent grasses of the veldt, could make nothing
of the rank Karoo, and had so fallen away that an enormous advantage
should have rested with the pursuers had ill luck and bad management
not combined to enable the invaders to renew their mobility at the
very moment when Plumer's horses were dropping dead under their
riders.

The Boer force was now so scattered that, in spite of the advent of
Hertzog, De Wet had fewer men with him than when he entered the
Colony.  Several hundreds had been taken prisoners, many had deserted,
and a few had been killed.  It was hoped now that the whole force
might be captured, and Thorneycroft's, Crabbe's, Henniker's, and other
columns were closing swiftly in upon him, while the swollen river
still barred his retreat.  There was a sudden drop in the flood,
however; one ford became passable, and over it, upon the last day of
February, De Wet and his bedraggled, dispirited commando escaped to
their own country.  There was still a sting in his tail, however; for
upon that very day a portion of his force succeeded in capturing sixty
and killing or wounding twenty of Colenbrander's new regiment,
Kitchener's Fighting Scouts. On the other hand, De Wet was finally
relieved upon the same day of all care upon the score of his guns, as
the last of them was most gallantly captured by Captain Dallimore and
fifteen Victorians, who at the same time brought in thirty-three Boer
prisoners.  The net result of De Wet's invasion was that he gained
nothing, and that he lost about four thousand horses, all his guns,
all his convoy, and some three hundred of his men.

Once safely in his own country again, the guerilla chief pursued his
way northwards with his usual celerity and success.  The moment that
it was certain that De Wet had escaped, the indefatigable Plumer,
wiry, tenacious man, had been sent off by train to Springfontein,
while Bethune's column followed direct.  This latter force crossed the
Orange River bridge and marched upon Luckhoff and Fauresmith.  At the
latter town they overtook Plumer, who was again hard upon the heels of
De Wet. Together they ran him across the Riet River and north to
Petrusburg, until they gave it up as hopeless upon finding that, with
only fifty followers, he had crossed the Modder River at Abram's
Kraal. There they abandoned the chase and fell back upon Bloemfontein
to refit and prepare for a fresh effort to run down their elusive
enemy.

While Plumer and Bethune were following upon the track of De Wet until
he left them behind at the Modder, Lyttelton was using the numerous
columns which were ready to his hand in effecting a drive up the
south-eastern section of the Orange Biver Colony. It was disheartening
to remember that all this large stretch of country had from April to
November been as peaceful and almost as prosperous as Kent or
Yorkshire.  Now the intrusion of the guerilla bands, and the pressure
put by them upon the farmers, had raised the whole country once again,
and the work of pacification had to be set about once more, with
harsher measures than before. A continuous barrier of barbed-wire
fencing had been erected from Bloemfontein to the Basuto border, a
distance of eighty miles, and this was now strongly held by British
posts.  From the south Bruce Hamilton, Hickman, Thorneycroft, and Haig
swept upwards, stripping the country as they went in the same way that
French had done in the Eastern Transvaal, while Pilcher's column
waited to the north of the barbed-wire barrier.  It was known that
Fourie, with a considerable commando, was lurking in this district,
but he and his men slipped at night between the British columns and
escaped.  Pilcher, Bethune, and Byng were able, however, to send in
200 prisoners and very great numbers of cattle. On April 10th Monro,
with Bethune's Mounted Infantry, captured eighty fighting Boers near
Dewetsdorp, and sixty more were taken by a night attack at Boschberg.
There is no striking victory to record in these operations, but they
were an important part of that process of attrition which was wearing
the Boers out and helping to bring the war to an end.  Terrible it is
to see that barren countryside, and to think of the depths of misery
to which the once flourishing and happy Orange Free State had fallen,
through joining in a quarrel with a nation which bore it nothing but
sincere friendship and goodwill. With nothing to gain and everything
to lose, the part played by the Orange Free State in this South
African drama is one of the most inconceivable things in history.
Never has a nation so deliberately and so causelessly committed
suicide.


CHAPTER XXXIII

THE NORTHERN OPERATIONS FROM JANUARY TO APRIL, 1901

Three consecutive chapters have now given some account of the campaign
of De Wet, of the operations in the Transvaal up to the end of the
year 1900, and of the invasion of Cape Colony up to April 1901. The
present chapter will deal with the events in the Transvaal from the
beginning of the new century.  The military operations in that
country, though extending over a very large area, may be roughly
divided into two categories: the attacks by the Boers upon British
posts, and the aggressive sweeping movements of British columns.
Under the first heading come the attacks on Belfast, on Zuurfontein,
on Kaalfontein, on Zeerust, on Modderfontein, and on Lichtenburg,
besides many minor affairs. The latter comprises the operations of
Babington and of Cunningham to the west and south-west of Pretoria,
those of Methuen still further to the south-west, and the large
movement of French in the south-east.  In no direction did the British
forces in the field meet with much active resistance.  So long as they
moved the gnats did not settle; it was only when quiet that they
buzzed about and occasionally stung.

The early days of January 1901 were not fortunate for the British
arms, as the check in which Kitchener's Bodyguard was so roughly
handled, near Lindley, was closely followed by a brisk action at
Naauwpoort or Zandfontein, near the Magaliesberg, in which De la Rey
left his mark upon the Imperial Light Horse.  The Boer commandos,
having been driven into the mountains by French and Clements in the
latter part of December, were still on the look-out to strike a blow
at any British force which might expose itself. Several mounted
columns had been formed to scour the country, one under Kekewich, one
under Gordon, and one under Babington.  The two latter, meeting in a
mist upon the morning of January 5th, actually turned their rifles
upon each other, but fortunately without any casualties resulting. A
more deadly rencontre was, however, awaiting them.

A force of Boers were observed, as the mist cleared, making for a
ridge which would command the road along which the convoy and guns
were moving.  Two squadrons (B and C) of the Light Horse were
instantly detached to seize the point.  They do not appear to have
realised that they were in the immediate presence of the enemy, and
they imagined that the ground over which they were passing had been
already reconnoitred by a troop of the 14th Hussars. It is true that
four scouts were thrown forward, but as both squadrons were cantering
there was no time for these to get ahead. Presently C squadron, which
was behind, was ordered to close up upon the left of B squadron, and
the 150 horsemen in one long line swept over a low grassy ridge.  Some
hundreds of De la Rey's men were lying in the long grass upon the
further side, and their first volley, fired at a fifty-yard range,
emptied a score of saddles.  It would have been wiser, if less
gallant, to retire at once in the presence of a numerous and invisible
enemy, but the survivors were ordered to dismount and return the fire.
This was done, but the hail of bullets was terrific and the casualties
were numerous.  Captain Norman, of C squadron, then retired his men,
who withdrew in good order.  B squadron having lost Yockney, its brave
leader, heard no order, so they held their ground until few of them
had escaped the driving sleet of lead.  Many of the men were struck
three and four times.  There was no surrender, and the extermination
of B company added another laurel, even at a moment of defeat, to the
regiment whose reputation was so grimly upheld. The Boer victors
walked in among the litter of stricken men and horses. 'Practically
all of them were dressed in khaki and had the water-bottles and
haversacks of our soldiers.  One of them snatched a bayonet from a
dead man, and was about to despatch one of our wounded when he was
stopped in the nick of time by a man in a black suit, who, I
afterwards heard, was De la Rey himself... The feature of the action
was the incomparable heroism of our dear old Colonel Wools-Sampson.'
So wrote a survivor of B company, himself shot through the body.  It
was four hours before a fresh British advance reoccupied the ridge,
and by that time the Boers had disappeared.  Some seventy killed and
wounded, many of them terribly mutilated, were found on the scene of
the disaster. It is certainly a singular coincidence that at distant
points of the seat of war two of the crack irregular corps should have
suffered so severely within three days of each other.  In each case,
however, their prestige was enhanced rather than lowered by the
result.  These incidents tend, however, to shake the belief that
scouting is better performed in the Colonial than in the regular
forces.

Of the Boer attacks upon British posts to which allusion has been
made, that upon Belfast, in the early morning of January 7th, appears
to have been very gallantly and even desperately pushed.  On the same
date a number of smaller attacks, which may have been meant simply as
diversions, were made upon Wonderfontein, Nooitgedacht, Wildfontein,
Pan, Dalmanutha, and Machadodorp.  These seven separate attacks,
occurring simultaneously over sixty miles, show that the Boer forces
were still organised and under one effective control.  The general
object of the operations was undoubtedly to cut Lord Roberts's
communications upon that side and to destroy a considerable section of
the railway.

The town of Belfast was strongly held by Smith-Dorrien, with 1,750 men,
of which 1,300 were infantry belonging to the Royal Irish, the
Shropshires, and the Gordons. The perimeter of defence, however, was
fifteen miles, and each little fort too far from its neighbour for
mutual support, though connected with headquarters by telephone.  It
is probable that the leaders and burghers engaged in this very gallant
attack were in part the same as those concerned in the successful
attempt at Helvetia upon December 29th, for the assault was delivered
in the same way, at the same hour, and apparently with the same
primary object. This was to gain possession of the big 5-inch gun,
which is as helpless by night as it is formidable by day. At Helvetia
they attained their object and even succeeded not merely in
destroying, but in removing their gigantic trophy.  At Belfast they
would have performed the same feat had it not been for the foresight
of General Smith-Dorrien, who had the heavy gun trundled back into the
town every night.

The attack broke first upon Monument Hill, a post held by Captain
Fosbery with eighty-three Royal Irish. Chance or treason guided the
Boers to the weak point of the wire entanglement and they surged into
the fort, where the garrison fought desperately to hold its own. There
was thick mist and driving rain; and the rush of vague and shadowy
figures amid the gloom was the first warning of the onslaught.  The
Irishmen were overborne by a swarm of assailants, but they nobly
upheld their traditional reputation. Fosbery met his death like a
gallant gentleman, but not more heroically than Barry, the humble
private, who, surrounded by Boers, thought neither of himself nor of
them, but smashed at the maxim gun with a pickaxe until he fell
riddled with bullets.  Half the garrison were on the ground before the
post was carried.

A second post upon the other side of the town was defended by
Lieutenant Marshall with twenty men, mostly Shropshires.  For an hour
they held out until Marshall and nine out of his twelve Shropshires
had been hit.  Then this post also was carried.

The Gordon Highlanders held two posts to the southeast and to the
south-west of the town, and these also were vigorously attacked.
Here, however, the advance spent itself without result.  In vain the
Ermelo and Carolina commandos stormed up to the Gordon pickets. They
were blown back by the steady fire of the infantry. One small post
manned by twelve Highlanders was taken, but the rest defied all
attack.  Seeing therefore that his attempt at a COUP-DE-MAIN was
a failure, Viljoen withdrew his men before daybreak. The Boer
casualties have not been ascertained, but twenty-four of their dead
were actually picked up within the British lines.  The British lost
sixty killed and wounded, while about as many were taken
prisoners. Altogether the action was a brisk and a gallant one, of
which neither side has cause to be ashamed. The simultaneous attacks
upon six other stations were none of them pressed home, and were
demonstrations rather than assaults.

The attempts upon Kaalfontein and on Zuurfontein were both made in the
early morning of January 12th. These two places are small stations
upon the line between Johannesburg and Pretoria.  It is clear that the
Boers were very certain of their own superior mobility before they
ventured to intrude into the very heart of the British position, and
the result showed that they were right in supposing that even if their
attempt were repulsed, they would still be able to make good their
escape. Better horsed, better riders, with better intelligence and a
better knowledge of the country, their ventures were always attended
by a limited liability.

The attacks seem to have been delivered by a strong commando, said to
have been under the command of Beyers, upon its way to join the Boer
concentration in the Eastern Transvaal.  They had not the
satisfaction, however, of carrying the garrison of a British post with
them, for at each point they were met by a stout resistance and beaten
off.  Kaalfontein was garrisoned by 120 men of Cheshire under
Williams-Freeman, Zuurfontein by as many Norfolks and a small body of
Lincolns under Cordeaux and Atkinson.  For six hours the pressure was
considerable, the assailants of Kaalfontein keeping up a brisk shell
and rifle fire, while those of Zuurfontein were without artillery. At
the end of that time two armoured trains came up with reinforcements
and the enemy continued his trek to the eastward.  Knox 's 2nd cavalry
brigade followed them up, but without any very marked result.

Zeerust and Lichtenburg had each been garrisoned and provisioned by
Lord Methuen before he carried his column away to the south-west,
where much rough and useful work awaited him.  The two towns were at
once invested by the enemy, who made an attack upon each of them.
That upon Zeerust, on January 7th, was a small matter and easily
repulsed.  A more formidable one was made on Lichtenburg, on March
3rd.  The attack was delivered by De la Rey, Smuts, and Celliers, with
1,500 men, who galloped up to the pickets in the early morning.  The
defenders were 600 in number, consisting of Paget's Horse and three
companies of the 1st battalion of the Northumberland Fusiliers, a
veteran regiment with a long record of foreign service, not to be
confused with that 2nd battalion which was so severely handled upon
several occasions.  It was well that it was so, for less sturdy
material might have been overborne by the vigour of the attack.  As it
was, the garrison were driven to their last trench, but held out under
a very heavy fire all day, and next morning the Boers abandoned the
attack.  Their losses appear to have been over fifty in number, and
included Commandant Celliers, who was badly wounded and afterwards
taken prisoner at Warm Baths. The brave garrison lost fourteen killed,
including two officers of the Northumberlands, and twenty wounded.

In each of these instances the attacks by the Boers upon British posts
had ended in a repulse to themselves. They were more fortunate,
however, in their attempt upon Modderfontein on the Gatsrand at the
end of January.  The post was held by 200 of the South Wales
Borderers, reinforced by the 59th Imperial Yeomanry, who had come in
as escort to a convoy from Krugersdorp. The attack, which lasted all
day, was carried out by a commando of 2,000 Boers under Smuts, who
rushed the position upon the following morning.  As usual, the Boers,
who were unable to retain their prisoners, had little to show for
their success. The British casualties, however, were between thirty
and forty, mostly wounded.

On January 22nd General Cunninghame left Oliphant's Nek with a small
force consisting of the Border and Worcester Regiments, the 6th
Mounted Infantry, Kitchener's Horse, 7th Imperial Yeomanry, 8th
R.F.A., and P battery R.H.A. It had instructions to move south upon
the enemy known to be gathering there.  By midday this force was
warmly engaged, and found itself surrounded by considerable bodies of
De la Rey's burghers.  That night they camped at Middelfontein, and
were strongly attacked in the early morning. So menacing was the Boer
attitude, and so formidable the position, that the force was in some
danger. Fortunately they were in heliographic communication with
Oliphant's Nek, and learned upon the 23rd that Babington had been
ordered to their relief. All day Cunninghame's men were under a
long-range fire, but on the 24th Babington appeared, and the British
force was successfully extricated, having seventy-five
casualties. This action of Middelfontein is interesting as having been
begun in Queen Victoria's reign, and ended in that of Edward VII.

Cunninghame's force moved on to Krugersdorp, and there, having heard
of the fall of the Modderfontein post as already described, a part of
his command moved out to the Gatsrand in pursuit of Smuts. It was
found, however, that the Boers had taken up a strong defensive
position, and the British were not numerous enough to push the
attack. On February 3rd Cunninghame endeavoured to outflank the enemy
with his small cavalry force while pushing his infantry up in front,
but in neither attempt did he succeed, the cavalry failing to find the
flank, while the infantry were met with a fire which made further
advance impossible. One company of the Border Regiment found itself in
such a position that the greater part of it was killed, wounded, or
taken. This check constituted the action of Modderfontein. On the 4th,
however, Cunningham, assisted by some of the South African
Constabulary, made his way round the flank, and dislodged the enemy,
who retreated to the south. A few days later some of Smuts's men made
an attempt upon the railway near Bank, but were driven off with
twenty-six casualties. It was after this that Smuts moved west and
joined De la Rey's commando to make the attack already described upon
Lichtenburg. These six attempts represent the chief aggressive
movements which the Boers made against British posts in the Transvaal
during these months.  Attacks upon trains were still common, and every
variety of sniping appears to have been rife, from the legitimate
ambuscade to something little removed from murder.

It has been described in a previous chapter how Lord Kitchener made an
offer to the burghers which amounted to an amnesty, and how a number
of those Boers who had come under the influence of the British formed
themselves into peace committees, and endeavoured to convey to the
fighting commandos some information as to the hopelessness of the
struggle, and the lenient mood of the British.  Unfortunately these
well-meant offers appear to have been mistaken for signs of weakness
by the Boer leaders, and encouraged them to harden their hearts.  Of
the delegates who conveyed the terms to their fellow countrymen two at
least were shot, several were condemned to death, and few returned
without ill-usage.  In no case did they bear back a favourable answer.
The only result of the proclamation was to burden the British
resources by an enormous crowd of women and children who were kept and
fed in refugee camps, while their fathers and husbands continued in
most cases to fight.

This allusion to the peace movement among the burghers may serve as an
introduction to the attempt made by Lord Kitchener, at the end of
February 1901, to bring the war to a close by negotiation. Throughout
its course the fortitude of Great Britain and of the Empire had never
for an instant weakened, but her conscience had always been sensitive
at the sight of the ruin which had befallen so large a portion of
South Africa, and any settlement would have been eagerly hailed which
would insure that the work done had not been wasted, and would not
need to be done again. A peace on any other terms would simply shift
upon the shoulders of our descendants those burdens which we were not
manly enough to bear ourselves.  There had arisen, as has been said, a
considerable peace movement among the burghers of the refugee camps
and also among the prisoners of war.  It was hoped that some
reflection of this might be found among the leaders of the people.  To
find out if this were so Lord Kitchener, at the end of February, sent
a verbal message to Louis Botha, and on the 27th of that month the
Boer general rode with an escort of Hussars into Middelburg.
'Sunburned, with a pleasant, fattish face of a German type, and
wearing an imperial,' says one who rode beside him. Judging from the
sounds of mirth heard by those without, the two leaders seem to have
soon got upon amiable terms, and there was hope that a definite
settlement might spring from their interview. From the beginning Lord
Kitchener explained that the continued independence of the two
republics was an impossibility.  But on every other point the British
Government was prepared to go great lengths in order to satisfy and
conciliate the burghers.

On March 7th Lord Kitchener wrote to Botha from Pretoria,
recapitulating the points which he had advanced.  The terms offered
were certainly as far as, and indeed rather further than, the general
sentiment of the Empire would have gone.  If the Boers laid down their
arms there was to be a complete amnesty, which was apparently to
extend to rebels also so long as they did not return to Cape Colony or
Natal.  Self-government was promised after a necessary interval,
during which the two States should be administered as Crown colonies.
Law courts should be independent of the Executive from the beginning,
and both languages be official.  A million pounds of compensation
would be paid to the burghers -- a most remarkable example of a war
indemnity being paid by the victors. Loans were promised to the
farmers to restart them in business, and a pledge was made that farms
should not be taxed. The Kaffirs were not to have the franchise, but
were to have the protection of law.  Such were the generous terms
offered by the British Government.  Public opinion at home, strong]y
supported by that of the colonies, and especially of the army, felt
that the extreme step had been taken in the direction of conciliation,
and that to do more would seem not to offer peace, but to implore it.
Unfortunately, however, the one thing which the British could not
offer was the one thing which the Boers would insist upon having, and
the leniency of the proposals in all other directions may have
suggested weakness to their minds.  On March 15th an answer was
returned by General Botha to the effect that nothing short of total
independence would satisfy them, and the negotiations were accordingiy
broken off.

There was a disposition, however, upon the Boer side to renew them,
and upon May 10th General Botha applied to Lord Kitchener for
permission to cable to President Kruger, and to take his advice as to
the making of peace.  The stern old man at The Hague was still,
however, in an unbending mood. His reply was to the effect that there
were great hopes of a successful issue of the war, and that he had
taken steps to make proper provision for the Boer prisoners and for
the refugee women.  These steps, and very efficient ones too, were to
leave them entirely to the generosity of that Government which he was
so fond of reviling.

On the same day upon which Botha applied for leave to use the British
cable, a letter was written by Reitz, State Secretary of the
Transvaal, to Steyn, in which the desperate condition of the Boers was
clearly set forth. This document explained that the burghers were
continually surrendering, that the ammunition was nearly exhausted,
the food running low, and the nation in danger of extinction. 'The
time has come to take the final step,' said the Secretary of
State. Steyn wrote back a reply in which, like his brother president,
he showed a dour resolution to continue the struggle, prompted by a
fatalist conviction that some outside interference would reverse the
result of his appeal to arms. His attitude and that of Kruger
determined the Boer leaders to hold out for a few more months, a
resolution which may have been injudicious, but was certainly heroic.
'It's a fight to a finish this time,' said the two combatants in the'
Punch' cartoon which marked the beginning of the war. It was indeed
so, as far as the Boers were concerned. As the victors we can afford
to acknowledge that no nation in history has ever made a more
desperate and prolonged resistance against a vastly superior
antagonist.  A Briton may well pray that his own people may be as
staunch when their hour of adversity comes round.

The British position at this stage of the war was strengthened by a
greater centralisation.  Garrisons of outlying towns were withdrawn so
that fewer convoys became necessary.  The population was removed also
and placed near the railway lines, where they could be more easily
fed. In this way the scene of action was cleared and the Boer and
British forces left face to face. Convinced of the failure of the
peace policy, and morally strengthened by having tried it, Lord
Kitchener set himself to finish the war by a series of vigorous
operations which should sweep the country from end to end.  For this
purpose mounted troops were essential, and an appeal from him for
reinforcements was most nobly answered.  Five thousand horsemen were
despatched from the colonies, and twenty thousand cavalry, mounted
infantry, and Yeomanry were sent from home.  Ten thousand mounted men
had already been raised in Great Britain, South Africa, and Canada for
the Constabulary force which was being organised by
Baden-Powell. Altogether the reinforcements of horsemen amounted to
more than thirty-five thousand men, all of whom had arrived in South
Africa before the end of April. With the remains of his old regiments
Lord Kitchener had under him at this final period of the war between
fifty and sixty thousand cavalry-such a force as no British General in
his happiest dream had ever thought of commanding, and no British war
minister in his darkest nightmare had ever imagined himself called
upon to supply.

Long before his reinforcements had come to hand, while his Yeomanry
was still gathering in long queues upon the London pavement to wait
their turn at the recruiting office, Lord Kitchener had dealt the
enemy several shrewd blows which materially weakened their resources
in men and material.  The chief of these was the great drive down the
Eastern Transvaal undertaken by seven columns under the command of
French. Before considering this, however, a few words must be devoted
to the doings of Methuen in the south-west.

This hard-working General, having garrisoned Zeerust and Lichtenburg,
had left his old district and journeyed with a force which consisted
largely of Bushmen and Yeomanry to the disturbed parts of Bechuanaland
which had been invaded by De Villiers.  Here he cleared the country as
far as Vryburg, which he had reached in the middle of January, working
round to Kuruman and thence to Taungs.  From Taungs his force crossed
the Transvaal border and made for Klerksdorp, working through an area
which had never been traversed and which contained the difficult
Masakani hills.  He left Taungs upon February 2nd, fighting skirmishes
at Uitval's Kop, Paardefontein and Lilliefontein, in each of which the
enemy was brushed aside. Passing through Wolmaranstad, Methuen turned
to the north, where at Haartebeestefontein, on February 19th, he
fought a brisk engagement with a considerable force of Boers under De
Villiers and Liebenberg. On the day before the fight he successfully
outwitted the Boers, for, learning that they had left their laager in
order to take up a position for battle, he pounced upon the laager and
captured 10,000 head of cattle, forty-three wagons, and forty
prisoners. Stimulated by this success, he attacked the Boers next day,
and after five hours of hard fighting forced the pass which they were
holding against him.  As Methuen had but 1,500 men, and was attacking
a force which was as large as his own in a formidable position, the
success was a very creditable one. The Yeomanry all did well,
especially the 5th and 10th battalions. So also did the Australians
and tho Loyal North Lancashires.  The British casualties amounted to
sixteen killed and thirty-four wounded, while the Boers left eighteen
of their dead upon the position which they had abandoned. Lord
Methuen's little force ret urnedto Klerksdorp, having deserved right
well of their country.  From Klerksdorp Methuen struck back westwards
to the south of his former route, and on March 14th he was reported at
Warrenton.  Here also in April came Erroll's small column, bringing
with it the garrison and inhabitants of Hoopstad, a post which it had
been determined, in accordance with Lord Kitchener's policy of
centralisation, to abandon.

In the month of January, 1901, there had been a considerable
concentration of the Transvaal Boers into that large triangle which is
bounded by the Delagoa railway line upon the north, the Natal railway
line upon the south, and the Swazi and Zulu frontiers upon the
east. The buschveldt is at this season of the year unhealthy both for
man and beast, so that for the sake of their herds, their families,
and themselves the burghers were constrained to descend into the open
veldt.  There seemed the less objection to their doing so since this
tract of country, though traversed once both by Buller and by French,
has still remained a stronghold of the Boers and a storehouse of
supplies.  Within its borders are to be found Carolina, Ermelo,
Vryheid, and other storm centres. Its possession offers peculiar
strategical advantages, as a force lying there can always attack
either railway, and might even make, as was indeed intended, a descent
into Natal.  For these mingled reasons of health and of strategy a
considerable number of burghers united in this district under the
command of the Bothas and of Smuts.

Their concentration had not escaped the notice of the British military
authorities, who welcomed any movement which might bring to a focus
that resistance which had been so nebulous and elusive. Lord Kitchener
having once seen the enemy fairly gathered into this huge cover,
undertook the difficult task of driving it from end to end.  For this
enterprise General French was given the chief command, and had under
his orders no fewer than seven columns, which started from different
points of the Delagoa and of the Natal railway lines, keeping in touch
with each other and all trending south and east.  A glance at the map
would show, however, that it was a very large field for seven guns,
and that it would need all their alertness to prevent the driven game
from breaking back.  Three columns started from the Delagoa line,
namely, Smith-Dorrien's from Wonderfontein (the most easterly),
Campbell's from Middelburg, and Alderson's from Eerstefabrieken, close
to Pretoria. Four columns came from the western railway line: General
Knox's from Kaalfontein, Major Allenby's from Zuurfontein (both
stations between Pretoria and Johannesburg), General Dartnell's from
Springs, close to Johannesburg, and finally General Colville (not to
be confused with Colvile) from Greylingstad in the south. The whole
movement resembled a huge drag net, of which Wonderfontein and
Greylingstad formed the ends, exactly one hundred miles apart.  On
January 27th the net began to be drawn.  Some thousands of Boers with
a considerable number of guns were known to be within the enclosure,
and it was hoped that even if their own extreme mobility enabled them
to escape it would be impossible for them to save their transport and
their cannon.

Each of the British columns was about 2,000 strong, making a total of
14,000 men with about fifty guns engaged in the operations.  A front
of not less than ten miles was to be maintained by each force.  The
first decided move was on the part of the extreme left wing,
Smith-Dorrien's column, which moved south on Carolina, and thence on
Bothwell near Lake Chrissie.  The arduous duty of passing supplies
down from the line fell mainly upon him, and his force was in
consequence larger than the others, consisting of 8,500 men with
thirteen guns.  On the arrival of Smith-Dorrien at Carolina the other
columns started, their centre of advance being Ermelo.  Over seventy
miles of veldt the gleam of the helio by day and the flash of the
signal lamps at night marked the steady flow of the British tide.
Here and there the columns came in touch with the enemy and swept him
before them.  French had a skirmish at Wilge River at the end of
January, and Campbell another south of Middelburg, in which he had
twenty casualties. On February 4th Smith-Dorrien was at Lake Chrissie;
French had passed through Bethel and the enemy was retiring on
Amsterdam.  The hundred-mile ends of the drag net were already
contracted to a third of that distance, and the game was still known
to be within it.  On the 5th Ermelo was occupied, and the fresh deep
ruts upon the veldt told the British horsemen of the huge Boer convoy
that was ahead of them.  For days enormous herds, endless flocks, and
lines of wagons which stretched from horizon to horizon had been
trekking eastward.  Cavalry and mounted infantry were all hot upon the
scent.

Botha, however, was a leader of spirit, not to be hustled with
impunity.  Having several thousand burghers with him, it was evident
that if he threw himself suddenly upon any part of the British line he
might hope for a time to make an equal fight, and possibly to
overwhelm it.  Were Smith-Dorrien out of the way there would be a
clear road of escape for his whole convoy to the north, while a defeat
of any of the other columns would not help him much. It was on
Smith-Dorrien, therefore, that he threw himself with great
impetuosity. That General's force was, however, formidable, consisting
of the Suffolks, West Yorks and Camerons, 5th Lancers, 2nd Imperial
Light Horse, and 3rd Mounted Infantry, with eight field guns and three
heavy pieces. Such a force could hardly be defeated in the open, but
no one can foresee the effect of a night surprise well pushed home,
and such was the attack delivered by Botha at 3 A.M. upon February
6th, when his opponent was encamped at Bothwell Farm.

The night was favourable to the attempt, as it was dark and
misty. Fortunately, however, the British commander had fortified
himself and was ready for an assault.  The Boer forlorn hope came on
with a gallant dash, driving a troop of loose horses in upon the
outposts, and charging forward into the camp.  The West Yorkshires,
however, who bore the brunt of the attack, were veterans of the
Tugela, who were no more to be flurried at three in the morning than
at three in the afternoon. The attack was blown backwards, and twenty
dead Boers, with their brave leader Spruyt, were left within the
British lines.  The main body of the Boers contented themselves with a
heavy fusillade out of the darkness, which was answered and crushed by
the return fire of the infantry. In the morning no trace, save their
dead, was to be seen of the enemy, but twenty killed and fifty wounded
in Smith-Dorrien's column showed how heavy had been the fire which had
swept through the sleeping camp. The Carolina attack, which was to
have co-operated with that of the Heidelbergers, was never delivered,
through difficulties of the ground, and considerable recriminations
ensued among the Boers in consequence.

Beyond a series of skirmishes and rearguard actions this attack of
Botha's was the one effort made to stay the course of French's
columns. It did not succeed, however, in arresting them for an
hour. From that day began a record of captures of men, herds, guns,
and wagons, as the fugitives were rounded up from the north, the west,
and the south.  The operation was a very thorough one, for the towns
and districts occupied were denuded of their inhabitants, who were
sent into the refugee camps while the country was laid waste to
prevent its furnishing the commandos with supplies in the
future. Still moving south-east, General French's columns made their
way to Piet Betief upon the Swazi frontier, pushing a disorganised
array which he computed at 5,000 in front of them. A party of the
enemy, including the Carolina commando, had broken back in the middle
of February and Louis Botha had got away at the same time, but so
successful were his main operations that French was able to report his
total results at the end of the month as being 292 Boers killed or
wounded, 500 surrendered, 3 guns and one maxim taken, with 600 rifles,
4,000 horses, 4,500 trek oxen, 1,300 wagons and carts, 24,000 cattle,
and 165,000 sheep. The whole vast expanse of the eastern veldt was
dotted with the broken and charred wagons of the enemy.

Tremendous rains were falling and the country was one huge quagmire,
which crippled although it did not entirely prevent the further
operations. All the columns continued to report captures. On March 3rd
Dartnell got a maxim and 50 prisoners, while French reported 50 more,
and Smith-Dorrien 80.  On March 6th French captured two more guns, and
on the 14th he reported 46 more Boer casualties and 146 surrenders,
with 500 more wagons, and another great haul of sheep and oxen.  By
the end of March French had moved as far south as Vryheid, his troops
having endured the greatest hardships from the continual heavy rains,
and the difficulty of bringing up any supplies.  On the 27th he
reported seventeen more Boer casualties and 140 surrenders, while on
the last day of the month he took another gun and two pom-poms.  The
enemy at that date were still retiring eastward, with Alderson and
Dartnell pressing upon their rear.  On April 4th French announced the
capture of the last piece of artillery which the enemy possessed in
that region.  The rest of the Boer forces doubled back at night
between the columns and escaped over the Zululand border, where 200 of
them surrendered.  The total trophies of French's drive down the
Eastern Transvaal amounted to eleven hundred of the enemy killed,
wounded, or taken, the largest number in any operation since the
surrender of Prinsloo. There is no doubt that the movement would have
been even more successful had the weather been less boisterous, but
this considerable loss of men, together with the capture of all the
guns in that region, and of such enormous quantities of wagons,
munitions, and stock, inflicted a blow upon the Boers from which they
never wholly recovered.  On April 20th French was back in Johannesburg
once more.

While French had run to earth the last Boer gun in the south.eastern
corner of the Transvaal, De la Rey, upon the western side, had still
managed to preserve a considerable artillery with which he flitted
about the passes of the Magaliesberg or took refuge in the safe
districts to the south-west of it.  This part of the country had been
several times traversed, but had never been subdued by British
columns.  The Boers, like their own veldt grass, need but a few sparks
to be left behind to ensure a conflagration breaking out again. It was
into this inflammable country that Babington moved in March with
Klerksdorp for his base. On March 21st he had reached
Haartebeestefontein, the scene not long before of a successful action
by Methuen.  Here he was joined by Shekleton's Mounted Infantry, and
his whole force consisted of these, with the 1st Imperial Light Horse,
the 6th Imperial Bushmen, the New-Zealanders, a squadron of the 14th
Hussars, a wing each of the Somerset Light Infantry and of the Welsh
Fusiliers, with Carter's guns and four pom-poms.  With this mobile and
formidable little force Babington pushed on in search of Smuts and De
la Rey, who were known to be in the immediate neighbourhood.

As a matter of fact the Boers were not only there, but were nearer and
in greater force than had been anticipated.  On the 22nd three
squadrons of the Imperial Light Horse under Major Briggs rode into
1,500 of them, and it was only by virtue of their steadiness and
gallantry that they succeeded in withdrawing themselves and their
pom-pom without a disaster.  With Boers in their front and Boers on
either flank they fought an admirable rearguard action. So hot was the
fire that A squadron alone had twenty-two casualties.  They faced it
out, however, until their gun had reached a place of safety, when they
made an orderly retirement towards Babington's camp, having inflicted
as heavy a loss as they had sustained.  With Elandslaagte, Waggon
Hill, the relief of Mafeking, Naauwpoort, and Haartebeestefontein upon
their standards, the Imperial Light Horse, should they take a
permanent place in the Army List, will start with a record of which
many older regiments might be proud.

If the Light Horse had a few bad hours on March 22nd at the hands of
the Boers, they and their colonial comrades were soon able to return
the same with interest. On March 23rd Babington moved forward through
Kafir Kraal, the enemy falling back before him.  Next morning the
British again advanced, and as the New-Zealanders and Bushmen, who
formed the vanguard under Colonel Gray, emerged from a pass they saw
upon the plain in front of them the Boer force with all its guns
moving towards them.  Whether this was done of set purpose or whether
the Boers imagined that the British had turned and were intending to
pursue them cannot now be determined, but whatever the cause it is
certain that for almost the first time in the campaign a considerable
force of each side found themselves in the open and face to face.

It was a glorious moment.  Setting spurs to their horses, officers and
men with a yell dashed forward at the enemy.  One of the Boer guns
unlimbered and attempted to open fire, but was overwhelmed by the wave
of horsemen.  The Boer riders broke and fled, leaving their artillery
to escape as best it might.  The guns dashed over the veldt in a mad
gallop, but wilder still was the rush of the fiery cavalry behind
them.  For once the brave and cool-headed Dutchmen were fairly
panic-stricken. Hardly a shot was fired at the pursuers, and the
riflemen seem to have been only too happy to save their own skins.
Two field guns, one pom-pom, six maxims, fifty-six wagons and 140
prisoners were the fruits of that one magnificent charge, while
fifty-four stricken Boers were picked up after the action.  The
pursuit was reluctantly abandoned when the spent horses could go no
farther.

While the vanguard had thus scattered the main body of the enemy a
detachment of riflemen had ridden round to attack the British rear and
convoy. A few volleys from the escort drove them off, however, with
some loss.  Altogether, what with the loss of nine guns and of at
least 200 men, the rout of Haartebeestefontein was a severe blow to
the Boer cause. A week or two later Sir H. Rawlinson's column, acting
with Babington, rushed Smuts's laager at daylight and effected a
further capture of two guns and thirty prisoners.  Taken in
conjunction with French's successes in the east and Plumer's in the
north, these successive blows might have seemed fatal to the Boer
cause, but the weary struggle was still destined to go on until it
seemed that it must be annihilation rather than incorporation which
would at last bring a tragic peace to those unhappy lands.

All over the country small British columns had been operating during
these months -- operations which were destined to increase in scope
and energy as the cold weather drew in.  The weekly tale of prisoners
and captures, though small for any one column, gave the aggregate
result of a considerable victory.  In these scattered and obscure
actions there was much good work which can have no reward save the
knowledge of duty done.  Among many successful raids and skirmishes
may be mentioned two by Colonel Park from Lydenburg, which resulted
between them in the capture of nearly 100 of the enemy, including Abel
Erasmus of sinister reputation.  Nor would any summary of these events
be complete without a reference to the very gallant defence of
Mahlabatini in Zululand, which was successfully held by a handful of
police and civilians against an irruption of the Boers.  With the
advent of winter and of reinforcements the British operations became
very energetic in every part of the country, and some account of them
will now be added.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE WINTER CAMPAIGN (APRIL-SEPTEMBER, 1901)


The African winter extends roughly from April to September, and as the
grass during that period would be withered on the veldt, the mobility
of the Boer commandos must be very much impaired. It was recognised
therefore that if the British would avoid another year of war it could
only be done by making good use of the months which lay before
them. For this reason Lord Kitchener had called for the considerable
reinforcements which have been already mentioned, but on the other
hand he was forced to lose many thousands of his veteran Yeomanry,
Australians, and Canadians, whose term of service was at an end. The
volunteer companies of the infantry returned also to England, and so
did nine militia battalions, whose place was taken however by an equal
number of new-comers.

The British position was very much strengthened during the winter by
the adoption of the block-house system. These were small square or
hexagonal buildings, made of stone up to nine feet with corrugated
iron above it. They were loopholed for musketry fire and held from six
to thirty men. These little forts were dotted along the railways at
points not more than 2,000 yards apart, and when supplemented by a
system of armoured trains they made it no easy matter for the Boers to
tamper with or to cross the lines. So effective did these prove that
their use was extended to the more dangerous portions of the country,
and lines were pushed through the Magaliesberg district to form a
chain of posts between Krugersdorp and Rustenburg.  In the Orange
River Colony and on the northern lines of the Cape Colony the same
system was extensively applied.  I will now attempt to describe the
more important operations of the winter, beginning with the incursion
of Plumer into the untrodden ground to the north.

At this period of the war the British forces had overrun, if they had
not subdued, the whole of the Orange River Colony and every part of
the Transvaal which is south of the Mafeking-Pretoria-Komati line.
Through this great tract of country there was not a vilage and hardly
a farmhouse which had not seen the invaders. But in the north there
remained a vast district, two hundred miles long and three hundred
broad, which had hardly been touched by the war.  It is a wild
country, scrub-covered, antelope-haunted plains rising into desolate
hills, but there are many kloofs and valleys with rich water meadows
and lush grazings, which formed natural granaries and depots for the
enemy.  Here the Boer government continued to exist, and here,
screened by their mountains, they were able to organise the
continuation of the struggle. It was evident that there could be no
end to the war until these last centres of resistance had been broken
up.

The british forces had advanced as far north as Rustenburg in the
west, Pienaar in the centre, and Lydenburg in the east, but here they
had halted, unwilling to go farther until their conquests had been
made good behind them. A General might well pause before plunging his
troops into that vast and rugged district, when an active foe and an
exposed line of communication lay for many hundreds of miles to the
south of them. But Lord Kitchener with characteristic patience waited
for the right hour to come, and then with equally characteristic
audacity played swiftly and boldly for his stake.  De Wet, impotent
for the moment, had been hunted back over the Orange River. French had
harried the burghers in the South-east Transvaal, and the main force
of the enemy was known to be on that side of the seat of war.  The
north was exposed, and with one long, straight lunge to the heart,
Pietersburg might be transfixed.

There could only be one direction for the advance, and that must be
along the Pretoria-Pietersburg railroad. This is the only line of
rails which leads to the north, and as it was known to be in working
order (the Boers were running a bi-weekly service from Pietersburg to
Warm Baths), it was hoped that a swift advance might seize it before
any extensive damage could be done. With this object a small but very
mobile force rapidly assembled at the end of March at Pienaar River,
which was the British rail-head forty miles north of Pretoria and a
hundred and thirty from Pietersburg.  This column consisted of the
Bushveldt Carbineers, the 4th Imperial Bushmen's Corps, and the 6th
New Zealand contingent.  With them were the 18th battery R.F.A., and
three pom-poms. A detachment of the invaluable mounted Sappers rode
with the force, and two infantry regiments, the 2nd Gordons and the
Northamptons, were detached to garrison the more vulnerable places
upon the line of advance.

Upon March 29th the untiring Plumer, called off from the chase of De
Wet, was loosed upon this fresh line, and broke swiftly away to the
north.  The complete success of his undertaking has obscured our
estimate of its danger, but it was no light task to advance so great a
distance into a bitterly hostile country with a fighting force of
2,000 rifles.  As an enterprise it was in many ways not unlike Mahon's
dash on Mafeking, but without any friendly force with which to join
hands at the end. However from the beginning all went well.  On the
30th the force had reached Warm Baths, where a great isolated hotel
already marks the site of what will be a rich and fashionable spa.  On
April 1st the Australian scouts rode into Nylstroom, fifty more miles
upon their way. There had been sufficient sniping to enliven the
journey, but nothing which could be caled an action.  Gleaning up
prisoners and refugees as they went, with the railway engineers
working like bees behind them, the force still swept unchecked upon
its way.  On April 5th Piet Potgeitersrust was entered, another
fifty-mile stage, and on the morning of the 8th the British vanguard
rode into Pietersburg.  Kitchener's judgment and Plumer's energy had
met with their reward.

The Boer commando had evacuated the town and no serious opposition was
made to the British entry. The most effective resistance came from a
single schoolmaster, who, in a moment of irrational frenzy or of
patriotic exaltation, shot down three of the invaders before he met
his own death.  Some rolling stock, one small gun, and something under
a hundred prisoners were the trophies of the capture, but the Boer
arsenal and the printing press were destroyed, and the Government sped
off in a couple of Cape carts in search of some new capital.
Pietersburg was principally valuable as a base from which a sweeping
movement might be made from the north at the same moment as one from
the south-east. A glance at the map will show that a force moving from
this point in conjunction with another from Lydenburg might form the
two crooked claws of a crab to enclose a great space of country, in
which smaller columns might collect whatever was to be found.  Without
an instant of unnecessary delay the dispositions were made, and no
fewer than eight columns slipped upon the chase.  It will be best to
continue to follow the movements of Plumer's force, and then to give
some account of the little armies which were operating from the south,
with the results of their enterprise.

It was known that Viljoen and a number of Boers were within the
district which lies north of the line in the Middelburg district.  An
impenetrable bush-veldt had offered them a shelter from which they
made their constant sallies to wreck a train or to attack a post. This
area was now to be systematically cleared up. The first thing was to
stop the northern line of retreat. The Oliphant River forms a loop in
that direction, and as it is a considerable stream, it would, if
securely held, prevent any escape upon that side. With this object
Plumer, on April 14th, the sixth day after his occupation of
Pietersburg, struck east from that town and trekked over the veldt,
through the formidable Chunies Pass, and so to the north bank of the
Oliphant, picking up thirty or forty Boer prisoners upom the way. His
route lay through a fertile country dotted with native kraals. Having
reached the river which marked the line which he was to hold, Plumer,
upon April 17th, spread his force over many miles, so as to block the
principal drifts.  The flashes of his helio were answered by flash
after flash from many points upon the southern horizon. What these
other forces were, and whence they came, must now be made clear to the
reader.

General Bindon Blood, a successful soldier, had confirmed in the
Transvaal a reputation which he had won on the northern frontier of
India.  He and General Elliot were two of the late comers who had been
spared from the great Eastern dependency to take the places of some of
those Generals who had returned to England for a well-earned rest.  He
had distinguished himself by his systematic and effective guardianship
of the Delagoa railway line, and he was now selected for the supreme
control of the columns which were to advance from the south and sweep
the Roos-Senekal district.  There were seven of them, which were
arranged as follows:

Two columns started from Middelburg under Beatson and Benson, which
might be called the left wings of the movement.  The object of
Beatson's column was to hold the drifts of the Crocodile River, while
Benson's was to seize the neighbouring hills called the
Bothasberg. This it was hoped would pin the Boers from the west, while
Kitchener from Lydenburg advanced from the east in three separate
columns. Pulteney and Douglas would move up from Belfast in the
centre, with Dulstoom for their objective.  It was the familiar drag
net of French, but facing north instead of south.

On April 13th the southern columns were started, but already the
British preparations had alarmed the Boers, and Botha, with his main
commandos, had slipped south across the line into that very district
from which he had been so recently driven. Viljoen's commando still
remained to the north, and the British troops, pouring in from every
side, converged rapidly upon it.  The success of the operations was
considerable, though not complete.  The Tantesberg, which had been the
rallying-point of the Boers, was occupied, and Roos-Senekal, their
latest capital, was taken, with their State papers and
treasure. Viljoen, with a number of followers, slipped through between
the columns, but the greater part of the burghers, dashing furiously
about like a shoal of fish when they become conscious of the net, were
taken by one or other of the columns. A hundred of the Boksburg
commando surrendered en masae, fifty more were taken at Roos-Senekal;
forty-one of the formidable Zarps with Schroeder, their leader, were
captured in the north by the gallantry and wit of a young Australian
officer named Reid; sixty more were hunted down by the indefatigable
Vialls, leader of the Bushmen. From all parts of the district came the
same story of captures and surrenders.

Knowing, however, that Botha and Viljoen had slipped through to the
south of the railway line, Lord Kitchener determined to rapidly
transfer the scene of the operations to that side. At the end of
April, after a fortnight's work, during which this large district was
cropped, but by no means shaved, the troops turned south again.  The
results of the operation had been eleven hundred prisoners, almost the
same number as French had taken in the south-east, together with a
broken Krupp, a pom-pom, and the remains of the big naval gun taken
from us at Helvetia.

It was determined that Plumer's advance upon Pietersburg should not be
a mere raid, but that steps should be taken to secure all that he had
gained, and to hold the lines of communication.  With this object the
2nd Gordon Highianders and the 2nd Wiltshires were pushed up along the
railroad, followed by Kitchener's Fighting Scouts.  These troops
garrisoned Pietersburg and took possession of Chunies Poort, and other
strategic positions.  They also furnished escorts for the convoys
which supplied Plumer on the Oliphant River, and they carried out some
spirited operations themselves in the neighbourhood of Pietersburg.
Grenfell, who commanded the force, broke up several laagers, and
captured a number of prisoners, operations in which he was much
assisted by Colenbrander and his men. Finally the last of the great
Creusot guns, the formidable Long Toms, was found mounted near
Haenertsburg. It was the same piece which had in succession scourged
Mafeking and Kimberley.  The huge gun, driven to bay, showed its
powers by opening an effective fire at ten thousand yards.  The
British galloped in upon it, the Boer riflemen were driven off, and
the gun was blown up by its faithful gunners.  So by suicide died the
last of that iron brood, the four sinister brothers who had wrought
much mischief in South Africa.  They and their lesson will live in the
history of modern artillery.

The sweeping of the Roos-Senekal district being over, Plumer left his
post upon the River of the Elephants, a name which, like Rhenoster,
Zeekoe, Kameelfontein, Leeuw Kop, Tigerfontein, Elands River, and so
many more, serves as a memorial to the great mammals which once
covered the land.  On April 28th the force turned south, and on May
4th they had reached the railroad at Eerstefabrieken close to
Pretoria. They had come in touch with a small Boer force upon the way,
and the indefatigable Vialls hounded them for eighty miles, and tore
away the tail of their convoy with thirty prisoners.  The main force
had left Pretoria on horseback on March 28th, and found themselves
back once again upon foot on May 5th.  They had something to show,
however, for the loss of their horses, since they had covered a
circular march of 400 miles, had captured some hundreds of the enemy,
and had broken up their last organised capital.  From first to last it
was a most useful and well-managed expedition.

It is the more to be regretted that General Blood was recalled from
his northern trek before it had attained its full results, because
those operations to which he turned did not offer him any great
opportunities for success.  Withdrawing from the north of the railway
with his columns, he at once started upon a sweep of that portion of
the country which forms an angle between the Delagoa line and the
Swazi frontier -- the Barberton district.  But again the two big fish,
Viljoen and Botha, had slipped away, and the usual collection of
sprats was left in the net.  The sprats count also, however, and every
week now telegrams were reaching England from Lord Kitchener which
showed that from three to five hundred more burghers had fallen into
our hands.  Although the public might begin to look upon the war as
interminable, it had become evident to the thoughtful observer that it
was now a mathematical question, and that a date could already be
predicted by which the whole Boer population would have passed into
the power of the British.

Among the numerous small British columns which were at work in
different parts of the country, in the latter half of May, there was
one under General Dixon which was operating in the neighbourhood of
the Magaliesberg Range.  This locality has never been a fortunate one
for the British arms.  The country is peculiarly mountainous and
broken, and it was held by the veteran De la Rey and a numerous body
of irreconcilable Boers.  Here in July we had encountered a check at
Uitval's Nek, in December Clements had met a more severe one at
Nooitgedacht, while shortly afterwards Cunningham had been repulsed at
Middelfontein, and the Light Horse cut up at Naauwpoort.  After such
experiences one would have thought that no column which was not of
overmastering strength would have been sent into this dangerous
region, but General Dixon had as a matter of fact by no means a strong
force with him.  With 1,600 men and a battery he was despatched upon a
quest after some hidden guns which were said to have been buried in
those parts.

On May 26th Dixon's force, consisting of Derbyshires, King's Own
Scottish Borderers, Imperial Yeomanry, Scottish Horse, and six guns
(four of 8th R.F.A. and two of 28th R.F.A.), broke camp at Naauwpoort
and moved to the west.  On the 28th they found themselves at a place
called Vlakfontein, immediately south of Oliphant's Nek.  On that day
there were indications that there were a good many Boers in the
neighbourhood.  Dixon left a guard over his canip and then sallied out
in search of the buried guns.  His force was divided into three parts,
the left column under Major Chance consisting of two guns of the 28th
R.F.A., 230 of the Yeomanry, and one company of the Derbys. The centre
comprised two guns (8th R.F.A.), one howitzer, two companies of the
Scottish Borderers and one of the Derbys; while the right was made up
of two guns (8th R.F.A.), 200 Scottish Horse, and two companies of
Borderers.  Having ascertained that the guns were not there, the force
about midday was returning to the camp, when the storm broke suddenly
and fiercely upon the rearguard.

There had been some sniping during the whole morning, but no
indications of the determined attack which was about to be delivered.
The force in retiring upon the camp had become divided, and the
rearguard consisted of the small column under Major Chance which had
originally formed the left wing. A veldt fire was raging on one flank
of this rearguard, and through the veil of smoke a body of five
hundred Boers charged suddenly home with magnificent gallantry upon
the guns.  We have few records of a more dashing or of a more
successful action in the whole course of the war. So rapid was it that
hardly any time elapsed between the glimpse of the first dark figures
galloping through the haze and the thunder of their hoofs as they
dashed in among the gunners. The Yeomanry were driven back and many of
them shot down.  The charge of the mounted Boers was supported by a
very heavy fire from a covermg party, and the gun-detachments were
killed or wounded almost to a man.  The lieutenant in charge and the
sergeant were both upon the ground.  So far as it is possible to
reconstruct the action from the confused accounts of excited
eye-witnesses and from the exceedingly obscure official report of
General Dixon, there was no longer any resistance round the guns,
which were at once turned by their captors upon the nearest British
detachment.

The company of infantry which had helped to escort the guns proved
however to be worthy representatives of that historic branch of the
British service.  They were northerners, men of Derbyshire and
Nottingham, the same counties which had furnished the brave militia
who had taken their punishment so gamely at Roodeval.  Though hustled
and broken they re-formed and clung doggedly to their task, firing at
the groups of Boers who surrounded the guns.  At the same time word
had been sent of their pressing need to the Scotch Borderers and the
Scottish Horse, who came swarming across the valley to the succour of
their comrades.  Dixon had brought two guns and a howitzer into
action, which subdued the fire of the two captured pieces, and the
infantry, Derbys and Borderers, swept over the position, retaking the
two guns and shooting down those of the enemy who tried to stand.  The
greater number vanished into the smoke, which veiled their retreat as
it had their advance.  Forty-one of them were left dead upon the
ground.  Six officers and fifty men killed with about a hundred and
twenty wounded made up the British losses, to which two guns would
certainly have been added but for the gallant counter-attack of the
infantry.  With Dargai and Vlakfontein to their credit the Derbys have
green laurels upon their war-worn colours.  They share them on this
occasion with the Scottish Borderers, whose volunteer company carried
itself as stoutly as the regulars.

How is such an action to be summed up? To Kemp, the young Boer leader,
and his men belongs the credit of the capture of the guns; to the
British that of their recapture and of the final possession of the
field. The British loss was probably somewhat higher than that of the
Boers, but upon the other hand there could be no question as to which
side could afford loss the better. The Briton could be replaced, but
there were no reserves behind the fighting line of the Boers.

There is one subject which cannot be ignored in discussing this
battle, however repugnant it may be.  That is the shooting of some of
the British wounded who lay round the guns.  There is no question at
all about the fact, which is attested by many independent witnesses.
There is reason to hope that some of the murderers paid for their
crimes with their lives before the battle was over.  It is pleasant to
add that there is at least one witness to the fact that Boer officers
interfered with threats to prevent some of these outrages. It is
unfair to tarnish the whole Boer nation and cause on account of a few
irresponsible villains, who would be disowned by their own decent
comrades.  Very many -- too many -- British soldiers have known by
experience what it is to fall into the hands of the enemy, and it must
be confessed that on the whole they have been dealt with in no
ungenerous spirit, while the British treatment of the Boers has been
unexampled in all military history for its generosity and
humanity. That so fair a tale should be darkened by such ruffianly
outrages is indeed deplorable, but the incident is too well
authenticated to be left unrecorded in any detailed account of the
campaign.  General Dixon, finding the Boers very numerous all round
him, and being hampered by his wounded, fell back upon Naauwpoort,
which he reached on June 1st.

In May, Sir Bindon Blood, having returned to the line to refit, made
yet another cast through that thrice-harried belt of country which
contains Ermelo, Bethel, and Carolina, in which Botha, Viljoen, and
the fighting Boers had now concentrated. Working over the blackened
veldt he swung round in the Barberton direction, and afterwards made a
westerly drive in conjunction with small columns commanded by Walter
Kitchener, Douglas, and Campbell of the Rifles, while Colville,
Garnett, and Bullock co-operated from the Natal line. Again the
results were disappointing when compared with the power of the
instrument employed.  On July 5th he reached Springs, near
Johannesburg, with a considerable amount of stock, but with no great
number of prisoners. The elusive Botha had slipped away to the south
and was reported upon the Zululand border, while Viljoen had succeeded
in crossing the Delagoa line and winning back to his old lair in the
district north of Middelburg, from which he had been evicted in
April. The commandos were like those pertinacious flies which buzz
upwards when a hand approaches them, but only to settle again in the
same place.  One could but try to make the place less attractive than
before.

Before Vujoen's force made its way over the line it had its revenge
for the long harrying it had undergone by a well-managed night attack,
in which it surprised and defeated a portion of Colonel Beatson's
column at a place called Wilmansrust, due south of Middelburg, and
between that town and Bethel. Beatson had divided his force, and this
section consisted of 850 of the 5th Victorian Mounted Rifles, with
thirty gunners and two pom-poms, the whole under the command of Major
Morris.  Viljoen's force trekking north towards the line came upon
this detachment upon June 12th.  The British were aware of the
presence of the enemy, but do not appear to have posted any extra
outposts or taken any special precautions.  Long months of commando
chasing had imbued them too much with the idea that these were
fugitive sheep, and not fierce and wily wolves, whom they were
endeavouring to catch. It is said that 700 yards separated the four
pickets. With that fine eye for detail which the Boer leaders possess,
they had started a veldt fire upon the west of the camp and then
attacked from the east, so that they were themselves invisible while
their enemies were silhouetted against the light.  Creeping up between
the pickets, the Boers were not seen until they opened fire at
point-blank range upon the sleeping men.  The rifles were stacked --
another noxious military tradition -- and many of the troopers were
shot down while they rushed for their weapons.  Surprised out of their
sleep and unable to distinguish their antagonists, the brave
Australians did as well as any troops could have done who were placed
in so impossible a position.  Captain Watson, the officer in charge of
the pom-poms, was shot down, and it proved to be impossible to bring
the guns into action. Within five minutes the Victorians had lost
twenty killed and forty wounded, when the survivors surrendered. It is
pleasant to add that they were very well treated by the victors, but
the high-spirited colonials felt their reverse most bitterly.  'It is
the worst thing that ever happened to Australia!' says one in the
letter in which he describes it.  The actual number of Boers who
rushed the camp was only 180, but 400 more had formed a cordon round
it.  To Viljoen and his lieutenant Muller great credit must be given
for this well-managed affair, which gave them a fresh supply of stores
and clothing at a time when they were hard pressed for both.  These
same Boer officers had led the attack upon Helvetia where the 4.7 gun
was taken. The victors succeeded in getting away with all their
trophies, and having temporarily taken one of the blockhouses on the
railway near Brugspruit, they crossed the line in safety and returned,
as already said, to their old quarters in the north, which had been
harried but not denuded by the operations of General Blood.

It would take a volume to catalogue, and a library to entirely
describe the movements and doings of the very large number of British
columns which operated over the Transvaal and the Orange River Colony
during this cold-weather campaign.  If the same columns and the same
leaders were consistently working in the same districts, some system
of narrative might enable the reader to follow their fortunes, but
they were, as a matter of fact, rapidly transferred from one side of
the field of action to another in accordance with the concentrations
of the enemy.  The total number of columns amounted to at least sixty,
which varied in number from two hundred to two thousand, and seldom
hunted alone.  Could their movements be marked in red upon a chart,
the whole of that huge district would be criss-crossed, from Taungs to
Komati and from Touws River to Pietersburg, with the track of our
weary but indomitable soldiers.

Without attempting to enter into details which would be unbecoming to
the modesty of a single volume, one may indicate what the other more
important groupings were during the course of these months, and which
were the columns that took part in them.  Of French's drive in the
south-east, and of Blood's incursion into the Roos-Senekal district
some account has been given, and of his subsequent sweeping of the
south. At the same period Babington, Dixon, and Rawlinson were
co-operating in the Klerksdorp district, though the former officer
transferred his services suddenly to Blood's combination, and
afterwards to Elliot's column in the north of Orange River Colony.
Williams and Fetherstonhaugh came later to strengthen this Klerksdorp
district, in which, after the clearing of the Magaliesberg, De la Rey
had united his forces to those of Smuts.  This very important work of
getting a firm hold upon the Magaliesberg was accomplished in July by
Barton, Allenby, Kekewich, and Lord Basing, who penetrated into the
wild country and established blockhouses and small forts in very much
the same way as Cumberland and Wade in 1746 held down the
Highlands. The British position was much strengthened by the firm grip
obtained of this formidable stronghold of the enemy, which was
dangerous not only on account of its extreme strength, but also of its
proximity to the centres of population and of wealth.

De la Rey, as already stated, had gone down to the Klerksdorp
district, whence, for a time at least, he seems to have passed over
into the north of the Orange River Colony. The British pressure at
Klerksdorp had become severe, and thither in May came the
indefatigable Methuen, whom we last traced to Warrenton.  From this
point on May 1st he railed his troops to Mafeking, whence he trekked
to Lichtenburg, and south as far as his old fighting ground of
Haartebeestefontein, having one skirmish upon the way and capturing a
Boer gun. Thence he returned to Mafeking, where he had to bid adieu to
those veteran Yeomanry who had been his comrades on so many a weary
march.  It was not their fortune to be present at any of the larger
battles of the war, but few bodies of troops have returned to England
with a finer record of hard and useful service.

No sooner, however, had Methuen laid down one weapon than he snatched
up another.  Having refitted his men and collected some of the more
efficient of the new Yeomanry, he was off once more for a three weeks'
circular tour in the direction of Zeerust. It is difficult to believe
that the oldest inhabitant could have known more of the western side
of the Transvaal, for there was hardly a track which he had not
traversed or a kopje from which he had not been sniped. Early in
August he had made a fresh start from Mafeking, dividing his force
into two columns, the command of the second being given to Von Donop.
Having joined hands with Fetherstonhaugh, he moved through the
south-west and finally halted at Klerksdorp.  The harried Boers moved
a hundred miles north to Rustenburg, followed by Methuen,
Fetherstonhaugh, Hamilton, Kekewich, and Allenby, who found the
commandos of De la Rey and Kemp to be scattering in front of them and
hiding in the kloofs and dongas, whence in the early days of September
no less than two hundred were extracted.  On September 6th and 8th
Methuen engaged the main body of De la Rey in the valley of the Great
Marico River which lies to the north-west of Rustenburg.  In these two
actions he pushed the Boers in front of him with a loss of eighteen
killed and forty-one prisoners, but the fighting was severe, and
fifteen of his men were killed and thirty wounded before the position
had been carried. The losses were almost entirely among the newly
raised Yeomanry, who had already shown on several occasions that,
having shed their weaker members and had some experience of the field,
they were now worthy to take their place beside their veteran
comrades.

The only other important operation undertaken by the British columns
in the Transvaal during this period was in the north, where Beyers and
his men were still harried by Grenfell, Colenbrander, and Wilson. A
considerable proportion of the prisoners which figured in the weekly
lists came from this quarter.  On May 30th there was a notable action,
the truth of which was much debated but finally established, in which
Kitchener's Scouts under Wilson surprised and defeated a Boer force
under Pretorius, killing and wounding several, and taking forty
prisoners.  On July 1st Grenfell took nearly a hundred of Beyers' men
with a considerable convoy. North, south, east, and west the tale was
ever the same, but so long as Botha, De la Rey, Steyn, and De Wet
remained uncaptured, the embers might still at any instant leap into a
flame.

It only remains to complete this synopsis of the movements of columns
within the Transvaal that I should add that after the conclusion of
Blood's movement in July, several of his columns continued to clear
the country and to harass Viljoen in the Lydenburg and Dulstroom
districts.  Park, Kitchener, Spens, Beatson, and Benson were all busy
at this work, never succeeding in forcing more than a skirmish, but
continually whittling away wagons, horses, and men from that nucleus
of resistance which the Boer leaders still held together.

Though much hampered by the want of forage for their horses, the Boers
were ever watchful for an opportunity to strike back, and the long
list of minor successes gained by the British was occasionally
interrupted by a petty reverse.  Such a one befell the small body of
South African Constabulary stationed near Vereeniging, who encountered
upon July 13th a strong force of Boers supposed to be the main
commando of De Wet. The Constabulary behaved with great gallantry but
were hopelessly outnumbered, and lost their seven-pounder gun, four
killed, six wounded, and twenty-four prisoners.  Another small reverse
occurred at a far distant point of the seat of war, for the irregular
corps known as Steinacker's Horse was driven from its position at
Bremersdorp in Swaziland upon July 24th, and had to fall back sixteen
miles, with a loss of ten casualties and thirty prisoners.  Thus in
the heart of a native state the two great white races of South Africa
were to be seen locked in a desperate conflict. However unavoidable,
the sight was certainly one to be deplored.

To the Boer credit, or discredit, are also to be placed those repeated
train wreckings, which cost the British during this campaign the lives
and limbs of many brave soldiers who were worthy of some less ignoble
fate.  It is true that the laws of war sanction such enterprises, but
there is something indiscriminate in the results which is repelent to
humanity, and which appears to justify the most energetic measures to
prevent them.  Women, children, and sick must all travel by these
trains and are exposed to a common danger, while the assailants enjoy
a safety which renders their exploit a peculiarly inglorious one. Two
Boers, Trichardt and Hindon, the one a youth of twenty-two, the other
a man of British birth, distinguished, or disgraced, themselves by
this unsavoury work upon the Delagoa line, but with the extension of
the blockhouse system the attempts became less successful.  There was
one, however, upon the northern line near Naboomspruit which cost the
lives of Lieutenant Best and eight Gordon Highlanders, while ten were
wounded.  The party of Gordons continued to resist after the smash,
and were killed or wounded to a man.  The painful incident is
brightened by such an example of military virtue, and by the naive
reply of the last survivor, who on being questioned why he continued
to fight until he was shot down, answered with fine simplicity,
'Because I am a Gordon Highlander.'

Another train disaster of an even more tragic character occurred near
Waterval, fifteen miles north of Pretoria, upon the last day of
August.  The explosion of a mine wrecked the train, and a hundred
Boers who lined the banks of the cutting opened fire upon the derailed
carriages.  Colonel Vandeleur, an officer of great promise, was killed
and twenty men, chiefly of the West Riding regiment, were shot.  Nurse
Page was also among the wounded.  It was after this fatal affair that
the regulation of carrying Boer hostages upon the trains was at last
carried out.

It has been already stated that part of Lord Kitchener's policy of
concentration lay in his scheme for gathering the civil population
into camps along the lines of communication.  The reasons for this,
both military and humanitarian, were overwhelming. Experience had
proved that the men if left at liberty were liable to be persuaded or
coerced by the fighting Boers into breaking their parole and rejoining
the commandos. As to the women and children, they could not be left
upon the farms in a denuded country.  That the Boers in the field had
no doubts as to the good treatment of these people was shown by the
fact that they repeatedly left their families in the way of the
columns so that they might be conveyed to the camps.  Some
consternation was caused in England by a report of Miss Hobhouse,
which called public attention to the very high rate of mortality in
some of these camps, but examination showed that this was not due to
anything insanitary in their situation or arrangement, but to a severe
epidemic of measles which had swept away a large number of the
children. A fund was started in London to give additional comforts to
these people, though there is reason to believe that their general
condition was superior to that of the Uitlander refugees, who still
waited permission to return to their homes.  By the end of July there
were no fewer than sixty thousand inmates of the camps in the
Transvaal alone, and half as many in the Orange River Colony. So great
was the difficulty in providing the supplies for so large a number
that it became more and more evident that some at least of the camps
must be moved down to the sea coast.

Passing to the Orange River Colony we find that during this winter
period the same British tactics had been met by the same constant
evasions on the part of the dwindling commandos.  The Colony had been
divided into four military districts: that of Bloemfontein, which was
given to Charles Knox, that of Lyttelton at Springfontein, that of
Rundle at Harrismith, and that of Elliot in the north.  The latter was
infinitely the most important, and Elliot, the warden of the northern
marches, had under him during the greater part of the winter a mobile
force of about 6,000 men, Commanded by such experienced officers as
Broadwood, De Lisle, and Bethune.  Later in the year Spens, Bullock,
Plumer, and Rimington were all sent into the Orange River Colony to
help to stamp out the resistance.  Numerous skirmishes and snipings
were reported from all parts of the country, but a constant stream of
prisoners and of surrenders assured the soldiers that, in spite of the
difficulty of the country and the obstinacy of the enemy, the term of
their labours was rapidly approaching.

In all the petty and yet necessary operations of these columns, two
incidents demand more than a mere mention.  The first was a
hard-fought skirmish in which some of Elliot's horsemen were engaged
upon June 6th.  His column had trekked during the month of May from
Kroonstad to Harrismith, and then turning north found itself upon that
date near the hamlet of Reitz.  Major Sladen with 200 Mounted
Infantry, when detached from the main body, came upon the track of a
Boer convoy and ran it down.  Over a hundred vehicles with forty-five
prisoners were the fruits of their enterprise.  Well satisfied with
his morning's work, the British leader despatched a party of his men
to convey the news to De Lisle, who was behind, while he established
himself with his loot and his prisoners in a convenient kraal.  Thence
they had an excellent view of a large body of horsemen approaching
them with scouts, flankers, and all military precautions.  One
warm-hearted officer seems actually to have sallied out to meet his
comrades, and it was not till his greeting of them took the extreme
form of handing over his rifle that the suspicion of danger entered
the heads of his companions.  But if there was some lack of wit there
was none of heart in Sladen and his men. With forty-five Boers to hold
down, and 500 under Fourie, De Wet, and De la Rey around them, the
little band made rapid preparation for a desperate resistance: the
prisoners were laid upon their faces, the men knocked loopholes in the
mud walls of the kraal, and a blunt soldierly answer was returned to
the demand for surrender.

But it was a desperate business. The attackers were five to one, and
the five were soldiers of De Wet, the hard-bitten veterans of a
hundred encounters.  The captured wagons in a long double row
stretched out over the plain, and under this cover the Dutchmen
swarmed up to the kraal.  But the men who faced them were veterans
also, and the defence made up for the disparity of numbers. With fine
courage the Boers made their way up to the village, and established
themselves in the outlying huts, but the Mounted Infantry clung
desperately to their position.  Out of the few officers present
Findlay was shot through the head, Moir and Cameron through the heart,
and Strong through the stomach.  It was a Waggon Hill upon a small
scale, two dour lines of skirmishers emptying their rifles into each
other at point-blank range.  Once more, as at Bothaville, the British
Mounted Infantry proved that when it came to a dogged pelting match
they could stand punishment longer than their enemy.  They suffered
terribly.  Fifty-one out of the little force were on the ground, and
the survivors were not much more numerous than their prisoners.  To
the 1st Gordons, the 2nd Bedfords, the South Australians, and the New
South Welsh men belongs the honour of this magnificent defence. For
four hours the fierce battle raged, until at last the parched and
powder-stained survivors breathed a prayer of thanks as they saw on
the southern horizon the vanguard of De Lisle riding furiously to the
rescue. For the last hour, since they had despaired of carrying the
kraal, the Boers had busied themselves in removing their convoy; but
now, for the second time in one day, the drivers found British rifles
pointed at their heads, and the oxen were turned once more and brought
back to those who had fought so hard to hold them.  Twenty-eight
killed and twenty-six wounded were the losses in this desperate
affair.  Of the Boers seventeen were left dead in front of the kraal,
and the forty-five had not escaped from the bulldog grip which held
them.  There seems for some reason to have been no effective pursuit
of the Boers, and the British column held on its way to Kroonstad.

The second incident which stands out amid the dreary chronicle of
hustlings and snipings is the surprise visit paid by Broadwood with a
small British column to the town of Reitz upon July 11th, which
resulted in the capture of nearly every member of the late government
of the Free State, save only the one man whom they particularly
wanted.  The column consisted of 200 yeomen, 200 of the 7th Dragoon
Guards, and two guns. Starting at 11 P.M., the raiders rode hard all
night and broke with the dawn upon the sleeping village.  Racing into
the main street, they secured the startled Boers as they rushed from
the houses.  It is easy to criticise such an operation from a
distance, and to overlook the practical difficulties in the way, but
on the face of it it seems a pity that the holes had not been stopped
before the ferret was sent in. A picket at the farther end of the
street would have barred Steyn's escape.  As it was, he flung himself
upon his horse and galloped half-clad out of the town.  Sergeant Cobb
of the Dragoons snapped a rifle at close quarters upon him, but the
cold of the night had frozen the oil on the striker and the Cartridge
hung fire.  On such trifles do the large events of history turn!  Two
Boer generals, two commandants, Steyn's brother, his secretary, and
several other officials were among the nine-and-twenty prisoners.  The
treasury was also captured, but it is feared that the Yeomen and
Dragoons will not be much the richer from their share of the contents.

Save these two incidents, the fight at Reitz and the capture of a
portion of Steyn's government at the same place, the winter's
campaign furnished little which was of importance, though a great deal
of very hard and very useful work was done by the various columns
under the direction of the governors of the four military
districts. In the south General Bruce Hamilton made two sweeps, one
from the railway line to the western frontier, and the second from the
south and east in the direction of Petrusburg.  The result of the two
operations was about 300 prisoners.  At the same time Monro and
Hickman re-cleared the already twice-cleared districts of Rouxville and
Smithfield.  The country in the east of the Colony was verging now upon
the state which Grant described in the Shenandoah Valley: 'A crow,'
said he, 'must carry his own rations when he flies across it.'

In the middle district General Charles Knox, with the columns of
Pine-Coffin, Thorneycroft, Pilcher, and Henry, were engaged in the
same sort of work with the same sort of results.

The most vigorous operations fell to the lot of Generak Elliot, who
worked over the northern and north-eastern district, which still
contained a large number of fighting burghers.  In May and June Elliot
moved across to Vrede and afterwards down the eastern frontier of the
Colony, joining hands at last with Rundle at Harrismith. He then
worked his way back to Kroonstad through Reitz and Lindley. It was on
this journey that Sladen's Mounted Infantry had the sharp experience
which has been already narrated.  Western's column, working
independently, co-operated with Elliot in this clearing of the
north-east.  In August there were very large captures by Broadwood's
force, which had attained considerable mobility, ninety miles being
covered by it on one occasion in two days.

Of General Rundle there is little to be said, as he was kept busy in
exploring the rough country in his own district -- the same district
which had been the scene of the operations against Prinsloo and the
Fouriesburg surrender.  Into this district Kritzinger and his men
trekked after they were driven from the Colony in July, and many small
skirmishes and snipings among the mountains showed that the Boer
resistance was still alive.

July and August were occupied in the Orange River Colony by energetic
operations of Spens' and Rimington's columns in the midland districts,
and by a considerable drive to the north-eastern corner, which was
shared by three columns under Elliot and two under Plumer, with one
under Henry and several smaller bodies. A considerable number of
prisoners and a large amount of stock were the result of the movement,
but it was very evident that there was a waste of energy in the
employment of such forces for such an end.  The time appeared to be
approaching when a strong force of military police stationed
permanently in each district might prove a more efficient
instrument. One interesting development of this phase of the war was
the enrolment of a burgher police among the Boers who had
surrendered. These men -- well paid, well mounted, and well armed --
were an efficient addition to the British forces.  The movement spread
until before the end of the war there were several thousand burghers
under such well-known officers as Celliers, Villonel, and young
Cronje, fighting against their own guerilla countrymen. Who, in 1899,
could have prophesied such a phenomenon as that!

Lord Kitchener's proclamation issued upon August 9th marked one more
turn in the screw upon the part of the British authorities. By it the
burghers were warned that those who had not laid down their arms by
September 15th would in the case of the leaders be banished, and in
the case of the burghers be compelled to support their families in the
refugee camps.  As many of the fighting burghers were men of no
substance, the latter threat did not affect them much, but the other,
though it had little result at the time, may be useful for the
exclusion of firebrands during the period of reconstruction.  Some
increase was noticeable in the number of surrenders after the
proclamation, but on the whole it had not the result which was
expected, and its expediency is very open to question.  This date may
be said to mark the conclusion of the winter campaign and the opening
of a new phase in the struggle.


CHAPTER XXXV
THE GUERILLA OPERATIONS IN CAPE COLONY

In the account which has been given in a preceding chapter of the
invasion of Cape Colony by the Boer forces, it was shown that the
Western bands were almost entirely expelled, or at least that they
withdrew, at the time when De Wet was driven across the Orange
River. This was at the beginning of March 1901.  It was also mentioned
that though the Boers evacuated the barren and unprofitable desert of
the Karoo, the Eastern bands which had come with Kritzinger did not
follow the same course, but continued to infest the mountainous
districts of the Central Colony, whence they struck again and again at
the railway ljiies, the small towns, British patrols, or any other
quarry which was within their reach and strength.  From the
surrounding country they gathered a fair number of recruits, and they
were able through the sympathy and help of the Dutch farmers to keep
themselves well mounted and supplied. In small wandering bands they
spread themselves over a vast extent of country, and there were few
isolated farmhouses from the Orange River to the Oudtshoorn Mountains,
and from the Cape Town railroad in the west to the Fish River in the
east, which were not visited by their active and enterprising scouts.
The object of the whole movement was, no doubt, to stimulate a general
revolt in the Colony; and it must be acknowledged that if the powder
did not all explode it was not for want of the match being thoroughly
applied.

It might at first sight seem the simplest of military operations to
hunt down these scattered and insignificant bands; but as a matter of
fact nothing could be more difficult.  Operating in a country which
was both vast and difficult, with excellent horses, the best of
information and supplies ready for them everywhere, it was impossible
for the slow-moving British columns with their guns and their wagons
to overtake them. Formidable even in flight, the Boers were always
ready to turn upon any force which exposed itself too rashly to
retaliation, and so amid the mountain passes the British chiefs had to
use an amount of caution which was incompatible with extreme speed.
Only when a commando was exactly localised so that two or three
converging British forces could be brought to bear upon it, was there
a reasonable chance of forcing a fight. Still, with all these heavy
odds against them, the various little columns continued month after
month to play hide-and-seek with the commandos, and the game was by no
means always on the one side.  The varied fortunes of this scrambling
campaign can only be briefly indicated in these pages.

It has already been shown that Kritzinger's original force broke into
many bands, which were recruited partly from the Cape rebels and
partly from fresh bodies which passed over from the Orange River
Colony. The more severe the pressure in the north, the greater reason
was there for a trek to this land of plenty.  The total number of
Boers who were wandering over the eastern and midland districts may
have been about two thousand, who were divided into bands which varied
from .fifty to three hundred.  The chief leaders of separate commandos
were Kritzinger, Scheepers, Malan, Myburgh, Fouché, Lotter, Smuts, Van
Reenen, Lategan, Maritz, and Conroy, the two latter operating on the
western side of the country.  To hunt down these numerous and active
bodies the British were compelled to put many similar detachments into
the field, known as the columns of Gorringe, Crabbe, Henniker,
Scobell, Doran, Kavanagh, Alexander, and others.  These two sets of
miniature armies performed an intricate devil's dance over the Colony,
the main lines of which are indicated by the red lines upon the map.
The Zuurberg mountains to the north of Steynsburg, the Sneeuwberg
range to the south of Middelburg, the Oudtshoorn Mountains in the
south, the Cradock district, the Murraysburg district, and the
Graaf-Reinet district-these were the chief centres of Boer activity.

In April Kritzinger made his way north to the Orange River Colony, for
the purpose of consulting with De Wet, but he returned with a
following of 200 men about the end of May.  Continual brushes
occurred during this month between the various columns, and much hard
marching was done upon either side, but there was nothing which could
be claimed as a positive success.

Early in May two passengers sailed for Europe, the journey of each
being in its way historical.  The first was the weary and overworked
Pro-Consul who had the foresight to distinguish the danger and the
courage to meet it.  Milner's worn face and prematurely grizzled hair
told of the crushing weight which had rested upon him during three
eventful years. A gentle scholar, he might have seemed more fitted for
a life of academic calm than for the stormy part which the discernment
of Mr. Chamberlain had assigned to him.  The fine flower of an English
university, low-voiced and urbane, it was difficult to imagine what
impression he would produce upon those rugged types of which
South. Africa is so peculiarly prolific. But behind the reserve of a
gentleman there lay within him a lofty sense of duty, a singular
clearness of vision, and a moral courage which would brace him to
follow whither his reason pointed.  His visit to England for three
months' rest was the occasion for a striking manifestation of loyalty
and regard from his fellow-countrymen. He returned in August as Lord
Milner to the scene of his labours, with the construction of a united
and loyal commonwealth of South Africa as the task of his life.

The second traveller who sailed within a few days of the Governor was
Mrs. Botha, the wife of the Boer General, who visited Europe for
private as well as political reasons.  She bore to Kruger an exact
account of the state of the country and of the desperate condition of
the burghers. Her mission had no immediate or visible effect, and the
weary war, exhausting for the British but fatal for the Boers, went
steadily on.

To continue the survey of the operations in the Cape, the first point
scored was by the invaders, for Malan's commando succeeded upon May
13th in overwhelming a strong patrol of the Midland Mounted Rifles,
the local colonial corps, to the south of Maraisburg.  Six killed,
eleven wounded, and forty~one prisoners were the fruits of his little
victory, which furnished him also with a fresh supply of rifles and
ammunition.  On May 21st Crabbe's column was in touch with Lotter and
with Lategan, but no very positive result came from the skirmish.

The end of May showed considerable Boer activity in the Cape Colony,
that date corresponding with the return of Kritzinger from the
north. Haig had for the moment driven Scheepers back from the extreme
southerly point which he had reached, and he was now in the
Graaf-Reinet district; but on the other side of the colony Conroy had
appeared near Kenhart, and upon May 23rd he fought a sharp skirmish
with a party of Border Scouts.  The main Boer force under Kritzinger
was in the midlands, however, and had concentrated to such an extent
in the Cradock district that it was clear that some larger enterprise
was on foot.  This soon took shape, for on June 2nd, after a long and
rapid march, the Boer leader threw himself upon Jamestown, overwhelmed
the sixty townsmen who formed the guard, and looted the town, from
which he drew some welcome supplies and 100 horses.  British columns
were full cry upon his heels, however, and the Boers after a few hours
left the gutted town and vanished into the hills once more.  On June
6th the British had a little luck at last, for on that date Scobell
and Lukin in the Barkly East district surprised a laager and took
twenty prisoners, 166 horses, and much of the Jamestown loot. On the
same day Windham treated Van Reenen in a similar rough fashion near
Steynsburg, and took twenty-two prisoners.

On June 8th the supreme command of the operations in Cape Colony was
undertaken by General French, who from this time forward manoeuvred
his numerous columns upon a connected plan with the main idea of
pushing the enemy northwards. It was some time, however, before his
disposition bore fruit, for the commandos were still better mounted
and lighter than their pursuers.  On Tune 13th the youthful and
dashing Scheepers, who commanded his own little force at an age when
he would have been a junior lieutenant of the British army, raided
Murraysburg and captured a patrol. On Tune 17th Monro with Lovat's
Scouts and Bethune's Mounted Infantry had some slight success near
Tarkastad, but three days later the ill-fated Midland Mounted Rifles
were surprised in the early morning by Kritzinger at Waterkloof, which
is thirty miles west of Cradock, and were badly mauled by him.  They
lost ten killed, eleven wounded, and sixty-six prisoners in this
unfort unate affair.  Again the myth that colonial alertness is
greater than that of regular troops seems to have been exposed.

At the end of Tune, Fouché, one of the most enterprising of the
guerilla chiefs, made a dash from Barkly East into the native reserves
of the Transkei in order to obtain horses and supplies. It was a
desperate measure, as it was vain to suppose that the warlike Kaffirs
would permit their property to be looted without resistance, and if
once the assegais were reddened no man could say how far the mischief
might go. With great loyalty the British Government, even in the
darkest days, had held back those martial races -- Zulus, Swazis, and
Basutos -- who all had old grudges against the Amaboon. Fouché's raid
was stopped, however, before it led to serious trouble. A handful of
Griqualand Mounted Rifles held it in front, while Dalgety and his
colonial veterans moving very swiftly drove him back northwards.

Though baulked, Fouché was still formidable, and on July 14th he made
a strong attack in the neighbourhood of Jamestown upon a column of
Connaught Rangers who were escorting a convoy.  Major Moore offered a
determined resistance, and eventually after some hours of fighting
drove the enemy away and captured their laager.  Seven killed and
seventeen wounded were the British losses in this spirited engagement.

On July 10th General French, surveying from a lofty mountain peak the
vast expanse of the field of operations, with his heliograph calling
up responsive twinkles over one hundred miles of country, gave the
order for the convergence of four columns upon the valley in which he
knew Scheepers to be lurking.  We have it from one of his own letters
that his commando at the time consisted of 240 men, of whom forty were
Free Staters and the rest colonial rebels.  Crewe, Windham, Doran, and
Scobell each answered to the call, but the young leader was a man of
resource, and a long kloof up the precipitous side of the hill gave
him a road to safety.  Yet the operations showed a new mobility in the
British columns, which shed their guns and their baggage in order to
travel faster.  The main commando escaped, but twenty-five laggards
were taken. The action took place among the hills thirty miles to the
west of Graaf-Reinet.

On July 21st Crabbe and Kritzinger had a skirmish in the mountains
near Cradock, in which the Boers were strong enough to hold their own;
but on the same date near Murraysburg, Lukin, the gallant colonial
gunner, with ninety men rode into 150 of Lategan's band and captured
ten of them, with a hundred horses.  On July 27th a small party of
twenty-one Imperial Yeomanry was captured, after a gallant resistance,
by a large force of Boers at the Doorn River on the other side of the
Colony.  The Kaffir scouts of the British were shot dead in cold blood
by their captors after the action.  There seems to be no possible
excuse for the repeated murders of coloured men by the Boers, as they
had themselves from the beginning of the war used their Kaffirs for
every purpose short of actually fighting.  The war had lost much of
the good humour which marked its outset. A fiercer feeling had been
engendered on both sides by the long strain, but the execution of
rebels by the British, though much to be deplored, is still recognised
as one of the rights of a belligerent. When one remembers the
condonation upon the part of the British of the use of their own
uniforms by the Boers, of the wholesale breaking of paroles, of the
continual use of expansive bullets, of the abuse of the pass system
and of the red cross, it is impossible to blame them for showing some
severity in the stamping out of armed rebellion within their own
Colony.  If stern measures were eventually adopted it was only after
extreme leniency had been tried and failed.  The loss of five years'
franchise as a penalty for firing upon their own flag is surely the
most gentle correction which an Empire ever laid upon a rebellious
people.

At the beginning of August the connected systematic work of French's
columns began to tell. In a huge semicircle the British were pushing
north, driving the guerillas in front of them.  Scheepers in his usual
wayward fashion had broken away to the south, but the others had been
unable to penetrate the cordon and were herded over the
Stormberg-Naauwport line.  The main body of the Boers was hustled
swiftly along from August 7th to August 10th, from Graaf-Reinet to
Thebus, and thrust over the railway line at that point with some loss
of men and a great shedding of horses. It was hoped that the
blockhouses on the railroad would have held the enemy, but they
slipped across by night and got into the Steynsburg district, where
Gorringe's colonials took up the running. On August 18th he followed
the commandos from Steynsburg to Venterstad, killing twenty of them
and taking several prisoners. On the 15th, Kritzinger with the main
body of the invaders passed the Orange River near Bethulie, and made
his way to the Wepener district of the Orange River Colony.
Scheepers, Lotter, Lategan, and a few small wandering bands were the
only Boers left in the Colony, and to these the British columns now
turned their attention, with the result that Lategan, towards the end
of the month, was also driven over the river. For the time, at least,
the situation seemed to have very much improved, but there was a drift
of Boers over the north-western frontier, and the long-continued
warfare at their own doors was undoubtedly having a dangerous effect
upon the Dutch farmers.  Small successes from time to time, such as
the taking of sixty of French's Scouts by Theron's commando on August
10th, served to keep them from despair.  Of the guerilla bands which
remained, the most important was that of Scheepers, which now numbered
300 men, well mounted and supplied.  He had broken back through the
cordon, and made for his old haunts in the south-west.  Theron, with a
smaller band, was also in the Uniondale and Willowmore district,
approaching close to the sea in the Mossel Bay direction, but being
headed off by Kavanagh.  Scheepers turned in the direction of Cape
Town, but swerved aside at Montagu, and moved northwards towards Touws
River.

So far the British had succeeded in driving and injuring, but never in
destroying, the Boer bands.  It was a new departure therefore when,
upon September 4th, the commando of Lotter was entirely destroyed by
the column of Scobell.  This column consisted of some of the Cape
Mounted Rifles and of the indefatigable 9th Lancers. It marked the
enemy down in a valley to the west of Cradock and attacked them in the
morning, after having secured all the approaches, The result was a
complete success.  The Boers threw themselves into a building and held
out valiantly, but their position was impossible, aud after enduring
considerable punishment they were forced to hoist the white
flag. Eleven had been killed, forty-six wounded, and fifty-six
surrendered -- figures which are in themselves a proof of the tenacity
of their defence.  Lotter was among the prisoners, 260 horses were
taken, and a good supply of ammunition, with some dynamite.  A few
days later, on September 10th, a similar blow, less final in its
character, was dealt by Colonel Crabbe to the commando of Van der
Merve, which was an offshoot of that of Scheepers. The action was
fought near Laingsburg, which is on the main line, just north of
Matjesfontein, and it ended in the scattering of the Boer band, the
death of their boy leader (he was only eighteen years of age), and the
capture of thirty-seven prisoners.  Seventy of the Beers escaped by a
hidden road.  To Colonials and Yeomanry belongs the honour of the
action, which cost the British force seven casualties.  Colonel Crabbe
pushed on after the success, and on September 14th he was in touch
with Scheepers's commando near Ladismith (not to he confused with the
historical town of Natal), and endured and inflicted some losses.  On
the 17th a patrol of Grenadier Guards was captured in the north of the
Colony, Rebow, the young lieutenant in charge of them, meeting with a
soldier's death.

On the same day a more serious engagement occurred near Tarkastad, a
place ~hich lies to the east of Cradock, a notorious centre of
disaffection in the midland &~stnct.  Smuts's commando, some hundreds
strong, was marked down in this part, and several forces converged
upon it.  One of the outlets, Elands River Poort, was guarded by a
single squadron of the 17th Lancers.  Upon this the Boers made a
sudden and very fierce attack, their approach being facilitated partly
by the mist and partly by the use of khaki, a trick which seems never
to have grown too stale for successful use. The result was that they
were able to ride up to the British camp before any preparations had
been made for resistance, and to shoot down a number of the Lancers
before they could reach their horses.  So terrible was the fire that
the single squadron lost thirty-four killed and thirty-six wounded.
But the regiment may console itself for the disaster by the fact that
the sorely stricken detachment remained true to the spirited motto of
the corps, and that no prisoners appear to have been lost.

After this one sharp engagement there ensued several weeks during
which the absence of historical events, or the presence of the
military censor, caused a singular lull in the account of the
operations.  With so many small commandos and so many pursuing columns
it is extraordinary that there should not have been a constant
succession of actions.  That there was not must indicate a
sluggishness upon the part of the pursuers, and this sluggishness can
only be explained by the condition of their horses.  Every train of
thought brings the critic back always to the great horse question, and
encourages the conclusion that there, at all seasons of the war and in
all scenes of it, is to be found the most damning indictment against
British foresight, common-sense, and power of organisation.  That the
third year of the war should dawn without the British forces having
yet got the legs of the Boers, after having penetrated every portion
of their country and having the horses of the world on which to draw,
is the most amazingly inexplicable point in the whole of this strange
campaign. From the telegram 'Infantry preferred' addressed to a nation
of rough-riders, down to the failure to secure the excellent horses on
the spot, while importing them unfit for use from the ends of the
earth, there has been nothing but one long series of blunders in this,
the most vital question of all.  Even up to the end, in the Colony the
obvious lesson had not yet been learnt that it is better to give 1,000
men two horses each, and EO let them reach the enemy, than give 2,000
men one horse each, with which they can never attain their object. The
chase during two years of the man with two horses by the man with one
horse, has been a sight painful to ourselves and ludicrous to others.

In connection with this account of operations within the Colony, there
is one episode which occurred in the extreme north-west which will not
fit in with this connected narrative, but which will justify the
distraction of the reader's intelligence, for few finer deeds of arms
are recorded in the war.  This was the heroic defence of a convoy by
the 14th Company of Irish Imperial Yeomanry.  The convoy was taking
food to Griquatown, on the Kimberley side of the seat of war. The town
had been long invested by Conroy, and the inhabitants were in such
straits that it was highly necessary to relieve them.  To this end a
convoy, two miles long, was despatched under Major Humby of the Irish
Yeomanry.  The escort consisted of seventy-five Northumberland
Fusiliers, twenty-four local troops, and 100 of the 74th Irish
Yeomanry. Fifteen miles from Griquatown, at a place called Rooikopjes,
the convoy was attacked by the enemy several hundred in number. Two
companies of the Irishmen seized the ridge, however, which commanded
the wagons, and held it until they were almost exterminated.  The
position was covered with bush, and the two parties came to the
closest of quarters, the Yeomen refusing to take a backward step,
though it was clear that they were vastly outnumbered.  Encouraged by
the example of Madan and Ford, their gallant young leaders, they
deliberately sacrificed their lives in order to give time for the guns
to come up and for the convoy to pass.  Oliffe, Bonynge, and Maclean,
who had been children together, were shot side by side on the ridge,
and afterwards buried in one grave.  Of forty-three men in action,
fourteen were killed and twenty severely wounded.  Their sacrifice was
not in vain, however.  The Boers were beaten back, and the convoy, as
well as Griquatown, was saved. Some thirty or forty Boers were killed
or wounded in the skirmish, and Conroy, their leader, declared that it
was the stiffest fight of his life.

In the autumn and winter of 1901 General French had steadily pursued
the system of clearing certain districts, one at a time, and
endeavouring by his blockhouses and by the arrangement of his forces
to hold in strict quarantine those sections of the country which were
still infested by the commandos.  In this manner he succeeded by the
November of this year in confining the active forces of the enemy to
the extreme northeast and to the south-west of the peninsula.  It is
doubtful if the whole Boer force, three-quarters of whom were colonial
rebels, amounted to more than fifteen hundred men.  When we learn that
at this period of the war they were indifferently armed, and that many
of them were mounted upon donkeys, it is impossible, after making
every allowance for the passive assistance of the farmers, and the
difficulties of the country, to believe that the pursuit was always
pushed with the spirit and vigour which was needful.

In the north-east, Myburgh, Wessels, and the truculent Fouché were
allowed almost a free hand for some months, while the roving bands
were rounded up in the' midlands and driven along until they were west
of the main railroad.  Here, in the Calvinia district, several
commandos united in October 1901 under Maritz, Louw, Smit, and Theron.
Their united bands rode down into the rich grain-growing country round
Piquetberg and Malmesbury, pushing south until it seemed as if their
academic supporters at Paarl were actually to have a sight of the
rebellion which they had fanned to a flame. At one period their
patrols were within forty miles of Cape Town.  The movement was
checked, however, by a small force of Lancers and district troops, and
towards the end of October, Maritz, who was chief in this quarter,
turned northwards, and on the 29th captured a small British convoy
which crossed his line of march. Early in November he doubled back and
attacked Piquetberg, but was beaten off with some loss.  From that
time a steady pressure from the south and east drove these bands
farther and farther into the great barren lands of the west, until, in
the following April, they had got as far as Namaqualand, many hundred
miles away.

Upon October 9th, the second anniversary of the Ultimatum, the hands
of the military were strengthened by the proclamation of Cape Town and
all the seaport towns as being in a state of martial law. By this
means a possible source of supplies and recruits for the enemy was
effectually blocked.  That it had not been done two years before is a
proof of how far local political considerations can be allowed to
over-ride the essentials of Imperial policy. Meanwhile treason courts
were sitting, and sentences, increasing rapidly from the most trivial
to the most tragic, were teaching the rebel that his danger did not
end upon the field of battle. The execution of Lotter and his
lieutenants was a sign that the patience of a long-suffering Empire
had at last reached an end.

The young Boer leader, Scheepers, had long been a thorn in the side of
the British. He had infested the southern districts for some months,
and he had distinguished himself both by the activity of his movements
and by the ruthless vigour of some of his actions. Early in October a
serious illness and consequent confinement to his bed brought him at
last within the range of British mobility.  On his recovery he was
tried for repeated breaches of the laws of war, including the murder
of several natives.  He was condemned to death, and was executed in
December. Much sympathy was excited by his gallantry and his youth --
he was only twenty-three.  On the other hand, our word was pledged to
protect the natives, and if he whose hand had been so heavy upon them
escaped, all confidence would have been lost in our promises and our
justice.  That British vengeance was not indiscriminate was shown soon
afterwards in the case of a more irnportant commander, Kritzinger, who
was the chief leader of the Boers within Cape Colony.  Kritzinger was
wounded and captured while endeavouring to cross the line near Hanover
Road upon December 15th.  He was put upon his trial, and his fate
turned upon how far he was responsible for the misdeeds of some of his
subordinates.  It was clearly shown that he had endeavoured to hold
them within the bounds of civilised warfare, and with congratulations
and handshakings he was acquitted by the military court.

In the last two months of the year 1901, a new system was introduced
into the Cape Colony campaign by placing the Colonial and district
troops immediately under the command of Colonial officers and of the
Colonial Government.  It had long been felt that some devolution was
necessary, and the change was justified by the result.  Without any
dramatic incident, an inexorable process of attrition, caused by
continual pursuit and hardship, wore out the commandos. Large bands
had become small ones, and small ones had vanished. Only by the union
of several bodies could any enterprise higher than the looting of a
farmhouse be successfully attempted.

Such a union occurred, however, in the early days of February 1902,
when Smuts, Malan, and several other Boer leaders showed great
activity in the country round Calvinia.  Their commandos seem to have
included a proportion of veteran Republicans from the north, who were
more formidable fighting material than the raw Colonial rebels. It
happened that several dangerously weak British columns were operating
within reach at that time, and it was only owing to the really
admirable conduct of the troops that a serious disaster was averted.
Two separate actions, each of them severe, were fought on the same
date, and in each case the Boers were able to bring very superior
numbers into the field.

The first of these was the fight in which Colonel Doran's column
extricated itself with severe loss from a most perilous plight.  The
whole force under Doran consisted of 350 men with two guns, and this
handful was divided by an expedition which he, with 150 men, undertook
in order to search a distant farm.  The remaining two hundred men,
under Captain Saunders, were left upon February 5th with the guns and
the convoy at a place called Middlepost, which lies about fifty miles
south-west of Calvinia.  These men were of the 11th, 23rd, and 24th
Imperial Yeomanry, with a troop of Cape Police.  The Boer Intelligence
was excellent, as might be expected in a country which is dotted with
farms.  The weakened force at Middlepost was instantly attacked by
Smuts's commando. Saunders evacuated the camp and abandoned the
convoy, which was the only thing he could do, but he concentrated all
his efforts upon preserving his guns.  The night was illuminated by
the blazing wagons, and made hideous by the whoops of the drunken
rebels who caroused among the captured stores.  With the first light
of dawn the small British force was fiercely assailed on all sides,
but held its own in a manner which would have done credit to any
troops.  The much criticised Yeomen fought like veterans. A
considerable position had to be covered, and only a handful of men
were available at the most important points.  One ridge, from which
the guns would be enfiladed, was committed to the charge of
Lieutenants Tabor and Chichester with eleven men of the 11th Imperial
Yeomanry, their instructions being 'to hold it to the death.'  The
order was obeyed with the utmost heroism. After a desperate defence
the ridge was only taken by the Boers when both officers had been
killed and nine out of eleven men were on the ground.  In spite of the
loss of this position the fight was still sustained until shortly
after midday, when Doran with the patrol returned.  The position was
still most dangerous, the losses had been severe, and the Boers were
increasing in strength.  An immediate retreat was ordered, and the
small column, af~er ten days of hardship and anxiety, reached the
railway line in safety.  The wounded were left to the care of Smuts,
who behaved with chivalry and humanity.

At about the same date a convoy proceeding from Beaufort West to
Fraserburg was attacked by Malan's commando.  The escort, which
consisted of sixty Colonial Mounted Rifles and 100 of the West
Yorkshire militia, was overwhelmed after a good defence, in which
Major Crofton, their commander, was killed. The wagons were destroyed,
but the Boers were driven off by the arrival of Crabbe's column,
followed by those of Capper and Lund.  The total losses of the British
in these two actions amounted to twenty-three killed and sixty-five
wounded.

The re-establishment of settled law and order was becoming more marked
every week in those southwestern districts, which had long been most
disturbed. Colonel Crewe in this region, and Colonel Lukin upon the
other side of the line, acting entirely with Colonial troops, were
pushing back the rebels, and holding, by a well-devised system of
district defence, all that they had gained. By the end of February
there were none of the enemy south of the Beaufort West and
Clanwilliam line.  These results were not obtained without much hard
marching and a little hard fighting.  Small columns under Crabbe,
Capper, Wyndham, Nickall, and Lund, were continually on the move, with
little to show for it save an ever-widening area of settled country in
their rear.  In a skirmish on February 20th ludge Hugo, a well-known
Boer leader, was killed, and Vanheerden, a notorious rebel, was
captured. At the end of this month Fouché's tranquil occupation of the
north-east was at last disturbed, and he was driven out of it into the
midlands, where he took refuge with the remains of his commando in the
Camdeboo Mountains. Malan's men had already sought shelter in the same
natural fortresB.  Malan was wounded and taken in a skirmish near
Somerset East a few days before the general Boer surrender. Fouché
gave himself up at Cradock on June 2nd.

The last incident of this scattered, scrambling, unsatisfactory
campaign in the Cape peninsula was the raid made by Smuts, the
Transvaal leader, into the Port Nolloth district of Namaqualand, best
known for its copper mines. A small railroad has been constructed from
the coast at this point, the terminus being the township of Ookiep.
The length of the line is about seventy miles.  It is difficult to
imagine what the Boers expected to gain in this remote corner of the
seat of war, unless they had conceived the idea that they might
actually obtain possession of Port Nolloth itself, and so restore the
communications with their sympathisers and allies.  At the end of
March the Boer horsemen appeared suddenly out of the desert, drove in
the British outposts, and summoned Ookiep to surrender. Colonel
Shelton, who commanded the small garrison, sent an uncompromising
reply, but he was unable to protect the railway in his rear, which was
wrecked, together with some of the blockhouses which had been erected
to guard it.  The loyal population of the surrounding country had
flocked into Ookiep, and the Commandant found himself burdened with
the care of six thousand people.  The enemy had succeeded in taking
the small post of Springbok, and Concordia, the mining centre, was
surrendered into their hands without resistance, giving them welcome
suplies of arms, ammunition, and dynamite.  The latter was used by the
Boers in the shape of hand-bombs, and proved to be a very efficient
weapon when employed against blockhouses.  Several of the British
defences were wrecked by them, with considerable loss to the garrison;
but in the course of a month's siege, in spite of several attacks, the
Boers were never able to carry the frail works which guarded the town.
Once more, at the end of the war as at the beginning of it, there was
shown the impotence of the Dutch riflemen against a British defence.
A relief column, under Colonel Cooper, was quickly organised at Port
Nolloth, and advanced along the railway line, forcing Smuts to raise
the siege in the first week of May.  Immediately afterwards came the
news of the negotiations for peace, and the Boer general presented
himself at Port Nolloth, whence he was conveyed by ship to Cape Town,
and so north again to take part in the deliberations of his
fellow-countrymen. Throughout the war he had played a manly and
honourable part.  It may be hoped that with youth and remarkable
experience, both of diplomacy and of war, he may now find a long and
briliant career awaiting him in a wider arena than that for which he
strove.


CHAPTER XXXVI

THE SPRING CAMPAIGN (SEPT.-DEC. 1901)

The history of the war during the African winter of 1901 has now been
sketched, and some account given of the course of events in the
Transvaal, the Orange River Colony, and the Cape Colony.  The hope of
the British tbat they might stamp out resistance before the grass
should restore mobility to the larger bodies of Boers was destined to
be disappointed.  By the middle of September the veldt had turned from
drab to green, and the great drama was fated to last for one more act,
however anxious all the British and the majority of the Boers might be
to ring down the curtain.  Exasperating as this senseless prolongation
of a hopeless struggle might be, there was still some consolation in
the reflection that those who drank this bitter cup to the very lees
would be less likely to thirst for it again.

September 15th was the date which brought into force the British
Proclamation announcing the banishment of those Boer leaders who
continued in arms.  It must be confessed that this step may appear
harsh and unchivalrous to the impartial observer, so long as those
leaders were guilty of no practices which are foreign to the laws of
civilised warfare.  The imposition of personal penalties upon the
officers of an opposing army is a step for which it is difficult to
quote a precedent, nor is it wise to officially rule your enemy
outside the pale of ordinary warfare, since it is equally open to him
to take the same step against you.  The only justification for such a
course would be its complete success, as this would suggest that the
Intelligence Department were aware that the leaders desired some
strong excuse for coming in -- such an excuse as the Proclamation
would afford.  The result proved that nothing of the kind was needed,
and the whole proceeding must appear to be injudicious and
high-handed.  In honourable war you conquer your adversary by superior
courage, strength, or wit, but you do not terrorise him by particular
penalties aimed at individuals.  The burghers of the Transvaal and of
the late Orange Free State were legitimate belligerents, and to be
treated as such -- a statement which does not, of course, extend to
the Afrikander rebels who were their allies.

The tendency of the British had been to treat their antagonists as a
broken and disorganised banditti, but with the breaking of the spring
they were sharply reminded that the burghers were still capable of a
formidable and coherent effort.  The very date which put them beyond
the pale as belligerents was that which they seem to have chosen in
order to prove what active and valiant soldiers they still remained. A
quick succession of encounters occurred at various parts of the seat
of war, the general tendency of which was not entirely in favour of
the British arms, though the weekly export of prisoners reassured all
who noted it as to the sapping and decay of the Boer strength.  These
incidents must now be set down in the order of their occurrence, with
their relation to each other so far as it is possible to trace it.

General Louis Botha, with the double intention of making an offensive
move and of distracting the wavering burghers from a close examination
of Lord Kitchener's proclamation, assembled his forces in the second
week of September in the Ermelo district. Thence he moved them rapidly
towards Natal, with the result that the volunteers of that colony had
once more to grasp their rifles and hasten to the frontier.  The whole
situation bore for an instant an absurd resemblance to that of two
years before -- Botha playing the part of Joubert, and Lyttelton, who
commanded on the frontier, that of White.  It only remained, to make
the parallel complete, that some one should represent Penn Symons, and
this perilous role fell to a gallant officer, Major Gough, commanding
a detached force which thought itself strong enough to hold its own,
and only learned by actual experiment that it was not.

This officer, with a small force consisting of three companies of
Mounted Infantry with two guns of the 69th R.F.A., was operating in
the neighbourhood of Utrecht in the south-eastern corner of the
Transvaal, on the very path along which Botha must descend.  On
September 17th he had crossed De Jagers Drift on the Blood River, not
very far from Dundee, when he found himself in touch with the enemy.
His mission was to open a path for an empty convoy returning from
Vryheid, and in order to do so it was necessary that Blood River
Poort, where the Boers were now seen, should be cleared.  With
admirable zeal Gough pushed rapidly forward, supported by a force of
350 Johannesburg Mounted Rifles under Stewart.  Such a proceeding must
have seemed natural to any British officer at this stage of the war,
when a swift advance was the only chance of closing with the small
bodies of Boers; but it is strange that the Intelligence Department
had not warned the patrols upon the frontier tbat a considerable force
was coming down upon them, and that they should be careful to avoid
action against impossible odds.  If Gough had known that Botha's main
commando was coming down upon him, it is inconceivable that he would
have pushed his advance until he could neither extricate his men nor
his guns.  A small body of the enemy, said to have been the personal
escort of Louis Botha, led him on, until a large force was able to
ride down upon him from the flank and rear.  Surrounded at Scheepers
Nek by many hundreds of riflemen in a difficult country, there was no
alternative but a surrender, and so sharp and sudden was the Boer
advance that the whole action was over in a very short time.  The new
tactics of the Boers, already used at Vlakfontein, and afterwards to
be successful at Brakenlaagte and at Tweebosch, were put in force. A
large body of mounted men, galloping swiftly in open order and firing
from the saddle, rode into and over the British.  Such temerity should
in theory have met with severe punishment, but as a matter of fact the
losses of the enemy seem to have been very small.  The soldiers were
not able to return an effective fire from their horses, and had no
time to dismount. The sights and breech-blocks of the two guns are
said to have been destroyed, but the former statement seems more
credible than the latter. A Colt gun was also captured.  Of the small
force twenty were killed, forty wounded, and over two hundred taken.
Stewart's force was able to extricate itself with some difficulty, and
to fall back on the Drift.  Gough managed to escape that night and to
report that it was Botha himself, with over a thousand men, wJio had
eaten up his detachment. The prisoners and wounded were sent in a few
days later to Vryheid, a town which appeared to be in some danger of
capture had not Walter Kitchener hastened to carry reinforcements to
the garrison.  Bruce Hamilton was at the same time despatched to head
Botha off, and every step taken to prevent his southern advance.  So
many columns from all parts converged upon the danger spot that
Lyttelton, who commanded upon the Natal frontier, had over 20,000 men
under his orders.

Botha's plans appear to have been to work through Zululand and then
strike at Natal, an operation which would be the more easy as it would
be conducted a considerable distance from the railway line. Pushing on
a few days after his successful action with Gough, he crossed the Zulu
frontier, and had in front of him an almost unimpeded march as far as
the Tugela.  Crossing this far from the British base of power, his
force could raid the Greytown district and raise recruits among the
Dutch farmers, laying waste one of the few spots in South Africa which
had been untouched by the blight of war.  All this lay before him, and
in his path nothing save only two small British posts which might be
either disregarded or gathered up as he passed.  In an evil moment for
himself, tempted by the thought of the supplies which they might
contain, he stopped to gather them up, and the force of the wave of
invasion broke itself as upon two granite rocks.

These two so-called forts were posts of very modest strength, a chain
of which had been erected at the time of the old Zulu war.  Fort
Itala, the larger, was garrisoned by 300 men of the 5th Mounted
Infantry, drawn from the Dublin Fusiliers, Middlesex, Dorsets, South
Lancashires, and Lancashire Fusiliers -- most of them old soldiers of
many battles.  They had two guns of the 69th R.F.A., the same battery
which had lost a section the week before.  Major Chapman, of the
Dublins, was in command.

Upon September 25th the small garrison heard that the main force of
the Boers was sweeping towards them, and prepared to give them a
soldiers' welcome.  The fort is situated upon the flank of a hill, on
the summit of which, a mile from the main trenches, a strong outpost
was stationed.  It was upon this that the first force of the attack
broke at midnight of September 25th. The garrison, eighty strong, was
fiercely beset by several hundred Boers, and the post was eventually
carried after a sharp and bloody contest.  Kane, of the South
Lancashires, died with the words 'No surrender' upon his lips, and
Potgieter, a Boer leader, was pistolled by Kane's fellow officer,
Lefroy.  Twenty of the small garrison fell, and the remainder were
overpowered and taken.

With this vantage-ground in their possession the Boers settled down to
the task of overwhelming the main position.  They attacked upon three
sides, and until morning the force was raked from end to end by unseen
riflemen.  The two British guns were put out of action and the maxim
was made unserviceable by a bullet. At dawn there was a pause in the
attack, but it recommenced and continued without intermission until
sunset.  The span betwixt the rising of the sun and its last red glow
in the west is a long one for the man who spends it at his ease, but
how never-ending must have seemed the hours to this handful of men,
outnumbered, surrounded, pelted by bullets, parched with thirst, torn
with anxiety, holding desperately on with dwindling numbers to their
frail defences!  To them it may have seemed a hard thing to endure so
much for a tiny fort in a savage land. The larger view of its vital
importance could have scarcely come to console the regimental officer,
far less the private.  But duty carried them through, and they wrought
better than they knew, for the brave Dutchmen, exasperated by so
disproportionate a resistance, stormed up to the very trenches and
suffered as they had not suffered for many a long month.  There have
been battles with 10,000 British troops hotly engaged in which the
Boer losses have not been so great as in this obscure conflict against
an isolated post.  When at last, baffled and disheartened, they drew
off with the waning light, it is said that no fewer than a hundred of
their dead and two hundred of their wounded attested the severity of
the fight.  So strange are the conditions of South African warfare
that this loss, which would have hardly made a skirmish memorable in
the slogging days of the Peninsula, was one of the most severe blows
which the burghers had sustained in the course of a two years' warfare
against a large and aggressive army.  There is a conflict of evidence
as to the exact figures, but at least they were sufficient to beat the
Boer army back and to change their plan of campaign.

Whilst this prolonged contest had raged round Fort Itala, a similar
attack upon a smaller scale was being made upon Fort Prospect, some
fifteen miles to the eastward.  This small post was held by a handful
of Durham Artillery Militia and of Dorsets.  The attack was delivered
by Grobler with several hundred burghers, but it made no advance
although it was pushed with great vigour, and repeated many times in
the course of the day. Captain Rowley, who was in command, handled his
men with such judgment that one killed and eight wounded represented
his casualties during a long day's fighting.  Here again the Boer
losses were in proportion to the resolution of their attack, and are
said to have amounted to sixty killed and wounded.  Considering the
impossibility of replacing the men, and the fruitless waste of
valuable ammunition, September 26th was an evil day for the Boer
cause.  The British casualties amounted to seventy-three.

The water of the garrison of Fort Itala had been cut off early in the
attack, and their ammunition had run low by evening.  Chapman withdrew
his men and his guns therefore to Nkandhla, where the survivors of his
gallant garrison received the special thanks of Lord Kitchener.  The
country around was still swarming with Boers, and on the last day of
September a convoy from Melmoth fell into their hands and provided
them with some badly needed supplies.

But the check which he had received was sufficient to prevent any
important advance upon the part of Botha, while the swollen state of
the rivers put an additional obstacle in his way.  Already the British
commanders, delighted to have at last discovered a definite objective,
were hurrying to the scene of action.  Bruce Hamuton had reached Fort
Itala upon September 28th and Walter Kitchener had been despatched to
Vryheid. Two British forces, aided by smaller columns, were
endeavouring to surround the Boer leader.  On October 6th Botha had
fallen back to the north-east of Vryheid, whither the British forces
had followed him.  Like De Wet's invasion of the Cape, Botha's advance
upon Natal had ended in placing himself and his army in a critical
position.  On October 9th he had succeeded in crossing the Privaan
River, a branch of the Pongolo, and was pushing north in the direction
of Piet Retief, much helped by misty weather and incessant rain.  Some
of his force escaped between the British columns, and some remained in
the kloofs and forests of that difficult country.

Walter Kitchener, who had followed up the Boer retreat, had a brisk
engagement with the rearguard upon October 6th.  The Boers shook
themselves clear with some loss, both to themselves and to their
pursuers.  On the 10th those of the burghers who held together had
reached Luneburg, and shortly afterwards they had got completely away
from the British columns. The weather was atrocious, and the lumbering
wagons, axle-deep in mud, made it impossible for troops who were
attached to them to keep in touch with the light riders who sped
before them.  For some weeks there was no word of the main Boer force,
but at the end of that time they reappeared in a manner which showed
that both in numbers and in spirit they were still a formidable body.

Of all the sixty odd British columns which were traversing the Boer
states there was not one which had a better record than that commanded
by Colonel Benson. During seven months of continuous service this
small force, consisting at that time of the Argyle and Sutherland
Highlanders, the 2nd Scottish Horse, the 18th and 19th Mounted
Infantry, and two guns, had acted with great energy, and had reduced
its work to a complete and highly effective system.  Leaving the
infantry as a camp guard, Benson operated with mounted troops alone,
and no Boer laager within fifty miles was safe from his nocturnal
visits.  So skilful had he and his men become at these night attacks
in a strange, and often difficult country, that out of twenty-eight
attempts twenty-one resulted in complete success.  In each case the
rule was simply to gallop headlong into the Boer laager, and to go on
chasing as far as the horses could go. The furious and reckless pace
may be judged by the fact that the casualties of the force were far
greater from falls than from bullets.  In seven months forty-seven
Boers were killed and six hundred captured, to say nothing of enormous
quantities of munitions and stock.  The success of these operations
was due, not only to the energy of Benson and his men, but to the
untiring exertions of Colonel Wools-Sampson, who acted as intelligence
officer. If, during his long persecution by President Kruger,
Wools-Sampson in the bitterness of his heart had vowed a feud against
the Boer cause, it must be acknowledged that he has most amply
fulfilled it, for it would be difficult to point to any single man who
has from first to last done them greater harm.

In October Colonel Benson's force was reorganised, and it then
consisted of the 2nd Buffs, the 2nd Scottish Horse, the 3rd and 25th
Mounted Infantry, and four guns of the 84th battery. With this force,
numbering nineteen hundred men, he left Middelburg upon the Delagoa
line on October 20th and proceeded south, crossing the course along
which the Boers, who were retiring from their abortive raid into
Natal, might be expected to come.  For several days the column
performed its familiar work, and gathered up forty or fifty prisoners.
On the 26th came news that the Boer commandos under Grobler were
concentrating against it, and that an attack in force might be
expected. For two days there was continuous sniping, and the column as
it moved through the country saw Boer horsemen keeping pace with it on
the far flanks and in the rear.  The weather had been very bad, and it
was in a deluge of cold driving rain that the British set forth upon
October 30th, moving towards Brakenlaagte, which is a point about
forty mi~s due south of Middelburg. It was Benson's intention to
return to his base.

About midday the column, still escorted by large bodies of aggressive
Boers, came to a difficult spruit swollen by the rain.  Here the
wagons stuck, and it took some hours to get them all across.  The Boer
fire was continually becoming more severe, and had broken out at the
head of the column as well as the rear.  The situation was rendered
more difficult by the violence of the rain, which raised a thick steam
from the ground and made it impossible to see for any distance.  Major
Anley, in command of the rearguard, peering back, saw through a rift
of the clouds a large body of horsemen in extended order sweeping
after them.  'There's miles of them, begob! ' cried an excited Irish
trooper. Next instant the curtain had closed once more, but all who
had caught a glimpse of that vision knew that a stern struggle was at
hand.

At this moment two guns of the 84th battery under Major Guinness were
in action against Boer riflemen. As a rear screen on the farther side
of the guns was a body of the Scottish Horse and of the Yorkshire
Mounted Infantry.  Near the guns themselves were thirty men of the
Buffs.  The rest of the Buffs and of the Mounted Infantry were out
upon the flanks or else were with the advance guard, which was now
engaged, under the direction of Colonel Wools-Sampson, in parking the
convoy and in forming the camp.  These troops played a small part in
the day's fighting, the whole force of which broke with irresistible
violence upon the few hundred men who were in front of or around the
rear guns.  Colonel Benson seems to have just ridden back to the
danger point when the Boers delivered their furious attack.

Louis Botba with his commando is said to have ridden sixty miles in
order to join the forces of Grobler and Oppermann, and overwhelm the
British column. It may have been the presence of their commander or a
desire to have vengeance for the harrying which they had undergone
upon the Natal border, but whatever the reason, the Boer attack was
made with a spirit and dash which earned the enthusiastic applause of
every soldier who survived to describe it.  With the low roar of a
great torrent, several hundred horsemen burst through the curtain of
mist, riding at a furious pace for the British guns.  The rear screen
of Mounted Infantry fell back before this terrific rush, and the two
bodies of horsemen came pell-mell down upon the handful of Buffs and
the guns.  The infantry were ridden into and surrounded by the Boers,
who found nothing to stop them from galloping on to the low ridge upon
which the guns were stationed.  This ridge was held by eighty of the
Scottish Horse and forty of the Yorkshire M.I., with a few riflemen
from the 25th Mounted Infantry.  The latter were the escort of the
guns, but the former were the rear screen who had fallen back rapidly
because it was the game to do so, but who were in no way shaken, and
who instantly dismounted and formed when they reached a defensive
position.

These men had hardly time to take up their ground when the Boers were
on them.  With that extraordinary quickness to adapt their tactics to
circumstances which is the chief military virtue of the Boers, the
horsemen did not gallop over the crest, but lined the edge of it, and
poured a withering fire on to the guns and the men beside them.  The
heroic nature of the defence can be best shown by the plain figures of
the casualties.  No rhetoric is needed to adorn that simple record.
There were thirty-two gunners round the guns, and twenty-nine fell
where they stood.  Major Guinness was mortaly wounded while
endeavouring with his own hands to fire a round of case.  There were
sixty-two casualties out of eighty among the Scottish Horse, and the
Yorkshires were practically annihilated. Altogether 123 men fell, out
of about 160 on the ridge.  'Hard pounding, gentlemen,' as Wellington
remarked at Waterloo, and British troops seemed as ready as ever to
endure it.

The gunners were, as usual, magnificent.  Of the two little
bullet-pelted groups of men around the guns there was not one who did
not stand to his duty without flinching.  Corporal Atkin was shot down
with all his comrades, but still endeavoured with his failing strength
to twist the breech-block out of the gun.  Another bullet passed
through his upraised hands as he did it.  Sergant Hayes, badly
wounded, and the last survivor of the crew, seized the lanyard,
crawled up the trail, and fired a last round before he
fainted. Sergeant Mathews, with three bullets through him, kept
steadily to his duty. Five drivers tried to bring up a limber and
remove the gun, but all of them, with all the horses, were hit.  There
have been incidents in this war which have not increased our military
reputation, but you might search the classical records of valour and
fail to find anything finer than the consistent conduct of the British
artillery.

Colonel Benson was hit in the knee and again in the stomach, but
wounded as he was he despatched a message back to Wools-Sampson,
asking him to burst shrapnel over the ridge so as to prevent the Boers
from carrying off the guns.  The burghers had ridden in among the
litter of dead and wounded men which marked the British position, and
some of the baser of them, much against the will of their commanders,
handled the injured soldiers with great brutality.  The shell-fire
drove them back, however, and the two guns were left standing alone,
with no one near them save their prostrate gunners and escort.

There has been some misunderstanding as to the part played by the
Buffs in this action, and words have been used which seem to imply
that they had in some way failed their mounted companions.  It is due
to the honour of one of the finest regiments in the British army to
clear this up.  As a matter of fact, the greater part of the regiment
under Major Dauglish was engaged in defending the camp.  Near the guns
there were four separate small bodies of Buffs, none of which appears
to have been detailed as an escort.  One of these parties, consisting
of thirty men under Lieutenant Greatwood, was ridden over by the
horsemen, and the same fate befell a party of twenty who were far out
upon the flank. Another small body under Lieutenant Lynch was over
taken by the same charge, and was practically destroyed, losing
nineteen killed and wounded out of thirty. In the rear of the guns was
a larger body of Buffs, 130 in number, under Major Eales. When the
guns were taken this handful attempted a counter-attack, but Eales
soon saw that it was a hopeless effort, and he lost thirty of his men
before he could extricate himself. Had these men been with the others
on the gun ridge they might have restored the fight, but they had not
reached it when the position was taken, and to persevere in the
attempt to retake it would have led to certain disaster. The only just
criticism to which the regiment is open is that, having just come off
blockhouse duty, they were much out of condition, which caused the men
to straggle and the movements to be unduly slow.

It was fortunate that the command of the column devolved upon so
experienced and cool-headed a soldier as Wools-Sampson.  To attempt a
counter-attack for the purpose of recapturing the guns would, in case
of disaster, have risked the camp and the convoy. The latter was the
prize which the Boers had particularly in view, and to expose it would
be to play their game. Very wisely, therefore, Wools-Sampson held the
attacking Boers off with his guns and his riflemen, while every spare
pair of hands was set to work entrenching the position and making it
impregnable against attack. Outposts were stationed upon all those
surrounding points which might command the camp, and a summons to
surrender from the Boer leader was treated with contempt. All day a
long-range fire, occasionally very severe, rained upon the camp.
Colonel Benson was brought in by the ambulance, and used his dying
breath in exhorting his subordinate to hold out.  'No more night
marches' are said to have been the last words spoken by this gallant
soldier as he passed away in the early morning after the action.  On
October 31st the force remained on the defensive, but early on
November 1st the gleaming of two heliographs, one to the north-east
and one to the southwest, told that two British columns, those of De
Lisle and of Barter, were hastening to the rescue.  But the Boers had
passed as the storm does, and nothing but their swathe of destruction
was left to show where they had been.  They had taken away the guns
during the night, and were already beyond the reach of pursuit.

Such was the action at Brakenlaagte, which cost the British sixty men
killed and 170 wounded, together with two guns.  Colonel Benson,
Colonel Guinness, Captain Eyre Lloyd of the Guards, Major Murray and
Captain Lindsay of the Scottish Horse, with seven other officers were
among the dead, while sixteen officers were wounded.  The net result
of the action was that the British rear-guard had been annihilated,
but that the main body and the convoy, which was the chief object of
the attack, was saved.  The Boer loss was considerable, being about
one hundred and fifty.  In spite of the Boer success nothing could
suit the British better than hard fighting of the sort, since whatever
the immediate result of it might be, it must necessarily cause a
wastage among the enemy which could never be replaced.  The gallantry
of the Boer charge was only equalled by that of the resistance offered
round the guns, and it is an action to which both sides can look back
without shame or regret.  It was feared that the captured guns would
soon be used to break the blockhouse line, but nothing of the kind was
attempted, and within a few weeks they were both recovered by British
columns.

In order to make a consecutive and intelligible narrative, I will
continue with an account of the operations in this south-eastern
portion of the Transvaal from the action of Brakenlaagte down to the
end of the year 1901.  These were placed in the early part of
November. under the supreme command of General Bruce Hamilton, and
that energetic commander set in motion a number of small columns,
which effected numerous captures. He was much helped in his work by
the new lines of blockhouses, one of which extended from Standerton to
Ermelo, while another connected Brugspruit with Greylingstad.  The
huge country was thus cut into manageable districts, and the fruits
were soon seen by the large returns of prisoners which came from this
part of the seat of wvar.

Upon December 3rd Bruce Hamilton, who had the valuable assistance of
Wools-Sampson to direct his intelligcnce, struck swiftly out from
Ermelo and fell upon a Boer laager in the early morning, capturing
ninety-six prisoners.  On the 10th he overwhelmed the Bethel commando
by a similar march, kiling seven and capturing 131.  Williams and
Wing commanded separate columns in this operation, and their energy
may be judged from the fact that they covered fifty-one miles during
the twenty-four hours.  On the 12th Hamilton's columns were on the
war-path once more, and another commando was wiped out.  Sixteen
killed and seventy prisoners were the fruits of this expedition.  For
the second time in a week the columns had done their fifty miles a
day, and it was no surprise to hear from their commander that they
were in need of a rest.  Nearly four hundred prisoners had been taken
from the most warlike portion of the Transvaal in ten days by one
energetic commander, with a list of twenty-five casualties to
ourselves.  The thanks of the Secretary of War were specially sent to
him for his brilliant work.  From then until the end of the year 1901,
numbers of smaller captures continued to be reported from the same
region, where Plumer, Spens, Mackenzie, Rawlinson, and others were
working.  On the other hand there was one small setback which occurred
to a body of two hundred Mounted Infantry under Major Bridgford, who
had been detached from Spens's column to search some farmhouses at a
place called Holland, to the south of Ermelo.  The expedition set
forth upon the night of December 19th, and next morning surrounded and
examined the farms.

The British force became divided in doing this work, and were suddenly
attacked by several hundred of Britz's commando, who came to close
quarters through their khaki dress, which enabled them to pass as
Plumer's vanguard.  The brunt of the fight fell upon an outlying body
of fifty men, nearly all of whom were killed, wounded or taken.  A
second body of fifty men were overpowered in the same way, after a
creditable defence.  Fifteen of the British were killed and thirty
wounded, while Bridgford the commander was also taken.  Spens came up
shortly afterwards with the column, and the Boers were driven
off. There seems every reason to think that upon this occasion the
plans of the British had leaked out, and that a deliberate ambush had
been laid for them round the farms, but in such operations these are
chances against which it is not always possible to guard. Considering
the number of the Boers, and the cleverness of their dispositions, the
British were fortunate in being able to extricate their force without
greater loss, a feat which was largely due to the leading of
Lieutenant Sterling.

Leaving the Eastern Transvaal, the narrative must now return to
several incidents of importance which had occurred at various points
of the seat of war during the latter months of 1901.

On September 19th, two days after Gough's disaster, a misfortune
occurred near Bloemfontein by which two guns and a hundred and forty
men fell temporarily into the hands of the enemy. These guns,
belonging to U battery, were moving south under an escort of Mounted
Infantry, from that very Sanna's Post which had been so fatal to the
same battery eighteen months before. When fifteen miles south of the
Waterworks, at a place called Vlakfontein (another Vlakfontein from
that of General Dixon's engagement), the small force was surrounded
and captured by Ackermann'n commando. The gunner officer, Lieutenant
Barry, died beside his guns in the way that gunner officers have. Guns
and men were taken, however, the latter to be released, and the former
to be recovered a week or two later by the British columns. It is
certainly a credit to the Boers that the spring campaign should have
opened by four British guns falling into their hands, and it is
impossible to withhold our admiration for those gallant farmers who,
after two years of exhausting warfare, were still able to turn upon a
formidable and victorious enemy, and to renovate their supplies at his
expense.

Two days later, hard on the heels of Gough's mishap, of the
Vlakfontein incident, and of the annihilation of the squadron of
Lancers in the Cape, there was a serious affair at Elands Kloof, near
Zastron, in the extreme south of the Orange River Colony.  In this a
detachment of the Highland Scouts raised by the public spirit of Lord
Lovat was surprised at night and very severely handled by Kritzinger's
commando.  The loss of Colonel Murray, their commander, of the
adjutant of the same name, and of forty-two out of eighty of the
Scouts, shows how fell was the attack, which broke as sudden and as
strong as a South African thunderstorm upon the unconscious camp. The
Boers appear to have eluded the outposts and crept right among the
sleeping troops, as they did in the case of the Victorians at
Wilmansrust. Twelve gunners were also hit, and the only field gun
taken.  The retiring Boers were swiftly followed up by Thorneycroft's
column, however, and the gun was retaken, together with twenty of
Kritzinger's men.  It must be confessed that there seems some irony in
the fact that, within five days of the British ruling by which the
Boers were no longer a military force, these non-belligerents had
inflicted a loss of nearly six hundred men killed, wounded, or taken.
Two small commandos, that of Koch in the Orange River Colony, and that
of Carolina, had been captured by Williams and Benson.  Combined they
only numbered a hundred and nine men, but here, as always, they were
men who could never be replaced.

Those who had followed the war with care, and had speculated upon the
future, were prepared on hearing of Botha's movement upon Natal to
learn that De la Rey had also made some energetic attack in the
western quarter of the Transvaal.  Those who had formed this
expectation were not disappointed, for upon the last day of September
the Boer chief struck fiercely at Kekewich's column in a vigorous
night attack, which led to as stern an encounter as any in the
campaign. This was the action at Moedwill, near Magato Nek, in the
Magaliesberg.

When last mentioned De la Rey was in the Marico district, near
Zeerust, where he fought two actions with Methuen in the early part of
September.  Thence he made his way to Rustenburg and into the
Magaliesberg country, where he joined Kemp.  The Boer force was
followed up by two British columns under Kekewich and Fetherstonhaugh.
The former commander had camped upon the night of Sunday, September
30th, at the farm of Moedwill, in a strong position within a triangle
formed by the Selous River on the west, a donga on the east, and the
Zeerust-Rustenburg road as a base.  The apex of the triangle pointed
north, with a ridge on the farther side of the river.

The men with Kekewich were for the most part the same as those who had
fought in the Vlakfontein engagement -- the Derbys, the 1st Scottish
Horse, the Yeomanry, and the 28th R.F.A. Every precaution appears to
have been taken by the leader, and his pickets were thrown out so far
that ample warning was assured of an attack.  The Boer onslaught came
so suddenly and fiercely, however, in the early morning, that the
posts upon the river bank were driven in or destroyed and the riflemen
from the ridge on the farther side were able to sweep the camp with
their fire.  In numbers the two forces were not unequal, but the Boers
had already obtained the tactical advantage, and were playing a game
in which they are the schoolmasters of the world. Never has the
British spirit flamed up more fiercely, and from the commander to the
latest yeoman recruit there was not a man who flinched from a
difficult and almost a desperate task.  The Boers must at all hazard
be driven from the position which enabled them to command the camp.
No retreat was possible without such an abandonment of stores as would
amount to a disaster.  In the confusion and the uncertain light of
early dawn there was no chance of a concerted movement, though
Kekewich made such dispositions as were possible with admirable
coolness and promptness. Squadrons and companies closed in upon the
river bank with the one thought of coming to close quarters and
driving the enemy from their commanding position. Already more than
half the horses and a very large number of officers and men had gone
down before the pelting bullets.  Scottish Horse, Yeomanry, and Derbys
pushed on, the young soldiers of the two former corps keeping pace
with the veteran regiment.  'All the men bebaved simply splendidly,'
said a spectator, 'taking what little cover there was and advancing
yard by yard. An order was given to try and saddle up a squadron, with
the idea of getting round their flank.  I had the saddle almost on one
of my ponies when he was hit in two places.  Two men trying to saddle
alongside of me were both shot dead, and Lieutenant Wortley was shot
through the knee. I ran back to where I had been firing from and found
the Colonel slightly hit, the Adjutant wounded and dying, and men dead
and wounded all round.'  But the counter-attack soon began to make
way. At first the advance was slow, but soon it quickened into a
magnificent rush, the wounded Kekewich whooping on his men, and the
guns coming into action as the enemy began to fall back before the
fierce charge of the British riflemen. At six o'clock De la Rey's
burghers had seen that their attempt was hopeless, and were in full
retreat -- a retreat which could not be harassed by the victors, whose
cavalry had been converted by that hail of bullets into footmen.  The
repulse had been absolute and complete, for not a man or a cartridge
had been taken from the British, but the price paid in killed and
wounded was a heavy one.  No fewer than 161 had been hit, including
the gallant leader, whose hurt did not prevent him from resuming his
duties within a few days.  The heaviest losses fell upon the Scottish
Horse, and upon the Derbys; but the Yeomanry also proved on this, as
on some other occasions, how ungenerous were the criticisms to which
they had been exposed.  There are few actions in the war which appear
to have been more creditable to the troops engaged.

Though repulsed at Moedwill, De la Rey, the grim, long-bearded
fighting man, was by no means discouraged. From the earliest days of
the campaign, when he first faced Methuen upon the road to Kimberley,
he had shown that he was a most dangerous antagonist, tenacious,
ingenious, and indomitable. With him were a body of irreconcilable
burghers, who were the veterans of many engagements, and in Kemp he
had an excellent fighting subordinate. His command extended over a
wide stretch of populous country, and at any time he could bring
considerable reinforcements to his aid, who would separate again to
their farms and hiding-places when their venture was accomplished. For
some weeks after the fight at Moedwill the Boer forces remained quiet
in that district.  Two British columns had left Zeerust on October
17th, under Methuen and Von Donop, in order to sweep the surrounding
country, the one working in the direction of Elands River and the
other in that of Rustenburg. They returned to Zeerust twelve days
later, after a successful foray, which had been attended with much
sniping and skirmishing, but only one action which is worthy of
record.

This was fought on October 24th at a spot near Kleinfontein, upon the
Great Marico River, which runs to the north-east of Zeerust. Von
Donop's column was straggling through very broken and bush-covered
country when it was furiously charged in the flank and rear by two
separate bodies of burghers.  Kemp, who commanded the flank attack,
cut into the line of wagons and destroyed eight of them, killing many
of the Kaffir drivers, before he could be driven off. De la Rey and
Steenkamp, who rushed the rear-guard, had a more desperate contest.
The Boer horsemen got among the two guns of the 4th R.F.A., and held
temporary possession of them, but the small escort were veterans of
the 'Fighting Fifth,' who lived up to the traditions of their famous
north-country regiment. Of the gun crews of the section, amounting to
about twenty-six men, the young officer, Hill, and sixteen men were
hit. Of the escort of Northumberland Fusiliers hardly a man was left
standing, and forty-one of the supporting Yeomanry were killed and
wounded. It was for some little time a fierce and concentrated
struggle at the shortest of ranges.  The British horsemen came
galloping to the rescue, however, and the attack was finally driven
back into tbat broken country from which it had come. Forty dead Boers
upon the ground, with their brave chieftain, Ouisterhuisen, amongst
them, showed how manfully the attack had been driven home. The British
losses were twenty-eight killed and fifty-six wounded.  Somewhat
mauled, and with eight missing wagons, the small column made its way
back to Zeerust.

>From this incident until the end of the year nothing of importance
occurred in this part of the seat of war, save for a sharp and
well-managed action at Beestekraal upon October 29th, in which
seventy~nine Boers were surrounded and captured by Kekewich's
horsemen. The process of attrition went very steadily forwards, and
each of the British columns returned its constant tale of prisoners.
The blockhouse system had now been extended to such an extent that the
Magaliesberg was securely held, and a line had been pushed through
from Klerksdorp and Fredericstad to Ventersdorp. One of Colonel
Hickie's Yeomanry patrols was roughly handled near Brakspruit upon
November 13th, but with this exception the points scored were all upon
one side. Methuen and Kekewich came across early in November from
Zeerust to Klerksdorp, and operated from the railway line.  The end of
the year saw them both in the Wolmaranstad district, where they were
gathering up prisoners and clearing the country.

Of the events in the other parts of the Transvaal, during the last
three months of the year 1901, there is not much to be said.  In all
parts the lines of blockhouses and of constabulary posts were
neutralising the Boer mobility, and bringing them more and more within
reach of the British.  The only fighting forces left in the Transvaal
were those under Botha in the south-east and those under De la Rey in
the west.  The others attempted nothing save to escape from their
pursuers, and when overtaken they usually gave in without serious
opposition.  Among the larger hauls may be mentioned that of Dawkins
in the Nylstrom district (seventy-six prisoners), Kekewich
(seventy-eight), Colenbrander in the north (fifty-seven), Dawkins and
Colenbrander (104), Colenbrander (sixty-two); but the great majority
of the captures were in smaller bodies, gleaned from the caves, the
kloofs, and the farmhouses.

Only two small actions during these months appear to call for any
separate notice.  The first was an attack made by Buys' commando, upon
November 20th, on the Railway Pioneers when at work near Villiersdorp,
in the extreme north-east of the Orange River Colony.  This corps,
consisting mainly of miners from Johannesburg, had done invaluable
service during the war.  On this occasion a working party of them was
suddenly attacked, and most of them taken prisoners.  Major Fisher,
who commanded the pioneers, was killed, and three other officers with
several men were wounded.  Colonel Rimington's column appeared upon
the scene, however, and drove off the Boers, who left their leader,
Buys, a wounded prisoner in our hands.

The second action was a sharp attack delivered by Muller's Boers upon
Colonel Park's column on the night of December 19th, at Elandspruit.
The fight was sharp while it lasted, but it ended in the repulse of
the assailants.  The British casualties were six killed and
twenty-four wounded.  The Boers, who left eight dead behind them,
suffered probably to about the same extent.

Already the most striking and pleasing feature in the Transvaal was
the tranquillity of its central provinces, and the way in which the
population was settling down to its old avocations.  Pretoria had
resumed its normal quiet life, while its larger and more energetic
neighbour was rapidly recovering from its two years of
paralysis. Every week more stamps were dropped in the mines, and from
month to month a steady increase in the output showed that the great
staple industry of the place would soon be as vigorous as ever.  Most
pleasing of all was the restoration of safety upon the railway lines,
which, save for some precautions at night, had resumed their normal
traffic. When the observer took his eyes from the dark clouds which
shadowed every horizon, he could not but rejoice at the ever-widening
central stretch of peaceful blue which told that the storm was nearing
its end.

Having now dealt with the campaign in the Transvaal down to the end of
1901, it only remains to bring the chronicle of the events in the
Orange River Colony down to the same date.  Reference has already been
made to two small British reverses which occurred in September, the
loss of two guns to the south of the Waterworks near Bloemfontein, and
the surprise of the camp of Lord Lovat's Scouts.  There were some
indications at this time that a movement had been planned through the
passes of the Drakensberg by a small Free State force which should aid
Louis Botha's invasion of Natal.  The main movement was checked,
however, and the demonstration in aid of it came to nothing.

The blockhouse system had been developed to a very complete extent in
the Orange River Colony, and the small bands of Boers found it
increasingly difficult to escape from the British columns who were for
ever at their heels.  The southern portion of the country had been cut
off from the northern by a line which extended through Bloemfontein on
the east to the Basuto frontier, and on the west to Jacobsdal. To the
south of this line the Boer resistance had practically ceased,
althougb several columns moved continually through it, and gleaned up
the broken fragments of the commandos. The north-west had also settled
down to a large extent, and during the last three months of 1901 no
action of importance occurred in that region.  Even in the turbulent
north-east, which had always been the centre of resistance, there was
little opposition to the British columns, which continued every week
to send in their tale of prisoners.  Of the column commanders,
Williams, Damant, Du Moulin, Lowry Cole, and Wilson were the most
successful.  In their operations they were much aided by the South
African Constabulary.  One young officer of this force, Major
Pack-Beresford, especially distinguished himself by his gallantry and
ability. His premature death from enteric was a grave loss to the
British army.  Save for one skirmish of Colonel Wilson's early in
October, and another of Byng's on November 14th, there can hardly be
said to have been any actual fighting until the events late in
December which I am about to describe.

In the meanwhile the peaceful organisation of the country was being
pushed forward as rapidly as in the Transvaal, although here the
problems presented were of a different order, and the population an
exclusively Dutch one.  The schools already showed a higher attendance
than in the days before the war, while a continual stream of burghers
presented themselves to take the oath of allegiance, and even to join
the ranks against their own irreconcilable countrymen, whom they
looked upon with justice as the real authors of their troubles.

Towards the end of November there were signs that the word had gone
forth for a fresh concentration of the fighting Boers in their old
haunts in the Heilbron district, and early in December it was known
that the indefatigable De Wet was again in the field.  He had remained
quiet so long that there bad been persistent rumours of his injury and
even of his death, but he was soon to show that he was as alive as
ever.  President Steyn was ill of a most serious complaint, caused
possibly by the mental and physical sufferings which he had undergone;
but with an indomitable resolution which makes one forget and forgive
the fatuous policy which brought him and his State to such a pass, be
still appeared in his Cape cart at the laager of the faithful remnant
of his commandos.  To those who remembered how widespread was our
conviction of the half-heartedness of the Free Staters at the outbreak
of the war, it was indeed a revelation to see them after two years
still making a stand against the forces which had crushed them.

It had been long evident that the present British tactics of scouring
the country and capturing the isolated burghers must in time bring the
war to a conclusion. From the Boer point of view the only hope, or at
least the only glory, lay in reassembling once more in larger bodies
and trying conclusions with some of the British columns.  It was with
this purpose that De Wet early in December assembled Wessels, Manie
Botha, and others of his lieutenants, together with a force of about
two thousand men, in the Heilbron district.  Small as this force was,
it was admirably mobile, and every man in it was a veteran, toughened
and seasoned by two years of constant fighting.  De Wet's first
operations were directed against an isolated column of Colonel
Wilson's, which was surrounded within twenty miles of Heilbron.
Rimington, in response to a heliographic call for assistance, hurried
with admirable promptitude to the scene of action, and joined hands
with Wilson. De Wet's men were as numerous, however, as the two
columns combined, and they harassed the return march into Heilbron.  A
determined attack was made on the convoy and on the rearguard, but it
was beaten off. That night Rimington's camp was fired into by a large
body of Boers, but he had cleverly moved his men away from the fires,
so that no harm was done.  The losses in these operations were small,
but with troops which bad not been trained in this method of fighting
the situation would have been a serious one. For a fortnight or more
after this the burghers contented themselves by skirmishing with
British columns and avoiding a drive which Elliot's forces made
against them.  On December 18th they took the offensive, however, and
within a week fought three actions, two of which ended in their
favour.

News had come to British headquarters that Kaffir's Kop, to the
north-west of Bethlehem, was a centre of Boer activity.  Three columns
were therefore turned in that direction, Elliot's, Barker's, and
Dartnell's. Some desultory skirmishing ensued, which was only
remarkable for the death of Haasbroek, a well-known Boer leader.  As
the columns separated again, unable to find an objective, De Wet
suddenly showed one of them that their failure was not due to his
absence. Dartnell bad retraced his steps nearly as far as Eland's River
Bridge, when the Boer leader sprang out of his lair in the Langberg
and threw himself upon him. The burghers attempted to ride in, as they
had successfully done at Brakenlaagte, but they were opposed by the
steady old troopers of the two regiments of Imperial Horse, and by a
General who was familiar with every Boer ruse. The horsemen never got
nearer than 150 yards to the British line, and were beaten back by the
steady fire which met them. Finding that he made no headway, and
learning that Campbell's column was coming up from Bethlehem, De Wet
withdrew his men after four hours' fighting.  Fifteen were hit upon
the British side, and the Boer loss seems to have been certainly as
great or greater.

De Wet's general aim in his operations seems to have been to check the
British blockhouse building. With his main force in the Langberg he
could threaten the line which was now being erected between Bethlehem
and Harrismith, a line against which his main commando was destined,
only two months later, to beat itself in vain.  Sixty miles to the
north a second line was being run across country from Frankfort to
Standerton, and had reached a place called Tafelkop. A covering party
of East Lancashires and Yeomanry watched over the workers, but De Wet
had left a portion of his force in that neighbourhood, and they
harassed the blockhouse builders to such an extent that General
Hamilton, who was in command, found it necessary to send in to
Frankfort for support. The British columns there had just returned
exhausted from a drive, but three bodies under Damant, Rimington, and
Wilson were at once despatched to clear away the enemy.

The weather was so atrocious that the veldt resembled an inland sea,
with the kopjes as islands rising out of it.  By this stage of the war
the troops were hardened to all weathers, and they pushed swiftly on
to the scene of action.  As they approached the spot where the Boers
had been reported, the line had been extended over many miles, with
the result that it had become very attenuated and dangerously weak in
the centre. At this point Colonel Damant and his small staff were
alone with the two guns and the maxim, save for a handful of Imperial
Yeomanry (91st), who acted as escort to the guns. Across the face of
this small force there rode a body of men in khaki uniforms, keeping
British formation, and actually firing bogus volleys from time to time
in the direction of some distant Boers.  Damant and his staff seem to
have taken it for granted that these were Rimington's men, and the
clever ruse succeeded to perfection.  Nearer and nearer came the
strangers, and suddenly throwing off all disguise, they made a dash
for the guns.  Four rounds of case failed to stop them, and in a few
minutes they were over the kopje on which the guns stood and had
ridden among the gunners, supported in their attack by a flank fire
from a number of dismounted riflemen.

The instant that the danger was realised Damant, his staff, and the
forty Yeomen who formed the escort dashed for the crest in the hope of
anticipating the Boers. So rapid was the charge of the others that
they had overwhelmed the gunners before the supports could reach the
hill, and the latter found themselves under the deadly fire of the
Boer rifles from above.  Damant was hit in four places, all of his
staff were wounded, and hardly a man of the small body of Yeomanry was
left standing. Nothing could exceed their gallantry. Gaussen their
captain fell at their head.  On the ridge the men about the guns were
nearly all killed or wounded.  Of the gun detachment only two men
remained, both of them hit, and Jeffcoat their dyLng captain
bequeathed them fifty pounds each in a will drawn upon the spot. In
half an hour the centre of the British line had been absolutely
annihilated.  Modern warfare is on the whole much less bloody than of
old, but when one party has gained the tactical mastery it is a choice
between speedy surrender and total destruction.

The wide-spread British wings had begun to understand that there was
something amiss, and to ride in towards the centre.  An officer on the
far right peering through his glasses saw those tell-tale puffs at the
very muzzles of the British guns, which showed that they were firing
case at close quarters.  He turned his squadron inwards and soon
gathered up Scott's squadron of Damant's Horse, and both rode for the
kopje.  Rimington's men were appearing on the other side, and the
Boers rode off.  They were unable to remove the guns which they had
taken, because all the horses had perished. 'I actually thought,' says
one officer who saw them ride away, 'that I had made a mistake and
been fighting our own men.  They were dressed in our uniforms and some
of them wore the tiger-skin, the badge of Damant's Horse, round their
hats.'  The same officer gives an account of the scene on the
gun-kopje.  'The result when we got to the guns was this, gunners all
killed except two (both wounded), pom-pom officers and men all killed,
maxim all killed, 91st (the gun escort) one officer and one man not
hit, all the rest killed or wounded; staff, every officer hit.'  That
is what it means to those who are caught in the vortex of the cyclone.
The total loss was about seventy-five.

In this action the Boers, who were under the command of Wessels,
delivered their attack with a cleverness and dash which deserved
success.  Their stratagem, however, depending as it did upon the use
of British uniforms and methods, was illegitimate by all the laws of
war, and one can but marvel at the long-suffering patience of officers
and men who endured such things without any attempt at retaliation.
There is too much reason to believe also, that considerable brutality
was shown by those Boers who carried the kopje, and the very high
proportion of killed to wounded among the British who lay there
corroborates the statement of the survivors that several were shot at
close quarters after all resistance had ceased.

This rough encounter of Tafelkop was followed only four days later by
a very much more serious one at Tweefontein, which proved that even
after two years of experience we had not yet sufficiently understood
the courage and the cunning of our antagonist.  The blockhouse line
was being gradually extended from Harrismith to Bethlehem, so as to
hold down this turbulent portion of the country.  The Harrismith
section had been pushed as far as Tweefontein, which is nine miles
west of Elands River Bridge, and here a small force was stationed to
cover the workers.  This column consisted of four squadrons of the 4th
Imperial Yeomanry, one gun of the 79th battery, and one pom-pom, the
whole under the temporary command of Major Williams of the South
Staffords, Colonel Firmin being absent.

Knowing that De Wet and his men were in the neighbourhood, the camp of
the Yeomen had been pitched in a position which seemed to secure it
against attack.  A solitary kopje presented a long slope to the north,
while the southern end was precipitous. The outposts were pushed well
out upon the plain, and a line of sentries was placed along the
crest. The only precaution which seems to have been neglected was to
have other outposts at the base of the southern declivity.  It appears
to have been taken for granted, however, that no attack was to be
apprehended from that side, and that in any esse it would be
impossible to evade the vigilance of the sentries upon the top.

Of all the daring and skilful attacks delivered by the Boers during
the war there is certainly none more remarkable than this one.  At two
o'clock in the morning of a moonlight night De Wet's forlorn hope
assembled at the base of the hill and clambered up to the summit. The
fact that it was Christmas Eve may conceivably have had something to
do with the want of vigilance upon the part of the sentries. In a
season of good will and conviviality the rigour of military discipline
may insensibly relax.  Little did the sleeping Yeomen in the tents, or
the drowsy outposts upon the crest, think of the terrible Christmas
visitors who were creeping on to them, or of the grim morning gift
which Santa Claus was bearing.

The Boers, stealing up in their stockinged feet, poured under the
crest until they were numerous enough to make a rush.  It is almost
inconceivable how they could have got so far without their presence
being suspected by the sentries -- but so it was. At last, feeling
strong enough to advance, they sprang over the crest and fired into
the pickets, and past them into the sleeping camp. The top of the hill
being once gained, there was nothing to prevent their comrades from
swarming up, and in a very few minutes nearly a thousand Boers were in
a position to command the camp. The British were not only completely
outnumbered, but were hurried from their sleep into the fight without
any clear idea as to the danger or how to meet it, while the hissing
sleet of bullets struck many of them down as they rushed out of their
tents. Considering how terrible the ordeal was to which they were
exposed, these untried Yeomen seem to have behaved very well. 'Some
brave gentlemen ran away at the first shot, but I am thankful to say
they were not many,' says one of their number.  The most veteran
troops would have been tried very high had they been placed in such a
position. 'The noise and the clamour,' says one spectator, 'were
awful. The yells of the Dutch, the screams and shrieks of dying men
and horses, the cries of natives, howls of dogs, the firing, the
galloping of horses, the whistling of bullets, and the whirr volleys
make in the air, made up such a compound of awful and diabolical
sounds as I never heard before nor hope to hear again. In the
confusion some of the men killed each other and some killed
themselves. Two Boers who put on helmets were killed by their own
people. The men were given no time to rally or to collect their
thoughts, for the gallant Boers barged right into them, shooting them
down, and occasionally being shot down, at a range of a few
yards. Harwich and Watney, who had charge of the maxim, died nobly
with all the men of their gun section round them. Reed, the
sergeant-major, rushed at the enemy with his clubbed rifle, but was
riddled with bullets. Major Williams, the commander, was shot through
the stomach as he rallied his men. The gunners had time to fire two
rounds before they were overpowered and shot down to a man. For half
an hour the resistance was maintained, but at the end of that time the
Boers had the whole camp in their possession, and were already
hastening to get their prisoners away before the morning should bring
a rescue.

The casualties are in themselves enough to show how creditable was the
resistance of the Yeomanry.  Out of a force of under four hundred men
they bad six officers and fifty-one men killed, eight officers and
eighty men wounded. There have been very few surrenders during the war
in which there has been such evidence as this of a determined
stand. Nor was it a bloodless victory upon the part of the Boers, for
there was evidence that their losses, though less than those of the
British, were still severe.

The prisoners, over two hundred in number, were hurried away by the
Boers, who seemed under the immediate eye of De Wet to have behaved
with exemplary humanity to the wounded. The captives were taken by
forced marches to the Basuto border, where they were turned adrift,
half clad and without food. By devious ways and after many adventures,
they all made their way back again to the British lines. It was well
for De Wet that he had shown such promptness in getting away, for
within three hours of the end of the action the two regiments of
Imperial Horse appeared upon the scene, having travelled seventeen
miles in the time. Already, however, the rearguard of the Boers was
disappearing into the fastness of the Langberg, where all pursuit was
vain.

Such was the short but vigorous campaign of De Wet in the last part of
December of the year 1901. It had been a briliant one, but none the
less his bolt was shot, and Tweefontein was the last encounter in
which British troops should feel his heavy hand. His operations, bold
as they had been, had not delayed by a day the building of that iron
cage which was gradually enclosing him. Already it was nearly
completed, and in a few more weeks he was destined to find himself and
his commando struggling against bars.

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE CAMPAIGN OF JANUARY-APRIL, 1902


At the opening of the year 1902 it was evident to every observer that
the Boer resistance, spirited as it was, must be nearing its close.
By a long succession of captures their forces were much reduced in
numbers. They were isolated from the world, and had no means save
precarious smuggling of renewing their supplies of ammunition.  It was
known also that their mobility, which had been their great strength,
was decreasing, and that in spite of their admirable horsemastership
their supply of remounts was becoming exhausted.  An increasing number
of the burghers were volunteering for service against their own
people, and it was found that all fears as to this delicate experiment
were misplaced, and that in the whole army there were no keener and
more loyal soldiers.

The chief factor, however, in bringing the Boers to their knees was
the elaborate and wonderful blockhouse system, which had been strung
across the whole of the enemy's country.  The original blockhouses had
been far apart, and were a hindrance and an annoyance rather than an
absolute barrier to the burghers.  The new models, however, were only
six hundred yards apart, and were connected by such impenetrable
strands of wire that a Boer pithily described it by saying that if
one's hat blew over the line anywhere between Ermelo and Standerton
one had to walk round Ermelo to fetch it. Use was made of such
barriers by the Spaniards in Cuba, but an application of them on such
a scale over such an enormous tract of country is one of the
curiosities of warfare, and will remain one of several novelties which
will make the South African campaign for ever interesting to students
of military history.

The spines of this great system were always the railway lines, which
were guarded on either side, and down which, as down a road, went
flocks, herds, pedestrians, and everything which wished to travel in
safety. From these long central cords the lines branched out to right
and left, cutting up the great country into manageable districts.  A
category of them would but weary the reader, but suffice it that by
the beginning of the year the south-east of the Transvaal and the
north-east of the Orange River Colony, the haunts of Botha and De Wet,
bad been so intersected that it was obvious that the situation must
soon be impossible for both of them. Only on the west of the Transvaal
was there a clear run for De la Rey and Kemp. Hence it was expected,
as actualy occurred, that in this quarter the most stirring events of
the close of the campaign would happen.

General Bruce Hamilton in the Eastern Transvaal had continued the
energetic tactics which had given such good results in the past. With
the new year his number of prisoners fell, but he had taken so many,
and had hustled the remainder to such an extent, that the fight seemed
to have gone out of the Boers in this district. On January 1st be
presented the first-fruits of the year in the shape of.twenty-two of
Grobler's burghers.  On the 3rd he captured forty-nine, while Wing,
co-operating with him, took twenty more. Among these was General
Erasmus, who had helped, or failed to help, General Lucas Meyer at
Talana Hill.  On the 10th Colonel Wing's column, which was part of
Hamilton's force, struck out again and took forty-two prisoners,
including the two Wolmarans.  Only two days later Hamilton returned to
the same spot, and was rewarded with thirty-two more captures.  On the
18th he took twenty-seven, on the 24th twelve, and on the 26th no
fewer than ninety. So severe were these blows, and so difficult was it
for the Boers to know how to get away from an antagonist who was ready
to ride thirty miles in a night in order to fall upon their laager,
that the enemy became much scattered and too demoralised for offensive
operations. Finding that they had grown too shy in this much shot over
district, Hamilton moved farther south, and early in March took a cast
round the Vryheid district, where he made some captures, notably
General Cherry Emmett, a descendant of the famous Irish rebel, and
brother-in-law of Louis Botha. For all these repeated successes it was
to the Intelligence Department, so admirably controlled by Colonel
Wools-Sampson, that thanks are mainly due.

Whilst Bruce Hamilton was operating so successfully in the Ermelo
district, several British columns under Plumer, Spens, and Colville
were stationed some fifty miles south to prevent the fugitives from
getting away into the mountainous country which lies to the north of
Wakkerstroom.  On January 3rd a small force of Plumer's New-Zealanders
had a brisk skirmish with a party of Boers, whose cattle they
captured, though at some loss to themselves.  These Boers were
strongly reinforced, however, and when on the following day Major
Vallentin pursued them with fifty men he found himself at Onverwacht
in the presence of several hundred of the enemy, led by Oppermann and
Christian Botha. Vallentin was killed and almost all of his small
force were hit before British reinforcements, under Colonel Pulteney,
drove the Boers off.  Nineteen killed and twenty-three wounded were
our losses in this most sanguinary little skirmish.  Nine dead Boers,
with Oppermaun himself, were left upon the field of battle. His loss
was a serious one to the enemy, as he was one of their most
experienced Generals.

>From that time until the end these columns, together with Mackenzie's
column to the north of Ermelo, continued to break up all combinations,
and to send in their share of prisoners to swell Lord Kitchener's
weekly list. A final drive, organised on April 11th against the
Standerton line, resulted in 134 prisoners.

In spite of the very large army in South Africa, so many men were
absorbed by the huge lines of communications and the blockhouse system
that the number available for active operations was never more than
forty or fifty thousand men.  With another fifty thousand there is no
doubt that at least six months would have been taken from the duration
of the war.  On account of this shorthandedness Lord Kitchener had to
leave certain districts alone, while he directed his attention to
those which were more essential.  Thus to the north of the Delagoa
Railway line there was only one town, Lydenburg, which was occupied by
the British.  They had, however, an energetic commander in Park of the
Devons. This leader, striking out from his stronghold among the
mountains, and aided by Urmston from Belfast, kept the commando of Ben
Viljoen and the peripatetic Government of Schalk Burger continually
upon the move.  As already narrated, Park fought a sharp night action
upon December 19th, after which, in combination with Urmston, he
occupied Dulstroom, only missing the government by a few hours. In
January Park and Urmston were again upon the war-path, though the
incessant winds, fogs, and rains of that most inclement portion of the
Transvaal seriously hampered their operations. Several skirmishes with
the commandos of Muller and Trichardt gave no very decisive result,
but a piece of luck befell the British on January 25th in the capture
of General Viljoen by an ambuscade cleverly arranged by Major Orr in
the neighbourhood of Lydenburg. Though a great firebrand before the
war, Viljoen had fought bravely and honourably throughout the contest,
and he had won the respect and esteem of his enemy.

Colonel Park had had no great success in his last two expeditions, but
on February 20th he made an admirable march, and fell upon a Boer
laager which lay in placid security in the heart of the hills.  One
hundred and sixty-four prisoners, including many Boer officers, were
the fruits of this success, in which the National Scouts, or 'tame
Boers,' as they were familiarly called, played a prominent part.  This
commando was that of Middelburg, which was acting as escort to the
government, who again escaped dissolution.  Early in March Park was
again out on trek, upon one occasion covering seventy miles in a
single day.  Nothing further of importance came from this portion of
the seat of war until March 23rd, when the news reached England that
Schalk Burger, Reitz, Lucas Meyer, and others of the Transvaal
Government had come into Middelburg, and that they were anxious to
proceed to Pretoria to treat. On the Eastern horizon had appeared the
first golden gleam of the dawning peace.

Having indicated the course of events in the Eastern Transvaal, north
and south of the railway line, I will now treat one or two incidents
which occurred in the more central and northern portions of the
country. I will then give some account of De Wet's doings in the
Orange River Colony, and finally describe that brilliant effort of
De la Rey's in the west which shed a last glory upon the Boer arms.

In the latter days of December, Colenbrander and Dawkins operating
together had put in a great deal of useful work in the northern
district, and from Nylstrom to Pietersburg the burghers were
continually harried by the activity of these leaders. Late in the
month Dawkins was sent down into the Orange River Colony in order to
reinforce the troops who were opposed to De Wet.  Colenbrander alone,
with his hardy colonial forces, swept through the Magaliesburg, and
had the double satisfaction of capturing a number of the enemy and of
heading off and sending back a war party of Linchwe's Kaffirs who,
incensed by a cattle raid of Kemp's, were moving down in a direction
which would have brought them dangerously near to the Dutch women and
children.  This instance and several similar ones in the campaign show
how vile are the lies which have been told of the use, save under
certain well-defined conditions, of armed natives by the British
during the war.  It would have been a perfectly easy thing at any time
for the Government to have raised all the fighting native races of
South Africa, but it is not probable that we, who held back our
admirable and highly disciplined Sikhs and Ghoorkas, would break our
self-imposed restrictions in order to enrol the inferior but more
savage races of Africa.  Yet no charge has been more often repeated
and has caused more piteous protests among the soft-hearted and
soft-headed editors of Continental journals.

The absence of Colenbrander in the Rustenburg country gave Beyers a
chance of which he was not slow to avail himself.  On January 24th, in
the early morning, he delivered an attack upon Pietersburg itself, but
he was easily driven off by the small garrison. It is probable,
however, that the attack was a mere feint in order to enable a number
of the inmates of the refugee camp to escape. About a hundred and
fifty made off, and rejoined the commandos.  There were three thousand
Boers in all in this camp, which was shortly afterwards moved down to
Natal in order to avoid the recurrence of such an incident.

Colenbrander, having returned to Pietersburg once more, determined to
return Beyers's visit, and upon April 8th he moved out with a small
force to surprise the Boer laager.  The Inniskilling Fusiliers seized
the ground which commanded the enemy's position. The latter retreated,
but were followed up, and altogether about one hundred and fifty were
killed, wounded, and taken.  On May 3rd a fresh operation against
Beyers was undertaken, and resulted in about the same loss to the
Boers.  On the other hand, the Boers had a small success against
Kitchener's Scouts, killing eighteen and taking thirty prisoners.

There is one incident, however, in connection with the war in this
region which one would desire to pass over in silence if such a course
were permissible. Some eighty miles to the east of Pietersburg is a
wild part of the country called the Spelonken.  In this region an
irregular corps, named the Bushveld Carbineers, had been operating.
It was raised in South Africa, but contained both Colonials and
British in its ranks. Its wild duties, its mixed composition, and its
isolated situation must have all militated against discipline and
restraint, and it appears to have degenerated into a band not unlike
those Southern 'bush-whackers' in the American war to whom the
Federals showed little mercy.  They had given short shrift to tho Boer
prisoners who had fallen into their hands, the excuse offered for
their barbarous conduct being that an officer who had served in the
corps had himself been murdered by the Boers.  Such a reason, even if
it were true, could of course offer no justification for
indiscriminate revenge.  The crimes were committed in July and August
1901, but it was not until January 1902 that five of the officers were
put upon their trial and were found to be guilty as principals or
accessories of twelve murders.  The corps was disbanded, and three of
the accused officers, Handcock, Wilton, and Morant, were sentenced to
death, while another, Picton, was cashiered.  Handcock and Morant were
actually executed.  This stern measure shows more clearly than volumes
of argument could do how high was the standard of discipline in the
British Army, and how heavy was the punishment, and how vain all
excuses, where it had been infringed.  In the face of this actual
outrage and its prompt punishment how absurd becomes that crusade
against imaginary outrages preached by an ignorant press abroad, and
by renegade Englishmen at home.

To the south of Johannesburg, half-way between that town and the
frontier, there is a range of hills called the Zuikerboschrand, which
extends across from one railway system to the other. A number of Boers
were known to have sought refuge in this country, so upon February
12th a small British force left Klip River Post in order to clear them
out.  There were 320 men in all, composing the 28th Mounted Infantry,
drawn from the Lancashire Fusiliers, Warwicks, and Derbys, most of
whom had just arrived from Malta, which one would certainly imagine to
be the last place where mounted infantry could be effectively
trained. Major Dowell was in command.  An advance was made into the
hilly country, but it was found that the enemy was in much greater
force than had been imagined. The familiar Boer tactics were used with
the customary success.  The British line was held by a sharp fire in
front, while strong flanking parties galloped round each of the wings.
It was with great difficulty that any of the British extricated
themselves from their perilous position, and the safety of a portion
of the force was only secured by the devotion of a handful of officers
and men, who gave their lives in order to gain time for their comrades
to get away.  Twelve killed and fifty wounded were our losses in this
unfortunate skirmish, and about one hundred prisoners supplied the
victors with a useful addition to their rifles and ammunition. A
stronger British force came up next day, and the enemy were driven out
of the hills.

A week later, upon February 18th, there occurred another skirmish at
Klippan, near Springs, between a squadron of the Scots Greys and a
party of Boers who had broken into this central reserve which Lord
Kitchener had long kept clear of the enemy.  In this action the
cavalry were treated as roughly as the mounted infantry had been the
week before, losing three officers killed, eight men killed or
wounded, and forty-six taken. They had formed a flanking party to
General Gilbert Hamilton's column, but were attacked and overwhelmed
so rapidly that the blow had fallen before their comrades could come
to their assistance.

One of the consequences of the successful drives about to be described
in the Orange River Colony wns that a number of the Free Staters came
north of the Vaal in order to get away from the extreme pressure upon
the south.  At the end of March a considerable number had reinforced
the local commandos in that district to the east of Springs, no very
great distance from Johannesburg, which had always been a storm
centre. A cavalry force was stationed at this spot which consisted at
that time of the 2nd Queen's Bays, the 7th Hussars, and some National
Scouts, all under Colonel Lawley of the Hussars. After a series of
minor engagements east of Springs, Lawley had possessed himself of
Boschman's Kop, eighteen miles from that town, close to the district
which was the chief scene of Boer activity.  From this base he
despatched upon the morningg of April 1st three squadrons of the Bays
under Colonel Fanshawe, for the purpose of surprising a small force of
the enemy which was reported at one of the farms.  Fanshawe's strength
was about three hundred men.

The British cavalry found themselves, however, in the position of the
hunter who, when he is out for a snipe, puts up a tiger. All went well
with the expedition as far as Holspruit, the farm which they had
started to search.  Commandant Pretorius, to whom it belonged, was
taken by the energy of Major Vaughan, who pursued and overtook his
Cape cart.  It was found, however, that Alberts's commando was camped
at the farm, and that the Bays were in the presence of a very superior
force of the enemy.  The night was dark, and when firing began it was
almost muzzle to muzzle, with the greatest possible difficulty in
telling friend from foe. The three squadrons fell back upon some
rising ground, keeping admirable order under most difficult
circumstances.  In spite of the darkness the attack was pressed
fiercely home, and with their favourite tactics the burghers rapidly
outflanked the position taken up by the cavalry.  The British moved by
alternate squadrons on to a higher rocky kopje on the east, which
could be vaguely distinguished looming in the darkness against the
skyline. B squadron, the last to retire, was actually charged and
ridden through by the brave assailants, firing from their saddles as
they broke through the ranks.  The British had hardly time to reach
the kopje and to dismount and line its edge when the Boers, yelling
loudly, charged with their horses up the steep flanks.  Twice they
were beaten back, but the third time they seized one corner of the
hill and opened a hot fire upon the rear of the line of men who were
defending the other side.  Dawn was now breaking, and the situation
most serious, for the Boers were in very superior numbers and were
pushing their pursuit with the utmost vigour and determination. A
small party of officers and men whose horses had been shot covered the
retreat of their comrades, and continued to fire until all of them,
two officers and twenty-three men, were killed or wounded, the whole
of their desperate defence being conducted within from thirty to fifty
yards of the enemy. The remainder of the regiment was now retired to
successive ridges, each of which was rapidly outflanked by the Boers,
whose whole method of conducting their attack was extraordinarily
skilful. Nothing but the excellent discipline of the overmatched
troopers prevented the retreat from becoming a rout. Fortunately,
before the pressure became intolerable the 7th Hussars with some
artillery came to the rescue, and turned the tide.  The Hussars
galloped in with such dash that some of them actually got among the
Boers with their swords, but the enemy rapidly fell back and
disappeared.

In this very sharp and sanguinary cavalry skirmish the Bays lost
eighty killed and wounded out of a total force of 270.  To stand such
losses under such circumstances, and to preserve absolute discipline
and order, is a fine test of soldierly virtue. The adjutant, the
squadron leaders, and six out of ten officers were killed or
wounded. The Boers lost equally heavily. Two Prinsloos, one of them a
commandant, and three field-cornets were among the slain, with seventy
other casualties. The force under General Alberts was a considerable
one, not fewer than six hundred rifles, so that the action at
Holspruit is one which adds another name of honour to the battle-roll
of the Bays.  It is pleasing to add that in this and the other actions
which were fought at the end of the war our wounded met with kindness
and consideration from the enemy.

We may now descend to the Orange River Colony and trace the course of
those operations which were destined to break the power of De Wet's
commando. On these we may concentrate our attention, for the marchings
and gleanings and snipings of the numerous small columns in the other
portions of the colony, although they involved much arduous and useful
work, do not claim a particular account.

After the heavy blow which he dealt Firmin's Yeomanry, De Wet retired,
as has been told, into the Langberg, whence he afterwards retreated
towards Reitz.  There he was energetically pushed by Elliot's columns,
which had attained such mobility that 150 miles were performed in
three days within a single week.  Our rough schoolmasters had taught
us our lesson, and the soldiering which accomplished the marches of
Bruce Hamilton, Elliot, Rimington, and the other leaders of the end of
the war was very far removed from that which is associated with
ox-wagons and harmoniums.

Moving rapidly, and covering himself by a succession of rearguard
skirmishes, De Wet danced like a will-o'the-wisp in front of and round
the British columns. De Lisle, Fanshawe, Byng, Rimington, Dawkins, and
Rawlinson were all snatching at him and finding him just beyond their
finger-tips.  The master-mind at Pretoria had, however, thought out a
scheme which was worthy of De Wet himself in its ingenuity. A glance
at the map will show that the little branch from Heilbron to Wolvehoek
forms an acute angle with the main line. Both these railways were
strongly blockhoused and barbed-wired, so that any force which was
driven into the angle, and held in it by a force behind it, would be
in a perilous position.  To attempt to round De Wet's mobile burghers
into this obvious pen would have been to show one's hand too clearly.
In vain is the net laid in sight of the bird.  The drive was therefore
made away from this point, with the confident expectation that the
guerilla chief would break back through the columns, and that they
might then pivot round upon him and hustle him so rapidly into the
desired position that he would not realise his danger until it was too
late. Byng's column was left behind the driving line to be ready for
the expected backward break.

All came off exactly as expected.  De Wet doubled back through the
columns, and one of his commandos stumbled upon Byng's men, who were
waiting on the Vlei River to the west of Reitz.  The Boers seem to
have taken it for granted that, having passed the British driving
line, they were out of danger, and for once it was they who were
surprised.  The South African Light Horse, the New-Zealanders, and the
Queensland Bushmen all rode in upon them.  A fifteen-pounder, the one
taken at Tweefontein, and two pom-poms were captured, with thirty
prisoners and a considerable quantity of stores.

This successful skirmish was a small matter, however, compared to the
importance of being in close touch with De Wet and having a definite
objective for the drive. The columns behind expanded suddenly into a
spray of mounted men forming a continuous line for over sixty miles.
On February 5th the line was advancing, and on the 6th it was known
that De Wet was actually within the angle, the mouth of which was
spanned by the British line.  Hope ran high in Pretoria.  The space
into which the burgher chief had been driven was bounded by sixty-six
miles of blockhouse and wire on one side and thirty on the other,
while the third side of the triangle was crossed by fifty-five miles
of British horsemen, flanked by a blockhouse line between Kroonstad
and Lindley.  The tension along the lines of defence was extreme.
Infantry guarded every yard of them, and armoured trains patrolled
them, while at night searchlights at regular intervals shed their
vivid rays over the black expanse of the veldt and illuminated the
mounted figures who flitted from time to time across their narrow
belts of light.

On the 6th De Wet realised his position, and with characteristic
audacity and promptness he took means to clear the formidable toils
which had been woven round him. The greater part of his command
scattered, with orders to make their way as best they might out of the
danger.  Working in their own country, where every crease and fold of
the ground was familiar to them, it is not surprising that most of
them managed to make their way through gaps in the attenuated line of
horsemen behind them.  A few were killed, and a considerable number
taken, 270 being the respectable total of the prisoners.  Three or
four slipped through, however, for every one who stuck in the meshes.
De Wet himself was reported to have made his escape by driving cattle
against the wire fences which enclosed him.  It seems, however, to
have been nothing more romantic than a wire-cutter which cleared his
path, though cattle no doubt made their way through the gap which he
left.  With a loss of only three of his immediate followers be Wet won
his way out of the most dangerous position which even his adventurous
career had ever known. Lord Kitchener had descended to Wolvehoek to be
present at the climax of the operations, but it was not fated that he
was to receive the submission of the most energetic of his opponents,
and he returned to Pretoria to weave a fresh mesh around him.

This was not hard to do, as the Boer General had simply escaped from
one pen into another, though a larger one. After a short rest to
restore the columns, the whole pack were full cry upon his heels once
more. An acute angle is formed by the Wilge Biver on one side and the
line of blockhouses between Harrismith and Van Reenen upon the other.
This was strongly manned by troops and five columns; those of
Rawlinson, Nixon, Byng, Rimington, and Keir herded the broken
cornmandos into the trap.  From February 20th the troops swept in an
enormous skirmish line across the country, ascending hills, exploring
kloofs, searching river banks, and always keeping the enemy in front
of them.  At last, when the pressure was severely felt, there came the
usual breakback, which took the form of a most determined night attack
upon the British line.  This was delivered shortly after midnight on
February 23rd. It struck the British cordon at the point of juncture
between Byng's column and that of Rimington.  So huge were the
distances which had to be covered, and so attenuated was the force
which covered them, that the historical thin red line was a massive
formation compared to its khaki equivalent.  The chain was frail and
the links were not all carefully joined, but each particular link was
good metal, and the Boer impact came upon one of the best.  This was
the 7th New Zealand Contingent, who proved themselves to be worthy
comrades to their six gallant predecessors.  Their patrols were broken
by the rush of wild, yelling, firing horsemen, but the troopers made a
most gallant resistance. Having pierced the line the Boers, who were
led in their fiery rush by Manie Botha, turned to their flank, and,
charging down the line of weak patrols, overwhelmed one after another
and threatened to roll up the whole line.  They had cleared a gap of
half a mile, and it seemed as if the whole Boer force would certainly
escape through so long a gap in the defences. The desperate defence of
the New-Zealanders gave time, however, for the further patrols, which
consisted of Cox's New South Wales Mounted Infantry, to fall back
almost at right angles so as to present a fresh face to the attack.
The pivot of the resistance was a maxim gun, most gallantly handled by
Captain Begbie and his men.  The fight at this point was almost muzzle
to muzzle, fifty or sixty New-Zealanders and Australians with the
British gunners holding off a force of several hundred of the best
fighting men of the Boer forces.  In this desperate duel many dropped
on both sides. Begbie died beside his gun, which fired eighty rounds
before it jammed.  It was run back by its crew in order to save it
from capture.  But reinforcements were coming up, and the Boer attack
was beaten back. A number of them had escaped, however, through the
opening which they had cleared, and it was conjectured that the
wonderful De Wet was among them. How fierce was the storm which had
broken on the New-Zealanders may be shown by their roll of twenty
killed and forty wounded, while thirty dead Boers were picked up in
front of their picket line.  Of eight New Zealand officers seven are
reported to have been hit, an even higher proportion than that which
the same gallant race endured at the battle of Rhenoster Kop more than
a year before.

It was feared at first that the greater part of the Boers migbt have
escaped upon this night of the 23rd, when Manie Botha's storming party
burst through the ranks of the New-Zealanders.  It was soon discovered
that this was not so, and the columns as they closed in had evidence
from the numerous horsemen who scampered aimlessly over the hills in
front of them that the main body of the enemy was still in the toils.
The advance was in tempestuous weather and over rugged country, but
the men were filled with eagerness, and no precaution was neglected to
keep the line intact.

This time their efforts were crowned with considerable success. A
second attempt was made by the corraled burghers to break out on the
night of February 26th, but it was easily repulsed by Nixon.  The task
of the troopers as the cordon drew south was more and more difficult,
and there were places traversed upon the Natal border where an alpen
stock would have been a more useful adjunct than a horse.  At six
o'clock on the morning of the 27th came the end.  Two Boers appeared
in front of the advancing line of the Imperial Light Horse and held up
a flag.  They proved to be Truter and De Jager, ready to make terms
for their commando.  The only terms offered were absolute surrender
within the hour.  The Boers had been swept into a very confined space,
which was closely hemmed in by troops, so that any resistance must
have ended in a tragedy. Fortunately there was no reason for desperate
councils in their case, since they did not fight as Lotter had done,
with the shadow of judgment hanging over him.  The burghers piled
arms, and all was over.

The total number captured in this important drive was 780 men,
including several leaders, one of whom was De Wet's own son.  It was
found that De Wet himself had been among those who had got away
through the picket lines on the night of the 23rd. Most of the
commando were Transvaalers, and it was typical of the wide sweep of
the net that many of them were the men who had been engaged against
the 28th Mounted Infantry in the district south of Johannesburg upon
the 12th of the same month.  The loss of 2,000 horses and 50,000
cartridges meant as much as that of the men to the Boer army. It was
evident that a few more such blows would clear the Orange River Colony
altogether.

The wearied troopers were allowed little rest, for in a couple of days
after their rendezvous at Harrismith they were sweeping back again to
pick up all that they had missed.  This drive, which was over the same
ground, but sweeping backwards towards the Heilbron-Wolvehoek line,
ended in the total capture of 147 of the enemy, who were picked out of
holes, retrieved from amid the reeds of the river, called down out of
trees, or otherwise collected.  So thorough were the operations that
it is recorded that the angle which formed the apex of the drive was
one drove of game upon the last day, all the many types of antelope,
which form one of the characteristics and charms of the country,
having been herded into it.

More important even than the results of the drive was the discovery of
one of De Wet's arsenals in a cave in the Vrede district.  Half-way
down a precipitous krantz, with its mouth covered by creepers, no
writer of romance could have imagined a more fitting headquarters for
a guerilla chief.  The find was made by Ross's Canadian Scouts, who
celebrated Dominion Day by this most useful achievement.  Forty
wagon-loads of ammunition and supplies were taken out of the cave De
Wet was known to have left the north-east district, and to have got
across the railway, travelling towards the Vaal as if it were his
intention to join De la Rey in the Transvaal.  The Boer resistance had
suddenly become exceedingly energetic in that part, and several
important actions had been fought, to which we will presently turn.

Before doing so it would be as well to bring the chronicle of events
in the Orange River Colony down to the conclusion of peace. There were
still a great number of wandering Boers in the northern districts and
in the frontier mountains, who were assiduously, but not always
successfully, hunted down by the British troops.  Much arduous and
useful work was done by several small columns, the Colonial Horse and
the Artillery Mounted Rifles especially distinguishing themselves.
The latter corps, formed from the gunners whose field-pieces were no
longer needed, proved themselves to be a most useful body of men; and
the British gunner, when he took to carrying his gun, vindicated the
reputation which he had won when his gun had carried him.

>From the 1st to the 4th of May a successful drive was conducted by
many columns in the often harried but never deserted Lindley-Kroonstad
district.  The result was propitious, as no fewer than 321 prisoners
were brought in.  Of these, 150 under Mentz were captured in one body
as they attempted to break through the encircling cordon.

Amid many small drives and many skirmishes, one stands out for its
severity. It is remarkable as being the last action of any importance
in the campaign. This was the fight at Moolman's Spruit, near
Ficksburg, upon April 20th, 1902.  A force of about one hundred
Yeomanry and forty Mounted Infantry (South Staffords) was despatched
by night to attack an isolated farm in which a small body of Boers was
supposed to be sleeping.  Colonel Perceval was in command.  The farm
was reached after a difficult march, but the enemy were found to have
been forewarned, and to be in much greater strength than was
anticipated. A furious fire was opened on the advancing troops, who
were clearly visible ill the light of a full moon.  Sir Thomas Fowler
was killed and several men of the Yeomanry were hit. The British
charged up to the very walls, but were unable to effect an entrance,
as the place was barricaded and loopholed.  Captain Blackwood, of the
Staffords, was killed in the attack. Finding that the place was
impregnable, and that the enemy outnumbered him, Colonel Perceval gave
the order to retire, a movement which was only successfully carried
out because the greater part of the Boer horses had been shot.  By
morning the small British force had extricated itself, from its
perilous position with a total loss of six killed, nineteen wounded,
and six missing.  The whole affair was undoubtedly a cleverly planned
Boer ambush, and the small force was most fortunate in escaping
destruction.

One other isolated incident may be mentioned here, though it occurred
far away in the Vryheid district of the Transvaal.  This was the
unfortunate encounter between Zulus and Boers by which the latter lost
over fifty of their numbers under deplorable circumstances. This
portion of the Transvaal has only recently been annexed, and is
inhabited by warlike Zulus, who are very different from the debased
Kaffirs of the rest of the country.  These men had a blood-feud
against the Boers, which was embittered by the fact that they had lost
heavily through Boer depredations. Knowing that a party of fifty-nine
men were sleeping in a farmhouse, the Zulus crept on to it and
slaughtered every man of the inmates.  Such an incident is much to be
regretted, and yet, looking back upon the long course of the war, and
remembering the turbulent tribes who surrounded the combatants --
Swazis, Basutos, and Zulus -- we may well congratulate ourselves that
we have been able to restrain those black warriors, and to escape the
brutalities and the bitter memories of a barbarian invasion.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

DE LA REY'S CAMPAIGN OF 1902


IT will be remembered that at the close of 1901 Lord Methuen and
Colonel Kekewich had both come across to the eastern side of their
district and made their base at the railway line in the Klerksdorp
section.  Their position was strengthened by the fact that a
blockhouse cordon now ran from Klerksdorp to Ventersdorp, and from
Ventersdorp to Potchefstroom, so that this triangle could be
effectively controlled.  There remained, however, a huge tract of
difficult country which was practically in the occupation of the
enemy.  Several thousand stalwarts were known to be riding with De la
Rey and his energetic lieutenant Kemp.  The strenuous operations of
the British in the Eastern Transvaal and in the Orauge River Colony
had caused this district to be comparatively neglected, and so
everything was in favour of an aggressive movement of the Boers.
There was a long lull after the unsuccessful attack upon Kekewich's
camp at Moedwill, but close observers of the war distrusted this
ominous calm and expected a storm to follow.

The new year found the British connecting Ventersdorp with Tafelkop by
a blockhouse line.  The latter place had been a centre of Boer
activity.  Colonel Hickie's column covered this operation.  Meanwhile
Methuen had struck across through Wolmaranstad as far as Vryburg.
In these operations, which resulted in constant small captures, he was
assisted by a column under Major Paris working from Kimberley. From
Vryburg Lord Methuen made his way in the middle of January to
Lichtenburg, meeting with a small rebuff in the neighbourhood of that
town, for a detachment of Yeomanry was overwhelmed by General
Celliers, who killed eight, wounded fifteen, and captured forty. From
Lichtenburg Lord Methuen continued his enormous trek, and arrived on
February 1st at Klerksdorp once more.  Little rest was given to his
hard-worked troops, and they were sent off again within the week under
the command of Von Donop, with the result that on February 8th, near
Wolmaranstad, they captured Potgieter's laager with forty Boer
prisoners. Von Donop remained at Wolmaranstad until late in FebruaTy;
On the 23rd he despatched an empty convoy back to Klerksdorp, the fate
of which will be afterwards narrated.

Kekewich and Hickie had combined their forces at the beginning of
February.  On February 4th an attempt was made by them to surprise
General De la Rey.  The mounted troops who were despatched under Major
Leader failed in this enterprise, but they found and overwhelmed the
laager of Sarel Alberts, capturing 132 prisoners.  By stampeding the
horses the Boer retreat was cut off, and the attack was so furiously
driven home, especialy by the admirable Scottish Horse, that few of
the enemy got away.  Alberts himself with all his officers were among
the prisoners.  From this time until the end of February this column
was not seriously engaged.

It has been stated above that on February 23rd Von Donop sent in an
empty convoy from Wolmaranstad to Klerksdorp, a distance of about
fifty miles.  Nothing bad been heard for some time of De la Rey, but he
had called together his men and was waiting to bring off some coup.
The convoy gave him the very opportunity for which he sought.

The escort of the convoy consisted of the 5th Imperial Yeomanry, sixty
of Paget's Horse, three companies of the ubiquitous Northumberland
Fusiliers, two guns of the 4th R.F.A., and a pom-pom, amounting in all
to 630 men.  Colonel Anderson was in command. On the morning of
Tuesday, February 25th, the convoy was within ten miles of its
destination, and the sentries on the kopjes round the town could see
the gleam of the long line of white-tilted wagons. Their hazardous
voyage was nearly over, and yet they were destined to most complete
and fatal wreck within sight of port.  So confident were they that the
detachment of Paget's Horse was permitted to ride on the night before
into the town.  It was as well, for such a handful would have shared
and could not have averted the disaster.

The night had been dark and wet, and the Boers under cover of it had
crept between the sleeping convoy and the town.  Some bushes which
afford excellent cover lie within a few hundred yards of the road, and
here the main ambush was laid. In the first grey of the morning the
long line of the convoy, 130 wagons in all, came trailing past-guns
and Yeomanry in front, Fusiliers upon the flanks and rear.  Suddenly
the black bank of scrub was outlined in flame, and a furious rifle
fire was opened upon the head of the column. The troops behaved
admirably under most difficult circumstances. A counter-attack by the
Fusiliers and some of the Yeomanry, under cover of shrapnel from the
guns, drove the enemy out of the scrub and silenced his fire at this
point.  It was evident, however, that he was present in force, for
firing soon broke out along the whole left flank, and the rearguard
found itself as warmly attacked as the van. Again, bowever, the
assailants were driven off.  It was now broad daylight, and the
wagons, which had got into great confusion in the first turmoil of
battle, had been remarshalled and arranged. It was Colonel Anderson's
hope that he might be able to send them on into safety while he with
the escort covered their retreat.  His plan was certainly the best
one, and if it did not succeed it was due to nothing which he could
avert, but to the nature of the ground and the gallantry of the enemy.

The physical obstacle consisted in a very deep and difficult spruit,
the Jagd Spruit, which forms an ugly passage in times of peace, but
which when crowded and choked with stampeding mules and splintering
wagons, under their terrified conductors, soon became impassable. Here
the head of the column was clubbed and the whole line came to a stand.
Meanwhile the enemy, adopting their new tactics, came galloping in on
the left flank I and on the rear.  The first attack was repelled by
the steady fire of the Fusiliers, but on the second occasion the
horsemen got up to the wagons, and galloping down them were able to
overwhelm in detail the little knots of soldiers who were scattered
along the flank.  The British, who were outnumbered by at least three
to one, made a stout resistance, and it was not until seven o'clock
that the last shot was fired.  The result was a complete success to
the burghers, but one which leaves no shadow of discredit on any
officer or man among those who were engaged. Eleven officers and 176
men fell out of about 550 actually engaged.  The Boers, so the teams
were shot and the wagons burned before they withdrew.  The prisoners
too, they were unable to retain, and their sole permanent trophies
consisted of the two guns, the rifles, and the ammunition. Their own
losses amounted to about fifty killed and wounded.

A small force sallied out from Klerksdorp in the hope of helping
Anderson, but on reaching the Jagd Drift it was found that the
fighting was over and that the field was in possession of the
Boers. De la Rey was seen in person among the burghers, and it is
pleasant to add that he made himself conspicuous by his humanity to
the wounded. His force drew off in the course of the morning, and was
soon out of reach of immediate pursuit, though this was attempted by
Kekewich, Von Donop, and Grenfell.  It was important to regain the
guns if possible, as they were always a menace to the blockhouse
system, and for this purpose Grenfell with sixteen hundred horsemen
was despatched to a point south of Lichtenburg, which was conjectured
to be upon the Boer line of retreat.  At the same time Lord Methuen
was ordered up from Vryburg in order to cooperate in this movement,
and to join his forces to those of Grenfell.  It was obvious that with
an energetic and resolute adversary like De la Rey there was great
danger of these two forces being taken in detail, but it was hoped
that each was strong enough to hold its own until the other could come
to its aid.  The result was to show that the danger was real and the
hope fallacious.

It was on March 2nd that Methuen left Vryburg. The column was not his
old one, consisting of veterans of the trek, but was the Kimberley
column under Major Paris, a body of men who bad seen much less service
and were in every way less reliable.  It included a curious mixture of
units, the most solid of which were four guns (two of the 4th, and two
of the 38th R.F.A.), 200 Northumberland Fusiliers, and 100 Loyal North
Lancashires.  The mounted men included 5th Imperial Yeomanry (184),
Cape Police (233), Cullinan's Horse (64), 86th Imperial Yeomanry
(110), Diamond Fields Horse (92), Dennison' s Scouts (58), Ashburner's
Horse (126), and British South African Police (24).  Such a collection
of samples would be more in place, one would imagine, in a London
procession than in an operation which called for discipline and
cohesion.  In warfare the half is often greater than the whole, and
the presence of a proportion of halfhearted and inexperienced men may
be a positive danger to their more capable companions.

Upon March 6th Methuen, marching east towards Lichtenburg, came in
touch near Leeuwspruit with Van Zyl's commando, and learned in the
small skirmish which ensued that some of his Yeomanry were unreliable
and ill-instructed.  Having driven the enemy off by his artillery
fire, Methuen moved to Tweebosch, where he laagered until next
morning.  At 3 A.M. of the 7th the ox-convoy was sent on, under escort
of half of his little force.  The other half followed at 4.20, 50 as
to give the slow-moving oxen a chance of keeping ahead.  It was
evident, however, immediately after the column had got started that
the enemy were all round in great numbers, and that an attack in force
was to be expected.  Lord Methuen gave orders therefore that the
ox-wagons should be halted and that the mule-transport should close
upon them so as to form one solid block, instead of a straggling line.
At the same time he reinforced his rearguard with mounted men and with
two guns, for it was in that quarter that the enemy appeared to be
most numerous and aggressive.  An attack was also developing upon the
right flank, which was held off by the infantry and by the second
section of the guns.

It has been said that Methuen's horsemen were for the most part
inexperienced irregulars.  Such men become in time excellent soldiers,
as all this campaign bears witness, but it is too much to expose them
to a severe ordeal in the open field when they are still raw and
untrained.  As it happened, this particular ordeal was exceedingly
severe, but nothing can excuse the absolute failure of the troops
concerned to rise to the occasion.  Had Methuen's rearguard consisted
of Imperial Light Horse, or Scottish Horse, it is safe to say that the
battle of Tweebosch would have had a very different ending.

What happened was that a large body of Boers formed up in five lines
and charged straight home at the rear screen and rearguard, firing
from their saddles as they had done at Brakenlaagte.  The sight of
those wide-flung lines of determined men galloping over the plain
seems to have been too much for the nerves of the unseasoned troopers.
A panic spread through their ranks, and in an instant they had turned
their horses' heads and were thundering to their rear, leaving the two
guns uncovered and streaming in wild confusion past the left flank of
the jeering infantry who were lying round the wagons.  The limit of
their flight seems to have been the wind of their horses, and most of
them never drew rein until they had placed many miles between
themselves and the comrades whom they had deserted.  ' It was
pitiable,' says an eye-witness, 'to see the grand old General begging
them to stop, but they would not; a large body of them arrived in
Kraaipan without firing a shot,' It was a South African 'Battle of the
Spurs,'

By this defection of the greater portion of the force the handful of
brave men who remained were left in a hopeless position.  The two guns
of the 38th battery were overwhelmed and ridden over by the Boer
horsemen, every man being killed or wounded, including Lieutenant
Nesham, who acted up to the highest traditions of his corps.

The battle, however, was not yet over.  The infantry were few in
number, but they were experienced troops, and they maintained the
struggle for some hours in the face of overwhelming numbers.  Two
hundred of the Northumberland Fusiliers lay round the wagons and held
the Boers off from their prey. With them were the two remaining guns,
which were a mark for a thousand Boer riflemen.  It was while
encouraging by his presence and example the much-tried gunners of this
section that the gallant Methuen was wounded by a bullet which broke
the bone of his thigh.  Lieutenant Venning and all the detachment fell
with their General round the guns.

An attempt had been made to rally some of the flying troopers at a
neighbouring kraal, and a small body of Cape Police and Yeomanry under
the command of Major Paris held out there for some hours.  A hundred
of the Lancashire Infantry aided them in their stout defence.  But the
guns taken by the Boers from Von Donop's convoy had free play now that
the British guns were out of action, and they were brought to bear
with crushing effect upon both the kraal and the wagons. Further
resistance meant a useless slaughter, and orders were given for a
surrender.  Convoy, ammunition, guns, horses -- nothing was saved
except the honour of the infantry and the gunners.  The losses, 68
killed and 121 wounded, fell chiefly upon these two branches of the
service.  There were 205 unwounded prisoners.

This, the last Boer victory in the war, reflected equal credit upon
their valour and humanity, qualities which had not always gone hand in
hand in our experience of them.  Courtesy and attention were extended
to the British wounded, and Lord Methuen was sent under charge of his
chief medical officer, Colonel Townsend (the doctor as severely
wounded as the patient), into Klerksdorp.  In De la Rey we have always
found an opponent who was as chivalrous as he was formidable. The
remainder of the force reached the Kimberley-Mafeking railway line in
the direction of Kraaipan, the spot where the first bloodshed of the
war had occurred some twenty-nine months before.

On Lord Methuen himself no blame can rest for this unsuccessful
action.  If the workman's tool snaps in his hand he cannot be held
responsible for the failure of his task.  The troops who misbehaved
were none of his training.  'If you hear anyone slang him,' says one
of his men, 'you are to tell them that he is the finest General and
the truest gentleman that ever fought in this war.'  Such was the tone
of his own troopers, and such also that of the spokesmen of the nation
when they commented upon the disaster in the Houses of Parliament.  It
was a fine example of British justice and sense of fair play, even in
that bitter moment, that to hear his eulogy one would have thought
that the occasion had been one when thanks were being returned for a
victory.  It is a generous public with fine instincts, and Paul
Methuen, wounded and broken, still remained in their eyes the heroic
soldier and the chivalrous man of honour.

The De Wet country had been pretty well cleared by the series of
drives which have already been described, and Louis Botha's force in
the Eastern Transvaal had been much diminished by the tactics of Bruce
Hamilton and Wools-Sampson.  Lord Kitchener was able, therefore, to
concentrate his troops and his attention upon that wide-spread western
area in which General De la Rey had dealt two such shrewd blows within
a few weeks of each other.  Troops were rapidly concentrated at
Klerksdorp.  Kekewich, Walter Kitchener, Rawlinson, and Rochfort, with
a number of small columns, were ready in the third week of March to
endeavour to avenge Lord Methuen.

The problem with which Lord Kitchener was confronted was a very
difficult one, and he has never shown more originality and audacity
than in the fashion in which he handled it.  De la Rey's force was
scattered over a long tract of country, capable of rapidly
concentrating for a blow, but otherwise as intangible and elusive as a
phantom army.  Were Lord Kitchener simply to launch ten thousand
horsemen at him, the result would be a weary ride over illimitable
plains without sight of a Boer, unless it were a distant scout upon
the extreme horizon.  Delarey and his men would have slipped away to
his northern hiding-places beyond the Marico River.  There was no
solid obstacle here, as in the Orange River Colony, against which the
flying enemy could be rounded up.  One line of blockhouses there was,
it is true -- the one called the Schoonspruit cordon, which flanked
the De la Rey country.  It flanked it, however, upon the same side as
that on which the troops were assembled.  If the troops were only on
the other side, and De la Rey was between them and the blockhouse
line, then, indeed, something might be done.  But to place the troops
there, and then bring them instantly back again, was to put such a
strain upon men and horses as had never yet been done upon a large
scale in the course of the war.  Yet Lord Kitchener knew the mettle of
the men whom he commanded, and he was aware that there were no
exertions of which the human frame is capable which he might not
confidently demand.

The precise location of the Boer laagers does not appear to have been
known, but it was certain that a considerable number of them were
scattered about thirty miles or so to the west of Klerksdorp and the
Shoonspruit line.  The plan was to march a British force right through
them, then spread out into a wide line and come straight back, driving
the burghers on to the cordon of blockhouses, which had been
strengthened by the arrival of three regiments of Highlanders.  But to
get to the o~her side of the Boers it was necessary to march the
columns through by night.  It was a hazardous operation, but the
secret was well kept, and the movement was so well carried out that
the enemy had no time to check it.  On the night of Sunday, March
23rd, the British horsemen passed stealthily in column through the
Delarey country, and then, spreading out into a line, which from the
left wing at Lichtenburg to the right wing at Commando Drift measured
a good eighty miles, they proceeded to sweep back upon their traces.
In order to reach their positions the columns had, of course, started
at different points of the British blockhouse line, and some had a
good deal farther to go than others, while the southern extension of
the line was formed by Bochfort's troops, who had moved up from the
Vaal.  Above him from south to north came Walter Kitchener, Rawlinson,
and Kekewich in the order named.


On the morning of Monday, March 24th, a line of eighty miles of
horsemen, without guns or transport, was sweeping back towards the
blockhouses, while the country between was filled with scattered
parties of Boers who were seeking for gaps by which to escape. It was
soon learned from the first prisoners that De la Rey was not within
the cordon.  His laager had been some distance farther west.  But the
sight of fugitive horsemen rising and dipping over the rolling veldt
assured the British that they had something within their net. The
catch was, however, by no means as complete as might have been
desired. Three hundred men in khaki slipped through between the two
columns in the early morning. Another large party escaped to the south
wards.  Some of the Boers adopted extraordinary devices in order to
escape from the ever-narrowing cordon.  'Three, in charge of some
cattle, buried themselves, and left a small hole to breathe through
with a tube.  Some men began to probe with bayonets in the new.turned
earth and got immediate and vociferous subterranean yells.  Another
man tried the same game and a horse stepped on him.  He writhed and
reared the horse, and practically the horse found the prisoner for
us.'  But the operations achieved one result, which must have lifted a
load of anxiety from Lord Kitchener's mind. Three fifteen-pounders,
two pom-poms, and a large amount of ammunition were taken.  To
Kekewich and the Scottish Horse fell the honour of the capture,
Colonel Wools-Sampson and Captain Rice heading the charge and pursuit.
By this means the constant menace to the blockhouses was lessened, if
not entirely removed. One hundred and seventy-five Boers were disposed
of, nearly all as prisoners, and a considerable quantity of transport
was captured.  In this operation the troops had averaged from seventy
to eighty miles in twenty-six hours without change of horses.  To such
a point had the slow-moving ponderous British Army attained after two
years' training of that stern drill-master, necessity.

The operations had attained some success, but nothing commensurate
with the daring of the plan or the exertions of the soldiers.  Without
an instant's delay, however, Lord Kitchener struck a second blow at
his enemy.  Before the end of March Kekewich, Rawlinson, and Walter
Kitchener were all upon the trek once more.  Their operations were
pushed farther to the west than in the last drive, since it was known
that on that occasion De la Rey and his main commando had been outside
the cordon.

It was to one of Walter Kitchener's lieutenants that the honour fell
to come in direct contact with the main force of the burghers.  This
General had moved out to a point about forty miles west of Klerksdorp.
Forming his laager there, he despatched Cookson on March 30th with
seventeen hundred men to work further westward in the direction of the
Harts River.  Under Cookson's immediate command were the 2nd Canadian
Mounted Infantry, Damant's Horse, and four guns of the 7th R.F.A.  His
lieutenant, Keir, commanded the 28th Mounted Infantry, the Artillery
Mounted Rifles, and 2nd Kitchener's Fighting Scouts.  The force was
well mounted, and carried the minimum of baggage.

It was not long before this mobile force found itself within touch of
the enemy.  The broad weal made by the passing of a convoy set them
off at full cry, and they were soon encouraged by the distant cloud of
dust which shrouded the Boer wagons.  The advance guard of the column
galloped at the top of their speed for eight miles, and closed in upon
the convoy, but found themselves faced by an escort of five hundred
Boers, who fought a clever rearguard action, and covered their charge
with great skill.  At the same time Cookson closed in upon his mounted
infantry, while on the other side Delarey's main force fell back in
order to reinforce the escort.  British and Boers were both riding
furiously to help their own comrades. The two forces were fairly face
to face.

Perceiving that he was in front of the whole Boer army, and knowing
that he might expect reinforcements, Cookson decided to act upon the
defensive. A position was rapidly taken up along the Brakspruit, and
preparations made to resist the impending attack.  The line of defence
was roughly the line of the spruit, but for some reason, probably to
establish a cross fire, one advanced position was occupied upon either
flank.  On the left flank was a farmhouse, which was held by two
hundred men of the Artillery Rifles.  On the extreme right was another
outpost of twenty-four Canadians and forty-five Mounted Infantry.
They occupied no defensible position, and their situation was
evidently a most dangerous one, only to be justified by some strong
military reason which is not explained by any account of the action.

The Boer guns had opened fire, and considerable bodies of the enemy
appeared upon the flanks and in front.  Their first efforts were
devoted towards getting possession of the farmhouse, which would give
them a POINT D'APPUI from which they could turn the whole line.  Some
five hundred of them charged on horseback, but.were met by a very
steady fire from the Artillery Rifles, while the guns raked them with
shrapnel.  They reached a point within five hundred yards of the
building, but the fire was too hot, and they wheeled round in rapid
retreat. Dismounting in a mealie-patch they skirmished up towards the
farmhouse once more, but they were again checked by the fire of the
defenders and by a pompom which Colonel Keir had brought up. No
progress whatever was made by the attack in this quarter.

In the meantime the fate which might have been foretold had befallen
the isolated detachment of Canadians and 28th Mounted Infantry upon
the extreme right.  Bruce Carruthers, the Canadian officer in command,
behaved with the utmost gallantry, and was splendidly seconded by his
men. Overwhelmed by vastly superior numbers, amid a perfect hail of
bullets they fought like heroes to the end.  'There have been few
finer instances of heroism in the course of the campaign,' says the
reticent Kitchener in his official despatch.  Of the Canadians
eighteen were hit out of twenty-one, and the Mounted Infantry hard by
lost thirty out of forty-five before they surrendered.

This advantage gained upon the right flank was of no assistance to the
Boers in breaking the British line. The fact that it was so makes it
the more difficult to understand why this outpost was so exposed.  The
burghers had practically surrounded Cookson's force, and De la Rey and
Kemp urged on the attack; buL~ their artillery fire was dominated by
the British guns, and no weak point could be found in the defence. At
1 o'clock the attack had been begun, and at 5.30 it was finally
abandoned, and Delarey was in full retreat. That he was in no sense
routed is shown by the fact that Cookson did not attempt to follow him
up or to capture his guns; but at least he had failed in his purpose,
and had lost more heavily than in any engagement which he had yet
fought. The moral effect of his previous victories had also been
weakened, and his burghers had learned, if they had illusions upon the
subject, that the men who fled at Tweebosch were not typical troopers
of the British Army.  Altogether, it was a well-fought and useful
action, though it cost the British force some two hundred casualties,
of which thirty-five were fatal.  Cookson's force stood to arms all
night mitil the arrival of Walter Kitchener's men in the morning.

General Ian Hamilton, who had acted for some time as Chief of the
Staff to Lord Kitchener, had arrived on April 8th at Klerksdorp to
take supreme command of the whole operations against De la Rey.  Early
in April the three main British columns had made a rapid cast round
without success.  To the very end the better intelligence and the
higher mobility seem to have remained upon the side of the Boers, who
could always force a fight when Lhey wished and escape when they
wished.  Occasionally, however, they forced one at the wrong time, as
in the instance which I am about to describe.

Hamilton had planned a drive to cover the southern portion of
Delarey's country, and for this purpose, with Hartebeestefontein for
his centre, he was manoeuvring his columns so as to swing them into
line and then sweep back towards Klerksdorp.  Kekewich, Rawlinson, and
Walter Kitchener were all manoeuvring for this purpose.  The Boers,
however, game to the last, although they were aware that their leaders
had gone in to treat, and that peace was probably due within a few
days, determined to have one last gallant fall with a British column.
The forces of Kekewich were the farthest to the westward, and also, as
the burghers thought, the most isolated, and it was upon them,
accordingly, that the attack was made.  In the morning of April 11th,
at a place called Rooiwal, the enemy, who had moved up from
Wolmaranstad, nineteen hundred strong, under Kemp and Vermaas, fell
with the utmost impetuosity upon the British column.  There was no
preliminary skirmishing, and a single gallant charge by 1,500 Boers
both opened and ended the engagement.  'I was just saying to the staff
officer that there were no Boers within twenty miles,' says one who
was present, 'when we heard a roar of musketry and saw a lot of men
galloping down on us.'  The British were surprised but not shaken by
this unexpected apparition.  'I never saw a more splendid attack.
They kept a distinct line,' says the eye-witness.  Another spectator
says, 'They came on in one long line four deep and knee to knee.' It
was an old-fashioned cavalry charge, and the fact that it got as far
as it did shows that we have over rated the stopping power of modern
rifles.  They came for a good five hundred yards under direct fire,
and were only turned within a hundred of the British line.  The
Yeomanry, the Scottish Horse, and the Constabulary poured a steady
fire upon the advancing wave of horsemen, and the guns opened with
case at two hundred yards.  The Boers were stopped, staggered, and
turned. Their fire, or rather the covering fire of those who had not
joined in the charge, had caused some fifty casualties, but their own
losses were very much more severe. The fierce Potgieter fell just in
front of the British guns. 'Thank goodness he is dead! ' cried one of
his wounded burghers, 'for he sjamboked me into the firing line this
morning.'  Fifty dead and a great number of wounded were left upon the
field of battle.  Rawlinson's column came up on Kekewich's left, and
the Boer flight became a rout, for they were chased for twenty miles,
and their two guns were captured.  It was a brisk and decisive little
engagement, and it closed the Western campaign, leaving the last
trick, as well as the game, to the credit of the British.  From this
time until the end there was a gleaning of prisoners but little
fighting in De la Rey's country, the most noteworthy event being a
surprise visit to Schweizer-Renecke by Rochfort, by which some sixty
prisoners were taken, and afterwards the drive of Ian Hamilton's
forces against the Mafeking railway line by which no fewer than 364
prisoners were secured. In this difficult and well-managed operation
the gaps between the British columns were concealed by the lighting of
long veldt-fires and the discharge of rifles by scattered scouts. The
newly arrived Australian Commonwealth Regiments gave a brilliant start
to the military history of their united country by the energy of their
marching and the thoroughness of their entrenching.

Upon May 29th, only two days before the final declaration of peace, a
raid was made by a few Boers upon the native cattle reserves near
Fredericstad. A handful of horsemen pursued them, and were ambushed by
a considerable body of the enemy in some hilly country ten miles from
the British lines.  Most of the pursuers got away in safety, but young
Sutherland, second lieutenant of the Seaforths, and only a few months
from Eton, found himself separated from his horse and in a hopeless
position.  Scorning to surrender, the lad actually fought his way upon
foot for over a mile before he was shot down by the horsemen who
circled round him. Well might the Boer commander declare that in the
whole course of the war he had seen no finer example of British
courage.  It is indeed sad that at this last instant a young life
should be thrown away, but Sutherland died in a noble fashion for a
noble cause, and many inglorious years would be a poor substitute for
the example and tradition which such a death will leave behind.

CHAPTER XXXIX
THE END


It only remains in one short chapter to narrate the progress of the
peace negotiations, the ultimate settlement, and the final
consequences of this long-drawn war. However disheartening the
successive incidents may have been in which the Boers were able to
inflict heavy losses upon us and to renew their supplies of arms and
ammunition, it was none the less certain that their numbers were
waning and that the inevitable end was steadily approaching. With
mathematical precision the scientific soldier in Pretoria, with his
web of barbed wire radiating out over the whole country, was week by
week wearing them steadily down.  And yet after the recent victory of
De la Rey and various braggadocio pronouncements from the refugees at
The Hague, it was somewhat of a surprise to the British public when it
was announced upon March 22nd that the acting Government of the
Transvaal, consisting of Messrs. Schalk Burger, Lucas Meyer, Reitz,
Jacoby, Krogh, and Van Velden had come into Middelburg and requested
to be forwarded by train to Pretoria for the purpose of discussing
terms of peace with Lord Kitchener.  A thrill of hope ran through the
Empire at the news, but so doubtful did the issue seem that none of
the preparations were relaxed which would ensure a vigorous campaign
in the immediate future.  In the South African as in the Peninsular
and in the Crimean wars, it may truly be said that Great Britain was
never so ready to fight as at the dawning of peace.  At least two
years of failure and experience are needed to turn a civilian and
commercial nation into a military power.

In spite of the optimistic pronouncements of Mr. Fischer and the
absurd forecasts of Dr. Leyds the power of the Boers was really
broken, and they had come in with the genuine intention of surrender.
In a race with such individuality.it was not enough that the
government should form its conclusion.  It was necessary for them to
persuade their burghers that the game was really up, and that they had
no choice but to throw down their well-worn rifles and their
ill-filled bandoliers. For this purpose a long series of negotiations
had to be entered into which put a strain upon the complacency of the
authorities in South Africa and upon the patience of the attentive
public at home.  Their ultimate success shows that this complacency
and this patience were eminantly the right attitude to adopt.

On March 23rd the Transvaal representatives were despatched to
Kroonstad for the purpose of opening up the matter with Steyn and De
Wet.  Messengers were sent to communicate with these two leaders, but
had they been British columns instead of fellow-countrymen they could
not have found greater difficulty in running them to earth.  At last,
however, at the end of the month the message was conveyed, and
resulted in the appearance of De Wet, De la Rey, and Steyn at the
British outposts at Klerksdorp.  The other delegates had come north
again from Kroonstad, and all were united in the same small town,
which, by a whimsical fate, had suddenly become the centre both for
the making of peace and for the prosecution of the war, with the eyes
of the whole world fixed upon its insignificant litter of houses.  On
April 11th, after repeated conferences, both parties moved on to
Pretoria, and the most sceptical observers began to confess that there
was something in the negotiations after all. After conferring with
Lord Kitchener the Boer leaders upon April 18th left Pretoria again
and rode out to the commandos to explain the situation to them.  The
result of this mission was that two delegates were chosen from each
body in the field, who assembled at Vereeniging upon May 15th for the
purpose of settling the question by vote.  Never was a high matter of
state decided in so democratic a fashion.

Up to that period the Boer leaders had made a succession of tentative
suggestions, each of which had been put aside by the British
Government.  Their first had been that they should merely concede
those points which had been at issue at the beginning of the war. This
was set aside.  The second was that they should be allowed to consult
their friends in Europe.  This also was refused.  The next was that an
armistice should be granted, but again Lord Kitchener was obdurate.  A
definite period was suggested within which the burghers should make
their final choice between surrender and a war which must finally
exterminate them as a people.  It was tacitly understood, if not
definitely promised, that the conditions which the British Government
would be prepared to grant would not differ much in essentials from
those which had been refused by the Boers a twelvemonth before, after
the Middelburg interview.

On May 15th the Boer conference opened at Vereeniging.  Sixty-four
delegates from the commandos met with the military and political
chiefs of the late republics, the whole amounting to 150 persons.  A
more singular gathering has not met in our time.  There was Botha, the
young lawyer, who had found himself by a strange turn of fate
commanding a victorious army in a great war.  De Wet was there, with
his grim mouth and sun-browned face; De la Rey, also, with the
grizzled beard and the strong aquiline features.  There, too, were the
politicians, the grey-bearded, genial Reitz, a little graver than when
he looked upon 'the whole matter as an immense joke,' and the
unfortunate Steyn, stumbling and groping, a broken and ruined man.
The burly Lucas Meyer, smart young Smuts fresh from the siege of
Ookiep, Beyers from the north, Kemp the dashing cavalry leader, Muller
the hero of many fights -- all these with many others of their
sun-blackened, gaunt, hard-featured comrades were grouped within the
great tent of Vereeniging.  The discussions were heated and
prolonged. But the logic of facts was inexorable, and the cold still
voice of common-sense had more power than all the ravings of
enthusiasts.  The vote showed that the great majority of the delegates
were in favour of surrender upon the terms offered by the British
Government.  On May 81st this resolution was notified to Lord
Kitchener, and at half-past ten of the same night the delegates
arrived at Pretoria and set their names to the treaty of peace.  After
two years seven and a half months of hostilities the Dutch republics
had acquiesced in their own destruction, and the whole of South
Africa, from Cape Town to the Zambesi, had been added to the British
Empire.  The great struggle had cost us twenty thousand lives and a
hundred thousand stricken men, with two hundred millions of money;
but, apart from a peaceful South Africa, it had won for us a national
resuscitation of spirit and a closer union with our great Colonies
which could in no other way have been attained. We had hoped that we
were a solid empire when we engaged in the struggle, hut we knew that
we were when we emerged from it. In that change lies an ample
recompense for all the blood and treasure spent.

The following were in brief the terms of surrender

1.      That the burghers lay down their arms and acknowledge themselves
        subjects of Edward VII.
2.	That all prisoners taking the oath of allegiance be returned.
3.	That their liberty and property be inviolate.
4.	That an amnesty be granted-save in special cases.
5.	That the Dutch language be allowed in schools and law-courts.
6.	That rifles be ~lowed if registered.
7.	That self-government be granted as soon as possible.
8.	That no fr~nchise be granted for natives until after self-governinent.
9.	That no special ~nd tax be levied.
10.	That the people be helped to reoccupy the farms.
11.	That £3,000,000 be given to help the farmers.
12.     That the rebels be disfranchised and their leaders tried, on
        condition that no death penalty be inflicted.

These terms were practically the same as those which had been refused
by Botha in March 1901. Thirteen months of useless warfare had left
the situation as it was.

It had been a war of surprises, but the surprises have unhappily been
hitherto invariably unpleasant ones.  Now at last the balance swung
the other way, for in all the long paradoxical history of South
African strife there is nothing more wonderful than the way in which
these two sturdy and unemotional races clasped hands the instant that
the fight was done. The fact is in itself a final answer to the
ill-natured critics of the Continent. Men do not so easily grasp a
hand which is reddened with the blood of women and children. From all
parts as the commandos. came in there was welcome news of the
fraternisation between them and the soldiers; while the Boer leaders,
as loyal to their new ties as they had been to their old ones, exerted
themselves to promote good feeling among their people.  A few weeks
seemed to do more to lessen racial bitterness than some of us had
hoped for in as many years.  One can but pray that it will last.

The surrenders amounted in all to twenty thousand men, and showed that
in all parts of the seat of war the enemy had more men in the field
than we had imagined, a fact which may take the sting out of several
of our later mishaps. About twelve thousand surrendered in the
Transvaal, six thousand in the Orange River Colony, and about two
thousand in the Cape olony, showing that the movement in the rebel
districts had always been more vexatious than formidable.  A
computation of the prisoners of war, the surrenders, the mercenaries,
and the casualties, shows that the total forces to which we were
opposed were certainly not fewer than seventy-five thousand well-armed
mounted men, while they may have considerably exceeded that number.
No wonder that the Boer leaders showed great confidence at the outset
of the war.

That the heavy losses caused us by the war were borne without a murmur
is surely evidence enough how deep was the conviction of the nation
that the war was not only just but essential -- that the possession of
South Africa and the unity of the Empire were at stake. Could it be
shown, or were it even remotely possible, that ministers had incurred
so immense a responsibility and entailed such tremendous sacrifices
upon their people without adequate cause, is it not certain that, the
task once done, an explosion of rage from the deceived and the
bereaved would have driven them for ever from public life? Among high
and low, in England, in Scotland, in Ireland, in the great Colonies,
how many high hopes had been crushed, how often the soldier son had
gone forth and never returned, or come back maimed and stricken in the
pride of his youth. Everywhere was the voice of pity and sorrow, but
nowhere that of reproach.  The deepest instincts of the nation told it
that it must fight and win, or for ever abdicate its position in the
world.  Through dark days which brought out the virtues of our race as
nothing has done in our generation, we struggled grimly on until the
light had fully broken once again.  And of all gifts that God has
given to Britain there is none to compare with those days of sorrow,
for it was in them that the nation was assured of its unity, and
learned for all time that blood is stronger to bind than salt water is
to part.  The only difference in the point of view of the Briton from
Britain and the Briton from the ends of the earth, was that the latter
with the energy of youth was more whole-souled in the Imperial cause.
Who has seen that Army and can forget it -- its spirit, its
picturesqueness -- above all, what it stands for in the future history
of the world? Cowboys from the vast plains of the North-West,
gentlemen who ride hard with the Quorn or the Belvoir, gillies from
the Sutherland deer-forests, bushmen from the back blocks of
Australia, exquisites of the Raleigh Club or the Bachelor's, hard men
from Ontario, dandy sportsmen from India and Ceylon, the horsemen of
New Zealand, the wiry South African irregulars -- these are the
Reserves whose existence was chronicled in no Blue-book, and whose
appearance came as a shock to the pedant soldiers of the Continent who
had sneered so long at our little Army, since long years of peace have
caused them to forget its exploits.  On the plains of South Africa, in
common danger and in common privation, the blood brotherhood of the
Empire was sealed.

So much for the Empire.  But what of South Africa?  There in the end
we must reap as we sow. If we are worthy of the trust, it will be left
to us.  If we are unworthy of it, it will be taken away. Kruger's
downfall should teach us that it is not rifles but Justice which is
the title-deed of a nation.  The British flag under our best
administrators will mean clean government, honest laws, liberty and
equality to all men.  So long as it continues to do so, we shall hold
South Africa. When, out of fear or out or greed, we fall from that
ideal, we may know that we are stricken with that disease which has
killed every great empire before us.





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This Project Gutenberg Etext Prepared by Shreevatsa R
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The Hound of the Baskervilles

by A. Conan Doyle




Chapter 1
Mr. Sherlock Holmes



Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings,
save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night,
was seated at the breakfast table.  I stood upon the hearth-rug
and picked up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the
night before.  It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed,
of the sort which is known as a "Penang lawyer."  Just under the
head was a broad silver band nearly an inch across.  "To James
Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.," was engraved
upon it, with the date "1884."  It was just such a stick as the
old-fashioned family practitioner used to carry--dignified, solid,
and reassuring.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"

Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no
sign of my occupation.

"How did you know what I was doing?  I believe you have eyes in
the back of your head."

"I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in
front of me," said he.  "But, tell me, Watson, what do you make
of our visitor's stick?  Since we have been so unfortunate as to
miss him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir
becomes of importance.  Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an
examination of it."

"I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods of my
companion, "that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical
man, well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark
of their appreciation."

"Good!" said Holmes.  "Excellent!"

"I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a
country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot."

"Why so?"

"Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been
so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner
carrying it.  The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident
that he has done a great amount of walking with it."

"Perfectly sound!" said Holmes.

"And then again, there is the 'friends of the C.C.H.'  I should
guess that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose
members he has possibly given some surgical assistance, and which
has made him a small presentation in return."

"Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing back
his chair and lighting a cigarette.  "I am bound to say that in
all the accounts which you have been so good as to give of my
own small achievements you have habitually underrated your own
abilities.  It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but
you are a conductor of light.  Some people without possessing
genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it.  I confess, my
dear fellow, that I am very much in your debt."

He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words
gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his
indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had
made to give publicity to his methods.  I was proud, too, to
think that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a
way which earned his approval.  He now took the stick from my
hands and examined it for a few minutes with his naked eyes.
Then with an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette,
and carrying the cane to the window, he looked over it again with
a convex lens.

"Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to his
favourite corner of the settee.  "There are certainly one or two
indications upon the stick.  It gives us the basis for several
deductions."

"Has anything escaped me?"  I asked with some self-importance.
"I trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have
overlooked?"

"I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were
erroneous.  When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be
frank, that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided
towards the truth.  Not that you are entirely wrong in this
instance.  The man is certainly a country practitioner.  And he
walks a good deal."

"Then I was right."

"To that extent."

"But that was all."

"No, no, my dear Watson, not all--by no means all.  I would
suggest, for example, that a presentation to a doctor is more
likely to come from a hospital than from a hunt, and that when
the initials 'C.C.' are placed before that hospital the words
'Charing Cross' very naturally suggest themselves."

"You may be right."

"The probability lies in that direction.  And if we take this as
a working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start
our construction of this unknown visitor."

"Well, then, supposing that 'C.C.H.' does stand for 'Charing Cross
Hospital,' what further inferences may we draw?"

"Do none suggest themselves?  You know my methods.  Apply them!"

"I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has
practised in town before going to the country."

"I think that we might venture a little farther than this.  Look
at it in this light.  On what occasion would it be most probable
that such a presentation would be made?  When would his friends
unite to give him a pledge of their good will?  Obviously at the
moment when Dr. Mortimer withdrew from the service of the hospital
in order to start a practice for himself.  We know there has been
a presentation.  We believe there has been a change from a town
hospital to a country practice.  Is it, then, stretching our
inference too far to say that the presentation was on the occasion
of the change?"

"It certainly seems probable."

"Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the staff
of the hospital, since only a man well-established in a London
practice could hold such a position, and such a one would not
drift into the country.  What was he, then?  If he was in the
hospital and yet not on the staff he could only have been a
house-surgeon or a house-physician--little more than a senior
student.  And he left five years ago--the date is on the stick.
So your grave, middle-aged family practitioner vanishes into thin
air, my dear Watson, and there emerges a young fellow under thirty,
amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and the possessor of a
favourite dog, which I should describe roughly as being larger
than a terrier and smaller than a mastiff."

I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his
settee and blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling.

"As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you," said I,
"but at least it is not difficult to find out a few particulars
about the man's age and professional career."  From my small
medical shelf I took down the Medical Directory and turned up
the name.  There were several Mortimers, but only one who could
be our visitor.  I read his record aloud.

        "Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon.
        House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital.
        Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology,
        with essay entitled 'Is Disease a Reversion?'  Corresponding
        member of the Swedish Pathological Society.  Author of
        'Some Freaks of Atavism' (Lancet 1882).  'Do We Progress?'
        (Journal of Psychology, March, 1883).  Medical Officer
        for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow."

"No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said Holmes with a
mischievous smile, "but a country doctor, as you very astutely
observed.  I think that I am fairly justified in my inferences.
As to the adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable,
unambitious, and absent-minded.  It is my experience that it is
only an amiable man in this world who receives testimonials, only
an unambitious one who abandons a London career for the country,
and only an absent-minded one who leaves his stick and not his
visiting-card after waiting an hour in your room."

"And the dog?"

"Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master.
Being a heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by the middle,
and the marks of his teeth are very plainly visible.  The dog's
jaw, as shown in the space between these marks, is too broad in
my opinion for a terrier and not broad enough for a mastiff.  It
may have been--yes, by Jove, it is a curly-haired spaniel."

He had risen and paced the room as he spoke.  Now he halted in
the recess of the window.  There was such a ring of conviction
in his voice that I glanced up in surprise.

"My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?"

"For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our
very door-step, and there is the ring of its owner.  Don't move,
I beg you, Watson.  He is a professional brother of yours, and
your presence may be of assistance to me.  Now is the dramatic
moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which
is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or
ill.  What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science, ask of
Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime?  Come in!"

The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had
expected a typical country practitioner.  He was a very tall,
thin man, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted out between
two keen, gray eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly
from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses.  He was clad in a
professional but rather slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was
dingy and his trousers frayed.  Though young, his long back was
already bowed, and he walked with a forward thrust of his head
and a general air of peering benevolence.  As he entered his eyes
fell upon the stick in Holmes's hand, and he ran towards it with
an exclamation of joy.  "I am so very glad," said he.  "I was not
sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office.  I
would not lose that stick for the world."

"A presentation, I see," said Holmes.

"Yes, sir."

"From Charing Cross Hospital?"

"From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage."

"Dear, dear, that's bad!" said Holmes, shaking his head.

Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment.
"Why was it bad?"

"Only that you have disarranged our little deductions.  Your
marriage, you say?"

"Yes, sir.  I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all
hopes of a consulting practice.  It was necessary to make a home
of my own."

"Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all," said Holmes.
"And now, Dr. James Mortimer--"

"Mister, sir, Mister--a humble M.R.C.S."

"And a man of precise mind, evidently."

"A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the
shores of the great unknown ocean.  I presume that it is
Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and not--"

"No, this is my friend Dr. Watson."

"Glad to meet you, sir.  I have heard your name mentioned in
connection with that of your friend.  You interest me very much,
Mr. Holmes.  I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or
such well-marked supra-orbital development.  Would you have any
objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure?
A cast of your skull, sir, until the original is available, would
be an ornament to any anthropological museum.  It is not my
intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull."

Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair.  "You are
an enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am
in mine," said he.  "I observe from your forefinger that you make
your own cigarettes.  Have no hesitation in lighting one."

The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the
other with surprising dexterity.  He had long, quivering fingers
as agile and restless as the antennae of an insect.

Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the
interest which he took in our curious companion.  "I presume, sir,"
said he at last, "that it was not merely for the purpose of
examining my skull that you have done me the honour to call here
last night and again today?"

"No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of
doing that as well.  I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized
that I am myself an unpractical man and because I am suddenly
confronted with a most serious and extraordinary problem.
Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second highest expert in
Europe--"

"Indeed, sir!  May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?"
asked Holmes with some asperity.

"To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur
Bertillon must always appeal strongly."

"Then had you not better consult him?"

"I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind.  But as a practical
man of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone.  I trust,
sir, that I have not inadvertently--"

"Just a little," said Holmes.  "I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would
do wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly
what the exact nature of the problem is in which you demand my
assistance."




Chapter 2
The Curse of the Baskervilles



"I have in my pocket a manuscript," said Dr. James Mortimer.

"I observed it as you entered the room," said Holmes.

"It is an old manuscript."

"Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery."

"How can you say that, sir?"

"You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all
the time that you have been talking.  It would be a poor expert
who could not give the date of a document within a decade or so.
You may possibly have read my little monograph upon the subject.
I put that at 1730."

"The exact date is 1742."  Dr. Mortimer drew it from his breast-
pocket.  "This family paper was committed to my care by Sir Charles
Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some three months ago
created so much excitement in Devonshire.  I may say that I was
his personal friend as well as his medical attendant.  He was a
strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as unimaginative
as I am myself.  Yet he took this document very seriously, and
his mind was prepared for just such an end as did eventually
overtake him."

Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it
upon his knee.  "You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of
the long s and the short.  It is one of several indications which
enabled me to fix the date."

I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script.
At the head was written: "Baskerville Hall," and below in large,
scrawling figures: "1742."

"It appears to be a statement of some sort."

"Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the
Baskerville family."

"But I understand that it is something more modern and practical
upon which you wish to consult me?"

"Most modern.  A most practical, pressing matter, which must be
decided within twenty-four hours.  But the manuscript is short
and is intimately connected with the affair.  With your permission
I will read it to you."

Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together,
and closed his eyes, with an air of resignation.  Dr. Mortimer
turned the manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking
voice the following curious, old-world narrative:

        "Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there
        have been many statements, yet as I come in a direct
        line from Hugo Baskerville, and as I had the story from
        my father, who also had it from his, I have set it down
        with all belief that it occurred even as is here set
        forth.  And I would have you believe, my sons, that the
        same Justice which punishes sin may also most graciously
        forgive it, and that no ban is so heavy but that by prayer
        and repentance it may be removed.  Learn then from this
        story not to fear the fruits of the past, but rather to
        be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions
        whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not
        again be loosed to our undoing.

        "Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the
        history of which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most
        earnestly commend to your attention) this Manor of
        Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name, nor can it be
        gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless
        man.  This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned,
        seeing that saints have never flourished in those parts,
        but there was in him a certain wanton and cruel humour
        which made his name a by-word through the West.  It
        chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark
        a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter
        of a yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate.
        But the young maiden, being discreet and of good repute,
        would ever avoid him, for she feared his evil name.  So
        it came to pass that one Michaelmas this Hugo, with five
        or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down upon
        the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and
        brothers being from home, as he well knew.  When they had
        brought her to the Hall the maiden was placed in an upper
        chamber, while Hugo and his friends sat down to a long
        carouse, as was their nightly custom.  Now, the poor lass
        upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the singing
        and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from
        below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville,
        when he was in wine, were such as might blast the man who
        said them.  At last in the stress of her fear she did that
        which might have daunted the bravest or most active man,
        for by the aid of the growth of ivy which covered (and
        still covers) the south wall she came down from under the
        eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there being three
        leagues betwixt the Hall and her father's farm.

        "It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his
        guests to carry food and drink--with other worse things,
        perchance--to his captive, and so found the cage empty
        and the bird escaped.  Then, as it would seem, he became
        as one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the stairs
        into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table,
        flagons and trenchers flying before him, and he cried
        aloud before all the company that he would that very
        night render his body and soul to the Powers of Evil if
        he might but overtake the wench.  And while the revellers
        stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or,
        it may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that
        they should put the hounds upon her.  Whereat Hugo ran
        from the house, crying to his grooms that they should
        saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and giving the
        hounds a kerchief of the maid's, he swung them to the
        line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor.

        "Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable
        to understand all that had been done in such haste.  But
        anon their bemused wits awoke to the nature of the deed
        which was like to be done upon the moorlands.  Everything
        was now in an uproar, some calling for their pistols,
        some for their horses, and some for another flask of
        wine.  But at length some sense came back to their crazed
        minds, and the whole of them, thirteen in number, took
        horse and started in pursuit.  The moon shone clear above
        them, and they rode swiftly abreast, taking that course
        which the maid must needs have taken if she were to reach
        her own home.

        "They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the
        night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to
        him to know if he had seen the hunt.  And the man, as
        the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could
        scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen
        the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track.  'But
        I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville
        passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind
        him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at
        my heels.'  So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd
        and rode onward.  But soon their skins turned cold, for
        there came a galloping across the moor, and the black
        mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing
        bridle and empty saddle.  Then the revellers rode close
        together, for a great fear was on them, but they still
        followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone,
        would have been right glad to have turned his horse's
        head.  Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last
        upon the hounds.  These, though known for their valour
        and their breed, were whimpering in a cluster at the
        head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the
        moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles
        and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.

        "The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you
        may guess, than when they started.  The most of them
        would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest,
        or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal.
        Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of
        those great stones, still to be seen there, which were
        set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old.
        The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there
        in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen,
        dead of fear and of fatigue.  But it was not the sight
        of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo
        Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon
        the heads of these three dare-devil roysterers, but it
        was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat,
        there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped
        like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal
        eye has rested upon.  And even as they looked the thing
        tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it
        turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the
        three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still
        screaming, across the moor.  One, it is said, died that
        very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were
        but broken men for the rest of their days.

        "Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound
        which is said to have plagued the family so sorely ever
        since.  If I have set it down it is because that which
        is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but
        hinted at and guessed.  Nor can it be denied that many
        of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which
        have been sudden, bloody, and mysterious.  Yet may we
        shelter ourselves in the infinite goodness of Providence,
        which would not forever punish the innocent beyond that
        third or fourth generation which is threatened in Holy
        Writ.  To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend
        you, and I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from
        crossing the moor in those dark hours when the powers of
        evil are exalted.

        "[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John,
        with instructions that they say nothing thereof to their
        sister Elizabeth.]"

When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative
he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across
at Mr. Sherlock Holmes.  The latter yawned and tossed the end
of his cigarette into the fire.

"Well?" said he.

"Do you not find it interesting?"

"To a collector of fairy tales."

Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent.
This is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year.  It
is a short account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir
Charles Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date."

My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became
intent.  Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:

        "The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose
        name has been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate
        for Mid-Devon at the next election, has cast a gloom over
        the county.  Though Sir Charles had resided at Baskerville
        Hall for a comparatively short period his amiability of
        character and extreme generosity had won the affection
        and respect of all who had been brought into contact with
        him.  In these days of nouveaux riches it is refreshing
        to find a case where the scion of an old county family
        which has fallen upon evil days is able to make his own
        fortune and to bring it back with him to restore the
        fallen grandeur of his line.  Sir Charles, as is well known,
        made large sums of money in South African speculation.
        More wise than those who go on until the wheel turns
        against them, he realized his gains and returned to England
        with them.  It is only two years since he took up his
        residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk how
        large were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement
        which have been interrupted by his death.  Being himself
        childless, it was his openly expressed desire that the
        whole countryside should, within his own lifetime, profit
        by his good fortune, and many will have personal reasons
        for bewailing his untimely end.  His generous donations
        to local and county charities have been frequently
        chronicled in these columns.

        "The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles
        cannot be said to have been entirely cleared up by the
        inquest, but at least enough has been done to dispose of
        those rumours to which local superstition has given rise.
        There is no reason whatever to suspect foul play, or to
        imagine that death could be from any but natural causes.
        Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to
        have been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind.
        In spite of his considerable wealth he was simple in his
        personal tastes, and his indoor servants at Baskerville
        Hall consisted of a married couple named Barrymore, the
        husband acting as butler and the wife as housekeeper.
        Their evidence, corroborated by that of several friends,
        tends to show that Sir Charles's health has for some time
        been impaired, and points especially to some affection
        of the heart, manifesting itself in changes of colour,
        breathlessness, and acute attacks of nervous depression.
        Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and medical attendant of
        the deceased, has given evidence to the same effect.

        "The facts of the case are simple.  Sir Charles Baskerville
        was in the habit every night before going to bed of walking
        down the famous yew alley of Baskerville Hall.  The evidence
        of the Barrymores shows that this had been his custom.
        On the fourth of May Sir Charles had declared his intention
        of starting next day for London, and had ordered Barrymore
        to prepare his luggage.  That night he went out as usual
        for his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was in
        the habit of smoking a cigar.  He never returned.  At
        twelve o'clock Barrymore, finding the hall door still open,
        became alarmed, and, lighting a lantern, went in search
        of his master.  The day had been wet, and Sir Charles's
        footmarks were easily traced down the alley.  Halfway down
        this walk there is a gate which leads out on to the moor.
        There were indications that Sir Charles had stood for some
        little time here.  He then proceeded down the alley, and
        it was at the far end of it that his body was discovered.
        One fact which has not been explained is the statement
        of Barrymore that his master's footprints altered their
        character from the time that he passed the moor-gate, and
        that he appeared from thence onward to have been walking
        upon his toes.  One Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, was on
        the moor at no great distance at the time, but he appears
        by his own confession to have been the worse for drink.
        He declares that he heard cries but is unable to state
        from what direction they came.  No signs of violence were
        to be discovered upon Sir Charles's person, and though
        the doctor's evidence pointed to an almost incredible
        facial distortion--so great that Dr. Mortimer refused at
        first to believe that it was indeed his friend and patient
        who lay before him--it was explained that that is a symptom
        which is not unusual in cases of dyspnoea and death from
        cardiac exhaustion.  This explanation was borne out by
        the post-mortem examination, which showed long-standing
        organic disease, and the coroner's jury returned a
        verdict in accordance with the medical evidence.  It is
        well that this is so, for it is obviously of the utmost
        importance that Sir Charles's heir should settle at the
        Hall and continue the good work which has been so sadly
        interrupted.  Had the prosaic finding of the coroner not
        finally put an end to the romantic stories which have been
        whispered in connection with the affair, it might have been
        difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville Hall.  It is
        understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville,
        if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskerville's
        younger brother.  The young man when last heard of was
        in America, and inquiries are being instituted with a
        view to informing him of his good fortune."

Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket.
"Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the
death of Sir Charles Baskerville."

"I must thank you," said Sherlock Holmes, "for calling my attention
to a case which certainly presents some features of interest.  I
had observed some newspaper comment at the time, but I was
exceedingly preoccupied by that little affair of the Vatican cameos,
and in my anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch with several
interesting English cases.  This article, you say, contains all
the public facts?"

"It does."

"Then let me have the private ones."  He leaned back, put his
finger-tips together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial
expression.

"In doing so," said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of
some strong emotion, "I am telling that which I have not confided
to anyone.  My motive for withholding it from the coroner's inquiry
is that a man of science shrinks from placing himself in the public
position of seeming to indorse a popular superstition.  I had the
further motive that Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would
certainly remain untenanted if anything were done to increase its
already rather grim reputation.  For both these reasons I thought
that I was justified in telling rather less than I knew, since
no practical good could result from it, but with you there is no
reason why I should not be perfectly frank.

"The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near
each other are thrown very much together.  For this reason I saw
a good deal of Sir Charles Baskerville.  With the exception of
Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist,
there are no other men of education within many miles.  Sir
Charles was a retiring man, but the chance of his illness brought
us together, and a community of interests in science kept us so.
He had brought back much scientific information from South Africa,
and many a charming evening we have spent together discussing the
comparative anatomy of the Bushman and the Hottentot.

"Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me
that Sir Charles's nervous system was strained to the breaking
point.  He had taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly
to heart--so much so that, although he would walk in his own
grounds, nothing would induce him to go out upon the moor at
night.  Incredible as it may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was
honestly convinced that a dreadful fate overhung his family,
and certainly the records which he was able to give of his
ancestors were not encouraging.  The idea of some ghastly
presence constantly haunted him, and on more than one occasion
he has asked me whether I had on my medical journeys at night
ever seen any strange creature or heard the baying of a hound.
The latter question he put to me several times, and always with
a voice which vibrated with excitement.

"I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some
three weeks before the fatal event.  He chanced to be at his hall
door.  I had descended from my gig and was standing in front of
him, when I saw his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder and stare
past me with an expression of the most dreadful horror.  I whisked
round and had just time to catch a glimpse of something which I
took to be a large black calf passing at the head of the drive.
So excited and alarmed was he that I was compelled to go down to
the spot where the animal had been and look around for it.  It
was gone, however, and the incident appeared to make the worst
impression upon his mind.  I stayed with him all the evening,
and it was on that occasion, to explain the emotion which he had
shown, that he confided to my keeping that narrative which I read
to you when first I came.  I mention this small episode because
it assumes some importance in view of the tragedy which followed,
but I was convinced at the time that the matter was entirely
trivial and that his excitement had no justification.

"It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London.
His heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in
which he lived, however chimerical the cause of it might be,
was evidently having a serious effect upon his health.  I thought
that a few months among the distractions of town would send him
back a new man.  Mr. Stapleton, a mutual friend who was much
concerned at his state of health, was of the same opinion.  At
the last instant came this terrible catastrophe.

"On the night of Sir Charles's death Barrymore the butler, who
made the discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me,
and as I was sitting up late I was able to reach Baskerville
Hall within an hour of the event.  I checked and corroborated
all the facts which were mentioned at the inquest.  I followed
the footsteps down the yew alley, I saw the spot at the moor-gate
where he seemed to have waited, I remarked the change in the shape
of the prints after that point, I noted that there were no other
footsteps save those of Barrymore on the soft gravel, and finally
I carefully examined the body, which had not been touched until
my arrival.  Sir Charles lay on his face, his arms out, his fingers
dug into the ground, and his features convulsed with some strong
emotion to such an extent that I could hardly have sworn to his
identity.  There was certainly no physical injury of any kind.
But one false statement was made by Barrymore at the inquest.
He said that there were no traces upon the ground round the body.
He did not observe any.  But I did--some little distance off, but
fresh and clear."

"Footprints?"

"Footprints."

"A man's or a woman's?"

Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice
sank almost to a whisper as he answered.

"Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"




Chapter 3
The Problem



I confess at these words a shudder passed through me.  There was
a thrill in the doctor's voice which showed that he was himself
deeply moved by that which he told us.  Holmes leaned forward in
his excitement and his eyes had the hard, dry glitter which shot
from them when he was keenly interested.

"You saw this?"

"As clearly as I see you."

"And you said nothing?"

"What was the use?"

"How was it that no one else saw it?"

"The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave
them a thought.  I don't suppose I should have done so had I not
known this legend."

"There are many sheep-dogs on the moor?"

"No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog."

"You say it was large?"

"Enormous."

"But it had not approached the body?"

"No."

"What sort of night was it?'

"Damp and raw."

"But not actually raining?"

"No."

"What is the alley like?"

"There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and
impenetrable.  The walk in the centre is about eight feet across."

"Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?"

"Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either side."

"I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a gate?"

"Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor."

"Is there any other opening?"

"None."

"So that to reach the yew alley one either has to come down it
from the house or else to enter it by the moor-gate?"

"There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end."

"Had Sir Charles reached this?"

"No; he lay about fifty yards from it."

"Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer--and this is important--the marks
which you saw were on the path and not on the grass?"

"No marks could show on the grass."

"Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?"

"Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the
moor-gate."

"You interest me exceedingly.  Another point.  Was the
wicket-gate closed?"

"Closed and padlocked."

"How high was it?"

"About four feet high."

"Then anyone could have got over it?"

"Yes."

"And what marks did you see by the wicket-gate?"

"None in particular."

"Good heaven!  Did no one examine?"

"Yes, I examined, myself."

"And found nothing?"

"It was all very confused.  Sir Charles had evidently stood there
for five or ten minutes."

"How do you know that?"

"Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar."

"Excellent!  This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart.
But the marks?"

"He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel.
I could discern no others."

Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an
impatient gesture.

"If I had only been there!" he cried.  "It is evidently a case of
extraordinary interest, and one which presented immense opportunities
to the scientific expert.  That gravel page upon which I might have
read so much has been long ere this smudged by the rain and defaced
by the clogs of curious peasants.  Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer,
to think that you should not have called me in!  You have indeed
much to answer for."

"I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without disclosing these
facts to the world, and I have already given my reasons for not
wishing to do so.  Besides, besides--"

"Why do you hesitate?"

"There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced
of detectives is helpless."

"You mean that the thing is supernatural?"

"I did not positively say so."

"No, but you evidently think it."

"Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears several
incidents which are hard to reconcile with the settled order of Nature."

"For example?"

"I find that before the terrible event occurred several people
had seen a creature upon the moor which corresponds with this
Baskerville demon, and which could not possibly be any animal
known to science.  They all agreed that it was a huge creature,
luminous, ghastly, and spectral.  I have cross-examined these men,
one of them a hard-headed countryman, one a farrier, and one a
moorland farmer, who all tell the same story of this dreadful
apparition, exactly corresponding to the hell-hound of the legend.
I assure you that there is a reign of terror in the district,
and that it is a hardy man who will cross the moor at night."

"And you, a trained man of science, believe it to be supernatural?"

"I do not know what to believe."

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.  "I have hitherto confined my
investigations to this world," said he.  "In a modest way I have
combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would,
perhaps, be too ambitious a task.  Yet you must admit that the
footmark is material."

"The original hound was material enough to tug a man's throat out,
and yet he was diabolical as well."

"I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists.
But now, Dr. Mortimer, tell me this.  If you hold these views, why
have you come to consult me at all?  You tell me in the same
breath that it is useless to investigate Sir Charles's death, and
that you desire me to do it."

"I did not say that I desired you to do it."

"Then, how can I assist you?"

"By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville,
who arrives at Waterloo Station"--Dr. Mortimer looked at his
watch--"in exactly one hour and a quarter."

"He being the heir?"

"Yes.  On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young
gentleman and found that he had been farming in Canada.  From
the accounts which have reached us he is an excellent fellow
in every way.  I speak now not as a medical man but as a trustee
and executor of Sir Charles's will."

"There is no other claimant, I presume?"

"None.  The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace
was Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom
poor Sir Charles was the elder.  The second brother, who died
young, is the father of this lad Henry.  The third, Rodger, was
the black sheep of the family.  He came of the old masterful
Baskerville strain and was the very image, they tell me, of the
family picture of old Hugo.  He made England too hot to hold him,
fled to Central America, and died there in 1876 of yellow fever.
Henry is the last of the Baskervilles.  In one hour and five
minutes I meet him at Waterloo Station.  I have had a wire that
he arrived at Southampton this morning.  Now, Mr. Holmes, what
would you advise me to do with him?"

"Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?"

"It seems natural, does it not?  And yet, consider that every
Baskerville who goes there meets with an evil fate.  I feel sure
that if Sir Charles could have spoken with me before his death
he would have warned me against bringing this, the last of the
old race, and the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place.
And yet it cannot be denied that the prosperity of the whole
poor, bleak countryside depends upon his presence.  All the good
work which has been done by Sir Charles will crash to the ground
if there is no tenant of the Hall.  I fear lest I should be swayed
too much by my own obvious interest in the matter, and that is
why I bring the case before you and ask for your advice."

Holmes considered for a little time.

"Put into plain words, the matter is this," said he.  "In your
opinion there is a diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an
unsafe abode for a Baskerville--that is your opinion?"

"At least I might go the length of saying that there is some
evidence that this may be so."

"Exactly.  But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct,
it could work the young man evil in London as easily as in
Devonshire.  A devil with merely local powers like a parish
vestry would be too inconceivable a thing."

"You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would
probably do if you were brought into personal contact with these
things.  Your advice, then, as I understand it, is that the young
man will be as safe in Devonshire as in London.  He comes in
fifty minutes.  What would you recommend?"

"I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who
is scratching at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet
Sir Henry Baskerville."

"And then?"

"And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made
up my mind about the matter."

"How long will it take you to make up your mind?"

"Twenty-four hours.  At ten o'clock tomorrow, Dr. Mortimer, I
will be much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and
it will be of help to me in my plans for the future if you will
bring Sir Henry Baskerville with you."

"I will do so, Mr. Holmes."  He scribbled the appointment on his
shirt-cuff and hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded
fashion.  Holmes stopped him at the head of the stair.

"Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer.  You say that before Sir
Charles Baskerville's death several people saw this apparition
upon the moor?"

"Three people did."

"Did any see it after?"

"I have not heard of any."

"Thank you.  Good-morning."

Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward
satisfaction which meant that he had a congenial task before him.

"Going out, Watson?"

"Unless I can help you."

"No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to
you for aid.  But this is splendid, really unique from some
points of view.  When you pass Bradley's, would you ask him to
send up a pound of the strongest shag tobacco?  Thank you.  It
would be as well if you could make it convenient not to return
before evening.  Then I should be very glad to compare impressions
as to this most interesting problem which has been submitted to
us this morning."

I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my
friend in those hours of intense mental concentration during which
he weighed every particle of evidence, constructed alternative
theories, balanced one against the other, and made up his mind
as to which points were essential and which immaterial.  I
therefore spent the day at my club and did not return to Baker
Street until evening.  It was nearly nine o'clock when I found
myself in the sitting-room once more.

My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had
broken out, for the room was so filled with smoke that the light
of the lamp upon the table was blurred by it.  As I entered,
however, my fears were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes
of strong coarse tobacco which took me by the throat and set me
coughing.  Through the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in
his dressing-gown coiled up in an armchair with his black clay
pipe between his lips.  Several rolls of paper lay around him.

"Caught cold, Watson?" said he.

"No, it's this poisonous atmosphere."

"I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it."

"Thick!  It is intolerable."

"Open the window, then!  You have been at your club all day, I
perceive."

"My dear Holmes!"

"Am I right?"

"Certainly, but how?"

He laughed at my bewildered expression.  "There is a delightful
freshness about you, Watson, which makes it a pleasure to exercise
any small powers which I possess at your expense.  A gentleman
goes forth on a showery and miry day.  He returns immaculate in
the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his boots.  He has
been a fixture therefore all day.  He is not a man with intimate
friends.  Where, then, could he have been?  Is it not obvious?"

"Well, it is rather obvious."

"The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance
ever observes.  Where do you think that I have been?"

"A fixture also."

"On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire."

"In spirit?"

"Exactly.  My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret
to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and
an incredible amount of tobacco.  After you left I sent down to
Stamford's for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and
my spirit has hovered over it all day.  I flatter myself that I
could find my way about."

"A large-scale map, I presume?"

"Very large."

He unrolled one section and held it over his knee.  "Here you
have the particular district which concerns us.  That is
Baskerville Hall in the middle."

"With a wood round it?"

"Exactly.  I fancy the yew alley, though not marked under that
name, must stretch along this line, with the moor, as you perceive,
upon the right of it.  This small clump of buildings here is the
hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters.
Within a radius of five miles there are, as you see, only a very
few scattered dwellings.  Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned
in the narrative.  There is a house indicated here which may be
the residence of the naturalist--Stapleton, if I remember right,
was his name.  Here are two moorland farmhouses, High Tor and
Foulmire.  Then fourteen miles away the great convict prison of
Princetown.  Between and around these scattered points extends the
desolate, lifeless moor.  This, then, is the stage upon which
tragedy has been played, and upon which we may help to play it again."

"It must be a wild place."

"Yes, the setting is a worthy one.  If the devil did desire to
have a hand in the affairs of men--"

"Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural explanation."

"The devil's agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not?
There are two questions waiting for us at the outset.  The one
is whether any crime has been committed at all; the second is,
what is the crime and how was it committed?  Of course, if Dr.
Mortimer's surmise should be correct, and we are dealing with
forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of
our investigation.  But we are bound to exhaust all other
hypotheses before falling back upon this one.  I think we'll shut
that window again, if you don't mind.  It is a singular thing,
but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration
of thought.  I have not pushed it to the length of getting into
a box to think, but that is the logical outcome of my convictions.
Have you turned the case over in your mind?"

"Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day."

"What do you make of it?"

"It is very bewildering."

"It has certainly a character of its own.  There are points of
distinction about it.  That change in the footprints, for example.
What do you make of that?"

"Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that
portion of the alley."

"He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest.  Why
should a man walk on tiptoe down the alley?"

"What then?"

"He was running, Watson--running desperately, running for his life,
running until he burst his heart--and fell dead upon his face."

"Running from what?"

"There lies our problem.  There are indications that the man was
crazed with fear before ever he began to run."

"How can you say that?"

"I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him across
the moor.  If that were so, and it seems most probable, only a
man who had lost his wits would have run from the house instead
of towards it.  If the gipsy's evidence may be taken as true, he
ran with cries for help in the direction where help was least
likely to be.  Then, again, whom was he waiting for that night,
and why was he waiting for him in the yew alley rather than in
his own house?"

"You think that he was waiting for someone?"

"The man was elderly and infirm.  We can understand his taking an
evening stroll, but the ground was damp and the night inclement.
Is it natural that he should stand for five or ten minutes, as
Dr. Mortimer, with more practical sense than I should have given
him credit for, deduced from the cigar ash?"

"But he went out every evening."

"I think it unlikely that he waited at the moor-gate every evening.
On the contrary, the evidence is that he avoided the moor.  That
night he waited there.  It was the night before he made his
departure for London.  The thing takes shape, Watson.  It becomes
coherent.  Might I ask you to hand me my violin, and we will
postpone all further thought upon this business until we have
had the advantage of meeting Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry
Baskerville in the morning."




Chapter 4
Sir Henry Baskerville



Our breakfast table was cleared early, and Holmes waited in his
dressing-gown for the promised interview.  Our clients were
punctual to their appointment, for the clock had just struck ten
when Dr. Mortimer was shown up, followed by the young baronet.
The latter was a small, alert, dark-eyed man about thirty years
of age, very sturdily built, with thick black eyebrows and a
strong, pugnacious face.  He wore a ruddy-tinted tweed suit and
had the weather-beaten appearance of one who has spent most of
his time in the open air, and yet there was something in his
steady eye and the quiet assurance of his bearing which
indicated the gentleman.

"This is Sir Henry Baskerville," said Dr. Mortimer.

"Why, yes," said he, "and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, that if my friend here had not proposed coming round to you
this morning I should have come on my own account.  I understand
that you think out little puzzles, and I've had one this morning
which wants more thinking out than I am able to give it."

"Pray take a seat, Sir Henry.  Do I understand you to say
that you have yourself had some remarkable experience since
you arrived in London?"

"Nothing of much importance, Mr. Holmes.  Only a joke, as like
as not.  It was this letter, if you can call it a letter, which
reached me this morning."

He laid an envelope upon the table, and we all bent over it.  It
was of common quality, grayish in colour.  The address, "Sir
Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel," was printed in rough
characters; the post-mark "Charing Cross," and the date of
posting the preceding evening.

"Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Hotel?" asked
Holmes, glancing keenly across at our visitor.

"No one could have known.  We only decided after I met Dr. Mortimer."

"But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stopping there?"

"No, I had been staying with a friend," said the doctor.

"There was no possible indication that we intended to go to this
hotel."

"Hum!  Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your movements."
Out of the envelope he took a half-sheet of foolscap paper folded
into four.  This he opened and spread flat upon the table.  Across
the middle of it a single sentence had been formed by the expedient
of pasting printed words upon it.  It ran:

        As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor.

The word "moor" only was printed in ink.

"Now," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "perhaps you will tell me, Mr.
Holmes, what in thunder is the meaning of that, and who it is
that takes so much interest in my affairs?"

"What do you make of it,  Dr. Mortimer?  You must allow that there
is nothing supernatural about this, at any rate?"

"No, sir, but it might very well come from someone who was
convinced that the business is supernatural."

"What business?" asked Sir Henry sharply.  "It seems to me that
all you gentlemen know a great deal more than I do about my own
affairs."

"You shall share our knowledge before you leave this room, Sir
Henry.  I promise you that," said Sherlock Holmes.  "We will
confine ourselves for the present with your permission to this
very interesting document, which must have been put together and
posted yesterday evening.  Have you yesterday's Times, Watson?"

"It is here in the corner."

"Might I trouble you for it--the inside page, please, with the
leading articles?"  He glanced swiftly over it, running his eyes
up and down the columns.  "Capital article this on free trade.
Permit me to give you an extract from it.

'You may be cajoled into imagining that your own special trade
or your own industry will be encouraged by a protective tariff,
but it stands to reason that such legislation must in the long
run keep away wealth from the country, diminish the value of our
imports, and lower the general conditions of life in this island.'

"What do you think of that, Watson?" cried Holmes in high glee,
rubbing his hands together with satisfaction.  "Don't you think
that is an admirable sentiment?"

Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with an air of professional interest,
and Sir Henry Baskerville turned a pair of puzzled dark eyes upon me.

"I don't know much about the tariff and things of that kind," said
he, "but it seems to me we've got a bit off the trail so far as
that note is concerned."

"On the contrary, I think we are particularly hot upon the trail,
Sir Henry.  Watson here knows more about my methods than you do,
but I fear that even he has not quite grasped the significance
of this sentence."

"No, I confess that I see no connection."

"And yet, my dear Watson, there is so very close a connection that
the one is extracted out of the other.  'You,' 'your,' 'your,'
'life,' 'reason,' 'value,' 'keep away,' 'from the.'  Don't you
see now whence these words have been taken?"

"By thunder, you're right!  Well, if that isn't smart!" cried
Sir Henry.

"If any possible doubt remained it is settled by the fact that
'keep away' and 'from the' are cut out in one piece."

"Well, now--so it is!"

"Really, Mr. Holmes, this exceeds anything which I could have
imagined," said Dr. Mortimer, gazing at my friend in amazement.
"I could understand anyone saying that the words were from a
newspaper; but that you should name which, and add that it came
from the leading article, is really one of the most remarkable
things which I have ever known.  How did you do it?"

"I presume, Doctor, that you could tell the skull of a negro from
that of an Esquimau?"

"Most certainly."

"But how?"

"Because that is my special hobby.  The differences are obvious.
The supra-orbital crest, the facial angle, the maxillary curve,
the--"

"But this is my special hobby, and the differences are equally
obvious.  There is as much difference to my eyes between the
leaded bourgeois type of a Times article and the slovenly print
of an evening half-penny paper as there could be between your
negro and your Esquimau.  The detection of types is one of the
most elementary branches of knowledge to the special expert in
crime, though I confess that once when I was very young I confused
the Leeds Mercury with the Western Morning News.  But a Times
leader is entirely distinctive, and these words could have been
taken from nothing else.  As it was done yesterday the strong
probability was that we should find the words in yesterday's issue."

"So far as I can follow you, then, Mr. Holmes," said Sir Henry
Baskerville, "someone cut out this message with a scissors--"

"Nail-scissors," said Holmes.  "You can see that it was a very
short-bladed scissors, since the cutter had to take two snips
over 'keep away.'"

"That is so.  Someone, then, cut out the message with a pair of
short-bladed scissors, pasted it with paste--"

"Gum," said Holmes.

"With gum on to the paper.  But I want to know why the word 'moor'
should have been written?"

"Because he could not find it in print.  The other words were all
simple and might be found in any issue, but 'moor' would be less
common."

"Why, of course, that would explain it.  Have you read anything
else in this message, Mr. Holmes?"

"There are one or two indications, and yet the utmost pains have
been taken to remove all clues.  The address, you observe is
printed in rough characters.  But the Times is a paper which is
seldom found in any hands but those of the highly educated.  We
may take it, therefore, that the letter was composed by an
educated man who wished to pose as an uneducated one, and his
effort to conceal his own writing suggests that that writing
might be known, or come to be known, by you.  Again, you will
observe that the words are not gummed on in an accurate line,
but that some are much higher than others.  'Life,' for example
is quite out of its proper place.  That may point to carelessness
or it may point to agitation and hurry upon the part of the
cutter.  On the whole I incline to the latter view, since the
matter was evidently important, and it is unlikely that the
composer of such a letter would be careless.  If he were in a
hurry it opens up the interesting question why he should be in
a hurry, since any letter posted up to early morning would reach
Sir Henry before he would leave his hotel.  Did the composer fear
an interruption--and from whom?"

"We are coming now rather into the region of guesswork," said
Dr. Mortimer.

"Say, rather, into the region where we balance probabilities and
choose the most likely.  It is the scientific use of the imagination,
but we have always some material basis on which to start our
speculation.  Now, you would call it a guess, no doubt, but I am
almost certain that this address has been written in a hotel."

"How in the world can you say that?"

"If you examine it carefully you will see that both the pen and
the ink have given the writer trouble.  The pen has spluttered
twice in a single word and has run dry three times in a short
address, showing that there was very little ink in the bottle.
Now, a private pen or ink-bottle is seldom allowed to be in such
a state, and the combination of the two must be quite rare.  But
you know the hotel ink and the hotel pen, where it is rare to get
anything else.  Yes, I have very little hesitation in saying that
could we examine the waste-paper baskets of the hotels around
Charing Cross until we found the remains of the mutilated Times
leader we could lay our hands straight upon the person who sent
this singular message.  Halloa!  Halloa!  What's this?"

He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon which the words
were pasted, holding it only an inch or two from his eyes.

"Well?"

"Nothing," said he, throwing it down.  "It is a blank half-sheet
of paper, without even a water-mark upon it.  I think we have
drawn as much as we can from this curious letter; and now, Sir
Henry, has anything else of interest happened to you since you
have been in London?"

"Why, no, Mr. Holmes.  I think not."

"You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?"

"I seem to have walked right into the thick of a dime novel,"
said our visitor.  "Why in thunder should anyone follow or watch
me?"

"We are coming to that.  You have nothing else to report to us
before we go into this matter?"

"Well, it depends upon what you think worth reporting."

"I think anything out of the ordinary routine of life well worth
reporting."

Sir Henry smiled.  "I don't know much of British life yet, for I
have spent nearly all my time in the States and in Canada.  But
I hope that to lose one of your boots is not part of the ordinary
routine of life over here."

"You have lost one of your boots?"

"My dear sir," cried Dr. Mortimer, "it is only mislaid.  You will
find it when you return to the hotel.  What is the use of
troubling Mr. Holmes with trifles of this kind?"

"Well, he asked me for anything outside the ordinary routine."

"Exactly," said Holmes, "however foolish the incident may seem.
You have lost one of your boots, you say?"

"Well, mislaid it, anyhow.  I put them both outside my door last
night, and there was only one in the morning.  I could get no
sense out of the chap who cleans them.  The worst of it is that
I only bought the pair last night in the Strand, and I have never
had them on."

"If you have never worn them, why did you put them out to be
cleaned?"

"They were tan boots and had never been varnished.  That was why
I put them out."

"Then I understand that on your arrival in London yesterday you
went out at once and bought a pair of boots?"

"I did a good deal of shopping.  Dr. Mortimer here went round
with me.  You see, if I am to be squire down there I must dress
the part, and it may be that I have got a little careless in my
ways out West.  Among other things I bought these brown boots--
gave six dollars for them--and had one stolen before ever I had
them on my feet."

"It seems a singularly useless thing to steal," said Sherlock
Holmes.  "I confess that I share Dr. Mortimer's belief that it
will not be long before the missing boot is found."

"And, now, gentlemen," said the baronet with decision, "it seems
to me that I have spoken quite enough about the little that I
know.  It is time that you kept your promise and gave me a full
account of what we are all driving at."

"Your request is a very reasonable one," Holmes answered.  "Dr.
Mortimer, I think you could not do better than to tell your story
as you told it to us."

Thus encouraged, our scientific friend drew his papers from his
pocket and presented the whole case as he had done upon the
morning before.  Sir Henry Baskerville listened with the deepest
attention and with an occasional exclamation of surprise.

"Well, I seem to have come into an inheritance with a vengeance,"
said he when the long narrative was finished.  "Of course, I've
heard of the hound ever since I was in the nursery.  It's the pet
story of the family, though I never thought of taking it seriously
before.  But as to my uncle's death--well, it all seems boiling
up in my head, and I can't get it clear yet.  You don't seem
quite to have made up your mind whether it's a case for a
policeman or a clergyman."

"Precisely."

"And now there's this affair of the letter to me at the hotel.
I suppose that fits into its place."

"It seems to show that someone knows more than we do about what
goes on upon the moor," said Dr. Mortimer.

"And also," said Holmes, "that someone is not ill-disposed towards
you, since they warn you of danger."

"Or it may be that they wish, for their own purposes, to scare
me away."

"Well, of course, that is possible also.  I am very much indebted
to you, Dr. Mortimer, for introducing me to a problem which
presents several interesting alternatives.  But the practical
point which we now have to decide, Sir Henry, is whether it is
or is not advisable for you to go to Baskerville Hall."

"Why should I not go?"

"There seems to be danger."

"Do you mean danger from this family fiend or do you mean danger
from human beings?"

"Well, that is what we have to find out."

"Whichever it is, my answer is fixed.  There is no devil in hell,
Mr. Holmes, and there is no man upon earth who can prevent me
from going to the home of my own people, and you may take that
to be my final answer."  His dark brows knitted and his face
flushed to a dusky red as he spoke.  It was evident that the fiery
temper of the Baskervilles was not extinct in this their last
representative.  "Meanwhile," said he, "I have hardly had time
to think over all that you have told me.  It's a big thing for a
man to have to understand and to decide at one sitting.  I should
like to have a quiet hour by myself to make up my mind.  Now,
look here, Mr. Holmes, it's half-past eleven now and I am going
back right away to my hotel.  Suppose you and your friend, Dr.
Watson, come round and lunch with us at two.  I'll be able to
tell you more clearly then how this thing strikes me."

"Is that convenient to you, Watson?"

"Perfectly."

"Then you may expect us.  Shall I have a cab called?"

"I'd prefer to walk, for this affair has flurried me rather."

"I'll join you in a walk, with pleasure," said his companion.

"Then we meet again at two o'clock.  Au revoir, and good-morning!"

We heard the steps of our visitors descend the stair and the
bang of the front door.  In an instant Holmes had changed from
the languid dreamer to the man of action.

"Your hat and boots, Watson, quick!  Not a moment to lose!"  He
rushed into his room in his dressing-gown and was back again in
a few seconds in a frock-coat.  We hurried together down the
stairs and into the street.  Dr. Mortimer and Baskerville were
still visible about two hundred yards ahead of us in the
direction of Oxford Street.

"Shall I run on and stop them?"

"Not for the world, my dear Watson.  I am perfectly satisfied with
your company if you will tolerate mine.  Our friends are wise,
for it is certainly a very fine morning for a walk."

He quickened his pace until we had decreased the distance which
divided us by about half.  Then, still keeping a hundred yards
behind, we followed into Oxford Street and so down Regent Street.
Once our friends stopped and stared into a shop window, upon
which Holmes did the same.  An instant afterwards he gave a little
cry of satisfaction, and, following the direction of his eager
eyes, I saw that a hansom cab with a man inside which had halted on
the other side of the street was now proceeding slowly onward again.


"There's our man, Watson!  Come along!  We'll have a good look
at him, if we can do no more."

At that instant I was aware of a bushy black beard and a pair of
piercing eyes turned upon us through the side window of the cab.
Instantly the trapdoor at the top flew up, something was screamed
to the driver, and the cab flew madly off down Regent Street.
Holmes looked eagerly round for another, but no empty one was in
sight.  Then he dashed in wild pursuit amid the stream of the
traffic, but the start was too great, and already the cab was
out of sight.

"There now!" said Holmes bitterly as he emerged panting and
white with vexation from the tide of vehicles.  "Was ever such
bad luck and such bad management, too?  Watson, Watson, if you
are an honest man you will record this also and set it against
my successes!"

"Who was the man?"

"I have not an idea."

"A spy?"

"Well, it was evident from what we have heard that Baskerville
has been very closely shadowed by someone since he has been in
town.  How else could it be known so quickly that it was the
Northumberland Hotel which he had chosen?  If they had followed
him the first day I argued that they would follow him also the
second.  You may have observed that I twice strolled over to the
window while Dr. Mortimer was reading his legend."

"Yes, I remember."

"I was looking out for loiterers in the street, but I saw none.
We are dealing with a clever man, Watson.  This matter cuts very
deep, and though I have not finally made up my mind whether it is
a benevolent or a malevolent agency which is in touch with us, I
am conscious always of power and design.  When our friends left I
at once followed them in the hopes of marking down their invisible
attendant.  So wily was he that he had not trusted himself upon
foot, but he had availed himself of a cab so that he could loiter
behind or dash past them and so escape their notice.  His method
had the additional advantage that if they were to take a cab he
was all ready to follow them.  It has, however, one obvious
disadvantage."

"It puts him in the power of the cabman."

"Exactly."

"What a pity we did not get the number!"

"My dear Watson, clumsy as I have been, you surely do not seriously
imagine that I neglected to get the number?  No. 2704 is our man.
But that is no use to us for the moment."

"I fail to see how you could have done more."

"On observing the cab I should have instantly turned and walked
in the other direction.  I should then at my leisure have hired
a second cab and followed the first at a respectful distance, or,
better still, have driven to the Northumberland Hotel and waited
there.  When our unknown had followed Baskerville home we should
have had the opportunity of playing his own game upon himself
and seeing where he made for.  As it is, by an indiscreet
eagerness, which was taken advantage of with extraordinary
quickness and energy by our opponent, we have betrayed ourselves
and lost our man."

We had been sauntering slowly down Regent Street during this
conversation, and Dr. Mortimer, with his companion, had long
vanished in front of us.

"There is no object in our following them," said Holmes.  "The
shadow has departed and will not return.  We must see what
further cards we have in our hands and play them with decision.
Could you swear to that man's face within the cab?"

"I could swear only to the beard."

"And so could I--from which I gather that in all probability it
was a false one.  A clever man upon so delicate an errand has no
use for a beard save to conceal his features.  Come in here,
Watson!"

He turned into one of the district messenger offices, where he
was warmly greeted by the manager.

"Ah, Wilson, I see you have not forgotten the little case in
which I had the good fortune to help you?"

"No, sir, indeed I have not.  You saved my good name, and perhaps
my life."

"My dear fellow, you exaggerate.  I have some recollection, Wilson,
that you had among your boys a lad named Cartwright, who showed
some ability during the investigation."

"Yes, sir, he is still with us."

"Could you ring him up?  -- thank you!  And I should be glad to
have change of this five-pound note."

A lad of fourteen, with a bright, keen face, had obeyed the summons
of the manager.  He stood now gazing with great reverence at the
famous detective.

"Let me have the Hotel Directory," said Holmes.  "Thank you!  Now,
Cartwright, there are the names of twenty-three hotels here, all
in the immediate neighbourhood of Charing Cross.  Do you see?"

"Yes, sir."

"You will visit each of these in turn."

"Yes, sir."

"You will begin in each case by giving the outside porter one
shilling.  Here are twenty-three shillings."

"Yes, sir."

"You will tell him that you want to see the waste-paper of
yesterday.  You will say that an important telegram has miscarried
and that you are looking for it.  You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"But what you are really looking for is the centre page of the
Times with some holes cut in it with scissors.  Here is a copy
of the Times.  It is this page.  You could easily recognize it,
could you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"In each case the outside porter will send for the hall porter,
to whom also you will give a shilling.  Here are twenty-three
shillings.  You will then learn in possibly twenty cases out of
the twenty-three that the waste of the day before has been burned
or removed.  In the three other cases you will be shown a heap
of paper and you will look for this page of the Times among it.
The odds are enormously against your finding it.  There are ten
shillings over in case of emergencies.  Let me have a report by
wire at Baker Street before evening.  And now, Watson, it only
remains for us to find out by wire the identity of the cabman,
No. 2704, and then we will drop into one of the Bond Street picture
galleries and fill in the time until we are due at the hotel."




Chapter 5
Three Broken Threads



Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of
detaching his mind at will.  For two hours the strange business
in which we had been involved appeared to be forgotten, and he
was entirely absorbed in the pictures of the modern Belgian
masters.  He would talk of nothing but art, of which he had the
crudest ideas, from our leaving the gallery until we found ourselves
at the Northumberland Hotel.

"Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting you," said the clerk.
"He asked me to show you up at once when you came."

"Have you any objection to my looking at your register?" said
Holmes.

"Not in the least."

The book showed that two names had been added after that of
Baskerville.  One was Theophilus Johnson and family, of
Newcastle; the other Mrs. Oldmore and maid, of High Lodge, Alton.

"Surely that must be the same Johnson whom I used to know," said
Holmes to the porter.  "A lawyer, is he not, gray-headed, and
walks with a limp?"

"No, sir, this is Mr. Johnson, the coal-owner, a very active
gentleman, not older than yourself."

"Surely you are mistaken about his trade?"

"No, sir! he has used this hotel for many years, and he is very
well known to us."

"Ah, that settles it.  Mrs. Oldmore, too; I seem to remember the
name.  Excuse my curiosity, but often in calling upon one friend
one finds another."

"She is an invalid lady, sir.  Her husband was once mayor of
Gloucester.  She always comes to us when she is in town."

"Thank you; I am afraid I cannot claim her acquaintance.  We have
established a most important fact by these questions, Watson," he
continued in a low voice as we went upstairs together.  "We know
now that the people who are so interested in our friend have not
settled down in his own hotel.  That means that while they are, as
we have seen, very anxious to watch him, they are equally anxious
that he should not see them.  Now, this is a most suggestive fact."

"What does it suggest?"

"It suggests--halloa, my dear fellow, what on earth is the matter?"

As we came round the top of the stairs we had run up against Sir
Henry Baskerville himself.  His face was flushed with anger, and
he held an old and dusty boot in one of his hands.  So furious
was he that he was hardly articulate, and when he did speak it
was in a much broader and more Western dialect than any which we
had heard from him in the morning.

"Seems to me they are playing me for a sucker in this hotel," he
cried.  "They'll find they've started in to monkey with the wrong
man unless they are careful.  By thunder, if that chap can't find
my missing boot there will be trouble.  I can take a joke with
the best, Mr. Holmes, but they've got a bit over the mark this time."

"Still looking for your boot?"

"Yes, sir, and mean to find it."

"But, surely, you said that it was a new brown boot?"

"So it was, sir.  And now it's an old black one."

"What! you don't mean to say--?"

"That's just what I do mean to say.  I only had three pairs in
the world--the new brown, the old black, and the patent leathers,
which I am wearing.  Last night they took one of my brown ones,
and today they have sneaked one of the black.  Well, have you got
it?  Speak out, man, and don't stand staring!"

An agitated German waiter had appeared upon the scene.

"No, sir; I have made inquiry all over the hotel, but I can hear
no word of it."

"Well, either that boot comes back before sundown or I'll see the
manager and tell him that I go right straight out of this hotel."

"It shall be found, sir--I promise you that if you will have a
little patience it will be found."

"Mind it is, for it's the last thing of mine that I'll lose in
this den of thieves.  Well, well, Mr. Holmes, you'll excuse my
troubling you about such a trifle--"

"I think it's well worth troubling about."

"Why, you look very serious over it."

"How do you explain it?"

"I just don't attempt to explain it.  It seems the very maddest,
queerest thing that ever happened to me."

"The queerest perhaps--" said Holmes thoughtfully.

"What do you make of it yourself?"

"Well, I don't profess to understand it yet.  This case of yours
is very complex, Sir Henry.  When taken in conjunction with your
uncle's death I am not sure that of all the five hundred cases
of capital importance which I have handled there is one which
cuts so deep.  But we hold several threads in our hands, and the
odds are that one or other of them guides us to the truth.  We
may waste time in following the wrong one, but sooner or later
we must come upon the right."

We had a pleasant luncheon in which little was said of the
business which had brought us together.  It was in the private
sitting-room to which we afterwards repaired that Holmes asked
Baskerville what were his intentions.

"To go to Baskerville Hall."

"And when?"

"At the end of the week."

"On the whole," said Holmes, "I think that your decision is a wise
one.  I have ample evidence that you are being dogged in London,
and amid the millions of this great city it is difficult to
discover who these people are or what their object can be.  If
their intentions are evil they might do you a mischief, and we
should be powerless to prevent it.  You did not know, Dr. Mortimer,
that you were followed this morning from my house?"

Dr. Mortimer started violently.  "Followed!  By whom?"

"That, unfortunately, is what I cannot tell you.  Have you among
your neighbours or acquaintances on Dartmoor any man with a black,
full beard?"

"No--or, let me see--why, yes.  Barrymore, Sir Charles's butler,
is a man with a full, black beard."

"Ha!  Where is Barrymore?"

"He is in charge of the Hall."

"We had best ascertain if he is really there, or if by any
possibility he might be in London."

"How can you do that?"

"Give me a telegraph form.  'Is all ready for Sir Henry?'  That
will do.  Address to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall.  What is
the nearest telegraph-office?  Grimpen.  Very good, we will send
a second wire to the postmaster, Grimpen: 'Telegram to Mr. Barrymore
to be delivered into his own hand.  If absent, please return wire
to Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel.'  That should
let us know before evening whether Barrymore is at his post in
Devonshire or not."

"That's so," said Baskerville.  "By the way, Dr. Mortimer, who
is this Barrymore, anyhow?"

"He is the son of the old caretaker, who is dead.  They have looked
after the Hall for four generations now.  So far as I know, he
and his wife are as respectable a couple as any in the county."

"At the same time," said Baskerville, "it's clear enough that so
long as there are none of the family at the Hall these people
have a mighty fine home and nothing to do."

"That is true."

"Did Barrymore profit at all by Sir Charles's will?" asked Holmes.

"He and his wife had five hundred pounds each."

"Ha!  Did they know that they would receive this?"

"Yes; Sir Charles was very fond of talking about the provisions
of his will."

"That is very interesting."

"I hope," said Dr. Mortimer, "that you do not look with suspicious
eyes upon everyone who received a legacy from Sir Charles, for
I also had a thousand pounds left to me."

"Indeed!  And anyone else?"

"There were many insignificant sums to individuals, and a large
number of public charities.  The residue all went to Sir Henry."

"And how much was the residue?"

"Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds."

Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise.  "I had no idea that so
gigantic a sum was involved," said he.

"Sir Charles had the reputation of being rich, but we did not know
how very rich he was until we came to examine his securities.
The total value of the estate was close on to a million."

"Dear me!  It is a stake for which a man might well play a
desperate game.  And one more question, Dr. Mortimer.  Supposing
that anything happened to our young friend here--you will forgive
the unpleasant hypothesis!--who would inherit the estate?"

"Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles's younger brother died
unmarried, the estate would descend to the Desmonds, who are
distant cousins.  James Desmond is an elderly clergyman in
Westmoreland."

"Thank you.  These details are all of great interest.  Have you
met Mr. James Desmond?"

"Yes; he once came down to visit Sir Charles.  He is a man of
venerable appearance and of saintly life.  I remember that he
refused to accept any settlement from Sir Charles, though he
pressed it upon him."

"And this man of simple tastes would be the heir to Sir Charles's
thousands."

"He would be the heir to the estate because that is entailed.
He would also be the heir to the money unless it were willed
otherwise by the present owner, who can, of course, do what he
likes with it."

"And have you made your will, Sir Henry?"

"No, Mr. Holmes, I have not.  I've had no time, for it was only
yesterday that I learned how matters stood.  But in any case I
feel that the money should go with the title and estate.  That
was my poor uncle's idea.  How is the owner going to restore the
glories of the Baskervilles if he has not money enough to keep
up the property?  House, land, and dollars must go together."

"Quite so.  Well, Sir Henry, I am of one mind with you as to the
advisability of your going down to Devonshire without delay.
There is only one provision which I must make.  You certainly
must not go alone."

"Dr. Mortimer returns with me."

"But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to attend to, and his house
is miles away from yours.  With all the goodwill in the world he
may be unable to help you.  No, Sir Henry, you must take with you
someone, a trusty man, who will be always by your side."

"Is it possible that you could come yourself, Mr. Holmes?"

"If matters came to a crisis I should endeavour to be present in
person; but you can understand that, with my extensive consulting
practice and with the constant appeals which reach me from many
quarters, it is impossible for me to be absent from London for
an indefinite time.  At the present instant one of the most
revered names in England is being besmirched by a blackmailer,
and only I can stop a disastrous scandal.  You will see how
impossible it is for me to go to Dartmoor."

"Whom would you recommend, then?"

Holmes laid his hand upon my arm.  "If my friend would undertake
it there is no man who is better worth having at your side when
you are in a tight place.  No one can say so more confidently
than I."

The proposition took me completely by surprise, but before I had
time to answer, Baskerville seized me by the hand and wrung it
heartily.

"Well, now, that is real kind of you, Dr. Watson," said he.  "You
see how it is with me, and you know just as much about the matter
as I do.  If you will come down to Baskerville Hall and see me
through I'll never forget it."

The promise of adventure had always a fascination for me, and I
was complimented by the words of Holmes and by the eagerness with
which the baronet hailed me as a companion.

"I will come, with pleasure," said I. "I do not know how I could
employ my time better."

"And you will report very carefully to me," said Holmes.  "When
a crisis comes, as it will do, I will direct how you shall act.
I suppose that by Saturday all might be ready?"

"Would that suit Dr. Watson?"

"Perfectly."

"Then on Saturday, unless you hear to the contrary, we shall meet
at the ten-thirty train from Paddington."

We had risen to depart when Baskerville gave a cry, of triumph,
and diving into one of the corners of the room he drew a brown
boot from under a cabinet.

"My missing boot!" he cried.

"May all our difficulties vanish as easily!" said Sherlock Holmes.

"But it is a very singular thing," Dr. Mortimer remarked.  "I
searched this room carefully before lunch."

"And so did I," said Baskerville.  "Every inch of it."

"There was certainly no boot in it then."

"In that case the waiter must have placed it there while we were
lunching."

The German was sent for but professed to know nothing of the
matter, nor could any inquiry clear it up.  Another item had
been added to that constant and apparently purposeless series
of small mysteries which had succeeded each other so rapidly.
Setting aside the whole grim story of Sir Charles's death, we
had a line of inexplicable incidents all within the limits of
two days, which included the receipt of the printed letter, the
black-bearded spy in the hansom, the loss of the new brown boot,
the loss of the old black boot, and now the return of the new
brown boot.  Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove back
to Baker Street, and I knew from his drawn brows and keen face
that his mind, like my own, was busy in endeavouring to frame
some scheme into which all these strange and apparently disconnected
episodes could be fitted.  All afternoon and late into the
evening he sat lost in tobacco and thought.

Just before dinner two telegrams were handed in.  The first ran:

Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall.
BASKERVILLE.

The second:

Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, but sorry, to report
unable to trace cut sheet of Times.
CARTWRlGHT.

"There go two of my threads, Watson.  There is nothing more
stimulating than a case where everything goes against you.  We
must cast round for another scent."

"We have still the cabman who drove the spy."

"Exactly.  I have wired to get his name and address from the
Official Registry.  I should not be surprised if this were an
answer to my question."

The ring at the bell proved to be something even more satisfactory
than an answer, however, for the door opened and a rough-looking
fellow entered who was evidently the man himself.

"I got a message from the head office that a gent at this address
had been inquiring for No. 2704," said he.  "I've driven my cab this
seven years and never a word of complaint.  I came here straight
from the Yard to ask you to your face what you had against me."

"I have nothing in the world against you, my good man," said
Holmes.  "On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you
will give me a clear answer to my questions."

"Well, I've had a good day and no mistake," said the cabman with
a grin.  "What was it you wanted to ask, sir?"

"First of all your name and address, in case I want you again."

"John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, the Borough.  My cab is out of
Shipley's Yard, near Waterloo Station."

Sherlock Holmes made a note of it.

"Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who came and watched
this house at ten o'clock this morning and afterwards followed
the two gentlemen down Regent Street."

The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed.  "Why, there's
no good my telling you things, for you seem to know as much as I
do already," said he.  "The truth is that the gentleman told me
that he was a detective and that I was to say nothing about him
to anyone."

"My good fellow; this is a very serious business, and you may find
yourself in a pretty bad position if you try to hide anything from
me.  You say that your fare told you that he was a detective?"

"Yes, he did."

"When did he say this?"

"When he left me."

"Did he say anything more?"

"He mentioned his name."

Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me.  "Oh, he mentioned
his name, did he?  That was imprudent.  What was the name that
he mentioned?"

"His name," said the cabman, "was Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Never have I seen my friend more completely taken aback than by
the cabman's reply.  For an instant he sat in silent amazement.
Then he burst into a hearty laugh.

"A touch, Watson--an undeniable touch!" said he.  "I feel a foil
as quick and supple as my own.  He got home upon me very prettily
that time.  So his name was Sherlock Holmes, was it?"

"Yes, sir, that was the gentleman's name."

"Excellent!  Tell me where you picked him up and all that occurred."

"He hailed me at half-past nine in Trafalgar Square.  He said that
he was a detective, and he offered me two guineas if I would do
exactly what he wanted all day and ask no questions.  I was glad
enough to agree.  First we drove down to the Northumberland Hotel
and waited there until two gentlemen came out and took a cab from
the rank.  We followed their cab until it pulled up somewhere
near here."

"This very door," said Holmes.

"Well, I couldn't be sure of that, but I dare say my fare knew
all about it.  We pulled up halfway down the street and waited
an hour and a half.  Then the two gentlemen passed us, walking,
and we followed down Baker Street and along--"

"I know," said Holmes.

"Until we got three-quarters down Regent Street.  Then my gentleman
threw up the trap, and he cried that I should drive right away
to Waterloo Station as hard as I could go.  I whipped up the mare
and we were there under the ten minutes.  Then he paid up his two
guineas, like a good one, and away he went into the station.
Only just as he was leaving he turned round and he said: 'It
might interest you to know that you have been driving Mr. Sherlock
Holmes.'  That's how I come to know the name."

"I see.  And you saw no more of him?"

"Not after he went into the station."

"And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

The cabman scratched his head.  "Well, he wasn't altogether such
an easy gentleman to describe.  I'd put him at forty years of age,
and he was of a middle height, two or three inches shorter than
you, sir.  He was dressed like a toff, and he had a black beard,
cut square at the end, and a pale face.  I don't know as I could
say more than that."

"Colour of his eyes?"

"No, I can't say that."

"Nothing more that you can remember?"

"No, sir; nothing."

"Well, then, here is your half-sovereign.  There's another one
waiting for you if you can bring any more information.  Good-night!"

"Good-night, sir, and thank you!"

John Clayton departed chuckling, and Holmes turned to me with a
shrug of his shoulders and a rueful smile.

"Snap goes our third thread, and we end where we began," said he.
"The cunning rascal!  He knew our number, knew that Sir Henry
Baskerville had consulted me, spotted who I was in Regent Street,
conjectured that I had got the number of the cab and would lay
my hands on the driver, and so sent back this audacious message.
I tell you, Watson, this time we have got a foeman who is worthy
of our steel.  I've been checkmated in London.  I can only wish
you better luck in Devonshire.  But I'm not easy in my mind about
it."

"About what?"

"About sending you.  It's an ugly business, Watson, an ugly
dangerous business, and the more I see of it the less I like it.
Yes, my dear fellow, you may laugh, but I give you my word that
I shall be very glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker
Street once more."




Chapter 6
Baskerville Hall



Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready upon the appointed
day, and we started as arranged for Devonshire.  Mr. Sherlock Holmes
drove with me to the station and gave me his last parting injunctions
and advice.

"I will not bias your mind by suggesting theories or suspicions,
Watson," said he; "I wish you simply to report facts in the fullest
possible manner to me, and you can leave me to do the theorizing."

"What sort of facts?"  I asked.

"Anything which may seem to have a bearing however indirect upon
the case, and especially the relations between young Baskerville
and his neighbours or any fresh particulars concerning the death
of Sir Charles.  I have made some inquiries myself in the last
few days, but the results have, I fear, been negative.  One thing
only appears to be certain, and that is that Mr. James Desmond,
who is the next heir, is an elderly gentleman of a very amiable
disposition, so that this persecution does not arise from him.
I really think that we may eliminate him entirely from our
calculations.  There remain the people who will actually surround
Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor."

"Would it not be well in the first place to get rid of this
Barrymore couple?"

"By no means.  You could not make a greater mistake.  If they are
innocent it would be a cruel injustice, and if they are guilty
we should be giving up all chance of bringing it home to them.
No, no, we will preserve them upon our list of suspects.  Then
there is a groom at the Hall, if I remember right.  There are
two moorland farmers.  There is our friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I
believe to be entirely honest, and there is his wife, of whom we
know nothing.  There is this naturalist, Stapleton, and there is
his sister, who is said to be a young lady of attractions.  There
is Mr. Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who is also an unknown factor,
and there are one or two other neighbours.  These are the folk
who must be your very special study."

"I will do my best."

"You have arms, I suppose?"

"Yes, I thought it as well to take them."

"Most certainly.  Keep your revolver near you night and day, and
never relax your precautions."

Our friends had already secured a first-class carriage and were
waiting for us upon the platform.

"No, we have no news of any kind," said Dr. Mortimer in answer
to my friend's questions.  "I can swear to one thing, and that
is that we have not been shadowed during the last two days.  We
have never gone out without keeping a sharp watch, and no one
could have escaped our notice."

"You have always kept together, I presume?"

"Except yesterday afternoon.  I usually give up one day to pure
amusement when I come to town, so I spent it at the Museum of the
College of Surgeons."

"And I went to look at the folk in the park," said Baskerville.

"But we had no trouble of any kind."

"It was imprudent, all the same," said Holmes, shaking his head
and looking very grave.  "I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go
about alone.  Some great misfortune will befall you if you do.
Did you get your other boot?"

"No, sir, it is gone forever."

"Indeed.  That is very interesting.  Well, good-bye," he added
as the train began to glide down the platform.  "Bear in mind,
Sir Henry, one of the phrases in that queer old legend which Dr.
Mortimer has read to us, and avoid the moor in those hours of
darkness when the powers of evil are exalted."

I looked back at the platform when we had left it far behind and
saw the tall, austere figure of Holmes standing motionless and
gazing after us.

The journey was a swift and pleasant one, and I spent it in
making the more intimate acquaintance of my two companions and
in playing with Dr. Mortimer's spaniel.  In a very few hours the
brown earth had become ruddy, the brick had changed to granite,
and red cows grazed in well-hedged fields where the lush grasses
and more luxuriant vegetation spoke of a richer, if a damper,
climate.  Young Baskerville stared eagerly out of the window and
cried aloud with delight as he recognized the familiar features
of the Devon scenery.

"I've been over a good part of the world since I left it, Dr.
Watson," said he; "but I have never seen a place to compare with
it."

"I never saw a Devonshire man who did not swear by his county,"
I remarked.

"It depends upon the breed of men quite as much as on the county,"
said Dr. Mortimer.  "A glance at our friend here reveals the
rounded head of the Celt, which carries inside it the Celtic
enthusiasm and power of attachment.  Poor Sir Charles's head was of
a very rare type, half Gaelic, half Ivernian in its characteristics.
But you were very young when you last saw Baskerville Hall, were
you not?"

"I was a boy in my teens at the time of my father's death and had
never seen the Hall, for he lived in a little cottage on the South
Coast.  Thence I went straight to a friend in America.  I tell
you it is all as new to me as it is to Dr. Watson, and I'm as
keen as possible to see the moor."

"Are you?  Then your wish is easily granted, for there is your
first sight of the moor," said Dr. Mortimer, pointing out of the
carriage window.

Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood
there rose in the distance a gray, melancholy hill, with a strange
jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some fantastic
landscape in a dream.  Baskerville sat for a long time, his eyes
fixed upon it, and I read upon his eager face how much it meant
to him, this first sight of that strange spot where the men of
his blood had held sway so long and left their mark so deep.
There he sat, with his tweed suit and his American accent, in the
corner of a prosaic railway-carriage, and yet as I looked at his
dark and expressive face I felt more than ever how true a descendant
he was of that long line of high-blooded, fiery, and masterful
men.  There were pride, valour, and strength in his thick brows,
his sensitive nostrils, and his large hazel eyes.  If on that
forbidding moor a difficult and dangerous quest should lie before
us, this was at least a comrade for whom one might venture to take
a risk with the certainty that he would bravely share it.

The train pulled up at a small wayside station and we all
descended.  Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette
with a pair of cobs was waiting.  Our coming was evidently a great
event, for station-master and porters clustered round us to carry
out our luggage.  It was a sweet, simple country spot, but I was
surprised to observe that by the gate there stood two soldierly
men in dark uniforms who leaned upon their short rifles and glanced
keenly at us as we passed.  The coachman, a hard-faced, gnarled
little fellow, saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes
we were flying swiftly down the broad, white road.  Rolling pasture
lands curved upward on either side of us, and old gabled houses
peeped out from amid the thick green foliage, but behind the
peaceful and sunlit countryside there rose ever, dark against the
evening sky, the long, gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the
jagged and sinister hills.

The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward
through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on
either side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hart's-tongue
ferns.  Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light
of the sinking sun.  Still steadily rising, we passed over a
narrow granite bridge and skirted a noisy stream which gushed
swiftly down, foaming and roaring amid the gray boulders.  Both
road and stream wound up through a valley dense with scrub oak
and fir.  At every turn Baskerville gave an exclamation of delight,
looking eagerly about him and asking countless questions.  To his
eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of melancholy lay
upon the countryside, which bore so clearly the mark of the waning
year.  Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down upon
us as we passed.  The rattle of our wheels died away as we drove
through drifts of rotting vegetation--sad gifts, as it seemed to
me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of the returning heir
of the Baskervilles.

"Halloa!" cried Dr. Mortimer, "what is this?"

A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the moor,
lay in front of us.  On the summit, hard and clear like an
equestrian statue upon its pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark
and stern, his rifle poised ready over his forearm.  He was
watching the road along which we travelled.

"What is this, Perkins?" asked Dr. Mortimer.

Our driver half turned in his seat.  "There's a convict escaped
from Princetown, sir.  He's been out three days now, and the
warders watch every road and every station, but they've had no
sight of him yet.  The farmers about here don't like it, sir,
and that's a fact."

"Well, I understand that they get five pounds if they can give
information."

"Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a poor thing
compared to the chance of having your throat cut.  You see, it
isn't like any ordinary convict.  This is a man that would stick
at nothing."

"Who is he, then?"

"It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer."

I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had
taken an interest on account of the peculiar ferocity of the crime
and the wanton brutality which had marked all the actions of the
assassin.  The commutation of his death sentence had been due to
some doubts as to his complete sanity, so atrocious was his conduct.
Our wagonette had topped a rise and in front of us rose the huge
expanse of the moor, mottled with gnarled and craggy cairns and
tors.  A cold wind swept down from it and set us shivering.
Somewhere there, on that desolate plain, was lurking this fiendish
man, hiding in a burrow like a wild beast, his heart full of
malignancy against the whole race which had cast him out.  It
needed but this to complete the grim suggestiveness of the barren
waste, the chilling wind, and the darkling sky.  Even Baskerville
fell silent and pulled his overcoat more closely around him.

We had left the fertile country behind and beneath us.  We looked
back on it now, the slanting rays of a low sun turning the streams
to threads of gold and glowing on the red earth new turned by the
plough and the broad tangle of the woodlands.  The road in front
of us grew bleaker and wilder over huge russet and olive slopes,
sprinkled with giant boulders.  Now and then we passed a moorland
cottage, walled and roofed with stone, with no creeper to break
its harsh outline.  Suddenly we looked down into a cuplike
depression, patched with stunted oaks and firs which had been
twisted and bent by the fury of years of storm.  Two high, narrow
towers rose over the trees.  The driver pointed with his whip.

"Baskerville Hall," said he.

Its master had risen and was staring with flushed cheeks and
shining eyes.  A few minutes later we had reached the lodge-gates,
a maze of fantastic tracery in wrought iron, with weather-bitten
pillars on either side, blotched with lichens, and surmounted by
the boars' heads of the Baskervilles.  The lodge was a ruin of
black granite and bared ribs of rafters, but facing it was a
new building, half constructed, the first fruit of Sir Charles's
South African gold.

Through the gateway we passed into the avenue, where the wheels
were again hushed amid the leaves, and the old trees shot their
branches in a sombre tunnel over our heads.  Baskerville shuddered
as he looked up the long, dark drive to where the house glimmered
like a ghost at the farther end.

"Was it here?" he asked in a low voice.

"No, no, the yew alley is on the other side."

The young heir glanced round with a gloomy face.

"It's no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on him in
such a place as this," said he.  "It's enough to scare any man.
I'll have a row of electric lamps up here inside of six months,
and you won't know it again, with a thousand candle-power Swan
and Edison right here in front of the hall door."

The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf, and the house
lay before us.  In the fading light I could see that the centre
was a heavy block of building from which a porch projected.
The whole front was draped in ivy, with a patch clipped bare
here and there where a window or a coat of arms broke through
the dark veil.  From this central block rose the twin towers,
ancient, crenelated, and pierced with many loopholes.  To right
and left of the turrets were more modern wings of black granite.
A dull light shone through heavy mullioned windows, and from the
high chimneys which rose from the steep, high-angled roof there
sprang a single black column of smoke.

"Welcome, Sir Henry!  Welcome to Baskerville Hall!"

A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the porch to open the
door of the wagonette.  The figure of a woman was silhouetted
against the yellow light of the hall.  She came out and helped
the man to hand down our bags.

"You don't mind my driving straight home, Sir Henry?" said Dr.
Mortimer.  "My wife is expecting me."

"Surely you will stay and have some dinner?"

"No, I must go.  I shall probably find some work awaiting me.
I would stay to show you over the house, but Barrymore will be
a better guide than I.  Good-bye, and never hesitate night or
day to send for me if I can be of service."

The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned
into the hall, and the door clanged heavily behind us.  It was a
fine apartment in which we found ourselves, large, lofty, and
heavily raftered with huge baulks of age-blackened oak.  In the
great old-fashioned fireplace behind the high iron dogs a log-fire
crackled and snapped.  Sir Henry and I held out our hands to it,
for we were numb from our long drive.  Then we gazed round us at
the high, thin window of old stained glass, the oak panelling,
the stags' heads, the coats of arms upon the walls, all dim and
sombre in the subdued light of the central lamp.

"It's just as I imagined it," said Sir Henry.  "Is it not the very
picture of an old family home?  To think that this should be the
same hall in which for five hundred years my people have lived.
It strikes me solemn to think of it."

I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he gazed
about him.  The light beat upon him where he stood, but long
shadows trailed down the walls and hung like a black canopy
above him.  Barrymore had returned from taking our luggage
to our rooms.  He stood in front of us now with the subdued
manner of a well-trained servant.  He was a remarkable-looking
man, tall, handsome, with a square black beard and pale,
distinguished features.

"Would you wish dinner to be served at once, sir?"

"Is it ready?"

"In a very few minutes, sir.  You will find hot water in your
rooms.  My wife and I will be happy, Sir Henry, to stay with you
until you have made your fresh arrangements, but you will
understand that under the new conditions this house will require
a considerable staff."

"What new conditions?"

"I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles led a very retired life,
and we were able to look after his wants.  You would, naturally,
wish to have more company, and so you will need changes in your
household."

"Do you mean that your wife and you wish to leave?"

"Only when it is quite convenient to you, sir."

"But your family have been with us for several generations, have
they not?  I should be sorry to begin my life here by breaking
an old family connection."

I seemed to discern some signs of emotion upon the butler's white
face.

"I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife.  But to tell the
truth, sir, we were both very much attached to Sir Charles, and
his death gave us a shock and made these surroundings very painful
to us.  I fear that we shall never again be easy in our minds at
Baskerville Hall."

"But what do you intend to do?"

"I have no doubt, sir, that we shall succeed in establishing
ourselves in some business.  Sir Charles's generosity has given
us the means to do so.  And now, sir, perhaps I had best show you
to your rooms."

A square balustraded gallery ran round the top of the old hall,
approached by a double stair.  From this central point two long
corridors extended the whole length of the building, from which
all the bedrooms opened.  My own was in the same wing as
Baskerville's and almost next door to it.  These rooms appeared
to be much more modern than the central part of the house, and
the bright paper and numerous candles did something to remove
the sombre impression which our arrival had left upon my mind.

But the dining-room which opened out of the hall was a place of
shadow and gloom.  It was a long chamber with a step separating
the dais where the family sat from the lower portion reserved for
their dependents.  At one end a minstrel's gallery overlooked it.
Black beams shot across above our heads, with a smoke-darkened
ceiling beyond them.  With rows of flaring torches to light it
up, and the colour and rude hilarity of an old-time banquet, it
might have softened; but now, when two black-clothed gentlemen
sat in the little circle of light thrown by a shaded lamp, one's
voice became hushed and one's spirit subdued.  A dim line of
ancestors, in every variety of dress, from the Elizabethan knight
to the buck of the Regency, stared down upon us and daunted us
by their silent company.  We talked little, and I for one was
glad when the meal was over and we were able to retire into the
modern billiard-room and smoke a cigarette.

"My word, it isn't a very cheerful place," said Sir Henry.  "I
suppose one can tone down to it, but I feel a bit out of the
picture at present.  I don't wonder that my uncle got a little
jumpy if he lived all alone in such a house as this.  However,
if it suits you, we will retire early tonight, and perhaps
things may seem more cheerful in the morning."

I drew aside my curtains before I went to bed and looked out
from my window.  It opened upon the grassy space which lay in
front of the hall door.  Beyond, two copses of trees moaned and
swung in a rising wind.  A half moon broke through the rifts of
racing clouds.  In its cold light I saw beyond the trees a broken
fringe of rocks, and the long, low curve of the melancholy moor.
I closed the curtain, feeling that my last impression was in
keeping with the rest.

And yet it was not quite the last.  I found myself weary and yet
wakeful, tossing restlessly from side to side, seeking for the
sleep which would not come.  Far away a chiming clock struck out
the quarters of the hours, but otherwise a deathly silence lay
upon the old house.  And then suddenly, in the very dead of the
night, there came a sound to my ears, clear, resonant, and
unmistakable.  It was the sob of a woman, the muffled, strangling
gasp of one who is torn by an uncontrollable sorrow.  I sat up
in bed and listened intently.  The noise could not have been far
away and was certainly in the house.  For half an hour I waited
with every nerve on the alert, but there came no other sound save
the chiming clock and the rustle of the ivy on the wall.




Chapter 7
The Stapletons of Merripit House



The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface
from our minds the grim and gray impression which had been left
upon both of us by our first experience of Baskerville Hall.  As
Sir Henry and I sat at breakfast the sunlight flooded in through
the high mullioned windows, throwing watery patches of colour from
the coats of arms which covered them.  The dark panelling glowed
like bronze in the golden rays, and it was hard to realize that
this was indeed the chamber which had struck such a gloom into
our souls upon the evening before.

"I guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to blame!"
said the baronet.  "We were tired with our journey and chilled
by our drive, so we took a gray view of the place.  Now we are
fresh and well, so it is all cheerful once more."

"And yet it was not entirely a question of imagination," I
answered.  "Did you, for example, happen to hear someone, a woman
I think, sobbing in the night?"

"That is curious, for I did when I was half asleep fancy that I
heard something of the sort.  I waited quite a time, but there
was no more of it, so I concluded that it was all a dream."

"I heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it was really the sob
of a woman."

"We must ask about this right away."  He rang the bell and asked
Barrymore whether he could account for our experience.  It seemed
to me that the pallid features of the butler turned a shade paler
still as he listened to his master's question.

"There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry," he answered.
"One is the scullery-maid, who sleeps in the other wing.  The other
is my wife, and I can answer for it that the sound could not have
come from her."

And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after breakfast
I met Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun full upon
her face.  She was a large, impassive, heavy-featured woman with
a stern set expression of mouth.  But her telltale eyes were red
and glanced at me from between swollen lids.  It was she, then,
who wept in the night, and if she did so her husband must know it.
Yet he had taken the obvious risk of discovery in declaring that
it was not so.  Why had he done this?  And why did she weep so
bitterly?  Already round this pale-faced, handsome, black-bearded
man there was gathering an atmosphere of mystery and of gloom.
It was he who had been the first to discover the body of Sir Charles,
and we had only his word for all the circumstances which led up
to the old man's death.  Was it possible that it was Barrymore,
after all, whom we had seen in the cab in Regent Street?  The
beard might well have been the same.  The cabman had described
a somewhat shorter man, but such an impression might easily have
been erroneous.  How could I settle the point forever?  Obviously
the first thing to do was to see the Grimpen postmaster and find
whether the test telegram had really been placed in Barrymore's
own hands.  Be the answer what it might, I should at least have
something to report to Sherlock Holmes.

Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that
the time was propitious for my excursion.  It was a pleasant walk
of four miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to
a small gray hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved
to be the inn and the house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the
rest.  The postmaster, who was also the village grocer, had a
clear recollection of the telegram.

"Certainly, sir," said he, "I had the telegram delivered to Mr.
Barrymore exactly as directed."

"Who delivered it?"

"My boy here.  James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. Barrymore
at the Hall last week, did you not?"

"Yes, father, I delivered it."

"Into his own hands?"  I asked.

"Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could not
put it into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore's
hands, and she promised to deliver it at once."

"Did you see Mr. Barrymore?"

"No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft."

"If you didn't see him, how do you know he was in the loft?"

"Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is," said the
postmaster testily.  "Didn't he get the telegram?  If there is
any mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain."

It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was
clear that in spite of Holmes's ruse we had no proof that Barrymore
had not been in London all the time.  Suppose that it were so--
suppose that the same man had been the last who had seen Sir
Charles alive, and the first to dog the new heir when he returned
to England.  What then?  Was he the agent of others or had he
some sinister design of his own?  What interest could he have in
persecuting the Baskerville family?  I thought of the strange
warning clipped out of the leading article of the Times.  Was that
his work or was it possibly the doing of someone who was bent upon
counteracting his schemes?  The only conceivable motive was that
which had been suggested by Sir Henry, that if the family could
be scared away a comfortable and permanent home would be secured
for the Barrymores.  But surely such an explanation as that would
be quite inadequate to account for the deep and subtle scheming
which seemed to be weaving an invisible net round the young
baronet.  Holmes himself had said that no more complex case had
come to him in all the long series of his sensational
investigations.  I prayed, as I walked back along the gray, lonely
road, that my friend might soon be freed from his preoccupations
and able to come down to take this heavy burden of responsibility
from my shoulders.

Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running
feet behind me and by a voice which called me by name.  I turned,
expecting to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a stranger
who was pursuing me.  He was a small, slim, clean-shaven, prim-
faced man, flaxen-haired and leanjawed, between thirty and forty
years of age, dressed in a gray suit and wearing a straw hat.  A
tin box for botanical specimens hung over his shoulder and he
carried a green butterfly-net in one of his hands.

"You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson," said
he as he came panting up to where I stood.  "Here on the moor we
are homely folk and do not wait for formal introductions.  You
may possibly have heard my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer.
I am Stapleton, of Merripit House."

"Your net and box would have told me as much," said I, "for I knew
that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist.  But how did you know me?"

"I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me
from the window of his surgery as you passed.  As our road lay
the same way I thought that I would overtake you and introduce
myself.  I trust that Sir Henry is none the worse for his journey?"

"He is very well, thank you."

"We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir Charles
the new baronet might refuse to live here.  It is asking much of
a wealthy man to come down and bury himself in a place of this
kind, but I need not tell you that it means a very great deal to
the countryside.  Sir Henry has, I suppose, no superstitious
fears in the matter?"

"I do not think that it is likely."

"Of course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts the
family?"

"I have heard it."

"It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about here!
Any number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such
a creature upon the moor."  He spoke with a smile, but I seemed
to read in his eyes that he took the matter more seriously.  "The
story took a great hold upon the imagination of Sir Charles, and
I have no doubt that it led to his tragic end."

"But how?"

"His nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog might
have had a fatal effect upon his diseased heart.  I fancy that
he really did see something of the kind upon that last night in
the yew alley.  I feared that some disaster might occur, for I
was very fond of the old man, and I knew that his heart was weak."

"How did you know that?"

"My friend Mortimer told me."

"You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and that he
died of fright in consequence?"

"Have you any better explanation?"

"I have not come to any conclusion."

"Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

The words took away my breath for an instant but a glance at the
placid face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed that no
surprise was intended.

"It is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, Dr.
Watson," said he.  "The records of your detective have reached
us here, and you could not celebrate him without being known
yourself.  When Mortimer told me your name he could not deny
your identity.  If you are here, then it follows that Mr. Sherlock
Holmes is interesting himself in the matter, and I am naturally
curious to know what view he may take."

"I am afraid that I cannot answer that question."

"May I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit himself?"

"He cannot leave town at present.  He has other cases which engage
his attention."

"What a pity!  He might throw some light on that which is so dark
to us.  But as to your own researches, if there is any possible
way in which I can be of service to you I trust that you will
command me.  If I had any indication of the nature of your
suspicions or how you propose to investigate the case, I might
perhaps even now give you some aid or advice."

"I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my friend,
Sir Henry, and that I need no help of any kind."

"Excellent!" said Stapleton.  "You are perfectly right to be
wary and discreet.  I am justly reproved for what I feel was an
unjustifiable intrusion, and I promise you that I will not mention
the matter again."

We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from
the road and wound away across the moor.  A steep, boulder-sprinkled
hill lay upon the right which had in bygone days been cut into a
granite quarry.  The face which was turned towards us formed a
dark cliff, with ferns and brambles growing in its niches.  From
over a distant rise there floated a gray plume of smoke.

"A moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit House,"
said he.  "Perhaps you will spare an hour that I may have the
pleasure of introducing you to my sister."

My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry's side.  But
then I remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his
study table was littered.  It was certain that I could not help
with those.  And Holmes had expressly said that I should study
the neighbours upon the moor.  I accepted Stapleton's invitation,
and we turned together down the path.

"It is a wonderful place, the moor," said he, looking round over
the undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests of jagged
granite foaming up into fantastic surges.  "You never tire of the
moor.  You cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains.
It is so vast, and so barren, and so mysterious."

"You know it well, then?"

"I have only been here two years.  The residents would call me
a newcomer.  We came shortly after Sir Charles settled.  But my
tastes led me to explore every part of the country round, and I
should think that there are few men who know it better than I do."

"Is it hard to know?"

"Very hard.  You see, for example, this great plain to the north
here with the queer hills breaking out of it.  Do you observe
anything remarkable about that?"

"It would be a rare place for a gallop."

"You would naturally think so and the thought has cost several
their lives before now.  You notice those bright green spots
scattered thickly over it?"

"Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest."

Stapleton laughed.  "That is the great Grimpen Mire," said he.
"A false step yonder means death to man or beast.  Only yesterday
I saw one of the moor ponies wander into it.  He never came out.
I saw his head for quite a long time craning out of the bog-hole,
but it sucked him down at last.  Even in dry seasons it is a danger
to cross it, but after these autumn rains it is an awful place.
And yet I can find my way to the very heart of it and return
alive.  By George, there is another of those miserable ponies!"

Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges.
Then a long, agonized, writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful
cry echoed over the moor.  It turned me cold with horror, but my
companion's nerves seemed to be stronger than mine.

"It's gone!" said he.  "The mire has him.  Two in two days, and
many more, perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in the
dry weather and never know the difference until the mire has them
in its clutches.  It's a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire."

"And you say you can penetrate it?"

"Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man can
take.  I have found them out."

"But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place?"

"Well, you see the hills beyond?  They are really islands cut off
on all sides by the impassable mire, which has crawled round them
in the course of years.  That is where the rare plants and the
butterflies are, if you have the wit to reach them."

"I shall try my luck some day."

He looked at me with a surprised face.  "For God's sake put such
an idea out of your mind," said he.  "Your blood would be upon
my head.  I assure you that there would not be the least chance
of your coming back alive.  It is only by remembering certain
complex landmarks that I am able to do it."

"Halloa!"  I cried.  "What is that?"

A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor.  It
filled the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it
came.  From a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then
sank back into a melancholy, throbbing murmur once again.  Stapleton
looked at me with a curious expression in his face.

"Queer place, the moor!" said he.

"But what is it?"

"The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for
its prey.  I've heard it once or twice before, but never quite
so loud."

I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge
swelling plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes.  Nothing
stirred over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which croaked
loudly from a tor behind us.

"You are an educated man.  You don't believe such nonsense as
that?" said I.  "What do you think is the cause of so strange a
sound?"

"Bogs make queer noises sometimes.  It's the mud settling, or
the water rising, or something."

"No, no, that was a living voice."

"Well, perhaps it was.  Did you ever hear a bittern booming?"

"No, I never did."

"It's a very rare bird--practically extinct--in England now,
but all things are possible upon the moor.  Yes, I should not be
surprised to learn that what we have heard is the cry of the last
of the bitterns."

"It's the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my life."

"Yes, it's rather an uncanny place altogether.  Look at the hillside
yonder.  What do you make of those?"

The whole steep slope was covered with gray circular rings of
stone, a score of them at least.

"What are they?  Sheep-pens?"

"No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors.  Prehistoric man
lived thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived
there since, we find all his little arrangements exactly as he
left them.  These are his wigwams with the roofs off.  You can
even see his hearth and his couch if you have the curiosity to
go inside.

"But it is quite a town.  When was it inhabited?"

"Neolithic man--no date."

"What did he do?"

"He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig for
tin when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe.  Look
at the great trench in the opposite hill.  That is his mark.  Yes,
you will find some very singular points about the moor, Dr. Watson.
Oh, excuse me an instant!  It is surely Cyclopides."

A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an
instant Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed
in pursuit of it.  To my dismay the creature flew straight for
the great mire, and my acquaintance never paused for an instant,
bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the
air.  His gray clothes and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made
him not unlike some huge moth himself.  I was standing watching
his pursuit with a mixture of admiration for his extraordinary
activity and fear lest he should lose his footing in the treacherous
mire, when I heard the sound of steps and, turning round, found
a woman near me upon the path.  She had come from the direction in
which the plume of smoke indicated the position of Merripit House,
but the dip of the moor had hid her until she was quite close.

I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I had
been told, since ladies of any sort must be few upon the moor,
and I remembered that I had heard someone describe her as being
a beauty.  The woman who approached me was certainly that, and
of a most uncommon type.  There could not have been a greater
contrast between brother and sister, for Stapleton was neutral
tinted, with light hair and gray eyes, while she was darker than
any brunette whom I have seen in England--slim, elegant, and tall.
She had a proud, finely cut face, so regular that it might have
seemed impassive were it not for the sensitive mouth and the
beautiful dark, eager eyes.  With her perfect figure and elegant
dress she was, indeed, a strange apparition upon a lonely moorland
path.  Her eyes were on her brother as I turned, and then she
quickened her pace towards me.  I had raised my hat and was about
to make some explanatory remark when her own words turned all my
thoughts into a new channel.

"Go back!" she said.  "Go straight back to London, instantly."

I could only stare at her in stupid surprise.  Her eyes blazed
at me, and she tapped the ground impatiently with her foot.

"Why should I go back?"  I asked.

"I cannot explain."  She spoke in a low, eager voice, with a
curious lisp in her utterance.  "But for God's sake do what I
ask you.  Go back and never set foot upon the moor again."

"But I have only just come."

"Man, man!" she cried.  "Can you not tell when a warning is for
your own good?  Go back to London!  Start tonight!  Get away
from this place at all costs!  Hush, my brother is coming!  Not
a word of what I have said.  Would you mind getting that orchid
for me among the mare's-tails yonder?  We are very rich in orchids
on the moor, though, of course, you are rather late to see the
beauties of the place."

Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came back to us breathing
hard and flushed with his exertions.

"Halloa, Beryl!" said he, and it seemed to me that the tone of
his greeting was not altogether a cordial one.

"Well, Jack, you are very hot."

"Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides.  He is very rare and seldom
found in the late autumn.  What a pity that I should have missed
him!"  He spoke unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced
incessantly from the girl to me.

"You have introduced yourselves, I can see."

"Yes.  I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for him
to see the true beauties of the moor."

"Why, who do you think this is?"

"I imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville."

"No, no," said I. "Only a humble commoner, but his friend.  My
name is Dr. Watson."

A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face.  "We have
been talking at cross purposes," said she.

"Why, you had not very much time for talk," her brother remarked
with the same questioning eyes.

"I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being merely
a visitor," said she.  "It cannot much matter to him whether it
is early or late for the orchids.  But you will come on, will you
not, and see Merripit House?"

A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the
farm of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into
repair and turned into a modern dwelling.  An orchard surrounded
it, but the trees, as is usual upon the moor, were stunted and
nipped, and the effect of the whole place was mean and melancholy.
We were admitted by a strange, wizened, rusty-coated old manservant,
who seemed in keeping with the house.  Inside, however, there were
large rooms furnished with an elegance in which I seemed to
recognize the taste of the lady.  As I looked from their windows
at the interminable granite-flecked moor rolling unbroken to the
farthest horizon I could not but marvel at what could have brought
this highly educated man and this beautiful woman to live in such
a place.

"Queer spot to choose, is it not?" said he as if in answer to my
thought.  "And yet we manage to make ourselves fairly happy, do
we not, Beryl?"

"Quite happy," said she, but there was no ring of conviction in
her words.

"I had a school," said Stapleton.  "It was in the north country.
The work to a man of my temperament was mechanical and
uninteresting, but the privilege of living with youth, of helping
to mould those young minds, and of impressing them with one's own
character and ideals was very dear to me.  However, the fates were
against us.  A serious epidemic broke out in the school and three
of the boys died.  It never recovered from the blow, and much of
my capital was irretrievably swallowed up.  And yet, if it were
not for the loss of the charming companionship of the boys, I
could rejoice over my own misfortune, for, with my strong tastes
for botany and zoology, I find an unlimited field of work here,
and my sister is as devoted to Nature as I am.  All this, Dr.
Watson, has been brought upon your head by your expression as
you surveyed the moor out of our window."

"It certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little dull--
less for you, perhaps, than for your sister."

"No, no, I am never dull," said she quickly.

"We have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting
neighbours.  Dr. Mortimer is a most learned man in his own line.
Poor Sir Charles was also an admirable companion.  We knew him
well and miss him more than I can tell.  Do you think that I should
intrude if I were to call this afternoon and make the acquaintance
of Sir Henry?"

"I am sure that he would be delighted."

"Then perhaps you would mention that I propose to do so.  We may
in our humble way do something to make things more easy for him
until he becomes accustomed to his new surroundings.  Will you
come upstairs, Dr. Watson, and inspect my collection of Lepidoptera?
I think it is the most complete one in the south-west of England.
By the time that you have looked through them lunch will be almost
ready."

But I was eager to get back to my charge.  The melancholy of the
moor, the death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound which
had been associated with the grim legend of the Baskervilles, all
these things tinged my thoughts with sadness.  Then on the top
of these more or less vague impressions there had come the definite
and distinct warning of Miss Stapleton, delivered with such intense
earnestness that I could not doubt that some grave and deep reason
lay behind it.  I resisted all pressure to stay for lunch, and I
set off at once upon my return journey, taking the grass-grown
path by which we had come.

It seems, however, that there must have been some short cut for
those who knew it, for before I had reached the road I was
astounded to see Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side
of the track.  Her face was beautifully flushed with her exertions
and she held her hand to her side.

"I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson," said
she.  "I had not even time to put on my hat.  I must not stop, or
my brother may miss me.  I wanted to say to you how sorry I am
about the stupid mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir
Henry.  Please forget the words I said, which have no application
whatever to you."

"But I can't forget them, Miss Stapleton," said I. "I am Sir
Henry's friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine.
Tell me why it was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should
return to London."

"A woman's whim, Dr. Watson.  When you know me better you will
understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or do."

"No, no.  I remember the thrill in your voice.  I remember the
look in your eyes.  Please, please, be frank with me, Miss
Stapleton, for ever since I have been here I have been conscious
of shadows all round me.  Life has become like that great Grimpen
Mire, with little green patches everywhere into which one may
sink and with no guide to point the track.  Tell me then what it
was that you meant, and I will promise to convey your warning to
Sir Henry."

An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her face,
but her eyes had hardened again when she answered me.

"You make too much of it, Dr. Watson," said she.  "My brother and
I were very much shocked by the death of Sir Charles.  We knew
him very intimately, for his favourite walk was over the moor to
our house.  He was deeply impressed with the curse which hung over
the family, and when this tragedy came I naturally felt that there
must be some grounds for the fears which he had expressed.  I was
distressed therefore when another member of the family came down
to live here, and I felt that he should be warned of the danger
which he will run.  That was all which I intended to convey.

"But what is the danger?"

"You know the story of the hound?"

"I do not believe in such nonsense."

"But I do.  If you have any influence with Sir Henry, take him
away from a place which has always been fatal to his family.  The
world is wide.  Why should he wish to live at the place of danger?"

"Because it is the place of danger.  That is Sir Henry's nature.
I fear that unless you can give me some more definite information
than this it would be impossible to get him to move."

"I cannot say anything definite, for I do not know anything
definite."

"I would ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton.  If you meant
no more than this when you first spoke to me, why should you not
wish your brother to overhear what you said?  There is nothing
to which he, or anyone else, could object."

"My brother is very anxious to have the Hall inhabited, for he
thinks it is for the good of the poor folk upon the moor.  He
would be very angry if he knew that I have said anything which
might induce Sir Henry to go away.  But I have done my duty now
and I will say no more.  I must go back, or he will miss me and
suspect that I have seen you.  Good-bye!"  She turned and had
disappeared in a few minutes among the scattered boulders, while
I, with my soul full of vague fears, pursued my way to Baskerville
Hall.




Chapter 8
First Report of Dr. Watson



>From this point onward I will follow the course of events by
transcribing my own letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes which lie
before me on the table.  One page is missing, but otherwise they
are exactly as written and show my feelings and suspicions of
the moment more accurately than my memory, clear as it is upon
these tragic events, can possibly do.


Baskerville Hall, October 13th.
MY DEAR HOLMES:
My previous letters and telegrams have kept you pretty well up
to date as to all that has occurred in this most God-forsaken
corner of the world.  The longer one stays here the more does
the spirit of the moor sink into one's soul, its vastness, and
also its grim charm.  When you are once out upon its bosom you
have left all traces of modern England behind you, but, on the
other hand, you are conscious everywhere of the homes and the
work of the prehistoric people.  On all sides of you as you walk
are the houses of these forgotten folk, with their graves and the
huge monoliths which are supposed to have marked their temples.
As you look at their gray stone huts against the scarred hillsides
you leave your own age behind you, and if you were to see a skin-
clad, hairy man crawl out from the low door fitting a flint-tipped
arrow on to the string of his bow, you would feel that his presence
there was more natural than your own.  The strange thing is that
they should have lived so thickly on what must always have been
most unfruitful soil.  I am no antiquarian, but I could imagine
that they were some unwarlike and harried race who were forced
to accept that which none other would occupy.

All this, however, is foreign to the mission on which you sent
me and will probably be very uninteresting to your severely
practical mind.  I can still remember your complete indifference
as to whether the sun moved round the earth or the earth round
the sun.  Let me, therefore, return to the facts concerning Sir
Henry Baskerville.

If you have not had any report within the last few days it is
because up to today there was nothing of importance to relate.
Then a very surprising circumstance occurred, which I shall tell
you in due course.  But, first of all, I must keep you in touch
with some of the other factors in the situation.

One of these, concerning which I have said little, is the escaped
convict upon the moor.  There is strong reason now to believe
that he has got right away, which is a considerable relief to
the lonely householders of this district.  A fortnight has passed
since his flight, during which he has not been seen and nothing
has been heard of him.  It is surely inconceivable that he could
have held out upon the moor during all that time.  Of course, so
far as his concealment goes there is no difficulty at all.  Any
one of these stone huts would give him a hiding-place.  But there
is nothing to eat unless he were to catch and slaughter one of
the moor sheep.  We think, therefore, that he has gone, and the
outlying farmers sleep the better in consequence.

We are four able-bodied men in this household, so that we could
take good care of ourselves, but I confess that I have had uneasy
moments when I have thought of the Stapletons.  They live miles
from any help.  There are one maid, an old manservant, the sister,
and the brother, the latter not a very strong man.  They would
be helpless in the hands of a desperate fellow like this Notting
Hill criminal if he could once effect an entrance.  Both Sir
Henry and I were concerned at their situation, and it was suggested
that Perkins the groom should go over to sleep there, but Stapleton
would not hear of it.

The fact is that our friend, the baronet, begins to display a
considerable interest in our fair neighbour.  It is not to be
wondered at, for time hangs heavily in this lonely spot to an
active man like him, and she is a very fascinating and beautiful
woman.  There is something tropical and exotic about her which
forms a singular contrast to her cool and unemotional brother.
Yet he also gives the idea of hidden fires.  He has certainly a
very marked influence over her, for I have seen her continually
glance at him as she talked as if seeking approbation for what
she said.  I trust that he is kind to her.  There is a dry glitter
in his eyes and a firm set of his thin lips, which goes with a
positive and possibly a harsh nature.  You would find him an
interesting study.

He came over to call upon Baskerville on that first day, and the
very next morning he took us both to show us the spot where the
legend of the wicked Hugo is supposed to have had its origin.
It was an excursion of some miles across the moor to a place which
is so dismal that it might have suggested the story.  We found a
short valley between rugged tors which led to an open, grassy space
flecked over with the white cotton grass.  In the middle of it
rose two great stones, worn and sharpened at the upper end until
they looked like the huge corroding fangs of some monstrous beast.
In every way it corresponded with the scene of the old tragedy.
Sir Henry was much interested and asked Stapleton more than once
whether he did really believe in the possibility of the interference
of the supernatural in the affairs of men.  He spoke lightly,
but it was evident that he was very much in earnest.  Stapleton
was guarded in his replies, but it was easy to see that he said
less than he might, and that he would not express his whole opinion
out of consideration for the feelings of the baronet.  He told
us of similar cases, where families had suffered from some evil
influence, and he left us with the impression that he shared the
popular view upon the matter.

On our way back we stayed for lunch at Merripit House, and it was
there that Sir Henry made the acquaintance of Miss Stapleton.  From
the first moment that he saw her he appeared to be strongly
attracted by her, and I am much mistaken if the feeling was not
mutual.  He referred to her again and again on our walk home,
and since then hardly a day has passed that we have not seen
something of the brother and sister.  They dine here tonight, and
there is some talk of our going to them next week.  One would
imagine that such a match would be very welcome to Stapleton,
and yet I have more than once caught a look of the strongest
disapprobation in his face when Sir Henry has been paying some
attention to his sister.  He is much attached to her, no doubt,
and would lead a lonely life without her, but it would seem the
height of selfishness if he were to stand in the way of her making
so brilliant a marriage.  Yet I am certain that he does not wish
their intimacy to ripen into love, and I have several times
observed that he has taken pains to prevent them from being tete-
a-tete.  By the way, your instructions to me never to allow Sir
Henry to go out alone will become very much more onerous if a
love affair were to be added to our other difficulties.  My
popularity would soon suffer if I were to carry out your orders
to the letter.

The other day--Thursday, to be more exact--Dr. Mortimer lunched
with us.  He has been excavating a barrow at Long Down and has
got a prehistoric skull which fills him with great joy.  Never
was there such a single-minded enthusiast as he!  The Stapletons
came in afterwards, and the good doctor took us all to the yew
alley at Sir Henry's request to show us exactly how everything
occurred upon that fatal night.  It is a long, dismal walk, the
yew alley, between two high walls of clipped hedge, with a narrow
band of grass upon either side.  At the far end is an old tumble-
down summer-house.  Halfway down is the moor-gate, where the old
gentleman left his cigar-ash.  It is a white wooden gate with a
latch.  Beyond it lies the wide moor.  I remembered your theory
of the affair and tried to picture all that had occurred.  As
the old man stood there he saw something coming across the moor,
something which terrified him so that he lost his wits and ran
and ran until he died of sheer horror and exhaustion.  There was
the long, gloomy tunnel down which he fled.  And from what?  A
sheep-dog of the moor?  Or a spectral hound, black, silent, and
monstrous?  Was there a human agency in the matter?  Did the pale,
watchful Barrymore know more than he cared to say?  It was all dim
and vague, but always there is the dark shadow of crime behind it.

One other neighbour I have met since I wrote last.  This is Mr.
Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who lives some four miles to the south
of us.  He is an elderly man, red-faced, white-haired, and choleric.
His passion is for the British law, and he has spent a large
fortune in litigation.  He fights for the mere pleasure of fighting
and is equally ready to take up either side of a question, so that
it is no wonder that he has found it a costly amusement.  Sometimes
he will shut up a right of way and defy the parish to make him
open it.  At others he will with his own hands tear down some
other man's gate and declare that a path has existed there from
time immemorial, defying the owner to prosecute him for trespass.
He is learned in old manorial and communal rights, and he applies
his knowledge sometimes in favour of the villagers of Fernworthy
and sometimes against them, so that he is periodically either
carried in triumph down the village street or else burned in
effigy, according to his latest exploit.  He is said to have
about seven lawsuits upon his hands at present, which will probably
swallow up the remainder of his fortune and so draw his sting
and leave him harmless for the future.  Apart from the law he
seems a kindly, good-natured person, and I only mention him because
you were particular that I should send some description of the
people who surround us.  He is curiously employed at present,
for, being an amateur astronomer, he has an excellent telescope,
with which he lies upon the roof of his own house and sweeps the
moor all day in the hope of catching a glimpse of the escaped
convict.  If he would confine his energies to this all would be
well, but there are rumours that he intends to prosecute Dr.
Mortimer for opening a grave without the consent of the next of
kin because he dug up the Neolithic skull in the barrow on Long
Down.  He helps to keep our lives from being monotonous and gives
a little comic relief where it is badly needed.

And now, having brought you up to date in the escaped convict,
the Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, and Frankland, of Lafter Hall, let
me end on that which is most important and tell you more about
the Barrymores, and especially about the surprising development
of last night.

First of all about the test telegram, which you sent from London
in order to make sure that Barrymore was really here.  I have
already explained that the testimony of the postmaster shows that
the test was worthless and that we have no proof one way or the
other.  I told Sir Henry how the matter stood, and he at once,
in his downright fashion, had Barrymore up and asked him whether
he had received the telegram himself.  Barrymore said that he had.

"Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?" asked Sir Henry.

Barrymore looked surprised, and considered for a little time.

"No," said he, "I was in the box-room at the time, and my wife
brought it up to me."

"Did you answer it yourself?"

"No; I told my wife what to answer and she went down to write it."

In the evening he recurred to the subject of his own accord.

"I could not quite understand the object of your questions this
morning, Sir Henry," said he.  "I trust that they do not mean
that I have done anything to forfeit your confidence?"

Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not so and pacify him by
giving him a considerable part of his old wardrobe, the London
outfit having now all arrived.

Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me.  She is a heavy, solid person,
very limited, intensely respectable, and inclined to be puritanical.
You could hardly conceive a less emotional subject.  Yet I have
told you how, on the first night here, I heard her sobbing bitterly,
and since then I have more than once observed traces of tears upon
her face.  Some deep sorrow gnaws ever at her heart.  Sometimes
I wonder if she has a guilty memory which haunts her, and sometimes
I suspect Barrymore of being a domestic tyrant.  I have always
felt that there was something singular and questionable in this
man's character, but the adventure of last night brings all my
suspicions to a head.

And yet it may seem a small matter in itself.  You are aware that
I am not a very sound sleeper, and since I have been on guard in
this house my slumbers have been lighter than ever.  Last night,
about two in the morning, I was aroused by a stealthy step passing
my room.  I rose, opened my door, and peeped out.  A long black
shadow was trailing down the corridor.  It was thrown by a man
who walked softly down the passage with a candle held in his hand.
He was in shirt and trousers, with no covering to his feet.  I
could merely see the outline, but his height told me that it was
Barrymore.  He walked very slowly and circumspectly, and there was
something indescribably guilty and furtive in his whole appearance.

I have told you that the corridor is broken by the balcony which
runs round the hall, but that it is resumed upon the farther side.
I waited until he had passed out of sight and then I followed him.
When I came round the balcony he had reached the end of the farther
corridor, and I could see from the glimmer of light through an
open door that he had entered one of the rooms.  Now, all these
rooms are unfurnished and unoccupied so that his expedition became
more mysterious than ever.  The light shone steadily as if he were
standing motionless.  I crept down the passage as noiselessly as I
could and peeped round the corner of the door.

Barrymore was crouching at the window with the candle held against
the glass.  His profile was half turned towards me, and his face
seemed to be rigid with expectation as he stared out into the
blackness of the moor.  For some minutes he stood watching
intently.  Then he gave a deep groan and with an impatient
gesture he put out the light.  Instantly I made my way back to
my room, and very shortly came the stealthy steps passing once
more upon their return journey.  Long afterwards when I had fallen
into a light sleep I heard a key turn somewhere in a lock, but I
could not tell whence the sound came.  What it all means I cannot
guess, but there is some secret business going on in this house
of gloom which sooner or later we shall get to the bottom of.  I
do not trouble you with my theories, for you asked me to furnish
you only with facts.  I have had a long talk with Sir Henry this
morning, and we have made a plan of campaign founded upon my
observations of last night.  I will not speak about it just now,
but it should make my next report interesting reading.




Chapter 9
The Light upon the Moor
[Second Report of Dr. Watson]



Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th.
MY DEAR HOLMES:
If I was compelled to leave you without much news during the early
days of my mission you must acknowledge that I am making up for
lost time, and that events are now crowding thick and fast upon
us.  In my last report I ended upon my top note with Barrymore
at the window, and now I have quite a budget already which will,
unless I am much mistaken, considerably surprise you.  Things
have taken a turn which I could not have anticipated.  In some
ways they have within the last forty-eight hours become much
clearer and in some ways they have become more complicated.  But
I will tell you all and you shall judge for yourself.

Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I went
down the corridor and examined the room in which Barrymore had
been on the night before.  The western window through which he
had stared so intently has, I noticed, one peculiarity above all
other windows in the house--it commands the nearest outlook on to
the moor.  There is an opening between two trees which enables
one from this point of view to look right down upon it, while
from all the other windows it is only a distant glimpse which
can be obtained.  It follows, therefore, that Barrymore, since
only this window would serve the purpose, must have been looking
out for something or somebody upon the moor.  The night was very
dark, so that I can hardly imagine how he could have hoped to
see anyone.  It had struck me that it was possible that some
love intrigue was on foot.  That would have accounted for his
stealthy movements and also for the uneasiness of his wife.  The
man is a striking-looking fellow, very well equipped to steal
the heart of a country girl, so that this theory seemed to have
something to support it.  That opening of the door which I had
heard after I had returned to my room might mean that he had
gone out to keep some clandestine appointment.  So I reasoned
with myself in the morning, and I tell you the direction of my
suspicions, however much the result may have shown that they were
unfounded.

But whatever the true explanation of Barrymore's movements might
be, I felt that the responsibility of keeping them to myself until
I could explain them was more than I could bear.  I had an interview
with the baronet in his study after breakfast, and I told him all
that I had seen.  He was less surprised than I had expected.

"I knew that Barrymore walked about nights, and I had a mind to
speak to him about it," said he.  "Two or three times I have heard
his steps in the passage, coming and going, just about the hour
you name."

"Perhaps then he pays a visit every night to that particular
window," I suggested.

"Perhaps he does.  If so, we should be able to shadow him and see
what it is that he is after.  I wonder what your friend Holmes
would do if he were here."

"I believe that he would do exactly what you now suggest," said
I.  "He would follow Barrymore and see what he did."

"Then we shall do it together."

"But surely he would hear us."

"The man is rather deaf, and in any case we must take our chance
of that.  We'll sit up in my room tonight and wait until he
passes."  Sir Henry rubbed his hands with pleasure, and it was
evident that he hailed the adventure as a relief to his somewhat
quiet life upon the moor.

The baronet has been in communication with the architect who
prepared the plans for Sir Charles, and with a contractor from
London, so that we may expect great changes to begin here soon.
There have been decorators and furnishers up from Plymouth, and
it is evident that our friend has large ideas and means to spare
no pains or expense to restore the grandeur of his family.  When
the house is renovated and refurnished, all that he will need
will be a wife to make it complete.  Between ourselves there are
pretty clear signs that this will not be wanting if the lady is
willing, for I have seldom seen a man more infatuated with a
woman than he is with our beautiful neighbour, Miss Stapleton.
And yet the course of true love does not run quite as smoothly
as one would under the circumstances expect.  Today, for example,
its surface was broken by a very unexpected ripple, which has
caused our friend considerable perplexity and annoyance.

After the conversation which I have quoted about Barrymore, Sir
Henry put on his hat and prepared to go out.  As a matter of
course I did the same.

"What, are you coming, Watson?" he asked, looking at me in a
curious way.

"That depends on whether you are going on the moor," said I.

"Yes, I am."

"Well, you know what my instructions are.  I am sorry to intrude,
but you heard how earnestly Holmes insisted that I should not leave
you, and especially that you should not go alone upon the moor."

Sir Henry put his hand upon my shoulder with a pleasant smile.

"My dear fellow," said he, "Holmes, with all his wisdom, did not
foresee some things which have happened since I have been on the
moor.  You understand me?  I am sure that you are the last man
in the world who would wish to be a spoil-sport.  I must go out
alone."

It put me in a most awkward position.  I was at a loss what to
say or what to do, and before I had made up my mind he picked up
his cane and was gone.

But when I came to think the matter over my conscience reproached
me bitterly for having on any pretext allowed him to go out of
my sight.  I imagined what my feelings would be if I had to return
to you and to confess that some misfortune had occurred through
my disregard for your instructions.  I assure you my cheeks flushed
at the very thought.  It might not even now be too late to overtake
him, so I set off at once in the direction of Merripit House.

I hurried along the road at the top of my speed without seeing
anything of Sir Henry, until I came to the point where the moor
path branches off.  There, fearing that perhaps I had come in the
wrong direction after all, I mounted a hill from which I could
command a view--the same hill which is cut into the dark quarry.
Thence I saw him at once.  He was on the moor path about a quarter
of a mile off, and a lady was by his side who could only be Miss
Stapleton.  It was clear that there was already an understanding
between them and that they had met by appointment.  They were
walking slowly along in deep conversation, and I saw her making
quick little movements of her hands as if she were very earnest
in what she was saying, while he listened intently, and once or
twice shook his head in strong dissent.  I stood among the rocks
watching them, very much puzzled as to what I should do next.
To follow them and break into their intimate conversation seemed
to be an outrage, and yet my clear duty was never for an instant
to let him out of my sight.  To act the spy upon a friend was a
hateful task.  Still, I could see no better course than to observe
him from the hill, and to clear my conscience by confessing to
him afterwards what I had done.  It is true that if any sudden
danger had threatened him I was too far away to be of use, and
yet I am sure that you will agree with me that the position was
very difficult, and that there was nothing more which I could do.

Our friend, Sir Henry, and the lady had halted on the path and
were standing deeply absorbed in their conversation, when I was
suddenly aware that I was not the only witness of their interview.
A wisp of green floating in the air caught my eye, and another
glance showed me that it was carried on a stick by a man who was
moving among the broken ground.  It was Stapleton with his
butterfly-net.  He was very much closer to the pair than I was,
and he appeared to be moving in their direction.  At this instant
Sir Henry suddenly drew Miss Stapleton to his side.  His arm was
round her, but it seemed to me that she was straining away from
him with her face averted.  He stooped his head to hers, and she
raised one hand as if in protest.  Next moment I saw them spring
apart and turn hurriedly round.  Stapleton was the cause of the
interruption.  He was running wildly towards them, his absurd
net dangling behind him.  He gesticulated and almost danced with
excitement in front of the lovers.  What the scene meant I could
not imagine, but it seemed to me that Stapleton was abusing Sir
Henry, who offered explanations, which became more angry as the
other refused to accept them.  The lady stood by in haughty silence.
Finally Stapleton turned upon his heel and beckoned in a peremptory
way to his sister, who, after an irresolute glance at Sir Henry,
walked off by the side of her brother.  The naturalist's angry
gestures showed that the lady was included in his displeasure.
The baronet stood for a minute looking after them, and then he
walked slowly back the way that he had come, his head hanging,
the very picture of dejection.

What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply ashamed
to have witnessed so intimate a scene without my friend's knowledge.
I ran down the hill therefore and met the baronet at the bottom.
His face was flushed with anger and his brows were wrinkled, like
one who is at his wit's ends what to do.

"Halloa, Watson!  Where have you dropped from?" said he.  "You
don't mean to say that you came after me in spite of all?"

I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible to
remain behind, how I had followed him, and how I had witnessed
all that had occurred.  For an instant his eyes blazed at me,
but my frankness disarmed his anger, and he broke at last into
a rather rueful laugh.

"You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly safe
place for a man to be private," said he, "but, by thunder, the
whole countryside seems to have been out to see me do my wooing--
and a mighty poor wooing at that!  Where had you engaged a seat?"

"I was on that hill."

"Quite in the back row, eh?  But her brother was well up to the
front.  Did you see him come out on us?"

"Yes, I did."

"Did he ever strike you as being crazy--this brother of hers?"

"I can't say that he ever did."

"I dare say not.  I always thought him sane enough until today,
but you can take it from me that either he or I ought to be in
a straitjacket.  What's the matter with me, anyhow?  You've lived
near me for some weeks, Watson.  Tell me straight, now!  Is there
anything that would prevent me from making a good husband to a
woman that I loved?"

"I should say not."

"He can't object to my worldly position, so it must be myself
that he has this down on.  What has he against me?  I never hurt
man or woman in my life that I know of.  And yet he would not so
much as let me touch the tips of her fingers."

"Did he say so?"

"That, and a deal more.  I tell you, Watson, I've only known her
these few weeks, but from the first I just felt that she was made
for me, and she, too--she was happy when she was with me, and that
I'll swear.  There's a light in a woman's eyes that speaks louder
than words.  But he has never let us get together and it was only
today for the first time that I saw a chance of having a few words
with her alone.  She was glad to meet me, but when she did it
was not love that she would talk about, and she wouldn't have let
me talk about it either if she could have stopped it.  She kept
coming back to it that this was a place of danger, and that she
would never be happy until I had left it.  I told her that since
I had seen her I was in no hurry to leave it, and that if she
really wanted me to go, the only way to work it was for her to
arrange to go with me.  With that I offered in as many words to
marry her, but before she could answer, down came this brother
of hers, running at us with a face on him like a madman.  He was
just white with rage, and those light eyes of his were blazing
with fury.  What was I doing with the lady?  How dared I offer
her attentions which were distasteful to her?  Did I think that
because I was a baronet I could do what I liked?  If he had not
been her brother I should have known better how to answer him.
As it was I told him that my feelings towards his sister were
such as I was not ashamed of, and that I hoped that she might
honour me by becoming my wife.  That seemed to make the matter
no better, so then I lost my temper too, and I answered him
rather more hotly than I should perhaps, considering that she
was standing by.  So it ended by his going off with her, as you
saw, and here am I as badly puzzled a man as any in this county.
Just tell me what it all means, Watson, and I'll owe you more
than ever I can hope to pay."

I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed, I was completely
puzzled myself.  Our friend's title, his fortune, his age, his
character, and his appearance are all in his favour, and I know
nothing against him unless it be this dark fate which runs in his
family.  That his advances should be rejected so brusquely without
any reference to the lady's own wishes and that the lady should
accept the situation without protest is very amazing.  However,
our conjectures were set at rest by a visit from Stapleton himself
that very afternoon.  He had come to offer apologies for his
rudeness of the morning, and after a long private interview with
Sir Henry in his study the upshot of their conversation was that
the breach is quite healed, and that we are to dine at Merripit
House next Friday as a sign of it.

"I don't say now that he isn't a crazy man," said Sir Henry; "I
can't forget the look in his eyes when he ran at me this morning,
but I must allow that no man could make a more handsome apology
than he has done."

"Did he give any explanation of his conduct?"

"His sister is everything in his life, he says.  That is natural
enough, and I am glad that he should understand her value.  They
have always been together, and according to his account he has
been a very lonely man with only her as a companion, so that the
thought of losing her was really terrible to him.  He had not
understood, he said, that I was becoming attached to her, but
when he saw with his own eyes that it was really so, and that
she might be taken away from him, it gave him such a shock that
for a time he was not responsible for what he said or did.  He
was very sorry for all that had passed, and he recognized how
foolish and how selfish it was that he should imagine that he
could hold a beautiful woman like his sister to himself for her
whole life.  If she had to leave him he had rather it was to a
neighbour like myself than to anyone else.  But in any case it
was a blow to him and it would take him some time before he could
prepare himself to meet it.  He would withdraw all opposition upon
his part if I would promise for three months to let the matter
rest and to be content with cultivating the lady's friendship
during that time without claiming her love.  This I promised,
and so the matter rests."

So there is one of our small mysteries cleared up.  It is something
to have touched bottom anywhere in this bog in which we are
floundering.  We know now why Stapleton looked with disfavour upon
his sister's suitor--even when that suitor was so eligible a one
as Sir Henry.  And now I pass on to another thread which I have
extricated out of the tangled skein, the mystery of the sobs in
the night, of the tear-stained face of Mrs. Barrymore, of the
secret journey of the butler to the western lattice window.
Congratulate me, my dear Holmes, and tell me that I have not
disappointed you as an agent--that you do not regret the confidence
which you showed in me when you sent me down.  All these things
have by one night's work been thoroughly cleared.

I have said "by one night's work," but, in truth, it was by two
nights' work, for on the first we drew entirely blank.  I sat up
with Sir Henry in his rooms until nearly three o'clock in the
morning, but no sound of any sort did we hear except the chiming
clock upon the stairs.  It was a most melancholy vigil and ended
by each of us falling asleep in our chairs.  Fortunately we were
not discouraged, and we determined to try again.  The next night
we lowered the lamp and sat smoking cigarettes without making the
least sound.  It was incredible how slowly the hours crawled by,
and yet we were helped through it by the same sort of patient
interest which the hunter must feel as he watches the trap into
which he hopes the game may wander.  One struck, and two, and we
had almost for the second time given it up in despair when in an
instant we both sat bolt upright in our chairs with all our weary
senses keenly on the alert once more.  We had heard the creak of
a step in the passage.

Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the
distance.  Then the baronet gently opened his door and we set out
in pursuit.  Already our man had gone round the gallery and the
corridor was all in darkness.  Softly we stole along until we had
come into the other wing.  We were just in time to catch a glimpse
of the tall, black-bearded figure, his shoulders rounded as he
tiptoed down the passage.  Then he passed through the same door
as before, and the light of the candle framed it in the darkness
and shot one single yellow beam across the gloom of the corridor.
We shuffled cautiously towards it, trying every plank before we
dared to put our whole weight upon it.  We had taken the precaution
of leaving our boots behind us, but, even so, the old boards snapped
and creaked beneath our tread.  Sometimes it seemed impossible
that he should fail to hear our approach.  However, the man is
fortunately rather deaf, and he was entirely preoccupied in that
which he was doing.  When at last we reached the door and peeped
through we found him crouching at the window, candle in hand, his
white, intent face pressed against the pane, exactly as I had seen
him two nights before.

We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a man to
whom the most direct way is always the most natural.  He walked
into the room, and as he did so Barrymore sprang up from the
window with a sharp hiss of his breath and stood, livid and
trembling, before us.  His dark eyes, glaring out of the white
mask of his face, were full of horror and astonishment as he gazed
from Sir Henry to me.

"What are you doing here, Barrymore?"

"Nothing, sir."  His agitation was so great that he could hardly
speak, and the shadows sprang up and down from the shaking of his
candle.  "It was the window, sir.  I go round at night to see that
they are fastened."

"On the second floor?"

"Yes, sir, all the windows."

"Look here, Barrymore," said Sir Henry sternly, "we have made up
our minds to have the truth out of you, so it will save you trouble
to tell it sooner rather than later.  Come, now!  No lies!  What
were you doing at that window?"

The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and he wrung his hands
together like one who is in the last extremity of doubt and misery.

"I was doing no harm, sir.  I was holding a candle to the window."

"And why were you holding a candle to the window?"

"Don't ask me, Sir Henry--don't ask me!  I give you my word, sir,
that it is not my secret, and that I cannot tell it.  If it
concerned no one but myself I would not try to keep it from you."

A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the
trembling hand of the butler.

"He must have been holding it as a signal," said I.  "Let us see
if there is any answer."  I held it as he had done, and stared
out into the darkness of the night.  Vaguely I could discern the
black bank of the trees and the lighter expanse of the moor, for
the moon was behind the clouds.  And then I gave a cry of exultation,
for a tiny pinpoint of yellow light had suddenly transfixed the
dark veil, and glowed steadily in the centre of the black square
framed by the window.

"There it is!"  I cried.

"No, no, sir, it is nothing--nothing at all!" the butler broke
in; "I assure you, sir--"

"Move your light across the window, Watson!" cried the baronet.
"See, the other moves also!  Now, you rascal, do you deny that
it is a signal?  Come, speak up!  Who is your confederate out
yonder, and what is this conspiracy that is going on?"

The man's face became openly defiant.  "It is my business, and
not yours.  I will not tell."

"Then you leave my employment right away."

"Very good, sir.  If I must I must."

"And you go in disgrace.  By thunder, you may well be ashamed of
yourself.  Your family has lived with mine for over a hundred
years under this roof, and here I find you deep in some dark plot
against me."

"No, no, sir; no, not against you!"  It was a woman's voice, and
Mrs. Barrymore, paler and more horrorstruck than her husband, was
standing at the door.  Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt
might have been comic were it not for the intensity of feeling
upon her face.

"We have to go, Eliza.  This is the end of it.  You can pack our
things," said the butler.

"Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this?  It is my doing,
Sir Henry--all mine.  He has done nothing except for my sake and
because I asked him."

"Speak out, then!  What does it mean?"

"My unhappy brother is starving on the moor.  We cannot let him
perish at our very gates.  The light is a signal to him that food
is ready for him, and his light out yonder is to show the spot
to which to bring it."

"Then your brother is--"

"The escaped convict, sir--Selden, the criminal."

"That's the truth, sir," said Barrymore.  "I said that it was not
my secret and that I could not tell it to you.  But now you have
heard it, and you will see that if there was a plot it was not
against you."

This, then, was the explanation of the stealthy expeditions at
night and the light at the window.  Sir Henry and I both stared
at the woman in amazement.  Was it possible that this stolidly
respectable person was of the same blood as one of the most
notorious criminals in the country?

"Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my younger brother.  We
humoured him too much when he was a lad and gave him his own way
in everything until he came to think that the world was made for
his pleasure, and that he could do what he liked in it.  Then as
he grew older he met wicked companions, and the devil entered
into him until he broke my mother's heart and dragged our name
in the dirt.  From crime to crime he sank lower and lower until
it is only the mercy of God which has snatched him from the
scaffold; but to me, sir, he was always the little curly-headed
boy that I had nursed and played with as an elder sister would.
That was why he broke prison, sir.  He knew that I was here and
that we could not refuse to help him.  When he dragged himself
here one night, weary and starving, with the warders hard at his
heels, what could we do?  We took him in and fed him and cared
for him.  Then you returned, sir, and my brother thought he would
be safer on the moor than anywhere else until the hue and cry
was over, so he lay in hiding there.  But every second night we
made sure if he was still there by putting a light in the window,
and if there was an answer my husband took out some bread and meat
to him.  Every day we hoped that he was gone, but as long as he
was there we could not desert him.  That is the whole truth, as
I am an honest Christian woman and you will see that if there is
blame in the matter it does not lie with my husband but with me,
for whose sake he has done all that he has."

The woman's words came with an intense earnestness which carried
conviction with them.

"Is this true, Barrymore?"

"Yes, Sir Henry.  Every word of it."

"Well, I cannot blame you for standing by your own wife.  Forget
what I have said.  Go to your room, you two, and we shall talk
further about this matter in the morning."

When they were gone we looked out of the window again.  Sir Henry
had flung it open, and the cold night wind beat in upon our faces.
Far away in the black distance there still glowed that one tiny
point of yellow light.

"I wonder he dares," said Sir Henry.

"It may be so placed as to be only visible from here."

"Very likely.  How far do you think it is?"

"Out by the Cleft Tor, I think."

"Not more than a mile or two off."

"Hardly that."

"Well, it cannot be far if Barrymore had to carry out the food
to it.  And he is waiting, this villain, beside that candle.  By
thunder, Watson, I am going out to take that man!"

The same thought had crossed my own mind.  It was not as if the
Barrymores had taken us into their confidence.  Their secret had
been forced from them.  The man was a danger to the community,
an unmitigated scoundrel for whom there was neither pity nor
excuse.  We were only doing our duty in taking this chance of
putting him back where he could do no harm.  With his brutal and
violent nature, others would have to pay the price if we held our
hands.  Any night, for example, our neighbours the Stapletons
might be attacked by him, and it may have been the thought of
this which made Sir Henry so keen upon the adventure.

"I will come," said I.

"Then get your revolver and put on your boots.  The sooner we
start the better, as the fellow may put out his light and be off."

In five minutes we were outside the door, starting upon our
expedition.  We hurried through the dark shrubbery, amid the
dull moaning of the autumn wind and the rustle of the falling
leaves.  The night air was heavy with the smell of damp and
decay.  Now and again the moon peeped out for an instant, but
clouds were driving over the face of the sky, and just as we
came out on the moor a thin rain began to fall.  The light still
burned steadily in front.

"Are you armed?"  I asked.

"I have a hunting-crop."

"We must close in on him rapidly, for he is said to be a desperate
fellow.  We shall take him by surprise and have him at our mercy
before he can resist."

"I say, Watson," said the baronet, "what would Holmes say to this?
How about that hour of darkness in which the power of evil is
exalted?"

As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast
gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon
the borders of the great Grimpen Mire.  It came with the wind
through the silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a
rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away.  Again
and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident,
wild, and menacing.  The baronet caught my sleeve and his face
glimmered white through the darkness.

"My God, what's that, Watson?"

"I don't know.  It's a sound they have on the moor.  I heard it
once before."

It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us.  We stood
straining our ears, but nothing came.

"Watson," said the baronet, "it was the cry of a hound."

My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his voice
which told of the sudden horror which had seized him.

"What do they call this sound?" he asked.

"Who?"

"The folk on the countryside."

"Oh, they are ignorant people.  Why should you mind what they
call it?"

"Tell me, Watson.  What do they say of it?"

I hesitated but could not escape the question.

"They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles."

He groaned and was silent for a few moments.

"A hound it was," he said at last, "but it seemed to come from
miles away, over yonder, I think."

"It was hard to say whence it came."

"It rose and fell with the wind.  Isn't that the direction of
the great Grimpen Mire?"

"Yes, it is."

"Well, it was up there.  Come now, Watson, didn't you think
yourself that it was the cry of a hound?  I am not a child.  You
need not fear to speak the truth."

"Stapleton was with me when I heard it last.  He said that it
might be the calling of a strange bird."

"No, no, it was a hound.  My God, can there be some truth in all
these stories?  Is it possible that I am really in danger from so
dark a cause?  You don't believe it, do you, Watson?"

"No, no."

"And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and it is
another to stand out here in the darkness of the moor and to hear
such a cry as that.  And my uncle!  There was the footprint of the
hound beside him as he lay.  It all fits together.  I don't think
that I am a coward, Watson, but that sound seemed to freeze my
very blood.  Feel my hand!"

It was as cold as a block of marble.

"You'll be all right tomorrow."

"I don't think I'll get that cry out of my head.  What do you
advise that we do now?"

"Shall we turn back?"

"No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will
do it.  We after the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not,
after us.  Come on!  We'll see it through if all the fiends of
the pit were loose upon the moor."

We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of
the craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning
steadily in front.  There is nothing so deceptive as the distance
of a light upon a pitch-dark night, and sometimes the glimmer
seemed to be far away upon the horizon and sometimes it might
have been within a few yards of us.  But at last we could see
whence it came, and then we knew that we were indeed very close.
A guttering candle was stuck in a crevice of the rocks which
flanked it on each side so as to keep the wind from it and also
to prevent it from being visible, save in the direction of
Baskerville Hall.  A boulder of granite concealed our approach,
and crouching behind it we gazed over it at the signal light.
It was strange to see this single candle burning there in the
middle of the moor, with no sign of life near it--just the one
straight yellow flame and the gleam of the rock on each side of it.

"What shall we do now?" whispered Sir Henry.

"Wait here.  He must be near his light.  Let us see if we can get
a glimpse of him."

The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him.  Over
the rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was
thrust out an evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all seamed
and scored with vile passions.  Foul with mire, with a bristling
beard, and hung with matted hair, it might well have belonged to
one of those old savages who dwelt in the burrows on the hillsides.
The light beneath him was reflected in his small, cunning eyes
which peered fiercely to right and left through the darkness like
a crafty and savage animal who has heard the steps of the hunters.

Something had evidently aroused his suspicions.  It may have been
that Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to
give, or the fellow may have had some other reason for thinking
that all was not well, but I could read his fears upon his wicked
face.  Any instant he might dash out the light and vanish in the
darkness.  I sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did the same.
At the same moment the convict screamed out a curse at us and
hurled a rock which splintered up against the boulder which had
sheltered us.  I caught one glimpse of his short, squat, strongly
built figure as he sprang to his feet and turned to run.  At the
same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke through the clouds.
We rushed over the brow of the hill, and there was our man running
with great speed down the other side, springing over the stones
in his way with the activity of a mountain goat.  A lucky long
shot of my revolver might have crippled him, but I had brought
it only to defend myself if attacked and not to shoot an unarmed
man who was running away.

We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we
soon found that we had no chance of overtaking him.  We saw him
for a long time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck
moving swiftly among the boulders upon the side of a distant hill.
We ran and ran until we were completely blown, but the space
between us grew ever wider.  Finally we stopped and sat panting
on two rocks, while we watched him disappearing in the distance.

And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and
unexpected thing.  We had risen from our rocks and were turning
to go home, having abandoned the hopeless chase.  The moon was
low upon the right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor
stood up against the lower curve of its silver disc.  There,
outlined as black as an ebony statue on that shining background,
I saw the figure of a man upon the tor.  Do not think that it
was a delusion, Holmes.  I assure you that I have never in my
life seen anything more clearly.  As far as I could judge, the
figure was that of a tall, thin man.  He stood with his legs a
little separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if he were
brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite which
lay before him.  He might have been the very spirit of that
terrible place.  It was not the convict.  This man was far from
the place where the latter had disappeared.  Besides, he was a
much taller man.  With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to
the baronet, but in the instant during which I had turned to
grasp his arm the man was gone.  There was the sharp pinnacle of
granite still cutting the lower edge of the moon, but its peak
bore no trace of that silent and motionless figure.

I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it
was some distance away.  The baronet's nerves were still quivering
from that cry, which recalled the dark story of his family, and
he was not in the mood for fresh adventures.  He had not seen
this lonely man upon the tor and could not feel the thrill which
his strange presence and his commanding attitude had given to me.
"A warder, no doubt," said he.  "The moor has been thick with
them since this fellow escaped."  Well, perhaps his explanation
may be the right one, but I should like to have some further proof
of it.  Today we mean to communicate to the Princetown people
where they should look for their missing man, but it is hard lines
that we have not actually had the triumph of bringing him back
as our own prisoner.  Such are the adventures of last night, and
you must acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I have done you very
well in the matter of a report.  Much of what I tell you is no
doubt quite irrelevant, but still I feel that it is best that I
should let you have all the facts and leave you to select for
yourself those which will be of most service to you in helping
you to your conclusions.  We are certainly making some progress.
So far as the Barrymores go we have found the motive of their
actions, and that has cleared up the situation very much.  But
the moor with its mysteries and its strange inhabitants remains
as inscrutable as ever.  Perhaps in my next I may be able to throw
some light upon this also.  Best of all would it be if you could
come down to us.  In any case you will hear from me again in the
course of the next few days.




Chapter 10
Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson



So far I have been able to quote from the reports which I have
forwarded during these early days to Sherlock Holmes.  Now,
however, I have arrived at a point in my narrative where I am
compelled to abandon this method and to trust once more to my
recollections, aided by the diary which I kept at the time.  A
few extracts from the latter will carry me on to those scenes
which are indelibly fixed in every detail upon my memory.  I
proceed, then, from the morning which followed our abortive chase
of the convict and our other strange experiences upon the moor.

October 16th.  A dull and foggy day with a drizzle of rain.  The
house is banked in with rolling clouds, which rise now and then
to show the dreary curves of the moor, with thin, silver veins
upon the sides of the hills, and the distant boulders gleaming
where the light strikes upon their wet faces.  It is melancholy
outside and in.  The baronet is in a black reaction after the
excitements of the night.  I am conscious myself of a weight at
my heart and a feeling of impending danger--ever present danger,
which is the more terrible because I am unable to define it.

And have I not cause for such a feeling?  Consider the long
sequence of incidents which have all pointed to some sinister
influence which is at work around us.  There is the death of the
last occupant of the Hall, fulfilling so exactly the conditions
of the family legend, and there are the repeated reports from
peasants of the appearance of a strange creature upon the moor.
Twice I have with my own ears heard the sound which resembled the
distant baying of a hound.  It is incredible, impossible, that it
should really be outside the ordinary laws of nature.  A spectral
hound which leaves material footmarks and fills the air with its
howling is surely not to be thought of.  Stapleton may fall in
with such a superstition, and Mortimer also, but if I have one
quality upon earth it is common sense, and nothing will persuade
me to believe in such a thing.  To do so would be to descend to
the level of these poor peasants, who are not content with a mere
fiend dog but must needs describe him with hell-fire shooting from
his mouth and eyes.  Holmes would not listen to such fancies, and
I am his agent.  But facts are facts, and I have twice heard this
crying upon the moor.  Suppose that there were really some huge
hound loose upon it; that would go far to explain everything.  But
where could such a hound lie concealed, where did it get its food,
where did it come from, how was it that no one saw it by day?  It
must be confessed that the natural explanation offers almost as
many difficulties as the other.  And always, apart from the hound,
there is the fact of the human agency in London, the man in the
cab, and the letter which warned Sir Henry against the moor.  This
at least was real, but it might have been the work of a protecting
friend as easily as of an enemy.  Where is that friend or enemy
now?  Has he remained in London, or has he followed us down here?
Could he--could he be the stranger whom I saw upon the tor?

It is true that I have had only the one glance at him, and yet
there are some things to which I am ready to swear.  He is no
one whom I have seen down here, and I have now met all the
neighbours.  The figure was far taller than that of Stapleton,
far thinner than that of Frankland.  Barrymore it might possibly
have been, but we had left him behind us, and I am certain that
he could not have followed us.  A stranger then is still dogging
us, just as a stranger dogged us in London.  We have never shaken
him off.  If I could lay my hands upon that man, then at last we
might find ourselves at the end of all our difficulties.  To this
one purpose I must now devote all my energies.

My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my plans.  My second
and wisest one is to play my own game and speak as little as
possible to anyone.  He is silent and distrait.  His nerves have
been strangely shaken by that sound upon the moor.  I will say
nothing to add to his anxieties, but I will take my own steps to
attain my own end.

We had a small scene this morning after breakfast.  Barrymore
asked leave to speak with Sir Henry, and they were closeted in
his study some little time.  Sitting in the billiard-room I more
than once heard the sound of voices raised, and I had a pretty
good idea what the point was which was under discussion.  After
a time the baronet opened his door and called for me.
"Barrymore considers that he has a grievance," he said.  "He
thinks that it was unfair on our part to hunt his brother-in-law
down when he, of his own free will, had told us the secret."

The butler was standing very pale but very collected before us.

"I may have spoken too warmly, sir," said he, "and if I have, I
am sure that I beg your pardon.  At the same time, I was very
much surprised when I heard you two gentlemen come back this
morning and learned that you had been chasing Selden.  The poor
fellow has enough to fight against without my putting more upon
his track."

"If you had told us of your own free will it would have been a
different thing," said the baronet, "you only told us, or rather
your wife only told us, when it was forced from you and you could
not help yourself."

"I didn't think you would have taken advantage of it, Sir Henry--
indeed I didn't."

"The man is a public danger.  There are lonely houses scattered
over the moor, and he is a fellow who would stick at nothing.
You only want to get a glimpse of his face to see that.  Look at
Mr. Stapleton's house, for example, with no one but himself to
defend it.  There's no safety for anyone until he is under lock
and key."

"He'll break into no house, sir.  I give you my solemn word upon
that.  But he will never trouble anyone in this country again.
I assure you, Sir Henry, that in a very few days the necessary
arrangements will have been made and he will be on his way to
South America.  For God's sake, sir, I beg of you not to let the
police know that he is still on the moor.  They have given up the
chase there, and he can lie quiet until the ship is ready for him.
You can't tell on him without getting my wife and me into trouble.
I beg you, sir, to say nothing to the police."

"What do you say, Watson?"

I shrugged my shoulders.  "If he were safely out of the country
it would relieve the tax-payer of a burden."

"But how about the chance of his holding someone up before he goes?"

"He would not do anything so mad, sir.  We have provided him with
all that he can want.  To commit a crime would be to show where
he was hiding."

"That is true," said Sir Henry.  "Well, Barrymore--"

"God bless you, sir, and thank you from my heart!  It would have
killed my poor wife had he been taken again."

"I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, Watson?  But, after
what we have heard I don't feel as if I could give the man up, so
there is an end of it.  All right, Barrymore, you can go."

With a few broken words of gratitude the man turned, but he
hesitated and then came back.

"You've been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the
best I can for you in return.  I know something, Sir Henry, and
perhaps I should have said it before, but it was long after the
inquest that I found it out.  I've never breathed a word about
it yet to mortal man.  It's about poor Sir Charles's death."

The baronet and I were both upon our feet.  "Do you know how he
died?"

"No, sir, I don't know that."

"What then?"

"I know why he was at the gate at that hour.  It was to meet a
woman."

"To meet a woman!  He?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the woman's name?"

"I can't give you the name, sir, but I can give you the initials.
Her initials were L. L."

"How do you know this, Barrymore?"

"Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning.  He had
usually a great many letters, for he was a public man and well
known for his kind heart, so that everyone who was in trouble was
glad to turn to him.  But that morning, as it chanced, there was
only this one letter, so I took the more notice of it.  It was
from Coombe Tracey, and it was addressed in a woman's hand."

"Well?"

"Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, and never would have
done had it not been for my wife.  Only a few weeks ago she was
cleaning out Sir Charles's study--it had never been touched since
his death--and she found the ashes of a burned letter in the back
of the grate.  The greater part of it was charred to pieces, but
one little slip, the end of a page, hung together, and the writing
could still be read, though it was gray on a black ground.  It
seemed to us to be a postscript at the end of the letter and it
said: 'Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter,
and be at the gate by ten o clock.  Beneath it were signed the
initials L. L."

"Have you got that slip?"

"No, sir, it crumbled all to bits after we moved it."

"Had Sir Charles received any other letters in the same writing?"

"Well, sir, I took no particular notice of his letters.  I should
not have noticed this one, only it happened to come alone."

"And you have no idea who L. L. is?"

"No, sir.  No more than you have.  But I expect if we could lay
our hands upon that lady we should know more about Sir Charles's
death."

"I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you came to conceal this
important information."

"Well, sir, it was immediately after that our own trouble came
to us.  And then again, sir, we were both of us very fond of Sir
Charles, as we well might be considering all that he has done for
us.  To rake this up couldn't help our poor master, and it's well
to go carefully when there's a lady in the case.  Even the best
of us--"

"You thought it might injure his reputation?"

"Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it.  But now you have
been kind to us, and I feel as if it would be treating you unfairly
not to tell you all that I know about the matter."

"Very good, Barrymore; you can go."  When the butler had left us
Sir Henry turned to me.  "Well, Watson, what do you think of this
new light?"

"It seems to leave the darkness rather blacker than before."

"So I think.  But if we can only trace L. L. it should clear up
the whole business.  We have gained that much.  We know that
there is someone who has the facts if we can only find her.  What
do you think we should do?"

"Let Holmes know all about it at once.  It will give him the clue
for which he has been seeking.  I am much mistaken if it does not
bring him down."

I went at once to my room and drew up my report of the morning's
conversation for Holmes.  It was evident to me that he had been
very busy of late, for the notes which I had from Baker Street
were few and short, with no comments upon the information which
I had supplied and hardly any reference to my mission.  No doubt
his blackmailing case is absorbing all his faculties.  And yet
this new factor must surely arrest his attention and renew his
interest.  I wish that he were here.

October 17th.  All day today the rain poured down, rustling on
the ivy and dripping from the eaves.  I thought of the convict
out upon the bleak, cold, shelterless moor.  Poor devil!  Whatever
his crimes, he has suffered something to atone for them.  And
then I thought of that other one--the face in the cab, the figure
against the moon.  Was he also out in that deluged--the unseen
watcher, the man of darkness?  In the evening I put on my
waterproof and I walked far upon the sodden moor, full of dark
imaginings, the rain beating upon my face and the wind whistling
about my ears.  God help those who wander into the great mire now,
for even the firm uplands are becoming a morass.  I found the
black tor upon which I had seen the solitary watcher, and from
its craggy summit I looked out myself across the melancholy downs.
Rain squalls drifted across their russet face, and the heavy,
slate-coloured clouds hung low over the landscape, trailing in
gray wreaths down the sides of the fantastic hills.  In the
distant hollow on the left, half hidden by the mist, the two
thin towers of Baskerville Hall rose above the trees.  They were
the only signs of human life which I could see, save only those
prehistoric huts which lay thickly upon the slopes of the hills.
Nowhere was there any trace of that lonely man whom I had seen
on the same spot two nights before.

As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer driving in his
dog-cart over a rough moorland track which led from the outlying
farmhouse of Foulmire.  He has been very attentive to us, and
hardly a day has passed that he has not called at the Hall to
see how we were getting on.  He insisted upon my climbing into
his dog-cart, and he gave me a lift homeward.  I found him much
troubled over the disappearance of his little spaniel.  It had
wandered on to the moor and had never come back.  I gave him such
consolation as I might, but I thought of the pony on the Grimpen
Mire, and I do not fancy that he will see his little dog again.

"By the way, Mortimer," said I as we jolted along the rough road,
"I suppose there are few people living within driving distance of
this whom you do not know?"

"Hardly any, I think."

"Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman whose initials are
L. L.?"

He thought for a few minutes.

"No," said he.  "There are a few gipsies and labouring folk for
whom I can't answer, but among the farmers or gentry there is no
one whose initials are those.  Wait a bit though," he added after
a pause.  "There is Laura Lyons--her initials are L. L.--but she
lives in Coombe Tracey."

"Who is she?"  I asked.

"She is Frankland's daughter."

"What!  Old Frankland the crank?"

"Exactly.  She married an artist named Lyons, who came sketching
on the moor.  He proved to be a blackguard and deserted her.  The
fault from what I hear may not have been entirely on one side.  Her
father refused to have anything to do with her because she had
married without his consent and perhaps for one or two other
reasons as well.  So, between the old sinner and the young one
the girl has had a pretty bad time."

"How does she live?"

"I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance, but it cannot be
more, for his own affairs are considerably involved.  Whatever
she may have deserved one could not allow her to go hopelessly
to the bad.  Her story got about, and several of the people here
did something to enable her to earn an honest living.  Stapleton
did for one, and Sir Charles for another.  I gave a trifle myself.
It was to set her up in a typewriting business."

He wanted to know the object of my inquiries, but I managed to
satisfy his curiosity without telling him too much, for there is
no reason why we should take anyone into our confidence.  Tomorrow
morning I shall find my way to Coombe Tracey, and if I can see
this Mrs. Laura Lyons, of equivocal reputation, a long step will
have been made towards clearing one incident in this chain of
mysteries.  I am certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent,
for when Mortimer pressed his questions to an inconvenient extent
I asked him casually to what type Frankland's skull belonged, and
so heard nothing but craniology for the rest of our drive.  I have
not lived for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing.

I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous
and melancholy day.  This was my conversation with Barrymore
just now, which gives me one more strong card which I can play
in due time.

Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the baronet played
ecarte afterwards.  The butler brought me my coffee into the
library, and I took the chance to ask him a few questions.

"Well," said I, "has this precious relation of yours departed,
or is he still lurking out yonder?"

"I don't know, sir.  I hope to heaven that he has gone, for he
has brought nothing but trouble here!  I've not heard of him
since I left out food for him last, and that was three days ago."

"Did you see him then?"

"No, sir, but the food was gone when next I went that way."

"Then he was certainly there?"

"So you would think, sir, unless it was the other man who took it."

I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips and stared at Barrymore.

"You know that there is another man then?"

"Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor."

"Have you seen him?"

"No, sir."

"How do you know of him then?"

"Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more.  He's in hiding,
too, but he's not a convict as far as I can make out.  I don't
like it, Dr. Watson--I tell you straight, sir, that I don't like
it."  He spoke with a sudden passion of earnestness.

"Now, listen to me, Barrymore!  I have no interest in this matter
but that of your master.  I have come here with no object except to
help him.  Tell me, frankly, what it is that you don't like."

Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he regretted his outburst
or found it difficult to express his own feelings in words.

"It's all these goings-on, sir," he cried at last, waving his hand
towards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor.  "There's foul
play somewhere, and there's black villainy brewing, to that I'll
swear!  Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir Henry on his way
back to London again!"

"But what is it that alarms you?"

"Look at Sir Charles's death!  That was bad enough, for all that
the coroner said.  Look at the noises on the moor at night.  There's
not a man would cross it after sundown if he was paid for it.  Look
at this stranger hiding out yonder, and watching and waiting!
What's he waiting for?  What does it mean?  It means no good to
anyone of the name of Baskerville, and very glad I shall be to
be quit of it all on the day that Sir Henry's new servants are
ready to take over the Hall."

"But about this stranger," said I.  "Can you tell me anything
about him?  What did Selden say?  Did he find out where he hid,
or what he was doing?"

"He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one and gives nothing
away.  At first he thought that he was the police, but soon he
found that he had some lay of his own.  A kind of gentleman he
was, as far as he could see, but what he was doing he could not
make out."

"And where did he say that he lived?"

"Among the old houses on the hillside--the stone huts where the
old folk used to live."

"But how about his food?"

"Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him and
brings all he needs.  I dare say he goes to Coombe Tracey for
what he wants."

"Very good, Barrymore.  We may talk further of this some other
time."  When the butler had gone I walked over to the black window,
and I looked through a blurred pane at the driving clouds and at
the tossing outline of the wind-swept trees.  It is a wild night
indoors, and what must it be in a stone hut upon the moor.  What
passion of hatred can it be which leads a man to lurk in such a
place at such a time!  And what deep and earnest purpose can he
have which calls for such a trial!  There, in that hut upon the
moor, seems to lie the very centre of that problem which has
vexed me so sorely.  I swear that another day shall not have
passed before I have done all that man can do to reach the heart
of the mystery.




Chapter 11
The Man on the Tor



The extract from my private diary which forms the last chapter
has brought my narrative up to the eighteenth of October, a time
when these strange events began to move swiftly towards their
terrible conclusion.  The incidents of the next few days are
indelibly graven upon my recollection, and I can tell them without
reference to the notes made at the time.  I start them from the
day which succeeded that upon which I had established two facts
of great importance, the one that Mrs. Laura Lyons of Coombe Tracey
had written to Sir Charles Baskerville and made an appointment with
him at the very place and hour that he met his death, the other
that the lurking man upon the moor was to be found among the stone
huts upon the hillside.  With these two facts in my possession I
felt that either my intelligence or my courage must be deficient
if I could not throw some further light upon these dark places.

I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned about
Mrs. Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer remained with
him at cards until it was very late.  At breakfast, however, I
informed him about my discovery and asked him whether he would
care to accompany me to Coombe Tracey.  At first he was very
eager to come, but on second thoughts it seemed to both of us
that if I went alone the results might be better.  The more
formal we made the visit the less information we might obtain.  I
left Sir Henry behind, therefore, not without some prickings of
conscience, and drove off upon my new quest.

When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up the horses,
and I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to interrogate.
I had no difficulty in finding her rooms, which were central and
well appointed.  A maid showed me in without ceremony, and as I
entered the sitting-room a lady, who was sitting before a Remington
typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome.  Her face
fell, however, when she saw that I was a stranger, and she sat
down again and asked me the object of my visit.

The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme beauty.
Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and her
cheeks, though considerably freckled, were flushed with the
exquisite bloom of the brunette, the dainty pink which lurks at
the heart of the sulphur rose.  Admiration was, I repeat, the first
impression.  But the second was criticism.  There was something
subtly wrong with the face, some coarseness of expression, some
hardness, perhaps, of eye, some looseness of lip which marred its
perfect beauty.  But these, of course, are afterthoughts.  At the
moment I was simply conscious that I was in the presence of a
very handsome woman, and that she was asking me the reasons for
my visit.  I had not quite understood until that instant how
delicate my mission was.

"I have the pleasure," said I, "of knowing your father."

It was a clumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it.  "There
is nothing in common between my father and me," she said.  "I owe
him nothing, and his friends are not mine.  If it were not for
the late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts I might
have starved for all that my father cared."

"It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have come
here to see you."

The freckles started out on the lady's face.

"What can I tell you about him?" she asked, and her fingers played
nervously over the stops of her typewriter.

"You knew him, did you not?"

"I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness.  If
I am able to support myself it is largely due to the interest
which he took in my unhappy situation."

"Did you correspond with him?"

The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazel eyes.

"What is the object of these questions?" she asked sharply.

"The object is to avoid a public scandal.  It is better that I
should ask them here than that the matter should pass outside
our control."

She was silent and her face was still very pale.  At last she
looked up with something reckless and defiant in her manner.

"Well, I'll answer," she said.  "What are your questions?"

"Did you correspond with Sir Charles?"

"I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge his delicacy
and his generosity."

"Have you the dates of those letters?"

"No."

"Have you ever met him?"

"Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey.  He was a
very retiring man, and he preferred to do good by stealth."

"But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did he
know enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as you
say that he has done?"

She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.

"There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and united
to help me.  One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and intimate friend
of Sir Charles's.  He was exceedingly kind, and it was through
him that Sir Charles learned about my affairs."

I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapleton
his almoner upon several occasions, so the lady's statement bore
the impress of truth upon it.

"Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?"  I
continued.

Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again.  "Really, sir, this is a
very extraordinary question."

"I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it."

"Then I answer, certainly not."

"Not on the very day of Sir Charles's death?"

The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was before
me.  Her dry lips could not speak the "No" which I saw rather
than heard.

"Surely your memory deceives you," said I. "I could even quote a
passage of your letter.  It ran 'Please, please, as you are a
gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o'clock.'"

I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by a
supreme effort.

"Is there no such thing as a gentleman?" she gasped.

"You do Sir Charles an injustice.  He did burn the letter.  But
sometimes a letter may be legible even when burned.  You acknowledge
now that you wrote it?"

"Yes, I did write it," she cried, pouring out her soul in a torrent
of words.  "I did write it.  Why should I deny it?  I have no
reason to be ashamed of it.  I wished him to help me.  I believed
that if I had an interview I could gain his help, so I asked him
to meet me."

"But why at such an hour?"

"Because I had only just learned that he was going to London next
day and might be away for months.  There were reasons why I could
not get there earlier."

"But why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to the
house?"

"Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a bachelor's
house?"

"Well, what happened when you did get there?"

"I never went."

"Mrs. Lyons!"

"No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred.  I never went.
Something intervened to prevent my going."

"What was that?"

"That is a private matter.  I cannot tell it."

"You acknowledge then that you made an appointment with Sir Charles
at the very hour and place at which he met his death, but you deny
that you kept the appointment."

"That is the truth."

Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never get past
that point.

"Mrs. Lyons," said I as I rose from this long and inconclusive
interview, "you are taking a very great responsibility and putting
yourself in a very false position by not making an absolutely
clean breast of all that you know.  If I have to call in the aid
of the police you will find how seriously you are compromised.
If your position is innocent, why did you in the first instance
deny having written to Sir Charles upon that date?"

"Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawn from
it and that I might find myself involved in a scandal."

"And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy
your letter?"

"If you have read the letter you will know."

"I did not say that I had read all the letter."

"You quoted some of it."

"I quoted the postscript.  The letter had, as I said, been burned
and it was not all legible.  I ask you once again why it was that
you were so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this letter
which he received on the day of his death."

"The matter is a very private one."

"The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation."

"I will tell you, then.  If you have heard anything of my unhappy
history you will know that I made a rash marriage and had reason
to regret it."

"I have heard so much."

"My life has been one incessant persecution from a husband whom
I abhor.  The law is upon his side, and every day I am faced by
the possibility that he may force me to live with him.  At the
time that I wrote this letter to Sir Charles I had learned that
there was a prospect of my regaining my freedom if certain expenses
could be met.  It meant everything to me--peace of mind, happiness,
self-respect--everything.  I knew Sir Charles's generosity, and
I thought that if he heard the story from my own lips he would
help me."

"Then how is it that you did not go?"

"Because I received help in the interval from another source."

"Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this?"

"So I should have done had I not seen his death in the paper next
morning."

The woman's story hung coherently together, and all my questions
were unable to shake it.  I could only check it by finding if she
had, indeed, instituted divorce proceedings against her husband
at or about the time of the tragedy.

It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not been
to Baskerville Hall if she really had been, for a trap would be
necessary to take her there, and could not have returned to
Coombe Tracey until the early hours of the morning.  Such an
excursion could not be kept secret.  The probability was,
therefore, that she was telling the truth, or, at least, a part
of the truth.  I came away baffled and disheartened.  Once again
I had reached that dead wall which seemed to be built across
every path by which I tried to get at the object of my mission.
And yet the more I thought of the lady's face and of her manner
the more I felt that something was being held back from me.  Why
should she turn so pale?  Why should she fight against every
admission until it was forced from her?  Why should she have been
so reticent at the time of the tragedy?  Surely the explanation
of all this could not be as innocent as she would have me believe.
For the moment I could proceed no farther in that direction, but
must turn back to that other clue which was to be sought for
among the stone huts upon the moor.

And that was a most vague direction.  I realized it as I drove
back and noted how hill after hill showed traces of the ancient
people.  Barrymore's only indication had been that the stranger
lived in one of these abandoned huts, and many hundreds of them
are scattered throughout the length and breadth of the moor.  But
I had my own experience for a guide since it had shown me the man
himself standing upon the summit of the Black Tor.  That, then,
should be the centre of my search.  From there I should explore
every hut upon the moor until I lighted upon the right one.  If
this man were inside it I should find out from his own lips, at
the point of my revolver if necessary, who he was and why he had
dogged us so long.  He might slip away from us in the crowd of
Regent Street, but it would puzzle him to do so upon the lonely
moor.  On the other hand, if I should find the hut and its tenant
should not be within it I must remain there, however long the
vigil, until he returned.  Holmes had missed him in London.  It
would indeed be a triumph for me if I could run him to earth
where my master had failed.

Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, but now
at last it came to my aid.  And the messenger of good fortune was
none other than Mr. Frankland, who was standing, gray-whiskered
and red-faced, outside the gate of his garden, which opened on
to the highroad along which I travelled.

"Good-day, Dr. Watson," cried he with unwonted good humour, "you
must really give your horses a rest and come in to have a glass
of wine and to congratulate me."

My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly after
what I had heard of his treatment of his daughter, but I was
anxious to send Perkins and the wagonette home, and the opportunity
was a good one.  I alighted and sent a message to Sir Henry that
I should walk over in time for dinner.  Then I followed Frankland
into his dining-room.

"It is a great day for me, sir--one of the red-letter days of my
life," he cried with many chuckles.  "I have brought off a double
event.  I mean to teach them in these parts that law is law, and
that there is a man here who does not fear to invoke it.  I have
established a right of way through the centre of old Middleton's
park, slap across it, sir, within a hundred yards of his own front
door.  What do you think of that?  We'll teach these magnates that
they cannot ride roughshod over the rights of the commoners,
confound them!  And I've closed the wood where the Fernworthy folk
used to picnic.  These infernal people seem to think that there
are no rights of property, and that they can swarm where they like
with their papers and their bottles.  Both cases decided, Dr.
Watson, and both in my favour.  I haven't had such a day since I
had Sir John Morland for trespass because he shot in his own warren."

"How on earth did you do that?"

"Look it up in the books, sir.  It will repay reading--Frankland
v. Morland, Court of Queen's Bench.  It cost me 200 pounds, but
I got my verdict."

"Did it do you any good?"

"None, sir, none.  I am proud to say that I had no interest in
the matter.  I act entirely from a sense of public duty.  I have
no doubt, for example, that the Fernworthy people will burn me
in effigy tonight.  I told the police last time they did it that
they should stop these disgraceful exhibitions.  The County
Constabulary is in a scandalous state, sir, and it has not afforded
me the protection to which I am entitled.  The case of Frankland
v. Regina will bring the matter before the attention of the
public.  I told them that they would have occasion to regret their
treatment of me, and already my words have come true."

"How so?"  I asked.

The old man put on a very knowing expression.  "Because I could
tell them what they are dying to know; but nothing would induce
me to help the rascals in any way."

I had been casting round for some excuse by which I could get
away from his gossip, but now I began to wish to hear more of it.
I had seen enough of the contrary nature of the old sinner to
understand that any strong sign of interest would be the surest
way to stop his confidences.

"Some poaching case, no doubt?" said I with an indifferent manner.

"Ha, ha, my boy, a very much more important matter than that!
What about the convict on the moor?"

I stared.  "You don't mean that you know where he is?" said I.

"I may not know exactly where he is, but I am quite sure that I
could help the police to lay their hands on him.  Has it never
struck you that the way to catch that man was to find out where
he got his food and so trace it to him?"

He certainly seemed to be getting uncomfortably near the truth.
"No doubt," said I; "but how do you know that he is anywhere upon
the moor?"

"I know it because I have seen with my own eyes the messenger who
takes him his food."

My heart sank for Barrymore.  It was a serious thing to be in the
power of this spiteful old busybody.  But his next remark took a
weight from my mind.

"You'll be surprised to hear that his food is taken to him by a
child.  I see him every day through my telescope upon the roof.
He passes along the same path at the same hour, and to whom should
he be going except to the convict?"

Here was luck indeed!  And yet I suppressed all appearance of
interest.  A child!  Barrymore had said that our unknown was
supplied by a boy.  It was on his track, and not upon the convict's,
that Frankland had stumbled.  If I could get his knowledge it
might save me a long and weary hunt.  But incredulity and
indifference were evidently my strongest cards.

"I should say that it was much more likely that it was the son
of one of the moorland shepherds taking out his father's dinner."

The least appearance of opposition struck fire out of the old
autocrat.  His eyes looked malignantly at me, and his gray whiskers
bristled like those of an angry cat.

"Indeed, sir!" said he, pointing out over the wide-stretching
moor.  "Do you see that Black Tor over yonder?  Well, do you see
the low hill beyond with the thornbush upon it?  It is the stoniest
part of the whole moor.  Is that a place where a shepherd would
be likely to take his station?  Your suggestion, sir, is a most
absurd one."

I meekly answered that I had spoken without knowing all the facts.
My submission pleased him and led him to further confidences.

"You may be sure, sir, that I have very good grounds before I
come to an opinion.  I have seen the boy again and again with
his bundle.  Every day, and sometimes twice a day, I have been
able--but wait a moment, Dr. Watson.  Do my eyes deceive me, or
is there at the present moment something moving upon that hillside?"

It was several miles off, but I could distinctly see a small dark
dot against the dull green and gray.

"Come, sir, come!" cried Frankland, rushing upstairs.  "You will
see with your own eyes and judge for yourself."

The telescope, a formidable instrument mounted upon a tripod,
stood upon the flat leads of the house.  Frankland clapped his
eye to it and gave a cry of satisfaction.

"Quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he passes over the hill!"

There he was, sure enough, a small urchin with a little bundle
upon his shoulder, toiling slowly up the hill.  When he reached
the crest I saw the ragged uncouth figure outlined for an instant
against the cold blue sky.  He looked round him with a furtive
and stealthy air, as one who dreads pursuit.  Then he vanished
over the hill.

"Well!  Am I right?"

"Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have some secret errand."

"And what the errand is even a county constable could guess.  But
not one word shall they have from me, and I bind you to secrecy
also, Dr. Watson.  Not a word!  You understand!"

"Just as you wish."

"They have treated me shamefully--shamefully.  When the facts
come out in Frankland v. Regina I venture to think that a thrill
of indignation will run through the country.  Nothing would induce
me to help the police in any way.  For all they cared it might
have been me, instead of my effigy, which these rascals burned
at the stake.  Surely you are not going!  You will help me to
empty the decanter in honour of this great occasion!"

But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded in dissuading
him from his announced intention of walking home with me.  I kept
the road as long as his eye was on me, and then I struck off
across the moor and made for the stony hill over which the boy
had disappeared.  Everything was working in my favour, and I swore
that it should not be through lack of energy or perseverance
that I should miss the chance which fortune had thrown in my way.

The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the hill,
and the long slopes beneath me were all golden-green on one side
and gray shadow on the other.  A haze lay low upon the farthest
sky-line, out of which jutted the fantastic shapes of Belliver
and Vixen Tor.  Over the wide expanse there was no sound and no
movement.  One great gray bird, a gull or curlew, soared aloft
in the blue heaven.  He and I seemed to be the only living things
between the huge arch of the sky and the desert beneath it.  The
barren scene, the sense of loneliness, and the mystery and urgency
of my task all struck a chill into my heart.  The boy was nowhere
to be seen.  But down beneath me in a cleft of the hills there
was a circle of the old stone huts, and in the middle of them
there was one which retained sufficient roof to act as a screen
against the weather.  My heart leaped within me as I saw it.  This
must be the burrow where the stranger lurked.  At last my foot
was on the threshold of his hiding place--his secret was within
my grasp.

As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton would do
when with poised net he drew near the settled butterfly, I satisfied
myself that the place had indeed been used as a habitation.  A
vague pathway among the boulders led to the dilapidated opening
which served as a door.  All was silent within.  The unknown
might be lurking there, or he might be prowling on the moor.  My
nerves tingled with the sense of adventure.  Throwing aside my
cigarette, I closed my hand upon the butt of my revolver and,
walking swiftly up to the door, I looked in.  The place was empty.

But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a false scent.
This was certainly where the man lived.  Some blankets rolled in
a waterproof lay upon that very stone slab upon which Neolithic
man had once slumbered.  The ashes of a fire were heaped in a
rude grate.  Beside it lay some cooking utensils and a bucket
half-full of water.  A litter of empty tins showed that the place
had been occupied for some time, and I saw, as my eyes became
accustomed to the checkered light, a pannikin and a half-full
bottle of spirits standing in the corner.  In the middle of the
hut a flat stone served the purpose of a table, and upon this
stood a small cloth bundle--the same, no doubt, which I had seen
through the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy.  It contained
a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins of preserved
peaches.  As I set it down again, after having examined it, my
heart leaped to see that beneath it there lay a sheet of paper
with writing upon it.  I raised it, and this was what I read,
roughly scrawled in pencil: "Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey."

For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinking
out the meaning of this curt message.  It was I, then, and not
Sir Henry, who was being dogged by this secret man.  He had not
followed me himself, but he had set an agent--the boy, perhaps--
upon my track, and this was his report.  Possibly I had taken no
step since I had been upon the moor which had not been observed
and reported.  Always there was this feeling of an unseen force,
a fine net drawn round us with infinite skill and delicacy,
holding us so lightly that it was only at some supreme moment
that one realized that one was indeed entangled in its meshes.

If there was one report there might be others, so I looked round
the hut in search of them.  There was no trace, however, of
anything of the kind, nor could I discover any sign which might
indicate the character or intentions of the man who lived in
this singular place, save that he must be of Spartan habits and
cared little for the comforts of life.  When I thought of the
heavy rains and looked at the gaping roof I understood how strong
and immutable must be the purpose which had kept him in that
inhospitable abode.  Was he our malignant enemy, or was he by
chance our guardian angel?  I swore that I would not leave the
hut until I knew.

Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazing with
scarlet and gold.  Its reflection was shot back in ruddy patches
by the distant pools which lay amid the great Grimpen Mire.  There
were the two towers of Baskerville Hall, and there a distant blur
of smoke which marked the village of Grimpen.  Between the two,
behind the hill, was the house of the Stapletons.  All was sweet
and mellow and peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as
I looked at them my soul shared none of the peace of Nature but
quivered at the vagueness and the terror of that interview which
every instant was bringing nearer.  With tingling nerves but a
fixed purpose, I sat in the dark recess of the hut and waited
with sombre patience for the coming of its tenant.

And then at last I heard him.  Far away came the sharp clink of
a boot striking upon a stone.  Then another and yet another, coming
nearer and nearer.  I shrank back into the darkest corner and
cocked the pistol in my pocket, determined not to discover myself
until I had an opportunity of seeing something of the stranger.
There was a long pause which showed that he had stopped.  Then
once more the footsteps approached and a shadow fell across the
opening of the hut.

"It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson," said a well-known voice.
"I really think that you will be more comfortable outside than in."




Chapter 12
Death on the Moor



For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my
ears.  Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a
crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted
from my soul.  That cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong
to but one man in all the world.

"Holmes!" I cried--"Holmes!"

"Come out," said he, "and please be careful with the revolver."

I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a stone
outside, his gray eyes dancing with amusement as they fell upon
my astonished features.  He was thin and worn, but clear and
alert, his keen face bronzed by the sun and roughened by the
wind.  In his tweed suit and cloth cap he looked like any other
tourist upon the moor, and he had contrived, with that catlike
love of personal cleanliness which was one of his characteristics,
that his chin should be as smooth and his linen as perfect as if
he were in Baker Street.

"I never was more glad to see anyone in my life," said I as I
wrung him by the hand.

"Or more astonished, eh?"

"Well, I must confess to it."

"The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you.  I had no
idea that you had found my occasional retreat, still less that
you were inside it, until I was within twenty paces of the door."

"My footprint, I presume?"

"No, Watson, I fear that I could not undertake to recognize your
footprint amid all the footprints of the world.  If you seriously
desire to deceive me you must change your tobacconist; for when
I see the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I
know that my friend Watson is in the neighbourhood.  You will see
it there beside the path.  You threw it down, no doubt, at that
supreme moment when you charged into the empty hut."

"Exactly."

"I thought as much--and knowing your admirable tenacity I was
convinced that you were sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach,
waiting for the tenant to return.  So you actually thought that
I was the criminal?"

"I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out."

"Excellent, Watson!  And how did you localize me?  You saw me,
perhaps, on the night of the convict hunt, when I was so imprudent
as to allow the moon to rise behind me?"

"Yes, I saw you then."

"And have no doubt searched all the huts until you came to this
one?"

"No, your boy had been observed, and that gave me a guide where
to look."

"The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt.  I could not make
it out when first I saw the light flashing upon the lens."  He
rose and peeped into the hut.  "Ha, I see that Cartwright has
brought up some supplies.  What's this paper?  So you have been
to Coombe Tracey, have you?"

"Yes."

"To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?"

"Exactly."

"Well done!  Our researches have evidently been running on parallel
lines, and when we unite our results I expect we shall have a
fairly full knowledge of the case."

"Well, I am glad from my heart that you are here, for indeed the
responsibility and the mystery were both becoming too much for
my nerves.  But how in the name of wonder did you come here, and
what have you been doing?  I thought that you were in Baker Street
working out that case of blackmailing."

"That was what I wished you to think."

"Then you use me, and yet do not trust me!"  I cried with some
bitterness.  "I think that I have deserved better at your hands,
Holmes."

"My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to me in this as in
many other cases, and I beg that you will forgive me if I have
seemed to play a trick upon you.  In truth, it was partly for
your own sake that I did it, and it was my appreciation of the
danger which you ran which led me to come down and examine the
matter for myself.  Had I been with Sir Henry and you it is
confident that my point of view would have been the same as yours,
and my presence would have warned our very formidable opponents
to be on their guard.  As it is, I have been able to get about
as I could not possibly have done had I been living in the Hall,
and I remain an unknown factor in the business, ready to throw
in all my weight at a critical moment."

"But why keep me in the dark?"

"For you to know could not have helped us and might possibly have
led to my discovery.  You would have wished to tell me something,
or in your kindness you would have brought me out some comfort
or other, and so an unnecessary risk would be run.  I brought
Cartwright down with me--you remember the little chap at the
express office--and he has seen after my simple wants: a loaf of
bread and a clean collar.  What does man want more?  He has given
me an extra pair of eyes upon a very active pair of feet, and both
have been invaluable."

"Then my reports have all been wasted!" --My voice trembled as I
recalled the pains and the pride with which I had composed them.

Holmes took a bundle of papers from his pocket.

"Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and very well thumbed,
I assure you.  I made excellent arrangements, and they are only
delayed one day upon their way.  I must compliment you exceedingly
upon the zeal and the intelligence which you have shown over an
extraordinarily difficult case."

I was still rather raw over the deception which had been practised
upon me, but the warmth of Holmes's praise drove my anger from
my mind.  I felt also in my heart that he was right in what he
said and that it was really best for our purpose that I should
not have known that he was upon the moor.

"That's better," said he, seeing the shadow rise from my face.
"And now tell me the result of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons--
it was not difficult for me to guess that it was to see her that
you had gone, for I am already aware that she is the one person
in Coombe Tracey who might be of service to us in the matter.
In fact, if you had not gone today it is exceedingly probable
that I should have gone tomorrow."

The sun had set and dusk was settling over the moor.  The air
had turned chill and we withdrew into the hut for warmth.  There,
sitting together in the twilight, I told Holmes of my conversation
with the lady.  So interested was he that I had to repeat some
of it twice before he was satisfied.

"This is most important," said he when I had concluded.  "It fills
up a gap which I had been unable to bridge in this most complex
affair.  You are aware, perhaps, that a close intimacy exists
between this lady and the man Stapleton?"

"I did not know of a close intimacy."

"There can be no doubt about the matter.  They meet, they write,
there is a complete understanding between them.  Now, this puts
a very powerful weapon into our hands.  If I could only use it
to detach his wife--"

"His wife?"

"I am giving you some information now, in return for all that you
have given me.  The lady who has passed here as Miss Stapleton
is in reality his wife."

"Good heavens, Holmes!  Are you sure of what you say?  How could
he have permitted Sir Henry to fall in love with her?"

"Sir Henry's falling in love could do no harm to anyone except
Sir Henry.  He took particular care that Sir Henry did not make
love to her, as you have yourself observed.  I repeat that the
lady is his wife and not his sister."

"But why this elaborate deception?"

"Because he foresaw that she would be very much more useful to
him in the character of a free woman."

All my unspoken instincts, my vague suspicions, suddenly took shape
and centred upon the naturalist.  In that impassive colourless
man, with his straw hat and his butterfly-net, I seemed to see
something terrible--a creature of infinite patience and craft,
with a smiling face and a murderous heart.

"It is he, then, who is our enemy--it is he who dogged us in
London?"

"So I read the riddle."

"And the warning--it must have come from her!"

"Exactly."

The shape of some monstrous villainy, half seen, half guessed,
loomed through the darkness which had girt me so long.

"But are you sure of this, Holmes?  How do you know that the
woman is his wife?"

"Because he so far forgot himself as to tell you a true piece
of autobiography upon the occasion when he first met you, and
I dare say he has many a time regretted it since.  He was once
a schoolmaster in the north of England.  Now, there is no one
more easy to trace than a schoolmaster.  There are scholastic
agencies by which one may identify any man who has been in the
profession.  A little investigation showed me that a school had
come to grief under atrocious circumstances, and that the man who
had owned it--the name was different--had disappeared with his
wife.  The descriptions agreed.  When I learned that the missing
man was devoted to entomology the identification was complete."

The darkness was rising, but much was still hidden by the shadows.

"If this woman is in truth his wife, where does Mrs. Laura Lyons
come in?" I asked.

"That is one of the points upon which your own researches have
shed a light.  Your interview with the lady has cleared the
situation very much.  I did not know about a projected divorce
between herself and her husband.  In that case, regarding Stapleton
as an unmarried man, she counted no doubt upon becoming his wife."

"And when she is undeceived?"

"Why, then we may find the lady of service.  It must be our first
duty to see her--both of us--tomorrow.  Don't you think, Watson,
that you are away from your charge rather long?  Your place should
be at Baskerville Hall."

The last red streaks had faded away in the west and night had
settled upon the moor.  A few faint stars were gleaming in a
violet sky.

"One last question, Holmes," I said as I rose.  "Surely there is
no need of secrecy between you and me.  What is the meaning of it
all?  What is he after?"

Holmes's voice sank as he answered:

"It is murder, Watson--refined, cold-blooded, deliberate murder.
Do not ask me for particulars.  My nets are closing upon him, even
as his are upon Sir Henry, and with your help he is already almost
at my mercy.  There is but one danger which can threaten us.  It
is that he should strike before we are ready to do so.  Another
day--two at the most--and I have my case complete, but until then
guard your charge as closely as ever a fond mother watched her
ailing child.  Your mission today has justified itself, and yet
I could almost wish that you had not left his side.  Hark!"

A terrible scream--a prolonged yell of horror and anguish--burst
out of the silence of the moor.  That frightful cry turned the
blood to ice in my veins.

"Oh, my God!"  I gasped.  "What is it?  What does it mean?"

Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his dark, athletic outline
at the door of the hut, his shoulders stooping, his head thrust
forward, his face peering into the darkness.

"Hush!" he whispered.  "Hush!"

The cry had been loud on account of its vehemence, but it had
pealed out from somewhere far off on the shadowy plain.  Now it
burst upon our ears, nearer, louder, more urgent than before.

"Where is it?"  Holmes whispered; and I knew from the thrill of
his voice that he, the man of iron, was shaken to the soul.
"Where is it, Watson?"

"There, I think."  I pointed into the darkness.

"No, there!"

Again the agonized cry swept through the silent night, louder
and much nearer than ever.  And a new sound mingled with it, a
deep, muttered rumble, musical and yet menacing, rising and falling
like the low, constant murmur of the sea.

"The hound!" cried Holmes.  "Come, Watson, come!  Great heavens,
if we are too late!"

He had started running swiftly over the moor, and I had followed
at his heels.  But now from somewhere among the broken ground
immediately in front of us there came one last despairing yell,
and then a dull, heavy thud.  We halted and listened.  Not another
sound broke the heavy silence of the windless night.

I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man distracted.
He stamped his feet upon the ground.

"He has beaten us, Watson.  We are too late."

"No, no, surely not!"

"Fool that I was to hold my hand.  And you, Watson, see what comes
of abandoning your charge!  But, by Heaven, if the worst has
happened we'll avenge him!"

Blindly we ran through the gloom, blundering against boulders,
forcing our way through gorse bushes, panting up hills and rushing
down slopes, heading always in the direction whence those dreadful
sounds had come.  At every rise Holmes looked eagerly round him,
but the shadows were thick upon the moor, and nothing moved upon
its dreary face.

"Can you see anything?"

"Nothing."

"But, hark, what is that?"

A low moan had fallen upon our ears.  There it was again upon
our left!  On that side a ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff
which overlooked a stone-strewn slope.  On its jagged face was
spread-eagled some dark, irregular object.  As we ran towards it
the vague outline hardened into a definite shape.  It was a
prostrate man face downward upon the ground, the head doubled
under him at a horrible angle, the shoulders rounded and the body
hunched together as if in the act of throwing a somersault.  So
grotesque was the attitude that I could not for the instant realize
that that moan had been the passing of his soul.  Not a whisper,
not a rustle, rose now from the dark figure over which we stooped.
Holmes laid his hand upon him and held it up again with an
exclamation of horror.  The gleam of the match which he struck
shone upon his clotted fingers and upon the ghastly pool which
widened slowly from the crushed skull of the victim.  And it shone
upon something else which turned our hearts sick and faint within
us--the body of Sir Henry Baskerville!

There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiar ruddy
tweed suit--the very one which he had worn on the first morning
that we had seen him in Baker Street.  We caught the one clear
glimpse of it, and then the match flickered and went out, even
as the hope had gone out of our souls.  Holmes groaned, and his
face glimmered white through the darkness.

"The brute!  The brute!" I cried with clenched hands.  "Oh Holmes,
I shall never forgive myself for having left him to his fate."

"I am more to blame than you, Watson.  In order to have my case
well rounded and complete, I have thrown away the life of my
client.  It is the greatest blow which has befallen me in my
career.  But how could I know--how could l know--that he would
risk his life alone upon the moor in the face of all my warnings?"

"That we should have heard his screams--my God, those screams!--and
yet have been unable to save him!  Where is this brute of a hound
which drove him to his death?  It may be lurking among these rocks
at this instant.  And Stapleton, where is he?  He shall answer
for this deed."

"He shall.  I will see to that.  Uncle and nephew have been
murdered--the one frightened to death by the very sight of a
beast which he thought to be supernatural, the other driven to
his end in his wild flight to escape from it.  But now we have
to prove the connection between the man and the beast.  Save from
what we heard, we cannot even swear to the existence of the latter,
since Sir Henry has evidently died from the fall.  But, by heavens,
cunning as he is, the fellow shall be in my power before another
day is past!"

We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled body,
overwhelmed by this sudden and irrevocable disaster which had
brought all our long and weary labours to so piteous an end.
Then as the moon rose we climbed to the top of the rocks over
which our poor friend had fallen, and from the summit we gazed
out over the shadowy moor, half silver and half gloom.  Far away,
miles off, in the direction of Grimpen, a single steady yellow
light was shining.  It could only come from the lonely abode of
the Stapletons.  With a bitter curse I shook my fist at it as I
gazed.

"Why should we not seize him at once?"

"Our case is not complete.  The fellow is wary and cunning to the
last degree.  It is not what we know, but what we can prove.  If
we make one false move the villain may escape us yet."

"What can we do?"

"There will be plenty for us to do tomorrow.  Tonight we can only
perform the last offices to our poor friend."

Together we made our way down the precipitous slope and approached
the body, black and clear against the silvered stones.  The agony
of those contorted limbs struck me with a spasm of pain and
blurred my eyes with tears.

"We must send for help, Holmes!  We cannot carry him all the way
to the Hall.  Good heavens, are you mad?"

He had uttered a cry and bent over the body.  Now he was dancing
and laughing and wringing my hand.  Could this be my stern, self-
contained friend?  These were hidden fires, indeed!

"A beard!  A beard!  The man has a beard!"

"A beard?"

"It is not the baronet--it is--why, it is my neighbour, the convict!"

With feverish haste we had turned the body over, and that dripping
beard was pointing up to the cold, clear moon.  There could be no
doubt about the beetling forehead, the sunken animal eyes.  It
was indeed the same face which had glared upon me in the light
of the candle from over the rock--the face of Selden, the criminal.

Then in an instant it was all clear to me.  I remembered how the
baronet had told me that he had handed his old wardrobe to
Barrymore.  Barrymore had passed it on in order to help Selden
in his escape.  Boots, shirt, cap--it was all Sir Henry's.  The
tragedy was still black enough, but this man had at least deserved
death by the laws of his country.  I told Holmes how the matter
stood, my heart bubbling over with thankfulness and joy.

"Then the clothes have been the poor devil's death," said he.
"It is clear enough that the hound has been laid on from some
article of Sir Henry's--the boot which was abstracted in the
hotel, in all probability--and so ran this man down.  There is
one very singular thing, however: How came Selden, in the darkness,
to know that the hound was on his trail?"

"He heard him."

"To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard man like this
convict into such a paroxysm of terror that he would risk recapture
by screaming wildly for help.  By his cries he must have run a
long way after he knew the animal was on his track.  How did he know?"

"A greater mystery to me is why this hound, presuming that all
our conjectures are correct--"

"I presume nothing."

"Well, then, why this hound should be loose tonight.  I suppose
that it does not always run loose upon the moor.  Stapleton would
not let it go unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry would
be there."

"My difficulty is the more formidable of the two, for I think that
we shall very shortly get an explanation of yours, while mine may
remain forever a mystery.  The question now is, what shall we do
with this poor wretch's body?  We cannot leave it here to the
foxes and the ravens."

"I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can
communicate with the police."

"Exactly.  I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far.
Halloa, Watson, what's this?  It's the man himself, by all that's
wonderful and audacious!  Not a word to show your suspicions--not
a word, or my plans crumble to the ground."

A figure was approaching us over the moor, and I saw the dull red
glow of a cigar.  The moon shone upon him, and I could distinguish
the dapper shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist.  He stopped
when he saw us, and then came on again.

"Why, Dr. Watson, that's not you, is it?  You are the last man
that I should have expected to see out on the moor at this time
of night.  But, dear me, what's this?  Somebody hurt?  Not--don't
tell me that it is our friend Sir Henry!"  He hurried past me and
stooped over the dead man.  I heard a sharp intake of his breath
and the cigar fell from his fingers.

"Who--who's this?" he stammered.

"It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown."

Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by a supreme effort he
had overcome his amazement and his disappointment.  He looked
sharply from Holmes to me.  "Dear me!  What a very shocking affair!
How did he die?"

"He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks.
My friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry."

"I heard a cry also.  That was what brought me out.  I was uneasy
about Sir Henry."

"Why about Sir Henry in particular?"  I could not help asking.

"Because I had suggested that he should come over.  When he did
not come I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed for his
safety when I heard cries upon the moor.  By the way"--his eyes
darted again from my face to Holmes's--"did you hear anything
else besides a cry?"

"No," said Holmes; "did you?"

"No."

"What do you mean, then?"

"Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom
hound, and so on.  It is said to be heard at night upon the moor.
I was wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound tonight."

"We heard nothing of the kind," said I.

"And what is your theory of this poor fellow's death?"

"I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off
his head.  He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and
eventually fallen over here and broken his neck."

"That seems the most reasonable theory," said Stapleton, and he
gave a sigh which I took to indicate his relief.  "What do you
think about it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

My friend bowed his compliments.  "You are quick at identification,"
said he.

"We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came
down.  You are in time to see a tragedy."

"Yes, indeed.  I have no doubt that my friend's explanation will
cover the facts.  I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to
London with me tomorrow."

"Oh, you return tomorrow?"

"That is my intention."

"I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences which
have puzzled us?"

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"One cannot always have the success for which one hopes.  An
investigator needs facts and not legends or rumours.  It has not
been a satisfactory case."

My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner.
Stapleton still looked hard at him.  Then he turned to me.

"I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it
would give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified
in doing it.  I think that if we put something over his face he
will be safe until morning."

And so it was arranged.  Resisting Stapleton's offer of hospitality,
Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist
to return alone.  Looking back we saw the figure moving slowly
away over the broad moor, and behind him that one black smudge
on the silvered slope which showed where the man was lying who
had come so horribly to his end.




Chapter 13
Fixing the Nets



"We're at close grips at last," said Holmes as we walked together
across the moor.  "What a nerve the fellow has!  How he pulled
himself together in the face of what must have been a paralyzing
shock when he found that the wrong man had fallen a victim to his
plot.  I told you in London, Watson, and I tell you now again,
that we have never had a foeman more worthy of our steel."

"I am sorry that he has seen you."

"And so was I at first.  But there was no getting out of it."

"What effect do you think it will have upon his plans now that
he knows you are here?"

"It may cause him to be more cautious, or it may drive him to
desperate measures at once.  Like most clever criminals, he may
be too confident in his own cleverness and imagine that he has
completely deceived us."

"Why should we not arrest him at once?"

"My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action.  Your
instinct is always to do something energetic.  But supposing,
for argument's sake, that we had him arrested tonight, what on
earth the better off should we be for that?  We could prove
nothing against him.  There's the devilish cunning of it!  If he
were acting through a human agent we could get some evidence,
but if we were to drag this great dog to the light of day it would
not help us in putting a rope round the neck of its master."

"Surely we have a case."

"Not a shadow of one--only surmise and conjecture.  We should be
laughed out of court if we came with such a story and such evidence."

"There is Sir Charles's death."

"Found dead without a mark upon him.  You and I know that he died
of sheer fright, and we know also what frightened him, but how are
we to get twelve stolid jurymen to know it?  What signs are there
of a hound?  Where are the marks of its fangs?  Of course we know
that a hound does not bite a dead body and that Sir Charles was
dead before ever the brute overtook him.  But we have to prove
all this, and we are not in a position to do it."

"Well, then, tonight?"

"We are not much better off tonight.  Again, there was no direct
connection between the hound and the man's death.  We never saw
the hound.  We heard it, but we could not prove that it was
running upon this man's trail.  There is a complete absence of
motive.  No, my dear fellow; we must reconcile ourselves to the
fact that we have no case at present, and that it is worth our
while to run any risk in order to establish one."

"And how do you propose to do so?"

"I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons may do for us when
the position of affairs is made clear to her.  And I have my own
plan as well.  Sufficient for tomorrow is the evil thereof; but
I hope before the day is past to have the upper hand at last."

I could draw nothing further from him, and he walked, lost in
thought, as far as the Baskerville gates.

"Are you coming up?"

"Yes; I see no reason for further concealment.  But one last
word, Watson.  Say nothing of the hound to Sir Henry.  Let him
think that Selden's death was as Stapleton would have us believe.
He will have a better nerve for the ordeal which he will have to
undergo tomorrow, when he is engaged, if I remember your report
aright, to dine with these people."

"And so am I."

"Then you must excuse yourself and he must go alone.  That will
be easily arranged.  And now, if we are too late for dinner, I
think that we are both ready for our suppers."

Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock Holmes,
for he had for some days been expecting that recent events would
bring him down from London.  He did raise his eyebrows, however,
when he found that my friend had neither any luggage nor any
explanations for its absence.  Between us we soon supplied his
wants, and then over a belated supper we explained to the baronet
as much of our experience as it seemed desirable that he should
know.  But first I had the unpleasant duty of breaking the news
to Barrymore and his wife.  To him it may have been an unmitigated
relief, but she wept bitterly in her apron.  To all the world he
was the man of violence, half animal and half demon; but to her
he always remained the little wilful boy of her own girlhood, the
child who had clung to her hand.  Evil indeed is the man who has
not one woman to mourn him.

"I've been moping in the house all day since Watson went off in
the morning," said the baronet.  "I guess I should have some
credit, for I have kept my promise.  If I hadn't sworn not to go
about alone I might have had a more lively evening, for I had a
message from Stapleton asking me over there."

"I have no doubt that you would have had a more lively evening,"
said Holmes drily.  "By the way, I don't suppose you appreciate
that we have been mourning over you as having broken your neck?"

Sir Henry opened his eyes.  "How was that?"

"This poor wretch was dressed in your clothes.  I fear your servant
who gave them to him may get into trouble with the police."

"That is unlikely.  There was no mark on any of them, as far as
I know."

"That's lucky for him--in fact, it's lucky for all of you, since
you are all on the wrong side of the law in this matter.  I am
not sure that as a conscientious detective my first duty is not
to arrest the whole household.  Watson's reports are most
incriminating documents."

"But how about the case?" asked the baronet.  "Have you made
anything out of the tangle?  I don't know that Watson and I are
much the wiser since we came down."

"I think that I shall be in a position to make the situation rather
more clear to you before long.  It has been an exceedingly difficult
and most complicated business.  There are several points upon which
we still want light--but it is coming all the same."

"We've had one experience, as Watson has no doubt told you.  We
heard the hound on the moor, so I can swear that it is not all
empty superstition.  I had something to do with dogs when I was
out West, and I know one when I hear one.  If you can muzzle that
one and put him on a chain I'll be ready to swear you are the
greatest detective of all time."

"I think I will muzzle him and chain him all right if you will
give me your help."

"Whatever you tell me to do I will do."

"Very good; and I will ask you also to do it blindly, without
always asking the reason."

"Just as you like."

"If you will do this I think the chances are that our little
problem will soon be solved.  I have no doubt--"

He stopped suddenly and stared fixedly up over my head into the
air.  The lamp beat upon his face, and so intent was it and so
still that it might have been that of a clear-cut classical statue,
a personification of alertness and expectation.

"What is it?" we both cried.

I could see as he looked down that he was repressing some internal
emotion.  His features were still composed, but his eyes shone with
amused exultation.

"Excuse the admiration of a connoisseur," said he as he waved
his hand towards the line of portraits which covered the opposite
wall.  "Watson won't allow that I know anything of art but that
is mere jealousy because our views upon the subject differ.  Now,
these are a really very fine series of portraits."

"Well, I'm glad to hear you say so," said Sir Henry, glancing
with some surprise at my friend.  "I don't pretend to know much
about these things, and I'd be a better judge of a horse or a
steer than of a picture.  I didn't know that you found time for
such things."

"I know what is good when I see it, and I see it now.  That's a
Kneller, I'll swear, that lady in the blue silk over yonder, and
the stout gentleman with the wig ought to be a Reynolds.  They
are all family portraits, I presume?"

"Every one."

"Do you know the names?"

"Barrymore has been coaching me in them, and I think I can say
my lessons fairly well."

"Who is the gentleman with the telescope?"

"That is Rear-Admiral Baskerville, who served under Rodney in the
West Indies.  The man with the blue coat and the roll of paper
is Sir William Baskerville, who was Chairman of Committees of the
House of Commons under Pitt."

"And this Cavalier opposite to me--the one with the black velvet
and the lace?"

"Ah, you have a right to know about him.  That is the cause of
all the mischief, the wicked Hugo, who started the Hound of the
Baskervilles.  We're not likely to forget him."

I gazed with interest and some surprise upon the portrait.

"Dear me!" said Holmes, "he seems a quiet, meek-mannered man
enough, but I dare say that there was a lurking devil in his eyes.
I had pictured him as a more robust and ruffianly person."

"There's no doubt about the authenticity, for the name and the
date, 1647, are on the back of the canvas."

Holmes said little more, but the picture of the old roysterer
seemed to have a fascination for him, and his eyes were continually
fixed upon it during supper.  It was not until later, when Sir
Henry had gone to his room, that I was able to follow the trend
of his thoughts.  He led me back into the banqueting-hall, his
bedroom candle in his hand, and he held it up against the time-
stained portrait on the wall.

"Do you see anything there?"

I looked at the broad plumed hat, the curling love-locks, the
white lace collar, and the straight, severe face which was framed
between them.  It was not a brutal countenance, but it was prim,
hard, and stern, with a firm-set, thin-lipped mouth, and a coldly
intolerant eye.

"Is it like anyone you know?"

"There is something of Sir Henry about the jaw."

"Just a suggestion, perhaps.  But wait an instant!"  He stood upon
a chair, and, holding up the light in his left hand, he curved
his right arm over the broad hat and round the long ringlets.

"Good heavens!" I cried in amazement.

The face of Stapleton had sprung out of the canvas.

"Ha, you see it now.  My eyes have been trained to examine faces
and not their trimmings.  It is the first quality of a criminal
investigator that he should see through a disguise."

"But this is marvellous.  It might be his portrait."

"Yes, it is an interesting instance of a throwback, which appears
to be both physical and spiritual.  A study of family portraits
is enough to convert a man to the doctrine of reincarnation.  The
fellow is a Baskerville--that is evident."

"With designs upon the succession."

"Exactly.  This chance of the picture has supplied us with one of
our most obvious missing links.  We have him, Watson, we have him,
and I dare swear that before tomorrow night he will be fluttering
in our net as helpless as one of his own butterflies.  A pin, a
cork, and a card, and we add him to the Baker Street collection!"
He burst into one of his rare fits of laughter as he turned away
from the picture.  I have not heard him laugh often, and it has
always boded ill to somebody.

I was up betimes in the morning, but Holmes was afoot earlier
still, for I saw him as I dressed, coming up the drive.

"Yes, we should have a full day today," he remarked, and he rubbed
his hands with the joy of action.  "The nets are all in place,
and the drag is about to begin.  We'll know before the day is out
whether we have caught our big, leanjawed pike, or whether he
has got through the meshes."

"Have you been on the moor already?"

"I have sent a report from Grimpen to Princetown as to the death
of Selden.  I think I can promise that none of you will be troubled
in the matter.  And I have also communicated with my faithful
Cartwright, who would certainly have pined away at the door of
my hut, as a dog does at his master's grave, if I had not set
his mind at rest about my safety."

"What is the next move?"

"To see Sir Henry.  Ah, here he is!"

"Good-morning, Holmes," said the baronet.  "You look like a general
who is planning a battle with his chief of the staff."

"That is the exact situation.  Watson was asking for orders."

"And so do I."

"Very good.  You are engaged, as I understand, to dine with our
friends the Stapletons tonight."

"I hope that you will come also.  They are very hospitable people,
and I am sure that they would be very glad to see you."

"I fear that Watson and I must go to London."

"To London?"

"Yes, I think that we should be more useful there at the present
juncture."

The baronet's face perceptibly lengthened.

"I hoped that you were going to see me through this business.
The Hall and the moor are not very pleasant places when one is
alone."

"My dear fellow, you must trust me implicitly and do exactly what
I tell you.  You can tell your friends that we should have been
happy to have come with you, but that urgent business required
us to be in town.  We hope very soon to return to Devonshire.
Will you remember to give them that message?"

"If you insist upon it."

"There is no alternative, I assure you."

I saw by the baronet's clouded brow that he was deeply hurt by
what he regarded as our desertion.

"When do you desire to go?" he asked coldly.

"Immediately after breakfast.  We will drive in to Coombe Tracey,
but Watson will leave his things as a pledge that he will come
back to you.  Watson, you will send a note to Stapleton to tell
him that you regret that you cannot come."

"I have a good mind to go to London with you," said the baronet.
"Why should I stay here alone?"

"Because it is your post of duty.  Because you gave me your word
that you would do as you were told, and I tell you to stay."

"All right, then, I'll stay."

"One more direction!  I wish you to drive to Merripit House.  Send
back your trap, however, and let them know that you intend to
walk home."

"To walk across the moor?"

"Yes."

"But that is the very thing which you have so often cautioned me
not to do."

"This time you may do it with safety.  If I had not every confidence
in your nerve and courage I would not suggest it, but it is essential
that you should do it."

"Then I will do it."

"And as you value your life do not go across the moor in any
direction save along the straight path which leads from Merripit
House to the Grimpen Road, and is your natural way home."

"I will do just what you say."

"Very good.  I should be glad to get away as soon after breakfast
as possible, so as to reach London in the afternoon."

I was much astounded by this programme, though I remembered that
Holmes had said to Stapleton on the night before that his visit
would terminate next day.  It had not crossed my mind however,
that he would wish me to go with him, nor could I understand how
we could both be absent at a moment which he himself declared to
be critical.  There was nothing for it, however, but implicit
obedience; so we bade good-bye to our rueful friend, and a couple
of hours afterwards we were at the station of Coombe Tracey and
had dispatched the trap upon its return journey.  A small boy was
waiting upon the platform.

"Any orders, sir?"

"You will take this train to town, Cartwright.  The moment you
arrive you will send a wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, in my name,
to say that if he finds the pocketbook which I have dropped he
is to send it by registered post to Baker Street."

"Yes, sir."

"And ask at the station office if there is a message for me."

The boy returned with a telegram, which Holmes handed to me.  It
ran:

Wire received.  Coming down with unsigned warrant.  Arrive five-
forty.  Lestrade.

"That is in answer to mine of this morning.  He is the best of
the professionals, I think, and we may need his assistance.  Now,
Watson, I think that we cannot employ our time better than by
calling upon your acquaintance, Mrs. Laura Lyons."

His plan of campaign was beginning to be evident.  He would use
the baronet in order to convince the Stapletons that we were really
gone, while we should actually return at the instant when we were
likely to be needed.  That telegram from London, if mentioned by
Sir Henry to the Stapletons, must remove the last suspicions from
their minds.  Already I seemed to see our nets drawing closer
around that leanjawed pike.

Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office, and Sherlock Holmes opened
his interview with a frankness and directness which considerably
amazed her.

"I am investigating the circumstances which attended the death
of the late Sir Charles Baskerville," said he.  "My friend here,
Dr. Watson, has informed me of what you have communicated, and
also of what you have withheld in connection with that matter."

"What have I withheld?" she asked defiantly.

"You have confessed that you asked Sir Charles to be at the gate
at ten o'clock.  We know that that was the place and hour of his
death.  You have withheld what the connection is between these
events."

"There is no connection."

"In that case the coincidence must indeed be an extraordinary one.
But I think that we shall succeed in establishing a connection,
after all.  I wish to be perfectly frank with you, Mrs. Lyons.
We regard this case as one of murder, and the evidence may implicate
not only your friend Mr. Stapleton but his wife as well."

The lady sprang from her chair.

"His wife!" she cried.

"The fact is no longer a secret.  The person who has passed for
his sister is really his wife."

Mrs. Lyons had resumed her seat.  Her hands were grasping the arms
of her chair, and I saw that the pink nails had turned white with
the pressure of her grip.

"His wife!" she said again.  "His wife!  He is not a married man."

Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"Prove it to me!  Prove it to me!  And if you can do so--!"

The fierce flash of her eyes said more than any words.

"I have come prepared to do so," said Holmes, drawing several papers
from his pocket.  "Here is a photograph of the couple taken in
York four years ago.  It is indorsed 'Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur,'
but you will have no difficulty in recognizing him, and her also,
if you know her by sight.  Here are three written descriptions
by trustworthy witnesses of Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur, who at that
time kept St. Oliver's private school.  Read them and see if you
can doubt the identity of these people."

She glanced at them, and then looked up at us with the set, rigid
face of a desperate woman.

"Mr. Holmes," she said, "this man had offered me marriage on
condition that I could get a divorce from my husband.  He has
lied to me, the villain, in every conceivable way.  Not one word
of truth has he ever told me.  And why--why?  I imagined that all
was for my own sake.  But now I see that I was never anything
but a tool in his hands.  Why should I preserve faith with him
who never kept any with me?  Why should I try to shield him from
the consequences of his own wicked acts?  Ask me what you like,
and there is nothing which I shall hold back.  One thing I swear
to you, and that is that when I wrote the letter I never dreamed
of any harm to the old gentleman, who had been my kindest friend."

"I entirely believe you, madam," said Sherlock Holmes.  "The
recital of these events must be very painful to you, and perhaps
it will make it easier if I tell you what occurred, and you can
check me if I make any material mistake.  The sending of this
letter was suggested to you by Stapleton?"

"He dictated it."

"I presume that the reason he gave was that you would receive
help from Sir Charles for the legal expenses connected with
your divorce?"

"Exactly."

"And then after you had sent the letter he dissuaded you from
keeping the appointment?"

"He told me that it would hurt his self-respect that any other
man should find the money for such an object, and that though
he was a poor man himself he would devote his last penny to
removing the obstacles which divided us."

"He appears to be a very consistent character.  And then you heard
nothing until you read the reports of the death in the paper?"

"No."

"And he made you swear to say nothing about your appointment with
Sir Charles?"

"He did.  He said that the death was a very mysterious one, and
that I should certainly be suspected if the facts came out.  He
frightened me into remaining silent."

"Quite so.  But you had your suspicions?"

She hesitated and looked down.

"I knew him," she said.  "But if he had kept faith with me I should
always have done so with him."

"I think that on the whole you have had a fortunate escape," said
Sherlock Holmes.  "You have had him in your power and he knew it,
and yet you are alive.  You have been walking for some months very
near to the edge of a precipice.  We must wish you good-morning
now, Mrs. Lyons, and it is probable that you will very shortly
hear from us again."

"Our case becomes rounded off, and difficulty after difficulty
thins away in front of us," said Holmes as we stood waiting for
the arrival of the express from town.  "I shall soon be in the
position of being able to put into a single connected narrative
one of the most singular and sensational crimes of modern times.
Students of criminology will remember the analogous incidents in
Godno, in Little Russia, in the year '66, and of course there are
the Anderson murders in North Carolina, but this case possesses
some features which are entirely its own.  Even now we have no
clear case against this very wily man.  But I shall be very much
surprised if it is not clear enough before we go to bed this night."

The London express came roaring into the station, and a small,
wiry bulldog of a man had sprung from a first-class carriage.
We all three shook hands, and I saw at once from the reverential
way in which Lestrade gazed at my companion that he had learned
a good deal since the days when they had first worked together.
I could well remember the scorn which the theories of the reasoner
used then to excite in the practical man.

"Anything good?" he asked.

"The biggest thing for years," said Holmes.  "We have two hours
before we need think of starting.  I think we might employ it in
getting some dinner and then, Lestrade, we will take the London
fog out of your throat by giving you a breath of the pure night
air of Dartmoor.  Never been there?  Ah, well, I don't suppose
you will forget your first visit."




Chapter 14
The Hound of the Baskervilles



One of Sherlock Holmes's defects--if, indeed, one may call it a
defect--was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate his full
plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment.
Partly it came no doubt from his own masterful nature, which loved
to dominate and surprise those who were around him.  Partly also
from his professional caution, which urged him never to take any
chances.  The result, however, was very trying for those who were
acting as his agents and assistants.  I had often suffered under
it, but never more so than during that long drive in the darkness.
The great ordeal was in front of us; at last we were about to make
our final effort, and yet Holmes had said nothing, and I could only
surmise what his course of action would be.  My nerves thrilled
with anticipation when at last the cold wind upon our faces and
the dark, void spaces on either side of the narrow road told me
that we were back upon the moor once again.  Every stride of the
horses and every turn of the wheels was taking us nearer to our
supreme adventure.

Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the driver of
the hired wagonette, so that we were forced to talk of trivial
matters when our nerves were tense with emotion and anticipation.
It was a relief to me, after that unnatural restraint, when we at
last passed Frankland's house and knew that we were drawing near
to the Hall and to the scene of action.  We did not drive up to
the door but got down near the gate of the avenue.  The wagonette
was paid off and ordered to return to Coombe Tracey forthwith,
while we started to walk to Merripit House.

"Are you armed, Lestrade?"

The little detective smiled.  "As long as I have my trousers I
have a hip-pocket, and as long as I have my hip-pocket I have
something in it."

"Good!  My friend and I are also ready for emergencies."

"You're mighty close about this affair, Mr. Holmes.  What's the
game now?"

"A waiting game."

"My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place," said the
detective with a shiver, glancing round him at the gloomy slopes
of the hill and at the huge lake of fog which lay over the Grimpen
Mire.  "I see the lights of a house ahead of us."

"That is Merripit House and the end of our journey.  I must
request you to walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a whisper."

We moved cautiously along the track as if we were bound for the
house, but Holmes halted us when we were about two hundred yards
from it.

"This will do," said he.  "These rocks upon the right make an
admirable screen."

"We are to wait here?"

"Yes, we shall make our little ambush here.  Get into this hollow,
Lestrade.  You have been inside the house, have you not, Watson?
Can you tell the position of the rooms?  What are those latticed
windows at this end?"

"I think they are the kitchen windows."

"And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?"

"That is certainly the dining-room."

"The blinds are up.  You know the lie of the land best.  Creep
forward quietly and see what they are doing--but for heaven's
sake don't let them know that they are watched!"

I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low wall which
surrounded the stunted orchard.  Creeping in its shadow I reached
a point whence I could look straight through the uncurtained window.

There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and Stapleton.
They sat with their profiles towards me on either side of the
round table.  Both of them were smoking cigars, and coffee and
wine were in front of them.  Stapleton was talking with animation,
but the baronet looked pale and distrait.  Perhaps the thought
of that lonely walk across the ill-omened moor was weighing heavily
upon his mind.

As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room, while Sir Henry
filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair, puffing at
his cigar.  I heard the creak of a door and the crisp sound of
boots upon gravel.  The steps passed along the path on the other
side of the wall under which I crouched.  Looking over, I saw the
naturalist pause at the door of an out-house in the corner of the
orchard.  A key turned in a lock, and as he passed in there was
a curious scuffling noise from within.  He was only a minute or
so inside, and then I heard the key turn once more and he passed
me and reentered the house.  I saw him rejoin his guest, and I
crept quietly back to where my companions were waiting to tell
them what I had seen.

"You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?"  Holmes asked when
I had finished my report.

"No."

"Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any other
room except the kitchen?"

"I cannot think where she is."

I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung a dense,
white fog.  It was drifting slowly in our direction and banked
itself up like a wall on that side of us, low but thick and well
defined.  The moon shone on it, and it looked like a great
shimmering ice-field, with the heads of the distant tors as rocks
borne upon its surface.  Holmes's face was turned towards it, and
he muttered impatiently as he watched its sluggish drift.

"It's moving towards us, Watson."

"Is that serious?"

"Very serious, indeed--the one thing upon earth which could have
disarranged my plans.  He can't be very long, now.  It is already
ten o'clock.  Our success and even his life may depend upon his
coming out before the fog is over the path."

The night was clear and fine above us.  The stars shone cold and
bright, while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft,
uncertain light.  Before us lay the dark bulk of the house,
its serrated roof and bristling chimneys hard outlined against
the silver-spangled sky.  Broad bars of golden light from the
lower windows stretched across the orchard and the moor.  One
of them was suddenly shut off.  The servants had left the kitchen.
There only remained the lamp in the dining-room where the two men,
the murderous host and the unconscious guest, still chatted over
their cigars.

Every minute that white woolly plain which covered one-half of
the moor was drifting closer and closer to the house.  Already
the first thin wisps of it were curling across the golden square
of the lighted window.  The farther wall of the orchard was already
invisible, and the trees were standing out of a swirl of white
vapour.  As we watched it the fog-wreaths came crawling round both
corners of the house and rolled slowly into one dense bank on
which the upper floor and the roof floated like a strange ship
upon a shadowy sea.  Holmes struck his hand passionately upon the
rock in front of us and stamped his feet in his impatience.

"If he isn't out in a quarter of an hour the path will be covered.
In half an hour we won't be able to see our hands in front of us."

"Shall we move farther back upon higher ground?"

"Yes, I think it would be as well."

So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back before it until we
were half a mile from the house, and still that dense white sea,
with the moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly and inexorably
on.

"We are going too far," said Holmes.  "We dare not take the chance
of his being overtaken before he can reach us.  At all costs we
must hold our ground where we are."  He dropped on his knees and
clapped his ear to the ground.  "Thank God, I think that I hear
him coming."

A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor.  Crouching
among the stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bank in
front of us.  The steps grew louder, and through the fog, as
through a curtain, there stepped the man whom we were awaiting.
He looked round him in surprise as he emerged into the clear,
starlit night.  Then he came swiftly along the path, passed close
to where we lay, and went on up the long slope behind us.  As he
walked he glanced continually over either shoulder, like a man
who is ill at ease.

"Hist!" cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cocking
pistol.  "Look out!  It's coming!"

There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the
heart of that crawling bank.  The cloud was within fifty yards
of where we lay, and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what
horror was about to break from the heart of it.  I was at Holmes's
elbow, and I glanced for an instant at his face.  It was pale and
exultant, his eyes shining brightly in the moonlight.  But suddenly
they started forward in a rigid, fixed stare, and his lips parted
in amazement.  At the same instant Lestrade gave a yell of terror
and threw himself face downward upon the ground.  I sprang to my
feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mind paralyzed by the
dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us from the shadows of
the fog.  A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not
such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen.  Fire burst from its
open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle
and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame.  Never
in the delirious dream of a disordered brain could anything more
savage, more appalling, more hellish be conceived than that dark
form and savage face which broke upon us out of the wall of fog.

With long bounds the huge black creature was leaping down the
track, following hard upon the footsteps of our friend.  So
paralyzed were we by the apparition that we allowed him to pass
before we had recovered our nerve.  Then Holmes and I both fired
together, and the creature gave a hideous howl, which showed that
one at least had hit him.  He did not pause, however, but bounded
onward.  Far away on the path we saw Sir Henry looking back, his
face white in the moonlight, his hands raised in horror, glaring
helplessly at the frightful thing which was hunting him down.
But that cry of pain from the hound had blown all our fears to
the winds.  If he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we could
wound him we could kill him.  Never have I seen a man run as Holmes
ran that night.  I am reckoned fleet of foot, but he outpaced me
as much as I outpaced the little professional.  In front of us as
we flew up the track we heard scream after scream from Sir Henry
and the deep roar of the hound.  I was in time to see the beast
spring upon its victim, hurl him to the ground, and worry at his
throat.  But the next instant Holmes had emptied five barrels of
his revolver into the creature's flank.  With a last howl of agony
and a vicious snap in the air, it rolled upon its back, four feet
pawing furiously, and then fell limp upon its side.  I stooped,
panting, and pressed my pistol to the dreadful, shimmering head,
but it was useless to press the trigger.  The giant hound was dead.

Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen.  We tore away his
collar, and Holmes breathed a prayer of gratitude when we saw
that there was no sign of a wound and that the rescue had been
in time.  Already our friend's eyelids shivered and he made a
feeble effort to move.  Lestrade thrust his brandy-flask between
the baronet's teeth, and two frightened eyes were looking up at us.

"My God!" he whispered.  "What was it?  What, in heaven's name,
was it?"

"It's dead, whatever it is," said Holmes.  "We've laid the family
ghost once and forever."

In mere size and strength it was a terrible creature which was
lying stretched before us.  It was not a pure bloodhound and it
was not a pure mastiff; but it appeared to be a combination of
the two--gaunt, savage, and as large as a small lioness.  Even
now in the stillness of death, the huge jaws seemed to be dripping
with a bluish flame and the small, deep-set, cruel eyes were ringed
with fire.  I placed my hand upon the glowing muzzle, and as I
held them up my own fingers smouldered and gleamed in the darkness.

"Phosphorus," I said.

"A cunning preparation of it," said Holmes, sniffing at the dead
animal.  "There is no smell which might have interfered with his
power of scent.  We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry, for having
exposed you to this fright.  I was prepared for a hound, but not
for such a creature as this.  And the fog gave us little time to
receive him."

"You have saved my life."

"Having first endangered it.  Are you strong enough to stand?"

"Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready
for anything.  So!  Now, if you will help me up.  What do you
propose to do?"

"To leave you here.  You are not fit for further adventures
tonight.  If you will wait, one or other of us will go back
with you to the Hall."

He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly pale
and trembling in every limb.  We helped him to a rock, where he
sat shivering with his face buried in his hands.

"We must leave you now," said Holmes.  "The rest of our work must
be done, and every moment is of importance.  We have our case,
and now we only want our man.

"It's a thousand to one against our finding him at the house," he
continued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path.  "Those
shots must have told him that the game was up."

"We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadened them."

"He followed the hound to call him off--of that you may be certain.
No, no, he's gone by this time!  But we'll search the house and
make sure."

The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from room
to room to the amazement of a doddering old manservant, who met
us in the passage.  There was no light save in the dining-room,
but Holmes caught up the lamp and left no corner of the house
unexplored.  No sign could we see of the man whom we were chasing.
On the upper floor, however, one of the bedroom doors was locked.

"There's someone in here," cried Lestrade.  "I can hear a movement.
Open this door!"

A faint moaning and rustling came from within.  Holmes struck the
door just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flew open.
Pistol in hand, we all three rushed into the room.

But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiant
villain whom we expected to see.  Instead we were faced by an
object so strange and so unexpected that we stood for a moment
staring at it in amazement.

The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the walls were
lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of that collection
of butterflies and moths the formation of which had been the
relaxation of this complex and dangerous man.  In the centre of
this room there was an upright beam, which had been placed at
some period as a support for the old worm-eaten baulk of timber
which spanned the roof.  To this post a figure was tied, so
swathed and muffled in the sheets which had been used to secure
it that one could not for the moment tell whether it was that of
a man or a woman.  One towel passed round the throat and was
secured at the back of the pillar.  Another covered the lower
part of the face, and over it two dark eyes--eyes full of grief
and shame and a dreadful questioning--stared back at us.  In a
minute we had torn off the gag, unswathed the bonds, and Mrs.
Stapleton sank upon the floor in front of us.  As her beautiful
head fell upon her chest I saw the clear red weal of a whiplash
across her neck.

"The brute!" cried Holmes.  "Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle!
Put her in the chair!  She has fainted from ill-usage and
exhaustion."

She opened her eyes again.

"Is he safe?" she asked.  "Has he escaped?"

"He cannot escape us, madam."

"No, no, I did not mean my husband.  Sir Henry?  Is he safe?"

"Yes."

"And the hound?"

"It is dead."

She gave a long sigh of satisfaction.

"Thank God!  Thank God!  Oh, this villain!  See how he has treated
me!"  She shot her arms out from her sleeves, and we saw with
horror that they were all mottled with bruises.  "But this is
nothing--nothing!  It is my mind and soul that he has tortured
and defiled.  I could endure it all, ill-usage, solitude, a life
of deception, everything, as long as I could still cling to the
hope that I had his love, but now I know that in this also I have
been his dupe and his tool."  She broke into passionate sobbing
as she spoke.

"You bear him no good will, madam," said Holmes.  "Tell us then
where we shall find him.  If you have ever aided him in evil,
help us now and so atone."

"There is but one place where he can have fled," she answered.
"There is an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the mire.
It was there that he kept his hound and there also he had made
preparations so that he might have a refuge.  That is where he
would fly."

The fog-bank lay like white wool against the window.  Holmes held
the lamp towards it.

"See," said he.  "No one could find his way into the Grimpen Mire
tonight."

She laughed and clapped her hands.  Her eyes and teeth gleamed
with fierce merriment.

"He may find his way in, but never out," she cried.  "How can he
see the guiding wands tonight?  We planted them together, he and
I, to mark the pathway through the mire.  Oh, if I could only
have plucked them out today.  Then indeed you would have had him
at your mercy!"

It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the fog
had lifted.  Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of the
house while Holmes and I went back with the baronet to Baskerville
Hall.  The story of the Stapletons could no longer be withheld
from him, but he took the blow bravely when he learned the truth
about the woman whom he had loved.  But the shock of the night's
adventures had shattered his nerves, and before morning he lay
delirious in a high fever under the care of Dr. Mortimer.  The
two of them were destined to travel together round the world
before Sir Henry had become once more the hale, hearty man that
he had been before he became master of that ill-omened estate.

And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular narrative,
in which I have tried to make the reader share those dark fears
and vague surmises which clouded our lives so long and ended in
so tragic a manner.  On the morning after the death of the hound
the fog had lifted and we were guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the
point where they had found a pathway through the bog.  It helped
us to realize the horror of this woman's life when we saw the
eagerness and joy with which she laid us on her husband's track.
We left her standing upon the thin peninsula of firm, peaty soil
which tapered out into the widespread bog.  From the end of it a
small wand planted here and there showed where the path zigzagged
from tuft to tuft of rushes among those green-scummed pits and
foul quagmires which barred the way to the stranger.  Rank reeds
and lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour of decay and a heavy
miasmatic vapour onto our faces, while a false step plunged us
more than once thigh-deep into the dark, quivering mire, which
shook for yards in soft undulations around our feet.  Its tenacious
grip plucked at our heels as we walked, and when we sank into it
it was as if some malignant hand was tugging us down into those
obscene depths, so grim and purposeful was the clutch in which
it held us.  Once only we saw a trace that someone had passed that
perilous way before us.  From amid a tuft of cotton grass which
bore it up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting.  Holmes
sank to his waist as he stepped from the path to seize it, and
had we not been there to drag him out he could never have set his
foot upon firm land again.  He held an old black boot in the air.
"Meyers, Toronto," was printed on the leather inside.

"It is worth a mud bath," said he.  "It is our friend Sir Henry's
missing boot."

"Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight."

"Exactly.  He retained it in his hand after using it to set the
hound upon the track.  He fled when he knew the game was up,
still clutching it.  And he hurled it away at this point of his
flight.  We know at least that he came so far in safety."

But more than that we were never destined to know, though there
was much which we might surmise.  There was no chance of finding
footsteps in the mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly in upon
them, but as we at last reached firmer ground beyond the morass
we all looked eagerly for them.  But no slightest sign of them
ever met our eyes.  If the earth told a true story, then Stapleton
never reached that island of refuge towards which he struggled
through the fog upon that last night.  Somewhere in the heart of
the great Grimpen Mire, down in the foul slime of the huge morass
which had sucked him in, this cold and cruel-hearted man is
forever buried.

Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he had
hid his savage ally.  A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled
with rubbish showed the position of an abandoned mine.  Beside
it were the crumbling remains of the cottages of the miners,
driven away no doubt by the foul reek of the surrounding swamp.
In one of these a staple and chain with a quantity of gnawed bones
showed where the animal had been confined.  A skeleton with a
tangle of brown hair adhering to it lay among the debris.

"A dog!" said Holmes.  "By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel.  Poor
Mortimer will never see his pet again.  Well, I do not know that
this place contains any secret which we have not already fathomed.
He could hide his hound, but he could not hush its voice, and hence
came those cries which even in daylight were not pleasant to hear.
On an emergency he could keep the hound in the out-house at
Merripit, but it was always a risk, and it was only on the supreme
day, which he regarded as the end of all his efforts, that he dared
do it.  This paste in the tin is no doubt the luminous mixture with
which the creature was daubed.  It was suggested, of course, by
the story of the family hell-hound, and by the desire to frighten
old Sir Charles to death.  No wonder the poor devil of a convict
ran and screamed, even as our friend did, and as we ourselves might
have done, when he saw such a creature bounding through the darkness
of the moor upon his track.  It was a cunning device, for, apart
from the chance of driving your victim to his death, what peasant
would venture to inquire too closely into such a creature should he
get sight of it, as many have done, upon the moor?  I said it in
London, Watson, and I say it again now, that never yet have we
helped to hunt down a more dangerous man than he who is lying
yonder"--he swept his long arm towards the huge mottled expanse
of green-splotched bog which stretched away until it merged into
the russet slopes of the moor.




Chapter 15
A Retrospection



It was the end of November, and Holmes and I sat, upon a raw and
foggy night, on either side of a blazing fire in our sitting-room
in Baker Street.  Since the tragic upshot of our visit to Devonshire
he had been engaged in two affairs of the utmost importance, in
the first of which he had exposed the atrocious conduct of Colonel
Upwood in connection with the famous card scandal of the Nonpareil
Club, while in the second he had defended the unfortunate Mme.
Montpensier from the charge of murder which hung over her in
connection with the death of her step-daughter, Mlle. Carere, the
young lady who, as it will be remembered, was found six months
later alive and married in New York.  My friend was in excellent
spirits over the success which had attended a succession of
difficult and important cases, so that I was able to induce him
to discuss the details of the Baskerville mystery.  I had waited
patiently for the opportunity for I was aware that he would never
permit cases to overlap, and that his clear and logical mind would
not be drawn from its present work to dwell upon memories of the
past.  Sir Henry and Dr. Mortimer were, however, in London, on
their way to that long voyage which had been recommended for the
restoration of his shattered nerves.  They had called upon us
that very afternoon, so that it was natural that the subject
should come up for discussion.

"The whole course of events," said Holmes, "from the point of
view of the man who called himself Stapleton was simple and
direct, although to us, who had no means in the beginning of
knowing the motives of his actions and could only learn part
of the facts, it all appeared exceedingly complex.  I have had
the advantage of two conversations with Mrs. Stapleton, and the
case has now been so entirely cleared up that I am not aware that
there is anything which has remained a secret to us.  You will
find a few notes upon the matter under the heading B in my indexed
list of cases."

"Perhaps you would kindly give me a sketch of the course of events
from memory."

"Certainly, though I cannot guarantee that I carry all the facts
in my mind.  Intense mental concentration has a curious way of
blotting out what has passed.  The barrister who has his case at
his fingers' ends and is able to argue with an expert upon his
own subject finds that a week or two of the courts will drive it
all out of his head once more.  So each of my cases displaces the
last, and Mlle. Carere has blurred my recollection of Baskerville
Hall.  Tomorrow some other little problem may be submitted to my
notice which will in turn dispossess the fair French lady and the
infamous Upwood.  So far as the case of the hound goes, however,
I will give you the course of events as nearly as I can, and you
will suggest anything which I may have forgotten.

"My inquiries show beyond all question that the family portrait
did not lie, and that this fellow was indeed a Baskerville.  He
was a son of that Rodger Baskerville, the younger brother of Sir
Charles, who fled with a sinister reputation to South America,
where he was said to have died unmarried.  He did, as a matter of
fact, marry, and had one child, this fellow, whose real name is
the same as his father's.  He married Beryl Garcia, one of the
beauties of Costa Rica, and, having purloined a considerable sum
of public money, he changed his name to Vandeleur and fled to
England, where he established a school in the east of Yorkshire.
His reason for attempting this special line of business was that
he had struck up an acquaintance with a consumptive tutor upon
the voyage home, and that he had used this man's ability to make
the undertaking a success.  Fraser, the tutor, died however, and
the school which had begun well sank from disrepute into infamy.
The Vandeleurs found it convenient to change their name to
Stapleton, and he brought the remains of his fortune, his schemes
for the future, and his taste for entomology to the south of
England.  I learned at the British Museum that he was a recognized
authority upon the subject, and that the name of Vandeleur has
been permanently attached to a certain moth which he had, in his
Yorkshire days, been the first to describe.

"We now come to that portion of his life which has proved to be
of such intense interest to us.  The fellow had evidently made
inquiry and found that only two lives intervened between him and
a valuable estate.  When he went to Devonshire his plans were,
I believe, exceedingly hazy, but that he meant mischief from the
first is evident from the way in which he took his wife with him
in the character of his sister.  The idea of using her as a decoy
was clearly already in his mind, though he may not have been
certain how the details of his plot were to be arranged.  He meant
in the end to have the estate, and he was ready to use any tool
or run any risk for that end.  His first act was to establish
himself as near to his ancestral home as he could, and his second
was to cultivate a friendship with Sir Charles Baskerville and
with the neighbours.

"The baronet himself told him about the family hound, and so
prepared the way for his own death.  Stapleton, as I will continue
to call him, knew that the old man's heart was weak and that a
shock would kill him.  So much he had learned from Dr. Mortimer.
He had heard also that Sir Charles was superstitious and had taken
this grim legend very seriously.  His ingenious mind instantly
suggested a way by which the baronet could be done to death, and
yet it would be hardly possible to bring home the guilt to the
real murderer.

"Having conceived the idea he proceeded to carry it out with
considerable finesse.  An ordinary schemer would have been content
to work with a savage hound.  The use of artificial means to make
the creature diabolical was a flash of genius upon his part.  The
dog he bought in London from Ross and Mangles, the dealers in
Fulham Road.  It was the strongest and most savage in their
possession.  He brought it down by the North Devon line and walked
a great distance over the moor so as to get it home without
exciting any remarks.  He had already on his insect hunts learned
to penetrate the Grimpen Mire, and so had found a safe hiding-place
for the creature.  Here he kennelled it and waited his chance.

"But it was some time coming.  The old gentleman could not be
decoyed outside of his grounds at night.  Several times Stapleton
lurked about with his hound, but without avail.  It was during
these fruitless quests that he, or rather his ally, was seen by
peasants, and that the legend of the demon dog received a new
confirmation.  He had hoped that his wife might lure Sir Charles
to his ruin, but here she proved unexpectedly independent.  She
would not endeavour to entangle the old gentleman in a sentimental
attachment which might deliver him over to his enemy.  Threats
and even, I am sorry to say, blows refused to move her.  She
would have nothing to do with it, and for a time Stapleton was
at a deadlock.

"He found a way out of his difficulties through the chance that
Sir Charles, who had conceived a friendship for him, made him
the minister of his charity in the case of this unfortunate woman,
Mrs. Laura Lyons.  By representing himself as a single man he
acquired complete influence over her, and he gave her to understand
that in the event of her obtaining a divorce from her husband he
would marry her.  His plans were suddenly brought to a head by
his knowledge that Sir Charles was about to leave the Hall on the
advice of Dr. Mortimer, with whose opinion he himself pretended
to coincide.  He must act at once, or his victim might get beyond
his power.  He therefore put pressure upon Mrs. Lyons to write
this letter, imploring the old man to give her an interview on
the evening before his departure for London.  He then, by a
specious argument, prevented her from going, and so had the chance
for which he had waited.

"Driving back in the evening from Coombe Tracey he was in time to
get his hound, to treat it with his infernal paint, and to bring
the beast round to the gate at which he had reason to expect that
he would find the old gentleman waiting.  The dog, incited by its
master, sprang over the wicket-gate and pursued the unfortunate
baronet, who fled screaming down the yew alley.  In that gloomy
tunnel it must indeed have been a dreadful sight to see that huge
black creature, with its flaming jaws and blazing eyes, bounding
after its victim.  He fell dead at the end of the alley from heart
disease and terror.  The hound had kept upon the grassy border
while the baronet had run down the path, so that no track but the
man's was visible.  On seeing him lying still the creature had
probably approached to sniff at him, but finding him dead had
turned away again.  It was then that it left the print which was
actually observed by Dr. Mortimer.  The hound was called off and
hurried away to its lair in the Grimpen Mire, and a mystery was
left which puzzled the authorities, alarmed the countryside, and
finally brought the case within the scope of our observation.

"So much for the death of Sir Charles Baskerville.  You perceive
the devilish cunning of it, for really it would be almost impossible
to make a case against the real murderer.  His only accomplice
was one who could never give him away, and the grotesque,
inconceivable nature of the device only served to make it more
effective.  Both of the women concerned in the case, Mrs. Stapleton
and Mrs. Laura Lyons, were left with a strong suspicion against
Stapleton.  Mrs. Stapleton knew that he had designs upon the old
man, and also of the existence of the hound.  Mrs. Lyons knew
neither of these things, but had been impressed by the death
occurring at the time of an uncancelled appointment which was
only known to him.  However, both of them were under his influence,
and he had nothing to fear from them.  The first half of his task
was successfully accomplished but the more difficult still remained.

"It is possible that Stapleton did not know of the existence of
an heir in Canada.  In any case he would very soon learn it from
his friend Dr. Mortimer, and he was told by the latter all details
about the arrival of Henry Baskerville.  Stapleton's first idea
was that this young stranger from Canada might possibly be done
to death in London without coming down to Devonshire at all.  He
distrusted his wife ever since she had refused to help him in
laying a trap for the old man, and he dared not leave her long
out of his sight for fear he should lose his influence over her.
It was for this reason that he took her to London with him.  They
lodged, I find, at the Mexborough Private Hotel, in Craven Street,
which was actually one of those called upon by my agent in search
of evidence.  Here he kept his wife imprisoned in her room while
he, disguised in a beard, followed Dr. Mortimer to Baker Street
and afterwards to the station and to the Northumberland Hotel.
His wife had some inkling of his plans; but she had such a fear
of her husband--a fear founded upon brutal ill-treatment--that
she dare not write to warn the man whom she knew to be in danger.
If the letter should fall into Stapleton's hands her own life
would not be safe.  Eventually, as we know, she adopted the
expedient of cutting out the words which would form the message,
and addressing the letter in a disguised hand.  It reached the
baronet, and gave him the first warning of his danger.

"It was very essential for Stapleton to get some article of Sir
Henry's attire so that, in case he was driven to use the dog, he
might always have the means of setting him upon his track.  With
characteristic promptness and audacity he set about this at once,
and we cannot doubt that the boots or chamber-maid of the hotel
was well bribed to help him in his design.  By chance, however,
the first boot which was procured for him was a new one and,
therefore, useless for his purpose.  He then had it returned and
obtained another--a most instructive incident, since it proved
conclusively to my mind that we were dealing with a real hound,
as no other supposition could explain this anxiety to obtain an
old boot and this indifference to a new one.  The more outre and
grotesque an incident is the more carefully it deserves to be
examined, and the very point which appears to complicate a case
is, when duly considered and scientifically handled, the one which
is most likely to elucidate it.

"Then we had the visit from our friends next morning, shadowed
always by Stapleton in the cab.  From his knowledge of our rooms
and of my appearance, as well as from his general conduct, I am
inclined to think that Stapleton's career of crime has been by no
means limited to this single Baskerville affair.  It is suggestive
that during the last three years there have been four considerable
burglaries in the west country, for none of which was any criminal
ever arrested.  The last of these, at Folkestone Court, in May,
was remarkable for the cold-blooded pistolling of the page, who
surprised the masked and solitary burglar.  I cannot doubt that
Stapleton recruited his waning resources in this fashion, and
that for years he has been a desperate and dangerous man.

"We had an example of his readiness of resource that morning when
he got away from us so successfully, and also of his audacity in
sending back my own name to me through the cabman.  From that
moment he understood that I had taken over the case in London,
and that therefore there was no chance for him there.  He returned
to Dartmoor and awaited the arrival of the baronet."

"One moment!" said I.  "You have, no doubt, described the sequence
of events correctly, but there is one point which you have left
unexplained.  What became of the hound when its master was in London?"

"I have given some attention to this matter and it is undoubtedly
of importance.  There can be no question that Stapleton had a
confidant, though it is unlikely that he ever placed himself in
his power by sharing all his plans with him.  There was an old
manservant at Merripit House, whose name was Anthony.  His
connection with the Stapletons can be traced for several years,
as far back as the schoolmastering days, so that he must have been
aware that his master and mistress were really husband and wife.
This man has disappeared and has escaped from the country.  It
is suggestive that Anthony is not a common name in England, while
Antonio is so in all Spanish or Spanish-American countries.  The
man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself, spoke good English, but with a
curious lisping accent.  I have myself seen this old man cross
the Grimpen Mire by the path which Stapleton had marked out.  It
is very probable, therefore, that in the absence of his master
it was he who cared for the hound, though he may never have known
the purpose for which the beast was used.

"The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire, whither they were
soon followed by Sir Henry and you.  One word now as to how I
stood myself at that time.  It may possibly recur to your memory
that when I examined the paper upon which the printed words were
fastened I made a close inspection for the water-mark.  In doing
so I held it within a few inches of my eyes, and was conscious
of a faint smell of the scent known as white jessamine.  There
are seventy-five perfumes, which it is very necessary that a
criminal expert should be able to distinguish from each other,
and cases have more than once within my own experience depended
upon their prompt recognition.  The scent suggested the presence
of a lady, and already my thoughts began to turn towards the
Stapletons.  Thus I had made certain of the hound, and had guessed
at the criminal before ever we went to the west country.

"It was my game to watch Stapleton.  It was evident, however,
that I could not do this if I were with you, since he would be
keenly on his guard.  I deceived everybody, therefore, yourself
included, and I came down secretly when I was supposed to be in
London.  My hardships were not so great as you imagined, though
such trifling details must never interfere with the investigation
of a case.  I stayed for the most part at Coombe Tracey, and only
used the hut upon the moor when it was necessary to be near the
scene of action.  Cartwright had come down with me, and in his
disguise as a country boy he was of great assistance to me.  I
was dependent upon him for food and clean linen.  When I was
watching Stapleton, Cartwright was frequently watching you, so
that I was able to keep my hand upon all the strings.

"I have already told you that your reports reached me rapidly,
being forwarded instantly from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey.
They were of great service to me, and especially that one
incidentally truthful piece of biography of Stapleton's.  I was
able to establish the identity of the man and the woman and knew
at last exactly how I stood.  The case had been considerably
complicated through the incident of the escaped convict and the
relations between him and the Barrymores.  This also you cleared
up in a very effective way, though I had already come to the same
conclusions from my own observations.

"By the time that you discovered me upon the moor I had a complete
knowledge of the whole business, but I had not a case which could
go to a jury.  Even Stapleton's attempt upon Sir Henry that night
which ended in the death of the unfortunate convict did not help
us much in proving murder against our man.  There seemed to be
no alternative but to catch him red-handed, and to do so we had
to use Sir Henry, alone and apparently unprotected, as a bait.
We did so, and at the cost of a severe shock to our client we
succeeded in completing our case and driving Stapleton to his
destruction.  That Sir Henry should have been exposed to this is,
I must confess, a reproach to my management of the case, but we
had no means of foreseeing the terrible and paralyzing spectacle
which the beast presented, nor could we predict the fog which
enabled him to burst upon us at such short notice.  We succeeded
in our object at a cost which both the specialist and Dr. Mortimer
assure me will be a temporary one.  A long journey may enable our
friend to recover not only from his shattered nerves but also from
his wounded feelings.  His love for the lady was deep and sincere,
and to him the saddest part of all this black business was that
he should have been deceived by her.

"It only remains to indicate the part which she had played
throughout.  There can be no doubt that Stapleton exercised an
influence over her which may have been love or may have been fear,
or very possibly both, since they are by no means incompatible
emotions.  It was, at least, absolutely effective.  At his command
she consented to pass as his sister, though he found the limits
of his power over her when he endeavoured to make her the direct
accessory to murder.  She was ready to warn Sir Henry so far as
she could without implicating her husband, and again and again
she tried to do so.  Stapleton himself seems to have been capable
of jealousy, and when he saw the baronet paying court to the lady,
even though it was part of his own plan, still he could not help
interrupting with a passionate outburst which revealed the fiery
soul which his self-contained manner so cleverly concealed.  By
encouraging the intimacy he made it certain that Sir Henry would
frequently come to Merripit House and that he would sooner or
later get the opportunity which he desired.  On the day of the
crisis, however, his wife turned suddenly against him.  She had
learned something of the death of the convict, and she knew that
the hound was being kept in the outhouse on the evening that Sir
Henry was coming to dinner.  She taxed her husband with his
intended crime, and a furious scene followed in which he showed
her for the first time that she had a rival in his love.  Her
fidelity turned in an instant to bitter hatred, and he saw that
she would betray him.  He tied her up, therefore, that she might
have no chance of warning Sir Henry, and he hoped, no doubt, that
when the whole countryside put down the baronet's death to the
curse of his family, as they certainly would do, he could win his
wife back to accept an accomplished fact and to keep silent upon
what she knew.  In this I fancy that in any case he made a
miscalculation, and that, if we had not been there, his doom would
none the less have been sealed.  A woman of Spanish blood does
not condone such an injury so lightly.  And now, my dear Watson,
without referring to my notes, I cannot give you a more detailed
account of this curious case.  I do not know that anything essential
has been left unexplained."

"He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to death as he had done
the old uncle with his bogie hound."

"The beast was savage and half-starved.  If its appearance did
not frighten its victim to death, at least it would paralyze the
resistance which might be offered."

"No doubt.  There only remains one difficulty.  If Stapleton came
into the succession, how could he explain the fact that he, the
heir, had been living unannounced under another name so close to
the property?  How could he claim it without causing suspicion
and inquiry?"

"It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you ask too much
when you expect me to solve it.  The past and the present are
within the field of my inquiry, but what a man may do in the future
is a hard question to answer.  Mrs. Stapleton has heard her husband
discuss the problem on several occasions.  There were three possible
courses.  He might claim the property from South America,
establish his identity before the British authorities there and so
obtain the fortune without ever coming to England at all, or he
might adopt an elaborate disguise during the short time that he
need be in London; or, again, he might furnish an accomplice with
the proofs and papers, putting him in as heir, and retaining a
claim upon some proportion of his income.  We cannot doubt from
what we know of him that he would have found some way out of the
difficulty.  And now, my dear Watson, we have had some weeks of
severe work, and for one evening, I think, we may turn our thoughts
into more pleasant channels.  I have a box for 'Les Huguenots.'
Have you heard the De Reszkes?  Might I trouble you then to be
ready in half an hour, and we can stop at Marcini's for a little
dinner on the way?"





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                          THE LOST WORLD

                   I have wrought my simple plan
                    If I give one hour of joy
                  To the boy who's half a man,
                    Or the man who's half a boy.



                          The Lost World

                    By SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

                         COPYRIGHT, 1912

                             Foreword

            Mr. E. D. Malone desires to state that
          both the injunction for restraint and the
          libel action have been withdrawn unreservedly
          by Professor G. E. Challenger, who, being
          satisfied that no criticism or comment in
          this book is meant in an offensive spirit,
          has guaranteed that he will place no
          impediment to its publication and circulation.





                             Contents

CHAPTER
   I.  "THERE ARE HEROISMS ALL ROUND US"
  II.  "TRY YOUR LUCK WITH PROFESSOR CHALLENGER"
 III.  "HE IS A PERFECTLY IMPOSSIBLE PERSON"
  IV.  "IT'S JUST THE VERY BIGGEST THING IN THE WORLD"
   V.  "QUESTION!"
  VI.  "I WAS THE FLAIL OF THE LORD"
 VII.  "TO-MORROW WE DISAPPEAR INTO THE UNKNOWN"
VIII.  "THE OUTLYING PICKETS OF THE NEW WORLD"
  IX.  "WHO COULD HAVE FORESEEN IT?
   X.  "THE MOST WONDERFUL THINGS HAVE HAPPENED"
  XI.  "FOR ONCE I WAS THE HERO"
 XII.  "IT WAS DREADFUL IN THE FOREST"
XIII.  "A SIGHT I SHALL NEVER FORGET"
 XIV.  "THOSE WERE THE REAL CONQUESTS"
  XV.  "OUR EYES HAVE SEEN GREAT WONDERS"
 XVI.  "A PROCESSION!  A PROCESSION!"




                          THE LOST WORLD




                          The Lost World

                            CHAPTER I

                "There Are Heroisms All Round Us"

Mr. Hungerton, her father, really was the most tactless person
upon earth,--a fluffy, feathery, untidy cockatoo of a man,
perfectly good-natured, but absolutely centered upon his own
silly self.  If anything could have driven me from Gladys, it
would have been the thought of such a father-in-law.  I am
convinced that he really believed in his heart that I came round
to the Chestnuts three days a week for the pleasure of his
company, and very especially to hear his views upon bimetallism,
a subject upon which he was by way of being an authority.

For an hour or more that evening I listened to his monotonous
chirrup about bad money driving out good, the token value of
silver, the depreciation of the rupee, and the true standards
of exchange.

"Suppose," he cried with feeble violence, "that all the debts in
the world were called up simultaneously, and immediate payment
insisted upon,--what under our present conditions would happen then?"

I gave the self-evident answer that I should be a ruined man,
upon which he jumped from his chair, reproved me for my habitual
levity, which made it impossible for him to discuss any
reasonable subject in my presence, and bounced off out of the
room to dress for a Masonic meeting.

At last I was alone with Gladys, and the moment of Fate had come! 
All that evening I had felt like the soldier who awaits the
signal which will send him on a forlorn hope; hope of victory and
fear of repulse alternating in his mind.

She sat with that proud, delicate profile of hers outlined
against the red curtain.  How beautiful she was!  And yet how
aloof!  We had been friends, quite good friends; but never could I
get beyond the same comradeship which I might have established
with one of my fellow-reporters upon the Gazette,--perfectly
frank, perfectly kindly, and perfectly unsexual.  My instincts
are all against a woman being too frank and at her ease with me. 
It is no compliment to a man.  Where the real sex feeling begins,
timidity and distrust are its companions, heritage from old wicked
days when love and violence went often hand in hand.  The bent
head, the averted eye, the faltering voice, the wincing figure--
these, and not the unshrinking gaze and frank reply, are the true
signals of passion.  Even in my short life I had learned as much as
that--or had inherited it in that race memory which we call instinct.

Gladys was full of every womanly quality.  Some judged her to be
cold and hard; but such a thought was treason.  That delicately
bronzed skin, almost oriental in its coloring, that raven hair,
the large liquid eyes, the full but exquisite lips,--all the
stigmata of passion were there.  But I was sadly conscious that
up to now I had never found the secret of drawing it forth. 
However, come what might, I should have done with suspense and
bring matters to a head to-night.  She could but refuse me, and
better be a repulsed lover than an accepted brother.

So far my thoughts had carried me, and I was about to break the
long and uneasy silence, when two critical, dark eyes looked
round at me, and the proud head was shaken in smiling reproof. 
"I have a presentiment that you are going to propose, Ned.  I do
wish you wouldn't; for things are so much nicer as they are."

I drew my chair a little nearer.  "Now, how did you know that I
was going to propose?" I asked in genuine wonder.

"Don't women always know?  Do you suppose any woman in the world
was ever taken unawares?  But--oh, Ned, our friendship has been so
good and so pleasant!  What a pity to spoil it!  Don't you feel how
splendid it is that a young man and a young woman should be able
to talk face to face as we have talked?"

"I don't know, Gladys.  You see, I can talk face to face with--
with the station-master."  I can't imagine how that official came
into the matter; but in he trotted, and set us both laughing. 
"That does not satisfy me in the least.  I want my arms round you,
and your head on my breast, and--oh, Gladys, I want----"

She had sprung from her chair, as she saw signs that I proposed
to demonstrate some of my wants.  "You've spoiled everything,
Ned," she said.  "It's all so beautiful and natural until this
kind of thing comes in!  It is such a pity!  Why can't you
control yourself?"

"I didn't invent it," I pleaded.  "It's nature.  It's love."

"Well, perhaps if both love, it may be different.  I have never
felt it."

"But you must--you, with your beauty, with your soul!  Oh, Gladys,
you were made for love!  You must love!"

"One must wait till it comes."

"But why can't you love me, Gladys?  Is it my appearance, or what?"

She did unbend a little.  She put forward a hand--such a gracious,
stooping attitude it was--and she pressed back my head.  Then she
looked into my upturned face with a very wistful smile.

"No it isn't that," she said at last.  "You're not a conceited
boy by nature, and so I can safely tell you it is not that. 
It's deeper."

"My character?"

She nodded severely.

"What can I do to mend it?  Do sit down and talk it over. 
No, really, I won't if you'll only sit down!"

She looked at me with a wondering distrust which was much more to
my mind than her whole-hearted confidence.  How primitive and
bestial it looks when you put it down in black and white!--and
perhaps after all it is only a feeling peculiar to myself. 
Anyhow, she sat down.

"Now tell me what's amiss with me?"

"I'm in love with somebody else," said she. 

It was my turn to jump out of my chair. 

"It's nobody in particular," she explained, laughing at the
expression of my face: "only an ideal.  I've never met the kind
of man I mean."

"Tell me about him.  What does he look like?"

"Oh, he might look very much like you."

"How dear of you to say that!  Well, what is it that he does that
I don't do?  Just say the word,--teetotal, vegetarian, aeronaut,
theosophist, superman.  I'll have a try at it, Gladys, if you
will only give me an idea what would please you."

She laughed at the elasticity of my character.  "Well, in the
first place, I don't think my ideal would speak like that,"
said she.  "He would be a harder, sterner man, not so ready to adapt
himself to a silly girl's whim.  But, above all, he must be a man
who could do, who could act, who could look Death in the face and
have no fear of him, a man of great deeds and strange experiences. 
It is never a man that I should love, but always the glories he had
won; for they would be reflected upon me.  Think of Richard Burton! 
When I read his wife's life of him I could so understand her love! 
And Lady Stanley!  Did you ever read the wonderful last chapter
of that book about her husband?  These are the sort of men that
a woman could worship with all her soul, and yet be the greater,
not the less, on account of her love, honored by all the world
as the inspirer of noble deeds."

She looked so beautiful in her enthusiasm that I nearly brought
down the whole level of the interview.  I gripped myself hard,
and went on with the argument.

"We can't all be Stanleys and Burtons," said I; "besides, we
don't get the chance,--at least, I never had the chance.  If I
did, I should try to take it."

"But chances are all around you.  It is the mark of the kind of
man I mean that he makes his own chances.  You can't hold him back. 
I've never met him, and yet I seem to know him so well.  There are
heroisms all round us waiting to be done.  It's for men to do them,
and for women to reserve their love as a reward for such men. 
Look at that young Frenchman who went up last week in a balloon. 
It was blowing a gale of wind; but because he was announced to go
he insisted on starting.  The wind blew him fifteen hundred miles
in twenty-four hours, and he fell in the middle of Russia.  That was
the kind of man I mean.  Think of the woman he loved, and how other
women must have envied her!  That's what I should like to be,--envied
for my man."

"I'd have done it to please you."

"But you shouldn't do it merely to please me.  You should do it
because you can't help yourself, because it's natural to you,
because the man in you is crying out for heroic expression. 
Now, when you described the Wigan coal explosion last month,
could you not have gone down and helped those people, in spite
of the choke-damp?"

"I did."

"You never said so."

"There was nothing worth bucking about."

"I didn't know."  She looked at me with rather more interest. 
"That was brave of you."

"I had to.  If you want to write good copy, you must be where the
things are."

"What a prosaic motive!  It seems to take all the romance out
of it.  But, still, whatever your motive, I am glad that you went
down that mine."  She gave me her hand; but with such sweetness
and dignity that I could only stoop and kiss it.  "I dare say I
am merely a foolish woman with a young girl's fancies.  And yet
it is so real with me, so entirely part of my very self, that I
cannot help acting upon it.  If I marry, I do want to marry a
famous man!"

"Why should you not?" I cried.  "It is women like you who brace
men up.  Give me a chance, and see if I will take it!  Besides, as
you say, men ought to MAKE their own chances, and not wait until
they are given.  Look at Clive--just a clerk, and he conquered
India!  By George!  I'll do something in the world yet!"

She laughed at my sudden Irish effervescence.  "Why not?" she said. 
"You have everything a man could have,--youth, health, strength,
education, energy.  I was sorry you spoke.  And now I am glad--so
glad--if it wakens these thoughts in you!"

"And if I do----"

Her dear hand rested like warm velvet upon my lips.  "Not another
word, Sir!  You should have been at the office for evening duty
half an hour ago; only I hadn't the heart to remind you.  Some day,
perhaps, when you have won your place in the world, we shall talk
it over again."

And so it was that I found myself that foggy November evening
pursuing the Camberwell tram with my heart glowing within me, and
with the eager determination that not another day should elapse
before I should find some deed which was worthy of my lady. 
But who--who in all this wide world could ever have imagined the
incredible shape which that deed was to take, or the strange
steps by which I was led to the doing of it?

And, after all, this opening chapter will seem to the reader to
have nothing to do with my narrative; and yet there would have
been no narrative without it, for it is only when a man goes out
into the world with the thought that there are heroisms all round
him, and with the desire all alive in his heart to follow any
which may come within sight of him, that he breaks away as I did
from the life he knows, and ventures forth into the wonderful mystic
twilight land where lie the great adventures and the great rewards. 
Behold me, then, at the office of the Daily Gazette, on the staff
of which I was a most insignificant unit, with the settled
determination that very night, if possible, to find the quest
which should be worthy of my Gladys!  Was it hardness, was it
selfishness, that she should ask me to risk my life for her
own glorification?  Such thoughts may come to middle age; but
never to ardent three-and-twenty in the fever of his first love.


                            CHAPTER II

            "Try Your Luck with Professor Challenger"

I always liked McArdle, the crabbed, old, round-backed,
red-headed news editor, and I rather hoped that he liked me. 
Of course, Beaumont was the real boss; but he lived in the
rarefied atmosphere of some Olympian height from which he could
distinguish nothing smaller than an international crisis or a
split in the Cabinet.  Sometimes we saw him passing in lonely
majesty to his inner sanctum, with his eyes staring vaguely and
his mind hovering over the Balkans or the Persian Gulf.  He was
above and beyond us.  But McArdle was his first lieutenant, and
it was he that we knew.  The old man nodded as I entered the
room, and he pushed his spectacles far up on his bald forehead.

"Well, Mr. Malone, from all I hear, you seem to be doing very
well," said he in his kindly Scotch accent.

I thanked him.

"The colliery explosion was excellent.  So was the Southwark fire. 
You have the true descreeptive touch.  What did you want to see
me about?"

"To ask a favor."

He looked alarmed, and his eyes shunned mine. "Tut, tut!  What is it?"

"Do you think, Sir, that you could possibly send me on some
mission for the paper?  I would do my best to put it through and
get you some good copy."

"What sort of meesion had you in your mind, Mr. Malone?"

"Well, Sir, anything that had adventure and danger in it. 
I really would do my very best.  The more difficult it was, the
better it would suit me."

"You seem very anxious to lose your life."

"To justify my life, Sir."

"Dear me, Mr. Malone, this is very--very exalted.  I'm afraid the
day for this sort of thing is rather past.  The expense of the
`special meesion' business hardly justifies the result, and, of
course, in any case it would only be an experienced man with a
name that would command public confidence who would get such
an order.  The big blank spaces in the map are all being filled in,
and there's no room for romance anywhere.  Wait a bit, though!"
he added, with a sudden smile upon his face.  "Talking of the
blank spaces of the map gives me an idea.  What about exposing a
fraud--a modern Munchausen--and making him rideeculous?  You could
show him up as the liar that he is!  Eh, man, it would be fine.
How does it appeal to you?"

"Anything--anywhere--I care nothing."

McArdle was plunged in thought for some minutes.

"I wonder whether you could get on friendly--or at least on
talking terms with the fellow," he said, at last.  "You seem to
have a sort of genius for establishing relations with
people--seempathy, I suppose, or animal magnetism, or youthful
vitality, or something.  I am conscious of it myself."

"You are very good, sir."

"So why should you not try your luck with Professor Challenger,
of Enmore Park?"

I dare say I looked a little startled.

"Challenger!" I cried.  "Professor Challenger, the famous zoologist! 
Wasn't he the man who broke the skull of Blundell, of the Telegraph?"

The news editor smiled grimly.

"Do you mind?  Didn't you say it was adventures you were after?"

"It is all in the way of business, sir," I answered.

"Exactly.  I don't suppose he can always be so violent as that. 
I'm thinking that Blundell got him at the wrong moment, maybe, or
in the wrong fashion.  You may have better luck, or more tact in
handling him.  There's something in your line there, I am sure,
and the Gazette should work it."

"I really know nothing about him," said I.  I only remember his
name in connection with the police-court proceedings, for
striking Blundell."

"I have a few notes for your guidance, Mr. Malone.  I've had my
eye on the Professor for some little time."  He took a paper from
a drawer. "Here is a summary of his record.  I give it you briefly:--

"`Challenger, George Edward.  Born: Largs, N. B., 1863.  Educ.:
Largs Academy; Edinburgh University.  British Museum Assistant, 1892. 
Assistant-Keeper of Comparative Anthropology Department, 1893. 
Resigned after acrimonious correspondence same year.  Winner of
Crayston Medal for Zoological Research.  Foreign Member of'--well,
quite a lot of things, about two inches of small type--`Societe
Belge, American Academy of Sciences, La Plata, etc., etc. 
Ex-President Palaeontological Society.  Section H, British
Association'--so on, so on!--`Publications: "Some Observations
Upon a Series of Kalmuck Skulls"; "Outlines of Vertebrate
Evolution"; and numerous papers, including "The underlying
fallacy of Weissmannism," which caused heated discussion at
the Zoological Congress of Vienna.  Recreations: Walking,
Alpine climbing.  Address: Enmore Park, Kensington, W.'

"There, take it with you.  I've nothing more for you to-night."

I pocketed the slip of paper.

"One moment, sir," I said, as I realized that it was a pink bald
head, and not a red face, which was fronting me.  "I am not very
clear yet why I am to interview this gentleman.  What has he done?"

The face flashed back again.

"Went to South America on a solitary expedeetion two years ago. 
Came back last year.  Had undoubtedly been to South America, but
refused to say exactly where.  Began to tell his adventures in a
vague way, but somebody started to pick holes, and he just shut
up like an oyster.  Something wonderful happened--or the man's a
champion liar, which is the more probable supposeetion.  Had some
damaged photographs, said to be fakes.  Got so touchy that he
assaults anyone who asks questions, and heaves reporters doun
the stairs.  In my opinion he's just a homicidal megalomaniac with
a turn for science.  That's your man, Mr. Malone.  Now, off you
run, and see what you can make of him.  You're big enough to look
after yourself.  Anyway, you are all safe.  Employers' Liability
Act, you know."

A grinning red face turned once more into a pink oval, fringed
with gingery fluff; the interview was at an end.

I walked across to the Savage Club, but instead of turning into
it I leaned upon the railings of Adelphi Terrace and gazed
thoughtfully for a long time at the brown, oily river.  I can
always think most sanely and clearly in the open air.  I took out
the list of Professor Challenger's exploits, and I read it over
under the electric lamp.  Then I had what I can only regard as
an inspiration.  As a Pressman, I felt sure from what I had been
told that I could never hope to get into touch with this
cantankerous Professor.  But these recriminations, twice
mentioned in his skeleton biography, could only mean that he was
a fanatic in science.  Was there not an exposed margin there upon
which he might be accessible?  I would try.

I entered the club.  It was just after eleven, and the big room
was fairly full, though the rush had not yet set in.  I noticed
a tall, thin, angular man seated in an arm-chair by the fire. 
He turned as I drew my chair up to him.  It was the man of all
others whom I should have chosen--Tarp Henry, of the staff of
Nature, a thin, dry, leathery creature, who was full, to those who
knew him, of kindly humanity.  I plunged instantly into my subject.

"What do you know of Professor Challenger?"

"Challenger?" He gathered his brows in scientific disapproval. 
"Challenger was the man who came with some cock-and-bull story
from South America."

"What story?"

"Oh, it was rank nonsense about some queer animals he had discovered. 
I believe he has retracted since.  Anyhow, he has suppressed it all. 
He gave an interview to Reuter's, and there was such a howl that he
saw it wouldn't do.  It was a discreditable business.  There were
one or two folk who were inclined to take him seriously, but he soon
choked them off."

"How?"

"Well, by his insufferable rudeness and impossible behavior. 
There was poor old Wadley, of the Zoological Institute.  Wadley sent
a message:  `The President of the Zoological Institute presents
his compliments to Professor Challenger, and would take it as a
personal favor if he would do them the honor to come to their
next meeting.'  The answer was unprintable."

"You don't say?"

"Well, a bowdlerized version of it would run:  `Professor
Challenger presents his compliments to the President of the
Zoological Institute, and would take it as a personal favor if he
would go to the devil.'"

"Good Lord!"

"Yes, I expect that's what old Wadley said.  I remember his wail
at the meeting, which began:  `In fifty years experience of
scientific intercourse----'  It quite broke the old man up."

"Anything more about Challenger?"

"Well, I'm a bacteriologist, you know.  I live in a
nine-hundred-diameter microscope.  I can hardly claim to take
serious notice of anything that I can see with my naked eye. 
I'm a frontiersman from the extreme edge of the Knowable, and I feel
quite out of place when I leave my study and come into touch with
all you great, rough, hulking creatures.  I'm too detached to
talk scandal, and yet at scientific conversaziones I HAVE heard
something of Challenger, for he is one of those men whom nobody
can ignore.  He's as clever as they make 'em--a full-charged
battery of force and vitality, but a quarrelsome, ill-conditioned
faddist, and unscrupulous at that.  He had gone the length of
faking some photographs over the South American business."

"You say he is a faddist.  What is his particular fad?"

"He has a thousand, but the latest is something about Weissmann
and Evolution.  He had a fearful row about it in Vienna, I believe."

"Can't you tell me the point?"

"Not at the moment, but a translation of the proceedings exists. 
We have it filed at the office.  Would you care to come?"

"It's just what I want.  I have to interview the fellow, and I
need some lead up to him.  It's really awfully good of you to
give me a lift.  I'll go with you now, if it is not too late."


Half an hour later I was seated in the newspaper office with a
huge tome in front of me, which had been opened at the article
"Weissmann versus Darwin," with the sub heading, "Spirited
Protest at Vienna.  Lively Proceedings."  My scientific education
having been somewhat neglected, I was unable to follow the whole
argument, but it was evident that the English Professor had
handled his subject in a very aggressive fashion, and had
thoroughly annoyed his Continental colleagues.  "Protests,"
"Uproar," and "General appeal to the Chairman" were three of the
first brackets which caught my eye.  Most of the matter might
have been written in Chinese for any definite meaning that it
conveyed to my brain.

"I wish you could translate it into English for me," I said,
pathetically, to my help-mate.

"Well, it is a translation."

"Then I'd better try my luck with the original."

"It is certainly rather deep for a layman."

"If I could only get a single good, meaty sentence which seemed
to convey some sort of definite human idea, it would serve my turn. 
Ah, yes, this one will do.  I seem in a vague way almost to
understand it.  I'll copy it out.  This shall be my link with
the terrible Professor."

"Nothing else I can do?"

"Well, yes; I propose to write to him.  If I could frame the
letter here, and use your address it would give atmosphere."

"We'll have the fellow round here making a row and breaking
the furniture."

"No, no; you'll see the letter--nothing contentious, I assure you."

"Well, that's my chair and desk.  You'll find paper there.  I'd like
to censor it before it goes."

It took some doing, but I flatter myself that it wasn't such a
bad job when it was finished.  I read it aloud to the critical
bacteriologist with some pride in my handiwork.


"DEAR PROFESSOR CHALLENGER," it said, "As a humble student of
Nature, I have always taken the most profound interest in your
speculations as to the differences between Darwin and Weissmann. 
I have recently had occasion to refresh my memory by re-reading----"


"You infernal liar!" murmured Tarp Henry.


--"by re-reading your masterly address at Vienna.  That lucid and
admirable statement seems to be the last word in the matter. 
There is one sentence in it, however--namely:  `I protest strongly
against the insufferable and entirely dogmatic assertion that
each separate id is a microcosm possessed of an historical
architecture elaborated slowly through the series of generations.' 
Have you no desire, in view of later research, to modify
this statement?  Do you not think that it is over-accentuated? 
With your permission, I would ask the favor of an interview,
as I feel strongly upon the subject, and have certain suggestions
which I could only elaborate in a personal conversation.  With your
consent, I trust to have the honor of calling at eleven o'clock
the day after to-morrow (Wednesday) morning.

"I remain, Sir, with assurances of profound respect,
yours very truly,
                                             EDWARD D. MALONE."


"How's that?" I asked, triumphantly.

"Well if your conscience can stand it----"

"It has never failed me yet."

"But what do you mean to do?"

"To get there.  Once I am in his room I may see some opening. 
I may even go the length of open confession.  If he is a sportsman
he will be tickled."

"Tickled, indeed!  He's much more likely to do the tickling. 
Chain mail, or an American football suit--that's what you'll want. 
Well, good-bye.  I'll have the answer for you here on Wednesday
morning--if he ever deigns to answer you.  He is a violent,
dangerous, cantankerous character, hated by everyone who comes
across him, and the butt of the students, so far as they dare
take a liberty with him.  Perhaps it would be best for you if
you never heard from the fellow at all."


                           CHAPTER III

              "He is a Perfectly Impossible Person"

My friend's fear or hope was not destined to be realized.  When I
called on Wednesday there was a letter with the West Kensington
postmark upon it, and my name scrawled across the envelope in a
handwriting which looked like a barbed-wire railing.  The contents
were as follows:--


                              "ENMORE PARK, W.

"SIR,--I have duly received your note, in which you claim to
endorse my views, although I am not aware that they are dependent
upon endorsement either from you or anyone else.  You have
ventured to use the word `speculation' with regard to my
statement upon the subject of Darwinism, and I would call your
attention to the fact that such a word in such a connection is
offensive to a degree.  The context convinces me, however, that
you have sinned rather through ignorance and tactlessness than
through malice, so I am content to pass the matter by.  You quote
an isolated sentence from my lecture, and appear to have some
difficulty in understanding it.  I should have thought that only
a sub-human intelligence could have failed to grasp the point,
but if it really needs amplification I shall consent to see you
at the hour named, though visits and visitors of every sort are
exceeding distasteful to me.  As to your suggestion that I may
modify my opinion, I would have you know that it is not my habit to
do so after a deliberate expression of my mature views.  You will
kindly show the envelope of this letter to my man, Austin, when
you call, as he has to take every precaution to shield me from
the intrusive rascals who call themselves `journalists.'     
                         "Yours faithfully,
                            "GEORGE EDWARD CHALLENGER."


This was the letter that I read aloud to Tarp Henry, who had come
down early to hear the result of my venture.  His only remark
was, "There's some new stuff, cuticura or something, which is
better than arnica."  Some people have such extraordinary notions
of humor.

It was nearly half-past ten before I had received my message, but
a taxicab took me round in good time for my appointment.  It was
an imposing porticoed house at which we stopped, and the
heavily-curtained windows gave every indication of wealth upon
the part of this formidable Professor.  The door was opened by an
odd, swarthy, dried-up person of uncertain age, with a dark pilot
jacket and brown leather gaiters.  I found afterwards that he was
the chauffeur, who filled the gaps left by a succession of
fugitive butlers.  He looked me up and down with a searching
light blue eye.

"Expected?" he asked.

"An appointment."

"Got your letter?"

I produced the envelope.

"Right!"  He seemed to be a person of few words.  Following him
down the passage I was suddenly interrupted by a small woman, who
stepped out from what proved to be the dining-room door.  She was
a bright, vivacious, dark-eyed lady, more French than English in
her type.

"One moment," she said.  "You can wait, Austin.  Step in here, sir. 
May I ask if you have met my husband before?"

"No, madam, I have not had the honor."

"Then I apologize to you in advance.  I must tell you that he is
a perfectly impossible person--absolutely impossible.  If you
are forewarned you will be the more ready to make allowances."

"It is most considerate of you, madam."

"Get quickly out of the room if he seems inclined to be violent. 
Don't wait to argue with him.  Several people have been injured
through doing that.  Afterwards there is a public scandal and it
reflects upon me and all of us.  I suppose it wasn't about South
America you wanted to see him?"

I could not lie to a lady.

"Dear me!  That is his most dangerous subject.  You won't believe
a word he says--I'm sure I don't wonder.  But don't tell him so,
for it makes him very violent.  Pretend to believe him, and you
may get through all right.  Remember he believes it himself. 
Of that you may be assured.  A more honest man never lived. 
Don't wait any longer or he may suspect.  If you find him
dangerous--really dangerous--ring the bell and hold him off until
I come.  Even at his worst I can usually control him."

With these encouraging words the lady handed me over to the
taciturn Austin, who had waited like a bronze statue of
discretion during our short interview, and I was conducted to the
end of the passage.  There was a tap at a door, a bull's bellow
from within, and I was face to face with the Professor.

He sat in a rotating chair behind a broad table, which was
covered with books, maps, and diagrams.  As I entered, his seat
spun round to face me.  His appearance made me gasp.  I was
prepared for something strange, but not for so overpowering a
personality as this.  It was his size which took one's breath
away--his size and his imposing presence.  His head was enormous,
the largest I have ever seen upon a human being.  I am sure that
his top-hat, had I ever ventured to don it, would have slipped
over me entirely and rested on my shoulders.  He had the face and
beard which I associate with an Assyrian bull; the former florid,
the latter so black as almost to have a suspicion of blue,
spade-shaped and rippling down over his chest.  The hair was
peculiar, plastered down in front in a long, curving wisp over
his massive forehead.  The eyes were blue-gray under great black
tufts, very clear, very critical, and very masterful.  A huge
spread of shoulders and a chest like a barrel were the other
parts of him which appeared above the table, save for two
enormous hands covered with long black hair.  This and a
bellowing, roaring, rumbling voice made up my first impression
of the notorious Professor Challenger.

"Well?" said he, with a most insolent stare.  "What now?"

I must keep up my deception for at least a little time longer,
otherwise here was evidently an end of the interview.

"You were good enough to give me an appointment, sir," said I,
humbly, producing his envelope.

He took my letter from his desk and laid it out before him.

"Oh, you are the young person who cannot understand plain
English, are you?  My general conclusions you are good enough
to approve, as I understand?"

"Entirely, sir--entirely!"  I was very emphatic.

"Dear me!  That strengthens my position very much, does it not? 
Your age and appearance make your support doubly valuable.  Well, at
least you are better than that herd of swine in Vienna, whose
gregarious grunt is, however, not more offensive than the isolated
effort of the British hog."  He glared at me as the present
representative of the beast.

"They seem to have behaved abominably," said I.

"I assure you that I can fight my own battles, and that I have no
possible need of your sympathy.  Put me alone, sir, and with my
back to the wall.  G. E. C. is happiest then.  Well, sir, let us
do what we can to curtail this visit, which can hardly be
agreeable to you, and is inexpressibly irksome to me.  You had,
as I have been led to believe, some comments to make upon the
proposition which I advanced in my thesis."

There was a brutal directness about his methods which made
evasion difficult.  I must still make play and wait for a
better opening.  It had seemed simple enough at a distance. 
Oh, my Irish wits, could they not help me now, when I needed
help so sorely?  He transfixed me with two sharp, steely eyes. 
"Come, come!" he rumbled.

"I am, of course, a mere student," said I, with a fatuous smile,
"hardly more, I might say, than an earnest inquirer.  At the same
time, it seemed to me that you were a little severe upon
Weissmann in this matter.  Has not the general evidence since
that date tended to--well, to strengthen his position?"

"What evidence?"  He spoke with a menacing calm.

"Well, of course, I am aware that there is not any what you might
call DEFINITE evidence.  I alluded merely to the trend of modern
thought and the general scientific point of view, if I might so
express it."

He leaned forward with great earnestness.

"I suppose you are aware," said he, checking off points upon his
fingers, "that the cranial index is a constant factor?"

"Naturally," said I.

"And that telegony is still sub judice?"

"Undoubtedly."

"And that the germ plasm is different from the parthenogenetic egg?"

"Why, surely!" I cried, and gloried in my own audacity.

"But what does that prove?" he asked, in a gentle, persuasive voice.

"Ah, what indeed?" I murmured.  "What does it prove?"

"Shall I tell you?" he cooed.

"Pray do."

"It proves," he roared, with a sudden blast of fury, "that
you are the damnedest imposter in London--a vile, crawling
journalist, who has no more science than he has decency in
his composition!"

He had sprung to his feet with a mad rage in his eyes.  Even at
that moment of tension I found time for amazement at the
discovery that he was quite a short man, his head not higher than
my shoulder--a stunted Hercules whose tremendous vitality had all
run to depth, breadth, and brain.

"Gibberish!" he cried, leaning forward, with his fingers on the
table and his face projecting.  "That's what I have been talking
to you, sir--scientific gibberish!  Did you think you could match
cunning with me--you with your walnut of a brain?  You think you
are omnipotent, you infernal scribblers, don't you?  That your
praise can make a man and your blame can break him?  We must all
bow to you, and try to get a favorable word, must we?  This man
shall have a leg up, and this man shall have a dressing down! 
Creeping vermin, I know you!  You've got out of your station. 
Time was when your ears were clipped.  You've lost your sense of
proportion.  Swollen gas-bags!  I'll keep you in your proper place. 
Yes, sir, you haven't got over G. E. C.  There's one man who is
still your master.  He warned you off, but if you WILL come, by
the Lord you do it at your own risk.  Forfeit, my good Mr. Malone,
I claim forfeit!  You have played a rather dangerous game, and it
strikes me that you have lost it."

"Look here, sir," said I, backing to the door and opening it;
"you can be as abusive as you like.  But there is a limit. 
You shall not assault me."

"Shall I not?"  He was slowly advancing in a peculiarly menacing
way, but he stopped now and put his big hands into the
side-pockets of a rather boyish short jacket which he wore. 
"I have thrown several of you out of the house.  You will be the
fourth or fifth.  Three pound fifteen each--that is how it averaged. 
Expensive, but very necessary.  Now, sir, why should you not
follow your brethren?  I rather think you must."  He resumed his
unpleasant and stealthy advance, pointing his toes as he walked,
like a dancing master.

I could have bolted for the hall door, but it would have been
too ignominious.  Besides, a little glow of righteous anger was
springing up within me.  I had been hopelessly in the wrong
before, but this man's menaces were putting me in the right.

"I'll trouble you to keep your hands off, sir.  I'll not stand it."

"Dear me!"  His black moustache lifted and a white fang twinkled
in a sneer.  "You won't stand it, eh?"

"Don't be such a fool, Professor!" I cried.  "What can you hope for? 
I'm fifteen stone, as hard as nails, and play center three-quarter
every Saturday for the London Irish.  I'm not the man----"

It was at that moment that he rushed me.  It was lucky that I had
opened the door, or we should have gone through it.  We did a
Catharine-wheel together down the passage.  Somehow we gathered
up a chair upon our way, and bounded on with it towards the street. 
My mouth was full of  his beard, our arms were locked, our bodies
intertwined, and that infernal chair radiated its legs all round us. 
The watchful Austin had thrown open the hall door.  We went with
a back somersault down the front steps.  I have seen the two Macs
attempt something of the kind at the halls, but it appears to take
some practise to do it without hurting oneself.  The chair went
to matchwood at the bottom, and we rolled apart into the gutter. 
He sprang to his feet, waving his fists and wheezing like an asthmatic.

"Had enough?" he panted.

"You infernal bully!" I cried, as I gathered myself together.

Then and there we should have tried the thing out, for he was
effervescing with fight, but fortunately I was rescued from an
odious situation.  A policeman was beside us, his notebook in
his hand.

"What's all this?  You ought to be ashamed" said the policeman. 
It was the most rational remark which I had heard in Enmore Park. 
"Well," he insisted, turning to me, "what is it, then?"

"This man attacked me," said I.

"Did you attack him?" asked the policeman.

The Professor breathed hard and said nothing.

"It's not the first time, either," said the policeman, severely,
shaking his head.  "You were in trouble last month for the same thing. 
You've blackened this young man's eye.  Do you give him in charge, sir?"

I relented.

"No," said I, "I do not."

"What's that?" said the policeman.

"I was to blame myself.  I intruded upon him.  He gave me fair warning."

The policeman snapped up his notebook.

"Don't let us have any more such goings-on," said he.  "Now, then! 
Move on, there, move on!"  This to a butcher's boy, a maid, and
one or two loafers who had collected.  He clumped heavily down
the street, driving this little flock before him.  The Professor
looked at me, and there was something humorous at the back of his eyes.

"Come in!" said he.  "I've not done with you yet."

The speech had a sinister sound, but I followed him none the less
into the house.  The man-servant, Austin, like a wooden image,
closed the door behind us.


                            CHAPTER IV

         "It's Just the very Biggest Thing in the World"

Hardly was it shut when Mrs. Challenger darted out from
the dining-room.  The small woman was in a furious temper. 
She barred her husband's way like an enraged chicken in front of
a bulldog.  It was evident that she had seen my exit, but had not
observed my return.

"You brute, George!" she screamed.  "You've hurt that nice young man."

He jerked backwards with his thumb.

"Here he is, safe and sound behind me."

She was confused, but not unduly so.

"I am so sorry, I didn't see you."

"I assure you, madam, that it is all right."

"He has marked your poor face!  Oh, George, what a brute you are! 
Nothing but scandals from one end of the week to the other. 
Everyone hating and making fun of you.  You've finished my patience. 
This ends it."

"Dirty linen," he rumbled.

"It's not a secret," she cried.  "Do you suppose that the whole
street--the whole of London, for that matter----  Get away, Austin,
we don't want you here.  Do you suppose they don't all talk about you?
Where is your dignity?  You, a man who should have been Regius
Professor at a great University with a thousand students all
revering you.  Where is your dignity, George?"

"How about yours, my dear?"

"You try me too much.  A ruffian--a common brawling ruffian--
that's what you have become."

"Be good, Jessie."

"A roaring, raging bully!"

"That's done it!  Stool of penance!" said he.

To my amazement he stooped, picked her up, and placed her sitting
upon a high pedestal of black marble in the angle of the hall. 
It was at least seven feet high, and so thin that she could hardly
balance upon it.  A more absurd object than she presented cocked
up there with her face convulsed with anger, her feet dangling,
and her body rigid for fear of an upset, I could not imagine.

"Let me down!" she wailed. 

"Say `please.'"

"You brute, George!  Let me down this instant!"

"Come into the study, Mr. Malone."

"Really, sir----!" said I, looking at the lady.

"Here's Mr. Malone pleading for you, Jessie.

Say `please,' and down you come."

"Oh, you brute!  Please! please!"

"You must behave yourself, dear.  Mr. Malone is a Pressman. 
He will have it all in his rag to-morrow, and sell an extra
dozen among our neighbors.  `Strange story of high life'--you
felt fairly high on that pedestal, did you not?  Then a sub-title,
`Glimpse of a singular menage.'  He's a foul feeder, is Mr. Malone,
a carrion eater, like all of his kind--porcus ex grege diaboli--
a swine from the devil's herd.  That's it, Malone--what?"

"You are really intolerable!" said I, hotly.

He bellowed with laughter.

"We shall have a coalition presently," he boomed, looking from
his wife to me and puffing out his enormous chest.  Then, suddenly
altering his tone, "Excuse this frivolous family badinage, Mr. Malone. 
I called you back for some more serious purpose than to mix you
up with our little domestic pleasantries.  Run away, little woman,
and don't fret."  He placed a huge hand upon each of her shoulders. 
"All that you say is perfectly true.  I should be a better man if
I did what you advise, but I shouldn't be quite George
Edward Challenger.  There are plenty of better men, my dear, but
only one G. E. C.  So make the best of him."  He suddenly gave her
a resounding kiss, which embarrassed me even more than his violence
had done.  "Now, Mr. Malone," he continued, with a great accession
of dignity, "this way, if YOU please."

We re-entered the room which we had left so tumultuously ten
minutes before.  The Professor closed the door carefully behind
us, motioned me into an arm-chair, and pushed a cigar-box under
my nose.

"Real San Juan Colorado," he said.  "Excitable people like you
are the better for narcotics.  Heavens! don't bite it!  Cut--and
cut with reverence!  Now lean back, and listen attentively to
whatever I may care to say to you.  If any remark should occur to
you, you can reserve it for some more opportune time.

"First of all, as to your return to my house after your most
justifiable expulsion"--he protruded his beard, and stared at me
as one who challenges and invites contradiction--"after, as I
say, your well-merited expulsion.  The reason lay in your answer
to that most officious policeman, in which I seemed to discern
some glimmering of good feeling upon your part--more, at any
rate, than I am accustomed to associate with your profession. 
In admitting that the fault of the incident lay with you, you gave
some evidence of a certain mental detachment and breadth of view
which attracted my favorable notice.  The sub-species of the
human race to which you unfortunately belong has always been
below my mental horizon.  Your words brought you suddenly above it. 
You swam up into my serious notice.  For this reason I asked you
to return with me, as I was minded to make your further acquaintance. 
You will kindly deposit your ash in the small Japanese tray on the
bamboo table which stands at your left elbow."

All this he boomed forth like a professor addressing his class. 
He had swung round his revolving chair so as to face me, and he
sat all puffed out like an enormous bull-frog, his head laid back
and his eyes half-covered by supercilious lids.  Now he suddenly
turned himself sideways, and all I could see of him was tangled
hair with a red, protruding ear.  He was scratching about among
the litter of papers upon his desk.  He faced me presently with
what looked like a very tattered sketch-book in his hand.

"I am going to talk to you about South America," said he. 
"No comments if you please.  First of all, I wish you to understand
that nothing I tell you now is to be repeated in any public way
unless you have my express permission.  That permission will, in
all human probability, never be given.  Is that clear?"

"It is very hard," said I. "Surely a judicious account----"

He replaced the notebook upon the table.

"That ends it," said he.  "I wish you a very good morning."

"No, no!" I cried.  "I submit to any conditions.  So far as I can
see, I have no choice."

"None in the world," said he.

"Well, then, I promise."

"Word of honor?"

"Word of honor."

He looked at me with doubt in his insolent eyes.

"After all, what do I know about your honor?" said he.

"Upon my word, sir," I cried, angrily, "you take very great liberties! 
I have never been so insulted in my life."

He seemed more interested than annoyed at my outbreak.

"Round-headed," he muttered.  "Brachycephalic, gray-eyed,
black-haired, with suggestion of the negroid.  Celtic, I presume?"

"I am an Irishman, sir."

"Irish Irish?"

"Yes, sir."

"That, of course, explains it.  Let me see; you have given me
your promise that my confidence will be respected?  That confidence,
I may say, will be far from complete.  But I am prepared to give
you a few indications which will be of interest.  In the first
place, you are probably aware that two years ago I made a journey
to South America--one which will be classical in the scientific
history of the world?  The object of my journey was to verify some
conclusions of Wallace and of Bates, which could only be done by
observing their reported facts under the same conditions in which
they had themselves noted them.  If my expedition had no other
results it would still have been noteworthy, but a curious incident
occurred to me while there which opened up an entirely fresh line
of inquiry.

"You are aware--or probably, in this half-educated age, you are
not aware--that the country round some parts of the Amazon is
still only partially explored, and that a great number of
tributaries, some of them entirely uncharted, run into the
main river.  It was my business to visit this little-known
back-country and to examine its fauna, which furnished me with
the materials for several chapters for that great and monumental
work upon zoology which will be my life's justification.  I was
returning, my work accomplished, when I had occasion to spend a
night at a small Indian village at a point where a certain
tributary--the name and position of which I withhold--opens
into the main river.  The natives were Cucama Indians, an amiable
but degraded race, with mental powers hardly superior to the
average Londoner.  I had effected some cures among them upon my
way up the river, and had impressed them considerably with my
personality, so that I was not surprised to find myself eagerly
awaited upon my return.  I gathered from their signs that someone
had urgent need of my medical services, and I followed the chief
to one of his huts.  When I entered I found that the sufferer to
whose aid I had been summoned had that instant expired.  He was,
to my surprise, no Indian, but a white man; indeed, I may say a
very white man, for he was flaxen-haired and had some
characteristics of an albino.  He was clad in rags, was very
emaciated, and bore every trace of prolonged hardship.  So far as
I could understand the account of the natives, he was a complete
stranger to them, and had come upon their village through the
woods alone and in the last stage of exhaustion.

"The man's knapsack lay beside the couch, and I examined the contents. 
His name was written upon a tab within it--Maple White, Lake
Avenue, Detroit, Michigan.  It is a name to which I am prepared
always to lift my hat.  It is not too much to say that it will
rank level with my own when the final credit of this business
comes to be apportioned.

"From the contents of the knapsack it was evident that this man
had been an artist and poet in search of effects.  There were
scraps of verse.  I do not profess to be a judge of such things,
but they appeared to me to be singularly wanting in merit. 
There were also some rather commonplace pictures of river scenery,
a paint-box, a box of colored chalks, some brushes, that curved
bone which lies upon my inkstand, a volume of Baxter's `Moths and
Butterflies,' a cheap revolver, and a few cartridges.  Of personal
equipment he either had none or he had lost it in his journey. 
Such were the total effects of this strange American Bohemian.

"I was turning away from him when I observed that something
projected from the front of his ragged jacket.  It was this
sketch-book, which was as dilapidated then as you see it now. 
Indeed, I can assure you that a first folio of Shakespeare could
not be treated with greater reverence than this relic has been
since it came into my possession.  I hand it to you now, and I
ask you to take it page by page and to examine the contents."

He helped himself to a cigar and leaned back with a fiercely
critical pair of eyes, taking note of the effect which this
document would produce.

I had opened the volume with some expectation of a revelation,
though of what nature I could not imagine.  The first page was
disappointing, however, as it contained nothing but the picture
of a very fat man in a pea-jacket, with the legend, "Jimmy Colver
on the Mail-boat," written beneath it.  There followed several pages
which were filled with small sketches of Indians and their ways. 
Then came a picture of a cheerful and corpulent ecclesiastic in
a shovel hat, sitting opposite a very thin European, and the
inscription:  "Lunch with Fra Cristofero at Rosario."  Studies of
women and babies accounted for several more pages, and then there
was an unbroken series of animal drawings with such explanations
as "Manatee upon Sandbank," "Turtles and Their Eggs," "Black Ajouti
under a Miriti Palm"--the matter disclosing some sort of pig-like
animal; and finally came a double page of studies of long-snouted
and very unpleasant saurians.  I could make nothing of it, and said
so to the Professor.

"Surely these are only crocodiles?"

"Alligators!  Alligators!  There is hardly such a thing as a true
crocodile in South America.  The distinction between them----"

"I meant that I could see nothing unusual--nothing to justify
what you have said."

He smiled serenely.

"Try the next page," said he.

I was still unable to sympathize.  It was a full-page sketch of a
landscape roughly tinted in color--the kind of painting which an
open-air artist takes as a guide to a future more elaborate effort. 
There was a pale-green foreground of feathery vegetation, which
sloped upwards and ended in a line of cliffs dark red in color, and
curiously ribbed like some basaltic formations which I have seen. 
They extended in an unbroken wall right across the background. 
At one point was an isolated pyramidal rock, crowned by a great
tree, which appeared to be separated by a cleft from the main crag. 
Behind it all, a blue tropical sky.  A thin green line of vegetation
fringed the summit of the ruddy cliff.

"Well?" he asked.

"It is no doubt a curious formation," said I "but I am not
geologist enough to say that it is wonderful."

"Wonderful!" he repeated.  "It is unique.  It is incredible.  No one
on earth has ever dreamed of such a possibility.  Now the next."

I turned it over, and gave an exclamation of surprise.  There was
a full-page picture of the most extraordinary creature that I had
ever seen.  It was the wild dream of an opium smoker, a vision
of delirium.  The head was like that of a fowl, the body that of
a bloated lizard, the trailing tail was furnished with upward-
turned spikes, and the curved back was edged with a high serrated
fringe, which looked like a dozen cocks' wattles placed behind
each other.  In front of this creature was an absurd mannikin,
or dwarf, in human form, who stood staring at it.

"Well, what do you think of that?" cried the Professor, rubbing
his hands with an air of triumph.

"It is monstrous--grotesque."

"But what made him draw such an animal?"

"Trade gin, I should think."

"Oh, that's the best explanation you can give, is it?"

"Well, sir, what is yours?"

"The obvious one that the creature exists.  That is actually
sketched from the life."

I should have laughed only that I had a vision of our doing
another Catharine-wheel down the passage.

"No doubt," said I, "no doubt," as one humors an imbecile. 
"I confess, however," I added, "that this tiny human figure
puzzles me.  If it were an Indian we could set it down as
evidence of some pigmy race in America, but it appears to be
a European in a sun-hat."

The Professor snorted like an angry buffalo.  "You really touch
the limit," said he.  "You enlarge my view of the possible. 
Cerebral paresis!  Mental inertia!  Wonderful!"

He was too absurd to make me angry.  Indeed, it was a waste of
energy, for if you were going to be angry with this man you would
be angry all the time.  I contented myself with smiling wearily.
"It struck me that the man was small," said I.

"Look here!" he cried, leaning forward and dabbing a great hairy
sausage of a finger on to the picture.  "You see that plant
behind the animal; I suppose you thought it was a dandelion or a
Brussels sprout--what?  Well, it is a vegetable ivory palm, and
they run to about fifty or sixty feet.  Don't you see that the man
is put in for a purpose?  He couldn't really have stood in front of
that brute and lived to draw it.  He sketched himself in to give a
scale of heights.  He was, we will say, over five feet high. 
The tree is ten times bigger, which is what one would expect."

"Good heavens!" I cried.  "Then you think the beast was---- Why,
Charing Cross station would hardly make a kennel for such a brute!"

"Apart from exaggeration, he is certainly a well-grown specimen,"
said the Professor, complacently.

"But," I cried, "surely the whole experience of the human race is
not to be set aside on account of a single sketch"--I had turned
over the leaves and ascertained that there was nothing more in
the book--"a single sketch by a wandering American artist who may
have done it under hashish, or in the delirium of fever, or
simply in order to gratify a freakish imagination.  You can't, as
a man of science, defend such a position as that."

For answer the Professor took a book down from a shelf.

"This is an excellent monograph by my gifted friend, Ray Lankester!"
said he.  "There is an illustration here which would interest you. 
Ah, yes, here it is!  The inscription beneath it runs:  `Probable
appearance in life of the Jurassic Dinosaur Stegosaurus.  The hind
leg alone is twice as tall as a full-grown man.'  Well, what do you
make of that?"

He handed me the open book.  I started as I looked at the picture. 
In this reconstructed animal of a dead world there was certainly
a very great resemblance to the sketch of the unknown artist.

"That is certainly remarkable," said I.

"But you won't admit that it is final?"

"Surely it might be a coincidence, or this American may have seen
a picture of the kind and carried it in his memory.  It would be
likely to recur to a man in a delirium."

"Very good," said the Professor, indulgently; "we leave it at that. 
I will now ask you to look at this bone." He handed over the one
which he had already described as part of the dead man's possessions. 
It was about six inches long, and thicker than my thumb, with some
indications of dried cartilage at one end of it.

"To what known creature does that bone belong?" asked the Professor.

I examined it with care and tried to recall some half-
forgotten knowledge.

"It might be a very thick human collar-bone," I said.

My companion waved his hand in contemptuous deprecation.

"The human collar-bone is curved.  This is straight.  There is a
groove upon its surface showing that a great tendon played across
it, which could not be the case with a clavicle."

"Then I must confess that I don't know what it is."

"You need not be ashamed to expose your ignorance, for I don't
suppose the whole South Kensington staff could give a name to it." 
He took a little bone the size of a bean out of a pill-box. 
"So far as I am a judge this human bone is the analogue of the
one which you hold in your hand.  That will give you some idea of
the size of the creature.  You will observe from the cartilage that
this is no fossil specimen, but recent.  What do you say to that?"

"Surely in an elephant----"

He winced as if in pain.

"Don't!  Don't talk of elephants in South America.  Even in these
days of Board schools----"

"Well, I interrupted, "any large South American animal--a tapir,
for example."

"You may take it, young man, that I am versed in the elements of
my business.  This is not a conceivable bone either of a tapir or
of any other creature known to zoology.  It belongs to a very
large, a very strong, and, by all analogy, a very fierce animal
which exists upon the face of the earth, but has not yet come
under the notice of science.  You are still unconvinced?"

"I am at least deeply interested."

"Then your case is not hopeless.  I feel that there is reason
lurking in you somewhere, so we will patiently grope round for it.
We will now leave the dead American and proceed with my narrative. 
You can imagine that I could hardly come away from the Amazon
without probing deeper into the matter.  There were indications
as to the direction from which the dead traveler had come. 
Indian legends would alone have been my guide, for I found that
rumors of a strange land were common among all the riverine tribes. 
You have heard, no doubt, of Curupuri?"

"Never."

"Curupuri is the spirit of the woods, something terrible,
something malevolent, something to be avoided.  None can describe
its shape or nature, but it is a word of terror along the Amazon. 
Now all tribes agree as to the direction in which Curupuri lives. 
It was the same direction from which the American had come. 
Something terrible lay that way.  It was my business to find out
what it was."

"What did you do?"  My flippancy was all gone.  This massive man
compelled one's attention and respect.

"I overcame the extreme reluctance of the natives--a reluctance
which extends even to talk upon the subject--and by judicious
persuasion and gifts, aided, I will admit, by some threats of
coercion, I got two of them to act as guides.  After many
adventures which I need not describe, and after traveling a
distance which I will not mention, in a direction which I
withhold, we came at last to a tract of country which has
never been described, nor, indeed, visited save by my
unfortunate predecessor.  Would you kindly look at this?"

He handed me a photograph--half-plate size.

"The unsatisfactory appearance of it is due to the fact," said he,
"that on descending the river the boat was upset and the case which
contained the undeveloped films was broken, with disastrous results. 
Nearly all of them were totally ruined--an irreparable loss. 
This is one of the few which partially escaped.  This explanation
of deficiencies or abnormalities you will kindly accept.  There was
talk of faking.  I am not in a mood to argue such a point."

The photograph was certainly very off-colored.  An unkind critic
might easily have misinterpreted that dim surface.  It was a dull
gray landscape, and as I gradually deciphered the details of it I
realized that it represented a long and enormously high line of
cliffs exactly like an immense cataract seen in the distance,
with a sloping, tree-clad plain in the foreground.

"I believe it is the same place as the painted picture," said I.

"It is the same place," the Professor answered.  "I found traces
of the fellow's camp.  Now look at this."

It was a nearer view of the same scene, though the photograph was
extremely defective.  I could distinctly see the isolated,
tree-crowned pinnacle of rock which was detached from the crag.

"I have no doubt of it at all," said I.

"Well, that is something gained," said he.  "We progress, do we not? 
Now, will you please look at the top of that rocky pinnacle? 
Do you observe something there?"

"An enormous tree."

"But on the tree?"

"A large bird," said I.

He handed me a lens.

"Yes," I said, peering through it, "a large bird stands on the tree. 
It appears to have a considerable beak.  I should say it was a pelican."

"I cannot congratulate you upon your eyesight," said the Professor. 
"It is not a pelican, nor, indeed, is it a bird.  It may interest
you to know that I succeeded in shooting that particular specimen. 
It was the only absolute proof of my experiences which I was able
to bring away with me."

"You have it, then?"  Here at last was tangible corroboration.

"I had it.  It was unfortunately lost with so much else in the
same boat accident which ruined my photographs.  I clutched at it
as it disappeared in the swirl of the rapids, and part of its
wing was left in my hand.  I was insensible when washed ashore,
but the miserable remnant of my superb specimen was still intact;
I now lay it before you."

From a drawer he produced what seemed to me to be the upper
portion of the wing of a large bat.  It was at least two feet in
length, a curved bone, with a membranous veil beneath it.

"A monstrous bat!" I suggested.

"Nothing of the sort," said the Professor, severely.  "Living, as
I do, in an educated and scientific atmosphere, I could not have
conceived that the first principles of zoology were so little known. 
Is it possible that you do not know the elementary fact in
comparative anatomy, that the wing of a bird is really the
forearm, while the wing of a bat consists of three elongated
fingers with membranes between?  Now, in this case, the bone is
certainly not the forearm, and you can see for yourself that this
is a single membrane hanging upon a single bone, and therefore
that it cannot belong to a bat.  But if it is neither bird nor
bat, what is it?"

My small stock of knowledge was exhausted.

"I really do not know," said I.

He opened the standard work to which he had already referred me.

"Here," said he, pointing to the picture of an extraordinary
flying monster, "is an excellent reproduction of the dimorphodon,
or pterodactyl, a flying reptile of the Jurassic period.  On the
next page is a diagram of the mechanism of its wing.  Kindly compare
it with the specimen in your hand."

A wave of amazement passed over me as I looked.  I was convinced. 
There could be no getting away from it.  The cumulative proof
was overwhelming.  The sketch, the photographs, the narrative, and
now the actual specimen--the evidence was complete.  I said so--I
said so warmly, for I felt that the Professor was an ill-used man. 
He leaned back in his chair with drooping eyelids and a tolerant
smile, basking in this sudden gleam of sunshine.

"It's just the very biggest thing that I ever heard of!" said I,
though it was my journalistic rather than my scientific
enthusiasm that was roused.  "It is colossal.  You are a Columbus
of science who has discovered a lost world.  I'm awfully sorry if
I seemed to doubt you.  It was all so unthinkable.  But I
understand evidence when I see it, and this should be good enough
for anyone."

The Professor purred with satisfaction. 

"And then, sir, what did you do next?"

"It was the wet season, Mr. Malone, and my stores were exhausted. 
I explored some portion of this huge cliff, but I was unable to
find any way to scale it.  The pyramidal rock upon which I saw
and shot the pterodactyl was more accessible.  Being something of
a cragsman, I did manage to get half way to the top of that. 
From that height I had a better idea of the plateau upon the top
of the crags.  It appeared to be very large; neither to east nor
to west could I see any end to the vista of green-capped cliffs. 
Below, it is a swampy, jungly region, full of snakes, insects,
and fever.  It is a natural protection to this singular country."

"Did you see any other trace of life?"

"No, sir, I did not; but during the week that we lay encamped at
the base of the cliff we heard some very strange noises from above."

"But the creature that the American drew?  How do you account
for that?"

"We can only suppose that he must have made his way to the summit
and seen it there.  We know, therefore, that there is a way up. 
We know equally that it must be a very difficult one, otherwise the
creatures would have come down and overrun the surrounding country. 
Surely that is clear?"

"But how did they come to be there?"

"I do not think that the problem is a very obscure one," said the
Professor; "there can only be one explanation.  South America is,
as you may have heard, a granite continent.  At this single point
in the interior there has been, in some far distant age, a great,
sudden volcanic upheaval.  These cliffs, I may remark, are
basaltic, and therefore plutonic.  An area, as large perhaps as
Sussex, has been lifted up en bloc with all its living contents,
and cut off by perpendicular precipices of a hardness which
defies erosion from all the rest of the continent.  What is
the result?  Why, the ordinary laws of Nature are suspended. 
The various checks which influence the struggle for existence in
the world at large are all neutralized or altered.  Creatures survive
which would otherwise disappear.  You will observe that both the
pterodactyl and the stegosaurus are Jurassic, and therefore of a
great age in the order of life.  They have been artificially
conserved by those strange accidental conditions."

"But surely your evidence is conclusive.  You have only to lay it
before the proper authorities."

"So in my simplicity, I had imagined," said the Professor, bitterly. 
"I can only tell you that it was not so, that I was met at every
turn by incredulity, born partly of stupidity and partly of jealousy. 
It is not my nature, sir, to cringe to any man, or to seek to prove
a fact if my word has been doubted.  After the first I have not
condescended to show such corroborative proofs as I possess. 
The subject became hateful to me--I would not speak of it. 
When men like yourself, who represent the foolish curiosity
of the public, came to disturb my privacy I was unable to meet
them with dignified reserve.  By nature I am, I admit, somewhat
fiery, and under provocation I am inclined to be violent.  I fear
you may have remarked it."

I nursed my eye and was silent.

"My wife has frequently remonstrated with me upon the subject,
and yet I fancy that any man of honor would feel the same. 
To-night, however, I propose to give an extreme example of the
control of the will over the emotions.  I invite you to be
present at the exhibition."  He handed me a card from his desk. 
"You will perceive that Mr. Percival Waldron, a naturalist of
some popular repute, is announced to lecture at eight-thirty at
the Zoological Institute's Hall upon `The Record of the Ages.' 
I have been specially invited to be present upon the platform, and
to move a vote of thanks to the lecturer.  While doing so, I
shall make it my business, with infinite tact and delicacy, to
throw out a few remarks which may arouse the interest of the
audience and cause some of them to desire to go more deeply into
the matter.  Nothing contentious, you understand, but only an
indication that there are greater deeps beyond.  I shall hold
myself strongly in leash, and see whether by this self-restraint
I attain a more favorable result."

"And I may come?" I asked eagerly.

"Why, surely," he answered, cordially.  He had an enormously
massive genial manner, which was almost as overpowering as
his violence.  His smile of benevolence was a wonderful thing,
when his cheeks would suddenly bunch into two red apples, between
his half-closed eyes and his great black beard.  "By all means, come. 
It will be a comfort to me to know that I have one ally in the
hall, however inefficient and ignorant of the subject he may be. 
I fancy there will be a large audience, for Waldron, though an
absolute charlatan, has a considerable popular following.  Now, Mr.
Malone, I have given you rather more of my time than I had intended. 
The individual must not monopolize what is meant for the world. 
I shall be pleased to see you at the lecture to-night.  In the
meantime, you will understand that no public use is to be made
of any of the material that I have given you."

"But Mr. McArdle--my news editor, you know--will want to know
what I have done."

"Tell him what you like.  You can say, among other things, that
if he sends anyone else to intrude upon me I shall call upon him
with a riding-whip.  But I leave it to you that nothing of all
this appears in print.  Very good.  Then the Zoological
Institute's Hall at eight-thirty to-night."  I had a last
impression of red cheeks, blue rippling beard, and intolerant
eyes, as he waved me out of the room.


                            CHAPTER V

                           "Question!"

What with the physical shocks incidental to my first interview
with Professor Challenger and the mental ones which accompanied
the second, I was a somewhat demoralized journalist by the time I
found myself in Enmore Park once more.  In my aching head the one
thought was throbbing that there really was truth in this man's
story, that it was of tremendous consequence, and that it would
work up into inconceivable copy for the Gazette when I could
obtain permission to use it.  A taxicab was waiting at the end of
the road, so I sprang into it and drove down to the office. 
McArdle was at his post as usual.

"Well," he cried, expectantly, "what may it run to?  I'm thinking,
young man, you have been in the wars.  Don't tell me that he
assaulted you."

"We had a little difference at first."

"What a man it is!  What did you do?"

"Well, he became more reasonable and we had a chat.  But I got
nothing out of him--nothing for publication."

"I'm not so sure about that.  You got a black eye out of him,
and that's for publication.  We can't have this reign of terror,
Mr. Malone.  We must bring the man to his bearings.  I'll have a
leaderette on him to-morrow that will raise a blister.  Just give
me the material and I will engage to brand the fellow for ever. 
Professor Munchausen--how's that for an inset headline?  Sir John
Mandeville redivivus--Cagliostro--all the imposters and bullies
in history.  I'll show him up for the fraud he is."

"I wouldn't do that, sir."

"Why not?"

"Because he is not a fraud at all."

"What!" roared McArdle.  "You don't mean to say you really
believe this stuff of his about mammoths and mastodons and great
sea sairpents?"

"Well, I don't know about that.  I don't think he makes any
claims of that kind.  But I do believe he has got something new."

"Then for Heaven's sake, man, write it up!"

"I'm longing to, but all I know he gave me in confidence and on
condition that I didn't."  I condensed into a few sentences the
Professor's narrative.  "That's how it stands."

McArdle looked deeply incredulous.

"Well, Mr. Malone," he said at last, "about this scientific
meeting to-night; there can be no privacy about that, anyhow. 
I don't suppose any paper will want to report it, for Waldron has
been reported already a dozen times, and no one is aware that
Challenger will speak.  We may get a scoop, if we are lucky. 
You'll be there in any case, so you'll just give us a pretty
full report.  I'll keep space up to midnight."

My day was a busy one, and I had an early dinner at the Savage
Club with Tarp Henry, to whom I gave some account of my adventures. 
He listened with a sceptical smile on his gaunt face, and roared
with laughter on hearing that the Professor had convinced me.

"My dear chap, things don't happen like that in real life. 
People don't stumble upon enormous discoveries and then lose
their evidence.  Leave that to the novelists.  The fellow is as
full of tricks as the monkey-house at the Zoo.  It's all bosh."

"But the American poet?"

"He never existed."

"I saw his sketch-book."

"Challenger's sketch-book."

"You think he drew that animal?"

"Of course he did.  Who else?"

"Well, then, the photographs?"

"There was nothing in the photographs.  By your own admission you
only saw a bird."

"A pterodactyl."

"That's what HE says.  He put the pterodactyl into your head."

"Well, then, the bones?"

"First one out of an Irish stew.  Second one vamped up for
the occasion.  If you are clever and know your business you
can fake a bone as easily as you can a photograph."

I began to feel uneasy.  Perhaps, after all, I had been premature
in my acquiescence.  Then I had a sudden happy thought.

"Will you come to the meeting?" I asked.

Tarp Henry looked thoughtful.

"He is not a popular person, the genial Challenger," said he. 
"A lot of people have accounts to settle with him.  I should say he
is about the best-hated man in London.  If the medical students
turn out there will be no end of a rag.  I don't want to get into
a bear-garden."

"You might at least do him the justice to hear him state his own case."

"Well, perhaps it's only fair.  All right.  I'm your man for
the evening."

When we arrived at the hall we found a much greater concourse
than I had expected.  A line of electric broughams discharged
their little cargoes of white-bearded professors, while the dark
stream of humbler pedestrians, who crowded through the arched
door-way, showed that the audience would be popular as well
as scientific.  Indeed, it became evident to us as soon as we had
taken our seats that a youthful and even boyish spirit was abroad
in the gallery and the back portions of the hall.  Looking behind
me, I could see rows of faces of the familiar medical student type. 
Apparently the great hospitals had each sent down their contingent. 
The behavior of the audience at present was good-humored,
but mischievous.  Scraps of popular songs were chorused with
an enthusiasm which was a strange prelude to a scientific lecture,
and there was already a tendency to personal chaff which promised
a jovial evening to others, however embarrassing it might be to
the recipients of these dubious honors.

Thus, when old Doctor Meldrum, with his well-known curly-brimmed
opera-hat, appeared upon the platform, there was such a universal
query of "Where DID you get that tile?" that he hurriedly removed
it, and concealed it furtively under his chair.  When gouty
Professor Wadley limped down to his seat there were general
affectionate inquiries from all parts of the hall as to the exact
state of his poor toe, which caused him obvious embarrassment. 
The greatest demonstration of all, however, was at the entrance
of my new acquaintance, Professor Challenger, when he passed down to
take his place at the extreme end of the front row of the platform. 
Such a yell of welcome broke forth when his black beard first
protruded round the corner that I began to suspect Tarp Henry
was right in his surmise, and that this assemblage was there not
merely for the sake of the lecture, but because it had got rumored
abroad that the famous Professor would take part in the proceedings.

There was some sympathetic laughter on his entrance among the
front benches of well-dressed spectators, as though the
demonstration of the students in this instance was not unwelcome
to them.  That greeting was, indeed, a frightful outburst of
sound, the uproar of the carnivora cage when the step of the
bucket-bearing keeper is heard in the distance.  There was an
offensive tone in it, perhaps, and yet in the main it struck me
as mere riotous outcry, the noisy reception of one who amused and
interested them, rather than of one they disliked or despised. 
Challenger smiled with weary and tolerant contempt, as a kindly
man would meet the yapping of a litter of puppies.  He sat slowly
down, blew out his chest, passed his hand caressingly down his
beard, and looked with drooping eyelids and supercilious eyes at
the crowded hall before him.  The uproar of his advent had not
yet died away when Professor Ronald Murray, the chairman, and Mr.
Waldron, the lecturer, threaded their way to the front, and the
proceedings began.

Professor Murray will, I am sure, excuse me if I say that he has
the common fault of most Englishmen of being inaudible.  Why on
earth people who have something to say which is worth hearing
should not take the slight trouble to learn how to make it heard
is one of the strange mysteries of modern life.  Their methods
are as reasonable as to try to pour some precious stuff from the
spring to the reservoir through a non-conducting pipe, which
could by the least effort be opened.  Professor Murray made
several profound remarks to his white tie and to the water-carafe
upon the table, with a humorous, twinkling aside to the silver
candlestick upon his right.  Then he sat down, and Mr. Waldron,
the famous popular lecturer, rose amid a general murmur of applause. 
He was a stern, gaunt man, with a harsh voice, and an aggressive
manner, but he had the merit of knowing how to assimilate the
ideas of other men, and to pass them on in a way which was
intelligible and even interesting to the lay public, with a
happy knack of being funny about the most unlikely objects,
so that the precession of the Equinox or the formation of a
vertebrate became a highly humorous process as treated by him.

It was a bird's-eye view of creation, as interpreted by science,
which, in language always clear and sometimes picturesque, he
unfolded before us.  He told us of the globe, a huge mass of
flaming gas, flaring through the heavens.  Then he pictured the
solidification, the cooling, the wrinkling which formed the
mountains, the steam which turned to water, the slow preparation
of the stage upon which was to be played the inexplicable drama
of life.  On the origin of life itself he was discreetly vague. 
That the germs of it could hardly have survived the original
roasting was, he declared, fairly certain.  Therefore it had
come later.  Had it built itself out of the cooling, inorganic
elements of the globe?  Very likely.  Had the germs of it arrived
from outside upon a meteor?  It was hardly conceivable.  On the
whole, the wisest man was the least dogmatic upon the point. 
We could not--or at least we had not succeeded up to date in
making organic life in our laboratories out of inorganic materials. 
The gulf between the dead and the living was something which our
chemistry could not as yet bridge.  But there was a higher and
subtler chemistry of Nature, which, working with great forces
over long epochs, might well produce results which were impossible
for us.  There the matter must be left.

This brought the lecturer to the great ladder of animal life,
beginning low down in molluscs and feeble sea creatures, then up
rung by rung through reptiles and fishes, till at last we came to
a kangaroo-rat, a creature which brought forth its young alive,
the direct ancestor of all mammals, and presumably, therefore, of
everyone in the audience.  ("No, no," from a sceptical student in
the back row.)  If the young gentleman in the red tie who cried
"No, no," and who presumably claimed to have been hatched out of
an egg, would wait upon him after the lecture, he would be glad
to see such a curiosity.  (Laughter.)  It was strange to think that
the climax of all the age-long process of Nature had been the creation
of that gentleman in the red tie.  But had the process stopped? 
Was this gentleman to be taken as the final type--the be-all and
end-all of development?  He hoped that he would not hurt the
feelings of the gentleman in the red tie if he maintained that,
whatever virtues that gentleman might possess in private life,
still the vast processes of the universe were not fully justified
if they were to end entirely in his production.  Evolution was
not a spent force, but one still working, and even greater
achievements were in store.

Having thus, amid a general titter, played very prettily with his
interrupter, the lecturer went back to his picture of the past,
the drying of the seas, the emergence of the sand-bank, the
sluggish, viscous life which lay upon their margins, the
overcrowded lagoons, the tendency of the sea creatures to take
refuge upon the mud-flats, the abundance of food awaiting them,
their consequent enormous growth.  "Hence, ladies and gentlemen,"
he added, "that frightful brood of saurians which still affright
our eyes when seen in the Wealden or in the Solenhofen slates,
but which were fortunately extinct long before the first
appearance of mankind upon this planet."

"Question!" boomed a voice from the platform.

Mr. Waldron was a strict disciplinarian with a gift of acid
humor, as exemplified upon the gentleman with the red tie, which
made it perilous to interrupt him.  But this interjection
appeared to him so absurd that he was at a loss how to deal
with it.  So looks the Shakespearean who is confronted by a
rancid Baconian, or the astronomer who is assailed by a flat-
earth fanatic.  He paused for a moment, and then, raising his
voice, repeated slowly the words:  "Which were extinct before
the coming of man."

"Question!" boomed the voice once more.

Waldron looked with amazement along the line of professors upon
the platform until his eyes fell upon the figure of Challenger,
who leaned back in his chair with closed eyes and an amused
expression, as if he were smiling in his sleep.

"I see!" said Waldron, with a shrug.  "It is my friend Professor
Challenger," and amid laughter he renewed his lecture as if this
was a final explanation and no more need be said.

But the incident was far from being closed.  Whatever path the
lecturer took amid the wilds of the past seemed invariably to
lead him to some assertion as to extinct or prehistoric life
which instantly brought the same bulls' bellow from the Professor. 
The audience began to anticipate it and to roar with delight when
it came.  The packed benches of students joined in, and every
time Challenger's beard opened, before any sound could come forth,
there was a yell of "Question!" from a hundred voices, and an
answering counter cry of "Order!" and "Shame!" from as many more. 
Waldron, though a hardened lecturer and a strong man, became rattled. 
He hesitated, stammered, repeated himself, got snarled in a long
sentence, and finally turned furiously upon the cause of his troubles.

"This is really intolerable!" he cried, glaring across the platform. 
"I must ask you, Professor Challenger, to cease these ignorant and
unmannerly interruptions."

There was a hush over the hall, the students rigid with delight
at seeing the high gods on Olympus quarrelling among themselves. 
Challenger levered his bulky figure slowly out of his chair.

"I must in turn ask you, Mr. Waldron," he said, "to cease to make
assertions which are not in strict accordance with scientific fact."

The words unloosed a tempest.  "Shame!  Shame!"  "Give him a
hearing!"  "Put him out!"  "Shove him off the platform!"  "Fair
play!" emerged from a general roar of amusement or execration. 
The chairman was on his feet flapping both his hands and
bleating excitedly.  "Professor Challenger--personal--views--
later," were the solid peaks above his clouds of inaudible mutter. 
The interrupter bowed, smiled, stroked his beard, and relapsed
into his chair.  Waldron, very flushed and warlike, continued
his observations.  Now and then, as he made an assertion, he shot
a venomous glance at his opponent, who seemed to be slumbering
deeply, with the same broad, happy smile upon his face.

At last the lecture came to an end--I am inclined to think
that it was a premature one, as the peroration was hurried
and disconnected.  The thread of the argument had been rudely
broken, and the audience was restless and expectant.  Waldron sat
down, and, after a chirrup from the chairman, Professor Challenger
rose and advanced to the edge of the platform.  In the interests
of my paper I took down his speech verbatim.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he began, amid a sustained interruption
from the back.  "I beg pardon--Ladies, Gentlemen, and Children--I
must apologize, I had inadvertently omitted a considerable
section of this audience" (tumult, during which the Professor
stood with one hand raised and his enormous head nodding
sympathetically, as if he were bestowing a pontifical blessing
upon the crowd), "I have been selected to move a vote of thanks
to Mr. Waldron for the very picturesque and imaginative address
to which we have just listened.  There are points in it with
which I disagree, and it has been my duty to indicate them as
they arose, but, none the less, Mr. Waldron has accomplished his
object well, that object being to give a simple and interesting
account of what he conceives to have been the history of our planet. 
Popular lectures are the easiest to listen to, but Mr. Waldron"
(here he beamed and blinked at the lecturer) "will excuse me when
I say that they are necessarily both superficial and misleading,
since they have to be graded to the comprehension of an
ignorant audience."  (Ironical cheering.)  "Popular lecturers
are in their nature parasitic."  (Angry gesture of protest from
Mr. Waldron.)  "They exploit for fame or cash the work which has
been done by their indigent and unknown brethren.  One smallest
new fact obtained in the laboratory, one brick built into the
temple of science, far outweighs any second-hand exposition which
passes an idle hour, but can leave no useful result behind it. 
I put forward this obvious reflection, not out of any desire to
disparage Mr. Waldron in particular, but that you may not lose
your sense of proportion and mistake the acolyte for the high priest." 
(At this point Mr. Waldron whispered to the chairman, who half rose
and said something  severely to his water-carafe.)  "But enough
of this!"  (Loud and prolonged cheers.)  "Let me pass to some
subject of wider interest.  What is the particular point upon
which I, as an original investigator, have challenged our
lecturer's accuracy?  It is upon the permanence of certain types
of animal life upon the earth.  I do not speak upon this subject
as an amateur, nor, I may add, as a popular lecturer, but I speak
as one whose scientific conscience compels him to adhere closely
to facts, when I say that Mr. Waldron is very wrong in supposing
that because he has never himself seen a so-called prehistoric
animal, therefore these creatures no longer exist.  They are
indeed, as he has said, our ancestors, but they are, if I may use
the expression, our contemporary ancestors, who can still be
found with all their hideous and formidable characteristics if
one has but the energy and hardihood to seek their haunts. 
Creatures which were supposed to be Jurassic, monsters who would
hunt down and devour our largest and fiercest mammals, still exist." 
(Cries of "Bosh!" "Prove it!" "How do YOU know?" "Question!") 
"How do I know, you ask me? I know because I have visited their
secret haunts.  I know because I have seen some of them." 
(Applause, uproar, and a voice, "Liar!")  "Am I a liar?" 
(General hearty and noisy assent.)  "Did I hear someone say that I
was a liar?  Will the person who called me a liar kindly stand up
that I may know him?"  (A voice, "Here he is, sir!" and an
inoffensive little person in spectacles, struggling violently,
was held up among a group of students.)  "Did you venture to call
me a liar?"  ("No, sir, no!" shouted the accused, and disappeared
like a jack-in-the-box.)  "If any person in this hall dares to
doubt my veracity, I shall be glad to have a few words with him
after the lecture."  ("Liar!")  "Who said that?"  (Again the
inoffensive one plunging desperately, was elevated high into the air.) 
"If I come down among you----" (General chorus of "Come, love, come!"
which interrupted the proceedings for some moments, while the
chairman, standing up and waving both his arms, seemed to be
conducting the music.  The Professor, with his face flushed,
his nostrils dilated, and his beard bristling, was now in a
proper Berserk mood.)  "Every great discoverer has been met with
the same incredulity--the sure brand of a generation of fools. 
When great facts are laid before you, you have not the intuition,
the imagination which would help you to understand them.  You can
only throw mud at the men who have risked their lives to open new
fields to science.  You persecute the prophets!  Galileo!  Darwin,
and I----" (Prolonged cheering and complete interruption.)

All this is from my hurried notes taken at the time, which give
little notion of the absolute chaos to which the assembly had by
this time been reduced.  So terrific was the uproar that several
ladies had already beaten a hurried retreat.  Grave and reverend
seniors seemed to have caught the prevailing spirit as badly as
the students, and I saw white-bearded men rising and shaking
their fists at the obdurate Professor.  The whole great audience
seethed and simmered like a boiling pot.  The Professor took a
step forward and raised both his hands.  There was something so
big and arresting and virile in the man that the clatter and
shouting died gradually away before his commanding gesture and
his masterful eyes.  He seemed to have a definite message. 
They hushed to hear it.

"I will not detain you," he said.  "It is not worth it.  Truth is
truth, and the noise of a number of foolish young men--and, I
fear I must add, of their equally foolish seniors--cannot affect
the matter.  I claim that I have opened a new field of science. 
You dispute it."  (Cheers.)  "Then I put you to the test.  Will you
accredit one or more of your own number to go out as your
representatives and test my statement in your name?"

Mr. Summerlee, the veteran Professor of Comparative Anatomy, rose
among the audience, a tall, thin, bitter man, with the withered
aspect of a theologian.  He wished, he said, to ask Professor
Challenger whether the results to which he had alluded in his
remarks had been obtained during a journey to the headwaters of
the Amazon made by him two years before.

Professor Challenger answered that they had.

Mr. Summerlee desired to know how it was that Professor
Challenger claimed to have made discoveries in those regions
which had been overlooked by Wallace, Bates, and other previous
explorers of established scientific repute.

Professor Challenger answered that Mr. Summerlee appeared to be
confusing the Amazon with the Thames; that it was in reality a
somewhat larger river; that Mr. Summerlee might be interested to
know that with the Orinoco, which communicated with it, some
fifty thousand miles of country were opened up, and that in so
vast a space it was not impossible for one person to find what
another had missed.

Mr. Summerlee declared, with an acid smile, that he fully
appreciated the difference between the Thames and the Amazon,
which lay in the fact that any assertion about the former could be
tested, while about the latter it could not.  He would be obliged
if Professor Challenger would give the latitude and the longitude
of the country in which prehistoric animals were to be found.

Professor Challenger replied that he reserved such information
for good reasons of his own, but would be prepared to give it
with proper precautions to a committee chosen from the audience. 
Would Mr. Summerlee serve on such a committee and test his story
in person?

Mr. Summerlee:  "Yes, I will."  (Great cheering.)

Professor Challenger:  "Then I guarantee that I will place in
your hands such material as will enable you to find your way. 
It is only right, however, since Mr. Summerlee goes to check my
statement that I should have one or more with him who may check his. 
I will not disguise from you that there are difficulties and dangers. 
Mr. Summerlee will need a younger colleague.  May I ask for volunteers?"

It is thus that the great crisis of a man's life springs out at him. 
Could I have imagined when I entered that hall that I was about to
pledge myself to a wilder adventure than had ever come to me in
my dreams?  But Gladys--was it not the very opportunity of which
she spoke?  Gladys would have told me to go.  I had sprung to my feet. 
I was speaking, and yet I had prepared no words.  Tarp Henry, my
companion, was plucking at my skirts and I heard him whispering,
"Sit down, Malone! Don't make a public ass of yourself."  At the
same time I was aware that a tall, thin man, with dark gingery hair,
a few seats in front of me, was also upon his feet.  He glared back
at me with hard angry eyes, but I refused to give way.

"I will go, Mr. Chairman," I kept repeating over and over again.

"Name!  Name!" cried the audience.

"My name is Edward Dunn Malone.  I am the reporter of the Daily
Gazette.  I claim to be an absolutely unprejudiced witness."

"What is YOUR name, sir?" the chairman asked of my tall rival.

"I am Lord John Roxton.  I have already been up the Amazon,
I know all the ground, and have special qualifications for
this investigation."

"Lord John Roxton's reputation as a sportsman and a traveler is,
of course, world-famous," said the chairman; "at the same time it
would certainly be as well to have a member of the Press upon
such an expedition."

"Then I move," said Professor Challenger, "that both these
gentlemen be elected, as representatives of this meeting, to
accompany Professor Summerlee upon his journey to investigate and
to report upon the truth of my statements."

And so, amid shouting and cheering, our fate was decided, and I
found myself borne away in the human current which swirled
towards the door, with my mind half stunned by the vast new
project which had risen so suddenly before it.  As I emerged from
the hall I was conscious for a moment of a rush of laughing
students--down the pavement, and of an arm wielding a heavy
umbrella, which rose and fell in the midst of them.  Then, amid a
mixture of groans and cheers, Professor Challenger's electric
brougham slid from the curb, and I found myself walking under the
silvery lights of Regent Street, full of thoughts of Gladys and
of wonder as to my future.

Suddenly there was a touch at my elbow.  I turned, and found
myself looking into the humorous, masterful eyes of the tall, thin
man who had volunteered to be my companion on this strange quest.

"Mr. Malone, I understand," said he.  "We are to be
companions--what?  My rooms are just over the road, in the Albany. 
Perhaps you would have the kindness to spare me half an hour, for
there are one or two things that I badly want to say to you."


                            CHAPTER VI

                  "I was the Flail of the Lord"

Lord John Roxton and I turned down Vigo Street together and
through the dingy portals of the famous aristocratic rookery. 
At the end of a long drab passage my new acquaintance pushed open
a door and turned on an electric switch.  A number of lamps shining
through tinted shades bathed the whole great room before us in a
ruddy radiance.  Standing in the doorway and glancing round me, I
had a general impression of extraordinary comfort and elegance
combined with an atmosphere of masculine virility.  Everywhere there
were mingled the luxury of the wealthy man of taste and the
careless untidiness of the bachelor.  Rich furs and strange
iridescent mats from some Oriental bazaar were scattered upon
the floor.  Pictures and prints which even my unpractised eyes
could recognize as being of great price and rarity hung thick upon
the walls.  Sketches of boxers, of ballet-girls, and of racehorses
alternated with a sensuous Fragonard, a martial Girardet, and a
dreamy Turner.  But amid these varied ornaments there were
scattered the trophies which brought back strongly to my
recollection the fact that Lord John Roxton was one of the great
all-round sportsmen and athletes of his day.  A dark-blue oar
crossed with a cherry-pink one above his mantel-piece spoke of
the old Oxonian and Leander man, while the foils and
boxing-gloves above and below them were the tools of a man who
had won supremacy with each.  Like a dado round the room was the
jutting line of splendid heavy game-heads, the best of their sort
from every quarter of the world, with the rare white rhinoceros
of the Lado Enclave drooping its supercilious lip above them all.

In the center of the rich red carpet was a black and gold Louis
Quinze table, a lovely antique, now sacrilegiously desecrated
with marks of glasses and the scars of cigar-stumps.  On it stood
a silver tray of smokables and a burnished spirit-stand, from
which and an adjacent siphon my silent host proceeded to charge
two high glasses.  Having indicated an arm-chair to me and placed
my refreshment near it, he handed me a long, smooth Havana. 
Then, seating himself opposite to me, he looked at me long and
fixedly with his strange, twinkling, reckless eyes--eyes of a
cold light blue, the color of a glacier lake.

Through the thin haze of my cigar-smoke I noted the details of a
face which was already familiar to me from many photographs--the
strongly-curved nose, the hollow, worn cheeks, the dark, ruddy
hair, thin at the top, the crisp, virile moustaches, the small,
aggressive tuft upon his projecting chin.  Something there was of
Napoleon III., something of Don Quixote, and yet again something
which was the essence of the English country gentleman, the keen,
alert, open-air lover of dogs and of horses.  His skin was of a
rich flower-pot red from sun and wind.  His eyebrows were tufted
and overhanging, which gave those naturally cold eyes an almost
ferocious aspect, an impression which was increased by his strong
and furrowed brow.  In figure he was spare, but very strongly
built--indeed, he had often proved that there were few men in
England capable of such sustained exertions.  His height was a
little over six feet, but he seemed shorter on account of a
peculiar rounding of the shoulders.  Such was the famous Lord
John Roxton as he sat opposite to me, biting hard upon his cigar
and watching me steadily in a long and embarrassing silence.

"Well," said he, at last, "we've gone and done it, young fellah
my lad."  (This curious phrase he pronounced as if it were all one
word--"young-fellah-me-lad.")  "Yes, we've taken a jump, you an' me. 
I suppose, now, when you went into that room there was no such
notion in your head--what?"

"No thought of it."

"The same here.  No thought of it.  And here we are, up to our
necks in the tureen.  Why, I've only been back three weeks from
Uganda, and taken a place in Scotland, and signed the lease and all. 
Pretty goin's on--what?  How does it hit you?"

"Well, it is all in the main line of my business.  I am a
journalist on the Gazette."

"Of course--you said so when you took it on.  By the way, I've
got a small job for you, if you'll help me."

"With pleasure."

"Don't mind takin' a risk, do you?"

"What is the risk?"

"Well, it's Ballinger--he's the risk.  You've heard of him?"

"No."

"Why, young fellah, where HAVE you lived?  Sir John Ballinger
is the best gentleman jock in the north country.  I could hold
him on the flat at my best, but over jumps he's my master. 
Well, it's an open secret that when he's out of trainin' he drinks
hard--strikin' an average, he calls it.  He got delirium on
Toosday, and has been ragin' like a devil ever since.  His room
is above this.  The doctors say that it is all up with the old
dear unless some food is got into him, but as he lies in bed with
a revolver on his coverlet, and swears he will put six of the
best through anyone that comes near him, there's been a bit of a
strike among the serving-men.  He's a hard nail, is Jack, and a
dead shot, too, but you can't leave a Grand National winner to
die like that--what?"

"What do you mean to do, then?" I asked.

"Well, my idea was that you and I could rush him.  He may be
dozin', and at the worst he can only wing one of us, and the
other should have him.  If we can get his bolster-cover round his
arms and then 'phone up a stomach-pump, we'll give the old dear
the supper of his life."

It was a rather desperate business to come suddenly into one's
day's work.  I don't think that I am a particularly brave man. 
I have an Irish imagination which makes the unknown and the untried
more terrible than they are.  On the other hand, I was brought up
with a horror of cowardice and with a terror of such a stigma. 
I dare say that I could throw myself over a precipice, like the Hun
in the history books, if my courage to do it were questioned, and
yet it would surely be pride and fear, rather than courage, which
would be my inspiration.  Therefore, although every nerve in my
body shrank from the whisky-maddened figure which I pictured in
the room above, I still answered, in as careless a voice as I
could command, that I was ready to go.  Some further remark of
Lord Roxton's about the danger only made me irritable.

"Talking won't make it any better," said I. "Come on."

I rose from my chair and he from his.  Then with a little
confidential chuckle of laughter, he patted me two or three times
on the chest, finally pushing me back into my chair.

"All right, sonny my lad--you'll do," said he.  I looked up
in surprise.

"I saw after Jack Ballinger myself this mornin'.  He blew a hole
in the skirt of my kimono, bless his shaky old hand, but we got a
jacket on him, and he's to be all right in a week.  I say, young
fellah, I hope you don't mind--what?  You see, between you an' me
close-tiled, I look on this South American business as a mighty
serious thing, and if I have a pal with me I want a man I can
bank on.  So I sized you down, and I'm bound to say that you came
well out of it.  You see, it's all up to you and me, for this old
Summerlee man will want dry-nursin' from the first.  By the way,
are you by any chance the Malone who is expected to get his Rugby
cap for Ireland?"

"A reserve, perhaps."

"I thought I remembered your face.  Why, I was there when you got
that try against Richmond--as fine a swervin' run as I saw the
whole season.   I never miss a Rugby match if I can help it, for
it is the manliest game we have left.  Well, I didn't ask you in
here just to talk sport.  We've got to fix our business.  Here are
the sailin's, on the first page of the Times.  There's a Booth boat
for Para next Wednesday week, and if the Professor and you can work
it, I think we should take it--what?  Very good, I'll fix it with him. 
What about your outfit?"

"My paper will see to that."

"Can you shoot?"

"About average Territorial standard."

"Good Lord! as bad as that?  It's the last thing you young fellahs
think of learnin'.  You're all bees without stings, so far as
lookin' after the hive goes.  You'll look silly, some o' these
days, when someone comes along an' sneaks the honey.  But you'll
need to hold your gun straight in South America, for, unless our
friend the Professor is a madman or a liar, we may see some queer
things before we get back.  What gun have you?"

He crossed to an oaken cupboard, and as he threw it open I caught
a glimpse of glistening rows of parallel barrels, like the pipes
of an organ.

"I'll see what I can spare you out of my own battery," said he.

One by one he took out a succession of beautiful rifles, opening
and shutting them with a snap and a clang, and then patting them
as he put them back into the rack as tenderly as a mother would
fondle her children.

"This is a Bland's .577 axite express," said he.  "I got that big
fellow with it."  He glanced up at the white rhinoceros.  "Ten more
yards, and he'd would have added me to HIS collection.


         `On that conical bullet his one chance hangs,
         'Tis the weak one's advantage fair.'

Hope you know your Gordon, for he's the poet of the horse and
the gun and the man that handles both.  Now, here's a useful
tool--.470, telescopic sight, double ejector, point-blank up to
three-fifty.  That's the rifle I used against the Peruvian
slave-drivers three years ago.  I was the flail of the Lord up in
those parts, I may tell you, though you won't find it in any
Blue-book.  There are times, young fellah, when every one of us
must make a stand for human right and justice, or you never feel
clean again.  That's why I made a little war on my own.  Declared it
myself, waged it myself, ended it myself.  Each of those nicks
is for a slave murderer--a good row of them--what?  That big one
is for Pedro Lopez, the king of them all, that I killed in a
backwater of the Putomayo River.  Now, here's something that
would do for you."  He took out a beautiful brown-and-silver rifle. 
"Well rubbered at the stock, sharply sighted, five cartridges to
the clip.  You can trust your life to that."  He handed it to me
and closed the door of his oak cabinet.

"By the way," he continued, coming back to his chair, "what do
you know of this Professor Challenger?"

"I never saw him till to-day."

"Well, neither did I.  It's funny we should both sail under sealed
orders from a man we don't know.  He seemed an uppish old bird. 
His brothers of science don't seem too fond of him, either. 
How came you to take an interest in the affair?"

I told him shortly my experiences of the morning, and he
listened intently.  Then he drew out a map of South America
and laid it on the table.

"I believe every single word he said to you was the truth," said
he, earnestly, "and, mind you, I have something to go on when I
speak like that.  South America is a place I love, and I think,
if you take it right through from Darien to Fuego, it's the
grandest, richest, most wonderful bit of earth upon this planet. 
People don't know it yet, and don't realize what it may become. 
I've been up an' down it from end to end, and had two dry
seasons in those very parts, as I told you when I spoke of the
war I made on the slave-dealers.  Well, when I was up there I
heard some yarns of the same kind--traditions of Indians and the
like, but with somethin' behind them, no doubt.  The more you
knew of that country, young fellah, the more you would understand
that anythin' was possible--ANYTHIN'1.  There are just some narrow
water-lanes along which folk travel, and outside that it is
all darkness.  Now, down here in the Matto Grande"--he swept his
cigar over a part of the map--"or up in this corner where three
countries meet, nothin' would surprise me.  As that chap said
to-night, there are fifty-thousand miles of water-way runnin'
through a forest that is very near the size of Europe.  You and
I could be as far away from each other as Scotland is from
Constantinople, and yet each of us be in the same great Brazilian forest. 
Man has just made a track here and a scrape there in the maze. 
Why, the river rises and falls the best part of forty feet,
and half the country is a morass that you can't pass over. 
Why shouldn't somethin' new and wonderful lie in such a country? 
And why shouldn't we be the men to find it out?  Besides," he
added, his queer, gaunt face shining with delight, "there's a
sportin' risk in every mile of it.  I'm like an old golf-ball--
I've had all the white paint knocked off me long ago. 
Life can whack me about now, and it can't leave a mark.  But a
sportin' risk, young fellah, that's the salt of existence. 
Then it's worth livin' again.  We're all gettin' a deal too soft
and dull and comfy.  Give me the great waste lands and the wide
spaces, with a gun in my fist and somethin' to look for that's
worth findin'.  I've tried war and steeplechasin' and aeroplanes,
but this huntin' of beasts that look like a lobster-supper dream
is a brand-new sensation." He chuckled with glee at the prospect.

Perhaps I have dwelt too long upon this new acquaintance, but he
is to be my comrade for many a day, and so I have tried to set
him down as I first saw him, with his quaint personality and his
queer little tricks of speech and of thought.  It was only the
need of getting in the account of my meeting which drew me at
last from his company.  I left him seated amid his pink radiance,
oiling the lock of his favorite rifle, while he still chuckled to
himself at the thought of the adventures which awaited us.  It was
very clear to me that if dangers lay before us I could not in all
England have found a cooler head or a braver spirit with which to
share them.

That night, wearied as I was after the wonderful happenings of
the day, I sat late with McArdle, the news editor, explaining to
him the whole situation, which he thought important enough to
bring next morning before the notice of Sir George Beaumont,
the chief.  It was agreed that I should write home full accounts
of my adventures in the shape of successive letters to McArdle,
and that these should either be edited for the Gazette as they
arrived, or held back to be published later, according to the
wishes of Professor Challenger, since we could not yet know what
conditions he might attach to those directions which should guide
us to the unknown land.  In response to a telephone inquiry, we
received nothing more definite than a fulmination against the
Press, ending up with the remark that if we would notify our boat
he would hand us any directions which he might think it proper to
give us at the moment of starting.  A second question from us
failed to elicit any answer at all, save a plaintive bleat from
his wife to the effect that her husband was in a very violent
temper already, and that she hoped we would do nothing to make
it worse.  A third attempt, later in the day, provoked a terrific
crash, and a subsequent message from the Central Exchange that
Professor Challenger's receiver had been shattered.  After that
we abandoned all attempt at communication.

And now my patient readers, I can address you directly no longer. 
From now onwards (if, indeed, any continuation of this narrative
should ever reach you) it can only be through the paper which
I represent.  In the hands of the editor I leave this account
of the events which have led up to one of the most remarkable
expeditions of all time, so that if I never return to England
there shall be some record as to how the affair came about.  I am
writing these last lines in the saloon of the Booth liner
Francisca, and they will go back by the pilot to the keeping of
Mr. McArdle.  Let me draw one last picture before I close the
notebook--a picture which is the last memory of the old country
which I bear away with me.  It is a wet, foggy morning in the late
spring; a thin, cold rain is falling.  Three shining mackintoshed
figures are walking down the quay, making for the gang-plank of
the great liner from which the blue-peter is flying.  In front of
them a porter pushes a trolley piled high with trunks, wraps,
and gun-cases.  Professor Summerlee, a long, melancholy figure,
walks with dragging steps and drooping head, as one who is already
profoundly sorry for himself.  Lord John Roxton steps briskly,
and his thin, eager face beams forth between his hunting-cap and
his muffler.  As for myself, I am glad to have got the bustling
days of preparation and the pangs of leave-taking behind me, and
I have no doubt that I show it in my bearing.  Suddenly, just as
we reach the vessel, there is a shout behind us.  It is Professor
Challenger, who had promised to see us off.  He runs after us, a
puffing, red-faced, irascible figure.

"No thank you," says he; "I should much prefer not to go aboard. 
I have only a few words to say to you, and they can very well be
said where we are.  I beg you not to imagine that I am in any way
indebted to you for making this journey.  I would have you to
understand that it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, and
I refuse to entertain the most remote sense of personal obligation. 
Truth is truth, and nothing which you can report can affect it in
any way, though it may excite the emotions and allay the curiosity
of a number of very ineffectual people.  My directions for your
instruction and guidance are in this sealed envelope.  You will
open it when you reach a town upon the Amazon which is called
Manaos, but not until the date and hour which is marked upon
the outside.  Have I made myself clear?  I leave the strict
observance of my conditions entirely to your honor.  No, Mr. Malone,
I will place no restriction upon your correspondence, since
the ventilation of the facts is the object of your journey; but
I demand that you shall give no particulars as to your exact
destination, and that nothing be actually published until your return. 
Good-bye, sir.  You have done something to mitigate my feelings
for the loathsome profession to which you unhappily belong. 
Good-bye, Lord John.  Science is, as I understand, a sealed book
to you; but you may congratulate yourself upon the hunting-field
which awaits you.  You will, no doubt, have the opportunity of
describing in the Field how you brought down the rocketing dimorphodon. 
And good-bye to you also, Professor Summerlee.  If you are still
capable of self-improvement, of which I am frankly unconvinced,
you will surely return to London a wiser man."

So he turned upon his heel, and a minute later from the deck I
could see his short, squat figure bobbing about in the distance
as he made his way back to his train.  Well, we are well down
Channel now.  There's the last bell for letters, and it's
good-bye to the pilot.  We'll be "down, hull-down, on the old
trail" from now on.  God bless all we leave behind us, and send
us safely back.


                           CHAPTER VII

            "To-morrow we Disappear into the Unknown"

I will not bore those whom this narrative may reach by an account
of our luxurious voyage upon the Booth liner, nor will I tell of
our week's stay at Para (save that I should wish to acknowledge
the great kindness of the Pereira da Pinta Company in helping us
to get together our equipment).  I will also allude very briefly
to our river journey, up a wide, slow-moving, clay-tinted stream,
in a steamer which was little smaller than that which had carried
us across the Atlantic.  Eventually we found ourselves through
the narrows of Obidos and reached the town of Manaos.  Here we
were rescued from the limited attractions of the local inn by
Mr. Shortman, the representative of the British and Brazilian
Trading Company.  In his hospital Fazenda we spent our time until
the day when we were empowered to open the letter of instructions
given to us by Professor Challenger.  Before I reach the surprising
events of that date I would desire to give a clearer sketch of my
comrades in this enterprise, and of the associates whom we had
already gathered together in South America.  I speak freely, and
I leave the use of my material to your own discretion, Mr.
McArdle, since it is through your hands that this report must
pass before it reaches the world.

The scientific attainments of Professor Summerlee are too well
known for me to trouble to recapitulate them.  He is better
equipped for a rough expedition of this sort than one would
imagine at first sight.  His tall, gaunt, stringy figure is
insensible to fatigue, and his dry, half-sarcastic, and often
wholly unsympathetic manner is uninfluenced by any change in
his surroundings.  Though in his sixty-sixth year, I have never
heard him express any dissatisfaction at the occasional hardships
which we have had to encounter.  I had regarded his presence as an
encumbrance to the expedition, but, as a matter of fact, I am now
well convinced that his power of endurance is as great as my own. 
In temper he is naturally acid and sceptical.  From the beginning
he has never concealed his belief that Professor Challenger is
an absolute fraud, that we are all embarked upon an absurd
wild-goose chase and that we are likely to reap nothing but
disappointment and danger in South America, and corresponding
ridicule in England.  Such are the views which, with much
passionate distortion of his thin features and wagging of his
thin, goat-like beard, he poured into our ears all the way from
Southampton to Manaos.  Since landing from the boat he has
obtained some consolation from the beauty and variety of the
insect and bird life around him, for he is absolutely
whole-hearted in his devotion to science.  He spends his days
flitting through the woods with his shot-gun and his
butterfly-net, and his evenings in mounting the many specimens
he has acquired.  Among his minor peculiarities are that he is
careless as to his attire, unclean in his person, exceedingly
absent-minded in his habits, and addicted to smoking a short
briar pipe, which is seldom out of his mouth.  He has been upon
several scientific expeditions in his youth (he was with
Robertson in Papua), and the life of the camp and the canoe is
nothing fresh to him.

Lord John Roxton has some points in common with Professor
Summerlee, and others in which they are the very antithesis to
each other.  He is twenty years younger, but has something of the
same spare, scraggy physique.  As to his appearance, I have, as I
recollect, described it in that portion of my narrative which I
have left behind me in London.  He is exceedingly neat and prim
in his ways, dresses always with great care in white drill suits
and high brown mosquito-boots, and shaves at least once a day. 
Like most men of action, he is laconic in speech, and sinks
readily into his own thoughts, but he is always quick to answer a
question or join in a conversation, talking in a queer, jerky,
half-humorous fashion.  His knowledge of the world, and very
especially of South America, is surprising, and he has a
whole-hearted belief in the possibilities of our journey which is
not to be dashed by the sneers of Professor Summerlee.  He has a
gentle voice and a quiet manner, but behind his twinkling blue
eyes there lurks a capacity for furious wrath and implacable
resolution, the more dangerous because they are held in leash. 
He spoke little of his own exploits in Brazil and Peru, but it
was a revelation to me to find the excitement which was caused by
his presence among the riverine natives, who looked upon him as
their champion and protector.  The exploits of the Red Chief, as
they called him, had become legends among them, but the real
facts, as far as I could learn them, were amazing enough.

These were that Lord John had found himself some years before in
that no-man's-land which is formed by the half-defined frontiers
between Peru, Brazil, and Columbia.  In this great district the
wild rubber tree flourishes, and has become, as in the Congo, a
curse to the natives which can only be compared to their forced
labor under the Spaniards upon the old silver mines of Darien. 
A handful of villainous half-breeds dominated the country, armed
such Indians as would support them, and turned the rest into
slaves, terrorizing them with the most inhuman tortures in order
to force them to gather the india-rubber, which was then floated
down the river to Para.  Lord John Roxton expostulated on behalf
of the wretched victims, and received nothing but threats and
insults for his pains.  He then formally declared war against
Pedro Lopez, the leader of the slave-drivers, enrolled a band of
runaway slaves in his service, armed them, and conducted a
campaign, which ended by his killing with his own hands the
notorious half-breed and breaking down the system which he represented.

No wonder that the ginger-headed man with the silky voice and the
free and easy manners was now looked upon with deep interest upon
the banks of the great South American river, though the feelings
he inspired were naturally mixed, since the gratitude of the
natives was equaled by the resentment of those who desired to
exploit them.  One useful result of his former experiences was
that he could talk fluently in the Lingoa Geral, which is the
peculiar talk, one-third Portuguese and two-thirds Indian, which
is current all over Brazil.

I have said before that Lord John Roxton was a South Americomaniac. 
He could not speak of that great country without ardor, and this
ardor was infectious, for, ignorant as I was, he fixed my
attention and stimulated my curiosity.  How I wish I could
reproduce the glamour of his discourses, the peculiar mixture
of accurate knowledge and of racy imagination which gave them
their fascination, until even the Professor's cynical and
sceptical smile would gradually vanish from his thin face as
he listened.  He would tell the history of the mighty river so
rapidly explored (for some of the first conquerors of Peru
actually crossed the entire continent upon its waters), and yet
so unknown in regard to all that lay behind its ever-changing banks.

"What is there?" he would cry, pointing to the north.  "Wood and
marsh and unpenetrated jungle.  Who knows what it may shelter? 
And there to the south?  A wilderness of swampy forest, where
no white man has ever been.  The unknown is up against us on
every side.  Outside the narrow lines of the rivers what does
anyone know?  Who will say what is possible in such a country? 
Why should old man Challenger not be right?"  At which direct
defiance the stubborn sneer would reappear upon Professor
Summerlee's face, and he would sit, shaking his sardonic head
in unsympathetic silence, behind the cloud of his briar-root pipe.


So much, for the moment, for my two white companions, whose
characters and limitations will be further exposed, as surely as
my own, as this narrative proceeds.  But already we have enrolled
certain retainers who may play no small part in what is to come. 
The first is a gigantic negro named Zambo, who is a black
Hercules, as willing as any horse, and about as intelligent. 
Him we enlisted at Para, on the recommendation of the steamship
company, on whose vessels he had learned to speak a halting English.

It was at Para also that we engaged Gomez and Manuel, two
half-breeds from up the river, just come down with a cargo
of redwood.  They were swarthy fellows, bearded and fierce,
as active and wiry as panthers.  Both of them had spent their
lives in those upper waters of the Amazon which we were about
to explore, and it was this recommendation which had caused Lord
John to engage them.  One of them, Gomez, had the further
advantage that he could speak excellent English.  These men were
willing to act as our personal servants, to cook, to row, or to
make themselves useful in any way at a payment of fifteen dollars
a month.  Besides these, we had engaged three Mojo Indians from
Bolivia, who are the most skilful at fishing and boat work of all
the river tribes.  The chief of these we called Mojo, after his
tribe, and the others are known as Jose and Fernando.  Three white
men, then, two half-breeds, one negro, and three Indians made up
the personnel of the little expedition which lay waiting for its
instructions at Manaos before starting upon its singular quest.

At last, after a weary week, the day had come and the hour. 
I ask you to picture the shaded sitting-room of the Fazenda St.
Ignatio, two miles inland from the town of Manaos.  Outside lay
the yellow, brassy glare of the sunshine, with the shadows of the
palm trees as black and definite as the trees themselves.  The air
was calm, full of the eternal hum of insects, a tropical chorus
of many octaves, from the deep drone of the bee to the high,
keen pipe of the mosquito.  Beyond the veranda was a small
cleared garden, bounded with cactus hedges and adorned with
clumps of flowering shrubs, round which the great blue butterflies
and the tiny humming-birds fluttered and darted in crescents of
sparkling light.  Within we were seated round the cane table,
on which lay a sealed envelope.  Inscribed upon it, in the jagged
handwriting of Professor Challenger, were the words:--


"Instructions to Lord John Roxton and party.  To be opened at
Manaos upon July 15th, at 12 o'clock precisely."


Lord John had placed his watch upon the table beside him.

"We have seven more minutes," said he.  "The old dear is very precise."

Professor Summerlee gave an acid smile as he picked up the
envelope in his gaunt hand.

"What can it possibly matter whether we open it now or in seven
minutes?" said he.  "It is all part and parcel of the same system
of quackery and nonsense, for which I regret to say that the
writer is notorious."

"Oh, come, we must play the game accordin' to rules," said Lord John. 
"It's old man Challenger's show and we are here by his good will,
so it would be rotten bad form if we didn't follow his instructions
to the letter."

"A pretty business it is!" cried the Professor, bitterly. 
"It struck me as preposterous in London, but I'm bound to say
that it seems even more so upon closer acquaintance.  I don't
know what is inside this envelope, but, unless it is something
pretty definite, I shall be much tempted to take the next down-
river boat and catch the Bolivia at Para.  After all, I have
some more responsible work in the world than to run about
disproving the assertions of a lunatic.  Now, Roxton, surely
it is time."

"Time it is," said Lord John.  "You can blow the whistle." 
He took up the envelope and cut it with his penknife.  From it
he drew a folded sheet of paper.  This he carefully opened out
and flattened on the table.  It was a blank sheet.  He turned
it over.  Again it was blank.  We looked at each other in a
bewildered silence, which was broken by a discordant burst of
derisive laughter from Professor Summerlee.

"It is an open admission," he cried.  "What more do you want? 
The fellow is a self-confessed humbug.  We have only to return
home and report him as the brazen imposter that he is."

"Invisible ink!" I suggested.

"I don't think!" said Lord Roxton, holding the paper to the light. 
"No, young fellah my lad, there is no use deceiving yourself. 
I'll go bail for it that nothing has ever been written upon
this paper."

"May I come in?" boomed a voice from the veranda.

The shadow of a squat figure had stolen across the patch of sunlight. 
That voice!  That monstrous breadth of shoulder!  We sprang to our
feet with a gasp of astonishment as Challenger, in a round, boyish
straw-hat with a colored ribbon--Challenger, with his hands in his
jacket-pockets and his canvas shoes daintily pointing as he walked--
appeared in the open space before us.  He threw back his head, and
there he stood in the golden glow with all his old Assyrian
luxuriance of beard, all his native insolence of drooping eyelids
and intolerant eyes.

"I fear," said he, taking out his watch, "that I am a few minutes
too late.  When I gave you this envelope I must confess that I
had never intended that you should open it, for it had been my
fixed intention to be with you before the hour.  The unfortunate
delay can be apportioned between a blundering pilot and an
intrusive sandbank.  I fear that it has given my colleague,
Professor Summerlee, occasion to blaspheme."

"I am bound to say, sir," said Lord John, with some sternness of
voice, "that your turning up is a considerable relief to us, for
our mission seemed to have come to a premature end.  Even now I
can't for the life of me understand why you should have worked it
in so extraordinary a manner."

Instead of answering, Professor Challenger entered, shook hands
with myself and Lord John, bowed with ponderous insolence to
Professor Summerlee, and sank back into a basket-chair, which
creaked and swayed beneath his weight.

"Is all ready for your journey?" he asked.

"We can start to-morrow."

"Then so you shall.  You need no chart of directions now, since
you will have the inestimable advantage of my own guidance. 
From the first I had determined that I would myself preside over
your investigation.  The most elaborate charts would, as you
will readily admit, be a poor substitute for my own intelligence
and advice.  As to the small ruse which I played upon you in the
matter of the envelope, it is clear that, had I told you all my
intentions, I should have been forced to resist unwelcome
pressure to travel out with you."

"Not from me, sir!" exclaimed Professor Summerlee, heartily. 
"So long as there was another ship upon the Atlantic."

Challenger waved him away with his great hairy hand.

"Your common sense will, I am sure, sustain my objection and
realize that it was better that I should direct my own movements
and appear only at the exact moment when my presence was needed. 
That moment has now arrived.  You are in safe hands.  You will
not now fail to reach your destination.  From henceforth I take
command of this expedition, and I must ask you to complete your
preparations to-night, so that we may be able to make an early
start in the morning.  My time is of value, and the same thing
may be said, no doubt, in a lesser degree of your own.  I propose,
therefore, that we push on as rapidly as possible, until I have
demonstrated what you have come to see."

Lord John Roxton has chartered a large steam launch, the Esmeralda,
which was to carry us up the river.  So far as climate goes, it
was immaterial what time we chose for our expedition, as the
temperature ranges from seventy-five to ninety degrees both
summer and winter, with no appreciable difference in heat. 
In moisture, however, it is otherwise; from December to May is
the period of the rains, and during this time the river slowly
rises until it attains a height of nearly forty feet above its
low-water mark.  It floods the banks, extends in great lagoons
over a monstrous waste of country, and forms a huge district,
called locally the Gapo, which is for the most part too marshy
for foot-travel and too shallow for boating.  About June the
waters begin to fall, and are at their lowest at October
or November.  Thus our expedition was at the time of the dry
season, when the great river and its tributaries were more or
less in a normal condition.

The current of the river is a slight one, the drop being not
greater than eight inches in a mile.  No stream could be more
convenient for navigation, since the prevailing wind is
south-east, and sailing boats may make a continuous progress to
the Peruvian frontier, dropping down again with the current. 
In our own case the excellent engines of the Esmeralda could
disregard the sluggish flow of the stream, and we made as rapid
progress as if we were navigating a stagnant lake.  For three
days we steamed north-westwards up a stream which even here, a
thousand miles from its mouth, was still so enormous that from
its center the two banks were mere shadows upon the distant skyline. 
On the fourth day after leaving Manaos we turned into a tributary
which at its mouth was little smaller than the main stream. 
It narrowed rapidly, however, and after two more days' steaming
we reached an Indian village, where the Professor insisted that
we should land, and that the Esmeralda should be sent back to Manaos. 
We should soon come upon rapids, he explained, which would make its
further use impossible.  He added privately that we were now
approaching the door of the unknown country, and that the fewer
whom we took into our confidence the better it would be.  To this
end also he made each of us give our word of honor that we would
publish or say nothing which would give any exact clue as to the
whereabouts of our travels, while the servants were all solemnly
sworn to the same effect.  It is for this reason that I am
compelled to be vague in my narrative, and I would warn my readers
that in any map or diagram which I may give the relation of places
to each other may be correct, but the points of the compass are
carefully confused, so that in no way can it be taken as an actual
guide to the country.  Professor Challenger's reasons for secrecy
may be valid or not, but we had no choice but to adopt them,
for he was prepared to abandon the whole expedition rather than
modify the conditions upon which he would guide us.

It was August 2nd when we snapped our last link with the outer
world by bidding farewell to the Esmeralda.  Since then four days
have passed, during which we have engaged two large canoes from
the Indians, made of so light a material (skins over a bamboo
framework) that we should be able to carry them round any obstacle. 
These we have loaded with all our effects, and have engaged two
additional Indians to help us in the navigation.  I understand
that they are the very two--Ataca and Ipetu by name--who
accompanied Professor Challenger upon his previous journey. 
They appeared to be terrified at the prospect of repeating it,
but the chief has patriarchal powers in these countries, and
if the bargain is good in his eyes the clansman has little
choice in the matter.

So to-morrow we disappear into the unknown.  This account I am
transmitting down the river by canoe, and it may be our last word
to those who are interested in our fate.  I have, according to
our arrangement, addressed it to you, my dear Mr. McArdle, and I
leave it to your discretion to delete, alter, or do what you like
with it.  From the assurance of Professor Challenger's manner--and
in spite of the continued scepticism of Professor Summerlee--I
have no doubt that our leader will make good his statement, and
that we are really on the eve of some most remarkable experiences.


                           CHAPTER VIII

             "The Outlying Pickets of the New World"

Our friends at home may well rejoice with us, for we are at our
goal, and up to a point, at least, we have shown that the
statement of Professor Challenger can be verified.  We have not,
it is true, ascended the plateau, but it lies before us, and even
Professor Summerlee is in a more chastened mood.  Not that he
will for an instant admit that his rival could be right, but he
is less persistent in his incessant objections, and has sunk for
the most part into an observant silence.  I must hark back,
however, and continue my narrative from where I dropped it. 
We are sending home one of our local Indians who is injured,
and I am committing this letter to his charge, with considerable
doubts in my mind as to whether it will ever come to hand.

When I wrote last we were about to leave the Indian village where
we had been deposited by the Esmeralda.  I have to begin my
report by bad news, for the first serious personal trouble
(I pass over the incessant bickerings between the Professors)
occurred this evening, and might have had a tragic ending. 
I have spoken of our English-speaking half-breed, Gomez--a fine
worker and a willing fellow, but afflicted, I fancy, with the
vice of curiosity, which is common enough among such men.  On the
last evening he seems to have hid himself near the hut in which
we were discussing our plans, and, being observed by our huge
negro Zambo, who is as faithful as a dog and has the hatred which
all his race bear to the half-breeds, he was dragged out and
carried into our presence.  Gomez whipped out his knife, however,
and but for the huge strength of his captor, which enabled him to
disarm him with one hand, he would certainly have stabbed him. 
The matter has ended in reprimands, the opponents have been
compelled to shake hands, and there is every hope that all will
be well.  As to the feuds of the two learned men, they are
continuous and bitter.  It must be admitted that Challenger is
provocative in the last degree, but Summerlee has an acid tongue,
which makes matters worse.  Last night Challenger said that he
never cared to walk on the Thames Embankment and look up the river,
as it was always sad to see one's own eventual goal.  He is
convinced, of course, that he is destined for Westminster Abbey. 
Summerlee rejoined, however, with a sour smile, by saying
that he understood that Millbank Prison had been pulled down. 
Challenger's conceit is too colossal to allow him to be
really annoyed.  He only smiled in his beard and repeated
"Really!  Really!" in the pitying tone one would use to a child. 
Indeed, they are children both--the one wizened and cantankerous,
the other formidable and overbearing, yet each with a brain which
has put him in the front rank of his scientific age.  Brain, character,
soul--only as one sees more of life does one understand how distinct
is each.

The very next day we did actually make our start upon this
remarkable expedition.  We found that all our possessions fitted
very easily into the two canoes, and we divided our personnel,
six in each, taking the obvious precaution in the interests of
peace of putting one Professor into each canoe.  Personally, I
was with Challenger, who was in a beatific humor, moving about as
one in a silent ecstasy and beaming benevolence from every feature. 
I have had some experience of him in other moods, however, and
shall be the less surprised when the thunderstorms suddenly
come up amidst the sunshine.  If it is impossible to be at your
ease, it is equally impossible to be dull in his company, for one
is always in a state of half-tremulous doubt as to what sudden
turn his formidable temper may take.

For two days we made our way up a good-sized river some hundreds
of yards broad, and dark in color, but transparent, so that one
could usually see the bottom.  The affluents of the Amazon are,
half of them, of this nature, while the other half are whitish
and opaque, the difference depending upon the class of country
through which they have flowed.  The dark indicate vegetable
decay, while the others point to clayey soil.  Twice we came
across rapids, and in each case made a portage of half a mile or
so to avoid them.  The woods on either side were primeval, which
are more easily penetrated than woods of the second growth, and
we had no great difficulty in carrying our canoes through them. 
How shall I ever forget the solemn mystery of it?  The height of
the trees and the thickness of the boles exceeded anything which
I in my town-bred life could have imagined, shooting upwards in
magnificent columns until, at an enormous distance above our
heads, we could dimly discern the spot where they threw out their
side-branches into Gothic upward curves which coalesced to form
one great matted roof of verdure, through which only an
occasional golden ray of sunshine shot downwards to trace a thin
dazzling line of light amidst the majestic obscurity.  As we
walked noiselessly amid the thick, soft carpet of decaying
vegetation the hush fell upon our souls which comes upon us in
the twilight of the Abbey, and even Professor Challenger's
full-chested notes sank into a whisper.  Alone, I should have
been ignorant of the names of these giant growths, but our men of
science pointed out the cedars, the great silk cotton trees, and
the redwood trees, with all that profusion of various plants
which has made this continent the chief supplier to the human
race of those gifts of Nature which depend upon the vegetable
world, while it is the most backward in those products which come
from animal life.  Vivid orchids and wonderful colored lichens
smoldered upon the swarthy tree-trunks and where a wandering
shaft of light fell full upon the golden allamanda, the scarlet
star-clusters of the tacsonia, or the rich deep blue of ipomaea,
the effect was as a dream of fairyland.  In these great wastes of
forest, life, which abhors darkness, struggles ever upwards to
the light.  Every plant, even the smaller ones, curls and writhes
to the green surface, twining itself round its stronger and
taller brethren in the effort.  Climbing plants are monstrous and
luxuriant, but others which have never been known to climb
elsewhere learn the art as an escape from that somber shadow, so
that the common nettle, the jasmine, and even the jacitara palm
tree can be seen circling the stems of the cedars and striving to
reach their crowns.  Of animal life there was no movement amid
the majestic vaulted aisles which stretched from us as we walked,
but a constant movement far above our heads told of that
multitudinous world of snake and monkey, bird and sloth, which
lived in the sunshine, and looked down in wonder at our tiny, dark,
stumbling figures in the obscure depths immeasurably below them. 
At dawn and at sunset the howler monkeys screamed together and
the parrakeets broke into shrill chatter, but during the hot
hours of the day only the full drone of insects, like the beat of
a distant surf, filled the ear, while nothing moved amid the
solemn vistas of stupendous trunks, fading away into the darkness
which held us in.  Once some bandy-legged, lurching creature, an
ant-eater or a bear, scuttled clumsily amid the shadows.  It was the
only sign of earth life which I saw in this great Amazonian forest.

And yet there were indications that even human life itself was
not far from us in those mysterious recesses.  On the third day
out we were aware of a singular deep throbbing in the air,
rhythmic and solemn, coming and going fitfully throughout
the morning.  The two boats were paddling within a few yards
of each other when first we heard it, and our Indians remained
motionless, as if they had been turned to bronze, listening
intently with expressions of terror upon their faces.

"What is it, then?" I asked.

"Drums," said Lord John, carelessly; "war drums.  I have heard
them before."

"Yes, sir, war drums," said Gomez, the half-breed.  "Wild Indians,
bravos, not mansos; they watch us every mile of the way; kill us
if they can."

"How can they watch us?" I asked, gazing into the dark,
motionless void.

The half-breed shrugged his broad shoulders.

"The Indians know.  They have their own way.  They watch us. 
They talk the drum talk to each other.  Kill us if they can."

By the afternoon of that day--my pocket diary shows me that it
was Tuesday, August 18th--at least six or seven drums were
throbbing from various points.  Sometimes they beat quickly,
sometimes slowly, sometimes in obvious question and answer, one
far to the east breaking out in a high staccato rattle, and being
followed after a pause by a deep roll from the north.  There was
something indescribably nerve-shaking and menacing in that
constant mutter, which seemed to shape itself into the very
syllables of the half-breed, endlessly repeated, "We will kill
you if we can.  We will kill you if we can."  No one ever moved in
the silent woods.  All the peace and soothing of quiet Nature lay
in that dark curtain of vegetation, but away from behind there
came ever the one message from our fellow-man.  "We will kill you
if we can," said the men in the east.  "We will kill you if we
can," said the men in the north.

All day the drums rumbled and whispered, while their menace
reflected itself in the faces of our colored companions.  Even the
hardy, swaggering half-breed seemed cowed.  I learned, however,
that day once for all that both Summerlee and Challenger
possessed that highest type of bravery, the bravery of the
scientific mind.  Theirs was the spirit which upheld Darwin among
the gauchos of the Argentine or Wallace among the head-hunters
of Malaya.  It is decreed by a merciful Nature that the human brain
cannot think of two things simultaneously, so that if it be
steeped in curiosity as to science it has no room for merely
personal considerations.  All day amid that incessant and
mysterious menace our two Professors watched every bird upon the
wing, and every shrub upon the bank, with many a sharp wordy
contention, when the snarl of Summerlee came quick upon the deep
growl of Challenger, but with no more sense of danger and no more
reference to drum-beating Indians than if they were seated
together in the smoking-room of the Royal Society's Club in St.
James's Street.  Once only did they condescend to discuss them.

"Miranha or Amajuaca cannibals," said Challenger, jerking his
thumb towards the reverberating wood.

"No doubt, sir," Summerlee answered.  "Like all such tribes, I
shall expect to find them of poly-synthetic speech and of
Mongolian type."

"Polysynthetic certainly," said Challenger, indulgently.  "I am
not aware that any other type of language exists in this continent,
and I have notes of more than a hundred.  The Mongolian theory
I regard with deep suspicion."

"I should have thought that even a limited knowledge of
comparative anatomy would have helped to verify it," said
Summerlee, bitterly.

Challenger thrust out his aggressive chin until he was all beard
and hat-rim.  "No doubt, sir, a limited knowledge would have
that effect.  When one's knowledge is exhaustive, one comes to
other conclusions."  They glared at each other in mutual defiance,
while all round rose the distant whisper, "We will kill you--we
will kill you if we can."

That night we moored our canoes with heavy stones for anchors in
the center of the stream, and made every preparation for a
possible attack.  Nothing came, however, and with the dawn we
pushed upon our way, the drum-beating dying out behind us. 
About three o'clock in the afternoon we came to a very steep rapid,
more than a mile long--the very one in which Professor Challenger
had suffered disaster upon his first journey.  I confess that the
sight of it consoled me, for it was really the first direct
corroboration, slight as it was, of the truth of his story. 
The Indians carried first our canoes and then our stores through
the brushwood, which is very thick at this point, while we four
whites, our rifles on our shoulders, walked between them and any
danger coming from the woods.  Before evening we had successfully
passed the rapids, and made our way some ten miles above them,
where we anchored for the night.  At this point I reckoned that
we had come not less than a hundred miles up the tributary from
the main stream.

It was in the early forenoon of the next day that we made the
great departure.  Since dawn Professor Challenger had been
acutely uneasy, continually scanning each bank of the river. 
Suddenly he gave an exclamation of satisfaction and pointed to a
single tree, which projected at a peculiar angle over the side of
the stream.

"What do you make of that?" he asked.

"It is surely an Assai palm," said Summerlee.

"Exactly.  It was an Assai palm which I took for my landmark. 
The secret opening is half a mile onwards upon the other side of
the river.  There is no break in the trees.  That is the wonder
and the mystery of it.  There where you see light-green rushes
instead of dark-green undergrowth, there between the great cotton
woods, that is my private gate into the unknown.  Push through,
and you will understand."

It was indeed a wonderful place.  Having reached the spot marked
by a line of light-green rushes, we poled out two canoes through
them for some hundreds of yards, and eventually emerged into a
placid and shallow stream, running clear and transparent over a
sandy bottom.  It may have been twenty yards across, and was
banked in on each side by most luxuriant vegetation.  No one who
had not observed that for a short distance reeds had taken the
place of shrubs, could possibly have guessed the existence of
such a stream or dreamed of the fairyland beyond.

For a fairyland it was--the most wonderful that the imagination
of man could conceive.  The thick vegetation met overhead,
interlacing into a natural pergola, and through this tunnel of
verdure in a golden twilight flowed the green, pellucid river,
beautiful in itself, but marvelous from the strange tints thrown
by the vivid light from above filtered and tempered in its fall. 
Clear as crystal, motionless as a sheet of glass, green as the
edge of an iceberg, it stretched in front of us under its leafy
archway, every stroke of our paddles sending a thousand ripples
across its shining surface.  It was a fitting avenue to a land
of wonders.  All sign of the Indians had passed away, but animal
life was more frequent, and the tameness of the creatures showed
that they knew nothing of the hunter.  Fuzzy little black-velvet
monkeys, with snow-white teeth and gleaming, mocking eyes,
chattered at us as we passed.  With a dull, heavy splash an
occasional cayman plunged in from the bank.  Once a dark, clumsy
tapir stared at us from a gap in the bushes, and then lumbered
away through the forest; once, too, the yellow, sinuous form of a
great puma whisked amid the brushwood, and its green, baleful
eyes glared hatred at us over its tawny shoulder.  Bird life was
abundant, especially the wading birds, stork, heron, and ibis
gathering in little groups, blue, scarlet, and white, upon every
log which jutted from the bank, while beneath us the crystal
water was alive with fish of every shape and color.

For three days we made our way up this tunnel of hazy
green sunshine.  On the longer stretches one could hardly
tell as one looked ahead where the distant green water ended
and the distant green archway began.  The deep peace of this
strange waterway was unbroken by any sign of man.

"No Indian here.  Too much afraid.  Curupuri," said Gomez.

"Curupuri is the spirit of the woods," Lord John explained. 
"It's a name for any kind of devil.  The poor beggars think that
there is something fearsome in this direction, and therefore they
avoid it."

On the third day it became evident that our journey in the canoes
could not last much longer, for the stream was rapidly growing
more shallow.  Twice in as many hours we stuck upon the bottom. 
Finally we pulled the boats up among the brushwood and spent the
night on the bank of the river.  In the morning Lord John and I
made our way for a couple of miles through the forest, keeping
parallel with the stream; but as it grew ever shallower we
returned and reported, what Professor Challenger had already
suspected, that we had reached the highest point to which the
canoes could be brought.  We drew them up, therefore, and
concealed them among the bushes, blazing a tree with our axes, so
that we should find them again.  Then we distributed the various
burdens among us--guns, ammunition, food, a tent, blankets, and
the rest--and, shouldering our packages, we set forth upon the
more laborious stage of our journey.

An unfortunate quarrel between our pepper-pots marked the outset
of our new stage.  Challenger had from the moment of joining us
issued directions to the whole party, much to the evident
discontent of Summerlee.  Now, upon his assigning some duty to
his fellow-Professor (it was only the carrying of an aneroid
barometer), the matter suddenly came to a head.

"May I ask, sir," said Summerlee, with vicious calm, "in what
capacity you take it upon yourself to issue these orders?"

Challenger glared and bristled.

"I do it, Professor Summerlee, as leader of this expedition."

"I am compelled to tell you, sir, that I do not recognize you in
that capacity."

"Indeed!" Challenger bowed with unwieldy sarcasm.  "Perhaps you
would define my exact position."

"Yes, sir.  You are a man whose veracity is upon trial, and this
committee is here to try it.  You walk, sir, with your judges."

"Dear me!" said Challenger, seating himself on the side of one of
the canoes.  "In that case you will, of course, go on your way,
and I will follow at my leisure.  If I am not the leader you
cannot expect me to lead."

Thank heaven that there were two sane men--Lord John Roxton
and myself--to prevent the petulance and folly of our learned
Professors from sending us back empty-handed to London. 
Such arguing and pleading and explaining before we could get
them mollified!  Then at last Summerlee, with his sneer and his
pipe, would move forwards, and Challenger would come rolling and
grumbling after.  By some good fortune we discovered about this
time that both our savants had the very poorest opinion of Dr.
Illingworth of Edinburgh.  Thenceforward that was our one safety,
and every strained situation was relieved by our introducing the
name of the Scotch zoologist, when both our Professors would form
a temporary alliance and friendship in their detestation and
abuse of this common rival.

Advancing in single file along the bank of the stream, we soon
found that it narrowed down to a mere brook, and finally that it
lost itself in a great green morass of sponge-like mosses, into
which we sank up to our knees.  The place was horribly haunted
by clouds of mosquitoes and every form of flying pest, so we were
glad to find solid ground again and to make a circuit among the
trees, which enabled us to outflank this pestilent morass, which
droned like an organ in the distance, so loud was it with insect life.

On the second day after leaving our canoes we found that the
whole character of the country changed.  Our road was
persistently upwards, and as we ascended the woods became
thinner and lost their tropical luxuriance.  The huge trees of
the alluvial Amazonian plain gave place to the Phoenix and coco
palms, growing in scattered clumps, with thick brushwood between. 
In the damper hollows the Mauritia palms threw out their graceful
drooping fronds.  We traveled entirely by compass, and once or
twice there were differences of opinion between Challenger and
the two Indians, when, to quote the Professor's indignant words,
the whole party agreed to "trust the fallacious instincts of
undeveloped savages rather than the highest product of modern
European culture."  That we were justified in doing so was shown
upon the third day, when Challenger admitted that he recognized
several landmarks of his former journey, and in one spot we
actually came upon four fire-blackened stones, which must have
marked a camping-place.

The road still ascended, and we crossed a rock-studded slope
which took two days to traverse.  The vegetation had again
changed, and only the vegetable ivory tree remained, with a
great profusion of wonderful orchids, among which I learned to
recognize the rare Nuttonia Vexillaria and the glorious pink and
scarlet blossoms of Cattleya and odontoglossum.  Occasional brooks
with pebbly bottoms and fern-draped banks gurgled down the shallow
gorges in the hill, and offered good camping-grounds every evening
on the banks of some rock-studded pool, where swarms of little
blue-backed fish, about the size and shape of English trout,
gave us a delicious supper.

On the ninth day after leaving the canoes, having done, as I
reckon, about a hundred and twenty miles, we began to emerge from
the trees, which had grown smaller until they were mere shrubs. 
Their place was taken by an immense wilderness of bamboo, which
grew so thickly that we could only penetrate it by cutting a
pathway with the machetes and billhooks of the Indians.  It took
us a long day, traveling from seven in the morning till eight at
night, with only two breaks of one hour each, to get through
this obstacle.  Anything more monotonous and wearying could not be
imagined, for, even at the most open places, I could not see more
than ten or twelve yards, while usually my vision was limited to
the back of Lord John's cotton jacket in front of me, and to the
yellow wall within a foot of me on either side.  From above came
one thin knife-edge of sunshine, and fifteen feet over our heads
one saw the tops of the reeds swaying against the deep blue sky. 
I do not know what kind of creatures inhabit such a thicket, but
several times we heard the plunging of large, heavy animals quite
close to us.  From their sounds Lord John judged them to be some
form of wild cattle.  Just as night fell we cleared the belt of
bamboos, and at once formed our camp, exhausted by the
interminable day.

Early next morning we were again afoot, and found that the
character of the country had changed once again.  Behind us was
the wall of bamboo, as definite as if it marked the course of
a river.  In front was an open plain, sloping slightly upwards
and dotted with clumps of tree-ferns, the whole curving before
us until it ended in a long, whale-backed ridge.  This we reached
about midday, only to find a shallow valley beyond, rising once
again into a gentle incline which led to a low, rounded sky-line. 
It was here, while we crossed the first of these hills, that an
incident occurred which may or may not have been important.

Professor Challenger, who with the two local Indians was in the van
of the party, stopped suddenly and pointed excitedly to the right. 
As he did so we saw, at the distance of a mile or so, something
which appeared to be a huge gray bird flap slowly up from the
ground and skim smoothly off, flying very low and straight, until
it was lost among the tree-ferns.

"Did you see it?" cried Challenger, in exultation.  "Summerlee, did
you see it?"

His colleague was staring at the spot where the creature had disappeared.

"What do you claim that it was?" he asked.

"To the best of my belief, a pterodactyl."

Summerlee burst into derisive laughter "A pter-fiddlestick!" said he. 
"It was a stork, if ever I saw one."

Challenger was too furious to speak.  He simply swung his pack
upon his back and continued upon his march.  Lord John came abreast
of me, however, and his face was more grave than was his wont. 
He had his Zeiss glasses in his hand.

"I focused it before it got over the trees," said he. "I won't
undertake to say what it was, but I'll risk my reputation as a
sportsman that it wasn't any bird that ever I clapped eyes on in
my life."

So there the matter stands.  Are we really just at the edge of
the unknown, encountering the outlying pickets of this lost world
of which our leader speaks?  I give you the incident as it
occurred and you will know as much as I do.  It stands alone, for
we saw nothing more which could be called remarkable.

And now, my readers, if ever I have any, I have brought you up
the broad river, and through the screen of rushes, and down the
green tunnel, and up the long slope of palm trees, and through
the bamboo brake, and across the plain of tree-ferns.  At last
our destination lay in full sight of us.  When we had crossed
the second ridge we saw before us an irregular, palm-studded
plain, and then the line of high red cliffs which I have seen
in the picture.  There it lies, even as I write, and there can
be no question that it is the same.  At the nearest point it is
about seven miles from our present camp, and it curves away,
stretching as far as I can see.  Challenger struts about like
a prize peacock, and Summerlee is silent, but still sceptical. 
Another day should bring some of our doubts to an end. 
Meanwhile, as Jose, whose arm was pierced by a broken bamboo,
insists upon returning, I send this letter back in his charge,
and only hope that it may eventually come to hand.  I will write
again as the occasion serves.  I have enclosed with this a rough
chart of our journey, which may have the effect of making the
account rather easier to understand.


                            CHAPTER IX

                  "Who could have Foreseen it?"

A dreadful thing has happened to us.  Who could have foreseen it? 
I cannot foresee any end to our troubles.  It may be that we are
condemned to spend our whole lives in this strange, inaccessible place. 
I am still so confused that I can hardly think clearly of the facts
of the present or of the chances of the future.  To my astounded
senses the one seems most terrible and the other as black as night.

No men have ever found themselves in a worse position; nor is
there any use in disclosing to you our exact geographical
situation and asking our friends for a relief party.  Even if
they could send one, our fate will in all human probability be
decided long before it could arrive in South America.

We are, in truth, as far from any human aid as if we were in
the moon.  If we are to win through, it is only our own qualities
which can save us.  I have as companions three remarkable men, men
of great brain-power and of unshaken courage.  There lies our one
and only hope.  It is only when I look upon the untroubled faces
of my comrades that I see some glimmer through the darkness. 
Outwardly I trust that I appear as unconcerned as they.  Inwardly I
am filled with apprehension.

Let me give you, with as much detail as I can, the sequence of
events which have led us to this catastrophe.

When I finished my last letter I stated that we were within seven
miles from an enormous line of ruddy cliffs, which encircled,
beyond all doubt, the plateau of which Professor Challenger spoke. 
Their height, as we approached them, seemed to me in some places
to be greater than he had stated--running up in parts to at least
a thousand feet--and they were curiously striated, in a manner
which is, I believe, characteristic of basaltic upheavals. 
Something of the sort is to be seen in Salisbury Crags at Edinburgh. 
The summit showed every sign of a luxuriant vegetation, with bushes
near the edge, and farther back many high trees.  There was no
indication of any life that we could see.

That night we pitched our camp immediately under the cliff--a
most wild and desolate spot.  The crags above us were not merely
perpendicular, but curved outwards at the top, so that ascent was
out of the question.  Close to us was the high thin pinnacle of
rock which I believe I mentioned earlier in this narrative.  It is
like a broad red church spire, the top of it being level with the
plateau, but a great chasm gaping between.  On the summit of it
there grew one high tree.  Both pinnacle and cliff were
comparatively low--some five or six hundred feet, I should think.

"It was on that," said Professor Challenger, pointing to this
tree, "that the pterodactyl was perched.  I climbed half-way up
the rock before I shot him.  I am inclined to think that a good
mountaineer like myself could ascend the rock to the top, though
he would, of course, be no nearer to the plateau when he had done so."

As Challenger spoke of his pterodactyl I glanced at Professor
Summerlee, and for the first time I seemed to see some signs of a
dawning credulity and repentance.  There was no sneer upon his
thin lips, but, on the contrary, a gray, drawn look of excitement
and amazement.  Challenger saw it, too, and reveled in the first
taste of victory.

"Of course," said he,  with his clumsy and ponderous sarcasm,
"Professor Summerlee will understand that when I speak of a
pterodactyl I mean a stork--only it is the kind of stork which
has no feathers, a leathery skin, membranous wings, and teeth in
its jaws."  He grinned and blinked and bowed until his colleague
turned and walked away.

In the morning, after a frugal breakfast of coffee and manioc--we
had to be economical of our stores--we held a council of war as
to the best method of ascending to the plateau above us.

Challenger presided with a solemnity as if he were the Lord Chief
Justice on the Bench.  Picture him seated upon a rock, his absurd
boyish straw hat tilted on the back of his head, his supercilious
eyes dominating us from under his drooping lids, his great black
beard wagging as he slowly defined our present situation and our
future movements.

Beneath him you might have seen the three of us--myself,
sunburnt, young, and vigorous after our open-air tramp;
Summerlee, solemn but still critical, behind his eternal pipe;
Lord John, as keen as a razor-edge, with his supple, alert figure
leaning upon his rifle, and his eager eyes fixed eagerly upon
the speaker.  Behind us were grouped the two swarthy half-breeds
and the little knot of Indians, while in front and above us towered
those huge, ruddy ribs of rocks which kept us from our goal.

"I need not say," said our leader, "that on the occasion of my
last visit I exhausted every means of climbing the cliff, and
where I failed I do not think that anyone else is likely to
succeed, for I am something of a mountaineer.  I had none of the
appliances of a rock-climber with me, but I have taken the
precaution to bring them now.  With their aid I am positive I
could climb that detached pinnacle to the summit; but so long as
the main cliff overhangs, it is vain to attempt ascending that. 
I was hurried upon my last visit by the approach of the rainy
season and by the exhaustion of my supplies.  These considerations
limited my time, and I can only claim that I have surveyed about
six miles of the cliff to the east of us, finding no possible
way up.  What, then, shall we now do?"

"There seems to be only one reasonable course," said Professor Summerlee. 
"If you have explored the east, we should travel along the base of the
cliff to the west, and seek for a practicable point for our ascent."

"That's it," said Lord John.  "The odds are that this plateau is of
no great size, and we shall travel round it until we either find an
easy way up it, or come back to the point from which we started."

"I have already explained to our young friend here," said
Challenger (he has a way of alluding to me as if I were a school
child ten years old), "that it is quite impossible that there
should be an easy way up anywhere, for the simple reason that if
there were the summit would not be isolated, and those conditions
would not obtain which have effected so singular an interference
with the general laws of survival.  Yet I admit that there may
very well be places where an expert human climber may reach the
summit, and yet a cumbrous and heavy animal be unable to descend. 
It is certain that there is a point where an ascent is possible."

"How do you know that, sir?" asked Summerlee, sharply.

"Because my predecessor, the American Maple White, actually made
such an ascent.  How otherwise could he have seen the monster
which he sketched in his notebook?"

"There you reason somewhat ahead of the proved facts," said the
stubborn Summerlee.  "I admit your plateau, because I have seen
it; but I have not as yet satisfied myself that it contains any
form of life whatever."

"What you admit, sir, or what you do not admit, is really of
inconceivably small importance.  I am glad to perceive that the
plateau itself has actually obtruded itself upon your intelligence." 
He glanced up at it, and then, to our amazement, he sprang from his
rock, and, seizing Summerlee by the neck, he tilted his face into
the air.  "Now sir!" he shouted, hoarse with excitement.  "Do I
help you to realize that the plateau contains some animal life?"

I have said that a thick fringe of green overhung the edge of the cliff. 
Out of this there had emerged a black, glistening object.  As it came
slowly forth and overhung the chasm, we saw that it was a very large
snake with a peculiar flat, spade-like head.  It wavered and quivered
above us for a minute, the morning sun gleaming upon its sleek,
sinuous coils.  Then it slowly drew inwards and disappeared.

Summerlee had been so interested that he had stood unresisting
while Challenger tilted his head into the air.  Now he shook his
colleague off and came back to his dignity.

"I should be glad, Professor Challenger," said he, "if you could
see your way to make any remarks which may occur to you without
seizing me by the chin.  Even the appearance of a very ordinary
rock python does not appear to justify such a liberty."

"But there is life upon the plateau all the same," his colleague
replied in triumph.  "And now, having demonstrated this important
conclusion so that it is clear to anyone, however prejudiced or
obtuse, I am of opinion that we cannot do better than break up
our camp and travel to westward until we find some means of ascent."

The ground at the foot of the cliff was rocky and broken so that
the going was slow and difficult.  Suddenly we came, however,
upon something which cheered our hearts.  It was the site of an
old encampment, with several empty Chicago meat tins, a bottle
labeled "Brandy," a broken tin-opener, and a quantity of other
travelers' debris.  A crumpled, disintegrated newspaper revealed  
itself as the Chicago Democrat, though the date had been obliterated.

"Not mine," said Challenger.  "It must be Maple White's."

Lord John had been gazing curiously at a great tree-fern which
overshadowed the encampment.  "I say, look at this," said he. 
"I believe it is meant for a sign-post."

A slip of hard wood had been nailed to the tree in such a way as
to point to the westward.

"Most certainly a sign-post," said Challenger.  "What else? 
Finding himself upon a dangerous errand, our pioneer has left
this sign so that any party which follows him may know the way he
has taken.  Perhaps we shall come upon some other indications as
we proceed."

We did indeed, but they were of a terrible and most unexpected nature. 
Immediately beneath the cliff there grew a considerable patch of high
bamboo, like that which we had traversed in our journey.  Many of
these stems were twenty feet high, with sharp, strong tops, so that
even as they stood they made formidable spears.  We were passing
along the edge of this cover when my eye was caught by the gleam of
something white within it.  Thrusting in my head between the stems,
I found myself gazing at a fleshless skull.  The whole skeleton was
there, but the skull had detached itself and lay some feet nearer to
the open.

With a few blows from the machetes of our Indians we cleared the
spot and were able to study the details of this old tragedy. 
Only a few shreds of clothes could still be distinguished, but
there were the remains of boots upon the bony feet, and it was
very clear that the dead man was a European.  A gold watch by
Hudson, of New York, and a chain which held a stylographic pen,
lay among the bones.  There was also a silver cigarette-case,
with "J. C., from A. E. S.," upon the lid.  The state of the
metal seemed to show that the catastrophe had occurred no great
time before.

"Who can he be?" asked Lord John.  "Poor devil! every bone in his
body seems to be broken."

"And the bamboo grows through his smashed ribs," said Summerlee. 
"It is a fast-growing plant, but it is surely inconceivable that
this body could have been here while the canes grew to be twenty
feet in length."

"As to the man's identity," said Professor Challenger, "I have no
doubt whatever upon that point.  As I made my way up the river
before I reached you at the fazenda I instituted very particular
inquiries about Maple White.  At Para they knew nothing. 
Fortunately, I had a definite clew, for there was a particular
picture in his sketch-book which showed him taking lunch with a
certain ecclesiastic at Rosario.  This priest I was able to find,
and though he proved a very argumentative fellow, who took it
absurdly amiss that I should point out to him the corrosive
effect which modern science must have upon his beliefs, he none
the less gave me some positive information.  Maple White passed
Rosario four years ago, or two years before I saw his dead body. 
He was not alone at the time, but there was a friend, an American
named James Colver, who remained in the boat and did not meet
this ecclesiastic.  I think, therefore, that there can be no doubt
that we are now looking upon the remains of this James Colver."

"Nor," said Lord John, "is there much doubt as to how he met
his death.  He has fallen or been chucked from the top, and so
been impaled.  How else could he come by his broken bones, and
how could he have been stuck through by these canes with their
points so high above our heads?"

A hush came over us as we stood round these shattered remains and
realized the truth of Lord John Roxton's words.  The beetling
head of the cliff projected over the cane-brake.  Undoubtedly he
had fallen from above.  But had he fallen?  Had it been an accident? 
Or--already ominous and terrible possibilities began to form round
that unknown land.

We moved off in silence, and continued to coast round the line
of cliffs, which were as even and unbroken as some of those
monstrous Antarctic ice-fields which I have seen depicted as
stretching from horizon to horizon and towering high above the
mast-heads of the exploring vessel.

In five miles we saw no rift or break.  And then suddenly we
perceived something which filled us with new hope.  In a hollow
of the rock, protected from rain, there was drawn a rough arrow
in chalk, pointing still to the westwards.

"Maple White again," said Professor Challenger.  "He had some
presentiment that worthy footsteps would follow close behind him."

"He had chalk, then?"

"A box of colored chalks was among the effects I found in
his knapsack.  I remember that the white one was worn to a stump."

"That is certainly good evidence," said Summerlee.  "We can only
accept his guidance and follow on to the westward."

We had proceeded some five more miles when again we saw a white
arrow upon the rocks.  It was at a point where the face of the
cliff was for the first time split into a narrow cleft.  Inside the
cleft was a second guidance mark, which pointed right up it with
the tip somewhat elevated, as if the spot indicated were above
the level of the ground.

It was a solemn place, for the walls were so gigantic and the
slit of blue sky so narrow and so obscured by a double fringe
of verdure, that only a dim and shadowy light penetrated to
the bottom.  We had had no food for many hours, and were very
weary with the stony and irregular journey, but our nerves were
too strung to allow us to halt.  We ordered the camp to be pitched,
however, and, leaving the Indians to arrange it, we four, with
the two half-breeds, proceeded up the narrow gorge.

It was not more than forty feet across at the mouth, but it
rapidly closed until it ended in an acute angle, too straight
and smooth for an ascent.  Certainly it was not this which our
pioneer had attempted to indicate.  We made our way back--the
whole gorge was not more than a quarter of a mile deep--and
then suddenly the quick eyes of Lord John fell upon what we
were seeking.  High up above our heads, amid the dark shadows,
there was one circle of deeper gloom.  Surely it could only be
the opening of a cave.

The base of the cliff was heaped with loose stones at the spot,
and it was not difficult to clamber up.  When we reached it, all
doubt was removed.  Not only was it an opening into the rock, but
on the side of it there was marked once again the sign of the arrow. 
Here was the point, and this the means by which Maple White and his
ill-fated comrade had made their ascent.

We were too excited to return to the camp, but must make our
first exploration at once.  Lord John had an electric torch in
his knapsack, and this had to serve us as light.  He advanced,
throwing his little clear circlet of yellow radiance before him,
while in single file we followed at his heels.

The cave had evidently been water-worn, the sides being smooth
and the floor covered with rounded stones.  It was of such a size
that a single man could just fit through by stooping.  For fifty
yards it ran almost straight into the rock, and then it ascended
at an angle of forty-five.  Presently this incline became even
steeper, and we found ourselves climbing upon hands and knees
among loose rubble which slid from beneath us.  Suddenly an
exclamation broke from Lord Roxton.

"It's blocked!" said he.

Clustering behind him we saw in the yellow field of light a wall
of broken basalt which extended to the ceiling.

"The roof has fallen in!"

In vain we dragged out some of the pieces.  The only effect was
that the larger ones became detached and threatened to roll down
the gradient and crush us.  It was evident that the obstacle was
far beyond any efforts which we could make to remove it.  The road
by which Maple White had ascended was no longer available.

Too much cast down to speak, we stumbled down the dark tunnel and
made our way back to the camp.

One incident occurred, however, before we left the gorge, which
is of importance in view of what came afterwards.

We had gathered in a little group at the bottom of the chasm,
some forty feet beneath the mouth of the cave, when a huge rock
rolled suddenly downwards--and shot past us with tremendous force. 
It was the narrowest escape for one or all of us.  We could not
ourselves see whence the rock had come, but our half-breed
servants, who were still at the opening of the cave, said that
it had flown past them, and must therefore have fallen from
the summit.  Looking upwards, we could see no sign of movement
above us amidst the green jungle which topped the cliff. 
There could be little doubt, however, that the stone was aimed
at us, so the incident surely pointed to humanity--and malevolent
humanity--upon the plateau.

We withdrew hurriedly from the chasm, our minds full of this new
development and its bearing upon our plans.  The situation was
difficult enough before, but if the obstructions of Nature were
increased by the deliberate opposition of man, then our case was
indeed a hopeless one.  And yet, as we looked up at that
beautiful fringe of verdure only a few hundreds of feet above
our heads, there was not one of us who could conceive the idea
of returning to London until we had explored it to its depths.

On discussing the situation, we determined that our best course
was to continue to coast round the plateau in the hope of finding
some other means of reaching the top.  The line of cliffs, which
had decreased considerably in height, had already begun to trend
from west to north, and if we could take this as representing the
arc of a circle, the whole circumference could not be very great. 
At the worst, then, we should be back in a few days at our
starting-point.

We made a march that day which totaled some two-and-twenty miles,
without any change in our prospects.  I may mention that our
aneroid shows us that in the continual incline which we have
ascended since we abandoned our canoes we have risen to no less
than three thousand feet above sea-level.  Hence there is a
considerable change both in the temperature and in the vegetation. 
We have shaken off some of that horrible insect life which is
the bane of tropical travel.  A few palms still survive, and many
tree-ferns, but the Amazonian trees have been all left behind. 
It was pleasant to see the convolvulus, the passion-flower, and
the begonia, all reminding me of home, here among these
inhospitable rocks.  There was a red begonia just the same color
as one that is kept in a pot in the window of a certain villa
in Streatham--but I am drifting into private reminiscence.

That night--I am still speaking of the first day of our
circumnavigation of the plateau--a great experience awaited us,
and one which for ever set at rest any doubt which we could have
had as to the wonders so near us.

You will realize as you read it, my dear Mr. McArdle, and
possibly for the first time that the paper has not sent me on a
wild-goose chase, and that there is inconceivably fine copy
waiting for the world whenever we have the Professor's leave to
make use of it.  I shall not dare to publish these articles
unless I can bring back my proofs to England, or I shall be
hailed as the journalistic Munchausen of all time.  I have no
doubt that you feel the same way yourself, and that you would not
care to stake the whole credit of the Gazette upon this adventure
until we can meet the chorus of criticism and scepticism which
such articles must of necessity elicit.  So this wonderful
incident, which would make such a headline for the old paper,
must still wait its turn in the editorial drawer.

And yet it was all over in a flash, and there was no sequel to it,
save in our own convictions.

What occurred was this.  Lord John had shot an ajouti--which is a
small, pig-like animal--and, half of it having been given to the
Indians, we were cooking the other half upon our fire.  There is
a chill in the  air after dark, and we had all drawn close to
the blaze.  The night was moonless, but there were some stars,
and one could see for a little distance across the plain. 
Well, suddenly out of the darkness, out of the night, there swooped
something with a swish like an aeroplane.  The whole group of us
were covered for an instant by a canopy of leathery wings, and I
had a momentary vision of a long, snake-like neck, a fierce, red,
greedy eye, and a great snapping beak, filled, to my amazement,
with little, gleaming teeth.  The next instant it was gone--and
so was our dinner.  A huge black shadow, twenty feet across,
skimmed up into the air; for an instant the monster wings blotted
out the stars, and then it vanished over the brow of the cliff
above us.  We all sat in amazed silence round the fire, like the
heroes of Virgil when the Harpies came down upon them.  It was
Summerlee who was the first to speak.

"Professor Challenger," said he, in a solemn voice, which
quavered with emotion, "I owe you an apology.  Sir, I am very
much in the wrong, and I beg that you will forget what is past."

It was handsomely said, and the two men for the first time shook hands. 
So much we have gained by this clear vision of our first pterodactyl. 
It was worth a stolen supper to bring two such men together.

But if prehistoric life existed upon the plateau it was not
superabundant, for we had no further glimpse of it during the
next three days.  During this time we traversed a barren and
forbidding country, which alternated between stony desert and
desolate marshes full of many wild-fowl, upon the north and
east of the cliffs.  From that direction the place is really
inaccessible, and, were it not for a hardish ledge which runs at
the very base of the precipice, we should have had to turn back. 
Many times we were up to our waists in the slime and blubber of
an old, semi-tropical swamp.  To make matters worse, the place
seemed to be a favorite breeding-place of the Jaracaca snake, the
most venomous and aggressive in South America.  Again and again
these horrible creatures came writhing and springing towards us
across the surface of this putrid bog, and it was only by keeping
our shot-guns for ever ready that we could feel safe from them. 
One funnel-shaped depression in the morass, of a livid green in
color from some lichen which festered in it, will always remain
as a nightmare memory in my mind.  It seems to have been a
special nest of these vermins, and the slopes were alive with
them, all writhing in our direction, for it is a peculiarity
of the Jaracaca that he will always attack man at first sight. 
There were too many for us to shoot, so we fairly took to our
heels and ran until we were exhausted.  I shall always remember
as we looked back how far behind we could see the heads and necks
of our horrible pursuers rising and falling amid the reeds. 
Jaracaca Swamp we named it in the map which we are constructing.

The cliffs upon the farther side had lost their ruddy tint, being
chocolate-brown in color; the vegetation was more scattered along
the top of them, and they had sunk to three or four hundred feet
in height, but in no place did we find any point where they could
be ascended.  If anything, they were more impossible than at the
first point where we had met them.  Their absolute steepness is
indicated in the photograph which I took over the stony desert.

"Surely," said I, as we discussed the situation, "the rain must
find its way down somehow.  There are bound to be water-channels
in the rocks."

"Our young friend has glimpses of lucidity," said Professor
Challenger, patting me upon the shoulder.

"The rain must go somewhere," I repeated.

"He keeps a firm grip upon actuality.  The only drawback is that
we have conclusively proved by ocular demonstration that there
are no water channels down the rocks."

"Where, then, does it go?" I persisted.

"I think it may be fairly assumed that if it does not come
outwards it must run inwards."

"Then there is a lake in the center."

"So I should suppose."

"It is more than likely that the lake may be an old crater,"
said Summerlee.  "The whole formation is, of course, highly volcanic. 
But, however that may be, I should expect to find the surface of the
plateau slope inwards with a considerable sheet of water in the center,
which may drain off, by some subterranean channel, into the marshes
of the Jaracaca Swamp."

"Or evaporation might preserve an equilibrium," remarked
Challenger, and the two learned men wandered off into one of
their usual scientific arguments, which were as comprehensible as
Chinese to the layman.

On the sixth day we completed our first circuit of the cliffs,
and found ourselves back at the first camp, beside the isolated
pinnacle of rock.  We were a disconsolate party, for nothing
could have been more minute than our investigation, and it was
absolutely certain that there was no single point where the most
active human being could possibly hope to scale the cliff. 
The place which Maple White's chalk-marks had indicated as his
own means of access was now entirely impassable.

What were we to do now?  Our stores of provisions, supplemented by
our guns, were holding out well, but the day must come when they
would need replenishment.  In a couple of months the rains might
be expected, and we should be washed out of our camp.  The rock
was harder than marble, and any attempt at cutting a path for so
great a height was more than our time or resources would admit. 
No wonder that we looked gloomily at each other that night, and
sought our blankets with hardly a word exchanged.  I remember
that as I dropped off to sleep my last recollection was that
Challenger was squatting, like a monstrous bull-frog, by the fire,
his huge head in his hands, sunk apparently in the deepest thought,
and entirely oblivious to the good-night which I wished him.

But it was a very different Challenger who greeted us in the
morning--a Challenger with contentment and self-congratulation
shining from his whole person.  He faced us as we assembled for
breakfast with a deprecating false modesty in his eyes, as who
should say, "I know that I deserve all that you can say, but I
pray you to spare my blushes by not saying it."  His beard
bristled exultantly, his chest was thrown out, and his hand was
thrust into the front of his jacket.  So, in his fancy, may he
see himself sometimes, gracing the vacant pedestal in Trafalgar
Square, and adding one more to the horrors of the London streets.

"Eureka!" he cried, his teeth shining through his beard. 
"Gentlemen, you may congratulate me and we may congratulate
each other.  The problem is solved."

"You have found a way up?"

"I venture to think so."

"And where?"

For answer he pointed to the spire-like pinnacle upon our right.

Our faces--or mine, at least--fell as we surveyed it.  That it
could be climbed we had our companion's assurance.  But a horrible
abyss lay between it and the plateau.

"We can never get across," I gasped.

"We can at least all reach the summit," said he.  "When we are up
I may be able to show you that the resources of an inventive mind
are not yet exhausted."

After breakfast we unpacked the bundle in which our leader had
brought his climbing accessories.  From it he took a coil of the
strongest and lightest rope, a hundred and fifty feet in length,
with climbing irons, clamps, and other devices.  Lord John was
an experienced mountaineer, and Summerlee had done some rough
climbing at various times, so that I was really the novice at
rock-work of the party; but my strength and activity may have
made up for my want of experience.

It was not in reality a very stiff task, though there were
moments which made my hair bristle upon my head.  The first half
was perfectly easy, but from there upwards it became continually
steeper until, for the last fifty feet, we were literally
clinging with our fingers and toes to tiny ledges and crevices in
the rock.  I could not have accomplished it, nor could Summerlee,
if Challenger had not gained the summit (it was extraordinary to
see such activity in so unwieldy a creature) and there fixed the
rope round the trunk of the considerable tree which grew there. 
With this as our support, we were soon able to scramble up the
jagged wall until we found ourselves upon the small grassy
platform, some twenty-five feet each way, which formed the summit.

The first impression which I received when I had recovered my
breath was of the extraordinary view over the country which we
had traversed.  The whole Brazilian plain seemed to lie beneath
us, extending away and away until it ended in dim blue mists upon
the farthest sky-line.  In the foreground was the long slope,
strewn with rocks and dotted with tree-ferns; farther off in the
middle distance, looking over the saddle-back hill, I could just
see the yellow and green mass of bamboos through which we had
passed; and then, gradually, the vegetation increased until it
formed the huge forest which extended as far as the eyes could
reach, and for a good two thousand miles beyond.

I was still drinking in this wonderful panorama when the heavy
hand of the Professor fell upon my shoulder.

"This way, my young friend," said he; "vestigia nulla retrorsum.  
Never look rearwards, but always to our glorious goal."

The level of the plateau, when I turned, was exactly that on
which we stood, and the green bank of bushes, with occasional
trees, was so near that it was difficult to realize how
inaccessible it remained.  At a rough guess the gulf was forty
feet across, but, so far as I could see, it might as well have
been forty miles.  I placed one arm round the trunk of the tree
and leaned over the abyss.  Far down were the small dark figures
of our servants, looking up at us.  The wall was absolutely
precipitous, as was that which faced me.

"This is indeed curious," said the creaking voice of Professor Summerlee.

I turned, and found that he was examining with great interest the
tree to which I clung.  That smooth bark and those small, ribbed
leaves seemed familiar to my eyes.  "Why," I cried, "it's a beech!"

"Exactly," said Summerlee.  "A fellow-countryman in a far land."

"Not only a fellow-countryman, my good sir," said Challenger,
"but also, if I may be allowed to enlarge your simile, an ally of
the first value.  This beech tree will be our saviour."

"By George!" cried Lord John, "a bridge!"

"Exactly, my friends, a bridge!  It is not for nothing that
I expended an hour last night in focusing my mind upon
the situation.  I have some recollection of once remarking
to our young friend here that G. E. C. is at his best when
his back is to the wall.  Last night you will admit that all
our backs were to the wall.  But where will-power and intellect
go together, there is always a way out.  A drawbridge had to be
found which could be dropped across the abyss.  Behold it!"

It was certainly a brilliant idea.  The tree was a good sixty
feet in height, and if it only fell the right way it would easily
cross the chasm.  Challenger had slung the camp axe over his
shoulder when he ascended.  Now he handed it to me.

"Our young friend has the thews and sinews," said he.  "I think
he will be the most useful at this task.  I must beg, however,
that you will kindly refrain from thinking for yourself, and that
you will do exactly what you are told."

Under his direction I cut such gashes in the sides of the trees
as would ensure that it should fall as we desired.  It had
already a strong, natural tilt in the direction of the plateau,
so that the matter was not difficult.  Finally I set to work in
earnest upon the trunk, taking turn and turn with Lord John. 
In a little over an hour there was a loud crack, the tree swayed
forward, and then crashed over, burying its branches among the
bushes on the farther side.  The severed trunk rolled to the very
edge of our platform, and for one terrible second we all thought
it was over.  It balanced itself, however, a few inches from the
edge, and there was our bridge to the unknown.

All of us, without a word, shook hands with Professor Challenger,
who raised his straw hat and bowed deeply to each in turn.

"I claim the honor," said he, "to be the first to cross to the
unknown land--a fitting subject, no doubt, for some future
historical painting."

He had approached the bridge when Lord John laid his hand upon
his coat.

"My dear chap," said he, "I really cannot allow it."

"Cannot allow it, sir!"  The head went back and the beard forward.

"When it is a matter of science, don't you know, I follow your
lead because you are by way of bein' a man of science.  But it's
up to you to follow me when you come into my department."

"Your department, sir?"

"We all have our professions, and soldierin' is mine.  We are,
accordin' to my ideas, invadin' a new country, which may or may
not be chock-full of enemies of sorts.  To barge blindly into it
for want of a little common sense and patience isn't my notion
of management."

The remonstrance was too reasonable to be disregarded. 
Challenger tossed his head and shrugged his heavy shoulders.

"Well, sir, what do you propose?"

"For all I know there may be a tribe of cannibals waitin' for
lunch-time among those very bushes," said Lord John, looking
across the bridge.  "It's better to learn wisdom before you get
into a cookin'-pot; so we will content ourselves with hopin' that
there is no trouble waitin' for us, and at the same time we will
act as if there were.  Malone and I will go down again, therefore,
and we will fetch up the four rifles, together with Gomez and
the other.  One man can then go across and the rest will cover
him with guns, until he sees that it is safe for the whole crowd
to come along."

Challenger sat down upon the cut stump and groaned his
impatience; but Summerlee and I were of one mind that Lord John
was our leader when such practical details were in question. 
The climb was a more simple thing now that the rope dangled down
the face of the worst part of the ascent.  Within an hour we had
brought up the rifles and a shot-gun.  The half-breeds had ascended
also, and under Lord John's orders they had carried up a bale of
provisions in case our first exploration should be a long one. 
We had each bandoliers of cartridges.

"Now, Challenger, if you really insist upon being the first man
in," said Lord John, when every preparation was complete.

"I am much indebted to you for your gracious permission," said
the angry Professor; for never was a man so intolerant of every
form of authority.  "Since you are good enough to allow it, I
shall most certainly take it upon myself to act as pioneer upon
this occasion."

Seating himself with a leg overhanging the abyss on each side,
and his hatchet slung upon his back, Challenger hopped his way
across the trunk and was soon at the other side.  He clambered
up and waved his arms in the air.

"At last!" he cried; "at last!"

I gazed anxiously at him, with a vague expectation that some
terrible fate would dart at him from the curtain of green
behind him.  But all was quiet, save that a strange, many-
colored bird flew up from under his feet and vanished among
the trees.

Summerlee was the second.  His wiry energy is wonderful in so frail
a frame.  He insisted upon having two rifles slung upon his back,
so that both Professors were armed when he had made his transit. 
I came next, and tried hard not to look down into the horrible
gulf over which I was passing.  Summerlee held out the butt-end
of his rifle, and an instant later I was able to grasp his hand. 
As to Lord John, he walked across--actually walked without support! 
He must have nerves of iron.

And there we were, the four of us, upon the dreamland, the lost
world, of Maple White.  To all of us it seemed the moment of our
supreme triumph.  Who could have guessed that it was the prelude
to our supreme disaster?  Let me say in a few words how the
crushing blow fell upon us.

We had turned away from the edge, and had penetrated about fifty
yards of close brushwood, when there came a frightful rending
crash from behind us.  With one impulse we rushed back the way
that we had come.  The bridge was gone!

Far down at the base of the cliff I saw, as I looked over, a
tangled mass of branches and splintered trunk.  It was our
beech tree.  Had the edge of the platform crumbled and let
it through?  For a moment this explanation was in all our minds. 
The next, from the farther side of the rocky pinnacle before us
a swarthy face, the face of Gomez the half-breed, was
slowly protruded.  Yes, it was Gomez, but no longer the Gomez
of the demure smile and the mask-like expression.  Here was a
face with flashing eyes and distorted features, a face convulsed
with hatred and with the mad joy of gratified revenge.

"Lord Roxton!" he shouted.  "Lord John Roxton!"

"Well," said our companion, "here I am."

A shriek of laughter came across the abyss.

"Yes, there you are, you English dog, and there you will remain! 
I have waited and waited, and now has come my chance.  You found
it hard to get up; you will find it harder to get down.  You cursed
fools, you are trapped, every one of you!"

We were too astounded to speak.  We could only stand there staring
in amazement.  A great broken bough upon the grass showed whence
he had gained his leverage to tilt over our bridge.  The face had
vanished, but presently it was up again, more frantic than before.

"We nearly killed you with a stone at the cave," he cried; "but
this is better.  It is slower and more terrible.  Your bones will
whiten up there, and none will know where you lie or come to
cover them.  As you lie dying, think of Lopez, whom you shot five
years ago on the Putomayo River.  I am his brother, and, come
what will I will die happy now, for his memory has been avenged."
A furious hand was shaken at us, and then all was quiet.

Had the half-breed simply wrought his vengeance and then escaped,
all might have been well with him.  It was that foolish,
irresistible Latin impulse to be dramatic which brought his
own downfall.  Roxton, the man who had earned himself the name of
the Flail of the Lord through three countries, was not one who
could be safely taunted.  The half-breed was descending on the
farther side of the pinnacle; but before he could reach the ground
Lord John had run along the edge of the plateau and gained a point
from which he could see his man.  There was a single crack of his
rifle, and, though we saw nothing, we heard the scream and then
the distant thud of the falling body.  Roxton came back to us with
a face of granite.

"I have been a blind simpleton," said he, bitterly,  "It's my
folly that has brought you all into this trouble.  I should have
remembered that these people have long memories for blood-feuds,
and have been more upon my guard."

"What about the other one?  It took two of them to lever that tree
over the edge."

"I could have shot him, but I let him go.  He may have had no
part in it.  Perhaps it would have been better if I had killed
him, for he must, as you say, have lent a hand."

Now that we had the clue to his action, each of us could cast
back and remember some sinister act upon the part of the
half-breed--his constant desire to know our plans, his arrest
outside our tent when he was over-hearing them, the furtive
looks of hatred which from time to time one or other of us
had surprised.  We were still discussing it, endeavoring to adjust
our minds to these new conditions, when a singular scene in the
plain below arrested our attention.

A man in white clothes, who could only be the surviving half-
breed, was running as one does run when Death is the pacemaker. 
Behind him, only a few yards in his rear, bounded the huge
ebony figure of Zambo, our devoted negro.  Even as we looked,
he sprang upon the back of the fugitive and flung his arms
round his neck.  They rolled on the ground together.  An instant
afterwards Zambo rose, looked at the prostrate man, and then,
waving his hand joyously to us, came running in our direction. 
The white figure lay motionless in the middle of the great plain.

Our two traitors had been destroyed, but the mischief that they
had done lived after them.  By no possible means could we get back
to the pinnacle.  We had been natives of the world; now we were
natives of the plateau.  The two things were separate and apart. 
There was the plain which led to the canoes.  Yonder, beyond the
violet, hazy horizon, was the stream which led back to civilization. 
But the link between was missing.  No human ingenuity could suggest
a means of bridging the chasm which yawned between ourselves and
our past lives.  One instant had altered the whole conditions of
our existence.

It was at such a moment that I learned the stuff of which my
three comrades were composed.  They were grave, it is true, and
thoughtful, but of an invincible serenity.  For the moment we
could only sit among the bushes in patience and wait the coming
of Zambo.  Presently his honest black face topped the rocks and
his Herculean figure emerged upon the top of the pinnacle.

"What I do now?" he cried.  "You tell me and I do it."

It was a question which it was easier to ask than to answer. 
One thing only was clear.  He was our one trusty link with the
outside world.  On no account must he leave us.

"No no!" he cried.  "I not leave you.  Whatever come, you always
find me here.  But no able to keep Indians.  Already they say too
much Curupuri live on this place, and they go home.  Now you
leave them me no able to keep them."

It was a fact that our Indians had shown in many ways of late
that they were weary of their journey and anxious to return. 
We realized that Zambo spoke the truth, and that it would be
impossible for him to keep them.

"Make them wait till to-morrow, Zambo," I shouted; "then I can
send letter back by them."

"Very good, sarr! I promise they wait till to-morrow, said the negro. 
"But what I do for you now?"

There was plenty for him to do, and admirably the faithful fellow
did it.  First of all, under our directions, he undid the rope
from the tree-stump and threw one end of it across to us.  It was
not thicker than a clothes-line, but it was of great strength,
and though we could not make a bridge of it, we might well find
it invaluable if we had any climbing to do.  He then fastened his
end of the rope to the package of supplies which had been carried
up, and we were able to drag it across.  This gave us the means
of life for at least a week, even if we found nothing else. 
Finally he descended and carried up two other packets of mixed
goods--a box of ammunition and a number of other things, all of
which we got across by throwing our rope to him and hauling it back. 
It was evening when he at last climbed down, with a final assurance
that he would keep the Indians till next morning.

And so it is that I have spent nearly the whole of this our first
night upon the plateau writing up our experiences by the light of
a single candle-lantern.

We supped and camped at the very edge of the cliff, quenching
our thirst with two bottles of Apollinaris which were in one of
the cases.  It is vital to us to find water, but I think even Lord
John himself had had adventures enough for one day, and none of us
felt inclined to make the first push into the unknown.  We forbore
to light a fire or to make any unnecessary sound.

To-morrow (or to-day, rather, for it is already dawn as I write)
we shall make our first venture into this strange land.  When I
shall be able to write again--or if I ever shall write again--I
know not.  Meanwhile, I can see that the Indians are still in
their place, and I am sure that the faithful Zambo will be here
presently to get my letter.  I only trust that it will come to hand.


P.S.--The more I think the more desperate does our position seem. 
I see no possible hope of our return.  If there were a high tree
near the edge of the plateau we might drop a return bridge
across, but there is none within fifty yards.  Our united
strength could not carry a trunk which would serve our purpose. 
The rope, of course, is far too short that we could descend by it. 
No, our position is hopeless--hopeless!


                            CHAPTER X

            "The most Wonderful Things have Happened"

The most wonderful things have happened and are continually
happening to us.  All the paper that I possess consists of five
old note-books and a lot of scraps, and I have only the one
stylographic pencil; but so long as I can move my hand I will
continue to set down our experiences and impressions, for, since
we are the only men of the whole human race to see such things,
it is of enormous importance that I should record them whilst
they are fresh in my memory and before that fate which seems to
be constantly impending does actually overtake us.  Whether Zambo
can at last take these letters to the river, or whether I shall
myself in some miraculous way carry them back with me, or,
finally, whether some daring explorer, coming upon our tracks
with the advantage, perhaps, of a perfected monoplane, should
find this bundle of manuscript, in any case I can see that what I
am writing is destined to immortality as a classic of true adventure.

On the morning after our being trapped upon the plateau by
the villainous Gomez we began a new stage in our experiences. 
The first incident in it was not such as to give me a very
favorable opinion of the place to which we had wandered.  As I
roused myself from a short nap after day had dawned, my eyes fell
upon a most singular appearance upon my own leg.  My trouser had
slipped up, exposing a few inches of my skin above my sock. 
On this there rested a large, purplish grape.  Astonished at the
sight, I leaned forward to pick it off, when, to my horror, it burst
between my finger and thumb, squirting blood in every direction. 
My cry of disgust had brought the two professors to my side.

"Most interesting," said Summerlee, bending over my shin. 
"An enormous blood-tick, as yet, I believe, unclassified."

"The first-fruits of our labors," said Challenger in his booming,
pedantic fashion.  "We cannot do less than call it Ixodes Maloni. 
The very small inconvenience of being bitten, my young friend,
cannot, I am sure, weigh with you as against the glorious
privilege of having your name inscribed in the deathless roll
of zoology.  Unhappily you have crushed this fine specimen at
the moment of satiation."

"Filthy vermin!" I cried.

Professor Challenger raised his great eyebrows in protest, and
placed a soothing paw upon my shoulder.

"You should cultivate the scientific eye and the detached
scientific mind," said he.  "To a man of philosophic temperament
like myself the blood-tick, with its lancet-like proboscis and
its distending stomach, is as beautiful a work of Nature as the
peacock or, for that matter, the aurora borealis.  It pains me to
hear you speak of it in so unappreciative a fashion.  No doubt,
with due diligence, we can secure some other specimen."

"There can be no doubt of that," said Summerlee, grimly, "for one
has just disappeared behind your shirt-collar."

Challenger sprang into the air bellowing like a bull, and tore
frantically at his coat and shirt to get them off.  Summerlee and
I laughed so that we could hardly help him.  At last we exposed
that monstrous torso (fifty-four inches, by the tailor's tape). 
His body was all matted with black hair, out of which jungle we
picked the wandering tick before it had bitten him.  But the
bushes round were full of the horrible pests, and it was clear
that we must shift our camp.

But first of all it was necessary to make our arrangements with
the faithful negro, who appeared presently on the pinnacle with a
number of tins of cocoa and biscuits, which he tossed over to us. 
Of the stores which remained below he was ordered to retain as
much as would keep him for two months.  The Indians were to have
the remainder as a reward for their services and as payment for
taking our letters back to the Amazon.  Some hours later we saw
them in single file far out upon the plain, each with a bundle on
his head, making their way back along the path we had come. 
Zambo occupied our little tent at the base of the pinnacle, and
there he remained, our one link with the world below.

And now we had to decide upon our immediate movements.  We shifted
our position from among the tick-laden bushes until we came to a
small clearing thickly surrounded by trees upon all sides. 
There were some flat slabs of rock in the center, with an
excellent well close by, and there we sat in cleanly comfort
while we made our first plans for the invasion of this new country. 
Birds were calling among the foliage--especially one with a
peculiar whooping cry which was new to us--but beyond these
sounds there were no signs of life.

Our first care was to make some sort of list of our own stores,
so that we might know what we had to rely upon.  What with the
things we had ourselves brought up and those which Zambo had sent
across on the rope, we were fairly well supplied.  Most important
of all, in view of the dangers which might surround us, we had our
four rifles and one thousand three hundred rounds, also a shot-gun,
but not more than a hundred and fifty medium pellet cartridges. 
In the matter of provisions we had enough to last for several
weeks, with a sufficiency of tobacco and a few scientific
implements, including a large telescope and a good field-glass. 
All these things we collected together in the clearing, and as
a first precaution, we cut down with our hatchet and knives a
number of thorny bushes, which we piled round in a circle some
fifteen yards in diameter.  This was to be our headquarters for
the time--our place of refuge against sudden danger and the
guard-house for our stores.  Fort Challenger, we called it.

IT was midday before we had made ourselves secure, but the heat
was not oppressive, and the general character of the plateau, both
in its temperature and in its vegetation, was almost temperate. 
The beech, the oak, and even the birch were to be found among
the tangle of trees which girt us in.  One huge gingko tree,
topping all the others, shot its great limbs and maidenhair
foliage over the fort which we had constructed.  In its shade
we continued our discussion, while Lord John, who had quickly
taken command in the hour of action, gave us his views.

"So long as neither man nor beast has seen or heard us, we are
safe," said he.  "From the time they know we are here our
troubles begin.  There are no signs that they have found us out
as yet.  So our game surely is to lie low for a time and spy out
the land.  We want to have a good look at our neighbors before we
get on visitin' terms."

"But we must advance," I ventured to remark.

"By all means, sonny my boy!  We will advance.  But with
common sense.  We must never go so far that we can't get back
to our base.  Above all, we must never, unless it is life or
death, fire off our guns."

"But YOU fired yesterday," said Summerlee.

"Well, it couldn't be helped.  However, the wind was strong and
blew outwards.  It is not likely that the sound could have
traveled far into the plateau.  By the way, what shall we call
this place?  I suppose it is up to us to give it a name?"

There were several suggestions, more or less happy, but
Challenger's was final.

"It can only have one name," said he.  "It is called after the
pioneer who discovered it.  It is Maple White Land."

Maple White Land it became, and so it is named in that chart
which has become my special task.  So it will, I trust, appear
in the atlas of the future.

The peaceful penetration of Maple White Land was the pressing
subject before us.  We had the evidence of our own eyes that the
place was inhabited by some unknown creatures, and there was that
of Maple White's sketch-book to show that more dreadful and more
dangerous monsters might still appear.  That there might also
prove to be human occupants and that they were of a malevolent
character was suggested by the skeleton impaled upon the bamboos,
which could not have got there had it not been dropped from above. 
Our situation, stranded without possibility of escape in such a
land, was clearly full of danger, and our reasons endorsed every
measure of caution which Lord John's experience could suggest. 
Yet it was surely impossible that we should halt on the edge of
this world of mystery when our very souls were tingling with
impatience to push forward and to pluck the heart from it.

We therefore blocked the entrance to our zareba by filling it up
with several thorny bushes, and left our camp with the stores
entirely surrounded by this protecting hedge.  We then slowly and
cautiously set forth into the unknown, following the course of
the little stream which flowed from our spring, as it should
always serve us as a guide on our return.

Hardly had we started when we came across signs that there were
indeed wonders awaiting us.  After a few hundred yards of thick
forest, containing many trees which were quite unknown to me, but
which Summerlee, who was the botanist of the party, recognized as
forms of conifera and of cycadaceous plants which have long
passed away in the world below, we entered a region where the
stream widened out and formed a considerable bog.  High reeds of
a peculiar type grew thickly before us, which were pronounced to
be equisetacea, or mare's-tails, with tree-ferns scattered
amongst them, all of them swaying in a brisk wind.  Suddenly Lord
John, who was walking first, halted with uplifted hand.

"Look at this!" said he.  "By George, this must be the trail of
the father of all birds!"

An enormous three-toed track was imprinted in the soft mud before us. 
The creature, whatever it was, had crossed the swamp and had passed
on into the forest.  We all stopped to examine that monstrous spoor. 
If it were indeed a bird--and what animal could leave such a mark?--
its foot was so much larger than an ostrich's that its height upon
the same scale must be enormous.  Lord John looked eagerly round him
and slipped two cartridges into his elephant-gun.

"I'll stake my good name as a shikarree," said he, "that the
track is a fresh one.  The creature has not passed ten minutes. 
Look how the water is still oozing into that deeper print! 
By Jove!  See, here is the mark of a little one!"

Sure enough, smaller tracks of the same general form were running
parallel to the large ones.

"But what do you make of this?" cried Professor Summerlee,
triumphantly, pointing to what looked like the huge print of a
five-fingered human hand appearing among the three-toed marks.

"Wealden!" cried Challenger, in an ecstasy.  "I've seen them in
the Wealden clay.  It is a creature walking erect upon three-toed
feet, and occasionally putting one of its five-fingered forepaws
upon the ground.  Not a bird, my dear Roxton--not a bird."

"A beast?"

"No; a reptile--a dinosaur.  Nothing else could have left such
a track.  They puzzled a worthy Sussex doctor some ninety years
ago; but who in the world could have hoped--hoped--to have seen a
sight like that?"

His words died away into a whisper, and we all stood in
motionless amazement.  Following the tracks, we had left the
morass and passed through a screen of brushwood and trees. 
Beyond was an open glade, and in this were five of the most
extraordinary creatures that I have ever seen.  Crouching down
among the bushes, we observed them at our leisure.

There were, as I say, five of them, two being adults and three
young ones.  In size they were enormous.  Even the babies were as
big as elephants, while the two large ones were far beyond all
creatures I have ever seen.  They had slate-colored skin, which
was scaled like a lizard's and shimmered where the sun shone
upon it.  All five were sitting up, balancing themselves upon their
broad, powerful tails and their huge three-toed hind-feet, while
with their small five-fingered front-feet they pulled down the
branches upon which they browsed.  I do not know that I can bring
their appearance home to you better than by saying that they
looked like monstrous kangaroos, twenty feet in length, and with
skins like black crocodiles.

I do not know how long we stayed motionless gazing at this
marvelous spectacle.  A strong wind blew towards us and we were
well concealed, so there was no chance of discovery.  From time
to time the little ones played round their parents in unwieldy
gambols, the great beasts bounding into the air and falling with
dull thuds upon the earth.  The strength of the parents seemed to
be limitless, for one of them, having some difficulty in reaching
a bunch of foliage which grew upon a considerable-sized tree, put
his fore-legs round the trunk and tore it down as if it had been
a sapling.  The action seemed, as I thought, to show not only the
great development of its muscles, but also the small one of its
brain, for the whole weight came crashing down upon the top of
it, and it uttered a series of shrill yelps to show that, big as
it was, there was a limit to what it could endure.  The incident
made it think, apparently, that the neighborhood was dangerous,
for it slowly lurched off through the wood, followed by its mate
and its three enormous infants.  We saw the shimmering slaty
gleam of their skins between the tree-trunks, and their heads
undulating high above the brush-wood.  Then they vanished from
our sight.

I looked at my comrades.  Lord John was standing at gaze with his
finger on the trigger of his elephant-gun, his eager hunter's
soul shining from his fierce eyes.  What would he not give for
one such head to place between the two crossed oars above the
mantelpiece in his snuggery at the Albany!  And yet his reason
held him in, for all our exploration of the wonders of this
unknown land depended upon our presence being concealed from
its inhabitants.  The two professors were in silent ecstasy. 
In their excitement they had unconsciously seized each other by
the hand, and stood like two little children in the presence of a
marvel, Challenger's cheeks bunched up into a seraphic smile, and
Summerlee's sardonic face softening for the moment into wonder
and reverence.

"Nunc dimittis!" he cried at last.  "What will they say in
England of this?"

"My dear Summerlee, I will tell you with great confidence exactly
what they will say in England," said Challenger.  "They will say
that you are an infernal liar and a scientific charlatan, exactly
as you and others said of me."

"In the face of photographs?"

"Faked, Summerlee!  Clumsily faked!"

"In the face of specimens?"

"Ah, there we may have them!  Malone and his filthy Fleet Street
crew may be all yelping our praises yet.  August the twenty-eighth--
the day we saw five live iguanodons in a glade of Maple White Land. 
Put it down in your diary, my young friend, and send it to your rag."

"And be ready to get the toe-end of the editorial boot in
return," said Lord John.  "Things look a bit different from the
latitude of London, young fellah my lad.  There's many a man who
never tells his adventures, for he can't hope to be believed. 
Who's to blame them?  For this will seem a bit of a dream to
ourselves in a month or two.  WHAT did you say they were?"

"Iguanodons," said Summerlee.  "You'll find their footmarks all
over the Hastings sands, in Kent, and in Sussex.  The South of
England was alive with them when there was plenty of good lush
green-stuff to keep them going.  Conditions have changed, and the
beasts died.  Here it seems that the conditions have not changed,
and the beasts have lived."

"If ever we get out of this alive, I must have a head with me,"
said Lord John.  "Lord, how some of that Somaliland-Uganda crowd
would turn a beautiful pea-green if they saw it!  I don't know
what you chaps think, but it strikes me that we are on mighty
thin ice all this time."

I had the same feeling of mystery and danger around us.  In the
gloom of the trees there seemed a constant menace and as we
looked up into their shadowy foliage vague terrors crept into
one's heart.  It is true that these monstrous creatures which we
had seen were lumbering, inoffensive brutes which were unlikely
to hurt anyone, but in this world of wonders what other survivals
might there not be--what fierce, active horrors ready to pounce
upon us from their lair among the rocks or brushwood?  I knew
little of prehistoric life, but I had a clear remembrance of one
book which I had read in which it spoke of creatures who would
live upon our lions and tigers as a cat lives upon mice.  What if
these also were to be found in the woods of Maple White Land!

It was destined that on this very morning--our first in the new
country--we were to find out what strange hazards lay around us. 
It was a loathsome adventure, and one of which I hate to think. 
If, as Lord John said, the glade of the iguanodons will remain
with us as a dream, then surely the swamp of the pterodactyls will
forever be our nightmare.  Let me set down exactly what occurred.

We passed very slowly through the woods, partly because Lord
Roxton acted as scout before he would let us advance, and partly
because at every second step one or other of our professors would
fall, with a cry of wonder, before some flower or insect which
presented him with a new type.  We may have traveled two or three
miles in all, keeping to the right of the line of the stream,
when we came upon a considerable opening in the trees.  A belt
of brushwood led up to a tangle of rocks--the whole plateau was
strewn with boulders.  We were walking slowly towards these
rocks, among bushes which reached over our waists, when we became
aware of a strange low gabbling and whistling sound, which filled
the air with a constant clamor and appeared to come from some
spot immediately before us.  Lord John held up his hand as a
signal for us to stop, and he made his way swiftly, stooping and
running, to the line of rocks.  We saw him peep over them and
give a gesture of amazement.  Then he stood staring as if
forgetting us, so utterly entranced was he by what he saw. 
Finally he waved us to come on, holding up his hand as a signal
for caution.  His whole bearing made me feel that something
wonderful but dangerous lay before us.

Creeping to his side, we looked over the rocks.  The place into
which we gazed was a pit, and may, in the early days, have been
one of the smaller volcanic blow-holes of the plateau.  It was
bowl-shaped and at the bottom, some hundreds of yards from where
we lay, were pools of green-scummed, stagnant water, fringed
with bullrushes.  It was a weird place in itself, but its
occupants made it seem like a scene from the Seven Circles of Dante. 
The place was a rookery of pterodactyls.  There were hundreds of
them congregated within view.  All the bottom area round the
water-edge was alive with their young ones, and with hideous
mothers brooding upon their leathery, yellowish eggs.  From this
crawling flapping mass of obscene reptilian life came the
shocking clamor which filled the air and the mephitic, horrible,
musty odor which turned us sick.  But above, perched each upon
its own stone, tall, gray, and withered, more like dead and dried
specimens than actual living creatures, sat the horrible males,
absolutely motionless save for the rolling of their red eyes or
an occasional snap of their rat-trap beaks as a dragon-fly went
past them.  Their huge, membranous wings were closed by folding
their fore-arms, so that they sat like gigantic old women,
wrapped in hideous web-colored shawls, and with their ferocious
heads protruding above them.  Large and small, not less than a
thousand of these filthy creatures lay in the hollow before us.

Our professors would gladly have stayed there all day, so
entranced were they by this opportunity of studying the life of a
prehistoric age.  They pointed out the fish and dead birds lying
about among the rocks as proving the nature of the food of these
creatures, and I heard them congratulating each other on having
cleared up the point why the bones of this flying dragon are
found in such great numbers in certain well-defined areas, as in
the Cambridge Green-sand, since it was now seen that, like penguins,
they lived in gregarious fashion.

Finally, however, Challenger, bent upon proving some point which
Summerlee had contested, thrust his head over the rock and nearly
brought destruction upon us all.  In an instant the nearest male
gave a shrill, whistling cry, and flapped its twenty-foot span of
leathery wings as it soared up into the air.  The females and
young ones huddled together beside the water, while the whole
circle of sentinels rose one after the other and sailed off into
the sky.  It was a wonderful sight to see at least a hundred
creatures of such enormous size and hideous appearance all
swooping like swallows with swift, shearing wing-strokes above
us; but soon we realized that it was not one on which we could
afford to linger.  At first the great brutes flew round in a huge
ring, as if to make sure what the exact extent of the danger
might be.  Then, the flight grew lower and the circle narrower,
until they were whizzing round and round us, the dry, rustling
flap of their huge slate-colored wings filling the air with a
volume of sound that made me think of Hendon aerodrome upon a
race day.

"Make for the wood and keep together," cried Lord John, clubbing
his rifle.  "The brutes mean mischief."

The moment we attempted to retreat the circle closed in upon us,
until the tips of the wings of those nearest to us nearly touched
our faces.  We beat at them with the stocks of our guns, but
there was nothing solid or vulnerable to strike.  Then suddenly
out of the whizzing, slate-colored circle a long neck shot out, and
a fierce beak made a thrust at us.  Another and another followed. 
Summerlee gave a cry and put his hand to his face, from which the
blood was streaming.  I felt a prod at the back of my neck, and
turned dizzy with the shock.  Challenger fell, and as I stooped
to pick him up I was again struck from behind and dropped on the
top of him.  At the same instant I heard the crash of Lord John's
elephant-gun, and, looking up, saw one of the creatures with a
broken wing struggling upon the ground, spitting and gurgling at
us with a wide-opened beak and blood-shot, goggled eyes, like some
devil in a medieval picture.  Its comrades had flown higher at the
sudden sound, and were circling above our heads.

"Now," cried Lord John, "now for our lives!"

We staggered through the brushwood, and even as we reached the
trees the harpies were on us again.  Summerlee was knocked down,
but we tore him up and rushed among the trunks.  Once there we
were safe, for those huge wings had no space for their sweep
beneath the branches.  As we limped homewards, sadly mauled and
discomfited, we saw them for a long time flying at a great height
against the deep blue sky above our heads, soaring round and
round, no bigger than wood-pigeons, with their eyes no doubt
still following our progress.  At last, however, as we reached
the thicker woods they gave up the chase, and we saw them no more.

A most interesting and convincing experience," said Challenger,
as we halted beside the brook and he bathed a swollen knee. 
"We are exceptionally well informed, Summerlee, as to the habits
of the enraged pterodactyl."

Summerlee was wiping the blood from a cut in his forehead, while
I was tying up a nasty stab in the muscle of the neck.  Lord John
had the shoulder of his coat torn away, but the creature's teeth
had only grazed the flesh.

"It is worth noting," Challenger continued, "that our young
friend has received an undoubted stab, while Lord John's coat
could only have been torn by a bite.  In my own case, I was
beaten about the head by their wings, so we have had a remarkable
exhibition of their various methods of offence."

"It has been touch and go for our lives," said Lord John,
gravely, "and I could not think of a more rotten sort of death
than to be outed by such filthy vermin.  I was sorry to fire my
rifle, but, by Jove! there was no great choice."

"We should not be here if you hadn't," said I, with conviction.

"It may do no harm," said he.  "Among these woods there must be
many loud cracks from splitting or falling trees which would be
just like the sound of a gun.  But now, if you are of my opinion,
we have had thrills enough for one day, and had best get back to
the surgical box at the camp for some carbolic.  Who knows what
venom these beasts may have in their hideous jaws?"

But surely no men ever had just such a day since the world began. 
Some fresh surprise was ever in store for us.  When, following
the course of our brook, we at last reached our glade and saw
the thorny barricade of our camp, we thought that our adventures
were at an end.  But we had something more to think of before we
could rest.  The gate of Fort Challenger had been untouched, the
walls were unbroken, and yet it had been visited by some strange
and powerful creature in our absence.  No foot-mark showed a trace
of its nature, and only the overhanging branch of the enormous
ginko tree suggested how it might have come and gone; but of its
malevolent strength there was ample evidence in the condition of
our stores.  They were strewn at random all over the ground, and
one tin of meat had been crushed into pieces so as to extract
the contents.  A case of cartridges had been shattered into
matchwood, and one of the brass shells lay shredded into pieces
beside it.  Again the feeling of vague horror came upon our
souls, and we gazed round with frightened eyes at the dark
shadows which lay around us, in all of which some fearsome shape
might be lurking.  How good it was when we were hailed by the
voice of Zambo, and, going to the edge of the plateau, saw him
sitting grinning at us upon the top of the opposite pinnacle.

"All well, Massa Challenger, all well!" he cried.  "Me stay here. 
No fear.  You always find me when you want."

His honest black face, and the immense view before us, which
carried us half-way back to the affluent of the Amazon, helped us
to remember that we really were upon this earth in the twentieth
century, and had not by some magic been conveyed to some raw
planet in its earliest and wildest state.  How difficult it was
to realize that the violet line upon the far horizon was well
advanced to that great river upon which huge steamers ran, and
folk talked of the small affairs of life, while we, marooned
among the creatures of a bygone age, could but gaze towards it
and yearn for all that it meant!

One other memory remains with me of this wonderful day, and with
it I will close this letter.  The two professors, their tempers
aggravated no doubt by their injuries, had fallen out as to
whether our assailants were of the genus pterodactylus or
dimorphodon, and high words had ensued.  To avoid their wrangling
I moved some little way apart, and was seated smoking upon the
trunk of a fallen tree, when Lord John strolled over in my direction.

"I say, Malone," said he, "do you remember that place where those
beasts were?"

"Very clearly."

"A sort of volcanic pit, was it not?"

"Exactly," said I.

"Did you notice the soil?"

"Rocks."

"But round the water--where the reeds were?"

"It was a bluish soil.  It looked like clay."

"Exactly.  A volcanic tube full of blue clay."

"What of that?" I asked.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," said he, and strolled back to where the
voices of the contending men of science rose in a prolonged duet,
the high, strident note of Summerlee rising and falling to the
sonorous bass of Challenger.  I should have thought no more of
Lord John's remark were it not that once again that night I
heard him mutter to himself:  "Blue clay--clay in a volcanic tube!" 
They were the last words I heard before I dropped into an
exhausted sleep.


                            CHAPTER XI

                    "For once I was the Hero"

Lord John Roxton was right when he thought that some specially
toxic quality might lie in the bite of the horrible creatures
which had attacked us.  On the morning after our first adventure
upon the plateau, both Summerlee and I were in great pain and
fever, while Challenger's knee was so bruised that he could
hardly limp.  We kept to our camp all day, therefore, Lord John
busying himself, with such help as we could give him, in raising
the height and thickness of the thorny walls which were our
only defense.  I remember that during the whole long day I was
haunted by the feeling that we were closely observed, though by
whom or whence I could give no guess.

So strong was the impression that I told Professor Challenger of
it, who put it down to the cerebral excitement caused by my fever. 
Again and again I glanced round swiftly, with the conviction that
I was about to see something, but only to meet the dark tangle of
our hedge or the solemn and cavernous gloom of the great trees
which arched above our heads.  And yet the feeling grew ever
stronger in my own mind that something observant and something
malevolent was at our very elbow.  I thought of the Indian
superstition of the Curupuri--the dreadful, lurking spirit of
the woods--and I could have imagined that his terrible presence
haunted those who had invaded his most remote and sacred retreat.

That night (our third in Maple White Land) we had an experience
which left a fearful impression upon our minds, and made us
thankful that Lord John had worked so hard in making our
retreat impregnable.  We were all sleeping round our dying fire
when we were aroused--or, rather, I should say, shot out of our
slumbers--by a succession of the most frightful cries and screams
to which I have ever listened.  I know no sound to which I could
compare this amazing tumult, which seemed to come from some spot
within a few hundred yards of our camp.  It was as ear-splitting
as any whistle of a railway-engine; but whereas the whistle is a
clear, mechanical, sharp-edged sound, this was far deeper in volume
and vibrant with the uttermost strain of agony and horror.  We clapped
our hands to our ears to shut out that nerve-shaking appeal.  A cold
sweat broke out over my body, and my heart turned sick at the misery
of it.  All the woes of tortured life, all its stupendous indictment
of high heaven, its innumerable sorrows, seemed to be centered and
condensed into that one dreadful, agonized cry.  And then, under
this high-pitched, ringing sound there was another, more intermittent,
a low, deep-chested laugh, a growling, throaty gurgle of merriment
which formed a grotesque accompaniment to the shriek with which it
was blended.  For three or four minutes on end the fearsome duet
continued, while all the foliage rustled with the rising of
startled birds.  Then it shut off as suddenly as it began.  For a
long time we sat in horrified silence.  Then Lord John threw a bundle
of twigs upon the fire, and their red glare lit up the intent faces
of my companions and flickered over the great boughs above our heads.

"What was it?" I whispered.

"We shall know in the morning," said Lord John.  "It  was close
to us--not farther than the glade."

"We have been privileged to overhear a prehistoric tragedy, the
sort of drama which occurred among the reeds upon the border of
some Jurassic lagoon, when the greater dragon pinned the lesser
among the slime," said Challenger, with more solemnity than I had
ever heard in his voice.  "It was surely well for man that he
came late in the order of creation.  There were powers abroad in
earlier days which no courage and no mechanism of his could have met. 
What could his sling, his throwing-stick, or his arrow avail him
against such forces as have been loose to-night?  Even with a
modern rifle it would be all odds on the monster."

"I think I should back my little friend," said Lord John,
caressing his Express.  "But the beast would certainly have a
good sporting chance."

Summerlee raised his hand.

"Hush!" he cried.  "Surely I hear something?"

From the utter silence there emerged a deep, regular pat-pat. 
It was the tread of some animal--the rhythm of soft but heavy pads
placed cautiously upon the ground.  It stole slowly round the
camp, and then halted near our gateway.  There was a low, sibilant
rise and fall--the breathing of the creature.  Only our feeble
hedge separated us from this horror of the night.  Each of us
had seized his rifle, and Lord John had pulled out a small bush
to make an embrasure in the hedge.

"By George!" he whispered.  "I think I can see it!"

I stooped and peered over his shoulder through the gap.  Yes, I
could see it, too.  In the deep shadow of the tree there was a
deeper shadow yet, black, inchoate, vague--a crouching form full
of savage vigor and menace.  It was no higher than a horse, but
the dim outline suggested vast bulk and strength.  That hissing
pant, as regular and full-volumed as the exhaust of an engine,
spoke of a monstrous organism.  Once, as it moved, I thought I
saw the glint of two terrible, greenish eyes.  There was an
uneasy rustling, as if it were crawling slowly forward.

"I believe it is going to spring!" said I, cocking my rifle.

"Don't fire!  Don't fire!" whispered Lord John.  "The crash of a
gun in this silent night would be heard for miles.  Keep it as a
last card."

"If it gets over the hedge we're done," said Summerlee, and his
voice crackled into a nervous laugh as he spoke.

"No, it must not get over," cried Lord John; "but hold your
fire to the last.  Perhaps I can make something of the fellow. 
I'll chance it, anyhow."

It was as brave an act as ever I saw a man do.  He stooped to
the fire, picked up a blazing branch, and slipped in an instant
through a sallyport which he had made in our gateway.  The thing
moved forward with a dreadful snarl.  Lord John never hesitated,
but, running towards it with a quick, light step, he dashed the
flaming wood into the brute's face.  For one moment I had a
vision of a horrible mask like a giant toad's, of a warty,
leprous skin, and of a loose mouth all beslobbered with fresh blood. 
The next, there was a crash in the underwood and our dreadful
visitor was gone.

"I thought he wouldn't face the fire," said Lord John, laughing,
as he came back and threw his branch among the faggots.

"You should not have taken such a risk!" we all cried.

"There was nothin' else to be done.  If he had got among us we
should have shot each other in tryin' to down him.  On the other
hand, if we had fired through the hedge and wounded him he would
soon have been on the top of us--to say nothin' of giving
ourselves away.  On the whole, I think that we are jolly well out
of it.  What was he, then?"

Our learned men looked at each other with some hesitation.

"Personally, I am unable to classify the creature with any
certainty," said Summerlee, lighting his pipe from the fire.

"In refusing to commit yourself you are but showing a proper
scientific reserve," said Challenger, with massive condescension. 
"I am not myself prepared to go farther than to say in general
terms that we have almost certainly been in contact to-night with
some form of carnivorous dinosaur.  I have already expressed my
anticipation that something of the sort might exist upon this plateau."

"We have to bear in mind," remarked Summerlee, that there are many
prehistoric forms which have never come down to us.  It would be
rash to suppose that we can give a name to all that we are likely
to meet."

"Exactly.  A rough classification may be the best that we can attempt. 
To-morrow some further evidence may help us to an identification. 
Meantime we can only renew our interrupted slumbers."

"But not without a sentinel," said Lord John, with decision. 
"We can't afford to take chances in a country like this. 
Two-hour spells in the future, for each of us."

"Then I'll just finish my pipe in starting the first one," said
Professor Summerlee; and from that time onwards we never trusted
ourselves again without a watchman.

In the morning it was not long before we discovered the source
of the hideous uproar which had aroused us in the night. 
The iguanodon glade was the scene of a horrible butchery. 
From the pools of blood and the enormous lumps of flesh
scattered in every direction over the green sward we imagined
at first that a number of animals had been killed, but on
examining the remains more closely we discovered that all this
carnage came from one of these unwieldy monsters, which had been
literally torn to pieces by some creature not larger, perhaps,
but far more ferocious, than itself.

Our two professors sat in absorbed argument, examining piece
after piece, which showed the marks of savage teeth and of
enormous claws.

"Our judgment must still be in abeyance," said Professor
Challenger, with a huge slab of whitish-colored flesh across
his knee.  "The indications would be consistent with the presence
of a saber-toothed tiger, such as are still found among the breccia
of our caverns; but the creature actually seen was undoubtedly of
a larger and more reptilian character.  Personally, I should
pronounce for allosaurus."

"Or megalosaurus," said Summerlee.

"Exactly.  Any one of the larger carnivorous dinosaurs would meet
the case.  Among them are to be found all the most terrible types
of animal life that have ever cursed the earth or blessed a museum." 
He laughed sonorously at his own conceit, for, though he had little
sense of humor, the crudest pleasantry from his own lips moved him
always to roars of appreciation.

"The less noise the better," said Lord Roxton, curtly.  "We don't
know who or what may be near us.  If this fellah comes back for
his breakfast and catches us here we won't have so much to laugh at. 
By the way, what is this mark upon the iguanodon's hide?"

On the dull, scaly, slate-colored skin somewhere above the
shoulder, there was a singular black circle of some substance
which looked like asphalt.  None of us could suggest what it
meant, though Summerlee was of opinion that he had seen
something similar upon one of the young ones two days before. 
Challenger said nothing, but looked pompous and puffy, as if he
could if he would, so that finally Lord John asked his opinion direct.

"If your lordship will graciously permit me to open my mouth,
I shall be happy to express my sentiments," said he, with
elaborate sarcasm.  I am not in the habit of being taken to task
in the fashion which seems to be customary with your lordship. 
I was not aware that it was necessary to ask your permission
before smiling at a harmless pleasantry."

It was not until he had received his apology that our touchy
friend would suffer himself to be appeased.  When at last his
ruffled feelings were at ease, he addressed us at some length from
his seat upon a fallen tree, speaking, as his habit was, as if he
were imparting most precious information to a class of a thousand.

"With regard to the marking," said he, "I am inclined to agree
with my friend and colleague, Professor Summerlee, that the
stains are from asphalt.  As this plateau is, in its very nature,
highly volcanic, and as asphalt is a substance which one
associates with Plutonic forces, I cannot doubt that it exists in
the free liquid state, and that the creatures may have come in
contact with it.  A much more important problem is the question
as to the existence of the carnivorous monster which has left its
traces in this glade.  We know roughly that this plateau is not
larger than an average English county.  Within this confined
space a certain number of creatures, mostly types which have
passed away in the world below, have lived together for
innumerable years.  Now, it is very clear to me that in so long a
period one would have expected that the carnivorous creatures,
multiplying unchecked, would have exhausted their food supply and
have been compelled to either modify their flesh-eating habits
or die of hunger.  This we see has not been so.  We can only
imagine, therefore, that the balance of Nature is preserved by
some check which limits the numbers of these ferocious creatures. 
One of the many interesting problems, therefore, which await our
solution is to discover what that check may be and how it operates. 
I venture to trust that we may have some future opportunity for
the closer study of the carnivorous dinosaurs."

"And I venture to trust we may not," I observed.

The Professor only raised his great eyebrows, as the schoolmaster
meets the irrelevant observation of the naughty boy.

"Perhaps Professor Summerlee may have an observation to make," he
said, and the two savants ascended together into some rarefied
scientific atmosphere, where the possibilities of a modification
of the birth-rate were weighed against the decline of the food
supply as a check in the struggle for existence.

That morning we mapped out a small portion of the plateau,
avoiding the swamp of the pterodactyls, and keeping to the east
of our brook instead of to the west.  In that direction the
country was still thickly wooded, with so much undergrowth that
our progress was very slow.

I have dwelt up to now upon the terrors of Maple White Land; but
there was another side to the subject, for all that morning we
wandered among lovely flowers--mostly, as I observed, white or
yellow in color, these being, as our professors explained, the
primitive flower-shades.  In many places the ground was
absolutely covered with them, and as we walked ankle-deep on that
wonderful yielding carpet, the scent was almost intoxicating in
its sweetness and intensity.  The homely English bee buzzed
everywhere around us.  Many of the trees under which we passed
had their branches bowed down with fruit, some of which were of
familiar sorts, while other varieties were new.  By observing
which of them were pecked by the birds we avoided all danger of
poison and added a delicious variety to our food reserve.  In the
jungle which we traversed were numerous hard-trodden paths made
by the wild beasts, and in the more marshy places we saw a
profusion of strange footmarks, including many of the iguanodon. 
Once in a grove we observed several of these great creatures
grazing, and Lord John, with his glass, was able to report that
they also were spotted with asphalt, though in a different place
to the one which we had examined in the morning.  What this
phenomenon meant we could not imagine.

We saw many small animals, such as porcupines, a scaly ant-eater,
and a wild pig, piebald in color and with long curved tusks. 
Once, through a break in the trees, we saw a clear shoulder of
green hill some distance away, and across this a large dun-colored
animal was traveling at a considerable pace.  It passed so swiftly
that we were unable to say what it was; but if it were a deer, as
was claimed by Lord John, it must have been as large as those
monstrous Irish elk which are still dug up from time to time in
the bogs of my native land.

Ever since the mysterious visit which had been paid to our camp
we always returned to it with some misgivings.  However, on this
occasion we found everything in order.

That evening we had a grand discussion upon our present situation
and future plans, which I must describe at some length, as it led
to a new departure by which we were enabled to gain a more
complete knowledge of Maple White Land than might have come in
many weeks of exploring.  It was Summerlee who opened the debate. 
All day he had been querulous in manner, and now some remark of
Lord John's as to what we should do on the morrow brought all his
bitterness to a head.

"What we ought to be doing to-day, to-morrow, and all the time,"
said he, "is finding some way out of the trap into which we
have fallen.  You are all turning your brains towards getting into
this country.  I say that we should be scheming how to get out of it."

"I am surprised, sir," boomed Challenger, stroking his majestic
beard, "that any man of science should commit himself to so
ignoble a sentiment.  You are in a land which offers such an
inducement to the ambitious naturalist as none ever has since the
world began, and you suggest leaving it before we have acquired
more than the most superficial knowledge of it or of its contents. 
I expected better things of you, Professor Summerlee."

"You must remember," said Summerlee, sourly, "that I have a large
class in London who are at present at the mercy of an extremely
inefficient locum tenens.  This makes my situation different from
yours, Professor Challenger, since, so far as I know, you have
never been entrusted with any responsible educational work."

"Quite so," said Challenger.  "I have felt it to be a sacrilege
to divert a brain which is capable of the highest original
research to any lesser object.  That is why I have sternly set
my face against any proffered scholastic appointment."

"For example?" asked Summerlee, with a sneer; but Lord John
hastened to change the conversation.

"I must say," said he, "that I think it would be a mighty poor
thing to go back to London before I know a great deal more of
this place than I do at present."

"I could never dare to walk into the back office of my paper and
face old McArdle," said I.  (You will excuse the frankness of this
report, will you not, sir?)  "He'd never forgive me for leaving
such unexhausted copy behind me.  Besides, so far as I can see it
is not worth discussing, since we can't get down, even if we wanted."

"Our young friend makes up for many obvious mental lacunae by
some measure of primitive common sense, remarked Challenger. 
"The interests of his deplorable profession are immaterial to us;
but, as he observes, we cannot get down in any case, so it is a
waste of energy to discuss it."

"It is a waste of energy to do anything else," growled Summerlee
from behind his pipe.  "Let me remind you that we came here upon
a perfectly definite mission, entrusted to us at the meeting of
the Zoological Institute in London.  That mission was to test the
truth of Professor Challenger's statements.  Those statements,
as I am bound to admit, we are now in a position to endorse. 
Our ostensible work is therefore done.  As to the detail which
remains to be worked out upon this plateau, it is so enormous
that only a large expedition, with a very special equipment,
could hope to cope with it.  Should we attempt to do so ourselves,
the only possible result must be that we shall never return with
the important contribution to science which we have already gained. 
Professor Challenger has devised means for getting us on to this
plateau when it appeared to be inaccessible; I think that we should
now call upon him to use the same ingenuity in getting us back to
the world from which we came."

I confess that as Summerlee stated his view it struck me as
altogether reasonable.  Even Challenger was affected by the
consideration that his enemies would never stand confuted if the
confirmation of his statements should never reach those who had
doubted them.

"The problem of the descent is at first sight a formidable one,"
said he, "and yet I cannot doubt that the intellect can solve it. 
I am prepared to agree with our colleague that a protracted stay
in Maple White Land is at present inadvisable, and that the
question of our return will soon have to be faced.  I absolutely
refuse to leave, however, until we have made at least a
superficial examination of this country, and are able to take
back with us something in the nature of a chart."

Professor Summerlee gave a snort of impatience.

"We have spent two long days in exploration," said he, "and we
are no wiser as to the actual geography of the place than when
we started.  It is clear that it is all thickly wooded, and it
would take months to penetrate it and to learn the relations of
one part to another.  If there were some central peak it would
be different, but it all slopes downwards, so far as we can see. 
The farther we go the less likely it is that we will get any
general view."

It was at that moment that I had my inspiration.  My eyes chanced
to light upon the enormous gnarled trunk of the gingko tree which
cast its huge branches over us.  Surely, if its bole exceeded
that of all others, its height must do the same.  If the rim of
the plateau was indeed the highest point, then why should this
mighty tree not prove to be a watchtower which commanded the
whole country?  Now, ever since I ran wild as a lad in Ireland I
have been a bold and skilled tree-climber.  My comrades might be
my masters on the rocks, but I knew that I would be supreme among
those branches.  Could I only get my legs on to the lowest of the
giant off-shoots, then it would be strange indeed if I could not
make my way to the top.  My comrades were delighted at my idea.

"Our young friend," said Challenger, bunching up the red apples
of his cheeks, "is capable of acrobatic exertions which would be
impossible to a man of a more solid, though possibly of a more
commanding, appearance.  I applaud his resolution."

"By George, young fellah, you've put your hand on it!" said Lord
John, clapping me on the back.  "How we never came to think of it
before I can't imagine!  There's not more than an hour of daylight
left, but if you take your notebook you may be able to get some
rough sketch of the place.  If we put these three ammunition
cases under the branch, I will soon hoist you on to it."

He stood on the boxes while I faced the trunk, and was gently
raising me when Challenger sprang forward and gave me such a
thrust with his  huge hand that he fairly shot me into the tree. 
With both arms clasping the branch, I scrambled  hard with my
feet until I had worked, first my body, and then my knees, onto it. 
There were three excellent off-shoots, like huge rungs of a
ladder, above my head, and a tangle of convenient branches
beyond, so that I clambered onwards with such speed that I soon
lost sight of the ground and had nothing but foliage beneath me. 
Now and then I encountered a check, and once I had to shin up a
creeper for eight or ten feet, but I made excellent progress, and
the booming of Challenger's voice seemed to be a great distance
beneath me. The tree was, however, enormous, and, looking
upwards, I could see no thinning of the leaves above my head. 
There was some thick, bush-like clump which seemed to be a
parasite upon a branch up which I was swarming.  I leaned my head
round it in order to see what was beyond, and I nearly fell out
of the tree in my surprise and horror at what I saw.

A face was gazing into mine--at the distance of only a foot or two. 
The creature that owned it had been crouching behind the parasite,
and had looked round it at the same instant that I did.  It was
a human face--or at least it was far more human than any monkey's
that I have ever seen.  It was long, whitish, and blotched with
pimples, the nose flattened, and the lower jaw projecting, with
a bristle of coarse whiskers round the chin.  The eyes, which
were under thick and heavy brows, were bestial and ferocious,
and as it opened its mouth to snarl what sounded like a curse at
me I observed that it had curved, sharp canine teeth.  For an
instant I read hatred and menace in the evil eyes.  Then, as quick
as a flash, came an expression of overpowering fear.  There was
a crash of broken boughs as it dived wildly down into the tangle
of green.  I caught a glimpse of a hairy body like that of a
reddish pig, and then it was gone amid a swirl of leaves and branches.

"What's the matter?" shouted Roxton from below.  "Anything wrong
with you?"

"Did you see it?" I cried, with my arms round the branch and all
my nerves tingling.

"We heard a row, as if your foot had slipped.  What was it?"

I was so shocked at the sudden and strange appearance of this
ape-man that I hesitated whether I should not climb down again
and tell my experience to my companions.  But I was already so
far up the great tree that it seemed a humiliation to return
without having carried out my mission.

After a long pause, therefore, to recover my breath and my
courage, I continued my ascent.  Once I put my weight upon a
rotten branch and swung for a few seconds by my hands, but in the
main it was all easy climbing.  Gradually the leaves thinned
around me, and I was aware, from the wind upon my face, that I
had topped all the trees of the forest.  I was determined,
however, not to look about me before I had reached the very
highest point, so I scrambled on until I had got so far that the
topmost branch was bending beneath my weight.  There I settled
into a convenient fork, and, balancing myself securely, I found
myself looking down at a most wonderful panorama of this strange
country in which we found ourselves.

The sun was just above the western sky-line, and the evening was
a particularly bright and clear one, so that the whole extent of
the plateau was visible beneath me.  It was, as seen from this
height, of an oval contour, with a breadth of about thirty miles
and a width of twenty.  Its general shape was that of a shallow
funnel, all the sides sloping down to a considerable lake in
the center.  This lake may have been ten miles in circumference,
and lay very green and beautiful in the evening light, with a
thick fringe of reeds at its edges, and with its surface broken
by several yellow sandbanks, which gleamed golden in the
mellow sunshine.  A number of long dark objects, which were too
large for alligators and too long for canoes, lay upon the edges
of these patches of sand.  With my glass I could clearly see that
they were alive, but what their nature might be I could not imagine.

From the side of the plateau on which we were, slopes of
woodland, with occasional glades, stretched down for five or six
miles to the central lake.  I could see at my very feet the glade
of the iguanodons, and farther off was a round opening in the
trees which marked the swamp of the pterodactyls.  On the side
facing me, however, the plateau presented a very different aspect. 
There the basalt cliffs of the outside were reproduced upon the
inside, forming an escarpment about two hundred feet high, with
a woody slope beneath it.  Along the base of these red cliffs,
some distance above the ground, I could see a number of dark
holes through the glass, which I conjectured to be the mouths
of caves.  At the opening of one of these something white was
shimmering, but I was unable to make out what it was.  I sat
charting the country until the sun had set and it was so dark
that I could no longer distinguish details.  Then I climbed down
to my companions waiting for me so eagerly at the bottom of the
great tree.  For once I was the hero of the expedition.  Alone I
had thought of it, and alone I had done it; and here was the
chart which would save us a month's blind groping among
unknown dangers.  Each of them shook me solemnly by the hand.

But before they discussed the details of my map I had to tell
them of my encounter with the ape-man among the branches.

"He has been there all the time," said I.

"How do you know that?" asked Lord John.

"Because I have never been without that feeling that something
malevolent was watching us. I mentioned it to you, Professor Challenger."

"Our young friend certainly said something of the kind.  He is
also the one among us who is endowed with that Celtic temperament
which would make him sensitive to such impressions."

"The whole theory of telepathy----" began Summerlee, filling his pipe.

"Is too vast to be now discussed," said Challenger, with decision. 
"Tell me, now," he added, with the air of a bishop addressing a
Sunday-school, "did you happen to observe whether the creature
could cross its thumb over its palm?"

"No, indeed."

"Had it a tail?"

"No."

"Was the foot prehensile?"

"I do not think it could have made off so fast among the branches
if it could not get a grip with its feet."

"In South America there are, if my memory serves me--you will
check the observation, Professor Summerlee--some thirty-six
species of monkeys, but the anthropoid ape is unknown.  It is
clear, however, that he exists in this country, and that he is
not the hairy, gorilla-like variety, which is never seen out of
Africa or the East."  (I was inclined to interpolate, as I looked
at him, that I had seen his first cousin in Kensington.)  "This is
a whiskered and colorless type, the latter characteristic pointing
to the fact that he spends his days in arboreal seclusion. 
The question which we have to face is whether he approaches more
closely to the ape or the man.  In the latter case, he may well
approximate to what the vulgar have called the `missing link.' 
The solution of this problem is our immediate duty."

"It is nothing of the sort," said Summerlee, abruptly.  "Now that,
through the intelligence and activity of Mr. Malone" (I cannot help
quoting the words), "we have got our chart, our one and only
immediate duty is to get ourselves safe and sound out of this
awful place."

"The flesh-pots of civilization," groaned Challenger.

"The ink-pots of civilization, sir.  It is our task to put on
record what we have seen, and to leave the further exploration
to others.  You all agreed as much before Mr. Malone got us the chart."

"Well," said Challenger, "I admit that my mind will be more at
ease when I am assured that the result of our expedition has been
conveyed to our friends.  How we are to get down from this place
I have not as yet an idea.  I have never yet encountered any
problem, however, which my inventive brain was unable to solve,
and I promise you that to-morrow I will turn my attention to the
question of our descent."  And so the matter was allowed to rest.

But that evening, by the light of the fire and of a single candle,
the first map of the lost world was elaborated.  Every detail
which I had roughly noted from my watch-tower was drawn out in
its relative place.  Challenger's pencil hovered over the great
blank which marked the lake.

"What shall we call it?" he asked.

"Why should you not take the chance of perpetuating your own
name?" said Summerlee, with his usual touch of acidity.

"I trust, sir, that my name will have other and more personal
claims upon posterity," said Challenger, severely.  "Any ignoramus
can hand down his worthless memory by imposing it upon a mountain
or a river.  I need no such monument."

Summerlee, with a twisted smile, was about to make some fresh
assault when Lord John hastened to intervene.

"It's up to you, young fellah, to name the lake," said he. 
"You saw it first, and, by George, if you choose to put `Lake
Malone' on it, no one has a better right."

"By all means.  Let our young friend give it a name," said Challenger.

"Then, said I, blushing, I dare say, as I said it, "let it be
named Lake Gladys."

"Don't you think the Central Lake would be more descriptive?"
remarked Summerlee.

"I should prefer Lake Gladys."

Challenger looked at me sympathetically, and shook his great head
in mock disapproval.  "Boys will be boys," said he.  "Lake Gladys
let it be."


                           CHAPTER XII

                "It was Dreadful in the Forest"

I have said--or perhaps I have not said, for my memory plays me
sad tricks these days--that I glowed with pride when three such
men as my comrades thanked me for having saved, or at least
greatly helped, the situation.  As the youngster of the party,
not merely in years, but in experience, character, knowledge, and
all that goes to make a man, I had been overshadowed from the first. 
And now I was coming into my own.  I warmed at the thought. 
Alas! for the pride which goes before a fall!  That little glow
of self-satisfaction, that added measure of self-confidence, were
to lead me on that very night to the most dreadful experience
of my life, ending with a shock which turns my heart sick when I
think of it.

It came about in this way.  I had been unduly excited by the
adventure of the tree, and sleep seemed to be impossible. 
Summerlee was on guard, sitting hunched over our small fire,
a quaint, angular figure, his rifle across his knees and his
pointed, goat-like beard wagging with each weary nod of his head. 
Lord John lay silent, wrapped in the South American poncho which
he wore, while Challenger snored with a roll and rattle which
reverberated through the woods.  The full moon was shining
brightly, and the air was crisply cold.  What a night for a walk! 
And then suddenly came the thought, "Why not?"  Suppose I stole
softly away, suppose I made my way down to the central lake,
suppose I was back at breakfast with some record of the place--
would I not in that case be thought an even more worthy associate? 
Then, if Summerlee carried the day and some means of escape were
found, we should return to London with first-hand knowledge of
 the central mystery of the plateau, to which I alone, of all
men, would have penetrated.  I thought of Gladys, with her "There
are heroisms all round us."  I seemed to hear her voice as she
said it.  I thought also of McArdle.  What a three column article
for the paper!  What a foundation for a career!  A correspondentship
in the next great war might be within my reach.  I clutched at a
gun--my pockets were full of cartridges--and, parting the thorn
bushes at the gate of our zareba, quickly slipped out.  My last
glance showed me the unconscious Summerlee, most futile of
sentinels, still nodding away like a queer mechanical toy in front
of the smouldering fire.

I had not gone a hundred yards before I deeply repented my rashness. 
I may have said somewhere in this chronicle that I am too
imaginative to be a really courageous man, but that I have an
overpowering fear of seeming afraid.  This was the power which
now carried me onwards.  I simply could not slink back with
nothing done.  Even if my comrades should not have missed me, and
should never know of my weakness, there would still remain some
intolerable self-shame in my own soul.  And yet I shuddered at
the position in which I found myself, and would have given all I
possessed at that moment to have been honorably free of the
whole business.

It was dreadful in the forest.  The trees grew so thickly and
their foliage spread so widely that I could see nothing of the
moon-light save that here and there the high branches made a
tangled filigree against the starry sky.  As the eyes became more
used to the obscurity one learned that there were different
degrees of darkness among the trees--that some were dimly
visible, while between and among them there were coal-black
shadowed patches, like the mouths of caves, from which I shrank
in horror as I passed.  I thought of the despairing yell of the
tortured iguanodon--that dreadful cry which had echoed through
the woods.  I thought, too, of the glimpse I had in the light of
Lord John's torch of that bloated, warty, blood-slavering muzzle. 
Even now I was on its hunting-ground.  At any instant it might
spring upon me from the shadows--this nameless and horrible monster. 
I stopped, and, picking a cartridge from my pocket, I opened the
breech of my gun.  As I touched the lever my heart leaped within me. 
It was the shot-gun, not the rifle, which I had taken!

Again the impulse to return swept over me.  Here, surely, was a
most excellent reason for my failure--one for which no one would
think the less of me.  But again the foolish pride fought against
that very word.  I could not--must not--fail.  After all, my
rifle would probably have been as useless as a shot-gun against
such dangers as I might meet.  If I were to go back to camp to
change my weapon I could hardly expect to enter and to leave
again without being seen.  In that case there would be
explanations, and my attempt would no longer be all my own. 
After a little hesitation, then, I screwed up my courage and
continued upon my way, my useless gun under my arm.

The darkness of the forest had been alarming, but even worse
was the white, still flood of moonlight in the open glade of
the iguanodons.  Hid among the bushes, I looked out at it.  None of
the great brutes were in sight.  Perhaps the tragedy which had
befallen one of them had driven them from their feeding-ground. 
In the misty, silvery night I could see no sign of any living thing. 
Taking courage, therefore, I slipped rapidly across it, and among
the jungle on the farther side I picked up once again the brook
which was my guide.  It was a cheery companion, gurgling and
chuckling as it ran, like the dear old trout-stream in the West
Country where I have fished at night in my boyhood.  So long as
I followed it down I must come to the lake, and so long as I
followed it back I must come to the camp.  Often I had to lose
sight of it on account of the tangled brush-wood, but I was always
within earshot of its tinkle and splash.

As one descended the slope the woods became thinner, and bushes,
with occasional high trees, took the place of the forest. 
I could make good progress, therefore, and I could see without
being seen.  I passed close to the pterodactyl swamp, and as I
did so, with a dry, crisp, leathery rattle of wings, one of
these great creatures--it was twenty feet at least from tip to
tip--rose up from somewhere near me and soared into the air. 
As it passed across the face of the moon the light shone clearly
through the membranous wings, and it looked like a flying
skeleton against the white, tropical radiance.  I crouched low
among the bushes, for I knew from past experience that with a
single cry the creature could bring a hundred of its loathsome
mates about my ears.  It was not until it had settled again that
I dared to steal onwards upon my journey.

The night had been exceedingly still, but as I advanced I became
conscious of a low, rumbling sound, a continuous murmur,
somewhere in front of me.  This grew louder as I proceeded, until
at last it was clearly quite close to me.  When I stood still
the sound was constant, so that it seemed to come from some
stationary cause.  It was like a boiling kettle or the bubbling
of some great pot.  Soon I came upon the source of it, for in the
center of a small clearing I found a lake--or a pool, rather,
for it was not larger than the basin of the Trafalgar Square
fountain--of some black, pitch-like stuff, the surface of which
rose and fell in great blisters of bursting gas.  The air above
it was shimmering with heat, and the ground round was so hot that
I could hardly bear to lay my hand on it.  It was clear that the
great volcanic outburst which had raised this strange plateau so
many years ago had not yet entirely spent its forces.  Blackened rocks
and mounds of lava I had already seen everywhere peeping out from
amid the luxuriant vegetation which draped them, but this asphalt
pool in the jungle was the first sign that we had of actual
existing activity on the slopes of the ancient crater.  I had no
time to examine it further for I had need to hurry if I were to be
back in camp in the morning.

It was a fearsome walk, and one which will be with me so long as
memory holds.  In the great moonlight clearings I slunk along
among the shadows on the margin.  In the jungle I crept forward,
stopping with a beating heart whenever I heard, as I often did,
the crash of breaking branches as some wild beast went past. 
Now and then great shadows loomed up for an instant and were
gone--great, silent shadows which seemed to prowl upon padded feet. 
How often I stopped with the intention of returning, and yet every
time my pride conquered my fear, and sent me on again until my
object should be attained.

At last (my watch showed that it was one in the morning) I saw
the gleam of water amid the openings of the jungle, and ten
minutes later I was among the reeds upon the borders of the
central lake.  I was exceedingly dry, so I lay down and took a
long draught of its waters, which were fresh and cold.  There was
a broad pathway with many tracks upon it at the spot which I had
found, so that it was clearly one of the drinking-places of
the animals.  Close to the water's edge there was a huge isolated
block of lava.  Up this I climbed, and, lying on the top, I had
an excellent view in every direction.

The first thing which I saw filled me with amazement.  When I
described the view from the summit of the great tree, I said that
on the farther cliff I could see a number of dark spots, which
appeared to be the mouths of caves.  Now, as I looked up at the
same cliffs, I saw discs of light in every direction, ruddy,
clearly-defined patches, like the port-holes of a liner in
the darkness.  For a moment I thought it was the lava-glow from
some volcanic action; but this could not be so.  Any volcanic action
would surely be down in the hollow and not high among the rocks. 
What, then, was the alternative?  It was wonderful, and yet it
must surely be.  These ruddy spots must be the reflection of
fires within the caves--fires which could only be lit by the
hand of man.  There were human beings, then, upon the plateau. 
How gloriously my expedition was justified!  Here was news indeed
for us to bear back with us to London!

For a long time I lay and watched these red, quivering blotches
of light.  I suppose they were ten miles off from me, yet even
at that distance one could observe how, from time to time, they
twinkled or were obscured as someone passed before them.  What would
I not have given to be able to crawl up to them, to peep in, and
to take back some word to my comrades as to the appearance and
character of the race who lived in so strange a place!  It was
out of the question for the moment, and yet surely we could not
leave the plateau until we had some definite knowledge upon the point.

Lake Gladys--my own lake--lay like a sheet of quicksilver before
me, with a reflected moon shining brightly in the center of it. 
It was shallow, for in many places I saw low sandbanks protruding
above the water.  Everywhere upon the still surface I could see
signs of life, sometimes mere rings and ripples in the water,
sometimes the gleam of a great silver-sided fish in the air,
sometimes the arched, slate-colored back of some passing monster. 
Once upon a yellow sandbank I saw a creature like a huge swan,
with a clumsy body and a high, flexible neck, shuffling about
upon the margin.  Presently it plunged in, and for some time I
could see the arched neck and darting head undulating over the water. 
Then it dived, and I saw it no more.

My attention was soon drawn away from these distant sights and
brought back to what was going on at my very feet.  Two creatures
like large armadillos had come down to the drinking-place, and
were squatting at the edge of the water, their long, flexible
tongues like red ribbons shooting in and out as they lapped. 
A huge deer, with branching horns, a magnificent creature which
carried itself like a king, came down with its doe and two fawns
and drank beside the armadillos.  No such deer exist anywhere
else upon earth, for the moose or elks which I have seen would
hardly have reached its shoulders.  Presently it gave a warning
snort, and was off with its family among the reeds, while the
armadillos also scuttled for shelter.  A new-comer, a most
monstrous animal, was coming down the path.

For a moment I wondered where I could have seen that ungainly
shape, that arched back with triangular fringes along it, that
strange bird-like head held close to the ground.  Then it came
back, to me.  It was the stegosaurus--the very creature which
Maple White had preserved in his sketch-book, and which had been
the first object which arrested the attention of Challenger!
There he was--perhaps the very specimen which the American artist
had encountered.  The ground shook beneath his tremendous weight,
and his gulpings of water resounded through the still night. 
For five minutes he was so close to my rock that by stretching out
my hand I could have touched the hideous waving hackles upon his back. 
Then he lumbered away and was lost among the boulders.

Looking at my watch, I saw that it was half-past two o'clock, and
high time, therefore, that I started upon my homeward journey. 
There was no difficulty about the direction in which I should
return for all along I had kept the little brook upon my left,
and it opened into the central lake within a stone's-throw of the
boulder upon which I had been lying.  I set off, therefore, in
high spirits, for I felt that I had done good work and was
bringing back a fine budget of news for my companions.  Foremost of
all, of course, were the sight of the fiery caves and the certainty
that some troglodytic race inhabited them.  But besides that I
could speak from experience of the central lake.  I could testify
that it was full of strange creatures, and I had seen several
land forms of primeval life which we had not before encountered. 
I reflected as I walked that few men in the world could have spent
a stranger night or added more to human knowledge in the course of it.

I was plodding up the slope, turning these thoughts over in my
mind, and had reached a point which may have been half-way to
home, when my mind was brought back to my own position by a
strange noise behind me.  It was something between a snore and
a growl, low, deep, and exceedingly menacing.  Some strange
creature was evidently near me, but nothing could be seen, so I
hastened more rapidly upon my way.  I had traversed half a mile
or so when suddenly the sound was repeated, still behind me, but
louder and more menacing than before.  My heart stood still
within me as it flashed across me that the beast, whatever it
was, must surely be after ME.   My skin grew cold and my hair
rose at the thought.  That these monsters should tear each other
to pieces was a part of the strange struggle for existence,
but that they should turn upon modern man, that they should
deliberately track and hunt down the predominant human, was a
staggering and fearsome thought.  I remembered again the
blood-beslobbered face which we had seen in the glare of Lord
John's torch, like some horrible vision from the deepest circle
of Dante's hell.  With my knees shaking beneath me, I stood and
glared with starting eyes down the moonlit path which lay behind me. 
All was quiet as in a dream landscape.  Silver clearings and the
black patches of the bushes--nothing else could I see.  Then from
out of the silence, imminent and threatening, there came once more
that low, throaty croaking, far louder and closer than before. 
There could no longer be a doubt.  Something was on my trail, and
was closing in upon me every minute.

I stood like a man paralyzed, still staring at the ground which I
had traversed.  Then suddenly I saw it.  There was movement among
the bushes at the far end of the clearing which I had just traversed. 
A great dark shadow disengaged itself and hopped out into the clear
moonlight.  I say "hopped" advisedly, for the beast moved like a
kangaroo, springing along in an erect position upon its powerful
hind legs, while its front ones were held bent in front of it. 
It was of enormous size and power, like an erect elephant, but its
movements, in spite of its bulk, were exceedingly alert.  For a
moment, as I saw its shape, I hoped that it was an iguanodon,
which I knew to be harmless, but, ignorant as I was, I soon saw
that this was a very different creature.  Instead of the gentle,
deer-shaped head of the great three-toed leaf-eater, this beast
had a broad, squat, toad-like face like that which had alarmed us
in our camp.  His ferocious cry and the horrible energy of his
pursuit both assured me that this was surely one of the great
flesh-eating dinosaurs, the most terrible beasts which have ever
walked this earth.  As the huge brute loped along it dropped forward
upon its fore-paws and brought its nose to the ground every twenty
yards or so.  It was smelling out my trail.  Sometimes, for an
instant, it was at fault.  Then it would catch it up again and
come bounding swiftly along the path I had taken.

Even now when I think of that nightmare the sweat breaks out upon
my brow.  What could I do?  My useless fowling-piece was in my hand. 
What help could I get from that?  I looked desperately round for
some rock or tree, but I was in a bushy jungle with nothing higher
than a sapling within sight, while I knew that the creature behind
me could tear down an ordinary tree as though it were a reed. 
My only possible chance lay in flight.  I could not move swiftly
over the rough, broken ground, but as I looked round me in despair
I saw a well-marked, hard-beaten path which ran across in front
of me.  We had seen several of the sort, the runs of various wild
beasts, during our expeditions.  Along this I could perhaps hold
my own, for I was a fast runner, and in excellent condition. 
Flinging away my useless gun, I set myself to do such a half-mile
as I have never done before or since.  My limbs ached, my chest
heaved, I felt that my throat would burst for want of air, and yet
with that horror behind me I ran and I ran and ran.  At last I
paused, hardly able to move.  For a moment I thought that I had
thrown him off.  The path lay still behind me.  And then suddenly,
with a crashing and a rending, a thudding of giant feet and a
panting of monster lungs the beast was upon me once more.  He was
at my very heels.  I was lost.

Madman that I was to linger so long before I fled!  Up to then he
had hunted by scent, and his movement was slow.  But he had
actually seen me as I started to run.  From then onwards he had
hunted by sight, for the path showed him where I had gone.  Now, as
he came round the curve, he was springing in great bounds. 
The moonlight shone upon his huge projecting eyes, the row of
enormous teeth in his open mouth, and the gleaming fringe of
claws upon his short, powerful forearms.  With a scream of terror
I turned and rushed wildly down the path.  Behind me the thick,
gasping breathing of the creature sounded louder and louder. 
His heavy footfall was beside me.  Every instant I expected to feel
his grip upon my back.  And then suddenly there came a crash--I was
falling through space, and everything beyond was darkness and rest.

As I emerged from my unconsciousness--which could not, I think,
have lasted more than a few minutes--I was aware of a most
dreadful and penetrating smell.  Putting out my hand in the
darkness I came upon something which felt like a huge lump of
meat, while my other hand closed upon a large bone.  Up above me
there was a circle of starlit sky, which showed me that I was
lying at the bottom of a deep pit.  Slowly I staggered to my feet
and felt myself all over.  I was stiff and sore from head to
foot, but there was no limb which would not move, no joint which
would not bend.  As the circumstances of my fall came back into
my confused brain, I looked up in terror, expecting to see that
dreadful head silhouetted against the paling sky.  There was no
sign of the monster, however, nor could I hear any sound from above. 
I began to walk slowly round, therefore, feeling in every direction
to find out what this strange place could be into which I had been
so opportunely precipitated.

It was, as I have said, a pit, with sharply-sloping walls and a
level bottom about twenty feet across.  This bottom was littered
with great gobbets of flesh, most of which was in the last state
of putridity.  The atmosphere was poisonous and horrible. 
After tripping and stumbling over these lumps of decay, I came
suddenly against something hard, and I found that an upright post
was firmly fixed in the center of the hollow.  It was so high that
I could not reach the top of it with my hand, and it appeared to be
covered with grease.

Suddenly I remembered that I had a tin box of wax-vestas in
my pocket.  Striking one of them, I was able at last to form some
opinion of this place into which I had fallen.  There could be no
question as to its nature.  It was a trap--made by the hand of man. 
The post in the center, some nine feet long, was sharpened
at the upper end, and was black with the stale blood of the
creatures who had been impaled upon it.  The remains scattered
about were fragments of the victims, which had been cut away in
order to clear the stake for the next who might blunder in. 
I remembered that Challenger had declared that man could not exist
upon the plateau, since with his feeble weapons he could not hold
his own against the monsters who roamed over it.  But now it was
clear enough how it could be done.  In their narrow-mouthed caves
the natives, whoever they might be, had refuges into which the
huge saurians could not penetrate, while with their developed
brains they were capable of setting such traps, covered with
branches, across the paths which marked the run of the animals as
would destroy them in spite of all their strength and activity. 
Man was always the master.

The sloping wall of the pit was not difficult for an active man
to climb, but I hesitated long before I trusted myself within
reach of the dreadful creature which had so nearly destroyed me. 
How did I know that he was not lurking in the nearest clump of
bushes, waiting for my reappearance?  I took heart, however, as I
recalled a conversation between Challenger and Summerlee upon the
habits of the great saurians.  Both were agreed that the monsters
were practically brainless, that there was no room for reason in
their tiny cranial cavities, and that if they have disappeared
from the rest of the world it was assuredly on account of their
own stupidity, which made it impossible for them to adapt
themselves to changing conditions.

To lie in wait for me now would mean that the creature had
appreciated what had happened to me, and this in turn would argue
some power connecting cause and effect.  Surely it was more
likely that a brainless creature, acting solely by vague
predatory instinct, would give up the chase when I disappeared,
and, after a pause of astonishment, would wander away in search
of some other prey?  I clambered to the edge of the pit and
looked over.  The stars were fading, the sky was whitening, and
the cold wind of morning blew pleasantly upon my face.  I could
see or hear nothing of my enemy.  Slowly I climbed out and sat for
a while upon the ground, ready to spring back into my refuge if any
danger should appear.  Then, reassured by the absolute stillness
and by the growing light, I took my courage in both hands and
stole back along the path which I had come.  Some distance down
it I picked up my gun, and shortly afterwards struck the brook
which was my guide.  So, with many a frightened backward glance,
I made for home.

And suddenly there came something to remind me of my absent companions. 
In the clear, still morning air there sounded far away the sharp,
hard note of a single rifle-shot.  I paused and listened, but
there was nothing more.  For a moment I was shocked at the thought
that some sudden danger might have befallen them.  But then a
simpler and more natural explanation came to my mind.  It was now
broad daylight.  No doubt my absence had been noticed.  They had
imagined, that I was lost in the woods, and had fired this shot
to guide me home.  It is true that we had made a strict resolution
against firing, but if it seemed to them that I might be in danger
they would not hesitate.  It was for me now to hurry on as fast as
possible, and so to reassure them.

I was weary and spent, so my progress was not so fast as I
wished; but at last I came into regions which I knew.  There was
the swamp of the pterodactyls upon my left; there in front of me
was the glade of the iguanodons.  Now I was in the last belt of
trees which separated me from Fort Challenger.  I raised my voice
in a cheery shout to allay their fears.  No answering greeting
came back to me.  My heart sank at that ominous stillness. 
I quickened my pace into a run.  The zareba rose before me, even
as I had left it, but the gate was open.  I rushed in.  In the cold,
morning light it was a fearful sight which met my eyes.  Our effects
were scattered in wild confusion over the ground; my comrades had
disappeared, and close to the smouldering ashes of our fire the
grass was stained crimson with a hideous pool of blood.

I was so stunned by this sudden shock that for a time I must
have nearly lost my reason.  I have a vague recollection, as
one remembers a bad dream, of rushing about through the woods
all round the empty camp, calling wildly for my companions. 
No answer came back from the silent shadows.  The horrible
thought that I might never see them again, that I might find
myself abandoned all alone in that dreadful place, with no
possible way of descending into the world below, that I might
live and die in that nightmare country, drove me to desperation. 
I could have torn my hair and beaten my head in my despair. 
Only now did I realize how I had learned to lean upon my
companions, upon the serene self-confidence of Challenger,
and upon the masterful, humorous coolness of Lord John Roxton. 
Without them I was like a child in the dark, helpless and powerless. 
I did not know which way to turn or what I should do first.

After a period, during which I sat in bewilderment, I set myself
to try and discover what sudden misfortune could have befallen
my companions.  The whole disordered appearance of the camp
showed that there had been some sort of attack, and the rifle-
shot no doubt marked the time when it had occurred.  That there
should have been only one shot showed that it had been all over
in an instant.  The rifles still lay upon the ground, and one
of them--Lord John's--had the empty cartridge in the breech. 
The blankets of Challenger and of Summerlee beside the fire
suggested that they had been asleep at the time.  The cases of
ammunition and of food were scattered about in a wild litter,
together with our unfortunate cameras and plate-carriers, but
none of them were missing.  On the other hand, all the exposed
provisions--and I remembered that there were a considerable
quantity of them--were gone.  They were animals, then, and not
natives, who had made the inroad, for surely the latter would
have left nothing behind.

But if animals, or some single terrible animal, then what had
become of my comrades?  A ferocious beast would surely have
destroyed them and left their remains.  It is true that there was
that one hideous pool of blood, which told of violence.  Such a
monster as had pursued me during the night could have carried
away a victim as easily as a cat would a mouse.  In that case the
others would have followed in pursuit.  But then they would
assuredly have taken their rifles with them.  The more I tried to
think it out with my confused and weary brain the less could I
find any plausible explanation.  I searched round in the forest,
but could see no tracks which could help me to a conclusion. 
Once I lost myself, and it was only by good luck, and after an
hour of wandering, that I found the camp once more.

Suddenly a thought came to me and brought some little comfort to
my heart.  I was not absolutely alone in the world.  Down at the
bottom of the cliff, and within call of me, was waiting the
faithful Zambo.  I went to the edge of the plateau and looked over. 
Sure enough, he was squatting among his blankets beside his fire
in his little camp.  But, to my amazement, a second man was seated
in front of him.  For an instant my heart leaped for joy, as I
thought that one of my comrades had made his way safely down. 
But a second glance dispelled the hope.  The rising sun shone
red upon the man's skin.  He was an Indian.  I shouted loudly
and waved my handkerchief.  Presently Zambo looked up, waved his
hand, and turned to ascend the pinnacle.  In a short time he was
standing close to me and listening with deep distress to the story
which I told him.

"Devil got them for sure, Massa Malone," said he.  "You got
into the devil's country, sah, and he take you all to himself. 
You take advice, Massa Malone, and come down quick, else he get
you as well."

"How can I come down, Zambo?"

"You get creepers from trees, Massa Malone.  Throw them over here. 
I make fast to this stump, and so you have bridge."

"We have thought of that.  There are no creepers here which could
bear us."

"Send for ropes, Massa Malone."

"Who can I send, and where?"

"Send to Indian villages, sah.  Plenty hide rope in Indian village. 
Indian down below; send him."

"Who is he?

"One of our Indians.  Other ones beat him and take away his pay. 
He come back to us.  Ready now to take letter, bring rope,--anything."

To take a letter!  Why not?  Perhaps he might bring help; but
in any case he would ensure that our lives were not spent for
nothing, and that news of all that we had won for Science
should reach our friends at home.  I had two completed letters
already waiting.  I would spend the day in writing a third, which
would bring my experiences absolutely up to date.  The Indian could
bear this back to the world.  I ordered Zambo, therefore, to come
again in the evening, and I spent my miserable and lonely day in
recording my own adventures of the night before.  I also drew up
a note, to be given to any white merchant or captain of a
steam-boat whom the Indian could find, imploring them to see that
ropes were sent to us, since our lives must depend upon it. 
These documents I threw to Zambo in the evening, and also my
purse, which contained three English sovereigns.  These were to
be given to the Indian, and he was promised twice as much if he
returned with the ropes.

So now you will understand, my dear Mr. McArdle, how this
communication reaches you, and you will also know the truth, in
case you never hear again from your unfortunate correspondent. 
To-night I am too weary and too depressed to make my plans. 
To-morrow I must think out some way by which I shall keep in
touch with this camp, and yet search round for any traces of my
unhappy friends.


                           CHAPTER XIII

               "A Sight which I shall Never Forget"

Just as the sun was setting upon that melancholy night I saw the
lonely figure of the Indian upon the vast plain beneath me, and I
watched him, our one faint hope of salvation, until he disappeared
in the rising mists of evening which lay, rose-tinted from the
setting sun, between the far-off river and me.

It was quite dark when I at last turned back to our stricken
camp, and my last vision as I went was the red gleam of Zambo's
fire, the one point of light in the wide world below, as was
his faithful presence in my own shadowed soul.  And yet I felt
happier than I had done since this crushing blow had fallen upon
me, for it was good to think that the world should know what we
had done, so that at the worst our names should not perish with
our bodies, but should go down to posterity associated with the
result of our labors.

It was an awesome thing to sleep in that ill-fated camp; and yet
it was even more unnerving to do so in the jungle.  One or the
other it must be.  Prudence, on the one hand, warned me that I
should remain on guard, but exhausted Nature, on the other,
declared that I should do nothing of the kind.  I climbed up on
to a limb of the great gingko tree, but there was no secure perch
on its rounded surface, and I should certainly have fallen off
and broken my neck the moment I began to doze.  I got down,
therefore, and pondered over what I should do.  Finally, I closed
the door of the zareba, lit three separate fires in a triangle,
and having eaten a hearty supper dropped off into a profound sleep,
from which I had a strange and most welcome awakening.  In the
early morning, just as day was breaking, a hand was laid upon
my arm, and starting up, with all my nerves in a tingle and my
hand feeling for a rifle, I gave a cry of joy as in the cold gray
light I saw Lord John Roxton kneeling beside me.

It was he--and yet it was not he.  I had left him calm in his
bearing, correct in his person, prim in his dress.  Now he was
pale and wild-eyed, gasping as he breathed like one who has run
far and fast.  His gaunt face was scratched and bloody, his
clothes were hanging in rags, and his hat was gone.  I stared in
amazement, but he gave me no chance for questions.  He was
grabbing at our stores all the time he spoke.

"Quick, young fellah!  Quick!" he cried.  "Every moment counts. 
Get the rifles, both of them.  I have the other two.  Now, all the
cartridges you can gather.  Fill up your pockets.  Now, some food. 
Half a dozen tins will do.  That's all right!  Don't wait to talk
or think.  Get a move on, or we are done!"

Still half-awake, and unable to imagine what it all might mean, I
found myself hurrying madly after him through the wood, a rifle
under each arm and a pile of various stores in my hands.  He dodged
in and out through the thickest of the scrub until he came to a
dense clump of brush-wood.  Into this he rushed, regardless of
thorns, and threw himself into the heart of it, pulling me down
by his side.

"There!" he panted.  "I think we are safe here.  They'll make for
the camp as sure as fate.  It will be their first idea.  But this
should puzzle 'em."

"What is it all?" I asked, when I had got my breath.  "Where are
the professors?  And who is it that is after us?"

"The ape-men," he cried.  "My God, what brutes!  Don't raise your
voice, for they have long ears--sharp eyes, too, but no power of
scent, so far as I could judge, so I don't think they can sniff
us out.  Where have you been, young fellah?  You were well out of it."

In a few sentences I whispered what I had done.

"Pretty bad," said he, when he had heard of the dinosaur and the pit. 
"It isn't quite the place for a rest cure.  What?  But I had no idea
what its possibilities were until those devils got hold of us. 
The man-eatin' Papuans had me once, but they are Chesterfields
compared to this crowd."

"How did it happen?" I asked.

"It was in the early mornin'.  Our learned friends were just stirrin'. 
Hadn't even begun to argue yet.  Suddenly it rained apes.  They came
down as thick as apples out of a tree.  They had been assemblin'
in the dark, I suppose, until that great tree over our heads was
heavy with them.  I shot one of them through the belly, but before
we knew where we were they had us spread-eagled on our backs.  I call
them apes, but they carried sticks and stones in their hands and
jabbered talk to each other, and ended up by tyin' our hands with
creepers, so they are ahead of any beast that I have seen in
my wanderin's.  Ape-men--that's what they are--Missin' Links, and
I wish they had stayed missin'.  They carried off their wounded
comrade--he was bleedin' like a pig--and then they sat around us,
and if ever I saw frozen murder it was in their faces.  They were
big fellows, as big as a man and a deal stronger.  Curious glassy
gray eyes they have, under red tufts, and they just sat and gloated
and gloated.  Challenger is no chicken, but even he was cowed. 
He managed to struggle to his feet, and yelled out at them to have
done with it and get it over.  I think he had gone a bit off his
head at the suddenness of it, for he raged and cursed at them
like a lunatic.  If they had been a row of his favorite Pressmen
he could not have slanged them worse."

"Well, what did they do?"  I was enthralled by the strange story
which my companion was whispering into my ear, while all the time
his keen eyes were shooting in every direction and his hand
grasping his cocked rifle.

"I thought it was the end of us, but instead of that it started
them on a new line.  They all jabbered and chattered together. 
Then one of them stood out beside Challenger.  You'll smile,
young fellah, but 'pon my word they might have been kinsmen. 
I couldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. 
This old ape-man--he was their chief--was a sort of red Challenger,
with every one of our friend's beauty points, only just a trifle
more so.  He had the short body, the big shoulders, the round chest,
no neck, a great ruddy frill of a beard, the tufted eyebrows,
the `What do you want, damn you!' look about the eyes, and the
whole catalogue.  When the ape-man stood by Challenger and put his
paw on his shoulder, the thing was complete.  Summerlee was a bit
hysterical, and he laughed till he cried.  The ape-men laughed too--
or at least they put up the devil of a cacklin'--and they set to
work to drag us off through the forest.  They wouldn't touch the
guns and things--thought them dangerous, I expect--but they carried
away all our loose food.  Summerlee and I got some rough handlin'
on the way--there's my skin and my clothes to prove it--for they
took us a bee-line through the brambles, and their own hides are
like leather.  But Challenger was all right.  Four of them carried
him shoulder high, and he went like a Roman emperor.  What's that?"

It was a strange clicking noise in the distance not unlike castanets.

"There they go!" said my companion, slipping cartridges into the
second double barrelled "Express."  "Load them all up, young
fellah my lad, for we're not going to be taken alive, and don't
you think it!  That's the row they make when they are excited. 
By George! they'll have something to excite them if they put us up. 
The `Last Stand of the Grays' won't be in it.   `With their
rifles grasped in their stiffened hands, mid a ring of the dead
and dyin',' as some fathead sings.  Can you hear them now?"

"Very far away."

"That little lot will do no good, but I expect their search
parties are all over the wood.  Well, I was telling you my tale
of woe.  They got us soon to this town of theirs--about a
thousand huts of branches and leaves in a great grove of trees
near the edge of the cliff.  It's three or four miles from here. 
The filthy beasts fingered me all over, and I feel as if I should
never be clean again.  They tied us up--the fellow who handled me
could tie like a bosun--and there we lay with our toes up,
beneath a tree, while a great brute stood guard over us with a
club in his hand.  When I say `we' I mean Summerlee and myself. 
Old Challenger was up a tree, eatin' pines and havin' the time of
his life.  I'm bound to say that he managed to get some fruit to
us, and with his own hands he loosened our bonds.  If you'd seen
him sitting up in that tree hob-nobbin' with his twin
brother--and singin' in that rollin' bass of his, `Ring out, wild
bells,' cause music of any kind seemed to put 'em in a good
humor, you'd have smiled; but we weren't in much mood for
laughin', as you can guess.  They were inclined, within limits,
to let him do what he liked, but they drew the line pretty
sharply at us.  It was a mighty consolation to us all to know
that you were runnin' loose and had the archives in your keepin'.

"Well, now, young fellah, I'll tell you what will surprise you. 
You say you saw signs of men, and fires, traps, and the like. 
Well, we have seen the natives themselves.  Poor devils they
were, down-faced little chaps, and had enough to make them so. 
It seems that the humans hold one side of this plateau--over
yonder, where you saw the caves--and the ape-men hold this side,
and there is bloody war between them all the time.  That's the
situation, so far as I could follow it.  Well, yesterday the
ape-men got hold of a dozen of the humans and brought them in
as prisoners.  You never heard such a jabberin' and shriekin' in
your life.  The men were little red fellows, and had been bitten
and clawed so that they could hardly walk.  The ape-men put two
of them to death there and then--fairly pulled the arm off one of
them--it was perfectly beastly.  Plucky little chaps they are,
and hardly gave a squeak.  But it turned us absolutely sick. 
Summerlee fainted, and even Challenger had as much as he could stand. 
I think they have cleared, don't you?"

We listened intently, but nothing save the calling of the birds broke
the deep peace of the forest.  Lord Roxton went on with his story.

"I Think you have had the escape of your life, young fellah my lad. 
It was catchin' those Indians that put you clean out of their heads,
else they would have been back to the camp for you as sure as fate
and gathered you in.  Of course, as you said, they have been watchin'
us from the beginnin' out of that tree, and they knew perfectly well
that we were one short.  However, they could think only of this new
haul; so it was I, and not a bunch of apes, that dropped in on you
in the morning.  Well, we had a horrid business afterwards.  My God!
what a nightmare the whole thing is!  You remember the great bristle
of sharp canes down below where we found the skeleton of the American? 
Well, that is just under ape-town, and that's the jumpin'-off place
of their prisoners.  I expect there's heaps of skeletons there, if
we looked for 'em.  They have a sort of clear parade-ground on
the top, and they make a proper ceremony about it.  One by one the
poor devils have to jump, and the game is to see whether they are
merely dashed to pieces or whether they get skewered on the canes. 
They took us out to see it, and the whole tribe lined up on the edge. 
Four of the Indians jumped, and the canes went through 'em like
knittin' needles through a pat of butter.  No wonder we found that
poor Yankee's skeleton with the canes growin' between his ribs. 
It was horrible--but it was doocedly interestin' too.  We were all
fascinated to see them take the dive, even when we thought it would
be our turn next on the spring-board.

"Well, it wasn't.  They kept six of the Indians up for to-day--
that's how I understood it--but I fancy we were to be the
star performers in the show.  Challenger might get off, but
Summerlee and I were in the bill.  Their language is more than
half signs, and it was not hard to follow them.  So I thought it
was time we made a break for it.  I had been plottin' it out a
bit, and had one or two things clear in my mind.  It was all on
me, for Summerlee was useless and Challenger not much better. 
The only time they got together they got slangin' because they
couldn't agree upon the scientific classification of these
red-headed devils that had got hold of us.  One said it was the
dryopithecus of Java, the other said it was pithecanthropus. 
Madness, I call it--Loonies, both.  But, as I say, I had thought
out one or two points that were helpful.  One was that these
brutes could not run as fast as a man in the open.  They have
short, bandy legs, you see, and heavy bodies.  Even Challenger
could give a few yards in a hundred to the best of them, and you
or I would be a perfect Shrubb.  Another point was that they knew
nothin' about guns.  I don't believe they ever understood how the
fellow I shot came by his hurt.  If we could get at our guns
there was no sayin' what we could do.

"So I broke away early this mornin', gave my guard a kick in the
tummy that laid him out, and sprinted for the camp.  There I got
you and the guns, and here we are."

"But the professors!" I cried, in consternation.

"Well, we must just go back and fetch 'em.  I couldn't bring 'em
with me.  Challenger was up the tree, and Summerlee was not fit
for the effort.  The only chance was to get the guns and try
a rescue.  Of course they may scupper them at once in revenge. 
I don't think they would touch Challenger, but I wouldn't answer
for Summerlee.  But they would have had him in any case.  Of that
I am certain.  So I haven't made matters any worse by boltin'. 
But we are honor bound to go back and have them out or see it
through with them.  So you can make up your soul, young fellah my
lad, for it will be one way or the other before evenin'."

I have tried to imitate here Lord Roxton's jerky talk, his short,
strong sentences, the half-humorous, half-reckless tone that ran
through it all.  But he was a born leader.  As danger thickened
his jaunty manner would increase, his speech become more racy,
his cold eyes glitter into ardent life, and his Don Quixote
moustache bristle with joyous excitement.  His love of danger,
his intense appreciation of the drama of an adventure--all the
more intense for being held tightly in--his consistent view that
every peril in life is a form of sport, a fierce game betwixt you
and Fate, with Death as a forfeit, made him a wonderful companion
at such hours.  If it were not for our fears as to the fate of
our companions, it would have been a positive joy to throw myself
with such a man into such an affair.  We were rising from our
brushwood hiding-place when suddenly I felt his grip upon my arm.

"By George!" he whispered, "here they come!"

From where we lay we could look down a brown aisle, arched with
green, formed by the trunks and branches.  Along this a party of
the ape-men were passing.  They went in single file, with bent legs
and rounded backs, their hands occasionally touching the ground,
their heads turning to left and right as they trotted along. 
Their crouching gait took away from their height, but I should
put them at five feet or so, with long arms and enormous chests. 
Many of them carried sticks, and at the distance they looked like
a line of very hairy and deformed human beings.  For a moment I
caught this clear glimpse of them.  Then they were lost among
the bushes.

"Not this time," said Lord John, who had caught up his rifle. 
"Our best chance is to lie quiet until they have given up the search. 
Then we shall see whether we can't get back to their town and hit
'em where it hurts most.  Give 'em an hour and we'll march."

We filled in the time by opening one of our food tins and making
sure of our breakfast.  Lord Roxton had had nothing but some
fruit since the morning before and ate like a starving man. 
Then, at last, our pockets bulging with cartridges and a rifle in
each hand, we started off upon our mission of rescue.  Before leaving
it we carefully marked our little hiding-place among the brush-wood
and its bearing to Fort Challenger, that we might find it again if
we needed it.  We slunk through the bushes in silence until we came
to the very edge of the cliff, close to the old camp.  There we
halted, and Lord John gave me some idea of his plans.

"So long as we are among the thick trees these swine are our
masters, said he.  They can see us and we cannot see them.  But in
the open it is different.  There we can move faster than they. 
So we must stick to the open all we can.  The edge of the plateau
has fewer large trees than further inland.  So that's our line
of advance.  Go slowly, keep your eyes open and your rifle ready. 
Above all, never let them get you prisoner while there is a
cartridge left--that's my last word to you, young fellah."

When we reached the edge of the cliff I looked over and saw our
good old black Zambo sitting smoking on a rock below us.  I would
have given a great deal to have hailed him and told him how we
were placed, but it was too dangerous, lest we should be heard. 
The woods seemed to be full of the ape-men; again and again we
heard their curious clicking chatter.  At such times we plunged
into the nearest clump of bushes and lay still until the sound
had passed away.  Our advance, therefore, was very slow, and two
hours at least must have passed before I saw by Lord John's
cautious movements that we must be close to our destination. 
He motioned to me to lie still, and he crawled forward himself. 
In a minute he was back again, his face quivering with eagerness.

"Come!" said he.  "Come quick! I hope to the Lord we are not too
late already!

I found myself shaking with nervous excitement as I scrambled
forward and lay down beside him, looking out through the bushes
at a clearing which stretched before us.

It was a sight which I shall never forget until my dying day--so
weird, so impossible, that I do not know how I am to make you
realize it, or how in a few years I shall bring myself to believe
in it if I live to sit once more on a lounge in the Savage Club
and look out on the drab solidity of the Embankment.  I know that
it will seem then to be some wild nightmare, some delirium of fever. 
Yet I will set it down now, while it is still fresh in my memory,
and one at least, the man who lay in the damp grasses by my side,
will know if I have lied.

A wide, open space lay before us--some hundreds of yards
across--all green turf and low bracken growing to the very edge
of the cliff.  Round this clearing there was a semi-circle of
trees with curious huts built of foliage piled one above the
other among the branches.  A rookery, with every nest a little
house, would best convey the idea.  The openings of these huts
and the branches of the trees were thronged with a dense mob of
ape-people, whom from their size I took to be the females and
infants of the tribe.  They formed the background of the picture,
and were all looking out with eager interest at the same scene
which fascinated and bewildered us.

In the open, and near the edge of the cliff, there had assembled
a crowd of some hundred of these shaggy, red-haired creatures,
many of them of immense size, and all of them horrible to look upon. 
There was a certain discipline among them, for none of them
attempted to break the line which had been formed.  In front
there stood a small group of Indians--little, clean-limbed, red
fellows, whose skins glowed like polished bronze in the strong sunlight. 
A tall, thin white man was standing beside them, his head bowed,
his arms folded, his whole attitude expressive of his horror
and dejection.  There was no mistaking the angular form of
Professor Summerlee.

In front of and around this dejected group of prisoners were several
ape-men, who watched them closely and made all escape impossible. 
Then, right out from all the others and close to the edge of the
cliff, were two figures, so strange, and under other circumstances
so ludicrous, that they absorbed my attention.  The one was our
comrade, Professor Challenger.  The remains of his coat still hung
in strips from his shoulders, but his shirt had been all torn out,
and his great beard merged itself in the black tangle which
covered his mighty chest.  He had lost his hat, and his hair,
which had grown long in our wanderings, was flying in wild disorder. 
A single day seemed to have changed him from the highest product
of modern civilization to the most desperate savage in South America. 
Beside him stood his master, the king of the ape-men.  In all things
he was, as Lord John had said, the very image of our Professor,
save that his coloring was red instead of black.  The same short,
broad figure, the same heavy shoulders, the same forward hang of
the arms, the same bristling beard merging itself in the hairy chest. 
Only above the eyebrows, where the sloping forehead and low, curved
skull of the ape-man were in sharp contrast to the broad brow and
magnificent cranium of the European, could one see any marked difference. 
At every other point the king was an absurd parody of the Professor.

All this, which takes me so long to describe, impressed itself
upon me in a few seconds.  Then we had very different things to
think of, for an active drama was in progress.  Two of the
ape-men had seized one of the Indians out of the group and
dragged him forward to the edge of the cliff.  The king raised
his hand as a signal.  They caught the man by his leg and arm, and
swung him three times backwards and forwards with tremendous violence. 
Then, with a frightful heave they shot the poor wretch over
the precipice.  With such force did they throw him that he curved
high in the air before beginning to drop.  As he vanished from sight,
the whole assembly, except the guards, rushed forward to the edge
of the precipice, and there was a long pause of absolute silence,
broken by a mad yell of delight.  They sprang about, tossing their
long, hairy arms in the air and howling with exultation.  Then they
fell back from the edge, formed themselves again into line, and
waited for the next victim.

This time it was Summerlee.  Two of his guards caught him by the
wrists and pulled him brutally to the front.  His thin figure and
long limbs struggled and fluttered like a chicken being dragged
from a coop.  Challenger had turned to the king and waved his
hands frantically before him.  He was begging, pleading,
imploring for his comrade's life.  The ape-man pushed him roughly
aside and shook his head.  It was the last conscious movement he
was to make upon earth.  Lord John's rifle cracked, and the king
sank down, a tangled red sprawling thing, upon the ground.

"Shoot into the thick of them!  Shoot! sonny, shoot!" cried
my companion.

There are strange red depths in the soul of the most commonplace man. 
I am tenderhearted by nature, and have found my eyes moist many a
time over the scream of a wounded hare.  Yet the blood lust was on
me now.  I found myself on my feet emptying one magazine, then the
other, clicking open the breech to re-load, snapping it to again,
while cheering and yelling with pure ferocity and joy of slaughter
as I did so.  With our four guns the two of us made a horrible havoc. 
Both the guards who held Summerlee were down, and he was staggering
about like a drunken man in his amazement, unable to realize that
he was a free man.  The dense mob of ape-men ran about in
bewilderment, marveling whence this storm of death was coming or
what it might mean.  They waved, gesticulated, screamed, and tripped
up over those who had fallen.  Then, with a sudden impulse, they all
rushed in a howling crowd to the trees for shelter, leaving the
ground behind them spotted with their stricken comrades.  The prisoners
were left for the moment standing alone in the middle of the clearing.

Challenger's quick brain had grasped the situation.  He seized
the bewildered Summerlee by the arm, and they both ran towards us. 
Two of their guards bounded after them and fell to two bullets
from Lord John.  We ran forward into the open to meet our friends,
and pressed a loaded rifle into the hands of each.  But Summerlee
was at the end of his strength.  He could hardly totter. 
Already the ape-men were recovering from their panic.  They were
coming through the brushwood and threatening to cut us off. 
Challenger and I ran Summerlee along, one at each of his
elbows, while Lord John covered our retreat, firing again and
again as savage heads snarled at us out of the bushes.  For a
mile or more the chattering brutes were at our very heels. 
Then the pursuit slackened, for they learned our power and would
no longer face that unerring rifle.  When we had at last reached
the camp, we looked back and found ourselves alone.

So it seemed to us; and yet we were mistaken.  We had hardly
closed the thornbush door of our zareba, clasped each other's
hands, and thrown ourselves panting upon the ground beside our
spring, when we heard a patter of feet and then a gentle,
plaintive crying from outside our entrance.  Lord Roxton rushed
forward, rifle in hand, and threw it open.  There, prostrate upon
their faces, lay the little red figures of the four surviving
Indians, trembling with fear of us and yet imploring our protection. 
With an expressive sweep of his hands one of them pointed to the
woods around them, and indicated that they were full of danger. 
Then, darting forward, he threw his arms round Lord John's legs,
and rested his face upon them.

"By George!" cried our peer, pulling at his moustache in great
perplexity, "I say--what the deuce are we to do with these people? 
Get up, little chappie, and take your face off my boots."

Summerlee was sitting up and stuffing some tobacco into his old briar.

"We've got to see them safe," said he.  "You've pulled us all out
of the jaws of death.  My word! it was a good bit of work!"

"Admirable!" cried Challenger.  "Admirable!  Not only we as
individuals, but European science collectively, owe you a deep
debt of gratitude for what you have done.  I do not hesitate to
say that the disappearance of Professor Summerlee and myself
would have left an appreciable gap in modern zoological history. 
Our young friend here and you have done most excellently well."

He beamed at us with the old paternal smile, but European science
would have been somewhat amazed could they have seen their chosen
child, the hope of the future, with his tangled, unkempt head,
his bare chest, and his tattered clothes.  He had one of the
meat-tins between his knees, and sat with a large piece of cold
Australian mutton between his fingers.  The Indian looked up at
him, and then, with a little yelp, cringed to the ground and
clung to Lord John's leg.

"Don't you be scared, my bonnie boy," said Lord John, patting the
matted head in front of him.  "He can't stick your appearance,
Challenger; and, by George! I don't wonder.  All right, little
chap, he's only a human, just the same as the rest of us."

"Really, sir!" cried the Professor.

"Well, it's lucky for you, Challenger, that you ARE a little out
of the ordinary.  If you hadn't been so like the king----"

"Upon my word, Lord John, you allow yourself great latitude."

"Well, it's a fact."

"I beg, sir, that you will change the subject.  Your remarks are
irrelevant and unintelligible.  The question before us is what are
we to do with these Indians?  The obvious thing is to escort them
home, if we knew where their home was."

"There is no difficulty about that," said I.  "They live in
the caves on the other side of the central lake."

"Our young friend here knows where they live.  I gather that it
is some distance."

"A good twenty miles," said I.

Summerlee gave a groan.

"I, for one, could never get there.  Surely I hear those brutes
still howling upon our track."

As he spoke, from the dark recesses of the woods we heard far
away the jabbering cry of the ape-men.  The Indians once more set
up a feeble wail of fear.

"We must move, and move quick!" said Lord John.  "You help
Summerlee, young fellah.  These Indians will carry stores. 
Now, then, come along before they can see us."

In less than half-an-hour we had reached our brushwood retreat
and concealed ourselves.  All day we heard the excited calling of
the ape-men in the direction of our old camp, but none of them
came our way, and the tired fugitives, red and white, had a long,
deep sleep.  I was dozing myself in the evening when someone
plucked my sleeve, and I found Challenger kneeling beside me.

"You keep a diary of these events, and you expect eventually to
publish it, Mr. Malone," said he, with solemnity.

"I am only here as a Press reporter," I answered.

"Exactly.  You may have heard some rather fatuous remarks of
Lord John Roxton's which seemed to imply that there was some--
some resemblance----"

"Yes, I heard them."

"I need not say that any publicity given to such an idea--any
levity in your narrative of what occurred--would be exceedingly
offensive to me."

"I will keep well within the truth."

"Lord John's observations are frequently exceedingly fanciful,
and he is capable of attributing the most absurd reasons to the
respect which is always shown by the most undeveloped races to
dignity and character.  You follow my meaning?"

"Entirely."

"I leave the matter to your discretion."  Then, after a long
pause, he added:  "The king of the ape-men was really a
creature of great distinction--a most remarkably handsome and
intelligent personality.  Did it not strike you?"

"A most remarkable creature," said I.

And the Professor, much eased in his mind, settled down to his
slumber once more.


                           CHAPTER XIV

                "Those Were the Real Conquests"

We had imagined that our pursuers, the ape-men, knew nothing of our
brush-wood hiding-place, but we were soon to find out our mistake. 
There was no sound in the woods--not a leaf moved upon the trees,
and all was peace around us--but we should have been warned by our
first experience how cunningly and how patiently these creatures
can watch and wait until their chance comes.  Whatever fate may be
mine through life, I am very sure that I shall never be nearer death
than I was that morning.  But I will tell you the thing in its due order.

We all awoke exhausted after the terrific emotions and scanty
food of yesterday.  Summerlee was still so weak that it was an
effort for him to stand; but the old man was full of a sort of
surly courage which would never admit defeat.  A council was
held, and it was agreed that we should wait quietly for an hour
or two where we were, have our much-needed breakfast, and then
make our way across the plateau and round the central lake to the
caves where my observations had shown that the Indians lived. 
We relied upon the fact that we could count upon the good word
of those whom we had rescued to ensure a warm welcome from
their fellows.  Then, with our mission accomplished and possessing
a fuller knowledge of the secrets of Maple White Land, we should
turn our whole thoughts to the vital problem of our escape and return. 
Even Challenger was ready to admit that we should then have done
all for which we had come, and that our first duty from that time
onwards was to carry back to civilization the amazing discoveries
we had made.

We were able now to take a more leisurely view of the Indians
whom we had rescued.  They were small men, wiry, active, and
well-built, with lank black hair tied up in a bunch behind their
heads with a leathern thong, and leathern also were their
loin-clothes.  Their faces were hairless, well formed, and
good-humored.  The lobes of their ears, hanging ragged and
bloody, showed that they had been pierced for some ornaments
which their captors had torn out.  Their speech, though
unintelligible to us, was fluent among themselves, and as they
pointed to each other and uttered the word "Accala" many times
over, we gathered that this was the name of the nation. 
Occasionally, with faces which were convulsed with fear and
hatred, they shook their clenched hands at the woods round and
cried:  "Doda!  Doda!" which was surely their term for their enemies.

What do you make of them, Challenger?" asked Lord John.  "One thing
is very clear to me, and that is that the little chap with the front
of his head shaved is a chief among them."

It was indeed evident that this man stood apart from the others,
and that they never ventured to address him without every sign of
deep respect.  He seemed to be the youngest of them all, and yet,
so proud and high was his spirit that, upon Challenger laying his
great hand upon his head, he started like a spurred horse and,
with a quick flash of his dark eyes, moved further away from
the Professor.  Then, placing his hand upon his breast and
holding himself with great dignity, he uttered the word "Maretas"
several times.  The Professor, unabashed, seized the nearest Indian
by the shoulder and proceeded to lecture upon him as if he were a
potted specimen in a class-room.

"The type of these people," said he in his sonorous fashion,
"whether judged by cranial capacity, facial angle, or any other
test, cannot be regarded as a low one; on the contrary, we must
place it as considerably higher in the scale than many South
American tribes which I can mention.  On no possible supposition
can we explain the evolution of such a race in this place. 
For that matter, so great a gap separates these ape-men from the
primitive animals which have survived upon this plateau, that it
is inadmissible to think that they could have developed where we
find them."

"Then where the dooce did they drop from?" asked Lord John.

"A question which will, no doubt, be eagerly discussed in every
scientific society in Europe and America," the Professor answered. 
"My own reading of the situation for what it is worth--" he inflated
his chest enormously and looked insolently around him at the words--
"is that evolution has advanced under the peculiar conditions of
this country up to the vertebrate stage, the old types surviving
and living on in company with the newer ones.  Thus we find such
modern creatures as the tapir--an animal with quite a respectable
length of pedigree--the great deer, and the ant-eater in the
companionship of reptilian forms of jurassic type.  So much is clear. 
And now come the ape-men and the Indian.  What is the scientific
mind to think of their presence?  I can only account for it by an
invasion from outside.  It is probable that there existed an
anthropoid ape in South America, who in past ages found his way
to this place, and that he developed into the creatures we have
seen, some of which"--here he looked hard at me--"were of an
appearance and shape which, if it had been accompanied by
corresponding intelligence, would, I do not hesitate to say,
have reflected credit upon any living race.  As to the Indians
I cannot doubt that they are more recent immigrants from below. 
Under the stress of famine or of conquest they have made their
way up here.  Faced by ferocious creatures which they had never
before seen, they took refuge in the caves which our young friend
has described, but they have no doubt had a bitter fight to hold
their own against wild beasts, and especially against the ape-men
who would regard them as intruders, and wage a merciless war upon
them with a cunning which the larger beasts would lack.  Hence the
fact that their numbers appear to be limited.  Well, gentlemen,
have I read you the riddle aright, or is there any point which
you would query?"

Professor Summerlee for once was too depressed to argue, though
he shook his head violently as a token of general disagreement. 
Lord John merely scratched his scanty locks with the remark that
he couldn't put up a fight as he wasn't in the same weight or class. 
For my own part I performed my usual role of bringing things down
to a strictly prosaic and practical level by the remark that one
of the Indians was missing.

"He has gone to fetch some water," said Lord Roxton.  "We fitted
him up with an empty beef tin and he is off."

"To the old camp?" I asked.

"No, to the brook.  It's among the trees there.  It can't be more
than a couple of hundred yards.  But the beggar is certainly
taking his time."

"I'll go and look after him," said I.  I picked up my rifle and
strolled in the direction of the brook, leaving my friends to lay
out the scanty breakfast.  It may seem to you rash that even for
so short a distance I should quit the shelter of our friendly
thicket, but you will remember that we were many miles from
Ape-town, that so far as we knew the creatures had not discovered
our retreat, and that in any case with a rifle in my hands I had
no fear of them.  I had not yet learned their cunning or their strength.

I could hear the murmur of our brook somewhere ahead of me, but
there was a tangle of trees and brushwood between me and it. 
I was making my way through this at a point which was just out of
sight of my companions, when, under one of the trees, I noticed
something red huddled among the bushes.  As I approached it, I
was shocked to see that it was the dead body of the missing Indian. 
He lay upon his side, his limbs drawn up, and his head screwed
round at a most unnatural angle, so that he seemed to be looking
straight over his own shoulder.  I gave a cry to warn my friends
that something was amiss, and running forwards I stooped over
the body.  Surely my guardian angel was very near me then, for
some instinct of fear, or it may have been some faint rustle
of leaves, made me glance upwards.  Out of the thick green
foliage which hung low over my head, two long muscular arms
covered with reddish hair were slowly descending.  Another instant
and the great stealthy hands would have been round my throat. 
I sprang backwards, but quick as I was, those hands were
quicker still.  Through my sudden spring they missed a fatal
grip, but one of them caught the back of my neck and the other
one my face.  I threw my hands up to protect my throat, and the
next moment the huge paw had slid down my face and closed over them. 
I was lifted lightly from the ground, and I felt an intolerable
pressure forcing my head back and back until the strain upon the
cervical spine was more than I could bear.  My senses swam, but
I still tore at the hand and forced it out from my chin. 
Looking up I saw a frightful face with cold inexorable
light blue eyes looking down into mine.  There was something
hypnotic in those terrible eyes.  I could struggle no longer. 
As the creature felt me grow limp in his grasp, two white canines
gleamed for a moment at each side of the vile mouth, and the grip
tightened still more upon my chin, forcing it always upwards and back. 
A thin, oval-tinted mist formed before my eyes and little silvery
bells tinkled in my ears.  Dully and far off I heard the crack of
a rifle and was feebly aware of the shock as I was dropped to the
earth, where I lay without sense or motion.

I awoke to find myself on my back upon the grass in our lair
within the thicket.  Someone had brought the water from the
brook, and Lord John was sprinkling my head with it, while
Challenger and Summerlee were propping me up, with concern in
their faces.  For a moment I had a glimpse of the human spirits
behind their scientific masks.  It was really shock, rather than
any injury, which had prostrated me, and in half-an-hour, in
spite of aching head and stiff neck, I was sitting up and ready
for anything.

"But you've had the escape of your life, young fellah my lad,"
said Lord Roxton.  "When I heard your cry and ran forward, and
saw your head twisted half-off and your stohwassers kickin' in
the air, I thought we were one short.  I missed the beast in my
flurry, but he dropped you all right and was off like a streak. 
By George!  I wish I had fifty men with rifles.  I'd clear out the
whole infernal gang of them and leave this country a bit cleaner
than we found it."

It was clear now that the ape-men had in some way marked us down,
and that we were watched on every side.  We had not so much to
fear from them during the day, but they would be very likely to
rush us by night; so the sooner we got away from their
neighborhood the better.  On three sides of us was absolute
forest, and there we might find ourselves in an ambush.  But on
the fourth side--that which sloped down in the direction of the
lake--there was only low scrub, with scattered trees and
occasional open glades.  It was, in fact, the route which I had
myself taken in my solitary journey, and it led us straight for
the Indian caves.  This then must for every reason be our road.

One great regret we had, and that was to leave our old camp
behind us, not only for the sake of the stores which remained
there, but even more because we were losing touch with Zambo, our
link with the outside world.  However, we had a fair supply of
cartridges and all our guns, so, for a time at least, we could
look after ourselves, and we hoped soon to have a chance of
returning and restoring our communications with our negro. 
He had faithfully promised to stay where he was, and we had not a
doubt that he would be as good as his word.

It was in the early afternoon that we started upon our journey. 
The young chief walked at our head as our guide, but refused
indignantly to carry any burden.  Behind him came the two
surviving Indians with our scanty possessions upon their backs. 
We four white men walked in the rear with rifles loaded and ready. 
As we started there broke from the thick silent woods behind us
a sudden great ululation of the ape-men, which may have been a
cheer of triumph at our departure or a jeer of contempt at
our flight.  Looking back we saw only the dense screen of trees,
but that long-drawn yell told us how many of our enemies lurked
among them.  We saw no sign of pursuit, however, and soon we had
got into more open country and beyond their power.

As I tramped along, the rearmost of the four, I could not help
smiling at the appearance of my three companions in front.  Was this
the luxurious Lord John Roxton who had sat that evening in the
Albany amidst his Persian rugs and his pictures in the pink
radiance of the tinted lights?  And was this the imposing
Professor who had swelled behind the great desk in his massive
study at Enmore Park?  And, finally, could this be the austere and
prim figure which had risen before the meeting at the Zoological
Institute?  No three tramps that one could have met in a Surrey
lane could have looked more hopeless and bedraggled.  We had, it
is true, been only a week or so upon the top of the plateau, but
all our spare clothing was in our camp below, and the one week
had been a severe one upon us all, though least to me who had not
to endure the handling of the ape-men.  My three friends had all
lost their hats, and had now bound handkerchiefs round their heads,
their clothes hung in ribbons about them, and their unshaven grimy
faces were hardly to be recognized.  Both Summerlee and Challenger
were limping heavily, while I still dragged my feet from weakness
after the shock of the morning, and my neck was as stiff as a board
from the murderous grip that held it.  We were indeed a sorry crew,
and I did not wonder to see our Indian companions glance back at us
occasionally with horror and amazement on their faces.

In the late afternoon we reached the margin of the lake, and as
we emerged from the bush and saw the sheet of water stretching
before us our native friends set up a shrill cry of joy and
pointed eagerly in front of them.  It was indeed a wonderful
sight which lay before us.  Sweeping over the glassy surface was
a great flotilla of canoes coming straight for the shore upon
which we stood.  They were some miles out when we first saw them,
but they shot forward with great swiftness, and were soon so near
that the rowers could distinguish our persons.  Instantly a
thunderous shout of delight burst from them, and we saw them rise
from their seats, waving their paddles and spears madly in the air. 
Then bending to their work once more, they flew across the
intervening water, beached their boats upon the sloping sand,
and rushed up to us, prostrating themselves with loud cries of
greeting before the young chief.  Finally one of them, an elderly
man, with a necklace and bracelet of great lustrous glass beads
and the skin of some beautiful mottled amber-colored animal slung
over his shoulders, ran forward and embraced most tenderly the
youth whom we had saved.  He then looked at us and asked some
questions, after which he stepped up with much dignity and
embraced us also each in turn.  Then, at his order, the whole
tribe lay down upon the ground before us in homage.  Personally I
felt shy and uncomfortable at this obsequious adoration, and I
read the same feeling in the faces of Roxton and Summerlee, but
Challenger expanded like a flower in the sun.

"They may be undeveloped types," said he, stroking his beard
and looking round at them, "but their deportment in the
presence of their superiors might be a lesson to some of our
more advanced Europeans.  Strange how correct are the instincts
of the natural man!"

It was clear that the natives had come out upon the war-path, for
every man carried his spear--a long bamboo tipped with bone--his
bow and arrows, and some sort of club or stone battle-axe slung
at his side.  Their dark, angry glances at the woods from which
we had come, and the frequent repetition of the word "Doda," made
it clear enough that this was a rescue party who had set forth to
save or revenge the old chief's son, for such we gathered that
the youth must be.  A council was now held by the whole tribe
squatting in a circle, whilst we sat near on a slab of basalt and
watched their proceedings.  Two or three warriors spoke, and
finally our young friend made a spirited harangue with such
eloquent features and gestures that we could understand it all as
clearly as if we had known his language.

"What is the use of returning?" he said.  "Sooner or later the
thing must be done.  Your comrades have been murdered.  What if
I have returned safe?  These others have been done to death. 
There is no safety for any of us.  We are assembled now and ready."
Then he pointed to us.  "These strange men are our friends. 
They are great fighters, and they hate the ape-men even as we do. 
They command," here he pointed up to heaven, "the thunder and
the lightning.  When shall we have such a chance again?  Let us go
forward, and either die now or live for the future in safety. 
How else shall we go back unashamed to our women?"

The little red warriors hung upon the words of the speaker, and
when he had finished they burst into a roar of applause, waving
their rude weapons in the air.  The old chief stepped forward to
us, and asked us some questions, pointing at the same time to
the woods.  Lord John made a sign to him that he should wait for
an answer and then he turned to us.

"Well, it's up to you to say what you will do," said he; "for my
part I have a score to settle with these monkey-folk, and if it
ends by wiping them off the face of the earth I don't see that
the earth need fret about it.  I'm goin' with our little red pals
and I mean to see them through the scrap.  What do you say,
young fellah?"

"Of course I will come."

"And you, Challenger?"

"I will assuredly co-operate."

"And you, Summerlee?"

"We seem to be drifting very far from the object of this
expedition, Lord John.  I assure you that I little thought when I
left my professional chair in London that it was for the purpose
of heading a raid of savages upon a colony of anthropoid apes."

"To such base uses do we come," said Lord John, smiling.  "But we
are up against it, so what's the decision?"

"It seems a most questionable step," said Summerlee,
argumentative to the last, "but if you are all going, I hardly
see how I can remain behind."

"Then it is settled," said Lord John, and turning to the chief he
nodded and slapped his rifle.

The old fellow clasped our hands, each in turn, while his men
cheered louder than ever.  It was too late to advance that night,
so the Indians settled down into a rude bivouac.  On all sides
their fires began to glimmer and smoke.  Some of them who had
disappeared into the jungle came back presently driving a young
iguanodon before them.  Like the others, it had a daub of asphalt
upon its shoulder, and it was only when we saw one of the natives
step forward with the air of an owner and give his consent to the
beast's slaughter that we understood at last that these great
creatures were as much private property as a herd of cattle, and
that these symbols which had so perplexed us were nothing more
than the marks of the owner.  Helpless, torpid, and vegetarian,
with great limbs but a minute brain, they could be rounded up and
driven by a child.  In a few minutes the huge beast had been cut
up and slabs of him were hanging over a dozen camp fires,
together with great scaly ganoid fish which had been speared in
the lake.

Summerlee had lain down and slept upon the sand, but we others
roamed round the edge of the water, seeking to learn something
more of this strange country.  Twice we found pits of blue clay,
such as we had already seen in the swamp of the pterodactyls. 
These were old volcanic vents, and for some reason excited the
greatest interest in Lord John.  What attracted Challenger, on
the other hand, was a bubbling, gurgling mud geyser, where some
strange gas formed great bursting bubbles upon the surface. 
He thrust a hollow reed into it and cried out with delight like a
schoolboy then he was able, on touching it with a lighted match,
to cause a sharp explosion and a blue flame at the far end of
the tube.  Still more pleased was he when, inverting a leathern
pouch over the end of the reed, and so filling it with the gas,
he was able to send it soaring up into the air.

"An inflammable gas, and one markedly lighter than the atmosphere. 
I should say beyond doubt that it contained a considerable
proportion of free hydrogen.  The resources of G. E. C. are not
yet exhausted, my young friend.  I may yet show you how a great
mind molds all Nature to its use." He swelled with some secret
purpose, but would say no more.

There was nothing which we could see upon the shore which seemed to
me so wonderful as the great sheet of water before us.  Our numbers
and our noise had frightened all living creatures away, and save for
a few pterodactyls, which soared round high above our heads while
they waited for the carrion, all was still around the camp.  But it
was different out upon the rose-tinted waters of the central lake. 
It boiled and heaved with strange life.  Great slate-colored backs
and high serrated dorsal fins shot up with a fringe of silver, and
then rolled down into the depths again.  The sand-banks far out
were spotted with uncouth crawling forms, huge turtles, strange
saurians, and one great flat creature like a writhing, palpitating
mat of black greasy leather, which flopped its way slowly to the lake. 
Here and there high serpent heads projected out of the water, cutting
swiftly through it with a little collar of foam in front, and a
long swirling wake behind, rising and falling in graceful,
swan-like undulations as they went.  It was not until one of
these creatures wriggled on to a sand-bank within a few hundred
yards of us, and exposed a barrel-shaped body and huge flippers
behind the long serpent neck, that Challenger, and Summerlee, who
had joined us, broke out into their duet of wonder and admiration.

"Plesiosaurus!  A fresh-water plesiosaurus!" cried Summerlee. 
"That I should have lived to see such a sight!  We are blessed,
my dear Challenger, above all zoologists since the world began!"

It was not until the night had fallen, and the fires of our
savage allies glowed red in the shadows, that our two men of
science could be dragged away from the fascinations of that
primeval lake.  Even in the darkness as we lay upon the strand,
we heard from time to time the snort and plunge of the huge
creatures who lived therein.

At earliest dawn our camp was astir and an hour later we had
started upon our memorable expedition.  Often in my dreams have I
thought that I might live to be a war correspondent.  In what
wildest one could I have conceived the nature of the campaign
which it should be my lot to report!  Here then is my first
despatch from a field of battle:

Our numbers had been reinforced during the night by a fresh batch
of natives from the caves, and we may have been four or five
hundred strong when we made our advance.  A fringe of scouts was
thrown out in front, and behind them the whole force in a solid
column made their way up the long slope of the bush country until
we were near the edge of the forest.  Here they spread out into
a long straggling line of spearmen and bowmen.  Roxton and
Summerlee took their position upon the right flank, while
Challenger and I were on the left.  It was a host of the stone
age that we were accompanying to battle--we with the last word of
the gunsmith's art from St. James' Street and the Strand.

We had not long to wait for our enemy.  A wild shrill clamor
rose from the edge of the wood and suddenly a body of ape-men
rushed out with clubs and stones, and made for the center of the
Indian line.  It was a valiant move but a foolish one, for the
great bandy-legged creatures were slow of foot, while their
opponents were as active as cats.  It was horrible to see the
fierce brutes with foaming mouths and glaring eyes, rushing and
grasping, but forever missing their elusive enemies, while arrow
after arrow buried itself in their hides.  One great fellow ran
past me roaring with pain, with a dozen darts sticking from his
chest and ribs.  In mercy I put a bullet through his skull, and
he fell sprawling among the aloes.  But this was the only shot
fired, for the attack had been on the center of the line, and the
Indians there had needed no help of ours in repulsing it.  Of all
the ape-men who had rushed out into the open, I do not think that
one got back to cover.

But the matter was more deadly when we came among the trees.  For an
hour or more after we entered the wood, there was a desperate
struggle in which for a time we hardly held our own.  Springing out
from among the scrub the ape-men with huge clubs broke in upon the
Indians and often felled three or four of them before they could
be speared.  Their frightful blows shattered everything upon which
they fell.  One of them knocked Summerlee's rifle to matchwood
and the next would have crushed his skull had an Indian not
stabbed the beast to the heart.  Other ape-men in the trees above
us hurled down stones and logs of wood, occasionally dropping
bodily on to our ranks and fighting furiously until they were felled. 
Once our allies broke under the pressure, and had it not been for
the execution done by our rifles they would certainly have taken
to their heels.  But they were gallantly rallied by their old
chief and came on with such a rush that the ape-men began in turn
to give way.  Summerlee was weaponless, but I was emptying my
magazine as quick as I could fire, and on the further flank we
heard the continuous cracking of our companion's rifles.

Then in a moment came the panic and the collapse.  Screaming and
howling, the great creatures rushed away in all directions
through the brushwood, while our allies yelled in their savage
delight, following swiftly after their flying enemies.  All the
feuds of countless generations, all the hatreds and cruelties of
their narrow history, all the memories of ill-usage and
persecution were to be purged that day.  At last man was to be
supreme and the man-beast to find forever his allotted place. 
Fly as they would the fugitives were too slow to escape from the
active savages, and from every side in the tangled woods we heard
the exultant yells, the twanging of bows, and the crash and thud
as ape-men were brought down from their hiding-places in the trees.

I was following the others, when I found that Lord John and
Challenger had come across to join us.

"It's over," said Lord John.  "I think we can leave the tidying up
to them.  Perhaps the less we see of it the better we shall sleep."

Challenger's eyes were shining with the lust of slaughter.

"We have been privileged," he cried, strutting about like a
gamecock, "to be present at one of the typical decisive battles
of history--the battles which have determined the fate of
the world.  What, my friends, is the conquest of one nation
by another?  It is meaningless.  Each produces the same result. 
But those fierce fights, when in the dawn of the ages the
cave-dwellers held their own against the tiger folk, or the
elephants first found that they had a master, those were the real
conquests--the victories that count.  By this strange turn of
fate we have seen and helped to decide even such a contest. 
Now upon this plateau the future must ever be for man."

It needed a robust faith in the end to justify such tragic means. 
As we advanced together through the woods we found the ape-men
lying thick, transfixed with spears or arrows.  Here and there a
little group of shattered Indians marked where one of the
anthropoids had turned to bay, and sold his life dearly.  Always in
front of us we heard the yelling and roaring which showed the
direction of the pursuit.  The ape-men had been driven back to
their city, they had made a last stand there, once again they had
been broken, and now we were in time to see the final fearful
scene of all.  Some eighty or a hundred males, the last
survivors, had been driven across that same little clearing which
led to the edge of the cliff, the scene of our own exploit two
days before.  As we arrived the Indians, a semicircle of
spearmen, had closed in on them, and in a minute it was over,
Thirty or forty died where they stood.  The others, screaming and
clawing, were thrust over the precipice, and went hurtling down,
as their prisoners had of old, on to the sharp bamboos six
hundred feet below.  It was as Challenger had said, and the reign
of man was assured forever in Maple White Land.  The males were
exterminated, Ape Town was destroyed, the females and young were
driven away to live in bondage, and the long rivalry of untold
centuries had reached its bloody end.

For us the victory brought much advantage.  Once again we were
able to visit our camp and get at our stores.  Once more also we
were able to communicate with Zambo, who had been terrified by
the spectacle from afar of an avalanche of apes falling from the
edge of the cliff.

"Come away, Massas, come away!" he cried, his eyes starting from
his head.  "The debbil get you sure if you stay up there."

"It is the voice of sanity!" said Summerlee with conviction. 
"We have had adventures enough and they are neither suitable to
our character or our position.  I hold you to your word, Challenger. 
From now  onwards you devote your energies to getting us out of
this horrible country and back once more to civilization."


                            CHAPTER XV

                "Our Eyes have seen Great Wonders"

I write this from day to day, but I trust that before I come to
the end of it, I may be able to say that the light shines, at
last, through our clouds.  We are held here with no clear means
of making our escape, and bitterly we chafe against it. Yet, I
can well imagine that the day may come when we may be glad that
we were kept, against our will, to see something more of the
wonders of this singular place, and of the creatures who inhabit it.

The victory of the Indians and the annihilation of the ape-men,
marked the turning point of our fortunes.  From then onwards, we
were in truth masters of the plateau, for the natives looked upon us
with a mixture of fear and gratitude, since by our strange powers
we had aided them to destroy their hereditary foe.  For their own
sakes they would, perhaps, be glad to see the departure of such
formidable and incalculable people, but they have not themselves
suggested any way by which we may reach the plains below. 
There had been, so far as we could follow their signs, a
tunnel by which the place could be approached, the lower exit of
which we had seen from below.  By this, no doubt, both ape-men
and Indians had at different epochs reached the top, and Maple
White with his companion had taken the same way.  Only the year
before, however, there had been a terrific earthquake, and the
upper end of the tunnel had fallen in and completely disappeared. 
The Indians now could only shake their heads and shrug their
shoulders when we expressed by signs our desire to descend. 
It may be that they cannot, but it may also be that they will
not, help us to get away.

At the end of the victorious campaign the surviving ape-folk were
driven across the plateau (their wailings were horrible) and
established in the neighborhood of the Indian caves, where they
would, from now onwards, be a servile race under the eyes of
their masters.  It was a rude, raw, primeval version of the Jews
in Babylon or the Israelites in Egypt.  At night we could hear
from amid the trees the long-drawn cry, as some primitive Ezekiel
mourned for fallen greatness and recalled the departed glories of
Ape Town.  Hewers of wood and drawers of water, such were they
from now onwards.

We had returned across the plateau with our allies two days after
the battle, and made our camp at the foot of their cliffs.  They would
have had us share their caves with them, but Lord John would by
no means consent to it considering that to do so would put us in
their power if they were treacherously disposed.  We kept our
independence, therefore, and had our weapons ready for any
emergency, while preserving the most friendly relations.  We also
continually visited their caves, which were most remarkable
places, though whether made by man or by Nature we have never
been able to determine.  They were all on the one stratum,
hollowed out of some soft rock which lay between the volcanic
basalt forming the ruddy cliffs above them, and the hard granite
which formed their base.

The openings were about eighty feet above the ground, and were
led up to by long stone stairs, so narrow and steep that no large
animal could mount them.  Inside they were warm and dry, running
in straight passages of varying length into the side of the hill,
with smooth gray walls decorated with many excellent pictures
done with charred sticks and representing the various animals of
the plateau.  If every living thing were swept from the country
the future explorer would find upon the walls of these caves
ample evidence of the strange fauna--the dinosaurs, iguanodons,
and fish lizards--which had lived so recently upon earth.

Since we had learned that the huge iguanodons were kept as tame
herds by their owners, and were simply walking meat-stores, we had
conceived that man, even with his primitive weapons, had established
his ascendancy upon the plateau.  We were soon to discover that it
was not so, and that he was still there upon tolerance.

It was on the third day after our forming our camp near the
Indian caves that the tragedy occurred.  Challenger and Summerlee
had gone off together that day to the lake where some of the
natives, under their direction, were engaged in harpooning
specimens of the great lizards.  Lord John and I had remained in
our camp, while a number of the Indians were scattered about upon
the grassy slope in front of the caves engaged in different ways. 
Suddenly there was a shrill cry of alarm, with the word "Stoa"
resounding from a hundred tongues.  From every side men, women,
and children were rushing wildly for shelter, swarming up the
staircases and into the caves in a mad stampede.

Looking up, we could see them waving their arms from the rocks
above and beckoning to us to join them in their refuge.  We had
both seized our magazine rifles and ran out to see what the
danger could be.  Suddenly from the near belt of trees there
broke forth a group of twelve or fifteen Indians, running for
their lives, and at their very heels two of those frightful
monsters which had disturbed our camp and pursued me upon my
solitary journey.  In shape they were like horrible toads, and
moved in a succession of springs, but in size they were of an
incredible bulk, larger than the largest elephant.  We had never
before seen them save at night,  and indeed they are nocturnal
animals save when disturbed in their lairs, as these had been. 
We now stood amazed at the sight, for their blotched and warty
skins were of a curious fish-like iridescence, and the sunlight
struck them with an ever-varying rainbow bloom as they moved.

We had little time to watch them, however, for in an instant they
had overtaken the fugitives and were making a dire slaughter
among them.  Their method was to fall forward with their full
weight upon each in turn, leaving him crushed and mangled, to
bound on after the others.  The wretched Indians screamed with
terror, but were helpless, run as they would, before the
relentless purpose and horrible activity of these monstrous creatures. 
One after another they went down, and there were not half-a-dozen
surviving by the time my companion and I could come to their help. 
But our aid was of little avail and only involved us in the same peril. 
At the range of a couple of hundred yards we emptied our magazines,
firing bullet after bullet into the beasts, but with no more effect
than if we were pelting them with pellets of paper.  Their slow
reptilian natures cared nothing for wounds, and the springs of
their lives, with no special brain center but scattered throughout
their spinal cords, could not be tapped by any modern weapons. 
The most that we could do was to check their progress by
distracting their attention with the flash and roar of our guns,
and so to give both the natives and ourselves time to reach the
steps which led to safety.  But where the conical explosive
bullets of the twentieth century were of no avail, the poisoned
arrows of the natives, dipped in the juice of strophanthus and
steeped afterwards in decayed carrion, could succeed.  Such arrows
were of little avail to the hunter who attacked the beast, because
their action in that torpid circulation was slow, and before its
powers failed it could certainly overtake and slay its assailant. 
But now, as the two monsters hounded us to the very foot of the
stairs, a drift of darts came whistling from every chink in the
cliff above them.  In a minute they were feathered with them,
and yet with no sign of pain they clawed and slobbered with
impotent rage at the steps which would lead them to their victims,
mounting clumsily up for a few yards and then sliding down again
to the ground.  But at last the poison worked.  One of them gave
a deep rumbling groan and dropped his huge squat head on to the earth. 
The other bounded round in an eccentric circle with shrill, wailing
cries, and then lying down writhed in agony for some minutes before
it also stiffened and lay still.  With yells of triumph the Indians
came flocking down from their caves and danced a frenzied dance
of victory round the dead bodies, in mad joy that two more of the
most dangerous of all their enemies had been slain.  That night
they cut up and removed the bodies, not to eat--for the poison
was still active--but lest they should breed a pestilence. 
The great reptilian hearts, however, each as large as a cushion,
still lay there, beating slowly and steadily, with a gentle rise
and fall, in horrible independent life.  It was only upon the third
day that the ganglia ran down and the dreadful things were still.

Some day, when I have a better desk than a meat-tin and more
helpful tools than a worn stub of pencil and a last, tattered
note-book, I will write some fuller account of the Accala
Indians--of our life amongst them, and of the glimpses which we
had of the strange conditions of wondrous Maple White Land. 
Memory, at least, will never fail me, for so long as the breath
of life is in me, every hour and every action of that period will
stand out as hard and clear as do the first strange happenings of
our childhood.  No new impressions could efface those which are
so deeply cut.  When the time comes I will describe that wondrous
moonlit night upon the great lake when a young ichthyosaurus--a
strange creature, half seal, half fish, to look at, with
bone-covered eyes on each side of his snout, and a third eye
fixed upon the top of his head--was entangled in an Indian net,
and nearly upset our canoe before we towed it ashore; the same
night that a green water-snake shot out from the rushes and
carried off in its coils the steersman of Challenger's canoe. 
I will tell, too, of the great nocturnal white thing--to this day
we do not know whether it was beast or reptile--which lived in a
vile swamp to the east of the lake, and flitted about with a
faint phosphorescent glimmer in the darkness.  The Indians were
so terrified at it that they would not go near the place, and,
though we twice made expeditions and saw it each time, we could
not make our way through the deep marsh in which it lived.  I can
only say that it seemed to be larger than a cow and had the
strangest musky odor.  I will tell also of the huge bird which
chased Challenger to the shelter of the rocks one day--a great
running bird, far taller than an ostrich, with a vulture-like
neck and cruel head which made it a walking death.  As Challenger
climbed to safety one dart of that savage curving beak shore off the
heel of his boot as if it had been cut with a chisel.  This time
at least modern weapons prevailed and the great creature, twelve
feet from head to foot--phororachus its name, according to our
panting but exultant Professor--went down before Lord Roxton's
rifle in a flurry of waving feathers and kicking limbs, with two
remorseless yellow eyes glaring up from the midst of it.  May I
live to see that flattened vicious skull in its own niche amid
the trophies of the Albany.  Finally, I will assuredly give some
account of the toxodon, the giant ten-foot guinea pig, with
projecting chisel teeth, which we killed as it drank in the gray
of the morning by the side of the lake.

All this I shall some day write at fuller length, and amidst
these more stirring days I would tenderly sketch in these lovely
summer evenings, when with the deep blue sky above us we lay in
good comradeship among the long grasses by the wood and marveled
at the strange fowl that swept over us and the quaint new
creatures which crept from their burrows to watch us, while above
us the boughs of the bushes were heavy with luscious fruit, and
below us strange and lovely flowers peeped at us from among the
herbage; or those long moonlit nights when we lay out upon the
shimmering surface of the great lake and watched with wonder and
awe the huge circles rippling out from the sudden splash of some
fantastic monster; or the greenish gleam, far down in the deep
water, of some strange creature upon the confines of darkness. 
These are the scenes which my mind and my pen will dwell upon in
every detail at some future day.

But, you will ask, why these experiences and why this delay, when
you and your comrades should have been occupied day and night in the
devising of some means by which you could return to the outer world? 
My answer is, that there was not one of us who was not working for
this end, but that our work had been in vain.  One fact we had
very speedily discovered:  The Indians would do nothing to help us. 
In every other way they were our friends--one might almost say our
devoted slaves--but when it was suggested that they should help us
to make and carry a plank which would bridge the chasm, or when we
wished to get from them thongs of leather or liana to weave ropes
which might help us, we were met by a good-humored, but an
invincible, refusal.  They would smile, twinkle their eyes, shake
their heads, and there was the end of it.  Even the old chief met
us with the same obstinate denial, and it was only Maretas, the
youngster whom we had saved, who looked wistfully at us and told
us by his gestures that he was grieved for our thwarted wishes. 
Ever since their crowning triumph with the ape-men they looked
upon us as supermen, who bore victory in the tubes of strange
weapons, and they believed that so long as we remained with them
good fortune would be theirs.  A little red-skinned wife and a
cave of our own were freely offered to each of us if we would but
forget our own people and dwell forever upon the plateau.  So far
all had been kindly, however far apart our desires might be; but
we felt well assured that our actual plans of a descent must be
kept secret, for we had reason to fear that at the last they might
try to hold us by force.

In spite of the danger from dinosaurs (which is not great save at
night, for, as I may have said before, they are mostly nocturnal
in their habits) I have twice in the last three weeks been over
to our old camp in order to see our negro who still kept watch
and ward below the cliff.  My eyes strained eagerly across the
great plain in the hope of seeing afar off the help for which we
had prayed.  But the long cactus-strewn levels still stretched
away, empty and bare, to the distant line of the cane-brake.

"They will soon come now, Massa Malone.  Before another week pass
Indian come back and bring rope and fetch you down."  Such was the
cheery cry of our excellent Zambo.

I had one strange experience as I came from this second visit
which had involved my being away for a night from my companions. 
I was returning along the well-remembered route, and had reached
a spot within a mile or so of the marsh of the pterodactyls, when
I saw an extraordinary object approaching me.  It was a man who
walked inside a framework made of bent canes so that he was
enclosed on all sides in a bell-shaped cage.  As I drew nearer I
was more amazed still to see that it was Lord John Roxton.  When he
saw me he slipped from under his curious protection and came towards
me laughing, and yet, as I thought, with some confusion in his manner.

"Well, young fellah," said he, "who would have thought of meetin'
you up here?"

"What in the world are you doing?" I asked.

"Visitin' my friends, the pterodactyls," said  he.

"But why?"

"Interestin' beasts, don't you think?  But unsociable! 
Nasty rude ways with strangers, as you may remember.  So I
rigged this framework which keeps them from bein' too pressin'
in their attentions."

"But what do you want in the swamp?"

He looked at me with a very questioning eye, and I read
hesitation in his face.

"Don't you think other people besides Professors can want to
know things?" he said at last.  "I'm studyin' the pretty dears. 
That's enough for you."

"No offense," said I.

His good-humor returned and he laughed.

"No offense, young fellah.  I'm goin' to get a young devil
chick for Challenger.  That's one of my jobs.  No, I don't want
your company.  I'm safe in this cage, and you are not.  So long,
and I'll be back in camp by night-fall."

He turned away and I left him wandering on through the wood with
his extraordinary cage around him.

If Lord John's behavior at this time was strange, that of
Challenger was more so.  I may say that he seemed to possess an
extraordinary fascination for the Indian women, and that he
always carried a large spreading palm branch with which he beat
them off as if they were flies, when their attentions became
too pressing.  To see him walking like a comic opera Sultan, with
this badge of authority in his hand, his black beard bristling
in front of him, his toes pointing at each step, and a train of
wide-eyed Indian girls behind him, clad in their slender drapery
of bark cloth, is one of the most grotesque of all the pictures
which I will carry back with me.  As to Summerlee, he was
absorbed in the insect and bird life of the plateau, and spent
his whole time (save that considerable portion which was devoted
to abusing Challenger for not getting us out of our difficulties)
in cleaning and mounting his specimens.

Challenger had been in the habit of walking off by himself every
morning and returning from time to time with looks of portentous
solemnity, as one who bears the full weight of a great enterprise
upon his shoulders.  One day, palm branch in hand, and his crowd
of adoring devotees behind him, he led us down to his hidden
work-shop and took us into the secret of his plans.

The place was a small clearing in the center of a palm grove. 
In this was one of those boiling mud geysers which I have
already described.  Around its edge were scattered a number of
leathern thongs cut from iguanodon hide, and a large collapsed
membrane which proved to be the dried and scraped stomach of one
of the great fish lizards from the lake.  This huge sack had been
sewn up at one end and only a small orifice left at the other. 
Into this opening several bamboo canes had been inserted and the
other ends of these canes were in contact with conical clay
funnels which collected the gas bubbling up through the mud of
the geyser.  Soon the flaccid organ began to slowly expand and
show such a tendency to upward movements that Challenger fastened
the cords which held it to the trunks of the surrounding trees. 
In half an hour a good-sized gas-bag had been formed, and the
jerking and straining upon the thongs showed that it was capable
of considerable lift.  Challenger, like a glad father in the
presence of his first-born, stood smiling and stroking his beard,
in silent, self-satisfied content as he gazed at the creation of
his brain.  It was Summerlee who first broke the silence.

"You don't mean us to go up in that thing, Challenger?" said he,
in an acid voice.

"I mean, my dear Summerlee, to give you such a demonstration of
its powers that after seeing it you will, I am sure, have no
hesitation in trusting yourself to it."

"You can put it right out of your head now, at once," said
Summerlee with decision, "nothing on earth would induce me to
commit such a folly.  Lord John, I trust that you will not
countenance such madness?"

"Dooced ingenious, I call it," said our peer.  "I'd like to see
how it works."

"So you shall," said Challenger.  "For some days I have exerted
my whole brain force upon the problem of how we shall descend
from these cliffs.  We have satisfied ourselves that we cannot
climb down and that there is no tunnel.  We are also unable to
construct any kind of bridge which may take us back to the
pinnacle from which we came.  How then shall I find a means to
convey us?  Some little time ago I had remarked to our young
friend here that free hydrogen was evolved from the geyser. 
The idea of a balloon naturally followed.  I was, I will admit,
somewhat baffled by the difficulty of discovering an envelope to
contain the gas, but the contemplation of the immense entrails of
these reptiles supplied me with a solution to the problem. 
Behold the result!"

He put one hand in the front of his ragged jacket and pointed
proudly with the other.

By this time the gas-bag had swollen to a goodly rotundity and
was jerking strongly upon its lashings.

"Midsummer madness!" snorted Summerlee.

Lord John was delighted with the whole idea.  "Clever old dear,
ain't he?" he whispered to me, and then louder to Challenger. 
"What about a car?"

"The car will be my next care.  I have already planned how it is
to be made and attached.  Meanwhile I will simply show you how
capable my apparatus is of supporting the weight of each of us."

"All of us, surely?"

"No, it is part of my plan that each in turn shall descend as in
a parachute, and the balloon be drawn back by means which I shall
have no difficulty in perfecting.  If it will support the weight
of one and let him gently down, it will have done all that is
required of it.  I will now show you its capacity in that direction."

He brought out a lump of basalt of a considerable size,
constructed in the middle so that a cord could be easily attached
to it.  This cord was the one which we had brought with us on to
the plateau after we had used it for climbing the pinnacle. 
It was over a hundred feet long, and though it was thin it was
very strong.  He had prepared a sort of collar of leather with many
straps depending from it.  This collar was placed over the dome
of the balloon, and the hanging thongs were gathered together
below, so that the pressure of any weight would be diffused over
a considerable surface.  Then the lump of basalt was fastened to
the thongs, and the rope was allowed to hang from the end of it,
being passed three times round the Professor's arm.

"I will now," said Challenger, with a smile of pleased
anticipation, "demonstrate the carrying power of my balloon." As
he said so he cut with a knife the various lashings that held it.

Never was our expedition in more imminent danger of complete
annihilation.  The inflated membrane shot up with frightful
velocity into the air.  In an instant Challenger was pulled off
his feet and dragged after it.  I had just time to throw my arms
round his ascending waist when I was myself whipped up into the air. 
Lord John had me with a rat-trap grip round the legs, but I felt
that he also was coming off the ground.  For a moment I had a
vision of four adventurers floating like a string of sausages
over the land that they had explored.  But, happily, there were
limits to the strain which the rope would stand, though none
apparently to the lifting powers of this infernal machine.  There was
a sharp crack, and we were in a heap upon the ground with coils of
rope all over us.  When we were able to stagger to our feet we saw
far off in the deep blue sky one dark spot where the lump of
basalt was speeding upon its way.

"Splendid!" cried the undaunted Challenger, rubbing his injured arm. 
"A most thorough and satisfactory demonstration!  I could not have
anticipated such a success.  Within a week, gentlemen, I promise
that a second balloon will be prepared, and that you can count upon
taking in safety and comfort the first stage of our homeward journey." 
So far I have written each of the foregoing events as it occurred. 
Now I am rounding off my narrative from the old camp, where Zambo
has waited so long, with all our difficulties and dangers left like
a dream behind us upon the summit of those vast ruddy crags which
tower above our heads. We have descended in safety, though in a
most unexpected fashion, and all is well with us.  In six weeks
or two months we shall be in London, and it is possible that this
letter may not reach you much earlier than we do ourselves. 
Already our hearts yearn and our spirits fly towards the great
mother city which holds so much that is dear to us.

It was on the very evening of our perilous adventure with
Challenger's home-made balloon that the change came in our fortunes. 
I have said that the one person from whom we had had some sign of
sympathy in our attempts to get away was the young chief whom we
had rescued.  He alone had no desire to hold us against our will
in a strange land.  He had told us as much by his expressive
language of signs.  That evening, after dusk, he came down to our
little camp, handed me (for some reason he had always shown his
attentions to me, perhaps because I was the one who was nearest
his age) a small roll of the bark of a tree, and then pointing
solemnly up at the row of caves above him, he had put his finger
to his lips as a sign of secrecy and had stolen back again to
his people.

I took the slip of bark to the firelight and we examined it together. 
It was about a foot square, and on the inner side there was a
singular arrangement of lines, which I here reproduce:


They were neatly done in charcoal upon the white surface, and
looked to me at first sight like some sort of rough musical score.

"Whatever it is, I can swear that it is of importance to us,"
said I.  "I could read that on his face as he gave it."

"Unless we have come upon a primitive practical joker," Summerlee
suggested, "which I should think would be one of the most
elementary developments of man."

"It is clearly some sort of script," said Challenger.

"Looks like a guinea puzzle competition," remarked Lord John,
craning his neck to have a look at it.  Then suddenly he
stretched out his hand and seized the puzzle.

"By George!" he cried, "I believe I've got it.  The boy guessed
right the very first time.  See here!  How many marks are on that
paper?  Eighteen.  Well, if you come to think of it there are
eighteen cave openings on the hill-side above us."

"He pointed up to the caves when he gave it to me," said I.

"Well, that settles it.  This is a chart of the caves.  What! 
Eighteen of them all in a row, some short, some deep, some
branching, same as we saw them.  It's a map, and here's a cross
on it. What's the cross for?  It is placed to mark one that is
much deeper than the others."

"One that goes through," I cried.

"I believe our young friend has read the riddle," said Challenger. 
"If the cave does not go through I do not understand why this
person, who has every reason to mean us well, should have drawn
our attention to it.  But if it does go through and comes out at
the corresponding point on the other side, we should not have more
than a hundred feet to descend."

"A hundred feet!" grumbled Summerlee. 

"Well, our rope is still more than a hundred feet long," I cried. 
"Surely we could get down."

"How about the Indians in the cave?" Summerlee objected.

"There are no Indians in any of the caves above our heads," said I. 
"They are all used as barns and store-houses.  Why should we not
go up now at once and spy out the land?"

There is a dry bituminous wood upon the plateau--a species of
araucaria, according to our botanist--which is always used by the
Indians for torches.  Each of us picked up a faggot of this, and
we made our way up weed-covered steps to the particular cave
which was marked in the drawing.  It was, as I had said, empty,
save for a great number of enormous bats, which flapped round our
heads as we advanced into it.  As we had no desire to draw the
attention of the Indians to our proceedings, we stumbled along in
the dark until we had gone round several curves and penetrated a
considerable distance into the cavern.  Then, at last, we lit
our torches.  It was a beautiful dry tunnel with smooth gray walls
covered with native symbols, a curved roof which arched over our
heads, and white glistening sand beneath our feet.  We hurried
eagerly along it until, with a deep groan of bitter
disappointment, we were brought to a halt.  A sheer wall of rock
had appeared before us, with no chink through which a mouse could
have slipped.  There was no escape for us there.

We stood with bitter hearts staring at this unexpected obstacle. 
It was not the result of any convulsion, as in the case of the
ascending tunnel.  The end wall was exactly like the side ones. 
It was, and had always been, a cul-de-sac.

"Never mind, my friends," said the indomitable Challenger. 
"You have still my firm promise of a balloon."

Summerlee groaned.

"Can we be in the wrong cave?" I suggested. 

"No use, young fellah," said Lord John, with his finger on the chart. 
"Seventeen from the right and second from the left.  This is the
cave sure enough."

I looked at the mark to which his finger pointed, and I gave a
sudden cry of joy.

"I believe I have it!  Follow me!  Follow me!"

I hurried back along the way we had come, my torch in my hand. 
"Here," said I, pointing to some matches upon the ground, "is
where we lit up."

"Exactly."

"Well, it is marked as a forked cave, and in the darkness we
passed the fork before the torches were lit.  On the right side
as we go out we should find the longer arm."

It was as I had said.  We had not gone thirty yards before a
great black opening loomed in the wall.  We turned into it to
find that we were in a much larger passage than before.  Along it
we hurried in breathless impatience for many hundreds of yards. 
Then, suddenly, in the black darkness of the arch in front of us
we saw a gleam of dark red light.  We stared in amazement. 
A sheet of steady flame seemed to cross the passage and to bar
our way.  We hastened towards it.  No sound, no heat, no movement
came from it, but still the great luminous curtain glowed before us,
silvering all the cave and turning the sand to powdered jewels,
until as we drew closer it discovered a circular edge.

"The moon, by George!" cried Lord John.  "We are through, boys!
We are through!"

It was indeed the full moon which shone straight down the
aperture which opened upon the cliffs.  It was a small rift, not
larger than a window, but it was enough for all our purposes. 
As we craned our necks through it we could see that the descent was
not a very difficult one, and that the level ground was no very
great way below us.  It was no wonder that from below we had not
observed the place, as the cliffs curved overhead and an ascent
at the spot would have seemed so impossible as to discourage
close inspection.  We satisfied ourselves that with the help of
our rope we could find our way down, and then returned, rejoicing,
to our camp to make our preparations for the next evening.

What we did we had to do quickly and secretly, since even at this
last hour the Indians might hold us back.  Our stores we would
leave behind us, save only our guns and cartridges.  But Challenger
had some unwieldy stuff which he ardently desired to take with him,
and one particular package, of which I may not speak, which gave
us more labor than any.  Slowly the day passed, but when the
darkness fell we were ready for our departure.  With much labor
we got our things up the steps, and then, looking back, took one
last long survey of that strange land, soon I fear to be vulgarized,
the prey of hunter and prospector, but to each of us a dreamland
of glamour and romance, a land where we had dared much, suffered
much, and learned much--OUR land, as we shall ever fondly call it. 
Along upon our left the neighboring caves each threw out its ruddy
cheery firelight into the gloom.  From the slope below us rose the
voices of the Indians as they laughed and sang.  Beyond was the
long sweep of the woods, and in the center, shimmering vaguely
through the gloom, was the great lake, the mother of strange monsters. 
Even as we looked a high whickering cry, the call of some weird
animal, rang clear out of the darkness.  It was the very voice of
Maple White Land bidding us good-bye.  We turned and plunged into
the cave which led to home.

Two hours later, we, our packages, and all we owned, were at the
foot of the cliff.  Save for Challenger's luggage we had never
a difficulty.  Leaving it all where we descended, we started at
once for Zambo's camp.  In the early morning we approached it,
but only to find, to our amazement, not one fire but a dozen upon
the plain.  The rescue party had arrived.  There were twenty
Indians from the river, with stakes, ropes, and all that could be
useful for bridging the chasm.  At least we shall have no
difficulty now in carrying our packages, when to-morrow we begin
to make our way back to the Amazon.

And so, in humble and thankful mood, I close this account. 
Our eyes have seen great wonders and our souls are chastened
by what we have endured.  Each is in his own way a better and
deeper man.  It may be that when we reach Para we shall stop
to refit.  If we do, this letter will be a mail ahead.  If not,
it will reach London on the very day that I do.  In either case,
my dear Mr. McArdle, I hope very soon to shake you by the hand.


                           CHAPTER XVI

                  "A Procession!  A Procession!"

I should wish to place upon record here our gratitude to all our
friends upon the Amazon for the very great kindness and
hospitality which was shown to us upon our return journey. 
Very particularly would I thank Senhor Penalosa and other officials
of the Brazilian Government for the special arrangements by which
we were helped upon our way, and Senhor Pereira of Para, to whose
forethought we owe the complete outfit for a decent appearance in
the civilized world which we found ready for us at that town. 
It seemed a poor return for all the courtesy which we encountered
that we should deceive our hosts and benefactors, but under the
circumstances we had really no alternative, and I hereby tell
them that they will only waste their time and their money if they
attempt to follow upon our traces.  Even the names have been
altered in our accounts, and I am very sure that no one, from the
most careful study of them, could come within a thousand miles of
our unknown land.

The excitement which had been caused through those parts of South
America which we had to traverse was imagined by us to be purely
local, and I can assure our friends in England that we had no
notion of the uproar which the mere rumor of our experiences had
caused through Europe.  It was not until the Ivernia was within
five hundred miles of Southampton that the wireless messages from
paper after paper and agency after agency, offering huge prices
for a short return message as to our actual results, showed us
how strained was the attention not only of the scientific world
but of the general public.  It was agreed among us, however, that
no definite statement should be given to the Press until we had
met the members of the Zoological Institute, since as delegates it
was our clear duty to give our first report to the body from which
we had received our commission of investigation.  Thus, although
we found Southampton full of Pressmen, we absolutely refused to
give any information, which had the natural effect of focussing
public attention upon the meeting which was advertised for the
evening of November 7th.  For this gathering, the Zoological Hall
which had been the scene of the inception of our task was found
to be far too small, and it was only in the Queen's Hall in Regent
Street that accommodation could be found.  It is now common
knowledge the promoters might have ventured upon the Albert Hall
and still found their space too scanty.

It was for the second evening after our arrival that the great
meeting had been fixed.  For the first, we had each, no doubt,
our own pressing personal affairs to absorb us.  Of mine I cannot
yet speak.  It may be that as it stands further from me I may
think of it, and even speak of it, with less emotion.  I have
shown the reader in the beginning of this narrative where lay the
springs of my action.  It is but right, perhaps, that I should
carry on the tale and show also the results.  And yet the day may
come when I would not have it otherwise.  At least I have been
driven forth to take part in a wondrous adventure, and I cannot
but be thankful to the force that drove me.

And now I turn to the last supreme eventful moment of our adventure. 
As I was racking my brain as to how I should best describe it, my
eyes fell upon the issue of my own Journal for the morning of the
8th of November with the full and excellent account of my friend
and fellow-reporter Macdona.  What can I do better than transcribe
his narrative--head-lines and all?  I admit that the paper was
exuberant in the matter, out of compliment to its own enterprise
in sending a correspondent, but the other great dailies were hardly
less full in their account.  Thus, then, friend Mac in his report:


                           THE NEW WORLD
                 GREAT MEETING AT THE QUEEN'S HALL
                          SCENES OF UPROAR
                       EXTRAORDINARY INCIDENT
                            WHAT WAS IT?
                 NOCTURNAL RIOT IN REGENT STREET
                             (Special)


"The much-discussed meeting of the Zoological Institute, convened
to hear the report of the Committee of Investigation sent out
last year to South America to test the assertions made by
Professor Challenger as to the continued existence of prehistoric
life upon that Continent, was held last night in the greater
Queen's Hall, and it is safe to say that it is likely to be a red
letter date in the history of Science, for the proceedings were
of so remarkable and sensational a character that no one present
is ever likely to forget them."  (Oh, brother scribe Macdona, what
a monstrous opening sentence!)  "The tickets were theoretically
confined to members and their friends, but the latter is an
elastic term, and long before eight o'clock, the hour fixed for
the commencement of the proceedings, all parts of the Great Hall
were tightly packed.  The general public, however, which most
unreasonably entertained a grievance at having been excluded,
stormed the doors at a quarter to eight, after a prolonged melee
in which several people were injured, including Inspector Scoble
of H. Division, whose leg was unfortunately broken.  After this
unwarrantable invasion, which not only filled every passage, but
even intruded upon the space set apart for the Press, it is
estimated that nearly five thousand people awaited the arrival of
the travelers.  When they eventually appeared, they took their
places in the front of a platform which already contained all the
leading scientific men, not only of this country, but of France
and of Germany.  Sweden was also represented, in the person of
Professor Sergius, the famous Zoologist of the University of Upsala.
The entrance of the four heroes of the occasion was the signal
for a remarkable demonstration of welcome, the whole audience
rising and cheering for some minutes.  An acute observer might,
however, have detected some signs of dissent amid the applause,
and gathered that the proceedings were likely to become more
lively than harmonious.  It may safely be prophesied, however,
that no one could have foreseen the extraordinary turn which they
were actually to take.

"Of the appearance of the four wanderers little need be said,
since their photographs have for some time been appearing in all
the papers.  They bear few traces of the hardships which they are
said to have undergone.  Professor Challenger's beard may be more
shaggy, Professor Summerlee's features more ascetic, Lord John
Roxton's figure more gaunt, and all three may be burned to a
darker tint than when they left our shores, but each appeared to
be in most excellent health.  As to our own representative, the
well-known athlete and international Rugby football player, E. D.
Malone, he looks trained to a hair, and as he surveyed the crowd
a smile of good-humored contentment pervaded his honest but
homely face."  (All right, Mac, wait till I get you alone!)

"When quiet had been restored and the audience resumed their
seats after the ovation which they had given to the travelers,
the chairman, the Duke of Durham, addressed the meeting.  `He
would not,' he said, `stand for more than a moment between that
vast assembly and the treat which lay before them.  It was not
for him to anticipate what Professor Summerlee, who was the
spokesman of the committee, had to say to them, but it was common
rumor that their expedition had been crowned by extraordinary
success.'  (Applause.)  `Apparently the age of romance was not
dead, and there was common ground upon which the wildest
imaginings of the novelist could meet the actual scientific
investigations of the searcher for truth.  He would only add,
before he sat down, that he rejoiced--and all of them would
rejoice--that these gentlemen had returned safe and sound from
their difficult and dangerous task, for it cannot be denied that
any disaster to such an expedition would have inflicted a
well-nigh irreparable loss to the cause of Zoological science.' 
(Great applause, in which Professor Challenger was observed to join.)

"Professor Summerlee's rising was the signal for another
extraordinary outbreak of enthusiasm, which broke out again at
intervals throughout his address.  That address will not be given
in extenso in these columns, for the reason that a full account
of the whole adventures of the expedition is being published as
a supplement from the pen of our own special correspondent. 
Some general indications will therefore suffice. Having described
the genesis of their journey, and paid a handsome tribute to his
friend Professor Challenger, coupled with an apology for the
incredulity with which his assertions, now fully vindicated, had
been received, he gave the actual course of their journey,
carefully withholding such information as would aid the public in
any attempt to locate this remarkable plateau.  Having described,
in general terms, their course from the main river up to the time
that they actually reached the base of the cliffs, he enthralled
his hearers by his account of the difficulties encountered by the
expedition in their repeated attempts to mount them, and finally
described how they succeeded in their desperate endeavors,
which cost the lives of their two devoted half-breed servants." 
(This amazing reading of the affair was the result of Summerlee's
endeavors to avoid raising any questionable matter at the meeting.)

"Having conducted his audience in fancy to the summit, and
marooned them there by reason of the fall of their bridge, the
Professor proceeded to describe both the horrors and the
attractions of that remarkable land.  Of personal adventures he
said little, but laid stress upon the rich harvest reaped by
Science in the observations of the wonderful beast, bird, insect,
and plant life of the plateau.  Peculiarly rich in the coleoptera
and in the lepidoptera, forty-six new species of the one and
ninety-four of the other had been secured in the course of a
few weeks.  It was, however, in the larger animals, and especially
in the larger animals supposed to have been long extinct, that the
interest of the public was naturally centered.  Of these he was
able to give a goodly list, but had little doubt that it would be
largely extended when the place had been more thoroughly investigated. 
He and his companions had seen at least a dozen creatures, most of
them at a distance, which corresponded with nothing at present
known to Science.  These would in time be duly classified
and examined.  He instanced a snake, the cast skin of which,
deep purple in color, was fifty-one feet in length, and
mentioned a white creature, supposed to be mammalian, which gave
forth well-marked phosphorescence in the darkness; also a large
black moth, the bite of which was supposed by the Indians to be
highly poisonous.  Setting aside these entirely new forms of
life, the plateau was very rich in known prehistoric forms,
dating back in some cases to early Jurassic times.  Among these
he mentioned the gigantic and grotesque stegosaurus, seen once by
Mr. Malone at a drinking-place by the lake, and drawn in the
sketch-book of that adventurous American who had first penetrated
this unknown world.  He described also the iguanodon and the
pterodactyl--two of the first of the wonders which they
had encountered.  He then thrilled the assembly by some account
of the terrible carnivorous dinosaurs, which had on more than one
occasion pursued members of the party, and which were the most
formidable of all the creatures which they had encountered. 
Thence he passed to the huge and ferocious bird, the phororachus,
and to the great elk which still roams upon this upland.  It was
not, however, until he sketched the mysteries of the central lake
that the full interest and enthusiasm of the audience were aroused. 
One had to pinch oneself to be sure that one was awake as one
heard this sane and practical Professor in cold measured
tones describing the monstrous three-eyed fish-lizards and the
huge water-snakes which inhabit this enchanted sheet of water. 
Next he touched upon the Indians, and upon the extraordinary
colony of anthropoid apes, which might be looked upon as an
advance upon the pithecanthropus of Java, and as coming therefore
nearer than any known form to that hypothetical creation, the
missing link.  Finally he described, amongst some merriment, the
ingenious but highly dangerous aeronautic invention of Professor
Challenger, and wound up a most memorable address by an account
of the methods by which the committee did at last find their way
back to civilization.

"It had been hoped that the proceedings would end there, and that
a vote of thanks and congratulation, moved by Professor Sergius,
of Upsala University, would be duly seconded and carried; but it
was soon evident that the course of events was not destined to
flow so smoothly.  Symptoms of opposition had been evident from
time to time during the evening, and now Dr. James Illingworth, of
Edinburgh, rose in the center of the hall.  Dr. Illingworth asked
whether an amendment should not be taken before a resolution.

"THE CHAIRMAN:  `Yes, sir, if there must be an amendment.'

"DR. ILLINGWORTH:  `Your Grace, there must be an amendment.'

"THE CHAIRMAN:  `Then let us take it at once.'

"PROFESSOR SUMMERLEE (springing to his feet):  `Might I explain,
your Grace, that this man is my personal enemy ever since our
controversy in the Quarterly Journal of Science as to the true
nature of Bathybius?'

"THE CHAIRMAN:  `I fear I cannot go into personal matters.  Proceed.'

"Dr. Illingworth was imperfectly heard in part of his remarks on
account of the strenuous opposition of the friends of the explorers. 
Some attempts were also made to pull him down.  Being a man of
enormous physique, however, and possessed of a very powerful
voice, he dominated the tumult and succeeded in finishing
his speech.  It was clear, from the moment of his rising, that
he had a number of friends and sympathizers in the hall, though
they formed a minority in the audience.  The attitude of the
greater part of the public might be described as one of
attentive neutrality.

"Dr. Illingworth began his remarks by expressing his high
appreciation of the scientific work both of Professor Challenger
and of Professor Summerlee.  He much regretted that any personal
bias should have been read into his remarks, which were entirely
dictated by his desire for scientific truth.  His position, in
fact, was substantially the same as that taken up by Professor
Summerlee at the last meeting.  At that last meeting Professor
Challenger had made certain assertions which had been queried by
his colleague.  Now this colleague came forward himself with the
same assertions and expected them to remain unquestioned.  Was this
reasonable?  (`Yes,' `No,' and prolonged interruption, during
which Professor Challenger was heard from the Press box to ask
leave from the chairman to put Dr. Illingworth into the street.) 
A year ago one man said certain things.  Now four men said other
and more startling ones.  Was this to constitute a final proof
where the matters in question were of the most revolutionary and
incredible character?  There had been recent examples of travelers
arriving from the unknown with certain tales which had been too
readily accepted.  Was the London Zoological Institute to place
itself in this position?  He admitted that the members of the
committee were men of character.  But human nature was very complex. 
Even Professors might be misled by the desire for notoriety. 
Like moths, we all love best to flutter in the light. 
Heavy-game shots liked to be in a position to cap the tales of
their rivals, and journalists were not averse from sensational
coups, even when imagination had to aid fact in the process. 
Each member of the committee had his own motive for making the
most of his results.  (`Shame! shame!')  He had no desire to be
offensive.  (`You are!' and interruption.)  The corroboration of
these wondrous tales was really of the most slender description. 
What did it amount to?  Some photographs. {Was it possible that in
this age of ingenious manipulation photographs could be accepted
as evidence?}  What more?  We have a story of a flight and a descent
by ropes which precluded the production of larger specimens.  It was
ingenious, but not convincing.  It was understood that Lord John
Roxton claimed to have the skull of a phororachus.  He could
only say that he would like to see that skull.

"LORD JOHN ROXTON:  `Is this fellow calling me a liar?' (Uproar.)

"THE CHAIRMAN:  `Order! order!  Dr. Illingworth, I must direct you
to bring your remarks to a conclusion and to move your amendment.'

"DR. ILLINGWORTH:  `Your Grace, I have more to say, but I bow to
your ruling.  I move, then, that, while Professor Summerlee be
thanked for his interesting address, the whole matter shall be
regarded as `non-proven,' and shall be referred back to a larger,
and possibly more reliable Committee of Investigation.'

"It is difficult to describe the confusion caused by this amendment. 
A large section of the audience expressed their indignation at such
a slur upon the travelers by noisy shouts of dissent and cries of,
`Don't put it!'  `Withdraw!'  `Turn him out!'  On the other hand,
the malcontents--and it cannot be denied that they were fairly
numerous--cheered for the amendment, with cries of `Order!' 
`Chair!' and `Fair play!'  A scuffle broke out in the back benches,
and blows were freely exchanged among the medical students who
crowded that part of the hall.  It was only the moderating
influence of the presence of large numbers of ladies which
prevented an absolute riot.  Suddenly, however, there was a
pause, a hush, and then complete silence.  Professor Challenger
was on his feet.  His appearance and manner are peculiarly
arresting, and as he raised his hand for order the whole
audience settled down expectantly to give him a hearing.

"`It will be within the recollection of many present,' said
Professor Challenger, `that similar foolish and unmannerly scenes
marked the last meeting at which I have been able to address them. 
On that occasion Professor Summerlee was the chief offender, and
though he is now chastened and contrite, the matter could not be
entirely forgotten.  I have heard to-night similar, but even more
offensive, sentiments from the person who has just sat down, and
though it is a conscious effort of self-effacement to come down
to that person's mental level, I will endeavor to do so, in order
to allay any reasonable doubt which could possibly exist in the
minds of anyone.'  (Laughter and interruption.)  `I need not remind
this audience that, though Professor Summerlee, as the head of the
Committee of Investigation, has been put up to speak to-night,
still it is I who am the real prime mover in this business, and
that it is mainly to me that any successful result must be ascribed. 
I have safely conducted these three gentlemen to the spot mentioned,
and I have, as you have heard, convinced them of the accuracy of
my previous account.  We had hoped that we should find upon our
return that no one was so dense as to dispute our joint conclusions. 
Warned, however, by my previous experience, I have not come without
such proofs as may convince a reasonable man.  As explained by
Professor Summerlee, our cameras have been tampered with by the ape-
men when they ransacked our camp, and most of our negatives ruined.' 
(Jeers, laughter, and `Tell us another!' from the back.)  `I have
mentioned the ape-men, and I cannot forbear from saying that some
of the sounds which now meet my ears bring back most vividly to
my recollection my experiences with those interesting creatures.'
(Laughter.)  `In spite of the destruction of so many invaluable
negatives, there still remains in our collection a certain number
of corroborative photographs showing the conditions of life upon
the plateau.  Did they accuse them of having forged these photographs?' 
(A voice, `Yes,' and considerable interruption which ended in
several men being put out of the hall.)  `The negatives were open
to the inspection of experts.  But what other evidence had they? 
Under the conditions of their escape it was naturally impossible
to bring a large amount of baggage, but they had rescued Professor
Summerlee's collections of butterflies and beetles, containing
many new species.  Was this not evidence?'  (Several voices, `No.') 
`Who said no?'

"DR. ILLINGWORTH (rising):  `Our point is that such a collection
might have been made in other places than a prehistoric plateau.'
(Applause.)

"PROFESSOR CHALLENGER:  `No doubt, sir, we have to bow to your
scientific authority, although I must admit that the name
is unfamiliar.  Passing, then, both the photographs and the
entomological collection, I come to the varied and accurate
information which we bring with us upon points which have never
before been elucidated.  For example, upon the domestic habits of
the pterodactyl--`(A voice:  `Bosh,' and uproar)--`I say, that
upon the domestic habits of the pterodactyl we can throw a flood
of light.  I can exhibit to you from my portfolio a picture of
that creature taken from life which would convince you----'

"DR. ILLINGWORTH:  `No picture could convince us of anything.'
 
"PROFESSOR CHALLENGER:  `You would require to see the thing itself?'

"DR. ILLINGWORTH:  `Undoubtedly.'

"PROFESSOR CHALLENGER:  `And you would accept that?'

"DR. ILLINGWORTH (laughing):  `Beyond a doubt.'

"It was at this point that the sensation of the evening arose--a
sensation so dramatic that it can never have been paralleled in
the history of scientific gatherings.  Professor Challenger
raised his hand in the air as a signal, and at once our
colleague, Mr. E. D. Malone, was observed to rise and to make his
way to the back of the platform.  An instant later he re-appeared
in company of a gigantic negro, the two of them bearing between
them a large square packing-case.  It was evidently of great
weight, and was slowly carried forward and placed in front of
the Professor's chair.  All sound had hushed in the audience
and everyone was absorbed in the spectacle before them. 
Professor Challenger drew off the top of the case, which formed
a sliding lid.  Peering down into the box he snapped his fingers
several times and was heard from the Press seat to say, `Come,
then, pretty, pretty!' in a coaxing voice.  An instant later,
with a scratching, rattling sound, a most horrible and loathsome
creature appeared from below and perched itself upon the side of
the case.  Even the unexpected fall of the Duke of Durham into
the orchestra, which occurred at this moment, could not distract
the petrified attention of the vast audience.  The face of the
creature was like the wildest gargoyle that the imagination of a
mad medieval builder could have conceived.  It was malicious,
horrible, with two small red eyes as bright as points of
burning coal.  Its long, savage mouth, which was held half-open,
was full of a double row of shark-like teeth.  Its shoulders were
humped, and round them were draped what appeared to be a faded
gray shawl.  It was the devil of our childhood in person.  There was
a turmoil in the audience--someone screamed, two ladies in the
front row fell senseless from their chairs, and there was a
general movement upon the platform to follow their chairman into
the orchestra.  For a moment there was danger of a general panic. 
Professor Challenger threw up his hands to still the commotion,
but the movement alarmed the creature beside him.  Its strange
shawl suddenly unfurled, spread, and fluttered as a pair of
leathery wings.  Its owner grabbed at its legs, but too late to
hold it.  It had sprung from the perch and was circling slowly
round the Queen's Hall with a dry, leathery flapping of its
ten-foot wings, while a putrid and insidious odor pervaded
the room.  The cries of the people in the galleries, who were
alarmed at the near approach of those glowing eyes and that
murderous beak, excited the creature to a frenzy.  Faster and
faster it flew, beating against walls and chandeliers in a blind
frenzy of alarm.  `The window!  For heaven's sake shut that window!'
roared the Professor from the platform, dancing and wringing his
hands in an agony of apprehension.  Alas, his warning was too late! 
In a moment the creature, beating and bumping along the wall like a
huge moth within a gas-shade, came upon the opening, squeezed its
hideous bulk through it, and was gone.  Professor Challenger fell
back into his chair with his face buried in his hands, while the
audience gave one long, deep sigh of relief as they realized that
the incident was over.

"Then--oh! how shall one describe what took place then--when the
full exuberance of the majority and the full reaction of the
minority united to make one great wave of enthusiasm, which
rolled from the back of the hall, gathering volume as it came,
swept over the orchestra, submerged the platform, and carried the
four heroes away upon its crest?"  (Good for you, Mac!)  "If the
audience had done less than justice, surely it made ample amends. 
Every one was on his feet.  Every one was moving, shouting,
gesticulating.  A dense crowd of cheering men were round the four
travelers.  `Up with them! up with them!' cried a hundred voices. 
In a moment four figures shot up above the crowd.  In vain they
strove to break loose.  They were held in their lofty places
of honor.  It would have been hard to let them down if it had
been wished, so dense  was the crowd around them.  `Regent Street!  
Regent Street!' sounded the voices.  There was a swirl in the
packed multitude, and a slow current, bearing the four upon their
shoulders, made for the door.  Out in the street the scene was
extraordinary.  An assemblage of not less than a hundred thousand
people was waiting.  The close-packed throng extended from the
other side of the Langham Hotel to Oxford Circus.  A roar of
acclamation greeted the four adventurers as they appeared, high
above the heads of the people, under the vivid electric lamps
outside the hall.  `A procession!  A procession!' was the cry. 
In a dense phalanx, blocking the streets from side to side, the
crowd set forth, taking the route of Regent Street, Pall Mall,
St. James's Street, and Piccadilly.  The whole central traffic
of London was held up, and many collisions were reported between
the demonstrators upon the one side and the police and taxi-cabmen
upon the other.  Finally, it was not until after midnight that
the four travelers were released at the entrance to Lord John
Roxton's chambers in the Albany, and that the exuberant crowd,
having sung `They are Jolly Good Fellows' in chorus, concluded
their program with `God Save the King.' So ended one of the most
remarkable evenings that London has seen for a considerable time."

So far my friend Macdona; and it may be taken as a fairly
accurate, if florid, account of the proceedings.  As to the main
incident, it was a bewildering surprise to the audience, but not,
I need hardly say, to us.  The reader will remember how I met
Lord John Roxton upon the very occasion when, in his protective
crinoline, he had gone to bring the "Devil's chick" as he called
it, for Professor Challenger.  I have hinted also at the trouble
which the Professor's baggage gave us when we left the plateau,
and had I described our voyage I might have said a good deal of
the worry we had to coax with putrid fish the appetite of our
filthy companion.  If I have not said much about it before, it
was, of course, that the Professor's earnest desire was that no
possible rumor of the unanswerable argument which we carried
should be allowed to leak out until the moment came when his
enemies were to be confuted.

One word as to the fate of the London pterodactyl.  Nothing can
be said to be certain upon this point.  There is the evidence of
two frightened women that it perched upon the roof of the Queen's
Hall and remained there like a diabolical statue for some hours. 
The next day it came out in the evening papers that Private
Miles, of the Coldstream Guards, on duty outside Marlborough
House, had deserted his post without leave, and was therefore
courtmartialed.  Private Miles' account, that he dropped his
rifle and took to his heels down the Mall because on looking up
he had suddenly seen the devil between him and the moon, was not
accepted by the Court, and yet it may have a direct bearing upon
the point at issue.  The only other evidence which I can adduce
is from the log of the SS. Friesland, a Dutch-American liner,
which asserts that at nine next morning, Start Point being at the
time ten miles upon their starboard quarter, they were passed by
something between a flying goat and a monstrous bat, which was
heading at a prodigious pace south and west.  If its homing
instinct led it upon the right line, there can be no doubt that
somewhere out in the wastes of the Atlantic the last European
pterodactyl found its end.

And Gladys--oh, my Gladys!--Gladys of the mystic lake, now to be
re-named the Central, for never shall she have immortality
through me.  Did I not always see some hard fiber in her nature? 
Did I not, even at the time when I was proud to obey her behest,
feel that it was surely a poor love which could drive a lover to
his death or the danger of it?  Did I not, in my truest thoughts,
always recurring and always dismissed, see past the beauty of the
face, and, peering into the soul, discern the twin shadows of
selfishness and of fickleness glooming at the back of it?  Did she
love the heroic and the spectacular for its own noble sake, or
was it for the glory which might, without effort or sacrifice, be
reflected upon herself?  Or are these thoughts the vain wisdom
which comes after the event?  It was the shock of my life.  For a
moment it had turned me to a cynic.  But already, as I write, a
week has passed, and we have had our momentous interview with
Lord John Roxton and--well, perhaps things might be worse.

Let me tell it in a few words.  No letter or telegram had come to
me at Southampton, and I reached the little villa at Streatham
about ten o'clock that night in a fever of alarm.  Was she dead
or alive?  Where were all my nightly dreams of the open arms, the
smiling face, the words of praise for her man who had risked his
life to humor her whim?  Already I was down from the high peaks
and standing flat-footed upon earth.  Yet some good reasons given
might still lift me to the clouds once more.  I rushed down the
garden path, hammered at the door, heard the voice of Gladys
within, pushed past the staring maid, and strode into the
sitting-room.  She was seated in a low settee under the shaded
standard lamp by the piano.  In three steps I was across the room
and had both her hands in mine.

"Gladys!" I cried, "Gladys!"

She looked up with amazement in her face.  She was altered in some
subtle way.  The expression of her eyes, the hard upward stare,
the set of the lips, was new to me.  She drew back her hands.

"What do you mean?" she said.

"Gladys!" I cried.  "What is the matter?  You are my Gladys, are
you not--little Gladys Hungerton?"

"No," said she, "I am Gladys Potts.  Let me introduce you to
my husband."

How absurd life is!  I found myself mechanically bowing and
shaking hands with a little ginger-haired man who was coiled up
in the deep arm-chair which had once been sacred to my own use. 
We bobbed and grinned in front of each other.

"Father lets us stay here.  We are getting our house ready,"
said Gladys.

"Oh, yes," said I.

"You didn't get my letter at Para, then?"

"No, I got no letter."

"Oh, what a pity!  It would have made all clear."

"It is quite clear," said I.

"I've told William all about you," said she.  "We have no secrets. 
I am so sorry about it.  But it couldn't have been so very deep,
could it, if you could go off to the other end of the world and
leave me here alone.  You're not crabby, are you?"

"No, no, not at all.  I think I'll go."

"Have some refreshment," said the little man, and he added, in a
confidential way, "It's always like this, ain't it?  And must be
unless you had polygamy, only the other way round; you understand." 
He laughed like an idiot, while I made for the door.

I was through it, when a sudden fantastic impulse came upon me,
and I went back to my successful rival, who looked nervously at
the electric push.

"Will you answer a question?" I asked.

"Well, within reason," said he.

"How did you do it?  Have you searched for hidden treasure, or
discovered a pole, or done time on a pirate, or flown the
Channel, or what?  Where is the glamour of romance?  How did you
get it?"

He stared at me with a hopeless expression upon his vacuous,
good-natured, scrubby little face.

"Don't you think all this is a little too personal?" he said.

"Well, just one question," I cried.  "What are you?  What is
your profession?"

"I am a solicitor's clerk," said he.  "Second man at Johnson and
Merivale's, 41 Chancery Lane."

"Good-night!" said I, and vanished, like all disconsolate and
broken-hearted heroes, into the darkness, with grief and rage
and laughter all simmering within me like a boiling pot.

One more little scene, and I have done.  Last night we all supped
at Lord John Roxton's rooms, and sitting together afterwards we
smoked in good comradeship and talked our adventures over.  It was
strange under these altered surroundings to see the old, well-known
faces and figures.  There was Challenger, with his smile of
condescension, his drooping eyelids, his intolerant eyes, his
aggressive beard, his huge chest, swelling and puffing as he laid
down the law to Summerlee.  And Summerlee, too, there he was with
his short briar between his thin moustache and his gray goat's-
beard, his worn face protruded in eager debate as he queried all
Challenger's propositions.  Finally, there was our host, with his
rugged, eagle face, and his cold, blue, glacier eyes with always
a shimmer of devilment and of humor down in the depths of them. 
Such is the last picture of them that I have carried away.

It was after supper, in his own sanctum--the room of the pink
radiance and the innumerable trophies--that Lord John Roxton had
something to say to us.  From a cupboard he had brought an old
cigar-box, and this he laid before him on the table.

"There's one thing," said he, "that maybe I should have spoken
about before this, but I wanted to know a little more clearly
where I was.  No use to raise hopes and let them down again. 
But it's facts, not hopes, with us now.  You may remember that day
we found the pterodactyl rookery in the swamp--what?  Well, somethin'
in the lie of the land took my notice.  Perhaps it has escaped you,
so I will tell you.  It was a volcanic vent full of blue clay." 
The Professors nodded.

"Well, now, in the whole world I've only had to do with one place
that was a volcanic vent of blue clay.  That was the great De
Beers Diamond Mine of Kimberley--what?  So you see I got diamonds
into my head.  I rigged up a contraption to hold off those
stinking beasts, and I spent a happy day there with a spud. 
This is what I got."

He opened his cigar-box, and tilting it over he poured about
twenty or thirty rough stones, varying from the size of beans to
that of chestnuts, on the table.

"Perhaps you think I should have told you then.  Well, so I
should, only I know there are a lot of traps for the unwary, and
that stones may be of any size and yet of little value where
color and consistency are clean off.  Therefore, I brought them
back, and on the first day at home I took one round to Spink's,
and asked him to have it roughly cut and valued."

He took a pill-box from his pocket, and spilled out of it a
beautiful glittering diamond, one of the finest stones that I
have ever seen.

"There's the result," said he.  "He prices the lot at a minimum
of two hundred thousand pounds.  Of course it is fair shares
between us.  I won't hear of anythin' else.  Well, Challenger,
what will you do with your fifty thousand?"

"If you really persist in your generous view," said the
Professor, "I should found a private museum, which has long been
one of my dreams."

"And you, Summerlee?"

"I would retire from teaching, and so find time for my final
classification of the chalk fossils."

"I'll use my own," said Lord John Roxton, "in fitting a
well-formed expedition and having another look at the dear
old plateau.  As to you, young fellah, you, of course, will
spend yours in gettin' married."

"Not just yet," said I, with a rueful smile.  "I think, if you
will have me, that I would rather go with you."

Lord Roxton said nothing, but a brown hand was stretched out to
me across the table.


The End of Project Gutenberg etext of "The Lost World"


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The New Revelation

by Arthur Conan Doyle

February, 1999  [Etext #1638]


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THE NEW REVELATION
BY
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE




To all the brave men and women, humble
or learned, who have the moral
courage during seventy years to
face ridicule or worldly disadvantage
in order to testify
to an all-important truth

March, 1918




PREFACE

Many more philosophic minds than mine have thought
over the religious side of this subject and many more
scientific brains have turned their attention to its
phenomenal aspect.  So far as I know, however, there
has been no former attempt to show the exact relation
of the one to the other.  I feel that if I should
succeed in making this a little more clear I shall have
helped in what I regard as far the most important
question with which the human race is concerned.

A celebrated Psychic, Mrs. Piper, uttered, in the
year 1899 words which were recorded by Dr. Hodgson at
the time.  She was speaking in trance upon the future
of spiritual religion, and she said:  "In the next
century this will be astonishingly perceptible to the
minds of men.  I will also make a statement which you
will surely see verified.  Before the clear revelation
of spirit communication there will be a
terrible war in different parts of the world.  The
entire world must be purified and cleansed before
mortal can see, through his spiritual vision, his
friends on this side and it will take just this line of
action to bring about a state of perfection.  Friend,
kindly think of this."  We have had "the terrible war
in different parts of the world."  The second half
remains to be fulfilled.

A. C. D.
1918.




CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I       THE SEARCH

II      THE REVELATION

III     THE COMING LIFE

IV      PROBLEMS AND LIMITATIONS



SUPPLEMENTARY DOCUMENTS

I       THE NEXT PHASE OF LIFE

II      AUTOMATIC WRITING

III     THE CHERITON DUGOUT




THE NEW REVELATION

CHAPTER I. THE SEARCH

The subject of psychical research is one upon which
I have thought more and about which I have been slower
to form my opinion, than upon any other subject
whatever.  Every now and then as one jogs along through
life some small incident happens which very forcibly
brings home the fact that time passes and that first
youth and then middle age are slipping away.  Such a
one occurred the other day.  There is a column in that
excellent little paper, Light, which is devoted to
what was recorded on the corresponding date a
generation--that is thirty years--ago.  As I read over
this column recently I had quite a start as I saw my
own name, and read the reprint of a letter
which I had written in 1887, detailing some interesting
spiritual experience which had occurred in a seance. 
Thus it is manifest that my interest in the subject is
of some standing, and also, since it is only within the
last year or two that I have finally declared myself to
be satisfied with the evidence, that I have not been
hasty in forming my opinion.  If I set down some of my
experiences and difficulties my readers will not, I
hope, think it egotistical upon my part, but will
realise that it is the most graphic way in which to
sketch out the points which are likely to occur to any
other inquirer.  When I have passed over this ground,
it will be possible to get on to something more general
and impersonal in its nature.

When I had finished my medical education in 1882, I
found myself, like many young medical men, a convinced
materialist as regards our personal destiny.  I had
never ceased to be an earnest theist, because it seemed
to me that Napoleon's question to the atheistic
professors on the starry night as he voyaged to Egypt: 
"Who was it, gentlemen, who made these stars?" has
never been answered.  To say that the Universe was made
by immutable laws only put the question one degree
further back as to who made the laws.  I did not, of
course, believe in an anthropomorphic God, but I
believed then, as I believe now, in an intelligent
Force behind all the operations of Nature--a force so
infinitely complex and great that my finite brain could
get no further than its existence.  Right and wrong I
saw also as great obvious facts which needed no divine
revelation.  But when it came to a question of our
little personalities surviving death, it seemed to me
that the whole analogy of Nature was against it.  When
the candle burns out the light disappears.  When the
electric cell is shattered the current stops.  When the
body dissolves there is an end of the matter.  Each man
in his egotism may feel that he ought to survive, but
let him look, we will say, at the average loafer--of
high or low degree--would anyone contend that there was
any obvious reason why THAT personality should
carry on?  It seemed to be a delusion, and I was
convinced that death did indeed end all, though I
saw no reason why that should affect our duty towards
humanity during our transitory existence.

This was my frame of mind when Spiritual phenomena
first came before my notice.  I had always regarded the
subject as the greatest nonsense upon earth, and I had
read of the conviction of fraudulent mediums and
wondered how any sane man could believe such things.  I
met some friends, however, who were interested in the
matter, and I sat with them at some table-moving
seances.  We got connected messages.  I am afraid the
only result that they had on my mind was that I
regarded these friends with some suspicion.  They were
long messages very often, spelled out by tilts, and it
was quite impossible that they came by chance.  Someone
then, was moving the table.  I thought it was they. 
They probably thought that I did it.  I was puzzled and
worried over it, for they were not people whom I could
imagine as cheating--and yet I could not see how the
messages could come except by conscious pressure.

About this time--it would be in 1886--I came
across a book called The Reminiscences of Judge
Edmunds.  He was a judge of the U.S. High Courts and a
man of high standing.  The book gave an account of how
his wife had died, and how he had been able for many
years to keep in touch with her.  All sorts of details
were given.  I read the book with interest, and
absolute scepticism.  It seemed to me an example of how
a hard practical man might have a weak side to his
brain, a sort of reaction, as it were, against those
plain facts of life with which he had to deal.  Where
was this spirit of which he talked?  Suppose a man had
an accident and cracked his skull; his whole character
would change, and a high nature might become a low one. 
With alcohol or opium or many other drugs one could
apparently quite change a man's spirit.  The spirit
then depended upon matter.  These were the arguments
which I used in those days.  I did not realise that it
was not the spirit that was changed in such cases, but
the body through which the spirit worked, just as it
would be no argument against the existence of a
musician if you tampered with his violin so that
only discordant notes could come through.

I was sufficiently interested to continue to read
such literature as came in my way.  I was amazed to
find what a number of great men--men whose names were
to the fore in science--thoroughly believed that spirit
was independent of matter and could survive it.  When I
regarded Spiritualism as a vulgar delusion of the
uneducated, I could afford to look down upon it; but
when it was endorsed by men like Crookes, whom I knew
to be the most rising British chemist, by Wallace, who
was the rival of Darwin, and by Flammarion, the best
known of astronomers, I could not afford to dismiss it. 
It was all very well to throw down the books of these
men which contained their mature conclusions and
careful investigations, and to say "Well, he has one
weak spot in his brain," but a man has to be very self-
satisfied if the day does not come when he wonders if
the weak spot is not in his own brain.  For some time I
was sustained in my scepticism by the consideration
that many famous men, such as Darwin himself, Huxley,
Tyndall and Herbert Spencer, derided this new
branch of knowledge; but when I learned that their
derision had reached such a point that they would not
even examine it, and that Spencer had declared in so
many words that he had decided against it on a
priori grounds, while Huxley had said that it did not
interest him, I was bound to admit that, however great,
they were in science, their action in this respect was
most unscientific and dogmatic, while the action of
those who studied the phenomena and tried to find out
the laws that governed them, was following the true
path which has given us all human advance and
knowledge.  So far I had got in my reasoning, so my
sceptical position was not so solid as before.

It was somewhat reinforced, however, by my own
experiences.  It is to be remembered that I was working
without a medium, which is like an astronomer working
without a telescope.  I have no psychical powers
myself, and those who worked with me had little more. 
Among us we could just muster enough of the magnetic
force, or whatever you will call it, to get the table
movements with their suspicious and often stupid
messages.  I still have notes of those sittings and
copies of some, at least, of the messages.  They were
not always absolutely stupid.  For example, I find that
on one occasion, on my asking some test question, such
as how many coins I had in my pocket, the table spelt
out:  "We are here to educate and to elevate, not to
guess riddles."  And then:  "The religious frame of
mind, not the critical, is what we wish to inculcate." 
Now, no one could say that that was a puerile message. 
On the other hand, I was always haunted by the fear of
involuntary pressure from the hands of the sitters. 
Then there came an incident which puzzled and disgusted
me very much.  We had very good conditions one evening,
and an amount of movement which seemed quite
independent of our pressure.  Long and detailed
messages came through, which purported to be from a
spirit who gave his name and said he was a commercial
traveller who bad lost his life in a recent fire at a
theatre at Exeter.  All the details were exact, and he
implored us to write to his family, who lived, he said,
at a place called Slattenmere, in Cumberland.  I
did so, but my letter came back, appropriately enough,
through the dead letter office.  To this day I do not
know whether we were deceived, or whether there was
some mistake in the name of the place; but there are
the facts, and I was so disgusted that for some time my
interest in the whole subject waned.  It was one thing
to study a subject, but when the subject began to play
elaborate practical jokes it seemed time to call a
halt.  If there is such a place as Slattenmere in the
world I should even now be glad to know it.

I was in practice in Southsea at this time, and
dwelling there was General Drayson, a man of very
remarkable character, and one of the pioneers of
Spiritualism in this country.  To him I went with my
difficulties, and he listened to them very patiently. 
He made light of my criticism of the foolish nature of
many of these messages, and of the absolute falseness
of some.  "You have not got the fundamental truth into
your head," said he.  "That truth is, that every spirit
in the flesh passes over to the next world exactly as
it is, with no change whatever.  This world is full
of weak or foolish people.  So is the next.  You need
not mix with them, any more than you do in this world. 
One chooses one's companions.  But suppose a man in
this world, who had lived in his house alone and never
mixed with his fellows, was at last to put his head out
of the window to see what sort of place it was, what
would happen?  Some naughty boy would probably say
something rude.  Anyhow, he would see nothing of the
wisdom or greatness of the world.  He would draw his
head in thinking it was a very poor place.  That is
just what you have done.  In a mixed seance, with no
definite aim, you have thrust your head into the next
world and you have met some naughty boys.  Go forward
and try to reach something better."  That was General
Drayson's explanation, and though it did not satisfy me
at the time, I think now that it was a rough
approximation to the truth.  These were my first steps
in Spiritualism.  I was still a sceptic, but at least I
was an inquirer, and when I heard some old-fashioned
critic saying that there was nothing to explain, and
that it was all fraud, or that a conjuror was
needed to show it up, I knew at least that that was all
nonsense.  It is true that my own evidence up to then
was not enough to convince me, but my reading, which
was continuous, showed me how deeply other men had gone
into it, and I recognised that the testimony was so
strong that no other religious movement in the world
could put forward anything to compare with it.  That
did not prove it to be true, but at least it proved
that it must be treated with respect and could not be
brushed aside.  Take a single incident of what Wallace
has truly called a modern miracle.  I choose it because
it is the most incredible.  I allude to the assertion
that D. D. Home--who, by the way, was not, as is
usually supposed, a paid adventurer, but was the nephew
of the Earl of Home--the assertion, I say, that he
floated out of one window and into another at the
height of seventy feet above the ground.  I could not
believe it.  And yet, when I knew that the fact was
attested by three eye-witnesses, who were Lord
Dunraven, Lord Lindsay, and Captain Wynne, all men of
honour and repute, who were willing afterwards to
take their oath upon it, I could not but admit that the
evidence for this was more direct than for any of those
far-off events which the whole world has agreed to
accept as true.

I still continued during these years to hold table
seances, which sometimes gave no results, sometimes
trivial ones, and sometimes rather surprising ones.  I
have still the notes of these sittings, and I extract
here the results of one which were definite, and which
were so unlike any conceptions which I held of life
beyond the grave that they amused rather than edified
me at the time.  I find now, however, that they agree
very closely, with the revelations in Raymond and in
other later accounts, so that I view them with
different eyes.  I am aware that all these accounts of
life beyond the grave differ in detail--I suppose any
of our accounts of the present life would differ in
detail--but in the main there is a very great
resemblance, which in this instance was very far from
the conception either of myself or of either of the two
ladies who made up the circle.  Two communicators sent
messages, the first of whom spelt out as a name
"Dorothy Postlethwaite," a name unknown to any of us. 
She said she died at Melbourne five years before, at
the age of sixteen, that she was now happy, that she
had work to do, and that she had been at the same
school as one of the ladies.  On my asking that lady to
raise her hands and give a succession of names, the
table tilted at the correct name of the head mistress
of the school.  This seemed in the nature of a test. 
She went on to say that the sphere she inhabited was
all round the earth; that she knew about the planets;
that Mars was inhabited by a race more advanced than
us, and that the canals were artificial; there was no
bodily pain in her sphere, but there could be mental
anxiety; they were governed; they took nourishment; she
had been a Catholic and was still a Catholic, but had
not fared better than the Protestants; there were
Buddhists and Mohammedans in her sphere, but all fared
alike; she had never seen Christ and knew no more about
Him than on earth, but believed in His influence;
spirits prayed and they died in their new sphere before
entering another; they had pleasures--music was
among them.  It was a place of light and of laughter. 
She added that they had no rich or poor, and that the
general conditions were far happier than on earth.

This lady bade us good-night, and immediately the
table was seized by a much more robust influence, which
dashed it about very violently.  In answer to my
questions it claimed to be the spirit of one whom I
will call Dodd, who was a famous cricketer, and with
whom I had some serious conversation in Cairo before he
went up the Nile, where he met his death in the
Dongolese Expedition.  We have now, I may remark, come
to the year 1896 in my experiences.  Dodd was not known
to either lady.  I began to ask him questions exactly
as if he were seated before me, and he sent his answers
back with great speed and decision.  The answers were
often quite opposed to what I expected, so that I could
not believe that I was influencing them.  He said that
he was happy, that he did not wish to return to earth. 
He had been a free-thinker, but had not suffered in the
next life for that reason.  Prayer, however, was a
good thing, as keeping us in touch with the spiritual
world.  If he had prayed more he would have been higher
in the spirit world.

This, I may remark, seemed rather in conflict with
his assertion that he had not suffered through being a
free-thinker, and yet, of course, many men neglect
prayer who are not free-thinkers.

His death was painless.  He remembered the death of
Polwhele, a young officer who died before him.  When he
(Dodd) died he had found people to welcome him, but
Polwhele had not been among them.

He had work to do.  He was aware of the Fall of
Dongola, but had not been present in spirit at the
banquet at Cairo afterwards.  He knew more than he did
in life.  He remembered our conversation in Cairo. 
Duration of life in the next sphere was shorter than on
earth.  He had not seen General Gordon, nor any other
famous spirit.  Spirits lived in families and in
communities.  Married people did not necessarily meet
again, but those who loved each other did meet again.

I have given this synopsis of a communication to
show the kind of thing we got--though this was a very
favourable specimen, both for length and for coherence. 
It shows that it is not just to say, as many critics
say, that nothing but folly comes through.  There was
no folly here unless we call everything folly which
does not agree with preconceived ideas.  On the other
hand, what proof was there that these statements were
true?  I could see no such proof, and they simply left
me bewildered.  Now, with a larger experience, in which
I find that the same sort of information has come to
very, many people independently in many lands, I think
that the agreement of the witnesses does, as in all
cases of evidence, constitute some argument for their
truth.  At the time I could not fit such a conception
of the future world into my own scheme of philosophy,
and I merely noted it and passed on.

I continued to read many books upon the subject and
to appreciate more and more what a cloud of witnesses
existed, and how careful their observations had been. 
This impressed my mind very much more than the
limited phenomena which came within the reach of
our circle.  Then or afterwards I read a book by
Monsieur Jacolliot upon occult phenomena in India. 
Jacolliot was Chief Judge of the French Colony of
Crandenagur, with a very judicial mind, but rather
biassed{sic} against spiritualism.  He conducted a
series of experiments with native fakirs, who gave him
their confidence because he was a sympathetic man and
spoke their language.  He describes the pains he took
to eliminate fraud.  To cut a long story short he found
among them every phenomenon of advanced European
mediumship, everything which Home, for example, had
ever done.  He got levitation of the body, the handling
of fire, movement of articles at a distance, rapid
growth of plants, raising of tables.  Their explanation
of these phenomena was that they were done by the
Pitris or spirits, and their only difference in
procedure from ours seemed to be that they made more
use of direct evocation.  They claimed that these
powers were handed down from time immemorial and traced
back to the Chaldees.  All this impressed me very
much, as here, independently, we had exactly the
same results, without any question of American frauds,
or modern vulgarity, which were so often raised against
similar phenomena in Europe.

My mind was also influenced about this time by the
report of the Dialectical Society, although this Report
had been presented as far back as 1869.  It is a very
cogent paper, and though it was received with a chorus
of ridicule by the ignorant and materialistic papers of
those days, it was a document of great value.  The
Society was formed by a number of people of good
standing and open mind to enquire into the physical
phenomena of Spiritualism.  A full account of their
experiences and of their elaborate precautions against
fraud are given.  After reading the evidence, one fails
to see how they could have come to any other conclusion
than the one attained, namely, that the phenomena were
undoubtedly genuine, and that they pointed to laws and
forces which had not been explored by Science.  It is a
most singular fact that if the verdict had been against
spiritualism, it would certainly have been hailed
as the death blow of the movement, whereas being an
endorsement of the phenomena it met with nothing by
ridicule.  This has been the fate of a number of
inquiries since those conducted locally at Hydesville
in 1848, or that which followed when Professor Hare of
Philadelphia, like Saint Paul, started forth to oppose
but was forced to yield to the truth.

About 1891, I had joined the Psychical Research
Society and had the advantage of reading all their
reports.  The world owes a great deal to the unwearied
diligence of the Society, and to its sobriety of
statement, though I will admit that the latter makes
one impatient at times, and one feels that in their
desire to avoid sensationalism they discourage the
world from knowing and using the splendid work which
they are doing.  Their semi-scientific terminology also
chokes off the ordinary reader, and one might say
sometimes after reading their articles what an American
trapper in the Rocky Mountains said to me about some
University man whom he had been escorting for the
season.  "He was that clever," he said, "that you
could not understand what he said."  But in spite
of these little peculiarities all of us who have wanted
light in the darkness have found it by the methodical,
never-tiring work of the Society.  Its influence was
one of the powers which now helped me to shape my
thoughts.  There was another, however, which made a
deep impression upon me.  Up to now I had read all the
wonderful experiences of great experimenters, but I had
never come across any effort upon their part to build
up some system which would cover and contain them all. 
Now I read that monumental book, Myers' Human
Personality, a great root book from which a whole tree
of knowledge will grow.  In this book Myers was unable
to get any formula which covered all the phenomena
called "spiritual," but in discussing that action of
mind upon mind which he has himself called telepathy he
completely proved his point, and he worked it out so
thoroughly with so many examples, that, save for those
who were wilfully blind to the evidence, it took its
place henceforth as a scientific fact.  But this was
an enormous advance.  If mind could act upon mind
at a distance, then there were some human powers which
were quite different to matter as we had always
understood it.  The ground was cut from under the feet
of the materialist, and my old position had been
destroyed.  I had said that the flame could not exist
when the candle was gone.  But here was the flame a
long way off the candle, acting upon its own.  The
analogy was clearly a false analogy.  If the mind, the
spirit, the intelligence of man could operate at a
distance from the body, then it was a thing to that
extent separate from the body.  Why then should it not
exist on its own when the body was destroyed?  Not only
did impressions come from a distance in the case of
those who were just dead, but the same evidence proved
that actual appearances of the dead person came with
them, showing that the impressions were carried by
something which was exactly like the body, and yet
acted independently and survived the death of the body. 
The chain of evidence between the simplest cases of
thought-reading at one end, and the actual
manifestation of the spirit independently of the body
at the other, was one unbroken chain, each phase
leading to the other, and this fact seemed to me to
bring the first signs of systematic science and order
into what had been a mere collection of bewildering and
more or less unrelated facts.

About this time I had an interesting experience,
for I was one of three delegates sent by the Psychical
Society to sit up in a haunted house.  It was one of
these poltergeist cases, where noises and foolish
tricks had gone on for some years, very much like the
classical case of John Wesley's family at Epworth in
1726, or the case of the Fox family at Hydesville near
Rochester in 1848, which was the starting-point of
modern spiritualism.  Nothing sensational came of our
journey, and yet it was not entirely barren.  On the
first night nothing occurred.  On the second, there
were tremendous noises, sounds like someone beating a
table with a stick.  We had, of course, taken every
precaution, and we could not explain the noises; but at
the same time we could not swear that some
ingenious practical joke had not been played upon us. 
There the matter ended for the time.  Some years
afterwards, however, I met a member of the family who
occupied the house, and he told me that after our visit
the bones of a child, evidently long buried, had been
dug up in the garden.  You must admit that this was
very remarkable.  Haunted houses are rare, and houses
with buried human beings in their gardens are also, we
will hope, rare.  That they should have both united in
one house is surely some argument for the truth of the
phenomena.  It is interesting to remember that in the
case of the Fox family there was also some word of
human bones and evidence of murder being found in the
cellar, though an actual crime was never established. 
I have little doubt that if the Wesley family could
have got upon speaking terms with their persecutor,
they would also have come upon some motive for the
persecution.  It almost seems as if a life cut suddenly
and violently short had some store of unspent vitality
which could still manifest itself in a strange,
mischievous fashion.  Later I had another singular
personal experience of this sort which I may describe
at the end of this argument.[1]

[1]  Vide Appendix III.


From this period until the time of the War I
continued in the leisure hours of a very busy life to
devote attention to this subject.  I had experience of
one series of seances with very amazing results,
including several materializations seen in dim light. 
As the medium was detected in trickery shortly
afterwards I wiped these off entirely as evidence.  At
the same time I think that the presumption is very
clear, that in the case of some mediums like Eusapia
Palladino they may be guilty of trickery when their
powers fail them, and yet at other times have very
genuine gifts.  Mediumship in its lowest forms is a
purely physical gift with no relation to morality and
in many cases it is intermittent and cannot be
controlled at will.  Eusapia was at least twice
convicted of very clumsy and foolish fraud, whereas she
several times sustained long examinations under every
possible test condition at the hands of scientific
committees which contained some of the best names of
France, Italy, and England.  However, I personally
prefer to cut my experience with a discredited medium
out of my record, and I think that all physical
phenomena produced in the dark must necessarily lose
much of their value, unless they are accompanied by
evidential messages as well.  It is the custom of our
critics to assume that if you cut out the mediums who
got into trouble you would have to cut out nearly all
your evidence.  That is not so at all.  Up to the time
of this incident I had never sat with a professional
medium at all, and yet I had certainly accumulated some
evidence.  The greatest medium of all, Mr. D. D. Home,
showed his phenomena in broad daylight, and was ready
to submit to every test and no charge of trickery was
ever substantiated against him.  So it was with many
others.  It is only fair to state in addition that when
a public medium is a fair mark for notoriety hunters,
for amateur detectives and for sensational reporters,
and when he is dealing with obscure elusive phenomena
and has to defend himself before juries and judges who,
as a rule, know nothing about the conditions which
influence the phenomena, it would be wonderful if a man
could get through without an occasional scandal.  At
the same time the whole system of paying by results,
which is practically the present system, since if a
medium never gets results he would soon get no
payments, is a vicious one.  It is only when the
professional medium can be guaranteed an annuity which
will be independent of results, that we can eliminate
the strong temptation, to substitute pretended
phenomena when the real ones are wanting.

I have now traced my own evolution of thought up to
the time of the War.  I can claim, I hope, that it was
deliberate and showed no traces of that credulity with
which our opponents charge us.  It was too deliberate,
for I was culpably slow in throwing any small influence
I may possess into the scale of truth.  I might have
drifted on for my whole life as a psychical Researcher,
showing a sympathetic, but more or less dilettante
attitude towards the whole subject, as if we were
arguing about some impersonal thing such as the
existence of Atlantis or the Baconian controversy.  But
the War came, and when the War came it brought
earnestness into all our souls and made us look more
closely at our own beliefs and reassess their values. 
In the presence of an agonized world, hearing every day
of the deaths of the flower of our race in the first
promise of their unfulfilled youth, seeing around one
the wives and mothers who had no clear conception
whither their loved ones had gone to, I seemed suddenly
to see that this subject with which I had so long
dallied was not merely a study of a force outside the
rules of science, but that it was really something
tremendous, a breaking down of the walls between two
worlds, a direct undeniable message from beyond, a call
of hope and of guidance to the human race at the time
of its deepest affliction.  The objective side of it
ceased to interest for having made up one's mind that
it was true there was an end of the matter.  The
religious side of it was clearly of infinitely greater
importance.  The telephone bell is in itself a very
childish affair, but it may be the signal for a very
vital message.  It seemed that all these phenomena,
large and small, had been the telephone bells
which, senseless in themselves, had signalled to the
human race:  "Rouse yourselves!  Stand by!  Be at
attention!  Here are signs for you.  They will lead up
to the message which God wishes to send."  It was the
message not the signs which really counted.  A new
revelation seemed to be in the course of delivery to
the human race, though how far it was still in what may
be called the John-the-Baptist stage, and how far some
greater fulness and clearness might be expected
hereafter, was more than any man can say.  My point is,
that the physical phenomena which have been proved up
to the hilt for all who care to examine the evidence,
are really of no account, and that their real value
consists in the fact that they support and give
objective reality to an immense body of knowledge which
must deeply modify our previous religious views, and
must, when properly understood and digested, make
religion a very real thing, no longer a matter of
faith, but a matter of actual experience and fact.  It
is to this side of the question that I will now turn,
but I must add to my previous remarks about personal
experience that, since the War, I have had some
very exceptional opportunities of confirming all the
views which I had already formed as to the truth of the
general facts upon which my views are founded.

These opportunities came through the fact that a
lady who lived with us, a Miss L. S., developed the
power of automatic writing.  Of all forms of
mediumship, this seems to me to be the one which should
be tested most rigidly, as it lends itself very easily
not so much to deception as to self-deception, which is
a more subtle and dangerous thing.  Is the lady herself
writing, or is there, as she avers, a power that
controls her, even as the chronicler of the Jews in the
Bible averred that he was controlled?  In the case of
L. S. there is no denying that some messages proved to
be not true--especially in the matter of time they were
quite unreliable.  But on the other hand, the numbers
which did come true were far beyond what any guessing   
or coincidence could account for.  Thus, when the
Lusitania was sunk and the morning papers here
announced that so far as known there was no loss of
life, the medium at once wrote:  "It is terrible,
terrible--and will have a great influence on the war." 
Since it was the first strong impulse which turned
America towards the war, the message was true in both
respects.  Again, she foretold the arrival of an
important telegram upon a certain day, and even gave
the name of the deliverer of it--a most unlikely
person.  Altogether, no one could doubt the reality of
her inspiration, though the lapses were notable.  It
was like getting a good message through a very
imperfect telephone.

One other incident of the early war days stands out
in my memory.  A lady in whom I was interested had died
in a provincial town.  She was a chronic invalid and
morphia was found by her bedside.  There was an inquest
with an open verdict.  Eight days later I went to have
a sitting with Mr. Vout Peters.  After giving me a good
deal which was vague and irrelevant, he suddenly said: 
"There is a lady here.  She is leaning upon an older
woman.  She keeps saying 'Morphia.'  Three times she
has said it.  Her mind was clouded.  She did not mean
it.  Morphia!"  Those were almost his exact words. 
Telepathy was out of the question, for I had entirely
other thoughts in my mind at the time and was expecting
no such message.

Apart from personal experiences, this movement must
gain great additional solidity from the wonderful
literature which has sprung up around it during the
last few years.  If no other spiritual books were in
existence than five which have appeared in the last
year or so--I allude to Professor Lodge's Raymond,
Arthur Hill's Psychical Investigations, Professor
Crawford's Reality of Psychical Phenomena,
Professor Barrett's Threshold of the Unseen, and
Gerald Balfour's Ear of Dionysius--those five alone
would, in my opinion, be sufficient to establish the
facts for any reasonable enquirer.

Before going into this question of a new religious
revelation, how it is reached, and what it consists of,
I would say a word upon one other subject.  There have
always been two lines of attack by our opponents.  The
one is that our facts are not true.  This I have dealt
with.  The other is that we are upon forbidden ground
and should come off it and leave it alone.  As I
started from a position of comparative materialism,
this objection has never had any meaning for me, but to
others I would submit one or two considerations.  The
chief is that God has given us no power at all which is
under no circumstances to be used.  The fact that we
possess it is in itself proof that it is our bounden
duty to study and to develop it.  It is true that this,
like every other power, may be abused if we lose our
general sense of proportion and of reason.  But I
repeat that its mere possession is a strong reason why
it is lawful and binding that it be used.

It must also be remembered that this cry of illicit
knowledge, backed by more or less appropriate texts,
has been used against every advance of human knowledge. 
It was used against the new astronomy, and Galileo had
actually to recant.  It was used against Galvani and
electricity.  It was used against Darwin, who would
certainly have been burned had he lived a few centuries
before.  It was even used against Simpson's use of
chloroform in child-birth, on the ground that the Bible
declared "in pain shall ye bring them forth." 
Surely a plea which has been made so often, and so
often abandoned, cannot be regarded very seriously.

To those, however, to whom the theological aspect
is still a stumbling block, I would recommend the
reading of two short books, each of them by clergymen. 
The one is the Rev. Fielding Ould's Is Spiritualism
of the Devil, purchasable for twopence; the other is
the Rev. Arthur Chambers' Our Self After Death.  I
can also recommend the Rev. Charles Tweedale's writings
upon the subject.  I may add that when I first began to
make public my own views, one of the first letters of
sympathy which I received was from the late Archdeacon
Wilberforce.

There are some theologians who are not only opposed
to such a cult, but who go the length of saying that
the phenomena and messages come from fiends who
personate our dead, or pretend to be heavenly teachers. 
It is difficult to think that those who hold this view
have ever had any personal experience of the consoling
and uplifting effect of such communications upon the
recipient.  Ruskin has left it on record that his
conviction of a future life came from Spiritualism,
though he somewhat ungratefully and illogically added
that having got that, he wished to have no more to do
with it.  There are many, however--quorum pars parva
su--who without any reserve can declare that they
were turned from materialism to a belief in future
life, with all that that implies, by the study of this
subject.  If this be the devil's work one can only say
that the devil seems to be a very bungling workman and
to get results very far from what he might be expected
to desire.



CHAPTER II. THE REVELATION

I can now turn with some relief to a more
impersonal view of this great subject.  Allusion has
been made to a body of fresh doctrine.  Whence does
this come?  It comes in the main through automatic
writing where the hand of the human medium is
controlled, either by an alleged dead human being, as
in the case of Miss Julia Ames, or by an alleged higher
teacher, as in that of Mr. Stainton Moses.  These
written communications are supplemented by a vast
number of trance utterances, and by the verbal messages
of spirits, given through the lips of mediums. 
Sometimes it has even come by direct voices, as in the
numerous cases detailed by Admiral Usborne Moore in his
book The Voices.  Occasionally it has come through
the family circle and table-tilting, as, for example,
in the two cases I have previously detailed
within my own experience.  Sometimes, as in a case
recorded by Mrs. de Morgan, it has come through the
hand of a child.

Now, of course, we are at once confronted with the
obvious objection--how do we know that these messages
are really from beyond?  How do we know that the medium
is not consciously writing, or if that be improbable,
that he or she is unconsciously writing them by his or
her own higher self?  This is a perfectly just
criticism, and it is one which we must rigorously apply
in every case, since if the whole world is to become
full of minor prophets, each of them stating their own
views of the religious state with no proof save their
own assertion, we should, indeed, be back in the dark
ages of implicit faith.  The answer must be that we
require signs which we can test before we accept
assertions which we cannot test.  In old days they
demanded a sign from a prophet, and it was a perfectly
reasonable request, and still holds good.  If a person
comes to me with an account of life in some further
world, and has no credentials save his own assertion, I
would rather have it in my waste-paperbasket than
on my study table.  Life is too short to weigh the
merits of such productions.  But if, as in the case of
Stainton Moses, with his Spirit Teachings, the
doctrines which are said to come from beyond are
accompanied with a great number of abnormal gifts--and
Stainton Moses was one of the greatest mediums in all
ways that England has ever produced--then I look upon
the matter in a more serious light.  Again, if Miss
Julia Ames can tell Mr. Stead things in her own earth
life of which he could not have cognisance, and if
those things are shown, when tested, to be true, then
one is more inclined to think that those things which
cannot be tested are true also.  Or once again, if
Raymond can tell us of a photograph no copy of which
had reached England, and which proved to be exactly as
he described it, and if he can give us, through the
lips of strangers, all sorts of details of his home
life, which his own relatives had to verify before they
found them to be true, is it unreasonable to suppose
that he is fairly accurate in his description of his
own experiences and state of life at the very
moment at which he is communicating?  Or when Mr.
Arthur Hill receives messages from folk of whom he
never heard, and afterwards verifies that they are true
in every detail, is it not a fair inference that they
are speaking truths also when they give any light upon
their present condition?  The cases are manifold, and I
mention only a few of them, but my point is that the
whole of this system, from the lowest physical
phenomenon of a table-rap up to the most inspired
utterance of a prophet, is one complete whole, each
attached to the next one, and that when the humbler end
of that chain was placed in the hand of humanity, it
was in order that they might, by diligence and reason,
feel their way up it until they reached the revelation
which waited in the end.  Do not sneer at the humble
beginnings, the heaving table or the flying tambourine,
however much such phenomena may have been abused or
simulated, but remember that a falling apple taught us
gravity, a boiling kettle brought us the steam engine,
and the twitching leg of a frog opened up the train
of thought and experiment which gave us electricity. 
So the lowly manifestations of Hydesville have ripened
into results which have engaged the finest group of
intellects in this country during the last twenty
years, and which are destined, in my opinion, to bring
about far the greatest development of human experience
which the world has ever seen.

It has been asserted by men for whose opinion I
have a deep regard--notably by Sir William Barratt--
that psychical research is quite distinct from
religion.  Certainly it is so, in the sense that a man
might be a very good psychical researcher but a very
bad man.  But the results of psychical research, the
deductions which we may draw, and the lessons we may
learn, teach us of the continued life of the soul, of
the nature of that life, and of how it is influenced by
our conduct here.  If this is distinct from religion, I
must confess that I do not understand the distinction. 
To me it IS religion--the very essence of it.  But
that does not mean that it will necessarily crystallise
into a new religion.  Personally I trust that it
will not do so.  Surely we are disunited enough
already?  Rather would I see it the great unifying
force, the one provable thing connected with every
religion, Christian or non-Christian, forming the
common solid basis upon which each raises, if it must
needs raise, that separate system which appeals to the
varied types of mind.  The Southern races will always
demand what is less austere than the North, the West
will always be more critical than the East.  One cannot
shape all to a level conformity.  But if the broad
premises which are guaranteed by this teaching from
beyond are accepted, then the human race has made a
great stride towards religious peace and unity.  The
question which faces us, then, is how will this
influence bear upon the older organised religions and
philosophies which have influenced the actions of men.

The answer is, that to only one of these religions
or philosophies is this new revelation absolutely
fatal.  That is to Materialism.  I do not say this in
any spirit of hostility to Materialists, who, so far as
they are an organized body, are, I think, as earnest
and moral as any other class.  But the fact is
manifest that if spirit can live without matter, then
the foundation of Materialism is gone, and the whole
scheme of thought crashes to the ground.

As to other creeds, it must be admitted that an
acceptance of the teaching brought to us from beyond
would deeply modify conventional Christianity.  But
these modifications would be rather in the direction of
explanation and development than of contradiction.  It
would set right grave misunderstandings which have
always offended the reason of every thoughtful man, but
it would also confirm and make absolutely certain the
fact of life after death, the base of all religion.  It
would confirm the unhappy results of sin, though it
would show that those results are never absolutely
permanent.  It would confirm the existence of higher
beings, whom we have called angels, and of an ever-
ascending hierarchy above us, in which the Christ
spirit finds its place, culminating in heights of the
infinite with which we associate the idea of all-power
or of God.  It would confirm the idea of heaven and of
a temporary penal state which corresponds to
purgatory rather than to hell.  Thus this new
revelation, on some of the most vital points, is
NOT destructive of the beliefs, and it should be
hailed by really earnest men of all creeds as a most
powerful ally rather than a dangerous devil-begotten
enemy.

On the other hand, let us turn to the points in
which Christianity must be modified by this new
revelation.

First of all I would say this, which must be
obvious to many, however much they deplore it: 
Christianity must change or must perish.  That is the
law of life--that things must adapt themselves or
perish.  Christianity has deferred the change very
long, she has deferred it until her churches are half
empty, until women are her chief supporters, and until
both the learned part of the community on one side, and
the poorest class on the other, both in town and
country, are largely alienated from her.  Let us try
and trace the reason for this.  It is apparent in all
sects, and comes, therefore, from some deep common
cause.

People are alienated because they frankly do not
believe the facts as presented to them to be true. 
Their reason and their sense of justice are equally
offended.  One can see no justice in a vicarious
sacrifice, nor in the God who could be placated by such
means.  Above all, many cannot understand such
expressions as the "redemption from sin," "cleansed by
the blood of the Lamb," and so forth.  So long as there
was any question of the fall of man there was at least
some sort of explanation of such phrases; but when it
became certain that man had never fallen--when with
ever fuller knowledge we could trace our ancestral
course down through the cave-man and the drift-man,
back to that shadowy and far-off time when the man-like
ape slowly evolved into the apelike man--looking back
on all this vast succession of life, we knew that it
had always been rising from step to step.  Never was
there any evidence of a fall.  But if there were no
fall, then what became of the atonement, of the
redemption, of original sin, of a large part of
Christian mystical philosophy?  Even if it were as
reasonable in itself as it is actually unreasonable, it
would still be quite divorced from the facts.

Again, too much seemed to be made of Christ's
death.  It is no uncommon thing to die for an idea. 
Every religion has equally had its martyrs.  Men die
continually for their convictions.  Thousands of our
lads are doing it at this instant in France.  Therefore
the death of Christ, beautiful as it is in the Gospel
narrative, has seemed to assume an undue importance, as
though it were an isolated phenomenon for a man to die
in pursuit of a reform.  In my opinion, far too much
stress has been laid upon Christ's death, and far too
little upon His life.  That was where the true grandeur
and the true lesson lay.  It was a life which even in
those limited records shows us no trait which is not
beautiful--a life full of easy tolerance for others, of
kindly charity, of broad-minded moderation, of gentle
courage, always progressive and open to new ideas, and
yet never bitter to those ideas which He was really
supplanting, though He did occasionally lose His temper
with their more bigoted and narrow supporters. 
Especially one loves His readiness to get at the spirit
of religion, sweeping aside the texts and the forms. 
Never had anyone such a robust common sense, or such a
sympathy for weakness.  It was this most wonderful and
uncommon life, and not his death, which is the true
centre of the Christian religion.

Now, let us look at the light which we get from the
spirit guides upon this question of Christianity. 
Opinion is not absolutely uniform yonder, any more than
it is here; but reading a number of messages upon this
subject, they amount to this:  There are many higher
spirits with our departed.  They vary in degree.  Call
them "angels," and you are in touch with old religious
thought.  High above all these is the greatest spirit
of whom they have cognizance--not God, since God is so
infinite that He is not within their ken--but one who
is nearer God and to that extent represents God.  This
is the Christ Spirit.  His special care is the earth. 
He came down upon it at a time of great earthly
depravity--a time when the world was almost as wicked
as it is now, in order to give the people the
lesson of an ideal life.  Then he returned to his own
high station, having left an example which is still
occasionally followed.  That is the story of Christ as
spirits have described it.  There is nothing here of
Atonement or Redemption.  But there is a perfectly
feasible and reasonable scheme, which I, for one, could
readily believe.

If such a view of Christianity were generally
accepted, and if it were enforced by assurance and
demonstration from the New Revelation which is coming
to us from the other side, then we should have a creed
which might unite the churches, which might be
reconciled to science, which might defy all attacks,
and which might carry the Christian Faith on for an
indefinite period.  Reason and Faith would at last be
reconciled, a nightmare would be lifted from our minds,
and spiritual peace would prevail.  I do not see such
results coming as a sudden conquest or a violent
revolution.  Rather will it come as a peaceful
penetration, as some crude ideas, such as the Eternal
Hell idea, have already gently faded away within our
own lifetime.  It is, however, when the human soul
is ploughed and harrowed by suffering that the seeds of
truth may be planted, and so some future spiritual
harvest will surely rise from the days in which we
live.

When I read the New Testament with the knowledge
which I have of Spiritualism, I am left with a deep
conviction that the teaching of Christ was in many most
important respects lost by the early Church, and has
not come down to us.  All these allusions to a conquest
over death have, as it seems to me, little meaning in
the present Christian philosophy, whereas for those who
have seen, however dimly, through the veil, and
touched, however slightly, the outstretched hands
beyond, death has indeed been conquered.  When we read
so many references to the phenomena with which we are
familiar, the levitations, the tongues of fire, the
rushing wind, the spiritual gifts, the working of
wonders, we feel that the central fact of all, the
continuity of life and the communication with the dead,
was most certainly known.  Our attention is arrested by
such a saying as:  "Here he worked no wonders
because the people were wanting in faith."  Is this
not absolutely in accordance with psychic law as we
know it?  Or when Christ, on being touched by the sick
woman, said:  "Who has touched me?  Much virtue has
passed out of me."  Could He say more clearly what a
healing medium would say now, save that He would use
the word "Power" instead of "virtue"; or when we read: 
"Try the spirits whether they be of God," is it not the
very, advice which would now be given to a novice
approaching a seance?  It is too large a question for
me to do more than indicate, but I believe that this
subject, which the more rigid Christian churches now
attack so bitterly, is really the central teaching of
Christianity itself.  To those who would read more upon
this line of thought, I strongly recommend Dr. Abraham
Wallace's Jesus of Nazareth, if this valuable
little work is not out of print.  He demonstrates in it
most convincingly that Christ's miracles were all
within the powers of psychic law as we now understand
it, and were on the exact lines of such law even in
small details.  Two examples have already been
given.  Many are worked out in that pamphlet.  One
which convinced me as a truth was the thesis that the
story of the materialization of the two prophets upon
the mountain was extraordinarily accurate when judged
by psychic law.  There is the fact that Peter, James
and John (who formed the psychic circle when the dead
was restored to life, and were presumably the most
helpful of the group) were taken.  Then there is the
choice of the high pure air of the mountain, the
drowsiness of the attendant mediums, the transfiguring,
the shining robes, the cloud, the words:  "Let us make
three tabernacles," with its alternate reading:  "Let
us make three booths or cabinets" (the ideal way of
condensing power and producing materializations)--all
these make a very consistent theory of the nature of
the proceedings.  For the rest, the list of gifts which
St. Paul gives as being necessary for the Christian
Disciple, is simply the list of gifts of a very
powerful medium, including prophecy, healing, causing
miracles (or physical phenomena), clairvoyance, and
other powers (I Corinth, xii, 8, 11).  The early
Christian Church was saturated with spiritualism, and
they seem to have paid no attention to those Old
Testament prohibitions which were meant to keep these
powers only for the use and profit of the priesthood.



CHAPTER III. THE COMING LIFE

Now, leaving this large and possibly contentious
subject of the modifications which such new revelations
must produce in Christianity, let us try to follow what
occurs to man after death.  The evidence on this point
is fairly full and consistent.  Messages from the dead
have been received in many lands at various times,
mixed up with a good deal about this world, which we
could verify.  When messages come thus, it is only
fair, I think, to suppose that if what we can test is
true, then what we cannot test is true also.  When in
addition we find a very great uniformity in the
messages and an agreement as to details which are not
at all in accordance with any pre-existing scheme of
thought, then I think the presumption of truth is very
strong.  It is difficult to think that some fifteen or
twenty messages from various sources of which I
have personal notes, all agree, and yet are all wrong,
nor is it easy to suppose that spirits can tell the
truth about our world but untruth about their own.

I received lately, in the same week, two accounts
of life in the next world, one received through the
hand of the near relative of a high dignitary of the
Church, while the other came through the wife of a
working mechanician in Scotland.  Neither could have
been aware of the existence of the other, and yet the
two accounts are so alike as to be practically the
same.[2]

[2]  Vide Appendix II.


The message upon these points seems to me to be
infinitely reassuring, whether we regard our own fate
or that of our friends.  The departed all agree that
passing is usually both easy and painless, and followed
by an enormous reaction of peace and ease.  The
individual finds himself in a spirit body, which is the
exact counterpart of his old one, save that all
disease, weakness, or deformity has passed from it. 
This body is standing or floating beside the old body,
and conscious both of it and of the surrounding
people.  At this moment the dead man is nearer to
matter than he will ever be again, and hence it is that
at that moment the greater part of those cases occur
where, his thoughts having turned to someone in the
distance, the spirit body went with the thoughts and
was manifest to the person.  Out of some 250 cases
carefully examined by Mr. Gurney, 134 of such
apparitions were actually at this moment of
dissolution, when one could imagine that the new spirit
body was possibly so far material as to be more visible
to a sympathetic human eye than it would later become.

These cases, however, are very rare in comparison
with the total number of deaths.  In most cases I
imagine that the dead man is too preoccupied with his
own amazing experience to have much thought for others. 
He soon finds, to his surprise, that though he
endeavours to communicate with those whom he sees, his
ethereal voice and his ethereal touch are equally
unable to make any impression upon those human organs
which are only attuned to coarser stimuli.  It is a
fair subject for speculation, whether a fuller
knowledge of those light rays which we know to exist on
either side of the spectrum, or of those sounds which
we can prove by the vibrations of a diaphragm to exist,
although they are too high for mortal ear, may not
bring us some further psychical knowledge.  Setting
that aside, however, let us follow the fortunes of the
departing spirit.  He is presently aware that there are
others in the room besides those who were there in
life, and among these others, who seem to him as
substantial as the living, there appear familiar faces,
and he finds his hand grasped or his lips kissed by
those whom he had loved and lost.  Then in their
company, and with the help and guidance of some more
radiant being who has stood by and waited for the
newcomer, he drifts to his own surprise through all
solid obstacles and out upon his new life.

This is a definite statement, and this is the story
told by one after the other with a consistency which
impels belief.  It is already very different from any
old theology.  The Spirit is not a glorified angel or
goblin damned, but it is simply the person himself,
containing all his strength and weakness, his
wisdom and his folly, exactly as he has retained his
personal appearance.  We can well believe that the most
frivolous and foolish would be awed into decency by so
tremendous an experience, but impressions soon become
blunted, the old nature may soon reassert itself in new
surroundings, and the frivolous still survive, as our
seance rooms can testify.

And now, before entering upon his new life, the new
Spirit has a period of sleep which varies in its
length, sometimes hardly existing at all, at others
extending for weeks or months.  Raymond said that his
lasted for six days.  That was the period also in a
case of which I had some personal evidence.  Mr. Myers,
on the other hand, said that he had a very prolonged
period of unconsciousness.  I could imagine that the
length is regulated by the amount of trouble or mental
preoccupation of this life, the longer rest giving the
better means of wiping this out.  Probably the little
child would need no such interval at all.  This, of
course, is pure speculation, but there is a
considerable consensus of opinion as to the
existence of a period of oblivion after the first
impression of the new life and before entering upon its
duties.

Having wakened from this sleep, the spirit is weak,
as the child is weak after earth birth.  Soon, however,
strength returns and the new life begins.  This leads
us to the consideration of heaven and hell.  Hell, I
may say, drops out altogether, as it has long dropped
out of the thoughts of every reasonable man.  This
odious conception, so blasphemous in its view of the
Creator, arose from the exaggerations of Oriental
phrases, and may perhaps have been of service in a
coarse age where men were frightened by fires, as wild
beasts are seared by the travellers.  Hell as a
permanent place does not exist.  But the idea of
punishment, of purifying chastisement, in fact of
Purgatory, is justified by the reports from the other
side.  Without such punishment there could be no
justice in the Universe, for how impossible it would be
to imagine that the fate of a Rasputin is the same as
that of a Father Damien.  The punishment is very
certain and very serious, though in its less severe
forms it only consists in the fact that the grosser
souls are in lower spheres with a knowledge that their
own deeds have placed them there, but also with the
hope that expiation and the help of those above them
will educate them and bring them level with the others. 
In this saving process the higher spirits find part of
their employment.  Miss Julia Ames in her beautiful
posthumous book, says in memorable words:  "The
greatest joy of Heaven is emptying Hell."

Setting aside those probationary spheres, which
should perhaps rather be looked upon as a hospital for
weakly souls than as a penal community, the reports
from the other world are all agreed as to the pleasant
conditions of life in the beyond.  They agree that like
goes to like, that all who love or who have interests
in common are united, that life is full of interest and
of occupation, and that they would by no means desire
to return.  All of this is surely tidings of great joy,
and I repeat that it is not a vague faith or hope, but
that it is supported by all the laws of evidence which
agree that where many independent witnesses give a
similar account, that account has a claim to be
considered a true one.  If it were an account of
glorified souls purged instantly from all human
weakness and of a constant ecstasy of adoration round
the throne of the all powerful, it might well be
suspected as being the mere reflection of that popular
theology which all the mediums had equally received in
their youth.  It is, however, very different to any
preexisting system.  It is also supported, as I have
already pointed out, not merely by the consistency of
the accounts, but by the fact that the accounts are the
ultimate product of a long series of phenomena, all of
which have been attested as true by those who have
carefully examined them.

In connection with the general subject of life
after death, people may say we have got this knowledge
already through faith.  But faith, however beautiful in
the individual, has always in collective bodies been a
very two-edged quality.  All would be well if every
faith were alike and the intuitions of the human race
were constant.  We know that it is not so.  Faith means
to say that you entirely believe a thing which you
cannot prove.  One man says:  "My faith is
THIS."  Another says:  "My faith is THAT." 
Neither can prove it, so they wrangle for ever, either
mentally or in the old days physically.  If one is
stronger than the other, he is inclined to persecute
him just to twist him round to the true faith.  Because
Philip the Second's faith was strong and clear he,
quite logically, killed a hundred thousand Lowlanders
in the hope that their fellow countrymen would be
turned to the all-important truth.  Now, if it were
recognised that it is by no means virtuous to claim
what you could not prove, we should then be driven to
observe facts, to reason from them, and perhaps reach
common agreement.  That is why this psychical movement
appears so valuable.  Its feet are on something more
solid than texts or traditions or intuitions.  It is
religion from the double point of view of both worlds
up to date, instead of the ancient traditions of one
world.

We cannot look upon this coming world as a tidy
Dutch garden of a place which is so exact that it can
easily be described.  It is probable that those
messengers who come back to us are all, more or
less, in one state of development and represent the
same wave of life as it recedes from our shores. 
Communications usually come from those who have not
long passed over, and tend to grow fainter, as one
would expect.  It is instructive in this respect to
notice that Christ's reappearances to his disciples or
to Paul, are said to have been within a very few years
of his death, and that there is no claim among the
early Christians to have seen him later.  The cases of
spirits who give good proof of authenticity and yet
have passed some time are not common.  There is, in Mr.
Dawson Roger's life, a very good case of a spirit who
called himself Manton, and claimed to have been born at
Lawrence Lydiard and buried at Stoke Newington in 1677. 
It was clearly shown afterwards that there was such a
man, and that he was Oliver Cromwell's chaplain.  So
far as my own reading goes, this is the oldest spirit
who is on record as returning, and generally they are
quite recent.  Hence, one gets all one's views from the
one generation, as it were, and we cannot take them as
final, but only as partial.  How spirits may see
things in a different light as they progress in the
other world is shown by Miss Julia Ames, who was deeply
impressed at first by the necessity of forming a bureau
of communication, but admitted, after fifteen years,
that not one spirit in a million among the main body
upon the further side ever wanted to communicate with
us at all since their own loved ones had come over. 
She had been misled by the fact that when she first
passed over everyone she met was newly arrived like
herself.

Thus the account we give may be partial, but still
such as it is it is very consistent and of
extraordinary interest, since it refers to our own
destiny and that of those we love.  All agree that life
beyond is for a limited period, after which they pass
on to yet other phases, but apparently there is more
communication between these phases than there is
between us and Spiritland.  The lower cannot ascend,
but the higher can descend at will.  The life has a
close analogy to that of this world at it its best.  It
is pre-eminently a life of the mind, as this is of the
body.  Preoccupations of food, money, lust, pain,
etc., are of the body and are gone.  Music, the Arts,
intellectual and spiritual knowledge, and progress have
increased.  The people are clothed, as one would
expect, since there is no reason why modesty should
disappear with our new forms.  These new forms are the
absolute reproduction of the old ones at their best,
the young growing up and the old reverting until all
come to the normal.  People live in communities, as one
would expect if like attracts like, and the male spirit
still finds his true mate though there is no sexuality
in the grosser sense and no childbirth.  Since
connections still endure, and those in the same state
of development keep abreast, one would expect that
nations are still roughly divided from each other,
though language is no longer a bar, since thought has
become a medium of conversation.  How close is the
connection between kindred souls over there is shown by
the way in which Myers, Gurney and Roden Noel, all
friends and co-workers on earth, sent messages together
through Mrs. Holland, who knew none of them, each
message being characteristic to those who knew the
men in life--or the way in which Professor Verrall and
Professor Butcher, both famous Greek scholars,
collaborated to produce the Greek problem which has
been analysed by Mr. Gerald Balfour in The Ear of
Dionysius, with the result that that excellent
authority testified that the effect COULD have been
attained by no other entities, save only Verrall and
Butcher.  It may be remarked in passing that these and
other examples show clearly either that the spirits
have the use of an excellent reference library or else
that they have memories which produce something like
omniscience.  No human memory could possibly carry all
the exact quotations which occur in such communications
as The Ear of Dionysius.

These, roughly speaking, are the lines of the life
beyond in its simplest expression, for it is not all
simple, and we catch dim glimpses of endless circles
below descending into gloom and endless circles above,
ascending into glory, all improving, all purposeful,
all intensely alive.  All are agreed that no religion
upon earth has any advantage over another, but that
character and refinement are everything.  At the same
time, all are also in agreement that all religions
which inculcate prayer, and an upward glance rather
than eyes for ever on the level, are good.  In this
sense, and in no other--as a help to spiritual life--
every form may have a purpose for somebody.  If to
twirl a brass cylinder forces the Thibetan to admit
that there is something higher than his mountains, and
more precious than his yaks, then to that extent it is
good.  We must not be censorious in such matters.

There is one point which may be mentioned here
which is at first startling and yet must commend itself
to our reason when we reflect upon it.  This is the
constant assertion from the other side that the newly
passed do not know that they are dead, and that it is a
long time, sometimes a very long time, before they can
be made to understand it.  All of them agree that this
state of bewilderment is harmful and retarding to the
spirit, and that some knowledge of the actual truth
upon this side is the only way to make sure of not
being dazed upon the other.  Finding conditions
entirely different from anything for which either
scientific or religious teaching had prepared them, it
is no wonder that they look upon their new sensations
as some strange dream, and the more rigidly orthodox
have been their views, the more impossible do they find
it to accept these new surroundings with all that they
imply.  For this reason, as well as for many others,
this new revelation is a very needful thing for
mankind.  A smaller point of practical importance is
that the aged should realise that it is still worth
while to improve their minds, for though they have no
time to use their fresh knowledge in this world it will
remain as part of their mental outfit in the next.

As to the smaller details of this life beyond, it
is better perhaps not to treat them, for the very good
reason that they are small details.  We will learn them
all soon for ourselves, and it is only vain curiosity
which leads us to ask for them now.  One thing is
clear: there are higher intelligences over yonder to
whom synthetic chemistry, which not only makes the
substance but moulds the form, is a matter of
absolute ease.  We see them at work in the coarser
media, perceptible to our material senses, in the
seance room.  If they can build up simulacra in the
seance room, how much may we expect them to do when
they are working upon ethereal objects in that ether
which is their own medium.  It may be said generally
that they can make something which is analogous to
anything which exists upon earth.  How they do it may
well be a matter of guess and speculation among the
less advanced spirits, as the phenomena of modern
science are a matter of guess and speculation to us. 
If one of us were suddenly called up by the denizen of
some sub-human world, and were asked to explain exactly
what gravity is, or what magnetism is, how helpless we
should be!  We may put ourselves in the position, then,
of a young engineer soldier like Raymond Lodge, who
tries to give some theory of matter in the beyond--a
theory which is very likely contradicted by some other
spirit who is also guessing at things above him.  He
may be right, or he may be wrong, but be is doing his
best to say what he thinks, as we should do in
similar case.  He believes that his transcendental
chemists can make anything, and that even such
unspiritual matter as alcohol or tobacco could come
within their powers and could still be craved for by
unregenerate spirits.  This has tickled the critics to
such an extent that one would really think to read the
comments that it was the only statement in a book which
contains 400 closely-printed pages.  Raymond may be
right or wrong, but the only thing which the incident
proves to me is the unflinching courage and honesty of
the man who chronicled it, knowing well the handle that
he was giving to his enemies.

There are many who protest that this world which is
described to us is too material for their liking.  It
is not as they would desire it.  Well, there are many
things in this world which seem different from what we
desire, but they exist none the less.  But when we come
to examine this charge of materialism and try to
construct some sort of system which would satisfy the
idealists, it becomes a very difficult task.  Are we to
be mere wisps of gaseous happiness floating about
in the air?  That seems to be the idea.  But if there
is no body like our own, and if there is no character
like our own, then say what you will, WE have
become extinct.  What is it to a mother if some
impersonal glorified entity is shown to her?  She will
say, "that is not the son I lost--I want his yellow
hair, his quick smile, his little moods that I know so
well."  That is what she wants; that, I believe, is
what she will have; but she will not have them by any
system which cuts us away from all that reminds us of
matter and takes us to a vague region of floating
emotions.

There is an opposite school of critics which rather
finds the difficulty in picturing a life which has keen
perceptions, robust emotions, and a solid surrounding
all constructed in so diaphanous a material.  Let us
remember that everything depends upon its comparison
with the things around it.

If we could conceive of a world a thousand times
denser, heavier and duller than this world, we can
clearly see that to its inmates it would seem much the
same as this, since their strength and texture would be
in proportion.  If, however, these inmates came in
contact with us, they would look upon us as
extraordinarily airy beings living in a strange, light,
spiritual atmosphere.  They would not remember that we
also, since our beings and our surroundings are in
harmony and in proportion to each other, feel and act
exactly as they do.

We have now to consider the case of yet another
stratum of life, which is as much above us as the
leaden community would be below us.  To us also it
seems as if these people, these spirits, as we call
them, live the lives of vapour and of shadows.  We do
not recollect that there also everything is in
proportion and in harmony so that the spirit scene or
the spirit dwelling, which might seem a mere dream
thing to us, is as actual to the spirit as are our own
scenes or our own dwellings, and that the spirit body
is as real and tangible to another spirit as ours to
our friends.




CHAPTER IV,


PROBLEMS AND LIMITATIONS

Leaving for a moment the larger argument as to the
lines of this revelation and the broad proofs of its
validity, there are some smaller points which have
forced themselves upon my attention during the
consideration of the subject.  This home of our dead
seems to be very near to us--so near that we
continually, as they tell us, visit them in our sleep. 
Much of that quiet resignation which we have all
observed in people who have lost those whom they
loved--people who would in our previous opinion have
been driven mad by such loss--is due to the fact that
they have seen their dead, and that although the
switch-off is complete and they can recall nothing
whatever of the spirit experience in sleep, the
soothing result of it is still carried on by the
subconscious self.  The switch-off is, as I say,
complete, but sometimes for some reason it is hung up
for a fraction of a second, and it is at such
moments that the dreamer comes back from  his dream
"trailing clouds of glory."  From this also come all
those prophetic dreams many of which are well attested. 
I have had a recent personal experience of one which
has not yet perhaps entirely justified itself but is
even now remarkable.  Upon April 4th of last year,
1917, I awoke with a feeling that some communication
had been made to me of which I had only carried back
one word which was ringing in my head.  That word was
"Piave."  To the best of my belief I had never heard
the word before.  As it sounded like the name of a
place I went into my study the moment I had dressed and
I looked up the index of my Atlas.  There was "Piave"
sure enough, and I noted that it was a river in Italy
some forty miles behind the front line, which at that
time was victoriously advancing.  I could imagine few
more unlikely things than that the war should roll back
to the Piave, and I could not think how any military
event of consequence could arise there, but none the
less I was so impressed that I drew up a statement
that some such event would occur there, and I had it
signed by my secretary and witnessed by my wife with
the date, April 4th, attached.  It is a matter of
history how six months later the whole Italian line
fell back, how it abandoned successive positions upon
rivers, and how it stuck upon this stream which was
said by military critics to be strategically almost
untenable.  If nothing more should occur (I write upon
February 20th, 1918), the reference to the name has
been fully justified, presuming that some friend in the
beyond was forecasting the coming events of the war.  I
have still a hope, however, that more was meant, and
that some crowning victory of the Allies at this spot
may justify still further the strange way in which the
name was conveyed to my mind.

People may well cry out against this theory of
sleep on the grounds that all the grotesque, monstrous
and objectionable dreams which plague us cannot
possibly come from a high source.  On this point I have
a very definite theory, which may perhaps be worthy of
discussion.  I consider that there are two forms of
dreams, and only two, the experiences of the released
spirit, and the confused action of the lower faculties
which remain in the body when the spirit is absent. 
The former is rare and beautiful, for the memory of it
fails us.  The latter are common and varied, but
usually fantastic or ignoble.  By noting what is absent
in the lower dreams one can tell what the missing
qualities are, and so judge what part of us goes to
make up the spirit.  Thus in these dreams humour is
wanting, since we see things which strike us afterwards
as ludicrous, and are not amused.  The sense of
proportion and of judgment and of aspiration is all
gone.  In short, the higher is palpably gone, and the
lower, the sense of fear, of sensual impression, of
self-preservation, is functioning all the more vividly
because it is relieved from the higher control.

The limitations of the powers of spirits is a
subject which is brought home to one in these studies. 
People say, "If they exist why don't they do this or
that!"  The answer usually is that they can't.  They
appear to have very fixed limitations like our own. 
This seemed to be very clearly brought out in the
cross-correspondence experiments where several writing
mediums were operating at a distance quite
independently of each other, and the object was to get
agreement which was beyond the reach of coincidence. 
The spirits seem to know exactly what they impress upon
the minds of the living, but they do not know how far
they carry their instruction out.  Their touch with us
is intermittent.  Thus, in the cross-correspondence
experiments we continually have them asking, "Did you
get that?" or "Was it all right?"  Sometimes they have
partial cognisance of what is done, as where Myers
says:  "I saw the circle, but was not sure about the
triangle."  It is everywhere apparent that their
spirits, even the spirits of those who, like Myers and
Hodgson, were in specially close touch with psychic
subjects, and knew all that could be done, were in
difficulties when they desired to get cognisance of a
material thing, such as a written document.  Only, I
should imagine, by partly materialising themselves
could they do so, and they may not have had the
power of self-materialization.  This consideration
throws some light upon the famous case, so often used
by our opponents, where Myers failed to give some word
or phrase which had been left behind in a sealed box. 
Apparently he could not see this document from his
present position, and if his memory failed him he would
be very likely to go wrong about it.

Many mistakes may, I think, be explained in this
fashion.  It has been asserted from the other side, and
the assertion seems to me reasonable, that when they
speak of their own conditions they are speaking of what
they know and can readily and surely discuss; but that
when we insist (as we must sometimes insist) upon
earthly tests, it drags them back to another plane of
things, and puts them in a position which is far more
difficult, and liable to error.

Another point which is capable of being used
against us is this:  The spirits have the greatest
difficulty in getting names through to us, and it is
this which makes many of their communications so vague
and unsatisfactory.  They will talk all round a
thing, and yet never get the name which would clinch
the matter.  There is an example of the point in a
recent communication in Light, which describes how
a young officer, recently dead, endeavoured to get a
message through the direct voice method of Mrs.
Susannah Harris to his father.  He could not get his
name through.  He was able, however, to make it clear
that his father was a member of the Kildare Street Club
in Dublin.  Inquiry found the father, and it was then
learned that the father had already received an
independent message in Dublin to say that an inquiry
was coming through from London.  I do not know if the
earth name is a merely ephemeral thing, quite
disconnected from the personality, and perhaps the very
first thing to be thrown aside.  That is, of course,
possible.  Or it may be that some law regulates our
intercourse from the other side by which it shall not
be too direct, and shall leave something to our own
intelligence.

This idea, that there is some law which makes an
indirect speech more easy than a direct one, is
greatly borne out by the cross-correspondences, where
circumlocution continually takes the place of
assertion.  Thus, in the St. Paul correspondence, which
is treated in the July pamphlet of the S.P.R., the idea
of St. Paul was to be conveyed from one automatic
writer to two others, both of whom were at a distance,
one of them in India.  Dr. Hodgson was the spirit who
professed to preside over this experiment.  You would
think that the simple words "St. Paul" occurring in the
other scripts would be all-sufficient.  But no; he
proceeds to make all sorts of indirect allusions, to
talk all round St. Paul in each of the scripts, and to
make five quotations from St. Paul's writings.  This is
beyond coincidence, and quite convincing, but none the
less it illustrates the curious way in which they go
round instead of going straight.  If one could imagine
some wise angel on the other side saying, "Now, don't
make it too easy for these people.  Make them use their
own brains a little.  They will become mere automatons
if we do everything for them"--if we could imagine
that, it would just cover the case.  Whatever the
explanation, it is a noteworthy fact.

There is another point about spirit communications
which is worth noting.  This is their uncertainty
wherever any time element comes in.  Their estimate of
time is almost invariably wrong.  Earth time is
probably a different idea to spirit time, and hence the
confusion.  We had the advantage, as I have stated, of
the presence of a lady in our household who developed
writing mediumship.  She was in close touch with three
brothers, all of whom had been killed in the war.  This
lady, conveying messages from her brothers, was hardly
ever entirely wrong upon facts, and hardly ever right
about time.  There was one notable exception, however,
which in itself is suggestive.  Although her prophecies
as to public events were weeks or even months out, she
in one case foretold the arrival of a telegram from
Africa to the day.  Now the telegram had already been
sent, but was delayed, so that the inference seems to
be that she could foretell a course of events which had
actually been set in motion, and calculate how long
they would take to reach their end.  On the other
hand, I am bound to admit that she confidently
prophesied the escape of her fourth brother, who was a
prisoner in Germany, and that this was duly fulfilled. 
On the whole I preserve an open mind upon the powers
and limitations of prophecy.

But apart from all these limitations we have,
unhappily, to deal with absolute coldblooded lying on
the part of wicked or mischievous intelligences. 
Everyone who has investigated the matter has, I
suppose, met with examples of wilful deception, which
occasionally are mixed up with good and true
communications.  It was of such messages, no doubt,
that the Apostle wrote when he said:  "Beloved,
believe, not every spirit, but try the spirits whether
they are of God."  These words can only mean that the
early Christians not only practised Spiritualism as we
understand it, but also that they were faced by the
same difficulties.  There is nothing more puzzling than
the fact that one may get a long connected description
with every detail given, and that it may prove to be
entirely a concoction.  However, we must bear in
mind that if one case comes absolutely correct, it
atones for many failures, just as if you had one
telegram correct you would know that there was a line
and a communicator, however much they broke down
afterwards.  But it must be admitted that it is very
discomposing and makes one sceptical of messages until
they are tested.  Of a kin with these false influences
are all the Miltons who cannot scan, and Shelleys who
cannot rhyme, and Shakespeares who cannot think, and
all the other absurd impersonations which make our
cause ridiculous.  They are, I think, deliberate
frauds, either from this side or from the other, but to
say that they invalidate the whole subject is as
senseless as to invalidate our own world because we
encounter some unpleasant people.

One thing I can truly say, and that is, that in
spite of false messages, I have never in all these
years known a blasphemous, an unkind, or an obscene
message.  Such incidents must be of very exceptional
nature.  I think also that, so far as allegations
concerning insanity, obsession, and so forth go, they
are entirely imaginary.  Asylum statistics do not
bear out such assertions, and mediums live to as good
an average age as anyone else.  I think, however, that
the cult of the seance may be very much overdone.  When
once you have convinced yourself of the truth of the
phenomena the physical seance has done its work, and
the man or woman who spends his or her life in running
from seance to seance is in danger of becoming a mere
sensation hunter.  Here, as in other cults, the form is
in danger of eclipsing the real thing, and in pursuit
of physical proofs one may forget that the real object
of all these things is, as I have tried to point out,
to give us assurance in the future and spiritual
strength in the present, to attain a due perception of
the passing nature of matter and the all-importance of
that which is immaterial.

The conclusion, then, of my long search after
truth, is that in spite of occasional fraud, which
Spiritualists deplore, and in spite of wild imaginings,
which they discourage, there remains a great solid core
in this movement which is infinitely nearer to positive
proof than any other religious development  with
which I am acquainted.  As I have shown, it would
appear to be a rediscovery rather than an absolutely
new thing, but the result in this material age is the
same.  The days are surely passing when the mature and
considered opinions of such men as Crookes, Wallace,
Flammarion, Chas. Richet, Lodge, Barrett, Lombroso,
Generals Drayson and Turner, Sergeant Ballantyne, W. T.
Stead, Judge Edmunds, Admiral Usborne Moore, the late
Archdeacon Wilberforce, and such a cloud of other
witnesses, can be dismissed with the empty "All rot" or
"Nauseating drivel" formulae.  As Mr. Arthur Hill has
well said, we have reached a point where further proof
is superfluous, and where the weight of disproof lies
upon those who deny.  The very people who clamour for
proofs have as a rule never taken the trouble to
examine the copious proofs which already exist.  Each
seems to think that the whole subject should begin
de novo because he has asked for information.  The
method of our opponents is to fasten upon the latest
man who has stated the case--at the present instant it
happens to be Sir Oliver Lodge--and then to deal
with him as if he had come forward with some new
opinions which rested entirely upon his own assertion,
with no reference to the corroboration of so many
independent workers before him.  This is not an honest
method of criticism, for in every case the agreement of
witnesses is the very root of conviction.  But as a
matter of fact, there are many single witnesses upon
whom this case could rest.  If, for example, our only
knowledge of unknown forces depended upon the
researches of Dr. Crawford of Belfast, who places his
amateur medium in a weighing chair with her feet from
the ground, and has been able to register a difference
of weight of many pounds, corresponding with the
physical phenomena produced, a result which he has
tested and recorded in a true scientific spirit of
caution, I do not see how it could be shaken.  The
phenomena are and have long been firmly established for
every open mind.  One feels that the stage of
investigation is passed, and that of religious
construction is overdue.

For are we to satisfy ourselves by observing 
phenomena with no attention to what the phenomena mean,
as a group of savages might stare at a wireless
installation with no appreciation of the messages
coming through it, or are we resolutely to set
ourselves to define these subtle and elusive utterances
from beyond, and to construct from them a religious
scheme, which will be founded upon human reason on this
side and upon spirit inspiration upon the other?  These
phenomena have passed through the stage of being a
parlour game; they are now emerging from that of a
debatable scientific novelty; and they are, or should
be, taking shape as the foundations of a definite
system of religious thought, in some ways confirmatory
of ancient systems, in some ways entirely new.  The
evidence upon which this system rests is so enormous
that it would take a very considerable library to
contain it, and the witnesses are not shadowy people
living in the dim past and inaccessible to our cross-
examination, but are our own contemporaries, men of
character and intellect whom all must respect.  The
situation may, as it seems to me, be summed up in a
simple alternative.  The one supposition is that
there has been an outbreak of lunacy extending over two
generations of mankind, and two great continents--a
lunacy which assails men or women who are otherwise
eminently sane.  The alternative supposition is that in
recent years there has come to us from divine sources a
new revelation which constitutes by far the greatest
religious event since the death of Christ (for the
Reformation was a re-arrangement of the old, not a
revelation of the new), a revelation which alters the
whole aspect of death and the fate of man.  Between
these two suppositions there is no solid position. 
Theories of fraud or of delusion will not meet the
evidence.  It is absolute lunacy or it is a revolution
in religious thought, a revolution which gives us as
by-products an utter fearlessness of death, and an
immense consolation when those who are dear to us pass
behind the veil.

I should like to add a few practical words to those
who know the truth of what I say.  We have here an
enormous new development, the greatest in the history
of mankind.  How are we to use it?  We are bound in
honour, I think, to state our own belief,
especially to those who are in trouble.  Having stated
it, we should not force it, but leave the rest to
higher wisdom than our own.  We wish to subvert no
religion.  We wish only to bring back the material-
minded--to take them out of their cramped valley and
put them on the ridge, whence they can breathe purer
air and see other valleys and other ridges beyond. 
Religions are mostly petrified and decayed, overgrown
with forms and choked with mysteries.  We can prove
that there is no need for this.  All that is essential
is both very simple and very sure.

The clear call for our help comes from those who
have had a loss and who yearn to re-establish
connection.  This also can be overdone.  If your boy
were in Australia, you would not expect him to
continually stop his work and write long letters at all
seasons.  Having got in touch, be moderate in your
demands.  Do not be satisfied with any evidence short
of the best, but having got that, you can, it seems to
me, wait for that short period when we shall all be re-
united.  I am in touch at present with thirteen
mothers who are in correspondence with their dead
sons.  In each case, the husband, where he is alive, is
agreed as to the evidence.  In only one case so far as
I know was the parent acquainted with psychic matters
before the war.

Several of these cases have peculiarities of their
own.  In two of them the figures of the dead lads have
appeared beside the mothers in a photograph.  In one
case the first message to the mother came through a
stranger to whom the correct address of the mother was
given.  The communication afterwards became direct.  In
another case the method of sending messages was to give
references to particular pages and lines of books in
distant libraries, the whole conveying a message.  The
procedure was to weed out all fear of telepathy. 
Verily there is no possible way by which a truth can be
proved by which this truth has not been proved.

How are you to act?  There is the difficulty. 
There are true men and there are frauds.  You have to
work warily.  So far as professional mediums go, you
will not find it difficult to get recommendations. 
Even with the best you may draw entirely blank.  The
conditions are very elusive.  And yet some get the
result at once.  We cannot lay down laws, because the
law works from the other side as well as this.  Nearly
every woman is an undeveloped medium.  Let her try her
own powers of automatic writing.  There again, what is
done must be done with every precaution against self-
deception, and in a reverent and prayerful mood.  But
if you are earnest, you will win through somehow, for
someone else is probably trying on the other side.

Some people discountenance communication upon the
ground that it is hindering the advance of the
departed.  There is not a tittle of evidence for this. 
The assertions of the spirits are entirely to the
contrary and they declare that they are helped and
strengthened by the touch with those whom they love.  I
know few more moving passages in their simple boyish
eloquence than those in which Raymond describes the
feelings of the dead boys who want to get messages back
to their people and find that ignorance and
prejudice are a perpetual bar.  "It is hard to think
your sons are dead, but such a lot of people do think
so.  It is revolting to hear the boys tell you how no
one speaks of them ever.  It hurts me through and
through."

Above all read the literature of this subject.  It
has been far too much neglected, not only by the
material world but by believers.  Soak yourself with
this grand truth.  Make yourself familiar with the
overpowering evidence.  Get away from the phenomenal
side and learn the lofty teaching from such beautiful
books as After Death or from Stainton Moses'
Spirit Teachings.  There is a whole library of such
literature, of unequal value but of a high average. 
Broaden and spiritualize your thoughts.  Show the
results in your lives.  Unselfishness, that is the
keynote to progress.  Realise not as a belief or a
faith, but as a fact which is as tangible as the
streets of London, that we are moving on soon to
another life, that all will be very happy there, and
that the only possible way in which that happiness can
be marred or deferred is by folly and selfishness
in these few fleeting years.

It must be repeated that while the new revelation
may seem destructive to those who hold Christian dogmas
with extreme rigidity, it has quite the opposite effect
upon the mind which, like so many modern minds, had
come to look upon the whole Christian scheme as a huge
delusion.  It is shown clearly that the old revelation
has so many resemblances, defaced by time and mangled
by man's mishandling and materialism, but still
denoting the same general scheme, that undoubtedly both
have come from the same source.  The accepted ideas of
life after death, of higher and lower spirits, of
comparative happiness depending upon our own conduct,
of chastening by pain, of guardian spirits, of high
teachers, of an infinite central power, of circles
above circles approaching nearer to His presence--all
of these conceptions appear once more and are confirmed
by many witnesses.  It is only the claims of
infallibility and of monopoly, the bigotry and pedantry
of theologians, and the man-made rituals which take the
life out of the God-given thoughts--it is only
this which has defaced the truth.

I cannot end this little book better than by using
words more eloquent than any which I could write, a
splendid sample of English style as well as of English
thought.  They are from the pen of that considerable
thinker and poet, Mr. Gerald Massey, and were written
many years ago.

"Spiritualism has been for me, in common
with many others, such a lifting of the mental
horizon and letting-in of the heavens--such a
formation of faith into facts, that I can only
compare life without it to sailing on board
ship with hatches battened down and being kept
a prisoner, living by the light of a candle,
and then suddenly, on some splendid starry
night, allowed to go on deck for the first time
to see the stupendous mechanism of the heavens
all aglow with the glory of God."



SUPPLEMENTARY DOCUMENTS


I. THE NEXT PHASE OF LIFE

I have spoken in the text of the striking manner in
which accounts of life in the next phase, though
derived from the most varied and independent sources,
are still in essential agreement--an agreement which
occasionally descends to small details.  A variety is
introduced by that fuller vision which can see and
describe more than one plane, but the accounts of that
happy land to which the ordinary mortal may hope to
aspire, are very consistent.  Since I wrote the
statement I have read three fresh independent
descriptions which again confirm the point.  One is the
account given by "A King's Counsel," in his recent
book, I Heard a Voice (Kegan Paul), which I
recommended to inquirers, though it has a strong Roman
Catholic bias running through it which shows that our
main lines of thought are persistent.  A second is the
little book The  Light on the Future,
giving the very interesting details of the beyond,
gathered by an earnest and reverent circle in Dublin. 
The other came in a private letter from Mr. Hubert
Wales, and is, I think, most instructive.  Mr. Wales is
a cautious and rather sceptical inquirer who had put
away his results with incredulity (he had received them
through his own automatic writing).  On reading my
account of the conditions described in the beyond, he
hunted up his own old script which had commended itself
so little to him when he first produced it.  He says: 
"After reading your article, I was struck, almost
startled, by the circumstance that the statements which
had purported to be made to me regarding conditions
after death coincided--I think almost to the smallest
detail--with those you set out as the result of your
collation of material obtained from a great number of
sources.  I cannot think there was anything in my
antecedent reading to account for this coincidence.  I
had certainly read nothing you had published on the
subject.  I had purposely avoided Raymond and
books like it, in order not to vitiate  my own results,
and the Proceedings of the S.P.R. which I had read
at that time, do not touch, as you know, upon after-
death conditions.  At any rate I obtained, at various
times, statements (as my contemporary notes show) to
the effect that, in this persisting state of existence,
they have bodies which, though imperceptible by our
senses, are as solid to them as ours to us, that these
bodies are based on the general characteristies of our
present bodies but beautified; that they have no age,
no pain, no rich and poor; that they wear clothes and
take nourishment; that they do not sleep (though they
spoke of passing occasionally into a semiconscious
state which they called 'lying asleep'--a condition, it
just occurs to me, which seems to correspond roughly
with the 'Hypnoidal' state); that, after a period which
is usually shorter than the average life-time here,
they pass to some further state of existence; that
people of similar thoughts, tastes and feelings,
gravitate together; that married couples do not
necessarily reunite, but that the love of man and
woman  continues and is freed of elements which
with us often militate against its perfect realization;
that immediately after death people pass into a semi-
conscious rest-state lasting various periods, that they
are unable to experience bodily pain, but are
susceptible at times to some mental anxiety; that a
painful death is 'absolutely unknown,' that religious
beliefs make no difference whatever in the after-state,
and that their life altogether is intensely happy, and
no one having ever realised it could wish to return
here.  I got no reference to 'work' by that word, but
much to the various interests that were said to occupy
them.  That is probably only another way of saying the
same thing.  'Work' with us has come usually to mean
'work to live,' and that, I was emphatically informed,
was not the case with them--that all the requirements
of life were somehow mysteriously 'provided.'  Neither
did I get any reference to a definite 'temporary penal
state,' but I gathered that people begin there at the
point of intellectual and moral development where they
leave off here; and since their state of happiness was
based mainly upon sympathy, those who came over in
a low moral condition, failed at first for various
lengths of time to have the capacity to appreciate and
enjoy it."



AUTOMATIC WRITING

This form of mediumship gives the very highest
results, and yet in its very nature is liable to self-
deception.  Are we using our own hand or is an outside
power directing it?  It is only by the information
received that we can tell, and even then we have to
make broad allowance for the action of our own
subconscious knowledge.  It is worth while perhaps to
quote what appears to me to be a thoroughly critic-
proof case, so that the inquirer may see how strong the
evidence is that these messages are not self-evolved. 
This case is quoted in Mr. Arthur Hill's recent book
Man Is a Spirit (Cassell & Co.) and is contributed
by a gentleman who takes the name of Captain James
Burton.  He is, I understand, the same medium (amateur)
through whose communications the position of the buried
ruins at Glastonbury have recently been located. 
"A week after my father's funeral I was writing a
business letter, when something seemed to intervene
between my hand and the motor centres of my brain, and
the hand wrote at an amazing rate a letter, signed with
my father's signature and purporting to come from him. 
I was upset, and my right side and arm became cold and
numb.  For a year after this letters came frequently,
and always at unexpected times.  I never knew what they
contained until I examined them with a magnifying-
glass: they were microscopic.  And they contained a
vast amount of matter with which it was impossible for
me to be acquainted." . . .  "Unknown to me, my mother,
who was staying some sixty miles away, lost her pet
dog, which my father had given her.  The same night I
had a letter from him condoling with her, and stating
that the dog was now with him.  'All things which love
us and are necessary to our happiness in the world are
with us here.'  A most sacred secret, known to no one
but my father and mother, concerning a matter which
occurred years before I was born, was afterwards
told me in the script, with the comment:  'Tell your
mother this, and she will know that it is I, your
father, who am writing.'  My mother had been unable to
accept the possibility up to now, but when I told her
this she collapsed and fainted.  From that moment the
letters became her greatest comfort, for they were
lovers during the forty years of their married life,
and his death almost broke her heart.

"As for myself, I am as convinced that my father,
in his original personality, still exists, as if he
were still in his study with the door shut.  He is no
more dead than he would be were he living in America.

"I have compared the diction and vocabulary of
these letters with those employed in my own writing--I
am not unknown as a magazine contributor--and I find no
points of similarity between the two."  There is much
further evidence in this case for which I refer the
reader to the book itself.



THE CHERITON DUGOUT

I have mentioned in the text that I had some recent
experience of a case where a "polter-geist" or
mischievous spirit had been manifesting.  These
entities appear to be of an undeveloped order and
nearer to earth conditions than any others with which
we are acquainted.  This comparative materialism upon
their part places them low in the scale of spirit, and
undesirable perhaps as communicants, but it gives them
a special value as calling attention to crude obvious
phenomena, and so arresting the human attention and
forcing upon our notice that there are other forms of
life within the universe.  These borderland forces have
attracted passing attention at several times and places
in the past, such cases as the Wesley persecution at
Epworth, the Drummer of Tedworth, the Bells
of Bealing, etc., startling the country for a time--
each of them being an impingement of unknown forces
upon human life.  Then almost simultaneously came the
Hydesville case in America and the Cideville
disturbances in France, which were so marked that they
could not be overlooked.  From them sprang the whole
modern movement which, reasoning upwards from small
things to great, from raw things to developed ones,
from phenomena to messages, is destined to give
religion the firmest basis upon which it has ever
stood.  Therefore, humble and foolish as these
manifestations may seem, they have been the seed of
large developments, and are worthy of our respectful,
though critical, attention.

Many such manifestations have appeared of recent
years in various quarters of the world, each of which
is treated by the press in a more or less comic vein,
with a conviction apparently that the use of the word
"spook" discredits the incident and brings discussion
to an end.  It is remarkable that each is treated as an
entirely isolated phenomenon, and thus the
ordinary reader gets no idea of the strength of the
cumulative evidence.  In this particular case of the
Cheriton Dugout the facts are as follows:

Mr. Jaques, a Justice of the Peace and a man of
education and intelligence, residing at Embrook House,
Cheriton, near Folkestone, made a dugout just opposite
to his residence as a protection against air raids. 
The house was, it may be remarked, of great antiquity,
part of it being an old religious foundation of the
14th Century.  The dugout was constructed at the base
of a small bluff, and the sinking was through ordinary
soft sandstone.  The work was carried out by a local
jobbing builder called Rolfe, assisted by a lad.  Soon
after the inception of his task he was annoyed by his
candle being continually blown out by jets of sand,
and, by similar jets hitting up against his own face. 
These phenomena he imagined to be due to some gaseous
or electrical cause, but they reached such a point that
his work was seriously hampered, and he complained to
Mr. Jaques, who received the story with absolute
incredulity.  The persecution continued, however,
and increased in intensity, taking the form now of
actual blows from moving material, considerable
objects, such as stones and bits of brick, flying past
him and hitting the walls with a violent impact.  Mr.
Rolfe, still searching for a physical explanation, went
to Mr. Hesketh, the Municipal Electrician of
Folkestone, a man of high education and intelligence,
who went out to the scene of the affair and saw enough
to convince himself that the phenomena were perfectly
genuine and inexplicable by ordinary laws.  A Canadian
soldier who was billeted upon Mr. Rolfe, heard an
account of the happenings from his host, and after
announcing his conviction that the latter had "bats in
his belfry" proceeded to the dugout, where his
experiences were so instant and so violent that he
rushed out of the place in horror.  The housekeeper at
the Hall also was a witness of the movement of bricks
when no human hands touched them.  Mr. Jaques, whose
incredulity had gradually thawed before all this
evidence, went down to the dugout in the absence of
everyone, and was departing from it when five stones
rapped up against the door from the inside.  He
reopened the door and saw them lying there upon the
floor.  Sir William Barrett had meanwhile come down,
but had seen nothing.  His stay was a short one.  I
afterwards made four visits of about two hours each to
the grotto, but got nothing direct, though I saw the
new brickwork all chipped about by the blows which it
had received.  The forces appeared to have not the
slightest interest in psychical research, for they
never played up to an investigator, and yet their
presence and action have been demonstrated to at least
seven different observers, and, as I have said, they
left their traces behind them, even to the extent of
picking the flint stones out of the new cement which
was to form the floor, and arranging them in tidy
little piles.  The obvious explanation that the boy was
an adept at mischief had to be set aside in view of the
fact that the phenomena occurred in his absence.  One
extra man of science wandered on to the scene for a
moment, but as his explanation was that the movements
occurred through the emanation of marsh-gas, it did not
advance matters much.  The disturbances are still
proceeding, and I have had a letter this very morning
(February 21st, 1918) with fuller and later details
from Mr. Hesketh, the Engineer.

What is the REAL explanation of such a matter? 
I can only say that I have advised Mr. Jaques to dig
into the bluff under which he is constructing his
cellar.  I made some investigation myself upon the top
of it and convinced myself that the surface ground at
that spot has at some time been disturbed to the depth
of at least five feet.  Something has, I should judge,
been buried at some date, and it is probable that, as
in the case cited in the text, there is a connection
between this and the disturbances.  It is very probable
that Mr. Rolfe is, unknown to himself, a physical
medium, and that when he was in the confined space of
the cellar he turned it into a cabinet in which his
magnetic powers could accumulate and be available for
use.  It chanced that there was on the spot some agency
which chose to use them, and hence the phenomena.  When
Mr. Jaques went alone to the grotto the power left
behind by Mr. Rolfe, who had been in it all
morning, was not yet exhausted and he was able to
get some manifestations.  So I read it, but it is well
not to be dogmatic on such matters.  If there is
systematic digging I should expect an epilogue to the
story.

Whilst these proofs were in the press a second very
marked case of a Polter-geist came within my knowledge. 
I cannot without breach of confidence reveal the
details and the phenomena are still going on. 
Curiously enough, it was because one of the sufferers
from the invasion read some remarks of mine upon the
Cheriton dugout that this other case came to my
knowledge, for the lady wrote to me at once for advice
and assistance.  The place is remote and I have not yet
been able to visit it, but from the full accounts which
I have now received it seems to present all the
familiar features, with the phenomenon of direct
writing superadded.  Some specimens of this script have
reached me.  Two clergymen have endeavoured to mitigate
the phenomena, which are occasionally very violent, but
so far without result.  It may be some consolation to
any others who may be suffering from this strange
inflition, to know that in the many cases which
have been carefully recorded there is none in which any
physical harm has been inflicted upon man or beast.





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Title: Rodney Stone

Author: Arthur Conan Doyle

Release Date: February, 2004  [EBook #5148]
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[This file was first posted on May 14, 2002]
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Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk, from the
1921 Eveleigh Nash & Grayson edition.




RODNEY STONE




PREFACE



Amongst the books to which I am indebted for my material in my
endeavour to draw various phases of life and character in England at
the beginning of the century, I would particularly mention Ashton's
"Dawn of the Nineteenth Century;" Gronow's "Reminiscences;"
Fitzgerald's "Life and Times of George IV.;" Jesse's "Life of
Brummell;" "Boxiana;" "Pugilistica;" Harper's "Brighton Road;"
Robinson's "Last Earl of Barrymore" and "Old Q.;" Rice's "History of
the Turf;" Tristram's "Coaching Days;" James's "Naval History;"
Clark Russell's "Collingwood" and "Nelson."

I am also much indebted to my friends Mr. J. C. Parkinson and Robert
Barr for information upon the subject of the ring.

A. CONAN DOYLE.
HASLEMERE,
September 1, 1896.



CHAPTER I--FRIAR'S OAK



On this, the first of January of the year 1851, the nineteenth
century has reached its midway term, and many of us who shared its
youth have already warnings which tell us that it has outworn us.
We put our grizzled heads together, we older ones, and we talk of
the great days that we have known; but we find that when it is with
our children that we talk it is a hard matter to make them
understand.  We and our fathers before us lived much the same life,
but they with their railway trains and their steamboats belong to a
different age.  It is true that we can put history-books into their
hands, and they can read from them of our weary struggle of two and
twenty years with that great and evil man.  They can learn how
Freedom fled from the whole broad continent, and how Nelson's blood
was shed, and Pitt's noble heart was broken in striving that she
should not pass us for ever to take refuge with our brothers across
the Atlantic.  All this they can read, with the date of this treaty
or that battle, but I do not know where they are to read of
ourselves, of the folk we were, and the lives we led, and how the
world seemed to our eyes when they were young as theirs are now.

If I take up my pen to tell you about this, you must not look for
any story at my hands, for I was only in my earliest manhood when
these things befell; and although I saw something of the stories of
other lives, I could scarce claim one of my own.  It is the love of
a woman that makes the story of a man, and many a year was to pass
before I first looked into the eyes of the mother of my children.
To us it seems but an affair of yesterday, and yet those children
can now reach the plums in the garden whilst we are seeking for a
ladder, and where we once walked with their little hands in ours, we
are glad now to lean upon their arms.  But I shall speak of a time
when the love of a mother was the only love I knew, and if you seek
for something more, then it is not for you that I write.  But if you
would come out with me into that forgotten world; if you would know
Boy Jim and Champion Harrison; if you would meet my father, one of
Nelson's own men; if you would catch a glimpse of that great seaman
himself, and of George, afterwards the unworthy King of England; if,
above all, you would see my famous uncle, Sir Charles Tregellis, the
King of the Bucks, and the great fighting men whose names are still
household words amongst you, then give me your hand and let us
start.

But I must warn you also that, if you think you will find much that
is of interest in your guide, you are destined to disappointment.
When I look over my bookshelves, I can see that it is only the wise
and witty and valiant who have ventured to write down their
experiences.  For my own part, if I were only assured that I was as
clever and brave as the average man about me, I should be well
satisfied.  Men of their hands have thought well of my brains, and
men of brains of my hands, and that is the best that I can say of
myself.  Save in the one matter of having an inborn readiness for
music, so that the mastery of any instrument comes very easily and
naturally to me, I cannot recall any single advantage which I can
boast over my fellows.  In all things I have been a half-way man,
for I am of middle height, my eyes are neither blue nor grey, and my
hair, before Nature dusted it with her powder, was betwixt flaxen
and brown.  I may, perhaps, claim this:  that through life I have
never felt a touch of jealousy as I have admired a better man than
myself, and that I have always seen all things as they are, myself
included, which should count in my favour now that I sit down in my
mature age to write my memories.  With your permission, then, we
will push my own personality as far as possible out of the picture.
If you can conceive me as a thin and colourless cord upon which my
would-be pearls are strung, you will be accepting me upon the terms
which I should wish.

Our family, the Stones, have for many generations belonged to the
navy, and it has been a custom among us for the eldest son to take
the name of his father's favourite commander.  Thus we can trace our
lineage back to old Vernon Stone, who commanded a high-sterned,
peak-nosed, fifty-gun ship against the Dutch.  Through Hawke Stone
and Benbow Stone we came down to my father, Anson Stone, who in his
turn christened me Rodney, at the parish church of St. Thomas at
Portsmouth in the year of grace 1786.

Out of my window as I write I can see my own great lad in the
garden, and if I were to call out "Nelson!" you would see that I
have been true to the traditions of our family.

My dear mother, the best that ever a man had, was the second
daughter of the Reverend John Tregellis, Vicar of Milton, which is a
small parish upon the borders of the marshes of Langstone.  She came
of a poor family, but one of some position, for her elder brother
was the famous Sir Charles Tregellis, who, having inherited the
money of a wealthy East Indian merchant, became in time the talk of
the town and the very particular friend of the Prince of Wales.  Of
him I shall have more to say hereafter; but you will note now that
he was my own uncle, and brother to my mother.

I can remember her all through her beautiful life for she was but a
girl when she married, and little more when I can first recall her
busy fingers and her gentle voice.  I see her as a lovely woman with
kind, dove's eyes, somewhat short of stature it is true, but
carrying herself very bravely.  In my memories of those days she is
clad always in some purple shimmering stuff, with a white kerchief
round her long white neck, and I see her fingers turning and darting
as she works at her knitting.  I see her again in her middle years,
sweet and loving, planning, contriving, achieving, with the few
shillings a day of a lieutenant's pay on which to support the
cottage at Friar's Oak, and to keep a fair face to the world.  And
now, if I do but step into the parlour, I can see her once more,
with over eighty years of saintly life behind her, silver-haired,
placid-faced, with her dainty ribboned cap, her gold-rimmed glasses,
and her woolly shawl with the blue border.  I loved her young and I
love her old, and when she goes she will take something with her
which nothing in the world can ever make good to me again.  You may
have many friends, you who read this, and you may chance to marry
more than once, but your mother is your first and your last.
Cherish her, then, whilst you may, for the day will come when every
hasty deed or heedless word will come back with its sting to hive in
your own heart.

Such, then, was my mother; and as to my father, I can describe him
best when I come to the time when he returned to us from the
Mediterranean.  During all my childhood he was only a name to me,
and a face in a miniature hung round my mother's neck.  At first
they told me he was fighting the French, and then after some years
one heard less about the French and more about General Buonaparte.
I remember the awe with which one day in Thomas Street, Portsmouth,
I saw a print of the great Corsican in a bookseller's window.  This,
then, was the arch enemy with whom my father spent his life in
terrible and ceaseless contest.  To my childish imagination it was a
personal affair, and I for ever saw my father and this clean-shaven,
thin-lipped man swaying and reeling in a deadly, year-long grapple.
It was not until I went to the Grammar School that I understood how
many other little boys there were whose fathers were in the same
case.

Only once in those long years did my father return home, which will
show you what it meant to be the wife of a sailor in those days.  It
was just after we had moved from Portsmouth to Friar's Oak, whither
he came for a week before he set sail with Admiral Jervis to help
him to turn his name into Lord St. Vincent.  I remember that he
frightened as well as fascinated me with his talk of battles, and I
can recall as if it were yesterday the horror with which I gazed
upon a spot of blood upon his shirt ruffle, which had come, as I
have no doubt, from a mischance in shaving.  At the time I never
questioned that it had spurted from some stricken Frenchman or
Spaniard, and I shrank from him in terror when he laid his horny
hand upon my head.  My mother wept bitterly when he was gone, but
for my own part I was not sorry to see his blue back and white
shorts going down the garden walk, for I felt, with the heedless
selfishness of a child, that we were closer together, she and I,
when we were alone.

I was in my eleventh year when we moved from Portsmouth to Friar's
Oak, a little Sussex village to the north of Brighton, which was
recommended to us by my uncle, Sir Charles Tregellis, one of whose
grand friends, Lord Avon, had had his seat near there.  The reason
of our moving was that living was cheaper in the country, and that
it was easier for my mother to keep up the appearance of a
gentlewoman when away from the circle of those to whom she could not
refuse hospitality.  They were trying times those to all save the
farmers, who made such profits that they could, as I have heard,
afford to let half their land lie fallow, while living like
gentlemen upon the rest.  Wheat was at a hundred and ten shillings a
quarter, and the quartern loaf at one and ninepence.  Even in the
quiet of the cottage of Friar's Oak we could scarce have lived, were
it not that in the blockading squadron in which my father was
stationed there was the occasional chance of a little prize-money.
The line-of-battle ships themselves, tacking on and off outside
Brest, could earn nothing save honour; but the frigates in
attendance made prizes of many coasters, and these, as is the rule
of the service, were counted as belonging to the fleet, and their
produce divided into head-money.  In this manner my father was able
to send home enough to keep the cottage and to pay for me at the day
school of Mr. Joshua Allen, where for four years I learned all that
he had to teach.  It was at Allen's school that I first knew Jim
Harrison, Boy Jim as he has always been called, the nephew of
Champion Harrison of the village smithy.  I can see him as he was in
those days with great, floundering, half-formed limbs like a
Newfoundland puppy, and a face that set every woman's head round as
he passed her.  It was in those days that we began our lifelong
friendship, a friendship which still in our waning years binds us
closely as two brothers.  I taught him his exercises, for he never
loved the sight of a book, and he in turn made me box and wrestle,
tickle trout on the Adur, and snare rabbits on Ditching Down, for
his hands were as active as his brain was slow.  He was two years my
elder, however, so that, long before I had finished my schooling, he
had gone to help his uncle at the smithy.

Friar's Oak is in a dip of the Downs, and the forty-third milestone
between London and Brighton lies on the skirt of the village.  It is
but a small place, with an ivied church, a fine vicarage, and a row
of red-brick cottages each in its own little garden.  At one end was
the forge of Champion Harrison, with his house behind it, and at the
other was Mr. Allen's school.  The yellow cottage, standing back a
little from the road, with its upper story bulging forward and a
crisscross of black woodwork let into the plaster, is the one in
which we lived.  I do not know if it is still standing, but I should
think it likely, for it was not a place much given to change.

Just opposite to us, at the other side of the broad, white road, was
the Friar's Oak Inn, which was kept in my day by John Cummings, a
man of excellent repute at home, but liable to strange outbreaks
when he travelled, as will afterwards become apparent.  Though there
was a stream of traffic upon the road, the coaches from Brighton
were too fresh to stop, and those from London too eager to reach
their journey's end, so that if it had not been for an occasional
broken trace or loosened wheel, the landlord would have had only the
thirsty throats of the village to trust to.  Those were the days
when the Prince of Wales had just built his singular palace by the
sea, and so from May to September, which was the Brighton season,
there was never a day that from one to two hundred curricles,
chaises, and phaetons did not rattle past our doors.  Many a summer
evening have Boy Jim and I lain upon the grass, watching all these
grand folk, and cheering the London coaches as they came roaring
through the dust clouds, leaders and wheelers stretched to their
work, the bugles screaming and the coachmen with their low-crowned,
curly-brimmed hats, and their faces as scarlet as their coats.  The
passengers used to laugh when Boy Jim shouted at them, but if they
could have read his big, half-set limbs and his loose shoulders
aright, they would have looked a little harder at him, perhaps, and
given him back his cheer.

Boy Jim had never known a father or a mother, and his whole life had
been spent with his uncle, Champion Harrison.  Harrison was the
Friar's Oak blacksmith, and he had his nickname because he fought
Tom Johnson when he held the English belt, and would most certainly
have beaten him had the Bedfordshire magistrates not appeared to
break up the fight.  For years there was no such glutton to take
punishment and no more finishing hitter than Harrison, though he was
always, as I understand, a slow one upon his feet.  At last, in a
fight with Black Baruk the Jew, he finished the battle with such a
lashing hit that he not only knocked his opponent over the inner
ropes, but he left him betwixt life and death for long three weeks.
During all this time Harrison lived half demented, expecting every
hour to feel the hand of a Bow Street runner upon his collar, and to
be tried for his life.  This experience, with the prayers of his
wife, made him forswear the ring for ever, and carry his great
muscles into the one trade in which they seemed to give him an
advantage.  There was a good business to be done at Friar's Oak from
the passing traffic and the Sussex farmers, so that he soon became
the richest of the villagers; and he came to church on a Sunday with
his wife and his nephew, looking as respectable a family man as one
would wish to see.

He was not a tall man, not more than five feet seven inches, and it
was often said that if he had had an extra inch of reach he would
have been a match for Jackson or Belcher at their best.  His chest
was like a barrel, and his forearms were the most powerful that I
have ever seen, with deep groves between the smooth-swelling muscles
like a piece of water-worn rock.  In spite of his strength, however,
he was of a slow, orderly, and kindly disposition, so that there was
no man more beloved over the whole country side.  His heavy, placid,
clean-shaven face could set very sternly, as I have seen upon
occasion; but for me and every child in the village there was ever a
smile upon his lips and a greeting in his eyes.  There was not a
beggar upon the country side who did not know that his heart was as
soft as his muscles were hard.

There was nothing that he liked to talk of more than his old
battles, but he would stop if he saw his little wife coming, for the
one great shadow in her life was the ever-present fear that some day
he would throw down sledge and rasp and be off to the ring once
more.  And you must be reminded here once for all that that former
calling of his was by no means at that time in the debased condition
to which it afterwards fell.  Public opinion has gradually become
opposed to it, for the reason that it came largely into the hands of
rogues, and because it fostered ringside ruffianism.  Even the
honest and brave pugilist was found to draw villainy round him, just
as the pure and noble racehorse does.  For this reason the Ring is
dying in England, and we may hope that when Caunt and Bendigo have
passed away, they may have none to succeed them.  But it was
different in the days of which I speak.  Public opinion was then
largely in its favour, and there were good reasons why it should be
so.  It was a time of war, when England with an army and navy
composed only of those who volunteered to fight because they had
fighting blood in them, had to encounter, as they would now have to
encounter, a power which could by despotic law turn every citizen
into a soldier.  If the people had not been full of this lust for
combat, it is certain that England must have been overborne.  And it
was thought, and is, on the face of it, reasonable, that a struggle
between two indomitable men, with thirty thousand to view it and
three million to discuss it, did help to set a standard of hardihood
and endurance.  Brutal it was, no doubt, and its brutality is the
end of it; but it is not so brutal as war, which will survive it.
Whether it is logical now to teach the people to be peaceful in an
age when their very existence may come to depend upon their being
warlike, is a question for wiser heads than mine.  But that was what
we thought of it in the days of your grandfathers, and that is why
you might find statesmen and philanthropists like Windham, Fox, and
Althorp at the side of the Ring.

The mere fact that solid men should patronize it was enough in
itself to prevent the villainy which afterwards crept in.  For over
twenty years, in the days of Jackson, Brain, Cribb, the Belchers,
Pearce, Gully, and the rest, the leaders of the Ring were men whose
honesty was above suspicion; and those were just the twenty years
when the Ring may, as I have said, have served a national purpose.
You have heard how Pearce saved the Bristol girl from the burning
house, how Jackson won the respect and friendship of the best men of
his age, and how Gully rose to a seat in the first Reformed
Parliament.  These were the men who set the standard, and their
trade carried with it this obvious recommendation, that it is one in
which no drunken or foul-living man could long succeed.  There were
exceptions among them, no doubt--bullies like Hickman and brutes
like Berks; in the main, I say again that they were honest men,
brave and enduring to an incredible degree, and a credit to the
country which produced them.  It was, as you will see, my fate to
see something of them, and I speak of what I know.

In our own village, I can assure you that we were very proud of the
presence of such a man as Champion Harrison, and if folks stayed at
the inn, they would walk down as far as the smithy just to have the
sight of him.  And he was worth seeing, too, especially on a
winter's night when the red glare of the forge would beat upon his
great muscles and upon the proud, hawk-face of Boy Jim as they
heaved and swayed over some glowing plough coulter, framing
themselves in sparks with every blow.  He would strike once with his
thirty-pound swing sledge, and Jim twice with his hand hammer; and
the "Clunk--clink, clink! clunk--clink, clink!" would bring me
flying down the village street, on the chance that, since they were
both at the anvil, there might be a place for me at the bellows.

Only once during those village years can I remember Champion
Harrison showing me for an instant the sort of man that he had been.
It chanced one summer morning, when Boy Jim and I were standing by
the smithy door, that there came a private coach from Brighton, with
its four fresh horses, and its brass-work shining, flying along with
such a merry rattle and jingling, that the Champion came running out
with a hall-fullered shoe in his tongs to have a look at it.  A
gentleman in a white coachman's cape--a Corinthian, as we would call
him in those days--was driving, and half a dozen of his fellows,
laughing and shouting, were on the top behind him.  It may have been
that the bulk of the smith caught his eye, and that he acted in pure
wantonness, or it may possibly have been an accident, but, as he
swung past, the twenty-foot thong of the driver's whip hissed round,
and we heard the sharp snap of it across Harrison's leather apron.

"Halloa, master!" shouted the smith, looking after him.  "You're not
to be trusted on the box until you can handle your whip better'n
that."

"What's that?" cried the driver, pulling up his team.

"I bid you have a care, master, or there will be some one-eyed folk
along the road you drive."

"Oh, you say that, do you?" said the driver, putting his whip into
its socket and pulling off his driving-gloves.  "I'll have a little
talk with you, my fine fellow."

The sporting gentlemen of those days were very fine boxers for the
most part, for it was the mode to take a course of Mendoza, just as
a few years afterwards there was no man about town who had not had
the mufflers on with Jackson.  Knowing their own prowess, they never
refused the chance of a wayside adventure, and it was seldom indeed
that the bargee or the navigator had much to boast of after a young
blood had taken off his coat to him.

This one swung himself off the box-seat with the alacrity of a man
who has no doubts about the upshot of the quarrel, and after hanging
his caped coat upon the swingle-bar, he daintily turned up the
ruffled cuffs of his white cambric shirt.

"I'll pay you for your advice, my man," said he.

I am sure that the men upon the coach knew who the burly smith was,
and looked upon it as a prime joke to see their companion walk into
such a trap.  They roared with delight, and bellowed out scraps of
advice to him.

"Knock some of the soot off him, Lord Frederick!" they shouted.
"Give the Johnny Raw his breakfast.  Chuck him in among his own
cinders!  Sharp's the word, or you'll see the back of him."

Encouraged by these cries, the young aristocrat advanced upon his
man.  The smith never moved, but his mouth set grim and hard, while
his tufted brows came down over his keen, grey eyes.  The tongs had
fallen, and his hands were hanging free.

"Have a care, master," said he.  "You'll get pepper if you don't."

Something in the assured voice, and something also in the quiet
pose, warned the young lord of his danger.  I saw him look hard at
his antagonist, and as he did so, his hands and his jaw dropped
together.

"By Gad!" he cried, "it's Jack Harrison!"

"My name, master!"

"And I thought you were some Essex chaw-bacon!  Why, man, I haven't
seen you since the day you nearly killed Black Baruk, and cost me a
cool hundred by doing it."

How they roared on the coach.

"Smoked!  Smoked, by Gad!" they yelled.  "It's Jack Harrison the
bruiser!  Lord Frederick was going to take on the ex-champion.  Give
him one on the apron, Fred, and see what happens."

But the driver had already climbed back into his perch, laughing as
loudly as any of his companions.

"We'll let you off this time, Harrison," said he.  "Are those your
sons down there?"

"This is my nephew, master."

"Here's a guinea for him!  He shall never say I robbed him of his
uncle."  And so, having turned the laugh in his favour by his merry
way of taking it, he cracked his whip, and away they flew to make
London under the five hours; while Jack Harrison, with his half-
fullered shoe in his hand, went whistling back to the forge.



CHAPTER II--THE WALKER OF CLIFFE ROYAL



So much for Champion Harrison!  Now, I wish to say something more
about Boy Jim, not only because he was the comrade of my youth, but
because you will find as you go on that this book is his story
rather than mine, and that there came a time when his name and his
fame were in the mouths of all England.  You will bear with me,
therefore, while I tell you of his character as it was in those
days, and especially of one very singular adventure which neither of
us are likely to forget.

It was strange to see Jim with his uncle and his aunt, for he seemed
to be of another race and breed to them.  Often I have watched them
come up the aisle upon a Sunday, first the square, thick-set man,
and then the little, worn, anxious-eyed woman, and last this
glorious lad with his clear-cut face, his black curls, and his step
so springy and light that it seemed as if he were bound to earth by
some lesser tie than the heavy-footed villagers round him.  He had
not yet attained his full six foot of stature, but no judge of a man
(and every woman, at least, is one) could look at his perfect
shoulders, his narrow loins, and his proud head that sat upon his
neck like an eagle upon its perch, without feeling that sober joy
which all that is beautiful in Nature gives to us--a vague self-
content, as though in some way we also had a hand in the making of
it.

But we are used to associate beauty with softness in a man.  I do
not know why they should be so coupled, and they never were with
Jim.  Of all men that I have known, he was the most iron-hard in
body and in mind.  Who was there among us who could walk with him,
or run with him, or swim with him?  Who on all the country side,
save only Boy Jim, would have swung himself over Wolstonbury Cliff,
and clambered down a hundred feet with the mother hawk flapping at
his ears in the vain struggle to hold him from her nest?  He was but
sixteen, with his gristle not yet all set into bone, when he fought
and beat Gipsy Lee, of Burgess Hill, who called himself the "Cock of
the South Downs."  It was after this that Champion Harrison took his
training as a boxer in hand.

"I'd rather you left millin' alone, Boy Jim," said he, "and so had
the missus; but if mill you must, it will not be my fault if you
cannot hold up your hands to anything in the south country."

And it was not long before he made good his promise.

I have said already that Boy Jim had no love for his books, but by
that I meant school-books, for when it came to the reading of
romances or of anything which had a touch of gallantry or adventure,
there was no tearing him away from it until it was finished.  When
such a book came into his hands, Friar's Oak and the smithy became a
dream to him, and his life was spent out upon the ocean or wandering
over the broad continents with his heroes.  And he would draw me
into his enthusiasms also, so that I was glad to play Friday to his
Crusoe when he proclaimed that the Clump at Clayton was a desert
island, and that we were cast upon it for a week.  But when I found
that we were actually to sleep out there without covering every
night, and that he proposed that our food should be the sheep of the
Downs (wild goats he called them) cooked upon a fire, which was to
be made by the rubbing together of two sticks, my heart failed me,
and on the very first night I crept away to my mother.  But Jim
stayed out there for the whole weary week--a wet week it was, too!--
and came back at the end of it looking a deal wilder and dirtier
than his hero does in the picture-books.  It is well that he had
only promised to stay a week, for, if it had been a month, he would
have died of cold and hunger before his pride would have let him
come home.

His pride!--that was the deepest thing in all Jim's nature.  It is a
mixed quality to my mind, half a virtue and half a vice:  a virtue
in holding a man out of the dirt; a vice in making it hard for him
to rise when once he has fallen.  Jim was proud down to the very
marrow of his bones.  You remember the guinea that the young lord
had thrown him from the box of the coach?  Two days later somebody
picked it from the roadside mud.  Jim only had seen where it had
fallen, and he would not deign even to point it out to a beggar.
Nor would he stoop to give a reason in such a case, but would answer
all remonstrances with a curl of his lip and a flash of his dark
eyes.  Even at school he was the same, with such a sense of his own
dignity, that other folk had to think of it too.  He might say, as
he did say, that a right angle was a proper sort of angle, or put
Panama in Sicily, but old Joshua Allen would as soon have thought of
raising his cane against him as he would of letting me off if I had
said as much.  And so it was that, although Jim was the son of
nobody, and I of a King's officer, it always seemed to me to have
been a condescension on his part that he should have chosen me as
his friend.

It was this pride of Boy Jim's which led to an adventure which makes
me shiver now when I think of it.

It happened in the August of '99, or it may have been in the early
days of September; but I remember that we heard the cuckoo in
Patcham Wood, and that Jim said that perhaps it was the last of him.
I was still at school, but Jim had left, he being nigh sixteen and I
thirteen.  It was my Saturday half-holiday, and we spent it, as we
often did, out upon the Downs.  Our favourite place was beyond
Wolstonbury, where we could stretch ourselves upon the soft,
springy, chalk grass among the plump little Southdown sheep,
chatting with the shepherds, as they leaned upon their queer old
Pyecombe crooks, made in the days when Sussex turned out more iron
than all the counties of England.

It was there that we lay upon that glorious afternoon.  If we chose
to roll upon our right sides, the whole weald lay in front of us,
with the North Downs curving away in olive-green folds, with here
and there the snow-white rift of a chalk-pit; if we turned upon our
left, we overlooked the huge blue stretch of the Channel.  A convoy,
as I can well remember, was coming up it that day, the timid flock
of merchantmen in front; the frigates, like well-trained dogs, upon
the skirts; and two burly drover line-of-battle ships rolling along
behind them.  My fancy was soaring out to my father upon the waters,
when a word from Jim brought it back on to the grass like a broken-
winged gull.

"Roddy," said he, "have you heard that Cliffe Royal is haunted?"

Had I heard it?  Of course I had heard it.  Who was there in all the
Down country who had not heard of the Walker of Cliffe Royal?

"Do you know the story of it, Roddy?"

"Why," said I, with some pride, "I ought to know it, seeing that my
mother's brother, Sir Charles Tregellis, was the nearest friend of
Lord Avon, and was at this card-party when the thing happened.  I
heard the vicar and my mother talking about it last week, and it was
all so clear to me that I might have been there when the murder was
done."

"It is a strange story," said Jim, thoughtfully; "but when I asked
my aunt about it, she would give me no answer; and as to my uncle,
he cut me short at the very mention of it."

"There is a good reason for that," said I, "for Lord Avon was, as I
have heard, your uncle's best friend; and it is but natural that he
would not wish to speak of his disgrace."

"Tell me the story, Roddy."

"It is an old one now--fourteen years old--and yet they have not got
to the end of it.  There were four of them who had come down from
London to spend a few days in Lord Avon's old house.  One was his
own young brother, Captain Barrington; another was his cousin, Sir
Lothian Hume; Sir Charles Tregellis, my uncle, was the third; and
Lord Avon the fourth.  They are fond of playing cards for money,
these great people, and they played and played for two days and a
night.  Lord Avon lost, and Sir Lothian lost, and my uncle lost, and
Captain Barrington won until he could win no more.  He won their
money, but above all he won papers from his elder brother which
meant a great deal to him.  It was late on a Monday night that they
stopped playing.  On the Tuesday morning Captain Barrington was
found dead beside his bed with his throat cut.

"And Lord Avon did it?"

"His papers were found burned in the grate, his wristband was
clutched in the dead man's hand, and his knife lay beside the body."

"Did they hang him, then?"

"They were too slow in laying hands upon him.  He waited until he
saw that they had brought it home to him, and then he fled.  He has
never been seen since, but it is said that he reached America."

"And the ghost walks?"

"There are many who have seen it."

"Why is the house still empty?"

"Because it is in the keeping of the law.  Lord Avon had no
children, and Sir Lothian Hume--the same who was at the card-party--
is his nephew and heir.  But he can touch nothing until he can prove
Lord Avon to be dead."

Jim lay silent for a bit, plucking at the short grass with his
fingers.

"Roddy," said he at last, "will you come with me to-night and look
for the ghost?"

It turned me cold, the very thought of it.

"My mother would not let me."

"Slip out when she's abed.  I'll wait for you at the smithy."

"Cliffe Royal is locked."

"I'll open a window easy enough."

"I'm afraid, Jim."

"But you are not afraid if you are with me, Roddy.  I'll promise you
that no ghost shall hurt you."

So I gave him my word that I would come, and then all the rest of
the day I went about the most sad-faced lad in Sussex.  It was all
very well for Boy Jim!  It was that pride of his which was taking
him there.  He would go because there was no one else on the country
side that would dare.  But I had no pride of that sort.  I was quite
of the same way of thinking as the others, and would as soon have
thought of passing my night at Jacob's gibbet on Ditchling Common as
in the haunted house of Cliffe Royal.  Still, I could not bring
myself to desert Jim; and so, as I say, I slunk about the house with
so pale and peaky a face that my dear mother would have it that I
had been at the green apples, and sent me to bed early with a dish
of camomile tea for my supper.

England went to rest betimes in those days, for there were few who
could afford the price of candles.  When I looked out of my window
just after the clock had gone ten, there was not a light in the
village save only at the inn.  It was but a few feet from the
ground, so I slipped out, and there was Jim waiting for me at the
smithy corner.  We crossed John's Common together, and so past
Ridden's Farm, meeting only one or two riding officers upon the way.
There was a brisk wind blowing, and the moon kept peeping through
the rifts of the scud, so that our road was sometimes silver-clear,
and sometimes so black that we found ourselves among the brambles
and gorse-bushes which lined it.  We came at last to the wooden gate
with the high stone pillars by the roadside, and, looking through
between the rails, we saw the long avenue of oaks, and at the end of
this ill-boding tunnel, the pale face of the house glimmered in the
moonshine.

That would have been enough for me, that one glimpse of it, and the
sound of the night wind sighing and groaning among the branches.
But Jim swung the gate open, and up we went, the gravel squeaking
beneath our tread.  It towered high, the old house, with many little
windows in which the moon glinted, and with a strip of water running
round three sides of it.  The arched door stood right in the face of
us, and on one side a lattice hung open upon its hinges.

"We're in luck, Roddy," whispered Jim.  "Here's one of the windows
open."

"Don't you think we've gone far enough, Jim?" said I, with my teeth
chattering.

"I'll lift you in first."

"No, no, I'll not go first."

"Then I will."  He gripped the sill, and had his knee on it in an
instant.  "Now, Roddy, give me your hands."  With a pull he had me
up beside him, and a moment later we were both in the haunted house.

How hollow it sounded when we jumped down on to the wooden floor!
There was such a sudden boom and reverberation that we both stood
silent for a moment.  Then Jim burst out laughing.

"What an old drum of a place it is!" he cried; "we'll strike a
light, Roddy, and see where we are."

He had brought a candle and a tinder-box in his pocket.  When the
flame burned up, we saw an arched stone roof above our heads, and
broad deal shelves all round us covered with dusty dishes.  It was
the pantry.

"I'll show you round," said Jim, merrily; and, pushing the door
open, he led the way into the hall.  I remember the high, oak-
panelled walls, with the heads of deer jutting out, and a single
white bust, which sent my heart into my mouth, in the corner.  Many
rooms opened out of this, and we wandered from one to the other--the
kitchens, the still-room, the morning-room, the dining-room, all
filled with the same choking smell of dust and of mildew.

"This is where they played the cards, Jim," said I, in a hushed
voice.  "It was on that very table."

"Why, here are the cards themselves!" cried he; and he pulled a
brown towel from something in the centre of the sideboard.  Sure
enough it was a pile of playing-cards--forty packs, I should think,
at the least--which had lain there ever since that tragic game which
was played before I was born.

"I wonder whence that stair leads?" said Jim.

"Don't go up there, Jim!" I cried, clutching at his arm.  "That must
lead to the room of the murder."

"How do you know that?"

"The vicar said that they saw on the ceiling--Oh, Jim, you can see
it even now!"

He held up his candle, and there was a great, dark smudge upon the
white plaster above us.

"I believe you're right," said he; "but anyhow I'm going to have a
look at it."

"Don't, Jim, don't!" I cried.

"Tut, Roddy! you can stay here if you are afraid.  I won't be more
than a minute.  There's no use going on a ghost hunt unless--Great
Lord, there's something coming down the stairs!"

I heard it too--a shuffling footstep in the room above, and then a
creak from the steps, and then another creak, and another.  I saw
Jim's face as if it had been carved out of ivory, with his parted
lips and his staring eyes fixed upon the black square of the stair
opening.  He still held the light, but his fingers twitched, and
with every twitch the shadows sprang from the walls to the ceiling.
As to myself, my knees gave way under me, and I found myself on the
floor crouching down behind Jim, with a scream frozen in my throat.
And still the step came slowly from stair to stair.

Then, hardly daring to look and yet unable to turn away my eyes, I
saw a figure dimly outlined in the corner upon which the stair
opened.  There was a silence in which I could hear my poor heart
thumping, and then when I looked again the figure was gone, and the
low creak, creak was heard once more upon the stairs.  Jim sprang
after it, and I was left half-fainting in the moonlight.

But it was not for long.  He was down again in a minute, and,
passing his hand under my arm, he half led and half carried me out
of the house.  It was not until we were in the fresh night air again
that he opened his mouth.

"Can you stand, Roddy?"

"Yes, but I'm shaking."

"So am I," said he, passing his hand over his forehead.  "I ask your
pardon, Roddy.  I was a fool to bring you on such an errand.  But I
never believed in such things.  I know better now."

"Could it have been a man, Jim?" I asked, plucking up my courage now
that I could hear the dogs barking on the farms.

"It was a spirit, Rodney."

"How do you know?"

"Because I followed it and saw it vanish into a wall, as easily as
an eel into sand.  Why, Roddy, what's amiss now?"

My fears were all back upon me, and every nerve creeping with
horror.

"Take me away, Jim!  Take me away!" I cried.

I was glaring down the avenue, and his eyes followed mine.  Amid the
gloom of the oak trees something was coming towards us.

"Quiet, Roddy!" whispered Jim.  "By heavens, come what may, my arms
are going round it this time."

We crouched as motionless as the trunks behind us.  Heavy steps
ploughed their way through the soft gravel, and a broad figure
loomed upon us in the darkness.

Jim sprang upon it like a tiger.

"YOU'RE not a spirit, anyway!" he cried.

The man gave a shout of surprise, and then a growl of rage.

"What the deuce!" he roared, and then, "I'll break your neck if you
don't let go."

The threat might not have loosened Jim's grip, but the voice did.

"Why, uncle!" he cried.

"Well, I'm blessed if it isn't Boy Jim!  And what's this?  Why, it's
young Master Rodney Stone, as I'm a living sinner!  What in the
world are you two doing up at Cliffe Royal at this time of night?"

We had all moved out into the moonlight, and there was Champion
Harrison with a big bundle on his arm,--and such a look of amazement
upon his face as would have brought a smile back on to mine had my
heart not still been cramped with fear.

"We're exploring," said Jim.

"Exploring, are you?  Well, I don't think you were meant to be
Captain Cooks, either of you, for I never saw such a pair of peeled-
turnip faces.  Why, Jim, what are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid, uncle.  I never was afraid; but spirits are new to
me, and--"

"Spirits?"

"I've been in Cliffe Royal, and we've seen the ghost."

The Champion gave a whistle.

"That's the game, is it?" said he.  "Did you have speech with it?"

"It vanished first."

The Champion whistled once more.

"I've heard there is something of the sort up yonder," said he; "but
it's not a thing as I would advise you to meddle with.  There's
enough trouble with the folk of this world, Boy Jim, without going
out of your way to mix up with those of another.  As to young Master
Rodney Stone, if his good mother saw that white face of his, she'd
never let him come to the smithy more.  Walk slowly on, and I'll see
you back to Friar's Oak."

We had gone half a mile, perhaps, when the Champion overtook us, and
I could not but observe that the bundle was no longer under his arm.
We were nearly at the smithy before Jim asked the question which was
already in my mind.

"What took YOU up to Cliffe Royal, uncle?"

"Well, as a man gets on in years," said the Champion, "there's many
a duty turns up that the likes of you have no idea of.  When you're
near forty yourself, you'll maybe know the truth of what I say."

So that was all we could draw from him; but, young as I was, I had
heard of coast smuggling and of packages carried to lonely places at
night, so that from that time on, if I had heard that the
preventives had made a capture, I was never easy until I saw the
jolly face of Champion Harrison looking out of his smithy door.



CHAPTER III--THE PLAY-ACTRESS OF ANSTEY CROSS



I have told you something about Friar's Oak, and about the life that
we led there.  Now that my memory goes back to the old place it
would gladly linger, for every thread which I draw from the skein of
the past brings out half a dozen others that were entangled with it.
I was in two minds when I began whether I had enough in me to make a
book of, and now I know that I could write one about Friar's Oak
alone, and the folk whom I knew in my childhood.  They were hard and
uncouth, some of them, I doubt not; and yet, seen through the golden
haze of time, they all seem sweet and lovable.  There was our good
vicar, Mr. Jefferson, who loved the whole world save only Mr. Slack,
the Baptist minister of Clayton; and there was kindly Mr. Slack, who
was all men's brother save only of Mr. Jefferson, the vicar of
Friar's Oak.  Then there was Monsieur Rudin, the French Royalist
refugee who lived over on the Pangdean road, and who, when the news
of a victory came in, was convulsed with joy because we had beaten
Buonaparte, and shaken with rage because we had beaten the French,
so that after the Nile he wept for a whole day out of delight and
then for another one out of fury, alternately clapping his hands and
stamping his feet.  Well I remember his thin, upright figure and the
way in which he jauntily twirled his little cane; for cold and
hunger could not cast him down, though we knew that he had his share
of both.  Yet he was so proud and had such a grand manner of
talking, that no one dared to offer him a cloak or a meal.  I can
see his face now, with a flush over each craggy cheek-bone when the
butcher made him the present of some ribs of beef.  He could not but
take it, and yet whilst he was stalking off he threw a proud glance
over his shoulder at the butcher, and he said, "Monsieur, I have a
dog!"  Yet it was Monsieur Rudin and not his dog who looked plumper
for a week to come.

Then I remember Mr. Paterson, the farmer, who was what you would now
call a Radical, though at that time some called him a Priestley-ite,
and some a Fox-ite, and nearly everybody a traitor.  It certainly
seemed to me at the time to be very wicked that a man should look
glum when he heard of a British victory; and when they burned his
straw image at the gate of his farm, Boy Jim and I were among those
who lent a hand.  But we were bound to confess that he was game,
though he might be a traitor, for down he came, striding into the
midst of us with his brown coat and his buckled shoes, and the fire
beating upon his grim, schoolmaster face.  My word, how he rated us,
and how glad we were at last to sneak quietly away.

"You livers of a lie!" said he.  "You and those like you have been
preaching peace for nigh two thousand years, and cutting throats the
whole time.  If the money that is lost in taking French lives were
spent in saving English ones, you would have more right to burn
candles in your windows.  Who are you that dare to come here to
insult a law-abiding man?"

"We are the people of England!" cried young Master Ovington, the son
of the Tory Squire.

"You! you horse-racing, cock-fighting ne'er-do-weel!  Do you presume
to talk for the people of England?  They are a deep, strong, silent
stream, and you are the scum, the bubbles, the poor, silly froth
that floats upon the surface."

We thought him very wicked then, but, looking back, I am not sure
that we were not very wicked ourselves.

And then there were the smugglers!  The Downs swarmed with them, for
since there might be no lawful trade betwixt France and England, it
had all to run in that channel.  I have been up on St. John's Common
upon a dark night, and, lying among the bracken, I have seen as many
as seventy mules and a man at the head of each go flitting past me
as silently as trout in a stream.  Not one of them but bore its two
ankers of the right French cognac, or its bale of silk of Lyons and
lace of Valenciennes.  I knew Dan Scales, the head of them, and I
knew Tom Hislop, the riding officer, and I remember the night they
met.

"Do you fight, Dan?" asked Tom.

"Yes, Tom; thou must fight for it."

On which Tom drew his pistol, and blew Dan's brains out.

"It was a sad thing to do," he said afterwards, "but I knew Dan was
too good a man for me, for we tried it out before."

It was Tom who paid a poet from Brighton to write the lines for the
tombstone, which we all thought were very true and good, beginning -


"Alas!  Swift flew the fatal lead
Which pierced through the young man's head.
He instantly fell, resigned his breath,
And closed his languid eyes in death."


There was more of it, and I dare say it is all still to be read in
Patcham Churchyard.

One day, about the time of our Cliffe Royal adventure, I was seated
in the cottage looking round at the curios which my father had
fastened on to the walls, and wishing, like the lazy lad that I was,
that Mr. Lilly had died before ever he wrote his Latin grammar, when
my mother, who was sitting knitting in the window, gave a little cry
of surprise.

"Good gracious!" she cried.  "What a vulgar-looking woman!"

It was so rare to hear my mother say a hard word against anybody
(unless it were General Buonaparte) that I was across the room and
at the window in a jump.  A pony-chaise was coming slowly down the
village street, and in it was the queerest-looking person that I had
ever seen.  She was very stout, with a face that was of so dark a
red that it shaded away into purple over the nose and cheeks.  She
wore a great hat with a white curling ostrich feather, and from
under its brim her two bold, black eyes stared out with a look of
anger and defiance as if to tell the folk that she thought less of
them than they could do of her.  She had some sort of scarlet
pelisse with white swans-down about her neck, and she held the reins
slack in her hands, while the pony wandered from side to side of the
road as the fancy took him.  Each time the chaise swayed, her head
with the great hat swayed also, so that sometimes we saw the crown
of it and sometimes the brim.

"What a dreadful sight!" cried my mother.

"What is amiss with her, mother?"

"Heaven forgive me if I misjudge her, Rodney, but I think that the
unfortunate woman has been drinking."

"Why," I cried, "she has pulled the chaise up at the smithy.  I'll
find out all the news for you;" and, catching up my cap, away I
scampered.

Champion Harrison had been shoeing a horse at the forge door, and
when I got into the street I could see him with the creature's hoof
still under his arm, and the rasp in his hand, kneeling down amid
the white parings.  The woman was beckoning him from the chaise, and
he staring up at her with the queerest expression upon his face.
Presently he threw down his rasp and went across to her, standing by
the wheel and shaking his head as he talked to her.  For my part, I
slipped into the smithy, where Boy Jim was finishing the shoe, and I
watched the neatness of his work and the deft way in which he turned
up the caulkens.  When he had done with it he carried it out, and
there was the strange woman still talking with his uncle.

"Is that he?" I heard her ask.

Champion Harrison nodded.

She looked at Jim, and I never saw such eyes in a human head, so
large, and black, and wonderful.  Boy as I was, I knew that, in
spite of that bloated face, this woman had once been very beautiful.
She put out a hand, with all the fingers going as if she were
playing on the harpsichord, and she touched Jim on the shoulder.

"I hope--I hope you're well," she stammered.

"Very well, ma'am," said Jim, staring from her to his uncle.

"And happy too?"

"Yes, ma'am, I thank you."

"Nothing that you crave for?"

"Why, no, ma'am, I have all that I lack."

"That will do, Jim," said his uncle, in a stern voice.  "Blow up the
forge again, for that shoe wants reheating."

But it seemed as if the woman had something else that she would say,
for she was angry that he should be sent away.  Her eyes gleamed,
and her head tossed, while the smith with his two big hands
outspread seemed to be soothing her as best he could.  For a long
time they whispered until at last she appeared to be satisfied.

"To-morrow, then?" she cried loud out.

"To-morrow," he answered.

"You keep your word and I'll keep mine," said she, and dropped the
lash on the pony's back.  The smith stood with the rasp in his hand,
looking after her until she was just a little red spot on the white
road.  Then he turned, and I never saw his face so grave.

"Jim," said he, "that's Miss Hinton, who has come to live at The
Maples, out Anstey Cross way.  She's taken a kind of a fancy to you,
Jim, and maybe she can help you on a bit.  I promised her that you
would go over and see her to-morrow."

"I don't want her help, uncle, and I don't want to see her."

"But I've promised, Jim, and you wouldn't make me out a liar.  She
does but want to talk with you, for it is a lonely life she leads."

"What would she want to talk with such as me about?"

"Why, I cannot say that, but she seemed very set upon it, and women
have their fancies.  There's young Master Stone here who wouldn't
refuse to go and see a good lady, I'll warrant, if he thought he
might better his fortune by doing so."

"Well, uncle, I'll go if Roddy Stone will go with me," said Jim.

"Of course he'll go.  Won't you, Master Rodney?"

So it ended in my saying "yes," and back I went with all my news to
my mother, who dearly loved a little bit of gossip.  She shook her
head when she heard where I was going, but she did not say nay, and
so it was settled.

It was a good four miles of a walk, but when we reached it you would
not wish to see a more cosy little house:  all honeysuckle and
creepers, with a wooden porch and lattice windows.  A common-looking
woman opened the door for us.

"Miss Hinton cannot see you," said she.

"But she asked us to come," said Jim.

"I can't help that," cried the woman, in a rude voice.  "I tell you
that she can't see you."

We stood irresolute for a minute.

"Maybe you would just tell her I am here," said Jim, at last.

"Tell her!  How am I to tell her when she couldn't so much as hear a
pistol in her ears?  Try and tell her yourself, if you have a mind
to."

She threw open a door as she spoke, and there, in a reclining chair
at the further end of the room, we caught a glimpse of a figure all
lumped together, huge and shapeless, with tails of black hair
hanging down.

The sound of dreadful, swine-like breathing fell upon our ears.  It
was but a glance, and then we were off hot-foot for home.  As for
me, I was so young that I was not sure whether this was funny or
terrible; but when I looked at Jim to see how he took it, he was
looking quite white and ill.

"You'll not tell any one, Roddy," said he.

"Not unless it's my mother."

"I won't even tell my uncle.  I'll say she was ill, the poor lady!
it's enough that we should have seen her in her shame, without its
being the gossip of the village.  It makes me feel sick and heavy at
heart."

"She was so yesterday, Jim."

"Was she?  I never marked it.  But I know that she has kind eyes and
a kind heart, for I saw the one in the other when she looked at me.
Maybe it's the want of a friend that has driven her to this."

It blighted his spirits for days, and when it had all gone from my
mind it was brought back to me by his manner.  But it was not to be
our last memory of the lady with the scarlet pelisse, for before the
week was out Jim came round to ask me if I would again go up with
him.

"My uncle has had a letter," said he.  "She would speak with me, and
I would be easier if you came with me, Rod."

For me it was only a pleasure outing, but I could see, as we drew
near the house, that Jim was troubling in his mind lest we should
find that things were amiss.

His fears were soon set at rest, however, for we had scarce clicked
the garden gate before the woman was out of the door of the cottage
and running down the path to meet us.  She was so strange a figure,
with some sort of purple wrapper on, and her big, flushed face
smiling out of it, that I might, if I had been alone, have taken to
my heels at the sight of her.  Even Jim stopped for a moment as if
he were not very sure of himself, but her hearty ways soon set us at
our ease.

"It is indeed good of you to come and see an old, lonely woman,"
said she, "and I owe you an apology that I should give you a
fruitless journey on Tuesday, but in a sense you were yourselves the
cause of it, since the thought of your coming had excited me, and
any excitement throws me into a nervous fever.  My poor nerves!  You
can see for yourselves how they serve me."

She held out her twitching hands as she spoke.  Then she passed one
of them through Jim's arm, and walked with him up the path.

"You must let me know you, and know you well," said she.  "Your
uncle and aunt are quite old acquaintances of mine, and though you
cannot remember me, I have held you in my arms when you were an
infant.  Tell me, little man," she added, turning to me, "what do
you call your friend?"

"Boy Jim, ma'am," said I.

"Then if you will not think me forward, I will call you Boy Jim
also.  We elderly people have our privileges, you know.  And now you
shall come in with me, and we will take a dish of tea together."

She led the way into a cosy room--the same which we had caught a
glimpse of when last we came--and there, in the middle, was a table
with white napery, and shining glass, and gleaming china, and red-
cheeked apples piled upon a centre-dish, and a great plateful of
smoking muffins which the cross-faced maid had just carried in.  You
can think that we did justice to all the good things, and Miss
Hinton would ever keep pressing us to pass our cup and to fill our
plate.  Twice during our meal she rose from her chair and withdrew
into a cupboard at the end of the room, and each time I saw Jim's
face cloud, for we heard a gentle clink of glass against glass.

"Come now, little man," said she to me, when the table had been
cleared.  "Why are you looking round so much?"

"Because there are so many pretty things upon the walls."

"And which do you think the prettiest of them?"

"Why, that!" said I, pointing to a picture which hung opposite to
me.  It was of a tall and slender girl, with the rosiest cheeks and
the tenderest eyes--so daintily dressed, too, that I had never seen
anything more perfect.  She had a posy of flowers in her hand and
another one was lying upon the planks of wood upon which she was
standing.

"Oh, that's the prettiest, is it?" said she, laughing.  "Well, now,
walk up to it, and let us hear what is writ beneath it."

I did as she asked, and read out:  "Miss Polly Hinton, as 'Peggy,'
in The Country Wife, played for her benefit at the Haymarket
Theatre, September 14th, 1782."

"It's a play-actress," said I.

"Oh, you rude little boy, to say it in such a tone," said she; "as
if a play-actress wasn't as good as any one else.  Why, 'twas but
the other day that the Duke of Clarence, who may come to call
himself King of England, married Mrs. Jordan, who is herself only a
play-actress.  And whom think you that this one is?"

She stood under the picture with her arms folded across her great
body, and her big black eyes looking from one to the other of us.

"Why, where are your eyes?" she cried at last.  "_I_ was Miss Polly
Hinton of the Haymarket Theatre.  And perhaps you never heard the
name before?"

We were compelled to confess that we never had.  And the very name
of play-actress had filled us both with a kind of vague horror, like
the country-bred folk that we were.  To us they were a class apart,
to be hinted at rather than named, with the wrath of the Almighty
hanging over them like a thundercloud.  Indeed, His judgments seemed
to be in visible operation before us when we looked upon what this
woman was, and what she had been.

"Well," said she, laughing like one who is hurt, "you have no cause
to say anything, for I read on your face what you have been taught
to think of me.  So this is the upbringing that you have had, Jim--
to think evil of that which you do not understand!  I wish you had
been in the theatre that very night with Prince Florizel and four
Dukes in the boxes, and all the wits and macaronis of London rising
at me in the pit.  If Lord Avon had not given me a cast in his
carriage, I had never got my flowers back to my lodgings in York
Street, Westminster.  And now two little country lads are sitting in
judgment upon me!"

Jim's pride brought a flush on to his cheeks, for he did not like to
be called a country lad, or to have it supposed that he was so far
behind the grand folk in London.

"I have never been inside a play-house," said he; "I know nothing of
them."

"Nor I either."

"Well," said she, "I am not in voice, and it is ill to play in a
little room with but two to listen, but you must conceive me to be
the Queen of the Peruvians, who is exhorting her countrymen to rise
up against the Spaniards, who are oppressing them."

And straightway that coarse, swollen woman became a queen--the
grandest, haughtiest queen that you could dream of--and she turned
upon us with such words of fire, such lightning eyes and sweeping of
her white hand, that she held us spellbound in our chairs.  Her
voice was soft and sweet, and persuasive at the first, but louder it
rang and louder as it spoke of wrongs and freedom and the joys of
death in a good cause, until it thrilled into my every nerve, and I
asked nothing more than to run out of the cottage and to die then
and there in the cause of my country.  And then in an instant she
changed.  She was a poor woman now, who had lost her only child, and
who was bewailing it.  Her voice was full of tears, and what she
said was so simple, so true, that we both seemed to see the dead
babe stretched there on the carpet before us, and we could have
joined in with words of pity and of grief.  And then, before our
cheeks were dry, she was back into her old self again.

"How like you that, then?" she cried.  "That was my way in the days
when Sally Siddons would turn green at the name of Polly Hinton.
It's a fine play, is Pizarro."

"And who wrote it, ma'am?"

"Who wrote it?  I never heard.  What matter who did the writing of
it!  But there are some great lines for one who knows how they
should be spoken."

"And you play no longer, ma'am?"

"No, Jim, I left the boards when--when I was weary of them.  But my
heart goes back to them sometimes.  It seems to me there is no smell
like that of the hot oil in the footlights and of the oranges in the
pit.  But you are sad, Jim."

"It was but the thought of that poor woman and her child."

"Tut, never think about her!  I will soon wipe her from your mind.
This is 'Miss Priscilla Tomboy,' from The Romp.  You must conceive
that the mother is speaking, and that the forward young minx is
answering.

And she began a scene between the two of them, so exact in voice and
manner that it seemed to us as if there were really two folk before
us:  the stern old mother with her hand up like an ear-trumpet, and
her flouncing, bouncing daughter.  Her great figure danced about
with a wonderful lightness, and she tossed her head and pouted her
lips as she answered back to the old, bent figure that addressed
her.  Jim and I had forgotten our tears, and were holding our ribs
before she came to the end of it.

"That is better," said she, smiling at our laughter.  "I would not
have you go back to Friar's Oak with long faces, or maybe they would
not let you come to me again."

She vanished into her cupboard, and came out with a bottle and
glass, which she placed upon the table.

"You are too young for strong waters," she said, "but this talking
gives one a dryness, and--"

Then it was that Boy Jim did a wonderful thing.  He rose from his
chair, and he laid his hand upon the bottle.

"Don't!" said he.

She looked him in the face, and I can still see those black eyes of
hers softening before the gaze.

"Am I to have none?"

"Please, don't."

With a quick movement she wrested the bottle out of his hand and
raised it up so that for a moment it entered my head that she was
about to drink it off.  Then she flung it through the open lattice,
and we heard the crash of it on the path outside.

"There, Jim!" said she; "does that satisfy you?  It's long since any
one cared whether I drank or no."

"You are too good and kind for that," said he.

"Good!" she cried.  "Well, I love that you should think me so.  And
it would make you happier if I kept from the brandy, Jim?  Well,
then, I'll make you a promise, if you'll make me one in return."

"What's that, miss?"

"No drop shall pass my lips, Jim, if you will swear, wet or shine,
blow or snow, to come up here twice in every week, that I may see
you and speak with you, for, indeed, there are times when I am very
lonesome."

So the promise was made, and very faithfully did Jim keep it, for
many a time when I have wanted him to go fishing or rabbit-snaring,
he has remembered that it was his day for Miss Hinton, and has
tramped off to Anstey Cross.  At first I think that she found her
share of the bargain hard to keep, and I have seen Jim come back
with a black face on him, as if things were going amiss.  But after
a time the fight was won--as all fights are won if one does but
fight long enough--and in the year before my father came back Miss
Hinton had become another woman.  And it was not her ways only, but
herself as well, for from being the person that I have described,
she became in one twelve-month as fine a looking lady as there was
in the whole country-side.  Jim was prouder of it by far than of
anything he had had a hand in in his life, but it was only to me
that he ever spoke about it, for he had that tenderness towards her
that one has for those whom one has helped.  And she helped him
also, for by her talk of the world and of what she had seen, she
took his mind away from the Sussex country-side and prepared it for
a broader life beyond.  So matters stood between them at the time
when peace was made and my father came home from the sea.



CHAPTER IV--THE PEACE OF AMIENS



Many a woman's knee was on the ground, and many a woman's soul spent
itself in joy and thankfulness when the news came with the fall of
the leaf in 1801 that the preliminaries of peace had been settled.
All England waved her gladness by day and twinkled it by night.
Even in little Friar's Oak we had our flags flying bravely, and a
candle in every window, with a big G.R. guttering in the wind over
the door of the inn.  Folk were weary of the war, for we had been at
it for eight years, taking Holland, and Spain, and France each in
turn and all together.  All that we had learned during that time was
that our little army was no match for the French on land, and that
our large navy was more than a match for them upon the water.  We
had gained some credit, which we were sorely in need of after the
American business; and a few Colonies, which were welcome also for
the same reason; but our debt had gone on rising and our consols
sinking, until even Pitt stood aghast.  Still, if we had known that
there never could be peace between Napoleon and ourselves, and that
this was only the end of a round and not of the battle, we should
have been better advised had we fought it out without a break.  As
it was, the French got back the twenty thousand good seamen whom we
had captured, and a fine dance they led us with their Boulogne
flotillas and fleets of invasion before we were able to catch them
again.

My father, as I remember him best, was a tough, strong little man,
of no great breadth, but solid and well put together.  His face was
burned of a reddish colour, as bright as a flower-pot, and in spite
of his age (for he was only forty at the time of which I speak) it
was shot with lines, which deepened if he were in any way perturbed,
so that I have seen him turn on the instant from a youngish man to
an elderly.  His eyes especially were meshed round with wrinkles, as
is natural for one who had puckered them all his life in facing foul
wind and bitter weather.  These eyes were, perhaps, his strangest
feature, for they were of a very clear and beautiful blue, which
shone the brighter out of that ruddy setting.  By nature he must
have been a fair-skinned man, for his upper brow, where his cap came
over it, was as white as mine, and his close-cropped hair was tawny.

He had served, as he was proud to say, in the last of our ships
which had been chased out of the Mediterranean in '97, and in the
first which had re-entered it in '98.  He was under Miller, as third
lieutenant of the Theseus, when our fleet, like a pack of eager fox
hounds in a covert, was dashing from Sicily to Syria and back again
to Naples, trying to pick up the lost scent.  With the same good
fighting man he served at the Nile, where the men of his command
sponged and rammed and trained until, when the last tricolour had
come down, they hove up the sheet anchor and fell dead asleep upon
the top of each other under the capstan bars.  Then, as a second
lieutenant, he was in one of those grim three-deckers with powder-
blackened hulls and crimson scupper-holes, their spare cables tied
round their keels and over their bulwarks to hold them together,
which carried the news into the Bay of Naples.  From thence, as a
reward for his services, he was transferred as first lieutenant to
the Aurora frigate, engaged in cutting off supplies from Genoa, and
in her he still remained until long after peace was declared.

How well I can remember his home-coming!  Though it is now eight-
and-forty years ago, it is clearer to me than the doings of last
week, for the memory of an old man is like one of those glasses
which shows out what is at a distance and blurs all that is near.

My mother had been in a tremble ever since the first rumour of the
preliminaries came to our ears, for she knew that he might come as
soon as his message.  She said little, but she saddened my life by
insisting that I should be for ever clean and tidy.  With every
rumble of wheels, too, her eyes would glance towards the door, and
her hands steal up to smooth her pretty black hair.  She had
embroidered a white "Welcome" upon a blue ground, with an anchor in
red upon each side, and a border of laurel leaves; and this was to
hang upon the two lilac bushes which flanked the cottage door.  He
could not have left the Mediterranean before we had this finished,
and every morning she looked to see if it were in its place and
ready to be hanged.

But it was a weary time before the peace was ratified, and it was
April of next year before our great day came round to us.  It had
been raining all morning, I remember--a soft spring rain, which sent
up a rich smell from the brown earth and pattered pleasantly upon
the budding chestnuts behind our cottage.  The sun had shone out in
the evening, and I had come down with my fishing-rod (for I had
promised Boy Jim to go with him to the mill-stream), when what
should I see but a post-chaise with two smoking horses at the gate,
and there in the open door of it were my mother's black skirt and
her little feet jutting out, with two blue arms for a waist-belt,
and all the rest of her buried in the chaise.  Away I ran for the
motto, and I pinned it up on the bushes as we had agreed, but when I
had finished there were the skirts and the feet and the blue arms
just the same as before.

"Here's Rod," said my mother at last, struggling down on to the
ground again.  "Roddy, darling, here's your father!"

I saw the red face and the kindly, light-blue eyes looking out at
me.

"Why, Roddy, lad, you were but a child and we kissed good-bye when
last we met; but I suppose we must put you on a different rating
now.  I'm right glad from my heart to see you, dear lad; and as to
you, sweetheart--"

The blue arms flew out, and there were the skirt and the two feet
fixed in the door again.

"Here are the folk coming, Anson," said my mother, blushing.  "Won't
you get out and come in with us?"

And then suddenly it came home to us both that for all his cheery
face he had never moved more than his arms, and that his leg was
resting on the opposite seat of the chaise.

"Oh, Anson, Anson!" she cried.

"Tut, 'tis but the bone of my leg," said he, taking his knee between
his hands and lifting it round.  "I got it broke in the Bay, but the
surgeon has fished it and spliced it, though it's a bit crank yet.
Why, bless her kindly heart, if I haven't turned her from pink to
white.  You can see for yourself that it's nothing."

He sprang out as he spoke, and with one leg and a staff he hopped
swiftly up the path, and under the laurel-bordered motto, and so
over his own threshold for the first time for five years.  When the
post-boy and I had carried up the sea-chest and the two canvas bags,
there he was sitting in his armchair by the window in his old
weather-stained blue coat.  My mother was weeping over his poor leg,
and he patting her hair with one brown hand.  His other he threw
round my waist, and drew me to the side of his chair.

"Now that we have peace, I can lie up and refit until King George
needs me again," said he.  "'Twas a carronade that came adrift in
the Bay when it was blowing a top-gallant breeze with a beam sea.
Ere we could make it fast it had me jammed against the mast.  Well,
well," he added, looking round at the walls of the room, "here are
all my old curios, the same as ever:  the narwhal's horn from the
Arctic, and the blowfish from the Moluccas, and the paddles from
Fiji, and the picture of the Ca Ira with Lord Hotham in chase.  And
here you are, Mary, and you also, Roddy, and good luck to the
carronade which has sent me into so snug a harbour without fear of
sailing orders."

My mother had his long pipe and his tobacco all ready for him, so
that he was able now to light it and to sit looking from one of us
to the other and then back again, as if he could never see enough of
us.  Young as I was, I could still understand that this was the
moment which he had thought of during many a lonely watch, and that
the expectation of it had cheered his heart in many a dark hour.
Sometimes he would touch one of us with his hand, and sometimes the
other, and so he sat, with his soul too satiated for words, whilst
the shadows gathered in the little room and the lights of the inn
windows glimmered through the gloom.  And then, after my mother had
lit our own lamp, she slipped suddenly down upon her knees, and he
got one knee to the ground also, so that, hand-in-hand, they joined
their thanks to Heaven for manifold mercies.  When I look back at my
parents as they were in those days, it is at that very moment that I
can picture them most clearly:  her sweet face with the wet shining
upon her cheeks, and his blue eyes upturned to the smoke-blackened
ceiling.  I remember that he swayed his reeking pipe in the
earnestness of his prayer, so that I was half tears and half smiles
as I watched him.

"Roddy, lad," said he, after supper was over, "you're getting a man
now, and I suppose you will go afloat like the rest of us.  You're
old enough to strap a dirk to your thigh."

"And leave me without a child as well as without a husband!" cried
my mother.

"Well, there's time enough yet," said he, "for they are more
inclined to empty berths than to fill them, now that peace has come.
But I've never tried what all this schooling has done for you,
Rodney.  You have had a great deal more than ever I had, but I dare
say I can make shift to test it.  Have you learned history?"

"Yes, father," said I, with some confidence.

"Then how many sail of the line were at the Battle of Camperdown?"

He shook his head gravely when he found that I could not answer him.

"Why, there are men in the fleet who never had any schooling at all
who could tell you that we had seven 74's, seven 64's, and two 50-
gun ships in the action.  There's a picture on the wall of the chase
of the Ca Ira.  Which were the ships that laid her aboard?"

Again I had to confess that he had beaten me.

"Well, your dad can teach you something in history yet," he cried,
looking in triumph at my mother.  "Have you learned geography?"

"Yes, father," said I, though with less confidence than before.

"Well, how far is it from Port Mahon to Algeciras?"

I could only shake my head.

"If Ushant lay three leagues upon your starboard quarter, what would
be your nearest English port?"

Again I had to give it up.

"Well, I don't see that your geography is much better than your
history," said he.  "You'd never get your certificate at this rate.
Can you do addition?  Well, then, let us see if you can tot up my
prize-money."

He shot a mischievous glance at my mother as he spoke, and she laid
down her knitting on her lap and looked very earnestly at him.

"You never asked me about that, Mary," said he.

"The Mediterranean is not the station for it, Anson.  I have heard
you say that it is the Atlantic for prize-money, and the
Mediterranean for honour."

"I had a share of both last cruise, which comes from changing a
line-of-battleship for a frigate.  Now, Rodney, there are two pounds
in every hundred due to me when the prize-courts have done with
them.  When we were watching Massena, off Genoa, we got a matter of
seventy schooners, brigs, and tartans, with wine, food, and powder.
Lord Keith will want his finger in the pie, but that's for the
Courts to settle.  Put them at four pounds apiece to me, and what
will the seventy bring?"

"Two hundred and eighty pounds," I answered.

"Why, Anson, it is a fortune!" cried my mother, clapping her hands.

"Try you again, Roddy!" said he, shaking his pipe at me.  "There was
the Xebec frigate out of Barcelona with twenty thousand Spanish
dollars aboard, which make four thousand of our pounds.  Her hull
should be worth another thousand.  What's my share of that?"

"A hundred pounds."

"Why, the purser couldn't work it out quicker," he cried in his
delight.  "Here's for you again!  We passed the Straits and worked
up to the Azores, where we fell in with the La Sabina from the
Mauritius with sugar and spices.  Twelve hundred pounds she's worth
to me, Mary, my darling, and never again shall you soil your pretty
fingers or pinch upon my beggarly pay.

My dear mother had borne her long struggle without a sign all these
years, but now that she was so suddenly eased of it she fell sobbing
upon his neck.  It was a long time before my father had a thought to
spare upon my examination in arithmetic.

"It's all in your lap, Mary," said he, dashing his own hand across
his eyes.  "By George, lass, when this leg of mine is sound we'll
bear down for a spell to Brighton, and if there is a smarter frock
than yours upon the Steyne, may I never tread a poop again.  But how
is it that you are so quick at figures, Rodney, when you know
nothing of history or geography?"

I tried to explain that addition was the same upon sea or land, but
that history and geography were not.

"Well," he concluded, "you need figures to take a reckoning, and you
need nothing else save what your mother wit will teach you.  There
never was one of our breed who did not take to salt water like a
young gull.  Lord Nelson has promised me a vacancy for you, and
he'll be as good as his word."

So it was that my father came home to us, and a better or kinder no
lad could wish for.  Though my parents had been married so long,
they had really seen very little of each other, and their affection
was as warm and as fresh as if they were two newly-wedded lovers.  I
have learned since that sailors can be coarse and foul, but never
did I know it from my father; for, although he had seen as much
rough work as the wildest could wish for, he was always the same
patient, good-humoured man, with a smile and a jolly word for all
the village.  He could suit himself to his company, too, for on the
one hand he could take his wine with the vicar, or with Sir James
Ovington, the squire of the parish; while on the other he would sit
by the hour amongst my humble friends down in the smithy, with
Champion Harrison, Boy Jim, and the rest of them, telling them such
stories of Nelson and his men that I have seen the Champion knot his
great hands together, while Jim's eyes have smouldered like the
forge embers as he listened.

My father had been placed on half-pay, like so many others of the
old war officers, and so, for nearly two years, he was able to
remain with us.  During all this time I can only once remember that
there was the slightest disagreement between him and my mother.  It
chanced that I was the cause of it, and as great events sprang out
of it, I must tell you how it came about.  It was indeed the first
of a series of events which affected not only my fortunes, but those
of very much more important people.

The spring of 1803 was an early one, and the middle of April saw the
leaves thick upon the chestnut trees.  One evening we were all
seated together over a dish of tea when we heard the scrunch of
steps outside our door, and there was the postman with a letter in
his hand.

"I think it is for me," said my mother, and sure enough it was
addressed in the most beautiful writing to Mrs. Mary Stone, of
Friar's Oak, and there was a red seal the size of a half-crown upon
the outside of it with a flying dragon in the middle.

"Whom think you that it is from, Anson?" she asked.

"I had hoped that it was from Lord Nelson," answered my father.  "It
is time the boy had his commission.  But if it be for you, then it
cannot be from any one of much importance."

"Can it not!" she cried, pretending to be offended.  "You will ask
my pardon for that speech, sir, for it is from no less a person than
Sir Charles Tregellis, my own brother."

My mother seemed to speak with a hushed voice when she mentioned
this wonderful brother of hers, and always had done as long as I can
remember, so that I had learned also to have a subdued and reverent
feeling when I heard his name.  And indeed it was no wonder, for
that name was never mentioned unless it were in connection with
something brilliant and extraordinary.  Once we heard that he was at
Windsor with the King.  Often he was at Brighton with the Prince.
Sometimes it was as a sportsman that his reputation reached us, as
when his Meteor beat the Duke of Queensberry's Egham, at Newmarket,
or when he brought Jim Belcher up from Bristol, and sprang him upon
the London fancy.  But usually it was as the friend of the great,
the arbiter of fashions, the king of bucks, and the best-dressed man
in town that his reputation reached us.  My father, however, did not
appear to be elated at my mother's triumphant rejoinder.

"Ay, and what does he want?" asked he, in no very amiable voice.

"I wrote to him, Anson, and told him that Rodney was growing a man
now, thinking, since he had no wife or child of his own, he might be
disposed to advance him."

"We can do very well without him," growled my father.  "He sheered
off from us when the weather was foul, and we have no need of him
now that the sun is shining."

"Nay, you misjudge him, Anson," said my mother, warmly.  "There is
no one with a better heart than Charles; but his own life moves so
smoothly that he cannot understand that others may have trouble.
During all these years I have known that I had but to say the word
to receive as much as I wished from him."

"Thank God that you never had to stoop to it, Mary.  I want none of
his help."

"But we must think of Rodney."

"Rodney has enough for his sea-chest and kit.  He needs no more."

"But Charles has great power and influence in London.  He could make
Rodney known to all the great people.  Surely you would not stand in
the way of his advancement."

"Let us hear what he says, then," said my father; and this was the
letter which she read to him -


14, Jermyn Street, St. James's,
"April 15th, 1803.

"MY DEAR SISTER MARY,

"In answer to your letter, I can assure you that you must not
conceive me to be wanting in those finer feelings which are the
chief adornment of humanity.  It is true that for some years,
absorbed as I have been in affairs of the highest importance, I have
seldom taken a pen in hand, for which I can assure you that I have
been reproached by many des plus charmantes of your charming sex.
At the present moment I lie abed (having stayed late in order to pay
a compliment to the Marchioness of Dover at her ball last night),
and this is writ to my dictation by Ambrose, my clever rascal of a
valet.  I am interested to hear of my nephew Rodney (Mon dieu, quel
nom!), and as I shall be on my way to visit the Prince at Brighton
next week, I shall break my journey at Friar's Oak for the sake of
seeing both you and him.  Make my compliments to your husband.

"I am ever, my dear sister Mary,
"Your brother,
"CHARLES TREGELLIS."


"What do you think of that?" cried my mother in triumph when she had
finished.

"I think it is the letter of a fop," said my father, bluntly.

"You are too hard on him, Anson.  You will think better of him when
you know him.  But he says that he will be here next week, and this
is Thursday, and the best curtains unhung, and no lavender in the
sheets!"

Away she bustled, half distracted, while my father sat moody, with
his chin upon his hands, and I remained lost in wonder at the
thought of this grand new relative from London, and of all that his
coming might mean to us.



CHAPTER V--BUCK TREGELLIS



Now that I was in my seventeenth year, and had already some need for
a razor, I had begun to weary of the narrow life of the village, and
to long to see something of the great world beyond.  The craving was
all the stronger because I durst not speak openly about it, for the
least hint of it brought the tears into my mother's eyes.  But now
there was the less reason that I should stay at home, since my
father was at her side, and so my mind was all filled by this
prospect of my uncle's visit, and of the chance that he might set my
feet moving at last upon the road of life.

As you may think, it was towards my father's profession that my
thoughts and my hopes turned, for from my childhood I have never
seen the heave of the sea or tasted the salt upon my lips without
feeling the blood of five generations of seamen thrill within my
veins.  And think of the challenge which was ever waving in those
days before the eyes of a coast-living lad!  I had but to walk up to
Wolstonbury in the war time to see the sails of the French chasse-
marees and privateers.  Again and again I have heard the roar of the
guns coming from far out over the waters.  Seamen would tell us how
they had left London and been engaged ere nightfall, or sailed out
of Portsmouth and been yard-arm to yard-arm before they had lost
sight of St. Helen's light.  It was this imminence of the danger
which warmed our hearts to our sailors, and made us talk, round the
winter fires, of our little Nelson, and Cuddie Collingwood, and
Johnnie Jarvis, and the rest of them, not as being great High
Admirals with titles and dignities, but as good friends whom we
loved and honoured above all others.  What boy was there through the
length and breadth of Britain who did not long to be out with them
under the red-cross flag?

But now that peace had come, and the fleets which had swept the
Channel and the Mediterranean were lying dismantled in our harbours,
there was less to draw one's fancy seawards.  It was London now of
which I thought by day and brooded by night:  the huge city, the
home of the wise and the great, from which came this constant stream
of carriages, and those crowds of dusty people who were for ever
flashing past our window-pane.  It was this one side of life which
first presented itself to me, and so, as a boy, I used to picture
the City as a gigantic stable with a huge huddle of coaches, which
were for ever streaming off down the country roads.  But, then,
Champion Harrison told me how the fighting-men lived there, and my
father how the heads of the Navy lived there, and my mother how her
brother and his grand friends were there, until at last I was
consumed with impatience to see this marvellous heart of England.
This coming of my uncle, then, was the breaking of light through the
darkness, though I hardly dared to hope that he would take me with
him into those high circles in which he lived.  My mother, however,
had such confidence either in his good nature or in her own powers
of persuasion, that she already began to make furtive preparations
for my departure.

But if the narrowness of the village life chafed my easy spirit, it
was a torture to the keen and ardent mind of Boy Jim.  It was but a
few days after the coming of my uncle's letter that we walked over
the Downs together, and I had a peep of the bitterness of his heart.

"What is there for me to do, Rodney?" he cried.  "I forge a shoe,
and I fuller it, and I clip it, and I caulken it, and I knock five
holes in it, and there it is finished.  Then I do it again and
again, and blow up the bellows and feed the forge, and rasp a hoof
or two, and there is a day's work done, and every day the same as
the other.  Was it for this only, do you think, that I was born into
the world?"

I looked at him, his proud, eagle face, and his tall, sinewy figure,
and I wondered whether in the whole land there was a finer,
handsomer man.

"The Army or the Navy is the place for you, Jim," said I.

"That is very well," he cried.  "If you go into the Navy, as you are
likely to do, you go as an officer, and it is you who do the
ordering.  If I go in, it is as one who was born to receive orders."

"An officer gets his orders from those above him."

"But an officer does not have the lash hung over his head.  I saw a
poor fellow at the inn here--it was some years ago--who showed us
his back in the tap-room, all cut into red diamonds with the boat-
swain's whip.  'Who ordered that?' I asked.  'The captain,' said he.
'And what would you have had if you had struck him dead?' said I.
'The yard-arm,' he answered.  'Then if I had been you that's where I
should have been,' said I, and I spoke the truth.  I can't help it,
Rod!  There's something here in my heart, something that is as much
a part of myself as this hand is, which holds me to it."

"I know that you are as proud as Lucifer," said I.

"It was born with me, Roddy, and I can't help it.  Life would be
easier if I could.  I was made to be my own master, and there's only
one place where I can hope to be so."

"Where is that, Jim?"

"In London.  Miss Hinton has told me of it, until I feel as if I
could find my way through it from end to end.  She loves to talk of
it as well as I do to listen.  I have it all laid out in my mind,
and I can see where the playhouses are, and how the river runs, and
where the King's house is, and the Prince's, and the place where the
fighting-men live.  I could make my name known in London."

"How?"

"Never mind how, Rod.  I could do it, and I will do it, too.
'Wait!' says my uncle--'wait, and it will all come right for you.'
That is what he always says, and my aunt the same.  Why should I
wait?  What am I to wait for?  No, Roddy, I'll stay no longer eating
my heart out in this little village, but I'll leave my apron behind
me and I'll seek my fortune in London, and when I come back to
Friar's Oak, it will be in such style as that gentleman yonder."

He pointed as he spoke, and there was a high crimson curricle coming
down the London road, with two bay mares harnessed tandem fashion
before it.  The reins and fittings were of a light fawn colour, and
the gentleman had a driving-coat to match, with a servant in dark
livery behind.  They flashed past us in a rolling cloud of dust, and
I had just a glimpse of the pale, handsome face of the master, and
of the dark, shrivelled features of the man.  I should never have
given them another thought had it not chanced that when the village
came into view there was the curricle again, standing at the door of
the inn, and the grooms busy taking out the horses.

"Jim," I cried, "I believe it is my uncle!" and taking to my heels I
ran for home at the top of my speed.  At the door was standing the
dark-faced servant.  He carried a cushion, upon which lay a small
and fluffy lapdog.

"You will excuse me, young sir," said he, in the suavest, most
soothing of voices, "but am I right in supposing that this is the
house of Lieutenant Stone?  In that case you will, perhaps, do me
the favour to hand to Mrs. Stone this note which her brother, Sir
Charles Tregellis, has just committed to my care."

I was quite abashed by the man's flowery way of talking--so unlike
anything which I had ever heard.  He had a wizened face, and sharp
little dark eyes, which took in me and the house and my mother's
startled face at the window all in the instant.  My parents were
together, the two of them, in the sitting-room, and my mother read
the note to us.

"My dear Mary," it ran, "I have stopped at the inn, because I am
somewhat ravage by the dust of your Sussex roads.  A lavender-water
bath may restore me to a condition in which I may fitly pay my
compliments to a lady.  Meantime, I send you Fidelio as a hostage.
Pray give him a half-pint of warmish milk with six drops of pure
brandy in it.  A better or more faithful creature never lived.
Toujours a toi.--Charles."

"Have him in!  Have him in!" cried my father, heartily, running to
the door.  "Come in, Mr. Fidelio.  Every man to his own taste, and
six drops to the half-pint seems a sinful watering of grog--but if
you like it so, you shall have it."

A smile flickered over the dark face of the servant, but his
features reset themselves instantly into their usual mask of
respectful observance.

"You are labouring under a slight error, sir, if you will permit me
to say so.  My name is Ambrose, and I have the honour to be the
valet of Sir Charles Tregellis.  This is Fidelio upon the cushion."

"Tut, the dog!" cried my father, in disgust.  "Heave him down by the
fireside.  Why should he have brandy, when many a Christian has to
go without?"

"Hush, Anson!" said my mother, taking the cushion.  "You will tell
Sir Charles that his wishes shall be carried out, and that we shall
expect him at his own convenience."

The man went off noiselessly and swiftly, but was back in a few
minutes with a flat brown basket.

"It is the refection, madam," said he.  "Will you permit me to lay
the table?  Sir Charles is accustomed to partake of certain dishes
and to drink certain wines, so that we usually bring them with us
when we visit."  He opened the basket, and in a minute he had the
table all shining with silver and glass, and studded with dainty
dishes.  So quick and neat and silent was he in all he did, that my
father was as taken with him as I was.

"You'd have made a right good foretopman if your heart is as stout
as your fingers are quick," said he.  "Did you never wish to have
the honour of serving your country?"

"It is my honour, sir, to serve Sir Charles Tregellis, and I desire
no other master," he answered.  "But I will convey his dressing-case
from the inn, and then all will be ready."

He came back with a great silver-mounted box under his arm, and
close at his heels was the gentleman whose coming had made such a
disturbance.

My first impression of my uncle as he entered the room was that one
of his eyes was swollen to the size of an apple.  It caught the
breath from my lips--that monstrous, glistening eye.  But the next
instant I perceived that he held a round glass in the front of it,
which magnified it in this fashion.  He looked at us each in turn,
and then he bowed very gracefully to my mother and kissed her upon
either cheek.

"You will permit me to compliment you, my dear Mary," said he, in a
voice which was the most mellow and beautiful that I have ever
heard.  "I can assure you that the country air has used you wondrous
well, and that I should be proud to see my pretty sister in the
Mall.  I am your servant, sir," he continued, holding out his hand
to my father.  "It was but last week that I had the honour of dining
with my friend, Lord St. Vincent, and I took occasion to mention you
to him.  I may tell you that your name is not forgotten at the
Admiralty, sir, and I hope that I may see you soon walking the poop
of a 74-gun ship of your own.  So this is my nephew, is it?"  He put
a hand upon each of my shoulders in a very friendly way and looked
me up and down.

"How old are you, nephew?" he asked.

"Seventeen, sir."

"You look older.  You look eighteen, at the least.  I find him very
passable, Mary--very passable, indeed.  He has not the bel air, the
tournure--in our uncouth English we have no word for it.  But he is
as healthy as a May-hedge in bloom."

So within a minute of his entering our door he had got himself upon
terms with all of us, and with so easy and graceful a manner that it
seemed as if he had known us all for years.  I had a good look at
him now as he stood upon the hearthrug with my mother upon one side
and my father on the other.  He was a very large man, with noble
shoulders, small waist, broad hips, well-turned legs, and the
smallest of hands and feet.  His face was pale and handsome, with a
prominent chin, a jutting nose, and large blue staring eyes, in
which a sort of dancing, mischievous light was for ever playing.  He
wore a deep brown coat with a collar as high as his ears and tails
as low as his knees.  His black breeches and silk stockings ended in
very small pointed shoes, so highly polished that they twinkled with
every movement.  His vest was of black velvet, open at the top to
show an embroidered shirt-front, with a high, smooth, white cravat
above it, which kept his neck for ever on the stretch.  He stood
easily, with one thumb in the arm-pit, and two fingers of the other
hand in his vest pocket.  It made me proud as I watched him to think
that so magnificent a man, with such easy, masterful ways, should be
my own blood relation, and I could see from my mother's eyes as they
turned towards him that the same thought was in her mind.

All this time Ambrose had been standing like a dark-clothed, bronze-
faced image by the door, with the big silver-bound box under his
arm.  He stepped forward now into the room.

"Shall I convey it to your bedchamber, Sir Charles?" he asked.

"Ah, pardon me, sister Mary," cried my uncle, "I am old-fashioned
enough to have principles--an anachronism, I know, in this lax age.
One of them is never to allow my batterie de toilette out of my
sight when I am travelling.  I cannot readily forget the agonies
which I endured some years ago through neglecting this precaution.
I will do Ambrose the justice to say that it was before he took
charge of my affairs.  I was compelled to wear the same ruffles upon
two consecutive days.  On the third morning my fellow was so
affected by the sight of my condition, that he burst into tears and
laid out a pair which he had stolen from me."

As he spoke his face was very grave, but the light in his eyes
danced and gleamed.  He handed his open snuff-box to my father, as
Ambrose followed my mother out of the room.

"You number yourself in an illustrious company by upping your finger
and thumb into it," said he.

"Indeed, sir!" said my father, shortly.

"You are free of my box, as being a relative by marriage.  You are
free also, nephew, and I pray you to take a pinch.  It is the most
intimate sign of my goodwill.  Outside ourselves there are four, I
think, who have had access to it--the Prince, of course; Mr Pitt;
Monsieur Otto, the French Ambassador; and Lord Hawkesbury.  I have
sometimes thought that I was premature with Lord Hawkesbury."

"I am vastly honoured, sir," said my father, looking suspiciously at
his guest from under his shaggy eyebrows, for with that grave face
and those twinkling eyes it was hard to know how to take him.

"A woman, sir, has her love to bestow," said my uncle.  "A man has
his snuff-box.  Neither is to be lightly offered.  It is a lapse of
taste; nay, more, it is a breach of morals.  Only the other day, as
I was seated in Watier's, my box of prime macouba open upon the
table beside me, an Irish bishop thrust in his intrusive fingers.
'Waiter,' I cried, 'my box has been soiled!  Remove it!'  The man
meant no insult, you understand, but that class of people must be
kept in their proper sphere.'

"A bishop!" cried my father.  "You draw your line very high, sir."

"Yes, sir," said my uncle; "I wish no better epitaph upon my
tombstone."

My mother had in the meanwhile descended, and we all drew up to the
table.

"You will excuse my apparent grossness, Mary, in venturing to bring
my own larder with me.  Abernethy has me under his orders, and I
must eschew your rich country dainties.  A little white wine and a
cold bird--it is as much as the niggardly Scotchman will allow me."

"We should have you on blockading service when the levanters are
blowing," said my father.  "Salt junk and weevilly biscuits, with a
rib of a tough Barbary ox when the tenders come in.  You would have
your spare diet there, sir."

Straightway my uncle began to question him about the sea service,
and for the whole meal my father was telling him of the Nile and of
the Toulon blockade, and the siege of Genoa, and all that he had
seen and done.  But whenever he faltered for a word, my uncle always
had it ready for him, and it was hard to say which knew most about
the business.

"No, I read little or nothing," said he, when my father marvelled
where he got his knowledge.  "The fact is that I can hardly pick up
a print without seeing some allusion to myself:  'Sir C. T. does
this,' or 'Sir C. T. says the other,' so I take them no longer.  But
if a man is in my position all knowledge comes to him.  The Duke of
York tells me of the Army in the morning, and Lord Spencer chats
with me of the Navy in the afternoon, and Dundas whispers me what is
going forward in the Cabinet, so that I have little need of the
Times or the Morning Chronicle."

This set him talking of the great world of London, telling my father
about the men who were his masters at the Admiralty, and my mother
about the beauties of the town, and the great ladies at Almack's,
but all in the same light, fanciful way, so that one never knew
whether to laugh or to take him gravely.  I think it flattered him
to see the way in which we all three hung upon his words.  Of some
he thought highly and of some lowly, but he made no secret that the
highest of all, and the one against whom all others should be
measured, was Sir Charles Tregellis himself.

"As to the King," said he, "of course, I am l'ami de famille there;
and even with you I can scarce speak freely, as my relations are
confidential."

"God bless him and keep him from ill!" cried my father.

"It is pleasant to hear you say so," said my uncle.  "One has to
come into the country to hear honest loyalty, for a sneer and a gibe
are more the fashions in town.  The King is grateful to me for the
interest which I have ever shown in his son.  He likes to think that
the Prince has a man of taste in his circle."

"And the Prince?" asked my mother.  "Is he well-favoured?"

"He is a fine figure of a man.  At a distance he has been mistaken
for me.  And he has some taste in dress, though he gets slovenly if
I am too long away from him.  I warrant you that I find a crease in
his coat to-morrow."

We were all seated round the fire by this time, for the evening had
turned chilly.  The lamp was lighted and so also was my father's
pipe.

"I suppose," said he, "that this is your first visit to Friar's
Oak?"

My uncle's face turned suddenly very grave and stern.

"It is my first visit for many years," said he.  "I was but one-and-
twenty years of age when last I came here.  I am not likely to
forget it."

I knew that he spoke of his visit to Cliffe Royal at the time of the
murder, and I saw by her face that my mother knew it also.  My
father, however, had either never heard of it, or had forgotten the
circumstance.

"Was it at the inn you stayed?" he asked.

"I stayed with the unfortunate Lord Avon.  It was the occasion when
he was accused of slaying his younger brother and fled from the
country."

We all fell silent, and my uncle leaned his chin upon his hand,
looking thoughtfully into the fire.  If I do but close my eyes now,
I can see the light upon his proud, handsome face, and see also my
dear father, concerned at having touched upon so terrible a memory,
shooting little slanting glances at him betwixt the puffs of his
pipe.

"I dare say that it has happened with you, sir," said my uncle at
last, "that you have lost some dear messmate, in battle or wreck,
and that you have put him out of your mind in the routine of your
daily life, until suddenly some word or some scene brings him back
to your memory, and you find your sorrow as raw as upon the first
day of your loss."

My father nodded.

"So it is with me to-night.  I never formed a close friendship with
a man--I say nothing of women--save only the once.  That was with
Lord Avon.  We were of an age, he a few years perhaps my senior, but
our tastes, our judgments, and our characters were alike, save only
that he had in him a touch of pride such as I have never known in
any other man.  Putting aside the little foibles of a rich young man
of fashion, les indescretions d'une jeunesse doree, I could have
sworn that he was as good a man as I have ever known."

"How came he, then, to such a crime?" asked my father.

My uncle shook his head.

"Many a time have I asked myself that question, and it comes home to
me more to-night than ever."

All the jauntiness had gone out of his manner, and he had turned
suddenly into a sad and serious man.

"Was it certain that he did it, Charles?" asked my mother.

My uncle shrugged his shoulders.

"I wish I could think it were not so.  I have thought sometimes that
it was this very pride, turning suddenly to madness, which drove him
to it.  You have heard how he returned the money which we had lost?"

"Nay, I have heard nothing of it," my father answered.

"It is a very old story now, though we have not yet found an end to
it.  We had played for two days, the four of us:  Lord Avon, his
brother Captain Barrington, Sir Lothian Hume, and myself.  Of the
Captain I knew little, save that he was not of the best repute, and
was deep in the hands of the Jews.  Sir Lothian has made an evil
name for himself since--'tis the same Sir Lothian who shot Lord
Carton in the affair at Chalk Farm--but in those days there was
nothing against him.  The oldest of us was but twenty-four, and we
gamed on, as I say, until the Captain had cleared the board.  We
were all hit, but our host far the hardest.

"That night--I tell you now what it would be a bitter thing for me
to tell in a court of law--I was restless and sleepless, as often
happens when a man has kept awake over long.  My mind would dwell
upon the fall of the cards, and I was tossing and turning in my bed,
when suddenly a cry fell upon my ears, and then a second louder one,
coming from the direction of Captain Barrington's room.  Five
minutes later I heard steps passing down the passage, and, without
striking a light, I opened my door and peeped out, thinking that
some one was taken unwell.  There was Lord Avon walking towards me.
In one hand he held a guttering candle and in the other a brown bag,
which chinked as he moved.  His face was all drawn and distorted--so
much so that my question was frozen upon my lips.  Before I could
utter it he turned into his chamber and softly closed the door.

"Next morning I was awakened by finding him at my bedside.

"'Charles,' said he, 'I cannot abide to think that you should have
lost this money in my house.  You will find it here upon your
table.'

"It was in vain that I laughed at his squeamishness, telling him
that I should most certainly have claimed my money had I won, so
that it would be strange indeed if I were not permitted to pay it
when I lost.

"'Neither I nor my brother will touch it,' said he.  'There it lies,
and you may do what you like about it.'

"He would listen to no argument, but dashed out of the room like a
madman.  But perhaps these details are familiar to you, and God
knows they are painful to me to tell."

My father was sitting with staring eyes, and his forgotten pipe
reeking in his hand.

"Pray let us hear the end of it, sir," he cried.

"Well, then, I had finished my toilet in an hour or so--for I was
less exigeant in those days than now--and I met Sir Lothian Hume at
breakfast.  His experience had been the same as my own, and he was
eager to see Captain Barrington; and to ascertain why he had
directed his brother to return the money to us.  We were talking the
matter over when suddenly I raised my eyes to the corner of the
ceiling, and I saw--I saw--"

My uncle had turned quite pale with the vividness of the memory, and
he passed his hand over his eyes.

"It was crimson," said he, with a shudder--"crimson with black
cracks, and from every crack--but I will give you dreams, sister
Mary.  Suffice it that we rushed up the stair which led direct to
the Captain's room, and there we found him lying with the bone
gleaming white through his throat.  A hunting-knife lay in the room-
-and the knife was Lord Avon's.  A lace ruffle was found in the dead
man's grasp--and the ruffle was Lord Avon's.  Some papers were found
charred in the grate--and the papers were Lord Avon's.  Oh, my poor
friend, in what moment of madness did you come to do such a deed?"

The light had gone out of my uncle's eyes and the extravagance from
his manner.  His speech was clear and plain, with none of those
strange London ways which had so amazed me.  Here was a second
uncle, a man of heart and a man of brains, and I liked him better
than the first.

"And what said Lord Avon?" cried my father.

"He said nothing.  He went about like one who walks in his sleep,
with horror-stricken eyes.  None dared arrest him until there should
be due inquiry, but when the coroner's court brought wilful murder
against him, the constables came for him in full cry.  But they
found him fled.  There was a rumour that he had been seen in
Westminster in the next week, and then that he had escaped for
America, but nothing more is known.  It will be a bright day for Sir
Lothian Hume when they can prove him dead, for he is next of kin,
and till then he can touch neither title nor estate."

The telling of this grim story had cast a chill upon all of us.  My
uncle held out his hands towards the blaze, and I noticed that they
were as white as the ruffles which fringed them.

"I know not how things are at Cliffe Royal now," said he,
thoughtfully.  "It was not a cheery house, even before this shadow
fell upon it.  A fitter stage was never set forth for such a
tragedy.  But seventeen years have passed, and perhaps even that
horrible ceiling--"

"It still bears the stain," said I.

I know not which of the three was the more astonished, for my mother
had not heard of my adventures of the night.  They never took their
wondering eyes off me as I told my story, and my heart swelled with
pride when my uncle said that we had carried ourselves well, and
that he did not think that many of our age would have stood it as
stoutly.

"But as to this ghost, it must have been the creature of your own
minds," said he.  "Imagination plays us strange tricks, and though I
have as steady a nerve as a man might wish, I cannot answer for what
I might see if I were to stand under that blood-stained ceiling at
midnight."

"Uncle," said I, "I saw a figure as plainly as I see that fire, and
I heard the steps as clearly as I hear the crackle of the fagots.
Besides, we could not both be deceived."

"There is truth in that," said be, thoughtfully.  "You saw no
features, you say?"

"It was too dark."

"But only a figure?"

"The dark outline of one."

"And it retreated up the stairs?"

"Yes."

"And vanished into the wall?"

"Yes."

"What part of the wall?" cried a voice from behind us.

My mother screamed, and down came my father's pipe on to the
hearthrug.  I had sprung round with a catch of my breath, and there
was the valet, Ambrose, his body in the shadow of the doorway, his
dark face protruded into the light, and two burning eyes fixed upon
mine.

"What the deuce is the meaning of this, sir?" cried my uncle.

It was strange to see the gleam and passion fade out of the man's
face, and the demure mask of the valet replace it.  His eyes still
smouldered, but his features regained their prim composure in an
instant.

"I beg your pardon, Sir Charles," said he.  "I had come in to ask
you if you had any orders for me, and I did not like to interrupt
the young gentleman's story.  I am afraid that I have been somewhat
carried away by it."

"I never knew you forget yourself before," said my uncle.

"You will, I am sure, forgive me, Sir Charles, if you will call to
mind the relation in which I stood to Lord Avon."  He spoke with
some dignity of manner, and with a bow he left the room.

"We must make some little allowance," said my uncle, with a sudden
return to his jaunty manner.  "When a man can brew a dish of
chocolate, or tie a cravat, as Ambrose does, he may claim
consideration.  The fact is that the poor fellow was valet to Lord
Avon, that he was at Cliffe Royal upon the fatal night of which I
have spoken, and that he is most devoted to his old master.  But my
talk has been somewhat triste, sister Mary, and now we shall return,
if you please, to the dresses of the Countess Lieven, and the gossip
of St. James."



CHAPTER VI--ON THE THRESHOLD



My father sent me to bed early that night, though I was very eager
to stay up, for every word which this man said held my attention.
His face, his manner, the large waves and sweeps of his white hands,
his easy air of superiority, his fantastic fashion of talk, all
filled me with interest and wonder.  But, as I afterwards learned,
their conversation was to be about myself and my own prospects, so I
was despatched to my room, whence far into the night I could hear
the deep growl of my father and the rich tones of my uncle, with an
occasional gentle murmur from my mother, as they talked in the room
beneath.

I had dropped asleep at last, when I was awakened suddenly by
something wet being pressed against my face, and by two warm arms
which were cast round me.  My mother's cheek was against my own, and
I could hear the click of her sobs, and feel her quiver and shake in
the darkness.  A faint light stole through the latticed window, and
I could dimly see that she was in white, with her black hair loose
upon her shoulders.

"You won't forget us, Roddy?  You won't forget us?"

"Why, mother, what is it?"

"Your uncle, Roddy--he is going to take you away from us."

"When, mother?"

"To-morrow."

God forgive me, how my heart bounded for joy, when hers, which was
within touch of it, was breaking with sorrow!

"Oh, mother!" I cried.  "To London?"

"First to Brighton, that he may present you to the Prince.  Next day
to London, where you will meet the great people, Roddy, and learn to
look down upon--to look down upon your poor, simple, old-fashioned
father and mother."

I put my arms about her to console her, but she wept so that, for
all my seventeen years and pride of manhood, it set me weeping also,
and with such a hiccoughing noise, since I had not a woman's knack
of quiet tears, that it finally turned her own grief to laughter.

"Charles would be flattered if he could see the gracious way in
which we receive his kindness," said she.  "Be still, Roddy dear, or
you will certainly wake him."

"I'll not go if it is to grieve you," I cried.

"Nay, dear, you must go, for it may be the one great chance of your
life.  And think how proud it will make us all when we hear of you
in the company of Charles's grand friends.  But you will promise me
not to gamble, Roddy?  You heard to-night of the dreadful things
which come from it."

"I promise you, mother."

"And you will be careful of wine, Roddy?  You are young and unused
to it."

"Yes, mother."

"And play-actresses also, Roddy.  And you will not cast your
underclothing until June is in.  Young Master Overton came by his
death through it.  Think well of your dress, Roddy, so as to do your
uncle credit, for it is the thing for which he is himself most
famed.  You have but to do what he will direct.  But if there is a
time when you are not meeting grand people, you can wear out your
country things, for your brown coat is as good as new, and the blue
one, if it were ironed and relined, would take you through the
summer.  I have put out your Sunday clothes with the nankeen vest,
since you are to see the Prince to-morrow, and you will wear your
brown silk stockings and buckle shoes.  Be guarded in crossing the
London streets, for I am told that the hackney coaches are past all
imagining.  Fold your clothes when you go to bed, Roddy, and do not
forget your evening prayers, for, oh, my dear boy, the days of
temptation are at hand, when I will no longer be with you to help
you."

So with advice and guidance both for this world and the next did my
mother, with her soft, warm arms around me, prepare me for the great
step which lay before me.

My uncle did not appear at breakfast in the morning, but Ambrose
brewed him a dish of chocolate and took it to his room.  When at
last, about midday, he did descend, he was so fine with his curled
hair, his shining teeth, his quizzing glass, his snow-white ruffles,
and his laughing eyes, that I could not take my gaze from him.

"Well, nephew," he cried, "what do you think of the prospect of
coming to town with me?"

"I thank you, sir, for the kind interest which you take in me," said
I.

"But you must be a credit to me.  My nephew must be of the best if
he is to be in keeping with the rest of me."

"You'll find him a chip of good wood, sir," said my father.

"We must make him a polished chip before we have done with him.
Your aim, my dear nephew, must always be to be in bon ton.  It is
not a case of wealth, you understand.  Mere riches cannot do it.
Golden Price has forty thousand a year, but his clothes are
disastrous.  I assure you that I saw him come down St. James's
Street the other day, and I was so shocked at his appearance that I
had to step into Vernet's for a glass of orange brandy.  No, it is a
question of natural taste, and of following the advice and example
of those who are more experienced than yourself."

"I fear, Charles, that Roddy's wardrobe is country-made," said my
mother.

"We shall soon set that right when we get to town.  We shall see
what Stultz or Weston can do for him," my uncle answered.  "We must
keep him quiet until he has some clothes to wear."

This slight upon my best Sunday suit brought a flush to my mother's
cheeks, which my uncle instantly observed, for he was quick in
noticing trifles.

"The clothes are very well for Friar's Oak, sister Mary," said he.
"And yet you can understand that they might seem rococo in the Mall.
If you leave him in my hands I shall see to the matter."

"On how much, sir," asked my father, "can a young man dress in
town?"

"With prudence and reasonable care, a young man of fashion can dress
upon eight hundred a year," my uncle answered.

I saw my poor father's face grow longer.

"I fear, sir, that Roddy must keep his country clothes," said he.
"Even with my prize-money--"

"Tut, sir!" cried my uncle.  "I already owe Weston something over a
thousand, so how can a few odd hundreds affect it?  If my nephew
comes with me, my nephew is my care.  The point is settled, and I
must refuse to argue upon it."  He waved his white hands as if to
brush aside all opposition.

My parents tried to thank him, but he cut them short.

"By the way, now that I am in Friar's Oak, there is another small
piece of business which I have to perform," said he.  "I believe
that there is a fighting-man named Harrison here, who at one time
might have held the championship.  In those days poor Avon and I
were his principal backers.  I should like to have a word with him."

You may think how proud I was to walk down the village street with
my magnificent relative, and to note out of the corner of my eye how
the folk came to the doors and windows to see us pass.  Champion
Harrison was standing outside the smithy, and he pulled his cap off
when he saw my uncle.

"God bless me, sir!  Who'd ha' thought of seem' you at Friar's Oak?
Why, Sir Charles, it brings old memories back to look at your face
again."

"Glad to see you looking so fit, Harrison," said my uncle, running
his eyes over him.  "Why, with a week's training you would be as
good a man as ever.  I don't suppose you scale more than thirteen
and a half?"

"Thirteen ten, Sir Charles.  I'm in my fortieth year, but I am sound
in wind and limb, and if my old woman would have let me off my
promise, I'd ha' had a try with some of these young ones before now.
I hear that they've got some amazin' good stuff up from Bristol of
late."

"Yes, the Bristol yellowman has been the winning colour of late.
How d'ye do, Mrs. Harrison?  I don't suppose you remember me?"

She had come out from the house, and I noticed that her worn face--
on which some past terror seemed to have left its shadow--hardened
into stern lines as she looked at my uncle.

"I remember you too well, Sir Charles Tregellis," said she.  "I
trust that you have not come here to-day to try to draw my husband
back into the ways that he has forsaken."

"That's the way with her, Sir Charles," said Harrison, resting his
great hand upon the woman's shoulder.  "She's got my promise, and
she holds me to it!  There was never a better or more hard-working
wife, but she ain't what you'd call a patron of sport, and that's a
fact."

"Sport!" cried the woman, bitterly.  "A fine sport for you, Sir
Charles, with your pleasant twenty-mile drive into the country and
your luncheon-basket and your wines, and so merrily back to London
in the cool of the evening, with a well-fought battle to talk over.
Think of the sport that it was to me to sit through the long hours,
listening for the wheels of the chaise which would bring my man back
to me.  Sometimes he could walk in, and sometimes he was led in, and
sometimes he was carried in, and it was only by his clothes that I
could know him--"

"Come, wifie," said Harrison, patting her on the shoulder.  "I've
been cut up in my time, but never as bad as that."

"And then to live for weeks afterwards with the fear that every
knock at the door may be to tell us that the other is dead, and that
my man may have to stand in the dock and take his trial for murder."

"No, she hasn't got a sportin' drop in her veins," said Harrison.
"She'd never make a patron, never!  It's Black Baruk's business that
did it, when we thought he'd napped it once too often.  Well, she
has my promise, and I'll never sling my hat over the ropes unless
she gives me leave."

"You'll keep your hat on your head like an honest, God-fearing man,
John," said his wife, turning back into the house.

"I wouldn't for the world say anything to make you change your
resolutions," said my uncle.  "At the same time, if you had wished
to take a turn at the old sport, I had a good thing to put in your
way."

"Well, it's no use, sir," said Harrison, "but I'd be glad to hear
about it all the same."

"They have a very good bit of stuff at thirteen stone down
Gloucester way.  Wilson is his name, and they call him Crab on
account of his style."

Harrison shook his head.  "Never heard of him, sir."

"Very likely not, for he has never shown in the P.R.  But they think
great things of him in the West, and he can hold his own with either
of the Belchers with the mufflers."

"Sparrin' ain't fightin'," said the smith

"I am told that he had the best of it in a by-battle with Noah
James, of Cheshire."

"There's no gamer man on the list, sir, than Noah James, the
guardsman," said Harrison.  "I saw him myself fight fifty rounds
after his jaw had been cracked in three places.  If Wilson could
beat him, Wilson will go far."

"So they think in the West, and they mean to spring him on the
London talent.  Sir Lothian Hume is his patron, and to make a long
story short, he lays me odds that I won't find a young one of his
weight to meet him.  I told him that I had not heard of any good
young ones, but that I had an old one who had not put his foot into
a ring for many years, who would make his man wish he had never come
to London.

"'Young or old, under twenty or over thirty-five, you may bring whom
you will at the weight, and I shall lay two to one on Wilson,' said
he.  I took him in thousands, and here I am."

"It won't do, Sir Charles," said the smith, shaking his head.
"There's nothing would please me better, but you heard for
yourself."

"Well, if you won't fight, Harrison, I must try to get some
promising colt.  I'd be glad of your advice in the matter.  By the
way, I take the chair at a supper of the Fancy at the Waggon and
Horses in St. Martin's Lane next Friday.  I should be very glad if
you will make one of my guests.  Halloa, who's this?"  Up flew his
glass to his eye.

Boy Jim had come out from the forge with his hammer in his hand.  He
had, I remember, a grey flannel shirt, which was open at the neck
and turned up at the sleeves.  My uncle ran his eyes over the fine
lines of his magnificent figure with the glance of a connoisseur.

"That's my nephew, Sir Charles."

"Is he living with you?"

"His parents are dead."

"Has he ever been in London?"

"No, Sir Charles.  He's been with me here since he was as high as
that hammer."

My uncle turned to Boy Jim.

"I hear that you have never been in London," said he.  "Your uncle
is coming up to a supper which I am giving to the Fancy next Friday.
Would you care to make one of us?"

Boy Jim's dark eyes sparkled with pleasure.

"I should be glad to come, sir."

"No, no, Jim," cried the smith, abruptly.  "I'm sorry to gainsay
you, lad, but there are reasons why I had rather you stayed down
here with your aunt."

"Tut, Harrison, let the lad come!" cried my uncle.

"No, no, Sir Charles.  It's dangerous company for a lad of his
mettle.  There's plenty for him to do when I'm away."

Poor Jim turned away with a clouded brow and strode into the smithy
again.  For my part, I slipped after him to try to console him, and
to tell him all the wonderful changes which had come so suddenly
into my life.  But I had not got half through my story, and Jim,
like the good fellow that he was, had just begun to forget his own
troubles in his delight at my good fortune, when my uncle called to
me from without.  The curricle with its tandem mares was waiting for
us outside the cottage, and Ambrose had placed the refection-basket,
the lap-dog, and the precious toilet-box inside of it.  He had
himself climbed up behind, and I, after a hearty handshake from my
father, and a last sobbing embrace from my mother, took my place
beside my uncle in the front.

"Let go her head!" cried he to the ostler, and with a snap, a crack,
and a jingle, away we went upon our journey.

Across all the years how clearly I can see that spring day, with the
green English fields, the windy English sky, and the yellow, beetle-
browed cottage in which I had grown from a child to a man.  I see,
too, the figures at the garden gate:  my mother, with her face
turned away and her handkerchief waving; my father, with his blue
coat and his white shorts, leaning upon his stick with his hand
shading his eyes as he peered after us.  All the village was out to
see young Roddy Stone go off with his grand relative from London to
call upon the Prince in his own palace.  The Harrisons were waving
to me from the smithy, and John Cummings from the steps of the inn,
and I saw Joshua Allen, my old schoolmaster, pointing me out to the
people, as if he were showing what came from his teaching.  To make
it complete, who should drive past just as we cleared the village
but Miss Hinton, the play-actress, the pony and phaeton the same as
when first I saw her, but she herself another woman; and I thought
to myself that if Boy Jim had done nothing but that one thing, he
need not think that his youth had been wasted in the country.  She
was driving to see him, I have no doubt, for they were closer than
ever, and she never looked up nor saw the hand that I waved to her.
So as we took the curve of the road the little village vanished, and
there in the dip of the Downs, past the spires of Patcham and of
Preston, lay the broad blue sea and the grey houses of Brighton,
with the strange Eastern domes and minarets of the Prince's Pavilion
shooting out from the centre of it.

To every traveller it was a sight of beauty, but to me it was the
world--the great wide free world--and my heart thrilled and
fluttered as the young bird's may when it first hears the whirr of
its own flight, and skims along with the blue heaven above it and
the green fields beneath.  The day may come when it may look back
regretfully to the snug nest in the thornbush, but what does it reck
of that when spring is in the air and youth in its blood, and the
old hawk of trouble has not yet darkened the sunshine with the ill-
boding shadow of its wings?



CHAPTER VII--THE HOPE OF ENGLAND



My uncle drove for some time in silence, but I was conscious that
his eye was always coming round to me, and I had an uneasy
conviction that he was already beginning to ask himself whether he
could make anything of me, or whether he had been betrayed into an
indiscretion when he had allowed his sister to persuade him to show
her son something of the grand world in which he lived.

"You sing, don't you, nephew?" he asked, suddenly.

"Yes, sir, a little."

"A baritone, I should fancy?"

"Yes, sir."

"And your mother tells me that you play the fiddle.  These things
will be of service to you with the Prince.  Music runs in his
family.  Your education has been what you could get at a village
school.  Well, you are not examined in Greek roots in polite
society, which is lucky for some of us.  It is as well just to have
a tag or two of Horace or Virgil:  'sub tegmine fagi,' or 'habet
foenum in cornu,' which gives a flavour to one's conversation like
the touch of garlic in a salad.  It is not bon ton to be learned,
but it is a graceful thing to indicate that you have forgotten a
good deal.  Can you write verse?"

"I fear not, sir."

"A small book of rhymes may be had for half a crown.  Vers de
Societe are a great assistance to a young man.  If you have the
ladies on your side, it does not matter whom you have against you.
You must learn to open a door, to enter a room, to present a snuff-
box, raising the lid with the forefinger of the hand in which you
hold it.  You must acquire the bow for a man, with its necessary
touch of dignity, and that for a lady, which cannot be too humble,
and should still contain the least suspicion of abandon.  You must
cultivate a manner with women which shall be deprecating and yet
audacious.  Have you any eccentricity?"

It made me laugh, the easy way in which he asked the question, as if
it were a most natural thing to possess.

"You have a pleasant, catching laugh, at all events," said he.  "But
an eccentricity is very bon ton at present, and if you feel any
leaning towards one, I should certainly advise you to let it run its
course.  Petersham would have remained a mere peer all his life had
it not come out that he had a snuff-box for every day in the year,
and that he had caught cold through a mistake of his valet, who sent
him out on a bitter winter day with a thin Sevres china box instead
of a thick tortoiseshell.  That brought him out of the ruck, you
see, and people remember him.  Even some small characteristic, such
as having an apricot tart on your sideboard all the year round, or
putting your candle out at night by stuffing it under your pillow,
serves to separate you from your neighbour.  In my own case, it is
my precise judgment upon matter of dress and decorum which has
placed me where I am.  I do not profess to follow a law.  I set one.
For example, I am taking you to-day to see the Prince in a nankeen
vest.  What do you think will be the consequence of that?"

My fears told me that it might be my own very great discomfiture,
but I did not say so.

"Why, the night coach will carry the news to London.  It will be in
Brookes's and White's to-morrow morning.  Within, a week St. James's
Street and the Mall will be full of nankeen waistcoats.  A most
painful incident happened to me once.  My cravat came undone in the
street, and I actually walked from Carlton House to Watier's in
Bruton Street with the two ends hanging loose.  Do you suppose it
shook my position?  The same evening there were dozens of young
bloods walking the streets of London with their cravats loose.  If I
had not rearranged mine there would not be one tied in the whole
kingdom now, and a great art would have been prematurely lost.  You
have not yet began to practise it?"

I confessed that I had not.

"You should begin now in your youth.  I will myself teach you the
coup d'archet.  By using a few hours in each day, which would
otherwise be wasted, you may hope to have excellent cravats in
middle life.  The whole knack lies in pointing your chin to the sky,
and then arranging your folds by the gradual descent of your lower
jaw."

When my uncle spoke like this there was always that dancing,
mischievous light in his dark blue eyes, which showed me that this
humour of his was a conscious eccentricity, depending, as I believe,
upon a natural fastidiousness of taste, but wilfully driven to
grotesque lengths for the very reason which made him recommend me
also to develop some peculiarity of my own.  When I thought of the
way in which he had spoken of his unhappy friend, Lord Avon, upon
the evening before, and of the emotion which he showed as he told
the horrible story, I was glad to think that there was the heart of
a man there, however much it might please him to conceal it.

And, as it happened, I was very soon to have another peep at it, for
a most unexpected event befell us as we drew up in front of the
Crown hotel.  A swarm of ostlers and grooms had rushed out to us,
and my uncle, throwing down the reins, gathered Fidelio on his
cushion from under the seat.

"Ambrose," he cried, "you may take Fidelio."

But there came no answer.  The seat behind was unoccupied.  Ambrose
was gone.

We could hardly believe our eyes when we alighted and found that it
was really so.  He had most certainly taken his seat there at
Friar's Oak, and from there on we had come without a break as fast
as the mares could travel.  Whither, then, could he have vanished
to?

"He's fallen off in a fit!" cried my uncle.  "I'd drive back, but
the Prince is expecting us.  Where's the landlord?  Here, Coppinger,
send your best man back to Friar's Oak as fast as his horse can go,
to find news of my valet, Ambrose.  See that no pains be spared.
Now, nephew, we shall lunch, and then go up to the Pavilion."

My uncle was much disturbed by the strange loss of his valet, the
more so as it was his custom to go through a whole series of
washings and changings after even the shortest journey.  For my own
part, mindful of my mother's advice, I carefully brushed the dust
from my clothes and made myself as neat as possible.  My heart was
down in the soles of my little silver-buckled shoes now that I had
the immediate prospect of meeting so great and terrible a person as
the Prince of Wales.  I had seen his flaring yellow barouche flying
through Friar's Oak many a time, and had halloaed and waved my hat
with the others as it passed, but never in my wildest dreams had it
entered my head that I should ever be called upon to look him in the
face and answer his questions.  My mother had taught me to regard
him with reverence, as one of those whom God had placed to rule over
us; but my uncle smiled when I told him of her teaching.

"You are old enough to see things as they are, nephew," said he,
"and your knowledge of them is the badge that you are in that inner
circle where I mean to place you.  There is no one who knows the
Prince better than I do, and there is no one who trusts him less.  A
stranger contradiction of qualities was never gathered under one
hat.  He is a man who is always in a hurry, and yet has never
anything to do.  He fusses about things with which he has no
concern, and he neglects every obvious duty.  He is generous to
those who have no claim upon him, but he has ruined his tradesmen by
refusing to pay his just debts.  He is affectionate to casual
acquaintances, but he dislikes his father, loathes his mother, and
is not on speaking terms with his wife.  He claims to be the first
gentleman of England, but the gentlemen of England have responded by
blackballing his friends at their clubs, and by warning him off from
Newmarket under suspicion of having tampered with a horse.  He
spends his days in uttering noble sentiments, and contradicting them
by ignoble actions.  He tells stories of his own doings which are so
grotesque that they can only be explained by the madness which runs
in his blood.  And yet, with all this, he can be courteous,
dignified, and kindly upon occasion, and I have seen an impulsive
good-heartedness in the man which has made me overlook faults which
come mainly from his being placed in a position which no one upon
this earth was ever less fitted to fill.  But this is between
ourselves, nephew; and now you will come with me and you will form
an opinion for yourself."

It was but a short walk, and yet it took us some time, for my uncle
stalked along with great dignity, his lace-bordered handkerchief in
one hand, and his cane with the clouded amber head dangling from the
other.  Every one that we met seemed to know him, and their hats
flew from their heads as we passed.  He took little notice of these
greetings, save to give a nod to one, or to slightly raise his
forefinger to another.  It chanced, however, that as we turned into
the Pavilion Grounds, we met a magnificent team of four coal-black
horses, driven by a rough-looking, middle-aged fellow in an old
weather-stained cape.  There was nothing that I could see to
distinguish him from any professional driver, save that he was
chatting very freely with a dainty little woman who was perched on
the box beside him.

"Halloa, Charlie!  Good drive down?" he cried.

My uncle bowed and smiled to the lady.

"Broke it at Friar's Oak," said he.  "I've my light curricle and two
new mares--half thorough-bred, half Cleveland bay."

"What d'you think of my team of blacks?" asked the other.

"Yes, Sir Charles, what d'you think of them?  Ain't they damnation
smart?" cried the little woman.

"Plenty of power.  Good horses for the Sussex clay.  Too thick about
the fetlocks for me.  I like to travel."

"Travel!" cried the woman, with extraordinary vehemence.  "Why, what
the--" and she broke into such language as I had never heard from a
man's lips before.  "We'd start with our swingle-bars touching, and
we'd have your dinner ordered, cooked, laid, and eaten before you
were there to claim it."

"By George, yes, Letty is right!" cried the man.  "D'you start to-
morrow?"

"Yes, Jack."

"Well, I'll make you an offer.  Look ye here, Charlie!  I'll spring
my cattle from the Castle Square at quarter before nine.  You can
follow as the clock strikes.  I've double the horses and double the
weight.  If you so much as see me before we cross Westminster
Bridge, I'll pay you a cool hundred.  If not, it's my money--play or
pay.  Is it a match?"

"Very good," said my uncle, and, raising his hat, he led the way
into the grounds.  As I followed, I saw the woman take the reins,
while the man looked after us, and squirted a jet of tobacco-juice
from between his teeth in coachman fashion.

"That's Sir John Lade," said my uncle, "one of the richest men and
best whips in England.  There isn't a professional on the road that
can handle either his tongue or his ribbons better; but his wife,
Lady Letty, is his match with the one or the other."

"It was dreadful to hear her," said I.

"Oh, it's her eccentricity.  We all have them; and she amuses the
Prince.  Now, nephew, keep close at my elbow, and have your eyes
open and your mouth shut."

Two lines of magnificent red and gold footmen who guarded the door
bowed deeply as my uncle and I passed between them, he with his head
in the air and a manner as if he entered into his own, whilst I
tried to look assured, though my heart was beating thin and fast.
Within there was a high and large hall, ornamented with Eastern
decorations, which harmonized with the domes and minarets of the
exterior.  A number of people were moving quietly about, forming
into groups and whispering to each other.  One of these, a short,
burly, red-faced man, full of fuss and self-importance, came
hurrying up to my uncle.

"I have de goot news, Sir Charles," said he, sinking his voice as
one who speaks of weighty measures.  "Es ist vollendet--dat is, I
have it at last thoroughly done."

"Well, serve it hot," said my uncle, coldly, "and see that the
sauces are a little better than when last I dined at Carlton House."

"Ah, mine Gott, you tink I talk of de cuisine.  It is de affair of
de Prince dat I speak of.  Dat is one little vol-au-vent dat is
worth one hundred tousand pound.  Ten per cent., and double to be
repaid when de Royal pappa die.  Alles ist fertig.  Goldshmidt of de
Hague have took it up, and de Dutch public has subscribe de money."

"God help the Dutch public!" muttered my uncle, as the fat little
man bustled off with his news to some new-comer.  "That's the
Prince's famous cook, nephew.  He has not his equal in England for a
filet saute aux champignons.  He manages his master's money
affairs."

"The cook!" I exclaimed, in bewilderment.

"You look surprised, nephew."

"I should have thought that some respectable banking firm--"

My uncle inclined his lips to my ear.

"No respectable house would touch them," he whispered.  "Ah,
Mellish, is the Prince within?"

"In the private saloon, Sir Charles," said the gentleman addressed.

"Any one with him?"

"Sheridan and Francis.  He said he expected you."

"Then we shall go through."

I followed him through the strangest succession of rooms, full of
curious barbaric splendour which impressed me as being very rich and
wonderful, though perhaps I should think differently now.  Gold and
scarlet in arabesque designs gleamed upon the walls, with gilt
dragons and monsters writhing along cornices and out of corners.
Look where I would, on panel or ceiling, a score of mirrors flashed
back the picture of the tall, proud, white-faced man, and the youth
who walked so demurely at his elbow.  Finally, a footman opened a
door, and we found ourselves in the Prince's own private apartment.

Two gentlemen were lounging in a very easy fashion upon luxurious
fauteuils at the further end of the room and a third stood between
them, his thick, well-formed legs somewhat apart and his hands
clasped behind him.  The sun was shining in upon them through a
side-window, and I can see the three faces now--one in the dusk, one
in the light, and one cut across by the shadow.  Of those at the
sides, I recall the reddish nose and dark, flashing eyes of the one,
and the hard, austere face of the other, with the high coat-collars
and many-wreathed cravats.  These I took in at a glance, but it was
upon the man in the centre that my gaze was fixed, for this I knew
must be the Prince of Wales.

George was then in his forty-first year, and with the help of his
tailor and his hairdresser, he might have passed as somewhat less.
The sight of him put me at my ease, for he was a merry-looking man,
handsome too in a portly, full-blooded way, with laughing eyes and
pouting, sensitive lips.  His nose was turned upwards, which
increased the good-humoured effect of his countenance at the expense
of its dignity.  His cheeks were pale and sodden, like those of a
man who lived too well and took too little exercise.  He was dressed
in a single-breasted black coat buttoned up, a pair of leather
pantaloons stretched tightly across his broad thighs, polished
Hessian boots, and a huge white neckcloth.

"Halloa, Tregellis!" he cried, in the cheeriest fashion, as my uncle
crossed the threshold, and then suddenly the smile faded from his
face, and his eyes gleamed with resentment.  "What the deuce is
this?" he shouted, angrily.

A thrill of fear passed through me as I thought that it was my
appearance which had produced this outburst.  But his eyes were
gazing past us, and glancing round we saw that a man in a brown coat
and scratch wig had followed so closely at our heels, that the
footmen had let him pass under the impression that he was of our
party.  His face was very red, and the folded blue paper which he
carried in his hand shook and crackled in his excitement.

"Why, it's Vuillamy, the furniture man," cried the Prince.  "What,
am I to be dunned in my own private room?  Where's Mellish?  Where's
Townshend?  What the deuce is Tom Tring doing?"

"I wouldn't have intruded, your Royal Highness, but I must have the
money--or even a thousand on account would do."

"Must have it, must you, Vuillamy?  That's a fine word to use.  I
pay my debts in my own time, and I'm not to be bullied.  Turn him
out, footman!  Take him away!"

"If I don't get it by Monday, I shall be in your papa's Bench,"
wailed the little man, and as the footman led him out we could hear
him, amidst shouts of laughter, still protesting that he would wind
up in "papa's Bench."

"That's the very place for a furniture man," said the man with the
red nose.

"It should be the longest bench in the world, Sherry," answered the
Prince, "for a good many of his subjects will want seats on it.
Very glad to see you back, Tregellis, but you must really be more
careful what you bring in upon your skirts.  It was only yesterday
that we had an infernal Dutchman here howling about some arrears of
interest and the deuce knows what.  'My good fellow,' said I, 'as
long as the Commons starve me, I have to starve you,' and so the
matter ended."

"I think, sir, that the Commons would respond now if the matter were
fairly put before them by Charlie Fox or myself," said Sheridan.

The Prince burst out against the Commons with an energy of hatred
that one would scarce expect from that chubby, good-humoured face.

"Why, curse them!" he cried.  "After all their preaching and
throwing my father's model life, as they called it, in my teeth,
they had to pay HIS debts to the tune of nearly a million, whilst I
can't get a hundred thousand out of them.  And look at all they've
done for my brothers!  York is Commander-in-Chief.  Clarence is
Admiral.  What am I?  Colonel of a damned dragoon regiment under the
orders of my own younger brother.  It's my mother that's at the
bottom of it all.  She always tried to hold me back.  But what's
this you've brought, Tregellis, eh?"

My uncle put his hand on my sleeve and led me forward.

"This is my sister's son, sir; Rodney Stone by name," said he.  "He
is coming with me to London, and I thought it right to begin by
presenting him to your Royal Highness."

"Quite right!  Quite right!" said the Prince, with a good-natured
smile, patting me in a friendly way upon the shoulder.  "Is your
mother living?"

"Yes, sir," said I.

"If you are a good son to her you will never go wrong.  And, mark my
words, Mr. Rodney Stone, you should honour the King, love your
country, and uphold the glorious British Constitution."

When I thought of the energy with which he had just been cursing the
House of Commons, I could scarce keep from smiling, and I saw
Sheridan put his hand up to his lips.

"You have only to do this, to show a regard for your word, and to
keep out of debt in order to insure a happy and respected life.
What is your father, Mr. Stone?  Royal Navy!  Well, it is a glorious
service.  I have had a touch of it myself.  Did I ever tell you how
we laid aboard the French sloop of war Minerve--hey, Tregellis?"

"No, sir," said my uncle.  Sheridan and Francis exchanged glances
behind the Prince's back.

"She was flying her tricolour out there within sight of my pavilion
windows.  Never saw such monstrous impudence in my life!  It would
take a man of less mettle than me to stand it.  Out I went in my
little cock-boat--you know my sixty-ton yawl, Charlie?--with two
four-pounders on each side, and a six-pounder in the bows."

"Well, sir!  Well, sir!  And what then, sir?" cried Francis, who
appeared to be an irascible, rough-tongued man.

"You will permit me to tell the story in my own way, Sir Philip,"
said the Prince, with dignity.  "I was about to say that our metal
was so light that I give you my word, gentlemen, that I carried my
port broadside in one coat pocket, and my starboard in the other.
Up we came to the big Frenchman, took her fire, and scraped the
paint off her before we let drive.  But it was no use.  By George,
gentlemen, our balls just stuck in her timbers like stones in a mud
wall.  She had her nettings up, but we scrambled aboard, and at it
we went hammer and anvil.  It was a sharp twenty minutes, but we
beat her people down below, made the hatches fast on them, and towed
her into Seaham.  Surely you were with us, Sherry?"

"I was in London at the time," said Sheridan, gravely.

"You can vouch for it, Francis!"

"I can vouch to having heard your Highness tell the story."

"It was a rough little bit of cutlass and pistol work.  But, for my
own part, I like the rapier.  It's a gentleman's weapon.  You heard
of my bout with the Chevalier d'Eon?  I had him at my sword-point
for forty minutes at Angelo's.  He was one of the best blades in
Europe, but I was a little too supple in the wrist for him.  'I
thank God there was a button on your Highness's foil,' said he, when
we had finished our breather.  By the way, you're a bit of a
duellist yourself, Tregellis.  How often have you been out?"

"I used to go when I needed exercise," said my uncle, carelessly.
"But I have taken to tennis now instead.  A painful incident
happened the last time that I was out, and it sickened me of it."

"You killed your man--?"

"No, no, sir, it was worse than that.  I had a coat that Weston has
never equalled.  To say that it fitted me is not to express it.  It
WAS me--like the hide on a horse.  I've had sixty from him since,
but he could never approach it.  The sit of the collar brought tears
into my eyes, sir, when first I saw it; and as to the waist--"

"But the duel, Tregellis!" cried the Prince.

"Well, sir, I wore it at the duel, like the thoughtless fool that I
was.  It was Major Hunter, of the Guards, with whom I had had a
little tracasserie, because I hinted that he should not come into
Brookes's smelling of the stables.  I fired first, and missed.  He
fired, and I shrieked in despair.  'He's hit!  A surgeon!  A
surgeon!' they cried.  'A tailor!  A tailor!' said I, for there was
a double hole through the tails of my masterpiece.  No, it was past
all repair.  You may laugh, sir, but I'll never see the like of it
again."

I had seated myself on a settee in the corner, upon the Prince's
invitation, and very glad I was to remain quiet and unnoticed,
listening to the talk of these men.  It was all in the same
extravagant vein, garnished with many senseless oaths; but I
observed this difference, that, whereas my uncle and Sheridan had
something of humour in their exaggeration, Francis tended always to
ill-nature, and the Prince to self-glorification.  Finally, the
conversation turned to music--I am not sure that my uncle did not
artfully bring it there, and the Prince, hearing from him of my
tastes, would have it that I should then and there sit down at the
wonderful little piano, all inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which stood
in the corner, and play him the accompaniment to his song.  It was
called, as I remember, "The Briton Conquers but to Save," and he
rolled it out in a very fair bass voice, the others joining in the
chorus, and clapping vigorously when he finished.

"Bravo, Mr. Stone!" said he.  "You have an excellent touch; and I
know what I am talking about when I speak of music.  Cramer, of the
Opera, said only the other day that he had rather hand his baton to
me than to any amateur in England.  Halloa, it's Charlie Fox, by all
that's wonderful!"

He had run forward with much warmth, and was shaking the hand of a
singular-looking person who had just entered the room.  The new-
comer was a stout, square-built man, plainly and almost carelessly
dressed, with an uncouth manner and a rolling gait.  His age might
have been something over fifty, and his swarthy, harshly-featured
face was already deeply lined either by his years or by his
excesses.  I have never seen a countenance in which the angel and
the devil were more obviously wedded.  Above, was the high, broad
forehead of the philosopher, with keen, humorous eyes looking out
from under thick, strong brows.  Below, was the heavy jowl of the
sensualist curving in a broad crease over his cravat.  That brow was
the brow of the public Charles Fox, the thinker, the philanthropist,
the man who rallied and led the Liberal party during the twenty most
hazardous years of its existence.  That jaw was the jaw of the
private Charles Fox, the gambler, the libertine, the drunkard.  Yet
to his sins he never added the crowning one of hypocrisy.  His vices
were as open as his virtues.  In some quaint freak of Nature, two
spirits seemed to have been joined in one body, and the same frame
to contain the best and the worst man of his age.

"I've run down from Chertsey, sir, just to shake you by the hand,
and to make sure that the Tories have not carried you off."

"Hang it, Charlie, you know that I sink or swim with my friends!  A
Whig I started, and a Whig I shall remain."

I thought that I could read upon Fox's dark face that he was by no
means so confident about the Prince's principles.

"Pitt has been at you, sir, I understand?"

"Yes, confound him!  I hate the sight of that sharp-pointed snout of
his, which he wants to be ever poking into my affairs.  He and
Addington have been boggling about the debts again.  Why, look ye,
Charlie, if Pitt held me in contempt he could not behave different."

I gathered from the smile which flitted over Sheridan's expressive
face that this was exactly what Pitt did do.  But straightway they
all plunged into politics, varied by the drinking of sweet
maraschino, which a footman brought round upon a salver.  The King,
the Queen, the Lords, and the Commons were each in succession cursed
by the Prince, in spite of the excellent advice which he had given
me about the British Constitution.

"Why, they allow me so little that I can't look after my own people.
There are a dozen annuities to old servants and the like, and it's
all I can do to scrape the money together to pay them.  However,
my"--he pulled himself up and coughed in a consequential way--"my
financial agent has arranged for a loan, repayable upon the King's
death.  This liqueur isn't good for either of us, Charlie.  We're
both getting monstrous stout."

"I can't get any exercise for the gout," said Fox.

"I am blooded fifty ounces a month, but the more I take the more I
make.  You wouldn't think, to look at us, Tregellis, that we could
do what we have done.  We've had some days and nights together,
Charlie!"

Fox smiled and shook his head.

"You remember how we posted to Newmarket before the races.  We took
a public coach, Tregellis, clapped the postillions into the rumble,
and jumped on to their places.  Charlie rode the leader and I the
wheeler.  One fellow wouldn't let us through his turnpike, and
Charlie hopped off and had his coat off in a minute.  The fellow
thought he had to do with a fighting man, and soon cleared the way
for us."

"By the way, sir, speaking of fighting men, I give a supper to the
Fancy at the Waggon and Horses on Friday next," said my uncle.  "If
you should chance to be in town, they would think it a great honour
if you should condescend to look in upon us."

"I've not seen a fight since I saw Tom Tyne, the tailor, kill Earl
fourteen years ago.  I swore off then, and you know me as a man of
my word, Tregellis.  Of course, I've been at the ringside incog.
many a time, but never as the Prince of Wales."

"We should be vastly honoured if you would come incog. to our
supper, sir."

"Well, well, Sherry, make a note of it.  We'll be at Carlton House
on Friday.  The Prince can't come, you know, Tregellis, but you
might reserve a chair for the Earl of Chester."

"Sir, we shall be proud to see the Earl of Chester there," said my
uncle.

"By the way, Tregellis," said Fox, "there's some rumour about your
having a sporting bet with Sir Lothian Hume.  What's the truth of
it?"

"Only a small matter of a couple of thous to a thou, he giving the
odds.  He has a fancy to this new Gloucester man, Crab Wilson, and
I'm to find a man to beat him.  Anything under twenty or over
thirty-five, at or about thirteen stone."

"You take Charlie Fox's advice, then," cried the Prince.  "When it
comes to handicapping a horse, playing a hand, matching a cock, or
picking a man, he has the best judgment in England.  Now, Charlie,
whom have we upon the list who can beat Crab Wilson, of Gloucester?"

I was amazed at the interest and knowledge which all these great
people showed about the ring, for they not only had the deeds of the
principal men of the time--Belcher, Mendoza, Jackson, or Dutch Sam--
at their fingers' ends, but there was no fighting man so obscure
that they did not know the details of his deeds and prospects.  The
old ones and then the young were discussed--their weight, their
gameness, their hitting power, and their constitution.  Who, as he
saw Sheridan and Fox eagerly arguing as to whether Caleb Baldwin,
the Westminster costermonger, could hold his own with Isaac Bittoon,
the Jew, would have guessed that the one was the deepest political
philosopher in Europe, and that the other would be remembered as the
author of the wittiest comedy and of the finest speech of his
generation?

The name of Champion Harrison came very early into the discussion,
and Fox, who had a high idea of Crab Wilson's powers, was of opinion
that my uncle's only chance lay in the veteran taking the field
again.  "He may be slow on his pins, but he fights with his head,
and he hits like the kick of a horse.  When he finished Black Baruk
the man flew across the outer ring as well as the inner, and fell
among the spectators.  If he isn't absolutely stale, Tregellis, he
is your best chance."

My uncle shrugged his shoulders.

"If poor Avon were here we might do something with him, for he was
Harrison's first patron, and the man was devoted to him.  But his
wife is too strong for me.  And now, sir, I must leave you, for I
have had the misfortune to-day to lose the best valet in England,
and I must make inquiry for him.  I thank your Royal Highness for
your kindness in receiving my nephew in so gracious a fashion."

"Till Friday, then," said the Prince, holding out his hand.  "I have
to go up to town in any case, for there is a poor devil of an East
India Company's officer who has written to me in his distress.  If I
can raise a few hundreds, I shall see him and set things right for
him.  Now, Mr. Stone, you have your life before you, and I hope it
will be one which your uncle may be proud of.  You will honour the
King, and show respect for the Constitution, Mr. Stone.  And, hark
ye, you will avoid debt, and bear in mind that your honour is a
sacred thing."

So I carried away a last impression of his sensual, good-humoured
face, his high cravat, and his broad leather thighs.  Again we
passed the strange rooms, the gilded monsters, and the gorgeous
footmen, and it was with relief that I found myself out in the open
air once more, with the broad blue sea in front of us, and the fresh
evening breeze upon our faces.



CHAPTER VIII--THE BRIGHTON ROAD



My uncle and I were up betimes next morning, but he was much out of
temper, for no news had been heard of his valet Ambrose.  He had
indeed become like one of those ants of which I have read, who are
so accustomed to be fed by smaller ants that when they are left to
themselves they die of hunger.  It was only by the aid of a man whom
the landlord procured, and of Fox's valet, who had been sent
expressly across, that his toilet was at last performed.

"I must win this race, nephew," said he, when he had finished
breakfast; "I can't afford to be beat.  Look out of the window and
see if the Lades are there."

"I see a red four-in-hand in the square, and there is a crowd round
it.  Yes, I see the lady upon the box seat."

"Is our tandem out?"

"It is at the door."

"Come, then, and you shall have such a drive as you never had
before."

He stood at the door pulling on his long brown driving-gauntlets and
giving his orders to the ostlers.

"Every ounce will tell," said he.  "We'll leave that dinner-basket
behind.  And you can keep my dog for me, Coppinger.  You know him
and understand him.  Let him have his warm milk and curacoa the same
as usual.  Whoa, my darlings, you'll have your fill of it before you
reach Westminster Bridge."

"Shall I put in the toilet-case?" asked the landlord.  I saw the
struggle upon my uncle's face, but he was true to his principles.

"Put it under the seat--the front seat," said he.  "Nephew, you must
keep your weight as far forward as possible.  Can you do anything on
a yard of tin?  Well, if you can't, we'll leave the trumpet.  Buckle
that girth up, Thomas.  Have you greased the hubs, as I told you?
Well, jump up, nephew, and we'll see them off."

Quite a crowd had gathered in the Old Square:  men and women, dark-
coated tradesmen, bucks from the Prince's Court, and officers from
Hove, all in a buzz of excitement; for Sir John Lade and my uncle
were two of the most famous whips of the time, and a match between
them was a thing to talk of for many a long day.

"The Prince will be sorry to have missed the start," said my uncle.
"He doesn't show before midday.  Ah, Jack, good morning!  Your
servant, madam!  It's a fine day for a little bit of waggoning."

As our tandem came alongside of the four-in-hand, with the two bonny
bay mares gleaming like shot-silk in the sunshine, a murmur of
admiration rose from the crowd.  My uncle, in his fawn-coloured
driving-coat, with all his harness of the same tint, looked the
ideal of a Corinthian whip; while Sir John Lade, with his many-caped
coat, his white hat, and his rough, weather-beaten face, might have
taken his seat with a line of professionals upon any ale-house bench
without any one being able to pick him out as one of the wealthiest
landowners in England.  It was an age of eccentricity, but he had
carried his peculiarities to a length which surprised even the out-
and-outers by marrying the sweetheart of a famous highwayman when
the gallows had come between her and her lover.  She was perched by
his side, looking very smart in a flowered bonnet and grey
travelling-dress, while in front of them the four splendid coal-
black horses, with a flickering touch of gold upon their powerful,
well-curved quarters, were pawing the dust in their eagerness to be
off.

"It's a hundred that you don't see us before Westminster with a
quarter of an hour's start," said Sir John.

"I'll take you another hundred that we pass you," answered my uncle.

"Very good.  Time's up.  Good-bye!"  He gave a tchk of the tongue,
shook his reins, saluted with his whip; in true coachman's style,
and away he went, taking the curve out of the square in a
workmanlike fashion that fetched a cheer from the crowd.  We heard
the dwindling roar of the wheels upon the cobblestones until they
died away in the distance.

It seemed one of the longest quarters of an hour that I had ever
known before the first stroke of nine boomed from the parish clock.
For my part, I was fidgeting in my seat in my impatience, but my
uncle's calm, pale face and large blue eyes were as tranquil and
demure as those of the most unconcerned spectator.  He was keenly on
the alert, however, and it seemed to me that the stroke of the clock
and the thong of his whip fell together--not in a blow, but in a
sharp snap over the leader, which sent us flying with a jingle and a
rattle upon our fifty miles' journey.  I heard a roar from behind
us, saw the gliding lines of windows with staring faces and waving
handkerchiefs, and then we were off the stones and on to the good
white road which curved away in front of us, with the sweep of the
green downs upon either side.

I had been provided with shillings that the turnpike-gate might not
stop us, but my uncle reined in the mares and took them at a very
easy trot up all the heavy stretch which ends in Clayton Hill.  He
let them go then, and we flashed through Friar's Oak and across St.
John's Common without more than catching a glimpse of the yellow
cottage which contained all that I loved best.  Never have I
travelled at such a pace, and never have I felt such a sense of
exhilaration from the rush of keen upland air upon our faces, and
from the sight of those two glorious creatures stretched to their
utmost, with the roar of their hoofs and the rattle of our wheels as
the light curricle bounded and swayed behind them.

"It's a long four miles uphill from here to Hand Cross," said my
uncle, as we flew through Cuckfield.  "I must ease them a bit, for I
cannot afford to break the hearts of my cattle.  They have the right
blood in them, and they would gallop until they dropped if I were
brute enough to let them.  Stand up on the seat, nephew, and see if
you can get a glimpse of them."

I stood up, steadying myself upon my uncle's shoulder, but though I
could see for a mile, or perhaps a quarter more, there was not a
sign of the four-in-hand.

"If he has sprung his cattle up all these hills they'll be spent ere
they see Croydon," said he.

"They have four to two," said I.

"J'en suis bien sur.  Sir John's black strain makes a good, honest
creature, but not fliers like these.  There lies Cuckfield Place,
where the towers are, yonder.  Get your weight right forward on the
splashboard now that we are going uphill, nephew.  Look at the
action of that leader:  did ever you see anything more easy and more
beautiful?"

We were taking the hill at a quiet trot, but even so, we made the
carrier, walking in the shadow of his huge, broad-wheeled, canvas-
covered waggon, stare at us in amazement.  Close to Hand Cross we
passed the Royal Brighton stage, which had left at half-past seven,
dragging heavily up the slope, and its passengers, toiling along
through the dust behind, gave us a cheer as we whirled by.  At Hand
Cross we caught a glimpse of the old landlord, hurrying out with his
gin and his gingerbread; but the dip of the ground was downwards
now, and away we flew as fast as eight gallant hoofs could take us.

"Do you drive, nephew?"

"Very little, sir."

"There is no driving on the Brighton Road."

"How is that, sir?"

"Too good a road, nephew.  I have only to give them their heads, and
they will race me into Westminster.  It wasn't always so.  When I
was a very young man one might learn to handle his twenty yards of
tape here as well as elsewhere.  There's not much really good
waggoning now south of Leicestershire.  Show me a man who can hit
'em and hold 'em on a Yorkshire dale-side, and that's the man who
comes from the right school."

We had raced over Crawley Down and into the broad main street of
Crawley village, flying between two country waggons in a way which
showed me that even now a driver might do something on the road.
With every turn I peered ahead, looking for our opponents, but my
uncle seemed to concern himself very little about them, and occupied
himself in giving me advice, mixed up with so many phrases of the
craft, that it was all that I could do to follow him.

"Keep a finger for each, or you will have your reins clubbed," said
he.  "As to the whip, the less fanning the better if you have
willing cattle; but when you want to put a little life into a coach,
see that you get your thong on to the one that needs it, and don't
let it fly round after you've hit.  I've seen a driver warm up the
off-side passenger on the roof behind him every time he tried to cut
his off-side wheeler.  I believe that is their dust over yonder."

A long stretch of road lay before us, barred with the shadows of
wayside trees.  Through the green fields a lazy blue river was
drawing itself slowly along, passing under a bridge in front of us.
Beyond was a young fir plantation, and over its olive line there
rose a white whirl which drifted swiftly, like a cloud-scud on a
breezy day.

"Yes, yes, it's they!" cried my uncle.  "No one else would travel as
fast.  Come, nephew, we're half-way when we cross the mole at
Kimberham Bridge, and we've done it in two hours and fourteen
minutes.  The Prince drove to Carlton House with a three tandem in
four hours and a half.  The first half is the worst half, and we
might cut his time if all goes well.  We should make up between this
and Reigate."

And we flew.  The bay mares seemed to know what that white puff in
front of us signified, and they stretched themselves like
greyhounds.  We passed a phaeton and pair London-bound, and we left
it behind as if it had been standing still.  Trees, gates, cottages
went dancing by.  We heard the folks shouting from the fields, under
the impression that we were a runaway.  Faster and faster yet they
raced, the hoofs rattling like castanets, the yellow manes flying,
the wheels buzzing, and every joint and rivet creaking and groaning,
while the curricle swung and swayed until I found myself clutching
to the side-rail.  My uncle eased them and glanced at his watch as
we saw the grey tiles and dingy red houses of Reigate in the hollow
beneath us.

"We did the last six well under twenty minutes," said he.  "We've
time in hand now, and a little water at the Red Lion will do them no
harm.  Red four-in-hand passed, ostler?"

"Just gone, sir."

"Going hard?"

"Galloping full split, sir!  Took the wheel off a butcher's cart at
the corner of the High Street, and was out o' sight before the
butcher's boy could see what had hurt him."

Z-z-z-z-ack! went the long thong, and away we flew once more.  It
was market day at Redhill, and the road was crowded with carts of
produce, droves of bullocks, and farmers' gigs.  It was a sight to
see how my uncle threaded his way amongst them all.  Through the
market-place we dashed amidst the shouting of men, the screaming of
women, and the scuttling of poultry, and then we were out in the
country again, with the long, steep incline of the Redhill Road
before us.  My uncle waved his whip in the air with a shrill view-
halloa.

There was the dust-cloud rolling up the hill in front of us, and
through it we had a shadowy peep of the backs of our opponents, with
a flash of brass-work and a gleam of scarlet.

"There's half the game won, nephew.  Now we must pass them.  Hark
forrard, my beauties!  By George, if Kitty isn't foundered!"

The leader had suddenly gone dead lame.  In an instant we were both
out of the curricle and on our knees beside her.  It was but a
stone, wedged between frog and shoe in the off fore-foot, but it was
a minute or two before we could wrench it out.  When we had regained
our places the Lades were round the curve of the hill and out of
sight.

"Bad luck!" growled my uncle.  "But they can't get away from us!"
For the first time he touched the mares up, for he had but cracked
the whip over their heads before.  "If we catch them in the next few
miles we can spare them for the rest of the way."

They were beginning to show signs of exhaustion.  Their breath came
quick and hoarse, and their beautiful coats were matted with
moisture.  At the top of the hill, however, they settled down into
their swing once more.

"Where on earth have they got to?" cried my uncle.  "Can you make
them out on the road, nephew?"

We could see a long white ribbon of it, all dotted with carts and
waggons coming from Croydon to Redhill, but there was no sign of the
big red four-in-hand.

"There they are!  Stole away!  Stole away!" he cried, wheeling the
mares round into a side road which struck to the right out of that
which we had travelled.  "There they are, nephew!  On the brow of
the hill!"

Sure enough, on the rise of a curve upon our right the four-in-hand
had appeared, the horses stretched to the utmost.  Our mares laid
themselves out gallantly, and the distance between us began slowly
to decrease.  I found that I could see the black band upon Sir
John's white hat, then that I could count the folds of his cape;
finally, that I could see the pretty features of his wife as she
looked back at us.

"We're on the side road to Godstone and Warlingham," said my uncle.
"I suppose he thought that he could make better time by getting out
of the way of the market carts.  But we've got the deuce of a hill
to come down.  You'll see some fun, nephew, or I am mistaken."

As he spoke I suddenly saw the wheels of the four-in-hand disappear,
then the body of it, and then the two figures upon the box, as
suddenly and abruptly as if it had bumped down the first three steps
of some gigantic stairs.  An instant later we had reached the same
spot, and there was the road beneath us, steep and narrow, winding
in long curves into the valley.  The four-in-hand was swishing down
it as hard as the horses could gallop.

"Thought so!" cried my uncle.  "If he doesn't brake, why should I?
Now, my darlings, one good spurt, and we'll show them the colour of
our tailboard."

We shot over the brow and flew madly down the hill with the great
red coach roaring and thundering before us.  Already we were in her
dust, so that we could see nothing but the dim scarlet blur in the
heart of it, rocking and rolling, with its outline hardening at
every stride.  We could hear the crack of the whip in front of us,
and the shrill voice of Lady Lade as she screamed to the horses.  My
uncle was very quiet, but when I glanced up at him I saw that his
lips were set and his eyes shining, with just a little flush upon
each pale cheek.  There was no need to urge on the mares, for they
were already flying at a pace which could neither be stopped nor
controlled.  Our leader's head came abreast of the off hind wheel,
then of the off front one--then for a hundred yards we did not gain
an inch, and then with a spurt the bay leader was neck to neck with
the black wheeler, and our fore wheel within an inch of their hind
one.

"Dusty work!" said my uncle, quietly.

"Fan 'em, Jack!  Fan 'em!" shrieked the lady.

He sprang up and lashed at his horses.

"Look out, Tregellis!" he shouted.  "There's a damnation spill
coming for somebody."

We had got fairly abreast of them now, the rumps of the horses
exactly a-line and the fore wheels whizzing together.  There was not
six inches to spare in the breadth of the road, and every instant I
expected to feel the jar of a locking wheel.  But now, as we came
out from the dust, we could see what was ahead, and my uncle
whistled between his teeth at the sight.

Two hundred yards or so in front of us there was a bridge, with
wooden posts and rails upon either side.  The road narrowed down at
the point, so that it was obvious that the two carriages abreast
could not possibly get over.  One must give way to the other.
Already our wheels were abreast of their wheelers.

"I lead!" shouted my uncle.  "You must pull them, Lade!"

"Not I!" he roared.

"No, by George!" shrieked her ladyship.  "Fan 'em, Jack; keep on
fanning 'em!"

It seemed to me that we were all going to eternity together.  But my
uncle did the only thing that could have saved us.  By a desperate
effort we might just clear the coach before reaching the mouth of
the bridge.  He sprang up, and lashed right and left at the mares,
who, maddened by the unaccustomed pain, hurled themselves on in a
frenzy.  Down we thundered together, all shouting, I believe, at the
top of our voices in the madness of the moment; but still we were
drawing steadily away, and we were almost clear of the leaders when
we flew on to the bridge.  I glanced back at the coach, and I saw
Lady Lade, with her savage little white teeth clenched together,
throw herself forward and tug with both hands at the off-side reins.

"Jam them, Jack!" she cried.  "Jam the--before they can pass."

Had she done it an instant sooner we should have crashed against the
wood-work, carried it away, and been hurled into the deep gully
below.  As it was, it was not the powerful haunch of the black
leader which caught our wheel, but the forequarter, which had not
weight enough to turn us from our course.  I saw a red wet seam gape
suddenly through the black hair, and next instant we were flying
alone down the road, whilst the four-in-hand had halted, and Sir
John and his lady were down in the road together tending to the
wounded horse.

"Easy now, my beauties!" cried my uncle, settling down into his seat
again, and looking back over his shoulder.  "I could not have
believed that Sir John Lade would have been guilty of such a trick
as pulling that leader across.  I do not permit a mauvaise
plaisanterie of that sort.  He shall hear from me to-night."

"It was the lady," said I.

My uncle's brow cleared, and he began to laugh.

"It was little Letty, was it?" said he.  "I might have known it.
There's a touch of the late lamented Sixteen-string Jack about the
trick.  Well, it is only messages of another kind that I send to a
lady, so we'll just drive on our way, nephew, and thank our stars
that we bring whole bones over the Thames."

We stopped at the Greyhound, at Croydon, where the two good little
mares were sponged and petted and fed, after which, at an easier
pace, we made our way through Norbury and Streatham.  At last the
fields grew fewer and the walls longer.  The outlying villas closed
up thicker and thicker, until their shoulders met, and we were
driving between a double line of houses with garish shops at the
corners, and such a stream of traffic as I had never seen, roaring
down the centre.  Then suddenly we were on a broad bridge with a
dark coffee-brown river flowing sulkily beneath it, and bluff-bowed
barges drifting down upon its bosom.  To right and left stretched a
broken, irregular line of many-coloured houses winding along either
bank as far as I could see.

"That's the House of Parliament, nephew," said my uncle, pointing
with his whip, "and the black towers are Westminster Abbey.  How do,
your Grace?  How do?  That's the Duke of Norfolk--the stout man in
blue upon the swish-tailed mare.  Now we are in Whitehall.  There's
the Treasury on the left, and the Horse Guards, and the Admiralty,
where the stone dolphins are carved above the gate."

I had the idea, which a country-bred lad brings up with him, that
London was merely a wilderness of houses, but I was astonished now
to see the green slopes and the lovely spring trees showing between.

"Yes, those are the Privy Gardens," said my uncle, "and there is the
window out of which Charles took his last step on to the scaffold.
You wouldn't think the mares had come fifty miles, would you?  See
how les petites cheries step out for the credit of their master.
Look at the barouche, with the sharp-featured man peeping out of the
window.  That's Pitt, going down to the House.  We are coming into
Pall Mall now, and this great building on the left is Carlton House,
the Prince's Palace.  There's St. James's, the big, dingy place with
the clock, and the two red-coated sentries before it.  And here's
the famous street of the same name, nephew, which is the very centre
of the world, and here's Jermyn Street opening out of it, and
finally, here's my own little box, and we are well under the five
hours from Brighton Old Square."



CHAPTER IX--WATIER'S



My uncle's house in Jermyn Street was quite a small one--five rooms
and an attic.  "A man-cook and a cottage," he said, "are all that a
wise man requires."  On the other hand, it was furnished with the
neatness and taste which belonged to his character, so that his most
luxurious friends found something in the tiny rooms which made them
discontented with their own sumptuous mansions.  Even the attic,
which had been converted into my bedroom, was the most perfect
little bijou attic that could possibly be imagined.  Beautiful and
valuable knick-knacks filled every corner of every apartment, and
the house had become a perfect miniature museum which would have
delighted a virtuoso.  My uncle explained the presence of all these
pretty things with a shrug of his shoulders and a wave of his hands.
"They are des petites cadeaux," said he, "but it would be an
indiscretion for me to say more."

We found a note from Ambrose waiting for us which increased rather
than explained the mystery of his disappearance.

"My dear Sir Charles Tregellis," it ran, "it will ever be a subject
of regret to me that the force of circumstances should have
compelled me to leave your service in so abrupt a fashion, but
something occurred during our journey from Friar's Oak to Brighton
which left me without any possible alternative.  I trust, however,
that my absence may prove to be but a temporary one.  The isinglass
recipe for the shirt-fronts is in the strong-box at Drummond's
Bank.--Yours obediently, AMBROSE."

"Well, I suppose I must fill his place as best I can," said my
uncle, moodily.  "But how on earth could something have occurred to
make him leave me at a time when we were going full-trot down hill
in my curricle?  I shall never find his match again either for
chocolate or cravats.  Je suis desole!  But now, nephew, we must
send to Weston and have you fitted up.  It is not for a gentleman to
go to a shop, but for the shop to come to the gentleman.  Until you
have your clothes you must remain en retraite."

The measuring was a most solemn and serious function, though it was
nothing to the trying-on two days later, when my uncle stood by in
an agony of apprehension as each garment was adjusted, he and Weston
arguing over every seam and lapel and skirt until I was dizzy with
turning round in front of them.  Then, just as I had hoped that all
was settled, in came young Mr. Brummell, who promised to be an even
greater exquisite than my uncle, and the whole matter had to be
thrashed out between them.  He was a good-sized man, this Brummell,
with a long, fair face, light brown hair, and slight sandy side-
whiskers.  His manner was languid, his voice drawling, and while he
eclipsed my uncle in the extravagance of his speech, he had not the
air of manliness and decision which underlay all my kinsman's
affectations.

"Why, George," cried my uncle, "I thought you were with your
regiment."

"I've sent in my papers," drawled the other.

"I thought it would come to that."

"Yes.  The Tenth was ordered to Manchester, and they could hardly
expect me to go to a place like that.  Besides, I found the major
monstrous rude."

"How was that?"

"He expected me to know about his absurd drill, Tregellis, and I had
other things to think of, as you may suppose.  I had no difficulty
in taking my right place on parade, for there was a trooper with a
red nose on a flea-bitten grey, and I had observed that my post was
always immediately in front of him.  This saved a great deal of
trouble.  The other day, however, when I came on parade, I galloped
up one line and down the other, but the deuce a glimpse could I get
of that long nose of his!  Then, just as I was at my wits' end, I
caught sight of him, alone at one side; so I formed up in front.  It
seems he had been put there to keep the ground, and the major so far
forgot himself as to say that I knew nothing of my duties."

My uncle laughed, and Brummell looked me up and down with his large,
intolerant eyes.

"These will do very passably," said he.  "Buff and blue are always
very gentlemanlike.  But a sprigged waistcoat would have been
better."

"I think not," said my uncle, warmly.

"My dear Tregellis, you are infallible upon a cravat, but you must
allow me the right of my own judgment upon vests.  I like it vastly
as it stands, but a touch of red sprig would give it the finish that
it needs."

They argued with many examples and analogies for a good ten minutes,
revolving round me at the same time with their heads on one side and
their glasses to their eyes.  It was a relief to me when they at
last agreed upon a compromise.

"You must not let anything I have said shake your faith in Sir
Charles's judgment, Mr. Stone," said Brummell, very earnestly.

I assured him that I should not.

"If you were my nephew, I should expect you to follow my taste.  But
you will cut a very good figure as it is.  I had a young cousin who
came up to town last year with a recommendation to my care.  But he
would take no advice.  At the end of the second week I met him
coming down St. James's Street in a snuff-coloured coat cut by a
country tailor.  He bowed to me.  Of course I knew what was due to
myself.  I looked all round him, and there was an end to his career
in town.  You are from the country, Mr. Stone?"

"From Sussex, sir."

"Sussex!  Why, that is where I send my washing to.  There is an
excellent clear-starcher living near Hayward's Heath.  I send my
shirts two at a time, for if you send more it excites the woman and
diverts her attention.  I cannot abide anything but country washing.
But I should be vastly sorry to have to live there.  What can a man
find to do?"

"You don't hunt, George?"

"When I do, it's a woman.  But surely you don't go to hounds,
Charles?"

"I was out with the Belvoir last winter."

"The Belvoir!  Did you hear how I smoked Rutland?  The story has
been in the clubs this month past.  I bet him that my bag would
weigh more than his.  He got three and a half brace, but I shot his
liver-coloured pointer, so he had to pay.  But as to hunting, what
amusement can there be in flying about among a crowd of greasy,
galloping farmers?  Every man to his own taste, but Brookes's window
by day and a snug corner of the macao table at Watier's by night,
give me all I want for mind and body.  You heard how I plucked
Montague the brewer!"

"I have been out of town."

"I had eight thousand from him at a sitting.  'I shall drink your
beer in future, Mr. Brewer,' said I.  'Every blackguard in London
does,' said he.  It was monstrous impolite of him, but some people
cannot lose with grace.  Well, I am going down to Clarges Street to
pay Jew King a little of my interest.  Are you bound that way?
Well, good-bye, then!  I'll see you and your young friend at the
club or in the Mall, no doubt," and he sauntered off upon his way.

"That young man is destined to take my place," said my uncle,
gravely, when Brummell had departed.  "He is quite young and of no
descent, but he has made his way by his cool effrontery, his natural
taste, and his extravagance of speech.  There is no man who can be
impolite in so polished a fashion.  He has a half-smile, and a way
of raising his eyebrows, for which he will be shot one of these
mornings.  Already his opinion is quoted in the clubs as a rival to
my own.  Well, every man has his day, and when I am convinced that
mine is past, St. James's Street shall know me no more, for it is
not in my nature to be second to any man.  But now, nephew, in that
buff and blue suit you may pass anywhere; so, if you please, we will
step into my vis-a-vis, and I will show you something of the town."

How can I describe all that we saw and all that we did upon that
lovely spring day?  To me it was as if I had been wafted to a fairy
world, and my uncle might have been some benevolent enchanter in a
high-collared, long-tailed coat, who was guiding me about in it.  He
showed me the West-end streets, with the bright carriages and the
gaily dressed ladies and sombre-clad men, all crossing and hurrying
and recrossing like an ants' nest when you turn it over with a
stick.  Never had I formed a conception of such endless banks of
houses, and such a ceaseless stream of life flowing between.  Then
we passed down the Strand, where the crowd was thicker than ever,
and even penetrated beyond Temple Bar and into the City, though my
uncle begged me not to mention it, for he would not wish it to be
generally known.  There I saw the Exchange and the Bank and Lloyd's
Coffee House, with the brown-coated, sharp-faced merchants and the
hurrying clerks, the huge horses and the busy draymen.  It was a
very different world this from that which we had left in the West--a
world of energy and of strength, where there was no place for the
listless and the idle.  Young as I was, I knew that it was here, in
the forest of merchant shipping, in the bales which swung up to the
warehouse windows, in the loaded waggons which roared over the
cobblestones, that the power of Britain lay.  Here, in the City of
London, was the taproot from which Empire and wealth and so many
other fine leaves had sprouted.  Fashion and speech and manners may
change, but the spirit of enterprise within that square mile or two
of land must not change, for when it withers all that has grown from
it must wither also.

We lunched at Stephen's, the fashionable inn in Bond Street, where I
saw a line of tilburys and saddle-horses, which stretched from the
door to the further end of the street.  And thence we went to the
Mail in St. James's Park, and thence to Brookes's, the great Whig
club, and thence again to Watier's, where the men of fashion used to
gamble.  Everywhere I met the same sort of men, with their stiff
figures and small waists, all showing the utmost deference to my
uncle, and for his sake an easy tolerance of me.  The talk was
always such as I had already heard at the Pavilion:  talk of
politics, talk of the King's health, talk of the Prince's
extravagance, of the expected renewal of war, of horse-racing, and
of the ring.  I saw, too, that eccentricity was, as my uncle had
told me, the fashion; and if the folk upon the Continent look upon
us even to this day as being a nation of lunatics, it is no doubt a
tradition handed down from the time when the only travellers whom
they were likely to see were drawn from the class which I was now
meeting.

It was an age of heroism and of folly.  On the one hand soldiers,
sailors, and statesmen of the quality of Pitt, Nelson, and
afterwards Wellington, had been forced to the front by the imminent
menace of Buonaparte.  We were great in arms, and were soon also to
be great in literature, for Scott and Byron were in their day the
strongest forces in Europe.  On the other hand, a touch of madness,
real or assumed, was a passport through doors which were closed to
wisdom and to virtue.  The man who could enter a drawing-room
walking upon his hands, the man who had filed his teeth that he
might whistle like a coachman, the man who always spoke his thoughts
aloud and so kept his guests in a quiver of apprehension, these were
the people who found it easy to come to the front in London society.
Nor could the heroism and the folly be kept apart, for there were
few who could quite escape the contagion of the times.  In an age
when the Premier was a heavy drinker, the Leader of the Opposition a
libertine, and the Prince of Wales a combination of the two, it was
hard to know where to look for a man whose private and public
characters were equally lofty.  At the same time, with all its
faults it was a STRONG age, and you will be fortunate if in your
time the country produces five such names as Pitt, Fox, Scott,
Nelson, and Wellington.

It was in Watier's that night, seated by my uncle on one of the red
velvet settees at the side of the room, that I had pointed out to me
some of those singular characters whose fame and eccentricities are
even now not wholly forgotten in the world.  The long, many-pillared
room, with its mirrors and chandeliers, was crowded with full-
blooded, loud-voiced men-about-town, all in the same dark evening
dress with white silk stockings, cambric shirt-fronts, and little,
flat chapeau-bras under their arms.

"The acid-faced old gentleman with the thin legs is the Marquis of
Queensberry," said my uncle.  "His chaise was driven nineteen miles
in an hour in a match against the Count Taafe, and he sent a message
fifty miles in thirty minutes by throwing it from hand to hand in a
cricket-ball.  The man he is talking to is Sir Charles Bunbury, of
the Jockey Club, who had the Prince warned off the Heath at
Newmarket on account of the in-and-out riding of Sam Chifney, his
jockey.  There's Captain Barclay going up to them now.  He knows
more about training than any man alive, and he has walked ninety
miles in twenty-one hours.  You have only to look at his calves to
see that Nature built him for it.  There's another walker there, the
man with a flowered vest standing near the fireplace.  That is Buck
Whalley, who walked to Jerusalem in a long blue coat, top-boots, and
buckskins."

"Why did he do that, sir?" I asked, in astonishment.

My uncle shrugged his shoulders.

"It was his humour," said he.  "He walked into society through it,
and that was better worth reaching than Jerusalem.  There's Lord
Petersham, the man with the beaky nose.  He always rises at six in
the evening, and he has laid down the finest cellar of snuff in
Europe.  It was he who ordered his valet to put half a dozen of
sherry by his bed and call him the day after to-morrow.  He's
talking to Lord Panmure, who can take his six bottles of claret and
argue with a bishop after it.  The lean man with the weak knees is
General Scott who lives upon toast and water and has won 200,000
pounds at whist.  He is talking to young Lord Blandford who gave
1800 pounds for a Boccaccio the other day.  Evening, Dudley!"

"Evening, Tregellis!"  An elderly, vacant-looking man had stopped
before us and was looking me up and down.

"Some young cub Charlie Tregellis has caught in the country," he
murmured.  "He doesn't look as if he would be much credit to him.
Been out of town, Tregellis?"

"For a few days."

"Hem!" said the man, transferring his sleepy gaze to my uncle.
"He's looking pretty bad.  He'll be going into the country feet
foremost some of these days if he doesn't pull up!"  He nodded, and
passed on.

"You mustn't look so mortified, nephew," said my uncle, smiling.
"That's old Lord Dudley, and he has a trick of thinking aloud.
People used to be offended, but they take no notice of him now.  It
was only last week, when he was dining at Lord Elgin's, that he
apologized to the company for the shocking bad cooking.  He thought
he was at his own table, you see.  It gives him a place of his own
in society.  That's Lord Harewood he has fastened on to now.
Harewood's peculiarity is to mimic the Prince in everything.  One
day the Prince hid his queue behind the collar of his coat, so
Harewood cut his off, thinking that they were going out of fashion.
Here's Lumley, the ugly man.  'L'homme laid' they called him in
Paris.  The other one is Lord Foley--they call him No. 11, on
account of his thin legs."

"There is Mr. Brummell, sir," said I.

"Yes, he'll come to us presently.  That young man has certainly a
future before him.  Do you observe the way in which he looks round
the room from under his drooping eyelids, as though it were a
condescension that he should have entered it?  Small conceits are
intolerable, but when they are pushed to the uttermost they become
respectable.  How do, George?"

"Have you heard about Vereker Merton?" asked Brummell, strolling up
with one or two other exquisites at his heels.  "He has run away
with his father's woman-cook, and actually married her."

"What did Lord Merton do?"

"He congratulated him warmly, and confessed that he had always
underrated his intelligence.  He is to live with the young couple,
and make a handsome allowance on condition that the bride sticks to
her old duties.  By the way, there was a rumour that you were about
to marry, Tregellis."

"I think not," answered my uncle.  "It would be a mistake to
overwhelm one by attentions which are a pleasure to many."

"My view, exactly, and very neatly expressed," cried Brummell.  "Is
it fair to break a dozen hearts in order to intoxicate one with
rapture?  I'm off to the Continent next week."

"Bailiffs?" asked one of his companions.

"Too bad, Pierrepoint.  No, no; it is pleasure and instruction
combined.  Besides, it is necessary to go to Paris for your little
things, and if there is a chance of the war breaking out again, it
would be well to lay in a supply."

"Quite right," said my uncle, who seemed to have made up his mind to
outdo Brummell in extravagance.  "I used to get my sulphur-coloured
gloves from the Palais Royal.  When the war broke out in '93 I was
cut off from them for nine years.  Had it not been for a lugger
which I specially hired to smuggle them, I might have been reduced
to English tan."

"The English are excellent at a flat-iron or a kitchen poker, but
anything more delicate is beyond them."

"Our tailors are good," cried my uncle, "but our stuffs lack taste
and variety.  The war has made us more rococo than ever.  It has cut
us off from travel, and there is nothing to match travel for
expanding the mind.  Last year, for example, I came upon some new
waist-coating in the Square of San Marco, at Venice.  It was yellow,
with the prettiest little twill of pink running through it.  How
could I have seen it had I not travelled?  I brought it back with
me, and for a time it was all the rage."

"The Prince took it up."

"Yes, he usually follows my lead.  We dressed so alike last year
that we were frequently mistaken for each other.  It tells against
me, but so it was.  He often complains that things do not look as
well upon him as upon me, but how can I make the obvious reply?  By
the way, George, I did not see you at the Marchioness of Dover's
ball."

"Yes, I was there, and lingered for a quarter of an hour or so.  I
am surprised that you did not see me.  I did not go past the
doorway, however, for undue preference gives rise to jealousy."

"I went early," said my uncle, "for I had heard that there were to
be some tolerable debutantes.  It always pleases me vastly when I am
able to pass a compliment to any of them.  It has happened, but not
often, for I keep to my own standard."

So they talked, these singular men, and I, looking from one to the
other, could not imagine how they could help bursting out a-laughing
in each other's faces.  But, on the contrary, their conversation was
very grave, and filled out with many little bows, and opening and
shutting of snuff-boxes, and flickings of laced handkerchiefs.
Quite a crowd had gathered silently around, and I could see that the
talk had been regarded as a contest between two men who were looked
upon as rival arbiters of fashion.  It was finished by the Marquis
of Queensberry passing his arm through Brummell's and leading him
off, while my uncle threw out his laced cambric shirt-front and shot
his ruffles as if he were well satisfied with his share in the
encounter.  It is seven-and-forty years since I looked upon that
circle of dandies, and where, now, are their dainty little hats,
their wonderful waistcoats, and their boots, in which one could
arrange one's cravat?  They lived strange lives, these men, and they
died strange deaths--some by their own hands, some as beggars, some
in a debtor's gaol, some, like the most brilliant of them all, in a
madhouse in a foreign land.

"There is the card-room, Rodney," said my uncle, as we passed an
open door on our way out.  Glancing in, I saw a line of little green
baize tables with small groups of men sitting round, while at one
side was a longer one, from which there came a continuous murmur of
voices.  "You may lose what you like in there, save only your nerve
or your temper," my uncle continued.  "Ah, Sir Lothian, I trust that
the luck was with you?"

A tall, thin man, with a hard, austere face, had stepped out of the
open doorway.  His heavily thatched eyebrows covered quick, furtive
grey eyes, and his gaunt features were hollowed at the cheek and
temple like water-grooved flint.  He was dressed entirely in black,
and I noticed that his shoulders swayed a little as if he had been
drinking.

"Lost like the deuce," he snapped.

"Dice?"

"No, whist."

"You couldn't get very hard hit over that."

"Couldn't you?" he snarled.  "Play a hundred a trick and a thousand
on the rub, losing steadily for five hours, and see what you think
of it."

My uncle was evidently struck by the haggard look upon the other's
face.

"I hope it's not very bad," he said.

"Bad enough.  It won't bear talking about.  By the way, Tregellis,
have you got your man for this fight yet?"

"No."

"You seem to be hanging in the wind a long time.  It's play or pay,
you know.  I shall claim forfeit if you don't come to scratch."

"If you will name your day I shall produce my man, Sir Lothian,"
said my uncle, coldly.

"This day four weeks, if you like."

"Very good.  The 18th of May."

"I hope to have changed my name by then!"

"How is that?" asked my uncle, in surprise.

"It is just possible that I may be Lord Avon."

"What, you have had some news?" cried my uncle, and I noticed a
tremor in his voice.

"I've had my agent over at Monte Video, and he believes he has proof
that Avon died there.  Anyhow, it is absurd to suppose that because
a murderer chooses to fly from justice--"

"I won't have you use that word, Sir Lothian," cried my uncle,
sharply.

"You were there as I was.  You know that he was a murderer."

"I tell you that you shall not say so."

Sir Lothian's fierce little grey eyes had to lower themselves before
the imperious anger which shone in my uncle's.

"Well, to let that point pass, it is monstrous to suppose that the
title and the estates can remain hung up in this way for ever.  I'm
the heir, Tregellis, and I'm going to have my rights."

"I am, as you are aware, Lord Avon's dearest friend," said my uncle,
sternly.  "His disappearance has not affected my love for him, and
until his fate is finally ascertained, I shall exert myself to see
that HIS rights also are respected."

"His rights would be a long drop and a cracked spine," Sir Lothian
answered, and then, changing his manner suddenly, he laid his hand
upon my uncle's sleeve.

"Come, come, Tregellis, I was his friend as well as you," said he.
"But we cannot alter the facts, and it is rather late in the day for
us to fall out over them.  Your invitation holds good for Friday
night?"

"Certainly."

"I shall bring Crab Wilson with me, and finally arrange the
conditions of our little wager."

"Very good, Sir Lothian:  I shall hope to see you."  They bowed, and
my uncle stood a little time looking after him as he made his way
amidst the crowd.

"A good sportsman, nephew," said he.  "A bold rider, the best
pistol-shot in England, but . . . a dangerous man!"



CHAPTER X--THE MEN OF THE RING



It was at the end of my first week in London that my uncle gave a
supper to the fancy, as was usual for gentlemen of that time if they
wished to figure before the public as Corinthians and patrons of
sport.  He had invited not only the chief fighting-men of the day,
but also those men of fashion who were most interested in the ring:
Mr. Fletcher Reid, Lord Say and Sele, Sir Lothian Hume, Sir John
Lade, Colonel Montgomery, Sir Thomas Apreece, the Hon. Berkeley
Craven, and many more.  The rumour that the Prince was to be present
had already spread through the clubs, and invitations were eagerly
sought after.

The Waggon and Horses was a well-known sporting house, with an old
prize-fighter for landlord.  And the arrangements were as primitive
as the most Bohemian could wish.  It was one of the many curious
fashions which have now died out, that men who were blase from
luxury and high living seemed to find a fresh piquancy in life by
descending to the lowest resorts, so that the night-houses and
gambling-dens in Covent Garden or the Haymarket often gathered
illustrious company under their smoke-blackened ceilings.  It was a
change for them to turn their backs upon the cooking of Weltjie and
of Ude, or the chambertin of old Q., and to dine upon a porter-house
steak washed down by a pint of ale from a pewter pot.

A rough crowd had assembled in the street to see the fighting-men go
in, and my uncle warned me to look to my pockets as we pushed our
way through it.  Within was a large room with faded red curtains, a
sanded floor, and walls which were covered with prints of pugilists
and race-horses.  Brown liquor-stained tables were dotted about in
it, and round one of these half a dozen formidable-looking men were
seated, while one, the roughest of all, was perched upon the table
itself, swinging his legs to and fro.  A tray of small glasses and
pewter mugs stood beside them.

"The boys were thirsty, sir, so I brought up some ale and some
liptrap," whispered the landlord; "I thought you would have no
objection, sir."

"Quite right, Bob!  How are you all?  How are you, Maddox?  How are
you, Baldwin?  Ah, Belcher, I am very glad to see you."

The fighting-men rose and took their hats off, except the fellow on
the table, who continued to swing his legs and to look my uncle very
coolly in the face.

"How are you, Berks?"

"Pretty tidy.  'Ow are you?"

"Say 'sir' when you speak to a genelman," said Belcher, and with a
sudden tilt of the table he sent Berks flying almost into my uncle's
arms.

"See now, Jem, none o' that!" said Berks, sulkily.

"I'll learn you manners, Joe, which is more than ever your father
did.  You're not drinkin' black-jack in a boozin' ken, but you are
meetin' noble, slap-up Corinthians, and it's for you to behave as
such."

"I've always been reckoned a genelman-like sort of man," said Berks,
thickly, "but if so be as I've said or done what I 'adn't ought to--
"

"There, there, Berks, that's all right!" cried my uncle, only too
anxious to smooth things over and to prevent a quarrel at the outset
of the evening.  "Here are some more of our friends.  How are you,
Apreece?  How are you, Colonel?  Well, Jackson, you are looking
vastly better.  Good evening, Lade.  I trust Lady Lade was none the
worse for our pleasant drive.  Ah, Mendoza, you look fit enough to
throw your hat over the ropes this instant.  Sir Lothian, I am glad
to see you.  You will find some old friends here."

Amid the stream of Corinthians and fighting-men who were thronging
into the room I had caught a glimpse of the sturdy figure and broad,
good-humoured face of Champion Harrison.  The sight of him was like
a whiff of South Down air coming into that low-roofed, oil-smelling
room, and I ran forward to shake him by the hand.

"Why, Master Rodney--or I should say Mr. Stone, I suppose--you've
changed out of all knowledge.  I can't hardly believe that it was
really you that used to come down to blow the bellows when Boy Jim
and I were at the anvil.  Well, you are fine, to be sure!"

"What's the news of Friar's Oak?" I asked eagerly.

"Your father was down to chat with me, Master Rodney, and he tells
me that the war is going to break out again, and that he hopes to
see you here in London before many days are past; for he is coming
up to see Lord Nelson and to make inquiry about a ship.  Your mother
is well, and I saw her in church on Sunday."

"And Boy Jim?"

Champion Harrison's good-humoured face clouded over.

"He'd set his heart very much on comin' here to-night, but there
were reasons why I didn't wish him to, and so there's a shadow
betwixt us.  It's the first that ever was, and I feel it, Master
Rodney.  Between ourselves, I have very good reason to wish him to
stay with me, and I am sure that, with his high spirit and his
ideas, he would never settle down again after once he had a taste o'
London.  I left him behind me with enough work to keep him busy
until I get back to him."

A tall and beautifully proportioned man, very elegantly dressed, was
strolling towards us.  He stared in surprise and held out his hand
to my companion.

"Why, Jack Harrison!" he cried.  "This is a resurrection.  Where in
the world did you come from?"

"Glad to see you, Jackson," said my companion.  "You look as well
and as young as ever."

"Thank you, yes.  I resigned the belt when I could get no one to
fight me for it, and I took to teaching."

"I'm doing smith's work down Sussex way."

"I've often wondered why you never had a shy at my belt.  I tell you
honestly, between man and man, I'm very glad you didn't."

"Well, it's real good of you to say that, Jackson.  I might ha' done
it, perhaps, but the old woman was against it.  She's been a good
wife to me and I can't go against her.  But I feel a bit lonesome
here, for these boys are since my time."

"You could do some of them over now," said Jackson, feeling my
friend's upper arm.  "No better bit of stuff was ever seen in a
twenty-four foot ring.  It would be a rare treat to see you take
some of these young ones on.  Won't you let me spring you on them?"

Harrison's eyes glistened at the idea, but he shook his head.

"It won't do, Jackson.  My old woman holds my promise.  That's
Belcher, ain't it--the good lookin' young chap with the flash coat?"

"Yes, that's Jem.  You've not seen him!  He's a jewel."

"So I've heard.  Who's the youngster beside him?  He looks a tidy
chap."

"That's a new man from the West.  Crab Wilson's his name."

Harrison looked at him with interest.  "I've heard of him," said he.
"They are getting a match on for him, ain't they?"

"Yes.  Sir Lothian Hume, the thin-faced gentleman over yonder, has
backed him against Sir Charles Tregellis's man.  We're to hear about
the match to-night, I understand.  Jem Belcher thinks great things
of Crab Wilson.  There's Belcher's young brother, Tom.  He's looking
out for a match, too.  They say he's quicker than Jem with the
mufflers, but he can't hit as hard.  I was speaking of your brother,
Jem."

"The young 'un will make his way," said Belcher, who had come across
to us.  "He's more a sparrer than a fighter just at present, but
when his gristle sets he'll take on anything on the list.  Bristol's
as full o' young fightin'-men now as a bin is of bottles.  We've got
two more comin' up--Gully and Pearce--who'll make you London milling
coves wish they was back in the west country again."

"Here's the Prince," said Jackson, as a hum and bustle rose from the
door.

I saw George come bustling in, with a good-humoured smile upon his
comely face.  My uncle welcomed him, and led some of the Corinthians
up to be presented.

"We'll have trouble, gov'nor," said Belcher to Jackson.  "Here's Joe
Berks drinkin' gin out of a mug, and you know what a swine he is
when he's drunk."

"You must put a stopper on 'im gov'nor," said several of the other
prize-fighters.  "'E ain't what you'd call a charmer when 'e's
sober, but there's no standing 'im when 'e's fresh."

Jackson, on account of his prowess and of the tact which he
possessed, had been chosen as general regulator of the whole prize-
fighting body, by whom he was usually alluded to as the Commander-
in-Chief.  He and Belcher went across now to the table upon which
Berks was still perched.  The ruffian's face was already flushed,
and his eyes heavy and bloodshot.

"You must keep yourself in hand to-night, Berks," said Jackson.
"The Prince is here, and--"

"I never set eyes on 'im yet," cried Berks, lurching off the table.
"Where is 'e, gov'nor?  Tell 'im Joe Berks would like to do 'isself
proud by shakin' 'im by the 'and."

"No, you don't, Joe," said Jackson, laying his hand upon Berks's
chest, as he tried to push his way through the crowd.  "You've got
to keep your place, Joe, or we'll put you where you can make all the
noise you like."

"Where's that, gov'nor?"

"Into the street, through the window.  We're going to have a
peaceful evening, as Jem Belcher and I will show you if you get up
to any of your Whitechapel games."

"No 'arm, gov'nor," grumbled Berks.  "I'm sure I've always 'ad the
name of bein' a very genelman-like man."

"So I've always said, Joe Berks, and mind you prove yourself such.
But the supper is ready for us, and there's the Prince and Lord Sole
going in.  Two and two, lads, and don't forget whose company you are
in."

The supper was laid in a large room, with Union Jacks and mottoes
hung thickly upon the walls.  The tables were arranged in three
sides of a square, my uncle occupying the centre of the principal
one, with the Prince upon his right and Lord Sele upon his left.  By
his wise precaution the seats had been allotted beforehand, so that
the gentlemen might be scattered among the professionals and no risk
run of two enemies finding themselves together, or a man who had
been recently beaten falling into the company of his conqueror.  For
my own part, I had Champion Harrison upon one side of me and a
stout, florid-faced man upon the other, who whispered to me that he
was "Bill Warr, landlord of the One Tun public-house, of Jermyn
Street, and one of the gamest men upon the list."

"It's my flesh that's beat me, sir," said he.  "It creeps over me
amazin' fast.  I should fight at thirteen-eight, and 'ere I am
nearly seventeen.  It's the business that does it, what with loflin'
about behind the bar all day, and bein' afraid to refuse a wet for
fear of offendin' a customer.  It's been the ruin of many a good
fightin'-man before me."

"You should take to my job," said Harrison.  "I'm a smith by trade,
and I've not put on half a stone in fifteen years."

"Some take to one thing and some to another, but the most of us try
to 'ave a bar-parlour of our own.  There's Will Wood, that I beat in
forty rounds in the thick of a snowstorm down Navestock way, 'e
drives a 'ackney.  Young Firby, the ruffian, 'e's a waiter now.
Dick 'Umphries sells coals--'e was always of a genelmanly
disposition.  George Ingleston is a brewer's drayman.  We all find
our own cribs.  But there's one thing you are saved by livin' in the
country, and that is 'avin' the young Corinthians and bloods about
town smackin' you eternally in the face."

This was the last inconvenience which I should have expected a
famous prize-fighter to be subjected to, but several bull-faced
fellows at the other side of the table nodded their concurrence.

"You're right, Bill," said one of them.  "There's no one has had
more trouble with them than I have.  In they come of an evenin' into
my bar, with the wine in their heads.  'Are you Tom Owen the
bruiser?' says one o' them.  'At your service, sir,' says I.  'Take
that, then,' says he, and it's a clip on the nose, or a backhanded
slap across the chops as likely as not.  Then they can brag all
their lives that they had hit Tom Owen."

"D'you draw their cork in return?" asked Harrison.

"I argey it out with them.  I say to them, 'Now, gents, fightin' is
my profession, and I don't fight for love any more than a doctor
doctors for love, or a butcher gives away a loin chop.  Put up a
small purse, master, and I'll do you over and proud.  But don't
expect that you're goin' to come here and get glutted by a middle-
weight champion for nothing."

"That's my way too, Tom," said my burly neighbour.  "If they put
down a guinea on the counter--which they do if they 'ave been
drinkin' very 'eavy--I give them what I think is about a guinea's
worth and take the money."

"But if they don't?"

"Why, then, it's a common assault, d'ye see, against the body of 'is
Majesty's liege, William Warr, and I 'as 'em before the beak next
mornin', and it's a week or twenty shillin's."

Meanwhile the supper was in full swing--one of those solid and
uncompromising meals which prevailed in the days of your
grandfathers, and which may explain to some of you why you never set
eyes upon that relative.

Great rounds of beef, saddles of mutton, smoking tongues, veal and
ham pies, turkeys and chickens, and geese, with every variety of
vegetables, and a succession of fiery cherries and heavy ales were
the main staple of the feast.  It was the same meal and the same
cooking as their Norse or German ancestors might have sat down to
fourteen centuries before, and, indeed, as I looked through the
steam of the dishes at the lines of fierce and rugged faces, and the
mighty shoulders which rounded themselves over the board, I could
have imagined myself at one of those old-world carousals of which I
had read, where the savage company gnawed the joints to the bone,
and then, with murderous horseplay, hurled the remains at their
prisoners.  Here and there the pale, aquiline features of a sporting
Corinthian recalled rather the Norman type, but in the main these
stolid, heavy-jowled faces, belonging to men whose whole life was a
battle, were the nearest suggestion which we have had in modern
times of those fierce pirates and rovers from whose loins we have
sprung.

And yet, as I looked carefully from man to man in the line which
faced me, I could see that the English, although they were ten to
one, had not the game entirely to themselves, but that other races
had shown that they could produce fighting-men worthy to rank with
the best.

There were, it is true, no finer or braver men in the room than
Jackson and Jem Belcher, the one with his magnificent figure, his
small waist and Herculean shoulders; the other as graceful as an old
Grecian statue, with a head whose beauty many a sculptor had wished
to copy, and with those long, delicate lines in shoulder and loins
and limbs, which gave him the litheness and activity of a panther.
Already, as I looked at him, it seemed to me that there was a shadow
of tragedy upon his face, a forecast of the day then but a few
months distant when a blow from a racquet ball darkened the sight of
one eye for ever.  Had he stopped there, with his unbeaten career
behind him, then indeed the evening of his life might have been as
glorious as its dawn.  But his proud heart could not permit his
title to be torn from him without a struggle.  If even now you can
read how the gallant fellow, unable with his one eye to judge his
distances, fought for thirty-five minutes against his young and
formidable opponent, and how, in the bitterness of defeat, he was
heard only to express his sorrow for a friend who had backed him
with all he possessed, and if you are not touched by the story there
must be something wanting in you which should go to the making of a
man.

But if there were no men at the tables who could have held their own
against Jackson or Jem Belcher, there were others of a different
race and type who had qualities which made them dangerous bruisers.
A little way down the room I saw the black face and woolly head of
Bill Richmond, in a purple-and-gold footman's livery--destined to be
the predecessor of Molineaux, Sutton, and all that line of black
boxers who have shown that the muscular power and insensibility to
pain which distinguish the African give him a peculiar advantage in
the sports of the ring.  He could boast also of the higher honour of
having been the first born American to win laurels in the British
ring.  There also I saw the keen features of Dada Mendoza, the Jew,
just retired from active work, and leaving behind him a reputation
for elegance and perfect science which has, to this day, never been
exceeded.  The worst fault that the critics could find with him was
that there was a want of power in his blows--a remark which
certainly could not have been made about his neighbour, whose long
face, curved nose, and dark, flashing eyes proclaimed him as a
member of the same ancient race.  This was the formidable Dutch Sam,
who fought at nine stone six, and yet possessed such hitting powers,
that his admirers, in after years, were willing to back him against
the fourteen-stone Tom Cribb, if each were strapped a-straddle to a
bench.  Half a dozen other sallow Hebrew faces showed how
energetically the Jews of Houndsditch and Whitechapel had taken to
the sport of the land of their adoption, and that in this, as in
more serious fields of human effort, they could hold their own with
the best.

It was my neighbour Warr who very good-humouredly pointed out to me
all these celebrities, the echoes of whose fame had been wafted down
even to our little Sussex village.

"There's Andrew Gamble, the Irish champion," said he.  "It was 'e
that beat Noah James, the Guardsman, and was afterwards nearly
killed by Jem Belcher, in the 'ollow of Wimbledon Common by
Abbershaw's gibbet.  The two that are next 'im are Irish also, Jack
O'Donnell and Bill Ryan.  When you get a good Irishman you can't
better 'em, but they're dreadful 'asty.  That little cove with the
leery face is Caleb Baldwin the Coster, 'im that they call the Pride
of Westminster.  'E's but five foot seven, and nine stone five, but
'e's got the 'eart of a giant.  'E's never been beat, and there
ain't a man within a stone of 'im that could beat 'im, except only
Dutch Sam.  There's George Maddox, too, another o' the same breed,
and as good a man as ever pulled his coat off.  The genelmanly man
that eats with a fork, 'im what looks like a Corinthian, only that
the bridge of 'is nose ain't quite as it ought to be, that's Dick
'Umphries, the same that was cock of the middle-weights until
Mendoza cut his comb for 'im.  You see the other with the grey 'ead
and the scars on his face?"

"Why, it's old Tom Faulkner the cricketer!" cried Harrison,
following the line of Bill Warr's stubby forefinger.  "He's the
fastest bowler in the Midlands, and at his best there weren't many
boxers in England that could stand up against him."

"You're right there, Jack 'Arrison.  'E was one of the three who
came up to fight when the best men of Birmingham challenged the best
men of London.  'E's an evergreen, is Tom.  Why, he was turned five-
and-fifty when he challenged and beat, after fifty minutes of it,
Jack Thornhill, who was tough enough to take it out of many a
youngster.  It's better to give odds in weight than in years."

"Youth will be served," said a crooning voice from the other side of
the table.  "Ay, masters, youth will be served."

The man who had spoken was the most extraordinary of all the many
curious figures in the room.  He was very, very old, so old that he
was past all comparison, and no one by looking at his mummy skin and
fish-like eyes could give a guess at his years.  A few scanty grey
hairs still hung about his yellow scalp.  As to his features, they
were scarcely human in their disfigurement, for the deep wrinkles
and pouchings of extreme age had been added to a face which had
always been grotesquely ugly, and had been crushed and smashed in
addition by many a blow.  I had noticed this creature at the
beginning of the meal, leaning his chest against the edge of the
table as if its support was a welcome one, and feebly picking at the
food which was placed before him.  Gradually, however, as his
neighbours plied him with drink, his shoulders grew squarer, his
back stiffened, his eyes brightened, and he looked about him, with
an air of surprise at first, as if he had no clear recollection of
how he came there, and afterwards with an expression of deepening
interest, as he listened, with his ear scooped up in his hand, to
the conversation around him.

"That's old Buckhorse," whispered Champion Harrison.  "He was just
the same as that when I joined the ring twenty years ago.  Time was
when he was the terror of London."

"'E was so," said Bill Warr.  "'E would fight like a stag, and 'e
was that 'ard that 'e would let any swell knock 'im down for 'alf-a-
crown.  'E 'ad no face to spoil, d'ye see, for 'e was always the
ugliest man in England.  But 'e's been on the shelf now for near
sixty years, and it cost 'im many a beatin' before 'e could
understand that 'is strength was slippin' away from 'im."

"Youth will be served, masters," droned the old man, shaking his
head miserably.

"Fill up 'is glass," said Warr.  "'Ere, Tom, give old Buckhorse a
sup o' liptrap.  Warm his 'eart for 'im."

The old man poured a glass of neat gin down his shrivelled throat,
and the effect upon him was extraordinary.  A light glimmered in
each of his dull eyes, a tinge of colour came into his wax-like
cheeks, and, opening his toothless mouth, he suddenly emitted a
peculiar, bell-like, and most musical cry.  A hoarse roar of
laughter from all the company answered it, and flushed faces craned
over each other to catch a glimpse of the veteran.

"There's Buckhorse!" they cried.  "Buckhorse is comin' round again."

"You can laugh if you vill, masters," he cried, in his Lewkner Lane
dialect, holding up his two thin, vein-covered hands.  "It von't be
long that you'll be able to see my crooks vich 'ave been on Figg's
conk, and on Jack Broughton's, and on 'Arry Gray's, and many another
good fightin' man that was millin' for a livin' before your fathers
could eat pap."

The company laughed again, and encouraged the old man by half-
derisive and half-affectionate cries.

"Let 'em 'ave it, Buckhorse!  Give it 'em straight!  Tell us how the
millin' coves did it in your time."

The old gladiator looked round him in great contempt.

"Vy, from vot I see," he cried, in his high, broken treble, "there's
some on you that ain't fit to flick a fly from a joint o' meat.
You'd make werry good ladies' maids, the most of you, but you took
the wrong turnin' ven you came into the ring."

"Give 'im a wipe over the mouth," said a hoarse voice.

"Joe Berks," said Jackson, "I'd save the hangman the job of breaking
your neck if His Royal Highness wasn't in the room."

"That's as it may be, guv'nor," said the half-drunken ruffian,
staggering to his feet.  "If I've said anything wot isn't
genelmanlike--"

"Sit down, Berks!" cried my uncle, with such a tone of command that
the fellow collapsed into his chair.

"Vy, vitch of you would look Tom Slack in the face?" piped the old
fellow; "or Jack Broughton?--him vot told the old Dook of Cumberland
that all he vanted vas to fight the King o' Proosia's guard, day by
day, year in, year out, until 'e 'ad worked out the whole regiment
of 'em--and the smallest of 'em six foot long.  There's not more'n a
few of you could 'it a dint in a pat o' butter, and if you gets a
smack or two it's all over vith you.  Vich among you could get up
again after such a vipe as the Eytalian Gondoleery cove gave to Bob
Vittaker?"

"What was that, Buckhorse?" cried several voices.

"'E came over 'ere from voreign parts, and 'e was so broad 'e 'ad to
come edgewise through the doors.  'E 'ad so, upon my davy!  'E was
that strong that wherever 'e 'it the bone had got to go; and when
'e'd cracked a jaw or two it looked as though nothing in the country
could stan' against him.  So the King 'e sent one of his genelmen
down to Figg and he said to him:  ''Ere's a cove vot cracks a bone
every time 'e lets vly, and it'll be little credit to the Lunnon
boys if they lets 'im get avay vithout a vacking.'  So Figg he ups,
and he says, 'I do not know, master, but he may break one of 'is
countrymen's jawbones vid 'is vist, but I'll bring 'im a Cockney lad
and 'e shall not be able to break 'is jawbone with a sledge 'ammer.'
I was with Figg in Slaughter's coffee-'ouse, as then vas, ven 'e
says this to the King's genelman, and I goes so, I does!"  Again he
emitted the curious bell-like cry, and again the Corinthians and the
fighting-men laughed and applauded him.

"His Royal Highness--that is, the Earl of Chester--would be glad to
hear the end of your story, Buckhorse," said my uncle, to whom the
Prince had been whispering.

"Vell, your R'yal 'Ighness, it vas like this.  Ven the day came
round, all the volk came to Figg's Amphitheatre, the same that vos
in Tottenham Court, an' Bob Vittaker 'e vos there, and the Eytalian
Gondoleery cove 'e vas there, and all the purlitest, genteelest
crowd that ever vos, twenty thousand of 'em, all sittin' with their
'eads like purtaties on a barrer, banked right up round the stage,
and me there to pick up Bob, d'ye see, and Jack Figg 'imself just
for fair play to do vot was right by the cove from voreign parts.
They vas packed all round, the folks was, but down through the
middle of 'em was a passage just so as the gentry could come through
to their seats, and the stage it vas of wood, as the custom then
vas, and a man's 'eight above the 'eads of the people.  Vell, then,
ven Bob was put up opposite this great Eytalian man I says 'Slap 'im
in the vind, Bob,' 'cos I could see vid 'alf an eye that he vas as
puffy as a cheesecake; so Bob he goes in, and as he comes the
vorriner let 'im 'ave it amazin' on the conk.  I 'eard the thump of
it, and I kind o' velt somethin' vistle past me, but ven I looked
there vas the Eytalian a feelin' of 'is muscles in the middle o' the
stage, and as to Bob, there vern't no sign' of 'im at all no more'n
if 'e'd never been."

His audience was riveted by the old prize-fighter's story.  "Well,"
cried a dozen voices, "what then, Buckhorse:  'ad 'e swallowed 'im,
or what?"

"Yell, boys, that vas vat _I_ wondered, when sudden I seed two legs
a-stickin' up out o' the crowd a long vay off, just like these two
vingers, d'ye see, and I knewed they vas Bob's legs, seein' that 'e
'ad kind o' yellow small clothes vid blue ribbons--vich blue vas 'is
colour--at the knee.  So they up-ended 'im, they did, an' they made
a lane for 'im an' cheered 'im to give 'im 'eart, though 'e never
lacked for that.  At virst 'e vas that dazed that 'e didn't know if
'e vas in church or in 'Orsemonger Gaol; but ven I'd bit 'is two
ears 'e shook 'isself together.  'Ve'll try it again, Buck,' says
'e.  'The mark!' says I.  And 'e vinked all that vas left o' one
eye.  So the Eytalian 'e lets swing again, but Bob 'e jumps inside
an' 'e lets 'im 'ave it plumb square on the meat safe as 'ard as
ever the Lord would let 'im put it in."

"Well?  Well?"

"Vell, the Eytalian 'e got a touch of the gurgles, an' 'e shut
'imself right up like a two-foot rule.  Then 'e pulled 'imself
straight, an' 'e gave the most awful Glory Allelujah screech as ever
you 'eard.  Off 'e jumps from the stage an' down the passage as 'ard
as 'is 'oofs would carry 'im.  Up jumps the 'ole crowd, and after
'im as 'ard as they could move for laughin'.  They vas lyin' in the
kennel three deep all down Tottenham Court road wid their 'ands to
their sides just vit to break themselves in two.  Vell, ve chased
'im down 'Olburn, an' down Fleet Street, an' down Cheapside, an'
past the 'Change, and on all the vay to Voppin' an' we only catched
'im in the shippin' office, vere 'e vas askin' 'ow soon 'e could get
a passage to voreign parts."

There was much laughter and clapping of glasses upon the table at
the conclusion of old Buckhorse's story, and I saw the Prince of
Wales hand something to the waiter, who brought it round and slipped
it into the skinny hand of the veteran, who spat upon it before
thrusting it into his pocket.  The table had in the meanwhile been
cleared, and was now studded with bottles and glasses, while long
clay pipes and tobacco-boxes were handed round.  My uncle never
smoked, thinking that the habit might darken his teeth, but many of
the Corinthians, and the Prince amongst the first of them, set the
example of lighting up.  All restraint had been done away with, and
the prize-fighters, flushed with wine, roared across the tables to
each other, or shouted their greetings to friends at the other end
of the room.  The amateurs, falling into the humour of their
company, were hardly less noisy, and loudly debated the merits of
the different men, criticizing their styles of fighting before their
faces, and making bets upon the results of future matches.

In the midst of the uproar there was an imperative rap upon the
table, and my uncle rose to speak.  As he stood with his pale, calm
face and fine figure, I had never seen him to greater advantage, for
he seemed, with all his elegance, to have a quiet air of domination
amongst these fierce fellows, like a huntsman walking carelessly
through a springing and yapping pack.  He expressed his pleasure at
seeing so many good sportsmen under one roof, and acknowledged the
honour which had been done both to his guests and himself by the
presence there that night of the illustrious personage whom he
should refer to as the Earl of Chester.  He was sorry that the
season prevented him from placing game upon the table, but there was
so much sitting round it that it would perhaps be hardly missed
(cheers and laughter).  The sports of the ring had, in his opinion,
tended to that contempt of pain and of danger which had contributed
so much in the past to the safety of the country, and which might,
if what he heard was true, be very quickly needed once more.  If an
enemy landed upon our shores it was then that, with our small army,
we should be forced to fall back upon native valour trained into
hardihood by the practice and contemplation of manly sports.  In
time of peace also the rules of the ring had been of service in
enforcing the principles of fair play, and in turning public opinion
against that use of the knife or of the boot which was so common in
foreign countries.  He begged, therefore, to drink "Success to the
Fancy," coupled with the name of John Jackson, who might stand as a
type of all that was most admirable in British boxing.

Jackson having replied with a readiness which many a public man
might have envied, my uncle rose once more.

"We are here to-night," said he, "not only to celebrate the past
glories of the prize ring, but also to arrange some sport for the
future.  It should be easy, now that backers and fighting men are
gathered together under one roof, to come to terms with each other.
I have myself set an example by making a match with Sir Lothian
Hume, the terms of which will be communicated to you by that
gentleman."

Sir Lothian rose with a paper in his hand.

"The terms, your Royal Highness and gentlemen, are briefly these,"
said he.  "My man, Crab Wilson, of Gloucester, having never yet
fought a prize battle, is prepared to meet, upon May the 18th of
this year, any man of any weight who may be selected by Sir Charles
Tregellis.  Sir Charles Tregellis's selection is limited to men
below twenty or above thirty-five years of age, so as to exclude
Belcher and the other candidates for championship honours.  The
stakes are two thousand pounds against a thousand, two hundred to be
paid by the winner to his man; play or pay."

It was curious to see the intense gravity of them all, fighters and
backers, as they bent their brows and weighed the conditions of the
match.

"I am informed," said Sir John Lade, "that Crab Wilson's age is
twenty-three, and that, although he has never fought a regular P.R.
battle, he has none the less fought within ropes for a stake on many
occasions."

"I've seen him half a dozen times at the least," said Belcher.

"It is precisely for that reason, Sir John, that I am laying odds of
two to one in his favour."

"May I ask," said the Prince, "what the exact height and weight of
Wilson may be?"

"Five foot eleven and thirteen-ten, your Royal Highness."

"Long enough and heavy enough for anything on two legs," said
Jackson, and the professionals all murmured their assent.

"Read the rules of the fight, Sir Lothian."

"The battle to take place on Tuesday, May the 18th, at the hour of
ten in the morning, at a spot to be afterwards named.  The ring to
be twenty foot square.  Neither to fall without a knock-down blow,
subject to the decision of the umpires.  Three umpires to be chosen
upon the ground, namely, two in ordinary and one in reference.  Does
that meet your wishes, Sir Charles?"

My uncle bowed.

"Have you anything to say, Wilson?"

The young pugilist, who had a curious, lanky figure, and a craggy,
bony face, passed his fingers through his close-cropped hair.

"If you please, zir," said he, with a slight west-country burr, "a
twenty-voot ring is too small for a thirteen-stone man."

There was another murmur of professional agreement.

"What would you have it, Wilson?"

"Vour-an'-twenty, Sir Lothian."

"Have you any objection, Sir Charles?"

"Not the slightest."

"Anything else, Wilson?"

"If you please, zir, I'd like to know whom I'm vighting with."

"I understand that you have not publicly nominated your man, Sir
Charles?"

"I do not intend to do so until the very morning of the fight.  I
believe I have that right within the terms of our wager."

"Certainly, if you choose to exercise it."

"I do so intend.  And I should be vastly pleased if Mr. Berkeley
Craven will consent to be stake-holder."

That gentleman having willingly given his consent, the final
formalities which led up to these humble tournaments were concluded.

And then, as these full-blooded, powerful men became heated with
their wine, angry eyes began to glare across the table, and amid the
grey swirls of tobacco-smoke the lamp-light gleamed upon the fierce,
hawk-like Jews, and the flushed, savage Saxons.  The old quarrel as
to whether Jackson had or had not committed a foul by seizing
Mendoza by the hair on the occasion of their battle at Hornchurch,
eight years before, came to the front once more.  Dutch Sam hurled a
shilling down upon the table, and offered to fight the Pride of
Westminster for it if he ventured to say that Mendoza had been
fairly beaten.  Joe Berks, who had grown noisier and more
quarrelsome as the evening went on, tried to clamber across the
table, with horrible blasphemies, to come to blows with an old Jew
named Fighting Yussef, who had plunged into the discussion.  It
needed very little more to finish the supper by a general and
ferocious battle, and it was only the exertions of Jackson, Belcher,
Harrison, and others of the cooler and steadier men, which saved us
from a riot.

And then, when at last this question was set aside, that of the
rival claims to championships at different weights came on in its
stead, and again angry words flew about and challenges were in the
air.  There was no exact limit between the light, middle, and
heavyweights, and yet it would make a very great difference to the
standing of a boxer whether he should be regarded as the heaviest of
the light-weights, or the lightest of the heavy-weights.  One
claimed to be ten-stone champion, another was ready to take on
anything at eleven, but would not run to twelve, which would have
brought the invincible Jem Belcher down upon him.  Faulkner claimed
to be champion of the seniors, and even old Buckhorse's curious call
rang out above the tumult as he turned the whole company to laughter
and good humour again by challenging anything over eighty and under
seven stone.

But in spite of gleams of sunshine, there was thunder in the air,
and Champion Harrison had just whispered in my ear that he was quite
sure that we should never get through the night without trouble, and
was advising me, if it got very bad, to take refuge under the table,
when the landlord entered the room hurriedly and handed a note to my
uncle.

He read it, and then passed it to the Prince, who returned it with
raised eyebrows and a gesture of surprise.  Then my uncle rose with
the scrap of paper in his hand and a smile upon his lips.

"Gentlemen," said he, "there is a stranger waiting below who desires
a fight to a finish with the best men in the room."



CHAPTER XI--THE FIGHT IN THE COACH-HOUSE



The curt announcement was followed by a moment of silent surprise,
and then by a general shout of laughter.  There might be argument as
to who was champion at each weight; but there could be no question
that all the champions of all the weights were seated round the
tables.  An audacious challenge which embraced them one and all,
without regard to size or age, could hardly be regarded otherwise
than as a joke--but it was a joke which might be a dear one for the
joker.

"Is this genuine?" asked my uncle.

"Yes, Sir Charles," answered the landlord; "the man is waiting
below."

"It's a kid!" cried several of the fighting-men.  "Some cove is a
gammonin' us."

"Don't you believe it," answered the landlord.  "He's a real slap-up
Corinthian, by his dress; and he means what he says, or else I ain't
no judge of a man."

My uncle whispered for a few moments with the Prince of Wales.
"Well, gentlemen," said he, at last, "the night is still young, and
if any of you should wish to show the company a little of your
skill, you could not ask a better opportunity."

"What weight is he, Bill?" asked Jem Belcher.

"He's close on six foot, and I should put him well into the thirteen
stones when he's buffed."

"Heavy metal!" cried Jackson.  "Who takes him on?"

They all wanted to, from nine-stone Dutch Sam upwards.  The air was
filled with their hoarse shouts and their arguments why each should
be the chosen one.  To fight when they were flushed with wine and
ripe for mischief--above all, to fight before so select a company
with the Prince at the ringside, was a chance which did not often
come in their way.  Only Jackson, Belcher, Mendoza, and one or two
others of the senior and more famous men remained silent, thinking
it beneath their dignity that they should condescend to so irregular
a bye-battle.

"Well, you can't all fight him," remarked Jackson, when the babel
had died away.  "It's for the chairman to choose."

"Perhaps your Royal Highness has a preference," said my uncle.

"By Jove, I'd take him on myself if my position was different," said
the Prince, whose face was growing redder and his eyes more glazed.
"You've seen me with the mufflers, Jackson!  You know my form!"

"I've seen your Royal Highness, and I have felt your Royal
Highness," said the courtly Jackson.

"Perhaps Jem Belcher would give us an exhibition," said my uncle.

Belcher smiled and shook his handsome head.

"There's my brother Tom here has never been blooded in London yet,
sir.  He might make a fairer match of it."

"Give him over to me!" roared Joe Berks.  "I've been waitin' for a
turn all evenin', an' I'll fight any man that tries to take my
place.  'E's my meat, my masters.  Leave 'im to me if you want to
see 'ow a calf's 'ead should be dressed.  If you put Tom Belcher
before me I'll fight Tom Belcher, an' for that matter I'll fight Jem
Belcher, or Bill Belcher, or any other Belcher that ever came out of
Bristol."

It was clear that Berks had got to the stage when he must fight some
one.  His heavy face was gorged and the veins stood out on his low
forehead, while his fierce grey eyes looked viciously from man to
man in quest of a quarrel.  His great red hands were bunched into
huge, gnarled fists, and he shook one of them menacingly as his
drunken gaze swept round the tables.

"I think you'll agree with me, gentlemen, that Joe Berks would be
all the better for some fresh air and exercise," said my uncle.
"With the concurrence of His Royal Highness and of the company, I
shall select him as our champion on this occasion."

"You do me proud," cried the fellow, staggering to his feet and
pulling at his coat.  "If I don't glut him within the five minutes,
may I never see Shropshire again."

"Wait a bit, Berks," cried several of the amateurs.  "Where's it
going to be held?"

"Where you like, masters.  I'll fight him in a sawpit, or on the
outside of a coach if it please you.  Put us toe to toe, and leave
the rest with me."

"They can't fight here with all this litter," said my uncle.  "Where
shall it be?"

"'Pon my soul, Tregellis," cried the Prince, "I think our unknown
friend might have a word to say upon that matter.  He'll be vastly
ill-used if you don't let him have his own choice of conditions."

"You are right, sir.  We must have him up."

"That's easy enough," said the landlord, "for here he comes through
the doorway."

I glanced round and had a side view of a tall and well-dressed young
man in a long, brown travelling coat and a black felt hat.  The next
instant he had turned and I had clutched with both my hands on to
Champion Harrison's arm.

"Harrison!" I gasped.  "It's Boy Jim!"

And yet somehow the possibility and even the probability of it had
occurred to me from the beginning, and I believe that it had to
Harrison also, for I had noticed that his face grew grave and
troubled from the very moment that there was talk of the stranger
below.  Now, the instant that the buzz of surprise and admiration
caused by Jim's face and figure had died away, Harrison was on his
feet, gesticulating in his excitement.

"It's my nephew Jim, gentlemen," he cried.  "He's not twenty yet,
and it's no doing of mine that he should be here."

"Let him alone, Harrison," cried Jackson.  "He's big enough to take
care of himself."

"This matter has gone rather far," said my uncle.  "I think,
Harrison, that you are too good a sportsman to prevent your nephew
from showing whether he takes after his uncle."

"It's very different from me," cried Harrison, in great distress.
"But I'll tell you what I'll do, gentlemen.  I never thought to
stand up in a ring again, but I'll take on Joe Berks with pleasure,
just to give a bit o' sport to this company."

Boy Jim stepped across and laid his hand upon the prize-fighter's
shoulder.

"It must be so, uncle," I heard him whisper.  "I am sorry to go
against your wishes, but I have made up my mind, and I must carry it
through."

Harrison shrugged his huge shoulders.

"Jim, Jim, you don't know what you are doing!  But I've heard you
speak like that before, boy, and I know that it ends in your getting
your way."

"I trust, Harrison, that your opposition is withdrawn?" said my
uncle.

"Can I not take his place?"

"You would not have it said that I gave a challenge and let another
carry it out?" whispered Jim.  "This is my one chance.  For Heaven's
sake don't stand in my way."

The smith's broad and usually stolid face was all working with his
conflicting emotions.  At last he banged his fist down upon the
table.

"It's no fault of mine!" he cried.  "It was to be and it is.  Jim,
boy, for the Lord's sake remember your distances, and stick to out-
fightin' with a man that could give you a stone."

"I was sure that Harrison would not stand in the way of sport," said
my uncle.  "We are glad that you have stepped up, that we might
consult you as to the arrangements for giving effect to your very
sporting challenge."

"Whom am I to fight?" asked Jim, looking round at the company, who
were now all upon their feet.

"Young man, you'll know enough of who you 'ave to fight before you
are through with it," cried Berks, lurching heavily through the
crowd.  "You'll need a friend to swear to you before I've finished,
d'ye see?"

Jim looked at him with disgust in every line of his face.

"Surely you are not going to set me to fight a drunken man!" said
he.  "Where is Jem Belcher?"

"My name, young man."

"I should be glad to try you, if I may."

"You must work up to me, my lad.  You don't take a ladder at one
jump, but you do it rung by rung.  Show yourself to be a match for
me, and I'll give you a turn."

"I'm much obliged to you."

"And I like the look of you, and wish you well," said Belcher,
holding out his hand.  They were not unlike each other, either in
face or figure, though the Bristol man was a few years the older,
and a murmur of critical admiration was heard as the two tall, lithe
figures, and keen, clean-cut faces were contrasted.

"Have you any choice where the fight takes place?" asked my uncle.

"I am in your hands, sir," said Jim.

"Why not go round to the Five's Court?" suggested Sir John Lade.

"Yes, let us go to the Five's Court."

But this did not at all suit the views of the landlord, who saw in
this lucky incident a chance of reaping a fresh harvest from his
spendthrift company.

"If it please you," he cried, "there is no need to go so far.  My
coach-house at the back of the yard is empty, and a better place for
a mill you'll never find."

There was a general shout in favour of the coach-house, and those
who were nearest the door began to slip through, in the hope of
scouring the best places.  My stout neighbour, Bill Warr, pulled
Harrison to one side.

"I'd stop it if I were you," he whispered.

"I would if I could.  It's no wish of mine that he should fight.
But there's no turning him when once his mind is made up."  All his
own fights put together had never reduced the pugilist to such a
state of agitation.

"Wait on 'im yourself, then, and chuck up the sponge when things
begin to go wrong.  You know Joe Berks's record?"

"He's since my time."

"Well, 'e's a terror, that's all.  It's only Belcher that can master
'im.  You see the man for yourself, six foot, fourteen stone, and
full of the devil.  Belcher's beat 'im twice, but the second time 'e
'ad all 'is work to do it."

"Well, well, we've got to go through with it.  You've not seen Boy
Jim put his mawleys up, or maybe you'd think better of his chances.
When he was short of sixteen he licked the Cock of the South Downs,
and he's come on a long way since then."

The company was swarming through the door and clattering down the
stair, so we followed in the stream.  A fine rain was falling, and
the yellow lights from the windows glistened upon the wet
cobblestones of the yard.  How welcome was that breath of sweet,
damp air after the fetid atmosphere of the supper-room.  At the
other end of the yard was an open door sharply outlined by the gleam
of lanterns within, and through this they poured, amateurs and
fighting-men jostling each other in their eagerness to get to the
front.  For my own part, being a smallish man, I should have seen
nothing had I not found an upturned bucket in a corner, upon which I
perched myself with the wall at my back.

It was a large room with a wooden floor and an open square in the
ceiling, which was fringed with the heads of the ostlers and stable
boys who were looking down from the harness-room above.  A carriage-
lamp was slung in each corner, and a very large stable-lantern hung
from a rafter in the centre.  A coil of rope had been brought in,
and under the direction of Jackson four men had been stationed to
hold it.

"What space do you give them?" asked my uncle.

"Twenty-four, as they are both big ones, sir."

"Very good, and half-minutes between rounds, I suppose?  I'll umpire
if Sir Lothian Hume will do the same, and you can hold the watch and
referee, Jackson."

With great speed and exactness every preparation was rapidly made by
these experienced men.  Mendoza and Dutch Sam were commissioned to
attend to Berks, while Belcher and Jack Harrison did the same for
Boy Jim.  Sponges, towels, and some brandy in a bladder were passed
over the heads of the crowd for the use of the seconds.

"Here's our man," cried Belcher.  "Come along, Berks, or we'll go to
fetch you."

Jim appeared in the ring stripped to the waist, with a coloured
handkerchief tied round his middle.  A shout of admiration came from
the spectators as they looked upon the fine lines of his figure, and
I found myself roaring with the rest.  His shoulders were sloping
rather than bulky, and his chest was deep rather than broad, but the
muscle was all in the right place, rippling down in long, low curves
from neck to shoulder, and from shoulder to elbow.  His work at the
anvil had developed his arms to their utmost, and his healthy
country living gave a sleek gloss to his ivory skin, which shone in
the lamplight.  His expression was full of spirit and confidence,
and he wore a grim sort of half-smile which I had seen many a time
in our boyhood, and which meant, I knew, that his pride had set iron
hard, and that his senses would fail him long before his courage.

Joe Berks in the meanwhile had swaggered in and stood with folded
arms between his seconds in the opposite corner.  His face had none
of the eager alertness of his opponent, and his skin, of a dead
white, with heavy folds about the chest and ribs, showed, even to my
inexperienced eyes, that he was not a man who should fight without
training.  A life of toping and ease had left him flabby and gross.
On the other hand, he was famous for his mettle and for his hitting
power, so that, even in the face of the advantages of youth and
condition, the betting was three to one in his favour.  His heavy-
jowled, clean-shaven face expressed ferocity as well as courage, and
he stood with his small, blood-shot eyes fixed viciously upon Jim,
and his lumpy shoulders stooping a little forwards, like a fierce
hound training on a leash.

The hubbub of the betting had risen until it drowned all other
sounds, men shouting their opinions from one side of the coach-house
to the other, and waving their hands to attract attention, or as a
sign that they had accepted a wager.  Sir John Lade, standing just
in front of me, was roaring out the odds against Jim, and laying
them freely with those who fancied the appearance of the unknown.

"I've seen Berks fight," said he to the Honourable Berkeley Craven.
"No country hawbuck is going to knock out a man with such a record."

"He may be a country hawbuck," the other answered, "but I have been
reckoned a judge of anything either on two legs or four, and I tell
you, Sir John, that I never saw a man who looked better bred in my
life.  Are you still laying against him?"

"Three to one."

"Have you once in hundreds."

"Very good, Craven!  There they go!  Berks!  Berks!  Bravo!  Berks!
Bravo!  I think, Craven, that I shall trouble you for that hundred."

The two men had stood up to each other, Jim as light upon his feet
as a goat, with his left well out and his right thrown across the
lower part of his chest, while Berks held both arms half extended
and his feet almost level, so that he might lead off with either
side.  For an instant they looked each other over, and then Berks,
ducking his head and rushing in with a handover-hand style of
hitting, bored Jim down into his corner.  It was a backward slip
rather than a knockdown, but a thin trickle of blood was seen at the
corner of Jim's mouth.  In an instant the seconds had seized their
men and carried them back into their corners.

"Do you mind doubling our bet?" said Berkeley Craven, who was
craning his neck to get a glimpse of Jim.

"Four to one on Berks!  Four to one on Berks!" cried the ringsiders.

"The odds have gone up, you see.  Will you have four to one in
hundreds?"

"Very good, Sir John."

"You seem to fancy him more for having been knocked down."

"He was pushed down, but he stopped every blow, and I liked the look
on his face as he got up again."

"Well, it's the old stager for me.  Here they come again!  He's got
a pretty style, and he covers his points well, but it isn't the best
looking that wins."

They were at it again, and I was jumping about upon my bucket in my
excitement.  It was evident that Berks meant to finish the battle
off-hand, whilst Jim, with two of the most experienced men in
England to advise him, was quite aware that his correct tactics were
to allow the ruffian to expend his strength and wind in vain.  There
was something horrible in the ferocious energy of Berks's hitting,
every blow fetching a grunt from him as he smashed it in, and after
each I gazed at Jim, as I have gazed at a stranded vessel upon the
Sussex beach when wave after wave has roared over it, fearing each
time that I should find it miserably mangled.  But still the
lamplight shone upon the lad's clear, alert face, upon his well-
opened eyes and his firm-set mouth, while the blows were taken upon
his forearm or allowed, by a quick duck of the head, to whistle over
his shoulder.  But Berks was artful as well as violent.  Gradually
he worked Jim back into an angle of the ropes from which there was
no escape, and then, when he had him fairly penned, he sprang upon
him like a tiger.  What happened was so quick that I cannot set its
sequence down in words, but I saw Jim make a quick stoop under the
swinging arms, and at the same instant I heard a sharp, ringing
smack, and there was Jim dancing about in the middle of the ring,
and Berks lying upon his side on the floor, with his hand to his
eye.

How they roared!  Prize-fighters, Corinthians, Prince, stable-boy,
and landlord were all shouting at the top of their lungs.  Old
Buckhorse was skipping about on a box beside me, shrieking out
criticisms and advice in strange, obsolete ring-jargon, which no one
could understand.  His dull eyes were shining, his parchment face
was quivering with excitement, and his strange musical call rang out
above all the hubbub.  The two men were hurried to their corners,
one second sponging them down and the other flapping a towel in
front of their face; whilst they, with arms hanging down and legs
extended, tried to draw all the air they could into their lungs in
the brief space allowed them.

"Where's your country hawbuck now?" cried Craven, triumphantly.
"Did ever you witness anything more masterly?"

"He's no Johnny Raw, certainly," said Sir John, shaking his head.
"What odds are you giving on Berks, Lord Sole?"

"Two to one."

"I take you twice in hundreds."

"Here's Sir John Lade hedging!" cried my uncle, smiling back at us
over his shoulder.

"Time!" said Jackson, and the two men sprang forward to the mark
again.

This round was a good deal shorter than that which had preceded it.
Berks's orders evidently were to close at any cost, and so make use
of his extra weight and strength before the superior condition of
his antagonist could have time to tell.  On the other hand, Jim,
after his experience in the last round, was less disposed to make
any great exertion to keep him at arms' length.  He led at Berks's
head, as he came rushing in, and missed him, receiving a severe body
blow in return, which left the imprint of four angry knuckles above
his ribs.  As they closed Jim caught his opponent's bullet head
under his arm for an instant, and put a couple of half-arm blows in;
but the prize-fighter pulled him over by his weight, and the two
fell panting side by side upon the ground.  Jim sprang up, however,
and walked over to his corner, while Berks, distressed by his
evening's dissipation, leaned one arm upon Mendoza and the other
upon Dutch Sam as he made for his seat.

"Bellows to mend!" cried Jem Belcher.  "Where's the four to one
now?"

"Give us time to get the lid off our pepper-box," said Mendoza.  "We
mean to make a night of it."

"Looks like it," said Jack Harrison.  "He's shut one of his eyes
already.  Even money that my boy wins it!"

"How much?" asked several voices.

"Two pound four and threepence," cried Harrison, counting out all
his worldly wealth.

"Time!" said Jackson once more.

They were both at the mark in an instant, Jim as full of sprightly
confidence as ever, and Berks with a fixed grin upon his bull-dog
face and a most vicious gleam in the only eye which was of use to
him.  His half-minute had not enabled him to recover his breath, and
his huge, hairy chest was rising and falling with a quick, loud
panting like a spent hound.  "Go in, boy!  Bustle him!" roared
Harrison and Belcher.  "Get your wind, Joe; get your wind!" cried
the Jews.  So now we had a reversal of tactics, for it was Jim who
went in to hit with all the vigour of his young strength and
unimpaired energy, while it was the savage Berks who was paying his
debt to Nature for the many injuries which he had done her.  He
gasped, he gurgled, his face grew purple in his attempts to get his
breath, while with his long left arm extended and his right thrown
across, he tried to screen himself from the attack of his wiry
antagonist.  "Drop when he hits!" cried Mendoza.  "Drop and have a
rest!"

But there was no shyness or shiftiness about Berks's fighting.  He
was always a gallant ruffian, who disdained to go down before an
antagonist as long as his legs would sustain him.  He propped Jim
off with his long arm, and though the lad sprang lightly round him
looking for an opening, he was held off as if a forty-inch bar of
iron were between them.  Every instant now was in favour of Berks,
and already his breathing was easier and the bluish tinge fading
from his face.  Jim knew that his chance of a speedy victory was
slipping away from him, and he came back again and again as swift as
a flash to the attack without being able to get past the passive
defence of the trained fighting-man.  It was at such a moment that
ringcraft was needed, and luckily for Jim two masters of it were at
his back.

"Get your left on his mark, boy," they shouted, "then go to his head
with the right."

Jim heard and acted on the instant.  Plunk! came his left just where
his antagonist's ribs curved from his breast-bone.  The force of the
blow was half broken by Berks's elbow, but it served its purpose of
bringing forward his head.  Spank! went the right, with the clear,
crisp sound of two billiard balls clapping together, and Berks
reeled, flung up his arms, spun round, and fell in a huge, fleshy
heap upon the floor.  His seconds were on him instantly, and propped
him up in a sitting position, his head rolling helplessly from one
shoulder to the other, and finally toppling backwards with his chin
pointed to the ceiling.  Dutch Sam thrust the brandy-bladder between
his teeth, while Mendoza shook him savagely and howled insults in
his ear, but neither the spirits nor the sense of injury could break
into that serene insensibility.  "Time!" was duly called, and the
Jews, seeing that the affair was over, let their man's head fall
back with a crack upon the floor, and there he lay, his huge arms
and legs asprawl, whilst the Corinthians and fighting-men crowded
past him to shake the hand of his conqueror.

For my part, I tried also to press through the throng, but it was no
easy task for one of the smallest and weakest men in the room.  On
all sides of me I heard a brisk discussion from amateurs and
professionals of Jim's performance and of his prospects.

"He's the best bit of new stuff that I've seen since Jem Belcher
fought his first fight with Paddington Jones at Wormwood Scrubbs
four years ago last April," said Berkeley Craven.  "You'll see him
with the belt round his waist before he's five-and-twenty, or I am
no judge of a man."

"That handsome face of his has cost me a cool five hundred,"
grumbled Sir John Lade.  "Who'd have thought he was such a punishing
hitter?"

"For all that," said another, "I am confident that if Joe Berks had
been sober he would have eaten him.  Besides, the lad was in
training, and the other would burst like an overdone potato if he
were hit.  I never saw a man so soft, or with his wind in such
condition.  Put the men in training, and it's a horse to a hen on
the bruiser."

Some agreed with the last speaker and some were against him, so that
a brisk argument was being carried on around me.  In the midst of it
the Prince took his departure, which was the signal for the greater
part of the company to make for the door.  In this way I was able at
last to reach the corner where Jim had just finished his dressing,
while Champion Harrison, with tears of joy still shining upon his
cheeks, was helping him on with his overcoat.

"In four rounds!" he kept repeating in a sort of an ecstasy.  "Joe
Berks in four rounds!  And it took Jem Belcher fourteen!"

"Well, Roddy," cried Jim, holding out his hand, "I told you that I
would come to London and make my name known."

"It was splendid, Jim!"

"Dear old Roddy!  I saw your white face staring at me from the
corner.  You are not changed, for all your grand clothes and your
London friends."

"It is you who are changed, Jim," said I; "I hardly knew you when
you came into the room."

"Nor I," cried the smith.  "Where got you all these fine feathers,
Jim?  Sure I am that it was not your aunt who helped you to the
first step towards the prize-ring."

"Miss Hinton has been my friend--the best friend I ever had."

"Humph!  I thought as much," grumbled the smith.  "Well, it is no
doing of mine, Jim, and you must bear witness to that when we go
home again.  I don't know what--but, there, it is done, and it can't
be helped.  After all, she's--Now, the deuce take my clumsy tongue!"

I could not tell whether it was the wine which he had taken at
supper or the excitement of Boy Jim's victory which was affecting
Harrison, but his usually placid face wore a most disturbed
expression, and his manner seemed to betray an alternation of
exultation and embarrassment.  Jim looked curiously at him,
wondering evidently what it was that lay behind these abrupt
sentences and sudden silences.  The coach-house had in the mean time
been cleared; Berks with many curses had staggered at last to his
feet, and had gone off in company with two other bruisers, while Jem
Belcher alone remained chatting very earnestly with my uncle.

"Very good, Belcher," I heard my uncle say.

"It would be a real pleasure to me to do it, sir," and the famous
prize-fighter, as the two walked towards us.

"I wished to ask you, Jim Harrison, whether you would undertake to
be my champion in the fight against Crab Wilson of Gloucester?" said
my uncle.

"That is what I want, Sir Charles--to have a chance of fighting my
way upwards."

"There are heavy stakes upon the event--very heavy stakes," said my
uncle.  "You will receive two hundred pounds, if you win.  Does that
satisfy you?"

"I shall fight for the honour, and because I wish to be thought
worthy of being matched against Jem Belcher."

Belcher laughed good-humouredly.

"You are going the right way about it, lad," said he.  "But you had
a soft thing on to-night with a drunken man who was out of
condition."

"I did not wish to fight him," said Jim, flushing.

"Oh, I know you have spirit enough to fight anything on two legs.  I
knew that the instant I clapped eyes on you; but I want you to
remember that when you fight Crab Wilson, you will fight the most
promising man from the west, and that the best man of the west is
likely to be the best man in England.  He's as quick and as long in
the reach as you are, and he'll train himself to the last half-ounce
of tallow.  I tell you this now, d'ye see, because if I'm to have
the charge of you--"

"Charge of me!"

"Yes," said my uncle.  "Belcher has consented to train you for the
coming battle if you are willing to enter."

"I am sure I am very much obliged to you," cried Jim, heartily.
"Unless my uncle should wish to train me, there is no one I would
rather have."

"Nay, Jim; I'll stay with you a few days, but Belcher knows a deal
more about training than I do.  Where will the quarters be?"

"I thought it would be handy for you if we fixed it at the George,
at Crawley.  Then, if we have choice of place, we might choose
Crawley Down, for, except Molesey Hurst, and, maybe, Smitham Bottom,
there isn't a spot in the country that would compare with it for a
mill.  Do you agree with that?"

"With all my heart," said Jim.

"Then you're my man from this hour on, d'ye see?" said Belcher.
"Your food is mine, and your drink is mine, and your sleep is mine,
and all you've to do is just what you are told.  We haven't an hour
to lose, for Wilson has been in half-training this month back.  You
saw his empty glass to-night."

"Jim's fit to fight for his life at the present moment," said
Harrison.  "But we'll both come down to Crawley to-morrow.  So good
night, Sir Charles."

"Good night, Roddy," said Jim.  "You'll come down to Crawley and see
me at my training quarters, will you not?"

And I heartily promised that I would.

"You must be more careful, nephew," said my uncle, as we rattled
home in his model vis-a-vis.  "En premiere jeunesse one is a little
inclined to be ruled by one's heart rather than by one's reason.
Jim Harrison seems to be a most respectable young fellow, but after
all he is a blacksmith's apprentice, and a candidate for the prize-
ring.  There is a vast gap between his position and that of my own
blood relation, and you must let him feel that you are his
superior."

"He is the oldest and dearest friend that I have in the world, sir,"
I answered.  "We were boys together, and have never had a secret
from each other.  As to showing him that I am his superior, I don't
know how I can do that, for I know very well that he is mine."

"Hum!" said my uncle, drily, and it was the last word that he
addressed to me that night.



CHAPTER XII--THE COFFEE-ROOM OF FLADONG'S



So Boy Jim went down to the George, at Crawley, under the charge of
Jim Belcher and Champion Harrison, to train for his great fight with
Crab Wilson, of Gloucester, whilst every club and bar parlour of
London rang with the account of how he had appeared at a supper of
Corinthians, and beaten the formidable Joe Berks in four rounds.  I
remembered that afternoon at Friar's Oak when Jim had told me that
he would make his name known, and his words had come true sooner
than he could have expected it, for, go where one might, one heard
of nothing but the match between Sir Lothian Hume and Sir Charles
Tregellis, and the points of the two probable combatants.  The
betting was still steadily in favour of Wilson, for he had a number
of bye-battles to set against this single victory of Jim's, and it
was thought by connoisseurs who had seen him spar that the singular
defensive tactics which had given him his nickname would prove very
puzzling to a raw antagonist.  In height, strength, and reputation
for gameness there was very little to choose between them, but
Wilson had been the more severely tested.

It was but a few days before the battle that my father made his
promised visit to London.  The seaman had no love of cities, and was
happier wandering over the Downs, and turning his glass upon every
topsail which showed above the horizon, than when finding his way
among crowded streets, where, as he complained, it was impossible to
keep a course by the sun, and hard enough by dead reckoning.
Rumours of war were in the air, however, and it was necessary that
he should use his influence with Lord Nelson if a vacancy were to be
found either for himself or for me.

My uncle had just set forth, as was his custom of an evening, clad
in his green riding-frock, his plate buttons, his Cordovan boots,
and his round hat, to show himself upon his crop-tailed tit in the
Mall.  I had remained behind, for, indeed, I had already made up my
mind that I had no calling for this fashionable life.  These men,
with their small waists, their gestures, and their unnatural ways,
had become wearisome to me, and even my uncle, with his cold and
patronizing manner, filled me with very mixed feelings.  My thoughts
were back in Sussex, and I was dreaming of the kindly, simple ways
of the country, when there came a rat-tat at the knocker, the ring
of a hearty voice, and there, in the doorway, was the smiling,
weather-beaten face, with the puckered eyelids and the light blue
eyes.

"Why, Roddy, you are grand indeed!" he cried.  "But I had rather see
you with the King's blue coat upon your back than with all these
frills and ruffles."

"And I had rather wear it, father."

"It warms my heart to hear you say so.  Lord Nelson has promised me
that he would find a berth for you, and to-morrow we shall seek him
out and remind him of it.  But where is your uncle?"

"He is riding in the Mall."

A look of relief passed over my father's honest face, for he was
never very easy in his brother-in-law's company.  "I have been to
the Admiralty," said he, "and I trust that I shall have a ship when
war breaks out; by all accounts it will not be long first.  Lord St.
Vincent told me so with his own lips.  But I am at Fladong's,
Rodney, where, if you will come and sup with me, you will see some
of my messmates from the Mediterranean."

When you think that in the last year of the war we had 140,000
seamen and mariners afloat, commanded by 4000 officers, and that
half of these had been turned adrift when the Peace of Amiens laid
their ships up in the Hamoaze or Portsdown creek, you will
understand that London, as well as the dockyard towns, was full of
seafarers.  You could not walk the streets without catching sight of
the gipsy-faced, keen-eyed men whose plain clothes told of their
thin purses as plainly as their listless air showed their weariness
of a life of forced and unaccustomed inaction.  Amid the dark
streets and brick houses there was something out of place in their
appearance, as when the sea-gulls, driven by stress of weather, are
seen in the Midland shires.  Yet while prize-courts procrastinated,
or there was a chance of an appointment by showing their sunburned
faces at the Admiralty, so long they would continue to pace with
their quarter-deck strut down Whitehall, or to gather of an evening
to discuss the events of the last war or the chances of the next at
Fladong's, in Oxford Street, which was reserved as entirely for the
Navy as Slaughter's was for the Army, or Ibbetson's for the Church
of England.

It did not surprise me, therefore, that we should find the large
room in which we supped crowded with naval men, but I remember that
what did cause me some astonishment was to observe that all these
sailors, who had served under the most varying conditions in all
quarters of the globe, from the Baltic to the East Indies, should
have been moulded into so uniform a type that they were more like
each other than brother is commonly to brother.  The rules of the
service insured that every face should be clean-shaven, every head
powdered, and every neck covered by the little queue of natural hair
tied with a black silk ribbon.  Biting winds and tropical suns had
combined to darken them, whilst the habit of command and the menace
of ever-recurring dangers had stamped them all with the same
expression of authority and of alertness.  There were some jovial
faces amongst them, but the older officers, with their deep-lined
cheeks and their masterful noses, were, for the most part, as
austere as so many weather-beaten ascetics from the desert.  Lonely
watches, and a discipline which cut them off from all companionship,
had left their mark upon those Red Indian faces.  For my part, I
could hardly eat my supper for watching them.  Young as I was, I
knew that if there were any freedom left in Europe it was to these
men that we owed it; and I seemed to read upon their grim, harsh
features the record of that long ten years of struggle which had
swept the tricolour from the seas.

When we had finished our supper, my father led me into the great
coffee-room, where a hundred or more officers may have been
assembled, drinking their wine and smoking their long clay pipes,
until the air was as thick as the main-deck in a close-fought
action.  As we entered we found ourselves face to face with an
elderly officer who was coming out.  He was a man with large,
thoughtful eyes, and a full, placid face--such a face as one would
expect from a philosopher and a philanthropist, rather than from a
fighting seaman.

"Here's Cuddie Collingwood," whispered my father.

"Halloa, Lieutenant Stone!" cried the famous admiral very cheerily.
"I have scarce caught a glimpse of you since you came aboard the
Excellent after St. Vincent.  You had the luck to be at the Nile
also, I understand?"

"I was third of the Theseus, under Millar, sir."

"It nearly broke my heart to have missed it.  I have not yet
outlived it.  To think of such a gallant service, and I engaged in
harassing the market-boats, the miserable cabbage-carriers of St.
Luccars!"

"Your plight was better than mine, Sir Cuthbert," said a voice from
behind us, and a large man in the full uniform of a post-captain
took a step forward to include himself in our circle.  His mastiff
face was heavy with emotion, and he shook his head miserably as he
spoke.

"Yes, yes, Troubridge, I can understand and sympathize with your
feelings."

"I passed through torment that night, Collingwood.  It left a mark
on me that I shall never lose until I go over the ship's side in a
canvas cover.  To have my beautiful Culloden laid on a sandbank just
out of gunshot.  To hear and see the fight the whole night through,
and never to pull a lanyard or take the tompions out of my guns.
Twice I opened my pistol-case to blow out my brains, and it was but
the thought that Nelson might have a use for me that held me back."

Collingwood shook the hand of the unfortunate captain.

"Admiral Nelson was not long in finding a use for you, Troubridge,"
said he.  "We have all heard of your siege of Capua, and how you ran
up your ship's guns without trenches or parallels, and fired point-
blank through the embrasures."

The melancholy cleared away from the massive face of the big seaman,
and his deep laughter filled the room.

"I'm not clever enough or slow enough for their Z-Z fashions," said
he.  "We got alongside and slapped it in through their port-holes
until they struck their colours.  But where have you been, Sir
Cuthbert?"

"With my wife and my two little lasses at Morpeth in the North
Country.  I have but seen them this once in ten years, and it may be
ten more, for all I know, ere I see them again.  I have been doing
good work for the fleet up yonder."

"I had thought, sir, that it was inland," said my father.

Collingwood took a little black bag out of his pocket and shook it.

"Inland it is," said he, "and yet I have done good work for the
fleet there.  What do you suppose I hold in this bag?"

"Bullets," said Troubridge.

"Something that a sailor needs even more than that," answered the
admiral, and turning it over he tilted a pile of acorns on to his
palm.  "I carry them with me in my country walks, and where I see a
fruitful nook I thrust one deep with the end of my cane.  My oak
trees may fight those rascals over the water when I am long
forgotten.  Do you know, lieutenant, how many oaks go to make an
eighty-gun ship?"

My father shook his head.

"Two thousand, no less.  For every two-decked ship that carries the
white ensign there is a grove the less in England.  So how are our
grandsons to beat the French if we do not give them the trees with
which to build their ships?"

He replaced his bag in his pocket, and then, passing his arm through
Troubridge's, they went through the door together.

"There's a man whose life might help you to trim your own course,"
said my father, as we took our seats at a vacant table.  "He is ever
the same quiet gentleman, with his thoughts busy for the comfort of
his ship's company, and his heart with his wife and children whom he
has so seldom seen.  It is said in the fleet that an oath has never
passed his lips, Rodney, though how he managed when he was first
lieutenant of a raw crew is more than I can conceive.  But they all
love Cuddie, for they know he's an angel to fight.  How d'ye do,
Captain Foley?  My respects, Sir Ed'ard!  Why, if they could but
press the company, they would man a corvette with flag officers."

"There's many a man here, Rodney," continued my father, as he
glanced about him, "whose name may never find its way into any book
save his own ship's log, but who in his own way has set as fine an
example as any admiral of them all.  We know them, and talk of them
in the fleet, though they may never be bawled in the streets of
London.  There's as much seamanship and pluck in a good cutter
action as in a line-o'-battleship fight, though you may not come by
a title nor the thanks of Parliament for it.  There's Hamilton, for
example, the quiet, pale-faced man who is learning against the
pillar.  It was he who, with six rowing-boats, cut out the 44-gun
frigate Hermione from under the muzzles of two hundred shore-guns in
the harbour of Puerto Cabello.  No finer action was done in the
whole war.  There's Jaheel Brenton, with the whiskers.  It was he
who attacked twelve Spanish gunboats in his one little brig, and
made four of them strike to him.  There's Walker, of the Rose
cutter, who, with thirteen men, engaged three French privateers with
crews of a hundred and forty-six.  He sank one, captured one, and
chased the third.  How are you, Captain Ball?  I hope I see you
well?"

Two or three of my father's acquaintances who had been sitting close
by drew up their chairs to us, and soon quite a circle had formed,
all talking loudly and arguing upon sea matters, shaking their long,
red-tipped pipes at each other as they spoke.  My father whispered
in my ear that his neighbour was Captain Foley, of the Goliath, who
led the van at the Nile, and that the tall, thin, foxy-haired man
opposite was Lord Cochrane, the most dashing frigate captain in the
Service.  Even at Friar's Oak we had heard how, in the little
Speedy, of fourteen small guns with fifty-four men, he had carried
by boarding the Spanish frigate Gamo with her crew of three hundred.
It was easy to see that he was a quick, irascible, high-blooded man,
for he was talking hotly about his grievances with a flush of anger
upon his freckled cheeks.

"We shall never do any good upon the ocean until we have hanged the
dockyard contractors," he cried.  "I'd have a dead dockyard
contractor as a figure-head for every first-rate in the fleet, and a
provision dealer for every frigate.  I know them with their puttied
seams and their devil bolts, risking five hundred lives that they
may steal a few pounds' worth of copper.  What became of the Chance,
and of the Martin, and of the Orestes?  They foundered at sea, and
were never heard of more, and I say that the crews of them were
murdered men."

Lord Cochrane seemed to be expressing the views of all, for a murmur
of assent, with a mutter of hearty, deep-sea curses, ran round the
circle.

"Those rascals over yonder manage things better," said an old one-
eyed captain, with the blue-and-white riband for St. Vincent peeping
out of his third buttonhole.  "They sheer away their heads if they
get up to any foolery.  Did ever a vessel come out of Toulon as my
38-gun frigate did from Plymouth last year, with her masts rolling
about until her shrouds were like iron bars on one side and hanging
in festoons upon the other?  The meanest sloop that ever sailed out
of France would have overmatched her, and then it would be on me,
and not on this Devonport bungler, that a court-martial would be
called."

They loved to grumble, those old salts, for as soon as one had shot
off his grievance his neighbour would follow with another, each more
bitter than the last.

"Look at our sails!" cried Captain Foley.  "Put a French and a
British ship at anchor together, and how can you tell which is
which?"

"Frenchy has his fore and maintop-gallant masts about equal," said
my father.

"In the old ships, maybe, but how many of the new are laid down on
the French model?  No, there's no way of telling them at anchor.
But let them hoist sail, and how d'you tell them then?"

"Frenchy has white sails," cried several.

"And ours are black and rotten.  That's the difference.  No wonder
they outsail us when the wind can blow through our canvas."

"In the Speedy," said Cochrane, "the sailcloth was so thin that,
when I made my observation, I always took my meridian through the
foretopsail and my horizon through the foresail."

There was a general laugh at this, and then at it they all went
again, letting off into speech all those weary broodings and silent
troubles which had rankled during long years of service, for an iron
discipline prevented them from speaking when their feet were upon
their own quarter-decks.  One told of his powder, six pounds of
which were needed to throw a ball a thousand yards.  Another cursed
the Admiralty Courts, where a prize goes in as a full-rigged ship
and comes out as a schooner.  The old captain spoke of the
promotions by Parliamentary interest which had put many a youngster
into the captain's cabin when he should have been in the gun-room.
And then they came back to the difficulty of finding crews for their
vessels, and they all together raised up their voices and wailed.

"What is the use of building fresh ships," cried Foley, "when even
with a ten-pound bounty you can't man the ships that you have got?"

But Lord Cochrane was on the other side in this question.

"You'd have the men, sir, if you treated them well when you got
them," said he.  "Admiral Nelson can get his ships manned.  So can
Admiral Collingwood.  Why?  Because he has thought for the men, and
so the men have thought for him.  Let men and officers know and
respect each other, and there's no difficulty in keeping a ship's
company.  It's the infernal plan of turning a crew over from ship to
ship and leaving the officers behind that rots the Navy.  But I have
never found a difficulty, and I dare swear that if I hoist my
pennant to-morrow I shall have all my old Speedies back, and as many
volunteers as I care to take."

"That is very well, my lord," said the old captain, with some
warmth; "when the Jacks hear that the Speedy took fifty vessels in
thirteen months, they are sure to volunteer to serve with her
commander.  Every good cruiser can fill her complement quickly
enough.  But it is not the cruisers that fight the country's battles
and blockade the enemy's ports.  I say that all prize-money should
be divided equally among the whole fleet, and until you have such a
rule, the smartest men will always be found where they are of least
service to any one but themselves."

This speech produced a chorus of protests from the cruiser officers
and a hearty agreement from the line-of-battleship men, who seemed
to be in the majority in the circle which had gathered round.  From
the flushed faces and angry glances it was evident that the question
was one upon which there was strong feeling upon both sides.

"What the cruiser gets the cruiser earns," cried a frigate captain.

"Do you mean to say, sir," said Captain Foley, "that the duties of
an officer upon a cruiser demand more care or higher professional
ability than those of one who is employed upon blockade service,
with a lee coast under him whenever the wind shifts to the west, and
the topmasts of an enemy's squadron for ever in his sight?"

"I do not claim higher ability, sir."

"Then why should you claim higher pay?  Can you deny that a seaman
before the mast makes more in a fast frigate than a lieutenant can
in a battleship?"

"It was only last year," said a very gentlemanly-looking officer,
who might have passed for a buck upon town had his skin not been
burned to copper in such sunshine as never bursts upon London--"it
was only last year that I brought the old Alexander back from the
Mediterranean, floating like an empty barrel and carrying nothing
but honour for her cargo.  In the Channel we fell in with the
frigate Minerva from the Western Ocean, with her lee ports under
water and her hatches bursting with the plunder which had been too
valuable to trust to the prize crews.  She had ingots of silver
along her yards and bowsprit, and a bit of silver plate at the truck
of the masts.  My Jacks could have fired into her, and would, too,
if they had not been held back.  It made them mad to think of all
they had done in the south, and then to see this saucy frigate
flashing her money before their eyes."

"I cannot see their grievance, Captain Ball," said Cochrane.

"When you are promoted to a two-decker, my lord, it will possibly
become clearer to you."

"You speak as if a cruiser had nothing to do but take prizes.  If
that is your view, you will permit me to say that you know very
little of the matter.  I have handled a sloop, a corvette, and a
frigate, and I have found a great variety of duties in each of them.
I have had to avoid the enemy's battleships and to fight his
cruisers.  I have had to chase and capture his privateers, and to
cut them out when they run under his batteries.  I have had to
engage his forts, to take my men ashore, and to destroy his guns and
his signal stations.  All this, with convoying, reconnoitring, and
risking one's own ship in order to gain a knowledge of the enemy's
movements, comes under the duties of the commander of a cruiser.  I
make bold to say that the man who can carry these objects out with
success has deserved better of the country than the officer of a
battleship, tacking from Ushant to the Black Rocks and back again
until she builds up a reef with her beef-bones."

"Sir," said the angry old sailor, "such an officer is at least in no
danger of being mistaken for a privateersman."

"I am surprised, Captain Bulkeley," Cochran retorted hotly, "that
you should venture to couple the names of privateersman and King's
officer."

There was mischief brewing among these hot-headed, short-spoken
salts, but Captain Foley changed the subject to discuss the new
ships which were being built in the French ports.  It was of
interest to me to hear these men, who were spending their lives in
fighting against our neighbours, discussing their character and
ways.  You cannot conceive--you who live in times of peace and
charity--how fierce the hatred was in England at that time against
the French, and above all against their great leader.  It was more
than a mere prejudice or dislike.  It was a deep, aggressive
loathing of which you may even now form some conception if you
examine the papers or caricatures of the day.  The word "Frenchman"
was hardly spoken without "rascal" or "scoundrel" slipping in before
it.  In all ranks of life and in every part of the country the
feeling was the same.  Even the Jacks aboard our ships fought with a
viciousness against a French vessel which they would never show to
Dane, Dutchman, or Spaniard.

If you ask me now, after fifty years, why it was that there should
have been this virulent feeling against them, so foreign to the
easy-going and tolerant British nature, I would confess that I think
the real reason was fear.  Not fear of them individually, of course-
-our foulest detractors have never called us faint-hearted--but fear
of their star, fear of their future, fear of the subtle brain whose
plans always seemed to go aright, and of the heavy hand which had
struck nation after nation to the ground.  We were but a small
country, with a population which, when the war began, was not much
more than half that of France.  And then, France had increased by
leaps and bounds, reaching out to the north into Belgium and
Holland, and to the south into Italy, whilst we were weakened by
deep-lying disaffection among both Catholics and Presbyterians in
Ireland.  The danger was imminent and plain to the least thoughtful.
One could not walk the Kent coast without seeing the beacons heaped
up to tell the country of the enemy's landing, and if the sun were
shining on the uplands near Boulogne, one might catch the flash of
its gleam upon the bayonets of manoeuvring veterans.  No wonder that
a fear of the French power lay deeply in the hearts of the most
gallant men, and that fear should, as it always does, beget a bitter
and rancorous hatred.

The seamen did not speak kindly then of their recent enemies.  Their
hearts loathed them, and in the fashion of our country their lips
said what the heart felt.  Of the French officers they could not
have spoken with more chivalry, as of worthy foemen, but the nation
was an abomination to them.  The older men had fought against them
in the American War, they had fought again for the last ten years,
and the dearest wish of their hearts seemed to be that they might be
called upon to do the same for the remainder of their days.  Yet if
I was surprised by the virulence of their animosity against the
French, I was even more so to hear how highly they rated them as
antagonists.  The long succession of British victories which had
finally made the French take to their ports and resign the struggle
in despair had given all of us the idea that for some reason a
Briton on the water must, in the nature of things, always have the
best of it against a Frenchman.  But these men who had done the
fighting did not think so.  They were loud in their praise of their
foemen's gallantry, and precise in their reasons for his defeat.
They showed how the officers of the old French Navy had nearly all
been aristocrats.  How the Revolution had swept them out of their
ships, and the force been left with insubordinate seamen and no
competent leaders.  This ill-directed fleet had been hustled into
port by the pressure of the well-manned and well-commanded British,
who had pinned them there ever since, so that they had never had an
opportunity of learning seamanship.  Their harbour drill and their
harbour gunnery had been of no service when sails had to be trimmed
and broadsides fired on the heave of an Atlantic swell.  Let one of
their frigates get to sea and have a couple of years' free run in
which the crew might learn their duties, and then it would be a
feather in the cap of a British officer if with a ship of equal
force he could bring down her colours.

Such were the views of these experienced officers, fortified by many
reminiscences and examples of French gallantry, such as the way in
which the crew of the L'Orient had fought her quarter-deck guns when
the main-deck was in a blaze beneath them, and when they must have
known that they were standing over an exploding magazine.  The
general hope was that the West Indian expedition since the peace
might have given many of their fleet an ocean training, and that
they might be tempted out into mid-Channel if the war were to break
out afresh.  But would it break out afresh?  We had spent gigantic
sums and made enormous exertions to curb the power of Napoleon and
to prevent him from becoming the universal despot of Europe.  Would
the Government try it again?  Or were they appalled by the gigantic
load of debt which must bend the backs of many generations unborn?
Pitt was there, and surely he was not a man to leave his work half
done.

And then suddenly there was a bustle at the door.  Amid the grey
swirl of the tobacco-smoke I could catch a glimpse of a blue coat
and gold epaulettes, with a crowd gathering thickly round them,
while a hoarse murmur rose from the group which thickened into a
deep-chested cheer.  Every one was on his feet, peering and asking
each other what it might mean.  And still the crowd seethed and the
cheering swelled.

"What is it?  What has happened?" cried a score of voices.

"Put him up!  Hoist him up!" shouted somebody, and an instant later
I saw Captain Troubridge appear above the shoulders of the crowd.
His face was flushed, as if he were in wine, and he was waving what
seemed to be a letter in the air.  The cheering died away, and there
was such a hush that I could hear the crackle of the paper in his
hand.

"Great news, gentlemen!" he roared.  "Glorious news!  Rear-Admiral
Collingwood has directed me to communicate it to you.  The French
Ambassador has received his papers to-night.  Every ship on the list
is to go into commission.  Admiral Cornwallis is ordered out of
Cawsand Bay to cruise off Ushant.  A squadron is starting for the
North Sea and another for the Irish Channel."

He may have had more to say, but his audience could wait no longer.
How they shouted and stamped and raved in their delight!  Harsh old
flag-officers, grave post-captains, young lieutenants, all were
roaring like schoolboys breaking up for the holidays.  There was no
thought now of those manifold and weary grievances to which I had
listened.  The foul weather was passed, and the landlocked sea-birds
would be out on the foam once more.  The rhythm of "God Save the
King" swelled through the babel, and I heard the old lines sung in a
way that made you forget their bad rhymes and their bald sentiments.
I trust that you will never hear them so sung, with tears upon
rugged cheeks, and catchings of the breath from strong men.  Dark
days will have come again before you hear such a song or see such a
sight as that.  Let those talk of the phlegm of our countrymen who
have never seen them when the lava crust of restraint is broken, and
when for an instant the strong, enduring fires of the North glow
upon the surface.  I saw them then, and if I do not see them now, I
am not so old or so foolish as to doubt that they are there.



CHAPTER XIII--LORD NELSON



My father's appointment with Lord Nelson was an early one, and he
was the more anxious to be punctual as he knew how much the
Admiral's movements must be affected by the news which we had heard
the night before.  I had hardly breakfasted then, and my uncle had
not rung for his chocolate, when he called for me at Jermyn Street.
A walk of a few hundred yards brought us to the high building of
discoloured brick in Piccadilly, which served the Hamiltons as a
town house, and which Nelson used as his head-quarters when business
or pleasure called him from Merton.  A footman answered our knock,
and we were ushered into a large drawing-room with sombre furniture
and melancholy curtains.  My father sent in his name, and there we
sat, looking at the white Italian statuettes in the corners, and the
picture of Vesuvius and the Bay of Naples which hung over the
harpsichord.  I can remember that a black clock was ticking loudly
upon the mantelpiece, and that every now and then, amid the rumble
of the hackney coaches, we could hear boisterous laughter from some
inner chamber.

When at last the door opened, both my father and I sprang to our
feet, expecting to find ourselves face to face with the greatest
living Englishman.  It was a very different person, however, who
swept into the room.

She was a lady, tall, and, as it seemed to me, exceedingly
beautiful, though, perhaps, one who was more experienced and more
critical might have thought that her charm lay in the past rather
than the present.  Her queenly figure was moulded upon large and
noble lines, while her face, though already tending to become
somewhat heavy and coarse, was still remarkable for the brilliancy
of the complexion, the beauty of the large, light blue eyes, and the
tinge of the dark hair which curled over the low white forehead.
She carried herself in the most stately fashion, so that as I looked
at her majestic entrance, and at the pose which she struck as she
glanced at my father, I was reminded of the Queen of the Peruvians
as, in the person of Miss Polly Hinton, she incited Boy Jim and
myself to insurrection.

"Lieutenant Anson Stone?" she asked.

"Yes, your ladyship," answered my father.

"Ah," she cried, with an affected and exaggerated start, "you know
me, then?"

"I have seen your ladyship at Naples."

"Then you have doubtless seen my poor Sir William also--my poor,
poor Sir William!"  She touched her dress with her white, ring-
covered fingers, as if to draw our attention to the fact that she
was in the deepest mourning.

"I heard of your ladyship's sad loss," said my father.

"We died together," she cried.  "What can my life be now save a
long-drawn living death?"

She spoke in a beautiful, rich voice, with the most heart-broken
thrill in it, but I could not conceal from myself that she appeared
to be one of the most robust persons that I had ever seen, and I was
surprised to notice that she shot arch little questioning glances at
me, as if the admiration even of so insignificant a person were of
some interest to her.  My father, in his blunt, sailor fashion,
tried to stammer out some commonplace condolence, but her eyes swept
past his rude, weather-beaten face to ask and reask what effect she
had made upon me.

"There he hangs, the tutelary angel of this house," she cried,
pointing with a grand sweeping gesture to a painting upon the wall,
which represented a very thin-faced, high-nosed gentleman with
several orders upon his coat.  "But enough of my private sorrow!"
She dashed invisible tears from her eyes.  "You have come to see
Lord Nelson.  He bid me say that he would be with you in an instant.
You have doubtless heard that hostilities are about to reopen?"

"We heard the news last night."

"Lord Nelson is under orders to take command of the Mediterranean
Fleet.  You can think at such a moment--But, ah, is it not his
lordship's step that I hear?"

My attention was so riveted by the lady's curious manner and by the
gestures and attitudes with which she accompanied every remark, that
I did not see the great admiral enter the room.  When I turned he
was standing close by my elbow, a small, brown man with the lithe,
slim figure of a boy.  He was not clad in uniform, but he wore a
high-collared brown coat, with the right sleeve hanging limp and
empty by his side.  The expression of his face was, as I remember
it, exceedingly sad and gentle, with the deep lines upon it which
told of the chafing of his urgent and fiery soul.  One eye was
disfigured and sightless from a wound, but the other looked from my
father to myself with the quickest and shrewdest of expressions.
Indeed, his whole manner, with his short, sharp glance and the fine
poise of the head, spoke of energy and alertness, so that he
reminded me, if I may compare great things with small, of a well-
bred fighting terrier, gentle and slim, but keen and ready for
whatever chance might send.

"Why, Lieutenant Stone," said he, with great cordiality, holding out
his left hand to my father, "I am very glad to see you.  London is
full of Mediterranean men, but I trust that in a week there will not
be an officer amongst you all with his feet on dry land."

"I had come to ask you, sir, if you could assist me to a ship."

"You shall have one, Stone, if my word goes for anything at the
Admiralty.  I shall want all my old Nile men at my back.  I cannot
promise you a first-rate, but at least it shall be a 64-gun ship,
and I can tell you that there is much to be done with a handy, well-
manned, well-found 64-gun ship."

"Who could doubt it who has heard of the Agamemnon?" cried Lady
Hamilton, and straightway she began to talk of the admiral and of
his doings with such extravagance of praise and such a shower of
compliments and of epithets, that my father and I did not know which
way to look, feeling shame and sorrow for a man who was compelled to
listen to such things said in his own presence.  But when I ventured
to glance at Lord Nelson I found, to my surprise, that, far from
showing any embarrassment, he was smiling with pleasure, as if this
gross flattery of her ladyship's were the dearest thing in all the
world to him.

"Come, come, my dear lady," said he, "you speak vastly beyond my
merits;" upon which encouragement she started again in a theatrical
apostrophe to Britain's darling and Neptune's eldest son, which he
endured with the same signs of gratitude and pleasure.  That a man
of the world, five-and-forty years of age, shrewd, honest, and
acquainted with Courts, should be beguiled by such crude and coarse
homage, amazed me, as it did all who knew him; but you who have seen
much of life do not need to be told how often the strongest and
noblest nature has its one inexplicable weakness, showing up the
more obviously in contrast to the rest, as the dark stain looks the
fouler upon the whitest sheet.

"You are a sea-officer of my own heart, Stone," said he, when her
ladyship had exhausted her panegyric.  "You are one of the old
breed!"  He walked up and down the room with little, impatient steps
as he talked, turning with a whisk upon his heel every now and then,
as if some invisible rail had brought him up.  "We are getting too
fine for our work with these new-fangled epaulettes and quarter-deck
trimmings.  When I joined the Service, you would find a lieutenant
gammoning and rigging his own bowsprit, or aloft, maybe, with a
marlinspike slung round his neck, showing an example to his men.
Now, it's as much as he'll do to carry his own sextant up the
companion.  When could you join?"

"To-night, my lord."

"Right, Stone, right!  That is the true spirit.  They are working
double tides in the yards, but I do not know when the ships will be
ready.  I hoist my flag on the Victory on Wednesday, and we sail at
once."

"No, no; not so soon!  She cannot be ready for sea," said Lady
Hamilton, in a wailing voice, clasping her hands and turning up her
eyes as she spoke.

"She must and she shall be ready," cried Nelson, with extraordinary
vehemence.  "By Heaven! if the devil stands at the door, I sail on
Wednesday.  Who knows what these rascals may be doing in my absence?
It maddens me to think of the deviltries which they may be devising.
At this very instant, dear lady, the Queen, OUR Queen, may be
straining her eyes for the topsails of Nelson's ships."

Thinking, as I did, that he was speaking of our own old Queen
Charlotte, I could make no meaning out of this; but my father told
me afterwards that both Nelson and Lady Hamilton had conceived an
extraordinary affection for the Queen of Naples, and that it was the
interests of her little kingdom which he had so strenuously at
heart.  It may have been my expression of bewilderment which
attracted Nelson's attention to me, for he suddenly stopped in his
quick quarter-deck walk, and looked me up and down with a severe
eye.

"Well, young gentleman!" said he, sharply.

"This is my only son, sir," said my father.  "It is my wish that he
should join the Service, if a berth can be found for him; for we
have all been King's officers for many generations."

"So, you wish to come and have your bones broken?" cried Nelson,
roughly, looking with much disfavour at the fine clothes which had
cost my uncle and Mr. Brummel such a debate.  "You will have to
change that grand coat for a tarry jacket if you serve under me,
sir."

I was so embarrassed by the abruptness of his manner that I could
but stammer out that I hoped I should do my duty, on which his stern
mouth relaxed into a good-humoured smile, and he laid his little
brown hand for an instant upon my shoulder.

"I dare say that you will do very well," said he.  "I can see that
you have the stuff in you.  But do not imagine that it is a light
service which you undertake, young gentleman, when you enter His
Majesty's Navy.  It is a hard profession.  You hear of the few who
succeed, but what do you know of the hundreds who never find their
way?  Look at my own luck!  Out of 200 who were with me in the San
Juan expedition, 145 died in a single night.  I have been in 180
engagements, and I have, as you see, lost my eye and my arm, and
been sorely wounded besides.  It chanced that I came through, and
here I am flying my admiral's flag; but I remember many a man as
good as me who did not come through.  Yes," he added, as her
ladyship broke in with a voluble protest, "many and many as good a
man who has gone to the sharks or the land-crabs.  But it is a
useless sailor who does not risk himself every day, and the lives of
all of us are in the hands of Him who best knows when to claim
them."

For an instant, in his earnest gaze and reverent manner, we seemed
to catch a glimpse of the deeper, truer Nelson, the man of the
Eastern counties, steeped in the virile Puritanism which sent from
that district the Ironsides to fashion England within, and the
Pilgrim Fathers to spread it without.  Here was the Nelson who
declared that he saw the hand of God pressing upon the French, and
who waited on his knees in the cabin of his flag-ship while she bore
down upon the enemy's line.  There was a human tenderness, too, in
his way of speaking of his dead comrades, which made me understand
why it was that he was so beloved by all who served with him, for,
iron-hard as he was as seaman and fighter, there ran through his
complex nature a sweet and un-English power of affectionate emotion,
showing itself in tears if he were moved, and in such tender
impulses as led him afterwards to ask his flag-captain to kiss him
as he lay dying in the cockpit of the Victory.

My father had risen to depart, but the admiral, with that kindliness
which he ever showed to the young, and which had been momentarily
chilled by the unfortunate splendour of my clothes, still paced up
and down in front of us, shooting out crisp little sentences of
exhortation and advice.

"It is ardour that we need in the Service, young gentleman," said
he.  "We need red-hot men who will never rest satisfied.  We had
them in the Mediterranean, and we shall have them again.  There was
a band of brothers!  When I was asked to recommend one for special
service, I told the Admiralty they might take the names as they
came, for the same spirit animated them all.  Had we taken nineteen
vessels, we should never have said it was well done while the
twentieth sailed the seas.  You know how it was with us, Stone.  You
are too old a Mediterranean man for me to tell you anything."

"I trust, my lord, that I shall be with you when next we meet them,"
said my father.

"Meet them we shall and must.  By Heaven, I shall never rest until I
have given them a shaking.  The scoundrel Buonaparte wishes to
humble us.  Let him try, and God help the better cause!"

He spoke with such extraordinary animation that the empty sleeve
flapped about in the air, giving him the strangest appearance.
Seeing my eyes fixed upon it, he turned with a smile to my father.

"I can still work my fin, Stone," said he, putting his hand across
to the stump of his arm.  "What used they to say in the fleet about
it?"

"That it was a sign, sir, that it was a bad hour to cross your
hawse."

"They knew me, the rascals.  You can see, young gentleman, that not
a scrap of the ardour with which I serve my country has been shot
away.  Some day you may find that you are flying your own flag, and
when that time comes you may remember that my advice to an officer
is that he should have nothing to do with tame, slow measures.  Lay
all your stake, and if you lose through no fault of your own, the
country will find you another stake as large.  Never mind
manoeuvres!  Go for them!  The only manoeuvre you need is that which
will place you alongside your enemy.  Always fight, and you will
always be right.  Give not a thought to your own ease or your own
life, for from the day that you draw the blue coat over your back
you have no life of your own.  It is the country's, to be most
freely spent if the smallest gain can come from it.  How is the wind
this morning, Stone?"

"East-south-east," my father answered, readily.

"Then Cornwallis is, doubtless, keeping well up to Brest, though,
for my own part, I had rather tempt them out into the open sea."

"That is what every officer and man in the fleet would prefer, your
lordship," said my father.

"They do not love the blockading service, and it is little wonder,
since neither money nor honour is to be gained at it.  You can
remember how it was in the winter months before Toulon, Stone, when
we had neither firing, wine, beef, pork, nor flour aboard the ships,
nor a spare piece of rope, canvas, or twine.  We braced the old
hulks with our spare cables, and God knows there was never a
Levanter that I did not expect it to send us to the bottom.  But we
held our grip all the same.  Yet I fear that we do not get much
credit for it here in England, Stone, where they light the windows
for a great battle, but they do not understand that it is easier for
us to fight the Nile six times over, than to keep our station all
winter in the blockade.  But I pray God that we may meet this new
fleet of theirs and settle the matter by a pell-mell battle."

"May I be with you, my lord!" said my father, earnestly.  "But we
have already taken too much of your time, and so I beg to thank you
for your kindness and to wish you good morning."

"Good morning, Stone!" said Nelson.  "You shall have your ship, and
if I can make this young gentleman one of my officers it shall be
done.  But I gather from his dress," he continued, running his eye
over me, "that you have been more fortunate in prize-money than most
of your comrades.  For my own part, I never did nor could turn my
thoughts to money-making."

My father explained that I had been under the charge of the famous
Sir Charles Tregellis, who was my uncle, and with whom I was now
residing.

"Then you need no help from me," said Nelson, with some bitterness.
"If you have either guineas or interest you can climb over the heads
of old sea-officers, though you may not know the poop from the
galley, or a carronade from a long nine.  Nevertheless--But what the
deuce have we here?"

The footman had suddenly precipitated himself into the room, but
stood abashed before the fierce glare of the admiral's eye.

"Your lordship told me to rush to you if it should come," he
explained, holding out a large blue envelope.

"By Heaven, it is my orders!" cried Nelson, snatching it up and
fumbling with it in his awkward, one-handed attempt to break the
seals.  Lady Hamilton ran to his assistance, but no sooner had she
glanced at the paper inclosed than she burst into a shrill scream,
and throwing up her hands and her eyes, she sank backwards in a
swoon.  I could not but observe, however, that her fall was very
carefully executed, and that she was fortunate enough, in spite of
her insensibility, to arrange her drapery and attitude into a
graceful and classical design.  But he, the honest seaman, so
incapable of deceit or affectation that he could not suspect it in
others, ran madly to the bell, shouting for the maid, the doctor,
and the smelling-salts, with incoherent words of grief, and such
passionate terms of emotion that my father thought it more discreet
to twitch me by the sleeve as a signal that we should steal from the
room.  There we left him then in the dim-lit London drawing-room,
beside himself with pity for this shallow and most artificial woman,
while without, at the edge of the Piccadilly curb, there stood the
high dark berline ready to start him upon that long journey which
was to end in his chase of the French fleet over seven thousand
miles of ocean, his meeting with it, his victory, which confined
Napoleon's ambition for ever to the land, and his death, coming, as
I would it might come to all of us, at the crowning moment of his
life.



CHAPTER XIV--ON THE ROAD



And now the day of the great fight began to approach.  Even the
imminent outbreak of war and the renewed threats of Napoleon were
secondary things in the eyes of the sportsmen--and the sportsmen in
those days made a large half of the population.  In the club of the
patrician and the plebeian gin-shop, in the coffee-house of the
merchant or the barrack of the soldier, in London or the provinces,
the same question was interesting the whole nation.  Every west-
country coach brought up word of the fine condition of Crab Wilson,
who had returned to his own native air for his training, and was
known to be under the immediate care of Captain Barclay, the expert.
On the other hand, although my uncle had not yet named his man,
there was no doubt amongst the public that Jim was to be his
nominee, and the report of his physique and of his performance found
him many backers.  On the whole, however, the betting was in favour
of Wilson, for Bristol and the west country stood by him to a man,
whilst London opinion was divided.  Three to two were to be had on
Wilson at any West End club two days before the battle.

I had twice been down to Crawley to see Jim in his training
quarters, where I found him undergoing the severe regimen which was
usual.  From early dawn until nightfall he was running, jumping,
striking a bladder which swung upon a bar, or sparring with his
formidable trainer.  His eyes shone and his skin glowed with
exuberent health, and he was so confident of success that my own
misgivings vanished as I watched his gallant bearing and listened to
his quiet and cheerful words.

"But I wonder that you should come and see me now, Rodney," said he,
when we parted, trying to laugh as he spoke.  "I have become a
bruiser and your uncle's paid man, whilst you are a Corinthian upon
town.  If you had not been the best and truest little gentleman in
the world, you would have been my patron instead of my friend before
now."

When I looked at this splendid fellow, with his high-bred, clean-cut
face, and thought of the fine qualities and gentle, generous
impulses which I knew to lie within him, it seemed so absurd that he
should speak as though my friendship towards him were a
condescension, that I could not help laughing aloud.

"That is all very well, Rodney," said he, looking hard into my eyes.
"But what does your uncle think about it?"

This was a poser, and I could only answer lamely enough that, much
as I was indebted to my uncle, I had known Jim first, and that I was
surely old enough to choose my own friends.

Jim's misgivings were so far correct that my uncle did very strongly
object to any intimacy between us; but there were so many other
points in which he disapproved of my conduct, that it made the less
difference.  I fear that he was already disappointed in me.  I would
not develop an eccentricity, although he was good enough to point
out several by which I might "come out of the ruck," as he expressed
it, and so catch the attention of the strange world in which he
lived.

"You are an active young fellow, nephew," said he.  "Do you not
think that you could engage to climb round the furniture of an
ordinary room without setting foot upon the ground?  Some little
tour-de-force of the sort is in excellent taste.  There was a
captain in the Guards who attained considerable social success by
doing it for a small wager.  Lady Lieven, who is exceedingly
exigeant, used to invite him to her evenings merely that he might
exhibit it."

I had to assure him that the feat would be beyond me.

"You are just a little difficile," said he, shrugging his shoulders.
"As my nephew, you might have taken your position by perpetuating my
own delicacy of taste.  If you had made bad taste your enemy, the
world of fashion would willingly have looked upon you as an arbiter
by virtue of your family traditions, and you might without a
struggle have stepped into the position to which this young upstart
Brummell aspires.  But you have no instinct in that direction.  You
are incapable of minute attention to detail.  Look at your shoes!
Look at your cravat!  Look at your watch-chain!  Two links are
enough to show.  I HAVE shown three, but it was an indiscretion.  At
this moment I can see no less than five of yours.  I regret it,
nephew, but I do not think that you are destined to attain that
position which I have a right to expect from my blood relation."

"I am sorry to be a disappointment to you, sir," said I.

"It is your misfortune not to have come under my influence earlier,"
said he.  "I might then have moulded you so as to have satisfied
even my own aspirations.  I had a younger brother whose case was a
similar one.  I did what I could for him, but he would wear ribbons
in his shoes, and he publicly mistook white Burgundy for Rhine wine.
Eventually the poor fellow took to books, and lived and died in a
country vicarage.  He was a good man, but he was commonplace, and
there is no place in society for commonplace people."

"Then I fear, sir, that there is none for me," said I.  "But my
father has every hope that Lord Nelson will find me a position in
the fleet.  If I have been a failure in town, I am none the less
conscious of your kindness in trying to advance my interests, and I
hope that, should I receive my commission, I may be a credit to you
yet."

"It is possible that you may attain the very spot which I had marked
out for you, but by another road," said my uncle.  "There are many
men in town, such as Lord St. Vincent, Lord Hood, and others, who
move in the most respectable circles, although they have nothing but
their services in the Navy to recommend them."

It was on the afternoon of the day before the fight that this
conversation took place between my uncle and myself in the dainty
sanctum of his Jermyn-Street house.  He was clad, I remember, in his
flowing brocade dressing-gown, as was his custom before he set off
for his club, and his foot was extended upon a stool--for Abernethy
had just been in to treat him for an incipient attack of the gout.
It may have been the pain, or it may have been his disappointment at
my career, but his manner was more testy than was usual with him,
and I fear that there was something of a sneer in his smile as he
spoke of my deficiencies.  For my own part I was relieved at the
explanation, for my father had left London in the full conviction
that a vacancy would speedily be found for us both, and the one
thing which had weighed upon my mind was that I might have found it
hard to leave my uncle without interfering with the plans which he
had formed.  I was heart-weary of this empty life, for which I was
so ill-fashioned, and weary also of that intolerant talk which would
make a coterie of frivolous women and foolish fops the central point
of the universe.  Something of my uncle's sneer may have flickered
upon my lips as I heard him allude with supercilious surprise to the
presence in those sacrosanct circles of the men who had stood
between the country and destruction.

"By the way, nephew," said he, "gout or no gout, and whether
Abernethy likes it or not, we must be down at Crawley to-night.  The
battle will take place upon Crawley Downs.  Sir Lothian Hume and his
man are at Reigate.  I have reserved beds at the George for both of
us.  The crush will, it is said, exceed anything ever known.  The
smell of these country inns is always most offensive to me--mais que
voulez-vous?  Berkeley Craven was saying in the club last night that
there is not a bed within twenty miles of Crawley which is not
bespoke, and that they are charging three guineas for the night.  I
hope that your young friend, if I must describe him as such, will
fulfil the promise which he has shown, for I have rather more upon
the event than I care to lose.  Sir Lothian has been plunging also--
he made a single bye-bet of five thousand to three upon Wilson in
Limmer's yesterday.  From what I hear of his affairs it will be a
serious matter for him if we should pull it off.  Well, Lorimer?"

"A person to see you, Sir Charles," said the new valet.

"You know that I never see any one until my dressing is complete."

"He insists upon seeing you, sir.  He pushed open the door."

"Pushed it open!  What d'you mean, Lorimer?  Why didn't you put him
out?"

A smile passed over the servant's face.  At the same moment there
came a deep voice from the passage.

"You show me in this instant, young man, d'ye 'ear?  Let me see your
master, or it'll be the worse for you."

I thought that I had heard the voice before, but when, over the
shoulder of the valet, I caught a glimpse of a large, fleshy, bull-
face, with a flattened Michael Angelo nose in the centre of it, I
knew at once that it was my neighbour at the supper party.

"It's Warr, the prizefighter, sir," said I.

"Yes, sir," said our visitor, pushing his huge form into the room.
"It's Bill Warr, landlord of the One Ton public-'ouse, Jermyn
Street, and the gamest man upon the list.  There's only one thing
that ever beat me, Sir Charles, and that was my flesh, which creeps
over me that amazin' fast that I've always got four stone that 'as
no business there.  Why, sir, I've got enough to spare to make a
feather-weight champion out of.  You'd 'ardly think, to look at me,
that even after Mendoza fought me I was able to jump the four-foot
ropes at the ring-side just as light as a little kiddy; but if I was
to chuck my castor into the ring now I'd never get it till the wind
blew it out again, for blow my dicky if I could climb after.  My
respec's to you, young sir, and I 'ope I see you well."

My uncle's face had expressed considerable disgust at this invasion
of his privacy, but it was part of his position to be on good terms
with the fighting-men, so he contented himself with asking curtly
what business had brought him there.  For answer the huge
prizefighter looked meaningly at the valet.

"It's important, Sir Charles, and between man and man," said he.

"You may go, Lorimer.  Now, Warr, what is the matter?"

The bruiser very calmly seated himself astride of a chair with his
arms resting upon the back of it.

"I've got information, Sir Charles," said he.

"Well, what is it?" cried my uncle, impatiently.

"Information of value."

"Out with it, then!"

"Information that's worth money," said Warr, and pursed up his lips.

"I see.  You want to be paid for what you know?"

The prizefighter smiled an affirmative.

"Well, I don't buy things on trust.  You should know me better than
to try on such a game with me."

"I know you for what you are, Sir Charles, and that is a noble,
slap-up Corinthian.  But if I was to use this against you, d'ye see,
it would be worth 'undreds in my pocket.  But my 'eart won't let me
do it, for Bill Warr's always been on the side o' good sport and
fair play.  If I use it for you, then I expect that you won't see me
the loser."

"You can do what you like," said my uncle.  "If your news is of
service to me, I shall know how to treat you."

"You can't say fairer than that.  We'll let it stand there, gov'nor,
and you'll do the 'andsome thing, as you 'ave always 'ad the name
for doin'.  Well, then, your man, Jim 'Arisen, fights Crab Wilson,
of Gloucester, at Crawley Down to-morrow mornin' for a stake."

"What of that?"

"Did you 'appen to know what the bettin' was yesterday?"

"It was three to two on Wilson."

"Right you are, gov'nor.  Three to two was offered in my own bar-
parlour.  D'you know what the bettin' is to-day?"

"I have not been out yet."

"Then I'll tell you.  It's seven to one against your man."

"What?"

"Seven to one, gov'nor, no less."

"You're talking nonsense, Warr!  How could the betting change from
three to two to seven to one?"

"Ive been to Tom Owen's, and I've been to the 'Ole in the Wall, and
I've been to the Waggon and 'Orses, and you can get seven to one in
any of them.  There's tons of money being laid against your man.
It's a 'orse to a 'en in every sportin' 'ouse and boozin' ken from
'ere to Stepney."

For a moment the expression upon my uncle's face made me realize
that this match was really a serious matter to him.  Then he
shrugged his shoulders with an incredulous smile.

"All the worse for the fools who give the odds," said he.  "My man
is all right.  You saw him yesterday, nephew?"

"He was all right yesterday, sir."

"If anything had gone wrong I should have heard."

"But perhaps," said Warr, "it 'as not gone wrong with 'im YET."

"What d'you mean?"

"I'll tell you what I mean, sir.  You remember Berks?  You know that
'e ain't to be overmuch depended on at any time, and that 'e 'ad a
grudge against your man 'cause 'e laid 'im out in the coach-'ouse.
Well, last night about ten o'clock in 'e comes into my bar, and the
three bloodiest rogues in London at 'is 'eels.  There was Red Ike,
'im that was warned off the ring 'cause 'e fought a cross with
Bittoon; and there was Fightin' Yussef, who would sell 'is mother
for a seven-shillin'-bit; the third was Chris McCarthy, who is a
fogle-snatcher by trade, with a pitch outside the 'Aymarket Theatre.
You don't often see four such beauties together, and all with as
much as they could carry, save only Chris, who is too leary a cove
to drink when there's somethin' goin' forward.  For my part, I
showed 'em into the parlour, not 'cos they was worthy of it, but
'cos I knew right well they would start bashin' some of my
customers, and maybe get my license into trouble if I left 'em in
the bar.  I served 'em with drink, and stayed with 'em just to see
that they didn't lay their 'ands on the stuffed parroquet and the
pictures.

"Well, gov'nor, to cut it short, they began to talk about the fight,
and they all laughed at the idea that young Jim 'Arrison could win
it--all except Chris, and e' kept a-nudging and a-twitchin' at the
others until Joe Berks nearly gave him a wipe across the face for
'is trouble.  I saw somethin' was in the wind, and it wasn't very
'ard to guess what it was--especially when Red Ike was ready to put
up a fiver that Jim 'Arrison would never fight at all.  So I up to
get another bottle of liptrap, and I slipped round to the shutter
that we pass the liquor through from the private bar into the
parlour.  I drew it an inch open, and I might 'ave been at the table
with them, I could 'ear every word that clearly.

"There was Chris McCarthy growlin' at them for not keepin' their
tongues still, and there was Joe Berks swearin' that 'e would knock
'is face in if 'e dared give 'im any of 'is lip.  So Chris 'e sort
of argued with them, for 'e was frightened of Berks, and 'e put it
to them whether they would be fit for the job in the mornin', and
whether the gov'nor would pay the money if 'e found they 'ad been
drinkin' and were not to be trusted.  This struck them sober, all
three, an' Fighting Yussef asked what time they were to start.
Chris said that as long as they were at Crawley before the George
shut up they could work it.  'It's poor pay for a chance of a rope,'
said Red Ike.  'Rope be damned!' cried Chris, takin' a little loaded
stick out of his side pocket.  'If three of you 'old him down and I
break his arm-bone with this, we've earned our money, and we don't
risk more'n six months' jug.'  ''E'll fight,' said Berks.  'Well,
it's the only fight 'e'll get,' answered Chris, and that was all I
'eard of it.  This mornin' out I went, and I found as I told you
afore that the money is goin' on to Wilson by the ton, and that no
odds are too long for the layers.  So it stands, gov'nor, and you
know what the meanin' of it may be better than Bill Warr can tell
you."

"Very good, Warr," said my uncle, rising.  "I am very much obliged
to you for telling me this, and I will see that you are not a loser
by it.  I put it down as the gossip of drunken ruffians, but none
the less you have served me vastly by calling my attention to it.  I
suppose I shall see you at the Downs to-morrow?"

"Mr. Jackson 'as asked me to be one o' the beaters-out, sir."

"Very good.  I hope that we shall have a fair and good fight.  Good
day to you, and thank you."

My uncle had preserved his jaunty demeanour as long as Warr was in
the room, but the door had hardly closed upon him before he turned
to me with a face which was more agitated than I had ever seen it.

"We must be off for Crawley at once, nephew," said he, ringing the
bell.  "There's not a moment to be lost.  Lorimer, order the bays to
be harnessed in the curricle.  Put the toilet things in, and tell
William to have it round at the door as soon as possible."

"I'll see to it, sir," said I, and away I ran to the mews in Little
Ryder Street, where my uncle stabled his horses.  The groom was
away, and I had to send a lad in search of him, while with the help
of the livery-man I dragged the curricle from the coach-house and
brought the two mares out of their stalls.  It was half an hour, or
possibly three-quarters, before everything had been found, and
Lorimer was already waiting in Jermyn Street with the inevitable
baskets, whilst my uncle stood in the open door of his house, clad
in his long fawn-coloured driving-coat, with no sign upon his calm
pale face of the tumult of impatience which must, I was sure, be
raging within.

"We shall leave you, Lorimer," said he.  "We might find it hard to
get a bed for you.  Keep at her head, William!  Jump in, nephew.
Halloa, Warr, what is the matter now?"

The prizefighter was hastening towards us as fast as his bulk would
allow.

"Just one word before you go, Sir Charles," he panted.  "I've just
'eard in my taproom that the four men I spoke of left for Crawley at
one o'clock."

"Very good, Warr," said my uncle, with his foot upon the step.

"And the odds 'ave risen to ten to one."

"Let go her head, William!"

"Just one more word, gov'nor.  You'll excuse the liberty, but if I
was you I'd take my pistols with me."

"Thank you; I have them."

The long thong cracked between the ears of the leader, the groom
sprang for the pavement, and Jermyn Street had changed for St.
James's, and that again for Whitehall with a swiftness which showed
that the gallant mares were as impatient as their master.  It was
half-past four by the Parliament clock as we flew on to Westminster
Bridge.  There was the flash of water beneath us, and then we were
between those two long dun-coloured lines of houses which had been
the avenue which had led us to London.  My uncle sat with tightened
lips and a brooding brow.  We had reached Streatham before he broke
the silence.

"I have a good deal at stake, nephew," said he.

"So have I, sir," I answered.

"You!" he cried, in surprise.

"My friend, sir."

"Ah, yes, I had forgot.  You have some eccentricities, after all,
nephew.  You are a faithful friend, which is a rare enough thing in
our circles.  I never had but one friend of my own position, and he-
-but you've heard me tell the story.  I fear it will be dark before
we reach Crawley."

"I fear that it will."

"In that case we may be too late."

"Pray God not, sir!"

"We sit behind the best cattle in England, but I fear lest we find
the roads blocked before we get to Crawley.  Did you observe,
nephew, that these four villains spoke in Warr's hearing of the
master who was behind them, and who was paying them for their
infamy?  Did you not understand that they were hired to cripple my
man?  Who, then, could have hired them?  Who had an interest unless
it was--I know Sir Lothian Hume to be a desperate man.  I know that
he has had heavy card losses at Watier's and White's.  I know also
that he has much at stake upon this event, and that he has plunged
upon it with a rashness which made his friends think that he had
some private reason for being satisfied as to the result.  By
Heaven, it all hangs together!  If it should be so--!"  He relapsed
into silence, but I saw the same look of cold fierceness settle upon
his features which I had marked there when he and Sir John Lade had
raced wheel to wheel down the Godstone road.

The sun sank slowly towards the low Surrey hills, and the shadows
crept steadily eastwards, but the whirr of the wheels and the roar
of the hoofs never slackened.  A fresh wind blew upon our faces,
while the young leaves drooped motionless from the wayside branches.
The golden edge of the sun was just sinking behind the oaks of
Reigate Hill when the dripping mares drew up before the Crown at
Redhill.  The landlord, an old sportsman and ringsider, ran out to
greet so well-known a Corinthian as Sir Charles Tregellis.

"You know Berks, the bruiser?" asked my uncle.

"Yes, Sir Charles."

"Has he passed?"

"Yes, Sir Charles.  It may have been about four o'clock, though with
this crowd of folk and carriages it's hard to swear to it.  There
was him, and Red Ike, and Fighting Yussef the Jew, and another, with
a good bit of blood betwixt the shafts.  They'd been driving her
hard, too, for she was all in a lather."

"That's ugly, nephew," said my uncle, when we were flying onwards
towards Reigate.  "If they drove so hard, it looks as though they
wished to get early to work."

"Jim and Belcher would surely be a match for the four of them," I
suggested.

"If Belcher were with him I should have no fear.  But you cannot
tell what diablerie they may be up to.  Let us only find him safe
and sound, and I'll never lose sight of him until I see him in the
ring.  We'll sit up on guard with our pistols, nephew, and I only
trust that these villains may be indiscreet enough to attempt it.
But they must have been very sure of success before they put the
odds up to such a figure, and it is that which alarms me."

"But surely they have nothing to win by such villainy, sir?  If they
were to hurt Jim Harrison the battle could not be fought, and the
bets would not be decided."

"So it would be in an ordinary prize-battle, nephew; and it is
fortunate that it should be so, or the rascals who infest the ring
would soon make all sport impossible.  But here it is different.  On
the terms of the wager I lose unless I can produce a man, within the
prescribed ages, who can beat Crab Wilson.  You must remember that I
have never named my man.  C'est dommage, but so it is!  We know who
it is and so do our opponents, but the referees and stakeholder
would take no notice of that.  If we complain that Jim Harrison has
been crippled, they would answer that they have no official
knowledge that Jim Harrison was our nominee.  It's play or pay, and
the villains are taking advantage of it."

My uncle's fears as to our being blocked upon the road were only too
well founded, for after we passed Reigate there was such a
procession of every sort of vehicle, that I believe for the whole
eight miles there was not a horse whose nose was further than a few
feet from the back of the curricle or barouche in front.  Every road
leading from London, as well as those from Guildford in the west and
Tunbridge in the east, had contributed their stream of four-in-
hands, gigs, and mounted sportsmen, until the whole broad Brighton
highway was choked from ditch to ditch with a laughing, singing,
shouting throng, all flowing in the same direction.  No man who
looked upon that motley crowd could deny that, for good or evil, the
love of the ring was confined to no class, but was a national
peculiarity, deeply seated in the English nature, and a common
heritage of the young aristocrat in his drag and of the rough
costers sitting six deep in their pony cart.  There I saw statesmen
and soldiers, noblemen and lawyers, farmers and squires, with roughs
of the East End and yokels of the shires, all toiling along with the
prospect of a night of discomfort before them, on the chance of
seeing a fight which might, for all that they knew, be decided in a
single round.  A more cheery and hearty set of people could not be
imagined, and the chaff flew about as thick as the dust clouds,
while at every wayside inn the landlord and the drawers would be out
with trays of foam-headed tankards to moisten those importunate
throats.  The ale-drinking, the rude good-fellowship, the
heartiness, the laughter at discomforts, the craving to see the
fight--all these may be set down as vulgar and trivial by those to
whom they are distasteful; but to me, listening to the far-off and
uncertain echoes of our distant past, they seem to have been the
very bones upon which much that is most solid and virile in this
ancient race was moulded.

But, alas for our chance of hastening onwards!  Even my uncle's
skill could not pick a passage through that moving mass.  We could
but fall into our places and be content to snail along from Reigate
to Horley and on to Povey Cross and over Lowfield Heath, while day
shaded away into twilight, and that deepened into night.  At
Kimberham Bridge the carriage-lamps were all lit, and it was
wonderful, where the road curved downwards before us, to see this
writhing serpent with the golden scales crawling before us in the
darkness.  And then, at last, we saw the formless mass of the huge
Crawley elm looming before us in the gloom, and there was the broad
village street with the glimmer of the cottage windows, and the high
front of the old George Inn, glowing from every door and pane and
crevice, in honour of the noble company who were to sleep within
that night.



CHAPTER XV--FOUL PLAY



My uncle's impatience would not suffer him to wait for the slow
rotation which would bring us to the door, but he flung the reins
and a crown-piece to one of the rough fellows who thronged the side-
walk, and pushing his way vigorously through the crowd, he made for
the entrance.  As he came within the circle of light thrown by the
windows, a whisper ran round as to who this masterful gentleman with
the pale face and the driving-coat might be, and a lane was formed
to admit us.  I had never before understood the popularity of my
uncle in the sporting world, for the folk began to huzza as we
passed with cries of "Hurrah for Buck Tregellis!  Good luck to you
and your man, Sir Charles!  Clear a path for a bang-up noble
Corinthian!" whilst the landlord, attracted by the shouting, came
running out to greet us.

"Good evening, Sir Charles!" he cried.  "I hope I see you well, sir,
and I trust that you will find that your man does credit to the
George."

"How is he?" asked my uncle, quickly.

"Never better, sir.  Looks a picture, he does--and fit to fight for
a kingdom."

My uncle gave a sigh of relief.

"Where is he?" he asked.

"He's gone to his room early, sir, seein' that he had some very
partic'lar business to-morrow mornin'," said the landlord, grinning.

"Where is Belcher?"

"Here he is, in the bar parlour."

He opened a door as he spoke, and looking in we saw a score of well-
dressed men, some of whose faces had become familiar to me during my
short West End career, seated round a table upon which stood a
steaming soup-tureen filled with punch.  At the further end, very
much at his ease amongst the aristocrats and exquisites who
surrounded him, sat the Champion of England, his superb figure
thrown back in his chair, a flush upon his handsome face, and a
loose red handkerchief knotted carelessly round his throat in the
picturesque fashion which was long known by his name.  Half a
century has passed since then, and I have seen my share of fine men.
Perhaps it is because I am a slight creature myself, but it is my
peculiarity that I had rather look upon a splendid man than upon any
work of Nature.  Yet during all that time I have never seen a finer
man than Jim Belcher, and if I wish to match him in my memory, I can
only turn to that other Jim whose fate and fortunes I am trying to
lay before you.

There was a shout of jovial greeting when my uncle's face was seen
in the doorway.

"Come in, Tregellis!"  "We were expecting you!"  "There's a devilled
bladebone ordered."  "What's the latest from London?"  "What is the
meaning of the long odds against your man?"  "Have the folk gone
mad?"  "What the devil is it all about?"  They were all talking at
once.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," my uncle answered.  "I shall be happy to
give you any information in my power a little later.  I have a
matter of some slight importance to decide.  Belcher, I would have a
word with you!"

The Champion came out with us into the passage.

"Where is your man, Belcher?"

"He has gone to his room, sir.  I believe that he should have a
clear twelve hours' sleep before fighting."

"What sort of day has he had?"

"I did him lightly in the matter of exercise.  Clubs, dumbbells,
walking, and a half-hour with the mufflers.  He'll do us all proud,
sir, or I'm a Dutchman!  But what in the world's amiss with the
betting?  If I didn't know that he was as straight as a line, I'd
ha' thought he was planning a cross and laying against himself."

"It's about that I've hurried down.  I have good information,
Belcher, that there has been a plot to cripple him, and that the
rogues are so sure of success that they are prepared to lay anything
against his appearance."

Belcher whistled between his teeth.

"I've seen no sign of anything of the kind, sir.  No one has been
near him or had speech with him, except only your nephew there and
myself."

"Four villains, with Berks at their head, got the start of us by
several hours.  It was Warr who told me."

"What Bill Warr says is straight, and what Joe Berks does is
crooked.  Who were the others, sir?"

"Red Ike, Fighting Yussef, and Chris McCarthy."

"A pretty gang, too!  Well, sir, the lad is safe, but it would be as
well, perhaps, for one or other of us to stay in his room with him.
For my own part, as long as he's my charge I'm never very far away."

"It is a pity to wake him."

"He can hardly be asleep with all this racket in the house.  This
way, sir, and down the passage!"

We passed along the low-roofed, devious corridors of the old-
fashioned inn to the back of the house.

"This is my room, sir," said Belcher, nodding to a door upon the
right.  "This one upon the left is his."  He threw it open as he
spoke.  "Here's Sir Charles Tregellis come to see you, Jim," said
he; and then, "Good Lord, what is the meaning of this?"

The little chamber lay before us brightly illuminated by a brass
lamp which stood upon the table.  The bedclothes had not been turned
down, but there was an indentation upon the counterpane which showed
that some one had lain there.  One-half of the lattice window was
swinging on its hinge, and a cloth cap lying upon the table was the
only sign of the occupant.  My uncle looked round him and shook his
head.

"It seems that we are too late," said he.

"That's his cap, sir.  Where in the world can he have gone to with
his head bare?  I thought he was safe in his bed an hour ago.  Jim!
Jim!" he shouted.

"He has certainly gone through the window," cried my uncle.  "I
believe these villains have enticed him out by some devilish device
of their own.  Hold the lamp, nephew.  Ha!  I thought so.  Here are
his footmarks upon the flower-bed outside."

The landlord, and one or two of the Corinthians from the bar-
parlour, had followed us to the back of the house.  Some one had
opened the side door, and we found ourselves in the kitchen garden,
where, clustering upon the gravel path, we were able to hold the
lamp over the soft, newly turned earth which lay between us and the
window.

"That's his footmark!" said Belcher.  "He wore his running boots
this evening, and you can see the nails.  But what's this?  Some one
else has been here."

"A woman!" I cried.

"By Heaven, you're right, nephew," said my uncle.

Belcher gave a hearty curse.

"He never had a word to say to any girl in the village.  I took
partic'lar notice of that.  And to think of them coming in like this
at the last moment!"

"It's clear as possible, Tregellis," said the Hon. Berkeley Craven,
who was one of the company from the bar-parlour.  "Whoever it was
came outside the window and tapped.  You see here, and here, the
small feet have their toes to the house, while the others are all
leading away.  She came to summon him, and he followed her."

"That is perfectly certain," said my uncle.  "There's not a moment
to be lost.  We must divide and search in different directions,
unless we can get some clue as to where they have gone."

"There's only the one path out of the garden," cried the landlord,
leading the way.  "It opens out into this back lane, which leads up
to the stables.  The other end of the lane goes out into the side
road."

The bright yellow glare from a stable lantern cut a ring suddenly
from the darkness, and an ostler came lounging out of the yard.

"Who's that?" cried the landlord.

"It's me, master!  Bill Shields."

"How long have you been there, Bill?"

"Well, master, I've been in an' out of the stables this hour back.
We can't pack in another 'orse, and there's no use tryin'.  I
daren't 'ardly give them their feed, for, if they was to thicken out
just ever so little--"

"See here, Bill.  Be careful how you answer, for a mistake may cost
you your place.  Have you seen any one pass down the lane?"

"There was a feller in a rabbit-skin cap some time ago.  'E was
loiterin' about until I asked 'im what 'is business was, for I
didn't care about the looks of 'im, or the way that 'e was peepin'
in at the windows.  I turned the stable lantern on to 'im, but 'e
ducked 'is face, an' I could only swear to 'is red 'ead."

I cast a quick glance at my uncle, and I saw that the shadow had
deepened upon his face.

"What became of him?" he asked.

"'E slouched away, sir, an' I saw the last of 'im."

"You've seen no one else?  You didn't, for example, see a woman and
a man pass down the lane together?"

"No, sir."

"Or hear anything unusual?"

"Why, now that you mention it, sir, I did 'ear somethin'; but on a
night like this, when all these London blades are in the village--"

"What was it, then?" cried my uncle, impatiently.

"Well, sir, it was a kind of a cry out yonder as if some one 'ad got
'imself into trouble.  I thought, maybe, two sparks were fightin',
and I took no partic'lar notice."

"Where did it come from?"

"From the side road, yonder."

"Was it distant?"

"No, sir; I should say it didn't come from more'n two hundred
yards."

"A single cry?"

"Well, it was a kind of screech, sir, and then I 'eard somebody
drivin' very 'ard down the road.  I remember thinking that it was
strange that any one should be driving away from Crawley on a great
night like this."

My uncle seized the lantern from the fellow's hand, and we all
trooped behind him down the lane.  At the further end the road cut
it across at right angles.  Down this my uncle hastened, but his
search was not a long one, for the glaring light fell suddenly upon
something which brought a groan to my lips and a bitter curse to
those of Jem Belcher.  Along the white surface of the dusty highway
there was drawn a long smear of crimson, while beside this ominous
stain there lay a murderous little pocket-bludgeon, such as Warr had
described in the morning.



CHAPTER XVI--CRAWLEY DOWNS



All through that weary night my uncle and I, with Belcher, Berkeley
Craven, and a dozen of the Corinthians, searched the country side
for some trace of our missing man, but save for that ill-boding
splash upon the road not the slightest clue could be obtained as to
what had befallen him.  No one had seen or heard anything of him,
and the single cry in the night of which the ostler told us was the
only indication of the tragedy which had taken place.  In small
parties we scoured the country as far as East Grinstead and
Bletchingley, and the sun had been long over the horizon before we
found ourselves back at Crawley once more with heavy hearts and
tired feet.  My uncle, who had driven to Reigate in the hope of
gaining some intelligence, did not return until past seven o'clock,
and a glance at his face gave us the same black news which he
gathered from ours.

We held a council round our dismal breakfast-table, to which Mr.
Berkeley Craven was invited as a man of sound wisdom and large
experience in matters of sport.  Belcher was half frenzied by this
sudden ending of all the pains which he had taken in the training,
and could only rave out threats at Berks and his companions, with
terrible menaces as to what he would do when he met them.  My uncle
sat grave and thoughtful, eating nothing and drumming his fingers
upon the table, while my heart was heavy within me, and I could have
sunk my face into my hands and burst into tears as I thought how
powerless I was to aid my friend.  Mr. Craven, a fresh-faced, alert
man of the world, was the only one of us who seemed to preserve both
his wits and his appetite.

"Let me see!  The fight was to be at ten, was it not?" he asked.

"It was to be."

"I dare say it will be, too.  Never say die, Tregellis!  Your man
has still three hours in which to come back."

My uncle shook his head.

"The villains have done their work too well for that, I fear," said
he.

"Well, now, let us reason it out," said Berkeley Craven.  "A woman
comes and she coaxes this young man out of his room.  Do you know
any young woman who had an influence over him?"

My uncle looked at me.

"No," said I.  "I know of none."

"Well, we know that she came," said Berkeley Craven.  "There can be
no question as to that.  She brought some piteous tale, no doubt,
such as a gallant young man could hardly refuse to listen to.  He
fell into the trap, and allowed himself to be decoyed to the place
where these rascals were waiting for him.  We may take all that as
proved, I should fancy, Tregellis."

"I see no better explanation," said my uncle.

"Well, then, it is obviously not the interest of these men to kill
him.  Warr heard them say as much.  They could not make sure,
perhaps, of doing so tough a young fellow an injury which would
certainly prevent him from fighting.  Even with a broken arm he
might pull the fight off, as men have done before.  There was too
much money on for them to run any risks.  They gave him a tap on the
head, therefore, to prevent his making too much resistance, and they
then drove him off to some farmhouse or stable, where they will hold
him a prisoner until the time for the fight is over.  I warrant that
you see him before to-night as well as ever he was."

This theory sounded so reasonable that it seemed to lift a little of
the weight from my heart, but I could see that from my uncle's point
of view it was a poor consolation.

"I dare say you are right, Craven," said he.

"I am sure that I am."

"But it won't help us to win the fight."

"That's the point, sir," cried Belcher.  "By the Lord, I wish they'd
let me take his place, even with my left arm strapped behind me."

"I should advise you in any case to go to the ringside," said
Craven.  "You should hold on until the last moment in the hope of
your man turning up."

"I shall certainly do so.  And I shall protest against paying the
wagers under such circumstances."

Craven shrugged his shoulders.

"You remember the conditions of the match," said he.  "I fear it is
pay or play.  No doubt the point might be submitted to the referees,
but I cannot doubt that they would have to give it against you."

We had sunk into a melancholy silence, when suddenly Belcher sprang
up from the table.

"Hark!" he cried.  "Listen to that!"

"What is it?" we cried, all three.

"The betting!  Listen again!"

Out of the babel of voices and roaring of wheels outside the window
a single sentence struck sharply on our ears.

"Even money upon Sir Charles's nominee!"

"Even money!" cried my uncle.  "It was seven to one against me,
yesterday.  What is the meaning of this?"

"Even money either way," cried the voice again.

"There's somebody knows something," said Belcher, "and there's
nobody has a better right to know what it is than we.  Come on, sir,
and we'll get to the bottom of it."

The village street was packed with people, for they had been
sleeping twelve and fifteen in a room, whilst hundreds of gentlemen
had spent the night in their carriages.  So thick was the throng
that it was no easy matter to get out of the George.  A drunken man,
snoring horribly in his breathing, was curled up in the passage,
absolutely oblivious to the stream of people who flowed round and
occasionally over him.

"What's the betting, boys?" asked Belcher, from the steps.

"Even money, Jim," cried several voices.

"It was long odds on Wilson when last I heard."

"Yes; but there came a man who laid freely the other way, and he
started others taking the odds, until now you can get even money."

"Who started it?"

"Why, that's he!  The man that lies drunk in the passage.  He's been
pouring it down like water ever since he drove in at six o'clock, so
it's no wonder he's like that."

Belcher stooped down and turned over the man's inert head so as to
show his features.

"He's a stranger to me, sir."

"And to me," added my uncle.

"But not to me," I cried.  "It's John Cumming, the landlord of the
inn at Friar's Oak.  I've known him ever since I was a boy, and I
can't be mistaken."

"Well, what the devil can HE know about it?" said Craven.

"Nothing at all, in all probability," answered my uncle.  "He is
backing young Jim because he knows him, and because he has more
brandy than sense.  His drunken confidence set others to do the
same, and so the odds came down."

"He was as sober as a judge when he drove in here this morning,"
said the landlord.  "He began backing Sir Charles's nominee from the
moment he arrived.  Some of the other boys took the office from him,
and they very soon brought the odds down amongst them."

"I wish he had not brought himself down as well," said my uncle.  "I
beg that you will bring me a little lavender water, landlord, for
the smell of this crowd is appalling.  I suppose you could not get
any sense from this drunken fellow, nephew, or find out what it is
he knows."

It was in vain that I rocked him by the shoulder and shouted his
name in his ear.  Nothing could break in upon that serene
intoxication.

"Well, it's a unique situation as far as my experience goes," said
Berkeley Craven.  "Here we are within a couple of hours of the
fight, and yet you don't know whether you have a man to represent
you.  I hope you don't stand to lose very much, Tregellis."

My uncle shrugged his shoulders carelessly, and took a pinch of his
snuff with that inimitable sweeping gesture which no man has ever
ventured to imitate.

"Pretty well, my boy!" said he.  "But it is time that we thought of
going up to the Downs.  This night journey has left me just a little
effleure, and I should like half an hour of privacy to arrange my
toilet.  If this is my last kick, it shall at least be with a well-
brushed boot."

I have heard a traveller from the wilds of America say that he
looked upon the Red Indian and the English gentleman as closely
akin, citing the passion for sport, the aloofness and the
suppression of the emotions in each.  I thought of his words as I
watched my uncle that morning, for I believe that no victim tied to
the stake could have had a worse outlook before him.  It was not
merely that his own fortunes were largely at stake, but it was the
dreadful position in which he would stand before this immense
concourse of people, many of whom had put their money upon his
judgment, if he should find himself at the last moment with an
impotent excuse instead of a champion to put before them.  What a
situation for a man who prided himself upon his aplomb, and upon
bringing all that he undertook to the very highest standard of
success!  I, who knew him well, could tell from his wan cheeks and
his restless fingers that he was at his wit's ends what to do; but
no stranger who observed his jaunty bearing, the flecking of his
laced handkerchief, the handling of his quizzing glass, or the
shooting of his ruffles, would ever have thought that this butterfly
creature could have had a care upon earth.

It was close upon nine o'clock when we were ready to start for the
Downs, and by that time my uncle's curricle was almost the only
vehicle left in the village street.  The night before they had lain
with their wheels interlocking and their shafts under each other's
bodies, as thick as they could fit, from the old church to the
Crawley Elm, spanning the road five-deep for a good half-mile in
length.  Now the grey village street lay before us almost deserted
save by a few women and children.  Men, horses, carriages--all were
gone.  My uncle drew on his driving-gloves and arranged his costume
with punctilious neatness; but I observed that he glanced up and
down the road with a haggard and yet expectant eye before he took
his seat.  I sat behind with Belcher, while the Hon. Berkeley Craven
took the place beside him.

The road from Crawley curves gently upwards to the upland heather-
clad plateau which extends for many miles in every direction.
Strings of pedestrians, most of them so weary and dust-covered that
it was evident that they had walked the thirty miles from London
during the night, were plodding along by the sides of the road or
trailing over the long mottled slopes of the moorland.  A horseman,
fantastically dressed in green and splendidly mounted, was waiting
at the crossroads, and as he spurred towards us I recognised the
dark, handsome face and bold black eyes of Mendoza.

"I am waiting here to give the office, Sir Charles," said he.  "It's
down the Grinstead road, half a mile to the left."

"Very good," said my uncle, reining his mares round into the cross-
road.

"You haven't got your man there," remarked Mendoza, with something
of suspicion in his manner.

"What the devil is that to you?" cried Belcher, furiously.

"It's a good deal to all of us, for there are some funny stories
about."

"You keep them to yourself, then, or you may wish you had never
heard them."

"All right, Jem!  Your breakfast don't seem to have agreed with you
this morning."

"Have the others arrived?" asked my uncle, carelessly.

"Not yet, Sir Charles.  But Tom Oliver is there with the ropes and
stakes.  Jackson drove by just now, and most of the ring-keepers are
up."

"We have still an hour," remarked my uncle, as he drove on.  "It is
possible that the others may be late, since they have to come from
Reigate."

"You take it like a man, Tregellis," said Craven.  "We must keep a
bold face and brazen it out until the last moment."

"Of course, sir," cried Belcher.  "I'll never believe the betting
would rise like that if somebody didn't know something.  We'll hold
on by our teeth and nails, Sir Charles, and see what comes of it."

We could hear a sound like the waves upon the beach, long before we
came in sight of that mighty multitude, and then at last, on a
sudden dip of the road, we saw it lying before us, a whirlpool of
humanity with an open vortex in the centre.  All round, the
thousands of carriages and horses were dotted over the moor, and the
slopes were gay with tents and booths.  A spot had been chosen for
the ring, where a great basin had been hollowed out in the ground,
so that all round that natural amphitheatre a crowd of thirty
thousand people could see very well what was going on in the centre.
As we drove up a buzz of greeting came from the people upon the
fringe which was nearest to us, spreading and spreading, until the
whole multitude had joined in the acclamation.  Then an instant
later a second shout broke forth, beginning from the other side of
the arena, and the faces which had been turned towards us whisked
round, so that in a twinkling the whole foreground changed from
white to dark.

"It's they.  They are in time," said my uncle and Craven together.

Standing up on our curricle, we could see the cavalcade approaching
over the Downs.  In front came a huge yellow barouche, in which sat
Sir Lothian Hume, Crab Wilson, and Captain Barclay, his trainer.
The postillions were flying canary-yellow ribands from their caps,
those being the colours under which Wilson was to fight.  Behind the
carriage there rode a hundred or more noblemen and gentlemen of the
west country, and then a line of gigs, tilburies, and carriages
wound away down the Grinstead road as far as our eyes could follow
it.  The big barouche came lumbering over the sward in our direction
until Sir Lothian Hume caught sight of us, when he shouted to his
postillions to pull up.

"Good morning, Sir Charles," said he, springing out of the carriage.
"I thought I knew your scarlet curricle.  We have an excellent
morning for the battle."

My uncle bowed coldly, and made no answer.

"I suppose that since we are all here we may begin at once," said
Sir Lothian, taking no notice of the other's manner.

"We begin at ten o'clock.  Not an instant before."

"Very good, if you prefer it.  By the way, Sir Charles, where is
your man?"

"I would ask YOU that question, Sir Lothian," answered my uncle.
"Where is my man?"

A look of astonishment passed over Sir Lothian's features, which, if
it were not real, was most admirably affected.

"What do you mean by asking me such a question?"

"Because I wish to know."

"But how can I tell, and what business is it of mine?"

"I have reason to believe that you have made it your business."

"If you would kindly put the matter a little more clearly there
would be some possibility of my understanding you."

They were both very white and cold, formal and unimpassioned in
their bearing, but exchanging glances which crossed like rapier
blades.  I thought of Sir Lothian's murderous repute as a duellist,
and I trembled for my uncle.

"Now, sir, if you imagine that you have a grievance against me, you
will oblige me vastly by putting it into words."

"I will," said my uncle.  "There has been a conspiracy to maim or
kidnap my man, and I have every reason to believe that you are privy
to it."

An ugly sneer came over Sir Lothian's saturnine face.

"I see," said he.  "Your man has not come on quite as well as you
had expected in his training, and you are hard put to it to invent
an excuse.  Still, I should have thought that you might have found a
more probable one, and one which would entail less serious
consequences."

"Sir," answered my uncle, "you are a liar, but how great a liar you
are nobody knows save yourself."

Sir Lothian's hollow cheeks grew white with passion, and I saw for
an instant in his deep-set eyes such a glare as comes from the
frenzied hound rearing and ramping at the end of its chain.  Then,
with an effort, he became the same cold, hard, self-contained man as
ever.

"It does not become our position to quarrel like two yokels at a
fair," said he; "we shall go further into the matter afterwards."

"I promise you that we shall," answered my uncle, grimly.

"Meanwhile, I hold you to the terms of your wager.  Unless you
produce your nominee within five-and-twenty minutes, I claim the
match."

"Eight-and-twenty minutes," said my uncle, looking at his watch.
"You may claim it then, but not an instant before."

He was admirable at that moment, for his manner was that of a man
with all sorts of hidden resources, so that I could hardly make
myself realize as I looked at him that our position was really as
desperate as I knew it to be.  In the meantime Berkeley Craven, who
had been exchanging a few words with Sir Lothian Hume, came back to
our side.

"I have been asked to be sole referee in this matter," said he.
"Does that meet with your wishes, Sir Charles?"

"I should be vastly obliged to you, Craven, if you will undertake
the duties."

"And Jackson has been suggested as timekeeper."

"I could not wish a better one."

"Very good.  That is settled."

In the meantime the last of the carriages had come up, and the
horses had all been picketed upon the moor.  The stragglers who had
dotted the grass had closed in until the huge crowd was one unit
with a single mighty voice, which was already beginning to bellow
its impatience.  Looking round, there was hardly a moving object
upon the whole vast expanse of green and purple down.  A belated gig
was coming at full gallop down the road which led from the south,
and a few pedestrians were still trailing up from Crawley, but
nowhere was there a sign of the missing man.

"The betting keeps up for all that," said Belcher.  "I've just been
to the ring-side, and it is still even."

"There's a place for you at the outer ropes, Sir Charles," said
Craven.

"There is no sign of my man yet.  I won't come in until he arrives."

"It is my duty to tell you that only ten minutes are left."

"I make it five," cried Sir Lothian Hume.

"That is a question which lies with the referee," said Craven,
firmly.  "My watch makes it ten minutes, and ten it must be."

"Here's Crab Wilson!" cried Belcher, and at the same moment a shout
like a thunderclap burst from the crowd.  The west countryman had
emerged from his dressing-tent, followed by Dutch Sam and Tom Owen,
who were acting as his seconds.  He was nude to the waist, with a
pair of white calico drawers, white silk stockings, and running
shoes.  Round his middle was a canary-yellow sash, and dainty little
ribbons of the same colour fluttered from the sides of his knees.
He carried a high white hat in his hand, and running down the lane
which had been kept open through the crowd to allow persons to reach
the ring, he threw the hat high into the air, so that it fell within
the staked inclosure.  Then with a double spring he cleared the
outer and inner line of rope, and stood with his arms folded in the
centre.

I do not wonder that the people cheered.  Even Belcher could not
help joining in the general shout of applause.  He was certainly a
splendidly built young athlete, and one could not have wished to
look upon a finer sight as his white skin, sleek and luminous as a
panther's, gleamed in the light of the morning sun, with a beautiful
liquid rippling of muscles at every movement.  His arms were long
and slingy, his shoulders loose and yet powerful, with the downward
slant which is a surer index of power than squareness can be.  He
clasped his hands behind his head, threw them aloft, and swung them
backwards, and at every movement some fresh expanse of his smooth,
white skin became knobbed and gnarled with muscles, whilst a yell of
admiration and delight from the crowd greeted each fresh exhibition.
Then, folding his arms once more, he stood like a beautiful statue
waiting for his antagonist.

Sir Lothian Hume had been looking impatiently at his watch, and now
he shut it with a triumphant snap.

"Time's up!" he cried.  "The match is forfeit."

"Time is not up," said Craven.

"I have still five minutes."  My uncle looked round with despairing
eyes.

"Only three, Tregellis!"

A deep angry murmur was rising from the crowd.

"It's a cross!  It's a cross!  It's a fake!" was the cry.

"Two minutes, Tregellis!"

"Where's your man, Sir Charles?  Where's the man that we have
backed?"  Flushed faces began to crane over each other, and angry
eyes glared up at us.

"One more minute, Tregellis!  I am very sorry, but it will be my
duty to declare it forfeit against you."

There was a sudden swirl in the crowd, a rush, a shout, and high up
in the air there spun an old black hat, floating over the heads of
the ring-siders and flickering down within the ropes.

"Saved, by the Lord!" screamed Belcher.

"I rather fancy," said my uncle, calmly, "that this must be my man."

"Too late!" cried Sir Lothian.

"No," answered the referee.  "It was still twenty seconds to the
hour.  The fight will now proceed."



CHAPTER XVII--THE RING-SIDE



Out of the whole of that vast multitude I was one of the very few
who had observed whence it was that this black hat, skimming so
opportunely over the ropes, had come.  I have already remarked that
when we looked around us there had been a single gig travelling very
rapidly upon the southern road.  My uncle's eyes had rested upon it,
but his attention had been drawn away by the discussion between Sir
Lothian Hume and the referee upon the question of time.  For my own
part, I had been so struck by the furious manner in which these
belated travellers were approaching, that I had continued to watch
them with all sorts of vague hopes within me, which I did not dare
to put into words for fear of adding to my uncle's disappointments.
I had just made out that the gig contained a man and a woman, when
suddenly I saw it swerve off the road, and come with a galloping
horse and bounding wheels right across the moor, crashing through
the gorse bushes, and sinking down to the hubs in the heather and
bracken.  As the driver pulled up his foam-spattered horse, he threw
the reins to his companion, sprang from his seat, butted furiously
into the crowd, and then an instant afterwards up went the hat which
told of his challenge and defiance.

"There is no hurry now, I presume, Craven," said my uncle, as coolly
as if this sudden effect had been carefully devised by him.

"Now that your man has his hat in the ring you can take as much time
as you like, Sir Charles."

"Your friend has certainly cut it rather fine, nephew."

"It is not Jim, sir," I whispered.  "It is some one else."

My uncle's eyebrows betrayed his astonishment.

"Some one else!" he ejaculated.

"And a good man too!" roared Belcher, slapping his thigh with a
crack like a pistol-shot.  "Why, blow my dickey if it ain't old Jack
Harrison himself!"

Looking down at the crowd, we had seen the head and shoulders of a
powerful and strenuous man moving slowly forward, and leaving behind
him a long V-shaped ripple upon its surface like the wake of a
swimming dog.  Now, as he pushed his way through the looser fringe
the head was raised, and there was the grinning, hardy face of the
smith looking up at us.  He had left his hat in the ring, and was
enveloped in an overcoat with a blue bird's-eye handkerchief tied
round his neck.  As he emerged from the throng he let his great-coat
fly loose, and showed that he was dressed in his full fighting kit--
black drawers, chocolate stockings, and white shoes.

"I'm right sorry to be so late, Sir Charles," he cried.  "I'd have
been sooner, but it took me a little time to make it all straight
with the missus.  I couldn't convince her all at once, an' so I
brought her with me, and we argued it out on the way."

Looking at the gig, I saw that it was indeed Mrs. Harrison who was
seated in it.  Sir Charles beckoned him up to the wheel of the
curricle.

"What in the world brings you here, Harrison?" he whispered.  "I am
as glad to see you as ever I was to see a man in my life, but I
confess that I did not expect you."

"Well, sir, you heard I was coming," said the smith.

"Indeed, I did not."

"Didn't you get a message, Sir Charles, from a man named Cumming,
landlord of the Friar's Oak Inn?  Mister Rodney there would know
him."

"We saw him dead drunk at the George."

"There, now, if I wasn't afraid of it!" cried Harrison, angrily.
"He's always like that when he's excited, and I never saw a man more
off his head than he was when he heard I was going to take this job
over.  He brought a bag of sovereigns up with him to back me with."

"That's how the betting got turned," said my uncle.  "He found
others to follow his lead, it appears."

"I was so afraid that he might get upon the drink that I made him
promise to go straight to you, sir, the very instant he should
arrive.  He had a note to deliver."

"I understand that he reached the George at six, whilst I did not
return from Reigate until after seven, by which time I have no doubt
that he had drunk his message to me out of his head.  But where is
your nephew Jim, and how did you come to know that you would be
needed?"

"It is not his fault, I promise you, that you should be left in the
lurch.  As to me, I had my orders to take his place from the only
man upon earth whose word I have never disobeyed."

"Yes, Sir Charles," said Mrs. Harrison, who had left the gig and
approached us.  "You can make the most of it this time, for never
again shall you have my Jack--not if you were to go on your knees
for him."

"She's not a patron of sport, and that's a fact," said the smith.

"Sport!" she cried, with shrill contempt and anger.  "Tell me when
all is over."

She hurried away, and I saw her afterwards seated amongst the
bracken, her back turned towards the multitude, and her hands over
her ears, cowering and wincing in an agony of apprehension.

Whilst this hurried scene had been taking place, the crowd had
become more and more tumultuous, partly from their impatience at the
delay, and partly from their exuberant spirits at the unexpected
chance of seeing so celebrated a fighting man as Harrison.  His
identity had already been noised abroad, and many an elderly
connoisseur plucked his long net-purse out of his fob, in order to
put a few guineas upon the man who would represent the school of the
past against the present.  The younger men were still in favour of
the west-countryman, and small odds were to be had either way in
proportion to the number of the supporters of each in the different
parts of the crowd.

In the mean time Sir Lothian Hume had come bustling up to the
Honourable Berkeley Craven, who was still standing near our
curricle.

"I beg to lodge a formal protest against these proceedings," said
he.

"On what grounds, sir?"

"Because the man produced is not the original nominee of Sir Charles
Tregellis."

"I never named one, as you are well aware," said my uncle.

"The betting has all been upon the understanding that young Jim
Harrison was my man's opponent.  Now, at the last moment, he is
withdrawn and another and more formidable man put into his place."

"Sir Charles Tregellis is quite within his rights," said Craven,
firmly.  "He undertook to produce a man who should be within the age
limits stipulated, and I understand that Harrison fulfils all the
conditions.  You are over five-and-thirty, Harrison?"

"Forty-one next month, master."

"Very good.  I direct that the fight proceed."

But alas! there was one authority which was higher even than that of
the referee, and we were destined to an experience which was the
prelude, and sometimes the conclusion, also, of many an old-time
fight.  Across the moor there had ridden a black-coated gentleman,
with buff-topped hunting-boots and a couple of grooms behind him,
the little knot of horsemen showing up clearly upon the curving
swells and then dipping down into the alternate hollows.  Some of
the more observant of the crowd had glanced suspiciously at this
advancing figure, but the majority had not observed him at all until
he reined up his horse upon a knoll which overlooked the
amphitheatre, and in a stentorian voice announced that he
represented the Custos rotulorum of His Majesty's county of Sussex,
that he proclaimed this assembly to be gathered together for an
illegal purpose, and that he was commissioned to disperse it by
force, if necessary.

Never before had I understood that deep-seated fear and wholesome
respect which many centuries of bludgeoning at the hands of the law
had beaten into the fierce and turbulent natives of these islands.
Here was a man with two attendants upon one side, and on the other
thirty thousand very angry and disappointed people, many of them
fighters by profession, and some from the roughest and most
dangerous classes in the country.  And yet it was the single man who
appealed confidently to force, whilst the huge multitude swayed and
murmured like a mutinous fierce-willed creature brought face to face
with a power against which it knew that there was neither argument
nor resistance.  My uncle, however, with Berkeley Craven, Sir John
Lade, and a dozen other lords and gentlemen, hurried across to the
interrupter of the sport.

"I presume that you have a warrant, sir?" said Craven.

"Yes, sir, I have a warrant."

"Then I have a legal right to inspect it."

The magistrate handed him a blue paper which the little knot of
gentlemen clustered their heads over, for they were mostly
magistrates themselves, and were keenly alive to any possible flaw
in the wording.  At last Craven shrugged his shoulders, and handed
it back.

"This seems to be correct, sir," said he.

"It is entirely correct," answered the magistrate, affably.  "To
prevent waste of your valuable time, gentlemen, I may say, once for
all, that it is my unalterable determination that no fight shall,
under any circumstances, be brought off in the county over which I
have control, and I am prepared to follow you all day in order to
prevent it."

To my inexperience this appeared to bring the whole matter to a
conclusion, but I had underrated the foresight of those who arrange
these affairs, and also the advantages which made Crawley Down so
favourite a rendezvous.  There was a hurried consultation between
the principals, the backers, the referee, and the timekeeper.

"It's seven miles to Hampshire border and about two to Surrey," said
Jackson.  The famous Master of the Ring was clad in honour of the
occasion in a most resplendent scarlet coat worked in gold at the
buttonholes, a white stock, a looped hat with a broad black band,
buff knee-breeches, white silk stockings, and paste buckles--a
costume which did justice to his magnificent figure, and especially
to those famous "balustrade" calves which had helped him to be the
finest runner and jumper as well as the most formidable pugilist in
England.  His hard, high-boned face, large piercing eyes, and
immense physique made him a fitting leader for that rough and
tumultuous body who had named him as their commander-in-chief.

"If I might venture to offer you a word of advice," said the affable
official, "it would be to make for the Hampshire line, for Sir James
Ford, on the Surrey border, has as great an objection to such
assemblies as I have, whilst Mr. Merridew, of Long Hall, who is the
Hampshire magistrate, has fewer scruples upon the point."

"Sir," said my uncle, raising his hat in his most impressive manner,
"I am infinitely obliged to you.  With the referee's permission,
there is nothing for it but to shift the stakes."

In an instant a scene of the wildest animation had set in.  Tom Owen
and his assistant, Fogo, with the help of the ring-keepers, plucked
up the stakes and ropes, and carried them off across country.  Crab
Wilson was enveloped in great coats, and borne away in the barouche,
whilst Champion Harrison took Mr. Craven's place in our curricle.
Then, off the huge crowd started, horsemen, vehicles, and
pedestrians, rolling slowly over the broad face of the moorland.
The carriages rocked and pitched like boats in a seaway, as they
lumbered along, fifty abreast, scrambling and lurching over
everything which came in their way.  Sometimes, with a snap and a
thud, one axle would come to the ground, whilst a wheel reeled off
amidst the tussocks of heather, and roars of delight greeted the
owners as they looked ruefully at the ruin.  Then as the gorse
clumps grew thinner, and the sward more level, those on foot began
to run, the riders struck in their spurs, the drivers cracked their
whips, and away they all streamed in the maddest, wildest cross-
country steeplechase, the yellow barouche and the crimson curricle,
which held the two champions, leading the van.

"What do you think of your chances, Harrison?" I heard my uncle ask,
as the two mares picked their way over the broken ground.

"It's my last fight, Sir Charles," said the smith.  "You heard the
missus say that if she let me off this time I was never to ask
again.  I must try and make it a good one."

"But your training?"

"I'm always in training, sir.  I work hard from morning to night,
and I drink little else than water.  I don't think that Captain
Barclay can do much better with all his rules."

"He's rather long in the reach for you."

"I've fought and beat them that were longer.  If it comes to a rally
I should hold my own, and I should have the better of him at a
throw."

"It's a match of youth against experience.  Well, I would not hedge
a guinea of my money.  But, unless he was acting under force, I
cannot forgive young Jim for having deserted me."

"He WAS acting under force, Sir Charles."

"You have seen him, then?"

"No, master, I have not seen him."

"You know where he is?"

"Well, it is not for me to say one way or the other.  I can only
tell you that he could not help himself.  But here's the beak a-
comin' for us again."

The ominous figure galloped up once more alongside of our curricle,
but this time his mission was a more amiable one.

"My jurisdiction ends at that ditch, sir," said he.  "I should fancy
that you could hardly wish a better place for a mill than the
sloping field beyond.  I am quite sure that no one will interfere
with you there."

His anxiety that the fight should be brought off was in such
contrast to the zeal with which he had chased us from his county,
that my uncle could not help remarking upon it.

"It is not for a magistrate to wink at the breaking of the law,
sir," he answered.  "But if my colleague of Hampshire has no
scruples about its being brought off within his jurisdiction, I
should very much like to see the fight," with which he spurred his
horse up an adjacent knoll, from which he thought that he might gain
the best view of the proceedings.

And now I had a view of all those points of etiquette and curious
survivals of custom which are so recent, that we have not yet
appreciated that they may some day be as interesting to the social
historian as they then were to the sportsman.  A dignity was given
to the contest by a rigid code of ceremony, just as the clash of
mail-clad knights was prefaced and adorned by the calling of the
heralds and the showing of blazoned shields.  To many in those
ancient days the tourney may have seemed a bloody and brutal ordeal,
but we who look at it with ample perspective see that it was a rude
but gallant preparation for the conditions of life in an iron age.
And so also, when the ring has become as extinct as the lists, we
may understand that a broader philosophy would show that all things,
which spring up so naturally and spontaneously, have a function to
fulfil, and that it is a less evil that two men should, of their own
free will, fight until they can fight no more than that the standard
of hardihood and endurance should run the slightest risk of being
lowered in a nation which depends so largely upon the individual
qualities of her citizens for her defence.  Do away with war, if the
cursed thing can by any wit of man be avoided, but until you see
your way to that, have a care in meddling with those primitive
qualities to which at any moment you may have to appeal for your own
protection.

Tom Owen and his singular assistant, Fogo, who combined the
functions of prize-fighter and of poet, though, fortunately for
himself, he could use his fists better than his pen, soon had the
ring arranged according to the rules then in vogue.  The white
wooden posts, each with the P.C. of the pugilistic club printed upon
it, were so fixed as to leave a square of 24 feet within the roped
enclosure.  Outside this ring an outer one was pitched, eight feet
separating the two.  The inner was for the combatants and for their
seconds, while in the outer there were places for the referee, the
timekeeper, the backers, and a few select and fortunate individuals,
of whom, through being in my uncle's company, I was one.  Some
twenty well-known prize-fighters, including my friend Bill Warr,
Black Richmond, Maddox, The Pride of Westminster, Tom Belcher,
Paddington Jones, Tough Tom Blake, Symonds the ruffian, Tyne the
tailor, and others, were stationed in the outer ring as beaters.
These fellows all wore the high white hats which were at that time
much affected by the fancy, and they were armed with horse-whips,
silver-mounted, and each bearing the P.C. monogram.  Did any one, be
it East End rough or West End patrician, intrude within the outer
ropes, this corp of guardians neither argued nor expostulated, but
they fell upon the offender and laced him with their whips until he
escaped back out of the forbidden ground.  Even with so formidable a
guard and such fierce measures, the beaters-out, who had to check
the forward heaves of a maddened, straining crowd, were often as
exhausted at the end of a fight as the principals themselves.  In
the mean time they formed up in a line of sentinels, presenting
under their row of white hats every type of fighting face, from the
fresh boyish countenances of Tom Belcher, Jones, and the other
younger recruits, to the scarred and mutilated visages of the
veteran bruisers.

Whilst the business of the fixing of the stakes and the fastening of
the ropes was going forward, I from my place of vantage could hear
the talk of the crowd behind me, the front two rows of which were
lying upon the grass, the next two kneeling, and the others standing
in serried ranks all up the side of the gently sloping hill, so that
each line could just see over the shoulders of that which was in
front.  There were several, and those amongst the most experienced,
who took the gloomiest view of Harrison's chances, and it made my
heart heavy to overhear them.

"It's the old story over again," said one.  "They won't bear in mind
that youth will be served.  They only learn wisdom when it's knocked
into them."

"Ay, ay," responded another.  "That's how Jack Slack thrashed
Boughton, and I myself saw Hooper, the tinman, beat to pieces by the
fighting oilman.  They all come to it in time, and now it's
Harrison's turn."

"Don't you be so sure about that!" cried a third.  "I've seen Jack
Harrison fight five times, and I never yet saw him have the worse of
it.  He's a slaughterer, and so I tell you."

"He was, you mean."

"Well, I don't see no such difference as all that comes to, and I'm
putting ten guineas on my opinion."

"Why," said a loud, consequential man from immediately behind me,
speaking with a broad western burr, "vrom what I've zeen of this
young Gloucester lad, I doan't think Harrison could have stood
bevore him for ten rounds when he vas in his prime.  I vas coming up
in the Bristol coach yesterday, and the guard he told me that he had
vifteen thousand pound in hard gold in the boot that had been zent
up to back our man."

"They'll be in luck if they see their money again," said another.
"Harrison's no lady's-maid fighter, and he's blood to the bone.
He'd have a shy at it if his man was as big as Carlton House."

"Tut," answered the west-countryman.  "It's only in Bristol and
Gloucester that you can get men to beat Bristol and Gloucester."

"It's like your damned himpudence to say so," said an angry voice
from the throng behind him.  "There are six men in London that would
hengage to walk round the best twelve that hever came from the
west."

The proceedings might have opened by an impromptu bye-battle between
the indignant cockney and the gentleman from Bristol, but a
prolonged roar of applause broke in upon their altercation.  It was
caused by the appearance in the ring of Crab Wilson, followed by
Dutch Sam and Mendoza carrying the basin, sponge, brandy-bladder,
and other badges of their office.  As he entered Wilson pulled the
canary-yellow handkerchief from his waist, and going to the corner
post, he tied it to the top of it, where it remained fluttering in
the breeze.  He then took a bundle of smaller ribands of the same
colour from his seconds, and walking round, he offered them to the
noblemen and Corinthians at half-a-guinea apiece as souvenirs of the
fight.  His brisk trade was only brought to an end by the appearance
of Harrison, who climbed in a very leisurely manner over the ropes,
as befitted his more mature years and less elastic joints.  The yell
which greeted him was even more enthusiastic than that which had
heralded Wilson, and there was a louder ring of admiration in it,
for the crowd had already had their opportunity of seeing Wilson's
physique, whilst Harrison's was a surprise to them.

I had often looked upon the mighty arms and neck of the smith, but I
had never before seen him stripped to the waist, or understood the
marvellous symmetry of development which had made him in his youth
the favourite model of the London sculptors.  There was none of that
white sleek skin and shimmering play of sinew which made Wilson a
beautiful picture, but in its stead there was a rugged grandeur of
knotted and tangled muscle, as though the roots of some old tree
were writhing from breast to shoulder, and from shoulder to elbow.
Even in repose the sun threw shadows from the curves of his skin,
but when he exerted himself every muscle bunched itself up, distinct
and hard, breaking his whole trunk into gnarled knots of sinew.  His
skin, on face and body, was darker and harsher than that of his
youthful antagonist, but he looked tougher and harder, an effect
which was increased by the sombre colour of his stockings and
breeches.  He entered the ring, sucking a lemon, with Jim Belcher
and Caleb Baldwin, the coster, at his heels.  Strolling across to
the post, he tied his blue bird's-eye handkerchief over the west-
countryman's yellow, and then walked to his opponent with his hand
out.

"I hope I see you well, Wilson," said he.

"Pretty tidy, I thank you," answered the other.  "We'll speak to
each other in a different vashion, I 'spects, afore we part."

"But no ill-feeling," said the smith, and the two fighting men
grinned at each other as they took their own corners.

"May I ask, Mr. Referee, whether these two men have been weighed?"
asked Sir Lothian Hume, standing up in the outer ring.

"Their weight has just been taken under my supervision, sir,"
answered Mr. Craven.  "Your man brought the scale down at thirteen-
three, and Harrison at thirteen-eight."

"He's a fifteen-stoner from the loins upwards," cried Dutch Sam,
from his corner.

"We'll get some of it off him before we finish."

"You'll get more off him than ever you bargained for," answered Jim
Belcher, and the crowd laughed at the rough chaff.



CHAPTER XVIII--THE SMITH'S LAST BATTLE



"Clear the outer ring!" cried Jackson, standing up beside the ropes
with a big silver watch in his hand.

"Ss-whack! ss-whack! ss-whack!" went the horse-whips--for a number
of the spectators, either driven onwards by the pressure behind or
willing to risk some physical pain on the chance of getting a better
view, had crept under the ropes and formed a ragged fringe within
the outer ring.  Now, amidst roars of laughter from the crowd and a
shower of blows from the beaters-out, they dived madly back, with
the ungainly haste of frightened sheep blundering through a gap in
their hurdles.  Their case was a hard one, for the folk in front
refused to yield an inch of their places--but the arguments from the
rear prevailed over everything else, and presently every frantic
fugitive had been absorbed, whilst the beaters-out took their stands
along the edge at regular intervals, with their whips held down by
their thighs.

"Gentlemen," cried Jackson, again, "I am requested to inform you
that Sir Charles Tregellis's nominee is Jack Harrison, fighting at
thirteen-eight, and Sir Lothian Hume's is Crab Wilson, at thirteen-
three.  No person can be allowed at the inner ropes save the referee
and the timekeeper.  I have only to beg that, if the occasion should
require it, you will all give me your assistance to keep the ground
clear, to prevent confusion, and to have a fair fight.  All ready?"

"All ready!" from both corners.

"Time!"

There was a breathless hush as Harrison, Wilson, Belcher, and Dutch
Sam walked very briskly into the centre of the ring.  The two men
shook hands, whilst their seconds did the same, the four hands
crossing each other.  Then the seconds dropped back, and the two
champions stood toe to toe, with their hands up.

It was a magnificent sight to any one who had not lost his sense of
appreciation of the noblest of all the works of Nature.  Both men
fulfilled that requisite of the powerful athlete that they should
look larger without their clothes than with them.  In ring slang,
they buffed well.  And each showed up the other's points on account
of the extreme contrast between them:  the long, loose-limbed, deer-
footed youngster, and the square-set, rugged veteran with his trunk
like the stump of an oak.  The betting began to rise upon the
younger man from the instant that they were put face to face, for
his advantages were obvious, whilst those qualities which had
brought Harrison to the top in his youth were only a memory in the
minds of the older men.  All could see the three inches extra of
height and two of reach which Wilson possessed, and a glance at the
quick, cat-like motions of his feet, and the perfect poise of his
body upon his legs, showed how swiftly he could spring either in or
out from his slower adversary.  But it took a subtler insight to
read the grim smile which flickered over the smith's mouth, or the
smouldering fire which shone in his grey eyes, and it was only the
old-timers who knew that, with his mighty heart and his iron frame,
he was a perilous man to lay odds against.

Wilson stood in the position from which he had derived his nickname,
his left hand and left foot well to the front, his body sloped very
far back from his loins, and his guard thrown across his chest, but
held well forward in a way which made him exceedingly hard to get
at.  The smith, on the other hand, assumed the obsolete attitude
which Humphries and Mendoza introduced, but which had not for ten
years been seen in a first-class battle.  Both his knees were
slightly bent, he stood square to his opponent, and his two big
brown fists were held over his mark so that he could lead equally
with either.  Wilson's hands, which moved incessantly in and out,
had been stained with some astringent juice with the purpose of
preventing them from puffing, and so great was the contrast between
them and his white forearms, that I imagined that he was wearing
dark, close-fitting gloves until my uncle explained the matter in a
whisper.  So they stood in a quiver of eagerness and expectation,
whilst that huge multitude hung so silently and breathlessly upon
every motion that they might have believed themselves to be alone,
man to man, in the centre of some primeval solitude.

It was evident from the beginning that Crab Wilson meant to throw no
chance away, and that he would trust to his lightness of foot and
quickness of hand until he should see something of the tactics of
this rough-looking antagonist.  He paced swiftly round several
times, with little, elastic, menacing steps, whilst the smith
pivoted slowly to correspond.  Then, as Wilson took a backward step
to induce Harrison to break his ground and follow him, the older man
grinned and shook his head.

"You must come to me, lad," said he.  "I'm too old to scamper round
the ring after you.  But we have the day before us, and I'll wait."

He may not have expected his invitation to be so promptly answered;
but in an instant, with a panther spring, the west-countryman was on
him.  Smack! smack! smack!  Thud! thud!  The first three were on
Harrison's face, the last two were heavy counters upon Wilson's
body.  Back danced the youngster, disengaging himself in beautiful
style, but with two angry red blotches over the lower line of his
ribs.  "Blood for Wilson!" yelled the crowd, and as the smith faced
round to follow the movements of his nimble adversary, I saw with a
thrill that his chin was crimson and dripping.  In came Wilson again
with a feint at the mark and a flush hit on Harrison's cheek; then,
breaking the force of the smith's ponderous right counter, he
brought the round to a conclusion by slipping down upon the grass.

"First knock-down for Harrison!" roared a thousand voices, for ten
times as many pounds would change hands upon the point.

"I appeal to the referee!" cried Sir Lothian Hume.  "It was a slip,
and not a knock-down."

"I give it a slip," said Berkeley Craven, and the men walked to
their corners, amidst a general shout of applause for a spirited and
well-contested opening round.  Harrison fumbled in his mouth with
his finger and thumb, and then with a sharp half-turn he wrenched
out a tooth, which he threw into the basin.  "Quite like old times,"
said he to Belcher.

"Have a care, Jack!" whispered the anxious second.  "You got rather
more than you gave."

"Maybe I can carry more, too," said he serenely, whilst Caleb
Baldwin mopped the big sponge over his face, and the shining bottom
of the tin basin ceased suddenly to glimmer through the water.

I could gather from the comments of the experienced Corinthians
around me, and from the remarks of the crowd behind, that Harrison's
chance was thought to have been lessened by this round.

"I've seen his old faults and I haven't seen his old merits," said
Sir John Lade, our opponent of the Brighton Road.  "He's as slow on
his feet and with his guard as ever.  Wilson hit him as he liked."

"Wilson may hit him three times to his once, but his one is worth
Wilson's three," remarked my uncle.  "He's a natural fighter and the
other an excellent sparrer, but I don't hedge a guinea."

A sudden hush announced that the men were on their feet again, and
so skilfully had the seconds done their work, that neither looked a
jot the worse for what had passed.  Wilson led viciously with his
left, but misjudged his distance, receiving a smashing counter on
the mark in reply which sent him reeling and gasping to the ropes.
"Hurrah for the old one!" yelled the mob, and my uncle laughed and
nudged Sir John Lade.  The west-countryman smiled, and shook himself
like a dog from the water as with a stealthy step he came back to
the centre of the ring, where his man was still standing.  Bang came
Harrison's right upon the mark once more, but Crab broke the blow
with his elbow, and jumped laughing away.  Both men were a little
winded, and their quick, high breathing, with the light patter of
their feet as they danced round each other, blended into one
continuous, long-drawn sound.  Two simultaneous exchanges with the
left made a clap like a pistol-shot, and then as Harrison rushed in
for a fall, Wilson slipped him, and over went my old friend upon his
face, partly from the impetus of his own futile attack, and partly
from a swinging half-arm blow which the west-countryman brought home
upon his ear as he passed.

"Knock-down for Wilson," cried the referee, and the answering roar
was like the broadside of a seventy-four.  Up went hundreds of curly
brimmed Corinthian hats into the air, and the slope before us was a
bank of flushed and yelling faces.  My heart was cramped with my
fears, and I winced at every blow, yet I was conscious also of an
absolute fascination, with a wild thrill of fierce joy and a certain
exultation in our common human nature which could rise above pain
and fear in its straining after the very humblest form of fame.

Belcher and Baldwin had pounced upon their man, and had him up and
in his corner in an instant, but, in spite of the coolness with
which the hardy smith took his punishment, there was immense
exultation amongst the west-countrymen.

"We've got him!  He's beat!  He's beat!" shouted the two Jew
seconds.  "It's a hundred to a tizzy on Gloucester!"

"Beat, is he?" answered Belcher.  "You'll need to rent this field
before you can beat him, for he'll stand a month of that kind of
fly-flappin'."  He was swinging a towel in front of Harrison as he
spoke, whilst Baldwin mopped him with the sponge.

"How is it with you, Harrison?" asked my uncle.

"Hearty as a buck, sir.  It's as right as the day."

The cheery answer came with so merry a ring that the clouds cleared
from my uncle's face.

"You should recommend your man to lead more, Tregellis," said Sir
John Lade.  "He'll never win it unless he leads."

"He knows more about the game than you or I do, Lade.  I'll let him
take his own way."

"The betting is three to one against him now," said a gentleman,
whose grizzled moustache showed that he was an officer of the late
war.

"Very true, General Fitzpatrick.  But you'll observe that it is the
raw young bloods who are giving the odds, and the Sheenies who are
taking them.  I still stick to my opinion."

The two men came briskly up to the scratch at the call of time, the
smith a little lumpy on one side of his head, but with the same
good-humoured and yet menacing smile upon his lips.  As to Wilson,
he was exactly as he had begun in appearance, but twice I saw him
close his lips sharply as if he were in a sudden spasm of pain, and
the blotches over his ribs were darkening from scarlet to a sullen
purple.  He held his guard somewhat lower to screen this vulnerable
point, and he danced round his opponent with a lightness which
showed that his wind had not been impaired by the body-blows, whilst
the smith still adopted the impassive tactics with which he had
commenced.

Many rumours had come up to us from the west as to Crab Wilson's
fine science and the quickness of his hitting, but the truth
surpassed what had been expected of him.  In this round and the two
which followed he showed a swiftness and accuracy which old
ringsiders declared that Mendoza in his prime had never surpassed.
He was in and out like lightning, and his blows were heard and felt
rather than seen.  But Harrison still took them all with the same
dogged smile, occasionally getting in a hard body-blow in return,
for his adversary's height and his position combined to keep his
face out of danger.  At the end of the fifth round the odds were
four to one, and the west-countrymen were riotous in their
exultation.

"What think you now?" cried the west-countryman behind me, and in
his excitement he could get no further save to repeat over and over
again, "What think you now?"  When in the sixth round the smith was
peppered twice without getting in a counter, and had the worst of
the fall as well, the fellow became inarticulate altogether, and
could only huzza wildly in his delight.  Sir Lothian Hume was
smiling and nodding his head, whilst my uncle was coldly impassive,
though I was sure that his heart was as heavy as mine.

"This won't do, Tregellis," said General Fitzpatrick.  "My money is
on the old one, but the other is the finer boxer."

"My man is un peu passe, but he will come through all right,"
answered my uncle.

I saw that both Belcher and Baldwin were looking grave, and I knew
that we must have a change of some sort, or the old tale of youth
and age would be told once more.

The seventh round, however, showed the reserve strength of the hardy
old fighter, and lengthened the faces of those layers of odds who
had imagined that the fight was practically over, and that a few
finishing rounds would have given the smith his coup-de-grace.  It
was clear when the two men faced each other that Wilson had made
himself up for mischief, and meant to force the fighting and
maintain the lead which he had gained, but that grey gleam was not
quenched yet in the veteran's eyes, and still the same smile played
over his grim face.  He had become more jaunty, too, in the swing of
his shoulders and the poise of his head, and it brought my
confidence back to see the brisk way in which he squared up to his
man.

Wilson led with his left, but was short, and he only just avoided a
dangerous right-hander which whistled in at his ribs.  "Bravo, old
'un, one of those will be a dose of laudanum if you get it home,"
cried Belcher.  There was a pause of shuffling feet and hard
breathing, broken by the thud of a tremendous body blow from Wilson,
which the smith stopped with the utmost coolness.  Then again a few
seconds of silent tension, when Wilson led viciously at the head,
but Harrison took it on his forearm, smiling and nodding at his
opponent.  "Get the pepper-box open!" yelled Mendoza, and Wilson
sprang in to carry out his instructions, but was hit out again by a
heavy drive on the chest.  "Now's the time!  Follow it up!" cried
Belcher, and in rushed the smith, pelting in his half-arm blows, and
taking the returns without a wince, until Crab Wilson went down
exhausted in the corner.  Both men had their marks to show, but
Harrison had all the best of the rally, so it was our turn to throw
our hats into the air and to shout ourselves hoarse, whilst the
seconds clapped their man upon his broad back as they hurried him to
his corner.

"What think you now?" shouted all the neighbours of the west-
countryman, repeating his own refrain.

"Why, Dutch Sam never put in a better rally," cried Sir John Lade.
"What's the betting now, Sir Lothian?"

"I have laid all that I intend; but I don't think my man can lose
it."  For all that, the smile had faded from his face, and I
observed that he glanced continually over his shoulder into the
crowd behind him.

A sullen purple cloud had been drifting slowly up from the south-
west--though I dare say that out of thirty thousand folk there were
very few who had spared the time or attention to mark it.  Now it
suddenly made its presence apparent by a few heavy drops of rain,
thickening rapidly into a sharp shower, which filled the air with
its hiss, and rattled noisily upon the high, hard hats of the
Corinthians.  Coat-collars were turned up and handkerchiefs tied
round. necks, whilst the skins of the two men glistened with the
moisture as they stood up to each other once more.  I noticed that
Belcher whispered very earnestly into Harrison's ear as he rose from
his knee, and that the smith nodded his head curtly, with the air of
a man who understands and approves of his orders.

And what those orders were was instantly apparent.  Harrison was to
be turned from the defender into the attacker.  The result of the
rally in the last round had convinced his seconds that when it came
to give-and-take hitting, their hardy and powerful man was likely to
have the better of it.  And then on the top of this came the rain.
With the slippery grass the superior activity of Wilson would be
neutralized, and he would find it harder to avoid the rushes of his
opponent.  It was in taking advantage of such circumstances that the
art of ringcraft lay, and many a shrewd and vigilant second had won
a losing battle for his man.  "Go in, then!  Go in!" whooped the two
prize-fighters, while every backer in the crowd took up the roar.

And Harrison went in, in such fashion that no man who saw him do it
will ever forget it.  Crab Wilson, as game as a pebble, met him with
a flush hit every time, but no human strength or human science
seemed capable of stopping the terrible onslaught of this iron man.
Round after round he scrambled his way in, slap-bang, right and
left, every hit tremendously sent home.  Sometimes he covered his
own face with his left, and sometimes he disdained to use any guard
at all, but his springing hits were irresistible.  The rain lashed
down upon them, pouring from their faces and running in crimson
trickles over their bodies, but neither gave any heed to it save to
manoeuvre always with the view of bringing it in to each other's
eyes.  But round after round the west-countryman fell, and round
after round the betting rose, until the odds were higher in our
favour than ever they had been against us.  With a sinking heart,
filled with pity and admiration for these two gallant men, I longed
that every bout might be the last, and yet the "Time!" was hardly
out of Jackson's mouth before they had both sprung from their
second's knees, with laughter upon their mutilated faces and
chaffing words upon their bleeding lips.  It may have been a humble
object-lesson, but I give you my word that many a time in my life I
have braced myself to a hard task by the remembrance of that morning
upon Crawley Downs, asking myself if my manhood were so weak that I
would not do for my country, or for those whom I loved, as much as
these two would endure for a paltry stake and for their own credit
amongst their fellows.  Such a spectacle may brutalize those who are
brutal, but I say that there is a spiritual side to it also, and
that the sight of the utmost human limit of endurance and courage is
one which bears a lesson of its own.

But if the ring can breed bright virtues, it is but a partisan who
can deny that it can be the mother of black vices also, and we were
destined that morning to have a sight of each.  It so chanced that,
as the battle went against his man, my eyes stole round very often
to note the expression upon Sir Lothian Hume's face, for I knew how
fearlessly he had laid the odds, and I understood that his fortunes
as well as his champion were going down before the smashing blows of
the old bruiser.  The confident smile with which he had watched the
opening rounds had long vanished from his lips, and his cheeks had
turned of a sallow pallor, whilst his small, fierce grey eyes looked
furtively from under his craggy brows, and more than once he burst
into savage imprecations when Wilson was beaten to the ground.  But
especially I noticed that his chin was always coming round to his
shoulder, and that at the end of every round he sent keen little
glances flying backwards into the crowd.  For some time, amidst the
immense hillside of faces which banked themselves up on the slope
behind us, I was unable to pick out the exact point at which his
gaze was directed.  But at last I succeeded in following it.  A very
tall man, who showed a pair of broad, bottle-green shoulders high
above his neighbours, was looking very hard in our direction, and I
assured myself that a quick exchange of almost imperceptible signals
was going on between him and the Corinthian baronet.  I became
conscious, also, as I watched this stranger, that the cluster of men
around him were the roughest elements of the whole assembly:
fierce, vicious-looking fellows, with cruel, debauched faces, who
howled like a pack of wolves at every blow, and yelled execrations
at Harrison whenever he walked across to his corner.  So turbulent
were they that I saw the ringkeepers whisper together and glance up
in their direction, as if preparing for trouble in store, but none
of them had realized how near it was to breaking out, or how
dangerous it might prove.

Thirty rounds had been fought in an hour and twenty-five minutes,
and the rain was pelting down harder than ever.  A thick steam rose
from the two fighters, and the ring was a pool of mud.  Repeated
falls had turned the men brown, with a horrible mottling of crimson
blotches.  Round after round had ended by Crab Wilson going down,
and it was evident, even to my inexperienced eyes, that he was
weakening rapidly.  He leaned heavily upon the two Jews when they
led him to his corner, and he reeled when their support was
withdrawn.  Yet his science had, through long practice, become an
automatic thing with him, so that he stopped and hit with less
power, but with as great accuracy as ever.  Even now a casual
observer might have thought that he had the best of the battle, for
the smith was far the more terribly marked, but there was a wild
stare in the west-countryman's eyes, and a strange catch in his
breathing, which told us that it is not the most dangerous blow
which shows upon the surface.  A heavy cross-buttock at the end of
the thirty-first round shook the breath from his body, and he came
up for the thirty-second with the same jaunty gallantry as ever, but
with the dazed expression of a man whose wind has been utterly
smashed.

"He's got the roly-polies," cried Belcher.  "You have it your own
way now!"

"I'll vight for a week yet," gasped Wilson.

"Damme, I like his style," cried Sir John Lade.  "No shifting,
nothing shy, no hugging nor hauling.  It's a shame to let him fight.
Take the brave fellow away!"

"Take him away!  Take him away!" echoed a hundred voices.

"I won't be taken away!  Who dares say so?" cried Wilson, who was
back, after another fall, upon his second's knee.

"His heart won't suffer him to cry enough," said General
Fitzpatrick.  "As his patron, Sir Lothian, you should direct the
sponge to be thrown up."

"You think he can't win it?"

"He is hopelessly beat, sir."

"You don't know him.  He's a glutton of the first water."

"A gamer man never pulled his shirt off; but the other is too strong
for him."

"Well, sir, I believe that he can fight another ten rounds."  He
half turned as he spoke, and I saw him throw up his left arm with a
singular gesture into the air.

"Cut the ropes!  Fair play!  Wait till the rain stops!" roared a
stentorian voice behind me, and I saw that it came from the big man
with the bottle-green coat.  His cry was a signal, for, like a
thunderclap, there came a hundred hoarse voices shouting together:
"Fair play for Gloucester!  Break the ring!  Break the ring!"

Jackson had called "Time," and the two mud-plastered men were
already upon their feet, but the interest had suddenly changed from
the fight to the audience.  A succession of heaves from the back of
the crowd had sent a series of long ripples running through it, all
the heads swaying rhythmically in the one direction like a
wheatfield in a squall.  With every impulsion the oscillation
increased, those in front trying vainly to steady themselves against
the rushes from behind, until suddenly there came a sharp snap, two
white stakes with earth clinging to their points flew into the outer
ring, and a spray of people, dashed from the solid wave behind, were
thrown against the line of the beaters-out.  Down came the long
horse-whips, swayed by the most vigorous arms in England; but the
wincing and shouting victims had no sooner scrambled back a few
yards from the merciless cuts, before a fresh charge from the rear
hurled them once more into the arms of the prize-fighters.  Many
threw themselves down upon the turf and allowed successive waves to
pass over their bodies, whilst others, driven wild by the blows,
returned them with their hunting-crops and walking-canes.  And then,
as half the crowd strained to the left and half to the right to
avoid the pressure from behind, the vast mass was suddenly reft in
twain, and through the gap surged the rough fellows from behind, all
armed with loaded sticks and yelling for "Fair play and Gloucester!"
Their determined rush carried the prize-fighters before them, the
inner ropes snapped like threads, and in an instant the ring was a
swirling,' seething mass of figures, whips and sticks falling and
clattering, whilst, face to face, in the middle of it all, so wedged
that they could neither advance nor retreat, the smith and the west-
countryman continued their long-drawn battle as oblivious of the
chaos raging round them as two bulldogs would have been who had got
each other by the throat.  The driving rain, the cursing and screams
of pain, the swish of the blows, the yelling of orders and advice,
the heavy smell of the damp cloth--every incident of that scene of
my early youth comes back to me now in my old age as clearly as if
it had been but yesterday.

It was not easy for us to observe anything at the time, however, for
we were ourselves in the midst of the frantic crowd, swaying about
and carried occasionally quite off our feet, but endeavouring to
keep our places behind Jackson and Berkeley Craven, who, with sticks
and whips meeting over their heads, were still calling the rounds
and superintending the fight.

"The ring's broken!" shouted Sir Lothian Hume.  "I appeal to the
referee!  The fight is null and void."

"You villain!" cried my uncle, hotly; "this is your doing."

"You have already an account to answer for with me," said Hume, with
his sinister sneer, and as he spoke he was swept by the rush of the
crowd into my uncle's very arms.  The two men's faces were not more
than a few inches apart, and Sir Lothian's bold eyes had to sink
before the imperious scorn which gleamed coldly in those of my
uncle.

"We will settle our accounts, never fear, though I degrade myself in
meeting such a blackleg.  What is it, Craven?"

"We shall have to declare a draw, Tregellis."

"My man has the fight in hand."

"I cannot help it.  I cannot attend to my duties when every moment I
am cut over with a whip or a stick."

Jackson suddenly made a wild dash into the crowd, but returned with
empty hands and a rueful face.

"They've stolen my timekeeper's watch," he cried.  "A little cove
snatched it out of my hand."

My uncle clapped his hand to his fob.

"Mine has gone also!" he cried.

"Draw it at once, or your man will get hurt," said Jackson, and we
saw that as the undaunted smith stood up to Wilson for another
round, a dozen rough fellows were clustering round him with
bludgeons.

"Do you consent to a draw, Sir Lothian Hume?"

"I do."

"And you, Sir Charles?"

"Certainly not."

"The ring is gone."

"That is no fault of mine."

"Well, I see no help for it.  As referee I order that the men be
withdrawn, and that the stakes be returned to their owners."

"A draw!  A draw!" shrieked every one, and the crowd in an instant
dispersed in every direction, the pedestrians running to get a good
lead upon the London road, and the Corinthians in search of their
horses and carriages.  Harrison ran over to Wilson's corner and
shook him by the hand.

"I hope I have not hurt you much."

"I'm hard put to it to stand.  How are you?"

"My head's singin' like a kettle.  It was the rain that helped me."

"Yes, I thought I had you beat one time.  I never wish a better
battle."

"Nor me either.  Good-bye."

And so those two brave-hearted fellows made their way amidst the
yelping roughs, like two wounded lions amidst a pack of wolves and
jackals.  I say again that, if the ring has fallen low, it is not in
the main the fault of the men who have done the fighting, but it
lies at the door of the vile crew of ring-side parasites and
ruffians, who are as far below the honest pugilist as the welsher
and the blackleg are below the noble racehorse which serves them as
a pretext for their villainies.



CHAPTER XIX--CLIFFE ROYAL



My uncle was humanely anxious to get Harrison to bed as soon as
possible, for the smith, although he laughed at his own injuries,
had none the less been severely punished.

"Don't you dare ever to ask my leave to fight again, Jack Harrison,"
said his wife, as she looked ruefully at his battered face.  "Why,
it's worse than when you beat Black Baruk; and if it weren't for
your topcoat, I couldn't swear you were the man who led me to the
altar!  If the King of England ask you, I'll never let you do it
more."

"Well, old lass, I give my davy that I never will.  It's best that I
leave fightin' before fightin' leaves me."  He screwed up his face
as he took a sup from Sir Charles's brandy flask.  "It's fine
liquor, sir, but it gets into my cut lips most cruel.  Why, here's
John Cummings of the Friars' Oak Inn, as I'm a sinner, and seekin'
for a mad doctor, to judge by the look of him!"

It was certainly a most singular figure who was approaching us over
the moor.  With the flushed, dazed face of a man who is just
recovering from recent intoxication, the landlord was tearing madly
about, his hat gone, and his hair and beard flying in the wind.  He
ran in little zigzags from one knot of people to another, whilst his
peculiar appearance drew a running fire of witticisms as he went, so
that he reminded me irresistibly of a snipe skimming along through a
line of guns.  We saw him stop for an instant by the yellow
barouche, and hand something to Sir Lothian Hume.  Then on he came
again, until at last, catching sight of us, he gave a cry of joy,
and ran for us full speed with a note held out at arm's length.

"You're a nice cove, too, John Cummings," said Harrison,
reproachfully.  "Didn't I tell you not to let a drop pass your lips
until you had given your message to Sir Charles?"

"I ought to be pole-axed, I ought," he cried in bitter repentance.
"I asked for you, Sir Charles, as I'm a livin' man, I did, but you
weren't there, and what with bein' so pleased at gettin' such odds
when I knew Harrison was goin' to fight, an' what with the landlord
at the George wantin' me to try his own specials, I let my senses go
clean away from me.  And now it's only after the fight is over that
I see you, Sir Charles, an' if you lay that whip over my back, it's
only what I deserve."

But my uncle was paying no attention whatever to the voluble self-
reproaches of the landlord.  He had opened the note, and was reading
it with a slight raising of the eyebrows, which was almost the very
highest note in his limited emotional gamut.

"What make you of this, nephew?" he asked, handing it to me.

This was what I read -


"SIR CHARLES TREGELLIS,

"For God's sake, come at once, when this reaches you, to Cliffe
Royal, and tarry as little as possible upon the way.  You will see
me there, and you will hear much which concerns you deeply.  I pray
you to come as soon as may be; and until then I remain him whom you
knew as

"JAMES HARRISON."


"Well, nephew?" asked my uncle.

"Why, sir, I cannot tell what it may mean."

"Who gave it to you, sirrah?"

"It was young Jim Harrison himself, sir," said the landlord, "though
indeed I scarce knew him at first, for he looked like his own ghost.
He was so eager that it should reach you that he would not leave me
until the horse was harnessed and I started upon my way.  There was
one note for you and one for Sir Lothian Hume, and I wish to God he
had chosen a better messenger!"

"This is a mystery indeed," said my uncle, bending his brows over
the note.  "What should he be doing at that house of ill-omen?  And
why does he sign himself 'him whom you knew as Jim Harrison?'  By
what other style should I know him?  Harrison, you can throw a light
upon this.  You, Mrs. Harrison; I see by your face that you
understand it."

"Maybe we do, Sir Charles; but we are plain folk, my Jack and I, and
we go as far as we see our way, and when we don't see our way any
longer, we just stop.  We've been goin' this twenty year, but now
we'll draw aside and let our betters get to the front; so if you
wish to find what that note means, I can only advise you to do what
you are asked, and to drive over to Cliffe Royal, where you will
find out."

My uncle put the note into his pocket.

"I don't move until I have seen you safely in the hands of the
surgeon, Harrison."

"Never mind for me, sir.  The missus and me can drive down to
Crawley in the gig, and a yard of stickin' plaster and a raw steak
will soon set me to rights."

But my uncle was by no means to be persuaded, and he drove the pair
into Crawley, where the smith was left under the charge of his wife
in the very best quarters which money could procure.  Then, after a
hasty luncheon, we turned the mares' heads for the south.

"This ends my connection with the ring, nephew," said my uncle.  "I
perceive that there is no possible means by which it can be kept
pure from roguery.  I have been cheated and befooled; but a man
learns wisdom at last, and never again do I give countenance to a
prize-fight."

Had I been older or he less formidable, I might have said what was
in my heart, and begged him to give up other things also--to come
out from those shallow circles in which he lived, and to find some
work that was worthy of his strong brain and his good heart.  But
the thought had hardly formed itself in my mind before he had
dropped his serious vein, and was chatting away about some new
silver-mounted harness which he intended to spring upon the Mall,
and about the match for a thousand guineas which he meant to make
between his filly Ethelberta and Lord Doncaster's famous three-year-
old Aurelius.

We had got as far as Whiteman's Green, which is rather more than
midway between Crawley Down and Friars' Oak, when, looking
backwards, I saw far down the road the gleam of the sun upon a high
yellow carriage.  Sir Lothian Hume was following us.

"He has had the same summons as we, and is bound for the same
destination," said my uncle, glancing over his shoulder at the
distant barouche.  "We are both wanted at Cliffe Royal--we, the two
survivors of that black business.  And it is Jim Harrison of all
people who calls us there.  Nephew, I have had an eventful life, but
I feel as if the very strangest scene of it were waiting for me
among those trees."

He whipped up the mares, and now from the curve of the road we could
see the high dark pinnacles of the old Manor-house shooting up above
the ancient oaks which ring it round.  The sight of it, with its
bloodstained and ghost-blasted reputation, would in itself have been
enough to send a thrill through my nerves; but when the words of my
uncle made me suddenly realize that this strange summons was indeed
for the two men who were concerned in that old-world tragedy, and
that it was the playmate of my youth who had sent it, I caught my
breath as I seemed vaguely to catch a glimpse of some portentous
thing forming itself in front of us.  The rusted gates between the
crumbling heraldic pillars were folded back, and my uncle flicked
the mares impatiently as we flew up the weed-grown avenue, until he
pulled them on their haunches before the time-blotched steps.  The
front door was open, and Boy Jim was waiting there to meet us.

But it was a different Boy Jim from him whom I had known and loved.
There was a change in him somewhere, a change so marked that it was
the first thing that I noticed, and yet so subtle that I could not
put words to it.  He was not better dressed than of old, for I well
knew the old brown suit that he wore.

He was not less comely, for his training had left him the very model
of what a man should be.  And yet there was a change, a touch of
dignity in the expression, a suggestion of confidence in the bearing
which seemed, now that it was supplied, to be the one thing which
had been needed to give him harmony and finish.

Somehow, in spite of his prowess, his old school name of "Boy" had
clung very naturally to him, until that instant when I saw him
standing in his self-contained and magnificent manhood in the
doorway of the ancient house.  A woman stood beside him, her hand
resting upon his shoulder, and I saw that it was Miss Hinton of
Anstey Cross.

"You remember me, Sir Charles Tregellis," said she, coming forward,
as we sprang down from the curricle.

My uncle looked hard at her with a puzzled face.

"I do not think that I have the privilege, madame.  And yet--"

"Polly Hinton, of the Haymarket.  You surely cannot have forgotten
Polly Hinton."

"Forgotten!  Why, we have mourned for you in Fops' Alley for more
years than I care to think of.  But what in the name of wonder--"

"I was privately married, and I retired from the stage.  I want you
to forgive me for taking Jim away from you last night."

"It was you, then?"

"I had a stronger claim even than you could have.  You were his
patron; I was his mother."  She drew his head down to hers as she
spoke, and there, with their cheeks together, were the two faces,
the one stamped with the waning beauty of womanhood, the other with
the waxing strength of man, and yet so alike in the dark eyes, the
blue-black hair and the broad white brow, that I marvelled that I
had never read her secret on the first days that I had seen them
together.  "Yes," she cried, "he is my own boy, and he saved me from
what is worse than death, as your nephew Rodney could tell you.  Yet
my lips were sealed, and it was only last night that I could tell
him that it was his mother whom he had brought back by his
gentleness and his patience into the sweetness of life."

"Hush, mother!" said Jim, turning his lips to her cheek.  "There are
some things which are between ourselves.  But tell me, Sir Charles,
how went the fight?"

"Your uncle would have won it, but the roughs broke the ring."

"He is no uncle of mine, Sir Charles, but he has been the best and
truest friend, both to me and to my father, that ever the world
could offer.  I only know one as true," he continued, taking me by
the hand, "and dear old Rodney Stone is his name.  But I trust he
was not much hurt?"

"A week or two will set him right.  But I cannot pretend to
understand how this matter stands, and you must allow me to say that
I have not heard you advance anything yet which seems to me to
justify you in abandoning your engagements at a moment's notice."

"Come in, Sir Charles, and I am convinced that you will acknowledge
that I could not have done otherwise.  But here, if I mistake not,
is Sir Lothian Hume."

The yellow barouche had swung into the avenue, and a few moments
later the weary, panting horses had pulled up behind our curricle.
Sir Lothian sprang out, looking as black as a thunder-cloud.

"Stay where you are, Corcoran," said he; and I caught a glimpse of a
bottle-green coat which told me who was his travelling companion.
"Well," he continued, looking round him with an insolent stare, "I
should vastly like to know who has had the insolence to give me so
pressing an invitation to visit my own house, and what in the devil
you mean by daring to trespass upon my grounds?"

"I promise you that you will understand this and a good deal more
before we part, Sir Lothian," said Jim, with a curious smile playing
over his face.  "If you will follow me, I will endeavour to make it
all clear to you."

With his mother's hand in his own, he led us into that ill-omened
room where the cards were still heaped upon the sideboard, and the
dark shadow lurked in the corner of the ceiling.

"Now, sirrah, your explanation!" cried Sir Lothian, standing with
his arms folded by the door.

"My first explanations I owe to you, Sir Charles," said Jim; and as
I listened to his voice and noted his manner, I could not but admire
the effect which the company of her whom he now knew to be his
mother had had upon a rude country lad.  "I wish to tell you what
occurred last night."

"I will tell it for you, Jim," said his mother.  "You must know, Sir
Charles, that though my son knew nothing of his parents, we were
both alive, and had never lost sight of him.  For my part, I let him
have his own way in going to London and in taking up this challenge.
It was only yesterday that it came to the ears of his father, who
would have none of it.  He was in the weakest health, and his wishes
were not to be gainsayed.  He ordered me to go at once and to bring
his son to his side.  I was at my wit's end, for I was sure that Jim
would never come unless a substitute were provided for him.  I went
to the kind, good couple who had brought him up, and I told them how
matters stood.  Mrs. Harrison loved Jim as if he had been her own
son, and her husband loved mine, so they came to my help, and may
God bless them for their kindness to a distracted wife and mother!
Harrison would take Jim's place if Jim would go to his father.  Then
I drove to Crawley.  I found out which was Jim's room, and I spoke
to him through the window, for I was sure that those who had backed
him would not let him go.  I told him that I was his mother.  I told
him who was his father.  I said that I had my phaeton ready, and
that he might, for all I knew, be only in time to receive the dying
blessing of that parent whom he had never known.  Still the boy
would not go until he had my assurance that Harrison would take his
place."

"Why did he not leave a message with Belcher?"

"My head was in a whirl, Sir Charles.  To find a father and a
mother, a new name and a new rank in a few minutes might turn a
stronger brain than ever mine was.  My mother begged me to come with
her, and I went.  The phaeton was waiting, but we had scarcely
started when some fellow seized the horses' heads, and a couple of
ruffians attacked us.  One of them I beat over the head with the
butt of the whip, so that he dropped the cudgel with which he was
about to strike me; then lashing the horse, I shook off the others
and got safely away.  I cannot imagine who they were or why they
should molest us."

"Perhaps Sir Lothian Hume could tell you," said my uncle.

Our enemy said nothing; but his little grey eyes slid round with a
most murderous glance in our direction.

"After I had come here and seen my father I went down--"

My uncle stopped him with a cry of astonishment.

"What did you say, young man?  You came here and you saw your
father--here at Cliffe Royal?"

"Yes, sir."

My uncle had turned very pale.

"In God's name, then, tell us who your father is!"

Jim made no answer save to point over our shoulders, and glancing
round, we became aware that two people had entered the room through
the door which led to the bedroom stair.  The one I recognized in an
instant.  That impassive, mask-like face and demure manner could
only belong to Ambrose, the former valet of my uncle.  The other was
a very different and even more singular figure.  He was a tall man,
clad in a dark dressing-gown, and leaning heavily upon a stick.  His
long, bloodless countenance was so thin and so white that it gave
the strangest illusion of transparency.  Only within the folds of a
shroud have I ever seen so wan a face.  The brindled hair and the
rounded back gave the impression of advanced age, and it was only
the dark brows and the bright alert eyes glancing out from beneath
them which made me doubt whether it was really an old man who stood
before us.

There was an instant of silence, broken by a deep oath from Sir
Lothian Hume -

"Lord Avon, by God!" he cried.

"Very much at your service, gentlemen," answered the strange figure
in the dressing-gown.



CHAPTER XX--LORD AVON



My uncle was an impassive man by nature and had become more so by
the tradition of the society in which he lived.  He could have
turned a card upon which his fortune depended without the twitch of
a muscle, and I had seen him myself driving to imminent death on the
Godstone Road with as calm a face as if he were out for his daily
airing in the Mall.  But now the shock which had come upon him was
so great that he could only stand with white cheeks and staring,
incredulous eyes.  Twice I saw him open his lips, and twice he put
his hand up to his throat, as though a barrier had risen betwixt
himself and his utterance.  Finally, he took a sudden little run
forward with both his hands thrown out in greeting.

"Ned!" he cried.

But the strange man who stood before him folded his arms over his
breast.

"No Charles," said he.

My uncle stopped and looked at him in amazement.

"Surely, Ned, you have a greeting for me after all these years?"

"You believed me to have done this deed, Charles.  I read it in your
eyes and in your manner on that terrible morning.  You never asked
me for an explanation.  You never considered how impossible such a
crime must be for a man of my character.  At the first breath of
suspicion you, my intimate friend, the man who knew me best, set me
down as a thief and a murderer."

"No, no, Ned."

"You did, Charles; I read it in your eyes.  And so it was that when
I wished to leave that which was most precious to me in safe hands I
had to pass you over and to place him in the charge of the one man
who from the first never doubted my innocence.  Better a thousand
times that my son should be brought up in a humble station and in
ignorance of his unfortunate father, than that he should learn to
share the doubts and suspicions of his equals."

"Then he is really your son!" cried my uncle, staring at Jim in
amazement.

For answer the man stretched out his long withered arm, and placed a
gaunt hand upon the shoulder of the actress, whilst she looked up at
him with love in her eyes.

"I married, Charles, and I kept it secret from my friends, for I had
chosen my wife outside our own circles.  You know the foolish pride
which has always been the strongest part of my nature.  I could not
bear to avow that which I had done.  It was this neglect upon my
part which led to an estrangement between us, and drove her into
habits for which it is I who am to blame and not she.  Yet on
account of these same habits I took the child from her and gave her
an allowance on condition that she did not interfere with it.  I had
feared that the boy might receive evil from her, and had never
dreamed in my blindness that she might get good from him.  But I
have learned in my miserable life, Charles, that there is a power
which fashions things for us, though we may strive to thwart it, and
that we are in truth driven by an unseen current towards a certain
goal, however much we may deceive ourselves into thinking that it is
our own sails and oars which are speeding us upon our way."

My eyes had been upon the face of my uncle as he listened, but now
as I turned them from him they fell once more upon the thin, wolfish
face of Sir Lothian Hume.  He stood near the window, his grey
silhouette thrown up against the square of dusty glass; and I have
never seen such a play of evil passions, of anger, of jealousy, of
disappointed greed upon a human face before.

"Am I to understand," said he, in a loud, harsh voice, "that this
young man claims to be the heir of the peerage of Avon?"

"He is my lawful son."

"I knew you fairly well, sir, in our youth; but you will allow me to
observe that neither I nor any friend of yours ever heard of a wife
or a son.  I defy Sir Charles Tregellis to say that he ever dreamed
that there was any heir except myself."

"I have already explained, Sir Lothian, why I kept my marriage
secret."

"You have explained, sir; but it is for others in another place to
say if that explanation is satisfactory."

Two blazing dark eyes flashed out of the pale haggard face with as
strange and sudden an effect as if a stream of light were to beat
through the windows of a shattered and ruined house.

"You dare to doubt my word?"

"I demand a proof."

"My word is proof to those who know me."

"Excuse me, Lord Avon; but I know you, and I see no reason why I
should accept your statement."

It was a brutal speech, and brutally delivered.  Lord Avon staggered
forward, and it was only his son on one aide and his wife on the
other who kept his quivering hands from the throat of his insulter.
Sir Lothian recoiled from the pale fierce face with the black brows,
but he still glared angrily about the room.

"A very pretty conspiracy this," he cried, "with a criminal, an
actress, and a prize-fighter all playing their parts.  Sir Charles
Tregellis, you shall hear from me again!  And you also, my lord!"
He turned upon his heel and strode from the room.

"He has gone to denounce me," said Lord Avon, a spasm of wounded
pride distorting his features.

"Shall I bring him back?" cried Boy Jim.

"No, no, let him go.  It is as well, for I have already made up my
mind that my duty to you, my son, outweighs that which I owe, and
have at such bitter cost fulfilled, to my brother and my family."

"You did me an injustice, Ned," said my uncle, "if you thought that
I had forgotten you, or that I had judged you unkindly.  If ever I
have thought that you had done this deed--and how could I doubt the
evidence of my own eyes--I have always believed that it was at a
time when your mind was unhinged, and when you knew no more of what
you were about than the man who is walking in his sleep."

"What do you mean when you talk about the evidence of your own
eyes?" asked Lord Avon, looking hard at my uncle.

"I saw you, Ned, upon that accursed night."

"Saw me?  Where?"

"In the passage."

"And doing what?"

"You were coming from your brother's room.  I had heard his voice
raised in anger and pain only an instant before.  You carried in
your hand a bag full of money, and your face betrayed the utmost
agitation.  If you can but explain to me, Ned, how you came to be
there, you will take from my heart a weight which has pressed upon
it for all these years."

No one now would have recognized in my uncle the man who was the
leader of all the fops of London.  In the presence of this old
friend and of the tragedy which girt him round, the veil of
triviality and affectation had been rent, and I felt all my
gratitude towards him deepening for the first time into affection
whilst I watched his pale, anxious face, and the eager hops which
shone in his eyes as he awaited his friend's explanation.  Lord Avon
sank his face in his hands, and for a few moments there was silence
in the dim grey room.

"I do not wonder now that you were shaken," said he at last.  "My
God, what a net was cast round me!  Had this vile charge been
brought against me, you, my dearest friend, would have been
compelled to tear away the last doubt as to my guilt.  And yet, in
spite of what you have seen, Charles, I am as innocent in the matter
as you are."

"I thank God that I hear you say so."

"But you are not satisfied, Charles.  I can read it on your face.
You wish to know why an innocent man should conceal himself for all
these years."

"Your word is enough for me, Ned; but the world will wish this other
question answered also."

"It was to save the family honour, Charles.  You know how dear it
was to me.  I could not clear myself without proving my brother to
have been guilty of the foulest crime which a gentleman could
commit.  For eighteen years I have screened him at the expense of
everything which a man could sacrifice.  I have lived a living death
which has left me an old and shattered man when I am but in my
fortieth year.  But now when I am faced with the alternative of
telling the facts about my brother, or of wronging my son, I can
only act in one fashion, and the more so since I have reason to hope
that a way may be found by which what I am now about to disclose to
you need never come to the public ear."

He rose from his chair, and leaning heavily upon his two supporters,
he tottered across the room to the dust-covered sideboard.  There,
in the centre of it, was lying that ill-boding pile of time-stained,
mildewed cards, just as Boy Jim and I had seen them years before.
Lord Avon turned them over with trembling fingers, and then picking
up half a dozen, he brought them to my uncle.

"Place your finger and thumb upon the left-hand bottom corner of
this card, Charles," said he.  "Pass them lightly backwards and
forwards, and tell me what you feel."

"It has been pricked with a pin."

"Precisely.  What is the card?"

My uncle turned it over.

"It is the king of clubs."

"Try the bottom corner of this one."

"It is quite smooth."

"And the card is?"

"The three of spades."

"And this one?"

"It has been pricked.  It is the ace of hearts."  Lord Avon hurled
them down upon the floor.

"There you have the whole accursed story!" he cried.  "Need I go
further where every word is an agony?"

"I see something, but not all.  You must continue, Ned."

The frail figure stiffened itself, as though he were visibly bracing
himself for an effort.

"I will tell it you, then, once and for ever.  Never again, I trust,
will it be necessary for me to open my lips about the miserable
business.  You remember our game.  You remember how we lost.  You
remember how you all retired, and left me sitting in this very room,
and at that very table.  Far from being tired, I was exceedingly
wakeful, and I remained here for an hour or more thinking over the
incidents of the game and the changes which it promised to bring
about in my fortunes.  I had, as you will recollect, lost heavily,
and my only consolation was that my own brother had won.  I knew
that, owing to his reckless mode of life, he was firmly in the
clutches of the Jews, and I hoped that that which had shaken my
position might have the effect of restoring his.  As I sat there,
fingering the cards in an abstracted way, some chance led me to
observe the small needle-pricks which you have just felt.  I went
over the packs, and found, to my unspeakable horror, that any one
who was in the secret could hold them in dealing in such a way as to
be able to count the exact number of high cards which fell to each
of his opponents.  And then, with such a flush of shame and disgust
as I had never known, I remembered how my attention had been drawn
to my brother's mode of dealing, its slowness, and the way in which
he held each card by the lower corner.

"I did not condemn him precipitately.  I sat for a long time calling
to mind every incident which could tell one way or the other.  Alas!
it all went to confirm me in my first horrible suspicion, and to
turn it into a certainty.  My brother had ordered the packs from
Ledbury's, in Bond Street.  They had been for some hours in his
chambers.  He had played throughout with a decision which had
surprised us at the time.  Above all, I could not conceal from
myself that his past life was not such as to make even so abominable
a crime as this impossible to him.  Tingling with anger and shame, I
went straight up that stair, the cards in my hand, and I taxed him
with this lowest and meanest of all the crimes to which a villain
could descend.

"He had not retired to rest, and his ill-gotten gains were spread
out upon the dressing-table.  I hardly know what I said to him, but
the facts were so deadly that he did not attempt to deny his guilt.
You will remember, as the only mitigation of his crime, that he was
not yet one and twenty years of age.  My words overwhelmed him.  He
went on his knees to me, imploring me to spare him.  I told him that
out of consideration for our family I should make no public exposure
of him, but that he must never again in his life lay his hand upon a
card, and that the money which he had won must be returned next
morning with an explanation.  It would be social ruin, he protested.
I answered that he must take the consequence of his own deed.  Then
and there I burned the papers which he had won from me, and I
replaced in a canvas bag which lay upon the table all the gold
pieces.  I would have left the room without another word, but he
clung to me, and tore the ruffle from my wrist in his attempt to
hold me back, and to prevail upon me to promise to say nothing to
you or Sir Lothian Hume.  It was his despairing cry, when he found
that I was proof against all his entreaties, which reached your
ears, Charles, and caused you to open your chamber door and to see
me as I returned to my room."

My uncle drew a long sigh of relief.

"Nothing could be clearer!" he murmured.

"In the morning I came, as you remember, to your room, and I
returned your money.  I did the same to Sir Lothian Hume.  I said
nothing of my reasons for doing so, for I found that I could not
bring myself to confess our disgrace to you.  Then came the horrible
discovery which has darkened my life, and which was as great a
mystery to me as it has been to you.  I saw that I was suspected,
and I saw, also, that even if I were to clear myself, it could only
be done by a public confession of the infamy of my brother.  I
shrank from it, Charles.  Any personal suffering seemed to me to be
better than to bring public shame upon a family which has held an
untarnished record through so many centuries.  I fled from my trial,
therefore, and disappeared from the world.

"But, first of all, it was necessary that I should make arrangements
for the wife and the son, of whose existence you and my other
friends were ignorant.  It is with shame, Mary, that I confess it,
and I acknowledge to you that the blame of all the consequences
rests with me rather than with you.  At the time there were reasons,
now happily long gone past, which made me determine that the son was
better apart from the mother, whose absence at that age he would not
miss.  I would have taken you into my confidence, Charles, had it
not been that your suspicions had wounded me deeply--for I did not
at that time understand how strong the reasons were which had
prejudiced you against me.

"On the evening after the tragedy I fled to London, and arranged
that my wife should have a fitting allowance on condition that she
did not interfere with the child.  I had, as you remember, had much
to do with Harrison, the prize-fighter, and I had often had occasion
to admire his simple and honest nature.  I took my boy to him now,
and I found him, as I expected, incredulous as to my guilt, and
ready to assist me in any way.  At his wife's entreaty he had just
retired from the ring, and was uncertain how he should employ
himself.  I was able to fit him up as a smith, on condition that he
should ply his trade at the village of Friar's Oak.  My agreement
was that James was to be brought up as their nephew, and that he
should know nothing of his unhappy parents.

"You will ask me why I selected Friar's Oak.  It was because I had
already chosen my place of concealment; and if I could not see my
boy, it was, at least, some consolation to know that he was near me.
You are aware that this mansion is one of the oldest in England; but
you are not aware that it has been built with a very special eye to
concealment, that there are no less than two habitable secret
chambers, and that the outer or thicker walls are tunnelled into
passages.  The existence of these rooms has always been a family
secret, though it was one which I valued so little that it was only
the chance of my seldom using the house which had prevented me from
pointing them out to some friend.  Now I found that a secure retreat
was provided for me in my extremity.  I stole down to my own
mansion, entered it at night, and, leaving all that was dear to me
behind, I crept like a rat behind the wainscot, to live out the
remainder of my weary life in solitude and misery.  In this worn
face, Charles, and in this grizzled hair, you may read the diary of
my most miserable existence.

"Once a week Harrison used to bring me up provisions, passing them
through the pantry window, which I left open for the purpose.
Sometimes I would steal out at night and walk under the stars once
more, with the cool breeze upon my forehead; but this I had at last
to stop, for I was seen by the rustics, and rumours of a spirit at
Cliffe Royal began to get about.  One night two ghost-hunters--"

"It was I, father," cried Boy Jim; "I and my friend, Rodney Stone."

"I know it was.  Harrison told me so the same night.  I was proud,
James, to see that you had the spirit of the Barringtons, and that I
had an heir whose gallantry might redeem the family blot which I
have striven so hard to cover over.  Then came the day when your
mother's kindness--her mistaken kindness--gave you the means of
escaping to London."

"Ah, Edward," cried his wife, "if you had seen our boy, like a caged
eagle, beating against the bars, you would have helped to give him
even so short a flight as this."

"I do not blame you, Mary.  It is possible that I should have done
so.  He went to London, and he tried to open a career for himself by
his own strength and courage.  How many of our ancestors have done
the same, save only that a sword-hilt lay in their closed hands; but
of them all I do not know that any have carried themselves more
gallantly!"

"That I dare swear," said my uncle, heartily.

"And then, when Harrison at last returned, I learned that my son was
actually matched to fight in a public prize-battle.  That would not
do, Charles!  It was one thing to fight as you and I have fought in
our youth, and it was another to compete for a purse of gold."

"My dear friend, I would not for the world--"

"Of course you would not, Charles.  You chose the best man, and how
could you do otherwise?  But it would not do!  I determined that the
time had come when I should reveal myself to my son, the more so as
there were many signs that my most unnatural existence had seriously
weakened my health.  Chance, or shall I not rather say Providence,
had at last made clear all that had been dark, and given me the
means of establishing my innocence.  My wife went yesterday to bring
my boy at last to the side of his unfortunate father."

There was silence for some time, and then it was my uncle's voice
which broke it.

"You've been the most ill-used man in the world, Ned," said he.
"Please God we shall have many years yet in which to make up to you
for it.  But, after all, it seems to me that we are as far as ever
from learning how your unfortunate brother met his death."

"For eighteen years it was as much a mystery to me as to you,
Charles.  But now at last the guilt is manifest.  Stand forward,
Ambrose, and tell your story as frankly and as fully as you have
told it to me."



CHAPTER XXI--THE VALET'S STORY



The valet had shrunk into the dark corner of the room, and had
remained so motionless that we had forgotten his presence until,
upon this appeal from his former master, he took a step forward into
the light, turning his sallow face in our direction.  His usually
impassive features were in a state of painful agitation, and he
spoke slowly and with hesitation, as though his trembling lips could
hardly frame the words.  And yet, so strong is habit, that, even in
this extremity of emotion he assumed the deferential air of the
high-class valet, and his sentences formed themselves in the
sonorous fashion which had struck my attention upon that first day
when the curricle of my uncle had stopped outside my father's door.

"My Lady Avon and gentlemen," said he, "if I have sinned in this
matter, and I freely confess that I have done so, I only know one
way in which I can atone for it, and that is by making the full and
complete confession which my noble master, Lord Avon, has demanded.
I assure you, then, that what I am about to tell you, surprising as
it may seem, is the absolute and undeniable truth concerning the
mysterious death of Captain Barrington.

"It may seem impossible to you that one in my humble walk of life
should bear a deadly and implacable hatred against a man in the
position of Captain Barrington.  You think that the gulf between is
too wide.  I can tell you, gentlemen, that the gulf which can be
bridged by unlawful love can be spanned also by an unlawful hatred,
and that upon the day when this young man stole from me all that
made my life worth living, I vowed to Heaven that I should take from
him that foul life of his, though the deed would cover but the
tiniest fraction of the debt which he owed me.  I see that you look
askance at me, Sir Charles Tregellis, but you should pray to God,
sir, that you may never have the chance of finding out what you
would yourself be capable of in the same position."

It was a wonder to all of us to see this man's fiery nature breaking
suddenly through the artificial constraints with which he held it in
check.  His short dark hair seemed to bristle upwards, his eyes
glowed with the intensity of his passion, and his face expressed a
malignity of hatred which neither the death of his enemy nor the
lapse of years could mitigate.  The demure servant was gone, and
there stood in his place a deep and dangerous man, one who might be
an ardent lover or a most vindictive foe.

"We were about to be married, she and I, when some black chance
threw him across our path.  I do not know by what base deceptions he
lured her away from me.  I have heard that she was only one of many,
and that he was an adept at the art.  It was done before ever I knew
the danger, and she was left with her broken heart and her ruined
life to return to that home into which she had brought disgrace and
misery.  I only saw her once.  She told me that her seducer had
burst out a-laughing when she had reproached him for his perfidy,
and I swore to her that his heart's blood should pay me for that
laugh.

"I was a valet at the time, but I was not yet in the service of Lord
Avon.  I applied for and gained that position with the one idea that
it might give me an opportunity of settling my accounts with his
younger brother.  And yet my chance was a terribly long time coming,
for many months had passed before the visit to Cliffe Royal gave me
the opportunity which I longed for by day and dreamed of by night.
When it did come, however, it came in a fashion which was more
favourable to my plans than anything that I had ever ventured to
hope for.

"Lord Avon was of opinion that no one but himself knew of the secret
passages in Cliffe Royal.  In this he was mistaken.  I knew of them-
-or, at least, I knew enough of them to serve my purpose.  I need
not tell you how, one day, when preparing the chambers for the
guests, an accidental pressure upon part of the fittings caused a
panel to gape in the woodwork, and showed me a narrow opening in the
wall.  Making my way down this, I found that another panel led into
a larger bedroom beyond.  That was all I knew, but it was all that
was needed for my purpose.  The disposal of the rooms had been left
in my hands, and I arranged that Captain Barrington should sleep in
the larger and I in the smaller.  I could come upon him when I
wished, and no one would be the wiser.

"And then he arrived.  How can I describe to you the fever of
impatience in which I lived until the moment should come for which I
had waited and planned.  For a night and a day they gambled, and for
a night and a day I counted the minutes which brought me nearer to
my man.  They might ring for fresh wine at what hour they liked,
they always found me waiting and ready, so that this young captain
hiccoughed out that I was the model of all valets.  My master
advised me to go to bed.  He had noticed my flushed cheek and my
bright eyes, and he set me down as being in a fever.  So I was, but
it was a fever which only one medicine could assuage.

"Then at last, very early in the morning, I heard them push back
their chairs, and I knew that their game had at last come to an end.
When I entered the room to receive my orders, I found that Captain
Barrington had already stumbled off to bed.  The others had also
retired, and my master was sitting alone at the table, with his
empty bottle and the scattered cards in front of him.  He ordered me
angrily to my room, and this time I obeyed him.

"My first care was to provide myself with a weapon.  I knew that if
I were face to face with him I could tear his throat out, but I must
so arrange that the fashion of his death should be a noiseless one.
There was a hunting trophy in the hall, and from it I took a
straight heavy knife which I sharpened upon my boot.  Then I stole
to my room, and sat waiting upon the side of my bed.  I had made up
my mind what I should do.  There would be little satisfaction in
killing him if he was not to know whose hand had struck the blow, or
which of his sins it came to avenge.  Could I but bind him and gag
him in his drunken sleep, then a prick or two of my dagger would
arouse him to listen to what I had to say to him.  I pictured the
look in his eyes as the haze of sleep cleared slowly away from them,
the look of anger turning suddenly to stark horror as he understood
who I was and what I had come for.  It would be the supreme moment
of my life.

"I waited as it seemed to me for at least an hour; but I had no
watch, and my impatience was such that I dare say it really was
little more than a quarter of that time.  Then I rose, removed my
shoes, took my knife, and having opened the panel, slipped silently
through.  It was not more than thirty feet that I had to go, but I
went inch by inch, for the old rotten boards snapped like breaking
twigs if a sudden weight was placed upon them.  It was, of course,
pitch dark, and very, very slowly I felt my way along.  At last I
saw a yellow seam of light glimmering in front of me, and I knew
that it came from the other panel.  I was too soon, then, since he
had not extinguished his candles.  I had waited many months, and I
could afford to wait another hour, for I did not wish to do anything
precipitately or in a hurry.

"It was very necessary to move silently now, since I was within a
few feet of my man, with only the thin wooden partition between.
Age had warped and cracked the boards, so that when I had at last
very stealthily crept my way as far as the sliding-panel, I found
that I could, without any difficulty, see into the room.  Captain
Barrington was standing by the dressing-table with his coat and vest
off.  A large pile of sovereigns, and several slips of paper were
lying before him, and he was counting over his gambling gains.  His
face was flushed, and he was heavy from want of sleep and from wine.
It rejoiced me to see it, for it meant that his slumber would be
deep, and that all would be made easy for me.

"I was still watching him, when of a sudden I saw him start, and a
terrible expression come upon his face.  For an instant my heart
stood still, for I feared that he had in some way divined my
presence.  And then I heard the voice of my master within.  I could
not see the door by which he had entered, nor could I see him where
he stood, but I heard all that he had to say.  As I watched the
captain's face flush fiery-red, and then turn to a livid white as he
listened to those bitter words which told him of his infamy, my
revenge was sweeter--far sweeter--than my most pleasant dreams had
ever pictured it.  I saw my master approach the dressing-table, hold
the papers in the flame of the candle, throw their charred ashes
into the grate, and sweep the golden pieces into a small brown
canvas bag.  Then, as he turned to leave the room, the captain
seized him by the wrist, imploring him, by the memory of their
mother, to have mercy upon him; and I loved my master as I saw him
drag his sleeve from the grasp of the clutching fingers, and leave
the stricken wretch grovelling upon the floor.

"And now I was left with a difficult point to settle, for it was
hard for me to say whether it was better that I should do that which
I had come for, or whether, by holding this man's guilty secret, I
might not have in my hand a keener and more deadly weapon than my
master's hunting-knife.  I was sure that Lord Avon could not and
would not expose him.  I knew your sense of family pride too well,
my lord, and I was certain that his secret was safe in your hands.
But I both could and would; and then, when his life had been
blasted, and he had been hounded from his regiment and from his
clubs, it would be time, perhaps, for me to deal in some other way
with him."

"Ambrose, you are a black villain," said my uncle.

"We all have our own feelings, Sir Charles; and you will permit me
to say that a serving-man may resent an injury as much as a
gentleman, though the redress of the duel is denied to him.  But I
am telling you frankly, at Lord Avon's request, all that I thought
and did upon that night, and I shall continue to do so, even if I am
not fortunate enough to win your approval.

"When Lord Avon had left him, the captain remained for some time in
a kneeling attitude, with his face sunk upon a chair.  Then he rose,
and paced slowly up and down the room, his chin sunk upon his
breast.  Every now and then he would pluck at his hair, or shake his
clenched hands in the air; and I saw the moisture glisten upon his
brow.  For a time I lost sight of him, and I heard him opening
drawer after drawer, as though he were in search of something.  Then
he stood over by his dressing-table again, with his back turned to
me.  His head was thrown a little back, and he had both hands up to
the collar of his shirt, as though he were striving to undo it.  And
then there was a gush as if a ewer had been upset, and down he sank
upon the ground, with his head in the corner, twisted round at so
strange an angle to his shoulders that one glimpse of it told me
that my man was slipping swiftly from the clutch in which I had
fancied that I held him.  I slid my panel, and was in the room in an
instant.  His eyelids still quivered, and it seemed to me, as my
gaze met his glazing eyes, that I could read both recognition and
surprise in them.  I laid my knife upon the floor, and I stretched
myself out beside him, that I might whisper in his ear one or two
little things of which I wished to remind him; but even as I did so,
he gave a gasp and was gone.

"It is singular that I, who had never feared him in life, should be
frightened at him now, and yet when I looked at him, and saw that
all was motionless save the creeping stain upon the carpet, I was
seized with a sudden foolish spasm of terror, and, catching up my
knife, I fled swiftly and silently back to my own room, closing the
panels behind me.  It was only when I had reached it that I found
that in my mad haste I had carried away, not the hunting-knife which
I had taken with me, but the bloody razor which had dropped from the
dead man's hand.  This I concealed where no one has ever discovered
it; but my fears would not allow me to go back for the other, as I
might perhaps have done, had I foreseen how terribly its presence
might tell against my master.  And that, Lady Avon and gentlemen, is
an exact and honest account of how Captain Barrington came by his
end."

"And how was it," asked my uncle, angrily, "that you have allowed an
innocent man to be persecuted all these years, when a word from you
might have saved him?"

"Because I had every reason to believe, Sir Charles, that that would
be most unwelcome to Lord Avon.  How could I tell all this without
revealing the family scandal which he was so anxious to conceal?  I
confess that at the beginning I did not tell him what I had seen,
and my excuse must be that he disappeared before I had time to
determine what I should do.  For many a year, however--ever since I
have been in your service, Sir Charles--my conscience tormented me,
and I swore that if ever I should find my old master, I should
reveal everything to him.  The chance of my overhearing a story told
by young Mr. Stone here, which showed me that some one was using the
secret chambers of Cliffe Royal, convinced me that Lord Avon was in
hiding there, and I lost no time in seeking him out and offering to
do him all the justice in my power."

"What he says is true," said his master; "but it would have been
strange indeed if I had hesitated to sacrifice a frail life and
failing health in a cause for which I freely surrendered all that
youth had to offer.  But new considerations have at last compelled
me to alter my resolution.  My son, through ignorance of his true
position, was drifting into a course of life which accorded with his
strength and spirit, but not with the traditions of his house.
Again, I reflected that many of those who knew my brother had passed
away, that all the facts need not come out, and that my death whilst
under the suspicion of such a crime would cast a deeper stain upon
our name than the sin which he had so terribly expiated.  For these
reasons--"

The tramp of several heavy footsteps reverberating through the old
house broke in suddenly upon Lord Avon's words.  His wan face turned
even a shade greyer as he heard it, and he looked piteously to his
wife and son.

"They will arrest me!" he cried.  "I must submit to the degradation
of an arrest."

"This way, Sir James; this way," said the harsh tones of Sir Lothian
Hume from without.

"I do not need to be shown the way in a house where I have drunk
many a bottle of good claret," cried a deep voice in reply; and
there in the doorway stood the broad figure of Squire Ovington in
his buckskins and top-boots, a riding-crop in his hand.  Sir Lothian
Hume was at his elbow, and I saw the faces of two country constables
peeping over his shoulders.

"Lord Avon," said the squire, "as a magistrate of the county of
Sussex, it is my duty to tell you that a warrant is held against you
for the wilful murder of your brother, Captain Barrington, in the
year 1786."

"I am ready to answer the charge."

"This I tell you as a magistrate.  But as a man, and the Squire of
Rougham Grange, I'm right glad to see you, Ned, and here's my hand
on it, and never will I believe that a good Tory like yourself, and
a man who could show his horse's tail to any field in the whole Down
county, would ever be capable of so vile an act."

"You do me justice, James," said Lord Avon, clasping the broad,
brown hand which the country squire had held out to him.  "I am as
innocent as you are; and I can prove it."

"Damned glad I am to hear it, Ned!  That is to say, Lord Avon, that
any defence which you may have to make will be decided upon by your
peers and by the laws of your country."

"Until which time," added Sir Lothian Hume, "a stout door and a good
lock will be the best guarantee that Lord Avon will be there when
called for."

The squire's weather-stained face flushed to a deeper red as he
turned upon the Londoner.

"Are you the magistrate of a county, sir?"

"I have not the honour, Sir James."

"Then how dare you advise a man who has sat on the bench for nigh
twenty years!  When I am in doubt, sir, the law provides me with a
clerk with whom I may confer, and I ask no other assistance."

"You take too high a tone in this matter, Sir James.  I am not
accustomed to be taken to task so sharply."

"Nor am I accustomed, sir, to be interfered with in my official
duties.  I speak as a magistrate, Sir Lothian, but I am always ready
to sustain my opinions as a man."

Sir Lothian bowed.

"You will allow me to observe, sir, that I have personal interests
of the highest importance involved in this matter, I have every
reason to believe that there is a conspiracy afoot which will affect
my position as heir to Lord Avon's titles and estates.  I desire his
safe custody in order that this matter may be cleared up, and I call
upon you, as a magistrate, to execute your warrant."

"Plague take it, Ned!" cried the squire, "I would that my clerk
Johnson were here, for I would deal as kindly by you as the law
allows; and yet I am, as you hear, called upon to secure your
person."

"Permit me to suggest, sir," said my uncle, "that so long as he is
under the personal supervision of the magistrate, he may be said to
be under the care of the law, and that this condition will be
fulfilled if he is under the roof of Rougham Grange."

"Nothing could be better," cried the squire, heartily.  "You will
stay with me, Ned, until this matter blows over.  In other words,
Lord Avon, I make myself responsible, as the representative of the
law, that you are held in safe custody until your person may be
required of me."

"Yours is a true heart, James."

"Tut, tut! it is the due process of the law.  I trust, Sir Lothian
Hume, that you find nothing to object to in it?"

Sir Lothian shrugged his shoulders, and looked blackly at the
magistrate.  Then he turned to my uncle.

"There is a small matter still open between us," said he.  "Would
you kindly give me the name of a friend?  Mr. Corcoran, who is
outside in my barouche, would act for me, and we might meet to-
morrow morning."

"With pleasure," answered my uncle.  "I dare say your father would
act for me, nephew?  Your friend may call upon Lieutenant Stone, of
Friar's Oak, and the sooner the better."

And so this strange conference ended.  As for me, I had sprung to
the side of the old friend of my boyhood, and was trying to tell him
my joy at his good fortune, and listening to his assurance that
nothing that could ever befall him could weaken the love that he
bore me.  My uncle touched me on the shoulder, and we were about to
leave, when Ambrose, whose bronze mask had been drawn down once more
over his fiery passions, came demurely towards him.

"Beg your pardon, Sir Charles," said he; "but it shocks me very much
to see your cravat."

"You are right, Ambrose," my uncle answered.  "Lorimer does his
best, but I have never been able to fill your place."

"I should be proud to serve you, sir; but you must acknowledge that
Lord Avon has the prior claim.  If he will release me--"

"You may go, Ambrose; you may go!" cried Lord Avon.  "You are an
excellent servant, but your presence has become painful to me."

"Thank you, Ned," said my uncle.  "But you must not leave me so
suddenly again, Ambrose."

"Permit me to explain the reason, sir.  I had determined to give you
notice when we reached Brighton; but as we drove from the village
that day, I caught a glimpse of a lady passing in a phaeton between
whom and Lord Avon I was well aware there was a close intimacy,
although I was not certain that she was actually his wife.  Her
presence there confirmed me in my opinion that he was in hiding at
Cliffe Royal, and I dropped from your curricle and followed her at
once, in order to lay the matter before her, and explain how very
necessary it was that Lord Avon should see me."

"Well, I forgive you for your desertion, Ambrose," said my uncle;
"and," he added, "I should be vastly obliged to you if you would re-
arrange my tie."



CHAPTER XXII--THE END



Sir James Ovington's carriage was waiting without, and in it the
Avon family, so tragically separated and so strangely re-united,
were borne away to the squire's hospitable home.  When they had
gone, my uncle mounted his curricle, and drove Ambrose and myself to
the village.

"We had best see your father at once, nephew," said he.  "Sir
Lothian and his man started some time ago.  I should be sorry if
there should be any hitch in our meeting."

For my part, I was thinking of our opponent's deadly reputation as a
duellist, and I suppose that my features must have betrayed my
feelings, for my uncle began to laugh.

"Why, nephew," said he, "you look as if you were walking behind my
coffin.  It is not my first affair, and I dare bet that it will not
be my last.  When I fight near town I usually fire a hundred or so
in Manton's back shop, but I dare say I can find my way to his
waistcoat.  But I confess that I am somewhat accable, by all that
has befallen us.  To think of my dear old friend being not only
alive, but innocent as well!  And that he should have such a
strapping son and heir to carry on the race of Avon!  This will be
the last blow to Hume, for I know that the Jews have given him rope
on the score of his expectations.  And you, Ambrose, that you should
break out in such a way!"

Of all the amazing things which had happened, this seemed to have
impressed my uncle most, and he recurred to it again and again.
That a man whom he had come to regard as a machine for tying cravats
and brewing chocolate should suddenly develop fiery human passions
was indeed a prodigy.  If his silver razor-heater had taken to evil
ways he could not have been more astounded.

We were still a hundred yards from the cottage when I saw the tall,
green-coated Mr. Corcoran striding down the garden path.  My father
was waiting for us at the door with an expression of subdued delight
upon his face.

"Happy to serve you in any way, Sir Charles," said he.  "We've
arranged it for to-morrow at seven on Ditching Common."

"I wish these things could be brought off a little later in the
day," said my uncle.  "One has either to rise at a perfectly absurd
hour, or else to neglect one's toilet."

"They are stopping across the road at the Friar's Oak inn, and if
you would wish it later--"

"No, no; I shall make the effort.  Ambrose, you will bring up the
batteris de toilette at five."

"I don't know whether you would care to use my barkers," said my
father.  "I've had 'em in fourteen actions, and up to thirty yards
you couldn't wish a better tool."

"Thank you, I have my duelling pistols under the seat.  See that the
triggers are oiled, Ambrose, for I love a light pull.  Ah, sister
Mary, I have brought your boy back to you, none the worse, I hope,
for the dissipations of town."

I need not tell you how my dear mother wept over me and fondled me,
for you who have mothers will know for yourselves, and you who have
not will never understand how warm and snug the home nest can be.
How I had chafed and longed for the wonders of town, and yet, now
that I had seen more than my wildest dreams had ever deemed
possible, my eyes had rested upon nothing which was so sweet and so
restful as our own little sitting-room, with its terra-cotta-
coloured walls, and those trifles which are so insignificant in
themselves, and yet so rich in memories--the blow-fish from the
Moluccas, the narwhal's horn from the Arctic, and the picture of the
Ca Ira, with Lord Hotham in chase!  How cheery, too, to see at one
side of the shining grate my father with his pipe and his merry red
face, and on the other my mother with her fingers ever turning and
darting with her knitting-needles!  As I looked at them I marvelled
that I could ever have longed to leave them, or that I could bring
myself to leave them again.

But leave them I must, and that speedily, as I learned amidst the
boisterous congratulations of my father and the tears of my mother.
He had himself been appointed to the Cato, 64, with post rank,
whilst a note had come from Lord Nelson at Portsmouth to say that a
vacancy was open for me if I should present myself at once.

"And your mother has your sea-chest all ready, my lad, and you can
travel down with me to-morrow; for if you are to be one of Nelson's
men, you must show him that you are worthy of it."

"All the Stones have been in the sea-service," said my mother,
apologetically to my uncle, "and it is a great chance that he should
enter under Lord Nelson's own patronage.  But we can never forget
your kindness, Charles, in showing our dear Rodney something of the
world."

"On the contrary, sister Mary," said my uncle, graciously, "your son
has been an excellent companion to me--so much so that I fear that I
am open to the charge of having neglected my dear Fidelio.  I trust
that I bring him back somewhat more polished than I found him.  It
would be folly to call him distingue, but he is at least
unobjectionable.  Nature has denied him the highest gifts, and I
find him adverse to employing the compensating advantages of art;
but, at least, I have shown him something of life, and I have taught
him a few lessons in finesse and deportment which may appear to be
wasted upon him at present, but which, none the less, may come back
to him in his more mature years.  If his career in town has been a
disappointment to me, the reason lies mainly in the fact that I am
foolish enough to measure others by the standard which I have myself
set.  I am well disposed towards him, however, and I consider him
eminently adapted for the profession which he is about to adopt."

He held out his sacred snuff-box to me as he spoke, as a solemn
pledge of his goodwill, and, as I look back at him, there is no
moment at which I see him more plainly than that with the old
mischievous light dancing once more in his large intolerant eyes,
one thumb in the armpit of his vest, and the little shining box held
out upon his snow-white palm.  He was a type and leader of a strange
breed of men which has vanished away from England--the full-blooded,
virile buck, exquisite in his dress, narrow in his thoughts, coarse
in his amusements, and eccentric in his habits.  They walk across
the bright stage of English history with their finicky step, their
preposterous cravats, their high collars, their dangling seals, and
they vanish into those dark wings from which there is no return.
The world has outgrown them, and there is no place now for their
strange fashions, their practical jokes, and carefully cultivated
eccentricities.  And yet behind this outer veiling of folly, with
which they so carefully draped themselves, they were often men of
strong character and robust personality.  The languid loungers of
St. James's were also the yachtsmen of the Solent, the fine riders
of the shires, and the hardy fighters in many a wayside battle and
many a morning frolic.  Wellington picked his best officers from
amongst them.  They condescended occasionally to poetry or oratory;
and Byron, Charles James Fox, Sheridan, and Castlereagh, preserved
some reputation amongst them, in spite of their publicity.  I cannot
think how the historian of the future can hope to understand them,
when I, who knew one of them so well, and bore his blood in my
veins, could never quite tell how much of him was real, and how much
was due to the affectations which he had cultivated so long that
they had ceased to deserve the name.  Through the chinks of that
armour of folly I have sometimes thought that I had caught a glimpse
of a good and true man within, and it pleases me to hope that I was
right.

It was destined that the exciting incidents of that day were even
now not at an end.  I had retired early to rest, but it was
impossible for me to sleep, for my mind would turn to Boy Jim and to
the extraordinary change in his position and prospects.  I was still
turning and tossing when I heard the sound of flying hoofs coming
down the London Road, and immediately afterwards the grating of
wheels as they pulled up in front of the inn.  My window chanced to
be open, for it was a fresh spring night, and I heard the creak of
the inn door, and a voice asking whether Sir Lothian Hume was
within.  At the name I sprang from my bed, and I was in time to see
three men, who had alighted from the carriage, file into the lighted
hall.  The two horses were left standing, with the glare of the open
door falling upon their brown shoulders and patient heads.

Ten minutes may have passed, and then I heard the clatter of many
steps, and a knot of men came clustering through the door.

"You need not employ violence," said a harsh, clear voice.  "On
whose suit is it?"

"Several suits, sir.  They 'eld over in the 'opes that you'd pull
off the fight this mornin'.  Total amounts is twelve thousand
pound."

"Look here, my man, I have a very important appointment for seven
o'clock to-morrow.  I'll give you fifty pounds if you will leave me
until then."

"Couldn't do it, sir, really.  It's more than our places as
sheriff's officers is worth."

In the yellow glare of the carriage-lamp I saw the baronet look up
at our windows, and if hatred could have killed, his eyes would have
been as deadly as his pistol.

"I can't mount the carriage unless you free my hands," said he.

"'Old 'ard, Bill, for 'e looks vicious.  Let go o' one arm at a
time!  Ah, would you then?"

"Corcoran!  Corcoran!" screamed a voice, and I saw a plunge, a
struggle, and one frantic figure breaking its way from the rest.
Then came a heavy blow, and down he fell in the middle of the
moonlit road, flapping and jumping among the dust like a trout new
landed.

"He's napped it this time!  Get 'im by the wrists, Jim!  Now, all
together!"

He was hoisted up like a bag of flour, and fell with a brutal thud
into the bottom of the carriage.  The three men sprang in after him,
a whip whistled in the darkness, and I had seen the last that I or
any one else, save some charitable visitor to a debtors' gaol, was
ever again destined to see of Sir Lothian Hume, the once fashionable
Corinthian.


Lord Avon lived for two years longer--long enough, with the help of
Ambrose, to fully establish his innocence of the horrible crime, in
the shadow of which he had lived so long.  What he could not clear
away, however, was the effect of those years of morbid and unnatural
life spent in the hidden chambers of the old house; and it was only
the devotion of his wife and of his son which kept the thin and
flickering flame of his life alight.  She whom I had known as the
play actress of Anstey Cross became the dowager Lady Avon; whilst
Boy Jim, as dear to me now as when we harried birds' nests and
tickled trout together, is now Lord Avon, beloved by his tenantry,
the finest sportsman and the most popular man from the north of the
Weald to the Channel.  He was married to the second daughter of Sir
James Ovington; and as I have seen three of his grandchildren within
the week, I fancy that if any of Sir Lothian's descendants have
their eye upon the property, they are likely to be as disappointed
as their ancestor was before them.  The old house of Cliffe Royal
has been pulled down, owing to the terrible family associations
which hung round it, and a beautiful modern building sprang up in
its place.  The lodge which stood by the Brighton Road was so dainty
with its trellis-work and its rose bushes that I was not the only
visitor who declared that I had rather be the owner of it than of
the great house amongst the trees.  There for many years in a happy
and peaceful old age lived Jack Harrison and his wife, receiving
back in the sunset of their lives the loving care which they had
themselves bestowed.  Never again did Champion Harrison throw his
leg over the ropes of a twenty-four-foot ring; but the story of the
great battle between the smith and the West Countryman is still
familiar to old ring-goers, and nothing pleased him better than to
re-fight it all, round by round, as he sat in the sunshine under his
rose-girt porch.  But if he heard the tap of his wife's stick
approaching him, his talk would break off at once into the garden
and its prospects, for she was still haunted by the fear that he
would some day go back to the ring, and she never missed the old man
for an hour without being convinced that he had hobbled off to wrest
the belt from the latest upstart champion.  It was at his own very
earnest request that they inscribed "He fought the good fight" upon
his tombstone, and though I cannot doubt that he had Black Bank and
Crab Wilson in his mind when he asked it, yet none who knew him
would grudge its spiritual meaning as a summing up of his clean and
manly life.

Sir Charles Tregellis continued for some years to show his scarlet
and gold at Newmarket, and his inimitable coats in St. James's.  It
was he who invented buttons and loops at the ends of dress
pantaloons, and who broke fresh ground by his investigation of the
comparative merits of isinglass and of starch in the preparation of
shirt-fronts.  There are old fops still lurking in the corners of
Arthur's or of White's who can remember Tregellis's dictum, that a
cravat should be so stiffened that three parts of the length could
be raised by one corner, and the painful schism which followed when
Lord Alvanley and his school contended that a half was sufficient.
Then came the supremacy of Brummell, and the open breach upon the
subject of velvet collars, in which the town followed the lead of
the younger man.  My uncle, who was not born to be second to any
one, retired instantly to St. Albans, and announced that he would
make it the centre of fashion and of society, instead of degenerate
London.  It chanced, however, that the mayor and corporation waited
upon him with an address of thanks for his good intentions towards
the town, and that the burgesses, having ordered new coats from
London for the occasion, were all arrayed in velvet collars, which
so preyed upon my uncle's spirits that he took to his bed, and never
showed his face in public again.  His money, which had ruined what
might have been a great life, was divided amongst many bequests, an
annuity to his valet, Ambrose, being amongst them; but enough has
come to his sister, my dear mother, to help to make her old age as
sunny and as pleasant as even I could wish.

And as for me--the poor string upon which these beads are strung--I
dare scarce say another word about myself, lest this, which I had
meant to be the last word of a chapter, should grow into the first
words of a new one.  Had I not taken up my pen to tell you a story
of the land, I might, perchance, have made a better one of the sea;
but the one frame cannot hold two opposite pictures.  The day may
come when I shall write down all that I remember of the greatest
battle ever fought upon salt water, and how my father's gallant life
was brought to an end as, with his paint rubbing against a French
eighty-gun ship on one side and a Spanish seventy-four upon the
other he stood eating an apple in the break of his poop.  I saw the
smoke banks on that October evening swirl slowly up over the
Atlantic swell, and rise, and rise, until they had shredded into
thinnest air, and lost themselves in the infinite blue of heaven.
And with them rose the cloud which had hung over the country; and it
also thinned and thinned, until God's own sun of peace and security
was shining once more upon us, never more, we hope, to be bedimmed.




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The Sign of the Four

By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle



Chapter 1
The Science of Deduction



Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-
piece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. 
With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate
needle, and rolled back his left shirt-cuff.  For some little
time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and
wrist all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. 
Finally he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny
piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined arm-chair with a long
sigh of satisfaction.

Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this
performance, but custom had not reconciled my mind to it.  On the
contrary, from day to day I had become more irritable at the
sight, and my conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought
that I had lacked the courage to protest.  Again and again I had
registered a vow that I should deliver my soul upon the subject,
but there was that in the cool, nonchalant air of my companion
which made him the last man with whom one would care to take
anything approaching to a liberty.  His great powers, his
masterly manner, and the experience which I had had of his many
extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in
crossing him.

Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had
taken with my lunch, or the additional exasperation produced by
the extreme deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I
could hold out no longer.

"Which is it to-day?" I asked,--"morphine or cocaine?"

He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume
which he had opened.  "It is cocaine," he said,--"a seven-per-
cent. solution.  Would you care to try it?"

"No, indeed," I answered, brusquely.  "My constitution has not
got over the Afghan campaign yet.  I cannot afford to throw any
extra strain upon it."

He smiled at my vehemence.  "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he
said.  "I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one.  I
find it, however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to
the mind that its secondary action is a matter of small moment."

"But consider!" I said, earnestly.  "Count the cost!  Your brain
may, as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological
and morbid process, which involves increased tissue-change and
may at last leave a permanent weakness.  You know, too, what a
black reaction comes upon you.  Surely the game is hardly worth
the candle.  Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk
the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed? 
Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to another, but as
a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to some extent
answerable."

He did not seem offended.  On the contrary, he put his finger-
tips together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair,
like one who has a relish for conversation.

"My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation.  Give me problems,
give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most
intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere.  I can
dispense then with artificial stimulants.  But I abhor the dull
routine of existence.  I crave for mental exaltation.  That is
why I have chosen my own particular profession,--or rather
created it, for I am the only one in the world."

"The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising my eyebrows.

"The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered.  "I am
the last and highest court of appeal in detection.  When Gregson
or Lestrade or Athelney Jones are out of their depths--which, by
the way, is their normal state--the matter is laid before me.  I
examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist's
opinion.  I claim no credit in such cases.  My name figures in no
newspaper.  The work itself, the pleasure of finding a field for
my peculiar powers, is my highest reward.  But you have yourself
had some experience of my methods of work in the Jefferson Hope
case."

"Yes, indeed," said I, cordially.  "I was never so struck by
anything in my life.  I even embodied it in a small brochure with
the somewhat fantastic title of 'A Study in Scarlet.'"

He shook his head sadly.  "I glanced over it," said he. 
"Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it.  Detection is, or
ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same
cold and unemotional manner.  You have attempted to tinge it with
romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked
a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of
Euclid."

"But the romance was there," I remonstrated.  "I could not tamper
with the facts."

"Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of
proportion should be observed in treating them.  The only point
in the case which deserved mention was the curious analytical
reasoning from effects to causes by which I succeeded in
unraveling it."

I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been
specially designed to please him.  I confess, too, that I was
irritated by the egotism which seemed to demand that every line
of my pamphlet should be devoted to his own special doings.  More
than once during the years that I had lived with him in Baker
Street I had observed that a small vanity underlay my companion's
quiet and didactic manner.  I made no remark, however, but sat
nursing my wounded leg.  I had a Jezail bullet through it some
time before, and, though it did not prevent me from walking, it
ached wearily at every change of the weather.

"My practice has extended recently to the Continent," said
Holmes, after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe.  "I
was consulted last week by Francois Le Villard, who, as you
probably know, has come rather to the front lately in the French
detective service.  He has all the Celtic power of quick
intuition, but he is deficient in the wide range of exact
knowledge which is essential to the higher developments of his
art.  The case was concerned with a will, and possessed some
features of interest.  I was able to refer him to two parallel
cases, the one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St. Louis in
1871, which have suggested to him the true solution.  Here is the
letter which I had this morning acknowledging my assistance."  He
tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign notepaper. 
I glanced my eyes down it, catching a profusion of notes of
admiration, with stray "magnifiques," "coup-de-maitres," and
"tours-de-force," all testifying to the ardent admiration of the
Frenchman.

"He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I.

"Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said Sherlock Holmes,
lightly.  "He has considerable gifts himself.  He possesses two
out of the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective.  He
has the power of observation and that of deduction.  He is only
wanting in knowledge; and that may come in time.  He is now
translating my small works into French."

"Your works?"

"Oh, didn't you know?" he cried, laughing.  "Yes, I have been
guilty of several monographs.  They are all upon technical
subjects.  Here, for example, is one 'Upon the Distinction
between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccoes.'  In it I enumerate a
hundred and forty forms of cigar-, cigarette-, and pipe-tobacco,
with colored plates illustrating the difference in the ash.  It
is a point which is continually turning up in criminal trials,
and which is sometimes of supreme importance as a clue.  If you
can say definitely, for example, that some murder has been done
by a man who was smoking an Indian lunkah, it obviously narrows
your field of search.  To the trained eye there is as much
difference between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and the white
fluff of bird's-eye as there is between a cabbage and a potato."

"You have an extraordinary genius for minutiae," I remarked.

"I appreciate their importance.  Here is my monograph upon the
tracing of footsteps, with some remarks upon the uses of plaster
of Paris as a preserver of impresses. Here, too, is a curious
little work upon the influence of a trade upon the form of the
hand, with lithotypes of the hands of slaters, sailors,
corkcutters, compositors, weavers, and diamond-polishers.  That
is a matter of great practical interest to the scientific
detective,--especially in cases of unclaimed bodies, or in
discovering the antecedents of criminals.  But I weary you with
my hobby."

"Not at all," I answered, earnestly.  "It is of the greatest
interest to me, especially since I have had the opportunity of
observing your practical application of it.  But you spoke just
now of observation and deduction.  Surely the one to some extent
implies the other."

"Why, hardly," he answered, leaning back luxuriously in his arm-
chair, and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe.  "For
example, observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore
Street Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that
when there you dispatched a telegram."

"Right!" said I.  "Right on both points!  But I confess that I
don't see how you arrived at it.  It was a sudden impulse upon my
part, and I have mentioned it to no one."

"It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at my
surprise,--"so absurdly simple that an explanation is
superfluous; and yet it may serve to define the limits of
observation and of deduction.  Observation tells me that you have
a little reddish mould adhering to your instep.  Just opposite
the Seymour Street Office they have taken up the pavement and
thrown up some earth which lies in such a way that it is
difficult to avoid treading in it in entering.  The earth is of
this peculiar reddish tint which is found, as far as I know,
nowhere else in the neighborhood.  So much is observation.  The
rest is deduction."

"How, then, did you deduce the telegram?"

"Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter, since I
sat opposite to you all morning.  I see also in your open desk
there that you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of post-
cards.  What could you go into the post-office for, then, but to
send a wire?  Eliminate all other factors, and the one which
remains must be the truth."

"In this case it certainly is so," I replied, after a little
thought.  "The thing, however, is, as you say, of the simplest. 
Would yo think me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a
more severe test?"

"On the contrary," he answered, "it would prevent me from taking
a second dose of cocaine.  I should be delighted to look into any
problem which you might submit to me."

"I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man to have any
object in daily use without leaving the impress of his
individuality upon it in such a way that a trained observer might
read it.  Now, I have here a watch which has recently come into
my possession.  Would you have the kindness to let me have an
opinion upon the character or habits of the late owner?"

I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement
in my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one,
and I intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone
which he occasionally assumed.  He balanced the watch in his
hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, and examined the
works, first with his naked eyes and then with a powerful convex
lens.  I could hardly keep from smiling at his crestfallen face
when he finally snapped the case to and handed it back.

"There are hardly any data," he remarked.  "The watch has been
recently cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts."

"You are right," I answered.  "It was cleaned before being sent
to me."  In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a
most lame and impotent excuse to cover his failure.  What data
could he expect from an uncleaned watch?

"Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely
barren," he observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy,
lack-lustre eyes.  "Subject to your correction, I should judge
that the watch belonged to your elder brother, who inherited it
from your father."

"That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?"

"Quite so.  The W. suggests your own name.  The date of the watch
is nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the
watch:  so it was made for the last generation.  Jewelry usually
descents to the eldest son, and he is most likely to have the
same name as the father.  Your father has, if I remember right,
been dead many years.  It has, therefore, been in the hands of
your eldest brother."

"Right, so far," said I.  "Anything else?"

"He was a man of untidy habits,--very untidy and careless.  He
was left with good prospects, but he threw away his chances,
lived for some time in poverty with occasional short intervals of
prosperity, and finally, taking to drink, he died.  That is all I
can gather."

I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about the room with
considerable bitterness in my heart.

"This is unworthy of you, Holmes," I said.  "I could not have
believed that you would have descended to this.  You have made
inquires into the history of my unhappy brother, and you now
pretend to deduce this knowledge in some fanciful way.  You
cannot expect me to believe that you have read all this from his
old watch!  It is unkind, and, to speak plainly, has a touch of
charlatanism in it."

"My dear doctor," said he, kindly, "pray accept my apologies. 
Viewing the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how
personal and painful a thing it might be to you.  I assure you,
however, that I never even know that you had a brother until you
handed me the watch."

"Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did you get these
facts?  They are absolutely correct in every particular."

"Ah, that is good luck.  I could only say what was the balance of
probability.  I did not at all expect to be so accurate."

"But it was not mere guess-work?"

"No, no:  I never guess.  It is a shocking habit,--destructive to
the logical faculty.  What seems strange to you is only so
because you do not follow my train of thought or observe the
small facts upon which large inferences may depend.  For example,
I began by stating that your brother was careless.  When you
observe the lower part of that watch-case you notice that it is
not only dinted in two places, but it is cut and marked all over
from the habit of keeping other hard objects, such as coins or
keys, in the same pocket.  Surely it is no great feat to assume
that a man who treats a fifty-guinea watch so cavalierly must be
a careless man.  Neither is it a very far-fetched inference that
a man who inherits one article of such value is pretty well
provided for in other respects."

I nodded, to show that I followed his reasoning.

"It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England, when they take
a watch, to scratch the number of the ticket with a pin-point
upon the inside of the case.  It is more handy than a label, as
there is no risk of the number being lost or transposed.  There
are no less than four such numbers visible to my lens on the
inside of this case.  Inference,--that your brother was often at
low water.  Secondary inference,--that he had occasional bursts
of prosperity, or he could not have redeemed the pledge. 
Finally, I ask you to look at the inner plate, which contains the
key-hole.  Look at the thousands of scratches all round the
hole,--marks where the key has slipped.  What sober man's key
could have scored those grooves?  But you will never see a
drunkard's watch without them.  He winds it at night, and he
leaves these traces of his unsteady hand.  Where is the mystery
in all this?"

"It is as clear as daylight," I answered.  "I regret the
injustice which I did you.  I should have had more faith in your
marvellous faculty.  May I ask whether you have any professional
inquiry on foot at present?"

"None.  Hence the cocaine.  I cannot live without brain-work. 
What else is there to live for?  Stand at the window here.  Was
ever such a dreary, dismal, unprofitable world?  See how the
yellow fog swirls down the street and drifts across the dun-
colored houses.  What could be more hopelessly prosaic and
material?  What is the use of having powers, doctor, when one has
no field upon which to exert them?  Crime is commonplace,
existence is commonplace, and no qualities save those which are
commonplace have any function upon earth."

I had opened my mouth to reply to this tirade, when with a crisp
knock our landlady entered, bearing a card upon the brass salver.

"A young lady for you, sir," she said, addressing my companion.

"Miss Mary Morstan," he read.  "Hum!  I have no recollection of
the name.  Ask the young lady to step up, Mrs. Hudson.  Don't go,
doctor.  I should prefer that you remain."



Chapter II
The Statement of the Case



Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward
composure of manner.  She was a blonde young lady, small, dainty,
well gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste.  There was,
however, a plainness and simplicity about her costume which bore
with it a suggestion of limited means.  The dress was a sombre
grayish beige, untrimmed and unbraided, and she wore a small
turban of the same dull hue, relieved only by a suspicion of
white feather in the side.  Her face had neither regularity of
feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was sweet
and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual
and sympathetic.  In an experience of women which extends over
many nations and three separate continents, I have never looked
upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and
sensitive nature. I could not but observe that as she took the
seat which Sherlock Holmes placed for her, her lip trembled, her
hand quivered, and she showed every sign of intense inward
agitation.

"I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "because you once
enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little
domestic complication.  She was much impressed by your kindness
and skill."

"Mrs. Cecil Forrester," he repeated thoughtfully.  "I believe
that I was of some slight service to her.  The case, however, as
I remember it, was a very simple one."

"She did not think so.  But at least you cannot say the same of
mine.  I can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly
inexplicable, than the situation in which I find myself."

Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened.  He leaned
forward in his chair with an expression of extraordinary
concentration upon his clear-cut, hawklike features.  "State your
case," said he, in brisk, business tones.

I felt that my position was an embarrassing one.  "You will, I am
sure, excuse me," I said, rising from my chair.

To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved hand to detain
me.  "If your friend," she said, "would be good enough to stop,
he might be of inestimable service to me."

I relapsed into my chair.

"Briefly," she continued, "the facts are these.  My father was an
officer in an Indian regiment who sent me home when I was quite a
child.  My mother was dead, and I had no relative in England.  I
was placed, however, in a comfortable boarding establishment at
Edinburgh, and there I remained until I was seventeen years of
age.  In the year 1878 my father, who was senior captain of his
regiment, obtained twelve months' leave and came home.  He
telegraphed to me from London that he had arrived all safe, and
directed me to come down at once, giving the Langham Hotel as his
address.  His message, as I remember, was full of kindness and
love.  On reaching London I drove to the Langham, and was
informed that Captain Morstan was staying there, but that he had
gone out the night before and had not yet returned. I waited all
day without news of him.  That night, on the advice of the
manager of the hotel, I communicated with the police, and next
morning we advertised in all the papers.  Our inquiries let to no
result; and from that day to this no word has ever been heard of
my unfortunate father.  He came home with his heart full of hope,
to find some peace, some comfort, and instead--"  She put her
hand to her throat, and a choking sob cut short the sentence.

"The date?" asked Holmes, opening his note-book.

"He disappeared upon the 3d of December, 1878,--nearly ten years
ago."

"His luggage?"

"Remained at the hotel.  There was nothing in it to suggest a
clue,--some clothes, some books, and a considerable number of
curiosities from the Andaman Islands.  He had been one of the
officers in charge of the convict-guard there."

"Had he any friends in town?"

"Only one that we know of,--Major Sholto, of his own regiment,
the 34th Bombay Infantry.  The major had retired some little time
before, and lived at Upper Norwood.  We communicated with him, 
of course, but he did not even know that his brother officer was
in England."

"A singular case," remarked Holmes.

"I have not yet described to you the most singular part.  About
six years ago--to be exact, upon the 4th of May, 1882--an
advertisement appeared in the Times asking for the address of
Miss Mary Morstan and stating that it would be to her advantage
to come forward.  There was no name or address appended.  I had
at that time just entered the family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester in
the capacity of governess.  By her advice I published my address
in the advertisement column.  The same day there arrived through
the post a small card-board box addressed to me, which I found to
contain a very large and lustrous pearl.  No word of writing was
enclosed.  Since then every year upon the same date there has
always appeared a similar box, containing a similar pearl,
without any clue as to the sender.  They have been pronounced by
an expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable value.  You
can see for yourselves that they are very handsome."  She opened
a flat box as she spoke, and showed me six of the finest pearls
that I had ever seen.

"Your statement is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes.  "Has
anything else occurred to you?"

"Yes, and no later than to-day.  That is why I have come to you. 
This morning I received this letter, which you will perhaps read
for yourself."

"Thank you," said Holmes.  "The envelope too, please.  Postmark,
London, S.W.  Date, July 7.  Hum!  Man's thumb-mark on corner,--
probably postman.  Best quality paper.  Envelopes at sixpence a
packet.  Particular man in his stationery.  No address.  'Be at
the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre to-
night at seven o'clock.  If you are distrustful, bring two
friends.  You are a wronged woman, and shall have justice.  Do
not bring police.  If you do, all will be in vain.  Your unknown
friend.'  Well, really, this is a very pretty little mystery. 
What do you intend to do, Miss Morstan?"

"That is exactly what I want to ask you."

"Then we shall most certainly go.  You and I and--yes, why, Dr.
Watson is the very man.  Your correspondent says two friends.  He
and I have worked together before."

"But would he come?" she asked, with something appealing in her
voice and expression.

"I should be proud and happy," said I, fervently, "if I can be of
any service."

"You are both very kind," she answered.  "I have led a retired
life, and have no friends whom I could appeal to.  If I am here
at six it will do, I suppose?"

"You must not be later," said Holmes.  "There is one other point,
however.  Is this handwriting the same as that upon the pearl-box
addresses?"

"I have them here," she answered, producing half a dozen pieces
of paper.

"You are certainly a model client.  You have the correct
intuition.  Let us see, now."  He spread out the papers upon the
table, and gave little darting glances from one to the other. 
"They are disguised hands, except the letter," he said,
presently, "but there can be no question as to the authorship. 
See how the irrepressible Greek e will break out, and see the
twirl of the final s.  They are undoubtedly by the same person. 
I should not like to suggest false hopes, Miss Morstan, but is
there any resemblance between this hand and that of your father?"

"Nothing could be more unlike."

"I expected to hear you say so.  We shall look out for you, then,
at six.  Pray allow me to keep the papers.  I may look into the
matter before then.  It is only half-past three.  Au revoir,
then."

"Au revoir," said our visitor, and, with a bright, kindly glance
from one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her
bosom and hurried away.  Standing at the window, I watched her
walking briskly down the street, until the gray turban and white
feather were but a speck in the sombre crowd.

"What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, turning to my
companion.

He had lit his pipe again, and was leaning back with drooping
eyelids.  "Is she?" he said, languidly.  "I did not observe."

"You really are an automaton,--a calculating-machine!" I cried. 
"There is something positively inhuman in you at times."

He smiled gently.  "It is of the first importance," he said, "not
to allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities.  A
client is to me a mere unit,--a factor in a problem.  The
emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning.  I
assure you that the most winning woman I ever knew was hanged for
poisoning three little children for their insurance-money, and
the most repellant man of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who
has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the London poor."

"In this case, however--"

"I never make exceptions.  An exception disproves the rule.  Have
you ever had occasion to study character in handwriting?  What do
you make of this fellow's scribble?"

"It is legible and regular," I answered.  "A man of business
habits and some force of character."

"Holmes shook his head.  "Look at his long letters," he said. 
"They hardly rise above the common herd.  That d might be an a,
and that l an e.  Men of character always differentiate their
long letters, however illegibly they may write.  There is
vacillation in his k's and self-esteem in his capitals.  I am
going out now.  I have some few references to make.  Let me
recommend this book,--one of the most remarkable ever penned.  It
is Winwood Reade's 'Martyrdom of Man.'  I shall be back in an
hour."

I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts
were far from the daring speculations of the writer.  My mind ran
upon our late visitor,--her smiles, the deep rich tones of her
voice, the strange mystery which overhung her life.  If she were
seventeen at the time of her father's disappearance she must be
seven-and-twenty now,--a sweet age, when youth has lost its self-
consciousness and become a little sobered by experience.  So I
sat and mused, until such dangerous thoughts came into my head
that I hurried away to my desk and plunged furiously into the
latest treatise upon pathology.  What was I, an army surgeon with
a weak leg and a weaker banking-account, that I should dare to
think of such things?  She was a unit, a factor,--nothing more. 
If my future were black, it was better surely to face it like a
man than to attempt to brighten it by mere will-o'-the-wisps of
the imagination.



Chapter III
In Quest of a Solution



It was half-past five before Holmes returned.  He was bright,
eager, and in excellent spirits,--a mood which in his case
alternated with fits of the blackest depression.

"There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the
cup of tea which I had poured out for him.  "The facts appear to
admit of only one explanation."

"What! you have solved it already?"

"Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered a
suggestive fact, that is all.  It is, however, VERY suggestive. 
The details are still to be added.  I have just found, on
consulting the back files of the Times, that Major Sholto, of
Upper Norword, late of the 34th Bombay Infantry, died upon the
28th of April, 1882."

"I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this
suggests."

"No?  You surprise me.  Look at it in this way, then.  Captain
Morstan disappears.  The only person in London whom he could have
visited is Major Sholto.  Major Sholto denies having heard that
he was in London.  Four years later Sholto dies.  WITHIN A WEEK
OF HIS DEATH Captain Morstan's daughter receives a valuable
present, which is repeated from year to year, and now culminates
in a letter which describes her as a wronged woman.  What wrong
can it refer to except this deprivation of her father?  And why
should the presents begin immediately after Sholto's death,
unless it is that Sholto's heir knows something of the mystery
and desires to make compensation?  Have you any alternative
theory which will meet the facts?"

"But what a strange compensation!  And how strangely made!  Why,
too, should he write a letter now, rather than six years ago? 
Again, the letter speaks of giving her justice.  What justice can
she have?  It is too much to suppose that her father is still
alive.  There is no other injustice in her case that you know
of."

"There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties," said
Sherlock Holmes, pensively.  "But our expedition of to-night will
solve them all.  Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is
inside.  Are you all ready?  Then we had better go down, for it
is a little past the hour."

I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed that
Holmes took his revolver from his drawer and slipped it into his
pocket.  It was clear that he thought that our night's work might
be a serious one.

Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive face
was composed, but pale.  She must have been more than woman if
she did not feel some uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon
which we were embarking, yet her self-control was perfect, and
she readily answered the few additional questions which Sherlock
Holmes put to her.

"Major Sholto was a very particular friend of papa's," she said. 
"His letters were full of allusions to the major.  He and papa
were in command of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they
were thrown a great deal together.  By the way, a curious paper
was found in papa's desk which no one could understand.  I don't
suppose that it is of the slightest importance, but I thought you
might care to see it, so I brought it with me.  It is here."

Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and smoothed it out upon his
knee.  He then very methodically examined it all over with his
double lens.

"It is paper of native Indian manufacture," he remarked.  "It has
at some time been pinned to a board.  The diagram upon it appears
to be a plan of part of a large building with numerous halls,
corridors, and passages.  At one point is a small cross done in
red ink, and above it is '3.37 from left,' in faded pencil-
writing.  In the left-hand corner is a curious hieroglyphic like
four crosses in a line with their arms touching.  Beside it is
written, in very rough and coarse characters, 'The sign of the
four,--Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan, Dost Akbar.' 
No, I confess that I do not see how this bears upon the matter. 
Yet it is evidently a document of importance.  It has been kept
carefully in a pocket-book; for the one side is as clean as the
other."

"It was in his pocket-book that we found it."

"Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Morstan, for it may prove to
be of use to us.  I begin to suspect that this matter may turn
out to be much deeper and more subtle than I at first supposed. 
I must reconsider my ideas."  He leaned back in the cab, and I
could see by his drawn brow and his vacant eye that he was
thinking intently.  Miss Morstan and I chatted in an undertone
about our present expedition and its possible outcome, but our
companion maintained his impenetrable reserve until the end of
our journey.

It was a September evening, and not yet seven o'clock, but the
day had been a dreary one, and a dense drizzly fog lay low upon
the great city.  Mud-colored clouds drooped sadly over the muddy
streets.  Down the Strand the lamps were but misty splotches of
diffused light which threw a feeble circular glimmer upon the
slimy pavement.  The yellow glare from the shop-windows streamed
out into the steamy, vaporous air, and threw a murky, shifting
radiance across the crowded thoroughfare.  There was, to my mind,
something eerie and ghost-like in the endless procession of faces
which flitted across these narrow bars of light,--sad faces and
glad, haggard and merry.  Like all human kind, they flitted from
the gloom into the light, and so back into the gloom once more. 
I am not subject to impressions, but the dull, heavy evening,
with the strange business upon which we were engaged, combined to
make me nervous and depressed.  I could see from Miss Morstan's
manner that she was suffering from the same feeling.  Holmes
alone could rise superior to petty influences.  He held his open
note-book upon his knee, and from time to time he jotted down
figures and memoranda in the light of his pocket-lantern.

At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were already thick at the side-
entrances.  In front a continuous stream of hansoms and four-
wheelers were rattling up, discharging their cargoes of shirt-
fronted men and beshawled, bediamonded women.  We had hardly
reached the third pillar, which was our rendezvous, before a
small, dark, brisk man in the dress of a coachman accosted us.

"Are you the parties who come with Miss Morstan?" he asked.

"I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen are my friends," said
she.

He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and questioning eyes
upon us.  "You will excuse me, miss," he said with a certain
dogged manner, "but I was to ask you to give me your word that
neither of your companions is a police-officer."

"I give you my word on that," she answered.

He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led across a
four-wheeler and opened the door.  The man who had addressed us
mounted to the box, while we took our places inside.  We had
hardly done so before the driver whipped up his horse, and we
plunged away at a furious pace through the foggy streets.

The situation was a curious one.  We were driving to an unknown
place, on an unknown errand.  Yet our invitation was either a
complete hoax,--which was an inconceivable hypothesis,--or else
we had good reason to think that important issues might hang upon
our journey.  Miss Morstan's demeanor was as resolute and
collected as ever.  I endeavored to cheer and amuse her by
reminiscences of my adventures in Afghanistan; but, to tell the
truth, I was myself so excited at our situation and so curious as
to our destination that my stories were slightly involved.  To
this day she declares that I told her one moving anecdote as to
how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of night, and how I
fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at it.  At first I had some
idea as to the direction in which we were driving; but soon, what
with our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge of London, I
lost my bearings, and knew nothing, save that we seemed to be
going a very long way.  Sherlock Holmes was never at fault,
however, and he muttered the names as the cab rattled through
squares and in and out by tortuous by-streets.

"Rochester Row," said he.  "Now Vincent Square.  Now we come out
on the Vauxhall Bridge Road.  We are making for the Surrey side,
apparently.  Yes, I thought so.  Now we are on the bridge.  You
can catch glimpses of the river."

We did indeed bet a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames with
the lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab
dashed on, and was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon
the other side.

"Wordsworth Road," said my companion.  "Priory Road.  Lark Hall
Lane.  Stockwell Place.  Robert Street.  Cold Harbor Lane.  Our
quest does not appear to take us to very fashionable regions."

We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding
neighborhood.  Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved
by the coarse glare and tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the
corner.  Then came rows of two-storied villas each with a
fronting of miniature garden, and then again interminable lines
of new staring brick buildings,--the monster tentacles which the
giant city was throwing out into the country.  At last the cab
drew up at the third house in a new terrace.  None of the other
houses were inhabited, and that at which we stopped was as dark
as its neighbors, save for a single glimmer in the kitchen
window.  On our knocking, however, the door was instantly thrown
open by a Hindoo servant clad in a yellow turban, white loose-
fitting clothes, and a yellow sash.  There was something
strangely incongruous in this Oriental figure framed in the
commonplace door-way of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house.

"The Sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke there came
a high piping voice from some inner room.  "Show them in to me,
khitmutgar," it cried.  "Show them straight in to me."



Chapter IV
The Story of the Bald-Headed Man



We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill lit
and worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right,
which he threw open.  A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon
us, and in the centre of the glare there stood a small man with a
very high head, a bristle of red hair all round the fringe of it,
and a bald, shining scalp which shot out from among it like a
mountain-peak from fir-trees.  He writhed his hands together as
he stood, and his features were in a perpetual jerk, now smiling,
now scowling, but never for an instant in repose.  Nature had
given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow and
irregular teeth, which he strove feebly to conceal by constantly
passing his hand over the lower part of his face.  In spite of
his obtrusive baldness, he gave the impression of youth.  In
point of fact he had just turned his thirtieth year.

"Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high
voice.  "Your servant, gentlemen.  Pray step into my little
sanctum.  A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. 
An oasis of art in the howling desert of South London."

We were all astonished by the appearance o the apartment into
which he invited us.  In that sorry house it looked as out of
place as a diamond of the first water in a setting of brass.  The
richest and glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the
walls, looped back here and there to expose some richly-mounted
painting or Oriental vase.  The carpet was of amber-and-black, so
soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into
a bed of moss.  Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased
the suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah which
stood upon a mat in the corner.  A lamp in the fashion of a
silver dove was hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the
centre of the room.  As it burned it filled the air with a subtle
and aromatic odor.

"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and
smiling.  "That is my name.  You are Miss Morstan, of course. 
And these gentlemen--"

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson."

"A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited.  "Have you your
stethoscope?  Might I ask you--would you have the kindness?  I
have grave doubts as to my mitral valve, if you would be so very
good.  The aortic I may rely upon, but I should value your
opinion upon the mitral."

I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find
anything amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear,
for he shivered from head to foot.  "It appears to be normal," I
said.  "You have no cause for uneasiness."

"You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked, airily. 
"I am a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that
valve.  I am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted.  Had
your father, Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon
his heart, he might have been alive now."

I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this
callous and off-hand reference to so delicate a matter.  Miss
Morstan sat down, and her face grew white to the lips.  "I knew
in my heart that he was dead," said she.

"I can give you every information," said he, "and, what is more,
I can do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother
Bartholomew may say.  I am so glad to have your friends here, not
only as an escort to you, but also as witnesses to what I am
about to do and say.  The three of us can show a bold front to
Brother Bartholomew.  But let us have no outsiders,--no police or
officials.  We can settle everything satisfactorily among
ourselves, without any interference.  Nothing would annoy Brother
Bartholomew more than any publicity."  He sat down upon a low
settee and blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery blue
eyes.

"For my part," said Holmes, "whatever you may choose to say will
go no further."

I nodded to show my agreement.

"That is well!  That is well!" said he.  "May I offer you a glass
of Chianti, Miss Morstan?  Or of Tokay?  I keep no other wines. 
Shall I open a flask?  No?  Well, then, I trust that you have no
objection to tobacco-smoke, to the mild balsamic odor of the
Eastern tobacco.  I am a little nervous, and I find my hookah an
invaluable sedative."  He applied a taper to the great bowl, and
the smoke bubbled merrily through the rose-water.  We sat all
three in a semicircle, with our heads advanced, and our chins
upon our hands, while the strange, jerky little fellow, with his
high, shining head, puffed uneasily in the centre.

"When I first determined to make this communication to you," said
he, "I might have given you my address, but I feared that you
might disregard my request and bring unpleasant people with you. 
I took the liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in such a
way that my man Williams might be able to see you first.  I have
complete confidence in his discretion, and he had orders, if he
were dissatisfied, to proceed no further in the matter.  You will
excuse these precautions, but I am a man of somewhat retiring,
and I might even say refined, tastes, and there is nothing more
unaesthetic than a policeman.  I have a natural shrinking from
all forms of rough materialism. I seldom come in contact with the
rough crowd.  I live, as you see, with some little atmosphere of
elegance around me.  I may call myself a patron of the arts.  It
is my weakness.  The landscape is a genuine Corot, and, though a
connoisseur might perhaps throw a doubt upon that Salvator Rosa,
there cannot be the least question about the Bouguereau.  I am
partial to the modern French school."

"You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto," said Miss Morstan, "but I am
here at your request to learn something which you desire to tell
me.  It is very late, and I should desire the interview to be as
short as possible."

"At the best it must take some time," he answered; "for we shall
certainly have to go to Norwood and see Brother Bartholomew.  We
shall all go and try if we can get the better of Brother
Bartholomew.  He is very angry with me for taking the course
which has seemed right to me.  I had quite high words with him
last night.  You cannot imagine what a terrible fellow he is when
he is angry."

"If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps be as well to start
at once," I ventured to remark.

He laughed until his ears were quite red.  "That would hardly
do," he cried.  "I don't know what he would say if I brought you
in that sudden way.  No, I must prepare you by showing you how we
all stand to each other. In the first place, I must tell you that
there are several points in the story of which I am myself
ignorant.  I can only lay the facts before you as far as I know
them myself.

"My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John Sholto, once
of the Indian army.  He retired some eleven years ago, and came
to live at Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood.  He had prospered
in India, and brought back with him a considerable sum of money,
a large collection of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native
servants.  With these advantages he bought himself a house, and
lived in great luxury.  My twin-brother Bartholomew and I were
the only children.

"I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the
disappearance of Captain Morstan.  We read the details in the
papers, and, knowing that he had been a friend of our father's,
we discussed the case freely in his presence.  He used to join in
our speculations as to what could have happened.  Never for an
instant did we suspect that he had the whole secret hidden in his
own breast,--that of all men he alone knew the fate of Arthur
Morstan.

"We did know, however, that some mystery--some positive danger--
overhung our father.  He was very fearful of going out alone, and
he always employed two prize-fighters to act as porters at
Pondicherry Lodge.  Williams, who drove you to-night, was one of
them. He was once light-weight champion of England.  Our father
would never tell us what it was he feared, but he had a most
marked aversion to men with wooden legs.  On one occasion he
actually fired his revolver at a wooden-legged man, who proved to
be a harmless tradesman canvassing for orders.  We had to pay a
large sum to hush the matter up.  My brother and I used to think
this a mere whim of my father's, but events have since led us to
change our opinion.

"Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a
great shock to him.  He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table
when he opened it, and from that day he sickened to his death. 
What was in the letter we could never discover, but I could see
as he held it that it was short and written in a scrawling hand. 
He had suffered for years from an enlarged spleen, but he now
became rapidly worse, and towards the end of April we were
informed that he was beyond all hope, and that he wished to make
a last communication to us.

"When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows and
breathing heavily.  He besought us to lock the door and to come
upon either side of the bed.  Then, grasping our hands, he made a
remarkable statement to us, in a voice which was broken as much
by emotion as by pain.  I shall try and give it to you in his own
very words.

"'I have only one thing,' he said, 'which weighs upon my mind at
this supreme moment.  It is my treatment of poor Morstan's
orphan.  The cursed greed which has been my besetting sin through
life has withheld from her the treasure, half at least of which
should have been hers.  And yet I have made no use of it myself,-
-so blind and foolish a thing is avarice.  The mere feeling of
possession has been so dear to me that I could not bear to share
it with another.  See that chaplet dipped with pearls beside the
quinine-bottle.  Even that I could not bear to part with,
although I had got it out with the design of sending it to her. 
You, my sons, will give her a fair share of the Agra treasure. 
But send her nothing--not even the chaplet--until I am gone. 
After all, men have been as bad as this and have recovered.

"'I will tell you how Morstan died,' he continued.  'He had
suffered for years from a weak heart, but he concealed it from
every one.  I alone knew it.  When in India, he and I, through a
remarkable chain of circumstances, came into possession of a
considerable treasure.  I brought it over to England, and on the
night of Morstan's arrival he came straight over here to claim
his share.  He walked over from the station, and was admitted by
my faithful Lal Chowdar, who is now dead. Morstan and I had a
difference of opinion as to the division of the treasure, and we
came to heated words.  Morstan had sprung out of his chair in a
paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his hand to his side,
his face turned a dusky hue, and he fell backwards, cutting his
head against the corner of the treasure-chest.  When I stooped
over him I found, to my horror, that he was dead.

"'For a long time I sat half distracted, wondering what I should
do.  My first impulse was, of course, to call for assistance; but
I could not but recognize that there was every chance that I
would be accused of his murder.  His death at the moment of a
quarrel, and the gash in his head, would be black against me. 
Again, an official inquiry could not be made without bringing out
some facts about the treasure, which I was particularly anxious
to keep secret. He had told me that no soul upon earth knew where
he had gone.  There seemed to be no necessity why any soul ever
should know.

"'I was still pondering over the matter, when, looking up, I saw
my servant, Lal Chowdar, in the doorway.  He stole in and bolted
the door behind him.  "Do not fear, Sahib," he said.  "No one
need know that you have killed him.  Let us hide him away, and
who is the wiser?" "I did not kill him," said I.  Lal Chowdar
shook his head and smiled.  "I heard it all, Sahib," said he.  "I
heard you quarrel, and I heard the blow.  But my lips are sealed. 
All are asleep in the house.  Let us put him away together." 
That was enough to decide met.  If my own servant could not
believe my innocence, how could I hope to make it good before
twelve foolish tradesmen in a jury-box?  Lal Chowdar and I
disposed of the body that night, and within a few days the London
papers were full of the mysterious disappearance of Captain
Morstan.  You will see from what I say that I can hardly be
blamed in the matter.  My fault lies in the fact that we
concealed not only the body, but also the treasure, and that I
have clung to Morstan's share as well as to my own.  I wish you,
therefore, to make restitution.  Put your ears down to my mouth. 
The treasure is hidden in--'  At this instant a horrible change
came over his expression; his eyes stared wildly, his jaw
dropped, and he yelled, in a voice which I can never forget,
'Keep him out!  For Christ's sake keep him out!'  We both stared
round at the window behind us upon which his gaze was fixed.  A
face was looking in at us out of the darkness.  We could see the
whitening of the nose where it was pressed against the glass.  It
was a bearded, hairy face, with wild cruel eyes and an expression
of concentrated malevolence. My brother and I rushed towards the
window, but the man was gone.  When we returned to my father his
head had dropped and his pulse had ceased to beat.

"We searched the garden that night, but found no sign of the
intruder, save that just under the window a single footmark was
visible in the flower-bed.  But for that one trace, we might have
thought that our imaginations had conjured up that wild, fierce
face.  We soon, however, had another and a more striking proof
that there were secret agencies at work all round us.  The window
of my father's room was found open in the morning, his cupboards
and boxes had been rifled, and upon his chest was fixed a torn
piece of paper, with the words 'The sign of the four' scrawled
across it.  What the phrase meant, or who our secret visitor may
have been, we never knew.  As far as we can judge, none of my
father's property had been actually stolen, though everything had
been turned out.  My brother and I naturally associated this
peculiar incident with the fear which haunted my father during
his life; but it is still a complete mystery to us."

The little man stopped to relight his hookah and puffed
thoughtfully for a few moments.  We had all sat absorbed,
listening to his extraordinary narrative.  At the short account
of her father's death Miss Morstan had turned deadly white, and
for a moment I feared that she was about to faint.  She rallied
however, on drinking a glass of water which I quietly poured out
for her from a Venetian carafe upon the side-table.  Sherlock
Holmes leaned back in his chair with an abstracted expression and
the lids drawn low over his glittering eyes.  As I glanced at him
I could not but think how on that very day he had complained
bitterly of the commonplaceness of life.  Here at least was a
problem which would tax his sagacity to the utmost.  Mr. Thaddeus
Sholto looked from one to the other of us with an obvious pride
at the effect which his story had produced, and then continued
between the puffs of his overgrown pipe.

"My brother and I," said he, "were, as you may imagine, much
excited as to the treasure which my father had spoken of.  For
weeks and for months we dug and delved in every part of the
garden, without discovering its whereabouts.  It was maddening to
think that the hiding-place was on his very lips at the moment
that he died.  We could judge the splendor of the missing riches
by the chaplet which he had taken out.  Over this chaplet my
brother Bartholomew and I had some little discussion.  The pearls
were evidently of great value, and he was averse to part with
them, for, between friends, my brother was himself a little
inclined to my father's fault.  He thought, too, that if we
parted with the chaplet it might give rise to gossip and finally
bring us into trouble.  It was all that I could do to persuade
him to let me find out Miss Morstan's address and send her a
detached pearl at fixed intervals, so that at least she might
never feel destitute."

"It was a kindly thought," said our companion, earnestly.  "It
was extremely good of you."

The little man waved his hand deprecatingly.  "We were your
trustees," he said.  "That was the view which I took of it,
though Brother Bartholomew could not altogether see it in that
light.  We had plenty of money ourselves.  I desired no more. 
Besides, it would have been such bad taste to have treated a
young lady in so scurvy a fashion. 'Le mauvais gout mene au
crime.'  The French have a very neat way of putting these things. 
Our difference of opinion on this subject went so far that I
thought it best to set up rooms for myself:  so I left
Pondicherry Lodge, taking the old khitmutgar and Williams with
me.  Yesterday, however, I learn that an event of extreme
importance has occurred.  The treasure has been discovered.  I
instantly communicated with Miss Morstan, and it only remains for
us to drive out to Norwood and demand our share.  I explained my
views last night to Brother Bartholomew:  so we shall be
expected, if not welcome, visitors."

Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased, and sat twitching on his luxurious
settee.  We all remained silent, with our thoughts upon the new
development which the mysterious business had taken.  Holmes was
the first to spring to his feet.

"You have done well, sir, from first to last," said he.  "It is
possible that we may be able to make you some small return by
throwing some light upon that which is still dark to you.  But,
as Miss Morstan remarked just now, it is late, and we had best
put the matter through without delay."

Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled up the tube of his
hookah, and produced from behind a curtain a very long befrogged
topcoat with Astrakhan collar and cuffs.  This he buttoned
tightly up, in spite of the extreme closeness of the night, and
finished his attire by putting on a rabbit-skin cap with hanging
lappets which covered the ears, so that no part of him was
visible save his mobile and peaky face.  "My health is somewhat
fragile," he remarked, as he led the way down the passage.  "I am
compelled to be a valetudinarian."

Our cab was awaiting us outside, and our programme was evidently
prearranged, for the driver started off at once at a rapid pace. 
Thaddeus Sholto talked incessantly, in a voice which rose high
above the rattle of the wheels.

"Bartholomew is a clever fellow," said he.  "How do you think he
found out where the treasure was?  He had come to the conclusion
that it was somewhere indoors:  so he worked out all the cubic
space of the house, and made measurements everywhere, so that not
one inch should be unaccounted for.  Among other things, he found
that the height of the building was seventy-four feet, but on
adding together the heights of all the separate rooms, and making
every allowance for the space between, which he ascertained by
borings, he could not bring the total to more than seventy feet. 
There were four feet unaccounted for.  These could only be at the
top of the building.  He knocked a hole, therefore, in the lath-
and-plaster ceiling of the highest room, and there, sure enough,
he came upon another little garret above it, which had been
sealed up and was known to no one.  In the centre stood the
treasure-chest, resting upon two rafters.  He lowered it through
the hole, and there it lies.  He computes the value of the jewels
at not less than half a million sterling."

At the mention of this gigantic sum we all stared at one another
open-eyed.  Miss Morstan, could we secure her rights, would
change from a needy governess to the richest heiress in England. 
Surely it was the place of a loyal friend to rejoice at such
news; yet I am ashamed to say that selfishness took me by the
soul, and that my heart turned as heavy as lead within me.  I
stammered out some few halting words of congratulation, and then
sat downcast, with my head drooped, deaf to the babble of our new
acquaintance.  He was clearly a confirmed hypochondriac, and I
was dreamily conscious that he was pouring forth interminable
trains of symptoms, and imploring information as to the
composition and action of innumerable quack nostrums, some of
which he bore about in a leather case in his pocket.  I trust
that he may not remember any of the answers which I gave him that
night.  Holmes declares that he overheard me caution him against
the great danger of taking more than two drops of castor oil,
while I recommended strychnine in large doses as a sedative. 
However that may be, I was certainly relieved when our cab pulled
up with a jerk and the coachman sprang down to open the door.

"This, Miss Morstan, is Pondicherry Lodge," said Mr. Thaddeus
Sholto, as he handed her out.



Chapter V
The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge



It was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached this final stage of
our night's adventures.  We had left the damp fog of the great
city behind us, and the night was fairly fine.  A warm wind blew
from the westward, and heavy clouds moved slowly across the sky,
with half a moon peeping occasionally through the rifts.  It was
clear enough to see for some distance, but Thaddeus Sholto took
down one of the side-lamps from the carriage to give us a better
light upon our way.

Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds, and was girt round
with a very high stone wall topped with broken glass.  A single
narrow iron-clamped door formed the only means of entrance. On
this our guide knocked with a peculiar postman-like rat-tat.

"Who is there?" cried a gruff voice from within.

"It is I, McMurdo.  You surely know my knock by this time."

There was a grumbling sound and a clanking and jarring of keys. 
The door swung heavily back, and a short, deep-chested man stood
in the opening, with the yellow light of the lantern shining upon
his protruded face and twinkling distrustful eyes.

"That you, Mr. Thaddeus?  But who are the others?  I had no
orders about them from the master."

"No, McMurdo?  You surprise me!  I told my brother last night
that I should bring some friends."

"He ain't been out o' his room to-day, Mr. Thaddeus, and I have
no orders.  You know very well that I must stick to regulations. 
I can let you in, but your friends must just stop where they
are."

This was an unexpected obstacle.  Thaddeus Sholto looked about
him in a perplexed and helpless manner.  "This is too bad of you,
McMurdo!" he said.  "If I guarantee them, that is enough for you. 
There is the young lady, too.  She cannot wait on the public road
at this hour."

"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus," said the porter, inexorably.  "Folk
may be friends o' yours, and yet no friends o' the master's.  He
pays me well to do my duty, and my duty I'll do.  I don't know
none o' your friends."

"Oh, yes you do, McMurdo," cried Sherlock Holmes, genially.  "I
don't think you can have forgotten me.  Don't you remember the
amateur who fought three rounds with you at Alison's rooms on the
night of your benefit four years back?"

"Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared the prize-fighter.  "God's
truth! how could I have mistook you?  If instead o' standin'
there so quiet you had just stepped up and given me that cross-
hit of yours under the jaw, I'd ha' known you without a question. 
Ah, you're one that has wasted your gifts, you have!  You might
have aimed high, if you had joined the fancy."

"You see, Watson, if all else fails me I have still one of the
scientific professions open to me," said Holmes, laughing.  "Our
friend won't keep us out in the cold now, I am sure."

"In you come, sir, in you come,--you and your friends," he
answered.  "Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus, but orders are very strict. 
Had to be certain of your friends before I let them in."

Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge
clump of a house, square and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save
where a moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in a garret
window.  The vast size of the building, with its gloom and its
deathly silence, struck a chill to the heart.  Even Thaddeus
Sholto seemed ill at ease, and the lantern quivered and rattled
in his hand.

"I cannot understand it," he said.  "There must be some mistake. 
I distinctly told Bartholomew that we should be here, and yet
there is no light in his window.  I do not know what to make of
it."

"Does he always guard the premises in this way?" asked Holmes.

"Yes; he has followed my father's custom.  He was the favorite
son, you know, and I sometimes think that my father may have told
him more than he ever told me.  That is Bartholomew's window up
there where the moonshine strikes.  It is quite bright, but there
is no light from within, I think."

"None," said Holmes.  "But I see the glint of a light in that
little window beside the door."

"Ah, that is the housekeeper's room.  That is where old Mrs.
Bernstone sits.  She can tell us all about it.  But perhaps you
would not mind waiting here for a minute or two, for if we all go
in together and she has no word of our coming she may be alarmed. 
But hush! what is that?"

He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the circles of
light flickered and wavered all round us.  Miss Morstan seized my
wrist, and we all stood with thumping hearts, straining our ears. 
>From the great black house there sounded through the silent night
the saddest and most pitiful of sounds,--the shrill, broken
whimpering of a frightened woman.

"It is Mrs. Bernstone," said Sholto.  "She is the only woman in
the house.  Wait here.  I shall be back in a moment."  He hurried
for the door, and knocked in his peculiar way.  We could see a
tall old woman admit him, and sway with pleasure at the very
sight of him.

"Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come!  I am so glad
you have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir!"  We heard her reiterated
rejoicings until the door was closed and her voice died away into
a muffled monotone.

Our guide had left us the lantern.  Holmes swung it slowly round,
and peered keenly at the house, and at the great rubbish-heaps
which cumbered the grounds.  Miss Morstan and I stood together,
and her hand was in mine.  A wondrous subtle thing is love, for
here were we two who had never seen each other before that day,
between whom no word or even look of affection had ever passed,
and yet now in an hour of trouble our hands instinctively sought
for each other.  I have marvelled at it since, but at the time it
seemed the most natural thing that I should go out to her so,
and, as she has often told me, there was in her also the instinct
to turn to me for comfort and protection.  So we stood hand in
hand, like two children, and there was peace in our hearts for
all the dark things that surrounded us.

"What a strange place!" she said, looking round.

"It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose
in it.  I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill
near Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work."

"And from the same cause," said Holmes.  "These are the traces of
the treasure-seekers.  You must remember that they were six years
looking for it.  No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-
pit."

At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus
Sholto came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror
in his eyes.

"There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried.  "I am
frightened!  My nerves cannot stand it."  He was, indeed, half
blubbering with fear, and his twitching feeble face peeping out
from the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless appealing
expression of a terrified child.

"Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.

"Yes, do!" pleaded Thaddeus Sholto.  "I really do not feel equal
to giving directions."

We all followed him into the housekeeper's room, which stood upon
the left-hand side of the passage.  The old woman was pacing up
and down with a scared look and restless picking fingers, but the
sight of Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon
her.

"God bless your sweet calm face!" she cried, with an hysterical
sob.  "It does me good to see you.  Oh, but I have been sorely
tried this day!"

Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand, and murmured some
few words of kindly womanly comfort which brought the color back
into the others bloodless cheeks.

"Master has locked himself in and will now answer me," she
explained.  "All day I have waited to hear from him, for he often
likes to be alone; but an hour ago I feared that something was
amiss, so I went up and peeped through the key-hole.  You must go
up, Mr. Thaddeus,--you must go up and look for yourself.  I have
seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto in joy and in sorrow for ten long
years, but I never saw him with such a face on him as that."

Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus
Sholto's teeth were chattering in his head.  So shaken was he
that I had to pass my hand under his arm as we went up the
stairs, for his knees were trembling under him.  Twice as we
ascended Holmes whipped his lens out of his pocket and carefully
examined marks which appeared to me to be mere shapeless smudges
of dust upon the cocoa-nut matting which served as a stair-
carpet.  He walked slowly from step to step, holding the lamp,
and shooting keen glances to right and left.  Miss Morstan had
remained behind with the frightened housekeeper.

The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some
length, with a great picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of
it and three doors upon the left.  Holmes advanced along it in
the same slow and methodical way, while we kept close at his
heels, with our long black shadows streaming backwards down the
corridor.  The third door was that which we were seeking.  Holmes
knocked without receiving any answer, and then tried to turn the
handle and force it open.  It was locked on the inside, however,
and by a broad and powerful bolt, as we could see when we set our
lamp up against it.  The key being turned, however, the hole was
not entirely closed.  Sherlock Holmes bent down to it, and
instantly rose again with a sharp intaking of the breath.

"There is something devilish in this, Watson," said he, more
moved than I had ever before seen him.  "What do you make of it?"

I stooped to the hole, and recoiled in horror.  Moonlight was
streaming into the room, and it was bright with a vague and
shifty radiance.  Looking straight at me, and suspended, as it
were, in the air, for all beneath was in shadow, there hung a
face,--the very face of our companion Thaddeus.  There was the
same high, shining head, the same circular bristle of red hair,
the same bloodless countenance.  The features were set, however,
in a horrible smile, a fixed and unnatural grin, which in that
still and moonlit room was more jarring to the nerves than any
scowl or contortion.  So like was the face to that of our little
friend that I looked round at him to make sure that he was indeed
with us.  Then I recalled to mind that he had mentioned to us
that his brother and he were twins.

"This is terrible!" I said to Holmes.  "What is to be done?"

"The door must come down," he answered, and, springing against
it, he put all his weight upon the lock.  It creaked and groaned,
but did not yield.  Together we flung ourselves upon it once
more, and this time it gave way with a sudden snap, and we found
ourselves within Bartholomew Sholto's chamber.

It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory.  A
double line of glass-stoppered bottles was drawn up upon the wall
opposite the door, and the table was littered over with Bunsen
burners, test-tubes, and retorts.  In the corners stood carboys
of acid in wicker baskets.  One of these appeared to leak or to
have been broken, for a stream of dark-colored liquid had
trickled out from it, and the air was heavy with a peculiarly
pungent, tar-like odor.  A set of steps stood at one side of the
room, in the midst of a litter of lath and plaster, and above
them there was an opening in the ceiling large enough for a man
to pass through.  at the foot of the steps a long coil of rope
was thrown carelessly together.

By the table, in a wooden arm-chair, the master of the house was
seated all in a heap, with his head sunk upon his left shoulder,
and that ghastly, inscrutable smile upon his face.  He was stiff
and cold, and had clearly been dead many hours.  It seemed to me
that not only his features but all his limbs were twisted and
turned in the most fantastic fashion.  By his hand upon the table
there lay a peculiar instrument,--a brown, close-grained stick,
with a stone head like a hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse
twine.  Beside it was a torn sheet of note-paper with some words
scrawled upon it.  Holmes glanced at it, and then handed it to
me.

"You see," he said, with a significant raising of the eyebrows.

In the light of the lantern I read, with a thrill of horror, "The
sign of the four."

"In God's name, what does it all mean?" I asked.

"It means murder," said he, stooping over the dead man.  "Ah, I
expected it.  Look here!"  He pointed to what looked like a long,
dark thorn stuck in the skin just above the ear.

"It looks like a thorn," said I.

"It is a thorn.  You may pick it out.  But be careful, for it is
poisoned."

I took it up between my finger and thumb.  It came away from the
skin so readily that hardly any mark was left behind.  One tiny
speck of blood showed where the puncture had been.

"This is all an insoluble mystery to me," said I.  "It grows
darker instead of clearer."

"On the contrary," he answered, "it clears every instant.  I only
require a few missing links to have an entirely connected case."

We had almost forgotten our companion's presence since we entered
the chamber.  He was still standing in the door-way, the very
picture of terror, wringing his hands and moaning to himself. 
Suddenly, however, he broke out into a sharp, querulous cry.

"The treasure is gone!" he said.  "They have robbed him of the
treasure!  There is the hole through which we lowered it.  I
helped him to do it!  I was the last person who saw him!  I left
him here last night, and I heard him lock the door as I came
down-stairs."

"What time was that?"

"It was ten o'clock.  And now he is dead, and the police will be
called in, and I shall be suspected of having had a hand in it. 
Oh, yes, I am sure I shall.  But you don't think so, gentlemen? 
Surely you don't think that it was I?  Is it likely that I would
have brought you here if it were I?  Oh, dear! oh, dear!  I know
that I shall go mad!"  He jerked his arms and stamped his feet in
a kind of convulsive frenzy.

"You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes, kindly,
putting his hand upon his shoulder.  "Take my advice, and drive
down to the station to report this matter to the police.  Offer
to assist them in every way.  We shall wait here until your
return."

The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we heard
him stumbling down the stairs in the dark.



Chapter VI
Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration



"Now, Watson," said Holmes, rubbing his hands, "we have half an
hour to ourselves.  Let us make good use of it.  My case is, as I
have told you, almost complete; but we must not err on the side
of over-confidence.  Simple as the case seems now, there may be
something deeper underlying it."

"Simple!" I ejaculated.

"Surely," said he, with something of the air of a clinical
professor expounding to his class.  "Just sit in the corner
there, that your footprints may not complicate matters.  Now to
work!  In the first place, how did these folk come, and how did
they go?  The door has not been opened since last night.  How of
the window?"  He carried the lamp across to it, muttering his
observations aloud the while, but addressing them to himself
rather than to me.  "Window is snibbed on the inner side. 
Framework is solid.  No hinges at the side.  Let us open it.  No
water-pipe near.  Roof quite out of reach.  Yet a man has mounted
by the window. It rained a little last night.  Here is the print
of a foot in mould upon the sill.  And here is a circular muddy
mark, and here again upon the floor, and here again by the table. 
See here, Watson!  This is really a very pretty demonstration."

I looked at the round, well-defined muddy discs.  "This is not a
footmark," said I.

"It is something much more valuable to us. It is the impression
of a wooden stump.  You see here on the sill is the boot-mark, a
heavy boot with the broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark
of the timber-toe."

"It is the wooden-legged man."

"Quite so.  But there has been some one else,--a very able and
efficient ally.  Could you scale that wall, doctor?"

I looked out of the open window.  The moon still shone brightly
on that angle of the house.  We were a good sixty feet from the
round, and, look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as
much as a crevice in the brick-work.

"It is absolutely impossible," I answered.

"Without aid it is so.  But suppose you had a friend up here who
lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner,
securing one end of it to this great hook in the wall.  Then, I
think, if you were an active man, You might swarm up, wooden leg
and all.  You would depart, of course, in the same fashion, and
your ally would draw up the rope, untie it from the hook, shut
the window, snib it on the inside, and get away in the way that
he originally came.  As a minor point it may be noted," he
continued, fingering the rope, "that our wooden-legged friend,
though a fair climber, was not a professional sailor.  His hands
were far from horny.  My lens discloses more than one blood-mark,
especially towards the end of the rope, from which I gather that
he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin off his
hand."

"This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more
unintelligible than ever.  How about this mysterious ally?  How
came he into the room?"

"Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively.  "There are features
of interest about this ally.  He lifts the case from the regions
of the commonplace.  I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground
in the annals of crime in this country,--though parallel cases
suggest themselves from India, and, if my memory serves me, from
Senegambia."

"How came he, then?"  I reiterated.  "The door is locked, the
window is inaccessible.  Was it through the chimney?"

The grate is much too small," he answered.  "I had already
considered that possibility."

"How then?" I persisted.

"You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head.  "How
often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the
impossible whatever remains, HOWEVER IMPROBABLE, must be the
truth?  We know that he did not come through the door, the
window, or the chimney.  We also know that he could not have been
concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. 
Whence, then, did he come?"

"He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.

"Of course he did.  He must have done so. If you will have the
kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our
researches to the room above,--the secret room in which the
treasure was found."

He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he
swung himself up into the garret.  Then, lying on his face, he
reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him.

The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one
way and six the other.  The floor was formed by the rafters, with
thin lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step
from beam to beam.  The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently
the inner shell of the true roof of the house.  There was no
furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay
thick upon the floor.

"Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand
against the sloping wall.  "This is a trap-door which leads out
on to the roof.  I can press it back, and here is the roof
itself, sloping at a gentle angle.  This, then, is the way by
which Number One entered.  Let us see if we can find one other
traces of his individuality."

He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for
the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over
his face.  For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold
under my clothes.  The floor was covered thickly with the prints
of a naked foot,--clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but
scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man.

"Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid
thing."

He had recovered his self-possession in an instant.  "I was
staggered for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite
natural.  My memory failed me, or I should have been able to
foretell it.  There is nothing more to be learned here.  Let us
go down."

"What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked,
eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more.

"My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a
touch of impatience.  "You know my methods.  Apply them, and it
will be instructive to compare results."

"I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I
answered.

"It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand
way.  "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but
I will look."  He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and
hurried about the room on his knees, measuring, comparing,
examining, with his long thin nose only a few inches from the
planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a
bird.  So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like
those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent, that I could
not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made had he
turned his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of
exerting them in its defense.  As he hunted about, he kept
muttering to himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow
of delight.

"We are certainly in luck," said he.  "We ought to have very
little trouble now.  Number One has had the misfortune to tread
in the creosote.  You can see the outline of the edge of his
small foot here at the side of this evil-smelling mess.  The
carboy has been cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out."

"What then?" I asked.

"Why, we have got him, that's all," said he.  "I know a dog that
would follow that scent to the world's end.  If a pack can track
a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained
hound follow so pungent a smell as this?  It sounds like a sum in
the rule of three.  The answer should give us the--But halloo!
here are the accredited representatives of the law."

Heavy steps and the clamor of loud voices were audible from
below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash.

"Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this
poor fellow's arm, and here on his leg.  What do you feel?"

"The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered.

"Quite so.  They are in a state of extreme contraction, far
exceeding the usual rigor mortis.  Coupled with this distortion
of the face, this Hippocratic smile, or 'risus sardonicus,' as
the old writers called it, what conclusion would it suggest to
your mind?"

"Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered,--"some
strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus."

"That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the
drawn muscles of the face.  On getting into the room I at once
looked for the means by which the poison had entered the system. 
As you saw, I discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot
with no great force into the scalp.  You observe that the part
struck was that which would be turned towards the hole in the
ceiling if the man were erect in his chair.  Now examine the
thorn."

I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. 
It was long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point
as though some gummy substance had dried upon it.  The blunt end
had been trimmed and rounded off with a knife.

"Is that an English thorn?" he asked.

"No, it certainly is not."

"With all these data you should be able to draw some just
inference.  But here are the regulars:  so the auxiliary forces
may beat a retreat."

As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded
loudly on the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a gray
suit strode heavily into the room.  He was red-faced, burly and
plethoric, with a pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked
keenly out from between swollen and puffy pouches. He was closely
followed by an inspector in uniform, and by the still palpitating
Thaddeus Sholto.

"Here's a business!" he cried, in a muffled, husky voice. 
"Here's a pretty business!  But who are all these?  Why, the
house seems to be as full as a rabbit-warren!"

"I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes,
quietly.

"Why, of course I do!" he wheezed.  "It's Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
the theorist.  Remember you!  I'll never forget how you lectured
us all on causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate
jewel case.  It's true you set us on the right track; but you'll
own now that it was more by good luck than good guidance."

"It was a piece of very simple reasoning."

"Oh, come, now, come!  Never be ashamed to own up.  But what is
all this?  Bad business!  Bad business!  Stern facts here,--no
room for theories.  How lucky that I happened to be out at
Norwood over another case!  I was at the station when the message
arrived.  What d'you think the man died of?"

"Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over," said Holmes,
dryly.

"No, no.  Still, we can't deny that you hit the nail on the head
sometimes.  Dear me!  Door locked, I understand.  Jewels worth
half a million missing.  How was the window?"

"Fastened; but there are steps on the sill."

"Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to
do with the matter.  That's common sense.  Man might have died in
a fit; but then the jewels are missing.  Ha!  I have a theory. 
These flashes come upon me at times.--Just step outside,
sergeant, and you, Mr. Sholto.  Your friend can remain.--What do
you think of this, Holmes?  Sholto was, on his own confession,
with his brother last night.  The brother died in a fit, on which
Sholto walked off with the treasure.  How's that?"

"On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the
door on the inside."

"Hum!  There's a flaw there.  Let us apply common sense to the
matter.  This Thaddeus Sholto WAS with his brother; there WAS a
quarrel; so much we know.  The brother is dead and the jewels are
gone.  So much also we know.  No one saw the brother from the
time Thaddeus left him.  His bed had not been slept in.  Thaddeus
is evidently in a most disturbed state of mind.  His appearance
is--well, not attractive.  You see that I am weaving my web round
Thaddeus.  The net begins to close upon him."

"You are not quite in possession of the facts yet," said Holmes. 
"This splinter of wood, which I have every reason to believe to
be poisoned, was in the man's scalp where you still see the mark;
this card, inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and beside
it lay this rather curious stone-headed instrument.  How does all
that fit into your theory?"

"Confirms it in every respect," said the fat detective,
pompously.  "House is full of Indian curiosities.  Thaddeus
brought this up, and if this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may
as well have made murderous use of it as any other man.  The card
is some hocus-pocus,--a blind, as like as not.  The only question
is, how did he depart?  Ah, of course, here is a hole in the
roof."  With great activity, considering his bulk, he sprang up
the steps and squeezed through into the garret, and immediately
afterwards we heard his exulting voice proclaiming that he had
found the trap-door.

"He can find something," remarked Holmes, shrugging his
shoulders.  "He has occasional glimmerings of reason.  Il n'y a
pas des sots si incommodes que ceux qui ont de l'esprit!"

"You see!" said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps again. 
"Facts are better than mere theories, after all.  My view of the
case is confirmed.  There is a trap-door communicating with the
roof, and it is partly open."

"It was I who opened it."

"Oh, indeed!  You did notice it, then?"  He seemed a little
crestfallen at the discovery.  "Well, whoever noticed it, it
shows how our gentleman got away.  Inspector!"

"Yes, sir," from the passage.

"Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way.--Mr. Sholto, it is my duty to
inform you that anything which you may say will be used against
you.  I arrest you in the queen's name as being concerned in the
death of your brother."

"There, now!  Didn't I tell you!" cried the poor little man,
throwing out his hands, and looking from one to the other of us.

"Don't trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes.  "I
think that I can engage to clear you of the charge."

"Don't promise too much, Mr. Theorist,--don't promise too much!"
snapped the detective.  "You may find it a harder matter than you
think."

"Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you a free
present of the name and description of one of the two people who
were in this room last night.  His name, I have every reason to
believe, is Jonathan Small.  He is a poorly-educated man, small,
active, with his right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which
is worn away upon the inner side.  His left boot has a coarse,
square-toed sole, with an iron band round the heel.  He is a
middle-aged man, much sunburned, and has been a convict.  These
few indications may be of some assistance to you, coupled with
the fact that there is a good deal of skin missing from the palm
of his hand.  The other man--"

"Ah! the other man--?" asked Athelney Jones, in a sneering voice,
but impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the
precision of the other's manner.

"Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon
his heel.  "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you
to the pair of them.--A word with you, Watson."

He led me out to the head of the stair.  "This unexpected
occurrence," he said, "has caused us rather to lose sight of the
original purpose of our journey."

"I have just been thinking so," I answered.  "It is not right
that Miss Morstan should remain in this stricken house."

"No.  You must escort her home.  She lives with Mrs. Cecil
Forrester, in Lower Camberwell:  so it is not very far.  I will
wait for you here if you will drive out again.  Or perhaps you
are too tired?"

"By no means.  I don't think I could rest until I know more of
this fantastic business.  I have seen something of the rough side
of life, but I give you my word that this quick succession of
strange surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely.  I
should like, however, to see the matter through with you, now
that I have got so far."

"Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered.  "We
shall work the case out independently, and leave this fellow
Jones to exult over any mare's-nest which he may choose to
construct.  When you have dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go
on to No. 3 Pinchin Lane, down near the water's edge at Lambeth. 
The third house on the right-hand side is a bird-stuffer's: 
Sherman is the name.  You will see a weasel holding a young
rabbit in the window.  Knock old Sherman up, and tell him, with
my compliments, that I want Toby at once.  You will bring Toby
back in the cab with you."

"A dog, I suppose."

"Yes,--a queer mongrel, with a most amazing power of scent.  I
would rather have Toby's help than that of the whole detective
force of London."

"I shall bring him, then," said I.  "It is one now.  I ought to
be back before three, if I can get a fresh horse."

"And I," said Holmes, "shall see what I can learn from Mrs.
Bernstone, and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tell
me, sleeps in the next garret.  Then I shall study the great
Jones's methods and listen to his not too delicate sarcasms. 
'Wir sind gewohnt das die Menschen verhoehnen was sie nicht
verstehen.'  Goethe is always pithy."



Chapter VII
The Episode of the Barrel



The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted
Miss Morstan back to her home.  After the angelic fashion of
women, she had borne trouble with a calm face as long as there
was some one weaker than herself to support, and I had found her
bright and placid by the side of the frightened housekeeper.  In
the cab, however, she first turned faint, and then burst into a
passion of weeping,--so sorely had she been tried by the
adventures of the night.  She has told me since that she thought
me cold and distant upon that journey.  She little guessed the
struggle within my breast, or the effort of self-restraint which
held me back.  My sympathies and my love went out to her, even as
my hand had in the garden.  I felt that years of the
conventionalities of life could not teach me to know her sweet,
brave nature as had this one day of strange experiences.  Yet
there were two thoughts which sealed the words of affection upon
my lips.  She was weak and helpless, shaken in mind and nerve. 
It was to take her at a disadvantage to obtrude love upon her at
such a time.  Worse still, she was rich.  If Holmes's researches
were successful, she would be an heiress.  Was it fair, was it
honorable, that a half-pay surgeon should take such advantage of
an intimacy which chance had brought about?  Might she not look
upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker?  I could not bear to
risk that such a thought should cross her mind.  This Agra
treasure intervened like an impassable barrier between us.

It was nearly two o'clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. 
The servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been
so interested by the strange message which Miss Morstan had
received that she had sat up in the hope of her return.  She
opened the door herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it
gave me joy to see how tenderly her arm stole round the other's
waist and how motherly was the voice in which she greeted her. 
She was clearly no mere paid dependant, but an honored friend.  I
was introduced, and Mrs. Forrester earnestly begged me to step in
and tell her our adventures.  I explained, however, the
importance of my errand, and promised faithfully to call and
report any progress which we might make with the case.  As we
drove away I stole a glance back, and I still seem to see that
little group on the step, the two graceful, clinging figures, the
half-opened door, the hall light shining through stained glass,
the barometer, and the bright stair-rods.  It was soothing to
catch even that passing glimpse of a tranquil English home in the
midst of the wild, dark business which had absorbed us.

And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and
darker it grew.  I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence of
events as I rattled on through the silent gas-lit streets.  There
was the original problem:  that at least was pretty clear now. 
The death of Captain Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the
advertisement, the letter,--we had had light upon all those
events.  They had only led us, however, to a deeper and far more
tragic mystery.  The Indian treasure, the curious plan found
among Morstan's baggage, the strange scene at Major Sholto's
death, the rediscovery of the treasure immediately followed by
the murder of the discoverer, the very singular accompaniments to
the crime, the footsteps, the remarkable weapons, the words upon
the card, corresponding with those upon Captain Morstan's
chart,--here was indeed a labyrinth in which a man less
singularly endowed than my fellow-lodger might well despair of
ever finding the clue.

Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied brick houses in the
lower quarter of Lambeth.  I had to knock for some time at No. 3
before I could make my impression.  At last, however, there was
the glint of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at
the upper window.

"Go on, you drunken vagabone," said the face.  "If you kick up
any more row I'll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogs
upon you."

"If you'll let one out it's just what I have come for," said I.

"Go on!" yelled the voice.  "So help me gracious, I have a wiper
in the bag, an' I'll drop it on your 'ead if you don't hook it."

"But I want a dog," I cried.

"I won't be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sherman.  "Now stand clear,
for when I say 'three,' down goes the wiper."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes--" I began, but the words had a most magical
effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a
minute the door was unbarred and open.  Mr. Sherman was a lanky,
lean old man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-
tinted glasses.

"A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," said he.  "Step in,
sir.  Keep clear of the badger; for he bites.  Ah, naughty,
naughty, would you take a nip at the gentleman?"  This to a stoat
which thrust its wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its
cage.  "Don't mind that, sir:  it's only a slow-worm.  It hain't
got no fangs, so I gives it the run o' the room, for it keeps the
bettles down.  You must not mind my bein' just a little short wi'
you at first, for I'm guyed at by the children, and there's many
a one just comes down this lane to knock me up.  What was it that
Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, sir?"

"He wanted a dog of yours."

"Ah! that would be Toby."

"Yes, Toby was the name."

"Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here."  He moved slowly forward
with his candle among the queer animal family which he had
gathered round him.  In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see
dimly that there were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at
us from every cranny and corner.  Even the rafters above our
heads were lined by solemn fowls, who lazily shifted their weight
from one leg to the other as our voices disturbed their slumbers.

Toby proved to an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half
spaniel and half lurcher, brown-and-white in color, with a very
clumsy waddling gait.  It accepted after some hesitation a lump
of sugar which the old naturalist handed to me, and, having thus
sealed an alliance, it followed me to the cab, and made no
difficulties about accompanying me.  It had just struck three on
the Palace clock when I found myself back once more at
Pondicherry Lodge.  The ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I found,
been arrested as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had
been marched off to the station.  Two constables guarded the
narrow gate, but they allowed me to pass with the dog on my
mentioning the detective's name.

Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his hands in his
pockets, smoking his pipe.

"Ah, you have him there!" said he.  "Good dog, then!  Atheney
Jones has gone.  We have had an immense display of energy since
you left.  He has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the
gatekeeper, the housekeeper, and the Indian servant.  We have the
place to ourselves, but for a sergeant up-stairs.  Leave the dog
here, and come up."

We tied Toby to the hall table, and reascended the stairs.  The
room was as he had left it, save that a sheet had been draped
over the central figure.  A weary-looking police-sergeant
reclined in the corner.

"Lend me your bull's-eye, sergeant," said my companion.  "Now tie
this bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. 
Thank you.  Now I must kick off my boots and stockings.--Just you
carry them down with you, Watson.  I am going to do a little
climbing.  And dip my handkerchief into the creasote.  That will
do.  Now come up into the garret with me for a moment."

We clambered up through the hole.  Holmes turned his light once
more upon the footsteps in the dust.

"I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. 
"Do you observe anything noteworthy about them?"

"They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."

"Apart from their size, though.  Is there nothing else?"

"They appear to be much as other footmarks."

"Not at all.  Look here!  This is the print of a right foot in
the dust.  Now I make one with my naked foot beside it.  What is
the chief difference?"

"Your toes are all cramped together.  The other print has each
toe distinctly divided."

"Quite so.  That is the point.  Bear that in mind.  Now, would
you kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of
the wood-work?  I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in
my hand."

I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong
tarry smell.

"That is where he put his foot in getting out.  If YOU can trace
him, I should think that Toby will have no difficulty.  Now run
down-stairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin."

By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was
on the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm
crawling very slowly along the ridge.  I lost sight of him behind
a stack of chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then
vanished once more upon the opposite side.  When I made my way
round there I found him seated at one of the corner eaves.

"That You, Watson?" he cried.

"Yes."

"This is the place.  What is that black thing down there?"

"A water-barrel."

"Top on it?"

"Yes."

"No sign of a ladder?"

"No."

"Confound the fellow!  It's a most break-neck place.  I ought to
be able to come down where he could climb up.  The water-pipe
feels pretty firm.  Here goes, anyhow."

There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come
steadily down the side of the wall.  Then with a light spring he
came on to the barrel, and from there to the earth.

"It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings
and boots.  "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his
hurry he had dropped this.  It confirms my diagnosis, as you
doctors express it."

The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch
woven out of colored grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung
round it.  In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. 
Inside were half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end
and rounded at the other, like that which had struck Bartholomew
Sholto.

"They are hellish things," said he.  "Look out that you don't
prick yourself.  I'm delighted to have them, for the chances are
that they are all he has.  There is the less fear of you or me
finding one in our skin before long.  I would sooner face a
Martini bullet, myself.  Are you game for a six-mile trudge,
Watson?"

"Certainly," I answered.

"Your leg will stand it?"

"Oh, yes."

"Here you are, doggy!  Good old Toby!  Smell it, Toby, smell it!" 
He pushed the creasote handkerchief under the dog's nose, while
the creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a
most comical cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the
bouquet of a famous vintage.  Holmes then threw the handkerchief
to a distance, fastened a stout cord to the mongrel's collar, and
let him to the foot of the water-barrel.  The creature instantly
broke into a succession of high, tremulous yelps, and, with his
nose on the ground, and his tail in the air, pattered off upon
the trail at a pace which strained his leash and kept us at the
top of our speed.

The east had been gradually whitening, and we could now see some
distance in the cold gray light.  The square, massive house, with
its black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad
and forlorn, behind us.  Our course let right across the grounds,
in and out among the trenches and pits with which they were
scarred and intersected.  The whole place, with its scattered
dirt-heaps and ill-grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look
which harmonized with the black tragedy which hung over it.

On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly,
underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened
by a young beech.  Where the two walls joined, several bricks had
been loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded
upon the lower side, as though they had frequently been used as a
ladder.  Holmes clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he
dropped it over upon the other side.

"There's the print of wooden-leg's hand," he remarked, as I
mounted up beside him.  "You see the slight smudge of blood upon
the white plaster.  What a lucky thing it is that we have had no
very heavy rain since yesterday!  The scent will lie upon the
road in spite of their eight-and-twenty hours' start."

I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the
great traffic which had passed along the London road in the
interval.  My fears were soon appeased, however.  Toby never
hesitated or swerved, but waddled on in his peculiar rolling
fashion.  Clearly, the pungent smell of the creasote rose high
above all other contending scents.

"Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that I depend for my success in
this case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put
his foot in the chemical.  I have knowledge now which would
enable me to trace them in many different ways.  This, however,
is the readiest and, since fortune has put it into our hands, I
should be culpable if I neglected it.  It has, however, prevented
the case from becoming the pretty little intellectual problem
which it at one time promised to be. There might have been some
credit to be gained out of it, but for this too palpable clue."

"There is credit, and to spare," said I.  "I assure you, Holmes,
that I marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in
this case, even more than I did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. 
The thing seems to me to be deeper and more inexplicable.  How,
for example, could you describe with such confidence the wooden-
legged man?"

"Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself.  I don't wish to
be theatrical.  It is all patent and above-board.  Two officers
who are in command of a convict-guard learn an important secret
as to buried treasure.  A map is drawn for them by an Englishman
named Jonathan Small.  You remember that we saw the name upon the
chart in Captain Morstan's possession.  He had signed it in
behalf of himself and his associates,--the sign of the four, as
he somewhat dramatically called it.  Aided by this chart, the
officers--or one of them--gets the treasure and brings it to
England, leaving, we will suppose, some condition under which he
received it unfulfilled.  Now, then, why did not Jonathan Small
get the treasure himself?  The answer is obvious.  The chart is
dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close association
with convicts.  Jonathan Small did not get the treasure because
he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not get
away."

"But that is mere speculation," said I.

"It is more than that.  It is the only hypothesis which covers
the facts.  Let us see how it fits in with the sequel.  Major
Sholto remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession
of his treasure.  Then he receives a letter from India which
gives him a great fright.  What was that?"

"A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set
free."

"Or had escaped.  That is much more likely, for he would have
known what their term of imprisonment was.  It would not have
been a surprise to him.  What does he do then?  He guards himself
against a wooden-legged man,--a white man, mark you, for he
mistakes a white tradesman for him, and actually fires a pistol
at him.  Now, only one white man's name is on the chart.  The
others are Hindoos or Mohammedans.  There is no other white man. 
Therefore we may say with confidence that the wooden-legged man
is identical with Jonathan Small.  Does the reasoning strike yo
as being faulty?"

"No:  it is clear and concise."

"Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan Small. 
Let us look at it from his point of view.  He comes to England
with the double idea of regaining what he would consider to be
his rights and of having his revenge upon the man who had wronged
him.  He found out where Sholto lived, and very possibly he
established communications with some one inside the house.  There
is this butler, Lal Rao, whom we have not seen.  Mrs. Bernstone
gives him far from a good character. Small could not find out,
however, where the treasure was hid, for no one ever knew, save
the major and one faithful servant who had died.  Suddenly Small
learns that the major is on his death-bed.  In a frenzy lest the
secret of the treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of the
guards, makes his way to the dying man's window, and is only
deterred from entering by the presence of his two sons.  Mad with
hate, however, against the dead man, he enters the room that
night, searches his private papers in the hope of discovering
some memorandum relating to the treasure, and finally leaves a
momento of his visit in the short inscription upon the card.  He
had doubtless planned beforehand that should he slay the major he
would leave some such record upon the body as a sign that it was
not a common murder, but, from the point of view of the four
associates, something in the nature of an act of justice. 
Whimsical and bizarre conceits of this kind are common enough in
the annals of crime, and usually afford valuable indications as
to the criminal.  Do you follow all this?"

"Very clearly."

"Now, what could Jonathan Small do?  He could only continue to
keep a secret watch upon the efforts made to find the treasure. 
Possibly he leaves England and only comes back at intervals. 
Then comes the discovery of the garret, and he is instantly
informed of it.  We again trace the presence of some confederate
in the household.  Jonathan, with his wooden leg, is utterly
unable to reach the lofty room of Bartholomew Sholto.  He takes
with him, however, a rather curious associate, who gets over this
difficulty, but dips his naked foot into creasote, whence come
Toby, and a six-mile limp for a half-pay officer with a damaged
tendo Achillis."

"But it was the associate, and not Jonathan, who committed the
crime."

"Quite so.  And rather to Jonathan's disgust, to judge by the way
the stamped about when he got into the room.  He bore no grudge
against Bartholomew Sholto, and would have preferred if he could
have been simply bound and gagged.  He did not wish to put his
head in a halter.  There was no help for it, however:  the savage
instincts of his companion had broken out, and the poison had
done its work:  so Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the
treasure-box to the ground, and followed it himself.  That was
the train of events as far as I can decipher them.  Of course as
to his personal appearance he must be middle-aged, and must be
sunburned after serving his time in such an oven as the Andamans. 
His height is readily calculated from the length of his stride,
and we know that he was bearded.  His hairiness was the one point
which impressed itself upon Thaddeus Sholto when he saw him at
the window.  I don't know that there is anything else."

"The associate?"

"Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that.  But you will know
all about it soon enough.  How sweet the morning air is!  See how
that one little cloud floats like a pink feather from some
gigantic flamingo.  Now the red rim of the sun pushes itself over
the London cloud-bank.  It shines on a good many folk, but on
none, I dare bet, who are on a stranger errand than you and I. 
How small we feel with our petty ambitions and strivings in the
presence of the great elemental forces of nature!  Are you well
up in your Jean Paul?"

"Fairly so.  I worked back to him through Carlyle."

"That was like following the brook to the parent lake.  He makes
one curious but profound remark.  It is that the chief proof of
man's real greatness lies in his perception of his own smallness. 
It argues, you see, a power of comparison and of appreciation
which is in itself a proof of nobility.  There is much food for
thought in Richter.  You have not a pistol, have you?"

"I have my stick."

"It is just possible that we may need something of the sort if we
get to their lair.  Jonathan I shall leave to you, but if the
other turns nasty I shall shoot him dead."  He took out his
revolver as he spoke, and, having loaded two of the chambers, he
put it back into the right-hand pocket of his jacket.

We had during this time been following the guidance of Toby down
the half-rural villa-lined roads which lead to the metropolis. 
Now, however, we were beginning to come among continuous streets,
where laborers and dockmen were already astir, and slatternly
women were taking down shutters and brushing door-steps.  At the
square-topped corner public houses business was just beginning,
and rough-looking men were emerging, rubbing their sleeves across
their beards after their morning wet.  Strange dogs sauntered up
and stared wonderingly at us as we passed, but our inimitable
Toby looked neither to the right nor to the left, but trotted
onwards with his nose to the ground and an occasional eager whine
which spoke of a hot scent.

We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Camberwell, and now found
ourselves in Kennington Lane, having borne away through the side-
streets to the east of the Oval.  The men whom we pursued seemed
to have taken a curiously zigzag road, with the idea probably of
escaping observation.  They had never kept to the main road if a
parallel side-street would serve their turn.  At the foot of
Kennington Lane they had edged away to the left through Bond
Street and Miles Street.  Where the latter street turns into
Knight's Place, Toby ceased to advance, but began to run
backwards and forwards with one ear cocked and the other
drooping, the very picture of canine indecision.  Then he waddled
round in circles, looking up to us from time to time, as if to
ask for sympathy in his embarrassment.

"What the deuce is the matter with the dog?" growled Holmes. 
"They surely would not take a cab, or go off in a balloon."

"Perhaps they stood here for some time," I suggested.

"Ah! it's all right.  He's off again," said my companion, in a
tone of relief.

He was indeed off, for after sniffing round again he suddenly
made up his mind, and darted away with an energy and
determination such as he had not yet shown.  The scent appeared
to be much hotter than before, for he had not even to put his
nose on the ground, but tugged at his leash and tried to break
into a run.  I cold see by the gleam in Holmes's eyes that he
thought we were nearing the end of our journey.

Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we came to Broderick and
Nelson's large timber-yard, just past the White Eagle tavern. 
Here the dog, frantic with excitement, turned down through the
side-gate into the enclosure, where the sawyers were already at
work.  On the dog raced through sawdust and shavings, down an
alley, round a passage, between two wood-piles, and finally, with
a triumphant yelp, sprang upon a large barrel which still stood
upon the hand-trolley on which it had been brought.  With lolling
tongue and blinking eyes, Toby stood upon the cask, looking from
one to the other of us for some sign of appreciation.  The staves
of the barrel and the wheels of the trolley were smeared with a
dark liquid, and the whole air was heavy with the smell of
creasote.

Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each other, and then
burst simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.



Chapter VIII
The Baker Street Irregulars



"What now?" I asked.  "Toby has lost his character for
infallibility."

"He acted according to his lights," said Holmes, lifting him down
from the barrel and walking him out of the timber-yard.  "If you
consider how much creasote is carted about London in one day, it
is no great wonder that our trail should have been crossed.  It
is much used now, especially for the seasoning of wood.  Poor
Toby is not to blame."

"We must get on the main scent again, I suppose."

"Yes.  And, fortunately, we have no distance to go.  Evidently
what puzzled the dog at the corner of Knight's Place was that
there were two different trails running in opposite directions. 
We took the wrong one.  It only remains to follow the other."

There was no difficulty about this.  On leading Toby to the place
where he had committed his fault, he cast about in a wide circle
and finally dashed off in a fresh direction.

"We must take care that he does not now bring us to the place
where the creasote-barrel came from," I observed.

"I had thought of that.  But you notice that he keeps on the
pavement, whereas the barrel passed down the roadway.  No, we are
on the true scent now."

It tended down towards the river-side, running through Belmont
Place and Prince's Street.  At the end of Broad Street it ran
right down to the water's edge, where there was a small wooden
wharf.  Toby led us to the very edge of this, and there stood
whining, looking out on the dark current beyond.

"We are out of luck," said Holmes.  "They have taken to a boat
here."  Several small punts and skiffs were lying about in the
water and on the edge of the wharf.  We took Toby round to each
in turn, but, though he sniffed earnestly, he made no sign.

Close to the rude landing-stage was a small brick house, with a
wooden placard slung out through the second window.  "Mordecai
Smith" was printed across it in large letters, and, underneath,
"Boats to hire by the hour or day."  A second inscription above
the door informed us that a steam launch was kept,--a statement
which was confirmed by a great pile of coke upon the jetty. 
Sherlock Holmes looked slowly round, and his face assumed an
ominous expression.

"This looks bad," said he.  "These fellows are sharper than I
expected.  They seem to have covered their tracks.  There has, I
fear, been preconcerted management here."

He was approaching the door of the house, when it opened, and a
little, curly-headed lad of six came running out, followed by a
stoutish, red-faced woman with a large sponge in her hand.

"You come back and be washed, Jack," she shouted.  "Come back,
you young imp; for if your father comes home and finds you like
that, he'll let us hear of it."

"Dear little chap!" said Holmes, strategically.  "What a rosy-
cheeked young rascal!  Now, Jack, is there anything you would
like?"

The youth pondered for a moment.  "I'd like a shillin'," said he.

"Nothing you would like better?"

"I'd like two shillin' better," the prodigy answered, after some
thought.

"Here you are, then!  Catch!--A fine child, Mrs. Smith!"

"Lor' bless you, sir, he is that, and forward.  He gets a'most
too much for me to manage, 'specially when my man is away days at
a time."

"Away, is he?" said Holmes, in a disappointed voice.  "I am sorry
for that, for I wanted to speak to Mr. Smith."

"He's been away since yesterday mornin', sir, and, truth to tell,
I am beginnin' to feel frightened about him.  But if it was about
a boat, sir, maybe I could serve as well."

"I wanted to hire his steam launch."

"Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that he has gone. 
That's what puzzles me; for I know there ain't more coals in her
than would take her to about Woolwich and back.  If he'd been
away in the barge I'd ha' thought nothin'; for many a time a job
has taken him as far as Gravesend, and then if there was much
doin' there he might ha' stayed over.  But what good is a steam
launch without coals?"

"He might have bought some at a wharf down the river."

"He might, sir, but it weren't his way.  Many a time I've heard
him call out at the prices they charge for a few odd bags. 
Besides, I don't like that wooden-legged man, wi' his ugly face
and outlandish talk.  What did he want always knockin' about here
for?"

"A wooden-legged man?" said Holmes, with bland surprise.

"Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that's called more'n once
for my old man.  It was him that roused him up yesternight, and,
what's more, my man knew he was comin', for he had steam up in
the launch.  I tell you straight, sir, I don't feel easy in my
mind about it."

"But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders,
"You are frightening yourself about nothing.  How could you
possibly tell that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the
night?  I don't quite understand how you can be so sure."

"His voice, sir.  I knew his voice, which is kind o' thick and
foggy.  He tapped at the winder,--about three it would be.  'Show
a leg, matey,' says he:  'time to turn out guard.'  My old man
woke up Jim,--that's my eldest,--and away they went, without so
much as a word to me.  I could hear the wooden leg clackin' on
the stones."

"And was this wooden-legged man alone?"

"Couldn't say, I am sure, sir.  I didn't hear no one else."

"I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have
heard good reports of the--Let me see, what is her name?"

"The Aurora, sir."

"Ah!  She's not that old green launch with a yellow line, very
broad in the beam?"

"No, indeed.  She's as trim a little thing as any on the river. 
She's been fresh painted, black with two red streaks."

"Thanks.  I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith.  I am
going down the river; and if I should see anything of the Aurora
I shall let him know that you are uneasy.  A black funnel, you
say?"

"No, sir.  Black with a white band."

"Ah, of course.  It was the sides which were black.  Good-
morning, Mrs. Smith.--There is a boatman here with a wherry,
Watson.  We shall take it and cross the river.

"The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat
in the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that
their information can be of the slightest importance to you.  If
you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster.  If you
listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to
get what you want."

"Our course now seems pretty clear," said I.

"What would you do, then?"

"I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of
the Aurora."

"My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task.  She may have
touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here
and Greenwich.  Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of
landing-places for miles.  It would take yo days and days to
exhaust them, if you set about it alone."

"Employ the police, then."

"No.  I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. 
He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything
which would injure him professionally.  But I have a fancy for
working it out myself, now that we have gone so far."

"Could we advertise, then, asking for information from
wharfingers?"

"Worse and worse!  Our men would know that the chase was hot at
their heels, and they would be off out of the country.  As it is,
they are likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they
are perfectly safe they will be in no hurry.  Jones's energy will
be of use to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push
itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think that
every one is off on the wrong scent."

"What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank
Penitentiary.

"Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an
hour's sleep.  It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-
night again.  Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby!  We will keep
Toby, for he may be of use to us yet."

We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes
despatched his wire.  "Whom do you think that is to?" he asked,
as we resumed our journey.

"I am sure I don't know."

"You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police
force whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?"

"Well," said I, laughing.

"This is just the case where they might be invaluable.  If they
fail, I have other resources; but I shall try them first.  That
wire was to my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect
that he and his gang will be with us before we have finished our
breakfast."

It was between eight and nine o'clock now, and I was conscious of
a strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. 
I was limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body.  I
had not the professional enthusiasm which carried my companion
on, nor could I look at the matter as a mere abstract
intellectual problem.  As far as the death of Bartholomew Sholto
went, I had heard little good of him, and could feel no intense
antipathy to his murderers.  The treasure, however, was a
different matter.  That, or part of it, belonged rightfully to
Miss Morstan.  While there was a chance of recovering it I was
ready to devote my life to the one object.  True, if I found it
it would probably put her forever beyond my reach.  Yet it would
be a petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a
thought as that.  If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I
had a tenfold stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure.

A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up
wonderfully.  When I came down to our room I found the breakfast
laid and Homes pouring out the coffee.

"Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to an open
newspaper.  "The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have
fixed it up between them.  But you have had enough of the case. 
Better have your ham and eggs first."

I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was
headed "Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood."

"About twelve o'clock last night," said the Standard, "Mr.
Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was
found dead in his room under circumstances which point to foul
play.  As far as we can learn, no actual traces of violence were
found upon Mr. Sholto's person, but a valuable collection of
Indian gems which the deceased gentleman had inherited from his
father has been carried off.  The discovery was first made by Mr.
Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, who had called at the house with
Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother of the deceased.  By a singular
piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney Jones, the well-known member
of the detective police force, happened to be at the Norwood
Police Station, and was on the ground within half an hour of the
first alarm.  His trained and experienced faculties were at once
directed towards the detection of the criminals, with the
gratifying result that the brother, Thaddeus Sholto, has already
been arrested, together with the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, an
Indian butler named Lal Rao, and a porter, or gatekeeper, named
McMurdo.  It is quite certain that the thief or thieves were well
acquainted with the house, for Mr. Jones's well-known technical
knowledge and his powers of minute observation have enabled him
to prove conclusively that the miscreants could not have entered
by the door or by the window, but must have made their way across
the roof of the building, and so through a trap-door into a room
which communicated with that in which the body was found.  This
fact, which has been very clearly made out, proves conclusively
that it was no mere haphazard burglary.  The prompt and energetic
action of the officers of the law shows the great advantage of
the presence on such occasions of a single vigorous and masterful
mind.  We cannot but think that it supplies an argument to those
who would wish to see our detectives more decentralized, and so
brought into closer and more effective touch with the cases which
it is their duty to investigate."

"Isn't it gorgeous!" said Holmes, grinning over his coffee-cup. 
"What do you think of it?"

I think that we have had a close shave ourselves of being
arrested for the crime."

"So do I.  I wouldn't answer for our safety now, if he should
happen to have another of his attacks of energy."

At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell, and I could
hear Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, raising her voice in a wail of
expostulation and dismay.

"By heaven, Holmes," I said, half rising, "I believe that they
are really after us."

"No, it's not quite so bad as that.  It is the unofficial
force,--the Baker Street irregulars."

As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked feet upon the
stairs, a clatter of high voices, and in rushed a dozen dirty and
ragged little street-Arabs.  There was some show of discipline
among them, despite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly
drew up in line and stood facing us with expectant faces.  One of
their number, taller and older than the others, stood forward
with an air of lounding superiority which was very funny in such
a disreputable little carecrow.

"Got your message, sir," said he, "and brought 'em on sharp. 
Three bob and a tanner for tickets."

"Here you are," said Holmes, producing some silver.  "In future
they can report to you, Wiggins, and you to me.  I cannot have
the house invaded in this way.  However, it is just as well that
you should all hear the instructions.  I want to find the
whereabouts of a steam launch called the Aurora, owner Mordecai
Smith, black with two red streaks, funnel black with a white
band.  She is down the river somewhere.  I want one boy to be at
Mordecai Smith's landing-stage opposite Millbank to say if the
boat comes back.  You must divide it out among yourselves, and do
both banks thoroughly.  Let me know the moment yo have news.  Is
that all clear?"

"Yes, guv'nor," said Wiggins.

"The old scale of pay, and a guinea to the boy who finds the
boat.  Here's a day in advance.  Now off you go!"  He handed them
a shilling each, and away they buzzed down the stairs, and I saw
them a moment later streaming down the street.

"If the launch is above water they will find her," said Holmes,
as he rose from the table and lit his pipe.  "They can go
everywhere, see everything, overhear every one.  I expect to hear
before evening that they have spotted her.  In the mean while, we
can do nothing but await results.  We cannot pick up the broken
trail until we find either the Aurora or Mr. Mordecai Smith."

"Toby could eat these scraps, I dare say.  Are you going to bed,
Holmes?"

"No:  I am not tired.  I have a curious constitution.  I never
remember feeling tired by work, though idleness exhausts me
completely.  I am going to smoke and to think over this queer
business to which my fair client has introduced us.  If ever man
had an easy task, this of ours ought to be.  Wooden-legged men
are not so common, but the other man must, I should think, be
absolutely unique."

"That other man again!"

"I have no wish to make a mystery of him,--to you, anyway.  But
you must have formed your own opinion.  Now, do consider the
data.  Diminutive footmarks, toes never fettered by boots, naked
feet, stone-headed wooden mace, great agility, small poisoned
darts.  What do you make of all this?"

"A savage!" I exclaimed.  "Perhaps one of those Indians who were
the associates of Jonathan Small."

"Hardly that," said he.  "When first I saw signs of strange
weapons I was inclined to think so; but the remarkable character
of the footmarks caused me to reconsider my views.  Some of the
inhabitants of the Indian Peninsula are small men, but none could
have left such marks as that.  The Hindoo proper has long and
thin feet.  The sandal-wearing Mohammedan has the great toe well
separated from the others, because the thong is commonly passed
between.  These little darts, too, could only be shot in one way. 
They are from a blow-pipe.  Now, then, where are we to find our
savage?"

"South American," I hazarded.

He stretched his hand up, and took down a bulky volume from the
shelf.  "This is the first volume of a gazetteer which is now
being published.  It may be looked upon as the very latest
authority.  What have we here?  'Andaman Islands, situated 340
miles to the north of Sumatra, in the Bay of Bengal.'  Hum! hum! 
What's all this?  Moist climate, coral reefs, sharks, Port Blair,
convict-barracks, Rutland Island, cottonwoods--Ah, here we are. 
'The aborigines of the Andaman Islands may perhaps claim the
distinction of being the smallest race upon this earth, though
some anthropologists prefer the Bushmen of Africa, the Digger
Indians of America, and the Terra del Fuegians.  The average
height is rather below four feet, although many full-grown adults
may be found who are very much smaller than this.  They are a
fierce, morose, and intractable people, though capable of forming
most devoted friendships when their confidence has once been
gained.'  Mark that, Watson.  Now, then, listen to this.  'They
are naturally hideous, having large, misshapen heads, small,
fierce eyes, and distorted features.  Their feet and hands,
however, are remarkably small.  So intractable and fierce are
they that all the efforts of the British official have failed to
win them over in any degree.  They have always been a terror to
shipwrecked crews, braining the survivors with their stone-headed
clubs, or shooting them with their poisoned arrows.  These
massacres are invariably concluded by a cannibal feast.'  Nice,
amiable people, Watson!  If this fellow had been left to his own
unaided devices this affair might have taken an even more ghastly
turn.  I fancy that, even as it is, Jonathan Small would give a
good deal not to have employed him."

"But how came he to have so singular a companion?"

"Ah, that is more than I can tell.  Since, however, we had
already determined that Small had come from the Andamans, it is
not so very wonderful that this islander should be with him.  No
doubt we shall now all about it in time.  Look here, Watson; you
look regularly done.  Lie down there on the sofa, and see if I
can put you to sleep."

He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself
out he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air,--his own,
no doubt, for he had a remarkable gift for improvisation.  I have
a vague remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face, and the
rise and fall of his bow.  Then I seemed to be floated peacefully
away upon a soft sea of sound, until I found myself in dream-
land, with the sweet face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me.



Chapter IX
A Break in the Chain



It was late in the afternoon before I woke, strengthened and
refreshed.  Sherlock Holmes still sat exactly as I had left him,
save that he had laid aside his violin and was deep in a book. 
He looked across at me, as I stirred, and I noticed that his face
was dark and troubled.

"You have slept soundly," he said.  "I feared that our talk would
wake you."

"I heard nothing," I answered.  "Have you had fresh news, then?"

"Unfortunately, no.  I confess that I am surprised and
disappointed.  I expected something definite by this time. 
Wiggins has just been up to report.  He says that no trace can be
found of the launch.  It is a provoking check, for every hour is
of importance."

"Can I do anything?  I am perfectly fresh now, and quite ready
for another night's outing."

"No, we can do nothing.  We can only wait.  If we go ourselves,
the message might come in our absence, and delay be caused.  You
can do what you will, but I must remain on guard."

"Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call upon Mrs. Cecil
Forrester.  She asked me to, yesterday."

"On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?" asked Holmes, with the twinkle of a
smile in his eyes.

"Well, of course Miss Morstan too.  They were anxious to hear
what happened."

"I would not tell them too much," said Holmes.  "Women are never
to be entirely trusted,--not the best of them."

I did not pause to argue over this atrocious sentiment.  "I shall
be back in an hour or two," I remarked.

"All right!  Good luck!  But, I say, if you are crossing the
river you may as well return Toby, for I don't think it is at all
likely that we shall have any use for him now."

I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, together with a
half-sovereign, at the old naturalist's in Pinchin Lane.  At
Camberwell I found Miss Morstan a little weary after her night's
adventures, but very eager to hear the news.  Mrs. Forrester,
too, was full of curiosity.  I told them all that we had done,
suppressing, however, the more dreadful parts of the tragedy. 
Thus, although I spoke of Mr. Sholto's death, I said nothing of
the exact manner and method of it.  With all my omissions,
however, there was enough to startle and amaze them.

"It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester.  "An injured lady, half
a million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged
ruffian.  They take the place of the conventional dragon or
wicked earl."

"And two knight-errants to the rescue," added Miss Morstan, with
a bright glance at me.

"Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of this search. 
I don't think that you are nearly excited enough.  Just imagine
what it must be to be so rich, and to have the world at your
feet!"

It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she
showed no sign of elation at the prospect.  On the contrary, she
gave a toss of her proud head, as though the matter were one in
which she took small interest.

"It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious," she said. 
"Nothing else is of any consequence; but I think that he has
behaved most kindly and honorably throughout.  It is our duty to
clear him of this dreadful and unfounded charge."

It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite dark by the
time I reached home.  My companion's book and pipe lay by his
chair, but he had disappeared.  I looked about in the hope of
seeing a note, but there was none.

"I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone out," I said to Mrs.
Hudson as she came up to lower the blinds.

"No, sir.  He has gone to his room, sir.  Do you know, sir,"
sinking her voice into an impressive whisper, "I am afraid for
his health?"

"Why so, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well, he's that strange, sir.  After you was gone he walked and
he walked, up and down, and up and down, until I was weary of the
sound of his footstep.  Then I heard him talking to himself and
muttering, and every time the bell rang out he came on the
stairhead, with 'What is that, Mrs. Hudson?'  And now he has
slammed off to his room, but I can hear him walking away the same
as ever.  I hope he's not going to be ill, sir.  I ventured to
say something to him about cooling medicine, but he turned on me,
sir, with such a look that I don't know how ever I got out of the
room."

"I don't think that you have any cause to be uneasy, Mrs.
Hudson," I answered.  "I have seen him like this before.  He has
some small matter upon his mind which makes him restless."  I
tried to speak lightly to our worthy landlady, but I was myself
somewhat uneasy when through the long night I still from time to
time heard the dull sound of his tread, and knew how his keen
spirit was chafing against this involuntary inaction.

At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard, with a little fleck
of feverish color upon either cheek.

"You are knocking yourself up, old man," I remarked.  "I heard
you marching about in the night."

"No, I could not sleep," he answered.  "This infernal problem is
consuming me.  It is too much to be balked by so petty an
obstacle, when all else had been overcome.  I know the men, the
launch, everything; and yet I can get no news.  I have set other
agencies at work, and used every means at my disposal.  The whole
river has been searched on either side, but there is no news, nor
has Mrs. Smith heard of her husband.  I shall come to the
conclusion soon that they have scuttled the craft.  But there are
objections to that."

"Or that Mrs. Smith has put us on a wrong scent."

"No, I think that may be dismissed.  I had inquiries made, and
there is a launch of that description."

"Could it have gone up the river?"

"I have considered that possibility too, and there is a search-
party who will work up as far as Richmond.  If no news comes to-
day, I shall start off myself to-morrow, and go for the men
rather than the boat.  But surely, surely, we shall hear
something."

We did not, however.  Not a word came to us either from Wiggins
or from the other agencies.  There were articles in most of the
papers upon the Norwood tragedy.  They all appeared to be rather
hostile to the unfortunate Thaddeus Sholto.  No fresh details
were to be found, however, in any of them, save that an inquest
was to be held upon the following day.  I walked over to
Camberwell in the evening to report our ill success to the
ladies, and on my return I found Holmes dejected and somewhat
morose.  He would hardly reply to my questions, and busied
himself all evening in an abstruse chemical analysis which
involved much heating of retorts and distilling of vapors, ending
at last in a smell which fairly drove me out of the apartment. 
Up to the small hours of the morning I could hear the clinking of
his test-tubes which told me that he was still engaged in his
malodorous experiment.

In the early dawn I woke with a start, and was surprised to find
him standing by my bedside, clad in a rude sailor dress with a
pea-jacket, and a coarse red scarf round his neck.

"I am off down the river, Watson," said he.  "I have been turning
it over in my mind, and I can see only one way out of it.  It is
worth trying, at all events."

"Surely I can come with you, then?" said I.

"No; you can be much more useful if you will remain here as my
representative.  I am loath to go, for it is quite on the cards
that some message may come during the day, though Wiggins was
despondent about it last night. I want you to open all notes and
telegrams, and to act on your own judgment if any news should
come.  Can I rely upon you?"

"Most certainly."

"I am afraid that you will not be able to wire to me, for I can
hardly tell yet where I may find myself.  If I am in luck,
however, I may not be gone so very long.  I shall have news of
some sort or other before I get back."

I had heard nothing of him by breakfast-time.  On opening the
Standard, however, I found that there was a fresh allusion to the
business.  "With reference to the Upper Norwood tragedy," it
remarked, "we have reason to believe that the matter promises to
be even more complex and mysterious than was originally supposed. 
Fresh evidence has shown that it is quite impossible that Mr.
Thaddeus Sholto could have been in any way concerned in the
matter.  He and the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, were both
released yesterday evening.  It is believed, however, that the
police have a clue as to the real culprits, and that it is being
prosecuted by Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard, with all his
well-known energy and sagacity.  Further arrests may be expected
at any moment."

"That is satisfactory so far as it goes," thought I.  "Friend
Sholto is safe, at any rate.  I wonder what the fresh clue may
be; though it seems to be a stereotyped form whenever the police
have made a blunder."

I tossed the paper down upon the table, but at that moment my eye
caught an advertisement in the agony column.  It ran in this way:

"Lost.--Whereas Mordecai Smith, boatman, and his son, Jim, left
Smith's Wharf at or about three o'clock last Tuesday morning in
the steam launch Aurora, black with two red stripes, funnel black
with a white band, the sum of five pounds will be paid to any one
who can give information to Mrs. Smith, at Smith's Wharf, or at
221b Baker Street, as to the whereabouts of the said Mordecai
Smith and the launch Aurora."

This was clearly Holmes's doing.  The Baker Street address was
enough to prove that.  It struck me as rather ingenious, because
it might be read by the fugitives without their seeing in it more
than the natural anxiety of a wife for her missing husband.

It was a long day.  Every time that a knock came to the door, or
a sharp step passed in the street, I imagined that it was either
Holmes returning or an answer to his advertisement.  I tried to
read, but my thoughts would wander off to our strange quest and
to the ill-assorted and villainous pair whom we were pursuing. 
Could there be, I wondered, some radical flaw in my companion's
reasoning.  Might he be suffering from some huge self-deception? 
Was it not possible that his nimble and speculative mind had
built up this wild theory upon faulty premises?  I had never
known him to be wrong; and yet the keenest reasoner may
occasionally be deceived.  He was likely, I thought, to fall into
error through the over-refinement of his logic,--his preference
for a subtle and bizarre explanation when a plainer and more
commonplace one lay ready to his hand.  Yet, on the other hand, I
had myself seen the evidence, and I had heard the reasons for his
deductions.  When I looked back on the long chain of curious
circumstances, many of them trivial in themselves, but all
tending in the same direction, I could not disguise from myself
that even if Holmes's explanation were incorrect the true theory
must be equally outre and startling.

At three o'clock in the afternoon there was a loud peal at the
bell, an authoritative voice in the hall, and, to my surprise, no
less a person than Mr. Athelney Jones was shown up to me.  Very
different was he, however, from the brusque and masterful
professor of common sense who had taken over the case so
confidently at Upper Norwood.  His expression was downcast, and
his bearing meek and even apologetic.

"Good-day, sir; good-day," said he.  "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is out,
I understand."

"Yes, and I cannot be sure when he will be back.  But perhaps you
would care to wait.  Take that chair and try one of these
cigars."

"Thank you; I don't mind if I do," said he, mopping his face with
a red bandanna handkerchief.

"And a whiskey-and-soda?"

"Well, half a glass.  It is very hot for the time of year; and I
have had a good deal to worry and try me.  You know my theory
about this Norwood case?"

"I remember that you expressed one."

"Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it.  I had my net drawn
tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when pop he went through a hole in
the middle of it.  He was able to prove an alibi which could not
be shaken.  From the time that he left his brother's room he was
never out of sight of some one or other.  So it could not be he
who climbed over roofs and through trap-doors.  It's a very dark
case, and my professional credit is at stake.  I should be very
glad of a little assistance."

"We all need help sometimes," said I.

"Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful man, sir," said
he, in a husky and confidential voice.  "He's a man who is not to
be beat.  I have known that young man go into a good many cases,
but I never saw the case yet that he could not throw a light
upon.  He is irregular in his methods, and a little quick perhaps
in jumping at theories, but, on the whole, I think he would have
made a most promising officer, and I don't care who knows it.  I
have had a wire from him this morning, by which I understand that
he has got some clue to this Sholto business.  Here is the
message."

He took the telegram out of his pocket, and handed it to me.  It
was dated from Poplar at twelve o'clock.  "Go to Baker Street at
once," it said.  "If I have not returned, wait for me.  I am
close on the track of the Sholto gang.  You can come with us to-
night if you want to be in at the finish."

"This sounds well.  He has evidently picked up the scent again,"
said I.

"Ah, then he has been at fault too," exclaimed Jones, with
evident satisfaction.  "Even the best of us are thrown off
sometimes.  Of course this may prove to be a false alarm; but it
is my duty as an officer of the law to allow no chance to slip. 
But there is some one at the door.  Perhaps this is he."

A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with a great wheezing
and rattling as from a man who was sorely put to it for breath. 
Once or twice he stopped, as though the climb were too much for
him, but at last he made his way to our door and entered.  His
appearance corresponded to the sounds which we had heard.  He was
an aged man, clad in seafaring garb, with an old pea-jacket
buttoned up to his throat.  His back was bowed, his knees were
shaky, and his breathing was painfully asthmatic.  As he leaned
upon a thick oaken cudgel his shoulders heaved in the effort to
draw the air into his lungs.  He had a colored scarf round his
chin, and I could see little of his face save a pair of keen dark
eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, and long gray side-whiskers. 
Altogether he gave me the impression of a respectable master
mariner who had fallen into years and poverty.

"What is it, my man?" I asked.

He looked about him in the slow methodical fashion of old age.

"Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?" said he.

"No; but I am acting for him.  You can tell me any message you
have for him."

"It was to him himself I was to tell it," said he.

"But I tell you that I am acting for him.  Was it about Mordecai
Smith's boat?"

"Yes.  I knows well where it is.  An' I knows where the men he is
after are.  An' I knows where the treasure is.  I knows all about
it."

"Then tell me, and I shall let him know."

"It was to him I was to tell it," he repeated, with the petulant
obstinacy of a very old man.

"Well, you must wait for him."

"No, no; I ain't goin' to lose a whole day to please no one.  If
Mr. Holmes ain't here, then Mr. Holmes must find it all out for
himself.  I don't care about the look of either of you, and I
won't tell a word."

He shuffled towards the door, but Athelney Jones got in front of
him.

"Wait a bit, my friend," said he.  "You have important
information, and you must not walk off.  We shall keep you,
whether you like or not, until our friend returns."

The old man made a little run towards the door, but, as Athelney
Jones put his broad back up against it, he recognized the
uselessness of resistance.

"Pretty sort o' treatment this!" he cried, stamping his stick. 
"I come here to see a gentleman, and you two, who I never saw in
my life, seize me and treat me in this fashion!"

"You will be none the worse," I said.  "We shall recompense you
for the loss of your time.  Sit over here on the sofa, and you
will not have long to wait."

He came across sullenly enough, and seated himself with his face
resting on his hands.  Jones and I resumed our cigars and our
talk.  Suddenly, however, Holmes's voice broke in upon us.

"I think that you might offer me a cigar too," he said.

We both started in our chairs.  There was Holmes sitting close to
us with an air of quiet amusement.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed.  "You here!  But where is the old man?"

"Here is the old man," said he, holding out a heap of white hair. 
"Here he is,--wig, whiskers, eyebrows, and all.  I thought my
disguise was pretty good, but I hardly expected that it would
stand that test."

"Ah, You rogue!" cried Jones, highly delighted.  "You would have
made an actor, and a rare one.  You had the proper workhouse
cough, and those weak legs of yours are worth ten pound a week. 
I thought I knew the glint of your eye, though.  You didn't get
away from us so easily, You see."

"I have been working in that get-up all day," said he, lighting
his cigar.  "You see, a good many of the criminal classes begin
to know me,--especially since our friend here took to publishing
some of my cases:  so I can only go on the war-path under some
simple disguise like this.  You got my wire?"

"Yes; that was what brought me here."

"How has your case prospered?"

"It has all come to nothing.  I have had to release two of my
prisoners, and there is no evidence against the other two."

"Never mind.  We shall give you two others in the place of them. 
But you must put yourself under my orders.  You are welcome to
all the official credit, but you must act on the line that I
point out.  Is that agreed?"

"Entirely, if you will help me to the men."

"Well, then, in the first place I shall want a fast police-boat--
a steam launch--to be at the Westminster Stairs at seven
o'clock."

"That is easily managed.  There is always one about there; but I
can step across the road and telephone to make sure."

"Then I shall want two stanch men, in case of resistance."

"There will be two or three in the boat.  What else?"

"When we secure the men we shall get the treasure.  I think that
it would be a pleasure to my friend here to take the box round to
the young lady to whom half of it rightfully belongs.  Let her be
the first to open it.--Eh, Watson?"

"It would be a great pleasure to me."

"Rather an irregular proceeding," said Jones, shaking his head. 
"However, the whole thing is irregular, and I suppose we must
wink at it.  The treasure must afterwards be handed over to the
authorities until after the official investigation."

"Certainly.  That is easily managed.  One other point.  I should
much like to have a few details about this matter from the lips
of Jonathan Small himself.  You know I like to work the detail of
my cases out.  There is no objection to my having an unofficial
interview with him, either here in my rooms or elsewhere, as long
as he is efficiently guarded?"

"Well, you are master of the situation.  I have had no proof yet
of the existence of this Jonathan Small.  However, if you can
catch him I don't see how I can refuse you an interview with
him."

"That is understood, then?"

"Perfectly.  Is there anything else?"

"Only that I insist upon your dining with us.  It will be ready
in half an hour.  I have oysters and a brace of grouse, with
something a little choice in white wines.--Watson, you have never
yet recognized my merits as a housekeeper."



Chapter X
The End of the Islander



Our meal was a merry one.  Holmes coud talk exceedingly well when
he chose, and that night he did choose.  He appeared to be in a
state of nervous exaltation.  I have never known him so
brilliant.  He spoke on a quick succession of subjects,--on
miracle-plays, on medieval pottery, on Stradivarius violins, on
the Buddhism of Ceylon, and on the war-ships of the future,--
handling each as though he had made a special study of it.  His
bright humor marked the reaction from his black depression of the
preceding days.  Athelney Jones proved to be a sociable soul in
his hours of relaxation, and face his dinner with the air of a
bon vivant.  For myself, I felt elated at the thought that we
were nearing the end of our task, and I caught something of
Holmes's gaiety.  None of us alluded during dinner to the cause
which had brought us together.

When the cloth was cleared, Holmes glanced at this watch, and
filled up three glasses with port.  "One bumper," said he, "to
the success of our little expedition.  And now it is high time we
were off.  Have you a pistol, Watson?"

"I have my old service-revolver in my desk."

"You had best take it, then.  It is well to be prepared.  I see
that the cab is at the door.  I ordered it for half-past six."

It was a little past seven before we reached the Westminster
wharf, and found our launch awaiting us.  Holmes eyed it
critically.

"Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?"

"Yes,--that green lamp at the side."

"Then take it off."

The small change was made, we stepped on board, and the ropes
were cast off.  Jones, Holmes, and I sat in the stern.  There was
one man at the rudder, one to tend the engines, and two burly
police-inspectors forward.

"Where to?" asked Jones.

"To the Tower.  Tell them to stop opposite Jacobson's Yard."

Our craft was evidently a very fast one.  We shot past the long
lines of loaded barges as though they were stationary.  Holmes
smiled with satisfaction as we overhauled a river steamer and
left her behind us.

"We ought to be able to catch anything on the river," he said.

"Well, hardly that.  But there are not many launches to beat us."

"We shall have to catch the Aurora, and she has a name for being
a clipper.  I will tell you how the land lies, Watson.  You
recollect how annoyed I was at being balked by so small a thing?"

"Yes."

"Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical
analysis.  One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change
of work is the best rest.  So it is.  When I had succeeded in
dissolving the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to
our problem of the Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out
again.  My boys had been up the river and down the river without
result.  The launch was not at any landing-stage or wharf, nor
had it returned.  Yet it could hardly have been scuttled to hide
their traces,--though that always remained as a possible
hypothesis if all else failed.  I knew this man Small had a
certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable of
anything in the nature of delicate finesse.  That is usually a
product of higher education.  I then reflected that since he had
certainly been in London some time--as we had evidence that he
maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge--he could
hardly leave at a moment's notice, but would need some little
time, if it were only a day, to arrange his affairs.  That was
the balance of probability, at any rate."

"It seems to me to be a little weak," said I.  "It is more
probable that he had arranged his affairs before ever he set out
upon his expedition."

"No, I hardly think so.  This lair of his would be too valuable a
retreat in case of need for him to give it up until he was sure
that he could do without it.  But a second consideration struck
me.  Jonathan Small must have felt that the peculiar appearance
of his companion, however much he may have top-coated him, would
give rise to gossip, and possibly be associated with this Norwood
tragedy.  He was quite sharp enough to see that.  They had
started from their head-quarters under cover of darkness, and he
would wish to get back before it was broad light.  Now, it was
past three o'clock, according to Mrs. Smith, when they got the
boat.  It would be quite bright, and people would be about in an
hour or so.  Therefore, I argued, they did not go very far.  They
paid Smith well to hold his tongue, reserved his launch for the
final escape, and hurried to their lodgings with the treasure-
box.  In a couple of nights, when they had time to see what view
the papers took, and whether there was any suspicion, they would
make their way under cover of darkness to some ship at Gravesend
or in the Downs, where no doubt they had already arranged for
passages to America or the Colonies."

"But the launch?  They could not have taken that to their
lodgings."

"Quite so.  I argued that the launch must be no great way off, in
spite of its invisibility.  I then put myself in the place of
Small, and looked at it as a man of his capacity would.  He would
probably consider that to send back the launch or to keep it at a
wharf would make pursuit easy if the police did happen to get on
his track.  How, then, could he conceal the launch and yet have
her at hand when wanted?  I wondered what I should do myself if I
were in his shoes.  I could only think of one way of doing it.  I
might land the launch over to some boat-builder or repairer, with
directions to make a trifling change in her.  She would then be
removed to his shed or hard, and so be effectually concealed,
while at the same time I could have her at a few hours' notice."

"That seems simple enough."

"It is just these very simple things which are extremely liable
to be overlooked.  However, I determined to act on the idea.  I
started at once in this harmless seaman's rig and inquired at all
the yards down the river.  I drew blank at fifteen, but at the
sixteenth--Jacobson's--I learned that the Aurora had been handed
over to them two days ago by a wooden-legged man, with some
trivial directions as to her rudder.  'There ain't naught amiss
with her rudder,' said the foreman.  'There she lies, with the
red streaks.'  At that moment who should come down but Mordecai
Smith, the missing owner?  He was rather the worse for liquor.  I
should not, of course, have known him, but he bellowed out his
name and the name of his launch.  'I want her to-night at eight
o'clock,' said he,--'eight o'clock sharp, mind, for I have two
gentlemen who won't be kept waiting.'  They had evidently paid
him well, for he was very flush of money, chucking shillings
about to the men.  I followed him some distance, but he subsided
into an ale-house:  so I went back to the yard, and, happening to
pick up one of my boys on the way, I stationed him as a sentry
over the launch.  He is to stand at water's edge and wave his
handkerchief to us when they start.  We shall be lying off in the
stream, and it will be a strange thing if we do not take men,
treasure, and all."

"You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right
men or not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I
should have had a body of police in Jacobson's Yard, and arrested
them when they came down."

"Which would have been never.  This man Small is a pretty shrewd
fellow.  He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him
suspicious lie snug for another week."

"But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to
their hiding-place," said I.

"In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a
hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live.  As long as
he has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions?  They
send him messages what to do.  No, I thought over every possible
course, and this is the best."

While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting
the long series of bridges which span the Thames.  As we passed
the City the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the
summit of St. Paul's.  It was twilight before we reached the
Tower.

"That is Jacobson's Yard," said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of
masts and rigging on the Surrey side.  "Cruise gently up and down
here under cover of this string of lighters."  He took a pair of
night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. 
"I see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a
handkerchief."

"Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them,"
said Jones, eagerly.  We were all eager by this time, even the
policemen and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was
going forward.

"We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered. 
"It is certainly ten to one that they go down-stream, but we
cannot be certain.  From this point we can see the entrance of
the yard, and they can hardly see us.  It will be a clear night
and plenty of light.  We must stay where we are.  See how the
folk swarm over yonder in the gaslight."

"They are coming from work in the yard."

"Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little
immortal spark concealed about him.  You would not think it, to
look at them.  There is no a priori probability about it.  A
strange enigma is man!"

"Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal," I suggested.

"Winwood Reade is good upon the subject," said Holmes.  "He
remarks that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in
the aggregate he becomes a mathematical certainty.  You can, for
example, never foretell what any one man will do, but you can say
with precision what an average number will be up to.  Individuals
vary, but percentages remain constant.  So says the statistician. 
But do I see a handkerchief?  Surely there is a white flutter
over yonder."

"Yes, it is your boy," I cried.  "I can see him plainly."

"And there is the Aurora," exclaimed Holmes, "and going like the
devil!  Full speed ahead, engineer.  Make after that launch with
the yellow light.  By heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she
proves to have the heels of us!"

She had slipped unseen through the yard-entrance and passed
behind two or three small craft, so that she had fairly got her
speed up before we saw her.  Now she was flying down the stream,
near in to the shore, going at a tremendous rate.  Jones looked
gravely at her and shook his head.

"She is very fast," he said.  "I doubt if we shall catch her."

"We MUST catch her!" cried Holmes, between his teeth.  "Heap it
on, stokers!  Make her do all she can!  If we burn the boat we
must have them!"

We were fairly after her now.  The furnaces roared, and the
powerful engines whizzed and clanked, like a great metallic
heart.  Her sharp, steep prow cut through the river-water and
sent two rolling waves to right and to left of us.  With every
throb of the engines we sprang and quivered like a living thing. 
One great yellow lantern in our bows threw a long, flickering
funnel of light in front of us.  Right ahead a dark blur upon the
water showed where the Aurora lay, and the swirl of white foam
behind her spoke of the pace at which she was going.  We flashed
past barges, steamers, merchant-vessels, in and out, behind this
one and round the other.  Voices hailed us out of the darkness,
but still the Aurora thundered on, and still we followed close
upon her track.

"Pile it on, men, pile it on!" cried Holmes, looking down into
the engine-room, while the fierce glow from below beat upon his
eager, aquiline face.  "Get every pound of steam you can."

"I think we gain a little," said Jones, with his eyes on the
Aurora.

"I am sure of it," said I.  "We shall be up with her in a very
few minutes."

At that moment, however, as our evil fate would have it, a tug
with three barges in tow blundered in between us.  It was only by
putting our helm hard down that we avoided a collision, and
before we could round them and recover our way the Aurora had
gained a good two hundred yards.  She was still, however, well in
view, and the murky uncertain twilight was setting into a clear
starlit night.  Our boilers were strained to their utmost, and
the frail shell vibrated and creaked with the fierce energy which
was driving us along.  We had shot through the Pool, past the
West India Docks, down the long Deptford Reach, and up again
after rounding the Isle of Dogs.  The dull blur in front of us
resolved itself now clearly enough into the dainty Aurora.  Jones
turned our search-light upon her, so that we could plainly see
the figures upon her deck.  One man sat by the stern, with
something black between his knees over which he stooped.  Beside
him lay a dark mass which looked like a Newfoundland dog.  The
boy held the tiller, while against the red glare of the furnace I
could see old Smith, stripped to the waist, and shovelling coals
for dear life.  They may have had some doubt at first as to
whether we were really pursuing them, but now as we followed
every winding and turning which they took there could no longer
be any question about it.  At Greenwich we were about three
hundred paces behind them.  At Blackwall we could not have been
more than two hundred and fifty.  I have coursed many creatures
in many countries during my checkered career, but never did sport
give me such a wild thrill as this mad, flying man-hunt down the
Thames.  Steadily we drew in upon them, yard by yard.  In the
silence of the night we could hear the panting and clanking of
their machinery.  The man in the stern still crouched upon the
deck, and his arms were moving as though he were busy, while
every now and then he would look up and measure with a glance the
distance which still separated us.  Nearer we came and nearer. 
Jones yelled to them to stop.  We were not more than four boat's
lengths behind them, both boats flying at a tremendous pace.  It
was a clear reach of the river, with Barking Level upon one side
and the melancholy Plumstead Marshes upon the other.  At our hail
the man in the stern sprang up from the deck and shook his two
clinched fists at us, cursing the while in a high, cracked voice. 
He was a good-sized, powerful man, and as he stood poising
himself with legs astride I could see that from the thigh
downwards there was but a wooden stump upon the right side.  At
the sound of his strident, angry cries there was movement in the
huddled bundle upon the deck.  It straightened itself into a
little black man--the smallest I have ever seen--with a great,
misshapen head and a shock of tangled, dishevelled hair.  Holmes
had already drawn his revolver, and I whipped out mine at the
sight of this savage, distorted creature.  He was wrapped in some
sort of dark ulster or blanket, which left only his face exposed;
but that face was enough to give a man a sleepless night.  Never
have I seen features so deeply marked with all bestiality and
cruelty.  His small eyes glowed and burned with a sombre light,
and his thick lips were writhed back from his teeth, which
grinned and chattered at us with a half animal fury.

"Fire if he raises his hand," said Holmes, quietly.  We were
within a boat's-length by this time, and almost within touch of
our quarry.  I can see the two of them now as they stood, the
white man with his legs far apart, shrieking out curses, and the
unhallowed dwarf with his hideous face, and his strong yellow
teeth gnashing at us in the light of our lantern.

It was well that we had so clear a view of him.  Even as we
looked he plucked out from under his covering a short, round
piece of wood, like a school-ruler, and clapped it to his lips. 
Our pistols rang out together.  He whirled round, threw up his
arms, and with a kind of choking cough fell sideways into the
stream.  I caught one glimpse of his venomous, menacing eyes amid
the white swirl of the waters.  At the same moment the wooden-
legged man threw himself upon the rudder and put it hard down, so
that his boat made straight in for the southern bank, while we
shot past her stern, only clearing her by a few feet.  We were
round after her in an instant, but she was already nearly at the
bank.  It was a wild and desolate place, where the moon glimmered
upon a wide expanse of marsh-land, with pools of stagnant water
and beds of decaying vegetation.  The launch with a dull thud ran
up upon the mud-bank, with her bow in the air and her stern flush
with the water.  The fugitive sprang out, but his stump instantly
sank its whole length into the sodden soil.  In vain he struggled
and writhed.  Not one step could he possibly take either forwards
or backwards.  He yelled in impotent rage, and kicked frantically
into the mud with his other foot, but his struggles only bored
his wooden pin the deeper into the sticky bank.  When we brought
our launch alongside he was so firmly anchored that it was only
by throwing the end of a rope over his shoulders that we were
able to haul him out, and to drag him, like some evil fish, over
our side.  The two Smiths, father and son, sat sullenly in their
launch, but came aboard meekly enough when commanded.  The Aurora
herself we hauled off and made fast to our stern.  A solid iron
chest of Indian workmanship stood upon the deck.  This, there
could be no question, was the same that had contained the ill-
omened treasure of the Sholtos.  There was no key, but it was of
considerable weight, so we transferred it carefully to our own
little cabin.  As we steamed slowly up-stream again, we flashed
our search-light in every direction, but there was no sign of the
Islander.  Somewhere in the dark ooze at the bottom of the Thames
lie the bones of that strange visitor to our shores.


"See here," said Holmes, pointing to the wooden hatchway.  "We
were hardly quick enough with our pistols."  There, sure enough,
just behind where we had been standing, stuck one of those
murderous darts which we knew so well.  It must have whizzed
between us at the instant that we fired.  Holmes smiled at it and
shrugged his shoulders in his easy fashion, but I confess that it
turned me sick to think of the horrible death which had passed so
close to us that night.



Chapter XI
The Great Agra Treasure



Our captive sat in the cabin opposite to the iron box which he
had done so much and waited so long to gain.  He was a sunburned,
reckless-eyed fellow, with a net-work of lines and wrinkles all
over his mahogany features, which told of a hard, open-air life. 
There was a singular prominence about his bearded chin which
marked a man who was not to be easily turned from his purpose. 
His age may have been fifty or thereabouts, for his black, curly
hair was thickly shot with gray.  His face in repose was not an
unpleasing one, though his heavy brows and aggressive chin gave
him, as I had lately seen, a terrible expression when moved to
anger.  He sat now with his handcuffed hands upon his lap, and
his head sunk upon his breast, while he looked with his keen,
twinkling eyes at the box which had been the cause of his ill-
doings.  It seemed to me that there was more sorrow than anger in
his rigid and contained countenance.  Once he looked up at me
with a gleam of something like humor in his eyes.

"Well, Jonathan Small," said Holmes, lighting a cigar, "I am
sorry that it has come to this."

"And so am I, sir," he answered, frankly.  "I don't believe that
I can swing over the job.  I give you my word on the book that I
never raised hand against Mr. Sholto.  It was that little hell-
hound Tonga who shot one of his cursed darts into him.  I had no
part in it, sir.  I was as grieved as if it had been my blood-
relation.  I welted the little devil with the slack end of the
rope for it, but it was done, and I could not undo it again."

"Have a cigar," said Holmes; "and you had best take a pull out of
my flask, for you are very wet.  How could you expect so small
and weak a man as this black fellow to overpower Mr. Sholto and
hold him while you were climbing the rope?"

"You seem to know as much about it as if you were there, sir. 
The truth is that I hoped to find the room clear.  I knew the
habits of the house pretty well, and it was the time when Mr.
Sholto usually went down to his supper.  I shall make no secret
of the business.  The best defence that I can make is just the
simple truth.  Now, if it had been the old major I would have
swung for him with a light heart.  I would have thought no more
of knifing him than of smoking this cigar.  But it's cursed hard
that I should be lagged over this young Sholto, with whom I had
no quarrel whatever."

"You are under the charge of Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland
Yard.  He is going to bring you up to my rooms, and I shall ask
you for a true account of the matter.  You must make a clean
breast of it, for if you do I hope that I may be of use to you. 
I think I can prove that the poison acts so quickly that the man
was dead before ever you reached the room."

"That he was, sir.  I never got such a turn in my life as when I
saw him grinning at me with his head on his shoulder as I climbed
through the window.  It fairly shook me, sir.  I'd have half
killed Tonga for it if he had not scrambled off.  That was how he
came to leave his club, and some of his darts too, as he tells
me, which I dare say helped to put you on our track; though how
you kept on it is more than I can tell.  I don't feel no malice
against you for it.  But it does seem a queer thing," he added,
with a bitter smile, "that I who have a fair claim to nigh upon
half a million of money should spend the first half of my life
building a breakwater in the Andamans, and am like to spend the
other half digging drains at Dartmoor.  It was an evil day for me
when first I clapped eyes upon the merchant Achmet and had to do
with the Agra treasure, which never brought anything but a curse
yet upon the man who owned it.  To him it brought murder, to
Major Sholto it brought fear and guilt, to me it has meant
slavery for life."

At this moment Athelney Jones thrust his broad face and heavy
shoulders into the tiny cabin.  "Quite a family party," he
remarked.  "I think I shall have a pull at that flask, Holmes. 
Well, I think we may all congratulate each other.  Pity we didn't
take the other alive; but there was no choice.  I say, Holmes,
you must confess that you cut it rather fine.  It was all we
could do to overhaul her."

"All is well that ends well," said Holmes.  "But I certainly did
not know that the Aurora was such a clipper."

"Smith says she is one of the fastest launches on the river, and
that if he had had another man to help him with the engines we
should never have caught her.  He swears he knew nothing of this
Norwood business."

"Neither he did," cried our prisoner,--"not a word.  I chose his
launch because I heard that she was a flier.  We told him
nothing, but we paid him well, and he was to get something
handsome if we reached our vessel, the Esmeralda, at Gravesend,
outward bound for the Brazils."

"Well, if he has done no wrong we shall see that no wrong comes
to him.  If we are pretty quick in catching our men, we are not
so quick in condemning them."  It was amusing to notice how the
consequential Jones was already beginning to give himself airs on
the strength of the capture.  From the slight smile which played
over Sherlock Holmes's face, I could see that the speech had not
been lost upon him.

"We will be at Vauxhall Bridge presently," said Jones, "and shall
land you, Dr. Watson, with the treasure-box.  I need hardly tell
you that I am taking a very grave responsibility upon myself in
doing this.  It is most irregular; but of course an agreement is
an agreement.  I must, however, as a matter of duty, send an
inspector with you, since you have so valuable a charge.  You
will drive, no doubt?"

"Yes, I shall drive."

"It is a pity there is no key, that we may make an inventory
first.  You will have to break it open.  Where is the key, my
man?"

"At the bottom of the river," said Small, shortly.

"Hum!  There was no use your giving this unnecessary trouble.  We
have had work enough already through you.  However, doctor, I
need not warn you to be careful.  Bring the box back with you to
the Baker Street rooms.  You will find us there, on our way to
the station."

They landed me at Vauxhall, with my heavy iron box, and with a
bluff, genial inspector as my companion.  A quarter of an hour's
drive brought us to Mrs. Cecil Forrester's.  The servant seemed
surprised at so late a visitor.  Mrs. Cecil Forrester was out for
the evening, she explained, and likely to be very late.  Miss
Morstan, however, was in the drawing-room:  so to the drawing-
room I went, box in hand, leaving the obliging inspector in the
cab.

She was seated by the open window, dressed n some sort of white
diaphanous material, with a little touch of scarlet at the neck
and waist.  The soft light of a shaded lamp fell upon her as she
leaned back in the basket chair, playing over her sweet, grave
face, and tinting with a dull, metallic sparkle the rich coils of
her luxuriant hair.  One white arm and hand drooped over the side
of the chair, and her whole pose and figure spoke of an absorbing
melancholy.  At the sound of my foot-fall she sprang to her feet,
however, and a bright flush of surprise and of pleasure colored
her pale cheeks.

"I heard a cab drive up," she said.  "I thought that Mrs.
Forrester had come back very early, but I never dreamed that it
might be you.  What news have you brought me?"

"I have brought something better than news," said I, putting down
the box upon the table and speaking jovially and boisterously,
though my heart was heavy within me.  "I have brought you
something which is worth all the news in the world.  I have
brought you a fortune."

She glanced at iron box.  "Is that the treasure, then?" she
asked, coolly enough.

"Yes, this is the great Agra treasure.  Half of it is yours and
half is Thaddeus Sholto's.  You will have a couple of hundred
thousand each.  Think of that!  An annuity of ten thousand
pounds.  There will be few richer young ladies in England.  Is it
not glorious?"

I think that I must have been rather overacting my delight, and
that she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw
her eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously.

"If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you."

"No, no," I answered, "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock
Holmes.  With all the will in the world, I could never have
followed up a clue which has taxed even his analytical genius. 
As it was, we very nearly lost it at the last moment."

"Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson," said she.

I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her last,--
Holmes's new method of search, the discovery of the Aurora, the
appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and
the wild chase down the Thames.  She listened with parted lips
and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures.  When I spoke
of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white
that I feared that she was about to faint.

"It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some
water.  "I am all right again.  It was a shock to me to hear that
I had placed my friends in such horrible peril."

"That is all over," I answered.  "It was nothing.  I will tell
you no more gloomy details.  Let us turn to something brighter. 
There is the treasure.  What could be brighter than that?  I got
leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to
be the first to see it."

"It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said.  There
was no eagerness in her voice, however.  It had struck her,
doubtless, that it might seem ungracious upon her part to be
indifferent to a prize which had cost so much to win.

"What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it.  This is Indian
work, I suppose?"

"Yes; it is Benares metal-work."

And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it.  "The box alone
must be of some value.  Where is the key?"

"Small threw it into the Thames," I answered.  "I must borrow
Mrs. Forrester's poker."  There was in the front a thick and
broad hasp, wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha.  Under this
I thrust the end of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. 
The hasp sprang open with a loud snap.  With trembling fingers I
flung back the lid.  We both stood gazing in astonishment.  The
box was empty!

No wonder that it was heavy.  The iron-work was two-thirds of an
inch thick all round.  It was massive, well made, and solid, like
a chest constructed to carry things of great price, but not one
shred or crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it.  It was
absolutely and completely empty.

"The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly.

As I listened to the words and realized what they meant, a great
shadow seemed to pass from my soul.  I did not know how this Agra
treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally
removed.  It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could
realize nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from
between us.  "Thank God!" I ejaculated from my very heart.

She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile.  "Why do you
say that?" she asked.

"Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. 
She did not withdraw it.  "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as
ever a man loved a woman.  Because this treasure, these riches,
sealed my lips.  Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love
you.  That is why I said, 'Thank God.'"

"Then I say, 'Thank God,' too," she whispered, as I drew her to
my side.  Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I
had gained one.



Chapter XII
The Strange Story of Jonathan Small



A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a
weary time before I rejoined him.  His face clouded over when I
showed him the empty box.

"There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily.  "Where there is no
money there is no pay.  This night's work would have been worth a
tenner each to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there."

"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said.  "He will see that
you are rewarded, treasure or no."

The inspector shook his head despondently, however.  "It's a bad
job," he repeated; "and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think."

His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank
enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box. 
They had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for
they had changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a
station upon the way.  My companion lounged in his arm-chair with
his usual listless expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite
to him with his wooden leg cocked over his sound one.  As I
exhibited the empty box he leaned back in his chair and laughed
aloud.

"This is your doing, Small," said Athelney Jones, angrily.

"Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay hand upon it,"
he cried, exultantly.  "It is my treasure; and if I can't have
the loot I'll take darned good care that no one else does.  I
tell you that no living man has any right to it, unless it is
three men who are in the Andaman convict-barracks and myself.  I
know now that I cannot have the use of it, and I know that they
cannot.  I have acted all through for them as much as for myself. 
It's been the sign of four with us always.  Well I know that they
would have had me do just what I have done, and throw the
treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to kith or kin of
Sholto or of Morstan.  It was not to make them rich that we did
for Achmet.  You'll find the treasure where the key is, and where
little Tonga is.  When I saw that your launch must catch us, I
put the loot away in a safe place.  There are no rupees for you
this journey."

"You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly.  "If
you had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames it would
have been easier for you to have thrown box and all."

"Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover," he
answered, with a shrewd, sidelong look.  "The man that was clever
enough to hunt me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from
the bottom of a river.  Now that they are scattered over five
miles or so, it may be a harder job.  It went to my heart to do
it, though.  I was half mad when you came up with us.  However,
there's no good grieving over it.  I've had ups in my life, and
I've had downs, but I've learned not to cry over spilled milk."

"This is a very serious matter, Small," said the detective.  "If
you had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you
would have had a better chance at your trial."

"Justice!" snarled the ex-convict.  "A pretty justice!  Whose
loot is this, if it is not ours?  Where is the justice that I
should give it up to those who have never earned it?  Look how I
have earned it!  Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp,
all day at work under the mangrove-tree, all night chained up in
the filthy convict-huts, bitten by mosquitoes, racked with ague,
bullied by every cursed black-faced policeman who loved to take
it out of a white man.  That was how I earned the Agra treasure;
and you talk to me of justice because I cannot bear to feel that
I have paid this price only that another may enjoy it!  I would
rather swing a score of times, or have one of Tonga's darts in my
hide, than live in a convict's cell and feel that another man is
at his ease in a palace with the money that should be mine." 
Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this came out in
a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the handcuffs
clanked together with the impassioned movement of his hands.  I
could understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the man,
that it was no groundless or unnatural terror which had possessed
Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict was
upon his track.

'You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes
quietly.  "We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how
far justice may originally have been on your side."

"Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can
see that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my
wrists.  Still, I bear no grudge for that.  It is all fair and
above-board.  If you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold
it back. What I say to you is God's truth, every word of it. 
Thank you; you can put the glass beside me here, and I'll put my
lips to it if I am dry.

"I am a Worcestershire man myself,--born near Pershore.  I dare
say you would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were
to look.  I have often thought of taking a look round there, but
the truth is that I was never much of a credit to the family, and
I doubt if they would be so very glad to see me.  They were all
steady, chapel-going folk, small farmers, well known and
respected over the country-side, while I was always a bit of a
rover.  At last, however, when I was about eighteen, I gave them
no more trouble, for I got into a mess over a girl, and could
only get out of it again by taking the queen's shilling and
joining the 3d Buffs, which was just starting for India.

"I wasn't destined to do much soldiering, however.  I had just
got past the goose-step, and learned to handle my musket, when I
was fool enough to go swimming in the Ganges.  Luckily for me, my
company sergeant, John Holder, was in the water at the same time,
and he was one of the finest swimmers in the service.  A
crocodile took me, just as I was half-way across, and nipped off
my right leg as clean as a surgeon could have done it, just above
the knee.  What with the shock and the loss of blood, I fainted,
and should have drowned if Holder had not caught hold of me and
paddled for the bank. I was five months in hospital over it, and
when at last I was able to limp out of it with this timber toe
strapped to my stump I found myself invalided out of the army and
unfitted for any active occupation.

"I was, as you can imagine, pretty down on my luck at this time,
for I was a useless cripple though not yet in my twentieth year. 
However, my misfortune soon proved to be a blessing in disguise. 
A man named Abelwhite, who had come out there as an indigo-
planter, wanted an overseer to look after his coolies and keep
them up to their work.  He happened to be a friend of our
colonel's, who had taken an interest in me since the accident. 
To make a long story short, the colonel recommended me strongly
for the post and, as the work was mostly to be done on horseback,
my leg was no great obstacle, for I had enough knee left to keep 
good grip on the saddle.  What I had to do was to ride over the
plantation, to keep an eye on the men as they worked, and to
report the idlers.  The pay was fair, I had comfortable quarters,
and altogether I was content to spend the remainder of my life in
indigo-planting.  Mr. Abelwhite was a kind man, and he would
often drop into my little shanty and smoke a pipe with me, for
white folk out there feel their hearts warm to each other as they
never do here at home.

"Well, I was never in luck's way long.  Suddenly, without a note
of warning, the great mutiny broke upon us.  One month India lay
as still and peaceful, to all appearance, as Surrey or Kent; the
next there were two hundred thousand black devils let loose, and
the country was a perfect hell.  Of course you know all about it,
gentlemen,--a deal more than I do, very like, since reading is
not in my line.  I only know what I saw with my own eyes.  Our
plantation was at a place called Muttra, near the border of the
Northwest Provinces.  Night after night the whole sky was alight
with the burning bungalows, and day after day we had small
companies of Europeans passing through our estate with their
wives and children, on their way to Agra, where were the nearest
troops.  Mr. Abelwhite was an obstinate man.  He had it in his
head that the affair had been exaggerated, and that it would blow
over as suddenly as it had sprung up.  There he sat on his
veranda, drinking whiskey-pegs and smoking cheroots, while the
country was in a blaze about him.  Of course we stuck by him, I
and Dawson, who, with his wife, used to do the book-work and the
managing.  Well, one fine day the crash came.  I had been away on
a distant plantation, and was riding slowly home in the evening,
when my eye fell upon something all huddled together at the
bottom of a steep nullah.  I rode down to see what it was, and
the cold struck through my heart when I found it was Dawson's
wife, all cut into ribbons, and half eaten by jackals and native
dogs.  A little further up the road Dawson himself was lying on
his face, quite dead, with an empty revolver in his hand and four
Sepoys lying across each other in front of him.  I reined up my
horse, wondering which way I should turn, but at that moment I
saw thick smoke curling up from Abelwhite's bungalow and the
flames beginning to burst through the roof.  I knew then that I
could do my employer no good, but would only throw my own life
away if I meddled in the matter.  From where I stood I could see
hundreds of the black fiends, with their red coats still on their
backs, dancing and howling round the burning house.  Some of them
pointed at me, and a couple of bullets sang past my head; so I
broke away across the paddy-fields, and found myself late at
night safe within the walls at Agra.

"As it proved, however, there was no great safety there, either. 
The whole country was up like a swarm of bees.  Wherever the
English could collect in little bands they held just the ground
that their guns commanded.  Everywhere else they were helpless
fugitives.  It was a fight of the millions against the hundreds;
and the cruellest part of it was that these men that we fought
against, foot, horse, and gunners, were our own picked troops,
whom we had taught and trained, handling our own weapons, and
blowing our own bugle-calls.  At Agra there were the 3d Bengal
Fusiliers, some Sikhs, two troops of horse, and a battery of
artillery.  A volunteer corps of clerks and merchants had been
formed, and this I joined, wooden leg and all.  We went out to
meet the rebels at Shahgunge early in July, and we beat them back
for a time, but our powder gave out, and we had to fall back upon
the city.  Nothing but the worst news came to us from every
side,--which is not to be wondered at, for if you look at the map
you will see that we were right in the heart of it.  Lucknow is
rather better than a hundred miles to the east, and Cawnpore
about as far to the south.  From every point on the compass there
was nothing but torture and murder and outrage.

"The city of Agra is a great place, swarming with fanatics and
fierce devil-worshippers of all sorts.  Our handful of men were
lost among the narrow, winding streets.  Our leader moved across
the river, therefore, and took up his position in the old fort at
Agra.  I don't know if any of you gentlemen have ever read or
heard anything of that old fort.  It is a very queer place,--the
queerest that ever I was in, and I have been in some rum corners,
too.  First of all, it is enormous in size.  I should think that
the enclosure must be acres and acres.  There is a modern part,
which took all our garrison, women, children, stores, and
everything else, with plenty of room over.  But the modern part
is nothing like the size of the old quarter, where nobody goes,
and which is given over to the scorpions and the centipedes.  It
is all full of great deserted halls, and winding passages, and
long corridors twisting in and out, so that it is easy enough for
folk to get lost in it.  For this reason it was seldom that any
one went into it, though now and again a party with torches might
go exploring.

"The river washes along the front of the old fort, and so
protects it, but on the sides and behind there are many doors,
and these had to be guarded, of course, in the old quarter as
well as in that which was actually held by our troops.  We were
short-handed, with hardly men enough to man the angles of the
building and to serve the guns.  It was impossible for us,
therefore, to station a strong guard at every one of the
innumerable gates.  What we did was to organize a central guard-
house in the middle of the fort, and to leave each gate under the
charge of one white man and two or three natives.  I was selected
to take charge during certain hours of the night of a small
isolated door upon the southwest side of the building.  Two Sikh
troopers were placed under my command, and I was instructed if
anything went wrong to fire my musket, when I might rely upon
help coming at once from the central guard.  As the guard was a
good two hundred paces away, however, and as the space between
was cut up into a labyrinth of passages and corridors, I had
great doubts as to whether they could arrive in time to be of any
use in case of an actual attack.

"Well, I was pretty proud at having this small command given me,
since I was a raw recruit, and a game-legged one at that.  For
two nights I kept the watch with my Punjaubees.  They were tall,
fierce-looking chaps, Mahomet Singh and Abdullah Khan by name,
both old fighting-men who had borne arms against us at Chilian-
wallah.  They could talk English pretty well, but I could get
little out of them.  They preferred to stand together and jabber
all night in their queer Sikh lingo.  For myself, I used to stand
outside the gate-way, looking down on the broad, winding river
and on the twinkling lights of the great city.  The beating of
drums, the rattle of tomtoms, and the yells and howls of the
rebels, drunk with opium and with bang, were enough to remind us
all night of our dangerous neighbors across the stream.  Every
two hours the officer of the night used to come round to all the
posts, to make sure that all was well.

"The third night of my watch was dark and dirty, with a small,
driving rain.  It was dreary work standing in the gate-way hour
after hour in such weather.  I tried again and again to make my
Sikhs talk, but without much success.  At two in the morning the
rounds passed, and broke for a moment the weariness of the night. 
Finding that my companions would not be led into conversation, I
took out my pipe, and laid down my musket to strike the match. 
In an instant the two Sikhs were upon me.  One of them snatched
my firelock up and levelled it at my head, while the other held a
great knife to my throat and swore between his teeth that he
would plunge it into me if I moved a step.

"My first thought was that these fellows were in league with the
rebels, and that this was the beginning of an assault.  If our
door were in the hands of the Sepoys the place must fall,and the
women and children be treated as they were in Cawnpore.  Maybe
you gentlemen think that I am just making out a case for myself,
but I give you my word that when I thought of that, though I felt
the point of the knife at my throat, I opened my mouth with the
intention of giving a scream, if it was my last one, which might
alarm the main guard.  The man who held me seemed to know my
thoughts; for, even as I braced myself to it, he whispered,
'Don't make a noise.  The fort is safe enough.  There are no
rebel dogs on this side of the river.'  There was the ring of
truth in what he said, and I knew that if I raised my voice I was
a dead man.  I could read it in the fellow's brown eyes.  I
waited, therefore, in silence, to see what it was that they
wanted from me.

"'Listen to me, Sahib,' said the taller and fiercer of the pair,
the one whom they called Abdullah Khan.  'You must either be with
us now or you must be silenced forever.  The thing is too great a
one for us to hesitate.  Either you are heart and soul with us on
your oath on the cross of the Christians, or your body this night
shall be thrown into the ditch and we shall pass over to our
brothers in the rebel army.  There is no middle way.  Which is it
to be, death or life?  We can only give you three minutes to
decide, for the time is passing, and all must be done before the
rounds come again.'

"'How can I decide?' said I.  'You have not told me what you want
of me.  But I tell you know that if it is anything against the
safety of the fort I will have no truck with it, so you can drive
home your knife and welcome.'

"'It is nothing against the fort,' said he.  'We only ask you to
do that which your countrymen come to this land for.  We ask you
to be rich.  If you will be one of us this night, we will swear
to you upon the naked knife, and by the threefold oath which no
Sikh was ever known to break, that you shall have your fair share
of the loot.  A quarter of the treasure shall be yours.  We can
say no fairer.'

"'But what is the treasure, then?' I asked.  'I am as ready to be
rich as you can be, if you will but show me how it can be done.'

"'You will swear, then,' said he, 'by the bones of your father,
by the honor of your mother, by the cross of your faith, to raise
no hand and speak no word against us, either now or afterwards?'

"'I will swear it,' I answered, 'provided that the fort is not
endangered.'

"'Then my comrade and I will swear that you shall have a quarter
of the treasure which shall be equally divided among the four of
us.'

"'There are but three,' said I.

"'No; Dost Akbar must have his share.  We can tell the tale to
you while we await them.  Do you stand at the gate, Mahomet
Singh, and give notice of their coming.  The thing stands thus,
Sahib, and I tell it to you because I know that an oath is
binding upon a Feringhee, and that we may trust you.  Had you
been a lying Hindoo, though you had sworn by all the gods in
their false temples, your blood would have been upon the knife,
and your body in the water.  But the Sikh knows the Englishman,
and the Englishman knows the Sikh.  Hearken, then, to what I have
to say.

"'There is a rajah in the northern provinces who has much wealth,
though his lands are small.  Much has come to him from his
father, and more still he has set by himself, for he is of a low
nature and hoards his gold rather than spend it.  When the
troubles broke out he would be friends both with the lion and the
tiger,--with the Sepoy and with the Company's Raj.  Soon,
however, it seemed to him that the white men's day was come, for
through all the land he could hear of nothing but of their death
and their overthrow.  Yet, being a careful man, he made such
plans that, come what might, half at least of his treasure should
be left to him.  That which was in gold and silver he kept by him
in the vaults of his palace, but the most precious stones and the
choicest pearls that he had he put in an iron box, and sent it by
a trusty servant who, under the guise of a merchant, should take
it to the fort at Agra, there to lie until the land is at peace. 
Thus, if the rebels won he would have his money, but if the
Company conquered his jewels would be saved to him.  Having thus
divided his hoard, he threw himself into the cause of the Sepoys,
since they were strong upon his borders.  By doing this, mark
you, Sahib, his property becomes the due of those who have been
true to their salt.

"'This pretended merchant, who travels under the name of Achmet,
is now in the city of Agra, and desires to gain his way into the
fort.  He has with him as travelling-companion my foster-brother
Dost Akbar, who knows his secret.  Dost Akbar has promised this
night to lead him to a side-postern of the fort, and has chosen
this one for his purpose.  Here he will come presently, and here
he will find Mahomet Singh and myself awaiting him.  The place is
lonely, and none shall know of his coming.  The world shall know
of the merchant Achmet no more, but the great treasure of the
rajah shall be divided among us.  What say you to it, Sahib?'

"In Worcestershire the life of a man seems a great and a sacred
thing; but it is very different when there is fire and blood all
round you and you have been used to meeting death at every turn. 
Whether Achmet the merchant lived or died was a thing as light as
air to me, but at the talk about the treasure my heart turned to
it, and I thought of what I might do in the old country with it,
and how my folk would stare when they saw their ne'er-do-well
coming back with his pockets full of gold moidores.  I had,
therefore, already made up my mind.  Abdullah Khan, however,
thinking that I hesitated, pressed the matter more closely.

"'Consider, Sahib,' said he, 'that if this man is taken by the
commandant he will be hung or shot, and his jewels taken by the
government, so that no man will be a rupee the better for them. 
Now, since we do the taking of him, why should we not do the rest
as well?  The jewels will be as well with us as in the Company's
coffers.  There will be enough to make every one of us rich men
and great chiefs.  No one can know about the matter, for here we
are cut off from all men.  What could be better for the purpose? 
Say again, then, Sahib, whether you are with us, or if we must
look upon you as an enemy.'

"'I am with you heart and soul,' said I.

"'It is well,' he answered, handing me back my firelock.  'You
see that we trust you, for your word, like ours, is not to be
broken.  We have now only to wait for my brother and the
merchant.'

"'Does your brother know, then, of what you will do?' I asked.

"'The plan is his.  He has devised it.  We will go to the gate
and share the watch with Mahomet Singh.'

"The rain was still falling steadily, for it was just the
beginning of the wet season.  Brown, heavy clouds were drifting
across the sky, and it was hard to see more than a stone-cast.  A
deep moat lay in front of our door, but the water was in places
nearly dried up, and it could easily be crossed.  It was strange
to me to be standing there with those two wild Punjaubees waiting
for the man who was coming to his death.

"Suddenly my eye caught the glint of a shaded lantern at the
other side of the moat.  It vanished among the mound-heaps, and
then appeared again coming slowly in our direction.

"'Here they are!' I exclaimed.

"'You will challenge him, Sahib, as usual,' whispered Abdullah. 
'Give him no cause for fear.  Send us in with him, and we shall
do the rest while you stay here on guard.  Have the lantern ready
to uncover, that we may be sure that it is indeed the man.'

"The light had flickered onwards, now stopping and now advancing,
until I could see two dark figures upon the other side of the
moat.  I let them scramble down the sloping bank, splash through
the mire, and climb half-way up to the gate, before I challenged
them.

"'Who goes there?' said I, in a subdued voice.

"'Friends,' came the answer.  I uncovered my lantern and threw a
flood of light upon them.  The first was an enormous Sikh, with a
black beard which swept nearly down to his cummerbund.  Outside
of a show I have never seen so tall a man.  The other was a
little, fat, round fellow, with a great yellow turban, and a
bundle in his hand, done up in a shawl.  He seemed to be all in a
quiver with fear, for his hands twitched as if he had the ague,
and his head kept turning to left and right with two bright
little twinkling eyes, like a mouse when he ventures out from his
hole.  It gave me the chills to think of killing him, but I
thought of the treasure, and my heart set as hard as a flint
within me.  When he saw my white face he gave a little chirrup of
joy and came running up towards me.

"'Your protection, Sahib,' he panted,--'your protection for the
unhappy merchant Achmet.  I have travelled across Rajpootana that
I might seek the shelter of the fort at Agra.  I have been robbed
and beaten and abused because I have been the friend of the
Company.  It is a blessed night this when I am once more in
safety,--I and my poor possessions.'

"'What have you in the bundle?' I asked.

"'An iron box,' he answered, 'which contains one or two little
family matters which are of no value to others, but which I
should be sorry to lose.  Yet I am not a beggar; and I shall
reward you, young Sahib, and your governor also, if he will give
me the shelter I ask.'

"I could not trust myself to speak longer with the man.  The more
I looked at his fat, frightened face, the harder did it seem that
we should slay him in cold blood.  It was best to get it over.

"'Take him to the main guard,' said I.  The two Sikhs closed in
upon him on each side, and the giant walked behind, while they
marched in through the dark gate-way.  Never was a man so
compassed round with death.  I remained at the gate-way with the
lantern.

"I could hear the measured tramp of their footsteps sounding
through the lonely corridors.  Suddenly it ceased, and I heard
voices, and a scuffle, with the sound of blows.  A moment later
there came, to my horror, a rush of footsteps coming in my
direction, with the loud breathing of a running man.  I turned my
lantern down the long, straight passage, and there was the fat
man, running like the wind, with a smear of blood across his
face, and close at his heels, bounding like a tiger, the great
black-bearded Sikh, with a knife flashing in his hand.  I have
never seen a man run so fast as that little merchant.  He was
gaining on the Sikh, and I could see that if he once passed me
and got to the open air he would save himself yet.  My heart
softened to him, but again the thought of his treasure turned me
hard and bitter.  I cast my firelock between his legs as he raced
past, and he rolled twice over like a shot rabbit.  Ere he could
stagger to his feet the Sikh was upon him, and buried his knife
twice in his side.  The man never uttered moan nor moved muscle,
but lay were he had fallen.  I think myself that he may have
broken his neck with the fall.  You see, gentlemen, that I am
keeping my promise.  I am telling you every work of the business
just exactly as it happened, whether it is in my favor or not."

He stopped, and held out his manacled hands for the whiskey-and-
water which Holmes had brewed for him.  For myself, I confess
that I had now conceived the utmost horror of the man, not only
for this cold-blooded business in which he had been concerned,
but even more for the somewhat flippant and careless way in which
he narrated it.  Whatever punishment was in store for him, I felt
that he might expect no sympathy from me.  Sherlock Holmes and
Jones sat with their hands upon their knees, deeply interested in
the story, but with the same disgust written upon their faces. 
He may have observed it, for there was a touch of defiance in his
voice and manner as he proceeded.

"It was all very bad, no doubt," said he.  "I should like to know
how many fellows in my shoes would have refused a share of this
loot when they knew that they would have their throats cut for
their pains.  Besides, it was my life or his when once he was in
the fort.  If he had got out, the whole business would come to
light, and I should have been court-martialled and shot as likely
as not; for people were not very lenient at a time like that."

"Go on with your story," said Holmes, shortly.

"Well, we carried him in, Abdullah, Akbar, and I.  A fine weight
he was, too, for all that he was so short.  Mahomet Singh was
left to guard the door.  We took him to a place which the Sikhs
had already prepared.  It was some distance off, where a winding
passage leads to a great empty hall, the brick walls of which
were all crumbling to pieces.  The earth floor had sunk in at one
place, making a natural grave, so we left Achmet the merchant
there, having first covered him over with loose bricks.  This
done, we all went back to the treasure.

"It lay where he had dropped it when he was first attacked.  The
box was the same which now lies open upon your table.  A key was
hung by a silken cord to that carved handle upon the top.  We
opened it, and the light of the lantern gleamed upon a collection
of gems such as I have read of and thought about when I was a
little lad at Pershore.  It was blinding to look upon them.  When
we had feasted our eyes we took them all out and made a list of
them.  There were one hundred and forty-three diamonds of the
first water, including one which has been called, I believe, 'the
Great Mogul' and is said to be the second largest stone in
existence.  Then there were ninety-seven very fine emeralds, and
one hundred and seventy rubies, some of which, however, were
small.  There were forty carbuncles, two hundred and ten
sapphires, sixty-one agates, and a great quantity of beryls,
onyxes, cats'-eyes, turquoises, and other stones, the very names
of which I did not know at the time, though I have become more
familiar with them since.  Besides this, there were nearly three
hundred very fine pearls, twelve of which were set in a gold
coronet.  By the way, these last had been taken out of the chest
and were not there when I recovered it.

"After we had counted our treasures we put them back into the
chest and carried them to the gate-way to show them to Mahomet
Singh.  Then we solemnly renewed our oath to stand by each other
and be true to our secret.  We agreed to conceal our loot in a
safe place until the country should be at peace again, and then
to divide it equally among ourselves.  There was no use dividing
it at present, for if gems of such value were found upon us it
would cause suspicion, and there was no privacy in the fort nor
any place where we could keep them.  We carried the box,
therefore, into the same hall where we had buried the body, and
there, under certain bricks in the best-preserved wall, we made a
hollow and put our treasure.  We made careful note of the place,
and next day I drew four plans, one for each of us, and put the
sign of the four of us at the bottom, for we had sworn that we
should each always act for all, so that none might take
advantage.  That is an oath that I can put my hand to my heart
and swear that I have never broken.

"Well, there's no use my telling you gentlemen what came of the
Indian mutiny.  After Wilson took Delhi and Sir Colin relieved
Lucknow the back of the business was broken.  Fresh troops came
pouring in, and Nana Sahib made himself scarce over the frontier. 
A flying column under Colonel Greathed came round to Agra and
cleared the Pandies away from it.  Peace seemed to be settling
upon the country, and we four were beginning to hope that the
time was at hand when we might safely go off with our shares of
the plunder.  In a moment, however, our hopes were shattered by
our being arrested as the murderers of Achmet.

"It came about in this way.  When the rajah put his jewels into
the hands of Achmet he did it because he knew that he was a
trusty man.  They are suspicious folk in the East, however:  so
what does this rajah do but take a second even more trusty
servant and set him to play the spy upon the first?  This second
man was ordered never to let Achmet out of his sight, and he
followed him like his shadow.  He went after him that night and
saw him pass through the doorway.  Of course he thought he had
taken refuge in the fort, and applied for admission there himself
next day, but could find no trace of Achmet.  This seemed to him
so strange that he spoke about it to a sergeant of guides, who
brought it to the ears of the commandant.  A thorough search was
quickly made, and the body was discovered.  Thus at the very
moment that we thought that all was safe we were all four seized
and brought to trial on a charge of murder,--three of us because
we had held the gate that night, and the fourth because he was
known to have been in the company of the murdered man.  Not a
word about the jewels came out at the trial, for the rajah had
been deposed and driven out of India:  so no one had any
particular interest in them.  The murder, however, was clearly
made out, and it was certain that we must all have been concerned
in it.  The three Sikhs got penal servitude for life, and I was
condemned to death, though my sentence was afterwards commuted
into the same as the others.

"It was rather a queer position that we found ourselves in then. 
There we were all four tied by the leg and with precious little
chance of ever getting out again, while we each held a secret
which might have put each of us in a palace if we could only have
made use of it.  It was enough to make a man eat his heart out to
have to stand the kick and the cuff of every petty jack-in-
office, to have rice to eat and water to drink, when that
gorgeous fortune was ready for him outside, just waiting to be
picked up.  It might have driven me mad; but I was always a
pretty stubborn one, so I just held on and bided my time.

"At last it seemed to me to have come.  I was changed from Agra
to Madras, and from there to Blair Island in the Andamans.  There
are very few white convicts at this settlement, and, as I had
behaved well from the first, I soon found myself a sort of
privileged person.  I was given a hut in Hope Town, which is a
small place on the slopes of Mount Harriet, and I was left pretty
much to myself.  It is a dreary, fever-stricken place, and all
beyond our little clearings was infested with wild cannibal
natives, who were ready enough to blow a poisoned dart at us if
they saw a chance.  There was digging, and ditching, and yam-
planting, and a dozen other things to be done, so we were busy
enough al day; though in the evening we had a little time to
ourselves.  Among other things, I learned to dispense drugs for
the surgeon, and picked up a smattering of his knowledge.  All
the time I was on the lookout for a chance of escape; but it is
hundreds of miles from any other land, and there is little or no
wind in those seas:  so it was a terribly difficult job to get
away.

"The surgeon, Dr. Somerton, was a fast, sporting young chap, and
the other young officers would meet in his rooms of an evening
and play cards.  The surgery, where I used to make up my drugs,
was next to his sitting-room, with a small window between us. 
Often, if I felt lonesome, I used to turn out the lamp in the
surgery, and then, standing there, I could hear their talk and
watch their play.  I am fond of a hand at cards myself, and it
was almost as good as having one to watch the others.  There was
Major Sholto, Captain Morstan, and Lieutenant Bromley Brown, who
were in command of the native troops, and there was the surgeon
himself, and two or three prison-officials, crafty old hands who
played a nice sly safe game.  A very snug little party they used
to make.

"Well, there was one thing which very soon struck me, and that
was that the soldiers used always to lose and the civilians to
win.  Mind, I don't say that there was anything unfair, but so it
was.  These prison-chaps had done little else than play cards
ever since they had been at the Andamans, and they knew each
other's game to a point, while the others just played to pass the
time and threw their cards down anyhow.  Night after night the
soldiers got up poorer men, and the poorer they got the more keen
they were to play.  Major Sholto was the hardest hit.  He used to
pay in notes and gold at first, but soon it came to notes of hand
and for big sums.  He sometimes would win for a few deals, just
to give him heart, and then the luck would set in against him
worse than ever.  All day he would wander about as black as
thunder, and he took to drinking a deal more than was good for
him.

"One night he lost even more heavily than usual.  I was sitting
in my hut when he and Captain Morstan came stumbling along on the
way to their quarters.  They were bosom friends, those two, and
never far apart.  The major was raving about his losses.

"'It's all up, Morstan,' he was saying, as they passed my hut. 
'I shall have to send in my papers.  I am a ruined man.'

"'Nonsense, old chap!' said the other, slapping him upon the
shoulder.  'I've had a nasty facer myself, but--'  That was all I
could hear, but it was enough to set me thinking.

A couple of days later Major Sholto was strolling on the beach: 
so I took the chance of speaking to him.

"'I wish to have your advice, major,' said I.

"'Well, Small, what is it?' he asked, taking his cheroot from his
lips.

"'I wanted to ask you, sir,' said I, 'who is the proper person to
whom hidden treasure should be handed over.  I know where half a
million worth lies, and, as I cannot use it myself, I thought
perhaps the best thing that I could do would be to hand it over
to the proper authorities, and then perhaps they would get my
sentence shortened for me.'

"'Half a million, Small?' he gasped, looking hard at me to see if
I was in earnest.

"'Quite that, sir,--in jewels and pearls.  It lies there ready
for any one.  And the queer thing about it is that the real owner
is outlawed and cannot hold property, so that it belongs to the
first comer.'

"'To government, Small,' he stammered,--'to government.'  But he
said it in a halting fashion, and I knew in my heart that I had
got him.

"'You think, then, sir, that I should give the information to the
Governor-General?' said I, quietly.

"'Well, well, you must not do anything rash, or that you might
repent.  Let me hear all about it, Small.  Give me the facts.'

"I told him the whole story, with small changes so that he could
not identify the places.  When I had finished he stood stock
still and full of thought.  I could see by the twitch of his lip
that there was a struggle going on within him.

"'This is a very important matter, Small,' he said, at last. 
'You must not say a word to any one about it, and I shall see you
again soon.'

"Two nights later he and his friend Captain Morstan came to my
hut in the dead of the night with a lantern.

"'I want you just to let Captain Morstan hear that story from
your own lips, Small,' said he.

"I repeated it as I had told it before.

"'It rings true, eh?' said he.  'It's good enough to act upon?'

"Captain Morstan nodded.

"'Look here, Small,' said the major.  'We have been talking it
over, my friend here and I, and we have come to the conclusion
that this secret of yours is hardly a government matter, after
all, but is a private concern of your own, which of course you
have the power of disposing of as you think best.  Now, the
question is, what price would you ask for it?  We might be
inclined to take it up, and at least look into it, if we could
agree as to terms.'  He tried to speak in a cool, careless way,
but his eyes were shining with excitement and greed.

"'Why, as to that, gentlemen,' I answered, trying also to be
cool, but feeling as excited as he did, 'there is only one
bargain which a man in my position can make.  I shall want yo to
help me to my freedom, and to help my three companions to theirs. 
We shall then take yo into partnership, and give you a fifth
share to divide between you.'

"'Hum!' said he.  'A fifth share!  That is not very tempting.'

"'It would come to fifty thousand apiece,' said I.

"'But how can we gain your freedom?  You know very well that you
ask an impossibility.'

"'Nothing of the sort,' I answered.  'I have thought it all out
to the last detail.  The only bar to our escape is that we can
get no boat fit for the voyage, and no provisions to last us for
so long a time.  There are plenty of little yachts and yawls at
Calcutta or Madras which would serve our turn well.  Do you bring
one over. We shall engage to get aboard her by night, and if you
will drop us on any part of the Indian coast you will have done
your part of the bargain.'

"'If there were only one,' he said.

"'None or all,' I answered.  'We have sworn it.  The four of us
must always act together.'

"'You see, Morstan,' said he, 'Small is a man of his word.  He
does not flinch from his friend.  I think we may very well trust
him.'

"'It's a dirty business,' the other answered.  'Yet, as you say,
the money would save our commissions handsomely.'

"'Well, Small,' said the major, 'we must, I suppose, try and meet
you.  We must first, of course, test the truth of your story. 
Tell me where the box is hid, and I shall get leave of absence
and go back to India in the monthly relief-boat to inquire into
the affair.'

"'Not so fast,' said I, growing colder as he got hot.  'I must
have the consent of my three comrades.  I tell you that it is
four or none with us.'

"'Nonsense!' he broke in.  'What have three black fellows to do
with our agreement?'

"'Black or blue,' said I, 'they are in with me, and we all go
together.'

"Well, the matter ended by a second meeting, at which Mahomet
Singh, Abdullah Khan, and Dost Akbar were all present.  We talked
the matter over again, and at last we came to an arrangement.  We
were to provide both the officers with charts of the part of the
Agra fort and mark the place in the wall where the treasure was
hid.  Major Sholto was to go to India to test our story.  If he
found the box he was to leave it there, to send out a small yacht
provisioned for a voyage, which was to lie off Rutland Island,
and to which we were to make our way, and finally to return to
his duties.  Captain Morstan was then to apply for leave of
absence, to meet us at Agra, and there we were to have a final
division of the treasure, he taking the major's share as well as
his own.  All this we sealed by the most solemn oaths that the
mind could think or the lips utter.  I sat up all night with
paper and ink, and by the morning I had the two charts all ready,
signed with the sign of four,--that is, of Abdullah, Akbar,
Mahomet, and myself.

"Well, gentlemen, I weary you with my long story, and I know that
my friend Mr. Jones is impatient to get me safely stowed in
chokey.  I'll make it as short as I can.  The villain Sholto went
off to India, but he never came back again.  Captain Morstan
showed me his name among a list of passengers in one of the mail-
boats very shortly afterwards.  His uncle had died, leaving him a
fortune, and he had left the army, yet he could stoop to treat
five men as he had treated us.  Morstan went over to Agra shortly
afterwards, and found, as we expected, that the treasure was
indeed gone.  The scoundrel had stolen it all, without carrying
out one of the conditions on which we had sold him the secret. 
>From that day I lived only for vengeance.  I thought of it by day
and I nursed it by night.  It became an overpowering, absorbing
passion with me.  I cared nothing for the law,--nothing for the
gallows.  To escape, to track down Sholto, to have my hand upon
his throat,--that was my one thought.  Even the Agra treasure had
come to be a smaller thing in my mind than the slaying of Sholto.

"Well, I have set my mind on many things in this life, and never
one which I did not carry out.  But it was weary years before my
time came.  I have told you that I had picked up something of
medicine.  One day when Dr. Somerton was down with a fever a
little Andaman Islander was picked up by a convict-gang in the
woods.  He was sick to death, and had gone to a lonely place to
die.  I took him in hand, though he was as venomous as a young
snake, and after a couple of months I got him all right and able
to walk.  He took a kind of fancy to me then, and would hardly go
back to his woods, but was always hanging about my hut.  I
learned a little of his lingo from him, and this made him all the
fonder of me.

"Tonga--for that was his name--was a fine boatman, and owned a
big, roomy canoe of his own.  When I found that he was devoted to
me and would do anything to serve me, I saw my chance of escape. 
I talked it over with him.  He was to bring his boat round on a
certain night to an old wharf which was never guarded, and there
he was to pick me up.  I gave him directions to have several
gourds of water and a lot of yams, cocoa-nuts, and sweet
potatoes.

"He was stanch and true, was little Tonga.  No man ever had a
more faithful mate.  At the night named he had his boat at the
wharf.  As it chanced, however, there was one of the convict-
guard down there,--a vile Pathan who had never missed a chance of
insulting and injuring me.  I had always vowed vengeance, and now
I had my chance.  It was as if fate had placed him in my way that
I might pay my debt before I left the island.  He stood on the
bank with his back to me, and his carbine on his shoulder.  I
looked abut for a stone to beat out his brains with, but none
could I see.  Then a queer thought came into my head and showed
me where I could lay my hand on a weapon.  I sat down in the
darkness and unstrapped my wooden leg.  With three long hops I
was on him.  He put his carbine to his shoulder, but I struck him
full, and knocked the whole front of his skull in.  You can see
the split in the wood now where I hit him.  We both went down
together, for I could not keep my balance, but when I got up I
found him still lying quiet enough.  I made for the boat, and in
an hour we were well out at sea.  Tonga had brought all his
earthly possessions with him, his arms and his gods.  Among other
things, he had a long bamboo spear, and some Andaman cocoa-nut
matting, with which I make a sort of sail.  For ten days we were
beating about, trusting to luck, and on the eleventh we were
picked up by a trader which was going from Singapore to Jiddah
with a cargo of Malay pilgrims.  They were a rum crowd, and Tonga
and I soon managed to settle down among them.  They had one very
good quality:  they let you alone and asked no questions.

"Well, if I were to tell you all the adventures that my little
chum and I went through, you would not thank me, for I would have
you here until the sun was shining.  Here and there we drifted
about the world, something always turning up to keep us from
London.  All the time, however, I never lost sight of my purpose. 
I would dream of Sholto at night.  A hundred times I have killed
him in my sleep.  At last, however, some three or four years ago,
we found ourselves in England.  I had no great difficulty in
finding where Sholto lived, and I set to work to discover whether
he had realized the treasure, or if he still had it.  I made
friends with someone who could help me,--I name no names, for I
don't want to get any one else in a hole,--and I soon found that
he still had the jewels.  Then I tried to get at him in many
ways; but he was pretty sly, and had always two prize-fighters,
besides his sons and his khitmutgar, on guard over him.

"One day, however, I got word that he was dying.  I hurried at
once to the garden, mad that he should slip out of my clutches
like that, and, looking through the window, I saw him lying in
his bed, with his sons on each side of him.  I'd have come
through and taken my chance with the three of them, only even as
I looked at him his jaw dropped, and I knew that he was gone.  I
got into his room that same night, though, and I searched his
papers to see if there was any record of where he had hidden our
jewels.  There was not a line, however:  so I came away, bitter
and savage as a man could be.  Before I left I bethought me that
if I ever met my Sikh friends again it would be a satisfaction to
know that I had left some mark of our hatred:  so I scrawled down
the sign of the four of us, as it had been on the chart, and I
pinned it on his bosom.  It was too much that he should be taken
to the grave without some token from the men whom he had robbed
and befooled.

"We earned a living at this time by my exhibiting poor Tonga at
fairs and other such places as the black cannibal.  He would eat
raw meat and dance his war-dance:  so we always had a hatful of
pennies after a day's work.  I still heard all the news from
Pondicherry Lodge, and for some years there was no news to hear,
except that they were hunting for the treasure.  At last,
however, came what we had waited for so long.  The treasure had
been found.  It was up at the top of the house, in Mr.
Bartholomew Sholto's chemical laboratory.  I came at once and had
a look at the place, but I could not see how with my wooden leg I
was to make my way up to it.  I learned, however, about a trap-
door in the roof, and also about Mr. Sholto's supper-hour.  It
seemed to me that I could manage the thing easily through Tonga. 
I brought him out with me with a long rope wound round his waist. 
He could climb like a cat, and he soon made his way through the
roof, but, as ill luck would have it, Bartholomew Sholto was
still in the room, to his cost.  Tonga thought he had done
something very clever in killing him, for when I came up by the
rope I found him strutting about as proud as a peacock.  Very
much surprised was he when I made at him with the rope's end and
cursed him for a little blood-thirsty imp.  I took the treasure-
box and let it down, and then slid down myself, having first left
the sign of the four upon the table, to show that the jewels had
come back at last to those who had most right to them.  Tonga
then pulled up the rope, closed the window, and made off the way
that he had come.

"I don't know that I have anything else to tell you.  I had heard
a waterman speak of the speed of Smith's launch the Aurora, so I
thought she would be a handy craft for our escape.  I engaged
with old Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe
to our ship.  He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose,
but he was not in our secrets.  All this is the truth, and if I
tell it to you, gentlemen, it is not to amuse you,--for you have
not done me a very good turn,--but it is because I believe the
best defence I can make is just to hold back nothing, but let all
the wold know how badly I have myself been served by Major
Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son."

"A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes.  "A fitting
wind-up to an extremely interesting case.  There is nothing at
all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that
you brought your own rope.  That I did not know.  By the way, I
had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to
shoot one at us in the boat."

"He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-
pipe at the time."

"Ah, of course," said Holmes.  "I had not thought of that."

"Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?"
asked the convict, affably.

"I think not, thank you," my companion answered.

"Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be
humored, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but
duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and
your friend asked me.  I shall feel more at ease when we have our
story-teller here safe under lock and key.  The cab still waits,
and there are two inspectors down-stairs.  I am much obliged to
you both for your assistance.  Of course you will be wanted at
the trial.  Good-night to you."

"Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small.

"You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the
room.  "I'll take particular care that you don't club me with
your wooden leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at
the Andaman Isles."

"Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked,
after we had set some time smoking in silence.  "I fear that it
may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of
studying your methods.  Miss Morstan has done me the honor to
accept me as a husband in prospective."

He gave a most dismal groan.  "I feared as much," said he.  "I
really cannot congratulate you."

I was a little hurt.  "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied
with my choice?" I asked.

"Not at all.  I think she is one of the most charming young
ladies I ever met, and might have been most useful in such work
as we have been doing.  She had a decided genius that way: 
witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all
the other papers of her father.  But love is an emotional thing,
and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason
which I place above all things.  I should never marry myself,
lest I bias my judgment."

"I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the
ordeal.  But you look weary."

"Yes, the reaction is already upon me.  I shall be as limp as a
rag for a week."

"Strange," said I, "how terms of what in another man I should
call laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and
vigor."

"Yes," he answered, "there are in me the makings of a very fine
loafer and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow.  I often think
of those lines of old Goethe,--

Schade dass die Natur nur EINEN Mensch aus Dir schuf,
Denn zum wuerdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff.

By the way, a propos of this Norwood business, you see that they
had, as I surmised, a confederate in the house, who could be none
other than Lal Rao, the butler:  so Jones actually has the
undivided honor of having caught one fish in his great haul."

"The division seems rather unfair," I remarked.  "You have done
all the work in this business.  I get a wife out of it, Jones
gets the credit, pray what remains for you?"

"For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the cocaine-
bottle."  And he stretched his long white hand up for it.





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This Etext prepared by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer.





SIR NIGEL

by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle




CONTENT



I. THE HOUSE OF LORING

II. HOW THE DEVIL CAME TO WAVERLEY

III. THE YELLOW HORSE OF CROOKSBURY

IV. HOW THE SUMMONER CAME TO THE MANOR HOUSE OF TILFORD

V. HOW NIGEL WAS TRIED BY THE ABBOT OF WAVERLEY

VI. IN WHICH LADY ERMYNTRUDE OPENS THE IRON COFFER

VII. HOW NIGEL WENT MARKETING TO GUILFORD

VIII. HOW THE KING HAWKED ON CROOKSBURY HEATH

IX. HOW NIGEL HELD THE BRIDGE AT TILFORD

X. HOW THE KING GREETED HIS SENESCHAL OF CALAIS

XI. IN THE HALL OF THE KNIGHT OF DUPLIN

XII. HOW NIGEL FOUGHT THE TWISTED MAN OF SHALFORD

XIII. HOW THE COMRADES JOURNEYED DOWN THE OLD, OLD ROAD

XIV. HOW NIGEL CHASED THE RED FERRET

XV. HOW THE RED FERRET CAME TO COSFORD

XVI. HOW THE KING'S COURT FEASTED IN CALAIS CASTLE

XVII. THE SPANIARDS ON THE SEA

XVIII. HOW BLACK SIMON CLAIMED FORFEIT FROM THE KING OF SARK

XIX. HOW A SQUIRE OF ENGLAND MET A SQUIRE OF FRANCE

XX. HOW THE ENGLISH ATTEMPTED THE CASTLE OF LA BROHINIERE

XXI. HOW THE SECOND MESSENGER WENT TO COSFORD

XXII. HOW ROBERT OF BEAUMANOIR CAME TO FLOERMEL

XXIII. HOW THIRTY OF JOSSELIN ENCOUNTERED THIRTY OF FLOERMEL

XXIV. HOW NIGEL WAS CALLED TO HIS MASTER

XXV. HOW THE KING OF FRANCE HELD COUNSEL AT MAUPERTUIS

XXVI. HOW NIGEL FOUND HIS THIRD DEED

XXVII. HOW THE THIRD MESSENGER CAME TO COSFORD




INTRODUCTION


Dame History is so austere a lady that if one, has been so
ill-advised as to take a liberty with her, one should hasten to
make amends by repentance and confession.  Events have been
transposed to the extent of some few months in this narrative in
order to preserve the continuity and evenness of the story.  I
hope so small a divergence may seem a venial error after so many
centuries.  For the rest, it is as accurate as a good deal of
research and hard work could make it.

The matter of diction is always a question of taste and discretion
in a historical reproduction.  In the year 1350 the upper classes
still spoke Norman-French, though they were just beginning to
condescend to English.  The lower classes spoke the English of the
original Piers Plowman text, which would be considerably more
obscure than their superiors' French if the two were now
reproduced or imitated.  The most which the chronicles can do is
to catch the cadence and style of their talk, and to infuse here
and there such a dash of the archaic as may indicate their fashion
of speech.

I am aware that there are incidents which may strike the modern
reader as brutal and repellent.  It is useless, however, to draw
the Twentieth Century and label it the Fourteenth.  It was a
sterner age, and men's code of morality, especially in matters of
cruelty, was very different.  There is no incident in the text for
which very good warrant may not be given.  The fantastic graces of
Chivalry lay upon the surface of life, but beneath it was a
half-savage population, fierce and animal, with little ruth or
mercy.  It was a raw, rude England, full of elemental passions,
and redeemed only by elemental virtues.  Such I have tried to draw it.

For good or bad, many books have gone to the building of this one.
I look round my study table and I survey those which lie with me
at the moment, before I happily disperse them forever.  I see La
Croix's "Middle Ages," Oman's "Art of War," Rietstap's "Armorial
General," De la Borderie's "Histoire de Bretagne," Dame Berner's
"Boke of St. Albans," "The Chronicle of Jocelyn of Brokeland,"
"The Old Road," Hewitt's "Ancient Armour," Coussan's "Heraldry,"
Boutell's "Arms," Browne's "Chaucer's "England," Cust's "Scenes of
the Middle Ages," Husserand's "Wayfaring Life," Ward's "Canterbury
Pilgrims;" Cornish's "Chivalry," Hastings' "British Archer,"
Strutt's "Sports," Johnes Froissart, Hargrove's "Archery,"
Longman's "Edward III," Wright's "Domestic Manners." With these
and many others I have lived for months.  If I have been unable to
combine and transfer their effect, the fault is mine.

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.

"UNDERSHAW,"  November 30, 1905.




I.  THE HOUSE OF LORING


In the month of July of the year 1348, between the feasts of St.
Benedict and of St. Swithin, a strange thing came upon England,
for out of the east there drifted a monstrous cloud, purple and
piled, heavy with evil, climbing slowly up the hushed heaven.  In
the shadow of that strange cloud the leaves drooped in the trees,
the birds ceased their calling, and the cattle and the sheep
gathered cowering under the hedges.  A gloom fell upon all the
land, and men stood with their eyes upon the strange cloud and a
heaviness upon their hearts.  They crept into the churches where
the trembling people were blessed and shriven by the trembling
priests.  Outside no bird flew, and there came no rustling from
the woods, nor any of the homely sounds of Nature.  All was still,
and nothing moved, save only the great cloud which rolled up and
onward, with fold on fold from the black horizon.  To the west was
the light summer sky, to the east this brooding cloud-bank,
creeping ever slowly across, until the last thin blue gleam faded
away and the whole vast sweep of the heavens was one great leaden
arch.

Then the rain began to fall.  All day it rained, and all the night
and all the week and all the month, until folk had forgotten the
blue heavens and the gleam of the sunshine.  It was not heavy, but
it was steady and cold and unceasing, so that the people were
weary of its hissing and its splashing, with the slow drip from
the eaves.  Always the same thick evil cloud flowed from east to
west with the rain beneath it.  None could see for more than a
bow-shot from their dwellings for the drifting veil of the
rain-storms.  Every morning the folk looked upward for a break,
but their eyes rested always upon the same endless cloud, until at
last they ceased to look up, and their hearts despaired of ever
seeing the change.  It was raining at Lammas-tide and raining at
the Feast of the Assumption and still raining at Michaelmas.  The
crops and the hay, sodden and black, had rotted in the fields, for
they were not worth the garnering.  The sheep had died, and the
calves also, so there was little to kill when Martinmas came and
it was time to salt the meat for the winter.  They feared a
famine, but it was worse than famine which was in store for them.

For the rain had ceased at last, and a sickly autumn sun shone
upon a land which was soaked and sodden with water.  Wet and
rotten leaves reeked and festered under the foul haze which rose
from the woods.  The fields were spotted with monstrous fungi of a
size and color never matched before - scarlet and mauve and liver
and black.  It was as though the sick earth had burst into foul
pustules; mildew and lichen mottled the walls, and with that
filthy crop Death sprang also from the water-soaked earth.  Men
died, and women and children, the baron of the castle, the
franklin on the farm, the monk in the abbey and the villein in his
wattle-and-daub cottage.  All breathed the same polluted reek and
all died the same death of corruption.  Of those who were stricken
none recovered, and the illness was ever the same - gross boils,
raving, and the black blotches which gave its name to the disease.
All through the winter the dead rotted by the wayside for want of
some one to bury them.  In many a village no single man was left
alive.  Then at last the spring came with sunshine and health and
lightness and laughter - the greenest, sweetest, tenderest spring
that England had ever known - but only half of England could know
it.  The other half had passed away with the great purple cloud.

Yet it was there in that stream of death, in that reek of
corruption, that the brighter and freer England was born.  There
in that dark hour the first streak of the new dawn was seen.  For
in no way save by a great upheaval and change could the nation
break away from that iron feudal system which held her limbs.  But
now it was a new country which came out from that year of death.
The barons were dead in swaths.  No high turret nor cunning moat
could keep out that black commoner who struck them down.

Oppressive laws slackened for want of those who could enforce
them, and once slackened could never be enforced again.  The
laborer would be a slave no longer.  The bondsman snapped his
shackles.  There was much to do and few left to do it.  Therefore
the few should be freemen, name their own price, and work where
and for whom they would.  It was the black death which cleared the
way for that great rising thirty years later which left the
English peasant the freest of his class in Europe.

But there were few so far-sighted that they could see that here,
as ever, good was coming out of evil.  At the moment misery and
ruin were brought into every family.  The dead cattle, the
ungarnered crops, the untilled lands - every spring of wealth had
dried up at the same moment.  Those who were rich became poor; but
those who were poor already, and especially those who were poor
with the burden of gentility upon their shoulders, found
themselves in a perilous state.  All through England the smaller
gentry were ruined, for they had no trade save war, and they drew
their living from the work of others.  On many a manor-house there
came evil times, and on none more than on the Manor of Tilford,
where for many generations the noble family of the Lorings had
held their home.

There was a time when the Lorings had held the country from the
North Downs to the Lakes of Frensham, and when their grim
castle-keep rising above the green meadows which border the River
Wey had been the strongest fortalice betwixt Guildford Castle in
the east and Winchester in the west.  But there came that Barons'
War, in which the King used his Saxon subjects as a whip with
which to scourge his Norman barons, and Castle Loring, like so
many other great strongholds, was swept from the face of the land.
>From that time the Lorings, with estates sadly curtailed, lived in
what had been the dower-house, with enough for splendor.

And then came their lawsuit with Waverley Abbey, and the
Cistercians laid claim to their richest land, with peccary,
turbary and feudal rights over the remainder.  It lingered on for
years, this great lawsuit, and when it was finished the men of the
Church and the men of the Law had divided all that was richest of
the estate between them.  There was still left the old manor-house
from which with each generation there came a soldier to uphold the
credit of the name and to show the five scarlet roses on the
silver shield where it had always been shown - in the van.  There
were twelve bronzes in the little chapel where Matthew the priest
said mass every morning, all of men of the house of Loring.  Two
lay with their legs crossed, as being from the Crusades.  Six
others rested their feet upon lions, as having died in war.  Four
only lay with the effigy of their hounds to show that they had
passed in peace.

Of this famous but impoverished family, doubly impoverished by law
and by pestilence, two members were living in the year of grace
1349 - Lady Ermyntrude Loring and her grandson Nigel.  Lady
Ermyntrude's husband had fallen before the Scottish spearsmen at
Stirling, and her son Eustace, Nigel's father, had found a
glorious death nine years before this chronicle opens upon the
poop of a Norman galley at the sea-fight of Sluys.  The lonely old
woman, fierce and brooding like the falcon mewed in her chamber,
was soft only toward the lad whom she had brought up.  All the
tenderness and love of her nature, so hidden from others that they
could not imagine their existence, were lavished upon him.  She
could not bear him away from her, and he, with that respect for
authority which the age demanded, would not go without her
blessing and consent.

So it came about that Nigel, with his lion heart and with the
blood of a hundred soldiers thrilling in his veins, still at the
age of two and twenty, wasted the weary days reclaiming his hawks
with leash and lure or training the alans and spaniels who shared
with the family the big earthen-floored hall of the manor-house.

Day by day the aged Lady Ermyntrude had seen him wax in strength
and in manhood, small of stature, it is true, but with muscles of
steel - and a soul of fire.  From all parts, from the warden of
Guildford Castle, from the tilt-yard of Farnham, tales of his
prowess were brought back to her, of his daring as a rider, of his
debonair courage, of his skill with all weapons; but still she,
who had both husband and son torn from her by a bloody death,
could not bear that this, the last of the Lorings, the final bud
of so famous an old tree, should share the same fate.  With a
weary heart, but with a smiling face, he bore with his uneventful
days, while she would ever put off the evil time until the harvest
was better, until the monks of Waverley should give up what they
had taken, until his uncle should die and leave money for his
outfit, or any other excuse with which she could hold him to her
side.

And indeed, there was need for a man at Tilford, for the strife
betwixt the Abbey and the manor-house had never been appeased, and
still on one pretext or another the monks would clip off yet one
more slice of their neighbor's land.  Over the winding river,
across the green meadows, rose the short square tower and the high
gray walls of the grim Abbey, with its bell tolling by day and
night, a voice of menace and of dread to the little household.

It is in the heart of the great Cistercian monastery that this
chronicle of old days must take its start, as we trace the feud
betwixt the monks and the house of Loring, with those events to
which it gave birth, ending with the coming of Chandos, the
strange spear-running of Tilford Bridge and the deeds with which
Nigel won fame in the wars.  Elsewhere, in the chronicle of the
White Company, it has been set forth what manner of man was Nigel
Loring.  Those who love him may read herein those things which
went to his making.  Let us go back together and gaze upon this
green stage of England, the scenery, hill, plain and river even as
now, the actors in much our very selves, in much also so changed
in thought and act that they might be dwellers in another world to
ours.




II.  HOW THE DEVIL CAME TO WAVERLEY


The day was the first of May, which was the Festival of the
Blessed Apostles Philip and James.  The year was the 1,349th from
man's salvation.

>From tierce to sext, and then again from sext to nones, Abbot John
of the House of Waverley had been seated in his study while he
conducted the many high duties of his office.  All around for many
a mile on every side stretched the fertile and flourishing estate
of which he was the master.  In the center lay the broad Abbey
buildings, with church and cloisters, hospitium, chapter-house and
frater-house, all buzzing with a busy life.  Through the open
window came the low hum of the voices of the brethren as they
walked in pious converse in the ambulatory below.  From across the
cloister there rolled the distant rise and fall of a Gregorian
chant, where the precentor was hard at work upon the choir, while
down in the chapter-house sounded the strident voice of Brother
Peter, expounding the rule of Saint Bernard to the novices.

Abbot John rose to stretch his cramped limbs.  He looked out at
the greensward of the cloister, and at the graceful line of open
Gothic arches which skirted a covered walk for the brethren
within.  Two and two in their black-and-white garb with slow step
and heads inclined, they paced round and round.  Several of the
more studious had brought their illuminating work from the
scriptorium, and sat in the warm sunshine with their little
platters of pigments and packets of gold-leaf before them, their
shoulders rounded and their faces sunk low over the white sheets
of vellum.  There too was the copper-worker with his burin and
graver.  Learning and art were not traditions with the Cistercians
as with the parent Order of the Benedictines, and yet the library
of Waverley was well filled both with precious books and with
pious students.

But the true glory of the Cistercian lay in his outdoor work, and
so ever and anon there passed through the cloister some sunburned
monk, soiled mattock or shovel in hand, with his gown looped to
his knee, fresh from the fields or the garden.  The lush green
water-meadows speckled with the heavy-fleeced sheep, the acres of
corn-land reclaimed from heather and bracken, the vineyards on the
southern slope of Crooksbury Hill, the rows of Hankley fish-ponds,
the Frensham marshes drained and sown with vegetables, the
spacious pigeon-cotes, all circled the great Abbey round with the
visible labors of the Order.

The Abbot's full and florid face shone with a quiet content as he
looked out at his huge but well-ordered household.  Like every
head of a prosperous Abbey, Abbot John, the fourth of the name,
was a man of various accomplishments.  Through his own chosen
instruments he had to minister a great estate and to keep order
and decorum among a large body of men living a celibate life.  He
was a rigid disciplinarian toward all beneath him, a supple
diplomatist to all above.  He held high debate with neighboring
abbots and lords, with bishops, with papal legates, and even on
occasion with the King's majesty himself.  Many were the subjects
with which he must be conversant.  Questions of doctrine,
questions of building, points of forestry, of agriculture, of
drainage, of feudal law, all came to the Abbot for settlement.  He
held the scales of justice in all the Abbey banlieue which
stretched over many a mile of Hampshire and of Surrey.  To the
monks his displeasure might mean fasting, exile to some sterner
community, or even imprisonment in chains.  Over the layman also
he could hold any punishment save only corporeal death, instead of
which he had in hand the far more dreadful weapon of spiritual
excommunication.

Such were the powers of the Abbot, and it is no wonder that there
were masterful lines in the ruddy features of Abbot John, or that
the brethren, glancing up, should put on an even meeker carriage
and more demure expression as they saw the watchful face in the
window above them.

A knock at the door of his studio recalled the Abbot to his
immediate duties, and he returned to his desk.  Already he had
spoken with his cellarer and prior, almoner, chaplain and lector,
but now in the tall and gaunt monk who obeyed his summons to enter
he recognized the most important and also the most importunate of
his agents, Brother Samuel the sacrist, whose office,
corresponding to that of the layman's bailiff, placed the material
interests of the monastery and its dealings with the outer world
entirely under his control, subject only to the check of the
Abbot.  Brother Samuel was a gnarled and stringy old monk whose
stern and sharp-featured face reflected no light from above but
only that sordid workaday world toward which it was forever
turned.  A huge book of accounts was tucked under one of his arms,
while a great bunch of keys hung from the other hand, a badge of
his office, and also on occasion of impatience a weapon of
offense, as many a scarred head among rustics and lay brothers
could testify.

The Abbot sighed wearily, for he suffered much at the hands of his
strenuous agent.  "Well, Brother Samuel, what is your will?" he
asked.

"Holy father, I have to report that I have sold the wool to Master
Baldwin of Winchester at two shillings a bale more than it fetched
last year, for the murrain among the sheep has raised the price."

"You have done well, brother."

"I have also to tell you that I have distrained Wat the warrener
from his cottage, for his Christmas rent is still unpaid, nor the
hen-rents of last year."

"He has a wife and four children, brother."  He was a good, easy
man, the Abbot, though liable to be overborne by his sterner
subordinate.

"It is true, holy father; but if I should pass him, then how am I
to ask the rent of the foresters of Puttenham, or the hinds in the
village?  Such a thing spreads from house to house, and where then
is the wealth of Waverley?"

"What else, Brother Samuel?"

"There is the matter of the fish-ponds."

The Abbot's face brightened.  It was a subject upon which he was
an authority.  If the rule of his Order had robbed him of the
softer joys of life, he had the keener, zest for those which
remained.

"How have the char prospered, brother?"

"They have done well, holy father, but the carp have died in the
Abbot's pond."

"Carp prosper only upon a gravel bottom.  They must be put in also
in their due proportion, three milters to one spawner, brother
sacrist, and the spot must be free from wind, stony and sandy, an
ell deep, with willows and grass upon the banks.  Mud for tench,
brother, gravel for carp."

The sacrist leaned forward with the face of one who bears tidings
of woe.  "There are pike in the Abbot's pond," said he.

"Pike!" cried the Abbot in horror.  "As well shut up a wolf in our
sheepfold.  How came a pike in the pond?  There were no pike last
year, and a pike does not fall with the rain nor rise in the
springs.  The pond must be drained, or we shall spend next Lent
upon stockfish, and have the brethren down with the great sickness
ere Easter Sunday has come to absolve us from our abstinence."

"The pond shall be drained, holy father; I have already ordered
it.  Then we shall plant pot-herbs on the mud bottom, and after we
have gathered them in, return the fish and water once more from
the lower pond, so that they may fatten among the rich stubble."

"Good!" cried the Abbot.  "I would have three fish-stews in every
well-ordered house - one dry for herbs, one shallow for the fry
and the yearlings, and one deep for the breeders and the
tablefish.  But still, I have not heard you say how the pike came
in the Abbot's pond."

A spasm of anger passed over the fierce face of the sacrist, and
his keys rattled as his bony hand clasped them more tightly.
"Young Nigel Loring!" said he.  "He swore that he would do us
scathe, and in this way he has done it."

"How know you this?"

"Six weeks ago he was seen day by day fishing for pike at the
great Lake of Frensham.  Twice at night he has been met with a
bundle of straw under his arm on the Hankley Down.  Well, I wot
that the straw was wet and that a live pike lay within it."

The Abbot shook his head.  "I have heard much of this youth's wild
ways; but now indeed he has passed all bounds if what you say be
truth.  It was bad enough when it was said that he slew the King's
deer in Woolmer Chase, or broke the head of Hobbs the chapman, so
that he lay for seven days betwixt life and death in our
infirmary, saved only by Brother Peter's skill in the pharmacies
of herbs; but to put pike in the Abbot's pond-why should he play
such a devil's prank?"

"Because he hates the House of Waverley, holy father; because he
swears that we hold his father's land."

"In which there is surely some truth."

"But, holy father, we hold no more than the law has allowed."

"True, brother, and yet between ourselves, we may admit that the
heavier purse may weigh down the scales of Justice.  When I have
passed the old house and have seen that aged woman with her
ruddled cheeks and her baleful eyes look the curses she dare not
speak, I have many a time wished that we had other neighbors."

"That we can soon bring about, holy father.  Indeed, it is of it
that I wished to speak to you.  Surely it is not hard for us to
drive them from the country-side.  There are thirty years' claims
of escuage unsettled, and there is Sergeant Wilkins, the lawyer of
Guildford, whom I will warrant to draw up such arrears of dues and
rents and issues of hidage and fodder-corn that these folk, who
are as beggarly as they are proud, will have to sell the roof-tree
over them ere they can meet them.  Within three days I will have
them at our mercy."

"They are an ancient family and of good repute.  I would not treat
them too harshly, brother."

"Bethink you of the pike in the carp pond!"

The Abbot hardened his heart at the thought.  "It was indeed a
devil's deed - when we had but newly stocked it with char and with
carp.  Well, well, the law is the law, and if you can use it to
hurt, it is still lawful to do so Have these claims been
advanced?"

"Deacon the bailiff with his two varlets went down to the Hall
yesternight on the matter of the escuage, and came screaming back
with this young hothead raging at their heels.  He is small and
slight, yet he has the strength of many men in the hour of his
wrath.  The bailiff swears that he will go no more, save with half
a score of archers to uphold him."

The Abbot was red with anger at this new offense.  "I will teach
him that the servants of Holy Church, even though we of the rule
of Saint Bernard be the lowliest and humblest of her children, can
still defend their own against the froward and the violent!  Go,
cite this man before the Abbey court.  Let him appear in the
chapter-house after tierce to-morrow."

But the wary sacrist shook his head: "Nay, holy father, the times
are not yet ripe.  Give me three days, I pray you, that my case
against him may be complete.  Bear in mind that the father and the
grandfather of this unruly squire were both famous men of their
day and the foremost knights in the King's own service, living in
high honor and dying in their knightly duty.  The Lady Ermyntrude
Loring was first lady to the King's mother.  Roger FitzAlan of
Farnham and Sir Hugh Walcott of Guildford Castle were each old
comrades-in-arms of Nigel's father, and sib to him on the distaff
side.  Already there has been talk that we have dealt harshly with
them.  Therefore, my rede is that we be wise and wary and wait
until his cup be indeed full."

The Abbot had opened his mouth to reply, when the consultation was
interrupted by a most unwonted buzz of, excitement from among the
monks in the cloister below.  Questions and answers in excited
voices sounded from one side of the ambulatory to the other.
Sacrist and Abbot were gazing at each other in amazement at such a
breach of the discipline and decorum of their well-trained flock,
when there came a swift step upon the stair, and a white-faced
brother flung open the door and rushed into the room.

"Father Abbot!" he cried.  "Alas, alas!  Brother John is dead, and
the holy subprior is dead, and the Devil is loose in the five-
virgate field!"




III. THE YELLOW HORSE OF CROOKSBURY


In those simple times there was a great wonder and mystery in
life.  Man walked in fear and solemnity, with Heaven very close
above his head, and Hell below his very feet.  God's visible hand
was everywhere, in the rainbow and the comet, in the thunder and
the wind.  The Devil too raged openly upon the earth; he skulked
behind the hedge-rows in the gloaming; he laughed loudly in the
night-time; he clawed the dying sinner, pounced on the unbaptized
babe, and twisted the limbs of the epileptic.  A foul fiend slunk
ever by a man's side and whispered villainies in his ear, while
above him there hovered an angel of grace who pointed to the steep
and narrow track.  How could one doubt these things, when Pope and
priest and scholar and King were all united in believing them,
with no single voice of question in the whole wide world?

Every book read, every picture seen, every tale heard from nurse
or mother, all taught the same lesson.  And as a man traveled
through the world his faith would grow the firmer, for go where he
would there were the endless shrines of the saints, each with its
holy relic in the center, and around it the tradition of incessant
miracles, with stacks of deserted crutches and silver votive
hearts to prove them.  At every turn he was made to feel how thin
was the veil, and how easily rent, which screened him from the
awful denizens of the unseen world.

Hence the wild announcement of the frightened monk seemed terrible
rather than incredible to those whom he addressed.   The Abbot's
ruddy face paled for a moment, it is true, but he plucked the
crucifix from his desk and rose valiantly to his feet.

"Lead me to him!" said he.  "Show me the foul fiend who dares to
lay his grip upon brethren of the holy house of Saint Bernard!
Run down to my chaplain, brother!  Bid him bring the exorcist with
him, and also the blessed box of relics, and the bones of Saint
James from under the altar!  With these and a contrite and humble
heart we may show front to all the powers of darkness."

But the sacrist was of a more critical turn of mind.  He clutched
the monk's arm with a grip which left its five purple spots for
many a day to come.

"Is this the way to enter the Abbot's own chamber, without knock
or reverence, or so much as a `Pax vobiscum'?" said he sternly.
"You were wont to be our gentlest novice, of lowly carriage in
chapter, devout in psalmody and strict in the cloister.  Pull your
wits together and answer me straightly.  In what form has the foul
fiend appeared, and how has he done this grievous scathe to our
brethren?  Have you seen him with your own eyes, or do you repeat
from hearsay?  Speak, man, or you stand on the penance-stool in
the chapter-house this very hour!"

Thus adjured, the frightened monk grew calmer in his bearing,
though his white lips and his startled eyes, with the gasping of
his breath, told of his inward tremors.

"If it please you, holy father, and you, reverend sacrist, it came
about in this way.  James the subprior, and Brother John and I had
spent our day from sext onward on Hankley, cutting bracken for the
cow-houses.  We were coming back over the five-virgate field, and
the holy subprior was telling us a saintly tale from the life of
Saint Gregory, when there came a sudden sound like a rushing
torrent, and the foul fiend sprang over the high wall which skirts
the water-meadow and rushed upon us with the speed of the wind.
The lay brother he struck to the ground and trampled into the
mire.  Then, seizing the good subprior in his teeth, he rushed
round the field, swinging him as though he were a fardel of old
clothes.

"Amazed at such a sight, I stood without movement and had said a
credo and three aves, when the Devil dropped the subprior and
sprang upon me.  With the help of Saint Bernard I clambered over
the wall, but not before his teeth had found my leg, and he had
torn away the whole back skirt of my gown."  As he spoke he turned
and gave corroboration to his story by the hanging ruins of his
long trailing garment.

"In what shape then did Satan appear?" the Abbot demanded.

"As a great yellow horse, holy father - a monster horse, with eyes
of fire and the teeth of a griffin."

"A yellow horse!"  The sacrist glared at the scared monk.  "You
foolish brother!  How will you behave when you have indeed to face
the King of Terrors himself if you can be so frightened by the
sight of a yellow horse?  It is the horse of Franklin Aylward, my
father, which has been distrained by us because he owes the Abbey
fifty good shillings and can never hope to pay it.  Such a horse,
they say, is not to be found betwixt this and the King's stables
at Windsor, for his sire was a Spanish destrier, and his dam an
Arab mare of the very breed which Saladin, whose soul now reeks in
Hell, kept for his own use, and even it has been said under the
shelter of his own tent.  I took him in discharge of the debt, and
I ordered the varlets who had haltered him to leave him alone in
the water-meadow, for I have heard that the beast has indeed a
most evil spirit, and has killed more men than one."

"It was an ill day for Waverley that you brought such a monster
within its bounds," said the Abbot.  "If the subprior and Brother
John be indeed dead, then it would seem that if the horse be not
the Devil he is at least the Devil's instrument."

"Horse or Devil, holy father, I heard him shout with joy as he
trampled upon Brother John, and had you seen him tossing the
subprior as a dog shakes a rat you would perchance have felt even
as I did."

"Come then," cried the Abbot, "let us see with our own eyes what
evil has been done."

And the three monks hurried down the stair which led to the
cloisters.

They had no sooner descended than their more pressing fears were
set at rest, for at that very moment, limping, disheveled and
mud-stained, the two sufferers were being led in amid a crowd of
sympathizing brethren.  Shouts and cries from outside showed,
however, that some further drama was in progress, and both Abbot
and sacrist hastened onward as fast as the dignity of their office
would permit, until they had passed the gates and gained the wall
of the meadow.  Looking over it, a remarkable sight presented
itself to their eyes.

Fetlock deep in the lush grass there stood a magnificent horse,
such a horse as a sculptor or a soldier might thrill to see.  His
color was a light chestnut, with mane and tail of a more tawny
tint.  Seventeen hands high, with a barrel and haunches which
bespoke tremendous strength, he fined down to the most delicate
lines of dainty breed in neck and crest and shoulder.  He was
indeed a glorious sight as he stood there, his beautiful body
leaning back from his wide-spread and propped fore legs, his head
craned high, his ears erect, his mane bristling, his red nostrils
opening and shutting with wrath, and his flashing eyes turning
from side to side in haughty menace and defiance.

Scattered round in a respectful circle, six of the Abbey lay
servants and foresters, each holding a halter, were creeping
toward him.  Every now and then, with a beautiful toss and swerve
and plunge, the great creature would turn upon one of his would-be
captors, and with outstretched head, flying mane and flashing
teeth, would chase him screaming to the safety of the wall, while
the others would close swiftly in behind and cast their ropes in
the hope of catching neck or leg, but only in their, turn to be
chased to the nearest refuge.

Had two of these ropes settled upon the horse, and had their
throwers found some purchase of stump or boulder by which they
could hold them, then the man's brain might have won its wonted
victory over swiftness and strength.  But the brains were
themselves at fault which imagined that one such rope would serve
any purpose save to endanger the thrower.

Yet so it was, and what might have been foreseen occurred at the
very moment of the arrival of the monks.  The horse, having chased
one of his enemies to the wall, remained so long snorting his
contempt over the coping that the others were able to creep upon
him from behind.  Several ropes were flung, and one noose settled
over the proud crest and lost itself in the waving mane.  In an
instant the creature had turned and the men were flying for their
lives; but he who had cast the rope lingered, uncertain what use
to make of his own success.  That moment of doubt was fatal.  With
a yell of dismay, the man saw the great creature rear above him.
Then with a crash the fore feet fell upon him and dashed him to
the ground.  He rose screaming, was hurled over once more, and lay
a quivering, bleeding heap, while the savage horse, the most cruel
and terrible in its anger of all creatures on earth, bit and shook
and trampled the writhing body.

A loud wail of horror rose from the lines of tonsured heads which
skirted the high wall - a wail which suddenly died away into a
long hushed silence, broken at last by a rapturous cry of
thanksgiving and of joy.

On the road which led to the old dark manor-house upon the side of
the hill a youth had been riding.  His mount was a sorry one, a
weedy, shambling, long-haired colt, and his patched tunic of faded
purple with stained leather belt presented no very smart
appearance; yet in the bearing of the man, in the poise of his
head, in his easy graceful carriage, and in the bold glance of his
large blue eyes, there was that stamp of distinction and of breed
which would have given him a place of his own in any assembly.  He
was of small stature, but his frame was singularly elegant and
graceful.  His face, though tanned with the weather, was delicate
in features and most eager and alert in expression.  A thick
fringe of crisp yellow curls broke from under the dark flat cap
which he was wearing, and a short golden beard hid the outline of
his strong square chin.  One white osprey feather thrust through a
gold brooch in the front of his cap gave a touch of grace to his
somber garb.  This and other points of his attire, the short
hanging mantle, the leather-sheathed hunting-knife, the cross belt
which sustained a brazen horn, the soft doe-skin boots and the
prick spurs, would all disclose themselves to an observer; but at
the first glance the brown face set in gold and the dancing light
of the quick, reckless, laughing eyes, were the one strong memory
left behind.

Such was the youth who, cracking his whip joyously, and followed
by half a score of dogs, cantered on his rude pony down the
Tilford Lane, and thence it was that with a smile of amused
contempt upon his face he observed the comedy in the field and the
impotent efforts of the servants of Waverley.

Suddenly, however, as the comedy turned swiftly to black tragedy,
this passive spectator leaped into quick strenuous life.  With a
spring he was off his pony, and with another he was over the stone
wall and flying swiftly across the field.  Looking up from his
victim, the great yellow horse saw this other enemy approach, and
spurning the prostrate, but still writhing body with its heels,
dashed at the newcomer.

But this time there was no hasty flight, no rapturous pursuit to
the wall.  The little man braced himself straight, flung up his
metal-headed whip, and met the horse with a crashing blow upon the
head, repeated again and again with every attack.  In vain the
horse reared and tried to overthrow its enemy with swooping
shoulders and pawing hoofs.  Cool, swift and alert, the man sprang
swiftly aside from under the very shadow of death, and then again
came the swish and thud of the unerring blow from the heavy
handle.

The horse drew off, glared with wonder and fury at this masterful
man, and then trotted round in a circle, with mane bristling, tail
streaming and ears on end, snorting in its rage and pain.  The
man, hardly deigning to glance at his fell neighbor, passed on to
the wounded forester, raised him in his arms with a strength which
could not have been expected in so slight a body, and carried him,
groaning, to the wall, where a dozen hands were outstretched to
help him over.  Then, at his leisure, the young man also climbed
the wall, smiling back with cool contempt at the yellow horse,
which had come raging after him once more.

As he sprang down, a dozen monks surrounded him to thank him or to
praise him; but he would have turned sullenly away without a word
had he not been stopped by Abbot John in person.

"Nay, Squire Loring," said he, "if you be a bad friend to our
Abbey, yet we must needs own that you have played the part of a
good Christian this day, for if there is breath left in our
servant's body it is to you next to our blessed patron Saint
Bernard that we owe it."

"By Saint Paul!  I owe you no good-will, Abbot John," said the
young man.  "The shadow of your Abbey has ever fallen across the
house of Loring.  As to any small deed that I may have done this
day, I ask no thanks for it.  It is not for you nor for your house
that I have done it, but only because it was my pleasure so to
do."

The Abbot flushed at the bold words, and bit his lip with
vexation.

It was the sacrist, however, who answered: "It would be more
fitting and more gracious," said he, "if you were to speak to the
holy Father Abbot in a manner suited to his high rank and to the
respect which is due to a Prince of the Church."

The youth turned his bold blue eyes upon the monk, and his
sunburned face darkened with anger.  "Were it not for the gown
upon your back, and for your silvering hair, I would answer you in
another fashion," said he.  "You are the lean wolf which growls
ever at our door, greedy for the little which hath been left to
us.  Say and do what you will with me, but by Saint Paul! if I
find that Dame Ermyntrude is baited by your ravenous pack I will
beat them off with this whip from the little patch which still
remains of all the acres of my fathers."

"Have a care, Nigel Loring, have a care!" cried the Abbot, with
finger upraised.  "Have you no fears of the law of England?  "

"A just law I fear and obey."

"Have you no respect for Holy Church?"

"I respect all that is holy in her.  I do not respect those who
grind the poor or steal their neighbor's land."

"Rash man, many a one has been blighted by her ban for less than
you have now said!  And yet it is not for us to judge you harshly
this day.  You are young and hot words come easily to your lips.
How fares the forester?"

"His hurt is grievous, Father Abbot, but he will live," said a
brother, looking up from the prostrate form.  " With a
blood-letting and an electuary, I will warrant him sound within a
month."

"Then bear him to the hospital.  And now, brother, about this
terrible beast who still gazes and snorts at us over the top of
the wall as though his thoughts of Holy Church were as uncouth as
those of Squire Nigel himself, what are we to do with him?"

"Here is Franklin Aylward," said one of the brethren.  "The horse
was his, and doubtless he will take it back to his farm."

But the stout red-faced farmer shook his head at the proposal.
"Not I, in faith!" said he.  "The beast hath chased me twice round
the paddock; it has nigh slain my boy Samkin.  He would never be
happy till he had ridden it, nor has he ever been happy since.
There is not a hind in my employ who will enter his stall.  Ill
fare the day that ever I took the beast from the Castle stud at
Guildford, where they could do nothing with it and no rider could
be found bold enough to mount it!  When the sacrist here took it
for a fifty-shilling debt he made his own bargain and must abide
by it.  He comes no more to the Crooksbury farm."

"And he stays no more here," said the Abbot.  "Brother sacrist,
you have raised the Devil, and it is for you to lay it again."

"That I will most readily," cried the sacrist.  "The pittance-
master can stop the fifty shillings from my very own weekly dole,
and so the Abbey be none the poorer.  In the meantime here is Wat
with his arbalist and a bolt in his girdle.  Let him drive it to
the head through this cursed creature, for his hide and his hoofs
are of more value than his wicked self."

A hard brown old woodman who had been shooting vermin in the Abbey
groves stepped forward with a grin of pleasure.  After a lifetime
of stoats and foxes, this was indeed a noble quarry which was to
fall before him.  Fitting a bolt on the nut of his taut crossbow,
he had raised it to his shoulder and leveled it at the fierce,
proud, disheveled head which tossed in savage freedom at the other
side of the wall.  His finger was crooked on the spring, when a
blow from a whip struck the bow upward and the bolt flew harmless
over the Abbey orchard, while the woodman shrank abashed from
Nigel Loring's angry eyes.

"Keep your bolts for your weasels!" said he.  "Would you take life
from a creature whose only fault is that its spirit is so high
that it has met none yet who dare control it?  You would slay such
a horse as a king might be proud to mount, and all because a
country franklin, or a monk, or a monk's varlet, has not the wit
nor the hands to master him?"

The sacrist turned swiftly on the Squire.  "The Abbey owes you an
offering for this day's work, however rude your words may be,"
said he.  "If you think so much of the horse, you may desire to
own it.  If I am to pay for it, then with the holy Abbot's
permission it is in my gift and I bestow it freely upon you."

The Abbot plucked at his subordinate's sleeve.  "Bethink you,
brother sacrist," he whispered, "shall we not have this man's
blood upon our heads?"

"His pride is as stubborn as the horse's, holy father," the
sacrist answered, his gaunt fact breaking into a malicious smile.
"Man or beast, one will break the other and the world will be the
better for it.  If you forbid me - "

"Nay, brother, you have bought the horse, and you may have the
bestowal of it."

"Then I give it - hide and hoofs, tail and temper - to Nigel
Loring, and may it be as sweet and as gentle to him as he hath
been to the Abbot of Waverley!"

The sacrist spoke aloud amid the tittering of the monks, for the
man concerned was out of earshot.  At the first words which had
shown him the turn which affairs had taken he had run swiftly to
the spot where he had left his pony.  From its mouth he removed
the bit and the stout bridle which held it.  Then leaving the
creature to nibble the grass by the wayside he sped back whence he
came.

"I take your gift, monk," said he, "though I know well why it is
that you give it.  Yet I thank you, for there are two things upon
earth for which I have ever yearned, and which my thin purse could
never buy.  The one is a noble horse, such a horse as my father's
son should have betwixt his thighs, and here is the one of all
others which I would have chosen, since some small deed is to be
done in the winning of him, and some honorable advancement to be
gained.  How is the horse called?"

"Its name," said the franklin, "is Pommers.  I warn you, young
sir, that none may ride him, for many have tried, and the luckiest
is he who has only a staved rib to show for it."

"I thank you for your rede," said Nigel, "and now I see that this
is indeed a horse which I would journey far to meet.  I am your
man, Pommers, and you are my horse, and this night you shall own
it or I will never need horse again.  My spirit against thine, and
God hold thy spirit high, Pommers, so that the greater be the
adventure, and the more hope of honor gained!"

While he spoke the young Squire had climbed on to the top of the
wall and stood there balanced, the very image of grace and spirit
and gallantry, his bridle hanging from one hand and his whip
grasped in the other.  With a fierce snort, the horse made for him
instantly, and his white teeth flashed as he snapped; but again a
heavy blow from the loaded whip caused him to swerve, and even at
the instant of the swerve, measuring the distance with steady
eyes, and bending his supple body for the spring, Nigel bounded
into the air and fell with his legs astride the broad back of the
yellow horse.  For a minute, with neither saddle nor stirrups to
help him, and the beast ramping and rearing like a mad thing
beneath him, he was hard pressed to hold his own.  His legs were
like two bands of steel welded on to the swelling arches of the
great horse's ribs, and his left hand was buried deep in the tawny
mane.

Never had the dull round of the lives of the gentle brethren of
Waverley been broken by so fiery a scene.  Springing to right and
swooping to left, now with its tangled wicked head betwixt its
forefeet, and now pawing eight feet high in the air, with scarlet,
furious nostrils and maddened eyes, the yellow horse was a thing
of terror and of beauty.  But the lithe figure on his back,
bending like a reed in the wind to every movement, firm below,
pliant above, with calm inexorable face, and eyes which danced and
gleamed with the joy of contest, still held its masterful place
for all that the fiery heart and the iron muscles of the great
beast could do.

Once a long drone of dismay rose from the monks, as rearing higher
and higher yet a last mad effort sent the creature toppling over
backward upon its rider.  But, swift and cool, he had writhed from
under it ere it fell, spurned it with his foot as it rolled upon
the earth, and then seizing its mane as it rose swung himself
lightly on to its back once more.  Even the grim sacrist could not
but join the cheer, as Pommers, amazed to find the rider still
upon his back, plunged and curveted down the field.

But the wild horse only swelled into a greater fury.  In the
sullen gloom of its untamed heart there rose the furious resolve
to dash the life from this clinging rider, even if it meant
destruction to beast and man.  With red, blazing eyes it looked
round for death.  On three sides the five-virgate field was
bounded by a high wall, broken only at one spot by a heavy
four-foot wooden gate.  But on the fourth side was a low gray
building, one of the granges of the Abbey, presenting a long flank
unbroken by door or window.  The horse stretched itself into a
gallop, and headed straight for that craggy thirty-foot wall.  He
would break in red ruin at the base of it if he could but dash
forever the life of this man, who claimed mastery over that which
had never found its master yet.

The great haunches gathered under it, the eager hoofs drummed the
grass, as faster and still more fast the frantic horse bore
himself and his rider toward the wall.  Would Nigel spring off?
To do so would be to bend his will to that of the beast beneath
him.  There was a better way than that.  Cool, quick and decided,
the man swiftly passed both whip and bridle into the left hand
which still held the mane.  Then with the right he slipped his
short mantle from his shoulders and lying forward along the
creature's strenuous, rippling back he cast the flapping cloth
over the horse's eyes.

The result was but too successful, for it nearly brought about the
downfall of the rider.  When those red eyes straining for death
were suddenly shrouded in unexpected  darkness the amazed horse
propped on its forefeet and came to so dead a stop that Nigel was
shot forward on to its neck and hardly held himself by his
hair-entwined hand.  Ere he had slid back into position the moment
of danger had passed, for the horse, its purpose all blurred in
its mind by this strange thing which had befallen, wheeled round
once more, trembling in every fiber, and tossing its petulant head
until at last the mantle had been slipped from its eyes and the
chilling darkness had melted into the homely circle of sunlit
grass once more.

But what was this new outrage which had been inflicted upon it?
What was this defiling bar of iron which was locked hard against
its mouth?  What were these straps which galled the tossing neck,
this band which spanned its chest?  In those instants of stillness
ere the mantle had been plucked away Nigel had lain forward, had
slipped the snaffle between the champing teeth, and had deftly
secured it.

Blind, frantic fury surged in the yellow horse's heart once more
at this new degradation, this badge of serfdom and infamy.  His
spirit rose high and menacing at the touch.  He loathed this
place, these people, all and everything which threatened his
freedom.  He would have done with them forever; he would see them
no more.  Let him away to the uttermost parts of the earth, to the
great plains where freedom is.  Anywhere over the far horizon
where he could get away from the defiling bit and the insufferable
mastery of man.

He turned with a rush, and one magnificent deer-like bound carried
him over the four-foot gate.  Nigel's hat had flown off, and his
yellow curls streamed behind him as he rose and fell in the leap.
They were in the water-meadow now, and the rippling stream twenty
feet wide gleamed in front of them running down to the main
current of the Wey.  The yellow horse gathered his haunches under
him and flew over like an arrow.  He took off from behind a
boulder and cleared a furze-bush on the farther side.  Two stones
still mark the leap from hoof-mark to hoof-mark, and they are
eleven good paces apart.  Under the hanging branch of the great
oak-tree on the farther side (that Quercus Tilfordiensis ordiensis
is still shown as the bound of the Abby's immediate precincts) the
great horse passed.  He had hoped to sweep off his rider, but
Nigel sank low on the heaving back with his face buried in the
flying mane.  The rough bough rasped him rudely, but never shook
his spirit nor his grip.  Rearing, plunging and struggling,
Pommers broke through the sapling grove and was out on the broad
stretch of Hankley Down.

And now came such a ride as still lingers in the gossip of the
lowly country folk and forms the rude jingle of that old Surrey
ballad, now nearly forgotten, save for the refrain:

           The Doe that sped on Hinde Head,
              The Kestril on the winde,
           And Nigel on the Yellow Horse
              Can leave the world behinde.

Before them lay a rolling ocean of dark heather, knee-deep,
swelling in billow on billow up to the clear-cut hill before them.
Above stretched one unbroken arch of peaceful blue, with a sun
which was sinking down toward the Hampshire hills.  Through the
deep heather, down the gullies, over the watercourses, up the
broken slopes, Pommers flew, his great heart bursting with rage,
and every fiber quivering at the indignities which he had endured.

And still, do what he would, the man clung fast to his heaving
sides and to his flying mane, silent, motionless, inexorable,
letting him do what he would, but fixed as Fate upon his purpose.
Over Hankley Down, through Thursley Marsh, with the reeds up to
his mud-splashed withers, onward up the long slope of the Headland
of the Hinds, down by the Nutcombe Gorge, slipping, blundering,
bounding, but never slackening his fearful speed, on went the
great yellow horse.  The villagers of Shottermill heard the wild
clatter of hoofs, but ere they could swing the ox-hide curtains of
their cottage doors horse and rider were lost amid the high
bracken of the Haslemere Valley.  On he went, and on, tossing the
miles behind his flying hoofs.  No marsh-land could clog him, no
hill could hold him back.  Up the slope of Linchmere and the long
ascent of Fernhurst he thundered as on the level, and it was not
until he had flown down the incline of Henley Hill, and the gray
castle tower of Midhurst rose over the coppice in front, that at
last the eager outstretched neck sank a little on the breast, and
the breath came quick and fast.  Look where he would in woodland
and on down, his straining eyes could catch no sign of those
plains of freedom which he sought.

And yet another outrage!  It was bad that this creature should
still cling so tight upon his back, but now he would even go to
the intolerable length of checking him and guiding him on the way
that he would have him go.  There was a sharp pluck at his mouth,
and his head was turned north once more.  As well go that way as
another, but the man was mad indeed if he thought that such a
horse as Pommers was at the end of his spirit or his strength.  He
would soon show him that he was unconquered, if it strained his
sinews or broke his heart to do so.  Back then he flew up the
long, long ascent.  Would he ever get to the end of it?  Yet he
would not own that he could go no farther while the man still kept
his grip.  He was white with foam and caked with mud.  His eyes
were gorged with blood, his mouth open and gasping, his nostrils
expanded, his coat stark and reeking.  On he flew down the long
Sunday Hill until he reached the deep Kingsley Marsh at the
bottom.  No, it was too much!  Flesh and blood could go no
farther.  As he struggled out from the reedy slime with the heavy
black mud still clinging to his fetlocks, he at last eased down
with sobbing breath and slowed the tumultuous gallop to a canter.

Oh, crowning infamy!  Was there no limit to these degradations?
He was no longer even to choose his own pace.  Since he had chosen
to gallop so far at his own will he must now gallop farther still
at the will of another.  A spur struck home on either flank.  A
stinging whip-lash fell across his shoulder.  He bounded his own
height in the air at the pain and the shame of it.  Then,
forgetting his weary limbs, forgetting his panting, reeking sides,
forgetting everything save this intolerable insult and the burning
spirit within, he plunged off once more upon his furious gallop.
He was out on the heather slopes again and heading for Weydown
Common.  On he flew and on.  But again his brain failed him and
again his limbs trembled beneath him, and yet again he strove to
ease his pace, only to be driven onward by the cruel spur and the
falling lash.  He was blind and giddy with fatigue.

He saw no longer where he placed his feet, he cared no longer
whither he went, but his one mad longing was to get away from this
dreadful thing, this torture which clung to him and would not let
him go.  Through Thursley village he passed, his eyes straining in
his agony, his heart bursting within him, and he had won his way
to the crest of Thursley Down, still stung forward by stab and
blow, when his spirit weakened, his giant strength ebbed out of
him, and with one deep sob of agony the yellow horse sank among
the heather.  So sudden was the fall that Nigel flew forward over
his shoulder, and beast and man lay prostrate and gasping while
the last red rim of the sun sank behind Butser and the first stars
gleamed in a violet sky.

The young Squire was the first to recover, and kneeling by the
panting, overwrought horse he passed his hand gently over the
tangled mane and down the foam-flecked face.  The red eye rolled
up at him; but it was wonder not hatred, a prayer and not a
threat, which he could read in it.  As he stroked the reeking
muzzle, the horse whinnied gently and thrust his nose into the
hollow of his hand.  It was enough.  It was the end of the
contest, the acceptance of new conditions by a chivalrous foe from
a chivalrous victor.

"You are my horse, Pommers," Nigel whispered, and he laid his
cheek against the craning head.  "I know you, Pommers, and you
know me, and with the help of Saint Paul we shall teach some other
folk to know us both.  Now let us walk together as far as this
moorland pond, for indeed I wot not whether it is you or I who
need the water most."

And so it was that some belated monks of Waverley passing homeward
from the outer farms saw a strange sight which they carried on
with them so that it reached that very night the ears both of
sacrist and of Abbot.  For, as they passed through Tilford they
had seen horse and man walking side by side and head by head up
the manor-house lane.  And when they had raised their lanterns on
the pair it was none other than the young Squire himself who was
leading home, as a shepherd leads a lamb, the fearsome yellow
horse of Crooksbury.




IV.  HOW THE SUMMONER CAME TO THE MANOR HOUSE OF TILFORD


By the date of this chronicle the ascetic sternness of the old
Norman castles had been humanized and refined so that the new
dwellings of the nobility, if less imposing in appearance, were
much more comfortable as places of residence.  A gentle race had
built their houses rather for peace than for war.  He who compares
the savage bareness of Pevensey or Guildford with the piled
grandeur of Bodmin or Windsor cannot fail to understand the change
in manners which they represent.

The earlier castles had a set purpose, for they were built that
the invaders might hold down the country; but when the Conquest
was once firmly established a castle had lost its meaning save as
a refuge from justice or as a center for civil strife.  On the
marches of Wales and of Scotland the castle might continue to be a
bulwark to the kingdom, and there still grew and flourished; but
in all other places they were rather a menace to the King's
majesty, and as such were discouraged and destroyed.  By the reign
of the third Edward the greater part of the old fighting castles
had been converted into dwelling-houses or had been ruined in the
civil wars, and left where their grim gray bones are still
littered upon the brows of our hills.  The new buildings were
either great country-houses, capable of defense, but mainly
residential, or they were manor-houses with no military
significance at all.

Such was the Tilford Manor-house where the last survivors of the
old and magnificent house of Loring still struggled hard to keep a
footing and to hold off the monks and the lawyers from the few
acres which were left to them.  The mansion was a two-storied one,
framed in heavy beams of wood, the interstices filled with rude
blocks of stone.  An outside staircase led up to several
sleeping-rooms above.  Below there were only two apartments, the
smaller of which was the bower of the aged Lady Ermyntrude.  The
other was the hall, a very large room, which served as the living
room of the family and as the common dining-room of themselves and
of their little group of servants and retainers.  The dwellings of
these servants, the kitchens, the offices and the stables were all
represented by a row of penthouses and sheds behind the main
building.  Here lived Charles the page, Peter the old falconer,
Red Swire who had followed Nigel's grandfather to the Scottish
wars, Weathercote the broken minstrel, John the cook, and other
survivors of more prosperous days, who still clung to the old
house as the barnacles to some wrecked and stranded vessel.

One evening about a week after the breaking of the yellow horse,
Nigel and his grandmother sat on either side of the large empty
fireplace in this spacious apartment.  The supper had been
removed, and so had the trestle tables upon which it had been
served, so that the room seemed bare and empty.  The stone floor
was strewed with a thick layer of green rushes, which was swept
out every Saturday and carried with it all the dirt and debris of
the week.  Several dogs were now crouched among these rushes,
gnawing and cracking the bones which had been thrown from the
table.  A long wooden buffet loaded with plates and dishes filled
one end of the room, but there was little other furniture save
some benches against the walls, two dorseret chairs, one small
table littered with chessmen, and a great iron coffer.  In one
corner was a high wickerwork stand, and on it two stately falcons
were perched, silent and motionless, save for an occasional
twinkle of their fierce yellow eyes.

But if the actual fittings of the room would have appeared scanty
to one who had lived in a more luxurious age, he would have been
surprised on looking up to see the multitude of objects which were
suspended above his head.  Over the fireplace were the
coats-of-arms of a number of houses allied by blood or by marriage
to the Lorings.  The two cresset-lights which flared upon each
side gleamed upon the blue lion of the Percies, the red birds of
de Valence, the black engrailed cross of de Mohun, the silver star
of de Vere, and the ruddy bars of FitzAlan, all grouped round the
famous red roses on the silver shield which the Lorings had borne
to glory upon many a bloody field.  Then from side to side the
room was spanned by heavy oaken beams from which a great number of
objects were hanging.  There were mail-shirts of obsolete pattern,
several shields, one or two rusted and battered helmets,
bowstaves, lances, otter-spears, harness, fishing-rods, and other
implements of war or of the chase, while higher still amid the
black shadows of the peaked roof could be seen rows of hams,
flitches of bacon, salted geese, and those other forms of
preserved meat which played so great a part in the housekeeping of
the Middle Ages.

Dame Ermyntrude Loring, daughter, wife, and mother of warriors,
was herself a formidable figure.  Tall and gaunt, with hard craggy
features and intolerant dark eyes, even her snow-white hair and
stooping back could not entirely remove the sense of fear which
she inspired in those around her.  Her thoughts and memories went
back to harsher times, and she looked upon the England around her
as a degenerate and effeminate land which had fallen away from the
old standard of knightly courtesy and valor.

The rising power of the people, the growing wealth of the Church,
the increasing luxury in life and manners, and the gentler tone of
the age were all equally abhorrent to her, so that the dread of
her fierce face, and even of the heavy oak staff with which she
supported her failing limbs, was widespread through all the
country round.

Yet if she was feared she was also respected, for in days when
books were few and readers scarce, a long memory and a ready
tongue were of the more value; and where, save from Dame
Ermyntrude, could the young unlettered Squires of Surrey and
Hampshire hear of their grandfathers and their battles, or learn
that lore of heraldry and chivalry which she handed down from a
ruder but a more martial age?  Poor as she was, there was no one
in Surrey whose guidance would be more readily sought upon a
question of precedence or of conduct than the Dame Ermyntrude
Loring.

She sat now with bowed back by the empty fireplace, and looked
across at Nigel with all the harsh lines of her old ruddled face
softening into love and pride.  The young Squire was busy cutting
bird-bolts for his crossbow, and whistling softly as he worked.
Suddenly he looked up and caught the dark eyes which were fixed
upon him.  He leaned forward and patted the bony hand.

"What hath pleased you, dear dame?  I read pleasure in your eyes."

"I have heard to-day, Nigel, how you came to win that great
war-horse which stamps in our stable."

"Nay, dame; I had told you that the monks had given it to me."

"You said so, fair son, but never a word more.  Yet the horse
which you brought home was a very different horse I wot, to that
which was given you.  Why did you not tell me?"

"I should think it shame to talk of such a thing."

"So would your father before you, and his father no less.  They
would sit silent among the knights when the wine went round and
listen to every man's deeds; but if perchance there was anyone who
spoke louder than the rest and seemed to be eager for honor, then
afterwards your father would pluck him softly by the sleeve and
whisper in his ear to learn if there was any small vow of which he
could relieve him, or if he would deign to perform some noble deed
of arms upon his person.  And if the man were a braggart and would
go no further, your father would be silent and none would know it.
But if he bore himself well, your father would spread his fame far
and wide, but never make mention of himself."

Nigel looked at the old woman with shining eyes.  "I love to hear
you speak of him," said he.  "I pray you to tell me once more of
the manner of his death."

"He died as he had lived, a very courtly gentleman.  It was at the
great sea-battle upon the Norman coast, and your father was in
command of the after-guard in the King's own ship.  Now the French
had taken a great English ship the year before when they came over
and held the narrow seas and burned the town of Southampton.

This ship was the Christopher, and they placed it in the front of
their battle; but the English closed upon it and stormed over its
side, and slew all who were upon it.

"But your father and Sir Lorredan of Genoa, who commanded the
Christopher, fought upon the high poop, so that all the fleet
stopped to watch it, and the King himself cried aloud at the
sight, for Sir Lorredan was a famous man-at-arms and bore himself
very stoutly that day, and many a knight envied your father that
he should have chanced upon so excellent a person.  But your
father bore him back and struck him such a blow with a mace that
he turned the helmet half round on his head, so that he could no
longer see through the eye holes, and Sir Lorredan threw down his
sword and gave himself to ransom.  But your father took him by the
helmet and twisted it until he had it straight upon his head.
Then, when he could see once again, he handed him his sword, and
prayed him that he would rest himself and then continue, for it
was great profit and joy to see any gentleman carry himself so
well.  So they sat together and rested by the rail of the poop;
but even as they raised their hands again your father was struck
by a stone from a mangonel and so died."

"And this Sir Lorredan," cried Nigel, "he died also, as I
understand?"

"I fear that he was slain by the archers, for they loved your
father, and they do not see these things with our eyes."

"It was a pity," said Nigel; "for it is clear that he was a good
knight and bore himself very bravely."

"Time was, when I was young, when commoners dared not have laid
their grimy hands upon such a man.  Men of gentle blood and
coat-armor made war upon each other, and the others, spearmen or
archers, could scramble amongst themselves.  But now all are of a
level, and only here and there one like yourself, fair son, who
reminds me of the men who are gone."

Nigel leaned forward and took her hands in his.  "What I am you
have made me," said he.

"It is true, Nigel.  I have indeed watched over you as the
gardener watches his most precious blossom, for in you alone are
all the hopes of our ancient house, and soon - very soon - you
will be alone."

"Nay, dear lady, say not that."

"I am very old, Nigel, and I feel the shadow closing in upon me.
My heart yearns to go, for all whom I have known and loved have
gone before me.  And you - it will be a blessed day for you, since
I have held you back from that world into which your brave spirit
longs to plunge."

"Nay, nay, I have been happy here with you at Tilford."

"We are very poor, Nigel.  I do not know where we may find the
money to fit you for the wars.  Yet we have good friends.  There
is Sir John Chandos, who has won such credit in the French wars
and who rides ever by the King's bridle-arm.  He was your father's
friend and they were Squires together.  If I sent you to court
with a message to him he would do what he could."

Nigel's fair face flushed.  "Nay, Dame Ermyntrude, I must find my
own gear, even as I have found my own horse, for I had rather ride
into battle in this tunic than owe my suit to another."

"I feared that you would say so, Nigel; but indeed I know not how
else we may get the money," said the old woman sadly.  "It was
different in the days of my father.  I can remember that a suit of
mail was but a small matter in those days, for in every English
town such things could be made.  But year by year since men have
come to take more care of their bodies, there have been added a
plate of proof here and a cunning joint there, and all must be
from Toledo or Milan, so that a knight must have much metal in his
purse ere he puts any on his limbs."

Nigel looked up wistfully at the old armor which was slung on the
beams above him.  "The ash spear is good," said he, "and so is the
oaken shield with facings of steel.  Sir Roger FitzAlan handled
them and said that he had never seen better.  But the armor - "

Lady Ermyntrude shook her old head and laughed.  "You have your
father's great soul, Nigel, but you have not his mighty breadth of
shoulder and length of limb.  There was not in all the King's
great host a taller or a stronger man.  His harness would be
little use to you.  No, fair son, I rede you that when the time
comes you sell this crumbling house and the few acres which are
still left, and so go forth to the wars in the hope that with your
own right hand you will plant the fortunes of a new house of
Loring."

A shadow of anger passed over Nigel's fresh young face.  "I know
not if we may hold off these monks and their lawyers much longer.
This very day there came a man from Guildford with claims from the
Abbey extending back before my father's death."

"Where are they, fair son?"

"They are flapping on the furze-bushes of Hankley, for I sent his
papers and parchments down wind as fast as ever falcon flew." `

"Nay!  you were mad to do that, Nigel.  And the man, where is he?"

"Red Swire and old George the archer threw him into the Thursley
bog."

"Alas!  I fear me such things cannot be done in these days, though
my father or my husband would have sent the rascal back to
Guildford without his ears.  But the Church and the Law are too
strong now for us who are of gentler blood.  Trouble will come of
it, Nigel, for the Abbot of Waverley is not one who will hold back
the shield of the Church from those who are her servants."

"The Abbot would not hurt us.  It is that gray lean wolf of a
sacrist who hungers for our land.  Let him do his worst.  I fear
him not."

"He has such an engine at his back, Nigel, that even the bravest
must fear him.  The ban which blasts a man's soul is in the
keeping of his church, and what have we to place against it?  I
pray you to speak him fair, Nigel."

"Nay, dear lady, it is both my duty and my pleasure to do what you
bid me; but I would die ere I ask as a favor that which we can
claim as a right.  Never can I cast my eyes from yonder window
that I do not see the swelling down-lands and the rich meadows,
glade and dingle, copse and wood, which have been ours since
Norman-William gave them to that Loring who bore his shield at
Senlac.  Now, by trick and fraud, they have passed away from us,
and many a franklin is a richer man than I; but never shall it be
said that I saved the rest by bending my neck to their yoke.  Let
them do their worst, and let me endure it or fight it as best I
may."

The old lady sighed and shook her head.  "You speak as a Loring
should, and yet I fear that some great trouble will befall us.
But let us talk no more of such matters, since we cannot mend
them.  Where is your citole, Nigel?  Will you not play and sing to
me?"

The gentleman of those days could scarce read and write; but he
spoke in two languages, played at least one musical instrument as
a matter of course, and possessed a number of other
accomplishments, from the imping of hawk's feathers, to the
mystery of venery, with knowledge of every beast and bird, its
time of grace and when it was seasonable.  As far as physical
feats went, to vault barebacked upon a horse, to hit a running
hare with a crossbow-bolt, or to climb the angle of a castle
courtyard, were feats which had come by nature to the young
Squire; but it was very different with music, which had called for
many a weary hour of irksome work.  Now at last he could master
the strings, but both his ear and his voice were not of the best,
so that it was well perhaps that there was so small and so
unprejudiced an audience to the Norman-French chanson, which he
sang in a high reedy voice with great earnestness of feeling, but
with many a slip and quaver, waving his yellow head in cadence to
the music:


         A sword!  A sword!  Ah, give me a sword!
           For the world is all to win.
         Though the way be hard and the door be barred,
           The strong man enters in.
         If Chance and Fate still hold the gate,
           Give me the iron key,
         And turret high my plume shall fly,
           Or you may weep for me!

         A horse!  A horse!  Ah, give me a horse!
           To bear me out afar,
         Where blackest need and grimmest deed
           And sweetest perils are.
         Hold thou my ways from glutted days
           Where poisoned leisure lies,
         And point the path of tears and wrath
           Which mounts to high emprise!

         A heart!  A heart!  Ah, give me a heart
           To rise to circumstance!
         Serene and high and bold to try
           The hazard of the chance,
         With strength to wait, but fixed as fate
            To plan and dare and do,
         The peer of all, and only thrall,
            Sweet lady mine, to you!

It may have been that the sentiment went for more than the music,
or it may have been the nicety of her own ears had been dulled by
age, but old Dame Ermyntrude clapped her lean hands together and
cried out in shrill applause.

"Weathercote has indeed had an apt pupil!" she said.  "I pray you
that you will sing again."

"Nay, dear dame, it is turn and turn betwixt you and me.  I beg
that you will recite a romance, you who know them all.  For all
the years that I have listened I have never yet come to the end of
them, and I dare swear that there are more in your head than in
all the great books which they showed me at Guildford Castle.  I
would fain hear `Doon of Mayence,' or `The Song of Roland,' or
`Sir Isumbras.'"

So the old dame broke into a long poem, slow and dull in the
inception, but quickening as the interest grew, until with darting
hands and glowing face she poured forth the verses which told of
the emptiness of sordid life, the beauty of heroic death, the high
sacredness of love and the bondage of honor.  Nigel, with set,
still features and brooding eyes, drank in the fiery words, until
at last they died upon the old woman's lips and she sank back
weary in her chair.

Nigel stooped over her and kissed her brow.  "Your words will ever
be as a star upon my path," said he.  Then, carrying over the
small table and the chessmen, he proposed that they should play
their usual game before they sought their rooms for the night.

But a sudden and rude interruption broke in upon their gentle
contest.  A dog pricked its ears and barked.  The others ran
growling to the door.  And then there came a sharp clash of arms,
a dull heavy blow as from a club or sword-pommel, and a deep voice
from without summoned them to open in the King's name.  The old
dame and Nigel had both sprung to their feet, their table
overturned and their chessmen scattered among the rushes.  Nigel's
hand had sought his crossbow, but the Lady Ermyntrude grasped his
arm.

"Nay, fair son!  Have you not heard that it is in the King's
name?" said she.  "Down, Talbot!  Down, Bayard! !  Open the door
and let his messenger in!"

Nigel undid the bolt, and the heavy wooden door swung outward upon
its hinges.  The light from the flaring cressets beat upon steel
caps and fierce bearded faces, with the glimmer of drawn swords
and the yellow gleam of bowstaves.  A dozen armed archers forced
their way into the room.  At their head were the gaunt sacrist of
Waverley and a stout elderly man clad in a red velvet doublet and
breeches much stained and mottled with mud and clay.  He bore a
great sheet of parchment with a fringe of dangling seals, which he
held aloft as he entered.

"I call on Nigel Loring!" he cried.  "I, the officer of the King's
law and the lay summoner of Waverley, call upon the man named
Nigel Loring!"

"I am he."

"Yes, it is he!" cried the sacrist.  "Archers, do as you were
ordered!"

In an instant the band threw themselves upon him like the hounds
on a stag.  Desperately Nigel strove to gain his sword which lay
upon the iron coffer.  With the convulsive strength which comes
from the spirit rather than from the body, he bore them all in
that direction, but the sacrist snatched the weapon from its
place, and the rest dragged the writhing Squire to the ground and
swathed him in a cord.

"Hold him fast, good archers!  Keep a stout grip on him!" cried
the summoner.  "I pray you, one of you, prick off these great dogs
which snarl at my heels.  Stand off, I say, in the name of the
King!  Watkin, come betwixt me and these creatures who have as
little regard for the law as their master."

One of the archers kicked off the faithful dogs.  But there were
others of the household who were equally ready to show their teeth
in defense of the old house of Loring.  From the door which led to
their quarters there emerged the pitiful muster of Nigel's
threadbare retainers.  There was a time when ten knights, forty
men-at-arms and two hundred archers would march behind the scarlet
roses.  Now at this last rally when the young head of the house
lay bound in his own hall, there mustered at his call the page
Charles with a cudgel, John the cook with his longest spit, Red
Swire the aged man-at-arms with a formidable ax swung over his
snowy head, and Weathercote the minstrel with a boar-spear.  Yet
this motley array was fired with the spirit of the house, and
under the lead of the fierce old soldier they would certainly have
flung themselves upon the ready swords of the archers, had the
Lady Ermyntrude not swept between them:

"Stand back, Swire!" she cried.  "Back, Weathercote Charles, put a
leash on Talbot, and hold Bayard back!"  Her black eyes blazed
upon the invaders until they shrank from that baleful gaze.  "Who
are you, you rascal robbers, who dare to misuse the King's name
and to lay hands upon one whose smallest drop of blood has more
worth than all your thrall and caitiff bodies?"

"Nay, not so fast, dame, not so fast, I pray you!" cried the stout
summoner, whose face had resumed its natural color, now that he
had a woman to deal with.  "There is a law of England, mark you,
and there are those who serve and uphold it, who are the true men
and the King's own lieges.  Such a one am I.  Then again, there
are those who take such as me and transfer, carry or convey us
into a bog or morass.  Such a one is this graceless old man with
the ax, whom I have seen already this day.  There are also those
who tear, destroy or scatter the papers of the law, of which this
young man is the chief.  Therefore, I would rede you, dame, not to
rail against us, but to understand that we are the King's men on
the King's own service."

"What then is your errand in this house at this hour of the
night?"

The summoner cleared his throat pompously, and turning his
parchment to the light of the cressets he read out a long document
in Norman-French, couched in such a style and such a language that
the most involved and foolish of our forms were simplicity itself
compared to those by which the men of the long gown made a mystery
of that which of all things on earth should be the plainest and
the most simple.  Despair fell cold upon Nigel's heart and
blanched the face of the old dame as they listened to the dread
catalogue of claims and suits and issues, questions of peccary and
turbary, of house-bote and fire-bote, which ended by a demand for
all the lands, hereditaments, tenements, messuages and curtilages,
which made up their worldly all.

Nigel, still bound, had been placed with his back against the iron
coffer, whence he heard with dry lips and moist brow this doom of
his house.  Now he broke in on the recital with a vehemence which
made the summoner jump:

"You shall rue what you have done this night!" he cried.  "Poor as
we are, we have our friends who will not see us wronged, and I
will plead my cause before the King's own majesty at Windsor, that
he, who saw the father die, may know what things are done in his
royal name against the son.  But these matters are to be settled
in course of law in the King's courts, and how will you excuse
yourself for this assault upon my house and person?"

"Nay, that is another matter," said the sacrist.  "The question of
debt may indeed be an affair of a civil court.  But it is a crime
against the law and an act of the Devil, which comes within the
jurisdiction of the Abbey Court of Waverley when you dare to lay
hands upon the summoner or his papers."

"Indeed, he speaks truth," cried the official.  "I know no blacker
sin."

"Therefore," said the stern monk, "it is the order of the holy
father Abbot that you sleep this night in the Abbey cell, and that
to-morrow you be brought before him at the court held in the
chapter-house so that you receive the fit punishment for this and
the many other violent and froward deeds which you have wrought
upon the servants of Holy Church.  Enough is now said, worthy
master summoner.  Archers, remove your prisoner!"

As Nigel was lifted up by four stout archers, the Dame Ermyntrude
would have rushed to his aid, but the sacrist thrust her back.

"Stand off, proud woman!  Let the law take its course, and learn
to humble your heart before the power of Holy Church.  Has your
life not taught its lesson, you, whose horn was exalted among the
highest and will soon not have a roof above your gray hairs?
Stand back, I say, lest I lay a curse upon you!"

The old dame flamed suddenly into white wrath as she stood before
the angry monk: "Listen to me while I lay a curse upon you and
yours!" she cried as she raised her shriveled arms and blighted
him with her flashing eyes

"As you have done to the house of Loring, so may God do to you,
until your power is swept from the land of England, and of your
great Abbey of Waverley there is nothing left but a pile of gray
stones in a green meadow!  I see it!  I see it!  With my old eyes
I see it!  From scullion to Abbot and from cellar to tower, may
Waverley and all within it droop and wither from this night on!"

The monk, hard as he was, quailed before the frantic figure and
the bitter, burning words.  Already the summoner and the archers
with their prisoner were clear of the house.  He turned and with a
clang he shut the heavy door behind him.



V.  HOW NIGEL WAS TRIED BY THE ABBOT OF WAVERLEY


The law of the Middle Ages, shrouded as it was in old
Norman-French dialect, and abounding in uncouth and
incomprehensible terms, in deodands and heriots, in infang and
outfang, was a fearsome weapon in the hands of those who knew how
to use it.  It was not for nothing that the first act of the rebel
commoners was to hew off the head of the Lord Chancellor.  In an
age when few knew how to read or to write, these mystic phrases
and intricate forms, with the parchments and seals which were
their outward expression, struck cold terror into hearts which
were steeled against mere physical danger.

Even young Nigel Loring's blithe and elastic spirit was chilled as
he lay that night in the penal cell of Waverley and pondered over
the absolute ruin which threatened his house from a source against
which all his courage was of no avail.  As well take up sword and
shield to defend himself against the black death, as against this
blight of Holy Church.  He was powerless in the grip of the Abbey.
Already they had shorn off a field here and a grove there, and now
in one sweep they would take in the rest, and where then was the
home of the Lorings, and where should Lady Ermyntrude lay her aged
head, or his old retainers, broken and spent, eke out the balance
of their days?  He shivered as he thought of it.

It was very well for him to threaten to carry the matter before
the King, but it was years since royal Edward had heard the name
of Loring, and Nigel knew that the memory of princes was a short
one.  Besides, the Church was the ruling power in the palace as
well as in the cottage, and it was only for very good cause that a
King could be expected to cross the purposes of so high a prelate
as the Abbot of Waverley, as long as they came within the scope of
the law.  Where then was he to look for help?  With the simple and
practical piety of the age, he prayed for the aid of his own
particular saints: of Saint Paul, whose adventures by land and
sea; had always endeared him; of Saint George, who had gained much
honorable advancement from the Dragon; and of Saint Thomas, who
was a gentleman of coat-armor, who would understand and help a
person of gentle blood.  Then, much comforted by his naive orisons
he enjoyed the sleep of youth and health until the entrance of the
lay brother with the bread and small beer, which served as
breakfast, in the morning.

The Abbey court sat in the chapter-house at the canonical hour of
tierce, which was nine in the forenoon.  At all times the function
was a solemn one, even when the culprit might be a villain who was
taken poaching on the Abbey estate, or a chapman who had given
false measure from his biased scales.  But now, when a man of
noble birth was to be tried, the whole legal and ecclesiastical
ceremony was carried out with every detail, grotesque or
impressive, which the full ritual prescribed.  The distant roll of
church music and the slow tolling of the Abbey bell; the white-
robed brethren, two and two, walked thrice round the hall singing
the "Benedicite" and the "Veni, Creator" before they settled in
their places at the desks on either side.  Then in turn each high
officer of the Abbey from below upward, the almoner, the lector,
the chaplain, the subprior and the prior, swept to their wonted
places.

Finally there came the grim sacrist, with demure triumph upon his
downcast features, and at his heels Abbot John himself, slow and
dignified, with pompous walk and solemn, composed face, his
iron-beaded rosary swinging from his waist, his breviary in his
hand, and his lips muttering as he hurried through his office for
the day.  He knelt at his high pre-dieu; the brethren, at a signal
from the prior, prostrated themselves upon the floor, and the low
deep voices rolled in prayer, echoed back from the arched and
vaulted roof like the wash of waves from an ocean cavern.  Finally
the monks resumed their seats; there entered clerks in seemly
black with pens and parchment; the red-velveted summoner appeared
to tell his tale; Nigel was led in with archers pressing close
around him; and then, with much calling of old French and much
legal incantation and mystery, the court of the Abbey was open for
business.

It was the sacrist who first advanced to the oaken desk reserved
for the witnesses and expounded in hard, dry, mechanical fashion
the many claims which the House, of Waverley had against the
family of Loring.  Some generations back in return for money
advanced or for spiritual favor received the Loring of the day had
admitted that his estate had certain feudal duties toward the
Abbey.  The sacrist held up the crackling yellow parchment with
swinging leaden seals on which the claim was based.  Amid the
obligations was that of escuage, by which the price of a knight's
fee should be paid every year.  No such price had been paid, nor
had any service been done.  The accumulated years came now to a
greater sum than the fee simple of the estate.  There were other
claims also.  The sacrist called for his books, and with thin,
eager forefinger he tracked them down: dues for this, and tailage
for that, so many shillings this year, and so many marks that one.
Some of it occurred before Nigel was born; some of it when he was
but a child.  The accounts had been checked and certified by the
sergeant of the law.

Nigel listened to the dread recital, and felt like some young stag
who stands at bay with brave pose and heart of fire, but who sees
himself compassed round and knows clearly that there is no escape.
With his bold young face, his steady blue eyes, and the proud
poise of his head, he was a worthy scion of the old house, and the
sun, shining through the high oriel window, and showing up the
stained and threadbare condition of his once rich doublet, seemed
to illuminate the fallen fortunes of his family.

The sacrist had finished his exposition, and the sergeant-at-law
was about to conclude a case which Nigel could in no way
controvert, when help came to him from an unexpected quarter.  It
may have been a certain malignity with which the sacrist urged his
suit, it may have been a diplomatic dislike to driving matters to
extremes, or it may have been some genuine impulse of kindliness,
for Abbot John was choleric but easily appeased.  Whatever the
cause, the result was that a white plump hand, raised in the air
with a gesture of authority, showed that the case was at an end.

"Our brother sacrist hath done his duty in urging this suit," said
he, "for the worldly wealth of this Abbey is placed in his pious
keeping, and it is to him that we should look if we suffered in
such ways, for we are but the trustees of those who come after us.
But to my keeping has been consigned that which is more precious
still, the inner spirit and high repute of those who follow the
rule of Saint Bernard.  Now it has ever been our endeavor, since
first our saintly founder went down into the valley of Clairvaux
and built himself a cell there, that we should set an example to
all men in gentleness and humility.  For this reason it is that we
built our houses in lowly places, that we have no tower to our
Abbey churches, and that no finery and no metal, save only iron or
lead, come within our walls.  A brother shall eat from a wooden
platter, drink from an iron cup, and light himself from a leaden
sconce.  Surely it is not for such an order who await the
exaltation which is promised to the humble, to judge their own
case and so acquire the lands of their neighbor!  If our cause be
just, as indeed I believe that it is, then it were better that it
be judged at the King's assizes at Guildford, and so I decree that
the case be now dismissed from the Abbey court so that it can be
heard elsewhere."

Nigel breathed a prayer to the three sturdy saints who had stood
by him so manfully and well in the hour of his need.  "Abbot
John," said he, "I never thought that any man of my name would
utter thanks to a Cistercian of Waverley; but by Saint Paul! you
have spoken like a man this day, for it would indeed be to play
with cogged dice if the Abbey's case is to be tried in the Abbey
court."

The eighty white-clad brethren looked with half resentful, half
amused eyes as they listened to this frank address to one who, in
their small lives, seemed to be the direct vice-regent of Heaven.
The archers had stood back from Nigel, as though he was at liberty
to go, when the loud voice of the summoner broke in upon the
silence

"If it please you, holy father Abbot," cried the voice, "this
decision of yours is indeed secundum legem and intra vires so far
as the civil suit is concerned which lies between this person and
the Abbey.  That is your affair; but it is I, Joseph the summoner,
who have been grievously and criminally mishandled, my writs,
papers and indentures destroyed, my authority flouted, and my
person dragged through a bog, quagmire or morass, so that my
velvet gabardine and silver badge of office were lost and are, as
I verily believe, in the morass, quagmire or bog aforementioned,
which is the same bog, morass - "

"Enough!" cried the Abbot sternly.  "Lay aside this foolish
fashion of speech and say straitly what you desire."

"Holy father, I have been the officer of the King's law no less
than the servant of Holy Church, and I have been let, hindered and
assaulted in the performance of my lawful and proper duties,
whilst my papers, drawn in the King's name, have been shended and
rended and cast to the wind.  Therefore, I demand justice upon
this man in the Abbey court, the said assault having been
committed within the banlieue of the Abbey's jurisdiction."

"What have you to say to this, brother sacrist?" asked the Abbot
in some perplexity.

"I would say, father, that it is within our power to deal gently
and charitably with all that concerns ourselves, but that where a
the King's officer is concerned we are wanting in our duty if we
give him less than the protection that he demands.  I would remind
you also, holy father, that this is not the first of this man's
violence, but that he has before now beaten our servants, defied
our authority, and put pike in the Abbot's own fish-pond."

The prelate's heavy cheeks flushed with anger as this old
grievance came fresh into his mind.  His eyes hardened as he
looked at the prisoner.  "Tell me, Squire Nigel, did you indeed
put pike in the pond?"

The young man drew himself proudly up.  "Ere I answer such a
question, father Abbot, do you answer one from me, and tell me
what the monks of Waverley have ever done for me that I should
hold my hand when I could injure them?"

A low murmur ran round the room, partly wonder at his frankness,
and partly anger at his boldness.

The Abbot settled down in his seat as one who has made up his
mind.  "Let the case of the summoner be laid before me," said he.
"Justice shall be done, and the offender shall be punished, be he
noble or simple.  Let the plaint be brought before the court."

The tale of the summoner, though rambling and filled with endless
legal reiteration, was only too clear in its essence.  Red Swire,
with his angry face framed in white bristles, was led in, and
confessed to his ill treatment of the official.  A second culprit,
a little wiry nut-brown archer from Churt, had aided and abetted
in the deed.  Both of them were ready to declare that young Squire
Nigel Loring knew nothing of the matter.  But then there was the
awkward incident of the tearing of the writs.  Nigel, to whom a
lie was an impossibility, had to admit that with his own hands he
had shredded those august documents.  As to an excuse or an
explanation, he was too proud to advance any.  A cloud gathered
over the brow of the Abbot, and the sacrist gazed with an ironical
smile at the prisoner, while a solemn hush fell over the
chapterhouse as the case ended and only, judgment remained.

"Squire Nigel," said the Abbot, "it was for you, who are, as all
men know, of ancient lineage in this land, to give a fair example
by which others should set their conduct.  Instead of this, your
manor house has ever been a center for the stirring up of strife,
and now not content with your harsh showing toward us, the
Cistercian monks of Waverley, you have even marked your contempt
for the King's law, and through your servants have mishandled the
person of his messenger.  For such offenses it is in my power to
call the spiritual terrors of the Church upon your head, and yet I
would not be harsh with you, seeing that you are young, and that
even last week you saved the life of a servant of the Abbey when
in peril.  Therefore, it is by temporal and carnal means that I
will use my power to tame your overbold spirit, and to chasten
that headstrong and violent humor which has caused such scandal in
your dealings with our Abbey.  Bread and water for six weeks from
now to the Feast of Saint Benedict, with a daily exhortation from
our chaplain, the pious Father Ambrose, may still avail to bend
the stiff neck and to soften the hard heart."

At this ignominious sentence by which the proud heir of the house
of Loring would share the fate of the meanest village poacher, the
hot blood of Nigel rushed to his face, and his eye glanced round
him with a gleam which said more plainly than words that there
could be no tame acceptance of such a doom.  Twice he tried to
speak, and twice his anger and his shame held the words in his
throat.

"I am no subject of yours, proud Abbot!" he cried at last.  "My
house has ever been vavasor to the King.  I deny the power of you
and your court to lay sentence upon me.  Punish these your own
monks, who whimper at your frown, but do not dare to lay your hand
upon him who fears you not, for he is a free man, and the peer of
any save only the King himself."

The Abbot seemed for an instant taken aback by these bold words,
and by the high and strenuous voice in which they were uttered.
But the sterner sacrist came as ever to stiffen his will.  He held
up the old parchment in his hand.

"The Lorings were indeed vavasors to the King," said he; "but here
is the very seal of Eustace Loring which shows that he made
himself vassal to the Abbey and held his land from it."

"Because he was gentle," cried Nigel, "because he had no thought
of trick or guile."

"Nay!" said the summoner.  "If my voice may be heard, father
Abbot, upon a point of the law, it is of no weight what the causes
may have been why a deed is subscribed, signed or confirmed, but a
court is concerned only with the terms, articles, covenants and
contracts of the said deed."

"Besides," said the sacrist, "sentence is passed by the Abbey
court, and there is an end of its honor and good name if it be not
upheld."

"Brother sacrist," said the Abbot angrily, "methinks you show
overmuch zeal in this case, and certes, we are well able to uphold
the dignity and honor of the Abbey court without any rede of
thine.  As to you, worthy summoner, you will give your opinion
when we crave for it, and not before, or you may yourself get some
touch of the power of our tribunal.  But your case hath been
tried, Squire Loring, and judgment given.  I have no more to say."

He motioned with his hand, and an archer laid his grip upon the
shoulder of the prisoner.  But that rough plebeian touch woke
every passion of revolt in Nigel's spirit.  Of all his high line
of ancestors, was there one who had been subjected to such
ignominy as this?  Would they not have preferred death?  And
should he be the first to lower their spirit or their traditions?
With a quick, lithe movement, he slipped under the arm of the
archer, and plucked the short, straight sword from the soldier's
side as he did so.  The next instant he had wedged himself into
the recess of one of the narrow windows, and there were his pale
set face, his burning eyes, and his ready blade turned upon the
assembly.

"By Saint Paul!" said he, "I never thought to find honorable
advancement under the roof of an abbey, but perchance there may,
be some room for it ere you hale me to your prison."

The chapter-house was in an uproar.  Never in the long and
decorous history of the Abbey had such a scene been witnessed
within its walls.  The monks themselves seemed for an instant to
be infected by this spirit of daring revolt.  Their own lifelong
fetters hung more loosely as they viewed this unheard-of defiance
of authority.  They broke from their seats on either side and
huddled half-scared, half-fascinated, in a large half-circle round
the defiant captive, chattering, pointing, grimacing, a scandal
for all time.  Scourges should fall and penance be done for many a
long week before the shadow of that day should pass from Waverley.
But meanwhile there was no effort to bring them back to their
rule.  Everything was chaos and disorder.  The Abbot had left his
seat of justice and hurried angrily forward, to be engulfed and
hustled in the crowd of his own monks like a sheep-dog who finds
himself entangled amid a flock.

Only the sacrist stood clear.  He had taken shelter behind the
half-dozen archers, who looked with some approval and a good deal
of indecision at this bold fugitive from justice.

"On him!" cried the sacrist.  "Shall he defy the authority of the
court, or shall one man hold six of you at bay?  Close in upon him
and seize him.  You, Baddlesmere, why do you hold back?"

The man in question, a tall bushy-bearded fellow, clad like the
others in green jerkin and breeches with high brown boots,
advanced slowly, sword in hand, against Nigel.  His heart was not
in the business, for these clerical courts were not popular, and
everyone had a tender heart for the fallen fortunes of the house
of Loring and wished well to its young heir.

"Come, young sir, you have caused scathe enough," said he.  "Stand
forth and give yourself up!"

"Come and fetch me, good fellow," said Nigel, with a dangerous
smile.

The archer ran in.  There was a rasp of steel, a blade flickered
like a swift dart of flame, and the man staggered back, with blood
running down his forearm and dripping from his fingers.  He wrung
them and growled a Saxon oath.

"By the black rood of Bromeholm!" he cried, "I had as soon put my
hand down a fox's earth to drag up a vixen from her cubs."

"Standoff!" said Nigel curtly.  "I would not hurt you; but by
Saint Paul!  I will not be handled, or some one will be hurt in
the handling."

So fierce was his eye and so menacing his blade as he crouched in
the narrow bay of the window that the little knot of archers were
at a loss what to do.  The Abbot had forced his way through the
crowd and stood, purple with outraged dignity, at their side.

"He is outside the law," said he.  "He hath shed blood in a court
of justice, and for such a sin there is no forgiveness.  I will
not have my court so flouted and set at naught.  He who draws the
sword, by the sword also let him perish.  Forester Hugh lay a
shaft to your bow!"

The man, who was one of the Abbey's lay servants, put his weight
upon his long bow and slipped the loose end of the string into the
upper notch.  Then, drawing one of the terrible three-foot arrows,
steel-tipped and gaudily winged, from his waist, he laid it to the
string.

"Now draw your bow and hold it ready!" cried the furious Abbot.
"Squire Nigel, it is not for Holy Church to shed blood, but there
is naught but violence which will prevail against the violent, and
on your head be the sin.  Cast down the sword which you hold in
your hand!"

"Will you give me freedom to leave your Abbey?"

"When you have abided your sentence and purged your sin."

"Then I had rather die where I stand than give up my sword."

A dangerous flame lit in the Abbot's eyes.  He came of a fighting
Norman stock, like so many of those fierce prelates who, bearing a
mace lest they should be guilty of effusion of blood, led their
troops into battle, ever remembering that it was one of their own
cloth and dignity who, crosier in hand, had turned the long-drawn
bloody day of Hastings.  The soft accent of the churchman was gone
and it was the hard voice of a soldier which said -

"One minute I give you, and no more.  Then when I cry 'Loose!'
drive me an arrow through his body."

The shaft was fitted, the bow was bent, and the stern eyes of the
woodman were fixed on his mark.  Slowly the minute passed, while
Nigel breathed a prayer to his three soldier saints, not that they
should save his body in this life, but that they should have a
kindly care for his soul in the next.  Some thought of a fierce
wildcat sally crossed his mind, but once out of his corner he was
lost indeed.  Yet at the last he would have rushed among his
enemies, and his body was bent for the spring, when with a deep
sonorous hum, like a breaking harp-string, the cord of the bow was
cloven in twain, and the arrow tinkled upon the tiled floor.  At
the same moment a young curly-headed bowman, whose broad shoulders
and deep chest told of immense strength, as clearly as his frank,
laughing face and honest hazel eyes did of good humor and courage,
sprang forward sword in hand and took his place by Nigel's side.

"Nay, comrades!" said he.  "Samkin Aylward cannot stand by and see
a gallant man shot down like a bull at the end of a baiting.  Five
against one is long odds; but two against four is better, and by
my finger-bones!  Squire Nigel and I leave this room together, be
it on our feet or no."

The formidable appearance of this ally and his high reputation
among his fellows gave a further chill to the lukewarm ardor of
the attack.  Aylward's left arm was passed through his strung bow,
and he was known from Woolmer Forest to the Weald as the quickest,
surest archer that ever dropped a running deer at tenscore paces.

"Nay, Baddlesmere, hold your fingers from your string-case, or I
may chance to give your drawing hand a two months' rest," said
Aylward.  "Swords, if you will, comrades, but no man strings his
bow till I have loosed mine."

Yet the angry hearts of both Abbot and sacrist rose higher with a
fresh obstacle.

"This is an ill day for your father, Franklin Aylward, who holds
the tenancy of Crooksbury," said the sacrist.  "He will rue it
that ever he begot a son who will lose him his acres and his
steading."

"My father is a bold yeoman, and would rue it evermore that ever
his son should stand by while foul work was afoot," said Aylward
stoutly.  "Fall on, comrades!  We are waiting."

Encouraged by promises of reward if they should fall in the
service of the Abbey, and by threats of penalties if they should
hold back, the four archers were about to close, when a singular
interruption gave an entirely new turn to the proceedings.

At the door of the chapter-house, while these fiery doings had
been afoot, there had assembled a mixed crowd of lay brothers,
servants and varlets who had watched the development of the drama
with the interest and delight with which men hail a sudden break
in a dull routine.  Suddenly there was an agitation at the back of
this group, then a swirl in the center, and finally the front rank
was violently thrust aside, and through the gap there emerged a
strange and whimsical figure, who from the instant of his
appearance dominated both chapter-house and Abbey, monks, prelates
and archers, as if he were their owner and their master.

He was a man somewhat above middle age, with thin lemon-colored
hair, a curling mustache, a tufted chin of the same hue, and a
high craggy face, all running to a great hook of the nose, like
the beak of an eagle.  His skin was tanned a brown-red by much
exposure to the wind and sun.  In height he was tall, and his
figure was thin and loose-jointed, but stringy and hard-bitten.
One eye was entirely covered by its lid, which lay flat over an
empty socket, but the other danced and sparkled with a most
roguish light, darting here and there with a twinkle of humor and
criticism and intelligence, the whole fire of his soul bursting
through that one narrow cranny.

His dress was as noteworthy as his person.  A rich purple doublet
and cloak was marked on the lapels with a strange scarlet device
shaped like a wedge.  Costly lace hung round his shoulders, and
amid its soft folds there smoldered the dull red of a heavy golden
chain.  A knight's belt at his waist and a knight's golden spurs
twinkling from his doeskin riding-boots proclaimed his rank, and
on the wrist of his left gauntlet there sat a demure little hooded
falcon of a breed which in itself was a mark of the dignity of the
owner.  Of weapons he had none, but a mandolin was slung by a
black silken band over his back, and the high brown end projected
above his shoulder.  Such was the man, quaint, critical,
masterful, with a touch of what is formidable behind it, who now
surveyed the opposing groups of armed men and angry monks with an
eye which commanded their attention.

"Excusez!" said he, in a lisping French.  "Excusez, mes amis!  I
had thought to arouse from prayer or meditation, but never have I
seen such a holy exercise as this under an abbey's roof, with
swords for breviaries and archers for acolytes.  I fear that I
have come amiss, and yet I ride on an errand from one who permits
no delay."

The Abbot, and possibly the sacrist also, had begun to realize
that events had gone a great deal farther than they had intended,
and that without an extreme scandal it was no easy matter for them
to save their dignity and the good name of Waverley.  Therefore,
in spite of the debonair, not to say disrespectful, bearing of the
newcomer, they rejoiced at his appearance and intervention.

"I am the Abbot of Waverley, fair son," said the prelate.  "If
your message deal with a public matter it may be fitly repeated in
the chapter-house; if not I will give you audience in my own
chamber; for it is clear to me that you are a gentle man of blood
and coat-armor who would not lightly break in upon the business of
our court - a business which, as you have remarked, is little
welcome to men of peace like myself and the brethren of the rule
of Saint Bernard."

"Pardieu!  Father Abbot," said the stranger.  "One had but to
glance at you and your men to see that the business was indeed
little to your taste, and it may be even less so when I say that
rather than see this young person in the window, who hath a noble
bearing, further molested by these archers, I will myself
adventure my person on his behalf."

The Abbot's smile turned to a frown at these frank words.  "It
would become you better, sir, to deliver the message of which you
say that you are the bearer, than to uphold a prisoner against the
rightful judgment of a court."

The stranger swept the court with his questioning eye.  "The
message is not for you, good father Abbot.  It is for one whom I
know not.  I have been to his house, and they have sent me hither.
The name is Nigel Loring."

"It is for me, fair sir."

"I had thought as much.  I knew your father, Eustace Loring, and
though he would have made two of you, yet he has left his stamp
plain enough upon your face."

"You know not the truth of this matter," said the Abbot.  "If you
are a loyal man, you will stand aside, for this young man hath
grievously offended against the law, and it is for the King's
lieges to give us their support."

"And you have haled him up for judgment," cried the stranger with
much amusement.  "It is as though a rookery sat in judgment upon a
falcon.  I warrant that you have found it easier to judge than to
punish.  Let me tell you, father Abbot, that this standeth not
aright.  When powers such as these were given to the like of you,
they were given that you might check a brawling underling or
correct a drunken woodman, and not that you might drag the best
blood in England to your bar and set your archers on him if he
questioned your findings."

The Abbot was little used to hear such words of reproof uttered in
so stern a voice under his own abbey roof and before his listening
monks.  "You may perchance find that an Abbey court has more
powers than you wot of, Sir Knight," said he, "if knight indeed
you be who are so uncourteous and short in your speech.  Ere we go
further, I would ask your name and style?"

The stranger laughed.  "It is easy to see that you are indeed men
of peace," said he proudly.  "Had I shown this sign," and he
touched the token upon his lapels, "whether on shield or pennon,
in the marches of France or Scotland, there is not a cavalier but
would have known the red pile of Chandos."

Chandos, John Chandos, the flower of English chivalry, the pink of
knight-errantry, the hero already of fifty desperate enterprises,
a man known and honored from end to end of Europe!  Nigel gazed at
him as one who sees a vision.  The archers stood back abashed,
while the monks crowded closer to stare at the famous soldier of
the French wars.  The Abbot abated his tone, and a smile came to
his angry face.

"We are indeed men of peace, Sir John, and little skilled in
warlike blazonry," said he; " yet stout as are our Abbey walls,
they are not so thick that the fame of your exploits has not
passed through them and reached our ears.  If it be your pleasure
to take an interest in this young and misguided Squire, it is not
for us to thwart your kind intention or to withhold such grace as
you request.  I am glad indeed that he hath one who can set him so
fair an example for a friend."

"I thank you for your courtesy, good father Abbot," said Chandos
carelessly.  "This young Squire has, however, a better friend than
myself, one who is kinder to those he loves and more terrible to
those he hates.  It is from him I bear a message."

"I pray you, fair and honored sir," said Nigel, "that you will
tell me what is the message that you bear."

"The message, mon ami, is that your friend comes into these parts
and would have a night's lodging at the manor house of Tilford for
the love and respect that he bears your family."

"Nay, he is most welcome," said Nigel, "and yet I hope that he is
one who can relish a soldier's fare and sleep under a humble roof,
for indeed we can but give our best, poor as it is."

"He is indeed a soldier and a good one," Chandos answered,
laughing, " and I warrant he has slept in rougher quarters than
Tilford Manor-house."

"I have few friends, fair sir," said Nigel, with a puzzled face.
"I pray you give me this gentleman's name."

"His name is Edward."

"Sir Edward Mortimer of Kent, perchance, or is it Sir Edward
Brocas of whom the Lady Ermyntrude talks?"

"Nay, he is known as Edward only, and if you ask a second name it
is Plantagenet, for he who comes to seek the shelter of your roof
is your liege lord and mine, the King's high majesty, Edward of
England."




VI.  IN WHICH LADY ERMYNTRUDE OPENS THE IRON COFFER


AS in a dream Nigel heard these stupendous and incredible words.
As in a dream also he had a vision of a smiling and conciliatory
Abbot, of an obsequious sacrist, and of a band of archers who
cleared a path for him and for the King's messenger through the
motley crowd who had choked the entrance of the Abbey court.  A
minute later he was walking by the side of Chandos through the
peaceful cloister, and in front in the open archway of the great
gate was the broad yellow road between its borders of green
meadow-land.  The spring air was the sweeter and the more fragrant
for that chill dread of dishonor and captivity which had so
recently frozen his ardent heart.  He had already passed the
portal when a hand plucked at his sleeve and he turned to find
himself confronted by the brown honest face and hazel eyes of the
archer who had interfered in his behalf.

" Well," said Aylward, "what have you to say to me, young sir?"

"What can I say, my good fellow, save that I thank you with all my
heart?  By Saint Paul!  if you had been my blood brother you could
not have stood by me more stoutly."

"Nay!  but this is not enough."

Nigel colored with vexation, and the more so as Chandos was
listening with his critical smile to their conversation.  "If you
had heard what was said in the court," said he, "you would
understand that I am not blessed at this moment with much of this
world's gear.  The black death and the monks have between them
been heavy upon our estate.  Willingly would I give you a handful
of gold for your assistance, since that is what you seem to crave;
but indeed I have it not, and so once more I say that you must be
satisfied with my thanks."

"Your gold is nothing to me," said Aylward shortly, "nor would you
buy my loyalty if you filled my wallet with rose nobles, so long
as you were not a man after my own heart.  But I have seen you
back the yellow horse, and I have seen you face the Abbot of
Waverley, and you are such a master as I would very gladly serve
if you have by chance a place for such a man.  I have seen your
following, and I doubt not that they were stout fellows in your
grandfather's time; but which of them now would draw a bow-string
to his ear?  Through you I have left the service of the Abbey of
Waverley, and where can I look now for a post?  If I stay here I
am all undone like a fretted bow-string."

"Nay, there can be no difficulty there," said Chandos.  "Padieu!
a roistering, swaggering dare-devil archer is worth his price on
the French border.  There are two hundred such who march behind my
own person, and I would ask nothing better than to see you among
them."

"I thank you, noble sir, for your offer," said Aylward, " and I
had rather follow your banner than many another one, for it is
well known that it goes ever forward, and I have heard enough of
the wars to know that there are small pickings for the man who
lags behind.  Yet, if the Squire will have me, I would choose to
fight under the five roses of Loring, for though I was born in the
hundred of Easebourne and the rape of Chichester, yet I have grown
up and learned to use the longbow in these parts, and as the free
son of a free franklin I had rather serve my own neighbor than a
stranger."

"My good fellow," said Nigel, "I have told you that I could in no
wise reward you for such service."

"If you will but take me to the wars I will see to my own reward,"
said Aylward.  "Till then I ask for none, save a corner of your
table and six feet of your floor, for it is certain that the only
reward I would get from the Abbey for this day's work would be the
scourge for my back and the stocks for my ankles.  Samkin Aylward
is your man, Squire Nigel, from this hour on, and by these ten
finger-bones he trusts the Devil will fly away with him if ever he
gives you cause to regret it!"  So saying he raised his hand to
his steel cap in salute, slung his great yellow bow over his back,
and followed on some paces in the rear of his new master.

"Pardieu!  I have arrived a la bonne heure," said Chandos.  "I
rode from Windsor and came to your manor house, to find it empty
save for a fine old dame, who old me of your troubles.  From her I
walked across to the Abbey, and none too soon, for what with
cloth-yard shafts for your body, and bell, book and candle for
your soul, it was no very cheerful outlook.  But here is the very
dame herself, if I mistake not."

It was indeed the formidable figure of the Lady Ermyntrude, gaunt,
bowed and leaning on her staff, which had emerged from the door of
the manor-house and advanced to greet them.  She croaked with
laughter, and shook her stick at the great building as she heard
of the discomfiture of the Abbey court.  Then she led the way into
the hall where the best which she could provide had been laid out
for their illustrious guest.  There was Chandos blood in her own
veins, traceable back through the de Greys, de Multons, de
Valences, de Montagues and other high and noble strains, so that
the meal had been eaten and cleared before she had done tracing
the network of intermarriages and connections, with quarterings,
impalements, lozenges and augmentations by which the blazonry of
the two families might be made to show a common origin.  Back to
the Conquest and before it there was not a noble family-tree every
twig and bud of which was not familiar to the Dame Ermyntrude.

And now when the trestles were cleared and the three were left
alone in the hall, Chandos broke his message to the lady.  "King
Edward hath ever borne in mind that noble knight your son Sir
Eustace," said he.  "He will journey to Southampton next week, and
I am his harbinger.  He bade me say, noble and honored lady, that
he would come from Guildford in any easy stage so that he might
spend one night under your roof."

The old dame flushed with pleasure, and then turned white with
vexation at the words.  "It is in truth great honor to the house
of Loring," said she, "yet our roof is now humble and, as you have
seen, our fare is plain.  The King knows not that we are so poor.
I fear lest we seem churlish and niggard in his eyes."

But Chandos reasoned away her fears.  The King's retinue would
journey on to Farnham Castle.  There were no ladies in his party.
Though he was King, still he was a hardy soldier, and cared little
for his ease.  In any case, since he had declared his coming, they
must make the best of it.  Finally, with all delicacy, Chandos
offered his own purse if it would help in the matter.  But already
the Lady Ermyntrude had recovered her composure.

"Nay, fair kinsman, that may not be," said she.  "I will make such
preparation as I may for the King.  He will bear in mind that if
the house of Loring can give nothing else, they have always held
their blood and their lives at his disposal."

Chandos was to ride on to Farnham Castle and beyond, but he
expressed his desire to have a warm bath ere he left Tilford, for
like most of his fellow-knights, he was much addicted to simmering
in the hottest water that he could possibly endure.  The bath
therefore, a high hooped arrangement like a broader but shorter
churn, was carried into the privacy of the guest-chamber, and
thither it was that Nigel was summoned to hold him company while
he stewed and sweltered in his tub.

Nigel perched himself upon the side of the high bed, swinging his
legs over the edge and gazing with wonder and amusement at the
quaint face, the ruffled yellow hair, and the sinewy shoulders of
the famous warrior, dimly seen amid a pillar of steam.  He was in
a mood for talk; so Nigel with eager lips plied him with a
thousand questions about the wars, hanging upon every word which
came back to him, like those of the ancient oracles, out of the
mist and the cloud.  To Chandos himself, the old soldier for whom
war had lost its freshness, it was a renewal of his own ardent
youth to listen to Nigel's rapid questions and to mark the rapt
attention with which he listened.

"Tell me of the Welsh, honored sir," asked the Squire.  "What
manner of soldiers are the Welsh?"

"They are very valiant men of war," said Chandos, splashing about
in his tub.  "There is good skirmishing to be had in their valleys
if you ride with a small following.  They flare up like a
furzebush in the flames, but if for a short space you may abide
the heat of it, then there is a chance that it may be cooler."

"And the Scotch?" asked Nigel.  "You have made war upon them also,
as I understand."

"The Scotch knights have no masters in the world, and he who can
hold his own with the best of them, be it a Douglas, a Murray or a
Seaton, has nothing more to learn.  Though you be a hard man, you
will always meet as hard a one if you ride northward.  If the
Welsh be like the furze fire, then, padieu! the Scotch are the
peat, for they will smolder and you will never come to the end of
them.  I have had many happy hours on the marches of Scotland, for
even if there be no war the Percies of Alnwick or the Governor of
Carlisle can still raise a little bickering with the border
clans."

"I bear in mind that my father was wont to say that they were very
stout spearmen."

"No better in the world, for the spears are twelve foot long and
they hold them in very thick array; but their archers are weak,
save only the men of Ettrick and Selkirk who come from the forest.
I pray you to open the lattice, Nigel, for the steam is overthick.
Now in Wales it is the spearmen who are weak, and there are no
archers in these islands like the men of Gwent with their bows of
elm, which shoot with such power that I have known a cavalier to
have his horse killed when the shaft had passed through his mail
breeches, his thigh and his saddle.  And yet, what is the most
strongly shot arrow to these new balls of iron driven by the fire-
powder which will crush a man's armor as an egg is crushed by a
stone?  Our fathers knew them not."

"Then the better for us," cried Nigel, "since there is at least
one honorable venture which is all our own."

Chandos chuckled and turned upon the flushed youth a twinkling and
sympathetic eye.  "You have a fashion of speech which carries me
back to the old men whom I met in my boyhood," said he.  "There
were some of the real old knight-errants left in those days, and
they spoke as you do.  Young as you are, you belong to another
age.  Where got you that trick of thought and word?"

"I have had only one to teach me, the Lady Ermyntrude."

"Pardieu!  she has trained a proper young hawk ready to stoop at a
lordly quarry," said Chandos.  "I would that I had the first
unhooding of you.  Will you not ride with me to the wars?"

The tears brimmed over from Nigel's eyes, and he wrung the gaunt
hand extended from the bath.  "By Saint Paul! what could I ask
better in the world?  I fear to leave her, for she has none other
to care for her.  But if it can in any way be arranged - "

"The King's hand may smooth it out.  Say no more until he is here.
But if you wish to ride with me - "

"What could man wish for more?  Is there a Squire in England who
would not serve under the banner of Chandos!  Whither do you go,
fair sir?  And when do you go?  Is it to Scotland?  Is it to
Ireland?  Is it to France?  But alas, alas!"

The eager face had clouded.  For the instant he had forgotten that
a suit of armor was as much beyond his means as a service of gold
plate.  Down in a twinkling came all his high hopes to the ground.
Oh, these sordid material things, which come between our dreams
and their fulfilment!  The Squire of such a knight must dress with
the best.  Yet all the fee simple of Tilford would scarce suffice
for one suit of plate.

Chandos, with his quick wit and knowledge of the world, had
guessed the cause of this sudden change.  " If you fight under my
banner it is for me to find the weapons," said he.  "Nay, I will
not be denied."

But Nigel shook his head sadly.  " It may not be.  The Lady
Ermyntrude would sell this old house and every acre round it, ere
she would permit me to accept this gracious bounty which you
offer.  Yet I do not despair, for only last week I won for myself
a noble war-horse for which I paid not a penny, so perchance a
suit of armor may also come my way."

"And how won you the horse?"

"It was given me by the monks of Waverley."

"This is wonderful.  Pardieu!  I should have expected, from what I
had seen, that they would have given you little save their
malediction."

"They had no use for the horse, and they gave it to me."

"Then we have only to find some one who has no use for a suit of
armor and will give it to you.  Yet I trust that you will think
better of it and let me, since that good lady proves that I am
your kinsman, fit you for the wars."

"I thank you, noble sir, and if I should turn to anyone it would
indeed be to you; but there are other ways which I would try
first.  But I pray you, goon Sir John, to tell me of some of your
noble spear-runnings against the French, for the whole land rings
with the tale of your deeds and I have heard that in one morning
three champions have fallen before your lance.  Was it not so?"

"That it was indeed so these scars upon my body will prove; but
these were the follies of my youth."

"How can you call them follies?  Are they not the means by which
honorable advancement may be gained and one's lady exalted?"

"It is right that you should think so, Nigel.  At your age a man
should have a hot head and a high heart.  I also had both and
fought for my lady's glove or for my vow or for the love of
fighting.  But as one grows older and commands men one has other
things to think of.  One thinks less of one's own honor and more
of the safety of the army.  It is not your own spear, your own
sword, your own arm, which will turn the tide of fight; but a cool
head may save a stricken field.  He who knows when his horsemen
should charge and when they should fight on foot, he who can mix
his archers with his men-at-arms in such a fashion that each can
support the other, he who can hold up his reserve and pour it into
the battle when it may turn the tide, he who has a quick eye for
boggy land and broken ground - that is the man who is of more
worth to an army than Roland, Oliver and all the paladins."

"Yet if his knights fail him, honored sir, all his head-work will
not prevail."

"True enough, Nigel; so may every Squire ride to the wars with his
soul on fire, as yours is now.  But I must linger no longer, for
the King's service must be done.  I will dress, and when I have
bid farewell to the noble Dame Ermyntrude I will on to Farnham;
but you will see me here again on the day that the King comes."

So Chandos went his way that evening, walking his horse through
the peaceful lanes and twanging his citole as he went, for he
loved music and was famous for his merry songs.  The cottagers
came from their huts and laughed and clapped as the rich full
voice swelled and sank to the cheery tinkling of the strings.
There were few who saw him pass that would have guessed that the
quaint one-eyed man with the yellow hair was the toughest fighter
and craftiest man of war in Europe.  Once only, as he entered
Farnham, an old broken man-at-arms ran out in his rags and
clutched at his horse as a dog gambols round his master.  Chandos
threw him a kind word and a gold coin as he passed on to the
castle.

In the meanwhile young Nigel and the Lady Ermyntrude, left alone
with their difficulties, looked blankly in each other's faces.

"The cellar is well nigh empty," said Nigel.  "There are two
firkins of small beer and a tun of canary.  How can we set such
drink before the King and his court?"

"We must have some wine of Bordeaux.  With that and the mottled
cow's calf and the fowls and a goose, we can set forth a
sufficient repast if he stays only for the one night.  How many
will be with him?"

"A dozen, at the least."

The old dame wrung her hands in despair.  "Nay, take it not to
heart, dear lady!" said Nigel.  "We have but to say the word and
the King would stop at Waverley, where he and his court would find
all that they could wish."

"Never!" cried the Lady Ermyntrude.  "It would be shame and
disgrace to us forever if the King were to pass our door when he
has graciously said that he was fain to enter in.  Nay, I will do
it.  Never did I think that I would be forced to this, but I know
that he would wish it, and I will do it."

She went to the old iron coffer, and taking a small key from her
girdle she unlocked it.  The rusty hinges, screaming shrilly as
she threw back the lid, proclaimed how seldom it was that she had
penetrated into the sacred recesses of her treasure-chest.  At the
top were some relics of old finery: a silken cloak spangled with
golden stars, a coif of silver filigree, a roll of Venetian lace.
Beneath were little packets tied in silk which the old lady
handled with tender care: a man's hunting-glove, a child's shoe, a
love-knot done in faded green ribbon, some letters in rude rough
script, and a vernicle of Saint Thomas.  Then from the very bottom
of the box she drew three objects, swathed in silken cloth, which
she uncovered and laid upon the table.  The one was a bracelet of
rough gold studded with uncut rubies, the second was a gold
salver, and the third was a high goblet of the same metal.

"You have heard me speak of these, Nigel, but never before have
you seen them, for indeed I have not opened the hutch for fear
that we might be tempted in our great need to turn them into
money.  I have kept them out of my sight and even out of my
thoughts.  But now it is the honor of the house which calls, and
even these must go.  This goblet was that which my husband, Sir
Nele Loring, won after the intaking of Belgrade when he and his
comrades held the lists from matins to vespers against the flower
of the French chivalry.  The salver was given him by the Earl of
Pembroke in memory of his valor upon the field of Falkirk."

"And the bracelet, dear lady?"

"You will not laugh, Nigel?"

"Nay, why should I laugh?"

"The bracelet was the prize for the Queen of Beauty which was
given to me before all the high-born ladies of England by Sir Nele
Loring a month before our marriage - the Queen of Beauty, Nigel -
I, old and twisted, as you see me.  Five strong men went down
before his lance ere he won that trinket for me.  And now in my
last years - "

" Nay, dear and honored lady, we will not part with it."

"Yes, Nigel, he would have it so.  I can hear his whisper in my
ear.  Honor to him was everything - the rest nothing.  Take it
from me, Nigel, ere my heart weakens.  Tomorrow you will ride with
it to Guildford; you will see Thorold the goldsmith; and you will
raise enough money to pay for all that we shall need for the
King's coming."  She turned her face away to hide the quivering of
her wrinkled features, and the crash of the iron lid covered the
sob which burst from her overwrought soul.




VII.  HOW NIGEL WENT MARKETING TO GUILDFORD


It was on a bright June morning that young Nigel, with youth and
springtime to make his heart light, rode upon his errand from
Tilford to Guildford town.  Beneath him was his great yellow
warhorse, caracoling and curveting as be went, as blithe and free
of spirit as his master.  In all England one would scarce have
found upon that morning so high-mettled and so debonair a pair.
The sandy road wound through groves of fir, where the breeze came
soft and fragrant with resinous gums, or over heathery downs,
which rolled away to north and to south, vast and untenanted, for
on the uplands the soil was poor and water scarce.  Over
Crooksbury Common he passed, and then across the great Heath of
Puttenham, following a sandy path which wound amid the bracken and
the heather, for he meant to strike the Pilgrims' Way where it
turned eastward from Farnham and from Seale.  As he rode he
continually felt his saddle-bag with his hand, for in it, securely
strapped, he had placed the precious treasures of the Lady
Ermyntrude.  As he saw the grand tawny neck tossing before him,
and felt the easy heave of the great horse and heard the muffled
drumming of his hoofs, he could have sung and shouted with the joy
of living.

Behind him, upon the little brown pony which had been Nigel's
former mount, rode Samkin Aylward the bowman, who had taken upon
himself the duties of personal attendant and body-guard.  His
great shoulders and breadth of frame seemed dangerously top-heavy
upon the tiny steed, but he ambled along, whistling a merry lilt
and as lighthearted as his master.  There was no countryman who
had not a nod and no woman who had not a smile for the jovial
bowman, who rode for the most part with his face over his
shoulder, staring at the last petticoat which had passed him.
Once only he met with a harsher greeting.  It was from a tall,
white-headed, red-faced man whom they met upon the moor.

"Good-morrow, dear father!" cried Aylward.  "How is it with you at
Crooksbury?  And how are the new black cow and the ewes from Alton
and Mary the dairymaid and all your gear?"

"It ill becomes you to ask, you ne'er-do-weel," said the old man.
"You have angered the monks of Waverley, whose tenant I am, and
they would drive me out of my farm.  Yet there are three more
years to run, and do what they may I will bide till then.  But
little did I think that I should lose my homestead through you,
Samkin, and big as you are I would knock the dust out of that
green jerkin.  with a good hazel switch if I had you at
Crooksbury."

"Then you shall do it to-morrow morning, good father, for I will
come and see you then.  But indeed I did not do more at Waverley
than you would have done yourself.  Look me in the eye, old
hothead, and tell me if you would have stood by while the last
Loring - look at him as he rides with his head in the air and his
soul in the clouds - was shot down before your very eyes at the
bidding of that fat monk!  If you would, then I disown you as my
father."

"Nay, Samkin, if it was like that, then perhaps what you did was
not so far amiss.  But it is hard to lose the old farm when my
heart is buried deep in the good brown soil."

"Tut, man!  there are three years to run, and what may not happen
in three years?  Before that time I shall have gone to the wars,
and when I have opened a French strong box or two you can buy the
good brown soil and snap your fingers at Abbot John and his
bailiffs.  Am I not as proper a man as Tom Withstaff of Churt?
And yet he came back after six months with his pockets full of
rose nobles and a French wench on either arm."

"God preserve us from the wenches, Samkin!  But indeed I think
that if there is money to be gathered you are as likely to get
your fist full as any man who goes to the war.  But hasten, lad,
hasten!  Already your young master is over the brow."

Thus admonished, the archer waved his gauntleted hand to his
father, and digging his heels into the sides of his little pony
soon drew up with the Squire.  Nigel glanced over his shoulder and
slackened speed until the pony's head was up to his saddle.

"Have I not heard, archer," said he, "that an outlaw has been
loose in these parts?"

"It is true, fair sir.  He was villain to Sir Peter Mandeville,
but he broke his bonds and fled into the forests.  Men call him
the `Wild Man of Puttenham.'"

"How comes it that he has not been hunted down?  If the man be a
draw-latch and a robber it would be an honorable deed to clear the
country of such an evil."

"Twice the sergeants-at-arms from Guildford have come out against
him, but the fox has many earths, and it would puzzle you to get
him out of them."

"By Saint Paul!  were my errand not a pressing one I would be
tempted to turn aside and seek him.  Where lives he, then?"

"There is a great morass beyond Puttenham, and across it there are
caves in which he and his people lurk."

"His people?  He hath a band?"

"There are several with him."

"It sounds a most honorable enterprise," said Nigel.  "When the
King hath come and gone we will spare a day for the outlaws of
Puttenham.  I fear there is little chance for us to see them on
this journey."

"They prey upon the pilgrims who pass along the Winchester Road,
and they are well loved by the folk in these parts, for they rob
none of them and have an open hand for all who will help them."

"It is right easy to have an open hand with the money that you
have stolen," said Nigel; "but I fear that they will not try to
rob two men with swords at their girdles like you and me, so we
shall have no profit from them."

They had passed over the wild moors and had come down now into the
main road by which the pilgrims from the west of England made
their way to the national shrine at Canterbury.  It passed from
Winchester, and up the beautiful valley of the Itchen until it
reached Farnham, where it forked into two branches, one of which
ran along the Hog's Back, while the second wound to the south and
came out at Saint Catherine's Hill where stands the Pilgrim
shrine, a gray old ruin now, but once so august, so crowded and so
affluent.  It was this second branch upon which Nigel and Aylward
found themselves as they rode to Guildford.

No one, as it chanced, was going the same way as themselves, but
they met one large drove of pilgrims returning from their journey
with pictures of Saint Thomas and snails' shells or little leaden
ampullae in their hats and bundles of purchases over their
shoulders.  They were a grimy, ragged, travel-stained crew, the
men walking, the women borne on asses.  Man and beast, they limped
along as if it would be a glad day when they saw their homes once
more.  These and a few beggars or minstrels, who crouched among
the heather on either side of the track in the hope of receiving
an occasional farthing from the passer-by, were the only folk they
met until they had reached the village of Puttenham.  Already
there, was a hot sun and just breeze enough to send the dust
flying down the road, so they were glad to clear their throats
with a glass of beer at the ale-stake in the village, where the
fair alewife gave Nigel a cold farewell because he had no
attentions for her, and Aylward a box on the ear because he had
too many.

On the farther side of Puttenham the road runs through thick woods
of oak and beech, with a tangled undergrowth of fern and bramble.
Here they met a patrol of sergeants-at-arms, tall fellows,
well-mounted, clad in studded-leather caps and tunics, with lances
and swords.  They walked their horses slowly on the shady side of
the road, and stopped as the travelers came up, to ask if they had
been molested on the way.

"Have a care," they added, "for the `Wild Man' and his wife are
out.  Only yesterday they slew a merchant from the west and took a
hundred crowns."

"His wife, you say?"

"Yes, she is ever at his side, and has saved him many a time, for
if he has the strength it is she who has the wit.  I hope to see
their heads together upon the green grass one of these mornings."

The patrol passed downward toward Farnham, and so, as it proved,
away from the robbers, who had doubtless watched them closely from
the dense brushwood which skirted the road.  Coming round a curve,
Nigel and Aylward were aware of a tall and graceful woman who sat,
wringing her hands and weeping bitterly, upon the bank by the side
of the track.  At such a sight of beauty in distress Nigel pricked
Pommers with the spur and in three bounds was at the side of the
unhappy lady.

"What ails you, fair dame?" he asked.  "Is there any small matter
in which I may stand your friend, or is it possible that anyone
hath so hard a heart as to do you an injury."

She rose and turned upon him a face full of hope and entreaty.
"Oh, save my poor, poor father!" she cried.  "Have you perchance
seen the way-wardens?  They passed us, and I fear they are beyond
reach."

"Yes, they have ridden onward, but we may serve as well."

"Then hasten, hasten, I pray you!  Even now they may be doing him
to death.  They have dragged him into yonder grove and I have
heard his voice growing ever weaker in the distance.  Hasten, I
implore you!"

Nigel sprang from his horse and tossed the rein to Aylward.

"Nay, let us go together.  How many robbers were there, lady?"

"Two stout fellows."

"Then I come also."

"Nay, it is not possible," said Nigel.  "The wood is too thick for
horses, and we cannot leave them in the road."

"I will guard them," cried the lady.

"Pommers is not so easily held.  Do you bide here, Aylward, until
you hear from me.  Stir not, I command you!"  So saying, Nigel,
with the light, of adventure gleaming in his joyous eyes, drew his
sword and plunged swiftly into the forest.

Far and fast he ran, from glade to glade, breaking through the
bushes, springing over the brambles, light as a young deer,
peering this way and that, straining his ears for a sound, and
catching only the cry of the wood-pigeons.  Still on he went, with
the constant thought of the weeping woman behind and of the
captured man in front.  It was not until he was footsore and out
of breath that he stopped with his hand to his side, and
considered that his own business had still to be done, and that it
was time once more that he should seek the road to Guildford.

Meantime Aylward had found his own rough means of consoling the
woman in the road, who stood sobbing with her face against the
side of Pommers' saddle.

"Nay, weep not, my pretty one," said he.  "It brings the tears to
my own eyes to see them stream from thine."

"Alas! good archer, he was the best of fathers, so gentle and so
kind!  Had you but known him, you must have loved him."

"Tut, tut!  he will suffer no scathe.  Squire Nigel will bring him
back to you anon."

"No, no, I shall never see him more.  Hold me, archer, or I fall!"

Aylward pressed his ready arm round the supple waist.  The
fainting woman leaned with her hand upon his shoulder.  Her pale
face looked past him, and it was some new light in her eyes, a
flash of expectancy, of triumph, of wicked joy, which gave him
sudden warning of his danger.

He shook her off and sprang to one side, but only just in time to
avoid a crashing blow from a great club in the hands of a man even
taller and stronger than himself.  He had one quick vision of
great white teeth clenched in grim ferocity, a wild flying beard
and blazing wild-beast eyes.  The next instant he had closed,
ducking his head beneath another swing of that murderous cudgel.

With his arms round the robber's burly body and his face buried in
his bushy beard, Aylward gasped and strained and heaved.  Back and
forward in the dusty road the two men stamped and staggered, a
grim wrestling-match, with life for the prize.  Twice the great
strength of the outlaw had Aylward nearly down, and twice with his
greater youth and skill the archer restored his grip and his
balance.  Then at last his turn came.  He slipped his leg behind
the other's knee, and, giving a mighty wrench, tore him across it.
With a hoarse shout the outlaw toppled backward and had hardly
reached the ground before Aylward had his knee upon his chest and
his short sword deep in his beard and pointed to his throat.

"By these ten finger-bones!" he gasped, "one more struggle and it
is your last!"

The man lay still enough, for he was half-stunned by the crashing
fall.  Aylward looked round him, but the woman had disappeared.
At the first blow struck she had vanished into the forest.  He
began to have fears for his master, thinking that he perhaps had
been lured into some deathtrap; but his forebodings were soon at
rest, for Nigel himself came hastening down the road, which he had
struck some distance from the spot where he left it.

"By Saint Paul!" he cried, "who is this man on whom you are
perched, and where is the lady who has honored us so far as to
crave our help?  Alas, that I have been unable to find her
father!"

"As well for you, fair sir," said Aylward, "for I am of opinion
that her father was the Devil.  This woman is, as I believe, the
wife of the `Wild Man of Puttenham,' and this is the `Wild Man'
himself who set upon me and tried to brain me with his club."

The outlaw, who had opened his eyes, looked with a scowl from his
captor to the new-comer.  "You are in luck, archer," said he, "for
I have come to grips with many a man, but I cannot call to mind
any who have had the better of me."

"You have indeed the grip of a bear," said Aylward; "but it was a
coward deed that your wife should hold me while you dashed out my
brains with a stick.  It is also a most villainous thing to lay a
snare for wayfarers by asking for their pity and assistance, so
that it was our own soft hearts which brought us into such danger.
The next who hath real need of our help may suffer for your sins."

"When the hand of the whole world is against you," said the outlaw
in a surly voice, "you must fight as best you can."

"You well deserve to be hanged, if only because you have brought
this woman, who is fair and gentle-spoken, to such a life," said
Nigel.  "Let us tie him by the wrist to my stirrup leather,
Aylward, and we will lead him into Guildford."

The archer drew a spare bowstring from his case and had bound the
prisoner as directed, when Nigel gave a sudden start and cry of
alarm.

"Holy Mary!" he cried.  "Where is the saddle-bag?"

It had been cut away by a sharp knife.  Only the two ends of strap
remained.  Aylward and Nigel stared at each other in blank dismay.
Then the young Squire shook his clenched hands and pulled at his
yellow curls in his despair.

"The Lady Ermyntrude's bracelet!  My grandfather's cup!" he cried.
"I would have died ere I lost them!  What can I say to her?  I
dare not return until I have found them.  Oh, Aylward, Aylward!
how came you to let them be taken?"

The honest archer had pushed back his steel cap and was scratching
his tangled head.  "Nay, I know nothing of it.  You never said
that there was aught of price in the bag, else had I kept a better
eye upon it.  Certes! it was not this fellow who took it, since I
have never had my hands from him.  It can only be the woman who
fled with it while we fought."

Nigel stamped about the road in his perplexity.  "I would follow
her to the world's end if I knew where I could find her, but to
search these woods for her is to look for a mouse in a
wheat-field.  Good Saint George, thou who didst overcome the
Dragon, I pray you by that most honorable and knightly achievement
that you will be with me now!  And you also, great Saint Julian,
patron of all wayfarers in distress!  Two candles shall burn
before your shrine at Godalming, if you will but bring me back my
saddle-bag.  What would I not give to have it back?"

"Will you give me my life?" asked the outlaw.  "Promise that I go
free, and you shall have it back, if it be indeed true that my
wife has taken it."

"Nay, I cannot do that," said Nigel.  "My honor would surely be
concerned, since my loss is a private one; but it would be to the
public scathe that you should go free.  By Saint Paul! it would be
an ungentle deed if in order to save my own I let you loose upon
the gear of a hundred others."

"I will not ask you to let me loose," said the "Wild Man."  "If
you will promise that my life be spared I will restore your bag."

"I cannot give such a promise, for it will lie with the Sheriff
and reeves of Guildford."

"Shall I have your word in my favor?"

"That I could promise you, if you will give back the bag, though I
know not how far my word may avail.  But your words are vain, for
you cannot think that we will be so fond as to let you go in the
hope that you return?"

"I would not ask it," said the "Wild Man," "for I can get your bag
and yet never stir from the spot where I stand.  Have I your
promise upon your honor and all that you hold dear that you will
ask for grace?"

"You have."

"And that my wife shall be unharmed?"

"I promise it."

The outlaw laid back his head and uttered a long shrill cry like
the howl of a wolf.  There was a silent pause, and then, clear and
shrill, there rose the same cry no great distance away in the
forest.  Again the "Wild Man" called, and again his mate replied.
A third time he summoned, as the deer bells to the doe in the
greenwood.  Then with a rustle of brushwood and snapping of twigs
the woman was before them once more, tall, pale, graceful,
wonderful.  She glanced neither at Aylward nor Nigel, but ran to
the side of her husband.

"Dear and sweet lord," she cried, "I trust they have done you no
hurt.  I waited by the old ash, and my heart sank when you came
not."

"I have been taken at last, wife."

"Oh, cursed, cursed day!  Let him go, kind, gentle sirs; do not
take him from me!"

"They will speak for me at Guildford," said the " Wild Man." "They
have sworn it.  But hand them first the bag that you have taken."

She drew it out from under her loose cloak.  "Here it is, gentle
sir.  Indeed it went to my heart to take it, for you had mercy
upon me in my trouble.  But now I am, as you see, in real and very
sore distress.  Will you not have mercy now?  Take ruth on us,
fair sir!  On my knees I beg it of you, most gentle and kindly
Squire!"

Nigel had clutched his bag, and right glad he was to feel that the
treasures were all safe within it.  " My proffer is given," said
he.  "I will say what I can; but the issue rests with others.  I
pray you to stand up, for indeed I cannot promise more."

"Then I must be content," said she, rising, with a composed face.
"I have prayed you to take ruth, and indeed I can do no more; but
ere I go back to the forest I would rede you to be on your guard
lest you lose your bag once more.  Wot you how I took it, archer?
Nay, it was simple enough, and may happen again, so I make it
clear to you.  I had this knife in my sleeve, and though it is
small it is very sharp.  I slipped it down like this.  Then when I
seemed to weep with my face against the saddle, I cut down like
this - "

In an instant she had shorn through the stirrup leather which
bound her man, and he, diving under the belly of the horse, had
slipped like a snake into the brushwood.  In passing he had struck
Pommers from beneath, and the great horse, enraged and insulted,
was rearing high, with two men hanging to his bridle.  When at
last he had calmed there was no sign left of the "Wild Man  or of
his wife.  In vain did Aylward, an arrow on his string, run here
and there among the great trees and peer down the shadowy glades.
When he returned he and his master cast a shamefaced glance at
each other.

"I trust that we are better soldiers than jailers," said Aylward,
as he climbed on his pony.

But Nigel's frown relaxed into a smile.  "At least we have gained
back what we lost," said he.  "Here I place it on the pommel of my
saddle, and I shall not take my eyes from it until we are safe in
Guildford town."

So they jogged on together until passing Saint Catherine's shrine
they crossed the winding Wey once more, and so found themselves in
the steep high street with its heavy-caved gabled houses, its
monkish hospitium upon the left, where good ale may still be
quaffed, and its great square-keeped castle upon the right, no
gray and grim skeleton of ruin, but very quick and alert, with
blazoned banner flying free, and steel caps twinkling from the
battlement.  A row of booths extended from the castle gate to the
high street, and two doors from the Church of the Trinity was that
of Thorold the goldsmith, a rich burgess and Mayor of the town.

He looked long and lovingly at the rich rubies and at the fine
work upon the goblet.  Then he stroked his flowing gray beard as
he pondered whether he should offer fifty nobles or sixty, for he
knew well that he could sell them again for two hundred.  If he
offered too much his profit would be reduced.  If he offered too
little the youth might go as far as London with them, for they
were rare and of great worth.  The young man was ill-clad, and his
eyes were anxious.  Perchance he was hard pressed and was ignorant
of the value of what he bore.  He would sound him.

"These things are old and out of fashion, fair sir," said he.  "Of
the stones I can scarce say if they are of good quality or not,
but they are dull and rough.  Yet, if your price be low I may add
them to my stock, though indeed this booth was made to sell and
not to buy.  What do you ask?"

Nigel bent his brows in perplexity.  Here was a game in which
neither his bold heart nor his active limbs could help him.  It
was the new force mastering the old: the man of commerce
conquering the man of war - wearing him down and weakening him
through the centuries until he had him as his bond-servant and his
thrall.

"  know not what to ask, good sir," said Nigel.  "It is not for
me, nor for any man who bears my name, to chaffer and to haggle.
You know the worth of these things, for it is your trade to do so.
The Lady Ermyntrude lacks money, and we must have it against the
King's coming, so give me that which is right and just, and we
will say no more."

The goldsmith smiled.  The business was growing more simple and
more profitable.  He had intended to offer fifty, but surely it
would be sinful waste to give more than twenty-five.

"I shall scarce know what to do with them when I have them," said
he.  "Yet I should not grudge twenty nobles if it is a matter in
which the King is concerned."

Nigel's heart turned to lead.  This sum would not buy one-half
what was needful.  It was clear that the Lady Ermyntrude had
overvalued her treasures.  Yet he could not return empty-handed,
so if twenty nobles was the real worth, as this good old man
assured him, then he must be thankful and take it.

"I am concerned by what you say," said he.  "You know more of
these things than I can do.  However, I will take - "

"A hundred and fifty," whispered Aylward's voice in his ear.

"A hundred and fifty," said Nigel, only too relieved to have found
the humblest guide upon these unwonted paths.

The goldsmith started.  This youth was not the simple soldier that
he had seemed.  That frank face, those blue eyes, were traps for
the unwary.  Never had he been more taken aback in a bargain.

"This is fond talk and can lead to nothing, fair sir," said he,
turning away and fiddling with the keys of his strong boxes.  "Yet
I have no wish to be hard on you.  Take my outside price, which is
fifty nobles."

"And a hundred," whispered Aylward.

"And a hundred," said Nigel, blushing at his own greed.

"Well, well, take a hundred!" cried the merchant.  "Fleece me,
skin me, leave me a loser, and take for your wares the full
hundred!"

"I should be shamed forever if I were to treat you so badly," said
Nigel.  "You have spoken me fair, and I would not grind you down.
Therefore, I will gladly take one hundred - "

"And fifty," whispered Aylward.

"And fifty," said Nigel.

"By Saint John of Beverley!" cried the merchant.  "I came hither
from the North Country, and they are said to be shrewd at a deal
in those parts; but I had rather bargain with a synagogue full of
Jews than with you, for all your gentle ways.  Will you indeed
take no less than a hundred and fifty?  Alas! you pluck from me my
profits of a month.  It is a fell morning's work for me.  I would
I had never seen you!"  With groans and lamentations he paid the
gold pieces across the counter, and Nigel, hardly able to credit
his own good fortune, gathered them into the leather saddle-bag.

A moment later with flushed face he was in the street and pouring
out his thanks to Aylward.

"Alas, my fair lord! the man has robbed us now," said the archer.
" We could have had another twenty had we stood fast."

"How know you that, good Aylward?"

"By his eyes, Squire Loring.  I wot I have little store of reading
where the parchment of a book or the pinching of a blazon is
concerned, but I can read men's eyes, and I never doubted that he
would give what he has given."

The two travelers had dinner at the monk's hospitium, Nigel at the
high table and Aylward among the commonalty.  Then again they
roamed the high street on business intent.  Nigel bought taffeta
for hangings, wine, preserves, fruit, damask table linen and many
other articles of need.  At last he halted before the armorer's
shop at the castle-yard, staring at the fine suits of plate, the
engraved pectorals, the plumed helmets, the cunningly jointed
gorgets, as a child at a sweet-shop.

"Well, Squire Loring," said Wat the armorer, looking sidewise from
the furnace where he was tempering a sword blade, "what can I sell
you this morning?  I swear to you by Tubal Cain, the father of all
workers in metal, that you might go from end to end of Cheapside
and never see a better suit than that which hangs from yonder
hook!"

"And the price, armorer?"

"To anyone else, two hundred and fifty rose nobles.  To you two
hundred."

"And why cheaper to me, good fellow?"

"Because I fitted your father also for the wars, and a finer suit
never went out of my shop.  I warrant that it turned many an edge
before he laid it aside.  We worked in mail in those days, and I
had as soon have a well-made thick-meshed mail as any plates; but
a young knight will be in the fashion like any dame of the court,
and so it must be plate now, even though the price be trebled."

"Your rede is that the mail is as good?"

"I am well sure of it."

"Hearken then, armorer!  I cannot at this moment buy a suit of
plate, and yet I sorely need steel harness on account of a small
deed which it is in my mind to do.  Now I have at my home at
Tilford that very suit of mail of which you speak, with which my
father first rode to the wars.  Could you not so alter it that it
should guard my limbs also?"

The armorer looked at Nigel's small upright figure and burst out
laughing.  "You jest, Squire Loring!  The suit was made for one
who was far above the common stature of man."

"Nay, I jest not.  If it will but carry me through one spear-
running it will have served its purpose."

The armorer leaned back on his anvil and pondered while Nigel
stared anxiously at his sooty face.

"Right gladly would I lend you a suit of plate for this one
venture, Squire Loring, but I know well that if you should be
overthrown your harness becomes prize to the victor.  I am a poor
man with many children, and I dare not risk the loss of it.  But
as to what you say of the old suit of mail, is it indeed in good
condition?"

"Most excellent, save only at the neck, which is much frayed."

"To shorten the limbs is easy.  It is but to cut out a length of
the mail and then loop up the links.  But to shorten the body-nay,
that is beyond the armorer's art."

"It was my last hope.  Nay, good armorer, if you have indeed
served and loved my gallant father, then I beg you by his memory
that you will help me now."

The armorer threw down his heavy hammer with a crash upon the
floor.  "It is not only that I loved your father, Squire Loring,
but it is that I have seen you, half armed as you were, ride
against the best of them at the Castle tiltyard.  Last Martinmas
my heart bled for you when I saw how sorry was your harness, and
yet you held your own against the stout Sir Oliver with his Milan
suit: When go you to Tilford?"

"Even now."

"Heh, Jenkin, fetch out the cob!" cried the worthy Wat.  "May my
right hand lose its cunning if I do not send you into battle in
your father's suit!  To-morrow I must be back in my booth, but
today I give to you without fee and for the sake of the good-will
which I bear to your house.  I will ride with you to Tilford, and
before night you shall see what Wat can do."

So it came about that there was a busy evening at the old Tilford
Manor-house, where the Lady Ermyntrude planned and cut and hung
the curtains for the hall, and stocked her cupboards with the good
things which Nigel had brought from Guildford.

Meanwhile the Squire and the armorer sat with their heads touching
and the old suit of mail with its gorget of overlapping plates
laid out across their knees.  Again and again old Wat shrugged his
shoulders, as one who has been asked to do more than can be
demanded from mortal man.  At last, at a suggestion from the
Squire, he leaned back in his chair and laughed long and loudly in
his bushy beard, while the Lady Ermyntrude glared her black
displeasure at such plebeian merriment.  Then taking his fine
chisel and his hammer from his pouch of tools, the armorer, still
chuckling at his own thoughts, began to drive a hole through the
center of the steel tunic.




VIII.  HOW THE KING HAWKED ON CROOKSBURY HEATH


The King and his attendants had shaken off the crowd who had
followed them from Guildford along the Pilgrims' Way and now, the
mounted archers having beaten off the more persistent of the
spectators, they rode at their ease in a long, straggling,
glittering train over the dark undulating plain of heather.

In the van was the King himself, for his hawks were with him and
he had some hope of sport.  Edward at that time was a well-grown,
vigorous man in the very prime of his years, a keen sportsman, an
ardent gallant and a chivalrous soldier.  He was a scholar too,
speaking Latin, French, German, Spanish, and even a little
English.

So much had long been patent to the world, but only of recent
years had he shown other and more formidable characteristics: a
restless ambition which coveted his neighbor's throne, and a wise
foresight in matters of commerce, which engaged him now in
transplanting Flemish weavers and sowing the seeds of what for
many years was the staple trade of England.  Each of these varied
qualities might have been read upon his face.  The brow, shaded by
a crimson cap of maintenance, was broad and lofty.  The large
brown eyes were ardent and bold.  His chin was clean-shaven, and
the close-cropped dark mustache did not conceal the strong mouth,
firm, proud and kindly, but capable of setting tight in merciless
ferocity.  His complexion was tanned to copper by a life spent in
field sports or in war, and he rode his magnificent black horse
carelessly and easily, as one who has grown up in the saddle.  His
own color was black also, for his active; sinewy figure was set
off by close-fitting velvet of that hue, broken only by a belt of
gold, and by a golden border of open pods of the broom-plant.

With his high and noble bearing, his simple yet rich attire and
his splendid mount, he looked every inch a King.

The picture of gallant man on gallant horse was completed by the
noble Falcon of the Isles which fluttered along some twelve feet
above his head, "waiting on," as it was termed, for any quarry
which might arise.  The second bird of the cast was borne upon the
gauntleted wrist of Raoul the chief falconer in the rear.

At the right side of the monarch and a little behind him rode a
youth some twenty years of age, tall, slim and dark, with noble
aquiline features and keen penetrating eyes which sparkled with
vivacity and affection as he answered the remarks of the King.  He
was clad in deep crimson diapered with gold, and the trappings of
his white palfrey were of a magnificence which proclaimed the rank
of its rider.  On his face, still free from mustache or beard,
there sat a certain gravity and majesty of expression which showed
that young as he was great affairs had been in his keeping and
that his thoughts and interests were those of the statesman and
the warrior.  That great day when, little more than a school-boy,
he had led the van of the victorious army which had crushed the
power of France and Crecy, had left this stamp upon his features;
but stern as they were they had not assumed that tinge of
fierceness which in after years was to make "The Black Prince" a
name of terror on the marches of France.  Not yet had the first
shadow of fell disease come to poison his nature ere it struck at
his life, as he rode that spring day, light and debonair, upon the
heath of Crooksbury.

On the left of the King, and so near to him that great intimacy
was implied, rode a man about his own age, with the broad face,
the projecting jaw and the flattish nose which are often the
outward indications of a pugnacious nature.

His complexion was crimson, his large blue eyes somewhat
prominent, and his whole appearance full-blooded and choleric.  He
was short, but massively built, and evidently possessed of immense
strength.  His voice, however, when he spoke was gentle and
lisping, while his manner was quiet and courteous.  Unlike the
King or the Prince, he was clad in light armor and carried a sword
by his side and a mace at his saddle-bow, for he was acting as
Captain of the King's Guard, and a dozen other knights in steel
followed in the escort.  No hardier soldier could Edward have at
his side, if, as was always possible in those lawless times,
sudden danger was to threaten, for this was the famous knight of
Hainault, now naturalized as an Englishman, Sir Walter Manny, who
bore as high a reputation for chivalrous valor and for gallant
temerity as Chandos himself.

Behind the knights, who were forbidden to scatter and must always
follow the King's person, there was a body of twenty or thirty
hobblers or mounted bowmen, together with several squires, unarmed
themselves but leading spare horses upon which the heavier part of
their knights' equipment was carried.  A straggling tail of
falconers, harbingers, varlets, body-servants and huntsmen holding
hounds in leash completed the long and many-colored train which
rose and dipped on the low undulations of the moor.

Many weighty things were on the mind of Edward the King.  There
was truce for the moment with France, but it was a truce broken by
many small deeds of arms, raids, surprises and ambushes upon
either side, and it was certain that it would soon dissolve again
into open war.  Money must be raised, and it was no light matter
to raise it, now that the Commons had once already voted the tenth
lamb and the tenth sheaf.  Besides, the Black Death had ruined the
country, the arable land was all turned to pasture, the laborer,
laughing at statutes, would not work under fourpence a day, and
all society was chaos.  In addition, the Scotch were growling over
the border, there was the perennial trouble in half-conquered
Ireland, and his allies abroad in Flanders and in Brabant were
clamoring for the arrears of their subsidies.

All this was enough to make even a victorious monarch full of
care; but now Edward had thrown it all to the winds and was as
light-hearted as a boy upon a holiday.  No thought had he for the
dunning of Florentine bankers or the vexatious conditions of those
busybodies at Westminster.  He was out with his hawks, and his
thoughts and his talk should be of nothing else.  The varlets beat
the heather and bushes as they passed, and whooped loudly as the
birds flew out.

"A magpie!  A magpie!" cried the falconer.

"Nay, nay, it is not worthy of your talons, my brown-eyed queen,"
said the King, looking up at the great bird which flapped from
side to side above his head, waiting for the whistle which should
give her the signal.  "The tercels, falconer - a cast of tercels!
Quick, man, quick!  Ha!  the rascal makes for wood!  He puts in!
Well flown, brave peregrine!  He makes his point.  Drive him out
to thy comrade.  Serve him, varlets!  Beat the bushes!  He breaks!
He breaks!  Nay, come away then!  You will see Master Magpie no
more."

The bird had indeed, with the cunning of its race, flapped its way
through brushwood and bushes to the thicker woods beyond, so that
neither the hawk amid the cover nor its partner above nor the
clamorous beaters could harm it.  The King laughed at the
mischance and rode on.  Continually birds of various sorts were
flushed, and each was pursued by the appropriate hawk, the snipe
by the tercel, the partridge by the goshawk, even the lark by the
little merlin.  But the King soon tired of this petty sport and
went slowly on his way, still with the magnificent silent
attendant flapping above his head.

"Is she not a noble bird, fair son?" he asked, glancing up as her
shadow fell upon him.

"She is indeed, sire.  Surely no finer ever came from the isles of
the north."

"Perhaps not, and yet I have had a hawk from Barbary as good a
footer and a swifter flyer.  An Eastern bird in yarak has no
peer."

"I had one once from the Holy Land," said de Manny.  "It was
fierce and keen and swift as the Saracens themselves.  They say of
old Saladin that in his day his breed of birds, of hounds and of
horses had no equal on earth."

"I trust, dear father, that the day may come when we shall lay our
hands on all three," said the Prince, looking with shining eyes
upon the King.  "Is the Holy Land to lie forever in the grasp of
these unbelieving savages, or the Holy Temple to be defiled by
their foul presence?  Ah!  my dear and most sweet lord, give to me
a thousand lances with ten thousand bowmen like those I led at
Crecy, and I swear to you by God's soul that within a year I will
have done homage to you for the Kingdom of Jerusalem!"

The King laughed as he turned to Walter Manny.  "Boys will still
be boys," said he.

"The French do not count me such!" cried the young Prince,
flushing with anger.

"Nay, fair son, there is no one sets you at a higher rate than
your father.  But you have the nimble mind and quick fancy of
youth, turning over from the thing that is half done to a further
task beyond.  How would we fare in Brittany and Normandy while my
young paladin with his lances and his bowmen was besieging Ascalon
or battering at Jerusalem?"

"Heaven would help in Heaven's work."

"From what I have heard of the past," said the King dryly, "I
cannot see that Heaven has counted for much as an ally in these
wars of the East.  I speak with reverence, and yet it is but sooth
to say that Richard of the Lion Heart or Louis of France might
have found the smallest earthly principality of greater service to
him than all the celestial hosts.  How say you to that, my Lord
Bishop?"

A stout churchman who had ridden behind the King on a solid bay
cob, well-suited to his weight and dignity, jogged up to the
monarch's elbow.  "How say you, sire?  I was watching the goshawk
on the partridge and heard you not."

"Had I said that I would add two manors to the See of Chichester,
I warrant that you would have heard me, my Lord Bishop."

"Nay, fair lord, test the matter by saying so," cried the jovial
Bishop.

The King laughed aloud.  "A fair counter, your reverence.  By the
rood!  you broke your lance that passage.  But the question I
debated was this: How is it that since the Crusades have
manifestly been fought in God's quarrel, we Christians have had so
little comfort or support in fighting them.  After all our efforts
and the loss of more men than could be counted, we are at last
driven from the country, and even the military orders which were
formed only for that one purpose can scarce hold a footing in the
islands of the Greek sea.  There is not one seaport nor one
fortress in Palestine over which the flag of the Cross still
waves.  Where then was our ally?"

"Nay, sire, you open a great debate which extends far beyond this
question of the Holy Land, though that may indeed be chosen as a
fair example.  It is the question of all sin, of all suffering, of
all injustice - why it should pass without the rain of fire and
the lightnings of Sinai.  The wisdom of God is beyond our
understanding."

The King shrugged his shoulders.  "This is an easy answer, my Lord
Bishop.  You are a prince of the Church.  It would fare ill with
an earthly prince who could give no better answer to the affairs
which concerned his realm."

"There are other considerations which might be urged, most
gracious sire.  It is true that the Crusades were a holy
enterprise which might well expect the immediate blessing of God;
but the Crusaders - is it certain that they deserved such a
blessing?  Have I not heard that their camp was the most dissolute
ever seen?"

"Camps are camps all the world over, and you cannot in a moment
change a bowman into a saint.  But the holy Louis was a crusader
after your own heart.  Yet his men perished at Mansurah and he
himself at Tunis."

"Bethink you also that this world is but the antechamber of the
next," said the prelate.  "By suffering and tribulation the soul
is cleansed, and the true victor may be he who by the patient
endurance of misfortune merits the happiness to come."

"If that be the true meaning of the Church's blessing, then I hope
that it will be long before it rests upon our banners in France,"
said the King.  "But methinks that when one is out with a brave
horse and a good hawk one might find some other subject than
theology.  Back to the birds, Bishop, or Raoul the falconer will
come to interrupt thee in thy cathedral."

Straightway the conversation came back to the mystery of the woods
and the mystery of the rivers, to the dark-eyed hawks and the
yellow-eyed, to hawks of the lure and hawks of the fist.  The
Bishop was as steeped in the lore of falconry as the King, and the
others smiled as the two wrangled hard over disputed and technical
questions: if an eyas trained in the mews can ever emulate the
passage hawk taken wild, or how long the young hawks should be
placed at hack, and how long weathered before they are fully
reclaimed.

Monarch and prelate were still deep in this learned discussion,
the Bishop speaking with a freedom and assurance which he would
never have dared to use in affairs of Church and State, for in all
ages there is no such leveler as sport.  Suddenly, however, the
Prince, whose keen eyes had swept from time to time over the great
blue heaven, uttered a peculiar call and reined up his palfrey,
pointing at the same time into the air.

"A heron!" he cried.  "A heron on passage!"

To gain the full sport of hawking a heron must not be put up from
its feeding-ground, where it is heavy with its meal, and has no
time to get its pace on before it is pounced upon by the more
active hawk, but it must be aloft, traveling from point to point,
probably from the fish-stream to the heronry.  Thus to catch the
bird on passage was the prelude of all good sport.  The object to
which the Prince had pointed was but a black dot in the southern
sky, but his strained eyes had not deceived him, and both Bishop
and King agreed that it was indeed a heron, which grew larger
every instant as it flew in their direction.

"Whistle him off, sire!  Whistle off the gerfalcon!" cried the
Bishop.

"Nay, nay, he is overfar.  She would fly at check."

"Now, sire, now!" cried the Prince, as the great bird with the
breeze behind him came sweeping down the sky.

The King gave the shrill whistle, and the well-trained hawk raked
out to the right and to the left to make sure which quarry she was
to follow.  Then, spying the heron, she shot up in a swift
ascending curve to meet him.

"Well flown, Margot!  Good bird!" cried the King, clapping his
hands to encourage the hawk, while the falconers broke into the
shrill whoop peculiar to the sport.

Going on her curve, the hawk would soon have crossed the path of
the heron; but the latter, seeing the danger in his front and
confident in his own great strength of wing and lightness of body,
proceeded to mount higher in the air, flying in such small rings
that to the spectators it almost seemed as if the bird was going
perpendicularly upward.

"He takes the air!" cried the King.  "But strong as he flies, he
cannot out fly Margot.  Bishop, I lay you ten gold pieces to one
that the heron is mine."

"I cover your wager, sire," said the Bishop.  "I may not take gold
so won, and yet I warrant that there is an altar-cloth somewhere
in need of repairs."

"You have good store of altar-cloths, Bishop, if all the gold I
have seen you win at tables goes to the mending of them," said the
King.  "Ah! by the rood, rascal, rascal!  See how she flies at
check!"

The quick eyes of the Bishop had perceived a drift of rooks when
on their evening flight to the rookery were passing along the very
line which divided the hawk from the heron.  A rook is a hard
temptation for a hawk to resist.  In an instant the inconstant
bird had forgotten all about the great heron above her and was
circling over the rooks, flying westward with them as she singled
out the plumpest for her stoop.

"There is yet time, sire!  Shall I cast off her mate?" cried the
falconer.

"Or shall I show you, sire, how a peregrine may win where a
gerfalcon fails?" said the Bishop.  "Ten golden pieces to one upon
my bird."

"Done with you, Bishop!" cried the King, his brow dark with
vexation.  "By the rood! if you were as learned in the fathers as
you are in hawks you would win to the throne of Saint Peter!  Cast
off your peregrine and make your boasting good."

Smaller than the royal gerfalcon, the Bishop's bird was none the
less a swift and beautiful creature.  From her perch upon his
wrist she had watched with fierce, keen eyes the birds in the
heaven, mantling herself from time to time in her eagerness.  Now
when the button was undone and the leash uncast the peregrine
dashed off with a whir of her sharp-pointed wings, whizzing round
in a great ascending circle which mounted swiftly upward, growing
ever smaller as she approached that lofty point where, a mere
speck in the sky, the heron sought escape from its enemies.  Still
higher and higher the two birds mounted, while the horsemen, their
faces upturned, strained their eyes in their efforts to follow
them.

"She rings!  She still rings!" cried the Bishop.  "She is above
him!  She has gained her pitch."

"Nay, nay, she is far below," said the King.

"By my soul, my Lord Bishop is right!" cried the Prince.  "I
believe she is above.  See!  See!  She swoops!"

"She binds!  She binds!" cried a dozen voices as the two dots
blended suddenly into one.

There could be no doubt that they were falling rapidly, Already
they grew larger to the eye.  Presently the heron disengaged
himself and flapped heavily away, the worse for, that deadly
embrace, while the peregrine, shaking her, plumage, ringed once
more so as to get high above the quarry and deal it a second and
more fatal blow.  The Bishop smiled, for nothing, as it seemed,
could hinder his victory.

"Thy gold pieces shall be well spent, sire," said he.  "What is
lost to the Church is gained by the loser."

But a most unlooked-for chance deprived the Bishop's altar cloth
of its costly mending.  The King's gerfalcon having struck down a
rook, and finding the sport but tame, bethought herself suddenly
of that noble heron, which she still perceived fluttering over
Crooksbury Heath.  How could she have been so weak as to allow
these silly, chattering rooks to entice her away from that lordly
bird?  Even now it was not too late to atone for her mistake.  In
a great spiral she shot upward until she was over the heron.  But
what was this?  Every fiber of her, from her crest to her deck
feathers, quivered with jealousy and rage at the sight of this
creature, a mere peregrine, who had dared to come between a royal
gerfalcon and her quarry.  With one sweep of her great wings she
shot up until she was above her rival.  The next instant -

"They crab!  They crab!" cried the King, with a roar of laughter,
following them with his eyes as they bustled down through the air.
"Mend thy own altar-cloths, Bishop.  Not a groat shall you have
from me this journey.  Pull them apart, falconer, lest they do
each other an injury.  And now, masters, let us on, for the sun
sinks toward the west."

The two hawks, which had come to the ground interlocked with
clutching talons and ruffled plumes, were torn apart and brought
back bleeding and panting to their perches, while the heron after
its perilous adventure flapped its way heavily onward to settle
safely in the heronry of Waverley.  The cortege, who had scattered
in the excitement of the chase, came together again, and the
journey was once more resumed.

A horseman who had been riding toward them across the moor now
quickened his pace and closed swiftly upon them.  As he came
nearer, the King and the Prince cried out joyously and waved their
hands in greeting.

"It is good John Chandos!!" cried the King.  "By the rood, John, I
have missed your merry songs this week or more!  Glad I am to see
that you have your citole slung to your back.  Whence come you
then?"

"I come from Tilford, sire, in the hope that I should meet your
majesty."

"It was well thought of.  Come, ride here between the Prince and
me, and we will believe that we are back in France with our war
harness on our backs once more.  What is your news, Master John?"

Chandos' quaint face quivered with suppressed amusement and his
one eye twinkled like a star.  "Have you had sport, my liege?"

"Poor sport, John.  We flew two hawks on the same heron.  They
crabbed, and the bird got free.  But why do you smile so?"

"Because I hope to show you better sport ere you come to Tilford."

"For the hawk?  For the hound?"

"A nobler sport than either."

"Is this a riddle, John?  What mean you?"

"Nay, to tell all would be to spoil all.  I say again that there
is rare sport betwixt here and Tilford, and I beg you, dear lord,
to mend your pace that we make the most of the daylight."

Thus adjured, the King set spurs to his horse, and the whole
cavalcade cantered over the heath in the direction which Chandos
showed.  Presently as they came over a slope they saw beneath them
a winding river with an old high-backed bridge across it.  On the
farther side was a village green with a fringe of cottages and one
dark manor house upon the side of the hill.

"This is Tilford, " said Chandos.  "Yonder is the house of the
Lorings."

The King's expectations had been aroused and his face showed his
disappointment.

"Is this the sport that you have promised us, Sir John?  How can
you make good your words?"

"I will make them good, my liege."

"Where then is the sport?"

"On the high crown of the bridge a rider in armor was seated,
lance in hand, upon a great yellow steed.  Chandos touched the
King's arm and pointed.  " That is the sport," said he.




IX.  HOW NIGEL HELD THE BRIDGE AT TILFORD


The King looked at the motionless figure, at the little crowd of
hushed expectant rustics beyond the bridge, and finally at the
face of Chandos, which shone with amusement.

"What is this, John?" he asked.

"You remember Sir Eustace Loring, sire?"

"Indeed I could never forget him nor the manner of his death."

"He was a knight errant in his day."

"That indeed he was - none better have I known."

"So is his son Nigel, as fierce a young war-hawk as ever yearned
to use beak and claws; but held fast in the mews up to now.  This
is his trial fight.  There he stands at the bridge-head, as was
the wont in our fathers' time, ready to measure himself against
all comers."

Of all Englishmen there was no greater knight errant than the King
himself, and none so steeped in every quaint usage of chivalry; so
that the situation was after his own heart.

"He is not yet a knight?"

"No, sire, only a Squire."

"Then he must bear himself bravely this day if he is to make good
what he has done.  Is it fitting that a young untried Squire
should venture to couch his lance against the best in England?"

"He bath given me his cartel and challenge," said Chandos, drawing
a paper from his tunic.  "Have I your permission, sire, to issue
it?"

"Surely, John, we have no cavalier more versed in the laws of
chivalry than yourself.  You know this young man, and you are
aware how far he is worthy of the high honor which he asks.  Let
us hear his defiance,"

The knights and squires of the escort, most of whom were veterans
of the French war, had been gazing with interest and some surprise
at the steel-clad figure in front of them.  Now at a call from Sir
Walter Manny they assembled round the spot where the King and
Chandos had halted.  Chandos cleared his throat and read from his
paper

"`A tous seigneurs, chevaliers et escuyers,' so it is headed,
gentlemen.  It is a message from the good Squire Nigel Loring of
Tilford, son of Sir Eustace Loring, of honorable memory.  Squire
Loring awaits you in arms, gentlemen, yonder upon the crown of the
old bridge.  Thus says he: `For the great desire that I, a most
humble and unworthy Squire, entertain, that I may come to the
knowledge of the noble gentlemen who ride with my royal master, I
now wait on the Bridge of the Way in the hope that some of them
may condescend to do some small deed of arms upon me, or that I
may deliver them from any vow which they may have taken.  This I
say out of no esteem for myself, but solely that I may witness the
noble bearing of these famous cavaliers and admire their skill in
the handling of arms.  Therefore, with the help of Saint George, I
will hold the bridge with sharpened lances against any or all who
may deign to present themselves while daylight lasts."

"What say you to this, gentlemen?" asked the King, looking round
with laughing eyes.

"Truly it is issued in very good form," said the Prince.  "Neither
Claricieux nor Red Dragon nor any herald that ever wore tabard
could better it.  Did he draw it of his own hand?"

"He hath a grim old grandmother who is one of the ancient breed,"
said Chandos.  "I doubt not that the Dame Ermyntrude hath drawn a
challenge or two before now.  But hark ye, sire, I would have a
word in your ear - and yours too, most noble Prince."

Leading them aside, Chandos whispered some explanations, which
ended by them all three bursting into a shout of laughter.

"By the rood! no honorable gentleman should be reduced to such
straits," said the King.  "It behooves me to look to it.  But how
now, gentlemen?  This worthy cavalier still waits his answer."

The soldiers had all been buzzing together; but now Walter Manny
turned to the King with the result of their counsel.

"If it please your majesty," said he, "we are of opinion that this
Squire hath exceeded all bounds in desiring to break a spear with
a belted knight ere he has given his proofs.  We do him sufficient
honor if a Squire ride against him, and with your consent I have
chosen my own body-squire, John Widdicombe, to clear the path for
us across the bridge."

"What you say, Walter, is right and fair," said the King.  "Master
Chandos, you will tell our champion yonder what hath been
arranged.  You will advise him also that it is our royal will that
this contest be not fought upon the bridge, since it is very clear
that it must end in one or both going over into the river, but
that he advance to the end of the bridge and fight upon the plain.
You will tell him also that a blunted lance is sufficient for such
an encounter, but that a hand-stroke or two with sword or mace may
well be exchanged, if both riders should keep their saddles.  A
blast upon Raoul's horn shall be the signal to close."

Such ventures as these where an aspirant for fame would wait for
days at a cross-road, a ford, or a bridge, until some worthy
antagonist should ride that way, were very common in the old days
of adventurous knight erranty, and were still familiar to the
minds of all men because the stories of the romancers and the
songs of the trouveres were full of such incidents.  Their actual
occurrence however had become rare.  There was the more curiosity,
not unmixed with amusement, in the thoughts of the courtiers as
they watched Chandos ride down to the bridge and commented upon
the somewhat singular figure of the challenger.  His build was
strange, and so also was his figure, for the limbs were short for
so tall a man.  His head also was sunk forward as if he were lost
in thought or overcome with deep dejection.

"This is surely the Cavalier of the Heavy Heart," said Manny.
"What trouble has he, that he should hang his head?"

"Perchance he hath a weak neck," said the King.

"At least he hath no weak voice," the Prince remarked, as Nigel's
answer to Chandos came to their ears.  "By our lady, he booms like
a bittern."

As Chandos rode back again to the King, Nigel exchanged the old
ash spear which had been his father's for one of the blunted
tournament lances which he took from the hands of a stout archer
in attendance.  He then rode down to the end of the bridge where a
hundred-yard stretch of greensward lay in front of him.  At the
same moment the Squire of Sir Walter Manny, who had been hastily
armed by his comrades, spurred forward and took up his position.

The King raised his hand; there was a clang from the falconer's
horn, and the two riders, with a thrust of their heels and a shake
of their bridles, dashed furiously at each other.  In the center
the green strip of marshy meadowland, with the water squirting
from the galloping hoofs, and the two crouching men, gleaming
bright in the evening sun, on one side the half circle of
motionless horsemen, some in steel, some in velvet, silent and
attentive, dogs, hawks, and horses all turned to stone; on the
other the old peaked bridge, the blue lazy river, the group of
openmouthed rustics, and the dark old manor-house with one grim
face which peered from the upper window.

A good man was John Widdicombe, but he had met a better that day.
Before that yellow whirlwind of a horse and that rider who was
welded and riveted to his saddle his knees could not hold their
grip.  Nigel and Pommers were one flying missile, with all their
weight and strength and energy centered on the steady end of the
lance.  Had Widdicombe been struck by a thunderbolt he could not
have flown faster or farther from his saddle.  Two full
somersaults did he make, his plates clanging like cymbals, ere he
lay prone upon his back.

For a moment the King looked grave at that prodigious fall.  Then
smiling once more as Widdicombe staggered to his feet, he clapped
his hands loudly in applause.  "A fair course and fairly run!" he
cried.  "The five scarlet roses bear themselves in peace even as I
have seen them in war.  How now, my good Walter?  Have you another
Squire or will you clear a path for us yourself?"

Manny's choleric face had turned darker as he observed the
mischance of his representative.  He beckoned now to a tall
knight, whose gaunt and savage face looked out from his open
bassinet as an eagle might from a cage of steel.

"Sir Hubert," said he, "I bear in mind the day when you overbore
the Frenchman at Caen.  Will you not be our champion now?"

"When I fought the Frenchman, Walter, it was with naked weapons,"
said the knight sternly.  "I am a soldier and I love a soldier's
work, but I care not for these tiltyard tricks which were invented
for nothing but to tickle the fancies of foolish women."

"Oh, most ungallant speech!" cried the King.  "Had my good-consort
heard you she would have arraigned you to appear at a Court of
Love with a jury of virgins to answer for your sins.  But I pray
you to take a tilting spear, good Sir Hubert!"

"I had as soon take a peacock's feather, my fair lord; but I will
do it, if you ask me.  Here, page, hand me one of those sticks,
and let me see what I can do."

But Sir Hubert de Burgh was not destined to test either his skill
or his luck.  The great bay horse which he rode was as unused to
this warlike play as was its master, and had none of its master's
stoutness of heart; so that when it saw the leveled lance, the
gleaming figure and the frenzied yellow horse rushing down upon
it, it swerved, turned and galloped furiously down the river-bank.
Amid roars of laughter from the rustics on the one side and from
the courtiers on the other, Sir Hubert was seen, tugging vainly at
his bridle, and bounding onward, clearing gorse-bushes and
heather-clumps, until he was but a shimmering, quivering gleam
upon the dark hillside.  Nigel, who had pulled Pommers on to his
very haunches at the instant that his opponent turned, saluted
with his lance and trotted back to the bridge-head, where he
awaited his next assailant.

"The ladies would say that a judgment hath fallen upon our good
Sir Hubert for his impious words," said the King.

"Let us hope that his charger may be broken in ere they venture to
ride out between two armies," remarked the Prince.  "They might
mistake the hardness of his horse's mouth for a softness of the
rider's heart.  See where he rides, still clearing every bush upon
his path."

"By the rood!" said the King, "if the bold Hubert has not
increased his repute as a jouster he has gained great honor as a
horseman.  But the bridge is still closed, Walter.  How say you
now?  Is this young Squire never to be unhorsed, or is your King
himself to lay lance in rest ere his way can be cleared?  By the
head of Saint Thomas!  I am in the very mood to run a course with
this gentle youth."

"Nay, nay, sire, too much honor hath already been done him!" said
Manny, looking angrily at the motionless horseman.  "That this
untried boy should be able to say that in one evening he has
unhorsed my Squire, and seen the back of one of the bravest
knights in England is surely enough to turn his foolish head.
Fetch me a spear, Robert!  I will see what I can make of him."

The famous knight took the spear when it was brought to him as a
master-workman takes a tool.  He balanced it, shook it once or
twice in the air, ran his eyes down it for a flaw in the wood, and
then finally having made sure of its poise and weight laid it
carefully in rest under his arm.  Then gathering up his bridle so
as to have his horse under perfect command, and covering himself
with the shield, which was slung round his neck, he rode out to do
battle.

Now, Nigel, young and inexperienced, all Nature's aid will not
help you against the mixed craft and strength of such a warrior.
The day will come when neither Manny nor even Chandos could sweep
you from your saddle; but now, even had you some less cumbrous
armor, your chance were small.  Your downfall is near; but as you
see the famous black chevrons on a golden ground your gallant
heart which never knew fear is only filled with joy and amazement
at the honor done you.  Your downfall is near, and yet in your
wildest dreams you would never guess how strange your downfall is
to be.

Again with a dull thunder of hoofs the horses gallop over the soft
water-meadow.  Again with a clash of metal the two riders meet.
It is Nigel now, taken clean in the face of his helmet with the
blunted spear, who flies backward off his horse and falls clanging
on the grass.

But good heavens! what is this?  Manny has thrown up his hands in
horror and the lance has dropped from his nerveless fingers.  From
all sides, with cries of dismay, with oaths and shouts and
ejaculations to the saints, the horsemen ride wildly in.  Was ever
so dreadful, so sudden, so complete, an end to a gentle passage at
arms?  Surely their eyes must be at fault?  Some wizard's trick
has been played upon them to deceive their senses.  But no, it was
only too clear.  There on the greensward lay the trunk of the
stricken cavalier, and there, a good dozen yards beyond, lay his
helmeted head.

"By the Virgin!" cried Manny wildly, as he jumped from his horse,
"I would give my last gold piece that the work of this evening
should be undone!  How came it?  What does it mean?  Hither, my
Lord Bishop, for surely it smacks of witchcraft and the Devil."

With a white face the Bishop had sprung down beside the prostrate
body, pushing through the knot of horrified knights and squires.

"I fear that the last offices of the Holy Church come too late,"
said he in a quivering voice.  "Most unfortunate young man!  How
sudden an end!  In medio vitae, as the Holy Book has it - one
moment in the pride of his youth, the next his head torn from his
body.  Now God and his saints have mercy upon me and guard me from
evil!"

The last prayer was shot out of the Bishop with an energy and
earnestness unusual in his orisons.  It was caused by the sudden
outcry of one of the Squires who, having lifted the helmet from
the ground, cast it down again with a scream of horror.

"It is empty!" he cried.  "It weighs as light as a feather."

"'Fore God, it is true!" cried Manny, laying his hand on it.
"There is no one in it.  With what have I fought, father Bishop?
Is it of this world or of the next?"

The Bishop had clambered on his horse the better to consider the
point.  "If the foul fiend is abroad," said he, "my place is over
yonder by the King's side.  Certes that sulphur-colored horse hath
a very devilish look.  I could have sworn that I saw both smoke
and flame from its nostrils.  The beast is fit to bear a suit of
armor which rides and fights and yet hath no man within it."

"Nay, not too fast, father Bishop," said one of the knights.  "It
may be all that you say and yet come from a human workshop.  When
I made a campaign in South Germany I have seen at Nuremberg a
cunning figure, devised by an armorer, which could both ride and
wield a sword.  If this be such a one - "

"I thank you all for your very gentle courtesy," said a booming
voice from the figure upon the ground.

At the words even the valiant Manny sprang into his saddle.  Some
rode madly away from the horrid trunk.  A few of the boldest
lingered.

"Most of all," said the voice, "would I thank the most noble
knight, Sir Walter Manny, that he should deign to lay aside his
greatness and condescend to do a deed of arms upon so humble a
Squire."

"'Fore God!" said Manny, " if this be the Devil, then the Devil
hath a very courtly tongue.  I will have him out of his armor, if
he blast me!"

So saying he sprang once more from his horse and plunging his hand
down the slit in the collapsed gorget he closed it tightly upon a
fistful of Nigel's yellow curls.  The groan that came forth was
enough to convince him that it was indeed a man who lurked within.
At the same time his eyes fell upon the hole in the mail corselet
which had served the Squire as a vizor, and he burst into
deep-chested mirth.  The King, the Prince and Chandos, who had
watched the scene from a distance, too much amused by it to
explain or interfere, rode up weary with laughter, now that all
was discovered.

"Let him out!" said the King, with his hand to his side.  "I pray
you to unlace him and let him out!  I have shared in many a
spear-running, but never have I been nearer falling from my horse
than as I watched this one.  I feared the fall had struck him
senseless, since he lay so still."

Nigel had indeed lain with all the breath shaken from his body,
and as he was unaware that his helmet had been carried off, he had
not understood either the alarm or the amusement that he had
caused.  Now freed from the great hauberk in which he had been
shut like a pea in a pod, he stood blinking in the light, blushing
deeply with shame that the shifts to which his poverty had reduced
him should be exposed to all these laughing courtiers.  It was the
King who brought him comfort.

"You have shown that you can use your father's weapons," said he,
" and you have proved also that you are the worthy bearer of his
name and his arms, for you have within you that spirit for which
he was famous.  But I wot that neither he nor you would suffer a
train of hungry men to starve before your door; so lead on, I pray
you, and if the meat be as good as this grace before it, then it
will be a feast indeed."




X.  HOW THE KING GREETED HIS SENESCHAL OF CALAIS


It would have fared ill with the good name of Tilford Manor house
and with the housekeeping of the aged Dame Ermyntrude had the
King's whole retinue, with his outer and inner marshal, his
justiciar, his chamberlain and his guard, all gathered under the
one roof.  But by the foresight and the gentle management of
Chandos this calamity was avoided, so that some were quartered at
the great Abbey and others passed on to enjoy the hospitality of
Sir Roger FitzAlan at Farnham Castle.  Only the King himself, the
Prince, Manny, Chandos, Sir Hubert de Burgh, the Bishop and two or
three more remained behind as the guests of the Lorings.

But small as was the party and humble the surroundings, the King
in no way relaxed that love of ceremony, of elaborate form and of
brilliant coloring which was one of his characteristics.  The
sumpter-mules were unpacked, squires ran hither and thither, baths
smoked in the bed-chambers, silks and satins were unfolded, gold
chains gleamed and clinked, so that when at last, to the long
blast of two court trumpeters, the company took their seats at the
board, it was the brightest, fairest scene which those old black
rafters had ever spanned.

The great influx of foreign knights who had come in their splendor
from all parts of Christendom to take part in the opening of the
Round Tower of Windsor six years before, and to try their luck and
their skill at the tournament connected with it, had deeply
modified the English fashions of dress.  The old tunic, over-tunic
and cyclas were too sad and simple for the new fashions, so now
strange and brilliant cote-hardies, pourpoints, courtepies,
paltocks, hanselines and many other wondrous garments,
parti-colored or diapered, with looped, embroidered or escalloped
edges, flamed and glittered round the King.  He himself, in black
velvet and gold, formed a dark rich center to the finery around
him.  On his right sat the Prince, on his left the Bishop, while
Dame Ermyntrude marshaled the forces of the household outside,
alert and watchful, pouring in her dishes and her flagons at the
right moment, rallying her tired servants, encouraging the van,
hurrying the rear, hastening up her reserves, the tapping of her
oak stick heard everywhere the pressure was the greatest.

Behind the King, clad in his best, but looking drab and sorry amid
the brilliant costumes round him, Nigel himself, regardless of an
aching body and a twisted knee, waited upon his royal guests, who
threw many a merry jest at him over their shoulders as they still
chuckled at the adventure of the bridge.

"By the rood!" said King Edward, leaning back, with a chicken bone
held daintily between the courtesy fingers of his left hand, "the
play is too good for this country stage.  You must to Windsor with
me, Nigel, and bring with you this great suit of harness in which
you lurk.  There you shall hold the lists with your eyes in your
midriff, and unless some one cleave you to the waist I see not how
any harm can befall you.  Never have I seen so small a nut in so
great a shell."

The Prince, looking back with laughing eyes, saw by Nigel's
flushed and embarrassed face that his poverty hung heavily upon
him.  " Nay," said he kindly, "such a workman is surely worthy of
better tools."

"And it is for his master to see that he has them," added the
King.  "The court armorer will look to it that the next time your
helmet is carried away, Nigel, your head shall be inside it."

Nigel, red to the roots of his flaxen hair, stammered out some
words of thanks.

John Chandos, however, had a fresh suggestion, and he cocked a
roguish eye as he made it: "Surely, my liege, your bounty is
little needed in this case.  It is the ancient law of arms that if
two cavaliers start to joust, and one either by maladdress or
misadventure fail to meet the shock, then his arms become the
property of him who still holds the lists.  This being so,
methinks, Sir Hubert de Burgh, that the fine hauberk of Milan and
the helmet of Bordeaux steel in which you rode to Tilford should
remain with our young host as some small remembrance of your
visit."

The suggestion raised a general chorus of approval and laughter,
in which all joined, save only Sir Hubert himself, who, flushed
with anger, fixed his baleful eyes upon Chandos' mischievous and
smiling face.

"I said that I did not play that foolish game, and I know nothing
of its laws," said he; "but you know well, John, that if you would
have a bout with sharpened spear or sword, where two ride to the
ground, and only one away from it, you have not far to go to find
it."

"Nay, nay, would you ride to the ground?  Surely you had best
walk, Hubert," said Chandos.  "On your feet I know well that I
should not see your back as we have seen it to-day.  Say what you
will, your horse has played you false, and I claim your suit of
harness for Nigel Loring."

"Your tongue is overlong, John, and I am weary of its endless
clack!" said Sir Hubert, his yellow mustache bristling from a
scarlet face.  "If you claim my harness, do you yourself come and
take it.  If there is a moon in the sky you may try this very
night when the board is cleared."

"Nay, fair sirs," cried the King, smiling from one to the other,
"this matter must be followed no further.  Do you fill a bumper of
Gascony, John, and you also, Hubert.  Now pledge each other, I
pray you, as good and loyal comrades who would scorn to fight save
in your King's quarrel.  We can spare neither of you while there
is so much work for brave hearts over the sea.  As to this matter
of the harness, John Chandos speaks truly where it concerns a
joust in the lists, but we hold that such a law is scarce binding
in this, which was but a wayside passage and a gentle trial of
arms.  On the other hand, in the case of your Squire, Master
Manny, there can be no doubt that his suit is forfeit."

"It is a grievous hearing for him, my liege," said Walter Manny;
"for he is a poor man and hath been at sore pains to fit himself
for the wars.  Yet what you say shall be done, fair sire.  So, if
you will come to me in the morning, Squire Loring, John
Widdicombe's suit will be handed over to you."

"Then with the King's leave, I will hand it back to him," said
Nigel, troubled and stammering; "for indeed I had rather never
ride to the wars than take from a brave man his only suit of
plate."

"There spoke your father's spirit!" cried the King.  "By the rood!
Nigel, I like you full well.  Let the matter bide in my hands.
But I marvel much that Sir Aymery the Lombard hath not come to us
yet from Windsor."

>From the moment of his arrival at Tilford, again and again King
Edward had asked most eagerly whether Sir Aymery had come, and
whether there was any news of him, so that the courtiers glanced
at each other in wonder.  For Aymery was known to all of them as a
famous mercenary of Italy, lately appointed Governor of Calais,
and this sudden and urgent summons from the King might well mean
some renewal of the war with France, which was the dearest wish of
every soldier.  Twice the King had stopped his meal and sat with
sidelong head; his wine-cup in his hand, listening attentively
when some sound like the clatter of hoofs was heard from outside;
but the third time there could be no mistake.  The tramp and
jingle of the horses broke loud upon the ear, and ended in hoarse
voices calling out of the darkness, which were answered by the
archers posted as sentries without the door.

"Some traveler has indeed arrived, my liege," said Nigel.  "What
is your royal will?"

"It can be but Aymery," the King answered, "for it was only to him
that I left the message that he should follow me hither.  Bid him
come in, I pray you, and make him very welcome at your board."

Nigel cast open the door, plucking a torch from its bracket as he
did so.  Half a dozen men-at-arms sat on their horses outside, but
one had dismounted, a short, squat, swarthy man with a rat face
and quick, restless brown eyes which peered eagerly past Nigel
into the red glare of the well-lit hall.

"I am Sir Aymery of Pavia," he whispered.  "For God's sake, tell
me! is the King within?"

"He is at table, fair sir, and he bids you to enter."

"One moment, young man, one moment, and a secret word in your ear.
Wot you why it is that the King has sent for me?"

Nigel read terror in the dark cunning eyes which glanced in
sidelong fashion into his.  "Nay, I know not."

"I would I knew - I would I was sure ere I sought his presence."

"You have but to cross the threshold, fair sir, and doubtless you
will learn from the King's own lips."

Sir Aymery seemed to gather himself as one who braces for a spring
into ice-cold water.  Then he crossed with a quick stride from the
darkness into the light.  The King stood up and held out his hand
with a smile upon his long handsome face, and yet it seemed to the
Italian that it was the lips which smiled but not the eyes.

"Welcome!" cried Edward.  "Welcome to our worthy and faithful
Seneschal of Calais!  Come, sit here before me at the board, for I
have sent for you that I may hear your news from over the sea, and
thank you for the care that you have taken of that which is as
dear to me as wife or child.  Set a place for Sir Aymery there,
and give him food and drink, for he has ridden fast and far in our
service to-day."

Throughout the long feast which the skill of the Lady Ermyntrude
had arranged, Edward chatted lightly with the Italian as well as
with the barons near him.  Finally, when the last dish was removed
and the gravy-soaked rounds of coarse bread which served as plates
had been cast to the dogs, the wine-flagons were passed round; and
old Weathercote the minstrel entered timidly with his harp in the
hope that he might be allowed to play before the King's majesty.
But Edward had other, sport afoot.

"I pray you, Nigel, to send out the servants, so that we may be
alone.  I would have two men-at-arms at every door lest we be
disturbed in our debate, for it is a matter of privacy.  And now,
Sir Aymery, these noble lords as well as I, your master, would
fain hear from your own lips how all goes forward in France."

The Italian's face was calm; but he looked restlessly from one to
another along the line of his listeners.

"So far as I know, my liege, all is quiet on the French marches,"
said he.

"You have not heard then that they have mustered or gathered to a
head with the intention of breaking the truce and making some
attempt upon our dominions?"

"Nay, sire, I have heard nothing of it."

"You set my mind much at ease, Aymery," said the King; "for if
nothing has come to your ears, then surely it cannot be.  It was
said that the wild Knight de Chargny had come down to St. Omer
with his eyes upon my precious jewel and his mailed hands ready to
grasp it."

"Nay, sire, let him come.  He will find the jewel safe in its
strong box, with a goodly guard over it."

"You are the guard over my jewel, Aymery."

"Yes, sire, I am the guard."

"And you are a faithful guard and one whom I can trust, are you
not?  You would not barter away that which is so dear to me when I
have chosen you out of all my army to hold it for me?"

"Nay, sire, what reasons can there be for such questions?  They
touch my honor very nearly.  You know that I would part with
Calais only when I parted with my soul."

"Then you know nothing of de Chargny's attempt?"

"Nothing sire."

"Liar and villain!" yelled the King, springing to his feet and
dashing his fist upon the table until the glasses rattled again.
"Seize him, archers!  Seize him this instant!  Stand close by
either elbow, lest he do himself a mischief!  Now do you dare to
tell me to my face, you perjured Lombard, that you know nothing of
de Chargny and his plans?"

"As God is my witness I know nothing of him!"  The man's lips were
white, and he spoke in a thin, sighing, reedy voice, his eyes
wincing away from the fell gaze of the angry King.

Edward laughed bitterly, and drew a paper from his breast.  "You
are the judges in this case, you, my fair son, and you, Chandos,
and you, Manny, and you, Sir Hubert, and you also, my Lord Bishop.
By my sovereign power I make you a court that you may deal justice
upon this man, for by God's eyes I will not stir from this room
until I have sifted the matter to the bottom.  And first I would
read you this letter.  It is superscribed to Sir Aymery of Pavia,
nomme Le Lombard, Chateau de Calais.  Is not that your name and
style, you rogue?"

"It is my name, sire; but no such letter has come to me."

"Else had your villainy never been disclosed.  It is signed
`Isidore de Chargny'.  What says my enemy de Chargny to my trusted
servant?  Listen!  `We could not come with the last moon, for we
have not gathered sufficient strength, nor have we been able to
collect the twenty thousand crowns which are your price.  But with
the next turn of the moon in the darkest hour we will come and you
will be paid your money at the small postern gate with the
rowan-bush beside it.'  Well, rogue, what say you now?"

"It is a forgery!" gasped the Italian.

"I pray you that you will let me see it, sire," said Chandos.  "De
Chargny was my prisoner, and so many letters passed ere his ransom
was paid that his script is well-known to me.  Yes, yes, I will
swear that this is indeed his.  If my salvation were at stake I
could swear it."

"If it were indeed written by de Chargny it was to dishonor me,"
cried Sir Aymery.

"Nay, nay!" said the young Prince.  "We all know de Chargny and
have fought against him.  Many faults he has, a boaster and a
brawler, but a braver man and one of greater heart and higher of
enterprise does not ride beneath the lilies of France.  Such a man
would never stoop to write a letter for the sake of putting
dishonor upon one of knightly rank.  I, for one, will never
believe it."

A gruff murmur from the others showed that they were of one mind
with the Prince.  The light of the torches from the walls beat
upon the line of stern faces at the high table.  They had sat like
flint, and the Italian shrank from their inexorable eyes.  He
looked swiftly round, but armed men choked every entrance.  The
shadow of death had fallen athwart his soul.

"This letter," said the King, "was given by de Chargny to one Dom
Beauvais, a priest of St. Omer, to carry into Calais.  The said
priest, smelling a reward, brought it to one who is my faithful
servant, and so it came to me.  Straightway I sent for this man
that he should come to me.  Meanwhile the priest has returned so
that de Chargny may think that his message is indeed delivered."

"I know nothing of it," said the Italian doggedly, licking his dry
lips.

A dark flush mounted to the King's forehead, and his eyes were
gorged with his wrath.  "No more of this, for God's dignity!" he
cried.  "Had we this fellow at the Tower, a few turns of the rack
would tear a confession from his craven soul.  But why should we
need his word for his own guilt?  You have seen, my lords, you
have heard!  How say you, fair son?  Is the man guilty?"

"Sire, he is guilty."

"And you, John?  And you, Walter?  And you, Hubert?  And you, my
Lord Bishop?  You are all of one mind, then.  He is guilty of the
betrayal of his trust.  And the punishment?"

"It can only be death," said the Prince, and each in turn the
others nodded their agreement.

"Aymery of Pavia, you have heard your doom," said Edward, leaning
his chin upon his hand and glooming at the cowering Italian.
"Step forward, you archer at the door, you with the black beard.
Draw your sword!  Nay, you white-faced rogue, I would not dishonor
this roof-tree by your blood.  It is your heels, not your head,
that we want.  Hack off these golden spurs of knighthood with your
sword, archer!  'Twas I who gave them, and I who take them back.
Ha!  they fly across the hall, and with them every bond betwixt
you and the worshipful order whose sign and badge they are!  Now
lead him out on the heath afar from the house where his carrion
can best lie, and hew his scheming head from his body as a warning
to all such traitors!"

The Italian, who had slipped from his chair to his knees, uttered
a cry of despair, as an archer seized him by either shoulder.
Writhing out of their grip, he threw himself upon the floor and
clutched at the King's feet.

"Spare me, my most dread lord, spare me, I beseech you!  In the
name of Christ's passion, I implore your grace and pardon!
Bethink you, my good and dear lord, how many years I have served
under your banners and how many services I have rendered.  Was it
not I who found the ford upon the Seine two days before the great
battle?  Was it not I also who marshaled the attack at the
intaking of Calais?  I have a wife and four children in Italy,
great King; and it was the thought of them which led me to fall
from my duty, for this money would have allowed me to leave the
wars and to see them once again.  Mercy, my liege, mercy, I
implore!"

The English are a rough race, but not a cruel one.  The King sat
with a face of doom; but the others looked askance and fidgeted in
their seats.

"Indeed, my fair liege," said Chandos, "I pray you that you will
abate somewhat of your anger."

Edward shook his head curtly.  "Be silent, John.  It shall be as I
have said."

"I pray you, my dear and honored liege, not to act with overmuch
haste in the matter," said Manny.  "Bind him and hold him until
the morning, for other counsels may prevail."

"Nay, I have spoken.  Lead him out!"

But the trembling man clung to the King's knees in such a fashion
that the archers could not disengage his convulsive grip.  "Listen
to me a moment, I implore you!  Give me but one minute to plead
with you, and then do what you will."

The King leaned back in his chair.  "Speak and have done," said
he.

"You must spare me, my noble liege.  For your own sake I say that
you must spare me, for I can set you in the way of such a knightly
adventure as will gladden your heart.  Bethink you, sire, that
this de Chargny and his comrades know nothing of their plans
having gone awry.  If I do but send them a message they will
surely come to the postern gate.  Then, if we have placed our
bushment with skill we shall have such a capture and such a ransom
as will fill your coffers.  He and his comrades should be worth a
good hundred thousand crowns."

Edward spurned the Italian away from him with his foot until he
sprawled among the rushes, but even as he lay there like a wounded
snake his dark eyes never left the King's face.

"You double traitor!  You would sell Calais to de Chargny, and
then in turn you would sell de Chargny to me.  How dare you
suppose that I or any noble knight had such a huckster's soul as
to think only of ransoms where honor is to be won?  Could I or any
true man be so caitiff and so thrall?  You have sealed your own
doom.  Lead him out!"

"One instant, I pray you, my fair and most sweet lord," cried the
Prince.  "Assuage your wrath yet a little while, for this man's
rede deserves perhaps more thought than we have given it.  He has
turned your noble soul sick with his talk of ransoms; but look at
it, I pray you, from the side of honor, and where could we find
such hope of worshipfully winning worship?  I pray you to let me
put my body in this adventure, for it is one from which, if
rightly handled, much advancement is to be gained."

Edward looked with sparkling eyes at the noble youth at his side.
"Never was hound more keen on the track of a stricken hart than
you on the hope of honor, fair son," said he.  "How do you
conceive the matter in your mind?"

"De Chargny and his men will be such as are worth going far to
meet, for he will have the pick of France under his banner that
night.  If we did as this man says and awaited him with the same
number of lances, then I cannot think that there is any spot in
Christendom where one would rather be than in Calais that night."

"By the rood, fair son, you are right!" cried the King, his face
shining with the thought.  "Now which of you, John Chandos or
Walter Manny, will take the thing in charge?"  He looked
mischievously from one to the other like a master who dangles a
bone betwixt two fierce old hounds.  All they had to say was in
their burning, longing eyes.  "Nay, John, you must not take it
amiss; but it is Walter's turn, and he shall have it."

"Shall we not all go under your banner, sire, or that of the
Prince?"

"Nay, it is not fitting that the royal banners of England should
be advanced in so small an adventure.  And yet, if you have space
in your ranks for two more cavaliers, both the Prince and I would
ride with you that night."

The young man stooped and kissed his father's hand.

"Take this man in your charge, Walter, and do with him as you
will.  Guard well lest he betray us once again.  Take him from my
sight, for his breath poisons the room.  And now, Nigel, if that
worthy graybeard of thine would fain twang his harp or sing to us
- but what in God's name would you have?"

He had turned, to find his young host upon his knee and his flaxen
head bent in entreaty.

"What is it, man?  What do you crave?"

"A boon, fair liege!"

"Well, well, am I to have no peace to-night, with a traitor
kneeling to me in front, and a true man on his knees behind?  Out
with it, Nigel.  What would you have?"

"To come with you to Calais."

"By the rood!  your request is fair enough, seeing that our plot
is hatched beneath your very roof.  How say you, Walter?  Will you
take him, armor and all?" asked King Edward.

"Say rather will you take me?" said Chandos.  "We two are rivals
in honor, Walter, but I am very sure that you would not hold me
back."

"Nay, John, I will be proud to have the best lance in Christendom
beneath my banner."

"And I to follow so knightly a leader.  But Nigel Loring is my
Squire, and so he comes with us also."

"Then that is settled," said the King, "and now there is no need
for hurry, since there can be no move until the moon has changed.
So I pray you to pass the flagon once again, and to drink with me
to the good knights of France.  May they be of great heart and
high of enterprise when we all meet once more within the castle
wall of Calais!"




XI.  IN THE HALL OF THE KNIGHT OF DUPLIN


The King had come and had gone.  Tilford Manor house stood once
more dark and silent, but joy and contentment reigned within its
walls.  In one night every trouble had fallen away like some dark
curtain which had shut out the sun.  A princely sum of money had
come from the King's treasurer, given in such fashion that there
could be no refusal.  With a bag of gold pieces at his saddle-bow
Nigel rode once more into Guildford, and not a beggar on the way
who had not cause to bless his name.

There he had gone first to the goldsmith and had bought back cup
and salver and bracelet, mourning with the merchant over the evil
chance that gold and gold-work had for certain reasons which only
those in the trade could fully understand gone up in value during
the last week, so that already fifty gold pieces had to be paid
more than the price which Nigel had received.  In vain the
faithful Aylward fretted and fumed and muttered a prayer that the
day would come when he might feather a shaft in the merchant's
portly paunch.  The money had to be paid.

Thence Nigel hurried to Wat the armorer's and there he bought that
very suit for which he had yearned so short a time before.  Then
and there he tried it on in the booth, Wat and his boy walking
round him with spanner and wrench, fixing bolts and twisting
rivets.

"How is that, my fair sir?" cried the armorer as he drew the
bassinet over the head and fastened it to the camail which
extended to the shoulders.  "I swear by Tubal Cain that it fits
you as the shell fits the crab!  A finer suit never came from
Italy or Spain."

Nigel stood in front of a burnished shield which served as a
mirror, and he turned this way and that, preening himself like a
little shining bird.  His smooth breastplate, his wondrous joints
with their deft protection by the disks at knee and elbow and
shoulder, the beautifully flexible gauntlets and sollerets, the
shirt of mail and the close-fitting greave-plates were all things
of joy and of beauty in his eyes.  He sprang about the shop to
show his lightness, and then running out he placed his hand on the
pommel and vaulted into Pommers' saddle, while Wat and his boy
applauded in the doorway.

Then springing off and running into the shop again he clanked down
upon his knees before the image of the Virgin upon the smithy
wall.  There from his heart he prayed that no shadow or stain
should come upon his soul or his honor whilst these arms incased
his body, and that he might be strengthened to use them for noble
and godly ends.  A strange turn this to a religion of peace, and
yet for many a century the sword and the faith had upheld each
other and in a darkened world the best ideal of the soldier had
turned in some dim groping fashion toward the light. "Benedictus
dominus deus meus qui docet manus meas ad Praelium et digitos meos
ad bellum!"  There spoke the soul of the knightly soldier.

So the armor was trussed upon the armorer's mule and went back
with them to Tilford, where Nigel put it on once more for the
pleasure of the Lady Ermyntrude, who clapped her skinny hands and
shed tears of mingled pain and joy - pain that she should lose
him, joy that he should go so bravely to the wars.  As to her own
future, it had been made easy for her, since it was arranged that
a steward should look to the Tilford estate whilst she had at her
disposal a suite of rooms in royal Windsor, where with other
venerable dames of her own age and standing she could spend the
twilight of her days discussing long-forgotten scandals and
whispering sad things about the grandfathers and the grandmothers
of the young courtiers all around them.  There Nigel might leave
her with an easy mind when he turned his face to France.

But there was one more visit to be paid and one more farewell to
be spoken ere Nigel could leave the moorlands where he had dwelled
so long.  That evening he donned his brightest tunic, dark purple
velvet of Genoa, with trimming of miniver, his hat with the
snow-white feather curling round the front, and his belt of
embossed silver round his loins.  Mounted on lordly Pommers, with
his hawk upon wrist and his sword by his side, never did fairer
young gallant or one more modest in mind set forth upon such an
errand.  It was but the old Knight of Duplin to whom he would say
farewell; but the Knight of Duplin had two daughters, Edith and
Mary, and Edith was the fairest maid in all the heather-country.

Sir John Buttesthorn, the Knight of Duplin, was so called because
he had been present at that strange battle, some eighteen years
before, when the full power of Scotland had been for a moment
beaten to the ground by a handful of adventurers and mercenaries,
marching under the banner of no nation, but fighting in their own
private quarrel.  Their exploit fills no pages of history, for it
is to the interest of no nation to record it, and yet the rumor
and fame of the great fight bulked large in those times, for it
was on that day when the flower of Scotland was left dead upon the
field, that the world first understood that a new force had arisen
in war, and that the English archer, with his robust courage and
his skill with the weapon which he had wielded from his boyhood,
was a power with which even the mailed chivalry of Europe had
seriously to reckon.

Sir John after his return from Scotland had become the King's own
head huntsman, famous through all England for his knowledge of
venery, until at last, getting overheavy for his horses, he had
settled in modest comfort into the old house of Cosford upon the
eastern slope of the Hindhead hill.  Here, as his face grew redder
and his beard more white, he spent the evening of his days, amid
hawks and hounds, a flagon of spiced wine ever at his elbow, and
his swollen foot perched upon a stool before him.  There it was
that many an old comrade broke his journey as he passed down the
rude road which led from London to Portsmouth, and thither also
came the young gallants of the country to hear the stout knight's
tales of old wars, or to learn, from him that lore of the forest
and the chase which none could teach so well as he.

But sooth to say, whatever the old knight might think, it was not
merely his old tales and older wine which drew the young men to
Cosford, but rather the fair face of his younger daughter, or the
strong soul and wise counsel of the elder.  Never had two more
different branches sprung from the same trunk.  Both were tall and
of a queenly graceful figure.  But there all resemblance began and
ended.

Edith was yellow as the ripe corn, blue-eyed, winning,
mischievous, with a chattering tongue, a merry laugh, and a smile
which a dozen of young gallants, Nigel of Tilford at their head,
could share equally amongst them.  Like a young kitten she played
with all things that she found in life, and.  some there were who
thought that already the claws could be felt amid the patting of
her velvet touch.

Mary was dark as night, grave-featured, plain-visaged, with steady
brown eyes looking bravely at the world from under a strong black
arch of brows.  None could call her beautiful, and when her fair
sister cast her arm round her and placed her cheek against hers,
as was her habit when company was there, the fairness of the one
and the plainness of the other leaped visibly to the eyes of all,
each the clearer for that hard contrast.  And yet, here and there,
there was one who, looking at her strange, strong face, and at the
passing gleams far down in her dark eyes, felt that this silent
woman with her proud bearing and her queenly grace had in her
something of strength, of reserve and of mystery which was more to
them than all the dainty glitter of her sister.

Such were the ladies of Cosford toward whom Nigel Loring rode that
night with doublet of Genoan velvet and the new white feather in
his cap.

He had ridden over Thursley Ridge past that old stone where in
days gone by at the place of Thor the wild Saxons worshiped their
war-god.  Nigel looked at it with a wary eye and spurred Pommers
onward as he passed it, for still it was said that wild fires
danced round it on the moonless nights, and they who had ears for
such things could hear the scream and sob of those whose lives had
been ripped from them that the fiend might be honored.  Thor's
stone, Thor's jumps, Thor's punch-bowl - the whole country-side
was one grim monument to the God of Battles, though the pious
monks had changed his uncouth name for that of the Devil his
father, so that it was the Devil's jumps and the Devil's
punch-bowl of which they spoke.  Nigel glanced back at the old
gray boulder, and he felt for an instant a shudder pass through
his stout heart.  Was it the chill of the evening air, or was it
that some inner voice had whispered to him of the day when he also
might lie bound on such a rock and have such a blood-stained pagan
crew howling around him.

An instant later the rock and his vague fear and all things else
had passed from his mind, for there, down the yellow sandy path,
the setting sun gleaming on her golden hair, her lithe figure
bending and swaying with every heave of the cantering horse, was
none other than the same fair Edith, whose face had come so often
betwixt him and his sleep.  His blood rushed hot to his face at
the sight, for fearless of all else, his spirit was attracted and
yet daunted by the delicate mystery of woman.  To his pure and
knightly soul not Edith alone, but every woman, sat high and
aloof, enthroned and exalted, with a thousand mystic excellencies
and virtues which raised her far above the rude world of man.
There was joy in contact with them; and yet there was fear, fear
lest his own unworthiness, his untrained tongue or rougher ways
should in some way break rudely upon this delicate and tender
thing.  Such was his thought as the white horse cantered toward
him; but a moment later his vague doubts were set at rest by the
frank voice of the young girl, who waved her whip in merry
greeting.

"Hail and well met, Nigel!" she cried.  "Whither away this
evening?  Sure I am that it is not to see your friends of Cosford,
for when did you ever don so brave a doublet for us?  Come, Nigel,
her name, that I may hate her for ever."

"Nay, Edith," said the young Squire, laughing back at the laughing
girl.  "I was indeed coming to Cosford."

"Then we shall ride back together, for I will go no farther.  How
think you that I am looking?"

Nigel's answer was in his eyes as he glanced at the fair flushed
face, the golden hair, the sparkling eyes and the daintily
graceful figure set off in a scarlet-and-black riding-dress.  "You
are as fair as ever, Edith."

"Oh, cold of speech!  Surely you were bred for the cloisters, and
not for a lady's bower, Nigel.  Had I asked such a question from
young Sir George Brocas or the Squire of Fernhurst, he would have
raved from here to Cosford.  They are both more to my taste than
you are, Nigel."

"It is the worse for me, Edith," said Nigel ruefully.

"Nay, but you must not lose heart."

"Have I not already lost it?" said he.

"That is better," she cried, laughing.  "You can be quick enough
when you choose, Master Malapert.  But you are more fit to speak
of high and weary matters with my sister Mary.  She will have none
of the prattle and courtesy of Sir George, and yet I love them
well.  But tell me, Nigel, why do you come to Cosford tonight?"

"To bid you farewell."

"Me alone?"

"Nay, Edith, you and your sister Mary and the good knight your
father."

"Sir George would have said that he had come for me alone.  Indeed
you are but a poor courtier beside him.  But is it true, Nigel,
that you go to France?"

"Yes, Edith."

"It was so rumored after the King had been to Tilford.  The story
goes that the King goes to France and you in his train.  Is that
true?"

"Yes, Edith, it is true."

"Tell me, then, to what part you go, and when?"

"That, alas!  I may not say."

"Oh, in sooth!"  She tossed her fair head and rode onward in
silence, with compressed lips and angry eyes.

Nigel glanced at her in surprise and dismay.  "Surely, Edith,"
said he at last, "you have overmuch regard for my honor that you
should wish me to break the word that I have given?"

"Your honor belongs to you, and my likings belong to me," said
she.  "You hold fast to the one, and I will do the same by the
other."

They rode in silence through Thursley village.  Then a thought
came to her mind and in an instant her anger was forgotten and she
was hot on a new scent.

"What would you do if I were injured, Nigel?  I have heard my
father say that small as you are there is no man in these parts
could stand against you.  Would you be my champion if I suffered
wrong?"

"Surely I or any man of gentle blood would be the champion of any
woman who had suffered wrong."

"You or any and I or any - what sort of speech is that?  Is it a
compliment, think you, to be mixed with a drove in that fashion?
My question was of you and me.  If I were wronged would you be my
man?"

"Try me and see, Edith!"

"Then I will do so, Nigel.  Either Sir George Brocas or the Squire
of Fernhurst would gladly do what I ask, and yet I am of a mind,
Nigel, to turn to you."

"I pray you to tell me what it is."

" You know Paul de la Fosse of Shalford?"

"You mean the small man with the twisted back?"

"He is no smaller than yourself, Nigel, and as to his back there
are many folk that I know who would be glad to have his face."

"Nay, I am no judge of that, and I spoke out of no discourtesy.
What of the man?"

"He has flouted me, Nigel, and I would have revenge."

"What - on that poor twisted creature?"

"I tell you that he has flouted me!"

"But how?"

"I should have thought that a true cavalier would have flown to my
aid, withouten all these questions.  But I will tell you, since I
needs must.  Know then that he was one of those who came around me
and professed to be my own.  Then, merely because he thought that
there were others who were as dear to me as himself he left me,
and now he pays court to Maude Twynham, the little freckle-faced
hussy in his village."

"But how has this hurt you, since he was no man of thine?"

"He was one of my men, was he not?  And he has made game of me to
his wench.  He has told her things about me.  He has made me
foolish in her eyes.  Yes, yes, I can read it in her saffron face
and in her watery eyes when we meet at the church door on Sundays.
She smiles - yes, smiles at me!  Nigel, go to him!  Do not slay
him, nor even wound him, but lay his face open with thy riding-
whip, and then come back to me and tell me how I can serve you."

Nigel's face was haggard with the strife within, for desire ran
hot in every vein, and yet reason shrank with horror.  "By Saint
Paul!  Edith," he cried, "I see no honor nor advancement of any
sort in this thing which you have asked me to do.  Is it for me to
strike one who is no better than a cripple?  For my manhood I
could not do such a deed, and I pray you, dear lady, that you will
set me some other task."

Her eyes flashed at him in contempt.  "And you are a man-at-arms!"
she cried, laughing in bitter scorn.  "You are afraid of a little
man who can scarce walk.  Yes, yes, say what you will, I shall
ever believe that you have heard of his skill at fence and of his
great spirit, and that your heart has failed you!  You are right,
Nigel.  He is indeed a perilous man.  Had you done what I asked he
would have slain you, and so you have shown your wisdom."

Nigel flushed and winced under the words, but he said no more, for
his mind was fighting hard within him, striving to keep that high
image of woman which seemed for a moment to totter on the edge of
a fall.  Together in silence, side by side, the little man and the
stately woman, the yellow charger and the white jennet, passed up
the sandy winding track with the gorse and the bracken head-high
on either side.  Soon a path branched off through a gateway marked
with the boar-heads of the Buttesthorns, and there was the low
widespread house heavily timbered, loud with the barking of dogs.
The ruddy Knight limped forth with outstretched hand and roaring
voice

"What how, Nigel!  Good welcome and all hail!  I had thought that
you had given over poor friends like us, now that the King had
made so much of you.  The horses, varlets, or my crutch will be
across you!  Hush, Lydiard!  Down, Pelamon!  I can scarce hear my
voice for your yelping.  Mary, a cup of wine for young Squire
Loring!"

She stood framed in the doorway, tall, mystic, silent, with
strange, wistful face and deep soul shining in her dark,
questioning eyes.  Nigel kissed the hand that she held out, and
all his faith in woman and his reverence came back to him as he
looked at her.  Her sister had slipped behind her and her fair
elfish face smiled her forgiveness of Nigel over Mary's shoulder.

The Knight of Duplin leaned his weight upon the young man's arm
and limped his way across the great high-roofed hall to his
capacious oaken chair.  "Come, come, the stool, Edith!" he cried.
"As God is my help, that girl's mind swarms with gallants as a
granary with rats.  Well, Nigel, I hear strange tales of your
spear-running at Tilford and of the visit of the King.  How seemed
he?  And my old friend Chandos - many happy hours in the woodlands
have we had together - and Manny too, he was ever a bold and a
hard rider - what news of them all?"

Nigel told to the old Knight all that had occurred, saying little
of his own success and much of his own failure, yet the eyes of
the dark woman burned the brighter as she sat at her tapestry and
listened.

Sir John followed the story with a running fire of oaths, prayers,
thumps with his great fist and flourishes of his crutch.  "Well,
well, lad, you could scarce expect to hold your saddle against
Manny, and you have carried yourself well.  We are proud of you,
Nigel, for you are our own man, reared in the heather country.
But indeed I take shame that you are not more skilled in the
mystery of the woods, seeing that I have had the teaching of you,
and that no one in broad England is my master at the craft.  I
pray you to fill your cup again whilst I make use of the little
time that is left to us."

And straightway the old Knight began a long and weary lecture upon
the times of grace and when each beast and bird was seasonable,
with many anecdotes, illustrations, warnings and exceptions, drawn
from his own great experience.  He spoke also of the several ranks
and grades of the chase: how the hare, hart and boar must ever
take precedence over the buck, the doe, the fox, the marten and
the roe, even as a knight banneret does over a knight, while these
in turn are of a higher class to the badger, the wildcat or the
otter, who are but the common populace of the world of beasts.  Of
blood-stains also he spoke - how the skilled hunter may see at a
glance if blood be dark and frothy, which means a mortal hurt, or
thin and clear, which means that the arrow has struck a bone.

"By such signs," said he, "you will surely know whether to lay on
the hounds and cast down the blinks which hinder the stricken deer
in its flight.  But above all I pray you, Nigel, to have a care in
the use of the terms of the craft, lest you should make some
blunder at table, so that those who are wiser may have the laugh
of you, and we who love you may be shamed."

"Nay, Sir John," said Nigel.  "I think that after your teaching I
can hold my place with the others."

The old Knight shook his white head doubtfully.  "There is so much
to be learned that there is no one who can be said to know all,"
said he.  "For example, Nigel, it is sooth that for every
collection of beasts of the forest, and for every gathering of
birds of the air, there is their own private name so that none may
be confused with another."

"I know it, fair sir."

"You know it, Nigel, but you do not know each separate name, else
are you a wiser man than I had thought you.  In truth - none can
say that they know all, though I have myself picked off eighty,
and six for a wager at court, and it is said that the chief
huntsman of the Duke of Burgundy has counted over a hundred - but
it is in my mind that he may have found them as he went, for there
was none to say him nay.  Answer me now, lad, how would you say if
you saw ten badgers together in the forest?"

"A cete of badgers, fair sir."

"Good, Nigel - good, by my faith!  And if you walk in Woolmer
Forest and see a swarm of foxes, how would you call it?"

"A skulk of foxes."

"And if they be lions?"

"Nay, fair sir, I am not like to meet several lions in Woolmer
Forest."

"Aye, lad, but there are other forests besides Woolmer, and other
lands besides England, and who can tell how far afield such a
knight errant as Nigel of Tilford may go, when he sees worship to
be won?  We will say that you were in the deserts of Nubia, and
that afterward at the court of the great Sultan you wished to say
that you had seen several lions, which is the first beast of the
chase, being the king of all animals.  How then would you say it?"

Nigel scratched his head.  "Surely, fair sir, I would be content
to say that I had seen a number of lions, if indeed I could say
aught after so wondrous an adventure."

"Nay, Nigel, a huntsman would have said that he had seen a pride
of lions, and so proved that he knew the language of the chase.
Now had it been boars instead of lions?"

"One says a singular of boars."

"And if they be swine?"

"Surely it is a herd of swine."

"Nay, nay, lad, it is indeed sad to see how little you know.  Your
hands, Nigel, were always better than your head.  No man of gentle
birth would speak of a herd of swine; that is the peasant speech.
If you drive them it is a herd.  If you hunt them it is other.
What call you them, then, Edith?"

"Nay, I know not," said the girl listlessly.  A crumpled note
brought in by a varlet was clinched in her right hand and her blue
eyes looked afar into the deep shadows of the roof.

"But you can tell us, Mary?"

"Surely, sweet sir, one talks of a sounder of swine."

The old Knight laughed exultantly.  "Here is a pupil who never
brings me shame!" he cried.  "Be it lore - of chivalry or heraldry
or woodcraft or what you will, I can always turn to Mary.  Many a
man can she put to the blush."

"Myself among them," said Nigel.

"Ah, lad, you are a Solomon to some of them.  Hark ye!  only last
week that jack-fool, the young Lord of Brocas, was here talking of
having seen a covey of pheasants in the wood.  One such speech
would have been the ruin of a young Squire at the court.  How
would you have said it, Nigel?"

"Surely, fair sir, it should be a nye of pheasants."

"Good, Nigel - a nye of pheasants, even as it is a gaggle of geese
or a badling of ducks, a fall of woodcock or a wisp of snipe.  But
a covey of pheasants!  What sort of talk is that?  I made him sit
even where you are sitting, Nigel, and I saw the bottom of two
pots of Rhenish ere I let him up.  Even then I fear that he had no
great profit from his lesson, for he was casting his foolish eyes
at Edith when he should have been turning his ears to her father.
But where is the wench?"

"She hath gone forth, father."

"She ever doth go forth when there is a chance of learning aught
that is useful indoors.  But supper will soon be ready, and there
is a boar's ham fresh from the forest with which I would ask your
help, Nigel, and a side of venison from the King's own chase.  The
tinemen and verderers have not forgotten me yet, and my larder is
ever full.  Blow three moots on the horn, Mary, that the varlets
may set the table, for the growing shadow and my loosening belt
warn me that it is time."




XII.  HOW NIGEL FOUGHT THE TWISTED MAN OF SHALFORD


In the days of which you read all classes, save perhaps the very
poor, fared better in meat and in drink than they have ever done
since.  The country was covered with woodlands - there were
seventy separate forests in England alone, some of them covering
half a shire.  Within these forests the great beasts of the chase
were strictly preserved, but the smaller game, the hares, the
rabbits, the birds, which swarmed round the coverts, found their
way readily into the poor man's pot.  Ale was very cheap, and
cheaper still was the mead which every peasant could make for
himself out of the wild honey in the tree-trunks.  There were many
tea-like drinks also, which were brewed by the poor at no expense:
mallow tea, tansy tea, and others the secret of which has passed.

Amid the richer classes there was rude profusion, great joints
ever on the sideboard, huge pies, beasts of the field and beasts
of the chase, with ale and rough French or Rhenish wines to wash
them down.  But the very rich had attained to a high pitch of
luxury in their food, and cookery was a science in which the
ornamentation of the dish was almost as important as the dressing
of the food.  It was gilded, it was silvered, it was painted, it
was surrounded with flame.  From the boar and the peacock down to
such strange food as the porpoise and the hedgehog, every dish had
its own setting and its own sauce, very strange and very complex,
with flavorings of dates, currants, cloves, vinegar, sugar and
honey, of cinnamon, ground ginger, sandalwood, saffron, brawn and
pines.  It was the Norman tradition to eat in moderation, but to
have a great profusion of the best and of the most delicate from
which to choose.  From them came this complex cookery, so unlike
the rude and often gluttonous simplicity of the old Teutonic
stock.

Sir John Buttesthorn was of that middle class who fared in the old
fashion, and his great oak supper-table groaned beneath the
generous pasties, the mighty joints and the, great flagons.  Below
were the household, above on a raised dais the family table, with
places ever ready for those frequent guests who dropped in from
the high road outside.  Such a one had just come, an old priest,
journeying from the Abbey of Chertsey to the Priory of Saint John
at Midhurst.  He passed often that way, and never without breaking
his journey at the hospitable board of Cosford.

"Welcome again, good Father Athanasius!" cried the burly Knight.
"Come sit here on my right and give me the news of the
country-side, for there is never a scandal but the priests are the
first to know it."

The priest, a kindly, quiet man, glanced at an empty place upon
the farther side of his host.  "Mistress Edith?" said he.

"Aye, aye, where is the hussy?" cried her father impatiently.
"Mary, I beg you to have the horn blown again, that she may know
that the supper is on the table.  What can the little owlet do
abroad at this hour of the night?"

There was trouble in the priest's gentle eyes as he touched the
Knight upon the sleeve.  "I have seen Mistress Edith within this
hour," said he.  "I fear that she will hear no horn that you may
blow, for she must be at Milford ere now."

"At Milford?  What does she there?"

"I pray you, good Sir John, to abate your voice somewhat, for
indeed this matter is for our private discourse, since it touches
the honor of a lady."

"Her honor?" Sir John's ruddy face had turned redder still, as he
stared at the troubled features of the priest.  "Her honor, say
you - the honor of my daughter?  Make good those words, or never
set your foot over the threshold of Cosford again!"

"I trust that I have done no wrong, Sir John, but indeed I must
say what I have seen, else would I be a false friend and an
unworthy priest."

"Haste man, haste!  What in the Devil's name have you seen?"

"Know you a little man, partly misshapen, named Paul de la Fosse?"

"I know him well.  He is a man of noble family and coat-armour,
being the younger brother of Sir Eustace de la Fosse of Shalford.
Time was when I had thought that I might call him son, for there
was never a day that he did not pass with my girls, but I fear
that his crooked back sped him ill in his wooing."

"Alas, Sir John!  It is his mind that is more crooked than his
back.  He is a perilous man with women, for the Devil hath given
him such a tongue and such an eye that he charms them even as the
basilisk.  Marriage may be in their mind, but never in his, so
that I could count a dozen and more whom he has led to their
undoing.  It is his pride and his boast over the whole
countryside."

"Well, well, and what is this to me or mine?"

"Even now, Sir John, as I rode my mule up the road I met this man
speeding toward his home.  A woman rode by his side, and though
her face was hooded I heard her laugh as she passed me.  That
laugh I have heard before, and it was under this very roof, from
the lips of Mistress Edith."

The Knight's knife dropped from his hand.  But the debate had been
such that neither Mary nor Nigel could fail to have heard it.  Mid
the rough laughter and clatter of voices from below the little
group at the high table had a privacy of their own.

"Fear not, father," said the girl - "indeed, the good Father
Athanasius hath fallen into error, and Edith will be with us anon.
I have heard her speak of this man many times of late, and always
with bitter words."

"It is true, sir," cried Nigel eagerly.  "It was only this very
evening as we rode over Thursley Moor that Mistress Edith told me
that she counted him not a fly, and that she would be glad if he
were beaten for his evil deeds."

But the wise priest shook his silvery locks.  "Nay, there is ever
danger when a woman speaks like that.  Hot hate is twin brother to
hot love.  Why should she speak so if there were not some bond
between them?"

"And yet," said Nigel, "what can have changed her thoughts m three
short hours?  She was here in the hall with us since I came.  By
Saint Paul, I will not believe it!"

Mary's face darkened.  "I call to mind," said she, "that a note
was brought her by Hannekin the stable varlet when you were
talking to us, fair sir, of the terms of the chase.  She read it
and went forth."

Sir John sprang to his feet, but sank into his chair again with a
groan.  "Would that I were dead," he cried, "ere I saw dishonor
come upon my house, and am so tied with this accursed foot that I
can neither examine if it be true, nor yet avenge it!  If my son
Oliver were here, then all would be well.  Send me this stable
varlet that I may question him."

"I pray you, fair and honored sir," said Nigel, "that you will
take me for your son this night, that I may handle this matter in
the way which seems best.  On jeopardy of my honor I will do all
that a man may."

"Nigel, I thank you.  There is no man in Christendom to whom I
would sooner turn."

"But I would lean your mind in one matter, fair sir.  This man,
Paul de la Fosse, owns broad acres, as I understand, and comes of
noble blood.  There is no reason if things be as we fear that he
should not marry your daughter?"

"Nay, she could not wish for better."

"It is well.  And first I would question this Hannekin; but it
shall be done in such a fashion that none shall know, for indeed
it is not a matter for the gossip of servants.  But if you will
show me the man, Mistress Mary, I will take him out to tend my own
horse, and so I shall learn all that he has to tell."

Nigel was absent for some time, and when he returned the shadow
upon his face brought little hope to the anxious hearts at the
high table.  "I have locked him in the stable loft, lest he talk
too much," said he, "for my questions must have shown him whence
the wind blew.  It was indeed from this man that the note came,
and he had brought with him a spare horse for the lady."

The old Knight groaned, and his face sank upon his hands.

"Nay, father they watch you!" whispered Mary.  "For the honor of
our house let us keep a bold face to all."  Then, raising her
young clear voice, so that it sounded through the room: "If you
ride eastward, Nigel, I would fain go with you, that my sister may
not come back alone."

"We will ride together, Mary," said Nigel, rising; then in a lower
voice: "But we cannot go alone, and if we take a servant all is
known.  I pray you to stay at home and leave the matter with me."

"Nay, Nigel, she may sorely need a woman's aid, and what woman
should it be save her own sister?  I can take my tire-woman with
us."

"Nay, I shall ride with you myself if your impatience can keep
within the powers of my mule," said the old priest.

"But it is not your road, father?"

"The only road of a true priest is that which leads to the good of
others.  Come, my children, and we will go together."

And so it was that stout Sir John Buttesthorn, the aged Knight of
Duplin, was left alone at his own high table, pretending to eat,
pretending to drink, fidgeting in his seat, trying hard to seem
unconcerned with his mind and body in a fever, while below him his
varlets and handmaids laughed and jested, clattering their cups
and clearing their trenchers, all unconscious of the dark shadow
which threw its gloom over the lonely man upon the dais above.

Meantime the Lady Mary upon the white jennet which her sister had
ridden on the same evening, Nigel on his war-horse, and the priest
on the mule, clattered down the rude winding road which led to
London.  The country on either side was a wilderness of heather
moors and of morasses from which came the strange crying of
night-fowl.  A half-moon shone in the sky between the rifts of
hurrying clouds.  The lady rode in silence, absorbed in the
thought of the task before them, the danger and the shame.

Nigel chatted in a low tone with the priest.  From him he learned
more of the evil name of this man whom they followed.  His house
at Shalford was a den of profligacy and vice.  No woman could
cross that threshold and depart unstained.  In some strange
fashion, inexplicable and yet common, the man, with all his evil
soul and his twisted body, had yet some strange fascination for
women, some mastery over them which compelled them to his will.
Again and again he had brought ruin to a household, again and
again his adroit tongue and his cunning wit had in some fashion
saved him from the punishment of his deeds.  His family was great
in the county, and his kinsmen held favor with the King, so that
his neighbors feared to push things too far against him.  Such was
the man, malignant and ravenous, who had stooped like some foul
night-hawk and borne away to his evil nest the golden beauty of
Cosford.  Nigel said little as he listened, but he raised his
hunting-dagger to his tightened lips, and thrice he kissed the
cross of its handle.

They had passed over the moors and through the village of Milford
and the little township of Godalming, until their path turned
southward over the Pease marsh and crossed the meadows of
Shalford.  There on the dark hillside glowed the red points of
light which marked the windows of the house which they sought.  A
somber arched avenue of oak-trees led up to it, and then they were
in the moon-silvered clearing in front.

>From the shadow of the arched door there sprang two rough
serving-men, bearded and gruff, great cudgels in their hands, to
ask them who they were and what their errand.  The Lady Mary had
slipped from her horse and was advancing to the door, but they
rudely barred her way.

"Nay, nay, our master needs no more!" cried one, with a hoarse
laugh.  "Stand back, mistress, whoever you be!  The house is shut,
and our lord sees no guests to-night."

"Fellow," said Nigel, speaking low and clear, "stand back from us!
Our errand is with your master."

"Bethink you, my children," cried the old priest, "would it not be
best perchance, that I go in to him and see whether the voice of
the Church may not soften this hard heart?  I fear bloodshed if
you enter."

"Nay, father, I pray you to stay here for the nonce," said Nigel.
"And you, Mary, do you bide with the good priest, for we know not
what may be within."

Again he turned to the door, and again the two men barred his
passage.

"Stand back, I say, back for your lives!" said Nigel.  "By Saint
Paul!  I should think it shame to soil my sword with such as you,
but my soul is set, and no man shall bar my path this night."

The men shrank from the deadly menace of that gentle voice.

"Hold!" said one of them, peering through the darkness, "is it not
Squire Loring of Tilford?  "

"That is indeed my name."

"Had you spoken it I for one would not have stopped your way.  Put
down your staff, Wat, for this is no stranger, but the Squire of
Tilford."

"As well for him," grumbled the other, lowering his cudgel with an
inward prayer of thanksgiving.  "Had it been otherwise I should
have had blood upon my soul tonight.  But our master said nothing
of neighbors when he ordered us to hold the door.  I will enter
and ask him what is his will."

But already Nigel was past them and had pushed open the outer
door.  Swift as he was, the Lady Mary was at his very heels, and
the two passed together into the hall beyond.

It was a great room, draped and curtained with black shadows, with
one vivid circle of light in the center, where two oil lamps shone
upon a small table.  A meal was laid upon the table, but only two
were seated at it, and there were no servants in the room.  At the
near end was Edith, her golden hair loose and streaming down over
the scarlet and black of her riding-dress.

At the farther end the light beat strongly upon the harsh face and
the high-drawn misshapen shoulders of the lord of the house.  A
tangle of black hair surmounted a high rounded forehead, the
forehead of a thinker, with two deep-set cold gray eyes twinkling
sharply from under tufted brows.  His nose was curved and sharp,
like the beak of some cruel bird, but below the whole of his
clean-shaven powerful face was marred by the loose slabbing mouth
and the round folds of the heavy chin.  His knife in one hand and
a half-gnawed bone in the other, he looked fiercely up, like some
beast disturbed in his den, as the two intruders broke in upon his
hall.

Nigel stopped midway between the door and the table.  His eyes and
those of Paul de la Fosse were riveted upon each other.  But Mary,
with her woman's soul flooded over with love and pity, had rushed
forward and cast her arms round her younger sister.  Edith had
sprung up from her chair, and with averted face tried to push the
other away from her.

"Edith, Edith!  By the Virgin, I implore you to come back with us,
and to leave this wicked man!" cried Mary.  "Dear sister, you
would not break our father's heart, nor bring his gray head in
dishonor to the grave!  Come back Edith, come back and all is
well."

But Edith pushed her away, and her fair cheeks were flushed with
her anger.  "What right have you over me, Mary, you who are but
two years older, that you should follow me over the country-side
as though I were a runagate villain and you my mistress?  Do you
yourself go back, and leave me to do that which seems best in my
own eyes."

But Mary still held her in her arms, and still strove to soften
the hard and angry heart.  "Our mother is dead, Edith.  I thank
God that she died ere she saw you under this roof!  But I stand
for her, as I have done all my life, since I am indeed your elder.
It is with her voice that I beg and pray you that you will not
trust this man further, and that you will come back ere it be too
late!"

Edith writhed from her grasp, and stood flushed and defiant, with
gleaming, angry eyes fixed upon her sister.  "You may speak evil
of him now," said she, "but there was a time when Paul de la Fosse
came to Cosford, and who so gentle and soft-spoken to him then as
wise, grave, sister Mary?  But he has learned to love another; so
now he is the wicked man, and it is shame to be seen under his
roof!  From what I see of my good pious sister and her cavalier it
is sin for another to ride at night with a man at your side, but
it comes easy enough to you.  Look at your own eye, good sister,
ere you would take the speck from that of another."

Mary stood irresolute and greatly troubled, holding down her pride
and her anger, but uncertain how best to deal with this strong
wayward spirit.

"It is not a time for bitter words, dear sister," said she, and
again she laid her hand upon her sister's sleeve.  "All that you
say may be true.  There was indeed a time when this man was friend
to us both, and I know even as you do the power which he may have
to win a woman's heart.  But I know him now, and you do not.  I
know the evil that he has wrought, the dishonor that he has
brought, the perjury that lies upon his soul, the confidence
betrayed, the promise unfulfilled - all this I know.  Am I to see
my own sister caught in the same well-used trap?  Has it shut upon
you, child?  Am I indeed already too late?  For God's sake, tell
me, Edith, that it is not so?"

Edith plucked her sleeve from her sister and made two swift steps
to the head of the table.  Paul de la Fosse still sat silent with
his eyes upon Nigel.  Edith laid her hand upon his shoulder: "This
is the man I love, and the only man that I have ever loved.  This
is my husband," said she.

At the word Mary gave a cry of joy.

"And is it so?" she cried.  "Nay, then all is in honor, and God
will see to the rest.  If you are man and wife before the altar,
then indeed why should I, or any other, stand between you?  Tell
me that it is indeed so, and I return this moment to make your
father a happy man."

Edith pouted like a naughty child.  "We are man and wife in the
eyes of God.  Soon also we shall be wedded before all the world.
We do but wait until next Monday when Paul's brother, who is a
priest at St. Albans, will come to wed us.  Already a messenger
has sped for him, and he will come, will he not, dear love?"

"He will come," said the master of Shalford, still with his eyes
fixed upon the silent Nigel.

"It is a lie; he will not come," said a voice from the door.

It was the old priest, who had followed the others as far as the
threshold.

"He will not come," he repeated as he advanced into the room.
"Daughter, my daughter, hearken to the words of one who is indeed
old enough to be your earthly father.  This lie has served before.
He has ruined others before you with it.  The man has no brother
at Saint Albans.  I know his brothers well, and there is no priest
among them.  Before Monday, when it is all too late, you will have
found the truth as others have done before you.  Trust him not,
but come with us!"

Paul de la Fosse looked up at her with a quick smile and patted
the hand upon his shoulder.

"Do you speak to them, Edith," said he.

Her eyes flashed with scorn as she surveyed them each in turn, the
woman, the youth and the priest.

"I have but one word to say to them," said she.  "It is that they
go hence and trouble us no more.  Am I not a free woman?  Have I
not said that this is the only man I ever loved?  I have loved him
long.  He did not know it, and in despair he turned to another.
Now he knows all and never again can doubt come between us.
Therefore I will stay here at Shalford and come to Cosford no more
save upon the arm of my husband.  Am I so weak that I would
believe the tales you tell against him?  Is it hard for a jealous
woman and a wandering priest to agree upon a lie?  No, no, Mary,
you can go hence and take your cavalier and your priest with you,
for here I stay, true to my love and safe in my trust upon his
honor!"

"Well spoken, on my faith, my golden bird!" said the little master
of Shalford.  "Let me add my own word to that which has been said.
You would not grant me any virtue in your unkindly speech, good
Lady Mary, and yet you must needs confess that at least I have
good store of patience, since I have not set my dogs upon your
friends who have come between me and my ease.  But even to the
most virtuous there comes at last a time when poor human frailty
may prevail, and so I pray you to remove both yourself, your
priest and your valiant knight errant, lest perhaps there be more
haste and less dignity when at last you do take your leave.  Sit
down, my fair love, and let us turn once more to our supper." He
motioned her to her chair, and he filled her wine-cup as well as
his own.

Nigel had said no word since he had entered the room, but his look
had never lost its set purpose, nor had his brooding eyes ever
wandered from the sneering face of the deformed master of
Shalford.  Now he turned with swift decision to Mary and to the
priest.

"That is over," said he in a low voice.  "You have done all that
you could, and now it is for me to play my part as well as I am
able.  I pray you, Mary, and you, good father, that you will await
me outside."

"Nay, Nigel, if there is danger - "

"It is easier for me, Mary, if you are not there.  I pray you to
go.  I can speak to this man more at my ease."

She looked at him with questioning eyes and then obeyed.

Nigel plucked at the priest's gown.

"I pray you, father, have you your book of offices with you?"

"Surely, Nigel, it is ever in my breast."

"Have it ready, father!"

"For what, my son?"

"There are two places you may mark; there is the service of
marriage and there is the prayer for the dying.  Go with her,
father, and be ready at my call."

He closed the door behind them and was alone with this ill-matched
couple.  They both turned in their chairs to look at him, Edith
with a defiant face, the man with a bitter smile upon his lips and
malignant hatred in his eyes.

"What," said he, "the knight errant still lingers?  Have we not
heard of his thirst for glory?  What new venture does he see that
he should tarry here?"

Nigel walked to the table.

"There is no glory and little venture," said he; "but I have come
for a purpose and I must do it.  I learn from your own lips,
Edith, that you will not leave this man."

"If you have ears you have heard it."

"You are, as you have said, a free woman, and who can gainsay you?
But I have known you, Edith, since we played as boy and girl on
the heather-hills together.  I will save you from this man's
cunning and from your own foolish weakness."

"What would you do?"

"There is a priest without.  He will marry you now.  I will see
you married ere I leave this hall."

"Or else?" sneered the man.

"Or else you never leave this hall alive.  Nay, call not for your
servants or your dogs!  By Saint Paul!  I swear to you that this
matter lies between us three, and that if any fourth comes at your
call you, at least, shall never live to see what comes of it!
Speak then, Paul of Shalford!  Will you wed this woman now, or
will you not?"

Edith was on her feet with outstretched arms between them.  "Stand
back, Nigel!  He is small and weak.  You would not do him a hurt!
Did you not say so this very day?  For God's sake, Nigel, do not
look at him so!  There is death in your eyes."

"A snake may be small and weak, Edith, yet every honest man would
place his heel upon it.  Do you stand back yourself, for my
purpose is set."

"Paul!" she turned her eyes to the pale sneering face.  "Bethink
you, Paul!  Why should you not do what he asks?  What matter to
you whether it be now or on Monday?  I pray you, dear Paul, for my
sake let him have his way!  Your brother can read the service
again if it so please him.  Let us wed now, Paul, and then all is
well."

He had risen from his chair, and he dashed aside her appealing
hands.  "You foolish woman," he snarled, "and you, my savior of
fair damsels, who are so bold against a cripple, you have both to
learn that if my body be weak there is the soul of my breed within
it!  To marry because a boasting, ranting, country Squire would
have me do so - no, by the soul of God, I will die first!  On
Monday I will marry, and no day sooner, so let that be your
answer."

"It is the answer that I wished," said Nigel, "for indeed I see no
happiness in this marriage, and the other may well be the better
way.  Stand aside, Edith!"  He gently forced her to one side and
drew his sword.

De la Fosse cried aloud at the sight.  "I have no sword.  You
would not murder me?" said he, leaning back with haggard-face and
burning eyes against his chair.  The bright steel shone in the
lamp-light.  Edith shrank back, her hand over her face.

"Take this sword!" said Nigel, and he turned the hilt to the
cripple.  "Now!" he added, as he drew his hunting knife.  "Kill me
if you can, Paul de la Fosse, for as God is my help I will do as
much for you!"

The woman, half swooning and yet spellbound and fascinated, looked
on at that strange combat.  For a moment the cripple stood with an
air of doubt, the sword grasped in his nerveless fingers.  Then as
he saw the tiny blade in Nigel's hand the greatness of the
advantage came home to him, and a cruel smile tightened his loose
lips.  Slowly, step by step he advanced, his chin sunk upon his
chest, his eyes glaring from under the thick tangle of his brows
like fires through the brushwood.  Nigel waited for him, his left
hand forward, his knife down by his hip, his face grave, still and
watchful.

Nearer and nearer yet, with stealthy step, and then with a bound
and a cry of hatred and rage Paul de la Fosse had sped his blow.
It was well judged and well swung, but point would have been wiser
than edge against that supple body and those active feet.  Quick
as a flash, Nigel had sprung inside the sweep of the blade, taking
a flesh wound on his left forearm, as he pressed it under the
hilt.  The next instant the cripple was on the ground and Nigel's
dagger was at his throat.

"You dog!" he whispered.  "I have you at my mercy!  Quick ere I
strike, and for the last time!  Will you marry or no?"

The crash of the fall and the sharp point upon his throat had
cowed the man's spirit.  He looked up with a white face and the
sweat gleamed upon his forehead.  There was terror in his eyes.

"Nay, take your knife from me!" he cried.  "I cannot die like a
calf in the shambles."

"Will you marry?"

"Yes, yes, I will wed her!  After all she is a good wench and I
might do worse.  Let me up!  I tell you I will marry her!  What
more would you have?"

Nigel stood above him with his foot upon his misshapen body.  He
had picked up his sword, and the point rested upon the cripple's
breast.

"Nay, you will bide where you are!  If you are to live - and my
conscience cries loud against it - at least your wedding will be
such as your sins have deserved.  Lie there, like the crushed worm
that you are!"  Then he raised his voice.  "Father Athanasius!" he
cried.  "What ho!  Father Athanasius!"

The old priest ran to the cry, and so did the Lady Mary.  A
strange sight it was that met them now in the circle of light, the
frightened girl, half-unconscious against the table, the prostrate
cripple, and Nigel with foot and sword upon his body.

"Your book, father!" cried Nigel.  "I know not if what we do is
good or ill; but we must wed them, for there is no way out."

But the girl by the table had given a great cry, and she was
clinging and sobbing with her arms round her sister's neck.

"Oh, Mary, I thank the Virgin that you have come!  I thank the
Virgin that it is not too late!  What did he say?  He said that he
was a de la Fosse and that he would not be married at the
sword-point.  My heart went out to him when he said it.  But I, am
I not a Buttesthorn, and shall it be said that I would marry a man
who could be led to the altar with a knife at his throat?  No, no,
I see him as he is!  I know him now, the mean spirit, the lying
tongue!  Can I not read in his eyes that he has indeed deceived
me, that he would have left me as you say that he has left others?
Take me home, Mary, my sister, for you have plucked me back this
night from the very mouth of Hell!"

And so it was that the master of Shalford, livid and brooding, was
left with his wine at his lonely table, while the golden beauty of
Cosford, hot with shame and anger, her fair face wet with tears,
passed out safe from the house of infamy into the great calm and
peace of the starry night.




XIII.  HOW THE COMRADES JOURNEYED DOWN THE OLD, OLD ROAD


And now the season of the moonless nights was drawing nigh and the
King's design was ripe.  Very secretly his preparations were made.
Already the garrison of Calais, which consisted of five hundred
archers and two hundred men-at-arms, could, if forewarned, resist
any attack made upon it.  But it was the King's design not merely
to resist the attack, but to capture the attackers.  Above all it
was his wish to find the occasion for one of those adventurous
passages of arms which had made his name famous throughout
Christendom as the very pattern and leader of knight-errant
chivalry.

But the affair wanted careful handling.  The arrival of any,
reinforcements, or even the crossing of any famous soldier, would
have alarmed the French and warned them that their plot had been
discovered.  Therefore it was in twos and threes in the creyers
and provision ships which were continually passing from shore to
shore that the chosen warriors and their squires were brought to
Calais.  There they were passed at night through the water-gate
into the castle where they could lie hidden, unknown to the
townsfolk, until the hour for action had come.

Nigel had received word from Chandos to join him at "The Sign of
the Broom-Pod" in Winchelsea.  Three days beforehand he and
Aylward rode from Tilford all armed and ready for the wars.  Nigel
was in hunting-costume, blithe and gay, with his precious armor
and his small baggage trussed upon the back of a spare horse which
Aylward led by the bridle.  The archer had himself a good black
mare, heavy and slow, but strong enough to be fit to carry his
powerful frame.  In his brigandine of chain mail and his steel
cap, with straight strong sword by his side, his yel low long-bow
jutting over his shoulder, and his quiver of arrows supported by a
scarlet baldric, he was such a warrior as any knight might well be
proud to have in his train.  All Tilford trailed behind them, as
they rode slowly over the long slope of heath land which skirts
the flank of Crooksbury Hill.

At the summit of the rise Nigel reined in Pommers and looked back
at the little village behind him.  There was the old dark manor
house, with one bent figure leaning upon a stick and gazing dimly
after him from beside the door.  He looked at the high-pitched
roof, the timbered walls, the long trail of swirling blue smoke
which rose from the single chimney, and the group of downcast old
servants who lingered at the gate, John the cook, Weathercote the
minstrel, and Red Swire the broken soldier.  Over the river amid
the trees he could see the grim, gray tower of Waverley, and even
as he looked, the iron bell, which had so often seemed to be the
hoarse threatening cry of an enemy, clanged out its call to
prayer.  Nigel doffed his velvet cap and prayed also - prayed that
peace might remain at home, and good warfare, in which honor and
fame should await him, might still be found abroad.  Then, waving
his hand to the people, he turned his horse's head and rode slowly
eastward.  A moment later Aylward broke from the group of archers
and laughing girls who clung to his bridle and his stirrup straps,
and rode on, blowing kisses over his shoulder.  So at last the two
comrades, gentle and simple, were fairly started on their venture.

There are two seasons of color in those parts: the yellow, when
the country-side is flaming with the gorse-blossoms, and the
crimson, when all the long slopes are smoldering with the heather.
So it was now.  Nigel looked back from time to time, as he rode
along the narrow track where the ferns and the ling brushed his
feet on either side, and as he looked it seemed to him that wander
where he might he would never see a fairer scene than that of his
own home.  Far to the westward, glowing in the morning light,
rolled billow after billow of ruddy heather land, until they
merged into the dark shadows of Woolmer Forest and the pale clear
green of the Butser chalk downs.  Never in his life had Nigel
wandered far beyond these limits, and the woodlands, the down and
the heather were dear to his soul.  It gave him a pang in his
heart now as he turned his face away from them; but if home lay to
the westward, out there to the eastward was the great world of
adventure, the noble stage where each of his kinsmen in turn had
played his manly part and left a proud name behind.

How often he had longed for this day!  And now it had come with no
shadow cast behind it.  Dame Ermyntrude was under the King's
protection.  The old servants had their future assured.  The
strife with the monks of Waverley had been assuaged.  He had a
noble horse under him, the best of weapons, and a stout follower
at his back.  Above all he was bound on a gallant errand with the
bravest knight in England as his leader.  All these thoughts
surged together in his mind, and he whistled and sang, as he rode,
out of the joy of his heart, while Pommers sidled and curveted in
sympathy with the mood of his master.  Presently, glancing back,
he saw from Aylward's downcast eyes and Puckered brow that the
archer was clouded with trouble.  He reined his horse to let him
come abreast of him.

"How now, Aylward?" said he.  "Surely of all men in England you
and I should be the most blithe this morning, since we ride
forward with all hopes of honorable advancement.  By Saint Paul!
ere we see these heather hills once more we shall either
worshipfully win worship, or we shall venture our persons in the
attempt.  These be glad thoughts, and why should you be downcast?"

Aylward shrugged his broad shoulders, and a wry smile dawned upon
his rugged face.  "I am indeed as limp as a wetted bowstring,"
said he.  "It is the nature of a man that he should be sad when he
leaves the woman he loves."

"In truth, yes!" cried Nigel, and in a flash the dark eyes of Mary
Buttesthorn rose before him, and he heard her low, sweet, earnest
voice as he had heard it that night when they brought her frailer
sister back from Shalford Manor, a voice which made all that was
best and noblest in a man thrill within his soul.  "Yet, bethink
you, archer, that what a woman loves in man is not his gross body,
but rather his soul, his honor, his fame, the deeds with which he
has made his life beautiful.  Therefore you are winning love as
well as glory when you turn to the wars."

"It may be so," said Aylward; "but indeed it goes to my heart to
see the pretty dears weep, and I would fain weep as well to keep
them company.  When Mary - or was it Dolly? - nay, it was Martha,
the red-headed girl from the mill - when she held tight to my
baldric it was like snapping my heart-string to pluck myself
loose."

"You speak of one name and then of another," said Nigel.  "How is
she called then, this maid whom you love?"

Aylward pushed back his steel cap and scratched his bristling head
with some embarrassment.  "Her name," said he, " is Mary Dolly
Martha Susan Jane Cicely Theodosia Agnes Johanna Kate."

Nigel laughed as Aylward rolled out this prodigious title.  "I had
no right to take you to the wars," said he; "for by Saint Paul!
it is very clear that I have widowed half the parish.  But I saw
your aged father the franklin.  Bethink you of the joy that will
fill his heart when he hears that you have done some small deed in
France, and so won honor in the eyes of all."

"I fear that honor will not help him to pay his arrears of rent to
the sacrist of Waverley," said Aylward.  "Out he will go on the
roadside, honor and all, if he does not find ten nobles by next
Epiphany.  But if I could win a ransom or be at the storming of a
rich city, then indeed the old man would be proud of me.  Thy
sword must help my spade, Samkin,' said he as he kissed me goodby.
Ah! it would indeed be a happy day for him and for all if I could
ride back with a saddle-bag full of gold pieces, and please God, I
shall dip my hand in somebody's pocket before I see Crooksbury
Hill once more!"

Nigel shook his head, for indeed it seemed hopeless to try to
bridge the gulf between them.  Already they had made such good
progress along the bridle-path through the heather that the little
hill of Saint Catharine and the ancient shrine upon its summit
loomed up before them.  Here they crossed the road from the south
to London, and at the crossing two wayfarers were waiting who
waved their hands in greeting, the one a tall, slender, dark woman
upon a white jennet, the other a very thick and red-faced old man,
whose weight seemed to curve the back of the stout gray cob which
he bestrode.

"What how, Nigel!" he cried.  "Mary has told me that you make a
start this morning, and we have waited here this hour and more on
the chance of seeing you pass.  Come, lad, and have a last stoup
of English ale, for many a time amid the sour French wines you
will long for the white foam under your nose, and the good homely
twang of it."

Nigel had to decline the draft, for it meant riding into Guildford
town, a mile out of his course, but very gladly he agreed with
Mary that they should climb the path to the old shrine and offer a
last orison together.  The knight and Aylward waited below with
the horses; and so it came about that Nigel and Mary found
themselves alone under the solemn old Gothic arches, in front of
the dark shadowed recess in which gleamed the golden reliquary of
the saint.  In silence they knelt side by side in prayer, and then
came forth once more out of the gloom and the shadow into the
fresh sunlit summer morning.  They stopped ere they descended the
path, and looked to right and left at the fair meadows and the
blue Wey curling down the valley.

"What have you prayed for, Nigel?" said she.

"I have prayed that God and His saints will hold my spirit high
and will send me back from France in such a fashion that I may
dare to come to you and to claim you for my own."

"Bethink you well what it is that you say, Nigel," said she.
"What you are to me only my own heart can tell; but I would never
set eyes upon your face again rather than abate by one inch that
height of honor and worshipful achievement to which you may
attain."

"Nay, my dear and most sweet lady, how should you abate it, since
it is the thought of you which will nerve my arm and uphold my
heart?"

"Think once more, my fair lord, and hold yourself bound by no word
which you have said.  Let it be as the breeze which blows past our
faces and is heard of no more.  Your soul yearns for honor.  To
that has it ever turned.  Is there room in it for love also? or is
it possible that both shall live at their highest in one mind?  Do
you not call to mind that Galahad and other great knights of old
have put women out of their lives that they might ever give their
whole soul and strength to the winning of honor?  May it not be
that I shall be a drag upon you, that your heart may shrink from
some honorable task, lest it should bring risk and pain to me?
Think well before you answer, my fair lord, for indeed my very
heart would break if it should ever happen that through love of me
your high hopes and great promise should miss fulfilment."

Nigel looked at her with sparkling eyes.  The soul which shone
through her dark face had transformed it for the moment into a
beauty more lofty and more rare than that of her shallow sister.
He bowed before the majesty of the woman, and pressed his lips to
her hand.  "You are like a star upon my path which guides me on
the upward way," said he.  "Our souls are set together upon the
finding of honor, and how shall we hold each other back when our
purpose is the same?"

She shook her proud head.  "So it seems to you now, fair lord, but
it may be otherwise as the years pass.  How shall you prove that I
am indeed a help and not a hindrance?"

"I will prove it by my deeds, fair and dear lady," said Nigel.
"Here at the shrine of the holy Catharine, on this, the Feast of
Saint Margaret, I take my oath that I will do three deeds in your
honor as a proof of my high love before I set eyes upon your face
again, and these three deeds shall stand as a proof to you that if
I love you dearly, still I will not let the thought of you stand
betwixt me and honorable achievement!"

Her face shone with her love and her pride.  "I also make my
oath," said she, "and I do it in the name of the holy Catharine
whose shrine is hard by.  I swear that I will hold myself for you
until these three deeds be done and we meet once more; also that
if - which may dear Christ forfend! you fall in doing them then I
shall take the veil in Shalford nunnery and look upon no man's
face again!  Give me your hand, Nigel."

She had taken a little bangle of gold filigree work from her arm
and fastened it upon his sunburnt wrist, reading aloud to him the
engraved motto in old French: "Fais ce que dois, adviegne que
pourra - c'est commande au chevalier."  Then for one moment they
fell into each other's arms and with kiss upon kiss, a loving man
and a tender woman, they swore their troth to each other.  But the
old knight was calling impatiently from below and together they
hurried down the winding path to where the horses waited under the
sandy bluff.

As far as the Shalford crossing Sir John rode by Nigel's arm, and
many were the last injunctions which he gave him concerning
woodcraft, and great his anxiety lest he confuse a spay with a
brocket, or either with a hind.  At last when they came to the
reedy edge of the Wey the old knight and his daughter reined up
their horses.  Nigel looked back at them ere he entered the dark
Chantry woods, and saw them still gazing after him and waving
their hands.  Then the path wound amongst the trees and they were
lost to sight; but long afterwards when a clearing exposed once
more the Shalford meadows Nigel saw that the old man upon the gray
cob was riding slowly toward Saint Catharine's Hill, but that the
girl was still where he had seen her last, leaning forward in her
saddle and straining her eyes to pierce the dark forest which
screened her lover from her view.  It was but a fleeting glance
through a break in the foliage, and yet in after days of stress
and toil in far distant lands it was that one little picture - the
green meadow, the reeds, the slow blue-winding river, and the
eager bending graceful figure upon the white horse - which was the
clearest and the dearest image of that England which he had left
behind him.

But if Nigel's friends had learned that this was the morning of
his leaving, his enemies too were on the alert.  The two comrades
had just emerged from the Chantry woods and were beginning the
ascent of that curving path which leads upward to the old Chapel
of the Martyr when with a hiss like an angry snake a long white
arrow streaked under Pommers and struck quivering in the grassy
turf.  A second whizzed past Nigel's ear, as he tried to turn; but
Aylward struck the great war-horse a sharp blow over the haunches,
and it had galloped some hundreds of yards before its rider could
pull it up.  Aylward followed as hard as he could ride, bending
low over his horse's neck, while arrows whizzed all around him.

"By Saint Paul!" said Nigel, tugging at his bridle and white with
anger, "they shall not chase me across the country as though I was
a frighted doe.  Archer, how dare you to lash my horse when I
would have turned and ridden in upon them?"

"It is well that I did so," said Aylward, "or by these ten finger-
bones! our journey would have begun and ended on the same day.  As
I glanced round I saw a dozen of them at the least amongst the
brushwood.  See now how the light glimmers upon their steel caps
yonder in the bracken under the great beech-tree.  Nay, I pray
you, my fair lord, do not ride forward.  What chance has a man in
the open against all these who lie at their ease in the underwood?
If you will not think of yourself, then consider your horse, which
would have a cloth-yard shaft feathered in its hide ere it could
reach the wood."

Nigel chafed in impotent anger.  "Am I to be shot at like a
popinjay at a fair, by any reaver or outlaw that seeks a mark for
his bow?" he cried.  "By Saint Paul! Aylward, I will put on my
harness and go further into the matter.  Help me to untruss, I
pray you!"

"Nay, my fair lord, I will not help you to your own downfall.  It
is a match with cogged dice betwixt a horseman on the moor and
archers amid the forest.  But these men are no outlaws, or they
would not dare to draw their bows within a league of the sheriff
of Guildford."

"Indeed, Aylward, I think that you speak truth," said Nigel."  It
may be that these are the men of Paul de la Fosse of Shalford,
whom I have giver, little cause to love me.  Ah! there is indeed
the very man himself."

They sat their horses with their backs to the long slope which
leads up to the old chapel on the hill.  In front of them was the
dark ragged edge of the wood, with a sharp twinkle of steel here
and there in its shadows which spoke of these lurking foes.  But
now there was a long moot upon a horn, and at once a score of
russet-clad bowmen ran forward from amid the trees, spreading out
into a scattered line and closing swiftly in upon the travelers.
In the midst of them, upon a great gray horse, sat a small
misshapen man, waving and cheering as one sets hounds on a badger,
turning his head this way and that as he whooped and pointed,
urging his bowmen onward up the slope.

"Draw them on, my fair lord!  Draw them on until we have them out
on the down!" cried Aylward, his eyes shining with joy.  "Five
hundred paces more, and then we may be on terms with them.  Nay,
linger not, but keep them always just clear of arrowshot until our
turn has come."

Nigel shook and trembled with eagerness, as with his hand on his
sword-hilt he looked at the line of eager hurrying men.  But it
flashed through his mind what Chandos had said of the cool head
which is better for the warrior than the hot heart.  Aylward's
words were true and wise.  He turned Pommers' head therefore, and
amid a cry of derision from behind them the comrades trotted over
the down.  The bowmen broke into a run, while their leader
screamed and waved more madly than before.  Aylward cast many a
glance at them over his shoulder.

"Yet a little farther!  Yet a little farther still!" he muttered.
"The wind is towards them and the fools have forgot that I can
overshoot them by fifty paces.  Now, my good lord, I pray you for
one instant to hold the horses, for my weapon is of more avail
this day, than thine can be.  They may make sorry cheer ere they
gain the shelter of the wood once more."

He had sprung from his horse, and with a downward wrench of his
arm and a push with his knee he slipped the string into the upper
nock of his mighty war-bow.  Then in a flash he notched his shaft
and drew it to the pile, his keen blue eyes glowing fiercely
behind it from under his knotted brows.  With thick legs planted
sturdily apart, his body laid to the bow, his left arm motionless
as wood, his right bunched into a double curve of swelling muscles
as he stretched the white well-waxed string, he looked so keen and
fierce a fighter that the advancing line stopped for an instant at
the sight of him.  Two or three loosed off their arrows, but the
shafts flew heavily against the head wind, and snaked along the
hard turf some score of paces short of the mark.  One only, a
short bandy-legged man, whose squat figure spoke of enormous
muscular strength, ran swiftly in and then drew so strong a bow
that the arrow quivered in the ground at Aylward's very feet.

"It is Black Will of Lynchmere," said the bowman.  "Many a match
have I shot with him, and I know well that no other man on the
Surrey marches could have sped such a shaft.  I trust that you are
houseled and shriven, Will, for I have known you so long that I
would not have your damnation upon my soul."

He raised his bow as he spoke, and the string twanged with a rich
deep musical note.  Aylward leaned upon his bow-stave as he keenly
watched the long swift flight of his shaft, skimming smoothly down
the wind.

"On him, on him!  No, over him, by my hilt!" he cried.  "There is
more wind than I had thought.  Nay, nay, friend, now that I have
the length of you, you can scarce hope to loose again."

Black Will had notched an arrow and was raising his bow when
Aylward's second shaft passed through the shoulder of his drawing
arm.  With a shout of anger and pain he dropped his weapon, and
dancing in his fury he shook his fist and roared curses at his
rival.

"I could slay him; but I will not, for good bowmen are not so
common," said Aylward.  "And now, fair sir, we must on, for they
are spreading round on either side, and if once they get behind
us, then indeed our journey has come to a sudden end.  But ere we
go I would send a shaft through yonder horseman who leads them
on."

"Nay, Aylward, I pray you to leave him," said Nigel.  "Villain as
he is, he is none the less a gentleman of coat-armor, and should
die by some other weapon than thine."

"As you will," said Aylward, with a clouded brow.  "I have been
told that in the late wars many a French prince and baron has not
been too proud to take his death wound from an English yeoman's
shaft, and that nobles of England have been glad enough to stand
by and see it done."

Nigel shook his head sadly.  "It is sooth you say, archer, and
indeed it is no new thing, for that good knight Richard of the
Lion Heart met his end in such a lowly fashion, and so also did
Harold the Saxon.  But this is a private matter, and I would not
have you draw your bow against him.  Neither can I ride at him
myself, for he is weak in body, though dangerous in spirit.
Therefore, we will go upon our way, since there is neither profit
nor honor to be gained, nor any hope of advancement."

Aylward, having unstrung his bow, had remounted his horse during
this conversation, and the two rode swiftly past the little squat
Chapel of the Martyr and over the brow of the hill.  From the
summit they looked back.  The injured archer lay upon the ground,
with several of his comrades gathered in a knot around him.
Others ran aimlessly up the hill, but were already far behind.
The leader sat motionless upon his horse, and as he saw them look
back he raised his hand and shrieked his curses at them.  An
instant later the curve of the ground had hid them from view.  So,
amid love and hate, Nigel bade adieu to the home of his youth.

And now the comrades were journeying upon that old, old road which
runs across the south of England and yet never turns toward
London, for the good reason that the place was a poor hamlet when
first the road was laid.  From Winchester, the Saxon capital, to
Canterbury, the holy city of Kent, ran that ancient highway, and
on from Canterbury to the narrow straits where, on a clear day,
the farther shore can be seen.  Along this track as far back as
history can trace the metals of the west have been carried and
passed the pack-horses which bore the goods which Gaul sent in
exchange.  Older than the Christian faith and older than the
Romans, is the old road.  North and south are the woods and the
marshes, so that only on the high dry turf of the chalk land could
a clear track be found.  The Pilgrim's Way, it still is called;
but the pilgrims were the last who ever trod it, for it was
already of immemorial age before the death of Thomas a Becket gave
a new reason why folk should journey to the scene of his murder.

>From the hill of Weston Wood the travelers could see the long
white band which dipped and curved and rose over the green
downland, its course marked even in the hollows by the line of the
old yew-trees which flanked it.  Neither Nigel nor Aylward had
wandered far from their own country, and now they rode with light
hearts and eager eyes taking note of all the varied pictures of
nature and of man which passed before them.  To their left was a
hilly country, a land of rolling heaths and woods, broken here and
there into open spaces round the occasional farm-house of a
franklin.  Hackhurst Down, Dunley Hill, and Ranmore Common swelled
and sank, each merging into the other.  But on the right, after
passing the village of Shere and the old church of Gomshall, the
whole south country lay like a map at their feet.  There was the
huge wood of the Weald, one unbroken forest of oak-trees
stretching away to the South Downs, which rose olive-green against
the deep blue sky.  Under this great canopy of trees strange folk
lived and evil deeds were done.  In its recesses were wild tribes,
little changed from their heathen ancestors, who danced round the
altar of Thor, and well was it for the peaceful traveler that he
could tread the high open road of the chalk land with no need to
wander into so dangerous a tract, where soft clay, tangled forest
and wild men all barred his progress.

But apart from the rolling country upon the left and the great
forest-hidden plain upon the right, there was much upon the road
itself to engage the attention of the wayfarers.  It was crowded
with people.  As far as their eyes could carry they could see the
black dots scattered thickly upon the thin white band, sometimes
single, sometimes several abreast, sometimes in moving crowds,
where a drove of pilgrims held together for mutual protection, or
a nobleman showed his greatness by the number of retainers who
trailed at his heels.  At that time the main roads were very
crowded, for there, were many wandering people in the land.  Of
all sorts and kinds, they passed in an unbroken stream before the
eyes of Nigel and of Aylward, alike only in the fact that one and
all were powdered from their hair to their shoes with the gray
dust of the chalk.

There were monks journeying from one cell to another, Benedictines
with their black gowns looped up to show their white skirts,
Carthusians in white, and pied Cistercians.  Friars also of the
three wandering orders - Dominicans in black, Carmelites in white
and Franciscans in gray.  There was no love lost between the
cloistered monks and the free friars, each looking on the other as
a rival who took from him the oblations of the faithful; so they
passed on the high road as cat passes dog, with eyes askance and
angry faces.

Then besides the men of the church there were the men of trade,
the merchant in dusty broadcloth and Flanders hat riding at the
head of his line of pack-horses.  He carried Cornish tin,
Welt-country wool, or Sussex iron if he traded eastward, or if his
head should be turned westward then he bore with him the velvets
of Genoa, the ware of Venice, the wine of France, or the armor of
Italy and Spain.  Pilgrims were everywhere, poor people for the
most part, plodding wearily along with trailing feet and bowed
heads, thick staves in their hands and bundles over their
shoulders.  Here and there on a gaily caparisoned palfrey, or in
the greater luxury of a horse-litter, some West-country lady might
be seen making her easy way to the shrine of Saint Thomas.

Besides all these a constant stream of strange vagabonds drifted
along the road: minstrels who wandered from fair to fair, a foul
and pestilent crew; jugglers and acrobats, quack doctors and
tooth-drawers, students and beggars, free workmen in search of
better wages, and escaped bondsmen who would welcome any wages at
all.  Such was the throng which set the old road smoking in a haze
of white dust from Winchester to the narrow sea.

But of all the wayfarers those which interested Nigel most were
the soldiers.  Several times they passed little knots of archers
or men-at-arms, veterans from France, who had received their
discharge and were now making their way to their southland homes.
They were half drunk all of them, for the wayfarers treated them
to beer at the frequent inns and ale-stakes which lined the road,
so that they cheered and sang lustily as they passed.  They roared
rude pleasantries at Aylward, who turned in his saddle and shouted
his opinion of them until they were out of hearing.

Once, late in the afternoon, they overtook a body of a hundred
archers all marching together with two knights riding at their
head.  They were passing from Guildford Castle to Reigate Castle,
where they were in garrison.  Nigel rode with the knights for some
distance, and hinted that if either was in search of honorable
advancement, or wished to do some small deed, or to relieve
himself of any vow, it might be possible to find some means of
achieving it.  They were both, however, grave and elderly men,
intent upon their business and with no mind for fond wayside
adventures, so Nigel quickened his pace and left them behind.

They had left Boxhill and Headley Heath upon the left, and the
towers of Reigate were rising amid the trees in front of them,
when they overtook a large, cheery, red-faced man, with a forked
beard, riding upon a good horse and exchanging a nod or a merry
word with all who passed him.  With him they rode nearly as far as
Bletchingley, and Nigel laughed much to hear him talk; but always
under the raillery there was much earnestness and much wisdom in
all his words.  He rode at his ease about the country, he said,
having sufficient money to keep him from want and to furnish him
for the road.  He could speak all the three languages of England,
the north, the middle and the south, so that he was at home with
the people of every shire and could hear their troubles and their
joys.  In all parts in town and in country there was unrest, he
said; for the poor folk were weary of their masters both of the
Church and State, and soon there would be such doings in England
as had never been seen before.

But above all this man was earnest against the Church its enormous
wealth, its possession of nearly one-third of the whole land of
the country, its insatiable greed for more at the very time when
it claimed to be poor and lowly.  The monks and friars, too, he
lashed with his tongue: their roguish ways, their laziness and
their cunning.  He showed how their wealth and that of the haughty
lord must always be founded upon the toil of poor humble Peter the
Plowman, who worked and strove in rain and cold out in the fields,
the butt and laughing-stock of everyone, and still bearing up the
whole world upon his weary shoulders.  He had set it all out in a
fair parable; so now as he rode he repeated some of the verses,
chanting them and marking time with his forefinger, while Nigel
and Aylward on either side of him with their heads inclined inward
listened with the same attention, but with very different feelings
- Nigel shocked at such an attack upon authority, and Aylward
chuckling as he heard the sentiments of his class so shrewdly
expressed.  At last the stranger halted his horse outside the
"Five Angels" at Gatton.

"It is a good inn, and I know the ale of old," said he.  "When I
had finished that `Dream of Piers the Plowman from which I have
recited to you, the last verses were thus:

     "`Now have I brought my little booke to an ende
       God's blessing be on him who a drinke will me sende' -

I pray you come in with me and share it."

"Nay," said Nigel, "we must on our way, for we have far to go.
But give me your name, my friend, for indeed we have passed a
merry hour listening to your words."

"Have a care!" the stranger answered, shaking his head.  "You and
your class will not spend a merry hour when these words are turned
into deeds and Peter the Plowman grows weary of swinking in the
fields and takes up his bow and his staff in order to set this
land in order."

"By Saint Paul!  I expect that we shall bring Peter to reason and
also those who have put such evil thoughts into his head," said
Nigel.  "So once more I ask your name, that I may know it if ever
I chance to hear that you have been hanged?"

The stranger laughed good-humoredly.  "You can call me Thomas
Lackland," said he.  "I should be Thomas Lack-brain if I were
indeed to give my true name, since a good many robbers, some in
black gowns and some in steel, would be glad to help me upwards in
the way you speak of.  So good-day to you, Squire, and to you
also, archer, and may you find your way back with whole bones from
the wars!"

That night the comrades slept in Godstone Priory, and early next
morning they were well upon their road down the Pilgrim's Way.  At
Titsey it was said that a band of villeins were out in Westerham
Wood and had murdered three men the day before; so that Nigel had
high hopes of an encounter; but the brigands showed no sign,
though the travelers went out of their way to ride their horses
along the edges of the forest.  Farther on they found traces of
their work, for the path ran along the hillside at the base of a
chalk quarry, and there in the cutting a man was lying dead.  From
his twisted limbs and shattered frame it was easy to see that he
had been thrown over from above, while his pockets turned outward
showed the reason for his murder.  The comrades rode past without
too close a survey, for dead men were no very uncommon objects on
the King's highway, and if sheriff or bailiff should chance upon
you near the body you might find yourself caught in the meshes of
the law.

Near Sevenoaks their road turned out of the old Canterbury way and
pointed south toward the coast, leaving the chalk lands and coming
down into the clay of the Weald.  It was a wretched, rutted
mule-track running through thick forests with occasional clearings
in which lay the small Kentish villages, where rude shock-headed
peasants with smocks and galligaskins stared with bold, greedy
eyes at the travelers.  Once on the right they caught a distant
view of the Towers of Penshurst, and once they heard the deep
tolling of the bells of Bayham Abbey, but for the rest of their
day's journey savage peasants and squalid cottages were all that
met their eyes, with endless droves of pigs who fed upon the
litter of acorns.  The throng of travelers who crowded the old
road were all gone, and only here and there did they meet or
overtake some occasional merchant or messenger bound for Battle
Abbey, Pevensey Castle or the towns of the south.

That night they slept in a sordid inn, overrun with rats and with
fleas, one mile south of the hamlet of Mayfield.  Aylward
scratched vigorously and cursed with fervor.  Nigel lay without
movement or sound.  To the man who had learned the old rule of
chivalry there were no small ills in life.  It was beneath the
dignity of his soul to stoop to observe them.  Cold and heat,
hunger and thirst, such things did not exist for the gentleman.
The armor of his soul was so complete that it was proof not only
against the great ills of life but even against the small ones; so
the flea-bitten Nigel lay grimly still while Aylward writhed upon
his couch.

They were now but a short distance from their destination; but
they had hardly started on their journey through the forest next
morning, when an adventure befell them which filled Nigel with the
wildest hopes.

Along the narrow winding path between the great oak trees there
rode a dark sallow man in a scarlet tabard who blew so loudly upon
a silver trumpet that they heard the clanging call long before
they set eyes on him.  Slowly he advanced, pulling up every fifty
paces to make the forest ring with another warlike blast.  The
comrades rode forward to meet him.

"I pray you," said Nigel, "to tell me who you are and why you blow
upon this trumpet."

The fellow shook his head, so Nigel repeated the question in
French, the common language of chivalry, spoken at that age by
every gentleman in Western Europe.

The man put his lips to the trumpet and blew another long note
before he answered.  "I am Gaston de Castrier," said he, "the
humble Squire of the most worthy and valiant knight Raoul de
Tubiers, de Pestels, de Grimsard, de Mersac, de Leoy, de Bastanac,
who also writes himself Lord of Pons.  It is his order that I ride
always a mile in front of him to prepare all to receive him, and
he desires me to blow upon a trumpet not out of vainglory, but out
of greatness of spirit, so that none may be ignorant of his coming
should they desire to encounter him."

Nigel sprang from his horse with a cry of joy, and began to
unbutton his doublet.  "Quick, Aylward, quick!" he said.  "He
comes, a knight errant comes!  Was there ever such a chance of
worshipfully winning worship?  Untruss the harness whilst I loose
my clothes!  Good sir, I beg you to warn your noble and valiant
master that a poor Squire of England would implore him to take
notice of him and to do some small deed upon him as he passes."

But already the Lord of Pons had come in sight.  He was a huge man
upon an enormous horse, so that together they seemed to fill up
the whole long dark archway under the oaks.  He was clad in full
armor of a brazen hue with only his face exposed, and of this face
there was little visible save a pair of arrogant eyes and a great
black beard, which flowed through the open vizor and down over his
breastplate.  To the crest of his helmet was tied a small brown
glove, nodding and swinging above him.  He bore a long lance with
a red square banner at the end, charged with a black boar's head,
and the same symbol was engraved upon his shield.  Slowly he rode
through the forest, ponderous, menacing, with dull thudding of his
charger's hoofs and constant clank of metal, while always in front
of him came the distant peal of the silver trumpet calling all men
to admit his majesty and to clear his path ere they be cleared
from it.

Never in his dreams had so perfect a vision come to cheer Nigel's
heart, and as he struggled with his clothes, glancing up
continually at this wondrous traveler, he pattered forth prayers
of thanksgiving to the good Saint Paul who had shown such loving-
kindness to his unworthy servant and thrown him in the path of so
excellent and debonair a gentleman.

But alas! how often at the last instant the cup is dashed from the
lips!  This joyful chance was destined to change suddenly to
unexpected and grotesque disaster - disaster so strange and so
complete that through all his life Nigel flushed crimson when he
thought of it.  He was busily stripping his hunting-costume, and
with feverish haste he had doffed boots, hat, hose, doublet and
cloak, so that nothing remained save a pink jupon and pair of
silken drawers.  At the same time Aylward was hastily unbuckling
the load with the intention of handing his master his armor piece
by piece, when the Squire gave one last challenging peal from his
silver trumpet into the very ear of the spare horse.

In an instant it had taken to its heels, the precious armor upon
its back, and thundered away down the road which they had
traversed.  Aylward jumped upon his mare, drove his prick spurs
into her sides and galloped after the runaway as hard as he could
ride.  Thus it came about that in an instant Nigel was shorn of
all his little dignity, had lost his two horses, his attendant and
his outfit, and found himself a lonely and unarmed man standing in
his shirt and drawers upon the pathway down which the burly figure
of the Lord of Pons was slowly advancing.

The knight errant, whose mind had been filled by the thought of
the maiden whom he had left behind at St. Jean - the same whose
glove dangled from his helmet - had observed nothing that had
occurred.  Hence, all that met his eyes was a noble yellow horse,
which was tethered by the track, and a small young man, who
appeared to be a lunatic since he had undressed hastily in the
heart of the forest, and stood now with an eager anxious face clad
in his underlinen amid the scattered debris of his garments.  Of
such a person the high Lord of Pons could take no notice, and so
he pursued his inexorable way, his arrogant eyes looking out into
the distance and his thoughts set intently upon the maiden of St.
Jean.  He was dimly aware that the little crazy man in the
undershirt ran a long way beside him in his stockings, begging,
imploring and arguing.

"Just one hour, most fair sir, just one hour at the longest, and a
poor Squire of England shall ever hold himself your debtor!  Do
but condescend to rein your horse until my harness comes back to
me!  Will you not stoop to show me some small deed of arms?  I
implore you, fair sir, to spare me a little of your time and a
handstroke or two ere you go upon your way!"

Lord de Pons motioned impatiently with his gauntleted hand, as one
might brush away an importunate fly, but when at last Nigel became
desperate in his clamor he thrust his spurs into his great
war-horse, and clashing like a pair of cymbals he thundered off
through the forest.  So he rode upon his majestic way, until two
days later he was slain by Lord Reginald Cobham in a field near
Weybridge.

When after a long chase Aylward secured the spare horse and
brought it back, he found his master seated upon a fallen tree,
his face buried in his hands and his mind clouded with humiliation
and grief.  Nothing was said, for the matter was beyond words, and
so in moody silence they rode upon their way.

But soon they came upon a scene which drew Nigel's thoughts away
from his bitter trouble, for in front of them there rose the
towers of a great building with a small gray sloping village
around it, and they learned from a passing hind that this was the
hamlet and Abbey of Battle.  Together they drew rein upon the low
ridge and looked down into that valley of death from which even
now the reek of blood seems to rise.  Down beside that sinister
lake and amid those scattered bushes sprinkled over the naked
flank of the long ridge was fought that long-drawn struggle
betwixt two most noble foes with broad England as the prize of
victory.  Here, up and down the low hill, hour by hour the grim
struggle had waxed and waned, until the Saxon army had died where
it stood, King, court, house-carl and fyrdsman, each in their
ranks even as they had fought.  And now, after all the stress and
toil, the tyranny, the savage revolt, the fierce suppression, God
had made His purpose complete, for here were Nigel the Norman and
Aylward the Saxon with good-fellowship in their hearts and a
common respect in their minds, with the same banner and the same
cause, riding forth to do battle for their old mother England.

And now the long ride drew to an end.  In front of them was the
blue sea, flecked with the white sails of ships.  Once more the
road passed upward from the heavy-wooded plain to the springy turf
of the chalk downs.  Far to the right rose the grim fortalice of
Pevensey, squat and powerful, like one great block of rugged
stone, the parapet twinkling with steel caps and crowned by the
royal banner of England.  A flat expanse of reeded marshland lay
before them, out of which rose a single wooded hill, crowned with
towers, with a bristle of masts rising out of the green plain some
distance to the south of it.  Nigel looked at it with his hand
shading his eyes, and then urged Pommers to a trot.  The town was
Winchelsea, and there amid that cluster of houses on the hill the
gallant Chandos must be awaiting him.




XIV.  HOW NIGEL CHASED THE RED FERRET


They passed a ferry, wound upward by a curving path, and then,
having satisfied a guard of men-at-arms, were admitted through the
frowning arch of the Pipewell Gate.  There waiting for them, in
the middle of the east street, the sun gleaming upon his lemon-
colored beard, and puckering his single eye, stood Chandos
himself, his legs apart, his hands behind his back, and a
welcoming smile upon hiss quaint high-nosed face.  Behind him a
crowd of little boys were gazing with reverent eyes at the famous
soldier.

"Welcome, Nigel!" said he, "and you also, good archer!  I chanced
to be walking on the city wall, and I thought from the color of
your horse that it was indeed you upon the Udimore Road.  How have
you fared, young squire errant?  Have you held bridges or rescued
damsels or slain oppressors on your way from Tilford?"

"Nay, my fair lord, I have accomplished nothing; but I once had
hopes - " Nigel flushed at the remembrance.

"I will give you more than hopes, Nigel.  I will put you where you
can dip both arms to the elbow into danger and honor, where peril
will sleep with you at night and rise with you in the morning and
the very air you breathe be laden with it.  Are you ready for
that, young sir?"

"I can but pray, fair lord, that my spirit will rise to it."

Chandos smiled his approval and laid his thin brown hand on the
youth's shoulder.  "Good!" said he.  "It is the mute hound which
bites the hardest.  The babbler is ever the hang-back.  Bide with
me here, Nigel, and walk upon the ramparts.  Archer, do you lead
the horses to the `Sign of the Broom Pod' in the high street, and
tell my varlets to see them aboard the cog Thomas before
nightfall.  We sail at the second hour after curfew.  Come hither,
Nigel, to the crest of the corner turret, for from it I will show
you what you have never seen."

It was but a dim and distant white cloud upon the blue water seen
far off over the Dungeness Point, and yet the sight of it flushed
the young Squire's cheeks and sent the blood hot through his
veins.  It was the fringe of France, that land of chivalry and
glory, the stage where name and fame were to be won.  With burning
eyes he gazed across at it, his heart rejoicing to think that the
hour was at hand when he might tread that sacred soil.  Then his
gaze crossed the immense stretch of the blue sea, dotted over with
the sails of fishing-boats, until it rested upon the double harbor
beneath packed with vessels of every size and shape, from the
pessoners and creyers which plied up and down the coast to the
great cogs and galleys which were used either as war-ships or
merchantmen as the occasion served.  One of them was at that
instant passing out to sea, a huge galleass, with trumpets blowing
and nakers banging, the flag of Saint George flaunting over the
broad purple sail, and the decks sparkling from end to end with
steel.  Nigel gave a cry of pleasure at the splendor of the sight.

"Aye, lad," said Chandos, "it is the Trinity of Rye, the very ship
on which I fought at Sluys.  Her deck ran blood from stem to stern
that day.  But turn your eyes this way, I beg you, and tell me if
you see aught strange about this town."

Nigel looked down at the noble straight street, at the Roundel
Tower, at the fine church of Saint Thomas, and the other fair
buildings of Winchelsea.  "It is all new," said he - "church,
castle, houses, all are new."

"You are right, fair son.  My grandfather can call to mind the
time when only the conies lived upon this rock.  The town was down
yonder by the sea, until one night the waves rose upon it and not
a house was left.  See, yonder is Rye, huddling also on a hill,
the two towns like poor sheep when the waters are out.  But down
there under the blue water and below the Camber Sand lies the true
Winchelsea - tower, cathedral, walls and all, even as my
grandfather knew it, when the first Edward was young upon the
throne."

For an hour or more Chandos paced upon the ramparts with his young
Squire at his elbow and talked to him of his duties and of the
secrets and craft of warfare, Nigel drinking in and storing in his
memory every word from so revered a teacher.  Many a time in after
life, in stress and in danger, he strengthened himself by the
memory of that slow walk with the blue sea on one side and the
fair town on the other, when the wise soldier and noble-hearted
knight poured forth his precept and advice as the master workman
to the apprentice.

"Perhaps, fair son," said he, "you are like so many other lads who
ride to the wars, and know so much already that it is waste of
breath to advise them?"

"Nay, my fair lord, I know nothing save that I would fain do my
duty and either win honorable advancement or die worshipful on the
field."

"You are wise to be humble," said Chandos; "for indeed he who
knows most of war knows best that there is much to learn.  As
there is a mystery of the rivers and a mystery of woodcraft, even
so there is a mystery of warfare by which battles may be lost and
gained; for all nations are brave, and where the brave meets the
brave it is he who is crafty and war-wise who will win the day.
The best hound will run at fault if he be ill laid on, and the
best hawk will fly at check if he be badly loosed, and even so the
bravest army may go awry if it be ill handled.  There are not in
Christendom better knights and squires than those of the French,
and yet we have had the better of them, for in our Scottish Wars
and elsewhere we have learned more of this same mystery of which I
speak."

"And wherein lies our wisdom, honored sir?" asked Nigel.  "I also
would fain be war-wise and learn to fight with my wits as well as
with my sword."

Chandos shook his head and smiled.  "It is in the forest and on
the down that you learn to fly the hawk and loose the hound," said
he.  "So also it is in camp and on the field that the mystery of
war can be learned.  There only has every great captain come to be
its master.  To start he must have a cool head, quick to think,
soft as wax before his purpose is formed, hard as steel when once
he sees it before him.  Ever alert he must be, and cautious also,
but with judgment to turn his caution into rashness where a large
gain may be put against a small stake.  An eye for country also,
for the trend of the rivers, the slope of the hills, the cover of
the woods, and the light green of the bog-land."

Poor Nigel, who had trusted to his lance and to Pommers to break
his path to glory, stood aghast at this list of needs.  "Alas!" he
cried.  "How am I to gain all this?  - I, who could scarce learn
to read or write though the good Father Matthew broke a hazel
stick a day across my shoulders?  "

"You will gain it, fair son, where others have gained it before
you.  You have that which is the first thing of all, a heart of
fire from which other colder hearts may catch a spark.  But you
must have knowledge also of that which warfare has taught us in
olden times.  We know, par exemple, that horsemen alone cannot
hope to win against good foot-soldiers.  Has it not been tried at
Courtrai, at Stirling, and again under my own eyes at Crecy, where
the chivalry of France went down before our bowmen?"

Nigel stared at him, with a perplexed brow.  "Fair sir, my heart
grows heavy as I hear you.  Do you then say that our chivalry can
make no head against archers, billmen and the like?"

"Nay, Nigel, for it has also been very clearly shown that the best
foot-soldiers unsupported cannot hold their own against the mailed
horsemen."

"To whom then is the victory?" asked Nigel.

"To him who can mix his horse and foot, using each to strengthen
the other.  Apart they are weak.  Together they are strong.  The
archer who can weaken the enemy's line, the horseman who can break
it when it is weakened, as was done at Falkirk and Duplin, there
is the secret of our strength.  Now touching this same battle of
Falkirk, I pray you for one instant to give it your attention."

With his whip he began to trace a plan of the Scottish battle upon
the dust, and Nigel with knitted brows was trying hard to muster
his small stock of brains and to profit by the lecture, when their
conversation was interrupted by a strange new arrival.

It was a very stout little man, wheezy and purple with haste, who
scudded down the rampart as if he were blown by the wind, his
grizzled hair flying and his long black gown floating behind him.
He was clad in the dress of a respectable citizen, a black jerkin
trimmed with sable, a black-velvet beaver hat and a white feather.
At the sight of Chandos he gave a cry of joy and quickened his
pace so that when he did at last reach him he could only stand
gasping and waving his hands.

"Give yourself time, good Master Wintersole, give yourself time!"
said Chandos in a soothing voice.

"The papers!" gasped the little man.  "Oh, my Lord Chandos, the
papers - "

"What of the papers, my worthy sir?"

"I swear by our good patron Saint Leonard, it is no fault of mine!
I had locked them in my coffer.  But the lock was forced and the
coffer rifled."

A shadow of anger passed over the soldier's keen face.

"How now, Master Mayor?  Pull your wits together and do not stand
there babbling like a three-year child.  Do you say that some one
hath taken the papers?"

"It is sooth, fair sir!  Thrice I have been Mayor of the town, and
fifteen years burgess and jurat, but never once has any public
matter gone awry through me.  Only last month there came an order
from Windsor on a Tuesday for a Friday banquet, a thousand soles,
four thousand plaice, two thousand mackerel, five hundred crabs, a
thousand lobsters, five thousand whiting - "

"I doubt not, Master Mayor, that you are an excellent fishmonger;
but the matter concerns the papers I gave into your keeping.
Where are they?"

"Taken, fair sir-gone!"

"And who hath dared to take them?"

"Alas!  I know not.  It was but for as long as you would say an
angelus that I left the chamber, and when I came back there was
the coffer, broken and empty, upon my table."

"Do you suspect no one?"

"There was a varlet who hath come with the last few days into my
employ.  He is not to be found, and I have sent horsemen along
both the Udimore road and that to Rye, that they may seize him.
By the help of Saint Leonard they can scarce miss him, for one can
tell him a bow-shot off by his hair."

"Is it red?" asked Chandos eagerly.  "Is it fox-red, and the man a
small man pocked with sun-spots, and very quick in his movements?"

"It is the man himself."

Chandos shook his clenched hand with annoyance, and then set off
swiftly down the street.

"It is Peter the Red Ferret once more!" said he.  "I knew him of
old in France, where he has done us more harm than a company of
men-at-arms.  He speaks English as he speaks French, and he is of
such daring and cunning that nothing is secret from him.  In all
France there is no more dangerous man, for though he is a
gentleman of blood and coat-armor he takes the part of a spy,
because it hath the more danger and therefore the more honor."

"But, my fair lord," cried the Mayor, as he hurried along, keeping
pace with the long strides of the soldier, "I knew that you warned
me to take all care of the papers; but surely there was no matter
of great import in it?  It was but to say what stores were to be
sent after you to Calais?"

"Is that not everything?" cried Chandos impatiently.  "Can you not
see, oh foolish Master Wintersole, that the French suspect we are
about to make some attempt and that they have sent Peter the Red
Ferret, as they have sent him many times before, to get tidings of
whither we are bound?  Now that he knows that the stores are for
Calais, then the French near Calais will take his warning, and so
the King's whole plan come to nothing."

"Then he will fly by water.  We can stop him yet.  He has not an
hour's start."

"It may be that a boat awaits him at Rye or Hythe; but it is more
like that he has all ready to depart from here.  Ah, see yonder!
I'll warrant that the Red Ferret is on board!"

Chandos had halted in front of his inn, and now he pointed down to
the outer harbor, which lay two miles off across the green plain.
It was connected by a long winding canal with the inner dock at
the base of the hill, upon which the town was built.  Between the
two horns formed by the short curving piers a small schooner was
running out to sea, dipping and rising before a sharp southerly
breeze.

"It is no Winchelsea boat," said the Mayor.  "She is longer and
broader in the beam than ours."

"Horses!  bring horses!" cried Chandos.  "Come, Nigel, let us go
further into the matter."

A busy crowd of varlets, archers, and men-at-arms swarmed round
the gateway of the "Sign of the Broom Pod," singing, shouting, and
jostling in rough good-fellowship.  The sight of the tall thin
figure of Chandos brought order amongst them, and a few minutes
later the horses were ready and saddled.  A breakneck ride down a
steep declivity, and then a gallop of two miles over the sedgy
plain carried them to the outer harbor.  A dozen vessels were
lying there, ready to start for Bordeaux or Rochelle, and the quay
was thick with sailors, laborers and townsmen and heaped with
wine-barrels and wool-packs.

"Who is warden here?" asked Chandos, springing from his horse.

"Badding!  Where is Cock Badding?  Badding is warden!" shouted the
crowd.

A moment later a short swarthy man, bull-necked and deep-chested,
pushed through the people.  He was clad in rough russet wool with
a scarlet cloth tied round his black curly head.  His sleeves were
rolled up to his shoulders, and his brown arms, all stained with
grease and tar, were like two thick gnarled branches from an oaken
stump.  His savage brown face was fierce and frowning, and was
split from chin to temple with the long white wale of an
ill-healed wound.

"How now, gentles, will you never wait your turn?" he rumbled in a
deep angry voice.  "Can you not see that we are warping the Rose
of Guienne into midstream for the ebb-tide?  Is this a time to
break in upon us?  Your goods will go aboard in due season, I
promise you; so ride back into the town and find such pleasure as
you may, while I and my mates do our work without let or
hindrance."

"It is the gentle Chandos!" cried some one in the crowd.  "It is
the good Sir John."

The rough harbor-master changed his gruffness to smiles in an
instant.  "Nay, Sir John, what would you?  I pray you to hold me
excused if I was short of speech, but we port-wardens are sore
plagued with foolish young lordlings, who get betwixt us and our
work and blame us because we do not turn an ebb-tide into a flood,
or a south wind into a north.  I pray you to tell me how I can
serve you."

"That boat!" said Chandos, pointing to the already distant sail
rising and falling on the waves.  "What is it?"

Cock Badding shaded his keen eyes with his strong brows hand.
"She has but just gone out," said he.  "She is La Pucelle, a small
wine-sloop from Gascony, home-bound and laden with barrel-staves."

"I pray you did any man join her at the very last?"

"Nay, I know not.  I saw no one."

"But I know," cried a seaman in the crowd.  "I was standing at the
wharf-side and was nigh knocked into the water by a little
redheaded fellow, who breathed as though he had run from the town.
Ere I had time to give him a cuff he had jumped aboard, the ropes
were cast off, and her nose was seaward."

In a few words Chandos made all clear to Badding, the crowd
pressing eagerly round.

"Aye, aye!" cried a seaman, "the good Sir John is right.  See how
she points.  It is Picardy and not Gascony that she will fetch
this journey in spite of her wine-staves."

"Then we must lay her aboard!" cried Cock Badding.  "Come, lads,
here is my own Marie Rose ready to cast off.  Who's for a trip
with a fight at the end of it?"

There was a rush for the boat; but the stout little seaman picked
his men.  "Go back, Jerry!  Your heart is good, but you are
overfat for the work.  You, Luke, and you, Thomas, and the two
Deedes, and William of Sandgate.  You will work the boat.  And now
we need a few men of their hands.  Do you come, little sir?"

"I pray you, my dear lord, to let me go!" cried Nigel.

"Yes, Nigel, you can go, and I will bring your gear over to Calais
this night."

"I will join you there, fair sir, and with the help of Saint Paul
I will bring this Red Ferret with me."

"Aboard, aboard!  Time passes!" cried Badding impatiently, while
already his seamen were hauling on the line and raising the
mainsail.  "Now then, sirrah!  who are you?  It was  Aylward, who
had followed Nigel and was pushing his way aboard.

"Where my master goes I go also," cried Aylward, "so stand clear,
master-shipman, or you may come by a hurt."

"By Saint Leonard!  archer," said Cock Badding, "had I more time I
would give you a lesson ere I leave land.  Stand back and give
place to others!"

"Nay, stand back and give place to me!" cried Aylward, and seizing
Badding round the waist he slung him into the dock.

There was a cry of anger from the crowd, for Badding was the hero
of all the Cinque Ports and had never yet met his match in
manhood.  The epitaph still lingers in which it was said that he
"could never rest until he had foughten his fill."  When,
therefore, swimming like a duck, he reached a rope and pulled
himself hand over hand up to the quay, all stood aghast to see
what fell fate would befall this bold stranger.  But Badding
laughed loudly, dashing the saltwater from his eyes and hair.

"You have fairly won your place, archer," said he.  "You are the
very man for our work.  Where is Black Simon of Norwich?"

A tall dark young man with a long, stern, lean face came forward.
"I am with you, Cock," said he, "and I thank you for my place."

"You can come, Hugh Baddlesmere, and you, Hal Masters, and you,
Dicon of Rye.  That is enough.  Now off, in God's name, or it will
be night ere we can come up with them!"

Already the head-sails and the main-sail had been raised, while a
hundred willing hands poled her off from the wharf.  Now the wind
caught her; heeling over, and quivering with eagerness like an
unleashed hound she flew through the opening and out into the
Channel.  She was a famous little schooner, the Marie Rose of
Winchelsea, and under her daring owner Cock Badding, half trader
and half pirate, had brought back into port many a rich cargo
taken in mid-Channel, and paid for in blood rather than money.
Small as she was, her great speed and the fierce character of her
master had made her a name of terror along the French coast, and
many a bulky Eastlander or Fleming as he passed the narrow seas
had scanned the distant Kentish shore, fearing lest that
ill-omened purple sail with a gold Christopher upon it should
shoot out suddenly from the dim gray cliffs.  Now she was clear of
the land, with the wind on her larboard quarter, every inch of
canvas set, and her high sharp bows smothered in foam, as she dug
through the waves.

Cock Badding trod the deck with head erect and jaunty bearing,
glancing up at the swelling sails and then ahead at the little
tilted white triangle, which stood out clear and hard against the
bright blue sky.  Behind was the lowland of the Camber marshes,
with the bluffs of Rye and Winchelsea, and the line of cliffs
behind them.  On the larboard bow rose the great white walls of
Folkestone and of Dover, and far on the distant sky-line the gray
shimmer of those French cliffs for which the fugitives were
making.

"By Saint Paul!" cried Nigel, looking with eager eyes over the
tossing waters, "it seems to me, Master Badding, that already we
draw in upon them."

The master measured the distance with his keen steady gaze, and
then looked up at the sinking sun.  " We have still four hours of
daylight," said he; "but if we do not lay her aboard ere darkness
falls she will save herself, for the nights are as black as a
wolf's mouth, and if she alter her course I know not how we may
follow her."

"Unless, indeed, you might guess to which port she was bound and
reach it before her."

"Well thought of, little master!" cried Badding.  "If the news be
for the French outside Calais, then Ambleteuse would be nearest to
Saint Omer.  But my sweeting sails three paces to that lubber's
two, and if the wind holds we shall have time and to spare.  How
now, archer?  You do not seem so eager as when you made your way
aboard this boat by slinging me into the sea."

Aylward sat on the upturned keel of a skiff which lay upon the
deck.  He groaned sadly and held his, green face between his two
hands.  "I would gladly sling you into the sea once more,
mastershipman," said he, "if by so doing I could get off this most
accursed vessel of thine.  Or if you would wish to have your turn,
then I would thank you if you would lend me a hand over the side,
for indeed I am but a useless weight upon your deck.  Little did I
think that Samkin Aylward could be turned into a weakling by an
hour of salt water.  Alas the day that ever my foot wandered from
the good red heather of Crooksbury!"

Cock Badding laughed loud and long.  "Nay, take it not to heart,
archer," he cried; "for better men than you or I have groaned upon
this deck.  The Prince himself with ten of his chosen knights
crossed with me once, and eleven sadder faces I never saw.  Yet
within a month they had shown at Crecy that they were no
weaklings, as you will do also, I dare swear, when the time comes.
Keep that thick head of thine down upon the planks, and all will
be well anon.  But we raise her, we raise her with every blast of
the wind!"

It was indeed evident, even to the inexperienced eyes of Nigel,
that the Marie Rose was closing in swiftly upon the stranger.  She
was a heavy, bluff-bowed, broad-sterned vessel which labored
clumsily through the seas.  The swift, fierce little Winchelsea
boat swooping and hissing through the waters behind her was like
some keen hawk whizzing down wind at the back of a flapping
heavy-bodied duck.  Half an hour before La Pucelle had been a
distant patch of canvas.  Now they could see the black hull, and
soon the cut of her sails and the lines of her bulwarks.  There
were at least a dozen men upon her deck, and the twinkle of
weapons from amongst them showed that they were preparing to
resist.  Cock Badding began to muster his own forces.

He had a crew of seven rough, hardy mariners, who had been at his
back in many a skirmish.  They were armed with short swords, but
Cock Badding carried a weapon peculiar to himself, a twenty-pound
blacksmith's hammer, the memory of which, as "Badding's cracker,"
still lingers in the Cinque Ports.  Then there were the eager
Nigel, the melancholy Aylward, Black Simon who was a tried
swordsman, and three archers, Baddlesmere, Masters and Dicon of
Rye, all veterans of the French War.  The numbers in the two
vessels might be about equal; but Badding as he glanced at the
bold harsh faces which looked to him for orders had little fear
for the result.

Glancing round, however, he saw something which was more dangerous
to his plans than the resistance of the enemy.  The wind, which
had become more fitful and feebler, now fell suddenly away, until
the sails hung limp and straight above them.  A belt of calm lay
along the horizon, and the waves around had smoothed down into a
long oily swell on which the two little vessels rose and fell.
The great boom of the Marie Rose rattled and jarred with every
lurch, and the high thin prow pointed skyward one instant and
seaward the next in a way that drew fresh groans from the unhappy
Aylward.  In vain Cock Badding pulled on his sheets and tried hard
to husband every little wandering gust which ruffled for an
instant the sleek rollers.  The French master was as adroit a
sailor, and his boom swung round also as each breath of wind came
up from astern.

At last even these fitful puffs died finally away, and a cloudless
sky overhung a glassy sea.  The sun was almost upon the horizon
behind Dungeness Point, and the whole western heaven was bright
with the glory of the sunset, which blended sea and sky in one
blaze of ruddy light.  Like rollers of molten gold, the long swell
heaved up Channel from the great ocean beyond.  In the midst of
the immense beauty and peace of nature the two little dark specks
with the white sail and the purple rose and fell, so small upon
the vast shining bosom of the waters, and yet so charged with all
the unrest and the passion of life..

The experienced eye of the seaman told him that it was hopeless to
expect a breeze before nightfall.  He looked across at the
Frenchman, which lay less than a quarter of a mile ahead, and
shook his gnarled list at the line of heads which could be seen
looking back over her stern.  One of them waved a white kerchief
in derision, and Cock Badding swore a bitter oath at the sight.

"By Saint Leonard of Winchelsea," he cried, "I will rub my side up
against her yet!  Out with the skiff, lads, and two of you to the
oars.  Make fast the line to the mast, Will.  Do you go in the
boat, Hugh, and I'll make the second.  Now if we bend our backs to
it we may have them yet ere night cover them."

The little skiff was swiftly lowered over the side and the slack
end of the cable fastened to the after thwart.  Cock Badding and
his comrades pulled as if they would snap their oars, and the
little vessel began slowly to lurch forward over the rollers.  But
the next moment a larger skiff had splashed over the side of the
Frenchman, and no less than four seamen were hard at work under
her bows.  If the Marie Rose advanced a yard the Frenchman was
going two.  Again Cock Badding raved and shook his fist.  He
clambered aboard, his face wet with sweat and dark with anger.

"Curse them!  they have had the best of us!" he cried.  "I can do
no more.  Sir John has lost his papers, for indeed now that night
is at hand I can see no way in which we can gain them."

Nigel had leaned against the bulwark during these events, watching
with keen attention the doings of the sailors, and praying
alternately to Saint Paul, Saint George, and Saint Thomas for a
slant of wind which would put them along side their enemy.  He was
silent; but his hot heart was simmering within him.  His spirit
had risen even above the discomfort of the sea, and his mind was
too absorbed in his mission to have a thought for that which had
laid Aylward flat upon the deck.  He had never doubted that Cock
Badding in one way or another would accomplish his end, but when
he heard his speech of despair he bounded off the bulwark and
stood before the seaman with his face flushed and all his soul
afire.

"By Saint Paul!  master-shipman," he cried, "we should never hold
up our heads in honor if we did not go further into the matter!
Let us do some small deed this night upon the water, or let us
never see land again, for indeed we could not wish fairer prospect
of winning honorable advancement."

"With your leave, little master, you speak like a fool," said the
gruff seaman.  "You and all your kind are as children when once
the blue water is beneath you.  Can you not see that there is no
wind, and that the Frenchman can warp her as swiftly as we?  What
then would you do?"

Nigel pointed to the boat which towed astern.  "Let us venture
forth in her," said he, "and let us take this ship or die
worshipful in the attempt."

His bold and fiery words found their echo in the brave rough
hearts around him.  There was a deep-chested shout from both
archers and seamen.  Even Aylward sat up, with a wan smile upon
his green face.

But Cock Badding shook his head.  "I have never met the man who
could lead where I would not follow," said he; "but by Saint
Leonard!  this is a mad business, and I should be a fool if I were
to risk my men and my ship.  Bethink you, little master, that the
skiff can hold only five, though you load her to the water's edge.
If there is a man yonder, there are fourteen, and you have to
climb their side from the boat.  What chance would you have?  Your
boat stove and you in the water - there is the end of it.  No man
of mine goes on such a fool's errand, and so I swear!"

"Then, Master Badding, I must crave the loan of your skiff, for by
Saint Paul!  the good Lord Chandos' papers are not to be so
lightly lost.  If no one else will come, then I will go alone."

The shipman smiled at the words; but the smile died away from his
lips when Nigel, with features set like ivory and eyes as hard as
steel, pulled on the rope so as to bring the skiff under the
counter.  It was very clear that he would do even as he said.  At
the same time Aylward raised his bulky form from the deck, leaned
for a moment against the bulwarks, and then tottered aft to his
master's side.

"Here is one that will go with you," said he, "or he would never
dare show his face to the girls of Tilford again.  Come, archers,
let us leave these salt herrings in their pickle tub and try our
luck out on the water."

The three archers at once ranged themselves on the same side as
their comrade.  They were bronzed, bearded men, short in stature,
as were most Englishmen of that day, but hardy, strong and skilled
with their weapons.  Each drew his string from its waterproof case
and bent the huge arc of his war-bow as he fitted it into the
nocks.

"Now, master, we are at your back," said they as they pulled and
tightened their sword-belts.

But already Cock Badding had been carried away by the hot lust of
battle and had thrown aside every fear and doubt which had clouded
him.  To see a fight and not to be in it was more than he could
bear.

"Nay, have it your own way!" he cried, "and may Saint Leonard help
us, for a madder venture I have never seen!  And yet it may be
worth the trial.  But if it be done let me have the handling of
it, little master, for you know no more of a boat than I do of a
war-horse.  The skiff can bear five and not a man more.  Now, who
will come?"

They had all caught fire, and there was not one who would be left
out.

Badding picked up his hammer.  "I will come myself," said he, "and
you also, little master, since it is your hot head that has
planned it.  Then there is Black Simon, the best sword of the
Cinque Ports.  Two archers can pull on the oars, and it may be
that they can pick off two or three of these Frenchmen before we
close with them.  Hugh Baddlesmere, and you, Dicon of Rye - into
the boat with you!"

"What?  " cried Aylward.  "Am I to be left behind?  I, who am the
Squire's own man?  Ill fare the bowman who comes betwixt me and
yonder boat!"

"Nay, Aylward," said his master, "I order that you stay, for
indeed you are a sick man."

"But now that the waves have sunk I am myself again.  Nay, fair
sir, I pray that you will not leave me behind."

"You must needs take the space of a better man; for what do you
know of the handling of a boat?" said Badding shortly.  "No more
fool's talk, I pray you, for the night will soon fall.  Stand
aside!"

Aylward looked hard at the French boat.  "I could swim ten times
up and down Frensham pond," said he, "and it will be strange if I
cannot go as far as that.  By these finger-bones, Samkin Aylward
may be there as soon as you!"

The little boat with its five occupants pushed off from the side
of the schooner, and dipping and rising, made its slow way toward
the Frenchman.  Badding and one archer had single oars, the second
archer was in the prow, while Black Simon and Nigel huddled into
the stern with the water lapping and hissing at their very elbows.
A shout of defiance rose from the Frenchmen, and they stood in a
line along the side of their vessel shaking their fists and waving
their weapons.  Already the sun was level with Dungeness, and the
gray of evening was blurring sky and water into one dim haze.  A
great silence hung over the broad expanse of nature, and no sound
broke it save the dip and splash of the oars and the slow deep
surge of the boat upon the swell.  Behind them their comrades of
the Marie Rose stood motionless and silent, watching their
progress with eager eyes.

They were near enough now to have a good look at the Frenchmen.
One was a big swarthy man with a long black beard.  He had a red
cap and an ax over his shoulder.  There were ten other
hardy-looking fellows, all of them well armed, and there were
three who seemed to be boys.

"Shall we try a shaft upon them?" asked Hugh Baddlesmere.  "They
are well within our bowshot."

"Only one of you can shoot at a time, for you have no footing,"
said Badding.  "With one foot in the prow and one over the thwart
you will get your stance.  Do what you may, and then we will close
in upon them."

The archer balanced himself in the rolling boat with the deftness
of a man who has been trained upon the sea, for he was born and
bred in the Cinque Ports.  Carefully he nocked his arrow, strongly
he drew it, steadily he loosed it, but the boat swooped at the
instant, and it buried itself in the waves.  The second passed
over the little ship, and the third struck in her black side.
Then in quick succession so quick that two shafts were often in
the air at the same instant - he discharged a dozen arrows, most
of which just cleared the bulwarks and dropped upon the deck.
There was a cry on the Frenchman, and the heads vanished from the
side.

"Enough!" cried Badding.  "One is down, and it may be two.  Close
in, close in, in God's name, before they rally!"

He and the other bent to their oars; but at the same instant there
was a sharp zip in the air and a hard clear sound like a stone
striking a wall.  Baddlesmere clapped his hand to his head,
groaned and fell forward out of the boat, leaving a swirl of blood
upon the surface.  A moment later the same fierce hiss ended in a
loud wooden crash, and a short, thick crossbow-bolt was buried
deep in the side of their boat.

"Close in, close in!" roared Badding, tugging at his oar.  "Saint
George for England!  Saint Leonard for Winchelsea!  Close in!"

But again that fatal crossbow twanged.  Dicon of Rye fell back
with a shaft through his shoulder.  "God help me, I can no more!"
said he.

Badding seized the oar from his hand; but it was only to sweep the
boat's head round and pull her back to the Marie Rose.  The attack
had failed.

"What now, master-shipman?" cried Nigel.  "What has befallen to
stop us?  Surely the matter does not end here?"

"Two down out of five," said Badding, "and twelve at the least
against us.  The odds are too long, little master.  Let us at
least go back, fill up once more, and raise a mantelet against the
bolts, for they have an arbalist which shoots both straight and
hard.  But what we do we must do quickly, for the darkness falls
apace."

Their repulse had been hailed by wild yells of delight from the
Frenchmen, who danced with joy and waved their weapons madly over
their heads.  But before their rejoicings had finished they saw
the little boat creeping out once more from the shadow of the
Marie Rose, a great wooden screen in her bows to protect her from
the arrows.  Without a pause she came straight and fast for her
enemy.  The wounded archer had been put on board, and Aylward
would have had his place had Nigel been able to see him upon the
deck.  The third archer, Hal Masters, had sprung in, and one of
the seamen, Wat Finnis of Hythe.  With their hearts hardened to
conquer or to die, the five ran alongside the Frenchman and sprang
upon her deck.  At the same instant a great iron weight crashed
through the bottom of their skiff, and their feet had hardly left
her before she was gone.  There was no hope and no escape save
victory.

The crossbowman stood under the mast, his terrible weapon at his
shoulder, the steel string stretched taut, the heavy bolt shining
upon the nut.  One life at least he would claim out of this little
band.  Just for one instant too long did he dwell upon his aim,
shifting from the seaman to Cock Badding, whose formidable
appearance showed him to be the better prize.  In that second of
time Hal Masters' string twanged and his long arrow sped through
the arbalister's throat.  He dropped on the deck, with blood and
curses pouring from his mouth.

A moment later Nigel's sword and Badding's hammer had each claimed
a victim and driven back the rush of assailants.  The five were
safe upon the deck, but it was hard for them to keep a footing
there.  The French seamen, Bretons and Normans, were stout,
powerful fellows, armed with axes and swords, fierce fighters and
brave men.  They swarmed round the little band, attacking them
from all sides.  Black Simon felled the black-bearded French
Captain, and at the same instant was cut over the head and lay
with his scalp open upon the deck.  The seaman Wat of Hythe was
killed by a crashing blow from an ax.  Nigel was struck down, but
was up again like a flash, and drove his sword through the man who
had felled him.

But Badding, Masters the archer and he had been hustled back to
the bulwark and were barely holding their own from minute to
minute against the fierce crowd who assailed them, when an arrow
coming apparently from the sea struck the foremost Frenchman to
the heart.  A moment later a boat dashed up alongside and four
more men from the Marie Rose scrambled on to the blood-stained
deck.  With one fierce rush the remaining Frenchmen were struck
down or were seized by their assailants.  Nine prostrate men upon
the deck showed how fierce had been the attack, how desperate the
resistance.

Badding leaned panting upon his blood-clotted hammer.  "By Saint
Leonard!" he cried, " I thought that this little master had been
the death of us all.  God wot you were but just in time, and how
you came I know not.  This archer has had a hand in it, by the
look of him."

Aylward, still pale from his seasickness and dripping from head to
foot with water, had been the first man in the rescue party.

Nigel looked at him in amazement.  "I sought you aboard the ship,
Aylward, but I could not lay eyes on you," said he.

"It was because I was in the water, fair sir, and by my hilt!  it
suits my stomach better than being on it," he answered.  "When you
first set forth I swam behind you, for I saw that the Frenchman's
boat hung by a rope, and I thought that while you kept him in play
I might gain it.  I had reached it when you were driven back, so I
hid behind it in the water and said my prayers as I have not said
them for many a day.  Then you came again, and no one had an eye
for me, so I clambered into it, cut the rope, took the oars which
I found there and brought her back for more men."

"By Saint Paul!  you have acted very wisely and well," said Nigel,
"and I think that of all of us it is you who have won most honor
this day.  But of all these men dead and alive I see none who
resembles that Red Ferret whom my Lord Chandos has described and
who has worked such despite upon us in the past: It would indeed
be an evil chance if he has in spite of all our pains made his way
to France in some other boat."

"That we shall soon find out," said Badding.  "Come with me and we
will search the ship from truck to keel ere he escapes us."

There was a scuttle at the base of the mast which led down into
the body of the vessel, and the Englishmen were approaching this
when a strange sight brought them to a stand.  A round brazen head
had appeared in the square dark opening.  An instant afterward a
pair of shining shoulders followed.  Then slowly the whole figure
of a man in complete plate-armor emerged on the deck.  In his
gauntleted hand he carried a heavy steel mace.  With this uplifted
he moved toward his enemies, silent save for the ponderous clank
of his footfall.  It was an inhuman, machine-like figure, menacing
and terrible, devoid of all expression, slow-moving, inexorable
and awesome.

A sudden wave of terror passed over the English seamen.  One of
them tried to pass and get behind the brazen man, but he was
pinned against the side by a quick movement and his brains dashed
out by a smashing blow from the heavy mace.  Wild panic seized the
others, and they rushed back to the boat.  Aylward strung an
arrow, but his bowstring was damp and the shaft rang loudly upon
the shining breast-plate and glanced off into the sea.  Masters
struck the brazen head with a sword, but the blade snapped without
injuring the helmet, and an instant later the bowman was stretched
senseless on the deck.  The seamen shrank from this terrible
silent creature and huddled in the stern, all the fight gone out
of them.

Again he raised his mace and was advancing on the helpless crowd
where the brave were encumbered and hampered by the weaklings,
when Nigel shook himself clear and bounded forward into the open,
his sword in his hand and a smile of welcome upon his lips.

The sun had set, and one long mauve gash across the western
Channel was closing swiftly into the dull grays of early night.
Above, a few stars began to faintly twinkle; yet the twilight was
still bright enough for an observer to see every detail of the
scene: the Marie Rose, dipping and rising on the long rollers
astern; the broad French boat with its white deck blotched with
blood and littered with bodies; the group of men in the stern,
some trying to advance and some seeking to escape - all a
confused, disorderly, struggling rabble.

Then betwixt them and the mast the two figures: the armed shining
man of metal, with hand upraised, watchful, silent, motionless,
and Nigel, bareheaded and crouching, with quick foot, eager eyes
and fearless happy face, moving this way and that, in and out, his
sword flashing like a gleam of light as he sought at all points
for some opening in the brazen shell before him.

It was clear to the man in armor that if he could but pen his
antagonist in a corner he would beat him down without fail.  But
it was not to be done.  The unhampered man had the advantage of
speed.  With a few quick steps he could always glide to either
side and escape the clumsy rush.  Aylward and Badding had sprung
out to Nigel's assistance; but he shouted to them to stand back,
with such authority and anger in his voice that their weapons
dropped to their sides.  With staring eyes and set features they
stood watching that unequal fight.

Once it seemed that all was over with the Squire, for in springing
back from his enemy he tripped over one of the bodies which
strewed the deck and fell flat upon his back, but with a swift
wriggle he escaped the heavy blow which thundered down upon him,
and springing to his feet he bit deeply into the Frenchman's
helmet with a sweeping cut in return.  Again the mace fell, and
this time Nigel had not quite cleared himself.  His sword was
beaten down and the blow fell partly upon his left shoulder.  He
staggered, and once more the iron club whirled upward to dash him
to the ground.

Quick as a flash it passed through his mind that he could not leap
beyond its reach.  But he might get within it.  In an instant he
had dropped his sword, and springing in he had seized the brazen
man round the waist.  The mace was shortened and the handle jobbed
down once upon the bare flaxen head.  'Then, with a sonorous
clang, and a yell of delight from the spectators, Nigel with one
mighty wrench tore his enemy from the deck and hurled him down
upon his back.  His own head was whirling and he felt that his
senses were slipping away, but already his hunting-knife was out
and pointing through the slit in the brazen helmet.

"Give yourself up, fair sir!" said he.

" Never to fishermen and to archers!  I am a gentleman of coat-
armor.  Kill me!"

"I also am a gentleman of coat-armor.  I promise you quarter."

"Then, sir, I surrender myself to you."

The dagger tinkled down upon the deck.  Seamen and archers ran
forward, to find Nigel half senseless upon his face.  They drew
him off, and a few deft blows struck off the helmet of his enemy.
A head, sharp-featured, freckled and foxy-red, disclosed itself
beneath it.  Nigel raised himself on his elbow for an instant.

"You are the Red Ferret?" said he.

"So my enemies call me," said the Frenchman, with a smile.  "I
rejoice, sir, that I have fallen to so valiant and honorable a
gentleman."

" I thank you, fair sir," said Nigel feebly.  " I also rejoice
that I have encountered so debonair a person, and I shall ever
bear in mind the pleasure which I have had from our meeting."

So saying, he laid his bleeding head upon his enemy's brazen front
and sank into a dead faint.




XV.  HOW THE RED FERRET CAME TO COSFORD


The old chronicler in his "Gestes du Sieur Nigel" has bewailed his
broken narrative, which rose from the fact that out of thirty-one
years of warfare no less than seven were spent by his hero at one
time or another in the recovery from his wounds or from those
illnesses which arose from privation and fatigue.  Here at the
very threshold of his career, on the eve of a great enterprise,
this very fate befell him.

Stretched upon a couch in a low-roofed and ill-furnished chamber,
which looks down from under the machicolated corner turret upon
the inner court of the Castle of Calais, he lay half-unconscious
and impotent, while great deeds were doing under his window.
Wounded in three places, and with his head splintered by the sharp
pommel of the Ferret's mace, he hovered betwixt life and death,
his shattered body drawing him downward, his youthful spirit
plucking him up.

As in some strange dream he was aware of that deed of arms within
the courtyard below.  Dimly it came back to his memory afterwards
the sudden startled shout, the crash of metal, the slamming of
great gates, the roar of many voices, the clang, clang, clang, as
of fifty lusty smiths upon their anvils, and then at last the
dwindling of the hubbub, the low groans and sudden shrill cries to
the saints, the measured murmur of many voices, the heavy clanking
of armored feet.

Sometime in that fell struggle he must have drawn his weakened
body as far as the narrow window, and hanging to the iron bars
have looked down on the wild scene beneath him.  In the red glare
of torches held from windows and from roof he saw the rush and
swirl of men below, the ruddy light shining back from glowing
brass and gleaming steel.  As a wild vision it came to him
afterward, the beauty and the splendor, the flying lambrequins,
the jeweled crests, the blazonry and richness of surcoat and of
shield, where sable and gules, argent and vair, in every pattern
of saltire, bend or chevron, glowed beneath him like a drift of
many-colored blossoms, tossing, sinking, stooping into shadow,
springing into light.  There glared the blood-red gules of
Chandos, and he saw the tall figure of his master, a thunderbolt
of war, raging in the van.  There too were the three black
chevrons on the golden shield which marked the noble Manny.  That
strong swordsman must surely be the royal Edward himself, since
only he and the black-armored swift-footed youth at his side were
marked by no symbol of heraldry.  "Manny!  Manny!  George for
England!" rose the deep-throated bay, and ever the gallant
counter-cry: "A Chargny!  A Chargny!  Saint Denis for France!"
thundered amid the clash and thudding of the battle.

Such was the vague whirling memory still lingering in Nigel's mind
when at last the mists cleared away from it and he found himself
weak but clear on the low couch in the corner turret.  Beside him,
crushing lavender betwixt his rough fingers and strewing it over
floor and sheets, was Aylward the archer.  His longbow leaned at
the foot of the bed, and his steel cap was balanced on the top of
it, while he himself, sitting in his shirt sleeves, fanned off the
flies and scattered the fragrant herbs over his helpless master.

"By my hilt!" he cried with a sudden shout, every tooth in his
head gleaming with joy, "I thank the Virgin and all the saints for
this blessed sight!  I had not dared to go back to Tilford had I
lost you.  Three weeks have you lain there and babbled like a
babe, but now I see in your eyes that you are your own man again."

"I have indeed had some small hurt," said Nigel feebly; "but it is
shame and sorrow that I should lie here if there is work for my
hands.  Whither go you, archer? "

"To tell the good Sir John that you are mending."

"Nay, bide with me a little longer, Aylward.  I can call to mind
all that has passed.  There was a bickering of small boats, was
there not, and I chanced upon a most worthy person and exchanged
handstrokes with him?  He was my prisoner, was he not?"

"He was, fair sir."

"And where is he now?"

"Below in the castle."

A smile stole over Nigel's pale face.  "I know what I will do with
him," said he.

"I pray you to rest, fair sir," said Aylward anxiously.  "The
King's own leech saw you this morning, and he said that if the
bandage was torn from your head you would surely die."

"Nay, good archer, I will not move.  But tell me what befell upon
the boat?"

"There is little to tell, fair sir.  Had this Ferret not been his
own squire and taken so long a time to don his harness it is
likely that they would have had the better of us.  He did not
reach the battle till his comrades were on their backs.  Him we
took to the Marie Rose, because he was your man.  The others were
of no worth, so we threw them into the sea."

"The quick and the dead?"

"Every man of them."

"It was an evil deed."

Aylward shrugged his shoulders.  "I tried to save one boy," said
he; "but Cock Badding would not have it, and he had Black Simon
and the others at his back.  `It is the custom of the Narrow
Seas,' said they: `Today for them; to-morrow for us.' - Then they
tore him from his hold and cast him screaming over the side.  By
my hilt!  I have no love for the sea and its customs, so I care
not if I never set foot on it again when it has once borne me back
to England."

"Nay, there are great happenings upon the sea, and many worthy
people to be found upon ships," said Nigel.  "In all parts, if one
goes far enough upon the water, one would find those whom it would
be joy to meet.  If one crosses over the Narrow Sea, as we have
done, we come on the French who are so needful to us; for how else
would we win worship?  Or if you go south, then in time one may
hope to come to the land of the unbelievers, where there is fine
skirmishing and much honor for him who will venture his person.
Bethink you, archer, how fair a life it must be when one can ride
forth in search of advancement with some hope of finding many
debonair cavaliers upon the same quest, and then if one be
overborne one has died for the faith, and the gates of Heaven are
open before you.  So also the sea to the north is a help to him
who seeks honor, for it leads to the country of the Eastlanders
and to those parts where the heathen still dwell who turn their
faces from the blessed Gospel.  There also a man might find some
small deeds to do, and by Saint Paul!  Aylward, if the French hold
the truce and the good Sir John permits us, I would fain go down
into those parts.  The sea is a good friend to the cavalier, for
it takes him where he may fulfil his vows."

Aylward shook his head, for his memories were too recent; but he
said nothing, because at this instant the door opened and Chandos
entered.  With joy in his face he stepped forward to the couch and
took Nigel's hand in his.  Then he whispered a word in Aylward's
ear, who hurried from the room.

"Pardieu!  this is a good sight," said the knight.  "I trust that
you will soon be on your feet again."

"I crave your pardon, my honored lord, that I have been absent
from your side," said Nigel.

"In truth my heart was sore for you, Nigel; for you have missed
such a night as comes seldom in any man's life.  All went even as
we had planned.  The postern gate was opened, and a party made
their way in; but we awaited them, and all were taken or slain.
But the greater part of the French had remained without upon the
plain of Nieullet, so we took horse and went out against them.
When we drew near them they were surprised, but they made good
cheer among themselves, calling out to each other: `If we fly we
lose all.  It is better to fight on, in the hopes that the day may
be ours.'  This was heard by our people in the van, who cried out
to them: `By Saint George!  you speak truth.  Evil befall him who
thinks of flying!'  So they held their ground like worthy people
for the space of an hour, and there were many there whom it is
always good to meet: Sir Geoffrey himself, and Sir Pepin de Werre,
with Sir John de Landas, old Ballieul of the Yellow Tooth, and his
brother Hector the Leopard.  But above all Sir Eustace de
Ribeaumont was at great pains to meet us worthily, and he was at
handstrokes with the King for a long time.  Then, when we had
slain or taken them, all the prisoners were brought to a feast
which was ready for them, and the knights of England waited upon
them at the table and made good cheer with them.  And all this,
Nigel, we owe to you."

The Squire flushed with pleasure at the words.  "Nay, most honored
lord, it was but a small thing which I have been able to do.  But
I thank God and our Lady that I have done some service, since it
has pleased you to take me with you to the wars.  Should it chance
- "

But the words were cut short upon Nigel's lips, and he lay back
with amazed eyes staring from his pallid face.  The door of his
little chamber had opened, and who was this, the tall stately man
with the noble presence, the high forehead, the long handsome
face, the dark, brooding eyes - who but the noble Edward of
England?"

"Ha, my little cock of Tilford Bridge, I still bear you in mind,"
said he.  "Right glad I was to hear that you had found your wits
again, and I trust that I have not helped to make you take leave
of them once more."

Nigel's stare of astonishment had brought a smile to the King's
lips.  Now the Squire stammered forth some halting words of
gratitude at the honor done to him.

"Nay, not a word,"  said the King.  "But in sooth it is a joy to
my heart to see the son of my old comrade Eustace Loring carry
himself so bravely.  Had this boat got before us with news of our
coming, then all our labor had been in vain, and no Frenchman
ventured to Calais that night.  But above all I thank you for that
you have delivered into my hands one whom I had vowed to punish in
that he has caused us more scathe by fouler means than any living
man.  Twice have I sworn that Peter the Red Ferret shall hang, for
all his noble blood and coat-armor, if ever he should fall into my
hands.  Now at last his time has come; but I would not put him to
death until you, who had taken him, could be there to see it done.
Nay, thank me not, for I could do no less, seeing that it is to
you that I owe him."

But it was not thanks which Nigel was trying to utter.  It was
hard to frame his words, and yet they must be said.  "Sire," he
murmured, "it ill becomes me to cross your royal will - "

The dark Plantagenet wrath gathered upon the King's high brow and
gloomed in his fierce deep-set eyes.  "By God's dignity!  no man
has ever crossed it yet and lived unscathed.  How now, young sir,
what mean such words, to which we are little wont?  Have a care,
for this is no light thing which you venture."

"Sire," said Nigel, "in all matters in which I am a free man I am
ever your faithful liege, but some things there are which may not
be done."

"How?" cried the King.  "In spite of my will?"

"In spite of your will, sire," said Nigel, sitting up on his
couch, with white face and blazing eyes.

"By the Virgin!" the angry King thundered, "we are come to a
pretty pass!  You have been held too long at home, young man.  The
overstabled horse will kick.  The unweathered hawk will fly at
check.  See to it, Master Chandos!  He is thine to break, and I
hold you to it that you break him.  And what is it that Edward of
England may not do, Master Loring?"

Nigel faced the King with a face as grim as his own.  "You may not
put to death the Red Ferret."

"Pardieu!  And why?"

"Because he is not thine to slay, sire.  Because he is mine.
Because I promised him his life, and it is not for you, King
though you be, to constrain a man of gentle blood to break his
plighted word and lose his honor."

Chandos laid his soothing hand upon his Squire's shoulder.
"Excuse him, sire; he is weak from his wounds," said he.  "Perhaps
we have stayed overlong, for the leech has ordered repose."

But the angry King was not easily to be appeased.  "I am not wont
to be so browbeat," said he hotly.  "This is your Squire, Master
John.  How comes it that you can stand there and listen to his
pert talk, and say no word to chide him?  Is this how you guide
your household?  Have you not taught him that every promise given
is subject to the King's consent, and that with him only lie the
springs of life and death?  If he is sick, you at least are hale.
Why stand you there in silence?"

"My liege," said Chandos gravely, "I have served you for over a
score of years, and have shed my blood through as many wounds in
your cause, so that you should not take my words amiss.  But
indeed I should feel myself to be no true man if I did not tell
you that my Squire Nigel, though perchance he has spoken more
bluntly than becomes him, is none the less right in this matter,
and that you are wrong.  For bethink you, sire - "

"Enough!" cried the King, more furious than ever.  "Like master,
like man, and I might have known why it is that this saucy Squire
dares to bandy words with his sovereign lord.  He does but give
out what he hath taken in.  John, John, you grow overbold.  But
this I tell you, and you also, young man, that as God is my help,
ere the sun has set this night the Red Ferret will hang as a
warning to all spies and traitors from the highest tower of
Calais, that every ship upon the Narrow Seas, and every man for
ten miles round may see him as he swings and know how heavy is the
hand of the English King.  Do you bear it in mind, lest you also
may feel its weight!"  With a glare like an angry lion he walked
from the room, and the iron-clamped door clanged loudly behind
him.

Chandos and Nigel looked ruefully at each other.  Then the knight
patted his Squire upon his bandaged head.

"You have carried yourself right well, Nigel.  I could not wish
for better.  Fear not.  All will be well."

"My fair and honored lord," cried Nigel, "I am heavy at heart, for
indeed I could do no other, and yet I have brought trouble upon
you."

"Nay, the clouds will soon pass.  If he does indeed slay this
Frenchman, you have done all that lay within your power, and your
mind may rest easy."

"I pray that it will rest easy in Paradise," said Nigel; "for at
the hour that I hear that I am dishonored and my prisoner slain I
tear this bandage from my head and so end all things.  I will not
live when once my word is broken."

"Nay, fair son, you take this thing too heavily," said Chandos,
with a grave face.  "When a man has done all he may there remains
no dishonor; but the King hath a kind heart for all his hot head,
and it may be that if I see him I will prevail upon him.  Bethink
you how he swore to hang the six burghers of this very town, and
yet he pardoned them.  So keep a high heart, fair son, and I will
come with good news ere evening."

For three hours, as the sinking sun traced the shadow higher and
ever higher upon the chamber wall, Nigel tossed feverishly upon
his couch, his ears straining for the footfall of Aylward or of
Chandos, bringing news of the fate of the prisoner.  At last the
door flew open, and there before him stood the one man whom he
least expected, and yet would most gladly have seen.  It was the
Red Ferret himself, free and joyous.

With swift furtive steps he was across the room and on his knees
beside the couch, kissing the pendent hand.  "You have saved me,
most noble sir!" he cried.  "The gallows was fixed and the rope
slung, when the good Lord Chandos told the King that you would die
by your own hand if I were slain.  `Curse this mule-headed
Squire!' he cried.  `In God's name let him have his prisoner, and
let him do what he will with him so long as he troubles me no
more!'  So here I have come, fair sir, to ask you what I shall
do."

"I pray you to sit beside me and be at your ease," said Nigel.
"In a few words I will tell you what I would have you do.  Your
armor I will keep, that I may have some remembrance of my good
fortune in meeting so valiant a gentleman.  We are of a size, and
I make little doubt that I can wear it.  Of ransom I would ask a
thousand crowns."

"Nay, nay!" cried the Ferret.  "It would be a sad thing if a man
of my position was worth less than five thousand."

"A thousand will suffice, fair sir, to pay my charges for the war.
You will not again play the spy, nor do us harm until the truce is
broken."

"That I will swear."

"And lastly there is a journey that you shall make."

The Frenchman's face lengthened.  "Where you order I must go,"
said he; "but I pray you that it is not to the Holy Land."

"Nay," said Nigel; "but it is to a land which is holy to me.  You
will make your way back to Southampton."

"I know it well.  I helped to burn it down some years ago."

"I rede you to say nothing of that matter when you get there.  You
will then journey as though to London until you come to a fair
town named Guildford."

"I have heard of it.  The King hath a hunt there."

"The same.  You will then ask for a house named Cosford, two
leagues from the town on the side of a long hill."

"I will bear it in mind."

"At Cosford you will see a good knight named Sir John Buttesthorn,
and you will ask to have speech with his daughter, the Lady Mary."

"I will do so; and what shall I say to the Lady Mary, who lives at
Cosford on the slope of a long hill two leagues from the fair town
of Guildford?"

"Say only that I sent my greeting, and that Saint Catharine has
been my friend - only that and nothing more.  And now leave me, I
pray you, for my head is weary and I would fain have sleep."

Thus it came about that a month later on the eve of the Feast of
Saint Matthew, the Lady Mary, as she walked front Cosford gates,
met with a strange horseman, richly clad, a serving-man behind
him, looking shrewdly about him with quick blue eyes, which
twinkled from a red and freckled face.  At sight of her he doffed
his hat and reined his horse.

"This house should be Cosford," said he.  "Are you by chance the
Lady Mary who dwells there?"

The lady bowed her proud dark head.

"Then," said he, "Squire Nigel Loring sends you greeting and tells
you that Saint Catharine has been his friend."  Then turning to
his servant he cried: "Heh, Raoul, our task is done!  Your master
is a free man once more.  Come, lad, come, the nearest port to
France!  Hola!  Hola!  Hola!"  And so without a word more the two,
master and man, set spurs to their horses and galloped like madmen
down the long slope of Hindhead, until as she looked after them
they were but two dark dots in the distance, waist-high in the
ling and the bracken.

She turned back to the house, a smile upon her face.  Nigel had
sent her greeting.  A Frenchman had brought it.  His bringing it
had made him a freeman.  And Saint Catherine had been Nigel's
friend.  It was at her shrine that he had sworn that three deeds
should be done ere he should set eyes upon her again.  In the
privacy of her room the Lady Mary sank upon her prie-dieu and
poured forth the thanks of her heart to the Virgin that one deed
was accomplished; but even as she did so her joy was overcast by
the thought of those two others which lay before him.




XVI.  HOW THE KING'S COURT FEASTED IN CALAIS CASTLE


It was a bright sunshiny morning when Nigel found himself at last
able to leave his turret chamber and to walk upon the rampart of
the castle.  There was a brisk northern wind, heavy and wet with
the salt of the sea, and he felt, as he turned his face to it,
fresh life and strength surging in his blood and bracing his
limbs.  He took his hand from Aylward's supporting arm and stood
with his cap off, leaning on the rampart and breathing in the cool
strong air.  Far off upon the distant sky-line, half hidden by the
heave of the waves, was the low white fringe of cliffs which
skirted England.  Between him and them lay the broad blue Channel,
seamed and flecked with flashing foam, for a sharp sea was running
and the few ships in sight were laboring heavily.  Nigel's eyes
traversed the wide-spread view, rejoicing in the change from the
gray wall of his cramped chamber.  Finally they settled upon a
strange object at his very feet.

It was a long trumpet-shaped engine of leather and iron bolted
into a rude wooden stand and fitted with wheels.  Beside it lay a
heap of metal slugs and lumps of stone.  The end of the machine
was raised and pointed over the battlement.  Behind it stood an
iron box which Nigel opened.  It was filled with a black coarse
powder, like gritty charcoal.

"By Saint Paul!" said he, passing his hands over the engine, "I
have heard men talk of these things, but never before have I seen
one.  It is none other than one of those wondrous new-made
bombards."

"In sooth, it is even as you say," Aylward answered, looking at it
with contempt and dislike in his face.  "I have seen them here
upon the ramparts, and have also exchanged a buffet or two with
him who had charge of them.  He was jack-fool enough to think that
with this leather pipe he could outshoot the best archer in
Christendom.  I lent him a cuff on the ear that laid him across
his foolish engine."

"It is a fearsome thing," said Nigel, who had stooped to examine
it.  "We live in strange times when such things can be made.  It
is loosed by fire, is it not, which springs from the black dust?"

"By my hilt!  fair sir, I know not.  And yet I call to mind that
ere we fell out this foolish bombardman did say something of the
matter.  The fire-dust is within and so also is the ball.  Then
you take more dust from this iron box and place it in the hole at
the farther end-so.  It is now ready.  I have never seen one
fired, but I wot that this one could be fired now."

"It makes a strange sound, archer, does it not?" said Nigel
wistfully.

"So I have heard, fair sir - even as the bow twangs, so it also
has a sound when you loose it."

"There is no one to hear, since we are alone upon the rampart, nor
can it do scathe, since it points to sea.  I pray you to loose it
and I will listen to the sound."  He bent over the bombard with an
attentive ear, while Aylward, stooping his earnest brown face over
the touch-hole, scraped away diligently with a flint and steel.  A
moment later both he and Nigel were seated some distance off upon
the ground while amid the roar of the discharge and the thick
cloud of smoke they had a vision of the long black snakelike
engine shooting back upon the recoil.  For a minute or more they
were struck motionless with astonishment while the reverberations
died away and the smoke wreaths curled slowly up to the blue
heavens.

"Good lack!" cried Nigel at last, picking himself up and looking
round him.  "Good lack, and Heaven be my aid!  I thank the Virgin
that all stands as it did before.  I thought that the castle had
fallen."

"Such a bull's bellow I have never heard," cried Aylward, rubbing
his injured limbs.  "One could hear it from Frensham Pond to
Guildford Castle.  I would not touch one again - not for a hide of
the best land in Puttenham!"

"It may fare ill with your own hide, archer, if you do," said an
angry voice behind them.  Chandos had stepped from the open door
of the corner turret and stood looking at them with a harsh gaze.
Presently, as the matter was made clear to him his face relaxed
into a smile.

"Hasten to the warden, archer, and tell him how it befell.  You
will have the castle and the town in arms.  I know not what the
King may think of so sudden an alarm.  And you, Nigel, how in the
name of the saints came you to play the child like this?"

"I knew not its power, fair lord."

"By my soul, Nigel, I think that none of us know its power.  I can
see the day when all that we delight in, the splendor and glory of
war, may all go down before that which beats through the plate of
steel as easily as the leathern jacket.  I have bestrode my
warhorse in my armor and have looked down at the sooty, smoky
bombardman beside me, and I have thought that perhaps I was the
last of the old and he the first of the new; that there would come
a time when he and his engines would sweep you and me and the rest
of us from the field."

"But not yet, I trust, honored sir?"

"No, not yet, Nigel.  You are still in time to win your spurs even
as your fathers did.  How is your strength?"

"I am ready for any task, my good and honored lord."

"It is well, for work awaits us - good work, pressing work, work
of peril and of honor.  Your eyes shine and your face flushes,
Nigel.  I live my own youth over again as I look at you.  Know
then that though there is truce with the French here, there is not
truce in Brittany where the houses of Blois and of Montfort still
struggle for the dukedom.  Half Brittany fights for one, and half
for the other.  The French have taken up the cause of Blois, and
we of Montfort, and it is such a war that many a great leader,
such as Sir Walter Manny, has first earned his name there.  Of
late the war has gone against us, and the bloody hands of the
Rohans, of Gaptooth Beaumanoir, of Oliver the Flesher and others
have been heavy upon our people.  The last tidings have been of
disaster, and the King's soul is dark with wrath for that his
friend and comrade Gilles de St. Pol has been done to death in the
Castle of La Brohiniere.  He will send succors to the country, and
we go at their head.  How like you that, Nigel?"

"My honored lord, what could I ask for better?"

"Then have your harness ready, for we start within the week.  Our
path by land is blocked by the French, and we go by sea.  This
night the King gives a banquet ere he returns to England, and your
place is behind my chair.  Be in my chamber that you may help me
to dress, and so we will to the hall together."

With satin and with samite, with velvet and with fur, the noble
Chandos was dressed for the King's feast, and Nigel too had donned
his best silk jupon, faced with the five scarlet roses, that he
might wait upon him.  In the great hall of Calais Castle the
tables were set, a high table for the lords, a second one for the
less distinguished knights, and a third at which the squires might
feast when their masters were seated.

Never had Nigel in his simple life at Tilford pictured a scene of
such pomp and wondrous luxury.  The grim gray walls were covered
from ceiling to floor with priceless tapestry of Arras, where
hart, hounds and huntsmen circled the great hall with one long
living image of the chase.  Over the principal table drooped a
line of banners, and beneath them rows of emblazoned shields upon
the wall carried the arms of the high noblemen who sat beneath.
The red light of cressets and of torches burned upon the badges of
the great captains of England.  The lions and lilies shone over
the high dorseret chair in the center, and the same august device
marked with the cadency label indicated the seat of the Prince,
while glowing to right and to left were the long lines of noble
insignia, honored in peace and terrible in war.  There shone the
gold and sable of Manny, the engrailed cross of Suffolk, the red
chevron of Stafford, the scarlet and gold of Audley, the blue lion
rampant of the Percies, the silver swallows of Arundel, the red
roebuck of the Montacutes, the star of the de Veres, the silver
scallops of Russell, the purple lion of de Lacy, and the black
crosses of Clinton.

A friendly Squire at Nigel's elbow whispered the names of the
famous warriors beneath.  "You are young Loring of Tilford, the
Squire of Chandos, are you not?" said he.  "My name is Delves, and
I come from Doddington in Cheshire.  I am the Squire of Sir James
Audley, yonder round-backed man with the dark face and close-
cropped beard, who hath the Saracen head as a crest above him."

"I have heard of him as a man of great valor," said Nigel, gazing
at him with interest.

"Indeed, you may well say so, Master Loring.  He is the bravest
knight in England, and in Christendom also, as I believe.  No man
hath done such deeds of valor."

Nigel looked at his new acquaintance with hope in his eyes.  "You
speak as it becomes you to speak when you uphold your own master,"
said he.  "For the same reason, Master Delves, and in no spirit of
ill-will to you, it behooves me to tell you that he is not to be
compared in name or fame with the noble knight on whom I wait.
Should you hold otherwise, then surely we can debate the matter in
whatever way or time may please you best."

Delves smiled good-humoredly.  "Nay, be not so hot," said he.
"Had you upheld any other knight, save perhaps Sir Walter Manny, I
had taken you at your word, and your master or mine would have had
place for a new Squire.  But indeed it is only truth that no
knight is second to Chandos, nor would I draw my sword to lower
his pride of place.  Ha, Sir James' cup is low!  I must see to
it!"  He darted off, a flagon of Gascony in his hand.  "The King
hath had good news to-night," he continued when he returned.  "I
have not seen him in so merry a mind since the night when we took
the Frenchmen and he laid his pearl chaplet upon the head of de
Ribeaumont.  See how he laughs, and the Prince also.  That laugh
bodes some one little good, or I am the more mistaken.  Have a
care!  Sir John's plate is empty."

It was Nigel's turn to dart away; but ever in the intervals he
returned to the corner whence he could look down the hall and
listen to the words of the older Squire.  Delves was a short,
thick-set man past middle age, weather-beaten and scarred, with a
rough manner and bearing which showed that he was more at his ease
in a tent than a hall.  But ten years of service had taught him
much, and Nigel listened eagerly to his talk.

"Indeed the King hath some good tidings," he continued.  "See now,
he has whispered it to Chandos and to Manny.  Manny spreads it on
to Sir Reginald Cobham, and he to Robert Knolles, each smiling
like the Devil over a friar."

"Which is Sir Robert Knolles?" asked Nigel with interest.  "I have
heard much of him and his deeds."

"He is the tall hard-faced man in yellow silk, he with the
hairless cheeks and the split lip.  He is little older than
yourself, and his father was a cobbler in Chester, yet he has
already won the golden spurs.  See how he dabs his great hand in
the dish and hands forth the gobbets.  He is more used to a
camp-kettle than a silver plate.  The big man with the black beard
is Sir Bartholomew Berghersh, whose brother is the Abbot of
Beaulieu.  Haste, haste! for the boar's head is come and the
plate's to be cleaned."

The table manners of our ancestors at this period would have
furnished to the modern eye the strangest mixture of luxury and of
barbarism.  Forks were still unknown, and the courtesy fingers,
the index and the middle of the left hand, took their place.  To
use any others was accounted the worst of manners.  A crowd of
dogs lay among the rushes growling at each other and quarreling
over the gnawed bones which were thrown to them by the feasters.
A slice of coarse bread served usually as a plate, but the King's
own high table was provided with silver platters, which were wiped
by the Squire or page after each course.  On the other hand the
table-linen was costly, and the courses, served with a pomp and
dignity now unknown, comprised such a variety of dishes and such
complex marvels of cookery as no modern banquet could show.
Besides all our domestic animals and every kind of game, such
strange delicacies as hedgehogs, bustards, porpoises, squirrels,
bitterns and cranes lent variety to the feast.

Each new course, heralded by a flourish of silver trumpets, was
borne in by liveried servants walking two and two, with rubicund
marshals strutting in front and behind, bearing white wands in
their hands, not only as badges of their office, but also as
weapons with which to repel any impertinent inroad upon the dishes
in the journey from the kitchen to the hall.  Boar's heads,
enarmed and endored with gilt tusks and flaming mouths, were
followed by wondrous pasties molded to the shape of ships, castles
and other devices with sugar seamen or soldiers who lost their own
bodies in their fruitless defense against the hungry attack.
Finally came the great nef, a silver vessel upon wheels laden with
fruit and sweetmeats which rolled with its luscious cargo down the
line of guests.  Flagons of Gascony, of Rhine wine, of Canary and
of Rochelle were held in readiness by the attendants; but the age,
though luxurious, was not drunken, and the sober habits of the
Norman had happily prevailed over the license of those Saxon
banquets where no guest might walk from the table without a slur
upon his host.  Honor and hardihood go ill with a shaking hand or
a blurred eye.

Whilst wine, fruit and spices were handed round the high tables
the squires had been served in turn at the farther end of the
hall.  Meanwhile round the King there had gathered a group of
statesmen and soldiers, talking eagerly among themselves.  The
Earl of Stafford, the Earl of Warwick, the Earl of Arundel, Lord
Beauchamp and Lord Neville were assembled at the back of his
chair, with Lord Percy and Lord Mowbray at either side.  The
little group blazed with golden chains and jeweled chaplets, flame
colored paltocks and purple tunics.

Of a sudden the King said something over his shoulder to Sir
William de Pakyngton the herald, who advanced and stood by the
royal chair.  He was a tall and noble-featured man, with long
grizzled beard which rippled down to the gold-linked belt girdling
his many-colored tabard.  On his head he had placed the heraldic
barret-cap which bespoke his dignity, and he slowly raised his
white wand high in the air, while a great hush fell upon the hall.

"My lords of England," said he, "knight bannerets, knights,
squires, and all others here present of gentle birth and
coat-armor, know that your dread and sovereign lord, Edward, King
of England and of France, bids me give you greeting and commands
you to come hither that he may have speech with you."

In an instant the tables were deserted and the whole company had
clustered in front of the King's chair.  Those who had sat on
either side of him crowded inward so that his tall dark figure
upreared itself amid the dense circle of his guests.

With a flush upon his olive cheeks and with pride smoldering in
his dark eyes, he looked round him at the eager faces of the men
who had been his comrades from Sluys and Cadsand to Crecy and
Calais.  They caught fire from that warlike gleam in his masterful
gaze, and a sudden wild, fierce shout pealed up to the vaulted
ceiling, a soldierly thanks for what was passed and a promise for
what was to come.  The King's teeth gleamed in a quick smile, and
his large white hand played with the jeweled dagger in his belt.

"By the splendor of God!" said he in a loud clear voice, "I have
little doubt that you will rejoice with me this night, for such
tidings have come to my ears as may well bring joy to everyone of
you.  You know well that our ships have suffered great scathe from
the Spaniards, who for many years have slain without grace or ruth
all of my people who have fallen into their cruel hands.  Of late
they have sent their ships into Flanders, and thirty great cogs
and galleys lie now at Sluys well-filled with archers and
men-at-arms and ready in all ways for battle.  I have it to-day
from a sure hand that, having taken their merchandise aboard,
these ships will sail upon the next Sunday and will make their way
through our Narrow Sea.  We have for a great time been
long-suffering to these people, for which they have done us many
contraries and despites, growing ever more arrogant as we grow
more patient.  It is in my mind therefore that we hie us to-morrow
to Winchelsea, where we have twenty ships, and make ready to sally
out upon them as they pass.  May God and Saint George defend the
right!"

A second shout, far louder and fiercer than the first, came like a
thunderclap after the King's words.  It was the bay of a fierce
pack to their trusted huntsman.

Edward laughed again as he looked round at the gleaming eyes, the
waving arms and the flushed joyful faces of his liegemen.  "Who
hath fought against these Spaniards?" he asked.  " Is there anyone
here who can tell us what manner of men they be?"

A dozen hands went up into the air; but the King turned to the
Earl of Suffolk at his elbow.

"You have fought them, Thomas?" said he.

"Yes, sire, I was in the great sea-fight eight years ago at the
Island of Guernsey, when Lord Lewis of Spain held the sea against
the Earl of Pembroke."

"How found you them, Thomas?"

"Very excellent people, sire, and no man could ask for better.  On
every ship they have a hundred crossbowmen of Genoa, the best in
the world, and their spearmen also are very hardy men.  They would
throw great cantles of iron from the tops of the masts, and many
of our people met their death through it.  If we can bar their way
in the Narrow Sea, then there will be much hope of honor for all
of us."

"Your words are very welcome, Thomas," said the King, "and I make
no doubt that they will show themselves to be very worthy of what
we prepare for them.  To you I give a ship, that you may have the
handling of it.  You also, my dear son, shall have a ship, that
evermore honor may be thine."

"I thank you, my fair and sweet father," said the Prince, with joy
flushing his handsome boyish face.

"The leading ship shall be mine.  But you shall have one, Walter
Manny, and you, Stafford, and you, Arundel, and you, Audley, and
you, Sir Thomas Holland, and you, Brocas, and you, Berkeley, and
you, Reginald.  The rest shall be awarded at Winchelsea, whither
we sail to-morrow.  Nay, John, why do you pluck so at my sleeve?"

Chandos was leaning forward, with an anxious face.  "Surely, my
honored lord, I have not served you so long and so faithfully that
you should forget me now.  Is there then no ship for me?"

The King smiled, but shook his head.  "Nay, John, have I not given
you two hundred archers and a hundred men-at-arms to take with you
into Brittany?  I trust that your ships will be lying in Saint
Malo Bay ere the Spaniards are abreast of Winchelsea.  What more
would you have, old war-dog?  Wouldst be in two battles at once?"

"I would be at your side, my liege, when the lion banner is in the
wind once more.  I have ever been there.  Why should you cast me
now?  I ask little, dear lord - a galley, a balinger, even a
pinnace, so that I may only be there."

"Nay, John, you shall come.  I cannot find it in my heart to say
you nay.  I will find you place in my own ship, that you may
indeed be by my side."

Chandos stooped and kissed the King's hand.  "My Squire?" he
asked.

The King's brows knotted into a frown.  "Nay, let him go to
Brittany with the others," said he harshly.  "I wonder, John, that
you should bring back to my memory this youth whose pertness is
too fresh that I should forget it.  But some one must go to
Brittany in your stead, for the matter presses and our people are
hard put to it to hold their own."  He cast his eyes over the
assembly, and they rested upon the stern features of Sir Robert
Knolles.

"Sir Robert," he said, "though you are young in years you are
already old in war, and I have heard that you are as prudent in
council as you are valiant in the field.  To you I commit the
charge of this venture to Brittany in place of Sir John Chandos,
who will follow thither when our work has been done upon the
waters.  Three ships lie in Calais port and three hundred men are
ready to your hand.  Sir John will tell you what our mind is in
the matter.  And now, my friends and good comrades, you will haste
you each to his own quarters, and you will make swiftly such
preparations as are needful, for, as God is my aid, I will sail
with you to Winchelsea to-morrow!"

Beckoning to Chandos, Manny and a few of his chosen leaders, the
King led them away to an inner chamber, where they might discuss
the plans for the future.  At the same time the assembly broke up,
the knights in silence and dignity, the squires in mirth and
noise, but all joyful at heart for the thought of the great days
which lay before them.




XVII.  THE SPANIARDS ON THE SEA


Day had not yet dawned when Nigel was in the chamber of Chandos
preparing him for his departure and listening to the last cheery
words of advice and direction from his noble master.  That same
morning, before the sun was half-way up the heaven, the King's
great nef Philippa, bearing within it the most of those present at
his banquet the night before, set its huge sail, adorned with the
lions and the lilies, and turned its brazen beak for England.
Behind it went five smaller cogs crammed with squires, archers and
men-at-arms.

Nigel and his companions lined the ramparts of the castle and
waved their caps as the bluff, burly vessels, with drums beating
and trumpets clanging, a hundred knightly pennons streaming from
their decks and the red cross of England over all, rolled slowly
out to the open sea.  Then when they had watched them until they
were hull down they turned, with hearts heavy at being left
behind, to make ready for their own more distant venture.

It took them four days of hard work ere their preparations were
complete, for many were the needs of a small force sailing to a
strange country.  Three ships had been left to them, the cog
Thomas of Romney, the Grace Dieu of Hythe, and the Basilisk of
Southampton, into each of which one hundred men were stowed,
besides the thirty seamen who formed the crew.  In the hold were
forty horses, amongst them Pommers, much wearied by his long
idleness, and homesick for the slopes of Surrey where his great
limbs might find the work he craved.  Then the food and the water,
the bow-staves and the sheaves of arrows, the horseshoes, the
nails, the hammers, the knives, the axes, the ropes, the vats of
hay, the green fodder and a score of other things were packed
aboard.  Always by the side of the ships stood the stern young
knight Sir Robert, checking, testing, watching and controlling,
saying little, for he was a man of few words, but with his eyes,
his hands, and if need be his heavy, dog-whip, wherever they were
wanted.

The seamen of the Basilisk, being from a free port, had the old
feud against the men of the Cinque Ports, who were looked upon by
the other mariners of England as being unduly favored by the King.
A ship of the West Country could scarce meet with one from the
Narrow Seas without blood flowing.  Hence sprang sudden broils on
the quay side, when with yell and blow the Thomases and Grace
Dieus, Saint Leonard on their lips and murder in their hearts,
would fall upon the Basilisks.  Then amid the whirl of cudgels and
the clash of knives would spring the tiger figure of the young
leader, lashing mercilessly to right and left like a tamer among
his wolves, until he had beaten them howling back to their work.
Upon the morning of the fourth day all was ready, and the ropes
being cast off the three little ships were warped down the harbor
by their own pinnaces until they were swallowed up in the swirling
folds of a Channel mist.

Though small in numbers, it was no mean force which Edward had
dispatched to succor the hard-pressed English garrisons in
Brittany.  There was scarce a man among them who was not an old
soldier, and their leaders were men of note in council and in war.
Knolles flew his flag of the black raven aboard the Basilisk.
With him were Nigel and his own Squire John Hawthorn.  Of his
hundred men, forty were Yorkshire Dalesmen and forty were men of
Lincoln, all noted archers, with old Wat of Carlisle, a grizzled
veteran of border warfare, to lead them.

Already Aylward by his skill and strength had won his way to an
under-officership amongst them, and shared with Long Ned
Widdington, a huge North Countryman, the reputation of coming next
to famous Wat Carlisle in all that makes an archer.  The men-
at-arms too were war-hardened soldiers, with Black Simon of
Norwich, the same who had sailed from Winchelsea, to lead them.
With his heart filled with hatred for the French who had slain all
who were dear to him, he followed like a bloodhound over land and
sea to any spot where he might glut his vengeance.  Such also were
the men who sailed in the other ships, Cheshire men from the Welsh
borders in the cog Thomas, and Cumberland men, used to Scottish
warfare, in the Grace Dieu.

Sir James Astley hung his shield of cinquefoil ermine over the
quarter of the Thomas.  Lord Thomas Percy, a cadet of Alnwick,
famous already for the high spirit of that house which for ages
was the bar upon the landward gate of England, showed his blue
lion rampant as leader of the Grace Dieu.  Such was the goodly
company Saint-Malo bound, who warped from Calais Harbor to plunge
into the thick reek of a Channel mist.

A slight breeze blew from the eastward, and the highended,
round-bodied craft rolled slowly down the Channel.  The mist rose
a little at times, so that they had sight of each other dipping
and rising upon a sleek, oily sea, but again it would sink down,
settling over the top, shrouding the great yard, and finally
frothing over the deck until even the water alongside had vanished
from their view and they were afloat on a little raft in an ocean
of vapor.  A thin cold rain was falling, and the archers were
crowded under the shelter of the overhanging poop and forecastle,
where some spent the hours at dice, some in sleep, and many in
trimming their arrows or polishing their weapons.

At the farther end, seated on a barrel as a throne of honor, with
trays and boxes of feathers around him, was Bartholomew the bowyer
and Fletcher, a fat, bald-headed man, whose task it was to see
that every man's tackle was as it should be, and who had the
privilege of selling such extras as they might need.  A group of
archers with their staves and quivers filed before him with
complaints or requests, while half a dozen of the seniors gathered
at his back and listened with grinning faces to his comments and
rebukes.

"Canst not string it?" he was saying to a young bowman.  "Then
surely the string is overshort or the stave overlong.  It could
not by chance be the fault of thy own baby arms more fit to draw
on thy hosen than to dress a warbow.  Thou lazy lurdan, thus is it
strung!"  He seized the stave by the center in his right hand,
leaned the end on the inside of his right foot, and then, pulling
the upper nock down with the left hand, slid the eye of the string
easily into place.  "Now I pray thee to unstring it again,"
handing it to the bowman.

The youth with an effort did so, but he was too slow in
disengaging his fingers, and the string sliding down with a snap
from the upper nock caught and pinched them sorely against the
stave.  A roar of laughter, like the clap of a wave, swept down
the deck as the luckless bowman danced and wrung his hand.

"Serve thee well right, thou redeless fool!" growled the old
bowyer.  "So fine a bow is wasted in such hands.  How now, Samkin?
I can teach you little of your trade, I trow.  Here is a bow
dressed as it should be; but it would, as you say, be the better
for a white band to mark the true nocking point in the center of
this red wrapping of silk.  Leave it and I will tend to it anon.
And you, Wat?  A fresh head on yonder stele?  Lord, that a man
should carry four trades under one hat, and be bowyer, fletcher,
stringer and headmaker!  Four men's work for old Bartholomew and
one man's pay!"

"Nay, say no more about that," growled an old wizened bowman, with
a brown-parchment skin and little beady eyes.  "It is better in
these days to mend a bow than to bend one.  You who never looked a
Frenchman in the face are pricked off for ninepence a day, and I,
who have fought five stricken fields, can earn but fourpence."

"It is in my mind, John of Tuxford, that you have looked in the
face more pots of mead than Frenchmen," said the old bowyer.  "I
am swinking from dawn to night, while you are guzzling in an
alestake.  How now, youngster?  Overbowed?  Put your bow in the
tiller.  It draws at sixty pounds - not a pennyweight too much for
a man of your inches.  Lay more body to it, lad, and it will come
to you.  If your bow be not stiff, how can you hope for a twenty-
score flight.  Feathers?  Aye, plenty and of the best.  Here,
peacock at a groat each.  Surely a dandy archer like you,
Tom Beverley, with gold earrings in your ears, would have no
feathering but peacocks?"

"So the shaft fly straight, I care not of the feather," said the
bowman, a tall young Yorkshireman, counting out pennies on the
palm of his horny hand.

"Gray goose-feathers are but a farthing.  These on the left are a
halfpenny, for they are of the wild goose, and the second feather
of a fenny goose is worth more than the pinion of a tame one.
These in the brass tray are dropped feathers, and a dropped
feather is better than a plucked one.  Buy a score of these, lad,
and cut them saddle-backed or swine-backed, the one for a dead
shaft and the other for a smooth flyer, and no man in the company
will swing a better-fletched quiver over his shoulder."

It chanced that the opinion of the bowyer on this and other points
differed from that of Long Ned of Widdington, a surly
straw-bearded Yorkshireman, who had listened with a sneering face
to his counsel.  Now he broke in suddenly upon the bowyer's talk.
"You would do better to sell bows than to try to teach others how
to use them," said he; "for indeed, Bartholomew, that head of
thine has no more sense within it than it has hairs without.  If
you had drawn string for as many months as I have years you would
know that a straight-cut feather flies smoother than a swine-
backed, and pity it is that these young bowmen have none to teach
them better!"

This attack upon his professional knowledge touched the old bowyer
on the raw.  His fat face became suffused with blood and his eyes
glared with fury as he turned upon the archer.  "You seven-foot
barrel of lies!" he cried.  " All-hallows be my aid, and I will
teach you to open your slabbing mouth against me!  Pluck forth
your sword and stand out on yonder deck, that we may see who is
the man of us twain.  May I never twirl a shaft over my thumb nail
if I do not put Bartholomew's mark upon your thick head!"

A score of rough voices joined at once in the quarrel, some
upholding the bowyer and others taking the part of the North
Countryman.  A red-headed Dalesman snatched up a sword, but was
felled by a blow from the fist of his neighbor.  Instantly, with a
buzz like a swarm of angry hornets, the bowmen were out on the
deck; but ere a blow was struck Knolles was amongst them with
granite face and eyes of fire.

"Stand apart, I say!  I will warrant you enough fighting to cool
your blood ere you see England once more.  Loring, Hawthorn, cut
any man down who raises his hand.  Have you aught to say, you
fox-haired rascal?"  He thrust his face within two inches of that
of the red man who had first seized his sword.  The fellow shrank
back, cowed, from his fierce eyes.  " Now stint your noise, all of
you, and stretch your long ears.  Trumpeter, blow once more!"

A bugle call had been sounded every quarter of an hour so as to
keep in touch with the other two vessels who were invisible in the
fog.  Now the high clear note rang out once more, the call of a
fierce sea-creature to its mates, but no answer came back from the
thick wall which pent them in.  Again and again they called, and
again and again with bated breath they waited for an answer.

"Where is the Shipman?" asked Knolles.  " What is your name,
fellow?  Do you dare call yourself master-mariner?"

"My name is Nat Dennis, fair sir," said the gray-bearded old
seaman.  "It is thirty years since first I showed my cartel and
blew trumpet for a crew at the water-gate of Southampton.  If any
man may call himself master-mariner, it is surely I."

"Where are our two ships?"

"Nay, sir, who can say in this fog?"

"Fellow, it was your place to hold them together."

"I have but the eyes God gave me, fair sir, and they cannot see
through a cloud."

"Had it been fair, I, who am a soldier, could have kept them in
company.  Since it was foul, we looked to you, who are called a
mariner, to do so.  You have not done it.  You have lost two of my
ships ere the venture is begun."

"Nay, fair sir, I pray you to consider - "

"Enough words!" said Knolles sternly.  "Words will not give me
back my two hundred men.  Unless I find them before I come to
Saint-Malo, I swear by Saint Wilfrid of Ripon that it will be an
evil day for you!  Enough!  Go forth and do what you may!"

For five hours with a light breeze behind them they lurched
through the heavy fog, the cold rain still matting their beards
and shining on their faces.  Sometimes they could see a circle of
tossing water for a bowshot or so in each direction, and then the
wreaths would crawl in upon them once more and bank them thickly
round.  They had long ceased to blow the trumpet for their missing
comrades, but had hopes when clear weather came to find them still
in sight.  By the shipman's reckoning they were now about midway
between the two shores.

Nigel was leaning against the bulwarks, his thoughts away in the
dingle at Cosford and out on the heather-clad slopes of Hindhead,
when something struck his ear.  It was a thin clear clang of
metal, pealing out high above the dull murmur of the sea, the
creak of the boom and the flap of the sail.  He listened, and
again it was borne to his ear.

"Hark, my lord!" said he to Sir Robert.  "Is there not a sound in
the fog?  "

They both listened together with sidelong heads.  Then it rang
clearly forth once more, but this time in another direction.  It
had been on the bow; now it was on the quarter.  Again it sounded,
and again.  Now it had moved to the other bow; now back to the
quarter again; now it was near; and now so far that it was but a
faint tinkle on the ear.  By this time every man on board, seamen,
archers and men-at-arms, were crowding the sides of the vessel.
All round them there were noises in the darkness, and yet the wall
of fog lay wet against their very faces.  And the noises were such
as were strange to their ears, always the same high musical
clashing.

The old shipman shook his head and crossed himself.

"In thirty years upon the waters I have never heard the like,"
said he.  "The Devil is ever loose in a fog.  Well is he named the
Prince of Darkness."

A wave of panic passed over the vessel, and these rough and hardy
men who feared no mortal foe shook with terror at the shadows of
their own minds.  They stared into the cloud with blanched faces
and fixed eyes, as though each instant some fearsome shape might
break in upon them.  And as they stared there came a gust of wind.
For a moment the fog-bank rose and a circle of ocean lay before
them.

It was covered with vessels.  On all sides they lay thick upon its
surface.  They were huge caracks, high-ended and portly, with red
sides and bulwarks carved and crusted with gold.  Each had one
great sail set and was driving down channel on the same course at
the Basilisk.  Their decks were thick with men, and from their
high poops came the weird clashing which filled the air.  For one
moment they lay there, this wondrous fleet, surging slowly
forward, framed in gray vapor.  The next the clouds closed in and
they had vanished from view.  There was a long hush, and then a
buzz of excited voices.

"The Spaniards!" cried a dozen bowmen and sailors.

"I should have known it," said the shipman.  "I call to mind on
the Biscay Coast how they would clash their cymbals after the
fashion of the heathen Moor with whom they fight; but what would
you have me do, fair sir?  If the fog rises we are all dead men."

"There were thirty ships at the least," said Knolles, with a moody
brow.  "If we have seen them I trow that they have also seen us.
They will lay us aboard."

"Nay, fair sir, it is in my mind that our, ship is lighter and
faster than theirs.  If the fog hold another hour we should be
through them."

"Stand to your arms!" yelled Knolles.  "Stand to your arms - !
They are on us!"

The Basilisk had indeed been spied from the Spanish Admiral's ship
before the fog closed down.  With so light a breeze, and such a
fog, he could not hope to find her under sail.  But by an evil
chance not a bowshot from the great Spanish carack was a low
galley, thin and swift, with oars which could speed her against
wind or tide.  She also had seen the Basilisk and it was to her
that the Spanish leader shouted his orders.  For a few minutes she
hunted through the fog, and then sprang out of it like a lean and
stealthy beast upon its prey.  It was the sight of the long dark
shadow gliding after them which had brought that wild shout of
alarm from the lips of the English knight.  In another instant the
starboard oars of the galley had been shipped, the sides of the
two vessels grated together, and a stream of swarthy, red-capped
Spaniards were swarming up the sides of the Basilisk and dropped
with yells of triumph upon her deck.

For a moment it seemed as if the vessel was captured without a
blow being struck, for the men of the English ship had run wildly
in all directions to look for their arms.  Scores of archers might
be seen under the shadow of the forecastle and the poop bending
their bowstaves to string them with the cords from their
waterproof cases.  Others were scrambling over saddles, barrels
and cases in wild search of their quivers.  Each as he came upon
his arrows pulled out a few to lend to his less fortunate
comrades.  In mad haste the men-at-arms also were feeling and
grasping in the dark corners, picking up steel caps which would
not fit them, hurling them down on the deck, and snatching eagerly
at any swords or spears that came their way.

The center of the ship was held by the Spaniards; and having slain
all who stood before them, they were pressing up to either end
before they were made to understand that it was no fat sheep but a
most fierce old wolf which they had taken by the ears.

If the lesson was late, it was the more thorough.  Attacked on
both sides and hopelessly outnumbered, the Spaniards, who had
never doubted that this little craft was a merchant-ship, were cut
off to the last man.  It was no fight, but a butchery.  In vain
the survivors ran screaming prayers to the saints and threw
themselves down into the galley alongside.  It also had been
riddled with arrows from the poop of the Basilisk, and both the
crew on the deck and the galley-slaves in the outriggers at either
side lay dead in rows under the overwhelming shower from above.
>From stem to rudder every foot of her was furred with arrows.  It
was but a floating coffin piled with dead and dying men, which
wallowed in the waves behind them as the Basilisk lurched onward
and left her in the fog.

In their first rush on to the Basilisk, the Spaniards had seized
six of the crew and four unarmed archers.  Their throats had been
cut and their bodies tossed overboard.  Now the Spaniards who
littered the deck, wounded and dead, were thrust over the side in
the same fashion.  One ran down into the hold and had to be hunted
and killed squealing under the blows like a rat in the darkness.
Within half an hour no sign was left of this grim meeting in the
fog save for the crimson splashes upon bulwarks and deck.  The
archers, flushed and merry, were unstringing their bows once more,
for in spite of the water glue the damp air took the strength from
the cords.  Some were hunting about for arrows which might have
stuck inboard, and some tying up small injuries received in the
scuffle.  But an anxious shadow still lingered upon the face of
Sir Robert, and he peered fixedly about him through the fog.

"Go among the archers, Hawthorne," said he to his Squire.  "Charge
them on their lives to make no sound!  You also, Loring.  Go to
the afterguard and say the same to them.  We are lost if one of
these great ships should spy us."

For an hour with bated breath they stole through the fleet, still
hearing the cymbals clashing all round them, for in this way the
Spaniards held themselves together.  Once the wild music came from
above their very prow, and so warned them to change their course.
Once also a huge vessel loomed for an instant upon their quarter,
but they turned two points away from her, and she blurred and
vanished.  Soon the cymbals were but a distant tinkling, and at
last they died gradually away.

"It is none too soon," said the old shipman, pointing to a
yellowish tint in the haze above them.  "See yonder!  It is the
sun which wins through.  It will be here anon.  Ah!  said I not
so?"

A sickly sun, no larger and far dimmer than the moon, had indeed
shown its face, with cloud-wreaths smoking across it.  As they
looked up it waxed larger and brighter before their eyes - a
yellow halo spread round it, one ray broke through, and then a
funnel of golden light poured down upon them, widening swiftly at
the base.  A minute later they were sailing on a clear blue sea
with an azure cloud-flecked sky above their heads, and such a
scene beneath it as each of them would carry in his memory while
memory remained.

They were in mid-channel.  The white and green coasts of Picardy
and of Kent lay clear upon either side of them.  The wide channel
stretched in front, deepening from the light blue beneath their
prow to purple on the far sky-line.  Behind them was that thick
bank of cloud from which they had just burst.  It lay like a gray
wall from east to west, and through it were breaking the high
shadowy forms of the ships of Spain.  Four of them had already
emerged, their red bodies, gilded sides and painted sails shining
gloriously in the evening sun.  Every instant a fresh golden spot
grew out of the fog, which blazed like a star for an instant, and
then surged forward to show itself as the brazen beak of the great
red vessel which bore it.  Looking back, the whole bank of cloud
was broken by the widespread line of noble ships which were
bursting through it.  The Basilisk lay a mile or more in front of
them and two miles clear of their wing.  Five miles farther off,
in the direction of the French coast, two other small ships were
running down Channel.  A cry of joy from Robert Knolles and a
hearty prayer of gratitude to the saints from the old shipman
hailed them as their missing comrades, the cog Thomas and the
Grace Dieu.

But fair as was the view of their lost friends, and wondrous the
appearance of the Spanish ships, it was not on those that the eyes
of the men of the Basilisk were chiefly bent.  A greater sight lay
before them-a sight which brought them clustering to the
forecastle with eager eyes and pointing fingers.  The English
fleet was coming forth from the Winchelsea Coast.  Already before
the fog lifted a fast galleass had brought the news down Channel
that the Spanish were on the sea, and the King's fleet was under
way.  Now their long array of sails, gay with the coats and colors
of the towns which had furnished them, lay bright against the
Kentish coast from Dungeness Point to Rye.  Nine and twenty ships
were there from Southampton, Shoreham, Winchelsea, Hastings, Rye,
Hythe, Romney, Folkestone, Deal, Dover and Sandwich.  With their
great sails slued round to catch the wind they ran out, whilst the
Spanish, like the gallant foes that they have ever been, turned
their heads landward to meet them.  With flaunting banners and
painted sails, blaring trumpets and clashing cymbals, the two
glittering fleets, dipping and rising on the long Channel swell,
drew slowly together.

King Edward had been lying all day in his great ship the Philippa,
a mile out from the Camber Sands, waiting for the coming of the
Spaniards.  Above the huge sail which bore the royal arms flew the
red cross of England.  Along the bulwarks were shown the shields
of forty knights, the flower of English chivalry, and as many
pennons floated from the deck.  The high ends of the ship
glittered with the weapons of the men-at-arms, and the waist was
crammed with the archers.  From time to time a crash of nakers and
blare of trumpets burst from the royal ship, and was answered by
her great neighbors, the Lion on which the Black Prince flew his
flag, the Christopher with the Earl of Suffolk, the Salle du Roi
of Robert of Namur, and the Grace Marie of Sir Thomas Holland.
Farther off lay the White Swan, bearing the arms of Mowbray, the
Palmer of Deal, flying the Black Head of Audley, and the Kentish
man under the Lord Beauchamp.  The rest lay, anchored but ready,
at the mouth of Winchelsea Creek.

The King sat upon a keg in the fore part of his ship, with little
John of Richmond, who was no more than a schoolboy, perched upon
his knee.  Edward was clad in the black velvet jacket which was
his favorite garb, and wore a small brown-beaver hat with a white
plume at the side.  A rich cloak of fur turned up with miniver
drooped from his shoulders.  Behind him were a score of his
knights, brilliant in silks and sarcenets, some seated on an
upturned boat and some swinging their legs from the bulwark.

In front stood John Chandos in a party-colored jupon, one foot
raised upon the anchor-stock, picking at the strings of his guitar
and singing a song which he had learned at Marienburg when last he
helped the Teutonic knights against the heathen.  The King, his
knights, and even the archers in the waist below them, laughed at
the merry lilt and joined lustily in the chorus, while the men of
the neighboring ships leaned over the side to hearken to the deep
chant rolling over the waters.

But there came a sudden interruption to the song.  A sharp, harsh
shout came down from the lookout stationed in the circular top at
the end of the mast.  "I spy a sail-two sails!" he cried.

John Bunce the King's shipman shaded his eyes and stared at the
long fog-bank which shrouded the northern channel.  Chandos, with
his fingers over the strings of his guitar, the King, the knights,
all gazed in the same direction.  Two small dark shapes had burst
forth, and then after some minutes a third.

"Surely they are the Spaniards?" said the King.

"Nay, sire," the seaman answered, "the Spaniards are greater ships
and are painted red.  I know not what these may be."

"But I could hazard a guess!" cried Chandos.  "Surely they are the
three ships with my own men on their way to Brittany."

"You have hit it, John," said the King.  "But look, I pray you!
What in the name of the Virgin is that?"

Four brilliant stars of flashing light had shone out from
different points of the cloud-bank.  The neat instant as many tall
ships had swooped forth into the sunshine.  A fierce shout rang
from the King's ship, and was taken up all down the line, until
the whole coast from Dungeness to Winchelsea echoed the warlike
greeting.  The King sprang up with a joyous face.

"The game is afoot, my friends!" said he.  "Dress, John!  Dress,
Walter!  Quick all of you!  Squires, bring the harness!  Let each
tend to himself, for the time is short."

A strange sight it was to see these forty nobles tearing off their
clothes and littering the deck with velvets and satins, whilst the
squire of each, as busy as an ostler before a race, stooped and
pulled and strained and riveted, fastening the bassinets, the
legpieces, the front and the back plates, until the silken
courtier had become the man of steel.  When their work was
finished, there stood a stern group of warriors where the light
dandies had sung and jested round Sir John's guitar.  Below in
orderly silence the archers were mustering under their officers
and taking their allotted stations.  A dozen had swarmed up to
their hazardous post in the little tower in the tops.

"Bring wine, Nicholas!" cried the King.  "Gentlemen, ere you close
your visors I pray you to take a last rouse with me.  You will be
dry enough, I promise you, before your lips are free once more.
To what shall we drink, John?"

"To the men of Spain," said Chandos, his sharp face peering like a
gaunt bird through the gap in his helmet.  "May their hearts be
stout and their spirits high this day!"

"Well said, John!" cried the King, and the knights laughed
joyously as they drank.  "Now, fair sirs, let each to his post!  I
am warden here on the forecastle.  Do you, John, take charge of
the afterguard.  Walter, James, William, Fitzallan, Goldesborough,
Reginald - you will stay with me!  John, you may pick whom you
will and the others will bide with the archers.  Now bear straight
at the center, master-shipman.  Ere yonder sun sets we will bring
a red ship back as a gift to our ladies, or never look upon a
lady's face again."

The art of sailing into a wind had not yet been invented, nor was
there any fore-and-aft canvas, save for small headsails with which
a vessel could be turned.  Hence the English fleet had to take a
long slant down channel to meet their enemies; but as the
Spaniards coming before the wind were equally anxious to engage
there was the less delay.  With stately pomp and dignity, the two
great fleets approached.

It chanced that one fine carack had outstripped its consorts and
came sweeping along, all red and gold, with a fringe of twinkling
steel, a good half-mile before the fleet.  Edward looked at her
with a kindling eye, for indeed she was a noble sight with the
blue water creaming under her gilded prow.

"This is a most worthy and debonair vessel, Master Bunce," said he
to the shipman beside him.  "I would fain have a tilt with her.  I
pray you to hold us straight that we may bear her down."

"If I hold her straight, then one or other must sink, and it may
be both," the seaman answered.

"I doubt not that with the help of our Lady we shall do our part,"
said the King.  "Hold her straight, master-shipman, as I have told
you."

Now the two vessels were within arrow flight, and the bolts from
the crossbowmen pattered upon the English ship.  These short thick
devil's darts were everywhere humming like great wasps through the
air, crashing against the bulwarks, beating upon the deck, ringing
loudly.  on the armor of the knights, or with a soft muffled thud
sinking to the socket in a victim.

The bowmen along either side of the Philippa had stood motionless
waiting for their orders, but now there was a sharp shout from
their leader, and every string twanged together.  The air was full
of their harping, together with the swish of the arrows, the
long-drawn keening of the bowmen and the short deep bark of the
under-officers.  "Steady, steady!  Loose steady!  Shoot wholly
together!  Twelve score paces!  Ten score!  Now eight!  Shoot
wholly together!"  Their gruff shouts broke through the high
shrill cry like the deep roar of a wave through the howl of the
wind.

As the two great ships hurtled together the Spaniard turned away a
few points so that the blow should be a glancing one.  None the
less it was terrific.  A dozen men in the tops of the carack were
balancing a huge stone with the intention of dropping it over on
the English deck.  With a scream of horror they saw the mast
cracking beneath them.  Over it went, slowly at first, then
faster, until with a crash it came down on its side, sending them
flying like stones from a sling far out into the sea.  A swath of
crushed bodies lay across the deck where the mast had fallen.  But
the English ship had not escaped unscathed.  Her mast held, it is
true, but the mighty shock not only stretched every man flat upon
the deck, but had shaken a score of those who lined her sides into
the sea.  One bowman was hurled from the top, and his body fell
with a dreadful crash at the very side of the prostrate King upon
the forecastle.  Many were thrown down with broken arms and legs
from the high castles at either end into the waist of the ship.
Worst of all, the seams had been opened by the crash and the water
was gushing in at a dozen places.

But these were men of experience and of discipline, men who had
already fought together by sea and by land, so that each knew his
place and his duty.  Those who could staggered to their feet and
helped up a score or more of knights who were rolling and clashing
in the scuppers unable to rise for the weight of their armor.  The
bowmen formed up as before.  The seamen ran to the gaping seams
with oakum and with tar.  In ten minutes order had been restored
and the Philippa, though shaken and weakened, was ready for battle
once more.  The King was glaring round him like a wounded boar.

"Grapple my ship with that," he cried, pointing to the crippled
Spaniard, "for I would have possession of her!"

But already the breeze had carried them past it, and a dozen
Spanish ships were bearing down full upon them.

"We cannot win back to her, lest we show our flank to these
others," said the shipman.

"Let her go, her way!" cried the knights.  "You shall have better
than her."

"By Saint George! you speak the truth," said the King, for she is
ours when we have time to take her.  These also seem very worthy
ships which are drawing up to us, and I pray you, master-shipman,
that you will have a tilt with the nearest."

A great carack was within a bowshot of them and crossing their
bows.  Bunce looked up at his mast, and he saw that already it was
shaken and drooping.  Another blow and it would be over the side
and his ship a helpless log upon the water.  He jammed his helm
round therefore, and ran his ship alongside the Spaniard, throwing
out his hooks and iron chains as he did so.

They, no less eager, grappled the Philippa both fore and aft, and
the two vessels, linked tightly together, surged slowly over the
long blue rollers.  Over their bulwarks hung a cloud of men locked
together in a desperate struggle, sometimes surging forward on to
the deck of the Spaniard, sometimes recoiling back on to the
King's ship, reeling this way and that, with the swords flickering
like silver flames above them, while the long-drawn cry of rage
and agony swelled up like a wolf's howl to the calm blue heaven
above them.

But now ship after ship of the English had come up, each throwing
its iron over the nearest Spaniard and striving to board her high
red sides.  Twenty ships were drifting in furious single combat
after the manner of the Philippa, until the whole surface of the
sea was covered with a succession of these desperate duels.  The
dismasted carack, which the King's ship had left behind it, had
been carried by the Earl of Suffolk's Christopher, and the water
was dotted with the heads of her crew.  An English ship had been
sunk by a huge stone discharged from an engine, and her men also
were struggling in the waves, none having leisure to lend them a
hand.  A second English ship was caught between two of the Spanish
vessels and overwhelmed by a rush of boarders so that not a man of
her was left alive.  On the other hand, Mowbray and Audley had
each taken the caracks which were opposed to them, and the battle
in the center, after swaying this way and that, was turning now in
favor of the Islanders.

The Black Prince, with the Lion, the Grace Marie and four other
ships had swept round to turn the Spanish flank; but the movement
was seen, and the Spaniards had ten ships with which to meet it,
one of them their great carack the St. Iago di Compostella.  To
this ship the Prince had attached his little cog and strove
desperately to board her, but her side was so high and the defense
so desperate that his men could never get beyond her bulwarks but
were hurled down again and again with a clang and clash to the
deck beneath.  Her side bristled with crossbowmen, who shot
straight down on to the packed waist of the Lion, so that the dead
lay there in heaps.  But the most dangerous of all was a swarthy
black-bearded giant in the tops, who crouched so that none could
see him, but rising-every now and then with a huge lump of iron
between his hands, hurled it down with such force that nothing
would stop it.  Again and again these ponderous bolts crashed
through the deck and hurtled down into the bottom of the ship,
starting the planks and shattering all that came in their way.

The Prince, clad in that dark armor which gave him his name, was
directing the attack from the poop when the shipman rushed wildly
up to him with fear on his face.

"Sire!" he cried.  "The ship may not stand against these blows.  A
few more will sink her!  Already the water floods inboard."

The Prince looked up, and as he did so the shaggy beard showed
once more and two brawny arms swept downward.  A great slug,
whizzing down, beat a gaping hole in the deck, and fell rending
and riving into the hold below.  The master-mariner tore his
grizzled hair.

"Another leak!" he cried.  "I pray to Saint Leonard to bear us up
this day!  Twenty of my shipmen are bailing with buckets, but the
water rises on them fast.  The vessel may not float another hour."

The Prince had snatched a crossbow from one of his attendants and
leveled it at the Spaniard's tops.  At the very instant when the
seaman stood erect with a fresh bar in his hands, the bolt took
him full in the face, and his body fell forward over the parapet,
hanging there head downward.  A howl of exultation burst from the
English at the sight, answered by a wild roar of anger from the
Spaniards.  A seaman had run from the Lion's hold and whispered in
the ear of the shipman.  He turned an ashen face upon the Prince.

"It is even as I say, sire.  The ship is sinking beneath our
feet!" he cried.

"The more need that we should gain another," said he.  "Sir Henry
Stokes, Sir Thomas Stourton, William, John of Clifton, here.  lies
our road!  Advance my banner, Thomas de Mohun!  On, and the day is
ours!"

By a desperate scramble a dozen men, the Prince at their bead,
gained a footing on the edge of the Spaniard's deck.  Some slashed
furiously to clear a space, others hung over, clutching the rail
with one hand and pulling up their comrades from below.  Every
instant that they could hold their own their strength increased,
till twenty had become thirty and thirty forty, when of a sudden
the newcomers, still reaching forth to their comrades below, saw
the deck beneath them reel and vanish in a swirling sheet of foam.
The Prince's ship had foundered.

A yell went up from the Spaniards as they turned furiously upon
the small band who had reached their deck.  Already the Prince and
his men had carried the poop, and from that high station they beat
back their swarming enemies.  But crossbow darts pelted and
thudded among their ranks till a third of their number were
stretched upon the planks.  Lined across the deck they could
hardly keep an unbroken front to the leaping, surging crowd who
pressed upon them.  Another rush, or another after that, must
assuredly break them, for these dark men of Spain, hardened by an
endless struggle with the Moors, were fierce and stubborn
fighters.  But hark to this sudden roar upon the farther side of
them

"Saint George!  Saint George!  A Knolles to the rescue!"  A small
craft had run alongside and sixty men had swarmed on the deck of
the St. Iago.  Caught between two fires, the Spaniards wavered and
broke.  The fight became a massacre.  Down from the poop sprang
the Prince's men.  Up from the waist rushed the new-corners.
There were five dreadful minutes of blows and screams and prayers
with struggling figures clinging to the bulwarks and sullen
splashes into the water below.  Then it was over, and a crowd of
weary, overstrained men leaned panting upon their weapons, or lay
breathless and exhausted upon the deck of the captured carack.

The Prince had pulled up his visor and lowered his beaver.  He
smiled proudly as he gazed around him and wiped his streaming
face.  "Where is the shipman?  he asked.  "Let him lead us against
another ship."

"Nay, sire, the shipman and all his men have stink in the Lion,"
said Thomas de Mohun, a young knight of the West Country, who
carried the standard.  "We have lost our ship and the half of our
following.  I fear that we can fight no more."

"It matters the less since the day is already ours," said the
Prince, looking over the sea.  "My noble father's royal banner
flies upon yonder Spaniard.  Mowbray, Audley, Suffolk, Beauchamp,
Namur, Tracey, Stafford, Arundel, each has his flag over a scarlet
carack, even as mine floats over this.  See, yonder squadron is
already far beyond our reach.  But surely we owe thanks to you who
came at so perilous a moment to our aid.  Your face I have seen,
and your coat-armor also, young sir, though I cannot lay my tongue
to your name.  Let me know that I may thank you."

He had turned to Nigel, who stood flushed and joyous at the head
of the boarders from the Basilisk.

"I am but a Squire, sire, and can claim no thanks, for there is
nothing that I have done.  Here is our leader."

The Prince's eyes fell upon the shield charged with the Black
Raven and the stern young face of him who bore it.  "Sir Robert
Knolles," said he, "I had thought you were on your way to
Brittany."

"I was so, sire, when I had the fortune to see this battle as I
passed."

The Prince laughed.  "It would indeed be to ask too much, Robert,
that you should keep on your course when much honor was to be
gathered so close to you.  But now I pray you that you will come
back with us to Winchelsea, for well I know that my father would
fain thank you for what you have done this day."

But Robert Knolles shook his head.  "I have your father's command,
sire, and without his order I may not go against it.  Our people
are hard-pressed in Brittany, and it is not for me to linger on
the way.  I pray you, sire, if you must needs mention me to the
King, to crave his pardon that I should have broken my journey
thus."

"You are right, Robert.  God-speed you on your way!  And I would
that I were sailing under your banner, for I see clearly that you
will take your people where they may worshipfully win worship.
Perchance I also maybe in Brittany before the year is past."

The Prince turned to the task of gathering his weary people
together, and the Basilisks passed over the side once more and
dropped down on to their own little ship.  They poled her off from
the captured Spaniard and set their sail with their prow for the
south.  Far ahead of them were their two consorts, beating towards
them in the hope of giving help, while down Channel were a score
of Spanish ships with a few of the English vessels hanging upon
their skirts.  The sun lay low on the water, and its level beams
glowed upon the scarlet and gold of fourteen great caracks, each
flying the cross of Saint George, and towering high above the
cluster of English ships which, with brave waving of flags and
blaring of music, were moving slowly towards the Kentish coast.




XVIII.  HOW BLACK SIMON CLAIMED FORFEIT FROM THE KING OF SARK


For a day and a half the small fleet made good progress, but on
the second morning, after sighting Cape de la Hague, there came a
brisk land wind which blew them out to sea.  It grew into a squall
with rain and fog so that they were two more days beating back.
Next morning they found themselves in a dangerous rock studded sea
with a small island upon their starboard quarter.  It was girdled
with high granite cliffs of a reddish hue, and slopes of bright
green grassland lay above them.  A second smaller island lay
beside it.  Dennis the shipman shook his head as he looked.

"That is Brechou," said he, "and the larger one is the Island of
Sark.  If ever I be cast away, I pray the saints that I may not be
upon yonder coast!"

Knolles gazed across at it.  "You say well, master-shipman," said
he.  "It does appear to be a rocky and perilous spot."

"Nay, it is the rocky hearts of those who dwell upon it that I had
in my mind," the old sailor answered.  "We are well safe in three
goodly vessels, but had we been here in a small craft I make no
doubt that they would have already had their boats out against
us."

"Who then are these people, and how do they live upon so small and
windswept an island?" asked the soldier.

"They do not live from the island, fair sir, but from what they
can gather upon the sea around it.  They are broken folk from all
countries, justice-fliers, prison-breakers, reavers, escaped
bondsmen, murderers and staff-strikers who have made their way to
this outland place and hold it against all comers.  There is one
here who could tell you of them and of their ways, for he was long
time prisoner amongst them."  The seaman pointed to Black Simon,
the dark man from Norwich, who was leaning against the side lost
in moody thought and staring with a brooding eye at the distant
shore.

"How now, fellow?" asked Knolles.  "What is this I hear?  Is it
indeed sooth that you have been a captive upon this island?"

"It is true, fair sir.  For eight months I have been servant to
the man whom they call their King.  His name is La Muette, and he
comes from Jersey nor is there under God's sky a man whom I have
more desire to see."

"Has he then mishandled you?"

Black Simon gave a wry smile and pulled off his jerkin.  His lean
sinewy back was waled and puckered with white scars.  "He has left
his sign of hand upon me," said he.  "He swore that he would break
me to his will, and thus he tried to do it.  But most I desire to
see him because he hath lost a wager to me and I would fain be
paid."

"This is a strange saying," said Knolles.  "What is this wager,
and why should he pay you?"

"It is but a small matter," Simon answered; "but I am a poor man
and the payment would be welcome.  Should it have chanced that we
stopped at this island I should have craved your leave that I go
ashore and ask for that which I have fairly won."

Sir Robert Knolles laughed.  "This business tickleth my fancy,"
said he.  "As to stopping at the island, this shipman tells me
that we must needs wait a day and a night, for that we have
strained our planks.  But if you should go ashore, how will you be
sure that you will be free to depart, or that you will see this
King of whom you speak?"

Black Simon's dark face was shining with a fierce joy.  "Fair sir,
I will ever be your debtor if you will let me go.  Concerning what
you ask, I know this island even as I know the streets of Norwich,
as you may well believe seeing that it is but a small place and I
upon it for near a year.  Should I land after dark, I could win my
way to the King's house, and if he be not dead or distraught with
drink I could have speech with him alone, for I know his ways and
his hours and how he may be found.  I would ask only that Aylward
the archer may go with me, that I may have one friend at my side
if things should chance to go awry."

Knolles thought awhile.  "It is much that you ask," said he, "for
by God's truth I reckon that you and this friend of yours are two
of my men whom I would be least ready to lose.  I have seen you
both at grips with the Spaniards and I know you.  But I trust you,
and if we must indeed stop at this accursed place, then you may do
as you will.  If you have deceived me, or if this is a trick by
which you design to leave me, then God be your friend when next we
meet, for man will be of small avail!"

It proved that not only the seams had to be calked but that the
cog Thomas was out of fresh water.  The ships moored therefore
near the Isle of Brechou, where springs were to be found.  There
were no people upon this little patch, but over on the farther
island many figures could be seen watching them, and the twinkle
of steel from among them showed that they were armed men.  One
boat had ventured forth and taken a good look at them, but had
hurried back with the warning that they were too strong to be
touched.

Black Simon found Aylward seated under the poop with his back,
against Bartholomew the bowyer.  He was whistling merrily as he
carved a girl's face upon the horn of his bow.

"My friend," said Simon, "will you come ashore to-night - for I
have need of your help?"

Aylward crowed lustily.  "Will I come, Simon?  By my hilt, I shall
be right glad to put my foot on the good brown earth once more.
All my life I have trod it, and yet I would never have learned its
worth had I not journeyed in these cursed ships.  We will go on
shore together, Simon, and we will seek out the women, if there be
any there, for it seems a long year since I heard their gentle
voices, and my eyes are weary of such faces as Bartholomew's or
thine."

Simon's grim features relaxed into a smile.  "The only face that
you will see ashore, Samkin, will bring you small comfort," said
he, "and I warn you that this is no easy errand, but one which may
be neither sweet nor fair, for if these people take us our end
will be a cruel one."

"By my hilt," said Aylward, "I am with you, gossip, wherever you
may go!  Say no more, therefore, for I am weary of living like a
cony in a hole, and I shall be right glad to stand by you in your
venture."

That night, two hours after dark, a small boat put forth from the
Basilisk.  It contained Simon, Aylward and two seamen.  The
soldiers carried their swords, and Black Simon bore a brown
biscuit-bag over his shoulder.  Under his direction the rowers
skirted the dangerous surf which beat against the cliffs until
they came to a spot where an outlying reef formed a breakwater.
Within was a belt of calm water and a shallow cover with a sloping
beach.  Here the boat was dragged up and the seamen were ordered
to wait, while Simon and Aylward started on their errand.

With the assured air of a man who knows exactly where he is and
whither he is going, the man-at-arms began to clamber up a narrow
fern-lined cleft among the rocks.  It was no easy ascent in the
darkness, but Simon climbed on like an old dog hot upon a scent,
and the panting Aylward struggled after as best he might.  At last
they were at the summit and the archer threw himself down upon the
grass.

"Nay, Simon, I have not enough breath to blow out a candle," said
he.  "Stint your haste for a minute, since we have a long night
before us.  Surely this man is a friend indeed, if you hasten so
to see him."

"Such a friend," Simon answered, "that I have often dreamed of our
next meeting.  Now before that moon has set it will have come."

"Had it been a wench I could have understood it," said Aylward.
"By these ten finger-bones, if Mary of the mill or little Kate of
Compton had waited me on the brow of this cliff, I should have
come up it and never known it was there.  But surely I see houses
and hear voices over yonder in the shadow?"

"It is their town," whispered Simon.  "There are a hundred as
bloody-minded cutthroats as are to be found in Christendom beneath
those roofs.  Hark to that!"

A fierce burst of laughter came out of the darkness, followed by a
long cry of pain.

"All-hallows be with us!" cried Aylward.  "What is that?"

"As like as not some poor devil has fallen into their clutches,
even as I did.  Come this way, Samkin, for there is a peat-cutting
where we may hide.  Aye, here it is, but deeper and broader than
of old.  Now follow me close, for if we keep within it we shall
find ourselves a stone cast off the King's house."

Together they crept along the dark cutting.  Suddenly Simon seized
Aylward by the shoulder and pushed him into the shadow of the
bank.  Crouching in the darkness, they heard footsteps and voices
upon the farther side of the trench.  Two men sauntered along it
and stopped almost at the very spot where the comrades were lying.
Aylward could see their dark figures outlined against the starry
sky.

"Why should you scold, Jacques," said one of them, speaking a
strange half-French, half-English lingo.  "Le diable t'emporte for
a grumbling rascal.  You won a woman and I got nothing.  What more
would you have?"

"You will have your chance off the next ship, mon garcon, but mine
is passed.  A woman, it is true - an old peasant out of the
fields, with a face as yellow as a kite's claw.  But Gaston, who
threw a nine against my eight, got as fair a little Normandy lass
as ever your eyes have seen.  Curse the dice, I say!  And as to my
woman, I will sell her to you for a firkin of Gascony:'

"I have no wine to spare, but I will give you a keg of apples,"
said the other.  "I had it out of the Peter and Paul, the Falmouth
boat that struck in Creux Bay."

"Well, well your apples may be the worse for keeping, but so is
old Marie, and we can cry quits on that.  Come round and drink a
cup over the bargain."

They shuffled onward in the darkness.

"Heard you ever such villainy?" cried Aylward, breathing fierce
and hard.  "Did you hear them, Simon?  A woman for a keg of
apples!  And my heart's root is sad for the other one, the girl of
Normandy.  Surely we can land to-morrow and burn all these water-
rats out of their nest."

"Nay, Sir Robert will not waste time or strength ere he reach
Brittany."

"Sure I am that if my little master Squire Loring had the handling
of it, every woman on this island would be free ere another day
had passed."

"I doubt it not," said Simon.  "He is one who makes an idol of
woman, after the manner of those crazy knight errants.  But Sir
Robert is a true soldier and hath only his purpose in view."

"Simon," said Aylward, "the light is not overgood and the place is
cramped for sword-play, but if you will step out into the open I
will teach you whether my master is a true soldier or not."

"Tut, man! you are as foolish yourself," said Simon.  "Here we are
with our work in hand, and yet you must needs fall out with me on
our way to it.  I say nothing against your master save that he
hath the way of his fellows who follow dreams and fancies.  But
Knolles looks neither to right nor left and walks forward to his
mark.  Now, let us on, for the time passes."

"Simon, your words are neither good nor fair.  When we are back on
shipboard we will speak further of this matter.  Now lead on, I
pray you, and let us see some more of this ten-devil island."

For half a mile Simon led the way until they came to a large house
which stood by itself.  Peering at it from the edge of the
cutting, Aylward could see that it was made from the wreckage of
many vessels, for at each corner a prow was thrust out.  Lights
blazed within, and there came the sound of a strong voice singing
a gay song which was taken up by a dozen others in the chorus.

"All is well, lad!" whispered Simon in great delight.  "That is
the voice of the King.  It is the very song he used to sing.  'Les
deux filles de Pierre.'  'Fore God, my back tingles at the very
sound of it.  Here we will wait until his company take their
leave."

Hour after hour they crouched in the peat-cutting, listening to
the noisy songs of the revelers within, some French, some English,
and all growing fouler and less articulate as the night wore on.
Once a quarrel broke out and the clamor was like a cageful of wild
beasts at feeding-time.  Then a health was drunk and there was
much stamping and cheering.

Only once was the long vigil broken.  A woman came forth from the
house and walked up and down, with her face sunk upon her breast.
She was tall and slender, but her features could not be seen for a
wimple over her head.  Weary sadness could be read in her bowed
back and dragging steps.  Once only they saw her throw her two
hands up to Heaven as one who is beyond human aid.  Then she
passed slowly into the house again.  A moment later the door of
the hall was flung open, and a shouting stumbling throng came
crowding forth, with whoop and yell, into the silent night.
Linking arms and striking up a chorus, they marched past the
peat-cutting, their voices dwindling slowly away as they made for
their homes.

"Now, Samkin, now!" cried Simon, and jumping out from the
hiding-place he made for the door.  It had not yet been fastened.
The two comrades sprang inside.  Then Simon drew the bolts so that
none might interrupt them.

A long table littered with flagons and beakers lay before them.
It was lit up by a line of torches, which flickered and smoked in
their iron sconces.  At the farther end a solitary man was seated.
His head rested upon his two hands, as if he were befuddled with
wine, but at the harsh sound of the snapping bolts he raised his
face and looked angrily around him.  It was a strange powerful
head, tawny and shaggy like a lion's, with a tangled beard and a
large harsh face, bloated and blotched with vice.  He laughed as
the newcomers entered, thinking that two of his boon companions
had returned to finish a flagon.  Then he stared hard and he
passed his hand over his eyes like one who thinks he may be
dreaming.

"Mon Dieu!" he cried.  "Who are you and whence come you at this
hour of the night?  Is this the way to break into our royal
presence?"

Simon approached up one side of the table and Aylward up the
other.  When they were close to the King, the man-at-arms plucked
a torch from its socket and held it to his own face.  The King
staggered back with a cry, as he gazed at that grim visage.

"Le diable noir!" he cried.  "Simon, the Englishman!  What make
you here?"

Simon put his hand upon his shoulder.  "Sit here!" said he, and he
forced the King into his seat.  "Do you sit on the farther side of
him, Aylward.  We make a merry group, do we not?  Often have I
served at this table, but never did I hope to drink at it.  Fill
your cup, Samkin, and pass the flagon."

The King looked from one to the other with terror in his bloodshot
eyes.  "What would you do?" he asked.  "Are you mad, that you
should come here.  One shout and you are at my mercy."

"Nay, my friend, I have lived too long in your house not to know
the ways of it.  No man-servant ever slept beneath your roof, for
you feared lest your throat would be cut in the night-time.  You
may shout and shout, if it so please you.  It chanced that I was
passing on my way from England in those ships which lie off La
Brechou, and I thought I would come in and have speech with you."

"Indeed, Simon, I am right glad to see you," said the King,
cringing away from the fierce eyes of the soldier.  "We were good
friends in the past, were we not, and I cannot call to mind that I
have ever done you injury.  When you made your way to England by
swimming to the Levantine there was none more glad in heart than!"

"If I cared to doff my doublet I could show you the marks of what
your friendship has done for me in the past," said Simon.  "It is
printed on my back as clearly as on my memory.  Why, you foul dog,
there are the very rings upon the wall to which my hands were
fastened, and there the stains upon the boards on which my blood
has dripped!  Is it not so, you king of butchers?"

The pirate chief turned whiter still.  "It may be that life here
was somewhat rough, Simon, but if I have wronged you in anyway, I
will surely make amends.  What do you ask?"

"I ask only one thing, and I have come hither that I may get it.
It is that you pay me forfeit for that you have lost your wager."

"My wager, Simon!  I call to mind no wager."

"But I will call it to your mind, and then I will take my payment.
Often have you sworn that you would break my courage.  `By my
head!' you have cried to me.  `You will crawl at my feet!' and
again: `I will wager my head that I will tame you!'  Yes, yes, a
score of times you have said so.  In my heart, as I listened, I
have taken up your gage.  And now, dog, you have lost and I am
here to claim the forfeit."

His long heavy sword flew from its sheath.  The King, with a howl
of despair, flung his arms round him, and they rolled together
under the table.  Aylward sat with a ghastly face, and his toes
curled with horror at the sight, for he was still new to scenes of
strife and his blood was too cold for such a deed.  When Simon
rose he tossed something into his bag and sheathed his bloody
sword.

"Come, Samkin, our work is well done," said he.

"By my hilt, if I had known what it was I would have been less
ready to come with you," said the archer.  "Could you not have
clapped a sword in his fist and let him take his chance in the
hall?"

"Nay, Samkin, if you had such memories as I, you would have wished
that he should die like a sheep and not like a man.  What chance
did he give me when he had the power?  And why should I treat him
better?  But, Holy Virgin, what have we here?"

At the farther end of the table a woman was standing.  An open
door behind her showed that she had come from the inner room of
the house.  By her tall figure the comrades knew that she was the
same that they had already seen.  Her face had once been fair, but
now was white and haggard with wild dark eyes full of a hopeless
terror and despair.  Slowly she paced up the room, her gaze fixed
not upon the comrades, but upon the dreadful thing beneath the
table.  Then as she stooped and was sure she burst into loud
laughter and clapped her hands.

"Who shall say there is no God?" she cried.  "Who shall say that
prayer is unavailing?  Great sir, brave sir, let me kiss that
conquering hand!"

"Nay, nay, dame, stand back!  Well, if you must needs have one of
them, take this which is the clean one."

"It is the other I crave - that which is red with his blood!  Oh!
joyful night when my lips have been wet with it!  Now I can die in
peace!"

"We must go, Aylward," said Simon.  "In another hour the dawn will
have broken.  In daytime a rat could not cross this island and
pass unseen.  Come, man, and at once!"

But Aylward was at the woman's side.  "Come with us, fair dame,"
said he.  "Surely we can, at least, take you from this island, and
no such change can be for the worse."

"Nay," said she,  the saints in Heaven cannot help me now until
they take me to my rest.  There is no place for me in the world
beyond, and all my friends were slain on the day I was taken.
Leave me, brave men, and let me care for myself.  Already it
lightens in the east, and black will be your fate if you are
taken.  Go, and may the blessing of one who was once a holy nun go
with you and guard you from danger!"

Sir Robert Knolles was pacing the deck in the early morning, when
he heard the sound of oars, and there were his two night-birds
climbing up the side.

"So, fellow," said he, "have you had speech with the King of
Sark?"

"Fair sir, I have seen him."

"And he has paid his forfeit?"

"He has paid it, sir!"

Knolles looked with curiosity at the bag which Simon bore.  "What
carry you there?" he asked.

"The stake that he has lost."

"What was it then?  A goblet?  A silver plate?"

For answer Simon opened his bag and shook it on the deck.

Sir Robert turned away with a whistle.  "'Fore God!" said he, "it
is in my mind that I carry some hard men with me to Brittany."




XIX.  HOW A SQUIRE OF ENGLAND MET A SQUIRE OF FRANCE


Sir Robert Knolles with his little fleet had sighted the Breton
coast near Cancale; they had rounded the Point du Grouin, and
finally had sailed past the port of St. Malo and down the long
narrow estuary of the Rance until they were close to the old
walled city of Dinan, which was held by that Montfort faction
whose cause the English had espoused.  Here the horses had been
disembarked, the stores were unloaded, and the whole force
encamped outside the city, whilst the leaders waited for news as
to the present state of affairs, and where there was most hope of
honor and profit.

The whole of France was feeling the effects of that war with
England which had already lasted some ten years, but no Province
was in so dreadful a condition as this unhappy land of Brittany.
In Normandy or Picardy the inroads of the English were periodical
with intervals of rest between; but Brittany was torn asunder by
constant civil war apart from the grapple of the two great
combatants, so that there was no surcease of her sufferings.  The
struggle had begun in 1341 through the rival claims of Montfort
and of Blois to the vacant dukedom.  England had taken the part of
Montfort, France that of Blois.  Neither faction was strong enough
to destroy the other, and so after ten years of continual
fighting, history recorded a long ineffectual list of surprises
and ambushes, of raids and skirmishes, of towns taken and retaken,
of alternate victory and defeat, in which neither party could
claim a supremacy.  It mattered nothing that Montfort and Blois
had both disappeared from the scene, the one dead and the other
taken by the English.  Their wives caught up the swords which had
dropped from the hands of their lords, and the long struggle went
on even more savagely than before.

In the south and east the Blois faction held the country, and
Nantes the capital was garrisoned and occupied by a strong French
army.  In the north and west the Montfort party prevailed, for the
island kingdom was at their back and always fresh sails broke the
northern sky-line bearing adventurers from over the channel.

Between these two there lay a broad zone comprising all the center
of the country which was a land of blood and violence, where no
law prevailed save that of the sword.  From end to end it was
dotted with castles, some held for one side, some for the other,
and many mere robber strongholds, the scenes of gross and
monstrous deeds, whose brute owners, knowing that they could never
be called to account, made war upon all mankind, and wrung with
rack and with flame the last shilling from all who fell into their
savage hands.  The fields had long been untilled.  Commerce was
dead.  From Rennes in the east to Hennebon in the west, and from
Dinan in the north to Nantes in the south, there was no spot where
a man's life or a woman's honor was safe.  Such was the land, full
of darkness and blood, the saddest, blackest spot in Christendom,
into which Knolles and his men were now advancing.

But there was no sadness in the young heart of Nigel, as he rode
by the side of Knolles at the head of a clump of spears, nor did
it seem to him that Fate had led him into an unduly arduous path.
On the contrary, he blessed the good fortune which had sent him
into so delightful a country, and it seemed to him as he listened
to dreadful stories of robber barons, and looked round at the
black scars of war which lay branded upon the fair faces of the
hills, that no hero of romances or trouveur had ever journeyed
through such a land of promise, with so fair a chance of knightly
venture and honorable advancement.

The Red Ferret was one deed toward his vow.  Surely a second, and
perhaps a better, was to be found somewhere upon this glorious
countryside.  He had borne himself as the others had in the
sea-fight, and could not count it to his credit where he had done
no more than mere duty.  Something beyond this was needed for such
a deed as could be laid at the feet of the Lady Mary.  But surely
it was to be found here in fermenting war-distracted Brittany.
Then with two done it would be strange if he could not find
occasion for that third one, which would complete his service and
set him free to look her in the face once more.  With the great
yellow horse curveting beneath him, his Guildford armor gleaming
in the sun, his sword clanking against his stirrup-iron, and his
father's tough ash-spear in his hand, he rode with a light heart
and a smiling face, looking eagerly to right and to left for any
chance which his good Fate might send.

The road from Dinan to Caulnes, along which the small army was
moving, rose and dipped over undulating ground, with a bare marshy
plain upon the left where the river Rance ran down to the sea,
while upon the right lay a wooded country with a few wretched
villages, so poor and sordid that they had nothing with which to
tempt the spoiler.  The peasants had left them at the first
twinkle of a steel cap, and lurked at the edges of the woods,
ready in an instant to dive into those secret recesses known only
to themselves.  These creatures suffered sorely at the hands of
both parties, but when the chance came they revenged their wrongs
on either in a savage way which brought fresh brutalities upon
their heads.

The new-comers soon had a chance of seeing to what lengths they
would go, for in the roadway near to Caulnes they came upon an
English man-at-arms who had been waylaid and slain by them.  How
they had overcome him could not be told, but how they had slain
him within his armor was horribly apparent, for they had carried
such a rock as eight men could lift, and had dropped it upon him
as he lay, so that he was spread out in his shattered case like a
crab beneath a stone.  Many a fist was shaken at the distant woods
and many a curse hurled at those who haunted them, as the column
of scowling soldiers passed the murdered man, whose badge of the
Molene cross showed him to have been a follower of that House of
Bentley, whose head, Sir Walter, was at that time leader of the
British forces in the country.

Sir Robert Knolles had served in Brittany before, and he marshaled
his men on the march with the skill and caution of the veteran
soldier, the man who leaves as little as possible to chance,
having too steadfast a mind to heed the fool who may think him
overcautious.  He had recruited a number of bowmen and men-at-arms
at Dinan; so that his following was now close upon five hundred
men.  In front under his own leadership were fifty mounted
lancers, fully armed and ready for any sudden attack.  Behind them
on foot came the archers, and a second body of mounted men closed
up the rear.  Out upon either flank moved small bodies of cavalry,
and a dozen scouts, spread fanwise, probed every gorge and dingle
in front of the column.  So for three days he moved slowly down
the Southern Road.

Sir Thomas Percy and Sir James Astley had ridden to the head of
the column, and Knolles conferred with them as they marched
concerning the plan of their campaign.  Percy and Astley were
young and hot-headed with wild visions of dashing deeds and knight
errantry, but Knolles with cold, clear brain and purpose of iron
held ever his object in view.

"By the holy Dunstan and all the saints of Lindisfarne!" cried the
fiery Borderer, "it goes to my heart to ride forward when there
are such honorable chances on either side of us.  Have I not heard
that the French are at Evran beyond the river, and is it not sooth
that yonder castle, the towers of which I see above the woods, is
in the hands of a traitor, who is false to his liege lord of
Montford?  There is little profit to be gained upon this road, for
the folk seem to have no heart for war.  Had we ventured as far
over the marches of Scotland as we now are in Brittany, we should
not have lacked some honorable venture or chance of winning
worship."

"You say truth, Thomas," cried Astley, a red-faced and choleric
young man.  "It is well certain that the French will not come to
us, and surely it is the more needful that we go to them.  In
sooth, any soldier who sees us would smile that we should creep
for three days along this road as though a thousand dangers lay
before us, when we have but poor broken peasants to deal with."

But Robert Knolles shook his head.  "We know not what are in these
woods, or behind these hills," said he, "and when I know nothing
it is my wont to prepare for the worst which may befall.  It is
but prudence so to do."

"Your enemies might find some harsher name for it," said Astley
with a sneer.  "Nay, you need not think to scare me by glaring at
me, Sir Robert, nor will your ill-pleasure change my thoughts.  I
have faced fiercer eyes than thine, and I have not feared."

"Your speech, Sir James, is neither courteous nor good," said
Knolles, "and if I were a free man I would cram your words down
your throat with the point of my dagger.  But I am here to lead
these men in profit and honor, not to quarrel with every fool who
has not the wit to understand how soldiers should be led.  Can you
not see that if I make attempts here and there, as you would have
me do, I shall have weakened my strength before I come to that
part where it can best be spent?"

"And where is that?" asked Percy.  "'Fore God, Astley, it is in my
mind that we ride with one who knows more of war than you or I,
and that we would be wise to be guided by his rede.  Tell us then
what is in your mind."

"Thirty miles from here," said Knolles, "there is, as I am told, a
fortalice named Ploermel, and within it is one Bambro', an
Englishman, with a good garrison.  No great distance from him is
the Castle of Josselin where dwells Robert of Beaumanoir with a
great following of Bretons.  It is my intention that we should
join Bambro', and so be in such strength that we may throw
ourselves upon Josselin, and by taking it become the masters of
all mid-Brittany, and able to make head against the Frenchmen in
the south."

"Indeed I think that you can do no better," said Percy heartily,
"and I swear to you on jeopardy of my soul that I will stand by
you in the matter!  I doubt not that when we come deep into their
land they will draw together and do what they may to make head
against us; but up to now I swear by all the saints of Lindisfarne
that I should have seen more war in a summer's day in Liddesdale
or at the Forest of Jedburgh than any that Brittany has shown us.
Bat see, yonder horsemen are riding in.  They are our own
hobblers, are they not?  And who are these who are lashed to their
stirrups?"

A small troop of mounted bowmen had ridden out of an oak grove
upon the left of the road.  They trotted up to where the three
knights had halted.  Two wretched peasants whose wrists had been
tied to their leathers came leaping and straining beside the
horses in their effort not to be dragged off their feet.  One was
a tall, gaunt, yellow-haired man, the other short and swarthy, but
both so crusted with dirt, so matted and tangled and ragged, that
they were more like beasts of the wood than human beings.

"What is this?" asked Knolles.  "Have I not ordered you to leave
the countryfolk at peace?"

The leader of the archers, old Wat of Carlisle, held up a sword, a
girdle and a dagger.  "If it please you, fair sir," said he, "I
saw the glint of these, and I thought them no fit tools for hands
which were made for the spade and the plow.  But when we had
ridden them down and taken them, there was the Bentley cross upon
each, and we knew that they had belonged to yonder dead Englishman
upon the road.  Surely then, these are two of the villains who
have slain him, and it is right that we do justice upon them."

Sure enough, upon sword, girdle and dagger shone the silver Molene
cross which had gleamed on the dead man's armor.  Knolles looked
at them and then at the prisoners with a face of stone.  At the
sight of those fell eyes they had dropped with inarticulate howls
upon their knees, screaming out their protests in a tongue which
none could understand.

"We must have the roads safe for wandering Englishmen," said
Knolles.  "These men must surely die.  Hang them to yonder tree."

He pointed to a live-oak by the roadside, and rode onward upon his
way in converse with his fellow-knights.  But the old bowman had
ridden after him.

"If it please you, Sir Robert, the bowmen would fain put these men
to death in their own fashion," said he.

"So that they die, I care not how," Knolles answered carelessly,
and looked back no more.

Human life was cheap in those stern days when the footmen of a
stricken army or the crew of a captured ship were slain without
any question or thought of mercy by the victors.  War was a rude
game with death for the stake, and the forfeit was always claimed
on the one side and paid on the other without doubt or hesitation.
Only the knight might be spared, since his ransom made him worth
more alive than dead.  To men trained in such a school, with death
forever hanging over their own heads, it may be well believed that
the slaying of two peasant murderers was a small matter.

And yet there was special reason why upon this occasion the bowmen
wished to keep the deed in their own hands.  Ever since their
dispute aboard the Basilisk, there had been ill-feeling betwixt
Bartholomew the old bald-headed bowyer, and long Ned Widdington
the Dalesman, which had ended in a conflict at Dinan, in which not
only they, but a dozen of their friends had been laid upon the
cobble-stones.  The dispute raged round their respective knowledge
and skill with the bow, and now some quick wit amongst the
soldiers had suggested a grim fashion in which it should be put to
the proof, once for all, which could draw the surer shaft.

A thick wood lay two hundred paces from the road upon which the
archers stood.  A stretch of smooth grassy sward lay between.  The
two peasants were led out fifty yards from the road, with their
faces toward the wood.  There they stood, held on a leash, and
casting many a wondering frightened glance over their shoulders at
the preparations which were being made behind them.

Old Bartholomew and the big Yorkshireman had stepped out of the
ranks and stood side by side each with his strung bow in his left
hand and a single arrow in his right.  With care they had drawn on
and greased their shooting-gloves and fastened their bracers.
They plucked and cast up a few blades of grass to measure the
wind, examined every small point of their tackle, turned their
sides to the mark, and Widened their feet in a firmer stance.
>From all sides came chaff and counsel from their comrades.

"A three-quarter wind, bowyer!" cried one.  "Aim a body's breadth
to the right!"

"But not thy body's breadth, bowyer," laughed another.  "Else may
you be overwide."

"Nay, this wind will scarce turn a well-drawn shaft," said a
third.  "Shoot dead upon him and you will be clap in the clout."

" Steady, Ned, for the good name of the Dales," cried a
Yorkshireman.  " Loose easy and pluck not, or I am five crowns the
poorer man."

"A week's pay on Bartholomew!" shouted another.  "Now, old
fat-pate, fail me not!"

"Enough, enough!  Stint your talk!" cried the old bowman, Wat of
Carlisle.  "Were your shafts as quick as your tongues there would
be no facing you.  Do you shoot upon the little one, Bartholomew,
and you, Ned, upon the other.  Give them law until I cry the word,
then loose in your own fashion and at your own time.  Are you
ready!  Hola, there, Hayward, Beddington, let them run!"

The leashes were torn away, and the two men, stooping their heads,
ran madly for the shelter of the wood amid such a howl from the
archers as beaters may give when the hare starts from its form.
The two bowmen, each with his arrow drawn to the pile, stood like
russet statues, menacing, motionless, their eager eyes fixed upon
the fugitives, their bow-staves rising slowly as the distance
between them lengthened.  The Bretons were half-way to the wood,
and still Old Wat was silent.  It may have been mercy or it may
have been mischief, but at least the chase should have a fair
chance of life.  At six score paces he turned his grizzled head at
last.

"Loose!" he cried.

At the word the Yorkshireman's bow-string twanged.  It was not for
nothing that he had earned the name of being one of the deadliest
archers of the North and had twice borne away the silver arrow of
Selby.  Swift and true flew the fatal shaft and buried itself to
the feather in the curved back of the long yellow-haired peasant.
Without a sound he fell upon his face and lay stone-dead upon the
grass, the one short white plume between his dark shoulders to
mark where Death had smote him.

The Yorkshireman threw his bowstave into the air and danced in
triumph, whilst his comrades roared their fierce delight in a
shout of applause, which changed suddenly into a tempest of
hooting and of laughter.

The smaller peasant, more cunning, than his comrade, had run more
slowly, but with many a backward glance.  He had marked his
companion's fate and had waited with keen eyes until he saw the
bowyer loose his string.  At the moment he had thrown himself flat
upon the grass and had heard the arrow scream above him,- and seen
it quiver in the turf beyond.  Instantly he had sprung to his feet
again and amid wild whoops and halloos from the bowmen had made
for the shelter of the wood.  Now he had reached it, and ten score
good paces separated him from the nearest of his persecutors.
Surely they could not reach him here.  With the tangled brushwood
behind him he was as safe as a rabbit at the mouth of his burrow.
In the joy of his heart he must needs dance in derision and snap
his fingers at the foolish men who had let him slip.  He threw
back his head, howling at them like a dog, and at the instant an
arrow struck him full in the throat and laid him dead among the
bracken.  There was a hush of surprised silence and then a loud
cheer burst from the archers.

"By the rood of Beverley!" cried old Wat, "I have not seen a finer
roving shaft this many a year.  In my own best day I could not
have bettered it.  Which of you loosed it?"

"It was Aylward of Tilford - Samkin Aylward," cried a score of
voices, and the bowman, flushed at his own fame, was pushed to the
front.

"Indeed I would that it had been at a nobler mark," said he.  "He
might have gone free for me, but I could not keep my fingers from
the string when he turned to jeer at us."

"I see well that you are indeed a master-bowman," said old Wat,
"and it is comfort to my soul to think that if I fall I leave such
a man behind me to hold high the credit of our craft.  Now gather
your shafts and on, for Sir Robert awaits us on the brow of the
hill."

All day Knolles and his men marched through the same wild and
deserted country, inhabited only by these furtive creatures, hares
to the strong and wolves to the weak, who hovered in the shadows
of the wood.  Ever and anon upon the tops of the hills they caught
a glimpse of horsemen who watched them from a distance and
vanished when approached.  Sometimes bells rang an alarm from
villages amongst the hills, and twice they passed castles which
drew up their drawbridges at their approach and lined their walls
with hooting soldiers as they passed.  The Englishmen gathered a
few oxen and sheep from the pastures of each, but Knolles had no
mind to break his strength upon stone walls, and so he went upon
his way.

Once at St. Meen they passed a great nunnery, girt with a high
gray lichened wall, an oasis of peace in this desert of war, the
black-robed nuns basking in the sun or working in the gardens,
with the strong gentle hand of Holy Church shielding them ever
from evil.  The archers doffed caps to them as they passed, for
the boldest and roughest dared not cross that line guarded by the
dire ban and blight which was the one only force in the whole
steel-ridden earth which could stand betwixt the weakling and the
spoiler.

The little army halted at St. Meen and cooked its midday meal.  It
had gathered into its ranks again and was about to start, when
Knolles drew Nigel to one side.

"Nigel," said he, "it seems to me that I have seldom set eyes upon
a horse which hath more power and promise of speed than this great
beast of thine."

"It is indeed a noble steed, fair sir," said Nigel.  Betwixt him
and his young leader there had sprung up great affection and
respect since the day that they set foot in the Basilisk.

"It will be the better if you stretch his limbs, for he grows
overheavy," said the knight.  "Now mark me, Nigel!  Yonder betwixt
the ash-tree and the red rock what do you see on the side of the
far hill?"

"There is a white dot upon it.  Surely it is a horse."

"I have marked it all morning, Nigel.  This horseman has kept ever
upon our flank, spying upon us or waiting to make some attempt
upon us.  Now I should be right glad to have a prisoner, for it is
my wish to know something of this country-side, and these peasants
can speak neither French nor English.  I would have you linger
here in hiding when we go forward.  This man will still follow us.
When he does so, yonder wood will lie betwixt you and him.  Do you
ride round it and come upon him from behind.  There is broad plain
upon his left, and we will cut him off upon the right.  If your
horse be indeed the swifter, then you cannot fail to take him."

Nigel had already sprung down and was tightening Pommers' girth.

"Nay, there is no need of haste, for you cannot start until we are
two miles upon our way.  And above all I pray you, Nigel, none of
your knight-errant ways.  It is this roan that I want, him and the
news that he can bring me.  Think little of your own advancement
and much of the needs of the army.  When you get him, ride
westwards upon the sun, and you cannot fail to find the road."

Nigel waited with Pommers under the shadow of the nunnery wall,
horse and man chafing with impatience, whilst above them six
round-eyed innocent nun-faces looked down on this strange and
disturbing vision from the outer world.  At last the long column
wound itself out of sight round a curve of the road, and the white
dot was gone from the bare green flank of the hill.  Nigel bowed
his steel head to the nuns, gave his bridle a shake, and bounded
off upon his welcome mission.  The round-eyed sisters saw yellow
horse and twinkling man sweep round the skirt of the wood, caught
a last glimmer of him through the tree-trunks, and paced slowly
back to their pruning and their planting, their minds filled with
the beauty and the terror of that outer world beyond the high gray
lichen-mottled wall.

Everything fell out even as Knolles had planned.  As Nigel rounded
the oak forest, there upon the farther side of it, with only good
greensward between, was the rider upon the white horse.  Already
he was so near that Nigel could see him clearly, a young cavalier,
proud in his bearing, clad in purple silk tunic with a red curling
feather in his low black cap.  He wore no armor, but his sword
gleamed at his side.  He rode easily and carelessly, as one who
cares for no man, and his eyes were forever fixed upon the English
soldiers on the road.  So intent was he upon them that he gave no
thought to his own safety, and it was only when the low thunder of
the great horse's hoofs broke upon his ears that he turned in his
saddle, looked very coolly and steadily at Nigel, then gave his
own bridle a shake and darted off, swift as a hawk, toward the
hills upon the left.

Pommers had met his match that day.  The white horse, two parts
Arab, bore the lighter weight, since Nigel was clad in full armor.
For five miles over the open neither gained a hundred yards upon
the other.  They had topped the hill and flew down the farther
side, the stranger continually turning in his saddle to have a
look at his pursuer.  There was no panic in his flight, but rather
the amused rivalry with which a good horseman who is proud of his
mount contends with one who has challenged him.  Below the hill
was a marshy plain, studded with great Druidic stones, some
prostrate, some erect, some bearing others across their tops like
the huge doors of some vanished building.  A path ran through the
marsh with green rushes as a danger signal on either side of it.
Across this path many of the huge stones were lying, but the white
horse cleared them in its stride and Pommers followed close upon
his heels.  Then came a mile of soft ground where the lighter
weight again drew to the front, but it ended in a dry upland and
once again Nigel gained.  A sunken road crossed it, but the white
cleared it with a mighty spring, and again the yellow followed.
Two small hills lay before them with a narrow gorge of deep bushes
between.  Nigel saw the white horse bounding chest-deep amid the
underwood.

Next instant its hind legs were high in the air, and the rider had
been shot from its back.  A howl of triumph rose from amidst the
bushes, and a dozen wild figures armed with club and with spear,
rushed upon the prostrate man.

"A moi, Anglais, a moi!" cried a voice, and Nigel saw the young
rider stagger to his feet, strike round him with his sword, and
then fall once more before the rush of his assailants.

There was a comradeship among men of gentle blood and bearing
which banded them together against all ruffianly or unchivalrous
attack.  These rude fellows were no soldiers.  Their dress and
arms, their uncouth cries and wild assault, marked them as
banditti - such men as had slain the Englishman upon the road.
Waiting in narrow gorges with a hidden rope across the path, they
watched for the lonely horseman as a fowler waits by his
bird-trap, trusting that they could overthrow the steed and then
slay the rider ere he had recovered from his fall.

Such would have been the fate of the stranger, as of so many
cavaliers before him, had Nigel not chanced to be close upon his
heels.  In an instant Pommers had burst through the group who
struck at the prostrate man, and in another two of the robbers had
fallen before Nigel's sword.  A spear rang on his breastplate, but
one blow shore off its head, and a second that of him who held it.
In vain they thrust at the steel-girt man.  His sword played round
them like lightning, and the fierce horse ramped and swooped above
them with pawing iron-shod hoofs and eyes of fire.  With cries and
shrieks they flew off to right and left amidst the bushes,
springing over boulders and darting under branches where no
horseman could follow them.  The foul crew had gone as swiftly and
suddenly as it had come, and save for four ragged figures littered
amongst the trampled bushes, no sign remaining of their passing.

Nigel tethered Pommers to a thorn-bush and then turned his
attention to the injured man.  The white horse had regained his
feet and stood whinnying gently as he looked down on his prostrate
master.  A heavy blow, half broken by his sword, had beaten him
down and left a great raw bruise upon his forehead.  But a stream
gurgled through the gorge, and a capful of water dashed over his
face brought the senses back to the injured man.  He was a mere
stripling, with the delicate features of a woman, and a pair of
great violet-blue eyes which looked up presently with a puzzled
stare into Nigel's face.

"Who are you?" he asked.  "Ah yes!  I call you to mind.  You are
the young Englishman who chased me on the great yellow horse.  By
our Lady of Rocamadour whose vernicle is round my neck!  I could
not have believed that any horse could have kept at the heels of
Charlemagne so long.  But I will wager you a hundred crowns,
Englishman, that I lead you over a five-mile course."

"Nay," said Nigel, "we will wait till you can back a horse ere we
talk of racing it.  I am Nigel of Tilford, of the family of
Loring, a squire by rank and the son of a knight.  How are you
called, young sir?"

"I also am a squire by rank and the son of a knight.  I am Raoul
de la Roche Pierre de Bras, whose father writes himself Lord of
Grosbois, a free vavasor of the noble Count of Toulouse, with the
right of fossa and of furca, the high justice, the middle and the
low."  He sat up and rubbed his eyes.  "Englishman, you have saved
my life as I would have saved yours, had I seen such yelping dogs
set upon a man of blood and of coat-armor.  But now I am yours,
and what is your sweet will?"
" When you are fit to ride, you will come back with me to my
people."

"Alas!  I feared that you would say so.  Had I taken you, Nigel -
that is your name, is it not? - had I taken you, I would not have
acted thus."

"How then would you have ordered things?" asked Nigel, much taken
with the frank and debonair manner of his captive.

"I would not have taken advantage of such a mischance as has
befallen me which has put me in your power.  I would give you a
sword and beat you in fair fight, so that I might send you to give
greeting to my dear lady and show her the deeds which I do for her
fair sake."

"Indeed, your words are both good and fair," said Nigel.  "By
Saint Paul!  I cannot call to mind that I have ever met a man who
bore himself better.  But since I am in my armor and you without,
I see not how we can debate the matter."

"Surely, gentle Nigel, you could doff your armor."

"Then have I only my underclothes."

"Nay, there shall be no unfairness there, for I also will very
gladly strip to my underclothes."

Nigel looked wistfully at the Frenchman; but he shook his head.
"Alas!  it may not be," said he.  "The last words that Sir Robert
said to me were that I was to bring you to his side, for he would
have speech with you.  Would that I could do what you ask, for I
also have a fair lady to whom I would fain send you.  What use are
you to me, Raoul, since I have gained no honor in the taking of
you?  How is it with you now?"

The young Frenchman had risen to his feet.  "Do not take my
sword," he said.  "I am yours, rescue or no rescue.  I think now
that I could mount my horse, though indeed my head still rings
like a cracked bell."

Nigel had lost all traces of his comrades; but he remembered Sir
Robert's words that he should ride upon the sun with the certainty
that sooner or later he would strike upon the road.  As they
jogged slowly along over undulating hills, the Frenchman shook off
his hurt and the two chatted merrily together.

"I had but just come from France," said he, "and I had hoped to
win honor in this country, for I have ever heard that the English
are very hardy men and excellent people to fight with.  My mules
and my baggage are at Evran; but I rode forth to see what I could
see, and I chanced upon your army moving down the road, so I
coasted it in the hopes of some profit or adventure.  Then you
came after me and I would have given all the gold goblets upon my
father's table if I had my harness so that I could have turned
upon you.  I have promised the Countess Beatrice that I will send
her an Englishman or two to kiss her hands."

"One might perchance have a worse fate," said Nigel.  "Is this
fair dame your betrothed?"

"She is my love," answered the Frenchman.  "We are but waiting for
the Count to be slain in the wars, and then we mean to marry.  And
this lady of thine, Nigel?  I would that I could see her."

"Perchance you shall, fair sir," said Nigel, "for all that I have
seen of you fills me with desire to go further with you.  It is in
my mind that we might turn this thing to profit and to honor, for
when Sir Robert has spoken with you, I am free to do with you as I
will."

"And what will you do, Nigel?"

"We shall surely try some small deed upon each other, so that
either I shall see the Lady Beatrice, or you the Lady Mary.  Nay,
thank me not, for like yourself, I have come to this country in
search of honor, and I know not where I may better find it than at
the end of your sword-point.  My good lord and master, Sir John
Chandos, has told me many times that never yet did he meet French
knight nor squire that he did not find great pleasure and profit
from their company, and now I very clearly see that he has spoken
the truth."

For an hour these two friends rode together, the Frenchman pouring
forth the praises of his lady, whose glove he produced from one
pocket, her garter from his vest, and her shoe from his
saddle-bag.  She was blond, and when he heard that Mary was dark,
he would fain stop then and there to fight the question of color.
He talked too of his great chateau at Lauta, by the head waters of
the pleasant Garonne; of the hundred horses in the stables, the
seventy hounds in the kennels, the fifty hawks in the mews.  His
English friend should come there when the wars were over, and what
golden days would be theirs!  Nigel too, with his English coldness
thawing before this young sunbeam of the South, found himself
talking of the heather slopes of Surrey, of the forest of Woolmer,
even of the sacred chambers of Cosford.

But as they rode onward towards the sinking sun, their thoughts
far away in their distant homes, their horses striding together,
there came that which brought their minds back in an instant to
the perilous hillsides of Brittany.

It was the long blast of a trumpet blown from somewhere on the
farther side of a ridge toward which they were riding.  A second
long-drawn note from a distance answered it.

"It is your camp," said the Frenchman.

"Nay," said Nigel; "we have pipes with us and a naker or two, but
I have heard no trumpet-call from our ranks.  It behooves us to
take heed, for we know not what may be before us.  Ride this way,
I pray you, that we may look over and yet be ourselves unseen."

Some scattered boulders crowned the height, and from behind them
the two young Squires could see the long rocky valley beyond.
Upon a knoll was a small square building with a battlement round
it.  Some distance from it towered a great dark castle, as massive
as the rocks on which it stood, with one strong keep at the
corner, and four long lines of machicolated walls.  Above, a great
banner flew proudly in the wind, with some device which glowed red
in the setting sun.  Nigel shaded his eyes and stared with
wrinkled brow.

"It is not the arms of England, nor yet the lilies of France, nor
is it the ermine of Brittany," said he.  "He who holds this castle
fights for his own hand, since his own device flies above it.
Surely it is a head gules on an argent field."

"The bloody head on a silver tray!" cried the Frenchman.  "Was I
not warned against him?  This is not a man, friend Nigel.  It is a
monster who wars upon English, French and all Christendom.  Have
you not heard of the Butcher of La Brohiniere?"

"Nay, I have not heard of him."

" His name is accursed in France.  Have I not been told also that
he put to death this very year Gilles de St. Pol, a friend of the
English King?"

"Yes, in very truth it comes back to my mind now that I heard
something of this matter in Calais before we started."

"Then there he dwells, and God guard you if ever you pass under
yonder portal, for no prisoner has ever come forth alive!  Since
these wars began he hath been a king to himself, and the plunder
of eleven years lies in yonder cellars.  How can justice come to
him, when no man knows who owns the land?  But when we have packed
you all back to your island, by the Blessed Mother of God, we have
a heavy debt to pay to the man who dwells in yonder pile!"

But even as they watched, the trumpet-call burst forth once more.
It came not from the castle but from the farther end of the
valley.  It was answered by a second call from the walls.  Then in
a long, straggling line there came a wild troop of marauders
streaming homeward from some foray.  In the van, at the head of a
body of spearmen, rode a tall and burly man, clad in brazen armor,
so that he shone like a golden image in the slanting rays of the
sun.  His helmet had been loosened from his gorget and was held
before him on his horse's neck.  A great tangled beard flowed over
his breastplate, and his hair hung down as far behind.  A squire
at his elbow bore high the banner of the bleeding head.  Behind
the spearmen were a line of heavily laden mules, and on either
side of them a drove of poor country folk, who were being herded
into the castle.  Lastly came a second strong troop of mounted
spearmen, who conducted a score or more of prisoners who marched
together in a solid body.

Nigel stared at them and then, springing on his horse, he urged it
along the shelter of the ridge so as to reach unseen a spot which
was close to the castle gate.  He had scarce taken up his new
position when the cavalcade reached the drawbridge, and amid yells
of welcome from those upon the wall, filed in a thin line across
it.  Nigel stared hard once more at the prisoners in the rear, and
so absorbed was he by the sight that he had passed the rocks and
was standing sheer upon the summit.

"By Saint Paul!" he cried, "it must indeed be so.  I see their
russet jackets.  They are English archers!"

As he spoke, the hindmost one, a strongly built, broad-shouldered
man, looked round and saw the gleaming figure above him upon the
hill, with open helmet, and the five roses glowing upon his
breast.  With a sweep of his hands he had thrust his guardians
aside and for a moment was clear of the throng.

"Squire Loring!  Squire Loring!" he cried.  "It is I, Aylward the
archer!  It is I, Samkin Aylward!"  The next minute a dozen hands
had seized him, his cries were muffled with a gag, and he was
hurled, the last of the band, through the black and threatening
archway of the gate.  Then with a clang the two iron wings came
together, the portcullis swung upward, and captives and captors,
robbers and booty, were all swallowed up within the grim and
silent fortress.




XX.  HOW THE ENGLISH ATTEMPTED THE CASTLE OF LA BROHINIERE


For some minutes Nigel remained motionless upon the crest of the
hill, his heart, like lead within him, and his eyes fixed upon the
huge gray walls which contained his unhappy henchman.  He was
roused by a sympathetic hand upon his shoulder and the voice of
his young prisoner in his ear.

"Peste!" said he.  "They have some of your birds in their cage,
have they not?  What then, my friend?  Keep your heart high!  Is
it not the chance of war, to-day to them, to-morrow to thee, and
death at last for us all?  And yet I had rather they were in any
hands than those of Oliver the Butcher."

"By Saint Paul, we cannot suffer it!" cried Nigel distractedly.
"This man has come with me from my own home.  He has stood between
me and death before now.  It goes to my very heart that he should
call upon me in vain.  I pray you, Raoul, to use your wits, for
mine are all curdled in my head.  Tell me what I should do and how
I may bring him help."

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.  "As easy to get a lamb
unscathed out of a wolves' lair as a prisoner safe from La
Brohiniere.  Nay, Nigel, whither do you go?  Have you indeed taken
leave of your wits?"

The Squire had spurred his horse down the hillside and never
halted until he was within a bowshot of the gate.  The French
prisoner followed hard behind him, with a buzz of reproaches and
expostulations.

"You are mad, Nigel!" he.  cried.  "What do you hope to do then?
Would you carry the castle with your own hands?  Halt, man, halt,
in the name of the Virgin!"

But Nigel had no plan in his head and only obeyed the fevered
impulse to do something to ease his thoughts.  He paced his horse
up and down, waving his spear, and shouting insults and challenges
to the garrison.  Over the high wall a hundred jeering faces
looked down upon him.  So rash and wild was his action that it
seemed to those within to mean some trap, so the drawbridge was
still held high and none ventured forth to seize him.  A few
long-range arrows pattered on the rocks, and then with a deep
booming sound a huge stone, hurled from a mangonel, sang over the
head of the two Squires and crushed into splinters amongst the
boulders behind them.  The Frenchman seized Nigel's bridle and
forced him farther from the gateway.

"By the dear Virgin!" he cried, "I care not to have those pebbles
about my ears, yet I cannot go back alone, so it is very clear,
my, crazy comrade, that you must come also.  Now we are beyond
their reach!  But see, my friend Nigel, who are those who crown
the height?"

The sun had sunk behind the western ridge, but the glowing sky was
fringed at its lower edge by a score of ruddy twinkling points.  A
body of horsemen showed hard and black upon the bare hill.  Then
they dipped down the slope into the valley, whilst a band of
footmen followed behind.

"They are my people," cried Nigel joyously.  "Come, my friend,
hasten, that we may take counsel what we shall do."

Sir Robert Knolles rode a bowshot in front of his men, and his
brow was as black as night.  Beside him, with crestfallen face,
his horse bleeding, his armor dinted and soiled, was the
hot-headed knight, Sir James Astley.  A fierce discussion raged
between them.

"I have done my devoir as best I might," said Astley.  "Alone I
had ten of them at my sword-point.  I know not how I have lived to
tell it."

"What is your devoir to me?  Where are my thirty bowmen?" cried
Knolles in bitter wrath.  "Ten lie dead upon the ground and twenty
are worse than dead in yonder castle.  And all because you must
needs show all men how bold you are, and ride into a bushment such
as a child could see.  Alas for my own folly that ever I should
have trusted such a one as you with the handling of men!"

"By God, Sir Robert, you shall answer to me for those words!"
cried Astley with a choking voice.  "Never has a man dared to
speak to me as you have done this day."

"As long as I hold the King's order I shall be master, and by the
Lord I will hang you, James, on a near tree if I have further
cause of offense!  How now, Nigel?  I see by yonder white horse
that you at least have not failed me.  I will speak with you anon.
Percy, bring up your men, and let us gather round this castle,
for, as I hope for my soul's salvation, I win not leave it until I
have my archers, or the head of him who holds them."

That night the English lay thick round the fortress of La
Brohiniere so that none might come forth from it.  But if none
could come forth it was hard to see how any could win their way
in, for it was full of men, the walls were high and strong, and a
deep dry ditch girt it round.  But the hatred and fear which its
master had raised over the whole country-side could now be plainly
seen, for during the night the brushwood men and the villagers
came in from all parts with offers of such help as they could give
for the intaking of the castle.  Knolles set them cutting bushes
and tying them into fagots.  When morning came he rode out before
the wall and he held counsel with his knights and squires as to
how he should enter in.

"By noon," said he, "we shall have so many fagots that we may make
our way over the ditch.  Then we will beat in the gates and so win
a footing."

The young Frenchman had come with Nigel to the conference, and
now, amid the silence which followed the leader's proposal, he
asked if he might be heard.  He was clad in the brazen armor which
Nigel had taken from the Red Ferret.

"It may be that it is not for me to join in your counsel," said
he, "seeing that I am a prisoner and a Frenchman.  But this man is
the enemy of all, and we of France owe him a debt even as you do,
since many a good Frenchman has died in his cellars.  For this
reason I crave to be heard."

"We will hear you," said Knolles.

"I have come from Evran yesterday," said he.  "Sir Henry
Spinnefort, Sir Peter La Roye and many other brave knights and
squires lie there, with a good company of men, all of whom would
very gladly join with you to destroy this butcher and his castle,
for it is well known amongst us that his deeds are neither good
nor fair.  There are also bombards which we could drag over the
hills, and so beat down this iron gate.  If you so order it I will
ride to Evran and bring my companions back with me."

"Indeed, Robert," said Percy, "it is in my mind that this
Frenchman speaks very wisely and well."

"And when we have taken the castle - what then?" asked Knolles.

"Then you could go upon your way, fair sir, and we upon ours.  Or
if it please you better you could draw together on yonder hill and
we on this one, so that the valley lies between us.  Then if any
cavalier wished to advance himself or to shed a vow and exalt his
lady, an opening might be found for him.  Surely it would be shame
if so many brave men drew together and no small deed were to come
of it."

Nigel clasped his captive's hand to show his admiration and
esteem, but Knolles shook his head.

"Things are not ordered thus, save in the tales of the minstrels,"
said he.  "I have no wish that your people at Evran should know
our numbers or our plans.  I am not in this land for knight
errantry, but I am here to make head against the King's enemies.
Has no one aught else to say?"

Percy pointed to the small outlying fortalice upon the knoll, on
which also flew the flag of the bloody head.  "This smaller
castle, Robert, is of no great strength and cannot hold more than
fifty men.  It is built, as I conceive it, that no one should
seize the high ground and shoot down into the other.  Why should
we not turn all our strength upon it, since it is the weaker of
the twain?"

But again the young leader shook his head.  "If I should take it,"
said he, "I am still no nearer to my desire, nor will it avail me
in getting back my bowmen.  It may cost a score of men, and what
profit shall I have from it?  Had I bombards, I might place them
on yonder hill, but having none it is of little use to me."

"It may be," said Nigel, "that they have scant food or water, and
so must come forth to fight us."

"I have made inquiry of the peasants," Knolles answered, "and they
are of one mind that there is a well within the castle, and good
store of food.  Nay, gentlemen, there is no way before us save to
take it by arms, and no spot where we can attempt it save through
the great gate.  Soon we will have so many fagots that we can cast
them down into the ditch, and so win our way across.  I have
ordered them to cut a pine-tree on the hill and shear the branches
so that we may beat down the gate with it.  But what is now amiss,
and why do they run forward to the castle?"

A buzz had risen from the soldiers in the camp, and they all
crowded in one direction, rushing toward the castle wall.  The
knights and squires rode after them, and when in view of the main
gate, the cause of the disturbance lay before them.  On the tower
above the portal three men were standing in the garb of English
archers, ropes round their necks and their hands bound behind
them.  Their comrades surged below them with cries of recognition
and of pity.

"It is Ambrose!" cried one.  "Surely it is Ambrose of Ingleton."

"Yes, in truth, I see his yellow hair.  And the other, him with
the beard, it is Lockwood of Skipton.  Alas for his wife who keeps
the booth by the bridge-head of Ribble!  I wot not who the third
may be."

"It is little Johnny Alspaye, the youngest man in the company,"
cried old Wat, with the tears running down his cheeks, "'Twas I
who brought him from his home.  Alas!  Alas!  Foul fare the day
that ever I coaxed him from his mother's side that he might perish
in a far land."

There was a sudden flourish of a trumpet and the drawbridge fell.
Across it strode a portly man with a faded herald's coat.  He
halted warily upon the farther side and his voice boomed like a
drum.  "I would speak with your leader." he cried.

Knolles rode forward.

"Have I your knightly word that I may advance unscathed with all
courteous entreaty as befits a herald?"

Knolles nodded his head.

The man came slowly and pompously forward.  "I am the messenger
and liege servant," said he, "of the high baron, Oliver de St.
Yvon, Lord of La Brohiniere.  He bids me to say that if you
continue your journey and molest him no further he will engage
upon his part to make no further attack upon you.  As to the men
whom he holds, he will enroll them in his own honorable service,
for he has need of longbowmen, and has heard much of their skill.
But if you constrain him or cause him further displeasure by
remaining before his castle he hereby gives you warning that he
will hang these three men over his gateway and every morning
another three until all have been slain.  This he has sworn upon
the rood of Calvery, and as he has said so he will do upon
jeopardy of his soul."

Robert Knolles looked grimly at the messenger.  "You may thank the
saints that you have had my promise," said he, "else would I have
stripped that lying tabard from thy back and the skin beneath it
from thy bones, that thy master might have a fitting answer to his
message.  Tell him that I hold him and all that are within his
castle as hostage for the lives of my men, and that should he dare
to do them scathe he and every man that is with him shall hang
upon his battlements.  Go, and go quickly, less my patience fail.

There was that in Knolles' cold gray eyes and in his manner of
speaking those last words which sent the portly envoy back at a
quicker gait than he had come.  As he vanished into the gloomy
arch of the gateway the drawbridge swung up with creak and rattle
behind him.

A few minutes later a rough-bearded fellow stepped out over the
portal where the condemned archers stood and seizing the first by
the shoulders he thrust him over the wall.  A cry burst from the
man's lips and a deep groan from those of his comrades below as he
fell with a jerk which sent him half-way up to the parapet again,
and then after dancing like a child's toy swung slowly backward
and forward with limp limbs and twisted neck.

The hangman turned and bowed in mock reverence to the spectators
beneath him.  He had not yet learned in a land of puny archers how
sure and how strong is the English bow.  Half a dozen men, old Wat
amongst them, had run forward toward the wall.  They were too late
to save their comrades, but at least their deaths were speedily
avenged.

The man was in the act of pushing off the second prisoner when an
arrow crashed through his head, and he fell stone dead upon the
parapet.  But even in falling he had given the fatal thrust and a
second russet figure swung beside the first against the dark
background of the castle wall.

There only remained the young lad, Johnny Alspaye, who stood
shaking with fear, an abyss below him, and the voices of those who
would hurl him over it behind.  There was a long pause before
anyone would come forth to dare those deadly arrows.  Then a
fellow, crouching double, ran forward from the shelter, keeping
the young archer's body as a shield between him and danger.

"Aside, John!  Aside!" cried his comrades from below.

The youth sprang as far as the rope would allow him, and slipped
it half over his face in the effort.  Three arrows flashed past
his side, and two of them buried themselves in the body of the man
behind.  A howl of delight burst from the spectators as he dropped
first upon his knees and then upon his face.  A life for a life
was no bad bargain.

But it was only a short respite which the skill of his comrades
had given to the young archer.  Over the parapet there appeared a
ball of brass, then a pair of great brazen shoulders, and lastly
the full figure of an armored man.  He walked to the edge and they
heard his hoarse guffaw of laughter as the arrows clanged and
clattered against his impenetrable mail.  He slapped his
breast-plate, as he jeered at them.  Well he knew that at the
distance no dart ever sped by mortal hands could cleave through
his plates of metal.  So he stood, the great burly Butcher of La
Brohiniere, with head uptossed, laughing insolently at his foes.
Then with slow and ponderous tread he walked toward his boy
victim, seized him by the ear, and dragged him across so that the
rope might be straight.  Seeing that the noose had slipped across
the face, he tried to push it down, but the mail glove hampering
him he pulled it off, and grasped the rope above the lad's head
with his naked hand.

Quick as a flash old Wat's arrow had sped, and the Butcher sprang
back with a howl of pain, his hand skewered by a cloth-yard shaft.
As he shook it furiously at his enemies a second grazed his
knuckles.  With a brutal kick of his metal-shod feet he hurled
young Alspaye over the edge, looked down for a few moments at his
death agonies, and then walked slowly from the parapet, nursing
his dripping hand, the arrows still ringing loudly upon his
back-piece as he went.

The archers below, enraged at the death of their comrades, leaped
and howled like a pack of ravening wolves.

"By Saint Dunstan," said Percy, looking round at their flushed
faces, "if ever we are to carry it now is the moment, for these
men will not be stopped if hate can take them forward."

"You are right, Thomas!" cried Knolles.  "Gather together twenty
men-at-arms each with his shield to cover him.  Astley, do you
place the bowmen so that no head may show at window or parapet.
Nigel, I pray you to order the countryfolk forward with their
fardels of fagots.  Let the others bring up the lopped pine-tree
which lies yonder behind the horse lines.  Ten men-at-arms can
bear it on the right, and ten on the left, having shields over
their heads.  The gate once down, let every man rush in.  And God
help the better cause!"

Swiftly and yet quietly the dispositions were made, for these were
old soldiers whose daily trade was war.  In little groups the
archers formed in front of each slit or crevice in the walls,
whilst others scanned the battlements with wary eyes, and sped an
arrow at every face which gleamed for an instant above them.  The
garrison shot forth a shower of crossbow bolts and an occasional
stone from their engine, but so deadly was the hail which rained
upon them that they had no time to dwell upon their aim, and their
discharges were wild and harmless.  Under cover of the shafts of
the bowmen a line of peasants ran unscathed to the edge of the
ditch, each hurling in the bundle which he bore in his arms, and
then hurrying back for another one.  In twenty minutes a broad
pathway of fagots lay level with the ground upon one side and the
gate upon the other.  With the loss of two peasants slain by bolts
and one archer crushed by a stone, the ditch had been filled up.
All was ready for the battering-ram.

With a shout, twenty picked men rushed forward with the pine-tree
under their arms, the heavy end turned toward the gate.  The
arbalesters on the tower leaned over and shot into the midst of
them, but could not stop their advance.  Two dropped, but the
others raising their shields ran onward still shouting, crossed
the bridge of fagots, and came with a thundering crash against the
door.  It splintered from base to arch, but kept its place.

Swinging their mighty weapon, the storming party thudded and
crashed upon the gate, every blow loosening and widening the
cracks which rent it from end to end.  The three knights, with
Nigel, the Frenchman Raoul and the other squires, stood beside the
ram, cheering on the men, and chanting to the rhythm of the swing
with a loud "Ha!" at every blow.  A great stone loosened from the
parapet roared through the air and struck Sir James Astley and
another of the attackers, but Nigel and the Frenchman had taken
their places in an instant, and the ram thudded and smashed with
greater energy than ever.  Another blow and another!  the lower
part was staving inward, but the great central bar still held
firm.  Surely another minute would beat it from its sockets.

But suddenly from above there came a great deluge of liquid.  A
hogshead of it had been tilted from the battlement until soldiers,
bridge, and ram were equally drenched in yellow slime.  Knolles
rubbed his gauntlet in it, held it to his visor, and smelled it.

"Back, back!" he cried.  " Back before it is too late!"

There was a small barred window above their heads at the side of
the gate.  A ruddy glare shone through it, and then a blazing
torch was tossed down upon them.  In a moment the oil had caught
and the whole place was a sheet of flame.  The fir-tree that they
carried, the fagots beneath them, their very weapons, were all in
a blaze.

To right and left the men sprang down into the dry ditch, rolling
with screams upon the ground in their endeavor to extinguish the
flames.  The knights and squires protected by their armor strove
hard, stamping and slapping, to help those who had but leather
jacks to shield their bodies.  From above a ceaseless shower of
darts and of stones were poured down upon them, while on the other
hand the archers, seeing the greatness of the danger, ran up to
the edge of the ditch, and shot fast and true at every face which
showed above the wall.

Scorched, wearied and bedraggled, the remains of the storming
party clambered out of the ditch as best they could, clutching at
the friendly hands held down to them, and so limped their way back
amid the taunts and howls of their enemies.  A long pile of
smoldering cinders was all that remained of their bridge, and on
it lay Astley and six other red-hot men glowing in their armor.

Knolles clinched his hands as he looked back at the ruin that was
wrought, and then surveyed the group of men who stood or lay
around him nursing their burned limbs and scowling up at the
exultant figures who waved on the castle wall.  Badly scorched
himself, the young leader had no thought for his own injuries in
the rage and grief which racked his soul.  "We will build another
bridge," he cried.  "Set the peasants binding fagots once more."

But a thought had flashed through Nigel's mind.  "See, fair sir,"
said he.  "The nails of yonder door are red-hot and the wood as
white as ashes.  Surely we can break our way through it."

"By the Virgin, you speak truly!" cried the French Squire.  "If we
can cross the ditch the gate will not stop us.  Come, Nigel, for
our fair ladies' sakes, I will race you who will reach it first,
England or France."

Alas for all the wise words of the good Chandos!  Alas for all the
lessons in order and discipline learned from the wary Knolles.  In
an instant, forgetful of all things but this noble challenge,
Nigel was running at the top of his speed for the burning gate.
Close at his heels was the Frenchman, blowing and gasping, as he
rushed along in his brazen armor.  Behind came a stream of howling
archers and men-at-arms, like a flood which has broken its dam.
Down they slipped into the ditch, rushed across it, and clambered
on each other's backs up the opposite side.  Nigel, Raoul and two
archers gained a foothold in front of the burning gate at the same
moment.  With blows and kicks they burst it to pieces, and dashed
with a yell of triumph through the dark archway beyond.  For a
moment they thought with mad rapture that the castle was carried.
A dark tunnel lay before them, down which they rushed.  But alas!
at the farther end it was blocked by a second gateway as strong as
that which had been burned.  In vain they beat upon it with their
swords and axes.  On each side the tunnel was pierced with slits,
and the crossbow bolts discharged at only a few yards' distance
crashed through armor as if it were cloth and laid man after man
upon the stones.  They raged and leaped before the great
iron-clamped barrier, but the ;wall itself was as easy to tear
down.

It was bitter to draw back; but it was madness to remain.  Nigel
looked round and saw that half his men were down.  At the same
moment Raoul sank with a gasp at his feet, a bolt driven to its
socket through the links of the camail which guarded his neck.
Some of the archers, seeing that certain death awaited them, were
already running back to escape from the fatal passage.

"By Saint Paul!" cried Nigel hotly.  "Would you leave our wounded
where this butcher may lay his hands upon them?  Let the archers
shoot inwards and hold them back from the slits.  Now let each man
raise one of our comrades, lest we leave our honor in the gate of
this castle."

With a mighty effort he had raised Raoul upon his shoulders and
staggered with him to the edge of the ditch.  Several men were
waiting below where the steep bank shield them from the arrows,
and to them Nigel handed down his wounded friend, and each archer
in turn did the same.  Again and again Nigel went back until no
one lay in the tunnel save seven who had died there.  Thirteen
wounded were laid in the shelter of the ditch, and there they must
remain until night came to cover them.  Meanwhile the bowmen on
the farther side protected them from attack, and also prevented
the enemy from all attempts to build up the outer gate.  The
gaping smoke-blackened arch was all that they could show for a
loss of thirty men, but that at least Knolles was determined to
keep.

Burned and bruised, but unconscious of either pain or fatigue for
the turmoil of his spirit within him, Nigel knelt by the Frenchman
and loosened his helmet.  The girlish face of the young Squire was
white as chalk, and the haze of death was gathering over his
violet eyes, but a faint smile played round his lips as he looked
up at his English comrade.

"I shall never see Beatrice again," he whispered.  "I pray you,
Nigel, that when there is a truce you will journey as far as my
father's chateau and tell him how his son died.  Young Gaston will
rejoice, for to him come the land and the coat, the war-cry and
the profit.  See them, Nigel, and tell them that I was as forward
as the others."

"Indeed Raoul, no man could have carried himself with more honor
or won more worship than you have done this day.  I will do your
behest when the time comes."

"Surely you are happy, Nigel," the dying Squire murmured, "for
this day has given you one more deed which you may lay at the feet
of your lady-love."

"It might have been so had we carried the gate," Nigel answered
sadly; "but by Saint Paul!  I cannot count it a deed where I have
come back with my purpose unfulfilled.  But this is no time,
Raoul, to talk of my small affairs.  If we take the castle and I
bear a good part in it, then perchance all this may indeed avail."

The Frenchman sat up with that strange energy which comes often as
the harbinger of death.  "You will win your Lady Mary, Nigel, and
your great deeds will be not three but a score, so that in all
Christendom there shall be no man of blood and coat-armor who has
not heard your name and your fame.  This I tell you - I, Raoul de
la Roche Pierre de Bras, dying upon the field of honor.  And now
kiss me, sweet friend, and lay me back, for the mists close round
me and I am gone!"

With tender hands the Squire lowered his comrade's head, but even
as he did so there came a choking rush of blood, and the soul had
passed.  So died a gallant cavalier of France, and Nigel as he
knelt in the ditch beside him prayed that his own end might be as
noble and as debonair.




XXI.  HOW THE SECOND MESSENGER WENT TO COSFORD



Under cover of night the wounded men were lifted from the ditch
and carried back, whilst pickets of archers were advanced to the
very gate so that none should rebuild it.  Nigel, sick at heart
over his own failure, the death of his prisoner and his fears for
Aylward, crept back into the camp, but his cup was not yet full,
for Knolles was waiting for him with a tongue which cut like a
whip-lash.  Who was he, a raw squire, that he should lead an
attack without orders?  See what his crazy knight errantry had
brought about.  Twenty men had been destroyed by it and nothing
gained.  Their blood was on his head.  Chandos should hear of his
conduct.  He should be sent back to England when the castle had
fallen.

Such were the bitter words of Knolles, the more bitter because
Nigel felt in his heart that he had indeed done wrong, and that
Chandos would have said the same though, perchance, in kinder
words.  He listened in silent respect, as his duty was, and then
having saluted his leader he withdrew apart, threw himself down
amongst the bushes, and wept the hottest tears of his life,
sobbing bitterly with his face between his hands.  He had striven
hard, and yet everything had gone wrong with him.  He was bruised,
burned and aching from head to foot.  Yet so high is the spirit
above the body that all was nothing compared to the sorrow and
shame which racked his soul.

But a little thing changed the current of his thoughts and brought
some peace to his mind.  He had slipped off his mail gauntlets,
and as he did so his fingers lighted upon the tiny bangle which
Mary had fastened there when they stood together upon St.
Catharine's Hill on the Guildford Road.  He remembered the motto
curiously worked in filigree of gold.  It ran: "Fais ce que dois,
adviegne que pourra - c'est commande au chevalier."

The words rang in his weary brain.  He had done what seemed right,
come what might.  It had gone awry, it is true; but all things
human may do that.  If he had carried the castle, he felt that
Knolles would have forgiven and forgotten all else.  If he had not
carried it, it was no fault of his.  No man could have done more.
If Mary could see she would surely have approved.  Dropping into
sleep, he saw her dark face, shining with pride and with pity,
stooping over him as he lay.  She stretched out her hand in his
dream and touched him on the shoulder.  He sprang up and rubbed
his eyes, for fact had woven itself into dream in the strange way
that it does, and some one was indeed leaning over him in the
gloom, and shaking him from his slumbers.  But the gentle voice
and soft touch of the Lady Mary had changed suddenly to the harsh
accents and rough grip of Black Simon, the fierce Norfolk
man-at-arms.

"Surely you are the Squire Loring," he said, peering close to his
face in the darkness.

"I am he.  What then?"

"I have searched through the camp for you, but when I saw the
great horse tethered near these bushes, I thought you would be
found hard by.  I would have a word with you."

"Speak on."

"This man Aylward the bowman was my friend, and it is the nature
that God has given me to love my friends even as I hate my foes.
He is also thy servant, and it has seemed to me that you love him
also."

"I have good cause so to do."

"Then you and I, Squire Loring, have more reason to strive on his
behalf than any of these others, who think more of taking the
castle than of saving those who are captives within.  Do you not
see that such a man as this robber lord would, when all else had
failed him, most surely cut the throats of his prisoners at the
last instant before the castle fell, knowing well that come what
might he would have short shrift himself ?  Is that not certain?"

"By Saint Paul!  I had not thought of it."

"I was with you, hammering at the inner gate," said Simon, "and
yet once when I thought that it was giving way I said in my heart:
`Good-by, Samkin!  I shall never see you more.'  This Baron has
gall in his soul, even as I have myself, and do you think that I
would give up my prisoners alive, if I were constrained so to do?
No, no; had we won our way this day it would have been the
death-stroke for them all."

"It may be that you are right, Simon," said Nigel, "and the
thought of it should assuage our grief.  But if we cannot save
them by taking the castle, then surely they are lost indeed."

"It may be so, or it may not," Simon answered slowly.  "It is in
my mind that if the castle were taken very suddenly, and in such a
fashion that they could not foresee it, then perchance we might
get the prisoners before they could do them scathe."

Nigel bent forward eagerly, his hand on the soldier's arm.

"You have some plan in your mind, Simon.  Tell me what it is."

"I had wished to tell Sir Robert, but he is preparing the assault
for to-morrow and will not be turned from his purpose.  I have
indeed a plan, but whether it be good or not I cannot say until I
have tried it.  But first I will tell you what put it into my
thoughts.  Know then that this morning when I was in yonder ditch
I marked one of their men upon the wall.  He was a big man with a
white face, red hair and a touch of Saint Anthony's fire upon the
cheek."

"But what has this to do with Aylward?"

"I will show you.  This evening after the assault I chanced to
walk with some of my fellows, round yonder small fort upon the
knoll to see if we could spy a weak spot in it.  Some of them came
to the wall to curse us, and among them whom should I see but a
big man with a white face, red hair and a touch of Anthony's fire
upon his cheek?  What make you of that, Squire Nigel?"

"That this man had crossed from the castle to the fort."

"In good sooth, it must indeed be so.  There are not two such
ken-speckled men in the world.  But if he crossed from the castle
to the fort, it was not above the ground, for our own people were
between."

"By Saint Paul!  I see your meaning!" cried Nigel.  "It is in your
mind that there is a passage under the earth from one to the
other."

"I am well sure of it."

"Then if we should take the small fort we may pass down this
tunnel, and so carry the great castle also."

"Such a thing might happen," said Simon, "and yet it is dangerous
also, for surely those in the castle would hear our assault upon
the fort and so be warned to bar the passage against us, and to
slay the prisoners before we could come."

"What then is your rede?"

"Could we find where the tunnel lay, Squire Nigel, I know not what
is to prevent us from digging down upon it and breaking into it so
that both fort and castle are at our mercy before either knows
that we are there."

Nigel clapped his hands with joy.  "'Fore God!" he cried.  "It is
a most noble plan!  But alas!  Simon, I see not how we can tell
the course of this passage or where we should dig."

"I have peasants yonder with spades," said Simon.  "There are two
of my friends, Harding of Barnstable and West-country John who are
waiting for us with their gear.  If you will come to lead us,
Squire Nigel, we are ready to venture our bodies in the attempt."

What would Knolles say in case they failed?  The thought flashed
through Nigel's mind, but another came swiftly behind it.  He
would not venture further unless he found hopes of success.  And
if he did venture further he would put his life upon it.  Giving
that, he made amends for all errors.  And if on the other hand
success crowned their efforts, then Knolles would forgive his
failure at the gateway.  A minute later, every doubt banished from
his mind, he was making his way through the darkness under the
guidance of Black Simon.

Outside the camp the two other men-at-arms were waiting for them,
and the four advanced together.  Presently a little group of
figures loomed up in the darkness.  It was a cloudy night, and a
thin rain was falling which obscured both the castle and the fort;
but a stone had been placed by Simon in the daytime which assured
that they were between the two.

"Is blind Andreas there?" asked Simon.

"Yes, kind sir, I am here," said a voice.

"This man," said Simon, "was once rich and of good repute, but he
was beggared by this robber lord, who afterwards put out his eyes
so that he has lived for many years in darkness at the charity of
others."

"How can he help us in our enterprise if he be indeed blind?"
asked Nigel.

"It is for that very reason, fair lord, that he can be of greater
service than any other man," Simon answered; "for it often happens
that when a man has lost a sense the good God will strengthen
those that remain.  Hence it is that Andreas has such ears that he
can hear the sap in the trees or the cheep of the mouse in its
burrow.  He has come to help us to find the tunnel."

"And I have found it," said the blind man proudly.  "Here I have
placed my staff upon the line of it.  Twice as I lay there with my
ear to the ground I have heard footsteps pass beneath me."

"I trust you make no mistake, old man," said Nigel.

For answer the blind man raised his staff and smote twice upon the
ground, once to the right and once to the left.  The one gave a
dull thud, the other a hollow boom.

"Can you not hear that?" he asked.  "Will you ask me now if I make
a mistake?"

"Indeed, we are much beholden to you!" cried Nigel.  "Let the
peasants dig then, and as silently as they may.  Do you keep your
ear upon the ground, Andreas, so that if anyone pass beneath us we
shall be warned."

So, amid the driving rain, the little group toiled in the
darkness.  The blind man lay silent, flat upon his face, and twice
they heard his warning hiss and stopped their work, whilst some
one passed beneath.  In an hour they had dug down to a stone arch
which was clearly the outer side of the tunnel roof.  Here was a
sad obstacle, for it might take long to loosen a stone, and if
their work was not done by the break of day then their enterprise
was indeed hopeless.  They loosened the mortar with a dagger, and
at last dislodged one small stone which enabled them to get at the
others.  Presently a dark hole blacker than the night around them
yawned at their feet, and their swords could touch no bottom to
it.  They had opened the tunnel.

"I would fain enter it first," said Nigel.  "I pray you to lower
me down."  They held him to the full length of their arms and then
letting him drop they heard him land safely beneath them.  An
instant later the blind man started up with a low cry of alarm.

"I hear steps coming," said he.  "They are far off, but they draw
nearer."

Simon thrust his head and neck down the hole.  "Squire Nigel," he
whispered, "can you hear me?"

"I can hear you, Simon."

"Andreas says that some one comes."

"Then cover over the hole," came the answer.  "Quick, I pray you,
cover it over!"

A mantle was stretched across it, so that no glimmer of light
should warn the new-comer.  The fear was that he might have heard,
the sound of Nigel's descent.  But soon it was clear that he had
not done so, for Andreas announced that he was still advancing.
Presently Nigel could hear the distant thud of his feet.  If he
bore a lantern all was lost.  But no gleam of light appeared in
the black tunnel, and still the footsteps drew nearer.

Nigel breathed a prayer of thanks to all his guardian saints as he
crouched close to the slimy wall and waited breathless, his dagger
in his hand.  Nearer yet and nearer came the steps.  He could hear
the stranger's coarse breathing in the darkness.  Then as he
brushed past Nigel bounded upon him with a tiger spring.  There
was one gasp of astonishment, and not a sound more, for the
Squire's grip was on the man's throat and his body was pinned
motionless against the wall.

"Simon!  Simon!" cried Nigel loudly.

The mantle was moved from the hole.

"Have you a cord?  Or your belts linked together may serve."

One of the peasants had a rope, and Nigel soon felt it dangling
against his hand.  He listened and there was no sound in the
passage.  For an instant he released his captive's throat.  A
torrent of prayers and entreaties came forth.  The man was shaking
like a leaf in the wind.  Nigel pressed the point of his dagger
against his face and dared him to open his lips.  Then he slipped
the rope beneath his arms and tied it.

"Pull him up!" he whispered, and for an instant the gray glimmer
above him was obscured.

"We have him, fair sir," said Simon.

"Then drop me the rope and hold it fast."

A moment later Nigel stood among the group of men who had gathered
round their captive.  It was too dark to see him, and they dare
not strike flint and steel.

Simon passed his hand roughly over him and felt a fat clean-shaven
face, and a cloth gabardine which hung to the ankles.  "Who are
you?" he whispered.  " peak the truth and speak it low, if you
would ever speak again."

The man's teeth chattered in his head with cold and fright.  "I
speak no English," he murmured.

"French, then," said Nigel.

"I am a holy priest of God.  You court the ban of holy Church when
you lay hands upon me.  I pray you let me go upon my way, for
there are those whom I would shrive and housel.  If they should
die in sin, their damnation is upon you."

"How are you called then?"

"I am Dom Peter de Cervolles."

"De Cervolles, the arch-priest, he who heated the brazier when
they burned out my eyes," cried old Andreas.  "Of all the devils
in hell there is none fouler than this one.  Friends, friends, if
I have done aught for you this night, I ask but one reward, that
ye let me have my will of this man."

But Nigel pushed the old man back.  "There is no time for this,"
he said.  "Now hark you, priest - if priest indeed you be - your
gown and tonsure will not save you if you play us false, for we
are here of a set purpose and we will go forward with it, come
what may.  Answer me and answer me truly or it will be an ill
night for you.  In what part of the Castle does this tunnel
enter?"

"In the lower cellar."

"What is at the end?"

"An oaken door."

"Is it barred?"

"Yes, it is barred."

"How would you have entered?"

"I would have given the password."

"Who then would have opened?"

"There is a guard within."

"And beyond him?"

"Beyond him are the prison cells and the jailers."

"Who else would be afoot?"

"No one save a guard at the gate and another on the battlement."

"What then is the password?"

The man was silent.

"The password, fellow!"

The cold points of two daggers pricked his throat; but still he
would not speak.

"Where is the blind man?" asked Nigel.  "Here, Andreas, you can
have him and do what you will with him."

"Nay, nay," the priest whimpered.  "Keep him off me.  Save me from
blind Andreas!  I will tell you everything."

"The password then, this instant?"

"It is `Benedicite!'"

"We have the password, Simon," cried Nigel.  "Come then, let us on
to the farther end.  These peasants will guard the priest, and
they will remain here lest we wish to send a message."

"Nay, fair sir, it is in my mind that we can do better," said
Simon.  "Let us take the priest with us, so that he who is within
may know his voice."

"It is well thought of," said Nigel, "and first let us pray
together, for indeed this night may well be our last."

He and the three men-at-arms knelt in the rain and sent up their
simple orisons, Simon still clutching tight to his prisoner's
wrist.

The priest fumbled in his breast and drew something forth.  "It is
the heart of the blessed confessor Saint Enogat," said he.  "It
may be that it will ease and assoil your souls if you would wish
to handle it."

The four Englishmen passed the flat silver case from hand to hand,
each pressing his lips devoutly upon it.  Then they rose to their
feet.  Nigel was the first to lower himself down the hole; then
Simon; then the priest, who was instantly seized by the other two.
The men-at-arms followed them.  They had scarcely moved away from
the hole when Nigel stopped.

"Surely some one else came after us," said he.

They listened, but no whisper or rustle came from behind them.
For a minute they paused and then resumed their journey through
the dark.  It seemed a long, long way, though in truth it was but
a few hundred yards before they came to a door with a glimmer of
yellow light around it, which barred their passage.  Nigel struck
upon it with his hand.

There was the rasping of a bolt and then a loud voice "Is that
you, priest?"

"Yes, it is I," said the prisoner in a quavering voice.  "Open,
Arnold!"

The voice was enough.  There was no question of passwords.  The
door swung inward, and in an instant the janitor was cut down by
Nigel and Simon.  So sudden and so fierce was the attack that save
for the thud of his body no sound was heard.  A flood of light
burst outward into the passage, and the Englishmen stood with
blinking eyes in its glare.

In front of them lay a stone-flagged corridor, across which lay
the dead body of the janitor.  It had doors on either side of it,
and another grated door at the farther end.  A strange hubbub, a
kind of low droning and whining filled the air.  The four men were
standing listening, full of wonder as to what this might mean,
when a sharp cry came from behind them.  The priest lay in a
shapeless heap upon the ground, and the blood was rushing from his
gaping throat.  Down the passage, a black shadow in the yellow
light, there fled a crouching man, who clattered with a stick as
he went.

"It is Andreas," cried West-country Will.  "He has slain him."

"Then it was he that I heard behind us," said Nigel.  "Doubtless
he was at our very heels in the darkness.  I fear that the
priest's cry has been heard."

"Nay," said Simon, "there are so many cries that one more may well
pass.  Let us take this lamp from the wall and see what sort of
devil's den we have around us."

They opened the door upon the right, and so horrible a smell
issued from it that they were driven back from it.  The lamp which
Simon held forward showed a monkeylike creature mowing and
grimacing in the corner, man or woman none could tell, but driven
crazy by loneliness and horror.  In the other cell was a
graybearded man fettered to the wall, looking blankly before him,
a body without a soul, yet with life still in him, for his dull
eyes turned slowly in their direction.  But it was from behind the
central door at the end of the passage that the chorus of sad
cries came which filled the air.

"Simon," said Nigel, "before we go farther we will take this outer
door from its hinges.  With it we will block this passage so that
at the worst we may hold our ground here until help comes.  Do you
back to the camp as fast as your feet can bear you.  The peasants
will draw you upward through the hole.  Give my greetings to Sir
Robert and tell him that the castle is taken without fail if he
comes this way with fifty men.  Say that we have made a lodgment
within the walls.  And tell him also, Simon, that I would counsel
him to make a stir before the gateway so that the guard may be
held there whilst we make good our footing behind them.  Go, good
Simon, and lose not a moment!"

But the man-at-arms shook his head.  "It is I who have brought you
here, fair sir, and here I bide through fair and foul.  But you
speak wisely and well, for Sir Robert should indeed be told what
is going forward now that we have gone so far.  Harding, do you go
with all speed and bear the gentle Nigel's message."

Reluctantly the man-at-arms sped upon his errand.  They could hear
the racing of his feet and the low jingle of his harness until
they died away in the tunnel.  Then the three companions
approached the door at the end.  It was their intention to wait
where they were until help should come, but suddenly amid the
babel of cries within there broke forth an English voice, shouting
in torment.

"My God!" it cried, "I pray you, comrades, for a cup of water, as
you hope for Christ's mercy!"

A shout of laughter and the thud of a heavy blow followed the
appeal.

All the hot blood rushed to Nigel's head at the sound, buzzing in
his ears and throbbing in his temples.  There are times when the
fiery heart of a man must overbear the cold brain of a soldier.
With one bound he was at the door, with another he was through it,
the men-at-arms at his heels.  So strange was the scene before
them that for an instant all three stood motionless with horror
and surprise.

It was a great vaulted chamber, brightly lit by many torches.  At
the farther end roared a great fire.  In front of it three naked
men were chained to posts in such a way that flinch as they might
they could never get beyond the range of its scorching heat.  Yet
they were so far from it that no actual burn would be inflicted if
they could but keep turning and shifting so as continually to
present some fresh portion of their flesh to the flames.  Hence
they danced and whirled in front of the fire, tossing ceaselessly
this way and that within the compass of their chains, wearied to
death, their protruding tongues cracked and blackened with thirst,
but unable for one instant to rest from their writhings and
contortions.

Even stranger was the sight at each side of the room, whence came
that chorus of groans which had first struck upon the ears of
Nigel and his companions.  A line of great hogsheads were placed
alongside the walls, and within each sat a man, his head
protruding from the top.  As they moved within there was a
constant splashing and washing of water.  The white wan faces all
turned together as the door flew open, and a cry of amazement and
of hope took the place of those long-drawn moans of despair.

At the same instant two fellows clad in black, who had been seated
with a flagon of wine between them at a table near the fire,
sprang wildly to their feet, staring with blank amazement at this
sudden inrush.  That instant of delay deprived them of their last
chance of safety.  Midway down the room was a flight of stone
steps which led to the main door.

Swift as a wildcat Nigel bounded toward it and gained the steps a
stride or two before the jailers.  They turned and made for the
other which led to the passage, but Simon and his comrades were
nearer to it than they.  Two sweeping blows, two dagger thrusts
into writhing figures, and the ruffians who worked the will of the
Butcher lay dead upon the floor of their slaughter-house.

Oh, the buzz of joy and of prayer from all those white lips!  Oh,
the light of returning hope in all those sunken weary eyes!  One
wild shout would have gone up had not Nigel's outstretched hands
and warning voice hushed them to silence.

He opened the door behind him.  A curving newel staircase wound
upward into the darkness.  He listened, but no sound came down.
There was a key in the outer lock of the iron door.  He whipped it
out and turned it on the inner side.  The ground that they had
gained was safe.  Now they could turn to the relief of these poor
fellows beside them.  A few strong blows struck off the irons and
freed the three dancers before the fire.  With a husky croak of
joy, they rushed across to their comrades' water-barrels, plunged
their heads in like horses, and drank and drank and drank.  Then
in turn the poor shivering wretches were taken out of the barrels,
their skins bleached and wrinkled with long soaking.  Their bonds
were torn from them; but, cramped and fixed, their limbs refused
to act, and they tumbled and twisted upon the floor in their
efforts to reach Nigel and to kiss his hand.

In a corner lay Aylward, dripping from his barrel and exhausted
with cold and hunger.  Nigel ran to his side and raised his head.
The jug of wine from which the two jailers had drunk still stood
upon their table.  The Squire placed it to the archer's lips and
he took a hearty pull at it.

"How is it with you now, Aylward?"

"Better, Squire, better, but may I never touch water again as long
as I live!  Alas!  poor Dicon has gone, and Stephen also - the
life chilled out of them.  The cold is in the very marrow of my
bones.  I pray you, let me lean upon your arm as far as the fire,
that I may warm the frozen blood and set it running in my veins
once more."

A strange sight it was to see these twenty naked men crouching in
a half-circle round the fire with their trembling hands extended
to the blaze.  Soon their tongues at least were thawed, and they
poured out the story of their troubles with many a prayer and
ejaculation to the saints for their safe delivery.  No food had
crossed their lips since they had been taken.  The Butcher had
commanded them to join his garrison and to shoot upon their
comrades from the wall.  When they refused he had set aside three
of them for execution.

The others had been dragged to the cellar, whither the leering
tyrant had followed them.  Only one question he had asked them,
whether they were of a hot-blooded nature or of a cold.  Blows
were showered upon them until they answered.  Three had said cold,
and had been condemned to the torment of the fire.  The rest who
had said hot were delivered up to the torture of the water-cask.
Every few hours this man or fiend had come down to exult over
their sufferings and to ask them whether they were ready yet to
enter his service.  Three had consented and were gone.  But the
others had all of them stood firm, two of them even to their
death.

Such was the tale to which Nigel and his comrades listened whilst
they waited impatiently for the coming of Knolles and his men.
Many an anxious look did they cast down the black tunnel, but no
glimmer of light and no clash of steel came from its depths.
Suddenly, however, a loud and measured sound broke upon their
ears.  It was a dull metallic clang, ponderous and slow, growing
louder and ever louder - the tread of an armored man.  The poor
wretches round the fire, all unnerved by hunger and suffering,
huddled together with wan, scared faces, their eyes fixed in
terror on the door.

"It is he!" they whispered.  "It is the Butcher himself!"

Nigel had darted to the door and listened intently.  There were no
footfalls save those of one man.  Once sure of that, he softly
turned the key in the lock.  At the same instant there came a
bull's bellow from without.

"Ives!  Bertrand!" cried the voice.  "Can you not hear me coming,
you drunken varlets?  You shall cool your own heads in the
water-casks, you lazy rascals!  What, not even now!  Open, you
dogs.  Open, I say!"

He had thrust down the latch, and with a kick he flung the door
wide and rushed inward.  For an instant he stood motionless, a
statue of dull yellow metal, his eyes fixed upon the empty casks
and the huddle of naked men.  Then with the roar of a trapped
lion, he turned, but the door had slammed behind him, and Black
Simon, with grim figure and sardonic face, stood between.

The Butcher looked round him helplessly, for he was unarmed save
for his dagger.  Then his eyes fell upon Nigel's roses.

"You are a gentleman of coat-armor," he cried.  "I surrender
myself to you."

"I will not take your surrender, you black villain," said Nigel.
"Draw and defend yourself.  Simon, give him your sword."

"Nay, this is madness," said the blunt man-at-arms.  "Why should I
give the wasp a sting?"

"Give it him, I say.  I cannot kill him in cold blood."

"But I can!" yelled Aylward, who had crept up from the fire.
"Come, comrades!  By these ten finger-bones! has he not taught us
how cold blood should be warmed?"

Like a pack of wolves they were on him, and he clanged upon the
floor with a dozen frenzied naked figures clutching and clinging
above him.  In vain Nigel tried to pull them off.  They were mad
with rage, these tortured starving men, their eyes fixed and
glaring, their hair on end, their teeth gnashing with fury, while
they tore at the howling, writhing man.  Then with a rattle and
clatter they pulled him across the room by his two ankles and
dragged him into the fire.

Nigel shuddered and turned away his eyes as he saw the brazen
figure roll out and stagger to his knees, only to be hurled once
more into the heart of the blaze.  His prisoners screamed with joy
and clapped their hands as they pushed him back with their feet
until the armor was too hot for them to touch.  Then at last he
lay still and glowed darkly red, whilst the naked men danced in a
wild half-circle round the fire.

But now at last the supports had come.  Lights flashed and armor
gleamed down the tunnel.  The cellar filled with armed men, while
from above came the cries and turmoil of the feigned assault upon
the gate.  Led by Knolles and Nigel, the storming party rushed
upward and seized the courtyard.  The guard of the gate taken in
the rear threw down their weapons and cried for mercy.  The gate
was thrown open and the assailants rushed in, with hundreds of
furious peasants at their heels.  Some of the robbers died in hot
blood, many in cold; but all died, for Knolles had vowed to give
no quarter.  Day was just breaking when the last fugitive had been
hunted out and slain.  From all sides came the yells and whoops of
the soldiers with the rending and riving of doors as they burst
into the store-rooms and treasure-chambers.  There was a joyous
scramble amongst them, for the plunder of eleven years, gold and
jewels, satins and velvets, rich plate and noble hangings were all
to be had for the taking.

The rescued prisoners, their hunger appeased and their clothes
restored, led the search for booty.  Nigel, leaning on his sword
by the gateway, saw Aylward totter past, a huge bundle under each
arm, another slung over his back and a smaller packet hanging from
his mouth.  He dropped it for a moment as he passed his young
master.

"By these ten finger-bones!  I am right glad that I came to the
war, and no man could ask for a more goodly life," said he.  "I
have a present here for every girl in Tilford, and my father need
never fear the frown of the sacrist of Waverley again.  But how of
you, Squire Loring?  It standeth not aright that we should gather
the harvest whilst you, who sowed it, go forth empty-handed.
Come, gentle sir, take these things that I have gathered, and I
will go back and find more."

But Nigel smiled and shook his head.  "You have gained what your
heart desired, and perchance I have done so also," said he.

An instant later Knolles strode up to him with outstretched hand.
"I ask your pardon, Nigel," said he.  "I have spoken too hotly in
my wrath."

"Nay, fair sir, I was at fault."

"If we stand here now within this castle, it is to you that I owe
it.  The King shall know of it, and Chandos also.  Can I do aught
else, Nigel, to prove to you the high esteem in which I hold you?"

The Squire flushed with pleasure.  "Do you send a messenger home
to England, fair sir, with news of these doings?"

"Surely, I must do so.  But do not tell me, Nigel, that you would
be that messenger.  Ask me some other favor, for indeed I cannot
let you go."

"Now God forbid!" cried Nigel.  "By Saint Paul!  I would not be so
caitiff and so thrall as to leave you, when some small deed might
still be done.  But I would fain send a message by your
messenger."

"To whom?"

"It is to the Lady Mary, daughter of old Sir John Buttesthorn who
dwells near Guildford."

"But you will write the message, Nigel.  Such greetings as a
cavalier sends to his lady-love should be under seal."

"Nay, he can carry my message by word of mouth."

"Then I shall tell him for he goes this morning.  What message,
then, shall he say to the lady?"

"He will give her my very humble greeting, and he will say to her
that for the second time Saint Catharine has been our friend."




XXII.  HOW ROBERT OF BEAUMANOIR CAME TO PLOERMEL


Sir Robert Knolles and his men passed onward that day, looking
back many a time to see the two dark columns of smoke, one thicker
and one more slender, which arose from the castle and from the
fort of La Brohiniere.  There was not an archer nor a man-at-arms
who did not bear a great bundle of spoil upon his back, and
Knolles frowned darkly as he looked upon them.  Gladly would he
hove thrown it all down by the roadside, but he had tried such
matters before, and he knew that it was as safe to tear a
half-gnawed bone from a bear as their blood-won plunder from such
men as these.  In any case it was but two days' march to Ploermel,
where he hoped to bring his journey to an end.

That night they camped at Mauron, where a small English and Breton
garrison held the castle.  Right glad were the bowmen to see some
of their own countrymen once more, and they spent the night over
wine and dice, a crowd of Breton girls assisting, so that next
morning their bundles were much lighter, and most of the plunder
of La Brohiniere was left with the men and women of Mauron.  Next
day their march lay with a fair sluggish river upon their right,
and a great rolling forest upon their left which covered the whole
country.  At last toward evening the towers of Ploermel rose
before them and they saw against a darkening sky the Red Cross of
England waving in the wind.  So blue was the river Duc which
skirted the road, and so green its banks, that they might indeed
have been back beside their own homely streams, the Oxford Thames
or the Midland Trent, but ever as the darkness deepened there came
in wild gusts the howling of wolves from the forest to remind them
that they were in a land of war.  So busy had men been for many
years in hunting one another that the beasts of the chase had
grown to a monstrous degree, until the streets of the towns were
no longer safe from the wild inroads of the fierce creatures, the
wolves and the bears, who swarmed around them.

It was nightfall when the little army entered the outer gate of
the Castle of Ploermel and encamped in the broad Bailey yard.
Ploermel was at that time the center of British power in Mid-
Brittany, as Hennebon was in the West, and it was held by a
garrison of five hundred men under an old soldier, Richard of
Bambro'', a rugged Northumbrian, trained in that great school of
warriors, the border wars.  He who had ridden the marches of the
most troubled frontier in Europe, and served his time against the
Liddlesdale and Nithsdale raiders was hardened for a life in the
field.

Of late, however, Bambro' had been unable to undertake any
enterprise, for his reinforcements had failed him, and amid his
following he had but three English knights and seventy men.  The
rest were a mixed crew of Bretons, Hainaulters and a few German
mercenary soldiers, brave men individually, as those of that stock
have ever been, but lacking interest in the cause, and bound
together by no common tie of blood or tradition.

On the other hand, the surrounding castles, and especially that of
Josselin, were held by strong forces of enthusiastic Bretons,
inflamed by a common patriotism, and full of warlike ardor.
Robert of Beaumanoir, the fierce seneschal of the house of Rohan,
pushed constant forays and excursions against Ploermel so that
town and castle were both in daily dread of being surrounded and
besieged.  Several small parties of the English faction had been
cut off and slain to a man, and so straitened were the others that
it was difficult for them to gather provisions from the country
round.

Such was the state of Bambro's garrison when on that March evening
Knolles and his men streamed into the bailey-yard of his Castle.

In the glare of the torches at the inner gate Bambro' was waiting
to receive them, a dry, hard, wizened man, small and fierce, with
beady black eyes and quick furtive ways.

Beside him, a strange contrast, stood his Squire, Croquart, a
German, whose name and fame as a man-at-arms were widespread,
though like Robert Knolles himself he had begun as a humble page.
He was a very tall man, with an enormous spread of shoulders, and
a pair of huge hands with which he could crack a horse-shoe.  He
was slow and lethargic, save in moments of excitement, and his
calm blond face, his dreamy blue eyes and his long fair hair gave
him so gentle an appearance that none save those who had seen him
in his berserk mood, raging, an iron giant, in the forefront of
the battle, could ever guess how terrible a warrior he might be.
Little knight and huge squire stood together under the arch of the
donjon and gave welcome to the newcomers, whilst a swarm of
soldiers crowded round to embrace their comrades and to lead them
off where they might feed and make merry together.

Supper had been set in the hall of Ploermel wherein the knights
and squires assembled.  Bambro' and Croquart were there with Sir
Hugh Calverly, an old friend of Knolles and a fellow-townsman, for
both were men of Chester.  Sir Hugh was a middle-sized flaxen man,
with hard gray eyes and fierce large-nosed face sliced across with
the scar of a sword-cut.  There too were Geoffrey D'Ardaine, a
young Breton seigneur, Sir Thomas Belford, a burly thick-set
Midland Englishman, Sir Thomas Walton, whose surcoat of scarlet
martlets showed that he was of the Surrey Waltons, James Marshall
and John Russell, young English squires, and the two brothers,
Richard and Hugh Le Galliard, who were of Gascon blood.  Besides
these were several squires, unknown to fame, and of the
new-comers, Sir Robert Knolles, Sir Thomas Percy, Nigel Loring and
two other squires, Allington and Parsons.  These were the company
who gathered in the torch-light round the table of the Seneschal
of Ploermel, and kept high revel with joyous hearts because they
thought that much honor and noble deeds lay before them.

But one sad face there was at the board, and that belonged to him
at the head of it.  Sir Robert Bambro' sat with his chin leaning
upon his hand and his eyes downcast upon the cloth, whilst all
round him rose the merry clatter of voices, everyone planning some
fresh enterprise which might now be attempted.  Sir Robert Knolles
was for an immediate advance upon Josselin.  Calverly thought that
a raid might be made into the South where the main French power
lay.  Others spoke of an attack upon Vannes.

To all these eager opinions Bambro'' listened in a moody silence,
which he broke at last by a fierce execration which drew a hushed
attention from the company.  "Say no more, fair sirs," he cried;
"for indeed your words are like so many stabs in my heart.  All
this and more we might indeed have done.  But of a truth you are
too late."

"Too late?'" cried Knolles.  "What mean you, Richard?"

"Alas; that I should have to say it, but you and all these fair
soldiers might be back in England once more for all the profit
that I am like to have from your coming.  Saw you a rider on a
white horse ere you reached the Castle?"

"Nay, I saw him not?"

"He came by the western road from Hennebon.  Would that he had
broken his neck ere he came here.  Not an hour ago he left his
message and now hath ridden on to warn the garrison of Malestroit.
A truce has been proclaimed for a year betwixt the French King and
the English, and he who breaks it forfeits life and estate."

"A truce!"  Here was an end to all their fine dreams.  They looked
blankly at each other all round the table, whilst Croquart brought
his great fist down upon the board until the glasses rattled
again.  Knolles sat with clenched hands as if he were a figure of
stone, while Nigel's heart turned cold and heavy within him.  A
truce!  Where then was his third deed, and how might he return
without it?

Even as they sat in moody silence there was the call of a bugle
from somewhere out in the darkness.

Sir Richard looked up with surprise.  "We are not wont to be
summoned after once the portcullis is up," said he.  "Truce or no
truce, we must let no man within our walls until we have proved
him.  Croquart, see to it!"

The huge German left the room.  The company were still seated in
despondent silence when he returned.

"Sir Richard," said he, "the brave knight Robert of Beaumanoir and
his Squire William de Montaubon are without the gate, and would
fain have speech with you."

Bambro' started in his chair.  What could the fierce leader of the
Bretons, a man who was red to the elbow with English blood, have
to say to them?  On what errand had he left his castle of Josselin
to pay this visit to his deadly enemies?

"Are they armed?" he asked.

"They are unarmed."

"Then admit them and bring them hither, but double the guards and
take all heed against surprise."

Places were set at the farther end of the table for these most
unexpected guests.  Presently the door was swung open, and
Croquart with all form and courtesy announced the two Bretons, who
entered with the proud and lofty air of gallant warriors and
high-bred gentlemen.

Beaumanoir was a tall dark man with raven hair and long swarthy
beard.  He was strong and straight as a young oak, with fiery
black eyes, and no flaw in his comely features save that his front
teeth had been dashed from their sockets.  His Squire, William of
Montaubon, was also tall, with a thin hatchet face, and two small
gray eyes set very close upon either side of a long fierce nose.
In Beaumanoir's expression one read only gallantry and frankness;
in Montaubon's there was gallantry also, but it was mixed with the
cruelty and cunning of the wolf.  They bowed as they entered, and
the little English seneschal advanced with outstretched hand to
meet them.

"Welcome, Robert, so long as you are beneath this roof," said he.
"Perhaps the time may come in another place when we may speak to
each other in another fashion."

"So I hope, Richard," said Beaumanoir; "but indeed we of Josselin
bear you in high esteem and are much beholden to you and to your
men for all that you have done for us.  We could not wish better
neighbors nor any from whom more honor is to be gained.  I learn
that Sir Robert Knolles and others have joined you, and we are
heavy-hearted to think that the orders of our Kings should debar
us from attempting a venture."  He and his squire sat down at the
places set for them, and filling their glasses drank to the
company.

"What you say is true, Robert," said Bambro', "and before you came
we were discussing the matter among ourselves and grieving that it
should be so.  When heard you of the truce?"

"Yester-evening a messenger rode from Nantes."

"Our news came to-night from Hennebon.  The King's own seal was on
the order.  So I fear that for a year at least you will bide at
Josselin and we at Ploermel, and kill time as we may.  Perchance
we may hunt the wolf together in the great forest, or fly our
hawks on the banks of the Duc."

"Doubtless we shall do all this, Richard," said Beaumanoir; "but
by Saint Cadoc it is in my mind that with good-will upon both
sides we may please ourselves and yet stand excused before our
Kings."

Knights and squires leaned forward in their chairs, their eager
eyes, fixed upon him.  He broke into a gap-toothed smile as he
looked round at the circle, the wizened seneschal, the blond
giant, Nigel's fresh young face, the grim features of Knolles, and
the yellow hawk-like Calverly, all burning with the same desire.

"I see that I need not doubt the good-will," said he, "and of that
I was very certain before I came upon this errand.  Bethink you
then that this order applies to war but not to challenges,
spear-runnings, knightly exchanges or the like.  King Edward is
too good a knight, and so is King John, that either of them should
stand in the way of a gentleman who desires to advance himself or
to venture his body for the exaltation of his lady.  Is this not
so?"

A murmur of eager assent rose from the table.

"If you as the garrison of Ploermel march upon the garrison of
Josselin, then it is very plain that we have broken the truce and
upon our heads be it.  But if there be a private bickering betwixt
me, for example, and this young squire whose eyes show that he is
very eager for honor, and if thereafter others on each side join
in and fight upon the quarrel, it is in no sense war, but rather
our own private business which no king can alter."

"Indeed, Robert," said Bambro', " all that you say is very good
and fair."

Beaumanoir leaned forward toward Nigel, his brimming glass in his
hand.  "Your name, squire?" said he.

"My name is Nigel Loring."

"I see that you are young and eager, so I choose you as I would
fain have been chosen when I was of your age."

"I thank you, fair sir," said Nigel.  "It is great honor that one
so famous as yourself should condescend to do some small deed upon
me."

"But we must have cause for quarrel, Nigel.  Now here I drink to
the ladies of Brittany, who of all ladies upon this earth are the
most fair and the most virtuous, so that the least worthy-amongst
them is far above the best of England.  What say you to that,
young sir?"

Nigel dipped his finger in his glass and leaning over he placed
its wet impress on the Breton's hand.  "This in your face!" said
he.

Beaumanoir swept off the red drop of moisture and smiled his
approval.  "It could not have been better done," said he.  "Why
spoil my velvet paltock as many a hot-headed fool would have done.
It is in my mind, young sir, that you will go far.  And now, who
follows up this quarrel?"

A growl ran round the table.

Beaumanoir ran his eye round and shook his head.  "Alas!" said he,
"there are but twenty of you here, and I have thirty at Josselin
who are so eager to advance themselves that if I return without
hope for all of them there will be sore hearts amongst them.  I
pray you, Richard, since we have been at these pains to arrange
matters, that you in turn will do what you may.  Can you not find
ten more men?"

"But not of gentle blood."

"Nay, it matters not, if they will only fight."

"Of that there can be no doubt, for the castle is full of archers
and men-at-arms who would gladly play a part in the matter."

"Then choose ten," said Beaumanoir.

But for the first time the wolf-like squire opened his thin lips.
"Surely, my lord, you will not allow archers," said he.

"I fear not any man."

"Nay, fair sir, consider that this is a trial of weapons betwixt
us where man faces man.  You have seen these English archers, and
you know how fast and bow strong are their shafts.  Bethink you
that if ten of them were against us it is likely that half of us
would be down before ever we came to handstrokes."

"By Saint Cadoc, William, I think that you are right," cried the
Breton.  "If we are to have such a fight as will remain in the
memories of men, you will bring no archers and we no crossbows.
Let it be steel upon steel.  How say you then?"

"Surely we can bring ten men-at-arms to make up the thirty that
you desire, Robert.  It is agreed then that we fight on no quarrel
of England and France, but over this matter of the ladies in which
you and Squire Loring have fallen out.  And now the time?"

"At once."

"Surely at once, or perchance a second messenger may come and this
also be forbidden.  We will be ready with to-morrow's sunrise."

"Nay, a day later," cried the Breton Squire.  "Bethink you, my
lord, that the three lances of Radenac would take time to come
over."

"They are not of our garrison, and they shall not have a place."

"But, fair sir, of all the lances of Brittany - "

"Nay, William, I will not have it an hour later.  Tomorrow it
shall be, Richard."

"And where?"

"I marked a fitting place even as I rode here this evening.  If
you cross the river and take the bridle-path through the fields
which leads to Josselin you come midway upon a mighty oak standing
at the corner of a fair and level meadow.  There let us meet at
midday to-morrow."

"Agreed!" cried Bambro'.  "But I pray you not to rise, Robert!
The night is still young and the spices and hippocras will soon be
served.  Bide with us, I pray you, for if you would fain hear the
latest songs from England, these gentlemen have doubtless brought
them.  To some of us perchance it is the last night, so we would
make it a full one."

But the gallant Breton shook his head.  "It may indeed be the last
night for many," said he, "and it is but right that my comrades
should know it.  I have no need of monk or friar, for I cannot
think that harm will ever come beyond the grave to one who has
borne himself as a knight should, but others have other thoughts
upon these matters and would fain have time for prayer and
penitence.  Adieu, fair sirs, and I drink a last glass to a happy
meeting at the midway oak."




XXIII.  HOW THIRTY OF JOSSELIN ENCOUNTERED THIRTY OF PLOERMEL


All night the Castle of Ploermel rang with warlike preparations,
for the smiths were hammering and filing and riveting, preparing
the armor for the champions.  In the stable yard hostlers were
testing and grooming the great war-horses, whilst in the chapel
knights and squires were easing their souls at the knees of old
Father Benedict.

Down in the courtyard, meanwhile, the men-at-arms had been
assembled, and the volunteers weeded out until the best men had
been selected.  Black Simon had obtained a place, and great was
the joy which shone upon his grim visage.  With him were chosen
young Nicholas Dagsworth, a gentleman adventurer who was nephew to
the famous Sir Thomas, Walter the German, Hulbitee - a huge
peasant whose massive frame gave promise which his sluggish spirit
failed to fulfil - John Alcock, Robin Adey and Raoul Provost.
These with three others made up the required thirty.  Great was
the grumbling and evil the talk amongst the archers when it was
learned that none of them were to be included, but the bow had
been forbidden on either side.  It is true that many of them were
expert fighters both with ax and with sword, but they were unused
to carry heavy armor, and a half-armed man would have short shrift
in such a hand-to-hand struggle as lay before them.

It was two hours after tierce, or one hour before noon, on the
fourth Wednesday of Lent in the year of Christ 1351 that the men
of Ploermel rode forth from their castle-gate and crossed the
bridge of the Due.  In front was Bambro' with his Squire Croquart,
the latter on a great roan horse bearing the banner of Ploermel,
which was a black rampant lion holding a blue flag upon a field of
ermine.  Behind him came Robert Knolles and Nigel Loring, with an
attendant at their side, who carried the pennon of the black
raven.  Then rode Sir Thomas Percy with his blue lion flaunting
above him, and Sir Hugh Calverly, whose banner bore a silver owl,
followed by the massive Belford who carried a huge iron club,
weighing sixty pounds, upon his saddlebow, and Sir Thomas Walton
the knight of Surrey.  Behind them were four brave Anglo-Bretons,
Perrot de Commelain, Le Gaillart, d'Aspremont and d'Ardaine, who
fought against their own countrymen because they were partisans of
the Countess of Montfort.  Her engrailed silver cross upon a blue
field was carried at their head.  In the rear were five German or
Hainault mercenaries, the tall Hulbitee, and the men-at-arms.
Altogether of these combatants twenty were of English birth, four
were Breton and six were of German blood.

So, with glitter of armor and flaunting of pennons, their
warhorses tossing and pawing, the champions rode down to the
midway oak.  Behind them streamed hundreds of archers and men-
at-arms whose weapons had been wisely taken from them lest a
general battle should ensue.  With them also went the townsfolk,
men and women, together with wine-sellers, provisions merchants,
armorers, grooms and heralds, with surgeons to tend the wounded
and priests to shrive the dying.  The path was blocked by this
throng, but all over the face of the country horsemen and footmen,
gentle and simple, men and women, could be seen speeding their way
to the scene of the encounter.

The journey was not a long one, for presently, as they threaded
their way through the fields, there appeared before them a great
gray oak which spread its gnarled leafless branches over the
corner of a green and level meadow.  The tree was black with the
peasants who had climbed into it, and all round it was a huge
throng, chattering and calling like a rookery at sunset.  A storm
of hooting broke out from them at the approach of the English, for
Bambro' was hated in the country where he raised money for the
Montfort cause by putting every parish to ransom and maltreating
those who refused to pay.  There was little amenity in the warlike
ways which had been learned upon the Scottish border.  The
champions rode onward without deigning to take notice of the
taunts of the rabble, but the archers turned that way and soon
beat the mob to silence.  Then they resolved themselves into the
keepers of the ground, and pressed the people back until they
formed a dense line along the edge of the field,' leaving the
whole space clear for the warriors.

The Breton champions had not yet arrived, so the English tethered
their horses at one side of the ground, and then gathered round
their leader.  Every man had his shield slung round his neck, and
had cut his spear to the length of five feet so that it might be
more manageable for fighting on foot.  Besides the spear a sword
or a battle-ax hung at the side of each.  They were clad from head
to foot in armor, with devices upon the crests and surcoats to
distinguish them from their antagonists.  At present their visors
were still up and they chatted gayly with each other.

"By Saint Dunstan!" cried Percy, slapping his gauntleted hands
together and stamping his steel feet.  "I shall be right glad to
get to work, for my blood is chilled."

"I warrant you will be warm enough ere you get through," said
Calverly.

"Or cold forever.  Candle shall burn and bell toll at Alnwick
Chapel if I leave this ground alive, but come what may, fair sirs,
it should be a famous joust and one which will help us forward.
Surely each of us will have worshipfully won worship, if we chance
to come through."

"You say truth, Thomas," said Knolles, bracing his girdle.  "For
my own part I have no joy in such encounters when there is warfare
to be carried out, for it standeth not aright that a man should
think of his own pleasure and advancement rather than of the
King's cause and the weal of the army.  But in times of truce I
can think of no better way in which a day may be profitably spent.
Why so silent, Nigel?"

"Indeed, fair sir, I was looking toward Josselin, which lies as I
understand beyond those woods.  I see no sign of this debonair
gentleman and of his following.  It would be indeed grievous pity
if any cause came to hold them back."

Hugh Calverly laughed at the words.  "You need have no fear, young
sir," said he.  "Such a spirit lies in Robert de Beaumanoir that
if he must come alone he would ride against us none the less.  I
warrant that if he were on a bed of death he would be borne here
and die on the green field."

"You say truly, Hugh," said Bambro'.  "I know him and those who
ride behind him.  Thirty stouter men or more skilled in arms are
not to be found in Christendom.  It is in my mind that come what
may there will be much honor for all of us this day.  Ever in my
head I have a rhyme which the wife of a Welsh archer gave me when
I crossed her hand with a golden bracelet after the intaking of
Bergerac.  She was of the old blood of Merlin with the power of
sight.  Thus she said -

            "'Twixt the oak-tree and the river
              Knightly fame aid brave endeavor
              Make an honored name forever.'

Methinks I see the oak-tree, and yonder is the river.  Surely this
should betide some good to us."

The huge German Squire betrayed some impatience during this speech
of his leader.  Though his rank was subordinate, no man present
had more experience of warfare or was more famous as a fighter
than he.  He new broke brusquely into the talk.  "We should be
better employed in ordering our line and making our plans than in
talking of the rhymes of Merlin or such old wives' tales," said
he.  "It is to our own strong arms and good weapons that we must
trust this day.  And first I would ask you, Sir Richard, what is
your will if perchance you should fall in the midst of the fight?"

Bambro' turned to the others.  "If such should be the case, fair
sirs, I desire that my Squire Croquart should command."

There was a pause while the knights looked with some chagrin at
each other.  The silence was broken by Knolles.

"I will do what you say, Richard," said he, "though indeed it is
bitter that we who are knights should serve beneath a squire.  Yet
it is not for us to fall out among ourselves now at this last
moment, and I have ever heard that Croquart is a very worthy and
valiant man.  Therefore, I will pledge you on jeopardy of my soul
that I will accept him as leader if you fall."

"So will I also, Richard," said Calverly.

"And I too!" cried Belford.  "But surely I hear music, and yonder
are their pennons amid the trees."

They all turned, leaning upon their short spears, and watched the
advance of the men of Josselin, as their troop wound its way out
from the woodlands.  In front rode three heralds with tabards of
the ermine of Brittany, blowing loudly upon silver trumpets.
Behind them a great man upon a white horse bore the banner of
Josselin which carries nine golden torteaus upon a scarlet field.
Then came the champions riding two and two, fifteen knights and
fifteen squires, each with his pennon displayed.  Behind them on a
litter was borne an aged priest, the Bishop of Rennes, carrying in
his hands the viaticum and the holy oils that he might give the
last aid and comfort of the Church to those who were dying.  The
procession was terminated by hundreds of men and women from
Josselin, Guegon, and Helleon, and by the entire garrison of the
fortress, who came, as the English had done, without their arms.
The head of this long column had reached the field before the rear
were clear of the wood, but as they arrived the champions picketed
their horses on the farther side, behind which their banner was
planted and the people lined up until they had inclosed the whole
lists with a dense wall of spectators.

With keen eyes the English party had watched the armorial blazonry
of their antagonists, for those fluttering pennons and brilliant
surcoats carried a language which all men could read.  In front
was the banner of Beaumanoir, blue with silver frets.  His motto
"J'ayme qui m'ayme" was carried on a second flag by a little page.

" Whose is the shield behind him - silver with scarlet drops?"
asked Knolles.

"It is his Squire, William of Montaubon," Calverly answered.  "And
there are the golden lion of Rochefort and the silver cross of Du
Bois the Strong.  I would not wish to meet a better company than
are before us this day.  See, there are the blue rings of young
Tintiniac, who slew my Squire Hubert last Lammastide.  With the
aid of Saint George I will avenge him ere nightfall."

"By the three kings of Almain," growled Croquart, "we will need to
fight hard this day, for never have I seen so many good soldiers
gathered together.  Yonder is Yves Cheruel, whom they call the man
of iron, Caro de Bodegat also with whom I have had more than one
bickering - that is he with the three ermine circles on the
scarlet shield.  There too is left-handed Alain de Karanais; bear
in mind that his stroke comes on the side where there is no
shield."

"Who is the small stout man" - asked Nigel - " he with the black
and silver shield?  By Saint Paul!  he seems a very worthy person
and one from whom much might be gained, for he is nigh as broad as
he is long."

"It is Sir Robert Raguenel," said Calverly, whose long spell of
service in Brittany had made him familiar with the people.  It is
said that he can lift a horse upon his back.  Beware a full stroke
of that steel mace, for the armor is not made that can abide it.
But here is the good Beaumanoir, and surely it is time that we
came to grips."

The Breton leader had marshaled his men in a line opposite to the
English, and now he strode forward and shook Bambro' by the hand.
"By Saint Cadoc!  this is a very joyous meeting, Richard," said
he, "and we have certainly hit upon a very excellent way of
keeping a truce."

"Indeed, Robert," said Bambro', "we owe you much thanks, for I can
see that you have been at great pains to bring a worthy company
against us this day.  Surely if all should chance to perish there
will be few noble houses in Brittany who will not mourn."

"Nay, we have none of the highest of Brittany," Beaumanoir
answered.  "Neither a Blois, nor a Leon, nor a Rohan, nor a Conan,
fights in our ranks this day.  And yet we are all men of blood and
coat-armor, who are ready to venture our persons for the desire of
our ladies and the love of the high order of knighthood.  And now,
Richard, what is your sweet will concerning this fight?"

"That we continue until one or other can endure no longer, for
since it is seldom that so many brave men draw together it is
fitting that we see as much as is possible of each other."

"Richard, your words are fair and good.  It shall be even as you
say.  For the rest, each shall fight as pleases him best from the
time that the herald calls the word.  If any man from without
shall break in upon us he shall be hanged on yonder oak."

With a salute he drew down his visor and returned to his own men,
who were kneeling in a twinkling, many colored group whilst the
old bishop gave them his blessing.

The heralds rode round with a warning to the spectators.  Then
they halted at the side of the two bands of men who now stood in a
long line facing each other with fifty yards of grass between.
The visors had been closed, and every man was now cased in metal
from head to foot, some few glowing in brass, the greater number
shining in steel.  Only their fierce eyes could be seen smoldering
in the dark shadow of their helmets.  So for an instant they stood
glaring and crouching.

Then with a loud cry of "Allez!" the herald dropped his upraised
hand, and the two lines of men shuffled as fast as their heavy
armor would permit until they met with a sharp clang of metal in
the middle of the field.  There was a sound as of sixty smiths
working upon their anvils.  Then the babel of yells and shouts
from the spectators, cheering on this party or that, rose and
swelled until even the uproar of the combat was drowned in that
mighty surge.

So eager were the combatants to engage that in a few moments all
order had been lost and the two bands were mixed up in one furious
scrambling, clattering throng, each man tossed hither and thither,
thrown against one adversary and then against another, beaten and
hustled and buffeted, with only the one thought in his mind to
thrust with his spear or to beat with his ax against anyone who
came within the narrow slit of vision left by his visor.

But alas for Nigel and his hopes of some great deed!  His was at
least the fate of the brave, for he was the first to fall.  With a
high heart he had placed himself in the line as nearly opposite to
Beaumanoir as he could, and had made straight for the Breton
leader, remembering that in the out set the quarrel had been so
ordered that it lay between them.  But ere he could reach his goal
he was caught in the swirl of his own comrades, and being the
lighter man was swept aside and dashed into the arms of Alain de
Karanais, the left-handed swordsman, with such a crash that the
two rolled upon the ground together.  Light footed as a cat, Nigel
had sprung up first, and was stooping over the Breton Squire when
the powerful dwarf Raguenel brought his mace thudding down upon
the exposed back of his helmet.  With a groan Nigel fell upon his
face, blood gushing from his mouth, nose, and ears.  There he lay,
trampled over by either party, while that great fight for which
his fiery soul had panted was swaying back and forward above his
unconscious form.

But Nigel was not long unavenged.  The huge iron club of Belford
struck the dwarf Raguenel to the ground, while Belford in turn was
felled by a sweeping blow from Beaumanoir.  Sometimes a dozen were
on the ground at one time, but so strong was the armor, and so
deftly was the force of a blow broken by guard and shield, that
the stricken men were often pulled to their feet once more by
their comrades, and were able to continue the fight.

Some, however, were beyond all aid.  Croquart had cut at a Breton
knight named Jean Rousselot and had shorn away his shoulder-piece,
exposing his neck and the upper part of his arm.  Vainly he tried
to cover this vulnerable surface with his shield.  It was his
right side, and he could not stretch it far enough across, nor
could he get away on account of the press of men around him.  For
a time he held his foemen at bay, but that bare patch of white
shoulder was a mark for every weapon, until at last a hatchet sank
up to the socket in the knight's chest.  Almost at the same moment
a second Breton, a young Squire named Geoffrey Mellon, was slain
by a thrust from Black Simon which found the weak spot beneath the
armpit.  Three other Bretons, Evan Cheruel, Caro de Bodegat, and
Tristan de Pestivien, the first two knights and the latter a
squire, became separated from their comrades, and were beaten to
the ground with English all around them, so that they had to
choose between instant death and surrender.  They handed their
swords to Bambro' and stood apart, each of them sorely wounded,
watching with hot and bitter hearts the melee which still surged
up and down the field.

But now the combat had lasted half an hour without stint or rest,
until the warriors were so exhausted with the burden of their
armor, the loss of blood, the shock of blows, and their own
furious exertions, that they could scarce totter or raise their
weapons.  There must be a pause if the combat was to have any
decisive end.  "Cessez!  Cessez!  Retirez!" cried the heralds, as
they spurred their horses between the exhausted men.

Slowly the gallant Beaumanoir led the twenty-five men who were
left to their original station, where they opened their visors and
threw themselves down upon the grass, panting like weary dogs, and
wiping the sweat from their bloodshot eyes.  A pitcher of wine of
Anjou was carried round by a page, and each in turn drained a cup,
save only Beaumanoir who kept his Lent with such strictness that
neither food nor drink might pass his lips before sunset.  He
paced slowly amongst his men, croaking forth encouragement from
his parched lips and pointing out to them that among the English
there was scarce a man who was not wounded, and some so sorely
that they could hardly stand.  If the fight so far had gone
against them, there were still five hours of daylight, and much
might happen before the last of them was laid upon his back.

Varlets had rushed forth to draw away the two dead Bretons, and a
brace of English archers had carried Nigel from the field.  With
his own hands Aylward had unlaced the crushed helmet and had wept
to see the bloodless and unconscious face of his young master.  He
still breathed, however, and stretched upon the grass by the
riverside the bowman tended him with rude surgery, until the water
upon his brow and the wind upon his face had coaxed back the life
into his battered frame.  He breathed with heavy gasps, and some
tinge of blood crept hack into his cheeks, but still he lay
unconscious of the roar of the crowd and of that great struggle
which his comrades were now waging once again.

The English had lain for a space bleeding and breathless, in no
better case than their rivals, save that they were still
twenty-nine in number.  But of this muster there were not nine who
were hale men, and some were so weak from loss of blood that they
could scarce keep standing.  Yet, when the signal was at last
given to reengage there was not a man upon either side who did not
totter to his feet and stagger forward toward his enemies.

But the opening of this second phase of the combat brought one
great misfortune and discouragement to the English.  Bambro' like
the others, had undone his visor, but with his mind full of many
cares he had neglected to make it fast again.  There was an
opening an inch broad betwixt it and the beaver.  As the two lines
met the left-handed Breton squire, Alain de Karanais, caught sight
of Bambro's face, and in an instant thrust his short spear through
the opening.  The English leader gave a cry of pain and fell on
his knees, but staggered to his feet again, too weak to raise his
shield.  As he stood exposed the Breton knight, Geoffrey Dubois
the Strong, struck him such a blow with his ax that he beat in the
whole breast-plate with the breast behind it.  Bambro' fell dead
upon the ground and for a few minutes a fierce fight raged round
his body.

Then the English drew back, sullen and dogged, bearing Bambro'
with them, and the Bretons, breathing hard, gathered again in
their own quarter.  At the same instant the three prisoners picked
up such weapons as were scattered upon the grass and ran over to
join their own party.

"Nay, nay!" cried Knolles, raising his visor and advancing.  "This
may not be.  You have been held to mercy when we might have slain
you, and by the Virgin I will hold you dishonored, all three, if
you stand not back."

"Say not so, Robert Knolles," Evan Cheruel answered.  "Never yet
has the word dishonor been breathed with my name, but I should
count myself faineant if I did not fight beside my comrades when
chance has made it right and proper that I should do so."

"By Saint Cadoc! he speaks truly," croaked Beaumanoir, advancing
in front of his men.  "You are well aware, Robert, that it is the
law of war and the usage of chivalry that if the knight to whom
you have surrendered is himself slain the prisoners thereby become
released."

There was no answer to this and Knolles, weary and spent, returned
to his comrades.  " I would that we had slain them," said he.  "We
have lost our leader and they have gained three men by the same
stroke."

"If any more lay down their arms it is my order that you slay them
forthwith," said Croquart, whose bent sword and bloody armor
showed how manfully he had borne himself in the fray.  "And now,
comrades, do not be heavy-hearted because we have lost our leader.
Indeed, his rhymes of Merlin have availed him little.  By the
three kings of Almain!  I can teach you what is better than an old
woman's prophecies, and that is that you should keep your
shoulders together and your shields so close that none can break
between them.  Then you will know what is on either side of you,
and you can fix your eyes upon the front.  Also, if any be so weak
or wounded that he must sink his hands his comrades on right and
left can bear him up.  Now advance all together in God's name, for
the battle is still ours if we bear ourselves like men."

In a solid line the English advanced, while the Bretons ran
forward as before to meet them.  The swiftest of these was a
certain Squire, Geoffrey Poulart, who bore a helmet which was
fashioned as a cock's head, with high comb above, and long pointed
beak in front pierced with the breathing-holes.  He thrust with
his sword at Calverly, but Belford who was the next in the line
raised his giant club and struck him a crushing blow from the
side.  He staggered, and then pushing forth from the crowd, he ran
round and round in circles as one whose brain is stricken, the
blood dripping from the holes of his brazen beak.  So for a long
time he ran, the crowd laughing and cock-crowing at the sight,
until at last he stumbled and fell stone-dead upon his face.  But
the fighters had seen nothing of his fate, for desperate and
unceasing was the rush of the Bretons and the steady advance of
the English line:

For a time it seemed as if nothing would break it, but gap-toothed
Beaumanoir was a general as well as a warrior.  Whilst his weary,
bleeding, hard-breathing men still flung themselves upon the front
of the line, he himself with Raguenel, Tentiniac, Alain de
Karanais, and Dubois rushed round the flank and attacked the
English with fury from behind.  There was a long and desperate
melee until once more the heralds, seeing the combatants stand
gasping and unable to strike a blow, rode in and called yet
another interval of truce.

But in those few minutes whilst they had been assaulted upon both
sides, the losses of the English party had been heavy.  The
Anglo-Breton D'Ardaine had fallen before Beaumanoir's sword, but
not before he had cut deeply into his enemy's shoulder.  Sir
Thomas Walton, Richard of Ireland one of the Squires, and Hulbitee
the big peasant had all fallen before the mace of the dwarf
Raguenel or the swords of his companions.  Some twenty men were
still left standing upon either side, but all were in the last
state of exhaustion, gasping, reeling, hardly capable of striking
a blow.

It was strange to see them as they staggered with many a lurch and
stumble toward each other once again, for they moved like drunken
men, and the scales of their neck-armor and joints were as red as
fishes' gills when they raised them They left foul wet footprints
behind them on the green grass as they moved forward once more to
their endless contest.

Beaumanoir, faint with the drain of his blood and with a tongue of
leather, paused as he advanced.  "I am fainting, comrades," he
cried.  "I must drink."

"Drink your own blood, Beaumanoir!" cried Dubois, and the weary
men all croaked together in dreadful laughter.

But now the English had learned from experience, and under the
guidance of Croquart they fought no longer in a straight line, but
in one so bent that at last it became a circle.  As the Bretons
still pushed and staggered against it they thrust it back on every
side, until they had turned it into the most dangerous formation
of all, a solid block of men, their faces turned outward, their
weapons bristling forth to meet every attack.  Thus the English
stood, and no assault could move them.  They could lean against
each other back to back while they waited and allowed their foemen
to tire themselves out.  Again and again the gallant Bretons tried
to make a way through.  Again and again they were beaten back by a
shower of blows.

Beaumanoir, his head giddy with fatigue, opened his helmet and
gazed in despair at this terrible, unbreakable circle.  Only too
clearly he could see the inevitable result.  His men were wearing
themselves out.  Already many of them could scarce stir hand or
foot, and might be dead for any aid which they could give him in
winning the fight.  Soon all would be in the same plight.  Then
these cursed English would break their circle to swarm over his
helpless men and to strike them down.  Do what he might, he could
see no way by which such an end might be prevented.  He cast his
eyes round in his agony, and there was one of his Bretons slinking
away to the side of the lists.  He could scarce credit his senses
when he saw by the scarlet and silver that the deserter was his
own well-tried squire, William of Montaubon.

"William!  William!" he cried.  "Surely you would not leave me?"

But the other's helmet was closed and he could hear nothing.
Beaumanoir saw that he was staggering away as swiftly as he could.
With a cry of bitter despair, he drew into a knot as many of his
braves as could still move, and together they made a last rush
upon the English spears.  This time he was firmly resolved, deep
in his gallant soul, that he would come no foot back, but would
find his death there amongst his foemen or carve a path into the
heart of their ranks.  The fire in his breast spread from man to
man of his followers, and amid the crashing of blows they still
locked themselves against the English shields and drove hard for
an opening in their ranks.

But all was vain!  Beaumanoir's head reeled.  His senses were
leaving him.  In another minute he and his men would have been
stretched senseless before this terrible circle of steel, when
suddenly the whole array fell in pieces before his eyes, his
enemies Croquart, Knolles, Calverly, Belford, all were stretched
upon the ground together, their weapons dashed from their hands
and their bodies too exhausted to rise.  The surviving Bretons had
but strength to fall upon them dagger in hands, and to wring from
them their surrender with the sharp point stabbing through their
visors.  Then victors and vanquished lay groaning and panting in
one helpless and blood-smeared heap.

To Beaumanoir's simple mind it had seemed that at the supreme
moment the Saints of Brittany had risen at their country's call.
Already, as he lay gasping, his heart was pouring forth its thanks
to his patron Saint Cadoc.  But the spectators had seen clearly
enough the earthly cause of this sudden victory, and a hurricane
of applause from one side, with a storm of hooting from the other
showed how different was the emotion which it raised in minds
which sympathized with the victors or the vanquished.

William of Montaubon, the cunning squire, had made his way across
to the spot where the steeds were tethered, and had mounted his
own great roussin.  At first it was thought that he was about to
ride from the field, but the howl of execration from the Breton
peasants changed suddenly to a yell of applause and delight as he
turned the beast's head for the English circle and thrust his long
prick spurs into its side.  Those who faced him saw this sudden
and unexpected appearance.  Time was when both horse and rider
must have winced away from the shower of their blows.  But now
they were in no state to meet such a rush.  They could scarce
raise their arms.  Their blows were too feeble to hurt this mighty
creature.  In a moment it had plunged through the ranks, and seven
of them were on the grass.  It turned and rushed through them
again, leaving five others helpless beneath its hoofs.  No need to
do more!  Already Beaumanoir and his companions were inside the
circle, the prostrate men were helpless, and Josselin had won.

That night a train of crestfallen archers, bearing many a
prostrate figure, marched sadly into Ploermel Castle.  Behind them
rode ten men, all weary, all wounded, and all with burning hearts
against William of Montaubon for the foul trick that he had served
them.

But over at Josselin, yellow gorse-blossoms in their helmets, the
victors were borne in on the shoulders of a shouting mob, amid the
fanfare of trumpets and the beating of drums.  Such was the combat
of the Midway Oak, where brave men met brave men, and such honor
was gained that from that day he who had fought in the Battle of
the Thirty was ever given the highest place and the post of honor,
nor was it easy for any man to pretend to have been there, for it
has been said by that great chronicler who knew them all, that not
one on either side failed to carry to his grave the marks of that
stern encounter.




XXIV.  HOW NIGEL WAS CALLED TO HIS MASTER


My sweet ladye," wrote Nigel in a script which it would take the
eyes of love to read, "there hath been a most noble meeting in the
fourth sennight of Lent betwixt some of our own people and sundry
most worthy persons of this country, which ended, by the grace of
our Lady, in so fine a joust that no man living can call to mind
so fair an occasion.  Much honor was gained by the Sieurde
Beaumanoir and also by an Almain named Croquart, with whom I hope
to have some speech when I am hale again, for he is a most
excellent person and very ready to advance himself or to relieve
another from a vow.  For myself I had hoped, with Godde's help, to
venture that third small deed which might set me free to haste to
your sweet side, but things have gone awry with me, and I early
met with such scathe and was of so small comfort to my friends
that my heart is heavy within me, and in sooth I feel that I have
lost honour rather than gained it.  Here I have lain since the
Feast of the Virgin, and here I am like still to be, for I can
move no limb, save only my hand; but grieve not, sweet lady, for
Saint Catharine hath been our friend since in so short a time I
had two such ventures as the Red Ferret and the intaking of the
Reaver's fortalice.  It needs but one more deed, and sickerly when
I am hale once more it will not be long ere I seek it out.  Till
then, if my eyes may not rest upon you, my heart at least is ever
at thy feet."

So he wrote from his sick-room in the Castle of Ploermel late in
the summer, but yet another summer had come before his crushed
head had mended and his wasted limbs had gained their strength
once more.  With despair he heard of the breaking of the truce,
and of the fight at Mauron in which Sir Robert Knolles and Sir
Walter Bentley crushed the rising power of Brittany - a fight in
which many of the thirty champions of Josselin met their end.
Then, when with renewed strength and high hopes in his heart he
went forth to search for the famous Croquart who proclaimed
himself ever ready night or day to meet any man with any weapon,
it was only to find that in trying the paces of his new horse the
German had been cast into a ditch and had broken his neck.  In the
same ditch perished Nigel's last chance of soon accomplishing that
deed which should free him from his vow.

There was truce once more over all Christendom, and mankind was
sated with war, so that only in far-off Prussia, where the
Teutonic knights waged ceaseless battle with the Lithuanian
heathen, could he hope to find his heart's desire.  But money and
high knightly fame were needed ere a man could go upon the
northern crusade, and ten years were yet to pass ere Nigel should
look from the battlements of Marienberg on the waters of the
Frische Haff, or should endure the torture of the hot plate when
bound to the Holy Woden stone of Memel.  Meanwhile, he chafed his
burning soul out through the long seasons of garrison life in
Brittany, broken only by one visit to the chateau of the father of
Raoul, when he carried to the Lord of Grosbois the news of how his
son had fallen like a gallant gentleman under the gateway of La
Brohiniere.

And then, then at last, when all hope was well-nigh dead in his
heart, there carne one glorious July morning which brought a
horseman bearing a letter to the Castle of Vannes, of which Nigel
now was seneschal.  It contained but few words, short and clear as
the call of a war-trumpet.  It was Chandos who wrote.  He needed
his Squire at his side, for his pennon was in the breeze once
more.  He was at Bordeaux.  The Prince was starting at once for
Bergerac, whence he would make a great raid into France.  It would
not end without a battle.  They had sent word of their coming, and
the good French King had promised to be at great pains to receive
them.  Let Nigel hasten at once.  If the army had left, then let
him follow after with all speed.  Chandos had three other squires,
but would very gladly see his fourth once again, for he had heard
much of him since he parted, and nothing which he might not have
expected to hear of his father's son.  Such was the letter which
made the summer sun shine brighter and the blue sky seem of a
still fairer blue upon that happy morning in Vannes.

It is a weary way from Vannes to Bordeaux.  Coastwise ships are
hard to find, and winds blow north when all brave hearts would
fain be speeding south.  A full month has passed from the day when
Nigel received his letter before he stood upon the quay-side of
the Garonne amid the stacked barrels of Gascon wine and helped to
lead Pommers down the gang-planks.  Not Aylward himself had a
worse opinion of the sea than the great yellow horse, and he
whinnied with joy as he thrust his muzzle into his master's
outstretched hand, and stamped his ringing hoofs upon the good
firm cobblestones.  Beside him, slapping his tawny shoulder in
encouragement, was the lean spare form of Back Simon who had
remained ever under Nigel's pennon.

But Aylward, where was he?  Alas!  two years before he and the
whole of Knolles' company of archers had been drafted away on the
King's service to Guienne, and since he could not write the Squire
knew not whether he was alive or dead.  Simon, indeed, had thrice
heard of him from wandering archers, each time that he was alive
and well and newly married, but as the wife in one case was a fair
maid, and in another a dark, while in the third she was a French
widow, it was hard to know the truth.

Already the army had been gone a month, but news of it came daily
to the town, and such news as all men could read, for through the
landward gates there rolled one constant stream of wagons, pouring
down the Libourne Road, and bearing the booty of Southern France.
The town was full of foot-soldiers, for none but mounted men had
been taken by the Prince.  With sad faces and longing eyes they
watched the passing of the train of plunder-laden carts, piled
high with rich furniture, silks, velvets, tapestries, carvings,
and precious metals, which had been the pride of many a lordly
home in fair Auvergne or the wealthy Bourbonnais.

Let no man think that in these wars England alone was face to face
with France alone.  There is glory and to spare without trifling
with the truth.  Two Provinces in France, both rich and warlike,
had become English through a royal marriage, and these, Guienne
and Gascony, furnished many of the most valiant soldiers under the
island flag.  So poor a country as England could not afford to
keep a great force overseas, and so must needs have lost the war
with France through want of power to uphold the struggle.  The
feudal system enabled an army to be drawn rapidly together with
small expense, but at the end of a few weeks it dispersed again as
swiftly, and only by a well-filled money-chest could it be held
together.  There was no such chest in England, and the King was
forever at his wits' end how to keep his men in the field.

But Guienne and Gascony were full of knights and squires who were
always ready to assemble from their isolated castles for a raid
into France, and these with the addition of those English
cavaliers who fought for honor, and a few thousand of the
formidable archers, hired for fourpence a day, made an army with
which a short campaign could be carried on.  Such were the
materials of the Prince's force, some eight thousand strong, who
were now riding in a great circle through Southern France, leaving
a broad wale of blackened and ruined country behind them.

But France, even with her southwestern corner in English hands,
was still a very warlike power, far richer and more populous than
her rival.  Single Provinces were so great that they were stronger
than many a kingdom.  Normandy in the north, Burgundy in the east,
Brittany in the west and Languedoc in the south were each capable
of fitting out a great army of their own.  Therefore the brave and
spirited John, watching from Paris this insolent raid into his
dominions, sent messengers in hot haste to all these great
feudatories as well as to Lorraine, Picardy, Auvergne, Hainault,
Vermandois, Champagne, and to the German mercenaries over his
eastern border, bidding all of them to ride hard, with bloody
spur, day and night, until they should gather to a head at
Chartres.

There a great army had assembled early in September, whilst the
Prince, all unconscious of its presence sacked towns and besieged
castles from Bourges to Issodun, passing Romorautin, and so onward
to Vierzon and to Tours.  From week to week there were merry
skirmishes at barriers, brisk assaults of fortresses in which much
honor was won, knightly meetings with detached parties of
Frenchmen and occasional spear-runnings where noble champions
deigned to venture their persons.  Houses, too, were to be
plundered, while wine and women were in plenty.  Never had either
knights or archers had so pleasant and profitable an excursion, so
that it was with high heart and much hope of pleasant days at
Bordeaux with their pockets full of money that the army turned
south from the Loire and began to retrace its steps to the
seaboard city.

But now its pleasant and martial promenade changed suddenly to
very serious work of war.  As the Prince moved south he found that
all, supplies had been cleared away from in front of him and that
there was neither fodder for the horses nor food for the men.  Two
hundred wagons laden with spoil rolled at the head of the army,
but the starving soldiers would soon have gladly changed it all
for as many loads of bread and of meat.  The light troops of the
French had preceded then and burned or destroyed everything that
could be of use.  Now also for the first time the Prince and his
men became aware that a great army was moving upon the eastern
side of them, streaming southward in the hope of cutting off their
retreat to the sea.  The sky glowed with their fires at night, and
the autumn sun twinkled and gleamed from one end of the horizon to
the other upon the steel caps and flashing weapons of a mighty
host.

Anxious to secure his plunder, and conscious that the levies of
France were far superior in number to his own force, the Prince
redoubled his attempts to escape; but his horses were exhausted
and his starving men were hardly to be kept in order.  A few more
days would unfit them for battle.  Therefore, when he found near
the village of Maupertuis a position in which a small force might
have a chance to hold its own, he gave up the attempt to outmarch
his pursuers, and he turned at bay, like a hunted boar, all tusks
and eyes of flame.

Whilst these high events had been in progress, Nigel with Black
Simon and four other men-at-arms from Bordeaux, was hastening
northward to join the army.  As far as Bergerac they were in a
friendly land, but thence onward they rode over a blackened
landscape with many a roofless house, its two bare gable-ends
sticking upward - a "Knolles' miter" as it was afterward called
when Sir Robert worked his stern will upon the country.  For three
days they rode northward, seeing many small parties of French in
all directions, but too eager to reach the army to ease their
march in the search of adventures.

Then at last after passing Lusignan they began to come in touch
with English foragers, mounted bowmen for the most part, who were
endeavoring to collect supplies either for the army or for
themselves.  From them Nigel learned that the Prince, with Chandos
ever at his side, was hastening south and might be met within a
short day's march.  As he still advanced these English stragglers
became more and more numerous, until at last he overtook a
considerable column of archers moving in the same direction as his
own party.  These were men whose horses had failed them and who
had therefore been left behind on the advance, but were now
hastening to be in time for the impending battle.  A crowd of
peasant girls accompanied them upon their march, and a whole train
of laden mules were led beside them.

Nigel and his little troop of men-at-arms were riding past the
archers when Black Simon with a sudden exclamation touched his
leader upon the arm.

"See yonder, fair sir," he cried, with gleaming eyes, "there where
the wastrel walks with the great fardel upon his back!  Who is he
who marches behind him?"

Nigel looked, and was aware of a stunted peasant who bore upon his
rounded back an enormous bundle very much larger than himself.
Behind him walked a burly broad-shouldered archer, whose stained
jerkin and battered headpiece gave token of long and hard service.
His bow was slung over his shoulder, and his arms were round the
waists of two buxom Frenchwomen, who tripped along beside him with
much laughter and many saucy answers flung back over their
shoulders to a score of admirers behind them.

"Aylward!" cried Nigel, spurring forward.

The archer turned his bronzed face, stared for an instant with
wild eyes, and then, dropping his two ladies, who were instantly
carried off by his comrades, he rushed to seize the hand which his
young master held down to him.  "Now, by my hilt, Squire Nigel,
this is the fairest sight of my lifetime!" he cried.  "And you,
old leather-face!  Nay, Simon, I would put my arms round your
dried herring of a body, if I could but reach you.  Here is
Pommers too, and I read in his eye that he knows me well and is as
ready to put his teeth into me as when he stood in my father's
stall."

It was like a whiff of the heather-perfumed breezes of Hankley to
see his homely face once more.  Nigel laughed with sheer joy as he
looked at him.

"It was an ill day when the King's service called you from my
side," said he, "and by Saint Paul!  I am right glad to set eyes
upon you once more!  I see well that you are in no wise altered,
but the same Aylward that I have ever known.  But who is this
varlet with the great bundle who waits upon your movements?"

"It is no less than a feather-bed, fair sir, which he bears upon
his back, for I would fain bring it to Tilford, and yet it is
overlarge for me when I take my place with my fellows in the
ranks.  But indeed this war has been a most excellent one, and I
have already sent half a wagonload of my gear back to Bordeaux to
await my homecoming.  Yet I have my fears when I think of all the
rascal foot-archers who are waiting there, for some folk have no
grace or honesty in their souls, and cannot keep their hands from
that which belongs to another.  But if I may throw my leg over
yonder spare horse I will come on with you, fair sir, for indeed
it would be joy to my heart to know that I was riding under your
banner once again."

So Aylward, having given instructions to the bearer of his
feather-bed, rode away in spite of shrill protests from his French
companions, who speedily consoled themselves with those of his
comrades who seemed to have most to give.  Nigel's party was soon
clear of the column of archers and riding hard in the direction of
the Prince's army.  They passed by a narrow and winding track,
through the great wood of Nouaille, and found before them a marshy
valley down which ran a sluggish stream.  Along its farther bank
hundreds of horses were being watered, and beyond was a dense
block of wagons.  Through these the comrades passed, and then
topped a small mound from which the whole strange scene lay spread
before them.

Down the valley the slow stream meandered with marshy meadows on
either side.  A mile or two lower a huge drove of horses were to
be seen assembled upon the bank.  They were the steeds of the
French cavalry, and the blue haze of a hundred fires showed where
King John's men were camping.  In front of the mound upon which
they stood the English line was drawn, but there were few fires,
for indeed, save their horses, there was little for them to cook.
Their right rested upon the river, and their array stretched
across a mile of ground until the left was in touch with a tangled
forest which guarded it from flank attack.  In front was a long
thick hedge and much broken ground, with a single deeply rutted
country road cutting through it in the middle.  Under the hedge
and along the Whole front of the position lay swarms of archers
upon the grass, the greater number slumbering peacefully with
sprawling limbs in the warm rays of the September sun.  Behind
were the quarters of the various knights, and from end to end flew
the banners and pennons marked with the devices of the chivalry of
England and Guienne.

With a glow in his heart Nigel saw those badges of famous captains
and leaders and knew that now at last he also might show his
coat-armor in such noble company.  There was the flag of jean
Grailly, the Captal de Buch, five silver shells on a black cross,
which marked the presence of the most famous soldier of Gascony,
while beside it waved the red lion of the noble Knight of
Hainault, Sir Eustace d'Ambreticourt.  These two coats Nigel knew,
as did every warrior in Europe, but a dense grove of pennoned
lances surrounded them, bearing charges which were strange to him,
from which he understood that these belonged to the Guienne
division of the army.  Farther down the line the famous English
ensigns floated on the wind, the scarlet and gold of Warwick, the
silver star of Oxford, the golden cross of Suffolk, the blue and
gold of Willoughby, and the gold-fretted scarlet of Audley.  In
the very center of them, all was one which caused all others to
pass from his mind, for close to the royal banner of England,
crossed with the label of the Prince, there waved the war-worn
flag with the red wedge upon the golden field which marked the
quarters of the noble Chandos.

At the sight Nigel set spurs to his horse, and a few minutes later
had reached the spot.  Chandos, gaunt from hunger and want of
sleep, but with the old fire lurking in his eye, was standing by
the Prince's tent, gazing down at what could be seen of the French
array, and heavy with thought.  Nigel sprang from his horse and
was within touch of his master when the silken hanging of the
royal tent was torn violently aside and Edward rushed out.

He was without his armor and clad in a sober suit of black, but
the high dignity of his bearing and the imperious anger which
flushed his face proclaimed the leader and the Prince.  At his
heels was a little white-haired ecclesiastic in a flowing gown of
scarlet sendal, expostulating and arguing in a torrent of words.

"Not another word, my Lord Cardinal," cried the angry prince.  "I
have listened to you overlong, and by God's dignity! that which
you say is neither good nor fair in my ears.  Hark you, John, I
would have your counsel.  What think you is the message which my
Lord Cardinal of Perigord has carried from the King of France?  He
says that of his clemency he will let my army pass back to
Bordeaux if we will restore to him all that we have taken, remit
all ransoms, and surrender my own person with that of a hundred
nobles of England and Guienne to be held as prisoners.  What think
you, John?"

Chandos smiled.  "Things are not done in that fashion," said he.

"But my Lord Chandos," cried the Cardinal, "I have made it clear
to the Prince that indeed it is a scandal to all Christendom and a
cause of mocking to the heathen, that two great sons of the Church
should turn their swords thus upon each other."

"Then bid the King of France keep clear of us," said the Prince.

"Fair son, you are aware that you are in the heart of his country
and that it standeth not aright that he should suffer you to go
forth as you came.  You have but a small army, three thousand
bowmen and five thousand men-at-arms at the most, who seem in evil
case for want of food and rest.  The King has thirty thousand men
at his back, of which twenty thousand are expert men-at-arms.  It
is fitting therefore that you make such terms as you may, lest
worse befall."

"Give my greetings to the King of France and tell him that England
will never pay ransom for me.  But it seems to me, my Lord
Cardinal, that you have our numbers and condition very ready upon
your tongue, and I would fain know how the eye of a Churchman can
read a line of battle so easily.  I have seen that these knights
of your household have walked freely to and fro within our camp,
and I much fear that when I welcomed you as envoys I have in truth
given my protection to spies.  How say you, my Lord Cardinal?"

"Fair Prince, I know not how you can find it in your heart or
conscience to say such evil words."

"There is this red-bearded nephew of thine, Robert de Duras.  See
where he stands yonder, counting and prying.  Hark hither, young
sir!  I have been saying to your uncle the Cardinal that it is in
my mind that you and your comrades have carried news of our
dispositions to the French King.  How say you?"

The knight turned pale and sank his eyes.  "My lord," he murmured,
"it may be that I have answered some questions."

"And how will such answers accord with your honor, seeing that we
have trusted you since you came in the train of the Cardinal?"

"My lord, it is true that I am in the train of the Cardinal, and
yet I am liege man of King John and a knight of France, so I pray
you to assuage your wrath against me."

The Prince ground his teeth and his piercing eyes blazed upon the
youth.  "By my father's soul!  I can scarce forbear to strike you
to the earth!  But this I promise you, that if you show that sign
of the Red Griffin in the field and if you be taken alive in
to-morrow's battle, your head shall most assuredly be shorn from
your shoulders."

"Fair son, indeed you speak wildly," cried the Cardinal.  "I
pledge you my word that neither my nephew Robert nor any of my
train will take part in the battle.  And now I leave you, sire,
and may God assoil your soul, for indeed in all this world no men
stand in greater peril than you and those who are around you, and
I rede you that you spend the night in such ghostly exercises as
may best prepare you for that which may befall."  So saying the
Cardinal bowed, and with his household walking behind him set off
for the spot where they had left their' horses, whence they rode
to the neighboring Abbey.

The angry Prince turned upon his heel and entered his tent once
more, whilst Chandos, glancing round, held out a warm welcoming
hand to Nigel.

"I have heard much of your noble deeds," said he.  "Already your
name rises as a squire errant.  I stood no higher, nor so high, at
your age."

Nigel flushed with pride and pleasure.  "Indeed, my dear lord, it
is very little that I have done.  But now that I am back at your
side I hope that in truth I shall learn to bear myself in worthy
fashion, for where else should I win honor if it be not under your
banner."

"Truly, Nigel, you have come at a very good time for advancement.
I cannot see how we can leave this spot without a great battle
which will live in men's minds forever.  In all our fights in
France I cannot call to mind any in which they have been so strong
or we so weak as now, so that there will be the more honor to be
gained.  I would that we had two thousand more archers.  But I
doubt not that we shall give them much trouble ere they drive us
out from amidst these hedges.  Have you seen the French?"

"Nay, fair sir, I have but this moment arrived."

"I was about to ride forth myself to coast their army and observe
their countenance, so come with me ere the night fall, and we
shall see what we can of their order and dispositions."

There was a truce betwixt the two forces for the day, on account
of the ill-advised and useless interposition of the Cardinal of
Perigord, Hence when Chandos and Nigel had pushed their horses
through the long hedge which fronted the position they found that
many small parties of the knights of either army were riding up
and down on the plain outside.  The greater number of these groups
were French, since it was very necessary for them to know as much
as possible of the English defenses; and many of their scouts had
ridden up to within a hundred yards of the hedge, where they were
sternly ordered back by the pickets of archers on guard.

Through these scattered knots of horsemen Chandos rode, and as
many of them were old antagonists it was "Ha, John!" on the one
side, and "Ha, Raoul!" "Ha, Nicholas!" "Ha, Guichard!" upon the
other, as they brushed past them.  Only one cavalier greeted them
amiss, a large, red-faced man, the Lord Clermont, who by some
strange chance bore upon his surcoat a blue virgin standing amid
golden sunbeams, which was the very device which Chandos had
donned for the day.  The fiery Frenchman dashed across their path
and drew his steed back on to its haunches.

"How long is it, my Lord Chandos," said he hotly, "since you have
taken it upon yourself to wear my arms?"

Chandos smiled.  "It is surely you who have mine," said he, "since
this surcoat was worked for the by the good nuns of Windsor a long
year ago."

"If it were not for the truce," said Clermont, "I would soon show
you that you have no right to wear it."

"Look for it then in the battle to-morrow, and I also will look
for yours," Chandos answered.  "There we can very honorably settle
the matter."

But the Frenchman was choleric and hard to appease.  "You English
can invent nothing," said he, "and you take for your own whatever
you see handsome belonging to others."  So, grumbling and fuming,
he rode upon his way, while Chandos, laughing gayly, spurred
onward across the plain.

The immediate front of the English line was shrouded with
scattered trees and bushes which hid the enemy; but when they had
cleared these a fair view of the great French army lay before
them.  In the center of the huge camp was a long and high pavilion
of red silk, with the silver lilies of the King at one end of it,
and the golden oriflamme, the battle-flag of old France, at the
other.  Like the reeds of a pool from side to side of the broad
array, and dwindling away as far as their eyes could see, were the
banners and pennons of high barons and famous knights, but above
them all flew the ducal standards which showed that the feudal
muster of all the warlike provinces of France was in the field
before them.

With a kindling eye Chandos looked across at the proud ensigns of
Normandy, or Burgundy, of Auvergne, of Champagne, of Vermandois,
and of Berry, flaunting and gleaming in the rays of the sinking
sun.  Riding slowly down the line he marked with attentive gaze
the camp of the crossbowmen, the muster of the German mercenaries,
the numbers of the foot-soldiers, the arms of every proud vassal
or vavasor which might give some guide as to the power of each
division.  From wing to wing and round the flanks he went, keeping
ever within crossbow-shot of the army, and then at last having
noted all things in his mind he turned his horse's head and rode
slowly back, heavy with thought, to the English lines.




XXV.  HOW THE KING OF FRANCE HELD COUNSEL AT MAUPERTUIS


The morning of Sunday, the nineteenth of September, in the year of
our Lord 1356, was cold and fine.  A haze which rose from the
marshy valley of Muisson covered both camps and set the starving
Englishmen shivering, but it cleared slowly away as the sun rose.
In the red silken pavilion of the French King - the same which had
been viewed by Nigel and Chandos the evening before - a solemn
mass was held by the Bishop of Chalons, who prayed for those who
were about to die, with little thought in his mind that his own
last hour was so near at hand.  Then, when communion had been
taken by the King and his four young sons the altar was cleared
away, and a great red-covered table placed lengthwise down the
tent, round which John might assemble his council and determine
how best he should proceed.  With the silken roof, rich tapestries
of Arras round the walls and Eastern rugs beneath the feet, his
palace could furnish no fairer chamber.

King John, who sat upon the canopied dais at the upper end, was
now in the sixth year of his reign and the thirty-sixth of his
life.  He was a short burly man, ruddy-faced and deep-chested,
with dark kindly eyes and a most noble bearing.  It did not need
the blue cloak sewed with silver lilies to mark him as the King.
Though his reign had been short, his fame was already widespread
over all Europe as a kindly gentleman and a fearless soldier - a
fit leader for a chivalrous nation.  His elder son, the Duke of
Normandy, still hardly more than a boy, stood beside him, his hand
upon the King's shoulder, and John half turned from time to time
to fondle him.  On the right, at the same high dais, was the
King's younger brother, the Duke of Orleans, a pale heavy-featured
man, with a languid manner and intolerant eyes.  On the left was
the Duke of Bourbon, sad-faced and absorbed, with that gentle
melancholy in his eyes and bearing which comes often with the
premonition of death.  All these were in their armor, save only
for their helmets, which lay upon the board before them.

Below, grouped around the long red table, was an assembly of the
most famous warriors in Europe.  At the end nearest the King was
the veteran soldier the Duke of Athens, son of a banished father,
and now High Constable of France.  On one side of him sat the
red-faced and choleric Lord Clermont, with the same blue Virgin in
golden rays upon his surcoat which had caused his quarrel with
Chandos the night before.  On the other was a noble-featured
grizzly-haired soldier, Arnold d'Andreghen, who shared with
Clermont the honor of being Marshal of France.  Next to them sat
Lord James of Bourbon, a brave warrior who was afterwards slain by
the White Company at Brignais, and beside him a little group of
German noblemen, including the Earl of Salzburg and the Earl of
Nassau, who had ridden over the frontier with their formidable
mercenaries at the bidding of the French King.  The ridged armor
and the hanging nasals of their bassinets were enough in
themselves to tell every soldier that they were from beyond the
Rhine.  At the other side of the table were a line of proud and
warlike Lords, Fiennes, Chatillon, Nesle, de Landas, de Beaujeu,
with the fierce knight errant de Chargny, he who had planned the
surprise of Calais, and Eustace de Ribeaumont, who had upon the
same occasion won the prize of valor from the hands of Edward of
England.  Such were the chiefs to whom the King now turned for
assistance and advice.

"You have already heard, my friends," said he, "that the Prince of
Wales has made no answer to the proposal which we sent by the Lord
Cardinal of Perigord.  Certes this is as it should be, and though
I have obeyed the call of Holy Church I had no fears that so
excellent a Prince as Edward of England would refuse to meet us in
battle.  I am now of opinion that we should fall upon them at
once, lest perchance the Cardinal's cross should again come
betwixt our swords and our enemies."

A buzz of joyful assent arose from the meeting, and even from the
attendant men-at-arms who guarded the door.  When it had died away
the Duke of Orleans rose in his place beside the King.

"Sire," said he, "you speak as we would have you do, and I for one
am of opinion that the Cardinal of Perigord has been an ill friend
of France, for why should we bargain for a part when we have but
to hold out our hand in order to grasp the whole?  What need is
there for words?  Let us spring to horse forthwith and ride over
this handful of marauders who have dared to lay waste your fair
dominions.  If one of them go hence save as our prisoner we are
the more to blame."

"By Saint Denis, brother!" said the King, smiling, "if words could
slay you would have had them all upon their backs ere ever we left
Chartres.  You are new to war, but when you have had experience of
a stricken field or two you would know that things must be done
with forethought and in order or they may go awry.  In our
father's time we sprang to horse and spurred upon these English at
Crecy and elsewhere as you advise, but we had little profit from
it, and now we are grown wiser.  How say you, Sieur de Ribeaumont?
You have coasted their lines and observed their countenance.
Would you ride down upon them, as my brother has advised, or how
would you order the matter?"

De Ribeaumont, a tall dark-eyed handsome man, paused ere he
answered.  "Sire," he said at last, "I have indeed ridden along
their front and down their flanks, in company with Lord Landas and
Lord de Beaujeu, who are here at your council to witness to what I
say.  Indeed, sire, it is in my mind that though the English are
few in number yet they are in such a position amongst these hedges
and vines that you would be well-advised if you were to leave them
alone, for they have no food and must retreat, so that you will be
able to follow them and to fight them to better advantage."

A murmur of disapproval rose from the company, and the Lord
Clermont, Marshal of the army, sprang to his feet, his face red
with anger.

"Eustace; Eustace," said he, "I bear in mind the days when you
were of great heart and high enterprise, but since King Edward
gave you yonder chaplet of pearls you have ever been backward
against the English!"

"My Lord Clermont," said de Ribeaumont sternly, "it is not for me
to brawl at the King's council and in the face of the enemy, but
we will go further into this matter at some other time.
Meanwhile, the King has asked me for my advice and I have given it
as best I might."

"It had been better for your honor, Sir Eustace, had you held your
peace," said the Duke of Orleans.  "Shall we let them slip from
our fingers when we have them here and are fourfold their number?
I know not where we should dwell afterwards, for I am very sure
that we should be ashamed to ride back to Paris, or to look our
ladies in the eyes again."

"Indeed, Eustace, you have done well to say what is in your mind,"
said the King; "but I have already said that we shall join battle
this morning, so that there is no room here for further talk.  But
I would fain have heard from you how it would be wisest and best
that we attack them?"

"I will advise you, sire, to the best of my power.  Upon their
right is a river with marshes around it, and upon their left a
great wood, so that we can advance only upon the center.  Along
their front is a thick hedge, and behind it I saw the green
jerkins of their archers, as thick as the sedges by the river.  It
is broken by one road where only four horsemen could ride abreast,
which leads through the position.  It is clear then that if we are
to drive them back we must cross the great hedge, and I am very
sure that the horses will not face it with such a storm of arrows
beating from behind it.  Therefore, it is my council that we fight
upon foot, as the English did at Crecy, for indeed we may find
that our horses will be more hindrance than help to us this day."

"The same thought was in my own mind, sire," said Arnold
d'Andreghen the veteran Marshal.  "At Crecy the bravest had to
turn their backs, for what can a man do with a horse which is mad
with pain and fear?  If we advance upon foot we are our own
masters, and if we stop the shame is ours."

"The counsel is good," said the Duke of Athens, turning his shrewd
wizened face to the King; "but one thing only I would add to it.
The strength of these people lies in their archers, and if we
could throw them into disorder, were it only for a short time, we
should win the hedge; else they will shoot so strongly that we
must lose many men before we reach it, for indeed we have learned
that no armor will keep out their shafts when they are close."

"Your words, fair sir, are both good and wise," said the King,
"but I pray you to tell us how you would throw these archers into
disorder?"

"I would choose three hundred horsemen, sire, the best and most
forward in the army.  With these I would ride up the narrow road,
and so turn to right and left, falling upon the archers behind the
hedge.  It may be that the three hundred would suffer sorely, but
what are they among so great a host, if a road may be cleared for
their companions?"

"I would say a word to that, sire," cried the German Count of
Nassau, "I have come here with my comrades to venture our persons
in your quarrel; but we claim the right to fight in our own
fashion, and we would count it dishonor to dismount from our
steeds out of fear of the arrows of the English.  Therefore, with
your permission, we will ride to the front, as the Duke of Athens
has advised, and so clear a path for the rest of you."

"This may not be!" cried the Lord Clermont angrily.  "It would be
strange indeed if Frenchmen could not be found to clear a path for
the army of the King of France.  One would think to hear you talk,
my Lord Count, that your hardihood was greater than our own, but
by our Lady of Rocamadour you will learn before nightfall that it
is not so.  It is for me, who am a Marshal of France; to lead
these three hundred, since it is an honorable venture."

"And I claim the same right for the same reason," said Arnold of
Andreghen.

The German Count struck the table with his mailed fist.  "Do what
you like!" said he.  "But this only I can promise you, that
neither I nor any of my German riders will descend from our horses
so long as they are able to carry us, for in our country it is
only people of no consequence who fight upon their feet."

The Lord Clermont was leaning angrily forward with some hot reply
when King John intervened.  "Enough, enough!" he said.  "It is for
you to give your opinions, and for me to tell you what you will
do.  Lord Clermont, and you, Arnold, you will choose three hundred
of the bravest cavaliers in the army and you will endeavor to
break these archers.  As to you and your Germans, my Lord Nassau ,
you will remain upon horseback, since you desire it, and you will
follow the Marshals and support them as best you may.  The rest of
the army will advance upon foot, in three other divisions as
arranged: yours, Charles," and he patted his son, the Duke of
Normandy, affectionately upon the hand; "yours, Philip," he
glanced at the Duke of Orleans; "and the main battle which is my
own.  To you, Geoffrey de Chargny, I intrust the oriflamme this
day.  But who is this knight and what does he desire?"

A young knight, ruddy-bearded and tall, a red griffin upon his
surcoat, had appeared in the opening of the tent.  His flushed
face and disheveled dress showed that he had come in haste.
"Sire," said he, "I am Robert de Duras, of the household of the
Cardinal de Perigord.  I have told you yesterday all that I have
learned of the English camp.  This morning I was again admitted to
it, and I have seen their wagons moving to the rear.  Sire, they
are in flight for Bordeaux."

"'Fore God, I knew it!" cried the Duke of Orleans in a voice of
fury.  "Whilst we have been talking they have slipped through our
fingers.  Did I not warn you?"

"Be silent, Philip!" said the King angrily.  "But you, sir, have
you seen this with your own eyes?"

"With my own eyes, sire, and I have ridden straight from their
camp."

King John looked at him with a stern gaze.  "I know not how it
accords with your honor to carry such tidings in such a fashion,"
said he; "but we cannot choose but take advantage of it.  Fear
not, brother Philip, it is in my mind that you will see all that
you would wish of the Englishmen before nightfall.  Should we fall
upon them whilst they cross the ford it will be to our advantage.
Now, fair sirs, I pray you to hasten to your posts and to carry
out all that we have agreed.  Advance the oriflamme, Geoffrey, and
do you marshal the divisions, Arnold.  So may God and Saint Denis
have us in their holy keeping this day!"

The Prince of Wales stood upon that little knoll where Nigel had
halted the day before.  Beside him were Chandos, and a tall
sun-burned warrior of middle age, the Gascon Captal de Buch.  The
three men were all attentively watching the distant French lines,
while behind them a column of wagons wound down to the ford of the
Muisson.

Close in the rear four knights in full armor with open visors sat
their horses and conversed in undertones with each other.  A
glance at their shields would have given their names to any
soldier, for they were all men of fame who had seen much warfare.
At present they were awaiting their orders, for each of them
commanded the whole or part of a division of the army.  The youth
upon the left, dark, slim and earnest, was William Montacute, Earl
of Salisbury, only twenty-eight years of age and yet a veteran of
Crecy.  How high he stood in reputation is shown by the fact that
the command of the rear, the post of honor in a retreating army,
had been given to him by the Prince.  He was talking to a grizzled
harsh-faced man, somewhat over middle age, with lion features and
fierce light-blue eyes which gleamed as they watched the distant
enemy.  It was the famous Robert de Ufford, Earl of Suffolk, who
had fought without a break from Cadsand onward through the whole
Continental War.  The other tall silent soldier, with the silver
star gleaming upon his surcoat, was John de Vere, Earl of Oxford,
and he listened to the talk of Thomas Beauchamp, a burly, jovial,
ruddy nobleman and a tried soldier, who leaned forward and tapped
his mailed hand upon the other's steel-clad thigh.  They were old
battle-companions, of the same age and in the very prime of life,
with equal fame and equal experience of the wars.  Such was the
group of famous English soldiers who sat their horses behind the
Prince and waited for their orders.

"I would that you had laid hands upon him," said the Prince
angrily, continuing his conversation with Chandos, "and yet,
perchance, it was wiser to play this trick and make them think
that we were retreating."

"He has certainly carried the tidings," said Chandos, with a
smile.  "No sooner had the wagons started than I saw him gallop
down the edge of the wood."

"It was well thought of, John," the Prince remarked, "for it would
indeed be great comfort if we could turn their own spy against
them.  Unless they advance upon us, I know not how we can hold out
another day, for there is not a loaf left in the army; and yet if
we leave this position where shall we hope to find such another?"

"They will stoop, fair sir, they will stoop to our lure.  Even now
Robert de Duras will be telling them that the wagons are on the
move, and they will hasten to overtake us lest we pass the ford.
But who is this, who rides so fast?  Here perchance may be
tidings."

A horseman had spurred up to the knoll.  He sprang from the
saddle, and sank on one knee before the Prince.

"How now, my Lord Audley," said Edward.  " What would you have?"

"Sir," said the knight, still kneeling with bowed head before his
leader, "I have a boon to ask of you."

"Nay, James, rise!  Let me hear what I can do."

The famous knight errant, pattern of chivalry for all time; rose
and turned his swarthy face and dark earnest eyes upon his master.
"Sir," said he, "I have ever served most loyally my lord your
father and yourself, and shall continue so to do so long as I have
life.  Dear sir, I must now acquaint you that formerly I made a
vow if ever I should be in any battle under your command that I
would be foremost or die in the attempt.  I beg therefore that you
will graciously permit me to honorably quit my place among the
others, that I may post myself in such wise as to accomplish my
vow."

The Prince smiled, for it was very sure that vow or no vow,
permission or no permission, Lord James Audley would still be in
the van.  "Go, James," said he, shaking his hand, "and God grant
that this day you may shine in valor above all knights.  But hark,
John, what is that?"

Chandos cast up his fierce nose like the eagle which smells
slaughter afar.  "Surely, sir, all is forming even as we had
planned it."

>From far away there came a thunderous shout.  Then another and yet
another.

"See, they are moving!" cried the Captal de Buch.

All morning they had watched the gleam of the armed squadrons who
were drawn up in front of the French camp.  Now whilst a great
blare of trumpets was borne to their ears, the distant masses
flickered and twinkled in the sunlight.

"Yes, yes, they are moving!" cried the Prince.

"They are moving!  They are moving!"  Down the line the murmur
ran.  And then with a sudden impulse the archers at the hedge
sprang to their feet and the knights behind them waved their
weapons in the air, while one tremendous shout of warlike joy
carried their defiance to the approaching enemy.  Then there fell
such a silence that the pawing of the horses or the jingle of
their harness struck loud upon the ear, until amid the hush there
rose a low deep roar like the sound of the tide upon the beach,
ever growing and deepening as the host of France drew near.




XXVI.  HOW NIGEL FOUND HIS THIRD DEED


Four archers lay behind a clump of bushes ten yards in front of
the thick hedge which shielded their companions.  Amid the long
line of bowmen those behind them were their own company, and in
the main the same who were with Knolles in Brittany.  The four in
front were their leaders: old Wat of Carlisle, Ned Widdington the
red-headed Dalesman, the bald bowyer Bartholomew, and Samkin
Alyward, newly rejoined after a week's absence.  All four were
munching bread and apples, for Aylward had brought in a full
haversack and divided them freely amongst his starving comrades.
The old Borderer and the Yorkshireman were gaunt and hollow-eyed
with privation, while the bowyer's round face had fallen in so
that the skin hung in loose pouches under his eyes and beneath his
jaws.

Behind them lines of haggard, wolfish men glared through the
underwood, silent and watchful save that they burst into a fierce
yelp of welcome when Chandos and Nigel galloped up, sprang from
their horses and took their station beneath them.  All along the
green fringe of bowmen might be seen the steel-clad figures of
knights and squires who had pushed their way into the front line
to share the fortune of the archers.

"I call to mind that I once shot six ends with a Kentish woldsman
at Ashford - " began the Bowyer.

"Nay, nay, we have heard that story!" said old Wat impatiently.
"Shut thy clap, Bartholomew, for it is no time for redeless
gossip!  Walk down the line, I pray you, and see if there be no
frayed string, nor broken nock nor loosened whipping to be
mended."

The stout bowyer passed down the fringe of bowmen, amidst a
running fire of rough wit.  Here and there a bow was thrust out at
him through the hedge for his professional advice.

"Wax your heads!" he kept crying.  "Pass down the wax-pot and wax
your heads.  A waxed arrow will pass where a dry will be held.
Tom Beverley, you jack-fool!  where is your bracer-guard?  Your
string will flay your arm ere you reach your up-shot this day.
And you, Watkin, draw not to your mouth, as is your wont, but to
your shoulder.  You are so used to the wine-pot that the string
must needs follow it.  Nay, stand loose, and give space for your
drawing arms, for they will be on us anon."

He ran back and joined his comrades in the front, who had now
risen to their feet.  Behind them a half-mile of archers stood
behind the hedge, each with his great warbow strung, half a dozen
shafts loose behind him, and eighteen more in the quiver slung
across his front.  With arrow on string, their feet firm-planted,
their fierce eager faces peering through the branches, they
awaited the coming storm.

The broad flood of steel, after oozing slowly forward, had stopped
about a mile from the English front.  The greater part of the army
had then descended from their horses, while a crowd of varlets and
hostlers led them to the rear.  The French formed themselves now
into three great divisions, which shimmered in the sun like
silvery pools, reed-capped with many a thousand of banners and
pennons.  A space of several hundred yards divided each.  At the
same time two bodies of horsemen formed themselves in front.  The
first consisted of three hundred men in one thick column, the
second of a thousand, riding in a more extended line.

The Prince had ridden up to the line of archers.  He was in dark
armor, his visor open, and his handsome aquiline face all glowing
with spirit and martial fire.  The bowmen yelled at him, and he
waved his hands to them as a huntsman cheers his hounds.

"Well, John, what think you now?" he asked.  "What would my noble
father not give to be by our side this day?  Have you seen that
they have left their horses?"

"Yes, my fair lord, they have learned their lesson," said Chandos.
"Because we have had good fortune upon our feet at Crecy and
elsewhere they think that they have found the trick of it.  But it
is in my mind that it is very different to stand when you are
assailed, as we have done, and to assail others when you must drag
your harness for a mile and come weary to the fray."

"You speak wisely, John.  But these horsemen who form in front and
ride slowly towards us, what make you of them?"

"Doubtless they hope to cut the strings of our bowmen and so clear
a way for the others.  But they are indeed a chosen band, for mark
you, fair sir, are not those the colors of Clermont upon the left,
and of d'Andreghen upon the right, so that both marshals ride with
the vanguard?"

"By God's soul, John!" cried the Prince, "it is very sure that you
can see more with one eye than any man in this army with two.  But
it is even as you say.  And this larger band behind?"

"They should be Germans, fair sir, by the fashion of their
harness."

The two bodies of horsemen had moved slowly over the plain, with a
space of nearly a quarter of a mile between them.  Now, having
come two bowshots from the hostile line, they halted.  All that
they could see of the English was the long hedge, with an
occasional twinkle of steel through its leafy branches, and behind
that the spear-heads of the men-at-arms rising from amidst the
brushwood and the vines.  A lovely autumn countryside with
changing many-tinted foliage lay stretched before them, all bathed
in peaceful sunshine, and nothing save those flickering fitful
gleams to tell of the silent and lurking enemy who barred their
way.  But the bold spirit of the French cavaliers rose the higher
to the danger.  The clamor of their war-cries filled the air, and
they tossed their pennoned spears over their heads in menace and
defiance.  From the English line it was a noble sight, the
gallant, pawing, curveting horses, the many-colored twinkling
riders, the swoop and wave and toss of plume and banner.

Then a bugle rang forth.  With a sudden yell every spur struck
deep, every lance was laid in rest, and the whole gallant squadron
flew like a glittering thunderbolt for the center of the English
line.

A hundred yards they had crossed, and yet another hundred, but
there was no movement in front of them, and no sound save their
own hoarse battle-cries and the thunder of their horses.  Ever
swifter and swifter they flew.  From behind the hedge it was a
vision of horses, white, bay and black, their necks stretched,
their nostrils distended, their bellies to the ground, whilst of
the rider one could but see a shield with a plume-tufted visor
above it, and a spear-head twinkling in front.

Then of a sudden the Prince raised his hand and gave a cry.
Chandos echoed it, it swelled down the line, and with one mighty
chorus of twanging strings and hissing shafts the long-pent storm
broke at last.

Alas for the noble steeds!  Alas for the gallant men.  When the
lust of battle is over who would not grieve to see that noble
squadron break into red ruin before the rain of arrows beating
upon the faces and breasts of the horses?  The front rank crashed
down, and the others piled themselves upon the top of them, unable
to check their speed, or to swerve aside from the terrible wall of
their shattered comrades which had so suddenly sprung up before
them.  Fifteen feet high was that blood-spurting mound of
screaming, kicking horses and writhing, struggling men.  Here and
there on the flanks a horseman cleared himself and dashed for the
hedge, only to have his steed slain under him and to be hurled
from his saddle.  Of all the three hundred gallant riders, not one
ever reached that fatal hedge.

But now in a long rolling wave of steel the German battalion
roared swiftly onward.  They opened in the center to pass that
terrible mound of death, and then spurred swiftly in upon the
archers.  They were brave men, well led, and in their open lines
they could avoid the clubbing together which had been the ruin of
the vanguard; yet they perished singly even as the others had
perished together.  A few were slain by the arrows.  The greater
number had their horses killed under them, and were so shaken and
shattered by the fall that they could not raise their limbs,
over-weighted with iron, from the spot where they lay.

Three men riding together broke through the bushes which sheltered
the leaders of the archers, cut down Widdington the Dalesman,
spurred onward through the hedge, dashed over the bowmen behind
it, and made for the Prince.  One fell with an arrow through his
head, a second was beaten from his saddle by Chandos, and the
third was slain by the Prince's own hand.  A second band broke
through near the river, but were cut off by Lord Audley and his
squires, so that all were slain.  A single horseman whose steed
was mad with pain, an arrow in its eye and a second in its
nostril, sprang over the hedge and clattered through the whole
army, disappearing amid whoops and laughter into the woods behind.
But none others won as far as the hedge.  The whole front of the
position was fringed with a litter of German wounded or dead,
while one great heap in the center marked the downfall of the
gallant French three hundred.

Whilst these two waves of the attack had broken in front of the
English position, leaving this blood-stained wreckage behind them,
the main divisions had halted and made their last preparations for
their own assault.  They had not yet begun their advance, and the
nearest was still half a mile distant, when the few survivors from
the forlorn hope, their maddened horses bristling with arrows,
flew past them on either flank.

At the same moment the English archers and men-at-arms dashed
through the hedge, and dragged all who were living out of that
tangled heap of shattered horses and men.  It was a mad wild rush,
for in a few minutes the fight must be renewed, and yet there was
a rich harvest of wealth for the lucky man who could pick a
wealthy prisoner from amid the crowd.  The nobler spirits
disdained to think of ransoms whilst the fight was still
unsettled; but a swarm of needy soldiers, Gascons and English,
dragged the wounded out by the leg or the arm, and with daggers at
their throats demanded their names, title and means.  He who had
made a good prize hurried him to the rear where his own servants
could guard him, while he who was disappointed too often drove the
dagger home and then rushed once more into the tangle in the hope
of better luck.  Clermont, with an arrow through the sky-blue
Virgin on his surcoat, lay dead within ten paces of the hedge;
d'Andreghen was dragged by a penniless squire from under a horse
and became his prisoner.  The Earl of Salzburg and of Nassau were
both found helpless on the ground and taken to the rear.  Aylward
cast his thick arms round Count Otto von Langenbeck, and laid him,
helpless from a broken leg, behind his bush.  Black Simon had made
prize of Bernard, Count of Ventadour, and hurried him through the
hedge.  Everywhere there was rushing and shouting, brawling and
buffeting, while amidst it all a swarm of archers were seeking
their shafts, plucking them from the dead, and sometimes even from
the wounded.  Then there was a sudden cry of warning.  In a moment
every man was back in his place once more, and the line of the
hedge was clear.

It was high time; for already the first division of the French was
close upon them.  If the charge of the horsemen had been terrible
from its rush and its fire, this steady advance of a huge phalanx
of armored footmen was even more fearsome to the spectator.  They
moved very slowly, on account of the weight of their armor, but
their progress was the more regular and inexorable.  With elbows
touching - their shields slung in front, their short five-foot
spears carried in their right hands, and their maces or swords
ready at their belts, the deep column of men-at-arms moved onward.
Again the storm of arrows beat upon them clinking and thudding on
the armor.  They crouched double behind their shields as they met
it.  Many fell, but still the slow tide lapped onward.  Yelling,
they surged up to the hedge, and lined it for half a mile,
struggling hard to pierce it.

For five minutes the long straining ranks faced each other with
fierce stab of spear on one side and heavy beat of ax or mace upon
the other.  In many parts the hedge was pierced or leveled to the
ground, and the French men-at-arms were raging amongst the
archers, hacking and hewing among the lightly armed men.  For a
moment it seemed as if the battle was on the turn.

But John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, cool, wise and crafty in war,
saw and seized, his chance.  On the right flank a marshy meadow
skirted the river.  So soft was it that a heavily-armed man would
sink to his knees.  At his order a spray of light bowmen was
thrown out from the battle line and forming upon the flank of the
French poured their arrows into them.  At the same moment Chandos,
with Audley, Nigel, Bartholomew Burghersh, the Captal de Buch, and
a score of other knights sprang upon their horses, and charging
down the narrow lane rode over the French line in front of them.
Once through it they spurred to left and right, trampling down the
dismounted men-at-arms.

A fearsome sight was Pommers that day, his red eyes rolling, his
nostrils gaping, his tawny mane tossing, and his savage teeth
gnashing in fury, as he tore and smashed and ground beneath his
ramping hoofs all that came before him.  Fearsome too was the
rider, ice-cool; alert, concentrated of purpose, with, heart of
fire and muscles of steel.  A very angel of battle he seemed as he
drove his maddened horse through the thickest of the press, but
strive as he would: the tall figure of his master upon his
coal-black steed was ever half a length before him.

Already the moment of danger was passed.  The French line had
given back.  Those who had pierced the hedge had fallen like brave
men amid the ranks of their foemen.  The division of Warwick had
hurried up from the vineyards to fill the gaps of Salisbury's
battle-line.  Back rolled the shining tide, slowly at first, even
as it had advanced, but quicker now as the bolder fell and the
weaker shredded out and shuffled with ungainly speed for a place
of safety.  Again there was a rush from behind the hedge.  Again
there was a reaping of that strange crop of bearded arrows which
grew so thick upon the ground, and again the wounded prisoners
were seized and dragged in brutal haste to the rear.  Then the
line was restored, and the English, weary, panting and shaken,
awaited the next attack.

But a great good fortune had come to them - so great that as they
looked down the valley they could scarce credit their own senses.
Behind the division of the Dauphin, which had pressed them so
hard, stood a second division hardly less numerous, led by the
Duke of Orleans.  The fugitives from in front, blood-smeared and
bedraggled, blinded with sweat and with fear, rushed amidst its
ranks in their flight, and in a moment, without a blow being
struck, had carried them off in their wild rout.  This vast array,
so solid and so martial, thawed suddenly away like a snow-wreath
in the sun.  It was gone, and in its place thousands of shining
dots scattered over the whole plain as each man made his own way
to the spot where he could find his horse and bear himself from
the field.  For a moment it seemed that the battle was won, and a
thundershout of joy pealed up from the English line.

But as the curtain of the Duke's division was drawn away it was
only to disclose stretching far behind it, and spanning the valley
from side to side, the magnificent array of the French King,
solid, unshaken, and preparing its ranks for the attack.  Its
numbers were as great as those of the English army; it was
unscathed by all that was past, and it had a valiant monarch to
lead it to the charge.  With the slow deliberation of the man who
means to do or to die, its leader marshaled its ranks for the
supreme effort of the day.

Meanwhile during that brief moment of exultation when the battle
appeared to be won, a crowd of hot-headed young knights and
squires swarmed and clamored round the Prince, beseeching that he
would allow them to ride forth.

"See this insolent fellow who bears three martlets upon a field
gales!" cried Sir Maurice Berkeley.  "He stands betwixt the two
armies as though he had no dread of us."

"I pray you, sir, that I may ride out to him, since he seems ready
to attempt some small deed," pleaded Nigel.

"Nay, fair sirs, it is an evil thing that we should break our
line, seeing that we still have much to do," said the Prince.
"See! he rides away, and so the matter is settled."

"Nay, fair prince," said the young knight who had spoken first.
"My gray horse, Lebryte, could run him down ere he could reach
shelter.  Never since I left Severn side have I seen steed so
fleet as mine.  Shall I not show you?"  In an instant he had
spurred the charger and was speeding across the plain.

The Frenchman, John de Helennes, a squire of Picardy, had waited
with a burning heart, his soul sick at the flight of the division
in which he had ridden.  In the hope of doing some redeeming
exploit, or of meeting his own death, he had loitered betwixt the
armies, but no movement had come from the English lines.  Now he
had turned his horse's head to join the King's array, when the low
drumming of hoofs sounded behind him, and he turned to find a
horseman hard upon his heels.  Each had drawn his sword, and the
two armies paused to view the fight.  In the first bout Sir
Maurice Berkeley's lance was struck from his hand, and as he
sprang down to recover it the Frenchman ran him through the thigh,
dismounted from his horse, and received his surrender.  As the
unfortunate Englishman hobbled away at the side of his captor a
roar of laughter burst from both armies at the spectacle.

"By my ten finger-bones!" cried Aylward, chuckling behind the
remains of his bush, "he found more on his distaff that time than
he knew how to spin.  Who was the knight?"

"By his arms," said old Wat, "he should either be a Berkeley of
the West or a Popham of Kent."

"I call to mind that I shot a match of six ends once with a
Kentish woldsman - " began the fat Bowyer.

"Nay, nay, stint thy talk, Bartholomew!" cried old Wat.  "Here is
poor Ned with his head cloven, and it would be more fitting if you
were saying aves for his soul, instead of all this bobance and
boasting.  Now, now, Tom of Beverley?"

"We have suffered sorely in this last bout, Wat.  There are forty
of our men upon their backs, and the Dean Foresters on the right
are in worse case still."

"Talking will not mend it, Tom, and if all but one were on their
backs he must still hold his ground."

Whilst the archers were chatting, the leaders of the army were in
solemn conclave just behind them.  Two divisions of the French had
been repulsed, and yet there was many an anxious face as the older
knights looked across the plain at the unbroken array of the
French King moving slowly toward them.  The line of the archers
was much thinned and shredded.  Many knights and squires had been
disabled in the long and fierce combat at the hedge.  Others,
exhausted by want of food, had no strength left and were stretched
panting upon the ground.  Some were engaged in carrying the
wounded to the rear and laying them under the shelter of the
trees, whilst others were replacing their broken swords or lances
from the weapons of the slain.  The Captal de Buch, brave and
experienced as he was, frowned darkly and whispered his misgivings
to Chandos.

But the Prince's courage flamed the higher as the shadow fell,
while his dark eyes gleamed with a soldier's pride as he glanced
round him at his weary comrades, and then at the dense masses of
the King's battle which now, with a hundred trumpets blaring and a
thousand pennons waving, rolled slowly over the plain.  "Come what
may, John, this has been a most noble meeting," said he.  "They
will not be ashamed of us in England.  Take heart, my friends, for
if we conquer we shall carry the glory ever with us; but if we be
slain then we die most worshipfully and in high honor, as we have
ever prayed that we might die, and we leave behind us our brothers
and kinsmen who will assuredly avenge us.  It is but one more
effort, and all will be well.  Warwick, Oxford, Salisbury,
Suffolk, every man to the front!  My banner to the front also!
Your horses, fair sirs!  The archers are spent, and our own good
lances must win the field this day.  Advance, Walter, and may God
and Saint George be with England!"

Sir Walter Woodland, riding a high black horse, took station by
the Prince, with the royal banner resting in a socket by his
saddle.  From all sides the knights and squires crowded in upon
it, until they formed a great squadron containing the survivors of
the battalions of Warwick and Salisbury as well as those of the
Prince.  Four hundred men-at-arms who had been held in reserve
were brought up and thickened the array, but even so Chandos' face
was grave as he scanned it and then turned his eyes upon the
masses of the Frenchmen.

"I like it not, fair sir.  The weight is overgreat," he whispered
to the Prince.

"How would you order it, John?  Speak what is in you mind."

"We should attempt something upon their flank whilst we hold them
in front.  How say you, jean?"  He turner to the Captal de Buch,
whose dark, resolute face reflected the same misgivings.

"Indeed, John, I think as you do," said he.  "The French King is a
very valiant man, and so are those who are about him, and I know
not how we may drive them back unless we can do as you advise.  If
you will give me only a hundred men I will attempt it."

"Surely the task is mine, fair sir, since the thought has come
from me," said Chandos.

"Nay, John, I would keep you at my side.  But you speak well,
Jean, and you shall do even as you have said.  Go ask the Earl of
Oxford for a hundred men-at-arms and as many hobblers, that you
may ride round the mound yonder, and so fall upon them unseen.
Let all that are left of the archers gather on each side, shoot
away their arrows, and then fight as best they may.  Wait till
they are past yonder thorn-bush and then, Walter, bear my banner
straight against that of the King of France.  Fair sirs, may God
and the thought of your ladies hold high your hearts!"

The French monarch, seeing that his footmen had made no impression
upon the English, and also that the hedge had been well-nigh
leveled to the ground in the course of the combat, so that it no
longer presented an obstacle, had ordered his followers to remount
their horses, and it was as a solid mass of cavalry that the
chivalry of France advanced to their last supreme effort.  The
King was in the center of the front line, Geoffrey de Chargny with
the golden oriflamme upon his right, and Eustace de Ribeaumont
with the royal lilies upon the left.  At his elbow was the Duke of
Athens, High Constable of France, and round him were the nobles of
the court, fiery and furious, yelling their warcries as they waved
their weapons over their heads.  Six thousand gallant men of the
bravest race in Europe, men whose very names are like blasts of a
battle-trumpet - Beaujeus and Chatillons, Tancarvilles and
Ventadours - pressed hard behind the silver lilies.

Slowly they moved at first, walking their horses that they might
be the fresher for the shock.  Then they broke into a trot which
was quickening into a gallop when the remains of the hedge in
front of them was beaten in an instant to the ground and the broad
line of the steel-clad chivalry of England swept grandly forth to
the final shock.  With loose rein and busy spur the two lines of
horsemen galloped at the top of their speed straight and hard for
each other.  An instant later they met with a thunder-crash which
was heard by the burghers on the wall of Poitiers, seven good
miles away.

Under that frightful impact horses fell dead with broken necks,
and many a rider, held in his saddle by the high pommel, fractured
his thighs with the shock.  Here and there a pair met breast to
breast, the horses rearing straight upward and falling back upon
their masters.  But for the most part the line had opened in the
gallop, and the cavaliers, flying through the gaps, buried
themselves in the enemy's ranks.  Then the flanks shredded out,
and the thick press in the center loosened until there was space
to swing a sword and to guide a steed.  For ten acres there was
one wild tumultuous swirl of tossing heads, of gleaming weapons
which rose and fell, of upthrown hands, of tossing plumes and of
lifted shields, whilst the din of a thousand war-cries and the
clash-clash of metal upon metal rose and swelled like the roar and
beat of an ocean surge upon a rock-bound coast.  Backward and
forward swayed the mighty throng, now down the valley and now up,
as each side in turn put forth its strength for a fresh rally.
Locked in one long deadly grapple, great England and gallant
France with iron hearts and souls of fire strove and strove for
mastery.

Sir Walter Woodland, riding hard upon his high black horse, had
plunged into the swelter and headed for the blue and silver banner
of King John.  Close at his heels in a solid wedge rode the
Prince, Chandos, Nigel, Lord Reginald Cobham, Audley with his four
famous squires, and a score of the flower of the English and
Gascon knighthood.  Holding together and bearing down opposition
by a shower of blows and by the weight of their powerful horses,
their progress was still very slow, for ever fresh waves of French
cavaliers surged up against them and broke in front only to close
in again upon their rear.  Sometimes they were swept backward by
the rush, sometimes they gained a few paces, sometimes they could
but keep their foothold, and yet from minute to minute that blue
and silver flag which waved above the press grew ever a little
closer.  A dozen furious hard-breathing French knights had broken
into their ranks, and clutched at Sir Walter Woodland's banner,
but Chandos and Nigel guarded it on one side, Audley with his
squires on the other, so that no man laid his hand upon it and
lived.

But now there was a distant crash and a roar of "Saint George for
Guienne!" from behind.  The Captal de Buch had charged home.
"Saint George for England!" yelled the main attack, and ever the
counter-cry came back to them from afar.  The ranks opened in
front of them.  The French were giving way.  A small knight with
golden scroll-work upon his armor threw himself upon the Prince
and was struck dead by his mace.  It was the Duke of Athens,
Constable of France, but none had time to note it, and the fight
rolled on over his body.  Looser still were the French ranks.
Many were turning their horses, for that ominous roar from the
rear had shaken their resolution.  The little English wedge poured
onward, the Prince, Chandos, Audley and Nigel ever in the van.

A huge warrior in black, bearing a golden banner, appeared
suddenly in a gap of the shredding ranks.  He tossed his precious
burden to a squire, who bore it away.  Like a pack of hounds on
the very haunch of a deer the English rushed yelling for the
oriflamme.  But the black warrior flung himself across their path.
"Chargny!  Chargny a la recousse!" he roared with a voice of
thunder.  Sir Reginald Cobham dropped before his battle-ax, so did
the Gascon de Clisson.  Nigel was beaten down on to the crupper of
his horse by a sweeping blow; but at the same instant Chandos'
quick blade passed through the Frenchman's camail and pierced his
throat.  So died Geoffrey de Chargny; but the oriflamme was saved.

Dazed with the shock, Nigel still kept his saddle, and Pommers,
his yellow hide mottled with blood, bore him onward with the
others.  The French horsemen were now in full flight; but one
stern group of knights stood firm, like a rock in a rushing
torrent, beating off all, whether friend or foe, who tried to
break their ranks.  The oriflamme had gone, and so had the blue
and silver banner, but here were desperate men ready to fight to
the death.  In their ranks honor was to be reaped.  The Prince and
his following hurled themselves upon them, while the rest of the
English horsemen swept onward to secure the fugitives and to win
their ransoms.  But the nobler spirits - Audley, Chandos and the
others - would have thought it shame to gain money whilst there
was work to be done or honor to be won.  Furious was the wild
attack, desperate the prolonged defense.  Men fell from their
saddles for very exhaustion.

Nigel, still at his place near Chandos' elbow, was hotly attacked
by a short broad-shouldered warrior upon a stout white cob, but
Pommers reared with pawing fore feet and dashed the smaller horse
to the ground.  The falling rider clutched Nigel's arm and tore
him from the saddle, so that the two rolled upon the grass under
the stamping hoofs, the English squire on the top, and his
shortened sword glimmered before the visor of the gasping,
breathless Frenchman.

"Je me rends!  je axe rends!" he panted.

For a moment a vision of rich ransoms passed through Nigel's
brain.  That noble palfrey, that gold-flecked armor, meant fortune
to the captor.  Let others have it!  There was work still to be
done.  How could he desert the Prince and his noble master for the
sake of a private gain?  Could he lead a prisoner to the rear when
honor beckoned him to the van?  He staggered to his feet, seized
Pommers by the mane, and swung himself into the saddle.

An instant later he was by Chandos' side once more and they were
bursting together through the last ranks of the gallant group who
had fought so bravely to the end.  Behind them was one long swath
of the dead and the wounded.  In front the whole wide plain was
covered with the flying French and their pursuers.

The Prince reined up his steed and opened his visor, whilst his
followers crowded round him with waving  weapons and frenzied
shouts of victory.  "What now, John!" cried the smiling Prince,
wiping his streaming face with his ungauntleted hand.  "How fares
it then?"

"I am little hurt, fair lord, save for a crushed hand and a
spear-prick in the shoulder.  But you, sir?  I trust you have no
scathe?"

"In truth, John, with you at one elbow and Lord Audley at the
other, I know not how I could come to harm.  But alas!  I fear
that Sir James is sorely stricken."

The gallant Lord Audley had dropped upon the ground and the blood
oozed from every crevice of his battered armor.  His four brave
Squires - Dutton of Dutton, Delves of Doddington, Fowlhurst of
Crewe and Hawkstone of Wainhill - wounded and weary themselves,
but with no thought save for their master, unlaced his helmet and
bathed his pallid blood-stained face.

He looked up at the Prince with burning eyes.  "I thank you, sir,
for deigning to consider so poor a knight as myself," said he in a
feeble voice.

The Prince dismounted and bent over him.  "I am bound to honor you
very much, James," said he, "for by your valor this day you have
won glory and renown above us all, and your prowess has proved you
to be the bravest knight."

"My Lord," murmured the wounded man, "you have a right to say what
you please; but I wish it were as you say."

"James," said the Prince, "from this time onward I make you a
knight of my own household, and I settle upon you five hundred
marks of yearly income from my own estates in England."

"Sir," the knight answered, "God make me worthy of the good
fortune you bestow upon me.  Your knight I will ever be, and the
money I will divide with your leave amongst these four squires who
have brought me whatever glory I have won this day."  So saying
his head fell back, and he lay white and silent upon the grass.

"Bring water!" said the Prince.  "Let the royal leech see to him;
for I had rather lose many men than the good Sir James.  Ha,
Chandos, what have we here?"

A knight lay across the path with his helmet beaten down upon his
shoulders.  On his surcoat and shield were the arms of a red
griffin.

"It is Robert de Duras the spy," said Chandos.

"Well for him that he has met his end," said the angry Prince.
"Put him on his shield, Hubert, and let four archers bear him to
the monastery.  Lay him at the feet of the Cardinal and say that
by this sign I greet him.  Place my flag on yonder high bush,
Walter, and let my tent be raised there, that my friends may know
where to seek me."

The flight and pursuit had thundered far away, and the field was
deserted save for the numerous groups of weary horsemen who were
making their way back, driving their prisoners before them.  The
archers were scattered over the whole plain, rifling the
saddle-bags and gathering the armor of those who had fallen, or
searching for their own scattered arrows.

Suddenly, however, as the Prince was turning toward the bush which
he had chosen for his headquarters, there broke out from behind
him an extraordinary uproar and a group of knights and squires
came pouring toward him, all arguing, swearing and abusing each
other in French and English at the tops of their voices.  In the
midst of them limped a stout little man in gold-spangled armor,
who appeared to be the object of the contention, for one would
drag him one way and one another, as though they would pull him
limb from limb.  "Nay, fair sirs, gently, gently, I pray you!" he
pleaded.  "There is enough for all, and no need to treat me so
rudely."  But ever the hubbub broke out again, and swords gleamed
as the angry disputants glared furiously at each other.  The
Prince's eyes fell upon the small prisoner, and he staggered back
with a gasp of astonishment.

"King John!" he cried.

A shout of joy rose from the warriors around him.  "The King of
France!  The King of France a prisoner!" they cried in an ecstasy.

"Nay, nay, fair sirs, let him not hear that we rejoice!  Let no
word bring pain to his soul!"  Running forward the Prince clasped
the French King by the two hands.

"Most welcome, sire!" he cried.  "Indeed it is good for us that so
gallant a knight should stay with us for some short time, since
the chance of war has so ordered it.  Wine there!  Bring wine for
the King!"

But John was flushed and angry.  His helmet had been roughly torn
off, and blood was smeared upon his cheek.  His noisy captors
stood around him in a circle, eying him hungrily like dogs who
have been beaten from their quarry.  There were Gascons and
English, knights, squires and archers, all pushing and straining.

"I pray you, fair Prince, to get rid of these rude fellows," said
King John, "for indeed they have plagued me sorely.  By Saint
Denis! my arm has been well-nigh pulled from its socket."

"What wish you then?" asked the Prince, turning angrily upon the
noisy swarm of his followers.

"We took him, fair lord.  He is ours!" cried a score of voices.
They closed in, all yelping together like a pack of wolves.  "It
was I, fair lord!" - " Nay, it was I!" - " You lie, you rascal, it
was I!"  Again their fierce eyes glared and their blood-stained
hands sought the hilts of their weapons.

"Nay, this must be settled here and now!" said the Prince.  "I
crave your patience, fair and honored sir, for a few brief
minutes, since indeed much ill-will may spring from this if it be
not set at rest.  Who is this tall knight who can scarce keep his
hands from the King's shoulder?"

"It is Denis de Morbecque, my lord, a knight of St. Omer, who is
in our service, being an outlaw from France."

"I call him to mind.  How then, Sir Denis?  What say you in this
matter?"

"He gave himself to me, fair lord.  He had fallen in the press,
and I came upon him and seized him.  I told him that I was a
knight from Artois, and he gave me his glove.  See here, I bear it
in my hand."

"It is true, fair lord!  It is true!" cried a dozen French voices.

"Nay, sir, judge not too soon!" shouted an English squire, pushing
his way to the front.  "It was I who had him at my mercy, and he
is my prisoner, for he spoke to this man only because he could
tell by his tongue that he was his own countryman.  I took him,
and here are a score to prove it."

"It is true, fair lord.  We saw it and it was even so," cried a
chorus of Englishmen.

At all times there was growling and snapping betwixt the English
and their allies of France.  The Prince saw how easily this might
set a light to such a flame as could not readily be quenched.  It
must be stamped out now ere it had time to mount.

"Fair and honored lord," he said to the King, "again I pray you
for a moment of patience.  It is your word and only yours which
can tell us what is just and right.  To whom were you graciously
pleased to commit your royal person?"

King John looked up from the flagon which had been brought to him
and wiped his lips with the dawnings of a smile upon his ruddy
face.

"It was not this Englishman," he said, and a cheer burst from the
Gascons, "nor was it this bastard Frenchman," he added.  "To
neither of them did I surrender."

There was a hush of surprise.

"To whom then, sir?" asked the Prince.

The King looked slowly round.  "There was a devil of a yellow
horse," said he.  "My poor palfrey went over like a skittle-pin
before a ball.  Of the rider I know nothing save that he bore red
roses on a silver shield.  Ah! by Saint Denis, there is the man
himself, and there his thrice-accursed horse!"

His head swimming, and moving as if in a dream, Nigel found
himself the center of the circle of armed and angry men.

The Prince laid his hand upon his shoulder.  "It is the little
cock of Tilford Bridge," said he.  "On my father's soul, I have
ever said that you would win your way.  Did you receive the King's
surrender?"

"Nay, fair lord, I did not receive it."

"Did you hear him give it?"

"I heard, sir, but I did not know that it was the King.  My master
Lord Chandos had gone on, and I followed after."

"And left him lying.  Then the surrender was not complete, and by
the laws of war the ransom goes to Denis de Morbecque, if his
story be true."

"It is true," said the King.  "He was the second."

"Then the ransom is yours; Denis.  But for my part I swear by my
father's soul that I had rather have the honor this Squire has
gathered than all the richest ransoms of France."

At these words spoken before that circle of noble warriors Nigel's
heart gave one great throb, and he dropped upon his knee before
the Prince.  "Fair lord, how can I thank you?" he murmured.
"These words at least are more than any ransom."

"Rise up!" said the smiling Prince, and he smote with his sword
upon his shoulder.  "England has lost a brave Squire, and has
gained a gallant knight.  Nay, linger not, I pray!  Rise up, Sir
Nigel!"




XXVII.  HOW THE THIRD MESSENGER CAME TO COSFORD


Two months have passed, and the long slopes of Hindhead are russet
with the faded ferns - the fuzzy brown pelt which wraps the
chilling earth.  With whoop and scream the wild November wind
sweeps over the great rolling downs, tossing the branches of the
Cosford beeches, and rattling at the rude latticed windows.  The
stout old knight of Duplin, grown even a little stouter, with
whiter beard to fringe an ever redder face, sits as of yore at the
head of his own board.  A well-heaped platter flanked by a foaming
tankard stands before him.  At his right sits the Lady Mary, her
dark, plain, queenly face marked deep with those years of weary
waiting, but bearing the gentle grace and dignity which only
sorrow and restraint can give.  On his left is Matthew, the old
priest.  Long ago the golden-haired beauty had passed from Cosford
to Fernhurst, where the young and beautiful Lady Edith Brocas is
the belle of all Sussex, a sunbeam of smiles and merriment, save
perhaps when her thoughts for an instant fly back to that dread
night when she was plucked from under the very talons of the foul
hawk of Shalford.

The old knight looked up as a fresh gust of wind with a dash of
rain beat against the window behind him.  "By Saint Hubert, it is
a wild night!" said he.  "I had hoped to-morrow to have a flight
at a heron of the pool or a mallard in the brook.  How fares it
with little Katherine the peregrine, Mary?"

"I have joined the wing, father, and I have imped the feathers;
but I fear it will be Christmas ere she can fly again."

"This is a hard saying," said Sir John; "for indeed I have seen no
bolder better bird.  Her wing was broken by a heron's beak last
Sabbath sennight, holy father, and Mary has the mending of it."

"I trust, my son, that you had heard mass ere you turned to
worldly pleasure upon God's holy day," Father Matthew answered.

"Tut, tut!" said the old knight, laughing.  "Shall I make
confession at the head of my own table?  I can worship the good
God amongst his own works, the woods and the fields, better than
in yon pile of stone and wood.  But I call to mind a charm for a
wounded hawk which was taught me by the fowler of Gaston de Foix.
How did it run?  `The lion of the Tribe of Judah, the root of
David, has conquered.'  Yes, those were the words to be said three
times as you walk round the perch where the bird is mewed."

The old priest shook his head.  "Nay, these charms are tricks of
the Devil," said he.  "Holy Church lends them no countenance, for
they are neither good nor fair.  But how is it now with your
tapestry, Lady Mary?  When last I was beneath this roof you had
half done in five fair colors the story of Theseus and Ariadne."

"It is half done still, holy father."

"How is this, my daughter?  Have you then so many calls?"

"Nay, holy father, her thoughts are otherwhere," Sir John
answered.  "She will sit an hour at a time, the needle in her hand
and her soul a hundred leagues from Cosford House.  Ever since the
Prince's battle - "

"Good father, I beg you - "

"Nay, Mary, none can hear me, save your own confessor, Father
Matthew.  Ever since the Prince's battle, I say, when we heard
that young Nigel had won such honor she is brain-wode, and sits
ever - well, even as you see her now."

An intent look had come into Mary's eyes; her gaze was fixed upon
the dark rain-splashed window.  It was a face carved from ivory,
white-lipped and rigid, on which the old priest looked.

"What is it, my daughter?  What do you see?"

"I see nothing, father."

"What is it then that disturbs you?"

"I hear, father."

"What do you hear?"

"There are horsemen on the road."

The old knight laughed.  "So it goes on, father.  What day is
there that a hundred horsemen do not pass our gate, and yet every
clink of hoofs sets her poor heart a-trembling.  So strong and
steadfast she has ever been, my Mary, and now no sound too slight
to shake her to the soul!  Nay, daughter, nay, I pray you!"

She had half-risen from her chair, her hands clenched and her
dark, startled eyes still fixed upon the window.  "I hear them,
father!  I hear them amid the wind and the rain!  Yes, yes, they
are turning - they have turned!  My God, they are at our very
door!"

"By Saint Hubert, the girl is right!" cried old Sir John, beating
his fist upon the board.  "Ho, varlets, out with you to the yard!
Set the mulled wine on the blaze once more!  There are travelers
at the gate, and it is no night to keep a dog waiting at our door.
Hurry, Hannkiin!  Hurry, I say, or I will haste you with my
cudgel!"

Plainly to the ears of all men could be heard the stamping of the
horses.  Mary had stood up, quivering in every limb.  An eager
step at the threshold, the door was flung wide, and there in the
opening stood Nigel, the rain gleaming upon his smiling face, his
cheeks flushed with the beating of the wind, his blue eyes shining
with tenderness and love.  Something held her by the throat, the
light of the torches danced up and down; but her strong spirit
rose at the thought that others should see that inner holy of
holies of her soul.  There is a heroism of women to which no valor
of man can attain.  Her eyes only carried him her message as she
held out her hand.

"Welcome, Nigel!" said she.

He stooped and kissed it.

"Saint Catharine has brought me home," said he.

A merry supper it was at Cosford Manor that night, with Nigel at
the head betwixt the jovial old knight and the Lady Mary, whilst
at the farther end Samkin Aylward, wedged between two servant
maids, kept his neighbors in alternate laughter and terror as he
told his tales of the French Wars.  Nigel had to turn his doeskin
heels and show his little golden spurs.  As he spoke of what was
passed Sir John clapped him on the shoulder, while Mary took his
strong right hand in hers, and the good old priest smiling blessed
them both.  Nigel had drawn a little golden ring from his pocket,
and it twinkled in the torchlight.

"Did you say that you must go on your way to-morrow, father?" he
asked the priest.

"Indeed, fair son, the matter presses."

"But you may bide the morning?"

"It will suffice if I start at noon."

"Much may be done in a morning."  He looked at Mary, who blushed
and smiled.  "By Saint Paul!  I have waited long enough."

"Good, good!" chuckled the old knight, with wheezy laughter.
"Even so I wooed your mother, Mary.  Wooers were brisk in the
olden time.  To-morrow is Tuesday, and Tuesday is ever a lucky
day.  Alas! that the good Dame Ermyntrude is no longer with us to
see it done!  The old hound must run us down, Nigel, and I hear
its bay upon my own heels; but my heart will rejoice that before
the end I may call you son.  Give me your hand, Mary, and yours,
Nigel.  Now, take an old man's blessing, and may God keep and
guard you both, and give you your desert, for I believe on my soul
that in all this broad land there dwells no nobler man nor any
woman more fitted to be his mate!"

There let us leave them, their hearts full of gentle joy, the
golden future of hope and promise stretching out before their
youthful eyes.  Alas for those green spring dreaming!  How often
do they fade and wither until they fall and rot, a dreary sight,
by the wayside of life!  But here, by God's blessing, it was not
so, for they burgeoned and they grew, ever fairer and more noble,
until the whole wide world might marvel at the beauty of it.

It has been told elsewhere how as the years passed Nigel's name
rose higher in honor; but still Mary's would keep pace with it,
each helping and sustaining the other upon an ever higher path.
In many lands did Nigel carve his fame, and ever as he returned
spent and weary from his work he drank fresh strength and fire and
craving for honor from her who glorified his home.  At Twynham
Castle they dwelled for many years, beloved and honored by all.
Then in the fullness of time they came back to the Tilford Manor-
house and spent their happy, healthy age amid those heather downs
where Nigel had passed his first lusty youth, ere ever he turned
his face to the wars.  Thither also came Aylward when he had left
the "Pied Merlin" where for many a year he sold ale to the men of
the forest.

But the years pass; the old wheel turns and ever the thread runs
out.  The wise and the good, the noble and the brave, they come
from the darkness, and into the darkness they go, whence, whither
and why, who may say?  Here is the slope of Hindhead.  The fern
still glows russet in November, the heather still burns red in
July; but where now is the Manor of Cosford?  Where is the old
house of Tilford?  Where, but for a few scattered gray stones, is
the mighty pile of Waverley?  And yet even gnawing Time has not
eaten all things away.  Walk with me toward Guildford, reader,
upon the busy highway.  Here, where the high green mound rises
before us, mark yonder roofless shrine which still stands
foursquare to the winds.  It is St. Catharine's, where Nigel and
Mary plighted their faith.  Below lies the winding river, and over
yonder you still see the dark Chantry woods which mount up to the
bare summit, on which, roofed and whole, stands that Chapel of the
Martyr where the comrades beat off the archers of the crooked Lord
of Shalford.  Down yonder on the flanks of the long chalk hills
one traces the road by which they made their journey to the wars.
And now turn hither to the north, down this sunken winding path!
It is all unchanged since Nigel's day.  Here is the Church of
Compton.  Pass under the aged and crumbling arch.  Before the
steps of that ancient altar, unrecorded and unbrassed, lies the
dust of Nigel and of Mary.  Near them is that of Maude their
daughter, and of Alleyne Edricson, whose spouse she was; their
children and children's children are lying by their side.  Here
too, near the old yew in the churchyard, is the little mound which
marks where Samkin Aylward went back to that good soil from which
he sprang.

So lie the dead leaves; but they and such as they nourish forever
that great old trunk of England, which still sheds forth another
crop and another, each as strong and as fair as the last.  The
body may lie in moldering chancel, or in crumbling vault, but the
rumor of noble lives, the record of valor and truth, can never
die, but lives on in the soul of the people.  Our own work lies
ready to our hands; and yet our strength may be the greater and
our faith the firmer if we spare an hour from present toils to
look back upon the women who were gentle and strong, or the men
who loved honor more than life, on this green stage of England
where for a few short years we play our little part.





End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Sir Nigel, by Arthur Conan Doyle

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Title: Songs of Action

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SONGS OF ACTION




Contents:


The Song Of The Bow
Cremona
The Storming Party
The Frontier Line
Corporal Dick's Promotion
A Forgotten Tale
Pennarby Mine
A Rover Chanty
A Ballad Of The Ranks
A Lay Of The Links
The Dying Whip
Master
H.M.S. 'Foudroyant'
The Farnshire Cup
The Groom's Story
With the Chiddingfolds
A Hunting Morning
The Old Gray Fox
'Ware Holes
The Home-coming of the 'Eurydice'
The Inner Room
The Irish Colonel
The Blind Archer
A Parable
A Tragedy
The Passing
The Franklin's Maid
The Old Huntsman



THE SONG OF THE BOW



What of the bow?
   The bow was made in England:
Of true wood, of yew-wood,
   The wood of English bows;
      So men who are free
      Love the old yew-tree
And the land where the yew-tree grows.

What of the cord?
   The cord was made in England:
A rough cord, a tough cord,
   A cord that bowmen love;
      And so we will sing
      Of the hempen string
And the land where the cord was wove.

What of the shaft?
   The shaft was cut in England:
A long shaft, a strong shaft,
   Barbed and trim and true;
      So we'll drink all together
      To the grey goose-feather
And the land where the grey goose flew.

What of the mark?
   Ah, seek it not in England,
A bold mark, our old mark
   Is waiting over-sea.
      When the strings harp in chorus,
      And the lion flag is o'er us,
It is there that our mark will be.

What of the men?
   The men were bred in England:
The bowmen--the yeomen,
   The lads of dale and fell.
      Here's to you--and to you!
      To the hearts that are true
And the land where the true hearts dwell.



CREMONA



[The French Army, including a part of the Irish Brigade, under
Marshal Villeroy, held the fortified town of Cremona during the
winter of 1702.  Prince Eugene, with the Imperial Army, surprised it
one morning, and, owing to the treachery of a priest, occupied the
whole city before the alarm was given.  Villeroy was captured,
together with many of the French garrison.  The Irish, however,
consisting of the regiments of Dillon and of Burke, held a fort
commanding the river gate, and defended themselves all day, in spite
of Prince Eugene's efforts to win them over to his cause.  Eventually
Eugene, being unable to take the post, was compelled to withdraw from
the city.]

The Grenadiers of Austria are proper men and tall;
The Grenadiers of Austria have scaled the city wall;
   They have marched from far away
   Ere the dawning of the day,
And the morning saw them masters of Cremona.

There's not a man to whisper, there's not a horse to neigh;
Of the footmen of Lorraine and the riders of Dupres,
   They have crept up every street,
   In the market-place they meet,
They are holding every vantage in Cremona.

The Marshal Villeroy he has started from his bed;
The Marshal Villeroy has no wig upon his head;
   'I have lost my men!' quoth he,
   'And my men they have lost me,
And I sorely fear we both have lost Cremona.'

Prince Eugene of Austria is in the market-place;
Prince Eugene of Austria has smiles upon his face;
   Says he, 'Our work is done,
   For the Citadel is won,
And the black and yellow flag flies o'er Cremona.'

Major Dan O'Mahony is in the barrack square,
And just six hundred Irish lads are waiting for him there;
   Says he, 'Come in your shirt,
   And you won't take any hurt,
For the morning air is pleasant in Cremona.'

Major Dan O'Mahony is at the barrack gate,
And just six hundred Irish lads will neither stay nor wait;
   There's Dillon and there's Burke,
   And there'll be some bloody work
Ere the Kaiserlics shall boast they hold Cremona.

Major Dan O'Mahony has reached the river fort,
And just six hundred Irish lads are joining in the sport;
   'Come, take a hand!' says he,
   'And if you will stand by me,
Then it's glory to the man who takes Cremona!'

Prince Eugene of Austria has frowns upon his face,
And loud he calls his Galloper of Irish blood and race:
   'MacDonnell, ride, I pray,
   To your countrymen, and say
That only they are left in all Cremona!'

MacDonnell he has reined his mare beside the river dyke,
And he has tied the parley flag upon a sergeant's pike;
   Six companies were there
   From Limerick and Clare,
The last of all the guardians of Cremona.

'Now, Major Dan O'Mahony, give up the river gate,
Or, Major Dan O'Mahony, you'll find it is too late;
   For when I gallop back
   'Tis the signal for attack,
And no quarter for the Irish in Cremona!'

And Major Dan he laughed:  'Faith, if what you say be true,
And if they will not come until they hear again from you,
   Then there will be no attack,
   For you're never going back,
And we'll keep you snug and safely in Cremona.'

All the weary day the German stormers came,
All the weary day they were faced by fire and flame,
   They have filled the ditch with dead,
   And the river's running red;
But they cannot win the gateway of Cremona.

All the weary day, again, again, again,
The horsemen of Dupres and the footmen of Lorraine,
   Taafe and Herberstein,
   And the riders of the Rhine;
It's a mighty price they're paying for Cremona.

Time and time they came with the deep-mouthed German roar,
Time and time they broke like the wave upon the shore;
   For better men were there
   From Limerick and Clare,
And who will take the gateway of Cremona?

Prince Eugene has watched, and he gnaws his nether lip;
Prince Eugene has cursed as he saw his chances slip:
   'Call off!  Call off!' he cried,
   'It is nearing eventide,
And I fear our work is finished in Cremona.'

Says Wauchop to McAulliffe, 'Their fire is growing slack.'
Says Major Dan O'Mahony, 'It is their last attack;
   But who will stop the game
   While there's light to play the same,
And to walk a short way with them from Cremona?'

And so they snarl behind them, and beg them turn and come,
They have taken Neuberg's standard, they have taken Diak's drum;
   And along the winding Po,
   Beard on shoulder, stern and slow
The Kaiserlics are riding from Cremona.

Just two hundred Irish lads are shouting on the wall;
Four hundred more are lying who can hear no slogan call;
   But what's the odds of that,
   For it's all the same to Pat
If he pays his debt in Dublin or Cremona.

Says General de Vaudray, 'You've done a soldier's work!
And every tongue in France shall talk of Dillon and of Burke!
   Ask what you will this day,
   And be it what it may,
It is granted to the heroes of Cremona.'

'Why, then,' says Dan O'Mahony, 'one favour we entreat,
We were called a little early, and our toilet's not complete.
   We've no quarrel with the shirt,
   But the breeches wouldn't hurt,
For the evening air is chilly in Cremona.'



THE STORMING PARTY



Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,
'Though the breach is steep and narrow,
   If we only gain the summit
      Then it's odds we hold the fort.
I have ten and you have twenty,
And the thirty should be plenty,
With Henderson and Henty
   And McDermott in support.'

Said Barrow to Leroy,
'It's a solid job, my boy,
   For they've flanked it, and they've banked it,
      And they've bored it with a mine.
But it's only fifty paces
Ere we look them in the faces;
And the men are in their places,
   With their toes upon the line.'

Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,
'See that first ray, like an arrow,
   How it tinges all the fringes
      Of the sullen drifting skies.
They told me to begin it
At five-thirty to the minute,
And at thirty-one I'm in it,
   Or my sub will get his rise.

'So we'll wait the signal rocket,
Till . . . Barrow, show that locket,
That turquoise-studded locket,
Which you slipped from out your pocket
      And are pressing with a kiss!
   Turquoise-studded, spiral-twisted,
It is hers!  And I had missed it
From her chain; and you have kissed it:
      Barrow, villain, what is this?'

'Leroy, I had a warning,
That my time has come this morning,
So I speak with frankness, scorning
   To deny the thing that's true.
Yes, it's Amy's, is the trinket,
Little turquoise-studded trinket,
Not her gift--oh, never think it!
   For her thoughts were all for you.

'As we danced I gently drew it
From her chain--she never knew it
   But I love her--yes, I love her:
      I am candid, I confess.
But I never told her, never,
For I knew 'twas vain endeavour,
And she loved you--loved you ever,
   Would to God she loved you less!'

'Barrow, Barrow, you shall pay me!
Me, your comrade, to betray me!
   Well I know that little Amy
      Is as true as wife can be.
She to give this love-badged locket!
She had rather . . . Ha, the rocket!
Hi, McDougall!  Sound the bugle!
   Yorkshires, Yorkshires, follow me!'

* * *

Said Paul Leroy to Amy,
'Well, wifie, you may blame me,
For my passion overcame me,
   When he told me of his shame;
But when I saw him lying,
Dead amid a ring of dying,
Why, poor devil, I was trying
   To forget, and not to blame.

'And this locket, I unclasped it
From the fingers that still grasped it:
He told me how he got it,
   How he stole it in a valse.'
And she listened leaden-hearted:
Oh, the weary day they parted!
For she loved him--yes, she loved him -
For his youth and for his truth,
   And for those dying words, so false.



THE FRONTIER LINE



What marks the frontier line?
   Thou man of India, say!
Is it the Himalayas sheer,
The rocks and valleys of Cashmere,
Or Indus as she seeks the south
From Attoch to the fivefold mouth?
      'Not that!  Not that!'
   Then answer me, I pray!
What marks the frontier line?

What marks the frontier line?
   Thou man of Burmah, speak!
Is it traced from Mandalay,
And down the marches of Cathay,
From Bhamo south to Kiang-mai,
And where the buried rubies lie?
      'Not that!  Not that!'
   Then tell me what I seek:
What marks the frontier line?

What marks the frontier line?
   Thou Africander, say!
Is it shown by Zulu kraal,
By Drakensberg or winding Vaal,
Or where the Shire waters seek
Their outlet east at Mozambique?
      'Not that!  Not that!
   There is a surer way
To mark the frontier line.'

What marks the frontier line?
   Thou man of Egypt, tell!
Is it traced on Luxor's sand,
Where Karnak's painted pillars stand,
Or where the river runs between
The Ethiop and Bishareen?
      'Not that!  Not that!
   By neither stream nor well
We mark the frontier line.

'But be it east or west,
   One common sign we bear,
The tongue may change, the soil, the sky,
But where your British brothers lie,
The lonely cairn, the nameless grave,
Still fringe the flowing Saxon wave.
      'Tis that!  'Tis where
   THEY lie--the men who placed it there,
That marks the frontier line.'



CORPORAL DICK'S PROMOTION
A BALLAD OF '82



The Eastern day was well-nigh o'er
When, parched with thirst and travel sore,
Two of McPherson's flanking corps
   Across the Desert were tramping.
They had wandered off from the beaten track
And now were wearily harking back,
Ever staring round for the signal jack
   That marked their comrades camping.

The one was Corporal Robert Dick,
Bearded and burly, short and thick,
Rough of speech and in temper quick,
   A hard-faced old rapscallion.
The other, fresh from the barrack square,
Was a raw recruit, smooth-cheeked and fair
Half grown, half drilled, with the weedy air
   Of a draft from the home battalion.

Weary and parched and hunger-torn,
They had wandered on from early morn,
And the young boy-soldier limped forlorn,
   Now stumbling and now falling.
Around the orange sand-curves lay,
Flecked with boulders, black or grey,
Death-silent, save that far away
   A kite was shrilly calling.

A kite?  Was THAT a kite?  The yell
That shrilly rose and faintly fell?
No kite's, and yet the kite knows well
   The long-drawn wild halloo.
And right athwart the evening sky
The yellow sand-spray spurtled high,
And shrill and shriller swelled the cry
   Of 'Allah!  Allahu!'

The Corporal peered at the crimson West,
Hid his pipe in his khaki vest.
Growled out an oath and onward pressed,
   Still glancing over his shoulder.
'Bedouins, mate!' he curtly said;
'We'll find some work for steel and lead,
And maybe sleep in a sandy bed,
   Before we're one hour older.

'But just one flutter before we're done.
Stiffen your lip and stand, my son;
We'll take this bloomin' circus on:
   Ball-cartridge load!  Now, steady!'
With a curse and a prayer the two faced round,
Dogged and grim they stood their ground,
And their breech-blocks snapped with a crisp clean sound
   As the rifles sprang to the 'ready.'

Alas for the Emir Ali Khan!
A hundred paces before his clan,
That ebony steed of the prophet's breed
   Is the foal of death and of danger.
A spurt of fire, a gasp of pain,
A blueish blurr on the yellow plain,
The chief was down, and his bridle rein
   Was in the grip of the stranger.

With the light of hope on his rugged face,
The Corporal sprang to the dead man's place,
One prick with the steel, one thrust with the heel,
   And where was the man to outride him?
A grip of his knees, a toss of his rein,
He was settling her down to her gallop again,
When he stopped, for he heard just one faltering word
   From the young recruit beside him.

One faltering word from pal to pal,
But it found the heart of the Corporal.
He had sprung to the sand, he had lent him a hand,
   'Up, mate!  They'll be 'ere in a minute;
Off with you!  No palaver!  Go!
I'll bide be'ind and run this show.
Promotion has been cursed slow,
   And this is my chance to win it.'

Into the saddle he thrust him quick,
Spurred the black mare with a bayonet prick.
Watched her gallop with plunge and with kick
   Away o'er the desert careering.
Then he turned with a softened face,
And loosened the strap of his cartridge-case,
While his thoughts flew back to the dear old place
   In the sunny Hampshire clearing.

The young boy-private, glancing back,
Saw the Bedouins' wild attack,
And heard the sharp Martini crack.
   But as he gazed, already
The fierce fanatic Arab band
Was closing in on every hand,
Until one tawny swirl of sand,
   Concealed them in its eddy.

* * *

A squadron of British horse that night,
Galloping hard in the shadowy light,
Came on the scene of that last stern fight,
   And found the Corporal lying
Silent and grim on the trampled sand,
His rifle grasped in his stiffened hand,
With the warrior pride of one who died
   'Mid a ring of the dead and the dying.

And still when twilight shadows fall,
After the evening bugle call,
In bivouac or in barrack-hall,
His comrades speak of the Corporal,
   His death and his devotion.
And there are some who like to say
That perhaps a hidden meaning lay
In the words he spoke, and that the day
When his rough bold spirit passed away
   WAS the day that he won promotion.



A FORGOTTEN TALE



[The scene of this ancient fight, recorded by Froissart, is still
called 'Altura de los Inglesos.'  Five hundred years later
Wellington's soldiers were fighting on the same ground.]

'Say, what saw you on the hill,
   Campesino Garcia?'
'I saw my brindled heifer there,
A trail of bowmen, spent and bare,
And a little man on a sorrel mare
   Riding slow before them.'

'Say, what saw you in the vale,
   Campesino Garcia?'
'There I saw my lambing ewe
And an army riding through,
Thick and brave the pennons flew
   From the lances o'er them.'

'Then what saw you on the hill,
   Campesino Garcia?'
'I saw beside the milking byre,
White with want and black with mire,
The little man with eyes afire
   Marshalling his bowmen.'

'Then what saw you in the vale,
   Campesino Garcia?'
'There I saw my bullocks twain,
And amid my uncut grain
All the hardy men of Spain
   Spurring for their foemen.'

'Nay, but there is more to tell,
   Campesino Garcia!'
'I could not bide the end to view;
I had graver things to do
Tending on the lambing ewe
   Down among the clover.'

'Ah, but tell me what you heard,
   Campesino Garcia!'
'Shouting from the mountain-side,
Shouting until eventide;
But it dwindled and it died
   Ere milking time was over.'

'Nay, but saw you nothing more,
   Campesino Garcia?'
'Yes, I saw them lying there,
The little man and sorrel mare;
And in their ranks the bowmen fair,
   With their staves before them.'

'And the hardy men of Spain,
   Campesino Garcia?'
'Hush! but we are Spanish too;
More I may not say to you:
May God's benison, like dew,
   Gently settle o'er them.'



PENNARBY MINE



Pennarby shaft is dark and steep,
Eight foot wide, eight hundred deep.
Stout the bucket and tough the cord,
Strong as the arm of Winchman Ford.
   'Never look down!
   Stick to the line!'
That was the saying at Pennarby mine.

A stranger came to Pennarby shaft.
Lord, to see how the miners laughed!
White in the collar and stiff in the hat,
With his patent boots and his silk cravat,
   Picking his way,
   Dainty and fine,
Stepping on tiptoe to Pennarby mine.

Touring from London, so he said.
Was it copper they dug for? or gold? or lead?
Where did they find it?  How did it come?
If he tried with a shovel might HE get some?
   Stooping so much
   Was bad for the spine;
And wasn't it warmish in Pennarby mine?

'Twas like two worlds that met that day -
The world of work and the world of play;
And the grimy lads from the reeking shaft
Nudged each other and grinned and chaffed.
   'Got 'em all out!'
   'A cousin of mine!'
So ran the banter at Pennarby mine.

And Carnbrae Bob, the Pennarby wit,
Told him the facts about the pit:
How they bored the shaft till the brimstone smell
Warned them off from tapping--well,
   He wouldn't say what,
   But they took it as sign
To dig no deeper in Pennarby mine.

Then leaning over and peering in,
He was pointing out what he said was tin
In the ten-foot lode--a crash! a jar!
A grasping hand and a splintered bar.
   Gone in his strength,
   With the lips that laughed -
Oh, the pale faces round Pennarby shaft!

Far down on a narrow ledge,
They saw him cling to the crumbling edge.
'Wait for the bucket!  Hi, man!  Stay!
That rope ain't safe!  It's worn away!
   He's taking his chance,
   Slack out the line!
Sweet Lord be with him!' cried Pennarby mine.

'He's got him!  He has him!  Pull with a will!
Thank God!  He's over and breathing still.
And he--Lord's sakes now!  What's that?  Well!
Blowed if it ain't our London swell.
   Your heart is right
   If your coat IS fine:
Give us your hand!' cried Pennarby mine.



A ROVER CHANTY



A trader sailed from Stepney town -
Wake her up!  Shake her up!  Try her with the mainsail!
A trader sailed from Stepney town
With a keg full of gold and a velvet gown:
   Ho, the bully rover Jack,
   Waiting with his yard aback
Out upon the Lowland sea!

The trader he had a daughter fair -
Wake her up!  Shake her up!  Try her with the foresail
The trader he had a daughter fair,
She had gold in her ears, and gold in her hair:
   All for bully rover Jack,
   Waiting with his yard aback,
Out upon the Lowland sea!

'Alas the day, oh daughter mine!' -
Shake her up!  Wake her up!  Try her with the topsail!
'Alas the day, oh daughter mine!
Yon red, red flag is a fearsome sign!'
   Ho, the bully rover Jack,
   Reaching on the weather tack,
Out upon the Lowland sea!

'A fearsome flag!' the maiden cried -
Wake her up!  Shake her up!  Try her with the jibsail!
'A fearsome flag!' the maiden cried,
But comelier men I never have spied!'
   Ho, the bully rover Jack,
   Reaching on the weather tack,
Out upon the Lowland sea!

There's a wooden path that the rovers know -
Wake her up!  Shake her up!  Try her with the headsails!
There's a wooden path that the rovers know,
Where none come back, though many must go:
   Ho, the bully rover Jack,
   Lying with his yard aback,
Out upon the Lowland sea!

Where is the trader of Stepney town? -
Wake her up!  Shake her up!  Every stick a-bending!
Where is the trader of Stepney town?
There's gold on the capstan, and blood on the gown:
   Ho for bully rover Jack,
   Waiting with his yard aback,
Out upon the Lowland sea!

Where is the maiden who knelt at his side? -
Wake her up!  Shake her up!  Every stitch a-drawing!
Where is the maiden who knelt at his side?
We gowned her in scarlet, and chose her our bride:
   Ho, the bully rover Jack,
   Reaching on the weather tack,
Right across the Lowland sea!

So it's up and its over to Stornoway Bay,
Pack it on!  Crack it on!  Try her with the stunsails!
It's off on a bowline to Stornoway Bay,
Where the liquor is good and the lasses are gay:
   Waiting for their bully Jack,
   Watching for him sailing back,
Right across the Lowland sea.



A BALLAD OF THE RANKS



Who carries the gun?
   A lad from over the Tweed.
Then let him go, for well we know
   He comes of a soldier breed.
So drink together to rock and heather,
   Out where the red deer run,
And stand aside for Scotland's pride -
   The man that carries the gun!
      For the Colonel rides before,
         The Major's on the flank,
      The Captains and the Adjutant
         Are in the foremost rank.
      But when it's 'Action front!'
         And fighting's to be done,
      Come one, come all, you stand or fall
         By the man who holds the gun.

Who carries the gun?
   A lad from a Yorkshire dale.
Then let him go, for well we know
   The heart that never will fail.
Here's to the fire of Lancashire,
   And here's to her soldier son!
For the hard-bit north has sent him forth -
   The lad that carries the gun.

Who carries the gun?
   A lad from a Midland shire.
Then let him go, for well we know
   He comes of an English sire.
Here's a glass to a Midland lass,
   And each can choose the one,
But east and west we claim the best
   For the man that carries the gun.

Who carries the gun?
   A lad from the hills of Wales.
Then let him go, for well we know,
   That Taffy is hard as nails.
There are several ll's in the place where he dwells,
   And of w's more than one,
With a 'Llan' and a 'pen,' but it breeds good men,
   And it's they who carry the gun.

Who carries the gun?
   A lad from the windy west.
Then let him go, for well we know
   That he is one of the best.
There's Bristol rough, and Gloucester tough,
   And Devon yields to none.
Or you may get in Somerset
   Your lad to carry the gun.

Who carries the gun?
   A lad from London town.
Then let him go, for well we know
   The stuff that never backs down.
He has learned to joke at the powder smoke,
   For he is the fog-smoke's son,
And his heart is light and his pluck is right -
   The man who carries the gun.

Who carries the gun?
   A lad from the Emerald Isle.
Then let him go, for well we know,
   We've tried him many a while.
We've tried him east, we've tried him west,
   We've tried him sea and land,
But the man to beat old Erin's best
   Has never yet been planned.

Who carries the gun?
   It's you, and you, and you;
So let us go, and we won't say no
   If they give us a job to do.
Here we stand with a cross-linked hand,
   Comrades every one;
So one last cup, and drink it up
   To the man who carries the gun!
      For the Colonel rides before,
         The Major's on the flank,
      The Captains and the Adjutant
         Are in the foremost rank.
      And when it's 'Action front!'
         And there's fighting to be done,
      Come one, come all, you stand or fall
         By the man who holds the gun.



A LAY OF THE LINKS



It's up and away from our work to-day,
   For the breeze sweeps over the down;
And it's hey for a game where the gorse blossoms flame,
   And the bracken is bronzing to brown.
With the turf 'neath our tread and the blue overhead,
   And the song of the lark in the whin;
There's the flag and the green, with the bunkers between -
   Now will you be over or in?

The doctor may come, and we'll teach him to know
   A tee where no tannin can lurk;
The soldier may come, and we'll promise to show
   Some hazards a soldier may shirk;
The statesman may joke, as he tops every stroke,
   That at last he is high in his aims;
And the clubman will stand with a club in his hand
   That is worth every club in St. James'.

The palm and the leather come rarely together,
   Gripping the driver's haft,
And it's good to feel the jar of the steel
   And the spring of the hickory shaft.
Why trouble or seek for the praise of a clique?
   A cleek here is common to all;
And the lie that might sting is a very small thing
   When compared with the lie of the ball.

Come youth and come age, from the study or stage,
   From Bar or from Bench--high and low!
A green you must use as a cure for the blues -
   You drive them away as you go.
We're outward bound on a long, long round,
   And it's time to be up and away:
If worry and sorrow come back with the morrow,
   At least we'll be happy to-day.



THE DYING WHIP



It came from gettin' 'eated, that was 'ow the thing begun,
And 'ackin' back to kennels from a ninety-minute run;
'I guess I've copped brownchitis,' says I to brother Jack,
An' then afore I knowed it I was down upon my back.

At night there came a sweatin' as left me deadly weak,
And my throat was sort of tickly an' it 'urt me for to speak;
An' then there came an 'ackin' cough as wouldn't leave alone,
An' then afore I knowed it I was only skin and bone

I never was a 'eavy weight.  I scaled at seven four,
An' rode at eight, or maybe at just a trifle more;
And now I'll stake my davy I wouldn't scale at five,
And I'd 'old my own at catch-weights with the skinniest jock alive.

And the doctor says the reason why I sit an' cough an wheeze
Is all along o' varmint, like the cheese-mites in the cheese;
The smallest kind o' varmint, but varmint all the same,
Microscopes or somethin'--I forget the varmints' name.

But I knows as I'm a goner.  They never said as much,
But I reads the people's faces, and I knows as I am such;
Well, there's 'Urst to mind the 'orses and the 'ounds can look to
Jack,
Though 'e never was a patch on me in 'andlin' of a pack.

You'll maybe think I'm boastin', but you'll find they all agree
That there's not a whip in Surrey as can 'andle 'ounds like me;
For I knew 'em all from puppies, and I'd tell 'em without fail -
If I seed a tail a-waggin', I could tell who wagged the tail.

And voices--why, Lor' love you, it's more than I can 'elp,
It just comes kind of natural to know each whine an' yelp;
You might take them twenty couple where you will and let 'em run,
An' I'd listen by the coverside and name 'em one by one.

I say it's kind of natural, for since I was a brat
I never cared for readin' books, or fancy things like that;
But give me 'ounds and 'orses an' I was quite content,
An' I loved to ear 'em talkin' and to wonder what they meant.

And when the 'ydrophoby came five year ago next May,
When Nailer was be'avin' in a most owdacious way,
I fixed 'im so's 'e couldn't bite, my 'ands on neck an' back,
An' I 'eaved 'im from the kennels, and they say I saved the pack.

An' when the Master 'eard of it, 'e up an' says, says 'e,
'If that chap were a soldier man, they'd give 'im the V.C.'
Which is some kind a' medal what they give to soldier men;
An' Master said if I were such I would 'a' got it then.

Parson brought 'is Bible and come to read to me;
''Ave what you like, there's everythink within this Book,' says 'e.
Says I, 'They've left the 'orses out!'  Says 'e, 'You are mistook;'
An' 'e up an' read a 'eap of things about them from the Book.

And some of it amazin' fine; although I'm fit to swear
No 'orse would ever say 'Ah, ah!' same as they said it there.
Per'aps it was an 'Ebrew 'orse the chap 'ad in his mind,
But I never 'eard an English 'orse say nothin' of the kind.

Parson is a good 'un.  I've known 'im from a lad;
'Twas me as taught 'im ridin', an' 'e rides uncommon bad;
And he says--But 'ark an' listen!  There's an 'orn!  I 'eard it blow;
Pull the blind from off the winder!  Prop me up, and 'old me so.

They're drawin' the black 'anger, just aside the Squire's grounds.
'Ark and listen!  'Ark and listen!  There's the yappin' of the
'ounds:
There's Fanny and Beltinker, and I 'ear old Boxer call;
You see I wasn't boastin' when I said I knew 'em all.

Let me sit an' 'old the bedrail!  Now I see 'em as they pass:
There's Squire upon the Midland mare, a good 'un on the grass;
But this is closish country, and you wants a clever 'orse
When 'alf the time you're in the woods an' 'alf among the gorse.

'Ark to Jack a'ollering--a-bleatin' like a lamb.
You wouldn't think it now, perhaps, to see the thing I am;
But there was a time the ladies used to linger at the meet
Just to 'ear me callin' in the woods:  my callin' was so sweet.

I see the crossroads corner, with the field awaitin' there,
There's Purcell on 'is piebald 'orse, an' Doctor on the mare,
And the Master on 'is iron grey; she isn't much to look,
But I seed 'er do clean twenty foot across the 'eathly brook.

There's Captain Kane an' McIntyre an' 'alf a dozen more,
And two or three are 'untin' whom I never seed afore;
Likely-lookin' chaps they be, well groomed and 'orsed and dressed -
I wish they could 'a seen the pack when it was at its best.

It's a check, and they are drawin' down the coppice for a scent,
You can see as they've been runnin', for the 'orses they are spent;
I'll lay the fox will break this way, downwind as sure as fate,
An' if he does you'll see the field come poundin' through our gate.

But, Maggie, what's that slinkin' beside the cover?--See!
Now it's in the clover field, and goin' fast an' free,
It's 'im, and they don't see 'im.  It's 'im!  'Alloo!  'Alloo!
My broken wind won't run to it--I'll leave the job to you.

There now I 'ear the music, and I know they're on his track;
Oh, watch 'em, Maggie, watch 'em!  Ain't they just a lovely pack!
I've nursed 'em through distemper, an' I've trained an' broke 'em in,
An' my 'eart it just goes out to them as if they was my kin.

Well, all things 'as an endin', as I've 'eard the parson say,
The 'orse is cast, an' the 'ound is past, an' the 'unter 'as 'is day;
But my day was yesterday, so lay me down again.
You can draw the curtain, Maggie, right across the winder pane.



MASTER



   Master went a-hunting,
      When the leaves were falling;
   We saw him on the bridle path,
      We heard him gaily calling.
'Oh master, master, come you back,
For I have dreamed a dream so black!'
   A glint of steel from bit and heel,
      The chestnut cantered faster;
   A red flash seen amid the green,
      And so good-bye to master.

   Master came from hunting,
      Two silent comrades bore him;
   His eyes were dim, his face was white,
      The mare was led before him.
'Oh, master, master, is it thus
That you have come again to us?'
   I held my lady's ice-cold hand,
      They bore the hurdle past her;
   Why should they go so soft and slow?
      It matters not to master.



H.M.S. 'FOUDROYANT'



[Being an humble address to Her Majesty's Naval advisers, who sold
Nelson's old flagship to the Germans for a thousand pounds.]

Who says the Nation's purse is lean,
   Who fears for claim or bond or debt,
When all the glories that have been
   Are scheduled as a cash asset?
If times are black and trade is slack,
   If coal and cotton fail at last,
We've something left to barter yet -
      Our glorious past.

There's many a crypt in which lies hid
   The dust of statesman or of king;
There's Shakespeare's home to raise a bid,
   And Milton's house its price would bring.
What for the sword that Cromwell drew?
   What for Prince Edward's coat of mail?
What for our Saxon Alfred's tomb?
      They're all for sale!

And stone and marble may be sold
   Which serve no present daily need;
There's Edward's Windsor, labelled old,
   And Wolsey's palace, guaranteed.
St. Clement Danes and fifty fanes,
   The Tower and the Temple grounds;
How much for these?  Just price them, please,
      In British pounds.

You hucksters, have you still to learn,
   The things which money will not buy?
Can you not read that, cold and stern
   As we may be, there still does lie
Deep in our hearts a hungry love
   For what concerns our island story?
We sell our work--perchance our lives,
      But not our glory.

Go barter to the knacker's yard
   The steed that has outlived its time!
Send hungry to the pauper ward
   The man who served you in his prime!
But when you touch the Nation's store,
   Be broad your mind and tight your grip.
Take heed!  And bring us back once more
      Our Nelson's ship.

And if no mooring can be found
   In all our harbours near or far,
Then tow the old three-decker round
   To where the deep-sea soundings are;
There, with her pennon flying clear,
   And with her ensign lashed peak high,
Sink her a thousand fathoms sheer.
      There let her lie!



THE FARNSHIRE CUP



Christopher Davis was up upon Mavis
   And Sammy MacGregor on Flo,
Jo Chauncy rode Spider, the rankest outsider,
   But HE'D make a wooden horse go.
There was Robin and Leah and Boadicea,
   And Chesterfield's Son of the Sea;
And Irish Nuneaton, who never was beaten,
   They backed her at seven to three.

The course was the devil!  A start on the level,
   And then a stiff breather uphill;
A bank at the top with a four-foot drop,
   And a bullfinch down by the mill.
A stretch of straight from the Whittlesea gate,
   Then up and down and up;
And the mounts that stay through Farnshire clay
   May bid for the Farnshire Cup.

The tipsters were touting, the bookies were shouting
   'Bar one, bar one, bar one!'
With a glint and a glimmer of silken shimmer
   The field shone bright in the sun,
When Farmer Brown came riding down:
   'I hain't much time to spare,
But I've entered her name, so I'll play out the game,
   On the back o' my old gray mare.

'You never would think 'er a thoroughbred clinker,
   There's never a judge that would;
Each leg be'ind 'as a splint, you'll find,
   And the fore are none too good.
She roars a bit, and she don't look fit,
   She's moulted 'alf 'er 'air;
But--'  He smiled in a way that seemed to say,
   That he knew that old gray mare.

And the bookies laughed and the bookies chaffed,
   'Who backs the mare?' cried they.
'A hundred to one!'  'It's done--and done!'
   'We'll take that price all day.'
'What if the mare is shedding hair!
   What if her eye is wild!
We read her worth and her pedigree birth
   In the smile that her owner smiled.'

And the whisper grew and the whisper flew
   That she came of Isonomy stock.
'Fifty to one!'  'It's done--and done!
   Look at her haunch and hock!
Ill-groomed!  Why yes, but one may guess
   That that is her owner's guile.'
Ah, Farmer Brown, the sharps from town,
   Have read your simple smile!

They've weighed him in.  'Now lose or win,
   I've money at stake this day;
Gee-long, my sweet, and if we're beat,
   We'll both do all we may!'
He joins the rest, they line abreast,
   'Back Leah!  Mavis up!'
The flag is dipped and the field is slipped,
   Full split for the Farnshire Cup.

Christopher Davis is leading on Mavis,
   Spider is waiting on Flo;
Boadicea is gaining on Leah,
   Irish Nuneaton lies low;
Robin is tailing, his wind has been failing,
   Son of the Sea's going fast:
So crack on the pace for it's anyone's race,
   And the winner's the horse that can last.

Chestnut and bay, and sorrel and gray,
   See how they glimmer and gleam!
Bending and straining, and losing and gaining,
   Silk jackets flutter and stream;
They are over the grass as the cloud shadows pass,
   They are up to the fence at the top;
It's 'hey then!' and over, and into the clover,
   There wasn't one slip at the drop.

They are all going still; they are round by the mill,
   They are down by the Whittlesea gate;
Leah's complaining, and Mavis is gaining,
   And Flo's catching up in the straight.
Robin's gone wrong, but the Spider runs strong,
   He sticks to the leader like wax;
An utter outsider, but look at his rider -
   Jo Chauncy, the pick of the cracks!

Robin was tailing and pecked at a paling,
   Leah's gone weak in her feet;
Boadicea came down at the railing,
   Son of the Sea is dead beat.
Leather to leather, they're pounding together,
   Three of them all in a row;
And Irish Nuneaton, who never was beaten,
   Is level with Spider and Flo.

It's into the straight from the Whittlesea gate,
   Clean galloping over the green,
But four foot high the hurdles lie
   With a sunken ditch between.
'Tis a bit of a test for a beast at its best,
   And the devil and all at its worst;
But it's clear run in with the Cup to win
   For the horse that is over it first.

So try it, my beauties, and fly it, my beauties,
   Spider, Nuneaton, and Flo;
With a trip and a blunder there's one of them under,
   Hark to it crashing below!
Is it the brown or the sorrel that's down?
   The brown!  It is Flo who is in!
And Spider with Chauncy, the pick of the fancy,
   Is going full split for a win.

'Spider is winning!'  'Jo Chauncy is winning!'
   'He's winning!  He's winning!  Bravo!'
The bookies are raving, the ladies are waving,
   The Stand is all shouting for Jo.
The horse is clean done, but the race may be won
   By the Newmarket lad on his back;
For the fire of the rider may bring an outsider
   Ahead of a thoroughbred crack.

'Spider is winning!'  'Jo Chauncy is winning!'
   It swells like the roar of the sea;
But Jo hears the drumming of somebody coming,
   And sees a lean head by his knee.
'Nuneaton!  Nuneaton!  The Spider is beaten!'
   It is but a spurt at the most;
For lose it or win it, they have but a minute
   Before they are up with the post.

Nuneaton is straining, Nuneaton is gaining,
   Neither will falter nor flinch;
Whips they are plying and jackets are flying,
   They're fairly abreast to an inch.
'Crack em up!  Let 'em go!  Well ridden!  Bravo!'
   Gamer ones never were bred;
Jo Chauncy has done it!  He's spurted!  He's won it!'
   The favourite's beat by a head!

Don't tell me of luck, for its judgment and pluck
   And a courage that never will shirk;
To give your mind to it and know how to do it
   And put all your heart in your work.
So here's to the Spider, the winning outsider,
   With little Jo Chauncy up;
May they stay life's course, both jockey and horse,
   As they stayed in the Farnshire Cup.

But it's possible that you are wondering what
   May have happened to Farmer Brown,
And the old gray crock of Isonomy stock
   Who was backed by the sharps from town.
She blew and she sneezed, she coughed and she wheezed,
   She ran till her knees gave way.
But never a grumble at trip or at stumble
   Was heard from her jock that day.

For somebody laid AGAINST the gray,
   And somebody made a pile;
And Brown says he can make farming pay,
   And he smiles a simple smile.
'Them sharps from town were riled,' says Brown;
   'But I can't see why--can you?
For I said quite fair as I knew that mare,
   And I proved my words was true.'



THE GROOM'S STORY



Ten mile in twenty minutes!  'E done it, sir.  That's true.
The big bay 'orse in the further stall--the one wot's next to you.
I've seen some better 'orses; I've seldom seen a wuss,
But 'e 'olds the bloomin' record, an' that's good enough for us.

We knew as it wa's in 'im.  'E's thoroughbred, three part,
We bought 'im for to race 'im, but we found 'e 'ad no 'eart;
For 'e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin' dignified,
It seemed a kind o' liberty to drive 'im or to ride;

For 'e never seemed a-thinkin' of what 'e 'ad to do,
But 'is thoughts was set on 'igher things, admirin' of the view.
'E looked a puffeck pictur, and a pictur 'e would stay,
'E wouldn't even switch 'is tail to drive the flies away.

And yet we knew 'twas in 'im, we knew as 'e could fly;
But what we couldn't git at was 'ow to make 'im try.
We'd almost turned the job up, until at last one day
We got the last yard out of 'im in a most amazin' way.

It was all along o' master; which master 'as the name
Of a reg'lar true blue sportman, an' always acts the same;
But we all 'as weaker moments, which master 'e 'ad one,
An' 'e went and bought a motor-car when motor-cars begun.

I seed it in the stable yard--it fairly turned me sick -
A greasy, wheezy engine as can neither buck nor kick.
You've a screw to drive it forrard, and a screw to make it stop,
For it was foaled in a smithy stove an' bred in a blacksmith shop.

It didn't want no stable, it didn't ask no groom,
It didn't need no nothin' but a bit o' standin' room.
Just fill it up with paraffin an' it would go all day,
Which the same should be agin the law if I could 'ave my way.

Well, master took 'is motor-car, an' moted 'ere an' there,
A frightenin' the 'orses an' a poisonin' the air.
'E wore a bloomin' yachtin' cap, but Lor'! wot DID 'e know,
Excep' that if you turn a screw the thing would stop or go?

An' then one day it wouldn't go.  'E screwed and screwed again,
But somethin' jammed, an' there 'e stuck in the mud of a country
lane.
It 'urt 'is pride most cruel, but what was 'e to do?
So at last 'e bade me fetch a 'orse to pull the motor through.

This was the 'orse we fetched 'im; an' when we reached the car,
We braced 'im tight and proper to the middle of the bar,
And buckled up 'is traces and lashed them to each side,
While 'e 'eld 'is 'ead so 'aughtily, an' looked most dignified.

Not bad tempered, mind you, but kind of pained and vexed,
And 'e seemed to say, 'Well, bli' me! wot WILL they ask me next?
I've put up with some liberties, but this caps all by far,
To be assistant engine to a crocky motor-car!'

Well, master 'e was in the car, a-fiddlin' with the gear,
And the 'orse was meditatin', an' I was standin' near,
When master 'e touched somethin'--what it was we'll never know -
But it sort o' spurred the boiler up and made the engine go.

''Old 'ard, old gal!' says master, and 'Gently then!' says I,
But an engine won't 'eed coaxin' an' it ain't no use to try;
So first 'e pulled a lever, an' then 'e turned a screw,
But the thing kept crawlin' forrard spite of all that 'e could do.

And first it went quite slowly and the 'orse went also slow,
But 'e 'ad to buck up faster when the wheels began to go;
For the car kept crowdin' on 'im and buttin' 'im along,
And in less than 'alf a minute, sir, that 'orse was goin' strong.

At first 'e walked quite dignified, an' then 'e 'ad to trot,
And then 'e tried a canter when the pace became too 'ot.
'E looked 'is very 'aughtiest, as if 'e didn't 'e mind,
And all the time the motor-car was pushin' 'im be'ind.

Now, master lost 'is 'ead when 'e found 'e couldn't stop,
And 'e pulled a valve or somethin' an' somethin' else went pop,
An' somethin' else went fizzywiz, and in a flash, or less,
That blessed car was goin' like a limited express.

Master 'eld the steerin' gear, an' kept the road all right,
And away they whizzed and clattered--my aunt! it was a sight.
'E seemed the finest draught 'orse as ever lived by far,
For all the country Juggins thought 'twas 'im wot pulled the car.

'E was stretchin' like a grey'ound, 'e was goin' all 'e knew;
But it bumped an' shoved be'ind 'im, for all that 'e could do;
It butted 'im an' boosted 'im an' spanked 'im on a'ead,
Till 'e broke the ten-mile record, same as I already said.

Ten mile in twenty minutes!  'E done it, sir.  That's true.
The only time we ever found what that 'ere 'orse could do.
Some say it wasn't 'ardly fair, and the papers made a fuss,
But 'e broke the ten-mile record, and that's good enough for us.

You see that 'orse's tail, sir?  You don't!  No more do we,
Which really ain't surprisin', for 'e 'as no tail to see;
That engine wore it off 'im before master made it stop,
And all the road was littered like a bloomin' barber's shop.

And master?  Well, it cured 'im.  'E altered from that day,
And come back to 'is 'orses in the good old-fashioned way.
And if you wants to git the sack, the quickest way by far
Is to 'int as 'ow you think 'e ought to keep a motor-car.



WITH THE CHIDDINGFOLDS



   The horse is bedded down
      Where the straw lies deep.
   The hound is in the kennel;
      Let the poor hound sleep!
   And the fox is in the spinney
      By the run which he is haunting,
   And I'll lay an even guinea
      That a goose or two is wanting
When the farmer comes to count them in the morning.

   The horse is up and saddled;
      Girth the old horse tight!
   The hounds are out and drawing
      In the morning light.
   Now it's 'Yoick!' among the heather,
      And it's 'Yoick!' across the clover,
   And it's 'To him, all together!'
      'Hyke a Bertha!  Hyke a Rover!'
And the woodlands smell so sweetly in the morning.

   'There's Termagant a-whimpering;
      She whimpers so.'
   'There's a young hound yapping!'
      Let the young hound go!
   But the old hound is cunning,
      And it's him we mean to follow,
   'They are running!  They are running!
      And it's 'Forrard to the hollo!'
For the scent is lying strongly in the morning.

   'Who's the fool that heads him?'
      Hold hard, and let him pass!
   He's out among the oziers
      He's clear upon the grass.
   You grip his flanks and settle,
      For the horse is stretched and straining,
   Here's a game to test your mettle,
      And a sport to try your training,
When the Chiddingfolds are running in the morning.

   We're up by the Coppice
      And we're down by the Mill,
   We're out upon the Common,
      And the hounds are running still.
   You must tighten on the leather,
      For we blunder through the bracken;
   Though you're over hocks in heather
      Still the pace must never slacken
As we race through Thursley Common in the morning.

   We are breaking from the tangle
      We are out upon the green,
   There's a bank and a hurdle
      With a quickset between.
   You must steady him and try it,
      You are over with a scramble.
   Here's a wattle!  You must fly it,
      And you land among the bramble,
For it's roughish, toughish going in the morning.

   'Ware the bog by the Grove
      As you pound through the slush.
   See the whip!  See the huntsman!
      We are close upon his brush.
   'Ware the root that lies before you!
      It will trip you if you blunder.
   'Ware the branch that's drooping o'er you!
      You must dip and swerve from under
As you gallop through the woodland in the morning.

   There were fifty at the find,
      There were forty at the mill,
   There were twenty on the heath,
      And ten are going still.
   Some are pounded, some are shirking,
      And they dwindle and diminish
   Till a weary pair are working,
      Spent and blowing, to the finish,
And we hear the shrill whoo-ooping in the morning.

   The horse is bedded down
      Where the straw lies deep,
   The hound is in the kennel,
      He is yapping in his sleep.
   But the fox is in the spinney
      Lying snug in earth and burrow.
   And I'll lay an even guinea
      We could find again to-morrow,
If we chose to go a-hunting in the morning.



A HUNTING MORNING



Put the saddle on the mare,
   For the wet winds blow;
There's winter in the air,
   And autumn all below.
For the red leaves are flying
And the red bracken dying,
And the red fox lying
   Where the oziers grow.

Put the bridle on the mare,
   For my blood runs chill;
And my heart, it is there,
   On the heather-tufted hill,
With the gray skies o'er us,
And the long-drawn chorus
Of a running pack before us
   From the find to the kill.

Then lead round the mare,
   For it's time that we began,
And away with thought and care,
   Save to live and be a man,
While the keen air is blowing,
And the huntsman holloing,
And the black mare going
   As the black mare can.



THE OLD GRAY FOX



We started from the Valley Pride,
   And Farnham way we went.
We waited at the cover-side,
   But never found a scent.
Then we tried the withy beds
   Which grow by Frensham town,
And there we found the old gray fox,
      The same old fox,
      The game old fox;
Yes, there we found the old gray fox,
   Which lives on Hankley Down.
         So here's to the master,
         And here's to the man!
      And here's to twenty couple
      Of the white and black and tan!
   Here's a find without a wait!
   Here's a hedge without a gate!
   Here's the man who follows straight,
      Where the old fox ran.

The Member rode his thoroughbred,
   Doctor had the gray,
The Soldier led on a roan red,
   The Sailor rode the bay.
Squire was there on his Irish mare,
   And Parson on the brown;
And so we chased the old gray fox,
      The same old fox,
      The game old fox,
And so we chased the old gray fox
   Across the Hankley Down.
         So here's to the master,
         And here's to the man!
            &c. &c. &c.

The Doctor's gray was going strong
   Until she slipped and fell;
He had to keep his bed so long
   His patients all got well.
The Member he had lost his seat,
   'Twas carried by his horse;
And so we chased the old gray fox,
      The same old fox,
      The game old fox;
And so we chased the old gray fox
   That earthed in Hankley Gorse.
         So here's to the master,
         And here's to the man!
            &c. &c. &c.

The Parson sadly fell away,
   And in the furze did lie;
The words we heard that Parson say
   Made all the horses shy!
The Sailor he was seen no more
   Upon that stormy bay;
But still we chased the old gray fox,
      The same old fox,
      The game old fox;
Still we chased the old gray fox
   Through all the winter day.
         So here's to the master,
         And here's to the man!
            &c. &c. &c.

And when we found him gone to ground,
   They sent for spade and man;
But Squire said 'Shame!  The beast was game!
   A gamer never ran!
His wind and pace have gained the race,
   His life is fairly won.
But may we meet the old gray fox,
      The same old fox,
      The game old fox;
May we meet the old gray fox
   Before the year is done.
         So here's to the master,
         And here's to the man!
      And here's to twenty couple
      Of the white and black and tan!
      Here's a find without await!
      Here's a hedge without a gate!
      Here's the man who follows straight,
         Where the old fox ran.



'WARE HOLES



[''Ware Holes!' is the expression used in the hunting-field to warn
those behind against rabbit-burrows or other suck dangers.]

A sportin' death!  My word it was!
   An' taken in a sportin' way.
Mind you, I wasn't there to see;
   I only tell you what they say.

They found that day at Shillinglee,
   An' ran 'im down to Chillinghurst;
The fox was goin' straight an' free
   For ninety minutes at a burst.

They 'ad a check at Ebernoe
   An' made a cast across the Down,
Until they got a view 'ullo
   An' chased 'im up to Kirdford town.

From Kirdford 'e run Bramber way,
   An' took 'em over 'alf the Weald.
If you 'ave tried the Sussex clay,
   You'll guess it weeded out the field.

Until at last I don't suppose
   As 'arf a dozen, at the most,
Came safe to where the grassland goes
   Switchbackin' southwards to the coast.

Young Captain 'Eadley, 'e was there,
   And Jim the whip an' Percy Day;
The Purcells an' Sir Charles Adair,
   An' this 'ere gent from London way.

For 'e 'ad gone amazin' fine,
   Two 'undred pounds between 'is knees;
Eight stone he was, an' rode at nine,
   As light an' limber as you please.

'E was a stranger to the 'Unt,
   There weren't a person as 'e knew there;
But 'e could ride, that London gent -
   'E sat 'is mare as if 'e grew there.

They seed the 'ounds upon the scent,
   But found a fence across their track,
And 'ad to fly it; else it meant
   A turnin' and a 'arkin' back.

'E was the foremost at the fence,
   And as 'is mare just cleared the rail
He turned to them that rode be'ind,
   For three was at 'is very tail.

''Ware 'oles!' says 'e, an' with the word,
   Still sittin' easy on his mare,
Down, down 'e went, an' down an' down,
   Into the quarry yawnin' there.

Some say it was two 'undred foot;
   The bottom lay as black as ink.
I guess they 'ad some ugly dreams,
   Who reined their 'orses on the brink.

'E'd only time for that one cry;
   ''Ware 'oles!' says 'e, an' saves all three.
There may be better deaths to die,
   But that one's good enough for me.

For mind you, 'twas a sportin' end,
   Upon a right good sportin' day;
They think a deal of 'im down 'ere,
   That gent what came from London way.



THE HOME-COMING OF THE 'EURYDICE'



[Lost, with her crew of three hundred boys, on the last day of her
voyage, March 23, 1876.  She foundered off Portsmouth, from which
town many of the boys came.]

Up with the royals that top the white spread of her!
   Press her and dress her, and drive through the foam;
The Island's to port, and the mainland ahead of her,
   Hey for the Warner and Hayling and Home!

Bo'sun, O Bo'sun, just look at the green of it!
   Look at the red cattle down by the hedge!
Look at the farmsteading--all that is seen of it,
   One little gable end over the edge!'

'Lord! the tongues of them clattering, clattering,
   All growing wild at a peep of the Wight;
Aye, sir, aye, it has set them all chattering,
   Thinking of home and their mothers to-night.'

Spread the topgallants--oh, lay them out lustily!
   What though it darken o'er Netherby Combe?
'Tis but the valley wind, puffing so gustily -
   On for the Warner and Hayling and Home!

'Bo'sun, O Bo'sun, just see the long slope of it!
   Culver is there, with the cliff and the light.
Tell us, oh tell us, now is there a hope of it?
   Shall we have leave for our homes for to-night?'

'Tut, the clack of them!  Steadily!  Steadily!
   Aye, as you say, sir, they're little ones still;
One long reach should open it readily,
   Round by St. Helens and under the hill.

'The Spit and the Nab are the gates of the promise,
   Their mothers to them--and to us it's our wives.
I've sailed forty years, and--By God it's upon us!
   Down royals, Down top'sles, down, down, for your lives!'

A grey swirl of snow with the squall at the back of it,
   Heeling her, reeling her, beating her down!
A gleam of her bends in the thick of the wrack of it,
   A flutter of white in the eddies of brown.

It broke in one moment of blizzard and blindness;
   The next, like a foul bat, it flapped on its way.
But our ship and our boys!  Gracious Lord, in your kindness,
   Give help to the mothers who need it to-day!

Give help to the women who wait by the water,
   Who stand on the Hard with their eyes past the Wight.
Ah! whisper it gently, you sister or daughter,
   'Our boys are all gathered at home for to-night.'



THE INNER ROOM



It is mine--the little chamber,
   Mine alone.
I had it from my forbears
   Years agone.
Yet within its walls I see
A most motley company,
And they one and all claim me
   As their own.

There's one who is a soldier
   Bluff and keen;
Single-minded, heavy-fisted,
   Rude of mien.
He would gain a purse or stake it,
He would win a heart or break it,
He would give a life or take it,
   Conscience-clean.

And near him is a priest
   Still schism-whole;
He loves the censer-reek
   And organ-roll.
He has leanings to the mystic,
Sacramental, eucharistic;
And dim yearnings altruistic
   Thrill his soul.

There's another who with doubts
   Is overcast;
I think him younger brother
   To the last.
Walking wary stride by stride,
Peering forwards anxious-eyed,
Since he learned to doubt his guide
   In the past.

And 'mid them all, alert,
   But somewhat cowed,
There sits a stark-faced fellow,
   Beetle-browed,
Whose black soul shrinks away
From a lawyer-ridden day,
And has thoughts he dare not say
   Half avowed.

There are others who are sitting,
   Grim as doom,
In the dim ill-boding shadow
   Of my room.
Darkling figures, stern or quaint,
Now a savage, now a saint,
 Showing fitfully and faint
   Through the gloom.

And those shadows are so dense,
   There may be
Many--very many--more
   Than I see.
They are sitting day and night
Soldier, rogue, and anchorite;
And they wrangle and they fight
   Over me.

If the stark-faced fellow win,
   All is o'er!
If the priest should gain his will
   I doubt no more!
But if each shall have his day,
I shall swing and I shall sway
In the same old weary way
   As before.



THE IRISH COLONEL



Said the king to the colonel,
'The complaints are eternal,
   That you Irish give more trouble
      Than any other corps.'

Said the colonel to the king,
'This complaint is no new thing,
   For your foemen, sire, have made it
      A hundred times before.'



THE BLIND ARCHER



Little boy Love drew his bow at a chance,
   Shooting down at the ballroom floor;
He hit an old chaperone watching the dance,
   And oh! but he wounded her sore.
      'Hey, Love, you couldn't mean that!
      Hi, Love, what would you be at?'
         No word would he say,
         But he flew on his way,
For the little boy's busy, and how could he stay?

Little boy Love drew a shaft just for sport
   At the soberest club in Pall Mall;
He winged an old veteran drinking his port,
   And down that old veteran fell.
      'Hey, Love, you mustn't do that!
      Hi, Love, what would you be at?
         This cannot be right!
         It's ludicrous quite!'
But it's no use to argue, for Love's out of sight.

A sad-faced young clerk in a cell all apart
   Was planning a celibate vow;
But the boy's random arrow has sunk in his heart,
   And the cell is an empty one now.
      'Hey, Love, you mustn't do that!
      Hi, Love, what would you be at?
         He is not for you,
         He has duties to do.'
'But I AM his duty,' quoth Love as he flew.

The king sought a bride, and the nation had hoped
   For a queen without rival or peer.
But the little boy shot, and the king has eloped
   With Miss No-one on Nothing a year.
      'Hey, Love, you couldn't mean that!
      Hi, Love, what would you be at?
         What an impudent thing
         To make game of a king!'
'But I'M a king also,' cried Love on the wing.

Little boy Love grew pettish one day;
   'If you keep on complaining,' he swore,
'I'll pack both my bow and my quiver away,
   And so I shall plague you no more.'
      'Hey, Love, you mustn't do that!
      Hi, Love, what would you be at?
         You may ruin our ease,
         You may do what you please,
But we can't do without you, you dear little tease!'



A PARABLE



The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there,
   And warmly debated the matter;
The Orthodox said that it came from the air,
   And the Heretics said from the platter.
They argued it long and they argued it strong,
   And I hear they are arguing now;
But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese,
   Not one of them thought of a cow,



A TRAGEDY



Who's that walking on the moorland?
   Who's that moving on the hill?
They are passing 'mid the bracken,
But the shadows grow and blacken
   And I cannot see them clearly on the hill.

Who's that calling on the moorland?
   Who's that crying on the hill?
Was it bird or was it human,
Was it child, or man, or woman,
   Who was calling so sadly on the hill?

Who's that running on the moorland?
   Who's that flying on the hill?
He is there--and there again,
But you cannot see him plain,
   For the shadow lies so darkly on the hill.

What's that lying in the heather?
   What's that lurking on the hill?
My horse will go no nearer,
And I cannot see it clearer,
   But there's something that is lying on the hill.



THE PASSING



It was the hour of dawn,
   When the heart beats thin and small,
The window glimmered grey,
   Framed in a shadow wall.

And in the cold sad light
   Of the early morningtide,
The dear dead girl came back
   And stood by his bedside.

The girl he lost came back:
   He saw her flowing hair;
It flickered and it waved
   Like a breath in frosty air.

As in a steamy glass,
   Her face was dim and blurred;
Her voice was sweet and thin,
   Like the calling of a bird.

'You said that you would come,
   You promised not to stay;
And I have waited here,
   To help you on the way.

'I have waited on,
   But still you bide below;
You said that you would come,
   And oh, I want you so!

'For half my soul is here,
   And half my soul is there,
When you are on the earth
   And I am in the air.

'But on your dressing-stand
   There lies a triple key;
Unlock the little gate
   Which fences you from me.

'Just one little pang,
   Just one throb of pain,
And then your weary head
   Between my breasts again.'

In the dim unhomely light
   Of the early morningtide,
He took the triple key
   And he laid it by his side.

A pistol, silver chased,
   An open hunting knife,
A phial of the drug
   Which cures the ill of life.

He looked upon the three,
   And sharply drew his breath:
'Now help me, oh my love,
   For I fear this cold grey death.'

She bent her face above,
   She kissed him and she smiled;
She soothed him as a mother
   May sooth a frightened child.

'Just that little pang, love,
   Just a throb of pain,
And then your weary head
   Between my breasts again.'

He snatched the pistol up,
   He pressed it to his ear;
But a sudden sound broke in,
   And his skin was raw with fear.

He took the hunting knife,
   He tried to raise the blade;
It glimmered cold and white,
   And he was sore afraid.

He poured the potion out,
   But it was thick and brown;
His throat was sealed against it,
   And he could not drain it down.

He looked to her for help,
   And when he looked--behold!
His love was there before him
   As in the days of old.

He saw the drooping head,
   He saw the gentle eyes;
He saw the same shy grace of hers
   He had been wont to prize.

She pointed and she smiled,
   And lo! he was aware
Of a half-lit bedroom chamber
   And a silent figure there.

A silent figure lying
   A-sprawl upon a bed,
With a silver-mounted pistol
   Still clotted to his head.

And as he downward gazed,
   Her voice came full and clear,
The homely tender voice
   Which he had loved to hear:

'The key is very certain,
   The door is sealed to none.
You did it, oh, my darling!
   And you never knew it done.

'When the net was broken,
   You thought you felt its mesh;
You carried to the spirit
   The troubles of the flesh.

'And are you trembling still, dear?
   Then let me take your hand;
And I will lead you outward
   To a sweet and restful land.

'You know how once in London
   I put my griefs on you;
But I can carry yours now -
   Most sweet it is to do!

'Most sweet it is to do, love,
   And very sweet to plan
How I, the helpless woman,
   Can help the helpful man.

'But let me see you smiling
   With the smile I know so well;
Forget the world of shadows,
   And the empty broken shell.

'It is the worn-out garment
   In which you tore a rent;
You tossed it down, and carelessly
   Upon your way you went.

'It is not YOU, my sweetheart,
   For you are here with me.
That frame was but the promise of
   The thing that was to be -

'A tuning of the choir
   Ere the harmonies begin;
And yet it is the image
   Of the subtle thing within.

'There's not a trick of body,
   There's not a trait of mind,
But you bring it over with you,
   Ethereal, refined,

'But still the same; for surely
   If we alter as we die,
You would be you no longer,
   And I would not be I.

'I might be an angel,
   But not the girl you knew;
You might be immaculate,
   But that would not be you.

'And now I see you smiling,
   So, darling, take my hand;
And I will lead you outward
   To a sweet and pleasant land,

'Where thought is clear and nimble,
   Where life is pure and fresh,
Where the soul comes back rejoicing
   From the mud-bath of the flesh

'But still that soul is human,
   With human ways, and so
I love my love in spirit,
   As I loved him long ago.'

So with hands together
   And fingers twining tight,
The two dead lovers drifted
   In the golden morning light.

But a grey-haired man was lying
   Beneath them on a bed,
With a silver-mounted pistol
   Still clotted to his head.



THE FRANKLIN'S MAID
(From 'The White Company')



The franklin he hath gone to roam,
The franklin's maid she bides at home;
But she is cold, and coy, and staid,
And who may win the franklin's maid?

There came a knight of high renown
In bassinet and ciclatoun;
On bended knee full long he prayed -
He might not win the franklin's maid.

There came a squire so debonair,
His dress was rich, his words were fair.
He sweetly sang, he deftly played -
He could not win the franklin's maid.

There came a mercer wonder-fine,
With velvet cap and gaberdine;
For all his ships, for all his trade,
He could not buy the franklin's maid.

There came an archer bold and true,
With bracer guard and stave of yew;
His purse was light, his jerkin frayed -
Haro, alas! the franklin's maid!

Oh, some have laughed and some have cried,
And some have scoured the countryside;
But off they ride through wood and glade,
The bowman and the franklin's maid.



THE OLD HUNTSMAN



There's a keen and grim old huntsman
   On a horse as white as snow;
Sometimes he is very swift
   And sometimes he is slow.
But he never is at fault,
   For he always hunts at view
And he rides without a halt
      After you.

The huntsman's name is Death,
   His horse's name is Time;
He is coming, he is coming
   As I sit and write this rhyme;
He is coming, he is coming,
   As you read the rhyme I write;
You can hear the hoofs' low drumming
      Day and night.

You can hear the distant drumming
   As the clock goes tick-a-tack,
And the chiming of the hours
   Is the music of his pack.
You may hardly note their growling
   Underneath the noonday sun,
But at night you hear them howling
      As they run.

And they never check or falter
   For they never miss their kill;
Seasons change and systems alter,
   But the hunt is running still.
Hark! the evening chime is playing,
   O'er the long grey town it peals;
Don't you hear the death-hound baying
      At your heels?

Where is there an earth or burrow?
   Where a cover left for you?
A year, a week, perhaps to-morrow
   Brings the Huntsman's death halloo!
Day by day he gains upon us,
   And the most that we can claim
Is that when the hounds are on us
      We die game.

And somewhere dwells the Master,
   By whom it was decreed;
He sent the savage huntsman,
   He bred the snow-white steed.
These hounds which run for ever,
   He set them on your track;
He hears you scream, but never
      Calls them back.

He does not heed our suing,
   We never see his face;
He hunts to our undoing,
   We thank him for the chase.
We thank him and we flatter,
   We hope--because we must -
But have we cause?  No matter!
      Let us trust!




End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Songs of Action
by Arthur Conan Doyle

***The Project Gutenberg Etext of Tales of Terror and Mystery***
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Tales of Terror and Mystery

by Arthur Conan Doyle

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Tales of Terror and Mystery
By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle



Contents

Tales of Terror

The Horror of the Heights  
The Leather Funnel  
The New Catacomb  
The Case of Lady Sannox  
The Terror of Blue John Gap  
The Brazilian Cat  


Tales of Mystery

The Lost Special  
The Beetle-Hunter  
The Man with the Watches  
The Japanned Box  
The Black Doctor  
The Jew's Breastplate  





Tales of Terror


The Horror of the Heights


The idea that the extraordinary narrative which has been called the
Joyce-Armstrong Fragment is an elaborate practical joke evolved by
some unknown person, cursed by a perverted and sinister sense of
humour, has now been abandoned by all who have examined the matter. 
The most macabre and imaginative of plotters would hesitate
before linking his morbid fancies with the unquestioned and tragic
facts which reinforce the statement.  Though the assertions
contained in it are amazing and even monstrous, it is none the less
forcing itself upon the general intelligence that they are true,
and that we must readjust our ideas to the new situation.  This
world of ours appears to be separated by a slight and precarious
margin of safety from a most singular and unexpected danger.  I
will endeavour in this narrative, which reproduces the original
document in its necessarily somewhat fragmentary form, to lay
before the reader the whole of the facts up to date, prefacing my
statement by saying that, if there be any who doubt the narrative
of Joyce-Armstrong, there can be no question at all as to the facts
concerning Lieutenant Myrtle, R. N., and Mr. Hay Connor, who
undoubtedly met their end in the manner described.

The Joyce-Armstrong Fragment was found in the field which is
called Lower Haycock, lying one mile to the westward of the village
of Withyham, upon the Kent and Sussex border.  It was on the 15th
September last that an agricultural labourer, James Flynn, in the
employment of Mathew Dodd, farmer, of the Chauntry Farm, Withyham,
perceived a briar pipe lying near the footpath which skirts the
hedge in Lower Haycock.  A few paces farther on he picked up a pair
of broken binocular glasses.  Finally, among some nettles in the
ditch, he caught sight of a flat, canvas-backed book, which proved
to be a note-book with detachable leaves, some of which had
come loose and were fluttering along the base of the hedge.  These
he collected, but some, including the first, were never recovered,
and leave a deplorable hiatus in this all-important statement.  The
note-book was taken by the labourer to his master, who in turn
showed it to Dr. J. H. Atherton, of Hartfield.  This gentleman at
once recognized the need for an expert examination, and the
manuscript was forwarded to the Aero Club in London, where it now
lies.

The first two pages of the manuscript are missing.  There is
also one torn away at the end of the narrative, though none of
these affect the general coherence of the story.  It is conjectured
that the missing opening is concerned with the record of Mr. Joyce-
Armstrong's qualifications as an aeronaut, which can be gathered
from other sources and are admitted to be unsurpassed among the
air-pilots of England.  For many years he has been looked upon as
among the most daring and the most intellectual of flying men, a
combination which has enabled him to both invent and test several
new devices, including the common gyroscopic attachment which is
known by his name.  The main body of the manuscript is written
neatly in ink, but the last few lines are in pencil and are so
ragged as to be hardly legible--exactly, in fact, as they might be
expected to appear if they were scribbled off hurriedly from the
seat of a moving aeroplane.  There are, it may be added, several
stains, both on the last page and on the outside cover which have
been pronounced by the Home Office experts to be blood--probably
human and certainly mammalian.  The fact that something closely
resembling the organism of malaria was discovered in this blood,
and that Joyce-Armstrong is known to have suffered from
intermittent fever, is a remarkable example of the new weapons
which modern science has placed in the hands of our detectives.

And now a word as to the personality of the author of this
epoch-making statement.  Joyce-Armstrong, according to the few
friends who really knew something of the man, was a poet and a
dreamer, as well as a mechanic and an inventor.  He was a man of
considerable wealth, much of which he had spent in the pursuit of
his aeronautical hobby.  He had four private aeroplanes in his
hangars near Devizes, and is said to have made no fewer than one
hundred and seventy ascents in the course of last year.  He was a
retiring man with dark moods, in which he would avoid the
society of his fellows.  Captain Dangerfield, who knew him better
than anyone, says that there were times when his eccentricity
threatened to develop into something more serious.  His habit of
carrying a shot-gun with him in his aeroplane was one manifestation
of it.

Another was the morbid effect which the fall of Lieutenant
Myrtle had upon his mind.  Myrtle, who was attempting the height
record, fell from an altitude of something over thirty thousand
feet.  Horrible to narrate, his head was entirely obliterated,
though his body and limbs preserved their configuration.  At every
gathering of airmen, Joyce-Armstrong, according to Dangerfield,
would ask, with an enigmatic smile:  "And where, pray, is Myrtle's
head?"

On another occasion after dinner, at the mess of the Flying
School on Salisbury Plain, he started a debate as to what will be
the most permanent danger which airmen will have to encounter. 
Having listened to successive opinions as to air-pockets, faulty
construction, and over-banking, he ended by shrugging his shoulders
and refusing to put forward his own views, though he gave the
impression that they differed from any advanced by his companions.

It is worth remarking that after his own complete disappearance
it was found that his private affairs were arranged with a
precision which may show that he had a strong premonition of
disaster.  With these essential explanations I will now give the
narrative exactly as it stands, beginning at page three of the
blood-soaked note-book:

"Nevertheless, when I dined at Rheims with Coselli and Gustav
Raymond I found that neither of them was aware of any particular
danger in the higher layers of the atmosphere.  I did not actually
say what was in my thoughts, but I got so near to it that if they
had any corresponding idea they could not have failed to express
it.  But then they are two empty, vainglorious fellows with no
thought beyond seeing their silly names in the newspaper.  It is
interesting to note that neither of them had ever been much beyond
the twenty-thousand-foot level.  Of course, men have been higher
than this both in balloons and in the ascent of mountains.  It
must be well above that point that the aeroplane enters the danger
zone--always presuming that my premonitions are correct.

"Aeroplaning has been with us now for more than twenty years,
and one might well ask:  Why should this peril be only revealing
itself in our day?  The answer is obvious.  In the old days of weak
engines, when a hundred horse-power Gnome or Green was considered
ample for every need, the flights were very restricted.  Now that
three hundred horse-power is the rule rather than the exception,
visits to the upper layers have become easier and more common. 
Some of us can remember how, in our youth, Garros made a world-wide
reputation by attaining nineteen thousand feet, and it was
considered a remarkable achievement to fly over the Alps.  Our
standard now has been immeasurably raised, and there are twenty
high flights for one in former years.  Many of them have been
undertaken with impunity. The thirty-thousand-foot level has been
reached time after time with no discomfort beyond cold and asthma. 
What does this prove?  A visitor might descend upon this planet a
thousand times and never see a tiger.  Yet tigers exist, and if he
chanced to come down into a jungle he might be devoured.  There are
jungles of the upper air, and there are worse things than tigers
which inhabit them.  I believe in time they will map these jungles
accurately out.  Even at the present moment I could name two of
them.  One of them lies over the Pau-Biarritz district of France. 
Another is just over my head as I write here in my house in
Wiltshire.  I rather think there is a third in the Homburg-
Wiesbaden district.

"It was the disappearance of the airmen that first set me
thinking.  Of course, everyone said that they had fallen into the
sea, but that did not satisfy me at all.  First, there was Verrier
in France; his machine was found near Bayonne, but they never got
his body.  There was the case of Baxter also, who vanished, though
his engine and some of the iron fixings were found in a wood in
Leicestershire.  In that case, Dr. Middleton, of Amesbury, who was
watching the flight with a telescope, declares that just before the
clouds obscured the view he saw the machine, which was at an
enormous height, suddenly rise perpendicularly upwards in a
succession of jerks in a manner that he would have thought to
be impossible.  That was the last seen of Baxter.  There was a
correspondence in the papers, but it never led to anything.  There
were several other similar cases, and then there was the death of
Hay Connor.  What a cackle there was about an unsolved mystery of
the air, and what columns in the halfpenny papers, and yet how
little was ever done to get to the bottom of the business!  He came
down in a tremendous vol-plane from an unknown height.  He never
got off his machine and died in his pilot's seat.  Died of what? 
`Heart disease,' said the doctors.  Rubbish!  Hay Connor's heart
was as sound as mine is.  What did Venables say?  Venables was the
only man who was at his side when he died.  He said that he was
shivering and looked like a man who had been badly scared.  `Died
of fright,' said Venables, but could not imagine what he was
frightened about.  Only said one word to Venables, which sounded
like `Monstrous.'  They could make nothing of that at the inquest. 
But I could make something of it.  Monsters!  That was the last
word of poor Harry Hay Connor.  And he DID die of fright, just
as Venables thought.

"And then there was Myrtle's head.  Do you really believe--does
anybody really believe--that a man's head could be driven clean
into his body by the force of a fall?  Well, perhaps it may be
possible, but I, for one, have never believed that it was so with
Myrtle.  And the grease upon his clothes--`all slimy with grease,'
said somebody at the inquest.  Queer that nobody got thinking after
that!  I did--but, then, I had been thinking for a good long time. 
I've made three ascents--how Dangerfield used to chaff me about my
shot-gun--but I've never been high enough.  Now, with this new,
light Paul Veroner machine and its one hundred and seventy-five
Robur, I should easily touch the thirty thousand tomorrow.  I'll
have a shot at the record.  Maybe I shall have a shot at something
else as well.  Of course, it's dangerous.  If a fellow wants to
avoid danger he had best keep out of flying altogether and subside
finally into flannel slippers and a dressing-gown.  But I'll visit
the air-jungle tomorrow--and if there's anything there I shall know
it.  If I return, I'll find myself a bit of a celebrity.  If I
don't this note-book may explain what I am trying to do, and how I
lost my life in doing it.  But no drivel about accidents or
mysteries, if YOU please.

"I chose my Paul Veroner monoplane for the job.  There's
nothing like a monoplane when real work is to be done. 
Beaumont found that out in very early days.  For one thing it
doesn't mind damp, and the weather looks as if we should be in the
clouds all the time.  It's a bonny little model and answers my hand
like a tender-mouthed horse.  The engine is a ten-cylinder rotary
Robur working up to one hundred and seventy-five.  It has all the
modern improvements--enclosed fuselage, high-curved landing skids,
brakes, gyroscopic steadiers, and three speeds, worked by an
alteration of the angle of the planes upon the Venetian-blind
principle.  I took a shot-gun with me and a dozen cartridges filled
with buck-shot.  You should have seen the face of Perkins, my old
mechanic, when I directed him to put them in.  I was dressed like
an Arctic explorer, with two jerseys under my overalls, thick socks
inside my padded boots, a storm-cap with flaps, and my talc
goggles.  It was stifling outside the hangars, but I was going for
the summit of the Himalayas, and had to dress for the part.
Perkins knew there was something on and implored me to take him
with me.  Perhaps I should if I were using the biplane, but a
monoplane is a one-man show--if you want to get the last foot of
life out of it.  Of course, I took an oxygen bag; the man who goes
for the altitude record without one will either be frozen or
smothered--or both.

"I had a good look at the planes, the rudder-bar, and the
elevating lever before I got in.  Everything was in order so far as
I could see.  Then I switched on my engine and found that she was
running sweetly.  When they let her go she rose almost at once upon
the lowest speed.  I circled my home field once or twice just to
warm her up, and then with a wave to Perkins and the others, I
flattened out my planes and put her on her highest.  She skimmed
like a swallow down wind for eight or ten miles until I turned her
nose up a little and she began to climb in a great spiral for the
cloud-bank above me.  It's all-important to rise slowly and adapt
yourself to the pressure as you go.

"It was a close, warm day for an English September, and there
was the hush and heaviness of impending rain.  Now and then there
came sudden puffs of wind from the south-west--one of them so gusty
and unexpected that it caught me napping and turned me half-round
for an instant.  I remember the time when gusts and whirls and air-
pockets used to be things of danger--before we learned to put
an overmastering power into our engines.  Just as I reached the
cloud-banks, with the altimeter marking three thousand, down came
the rain.  My word, how it poured!  It drummed upon my wings and
lashed against my face, blurring my glasses so that I could hardly
see.  I got down on to a low speed, for it was painful to travel
against it.  As I got higher it became hail, and I had to turn tail
to it.  One of my cylinders was out of action--a dirty plug, I
should imagine, but still I was rising steadily with plenty of
power.  After a bit the trouble passed, whatever it was, and I
heard the full, deep-throated purr--the ten singing as one.  That's
where the beauty of our modern silencers comes in.  We can at last
control our engines by ear.  How they squeal and squeak and sob
when they are in trouble!  All those cries for help were wasted in
the old days, when every sound was swallowed up by the monstrous
racket of the machine.  If only the early aviators could come back
to see the beauty and perfection of the mechanism which have been
bought at the cost of their lives!

"About nine-thirty I was nearing the clouds.  Down below me,
all blurred and shadowed with rain, lay the vast expanse of
Salisbury Plain.  Half a dozen flying machines were doing hackwork
at the thousand-foot level, looking like little black swallows
against the green background.  I dare say they were wondering what
I was doing up in cloud-land.  Suddenly a grey curtain drew across
beneath me and the wet folds of vapours were swirling round my
face.  It was clammily cold and miserable.  But I was above the
hail-storm, and that was something gained.  The cloud was as dark
and thick as a London fog.  In my anxiety to get clear, I cocked
her nose up until the automatic alarm-bell rang, and I actually
began to slide backwards.  My sopped and dripping wings had made me
heavier than I thought, but presently I was in lighter cloud, and
soon had cleared the first layer.  There was a second--opal-
coloured and fleecy--at a great height above my head, a white,
unbroken ceiling above, and a dark, unbroken floor below, with the
monoplane labouring upwards upon a vast spiral between them.  It is
deadly lonely in these cloud-spaces.  Once a great flight of some
small water-birds went past me, flying very fast to the westwards. 
The quick whir of their wings and their musical cry were cheery to
my ear.  I fancy that they were teal, but I am a wretched
zoologist.  Now that we humans have become birds we must really
learn to know our brethren by sight.

"The wind down beneath me whirled and swayed the broad cloud-
pain.  Once a great eddy formed in it, a whirlpool of vapour, and
through it, as down a funnel, I caught sight of the distant world. 
A large white biplane was passing at a vast depth beneath me.  I
fancy it was the morning mail service betwixt Bristol and London. 
Then the drift swirled inwards again and the great solitude was
unbroken.

"Just after ten I touched the lower edge of the upper cloud-
stratum.  It consisted of fine diaphanous vapour drifting swiftly
from the westwards.  The wind had been steadily rising all this
time and it was now blowing a sharp breeze--twenty-eight an hour by
my gauge.  Already it was very cold, though my altimeter only
marked nine thousand.  The engines were working beautifully, and we
went droning steadily upwards.  The cloud-bank was thicker than I
had expected, but at last it thinned out into a golden mist before
me, and then in an instant I had shot out from it, and there was an
unclouded sky and a brilliant sun above my head--all blue and gold
above, all shining silver below, one vast, glimmering plain as far
as my eyes could reach.  It was a quarter past ten o'clock, and the
barograph needle pointed to twelve thousand eight hundred.  Up I
went and up, my ears concentrated upon the deep purring of my
motor, my eyes busy always with the watch, the revolution
indicator, the petrol lever, and the oil pump.  No wonder aviators
are said to be a fearless race.  With so many things to think of
there is no time to trouble about oneself.  About this time I noted
how unreliable is the compass when above a certain height from
earth.  At fifteen thousand feet mine was pointing east and a point
south.  The sun and the wind gave me my true bearings.

"I had hoped to reach an eternal stillness in these high
altitudes, but with every thousand feet of ascent the gale grew
stronger.  My machine groaned and trembled in every joint and rivet
as she faced it, and swept away like a sheet of paper when I banked
her on the turn, skimming down wind at a greater pace, perhaps,
than ever mortal man has moved.  Yet I had always to turn again and
tack up in the wind's eye, for it was not merely a height
record that I was after.  By all my calculations it was above
little Wiltshire that my air-jungle lay, and all my labour might be
lost if I struck the outer layers at some farther point.

"When I reached the nineteen-thousand-foot level, which was
about midday, the wind was so severe that I looked with some
anxiety to the stays of my wings, expecting momentarily to see them
snap or slacken.  I even cast loose the parachute behind me, and
fastened its hook into the ring of my leathern belt, so as to be
ready for the worst.  Now was the time when a bit of scamped work
by the mechanic is paid for by the life of the aeronaut.  But she
held together bravely.  Every cord and strut was humming and
vibrating like so many harp-strings, but it was glorious to see
how, for all the beating and the buffeting, she was still the
conqueror of Nature and the mistress of the sky.  There is surely
something divine in man himself that he should rise so superior to
the limitations which Creation seemed to impose--rise, too, by such
unselfish, heroic devotion as this air-conquest has shown.  Talk of
human degeneration!  When has such a story as this been written in
the annals of our race?

"These were the thoughts in my head as I climbed that
monstrous, inclined plane with the wind sometimes beating in my
face and sometimes whistling behind my ears, while the cloud-land
beneath me fell away to such a distance that the folds and hummocks
of silver had all smoothed out into one flat, shining plain.  But
suddenly I had a horrible and unprecedented experience.  I have
known before what it is to be in what our neighbours have called a
tourbillon, but never on such a scale as this.  That huge,
sweeping river of wind of which I have spoken had, as it appears,
whirlpools within it which were as monstrous as itself.  Without a
moment's warning I was dragged suddenly into the heart of one.  I
spun round for a minute or two with such velocity that I almost
lost my senses, and then fell suddenly, left wing foremost, down
the vacuum funnel in the centre.  I dropped like a stone, and lost
nearly a thousand feet.  It was only my belt that kept me in my
seat, and the shock and breathlessness left me hanging half-
insensible over the side of the fuselage.  But I am always capable
of a supreme effort--it is my one great merit as an aviator.  I was
conscious that the descent was slower.  The whirlpool was a cone
rather than a funnel, and I had come to the apex.  With a
terrific wrench, throwing my weight all to one side, I levelled my
planes and brought her head away from the wind.  In an instant I
had shot out of the eddies and was skimming down the sky.  Then,
shaken but victorious, I turned her nose up and began once more my
steady grind on the upward spiral.  I took a large sweep to avoid
the danger-spot of the whirlpool, and soon I was safely above it. 
Just after one o'clock I was twenty-one thousand feet above the
sea-level.  To my great joy I had topped the gale, and with every
hundred feet of ascent the air grew stiller.  On the other hand, it
was very cold, and I was conscious of that peculiar nausea which
goes with rarefaction of the air.  For the first time I unscrewed
the mouth of my oxygen bag and took an occasional whiff of the
glorious gas.  I could feel it running like a cordial through my
veins, and I was exhilarated almost to the point of drunkenness. 
I shouted and sang as I soared upwards into the cold, still outer
world.

"It is very clear to me that the insensibility which came upon
Glaisher, and in a lesser degree upon Coxwell, when, in 1862, they
ascended in a balloon to the height of thirty thousand feet, was
due to the extreme speed with which a perpendicular ascent is made. 
Doing it at an easy gradient and accustoming oneself to the
lessened barometric pressure by slow degrees, there are no such
dreadful symptoms.  At the same great height I found that even
without my oxygen inhaler I could breathe without undue distress. 
It was bitterly cold, however, and my thermometer was at zero,
Fahrenheit.  At one-thirty I was nearly seven miles above the
surface of the earth, and still ascending steadily.  I found,
however, that the rarefied air was giving markedly less support to
my planes, and that my angle of ascent had to be considerably
lowered in consequence.  It was already clear that even with my
light weight and strong engine-power there was a point in front of
me where I should be held.  To make matters worse, one of my
sparking-plugs was in trouble again and there was intermittent
misfiring in the engine.  My heart was heavy with the fear of
failure.

"It was about that time that I had a most extraordinary
experience.  Something whizzed past me in a trail of smoke and
exploded with a loud, hissing sound, sending forth a cloud of
steam.  For the instant I could not imagine what had happened. 
Then I remembered that the earth is for ever being bombarded by
meteor stones, and would be hardly inhabitable were they not in
nearly every case turned to vapour in the outer layers of the
atmosphere.  Here is a new danger for the high-altitude man, for
two others passed me when I was nearing the forty-thousand-foot
mark.  I cannot doubt that at the edge of the earth's envelope the
risk would be a very real one.

"My barograph needle marked forty-one thousand three hundred
when I became aware that I could go no farther.  Physically, the
strain was not as yet greater than I could bear but my machine had
reached its limit.  The attenuated air gave no firm support to the
wings, and the least tilt developed into side-slip, while she
seemed sluggish on her controls.  Possibly, had the engine been at
its best, another thousand feet might have been within our
capacity, but it was still misfiring, and two out of the ten
cylinders appeared to be out of action.  If I had not already
reached the zone for which I was searching then I should never see
it upon this journey.  But was it not possible that I had attained
it?  Soaring in circles like a monstrous hawk upon the forty-
thousand-foot level I let the monoplane guide herself, and with my
Mannheim glass I made a careful observation of my surroundings. 
The heavens were perfectly clear; there was no indication of those
dangers which I had imagined.

"I have said that I was soaring in circles.  It struck me
suddenly that I would do well to take a wider sweep and open up a
new airtract.  If the hunter entered an earth-jungle he would drive
through it if he wished to find his game.  My reasoning had led me
to believe that the air-jungle which I had imagined lay somewhere
over Wiltshire.  This should be to the south and west of me.  I
took my bearings from the sun, for the compass was hopeless and no
trace of earth was to be seen--nothing but the distant, silver
cloud-plain.  However, I got my direction as best I might and kept
her head straight to the mark.  I reckoned that my petrol supply
would not last for more than another hour or so, but I could afford
to use it to the last drop, since a single magnificent vol-plane
could at any time take me to the earth.

"Suddenly I was aware of something new.  The air in front of me
had lost its crystal clearness.  It was full of long, ragged wisps
of something which I can only compare to very fine cigarette
smoke.  It hung about in wreaths and coils, turning and
twisting slowly in the sunlight.  As the monoplane shot through it,
I was aware of a faint taste of oil upon my lips, and there was a
greasy scum upon the woodwork of the machine.  Some infinitely fine
organic matter appeared to be suspended in the atmosphere.  There
was no life there.  It was inchoate and diffuse, extending for many
square acres and then fringing off into the void.  No, it was not
life.  But might it not be the remains of life?  Above all, might
it not be the food of life, of monstrous life, even as the humble
grease of the ocean is the food for the mighty whale?  The thought
was in my mind when my eyes looked upwards and I saw the most
wonderful vision that ever man has seen.  Can I hope to convey it
to you even as I saw it myself last Thursday?

"Conceive a jelly-fish such as sails in our summer seas, bell-
shaped and of enormous size--far larger, I should judge, than the
dome of St. Paul's.  It was of a light pink colour veined with a
delicate green, but the whole huge fabric so tenuous that it was
but a fairy outline against the dark blue sky.  It pulsated with a
delicate and regular rhythm.  From it there depended two long,
drooping, green tentacles, which swayed slowly backwards and
forwards.  This gorgeous vision passed gently with noiseless
dignity over my head, as light and fragile as a soap-bubble, and
drifted upon its stately way.

"I had half-turned my monoplane, that I might look after this
beautiful creature, when, in a moment, I found myself amidst a
perfect fleet of them, of all sizes, but none so large as the
first.  Some were quite small, but the majority about as big as an
average balloon, and with much the same curvature at the top. 
There was in them a delicacy of texture and colouring which
reminded me of the finest Venetian glass.  Pale shades of pink and
green were the prevailing tints, but all had a lovely iridescence
where the sun shimmered through their dainty forms.  Some hundreds
of them drifted past me, a wonderful fairy squadron of strange
unknown argosies of the sky--creatures whose forms and substance
were so attuned to these pure heights that one could not conceive
anything so delicate within actual sight or sound of earth.

"But soon my attention was drawn to a new phenomenon--the
serpents of the outer air.  These were long, thin, fantastic coils
of vapour-like material, which turned and twisted with great speed,
flying round and round at such a pace that the eyes could
hardly follow them.  Some of these ghost-like creatures were twenty
or thirty feet long, but it was difficult to tell their girth, for
their outline was so hazy that it seemed to fade away into the air
around them.  These air-snakes were of a very light grey or smoke
colour, with some darker lines within, which gave the impression of
a definite organism.  One of them whisked past my very face, and I
was conscious of a cold, clammy contact, but their composition was
so unsubstantial that I could not connect them with any thought of
physical danger, any more than the beautiful bell-like creatures
which had preceded them.  There was no more solidity in their
frames than in the floating spume from a broken wave.

"But a more terrible experience was in store for me.  Floating
downwards from a great height there came a purplish patch of
vapour, small as I saw it first, but rapidly enlarging as it
approached me, until it appeared to be hundreds of square feet in
size.  Though fashioned of some transparent, jelly-like substance,
it was none the less of much more definite outline and solid
consistence than anything which I had seen before.  There were more
traces, too, of a physical organization, especially two vast,
shadowy, circular plates upon either side, which may have been
eyes, and a perfectly solid white projection between them which was
as curved and cruel as the beak of a vulture.

"The whole aspect of this monster was formidable and
threatening, and it kept changing its colour from a very light
mauve to a dark, angry purple so thick that it cast a shadow as it
drifted between my monoplane and the sun.  On the upper curve of
its huge body there were three great projections which I can only
describe as enormous bubbles, and I was convinced as I looked at
them that they were charged with some extremely light gas which
served to buoy up the misshapen and semi-solid mass in the rarefied
air.  The creature moved swiftly along, keeping pace easily with
the monoplane, and for twenty miles or more it formed my horrible
escort, hovering over me like a bird of prey which is waiting to
pounce.  Its method of progression--done so swiftly that it was not
easy to follow--was to throw out a long, glutinous streamer in
front of it, which in turn seemed to draw forward the rest of the
writhing body.  So elastic and gelatinous was it that never for
two successive minutes was it the same shape, and yet each change
made it more threatening and loathsome than the last.

"I knew that it meant mischief.  Every purple flush of its
hideous body told me so.  The vague, goggling eyes which were
turned always upon me were cold and merciless in their viscid
hatred.  I dipped the nose of my monoplane downwards to escape it. 
As I did so, as quick as a flash there shot out a long tentacle
from this mass of floating blubber, and it fell as light and
sinuous as a whip-lash across the front of my machine.  There was
a loud hiss as it lay for a moment across the hot engine, and it
whisked itself into the air again, while the huge, flat body drew
itself together as if in sudden pain.  I dipped to a vol-pique, but
again a tentacle fell over the monoplane and was shorn off by the
propeller as easily as it might have cut through a smoke wreath. 
A long, gliding, sticky, serpent-like coil came from behind and
caught me round the waist, dragging me out of the fuselage.  I tore
at it, my fingers sinking into the smooth, glue-like surface, and
for an instant I disengaged myself, but only to be caught round the
boot by another coil, which gave me a jerk that tilted me almost on
to my back.

"As I fell over I blazed off both barrels of my gun, though,
indeed, it was like attacking an elephant with a pea-shooter to
imagine that any human weapon could cripple that mighty bulk.  And
yet I aimed better than I knew, for, with a loud report, one of the
great blisters upon the creature's back exploded with the puncture
of the buck-shot.  It was very clear that my conjecture was right,
and that these vast, clear bladders were distended with some
lifting gas, for in an instant the huge, cloud-like body turned
sideways, writhing desperately to find its balance, while the white
beak snapped and gaped in horrible fury.  But already I had shot
away on the steepest glide that I dared to attempt, my engine still
full on, the flying propeller and the force of gravity shooting me
downwards like an aerolite.  Far behind me I saw a dull, purplish
smudge growing swiftly smaller and merging into the blue sky behind
it.  I was safe out of the deadly jungle of the outer air.

"Once out of danger I throttled my engine, for nothing tears a
machine to pieces quicker than running on full power from a height. 
It was a glorious, spiral vol-plane from nearly eight miles of
altitude--first, to the level of the silver cloud-bank, then to
that of the storm-cloud beneath it, and finally, in beating rain,
to the surface of the earth.  I saw the Bristol Channel beneath me
as I broke from the clouds, but, having still some petrol in my
tank, I got twenty miles inland before I found myself stranded in
a field half a mile from the village of Ashcombe.  There I got
three tins of petrol from a passing motor-car, and at ten minutes
past six that evening I alighted gently in my own home meadow at
Devizes, after such a journey as no mortal upon earth has ever yet
taken and lived to tell the tale.  I have seen the beauty and I
have seen the horror of the heights--and greater beauty or greater
horror than that is not within the ken of man.

"And now it is my plan to go once again before I give my
results to the world.  My reason for this is that I must surely
have something to show by way of proof before I lay such a tale
before my fellow-men.  It is true that others will soon follow and
will confirm what I have said, and yet I should wish to carry
conviction from the first.  Those lovely iridescent bubbles of the
air should not be hard to capture.  They drift slowly upon their
way, and the swift monoplane could intercept their leisurely
course.  It is likely enough that they would dissolve in the
heavier layers of the atmosphere, and that some small heap of
amorphous jelly might be all that I should bring to earth with me. 
And yet something there would surely be by which I could
substantiate my story.  Yes, I will go, even if I run a risk by
doing so.  These purple horrors would not seem to be numerous.  It
is probable that I shall not see one.  If I do I shall dive at
once.  At the worst there is always the shot-gun and my knowledge
of .  .  ."


Here a page of the manuscript is unfortunately missing.  On the
next page is written, in large, straggling writing:


"Forty-three thousand feet.  I shall never see earth again. 
They are beneath me, three of them.  God help me; it is a dreadful
death to die!"


Such in its entirety is the Joyce-Armstrong Statement.  Of the
man nothing has since been seen.  Pieces of his shattered monoplane
have been picked up in the preserves of Mr. Budd-Lushington
upon the borders of Kent and Sussex, within a few miles of the spot
where the note-book was discovered.  If the unfortunate aviator's
theory is correct that this air-jungle, as he called it, existed
only over the south-west of England, then it would seem that he had
fled from it at the full speed of his monoplane, but had been
overtaken and devoured by these horrible creatures at some spot in
the outer atmosphere above the place where the grim relics were
found.  The picture of that monoplane skimming down the sky, with
the nameless terrors flying as swiftly beneath it and cutting it
off always from the earth while they gradually closed in upon their
victim, is one upon which a man who valued his sanity would prefer
not to dwell.  There are many, as I am aware, who still jeer at the
facts which I have here set down, but even they must admit that
Joyce-Armstrong has disappeared, and I would commend to them his
own words:  "This note-book may explain what I am trying to do, and
how I lost my life in doing it.  But no drivel about accidents or
mysteries, if YOU please."



The Leather Funnel

My friend, Lionel Dacre, lived in the Avenue de Wagram, Paris. 
His house was that small one, with the iron railings and grass
plot in front of it, on the left-hand side as you pass down from
the Arc de Triomphe.  I fancy that it had been there long before
the avenue was constructed, for the grey tiles were stained with
lichens, and the walls were mildewed and discoloured with age.  It
looked a small house from the street, five windows in front, if
I remember right, but it deepened into a single long chamber at
the back.  It was here that Dacre had that singular library of
occult literature, and the fantastic curiosities which served as a
hobby for himself, and an amusement for his friends.  A wealthy man
of refined and eccentric tastes, he had spent much of his life and
fortune in gathering together what was said to be a unique private
collection of Talmudic, cabalistic, and magical works, many of them
of great rarity and value.  His tastes leaned toward the marvellous
and the monstrous, and I have heard that his experiments in the
direction of the unknown have passed all the bounds of civilization
and of decorum.  To his English friends he never alluded to such
matters, and took the tone of the student and virtuoso; but a
Frenchman whose tastes were of the same nature has assured me that
the worst excesses of the black mass have been perpetrated in that
large and lofty hall, which is lined with the shelves of his books,
and the cases of his museum.

Dacre's appearance was enough to show that his deep interest in
these psychic matters was intellectual rather than spiritual. 
There was no trace of asceticism upon his heavy face, but there was
much mental force in his huge, dome-like skull, which curved upward
from amongst his thinning locks, like a snowpeak above its fringe
of fir trees.  His knowledge was greater than his wisdom, and his
powers were far superior to his character.  The small bright eyes,
buried deeply in his fleshy face, twinkled with intelligence and an
unabated curiosity of life, but they were the eyes of a sensualist
and an egotist.  Enough of the man, for he is dead now, poor devil,
dead at the very time that he had made sure that he had at last
discovered the elixir of life.  It is not with his complex
character that I have to deal, but with the very strange and
inexplicable incident which had its rise in my visit to him in the
early spring of the year '82.

I had known Dacre in England, for my researches in the Assyrian
Room of the British Museum had been conducted at the time when he
was endeavouring to establish a mystic and esoteric meaning in the
Babylonian tablets, and this community of interests had brought us
together.  Chance remarks had led to daily conversation, and that
to something verging upon friendship.  I had promised him that on
my next visit to Paris I would call upon him.  At the time when I
was able to fulfil my compact I was living in a cottage at
Fontainebleau, and as the evening trains were inconvenient, he
asked me to spend the night in his house.

"I have only that one spare couch," said he, pointing to a
broad sofa in his large salon; "I hope that you will manage to be
comfortable there."

It was a singular bedroom, with its high walls of brown
volumes, but there could be no more agreeable furniture to a
bookworm like myself, and there is no scent so pleasant to my
nostrils as that faint, subtle reek which comes from an ancient
book.  I assured him that I could desire no more charming chamber,
and no more congenial surroundings.

"If the fittings are neither convenient nor conventional, they
are at least costly," said he, looking round at his shelves.  "I
have expended nearly a quarter of a million of money upon these
objects which surround you.  Books, weapons, gems, carvings,
tapestries, images--there is hardly a thing here which has not its
history, and it is generally one worth telling."

He was seated as he spoke at one side of the open fire-place,
and I at the other.  His reading-table was on his right, and the
strong lamp above it ringed it with a very vivid circle of golden
light.  A half-rolled palimpsest lay in the centre, and around it
were many quaint articles of bric-a-brac.  One of these was a large
funnel, such as is used for filling wine casks.  It appeared to be
made of black wood, and to be rimmed with discoloured brass.

"That is a curious thing," I remarked.  "What is the history of
that?"

"Ah!" said he, "it is the very question which I have had
occasion to ask myself.  I would give a good deal to know.  Take it
in your hands and examine it."

I did so, and found that what I had imagined to be wood was in
reality leather, though age had dried it into an extreme hardness. 
It was a large funnel, and might hold a quart when full.  The brass
rim encircled the wide end, but the narrow was also tipped with
metal.

"What do you make of it?" asked Dacre.

"I should imagine that it belonged to some vintner or maltster
in the Middle Ages," said I.  "I have seen in England leathern
drinking flagons of the seventeenth century--'black jacks' as
they were called--which were of the same colour and hardness as
this filler."

"I dare say the date would be about the same," said Dacre,
"and, no doubt, also, it was used for filling a vessel with liquid. 
If my suspicions are correct, however, it was a queer vintner who
used it, and a very singular cask which was filled.  Do you observe
nothing strange at the spout end of the funnel."

As I held it to the light I observed that at a spot some five
inches above the brass tip the narrow neck of the leather funnel
was all haggled and scored, as if someone had notched it round with
a blunt knife.  Only at that point was there any roughening of the
dead black surface.

"Someone has tried to cut off the neck."

"Would you call it a cut?"

"It is torn and lacerated.  It must have taken some strength to
leave these marks on such tough material, whatever the instrument
may have been.  But what do you think of it?  I can tell that you
know more than you say."

Dacre smiled, and his little eyes twinkled with knowledge.

"Have you included the psychology of dreams among your learned
studies?" he asked.

"I did not even know that there was such a psychology."

"My dear sir, that shelf above the gem case is filled with
volumes, from Albertus Magnus onward, which deal with no other
subject.  It is a science in itself."

"A science of charlatans "

"The charlatan is always the pioneer.  From the astrologer came
the astronomer, from the alchemist the chemist, from the mesmerist
the experimental psychologist.  The quack of yesterday is the
professor of tomorrow.  Even such subtle and elusive things as
dreams will in time be reduced to system and order.  When that time
comes the researches of our friends on the bookshelf yonder will no
longer be the amusement of the mystic, but the foundations of a
science."

"Supposing that is so, what has the science of dreams to do
with a large, black, brass-rimmed funnel?"

"I will tell you.  You know that I have an agent who is always
on the look-out for rarities and curiosities for my collection. 
Some days ago he heard of a dealer upon one of the Quais who
had acquired some old rubbish found in a cupboard in an ancient
house at the back of the Rue Mathurin, in the Quartier Latin.  The
dining-room of this old house is decorated with a coat of arms,
chevrons, and bars rouge upon a field argent, which prove, upon
inquiry, to be the shield of Nicholas de la Reynie, a high official
of King Louis XIV.  There can be no doubt that the other articles
in the cupboard date back to the early days of that king.  The
inference is, therefore, that they were all the property of this
Nicholas de la Reynie, who was, as I understand, the gentleman
specially concerned with the maintenance and execution of the
Draconic laws of that epoch."

"What then?"

"I would ask you now to take the funnel into your hands once
more and to examine the upper brass rim.  Can you make out any
lettering upon it?"

There were certainly some scratches upon it, almost obliterated
by time.  The general effect was of several letters, the last of
which bore some resemblance to a B.

"You make it a B?"

"Yes, I do."

"So do I.  In fact, I have no doubt whatever that it is a B."

"But the nobleman you mentioned would have had R for his
initial."

"Exactly!  That's the beauty of it.  He owned this curious
object, and yet he had someone else's initials upon it.  Why did he
do this?"

"I can't imagine; can you?"

"Well, I might, perhaps, guess.  Do you observe something drawn
a little farther along the rim?"

"I should say it was a crown."

"It is undoubtedly a crown; but if you examine it in a good
light, you will convince yourself that it is not an ordinary crown. 
It is a heraldic crown--a badge of rank, and it consists of an
alternation of four pearls and strawberry leaves, the proper badge
of a marquis.  We may infer, therefore, that the person whose
initials end in B was entitled to wear that coronet."

"Then this common leather filler belonged to a marquis?" 

Dacre gave a peculiar smile.

"Or to some member of the family of a marquis," said he.  "So
much we have clearly gathered from this engraved rim."

"But what has all this to do with dreams?"  I do not know
whether it was from a look upon Dacre's face, or from some subtle
suggestion in his manner, but a feeling of repulsion, of
unreasoning horror, came upon me as I looked at the gnarled old
lump of leather.

"I have more than once received important information through
my dreams," said my companion in the didactic manner which he loved
to affect.  "I make it a rule now when I am in doubt upon any
material point to place the article in question beside me as I
sleep, and to hope for some enlightenment.  The process does not
appear to me to be very obscure, though it has not yet received the
blessing of orthodox science.  According to my theory, any object
which has been intimately associated with any supreme paroxysm of
human emotion, whether it be joy or pain, will retain a certain
atmosphere or association which it is capable of communicating to
a sensitive mind.  By a sensitive mind I do not mean an abnormal
one, but such a trained and educated mind as you or I possess."

"You mean, for example, that if I slept beside that old sword
upon the wall, I might dream of some bloody incident in which that
very sword took part?"

"An excellent example, for, as a matter of fact, that sword was
used in that fashion by me, and I saw in my sleep the death of its
owner, who perished in a brisk skirmish, which I have been unable
to identify, but which occurred at the time of the wars of the
Frondists.  If you think of it, some of our popular observances
show that the fact has already been recognized by our ancestors,
although we, in our wisdom, have classed it among superstitions."

"For example?"

"Well, the placing of the bride's cake beneath the pillow in
order that the sleeper may have pleasant dreams.  That is one of
several instances which you will find set forth in a small
brochure which I am myself writing upon the subject.  But to
come back to the point, I slept one night with this funnel beside
me, and I had a dream which certainly throws a curious light upon
its use and origin."

 "What did you dream?"

"I dreamed----" He paused, and an intent look of interest came
over his massive face.  "By Jove, that's well thought of," said he. 
"This really will be an exceedingly interesting experiment.  You
are yourself a psychic subject--with nerves which respond readily
to any impression."

"I have never tested myself in that direction."

"Then we shall test you tonight.  Might I ask you as a very
great favour, when you occupy that couch tonight, to sleep with
this old funnel placed by the side of your pillow?"

The request seemed to me a grotesque one; but I have myself, in
my complex nature, a hunger after all which is bizarre and
fantastic.  I had not the faintest belief in Dacre's theory, nor
any hopes for success in such an experiment; yet it amused me that
the experiment should be made.  Dacre, with great gravity, drew a
small stand to the head of my settee, and placed the funnel upon
it.  Then, after a short conversation, he wished me good night and
left me.


 I sat for some little time smoking by the smouldering fire,
and turning over in my mind the curious incident which had
occurred, and the strange experience which might lie before me. 
Sceptical as I was, there was something impressive in the assurance
of Dacre's manner, and my extraordinary surroundings, the huge room
with the strange and often sinister objects which were hung round
it, struck solemnity into my soul.  Finally I undressed, and
turning out the lamp, I lay down.  After long tossing I fell
asleep.  Let me try to describe as accurately as I can the scene
which came to me in my dreams.  It stands out now in my memory more
clearly than anything which I have seen with my waking eyes.  There
was a room which bore the appearance of a vault.  Four spandrels
from the corners ran up to join a sharp, cup-shaped roof.  The
architecture was rough, but very strong.  It was evidently part of
a great building.

 Three men in black, with curious, top-heavy, black velvet
hats, sat in a line upon a red-carpeted dais.  Their faces were
very solemn and sad.  On the left stood two long-gowned men with
port-folios in their hands, which seemed to be stuffed with papers. 
Upon the right, looking toward me, was a small woman with
blonde hair and singular, light-blue eyes--the eyes of a child. 
She was past her first youth, but could not yet be called middle-
aged.  Her figure was inclined to stoutness and her bearing was
proud and confident.  Her face was pale, but serene.  It was a
curious face, comely and yet feline, with a subtle suggestion of
cruelty about the straight, strong little mouth and chubby jaw. 
She was draped in some sort of loose, white gown.  Beside her stood
a thin, eager priest, who whispered in her ear, and continually
raised a crucifix before her eyes.  She turned her head and looked
fixedly past the crucifix at the three men in black, who were, I
felt, her judges.

As I gazed the three men stood up and said something, but I
could distinguish no words, though I was aware that it was the
central one who was speaking.  They then swept out of the room,
followed by the two men with the papers.  At the same instant
several rough-looking fellows in stout jerkins came bustling in and
removed first the red carpet, and then the boards which formed the
dais, so as to entirely clear the room.  When this screen was
removed I saw some singular articles of furniture behind it.  One
looked like a bed with wooden rollers at each end, and a winch
handle to regulate its length.  Another was a wooden horse.  There
were several other curious objects, and a number of swinging cords
which played over pulleys.  It was not unlike a modern gymnasium.

When the room had been cleared there appeared a new figure upon
the scene.  This was a tall, thin person clad in black, with a
gaunt and austere face.  The aspect of the man made me shudder. 
His clothes were all shining with grease and mottled with stains. 
He bore himself with a slow and impressive dignity, as if he took
command of all things from the instant of his entrance.  In spite
of his rude appearance and sordid dress, it was now his business,
his room, his to command.  He carried a coil of light ropes over
his left forearm.  The lady looked him up and down with a searching
glance, but her expression was unchanged.  It was confident--even
defiant.  But it was very different with the priest.  His face was
ghastly white, and I saw the moisture glisten and run on his high,
sloping forehead.  He threw up his hands in prayer and he stooped
continually to mutter frantic words in the lady's ear.

The man in black now advanced, and taking one of the cords from
his left arm, he bound the woman's hands together.  She held them
meekly toward him as he did so.  Then he took her arm with a rough
grip and led her toward the wooden horse, which was little higher
than her waist.  On to this she was lifted and laid, with her back
upon it, and her face to the ceiling, while the priest, quivering
with horror, had rushed out of the room.  The woman's lips were
moving rapidly, and though I could hear nothing I knew that she was
praying.  Her feet hung down on either side of the horse, and I saw
that the rough varlets in attendance had fastened cords to her
ankles and secured the other ends to iron rings in the stone floor.

My heart sank within me as I saw these ominous preparations,
and yet I was held by the fascination of horror, and I could not
take my eyes from the strange spectacle.  A man had entered the
room with a bucket of water in either hand.  Another followed with
a third bucket.  They were laid beside the wooden horse.  The
second man had a wooden dipper--a bowl with a straight handle--in
his other hand.  This he gave to the man in black.  At the same
moment one of the varlets approached with a dark object in his
hand, which even in my dream filled me with a vague feeling of
familiarity.  It was a leathern filler.  With horrible energy he
thrust it--but I could stand no more.  My hair stood on end with
horror.  I writhed, I struggled, I broke through the bonds of
sleep, and I burst with a shriek into my own life, and found myself
lying shivering with terror in the huge library, with the moonlight
flooding through the window and throwing strange silver and black
traceries upon the opposite wall.  Oh, what a blessed relief to
feel that I was back in the nineteenth century--back out of that
mediaeval vault into a world where men had human hearts within
their bosoms.  I sat up on my couch, trembling in every limb, my
mind divided between thankfulness and horror.  To think that such
things were ever done--that they could be done without God striking
the villains dead.  Was it all a fantasy, or did it really stand
for something which had happened in the black, cruel days of the
world's history?  I sank my throbbing head upon my shaking
hands.  And then, suddenly, my heart seemed to stand still in my
bosom, and I could not even scream, so great was my terror. 
Something was advancing toward me through the darkness of the room.

It is a horror coming upon a horror which breaks a man's
spirit.  I could not reason, I could not pray; I could only sit
like a frozen image, and glare at the dark figure which was coming
down the great room.  And then it moved out into the white lane of
moonlight, and I breathed once more.  It was Dacre, and his face
showed that he was as frightened as myself.

"Was that you?  For God's sake what's the matter?" he asked in
a husky voice.

"Oh, Dacre, I am glad to see you!  I have been down into hell. 
It was dreadful."

"Then it was you who screamed?"

"I dare say it was."

"It rang through the house.  The servants are all terrified." 
He struck a match and lit the lamp.  "I think we may get the fire
to burn up again," he added, throwing some logs upon the embers. 
"Good God, my dear chap, how white you are!  You look as if you had
seen a ghost."

"So I have--several ghosts."

"The leather funnel has acted, then?"

"I wouldn't sleep near the infernal thing again for all the
money you could offer me."

Dacre chuckled.

"I expected that you would have a lively night of it," said he. 
"You took it out of me in return, for that scream of yours wasn't
a very pleasant sound at two in the morning.  I suppose from what
you say that you have seen the whole dreadful business."

"What dreadful business?"

"The torture of the water--the `Extraordinary Question,' as it
was called in the genial days of `Le Roi Soleil.'  Did you stand it
out to the end?"

"No, thank God, I awoke before it really began."

"Ah!  it is just as well for you.  I held out till the third
bucket.  Well, it is an old story, and they are all in their graves
now, anyhow, so what does it matter how they got there?  I suppose
that you have no idea what it was that you have seen?"

"The torture of some criminal.  She must have been a terrible
malefactor indeed if her crimes are in proportion to her penalty."

"Well, we have that small consolation," said Dacre, wrapping
his dressing-gown round him and crouching closer to the fire. 
"They WERE in proportion to her penalty.  That is to say, if I
am correct in the lady's identity."

"How could you possibly know her identity?"

For answer Dacre took down an old vellum-covered volume from
the shelf.

"Just listen to this," said he; "it is in the French of the
seventeenth century, but I will give a rough translation as I go. 
You will judge for yourself whether I have solved the riddle or
not.

"`The prisoner was brought before the Grand Chambers and
Tournelles of Parliament, sitting as a court of justice, charged
with the murder of Master Dreux d'Aubray, her father, and of her
two brothers, MM. d'Aubray, one being civil lieutenant, and the
other a counsellor of Parliament.  In person it seemed hard to
believe that she had really done such wicked deeds, for she was of
a mild appearance, and of short stature, with a fair skin and blue
eyes.  Yet the Court, having found her guilty, condemned her to the
ordinary and to the extraordinary question in order that she might
be forced to name her accomplices, after which she should be
carried in a cart to the Place de Greve, there to have her head cut
off, her body being afterwards burned and her ashes scattered to
the winds.'

"The date of this entry is July 16, 1676."

"It is interesting," said I, "but not convincing.  How do you
prove the two women to be the same?"

"I am coming to that.  The narrative goes on to tell of the
woman's behaviour when questioned.  `When the executioner
approached her she recognized him by the cords which he held in his
hands, and she at once held out her own hands to him, looking at
him from head to foot without uttering a word.'  How's that?"

"Yes, it was so."

"`She gazed without wincing upon the wooden horse and rings
which had twisted so many limbs and caused so many shrieks of
agony.  When her eyes fell upon the three pails of water, which
were all ready for her, she said with a smile, "All that water
must have been brought here for the purpose of drowning me,
Monsieur.  You have no idea, I trust, of making a person of my
small stature swallow it all."'  Shall I read the details of the
torture?"

"No, for Heaven's sake, don't."

"Here is a sentence which must surely show you that what is
here recorded is the very scene which you have gazed upon tonight: 
`The good Abbe Pirot, unable to contemplate the agonies which were
suffered by his penitent, had hurried from the room.'  Does that
convince you?"

"It does entirely.  There can be no question that it is indeed
the same event.  But who, then, is this lady whose appearance was
so attractive and whose end was so horrible?"

For answer Dacre came across to me, and placed the small lamp
upon the table which stood by my bed.  Lifting up the ill-omened
filler, he turned the brass rim so that the light fell full upon
it.  Seen in this way the engraving seemed clearer than on the
night before.

"We have already agreed that this is the badge of a marquis or
of a marquise," said he.  "We have also settled that the last
letter is B."

"It is undoubtedly so."

"I now suggest to you that the other letters from left to right
are, M, M, a small d, A, a small d, and then the final B."

"Yes, I am sure that you are right.  I can make out the two
small d's quite plainly."

"What I have read to you tonight," said Dacre, "is the official
record of the trial of Marie Madeleine d'Aubray, Marquise de
Brinvilliers, one of the most famous poisoners and murderers of all
time."

I sat in silence, overwhelmed at the extraordinary nature of
the incident, and at the completeness of the proof with which Dacre
had exposed its real meaning.  In a vague way I remembered some
details of the woman's career, her unbridled debauchery, the cold-
blooded and protracted torture of her sick father, the murder of
her brothers for motives of petty gain.  I recollected also that
the bravery of her end had done something to atone for the horror
of her life, and that all Paris had sympathized with her last
moments, and blessed her as a martyr within a few days of the
time when they had cursed her as a murderess.  One objection, and
one only, occurred to my mind.

"How came her initials and her badge of rank upon the filler? 
Surely they did not carry their mediaeval homage to the nobility to
the point of decorating instruments of torture with their titles?"

"I was puzzled with the same point," said Dacre, "but it admits
of a simple explanation.  The case excited extraordinary interest
at the time, and nothing could be more natural than that La Reynie,
the head of the police, should retain this filler as a grim
souvenir.  It was not often that a marchioness of France underwent
the extraordinary question.  That he should engrave her initials
upon it for the information of others was surely a very ordinary
proceeding upon his part."

"And this?" I asked, pointing to the marks upon the leathern
neck.

"She was a cruel tigress," said Dacre, as he turned away.  "I
think it is evident that like other tigresses her teeth were both
strong and sharp."




The New Catacomb


"Look here, Burger," said Kennedy, "I do wish that you would
confide in me."

The two famous students of Roman remains sat together in
Kennedy's comfortable room overlooking the Corso.  The night
was cold, and they had both pulled up their chairs to the
unsatisfactory Italian stove which threw out a zone of stuffiness
rather than of warmth.  Outside under the bright winter stars lay
the modern Rome, the long, double chain of the electric lamps, the
brilliantly lighted cafes, the rushing carriages, and the dense
throng upon the footpaths.  But inside, in the sumptuous chamber of
the rich young English archaelogist, there was only old Rome to be
seen.  Cracked and timeworn friezes hung upon the walls, grey old
busts of senators and soldiers with their fighting heads and their
hard, cruel faces peered out from the corners.  On the centre
table, amidst a litter of inscriptions, fragments, and ornaments,
there stood the famous reconstruction by Kennedy of the Baths of
Caracalla, which excited such interest and admiration when it was
exhibited in Berlin.  Amphorae hung from the ceiling, and a litter
of curiosities strewed the rich red Turkey carpet.  And of them all
there was not one which was not of the most unimpeachable
authenticity, and of the utmost rarity and value; for Kennedy,
though little more than thirty, had a European reputation in this
particular branch of research, and was, moreover, provided with
that long purse which either proves to be a fatal handicap to the
student's energies, or, if his mind is still true to its purpose,
gives him an enormous advantage in the race for fame.  Kennedy had
often been seduced by whim and pleasure from his studies, but his
mind was an incisive one, capable of long and concentrated efforts
which ended in sharp reactions of sensuous languor.  His handsome
face, with its high, white forehead, its aggressive nose, and its
somewhat loose and sensual mouth, was a fair index of the
compromise between strength and weakness in his nature.

Of a very different type was his companion, Julius Burger.  He
came of a curious blend, a German father and an Italian mother,
with the robust qualities of the North mingling strangely with the
softer graces of the South.  Blue Teutonic eyes lightened his sun-
browned face, and above them rose a square, massive forehead, with
a fringe of close yellow curls lying round it.  His strong, firm
jaw was clean-shaven, and his companion had frequently remarked how
much it suggested those old Roman busts which peered out from the
shadows in the corners of his chamber.  Under its bluff German
strength there lay always a suggestion of Italian subtlety, but
the smile was so honest, and the eyes so frank, that one understood
that this was only an indication of his ancestry, with no actual
bearing upon his character.  In age and in reputation, he was on
the same level as his English companion, but his life and his work
had both been far more arduous.  Twelve years before, he had come
as a poor student to Rome, and had lived ever since upon some small
endowment for research which had been awarded to him by the
University of Bonn.  Painfully, slowly, and doggedly, with
extraordinary tenacity and single-mindedness, he had climbed from
rung to rung of the ladder of fame, until now he was a member of
the Berlin Academy, and there was every reason to believe that he
would shortly be promoted to the Chair of the greatest of German
Universities.  But the singleness of purpose which had brought him
to the same high level as the rich and brilliant Englishman, had
caused him in everything outside their work to stand infinitely
below him.  He had never found a pause in his studies in which to
cultivate the social graces.  It was only when he spoke of his own
subject that his face was filled with life and soul.  At other
times he was silent and embarrassed, too conscious of his own
limitations in larger subjects, and impatient of that small talk
which is the conventional refuge of those who have no thoughts to
express.

And yet for some years there had been an acquaintanceship which
appeared to be slowly ripening into a friendship between these two
very different rivals.  The base and origin of this lay in the fact
that in their own studies each was the only one of the younger men
who had knowledge and enthusiasm enough to properly appreciate the
other.  Their common interests and pursuits had brought them
together, and each had been attracted by the other's knowledge. 
And then gradually something had been added to this.  Kennedy had
been amused by the frankness and simplicity of his rival, while
Burger in turn had been fascinated by the brilliancy and vivacity
which had made Kennedy such a favourite in Roman society.  I say
"had," because just at the moment the young Englishman was somewhat
under a cloud.  A love-affair, the details of which had never quite
come out, had indicated a heartlessness and callousness upon his
part which shocked many of his friends.  But in the bachelor
circles of students and artists in which he preferred to move
there is no very rigid code of honour in such matters, and though
a head might be shaken or a pair of shoulders shrugged over the
flight of two and the return of one, the general sentiment was
probably one of curiosity and perhaps of envy rather than of
reprobation.

"Look here, Burger," said Kennedy, looking hard at the placid
face of his companion, "I do wish that you would confide in me."

As he spoke he waved his hand in the direction of a rug which
lay upon the floor.  On the rug stood a long, shallow fruit-basket
of the light wicker-work which is used in the Campagna, and this
was heaped with a litter of objects, inscribed tiles, broken
inscriptions, cracked mosaics, torn papyri, rusty metal ornaments,
which to the uninitiated might have seemed to have come straight
from a dustman's bin, but which a specialist would have speedily
recognized as unique of their kind.  The pile of odds and ends in
the flat wicker-work basket supplied exactly one of those missing
links of social development which are of such interest to the
student.  It was the German who had brought them in, and the
Englishman's eyes were hungry as he looked at them.

"I won't interfere with your treasure-trove, but I should very
much like to hear about it," he continued, while Burger very
deliberately lit a cigar.  "It is evidently a discovery of the
first importance.  These inscriptions will make a sensation
throughout Europe."

"For every one here there are a million there!" said the
German.  "There are so many that a dozen savants might spend a
lifetime over them, and build up a reputation as solid as the
Castle of St. Angelo."

Kennedy sat thinking with his fine forehead wrinkled and his
fingers playing with his long, fair moustache.

"You have given yourself away, Burger!" said he at last.  "Your
words can only apply to one thing.  You have discovered a new
catacomb."

"I had no doubt that you had already come to that conclusion
from an examination of these objects."

"Well, they certainly appeared to indicate it, but your last
remarks make it certain.  There is no place except a catacomb which
could contain so vast a store of relics as you describe."

"Quite so.  There is no mystery about that.  I HAVE
discovered a new catacomb."

"Where?"

"Ah, that is my secret, my dear Kennedy.  Suffice it that it is
so situated that there is not one chance in a million of anyone
else coming upon it.  Its date is different from that of any known
catacomb, and it has been reserved for the burial of the highest
Christians, so that the remains and the relics are quite different
from anything which has ever been seen before.  If I was not aware
of your knowledge and of your energy, my friend, I would not
hesitate, under the pledge of secrecy, to tell you everything about
it.  But as it is I think that I must certainly prepare my own
report of the matter before I expose myself to such formidable
competition."

Kennedy loved his subject with a love which was almost a
mania--a love which held him true to it, amidst all the
distractions which come to a wealthy and dissipated young man.  He
had ambition, but his ambition was secondary to his mere abstract
joy and interest in everything which concerned the old life and
history of the city.  He yearned to see this new underworld which
his companion had discovered.

"Look here, Burger," said he, earnestly, "I assure you that you
can trust me most implicitly in the matter.  Nothing would induce
me to put pen to paper about anything which I see until I have your
express permission.  I quite understand your feeling and I think it
is most natural, but you have really nothing whatever to fear from
me.  On the other hand, if you don't tell me I shall make a
systematic search, and I shall most certainly discover it.  In that
case, of course, I should make what use I liked of it, since I
should be under no obligation to you."

Burger smiled thoughtfully over his cigar.

"I have noticed, friend Kennedy," said he, "that when I want
information over any point you are not always so ready to supply
it."

"When did you ever ask me anything that I did not tell you? 
You remember, for example, my giving you the material for your
paper about the temple of the Vestals."

"Ah, well, that was not a matter of much importance.  If I were
to question you upon some intimate thing would you give me an answer, I
wonder!  This new catacomb is a very intimate thing
to me, and I should certainly expect some sign of confidence in
return."

 "What you are driving at I cannot imagine," said the
Englishman, "but if you mean that you will answer my question about
the catacomb if I answer any question which you may put to me I can
assure you that I will certainly do so."

 "Well, then," said Burger, leaning luxuriously back in his
settee, and puffing a blue tree of cigar-smoke into the air, "tell
me all about your relations with Miss Mary Saunderson."

 Kennedy sprang up in his chair and glared angrily at his
impassive companion.

 "What the devil do you mean?" he cried.  "What sort of a
question is this?  You may mean it as a joke, but you never made a
worse one."

 "No, I don't mean it as a joke," said Burger, simply.  "I am
really rather interested in the details of the matter.  I don't
know much about the world and women and social life and that sort
of thing, and such an incident has the fascination of the unknown
for me.  I know you, and I knew her by sight--I had even spoken to
her once or twice.  I should very much like to hear from your own
lips exactly what it was which occurred between you."

 "I won't tell you a word."

"That's all right.  It was only my whim to see if you would
give up a secret as easily as you expected me to give up my secret
of the new catacomb.  You wouldn't, and I didn't expect you to. 
But why should you expect otherwise of me?  There's Saint John's
clock striking ten.  It is quite time that I was going home."

"No; wait a bit, Burger," said Kennedy; "this is really a
ridiculous caprice of yours to wish to know about an old love-
affair which has burned out months ago.  You know we look upon a
man who kisses and tells as the greatest coward and villain
possible."

"Certainly," said the German, gathering up his basket of
curiosities, "when he tells anything about a girl which is
previously unknown he must be so.  But in this case, as you must be
aware, it was a public matter which was the common talk of Rome, so
that you are not really doing Miss Mary Saunderson any injury
by discussing her case with me.  But still, I respect your
scruples; and so good night!"

"Wait a bit, Burger," said Kennedy, laying his hand upon the
other's arm; "I am very keen upon this catacomb business, and I
can't let it drop quite so easily.  Would you mind asking me
something else in return--something not quite so eccentric this
time?"

"No, no; you have refused, and there is an end of it," said
Burger, with his basket on his arm.  "No doubt you are quite right
not to answer, and no doubt I am quite right also--and so again, my
dear Kennedy, good night!"

The Englishman watched Burger cross the room, and he had his
hand on the handle of the door before his host sprang up with the
air of a man who is making the best of that which cannot be helped.

"Hold on, old fellow," said he; "I think you are behaving in a
most ridiculous fashion; but still; if this is your condition, I
suppose that I must submit to it.  I hate saying anything about a
girl, but, as you say, it is all over Rome, and I don't suppose I
can tell you anything which you do not know already.  What was it
you wanted to know?"

The German came back to the stove, and, laying down his basket,
he sank into his chair once more.

"May I have another cigar?" said he.  "Thank you very much!  I
never smoke when I work, but I enjoy a chat much more when I am
under the influence of tobacco.  Now, as regards this young lady,
with whom you had this little adventure.  What in the world has
become of her?"

"She is at home with her own people."

"Oh, really--in England?"

"Yes."

"What part of England--London?"

"No, Twickenham."

"You must excuse my curiosity, my dear Kennedy, and you must
put it down to my ignorance of the world.  No doubt it is quite a
simple thing to persuade a young lady to go off with you for three
weeks or so, and then to hand her over to her own family at--what
did you call the place?"

"Twickenham."

"Quite so--at Twickenham.  But it is something so entirely
outside my own experience that I cannot even imagine how you set
about it.  For example, if you had loved this girl your love could
hardly disappear in three weeks, so I presume that you could not
have loved her at all.  But if you did not love her why should you
make this great scandal which has damaged you and ruined her?"

Kennedy looked moodily into the red eye of the stove.

"That's a logical way of looking at it, certainly," said he. 
"Love is a big word, and it represents a good many different shades
of feeling.  I liked her, and--well, you say you've seen her --you
know how charming she could look.  But still I am willing to admit,
looking back, that I could never have really loved her."

"Then, my dear Kennedy, why did you do it?"

"The adventure of the thing had a great deal to do with it."

"What!  You are so fond of adventures!"

"Where would the variety of life be without them?  It was for
an adventure that I first began to pay my attentions to her.  I've
chased a good deal of game in my time, but there's no chase like
that of a pretty woman.  There was the piquant difficulty of it
also, for, as she was the companion of Lady Emily Rood, it was
almost impossible to see her alone.  On the top of all the other
obstacles which attracted me, I learned from her own lips very
early in the proceedings that she was engaged."

"Mein Gott!  To whom?"

"She mentioned no names."

"I do not think that anyone knows that.  So that made the
adventure more alluring, did it?"

"Well, it did certainly give a spice to it.  Don't you think
so?"

"I tell you that I am very ignorant about these things."

"My dear fellow, you can remember that the apple you stole from
your neighbour's tree was always sweeter than that which fell from
your own.  And then I found that she cared for me."

"What--at once?"

"Oh, no, it took about three months of sapping and mining.  But
at last I won her over.  She understood that my judicial separation
from my wife made it impossible for me to do the right thing by
her--but she came all the same, and we had a delightful time, as
long as it lasted."

"But how about the other man?"

Kennedy shrugged his shoulders.

"I suppose it is the survival of the fittest," said he.  "If he
had been the better man she would not have deserted him.  Let's
drop the subject, for I have had enough of it!"

"Only one other thing.  How did you get rid of her in three
weeks?"

"Well, we had both cooled down a bit, you understand.  She
absolutely refused, under any circumstances, to come back to face
the people she had known in Rome.  Now, of course, Rome is
necessary to me, and I was already pining to be back at my work--so
there was one obvious cause of separation.  Then, again, her old
father turned up at the hotel in London, and there was a scene, and
the whole thing became so unpleasant that really--though I missed
her dreadfully at first--I was very glad to slip out of it.  Now,
I rely upon you not to repeat anything of what I have said."

"My dear Kennedy, I should not dream of repeating it.  But all
that you say interests me very much, for it gives me an insight
into your way of looking at things, which is entirely different
from mine, for I have seen so little of life.  And now you want to
know about my new catacomb.  There's no use my trying to describe
it, for you would never find it by that.  There is only one thing,
and that is for me to take you there."

"That would be splendid."

"When would you like to come?"

"The sooner the better.  I am all impatience to see it."

"Well, it is a beautiful night--though a trifle cold.  Suppose
we start in an hour.  We must be very careful to keep the matter to
ourselves.  If anyone saw us hunting in couples they would suspect
that there was something going on."

"We can't be too cautious," said Kennedy.  "Is it far?"

"Some miles."

"Not too far to walk?"

"Oh, no, we could walk there easily."

"We had better do so, then.  A cabman's suspicions would be
aroused if he dropped us both at some lonely spot in the dead
of the night."

"Quite so.  I think it would be best for us to meet at the Gate
of the Appian Way at midnight.  I must go back to my lodgings for
the matches and candles and things."

"All right, Burger!  I think it is very kind of you to let me
into this secret, and I promise you that I will write nothing about
it until you have published your report.  Good-bye for the present! 
You will find me at the Gate at twelve."

The cold, clear air was filled with the musical chimes from
that city of clocks as Burger, wrapped in an Italian overcoat, with
a lantern hanging from his hand, walked up to the rendezvous. 
Kennedy stepped out of the shadow to meet him.

"You are ardent in work as well as in love!" said the German,
laughing.

"Yes; I have been waiting here for nearly half an hour."

"I hope you left no clue as to where we were going."

"Not such a fool!  By Jove, I am chilled to the bone!  Come on,
Burger, let us warm ourselves by a spurt of hard walking."

Their footsteps sounded loud and crisp upon the rough stone
paving of the disappointing road which is all that is left of the
most famous highway of the world.  A peasant or two going home from
the wine-shop, and a few carts of country produce coming up to
Rome, were the only things which they met.  They swung along, with
the huge tombs looming up through the darkness upon each side of
them, until they had come as far as the Catacombs of St. Calistus,
and saw against a rising moon the great circular bastion of Cecilia
Metella in front of them.  Then Burger stopped with his hand to his
side.

"Your legs are longer than mine, and you are more accustomed to
walking," said he, laughing.  "I think that the place where we turn
off is somewhere here.  Yes, this is it, round the corner of the
trattoria.  Now, it is a very narrow path, so perhaps I had better
go in front and you can follow."

He had lit his lantern, and by its light they were enabled to
follow a narrow and devious track which wound across the marshes of
the Campagna.  The great Aqueduct of old Rome lay like a monstrous
caterpillar across the moonlit landscape, and their road led
them under one of its huge arches, and past the circle of crumbling
bricks which marks the old arena.  At last Burger stopped at a
solitary wooden cow-house, and he drew a key from his pocket.
"Surely your catacomb is not inside a house!" cried Kennedy

"The entrance to it is.  That is just the safeguard which we
have against anyone else discovering it."

"Does the proprietor know of it?"

"Not he.  He had found one or two objects which made me almost
certain that his house was built on the entrance to such a place. 
So I rented it from him, and did my excavations for myself.  Come
in, and shut the door behind you."

It was a long, empty building, with the mangers of the cows
along one wall.  Burger put his lantern down on the ground, and
shaded its light in all directions save one by draping his overcoat
round it.

"It might excite remark if anyone saw a light in this lonely
place," said he.  "Just help me to move this boarding."

The flooring was loose in the corner, and plank by plank the
two savants raised it and leaned it against the wall.  Below there
was a square aperture and a stair of old stone steps which led away
down into the bowels of the earth.

"Be careful!" cried Burger, as Kennedy, in his impatience,
hurried down them.  "It is a perfect rabbits'-warren below, and if
you were once to lose your way there the chances would be a hundred
to one against your ever coming out again.  Wait until I bring the
light."

"How do you find your own way if it is so complicated?"

"I had some very narrow escapes at first, but I have gradually
learned to go about.  There is a certain system to it, but it is
one which a lost man, if he were in the dark, could not possibly
find out.  Even now I always spin out a ball of string behind me
when I am going far into the catacomb.  You can see for yourself
that it is difficult, but every one of these passages divides and
subdivides a dozen times before you go a hundred yards."

They had descended some twenty feet from the level of the byre,
and they were standing now in a square chamber cut out of the soft
tufa.  The lantern cast a flickering light, bright below and
dim above, over the cracked brown walls.  In every direction
were the black openings of passages which radiated from this common
centre.

"I want you to follow me closely, my friend," said Burger.  "Do
not loiter to look at anything upon the way, for the place to which
I will take you contains all that you can see, and more.  It will
save time for us to go there direct."

He led the way down one of the corridors, and the Englishman
followed closely at his heels.  Every now and then the passage
bifurcated, but Burger was evidently following some secret marks of
his own, for he neither stopped nor hesitated.  Everywhere along
the walls, packed like the berths upon an emigrant ship, lay the
Christians of old Rome.  The yellow light flickered over the
shrivelled features of the mummies, and gleamed upon rounded skulls
and long, white armbones crossed over fleshless chests.  And
everywhere as he passed Kennedy looked with wistful eyes upon
inscriptions, funeral vessels, pictures, vestments, utensils, all
lying as pious hands had placed them so many centuries ago.  It was
apparent to him, even in those hurried, passing glances, that this
was the earliest and finest of the catacombs, containing such a
storehouse of Roman remains as had never before come at one time
under the observation of the student.

"What would happen if the light went out?" he asked, as they
hurried onwards.

"I have a spare candle and a box of matches in my pocket.  By
the way, Kennedy, have you any matches?"

"No; you had better give me some."

"Oh, that is all right.  There is no chance of our separating."

"How far are we going?  It seems to me that we have walked at
least a quarter of a mile."

"More than that, I think.  There is really no limit to the
tombs--at least, I have never been able to find any.  This is a
very difficult place, so I think that I will use our ball of
string."

He fastened one end of it to a projecting stone and he carried
the coil in the breast of his coat, paying it out as he advanced. 
Kennedy saw that it was no unnecessary precaution, for the passages
had become more complex and tortuous than ever, with a perfect
network of intersecting corridors.  But these all ended in one
large circular hall with a square pedestal of tufa topped with a
slab of marble at one end of it.

"By Jove!" cried Kennedy in an ecstasy, as Burger swung his
lantern over the marble.  "It is a Christian altar--probably the
first one in existence.  Here is the little consecration cross cut
upon the corner of it.  No doubt this circular space was used as a
church."

"Precisely," said Burger.  "If I had more time I should like to
show you all the bodies which are buried in these niches upon the
walls, for they are the early popes and bishops of the Church, with
their mitres, their croziers, and full canonicals.  Go over to that
one and look at it!"

Kennedy went across, and stared at the ghastly head which lay
loosely on the shredded and mouldering mitre.

"This is most interesting," said he, and his voice seemed to
boom against the concave vault.  "As far as my experience goes, it
is unique.  Bring the lantern over, Burger, for I want to see them
all."

But the German had strolled away, and was standing in the
middle of a yellow circle of light at the other side of the hall.

"Do you know how many wrong turnings there are between this and
the stairs?" he asked.  "There are over two thousand.  No doubt it
was one of the means of protection which the Christians adopted. 
The odds are two thousand to one against a man getting out, even if
he had a light; but if he were in the dark it would, of course, be
far more difficult."

"So I should think."

"And the darkness is something dreadful.  I tried it once for
an experiment.  Let us try it again!"  He stooped to the lantern,
and in an instant it was as if an invisible hand was squeezed
tightly over each of Kennedy's eyes.  Never had he known what such
darkness was.  It seemed to press upon him and to smother him.  It
was a solid obstacle against which the body shrank from advancing. 
He put his hands out to push it back from him.

"That will do, Burger," said he, "let's have the light again."

But his companion began to laugh, and in that circular room the
sound seemed to come from every side at once.

"You seem uneasy, friend Kennedy," said he.

"Go on, man, light the candle!" said Kennedy impatiently.

"It's very strange, Kennedy, but I could not in the least tell
by the sound in which direction you stand.  Could you tell where I
am?"

"No; you seem to be on every side of me."

"If it were not for this string which I hold in my hand I
should not have a notion which way to go."

"I dare say not.  Strike a light, man, and have an end of this
nonsense."

"Well, Kennedy, there are two things which I understand that
you are very fond of.  The one is an adventure, and the other is an
obstacle to surmount.  The adventure must be the finding of your
way out of this catacomb.  The obstacle will be the darkness and
the two thousand wrong turns which make the way a little difficult
to find.  But you need not hurry, for you have plenty of time, and
when you halt for a rest now and then, I should like you just to
think of Miss Mary Saunderson, and whether you treated her quite
fairly."

"You devil, what do you mean?" roared Kennedy.  He was running
about in little circles and clasping at the solid blackness with
both hands.

"Good-bye," said the mocking voice, and it was already at some
distance.  "I really do not think, Kennedy, even by your own
showing that you did the right thing by that girl.  There was only
one little thing which you appeared not to know, and I can supply
it.  Miss Saunderson was engaged to a poor ungainly devil of a
student, and his name was Julius Burger."

There was a rustle somewhere, the vague sound of a foot
striking a stone, and then there fell silence upon that old
Christian church--a stagnant, heavy silence which closed round
Kennedy and shut him in like water round a drowning man.


Some two months afterwards the following paragraph made the
round of the European Press:


"One of the most interesting discoveries of recent years is
that of the new catacomb in Rome, which lies some distance to the
east of the well-known vaults of St. Calixtus.  The finding of this
important burial-place, which is exceeding rich in most
interesting early Christian remains, is due to the energy and
sagacity of Dr. Julius Burger, the young German specialist, who is
rapidly taking the first place as an authority upon ancient Rome. 
Although the first to publish his discovery, it appears that a less
fortunate adventurer had anticipated Dr. Burger.  Some months ago
Mr. Kennedy, the well-known English student, disappeared suddenly
from his rooms in the Corso, and it was conjectured that his
association with a recent scandal had driven him to leave Rome.  It
appears now that he had in reality fallen a victim to that fervid
love of archaeology which had raised him to a distinguished place
among living scholars.  His body was discovered in the heart of the
new catacomb, and it was evident from the condition of his feet and
boots that he had tramped for days through the tortuous corridors
which make these subterranean tombs so dangerous to explorers.  The
deceased gentleman had, with inexplicable rashness, made his way
into this labyrinth without, as far as can be discovered, taking
with him either candles or matches, so that his sad fate was the
natural result of his own temerity.  What makes the matter more
painful is that Dr. Julius Burger was an intimate friend of the
deceased.  His joy at the extraordinary find which he has been so
fortunate as to make has been greatly marred by the terrible fate
of his comrade and fellow-worker."



The Case of Lady Sannox

The relations between Douglas Stone and the notorious Lady Sannox
were very well known both among the fashionable circles of which
she was a brilliant member, and the scientific bodies which
numbered him among their most illustrious confreres.  There
was naturally, therefore, a very widespread interest when it was
announced one morning that the lady had absolutely and for ever
taken the veil, and that the world would see her no more.  When,
at the very tail of this rumour, there came the assurance that
the celebrated operating surgeon, the man of steel nerves, had
been found in the morning by his valet, seated on one side of his
bed, smiling pleasantly upon the universe, with both legs jammed
into one side of his breeches and his great brain about as
valuable as a cap full of porridge, the matter was strong enough
to give quite a little thrill of interest to folk who had never
hoped that their jaded nerves were capable of such a sensation.

Douglas Stone in his prime was one of the most remarkable men
in England.  Indeed, he could hardly be said to have ever reached
his prime, for he was but nine-and-thirty at the time of this
little incident.  Those who knew him best were aware that famous as
he was as a surgeon, he might have succeeded with even greater
rapidity in any of a dozen lines of life.  He could have cut his
way to fame as a soldier, struggled to it as an explorer, bullied
for it in the courts, or built it out of stone and iron as an
engineer.  He was born to be great, for he could plan what another
man dare not do, and he could do what another man dare not plan. 
In surgery none could follow him.  His nerve, his judgement, his
intuition, were things apart.  Again and again his knife cut away
death, but grazed the very springs of life in doing it, until his
assistants were as white as the patient.  His energy, his
audacity, his full-blooded self-confidence--does not the memory
of them still linger to the south of Marylebone Road and the north
of Oxford Street?

His vices were as magnificent as his virtues, and infinitely
more picturesque.  Large as was his income, and it was the third
largest of all professional men in London, it was far beneath the
luxury of his living.  Deep in his complex nature lay a rich vein
of sensualism, at the sport of which he placed all the prizes of
his life.  The eye, the ear, the touch, the palate, all were his
masters.  The bouquet of old vintages, the scent of rare exotics,
the curves and tints of the daintiest potteries of Europe, it was
to these that the quick-running stream of gold was transformed. 
And then there came his sudden mad passion for Lady Sannox, when a
single interview with two challenging glances and a whispered word
set him ablaze.  She was the loveliest woman in London and the only
one to him.  He was one of the handsomest men in London, but not
the only one to her.  She had a liking for new experiences, and was
gracious to most men who wooed her.  It may have been cause or it
may have been effect that Lord Sannox looked fifty, though he was
but six-and-thirty.

He was a quiet, silent, neutral-tinted man, this lord, with
thin lips and heavy eyelids, much given to gardening, and full of
home-like habits.  He had at one time been fond of acting, had even
rented a theatre in London, and on its boards had first seen Miss
Marion Dawson, to whom he had offered his hand, his title, and the
third of a county.  Since his marriage his early hobby had become
distasteful to him.  Even in private theatricals it was no longer
possible to persuade him to exercise the talent which he had often
showed that he possessed.  He was happier with a spud and a
watering-can among his orchids and chrysanthemums.

It was quite an interesting problem whether he was absolutely
devoid of sense, or miserably wanting in spirit.  Did he know his
lady's ways and condone them, or was he a mere blind, doting fool? 
It was a point to be discussed over the teacups in snug little
drawing-rooms, or with the aid of a cigar in the bow windows of
clubs.  Bitter and plain were the comments among men upon his
conduct.  There was but one who had a good word to say for him, and
he was the most silent member in the smoking-room.  He had seen
him break in a horse at the University, and it seemed to have left
an impression upon his mind.

But when Douglas Stone became the favourite all doubts as to
Lord Sannox's knowledge or ignorance were set for ever at rest. 
There was no subterfuge about Stone.  In his high-handed, impetuous
fashion, he set all caution and discretion at defiance.  The
scandal became notorious.  A learned body intimated that his name
had been struck from the list of its vice-presidents.  Two friends
implored him to consider his professional credit.  He cursed them
all three, and spent forty guineas on a bangle to take with him to
the lady.  He was at her house every evening, and she drove in his
carriage in the afternoons.  There was not an attempt on either
side to conceal their relations; but there came at last a little
incident to interrupt them.

It was a dismal winter's night, very cold and gusty, with the
wind whooping in the chimneys and blustering against the window-
panes.  A thin spatter of rain tinkled on the glass with each fresh
sough of the gale, drowning for the instant the dull gurgle and
drip from the eaves.  Douglas Stone had finished his dinner, and
sat by his fire in the study, a glass of rich port upon the
malachite table at his elbow.  As he raised it to his lips, he held
it up against the lamplight, and watched with the eye of a
connoisseur the tiny scales of beeswing which floated in its rich
ruby depths.  The fire, as it spurted up, threw fitful lights upon
his bald, clear-cut face, with its widely-opened grey eyes, its
thick and yet firm lips, and the deep, square jaw, which had
something Roman in its strength and its animalism.  He smiled from
time to time as he nestled back in his luxurious chair.  Indeed, he
had a right to feel well pleased, for, against the advice of six
colleagues, he had performed an operation that day of which only
two cases were on record, and the result had been brilliant beyond
all expectation.  No other man in London would have had the daring
to plan, or the skill to execute, such a heroic measure.

But he had promised Lady Sannox to see her that evening and it
was already half-past eight.  His hand was outstretched to the bell
to order the carriage when he heard the dull thud of the knocker. 
An instant later there was the shuffling of feet in the hall, and
the sharp closing of a door.

"A patient to see you, sir, in the consulting room," said the
butler.

"About himself?"

"No, sir; I think he wants you to go out."

"It is too late," cried Douglas Stone peevishly.  "I won't go."

"This is his card, sir."

The butler presented it upon the gold salver which had been
given to his master by the wife of a Prime Minister.

"`Hamil Ali, Smyrna.'  Hum!  The fellow is a Turk, I suppose."

"Yes, sir.  He seems as if he came from abroad, sir.  And he's
in a terrible way."

"Tut, tut!  I have an engagement.  I must go somewhere else. 
But I'll see him.  Show him in here, Pim."

A few moments later the butler swung open the door and ushered
in a small and decrepit man, who walked with a bent back and with
the forward push of the face and blink of the eyes which goes with
extreme short sight.  His face was swarthy, and his hair and beard
of the deepest black.  In one hand he held a turban of white muslin
striped with red, in the other a small chamois-leather bag.

"Good evening," said Douglas Stone, when the butler had closed
the door.  "You speak English, I presume?"

"Yes, sir.  I am from Asia Minor, but I speak English when I
speak slow."

"You wanted me to go out, I understand?"

"Yes, sir.  I wanted very much that you should see my wife."

"I could come in the morning, but I have an engagement which
prevents me from seeing your wife tonight."

The Turk's answer was a singular one.  He pulled the string
which closed the mouth of the chamois-leather bag, and poured a
flood of gold on to the table.

"There are one hundred pounds there," said he, "and I promise
you that it will not take you an hour.  I have a cab ready at the
door."

Douglas Stone glanced at his watch.  An hour would not make it
too late to visit Lady Sannox.  He had been there later.  And the
fee was an extraordinarily high one.  He had been pressed by his
creditors lately, and he could not afford to let such a chance
pass.  He would go.

"What is the case?" he asked.

"Oh, it is so sad a one!  So sad a one!  You have not, perhaps
heard of the daggers of the Almohades?"

"Never."

"Ah, they are Eastern daggers of a great age and of a singular
shape, with the hilt like what you call a stirrup.  I am a
curiosity dealer, you understand, and that is why I have come to
England from Smyrna, but next week I go back once more.  Many
things I brought with me, and I have a few things left, but among
them, to my sorrow, is one of these daggers."

"You will remember that I have an appointment, sir," said the
surgeon, with some irritation; "pray confine yourself to the
necessary details."

"You will see that it is necessary.  Today my wife fell down in
a faint in the room in which I keep my wares, and she cut her lower
lip upon this cursed dagger of Almohades."

"I see," said Douglas Stone, rising.  "And you wish me to dress
the wound?"

"No, no, it is worse than that."

"What then?"

"These daggers are poisoned."

"Poisoned!"

"Yes, and there is no man, East or West, who can tell now what
is the poison or what the cure.  But all that is known I know, for
my father was in this trade before me, and we have had much to do
with these poisoned weapons."

"What are the symptoms?"

"Deep sleep, and death in thirty hours."

"And you say there is no cure.  Why then should you pay me this
considerable fee?"

"No drug can cure, but the knife may."

"And how?"

"The poison is slow of absorption.  It remains for hours in the
wound."

"Washing, then, might cleanse it?"

"No more than in a snake bite.  It is too subtle and too
deadly."

"Excision of the wound, then?"

"That is it.  If it be on the finger, take the finger off.  So
said my father always.  But think of where this wound is, and that
it is my wife.  It is dreadful!"

But familiarity with such grim matters may take the finer edge
from a man's sympathy.  To Douglas Stone this was already an
interesting case, and he brushed aside as irrelevant the feeble
objections of the husband.

"It appears to be that or nothing," said he brusquely.  "It is
better to loose a lip than a life."

"Ah, yes, I know that you are right.  Well, well, it is kismet,
and it must be faced.  I have the cab, and you will come with me
and do this thing."

Douglas Stone took his case of bistouries from a drawer, and
placed it with a roll of bandage and a compress of lint in his
pocket.  He must waste no more time if he were to see Lady Sannox.

"I am ready," said he, pulling on his overcoat.  "Will you take
a glass of wine before you go out into this cold air?"

His visitor shrank away, with a protesting hand upraised.

"You forget that I am a Mussulman, and a true follower of the
Prophet," said he.  "But tell me what is the bottle of green glass
which you have placed in your pocket?"

"It is chloroform."

"Ah, that also is forbidden to us.  It is a spirit, and we make
no use of such things."

"What!  You would allow your wife to go through an operation
without an anaesthetic?"

"Ah!  she will feel nothing, poor soul.  The deep sleep has
already come on, which is the first working of the poison.  And
then I have given her of our Smyrna opium.  Come, sir, for already
an hour has passed."

As they stepped out into the darkness, a sheet of rain was
driven in upon their faces, and the hall lamp, which dangled from
the arm of a marble Caryatid, went out with a fluff.  Pim, the
butler, pushed the heavy door to, straining hard with his shoulder
against the wind, while the two men groped their way towards the
yellow glare which showed where the cab was waiting.  An instant
later they were rattling upon their journey.

"Is it far?" asked Douglas Stone.

"Oh, no.  We have a very little quiet place off the Euston
Road."

The surgeon pressed the spring of his repeater and listened to
the little tings which told him the hour.  It was a quarter past
nine.  He calculated the distances, and the short time which it
would take him to perform so trivial an operation.  He ought to
reach Lady Sannox by ten o'clock.  Through the fogged windows he
saw the blurred gas lamps dancing past, with occasionally the
broader glare of a shop front.  The rain was pelting and rattling
upon the leathern top of the carriage, and the wheels swashed as
they rolled through puddle and mud.  Opposite to him the white
headgear of his companion gleamed faintly through the obscurity. 
The surgeon felt in his pockets and arranged his needles, his
ligatures and his safety-pins, that no time might be wasted when
they arrived.  He chafed with impatience and drummed his foot upon
the floor.

But the cab slowed down at last and pulled up.  In an instant
Douglas Stone was out, and the Smyrna merchant's toe was at his
very heel.

"You can wait," said he to the driver.

It was a mean-looking house in a narrow and sordid street.  The
surgeon, who knew his London well, cast a swift glance into the
shadows, but there was nothing distinctive--no shop, no movement,
nothing but a double line of dull, flat-faced houses, a double
stretch of wet flagstones which gleamed in the lamplight, and a
double rush of water in the gutters which swirled and gurgled
towards the sewer gratings.  The door which faced them was blotched
and discoloured, and a faint light in the fan pane above, it served
to show the dust and the grime which covered it.  Above in one of
the bedroom windows, there was a dull yellow glimmer.  The merchant
knocked loudly, and, as he turned his dark face towards the light,
Douglas Stone could see that it was contracted with anxiety.  A
bolt was drawn, and an elderly woman with a taper stood in the
doorway, shielding the thin flame with her gnarled hand.

"Is all well?" gasped the merchant.

"She is as you left her, sir."

"She has not spoken?"

"No, she is in a deep sleep."

The merchant closed the door, and Douglas Stone walked down the
narrow passage, glancing about him in some surprise as he did so. 
There was no oil-cloth, no mat, no hat-rack.  Deep grey dust and
heavy festoons of cobwebs met his eyes everywhere.  Following
the old woman up the winding stair, his firm footfall echoed
harshly through the silent house.  There was no carpet.

The bedroom was on the second landing.  Douglas Stone followed
the old nurse into it, with the merchant at his heels.  Here, at
least, there was furniture and to spare.  The floor was littered
and the corners piled with Turkish cabinets, inlaid tables, coats
of chain mail, strange pipes, and grotesque weapons.  A single
small lamp stood upon a bracket on the wall.  Douglas Stone took it
down, and picking his way among the lumber, walked over to a couch
in the corner, on which lay a woman dressed in the Turkish fashion,
with yashmak and veil.  The lower part of the face was exposed, and
the surgeon saw a jagged cut which zigzagged along the border of
the under lip.

"You will forgive the yashmak," said the Turk.  "You know our
views about women in the East."

But the surgeon was not thinking about the yashmak.  This was
no longer a woman to him.  It was a case.  He stooped and examined
the wound carefully.

"There are no signs of irritation," said he.  "We might delay
the operation until local symptoms develop."

The husband wrung his hands in uncontrollable agitation.

"Oh!  sir, sir," he cried.  "Do not trifle.  You do not know. 
It is deadly.  I know, and I give you my assurance that an
operation is absolutely necessary.  Only the knife can save her."

"And yet I am inclined to wait," said Douglas Stone.

"That is enough," the Turk cried, angrily.  "Every minute is of
importance, and I cannot stand here and see my wife allowed to
sink.  It only remains for me to give you my thanks for having
come, and to call in some other surgeon before it is too late."

Douglas Stone hesitated.  To refund that hundred pounds was no
pleasant matter.  But of course if he left the case he must return
the money.  And if the Turk were right and the woman died, his
position before a coroner might be an embarrassing one.

"You have had personal experience of this poison?" he asked.

"I have."

"And you assure me that an operation is needful."

"I swear it by all that I hold sacred."

"The disfigurement will be frightful."

"I can understand that the mouth will not be a pretty one to
kiss."

Douglas Stone turned fiercely upon the man.  The speech was a
brutal one.  But the Turk has his own fashion of talk and of
thought, and there was no time for wrangling.  Douglas Stone drew
a bistoury from his case, opened it and felt the keen straight edge
with his forefinger.  Then he held the lamp closer to the bed.  Two
dark eyes were gazing up at him through the slit in the yashmak. 
They were all iris, and the pupil was hardly to be seen.

"You have given her a very heavy dose of opium."

"Yes, she has had a good dose."

He glanced again at the dark eyes which looked straight at his
own.  They were dull and lustreless, but, even as he gazed, a
little shifting sparkle came into them, and the lips quivered.

"She is not absolutely unconscious," said he.

"Would it not be well to use the knife while it will be
painless?"

The same thought had crossed the surgeon's mind.  He grasped
the wounded lip with his forceps, and with two swift cuts he took
out a broad V-shaped piece.  The woman sprang up on the couch with
a dreadful gurgling scream.  Her covering was torn from her face. 
It was a face that he knew.  In spite of that protruding upper lip
and that slobber of blood, it was a face that he knew, She kept on
putting her hand up to the gap and screaming.  Douglas Stone sat
down at the foot of the couch with his knife and his forceps.  The
room was whirling round, and he had felt something go like a
ripping seam behind his ear.  A bystander would have said that his
face was the more ghastly of the two.  As in a dream, or as if he
had been looking at something at the play, he was conscious that
the Turk's hair and beard lay upon the table, and that Lord Sannox
was leaning against the wall with his hand to his side, laughing
silently.  The screams had died away now, and the dreadful head had
dropped back again upon the pillow, but Douglas Stone still sat
motionless, and Lord Sannox still chuckled quietly to himself.

"It was really very necessary for Marion, this operation," said
he, "not physically, but morally, you know, morally."

Douglas Stone stooped for yards and began to play with the
fringe of the coverlet.  His knife tinkled down upon the ground,
but he still held the forceps and something more.

"I had long intended to make a little example," said Lord
Sannox, suavely.  "Your note of Wednesday miscarried, and I have it
here in my pocket-book.  I took some pains in carrying out my idea. 
The wound, by the way, was from nothing more dangerous than my
signet ring."

He glanced keenly at his silent companion, and cocked the small
revolver which he held in his coat pocket.  But Douglas Stone was
still picking at the coverlet.

"You see you have kept your appointment after all," said Lord
Sannox.

And at that Douglas Stone began to laugh.  He laughed long and
loudly.  But Lord Sannox did not laugh now.  Something like fear
sharpened and hardened his features.  He walked from the room, and
he walked on tiptoe.  The old woman was waiting outside.

"Attend to your mistress when she awakes," said Lord Sannox.

Then he went down to the street.  The cab was at the door, and
the driver raised his hand to his hat.

"John," said Lord Sannox, "you will take the doctor home first. 
He will want leading downstairs, I think.  Tell his butler that he
has been taken ill at a case."

"Very good, sir."

"Then you can take Lady Sannox home."

"And how about yourself, sir?"

"Oh, my address for the next few months will be Hotel di Roma,
Venice.  Just see that the letters are sent on.  And tell Stevens
to exhibit all the purple chrysanthemums next Monday, and to wire
me the result."



The Terror of Blue John Gap


The following narrative was found among the papers of Dr. James
Hardcastle, who died of phthisis on February 4th, 1908, at 36,
Upper Coventry Flats, South Kensington.  Those who knew him best,
while refusing to express an opinion upon this particular
statement, are unanimous in asserting that he was a man of a sober
and scientific turn of mind, absolutely devoid of imagination, and
most unlikely to invent any abnormal series of events.  The paper
was contained in an envelope, which was docketed, "A Short Account
of the Circumstances which occurred near Miss Allerton's Farm in
North-West Derbyshire in the Spring of Last Year."  The envelope
was sealed, and on the other side was written in pencil--

DEAR SEATON,--

"It may interest, and perhaps pain you, to know that the
incredulity with which you met my story has prevented me from ever
opening my mouth upon the subject again.  I leave this record after
my death, and perhaps strangers may be found to have more
confidence in me than my friend."


Inquiry has failed to elicit who this Seaton may have been.  I
may add that the visit of the deceased to Allerton's Farm, and the
general nature of the alarm there, apart from his particular
explanation, have been absolutely established.  With this foreword
I append his account exactly as he left it.  It is in the form of
a diary, some entries in which have been expanded, while a few have
been erased.


April 17.--Already I feel the benefit of this wonderful
upland air.  The farm of the Allertons lies fourteen hundred and
twenty feet above sea-level, so it may well be a bracing climate. 
Beyond the usual morning cough I have very little discomfort, and,
what with the fresh milk and the home-grown mutton, I have
every chance of putting on weight.  I think Saunderson will be
pleased.

The two Miss Allertons are charmingly quaint and kind, two dear
little hard-working old maids, who are ready to lavish all the
heart which might have gone out to husband and to children upon an
invalid stranger.  Truly, the old maid is a most useful person, one
of the reserve forces of the community.  They talk of the
superfluous woman, but what would the poor superfluous man do
without her kindly presence?  By the way, in their simplicity they
very quickly let out the reason why Saunderson recommended their
farm.  The Professor rose from the ranks himself, and I believe
that in his youth he was not above scaring crows in these very
fields.

It is a most lonely spot, and the walks are picturesque in the
extreme.  The farm consists of grazing land lying at the bottom of
an irregular valley.  On each side are the fantastic limestone
hills, formed of rock so soft that you can break it away with your
hands.  All this country is hollow.  Could you strike it with some
gigantic hammer it would boom like a drum, or possibly cave in
altogether and expose some huge subterranean sea.  A great sea
there must surely be, for on all sides the streams run into the
mountain itself, never to reappear.  There are gaps everywhere amid
the rocks, and when you pass through them you find yourself in
great caverns, which wind down into the bowels of the earth.  I
have a small bicycle lamp, and it is a perpetual joy to me to carry
it into these weird solitudes, and to see the wonderful silver and
black effect when I throw its light upon the stalactites which
drape the lofty roofs.  Shut off the lamp, and you are in the
blackest darkness.  Turn it on, and it is a scene from the Arabian
Nights.

But there is one of these strange openings in the earth which
has a special interest, for it is the handiwork, not of nature, but
of man.  I had never heard of Blue John when I came to these parts. 
It is the name given to a peculiar mineral of a beautiful purple
shade, which is only found at one or two places in the world.  It
is so rare that an ordinary vase of Blue John would be valued at a
great price.  The Romans, with that extraordinary instinct of
theirs, discovered that it was to be found in this valley, and sank
a horizontal shaft deep into the mountain side.  The opening of
their mine has been called Blue John Gap, a clean-cut arch in
the rock, the mouth all overgrown with bushes.  It is a goodly
passage which the Roman miners have cut, and it intersects some of
the great water-worn caves, so that if you enter Blue John Gap you
would do well to mark your steps and to have a good store of
candles, or you may never make your way back to the daylight again. 
I have not yet gone deeply into it, but this very day I stood at
the mouth of the arched tunnel, and peering down into the black
recesses beyond, I vowed that when my health returned I would
devote some holiday to exploring those mysterious depths and
finding out for myself how far the Roman had penetrated into the
Derbyshire hills.

Strange how superstitious these countrymen are!  I should have
thought better of young Armitage, for he is a man of some education
and character, and a very fine fellow for his station in life.  I
was standing at the Blue John Gap when he came across the field to
me.

"Well, doctor," said he, "you're not afraid, anyhow."

"Afraid!" I answered.  "Afraid of what?"

"Of it," said he, with a jerk of his thumb towards the black
vault, "of the Terror that lives in the Blue John Cave."

How absurdly easy it is for a legend to arise in a lonely
countryside!  I examined him as to the reasons for his weird
belief.  It seems that from time to time sheep have been missing
from the fields, carried bodily away, according to Armitage.  That
they could have wandered away of their own accord and disappeared
among the mountains was an explanation to which he would not
listen.  On one occasion a pool of blood had been found, and some
tufts of wool.  That also, I pointed out, could be explained in a
perfectly natural way.  Further, the nights upon which sheep
disappeared were invariably very dark, cloudy nights with no moon. 
This I met with the obvious retort that those were the nights which
a commonplace sheep-stealer would naturally choose for his work. 
On one occasion a gap had been made in a wall, and some of
the stones scattered for a considerable distance.  Human agency
again, in my opinion.  Finally, Armitage clinched all his arguments
by telling me that he had actually heard the Creature--indeed, that
anyone could hear it who remained long enough at the Gap.  It was
a distant roaring of an immense volume.  I could not but smile
at this, knowing, as I do, the strange reverberations which come
out of an underground water system running amid the chasms of a
limestone formation.  My incredulity annoyed Armitage so that he
turned and left me with some abruptness.

And now comes the queer point about the whole business.  I was
still standing near the mouth of the cave turning over in my mind
the various statements of Armitage, and reflecting how readily they
could be explained away, when suddenly, from the depth of the
tunnel beside me, there issued a most extraordinary sound.  How
shall I describe it?  First of all, it seemed to be a great
distance away, far down in the bowels of the earth.  Secondly, in
spite of this suggestion of distance, it was very loud.  Lastly, it
was not a boom, nor a crash, such as one would associate with
falling water or tumbling rock, but it was a high whine, tremulous
and vibrating, almost like the whinnying of a horse.  It was
certainly a most remarkable experience, and one which for a moment,
I must admit, gave a new significance to Armitage's words.  I
waited by the Blue John Gap for half an hour or more, but there was
no return of the sound, so at last I wandered back to the
farmhouse, rather mystified by what had occurred.  Decidedly I
shall explore that cavern when my strength is restored.  Of course,
Armitage's explanation is too absurd for discussion, and yet that
sound was certainly very strange.  It still rings in my ears as I
write.

April 20.--In the last three days I have made several
expeditions to the Blue John Gap, and have even penetrated some
short distance, but my bicycle lantern is so small and weak that I
dare not trust myself very far.  I shall do the thing more
systematically.  I have heard no sound at all, and could almost
believe that I had been the victim of some hallucination suggested,
perhaps, by Armitage's conversation.  Of course, the whole idea is
absurd, and yet I must confess that those bushes at the entrance of
the cave do present an appearance as if some heavy creature had
forced its way through them.  I begin to be keenly interested.  I
have said nothing to the Miss Allertons, for they are quite
superstitious enough already, but I have bought some candles, and
mean to investigate for myself.

I observed this morning that among the numerous tufts of
sheep's wool which lay among the bushes near the cavern there
was one which was smeared with blood.  Of course, my reason tells
me that if sheep wander into such rocky places they are likely to
injure themselves, and yet somehow that splash of crimson gave me
a sudden shock, and for a moment I found myself shrinking back in
horror from the old Roman arch.  A fetid breath seemed to ooze from
the black depths into which I peered.  Could it indeed be possible
that some nameless thing, some dreadful presence, was lurking down
yonder?  I should have been incapable of such feelings in the days
of my strength, but one grows more nervous and fanciful when one's
health is shaken.

For the moment I weakened in my resolution, and was ready to
leave the secret of the old mine, if one exists, for ever unsolved. 
But tonight my interest has returned and my nerves grown more
steady.  Tomorrow I trust that I shall have gone more deeply into
this matter.

April 22.--Let me try and set down as accurately as I can
my extraordinary experience of yesterday.  I started in the
afternoon, and made my way to the Blue John Gap.  I confess that my
misgivings returned as I gazed into its depths, and I wished that
I had brought a companion to share my exploration.  Finally, with
a return of resolution, I lit my candle, pushed my way through the
briars, and descended into the rocky shaft.

It went down at an acute angle for some fifty feet, the floor
being covered with broken stone.  Thence there extended a long,
straight passage cut in the solid rock.  I am no geologist, but the
lining of this corridor was certainly of some harder material than
limestone, for there were points where I could actually see the
tool-marks which the old miners had left in their excavation, as
fresh as if they had been done yesterday.  Down this strange, old-
world corridor I stumbled, my feeble flame throwing a dim circle of
light around me, which made the shadows beyond the more threatening
and obscure.  Finally, I came to a spot where the Roman tunnel
opened into a water-worn cavern--a huge hall, hung with long white
icicles of lime deposit.  From this central chamber I could dimly
perceive that a number of passages worn by the subterranean streams
wound away into the depths of the earth.  I was standing there
wondering whether I had better return, or whether I dare venture
farther into this dangerous labyrinth, when my eyes fell upon
something at my feet which strongly arrested my attention.

The greater part of the floor of the cavern was covered with
boulders of rock or with hard incrustations of lime, but at this
particular point there had been a drip from the distant roof, which
had left a patch of soft mud.  In the very centre of this there was
a huge mark--an ill-defined blotch, deep, broad and irregular, as
if a great boulder had fallen upon it.  No loose stone lay near,
however, nor was there anything to account for the impression.  It
was far too large to be caused by any possible animal, and besides,
there was only the one, and the patch of mud was of such a size
that no reasonable stride could have covered it.  As I rose from
the examination of that singular mark and then looked round into
the black shadows which hemmed me in, I must confess that I felt
for a moment a most unpleasant sinking of my heart, and that, do
what I could, the candle trembled in my outstretched hand.

I soon recovered my nerve, however, when I reflected how absurd
it was to associate so huge and shapeless a mark with the track of
any known animal.  Even an elephant could not have produced it.  I
determined, therefore, that I would not be scared by vague and
senseless fears from carrying out my exploration.  Before
proceeding, I took good note of a curious rock formation in the
wall by which I could recognize the entrance of the Roman tunnel. 
The precaution was very necessary, for the great cave, so far as I
could see it, was intersected by passages.  Having made sure of my
position, and reassured myself by examining my spare candles and my
matches, I advanced slowly over the rocky and uneven surface of the
cavern.

And now I come to the point where I met with such sudden and
desperate disaster.  A stream, some twenty feet broad, ran across
my path, and I walked for some little distance along the bank to
find a spot where I could cross dry-shod.  Finally, I came to a
place where a single flat boulder lay near the centre, which I
could reach in a stride.  As it chanced, however, the rock had been
cut away and made top-heavy by the rush of the stream, so that
it tilted over as I landed on it and shot me into the ice-cold
water.  My candle went out, and I found myself floundering about in
utter and absolute darkness.

I staggered to my feet again, more amused than alarmed by my
adventure.  The candle had fallen from my hand, and was lost in the
stream, but I had two others in my pocket, so that it was of no
importance.  I got one of them ready, and drew out my box of
matches to light it.  Only then did I realize my position.  The box
had been soaked in my fall into the river.  It was impossible to
strike the matches.

A cold hand seemed to close round my heart as I realized my
position.  The darkness was opaque and horrible.  It was so utter
one put one's hand up to one's face as if to press off something
solid.  I stood still, and by an effort I steadied myself.  I tried
to reconstruct in my mind a map of the floor of the cavern as I had
last seen it.  Alas! the bearings which had impressed themselves
upon my mind were high on the wall, and not to be found by touch. 
Still, I remembered in a general way how the sides were situated,
and I hoped that by groping my way along them I should at last come
to the opening of the Roman tunnel.  Moving very slowly, and
continually striking against the rocks, I set out on this desperate
quest.

But I very soon realized how impossible it was.  In that black,
velvety darkness one lost all one's bearings in an instant.  Before
I had made a dozen paces, I was utterly bewildered as to my
whereabouts.  The rippling of the stream, which was the one sound
audible, showed me where it lay, but the moment that I left its
bank I was utterly lost.  The idea of finding my way back in
absolute darkness through that limestone labyrinth was clearly an
impossible one.

I sat down upon a boulder and reflected upon my unfortunate
plight.  I had not told anyone that I proposed to come to the Blue
John mine, and it was unlikely that a search party would come after
me.  Therefore I must trust to my own resources to get clear of the
danger.  There was only one hope, and that was that the matches
might dry.  When I fell into the river, only half of me had got
thoroughly wet.  My left shoulder had remained above the water.  I
took the box of matches, therefore, and put it into my left armpit. 
The moist air of the cavern might possibly be counteracted by
the heat of my body, but even so, I knew that I could not hope to
get a light for many hours.  Meanwhile there was nothing for it but
to wait.

By good luck I had slipped several biscuits into my pocket
before I left the farm-house.  These I now devoured, and washed
them down with a draught from that wretched stream which had been
the cause of all my misfortunes.  Then I felt about for a
comfortable seat among the rocks, and, having discovered a place
where I could get a support for my back, I stretched out my legs
and settled myself down to wait.  I was wretchedly damp and cold,
but I tried to cheer myself with the reflection that modern science
prescribed open windows and walks in all weather for my disease. 
Gradually, lulled by the monotonous gurgle of the stream, and by
the absolute darkness, I sank into an uneasy slumber.

How long this lasted I cannot say.  It may have been for an
hour, it may have been for several.  Suddenly I sat up on my rock
couch, with every nerve thrilling and every sense acutely on the
alert.  Beyond all doubt I had heard a sound--some sound very
distinct from the gurgling of the waters.  It had passed, but the
reverberation of it still lingered in my ear.  Was it a search
party?  They would most certainly have shouted, and vague as this
sound was which had wakened me, it was very distinct from the human
voice.  I sat palpitating and hardly daring to breathe.  There it
was again!  And again!  Now it had become continuous.  It was a
tread --yes, surely it was the tread of some living creature. 
But what a tread it was!  It gave one the impression of enormous
weight carried upon sponge-like feet, which gave forth a muffled
but ear-filling sound.  The darkness was as complete as ever, but
the tread was regular and decisive.  And it was coming beyond all
question in my direction.

My skin grew cold, and my hair stood on end as I listened to
that steady and ponderous footfall.  There was some creature there,
and surely by the speed of its advance, it was one which could see
in the dark.  I crouched low on my rock and tried to blend myself
into it.  The steps grew nearer still, then stopped, and presently
I was aware of a loud lapping and gurgling.  The creature was
drinking at the stream.  Then again there was silence, broken by a
succession of long sniffs and snorts of tremendous volume and
energy.  Had it caught the scent of me?  My own nostrils were
filled by a low fetid odour, mephitic and abominable.  Then I heard
the steps again.  They were on my side of the stream now.  The
stones rattled within a few yards of where I lay.  Hardly daring to
breathe, I crouched upon my rock.  Then the steps drew away.  I
heard the splash as it returned across the river, and the sound
died away into the distance in the direction from which it had
come.

For a long time I lay upon the rock, too much horrified to
move.  I thought of the sound which I had heard coming from the
depths of the cave, of Armitage's fears, of the strange impression
in the mud, and now came this final and absolute proof that there
was indeed some inconceivable monster, something utterly unearthly
and dreadful, which lurked in the hollow of the mountain.  Of its
nature or form I could frame no conception, save that it was both
light-footed and gigantic.  The combat between my reason, which
told me that such things could not be, and my senses, which told me
that they were, raged within me as I lay.  Finally, I was almost
ready to persuade myself that this experience had been part of some
evil dream, and that my abnormal condition might have conjured up
an hallucination.  But there remained one final experience which
removed the last possibility of doubt from my mind.

I had taken my matches from my armpit and felt them.  They
seemed perfectly hard and dry.  Stooping down into a crevice of the
rocks, I tried one of them.  To my delight it took fire at once. 
I lit the candle, and, with a terrified backward glance into the
obscure depths of the cavern, I hurried in the direction of the
Roman passage.  As I did so I passed the patch of mud on which I
had seen the huge imprint.  Now I stood astonished before it, for
there were three similar imprints upon its surface, enormous in
size, irregular in outline, of a depth which indicated the
ponderous weight which had left them.  Then a great terror surged
over me.  Stooping and shading my candle with my hand, I ran in a
frenzy of fear to the rocky archway, hastened up it, and never
stopped until, with weary feet and panting lungs, I rushed up the
final slope of stones, broke through the tangle of briars, and
flung myself exhausted upon the soft grass under the peaceful light
of the stars.  It was three in the morning when I reached the farm-
house, and today I am all unstrung and quivering after my
terrific adventure.  As yet I have told no one.  I must move warily
in the matter.  What would the poor lonely women, or the uneducated
yokels here think of it if I were to tell them my experience?  Let
me go to someone who can understand and advise.

April 25.--I was laid up in bed for two days after my
incredible adventure in the cavern.  I use the adjective with a
very definite meaning, for I have had an experience since which has
shocked me almost as much as the other.  I have said that I was
looking round for someone who could advise me.  There is a Dr. Mark
Johnson who practices some few miles away, to whom I had a note of
recommendation from Professor Saunderson.  To him I drove,
when I was strong enough to get about, and I recounted to him my
whole strange experience.  He listened intently, and then carefully
examined me, paying special attention to my reflexes and to the
pupils of my eyes.  When he had finished, he refused to discuss my
adventure, saying that it was entirely beyond him, but he gave me
the card of a Mr. Picton at Castleton, with the advice that I
should instantly go to him and tell him the story exactly as I had
done to himself.  He was, according to my adviser, the very man who
was pre-eminently suited to help me.  I went on to the station,
therefore, and made my way to the little town, which is some ten
miles away.  Mr. Picton appeared to be a man of importance, as his
brass plate was displayed upon the door of a considerable building
on the outskirts of the town.  I was about to ring his bell, when
some misgiving came into my mind, and, crossing to a neighbouring
shop, I asked the man behind the counter if he could tell me
anything of Mr. Picton.  "Why," said he, "he is the best mad doctor
in Derbyshire, and yonder is his asylum."  You can imagine that it
was not long before I had shaken the dust of Castleton from my feet
and returned to the farm, cursing all unimaginative pedants who
cannot conceive that there may be things in creation which have
never yet chanced to come across their mole's vision.  After all,
now that I am cooler, I can afford to admit that I have been no
more sympathetic to Armitage than Dr. Johnson has been to me.

April 27.  When I was a student I had the reputation of
being a man of courage and enterprise.  I remember that when there
was a ghost-hunt at Coltbridge it was I who sat up in the
haunted house.  Is it advancing years (after all, I am only thirty-
five), or is it this physical malady which has caused degeneration? 
Certainly my heart quails when I think of that horrible cavern in
the hill, and the certainty that it has some monstrous occupant. 
What shall I do?  There is not an hour in the day that I do not
debate the question.  If I say nothing, then the mystery remains
unsolved.  If I do say anything, then I have the alternative of mad
alarm over the whole countryside, or of absolute incredulity which
may end in consigning me to an asylum.  On the whole, I think that
my best course is to wait, and to prepare for some expedition which
shall be more deliberate and better thought out than the last.  As
a first step I have been to Castleton and obtained a few
essentials--a large acetylene lantern for one thing, and a good
double-barrelled sporting rifle for another.  The latter I have
hired, but I have bought a dozen heavy game cartridges, which would
bring down a rhinoceros.  Now I am ready for my troglodyte friend. 
Give me better health and a little spate of energy, and I shall try
conclusions with him yet.  But who and what is he?  Ah!  there is
the question which stands between me and my sleep.  How many
theories do I form, only to discard each in turn!  It is all so
utterly unthinkable.  And yet the cry, the footmark, the tread in
the cavern--no reasoning can get past these I think of the old-
world legends of dragons and of other monsters.  Were they,
perhaps, not such fairy-tales as we have thought?  Can it be that
there is some fact which underlies them, and am I, of all mortals,
the one who is chosen to expose it?

May 3.--For several days I have been laid up by the
vagaries of an English spring, and during those days there have
been developments, the true and sinister meaning of which no one
can appreciate save myself.  I may say that we have had cloudy and
moonless nights of late, which according to my information were the
seasons upon which sheep disappeared.  Well, sheep have
disappeared.  Two of Miss Allerton's, one of old Pearson's of the
Cat Walk, and one of Mrs. Moulton's.  Four in all during three
nights.  No trace is left of them at all, and the countryside is
buzzing with rumours of gipsies and of sheep-stealers.

But there is something more serious than that.  Young Armitage
has disappeared also.  He left his moorland cottage early on
Wednesday night and has never been heard of since.  He was an
unattached man, so there is less sensation than would otherwise be
the case.  The popular explanation is that he owes money, and has
found a situation in some other part of the country, whence he will
presently write for his belongings.  But I have grave misgivings. 
Is it not much more likely that the recent tragedy of the sheep has
caused him to take some steps which may have ended in his own
destruction?  He may, for example, have lain in wait for the
creature and been carried off by it into the recesses of the
mountains.  What an inconceivable fate for a civilized Englishman
of the twentieth century!  And yet I feel that it is possible and
even probable.  But in that case, how far am I answerable both for
his death and for any other mishap which may occur?  Surely with
the knowledge I already possess it must be my duty to see that
something is done, or if necessary to do it myself.  It must be the
latter, for this morning I went down to the local police-station
and told my story.  The inspector entered it all in a large book
and bowed me out with commendable gravity, but I heard a burst of
laughter before I had got down his garden path.  No doubt he was
recounting my adventure to his family.

June 10.--I am writing this, propped up in bed, six weeks
after my last entry in this journal.  I have gone through a
terrible shock both to mind and body, arising from such an
experience as has seldom befallen a human being before.  But I have
attained my end.  The danger from the Terror which dwells in the
Blue John Gap has passed never to return.  Thus much at least I, a
broken invalid, have done for the common good.  Let me now recount
what occurred as clearly as I may.

The night of Friday, May 3rd, was dark and cloudy--the very
night for the monster to walk.  About eleven o'clock I went from
the farm-house with my lantern and my rifle, having first left a
note upon the table of my bedroom in which I said that, if I were
missing, search should be made for me in the direction of the Gap. 
I made my way to the mouth of the Roman shaft, and, having perched
myself among the rocks close to the opening, I shut off my lantern
and waited patiently with my loaded rifle ready to my hand.

It was a melancholy vigil.  All down the winding valley I could
see the scattered lights of the farm-houses, and the church clock
of Chapel-le-Dale tolling the hours came faintly to my ears. 
These tokens of my fellow-men served only to make my own position
seem the more lonely, and to call for a greater effort to overcome
the terror which tempted me continually to get back to the farm,
and abandon for ever this dangerous quest.  And yet there lies deep
in every man a rooted self-respect which makes it hard for him to
turn back from that which he has once undertaken.  This feeling of
personal pride was my salvation now, and it was that alone which
held me fast when every instinct of my nature was dragging me away. 
I am glad now that I had the strength.  In spite of all that is has
cost me, my manhood is at least above reproach.

Twelve o'clock struck in the distant church, then one, then
two.  It was the darkest hour of the night.  The clouds were
drifting low, and there was not a star in the sky.  An owl was
hooting somewhere among the rocks, but no other sound, save the
gentle sough of the wind, came to my ears.  And then suddenly I
heard it!  From far away down the tunnel came those muffled steps,
so soft and yet so ponderous.  I heard also the rattle of stones as
they gave way under that giant tread.  They drew nearer.  They were
close upon me.  I heard the crashing of the bushes round the
entrance, and then dimly through the darkness I was conscious of
the loom of some enormous shape, some monstrous inchoate creature,
passing swiftly and very silently out from the tunnel.  I was
paralysed with fear and amazement.  Long as I had waited, now that
it had actually come I was unprepared for the shock.  I lay
motionless and breathless, whilst the great dark mass whisked by me
and was swallowed up in the night.

But now I nerved myself for its return.  No sound came from the
sleeping countryside to tell of the horror which was loose.  In no
way could I judge how far off it was, what it was doing, or when it
might be back.  But not a second time should my nerve fail me, not
a second time should it pass unchallenged.  I swore it between my
clenched teeth as I laid my cocked rifle across the rock.

And yet it nearly happened.  There was no warning of approach
now as the creature passed over the grass.  Suddenly, like a dark,
drifting shadow, the huge bulk loomed up once more before me,
making for the entrance of the cave.  Again came that paralysis of
volition which held my crooked forefinger impotent upon the
trigger.  But with a desperate effort I shook it off.  Even as the
brushwood rustled, and the monstrous beast blended with the shadow
of the Gap, I fired at the retreating form.  In the blaze of the
gun I caught a glimpse of a great shaggy mass, something with rough
and bristling hair of a withered grey colour, fading away to white
in its lower parts, the huge body supported upon short, thick,
curving legs.  I had just that glance, and then I heard the rattle
of the stones as the creature tore down into its burrow.  In an
instant, with a triumphant revulsion of feeling, I had cast my
fears to the wind, and uncovering my powerful lantern, with my
rifle in my hand, I sprang down from my rock and rushed after the
monster down the old Roman shaft.

My splendid lamp cast a brilliant flood of vivid light in front
of me, very different from the yellow glimmer which had aided me
down the same passage only twelve days before.  As I ran, I saw the
great beast lurching along before me, its huge bulk filling up the
whole space from wall to wall.  Its hair looked like coarse faded
oakum, and hung down in long, dense masses which swayed as it
moved.  It was like an enormous unclipped sheep in its fleece, but
in size it was far larger than the largest elephant, and its
breadth seemed to be nearly as great as its height.  It fills me
with amazement now to think that I should have dared to follow such
a horror into the bowels of the earth, but when one's blood is up,
and when one's quarry seems to be flying, the old primeval hunting-
spirit awakes and prudence is cast to the wind.  Rifle in hand, I
ran at the top of my speed upon the trail of the monster.

I had seen that the creature was swift.  Now I was to find out
to my cost that it was also very cunning.  I had imagined that it
was in panic flight, and that I had only to pursue it.  The idea
that it might turn upon me never entered my excited brain.  I have
already explained that the passage down which I was racing opened
into a great central cave.  Into this I rushed, fearful lest I
should lose all trace of the beast.  But he had turned upon his own
traces, and in a moment we were face to face.

That picture, seen in the brilliant white light of the lantern,
is etched for ever upon my brain.  He had reared up on his hind
legs as a bear would do, and stood above me, enormous, menacing--
such a creature as no nightmare had ever brought to my imagination. 
I have said that he reared like a bear, and there was something
bear-like--if one could conceive a bear which was ten-fold the bulk
of any bear seen upon earth--in his whole pose and attitude, in his
great crooked forelegs with their ivory-white claws, in his rugged
skin, and in his red, gaping mouth, fringed with monstrous fangs. 
Only in one point did he differ from the bear, or from any other
creature which walks the earth, and even at that supreme moment a
shudder of horror passed over me as I observed that the eyes which
glistened in the glow of my lantern were huge, projecting bulbs,
white and sightless.  For a moment his great paws swung over my
head.  The next he fell forward upon me, I and my broken lantern
crashed to the earth, and I remember no more.


When I came to myself I was back in the farm-house of the
Allertons.  Two days had passed since my terrible adventure in the
Blue John Gap.  It seems that I had lain all night in the cave
insensible from concussion of the brain, with my left arm and two
ribs badly fractured.  In the morning my note had been found, a
search party of a dozen farmers assembled, and I had been tracked
down and carried back to my bedroom, where I had lain in high
delirium ever since.  There was, it seems, no sign of the creature,
and no bloodstain which would show that my bullet had found him as
he passed.  Save for my own plight and the marks upon the mud,
there was nothing to prove that what I said was true.

Six weeks have now elapsed, and I am able to sit out once more
in the sunshine.  Just opposite me is the steep hillside, grey with
shaly rock, and yonder on its flank is the dark cleft which marks
the opening of the Blue John Gap.  But it is no longer a source of
terror.  Never again through that ill-omened tunnel shall any
strange shape flit out into the world of men.  The educated and the
scientific, the Dr. Johnsons and the like, may smile at my
narrative, but the poorer folk of the countryside had never a doubt
as to its truth.  On the day after my recovering consciousness
they assembled in their hundreds round the Blue John Gap.  As the
Castleton Courier said:


"It was useless for our correspondent, or for any of the
adventurous gentlemen who had come from Matlock, Buxton, and other
parts, to offer to descend, to explore the cave to the end, and to
finally test the extraordinary narrative of Dr. James Hardcastle. 
The country people had taken the matter into their own hands, and
from an early hour of the morning they had worked hard in stopping
up the entrance of the tunnel.  There is a sharp slope where the
shaft begins, and great boulders, rolled along by many willing
hands, were thrust down it until the Gap was absolutely sealed.  So
ends the episode which has caused such excitement throughout the
country.  Local opinion is fiercely divided upon the subject.  On
the one hand are those who point to Dr. Hardcastle's impaired
health, and to the possibility of cerebral lesions of tubercular
origin giving rise to strange hallucinations.  Some idee fixe,
according to these gentlemen, caused the doctor to wander down the
tunnel, and a fall among the rocks was sufficient to account for
his injuries.  On the other hand, a legend of a strange creature in
the Gap has existed for some months back, and the farmers look upon
Dr. Hardcastle's narrative and his personal injuries as a final
corroboration.  So the matter stands, and so the matter will
continue to stand, for no definite solution seems to us to be now
possible.  It transcends human wit to give any scientific
explanation which could cover the alleged facts."


Perhaps before the Courier published these words they would
have been wise to send their representative to me.  I have thought
the matter out, as no one else has occasion to do, and it is
possible that I might have removed some of the more obvious
difficulties of the narrative and brought it one degree nearer to
scientific acceptance.  Let me then write down the only explanation
which seems to me to elucidate what I know to my cost to have been
a series of facts.  My theory may seem to be wildly improbable, but
at least no one can venture to say that it is impossible.

My view is--and it was formed, as is shown by my diary, before
my personal adventure--that in this part of England there is a
vast subterranean lake or sea, which is fed by the great number of
streams which pass down through the limestone.  Where there is a
large collection of water there must also be some evaporation,
mists or rain, and a possibility of vegetation.  This in turn
suggests that there may be animal life, arising, as the vegetable
life would also do, from those seeds and types which had been
introduced at an early period of the world's history, when
communication with the outer air was more easy.  This place had
then developed a fauna and flora of its own, including such
monsters as the one which I had seen, which may well have been the
old cave-bear, enormously enlarged and modified by its new
environment.  For countless aeons the internal and the external
creation had kept apart, growing steadily away from each other. 
Then there had come some rift in the depths of the mountain which
had enabled one creature to wander up and, by means of the Roman
tunnel, to reach the open air.  Like all subterranean life, it had
lost the power of sight, but this had no doubt been compensated for
by nature in other directions.  Certainly it had some means of
finding its way about, and of hunting down the sheep upon the
hillside.  As to its choice of dark nights, it is part of my theory
that light was painful to those great white eyeballs, and that it
was only a pitch-black world which it could tolerate.  Perhaps,
indeed, it was the glare of my lantern which saved my life at that
awful moment when we were face to face.  So I read the riddle.  I
leave these facts behind me, and if you can explain them, do so; or
if you choose to doubt them, do so.  Neither your belief nor your
incredulity can alter them, nor affect one whose task is nearly
over.


So ended the strange narrative of Dr. James Hardcastle.




The Brazilian Cat


It is hard luck on a young fellow to have expensive tastes, great
expectations, aristocratic connections, but no actual money in
his pocket, and no profession by which he may earn any.  The fact
was that my father, a good, sanguine, easy-going man, had such
confidence in the wealth and benevolence of his bachelor elder
brother, Lord Southerton, that he took it for granted that I, his
only son, would never be called upon to earn a living for myself. 
He imagined that if there were not a vacancy for me on the great
Southerton Estates, at least there would be found some post in
that diplomatic service which still remains the special preserve
of our privileged classes.  He died too early to realize how
false his calculations had been.  Neither my uncle nor the State
took the slightest notice of me, or showed any interest in my
career.  An occasional brace of pheasants, or basket of hares,
was all that ever reached me to remind me that I was heir to
Otwell House and one of the richest estates in the country.  In
the meantime, I found myself a bachelor and man about town,
living in a suite of apartments in Grosvenor Mansions, with no
occupation save that of pigeon-shooting and polo-playing at
Hurlingham.  Month by month I realized that it was more and more
difficult to get the brokers to renew my bills, or to cash any
further post-obits upon an unentailed property.  Ruin lay right
across my path, and every day I saw it clearer, nearer, and more
absolutely unavoidable.

What made me feel my own poverty the more was that, apart from
the great wealth of Lord Southerton, all my other relations were
fairly well-to-do.  The nearest of these was Everard King, my
father's nephew and my own first cousin, who had spent an
adventurous life in Brazil, and had now returned to this country to
settle down on his fortune.  We never knew how he made his money,
but he appeared to have plenty of it, for he bought the estate of
Greylands, near Clipton-on-the-Marsh, in Suffolk.  For the
first year of his residence in England he took no more notice of me
than my miserly uncle; but at last one summer morning, to my very
great relief and joy, I received a letter asking me to come down
that very day and spend a short visit at Greylands Court.  I was
expecting a rather long visit to Bankruptcy Court at the time, and
this interruption seemed almost providential.  If I could only get
on terms with this unknown relative of mine, I might pull through
yet.  For the family credit he could not let me go entirely to the
wall.  I ordered my valet to pack my valise, and I set off the same
evening for Clipton-on-the-Marsh.

After changing at Ipswich, a little local train deposited me at
a small, deserted station lying amidst a rolling grassy country,
with a sluggish and winding river curving in and out amidst the
valleys, between high, silted banks, which showed that we were
within reach of the tide.  No carriage was awaiting me (I found
afterwards that my telegram had been delayed), so I hired a dogcart
at the local inn.  The driver, an excellent fellow, was full of my
relative's praises, and I learned from him that Mr. Everard King
was already a name to conjure with in that part of the county.  He
had entertained the school-children, he had thrown his grounds open
to visitors, he had subscribed to charities--in short, his
benevolence had been so universal that my driver could only account
for it on the supposition that he had parliamentary ambitions.

My attention was drawn away from my driver's panegyric by the
appearance of a very beautiful bird which settled on a telegraph-
post beside the road.  At first I thought that it was a jay, but it
was larger, with a brighter plumage.  The driver accounted for its
presence at once by saying that it belonged to the very man whom we
were about to visit.  It seems that the acclimatization of foreign
creatures was one of his hobbies, and that he had brought with him
from Brazil a number of birds and beasts which he was endeavouring
to rear in England.  When once we had passed the gates of Greylands
Park we had ample evidence of this taste of his.  Some small
spotted deer, a curious wild pig known, I believe, as a peccary, a
gorgeously feathered oriole, some sort of armadillo, and a singular
lumbering in-toed beast like a very fat badger, were among the
creatures which I observed as we drove along the winding avenue.

Mr. Everard King, my unknown cousin, was standing in person
upon the steps of his house, for he had seen us in the distance,
and guessed that it was I.  His appearance was very homely and
benevolent, short and stout, forty-five years old, perhaps, with a
round, good-humoured face, burned brown with the tropical sun, and
shot with a thousand wrinkles.  He wore white linen clothes, in
true planter style, with a cigar between his lips, and a large
Panama hat upon the back of his head.  It was such a figure as one
associates with a verandahed bungalow, and it looked curiously out
of place in front of this broad, stone English mansion, with its
solid wings and its Palladio pillars before the doorway.

"My dear!" he cried, glancing over his shoulder; "my dear, here
is our guest!  Welcome, welcome to Greylands!  I am delighted to
make your acquaintance, Cousin Marshall, and I take it as a great
compliment that you should honour this sleepy little country place
with your presence."

Nothing could be more hearty than his manner, and he set me at
my ease in an instant.  But it needed all his cordiality to atone
for the frigidity and even rudeness of his wife, a tall, haggard
woman, who came forward at his summons.  She was, I believe, of
Brazilian extraction, though she spoke excellent English, and I
excused her manners on the score of her ignorance of our customs. 
She did not attempt to conceal, however, either then or afterwards,
that I was no very welcome visitor at Greylands Court.  Her actual
words were, as a rule, courteous, but she was the possessor of a
pair of particularly expressive dark eyes, and I read in them very
clearly from the first that she heartily wished me back in London
once more.

However, my debts were too pressing and my designs upon my
wealthy relative were too vital for me to allow them to be upset by
the ill-temper of his wife, so I disregarded her coldness and
reciprocated the extreme cordiality of his welcome.  No pains had
been spared by him to make me comfortable.  My room was a charming
one.  He implored me to tell him anything which could add to my
happiness.  It was on the tip of my tongue to inform him that a
blank cheque would materially help towards that end, but I felt
that it might be premature in the present state of our
acquaintance.  The dinner was excellent, and as we sat together
afterwards over his Havanas and coffee, which later he told me was
specially prepared upon his own plantation, it seemed to me that
all my driver's eulogies were justified, and that I had never met
a more large-hearted and hospitable man.

But, in spite of his cheery good nature, he was a man with a
strong will and a fiery temper of his own.  Of this I had an
example upon the following morning.  The curious aversion which
Mrs. Everard King had conceived towards me was so strong, that her
manner at breakfast was almost offensive.  But her meaning became
unmistakable when her husband had quitted the room.

"The best train in the day is at twelve-fifteen," said she.

"But I was not thinking of going today," I answered, frankly--
perhaps even defiantly, for I was determined not to be driven out
by this woman.

"Oh, if it rests with you--" said she, and stopped with a most
insolent expression in her eyes.

"I am sure," I answered, "that Mr. Everard King would tell me
if I were outstaying my welcome."

"What's this?  What's this?" said a voice, and there he was in
the room.  He had overheard my last words, and a glance at our
faces had told him the rest.  In an instant his chubby, cheery face
set into an expression of absolute ferocity.

"Might I trouble you to walk outside, Marshall?" said he.  (I
may mention that my own name is Marshall King.)

He closed the door behind me, and then, for an instant, I heard
him talking in a low voice of concentrated passion to his wife. 
This gross breach of hospitality had evidently hit upon his
tenderest point.  I am no eavesdropper, so I walked out on to the
lawn.  Presently I heard a hurried step behind me, and there was
the lady, her face pale with excitement, and her eyes red with
tears.

"My husband has asked me to apologize to you, Mr. Marshall
King," said she, standing with downcast eyes before me.

"Please do not say another word, Mrs. King."

Her dark eyes suddenly blazed out at me.

"You fool!" she hissed, with frantic vehemence, and turning on
her heel swept back to the house.

The insult was so outrageous, so insufferable, that I could
only stand staring after her in bewilderment.  I was still there
when my host joined me.  He was his cheery, chubby self once more.

"I hope that my wife has apologized for her foolish remarks,"
said he.

"Oh, yes--yes, certainly!"

He put his hand through my arm and walked with me up and down
the lawn.

"You must not take it seriously," said he.  "It would grieve me
inexpressibly if you curtailed your visit by one hour.  The fact
is--there is no reason why there should be any concealment between
relatives--that my poor dear wife is incredibly jealous.  She hates
that anyone--male or female--should for an instant come between us. 
Her ideal is a desert island and an eternal tete-a-tete.  That
gives you the clue to her actions, which are, I confess, upon this
particular point, not very far removed from mania.  Tell me that
you will think no more of it."

"No, no; certainly not."

"Then light this cigar and come round with me and see my little
menagerie."

The whole afternoon was occupied by this inspection, which
included all the birds, beasts, and even reptiles which he had
imported.  Some were free, some in cages, a few actually in the
house.  He spoke with enthusiasm of his successes and his failures,
his births and his deaths, and he would cry out in his delight,
like a schoolboy, when, as we walked, some gaudy bird would flutter
up from the grass, or some curious beast slink into the cover. 
Finally he led me down a corridor which extended from one wing of
the house.  At the end of this there was a heavy door with a
sliding shutter in it, and beside it there projected from the wall
an iron handle attached to a wheel and a drum.  A line of stout
bars extended across the passage.

"I am about to show you the jewel of my collection," said he. 
"There is only one other specimen in Europe, now that the Rotterdam
cub is dead.  It is a Brazilian cat."

"But how does that differ from any other cat?"

"You will soon see that," said he, laughing.  "Will you kindly
draw that shutter and look through?"

I did so, and found that I was gazing into a large, empty room,
with stone flags, and small, barred windows upon the farther wall. 
In the centre of this room, lying in the middle of a golden patch
of sunlight, there was stretched a huge creature, as large as a
tiger, but as black and sleek as ebony.  It was simply a very
enormous and very well-kept black cat, and it cuddled up and basked
in that yellow pool of light exactly as a cat would do.  It was so
graceful, so sinewy, and so gently and smoothly diabolical, that I
could not take my eyes from the opening.

"Isn't he splendid?" said my host, enthusiastically.

"Glorious!  I never saw such a noble creature."

"Some people call it a black puma, but really it is not a puma
at all.  That fellow is nearly eleven feet from tail to tip.  Four
years ago he was a little ball of back fluff, with two yellow eyes
staring out of it.  He was sold me as a new-born cub up in the wild
country at the head-waters of the Rio Negro.  They speared his
mother to death after she had killed a dozen of them."

"They are ferocious, then?"

"The most absolutely treacherous and bloodthirsty creatures
upon earth.  You talk about a Brazilian cat to an up-country
Indian, and see him get the jumps.  They prefer humans to game. 
This fellow has never tasted living blood yet, but when he does he
will be a terror.  At present he won't stand anyone but me in his
den.  Even Baldwin, the groom, dare not go near him.  As to me, I
am his mother and father in one."

As he spoke he suddenly, to my astonishment, opened the door
and slipped in, closing it instantly behind him.  At the sound of
his voice the huge, lithe creature rose, yawned and rubbed its
round, black head affectionately against his side, while he patted
and fondled it.

"Now, Tommy, into your cage!" said he.

The monstrous cat walked over to one side of the room and
coiled itself up under a grating.  Everard King came out, and
taking the iron handle which I have mentioned, he began to turn it. 
As he did so the line of bars in the corridor began to pass through
a slot in the wall and closed up the front of this grating, so as
to make an effective cage.  When it was in position he opened the
door once more and invited me into the room, which was heavy with
the pungent, musty smell peculiar to the great carnivora.

"That's how we work it," said he.  "We give him the run of the
room for exercise, and then at night we put him in his cage.  You
can let him out by turning the handle from the passage, or you can,
as you have seen, coop him up in the same way.  No, no, you should
not do that!"

I had put my hand between the bars to pat the glossy, heaving
flank.  He pulled it back, with a serious face.

"I assure you that he is not safe.  Don't imagine that because
I can take liberties with him anyone else can.  He is very
exclusive in his friends--aren't you, Tommy?  Ah, he hears his
lunch coming to him!  Don't you, boy?"

A step sounded in the stone-flagged passage, and the creature
had sprung to his feet, and was pacing up and down the narrow cage,
his yellow eyes gleaming, and his scarlet tongue rippling and
quivering over the white line of his jagged teeth.  A groom entered
with a coarse joint upon a tray, and thrust it through the bars to
him.  He pounced lightly upon it, carried it off to the corner, and
there, holding it between his paws, tore and wrenched at it,
raising his bloody muzzle every now and then to look at us.  It was
a malignant and yet fascinating sight.

"You can't wonder that I am fond of him, can you?" said my
host, as we left the room, "especially when you consider that I
have had the rearing of him.  It was no joke bringing him over from
the centre of South America; but here he is safe and sound--and, as
I have said, far the most perfect specimen in Europe.  The people
at the Zoo are dying to have him, but I really can't part with him. 
Now, I think that I have inflicted my hobby upon you long enough,
so we cannot do better than follow Tommy's example, and go to our
lunch."

My South American relative was so engrossed by his grounds and
their curious occupants, that I hardly gave him credit at first for
having any interests outside them.  That he had some, and pressing
ones, was soon borne in upon me by the number of telegrams which he
received.  They arrived at all hours, and were always opened by him
with the utmost eagerness and anxiety upon his face.  Sometimes I
imagined that it must be the Turf, and sometimes the Stock
Exchange, but certainly he had some very urgent business going
forwards which was not transacted upon the Downs of Suffolk. 
During the six days of my visit he had never fewer than three
or four telegrams a day, and sometimes as many as seven or eight.

I had occupied these six days so well, that by the end of them
I had succeeded in getting upon the most cordial terms with my
cousin.  Every night we had sat up late in the billiard-room, he
telling me the most extraordinary stories of his adventures in
America--stories so desperate and reckless, that I could hardly
associate them with the brown little, chubby man before me.  In
return, I ventured upon some of my own reminiscences of London
life, which interested him so much, that he vowed he would come up
to Grosvenor Mansions and stay with me.  He was anxious to see the
faster side of city life, and certainly, though I say it, he could
not have chosen a more competent guide.  It was not until the last
day of my visit that I ventured to approach that which was on my
mind.  I told him frankly about my pecuniary difficulties and my
impending ruin, and I asked his advice--though I hoped for
something more solid.  He listened attentively, puffing hard at his
cigar.

"But surely," said he, "you are the heir of our relative, Lord
Southerton?"

"I have every reason to believe so, but he would never make me
any allowance."

"No, no, I have heard of his miserly ways.  My poor Marshall,
your position has been a very hard one.  By the way, have you heard
any news of Lord Southerton's health lately?"

"He has always been in a critical condition ever since my
childhood."

"Exactly--a creaking hinge, if ever there was one.  Your
inheritance may be a long way off.  Dear me, how awkwardly situated
you are!"

"I had some hopes, sir, that you, knowing all the facts, might
be inclined to advance----"

"Don't say another word, my dear boy," he cried, with the
utmost cordiality; "we shall talk it over tonight, and I give you
my word that whatever is in my power shall be done."

I was not sorry that my visit was drawing to a close, for it is
unpleasant to feel that there is one person in the house who
eagerly desires your departure.  Mrs. King's sallow face and
forbidding eyes had become more and more hateful to me.  She was
no longer actively rude--her fear of her husband prevented
her--but she pushed her insane jealousy to the extent of ignoring
me, never addressing me, and in every way making my stay at
Greylands as uncomfortable as she could.  So offensive was her
manner during that last day, that I should certainly have left had
it not been for that interview with my host in the evening which
would, I hoped, retrieve my broken fortunes.

It was very late when it occurred, for my relative, who had
been receiving even more telegrams than usual during the day, went
off to his study after dinner, and only emerged when the household
had retired to bed.  I heard him go round locking the doors, as
custom was of a night, and finally he joined me in the billiard-
room.  His stout figure was wrapped in a dressing-gown, and he wore
a pair of red Turkish slippers without any heels.  Settling down
into an arm-chair, he brewed himself a glass of grog, in which I
could not help noticing that the whisky considerably predominated
over the water.

"My word!" said he, "what a night!"

It was, indeed.  The wind was howling and screaming round the
house, and the latticed windows rattled and shook as if they were
coming in.  The glow of the yellow lamps and the flavour of our
cigars seemed the brighter and more fragrant for the contrast.

"Now, my boy," said my host, "we have the house and the night
to ourselves.  Let me have an idea of how your affairs stand, and
I will see what can be done to set them in order.  I wish to hear
every detail."

Thus encouraged, I entered into a long exposition, in which all
my tradesmen and creditors from my landlord to my valet, figured in
turn.  I had notes in my pocket-book, and I marshalled my facts,
and gave, I flatter myself, a very businesslike statement of my own
unbusinesslike ways and lamentable position.  I was depressed,
however, to notice that my companion's eyes were vacant and his
attention elsewhere.  When he did occasionally throw out a remark
it was so entirely perfunctory and pointless, that I was sure he
had not in the least followed my remarks.  Every now and then he
roused himself and put on some show of interest, asking me to
repeat or to explain more fully, but it was always to sink once
more into the same brown study.  At last he rose and threw the end
of his cigar into the grate.

"I'll tell you what, my boy," said he.  "I never had a head for
figures, so you will excuse me.  You must jot it all down upon
paper, and let me have a note of the amount.  I'll understand it
when I see it in black and white."

The proposal was encouraging.  I promised to do so.

"And now it's time we were in bed.  By Jove, there's one
o'clock striking in the hall."

The tingling of the chiming clock broke through the deep roar
of the gale.  The wind was sweeping past with the rush of a great
river.

"I must see my cat before I go to bed," said my host.  "A high
wind excites him.  Will you come?"

"Certainly," said I.

"Then tread softly and don't speak, for everyone is asleep."

We passed quietly down the lamp-lit Persian-rugged hall, and
through the door at the farther end.  All was dark in the stone
corridor, but a stable lantern hung on a hook, and my host took it
down and lit it.  There was no grating visible in the passage, so
I knew that the beast was in its cage.

"Come in!" said my relative, and opened the door.

A deep growling as we entered showed that the storm had really
excited the creature.  In the flickering light of the lantern, we
saw it, a huge black mass coiled in the corner of its den and
throwing a squat, uncouth shadow upon the whitewashed wall.  Its
tail switched angrily among the straw.

"Poor Tommy is not in the best of tempers," said Everard King,
holding up the lantern and looking in at him.  "What a black devil
he looks, doesn't he?  I must give him a little supper to put him
in a better humour.  Would you mind holding the lantern for a
moment?"

I took it from his hand and he stepped to the door.

"His larder is just outside here," said he.  "You will excuse
me for an instant won't you?"  He passed out, and the door shut
with a sharp metallic click behind him.

That hard crisp sound made my heart stand still.  A sudden wave
of terror passed over me.  A vague perception of some monstrous
treachery turned me cold.  I sprang to the door, but there was no
handle upon the inner side.

"Here!" I cried.  "Let me out!"

"All right!  Don't make a row!" said my host from the passage. 
"You've got the light all right."

"Yes, but I don't care about being locked in alone like this."

"Don't you?" I heard his hearty, chuckling laugh.  "You won't
be alone long."

"Let me out, sir!" I repeated angrily.  "I tell you I don't
allow practical jokes of this sort."

"Practical is the word," said he, with another hateful chuckle. 
And then suddenly I heard, amidst the roar of the storm, the creak
and whine of the winch-handle turning and the rattle of the grating
as it passed through the slot.  Great God, he was letting loose the
Brazilian cat!

In the light of the lantern I saw the bars sliding slowly
before me.  Already there was an opening a foot wide at the farther
end.  With a scream I seized the last bar with my hands and pulled
with the strength of a madman.  I WAS a madman with rage and
horror.  For a minute or more I held the thing motionless.  I knew
that he was straining with all his force upon the handle, and that
the leverage was sure to overcome me.  I gave inch by inch, my feet
sliding along the stones, and all the time I begged and prayed this
inhuman monster to save me from this horrible death.  I conjured
him by his kinship.  I reminded him that I was his guest; I begged
to know what harm I had ever done him.  His only answers were the
tugs and jerks upon the handle, each of which, in spite of all my
struggles, pulled another bar through the opening.  Clinging and
clutching, I was dragged across the whole front of the cage, until
at last, with aching wrists and lacerated fingers, I gave up the
hopeless struggle.  The grating clanged back as I released it, and
an instant later I heard the shuffle of the Turkish slippers in the
passage, and the slam of the distant door.  Then everything was
silent.

The creature had never moved during this time.  He lay still in
the corner, and his tail had ceased switching.  This apparition of
a man adhering to his bars and dragged screaming across him had
apparently filled him with amazement.  I saw his great eyes staring
steadily at me.  I had dropped the lantern when I seized the
bars, but it still burned upon the floor, and I made a movement
to grasp it, with some idea that its light might protect me.  But
the instant I moved, the beast gave a deep and menacing growl.  I
stopped and stood still, quivering with fear in every limb.  The
cat (if one may call so fearful a creature by so homely a name) was
not more than ten feet from me.  The eyes glimmered like two disks
of phosphorus in the darkness.  They appalled and yet fascinated
me.  I could not take my own eyes from them.  Nature plays strange
tricks with us at such moments of intensity, and those glimmering
lights waxed and waned with a steady rise and fall.  Sometimes they
seemed to be tiny points of extreme brilliancy--little electric
sparks in the black obscurity--then they would widen and widen
until all that corner of the room was filled with their shifting
and sinister light.  And then suddenly they went out altogether.

The beast had closed its eyes.  I do not know whether there may
be any truth in the old idea of the dominance of the human gaze, or
whether the huge cat was simply drowsy, but the fact remains that,
far from showing any symptom of attacking me, it simply rested its
sleek, black head upon its huge forepaws and seemed to sleep.  I
stood, fearing to move lest I should rouse it into malignant life
once more.  But at least I was able to think clearly now that the
baleful eyes were off me.  Here I was shut up for the night with
the ferocious beast.  My own instincts, to say nothing of the words
of the plausible villain who laid this trap for me, warned me that
the animal was as savage as its master.  How could I stave it off
until morning?  The door was hopeless, and so were the narrow,
barred windows.  There was no shelter anywhere in the bare, stone-
flagged room.  To cry for assistance was absurd.  I knew that this
den was an outhouse, and that the corridor which connected it with
the house was at least a hundred feet long.  Besides, with the gale
thundering outside, my cries were not likely to be heard.  I had
only my own courage and my own wits to trust to.

And then, with a fresh wave of horror, my eyes fell upon the
lantern.  The candle had burned low, and was already beginning to
gutter.  In ten minutes it would be out.  I had only ten minutes
then in which to do something, for I felt that if I were once left
in the dark with that fearful beast I should be incapable of
action.  The very thought of it paralysed me.  I cast my
despairing eyes round this chamber of death, and they rested upon
one spot which seemed to promise I will not say safety, but less
immediate and imminent danger than the open floor.

I have said that the cage had a top as well as a front, and
this top was left standing when the front was wound through the
slot in the wall.  It consisted of bars at a few inches' interval,
with stout wire netting between, and it rested upon a strong
stanchion at each end.  It stood now as a great barred canopy over
the crouching figure in the corner.  The space between this iron
shelf and the roof may have been from two or three feet.  If I
could only get up there, squeezed in between bars and ceiling, I
should have only one vulnerable side.  I should be safe from below,
from behind, and from each side.  Only on the open face of it could
I be attacked.  There, it is true, I had no protection whatever;
but at least, I should be out of the brute's path when he began to
pace about his den.  He would have to come out of his way to reach
me.  It was now or never, for if once the light were out it would
be impossible.  With a gulp in my throat I sprang up, seized the
iron edge of the top, and swung myself panting on to it.  I writhed
in face downwards, and found myself looking straight into the
terrible eyes and yawning jaws of the cat.  Its fetid breath came
up into my face like the steam from some foul pot.

It appeared, however, to be rather curious than angry.  With a
sleek ripple of its long, black back it rose, stretched itself, and
then rearing itself on its hind legs, with one forepaw against the
wall, it raised the other, and drew its claws across the wire
meshes beneath me.  One sharp, white hook tore through my
trousers--for I may mention that I was still in evening dress--and
dug a furrow in my knee.  It was not meant as an attack, but rather
as an experiment, for upon my giving a sharp cry of pain he dropped
down again, and springing lightly into the room, he began walking
swiftly round it, looking up every now and again in my direction. 
For my part I shuffled backwards until I lay with my back against
the wall, screwing myself into the smallest space possible.  The
farther I got the more difficult it was for him to attack me.

He seemed more excited now that he had begun to move about, and
he ran swiftly and noiselessly round and round the den,
passing continually underneath the iron couch upon which I lay.  It
was wonderful to see so great a bulk passing like a shadow, with
hardly the softest thudding of velvety pads.  The candle was
burning low--so low that I could hardly see the creature.  And
then, with a last flare and splutter it went out altogether.  I was
alone with the cat in the dark!

It helps one to face a danger when one knows that one has done
all that possibly can be done.  There is nothing for it then but to
quietly await the result.  In this case, there was no chance of
safety anywhere except the precise spot where I was.  I stretched
myself out, therefore, and lay silently, almost breathlessly,
hoping that the beast might forget my presence if I did nothing to
remind him.  I reckoned that it must already be two o'clock.  At
four it would be full dawn.  I had not more than two hours to wait
for daylight.

Outside, the storm was still raging, and the rain lashed
continually against the little windows.  Inside, the poisonous and
fetid air was overpowering.  I could neither hear nor see the cat. 
I tried to think about other things--but only one had power enough
to draw my mind from my terrible position.  That was the
contemplation of my cousin's villainy, his unparalleled hypocrisy,
his malignant hatred of me.  Beneath that cheerful face there
lurked the spirit of a mediaeval assassin.  And as I thought of it
I saw more clearly how cunningly the thing had been arranged.  He
had apparently gone to bed with the others.  No doubt he had his
witness to prove it.  Then, unknown to them, he had slipped down,
had lured me into his den and abandoned me.  His story would be so
simple.  He had left me to finish my cigar in the billiard-room. 
I had gone down on my own account to have a last look at the cat. 
I had entered the room without observing that the cage was opened,
and I had been caught.  How could such a crime be brought home to
him?  Suspicion, perhaps--but proof, never!

How slowly those dreadful two hours went by!  Once I heard a
low, rasping sound, which I took to be the creature licking its own
fur.  Several times those greenish eyes gleamed at me through the
darkness, but never in a fixed stare, and my hopes grew stronger
that my presence had been forgotten or ignored.  At last the least
faint glimmer of light came through the windows--I first dimly
saw them as two grey squares upon the black wall, then grey turned
to white, and I could see my terrible companion once more.  And he,
alas, could see me!

It was evident to me at once that he was in a much more
dangerous and aggressive mood than when I had seen him last.  The
cold of the morning had irritated him, and he was hungry as well. 
With a continual growl he paced swiftly up and down the side of the
room which was farthest from my refuge, his whiskers bristling
angrily, and his tail switching and lashing.  As he turned at the
corners his savage eyes always looked upwards at me with a dreadful
menace.  I knew then that he meant to kill me.  Yet I found myself
even at that moment admiring the sinuous grace of the devilish
thing, its long, undulating, rippling movements, the gloss of its
beautiful flanks, the vivid, palpitating scarlet of the glistening
tongue which hung from the jet-black muzzle.  And all the time that
deep, threatening growl was rising and rising in an unbroken
crescendo.  I knew that the crisis was at hand.

It was a miserable hour to meet such a death--so cold, so
comfortless, shivering in my light dress clothes upon this gridiron
of torment upon which I was stretched.  I tried to brace myself
to it, to raise my soul above it, and at the same time, with the
lucidity which comes to a perfectly desperate man, I cast round for
some possible means of escape.  One thing was clear to me.  If that
front of the cage was only back in its position once more, I could
find a sure refuge behind it.  Could I possibly pull it back?  I
hardly dared to move for fear of bringing the creature upon me. 
Slowly, very slowly, I put my hand forward until it grasped the
edge of the front, the final bar which protruded through the wall. 
To my surprise it came quite easily to my jerk.  Of course the
difficulty of drawing it out arose from the fact that I was
clinging to it.  I pulled again, and three inches of it came
through.  It ran apparently on wheels.  I pulled again . . . and
then the cat sprang!

It was so quick, so sudden, that I never saw it happen.  I
simply heard the savage snarl, and in an instant afterwards the
blazing yellow eyes, the flattened black head with its red tongue
and flashing teeth, were within reach of me.  The impact of the
creature shook the bars upon which I lay, until I thought (as far
as I could think of anything at such a moment) that they were
coming down.  The cat swayed there for an instant, the head
and front paws quite close to me, the hind paws clawing to find a
grip upon the edge of the grating.  I heard the claws rasping as
they clung to the wire-netting, and the breath of the beast made me
sick.  But its bound had been miscalculated.  It could not retain
its position.  Slowly, grinning with rage, and scratching madly at
the bars, it swung backwards and dropped heavily upon the floor. 
With a growl it instantly faced round to me and crouched for
another spring.

I knew that the next few moments would decide my fate.  The
creature had learned by experience.  It would not miscalculate
again.  I must act promptly, fearlessly, if I were to have a chance
for life.  In an instant I had formed my plan.  Pulling off my
dress-coat, I threw it down over the head of the beast.  At the
same moment I dropped over the edge, seized the end of the front
grating, and pulled it frantically out of the wall.

It came more easily than I could have expected.  I rushed
across the room, bearing it with me; but, as I rushed, the accident
of my position put me upon the outer side.  Had it been the other
way, I might have come off scathless.  As it was, there was a
moment's pause as I stopped it and tried to pass in through the
opening which I had left.  That moment was enough to give time to
the creature to toss off the coat with which I had blinded him and
to spring upon me.  I hurled myself through the gap and pulled the
rails to behind me, but he seized my leg before I could entirely
withdraw it.  One stroke of that huge paw tore off my calf as a
shaving of wood curls off before a plane.  The next moment,
bleeding and fainting, I was lying among the foul straw with a line
of friendly bars between me and the creature which ramped so
frantically against them.

Too wounded to move, and too faint to be conscious of fear, I
could only lie, more dead than alive, and watch it.  It pressed its
broad, black chest against the bars and angled for me with its
crooked paws as I have seen a kitten do before a mouse-trap.  It
ripped my clothes, but, stretch as it would, it could not quite
reach me.  I have heard of the curious numbing effect produced by
wounds from the great carnivora, and now I was destined to
experience it, for I had lost all sense of personality, and was as
interested in the cat's failure or success as if it were some
game which I was watching.  And then gradually my mind drifted away
into strange vague dreams, always with that black face and red
tongue coming back into them, and so I lost myself in the nirvana
of delirium, the blessed relief of those who are too sorely tried.

Tracing the course of events afterwards, I conclude that I must
have been insensible for about two hours.  What roused me to
consciousness once more was that sharp metallic click which had
been the precursor of my terrible experience.  It was the shooting
back of the spring lock.  Then, before my senses were clear enough
to entirely apprehend what they saw, I was aware of the round,
benevolent face of my cousin peering in through the open door. 
What he saw evidently amazed him.  There was the cat crouching on
the floor.  I was stretched upon my back in my shirt-sleeves within
the cage, my trousers torn to ribbons and a great pool of blood all
round me.  I can see his amazed face now, with the morning sunlight
upon it.  He peered at me, and peered again.  Then he closed the
door behind him, and advanced to the cage to see if I were really
dead.

I cannot undertake to say what happened.  I was not in a fit
state to witness or to chronicle such events.  I can only say that
I was suddenly conscious that his face was away from me--that he
was looking towards the animal.

"Good old Tommy!" he cried.  "Good old Tommy!"

Then he came near the bars, with his back still towards me.

"Down, you stupid beast!" he roared.  "Down, sir!  Don't you
know your master?"

Suddenly even in my bemuddled brain a remembrance came of those
words of his when he had said that the taste of blood would turn
the cat into a fiend.  My blood had done it, but he was to pay the
price.

"Get away!" he screamed.  "Get away, you devil!  Baldwin! 
Baldwin!  Oh, my God!"

And then I heard him fall, and rise, and fall again, with a
sound like the ripping of sacking.  His screams grew fainter until
they were lost in the worrying snarl.  And then, after I thought
that he was dead, I saw, as in a nightmare, a blinded, tattered,
blood-soaked figure running wildly round the room--and
that was the last glimpse which I had of him before I fainted once
again.


I was many months in my recovery--in fact, I cannot say that I
have ever recovered, for to the end of my days I shall carry a
stick as a sign of my night with the Brazilian cat.  Baldwin, the
groom, and the other servants could not tell what had occurred,
when, drawn by the death-cries of their master, they found me
behind the bars, and his remains--or what they afterwards
discovered to be his remains--in the clutch of the creature which
he had reared.  They stalled him off with hot irons, and afterwards
shot him through the loophole of the door before they could finally
extricate me.  I was carried to my bedroom, and there, under the
roof of my would-be murderer, I remained between life and death for
several weeks.  They had sent for a surgeon from Clipton and a
nurse from London, and in a month I was able to be carried to the
station, and so conveyed back once more to Grosvenor Mansions.

I have one remembrance of that illness, which might have been
part of the ever-changing panorama conjured up by a delirious brain
were it not so definitely fixed in my memory.  One night, when the
nurse was absent, the door of my chamber opened, and a tall woman
in blackest mourning slipped into the room.  She came across to me,
and as she bent her sallow face I saw by the faint gleam of the
night-light that it was the Brazilian woman whom my cousin had
married.  She stared intently into my face, and her expression was
more kindly than I had ever seen it.

"Are you conscious?" she asked.

I feebly nodded--for I was still very weak.

"Well; then, I only wished to say to you that you have yourself
to blame.  Did I not do all I could for you?  From the beginning I
tried to drive you from the house.  By every means, short of
betraying my husband, I tried to save you from him.  I knew that he
had a reason for bringing you here.  I knew that he would never let
you get away again.  No one knew him as I knew him, who had
suffered from him so often.  I did not dare to tell you all this. 
He would have killed me.  But I did my best for you.  As
things have turned out, you have been the best friend that I
have ever had.  You have set me free, and I fancied that nothing
but death would do that.  I am sorry if you are hurt, but I cannot
reproach myself.  I told you that you were a fool--and a fool you
have been."  She crept out of the room, the bitter, singular woman,
and I was never destined to see her again.  With what remained from
her husband's property she went back to her native land, and I have
heard that she afterwards took the veil at Pernambuco.

It was not until I had been back in London for some time that
the doctors pronounced me to be well enough to do business.  It was
not a very welcome permission to me, for I feared that it would be
the signal for an inrush of creditors; but it was Summers, my
lawyer, who first took advantage of it.

"I am very glad to see that your lordship is so much better,"
said he.  "I have been waiting a long time to offer my
congratulations."

"What do you mean, Summers?  This is no time for joking."

"I mean what I say," he answered.  "You have been Lord
Southerton for the last six weeks, but we feared that it would
retard your recovery if you were to learn it."

Lord Southerton!  One of the richest peers in England!  I could
not believe my ears.  And then suddenly I thought of the time which
had elapsed, and how it coincided with my injuries.

"Then Lord Southerton must have died about the same time that
I was hurt?"

"His death occurred upon that very day."  Summers looked hard
at me as I spoke, and I am convinced--for he was a very shrewd
fellow--that he had guessed the true state of the case.  He paused
for a moment as if awaiting a confidence from me, but I could not
see what was to be gained by exposing such a family scandal.

"Yes, a very curious coincidence," he continued, with the same
knowing look.  "Of course, you are aware that your cousin Everard
King was the next heir to the estates.  Now, if it had been you
instead of him who had been torn to pieces by this tiger, or
whatever it was, then of course he would have been Lord Southerton
at the present moment."

"No doubt," said I.

"And he took such an interest in it," said Summers.  "I happen
to know that the late Lord Southerton's valet was in his pay, and
that he used to have telegrams from him every few hours to tell him
how he was getting on.  That would be about the time when you were
down there.  Was it not strange that he should wish to be so well
informed, since he knew that he was not the direct heir?"

"Very strange," said I.  "And now, Summers, if you will bring
me my bills and a new cheque-book, we will begin to get things into
order."




Tales of Mystery


The Lost Special

The confession of Herbert de Lernac, now lying under sentence of
death at Marseilles, has thrown a light upon one of the most
inexplicable crimes of the century--an incident which is, I
believe, absolutely unprecedented in the criminal annals of any
country: Although there is a reluctance to discuss the matter in
official circles, and little information has been given to the
Press, there are still indications that the statement of this
arch-criminal is corroborated by the facts, and that we have at
last found a solution for a most astounding business.  As the
matter is eight years old, and as its importance was somewhat
obscured by a political crisis which was engaging the public
attention at the time, it may be as well to state the facts as
far as we have been able to ascertain them.  They are collated
from the Liverpool papers of that date, from the proceedings at
the inquest upon John Slater, the engine-driver, and from the
records of the London and West Coast Railway Company, which
have been courteously put at my disposal.  Briefly, they are as
follows:

On the 3rd of June, 1890, a gentleman, who gave his name as
Monsieur Louis Caratal, desired an interview with Mr. James Bland,
the superintendent of the London and West Coast Central Station in
Liverpool.  He was a small man, middle-aged and dark, with a stoop
which was so marked that it suggested some deformity of the spine. 
He was accompanied by a friend, a man of imposing physique, whose
deferential manner and constant attention showed that his position
was one of dependence.  This friend or companion, whose name did
not transpire, was certainly a foreigner, and probably from his
swarthy complexion, either a Spaniard or a South American.  One
peculiarity was observed in him.  He carried in his left hand a
small black, leather dispatch box, and it was noticed by a sharp-
eyed clerk in the Central office that this box was fastened to
his wrist by a strap.  No importance was attached to the fact at
the time, but subsequent events endowed it with some significance. 
Monsieur Caratal was shown up to Mr. Bland's office, while his
companion remained outside.

Monsieur Caratal's business was quickly dispatched.  He had
arrived that afternoon from Central America.  Affairs of the utmost
importance demanded that he should be in Paris without the loss of
an unnecessary hour.  He had missed the London express.  A special
must be provided.  Money was of no importance.  Time was
everything.  If the company would speed him on his way, they might
make their own terms.

Mr. Bland struck the electric bell, summoned Mr. Potter Hood,
the traffic manager, and had the matter arranged in five minutes. 
The train would start in three-quarters of an hour.  It would take
that time to insure that the line should be clear.  The powerful
engine called Rochdale (No. 247 on the company's register) was
attached to two carriages, with a guard's van behind.  The first
carriage was solely for the purpose of decreasing the inconvenience
arising from the oscillation.  The second was divided, as usual,
into four compartments, a first-class, a first-class smoking, a
second-class, and a second-class smoking.  The first compartment,
which was nearest to the engine, was the one allotted to the
travellers.  The other three were empty.  The guard of the special
train was James McPherson, who had been some years in the service
of the company.  The stoker, William Smith, was a new hand.

Monsieur Caratal, upon leaving the superintendent's office,
rejoined his companion, and both of them manifested extreme
impatience to be off.  Having paid the money asked, which amounted
to fifty pounds five shillings, at the usual special rate of five
shillings a mile, they demanded to be shown the carriage, and at
once took their seats in it, although they were assured that the
better part of an hour must elapse before the line could be
cleared.  In the meantime a singular coincidence had occurred in
the office which Monsieur Caratal had just quitted.

A request for a special is not a very uncommon circumstance in
a rich commercial centre, but that two should be required upon the
same afternoon was most unusual.  It so happened, however,
that Mr. Bland had hardly dismissed the first traveller before a
second entered with a similar request.  This was a Mr. Horace
Moore, a gentlemanly man of military appearance, who alleged that
the sudden serious illness of his wife in London made it absolutely
imperative that he should not lose an instant in starting upon the
journey.  His distress and anxiety were so evident that Mr. Bland
did all that was possible to meet his wishes.  A second special was
out of the question, as the ordinary local service was already
somewhat deranged by the first.  There was the alternative,
however, that Mr. Moore should share the expense of Monsieur
Caratal's train, and should travel in the other empty first-class
compartment, if Monsieur Caratal objected to having him in the one
which he occupied.  It was difficult to see any objection to such
an arrangement, and yet Monsieur Caratal, upon the suggestion being
made to him by Mr. Potter Hood, absolutely refused to consider it
for an instant.  The train was his, he said, and he would insist
upon the exclusive use of it.  All argument failed to overcome his
ungracious objections, and finally the plan had to be abandoned. 
Mr. Horace Moore left the station in great distress, after learning
that his only course was to take the ordinary slow train which
leaves Liverpool at six o'clock.  At four thirty-one exactly by the
station clock the special train, containing the crippled Monsieur
Caratal and his gigantic companion, steamed out of the Liverpool
station.  The line was at that time clear, and there should have
been no stoppage before Manchester.

The trains of the London and West Coast Railway run over the
lines of another company as far as this town, which should have
been reached by the special rather before six o'clock.  At a
quarter after six considerable surprise and some consternation were
caused amongst the officials at Liverpool by the receipt of a
telegram from Manchester to say that it had not yet arrived.  An
inquiry directed to St. Helens, which is a third of the way between
the two cities, elicited the following reply--

"To James Bland, Superintendent, Central L. & W. C.,
Liverpool.--Special passed here at 4:52, well up to time.--Dowster,
St. Helens."

This telegram was received at six-forty.  At six-fifty a second
message was received from Manchester--

"No sign of special as advised by you."

And then ten minutes later a third, more bewildering--

"Presume some mistake as to proposed running of special.  Local
train from St. Helens timed to follow it has just arrived and has
seen nothing of it.  Kindly wire advices.--Manchester."

The matter was assuming a most amazing aspect, although in some
respects the last telegram was a relief to the authorities at
Liverpool.  If an accident had occurred to the special, it seemed
hardly possible that the local train could have passed down the
same line without observing it.  And yet, what was the alternative? 
Where could the train be?  Had it possibly been sidetracked for
some reason in order to allow the slower train to go past?  Such an
explanation was possible if some small repair had to be effected. 
A telegram was dispatched to each of the stations between St.
Helens and Manchester, and the superintendent and traffic manager
waited in the utmost suspense at the instrument for the series of
replies which would enable them to say for certain what had become
of the missing train.  The answers came back in the order of
questions, which was the order of the stations beginning at the St.
Helens end--

"Special passed here five o'clock.--Collins Green."

"Special passed here six past five.--Earlstown."

"Special passed here 5:10.--Newton."

"Special passed here 5:20.--Kenyon Junction."

"No special train has passed here.--Barton Moss."

The two officials stared at each other in amazement.

"This is unique in my thirty years of experience," said Mr.
Bland.

"Absolutely unprecedented and inexplicable, sir.  The special
has gone wrong between Kenyon Junction and Barton Moss."

"And yet there is no siding, so far as my memory serves me,
between the two stations.  The special must have run off the
metals."

"But how could the four-fifty parliamentary pass over the same
line without observing it?"

"There's no alternative, Mr. Hood.  It must be so. 
Possibly the local train may have observed something which may
throw some light upon the matter.  We will wire to Manchester for
more information, and to Kenyon Junction with instructions that the
line be examined instantly as far as Barton Moss."
The answer from Manchester came within a few minutes.

"No news of missing special.  Driver and guard of slow train
positive no accident between Kenyon Junction and Barton Moss.
Line quite clear, and no sign of anything unusual.--Manchester."

"That driver and guard will have to go," said Mr. Bland,
grimly.  "There has been a wreck and they have missed it.  The
special has obviously run off the metals without disturbing the
line--how it could have done so passes my comprehension--but so it
must be, and we shall have a wire from Kenyon or Barton Moss
presently to say that they have found her at the bottom of an
embankment."

But Mr. Bland's prophecy was not destined to be fulfilled. 
Half an hour passed, and then there arrived the following message
from the station-master of Kenyon Junction--

"There are no traces of the missing special.  It is quite
certain that she passed here, and that she did not arrive at Barton
Moss.  We have detached engine from goods train, and I have myself
ridden down the line, but all is clear, and there is no sign of any
accident."

Mr. Bland tore his hair in his perplexity.

"This is rank lunacy, Hood!" he cried.  "Does a train vanish
into thin air in England in broad daylight?  The thing is
preposterous.  An engine, a tender, two carriages, a van, five
human beings--and all lost on a straight line of railway!  Unless
we get something positive within the next hour I'll take Inspector
Collins, and go down myself."

And then at last something positive did occur.  It took the
shape of another telegram from Kenyon Junction.

"Regret to report that the dead body of John Slater, driver of
the special train, has just been found among the gorse bushes at a
point two and a quarter miles from the Junction.  Had fallen from
his engine, pitched down the embankment, and rolled among the
bushes.  Injuries to his head, from the fall, appear to be cause of
death.  Ground has now been carefully examined, and there is no
trace of the missing train."

The country was, as has already been stated, in the throes of
a political crisis, and the attention of the public was
further distracted by the important and sensational developments in
Paris, where a huge scandal threatened to destroy the Government
and to wreck the reputations of many of the leading men in France. 
The papers were full of these events, and the singular
disappearance of the special train attracted less attention than
would have been the case in more peaceful times.  The grotesque
nature of the event helped to detract from its importance, for the
papers were disinclined to believe the facts as reported to them. 
More than one of the London journals treated the matter as an
ingenious hoax, until the coroner's inquest upon the unfortunate
driver (an inquest which elicited nothing of importance) convinced
them of the tragedy of the incident.

Mr. Bland, accompanied by Inspector Collins, the senior
detective officer in the service of the company, went down to
Kenyon Junction the same evening, and their research lasted
throughout the following day, but was attended with purely negative
results.  Not only was no trace found of the missing train, but no
conjecture could be put forward which could possibly explain the
facts.  At the same time, Inspector Collins's official report
(which lies before me as I write) served to show that the
possibilities were more numerous than might have been expected.

"In the stretch of railway between these two points," said he,
"the country is dotted with ironworks and collieries.  Of these,
some are being worked and some have been abandoned.  There are no
fewer than twelve which have small-gauge lines which run trolly-
cars down to the main line.  These can, of course, be disregarded. 
Besides these, however, there are seven which have, or have had,
proper lines running down and connecting with points to the main
line, so as to convey their produce from the mouth of the mine to
the great centres of distribution.  In every case these lines are
only a few miles in length.  Out of the seven, four belong to
collieries which are worked out, or at least to shafts which are no
longer used.  These are the Redgauntlet, Hero, Slough of Despond,
and Heartsease mines, the latter having ten years ago been one of
the principal mines in Lancashire.  These four side lines may be
eliminated from our inquiry, for, to prevent possible accidents,
the rails nearest to the main line have been taken up, and
there is no longer any connection.  There remain three other side
lines leading--

(a) To the Carnstock Iron Works;
(b) To the Big Ben Colliery;
(c) To the Perseverance Colliery.


"Of these the Big Ben line is not more than a quarter of a mile
long, and ends at a dead wall of coal waiting removal from the
mouth of the mine.  Nothing had been seen or heard there of any
special.  The Carnstock Iron Works line was blocked all day upon
the 3rd of June by sixteen truckloads of hematite.  It is a single
line, and nothing could have passed.  As to the Perseverance line,
it is a large double line, which does a considerable traffic, for
the output of the mine is very large.  On the 3rd of June this
traffic proceeded as usual; hundreds of men including a gang of
railway platelayers were working along the two miles and a quarter
which constitute the total length of the line, and it is
inconceivable that an unexpected train could have come down there
without attracting universal attention.  It may be remarked in
conclusion that this branch line is nearer to St. Helens than the
point at which the engine-driver was discovered, so that we have
every reason to believe that the train was past that point before
misfortune overtook her.

"As to John Slater, there is no clue to be gathered from his
appearance or injuries.  We can only say that, so far as we can
see, he met his end by falling off his engine, though why he fell,
or what became of the engine after his fall, is a question upon
which I do not feel qualified to offer an opinion."  In conclusion,
the inspector offered his resignation to the Board, being much
nettled by an accusation of incompetence in the London papers.

A month elapsed, during which both the police and the company
prosecuted their inquiries without the slightest success.  A reward
was offered and a pardon promised in case of crime, but they were
both unclaimed.  Every day the public opened their papers with the
conviction that so grotesque a mystery would at last be solved, but
week after week passed by, and a solution remained as far off as
ever.  In broad daylight, upon a June afternoon in the most thickly
inhabited portion of England, a train with its occupants had
disappeared as completely as if some master of subtle chemistry had
volatilized it into gas.  Indeed, among the various conjectures
which were put forward in the public Press, there were some which
seriously asserted that supernatural, or, at least, preternatural,
agencies had been at work, and that the deformed Monsieur Caratal
was probably a person who was better known under a less polite
name.  Others fixed upon his swarthy companion as being the author
of the mischief, but what it was exactly which he had done could
never be clearly formulated in words.

Amongst the many suggestions put forward by various newspapers
or private individuals, there were one or two which were feasible
enough to attract the attention of the public.  One which appeared
in The Times, over the signature of an amateur reasoner of some
celebrity at that date, attempted to deal with the matter in a
critical and semi-scientific manner.  An extract must suffice,
although the curious can see the whole letter in the issue of the
3rd of July.

"It is one of the elementary principles of practical
reasoning," he remarked, "that when the impossible has been
eliminated the residuum, HOWEVER IMPROBABLE, must contain the
truth.  It is certain that the train left Kenyon Junction.  It is
certain that it did not reach Barton Moss.  It is in the highest
degree unlikely, but still possible, that it may have taken one of
the seven available side lines.  It is obviously impossible for a
train to run where there are no rails, and, therefore, we may
reduce our improbables to the three open lines, namely the
Carnstock Iron Works, the Big Ben, and the Perseverance.  Is there
a secret society of colliers, an English Camorra, which is
capable of destroying both train and passengers?  It is improbable,
but it is not impossible.  I confess that I am unable to suggest
any other solution.  I should certainly advise the company to
direct all their energies towards the observation of those three
lines, and of the workmen at the end of them.  A careful
supervision of the pawnbrokers' shops of the district might
possibly bring some suggestive facts to light."

The suggestion coming from a recognized authority upon such
matters created considerable interest, and a fierce opposition from
those who considered such a statement to be a preposterous
libel upon an honest and deserving set of men.  The only
answer to this criticism was a challenge to the objectors to lay
any more feasible explanations before the public.  In reply to this
two others were forthcoming (Times, July 7th and 9th).  The
first suggested that the train might have run off the metals and be
lying submerged in the Lancashire and Staffordshire Canal, which
runs parallel to the railway for some hundred of yards.  This
suggestion was thrown out of court by the published depth of the
canal, which was entirely insufficient to conceal so large an
object.  The second correspondent wrote calling attention to the
bag which appeared to be the sole luggage which the travellers had
brought with them, and suggesting that some novel explosive of
immense and pulverizing power might have been concealed in it.  The
obvious absurdity, however, of supposing that the whole train might
be blown to dust while the metals remained uninjured reduced any
such explanation to a farce.  The investigation had drifted into
this hopeless position when a new and most unexpected incident
occurred.

This was nothing less than the receipt by Mrs. McPherson of a
letter from her husband, James McPherson, who had been the guard on
the missing train.  The letter, which was dated July 5th, 1890, was
posted from New York and came to hand upon July 14th.  Some doubts
were expressed as to its genuine character but Mrs. McPherson was
positive as to the writing, and the fact that it contained a
remittance of a hundred dollars in five-dollar notes was enough in
itself to discount the idea of a hoax.  No address was given in the
letter, which ran in this way:

MY DEAR WIFE,--

"I have been thinking a great deal, and I find it very hard to
give you up.  The same with Lizzie.  I try to fight against it, but
it will always come back to me.  I send you some money which will
change into twenty English pounds.  This should be enough to bring
both Lizzie and you across the Atlantic, and you will find the
Hamburg boats which stop at Southampton very good boats, and
cheaper than Liverpool.  If you could come here and stop at the
Johnston House I would try and send you word how to meet, but
things are very difficult with me at present, and I am not
very happy, finding it hard to give you both up.  So no more at
present, from your loving husband,

"James McPherson."



For a time it was confidently anticipated that this letter
would lead to the clearing up of the whole matter, the more so as
it was ascertained that a passenger who bore a close resemblance to
the missing guard had travelled from Southampton under the name of
Summers in the Hamburg and New York liner Vistula, which
started upon the 7th of June.  Mrs. McPherson and her sister Lizzie
Dolton went across to New York as directed and stayed for three
weeks at the Johnston House, without hearing anything from the
missing man.  It is probable that some injudicious comments in the
Press may have warned him that the police were using them as a
bait.  However, this may be, it is certain that he neither wrote
nor came, and the women were eventually compelled to return to
Liverpool.

And so the matter stood, and has continued to stand up to the
present year of 1898.  Incredible as it may seem, nothing has
transpired during these eight years which has shed the least light
upon the extraordinary disappearance of the special train which
contained Monsieur Caratal and his companion.  Careful inquiries
into the antecedents of the two travellers have only established
the fact that Monsieur Caratal was well known as a financier and
political agent in Central America, and that during his voyage to
Europe he had betrayed extraordinary anxiety to reach Paris.  His
companion, whose name was entered upon the passenger lists as
Eduardo Gomez, was a man whose record was a violent one, and whose
reputation was that of a bravo and a bully.  There was evidence to
show, however, that he was honestly devoted to the interests of
Monsieur Caratal, and that the latter, being a man of puny
physique, employed the other as a guard and protector.  It may be
added that no information came from Paris as to what the objects of
Monsieur Caratal's hurried journey may have been.  This comprises
all the facts of the case up to the publication in the Marseilles
papers of the recent confession of Herbert de Lernac, now under
sentence of death for the murder of a merchant named Bonvalot. 
This statement may be literally translated as follows:


"It is not out of mere pride or boasting that I give this
information, for, if that were my object, I could tell a dozen
actions of mine which are quite as splendid; but I do it in order
that certain gentlemen in Paris may understand that I, who am able
here to tell about the fate of Monsieur Caratal, can also tell in
whose interest and at whose request the deed was done, unless the
reprieve which I am awaiting comes to me very quickly.  Take
warning, messieurs, before it is too late!  You know Herbert de
Lernac, and you are aware that his deeds are as ready as his words. 
Hasten then, or you are lost!

"At present I shall mention no names--if you only heard the
names, what would you not think!--but I shall merely tell you how
cleverly I did it.  I was true to my employers then, and no doubt
they will be true to me now.  I hope so, and until I am convinced
that they have betrayed me, these names, which would convulse
Europe, shall not be divulged.  But on that day . . . well, I say
no more!

"In a word, then, there was a famous trial in Paris, in the
year 1890, in connection with a monstrous scandal in politics and
finance.  How monstrous that scandal was can never be known save by
such confidential agents as myself.  The honour and careers of many
of the chief men in France were at stake.  You have seen a group of
ninepins standing, all so rigid, and prim, and unbending.  Then
there comes the ball from far away and pop, pop, pop--there are
your ninepins on the floor.  Well, imagine some of the greatest men
in France as these ninepins and then this Monsieur Caratal was the
ball which could be seen coming from far away.  If he arrived, then
it was pop, pop, pop for all of them.  It was determined that he
should not arrive.

"I do not accuse them all of being conscious of what was to
happen.  There were, as I have said, great financial as well as
political interests at stake, and a syndicate was formed to manage
the business.  Some subscribed to the syndicate who hardly
understood what were its objects.  But others understood very well,
and they can rely upon it that I have not forgotten their names. 
They had ample warning that Monsieur Caratal was coming long before
he left South America, and they knew that the evidence which he
held would certainly mean ruin to all of them.  The syndicate had
the command of an unlimited amount of money--absolutely
unlimited, you understand.  They looked round for an agent who was
capable of wielding this gigantic power.  The man chosen must be
inventive, resolute, adaptive--a man in a million.  They chose
Herbert de Lernac, and I admit that they were right.

"My duties were to choose my subordinates, to use freely the
power which money gives, and to make certain that Monsieur Caratal
should never arrive in Paris.  With characteristic energy I set
about my commission within an hour of receiving my instructions,
and the steps which I took were the very best for the purpose which
could possibly be devised.

"A man whom I could trust was dispatched instantly to South
America to travel home with Monsieur Caratal.  Had he arrived in
time the ship would never have reached Liverpool; but alas! it had
already started before my agent could reach it.  I fitted out a
small armed brig to intercept it, but again I was unfortunate. 
Like all great organizers I was, however, prepared for failure, and
had a series of alternatives prepared, one or the other of which
must succeed.  You must not underrate the difficulties of my
undertaking, or imagine that a mere commonplace assassination would
meet the case.  We must destroy not only Monsieur Caratal, but
Monsieur Caratal's documents, and Monsieur Caratal's companions
also, if we had reason to believe that he had communicated his
secrets to them.  And you must remember that they were on the
alert, and keenly suspicious of any such attempt.  It was a task
which was in every way worthy of me, for I am always most masterful
where another would be appalled.

"I was all ready for Monsieur Caratal's reception in Liverpool,
and I was the more eager because I had reason to believe that he
had made arrangements by which he would have a considerable guard
from the moment that he arrived in London.  Anything which was to
be done must be done between the moment of his setting foot upon
the Liverpool quay and that of his arrival at the London and West
Coast terminus in London.  We prepared six plans, each more
elaborate than the last; which plan would be used would depend upon
his own movements.  Do what he would, we were ready for him.  If he
had stayed in Liverpool, we were ready.  If he took an ordinary
train, an express, or a special, all was ready.  Everything had
been foreseen and provided for.

"You may imagine that I could not do all this myself.  What
could I know of the English railway lines?  But money can
procure willing agents all the world over, and I soon had one of
the acutest brains in England to assist me.  I will mention no
names, but it would be unjust to claim all the credit for myself. 
My English ally was worthy of such an alliance.  He knew the London
and West Coast line thoroughly, and he had the command of a band of
workers who were trustworthy and intelligent.  The idea was his,
and my own judgement was only required in the details.  We bought
over several officials, amongst whom the most important was James
McPherson, whom we had ascertained to be the guard most likely to
be employed upon a special train.  Smith, the stoker, was also in
our employ.  John Slater, the engine-driver, had been approached,
but had been found to be obstinate and dangerous, so we desisted. 
We had no certainty that Monsieur Caratal would take a special, but
we thought it very probable, for it was of the utmost importance to
him that he should reach Paris without delay.  It was for this
contingency, therefore, that we made special preparations--
preparations which were complete down to the last detail long
before his steamer had sighted the shores of England.  You will be
amused to learn that there was one of my agents in the pilot-boat
which brought that steamer to its moorings.

"The moment that Caratal arrived in Liverpool we knew that he
suspected danger and was on his guard.  He had brought with him as
an escort a dangerous fellow, named Gomez, a man who carried
weapons, and was prepared to use them.  This fellow carried
Caratal's confidential papers for him, and was ready to protect
either them or his master.  The probability was that Caratal had
taken him into his counsel, and that to remove Caratal without
removing Gomez would be a mere waste of energy.  It was necessary
that they should be involved in a common fate, and our plans to
that end were much facilitated by their request for a special
train.  On that special train you will understand that two out of
the three servants of the company were really in our employ, at a
price which would make them independent for a lifetime.  I do not
go so far as to say that the English are more honest than any other
nation, but I have found them more expensive to buy.

"I have already spoken of my English agent--who is a man
with a considerable future before him, unless some complaint
of the throat carries him off before his time.  He had charge of
all arrangements at Liverpool, whilst I was stationed at the inn at
Kenyon, where I awaited a cipher signal to act.  When the special
was arranged for, my agent instantly telegraphed to me and warned
me how soon I should have everything ready.  He himself under the
name of Horace Moore applied immediately for a special also, in the
hope that he would be sent down with Monsieur Caratal, which might
under certain circumstances have been helpful to us.  If, for
example, our great coup had failed, it would then have become the
duty of my agent to have shot them both and destroyed their papers. 
Caratal was on his guard, however, and refused to admit any other
traveller.  My agent then left the station, returned by another
entrance, entered the guard's van on the side farthest from the
platform, and travelled down with McPherson the guard.

"In the meantime you will be interested to know what my
movements were.  Everything had been prepared for days before, and
only the finishing touches were needed.  The side line which we had
chosen had once joined the main line, but it had been disconnected. 
We had only to replace a few rails to connect it once more.  These
rails had been laid down as far as could be done without danger of
attracting attention, and now it was merely a case of completing a
juncture with the line, and arranging the points as they had been
before.  The sleepers had never been removed, and the rails, fish-
plates and rivets were all ready, for we had taken them from a
siding on the abandoned portion of the line.  With my small but
competent band of workers, we had everything ready long before the
special arrived.  When it did arrive, it ran off upon the small
side line so easily that the jolting of the points appears to have
been entirely unnoticed by the two travellers.

"Our plan had been that Smith, the stoker, should chloroform
John Slater, the driver, so that he should vanish with the others. 
In this respect, and in this respect only, our plans miscarried--I
except the criminal folly of McPherson in writing home to his wife. 
Our stoker did his business so clumsily that Slater in his
struggles fell off the engine, and though fortune was with us so
far that he broke his neck in the fall, still he remained as a blot
upon that which would otherwise have been one of those complete
masterpieces which are only to be contemplated in silent
admiration.  The criminal expert will find in John Slater the one
flaw in all our admirable combinations.  A man who has had as many
triumphs as I can afford to be frank, and I therefore lay my finger
upon John Slater, and I proclaim him to be a flaw.

"But now I have got our special train upon the small line two
kilometres, or rather more than one mile, in length, which leads,
or rather used to lead, to the abandoned Heartsease mine, once one
of the largest coal mines in England.  You will ask how it is that
no one saw the train upon this unused line.  I answer that along
its entire length it runs through a deep cutting, and that, unless
someone had been on the edge of that cutting, he could not have
seen it.  There WAS someone on the edge of that cutting.  I was
there.  And now I will tell you what I saw.

"My assistant had remained at the points in order that he might
superintend the switching off of the train.  He had four armed men
with him, so that if the train ran off the line--we thought it
probable, because the points were very rusty--we might still have
resources to fall back upon.  Having once seen it safely on the
side line, he handed over the responsibility to me.  I was waiting
at a point which overlooks the mouth of the mine, and I was also
armed, as were my two companions.  Come what might, you see, I was
always ready.

"The moment that the train was fairly on the side line, Smith,
the stoker, slowed-down the engine, and then, having turned it on
to the fullest speed again, he and McPherson, with my English
lieutenant, sprang off before it was too late.  It may be that it
was this slowing-down which first attracted the attention of the
travellers, but the train was running at full speed again before
their heads appeared at the open window.  It makes me smile to
think how bewildered they must have been.  Picture to yourself your
own feelings if, on looking out of your luxurious carriage, you
suddenly perceived that the lines upon which you ran were rusted
and corroded, red and yellow with disuse and decay!  What a catch
must have come in their breath as in a second it flashed upon them
that it was not Manchester but Death which was waiting for them at
the end of that sinister line.  But the train was running with
frantic speed, rolling and rocking over the rotten line, while
the wheels made a frightful screaming sound upon the rusted
surface.  I was close to them, and could see their faces.  Caratal
was praying, I think--there was something like a rosary dangling
out of his hand.  The other roared like a bull who smells the blood
of the slaughter-house.  He saw us standing on the bank, and he
beckoned to us like a madman.  Then he tore at his wrist and threw
his dispatch-box out of the window in our direction.  Of course,
his meaning was obvious.  Here was the evidence, and they would
promise to be silent if their lives were spared.  It would have
been very agreeable if we could have done so, but business is
business.  Besides, the train was now as much beyond our controls
as theirs.

"He ceased howling when the train rattled round the curve and
they saw the black mouth of the mine yawning before them.  We had
removed the boards which had covered it, and we had cleared the
square entrance.  The rails had formerly run very close to the
shaft for the convenience of loading the coal, and we had only to
add two or three lengths of rail in order to lead to the very brink
of the shaft.  In fact, as the lengths would not quite fit, our
line projected about three feet over the edge.  We saw the two
heads at the window: Caratal below, Gomez above; but they had both
been struck silent by what they saw.  And yet they could not
withdraw their heads.  The sight seemed to have paralysed them.

"I had wondered how the train running at a great speed would
take the pit into which I had guided it, and I was much interested
in watching it.  One of my colleagues thought that it would
actually jump it, and indeed it was not very far from doing so. 
Fortunately, however, it fell short, and the buffers of the engine
struck the other lip of the shaft with a tremendous crash.  The
funnel flew off into the air.  The tender, carriages, and van were
all smashed up into one jumble, which, with the remains of the
engine, choked for a minute or so the mouth of the pit.  Then
something gave way in the middle, and the whole mass of green iron,
smoking coals, brass fittings, wheels, wood-work, and cushions all
crumbled together and crashed down into the mine.  We heard the
rattle, rattle, rattle, as the debris struck against the walls, and
then, quite a long time afterwards, there came a deep roar as the
remains of the train struck the bottom.  The boiler may have
burst, for a sharp crash came after the roar, and then a dense
cloud of steam and smoke swirled up out of the black depths,
falling in a spray as thick as rain all round us.  Then the vapour
shredded off into thin wisps, which floated away in the summer
sunshine, and all was quiet again in the Heartsease mine.

"And now, having carried out our plans so successfully, it only
remained to leave no trace behind us.  Our little band of workers
at the other end had already ripped up the rails and disconnected
the side line, replacing everything as it had been before.  We were
equally busy at the mine.  The funnel and other fragments were
thrown in, the shaft was planked over as it used to be, and the
lines which led to it were torn up and taken away.  Then, without
flurry, but without delay, we all made our way out of the country,
most of us to Paris, my English colleague to Manchester, and
McPherson to Southampton, whence he emigrated to America.  Let the
English papers of that date tell how throughly we had done our
work, and how completely we had thrown the cleverest of their
detectives off our track.

"You will remember that Gomez threw his bag of papers out of
the window, and I need not say that I secured that bag and brought
them to my employers.  It may interest my employers now, however,
to learn that out of that bag I took one or two little papers as a
souvenir of the occasion.  I have no wish to publish these papers;
but, still, it is every man for himself in this world, and what
else can I do if my friends will not come to my aid when I want
them?  Messieurs, you may believe that Herbert de Lernac is quite
as formidable when he is against you as when he is with you, and
that he is not a man to go to the guillotine until he has seen that
every one of you is en route for New Caledonia.  For your own
sake, if not for mine, make haste, Monsieur de----, and
General----, and Baron---- (you can fill up the blanks for
yourselves as you read this).  I promise you that in the next
edition there will be no blanks to fill.

"P.S.--As I look over my statement there is only one omission
which I can see.  It concerns the unfortunate man McPherson, who
was foolish enough to write to his wife and to make an appointment
with her in New York.  It can be imagined that when interests like
ours were at stake, we could not leave them to the chance of
whether a man in that class of life would or would not give
away his secrets to a woman.  Having once broken his oath by
writing to his wife, we could not trust him any more.  We took
steps therefore to insure that he should not see his wife.  I have
sometimes thought that it would be a kindness to write to her and
to assure her that there is no impediment to her marrying again."



The Beetle-Hunter


A curious experience? said the Doctor.  Yes, my friends, I have
had one very curious experience.  I never expect to have another,
for it is against all doctrines of chances that two such events
would befall any one man in a single lifetime.  You may believe
me or not, but the thing happened exactly as I tell it.

I had just become a medical man, but I had not started in
practice, and I lived in rooms in Gower Street.  The street has
been renumbered since then, but it was in the only house which has
a bow-window, upon the left-hand side as you go down from the
Metropolitan Station.  A widow named Murchison kept the house at
that time, and she had three medical students and one engineer as
lodgers.  I occupied the top room, which was the cheapest, but
cheap as it was it was more than I could afford.  My small
resources were dwindling away, and every week it became more
necessary that I should find something to do.  Yet I was very
unwilling to go into general practice, for my tastes were all in
the direction of science, and especially of zoology, towards which
I had always a strong leaning.  I had almost given the fight up and
resigned myself to being a medical drudge for life, when the
turning-point of my struggles came in a very extraordinary way.

One morning I had picked up the Standard and was glancing
over its contents.  There was a complete absence of news, and I was
about to toss the paper down again, when my eyes were caught by an
advertisement at the head of the personal column.  It was worded in
this way:


"Wanted for one or more days the services of a medical man.  It
is essential that he should be a man of strong physique, of steady
nerves, and of a resolute nature.  Must be an entomologist--
coleopterist preferred.  Apply, in person, at 77B, Brook Street. 
Application must be made before twelve o'clock today."


Now, I have already said that I was devoted to zoology.  Of all
branches of zoology, the study of insects was the most attractive
to me, and of all insects beetles were the species with which I
was most familiar.  Butterfly collectors are numerous, but
beetles are far more varied, and more accessible in these islands
than are butterflies.  It was this fact which had attracted my
attention to them, and I had myself made a collection which
numbered some hundred varieties.  As to the other requisites of the
advertisement, I knew that my nerves could be depended upon, and I
had won the weight-throwing competition at the inter-hospital
sports.  Clearly, I was the very man for the vacancy.  Within five
minutes of my having read the advertisement I was in a cab and on
my was to Brook Street.

As I drove, I kept turning the matter over in my head and
trying to make a guess as to what sort of employment it could be
which needed such curious qualifications.  A strong physique, a
resolute nature, a medical training, and a knowledge of beetles--
what connection could there be between these various requisites? 
And then there was the disheartening fact that the situation was
not a permanent one, but terminable from day to day, according to
the terms of the advertisement.  The more I pondered over it the
more unintelligible did it become; but at the end of my meditations
I always came back to the ground fact that, come what might, I had
nothing to lose, that I was completely at the end of my resources,
and that I was ready for any adventure, however desperate, which
would put a few honest sovereigns into my pocket.  The man fears to
fail who has to pay for his failure, but there was no penalty which
Fortune could exact from me.  I was like the gambler with empty
pockets, who is still allowed to try his luck with the others.

No. 77B, Brook Street, was one of those dingy and yet imposing
houses, dun-coloured and flat-faced, with the intensely respectable
and solid air which marks the Georgian builder.  As I alighted from
the cab, a young man came out of the door and walked swiftly down
the street.  In passing me, I noticed that he cast an inquisitive
and somewhat malevolent glance at me, and I took the incident as a
good omen, for his appearance was that of a rejected candidate, and
if he resented my application it meant that the vacancy was not yet
filled up.  Full of hope, I ascended the broad steps and rapped
with the heavy knocker.

A footman in powder and livery opened the door.  Clearly I was
in touch with the people of wealth and fashion.


"Yes, sir?" said the footman.

"I came in answer to----"

"Quite so, sir," said the footman.  "Lord Linchmere will see
you at once in the library."

Lord Linchmere!  I had vaguely heard the name, but could not
for the instant recall anything about him.  Following the footman,
I was shown into a large, book-lined room in which there was seated
behind a writing-desk a small man with a pleasant, clean-shaven,
mobile face, and long hair shot with grey, brushed back from his
forehead.  He looked me up and down with a very shrewd, penetrating
glance, holding the card which the footman had given him in his
right hand.  Then he smiled pleasantly, and I felt that externally
at any rate I possessed the qualifications which he desired.

"You have come in answer to my advertisement, Dr. Hamilton?" he
asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you fulfil the conditions which are there laid down?"

"I believe that I do."

"You are a powerful man, or so I should judge from your
appearance.

"I think that I am fairly strong."

"And resolute?"

"I believe so."

"Have you ever known what it was to be exposed to imminent
danger?"

"No, I don't know that I ever have."

"But you think you would be prompt and cool at such a time?"

"I hope so."

"Well, I believe that you would.  I have the more confidence in
you because you do not pretend to be certain as to what you would
do in a position that was new to you.  My impression is that, so
far as personal qualities go, you are the very man of whom I am in
search.  That being settled, we may pass on to the next point."

"Which is?"

"To talk to me about beetles."

I looked across to see if he was joking, but, on the contrary,
he was leaning eagerly forward across his desk, and there was
an expression of something like anxiety in his eyes.

"I am afraid that you do not know about beetles," he cried.

"On the contrary, sir, it is the one scientific subject about
which I feel that I really do know something."

"I am overjoyed to hear it.  Please talk to me about beetles."

I talked.  I do not profess to have said anything original upon
the subject, but I gave a short sketch of the characteristics of
the beetle, and ran over the more common species, with some
allusions to the specimens in my own little collection and to the
article upon "Burying Beetles" which I had contributed to the
Journal of Entomological Science.

"What! not a collector?" cried Lord Linchmere.  "You don't mean
that you are yourself a collector?"  His eyes danced with pleasure
at the thought.

"You are certainly the very man in London for my purpose.  I
thought that among five millions of people there must be such a
man, but the difficulty is to lay one's hands upon him.  I have
been extraordinarily fortunate in finding you."

He rang a gong upon the table, and the footman entered.

"Ask Lady Rossiter to have the goodness to step this way," said
his lordship, and a few moments later the lady was ushered into the
room.  She was a small, middle-aged woman, very like Lord Linchmere
in appearance, with the same quick, alert features and grey-black
hair.  The expression of anxiety, however, which I had observed
upon his face was very much more marked upon hers.  Some great
grief seemed to have cast its shadow over her features.  As Lord
Linchmere presented me she turned her face full upon me, and I was
shocked to observe a half-healed scar extending for two inches over
her right eyebrow.  It was partly concealed by plaster, but none
the less I could see that it had been a serious wound and not long
inflicted.

"Dr. Hamilton is the very man for our purpose, Evelyn," said
Lord Linchmere.  "He is actually a collector of beetles, and he has
written articles upon the subject."

"Really!" said Lady Rossiter.  "Then you must have heard of my
husband.  Everyone who knows anything about beetles must have heard
of Sir Thomas Rossiter."

For the first time a thin little ray of light began to break
into the obscure business.  Here, at last, was a
connection between these people and beetles.  Sir Thomas Rossiter--
he was the greatest authority upon the subject in the world.  He
had made it his lifelong study, and had written a most exhaustive
work upon it.  I hastened to assure her that I had read and
appreciated it.

"Have you met my husband?" she asked.

"No, I have not."

"But you shall," said Lord Linchmere, with decision.

The lady was standing beside the desk, and she put her hand
upon his shoulder.  It was obvious to me as I saw their faces
together that they were brother and sister.

"Are you really prepared for this, Charles?  It is noble of
you, but you fill me with fears."  Her voice quavered with
apprehension, and he appeared to me to be equally moved, though he
was making strong efforts to conceal his agitation.

"Yes, yes, dear; it is all settled, it is all decided; in fact,
there is no other possible way, that I can see."

"There is one obvious way."

"No, no, Evelyn, I shall never abandon you--never.  It will
come right--depend upon it; it will come right, and surely it looks
like the interference of Providence that so perfect an instrument
should be put into our hands."

My position was embarrassing, for I felt that for the instant
they had forgotten my presence.  But Lord Linchmere came back
suddenly to me and to my engagement.

"The business for which I want you, Dr. Hamilton, is that you
should put yourself absolutely at my disposal.  I wish you to come
for a short journey with me, to remain always at my side, and to
promise to do without question whatever I may ask you, however
unreasonable it may appear to you to be."

"That is a good deal to ask," said I.

"Unfortunately I cannot put it more plainly, for I do not
myself know what turn matters may take.  You may be sure, however,
that you will not be asked to do anything which your conscience
does not approve; and I promise you that, when all is over, you
will be proud to have been concerned in so good a work."

"If it ends happily," said the lady.

"Exactly; if it ends happily," his lordship repeated.

"And terms?" I asked.

"Twenty pounds a day."

I was amazed at the sum, and must have showed my surprise upon
my features.

"It is a rare combination of qualities, as must have struck you
when you first read the advertisement," said Lord Linchmere; "such
varied gifts may well command a high return, and I do not conceal
from you that your duties might be arduous or even dangerous. 
Besides, it is possible that one or two days may bring the matter
to an end."

"Please God!" sighed his sister.

"So now, Dr. Hamilton, may I rely upon your aid?"

"Most undoubtedly," said I.  "You have only to tell me what my
duties are."

"Your first duty will be to return to your home.  You will pack
up whatever you may need for a short visit to the country.  We
start together from Paddington Station at 3:40 this afternoon."

"Do we go far?"

"As far as Pangbourne.  Meet me at the bookstall at 3:30.  I
shall have the tickets.  Goodbye, Dr. Hamilton!  And, by the way,
there are two things which I should be very glad if you would bring
with you, in case you have them.  One is your case for collecting
beetles, and the other is a stick, and the thicker and heavier the
better."


You may imagine that I had plenty to think of from the time
that I left Brook Street until I set out to meet Lord Linchmere at
Paddington.  The whole fantastic business kept arranging and
rearranging itself in kaleidoscopic forms inside my brain, until I
had thought out a dozen explanations, each of them more grotesquely
improbable than the last.  And yet I felt that the truth must be
something grotesquely improbable also.  At last I gave up all
attempts at finding a solution, and contented myself with exactly
carrying out the instructions which I had received.  With a hand
valise, specimen-case, and a loaded cane, I was waiting at the
Paddington bookstall when Lord Linchmere arrived.  He was an even
smaller man than I had thought--frail and peaky, with a manner
which was more nervous than it had been in the morning.  He wore a
long, thick travelling ulster, and I observed that he carried a
heavy blackthorn cudgel in his hand.

"I have the tickets," said he, leading the way up the platform.

"This is our train.  I have engaged a carriage, for I am
particularly anxious to impress one or two things upon you while we
travel down."

And yet all that he had to impress upon me might have been said
in a sentence, for it was that I was to remember that I was there
as a protection to himself, and that I was not on any consideration
to leave him for an instant.  This he repeated again and again as
our journey drew to a close, with an insistence which showed that
his nerves were thoroughly shaken.

"Yes," he said at last, in answer to my looks rather than to my
words, "I AM nervous, Dr. Hamilton.  I have always been a timid
man, and my timidity depends upon my frail physical health.  But my
soul is firm, and I can bring myself up to face a danger which a
less-nervous man might shrink from.  What I am doing now is done
from no compulsion, but entirely from a sense of duty, and yet it
is, beyond doubt, a desperate risk.  If things should go wrong, I
will have some claims to the title of martyr."

This eternal reading of riddles was too much for me.  I felt
that I must put a term to it.

"I think it would very much better, sir, if you were to trust
me entirely," said I.  "It is impossible for me to act effectively,
when I do not know what are the objects which we have in view, or
even where we are going."

"Oh, as to where we are going, there need be no mystery about
that," said he; "we are going to Delamere Court, the residence of
Sir Thomas Rossiter, with whose work you are so conversant.  As to
the exact object of our visit, I do not know that at this stage of
the proceedings anything would be gained, Dr. Hamilton, by taking
you into my complete confidence.  I may tell you that we are
acting--I say `we,' because my sister, Lady Rossiter, takes the
same view as myself--with the one object of preventing anything in
the nature of a family scandal.  That being so, you can understand
that I am loath to give any explanations which are not absolutely
necessary.  It would be a different matter, Dr. Hamilton, if I were
asking your advice.  As matters stand, it is only your active
help which I need, and I will indicate to you from time to time how
you can best give it."

There was nothing more to be said, and a poor man can put up
with a good deal for twenty pounds a day, but I felt none the less
that Lord Linchmere was acting rather scurvily towards me.  He
wished to convert me into a passive tool, like the blackthorn in
his hand.  With his sensitive disposition I could imagine, however,
that scandal would be abhorrent to him, and I realized that he
would not take me into his confidence until no other course was
open to him.  I must trust to my own eyes and ears to solve the
mystery, but I had every confidence that I should not trust to them
in vain.

Delamere Court lies a good five miles from Pangbourne Station,
and we drove for that distance in an open fly.  Lord Linchmere sat
in deep thought during the time, and he never opened his mouth
until we were close to our destination.  When he did speak it was
to give me a piece of information which surprised me.

"Perhaps you are not aware," said he, "that I am a medical man
like yourself?"

"No, sir, I did not know it."

"Yes, I qualified in my younger days, when there were several
lives between me and the peerage.  I have not had occasion to
practise, but I have found it a useful education, all the same.  I
never regretted the years which I devoted to medical study.  These
are the gates of Delamere Court."

We had come to two high pillars crowned with heraldic monsters
which flanked the opening of a winding avenue.  Over the laurel
bushes and rhododendrons, I could see a long, many-gabled mansion,
girdled with ivy, and toned to the warm, cheery, mellow glow of old
brick-work.  My eyes were still fixed in admiration upon this
delightful house when my companion plucked nervously at my sleeve.

"Here's Sir Thomas," he whispered.  "Please talk beetle all you
can."

A tall, thin figure, curiously angular and bony, had emerged
through a gap in the hedge of laurels.  In his hand he held a spud,
and he wore gauntleted gardener's gloves.  A broad-brimmed, grey
hat cast his face into shadow, but it struck me as exceedingly
austere, with an ill-nourished beard and harsh, irregular features. 
The fly pulled up and Lord Linchmere sprang out.

"My dear Thomas, how are you?" said he, heartily.

But the heartiness was by no means reciprocal.  The owner of
the grounds glared at me over his brother-in-law's shoulder, and I
caught broken scraps of sentences--"well-known wishes . . . hatred
of strangers . . . unjustifiable intrusion . . . perfectly
inexcusable."  Then there was a muttered explanation, and the two
of them came over together to the side of the fly.

"Let me present you to Sir Thomas Rossiter, Dr. Hamilton," said
Lord Linchmere.  "You will find that you have a strong community of
tastes."

I bowed.  Sir Thomas stood very stiffly, looking at me severely
from under the broad brim of his hat.

"Lord Linchmere tells me that you know something about
beetles," said he.  "What do you know about beetles?"

"I know what I have learned from your work upon the coleoptera,
Sir Thomas," I answered.

"Give me the names of the better-known species of the British
scarabaei," said he.

I had not expected an examination, but fortunately I was ready
for one.  My answers seemed to please him, for his stern features
relaxed.

"You appear to have read my book with some profit, sir," said
he.  "It is a rare thing for me to meet anyone who takes an
intelligent interest in such matters.  People can find time for
such trivialities as sport or society, and yet the beetles are
overlooked.  I can assure you that the greater part of the idiots
in this part of the country are unaware that I have ever written a
book at all--I, the first man who ever described the true function
of the elytra.  I am glad to see you, sir, and I have no doubt that
I can show you some specimens which will interest you."  He stepped
into the fly and drove up with us to the house, expounding to me as
we went some recent researches which he had made into the anatomy
of the lady-bird.

I have said that Sir Thomas Rossiter wore a large hat drawn
down over his brows.  As he entered the hall he uncovered himself,
and I was at once aware of a singular characteristic which the hat
had concealed.  His forehead, which was naturally high, and
higher still on account of receding hair, was in a continual state
of movement.  Some nervous weakness kept the muscles in a constant
spasm, which sometimes produced a mere twitching and sometimes a
curious rotary movement unlike anything which I had ever seen
before.  It was strikingly visible as he turned towards us after
entering the study, and seemed the more singular from the contrast
with the hard, steady, grey eyes which looked out from underneath
those palpitating brows.

"I am sorry," said he, "that Lady Rossiter is not here to help
me to welcome you.  By the way, Charles, did Evelyn say anything
about the date of her return?"

"She wished to stay in town for a few more days," said Lord
Linchmere.  "You know how ladies' social duties accumulate if they
have been for some time in the country.  My sister has many old
friends in London at present."

"Well, she is her own mistress, and I should not wish to alter
her plans, but I shall be glad when I see her again.  It is very
lonely here without her company."

"I was afraid that you might find it so, and that was partly
why I ran down.  My young friend, Dr. Hamilton, is so much
interested in the subject which you have made your own, that I
thought you would not mind his accompanying me."

"I lead a retired life, Dr. Hamilton, and my aversion to
strangers grows upon me," said our host.  "I have sometimes thought
that my nerves are not so good as they were.  My travels in search
of beetles in my younger days took me into many malarious and
unhealthy places.  But a brother coleopterist like yourself is
always a welcome guest, and I shall be delighted if you will look
over my collection, which I think that I may without exaggeration
describe as the best in Europe."

And so no doubt it was.  He had a huge, oaken cabinet arranged
in shallow drawers, and here, neatly ticketed and classified, were
beetles from every corner of the earth, black, brown, blue, green,
and mottled.  Every now and then as he swept his hand over the
lines and lines of impaled insects he would catch up some rare
specimen, and, handling it with as much delicacy and reverence as
if it were a precious relic, he would hold forth upon its
peculiarities and the circumstances under which it came into his
possession.  It was evidently an unusual thing for him to meet
with a sympathetic listener, and he talked and talked until the
spring evening had deepened into night, and the gong announced that
it was time to dress for dinner.  All the time Lord Linchmere said
nothing, but he stood at his brother-in-law's elbow, and I caught
him continually shooting curious little, questioning glances into
his face.  And his own features expressed some strong emotion,
apprehension, sympathy, expectation:  I seemed to read them all. 
I was sure that Lord Linchmere was fearing something and awaiting
something, but what that something might be I could not imagine.

The evening passed quietly but pleasantly, and I should have
been entirely at my ease if it had not been for that continual
sense of tension upon the part of Lord Linchmere.  As to our host,
I found that he improved upon acquaintance.  He spoke constantly
with affection of his absent wife, and also of his little son, who
had recently been sent to school.  The house, he said, was not the
same without them.  If it were not for his scientific studies, he
did not know how he could get through the days.  After dinner we
smoked for some time in the billiard-room, and finally went early
to bed.

And then it was that, for the first time, the suspicion that
Lord Linchmere was a lunatic crossed my mind.  He followed me into
my bedroom, when our host had retired.

"Doctor," said he, speaking in a low, hurried voice, "you must
come with me.  You must spend the night in my bedroom."

"What do you mean?"

"I prefer not to explain.  But this is part of your duties.  My
room is close by, and you can return to your own before the servant
calls you in the morning."

"But why?" I asked.

"Because I am nervous of being alone," said he.  "That's the
reason, since you must have a reason."

It seemed rank lunacy, but the argument of those twenty pounds
would overcome many objections.  I followed him to his room.

"Well," said I, "there's only room for one in that bed."

"Only one shall occupy it," said he.

"And the other?"

"Must remain on watch."

"Why?" said I.  "One would think you expected to be attacked."

"Perhaps I do."

"In that case, why not lock your door?"

"Perhaps I WANT to be attacked."

It looked more and more like lunacy.  However, there was
nothing for it but to submit.  I shrugged my shoulders and sat down
in the arm-chair beside the empty fireplace.

"I am to remain on watch, then?" said I, ruefully.

"We will divide the night.  If you will watch until two, I will
watch the remainder."

"Very good."

"Call me at two o'clock, then."

"I will do so."

"Keep your ears open, and if you hear any sounds wake me
instantly--instantly, you hear?"

"You can rely upon it."  I tried to look as solemn as he did.

"And for God's sake don't go to sleep," said he, and so, taking
off only his coat, he threw the coverlet over him and settled down
for the night.

It was a melancholy vigil, and made more so by my own sense of
its folly.  Supposing that by any chance Lord Linchmere had cause
to suspect that he was subject to danger in the house of Sir Thomas
Rossiter, why on earth could he not lock his door and so protect
himself?"  His own answer that he might wish to be attacked was
absurd.  Why should he possibly wish to be attacked?  And who would
wish to attack him?  Clearly, Lord Linchmere was suffering from
some singular delusion, and the result was that on an imbecile
pretext I was to be deprived of my night's rest.  Still, however
absurd, I was determined to carry out his injunctions to the letter
as long as I was in his employment.  I sat, therefore, beside the
empty fireplace, and listened to a sonorous chiming clock somewhere
down the passage which gurgled and struck every quarter of an hour. 
It was an endless vigil.  Save for that single clock, an absolute
silence reigned throughout the great house.  A small lamp stood on
the table at my elbow, throwing a circle of light round my chair,
but leaving the corners of the room draped in shadow.  On the bed
Lord Linchmere was breathing peacefully.  I envied him his quiet
sleep, and again and again my own eyelids drooped, but every
time my sense of duty came to my help, and I sat up, rubbing my
eyes and pinching myself with a determination to see my irrational
watch to an end.

And I did so.  From down the passage came the chimes of two
o'clock, and I laid my hand upon the shoulder of the sleeper. 
Instantly he was sitting up, with an expression of the keenest
interest upon his face.

"You have heard something?"

"No, sir.  It is two o'clock."

"Very good.  I will watch.  You can go to sleep."

I lay down under the coverlet as he had done and was soon
unconscious.  My last recollection was of that circle of lamplight,
and of the small, hunched-up figure and strained, anxious face of
Lord Linchmere in the centre of it.

How long I slept I do not know; but I was suddenly aroused by
a sharp tug at my sleeve.  The room was in darkness, but a hot
smell of oil told me that the lamp had only that instant been
extinguished.

"Quick!  Quick!" said Lord Linchmere's voice in my ear.

I sprang out of bed, he still dragging at my arm.

"Over here!" he whispered, and pulled me into a corner of the
room.  "Hush!  Listen!"

In the silence of the night I could distinctly hear that
someone was coming down the corridor.  It was a stealthy step,
faint and intermittent, as of a man who paused cautiously after
every stride.  Sometimes for half a minute there was no sound, and
then came the shuffle and creak which told of a fresh advance.  My
companion was trembling with excitement.  His hand, which still
held my sleeve, twitched like a branch in the wind.

"What is it?" I whispered.

"It's he!"

"Sir Thomas?"

"Yes."

"What does he want?"

"Hush!  Do nothing until I tell you."

I was conscious now that someone was trying the door.  There
was the faintest little rattle from the handle, and then I dimly
saw a thin slit of subdued light.  There was a lamp burning
somewhere far down the passage, and it just sufficed to make the
outside visible from the darkness of our room.  The greyish slit
grew broader and broader, very gradually, very gently, and then
outlined against it I saw the dark figure of a man.  He was squat
and crouching, with the silhouette of a bulky and misshapen dwarf. 
Slowly the door swung open with this ominous shape framed in the
centre of it.  And then, in an instant, the crouching figure shot
up, there was a tiger spring across the room and thud, thud, thud,
came three tremendous blows from some heavy object upon the bed.

I was so paralysed with amazement that I stood motionless and
staring until I was aroused by a yell for help from my companion. 
The open door shed enough light for me to see the outline of
things, and there was little Lord Linchmere with his arms round the
neck of his brother-in-law, holding bravely on to him like a game
bull-terrier with its teeth into a gaunt deerhound.  The tall, bony
man dashed himself about, writhing round and round to get a grip
upon his assailant; but the other, clutching on from behind, still
kept his hold, though his shrill, frightened cries showed how
unequal he felt the contest to be.  I sprang to the rescue, and the
two of us managed to throw Sir Thomas to the ground, though he made
his teeth meet in my shoulder.  With all my youth and weight and
strength, it was a desperate struggle before we could master his
frenzied struggles; but at last we secured his arms with the waist-
cord of the dressing-gown which he was wearing.  I was holding his
legs while Lord Linchmere was endeavouring to relight the lamp,
when there came the pattering of many feet in the passage, and the
butler and two footmen, who had been alarmed by the cries, rushed
into the room.  With their aid we had no further difficulty in
securing our prisoner, who lay foaming and glaring upon the ground. 
One glance at his face was enough to prove that he was a dangerous
maniac, while the short, heavy hammer which lay beside the bed
showed how murderous had been his intentions.

"Do not use any violence!" said Lord Linchmere, as we raised
the struggling man to his feet.  "He will have a period of stupor
after this excitement.  I believe that it is coming on already." 
As he spoke the convulsions became less violent, and the madman's
head fell forward upon his breast, as if he were overcome by
sleep.  We led him down the passage and stretched him upon his own
bed, where he lay unconscious, breathing heavily.

"Two of you will watch him," said Lord Linchmere.  "And now,
Dr. Hamilton, if you will return with me to my room, I will give
you the explanation which my horror of scandal has perhaps caused
me to delay too long.  Come what may, you will never have cause to
regret your share in this night's work.

"The case may be made clear in a very few words," he continued,
when we were alone.  "My poor brother-in-law is one of the best
fellows upon earth, a loving husband and an estimable father, but
he comes from a stock which is deeply tainted with insanity.  He
has more than once had homicidal outbreaks, which are the more
painful because his inclination is always to attack the very person
to whom he is most attached.  His son was sent away to school to
avoid this danger, and then came an attempt upon my sister, his
wife, from which she escaped with injuries that you may have
observed when you met her in London.  You understand that he knows
nothing of the matter when he is in his sound senses, and would
ridicule the suggestion that he could under any circumstances
injure those whom he loves so dearly.  It is often, as you know, a
characteristic of such maladies that it is absolutely impossible to
convince the man who suffers from them of their existence.

"Our great object was, of course, to get him under restraint
before he could stain his hands with blood, but the matter was full
of difficulty.  He is a recluse in his habits, and would not see
any medical man.  Besides, it was necessary for our purpose that
the medical man should convince himself of his insanity; and he is
sane as you or I, save on these very rare occasions.  But,
fortunately, before he has these attacks he always shows certain
premonitory symptoms, which are providential danger-signals,
warning us to be upon our guard.  The chief of these is that
nervous contortion of the forehead which you must have observed. 
This is a phenomenon which always appears from three to four days
before his attacks of frenzy.  The moment it showed itself his wife
came into town on some pretext, and took refuge in my house in
Brook Street.

"It remained for me to convince a medical man of Sir Thomas's
insanity, without which it was impossible to put him where he could
do no harm.  The first problem was how to get a medical man into
his house.  I bethought me of his interest in beetles, and his love
for anyone who shared his tastes.  I advertised, therefore, and was
fortunate enough to find in you the very man I wanted.  A stout
companion was necessary, for I knew that the lunacy could only be
proved by a murderous assault, and I had every reason to believe
that that assault would be made upon myself, since he had the
warmest regard for me in his moments of sanity.  I think your
intelligence will supply all the rest.  I did not know that the
attack would come by night, but I thought it very probable, for the
crises of such cases usually do occur in the early hours of the
morning.  I am a very nervous man myself, but I saw no other way in
which I could remove this terrible danger from my sister's life. 
I need not ask you whether you are willing to sign the lunacy
papers."

"Undoubtedly.  But TWO signatures are necessary."

"You forget that I am myself a holder of a medical degree.  I
have the papers on a side-table here, so if you will be good enough
to sign them now, we can have the patient removed in the morning."


So that was my visit to Sir Thomas Rossiter, the famous beetle-
hunter, and that was also my first step upon the ladder of success,
for Lady Rossiter and Lord Linchmere have proved to be staunch
friends, and they have never forgotten my association with them in
the time of their need.  Sir Thomas is out and said to be cured,
but I still think that if I spent another night at Delamere Court,
I should be inclined to lock my door upon the inside.



The Man with the Watches


There are many who will still bear in mind the singular
circumstances which, under the heading of the Rugby Mystery,
filled many columns of the daily Press in the spring of the year
1892.  Coming as it did at a period of exceptional dullness, it
attracted perhaps rather more attention than it deserved, but it
offered to the public that mixture of the whimsical and the
tragic which is most stimulating to the popular imagination. 
Interest drooped, however, when, after weeks of fruitless
investigation, it was found that no final explanation of the
facts was forthcoming, and the tragedy seemed from that time to
the present to have finally taken its place in the dark catalogue
of inexplicable and unexpiated crimes.  A recent communication
(the authenticity of which appears to be above question) has,
however, thrown some new and clear light upon the matter.  Before
laying it before the public it would be as well, perhaps, that I
should refresh their memories as to the singular facts upon which
this commentary is founded.  These facts were briefly as follows:

At five o'clock on the evening of the 18th of March in the year
already mentioned a train left Euston Station for Manchester.  It
was a rainy, squally day, which grew wilder as it progressed, so it
was by no means the weather in which anyone would travel who was
not driven to do so by necessity.  The train, however, is a
favourite one among Manchester business men who are returning from
town, for it does the journey in four hours and twenty minutes,
with only three stoppages upon the way.  In spite of the inclement
evening it was, therefore, fairly well filled upon the occasion of
which I speak.  The guard of the train was a tried servant of the
company--a man who had worked for twenty-two years without a
blemish or complaint.  His name was John Palmer.

The station clock was upon the stroke of five, and the guard
was about to give the customary signal to the engine-driver when he
observed two belated passengers hurrying down the platform.  The
one was an exceptionally tall man, dressed in a long black overcoat
with astrakhan collar and cuffs.  I have already said that the
evening was an inclement one, and the tall traveller had the high,
warm collar turned up to protect his throat against the bitter
March wind.  He appeared, as far as the guard could judge by so
hurried an inspection, to be a man between fifty and sixty years of
age, who had retained a good deal of the vigour and activity of his
youth.  In one hand he carried a brown leather Gladstone bag.  His
companion was a lady, tall and erect, walking with a vigorous step
which outpaced the gentleman beside her.  She wore a long, fawn-
coloured dust-cloak, a black, close-fitting toque, and a dark veil
which concealed the greater part of her face.  The two might very
well have passed as father and daughter.  They walked swiftly down
the line of carriages, glancing in at the windows, until the guard,
John Palmer, overtook them.

"Now then, sir, look sharp, the train is going," said he.

"First-class," the man answered.

The guard turned the handle of the nearest door.  In the
carriage which he had opened, there sat a small man with a cigar in
his mouth.  His appearance seems to have impressed itself upon the
guard's memory, for he was prepared, afterwards, to describe or to
identify him.  He was a man of thirty-four or thirty-five years of
age, dressed in some grey material, sharp-nosed, alert, with a
ruddy, weather-beaten face, and a small, closely cropped, black
beard.  He glanced up as the door was opened.  The tall man paused
with his foot upon the step.

"This is a smoking compartment.  The lady dislikes smoke," said
he, looking round at the guard.

"All right!  Here you are, sir!" said John Palmer.  He slammed
the door of the smoking carriage, opened that of the next one,
which was empty, and thrust the two travellers in.  At the same
moment he sounded his whistle and the wheels of the train began to
move.  The man with the cigar was at the window of his carriage,
and said something to the guard as he rolled past him, but the
words were lost in the bustle of the departure.  Palmer
stepped into the guard's van, as it came up to him, and
thought no more of the incident.

Twelve minutes after its departure the train reached Willesden
Junction, where it stopped for a very short interval.  An
examination of the tickets has made it certain that no one either
joined or left it at this time, and no passenger was seen to alight
upon the platform.  At 5:14 the journey to Manchester was resumed,
and Rugby was reached at 6:50, the express being five minutes late.

At Rugby the attention of the station officials was drawn to
the fact that the door of one of the first-class carriages was
open.  An examination of that compartment, and of its neighbour,
disclosed a remarkable state of affairs.

The smoking carriage in which the short, red-faced man with the
black beard had been seen was now empty.  Save for a half-smoked
cigar, there was no trace whatever of its recent occupant.  The
door of this carriage was fastened.  In the next compartment, to
which attention had been originally drawn, there was no sign either
of the gentleman with the astrakhan collar or of the young lady who
accompanied him.  All three passengers had disappeared.  On the
other hand, there was found upon the floor of this carriage--the
one in which the tall traveller and the lady had been--a young man
fashionably dressed and of elegant appearance.  He lay with his
knees drawn up, and his head resting against the farther door, an
elbow upon either seat.  A bullet had penetrated his heart and his
death must have been instantaneous.  No one had seen such a man
enter the train, and no railway ticket was found in his pocket,
neither were there any markings upon his linen, nor papers nor
personal property which might help to identify him.  Who he was,
whence he had come, and how he had met his end were each as great
a mystery as what had occurred to the three people who had started
an hour and a half before from Willesden in those two compartments.

I have said that there was no personal property which might
help to identify him, but it is true that there was one peculiarity
about this unknown young man which was much commented upon at the
time.  In his pockets were found no fewer than six valuable gold
watches, three in the various pockets of his waist-coat, one in his
ticket-pocket, one in his breast-pocket, and one small one set
in a leather strap and fastened round his left wrist.  The obvious
explanation that the man was a pickpocket, and that this was his
plunder, was discounted by the fact that all six were of American
make and of a type which is rare in England.  Three of them bore
the mark of the Rochester Watchmaking Company; one was by Mason, of
Elmira; one was unmarked; and the small one, which was highly
jewelled and ornamented, was from Tiffany, of New York.  The other
contents of his pocket consisted of an ivory knife with a corkscrew
by Rodgers, of Sheffield; a small, circular mirror, one inch in
diameter; a readmission slip to the Lyceum Theatre; a silver box
full of vesta matches, and a brown leather cigar-case containing
two cheroots--also two pounds fourteen shillings in money.  It was
clear, then, that whatever motives may have led to his death,
robbery was not among them.  As already mentioned, there were no
markings upon the man's linen, which appeared to be new, and no
tailor's name upon his coat.  In appearance he was young, short,
smooth-cheeked, and delicately featured.  One of his front teeth
was conspicuously stopped with gold.

On the discovery of the tragedy an examination was instantly
made of the tickets of all passengers, and the number of the
passengers themselves was counted.  It was found that only three
tickets were unaccounted for, corresponding to the three travellers
who were missing.  The express was then allowed to proceed, but a
new guard was sent with it, and John Palmer was detained as a
witness at Rugby.  The carriage which included the two compartments
in question was uncoupled and side-tracked.  Then, on the arrival
of Inspector Vane, of Scotland Yard, and of Mr. Henderson, a
detective in the service of the railway company, an exhaustive
inquiry was made into all the circumstances.

That crime had been committed was certain.  The bullet, which
appeared to have come from a small pistol or revolver, had been
fired from some little distance, as there was no scorching of the
clothes.  No weapon was found in the compartment (which finally
disposed of the theory of suicide), nor was there any sign of the
brown leather bag which the guard had seen in the hand of the tall
gentleman.  A lady's parasol was found upon the rack, but no other
trace was to be seen of the travellers in either of the sections. 
Apart from the crime, the question of how or why three
passengers (one of them a lady) could get out of the train, and one
other get in during the unbroken run between Willesden and Rugby,
was one which excited the utmost curiosity among the general
public, and gave rise to much speculation in the London Press.

John Palmer, the guard was able at the inquest to give some
evidence which threw a little light upon the matter.  There was a
spot between Tring and Cheddington, according to his statement,
where, on account of some repairs to the line, the train had for a
few minutes slowed down to a pace not exceeding eight or ten miles
an hour.  At that place it might be possible for a man, or even for
an exceptionally active woman, to have left the train without
serious injury.  It was true that a gang of platelayers was there,
and that they had seen nothing, but it was their custom to stand in
the middle between the metals, and the open carriage door was upon
the far side, so that it was conceivable that someone might have
alighted unseen, as the darkness would by that time be drawing in. 
A steep embankment would instantly screen anyone who sprang out
from the observation of the navvies.

The guard also deposed that there was a good deal of movement
upon the platform at Willesden Junction, and that though it was
certain that no one had either joined or left the train there, it
was still quite possible that some of the passengers might have
changed unseen from one compartment to another.  It was by no means
uncommon for a gentleman to finish his cigar in a smoking carriage
and then to change to a clearer atmosphere.  Supposing that the man
with the black beard had done so at Willesden (and the half-smoked
cigar upon the floor seemed to favour the supposition), he would
naturally go into the nearest section, which would bring him into
the company of the two other actors in this drama.  Thus the first
stage of the affair might be surmised without any great breach of
probability.  But what the second stage had been, or how the final
one had been arrived at, neither the guard nor the experienced
detective officers could suggest.

A careful examination of the line between Willesden and Rugby
resulted in one discovery which might or might not have a bearing
upon the tragedy.  Near Tring, at the very place where the train
slowed down, there was found at the bottom of the embankment a
small pocket Testament, very shabby and worn.  It was printed
by the Bible Society of London, and bore an inscription:  "From
John to Alice.  Jan. 13th, 1856," upon the fly-leaf.  Underneath
was written:  "James.  July 4th, 1859," and beneath that again: 
"Edward.  Nov. 1st, 1869," all the entries being in the same
handwriting.  This was the only clue, if it could be called a clue,
which the police obtained, and the coroner's verdict of "Murder by
a person or persons unknown" was the unsatisfactory ending of a
singular case.  Advertisement, rewards, and inquiries proved
equally fruitless, and nothing could be found which was solid
enough to form the basis for a profitable investigation.

It would be a mistake, however, to suppose that no theories
were formed to account for the facts.  On the contrary, the Press,
both in England and in America, teemed with suggestions and
suppositions, most of which were obviously absurd.  The fact that
the watches were of American make, and some peculiarities in
connection with the gold stopping of his front tooth, appeared to
indicate that the deceased was a citizen of the United States,
though his linen, clothes and boots were undoubtedly of British
manufacture.  It was surmised, by some, that he was concealed under
the seat, and that, being discovered, he was for some reason,
possibly because he had overheard their guilty secrets, put to
death by his fellow-passengers.  When coupled with generalities as
to the ferocity and cunning of anarchical and other secret
societies, this theory sounded as plausible as any.

The fact that he should be without a ticket would be consistent
with the idea of concealment, and it was well known that women
played a prominent part in the Nihilistic propaganda.  On the other
hand, it was clear, from the guard's statement, that the man must
have been hidden there BEFORE the others arrived, and how
unlikely the coincidence that conspirators should stray exactly
into the very compartment in which a spy was already concealed! 
Besides, this explanation ignored the man in the smoking carriage,
and gave no reason at all for his simultaneous disappearance.  The
police had little difficulty in showing that such a theory would
not cover the facts, but they were unprepared in the absence of
evidence to advance any alternative explanation.

There was a letter in the Daily Gazette, over the signature
of a well-known criminal investigator, which gave rise to
considerable discussion at the time.  He had formed a
hypothesis which had at least ingenuity to recommend it, and I
cannot do better than append it in his own words.

"Whatever may be the truth," said he, "it must depend upon some
bizarre and rare combination of events, so we need have no
hesitation in postulating such events in our explanation.  In the
absence of data we must abandon the analytic or scientific method
of investigation, and must approach it in the synthetic fashion. 
In a word, instead of taking known events and deducing from them
what has occurred, we must build up a fanciful explanation if it
will only be consistent with known events.  We can then test this
explanation by any fresh facts which may arise.  If they all fit
into their places, the probability is that we are upon the right
track, and with each fresh fact this probability increases in a
geometrical progression until the evidence becomes final and
convincing.

"Now, there is one most remarkable and suggestive fact which
has not met with the attention which it deserves.  There is a local
train running through Harrow and King's Langley, which is timed in
such a way that the express must have overtaken it at or about the
period when it eased down its speed to eight miles an hour on
account of the repairs of the line.  The two trains would at that
time be travelling in the same direction at a similar rate of speed
and upon parallel lines.  It is within every one's experience how,
under such circumstances, the occupant of each carriage can see
very plainly the passengers in the other carriages opposite to him. 
The lamps of the express had been lit at Willesden, so that each
compartment was brightly illuminated, and most visible to an
observer from outside.

"Now, the sequence of events as I reconstruct them would be
after this fashion.  This young man with the abnormal number of
watches was alone in the carriage of the slow train.  His ticket,
with his papers and gloves and other things, was, we will suppose,
on the seat beside him.  He was probably an American, and also
probably a man of weak intellect.  The excessive wearing of
jewellery is an early symptom in some forms of mania.

"As he sat watching the carriages of the express which were
(on account of the state of the line) going at the same pace as
himself, he suddenly saw some people in it whom he knew.  We will
suppose for the sake of our theory that these people were a
woman whom he loved and a man whom he hated--and who in return
hated him.  The young man was excitable and impulsive.  He opened
the door of his carriage, stepped from the footboard of the local
train to the footboard of the express, opened the other door, and
made his way into the presence of these two people.  The feat (on
the supposition that the trains were going at the same pace) is by
no means so perilous as it might appear.

"Having now got our young man, without his ticket, into the
carriage in which the elder man and the young woman are travelling,
it is not difficult to imagine that a violent scene ensued.  It is
possible that the pair were also Americans, which is the more
probable as the man carried a weapon--an unusual thing in England. 
If our supposition of incipient mania is correct, the young man is
likely to have assaulted the other.  As the upshot of the quarrel
the elder man shot the intruder, and then made his escape from the
carriage, taking the young lady with him.  We will suppose that all
this happened very rapidly, and that the train was still going at
so slow a pace that it was not difficult for them to leave it.  A
woman might leave a train going at eight miles an hour.  As a
matter of fact, we know that this woman DID do so.

"And now we have to fit in the man in the smoking carriage. 
Presuming that we have, up to this point, reconstructed the tragedy
correctly, we shall find nothing in this other man to cause us to
reconsider our conclusions.  According to my theory, this man saw
the young fellow cross from one train to the other, saw him open
the door, heard the pistol-shot, saw the two fugitives spring out
on to the line, realized that murder had been done, and sprang out
himself in pursuit.  Why he has never been heard of since--whether
he met his own death in the pursuit, or whether, as is more likely,
he was made to realize that it was not a case for his
interference--is a detail which we have at present no means of
explaining.  I acknowledge that there are some difficulties in the
way.  At first sight, it might seem improbable that at such a
moment a murderer would burden himself in his flight with a brown
leather bag.  My answer is that he was well aware that if the bag
were found his identity would be established.  It was absolutely
necessary for him to take it with him.  My theory stands or falls
upon one point, and I call upon the railway company to make strict
inquiry as to whether a ticket was found unclaimed in the local
train through Harrow and King's Langley upon the 18th of March.  If
such a ticket were found my case is proved.  If not, my theory may
still be the correct one, for it is conceivable either that he
travelled without a ticket or that his ticket was lost."

To this elaborate and plausible hypothesis the answer of the
police and of the company was, first, that no such ticket was
found; secondly, that the slow train would never run parallel to
the express; and, thirdly, that the local train had been stationary
in King's Langley Station when the express, going at fifty miles an
hour, had flashed past it.  So perished the only satisfying
explanation, and five years have elapsed without supplying a new
one.  Now, at last, there comes a statement which covers all the
facts, and which must be regarded as authentic.  It took the shape
of a letter dated from New York, and addressed to the same criminal
investigator whose theory I have quoted.  It is given here in
extenso, with the exception of the two opening paragraphs, which
are personal in their nature:

"You'll excuse me if I'm not very free with names.  There's
less reason now than there was five years ago when mother was still
living.  But for all that, I had rather cover up our tracks all I
can.  But I owe you an explanation, for if your idea of it was
wrong, it was a mighty ingenious one all the same.  I'll have to go
back a little so as you may understand all about it.

"My people came from Bucks, England, and emigrated to the
States in the early fifties.  They settled in Rochester, in the
State of New York, where my father ran a large dry goods store. 
There were only two sons: myself, James, and my brother, Edward. 
I was ten years older than my brother, and after my father died I
sort of took the place of a father to him, as an elder brother
would.  He was a bright, spirited boy, and just one of the most
beautiful creatures that ever lived.  But there was always a soft
spot in him, and it was like mould in cheese, for it spread and
spread, and nothing that you could do would stop it.  Mother saw it
just as clearly as I did, but she went on spoiling him all the
same, for he had such a way with him that you could refuse him
nothing.  I did all I could to hold him in, and he hated me for my
pains.

"At last he fairly got his head, and nothing that we could do
would stop him.  He got off into New York, and went rapidly
from bad to worse.  At first he was only fast, and then he was
criminal; and then, at the end of a year or two, he was one of the
most notorious young crooks in the city.  He had formed a
friendship with Sparrow MacCoy, who was at the head of his
profession as a bunco-steerer, green goodsman and general rascal. 
They took to card-sharping, and frequented some of the best hotels
in New York.  My brother was an excellent actor (he might have made
an honest name for himself if he had chosen), and he would take the
parts of a young Englishman of title, of a simple lad from the
West, or of a college undergraduate, whichever suited Sparrow
MacCoy's purpose.  And then one day he dressed himself as a girl,
and he carried it off so well, and made himself such a valuable
decoy, that it was their favourite game afterwards.  They had made
it right with Tammany and with the police, so it seemed as if
nothing could ever stop them, for those were in the days before the
Lexow Commission, and if you only had a pull, you could do pretty
nearly everything you wanted.

"And nothing would have stopped them if they had only stuck to
cards and New York, but they must needs come up Rochester way, and
forge a name upon a cheque.  It was my brother that did it, though
everyone knew that it was under the influence of Sparrow MacCoy. 
I bought up that cheque, and a pretty sum it cost me.  Then I went
to my brother, laid it before him on the table, and swore to him
that I would prosecute if he did not clear out of the country.  At
first he simply laughed.  I could not prosecute, he said, without
breaking our mother's heart, and he knew that I would not do that. 
I made him understand, however, that our mother's heart was being
broken in any case, and that I had set firm on the point that I
would rather see him in Rochester gaol than in a New York hotel. 
So at last he gave in, and he made me a solemn promise that he
would see Sparrow MacCoy no more, that he would go to Europe, and
that he would turn his hand to any honest trade that I helped him
to get.  I took him down right away to an old family friend, Joe
Willson, who is an exporter of American watches and clocks, and I
got him to give Edward an agency in London, with a small salary and
a 15 per cent commission on all business.  His manner and
appearance were so good that he won the old man over at once,
and within a week he was sent off to London with a case full
of samples.

"It seemed to me that this business of the cheque had really
given my brother a fright, and that there was some chance of his
settling down into an honest line of life.  My mother had spoken
with him, and what she said had touched him, for she had always
been the best of mothers to him and he had been the great sorrow of
her life.  But I knew that this man Sparrow MacCoy had a great
influence over Edward and my chance of keeping the lad straight lay
in breaking the connection between them.  I had a friend in the New
York detective force, and through him I kept a watch upon MacCoy. 
When, within a fortnight of my brother's sailing, I heard that
MacCoy had taken a berth in the Etruria, I was as certain as if
he had told me that he was going over to England for the purpose of
coaxing Edward back again into the ways that he had left.  In an
instant I had resolved to go also, and to pit my influence against
MacCoy's.  I knew it was a losing fight, but I thought, and my
mother thought, that it was my duty.  We passed the last night
together in prayer for my success, and she gave me her own
Testament that my father had given her on the day of their marriage
in the Old Country, so that I might always wear it next my heart.

"I was a fellow-traveller, on the steamship, with Sparrow
MacCoy, and at least I had the satisfaction of spoiling his little
game for the voyage.  The very first night I went into the smoking-
room, and found him at the head of a card-table, with a half a
dozen young fellows who were carrying their full purses and their
empty skulls over to Europe.  He was settling down for his harvest,
and a rich one it would have been.  But I soon changed all that.

"`Gentlemen,' said I, `are you aware whom you are playing
with?'

"`What's that to you?  You mind your own business!' said he,
with an oath.

"`Who is it, anyway?' asked one of the dudes.

"`He's Sparrow MacCoy, the most notorious card-sharper in the
States.'

"Up he jumped with a bottle in his hand, but he remembered
that he was under the flag of the effete Old Country, where
law and order run, and Tammany has no pull.  Gaol and the gallows
wait for violence and murder, and there's no slipping out by the
back door on board an ocean liner.

"`Prove your words, you----!' said he.

"`I will!' said I.  `If you will turn up your right shirt-
sleeve to the shoulder, I will either prove my words or I will eat
them.'

"He turned white and said not a word.  You see, I knew
something of his ways, and I was aware of that part of the
mechanism which he and all such sharpers use consists of an elastic
down the arm with a clip just above the wrist.  It is by means of
this clip that they withdraw from their hands the cards which they
do not want, while they substitute other cards from another hiding
place.  I reckoned on it being there, and it was.  He cursed me,
slunk out of the saloon, and was hardly seen again during the
voyage.  For once, at any rate, I got level with Mister Sparrow
MacCoy.

"But he soon had his revenge upon me, for when it came to
influencing my brother he outweighed me every time.  Edward had
kept himself straight in London for the first few weeks, and had
done some business with his American watches, until this villain
came across his path once more.  I did my best, but the best was
little enough.  The next thing I heard there had been a scandal at
one of the Northumberland Avenue hotels: a traveller had been
fleeced of a large sum by two confederate card-sharpers, and the
matter was in the hands of Scotland Yard.  The first I learned of
it was in the evening paper, and I was at once certain that my
brother and MacCoy were back at their old games.  I hurried at once
to Edward's lodgings.  They told me that he and a tall gentleman
(whom I recognized as MacCoy) had gone off together, and that he
had left the lodgings and taken his things with him.  The landlady
had heard them give several directions to the cabman, ending with
Euston Station, and she had accidentally overheard the tall
gentleman saying something about Manchester.  She believed that
that was their destination.

"A glance at the time-table showed me that the most likely
train was at five, though there was another at 4:35 which they
might have caught.  I had only time to get the later one, but found
no sign of them either at the depot or in the train.  They
must have gone on by the earlier one, so I determined to
follow them to Manchester and search for them in the hotels there. 
One last appeal to my brother by all that he owed to my mother
might even now be the salvation of him.  My nerves were overstrung,
and I lit a cigar to steady them.  At that moment, just as the
train was moving off, the door of my compartment was flung open,
and there were MacCoy and my brother on the platform.

"They were both disguised, and with good reason, for they knew
that the London police were after them.  MacCoy had a great
astrakhan collar drawn up, so that only his eyes and nose were
showing.  My brother was dressed like a woman, with a black veil
half down his face, but of course it did not deceive me for an
instant, nor would it have done so even if I had not known that he
had often used such a dress before.  I started up, and as I did so
MacCoy recognized me.  He said something, the conductor slammed the
door, and they were shown into the next compartment.  I tried to
stop the train so as to follow them, but the wheels were already
moving, and it was too late.

"When we stopped at Willesden, I instantly changed my carriage. 
It appears that I was not seen to do so, which is not surprising,
as the station was crowded with people.  MacCoy, of course, was
expecting me, and he had spent the time between Euston and
Willesden in saying all he could to harden my brother's heart and
set him against me.  That is what I fancy, for I had never found
him so impossible to soften or to move.  I tried this way and I
tried that; I pictured his future in an English gaol; I described
the sorrow of his mother when I came back with the news; I said
everything to touch his heart, but all to no purpose.  He sat there
with a fixed sneer upon his handsome face, while every now and then
Sparrow MacCoy would throw in a taunt at me, or some word of
encouragement to hold my brother to his resolutions.

"`Why don't you run a Sunday-school?' he would say to me, and
then, in the same breath:  `He thinks you have no will of your own. 
He thinks you are just the baby brother and that he can lead you
where he likes.  He's only just finding out that you are a man as
well as he.'

"It was those words of his which set me talking bitterly.  We
had left Willesden, you understand, for all this took some time. 
My temper got the better of me, and for the first time in my
life I let my brother see the rough side of me.  Perhaps it would
have been better had I done so earlier and more often.

"`A man!' said I.  `Well, I'm glad to have your friend's
assurance of it, for no one would suspect it to see you like a
boarding-school missy.  I don't suppose in all this country there
is a more contemptible-looking creature than you are as you sit
there with that Dolly pinafore upon you.'  He coloured up at that,
for he was a vain man, and he winced from ridicule.

"`It's only a dust-cloak,' said he, and he slipped it off. 
`One has to throw the coppers off one's scent, and I had no other
way to do it.'  He took his toque off with the veil attached, and
he put both it and the cloak into his brown bag.  `Anyway, I don't
need to wear it until the conductor comes round,' said he.

"`Nor then, either,' said I, and taking the bag I slung it with
all my force out of the window.  `Now,' said I, `you'll never make
a Mary Jane of yourself while I can help it.  If nothing but that
disguise stands between you and a gaol, then to gaol you shall go.'

"That was the way to manage him.  I felt my advantage at once. 
His supple nature was one which yielded to roughness far more
readily than to entreaty.  He flushed with shame, and his eyes
filled with tears.  But MacCoy saw my advantage also, and was
determined that I should not pursue it.

"`He's my pard, and you shall not bully him,' he cried.

"`He's my brother, and you shall not ruin him,' said I.  `I
believe a spell of prison is the very best way of keeping you
apart, and you shall have it, or it will be no fault of mine.'

"`Oh, you would squeal, would you?' he cried, and in an instant
he whipped out his revolver.  I sprang for his hand, but saw that
I was too late, and jumped aside.  At the same instant he fired,
and the bullet which would have struck me passed through the heart
of my unfortunate brother.

"He dropped without a groan upon the floor of the compartment,
and MacCoy and I, equally horrified, knelt at each side of him,
trying to bring back some signs of life.  MacCoy still held the
loaded revolver in his hand, but his anger against me and my
resentment towards him had both for the moment been swallowed up in
this sudden tragedy.  It was he who first realized the situation. 
The train was for some reason going very slowly at the moment,
and he saw his opportunity for escape.  In an instant he had the
door open, but I was as quick as he, and jumping upon him the two
of us fell off the footboard and rolled in each other's arms down
a steep embankment.  At the bottom I struck my head against a
stone, and I remembered nothing more.  When I came to myself I was
lying among some low bushes, not far from the railroad track, and
somebody was bathing my head with a wet handkerchief.  It was
Sparrow MacCoy.

"`I guess I couldn't leave you,' said he.  `I didn't want to
have the blood of two of you on my hands in one day.  You loved
your brother, I've no doubt; but you didn't love him a cent more
than I loved him, though you'll say that I took a queer way to show
it.  Anyhow, it seems a mighty empty world now that he is gone, and
I don't care a continental whether you give me over to the hangman
or not.'

"He had turned his ankle in the fall, and there we sat, he with
his useless foot, and I with my throbbing head, and we talked and
talked until gradually my bitterness began to soften and to turn
into something like sympathy.  What was the use of revenging his
death upon a man who was as much stricken by that death as I was? 
And then, as my wits gradually returned, I began to realize also
that I could do nothing against MacCoy which would not recoil upon
my mother and myself.  How could we convict him without a full
account of my brother's career being made public--the very thing
which of all others we wished to avoid?  It was really as much our
interest as his to cover the matter up, and from being an avenger
of crime I found myself changed to a conspirator against Justice. 
The place in which we found ourselves was one of those pheasant
preserves which are so common in the Old Country, and as we groped
our way through it I found myself consulting the slayer of my
brother as to how far it would be possible to hush it up.

"I soon realized from what he said that unless there were some
papers of which we knew nothing in my brother's pockets, there was
really no possible means by which the police could identify him or
learn how he had got there.  His ticket was in MacCoy's pocket, and
so was the ticket for some baggage which they had left at the
depot.  Like most Americans, he had found it cheaper and easier to
buy an outfit in London than to bring one from New York, so
that all his linen and clothes were new and unmarked.  The bag,
containing the dust-cloak, which I had thrown out of the window,
may have fallen among some bramble patch where it is still
concealed, or may have been carried off by some tramp, or may have
come into the possession of the police, who kept the incident to
themselves.  Anyhow, I have seen nothing about it in the London
papers.  As to the watches, they were a selection from those which
had been intrusted to him for business purposes.  It may have been
for the same business purposes that he was taking them to
Manchester, but--well, it's too late to enter into that.

"I don't blame the police for being at fault.  I don't see how
it could have been otherwise.  There was just one little clue that
they might have followed up, but it was a small one.  I mean that
small, circular mirror which was found in my brother's pocket.  It
isn't a very common thing for a young man to carry about with him,
is it?  But a gambler might have told you what such a mirror may
mean to a card-sharper.  If you sit back a little from the table,
and lay the mirror, face upwards, upon your lap, you can see, as
you deal, every card that you give to your adversary.  It is not
hard to say whether you see a man or raise him when you know his
cards as well as your own.  It was as much a part of a sharper's
outfit as the elastic clip upon Sparrow MacCoy's arm.  Taking that,
in connection with the recent frauds at the hotels, the police
might have got hold of one end of the string.

"I don't think there is much more for me to explain.  We got to
a village called Amersham that night in the character of two
gentlemen upon a walking tour, and afterwards we made our way
quietly to London, whence MacCoy went on to Cairo and I returned to
New York.  My mother died six months afterwards, and I am glad to
say that to the day of her death she never knew what happened.  She
was always under the delusion that Edward was earning an honest
living in London, and I never had the heart to tell her the truth. 
He never wrote; but, then, he never did write at any time, so that
made no difference.  His name was the last upon her lips.

"There's just one other thing that I have to ask you, sir, and
I should take it as a kind return for all this explanation, if you
could do it for me.  You remember that Testament that was
picked up.  I always carried it in my inside pocket, and it
must have come out in my fall.  I value it very highly, for it was
the family book with my birth and my brother's marked by my father
in the beginning of it.  I wish you would apply at the proper place
and have it sent to me.  It can be of no possible value to anyone
else.  If you address it to X, Bassano's Library, Broadway, New
York, it is sure to come to hand."



The Japanned Box


It WAS a curious thing, said the private tutor; one of those
grotesque and whimsical incidents which occur to one as one goes
through life.  I lost the best situation which I am ever likely
to have through it.  But I am glad that I went to Thorpe Place,
for I gained--well, as I tell you the story you will learn what I
gained.

I don't know whether you are familiar with that part of the
Midlands which is drained by the Avon.  It is the most English part
of England.  Shakespeare, the flower of the whole race, was born
right in the middle of it.  It is a land of rolling pastures,
rising in higher folds to the westwards, until they swell into the
Malvern Hills.  There are no towns, but numerous villages, each
with its grey Norman church.  You have left the brick of the
southern and eastern counties behind you, and everything is stone--
stone for the walls, and lichened slabs of stone for the roofs.  It
is all grim and solid and massive, as befits the heart of a great
nation.

It was in the middle of this country, not very far from
Evesham, that Sir John Bollamore lived in the old ancestral home of
Thorpe Place, and thither it was that I came to teach his two
little sons.  Sir John was a widower--his wife had died three years
before--and he had been left with these two lads aged eight and
ten, and one dear little girl of seven.  Miss Witherton, who is now
my wife, was governess to this little girl.  I was tutor to the two
boys.  Could there be a more obvious prelude to an engagement?  She
governs me now, and I tutor two little boys of our own.  But,
there--I have already revealed what it was which I gained in Thorpe
Place!

It was a very, very old house, incredibly old--pre-Norman, some
of it--and the Bollamores claimed to have lived in that situation
since long before the Conquest.  It struck a chill to my heart when
first I came there, those enormously thick grey walls, the rude
crumbling stones, the smell as from a sick animal which exhaled
from the rotting plaster of the aged building.  But the modern wing
was bright and the garden was well kept.  No house could be dismal
which had a pretty girl inside it and such a show of roses in
front.

Apart from a very complete staff of servants there were only
four of us in the household.  These were Miss Witherton, who was at
that time four-and-twenty and as pretty--well, as pretty as Mrs.
Colmore is now--myself, Frank Colmore, aged thirty, Mrs. Stevens,
the housekeeper, a dry, silent woman, and Mr. Richards, a tall
military-looking man, who acted as steward to the Bollamore
estates.  We four always had our meals together, but Sir John had
his usually alone in the library.  Sometimes he joined us at
dinner, but on the whole we were just as glad when he did not.

For he was a very formidable person.  Imagine a man six feet
three inches in height, majestically built, with a high-nosed,
aristocratic face, brindled hair, shaggy eyebrows, a small, pointed
Mephistophelian beard, and lines upon his brow and round his eyes
as deep as if they had been carved with a penknife.  He had grey
eyes, weary, hopeless-looking eyes, proud and yet pathetic, eyes
which claimed your pity and yet dared you to show it.  His back was
rounded with study, but otherwise he was as fine a looking man of
his age--five-and-fifty perhaps--as any woman would wish to look
upon.

But his presence was not a cheerful one.  He was always
courteous, always refined, but singularly silent and retiring.  I
have never lived so long with any man and known so little of him. 
If he were indoors he spent his time either in his own small study
in the Eastern Tower, or in the library in the modern wing.  So
regular was his routine that one could always say at any hour
exactly where he would be.  Twice in the day he would visit his
study, once after breakfast, and once about ten at night.  You
might set your watch by the slam of the heavy door.  For the rest
of the day he would be in his library--save that for an hour or two
in the afternoon he would take a walk or a ride, which was solitary
like the rest of his existence.  He loved his children, and was
keenly interested in the progress of their studies, but they were
a little awed by the silent, shaggy-browed figure, and they avoided
him as much as they could.  Indeed, we all did that.

It was some time before I came to know anything about the
circumstances of Sir John Bollamore's life, for Mrs. Stevens, the
housekeeper, and Mr. Richards, the land-steward, were too loyal to
talk easily of their employer's affairs.  As to the governess, she
knew no more than I did, and our common interest was one of the
causes which drew us together.  At last, however, an incident
occurred which led to a closer acquaintance with Mr. Richards and
a fuller knowledge of the life of the man whom I served.

The immediate cause of this was no less than the falling of
Master Percy, the youngest of my pupils, into the mill-race, with
imminent danger both to his life and to mine, since I had to risk
myself in order to save him.  Dripping and exhausted--for I
was far more spent than the child--I was making for my room when
Sir John, who had heard the hubbub, opened the door of his little
study and asked me what was the matter.  I told him of the
accident, but assured him that his child was in no danger, while he
listened with a rugged, immobile face, which expressed in its
intense eyes and tightened lips all the emotion which he tried to
conceal.

"One moment!  Step in here!  Let me have the details!" said he,
turning back through the open door.

And so I found myself within that little sanctum, inside which,
as I afterwards learned, no other foot had for three years been set
save that of the old servant who cleaned it out.  It was a round
room, conforming to the shape of the tower in which it was
situated, with a low ceiling, a single narrow, ivy-wreathed window,
and the simplest of furniture.  An old carpet, a single chair, a
deal table, and a small shelf of books made up the whole contents. 
On the table stood a full-length photograph of a woman--I took no
particular notice of the features, but I remember, that a certain
gracious gentleness was the prevailing impression.  Beside it were
a large black japanned box and one or two bundles of letters or
papers fastened together with elastic bands.

Our interview was a short one, for Sir John Bollamore perceived
that I was soaked, and that I should change without delay.  The
incident led, however, to an instructive talk with Richards, the
agent, who had never penetrated into the chamber which chance had
opened to me.  That very afternoon he came to me, all curiosity,
and walked up and down the garden path with me, while my two
charges played tennis upon the lawn beside us.

"You hardly realize the exception which has been made in your
favour," said he.  "That room has been kept such a mystery, and Sir
John's visits to it have been so regular and consistent, that an
almost superstitious feeling has arisen about it in the household. 
I assure you that if I were to repeat to you the tales which are
flying about, tales of mysterious visitors there, and of voices
overheard by the servants, you might suspect that Sir John had
relapsed into his old ways."

"Why do you say relapsed?" I asked.  

He looked at me in surprise.

"Is it possible," said he, "that Sir John Bollamore's previous
history is unknown to you?"

"Absolutely."

"You astound me.  I thought that every man in England knew
something of his antecedents.  I should not mention the matter if
it were not that you are now one of ourselves, and that the facts
might come to your ears in some harsher form if I were silent upon
them.  I always took it for granted that you knew that you were in
the service of `Devil' Bollamore."

"But why `Devil'?" I asked.

"Ah, you are young and the world moves fast, but twenty
years ago the name of `Devil' Bollamore was one of the best
known in London.  He was the leader of the fastest set, bruiser,
driver, gambler, drunkard--a survival of the old type, and as bad
as the worst of them."

I stared at him in amazement.

"What!" I cried, "that quiet, studious, sad-faced man?"

"The greatest rip and debauchee in England!  All between
ourselves, Colmore.  But you understand now what I mean when I say
that a woman's voice in his room might even now give rise to
suspicions."

"But what can have changed him so?"

"Little Beryl Clare, when she took the risk of becoming his
wife.  That was the turning point.  He had got so far that his own
fast set had thrown him over.  There is a world of difference, you
know, between a man who drinks and a drunkard.  They all drink, but
they taboo a drunkard.  He had become a slave to it--hopeless and
helpless.  Then she stepped in, saw the possibilities of a fine man
in the wreck, took her chance in marrying him though she might have
had the pick of a dozen, and, by devoting her life to it, brought
him back to manhood and decency.  You have observed that no liquor
is ever kept in the house.  There never has been any since her foot
crossed its threshold.  A drop of it would be like blood to a tiger
even now."

"Then her influence still holds him?"

"That is the wonder of it.  When she died three years ago, we
all expected and feared that he would fall back into his old ways. 
She feared it herself, and the thought gave a terror to death, for
she was like a guardian angel to that man, and lived only for
the one purpose.  By the way, did you see a black japanned box in
his room?"

"Yes."

"I fancy it contains her letters.  If ever he has occasion to
be away, if only for a single night, he invariably takes his black
japanned box with him.  Well, well, Colmore, perhaps I have told
you rather more than I should, but I shall expect you to
reciprocate if anything of interest should come to your knowledge."

I could see that the worthy man was consumed with curiosity and
just a little piqued that I, the newcomer, should have been the
first to penetrate into the untrodden chamber.  But the fact raised
me in his esteem, and from that time onwards I found myself upon
more confidential terms with him.

And now the silent and majestic figure of my employer became an
object of greater interest to me.  I began to understand that
strangely human look in his eyes, those deep lines upon his care-
worn face.  He was a man who was fighting a ceaseless battle,
holding at arm's length, from morning till night, a horrible
adversary who was forever trying to close with him--an adversary
which would destroy him body and soul could it but fix its claws
once more upon him.  As I watched the grim, round-backed figure
pacing the corridor or walking in the garden, this imminent danger
seemed to take bodily shape, and I could almost fancy that I saw
this most loathsome and dangerous of all the fiends crouching
closely in his very shadow, like a half-cowed beast which slinks
beside its keeper, ready at any unguarded moment to spring at his
throat.  And the dead woman, the woman who had spent her life in
warding off this danger, took shape also to my imagination, and I
saw her as a shadowy but beautiful presence which intervened for
ever with arms uplifted to screen the man whom she loved.

In some subtle way he divined the sympathy which I had for him,
and he showed in his own silent fashion that he appreciated it.  He
even invited me once to share his afternoon walk, and although no
word passed between us on this occasion, it was a mark of
confidence which he had never shown to anyone before.  He asked me
also to index his library (it was one of the best private libraries
in England), and I spent many hours in the evening in his
presence, if not in his society, he reading at his desk and I
sitting in a recess by the window reducing to order the chaos which
existed among his books.  In spite of these close relations I was
never again asked to enter the chamber in the turret.

And then came my revulsion of feeling.  A single incident
changed all my sympathy to loathing, and made me realize that my
employer still remained all that he had ever been, with the
additional vice of hypocrisy.  What happened was as follows.

One evening Miss Witherton had gone down to Broadway, the
neighbouring village, to sing at a concert for some charity, and I,
according to my promise, had walked over to escort her back.  The
drive sweeps round under the eastern turret, and I observed as I
passed that the light was lit in the circular room.  It was a
summer evening, and the window, which was a little higher than our
heads, was open.  We were, as it happened, engrossed in our own
conversation at the moment and we had paused upon the lawn which
skirts the old turret, when suddenly something broke in upon our
talk and turned our thoughts away from our own affairs.

It was a voice--the voice undoubtedly of a woman.  It was low--
so low that it was only in that still night air that we could have
heard it, but, hushed as it was, there was no mistaking its
feminine timbre.  It spoke hurriedly, gaspingly for a few
sentences, and then was silent--a piteous, breathless, imploring
sort of voice.  Miss Witherton and I stood for an instant staring
at each other.  Then we walked quickly in the direction of the
hall-door.

"It came through the window," I said.

"We must not play the part of eavesdroppers," she answered. 
"We must forget that we have ever heard it."

There was an absence of surprise in her manner which suggested
a new idea to me.

"You have heard it before," I cried.

"I could not help it.  My own room is higher up on the same
turret.  It has happened frequently."

"Who can the woman be?"

"I have no idea.  I had rather not discuss it."

Her voice was enough to show me what she thought.  But granting
that our employer led a double and dubious life, who could she be,
this mysterious woman who kept him company in the old tower? 
I knew from my own inspection how bleak and bare a room it was. 
She certainly did not live there.  But in that case where did she
come from?  It could not be anyone of the household.  They were all
under the vigilant eyes of Mrs. Stevens.  The visitor must come
from without.  But how?

And then suddenly I remembered how ancient this building was,
and how probable that some mediaeval passage existed in it.  There
is hardly an old castle without one.  The mysterious room was the
basement of the turret, so that if there were anything of the sort
it would open through the floor.  There were numerous cottages in
the immediate vicinity.  The other end of the secret passage might
lie among some tangle of bramble in the neighbouring copse.  I said
nothing to anyone, but I felt that the secret of my employer lay
within my power.

And the more convinced I was of this the more I marvelled at
the manner in which he concealed his true nature.  Often as I
watched his austere figure, I asked myself if it were indeed
possible that such a man should be living this double life, and I
tried to persuade myself that my suspicions might after all prove
to be ill-founded.  But there was the female voice, there was the
secret nightly rendezvous in the turret-chamber--how could such
facts admit of an innocent interpretation.  I conceived a horror of
the man.  I was filled with loathing at his deep, consistent
hypocrisy.

Only once during all those months did I ever see him without
that sad but impassive mask which he usually presented towards his
fellow-man.  For an instant I caught a glimpse of those volcanic
fires which he had damped down so long.  The occasion was an
unworthy one, for the object of his wrath was none other than the
aged charwoman whom I have already mentioned as being the one
person who was allowed within his mysterious chamber.  I was
passing the corridor which led to the turret--for my own room lay
in that direction--when I heard a sudden, startled scream, and
merged in it the husky, growling note of a man who is inarticulate
with passion.  It was the snarl of a furious wild beast.  Then I
heard his voice thrilling with anger.  "You would dare!" he cried. 
"You would dare to disobey my directions!"  An instant later the
charwoman passed me, flying down the passage, white-faced and
tremulous, while the terrible voice thundered behind her.  "Go to
Mrs. Stevens for your money!  Never set foot in Thorpe Place
again!"  Consumed with curiosity, I could not help following the
woman, and found her round the corner leaning against the wall and
palpitating like a frightened rabbit.

"What is the matter, Mrs. Brown?" I asked.

"It's master!" she gasped.  "Oh, 'ow 'e frightened me!  If you
had seen 'is eyes, Mr. Colmore, sir.  I thought 'e would 'ave been
the death of me."

"But what had you done?"

"Done, sir!  Nothing.  At least nothing to make so much of. 
Just laid my 'and on that black box of 'is--'adn't even opened it,
when in 'e came and you 'eard the way 'e went on.  I've lost my
place, and glad I am of it, for I would never trust myself within
reach of 'im again."

So it was the japanned box which was the cause of this
outburst--the box from which he would never permit himself to be
separated.  What was the connection, or was there any connection
between this and the secret visits of the lady whose voice I had
overheard?  Sir John Bollamore's wrath was enduring as well as
fiery, for from that day Mrs. Brown, the charwoman, vanished from
our ken, and Thorpe Place knew her no more.

And now I wish to tell you the singular chance which solved all
these strange questions and put my employer's secret in my
possession.  The story may leave you with some lingering doubts as
to whether my curiosity did not get the better of my honour, and
whether I did not condescend to play the spy.  If you choose to
think so I cannot help it, but can only assure you that, improbable
as it may appear, the matter came about exactly as I describe it.

The first stage in this denouement was that the small room
in the turret became uninhabitable.  This occurred through the fall
of the worm-eaten oaken beam which supported the ceiling.  Rotten
with age, it snapped in the middle one morning, and brought down a
quantity of plaster with it.  Fortunately Sir John was not in the
room at the time.  His precious box was rescued from amongst the
debris and brought into the library, where, henceforward, it was
locked within his bureau.  Sir John took no steps to repair the
damage, and I never had an opportunity of searching for that secret
passage, the existence of which I had surmised.  As to the lady, I
had thought that this would have brought her visits to an end, had
I not one evening heard Mr. Richards asking Mrs. Stevens who the
woman was whom he had overheard talking to Sir John in the library. 
I could not catch her reply, but I saw from her manner that it was
not the first time that she had had to answer or avoid the same
question.

"You've heard the voice, Colmore?" said the agent.

I confessed that I had.

"And what do YOU think of it?"

I shrugged my shoulders, and remarked that it was no business
of mine.

"Come, come, you are just as curious as any of us.  Is it a
woman or not?"

"It is certainly a woman."

"Which room did you hear it from?"

"From the turret-room, before the ceiling fell."

"But I heard it from the library only last night.  I passed the
doors as I was going to bed, and I heard something wailing and
praying just as plainly as I hear you.  It may be a woman----"

"Why, what else COULD it be?"

He looked at me hard.

"There are more things in heaven and earth," said he.  "If it
is a woman, how does she get there?"

"I don't know."

"No, nor I.  But if it is the other thing--but there, for a
practical business man at the end of the nineteenth century this is
rather a ridiculous line of conversation."  He turned away, but I
saw that he felt even more than he had said.  To all the old ghost
stories of Thorpe Place a new one was being added before our very
eyes.  It may by this time have taken its permanent place, for
though an explanation came to me, it never reached the others.

And my explanation came in this way.  I had suffered a
sleepless night from neuralgia, and about midday I had taken a
heavy dose of chlorodyne to alleviate the pain.  At that time I was
finishing the indexing of Sir John Bollamore's library, and it was
my custom to work there from five till seven.  On this particular
day I struggled against the double effect of my bad night and the
narcotic.  I have already mentioned that there was a recess in the
library, and in this it was my habit to work.  I settled down
steadily to my task, but my weariness overcame me and, falling
back upon the settee, I dropped into a heavy sleep.

How long I slept I do not know, but it was quite dark when I
awoke.  Confused by the chlorodyne which I had taken, I lay
motionless in a semi-conscious state.  The great room with its high
walls covered with books loomed darkly all round me.  A dim
radiance from the moonlight came through the farther window, and
against this lighter background I saw that Sir John Bollamore was
sitting at his study table.  His well-set head and clearly cut
profile were sharply outlined against the glimmering square behind
him.  He bent as I watched him, and I heard the sharp turning of a
key and the rasping of metal upon metal.  As if in a dream I was
vaguely conscious that this was the japanned box which stood in
front of him, and that he had drawn something out of it, something
squat and uncouth, which now lay before him upon the table.  I
never realized--it never occurred to my bemuddled and torpid brain
that I was intruding upon his privacy, that he imagined himself to
be alone in the room.  And then, just as it rushed upon my
horrified perceptions, and I had half risen to announce my
presence, I heard a strange, crisp, metallic clicking, and then the
voice.

Yes, it was a woman's voice; there could not be a doubt of it. 
But a voice so charged with entreaty and with yearning love, that
it will ring for ever in my ears.  It came with a curious faraway
tinkle, but every word was clear, though faint--very faint, for
they were the last words of a dying woman.

"I am not really gone, John," said the thin, gasping voice.  "I
am here at your very elbow, and shall be until we meet once more. 
I die happy to think that morning and night you will hear my voice. 
Oh, John, be strong, be strong, until we meet again."

I say that I had risen in order to announce my presence, but I
could not do so while the voice was sounding.  I could only remain
half lying, half sitting, paralysed, astounded, listening to those
yearning distant musical words.  And he--he was so absorbed that
even if I had spoken he might not have heard me.  But with the
silence of the voice came my half articulated apologies and
explanations.  He sprang across the room, switched on the electric
light, and in its white glare I saw him, his eyes gleaming
with anger, his face twisted with passion, as the hapless
charwoman may have seen him weeks before.

"Mr. Colmore!" he cried.  "You here!  What is the meaning of
this, sir?"

With halting words I explained it all, my neuralgia, the
narcotic, my luckless sleep and singular awakening.  As he listened
the glow of anger faded from his face, and the sad, impassive mask
closed once more over his features.

"My secret is yours, Mr. Colmore," said he.  "I have only
myself to blame for relaxing my precautions.  Half confidences are
worse than no confidences, and so you may know all since you know
so much.  The story may go where you will when I have passed away,
but until then I rely upon your sense of honour that no human soul
shall hear it from your lips.  I am proud still--God help me!--or,
at least, I am proud enough to resent that pity which this story
would draw upon me.  I have smiled at envy, and disregarded hatred,
but pity is more than I can tolerate.

"You have heard the source from which the voice comes--that
voice which has, as I understand, excited so much curiosity in my
household.  I am aware of the rumours to which it has given rise. 
These speculations, whether scandalous or superstitious, are such
as I can disregard and forgive.  What I should never forgive would
be a disloyal spying and eavesdropping in order to satisfy an
illicit curiosity.  But of that, Mr. Colmore, I acquit you.

"When I was a young man, sir, many years younger than you are
now, I was launched upon town without a friend or adviser, and with
a purse which brought only too many false friends and false
advisers to my side.  I drank deeply of the wine of life--if there
is a man living who has drunk more deeply he is not a man whom I
envy.  My purse suffered, my character suffered, my constitution
suffered, stimulants became a necessity to me, I was a creature
from whom my memory recoils.  And it was at that time, the time of
my blackest degradation, that God sent into my life the gentlest,
sweetest spirit that ever descended as a ministering angel from
above.  She loved me, broken as I was, loved me, and spent her life
in making a man once more of that which had degraded itself to the
level of the beasts.

"But a fell disease struck her, and she withered away before
my eyes.  In the hour of her agony it was never of herself, of
her own sufferings and her own death that she thought.  It was all
of me.  The one pang which her fate brought to her was the fear
that when her influence was removed I should revert to that which
I had been.  It was in vain that I made oath to her that no drop of
wine would ever cross my lips.  She knew only too well the hold
that the devil had upon me--she who had striven so to loosen it--
and it haunted her night and day the thought that my soul might
again be within his grip.

"It was from some friend's gossip of the sick room that she
heard of this invention--this phonograph--and with the quick
insight of a loving woman she saw how she might use it for her
ends.  She sent me to London to procure the best which money could
buy.  With her dying breath she gasped into it the words which have
held me straight ever since.  Lonely and broken, what else have I
in all the world to uphold me?  But it is enough.  Please God, I
shall face her without shame when He is pleased to reunite us! 
That is my secret, Mr. Colmore, and whilst I live I leave it in
your keeping."



The Black Doctor


Bishop's Crossing is a small village lying ten miles in a south-
westerly direction from Liverpool.  Here in the early seventies
there settled a doctor named Aloysius Lana.  Nothing was known
locally either of his antecedents or of the reasons which had
prompted him to come to this Lancashire hamlet.  Two facts only
were certain about him; the one that he had gained his medical
qualification with some distinction at Glasgow; the other that he
came undoubtedly of a tropical race, and was so dark that he
might almost have had a strain of the Indian in his composition. 
His predominant features were, however, European, and he
possessed a stately courtesy and carriage which suggested a
Spanish extraction.  A swarthy skin, raven-black hair, and dark,
sparkling eyes under a pair of heavily-tufted brows made a
strange contrast to the flaxen or chestnut rustics of England,
and the newcomer was soon known as "The Black Doctor of Bishop's
Crossing."  At first it was a term of ridicule and reproach; as
the years went on it became a title of honour which was familiar
to the whole countryside, and extended far beyond the narrow
confines of the village.

For the newcomer proved himself to be a capable surgeon and an
accomplished physician.  The practice of that district had been in
the hands of Edward Rowe, the son of Sir William Rowe, the
Liverpool consultant, but he had not inherited the talents of his
father, and Dr. Lana, with his advantages of presence and of
manner, soon beat him out of the field.  Dr. Lana's social success
was as rapid as his professional.  A remarkable surgical cure in
the case of the Hon. James Lowry, the second son of Lord Belton,
was the means of introducing him to county society, where he became
a favourite through the charm of his conversation and the elegance
of his manners.  An absence of antecedents and of relatives is
sometimes an aid rather than an impediment to social advancement,
and the distinguished individuality of the handsome doctor was its
own recommendation.

His patients had one fault--and one fault only--to find with
him.  He appeared to be a confirmed bachelor.  This was the more
remarkable since the house which he occupied was a large one, and
it was known that his success in practice had enabled him to save
considerable sums.  At first the local matchmakers were continually
coupling his name with one or other of the eligible ladies, but as
years passed and Dr. Lana remained unmarried, it came to be
generally understood that for some reason he must remain a
bachelor.  Some even went so far as to assert that he was already
married, and that it was in order to escape the consequence of an
early misalliance that he had buried himself at Bishop's Crossing. 
And, then, just as the matchmakers had finally given him up in
despair, his engagement was suddenly announced to Miss Frances
Morton, of Leigh Hall.

Miss Morton was a young lady who was well known upon the
country-side, her father, James Haldane Morton, having been the
Squire of Bishop's Crossing.  Both her parents were, however, dead,
and she lived with her only brother, Arthur Morton, who had
inherited the family estate.  In person Miss Morton was tall and
stately, and she was famous for her quick, impetuous nature and for
her strength of character.  She met Dr. Lana at a garden-party, and
a friendship, which quickly ripened into love, sprang up between
them.  Nothing could exceed their devotion to each other.  There
was some discrepancy in age, he being thirty-seven, and she twenty-
four; but, save in that one respect, there was no possible
objection to be found with the match.  The engagement was in
February, and it was arranged that the marriage should take place
in August.

Upon the 3rd of June Dr. Lana received a letter from abroad. 
In a small village the postmaster is also in a position to be the
gossip-master, and Mr. Bankley, of Bishop's Crossing, had many of
the secrets of his neighbours in his possession.  Of this
particular letter he remarked only that it was in a curious
envelope, that it was in a man's handwriting, that the postscript
was Buenos Ayres, and the stamp of the Argentine Republic.  It was
the first letter which he had ever known Dr. Lana to have from
abroad and this was the reason why his attention was particularly
called to it before he handed it to the local postman.  It was
delivered by the evening delivery of that date.

Next morning--that is, upon the 4th of June--Dr. Lana called
upon Miss Morton, and a long interview followed, from which he was
observed to return in a state of great agitation.  Miss Morton
remained in her room all that day, and her maid found her several
times in tears.  In the course of a week it was an open secret to
the whole village that the engagement was at an end, that Dr. Lana
had behaved shamefully to the young lady, and that Arthur Morton,
her brother, was talking of horse-whipping him.  In what particular
respect the doctor had behaved badly was unknown--some surmised one
thing and some another; but it was observed, and taken as the
obvious sign of a guilty conscience, that he would go for miles
round rather than pass the windows of Leigh Hall, and that he gave
up attending morning service upon Sundays where he might have met
the young lady.  There was an advertisement also in the Lancet
as to the sale of a practice which mentioned no names, but which
was thought by some to refer to Bishop's Crossing, and to mean that
Dr. Lana was thinking of abandoning the scene of his success.  Such
was the position of affairs when, upon the evening of Monday, June
21st, there came a fresh development which changed what had been a
mere village scandal into a tragedy which arrested the attention of
the whole nation.  Some detail is necessary to cause the facts of
that evening to present their full significance.

The sole occupants of the doctor's house were his housekeeper,
an elderly and most respectable woman, named Martha Woods, and a
young servant--Mary Pilling.  The coachman and the surgery-boy
slept out.  It was the custom of the doctor to sit at night in his
study, which was next the surgery in the wing of the house which
was farthest from the servants' quarters.  This side of the house
had a door of its own for the convenience of patients, so that it
was possible for the doctor to admit and receive a visitor there
without the knowledge of anyone.  As a matter of fact, when
patients came late it was quite usual for him to let them in and
out by the surgery entrance, for the maid and the housekeeper were
in the habit of retiring early.

On this particular night Martha Woods went into the doctor's
study at half-past nine, and found him writing at his desk.  She 
bade him good night, sent the maid to bed, and then occupied
herself until a quarter to eleven in household matters.  It was
striking eleven upon the hall clock when she went to her own room. 
She had been there about a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes
when she heard a cry or call, which appeared to come from within
the house.  She waited some time, but it was not repeated.  Much
alarmed, for the sound was loud and urgent, she put on a dressing-
gown, and ran at the top of her speed to the doctor's study.

"Who's there?" cried a voice, as she tapped at the door.

"I am here, sir--Mrs. Woods."

"I beg that you will leave me in peace.  Go back to your room
this instant!" cried the voice, which was, to the best of her
belief, that of her master.  The tone was so harsh and so unlike
her master's usual manner, that she was surprised and hurt.

"I thought I heard you calling, sir," she explained, but no
answer was given to her.  Mrs. Woods looked at the clock as she
returned to her room, and it was then half-past eleven.

At some period between eleven and twelve (she could not be
positive as to the exact hour) a patient called upon the doctor and
was unable to get any reply from him.  This late visitor was Mrs.
Madding, the wife of the village grocer, who was dangerously ill of
typhoid fever.  Dr. Lana had asked her to look in the last thing
and let him know how her husband was progressing.  She observed
that the light was burning in the study, but having knocked several
times at the surgery door without response, she concluded that the
doctor had been called out, and so returned home.

There is a short, winding drive with a lamp at the end of it
leading down from the house to the road.  As Mrs. Madding emerged
from the gate a man was coming along the footpath.  Thinking that
it might be Dr. Lana returning from some professional visit, she
waited for him, and was surprised to see that it was Mr. Arthur
Morton, the young squire.  In the light of the lamp she observed
that his manner was excited, and that he carried in his hand a
heavy hunting-crop.  He was turning in at the gate when she
addressed him.

"The doctor is not in, sir," said she.

"How do you know that?" he asked harshly.

"I have been to the surgery door, sir."

"I see a light," said the young squire, looking up the drive. 
"That is in his study, is it not?"

"Yes, sir; but I am sure that he is out."

"Well, he must come in again," said young Morton, and passed
through the gate while Mrs. Madding went upon her homeward way.

At three o'clock that morning her husband suffered a sharp
relapse, and she was so alarmed by his symptoms that she determined
to call the doctor without delay.  As she passed through the gate
she was surprised to see someone lurking among the laurel bushes. 
It was certainly a man, and to the best of her belief Mr. Arthur
Morton.  Preoccupied with her own troubles, she gave no particular
attention to the incident, but hurried on upon her errand.

When she reached the house she perceived to her surprise that
the light was still burning in the study.  She therefore tapped at
the surgery door.  There was no answer.  She repeated the knocking
several times without effect.  It appeared to her to be unlikely
that the doctor would either go to bed or go out leaving so
brilliant a light behind him, and it struck Mrs. Madding that it
was possible that he might have dropped asleep in his chair.  She
tapped at the study window, therefore, but without result.  Then,
finding that there was an opening between the curtain and the
woodwork, she looked through.

The small room was brilliantly lighted from a large lamp on the
central table, which was littered with the doctor's books and
instruments.  No one was visible, nor did she see anything unusual,
except that in the farther shadow thrown by the table a dingy white
glove was lying upon the carpet.  And then suddenly, as her eyes
became more accustomed to the light, a boot emerged from the other
end of the shadow, and she realized, with a thrill of horror, that
what she had taken to be a glove was the hand of a man, who was
prostrate upon the floor.  Understanding that something terrible
had occurred, she rang at the front door, roused Mrs. Woods, the
housekeeper, and the two women made their way into the study,
having first dispatched the maidservant to the police-station.

At the side of the table, away from the window, Dr. Lana was
discovered stretched upon his back and quite dead.  It was
evident that he had been subjected to violence, for one of his eyes
was blackened and there were marks of bruises about his face and
neck.  A slight thickening and swelling of his features appeared to
suggest that the cause of his death had been strangulation.  He was
dressed in his usual professional clothes, but wore cloth slippers,
the soles of which were perfectly clean.  The carpet was marked all
over, especially on the side of the door, with traces of dirty
boots, which were presumably left by the murderer.  It was evident
that someone had entered by the surgery door, had killed the
doctor, and had then made his escape unseen.  That the assailant
was a man was certain, from the size of the footprints and from the
nature of the injuries.  But beyond that point the police found it
very difficult to go.

There were no signs of robbery, and the doctor's gold watch was
safe in his pocket.  He kept a heavy cash-box in the room, and this
was discovered to be locked but empty.  Mrs. Woods had an
impression that a large sum was usually kept there, but the doctor
had paid a heavy corn bill in cash only that very day, and it was
conjectured that it was to this and not to a robber that the
emptiness of the box was due.  One thing in the room was missing--
but that one thing was suggestive.  The portrait of Miss Morton,
which had always stood upon the side-table, had been taken from its
frame, and carried off.  Mrs. Woods had observed it there when she
waited upon her employer that evening, and now it was gone.  On the
other hand, there was picked up from the floor a green eye-patch,
which the housekeeper could not remember to have seen before.  Such
a patch might, however, be in the possession of a doctor, and there
was nothing to indicate that it was in any way connected with the
crime.

Suspicion could only turn in one direction, and Arthur Morton,
the young squire, was immediately arrested.  The evidence against
him was circumstantial, but damning.  He was devoted to his sister,
and it was shown that since the rupture between her and Dr. Lana he
had been heard again and again to express himself in the most
vindictive terms towards her former lover.  He had, as stated, been
seen somewhere about eleven o'clock entering the doctor's drive
with a hunting-crop in his hand.  He had then, according to the
theory of the police, broken in upon the doctor, whose
exclamation of fear or of anger had been loud enough to attract the
attention of Mrs. Woods.  When Mrs. Woods descended, Dr. Lana had
made up his mind to talk it over with his visitor, and had,
therefore, sent his housekeeper back to her room.  This
conversation had lasted a long time, had become more and more
fiery, and had ended by a personal struggle, in which the doctor
lost his life.  The fact, revealed by a post-mortem, that his
heart was much diseased--an ailment quite unsuspected during his
life--would make it possible that death might in his case ensue
from injuries which would not be fatal to a healthy man.  Arthur
Morton had then removed his sister's photograph, and had made his
way homeward, stepping aside into the laurel bushes to avoid Mrs.
Madding at the gate.  This was the theory of the prosecution, and
the case which they presented was a formidable one.

On the other hand, there were some strong points for the
defence.  Morton was high-spirited and impetuous, like his sister,
but he was respected and liked by everyone, and his frank and
honest nature seemed to be incapable of such a crime.  His own
explanation was that he was anxious to have a conversation with Dr.
Lana about some urgent family matters (from first to last he
refused even to mention the name of his sister).  He did not
attempt to deny that this conversation would probably have been of
an unpleasant nature.  He had heard from a patient that the doctor
was out, and he therefore waited until about three in the morning
for his return, but as he had seen nothing of him up to that hour,
he had given it up and had returned home.  As to his death, he knew
no more about it than the constable who arrested him.  He had
formerly been an intimate friend of the deceased man; but
circumstances, which he would prefer not to mention, had brought
about a change in his sentiments.

There were several facts which supported his innocence.  It was
certain that Dr. Lana was alive and in his study at half-past
eleven o'clock.  Mrs. Woods was prepared to swear that it was at
that hour that she had heard his voice.  The friends of the
prisoner contended that it was probable that at that time Dr. Lana
was not alone.  The sound which had originally attracted the
attention of the housekeeper, and her master's unusual impatience
that she should leave him in peace, seemed to point to that.  If
this were so then it appeared to be probable that he had met
his end between the moment when the housekeeper heard his voice and
the time when Mrs. Madding made her first call and found it
impossible to attract his attention.  But if this were the time of
his death, then it was certain that Mr. Arthur Morton could not be
guilty, as it was AFTER this that she had met the young squire
at the gate.

If this hypothesis were correct, and someone was with Dr. Lana
before Mrs. Madding met Mr. Arthur Morton, then who was this
someone, and what motives had he for wishing evil to the doctor? 
It was universally admitted that if the friends of the accused
could throw light upon this, they would have gone a long way
towards establishing his innocence.  But in the meanwhile it was
open to the public to say--as they did say--that there was no proof
that anyone had been there at all except the young squire; while,
on the other hand, there was ample proof that his motives in going
were of a sinister kind.  When Mrs. Madding called, the doctor
might have retired to his room, or he might, as she thought at the
time, have gone out and returned afterwards to find Mr. Arthur
Morton waiting for him.  Some of the supporters of the accused laid
stress upon the fact that the photograph of his sister Frances,
which had been removed from the doctor's room, had not been found
in her brother's possession.  This argument, however, did not count
for much, as he had ample time before his arrest to burn it or to
destroy it.  As to the only positive evidence in the case--the
muddy footmarks upon the floor--they were so blurred by the
softness of the carpet that it was impossible to make any
trustworthy deduction from them.  The most that could be said was
that their appearance was not inconsistent with the theory that
they were made by the accused, and it was further shown that his
boots were very muddy upon that night.  There had been a heavy
shower in the afternoon, and all boots were probably in the same
condition.

Such is a bald statement of the singular and romantic series of
events which centred public attention upon this Lancashire tragedy. 
The unknown origin of the doctor, his curious and distinguished
personality, the position of the man who was accused of the murder,
and the love affair which had preceded the crimes all combined to
make the affair one of those dramas which absorb the whole
interest of a nation.  Throughout the three kingdoms men discussed
the case of the Black Doctor of Bishop's Crossing, and many were
the theories put forward to explain the facts; but it may safely be
said that among them all there was not one which prepared the minds
of the public for the extraordinary sequel, which caused so much
excitement upon the first day of the trial, and came to a climax
upon the second.  The long files of the Lancaster Weekly with
their report of the case lie before me as I write, but I must
content myself with a synopsis of the case up to the point when,
upon the evening of the first day, the evidence of Miss Frances
Morton threw a singular light upon the case.

Mr. Porlock Carr, the counsel for the prosecution, had
marshalled his facts with his usual skill, and as the day wore on,
it became more and more evident how difficult was the task which
Mr. Humphrey, who had been retained for the defence, had before
him.  Several witnesses were put up to swear to the intemperate
expressions which the young squire had been heard to utter about
the doctor, and the fiery manner in which he resented the alleged
ill-treatment of his sister.  Mrs. Madding repeated her evidence as
to the visit which had been paid late at night by the prisoner to
the deceased, and it was shown by another witness that the prisoner
was aware that the doctor was in the habit of sitting up alone in
this isolated wing of the house, and that he had chosen this very
late hour to call because he knew that his victim would then be at
his mercy.  A servant at the squire's house was compelled to admit
that he had heard his master return about three that morning, which
corroborated Mrs. Madding's statement that she had seen him among
the laurel bushes near the gate upon the occasion of her second
visit.  The muddy boots and an alleged similarity in the footprints
were duly dwelt upon, and it was felt when the case for the
prosecution had been presented that, however circumstantial it
might be, it was none the less so complete and so convincing, that
the fate of the prisoner was sealed, unless something quite
unexpected should be disclosed by the defence.  It was three
o'clock when the prosecution closed.  At half-past four, when the
court rose, a new and unlooked-for development had occurred.  I
extract the incident, or part of it, from the journal which I have
already mentioned, omitting the preliminary observations of the
counsel.


Considerable sensation was caused in the crowded court when the
first witness called for the defence proved to be Miss Frances
Morton, the sister of the prisoner.  Our readers will remember that
the young lady had been engaged to Dr. Lana, and that it was his
anger over the sudden termination of this engagement which was
thought to have driven her brother to the perpetration of this
crime.  Miss Morton had not, however, been directly implicated in
the case in any way, either at the inquest or at the police-court
proceedings, and her appearance as the leading witness for the
defence came as a surprise upon the public.

Miss Frances Morton, who was a tall and handsome brunette, gave
her evidence in a low but clear voice, though it was evident
throughout that she was suffering from extreme emotion.  She
alluded to her engagement to the doctor, touched briefly upon its
termination, which was due, she said, to personal matters connected
with his family, and surprised the court by asserting that she had
always considered her brother's resentment to be unreasonable and
intemperate.  In answer to a direct question from her counsel, she
replied that she did not feel that she had any grievance whatever
against Dr. Lana, and that in her opinion he had acted in a
perfectly honourable manner.  Her brother, on an insufficient
knowledge of the facts, had taken another view, and she was
compelled to acknowledge that, in spite of her entreaties, he had
uttered threats of personal violence against the doctor, and had,
upon the evening of the tragedy, announced his intention of "having
it out with him."  She had done her best to bring him to a more
reasonable frame of mind, but he was very headstrong where his
emotions or prejudices were concerned.

Up to this point the young lady's evidence had appeared to make
against the prisoner rather than in his favour.  The questions of
her counsel, however, soon put a very different light upon the
matter, and disclosed an unexpected line of defence.

Mr. Humphrey:  Do you believe your brother to be guilty of this
crime?

The Judge:  I cannot permit that question, Mr. Humphrey.  We
are here to decide upon questions of fact--not of belief.

Mr. Humphrey:  Do you know that your brother is not guilty of
the death of Doctor Lana?

Miss Morton:  Yes.

Mr. Humphrey:  How do you know it?

Miss Morton:  Because Dr. Lana is not dead.

There followed a prolonged sensation in court, which
interrupted the examination of the witness.

Mr. Humphrey:  And how do you know, Miss Morton, that Dr. Lana
is not dead?

Miss Morton:  Because I have received a letter from him since
the date of his supposed death.

Mr. Humphrey:  Have you this letter?

Miss Morton:  Yes, but I should prefer not to show it.

Mr. Humphrey:  Have you the envelope?

Miss Morton:  Yes, it is here.

Mr. Humphrey:  What is the post-mark?

Miss Morton:  Liverpool.

Mr. Humphrey:  And the date?

Miss Morton:  June the 22nd.

Mr. Humphrey:  That being the day after his alleged death.  Are
you prepared to swear to this handwriting, Miss Morton?

Miss Morton:  Certainly.

Mr. Humphrey:  I am prepared to call six other witnesses, my
lord, to testify that this letter is in the writing of Doctor Lana.

The Judge:  Then you must call them tomorrow.

Mr. Porlock Carr (counsel for the prosecution): In the
meantime, my lord, we claim possession of this document, so that we
may obtain expert evidence as to how far it is an imitation of the
handwriting of the gentleman whom we still confidently assert to be
deceased.  I need not point out that the theory so unexpectedly
sprung upon us may prove to be a very obvious device adopted by the
friends of the prisoner in order to divert this inquiry.  I would
draw attention to the fact that the young lady must, according to
her own account, have possessed this letter during the proceedings
at the inquest and at the police-court.  She desires us to believe
that she permitted these to proceed, although she held in her
pocket evidence which would at any moment have brought them to an
end.

Mr. Humphrey.  Can you explain this, Miss Morton?

Miss Morton:  Dr. Lana desired his secret to be preserved.

Mr. Porlock Carr:  Then why have you made this public?

Miss Morton:  To save my brother.

A murmur of sympathy broke out in court, which was instantly
suppressed by the Judge.

The Judge:  Admitting this line of defence, it lies with you,
Mr. Humphrey, to throw a light upon who this man is whose body has
been recognized by so many friends and patients of Dr. Lana as
being that of the doctor himself.

A Juryman:  Has anyone up to now expressed any doubt about the
matter?

Mr. Porlock Carr:  Not to my knowledge.

Mr. Humphrey:  We hope to make the matter clear.

The Judge:  Then the court adjourns until tomorrow.


This new development of the case excited the utmost interest
among the general public.  Press comment was prevented by the fact
that the trial was still undecided, but the question was everywhere
argued as to how far there could be truth in Miss Morton's
declaration, and how far it might be a daring ruse for the purpose
of saving her brother.  The obvious dilemma in which the missing
doctor stood was that if by any extraordinary chance he was not
dead, then he must be held responsible for the death of this
unknown man, who resembled him so exactly, and who was found in his
study.  This letter which Miss Morton refused to produce was
possibly a confession of guilt, and she might find herself in the
terrible position of only being able to save her brother from the
gallows by the sacrifice of her former lover.  The court next
morning was crammed to overflowing, and a murmur of excitement
passed over it when Mr. Humphrey was observed to enter in a state
of emotion, which even his trained nerves could not conceal, and to
confer with the opposing counsel.  A few hurried words--words which
left a look of amazement upon Mr. Porlock Carr's face--passed
between them, and then the counsel for the defence, addressing the
Judge, announced that, with the consent of the prosecution, the
young lady who had given evidence upon the sitting before would not
be recalled.


The Judge: But you appear, Mr. Humphrey, to have left matters
in a very unsatisfactory state. 

Mr. Humphrey:  Perhaps, my lord, my next witness may help to
clear them up.

The Judge:  Then call your next witness.

Mr. Humphrey:  I call Dr. Aloysius Lana.

The learned counsel has made many telling remarks in his day,
but he has certainly never produced such a sensation with so short
a sentence.  The court was simply stunned with amazement as the
very man whose fate had been the subject of so much contention
appeared bodily before them in the witness-box.  Those among the
spectators who had known him at Bishop's Crossing saw him now,
gaunt and thin, with deep lines of care upon his face.  But in
spite of his melancholy bearing and despondent expression, there
were few who could say that they had ever seen a man of more
distinguished presence.  Bowing to the judge, he asked if he might
be allowed to make a statement, and having been duly informed that
whatever he said might be used against him, he bowed once more, and
proceeded:

"My wish," said he, "is to hold nothing back, but to tell with
perfect frankness all that occurred upon the night of the 21st of
June.  Had I known that the innocent had suffered, and that so much
trouble had been brought upon those whom I love best in the world,
I should have come forward long ago; but there were reasons which
prevented these things from coming to my ears.  It was my desire
that an unhappy man should vanish from the world which had known
him, but I had not foreseen that others would be affected by my
actions.  Let me to the best of my ability repair the evil which I
have done.

"To anyone who is acquainted with the history of the Argentine
Republic the name of Lana is well known.  My father, who came of
the best blood of old Spain, filled all the highest offices of the
State, and would have been President but for his death in the riots
of San Juan.  A brilliant career might have been open to my twin
brother Ernest and myself had it not been for financial losses
which made it necessary that we should earn our own living.  I
apologize, sir, if these details appear to be irrelevant, but they
are a necessary introduction to that which is to follow.

"I had, as I have said, a twin brother named Ernest, whose
resemblance to me was so great that even when we were together
people could see no difference between us.  Down to the smallest
detail we were exactly the same.  As we grew older this
likeness became less marked because our expression was not the
same, but with our features in repose the points of difference were
very slight.

"It does not become me to say too much of one who is dead, the
more so as he is my only brother, but I leave his character to
those who knew him best.  I will only say--for I HAVE to say
it--that in my early manhood I conceived a horror of him, and that
I had good reason for the aversion which filled me.  My own
reputation suffered from his actions, for our close resemblance
caused me to be credited with many of them.  Eventually, in a
peculiarly disgraceful business, he contrived to throw the whole
odium upon me in such a way that I was forced to leave the
Argentine for ever, and to seek a career in Europe.  The freedom
from his hated presence more than compensated me for the loss of my
native land.  I had enough money to defray my medical studies at
Glasgow, and I finally settled in practice at Bishop's Crossing, in
the firm conviction that in that remote Lancashire hamlet I should
never hear of him again.

"For years my hopes were fulfilled, and then at last he
discovered me.  Some Liverpool man who visited Buenos Ayres put him
upon my track.  He had lost all his money, and he thought that he
would come over and share mine.  Knowing my horror of him, he
rightly thought that I would be willing to buy him off.  I received
a letter from him saying that he was coming.  It was at a crisis in
my own affairs, and his arrival might conceivably bring trouble,
and even disgrace, upon some whom I was especially bound to shield
from anything of the kind.  I took steps to insure that any evil
which might come should fall on me only, and that"--here he turned
and looked at the prisoner--"was the cause of conduct upon my part
which has been too harshly judged.  My only motive was to screen
those who were dear to me from any possible connection with scandal
or disgrace.  That scandal and disgrace would come with my brother
was only to say that what had been would be again.

"My brother arrived himself one night not very long after my
receipt of the letter.  I was sitting in my study after the
servants had gone to bed, when I heard a footstep upon the gravel
outside, and an instant later I saw his face looking in at me
through the window.  He was a clean-shaven man like myself,
and the resemblance between us was still so great that, for an
instant, I thought it was my own reflection in the glass.  He had
a dark patch over his eye, but our features were absolutely the
same.  Then he smiled in a sardonic way which had been a trick of
his from his boyhood, and I knew that he was the same brother who
had driven me from my native land, and brought disgrace upon what
had been an honourable name.  I went to the door and I admitted
him.  That would be about ten o'clock that night.

"When he came into the glare of the lamp, I saw at once that he
had fallen upon very evil days.  He had walked from Liverpool, and
he was tired and ill.  I was quite shocked by the expression upon
his face.  My medical knowledge told me that there was some serious
internal malady.  He had been drinking also, and his face was
bruised as the result of a scuffle which he had had with some
sailors.  It was to cover his injured eye that he wore this patch,
which he removed when he entered the room.  He was himself dressed
in a pea-jacket and flannel shirt, and his feet were bursting
through his boots.  But his poverty had only made him more savagely
vindictive towards me.  His hatred rose to the height of a mania. 
I had been rolling in money in England, according to his account,
while he had been starving in South America.  I cannot describe to
you the threats which he uttered or the insults which he poured
upon me.  My impression is, that hardships and debauchery had
unhinged his reason.  He paced about the room like a wild beast,
demanding drink, demanding money, and all in the foulest language. 
I am a hot-tempered man, but I thank God that I am able to say that
I remained master of myself, and that I never raised a hand against
him.  My coolness only irritated him the more.  He raved, he
cursed, he shook his fists in my face, and then suddenly a horrible
spasm passed over his features, he clapped his hand to his side,
and with a loud cry he fell in a heap at my feet.  I raised him up
and stretched him upon the sofa, but no answer came to my
exclamations, and the hand which I held in mine was cold and
clammy.  His diseased heart had broken down.  His own violence had
killed him.

"For a long time I sat as if I were in some dreadful dream,
staring at the body of my brother.  I was aroused by the knocking
of Mrs. Woods, who had been disturbed by that dying cry.  I sent
her away to bed.  Shortly afterwards a patient tapped at the
surgery door, but as I took no notice, he or she went off again. 
Slowly and gradually as I sat there a plan was forming itself in my
head in the curious automatic way in which plans do form.  When I
rose from my chair my future movements were finally decided upon
without my having been conscious of any process of thought.  It was
an instinct which irresistibly inclined me towards one course.

"Ever since that change in my affairs to which I have alluded,
Bishop's Crossing had become hateful to me.  My plans of life had
been ruined, and I had met with hasty judgments and unkind
treatment where I had expected sympathy.  It is true that any
danger of scandal from my brother had passed away with his life;
but still, I was sore about the past, and felt that things could
never be as they had been.  It may be that I was unduly sensitive,
and that I had not made sufficient allowance for others, but my
feelings were as I describe.  Any chance of getting away from
Bishop's Crossing and of everyone in it would be most welcome to
me.  And here was such a chance as I could never have dared to hope
for, a chance which would enable me to make a clean break with the
past.

"There was this dead man lying upon the sofa, so like me that
save for some little thickness and coarseness of the features there
was no difference at all.  No one had seen him come and no one
would miss him.  We were both clean-shaven, and his hair was about
the same length as my own.  If I changed clothes with him, then Dr.
Aloysius Lana would be found lying dead in his study, and there
would be an end of an unfortunate fellow, and of a blighted career. 
There was plenty of ready money in the room, and this I could carry
away with me to help me to start once more in some other land.  In
my brother's clothes I could walk by night unobserved as far as
Liverpool, and in that great seaport I would soon find some means
of leaving the country.  After my lost hopes, the humblest
existence where I was unknown was far preferable, in my estimation,
to a practice, however successful, in Bishop's Crossing, where at
any moment I might come face to face with those whom I should wish,
if it were possible, to forget.  I determined to effect the change.

"And I did so.  I will not go into particulars, for the
recollection is as painful as the experience; but in an hour
my brother lay, dressed down to the smallest detail in my clothes,
while I slunk out by the surgery door, and taking the back path
which led across some fields, I started off to make the best of my
way to Liverpool, where I arrived the same night.  My bag of money
and a certain portrait were all I carried out of the house, and I
left behind me in my hurry the shade which my brother had been
wearing over his eye.  Everything else of his I took with me.

"I give you my word, sir, that never for one instant did the
idea occur to me that people might think that I had been murdered,
nor did I imagine that anyone might be caused serious danger
through this stratagem by which I endeavoured to gain a fresh start
in the world.  On the contrary, it was the thought of relieving
others from the burden of my presence which was always uppermost in
my mind.  A sailing vessel was leaving Liverpool that very day for
Corunna, and in this I took my passage, thinking that the voyage
would give me time to recover my balance, and to consider the
future.  But before I left my resolution softened.  I bethought me
that there was one person in the world to whom I would not cause an
hour of sadness.  She would mourn me in her heart, however harsh
and unsympathetic her relatives might be.  She understood and
appreciated the motives upon which I had acted, and if the rest of
her family condemned me, she, at least, would not forget.  And so
I sent her a note under the seal of secrecy to save her from a
baseless grief.  If under the pressure of events she broke that
seal, she has my entire sympathy and forgiveness.

"It was only last night that I returned to England, and during
all this time I have heard nothing of the sensation which my
supposed death had caused, nor of the accusation that Mr. Arthur
Morton had been concerned in it.  It was in a late evening paper
that I read an account of the proceedings of yesterday, and I have
come this morning as fast as an express train could bring me to
testify to the truth."

Such was the remarkable statement of Dr. Aloysius Lana which
brought the trial to a sudden termination.  A subsequent
investigation corroborated it to the extent of finding out the
vessel in which his brother Ernest Lana had come over from South
America.  The ship's doctor was able to testify that he had
complained of a weak heart during the voyage, and that his symptoms
were consistent with such a death as was described.

As to Dr. Aloysius Lana, he returned to the village from which
he had made so dramatic a disappearance, and a complete
reconciliation was effected between him and the young squire, the
latter having acknowledged that he had entirely misunderstood the
other's motives in withdrawing from his engagement.  That another
reconciliation followed may be judged from a notice extracted from
a prominent column in the Morning Post:


"A marriage was solemnized upon September 19th, by the Rev. 
Stephen Johnson, at the parish church of Bishop's Crossing, between
Aloysius Xavier Lana, son of Don Alfredo Lana, formerly Foreign
Minister of the Argentine Republic, and Frances Morton, only
daughter of the late James Morton, J.P., of Leigh Hall, Bishop's
Crossing, Lancashire."



The Jew's Breastplate


My particular friend, Ward Mortimer, was one of the best men of
his day at everything connected with Oriental archaeology.  He
had written largely upon the subject, he had lived two years in a
tomb at Thebes, while he excavated in the Valley of the Kings,
and finally he had created a considerable sensation by his
exhumation of the alleged mummy of Cleopatra in the inner room of
the Temple of Horus, at Philae.  With such a record at the age of
thirty-one, it was felt that a considerable career lay before
him, and no one was surprised when he was elected to the
curatorship of the Belmore Street Museum, which carries with it
the lectureship at the Oriental College, and an income which has
sunk with the fall in land, but which still remains at that ideal
sum which is large enough to encourage an investigator, but not
so large as to enervate him.

There was only one reason which made Ward Mortimer's position
a little difficult at the Belmore Street Museum, and that was the
extreme eminence of the man whom he had to succeed.  Professor
Andreas was a profound scholar and a man of European reputation. 
His lectures were frequented by students from every part of the
world, and his admirable management of the collection intrusted to
his care was a commonplace in all learned societies.  There was,
therefore, considerable surprise when, at the age of fifty-five, he
suddenly resigned his position and retired from those duties which
had been both his livelihood and his pleasure.  He and his daughter
left the comfortable suite of rooms which had formed his official
residence in connection with the museum, and my friend, Mortimer,
who was a bachelor, took up his quarters there.

On hearing of Mortimer's appointment Professor Andreas had
written him a very kindly and flattering congratulatory letter.  I
was actually present at their first meeting, and I went with
Mortimer round the museum when the Professor showed us the
admirable collection which he had cherished so long.  The
Professor's beautiful daughter and a young man, Captain Wilson, who
was, as I understood, soon to be her husband, accompanied us in our
inspection.  There were fifteen rooms, but the Babylonian, the
Syrian, and the central hall, which contained the Jewish and
Egyptian collection, were the finest of all.  Professor Andreas was
a quiet, dry, elderly man, with a clean-shaven face and an
impassive manner, but his dark eyes sparkled and his features
quickened into enthusiastic life as he pointed out to us the rarity
and the beauty of some of his specimens.  His hand lingered so
fondly over them, that one could read his pride in them and the
grief in his heart now that they were passing from his care into
that of another.

He had shown us in turn his mummies, his papyri, his rare
scarabs, his inscriptions, his Jewish relics, and his duplication
of the famous seven-branched candlestick of the Temple, which was
brought to Rome by Titus, and which is supposed by some to be lying
at this instant in the bed of the Tiber.  Then he approached a case
which stood in the very centre of the hall, and he looked down
through the glass with reverence in his attitude and manner.

"This is no novelty to an expert like yourself, Mr. Mortimer,"
said he; "but I daresay that your friend, Mr. Jackson, will be
interested to see it."

Leaning over the case I saw an object, some five inches square,
which consisted of twelve precious stones in a framework of gold,
with golden hooks at two of the corners.  The stones were all
varying in sort and colour, but they were of the same size.  Their
shapes, arrangement, and gradation of tint made me think of a box
of water-colour paints.  Each stone had some hieroglyphic scratched
upon its surface.

"You have heard, Mr. Jackson, of the urim and thummim?"

I had heard the term, but my idea of its meaning was
exceedingly vague.

"The urim and thummim was a name given to the jewelled plate
which lay upon the breast of the high priest of the Jews.  They had
a very special feeling of reverence for it--something of the
feeling which an ancient Roman might have for the Sibylline
books in the Capitol.  There are, as you see, twelve magnificent
stones, inscribed with mystical characters.  Counting from the
left-hand top corner, the stones are carnelian, peridot, emerald,
ruby, lapis lazuli, onyx, sapphire, agate, amethyst, topaz, beryl,
and jasper."

I was amazed at the variety and beauty of the stones.

"Has the breastplate any particular history?" I asked.

"It is of great age and of immense value," said Professor
Andreas.  "Without being able to make an absolute assertion, we
have many reasons to think that it is possible that it may be the
original urim and thummim of Solomon's Temple.  There is certainly
nothing so fine in any collection in Europe.  My friend, Captain
Wilson, here, is a practical authority upon precious stones, and he
would tell you how pure these are."

Captain Wilson, a man with a dark, hard, incisive face, was
standing beside his fiancee at the other side of the case.

"Yes," said he, curtly, "I have never seen finer stones."

"And the gold-work is also worthy of attention.  The ancients
excelled in----"--he was apparently about to indicate the setting
of the stones, when Captain Wilson interrupted him.

"You will see a finer example of their gold-work in this
candlestick," said he, turning to another table, and we all joined
him in his admiration of its embossed stem and delicately
ornamented branches.  Altogether it was an interesting and a novel
experience to have objects of such rarity explained by so great an
expert; and when, finally, Professor Andreas finished our
inspection by formally handing over the precious collection to the
care of my friend, I could not help pitying him and envying his
successor whose life was to pass in so pleasant a duty.  Within a
week, Ward Mortimer was duly installed in his new set of rooms, and
had become the autocrat of the Belmore Street Museum.

About a fortnight afterwards my friend gave a small dinner to
half a dozen bachelor friends to celebrate his promotion.  When his
guests were departing he pulled my sleeve and signalled to me that
he wished me to remain.

"You have only a few hundred yards to go," said he--I was
living in chambers in the Albany.  "You may as well stay and have
a quiet cigar with me.  I very much want your advice."

I relapsed into an arm-chair and lit one of his excellent
Matronas.  When he had returned from seeing the last of his
guests out, he drew a letter from his dress-jacket and sat down
opposite to me.

"This is an anonymous letter which I received this morning,"
said he.  "I want to read it to you and to have your advice."

"You are very welcome to it for what it is worth."

"This is how the note runs:  `Sir,--I should strongly advise
you to keep a very careful watch over the many valuable things
which are committed to your charge.  I do not think that the
present system of a single watchman is sufficient.  Be upon your
guard, or an irreparable misfortune may occur.'"

"Is that all?"

"Yes, that is all."

"Well," said I, "it is at least obvious that it was written by
one of the limited number of people who are aware that you have
only one watchman at night."

Ward Mortimer handed me the note, with a curious smile.  "Have
you an eye for handwriting?" said he.  "Now, look at this!"  He put
another letter in front of me.  "Look at the c in
`congratulate' and the c in `committed.'  Look at the capital
I.  Look at the trick of putting in a dash instead of a stop!"

"They are undoubtedly from the same hand--with some attempt at
disguise in the case of this first one."

"The second," said Ward Mortimer, "is the letter of
congratulation which was written to me by Professor Andreas upon my
obtaining my appointment."

I stared at him in amazement.  Then I turned over the letter in
my hand, and there, sure enough, was "Martin Andreas" signed upon
the other side.  There could be no doubt, in the mind of anyone who
had the slightest knowledge of the science of graphology, that the
Professor had written an anonymous letter, warning his successor
against thieves.  It was inexplicable, but it was certain.

"Why should he do it?" I asked.

"Precisely what I should wish to ask you.  If he had any such
misgivings, why could he not come and tell me direct?"

"Will you speak to him about it?"

"There again I am in doubt.  He might choose to deny that he
wrote it."

"At any rate," said I, "this warning is meant in a friendly
spirit, and I should certainly act upon it.  Are the present
precautions enough to insure you against robbery?"

"I should have thought so.  The public are only admitted from
ten till five, and there is a guardian to every two rooms.  He
stands at the door between them, and so commands them both."

"But at night?"

"When the public are gone, we at once put up the great iron
shutters, which are absolutely burglar-proof.  The watchman is a
capable fellow.  He sits in the lodge, but he walks round every
three hours.  We keep one electric light burning in each room all
night."

"It is difficult to suggest anything more--short of keeping
your day watches all night."

"We could not afford that."

"At least, I should communicate with the police, and have a
special constable put on outside in Belmore Street," said I.  "As
to the letter, if the writer wishes to be anonymous, I think he has
a right to remain so.  We must trust to the future to show some
reason for the curious course which he has adopted."

So we dismissed the subject, but all that night after my return
to my chambers I was puzzling my brain as to what possible motive
Professor Andreas could have for writing an anonymous warning
letter to his successor--for that the writing was his was as
certain to me as if I had seen him actually doing it.  He foresaw
some danger to the collection.  Was it because he foresaw it that
he abandoned his charge of it?  But if so, why should he hesitate
to warn Mortimer in his own name?  I puzzled and puzzled until at
last I fell into a troubled sleep, which carried me beyond my usual
hour of rising.

I was aroused in a singular and effective method, for about
nine o'clock my friend Mortimer rushed into my room with an
expression of consternation upon his face.  He was usually one of
the most tidy men of my acquaintance, but now his collar was undone
at one end, his tie was flying, and his hat at the back of his
head.  I read his whole story in his frantic eyes.

"The museum has been robbed!" I cried, springing up in bed.

"I fear so!  Those jewels!  The jewels of the urim and
thummim!" he gasped, for he was out of breath with running.  "I'm
going on to the police-station.  Come to the museum as soon as
you can, Jackson!  Good-bye!"  He rushed distractedly out of the
room, and I heard him clatter down the stairs.

I was not long in following his directions, but I found when I
arrived that he had already returned with a police inspector, and
another elderly gentleman, who proved to be Mr. Purvis, one of the
partners of Morson and Company, the well-known diamond merchants. 
As an expert in stones he was always prepared to advise the police. 
They were grouped round the case in which the breastplate of the
Jewish priest had been exposed.  The plate had been taken out and
laid upon the glass top of the case, and the three heads were bent
over it.

"It is obvious that it has been tampered with," said Mortimer. 
"It caught my eye the moment that I passed through the room this
morning.  I examined it yesterday evening, so that it is certain
that this has happened during the night."

It was, as he had said, obvious that someone had been at work
upon it.  The settings of the uppermost row of four stones--the
carnelian, peridot, emerald, and ruby--were rough and jagged as if
someone had scraped all round them.  The stones were in their
places, but the beautiful gold-work which we had admired only a few
days before had been very clumsily pulled about.

"It looks to me," said the police inspector, "as if someone had
been trying to take out the stones."

"My fear is," said Mortimer, "that he not only tried, but
succeeded.  I believe these four stones to be skilful imitations
which have been put in the place of the originals."

The same suspicion had evidently been in the mind of the
expert, for he had been carefully examining the four stones with
the aid of a lens.  He now submitted them to several tests, and
finally turned cheerfully to Mortimer.

"I congratulate you, sir," said he, heartily.  "I will pledge
my reputation that all four of these stones are genuine, and of a
most unusual degree of purity."

The colour began to come back to my poor friend's frightened
face, and he drew a long breath of relief.

"Thank God!" he cried.  "Then what in the world did the thief
want?"

"Probably he meant to take the stones, but was interrupted."

"In that case one would expect him to take them out one at a
time, but the setting of each of these has been loosened, and yet
the stones are all here."

"It is certainly most extraordinary," said the inspector.  "I
never remember a case like it.  Let us see the watchman."

The commissionaire was called--a soldierly, honest-faced man,
who seemed as concerned as Ward Mortimer at the incident.

"No, sir, I never heard a sound," he answered, in reply to the
questions of the inspector.  "I made my rounds four times, as
usual, but I saw nothing suspicious.  I've been in my position ten
years, but nothing of the kind has ever occurred before."

"No thief could have come through the windows?"

"Impossible, sir."

"Or passed you at the door?"

"No, sir; I never left my post except when I walked my rounds."

"What other openings are there in the museum?"

"There is the door into Mr. Ward Mortimer's private rooms."

"That is locked at night," my friend explained, "and in order
to reach it anyone from the street would have to open the outside
door as well."

"Your servants?"

"Their quarters are entirely separate."

"Well, well," said the inspector, "this is certainly very
obscure.  However, there has been no harm done, according to Mr.
Purvis."

"I will swear that those stones are genuine."

"So that the case appears to be merely one of malicious damage. 
But none the less, I should be very glad to go carefully round the
premises, and to see if we can find any trace to show us who your
visitor may have been."

His investigation, which lasted all the morning, was careful
and intelligent, but it led in the end to nothing.  He pointed out
to us that there were two possible entrances to the museum which we
had not considered.  The one was from the cellars by a trap-door
opening in the passage.  The other through a skylight from the
lumber-room, overlooking that very chamber to which the intruder
had penetrated.  As neither the cellar nor the lumber-room could be
entered unless the thief was already within the locked doors,
the matter was not of any practical importance, and the dust of
cellar and attic assured us that no one had used either one or the
other.  Finally, we ended as we began, without the slightest clue
as to how, why, or by whom the setting of these four jewels had
been tampered with.

There remained one course for Mortimer to take, and he took it. 
Leaving the police to continue their fruitless researches, he asked
me to accompany him that afternoon in a visit to Professor Andreas. 
He took with him the two letters, and it was his intention to
openly tax his predecessor with having written the anonymous
warning, and to ask him to explain the fact that he should have
anticipated so exactly that which had actually occurred.  The
Professor was living in a small villa in Upper Norwood, but we were
informed by the servant that he was away from home.  Seeing our
disappointment, she asked us if we should like to see Miss Andreas,
and showed us into the modest drawing-room.

I have mentioned incidentally that the Professor's daughter was
a very beautiful girl.  She was a blonde, tall and graceful, with
a skin of that delicate tint which the French call "mat," the
colour of old ivory, or of the lighter petals of the sulphur rose. 
I was shocked, however, as she entered the room to see how much she
had changed in the last fortnight.  Her young face was haggard and
her bright eyes heavy with trouble.

"Father has gone to Scotland," she said.  "He seems to be
tired, and has had a good deal to worry him.  He only left us
yesterday."

"You look a little tired yourself, Miss Andreas," said my
friend.

"I have been so anxious about father."

"Can you give me his Scotch address?"

"Yes, he is with his brother, the Rev. David Andreas, 1, Arran
Villas, Ardrossan."

Ward Mortimer made a note of the address, and we left without
saying anything as to the object of our visit.  We found ourselves
in Belmore Street in the evening in exactly the same position in
which we had been in the morning.  Our only clue was the
Professor's letter, and my friend had made up his mind to start for
Ardrossan next day, and to get to the bottom of the anonymous
letter, when a new development came to alter our plans.

Very early on the following morning I was aroused from my sleep
by a tap upon my bedroom door.  It was a messenger with a note from
Mortimer.

"Do come round," it said; "the matter is becoming more and more
extraordinary."

When I obeyed his summons I found him pacing excitedly up and
down the central room, while the old soldier who guarded the
premises stood with military stiffness in a corner.

"My dear Jackson," he cried, "I am so delighted that you have
come, for this is a most inexplicable business."

"What has happened, then?"

He waved his hand towards the case which contained the
breastplate.

"Look at it," said he.

I did so, and could not restrain a cry of surprise.  The
setting of the middle row of precious stones had been profaned in
the same manner as the upper ones.  Of the twelve jewels eight had
been now tampered with in this singular fashion.  The setting of
the lower four was neat and smooth.  The others jagged and
irregular.

"Have the stones been altered?" I asked.

"No, I am certain that these upper four are the same which the
expert pronounced to be genuine, for I observed yesterday that
little discoloration on the edge of the emerald.  Since they have
not extracted the upper stones, there is no reason to think the
lower have been transposed.  You say that you heard nothing,
Simpson?"

"No, sir," the commissionaire answered.  "But when I made my
round after daylight I had a special look at these stones, and I
saw at once that someone had been meddling with them.  Then I
called you, sir, and told you.  I was backwards and forwards all
night, and I never saw a soul or heard a sound."

"Come up and have some breakfast with me," said Mortimer, and
he took me into his own chambers.--"Now, what DO you think of
this, Jackson?" he asked.

"It is the most objectless, futile, idiotic business that ever
I heard of.  It can only be the work of a monomaniac."

"Can you put forward any theory?"

A curious idea came into my head.  "This object is a Jewish
relic of great antiquity and sanctity," said I.  "How about the
anti-Semitic movement?  Could one conceive that a fanatic of that
way of thinking might desecrate----"

"No, no, no!" cried Mortimer.  "That will never do!  Such a man
might push his lunacy to the length of destroying a Jewish relic,
but why on earth should he nibble round every stone so carefully
that he can only do four stones in a night?  We must have a better
solution than that, and we must find it for ourselves, for I do not
think that our inspector is likely to help us.  First of all, what
do you think of Simpson, the porter?"

"Have you any reason to suspect him?"

"Only that he is the one person on the premises."

"But why should he indulge in such wanton destruction?  Nothing
has been taken away.  He has no motive."

"Mania?"

"No, I will swear to his sanity."

"Have you any other theory?"

"Well, yourself, for example.  You are not a somnambulist, by
any chance?"

"Nothing of the sort, I assure you."

"Then I give it up."

"But I don't--and I have a plan by which we will make it all
clear."

"To visit Professor Andreas?"

"No, we shall find our solution nearer than Scotland.  I will
tell you what we shall do.  You know that skylight which overlooks
the central hall?  We will leave the electric lights in the hall,
and we will keep watch in the lumber-room, you and I, and solve the
mystery for ourselves.  If our mysterious visitor is doing four
stones at a time, he has four still to do, and there is every
reason to think that he will return tonight and complete the job."

"Excellent!" I cried.

"We will keep our own secret, and say nothing either to the
police or to Simpson.  Will you join me?"

"With the utmost pleasure," said I; and so it was agreed.

It was ten o'clock that night when I returned to the Belmore
Street Museum.  Mortimer was, as I could see, in a state of
suppressed nervous excitement, but it was still too early to
begin our vigil, so we remained for an hour or so in his chambers,
discussing all the possibilities of the singular business which we
had met to solve.  At last the roaring stream of hansom cabs and
the rush of hurrying feet became lower and more intermittent as the
pleasure-seekers passed on their way to their stations or their
homes.  It was nearly twelve when Mortimer led the way to the
lumber-room which overlooked the central hall of the museum.

He had visited it during the day, and had spread some sacking
so that we could lie at our ease, and look straight down into the
museum.  The skylight was of unfrosted glass, but was so covered
with dust that it would be impossible for anyone looking up from
below to detect that he was overlooked.  We cleared a small piece
at each corner, which gave us a complete view of the room beneath
us.  In the cold white light of the electric lamps everything stood
out hard and clear, and I could see the smallest detail of the
contents of the various cases.

Such a vigil is an excellent lesson, since one has no choice
but to look hard at those objects which we usually pass with such
half-hearted interest.  Through my little peep hole I employed the
hours in studying every specimen, from the huge mummy-case which
leaned against the wall to those very jewels which had brought us
there, gleaming and sparkling in their glass case immediately
beneath us.  There was much precious gold-work and many valuable
stones scattered through the numerous cases, but those wonderful
twelve which made up the urim and thummim glowed and burned with a
radiance which far eclipsed the others.  I studied in turn the tomb-
pictures of Sicara, the friezes from Karnak, the statues of
Memphis, and the inscriptions of Thebes, but my eyes would always
come back to that wonderful Jewish relic, and my mind to the
singular mystery which surrounded it.  I was lost in the thought of
it when my companion suddenly drew his breath sharply in, and
seized my arm in a convulsive grip.  At the same instant I saw what
it was which had excited him.

I have said that against the wall--on the right-hand side of
the doorway (the right-hand side as we looked at it, but the left
as one entered)--there stood a large mummy-case.  To our
unutterable amazement it was slowly opening.  Gradually, gradually
the lid was swinging back, and the black slit which marked the
opening was becoming wider and wider.  So gently and carefully was
it done that the movement was almost imperceptible.  Then, as we
breathlessly watched it, a white thin hand appeared at the opening,
pushing back the painted lid, then another hand, and finally a
face--a face which was familiar to us both, that of Professor
Andreas.  Stealthily he slunk out of the mummy-case, like a fox
stealing from its burrow, his head turning incessantly to left and
to right, stepping, then pausing, then stepping again, the very
image of craft and of caution.  Once some sound in the street
struck him motionless, and he stood listening, with his ear turned,
ready to dart back to the shelter behind him.  Then he crept
onwards again upon tiptoe, very, very softly and slowly, until he
had reached the case in the centre of the room.  There he took a
bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked the case, took out the
Jewish breastplate, and, laying it upon the glass in front of him,
began to work upon it with some sort of small, glistening tool.  He
was so directly underneath us that his bent head covered his work,
but we could guess from the movement of his hand that he was
engaged in finishing the strange disfigurement which he had begun.

I could realize from the heavy breathing of my companion, and
the twitchings of the hand which still clutched my wrist, the
furious indignation which filled his heart as he saw this vandalism
in the quarter of all others where he could least have expected it. 
He, the very man who a fortnight before had reverently bent over
this unique relic, and who had impressed its antiquity and its
sanctity upon us, was now engaged in this outrageous profanation. 
It was impossible, unthinkable--and yet there, in the white glare
of the electric light beneath us, was that dark figure with the
bent grey head, and the twitching elbow.  What inhuman hypocrisy,
what hateful depth of malice against his successor must underlie
these sinister nocturnal labours.  It was painful to think of and
dreadful to watch.  Even I, who had none of the acute feelings of
a virtuoso, could not bear to look on and see this deliberate
mutilation of so ancient a relic.  It was a relief to me when my
companion tugged at my sleeve as a signal that I was to follow him
as he softly crept out of the room.  It was not until we were
within his own quarters that he opened his lips, and then I saw by
his agitated face how deep was his consternation.

"The abominable Goth!" he cried.  "Could you have believed it?"

"It is amazing."

"He is a villain or a lunatic--one or the other.  We shall very
soon see which.  Come with me, Jackson, and we shall get to the
bottom of this black business."

A door opened out of the passage which was the private entrance
from his rooms into the museum.  This he opened softly with his
key, having first kicked off his shoes, an example which I
followed.  We crept together through room after room, until the
large hall lay before us, with that dark figure still stooping and
working at the central case.  With an advance as cautious as his
own we closed in upon him, but softly as we went we could not take
him entirely unawares.  We were still a dozen yards from him when
he looked round with a start, and uttering a husky cry of terror,
ran frantically down the museum.

"Simpson!  Simpson!" roared Mortimer, and far away down the
vista of electric lighted doors we saw the stiff figure of the old
soldier suddenly appear.  Professor Andreas saw him also, and
stopped running, with a gesture of despair.  At the same instant we
each laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"Yes, yes, gentlemen," he panted, "I will come with you.  To
your room, Mr Ward Mortimer, if you please!  I feel that I owe you
an explanation."

My companion's indignation was so great that I could see that
he dared not trust himself to reply.  We walked on each side of the
old Professor, the astonished commissionaire bringing up the rear. 
When we reached the violated case, Mortimer stopped and examined
the breastplate.  Already one of the stones of the lower row had
had its setting turned back in the same manner as the others.  My
friend held it up and glanced furiously at his prisoner.

"How could you!" he cried.  "How could you!"

"It is horrible--horrible!" said the Professor.  "I don't
wonder at your feelings.  Take me to your room."

"But this shall not be left exposed!" cried Mortimer.  He
picked the breastplate up and carried it tenderly in his hand,
while I walked beside the Professor, like a policeman with a
malefactor.  We passed into Mortimer's chambers, leaving the amazed
old soldier to understand matters as best he could.  The Professor
sat down in Mortimer's arm-chair, and turned so ghastly a colour
that for the instant all our resentment was changed to concern.  A
stiff glass of brandy brought the life back to him once more.

"There, I am better now!" said he.  "These last few days have
been too much for me.  I am convinced that I could not stand it any
longer.  It is a nightmare--a horrible nightmare--that I should be
arrested as a burglar in what has been for so long my own museum. 
And yet I cannot blame you.  You could not have done otherwise.  My
hope always was that I should get it all over before I was
detected.  This would have been my last night's work."

"How did you get in?" asked Mortimer.

"By taking a very great liberty with your private door.  But
the object justified it.  The object justified everything.  You
will not be angry when you know everything--at least, you will not
be angry with me.  I had a key to your side door and also to the
museum door.  I did not give them up when I left.  And so you see
it was not difficult for me to let myself into the museum.  I used
to come in early before the crowd had cleared from the street. 
Then I hid myself in the mummy-case, and took refuge there whenever
Simpson came round.  I could always hear him coming.  I used to
leave in the same way as I came."

"You ran a risk."

"I had to."

"But why?  What on earth was your object--YOU to do a thing
like that!"  Mortimer pointed reproachfully at the plate which lay
before him on the table.

"I could devise no other means.  I thought and thought, but
there was no alternate except a hideous public scandal, and a
private sorrow which would have clouded our lives.  I acted for the
best, incredible as it may seem to you, and I only ask your
attention to enable me to prove it."

"I will hear what you have to say before I take any further
steps," said Mortimer, grimly.

"I am determined to hold back nothing, and to take you both
completely into my confidence.  I will leave it to your own
generosity how far you will use the facts with which I supply you."

"We have the essential facts already."

"And yet you understand nothing.  Let me go back to what passed
a few weeks ago, and I will make it all clear to you.  Believe me
that what I say is the absolute and exact truth.

"You have met the person who calls himself Captain Wilson.  I
say `calls himself' because I have reason now to believe that it is
not his correct name.  It would take me too long if I were to
describe all the means by which he obtained an introduction to me
and ingratiated himself into my friendship and the affection of my
daughter.  He brought letters from foreign colleagues which
compelled me to show him some attention.  And then, by his own
attainments, which are considerable, he succeeded in making himself
a very welcome visitor at my rooms.  When I learned that my
daughter's affections had been gained by him, I may have thought it
premature, but I certainly was not surprised, for he had a charm of
manner and of conversation which would have made him conspicuous in
any society.

"He was much interested in Oriental antiquities, and his
knowledge of the subject justified his interest.  Often when he
spent the evening with us he would ask permission to go down into
the museum and have an opportunity of privately inspecting the
various specimens.  You can imagine that I, as an enthusiast, was
in sympathy with such a request, and that I felt no surprise at the
constancy of his visits.  After his actual engagement to Elise,
there was hardly an evening which he did not pass with us, and an
hour or two were generally devoted to the museum.  He had the free
run of the place, and when I have been away for the evening I had
no objection to his doing whatever he wished here.  This state of
things was only terminated by the fact of my resignation of my
official duties and my retirement to Norwood, where I hoped to have
the leisure to write a considerable work which I had planned.

"It was immediately after this--within a week or so--that I
first realized the true nature and character of the man whom I had
so imprudently introduced into my family.  The discovery came to me
through letters from my friends abroad, which showed me that
his introductions to me had been forgeries.  Aghast at the
revelation, I asked myself what motive this man could originally
have had in practising this elaborate deception upon me.  I was too
poor a man for any fortune-hunter to have marked me down.  Why,
then, had he come?  I remembered that some of the most precious
gems in Europe had been under my charge, and I remembered also the
ingenious excuses by which this man had made himself familiar with
the cases in which they were kept.  He was a rascal who was
planning some gigantic robbery.  How could I, without striking my
own daughter, who was infatuated about him, prevent him from
carrying out any plan which he might have formed?  My device was a
clumsy one, and yet I could think of nothing more effective.  If I
had written a letter under my own name, you would naturally have
turned to me for details which I did not wish to give.  I resorted
to an anonymous letter, begging you to be upon your guard.

"I may tell you that my change from Belmore Street to Norwood
had not affected the visits of this man, who had, I believe, a real
and overpowering affection for my daughter.  As to her, I could not
have believed that any woman could be so completely under the
influence of a man as she was.  His stronger nature seemed to
entirely dominate her.  I had not realized how far this was the
case, or the extent of the confidence which existed between them,
until that very evening when his true character for the first time
was made clear to me.  I had given orders that when he called he
should be shown into my study instead of to the drawing-room. 
There I told him bluntly that I knew all about him, that I had
taken steps to defeat his designs, and that neither I nor my
daughter desired ever to see him again.  I added that I thanked God
that I had found him out before he had time to harm those precious
objects which it had been the work of my life-time to protect.

"He was certainly a man of iron nerve.  He took my remarks
without a sign either of surprise or of defiance, but listened
gravely and attentively until I had finished.  Then he walked
across the room without a word and struck the bell.

"`Ask Miss Andreas to be so kind as to step this way,' said he
to the servant.

"My daughter entered, and the man closed the door behind her. 
Then he took her hand in his.

"`Elise,' said he, `your father has just discovered that I am
a villain.  He knows now what you knew before.'

"She stood in silence, listening.

"`He says that we are to part for ever,' said he.

"She did not withdraw her hand.

"`Will you be true to me, or will you remove the last good
influence which is ever likely to come into my life?'

"`John,' she cried, passionately.  `I will never abandon you! 
Never, never, not if the whole world were against you.'

"In vain I argued and pleaded with her.  It was absolutely
useless.  Her whole life was bound up in this man before me.  My
daughter, gentlemen, is all that I have left to love, and it filled
me with agony when I saw how powerless I was to save her from her
ruin.  My helplessness seemed to touch this man who was the cause
of my trouble.

"`It may not be as bad as you think, sir,' said he, in his
quiet, inflexible way.  `I love Elise with a love which is strong
enough to rescue even one who has such a record as I have.  It was
but yesterday that I promised her that never again in my whole life
would I do a thing of which she should be ashamed.  I have made up
my mind to it, and never yet did I make up my mind to a thing which
I did not do.'

"He spoke with an air which carried conviction with it.  As he
concluded he put his hand into his pocket and he drew out a small
cardboard box.

"`I am about to give you a proof of my determination,' said he. 
`This, Elise, shall be the first-fruits of your redeeming influence
over me.  You are right, sir, in thinking that I had designs upon
the jewels in your possession.  Such ventures have had a charm for
me, which depended as much upon the risk run as upon the value of
the prize.  Those famous and antique stones of the Jewish priest
were a challenge to my daring and my ingenuity.  I determined to
get them.'

"`I guessed as much.'

"`There was only one thing that you did not guess.'

"`And what is that?'

"`That I got them.  They are in this box.'

"He opened the box, and tilted out the contents upon the corner
of my desk.  My hair rose and my flesh grew cold as I looked. 
There were twelve magnificent square stones engraved with mystical
characters.  There could be no doubt that they were the jewels of
the urim and thummim.

"`Good God!' I cried.  `How have you escaped discovery?'

"`By the substitution of twelve others, made especially to my
order, in which the originals are so carefully imitated that I defy
the eye to detect the difference.'

"`Then the present stones are false?' I cried.

"`They have been for some weeks.'

"We all stood in silence, my daughter white with emotion, but
still holding this man by the hand.

"`You see what I am capable of, Elise,' said he.

"`I see that you are capable of repentance and restitution,'
she answered.

"`Yes, thanks to your influence!  I leave the stones in your
hands, sir.  Do what you like about it.  But remember that whatever
you do against me, is done against the future husband of your only
daughter.  You will hear from me soon again, Elise.  It is the last
time that I will ever cause pain to your tender heart,' and with
these words he left both the room and the house.

"My position was a dreadful one.  Here I was with these
precious relics in my possession, and how could I return them
without a scandal and an exposure?  I knew the depth of my
daughter's nature too well to suppose that I would ever be able to
detach her from this man now that she had entirely given him her
heart.  I was not even sure how far it was right to detach her if
she had such an ameliorating influence over him.  How could I
expose him without injuring her--and how far was I justified in
exposing him when he had voluntarily put himself into my power?  I
thought and thought until at last I formed a resolution which may
seem to you to be a foolish one, and yet, if I had to do it again,
I believe it would be the best course open to me.

"My idea was to return the stones without anyone being the
wiser.  With my keys I could get into the museum at any time, and
I was confident that I could avoid Simpson, whose hours and methods
were familiar to me.  I determined to take no one into my
confidence--not even my daughter--whom I told that I was about to
visit my brother in Scotland.  I wanted a free hand for a few
nights, without inquiry as to my comings and goings.  To this end
I took a room in Harding Street that very night, with an intimation
that I was a Pressman, and that I should keep very late hours.

"That night I made my way into the museum, and I replaced four
of the stones.  It was hard work, and took me all night.  When
Simpson came round I always heard his footsteps, and concealed
myself in the mummy-case.  I had some knowledge of gold-work, but
was far less skilful than the thief had been.  He had replaced the
setting so exactly that I defy anyone to see the difference.  My
work was rude and clumsy.  However, I hoped that the plate might
not be carefully examined, or the roughness of the setting
observed, until my task was done.  Next night I replaced four more
stones.  And tonight I should have finished my task had it not been
for the unfortunate circumstance which has caused me to reveal so
much which I should have wished to keep concealed.  I appeal to
you, gentlemen, to your sense of honour and of compassion, whether
what I have told you should go any farther or not.  My own
happiness, my daughter's future, the hopes of this man's
regeneration, all depend upon your decision.

"Which is," said my friend, "that all is well that ends well
and that the whole matter ends here and at once.  Tomorrow the
loose settings shall be tightened by an expert goldsmith, and so
passes the greatest danger to which, since the destruction of the
Temple, the urim and thummim has been exposed.  Here is my hand,
Professor Andreas, and I can only hope that under such difficult
circumstances I should have carried myself as unselfishly and as well."

Just one footnote to this narrative.  Within a month Elise
Andreas was married to a man whose name, had I the indiscretion to
mention it, would appeal to my readers as one who is now widely and
deservedly honoured.  But if the truth were known that honour is
due not to him, but to the gentle girl who plucked him back when he
had gone so far down that dark road along which few return.





End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Tales of Terror and Mystery