the cask of amontillado by edgar allan poe the thousand injuries of fortunato i had borne as i best could, but when he ventured upon insult, i vowed revenge. you, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that i gave utterance to a threat. _at length_ i would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled--but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of risk. i must not only punish, but punish with impunity. a wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. it is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. it must be understood that neither by word nor deed had i given fortunato cause to doubt my good will. i continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile _now_ was at the thought of his immolation. he had a weak point--this fortunato--although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. he prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. few italians have the true virtuoso spirit. for the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity--to practise imposture upon the british and austrian _millionaires_. in painting and gemmary, fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack--but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. in this respect i did not differ from him materially: i was skillful in the italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever i could. it was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that i encountered my friend. he accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. the man wore motley. he had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. i was so pleased to see him, that i thought i should never have done wringing his hand. i said to him--"my dear fortunato, you are luckily met. how remarkably well you are looking to-day! but i have received a pipe of what passes for amontillado, and i have my doubts." "how?" said he. "amontillado? a pipe? impossible! and in the middle of the carnival!" "i have my doubts," i replied; "and i was silly enough to pay the full amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. you were not to be found, and i was fearful of losing a bargain." "amontillado!" "i have my doubts." "amontillado!" "and i must satisfy them." "amontillado!" "as you are engaged, i am on my way to luchesi. if any one has a critical turn, it is he. he will tell me--" "luchesi cannot tell amontillado from sherry." "and yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own." "come, let us go." "whither?" "to your vaults." "my friend, no; i will not impose upon your good nature. i perceive you have an engagement. luchesi--" "i have no engagement;--come." "my friend, no. it is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which i perceive you are afflicted. the vaults are insufferably damp. they are encrusted with nitre." "let us go, nevertheless. the cold is merely nothing. amontillado! you have been imposed upon. and as for luchesi, he cannot distinguish sherry from amontillado." thus speaking, fortunato possessed himself of my arm. putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a _roquelaire_ closely about my person, i suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo. there were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. i had told them that i should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. these orders were sufficient, i well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned. i took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. i passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. we came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the montresors. the gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. "the pipe," said he. "it is farther on," said i; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls." he turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication. "nitre?" he asked, at length. "nitre," i replied. "how long have you had that cough?" "ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!" my poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. "it is nothing," he said, at last. "come," i said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. you are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once i was. you are a man to be missed. for me it is no matter. we will go back; you will be ill, and i cannot be responsible. besides, there is luchesi--" "enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. i shall not die of a cough." "true--true," i replied; "and, indeed, i had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily--but you should use all proper caution. a draught of this medoc will defend us from the damps." here i knocked off the neck of a bottle which i drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould. "drink," i said, presenting him the wine. he raised it to his lips with a leer. he paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled. "i drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us." "and i to your long life." he again took my arm, and we proceeded. "these vaults," he said, "are extensive." "the montresors," i replied, "were a great and numerous family." "i forget your arms." "a huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel." "and the motto?" "_nemo me impune lacessit_." "good!" he said. the wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. my own fancy grew warm with the medoc. we had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of catacombs. i paused again, and this time i made bold to seize fortunato by an arm above the elbow. "the nitre!" i said; "see, it increases. it hangs like moss upon the vaults. we are below the river's bed. the drops of moisture trickle among the bones. come, we will go back ere it is too late. your cough--" "it is nothing," he said; "let us go on. but first, another draught of the medoc." i broke and reached him a flagon of de grave. he emptied it at a breath. his eyes flashed with a fierce light. he laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation i did not understand. i looked at him in surprise. he repeated the movement--a grotesque one. "you do not comprehend?" he said. "not i," i replied. "then you are not of the brotherhood." "how?" "you are not of the masons." "yes, yes," i said; "yes, yes." "you? impossible! a mason?" "a mason," i replied. "a sign," he said, "a sign." "it is this," i answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my _roquelaire_. "you jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "but let us proceed to the amontillado." "be it so," i said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. he leaned upon it heavily. we continued our route in search of the amontillado. we passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame. at the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of paris. three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. from the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet in width three, in height six or seven. it seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite. it was in vain that fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see. "proceed," i said; "herein is the amontillado. as for luchesi--" "he is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while i followed immediately at his heels. in an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. a moment more and i had fettered him to the granite. in its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. from one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. he was too much astounded to resist. withdrawing the key i stepped back from the recess. "pass your hand," i said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. indeed, it is _very_ damp. once more let me _implore_ you to return. no? then i must positively leave you. but i must first render you all the little attentions in my power." "the amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment. "true," i replied; "the amontillado." as i said these words i busied myself among the pile of bones of which i have before spoken. throwing them aside, i soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. with these materials and with the aid of my trowel, i began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche. i had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when i discovered that the intoxication of fortunato had in a great measure worn off. the earliest indication i had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. it was _not_ the cry of a drunken man. there was then a long and obstinate silence. i laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then i heard the furious vibrations of the chain. the noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that i might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, i ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. when at last the clanking subsided, i resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. the wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. i again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. a succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. for a brief moment i hesitated--i trembled. unsheathing my rapier, i began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. i placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. i reapproached the wall; i replied to the yells of him who clamoured. i re-echoed--i aided--i surpassed them in volume and in strength. i did this, and the clamourer grew still. it was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. i had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. i had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. i struggled with its weight; i placed it partially in its destined position. but now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. it was succeeded by a sad voice, which i had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble fortunato. the voice said-"ha! ha! ha!--he! he! he!--a very good joke indeed--an excellent jest. we shall have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo--he! he! he!--over our wine--he! he! he!" "the amontillado!" i said. "he! he! he!--he! he! he!--yes, the amontillado. but is it not getting late? will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the lady fortunato and the rest? let us be gone." "yes," i said, "let us be gone." "_for the love of god, montresor!_" "yes," i said, "for the love of god!" but to these words i hearkened in vain for a reply. i grew impatient. i called aloud-"fortunato!" no answer. i called again-"fortunato--" no answer still. i thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. there came forth in reply only a jingling of the bells. my heart grew sick on account of the dampness of the catacombs. i hastened to make an end of my labour. i forced the last stone into its position; i plastered it up. against the new masonry i re-erected the old rampart of bones. for the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. _in pace requiescat!_ this is our second experimental effort at cataloguing multiple items in a single file. in the first instance we use the same index number for each item, and just used multiple entries for that file in the index. in this, the second instance, we have used separate index numbers for the collection and for all the entries in that collection. let us know which you prefer. we have traditionally used the smallest number of index entries--as somewhat of a protest against others who have copied etexts and wanted it to appear as if they had more etext than project gutenberg or various other etext collections. we want to make our etexts as easy as possible to find and work with, but, not to "pad" our work. however, we prefer to post short works for you in collections, to eliminate you having to download all 11 kilobytes of our header and "legal fine print" to get files of sizes less than the headers. please email me on this. thanks! michael s. hart, hart@pobox.com the raven by edgar allan poe october, 1997 [etext #1064]* the raven once upon a midnight dreary, while i pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore- while i nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'tis some visitor," i muttered, "tapping at my chamber door- only this and nothing more." ah, distinctly i remember it was in the bleak december, and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. eagerly i wished the morrow;--vainly i had sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost lenore- for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name lenore- nameless here for evermore. and the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; so that now, to still the beating of my heart, i stood repeating "'tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door- some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; this it is and nothing more." presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "sir," said i, "or madam, truly your forgiveness i implore; but the fact is i was napping, and so gently you came rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, that i scarce was sure i heard you"--here i opened wide the door- darkness there and nothing more. deep into that darkness peering, long i stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; but the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "lenore?" this i whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "lenore!"- merely this and nothing more. back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, soon again i heard a tapping something louder than before. "surely," said i, "surely that is something at my window lattice; let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore- let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;- 'tis the wind and nothing more. open here i flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, in there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he, but, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door- perched upon a bust of pallas just above my chamber door- perched, and sat, and nothing more. then the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," i said, "art sure no craven, ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore- tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore!" quoth the raven, "nevermore." much i marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; for we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door- bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, with such name as "nevermore." but the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only that one word, as if its soul in that one word he did outpour nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered- till i scarcely more than muttered: "other friends have flown before- on the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." then the bird said "nevermore." startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "doubtless," said i, "what it utters is its only stock and store, caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore- till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore of 'never--nevermore.'" but the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, straight i wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; then, upon the velvet sinking, i betook myself to linking fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore- what this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore meant in croaking "nevermore." this i sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing to the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; this and more i sat divining, with my head at ease reclining on the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, but whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er _she_ shall press, ah, nevermore! then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "wretch," i cried, "thy god hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of lenore! quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost lenore!" quoth the raven, "nevermore." "prophet!" said i, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!- whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted- on this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, i implore- is there--_is_ there balm in gilead?--tell me--tell me, i implore!" quoth the raven, "nevermore." "prophet!" said i, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil! by that heaven that bends above us--by that god we both adore- tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant aidenn, it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name lenore- clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name lenore." quoth the raven, "nevermore." "be that our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" i shrieked, upstarting- "get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore! leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken! leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door! take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" quoth the raven, "nevermore." and the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting on the pallid bust of pallas just above my chamber door; and his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming and the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadows on the floor; and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted--nevermore! the masque of the red death by edgar allan poe october, 1997 [etext #1064]* the masque of the red death the "red death" had long devastated the country. no pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. blood was its avatar and its seal--the redness and the horror of blood. there were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. the scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. and the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease, were the incidents of half an hour. but the prince prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. when his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. this was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince's own eccentric yet august taste. a strong and lofty wall girdled it in. this wall had gates of iron. the courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. they resolved to leave means neither of ingress nor egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. the abbey was amply provisioned. with such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. the external world could take care of itself. in the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. the prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. there were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was beauty, there was wine. all these and security were within. without was the "red death". it was towards the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the prince prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence. it was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. but first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. these were seven--an imperial suite. in many palaces, however, such suites form a long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is scarcely impeded. here the case was very different, as might have been expected from the duke's love of the _bizarre_. the apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one at a time. there was a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel effect. to the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the windings of the suite. these windows were of stained glass whose colour varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. that at the eastern extremity was hung, for example in blue--and vividly blue were its windows. the second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. the third was green throughout, and so were the casements. the fourth was furnished and lighted with orange--the fifth with white--the sixth with violet. the seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. but in this chamber only, the colour of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. the panes here were scarlet--a deep blood colour. now in no one of the seven apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or depended from the roof. there was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle within the suite of chambers. but in the corridors that followed the suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire, that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaringly illumined the room. and thus were produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. but in the western or black chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all. it was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to harken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused revery or meditation. but when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before. but, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. the tastes of the duke were peculiar. he had a fine eye for colours and effects. he disregarded the _decora_ of mere fashion. his plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. there are some who would have thought him mad. his followers felt that he was not. it was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be _sure_ that he was not. he had directed, in great part, the movable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great _fête_; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. be sure they were grotesque. there were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm--much of what has been since seen in "hernani". there were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. there were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. there were much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the _bizarre_, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. to and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. and these--the dreams--writhed in and about taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. and, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. and then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. the dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. but the echoes of the chime die away--they have endured but an instant--and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. and now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. but to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are now none of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-coloured panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches _their_ ears who indulged in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments. but these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life. and the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the clock. and then the music ceased, as i have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. but now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time, into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. and thus too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. and the rumour of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise--then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust. in an assembly of phantasms such as i have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. in truth the masquerade licence of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-heroded herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince's indefinite decorum. there are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. the whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. the figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. the mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. and yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. but the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the red death. his vesture was dabbled in _blood_--and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror. when the eyes of the prince prospero fell upon this spectral image (which, with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage. "who dares,"--he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him--"who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? seize him and unmask him--that we may know whom we have to hang, at sunrise, from the battlements!" it was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the prince prospero as he uttered these words. they rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly, for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand. it was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. at first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. but from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince's person; and, while the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple--through the purple to the green--through the green to the orange--through this again to the white--and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him. it was then, however, that the prince prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. he bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. there was a sharp cry--and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the prince prospero. then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave cerements and corpse-like mask, which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form. and now was acknowledged the presence of the red death. he had come like a thief in the night. and one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. and the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. and the flames of the tripods expired. and darkness and decay and the red death held illimitable dominion over all. the cask of amontillado by edgar allan poe october, 1997 [etext #1065]* the cask of amontillado the thousand injuries of fortunato i had borne as i best could, but when he ventured upon insult, i vowed revenge. you, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that i gave utterance to a threat. _at length_ i would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled--but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of risk. i must not only punish, but punish with impunity. a wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. it is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. it must be understood that neither by word nor deed had i given fortunato cause to doubt my good will. i continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile _now_ was at the thought of his immolation. he had a weak point--this fortunato--although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. he prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. few italians have the true virtuoso spirit. for the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity--to practise imposture upon the british and austrian _millionaires_. in painting and gemmary, fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack--but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. in this respect i did not differ from him materially: i was skillful in the italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever i could. it was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that i encountered my friend. he accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. the man wore motley. he had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. i was so pleased to see him, that i thought i should never have done wringing his hand. i said to him--"my dear fortunato, you are luckily met. how remarkably well you are looking to-day! but i have received a pipe of what passes for amontillado, and i have my doubts." "how?" said he. "amontillado? a pipe? impossible! and in the middle of the carnival!" "i have my doubts," i replied; "and i was silly enough to pay the full amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. you were not to be found, and i was fearful of losing a bargain." "amontillado!" "i have my doubts." "amontillado!" "and i must satisfy them." "amontillado!" "as you are engaged, i am on my way to luchesi. if any one has a critical turn, it is he. he will tell me--" "luchesi cannot tell amontillado from sherry." "and yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own." "come, let us go." "whither?" "to your vaults." "my friend, no; i will not impose upon your good nature. i perceive you have an engagement. luchesi--" "i have no engagement;--come." "my friend, no. it is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which i perceive you are afflicted. the vaults are insufferably damp. they are encrusted with nitre." "let us go, nevertheless. the cold is merely nothing. amontillado! you have been imposed upon. and as for luchesi, he cannot distinguish sherry from amontillado." thus speaking, fortunato possessed himself of my arm. putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a _roquelaire_ closely about my person, i suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo. there were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. i had told them that i should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. these orders were sufficient, i well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned. i took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. i passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. we came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the montresors. the gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. "the pipe," said he. "it is farther on," said i; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls." he turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication. "nitre?" he asked, at length. "nitre," i replied. "how long have you had that cough?" "ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!" my poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. "it is nothing," he said, at last. "come," i said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. you are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once i was. you are a man to be missed. for me it is no matter. we will go back; you will be ill, and i cannot be responsible. besides, there is luchesi--" "enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. i shall not die of a cough." "true--true," i replied; "and, indeed, i had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily--but you should use all proper caution. a draught of this medoc will defend us from the damps." here i knocked off the neck of a bottle which i drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould. "drink," i said, presenting him the wine. he raised it to his lips with a leer. he paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled. "i drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us." "and i to your long life." he again took my arm, and we proceeded. "these vaults," he said, "are extensive." "the montresors," i replied, "were a great and numerous family." "i forget your arms." "a huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel." "and the motto?" "_nemo me impune lacessit_." "good!" he said. the wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. my own fancy grew warm with the medoc. we had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of catacombs. i paused again, and this time i made bold to seize fortunato by an arm above the elbow. "the nitre!" i said; "see, it increases. it hangs like moss upon the vaults. we are below the river's bed. the drops of moisture trickle among the bones. come, we will go back ere it is too late. your cough--" "it is nothing," he said; "let us go on. but first, another draught of the medoc." i broke and reached him a flagon of de grave. he emptied it at a breath. his eyes flashed with a fierce light. he laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation i did not understand. i looked at him in surprise. he repeated the movement--a grotesque one. "you do not comprehend?" he said. "not i," i replied. "then you are not of the brotherhood." "how?" "you are not of the masons." "yes, yes," i said; "yes, yes." "you? impossible! a mason?" "a mason," i replied. "a sign," he said, "a sign." "it is this," i answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my _roquelaire_. "you jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "but let us proceed to the amontillado." "be it so," i said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. he leaned upon it heavily. we continued our route in search of the amontillado. we passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame. at the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of paris. three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. from the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet in width three, in height six or seven. it seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite. it was in vain that fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see. "proceed," i said; "herein is the amontillado. as for luchesi--" "he is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while i followed immediately at his heels. in an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. a moment more and i had fettered him to the granite. in its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. from one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. he was too much astounded to resist. withdrawing the key i stepped back from the recess. "pass your hand," i said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. indeed, it is _very_ damp. once more let me _implore_ you to return. no? then i must positively leave you. but i must first render you all the little attentions in my power." "the amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment. "true," i replied; "the amontillado." as i said these words i busied myself among the pile of bones of which i have before spoken. throwing them aside, i soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. with these materials and with the aid of my trowel, i began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche. i had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when i discovered that the intoxication of fortunato had in a great measure worn off. the earliest indication i had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. it was _not_ the cry of a drunken man. there was then a long and obstinate silence. i laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then i heard the furious vibrations of the chain. the noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that i might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, i ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. when at last the clanking subsided, i resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. the wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. i again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. a succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. for a brief moment i hesitated--i trembled. unsheathing my rapier, i began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. i placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. i reapproached the wall; i replied to the yells of him who clamoured. i re-echoed--i aided--i surpassed them in volume and in strength. i did this, and the clamourer grew still. it was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. i had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. i had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. i struggled with its weight; i placed it partially in its destined position. but now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. it was succeeded by a sad voice, which i had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble fortunato. the voice said-"ha! ha! ha!--he! he! he!--a very good joke indeed--an excellent jest. we shall have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo--he! he! he!--over our wine--he! he! he!" "the amontillado!" i said. "he! he! he!--he! he! he!--yes, the amontillado. but is it not getting late? will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the lady fortunato and the rest? let us be gone." "yes," i said, "let us be gone." "_for the love of god, montresor!_" "yes," i said, "for the love of god!" but to these words i hearkened in vain for a reply. i grew impatient. i called aloud-"fortunato!" no answer. i called again-"fortunato--" no answer still. i thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. there came forth in reply only a jingling of the bells. my heart grew sick on account of the dampness of the catacombs. i hastened to make an end of my labour. i forced the last stone into its position; i plastered it up. against the new masonry i re-erected the old rampart of bones. for the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. _in pace requiescat!_ the parenticide club by ambrose bierce contents my favorite murder oil of dog an imperfect conflagration the hypnotist my favorite murder having murdered my mother under circumstances of singular atrocity, i was arrested and put upon my trial, which lasted seven years. in charging the jury, the judge of the court of acquittal remarked that it was one of the most ghastly crimes that he had ever been called upon to explain away. at this, my attorney rose and said: "may it please your honor, crimes are ghastly or agreeable only by comparison. if you were familiar with the details of my client's previous murder of his uncle you would discern in his later offense (if offense it may be called) something in the nature of tender forbearance and filial consideration for the feelings of the victim. the appalling ferocity of the former assassination was indeed inconsistent with any hypothesis but that of guilt; and had it not been for the fact that the honorable judge before whom he was tried was the president of a life insurance company that took risks on hanging, and in which my client held a policy, it is hard to see how he could decently have been acquitted. if your honor would like to hear about it for instruction and guidance of your honor's mind, this unfortunate man, my client, will consent to give himself the pain of relating it under oath." the district attorney said: "your honor, i object. such a statement would be in the nature of evidence, and the testimony in this case is closed. the prisoner's statement should have been introduced three years ago, in the spring of 1881." "in a statutory sense," said the judge, "you are right, and in the court of objections and technicalities you would get a ruling in your favor. but not in a court of acquittal. the objection is overruled." "i except," said the district attorney. "you cannot do that," the judge said. "i must remind you that in order to take an exception you must first get this case transferred for a time to the court of exceptions on a formal motion duly supported by affidavits. a motion to that effect by your predecessor in office was denied by me during the first year of this trial. mr. clerk, swear the prisoner." the customary oath having been administered, i made the following statement, which impressed the judge with so strong a sense of the comparative triviality of the offense for which i was on trial that he made no further search for mitigating circumstances, but simply instructed the jury to acquit, and i left the court, without a stain upon my reputation: "i was born in 1856 in kalamakee, mich., of honest and reputable parents, one of whom heaven has mercifully spared to comfort me in my later years. in 1867 the family came to california and settled near nigger head, where my father opened a road agency and prospered beyond the dreams of avarice. he was a reticent, saturnine man then, though his increasing years have now somewhat relaxed the austerity of his disposition, and i believe that nothing but his memory of the sad event for which i am now on trial prevents him from manifesting a genuine hilarity. "four years after we had set up the road agency an itinerant preacher came along, and having no other way to pay for the night's lodging that we gave him, favored us with an exhortation of such power that, praise god, we were all converted to religion. my father at once sent for his brother, the hon. william ridley of stockton, and on his arrival turned over the agency to him, charging him nothing for the franchise nor plant--the latter consisting of a winchester rifle, a sawed-off shotgun, and an assortment of masks made out of flour sacks. the family then moved to ghost rock and opened a dance house. it was called 'the saints' rest hurdy-gurdy,' and the proceedings each night began with prayer. it was there that my now sainted mother, by her grace in the dance, acquired the _sobriquet_ of 'the bucking walrus.' "in the fall of '75 i had occasion to visit coyote, on the road to mahala, and took the stage at ghost rock. there were four other passengers. about three miles beyond nigger head, persons whom i identified as my uncle william and his two sons held up the stage. finding nothing in the express box, they went through the passengers. i acted a most honorable part in the affair, placing myself in line with the others, holding up my hands and permitting myself to be deprived of forty dollars and a gold watch. from my behavior no one could have suspected that i knew the gentlemen who gave the entertainment. a few days later, when i went to nigger head and asked for the return of my money and watch my uncle and cousins swore they knew nothing of the matter, and they affected a belief that my father and i had done the job ourselves in dishonest violation of commercial good faith. uncle william even threatened to retaliate by starting an opposition dance house at ghost rock. as 'the saints' rest' had become rather unpopular, i saw that this would assuredly ruin it and prove a paying enterprise, so i told my uncle that i was willing to overlook the past if he would take me into the scheme and keep the partnership a secret from my father. this fair offer he rejected, and i then perceived that it would be better and more satisfactory if he were dead. "my plans to that end were soon perfected, and communicating them to my dear parents i had the gratification of receiving their approval. my father said he was proud of me, and my mother promised that although her religion forbade her to assist in taking human life i should have the advantage of her prayers for my success. as a preliminary measure looking to my security in case of detection i made an application for membership in that powerful order, the knights of murder, and in due course was received as a member of the ghost rock commandery. on the day that my probation ended i was for the first time permitted to inspect the records of the order and learn who belonged to it--all the rites of initiation having been conducted in masks. fancy my delight when, in looking over the roll of membership, i found the third name to be that of my uncle, who indeed was junior vice-chancellor of the order! here was an opportunity exceeding my wildest dreams--to murder i could add insubordination and treachery. it was what my good mother would have called 'a special providence.' "at about this time something occurred which caused my cup of joy, already full, to overflow on all sides, a circular cataract of bliss. three men, strangers in that locality, were arrested for the stage robbery in which i had lost my money and watch. they were brought to trial and, despite my efforts to clear them and fasten the guilt upon three of the most respectable and worthy citizens of ghost rock, convicted on the clearest proof. the murder would now be as wanton and reasonless as i could wish. "one morning i shouldered my winchester rifle, and going over to my uncle's house, near nigger head, asked my aunt mary, his wife, if he were at home, adding that i had come to kill him. my aunt replied with her peculiar smile that so many gentlemen called on that errand and were afterward carried away without having performed it that i must excuse her for doubting my good faith in the matter. she said i did not look as if i would kill anybody, so, as a proof of good faith i leveled my rifle and wounded a chinaman who happened to be passing the house. she said she knew whole families that could do a thing of that kind, but bill ridley was a horse of another color. she said, however, that i would find him over on the other side of the creek in the sheep lot; and she added that she hoped the best man would win. "my aunt mary was one of the most fair-minded women that i have ever met. "i found my uncle down on his knees engaged in skinning a sheep. seeing that he had neither gun nor pistol handy i had not the heart to shoot him, so i approached him, greeted him pleasantly and struck him a powerful blow on the head with the butt of my rifle. i have a very good delivery and uncle william lay down on his side, then rolled over on his back, spread out his fingers and shivered. before he could recover the use of his limbs i seized the knife that he had been using and cut his hamstrings. you know, doubtless, that when you sever the _tendo achillis_ the patient has no further use of his leg; it is just the same as if he had no leg. well, i parted them both, and when he revived he was at my service. as soon as he comprehended the situation, he said: "'samuel, you have got the drop on me and can afford to be generous. i have only one thing to ask of you, and that is that you carry me to the house and finish me in the bosom of my family.' "i told him i thought that a pretty reasonable request and i would do so if he would let me put him into a wheat sack; he would be easier to carry that way and if we were seen by the neighbors _en route_ it would cause less remark. he agreed to that, and going to the barn i got a sack. this, however, did not fit him; it was too short and much wider than he; so i bent his legs, forced his knees up against his breast and got him into it that way, tying the sack above his head. he was a heavy man and i had all that i could do to get him on my back, but i staggered along for some distance until i came to a swing that some of the children had suspended to the branch of an oak. here i laid him down and sat upon him to rest, and the sight of the rope gave me a happy inspiration. in twenty minutes my uncle, still in the sack, swung free to the sport of the wind. "i had taken down the rope, tied one end tightly about the mouth of the bag, thrown the other across the limb and hauled him up about five feet from the ground. fastening the other end of the rope also about the mouth of the sack, i had the satisfaction to see my uncle converted into a large, fine pendulum. i must add that he was not himself entirely aware of the nature of the change that he had undergone in his relation to the exterior world, though in justice to a good man's memory i ought to say that i do not think he would in any case have wasted much of my time in vain remonstrance. "uncle william had a ram that was famous in all that region as a fighter. it was in a state of chronic constitutional indignation. some deep disappointment in early life had soured its disposition and it had declared war upon the whole world. to say that it would butt anything accessible is but faintly to express the nature and scope of its military activity: the universe was its antagonist; its methods that of a projectile. it fought like the angels and devils, in mid-air, cleaving the atmosphere like a bird, describing a parabolic curve and descending upon its victim at just the exact angle of incidence to make the most of its velocity and weight. its momentum, calculated in foot-tons, was something incredible. it had been seen to destroy a four year old bull by a single impact upon that animal's gnarly forehead. no stone wall had ever been known to resist its downward swoop; there were no trees tough enough to stay it; it would splinter them into matchwood and defile their leafy honors in the dust. this irascible and implacable brute--this incarnate thunderbolt--this monster of the upper deep, i had seen reposing in the shade of an adjacent tree, dreaming dreams of conquest and glory. it was with a view to summoning it forth to the field of honor that i suspended its master in the manner described. "having completed my preparations, i imparted to the avuncular pendulum a gentle oscillation, and retiring to cover behind a contiguous rock, lifted up my voice in a long rasping cry whose diminishing final note was drowned in a noise like that of a swearing cat, which emanated from the sack. instantly that formidable sheep was upon its feet and had taken in the military situation at a glance. in a few moments it had approached, stamping, to within fifty yards of the swinging foeman, who, now retreating and anon advancing, seemed to invite the fray. suddenly i saw the beast's head drop earthward as if depressed by the weight of its enormous horns; then a dim, white, wavy streak of sheep prolonged itself from that spot in a generally horizontal direction to within about four yards of a point immediately beneath the enemy. there it struck sharply upward, and before it had faded from my gaze at the place whence it had set out i heard a horrid thump and a piercing scream, and my poor uncle shot forward, with a slack rope higher than the limb to which he was attached. here the rope tautened with a jerk, arresting his flight, and back he swung in a breathless curve to the other end of his arc. the ram had fallen, a heap of indistinguishable legs, wool and horns, but pulling itself together and dodging as its antagonist swept downward it retired at random, alternately shaking its head and stamping its fore-feet. when it had backed about the same distance as that from which it had delivered the assault it paused again, bowed its head as if in prayer for victory and again shot forward, dimly visible as before--a prolonging white streak with monstrous undulations, ending with a sharp ascension. its course this time was at a right angle to its former one, and its impatience so great that it struck the enemy before he had nearly reached the lowest point of his arc. in consequence he went flying round and round in a horizontal circle whose radius was about equal to half the length of the rope, which i forgot to say was nearly twenty feet long. his shrieks, _crescendo_ in approach and _diminuendo_ in recession, made the rapidity of his revolution more obvious to the ear than to the eye. he had evidently not yet been struck in a vital spot. his posture in the sack and the distance from the ground at which he hung compelled the ram to operate upon his lower extremities and the end of his back. like a plant that has struck its root into some poisonous mineral, my poor uncle was dying slowly upward. "after delivering its second blow the ram had not again retired. the fever of battle burned hot in its heart; its brain was intoxicated with the wine of strife. like a pugilist who in his rage forgets his skill and fights ineffectively at half-arm's length, the angry beast endeavored to reach its fleeting foe by awkward vertical leaps as he passed overhead, sometimes, indeed, succeeding in striking him feebly, but more frequently overthrown by its own misguided eagerness. but as the impetus was exhausted and the man's circles narrowed in scope and diminished in speed, bringing him nearer to the ground, these tactics produced better results, eliciting a superior quality of screams, which i greatly enjoyed. "suddenly, as if the bugles had sung truce, the ram suspended hostilities and walked away, thoughtfully wrinkling and smoothing its great aquiline nose, and occasionally cropping a bunch of grass and slowly munching it. it seemed to have tired of war's alarms and resolved to beat the sword into a plowshare and cultivate the arts of peace. steadily it held its course away from the field of fame until it had gained a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile. there it stopped and stood with its rear to the foe, chewing its cud and apparently half asleep. i observed, however, an occasional slight turn of its head, as if its apathy were more affected than real. "meantime uncle william's shrieks had abated with his motion, and nothing was heard from him but long, low moans, and at long intervals my name, uttered in pleading tones exceedingly grateful to my ear. evidently the man had not the faintest notion of what was being done to him, and was inexpressibly terrified. when death comes cloaked in mystery he is terrible indeed. little by little my uncle's oscillations diminished, and finally he hung motionless. i went to him and was about to give him the _coup de grace_, when i heard and felt a succession of smart shocks which shook the ground like a series of light earthquakes, and turning in the direction of the ram, saw a long cloud of dust approaching me with inconceivable rapidity and alarming effect! at a distance of some thirty yards away it stopped short, and from the near end of it rose into the air what i at first thought a great white bird. its ascent was so smooth and easy and regular that i could not realize its extraordinary celerity, and was lost in admiration of its grace. to this day the impression remains that it was a slow, deliberate movement, the ram--for it was that animal--being upborne by some power other than its own impetus, and supported through the successive stages of its flight with infinite tenderness and care. my eyes followed its progress through the air with unspeakable pleasure, all the greater by contrast with my former terror of its approach by land. onward and upward the noble animal sailed, its head bent down almost between its knees, its fore-feet thrown back, its hinder legs trailing to rear like the legs of a soaring heron. "at a height of forty or fifty feet, as fond recollection presents it to view, it attained its zenith and appeared to remain an instant stationary; then, tilting suddenly forward without altering the relative position of its parts, it shot downward on a steeper and steeper course with augmenting velocity, passed immediately above me with a noise like the rush of a cannon shot and struck my poor uncle almost squarely on the top of the head! so frightful was the impact that not only the man's neck was broken, but the rope too; and the body of the deceased, forced against the earth, was crushed to pulp beneath the awful front of that meteoric sheep! the concussion stopped all the clocks between lone hand and dutch dan's, and professor davidson, a distinguished authority in matters seismic, who happened to be in the vicinity, promptly explained that the vibrations were from north to southwest. "altogether, i cannot help thinking that in point of artistic atrocity my murder of uncle william has seldom been excelled." oil of dog my name is boffer bings. i was born of honest parents in one of the humbler walks of life, my father being a manufacturer of dog-oil and my mother having a small studio in the shadow of the village church, where she disposed of unwelcome babes. in my boyhood i was trained to habits of industry; i not only assisted my father in procuring dogs for his vats, but was frequently employed by my mother to carry away the debris of her work in the studio. in performance of this duty i sometimes had need of all my natural intelligence for all the law officers of the vicinity were opposed to my mother's business. they were not elected on an opposition ticket, and the matter had never been made a political issue; it just happened so. my father's business of making dog-oil was, naturally, less unpopular, though the owners of missing dogs sometimes regarded him with suspicion, which was reflected, to some extent, upon me. my father had, as silent partners, all the physicians of the town, who seldom wrote a prescription which did not contain what they were pleased to designate as _ol. can._ it is really the most valuable medicine ever discovered. but most persons are unwilling to make personal sacrifices for the afflicted, and it was evident that many of the fattest dogs in town had been forbidden to play with me--a fact which pained my young sensibilities, and at one time came near driving me to become a pirate. looking back upon those days, i cannot but regret, at times, that by indirectly bringing my beloved parents to their death i was the author of misfortunes profoundly affecting my future. one evening while passing my father's oil factory with the body of a foundling from my mother's studio i saw a constable who seemed to be closely watching my movements. young as i was, i had learned that a constable's acts, of whatever apparent character, are prompted by the most reprehensible motives, and i avoided him by dodging into the oilery by a side door which happened to stand ajar. i locked it at once and was alone with my dead. my father had retired for the night. the only light in the place came from the furnace, which glowed a deep, rich crimson under one of the vats, casting ruddy reflections on the walls. within the cauldron the oil still rolled in indolent ebullition, occasionally pushing to the surface a piece of dog. seating myself to wait for the constable to go away, i held the naked body of the foundling in my lap and tenderly stroked its short, silken hair. ah, how beautiful it was! even at that early age i was passionately fond of children, and as i looked upon this cherub i could almost find it in my heart to wish that the small, red wound upon its breast--the work of my dear mother--had not been mortal. it had been my custom to throw the babes into the river which nature had thoughtfully provided for the purpose, but that night i did not dare to leave the oilery for fear of the constable. "after all," i said to myself, "it cannot greatly matter if i put it into this cauldron. my father will never know the bones from those of a puppy, and the few deaths which may result from administering another kind of oil for the incomparable _ol. can._ are not important in a population which increases so rapidly." in short, i took the first step in crime and brought myself untold sorrow by casting the babe into the cauldron. the next day, somewhat to my surprise, my father, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, informed me and my mother that he had obtained the finest quality of oil that was ever seen; that the physicians to whom he had shown samples had so pronounced it. he added that he had no knowledge as to how the result was obtained; the dogs had been treated in all respects as usual, and were of an ordinary breed. i deemed it my duty to explain--which i did, though palsied would have been my tongue if i could have foreseen the consequences. bewailing their previous ignorance of the advantages of combining their industries, my parents at once took measures to repair the error. my mother removed her studio to a wing of the factory building and my duties in connection with the business ceased; i was no longer required to dispose of the bodies of the small superfluous, and there was no need of alluring dogs to their doom, for my father discarded them altogether, though they still had an honorable place in the name of the oil. so suddenly thrown into idleness, i might naturally have been expected to become vicious and dissolute, but i did not. the holy influence of my dear mother was ever about me to protect me from the temptations which beset youth, and my father was a deacon in a church. alas, that through my fault these estimable persons should have come to so bad an end! finding a double profit in her business, my mother now devoted herself to it with a new assiduity. she removed not only superfluous and unwelcome babes to order, but went out into the highways and byways, gathering in children of a larger growth, and even such adults as she could entice to the oilery. my father, too, enamored of the superior quality of oil produced, purveyed for his vats with diligence and zeal. the conversion of their neighbors into dog-oil became, in short, the one passion of their lives--an absorbing and overwhelming greed took possession of their souls and served them in place of a hope in heaven--by which, also, they were inspired. so enterprising had they now become that a public meeting was held and resolutions passed severely censuring them. it was intimated by the chairman that any further raids upon the population would be met in a spirit of hostility. my poor parents left the meeting broken-hearted, desperate and, i believe, not altogether sane. anyhow, i deemed it prudent not to enter the oilery with them that night, but slept outside in a stable. at about midnight some mysterious impulse caused me to rise and peer through a window into the furnace-room, where i knew my father now slept. the fires were burning as brightly as if the following day's harvest had been expected to be abundant. one of the large cauldrons was slowly "walloping" with a mysterious appearance of self-restraint, as if it bided its time to put forth its full energy. my father was not in bed; he had risen in his night clothes and was preparing a noose in a strong cord. from the looks which he cast at the door of my mother's bedroom i knew too well the purpose that he had in mind. speechless and motionless with terror, i could do nothing in prevention or warning. suddenly the door of my mother's apartment was opened, noiselessly, and the two confronted each other, both apparently surprised. the lady, also, was in her night clothes, and she held in her right hand the tool of her trade, a long, narrow-bladed dagger. she, too, had been unable to deny herself the last profit which the unfriendly action of the citizens and my absence had left her. for one instant they looked into each other's blazing eyes and then sprang together with indescribable fury. round and round, the room they struggled, the man cursing, the woman shrieking, both fighting like demons--she to strike him with the dagger, he to strangle her with his great bare hands. i know not how long i had the unhappiness to observe this disagreeable instance of domestic infelicity, but at last, after a more than usually vigorous struggle, the combatants suddenly moved apart. my father's breast and my mother's weapon showed evidences of contact. for another instant they glared at each other in the most unamiable way; then my poor, wounded father, feeling the hand of death upon him, leaped forward, unmindful of resistance, grasped my dear mother in his arms, dragged her to the side of the boiling cauldron, collected all his failing energies, and sprang in with her! in a moment, both had disappeared and were adding their oil to that of the committee of citizens who had called the day before with an invitation to the public meeting. convinced that these unhappy events closed to me every avenue to an honorable career in that town, i removed to the famous city of otumwee, where these memoirs are written with a heart full of remorse for a heedless act entailing so dismal a commercial disaster. an imperfect conflagration early one june morning in 1872 i murdered my father--an act which made a deep impression on me at the time. this was before my marriage, while i was living with my parents in wisconsin. my father and i were in the library of our home, dividing the proceeds of a burglary which we had committed that night. these consisted of household goods mostly, and the task of equitable division was difficult. we got on very well with the napkins, towels and such things, and the silverware was parted pretty nearly equally, but you can see for yourself that when you try to divide a single music-box by two without a remainder you will have trouble. it was that music-box which brought disaster and disgrace upon our family. if we had left it my poor father might now be alive. it was a most exquisite and beautiful piece of workmanship--inlaid with costly woods and carven very curiously. it would not only play a great variety of tunes, but would whistle like a quail, bark like a dog, crow every morning at daylight whether it was wound up or not, and break the ten commandments. it was this last mentioned accomplishment that won my father's heart and caused him to commit the only dishonorable act of his life, though possibly he would have committed more if he had been spared: he tried to conceal that music-box from me, and declared upon his honor that he had not taken it, though i know very well that, so far as he was concerned, the burglary had been undertaken chiefly for the purpose of obtaining it. my father had the music-box hidden under his cloak; we had worn cloaks by way of disguise. he had solemnly assured me that he did not take it. i knew that he did, and knew something of which he was evidently ignorant; namely, that the box would crow at daylight and betray him if i could prolong the division of profits till that time. all occurred as i wished: as the gaslight began to pale in the library and the shape of the windows was seen dimly behind the curtains, a long cock-a-doodle-doo came from beneath the old gentleman's cloak, followed by a few bars of an aria from _tannhauser_, ending with a loud click. a small hand-axe, which we had used to break into the unlucky house, lay between us on the table; i picked it up. the old man seeing that further concealment was useless took the box from under his cloak and set it on the table. "cut it in two if you prefer that plan," said he; "i tried to save it from destruction." he was a passionate lover of music and could himself play the concertina with expression and feeling. i said: "i do not question the purity of your motive: it would be presumptuous of me to sit in judgment on my father. but business is business, and with this axe i am going to effect a dissolution of our partnership unless you will consent in all future burglaries to wear a bell-punch." "no," he said, after some reflection, "no, i could not do that; it would look like a confession of dishonesty. people would say that you distrusted me." i could not help admiring his spirit and sensitiveness; for a moment i was proud of him and disposed to overlook his fault, but a glance at the richly jeweled music-box decided me, and, as i said, i removed the old man from this vale of tears. having done so, i was a trifle uneasy. not only was he my father--the author of my being--but the body would be certainly discovered. it was now broad daylight and my mother was likely to enter the library at any moment. under the circumstances, i thought it expedient to remove her also, which i did. then i paid off all the servants and discharged them. that afternoon i went to the chief of police, told him what i had done and asked his advice. it would be very painful to me if the facts became publicly known. my conduct would be generally condemned; the newspapers would bring it up against me if ever i should run for office. the chief saw the force of these considerations; he was himself an assassin of wide experience. after consulting with the presiding judge of the court of variable jurisdiction he advised me to conceal the bodies in one of the bookcases, get a heavy insurance on the house and burn it down. this i proceeded to do. in the library was a book-case which my father had recently purchased of some cranky inventor and had not filled. it was in shape and size something like the old-fashioned "ward-robes" which one sees in bed-rooms without closets, but opened all the way down, like a woman's night-dress. it had glass doors. i had recently laid out my parents and they were now rigid enough to stand erect; so i stood them in this book-case, from which i had removed the shelves. i locked them in and tacked some curtains over the glass doors. the inspector from the insurance office passed a half-dozen times before the case without suspicion. that night, after getting my policy, i set fire to the house and started through the woods to town, two miles away, where i managed to be found about the time the excitement was at its height. with cries of apprehension for the fate of my parents, i joined the rush and arrived at the fire some two hours after i had kindled it. the whole town was there as i dashed up. the house was entirely consumed, but in one end of the level bed of glowing embers, bolt upright and uninjured, was that book-case! the curtains had burned away, exposing the glass-doors, through which the fierce, red light illuminated the interior. there stood my dear father "in his habit as he lived," and at his side the partner of his joys and sorrows. not a hair of them was singed, their clothing was intact. on their heads and throats the injuries which in the accomplishment of my designs i had been compelled to inflict were conspicuous. as in the presence of a miracle, the people were silent; awe and terror had stilled every tongue. i was myself greatly affected. some three years later, when the events herein related had nearly faded from my memory, i went to new york to assist in passing some counterfeit united states bonds. carelessly looking into a furniture store one day, i saw the exact counterpart of that book-case. "i bought it for a trifle from a reformed inventor," the dealer explained. "he said it was fireproof, the pores of the wood being filled with alum under hydraulic pressure and the glass made of asbestos. i don't suppose it is really fireproof--you can have it at the price of an ordinary book-case." "no," i said, "if you cannot warrant it fireproof i won't take it"--and i bade him good morning. i would not have had it at any price: it revived memories that were exceedingly disagreeable. the hypnotist by those of my friends who happen to know that i sometimes amuse myself with hypnotism, mind reading and kindred phenomena, i am frequently asked if i have a clear conception of the nature of whatever principle underlies them. to this question i always reply that i neither have nor desire to have. i am no investigator with an ear at the key-hole of nature's workshop, trying with vulgar curiosity to steal the secrets of her trade. the interests of science are as little to me as mine seem to have been to science. doubtless the phenomena in question are simple enough, and in no way transcend our powers of comprehension if only we could find the clew; but for my part i prefer not to find it, for i am of a singularly romantic disposition, deriving more gratification from mystery than from knowledge. it was commonly remarked of me when i was a child that my big blue eyes appeared to have been made rather to look into than look out of--such was their dreamful beauty, and in my frequent periods of abstraction, their indifference to what was going on. in those peculiarities they resembled, i venture to think, the soul which lies behind them, always more intent upon some lovely conception which it has created in its own image than concerned about the laws of nature and the material frame of things. all this, irrelevant and egotistic as it may seem, is related by way of accounting for the meagreness of the light that i am able to throw upon a subject that has engaged so much of my attention, and concerning which there is so keen and general a curiosity. with my powers and opportunities, another person might doubtless have an explanation for much of what i present simply as narrative. my first knowledge that i possessed unusual powers came to me in my fourteenth year, when at school. happening one day to have forgotten to bring my noon-day luncheon, i gazed longingly at that of a small girl who was preparing to eat hers. looking up, her eyes met mine and she seemed unable to withdraw them. after a moment of hesitancy she came forward in an absent kind of way and without a word surrendered her little basket with its tempting contents and walked away. inexpressibly pleased, i relieved my hunger and destroyed the basket. after that i had not the trouble to bring a luncheon for myself: that little girl was my daily purveyor; and not infrequently in satisfying my simple need from her frugal store i combined pleasure and profit by constraining her attendance at the feast and making misleading proffer of the viands, which eventually i consumed to the last fragment. the girl was always persuaded that she had eaten all herself; and later in the day her tearful complaints of hunger surprised the teacher, entertained the pupils, earned for her the sobriquet of greedy-gut and filled me with a peace past understanding. a disagreeable feature of this otherwise satisfactory condition of things was the necessary secrecy: the transfer of the luncheon, for example, had to be made at some distance from the madding crowd, in a wood; and i blush to think of the many other unworthy subterfuges entailed by the situation. as i was (and am) naturally of a frank and open disposition, these became more and more irksome, and but for the reluctance of my parents to renounce the obvious advantages of the new regime i would gladly have reverted to the old. the plan that i finally adopted to free myself from the consequences of my own powers excited a wide and keen interest at the time, and that part of it which consisted in the death of the girl was severely condemned, but it is hardly pertinent to the scope of this narrative. for some years afterward i had little opportunity to practice hypnotism; such small essays as i made at it were commonly barren of other recognition than solitary confinement on a bread-and-water diet; sometimes, indeed, they elicited nothing better than the cat-o'-nine-tails. it was when i was about to leave the scene of these small disappointments that my one really important feat was performed. i had been called into the warden's office and given a suit of civilian's clothing, a trifling sum of money and a great deal of advice, which i am bound to confess was of a much better quality than the clothing. as i was passing out of the gate into the light of freedom i suddenly turned and looking the warden gravely in the eye, soon had him in control. "you are an ostrich," i said. at the post-mortem examination the stomach was found to contain a great quantity of indigestible articles mostly of wood or metal. stuck fast in the esophagus and constituting, according to the coroner's jury, the immediate cause of death, one door-knob. i was by nature a good and affectionate son, but as i took my way into the great world from which i had been so long secluded i could not help remembering that all my misfortunes had flowed like a stream from the niggard economy of my parents in the matter of school luncheons; and i knew of no reason to think they had reformed. on the road between succotash hill and south asphyxia is a little open field which once contained a shanty known as pete gilstrap's place, where that gentleman used to murder travelers for a living. the death of mr. gilstrap and the diversion of nearly all the travel to another road occurred so nearly at the same time that no one has ever been able to say which was cause and which effect. anyhow, the field was now a desolation and the place had long been burned. it was while going afoot to south asphyxia, the home of my childhood, that i found both my parents on their way to the hill. they had hitched their team and were eating luncheon under an oak tree in the center of the field. the sight of the luncheon called up painful memories of my school days and roused the sleeping lion in my breast. approaching the guilty couple, who at once recognized me, i ventured to suggest that i share their hospitality. "of this cheer, my son," said the author of my being, with characteristic pomposity, which age had not withered, "there is sufficient for but two. i am not, i hope, insensible to the hunger-light in your eyes, but--" my father has never completed that sentence; what he mistook for hunger-light was simply the earnest gaze of the hypnotist. in a few seconds he was at my service. a few more sufficed for the lady, and the dictates of a just resentment could be carried into effect. "my former father," i said, "i presume that it is known to you that you and this lady are no longer what you were?" "i have observed a certain subtle change," was the rather dubious reply of the old gentleman; "it is perhaps attributable to age." "it is more than that," i explained; "it goes to character--to species. you and the lady here are, in truth, two broncos--wild stallions both, and unfriendly." "why, john," exclaimed my dear mother, "you don't mean to say that i am--" "madam," i replied, solemnly, fixing my eyes again upon hers, "you are." scarcely had the words fallen from my lips when she dropped upon her hands and knees, and backing up to the old man squealed like a demon and delivered a vicious kick upon his shin! an instant later he was himself down on all-fours, headed away from her and flinging his feet at her simultaneously and successively. with equal earnestness but inferior agility, because of her hampering body-gear, she plied her own. their flying legs crossed and mingled in the most bewildering way; their feet sometimes meeting squarely in midair, their bodies thrust forward, falling flat upon the ground and for a moment helpless. on recovering themselves they would resume the combat, uttering their frenzy in the nameless sounds of the furious brutes which they believed themselves to be--the whole region rang with their clamor! round and round they wheeled, the blows of their feet falling "like lightnings from the mountain cloud." they plunged and reared backward upon their knees, struck savagely at each other with awkward descending blows of both fists at once, and dropped again upon their hands as if unable to maintain the upright position of the body. grass and pebbles were torn from the soil by hands and feet; clothing, hair, faces inexpressibly defiled with dust and blood. wild, inarticulate screams of rage attested the delivery of the blows; groans, grunts and gasps their receipt. nothing more truly military was ever seen at gettysburg or waterloo: the valor of my dear parents in the hour of danger can never cease to be to me a source of pride and gratification. at the end of it all two battered, tattered, bloody and fragmentary vestiges of mortality attested the solemn fact that the author of the strife was an orphan. arrested for provoking a breach of the peace, i was, and have ever since been, tried in the court of technicalities and continuances whence, after fifteen years of proceedings, my attorney is moving heaven and earth to get the case taken to the court of remandment for new trials. such are a few of my principal experiments in the mysterious force or agency known as hypnotic suggestion. whether or not it could be employed by a bad man for an unworthy purpose i am unable to say. the shunned house by h. p. lovecraft _a posthumous story of immense power, written by a master of weird fiction--a tale of a revolting horror in the cellar of an old house in new england_ howard phillips lovecraft died last march, at the height of his career. though only forty-six years of age, he had built up an international reputation by the artistry and impeccable literary craftsmanship of his weird tales; and he was regarded on both sides of the atlantic as probably the greatest contemporary master of weird fiction. his ability to create and sustain a mood of brooding dread and unnamable horror is nowhere better shown than in the posthumous tale presented here: "the shunned house." from even the greatest of horrors irony is seldom absent. sometimes it enters directly into the composition of the events, while sometimes it relates only to their fortuitous position among persons and places. the latter sort is splendidly exemplified by a case in the ancient city of providence, where in the late forties edgar allan poe used to sojourn often during his unsuccessful wooing of the gifted poetess, mrs. whitman. poe generally stopped at the mansion house in benefit street--the renamed golden ball inn whose roof has sheltered washington, jefferson, and lafayette--and his favorite walk led northward along the same street to mrs. whitman's home and the neighboring hillside churchyard of st. john's, whose hidden expanse of eighteenth century gravestones had for him a peculiar fascination. now the irony is this. in this walk, so many times repeated, the world's greatest master of the terrible and the bizarre was obliged to pass a particular house on the eastern side of the street; a dingy, antiquated structure perched on the abruptly rising side hill, with a great unkempt yard dating from a time when the region was partly open country. it does not appear that he ever wrote or spoke of it, nor is there any evidence that he even noticed it. and yet that house, to the two persons in possession of certain information, equals or outranks in horror the wildest fantasy of the genius who so often passed it unknowingly, and stands starkly leering as a symbol of all that is unutterably hideous. the house was--and for that matter still is--of a kind to attract the attention of the curious. originally a farm or semi-farm building, it followed the average new england colonial lines of the middle eighteenth century--the prosperous peaked-roof sort, with two stories and dormerless attic, and with the georgian doorway and interior panelling dictated by the progress of taste at that time. it faced south, with one gable end buried to the lower windows in the eastward rising hill, and the other exposed to the foundations toward the street. its construction, over a century and a half ago, had followed the grading and straightening of the road in that especial vicinity; for benefit street--at first called back street--was laid out as a lane winding amongst the graveyards of the first settlers, and straightened only when the removal of the bodies to the north burial ground made it decently possible to cut through the old family plots. at the start, the western wall had lain some twenty feet up a precipitous lawn from the roadway; but a widening of the street at about the time of the revolution sheared off most of the intervening space, exposing the foundations so that a brick basement wall had to be made, giving the deep cellar a street frontage with door and one window above ground, close to the new line of public travel. when the sidewalk was laid out a century ago the last of the intervening space was removed; and poe in his walks must have seen only a sheer ascent of dull gray brick flush with the sidewalk and surmounted at a height of ten feet by the antique shingled bulk of the house proper. [illustration: "that awful door in benefit street which i had left ajar."] the farm-like ground extended back very deeply up the hill, almost to wheaton street. the space south of the house, abutting on benefit street, was of course greatly above the existing sidewalk level, forming a terrace bounded by a high bank wall of damp, mossy stone pierced by a steep flight of narrow steps which led inward between canyon-like surfaces to the upper region of mangy lawn, rheumy brick walks, and neglected gardens whose dismantled cement urns, rusted kettles fallen from tripods of knotty sticks, and similar paraphernalia set off the weather-beaten front door with its broken fanlight, rotting ionic pilasters, and wormy triangular pediment. * * * * * what i heard in my youth about the shunned house was merely that people died there in alarmingly great numbers. that, i was told, was why the original owners had moved out some twenty years after building the place. it was plainly unhealthy, perhaps because of the dampness and fungous growths in the cellar, the general sickish smell, the drafts of the hallways, or the quality of the well and pump water. these things were bad enough, and these were all that gained belief among the persons whom i knew. only the notebooks of my antiquarian uncle, doctor elihu whipple, revealed to me at length the darker, vaguer surmises which formed an undercurrent of folklore among old-time servants and humble folk; surmises which never travelled far, and which were largely forgotten when providence grew to be a metropolis with a shifting modern population. the general fact is, that the house was never regarded by the solid part of the community as in any real sense "haunted." there were no widespread tales of rattling chains, cold currents of air, extinguished lights, or faces at the window. extremists sometimes said the house was "unlucky," but that is as far as even they went. what was really beyond dispute is that a frightful proportion of persons died there; or more accurately, _had_ died there, since after some peculiar happenings over sixty years ago the building had become deserted through the sheer impossibility of renting it. these persons were not all cut off suddenly by any one cause; rather did it seem that their vitality was insidiously sapped, so that each one died the sooner from whatever tendency to weakness he may have naturally had. and those who did not die displayed in varying degree a type of anemia or consumption, and sometimes a decline of the mental faculties, which spoke ill for the salubriousness of the building. neighboring houses, it must be added, seemed entirely free from the noxious quality. this much i knew before my insistent questioning led my uncle to show me the notes which finally embarked us both on our hideous investigation. in my childhood the shunned house was vacant, with barren, gnarled and terrible old trees, long, queerly pale grass and nightmarishly misshapen weeds in the high terraced yard where birds never lingered. we boys used to overrun the place, and i can still recall my youthful terror not only at the morbid strangeness of this sinister vegetation, but at the eldritch atmosphere and odor of the dilapidated house, whose unlocked front door was often entered in quest of shudders. the small-paned windows were largely broken, and a nameless air of desolation hung round the precarious panelling, shaky interior shutters, peeling wall-paper, falling plaster, rickety staircases, and such fragments of battered furniture as still remained. the dust and cobwebs added their touch of the fearful; and brave indeed was the boy who would voluntarily ascend the ladder to the attic, a vast raftered length lighted only by small blinking windows in the gable ends, and filled with a massed wreckage of chests, chairs, and spinning-wheels which infinite years of deposit had shrouded and festooned into monstrous and hellish shapes. but after all, the attic was not the most terrible part of the house. it was the dank, humid cellar which somehow exerted the strongest repulsion on us, even though it was wholly above ground on the street side, with only a thin door and window-pierced brick wall to separate it from the busy sidewalk. we scarcely knew whether to haunt it in spectral fascination, or to shun it for the sake of our souls and our sanity. for one thing, the bad odor of the house was strongest there; and for another thing, we did not like the white fungous growths which occasionally sprang up in rainy summer weather from the hard earth floor. those fungi, grotesquely like the vegetation in the yard outside, were truly horrible in their outlines; detestable parodies of toadstools and indian-pipes, whose like we had never seen in any other situation. they rotted quickly, and at one stage became slightly phosphorescent; so that nocturnal passers-by sometimes spoke of witch-fires glowing behind the broken panes of the fetor-spreading windows. we never--even in our wildest halloween moods--visited this cellar by night, but in some of our daytime visits could detect the phosphorescence, especially when the day was dark and wet. there was also a subtler thing we often thought we detected--a very strange thing which was, however, merely suggestive at most. i refer to a sort of cloudy whitish pattern on the dirt floor--a vague, shifting deposit of mold or niter which we sometimes thought we could trace amidst the sparse fungous growths near the huge fireplace of the basement kitchen. once in a while it struck us that this patch bore an uncanny resemblance to a doubled-up human figure, though generally no such kinship existed, and often there was no whitish deposit whatever. on a certain rainy afternoon when this illusion seemed phenomenally strong, and when, in addition, i had fancied i glimpsed a kind of thin, yellowish, shimmering exhalation rising from the nitrous pattern toward the yawning fireplace, i spoke to my uncle about the matter. he smiled at this odd conceit, but it seemed that his smile was tinged with reminiscence. later i heard that a similar notion entered into some of the wild ancient tales of the common folk--a notion likewise alluding to ghoulish, wolfish shapes taken by smoke from the great chimney, and queer contours assumed by certain of the sinuous tree-roots that thrust their way into the cellar through the loose foundation-stones. 2 not till my adult years did my uncle set before me the notes and data which he had collected concerning the shunned house. doctor whipple was a sane, conservative physician of the old school, and for all his interest in the place was not eager to encourage young thoughts toward the abnormal. his own view, postulating simply a building and location of markedly unsanitary qualities, had nothing to do with abnormality; but he realized that the very picturesqueness which aroused his own interest would in a boy's fanciful mind take on all manner of gruesome imaginative associations. the doctor was a bachelor; a white-haired, clean-shaven, old-fashioned gentleman, and a local historian of note, who had often broken a lance with such controversial guardians of tradition as sidney s. rider and thomas w. bicknell. he lived with one man-servant in a georgian homestead with knocker and iron-railed steps, balanced eerily on the steep ascent of north court street beside the ancient brick court and colony house where his grandfather--a cousin of that celebrated privateersman, captain whipple, who burnt his majesty's armed schooner _gaspee_ in 1772--had voted in the legislature on may 4, 1776, for the independence of the rhode island colony. around him in the damp, low-ceiled library with the musty white panelling, heavy carved overmantel and small-paned, vine-shaded windows, were the relics and records of his ancient family, among which were many dubious allusions to the shunned house in benefit street. that pest spot lies not far distant--for benefit runs ledgewise just above the court house along the precipitous hill up which the first settlement climbed. when, in the end, my insistent pestering and maturing years evoked from my uncle the hoarded lore i sought, there lay before me a strange enough chronicle. long-winded, statistical, and drearily genealogical as some of the matter was, there ran through it a continuous thread of brooding, tenacious horror and preternatural malevolence which impressed me even more than it had impressed the good doctor. separate events fitted together uncannily, and seemingly irrelevant details held mines of hideous possibilities. a new and burning curiosity grew in me, compared to which my boyish curiosity was feeble and inchoate. the first revelation led to an exhaustive research, and finally to that shuddering quest which proved so disastrous to myself and mine. for at the last my uncle insisted on joining the search i had commenced, and after a certain night in that house he did not come away with me. i am lonely without that gentle soul whose long years were filled only with honor, virtue, good taste, benevolence, and learning. i have reared a marble urn to his memory in st. john's churchyard--the place that poe loved--the hidden grove of giant willows on the hill, where tombs and headstones huddle quietly between the hoary bulk of the church and the houses and bank walls of benefit street. the history of the house, opening amidst a maze of dates, revealed no trace of the sinister either about its construction or about the prosperous and honorable family who built it. yet from the first a taint of calamity, soon increased to boding significance, was apparent. my uncle's carefully compiled record began with the building of the structure in 1763, and followed the theme with an unusual amount of detail. the shunned house, it seems, was first inhabited by william harris and his wife rhoby dexter, with their children, elkanah, born in 1755, abigail, born in 1757, william, jr., born in 1759, and ruth, born in 1761. harris was a substantial merchant and seaman in the west india trade, connected with the firm of obadiah brown and his nephews. after brown's death in 1761, the new firm of nicholas brown & company made him master of the brig _prudence_, providence-built, of 120 tons, thus enabling him to erect the new homestead he had desired ever since his marriage. the site he had chosen--a recently straightened part of the new and fashionable back street, which ran along the side of the hill above crowded cheapside--was all that could be wished, and the building did justice to the location. it was the best that moderate means could afford, and harris hastened to move in before the birth of a fifth child which the family expected. that child, a boy, came in december; but was still-born. nor was any child to be born alive in that house for a century and a half. the next april, sickness occurred among the children, and abigail and ruth died before the month was over. doctor job ives diagnosed the trouble as some infantile fever, though others declared it was more of a mere wasting-away or decline. it seemed, in any event, to be contagious; for hannah bowen, one of the two servants, died of it in the following june. eli lideason, the other servant, constantly complained of weakness; and would have returned to his father's farm in rehoboth but for a sudden attachment for mehitabel pierce, who was hired to succeed hannah. he died the next year--a sad year indeed, since it marked the death of william harris himself, enfeebled as he was by the climate of martinique, where his occupation had kept him for considerable periods during the preceding decade. the widowed rhoby harris never recovered from the shock of her husband's death, and the passing of her first-born elkanah two years later was the final blow to her reason. in 1768 she fell victim to a mild form of insanity, and was thereafter confined to the upper part of the house; her elder maiden sister, mercy dexter, having moved in to take charge of the family. mercy was a plain, raw-boned woman of great strength; but her health visibly declined from the time of her advent. she was greatly devoted to her unfortunate sister, and had an especial affection for her only surviving nephew william, who from a sturdy infant had become a sickly, spindling lad. in this year the servant mehitabel died, and the other servant, preserved smith, left without coherent explanation--or at least, with only some wild tales and a complaint that he disliked the smell of the place. for a time mercy could secure no more help, since the seven deaths and case of madness, all occurring within five years' space, had begun to set in motion the body of fireside rumor which later became so bizarre. ultimately, however, she obtained new servants from out of town; ann white, a morose woman from that part of north kingstown now set off as the township of exeter, and a capable boston man named zenas low. * * * * * it was ann white who first gave definite shape to the sinister idle talk. mercy should have known better than to hire anyone from the nooseneck hill country, for that remote bit of backwoods was then, as now, a seat of the most uncomfortable superstitions. as lately as 1892 an exeter community exhumed a dead body and ceremoniously burnt its heart in order to prevent certain alleged visitations injurious to the public health and peace, and one may imagine the point of view of the same section in 1768. ann's tongue was perniciously active, and within a few months mercy discharged her, filling her place with a faithful and amiable amazon from newport, maria robbins. meanwhile poor rhoby harris, in her madness, gave voice to dreams and imaginings of the most hideous sort. at times her screams became insupportable, and for long periods she would utter shrieking horrors which necessitated her son's temporary residence with his cousin, peleg harris, in presbyterian lane near the new college building. the boy would seem to improve after these visits, and had mercy been as wise as she was well-meaning, she would have let him live permanently with peleg. just what mrs. harris cried out in her fits of violence, tradition hesitates to say; or rather, presents such extravagant accounts that they nullify themselves through sheer absurdity. certainly it sounds absurd to hear that a woman educated only in the rudiments of french often shouted for hours in a coarse and idiomatic form of that language, or that the same person, alone and guarded, complained wildly of a staring thing which bit and chewed at her. in 1772 the servant zenas died, and when mrs. harris heard of it she laughed with a shocking delight utterly foreign to her. the next year she herself died, and was laid to rest in the north burial ground beside her husband. upon the outbreak of trouble with great britain in 1775, william harris, despite his scant sixteen years and feeble constitution, managed to enlist in the army of observation under general greene; and from that time on enjoyed a steady rise in health and prestige. in 1780, as a captain in the rhode island forces in new jersey under colonel angell, he met and married phebe hetfield of elizabethtown, whom he brought to providence upon his honorable discharge in the following year. the young soldier's return was not a thing of unmitigated happiness. the house, it is true, was still in good condition; and the street had been widened and changed in name from back street to benefit street. but mercy dexter's once robust frame had undergone a sad and curious decay, so that she was now a stooped and pathetic figure with hollow voice and disconcerting pallor--qualities shared to a singular degree by the one remaining servant maria. in the autumn of 1782 phebe harris gave birth to a still-born daughter, and on the fifteenth of the next may mercy dexter took leave of a useful, austere, and virtuous life. william harris, at last thoroughly convinced of the radically unhealthful nature of his abode, now took steps toward quitting it and closing it for ever. securing temporary quarters for himself and his wife at the newly opened golden ball inn, he arranged for the building of a new and finer house in westminster street, in the growing part of the town across the great bridge. there, in 1785, his son dutee was born; and there the family dwelt till the encroachments of commerce drove them back across the river and over the hill to angell street, in the newer east side residence district, where the late archer harris built his sumptuous but hideous french-roofed mansion in 1876. william and phebe both succumbed to the yellow fever epidemic of 1797, but dutee was brought up by his cousin rathbone harris, peleg's son. rathbone was a practical man, and rented the benefit street house despite william's wish to keep it vacant. he considered it an obligation to his ward to make the most of all the boy's property, nor did he concern himself with the deaths and illnesses which caused so many changes of tenants, or the steadily growing aversion with which the house was generally regarded. it is likely that he felt only vexation when, in 1804, the town council ordered him to fumigate the place with sulfur, tar, and gum camphor on account of the much-discussed deaths of four persons, presumably caused by the then diminishing fever epidemic. they said the place had a febrile smell. dutee himself thought little of the house, for he grew up to be a privateersman, and served with distinction on the _vigilant_ under captain cahoone in the war of 1812. he returned unharmed, married in 1814, and became a father on that memorable night of september 23, 1815, when a great gale drove the waters of the bay over half the town, and floated a tall sloop well up westminster street so that its masts almost tapped the harris windows in symbolic affirmation that the new boy, welcome, was a seaman's son. welcome did not survive his father, but lived to perish gloriously at fredericksburg in 1862. neither he nor his son archer knew of the shunned house as other than a nuisance almost impossible to rent--perhaps on account of the mustiness and sickly odor of unkempt old age. indeed, it never was rented after a series of deaths culminating in 1861, which the excitement of the war tended to throw into obscurity. carrington harris, last of the male line, knew it only as a deserted and somewhat picturesque center of legend until i told him my experience. he had meant to tear it down and build an apartment house on the site, but after my account decided to let it stand, install plumbing, and rent it. nor has he yet had any difficulty in obtaining tenants. the horror has gone. 3 it may well be imagined how powerfully i was affected by the annals of the harrises. in this continuous record there seemed to me to brood a persistent evil beyond anything in nature as i had known it; an evil clearly connected with the house and not with the family. this impression was confirmed by my uncle's less systematic array of miscellaneous data--legends transcribed from servant gossip, cuttings from the papers, copies of death certificates by fellow-physicians, and the like. all of this material i cannot hope to give, for my uncle was a tireless antiquarian and very deeply interested in the shunned house; but i may refer to several dominant points which earn notice by their recurrence through many reports from diverse sources. for example, the servant gossip was practically unanimous in attributing to the fungous and malodorous _cellar_ of the house a vast supremacy in evil influence. there had been servants--ann white especially--who would not use the cellar kitchen, and at least three well-defined legends bore upon the queer quasi-human or diabolic outlines assumed by tree-roots and patches of mold in that region. these latter narratives interested me profoundly, on account of what i had seen in my boyhood, but i felt that most of the significance had in each case been largely obscured by additions from the common stock of local ghost lore. ann white, with her exeter superstition, had promulgated the most extravagant and at the same time most consistent tale; alleging that there must lie buried beneath the house one of those vampires--the dead who retain their bodily form and live on the blood or breath of the living--whose hideous legions send their preying shapes or spirits abroad by night. to destroy a vampire one must, the grandmothers say, exhume it and burn its heart, or at least drive a stake through that organ; and ann's dogged insistence on a search under the cellar had been prominent in bringing about her discharge. her tales, however, commanded a wide audience, and were the more readily accepted because the house indeed stood on land once used for burial purposes. to me their interest depended less on this circumstance than on the peculiarly appropriate way in which they dovetailed with certain other things--the complaint of the departing servant preserved smith, who had preceded ann and never heard of her, that something "sucked his breath" at night; the death-certificates of the fever victims of 1804, issued by doctor chad hopkins, and showing the four deceased persons all unaccountably lacking in blood; and the obscure passages of poor rhoby harris's ravings, where she complained of the sharp teeth of a glassy-eyed, half-visible presence. free from unwarranted superstition though i am, these things produced in me an odd sensation, which was intensified by a pair of widely separated newspaper cuttings relating to deaths in the shunned house--one from the _providence gazette and country-journal_ of april 12, 1815, and the other from the _daily transcript and chronicle_ of october 27, 1845--each of which detailed an appallingly grisly circumstance whose duplication was remarkable. it seems that in both instances the dying person, in 1815 a gentle old lady named stafford and in 1845 a schoolteacher of middle age named eleazar durfee, became transfigured in a horrible way, glaring glassily and attempting to bite the throat of the attending physician. even more puzzling, though, was the final case which put an end to the renting of the house--a series of anemia deaths preceded by progressive madnesses wherein the patient would craftily attempt the lives of his relatives by incisions in the neck or wrist. this was in 1860 and 1861, when my uncle had just begun his medical practise; and before leaving for the front he heard much of it from his elder professional colleagues. the really inexplicable thing was the way in which the victims--ignorant people, for the ill-smelling and widely shunned house could now be rented to no others--would babble maledictions in french, a language they could not possibly have studied to any extent. it made one think of poor rhoby harris nearly a century before, and so moved my uncle that he commenced collecting historical data on the house after listening, some time subsequent to his return from the war, to the first-hand account of doctors chase and whitmarsh. indeed, i could see that my uncle had thought deeply on the subject, and that he was glad of my own interest--an open-minded and sympathetic interest which enabled him to discuss with me matters at which others would merely have laughed. his fancy had not gone so far as mine, but he felt that the place was rare in its imaginative potentialities, and worthy of note as an inspiration in the field of the grotesque and macabre. for my part, i was disposed to take the whole subject with profound seriousness, and began at once not only to review the evidence, but to accumulate as much more as i could. i talked with the elderly archer harris, then owner of the house, many times before his death in 1916; and obtained from him and his still surviving maiden sister alice an authentic corroboration of all the family data my uncle had collected. when, however, i asked them what connection with france or its language the house could have, they confessed themselves as frankly baffled and ignorant as i. archer knew nothing, and all that miss harris could say was that an old allusion her grandfather, dutee harris, had heard of might have shed a little light. the old seaman, who had survived his son welcome's death in battle by two years, had not himself known the legend, but recalled that his earliest nurse, the ancient maria robbins, seemed darkly aware of something that might have lent a weird significance to the french raving of rhoby harris, which she had so often heard during the last days of that hapless woman. maria had been at the shunned house from 1769 till the removal of the family in 1783, and had seen mercy dexter die. once she hinted to the child dutee of a somewhat peculiar circumstance in mercy's last moments, but he had soon forgotten all about it save that it was something peculiar. the granddaughter, moreover, recalled even this much with difficulty. she and her brother were not so much interested in the house as was archer's son carrington, the present owner, with whom i talked after my experience. * * * * * having exhausted the harris family of all the information it could furnish, i turned my attention to early town records and deeds with a zeal more penetrating than that which my uncle had occasionally shown in the same work. what i wished was a comprehensive history of the site from its very settlement in 1636--or even before, if any narragansett indian legend could be unearthed to supply the data. i found, at the start, that the land had been part of the long strip of home lot granted originally to john throckmorton; one of many similar strips beginning at the town street beside the river and extending up over the hill to a line roughly corresponding with the modern hope street. the throckmorton lot had later, of course, been much subdivided; and i became very assiduous in tracing that section through which back or benefit street was later run. it had, as rumor indeed said, been the throckmorton graveyard; but as i examined the records more carefully, i found that the graves had all been transferred at an early date to the north burial ground on the pawtucket west road. then suddenly i came--by a rare piece of chance, since it was not in the main body of records and might easily have been missed--upon something which aroused my keenest eagerness, fitting in as it did with several of the queerest phases of the affair. it was the record of a lease, in 1697, of a small tract of ground to an etienne roulet and wife. at last the french element had appeared--that, and another deeper element of horror which the name conjured up from the darkest recesses of my weird and heterogeneous reading--and i feverishly studied the platting of the locality as it had been before the cutting through and partial straightening of back street between 1747 and 1758. i found what i had half expected, that where the shunned house now stood the roulets had laid out their graveyard behind a one-story and attic cottage, and that no record of any transfer of graves existed. the document, indeed, ended in much confusion; and i was forced to ransack both the rhode island historical society and shepley library before i could find a local door which the name of etienne roulet would unlock. in the end i did find something; something of such vague but monstrous import that i set about at once to examine the cellar of the shunned house itself with a new and excited minuteness. the roulets, it seemed, had come in 1696 from east greenwich, down the west shore of narragansett bay. they were huguenots from caude, and had encountered much opposition before the providence selectmen allowed them to settle in the town. unpopularity had dogged them in east greenwich, whither they had come in 1686, after the revocation of the edict of nantes, and rumor said that the cause of dislike extended beyond mere racial and national prejudice, or the land disputes which involved other french settlers with the english in rivalries which not even governor andros could quell. but their ardent protestantism--too ardent, some whispered--and their evident distress when virtually driven from the village down the bay, had moved the sympathy of the town fathers. here the strangers had been granted a haven; and the swarthy etienne roulet, less apt at agriculture than at reading queer books and drawing queer diagrams, was given a clerical post in the warehouse at pardon tillinghast's wharf, far south in town street. there had, however, been a riot of some sort later on--perhaps forty years later, after old roulet's death--and no one seemed to hear of the family after that. for a century and more, it appeared, the roulets had been well remembered and frequently discussed as vivid incidents in the quiet life of a new england seaport. etienne's son paul, a surly fellow whose erratic conduct had probably provoked the riot which wiped out the family, was particularly a source of speculation; and though providence never shared the witchcraft panics of her puritan neighbors, it was freely intimated by old wives that his prayers were neither uttered at the proper time nor directed toward the proper object. all this had undoubtedly formed the basis of the legend known by old maria robbins. what relation it had to the french ravings of rhoby harris and other inhabitants of the shunned house, imagination or future discovery alone could determine. i wondered how many of those who had known the legends realized that additional link with the terrible which my wider reading had given me; that ominous item in the annals of morbid horror which tells of the creature _jacques roulet, of caude_, who in 1598 was condemned to death as a demoniac but afterward saved from the stake by the paris parliament and shut in a madhouse. he had been found covered with blood and shreds of flesh in a wood, shortly after the killing and rending of a boy by a pair of wolves. one wolf was seen to lope away unhurt. surely a pretty hearthside tale, with a queer significance as to name and place; but i decided that the providence gossips could not have generally known of it. had they known, the coincidence of names would have brought some drastic and frightened action--indeed, might not its limited whispering have precipitated the final riot which erased the roulets from the town? * * * * * i now visited the accursed place with increased frequency; studying the unwholesome vegetation of the garden, examining all the walls of the building, and poring over every inch of the earthen cellar floor. finally, with carrington harris's permission, i fitted a key to the disused door opening from the cellar directly upon benefit street, preferring to have a more immediate access to the outside world than the dark stairs, ground-floor hall, and front door could give. there, where morbidity lurked most thickly, i searched and poked during long afternoons when the sunlight filtered in through the cobwebbed above-ground windows, and a sense of security glowed from the unlocked door which placed me only a few feet from the placid sidewalk outside. nothing new rewarded my efforts--only the same depressing mustiness and faint suggestions of noxious odors and nitrous outlines on the floor--and i fancy that many pedestrians must have watched me curiously through the broken panes. at length, upon a suggestion of my uncle's, i decided to try the spot nocturnally; and one stormy midnight ran the beams of an electric torch over the moldy floor with its uncanny shapes and distorted, half-phosphorescent fungi. the place had dispirited me curiously that evening, and i was almost prepared when i saw--or thought i saw--amidst the whitish deposits a particularly sharp definition of the "huddled form" i had suspected from boyhood. its clearness was astonishing and unprecedented--and as i watched i seemed to see again the thin, yellowish, shimmering exhalation which had startled me on that rainy afternoon so many years before. above the anthropomorphic patch of mold by the fireplace it rose; a subtle, sickish, almost luminous vapor which as it hung trembling in the dampness seemed to develop vague and shocking suggestions of form, gradually trailing off into nebulous decay and passing up into the blackness of the great chimney with a fetor in its wake. it was truly horrible, and the more so to me because of what i knew of the spot. refusing to flee, i watched it fade--and as i watched i felt that it was in turn watching me greedily with eyes more imaginable than visible. when i told my uncle about it he was greatly aroused; and after a tense hour of reflection, arrived at a definite and drastic decision. weighing in his mind the importance of the matter, and the significance of our relation to it, he insisted that we both test--and if possible destroy--the horror of the house by a joint night or nights of aggressive vigil in that musty and fungus-cursed cellar. 4 on wednesday, june 25, 1919, after a proper notification of carrington harris which did not include surmises as to what we expected to find, my uncle and i conveyed to the shunned house two camp chairs and a folding camp cot, together with some scientific mechanism of greater weight and intricacy. these we placed in the cellar during the day, screening the windows with paper and planning to return in the evening for our first vigil. we had locked the door from the cellar to the ground floor; and having a key to the outside cellar door, were prepared to leave our expensive and delicate apparatus--which we had obtained secretly and at great cost--as many days as our vigils might be protracted. it was our design to sit up together till very late, and then watch singly till dawn in two-hour stretches, myself first and then my companion; the inactive member resting on the cot. the natural leadership with which my uncle procured the instruments from the laboratories of brown university and the cranston street armory, and instinctively assumed direction of our venture, was a marvelous commentary on the potential vitality and resilience of a man of eighty-one. elihu whipple had lived according to the hygienic laws he had preached as a physician, and but for what happened later would be here in full vigor today. only two persons suspected what did happen--carrington harris and myself. i had to tell harris because he owned the house and deserved to know what had gone out of it. then too, we had spoken to him in advance of our quest; and i felt after my uncle's going that he would understand and assist me in some vitally necessary public explanations. he turned very pale, but agreed to help me, and decided that it would now be safe to rent the house. to declare that we were not nervous on that rainy night of watching would be an exaggeration both gross and ridiculous. we were not, as i have said, in any sense childishly superstitious, but scientific study and reflection had taught us that the known universe of three dimensions embraces the merest fraction of the whole cosmos of substance and energy. in this case an overwhelming preponderance of evidence from numerous authentic sources pointed to the tenacious existence of certain forces of great power and, so far as the human point of view is concerned, exceptional malignancy. to say that we actually believed in vampires or werewolves would be a carelessly inclusive statement. rather must it be said that we were not prepared to deny the possibility of certain unfamiliar and unclassified modifications of vital force and attenuated matter; existing very infrequently in three-dimensional space because of its more intimate connection with other spatial units, yet close enough to the boundary of our own to furnish us occasional manifestations which we, for lack of a proper vantage-point, may never hope to understand. in short, it seemed to my uncle and me that an incontrovertible array of facts pointed to some lingering influence in the shunned house; traceable to one or another of the ill-favored french settlers of two centuries before, and still operative through rare and unknown laws of atomic and electronic motion. that the family of roulet had possessed an abnormal affinity for outer circles of entity--dark spheres which for normal folk hold only repulsion and terror--their recorded history seemed to prove. had not, then, the riots of those bygone seventeen-thirties set moving certain kinetic patterns in the morbid brain of one or more of them--notably the sinister paul roulet--which obscurely survived the bodies murdered and buried by the mob, and continued to function in some multiple-dimensioned space along the original lines of force determined by a frantic hatred of the encroaching community? such a thing was surely not a physical or biochemical impossibility in the light of a newer science which includes the theories of relativity and intra-atomic action. one might easily imagine an alien nucleus of substance or energy, formless or otherwise, kept alive by imperceptible or immaterial subtractions from the life-force or bodily tissue and fluids of other and more palpably living things into which it penetrates and with whose fabric it sometimes completely merges itself. it might be actively hostile, or it might be dictated merely by blind motives of self-preservation. in any case such a monster must of necessity be in our scheme of things an anomaly and an intruder, whose extirpation forms a primary duty with every man not an enemy to the world's life, health, and sanity. what baffled us was our utter ignorance of the aspect in which we might encounter the thing. no sane person had ever seen it, and few had ever felt it definitely. it might be pure energy--a form ethereal and outside the realm of substance--or it might be partly material; some unknown and equivocal mass of plasticity, capable of changing at will to nebulous approximations of the solid, liquid, gaseous, or tenuously unparticled states. the anthropomorphic patch of mold on the floor, the form of the yellowish vapor, and the curvature of the tree-roots in some of the old tales, all argued at least a remote and reminiscent connection with the human shape; but how representative or permanent that similarity might be, none could say with any kind of certainty. * * * * * we had devised two weapons to fight it; a large and specially fitted crookes tube operated by powerful storage batteries and provided with peculiar screens and reflectors, in case it proved intangible and opposable only by vigorously destructive ether radiations, and a pair of military flame-throwers of the sort used in the world war, in case it proved partly material and susceptible of mechanical destruction--for like the superstitious exeter rustics, we were prepared to burn the thing's heart out if heart existed to burn. all this aggressive mechanism we set in the cellar in positions carefully arranged with reference to the cot and chairs, and to the spot before the fireplace where the mold had taken strange shapes. that suggestive patch, by the way, was only faintly visible when we placed our furniture and instruments, and when we returned that evening for the actual vigil. for a moment i half doubted that i had ever seen it in the more definitely limned form--but then i thought of the legends. our cellar vigil began at ten p. m., daylight saving time, and as it continued we found no promise of pertinent developments. a weak, filtered glow from the rain-harassed street-lamps outside, and a feeble phosphorescence from the detestable fungi within, showed the dripping stone of the walls, from which all traces of whitewash had vanished; the dank, fetid and mildew-tainted hard earth floor with its obscene fungi; the rotting remains of what had been stools, chairs, and tables, and other more shapeless furniture; the heavy planks and massive beams of the ground floor overhead; the decrepit plank door leading to bins and chambers beneath other parts of the house; the crumbling stone staircase with ruined wooden hand-rail; and the crude and cavernous fireplace of blackened brick where rusted iron fragments revealed the past presence of hooks, andirons, spit, crane, and a door to the dutch oven--these things, and our austere cot and camp chairs, and the heavy and intricate destructive machinery we had brought. we had, as in my own former explorations, left the door to the street unlocked; so that a direct and practical path of escape might lie open in case of manifestations beyond our power to deal with. it was our idea that our continued nocturnal presence would call forth whatever malign entity lurked there; and that being prepared, we could dispose of the thing with one or the other of our provided means as soon as we had recognized and observed it sufficiently. how long it might require to evoke and extinguish the thing, we had no notion. it occurred to us, too, that our venture was far from safe; for in what strength the thing might appear no one could tell. but we deemed the game worth the hazard, and embarked on it alone and unhesitatingly; conscious that the seeking of outside aid would only expose us to ridicule and perhaps defeat our entire purpose. such was our frame of mind as we talked--far into the night, till my uncle's growing drowsiness made me remind him to lie down for his two-hour sleep. something like fear chilled me as i sat there in the small hours alone--i say alone, for one who sits by a sleeper is indeed alone; perhaps more alone than he can realize. my uncle breathed heavily, his deep inhalations and exhalations accompanied by the rain outside, and punctuated by another nerve-racking sound of distant dripping water within--for the house was repulsively damp even in dry weather, and in this storm positively swamp-like. i studied the loose, antique masonry of the walls in the fungus-light and the feeble rays which stole in from the street through the screened window; and once, when the noisome atmosphere of the place seemed about to sicken me, i opened the door and looked up and down the street, feasting my eyes on familiar sights and my nostrils on wholesome air. still nothing occurred to reward my watching; and i yawned repeatedly, fatigue getting the better of apprehension. then the stirring of my uncle in his sleep attracted my notice. he had turned restlessly on the cot several times during the latter half of the first hour, but now he was breathing with unusual irregularity, occasionally heaving a sigh which held more than a few of the qualities of a choking moan. i turned my electric flashlight on him and found his face averted; so rising and crossing to the other side of the cot, i again flashed the light to see if he seemed in any pain. what i saw unnerved me most surprisingly, considering its relative triviality. it must have been merely the association of any odd circumstance with the sinister nature of our location and mission, for surely the circumstance was not in itself frightful or unnatural. it was merely that my uncle's facial expression, disturbed no doubt by the strange dreams which our situation prompted, betrayed considerable agitation, and seemed not at all characteristic of him. his habitual expression was one of kindly and well-bred calm, whereas now a variety of emotions seemed struggling within him. i think, on the whole, that it was this _variety_ which chiefly disturbed me. my uncle, as he gasped and tossed in increasing perturbation and with eyes that had now started open, seemed not one but many men, and suggested a curious quality of alienage from himself. * * * * * all at once he commenced to mutter, and i did not like the look of his mouth and teeth as he spoke. the words were at first indistinguishable, and then--with a tremendous start--i recognized something about them which filled me with icy fear till i recalled the breadth of my uncle's education and the interminable translations he had made from anthropological and antiquarian articles in the _revue des deux mondes_. for the venerable elihu whipple was muttering _in french_, and the few phrases i could distinguish seemed connected with the darkest myths he had ever adapted from the famous paris magazine. suddenly a perspiration broke out on the sleeper's forehead, and he leaped abruptly up, half awake. the jumble of french changed to a cry in english, and the hoarse voice shouted excitedly, "my breath, my breath!" then the awakening became complete, and with a subsidence of facial expression to the normal state my uncle seized my hand and began to relate a dream whose nucleus of significance i could only surmise with a kind of awe. he had, he said, floated off from a very ordinary series of dream-pictures into a scene whose strangeness was related to nothing he had ever read. it was of this world, and yet not of it--a shadowy geometrical confusion in which could be seen elements of familiar things in most unfamiliar and perturbing combinations. there was a suggestion of queerly disordered pictures superimposed one upon another; an arrangement in which the essentials of time as well as of space seemed dissolved and mixed in the most illogical fashion. in this kaleidoscopic vortex of phantasmal images were occasional snap-shots, if one might use the term, of singular clearness but unaccountable heterogeneity. once my uncle thought he lay in a carelessly dug open pit, with a crowd of angry faces framed by straggling locks and three-cornered hats frowning down on him. again he seemed to be in the interior of a house--an old house, apparently--but the details and inhabitants were constantly changing, and he could never be certain of the faces or the furniture, or even of the room itself, since doors and windows seemed in just as great a state of flux as the presumably more mobile objects. it was queer--damnably queer--and my uncle spoke almost sheepishly, as if half expecting not to be believed, when he declared that of the strange faces many had unmistakably borne the features of the harris family. and all the while there was a personal sensation of choking, as if some pervasive presence had spread itself through his body and sought to possess itself of his vital processes. i shuddered at the thought of those vital processes, worn as they were by eighty-one years of continuous functioning, in conflict with unknown forces of which the youngest and strongest system might well be afraid; but in another moment reflected that dreams are only dreams, and that these uncomfortable visions could be, at most, no more than my uncle's reaction to the investigations and expectations which had lately filled our minds to the exclusion of all else. conversation, also, soon tended to dispel my sense of strangeness; and in time i yielded to my yawns and took my turn at slumber. my uncle seemed now very wakeful, and welcomed his period of watching even though the nightmare had aroused him far ahead of his allotted two hours. sleep seized me quickly, and i was at once haunted with dreams of the most disturbing kind. i felt, in my visions, a cosmic and abysmal loneness; with hostility surging from all sides upon some prison where i lay confined. i seemed bound and gagged, and taunted by the echoing yells of distant multitudes who thirsted for my blood. my uncle's face came to me with less pleasant association than in waking hours, and i recall many futile struggles and attempts to scream. it was not a pleasant sleep, and for a second i was not sorry for the echoing shriek which clove through the barriers of dream and flung me to a sharp and startled awakeness in which every actual object before my eyes stood out with more than natural clearness and reality. 5 i had been lying with my face away from my uncle's chair, so that in this sudden flash of awakening i saw only the door to the street, the window, and the wall and floor and ceiling toward the north of the room, all photographed with morbid vividness on my brain in a light brighter than the glow of the fungi or the rays from the street outside. it was not a strong or even a fairly strong light; certainly not nearly strong enough to read an average book by. but it cast a shadow of myself and the cot on the floor, and had a yellowish, penetrating force that hinted at things more potent than luminosity. this i perceived with unhealthy sharpness despite the fact that two of my other senses were violently assailed. for on my ears rang the reverberations of that shocking scream, while my nostrils revolted at the stench which filled the place. my mind, as alert as my senses, recognized the gravely unusual; and almost automatically i leaped up and turned about to grasp the destructive instruments which we had left trained on the moldy spot before the fireplace. as i turned, i dreaded what i was to see; for the scream had been in my uncle's voice, and i knew not against what menace i should have to defend him and myself. yet after all, the sight was worse than i had dreaded. there are horrors beyond horrors, and this was one of those nuclei of all dreamable hideousness which the cosmos saves to blast an accursed and unhappy few. out of the fungus-ridden earth steamed up a vaporous corpse-light, yellow and diseased, which bubbled and lapped to a gigantic height in vague outlines half human and half monstrous, through which i could see the chimney and fireplace beyond. it was all eyes--wolfish and mocking--and the rugose insect-like head dissolved at the top to a thin stream of mist which curled putridly about and finally vanished up the chimney. i say that i saw this thing, but it is only in conscious retrospection that i ever definitely traced its damnable approach to form. at the time, it was to me only a seething, dimly phosphorescent cloud of fungous loathsomeness, enveloping and dissolving to an abhorrent plasticity the one object on which all my attention was focussed. that object was my uncle--the venerable elihu whipple--who with blackening and decaying features leered and gibbered at me, and reached out dripping claws to rend me in the fury which this horror had brought. it was a sense of routine which kept me from going mad. i had drilled myself in preparation for the crucial moment, and blind training saved me. recognizing the bubbling evil as no substance reachable by matter or material chemistry, and therefore ignoring the flame-thrower which loomed on my left, i threw on the current of the crookes tube apparatus, and focussed toward that scene of immortal blasphemousness the strongest ether radiations which man's art can arouse from the spaces and fluids of nature. there was a bluish haze and a frenzied sputtering, and the yellowish phosphorescence grew dimmer to my eyes. but i saw the dimness was only that of contrast, and that the waves from the machine had no effect whatever. then, in the midst of that demoniac spectacle, i saw a fresh horror which brought cries to my lips and sent me fumbling and staggering toward that unlocked door to the quiet street, careless of what abnormal terrors i loosed upon the world, or what thoughts or judgments of men i brought down upon my head. in that dim blend of blue and yellow the form of my uncle had commenced a nauseous liquefaction whose essence eludes all description, and in which there played across his vanishing face such changes of identity as only madness can conceive. he was at once a devil and a multitude, a charnel-house and a pageant. lit by the mixed and uncertain beams, that gelatinous face assumed a dozen--a score--a hundred--aspects; grinning, as it sank to the ground on a body that melted like tallow, in the caricatured likeness of legions strange and yet not strange. i saw the features of the harris line, masculine and feminine, adult and infantile, and other features old and young, coarse and refined, familiar and unfamiliar. for a second there flashed a degraded counterfeit of a miniature of poor mad rhoby harris that i had seen in the school of design museum, and another time i thought i caught the raw-boned image of mercy dexter as i recalled her from a painting in carrington harris's house. it was frightful beyond conception; toward the last, when a curious blend of servant and baby visages flickered close to the fungous floor where a pool of greenish grease was spreading, it seemed as though the shifting features fought against themselves and strove to form contours like those of my uncle's kindly face. i like to think that he existed at that moment, and that he tried to bid me farewell. it seems to me i hiccupped a farewell from my own parched throat as i lurched out into the street; a thin stream of grease following me through the door to the rain-drenched sidewalk. * * * * * the rest is shadowy and monstrous. there was no one in the soaking street, and in all the world there was no one i dared tell. i walked aimlessly south past college hill and the athenã¦um, down hopkins street, and over the bridge to the business section where tall buildings seemed to guard me as modern material things guard the world from ancient and unwholesome wonder. then gray dawn unfolded wetly from the east, silhouetting the archaic hill and its venerable steeples, and beckoning me to the place where my terrible work was still unfinished. and in the end i went, wet, hatless, and dazed in the morning light, and entered that awful door in benefit street which i had left ajar, and which still swung cryptically in full sight of the early householders to whom i dared not speak. the grease was gone, for the moldy floor was porous. and in front of the fireplace was no vestige of the giant doubled-up form traced in niter. i looked at the cot, the chairs, the instruments, my neglected hat, and the yellowed straw hat of my uncle. dazedness was uppermost, and i could scarcely recall what was dream and what was reality. then thought trickled back, and i knew that i had witnessed things more horrible than i had dreamed. sitting down, i tried to conjecture as nearly as sanity would let me just what had happened, and how i might end the horror, if indeed it had been real. matter it seemed not to be, nor ether, nor anything else conceivable by mortal mind. what, then, but some exotic _emanation_; some vampirish vapor such as exeter rustics tell of as lurking over certain churchyards? this i felt was the clue, and again i looked at the floor before the fireplace where the mold and niter had taken strange forms. in ten minutes my mind was made up, and taking my hat i set out for home, where i bathed, ate, and gave by telephone an order for a pickax, a spade, a military gas-mask, and six carboys of sulfuric acid, all to be delivered the next morning at the cellar door of the shunned house in benefit street. after that i tried to sleep; and failing, passed the hours in reading and in the composition of inane verses to counteract my mood. at eleven a. m. the next day i commenced digging. it was sunny weather, and i was glad of that. i was still alone, for as much as i feared the unknown horror i sought, there was more fear in the thought of telling anybody. later i told harris only through sheer necessity, and because he had heard odd tales from old people which disposed him ever so little toward belief. as i turned up the stinking black earth in front of the fireplace, my spade causing a viscous yellow ichor to ooze from the white fungi which it severed, i trembled at the dubious thoughts of what i might uncover. some secrets of inner earth are not good for mankind, and this seemed to me one of them. my hand shook perceptibly, but still i delved; after a while standing in the large hole i had made. with the deepening of the hole, which was about six feet square, the evil smell increased; and i lost all doubt of my imminent contact with the hellish thing whose emanations had cursed the house for over a century and a half. i wondered what it would look like--what its form and substance would be, and how big it might have waxed through long ages of life-sucking. at length i climbed out of the hole and dispersed the heaped-up dirt, then arranging the great carboys of acid around and near two sides, so that when necessary i might empty them all down the aperture in quick succession. after that i dumped earth only along the other two sides; working more slowly and donning my gas-mask as the smell grew. i was nearly unnerved at my proximity to a nameless thing at the bottom of a pit. suddenly my spade struck something softer than earth. i shuddered, and made a motion as if to climb out of the hole, which was now as deep as my neck. then courage returned, and i scraped away more dirt in the light of the electric torch i had provided. the surface i uncovered was fishy and glassy--a kind of semi-putrid congealed jelly with suggestions of translucency. i scraped further, and saw that it had form. there was a rift where a part of the substance was folded over. the exposed area was huge and roughly cylindrical; like a mammoth soft blue-white stovepipe doubled in two, its largest part some two feet in diameter. still more i scraped, and then abruptly i leaped out of the hole and away from the filthy thing; frantically unstopping and tilting the heavy carboys, and precipitating their corrosive contents one after another down that charnel gulf and upon the unthinkable abnormality whose titan _elbow_ i had seen. * * * * * the blinding maelstrom of greenish-yellow vapor which surged tempestuously up from that hole as the floods of acid descended, will never leave my memory. all along the hill people tell of the yellow day, when virulent and horrible fumes arose from the factory waste dumped in the providence river, but i know how mistaken they are as to the source. they tell, too, of the hideous roar which at the same time came from some disordered water-pipe or gas main underground--but again i could correct them if i dared. it was unspeakably shocking, and i do not see how i lived through it. i did faint after emptying the fourth carboy, which i had to handle after the fumes had begun to penetrate my mask; but when i recovered i saw that the hole was emitting no fresh vapors. the two remaining carboys i emptied down without particular result, and after a time i felt it safe to shovel the earth back into the pit. it was twilight before i was done, but fear had gone out of the place. the dampness was less fetid, and all the strange fungi had withered to a kind of harmless grayish powder which blew ash-like along the floor. one of earth's nethermost terrors had perished for ever; and if there be a hell, it had received at last the demon soul of an unhallowed thing. and as i patted down the last spadeful of mold, i shed the first of the many tears with which i have paid unaffected tribute to my beloved uncle's memory. the next spring no more pale grass and strange weeds came up in the shunned house's terraced garden, and shortly afterward carrington harris rented the place. it is still spectral, but its strangeness fascinates me, and i shall find mixed with my relief a queer regret when it is torn down to make way for a tawdry shop or vulgar apartment building. the barren old trees in the yard have begun to bear small, sweet apples, and last year the birds nested in their gnarled boughs. [illustration] transcriber's note: this etext was produced from _weird tales_ october 1937. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. the king in yellow by robert w. chambers original publication date: 1895 the king in yellow is dedicated to my brother along the shore the cloud waves break, the twin suns sink behind the lake, the shadows lengthen in carcosa. strange is the night where black stars rise, and strange moons circle through the skies but stranger still is lost carcosa. songs that the hyades shall sing, where flap the tatters of the king, must die unheard in dim carcosa. song of my soul, my voice is dead; die thou, unsung, as tears unshed shall dry and die in lost carcosa. cassilda's song in "the king in yellow," act i, scene 2. the repairer of reputations i "ne raillons pas les fous; leur folie dure plus longtemps que la nôtre.... voila toute la différence." toward the end of the year 1920 the government of the united states had practically completed the programme, adopted during the last months of president winthrop's administration. the country was apparently tranquil. everybody knows how the tariff and labour questions were settled. the war with germany, incident on that country's seizure of the samoan islands, had left no visible scars upon the republic, and the temporary occupation of norfolk by the invading army had been forgotten in the joy over repeated naval victories, and the subsequent ridiculous plight of general von gartenlaube's forces in the state of new jersey. the cuban and hawaiian investments had paid one hundred per cent and the territory of samoa was well worth its cost as a coaling station. the country was in a superb state of defence. every coast city had been well supplied with land fortifications; the army under the parental eye of the general staff, organized according to the prussian system, had been increased to 300,000 men, with a territorial reserve of a million; and six magnificent squadrons of cruisers and battle-ships patrolled the six stations of the navigable seas, leaving a steam reserve amply fitted to control home waters. the gentlemen from the west had at last been constrained to acknowledge that a college for the training of diplomats was as necessary as law schools are for the training of barristers; consequently we were no longer represented abroad by incompetent patriots. the nation was prosperous; chicago, for a moment paralyzed after a second great fire, had risen from its ruins, white and imperial, and more beautiful than the white city which had been built for its plaything in 1893. everywhere good architecture was replacing bad, and even in new york, a sudden craving for decency had swept away a great portion of the existing horrors. streets had been widened, properly paved and lighted, trees had been planted, squares laid out, elevated structures demolished and underground roads built to replace them. the new government buildings and barracks were fine bits of architecture, and the long system of stone quays which completely surrounded the island had been turned into parks which proved a god-send to the population. the subsidizing of the state theatre and state opera brought its own reward. the united states national academy of design was much like european institutions of the same kind. nobody envied the secretary of fine arts, either his cabinet position or his portfolio. the secretary of forestry and game preservation had a much easier time, thanks to the new system of national mounted police. we had profited well by the latest treaties with france and england; the exclusion of foreign-born jews as a measure of self-preservation, the settlement of the new independent negro state of suanee, the checking of immigration, the new laws concerning naturalization, and the gradual centralization of power in the executive all contributed to national calm and prosperity. when the government solved the indian problem and squadrons of indian cavalry scouts in native costume were substituted for the pitiable organizations tacked on to the tail of skeletonized regiments by a former secretary of war, the nation drew a long sigh of relief. when, after the colossal congress of religions, bigotry and intolerance were laid in their graves and kindness and charity began to draw warring sects together, many thought the millennium had arrived, at least in the new world which after all is a world by itself. but self-preservation is the first law, and the united states had to look on in helpless sorrow as germany, italy, spain and belgium writhed in the throes of anarchy, while russia, watching from the caucasus, stooped and bound them one by one. in the city of new york the summer of 1899 was signalized by the dismantling of the elevated railroads. the summer of 1900 will live in the memories of new york people for many a cycle; the dodge statue was removed in that year. in the following winter began that agitation for the repeal of the laws prohibiting suicide which bore its final fruit in the month of april, 1920, when the first government lethal chamber was opened on washington square. i had walked down that day from dr. archer's house on madison avenue, where i had been as a mere formality. ever since that fall from my horse, four years before, i had been troubled at times with pains in the back of my head and neck, but now for months they had been absent, and the doctor sent me away that day saying there was nothing more to be cured in me. it was hardly worth his fee to be told that; i knew it myself. still i did not grudge him the money. what i minded was the mistake which he made at first. when they picked me up from the pavement where i lay unconscious, and somebody had mercifully sent a bullet through my horse's head, i was carried to dr. archer, and he, pronouncing my brain affected, placed me in his private asylum where i was obliged to endure treatment for insanity. at last he decided that i was well, and i, knowing that my mind had always been as sound as his, if not sounder, "paid my tuition" as he jokingly called it, and left. i told him, smiling, that i would get even with him for his mistake, and he laughed heartily, and asked me to call once in a while. i did so, hoping for a chance to even up accounts, but he gave me none, and i told him i would wait. the fall from my horse had fortunately left no evil results; on the contrary it had changed my whole character for the better. from a lazy young man about town, i had become active, energetic, temperate, and above all--oh, above all else--ambitious. there was only one thing which troubled me, i laughed at my own uneasiness, and yet it troubled me. during my convalescence i had bought and read for the first time, _the king in yellow_. i remember after finishing the first act that it occurred to me that i had better stop. i started up and flung the book into the fireplace; the volume struck the barred grate and fell open on the hearth in the firelight. if i had not caught a glimpse of the opening words in the second act i should never have finished it, but as i stooped to pick it up, my eyes became riveted to the open page, and with a cry of terror, or perhaps it was of joy so poignant that i suffered in every nerve, i snatched the thing out of the coals and crept shaking to my bedroom, where i read it and reread it, and wept and laughed and trembled with a horror which at times assails me yet. this is the thing that troubles me, for i cannot forget carcosa where black stars hang in the heavens; where the shadows of men's thoughts lengthen in the afternoon, when the twin suns sink into the lake of hali; and my mind will bear for ever the memory of the pallid mask. i pray god will curse the writer, as the writer has cursed the world with this beautiful, stupendous creation, terrible in its simplicity, irresistible in its truth--a world which now trembles before the king in yellow. when the french government seized the translated copies which had just arrived in paris, london, of course, became eager to read it. it is well known how the book spread like an infectious disease, from city to city, from continent to continent, barred out here, confiscated there, denounced by press and pulpit, censured even by the most advanced of literary anarchists. no definite principles had been violated in those wicked pages, no doctrine promulgated, no convictions outraged. it could not be judged by any known standard, yet, although it was acknowledged that the supreme note of art had been struck in _the king in yellow_, all felt that human nature could not bear the strain, nor thrive on words in which the essence of purest poison lurked. the very banality and innocence of the first act only allowed the blow to fall afterward with more awful effect. it was, i remember, the 13th day of april, 1920, that the first government lethal chamber was established on the south side of washington square, between wooster street and south fifth avenue. the block which had formerly consisted of a lot of shabby old buildings, used as cafés and restaurants for foreigners, had been acquired by the government in the winter of 1898. the french and italian cafés and restaurants were torn down; the whole block was enclosed by a gilded iron railing, and converted into a lovely garden with lawns, flowers and fountains. in the centre of the garden stood a small, white building, severely classical in architecture, and surrounded by thickets of flowers. six ionic columns supported the roof, and the single door was of bronze. a splendid marble group of the "fates" stood before the door, the work of a young american sculptor, boris yvain, who had died in paris when only twenty-three years old. the inauguration ceremonies were in progress as i crossed university place and entered the square. i threaded my way through the silent throng of spectators, but was stopped at fourth street by a cordon of police. a regiment of united states lancers were drawn up in a hollow square round the lethal chamber. on a raised tribune facing washington park stood the governor of new york, and behind him were grouped the mayor of new york and brooklyn, the inspector-general of police, the commandant of the state troops, colonel livingston, military aid to the president of the united states, general blount, commanding at governor's island, major-general hamilton, commanding the garrison of new york and brooklyn, admiral buffby of the fleet in the north river, surgeon-general lanceford, the staff of the national free hospital, senators wyse and franklin of new york, and the commissioner of public works. the tribune was surrounded by a squadron of hussars of the national guard. the governor was finishing his reply to the short speech of the surgeon-general. i heard him say: "the laws prohibiting suicide and providing punishment for any attempt at self-destruction have been repealed. the government has seen fit to acknowledge the right of man to end an existence which may have become intolerable to him, through physical suffering or mental despair. it is believed that the community will be benefited by the removal of such people from their midst. since the passage of this law, the number of suicides in the united states has not increased. now the government has determined to establish a lethal chamber in every city, town and village in the country, it remains to be seen whether or not that class of human creatures from whose desponding ranks new victims of self-destruction fall daily will accept the relief thus provided." he paused, and turned to the white lethal chamber. the silence in the street was absolute. "there a painless death awaits him who can no longer bear the sorrows of this life. if death is welcome let him seek it there." then quickly turning to the military aid of the president's household, he said, "i declare the lethal chamber open," and again facing the vast crowd he cried in a clear voice: "citizens of new york and of the united states of america, through me the government declares the lethal chamber to be open." the solemn hush was broken by a sharp cry of command, the squadron of hussars filed after the governor's carriage, the lancers wheeled and formed along fifth avenue to wait for the commandant of the garrison, and the mounted police followed them. i left the crowd to gape and stare at the white marble death chamber, and, crossing south fifth avenue, walked along the western side of that thoroughfare to bleecker street. then i turned to the right and stopped before a dingy shop which bore the sign: hawberk, armourer. i glanced in at the doorway and saw hawberk busy in his little shop at the end of the hall. he looked up, and catching sight of me cried in his deep, hearty voice, "come in, mr. castaigne!" constance, his daughter, rose to meet me as i crossed the threshold, and held out her pretty hand, but i saw the blush of disappointment on her cheeks, and knew that it was another castaigne she had expected, my cousin louis. i smiled at her confusion and complimented her on the banner she was embroidering from a coloured plate. old hawberk sat riveting the worn greaves of some ancient suit of armour, and the ting! ting! ting! of his little hammer sounded pleasantly in the quaint shop. presently he dropped his hammer, and fussed about for a moment with a tiny wrench. the soft clash of the mail sent a thrill of pleasure through me. i loved to hear the music of steel brushing against steel, the mellow shock of the mallet on thigh pieces, and the jingle of chain armour. that was the only reason i went to see hawberk. he had never interested me personally, nor did constance, except for the fact of her being in love with louis. this did occupy my attention, and sometimes even kept me awake at night. but i knew in my heart that all would come right, and that i should arrange their future as i expected to arrange that of my kind doctor, john archer. however, i should never have troubled myself about visiting them just then, had it not been, as i say, that the music of the tinkling hammer had for me this strong fascination. i would sit for hours, listening and listening, and when a stray sunbeam struck the inlaid steel, the sensation it gave me was almost too keen to endure. my eyes would become fixed, dilating with a pleasure that stretched every nerve almost to breaking, until some movement of the old armourer cut off the ray of sunlight, then, still thrilling secretly, i leaned back and listened again to the sound of the polishing rag, swish! swish! rubbing rust from the rivets. constance worked with the embroidery over her knees, now and then pausing to examine more closely the pattern in the coloured plate from the metropolitan museum. "who is this for?" i asked. hawberk explained, that in addition to the treasures of armour in the metropolitan museum of which he had been appointed armourer, he also had charge of several collections belonging to rich amateurs. this was the missing greave of a famous suit which a client of his had traced to a little shop in paris on the quai d'orsay. he, hawberk, had negotiated for and secured the greave, and now the suit was complete. he laid down his hammer and read me the history of the suit, traced since 1450 from owner to owner until it was acquired by thomas stainbridge. when his superb collection was sold, this client of hawberk's bought the suit, and since then the search for the missing greave had been pushed until it was, almost by accident, located in paris. "did you continue the search so persistently without any certainty of the greave being still in existence?" i demanded. "of course," he replied coolly. then for the first time i took a personal interest in hawberk. "it was worth something to you," i ventured. "no," he replied, laughing, "my pleasure in finding it was my reward." "have you no ambition to be rich?" i asked, smiling. "my one ambition is to be the best armourer in the world," he answered gravely. constance asked me if i had seen the ceremonies at the lethal chamber. she herself had noticed cavalry passing up broadway that morning, and had wished to see the inauguration, but her father wanted the banner finished, and she had stayed at his request. "did you see your cousin, mr. castaigne, there?" she asked, with the slightest tremor of her soft eyelashes. "no," i replied carelessly. "louis' regiment is manoeuvring out in westchester county." i rose and picked up my hat and cane. "are you going upstairs to see the lunatic again?" laughed old hawberk. if hawberk knew how i loathe that word "lunatic," he would never use it in my presence. it rouses certain feelings within me which i do not care to explain. however, i answered him quietly: "i think i shall drop in and see mr. wilde for a moment or two." "poor fellow," said constance, with a shake of the head, "it must be hard to live alone year after year poor, crippled and almost demented. it is very good of you, mr. castaigne, to visit him as often as you do." "i think he is vicious," observed hawberk, beginning again with his hammer. i listened to the golden tinkle on the greave plates; when he had finished i replied: "no, he is not vicious, nor is he in the least demented. his mind is a wonder chamber, from which he can extract treasures that you and i would give years of our life to acquire."' hawberk laughed. i continued a little impatiently: "he knows history as no one else could know it. nothing, however trivial, escapes his search, and his memory is so absolute, so precise in details, that were it known in new york that such a man existed, the people could not honour him enough." "nonsense," muttered hawberk, searching on the floor for a fallen rivet. "is it nonsense," i asked, managing to suppress what i felt, "is it nonsense when he says that the tassets and cuissards of the enamelled suit of armour commonly known as the 'prince's emblazoned' can be found among a mass of rusty theatrical properties, broken stoves and ragpicker's refuse in a garret in pell street?" hawberk's hammer fell to the ground, but he picked it up and asked, with a great deal of calm, how i knew that the tassets and left cuissard were missing from the "prince's emblazoned." "i did not know until mr. wilde mentioned it to me the other day. he said they were in the garret of 998 pell street." "nonsense," he cried, but i noticed his hand trembling under his leathern apron. "is this nonsense too?" i asked pleasantly, "is it nonsense when mr. wilde continually speaks of you as the marquis of avonshire and of miss constance--" i did not finish, for constance had started to her feet with terror written on every feature. hawberk looked at me and slowly smoothed his leathern apron. "that is impossible," he observed, "mr. wilde may know a great many things--" "about armour, for instance, and the 'prince's emblazoned,'" i interposed, smiling. "yes," he continued, slowly, "about armour also--may be--but he is wrong in regard to the marquis of avonshire, who, as you know, killed his wife's traducer years ago, and went to australia where he did not long survive his wife." "mr. wilde is wrong," murmured constance. her lips were blanched, but her voice was sweet and calm. "let us agree, if you please, that in this one circumstance mr. wilde is wrong," i said. ii i climbed the three dilapidated flights of stairs, which i had so often climbed before, and knocked at a small door at the end of the corridor. mr. wilde opened the door and i walked in. when he had double-locked the door and pushed a heavy chest against it, he came and sat down beside me, peering up into my face with his little light-coloured eyes. half a dozen new scratches covered his nose and cheeks, and the silver wires which supported his artificial ears had become displaced. i thought i had never seen him so hideously fascinating. he had no ears. the artificial ones, which now stood out at an angle from the fine wire, were his one weakness. they were made of wax and painted a shell pink, but the rest of his face was yellow. he might better have revelled in the luxury of some artificial fingers for his left hand, which was absolutely fingerless, but it seemed to cause him no inconvenience, and he was satisfied with his wax ears. he was very small, scarcely higher than a child of ten, but his arms were magnificently developed, and his thighs as thick as any athlete's. still, the most remarkable thing about mr. wilde was that a man of his marvellous intelligence and knowledge should have such a head. it was flat and pointed, like the heads of many of those unfortunates whom people imprison in asylums for the weak-minded. many called him insane, but i knew him to be as sane as i was. i do not deny that he was eccentric; the mania he had for keeping that cat and teasing her until she flew at his face like a demon, was certainly eccentric. i never could understand why he kept the creature, nor what pleasure he found in shutting himself up in his room with this surly, vicious beast. i remember once, glancing up from the manuscript i was studying by the light of some tallow dips, and seeing mr. wilde squatting motionless on his high chair, his eyes fairly blazing with excitement, while the cat, which had risen from her place before the stove, came creeping across the floor right at him. before i could move she flattened her belly to the ground, crouched, trembled, and sprang into his face. howling and foaming they rolled over and over on the floor, scratching and clawing, until the cat screamed and fled under the cabinet, and mr. wilde turned over on his back, his limbs contracting and curling up like the legs of a dying spider. he _was_ eccentric. mr. wilde had climbed into his high chair, and, after studying my face, picked up a dog's-eared ledger and opened it. "henry b. matthews," he read, "book-keeper with whysot whysot and company, dealers in church ornaments. called april 3rd. reputation damaged on the race-track. known as a welcher. reputation to be repaired by august 1st. retainer five dollars." he turned the page and ran his fingerless knuckles down the closely-written columns. "p. greene dusenberry, minister of the gospel, fairbeach, new jersey. reputation damaged in the bowery. to be repaired as soon as possible. retainer $100." he coughed and added, "called, april 6th." "then you are not in need of money, mr. wilde," i inquired. "listen," he coughed again. "mrs. c. hamilton chester, of chester park, new york city. called april 7th. reputation damaged at dieppe, france. to be repaired by october 1st retainer $500. "note.--c. hamilton chester, captain u.s.s. 'avalanche', ordered home from south sea squadron october 1st." "well," i said, "the profession of a repairer of reputations is lucrative." his colourless eyes sought mine, "i only wanted to demonstrate that i was correct. you said it was impossible to succeed as a repairer of reputations; that even if i did succeed in certain cases it would cost me more than i would gain by it. to-day i have five hundred men in my employ, who are poorly paid, but who pursue the work with an enthusiasm which possibly may be born of fear. these men enter every shade and grade of society; some even are pillars of the most exclusive social temples; others are the prop and pride of the financial world; still others, hold undisputed sway among the 'fancy and the talent.' i choose them at my leisure from those who reply to my advertisements. it is easy enough, they are all cowards. i could treble the number in twenty days if i wished. so you see, those who have in their keeping the reputations of their fellow-citizens, i have in my pay." "they may turn on you," i suggested. he rubbed his thumb over his cropped ears, and adjusted the wax substitutes. "i think not," he murmured thoughtfully, "i seldom have to apply the whip, and then only once. besides they like their wages." "how do you apply the whip?" i demanded. his face for a moment was awful to look upon. his eyes dwindled to a pair of green sparks. "i invite them to come and have a little chat with me," he said in a soft voice. a knock at the door interrupted him, and his face resumed its amiable expression. "who is it?" he inquired. "mr. steylette," was the answer. "come to-morrow," replied mr. wilde. "impossible," began the other, but was silenced by a sort of bark from mr. wilde. "come to-morrow," he repeated. we heard somebody move away from the door and turn the corner by the stairway. "who is that?" i asked. "arnold steylette, owner and editor in chief of the great new york daily." he drummed on the ledger with his fingerless hand adding: "i pay him very badly, but he thinks it a good bargain." "arnold steylette!" i repeated amazed. "yes," said mr. wilde, with a self-satisfied cough. the cat, which had entered the room as he spoke, hesitated, looked up at him and snarled. he climbed down from the chair and squatting on the floor, took the creature into his arms and caressed her. the cat ceased snarling and presently began a loud purring which seemed to increase in timbre as he stroked her. "where are the notes?" i asked. he pointed to the table, and for the hundredth time i picked up the bundle of manuscript entitled-"the imperial dynasty of america." one by one i studied the well-worn pages, worn only by my own handling, and although i knew all by heart, from the beginning, "when from carcosa, the hyades, hastur, and aldebaran," to "castaigne, louis de calvados, born december 19th, 1877," i read it with an eager, rapt attention, pausing to repeat parts of it aloud, and dwelling especially on "hildred de calvados, only son of hildred castaigne and edythe landes castaigne, first in succession," etc., etc. when i finished, mr. wilde nodded and coughed. "speaking of your legitimate ambition," he said, "how do constance and louis get along?" "she loves him," i replied simply. the cat on his knee suddenly turned and struck at his eyes, and he flung her off and climbed on to the chair opposite me. "and dr. archer! but that's a matter you can settle any time you wish," he added. "yes," i replied, "dr. archer can wait, but it is time i saw my cousin louis." "it is time," he repeated. then he took another ledger from the table and ran over the leaves rapidly. "we are now in communication with ten thousand men," he muttered. "we can count on one hundred thousand within the first twenty-eight hours, and in forty-eight hours the state will rise _en masse_. the country follows the state, and the portion that will not, i mean california and the northwest, might better never have been inhabited. i shall not send them the yellow sign." the blood rushed to my head, but i only answered, "a new broom sweeps clean." "the ambition of caesar and of napoleon pales before that which could not rest until it had seized the minds of men and controlled even their unborn thoughts," said mr. wilde. "you are speaking of the king in yellow," i groaned, with a shudder. "he is a king whom emperors have served." "i am content to serve him," i replied. mr. wilde sat rubbing his ears with his crippled hand. "perhaps constance does not love him," he suggested. i started to reply, but a sudden burst of military music from the street below drowned my voice. the twentieth dragoon regiment, formerly in garrison at mount st. vincent, was returning from the manoeuvres in westchester county, to its new barracks on east washington square. it was my cousin's regiment. they were a fine lot of fellows, in their pale blue, tight-fitting jackets, jaunty busbys and white riding breeches with the double yellow stripe, into which their limbs seemed moulded. every other squadron was armed with lances, from the metal points of which fluttered yellow and white pennons. the band passed, playing the regimental march, then came the colonel and staff, the horses crowding and trampling, while their heads bobbed in unison, and the pennons fluttered from their lance points. the troopers, who rode with the beautiful english seat, looked brown as berries from their bloodless campaign among the farms of westchester, and the music of their sabres against the stirrups, and the jingle of spurs and carbines was delightful to me. i saw louis riding with his squadron. he was as handsome an officer as i have ever seen. mr. wilde, who had mounted a chair by the window, saw him too, but said nothing. louis turned and looked straight at hawberk's shop as he passed, and i could see the flush on his brown cheeks. i think constance must have been at the window. when the last troopers had clattered by, and the last pennons vanished into south fifth avenue, mr. wilde clambered out of his chair and dragged the chest away from the door. "yes," he said, "it is time that you saw your cousin louis." he unlocked the door and i picked up my hat and stick and stepped into the corridor. the stairs were dark. groping about, i set my foot on something soft, which snarled and spit, and i aimed a murderous blow at the cat, but my cane shivered to splinters against the balustrade, and the beast scurried back into mr. wilde's room. passing hawberk's door again i saw him still at work on the armour, but i did not stop, and stepping out into bleecker street, i followed it to wooster, skirted the grounds of the lethal chamber, and crossing washington park went straight to my rooms in the benedick. here i lunched comfortably, read the _herald_ and the _meteor_, and finally went to the steel safe in my bedroom and set the time combination. the three and three-quarter minutes which it is necessary to wait, while the time lock is opening, are to me golden moments. from the instant i set the combination to the moment when i grasp the knobs and swing back the solid steel doors, i live in an ecstasy of expectation. those moments must be like moments passed in paradise. i know what i am to find at the end of the time limit. i know what the massive safe holds secure for me, for me alone, and the exquisite pleasure of waiting is hardly enhanced when the safe opens and i lift, from its velvet crown, a diadem of purest gold, blazing with diamonds. i do this every day, and yet the joy of waiting and at last touching again the diadem, only seems to increase as the days pass. it is a diadem fit for a king among kings, an emperor among emperors. the king in yellow might scorn it, but it shall be worn by his royal servant. i held it in my arms until the alarm in the safe rang harshly, and then tenderly, proudly, i replaced it and shut the steel doors. i walked slowly back into my study, which faces washington square, and leaned on the window sill. the afternoon sun poured into my windows, and a gentle breeze stirred the branches of the elms and maples in the park, now covered with buds and tender foliage. a flock of pigeons circled about the tower of the memorial church; sometimes alighting on the purple tiled roof, sometimes wheeling downward to the lotos fountain in front of the marble arch. the gardeners were busy with the flower beds around the fountain, and the freshly turned earth smelled sweet and spicy. a lawn mower, drawn by a fat white horse, clinked across the green sward, and watering-carts poured showers of spray over the asphalt drives. around the statue of peter stuyvesant, which in 1897 had replaced the monstrosity supposed to represent garibaldi, children played in the spring sunshine, and nurse girls wheeled elaborate baby carriages with a reckless disregard for the pasty-faced occupants, which could probably be explained by the presence of half a dozen trim dragoon troopers languidly lolling on the benches. through the trees, the washington memorial arch glistened like silver in the sunshine, and beyond, on the eastern extremity of the square the grey stone barracks of the dragoons, and the white granite artillery stables were alive with colour and motion. i looked at the lethal chamber on the corner of the square opposite. a few curious people still lingered about the gilded iron railing, but inside the grounds the paths were deserted. i watched the fountains ripple and sparkle; the sparrows had already found this new bathing nook, and the basins were covered with the dusty-feathered little things. two or three white peacocks picked their way across the lawns, and a drab coloured pigeon sat so motionless on the arm of one of the "fates," that it seemed to be a part of the sculptured stone. as i was turning carelessly away, a slight commotion in the group of curious loiterers around the gates attracted my attention. a young man had entered, and was advancing with nervous strides along the gravel path which leads to the bronze doors of the lethal chamber. he paused a moment before the "fates," and as he raised his head to those three mysterious faces, the pigeon rose from its sculptured perch, circled about for a moment and wheeled to the east. the young man pressed his hand to his face, and then with an undefinable gesture sprang up the marble steps, the bronze doors closed behind him, and half an hour later the loiterers slouched away, and the frightened pigeon returned to its perch in the arms of fate. i put on my hat and went out into the park for a little walk before dinner. as i crossed the central driveway a group of officers passed, and one of them called out, "hello, hildred," and came back to shake hands with me. it was my cousin louis, who stood smiling and tapping his spurred heels with his riding-whip. "just back from westchester," he said; "been doing the bucolic; milk and curds, you know, dairy-maids in sunbonnets, who say 'haeow' and 'i don't think' when you tell them they are pretty. i'm nearly dead for a square meal at delmonico's. what's the news?" "there is none," i replied pleasantly. "i saw your regiment coming in this morning." "did you? i didn't see you. where were you?" "in mr. wilde's window." "oh, hell!" he began impatiently, "that man is stark mad! i don't understand why you--" he saw how annoyed i felt by this outburst, and begged my pardon. "really, old chap," he said, "i don't mean to run down a man you like, but for the life of me i can't see what the deuce you find in common with mr. wilde. he's not well bred, to put it generously; he is hideously deformed; his head is the head of a criminally insane person. you know yourself he's been in an asylum--" "so have i," i interrupted calmly. louis looked startled and confused for a moment, but recovered and slapped me heartily on the shoulder. "you were completely cured," he began; but i stopped him again. "i suppose you mean that i was simply acknowledged never to have been insane." "of course that--that's what i meant," he laughed. i disliked his laugh because i knew it was forced, but i nodded gaily and asked him where he was going. louis looked after his brother officers who had now almost reached broadway. "we had intended to sample a brunswick cocktail, but to tell you the truth i was anxious for an excuse to go and see hawberk instead. come along, i'll make you my excuse." we found old hawberk, neatly attired in a fresh spring suit, standing at the door of his shop and sniffing the air. "i had just decided to take constance for a little stroll before dinner," he replied to the impetuous volley of questions from louis. "we thought of walking on the park terrace along the north river." at that moment constance appeared and grew pale and rosy by turns as louis bent over her small gloved fingers. i tried to excuse myself, alleging an engagement uptown, but louis and constance would not listen, and i saw i was expected to remain and engage old hawberk's attention. after all it would be just as well if i kept my eye on louis, i thought, and when they hailed a spring street horse-car, i got in after them and took my seat beside the armourer. the beautiful line of parks and granite terraces overlooking the wharves along the north river, which were built in 1910 and finished in the autumn of 1917, had become one of the most popular promenades in the metropolis. they extended from the battery to 190th street, overlooking the noble river and affording a fine view of the jersey shore and the highlands opposite. cafés and restaurants were scattered here and there among the trees, and twice a week military bands from the garrison played in the kiosques on the parapets. we sat down in the sunshine on the bench at the foot of the equestrian statue of general sheridan. constance tipped her sunshade to shield her eyes, and she and louis began a murmuring conversation which was impossible to catch. old hawberk, leaning on his ivory headed cane, lighted an excellent cigar, the mate to which i politely refused, and smiled at vacancy. the sun hung low above the staten island woods, and the bay was dyed with golden hues reflected from the sun-warmed sails of the shipping in the harbour. brigs, schooners, yachts, clumsy ferry-boats, their decks swarming with people, railroad transports carrying lines of brown, blue and white freight cars, stately sound steamers, déclassé tramp steamers, coasters, dredgers, scows, and everywhere pervading the entire bay impudent little tugs puffing and whistling officiously;--these were the craft which churned the sunlight waters as far as the eye could reach. in calm contrast to the hurry of sailing vessel and steamer a silent fleet of white warships lay motionless in midstream. constance's merry laugh aroused me from my reverie. "what _are_ you staring at?" she inquired. "nothing--the fleet," i smiled. then louis told us what the vessels were, pointing out each by its relative position to the old red fort on governor's island. "that little cigar shaped thing is a torpedo boat," he explained; "there are four more lying close together. they are the _tarpon_, the _falcon_, the _sea fox_, and the _octopus_. the gun-boats just above are the _princeton_, the _champlain_, the _still water_ and the _erie_. next to them lie the cruisers _faragut_ and _los angeles_, and above them the battle ships _california_, and _dakota_, and the _washington_ which is the flag ship. those two squatty looking chunks of metal which are anchored there off castle william are the double turreted monitors _terrible_ and _magnificent_; behind them lies the ram, _osceola_." constance looked at him with deep approval in her beautiful eyes. "what loads of things you know for a soldier," she said, and we all joined in the laugh which followed. presently louis rose with a nod to us and offered his arm to constance, and they strolled away along the river wall. hawberk watched them for a moment and then turned to me. "mr. wilde was right," he said. "i have found the missing tassets and left cuissard of the 'prince's emblazoned,' in a vile old junk garret in pell street." "998?" i inquired, with a smile. "yes." "mr. wilde is a very intelligent man," i observed. "i want to give him the credit of this most important discovery," continued hawberk. "and i intend it shall be known that he is entitled to the fame of it." "he won't thank you for that," i answered sharply; "please say nothing about it." "do you know what it is worth?" said hawberk. "no, fifty dollars, perhaps." "it is valued at five hundred, but the owner of the 'prince's emblazoned' will give two thousand dollars to the person who completes his suit; that reward also belongs to mr. wilde." "he doesn't want it! he refuses it!" i answered angrily. "what do you know about mr. wilde? he doesn't need the money. he is rich--or will be--richer than any living man except myself. what will we care for money then--what will we care, he and i, when--when--" "when what?" demanded hawberk, astonished. "you will see," i replied, on my guard again. he looked at me narrowly, much as doctor archer used to, and i knew he thought i was mentally unsound. perhaps it was fortunate for him that he did not use the word lunatic just then. "no," i replied to his unspoken thought, "i am not mentally weak; my mind is as healthy as mr. wilde's. i do not care to explain just yet what i have on hand, but it is an investment which will pay more than mere gold, silver and precious stones. it will secure the happiness and prosperity of a continent--yes, a hemisphere!" "oh," said hawberk. "and eventually," i continued more quietly, "it will secure the happiness of the whole world." "and incidentally your own happiness and prosperity as well as mr. wilde's?" "exactly," i smiled. but i could have throttled him for taking that tone. he looked at me in silence for a while and then said very gently, "why don't you give up your books and studies, mr. castaigne, and take a tramp among the mountains somewhere or other? you used to be fond of fishing. take a cast or two at the trout in the rangelys." "i don't care for fishing any more," i answered, without a shade of annoyance in my voice. "you used to be fond of everything," he continued; "athletics, yachting, shooting, riding--" "i have never cared to ride since my fall," i said quietly. "ah, yes, your fall," he repeated, looking away from me. i thought this nonsense had gone far enough, so i brought the conversation back to mr. wilde; but he was scanning my face again in a manner highly offensive to me. "mr. wilde," he repeated, "do you know what he did this afternoon? he came downstairs and nailed a sign over the hall door next to mine; it read: "mr. wilde, repairer of reputations. third bell. "do you know what a repairer of reputations can be?" "i do," i replied, suppressing the rage within. "oh," he said again. louis and constance came strolling by and stopped to ask if we would join them. hawberk looked at his watch. at the same moment a puff of smoke shot from the casemates of castle william, and the boom of the sunset gun rolled across the water and was re-echoed from the highlands opposite. the flag came running down from the flag-pole, the bugles sounded on the white decks of the warships, and the first electric light sparkled out from the jersey shore. as i turned into the city with hawberk i heard constance murmur something to louis which i did not understand; but louis whispered "my darling," in reply; and again, walking ahead with hawberk through the square i heard a murmur of "sweetheart," and "my own constance," and i knew the time had nearly arrived when i should speak of important matters with my cousin louis. iii one morning early in may i stood before the steel safe in my bedroom, trying on the golden jewelled crown. the diamonds flashed fire as i turned to the mirror, and the heavy beaten gold burned like a halo about my head. i remembered camilla's agonized scream and the awful words echoing through the dim streets of carcosa. they were the last lines in the first act, and i dared not think of what followed--dared not, even in the spring sunshine, there in my own room, surrounded with familiar objects, reassured by the bustle from the street and the voices of the servants in the hallway outside. for those poisoned words had dropped slowly into my heart, as death-sweat drops upon a bed-sheet and is absorbed. trembling, i put the diadem from my head and wiped my forehead, but i thought of hastur and of my own rightful ambition, and i remembered mr. wilde as i had last left him, his face all torn and bloody from the claws of that devil's creature, and what he said--ah, what he said. the alarm bell in the safe began to whirr harshly, and i knew my time was up; but i would not heed it, and replacing the flashing circlet upon my head i turned defiantly to the mirror. i stood for a long time absorbed in the changing expression of my own eyes. the mirror reflected a face which was like my own, but whiter, and so thin that i hardly recognized it and all the time i kept repeating between my clenched teeth, "the day has come! the day has come!" while the alarm in the safe whirred and clamoured, and the diamonds sparkled and flamed above my brow. i heard a door open but did not heed it. it was only when i saw two faces in the mirror:--it was only when another face rose over my shoulder, and two other eyes met mine. i wheeled like a flash and seized a long knife from my dressing-table, and my cousin sprang back very pale, crying: "hildred! for god's sake!" then as my hand fell, he said: "it is i, louis, don't you know me?" i stood silent. i could not have spoken for my life. he walked up to me and took the knife from my hand. "what is all this?" he inquired, in a gentle voice. "are you ill?" "no," i replied. but i doubt if he heard me. "come, come, old fellow," he cried, "take off that brass crown and toddle into the study. are you going to a masquerade? what's all this theatrical tinsel anyway?" i was glad he thought the crown was made of brass and paste, yet i didn't like him any the better for thinking so. i let him take it from my hand, knowing it was best to humour him. he tossed the splendid diadem in the air, and catching it, turned to me smiling. "it's dear at fifty cents," he said. "what's it for?" i did not answer, but took the circlet from his hands, and placing it in the safe shut the massive steel door. the alarm ceased its infernal din at once. he watched me curiously, but did not seem to notice the sudden ceasing of the alarm. he did, however, speak of the safe as a biscuit box. fearing lest he might examine the combination i led the way into my study. louis threw himself on the sofa and flicked at flies with his eternal riding-whip. he wore his fatigue uniform with the braided jacket and jaunty cap, and i noticed that his riding-boots were all splashed with red mud. "where have you been?" i inquired. "jumping mud creeks in jersey," he said. "i haven't had time to change yet; i was rather in a hurry to see you. haven't you got a glass of something? i'm dead tired; been in the saddle twenty-four hours." i gave him some brandy from my medicinal store, which he drank with a grimace. "damned bad stuff," he observed. "i'll give you an address where they sell brandy that is brandy." "it's good enough for my needs," i said indifferently. "i use it to rub my chest with." he stared and flicked at another fly. "see here, old fellow," he began, "i've got something to suggest to you. it's four years now that you've shut yourself up here like an owl, never going anywhere, never taking any healthy exercise, never doing a damn thing but poring over those books up there on the mantelpiece." he glanced along the row of shelves. "napoleon, napoleon, napoleon!" he read. "for heaven's sake, have you nothing but napoleons there?" "i wish they were bound in gold," i said. "but wait, yes, there is another book, _the king in yellow_." i looked him steadily in the eye. "have you never read it?" i asked. "i? no, thank god! i don't want to be driven crazy." i saw he regretted his speech as soon as he had uttered it. there is only one word which i loathe more than i do lunatic and that word is crazy. but i controlled myself and asked him why he thought _the king in yellow_ dangerous. "oh, i don't know," he said, hastily. "i only remember the excitement it created and the denunciations from pulpit and press. i believe the author shot himself after bringing forth this monstrosity, didn't he?" "i understand he is still alive," i answered. "that's probably true," he muttered; "bullets couldn't kill a fiend like that." "it is a book of great truths," i said. "yes," he replied, "of 'truths' which send men frantic and blast their lives. i don't care if the thing is, as they say, the very supreme essence of art. it's a crime to have written it, and i for one shall never open its pages." "is that what you have come to tell me?" i asked. "no," he said, "i came to tell you that i am going to be married." i believe for a moment my heart ceased to beat, but i kept my eyes on his face. "yes," he continued, smiling happily, "married to the sweetest girl on earth." "constance hawberk," i said mechanically. "how did you know?" he cried, astonished. "i didn't know it myself until that evening last april, when we strolled down to the embankment before dinner." "when is it to be?" i asked. "it was to have been next september, but an hour ago a despatch came ordering our regiment to the presidio, san francisco. we leave at noon to-morrow. to-morrow," he repeated. "just think, hildred, to-morrow i shall be the happiest fellow that ever drew breath in this jolly world, for constance will go with me." i offered him my hand in congratulation, and he seized and shook it like the good-natured fool he was--or pretended to be. "i am going to get my squadron as a wedding present," he rattled on. "captain and mrs. louis castaigne, eh, hildred?" then he told me where it was to be and who were to be there, and made me promise to come and be best man. i set my teeth and listened to his boyish chatter without showing what i felt, but-i was getting to the limit of my endurance, and when he jumped up, and, switching his spurs till they jingled, said he must go, i did not detain him. "there's one thing i want to ask of you," i said quietly. "out with it, it's promised," he laughed. "i want you to meet me for a quarter of an hour's talk to-night." "of course, if you wish," he said, somewhat puzzled. "where?" "anywhere, in the park there." "what time, hildred?" "midnight." "what in the name of--" he began, but checked himself and laughingly assented. i watched him go down the stairs and hurry away, his sabre banging at every stride. he turned into bleecker street, and i knew he was going to see constance. i gave him ten minutes to disappear and then followed in his footsteps, taking with me the jewelled crown and the silken robe embroidered with the yellow sign. when i turned into bleecker street, and entered the doorway which bore the sign-mr. wilde, repairer of reputations. third bell. i saw old hawberk moving about in his shop, and imagined i heard constance's voice in the parlour; but i avoided them both and hurried up the trembling stairways to mr. wilde's apartment. i knocked and entered without ceremony. mr. wilde lay groaning on the floor, his face covered with blood, his clothes torn to shreds. drops of blood were scattered about over the carpet, which had also been ripped and frayed in the evidently recent struggle. "it's that cursed cat," he said, ceasing his groans, and turning his colourless eyes to me; "she attacked me while i was asleep. i believe she will kill me yet." this was too much, so i went into the kitchen, and, seizing a hatchet from the pantry, started to find the infernal beast and settle her then and there. my search was fruitless, and after a while i gave it up and came back to find mr. wilde squatting on his high chair by the table. he had washed his face and changed his clothes. the great furrows which the cat's claws had ploughed up in his face he had filled with collodion, and a rag hid the wound in his throat. i told him i should kill the cat when i came across her, but he only shook his head and turned to the open ledger before him. he read name after name of the people who had come to him in regard to their reputation, and the sums he had amassed were startling. "i put on the screws now and then," he explained. "one day or other some of these people will assassinate you," i insisted. "do you think so?" he said, rubbing his mutilated ears. it was useless to argue with him, so i took down the manuscript entitled imperial dynasty of america, for the last time i should ever take it down in mr. wilde's study. i read it through, thrilling and trembling with pleasure. when i had finished mr. wilde took the manuscript and, turning to the dark passage which leads from his study to his bed-chamber, called out in a loud voice, "vance." then for the first time, i noticed a man crouching there in the shadow. how i had overlooked him during my search for the cat, i cannot imagine. "vance, come in," cried mr. wilde. the figure rose and crept towards us, and i shall never forget the face that he raised to mine, as the light from the window illuminated it. "vance, this is mr. castaigne," said mr. wilde. before he had finished speaking, the man threw himself on the ground before the table, crying and grasping, "oh, god! oh, my god! help me! forgive me! oh, mr. castaigne, keep that man away. you cannot, you cannot mean it! you are different--save me! i am broken down--i was in a madhouse and now--when all was coming right--when i had forgotten the king--the king in yellow and--but i shall go mad again--i shall go mad--" his voice died into a choking rattle, for mr. wilde had leapt on him and his right hand encircled the man's throat. when vance fell in a heap on the floor, mr. wilde clambered nimbly into his chair again, and rubbing his mangled ears with the stump of his hand, turned to me and asked me for the ledger. i reached it down from the shelf and he opened it. after a moment's searching among the beautifully written pages, he coughed complacently, and pointed to the name vance. "vance," he read aloud, "osgood oswald vance." at the sound of his name, the man on the floor raised his head and turned a convulsed face to mr. wilde. his eyes were injected with blood, his lips tumefied. "called april 28th," continued mr. wilde. "occupation, cashier in the seaforth national bank; has served a term of forgery at sing sing, from whence he was transferred to the asylum for the criminal insane. pardoned by the governor of new york, and discharged from the asylum, january 19, 1918. reputation damaged at sheepshead bay. rumours that he lives beyond his income. reputation to be repaired at once. retainer $1,500. "note.--has embezzled sums amounting to $30,000 since march 20, 1919, excellent family, and secured present position through uncle's influence. father, president of seaforth bank." i looked at the man on the floor. "get up, vance," said mr. wilde in a gentle voice. vance rose as if hypnotized. "he will do as we suggest now," observed mr. wilde, and opening the manuscript, he read the entire history of the imperial dynasty of america. then in a kind and soothing murmur he ran over the important points with vance, who stood like one stunned. his eyes were so blank and vacant that i imagined he had become half-witted, and remarked it to mr. wilde who replied that it was of no consequence anyway. very patiently we pointed out to vance what his share in the affair would be, and he seemed to understand after a while. mr. wilde explained the manuscript, using several volumes on heraldry, to substantiate the result of his researches. he mentioned the establishment of the dynasty in carcosa, the lakes which connected hastur, aldebaran and the mystery of the hyades. he spoke of cassilda and camilla, and sounded the cloudy depths of demhe, and the lake of hali. "the scolloped tatters of the king in yellow must hide yhtill forever," he muttered, but i do not believe vance heard him. then by degrees he led vance along the ramifications of the imperial family, to uoht and thale, from naotalba and phantom of truth, to aldones, and then tossing aside his manuscript and notes, he began the wonderful story of the last king. fascinated and thrilled i watched him. he threw up his head, his long arms were stretched out in a magnificent gesture of pride and power, and his eyes blazed deep in their sockets like two emeralds. vance listened stupefied. as for me, when at last mr. wilde had finished, and pointing to me, cried, "the cousin of the king!" my head swam with excitement. controlling myself with a superhuman effort, i explained to vance why i alone was worthy of the crown and why my cousin must be exiled or die. i made him understand that my cousin must never marry, even after renouncing all his claims, and how that least of all he should marry the daughter of the marquis of avonshire and bring england into the question. i showed him a list of thousands of names which mr. wilde had drawn up; every man whose name was there had received the yellow sign which no living human being dared disregard. the city, the state, the whole land, were ready to rise and tremble before the pallid mask. the time had come, the people should know the son of hastur, and the whole world bow to the black stars which hang in the sky over carcosa. vance leaned on the table, his head buried in his hands. mr. wilde drew a rough sketch on the margin of yesterday's _herald_ with a bit of lead pencil. it was a plan of hawberk's rooms. then he wrote out the order and affixed the seal, and shaking like a palsied man i signed my first writ of execution with my name hildred-rex. mr. wilde clambered to the floor and unlocking the cabinet, took a long square box from the first shelf. this he brought to the table and opened. a new knife lay in the tissue paper inside and i picked it up and handed it to vance, along with the order and the plan of hawberk's apartment. then mr. wilde told vance he could go; and he went, shambling like an outcast of the slums. i sat for a while watching the daylight fade behind the square tower of the judson memorial church, and finally, gathering up the manuscript and notes, took my hat and started for the door. mr. wilde watched me in silence. when i had stepped into the hall i looked back. mr. wilde's small eyes were still fixed on me. behind him, the shadows gathered in the fading light. then i closed the door behind me and went out into the darkening streets. i had eaten nothing since breakfast, but i was not hungry. a wretched, half-starved creature, who stood looking across the street at the lethal chamber, noticed me and came up to tell me a tale of misery. i gave him money, i don't know why, and he went away without thanking me. an hour later another outcast approached and whined his story. i had a blank bit of paper in my pocket, on which was traced the yellow sign, and i handed it to him. he looked at it stupidly for a moment, and then with an uncertain glance at me, folded it with what seemed to me exaggerated care and placed it in his bosom. the electric lights were sparkling among the trees, and the new moon shone in the sky above the lethal chamber. it was tiresome waiting in the square; i wandered from the marble arch to the artillery stables and back again to the lotos fountain. the flowers and grass exhaled a fragrance which troubled me. the jet of the fountain played in the moonlight, and the musical splash of falling drops reminded me of the tinkle of chained mail in hawberk's shop. but it was not so fascinating, and the dull sparkle of the moonlight on the water brought no such sensations of exquisite pleasure, as when the sunshine played over the polished steel of a corselet on hawberk's knee. i watched the bats darting and turning above the water plants in the fountain basin, but their rapid, jerky flight set my nerves on edge, and i went away again to walk aimlessly to and fro among the trees. the artillery stables were dark, but in the cavalry barracks the officers' windows were brilliantly lighted, and the sallyport was constantly filled with troopers in fatigue, carrying straw and harness and baskets filled with tin dishes. twice the mounted sentry at the gates was changed while i wandered up and down the asphalt walk. i looked at my watch. it was nearly time. the lights in the barracks went out one by one, the barred gate was closed, and every minute or two an officer passed in through the side wicket, leaving a rattle of accoutrements and a jingle of spurs on the night air. the square had become very silent. the last homeless loiterer had been driven away by the grey-coated park policeman, the car tracks along wooster street were deserted, and the only sound which broke the stillness was the stamping of the sentry's horse and the ring of his sabre against the saddle pommel. in the barracks, the officers' quarters were still lighted, and military servants passed and repassed before the bay windows. twelve o'clock sounded from the new spire of st. francis xavier, and at the last stroke of the sad-toned bell a figure passed through the wicket beside the portcullis, returned the salute of the sentry, and crossing the street entered the square and advanced toward the benedick apartment house. "louis," i called. the man pivoted on his spurred heels and came straight toward me. "is that you, hildred?" "yes, you are on time." i took his offered hand, and we strolled toward the lethal chamber. he rattled on about his wedding and the graces of constance, and their future prospects, calling my attention to his captain's shoulder-straps, and the triple gold arabesque on his sleeve and fatigue cap. i believe i listened as much to the music of his spurs and sabre as i did to his boyish babble, and at last we stood under the elms on the fourth street corner of the square opposite the lethal chamber. then he laughed and asked me what i wanted with him. i motioned him to a seat on a bench under the electric light, and sat down beside him. he looked at me curiously, with that same searching glance which i hate and fear so in doctors. i felt the insult of his look, but he did not know it, and i carefully concealed my feelings. "well, old chap," he inquired, "what can i do for you?" i drew from my pocket the manuscript and notes of the imperial dynasty of america, and looking him in the eye said: "i will tell you. on your word as a soldier, promise me to read this manuscript from beginning to end, without asking me a question. promise me to read these notes in the same way, and promise me to listen to what i have to tell later." "i promise, if you wish it," he said pleasantly. "give me the paper, hildred." he began to read, raising his eyebrows with a puzzled, whimsical air, which made me tremble with suppressed anger. as he advanced his, eyebrows contracted, and his lips seemed to form the word "rubbish." then he looked slightly bored, but apparently for my sake read, with an attempt at interest, which presently ceased to be an effort he started when in the closely written pages he came to his own name, and when he came to mine he lowered the paper, and looked sharply at me for a moment but he kept his word, and resumed his reading, and i let the half-formed question die on his lips unanswered. when he came to the end and read the signature of mr. wilde, he folded the paper carefully and returned it to me. i handed him the notes, and he settled back, pushing his fatigue cap up to his forehead, with a boyish gesture, which i remembered so well in school. i watched his face as he read, and when he finished i took the notes with the manuscript, and placed them in my pocket. then i unfolded a scroll marked with the yellow sign. he saw the sign, but he did not seem to recognize it, and i called his attention to it somewhat sharply. "well," he said, "i see it. what is it?" "it is the yellow sign," i said angrily. "oh, that's it, is it?" said louis, in that flattering voice, which doctor archer used to employ with me, and would probably have employed again, had i not settled his affair for him. i kept my rage down and answered as steadily as possible, "listen, you have engaged your word?" "i am listening, old chap," he replied soothingly. i began to speak very calmly. "dr. archer, having by some means become possessed of the secret of the imperial succession, attempted to deprive me of my right, alleging that because of a fall from my horse four years ago, i had become mentally deficient. he presumed to place me under restraint in his own house in hopes of either driving me insane or poisoning me. i have not forgotten it. i visited him last night and the interview was final." louis turned quite pale, but did not move. i resumed triumphantly, "there are yet three people to be interviewed in the interests of mr. wilde and myself. they are my cousin louis, mr. hawberk, and his daughter constance." louis sprang to his feet and i arose also, and flung the paper marked with the yellow sign to the ground. "oh, i don't need that to tell you what i have to say," i cried, with a laugh of triumph. "you must renounce the crown to me, do you hear, to _me_." louis looked at me with a startled air, but recovering himself said kindly, "of course i renounce the--what is it i must renounce?" "the crown," i said angrily. "of course," he answered, "i renounce it. come, old chap, i'll walk back to your rooms with you." "don't try any of your doctor's tricks on me," i cried, trembling with fury. "don't act as if you think i am insane." "what nonsense," he replied. "come, it's getting late, hildred." "no," i shouted, "you must listen. you cannot marry, i forbid it. do you hear? i forbid it. you shall renounce the crown, and in reward i grant you exile, but if you refuse you shall die." he tried to calm me, but i was roused at last, and drawing my long knife barred his way. then i told him how they would find dr. archer in the cellar with his throat open, and i laughed in his face when i thought of vance and his knife, and the order signed by me. "ah, you are the king," i cried, "but i shall be king. who are you to keep me from empire over all the habitable earth! i was born the cousin of a king, but i shall be king!" louis stood white and rigid before me. suddenly a man came running up fourth street, entered the gate of the lethal temple, traversed the path to the bronze doors at full speed, and plunged into the death chamber with the cry of one demented, and i laughed until i wept tears, for i had recognized vance, and knew that hawberk and his daughter were no longer in my way. "go," i cried to louis, "you have ceased to be a menace. you will never marry constance now, and if you marry any one else in your exile, i will visit you as i did my doctor last night. mr. wilde takes charge of you to-morrow." then i turned and darted into south fifth avenue, and with a cry of terror louis dropped his belt and sabre and followed me like the wind. i heard him close behind me at the corner of bleecker street, and i dashed into the doorway under hawberk's sign. he cried, "halt, or i fire!" but when he saw that i flew up the stairs leaving hawberk's shop below, he left me, and i heard him hammering and shouting at their door as though it were possible to arouse the dead. mr. wilde's door was open, and i entered crying, "it is done, it is done! let the nations rise and look upon their king!" but i could not find mr. wilde, so i went to the cabinet and took the splendid diadem from its case. then i drew on the white silk robe, embroidered with the yellow sign, and placed the crown upon my head. at last i was king, king by my right in hastur, king because i knew the mystery of the hyades, and my mind had sounded the depths of the lake of hali. i was king! the first grey pencillings of dawn would raise a tempest which would shake two hemispheres. then as i stood, my every nerve pitched to the highest tension, faint with the joy and splendour of my thought, without, in the dark passage, a man groaned. i seized the tallow dip and sprang to the door. the cat passed me like a demon, and the tallow dip went out, but my long knife flew swifter than she, and i heard her screech, and i knew that my knife had found her. for a moment i listened to her tumbling and thumping about in the darkness, and then when her frenzy ceased, i lighted a lamp and raised it over my head. mr. wilde lay on the floor with his throat torn open. at first i thought he was dead, but as i looked, a green sparkle came into his sunken eyes, his mutilated hand trembled, and then a spasm stretched his mouth from ear to ear. for a moment my terror and despair gave place to hope, but as i bent over him his eyeballs rolled clean around in his head, and he died. then while i stood, transfixed with rage and despair, seeing my crown, my empire, every hope and every ambition, my very life, lying prostrate there with the dead master, _they_ came, seized me from behind, and bound me until my veins stood out like cords, and my voice failed with the paroxysms of my frenzied screams. but i still raged, bleeding and infuriated among them, and more than one policeman felt my sharp teeth. then when i could no longer move they came nearer; i saw old hawberk, and behind him my cousin louis' ghastly face, and farther away, in the corner, a woman, constance, weeping softly. "ah! i see it now!" i shrieked. "you have seized the throne and the empire. woe! woe to you who are crowned with the crown of the king in yellow!" [editor's note.--mr. castaigne died yesterday in the asylum for criminal insane.] the mask camilla: you, sir, should unmask. stranger: indeed? cassilda: indeed it's time. we all have laid aside disguise but you. stranger: i wear no mask. camilla: (terrified, aside to cassilda.) no mask? no mask! _the king in yellow, act i, scene 2_. i although i knew nothing of chemistry, i listened fascinated. he picked up an easter lily which geneviève had brought that morning from notre dame, and dropped it into the basin. instantly the liquid lost its crystalline clearness. for a second the lily was enveloped in a milk-white foam, which disappeared, leaving the fluid opalescent. changing tints of orange and crimson played over the surface, and then what seemed to be a ray of pure sunlight struck through from the bottom where the lily was resting. at the same instant he plunged his hand into the basin and drew out the flower. "there is no danger," he explained, "if you choose the right moment. that golden ray is the signal." he held the lily toward me, and i took it in my hand. it had turned to stone, to the purest marble. "you see," he said, "it is without a flaw. what sculptor could reproduce it?" the marble was white as snow, but in its depths the veins of the lily were tinged with palest azure, and a faint flush lingered deep in its heart. "don't ask me the reason of that," he smiled, noticing my wonder. "i have no idea why the veins and heart are tinted, but they always are. yesterday i tried one of geneviève's gold-fish,--there it is." the fish looked as if sculptured in marble. but if you held it to the light the stone was beautifully veined with a faint blue, and from somewhere within came a rosy light like the tint which slumbers in an opal. i looked into the basin. once more it seemed filled with clearest crystal. "if i should touch it now?" i demanded. "i don't know," he replied, "but you had better not try." "there is one thing i'm curious about," i said, "and that is where the ray of sunlight came from." "it looked like a sunbeam true enough," he said. "i don't know, it always comes when i immerse any living thing. perhaps," he continued, smiling, "perhaps it is the vital spark of the creature escaping to the source from whence it came." i saw he was mocking, and threatened him with a mahl-stick, but he only laughed and changed the subject. "stay to lunch. geneviève will be here directly." "i saw her going to early mass," i said, "and she looked as fresh and sweet as that lily--before you destroyed it." "do you think i destroyed it?" said boris gravely. "destroyed, preserved, how can we tell?" we sat in the corner of a studio near his unfinished group of the "fates." he leaned back on the sofa, twirling a sculptor's chisel and squinting at his work. "by the way," he said, "i have finished pointing up that old academic ariadne, and i suppose it will have to go to the salon. it's all i have ready this year, but after the success the 'madonna' brought me i feel ashamed to send a thing like that." the "madonna," an exquisite marble for which geneviève had sat, had been the sensation of last year's salon. i looked at the ariadne. it was a magnificent piece of technical work, but i agreed with boris that the world would expect something better of him than that. still, it was impossible now to think of finishing in time for the salon that splendid terrible group half shrouded in the marble behind me. the "fates" would have to wait. we were proud of boris yvain. we claimed him and he claimed us on the strength of his having been born in america, although his father was french and his mother was a russian. every one in the beaux arts called him boris. and yet there were only two of us whom he addressed in the same familiar way--jack scott and myself. perhaps my being in love with geneviève had something to do with his affection for me. not that it had ever been acknowledged between us. but after all was settled, and she had told me with tears in her eyes that it was boris whom she loved, i went over to his house and congratulated him. the perfect cordiality of that interview did not deceive either of us, i always believed, although to one at least it was a great comfort. i do not think he and geneviève ever spoke of the matter together, but boris knew. geneviève was lovely. the madonna-like purity of her face might have been inspired by the sanctus in gounod's mass. but i was always glad when she changed that mood for what we called her "april manoeuvres." she was often as variable as an april day. in the morning grave, dignified and sweet, at noon laughing, capricious, at evening whatever one least expected. i preferred her so rather than in that madonna-like tranquillity which stirred the depths of my heart. i was dreaming of geneviève when he spoke again. "what do you think of my discovery, alec?" "i think it wonderful." "i shall make no use of it, you know, beyond satisfying my own curiosity so far as may be, and the secret will die with me." "it would be rather a blow to sculpture, would it not? we painters lose more than we ever gain by photography." boris nodded, playing with the edge of the chisel. "this new vicious discovery would corrupt the world of art. no, i shall never confide the secret to any one," he said slowly. it would be hard to find any one less informed about such phenomena than myself; but of course i had heard of mineral springs so saturated with silica that the leaves and twigs which fell into them were turned to stone after a time. i dimly comprehended the process, how the silica replaced the vegetable matter, atom by atom, and the result was a duplicate of the object in stone. this, i confess, had never interested me greatly, and as for the ancient fossils thus produced, they disgusted me. boris, it appeared, feeling curiosity instead of repugnance, had investigated the subject, and had accidentally stumbled on a solution which, attacking the immersed object with a ferocity unheard of, in a second did the work of years. this was all i could make out of the strange story he had just been telling me. he spoke again after a long silence. "i am almost frightened when i think what i have found. scientists would go mad over the discovery. it was so simple too; it discovered itself. when i think of that formula, and that new element precipitated in metallic scales--" "what new element?" "oh, i haven't thought of naming it, and i don't believe i ever shall. there are enough precious metals now in the world to cut throats over." i pricked up my ears. "have you struck gold, boris?" "no, better;--but see here, alec!" he laughed, starting up. "you and i have all we need in this world. ah! how sinister and covetous you look already!" i laughed too, and told him i was devoured by the desire for gold, and we had better talk of something else; so when geneviève came in shortly after, we had turned our backs on alchemy. geneviève was dressed in silvery grey from head to foot. the light glinted along the soft curves of her fair hair as she turned her cheek to boris; then she saw me and returned my greeting. she had never before failed to blow me a kiss from the tips of her white fingers, and i promptly complained of the omission. she smiled and held out her hand, which dropped almost before it had touched mine; then she said, looking at boris-"you must ask alec to stay for luncheon." this also was something new. she had always asked me herself until to-day. "i did," said boris shortly. "and you said yes, i hope?" she turned to me with a charming conventional smile. i might have been an acquaintance of the day before yesterday. i made her a low bow. "j'avais bien l'honneur, madame," but refusing to take up our usual bantering tone, she murmured a hospitable commonplace and disappeared. boris and i looked at one another. "i had better go home, don't you think?" i asked. "hanged if i know," he replied frankly. while we were discussing the advisability of my departure geneviève reappeared in the doorway without her bonnet. she was wonderfully beautiful, but her colour was too deep and her lovely eyes were too bright. she came straight up to me and took my arm. "luncheon is ready. was i cross, alec? i thought i had a headache, but i haven't. come here, boris;" and she slipped her other arm through his. "alec knows that after you there is no one in the world whom i like as well as i like him, so if he sometimes feels snubbed it won't hurt him." "à la bonheur!" i cried, "who says there are no thunderstorms in april?" "are you ready?" chanted boris. "aye ready;" and arm-in-arm we raced into the dining-room, scandalizing the servants. after all we were not so much to blame; geneviève was eighteen, boris was twenty-three, and i not quite twenty-one. ii some work that i was doing about this time on the decorations for geneviève's boudoir kept me constantly at the quaint little hotel in the rue sainte-cécile. boris and i in those days laboured hard but as we pleased, which was fitfully, and we all three, with jack scott, idled a great deal together. one quiet afternoon i had been wandering alone over the house examining curios, prying into odd corners, bringing out sweetmeats and cigars from strange hiding-places, and at last i stopped in the bathing-room. boris, all over clay, stood there washing his hands. the room was built of rose-coloured marble excepting the floor, which was tessellated in rose and grey. in the centre was a square pool sunken below the surface of the floor; steps led down into it, sculptured pillars supported a frescoed ceiling. a delicious marble cupid appeared to have just alighted on his pedestal at the upper end of the room. the whole interior was boris' work and mine. boris, in his working-clothes of white canvas, scraped the traces of clay and red modelling wax from his handsome hands, and coquetted over his shoulder with the cupid. "i see you," he insisted, "don't try to look the other way and pretend not to see me. you know who made you, little humbug!" it was always my rôle to interpret cupid's sentiments in these conversations, and when my turn came i responded in such a manner, that boris seized my arm and dragged me toward the pool, declaring he would duck me. next instant he dropped my arm and turned pale. "good god!" he said, "i forgot the pool is full of the solution!" i shivered a little, and dryly advised him to remember better where he had stored the precious liquid. "in heaven's name, why do you keep a small lake of that gruesome stuff here of all places?" i asked. "i want to experiment on something large," he replied. "on me, for instance?" "ah! that came too close for jesting; but i do want to watch the action of that solution on a more highly organized living body; there is that big white rabbit," he said, following me into the studio. jack scott, wearing a paint-stained jacket, came wandering in, appropriated all the oriental sweetmeats he could lay his hands on, looted the cigarette case, and finally he and boris disappeared together to visit the luxembourg gallery, where a new silver bronze by rodin and a landscape of monet's were claiming the exclusive attention of artistic france. i went back to the studio, and resumed my work. it was a renaissance screen, which boris wanted me to paint for geneviève's boudoir. but the small boy who was unwillingly dawdling through a series of poses for it, to-day refused all bribes to be good. he never rested an instant in the same position, and inside of five minutes i had as many different outlines of the little beggar. "are you posing, or are you executing a song and dance, my friend?" i inquired. "whichever monsieur pleases," he replied, with an angelic smile. of course i dismissed him for the day, and of course i paid him for the full time, that being the way we spoil our models. after the young imp had gone, i made a few perfunctory daubs at my work, but was so thoroughly out of humour, that it took me the rest of the afternoon to undo the damage i had done, so at last i scraped my palette, stuck my brushes in a bowl of black soap, and strolled into the smoking-room. i really believe that, excepting geneviève's apartments, no room in the house was so free from the perfume of tobacco as this one. it was a queer chaos of odds and ends, hung with threadbare tapestry. a sweet-toned old spinet in good repair stood by the window. there were stands of weapons, some old and dull, others bright and modern, festoons of indian and turkish armour over the mantel, two or three good pictures, and a pipe-rack. it was here that we used to come for new sensations in smoking. i doubt if any type of pipe ever existed which was not represented in that rack. when we had selected one, we immediately carried it somewhere else and smoked it; for the place was, on the whole, more gloomy and less inviting than any in the house. but this afternoon, the twilight was very soothing, the rugs and skins on the floor looked brown and soft and drowsy; the big couch was piled with cushions--i found my pipe and curled up there for an unaccustomed smoke in the smoking-room. i had chosen one with a long flexible stem, and lighting it fell to dreaming. after a while it went out, but i did not stir. i dreamed on and presently fell asleep. i awoke to the saddest music i had ever heard. the room was quite dark, i had no idea what time it was. a ray of moonlight silvered one edge of the old spinet, and the polished wood seemed to exhale the sounds as perfume floats above a box of sandalwood. some one rose in the darkness, and came away weeping quietly, and i was fool enough to cry out "geneviève!" she dropped at my voice, and, i had time to curse myself while i made a light and tried to raise her from the floor. she shrank away with a murmur of pain. she was very quiet, and asked for boris. i carried her to the divan, and went to look for him, but he was not in the house, and the servants were gone to bed. perplexed and anxious, i hurried back to geneviève. she lay where i had left her, looking very white. "i can't find boris nor any of the servants," i said. "i know," she answered faintly, "boris has gone to ept with mr. scott. i did not remember when i sent you for him just now." "but he can't get back in that case before to-morrow afternoon, and--are you hurt? did i frighten you into falling? what an awful fool i am, but i was only half awake." "boris thought you had gone home before dinner. do please excuse us for letting you stay here all this time." "i have had a long nap," i laughed, "so sound that i did not know whether i was still asleep or not when i found myself staring at a figure that was moving toward me, and called out your name. have you been trying the old spinet? you must have played very softly." i would tell a thousand more lies worse than that one to see the look of relief that came into her face. she smiled adorably, and said in her natural voice: "alec, i tripped on that wolf's head, and i think my ankle is sprained. please call marie, and then go home." i did as she bade me, and left her there when the maid came in. iii at noon next day when i called, i found boris walking restlessly about his studio. "geneviève is asleep just now," he told me, "the sprain is nothing, but why should she have such a high fever? the doctor can't account for it; or else he will not," he muttered. "geneviève has a fever?" i asked. "i should say so, and has actually been a little light-headed at intervals all night. the idea! gay little geneviève, without a care in the world,--and she keeps saying her heart's broken, and she wants to die!" my own heart stood still. boris leaned against the door of his studio, looking down, his hands in his pockets, his kind, keen eyes clouded, a new line of trouble drawn "over the mouth's good mark, that made the smile." the maid had orders to summon him the instant geneviève opened her eyes. we waited and waited, and boris, growing restless, wandered about, fussing with modelling wax and red clay. suddenly he started for the next room. "come and see my rose-coloured bath full of death!" he cried. "is it death?" i asked, to humour his mood. "you are not prepared to call it life, i suppose," he answered. as he spoke he plucked a solitary goldfish squirming and twisting out of its globe. "we'll send this one after the other--wherever that is," he said. there was feverish excitement in his voice. a dull weight of fever lay on my limbs and on my brain as i followed him to the fair crystal pool with its pink-tinted sides; and he dropped the creature in. falling, its scales flashed with a hot orange gleam in its angry twistings and contortions; the moment it struck the liquid it became rigid and sank heavily to the bottom. then came the milky foam, the splendid hues radiating on the surface and then the shaft of pure serene light broke through from seemingly infinite depths. boris plunged in his hand and drew out an exquisite marble thing, blue-veined, rose-tinted, and glistening with opalescent drops. "child's play," he muttered, and looked wearily, longingly at me,--as if i could answer such questions! but jack scott came in and entered into the "game," as he called it, with ardour. nothing would do but to try the experiment on the white rabbit then and there. i was willing that boris should find distraction from his cares, but i hated to see the life go out of a warm, living creature and i declined to be present. picking up a book at random, i sat down in the studio to read. alas! i had found _the king in yellow_. after a few moments, which seemed ages, i was putting it away with a nervous shudder, when boris and jack came in bringing their marble rabbit. at the same time the bell rang above, and a cry came from the sick-room. boris was gone like a flash, and the next moment he called, "jack, run for the doctor; bring him back with you. alec, come here." i went and stood at her door. a frightened maid came out in haste and ran away to fetch some remedy. geneviève, sitting bolt upright, with crimson cheeks and glittering eyes, babbled incessantly and resisted boris' gentle restraint. he called me to help. at my first touch she sighed and sank back, closing her eyes, and then--then--as we still bent above her, she opened them again, looked straight into boris' face--poor fever-crazed girl!--and told her secret. at the same instant our three lives turned into new channels; the bond that held us so long together snapped for ever and a new bond was forged in its place, for she had spoken my name, and as the fever tortured her, her heart poured out its load of hidden sorrow. amazed and dumb i bowed my head, while my face burned like a live coal, and the blood surged in my ears, stupefying me with its clamour. incapable of movement, incapable of speech, i listened to her feverish words in an agony of shame and sorrow. i could not silence her, i could not look at boris. then i felt an arm upon my shoulder, and boris turned a bloodless face to mine. "it is not your fault, alec; don't grieve so if she loves you--" but he could not finish; and as the doctor stepped swiftly into the room, saying--"ah, the fever!" i seized jack scott and hurried him to the street, saying, "boris would rather be alone." we crossed the street to our own apartments, and that night, seeing i was going to be ill too, he went for the doctor again. the last thing i recollect with any distinctness was hearing jack say, "for heaven's sake, doctor, what ails him, to wear a face like that?" and i thought of _the king in yellow_ and the pallid mask. i was very ill, for the strain of two years which i had endured since that fatal may morning when geneviève murmured, "i love you, but i think i love boris best," told on me at last. i had never imagined that it could become more than i could endure. outwardly tranquil, i had deceived myself. although the inward battle raged night after night, and i, lying alone in my room, cursed myself for rebellious thoughts unloyal to boris and unworthy of geneviève, the morning always brought relief, and i returned to geneviève and to my dear boris with a heart washed clean by the tempests of the night. never in word or deed or thought while with them had i betrayed my sorrow even to myself. the mask of self-deception was no longer a mask for me, it was a part of me. night lifted it, laying bare the stifled truth below; but there was no one to see except myself, and when the day broke the mask fell back again of its own accord. these thoughts passed through my troubled mind as i lay sick, but they were hopelessly entangled with visions of white creatures, heavy as stone, crawling about in boris' basin,--of the wolf's head on the rug, foaming and snapping at geneviève, who lay smiling beside it. i thought, too, of the king in yellow wrapped in the fantastic colours of his tattered mantle, and that bitter cry of cassilda, "not upon us, oh king, not upon us!" feverishly i struggled to put it from me, but i saw the lake of hali, thin and blank, without a ripple or wind to stir it, and i saw the towers of carcosa behind the moon. aldebaran, the hyades, alar, hastur, glided through the cloud-rifts which fluttered and flapped as they passed like the scolloped tatters of the king in yellow. among all these, one sane thought persisted. it never wavered, no matter what else was going on in my disordered mind, that my chief reason for existing was to meet some requirement of boris and geneviève. what this obligation was, its nature, was never clear; sometimes it seemed to be protection, sometimes support, through a great crisis. whatever it seemed to be for the time, its weight rested only on me, and i was never so ill or so weak that i did not respond with my whole soul. there were always crowds of faces about me, mostly strange, but a few i recognized, boris among them. afterward they told me that this could not have been, but i know that once at least he bent over me. it was only a touch, a faint echo of his voice, then the clouds settled back on my senses, and i lost him, but he _did_ stand there and bend over me _once_ at least. at last, one morning i awoke to find the sunlight falling across my bed, and jack scott reading beside me. i had not strength enough to speak aloud, neither could i think, much less remember, but i could smile feebly, as jack's eye met mine, and when he jumped up and asked eagerly if i wanted anything, i could whisper, "yes--boris." jack moved to the head of my bed, and leaned down to arrange my pillow: i did not see his face, but he answered heartily, "you must wait, alec; you are too weak to see even boris." i waited and i grew strong; in a few days i was able to see whom i would, but meanwhile i had thought and remembered. from the moment when all the past grew clear again in my mind, i never doubted what i should do when the time came, and i felt sure that boris would have resolved upon the same course so far as he was concerned; as for what pertained to me alone, i knew he would see that also as i did. i no longer asked for any one. i never inquired why no message came from them; why during the week i lay there, waiting and growing stronger, i never heard their name spoken. preoccupied with my own searchings for the right way, and with my feeble but determined fight against despair, i simply acquiesced in jack's reticence, taking for granted that he was afraid to speak of them, lest i should turn unruly and insist on seeing them. meanwhile i said over and over to myself, how would it be when life began again for us all? we would take up our relations exactly as they were before geneviève fell ill. boris and i would look into each other's eyes, and there would be neither rancour nor cowardice nor mistrust in that glance. i would be with them again for a little while in the dear intimacy of their home, and then, without pretext or explanation, i would disappear from their lives for ever. boris would know; geneviève--the only comfort was that she would never know. it seemed, as i thought it over, that i had found the meaning of that sense of obligation which had persisted all through my delirium, and the only possible answer to it. so, when i was quite ready, i beckoned jack to me one day, and said-"jack, i want boris at once; and take my dearest greeting to geneviève...." when at last he made me understand that they were both dead, i fell into a wild rage that tore all my little convalescent strength to atoms. i raved and cursed myself into a relapse, from which i crawled forth some weeks afterward a boy of twenty-one who believed that his youth was gone for ever. i seemed to be past the capability of further suffering, and one day when jack handed me a letter and the keys to boris' house, i took them without a tremor and asked him to tell me all. it was cruel of me to ask him, but there was no help for it, and he leaned wearily on his thin hands, to reopen the wound which could never entirely heal. he began very quietly-"alec, unless you have a clue that i know nothing about, you will not be able to explain any more than i what has happened. i suspect that you would rather not hear these details, but you must learn them, else i would spare you the relation. god knows i wish i could be spared the telling. i shall use few words. "that day when i left you in the doctor's care and came back to boris, i found him working on the 'fates.' geneviève, he said, was sleeping under the influence of drugs. she had been quite out of her mind, he said. he kept on working, not talking any more, and i watched him. before long, i saw that the third figure of the group--the one looking straight ahead, out over the world--bore his face; not as you ever saw it, but as it looked then and to the end. this is one thing for which i should like to find an explanation, but i never shall. "well, he worked and i watched him in silence, and we went on that way until nearly midnight. then we heard the door open and shut sharply, and a swift rush in the next room. boris sprang through the doorway and i followed; but we were too late. she lay at the bottom of the pool, her hands across her breast. then boris shot himself through the heart." jack stopped speaking, drops of sweat stood under his eyes, and his thin cheeks twitched. "i carried boris to his room. then i went back and let that hellish fluid out of the pool, and turning on all the water, washed the marble clean of every drop. when at length i dared descend the steps, i found her lying there as white as snow. at last, when i had decided what was best to do, i went into the laboratory, and first emptied the solution in the basin into the waste-pipe; then i poured the contents of every jar and bottle after it. there was wood in the fire-place, so i built a fire, and breaking the locks of boris' cabinet i burnt every paper, notebook and letter that i found there. with a mallet from the studio i smashed to pieces all the empty bottles, then loading them into a coal-scuttle, i carried them to the cellar and threw them over the red-hot bed of the furnace. six times i made the journey, and at last, not a vestige remained of anything which might again aid in seeking for the formula which boris had found. then at last i dared call the doctor. he is a good man, and together we struggled to keep it from the public. without him i never could have succeeded. at last we got the servants paid and sent away into the country, where old rosier keeps them quiet with stones of boris' and geneviève's travels in distant lands, from whence they will not return for years. we buried boris in the little cemetery of sèvres. the doctor is a good creature, and knows when to pity a man who can bear no more. he gave his certificate of heart disease and asked no questions of me." then, lifting his head from his hands, he said, "open the letter, alec; it is for us both." i tore it open. it was boris' will dated a year before. he left everything to geneviève, and in case of her dying childless, i was to take control of the house in the rue sainte-cécile, and jack scott the management at ept. on our deaths the property reverted to his mother's family in russia, with the exception of the sculptured marbles executed by himself. these he left to me. the page blurred under our eyes, and jack got up and walked to the window. presently he returned and sat down again. i dreaded to hear what he was going to say, but he spoke with the same simplicity and gentleness. "geneviève lies before the madonna in the marble room. the madonna bends tenderly above her, and geneviève smiles back into that calm face that never would have been except for her." his voice broke, but he grasped my hand, saying, "courage, alec." next morning he left for ept to fulfil his trust. iv the same evening i took the keys and went into the house i had known so well. everything was in order, but the silence was terrible. though i went twice to the door of the marble room, i could not force myself to enter. it was beyond my strength. i went into the smoking-room and sat down before the spinet. a small lace handkerchief lay on the keys, and i turned away, choking. it was plain i could not stay, so i locked every door, every window, and the three front and back gates, and went away. next morning alcide packed my valise, and leaving him in charge of my apartments i took the orient express for constantinople. during the two years that i wandered through the east, at first, in our letters, we never mentioned geneviève and boris, but gradually their names crept in. i recollect particularly a passage in one of jack's letters replying to one of mine-"what you tell me of seeing boris bending over you while you lay ill, and feeling his touch on your face, and hearing his voice, of course troubles me. this that you describe must have happened a fortnight after he died. i say to myself that you were dreaming, that it was part of your delirium, but the explanation does not satisfy me, nor would it you." toward the end of the second year a letter came from jack to me in india so unlike anything that i had ever known of him that i decided to return at once to paris. he wrote: "i am well, and sell all my pictures as artists do who have no need of money. i have not a care of my own, but i am more restless than if i had. i am unable to shake off a strange anxiety about you. it is not apprehension, it is rather a breathless expectancy--of what, god knows! i can only say it is wearing me out. nights i dream always of you and boris. i can never recall anything afterward, but i wake in the morning with my heart beating, and all day the excitement increases until i fall asleep at night to recall the same experience. i am quite exhausted by it, and have determined to break up this morbid condition. i must see you. shall i go to bombay, or will you come to paris?" i telegraphed him to expect me by the next steamer. when we met i thought he had changed very little; i, he insisted, looked in splendid health. it was good to hear his voice again, and as we sat and chatted about what life still held for us, we felt that it was pleasant to be alive in the bright spring weather. we stayed in paris together a week, and then i went for a week to ept with him, but first of all we went to the cemetery at sèvres, where boris lay. "shall we place the 'fates' in the little grove above him?" jack asked, and i answered-"i think only the 'madonna' should watch over boris' grave." but jack was none the better for my home-coming. the dreams of which he could not retain even the least definite outline continued, and he said that at times the sense of breathless expectancy was suffocating. "you see i do you harm and not good," i said. "try a change without me." so he started alone for a ramble among the channel islands, and i went back to paris. i had not yet entered boris' house, now mine, since my return, but i knew it must be done. it had been kept in order by jack; there were servants there, so i gave up my own apartment and went there to live. instead of the agitation i had feared, i found myself able to paint there tranquilly. i visited all the rooms--all but one. i could not bring myself to enter the marble room where geneviève lay, and yet i felt the longing growing daily to look upon her face, to kneel beside her. one april afternoon, i lay dreaming in the smoking-room, just as i had lain two years before, and mechanically i looked among the tawny eastern rugs for the wolf-skin. at last i distinguished the pointed ears and flat cruel head, and i thought of my dream where i saw geneviève lying beside it. the helmets still hung against the threadbare tapestry, among them the old spanish morion which i remembered geneviève had once put on when we were amusing ourselves with the ancient bits of mail. i turned my eyes to the spinet; every yellow key seemed eloquent of her caressing hand, and i rose, drawn by the strength of my life's passion to the sealed door of the marble room. the heavy doors swung inward under my trembling hands. sunlight poured through the window, tipping with gold the wings of cupid, and lingered like a nimbus over the brows of the madonna. her tender face bent in compassion over a marble form so exquisitely pure that i knelt and signed myself. geneviève lay in the shadow under the madonna, and yet, through her white arms, i saw the pale azure vein, and beneath her softly clasped hands the folds of her dress were tinged with rose, as if from some faint warm light within her breast. bending, with a breaking heart, i touched the marble drapery with my lips, then crept back into the silent house. a maid came and brought me a letter, and i sat down in the little conservatory to read it; but as i was about to break the seal, seeing the girl lingering, i asked her what she wanted. she stammered something about a white rabbit that had been caught in the house, and asked what should be done with it i told her to let it loose in the walled garden behind the house, and opened my letter. it was from jack, but so incoherent that i thought he must have lost his reason. it was nothing but a series of prayers to me not to leave the house until he could get back; he could not tell me why, there were the dreams, he said--he could explain nothing, but he was sure that i must not leave the house in the rue sainte-cécile. as i finished reading i raised my eyes and saw the same maid-servant standing in the doorway holding a glass dish in which two gold-fish were swimming: "put them back into the tank and tell me what you mean by interrupting me," i said. with a half-suppressed whimper she emptied water and fish into an aquarium at the end of the conservatory, and turning to me asked my permission to leave my service. she said people were playing tricks on her, evidently with a design of getting her into trouble; the marble rabbit had been stolen and a live one had been brought into the house; the two beautiful marble fish were gone, and she had just found those common live things flopping on the dining-room floor. i reassured her and sent her away, saying i would look about myself. i went into the studio; there was nothing there but my canvases and some casts, except the marble of the easter lily. i saw it on a table across the room. then i strode angrily over to it. but the flower i lifted from the table was fresh and fragile and filled the air with perfume. then suddenly i comprehended, and sprang through the hall-way to the marble room. the doors flew open, the sunlight streamed into my face, and through it, in a heavenly glory, the madonna smiled, as geneviève lifted her flushed face from her marble couch and opened her sleepy eyes. in the court of the dragon "oh, thou who burn'st in heart for those who burn in hell, whose fires thyself shall feed in turn; how long be crying--'mercy on them.' god! why, who art thou to teach and he to learn?" in the church of st. barnabé vespers were over; the clergy left the altar; the little choir-boys flocked across the chancel and settled in the stalls. a suisse in rich uniform marched down the south aisle, sounding his staff at every fourth step on the stone pavement; behind him came that eloquent preacher and good man, monseigneur c----. my chair was near the chancel rail, i now turned toward the west end of the church. the other people between the altar and the pulpit turned too. there was a little scraping and rustling while the congregation seated itself again; the preacher mounted the pulpit stairs, and the organ voluntary ceased. i had always found the organ-playing at st. barnabé highly interesting. learned and scientific it was, too much so for my small knowledge, but expressing a vivid if cold intelligence. moreover, it possessed the french quality of taste: taste reigned supreme, self-controlled, dignified and reticent. to-day, however, from the first chord i had felt a change for the worse, a sinister change. during vespers it had been chiefly the chancel organ which supported the beautiful choir, but now and again, quite wantonly as it seemed, from the west gallery where the great organ stands, a heavy hand had struck across the church at the serene peace of those clear voices. it was something more than harsh and dissonant, and it betrayed no lack of skill. as it recurred again and again, it set me thinking of what my architect's books say about the custom in early times to consecrate the choir as soon as it was built, and that the nave, being finished sometimes half a century later, often did not get any blessing at all: i wondered idly if that had been the case at st. barnabé, and whether something not usually supposed to be at home in a christian church might have entered undetected and taken possession of the west gallery. i had read of such things happening, too, but not in works on architecture. then i remembered that st. barnabé was not much more than a hundred years old, and smiled at the incongruous association of mediaeval superstitions with that cheerful little piece of eighteenth-century rococo. but now vespers were over, and there should have followed a few quiet chords, fit to accompany meditation, while we waited for the sermon. instead of that, the discord at the lower end of the church broke out with the departure of the clergy, as if now nothing could control it. i belong to those children of an older and simpler generation who do not love to seek for psychological subtleties in art; and i have ever refused to find in music anything more than melody and harmony, but i felt that in the labyrinth of sounds now issuing from that instrument there was something being hunted. up and down the pedals chased him, while the manuals blared approval. poor devil! whoever he was, there seemed small hope of escape! my nervous annoyance changed to anger. who was doing this? how dare he play like that in the midst of divine service? i glanced at the people near me: not one appeared to be in the least disturbed. the placid brows of the kneeling nuns, still turned towards the altar, lost none of their devout abstraction under the pale shadow of their white head-dress. the fashionable lady beside me was looking expectantly at monseigneur c----. for all her face betrayed, the organ might have been singing an ave maria. but now, at last, the preacher had made the sign of the cross, and commanded silence. i turned to him gladly. thus far i had not found the rest i had counted on when i entered st. barnabé that afternoon. i was worn out by three nights of physical suffering and mental trouble: the last had been the worst, and it was an exhausted body, and a mind benumbed and yet acutely sensitive, which i had brought to my favourite church for healing. for i had been reading _the king in yellow_. "the sun ariseth; they gather themselves together and lay them down in their dens." monseigneur c---delivered his text in a calm voice, glancing quietly over the congregation. my eyes turned, i knew not why, toward the lower end of the church. the organist was coming from behind his pipes, and passing along the gallery on his way out, i saw him disappear by a small door that leads to some stairs which descend directly to the street. he was a slender man, and his face was as white as his coat was black. "good riddance!" i thought, "with your wicked music! i hope your assistant will play the closing voluntary." with a feeling of relief--with a deep, calm feeling of relief, i turned back to the mild face in the pulpit and settled myself to listen. here, at last, was the ease of mind i longed for. "my children," said the preacher, "one truth the human soul finds hardest of all to learn: that it has nothing to fear. it can never be made to see that nothing can really harm it." "curious doctrine!" i thought, "for a catholic priest. let us see how he will reconcile that with the fathers." "nothing can really harm the soul," he went on, in, his coolest, clearest tones, "because----" but i never heard the rest; my eye left his face, i knew not for what reason, and sought the lower end of the church. the same man was coming out from behind the organ, and was passing along the gallery _the same way_. but there had not been time for him to return, and if he had returned, i must have seen him. i felt a faint chill, and my heart sank; and yet, his going and coming were no affair of mine. i looked at him: i could not look away from his black figure and his white face. when he was exactly opposite to me, he turned and sent across the church straight into my eyes, a look of hate, intense and deadly: i have never seen any other like it; would to god i might never see it again! then he disappeared by the same door through which i had watched him depart less than sixty seconds before. i sat and tried to collect my thoughts. my first sensation was like that of a very young child badly hurt, when it catches its breath before crying out. to suddenly find myself the object of such hatred was exquisitely painful: and this man was an utter stranger. why should he hate me so?--me, whom he had never seen before? for the moment all other sensation was merged in this one pang: even fear was subordinate to grief, and for that moment i never doubted; but in the next i began to reason, and a sense of the incongruous came to my aid. as i have said, st. barnabé is a modern church. it is small and well lighted; one sees all over it almost at a glance. the organ gallery gets a strong white light from a row of long windows in the clerestory, which have not even coloured glass. the pulpit being in the middle of the church, it followed that, when i was turned toward it, whatever moved at the west end could not fail to attract my eye. when the organist passed it was no wonder that i saw him: i had simply miscalculated the interval between his first and his second passing. he had come in that last time by the other side-door. as for the look which had so upset me, there had been no such thing, and i was a nervous fool. i looked about. this was a likely place to harbour supernatural horrors! that clear-cut, reasonable face of monseigneur c----, his collected manner and easy, graceful gestures, were they not just a little discouraging to the notion of a gruesome mystery? i glanced above his head, and almost laughed. that flyaway lady supporting one corner of the pulpit canopy, which looked like a fringed damask table-cloth in a high wind, at the first attempt of a basilisk to pose up there in the organ loft, she would point her gold trumpet at him, and puff him out of existence! i laughed to myself over this conceit, which, at the time, i thought very amusing, and sat and chaffed myself and everything else, from the old harpy outside the railing, who had made me pay ten centimes for my chair, before she would let me in (she was more like a basilisk, i told myself, than was my organist with the anaemic complexion): from that grim old dame, to, yes, alas! monseigneur c---himself. for all devoutness had fled. i had never yet done such a thing in my life, but now i felt a desire to mock. as for the sermon, i could not hear a word of it for the jingle in my ears of "the skirts of st. paul has reached. having preached us those six lent lectures, more unctuous than ever he preached," keeping time to the most fantastic and irreverent thoughts. it was no use to sit there any longer: i must get out of doors and shake myself free from this hateful mood. i knew the rudeness i was committing, but still i rose and left the church. a spring sun was shining on the rue st. honoré, as i ran down the church steps. on one corner stood a barrow full of yellow jonquils, pale violets from the riviera, dark russian violets, and white roman hyacinths in a golden cloud of mimosa. the street was full of sunday pleasure-seekers. i swung my cane and laughed with the rest. some one overtook and passed me. he never turned, but there was the same deadly malignity in his white profile that there had been in his eyes. i watched him as long as i could see him. his lithe back expressed the same menace; every step that carried him away from me seemed to bear him on some errand connected with my destruction. i was creeping along, my feet almost refusing to move. there began to dawn in me a sense of responsibility for something long forgotten. it began to seem as if i deserved that which he threatened: it reached a long way back--a long, long way back. it had lain dormant all these years: it was there, though, and presently it would rise and confront me. but i would try to escape; and i stumbled as best i could into the rue de rivoli, across the place de la concorde and on to the quai. i looked with sick eyes upon the sun, shining through the white foam of the fountain, pouring over the backs of the dusky bronze river-gods, on the far-away arc, a structure of amethyst mist, on the countless vistas of grey stems and bare branches faintly green. then i saw him again coming down one of the chestnut alleys of the cours la reine. i left the river-side, plunged blindly across to the champs elysées and turned toward the arc. the setting sun was sending its rays along the green sward of the rond-point: in the full glow he sat on a bench, children and young mothers all about him. he was nothing but a sunday lounger, like the others, like myself. i said the words almost aloud, and all the while i gazed on the malignant hatred of his face. but he was not looking at me. i crept past and dragged my leaden feet up the avenue. i knew that every time i met him brought him nearer to the accomplishment of his purpose and my fate. and still i tried to save myself. the last rays of sunset were pouring through the great arc. i passed under it, and met him face to face. i had left him far down the champs elysées, and yet he came in with a stream of people who were returning from the bois de boulogne. he came so close that he brushed me. his slender frame felt like iron inside its loose black covering. he showed no signs of haste, nor of fatigue, nor of any human feeling. his whole being expressed one thing: the will, and the power to work me evil. in anguish i watched him where he went down the broad crowded avenue, that was all flashing with wheels and the trappings of horses and the helmets of the garde republicaine. he was soon lost to sight; then i turned and fled. into the bois, and far out beyond it--i know not where i went, but after a long while as it seemed to me, night had fallen, and i found myself sitting at a table before a small café. i had wandered back into the bois. it was hours now since i had seen him. physical fatigue and mental suffering had left me no power to think or feel. i was tired, so tired! i longed to hide away in my own den. i resolved to go home. but that was a long way off. i live in the court of the dragon, a narrow passage that leads from the rue de rennes to the rue du dragon. it is an "impasse"; traversable only for foot passengers. over the entrance on the rue de rennes is a balcony, supported by an iron dragon. within the court tall old houses rise on either side, and close the ends that give on the two streets. huge gates, swung back during the day into the walls of the deep archways, close this court, after midnight, and one must enter then by ringing at certain small doors on the side. the sunken pavement collects unsavoury pools. steep stairways pitch down to doors that open on the court. the ground floors are occupied by shops of second-hand dealers, and by iron workers. all day long the place rings with the clink of hammers and the clang of metal bars. unsavoury as it is below, there is cheerfulness, and comfort, and hard, honest work above. five flights up are the ateliers of architects and painters, and the hiding-places of middle-aged students like myself who want to live alone. when i first came here to live i was young, and not alone. i had to walk a while before any conveyance appeared, but at last, when i had almost reached the arc de triomphe again, an empty cab came along and i took it. from the arc to the rue de rennes is a drive of more than half an hour, especially when one is conveyed by a tired cab horse that has been at the mercy of sunday fete-makers. there had been time before i passed under the dragon's wings to meet my enemy over and over again, but i never saw him once, and now refuge was close at hand. before the wide gateway a small mob of children were playing. our concierge and his wife walked among them, with their black poodle, keeping order; some couples were waltzing on the side-walk. i returned their greetings and hurried in. all the inhabitants of the court had trooped out into the street. the place was quite deserted, lighted by a few lanterns hung high up, in which the gas burned dimly. my apartment was at the top of a house, halfway down the court, reached by a staircase that descended almost into the street, with only a bit of passage-way intervening, i set my foot on the threshold of the open door, the friendly old ruinous stairs rose before me, leading up to rest and shelter. looking back over my right shoulder, i saw _him,_ ten paces off. he must have entered the court with me. he was coming straight on, neither slowly, nor swiftly, but straight on to me. and now he was looking at me. for the first time since our eyes encountered across the church they met now again, and i knew that the time had come. retreating backward, down the court, i faced him. i meant to escape by the entrance on the rue du dragon. his eyes told me that i never should escape. it seemed ages while we were going, i retreating, he advancing, down the court in perfect silence; but at last i felt the shadow of the archway, and the next step brought me within it. i had meant to turn here and spring through into the street. but the shadow was not that of an archway; it was that of a vault. the great doors on the rue du dragon were closed. i felt this by the blackness which surrounded me, and at the same instant i read it in his face. how his face gleamed in the darkness, drawing swiftly nearer! the deep vaults, the huge closed doors, their cold iron clamps were all on his side. the thing which he had threatened had arrived: it gathered and bore down on me from the fathomless shadows; the point from which it would strike was his infernal eyes. hopeless, i set my back against the barred doors and defied him. there was a scraping of chairs on the stone floor, and a rustling as the congregation rose. i could hear the suisse's staff in the south aisle, preceding monseigneur c---to the sacristy. the kneeling nuns, roused from their devout abstraction, made their reverence and went away. the fashionable lady, my neighbour, rose also, with graceful reserve. as she departed her glance just flitted over my face in disapproval. half dead, or so it seemed to me, yet intensely alive to every trifle, i sat among the leisurely moving crowd, then rose too and went toward the door. i had slept through the sermon. had i slept through the sermon? i looked up and saw him passing along the gallery to his place. only his side i saw; the thin bent arm in its black covering looked like one of those devilish, nameless instruments which lie in the disused torture-chambers of mediaeval castles. but i had escaped him, though his eyes had said i should not. _had_ i escaped him? that which gave him the power over me came back out of oblivion, where i had hoped to keep it. for i knew him now. death and the awful abode of lost souls, whither my weakness long ago had sent him--they had changed him for every other eye, but not for mine. i had recognized him almost from the first; i had never doubted what he was come to do; and now i knew while my body sat safe in the cheerful little church, he had been hunting my soul in the court of the dragon. i crept to the door: the organ broke out overhead with a blare. a dazzling light filled the church, blotting the altar from my eyes. the people faded away, the arches, the vaulted roof vanished. i raised my seared eyes to the fathomless glare, and i saw the black stars hanging in the heavens: and the wet winds from the lake of hali chilled my face. and now, far away, over leagues of tossing cloud-waves, i saw the moon dripping with spray; and beyond, the towers of carcosa rose behind the moon. death and the awful abode of lost souls, whither my weakness long ago had sent him, had changed him for every other eye but mine. and now i heard _his voice_, rising, swelling, thundering through the flaring light, and as i fell, the radiance increasing, increasing, poured over me in waves of flame. then i sank into the depths, and i heard the king in yellow whispering to my soul: "it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living god!" the yellow sign "let the red dawn surmise what we shall do, when this blue starlight dies and all is through." i there are so many things which are impossible to explain! why should certain chords in music make me think of the brown and golden tints of autumn foliage? why should the mass of sainte cécile bend my thoughts wandering among caverns whose walls blaze with ragged masses of virgin silver? what was it in the roar and turmoil of broadway at six o'clock that flashed before my eyes the picture of a still breton forest where sunlight filtered through spring foliage and sylvia bent, half curiously, half tenderly, over a small green lizard, murmuring: "to think that this also is a little ward of god!" when i first saw the watchman his back was toward me. i looked at him indifferently until he went into the church. i paid no more attention to him than i had to any other man who lounged through washington square that morning, and when i shut my window and turned back into my studio i had forgotten him. late in the afternoon, the day being warm, i raised the window again and leaned out to get a sniff of air. a man was standing in the courtyard of the church, and i noticed him again with as little interest as i had that morning. i looked across the square to where the fountain was playing and then, with my mind filled with vague impressions of trees, asphalt drives, and the moving groups of nursemaids and holiday-makers, i started to walk back to my easel. as i turned, my listless glance included the man below in the churchyard. his face was toward me now, and with a perfectly involuntary movement i bent to see it. at the same moment he raised his head and looked at me. instantly i thought of a coffin-worm. whatever it was about the man that repelled me i did not know, but the impression of a plump white grave-worm was so intense and nauseating that i must have shown it in my expression, for he turned his puffy face away with a movement which made me think of a disturbed grub in a chestnut. i went back to my easel and motioned the model to resume her pose. after working a while i was satisfied that i was spoiling what i had done as rapidly as possible, and i took up a palette knife and scraped the colour out again. the flesh tones were sallow and unhealthy, and i did not understand how i could have painted such sickly colour into a study which before that had glowed with healthy tones. i looked at tessie. she had not changed, and the clear flush of health dyed her neck and cheeks as i frowned. "is it something i've done?" she said. "no,--i've made a mess of this arm, and for the life of me i can't see how i came to paint such mud as that into the canvas," i replied. "don't i pose well?" she insisted. "of course, perfectly." "then it's not my fault?" "no. it's my own." "i am very sorry," she said. i told her she could rest while i applied rag and turpentine to the plague spot on my canvas, and she went off to smoke a cigarette and look over the illustrations in the _courrier français_. i did not know whether it was something in the turpentine or a defect in the canvas, but the more i scrubbed the more that gangrene seemed to spread. i worked like a beaver to get it out, and yet the disease appeared to creep from limb to limb of the study before me. alarmed, i strove to arrest it, but now the colour on the breast changed and the whole figure seemed to absorb the infection as a sponge soaks up water. vigorously i plied palette-knife, turpentine, and scraper, thinking all the time what a _séance_ i should hold with duval who had sold me the canvas; but soon i noticed that it was not the canvas which was defective nor yet the colours of edward. "it must be the turpentine," i thought angrily, "or else my eyes have become so blurred and confused by the afternoon light that i can't see straight." i called tessie, the model. she came and leaned over my chair blowing rings of smoke into the air. "what _have_ you been doing to it?" she exclaimed "nothing," i growled, "it must be this turpentine!" "what a horrible colour it is now," she continued. "do you think my flesh resembles green cheese?" "no, i don't," i said angrily; "did you ever know me to paint like that before?" "no, indeed!" "well, then!" "it must be the turpentine, or something," she admitted. she slipped on a japanese robe and walked to the window. i scraped and rubbed until i was tired, and finally picked up my brushes and hurled them through the canvas with a forcible expression, the tone alone of which reached tessie's ears. nevertheless she promptly began: "that's it! swear and act silly and ruin your brushes! you have been three weeks on that study, and now look! what's the good of ripping the canvas? what creatures artists are!" i felt about as much ashamed as i usually did after such an outbreak, and i turned the ruined canvas to the wall. tessie helped me clean my brushes, and then danced away to dress. from the screen she regaled me with bits of advice concerning whole or partial loss of temper, until, thinking, perhaps, i had been tormented sufficiently, she came out to implore me to button her waist where she could not reach it on the shoulder. "everything went wrong from the time you came back from the window and talked about that horrid-looking man you saw in the churchyard," she announced. "yes, he probably bewitched the picture," i said, yawning. i looked at my watch. "it's after six, i know," said tessie, adjusting her hat before the mirror. "yes," i replied, "i didn't mean to keep you so long." i leaned out of the window but recoiled with disgust, for the young man with the pasty face stood below in the churchyard. tessie saw my gesture of disapproval and leaned from the window. "is that the man you don't like?" she whispered. i nodded. "i can't see his face, but he does look fat and soft. someway or other," she continued, turning to look at me, "he reminds me of a dream,--an awful dream i once had. or," she mused, looking down at her shapely shoes, "was it a dream after all?" "how should i know?" i smiled. tessie smiled in reply. "you were in it," she said, "so perhaps you might know something about it." "tessie! tessie!" i protested, "don't you dare flatter by saying that you dream about me!" "but i did," she insisted; "shall i tell you about it?" "go ahead," i replied, lighting a cigarette. tessie leaned back on the open window-sill and began very seriously. "one night last winter i was lying in bed thinking about nothing at all in particular. i had been posing for you and i was tired out, yet it seemed impossible for me to sleep. i heard the bells in the city ring ten, eleven, and midnight. i must have fallen asleep about midnight because i don't remember hearing the bells after that. it seemed to me that i had scarcely closed my eyes when i dreamed that something impelled me to go to the window. i rose, and raising the sash leaned out. twenty-fifth street was deserted as far as i could see. i began to be afraid; everything outside seemed so--so black and uncomfortable. then the sound of wheels in the distance came to my ears, and it seemed to me as though that was what i must wait for. very slowly the wheels approached, and, finally, i could make out a vehicle moving along the street. it came nearer and nearer, and when it passed beneath my window i saw it was a hearse. then, as i trembled with fear, the driver turned and looked straight at me. when i awoke i was standing by the open window shivering with cold, but the black-plumed hearse and the driver were gone. i dreamed this dream again in march last, and again awoke beside the open window. last night the dream came again. you remember how it was raining; when i awoke, standing at the open window, my night-dress was soaked." "but where did i come into the dream?" i asked. "you--you were in the coffin; but you were not dead." "in the coffin?" "yes." "how did you know? could you see me?" "no; i only knew you were there." "had you been eating welsh rarebits, or lobster salad?" i began, laughing, but the girl interrupted me with a frightened cry. "hello! what's up?" i said, as she shrank into the embrasure by the window. "the--the man below in the churchyard;--he drove the hearse." "nonsense," i said, but tessie's eyes were wide with terror. i went to the window and looked out. the man was gone. "come, tessie," i urged, "don't be foolish. you have posed too long; you are nervous." "do you think i could forget that face?" she murmured. "three times i saw the hearse pass below my window, and every time the driver turned and looked up at me. oh, his face was so white and--and soft? it looked dead--it looked as if it had been dead a long time." i induced the girl to sit down and swallow a glass of marsala. then i sat down beside her, and tried to give her some advice. "look here, tessie," i said, "you go to the country for a week or two, and you'll have no more dreams about hearses. you pose all day, and when night comes your nerves are upset. you can't keep this up. then again, instead of going to bed when your day's work is done, you run off to picnics at sulzer's park, or go to the eldorado or coney island, and when you come down here next morning you are fagged out. there was no real hearse. there was a soft-shell crab dream." she smiled faintly. "what about the man in the churchyard?" "oh, he's only an ordinary unhealthy, everyday creature." "as true as my name is tessie reardon, i swear to you, mr. scott, that the face of the man below in the churchyard is the face of the man who drove the hearse!" "what of it?" i said. "it's an honest trade." "then you think i _did_ see the hearse?" "oh," i said diplomatically, "if you really did, it might not be unlikely that the man below drove it. there is nothing in that." tessie rose, unrolled her scented handkerchief, and taking a bit of gum from a knot in the hem, placed it in her mouth. then drawing on her gloves she offered me her hand, with a frank, "good-night, mr. scott," and walked out. ii the next morning, thomas, the bell-boy, brought me the _herald_ and a bit of news. the church next door had been sold. i thanked heaven for it, not that being a catholic i had any repugnance for the congregation next door, but because my nerves were shattered by a blatant exhorter, whose every word echoed through the aisle of the church as if it had been my own rooms, and who insisted on his r's with a nasal persistence which revolted my every instinct. then, too, there was a fiend in human shape, an organist, who reeled off some of the grand old hymns with an interpretation of his own, and i longed for the blood of a creature who could play the doxology with an amendment of minor chords which one hears only in a quartet of very young undergraduates. i believe the minister was a good man, but when he bellowed: "and the lorrrrd said unto moses, the lorrrd is a man of war; the lorrrd is his name. my wrath shall wax hot and i will kill you with the sworrrrd!" i wondered how many centuries of purgatory it would take to atone for such a sin. "who bought the property?" i asked thomas. "nobody that i knows, sir. they do say the gent wot owns this 'ere 'amilton flats was lookin' at it. 'e might be a bildin' more studios." i walked to the window. the young man with the unhealthy face stood by the churchyard gate, and at the mere sight of him the same overwhelming repugnance took possession of me. "by the way, thomas," i said, "who is that fellow down there?" thomas sniffed. "that there worm, sir? 'es night-watchman of the church, sir. 'e maikes me tired a-sittin' out all night on them steps and lookin' at you insultin' like. i'd a punched 'is 'ed, sir--beg pardon, sir--" "go on, thomas." "one night a comin' 'ome with arry, the other english boy, i sees 'im a sittin' there on them steps. we 'ad molly and jen with us, sir, the two girls on the tray service, an' 'e looks so insultin' at us that i up and sez: 'wat you looking hat, you fat slug?'--beg pardon, sir, but that's 'ow i sez, sir. then 'e don't say nothin' and i sez: 'come out and i'll punch that puddin' 'ed.' then i hopens the gate an' goes in, but 'e don't say nothin', only looks insultin' like. then i 'its 'im one, but, ugh! 'is 'ed was that cold and mushy it ud sicken you to touch 'im." "what did he do then?" i asked curiously. "'im? nawthin'." "and you, thomas?" the young fellow flushed with embarrassment and smiled uneasily. "mr. scott, sir, i ain't no coward, an' i can't make it out at all why i run. i was in the 5th lawncers, sir, bugler at tel-el-kebir, an' was shot by the wells." "you don't mean to say you ran away?" "yes, sir; i run." "why?" "that's just what i want to know, sir. i grabbed molly an' run, an' the rest was as frightened as i." "but what were they frightened at?" thomas refused to answer for a while, but now my curiosity was aroused about the repulsive young man below and i pressed him. three years' sojourn in america had not only modified thomas' cockney dialect but had given him the american's fear of ridicule. "you won't believe me, mr. scott, sir?" "yes, i will." "you will lawf at me, sir?" "nonsense!" he hesitated. "well, sir, it's gawd's truth that when i 'it 'im 'e grabbed me wrists, sir, and when i twisted 'is soft, mushy fist one of 'is fingers come off in me 'and." the utter loathing and horror of thomas' face must have been reflected in my own, for he added: "it's orful, an' now when i see 'im i just go away. 'e maikes me hill." when thomas had gone i went to the window. the man stood beside the church-railing with both hands on the gate, but i hastily retreated to my easel again, sickened and horrified, for i saw that the middle finger of his right hand was missing. at nine o'clock tessie appeared and vanished behind the screen with a merry "good morning, mr. scott." when she had reappeared and taken her pose upon the model-stand i started a new canvas, much to her delight. she remained silent as long as i was on the drawing, but as soon as the scrape of the charcoal ceased and i took up my fixative she began to chatter. "oh, i had such a lovely time last night. we went to tony pastor's." "who are 'we'?" i demanded. "oh, maggie, you know, mr. whyte's model, and pinkie mccormick--we call her pinkie because she's got that beautiful red hair you artists like so much--and lizzie burke." i sent a shower of spray from the fixative over the canvas, and said: "well, go on." "we saw kelly and baby barnes the skirt-dancer and--and all the rest. i made a mash." "then you have gone back on me, tessie?" she laughed and shook her head. "he's lizzie burke's brother, ed. he's a perfect gen'l'man." i felt constrained to give her some parental advice concerning mashing, which she took with a bright smile. "oh, i can take care of a strange mash," she said, examining her chewing gum, "but ed is different. lizzie is my best friend." then she related how ed had come back from the stocking mill in lowell, massachusetts, to find her and lizzie grown up, and what an accomplished young man he was, and how he thought nothing of squandering half-a-dollar for ice-cream and oysters to celebrate his entry as clerk into the woollen department of macy's. before she finished i began to paint, and she resumed the pose, smiling and chattering like a sparrow. by noon i had the study fairly well rubbed in and tessie came to look at it. "that's better," she said. i thought so too, and ate my lunch with a satisfied feeling that all was going well. tessie spread her lunch on a drawing table opposite me and we drank our claret from the same bottle and lighted our cigarettes from the same match. i was very much attached to tessie. i had watched her shoot up into a slender but exquisitely formed woman from a frail, awkward child. she had posed for me during the last three years, and among all my models she was my favourite. it would have troubled me very much indeed had she become "tough" or "fly," as the phrase goes, but i never noticed any deterioration of her manner, and felt at heart that she was all right. she and i never discussed morals at all, and i had no intention of doing so, partly because i had none myself, and partly because i knew she would do what she liked in spite of me. still i did hope she would steer clear of complications, because i wished her well, and then also i had a selfish desire to retain the best model i had. i knew that mashing, as she termed it, had no significance with girls like tessie, and that such things in america did not resemble in the least the same things in paris. yet, having lived with my eyes open, i also knew that somebody would take tessie away some day, in one manner or another, and though i professed to myself that marriage was nonsense, i sincerely hoped that, in this case, there would be a priest at the end of the vista. i am a catholic. when i listen to high mass, when i sign myself, i feel that everything, including myself, is more cheerful, and when i confess, it does me good. a man who lives as much alone as i do, must confess to somebody. then, again, sylvia was catholic, and it was reason enough for me. but i was speaking of tessie, which is very different. tessie also was catholic and much more devout than i, so, taking it all in all, i had little fear for my pretty model until she should fall in love. but _then_ i knew that fate alone would decide her future for her, and i prayed inwardly that fate would keep her away from men like me and throw into her path nothing but ed burkes and jimmy mccormicks, bless her sweet face! tessie sat blowing rings of smoke up to the ceiling and tinkling the ice in her tumbler. "do you know that i also had a dream last night?" i observed. "not about that man," she laughed. "exactly. a dream similar to yours, only much worse." it was foolish and thoughtless of me to say this, but you know how little tact the average painter has. "i must have fallen asleep about ten o'clock," i continued, "and after a while i dreamt that i awoke. so plainly did i hear the midnight bells, the wind in the tree-branches, and the whistle of steamers from the bay, that even now i can scarcely believe i was not awake. i seemed to be lying in a box which had a glass cover. dimly i saw the street lamps as i passed, for i must tell you, tessie, the box in which i reclined appeared to lie in a cushioned wagon which jolted me over a stony pavement. after a while i became impatient and tried to move, but the box was too narrow. my hands were crossed on my breast, so i could not raise them to help myself. i listened and then tried to call. my voice was gone. i could hear the trample of the horses attached to the wagon, and even the breathing of the driver. then another sound broke upon my ears like the raising of a window sash. i managed to turn my head a little, and found i could look, not only through the glass cover of my box, but also through the glass panes in the side of the covered vehicle. i saw houses, empty and silent, with neither light nor life about any of them excepting one. in that house a window was open on the first floor, and a figure all in white stood looking down into the street. it was you." tessie had turned her face away from me and leaned on the table with her elbow. "i could see your face," i resumed, "and it seemed to me to be very sorrowful. then we passed on and turned into a narrow black lane. presently the horses stopped. i waited and waited, closing my eyes with ear and impatience, but all was silent as the grave. after what seemed to me hours, i began to feel uncomfortable. a sense that somebody was close to me made me unclose my eyes. then i saw the white face of the hearse-driver looking at me through the coffin-lid----" a sob from tessie interrupted me. she was trembling like a leaf. i saw i had made an ass of myself and attempted to repair the damage. "why, tess," i said, "i only told you this to show you what influence your story might have on another person's dreams. you don't suppose i really lay in a coffin, do you? what are you trembling for? don't you see that your dream and my unreasonable dislike for that inoffensive watchman of the church simply set my brain working as soon as i fell asleep?" she laid her head between her arms, and sobbed as if her heart would break. what a precious triple donkey i had made of myself! but i was about to break my record. i went over and put my arm about her. "tessie dear, forgive me," i said; "i had no business to frighten you with such nonsense. you are too sensible a girl, too good a catholic to believe in dreams." her hand tightened on mine and her head fell back upon my shoulder, but she still trembled and i petted her and comforted her. "come, tess, open your eyes and smile." her eyes opened with a slow languid movement and met mine, but their expression was so queer that i hastened to reassure her again. "it's all humbug, tessie; you surely are not afraid that any harm will come to you because of that." "no," she said, but her scarlet lips quivered. "then, what's the matter? are you afraid?" "yes. not for myself." "for me, then?" i demanded gaily. "for you," she murmured in a voice almost inaudible. "i--i care for you." at first i started to laugh, but when i understood her, a shock passed through me, and i sat like one turned to stone. this was the crowning bit of idiocy i had committed. during the moment which elapsed between her reply and my answer i thought of a thousand responses to that innocent confession. i could pass it by with a laugh, i could misunderstand her and assure her as to my health, i could simply point out that it was impossible she could love me. but my reply was quicker than my thoughts, and i might think and think now when it was too late, for i had kissed her on the mouth. that evening i took my usual walk in washington park, pondering over the occurrences of the day. i was thoroughly committed. there was no back out now, and i stared the future straight in the face. i was not good, not even scrupulous, but i had no idea of deceiving either myself or tessie. the one passion of my life lay buried in the sunlit forests of brittany. was it buried for ever? hope cried "no!" for three years i had been listening to the voice of hope, and for three years i had waited for a footstep on my threshold. had sylvia forgotten? "no!" cried hope. i said that i was no good. that is true, but still i was not exactly a comic opera villain. i had led an easy-going reckless life, taking what invited me of pleasure, deploring and sometimes bitterly regretting consequences. in one thing alone, except my painting, was i serious, and that was something which lay hidden if not lost in the breton forests. it was too late for me to regret what had occurred during the day. whatever it had been, pity, a sudden tenderness for sorrow, or the more brutal instinct of gratified vanity, it was all the same now, and unless i wished to bruise an innocent heart, my path lay marked before me. the fire and strength, the depth of passion of a love which i had never even suspected, with all my imagined experience in the world, left me no alternative but to respond or send her away. whether because i am so cowardly about giving pain to others, or whether it was that i have little of the gloomy puritan in me, i do not know, but i shrank from disclaiming responsibility for that thoughtless kiss, and in fact had no time to do so before the gates of her heart opened and the flood poured forth. others who habitually do their duty and find a sullen satisfaction in making themselves and everybody else unhappy, might have withstood it. i did not. i dared not. after the storm had abated i did tell her that she might better have loved ed burke and worn a plain gold ring, but she would not hear of it, and i thought perhaps as long as she had decided to love somebody she could not marry, it had better be me. i, at least, could treat her with an intelligent affection, and whenever she became tired of her infatuation she could go none the worse for it. for i was decided on that point although i knew how hard it would be. i remembered the usual termination of platonic liaisons, and thought how disgusted i had been whenever i heard of one. i knew i was undertaking a great deal for so unscrupulous a man as i was, and i dreamed the future, but never for one moment did i doubt that she was safe with me. had it been anybody but tessie i should not have bothered my head about scruples. for it did not occur to me to sacrifice tessie as i would have sacrificed a woman of the world. i looked the future squarely in the face and saw the several probable endings to the affair. she would either tire of the whole thing, or become so unhappy that i should have either to marry her or go away. if i married her we would be unhappy. i with a wife unsuited to me, and she with a husband unsuitable for any woman. for my past life could scarcely entitle me to marry. if i went away she might either fall ill, recover, and marry some eddie burke, or she might recklessly or deliberately go and do something foolish. on the other hand, if she tired of me, then her whole life would be before her with beautiful vistas of eddie burkes and marriage rings and twins and harlem flats and heaven knows what. as i strolled along through the trees by the washington arch, i decided that she should find a substantial friend in me, anyway, and the future could take care of itself. then i went into the house and put on my evening dress, for the little faintly-perfumed note on my dresser said, "have a cab at the stage door at eleven," and the note was signed "edith carmichel, metropolitan theatre." i took supper that night, or rather we took supper, miss carmichel and i, at solari's, and the dawn was just beginning to gild the cross on the memorial church as i entered washington square after leaving edith at the brunswick. there was not a soul in the park as i passed along the trees and took the walk which leads from the garibaldi statue to the hamilton apartment house, but as i passed the churchyard i saw a figure sitting on the stone steps. in spite of myself a chill crept over me at the sight of the white puffy face, and i hastened to pass. then he said something which might have been addressed to me or might merely have been a mutter to himself, but a sudden furious anger flamed up within me that such a creature should address me. for an instant i felt like wheeling about and smashing my stick over his head, but i walked on, and entering the hamilton went to my apartment. for some time i tossed about the bed trying to get the sound of his voice out of my ears, but could not. it filled my head, that muttering sound, like thick oily smoke from a fat-rendering vat or an odour of noisome decay. and as i lay and tossed about, the voice in my ears seemed more distinct, and i began to understand the words he had muttered. they came to me slowly as if i had forgotten them, and at last i could make some sense out of the sounds. it was this: "have you found the yellow sign?" "have you found the yellow sign?" "have you found the yellow sign?" i was furious. what did he mean by that? then with a curse upon him and his i rolled over and went to sleep, but when i awoke later i looked pale and haggard, for i had dreamed the dream of the night before, and it troubled me more than i cared to think. i dressed and went down into my studio. tessie sat by the window, but as i came in she rose and put both arms around my neck for an innocent kiss. she looked so sweet and dainty that i kissed her again and then sat down before the easel. "hello! where's the study i began yesterday?" i asked. tessie looked conscious, but did not answer. i began to hunt among the piles of canvases, saying, "hurry up, tess, and get ready; we must take advantage of the morning light." when at last i gave up the search among the other canvases and turned to look around the room for the missing study i noticed tessie standing by the screen with her clothes still on. "what's the matter," i asked, "don't you feel well?" "yes." "then hurry." "do you want me to pose as--as i have always posed?" then i understood. here was a new complication. i had lost, of course, the best nude model i had ever seen. i looked at tessie. her face was scarlet. alas! alas! we had eaten of the tree of knowledge, and eden and native innocence were dreams of the past--i mean for her. i suppose she noticed the disappointment on my face, for she said: "i will pose if you wish. the study is behind the screen here where i put it." "no," i said, "we will begin something new;" and i went into my wardrobe and picked out a moorish costume which fairly blazed with tinsel. it was a genuine costume, and tessie retired to the screen with it enchanted. when she came forth again i was astonished. her long black hair was bound above her forehead with a circlet of turquoises, and the ends, curled about her glittering girdle. her feet were encased in the embroidered pointed slippers and the skirt of her costume, curiously wrought with arabesques in silver, fell to her ankles. the deep metallic blue vest embroidered with silver and the short mauresque jacket spangled and sewn with turquoises became her wonderfully. she came up to me and held up her face smiling. i slipped my hand into my pocket, and drawing out a gold chain with a cross attached, dropped it over her head. "it's yours, tessie." "mine?" she faltered. "yours. now go and pose," then with a radiant smile she ran behind the screen and presently reappeared with a little box on which was written my name. "i had intended to give it to you when i went home to-night," she said, "but i can't wait now." i opened the box. on the pink cotton inside lay a clasp of black onyx, on which was inlaid a curious symbol or letter in gold. it was neither arabic nor chinese, nor, as i found afterwards, did it belong to any human script. "it's all i had to give you for a keepsake," she said timidly. i was annoyed, but i told her how much i should prize it, and promised to wear it always. she fastened it on my coat beneath the lapel. "how foolish, tess, to go and buy me such a beautiful thing as this," i said. "i did not buy it," she laughed. "where did you get it?" then she told me how she had found it one day while coming from the aquarium in the battery, how she had advertised it and watched the papers, but at last gave up all hopes of finding the owner. "that was last winter," she said, "the very day i had the first horrid dream about the hearse." i remembered my dream of the previous night but said nothing, and presently my charcoal was flying over a new canvas, and tessie stood motionless on the model-stand. iii the day following was a disastrous one for me. while moving a framed canvas from one easel to another my foot slipped on the polished floor, and i fell heavily on both wrists. they were so badly sprained that it was useless to attempt to hold a brush, and i was obliged to wander about the studio, glaring at unfinished drawings and sketches, until despair seized me and i sat down to smoke and twiddle my thumbs with rage. the rain blew against the windows and rattled on the roof of the church, driving me into a nervous fit with its interminable patter. tessie sat sewing by the window, and every now and then raised her head and looked at me with such innocent compassion that i began to feel ashamed of my irritation and looked about for something to occupy me. i had read all the papers and all the books in the library, but for the sake of something to do i went to the bookcases and shoved them open with my elbow. i knew every volume by its colour and examined them all, passing slowly around the library and whistling to keep up my spirits. i was turning to go into the dining-room when my eye fell upon a book bound in serpent skin, standing in a corner of the top shelf of the last bookcase. i did not remember it, and from the floor could not decipher the pale lettering on the back, so i went to the smoking-room and called tessie. she came in from the studio and climbed up to reach the book. "what is it?" i asked. "_the king in yellow._" i was dumfounded. who had placed it there? how came it in my rooms? i had long ago decided that i should never open that book, and nothing on earth could have persuaded me to buy it. fearful lest curiosity might tempt me to open it, i had never even looked at it in book-stores. if i ever had had any curiosity to read it, the awful tragedy of young castaigne, whom i knew, prevented me from exploring its wicked pages. i had always refused to listen to any description of it, and indeed, nobody ever ventured to discuss the second part aloud, so i had absolutely no knowledge of what those leaves might reveal. i stared at the poisonous mottled binding as i would at a snake. "don't touch it, tessie," i said; "come down." of course my admonition was enough to arouse her curiosity, and before i could prevent it she took the book and, laughing, danced off into the studio with it. i called to her, but she slipped away with a tormenting smile at my helpless hands, and i followed her with some impatience. "tessie!" i cried, entering the library, "listen, i am serious. put that book away. i do not wish you to open it!" the library was empty. i went into both drawing-rooms, then into the bedrooms, laundry, kitchen, and finally returned to the library and began a systematic search. she had hidden herself so well that it was half-an-hour later when i discovered her crouching white and silent by the latticed window in the store-room above. at the first glance i saw she had been punished for her foolishness. _the king in yellow_ lay at her feet, but the book was open at the second part. i looked at tessie and saw it was too late. she had opened _the king in yellow_. then i took her by the hand and led her into the studio. she seemed dazed, and when i told her to lie down on the sofa she obeyed me without a word. after a while she closed her eyes and her breathing became regular and deep, but i could not determine whether or not she slept. for a long while i sat silently beside her, but she neither stirred nor spoke, and at last i rose, and, entering the unused store-room, took the book in my least injured hand. it seemed heavy as lead, but i carried it into the studio again, and sitting down on the rug beside the sofa, opened it and read it through from beginning to end. when, faint with excess of my emotions, i dropped the volume and leaned wearily back against the sofa, tessie opened her eyes and looked at me.... we had been speaking for some time in a dull monotonous strain before i realized that we were discussing _the king in yellow_. oh the sin of writing such words,--words which are clear as crystal, limpid and musical as bubbling springs, words which sparkle and glow like the poisoned diamonds of the medicis! oh the wickedness, the hopeless damnation of a soul who could fascinate and paralyze human creatures with such words,--words understood by the ignorant and wise alike, words which are more precious than jewels, more soothing than music, more awful than death! we talked on, unmindful of the gathering shadows, and she was begging me to throw away the clasp of black onyx quaintly inlaid with what we now knew to be the yellow sign. i never shall know why i refused, though even at this hour, here in my bedroom as i write this confession, i should be glad to know _what_ it was that prevented me from tearing the yellow sign from my breast and casting it into the fire. i am sure i wished to do so, and yet tessie pleaded with me in vain. night fell and the hours dragged on, but still we murmured to each other of the king and the pallid mask, and midnight sounded from the misty spires in the fog-wrapped city. we spoke of hastur and of cassilda, while outside the fog rolled against the blank window-panes as the cloud waves roll and break on the shores of hali. the house was very silent now, and not a sound came up from the misty streets. tessie lay among the cushions, her face a grey blot in the gloom, but her hands were clasped in mine, and i knew that she knew and read my thoughts as i read hers, for we had understood the mystery of the hyades and the phantom of truth was laid. then as we answered each other, swiftly, silently, thought on thought, the shadows stirred in the gloom about us, and far in the distant streets we heard a sound. nearer and nearer it came, the dull crunching of wheels, nearer and yet nearer, and now, outside before the door it ceased, and i dragged myself to the window and saw a black-plumed hearse. the gate below opened and shut, and i crept shaking to my door and bolted it, but i knew no bolts, no locks, could keep that creature out who was coming for the yellow sign. and now i heard him moving very softly along the hall. now he was at the door, and the bolts rotted at his touch. now he had entered. with eyes starting from my head i peered into the darkness, but when he came into the room i did not see him. it was only when i felt him envelope me in his cold soft grasp that i cried out and struggled with deadly fury, but my hands were useless and he tore the onyx clasp from my coat and struck me full in the face. then, as i fell, i heard tessie's soft cry and her spirit fled: and even while falling i longed to follow her, for i knew that the king in yellow had opened his tattered mantle and there was only god to cry to now. i could tell more, but i cannot see what help it will be to the world. as for me, i am past human help or hope. as i lie here, writing, careless even whether or not i die before i finish, i can see the doctor gathering up his powders and phials with a vague gesture to the good priest beside me, which i understand. they will be very curious to know the tragedy--they of the outside world who write books and print millions of newspapers, but i shall write no more, and the father confessor will seal my last words with the seal of sanctity when his holy office is done. they of the outside world may send their creatures into wrecked homes and death-smitten firesides, and their newspapers will batten on blood and tears, but with me their spies must halt before the confessional. they know that tessie is dead and that i am dying. they know how the people in the house, aroused by an infernal scream, rushed into my room and found one living and two dead, but they do not know what i shall tell them now; they do not know that the doctor said as he pointed to a horrible decomposed heap on the floor--the livid corpse of the watchman from the church: "i have no theory, no explanation. that man must have been dead for months!" i think i am dying. i wish the priest would-the demoiselle d'ys "mais je croy que je suis descendu on puiz ténébreux onquel disoit heraclytus estre vereté cachée." "there be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which i know not: "the way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid." i the utter desolation of the scene began to have its effect; i sat down to face the situation and, if possible, recall to mind some landmark which might aid me in extricating myself from my present position. if i could only find the ocean again all would be clear, for i knew one could see the island of groix from the cliffs. i laid down my gun, and kneeling behind a rock lighted a pipe. then i looked at my watch. it was nearly four o'clock. i might have wandered far from kerselec since daybreak. standing the day before on the cliffs below kerselec with goulven, looking out over the sombre moors among which i had now lost my way, these downs had appeared to me level as a meadow, stretching to the horizon, and although i knew how deceptive is distance, i could not realize that what from kerselec seemed to be mere grassy hollows were great valleys covered with gorse and heather, and what looked like scattered boulders were in reality enormous cliffs of granite. "it's a bad place for a stranger," old goulven had said: "you'd better take a guide;" and i had replied, "i shall not lose myself." now i knew that i had lost myself, as i sat there smoking, with the sea-wind blowing in my face. on every side stretched the moorland, covered with flowering gorse and heath and granite boulders. there was not a tree in sight, much less a house. after a while, i picked up the gun, and turning my back on the sun tramped on again. there was little use in following any of the brawling streams which every now and then crossed my path, for, instead of flowing into the sea, they ran inland to reedy pools in the hollows of the moors. i had followed several, but they all led me to swamps or silent little ponds from which the snipe rose peeping and wheeled away in an ecstasy of fright i began to feel fatigued, and the gun galled my shoulder in spite of the double pads. the sun sank lower and lower, shining level across yellow gorse and the moorland pools. as i walked my own gigantic shadow led me on, seeming to lengthen at every step. the gorse scraped against my leggings, crackled beneath my feet, showering the brown earth with blossoms, and the brake bowed and billowed along my path. from tufts of heath rabbits scurried away through the bracken, and among the swamp grass i heard the wild duck's drowsy quack. once a fox stole across my path, and again, as i stooped to drink at a hurrying rill, a heron flapped heavily from the reeds beside me. i turned to look at the sun. it seemed to touch the edges of the plain. when at last i decided that it was useless to go on, and that i must make up my mind to spend at least one night on the moors, i threw myself down thoroughly fagged out. the evening sunlight slanted warm across my body, but the sea-winds began to rise, and i felt a chill strike through me from my wet shooting-boots. high overhead gulls were wheeling and tossing like bits of white paper; from some distant marsh a solitary curlew called. little by little the sun sank into the plain, and the zenith flushed with the after-glow. i watched the sky change from palest gold to pink and then to smouldering fire. clouds of midges danced above me, and high in the calm air a bat dipped and soared. my eyelids began to droop. then as i shook off the drowsiness a sudden crash among the bracken roused me. i raised my eyes. a great bird hung quivering in the air above my face. for an instant i stared, incapable of motion; then something leaped past me in the ferns and the bird rose, wheeled, and pitched headlong into the brake. i was on my feet in an instant peering through the gorse. there came the sound of a struggle from a bunch of heather close by, and then all was quiet. i stepped forward, my gun poised, but when i came to the heather the gun fell under my arm again, and i stood motionless in silent astonishment a dead hare lay on the ground, and on the hare stood a magnificent falcon, one talon buried in the creature's neck, the other planted firmly on its limp flank. but what astonished me, was not the mere sight of a falcon sitting upon its prey. i had seen that more than once. it was that the falcon was fitted with a sort of leash about both talons, and from the leash hung a round bit of metal like a sleigh-bell. the bird turned its fierce yellow eyes on me, and then stooped and struck its curved beak into the quarry. at the same instant hurried steps sounded among the heather, and a girl sprang into the covert in front. without a glance at me she walked up to the falcon, and passing her gloved hand under its breast, raised it from the quarry. then she deftly slipped a small hood over the bird's head, and holding it out on her gauntlet, stooped and picked up the hare. she passed a cord about the animal's legs and fastened the end of the thong to her girdle. then she started to retrace her steps through the covert as she passed me i raised my cap and she acknowledged my presence with a scarcely perceptible inclination. i had been so astonished, so lost in admiration of the scene before my eyes, that it had not occurred to me that here was my salvation. but as she moved away i recollected that unless i wanted to sleep on a windy moor that night i had better recover my speech without delay. at my first word she hesitated, and as i stepped before her i thought a look of fear came into her beautiful eyes. but as i humbly explained my unpleasant plight, her face flushed and she looked at me in wonder. "surely you did not come from kerselec!" she repeated. her sweet voice had no trace of the breton accent nor of any accent which i knew, and yet there was something in it i seemed to have heard before, something quaint and indefinable, like the theme of an old song. i explained that i was an american, unacquainted with finistère, shooting there for my own amusement. "an american," she repeated in the same quaint musical tones. "i have never before seen an american." for a moment she stood silent, then looking at me she said. "if you should walk all night you could not reach kerselec now, even if you had a guide." this was pleasant news. "but," i began, "if i could only find a peasant's hut where i might get something to eat, and shelter." the falcon on her wrist fluttered and shook its head. the girl smoothed its glossy back and glanced at me. "look around," she said gently. "can you see the end of these moors? look, north, south, east, west. can you see anything but moorland and bracken?" "no," i said. "the moor is wild and desolate. it is easy to enter, but sometimes they who enter never leave it. there are no peasants' huts here." "well," i said, "if you will tell me in which direction kerselec lies, to-morrow it will take me no longer to go back than it has to come." she looked at me again with an expression almost like pity. "ah," she said, "to come is easy and takes hours; to go is different--and may take centuries." i stared at her in amazement but decided that i had misunderstood her. then before i had time to speak she drew a whistle from her belt and sounded it. "sit down and rest," she said to me; "you have come a long distance and are tired." she gathered up her pleated skirts and motioning me to follow picked her dainty way through the gorse to a flat rock among the ferns. "they will be here directly," she said, and taking a seat at one end of the rock invited me to sit down on the other edge. the after-glow was beginning to fade in the sky and a single star twinkled faintly through the rosy haze. a long wavering triangle of water-fowl drifted southward over our heads, and from the swamps around plover were calling. "they are very beautiful--these moors," she said quietly. "beautiful, but cruel to strangers," i answered. "beautiful and cruel," she repeated dreamily, "beautiful and cruel." "like a woman," i said stupidly. "oh," she cried with a little catch in her breath, and looked at me. her dark eyes met mine, and i thought she seemed angry or frightened. "like a woman," she repeated under her breath, "how cruel to say so!" then after a pause, as though speaking aloud to herself, "how cruel for him to say that!" i don't know what sort of an apology i offered for my inane, though harmless speech, but i know that she seemed so troubled about it that i began to think i had said something very dreadful without knowing it, and remembered with horror the pitfalls and snares which the french language sets for foreigners. while i was trying to imagine what i might have said, a sound of voices came across the moor, and the girl rose to her feet. "no," she said, with a trace of a smile on her pale face, "i will not accept your apologies, monsieur, but i must prove you wrong, and that shall be my revenge. look. here come hastur and raoul." two men loomed up in the twilight. one had a sack across his shoulders and the other carried a hoop before him as a waiter carries a tray. the hoop was fastened with straps to his shoulders, and around the edge of the circlet sat three hooded falcons fitted with tinkling bells. the girl stepped up to the falconer, and with a quick turn of her wrist transferred her falcon to the hoop, where it quickly sidled off and nestled among its mates, who shook their hooded heads and ruffled their feathers till the belled jesses tinkled again. the other man stepped forward and bowing respectfully took up the hare and dropped it into the game-sack. "these are my piqueurs," said the girl, turning to me with a gentle dignity. "raoul is a good fauconnier, and i shall some day make him grand veneur. hastur is incomparable." the two silent men saluted me respectfully. "did i not tell you, monsieur, that i should prove you wrong?" she continued. "this, then, is my revenge, that you do me the courtesy of accepting food and shelter at my own house." before i could answer she spoke to the falconers, who started instantly across the heath, and with a gracious gesture to me she followed. i don't know whether i made her understand how profoundly grateful i felt, but she seemed pleased to listen, as we walked over the dewy heather. "are you not very tired?" she asked. i had clean forgotten my fatigue in her presence, and i told her so. "don't you think your gallantry is a little old-fashioned?" she said; and when i looked confused and humbled, she added quietly, "oh, i like it, i like everything old-fashioned, and it is delightful to hear you say such pretty things." the moorland around us was very still now under its ghostly sheet of mist. the plovers had ceased their calling; the crickets and all the little creatures of the fields were silent as we passed, yet it seemed to me as if i could hear them beginning again far behind us. well in advance, the two tall falconers strode across the heather, and the faint jingling of the hawks' bells came to our ears in distant murmuring chimes. suddenly a splendid hound dashed out of the mist in front, followed by another and another until half-a-dozen or more were bounding and leaping around the girl beside me. she caressed and quieted them with her gloved hand, speaking to them in quaint terms which i remembered to have seen in old french manuscripts. then the falcons on the circlet borne by the falconer ahead began to beat their wings and scream, and from somewhere out of sight the notes of a hunting-horn floated across the moor. the hounds sprang away before us and vanished in the twilight, the falcons flapped and squealed upon their perch, and the girl, taking up the song of the horn, began to hum. clear and mellow her voice sounded in the night air. "chasseur, chasseur, chassez encore, quittez rosette et jeanneton, tonton, tonton, tontaine, tonton, ou, pour, rabattre, dès l'aurore, que les amours soient de planton, tonton, tontaine, tonton." as i listened to her lovely voice a grey mass which rapidly grew more distinct loomed up in front, and the horn rang out joyously through the tumult of the hounds and falcons. a torch glimmered at a gate, a light streamed through an opening door, and we stepped upon a wooden bridge which trembled under our feet and rose creaking and straining behind us as we passed over the moat and into a small stone court, walled on every side. from an open doorway a man came and, bending in salutation, presented a cup to the girl beside me. she took the cup and touched it with her lips, then lowering it turned to me and said in a low voice, "i bid you welcome." at that moment one of the falconers came with another cup, but before handing it to me, presented it to the girl, who tasted it. the falconer made a gesture to receive it, but she hesitated a moment, and then, stepping forward, offered me the cup with her own hands. i felt this to be an act of extraordinary graciousness, but hardly knew what was expected of me, and did not raise it to my lips at once. the girl flushed crimson. i saw that i must act quickly. "mademoiselle," i faltered, "a stranger whom you have saved from dangers he may never realize empties this cup to the gentlest and loveliest hostess of france." "in his name," she murmured, crossing herself as i drained the cup. then stepping into the doorway she turned to me with a pretty gesture and, taking my hand in hers, led me into the house, saying again and again: "you are very welcome, indeed you are welcome to the château d'ys." ii i awoke next morning with the music of the horn in my ears, and leaping out of the ancient bed, went to a curtained window where the sunlight filtered through little deep-set panes. the horn ceased as i looked into the court below. a man who might have been brother to the two falconers of the night before stood in the midst of a pack of hounds. a curved horn was strapped over his back, and in his hand he held a long-lashed whip. the dogs whined and yelped, dancing around him in anticipation; there was the stamp of horses, too, in the walled yard. "mount!" cried a voice in breton, and with a clatter of hoofs the two falconers, with falcons upon their wrists, rode into the courtyard among the hounds. then i heard another voice which sent the blood throbbing through my heart: "piriou louis, hunt the hounds well and spare neither spur nor whip. thou raoul and thou gaston, see that the _epervier_ does not prove himself _niais_, and if it be best in your judgment, _faites courtoisie à l'oiseau. jardiner un oiseau_, like the _mué_ there on hastur's wrist, is not difficult, but thou, raoul, mayest not find it so simple to govern that _hagard_. twice last week he foamed _au vif_ and lost the _beccade_ although he is used to the _leurre_. the bird acts like a stupid _branchier. paître un hagard n'est pas si facile."_ was i dreaming? the old language of falconry which i had read in yellow manuscripts--the old forgotten french of the middle ages was sounding in my ears while the hounds bayed and the hawks' bells tinkled accompaniment to the stamping horses. she spoke again in the sweet forgotten language: "if you would rather attach the _longe_ and leave thy _hagard au bloc_, raoul, i shall say nothing; for it were a pity to spoil so fair a day's sport with an ill-trained _sors_. _essimer abaisser_,--it is possibly the best way. _ça lui donnera des reins._ i was perhaps hasty with the bird. it takes time to pass _à la filière_ and the exercises _d'escap_." then the falconer raoul bowed in his stirrups and replied: "if it be the pleasure of mademoiselle, i shall keep the hawk." "it is my wish," she answered. "falconry i know, but you have yet to give me many a lesson in _autourserie_, my poor raoul. sieur piriou louis mount!" the huntsman sprang into an archway and in an instant returned, mounted upon a strong black horse, followed by a piqueur also mounted. "ah!" she cried joyously, "speed glemarec rené! speed! speed all! sound thy horn, sieur piriou!" the silvery music of the hunting-horn filled the courtyard, the hounds sprang through the gateway and galloping hoof-beats plunged out of the paved court; loud on the drawbridge, suddenly muffled, then lost in the heather and bracken of the moors. distant and more distant sounded the horn, until it became so faint that the sudden carol of a soaring lark drowned it in my ears. i heard the voice below responding to some call from within the house. "i do not regret the chase, i will go another time courtesy to the stranger, pelagie, remember!" and a feeble voice came quavering from within the house, "_courtoisie_." i stripped, and rubbed myself from head to foot in the huge earthen basin of icy water which stood upon the stone floor at the foot of my bed. then i looked about for my clothes. they were gone, but on a settle near the door lay a heap of garments which i inspected with astonishment. as my clothes had vanished, i was compelled to attire myself in the costume which had evidently been placed there for me to wear while my own clothes dried. everything was there, cap, shoes, and hunting doublet of silvery grey homespun; but the close-fitting costume and seamless shoes belonged to another century, and i remembered the strange costumes of the three falconers in the court-yard. i was sure that it was not the modern dress of any portion of france or brittany; but not until i was dressed and stood before a mirror between the windows did i realize that i was clothed much more like a young huntsman of the middle ages than like a breton of that day. i hesitated and picked up the cap. should i go down and present myself in that strange guise? there seemed to be no help for it, my own clothes were gone and there was no bell in the ancient chamber to call a servant; so i contented myself with removing a short hawk's feather from the cap, and, opening the door, went downstairs. by the fireplace in the large room at the foot of the stairs an old breton woman sat spinning with a distaff. she looked up at me when i appeared, and, smiling frankly, wished me health in the breton language, to which i laughingly replied in french. at the same moment my hostess appeared and returned my salutation with a grace and dignity that sent a thrill to my heart. her lovely head with its dark curly hair was crowned with a head-dress which set all doubts as to the epoch of my own costume at rest. her slender figure was exquisitely set off in the homespun hunting-gown edged with silver, and on her gauntlet-covered wrist she bore one of her petted hawks. with perfect simplicity she took my hand and led me into the garden in the court, and seating herself before a table invited me very sweetly to sit beside her. then she asked me in her soft quaint accent how i had passed the night, and whether i was very much inconvenienced by wearing the clothes which old pelagie had put there for me while i slept. i looked at my own clothes and shoes, drying in the sun by the garden-wall, and hated them. what horrors they were compared with the graceful costume which i now wore! i told her this laughing, but she agreed with me very seriously. "we will throw them away," she said in a quiet voice. in my astonishment i attempted to explain that i not only could not think of accepting clothes from anybody, although for all i knew it might be the custom of hospitality in that part of the country, but that i should cut an impossible figure if i returned to france clothed as i was then. she laughed and tossed her pretty head, saying something in old french which i did not understand, and then pelagie trotted out with a tray on which stood two bowls of milk, a loaf of white bread, fruit, a platter of honey-comb, and a flagon of deep red wine. "you see i have not yet broken my fast because i wished you to eat with me. but i am very hungry," she smiled. "i would rather die than forget one word of what you have said!" i blurted out, while my cheeks burned. "she will think me mad," i added to myself, but she turned to me with sparkling eyes. "ah!" she murmured. "then monsieur knows all that there is of chivalry--" she crossed herself and broke bread. i sat and watched her white hands, not daring to raise my eyes to hers. "will you not eat?" she asked. "why do you look so troubled?" ah, why? i knew it now. i knew i would give my life to touch with my lips those rosy palms--i understood now that from the moment when i looked into her dark eyes there on the moor last night i had loved her. my great and sudden passion held me speechless. "are you ill at ease?" she asked again. then, like a man who pronounces his own doom, i answered in a low voice: "yes, i am ill at ease for love of you." and as she did not stir nor answer, the same power moved my lips in spite of me and i said, "i, who am unworthy of the lightest of your thoughts, i who abuse hospitality and repay your gentle courtesy with bold presumption, i love you." she leaned her head upon her hands, and answered softly, "i love you. your words are very dear to me. i love you." "then i shall win you." "win me," she replied. but all the time i had been sitting silent, my face turned toward her. she, also silent, her sweet face resting on her upturned palm, sat facing me, and as her eyes looked into mine i knew that neither she nor i had spoken human speech; but i knew that her soul had answered mine, and i drew myself up feeling youth and joyous love coursing through every vein. she, with a bright colour in her lovely face, seemed as one awakened from a dream, and her eyes sought mine with a questioning glance which made me tremble with delight. we broke our fast, speaking of ourselves. i told her my name and she told me hers, the demoiselle jeanne d'ys. she spoke of her father and mother's death, and how the nineteen of her years had been passed in the little fortified farm alone with her nurse pelagie, glemarec rené the piqueur, and the four falconers, raoul, gaston, hastur, and the sieur piriou louis, who had served her father. she had never been outside the moorland--never even had seen a human soul before, except the falconers and pelagie. she did not know how she had heard of kerselec; perhaps the falconers had spoken of it. she knew the legends of loup garou and jeanne la flamme from her nurse pelagie. she embroidered and spun flax. her hawks and hounds were her only distraction. when she had met me there on the moor she had been so frightened that she almost dropped at the sound of my voice. she had, it was true, seen ships at sea from the cliffs, but as far as the eye could reach the moors over which she galloped were destitute of any sign of human life. there was a legend which old pelagie told, how anybody once lost in the unexplored moorland might never return, because the moors were enchanted. she did not know whether it was true, she never had thought about it until she met me. she did not know whether the falconers had even been outside, or whether they could go if they would. the books in the house which pelagie, the nurse, had taught her to read were hundreds of years old. all this she told me with a sweet seriousness seldom seen in any one but children. my own name she found easy to pronounce, and insisted, because my first name was philip, i must have french blood in me. she did not seem curious to learn anything about the outside world, and i thought perhaps she considered it had forfeited her interest and respect from the stories of her nurse. we were still sitting at the table, and she was throwing grapes to the small field birds which came fearlessly to our very feet. i began to speak in a vague way of going, but she would not hear of it, and before i knew it i had promised to stay a week and hunt with hawk and hound in their company. i also obtained permission to come again from kerselec and visit her after my return. "why," she said innocently, "i do not know what i should do if you never came back;" and i, knowing that i had no right to awaken her with the sudden shock which the avowal of my own love would bring to her, sat silent, hardly daring to breathe. "you will come very often?" she asked. "very often," i said. "every day?" "every day." "oh," she sighed, "i am very happy. come and see my hawks." she rose and took my hand again with a childlike innocence of possession, and we walked through the garden and fruit trees to a grassy lawn which was bordered by a brook. over the lawn were scattered fifteen or twenty stumps of trees--partially imbedded in the grass--and upon all of these except two sat falcons. they were attached to the stumps by thongs which were in turn fastened with steel rivets to their legs just above the talons. a little stream of pure spring water flowed in a winding course within easy distance of each perch. the birds set up a clamour when the girl appeared, but she went from one to another, caressing some, taking others for an instant upon her wrist, or stooping to adjust their jesses. "are they not pretty?" she said. "see, here is a falcon-gentil. we call it 'ignoble,' because it takes the quarry in direct chase. this is a blue falcon. in falconry we call it 'noble' because it rises over the quarry, and wheeling, drops upon it from above. this white bird is a gerfalcon from the north. it is also 'noble!' here is a merlin, and this tiercelet is a falcon-heroner." i asked her how she had learned the old language of falconry. she did not remember, but thought her father must have taught it to her when she was very young. then she led me away and showed me the young falcons still in the nest. "they are termed _niais_ in falconry," she explained. "a _branchier_ is the young bird which is just able to leave the nest and hop from branch to branch. a young bird which has not yet moulted is called a _sors_, and a _mué_ is a hawk which has moulted in captivity. when we catch a wild falcon which has changed its plumage we term it a _hagard_. raoul first taught me to dress a falcon. shall i teach you how it is done?" she seated herself on the bank of the stream among the falcons and i threw myself at her feet to listen. then the demoiselle d'ys held up one rosy-tipped finger and began very gravely. "first one must catch the falcon." "i am caught," i answered. she laughed very prettily and told me my _dressage_ would perhaps be difficult, as i was noble. "i am already tamed," i replied; "jessed and belled." she laughed, delighted. "oh, my brave falcon; then you will return at my call?" "i am yours," i answered gravely. she sat silent for a moment. then the colour heightened in her cheeks and she held up her finger again, saying, "listen; i wish to speak of falconry--" "i listen, countess jeanne d'ys." but again she fell into the reverie, and her eyes seemed fixed on something beyond the summer clouds. "philip," she said at last. "jeanne," i whispered. "that is all,--that is what i wished," she sighed,--"philip and jeanne." she held her hand toward me and i touched it with my lips. "win me," she said, but this time it was the body and soul which spoke in unison. after a while she began again: "let us speak of falconry." "begin," i replied; "we have caught the falcon." then jeanne d'ys took my hand in both of hers and told me how with infinite patience the young falcon was taught to perch upon the wrist, how little by little it became used to the belled jesses and the _chaperon à cornette_. "they must first have a good appetite," she said; "then little by little i reduce their nourishment; which in falconry we call _pât_. when, after many nights passed _au bloc_ as these birds are now, i prevail upon the _hagard_ to stay quietly on the wrist, then the bird is ready to be taught to come for its food. i fix the _pât_ to the end of a thong, or _leurre_, and teach the bird to come to me as soon as i begin to whirl the cord in circles about my head. at first i drop the _pât_ when the falcon comes, and he eats the food on the ground. after a little he will learn to seize the _leurre_ in motion as i whirl it around my head or drag it over the ground. after this it is easy to teach the falcon to strike at game, always remembering to _'faire courtoisie á l'oiseau'_, that is, to allow the bird to taste the quarry." a squeal from one of the falcons interrupted her, and she arose to adjust the _longe_ which had become whipped about the _bloc_, but the bird still flapped its wings and screamed. "what _is_ the matter?" she said. "philip, can you see?" i looked around and at first saw nothing to cause the commotion, which was now heightened by the screams and flapping of all the birds. then my eye fell upon the flat rock beside the stream from which the girl had risen. a grey serpent was moving slowly across the surface of the boulder, and the eyes in its flat triangular head sparkled like jet. "a couleuvre," she said quietly. "it is harmless, is it not?" i asked. she pointed to the black v-shaped figure on the neck. "it is certain death," she said; "it is a viper." we watched the reptile moving slowly over the smooth rock to where the sunlight fell in a broad warm patch. i started forward to examine it, but she clung to my arm crying, "don't, philip, i am afraid." "for me?" "for you, philip,--i love you." then i took her in my arms and kissed her on the lips, but all i could say was: "jeanne, jeanne, jeanne." and as she lay trembling on my breast, something struck my foot in the grass below, but i did not heed it. then again something struck my ankle, and a sharp pain shot through me. i looked into the sweet face of jeanne d'ys and kissed her, and with all my strength lifted her in my arms and flung her from me. then bending, i tore the viper from my ankle and set my heel upon its head. i remember feeling weak and numb,--i remember falling to the ground. through my slowly glazing eyes i saw jeanne's white face bending close to mine, and when the light in my eyes went out i still felt her arms about my neck, and her soft cheek against my drawn lips. when i opened my eyes, i looked around in terror. jeanne was gone. i saw the stream and the flat rock; i saw the crushed viper in the grass beside me, but the hawks and _blocs_ had disappeared. i sprang to my feet. the garden, the fruit trees, the drawbridge and the walled court were gone. i stared stupidly at a heap of crumbling ruins, ivy-covered and grey, through which great trees had pushed their way. i crept forward, dragging my numbed foot, and as i moved, a falcon sailed from the tree-tops among the ruins, and soaring, mounting in narrowing circles, faded and vanished in the clouds above. "jeanne, jeanne," i cried, but my voice died on my lips, and i fell on my knees among the weeds. and as god willed it, i, not knowing, had fallen kneeling before a crumbling shrine carved in stone for our mother of sorrows. i saw the sad face of the virgin wrought in the cold stone. i saw the cross and thorns at her feet, and beneath it i read: "pray for the soul of the demoiselle jeanne d'ys, who died in her youth for love of philip, a stranger. a.d. 1573." but upon the icy slab lay a woman's glove still warm and fragrant. the prophets' paradise "if but the vine and love abjuring band are in the prophets' paradise to stand, alack, i doubt the prophets' paradise, were empty as the hollow of one's hand." the studio he smiled, saying, "seek her throughout the world." i said, "why tell me of the world? my world is here, between these walls and the sheet of glass above; here among gilded flagons and dull jewelled arms, tarnished frames and canvasses, black chests and high-backed chairs, quaintly carved and stained in blue and gold." "for whom do you wait?" he said, and i answered, "when she comes i shall know her." on my hearth a tongue of flame whispered secrets to the whitening ashes. in the street below i heard footsteps, a voice, and a song. "for whom then do you wait?" he said, and i answered, "i shall know her." footsteps, a voice, and a song in the street below, and i knew the song but neither the steps nor the voice. "fool!" he cried, "the song is the same, the voice and steps have but changed with years!" on the hearth a tongue of flame whispered above the whitening ashes: "wait no more; they have passed, the steps and the voice in the street below." then he smiled, saying, "for whom do you wait? seek her throughout the world!" i answered, "my world is here, between these walls and the sheet of glass above; here among gilded flagons and dull jewelled arms, tarnished frames and canvasses, black chests and high-backed chairs, quaintly carved and stained in blue and gold." the phantom the phantom of the past would go no further. "if it is true," she sighed, "that you find in me a friend, let us turn back together. you will forget, here, under the summer sky." i held her close, pleading, caressing; i seized her, white with anger, but she resisted. "if it is true," she sighed, "that you find in me a friend, let us turn back together." the phantom of the past would go no further. the sacrifice i went into a field of flowers, whose petals are whiter than snow and whose hearts are pure gold. far afield a woman cried, "i have killed him i loved!" and from a jar she poured blood upon the flowers whose petals are whiter than snow and whose hearts are pure gold. far afield i followed, and on the jar i read a thousand names, while from within the fresh blood bubbled to the brim. "i have killed him i loved!" she cried. "the world's athirst; now let it drink!" she passed, and far afield i watched her pouring blood upon the flowers whose petals are whiter than snow and whose hearts are pure gold. destiny i came to the bridge which few may pass. "pass!" cried the keeper, but i laughed, saying, "there is time;" and he smiled and shut the gates. to the bridge which few may pass came young and old. all were refused. idly i stood and counted them, until, wearied of their noise and lamentations, i came again to the bridge which few may pass. those in the throng about the gates shrieked out, "he comes too late!" but i laughed, saying, "there is time." "pass!" cried the keeper as i entered; then smiled and shut the gates. the throng there, where the throng was thickest in the street, i stood with pierrot. all eyes were turned on me. "what are they laughing at?" i asked, but he grinned, dusting the chalk from my black cloak. "i cannot see; it must be something droll, perhaps an honest thief!" all eyes were turned on me. "he has robbed you of your purse!" they laughed. "my purse!" i cried; "pierrot--help! it is a thief!" they laughed: "he has robbed you of your purse!" then truth stepped out, holding a mirror. "if he is an honest thief," cried truth, "pierrot shall find him with this mirror!" but he only grinned, dusting the chalk from my black cloak. "you see," he said, "truth is an honest thief, she brings you back your mirror." all eyes were turned on me. "arrest truth!" i cried, forgetting it was not a mirror but a purse i lost, standing with pierrot, there, where the throng was thickest in the street. the jester "was she fair?" i asked, but he only chuckled, listening to the bells jingling on his cap. "stabbed," he tittered. "think of the long journey, the days of peril, the dreadful nights! think how he wandered, for her sake, year after year, through hostile lands, yearning for kith and kin, yearning for her!" "stabbed," he tittered, listening to the bells jingling on his cap. "was she fair?" i asked, but he only snarled, muttering to the bells jingling on his cap. "she kissed him at the gate," he tittered, "but in the hall his brother's welcome touched his heart." "was she fair?" i asked. "stabbed," he chuckled. "think of the long journey, the days of peril, the dreadful nights! think how he wandered, for her sake, year after year through hostile lands, yearning for kith and kin, yearning for her!" "she kissed him at the gate, but in the hall his brother's welcome touched his heart." "was she fair?" i asked; but he only snarled, listening to the bells jingling in his cap. the green room the clown turned his powdered face to the mirror. "if to be fair is to be beautiful," he said, "who can compare with me in my white mask?" "who can compare with him in his white mask?" i asked of death beside me. "who can compare with me?" said death, "for i am paler still." "you are very beautiful," sighed the clown, turning his powdered face from the mirror. the love test "if it is true that you love," said love, "then wait no longer. give her these jewels which would dishonour her and so dishonour you in loving one dishonoured. if it is true that you love," said love, "then wait no longer." i took the jewels and went to her, but she trod upon them, sobbing: "teach me to wait--i love you!" "then wait, if it is true," said love. the street of the four winds "ferme tes yeux à demi, croise tes bras sur ton sein, et de ton coeur endormi chasse à jamais tout dessein." "je chante la nature, les étoiles du soir, les larmes du matin, les couchers de soleil à l'horizon lointain, le ciel qui parle au coeur d'existence future!" i the animal paused on the threshold, interrogative alert, ready for flight if necessary. severn laid down his palette, and held out a hand of welcome. the cat remained motionless, her yellow eyes fastened upon severn. "puss," he said, in his low, pleasant voice, "come in." the tip of her thin tail twitched uncertainly. "come in," he said again. apparently she found his voice reassuring, for she slowly settled upon all fours, her eyes still fastened upon him, her tail tucked under her gaunt flanks. he rose from his easel smiling. she eyed him quietly, and when he walked toward her she watched him bend above her without a wince; her eyes followed his hand until it touched her head. then she uttered a ragged mew. it had long been severn's custom to converse with animals, probably because he lived so much alone; and now he said, "what's the matter, puss?" her timid eyes sought his. "i understand," he said gently, "you shall have it at once." then moving quietly about he busied himself with the duties of a host, rinsed a saucer, filled it with the rest of the milk from the bottle on the window-sill, and kneeling down, crumbled a roll into the hollow of his hand. the creature rose and crept toward the saucer. with the handle of a palette-knife he stirred the crumbs and milk together and stepped back as she thrust her nose into the mess. he watched her in silence. from time to time the saucer clinked upon the tiled floor as she reached for a morsel on the rim; and at last the bread was all gone, and her purple tongue travelled over every unlicked spot until the saucer shone like polished marble. then she sat up, and coolly turning her back to him, began her ablutions. "keep it up," said severn, much interested, "you need it." she flattened one ear, but neither turned nor interrupted her toilet. as the grime was slowly removed severn observed that nature had intended her for a white cat. her fur had disappeared in patches, from disease or the chances of war, her tail was bony and her spine sharp. but what charms she had were becoming apparent under vigorous licking, and he waited until she had finished before re-opening the conversation. when at last she closed her eyes and folded her forepaws under her breast, he began again very gently: "puss, tell me your troubles." at the sound of his voice she broke into a harsh rumbling which he recognized as an attempt to purr. he bent over to rub her cheek and she mewed again, an amiable inquiring little mew, to which he replied, "certainly, you are greatly improved, and when you recover your plumage you will be a gorgeous bird." much flattered, she stood up and marched around and around his legs, pushing her head between them and making pleased remarks, to which he responded with grave politeness. "now, what sent you here," he said--"here into the street of the four winds, and up five flights to the very door where you would be welcome? what was it that prevented your meditated flight when i turned from my canvas to encounter your yellow eyes? are you a latin quarter cat as i am a latin quarter man? and why do you wear a rose-coloured flowered garter buckled about your neck?" the cat had climbed into his lap, and now sat purring as he passed his hand over her thin coat. "excuse me," he continued in lazy soothing tones, harmonizing with her purring, "if i seem indelicate, but i cannot help musing on this rose-coloured garter, flowered so quaintly and fastened with a silver clasp. for the clasp is silver; i can see the mint mark on the edge, as is prescribed by the law of the french republic. now, why is this garter woven of rose silk and delicately embroidered,--why is this silken garter with its silver clasp about your famished throat? am i indiscreet when i inquire if its owner is your owner? is she some aged dame living in memory of youthful vanities, fond, doting on you, decorating you with her intimate personal attire? the circumference of the garter would suggest this, for your neck is thin, and the garter fits you. but then again i notice--i notice most things--that the garter is capable of being much enlarged. these small silver-rimmed eyelets, of which i count five, are proof of that. and now i observe that the fifth eyelet is worn out, as though the tongue of the clasp were accustomed to lie there. that seems to argue a well-rounded form." the cat curled her toes in contentment. the street was very still outside. he murmured on: "why should your mistress decorate you with an article most necessary to her at all times? anyway, at most times. how did she come to slip this bit of silk and silver about your neck? was it the caprice of a moment,--when you, before you had lost your pristine plumpness, marched singing into her bedroom to bid her good-morning? of course, and she sat up among the pillows, her coiled hair tumbling to her shoulders, as you sprang upon the bed purring: 'good-day, my lady.' oh, it is very easy to understand," he yawned, resting his head on the back of the chair. the cat still purred, tightening and relaxing her padded claws over his knee. "shall i tell you all about her, cat? she is very beautiful--your mistress," he murmured drowsily, "and her hair is heavy as burnished gold. i could paint her,--not on canvas--for i should need shades and tones and hues and dyes more splendid than the iris of a splendid rainbow. i could only paint her with closed eyes, for in dreams alone can such colours as i need be found. for her eyes, i must have azure from skies untroubled by a cloud--the skies of dreamland. for her lips, roses from the palaces of slumberland, and for her brow, snow-drifts from mountains which tower in fantastic pinnacles to the moons;--oh, much higher than our moon here,--the crystal moons of dreamland. she is--very--beautiful, your mistress." the words died on his lips and his eyelids drooped. the cat, too, was asleep, her cheek turned up upon her wasted flank, her paws relaxed and limp. ii "it is fortunate," said severn, sitting up and stretching, "that we have tided over the dinner hour, for i have nothing to offer you for supper but what may be purchased with one silver franc." the cat on his knee rose, arched her back, yawned, and looked up at him. "what shall it be? a roast chicken with salad? no? possibly you prefer beef? of course,--and i shall try an egg and some white bread. now for the wines. milk for you? good. i shall take a little water, fresh from the wood," with a motion toward the bucket in the sink. he put on his hat and left the room. the cat followed to the door, and after he had closed it behind him, she settled down, smelling at the cracks, and cocking one ear at every creak from the crazy old building. the door below opened and shut. the cat looked serious, for a moment doubtful, and her ears flattened in nervous expectation. presently she rose with a jerk of her tail and started on a noiseless tour of the studio. she sneezed at a pot of turpentine, hastily retreating to the table, which she presently mounted, and having satisfied her curiosity concerning a roll of red modelling wax, returned to the door and sat down with her eyes on the crack over the threshold then she lifted her voice in a thin plaint. when severn returned he looked grave, but the cat, joyous and demonstrative, marched around him, rubbing her gaunt body against his legs, driving her head enthusiastically into his hand, and purring until her voice mounted to a squeal. he placed a bit of meat, wrapped in brown paper, upon the table, and with a penknife cut it into shreds. the milk he took from a bottle which had served for medicine, and poured it into the saucer on the hearth. the cat crouched before it, purring and lapping at the same time. he cooked his egg and ate it with a slice of bread, watching her busy with the shredded meat, and when he had finished, and had filled and emptied a cup of water from the bucket in the sink, he sat down, taking her into his lap, where she at once curled up and began her toilet. he began to speak again, touching her caressingly at times by way of emphasis. "cat, i have found out where your mistress lives. it is not very far away;--it is here, under this same leaky roof, but in the north wing which i had supposed was uninhabited. my janitor tells me this. by chance, he is almost sober this evening. the butcher on the rue de seine, where i bought your meat, knows you, and old cabane the baker identified you with needless sarcasm. they tell me hard tales of your mistress which i shall not believe. they say she is idle and vain and pleasure-loving; they say she is hare-brained and reckless. the little sculptor on the ground floor, who was buying rolls from old cabane, spoke to me to-night for the first time, although we have always bowed to each other. he said she was very good and very beautiful. he has only seen her once, and does not know her name. i thanked him;--i don't know why i thanked him so warmly. cabane said, 'into this cursed street of the four winds, the four winds blow all things evil.' the sculptor looked confused, but when he went out with his rolls, he said to me, 'i am sure, monsieur, that she is as good as she is beautiful.'" the cat had finished her toilet, and now, springing softly to the floor, went to the door and sniffed. he knelt beside her, and unclasping the garter held it for a moment in his hands. after a while he said: "there is a name engraved upon the silver clasp beneath the buckle. it is a pretty name, sylvia elven. sylvia is a woman's name, elven is the name of a town. in paris, in this quarter, above all, in this street of the four winds, names are worn and put away as the fashions change with the seasons. i know the little town of elven, for there i met fate face to face and fate was unkind. but do you know that in elven fate had another name, and that name was sylvia?" he replaced the garter and stood up looking down at the cat crouched before the closed door. "the name of elven has a charm for me. it tells me of meadows and clear rivers. the name of sylvia troubles me like perfume from dead flowers." the cat mewed. "yes, yes," he said soothingly, "i will take you back. your sylvia is not my sylvia; the world is wide and elven is not unknown. yet in the darkness and filth of poorer paris, in the sad shadows of this ancient house, these names are very pleasant to me." he lifted her in his arms and strode through the silent corridors to the stairs. down five flights and into the moonlit court, past the little sculptor's den, and then again in at the gate of the north wing and up the worm-eaten stairs he passed, until he came to a closed door. when he had stood knocking for a long time, something moved behind the door; it opened and he went in. the room was dark. as he crossed the threshold, the cat sprang from his arms into the shadows. he listened but heard nothing. the silence was oppressive and he struck a match. at his elbow stood a table and on the table a candle in a gilded candlestick. this he lighted, then looked around. the chamber was vast, the hangings heavy with embroidery. over the fireplace towered a carved mantel, grey with the ashes of dead fires. in a recess by the deep-set windows stood a bed, from which the bedclothes, soft and fine as lace, trailed to the polished floor. he lifted the candle above his head. a handkerchief lay at his feet. it was faintly perfumed. he turned toward the windows. in front of them was a _canapé_ and over it were flung, pell-mell, a gown of silk, a heap of lace-like garments, white and delicate as spiders' meshes, long, crumpled gloves, and, on the floor beneath, the stockings, the little pointed shoes, and one garter of rosy silk, quaintly flowered and fitted with a silver clasp. wondering, he stepped forward and drew the heavy curtains from the bed. for a moment the candle flared in his hand; then his eyes met two other eyes, wide open, smiling, and the candle-flame flashed over hair heavy as gold. she was pale, but not as white as he; her eyes were untroubled as a child's; but he stared, trembling from head to foot, while the candle flickered in his hand. at last he whispered: "sylvia, it is i." again he said, "it is i." then, knowing that she was dead, he kissed her on the mouth. and through the long watches of the night the cat purred on his knee, tightening and relaxing her padded claws, until the sky paled above the street of the four winds. the street of the first shell "be of good cheer, the sullen month will die, and a young moon requite us by and by: look how the old one, meagre, bent, and wan with age and fast, is fainting from the sky." the room was already dark. the high roofs opposite cut off what little remained of the december daylight. the girl drew her chair nearer the window, and choosing a large needle, threaded it, knotting the thread over her fingers. then she smoothed the baby garment across her knees, and bending, bit off the thread and drew the smaller needle from where it rested in the hem. when she had brushed away the stray threads and bits of lace, she laid it again over her knees caressingly. then she slipped the threaded needle from her corsage and passed it through a button, but as the button spun down the thread, her hand faltered, the thread snapped, and the button rolled across the floor. she raised her head. her eyes were fixed on a strip of waning light above the chimneys. from somewhere in the city came sounds like the distant beating of drums, and beyond, far beyond, a vague muttering, now growing, swelling, rumbling in the distance like the pounding of surf upon the rocks, now like the surf again, receding, growling, menacing. the cold had become intense, a bitter piercing cold which strained and snapped at joist and beam and turned the slush of yesterday to flint. from the street below every sound broke sharp and metallic--the clatter of sabots, the rattle of shutters or the rare sound of a human voice. the air was heavy, weighted with the black cold as with a pall. to breathe was painful, to move an effort. in the desolate sky there was something that wearied, in the brooding clouds, something that saddened. it penetrated the freezing city cut by the freezing river, the splendid city with its towers and domes, its quays and bridges and its thousand spires. it entered the squares, it seized the avenues and the palaces, stole across bridges and crept among the narrow streets of the latin quarter, grey under the grey of the december sky. sadness, utter sadness. a fine icy sleet was falling, powdering the pavement with a tiny crystalline dust. it sifted against the window-panes and drifted in heaps along the sill. the light at the window had nearly failed, and the girl bent low over her work. presently she raised her head, brushing the curls from her eyes. "jack?" "dearest?" "don't forget to clean your palette." he said, "all right," and picking up the palette, sat down upon the floor in front of the stove. his head and shoulders were in the shadow, but the firelight fell across his knees and glimmered red on the blade of the palette-knife. full in the firelight beside him stood a colour-box. on the lid was carved, j. trent. ecole des beaux arts. 1870. this inscription was ornamented with an american and a french flag. the sleet blew against the window-panes, covering them with stars and diamonds, then, melting from the warmer air within, ran down and froze again in fern-like traceries. a dog whined and the patter of small paws sounded on the zinc behind the stove. "jack, dear, do you think hercules is hungry?" the patter of paws was redoubled behind the stove. "he's whining," she continued nervously, "and if it isn't because he's hungry it is because--" her voice faltered. a loud humming filled the air, the windows vibrated. "oh, jack," she cried, "another--" but her voice was drowned in the scream of a shell tearing through the clouds overhead. "that is the nearest yet," she murmured. "oh, no," he answered cheerfully, "it probably fell way over by montmartre," and as she did not answer, he said again with exaggerated unconcern, "they wouldn't take the trouble to fire at the latin quarter; anyway they haven't a battery that can hurt it." after a while she spoke up brightly: "jack, dear, when are you going to take me to see monsieur west's statues?" "i will bet," he said, throwing down his palette and walking over to the window beside her, "that colette has been here to-day." "why?" she asked, opening her eyes very wide. then, "oh, it's too bad!--really, men are tiresome when they think they know everything! and i warn you that if monsieur west is vain enough to imagine that colette--" from the north another shell came whistling and quavering through the sky, passing above them with long-drawn screech which left the windows singing. "that," he blurted out, "was too near for comfort." they were silent for a while, then he spoke again gaily: "go on, sylvia, and wither poor west;" but she only sighed, "oh, dear, i can never seem to get used to the shells." he sat down on the arm of the chair beside her. her scissors fell jingling to the floor; she tossed the unfinished frock after them, and putting both arms about his neck drew him down into her lap. "don't go out to-night, jack." he kissed her uplifted face; "you know i must; don't make it hard for me." "but when i hear the shells and--and know you are out in the city--" "but they all fall in montmartre--" "they may all fall in the beaux arts; you said yourself that two struck the quai d'orsay--" "mere accident--" "jack, have pity on me! take me with you!" "and who will there be to get dinner?" she rose and flung herself on the bed. "oh, i can't get used to it, and i know you must go, but i beg you not to be late to dinner. if you knew what i suffer! i--i--cannot help it, and you must be patient with me, dear." he said, "it is as safe there as it is in our own house." she watched him fill for her the alcohol lamp, and when he had lighted it and had taken his hat to go, she jumped up and clung to him in silence. after a moment he said: "now, sylvia, remember my courage is sustained by yours. come, i must go!" she did not move, and he repeated: "i must go." then she stepped back and he thought she was going to speak and waited, but she only looked at him, and, a little impatiently, he kissed her again, saying: "don't worry, dearest." when he had reached the last flight of stairs on his way to the street a woman hobbled out of the house-keeper's lodge waving a letter and calling: "monsieur jack! monsieur jack! this was left by monsieur fallowby!" he took the letter, and leaning on the threshold of the lodge, read it: "dear jack, "i believe braith is dead broke and i'm sure fallowby is. braith swears he isn't, and fallowby swears he is, so you can draw your own conclusions. i've got a scheme for a dinner, and if it works, i will let you fellows in. "yours faithfully, "west. "p.s.--fallowby has shaken hartman and his gang, thank the lord! there is something rotten there,--or it may be he's only a miser. "p.p.s.--i'm more desperately in love than ever, but i'm sure she does not care a straw for me." "all right," said trent, with a smile, to the concierge; "but tell me, how is papa cottard?" the old woman shook her head and pointed to the curtained bed in the lodge. "père cottard!" he cried cheerily, "how goes the wound to-day?" he walked over to the bed and drew the curtains. an old man was lying among the tumbled sheets. "better?" smiled trent. "better," repeated the man wearily; and, after a pause, "have you any news, monsieur jack?" "i haven't been out to-day. i will bring you any rumour i may hear, though goodness knows i've got enough of rumours," he muttered to himself. then aloud: "cheer up; you're looking better." "and the sortie?" "oh, the sortie, that's for this week. general trochu sent orders last night." "it will be terrible." "it will be sickening," thought trent as he went not into the street and turned the corner toward the rue de seine; "slaughter, slaughter, phew! i'm glad i'm not going." the street was almost deserted. a few women muffled in tattered military capes crept along the frozen pavement, and a wretchedly clad gamin hovered over the sewer-hole on the corner of the boulevard. a rope around his waist held his rags together. from the rope hung a rat, still warm and bleeding. "there's another in there," he yelled at trent; "i hit him but he got away." trent crossed the street and asked: "how much?" "two francs for a quarter of a fat one; that's what they give at the st. germain market." a violent fit of coughing interrupted him, but he wiped his face with the palm of his hand and looked cunningly at trent. "last week you could buy a rat for six francs, but," and here he swore vilely, "the rats have quit the rue de seine and they kill them now over by the new hospital. i'll let you have this for seven francs; i can sell it for ten in the isle st. louis." "you lie," said trent, "and let me tell you that if you try to swindle anybody in this quarter the people will make short work of you and your rats." he stood a moment eyeing the gamin, who pretended to snivel. then he tossed him a franc, laughing. the child caught it, and thrusting it into his mouth wheeled about to the sewer-hole. for a second he crouched, motionless, alert, his eyes on the bars of the drain, then leaping forward he hurled a stone into the gutter, and trent left him to finish a fierce grey rat that writhed squealing at the mouth of the sewer. "suppose braith should come to that," he thought; "poor little chap;" and hurrying, he turned in the dirty passage des beaux arts and entered the third house to the left. "monsieur is at home," quavered the old concierge. home? a garret absolutely bare, save for the iron bedstead in the corner and the iron basin and pitcher on the floor. west appeared at the door, winking with much mystery, and motioned trent to enter. braith, who was painting in bed to keep warm, looked up, laughed, and shook hands. "any news?" the perfunctory question was answered as usual by: "nothing but the cannon." trent sat down on the bed. "where on earth did you get that?" he demanded, pointing to a half-finished chicken nestling in a wash-basin. west grinned. "are you millionaires, you two? out with it." braith, looking a little ashamed, began, "oh, it's one of west's exploits," but was cut short by west, who said he would tell the story himself. "you see, before the siege, i had a letter of introduction to a '_type_' here, a fat banker, german-american variety. you know the species, i see. well, of course i forgot to present the letter, but this morning, judging it to be a favourable opportunity, i called on him. "the villain lives in comfort;--fires, my boy!--fires in the ante-rooms! the buttons finally condescends to carry my letter and card up, leaving me standing in the hallway, which i did not like, so i entered the first room i saw and nearly fainted at the sight of a banquet on a table by the fire. down comes buttons, very insolent. no, oh, no, his master, 'is not at home, and in fact is too busy to receive letters of introduction just now; the siege, and many business difficulties--' "i deliver a kick to buttons, pick up this chicken from the table, toss my card on to the empty plate, and addressing buttons as a species of prussian pig, march out with the honours of war." trent shook his head. "i forgot to say that hartman often dines there, and i draw my own conclusions," continued west. "now about this chicken, half of it is for braith and myself, and half for colette, but of course you will help me eat my part because i'm not hungry." "neither am i," began braith, but trent, with a smile at the pinched faces before him, shook his head saying, "what nonsense! you know i'm never hungry!" west hesitated, reddened, and then slicing off braith's portion, but not eating any himself, said good-night, and hurried away to number 470 rue serpente, where lived a pretty girl named colette, orphan after sedan, and heaven alone knew where she got the roses in her cheeks, for the siege came hard on the poor. "that chicken will delight her, but i really believe she's in love with west," said trent. then walking over to the bed: "see here, old man, no dodging, you know, how much have you left?" the other hesitated and flushed. "come, old chap," insisted trent. braith drew a purse from beneath his bolster, and handed it to his friend with a simplicity that touched him. "seven sons," he counted; "you make me tired! why on earth don't you come to me? i take it d----d ill, braith! how many times must i go over the same thing and explain to you that because i have money it is my duty to share it, and your duty and the duty of every american to share it with me? you can't get a cent, the city's blockaded, and the american minister has his hands full with all the german riff-raff and deuce knows what! why don't you act sensibly?" "i--i will, trent, but it's an obligation that perhaps i can never even in part repay, i'm poor and--" "of course you'll pay me! if i were a usurer i would take your talent for security. when you are rich and famous--" "don't, trent--" "all right, only no more monkey business." he slipped a dozen gold pieces into the purse, and tucking it again under the mattress smiled at braith. "how old are you?" he demanded. "sixteen." trent laid his hand lightly on his friend's shoulder. "i'm twenty-two, and i have the rights of a grandfather as far as you are concerned. you'll do as i say until you're twenty-one." "the siège will be over then, i hope," said braith, trying to laugh, but the prayer in their hearts: "how long, o lord, how long!" was answered by the swift scream of a shell soaring among the storm-clouds of that december night. ii west, standing in the doorway of a house in the rue serpentine, was speaking angrily. he said he didn't care whether hartman liked it or not; he was telling him, not arguing with him. "you call yourself an american!" he sneered; "berlin and hell are full of that kind of american. you come loafing about colette with your pockets stuffed with white bread and beef, and a bottle of wine at thirty francs and you can't really afford to give a dollar to the american ambulance and public assistance, which braith does, and he's half starved!" hartman retreated to the curbstone, but west followed him, his face like a thunder-cloud. "don't you dare to call yourself a countryman of mine," he growled,--"no,--nor an artist either! artists don't worm themselves into the service of the public defence where they do nothing but feed like rats on the people's food! and i'll tell you now," he continued dropping his voice, for hartman had started as though stung, "you might better keep away from that alsatian brasserie and the smug-faced thieves who haunt it. you know what they do with suspects!" "you lie, you hound!" screamed hartman, and flung the bottle in his hand straight at west's face. west had him by the throat in a second, and forcing him against the dead wall shook him wickedly. "now you listen to me," he muttered, through his clenched teeth. "you are already a suspect and--i swear--i believe you are a paid spy! it isn't my business to detect such vermin, and i don't intend to denounce you, but understand this! colette don't like you and i can't stand you, and if i catch you in this street again i'll make it somewhat unpleasant. get out, you sleek prussian!" hartman had managed to drag a knife from his pocket, but west tore it from him and hurled him into the gutter. a gamin who had seen this burst into a peal of laughter, which rattled harshly in the silent street. then everywhere windows were raised and rows of haggard faces appeared demanding to know why people should laugh in the starving city. "is it a victory?" murmured one. "look at that," cried west as hartman picked himself up from the pavement, "look! you miser! look at those faces!" but hartman gave _him_ a look which he never forgot, and walked away without a word. trent, who suddenly appeared at the corner, glanced curiously at west, who merely nodded toward his door saying, "come in; fallowby's upstairs." "what are you doing with that knife?" demanded fallowby, as he and trent entered the studio. west looked at his wounded hand, which still clutched the knife, but saying, "cut myself by accident," tossed it into a corner and washed the blood from his fingers. fallowby, fat and lazy, watched him without comment, but trent, half divining how things had turned, walked over to fallowby smiling. "i've a bone to pick with you!" he said. "where is it? i'm hungry," replied fallowby with affected eagerness, but trent, frowning, told him to listen. "how much did i advance you a week ago?" "three hundred and eighty francs," replied the other, with a squirm of contrition. "where is it?" fallowby began a series of intricate explanations, which were soon cut short by trent. "i know; you blew it in;--you always blow it in. i don't care a rap what you did before the siege: i know you are rich and have a right to dispose of your money as you wish to, and i also know that, generally speaking, it is none of my business. but _now_ it is my business, as i have to supply the funds until you get some more, which you won't until the siege is ended one way or another. i wish to share what i have, but i won't see it thrown out of the window. oh, yes, of course i know you will reimburse me, but that isn't the question; and, anyway, it's the opinion of your friends, old man, that you will not be worse off for a little abstinence from fleshly pleasures. you are positively a freak in this famine-cursed city of skeletons!" "i _am_ rather stout," he admitted. "is it true you are out of money?" demanded trent. "yes, i am," sighed the other. "that roast sucking pig on the rue st. honoré,--is it there yet?" continued trent. "wh--at?" stammered the feeble one. "ah--i thought so! i caught you in ecstasy before that sucking pig at least a dozen times!" then laughing, he presented fallowby with a roll of twenty franc pieces saying: "if these go for luxuries you must live on your own flesh," and went over to aid west, who sat beside the wash-basin binding up his hand. west suffered him to tie the knot, and then said: "you remember, yesterday, when i left you and braith to take the chicken to colette." "chicken! good heavens!" moaned fallowby. "chicken," repeated west, enjoying fallowby's grief;--"i--that is, i must explain that things are changed. colette and i--are to be married--" "what--what about the chicken?" groaned fallowby. "shut up!" laughed trent, and slipping his arm through west's, walked to the stairway. "the poor little thing," said west, "just think, not a splinter of firewood for a week and wouldn't tell me because she thought i needed it for my clay figure. whew! when i heard it i smashed that smirking clay nymph to pieces, and the rest can freeze and be hanged!" after a moment he added timidly: "won't you call on your way down and say _bon soir_? it's no. 17." "yes," said trent, and he went out softly closing the door behind. he stopped on the third landing, lighted a match, scanned the numbers over the row of dingy doors, and knocked at no. 17. "c'est toi georges?" the door opened. "oh, pardon, monsieur jack, i thought it was monsieur west," then blushing furiously, "oh, i see you have heard! oh, thank you so much for your wishes, and i'm sure we love each other very much,--and i'm dying to see sylvia and tell her and--" "and what?" laughed trent. "i am very happy," she sighed. "he's pure gold," returned trent, and then gaily: "i want you and george to come and dine with us to-night. it's a little treat,--you see to-morrow is sylvia's _fête_. she will be nineteen. i have written to thorne, and the guernalecs will come with their cousin odile. fallowby has engaged not to bring anybody but himself." the girl accepted shyly, charging him with loads of loving messages to sylvia, and he said good-night. he started up the street, walking swiftly, for it was bitter cold, and cutting across the rue de la lune he entered the rue de seine. the early winter night had fallen, almost without warning, but the sky was clear and myriads of stars glittered in the heavens. the bombardment had become furious--a steady rolling thunder from the prussian cannon punctuated by the heavy shocks from mont valérien. the shells streamed across the sky leaving trails like shooting stars, and now, as he turned to look back, rockets blue and red flared above the horizon from the fort of issy, and the fortress of the north flamed like a bonfire. "good news!" a man shouted over by the boulevard st. germain. as if by magic the streets were filled with people,--shivering, chattering people with shrunken eyes. "jacques!" cried one. "the army of the loire!" "eh! _mon vieux_, it has come then at last! i told thee! i told thee! to-morrow--to-night--who knows?" "is it true? is it a sortie?" some one said: "oh, god--a sortie--and my son?" another cried: "to the seine? they say one can see the signals of the army of the loire from the pont neuf." there was a child standing near trent who kept repeating: "mamma, mamma, then to-morrow we may eat white bread?" and beside him, an old man swaying, stumbling, his shrivelled hands crushed to his breast, muttering as if insane. "could it be true? who has heard the news? the shoemaker on the rue de buci had it from a mobile who had heard a franctireur repeat it to a captain of the national guard." trent followed the throng surging through the rue de seine to the river. rocket after rocket clove the sky, and now, from montmartre, the cannon clanged, and the batteries on montparnasse joined in with a crash. the bridge was packed with people. trent asked: "who has seen the signals of the army of the loire?" "we are waiting for them," was the reply. he looked toward the north. suddenly the huge silhouette of the arc de triomphe sprang into black relief against the flash of a cannon. the boom of the gun rolled along the quay and the old bridge vibrated. again over by the point du jour a flash and heavy explosion shook the bridge, and then the whole eastern bastion of the fortifications blazed and crackled, sending a red flame into the sky. "has any one seen the signals yet?" he asked again. "we are waiting," was the reply. "yes, waiting," murmured a man behind him, "waiting, sick, starved, freezing, but waiting. is it a sortie? they go gladly. is it to starve? they starve. they have no time to think of surrender. are they heroes,--these parisians? answer me, trent!" the american ambulance surgeon turned about and scanned the parapets of the bridge. "any news, doctor," asked trent mechanically. "news?" said the doctor; "i don't know any;--i haven't time to know any. what are these people after?" "they say that the army of the loire has signalled mont valérien." "poor devils." the doctor glanced about him for an instant, and then: "i'm so harried and worried that i don't know what to do. after the last sortie we had the work of fifty ambulances on our poor little corps. to-morrow there's another sortie, and i wish you fellows could come over to headquarters. we may need volunteers. how is madame?" he added abruptly. "well," replied trent, "but she seems to grow more nervous every day. i ought to be with her now." "take care of her," said the doctor, then with a sharp look at the people: "i can't stop now--goodnight!" and he hurried away muttering, "poor devils!" trent leaned over the parapet and blinked at the black river surging through the arches. dark objects, carried swiftly on the breast of the current, struck with a grinding tearing noise against the stone piers, spun around for an instant, and hurried away into the darkness. the ice from the marne. as he stood staring into the water, a hand was laid on his shoulder. "hello, southwark!" he cried, turning around; "this is a queer place for you!" "trent, i have something to tell you. don't stay here,--don't believe in the army of the loire:" and the _attaché_ of the american legation slipped his arm through trent's and drew him toward the louvre. "then it's another lie!" said trent bitterly. "worse--we know at the legation--i can't speak of it. but that's not what i have to say. something happened this afternoon. the alsatian brasserie was visited and an american named hartman has been arrested. do you know him?" "i know a german who calls himself an american;--his name is hartman." "well, he was arrested about two hours ago. they mean to shoot him." "what!" "of course we at the legation can't allow them to shoot him off-hand, but the evidence seems conclusive." "is he a spy?" "well, the papers seized in his rooms are pretty damning proofs, and besides he was caught, they say, swindling the public food committee. he drew rations for fifty, how, i don't know. he claims to be an american artist here, and we have been obliged to take notice of it at the legation. it's a nasty affair." "to cheat the people at such a time is worse than robbing the poor-box," cried trent angrily. "let them shoot him!" "he's an american citizen." "yes, oh yes," said the other with bitterness. "american citizenship is a precious privilege when every goggle-eyed german--" his anger choked him. southwark shook hands with him warmly. "it can't be helped, we must own the carrion. i am afraid you may be called upon to identify him as an american artist," he said with a ghost of a smile on his deep-lined face; and walked away through the cours la reine. trent swore silently for a moment and then drew out his watch. seven o'clock. "sylvia will be anxious," he thought, and hurried back to the river. the crowd still huddled shivering on the bridge, a sombre pitiful congregation, peering out into the night for the signals of the army of the loire: and their hearts beat time to the pounding of the guns, their eyes lighted with each flash from the bastions, and hope rose with the drifting rockets. a black cloud hung over the fortifications. from horizon to horizon the cannon smoke stretched in wavering bands, now capping the spires and domes with cloud, now blowing in streamers and shreds along the streets, now descending from the housetops, enveloping quays, bridges, and river, in a sulphurous mist. and through the smoke pall the lightning of the cannon played, while from time to time a rift above showed a fathomless black vault set with stars. he turned again into the rue de seine, that sad abandoned street, with its rows of closed shutters and desolate ranks of unlighted lamps. he was a little nervous and wished once or twice for a revolver, but the slinking forms which passed him in the darkness were too weak with hunger to be dangerous, he thought, and he passed on unmolested to his doorway. but there somebody sprang at his throat. over and over the icy pavement he rolled with his assailant, tearing at the noose about his neck, and then with a wrench sprang to his feet. "get up," he cried to the other. slowly and with great deliberation, a small gamin picked himself out of the gutter and surveyed trent with disgust. "that's a nice clean trick," said trent; "a whelp of your age! you'll finish against a dead wall! give me that cord!" the urchin handed him the noose without a word. trent struck a match and looked at his assailant. it was the rat-killer of the day before. "h'm! i thought so," he muttered. "tiens, c'est toi?" said the gamin tranquilly. the impudence, the overpowering audacity of the ragamuffin took trent's breath away. "do you know, you young strangler," he gasped, "that they shoot thieves of your age?" the child turned a passionless face to trent. "shoot, then." that was too much, and he turned on his heel and entered his hotel. groping up the unlighted stairway, he at last reached his own landing and felt about in the darkness for the door. from his studio came the sound of voices, west's hearty laugh and fallowby's chuckle, and at last he found the knob and, pushing back the door, stood a moment confused by the light. "hello, jack!" cried west, "you're a pleasant creature, inviting people to dine and letting them wait. here's fallowby weeping with hunger--" "shut up," observed the latter, "perhaps he's been out to buy a turkey." "he's been out garroting, look at his noose!" laughed guernalec. "so now we know where you get your cash!" added west; "vive le coup du père françois!" trent shook hands with everybody and laughed at sylvia's pale face. "i didn't mean to be late; i stopped on the bridge a moment to watch the bombardment. were you anxious, sylvia?" she smiled and murmured, "oh, no!" but her hand dropped into his and tightened convulsively. "to the table!" shouted fallowby, and uttered a joyous whoop. "take it easy," observed thorne, with a remnant of manners; "you are not the host, you know." marie guernalec, who had been chattering with colette, jumped up and took thorne's arm and monsieur guernalec drew odile's arm through his. trent, bowing gravely, offered his own arm to colette, west took in sylvia, and fallowby hovered anxiously in the rear. "you march around the table three times singing the marseillaise," explained sylvia, "and monsieur fallowby pounds on the table and beats time." fallowby suggested that they could sing after dinner, but his protest was drowned in the ringing chorus- "aux armes! formez vos bataillons!" around the room they marched singing, "marchons! marchons!" with all their might, while fallowby with very bad grace, hammered on the table, consoling himself a little with the hope that the exercise would increase his appetite. hercules, the black and tan, fled under the bed, from which retreat he yapped and whined until dragged out by guernalec and placed in odile's lap. "and now," said trent gravely, when everybody was seated, "listen!" and he read the menu. beef soup à la siège de paris. fish. sardines à la père lachaise. (white wine). rôti (red wine). fresh beef à la sortie. vegetables. canned beans à la chasse-pot, canned peas gravelotte, potatoes irlandaises, miscellaneous. cold corned beef à la thieis, stewed prunes à la garibaldi. dessert. dried prunes--white bread, currant jelly, tea--café, liqueurs, pipes and cigarettes. fallowby applauded frantically, and sylvia served the soup. "isn't it delicious?" sighed odile. marie guernalec sipped her soup in rapture. "not at all like horse, and i don't care what they say, horse doesn't taste like beef," whispered colette to west. fallowby, who had finished, began to caress his chin and eye the tureen. "have some more, old chap?" inquired trent. "monsieur fallowby cannot have any more," announced sylvia; "i am saving this for the concierge." fallowby transferred his eyes to the fish. the sardines, hot from the grille, were a great success. while the others were eating sylvia ran downstairs with the soup for the old concierge and her husband, and when she hurried back, flushed and breathless, and had slipped into her chair with a happy smile at trent, that young man arose, and silence fell over the table. for an instant he looked at sylvia and thought he had never seen her so beautiful. "you all know," he began, "that to-day is my wife's nineteenth birthday--" fallowby, bubbling with enthusiasm, waved his glass in circles about his head to the terror of odile and colette, his neighbours, and thorne, west and guernalec refilled their glasses three times before the storm of applause which the toast of sylvia had provoked, subsided. three times the glasses were filled and emptied to sylvia, and again to trent, who protested. "this is irregular," he cried, "the next toast is to the twin republics, france and america?" "to the republics! to the republics!" they cried, and the toast was drunk amid shouts of "vive a france! vive l'amérique! vive la nation!" then trent, with a smile at west, offered the toast, "to a happy pair!" and everybody understood, and sylvia leaned over and kissed colette, while trent bowed to west. the beef was eaten in comparative calm, but when it was finished and a portion of it set aside for the old people below, trent cried: "drink to paris! may she rise from her ruins and crush the invader!" and the cheers rang out, drowning for a moment the monotonous thunder of the prussian guns. pipes and cigarettes were lighted, and trent listened an instant to the animated chatter around him, broken by ripples of laughter from the girls or the mellow chuckle of fallowby. then he turned to west. "there is going to be a sortie to-night," he said. "i saw the american ambulance surgeon just before i came in and he asked me to speak to you fellows. any aid we can give him will not come amiss." then dropping his voice and speaking in english, "as for me, i shall go out with the ambulance to-morrow morning. there is of course no danger, but it's just as well to keep it from sylvia." west nodded. thorne and guernalec, who had heard, broke in and offered assistance, and fallowby volunteered with a groan. "all right," said trent rapidly,--"no more now, but meet me at ambulance headquarters to-morrow morning at eight." sylvia and colette, who were becoming uneasy at the conversation in english, now demanded to know what they were talking about. "what does a sculptor usually talk about?" cried west, with a laugh. odile glanced reproachfully at thorne, her _fiancé_. "you are not french, you know, and it is none of your business, this war," said odile with much dignity. thorne looked meek, but west assumed an air of outraged virtue. "it seems," he said to fallowby, "that a fellow cannot discuss the beauties of greek sculpture in his mother tongue, without being openly suspected." colette placed her hand over his mouth and turning to sylvia, murmured, "they are horridly untruthful, these men." "i believe the word for ambulance is the same in both languages," said marie guernalec saucily; "sylvia, don't trust monsieur trent." "jack," whispered sylvia, "promise me--" a knock at the studio door interrupted her. "come in!" cried fallowby, but trent sprang up, and opening the door, looked out. then with a hasty excuse to the rest, he stepped into the hall-way and closed the door. when he returned he was grumbling. "what is it, jack?" cried west. "what is it?" repeated trent savagely; "i'll tell you what it is. i have received a dispatch from the american minister to go at once and identify and claim, as a fellow-countryman and a brother artist, a rascally thief and a german spy!" "don't go," suggested fallowby. "if i don't they'll shoot him at once." "let them," growled thorne. "do you fellows know who it is?" "hartman!" shouted west, inspired. sylvia sprang up deathly white, but odile slipped her arm around her and supported her to a chair, saying calmly, "sylvia has fainted,--it's the hot room,--bring some water." trent brought it at once. sylvia opened her eyes, and after a moment rose, and supported by marie guernalec and trent, passed into the bedroom. it was the signal for breaking up, and everybody came and shook hands with trent, saying they hoped sylvia would sleep it off and that it would be nothing. when marie guernalec took leave of him, she avoided his eyes, but he spoke to her cordially and thanked her for her aid. "anything i can do, jack?" inquired west, lingering, and then hurried downstairs to catch up with the rest. trent leaned over the banisters, listening to their footsteps and chatter, and then the lower door banged and the house was silent. he lingered, staring down into the blackness, biting his lips; then with an impatient movement, "i am crazy!" he muttered, and lighting a candle, went into the bedroom. sylvia was lying on the bed. he bent over her, smoothing the curly hair on her forehead. "are you better, dear sylvia?" she did not answer, but raised her eyes to his. for an instant he met her gaze, but what he read there sent a chill to his heart and he sat down covering his face with his hands. at last she spoke in a voice, changed and strained,--a voice which he had never heard, and he dropped his hands and listened, bolt upright in his chair. "jack, it has come at last. i have feared it and trembled,--ah! how often have i lain awake at night with this on my heart and prayed that i might die before you should ever know of it! for i love you, jack, and if you go away i cannot live. i have deceived you;--it happened before i knew you, but since that first day when you found me weeping in the luxembourg and spoke to me, jack, i have been faithful to you in every thought and deed. i loved you from the first, and did not dare to tell you this--fearing that you would go away; and since then my love has grown--grown--and oh! i suffered!--but i dared not tell you. and now you know, but you do not know the worst. for him--now--what do i care? he was cruel--oh, so cruel!" she hid her face in her arms. "must i go on? must i tell you--can you not imagine, oh! jack--" he did not stir; his eyes seemed dead. "i--i was so young, i knew nothing, and he said--said that he loved me--" trent rose and struck the candle with his clenched fist, and the room was dark. the bells of st. sulpice tolled the hour, and she started up, speaking with feverish haste,--"i must finish! when you told me you loved me--you--you asked me nothing; but then, even then, it was too late, and _that other life_ which binds me to him, must stand for ever between you and me! for there _is another_ whom he has claimed, and is good to. he must not die,--they cannot shoot him, for that _other's_ sake!" trent sat motionless, but his thoughts ran on in an interminable whirl. sylvia, little sylvia, who shared with him his student life,--who bore with him the dreary desolation of the siege without complaint,--this slender blue-eyed girl whom he was so quietly fond of, whom he teased or caressed as the whim suited, who sometimes made him the least bit impatient with her passionate devotion to him,--could this be the same sylvia who lay weeping there in the darkness? then he clinched his teeth. "let him die! let him die!"--but then,--for sylvia's sake, and,--for that _other's_ sake,--yes, he would go,--he _must_ go,--his duty was plain before him. but sylvia,--he could not be what he had been to her, and yet a vague terror seized him, now all was said. trembling, he struck a light. she lay there, her curly hair tumbled about her face, her small white hands pressed to her breast. he could not leave her, and he could not stay. he never knew before that he loved her. she had been a mere comrade, this girl wife of his. ah! he loved her now with all his heart and soul, and he knew it, only when it was too late. too late? why? then he thought of that _other_ one, binding her, linking her forever to the creature, who stood in danger of his life. with an oath he sprang to the door, but the door would not open,--or was it that he pressed it back,--locked it,--and flung himself on his knees beside the bed, knowing that he dared not for his life's sake leave what was his all in life. iii it was four in the morning when he came out of the prison of the condemned with the secretary of the american legation. a knot of people had gathered around the american minister's carriage, which stood in front of the prison, the horses stamping and pawing in the icy street, the coachman huddled on the box, wrapped in furs. southwark helped the secretary into the carriage, and shook hands with trent, thanking him for coming. "how the scoundrel did stare," he said; "your evidence was worse than a kick, but it saved his skin for the moment at least,--and prevented complications." the secretary sighed. "we have done our part. now let them prove him a spy and we wash our hands of him. jump in, captain! come along, trent!" "i have a word to say to captain southwark, i won't detain him," said trent hastily, and dropping his voice, "southwark, help _me_ now. you know the story from the blackguard. you know the--the child is at his rooms. get it, and take it to my own apartment, and if he is shot, i will provide a home for it." "i understand," said the captain gravely. "will you do this at once?" "at once," he replied. their hands met in a warm clasp, and then captain southwark climbed into the carriage, motioning trent to follow; but he shook his head saying, "good-bye!" and the carriage rolled away. he watched the carriage to the end of the street, then started toward his own quarter, but after a step or two hesitated, stopped, and finally turned away in the opposite direction. something--perhaps it was the sight of the prisoner he had so recently confronted nauseated him. he felt the need of solitude and quiet to collect his thoughts. the events of the evening had shaken him terribly, but he would walk it off, forget, bury everything, and then go back to sylvia. he started on swiftly, and for a time the bitter thoughts seemed to fade, but when he paused at last, breathless, under the arc de triomphe, the bitterness and the wretchedness of the whole thing--yes, of his whole misspent life came back with a pang. then the face of the prisoner, stamped with the horrible grimace of fear, grew in the shadows before his eyes. sick at heart he wandered up and down under the great arc, striving to occupy his mind, peering up at the sculptured cornices to read the names of the heroes and battles which he knew were engraved there, but always the ashen face of hartman followed him, grinning with terror!--or was it terror?--was it not triumph?--at the thought he leaped like a man who feels a knife at his throat, but after a savage tramp around the square, came back again and sat down to battle with his misery. the air was cold, but his cheeks were burning with angry shame. shame? why? was it because he had married a girl whom chance had made a mother? _did_ he love her? was this miserable bohemian existence, then, his end and aim in life? he turned his eyes upon the secrets of his heart, and read an evil story,--the story of the past, and he covered his face for shame, while, keeping time to the dull pain throbbing in his head, his heart beat out the story for the future. shame and disgrace. roused at last from a lethargy which had begun to numb the bitterness of his thoughts, he raised his head and looked about. a sudden fog had settled in the streets; the arches of the arc were choked with it. he would go home. a great horror of being alone seized him. _but he was not alone._ the fog was peopled with phantoms. all around him in the mist they moved, drifting through the arches in lengthening lines, and vanished, while from the fog others rose up, swept past and were engulfed. he was not alone, for even at his side they crowded, touched him, swarmed before him, beside him, behind him, pressed him back, seized, and bore him with them through the mist. down a dim avenue, through lanes and alleys white with fog, they moved, and if they spoke their voices were dull as the vapour which shrouded them. at last in front, a bank of masonry and earth cut by a massive iron barred gate towered up in the fog. slowly and more slowly they glided, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. then all movement ceased. a sudden breeze stirred the fog. it wavered and eddied. objects became more distinct. a pallor crept above the horizon, touching the edges of the watery clouds, and drew dull sparks from a thousand bayonets. bayonets--they were everywhere, cleaving the fog or flowing beneath it in rivers of steel. high on the wall of masonry and earth a great gun loomed, and around it figures moved in silhouettes. below, a broad torrent of bayonets swept through the iron barred gateway, out into the shadowy plain. it became lighter. faces grew more distinct among the marching masses and he recognized one. "you, philippe!" the figure turned its head. trent cried, "is there room for me?" but the other only waved his arm in a vague adieu and was gone with the rest. presently the cavalry began to pass, squadron on squadron, crowding out into the darkness; then many cannon, then an ambulance, then again the endless lines of bayonets. beside him a cuirassier sat on his steaming horse, and in front, among a group of mounted officers he saw a general, with the astrakan collar of his dolman turned up about his bloodless face. some women were weeping near him and one was struggling to force a loaf of black bread into a soldier's haversack. the soldier tried to aid her, but the sack was fastened, and his rifle bothered him, so trent held it, while the woman unbuttoned the sack and forced in the bread, now all wet with her tears. the rifle was not heavy. trent found it wonderfully manageable. was the bayonet sharp? he tried it. then a sudden longing, a fierce, imperative desire took possession of him. "_chouette!_" cried a gamin, clinging to the barred gate, "_encore toi mon vieux_?" trent looked up, and the rat-killer laughed in his face. but when the soldier had taken the rifle again, and thanking him, ran hard to catch his battalion, he plunged into the throng about the gateway. "are you going?" he cried to a marine who sat in the gutter bandaging his foot. "yes." then a girl--a mere child--caught him by the hand and led him into the café which faced the gate. the room was crowded with soldiers, some, white and silent, sitting on the floor, others groaning on the leather-covered settees. the air was sour and suffocating. "choose!" said the girl with a little gesture of pity; "they can't go!" in a heap of clothing on the floor he found a capote and képi. she helped him buckle his knapsack, cartridge-box, and belt, and showed him how to load the chasse-pot rifle, holding it on her knees. when he thanked her she started to her feet. "you are a foreigner!" "american," he said, moving toward the door, but the child barred his way. "i am a bretonne. my father is up there with the cannon of the marine. he will shoot you if you are a spy." they faced each other for a moment. then sighing, he bent over and kissed the child. "pray for france, little one," he murmured, and she repeated with a pale smile: "for france and you, beau monsieur." he ran across the street and through the gateway. once outside, he edged into line and shouldered his way along the road. a corporal passed, looked at him, repassed, and finally called an officer. "you belong to the 60th," growled the corporal looking at the number on his képi. "we have no use for franc-tireurs," added the officer, catching sight of his black trousers. "i wish to volunteer in place of a comrade," said trent, and the officer shrugged his shoulders and passed on. nobody paid much attention to him, one or two merely glancing at his trousers. the road was deep with slush and mud-ploughed and torn by wheels and hoofs. a soldier in front of him wrenched his foot in an icy rut and dragged himself to the edge of the embankment groaning. the plain on either side of them was grey with melting snow. here and there behind dismantled hedge-rows stood wagons, bearing white flags with red crosses. sometimes the driver was a priest in rusty hat and gown, sometimes a crippled mobile. once they passed a wagon driven by a sister of charity. silent empty houses with great rents in their walls, and every window blank, huddled along the road. further on, within the zone of danger, nothing of human habitation remained except here and there a pile of frozen bricks or a blackened cellar choked with snow. for some time trent had been annoyed by the man behind him, who kept treading on his heels. convinced at last that it was intentional, he turned to remonstrate and found himself face to face with a fellow-student from the beaux arts. trent stared. "i thought you were in the hospital!" the other shook his head, pointing to his bandaged jaw. "i see, you can't speak. can i do anything?" the wounded man rummaged in his haversack and produced a crust of black bread. "he can't eat it, his jaw is smashed, and he wants you to chew it for him," said the soldier next to him. trent took the crust, and grinding it in his teeth morsel by morsel, passed it back to the starving man. from time to time mounted orderlies sped to the front, covering them with slush. it was a chilly, silent march through sodden meadows wreathed in fog. along the railroad embankment across the ditch, another column moved parallel to their own. trent watched it, a sombre mass, now distinct, now vague, now blotted out in a puff of fog. once for half-an-hour he lost it, but when again it came into view, he noticed a thin line detach itself from the flank, and, bellying in the middle, swing rapidly to the west. at the same moment a prolonged crackling broke out in the fog in front. other lines began to slough off from the column, swinging east and west, and the crackling became continuous. a battery passed at full gallop, and he drew back with his comrades to give it way. it went into action a little to the right of his battalion, and as the shot from the first rifled piece boomed through the mist, the cannon from the fortifications opened with a mighty roar. an officer galloped by shouting something which trent did not catch, but he saw the ranks in front suddenly part company with his own, and disappear in the twilight. more officers rode up and stood beside him peering into the fog. away in front the crackling had become one prolonged crash. it was dreary waiting. trent chewed some bread for the man behind, who tried to swallow it, and after a while shook his head, motioning trent to eat the rest himself. a corporal offered him a little brandy and he drank it, but when he turned around to return the flask, the corporal was lying on the ground. alarmed, he looked at the soldier next to him, who shrugged his shoulders and opened his mouth to speak, but something struck him and he rolled over and over into the ditch below. at that moment the horse of one of the officers gave a bound and backed into the battalion, lashing out with his heels. one man was ridden down; another was kicked in the chest and hurled through the ranks. the officer sank his spurs into the horse and forced him to the front again, where he stood trembling. the cannonade seemed to draw nearer. a staff-officer, riding slowly up and down the battalion suddenly collapsed in his saddle and clung to his horse's mane. one of his boots dangled, crimsoned and dripping, from the stirrup. then out of the mist in front men came running. the roads, the fields, the ditches were full of them, and many of them fell. for an instant he imagined he saw horsemen riding about like ghosts in the vapours beyond, and a man behind him cursed horribly, declaring he too had seen them, and that they were uhlans; but the battalion stood inactive, and the mist fell again over the meadows. the colonel sat heavily upon his horse, his bullet-shaped head buried in the astrakan collar of his dolman, his fat legs sticking straight out in the stirrups. the buglers clustered about him with bugles poised, and behind him a staff-officer in a pale blue jacket smoked a cigarette and chatted with a captain of hussars. from the road in front came the sound of furious galloping and an orderly reined up beside the colonel, who motioned him to the rear without turning his head. then on the left a confused murmur arose which ended in a shout. a hussar passed like the wind, followed by another and another, and then squadron after squadron whirled by them into the sheeted mists. at that instant the colonel reared in his saddle, the bugles clanged, and the whole battalion scrambled down the embankment, over the ditch and started across the soggy meadow. almost at once trent lost his cap. something snatched it from his head, he thought it was a tree branch. a good many of his comrades rolled over in the slush and ice, and he imagined that they had slipped. one pitched right across his path and he stopped to help him up, but the man screamed when he touched him and an officer shouted, "forward! forward!" so he ran on again. it was a long jog through the mist, and he was often obliged to shift his rifle. when at last they lay panting behind the railroad embankment, he looked about him. he had felt the need of action, of a desperate physical struggle, of killing and crushing. he had been seized with a desire to fling himself among masses and tear right and left. he longed to fire, to use the thin sharp bayonet on his chassepot. he had not expected this. he wished to become exhausted, to struggle and cut until incapable of lifting his arm. then he had intended to go home. he heard a man say that half the battalion had gone down in the charge, and he saw another examining a corpse under the embankment. the body, still warm, was clothed in a strange uniform, but even when he noticed the spiked helmet lying a few inches further away, he did not realize what had happened. the colonel sat on his horse a few feet to the left, his eyes sparkling under the crimson képi. trent heard him reply to an officer: "i can hold it, but another charge, and i won't have enough men left to sound a bugle." "were the prussians here?" trent asked of a soldier who sat wiping the blood trickling from his hair. "yes. the hussars cleaned them out. we caught their cross fire." "we are supporting a battery on the embankment," said another. then the battalion crawled over the embankment and moved along the lines of twisted rails. trent rolled up his trousers and tucked them into his woollen socks: but they halted again, and some of the men sat down on the dismantled railroad track. trent looked for his wounded comrade from the beaux arts. he was standing in his place, very pale. the cannonade had become terrific. for a moment the mist lifted. he caught a glimpse of the first battalion motionless on the railroad track in front, of regiments on either flank, and then, as the fog settled again, the drums beat and the music of the bugles began away on the extreme left. a restless movement passed among the troops, the colonel threw up his arm, the drums rolled, and the battalion moved off through the fog. they were near the front now for the battalion was firing as it advanced. ambulances galloped along the base of the embankment to the rear, and the hussars passed and repassed like phantoms. they were in the front at last, for all about them was movement and turmoil, while from the fog, close at hand, came cries and groans and crashing volleys. shells fell everywhere, bursting along the embankment, splashing them with frozen slush. trent was frightened. he began to dread the unknown, which lay there crackling and flaming in obscurity. the shock of the cannon sickened him. he could even see the fog light up with a dull orange as the thunder shook the earth. it was near, he felt certain, for the colonel shouted "forward!" and the first battalion was hastening into it. he felt its breath, he trembled, but hurried on. a fearful discharge in front terrified him. somewhere in the fog men were cheering, and the colonel's horse, streaming with blood plunged about in the smoke. another blast and shock, right in his face, almost stunned him, and he faltered. all the men to the right were down. his head swam; the fog and smoke stupefied him. he put out his hand for a support and caught something. it was the wheel of a gun-carriage, and a man sprang from behind it, aiming a blow at his head with a rammer, but stumbled back shrieking with a bayonet through his neck, and trent knew that he had killed. mechanically he stooped to pick up his rifle, but the bayonet was still in the man, who lay, beating with red hands against the sod. it sickened him and he leaned on the cannon. men were fighting all around him now, and the air was foul with smoke and sweat. somebody seized him from behind and another in front, but others in turn seized them or struck them solid blows. the click! click! click! of bayonets infuriated him, and he grasped the rammer and struck out blindly until it was shivered to pieces. a man threw his arm around his neck and bore him to the ground, but he throttled him and raised himself on his knees. he saw a comrade seize the cannon, and fall across it with his skull crushed in; he saw the colonel tumble clean out of his saddle into the mud; then consciousness fled. when he came to himself, he was lying on the embankment among the twisted rails. on every side huddled men who cried out and cursed and fled away into the fog, and he staggered to his feet and followed them. once he stopped to help a comrade with a bandaged jaw, who could not speak but clung to his arm for a time and then fell dead in the freezing mire; and again he aided another, who groaned: "trent, c'est moi--philippe," until a sudden volley in the midst relieved him of his charge. an icy wind swept down from the heights, cutting the fog into shreds. for an instant, with an evil leer the sun peered through the naked woods of vincennes, sank like a blood-clot in the battery smoke, lower, lower, into the blood-soaked plain. iv when midnight sounded from the belfry of st. sulpice the gates of paris were still choked with fragments of what had once been an army. they entered with the night, a sullen horde, spattered with slime, faint with hunger and exhaustion. there was little disorder at first, and the throng at the gates parted silently as the troops tramped along the freezing streets. confusion came as the hours passed. swiftly and more swiftly, crowding squadron after squadron and battery on battery, horses plunging and caissons jolting, the remnants from the front surged through the gates, a chaos of cavalry and artillery struggling for the right of way. close upon them stumbled the infantry; here a skeleton of a regiment marching with a desperate attempt at order, there a riotous mob of mobiles crushing their way to the streets, then a turmoil of horsemen, cannon, troops without, officers, officers without men, then again a line of ambulances, the wheels groaning under their heavy loads. dumb with misery the crowd looked on. all through the day the ambulances had been arriving, and all day long the ragged throng whimpered and shivered by the barriers. at noon the crowd was increased ten-fold, filling the squares about the gates, and swarming over the inner fortifications. at four o'clock in the afternoon the german batteries suddenly wreathed themselves in smoke, and the shells fell fast on montparnasse. at twenty minutes after four two projectiles struck a house in the rue de bac, and a moment later the first shell fell in the latin quarter. braith was painting in bed when west came in very much scared. "i wish you would come down; our house has been knocked into a cocked hat, and i'm afraid that some of the pillagers may take it into their heads to pay us a visit to-night." braith jumped out of bed and bundled himself into a garment which had once been an overcoat. "anybody hurt?" he inquired, struggling with a sleeve full of dilapidated lining. "no. colette is barricaded in the cellar, and the concierge ran away to the fortifications. there will be a rough gang there if the bombardment keeps up. you might help us--" "of course," said braith; but it was not until they had reached the rue serpente and had turned in the passage which led to west's cellar, that the latter cried: "have you seen jack trent, to-day?" "no," replied braith, looking troubled, "he was not at ambulance headquarters." "he stayed to take care of sylvia, i suppose." a bomb came crashing through the roof of a house at the end of the alley and burst in the basement, showering the street with slate and plaster. a second struck a chimney and plunged into the garden, followed by an avalanche of bricks, and another exploded with a deafening report in the next street. they hurried along the passage to the steps which led to the cellar. here again braith stopped. "don't you think i had better run up to see if jack and sylvia are well entrenched? i can get back before dark." "no. go in and find colette, and i'll go." "no, no, let me go, there's no danger." "i know it," replied west calmly; and, dragging braith into the alley, pointed to the cellar steps. the iron door was barred. "colette! colette!" he called. the door swung inward, and the girl sprang up the stairs to meet them. at that instant, braith, glancing behind him, gave a startled cry, and pushing the two before him into the cellar, jumped down after them and slammed the iron door. a few seconds later a heavy jar from the outside shook the hinges. "they are here," muttered west, very pale. "that door," observed colette calmly, "will hold for ever." braith examined the low iron structure, now trembling with the blows rained on it from without. west glanced anxiously at colette, who displayed no agitation, and this comforted him. "i don't believe they will spend much time here," said braith; "they only rummage in cellars for spirits, i imagine." "unless they hear that valuables are buried there." "but surely nothing is buried here?" exclaimed braith uneasily. "unfortunately there is," growled west. "that miserly landlord of mine--" a crash from the outside, followed by a yell, cut him short; then blow after blow shook the doors, until there came a sharp snap, a clinking of metal and a triangular bit of iron fell inwards, leaving a hole through which struggled a ray of light. instantly west knelt, and shoving his revolver through the aperture fired every cartridge. for a moment the alley resounded with the racket of the revolver, then absolute silence followed. presently a single questioning blow fell upon the door, and a moment later another and another, and then a sudden crack zigzagged across the iron plate. "here," said west, seizing colette by the wrist, "you follow me, braith!" and he ran swiftly toward a circular spot of light at the further end of the cellar. the spot of light came from a barred man-hole above. west motioned braith to mount on his shoulders. "push it over. you _must_!" with little effort braith lifted the barred cover, scrambled out on his stomach, and easily raised colette from west's shoulders. "quick, old chap!" cried the latter. braith twisted his legs around a fence-chain and leaned down again. the cellar was flooded with a yellow light, and the air reeked with the stench of petroleum torches. the iron door still held, but a whole plate of metal was gone, and now as they looked a figure came creeping through, holding a torch. "quick!" whispered braith. "jump!" and west hung dangling until colette grasped him by the collar, and he was dragged out. then her nerves gave way and she wept hysterically, but west threw his arm around her and led her across the gardens into the next street, where braith, after replacing the man-hole cover and piling some stone slabs from the wall over it, rejoined them. it was almost dark. they hurried through the street, now only lighted by burning buildings, or the swift glare of the shells. they gave wide berth to the fires, but at a distance saw the flitting forms of pillagers among the _débris_. sometimes they passed a female fury crazed with drink shrieking anathemas upon the world, or some slouching lout whose blackened face and hands betrayed his share in the work of destruction. at last they reached the seine and passed the bridge, and then braith said: "i must go back. i am not sure of jack and sylvia." as he spoke, he made way for a crowd which came trampling across the bridge, and along the river wall by the d'orsay barracks. in the midst of it west caught the measured tread of a platoon. a lantern passed, a file of bayonets, then another lantern which glimmered on a deathly face behind, and colette gasped, "hartman!" and he was gone. they peered fearfully across the embankment, holding their breath. there was a shuffle of feet on the quay, and the gate of the barracks slammed. a lantern shone for a moment at the postern, the crowd pressed to the grille, then came the clang of the volley from the stone parade. one by one the petroleum torches flared up along the embankment, and now the whole square was in motion. down from the champs elysées and across the place de la concorde straggled the fragments of the battle, a company here, and a mob there. they poured in from every street followed by women and children, and a great murmur, borne on the icy wind, swept through the arc de triomphe and down the dark avenue,--"perdus! perdus!" a ragged end of a battalion was pressing past, the spectre of annihilation. west groaned. then a figure sprang from the shadowy ranks and called west's name, and when he saw it was trent he cried out. trent seized him, white with terror. "sylvia?" west stared speechless, but colette moaned, "oh, sylvia! sylvia!--and they are shelling the quarter!" "trent!" shouted braith; but he was gone, and they could not overtake them. the bombardment ceased as trent crossed the boulevard st. germain, but the entrance to the rue de seine was blocked by a heap of smoking bricks. everywhere the shells had torn great holes in the pavement. the café was a wreck of splinters and glass, the book-store tottered, ripped from roof to basement, and the little bakery, long since closed, bulged outward above a mass of slate and tin. he climbed over the steaming bricks and hurried into the rue de tournon. on the corner a fire blazed, lighting up his own street, and on the bank wall, beneath a shattered gas lamp, a child was writing with a bit of cinder. "here fell the first shell." the letters stared him in the face. the rat-killer finished and stepped back to view his work, but catching sight of trent's bayonet, screamed and fled, and as trent staggered across the shattered street, from holes and crannies in the ruins fierce women fled from their work of pillage, cursing him. at first he could not find his house, for the tears blinded him, but he felt along the wall and reached the door. a lantern burned in the concierge's lodge and the old man lay dead beside it. faint with fright he leaned a moment on his rifle, then, snatching the lantern, sprang up the stairs. he tried to call, but his tongue hardly moved. on the second floor he saw plaster on the stairway, and on the third the floor was torn and the concierge lay in a pool of blood across the landing. the next floor was his, _theirs_. the door hung from its hinges, the walls gaped. he crept in and sank down by the bed, and there two arms were flung around his neck, and a tear-stained face sought his own. "sylvia!" "o jack! jack! jack!" from the tumbled pillow beside them a child wailed. "they brought it; it is mine," she sobbed. "ours," he whispered, with his arms around them both. then from the stairs below came braith's anxious voice. "trent! is all well?" the street of our lady of the fields "et tout les jours passés dans la tristesse nous sont comptés comme des jours heureux!" i the street is not fashionable, neither is it shabby. it is a pariah among streets--a street without a quarter. it is generally understood to lie outside the pale of the aristocratic avenue de l'observatoire. the students of the montparnasse quarter consider it swell and will have none of it. the latin quarter, from the luxembourg, its northern frontier, sneers at its respectability and regards with disfavour the correctly costumed students who haunt it. few strangers go into it. at times, however, the latin quarter students use it as a thoroughfare between the rue de rennes and the bullier, but except for that and the weekly afternoon visits of parents and guardians to the convent near the rue vavin, the street of our lady of the fields is as quiet as a passy boulevard. perhaps the most respectable portion lies between the rue de la grande chaumière and the rue vavin, at least this was the conclusion arrived at by the reverend joel byram, as he rambled through it with hastings in charge. to hastings the street looked pleasant in the bright june weather, and he had begun to hope for its selection when the reverend byram shied violently at the cross on the convent opposite. "jesuits," he muttered. "well," said hastings wearily, "i imagine we won't find anything better. you say yourself that vice is triumphant in paris, and it seems to me that in every street we find jesuits or something worse." after a moment he repeated, "or something worse, which of course i would not notice except for your kindness in warning me." dr. byram sucked in his lips and looked about him. he was impressed by the evident respectability of the surroundings. then frowning at the convent he took hastings' arm and shuffled across the street to an iron gateway which bore the number 201 _bis_ painted in white on a blue ground. below this was a notice printed in english: 1. for porter please oppress once. 2. for servant please oppress twice. 3. for parlour please oppress thrice. hastings touched the electric button three times, and they were ushered through the garden and into the parlour by a trim maid. the dining-room door, just beyond, was open, and from the table in plain view a stout woman hastily arose and came toward them. hastings caught a glimpse of a young man with a big head and several snuffy old gentlemen at breakfast, before the door closed and the stout woman waddled into the room, bringing with her an aroma of coffee and a black poodle." "it ees a plaisir to you receive!" she cried. "monsieur is anglish? no? americain? off course. my pension it ees for americains surtout. here all spik angleesh, c'est à dire, ze personnel; ze sairvants do spik, plus ou moins, a little. i am happy to have you comme pensionnaires--" "madame," began dr. byram, but was cut short again. "ah, yess, i know, ah! mon dieu! you do not spik frainch but you have come to lairne! my husband does spik frainch wiss ze pensionnaires. we have at ze moment a family americaine who learn of my husband frainch--" here the poodle growled at dr. byram and was promptly cuffed by his mistress. "veux tu!" she cried, with a slap, "veux tu! oh! le vilain, oh! le vilain!" "mais, madame," said hastings, smiling, "il n'a pas l'air très féroce." the poodle fled, and his mistress cried, "ah, ze accent charming! he does spik already frainch like a parisien young gentleman!" then dr. byram managed to get in a word or two and gathered more or less information with regard to prices. "it ees a pension serieux; my clientèle ees of ze best, indeed a pension de famille where one ees at 'ome." then they went upstairs to examine hastings' future quarters, test the bed-springs and arrange for the weekly towel allowance. dr. byram appeared satisfied. madame marotte accompanied them to the door and rang for the maid, but as hastings stepped out into the gravel walk, his guide and mentor paused a moment and fixed madame with his watery eyes. "you understand," he said, "that he is a youth of most careful bringing up, and his character and morals are without a stain. he is young and has never been abroad, never even seen a large city, and his parents have requested me, as an old family friend living in paris, to see that he is placed under good influences. he is to study art, but on no account would his parents wish him to live in the latin quarter if they knew of the immorality which is rife there." a sound like the click of a latch interrupted him and he raised his eyes, but not in time to see the maid slap the big-headed young man behind the parlour-door. madame coughed, cast a deadly glance behind her and then beamed on dr. byram. "it ees well zat he come here. the pension more serious, il n'en existe pas, eet ees not any!" she announced with conviction. so, as there was nothing more to add, dr. byram joined hastings at the gate. "i trust," he said, eyeing the convent, "that you will make no acquaintances among jesuits!" hastings looked at the convent until a pretty girl passed before the gray façade, and then he looked at her. a young fellow with a paint-box and canvas came swinging along, stopped before the pretty girl, said something during a brief but vigorous handshake at which they both laughed, and he went his way, calling back, "à demain valentine!" as in the same breath she cried, "à demain!" "valentine," thought hastings, "what a quaint name;" and he started to follow the reverend joel byram, who was shuffling towards the nearest tramway station. ii "an' you are pleas wiz paris, monsieur' astang?" demanded madame marotte the next morning as hastings came into the breakfast-room of the pension, rosy from his plunge in the limited bath above. "i am sure i shall like it," he replied, wondering at his own depression of spirits. the maid brought him coffee and rolls. he returned the vacant glance of the big-headed young man and acknowledged diffidently the salutes of the snuffy old gentlemen. he did not try to finish his coffee, and sat crumbling a roll, unconscious of the sympathetic glances of madame marotte, who had tact enough not to bother him. presently a maid entered with a tray on which were balanced two bowls of chocolate, and the snuffy old gentlemen leered at her ankles. the maid deposited the chocolate at a table near the window and smiled at hastings. then a thin young lady, followed by her counterpart in all except years, marched into the room and took the table near the window. they were evidently american, but hastings, if he expected any sign of recognition, was disappointed. to be ignored by compatriots intensified his depression. he fumbled with his knife and looked at his plate. the thin young lady was talkative enough. she was quite aware of hastings' presence, ready to be flattered if he looked at her, but on the other hand she felt her superiority, for she had been three weeks in paris and he, it was easy to see, had not yet unpacked his steamer-trunk. her conversation was complacent. she argued with her mother upon the relative merits of the louvre and the bon marché, but her mother's part of the discussion was mostly confined to the observation, "why, susie!" the snuffy old gentlemen had left the room in a body, outwardly polite and inwardly raging. they could not endure the americans, who filled the room with their chatter. the big-headed young man looked after them with a knowing cough, murmuring, "gay old birds!" "they look like bad old men, mr. bladen," said the girl. to this mr. bladen smiled and said, "they've had their day," in a tone which implied that he was now having his. "and that's why they all have baggy eyes," cried the girl. "i think it's a shame for young gentlemen--" "why, susie!" said the mother, and the conversation lagged. after a while mr. bladen threw down the _petit journal_, which he daily studied at the expense of the house, and turning to hastings, started to make himself agreeable. he began by saying, "i see you are american." to this brilliant and original opening, hastings, deadly homesick, replied gratefully, and the conversation was judiciously nourished by observations from miss susie byng distinctly addressed to mr. bladen. in the course of events miss susie, forgetting to address herself exclusively to mr. bladen, and hastings replying to her general question, the _entente cordiale_ was established, and susie and her mother extended a protectorate over what was clearly neutral territory. "mr. hastings, you must not desert the pension every evening as mr. bladen does. paris is an awful place for young gentlemen, and mr. bladen is a horrid cynic." mr. bladen looked gratified. hastings answered, "i shall be at the studio all day, and i imagine i shall be glad enough to come back at night." mr. bladen, who, at a salary of fifteen dollars a week, acted as agent for the pewly manufacturing company of troy, n.y., smiled a sceptical smile and withdrew to keep an appointment with a customer on the boulevard magenta. hastings walked into the garden with mrs. byng and susie, and, at their invitation, sat down in the shade before the iron gate. the chestnut trees still bore their fragrant spikes of pink and white, and the bees hummed among the roses, trellised on the white-walled house. a faint freshness was in the air. the watering carts moved up and down the street, and a clear stream bubbled over the spotless gutters of the rue de la grande chaumière. the sparrows were merry along the curb-stones, taking bath after bath in the water and ruffling their feathers with delight. in a walled garden across the street a pair of blackbirds whistled among the almond trees. hastings swallowed the lump in his throat, for the song of the birds and the ripple of water in a paris gutter brought back to him the sunny meadows of millbrook. "that's a blackbird," observed miss byng; "see him there on the bush with pink blossoms. he's all black except his bill, and that looks as if it had been dipped in an omelet, as some frenchman says--" "why, susie!" said mrs. byng. "that garden belongs to a studio inhabited by two americans," continued the girl serenely, "and i often see them pass. they seem to need a great many models, mostly young and feminine--" "why, susie!" "perhaps they prefer painting that kind, but i don't see why they should invite five, with three more young gentlemen, and all get into two cabs and drive away singing. this street," she continued, "is dull. there is nothing to see except the garden and a glimpse of the boulevard montparnasse through the rue de la grande chaumière. no one ever passes except a policeman. there is a convent on the corner." "i thought it was a jesuit college," began hastings, but was at once overwhelmed with a baedecker description of the place, ending with, "on one side stand the palatial hotels of jean paul laurens and guillaume bouguereau, and opposite, in the little passage stanislas, carolus duran paints the masterpieces which charm the world." the blackbird burst into a ripple of golden throaty notes, and from some distant green spot in the city an unknown wild-bird answered with a frenzy of liquid trills until the sparrows paused in their ablutions to look up with restless chirps. then a butterfly came and sat on a cluster of heliotrope and waved his crimson-banded wings in the hot sunshine. hastings knew him for a friend, and before his eyes there came a vision of tall mulleins and scented milkweed alive with painted wings, a vision of a white house and woodbine-covered piazza,--a glimpse of a man reading and a woman leaning over the pansy bed,--and his heart was full. he was startled a moment later by miss byng. "i believe you are homesick!" hastings blushed. miss byng looked at him with a sympathetic sigh and continued: "whenever i felt homesick at first i used to go with mamma and walk in the luxembourg gardens. i don't know why it is, but those old-fashioned gardens seemed to bring me nearer home than anything in this artificial city." "but they are full of marble statues," said mrs. byng mildly; "i don't see the resemblance myself." "where is the luxembourg?" inquired hastings after a silence. "come with me to the gate," said miss byng. he rose and followed her, and she pointed out the rue vavin at the foot of the street. "you pass by the convent to the right," she smiled; and hastings went. iii the luxembourg was a blaze of flowers. he walked slowly through the long avenues of trees, past mossy marbles and old-time columns, and threading the grove by the bronze lion, came upon the tree-crowned terrace above the fountain. below lay the basin shining in the sunlight. flowering almonds encircled the terrace, and, in a greater spiral, groves of chestnuts wound in and out and down among the moist thickets by the western palace wing. at one end of the avenue of trees the observatory rose, its white domes piled up like an eastern mosque; at the other end stood the heavy palace, with every window-pane ablaze in the fierce sun of june. around the fountain, children and white-capped nurses armed with bamboo poles were pushing toy boats, whose sails hung limp in the sunshine. a dark policeman, wearing red epaulettes and a dress sword, watched them for a while and then went away to remonstrate with a young man who had unchained his dog. the dog was pleasantly occupied in rubbing grass and dirt into his back while his legs waved into the air. the policeman pointed at the dog. he was speechless with indignation. "well, captain," smiled the young fellow. "well, monsieur student," growled the policeman. "what do you come and complain to me for?" "if you don't chain him i'll take him," shouted the policeman. "what's that to me, mon capitaine?" "wha--t! isn't that bull-dog yours?" "if it was, don't you suppose i'd chain him?" the officer glared for a moment in silence, then deciding that as he was a student he was wicked, grabbed at the dog, who promptly dodged. around and around the flower-beds they raced, and when the officer came too near for comfort, the bull-dog cut across a flower-bed, which perhaps was not playing fair. the young man was amused, and the dog also seemed to enjoy the exercise. the policeman noticed this and decided to strike at the fountain-head of the evil. he stormed up to the student and said, "as the owner of this public nuisance i arrest you!" "but," objected the other, "i disclaim the dog." that was a poser. it was useless to attempt to catch the dog until three gardeners lent a hand, but then the dog simply ran away and disappeared in the rue de medici. the policeman shambled off to find consolation among the white-capped nurses, and the student, looking at his watch, stood up yawning. then catching sight of hastings, he smiled and bowed. hastings walked over to the marble, laughing. "why, clifford," he said, "i didn't recognize you." "it's my moustache," sighed the other. "i sacrificed it to humour a whim of--of--a friend. what do you think of my dog?" "then he is yours?" cried hastings. "of course. it's a pleasant change for him, this playing tag with policemen, but he is known now and i'll have to stop it. he's gone home. he always does when the gardeners take a hand. it's a pity; he's fond of rolling on lawns." then they chatted for a moment of hastings' prospects, and clifford politely offered to stand his sponsor at the studio. "you see, old tabby, i mean dr. byram, told me about you before i met you," explained clifford, "and elliott and i will be glad to do anything we can." then looking at his watch again, he muttered, "i have just ten minutes to catch the versailles train; au revoir," and started to go, but catching sight of a girl advancing by the fountain, took off his hat with a confused smile. "why are you not at versailles?" she said, with an almost imperceptible acknowledgment of hastings' presence. "i--i'm going," murmured clifford. for a moment they faced each other, and then clifford, very red, stammered, "with your permission i have the honour of presenting to you my friend, monsieur hastings." hastings bowed low. she smiled very sweetly, but there was something of malice in the quiet inclination of her small parisienne head. "i could have wished," she said, "that monsieur clifford might spare me more time when he brings with him so charming an american." "must--must i go, valentine?" began clifford. "certainly," she replied. clifford took his leave with very bad grace, wincing, when she added, "and give my dearest love to cécile!" as he disappeared in the rue d'assas, the girl turned as if to go, but then suddenly remembering hastings, looked at him and shook her head. "monsieur clifford is so perfectly harebrained," she smiled, "it is embarrassing sometimes. you have heard, of course, all about his success at the salon?" he looked puzzled and she noticed it. "you have been to the salon, of course?" "why, no," he answered, "i only arrived in paris three days ago." she seemed to pay little heed to his explanation, but continued: "nobody imagined he had the energy to do anything good, but on varnishing day the salon was astonished by the entrance of monsieur clifford, who strolled about as bland as you please with an orchid in his buttonhole, and a beautiful picture on the line." she smiled to herself at the reminiscence, and looked at the fountain. "monsieur bouguereau told me that monsieur julian was so astonished that he only shook hands with monsieur clifford in a dazed manner, and actually forgot to pat him on the back! fancy," she continued with much merriment, "fancy papa julian forgetting to pat one on the back." hastings, wondering at her acquaintance with the great bouguereau, looked at her with respect. "may i ask," he said diffidently, "whether you are a pupil of bouguereau?" "i?" she said in some surprise. then she looked at him curiously. was he permitting himself the liberty of joking on such short acquaintance? his pleasant serious face questioned hers. "tiens," she thought, "what a droll man!" "you surely study art?" he said. she leaned back on the crooked stick of her parasol, and looked at him. "why do you think so?" "because you speak as if you did." "you are making fun of me," she said, "and it is not good taste." she stopped, confused, as he coloured to the roots of his hair. "how long have you been in paris?" she said at length. "three days," he replied gravely. "but--but--surely you are not a nouveau! you speak french too well!" then after a pause, "really are you a nouveau?" "i am," he said. she sat down on the marble bench lately occupied by clifford, and tilting her parasol over her small head looked at him. "i don't believe it." he felt the compliment, and for a moment hesitated to declare himself one of the despised. then mustering up his courage, he told her how new and green he was, and all with a frankness which made her blue eyes open very wide and her lips part in the sweetest of smiles. "you have never seen a studio?" "never." "nor a model?" "no." "how funny," she said solemnly. then they both laughed. "and you," he said, "have seen studios?" "hundreds." "and models?" "millions." "and you know bouguereau?" "yes, and henner, and constant and laurens, and puvis de chavannes and dagnan and courtois, and--and all the rest of them!" "and yet you say you are not an artist." "pardon," she said gravely, "did i say i was not?" "won't you tell me?" he hesitated. at first she looked at him, shaking her head and smiling, then of a sudden her eyes fell and she began tracing figures with her parasol in the gravel at her feet. hastings had taken a place on the seat, and now, with his elbows on his knees, sat watching the spray drifting above the fountain jet. a small boy, dressed as a sailor, stood poking his yacht and crying, "i won't go home! i won't go home!" his nurse raised her hands to heaven. "just like a little american boy," thought hastings, and a pang of homesickness shot through him. presently the nurse captured the boat, and the small boy stood at bay. "monsieur rené, when you decide to come here you may have your boat." the boy backed away scowling. "give me my boat, i say," he cried, "and don't call me rené, for my name's randall and you know it!" "hello!" said hastings,--"randall?--that's english." "i am american," announced the boy in perfectly good english, turning to look at hastings, "and she's such a fool she calls me rené because mamma calls me ranny--" here he dodged the exasperated nurse and took up his station behind hastings, who laughed, and catching him around the waist lifted him into his lap. "one of my countrymen," he said to the girl beside him. he smiled while he spoke, but there was a queer feeling in his throat. "don't you see the stars and stripes on my yacht?" demanded randall. sure enough, the american colours hung limply under the nurse's arm. "oh," cried the girl, "he is charming," and impulsively stooped to kiss him, but the infant randall wriggled out of hastings' arms, and his nurse pounced upon him with an angry glance at the girl. she reddened and then bit her lips as the nurse, with eyes still fixed on her, dragged the child away and ostentatiously wiped his lips with her handkerchief. then she stole a look at hastings and bit her lip again. "what an ill-tempered woman!" he said. "in america, most nurses are flattered when people kiss their children." for an instant she tipped the parasol to hide her face, then closed it with a snap and looked at him defiantly. "do you think it strange that she objected?" "why not?" he said in surprise. again she looked at him with quick searching eyes. his eyes were clear and bright, and he smiled back, repeating, "why not?" "you _are_ droll," she murmured, bending her head. "why?" but she made no answer, and sat silent, tracing curves and circles in the dust with her parasol. after a while he said--"i am glad to see that young people have so much liberty here. i understood that the french were not at all like us. you know in america--or at least where i live in milbrook, girls have every liberty,--go out alone and receive their friends alone, and i was afraid i should miss it here. but i see how it is now, and i am glad i was mistaken." she raised her eyes to his and kept them there. he continued pleasantly--"since i have sat here i have seen a lot of pretty girls walking alone on the terrace there,--and then _you_ are alone too. tell me, for i do not know french customs,--do you have the liberty of going to the theatre without a chaperone?" for a long time she studied his face, and then with a trembling smile said, "why do you ask me?" "because you must know, of course," he said gaily. "yes," she replied indifferently, "i know." he waited for an answer, but getting none, decided that perhaps she had misunderstood him. "i hope you don't think i mean to presume on our short acquaintance," he began,--"in fact it is very odd but i don't know your name. when mr. clifford presented me he only mentioned mine. is that the custom in france?" "it is the custom in the latin quarter," she said with a queer light in her eyes. then suddenly she began talking almost feverishly. "you must know, monsieur hastings, that we are all _un peu sans gêne_ here in the latin quarter. we are very bohemian, and etiquette and ceremony are out of place. it was for that monsieur clifford presented you to me with small ceremony, and left us together with less,--only for that, and i am his friend, and i have many friends in the latin quarter, and we all know each other very well--and i am not studying art, but--but--" "but what?" he said, bewildered. "i shall not tell you,--it is a secret," she said with an uncertain smile. on both cheeks a pink spot was burning, and her eyes were very bright. then in a moment her face fell. "do you know monsieur clifford very intimately?" "not very." after a while she turned to him, grave and a little pale. "my name is valentine--valentine tissot. might--might i ask a service of you on such very short acquaintance?" "oh," he cried, "i should be honoured." "it is only this," she said gently, "it is not much. promise me not to speak to monsieur clifford about me. promise me that you will speak to no one about me." "i promise," he said, greatly puzzled. she laughed nervously. "i wish to remain a mystery. it is a caprice." "but," he began, "i had wished, i had hoped that you might give monsieur clifford permission to bring me, to present me at your house." "my--my house!" she repeated. "i mean, where you live, in fact, to present me to your family." the change in the girl's face shocked him. "i beg your pardon," he cried, "i have hurt you." and as quick as a flash she understood him because she was a woman. "my parents are dead," she said. presently he began again, very gently. "would it displease you if i beg you to receive me? it is the custom?" "i cannot," she answered. then glancing up at him, "i am sorry; i should like to; but believe me. i cannot." he bowed seriously and looked vaguely uneasy. "it isn't because i don't wish to. i--i like you; you are very kind to me." "kind?" he cried, surprised and puzzled. "i like you," she said slowly, "and we will see each other sometimes if you will." "at friends' houses." "no, not at friends' houses." "where?" "here," she said with defiant eyes. "why," he cried, "in paris you are much more liberal in your views than we are." she looked at him curiously. "yes, we are very bohemian." "i think it is charming," he declared. "you see, we shall be in the best of society," she ventured timidly, with a pretty gesture toward the statues of the dead queens, ranged in stately ranks above the terrace. he looked at her, delighted, and she brightened at the success of her innocent little pleasantry. "indeed," she smiled, "i shall be well chaperoned, because you see we are under the protection of the gods themselves; look, there are apollo, and juno, and venus, on their pedestals," counting them on her small gloved fingers, "and ceres, hercules, and--but i can't make out--" hastings turned to look up at the winged god under whose shadow they were seated. "why, it's love," he said. iv "there is a nouveau here," drawled laffat, leaning around his easel and addressing his friend bowles, "there is a nouveau here who is so tender and green and appetizing that heaven help him if he should fall into a salad bowl." "hayseed?" inquired bowles, plastering in a background with a broken palette-knife and squinting at the effect with approval. "yes, squeedunk or oshkosh, and how he ever grew up among the daisies and escaped the cows, heaven alone knows!" bowles rubbed his thumb across the outlines of his study to "throw in a little atmosphere," as he said, glared at the model, pulled at his pipe and finding it out struck a match on his neighbour's back to relight it. "his name," continued laffat, hurling a bit of bread at the hat-rack, "his name is hastings. he _is_ a berry. he knows no more about the world,"--and here mr. laffat's face spoke volumes for his own knowledge of that planet,--"than a maiden cat on its first moonlight stroll." bowles now having succeeded in lighting his pipe, repeated the thumb touch on the other edge of the study and said, "ah!" "yes," continued his friend, "and would you imagine it, he seems to think that everything here goes on as it does in his d----d little backwoods ranch at home; talks about the pretty girls who walk alone in the street; says how sensible it is; and how french parents are misrepresented in america; says that for his part he finds french girls,--and he confessed to only knowing one,--as jolly as american girls. i tried to set him right, tried to give him a pointer as to what sort of ladies walk about alone or with students, and he was either too stupid or too innocent to catch on. then i gave it to him straight, and he said i was a vile-minded fool and marched off." "did you assist him with your shoe?" inquired bowles, languidly interested. "well, no." "he called you a vile-minded fool." "he was correct," said clifford from his easel in front. "what--what do you mean?" demanded laffat, turning red. "_that_," replied clifford. "who spoke to you? is this your business?" sneered bowles, but nearly lost his balance as clifford swung about and eyed him. "yes," he said slowly, "it's my business." no one spoke for some time. then clifford sang out, "i say, hastings!" and when hastings left his easel and came around, he nodded toward the astonished laffat. "this man has been disagreeable to you, and i want to tell you that any time you feel inclined to kick him, why, i will hold the other creature." hastings, embarrassed, said, "why no, i don't agree with his ideas, nothing more." clifford said "naturally," and slipping his arm through hastings', strolled about with him, and introduced him to several of his own friends, at which all the nouveaux opened their eyes with envy, and the studio were given to understand that hastings, although prepared to do menial work as the latest nouveau, was already within the charmed circle of the old, respected and feared, the truly great. the rest finished, the model resumed his place, and work went on in a chorus of songs and yells and every ear-splitting noise which the art student utters when studying the beautiful. five o'clock struck,--the model yawned, stretched and climbed into his trousers, and the noisy contents of six studios crowded through the hall and down into the street. ten minutes later, hastings found himself on top of a montrouge tram, and shortly afterward was joined by clifford. they climbed down at the rue gay lussac. "i always stop here," observed clifford, "i like the walk through the luxembourg." "by the way," said hastings, "how can i call on you when i don't know where you live?" "why, i live opposite you." "what--the studio in the garden where the almond trees are and the blackbirds--" "exactly," said clifford. "i'm with my friend elliott." hastings thought of the description of the two american artists which he had heard from miss susie byng, and looked blank. clifford continued, "perhaps you had better let me know when you think of coming so,--so that i will be sure to--to be there," he ended rather lamely. "i shouldn't care to meet any of your model friends there," said hastings, smiling. "you know--my ideas are rather straitlaced,--i suppose you would say, puritanical. i shouldn't enjoy it and wouldn't know how to behave." "oh, i understand," said clifford, but added with great cordiality,--"i'm sure we'll be friends although you may not approve of me and my set, but you will like severn and selby because--because, well, they are like yourself, old chap." after a moment he continued, "there is something i want to speak about. you see, when i introduced you, last week, in the luxembourg, to valentine--" "not a word!" cried hastings, smiling; "you must not tell me a word of her!" "why--" "no--not a word!" he said gaily. "i insist,--promise me upon your honour you will not speak of her until i give you permission; promise!" "i promise," said clifford, amazed. "she is a charming girl,--we had such a delightful chat after you left, and i thank you for presenting me, but not another word about her until i give you permission." "oh," murmured clifford. "remember your promise," he smiled, as he turned into his gateway. clifford strolled across the street and, traversing the ivy-covered alley, entered his garden. he felt for his studio key, muttering, "i wonder--i wonder,--but of course he doesn't!" he entered the hallway, and fitting the key into the door, stood staring at the two cards tacked over the panels. foxhall clifford richard osborne elliott "why the devil doesn't he want me to speak of her?" he opened the door, and, discouraging the caresses of two brindle bull-dogs, sank down on the sofa. elliott sat smoking and sketching with a piece of charcoal by the window. "hello," he said without looking around. clifford gazed absently at the back of his head, murmuring, "i'm afraid, i'm afraid that man is too innocent. i say, elliott," he said, at last, "hastings,--you know the chap that old tabby byram came around here to tell us about--the day you had to hide colette in the armoire--" "yes, what's up?" "oh, nothing. he's a brick." "yes," said elliott, without enthusiasm. "don't you think so?" demanded clifford. "why yes, but he is going to have a tough time when some of his illusions are dispelled." "more shame to those who dispel 'em!" "yes,--wait until he comes to pay his call on us, unexpectedly, of course--" clifford looked virtuous and lighted a cigar. "i was just going to say," he observed, "that i have asked him not to come without letting us know, so i can postpone any orgie you may have intended--" "ah!" cried elliott indignantly, "i suppose you put it to him in that way." "not exactly," grinned clifford. then more seriously, "i don't want anything to occur here to bother him. he's a brick, and it's a pity we can't be more like him." "i am," observed elliott complacently, "only living with you--" "listen!" cried the other. "i have managed to put my foot in it in great style. do you know what i've done? well--the first time i met him in the street,--or rather, it was in the luxembourg, i introduced him to valentine!" "did he object?" "believe me," said clifford, solemnly, "this rustic hastings has no more idea that valentine is--is--in fact is valentine, than he has that he himself is a beautiful example of moral decency in a quarter where morals are as rare as elephants. i heard enough in a conversation between that blackguard loffat and the little immoral eruption, bowles, to open my eyes. i tell you hastings is a trump! he's a healthy, clean-minded young fellow, bred in a small country village, brought up with the idea that saloons are way-stations to hell--and as for women--" "well?" demanded elliott "well," said clifford, "his idea of the dangerous woman is probably a painted jezabel." "probably," replied the other. "he's a trump!" said clifford, "and if he swears the world is as good and pure as his own heart, i'll swear he's right." elliott rubbed his charcoal on his file to get a point and turned to his sketch saying, "he will never hear any pessimism from richard osborne e." "he's a lesson to me," said clifford. then he unfolded a small perfumed note, written on rose-coloured paper, which had been lying on the table before him. he read it, smiled, whistled a bar or two from "miss helyett," and sat down to answer it on his best cream-laid note-paper. when it was written and sealed, he picked up his stick and marched up and down the studio two or three times, whistling. "going out?" inquired the other, without turning. "yes," he said, but lingered a moment over elliott's shoulder, watching him pick out the lights in his sketch with a bit of bread. "to-morrow is sunday," he observed after a moment's silence. "well?" inquired elliott. "have you seen colette?" "no, i will to-night. she and rowden and jacqueline are coming to boulant's. i suppose you and, cécile will be there?" "well, no," replied clifford. "cécile dines at home to-night, and i--i had an idea of going to mignon's." elliott looked at him with disapproval. "you can make all the arrangements for la roche without me," he continued, avoiding elliott's eyes. "what are you up to now?" "nothing," protested clifford. "don't tell me," replied his chum, with scorn; "fellows don't rush off to mignon's when the set dine at boulant's. who is it now?--but no, i won't ask that,--what's the use!" then he lifted up his voice in complaint and beat upon the table with his pipe. "what's the use of ever trying to keep track of you? what will cécile say,--oh, yes, what will she say? it's a pity you can't be constant two months, yes, by jove! and the quarter is indulgent, but you abuse its good nature and mine too!" presently he arose, and jamming his hat on his head, marched to the door. "heaven alone knows why any one puts up with your antics, but they all do and so do i. if i were cécile or any of the other pretty fools after whom you have toddled and will, in all human probabilities, continue to toddle, i say, if i were cécile i'd spank you! now i'm going to boulant's, and as usual i shall make excuses for you and arrange the affair, and i don't care a continental where you are going, but, by the skull of the studio skeleton! if you don't turn up to-morrow with your sketching-kit under one arm and cécile under the other,--if you don't turn up in good shape, i'm done with you, and the rest can think what they please. good-night." clifford said good-night with as pleasant a smile as he could muster, and then sat down with his eyes on the door. he took out his watch and gave elliott ten minutes to vanish, then rang the concierge's call, murmuring, "oh dear, oh dear, why the devil do i do it?" "alfred," he said, as that gimlet-eyed person answered the call, "make yourself clean and proper, alfred, and replace your sabots with a pair of shoes. then put on your best hat and take this letter to the big white house in the rue de dragon. there is no answer, _mon petit_ alfred." the concierge departed with a snort in which unwillingness for the errand and affection for m. clifford were blended. then with great care the young fellow arrayed himself in all the beauties of his and elliott's wardrobe. he took his time about it, and occasionally interrupted his toilet to play his banjo or make pleasing diversion for the bull-dogs by gambling about on all fours. "i've got two hours before me," he thought, and borrowed a pair of elliott's silken foot-gear, with which he and the dogs played ball until he decided to put them on. then he lighted a cigarette and inspected his dress-coat. when he had emptied it of four handkerchiefs, a fan, and a pair of crumpled gloves as long as his arm, he decided it was not suited to add _éclat_ to his charms and cast about in his mind for a substitute. elliott was too thin, and, anyway, his coats were now under lock and key. rowden probably was as badly off as himself. hastings! hastings was the man! but when he threw on a smoking-jacket and sauntered over to hastings' house, he was informed that he had been gone over an hour. "now, where in the name of all that's reasonable could he have gone!" muttered clifford, looking down the street. the maid didn't know, so he bestowed upon her a fascinating smile and lounged back to the studio. hastings was not far away. the luxembourg is within five minutes' walk of the rue notre dame des champs, and there he sat under the shadow of a winged god, and there he had sat for an hour, poking holes in the dust and watching the steps which lead from the northern terrace to the fountain. the sun hung, a purple globe, above the misty hills of meudon. long streamers of clouds touched with rose swept low on the western sky, and the dome of the distant invalides burned like an opal through the haze. behind the palace the smoke from a high chimney mounted straight into the air, purple until it crossed the sun, where it changed to a bar of smouldering fire. high above the darkening foliage of the chestnuts the twin towers of st. sulpice rose, an ever-deepening silhouette. a sleepy blackbird was carolling in some near thicket, and pigeons passed and repassed with the whisper of soft winds in their wings. the light on the palace windows had died away, and the dome of the pantheon swam aglow above the northern terrace, a fiery valhalla in the sky; while below in grim array, along the terrace ranged, the marble ranks of queens looked out into the west. from the end of the long walk by the northern façade of the palace came the noise of omnibuses and the cries of the street. hastings looked at the palace clock. six, and as his own watch agreed with it, he fell to poking holes in the gravel again. a constant stream of people passed between the odéon and the fountain. priests in black, with silver-buckled shoes; line soldiers, slouchy and rakish; neat girls without hats bearing milliners' boxes, students with black portfolios and high hats, students with bérets and big canes, nervous, quick-stepping officers, symphonies in turquoise and silver; ponderous jangling cavalrymen all over dust, pastry cooks' boys skipping along with utter disregard for the safety of the basket balanced on the impish head, and then the lean outcast, the shambling paris tramp, slouching with shoulders bent and little eye furtively scanning the ground for smokers' refuse;--all these moved in a steady stream across the fountain circle and out into the city by the odeon, whose long arcades were now beginning to flicker with gas-jets. the melancholy bells of st sulpice struck the hour and the clock-tower of the palace lighted up. then hurried steps sounded across the gravel and hastings raised his head. "how late you are," he said, but his voice was hoarse and only his flushed face told how long had seemed the waiting. she said, "i was kept--indeed, i was so much annoyed--and--and i may only stay a moment." she sat down beside him, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder at the god upon his pedestal. "what a nuisance, that intruding cupid still there?" "wings and arrows too," said hastings, unheeding her motion to be seated. "wings," she murmured, "oh, yes--to fly away with when he's tired of his play. of course it was a man who conceived the idea of wings, otherwise cupid would have been insupportable." "do you think so?" "_ma foi_, it's what men think." "and women?" "oh," she said, with a toss of her small head, "i really forget what we were speaking of." "we were speaking of love," said hastings. "_i_ was not," said the girl. then looking up at the marble god, "i don't care for this one at all. i don't believe he knows how to shoot his arrows--no, indeed, he is a coward;--he creeps up like an assassin in the twilight. i don't approve of cowardice," she announced, and turned her back on the statue. "i think," said hastings quietly, "that he does shoot fairly--yes, and even gives one warning." "is it your experience, monsieur hastings?" he looked straight into her eyes and said, "he is warning me." "heed the warning then," she cried, with a nervous laugh. as she spoke she stripped off her gloves, and then carefully proceeded to draw them on again. when this was accomplished she glanced at the palace clock, saying, "oh dear, how late it is!" furled her umbrella, then unfurled it, and finally looked at him. "no," he said, "i shall not heed his warning." "oh dear," she sighed again, "still talking about that tiresome statue!" then stealing a glance at his face, "i suppose--i suppose you are in love." "i don't know," he muttered, "i suppose i am." she raised her head with a quick gesture. "you seem delighted at the idea," she said, but bit her lip and trembled as his eyes met hers. then sudden fear came over her and she sprang up, staring into the gathering shadows. "are you cold?" he said. but she only answered, "oh dear, oh dear, it is late--so late! i must go--good-night." she gave him her gloved hand a moment and then withdrew it with a start. "what is it?" he insisted. "are you frightened?" she looked at him strangely. "no--no--not frightened,--you are very good to me--" "by jove!" he burst out, "what do you mean by saying i'm good to you? that's at least the third time, and i don't understand!" the sound of a drum from the guard-house at the palace cut him short. "listen," she whispered, "they are going to close. it's late, oh, so late!" the rolling of the drum came nearer and nearer, and then the silhouette of the drummer cut the sky above the eastern terrace. the fading light lingered a moment on his belt and bayonet, then he passed into the shadows, drumming the echoes awake. the roll became fainter along the eastern terrace, then grew and grew and rattled with increasing sharpness when he passed the avenue by the bronze lion and turned down the western terrace walk. louder and louder the drum sounded, and the echoes struck back the notes from the grey palace wall; and now the drummer loomed up before them--his red trousers a dull spot in the gathering gloom, the brass of his drum and bayonet touched with a pale spark, his epaulettes tossing on his shoulders. he passed leaving the crash of the drum in their ears, and far into the alley of trees they saw his little tin cup shining on his haversack. then the sentinels began the monotonous cry: "on ferme! on ferme!" and the bugle blew from the barracks in the rue de tournon. "on ferme! on ferme!" "good-night," she whispered, "i must return alone to-night." he watched her until she reached the northern terrace, and then sat down on the marble seat until a hand on his shoulder and a glimmer of bayonets warned him away. she passed on through the grove, and turning into the rue de medici, traversed it to the boulevard. at the corner she bought a bunch of violets and walked on along the boulevard to the rue des écoles. a cab was drawn up before boulant's, and a pretty girl aided by elliott jumped out. "valentine!" cried the girl, "come with us!" "i can't," she said, stopping a moment--"i have a rendezvous at mignon's." "not victor?" cried the girl, laughing, but she passed with a little shiver, nodding good-night, then turning into the boulevard st. germain, she walked a tittle faster to escape a gay party sitting before the café cluny who called to her to join them. at the door of the restaurant mignon stood a coal-black negro in buttons. he took off his peaked cap as she mounted the carpeted stairs. "send eugene to me," she said at the office, and passing through the hallway to the right of the dining-room stopped before a row of panelled doors. a waiter passed and she repeated her demand for eugene, who presently appeared, noiselessly skipping, and bowed murmuring, "madame." "who is here?" "no one in the cabinets, madame; in the half madame madelon and monsieur gay, monsieur de clamart, monsieur clisson, madame marie and their set." then he looked around and bowing again murmured, "monsieur awaits madame since half an hour," and he knocked at one of the panelled doors bearing the number six. clifford opened the door and the girl entered. the garçon bowed her in, and whispering, "will monsieur have the goodness to ring?" vanished. he helped her off with her jacket and took her hat and umbrella. when she was seated at the little table with clifford opposite she smiled and leaned forward on both elbows looking him in the face. "what are you doing here?" she demanded. "waiting," he replied, in accents of adoration. for an instant she turned and examined herself in the glass. the wide blue eyes, the curling hair, the straight nose and short curled lip flashed in the mirror an instant only, and then its depths reflected her pretty neck and back. "thus do i turn my back on vanity," she said, and then leaning forward again, "what are you doing here?" "waiting for you," repeated clifford, slightly troubled. "and cécile." "now don't, valentine--" "do you know," she said calmly, "i dislike your conduct?" he was a little disconcerted, and rang for eugene to cover his confusion. the soup was bisque, and the wine pommery, and the courses followed each other with the usual regularity until eugene brought coffee, and there was nothing left on the table but a small silver lamp. "valentine," said clifford, after having obtained permission to smoke, "is it the vaudeville or the eldorado--or both, or the nouveau cirque, or--" "it is here," said valentine. "well," he said, greatly flattered, "i'm afraid i couldn't amuse you--" "oh, yes, you are funnier than the eldorado." "now see here, don't guy me, valentine. you always do, and, and,--you know what they say,--a good laugh kills--" "what?" "er--er--love and all that." she laughed until her eyes were moist with tears. "tiens," she cried, "he is dead, then!" clifford eyed her with growing alarm. "do you know why i came?" she said. "no," he replied uneasily, "i don't." "how long have you made love to me?" "well," he admitted, somewhat startled,--"i should say,--for about a year." "it is a year, i think. are you not tired?" he did not answer. "don't you know that i like you too well to--to ever fall in love with you?" she said. "don't you know that we are too good comrades,--too old friends for that? and were we not,--do you think that i do not know your history, monsieur clifford?" "don't be--don't be so sarcastic," he urged; "don't be unkind, valentine." "i'm not. i'm kind. i'm very kind,--to you and to cécile." "cécile is tired of me." "i hope she is," said the girl, "for she deserves a better fate. tiens, do you know your reputation in the quarter? of the inconstant, the most inconstant,--utterly incorrigible and no more serious than a gnat on a summer night. poor cécile!" clifford looked so uncomfortable that she spoke more kindly. "i like you. you know that. everybody does. you are a spoiled child here. everything is permitted you and every one makes allowance, but every one cannot be a victim to caprice." "caprice!" he cried. "by jove, if the girls of the latin quarter are not capricious--" "never mind,--never mind about that! you must not sit in judgment--you of all men. why are you here to-night? oh," she cried, "i will tell you why! monsieur receives a little note; he sends a little answer; he dresses in his conquering raiment--" "i don't," said clifford, very red. "you do, and it becomes you," she retorted with a faint smile. then again, very quietly, "i am in your power, but i know i am in the power of a friend. i have come to acknowledge it to you here,--and it is because of that that i am here to beg of you--a--a favour." clifford opened his eyes, but said nothing. "i am in--great distress of mind. it is monsieur hastings." "well?" said clifford, in some astonishment. "i want to ask you," she continued in a low voice, "i want to ask you to--to--in case you should speak of me before him,--not to say,--not to say,--" "i shall not speak of you to him," he said quietly. "can--can you prevent others?" "i might if i was present. may i ask why?" "that is not fair," she murmured; "you know how--how he considers me,--as he considers every woman. you know how different he is from you and the rest. i have never seen a man,--such a man as monsieur hastings." he let his cigarette go out unnoticed. "i am almost afraid of him--afraid he should know--what we all are in the quarter. oh, i do not wish him to know! i do not wish him to--to turn from me--to cease from speaking to me as he does! you--you and the rest cannot know what it has been to me. i could not believe him,--i could not believe he was so good and--and noble. i do not wish him to know--so soon. he will find out--sooner or later, he will find out for himself, and then he will turn away from me. why!" she cried passionately, "why should he turn from me and not from _you_?" clifford, much embarrassed, eyed his cigarette. the girl rose, very white. "he is your friend--you have a right to warn him." "he is my friend," he said at length. they looked at each other in silence. then she cried, "by all that i hold to me most sacred, you need not warn him!" "i shall trust your word," he said pleasantly. v the month passed quickly for hastings, and left few definite impressions after it. it did leave some, however. one was a painful impression of meeting mr. bladen on the boulevard des capucines in company with a very pronounced young person whose laugh dismayed him, and when at last he escaped from the café where mr. bladen had hauled him to join them in a _bock_ he felt as if the whole boulevard was looking at him, and judging him by his company. later, an instinctive conviction regarding the young person with mr. bladen sent the hot blood into his cheek, and he returned to the pension in such a miserable state of mind that miss byng was alarmed and advised him to conquer his homesickness at once. another impression was equally vivid. one saturday morning, feeling lonely, his wanderings about the city brought him to the gare st. lazare. it was early for breakfast, but he entered the hôtel terminus and took a table near the window. as he wheeled about to give his order, a man passing rapidly along the aisle collided with his head, and looking up to receive the expected apology, he was met instead by a slap on the shoulder and a hearty, "what the deuce are you doing here, old chap?" it was rowden, who seized him and told him to come along. so, mildly protesting, he was ushered into a private dining-room where clifford, rather red, jumped up from the table and welcomed him with a startled air which was softened by the unaffected glee of rowden and the extreme courtesy of elliott. the latter presented him to three bewitching girls who welcomed him so charmingly and seconded rowden in his demand that hastings should make one of the party, that he consented at once. while elliott briefly outlined the projected excursion to la roche, hastings delightedly ate his omelet, and returned the smiles of encouragement from cécile and colette and jacqueline. meantime clifford in a bland whisper was telling rowden what an ass he was. poor rowden looked miserable until elliott, divining how affairs were turning, frowned on clifford and found a moment to let rowden know that they were all going to make the best of it. "you shut up," he observed to clifford, "it's fate, and that settles it." "it's rowden, and that settles it," murmured clifford, concealing a grin. for after all he was not hastings' wet nurse. so it came about that the train which left the gare st. lazare at 9.15 a.m. stopped a moment in its career towards havre and deposited at the red-roofed station of la roche a merry party, armed with sunshades, trout-rods, and one cane, carried by the non-combatant, hastings. then, when they had established their camp in a grove of sycamores which bordered the little river ept, clifford, the acknowledged master of all that pertained to sportsmanship, took command. "you, rowden," he said, "divide your flies with elliott and keep an eye on him or else he'll be trying to put on a float and sinker. prevent him by force from grubbing about for worms." elliott protested, but was forced to smile in the general laugh. "you make me ill," he asserted; "do you think this is my first trout?" "i shall be delighted to see your first trout," said clifford, and dodging a fly hook, hurled with intent to hit, proceeded to sort and equip three slender rods destined to bring joy and fish to cécil, colette, and jacqueline. with perfect gravity he ornamented each line with four split shot, a small hook, and a brilliant quill float. "_i_ shall never touch the worms," announced cécile with a shudder. jacqueline and colette hastened to sustain her, and hastings pleasantly offered to act in the capacity of general baiter and taker-off of fish. but cécile, doubtless fascinated by the gaudy flies in clifford's book, decided to accept lessons from him in the true art, and presently disappeared up the ept with clifford in tow. elliott looked doubtfully at colette. "i prefer gudgeons," said that damsel with decision, "and you and monsieur rowden may go away when you please; may they not, jacqueline?" "certainly," responded jacqueline. elliott, undecided, examined his rod and reel. "you've got your reel on wrong side up," observed rowden. elliott wavered, and stole a glance at colette. "i--i--have almost decided to--er--not to flip the flies about just now," he began. "there's the pole that cécile left--" "don't call it a pole," corrected rowden. "_rod_, then," continued elliott, and started off in the wake of the two girls, but was promptly collared by rowden. "no, you don't! fancy a man fishing with a float and sinker when he has a fly rod in his hand! you come along!" where the placid little ept flows down between its thickets to the seine, a grassy bank shadows the haunt of the gudgeon, and on this bank sat colette and jacqueline and chattered and laughed and watched the swerving of the scarlet quills, while hastings, his hat over his eyes, his head on a bank of moss, listened to their soft voices and gallantly unhooked the small and indignant gudgeon when a flash of a rod and a half-suppressed scream announced a catch. the sunlight filtered through the leafy thickets awaking to song the forest birds. magpies in spotless black and white flirted past, alighting near by with a hop and bound and twitch of the tail. blue and white jays with rosy breasts shrieked through the trees, and a low-sailing hawk wheeled among the fields of ripening wheat, putting to flight flocks of twittering hedge birds. across the seine a gull dropped on the water like a plume. the air was pure and still. scarcely a leaf moved. sounds from a distant farm came faintly, the shrill cock-crow and dull baying. now and then a steam-tug with big raking smoke-pipe, bearing the name "guêpe 27," ploughed up the river dragging its interminable train of barges, or a sailboat dropped down with the current toward sleepy rouen. a faint fresh odour of earth and water hung in the air, and through the sunlight, orange-tipped butterflies danced above the marsh grass, soft velvety butterflies flapped through the mossy woods. hastings was thinking of valentine. it was two o'clock when elliott strolled back, and frankly admitting that he had eluded rowden, sat down beside colette and prepared to doze with satisfaction. "where are your trout?" said colette severely. "they still live," murmured elliott, and went fast asleep. rowden returned shortly after, and casting a scornful glance at the slumbering one, displayed three crimson-flecked trout. "and that," smiled hastings lazily, "that is the holy end to which the faithful plod,--the slaughter of these small fish with a bit of silk and feather." rowden disdained to answer him. colette caught another gudgeon and awoke elliott, who protested and gazed about for the lunch baskets, as clifford and cécile came up demanding instant refreshment. cécile's skirts were soaked, and her gloves torn, but she was happy, and clifford, dragging out a two-pound trout, stood still to receive the applause of the company. "where the deuce did you get that?" demanded elliott. cécile, wet and enthusiastic, recounted the battle, and then clifford eulogized her powers with the fly, and, in proof, produced from his creel a defunct chub, which, he observed, just missed being a trout. they were all very happy at luncheon, and hastings was voted "charming." he enjoyed it immensely,--only it seemed to him at moments that flirtation went further in france than in millbrook, connecticut, and he thought that cécile might be a little less enthusiastic about clifford, that perhaps it would be quite as well if jacqueline sat further away from rowden, and that possibly colette could have, for a moment at least, taken her eyes from elliott's face. still he enjoyed it--except when his thoughts drifted to valentine, and then he felt that he was very far away from her. la roche is at least an hour and a half from paris. it is also true that he felt a happiness, a quick heart-beat when, at eight o'clock that night the train which bore them from la roche rolled into the gare st. lazare and he was once more in the city of valentine. "good-night," they said, pressing around him. "you must come with us next time!" he promised, and watched them, two by two, drift into the darkening city, and stood so long that, when again he raised his eyes, the vast boulevard was twinkling with gas-jets through which the electric lights stared like moons. vi it was with another quick heart-beat that he awoke next morning, for his first thought was of valentine. the sun already gilded the towers of notre dame, the clatter of workmen's sabots awoke sharp echoes in the street below, and across the way a blackbird in a pink almond tree was going into an ecstasy of trills. he determined to awake clifford for a brisk walk in the country, hoping later to beguile that gentleman into the american church for his soul's sake. he found alfred the gimlet-eyed washing the asphalt walk which led to the studio. "monsieur elliott?" he replied to the perfunctory inquiry, "_je ne sais pas_." "and monsieur clifford," began hastings, somewhat astonished. "monsieur clifford," said the concierge with fine irony, "will be pleased to see you, as he retired early; in fact he has just come in." hastings hesitated while the concierge pronounced a fine eulogy on people who never stayed out all night and then came battering at the lodge gate during hours which even a gendarme held sacred to sleep. he also discoursed eloquently upon the beauties of temperance, and took an ostentatious draught from the fountain in the court. "i do not think i will come in," said hastings. "pardon, monsieur," growled the concierge, "perhaps it would be well to see monsieur clifford. he possibly needs aid. me he drives forth with hair-brushes and boots. it is a mercy if he has not set fire to something with his candle." hastings hesitated for an instant, but swallowing his dislike of such a mission, walked slowly through the ivy-covered alley and across the inner garden to the studio. he knocked. perfect silence. then he knocked again, and this time something struck the door from within with a crash. "that," said the concierge, "was a boot." he fitted his duplicate key into the lock and ushered hastings in. clifford, in disordered evening dress, sat on the rug in the middle of the room. he held in his hand a shoe, and did not appear astonished to see hastings. "good-morning, do you use pears' soap?" he inquired with a vague wave of his hand and a vaguer smile. hastings' heart sank. "for heaven's sake," he said, "clifford, go to bed." "not while that--that alfred pokes his shaggy head in here an' i have a shoe left." hastings blew out the candle, picked up clifford's hat and cane, and said, with an emotion he could not conceal, "this is terrible, clifford,--i--never knew you did this sort of thing." "well, i do," said clifford. "where is elliott?" "ole chap," returned clifford, becoming maudlin, "providence which feeds--feeds--er--sparrows an' that sort of thing watcheth over the intemperate wanderer--" "where is elliott?" but clifford only wagged his head and waved his arm about. "he's out there,--somewhere about." then suddenly feeling a desire to see his missing chum, lifted up his voice and howled for him. hastings, thoroughly shocked, sat down on the lounge without a word. presently, after shedding several scalding tears, clifford brightened up and rose with great precaution. "ole chap," he observed, "do you want to see er--er miracle? well, here goes. i'm goin' to begin." he paused, beaming at vacancy. "er miracle," he repeated. hastings supposed he was alluding to the miracle of his keeping his balance, and said nothing. "i'm goin' to bed," he announced, "poor ole clifford's goin' to bed, an' that's er miracle!" and he did with a nice calculation of distance and equilibrium which would have rung enthusiastic yells of applause from elliott had he been there to assist _en connaisseur_. but he was not. he had not yet reached the studio. he was on his way, however, and smiled with magnificent condescension on hastings, who, half an hour later, found him reclining upon a bench in the luxembourg. he permitted himself to be aroused, dusted and escorted to the gate. here, however, he refused all further assistance, and bestowing a patronizing bow upon hastings, steered a tolerably true course for the rue vavin. hastings watched him out of sight, and then slowly retraced his steps toward the fountain. at first he felt gloomy and depressed, but gradually the clear air of the morning lifted the pressure from his heart, and he sat down on the marble seat under the shadow of the winged god. the air was fresh and sweet with perfume from the orange flowers. everywhere pigeons were bathing, dashing the water over their iris-hued breasts, flashing in and out of the spray or nestling almost to the neck along the polished basin. the sparrows, too, were abroad in force, soaking their dust-coloured feathers in the limpid pool and chirping with might and main. under the sycamores which surrounded the duck-pond opposite the fountain of marie de medici, the water-fowl cropped the herbage, or waddled in rows down the bank to embark on some solemn aimless cruise. butterflies, somewhat lame from a chilly night's repose under the lilac leaves, crawled over and over the white phlox, or took a rheumatic flight toward some sun-warmed shrub. the bees were already busy among the heliotrope, and one or two grey flies with brick-coloured eyes sat in a spot of sunlight beside the marble seat, or chased each other about, only to return again to the spot of sunshine and rub their fore-legs, exulting. the sentries paced briskly before the painted boxes, pausing at times to look toward the guard-house for their relief. they came at last, with a shuffle of feet and click of bayonets, the word was passed, the relief fell out, and away they went, crunch, crunch, across the gravel. a mellow chime floated from the clock-tower of the palace, the deep bell of st. sulpice echoed the stroke. hastings sat dreaming in the shadow of the god, and while he mused somebody came and sat down beside him. at first he did not raise his head. it was only when she spoke that he sprang up. "you! at this hour?" "i was restless, i could not sleep." then in a low, happy voice--"and _you!_ at this hour?" "i--i slept, but the sun awoke me." "_i_ could not sleep," she said, and her eyes seemed, for a moment, touched with an indefinable shadow. then, smiling, "i am so glad--i seemed to know you were coming. don't laugh, i believe in dreams." "did you really dream of,--of my being here?" "i think i was awake when i dreamed it," she admitted. then for a time they were mute, acknowledging by silence the happiness of being together. and after all their silence was eloquent, for faint smiles, and glances born of their thoughts, crossed and recrossed, until lips moved and words were formed, which seemed almost superfluous. what they said was not very profound. perhaps the most valuable jewel that fell from hastings' lips bore direct reference to breakfast. "i have not yet had my chocolate," she confessed, "but what a material man you are." "valentine," he said impulsively, "i wish,--i do wish that you would,--just for this once,--give me the whole day,--just for this once." "oh dear," she smiled, "not only material, but selfish!" "not selfish, hungry," he said, looking at her. "a cannibal too; oh dear!" "will you, valentine?" "but my chocolate--" "take it with me." "but _déjeuner_--" "together, at st. cloud." "but i can't--" "together,--all day,--all day long; will you, valentine?" she was silent. "only for this once." again that indefinable shadow fell across her eyes, and when it was gone she sighed. "yes,--together, only for this once." "all day?" he said, doubting his happiness. "all day," she smiled; "and oh, i am so hungry!" he laughed, enchanted. "what a material young lady it is." on the boulevard st. michel there is a crémerie painted white and blue outside, and neat and clean as a whistle inside. the auburn-haired young woman who speaks french like a native, and rejoices in the name of murphy, smiled at them as they entered, and tossing a fresh napkin over the zinc _tête-à-tête_ table, whisked before them two cups of chocolate and a basket full of crisp, fresh croissons. the primrose-coloured pats of butter, each stamped with a shamrock in relief, seemed saturated with the fragrance of normandy pastures. "how delicious!" they said in the same breath, and then laughed at the coincidence. "with but a single thought," he began. "how absurd!" she cried with cheeks all rosy. "i'm thinking i'd like a croisson." "so am i," he replied triumphant, "that proves it." then they had a quarrel; she accusing him of behaviour unworthy of a child in arms, and he denying it, and bringing counter charges, until mademoiselle murphy laughed in sympathy, and the last croisson was eaten under a flag of truce. then they rose, and she took his arm with a bright nod to mile. murphy, who cried them a merry: "_bonjour, madame! bonjour, monsieur_!" and watched them hail a passing cab and drive away. "_dieu! qu'il est beau_," she sighed, adding after a moment, "do they be married, i dunno,--_ma foi ils ont bien l'air_." the cab swung around the rue de medici, turned into the rue de vaugirard, followed it to where it crosses the rue de rennes, and taking that noisy thoroughfare, drew up before the gare montparnasse. they were just in time for a train and scampered up the stairway and out to the cars as the last note from the starting-gong rang through the arched station. the guard slammed the door of their compartment, a whistle sounded, answered by a screech from the locomotive, and the long train glided from the station, faster, faster, and sped out into the morning sunshine. the summer wind blew in their faces from the open window, and sent the soft hair dancing on the girl's forehead. "we have the compartment to ourselves," said hastings. she leaned against the cushioned window-seat, her eyes bright and wide open, her lips parted. the wind lifted her hat, and fluttered the ribbons under her chin. with a quick movement she untied them, and, drawing a long hat-pin from her hat, laid it down on the seat beside her. the train was flying. the colour surged in her cheeks, and, with each quick-drawn breath, her breath rose and fell under the cluster of lilies at her throat. trees, houses, ponds, danced past, cut by a mist of telegraph poles. "faster! faster!" she cried. his eyes never left her, but hers, wide open, and blue as the summer sky, seemed fixed on something far ahead,--something which came no nearer, but fled before them as they fled. was it the horizon, cut now by the grim fortress on the hill, now by the cross of a country chapel? was it the summer moon, ghost-like, slipping through the vaguer blue above? "faster! faster!" she cried. her parted lips burned scarlet. the car shook and shivered, and the fields streamed by like an emerald torrent. he caught the excitement, and his faced glowed. "oh," she cried, and with an unconscious movement caught his hand, drawing him to the window beside her. "look! lean out with me!" he only saw her lips move; her voice was drowned in the roar of a trestle, but his hand closed in hers and he clung to the sill. the wind whistled in their ears. "not so far out, valentine, take care!" he gasped. below, through the ties of the trestle, a broad river flashed into view and out again, as the train thundered along a tunnel, and away once more through the freshest of green fields. the wind roared about them. the girl was leaning far out from the window, and he caught her by the waist, crying, "not too far!" but she only murmured, "faster! faster! away out of the city, out of the land, faster, faster! away out of the world!" "what are you saying all to yourself?" he said, but his voice was broken, and the wind whirled it back into his throat. she heard him, and, turning from the window looked down at his arm about her. then she raised her eyes to his. the car shook and the windows rattled. they were dashing through a forest now, and the sun swept the dewy branches with running flashes of fire. he looked into her troubled eyes; he drew her to him and kissed the half-parted lips, and she cried out, a bitter, hopeless cry, "not that--not that!" but he held her close and strong, whispering words of honest love and passion, and when she sobbed--"not that--not that--i have promised! you must--you must know--i am--not--worthy--" in the purity of his own heart her words were, to him, meaningless then, meaningless for ever after. presently her voice ceased, and her head rested on his breast. he leaned against the window, his ears swept by the furious wind, his heart in a joyous tumult. the forest was passed, and the sun slipped from behind the trees, flooding the earth again with brightness. she raised her eyes and looked out into the world from the window. then she began to speak, but her voice was faint, and he bent his head close to hers and listened. "i cannot turn from you; i am too weak. you were long ago my master--master of my heart and soul. i have broken my word to one who trusted me, but i have told you all;--what matters the rest?" he smiled at her innocence and she worshipped his. she spoke again: "take me or cast me away;--what matters it? now with a word you can kill me, and it might be easier to die than to look upon happiness as great as mine." he took her in his arms, "hush, what are you saying? look,--look out at the sunlight, the meadows and the streams. we shall be very happy in so bright a world." she turned to the sunlight. from the window, the world below seemed very fair to her. trembling with happiness, she sighed: "is this the world? then i have never known it." "nor have i, god forgive me," he murmured. perhaps it was our gentle lady of the fields who forgave them both. rue barrée "for let philosopher and doctor preach of what they will and what they will not,--each is but one link in an eternal chain that none can slip nor break nor over-reach." "crimson nor yellow roses nor the savour of the mounting sea are worth the perfume i adore that clings to thee. the languid-headed lilies tire, the changeless waters weary me; i ache with passionate desire of thine and thee. there are but these things in the world- thy mouth of fire, thy breasts, thy hands, thy hair upcurled and my desire." i one morning at julian's, a student said to selby, "that is foxhall clifford," pointing with his brushes at a young man who sat before an easel, doing nothing. selby, shy and nervous, walked over and began: "my name is selby,--i have just arrived in paris, and bring a letter of introduction--" his voice was lost in the crash of a falling easel, the owner of which promptly assaulted his neighbour, and for a time the noise of battle rolled through the studios of mm. boulanger and lefebvre, presently subsiding into a scuffle on the stairs outside. selby, apprehensive as to his own reception in the studio, looked at clifford, who sat serenely watching the fight. "it's a little noisy here," said clifford, "but you will like the fellows when you know them." his unaffected manner delighted selby. then with a simplicity that won his heart, he presented him to half a dozen students of as many nationalities. some were cordial, all were polite. even the majestic creature who held the position of massier, unbent enough to say: "my friend, when a man speaks french as well as you do, and is also a friend of monsieur clifford, he will have no trouble in this studio. you expect, of course, to fill the stove until the next new man comes?" "of course." "and you don't mind chaff?" "no," replied selby, who hated it. clifford, much amused, put on his hat, saying, "you must expect lots of it at first." selby placed his own hat on his head and followed him to the door. as they passed the model stand there was a furious cry of "chapeau! chapeau!" and a student sprang from his easel menacing selby, who reddened but looked at clifford. "take off your hat for them," said the latter, laughing. a little embarrassed, he turned and saluted the studio. "et moi?" cried the model. "you are charming," replied selby, astonished at his own audacity, but the studio rose as one man, shouting: "he has done well! he's all right!" while the model, laughing, kissed her hand to him and cried: "à demain beau jeune homme!" all that week selby worked at the studio unmolested. the french students christened him "l'enfant prodigue," which was freely translated, "the prodigious infant," "the kid," "kid selby," and "kidby." but the disease soon ran its course from "kidby" to "kidney," and then naturally to "tidbits," where it was arrested by clifford's authority and ultimately relapsed to "kid." wednesday came, and with it m. boulanger. for three hours the students writhed under his biting sarcasms,--among the others clifford, who was informed that he knew even less about a work of art than he did about the art of work. selby was more fortunate. the professor examined his drawing in silence, looked at him sharply, and passed on with a non-committal gesture. he presently departed arm in arm with bouguereau, to the relief of clifford, who was then at liberty to jam his hat on his head and depart. the next day he did not appear, and selby, who had counted on seeing him at the studio, a thing which he learned later it was vanity to count on, wandered back to the latin quarter alone. paris was still strange and new to him. he was vaguely troubled by its splendour. no tender memories stirred his american bosom at the place du châtelet, nor even by notre dame. the palais de justice with its clock and turrets and stalking sentinels in blue and vermilion, the place st. michel with its jumble of omnibuses and ugly water-spitting griffins, the hill of the boulevard st. michel, the tooting trams, the policemen dawdling two by two, and the table-lined terraces of the café vacehett were nothing to him, as yet, nor did he even know, when he stepped from the stones of the place st. michel to the asphalt of the boulevard, that he had crossed the frontier and entered the student zone,--the famous latin quarter. a cabman hailed him as "bourgeois," and urged the superiority of driving over walking. a gamin, with an appearance of great concern, requested the latest telegraphic news from london, and then, standing on his head, invited selby to feats of strength. a pretty girl gave him a glance from a pair of violet eyes. he did not see her, but she, catching her own reflection in a window, wondered at the colour burning in her cheeks. turning to resume her course, she met foxhall clifford, and hurried on. clifford, open-mouthed, followed her with his eyes; then he looked after selby, who had turned into the boulevard st. germain toward the rue de seine. then he examined himself in the shop window. the result seemed to be unsatisfactory. "i'm not a beauty," he mused, "but neither am i a hobgoblin. what does she mean by blushing at selby? i never before saw her look at a fellow in my life,--neither has any one in the quarter. anyway, i can swear she never looks at me, and goodness knows i have done all that respectful adoration can do." he sighed, and murmuring a prophecy concerning the salvation of his immortal soul swung into that graceful lounge which at all times characterized clifford. with no apparent exertion, he overtook selby at the corner, and together they crossed the sunlit boulevard and sat down under the awning of the café du cercle. clifford bowed to everybody on the terrace, saying, "you shall meet them all later, but now let me present you to two of the sights of paris, mr. richard elliott and mr. stanley rowden." the "sights" looked amiable, and took vermouth. "you cut the studio to-day," said elliott, suddenly turning on clifford, who avoided his eyes. "to commune with nature?" observed rowden. "what's her name this time?" asked elliott, and rowden answered promptly, "name, yvette; nationality, breton--" "wrong," replied clifford blandly, "it's rue barrée." the subject changed instantly, and selby listened in surprise to names which were new to him, and eulogies on the latest prix de rome winner. he was delighted to hear opinions boldly expressed and points honestly debated, although the vehicle was mostly slang, both english and french. he longed for the time when he too should be plunged into the strife for fame. the bells of st. sulpice struck the hour, and the palace of the luxembourg answered chime on chime. with a glance at the sun, dipping low in the golden dust behind the palais bourbon, they rose, and turning to the east, crossed the boulevard st. germain and sauntered toward the école de médecine. at the corner a girl passed them, walking hurriedly. clifford smirked, elliot and rowden were agitated, but they all bowed, and, without raising her eyes, she returned their salute. but selby, who had lagged behind, fascinated by some gay shop window, looked up to meet two of the bluest eyes he had ever seen. the eyes were dropped in an instant, and the young fellow hastened to overtake the others. "by jove," he said, "do you fellows know i have just seen the prettiest girl--" an exclamation broke from the trio, gloomy, foreboding, like the chorus in a greek play. "rue barrée!" "what!" cried selby, bewildered. the only answer was a vague gesture from clifford. two hours later, during dinner, clifford turned to selby and said, "you want to ask me something; i can tell by the way you fidget about." "yes, i do," he said, innocently enough; "it's about that girl. who is she?" in rowden's smile there was pity, in elliott's bitterness. "her name," said clifford solemnly, "is unknown to any one, at least," he added with much conscientiousness, "as far as i can learn. every fellow in the quarter bows to her and she returns the salute gravely, but no man has ever been known to obtain more than that. her profession, judging from her music-roll, is that of a pianist. her residence is in a small and humble street which is kept in a perpetual process of repair by the city authorities, and from the black letters painted on the barrier which defends the street from traffic, she has taken the name by which we know her,--rue barrée. mr. rowden, in his imperfect knowledge of the french tongue, called our attention to it as roo barry--" "i didn't," said rowden hotly. "and roo barry, or rue barrée, is to-day an object of adoration to every rapin in the quarter--" "we are not rapins," corrected elliott. "_i_ am not," returned clifford, "and i beg to call to your attention, selby, that these two gentlemen have at various and apparently unfortunate moments, offered to lay down life and limb at the feet of rue barrée. the lady possesses a chilling smile which she uses on such occasions and," here he became gloomily impressive, "i have been forced to believe that neither the scholarly grace of my friend elliott nor the buxom beauty of my friend rowden have touched that heart of ice." elliott and rowden, boiling with indignation, cried out, "and you!" "i," said clifford blandly, "do fear to tread where you rush in." ii twenty-four hours later selby had completely forgotten rue barrée. during the week he worked with might and main at the studio, and saturday night found him so tired that he went to bed before dinner and had a nightmare about a river of yellow ochre in which he was drowning. sunday morning, apropos of nothing at all, he thought of rue barrée, and ten seconds afterwards he saw her. it was at the flower-market on the marble bridge. she was examining a pot of pansies. the gardener had evidently thrown heart and soul into the transaction, but rue barrée shook her head. it is a question whether selby would have stopped then and there to inspect a cabbage-rose had not clifford unwound for him the yarn of the previous tuesday. it is possible that his curiosity was piqued, for with the exception of a hen-turkey, a boy of nineteen is the most openly curious biped alive. from twenty until death he tries to conceal it. but, to be fair to selby, it is also true that the market was attractive. under a cloudless sky the flowers were packed and heaped along the marble bridge to the parapet. the air was soft, the sun spun a shadowy lacework among the palms and glowed in the hearts of a thousand roses. spring had come,--was in full tide. the watering carts and sprinklers spread freshness over the boulevard, the sparrows had become vulgarly obtrusive, and the credulous seine angler anxiously followed his gaudy quill floating among the soapsuds of the lavoirs. the white-spiked chestnuts clad in tender green vibrated with the hum of bees. shoddy butterflies flaunted their winter rags among the heliotrope. there was a smell of fresh earth in the air, an echo of the woodland brook in the ripple of the seine, and swallows soared and skimmed among the anchored river craft. somewhere in a window a caged bird was singing its heart out to the sky. selby looked at the cabbage-rose and then at the sky. something in the song of the caged bird may have moved him, or perhaps it was that dangerous sweetness in the air of may. at first he was hardly conscious that he had stopped then he was scarcely conscious why he had stopped, then he thought he would move on, then he thought he wouldn't, then he looked at rue barrée. the gardener said, "mademoiselle, this is undoubtedly a fine pot of pansies." rue barrée shook her head. the gardener smiled. she evidently did not want the pansies. she had bought many pots of pansies there, two or three every spring, and never argued. what did she want then? the pansies were evidently a feeler toward a more important transaction. the gardener rubbed his hands and gazed about him. "these tulips are magnificent," he observed, "and these hyacinths--" he fell into a trance at the mere sight of the scented thickets. "that," murmured rue, pointing to a splendid rose-bush with her furled parasol, but in spite of her, her voice trembled a little. selby noticed it, more shame to him that he was listening, and the gardener noticed it, and, burying his nose in the roses, scented a bargain. still, to do him justice, he did not add a centime to the honest value of the plant, for after all, rue was probably poor, and any one could see she was charming. "fifty francs, mademoiselle." the gardener's tone was grave. rue felt that argument would be wasted. they both stood silent for a moment. the gardener did not eulogize his prize,--the rose-tree was gorgeous and any one could see it. "i will take the pansies," said the girl, and drew two francs from a worn purse. then she looked up. a tear-drop stood in the way refracting the light like a diamond, but as it rolled into a little corner by her nose a vision of selby replaced it, and when a brush of the handkerchief had cleared the startled blue eyes, selby himself appeared, very much embarrassed. he instantly looked up into the sky, apparently devoured with a thirst for astronomical research, and as he continued his investigations for fully five minutes, the gardener looked up too, and so did a policeman. then selby looked at the tips of his boots, the gardener looked at him and the policeman slouched on. rue barrée had been gone some time. "what," said the gardener, "may i offer monsieur?" selby never knew why, but he suddenly began to buy flowers. the gardener was electrified. never before had he sold so many flowers, never at such satisfying prices, and never, never with such absolute unanimity of opinion with a customer. but he missed the bargaining, the arguing, the calling of heaven to witness. the transaction lacked spice. "these tulips are magnificent!" "they are!" cried selby warmly. "but alas, they are dear." "i will take them." "dieu!" murmured the gardener in a perspiration, "he's madder than most englishmen." "this cactus--" "is gorgeous!" "alas--" "send it with the rest." the gardener braced himself against the river wall. "that splendid rose-bush," he began faintly. "that is a beauty. i believe it is fifty francs--" he stopped, very red. the gardener relished his confusion. then a sudden cool self-possession took the place of his momentary confusion and he held the gardener with his eye, and bullied him. "i'll take that bush. why did not the young lady buy it?" "mademoiselle is not wealthy." "how do you know?" "_dame_, i sell her many pansies; pansies are not expensive." "those are the pansies she bought?" "these, monsieur, the blue and gold." "then you intend to send them to her?" "at mid-day after the market." "take this rose-bush with them, and"--here he glared at the gardener--"don't you dare say from whom they came." the gardener's eyes were like saucers, but selby, calm and victorious, said: "send the others to the hôtel du sénat, 7 rue de tournon. i will leave directions with the concierge." then he buttoned his glove with much dignity and stalked off, but when well around the corner and hidden from the gardener's view, the conviction that he was an idiot came home to him in a furious blush. ten minutes later he sat in his room in the hôtel du sénat repeating with an imbecile smile: "what an ass i am, what an ass!" an hour later found him in the same chair, in the same position, his hat and gloves still on, his stick in his hand, but he was silent, apparently lost in contemplation of his boot toes, and his smile was less imbecile and even a bit retrospective. iii about five o'clock that afternoon, the little sad-eyed woman who fills the position of concierge at the hôtel du sénat held up her hands in amazement to see a wagon-load of flower-bearing shrubs draw up before the doorway. she called joseph, the intemperate garçon, who, while calculating the value of the flowers in _petits verres_, gloomily disclaimed any knowledge as to their destination. "_voyons_," said the little concierge, "_cherchons la femme_!" "you?" he suggested. the little woman stood a moment pensive and then sighed. joseph caressed his nose, a nose which for gaudiness could vie with any floral display. then the gardener came in, hat in hand, and a few minutes later selby stood in the middle of his room, his coat off, his shirt-sleeves rolled up. the chamber originally contained, besides the furniture, about two square feet of walking room, and now this was occupied by a cactus. the bed groaned under crates of pansies, lilies and heliotrope, the lounge was covered with hyacinths and tulips, and the washstand supported a species of young tree warranted to bear flowers at some time or other. clifford came in a little later, fell over a box of sweet peas, swore a little, apologized, and then, as the full splendour of the floral _fête_ burst upon him, sat down in astonishment upon a geranium. the geranium was a wreck, but selby said, "don't mind," and glared at the cactus. "are you going to give a ball?" demanded clifford. "n--no,--i'm very fond of flowers," said selby, but the statement lacked enthusiasm. "i should imagine so." then, after a silence, "that's a fine cactus." selby contemplated the cactus, touched it with the air of a connoisseur, and pricked his thumb. clifford poked a pansy with his stick. then joseph came in with the bill, announcing the sum total in a loud voice, partly to impress clifford, partly to intimidate selby into disgorging a _pourboire_ which he would share, if he chose, with the gardener. clifford tried to pretend that he had not heard, while selby paid bill and tribute without a murmur. then he lounged back into the room with an attempt at indifference which failed entirely when he tore his trousers on the cactus. clifford made some commonplace remark, lighted a cigarette and looked out of the window to give selby a chance. selby tried to take it, but getting as far as--"yes, spring is here at last," froze solid. he looked at the back of clifford's head. it expressed volumes. those little perked-up ears seemed tingling with suppressed glee. he made a desperate effort to master the situation, and jumped up to reach for some russian cigarettes as an incentive to conversation, but was foiled by the cactus, to whom again he fell a prey. the last straw was added. "damn the cactus." this observation was wrung from selby against his will,--against his own instinct of self-preservation, but the thorns on the cactus were long and sharp, and at their repeated prick his pent-up wrath escaped. it was too late now; it was done, and clifford had wheeled around. "see here, selby, why the deuce did you buy those flowers?" "i'm fond of them," said selby. "what are you going to do with them? you can't sleep here." "i could, if you'd help me take the pansies off the bed." "where can you put them?" "couldn't i give them to the concierge?" as soon as he said it he regretted it. what in heaven's name would clifford think of him! he had heard the amount of the bill. would he believe that he had invested in these luxuries as a timid declaration to his concierge? and would the latin quarter comment upon it in their own brutal fashion? he dreaded ridicule and he knew clifford's reputation. then somebody knocked. selby looked at clifford with a hunted expression which touched that young man's heart. it was a confession and at the same time a supplication. clifford jumped up, threaded his way through the floral labyrinth, and putting an eye to the crack of the door, said, "who the devil is it?" this graceful style of reception is indigenous to the quarter. "it's elliott," he said, looking back, "and rowden too, and their bulldogs." then he addressed them through the crack. "sit down on the stairs; selby and i are coming out directly." discretion is a virtue. the latin quarter possesses few, and discretion seldom figures on the list. they sat down and began to whistle. presently rowden called out, "i smell flowers. they feast within!" "you ought to know selby better than that," growled clifford behind the door, while the other hurriedly exchanged his torn trousers for others. "_we_ know selby," said elliott with emphasis. "yes," said rowden, "he gives receptions with floral decorations and invites clifford, while we sit on the stairs." "yes, while the youth and beauty of the quarter revel," suggested rowden; then, with sudden misgiving; "is odette there?" "see here," demanded elliott, "is colette there?" then he raised his voice in a plaintive howl, "are you there, colette, while i'm kicking my heels on these tiles?" "clifford is capable of anything," said rowden; "his nature is soured since rue barrée sat on him." elliott raised his voice: "i say, you fellows, we saw some flowers carried into rue barrée's house at noon." "posies and roses," specified rowden. "probably for her," added elliott, caressing his bulldog. clifford turned with sudden suspicion upon selby. the latter hummed a tune, selected a pair of gloves and, choosing a dozen cigarettes, placed them in a case. then walking over to the cactus, he deliberately detached a blossom, drew it through his buttonhole, and picking up hat and stick, smiled upon clifford, at which the latter was mightily troubled. iv monday morning at julian's, students fought for places; students with prior claims drove away others who had been anxiously squatting on coveted tabourets since the door was opened in hopes of appropriating them at roll-call; students squabbled over palettes, brushes, portfolios, or rent the air with demands for ciceri and bread. the former, a dirty ex-model, who had in palmier days posed as judas, now dispensed stale bread at one sou and made enough to keep himself in cigarettes. monsieur julian walked in, smiled a fatherly smile and walked out. his disappearance was followed by the apparition of the clerk, a foxy creature who flitted through the battling hordes in search of prey. three men who had not paid dues were caught and summoned. a fourth was scented, followed, outflanked, his retreat towards the door cut off, and finally captured behind the stove. about that time, the revolution assuming an acute form, howls rose for "jules!" jules came, umpired two fights with a sad resignation in his big brown eyes, shook hands with everybody and melted away in the throng, leaving an atmosphere of peace and good-will. the lions sat down with the lambs, the massiers marked the best places for themselves and friends, and, mounting the model stands, opened the roll-calls. the word was passed, "they begin with c this week." they did. "clisson!" clisson jumped like a flash and marked his name on the floor in chalk before a front seat. "caron!" caron galloped away to secure his place. bang! went an easel. "_nom de dieu_!" in french,--"where in h--l are you goin'!" in english. crash! a paintbox fell with brushes and all on board. "_dieu de dieu de_--" spat! a blow, a short rush, a clinch and scuffle, and the voice of the massier, stern and reproachful: "cochon!" then the roll-call was resumed. "clifford!" the massier paused and looked up, one finger between the leaves of the ledger. "clifford!" clifford was not there. he was about three miles away in a direct line and every instant increased the distance. not that he was walking fast,--on the contrary, he was strolling with that leisurely gait peculiar to himself. elliott was beside him and two bulldogs covered the rear. elliott was reading the "gil blas," from which he seemed to extract amusement, but deeming boisterous mirth unsuitable to clifford's state of mind, subdued his amusement to a series of discreet smiles. the latter, moodily aware of this, said nothing, but leading the way into the luxembourg gardens installed himself upon a bench by the northern terrace and surveyed the landscape with disfavour. elliott, according to the luxembourg regulations, tied the two dogs and then, with an interrogative glance toward his friend, resumed the "gil blas" and the discreet smiles. the day was perfect. the sun hung over notre dame, setting the city in a glitter. the tender foliage of the chestnuts cast a shadow over the terrace and flecked the paths and walks with tracery so blue that clifford might here have found encouragement for his violent "impressions" had he but looked; but as usual in this period of his career, his thoughts were anywhere except in his profession. around about, the sparrows quarrelled and chattered their courtship songs, the big rosy pigeons sailed from tree to tree, the flies whirled in the sunbeams and the flowers exhaled a thousand perfumes which stirred clifford with languorous wistfulness. under this influence he spoke. "elliott, you are a true friend--" "you make me ill," replied the latter, folding his paper. "it's just as i thought,--you are tagging after some new petticoat again. and," he continued wrathfully, "if this is what you've kept me away from julian's for,--if it's to fill me up with the perfections of some little idiot--" "not idiot," remonstrated clifford gently. "see here," cried elliott, "have you the nerve to try to tell me that you are in love again?" "again?" "yes, again and again and again and--by george have you?" "this," observed clifford sadly, "is serious." for a moment elliott would have laid hands on him, then he laughed from sheer helplessness. "oh, go on, go on; let's see, there's clémence and marie tellec and cosette and fifine, colette, marie verdier--" "all of whom are charming, most charming, but i never was serious--" "so help me, moses," said elliott, solemnly, "each and every one of those named have separately and in turn torn your heart with anguish and have also made me lose my place at julian's in this same manner; each and every one, separately and in turn. do you deny it?" "what you say may be founded on facts--in a way--but give me the credit of being faithful to one at a time--" "until the next came along." "but this,--this is really very different. elliott, believe me, i am all broken up." then there being nothing else to do, elliott gnashed his teeth and listened. "it's--it's rue barrée." "well," observed elliott, with scorn, "if you are moping and moaning over _that_ girl,--the girl who has given you and myself every reason to wish that the ground would open and engulf us,--well, go on!" "i'm going on,--i don't care; timidity has fled--" "yes, your native timidity." "i'm desperate, elliott. am i in love? never, never did i feel so d--n miserable. i can't sleep; honestly, i'm incapable of eating properly." "same symptoms noticed in the case of colette." "listen, will you?" "hold on a moment, i know the rest by heart. now let me ask you something. is it your belief that rue barrée is a pure girl?" "yes," said clifford, turning red. "do you love her,--not as you dangle and tiptoe after every pretty inanity--i mean, do you honestly love her?" "yes," said the other doggedly, "i would--" "hold on a moment; would you marry her?" clifford turned scarlet. "yes," he muttered. "pleasant news for your family," growled elliott in suppressed fury. "'dear father, i have just married a charming grisette whom i'm sure you'll welcome with open arms, in company with her mother, a most estimable and cleanly washlady.' good heavens! this seems to have gone a little further than the rest. thank your stars, young man, that my head is level enough for us both. still, in this case, i have no fear. rue barrée sat on your aspirations in a manner unmistakably final." "rue barrée," began clifford, drawing himself up, but he suddenly ceased, for there where the dappled sunlight glowed in spots of gold, along the sun-flecked path, tripped rue barrée. her gown was spotless, and her big straw hat, tipped a little from the white forehead, threw a shadow across her eyes. elliott stood up and bowed. clifford removed his head-covering with an air so plaintive, so appealing, so utterly humble that rue barrée smiled. the smile was delicious and when clifford, incapable of sustaining himself on his legs from sheer astonishment, toppled slightly, she smiled again in spite of herself. a few moments later she took a chair on the terrace and drawing a book from her music-roll, turned the pages, found the place, and then placing it open downwards in her lap, sighed a little, smiled a little, and looked out over the city. she had entirely forgotten foxhall clifford. after a while she took up her book again, but instead of reading began to adjust a rose in her corsage. the rose was big and red. it glowed like fire there over her heart, and like fire it warmed her heart, now fluttering under the silken petals. rue barrée sighed again. she was very happy. the sky was so blue, the air so soft and perfumed, the sunshine so caressing, and her heart sang within her, sang to the rose in her breast. this is what it sang: "out of the throng of passers-by, out of the world of yesterday, out of the millions passing, one has turned aside to me." so her heart sang under his rose on her breast. then two big mouse-coloured pigeons came whistling by and alighted on the terrace, where they bowed and strutted and bobbed and turned until rue barrée laughed in delight, and looking up beheld clifford before her. his hat was in his hand and his face was wreathed in a series of appealing smiles which would have touched the heart of a bengal tiger. for an instant rue barrée frowned, then she looked curiously at clifford, then when she saw the resemblance between his bows and the bobbing pigeons, in spite of herself, her lips parted in the most bewitching laugh. was this rue barrée? so changed, so changed that she did not know herself; but oh! that song in her heart which drowned all else, which trembled on her lips, struggling for utterance, which rippled forth in a laugh at nothing,--at a strutting pigeon,--and mr. clifford. "and you think, because i return the salute of the students in the quarter, that you may be received in particular as a friend? i do not know you, monsieur, but vanity is man's other name;--be content, monsieur vanity, i shall be punctilious--oh, most punctilious in returning your salute." "but i beg--i implore you to let me render you that homage which has so long--" "oh dear; i don't care for homage." "let me only be permitted to speak to you now and then,--occasionally--very occasionally." "and if _you_, why not another?" "not at all,--i will be discretion itself." "discretion--why?" her eyes were very clear, and clifford winced for a moment, but only for a moment. then the devil of recklessness seizing him, he sat down and offered himself, soul and body, goods and chattels. and all the time he knew he was a fool and that infatuation is not love, and that each word he uttered bound him in honour from which there was no escape. and all the time elliott was scowling down on the fountain plaza and savagely checking both bulldogs from their desire to rush to clifford's rescue,--for even they felt there was something wrong, as elliott stormed within himself and growled maledictions. when clifford finished, he finished in a glow of excitement, but rue barrée's response was long in coming and his ardour cooled while the situation slowly assumed its just proportions. then regret began to creep in, but he put that aside and broke out again in protestations. at the first word rue barrée checked him. "i thank you," she said, speaking very gravely. "no man has ever before offered me marriage." she turned and looked out over the city. after a while she spoke again. "you offer me a great deal. i am alone, i have nothing, i am nothing." she turned again and looked at paris, brilliant, fair, in the sunshine of a perfect day. he followed her eyes. "oh," she murmured, "it is hard,--hard to work always--always alone with never a friend you can have in honour, and the love that is offered means the streets, the boulevard--when passion is dead. i know it,--_we_ know it,--we others who have nothing,--have no one, and who give ourselves, unquestioning--when we love,--yes, unquestioning--heart and soul, knowing the end." she touched the rose at her breast. for a moment she seemed to forget him, then quietly--"i thank you, i am very grateful." she opened the book and, plucking a petal from the rose, dropped it between the leaves. then looking up she said gently, "i cannot accept." v it took clifford a month to entirely recover, although at the end of the first week he was pronounced convalescent by elliott, who was an authority, and his convalescence was aided by the cordiality with which rue barrée acknowledged his solemn salutes. forty times a day he blessed rue barrée for her refusal, and thanked his lucky stars, and at the same time, oh, wondrous heart of ours!--he suffered the tortures of the blighted. elliott was annoyed, partly by clifford's reticence, partly by the unexplainable thaw in the frigidity of rue barrée. at their frequent encounters, when she, tripping along the rue de seine, with music-roll and big straw hat would pass clifford and his familiars steering an easterly course to the café vachette, and at the respectful uncovering of the band would colour and smile at clifford, elliott's slumbering suspicions awoke. but he never found out anything, and finally gave it up as beyond his comprehension, merely qualifying clifford as an idiot and reserving his opinion of rue barrée. and all this time selby was jealous. at first he refused to acknowledge it to himself, and cut the studio for a day in the country, but the woods and fields of course aggravated his case, and the brooks babbled of rue barrée and the mowers calling to each other across the meadow ended in a quavering "rue bar-rée-e!" that day spent in the country made him angry for a week, and he worked sulkily at julian's, all the time tormented by a desire to know where clifford was and what he might be doing. this culminated in an erratic stroll on sunday which ended at the flower-market on the pont au change, began again, was gloomily extended to the morgue, and again ended at the marble bridge. it would never do, and selby felt it, so he went to see clifford, who was convalescing on mint juleps in his garden. they sat down together and discussed morals and human happiness, and each found the other most entertaining, only selby failed to pump clifford, to the other's unfeigned amusement. but the juleps spread balm on the sting of jealousy, and trickled hope to the blighted, and when selby said he must go, clifford went too, and when selby, not to be outdone, insisted on accompanying clifford back to his door, clifford determined to see selby back half way, and then finding it hard to part, they decided to dine together and "flit." to flit, a verb applied to clifford's nocturnal prowls, expressed, perhaps, as well as anything, the gaiety proposed. dinner was ordered at mignon's, and while selby interviewed the chef, clifford kept a fatherly eye on the butler. the dinner was a success, or was of the sort generally termed a success. toward the dessert selby heard some one say as at a great distance, "kid selby, drunk as a lord." a group of men passed near them; it seemed to him that he shook hands and laughed a great deal, and that everybody was very witty. there was clifford opposite swearing undying confidence in his chum selby, and there seemed to be others there, either seated beside them or continually passing with the swish of skirts on the polished floor. the perfume of roses, the rustle of fans, the touch of rounded arms and the laughter grew vaguer and vaguer. the room seemed enveloped in mist. then, all in a moment each object stood out painfully distinct, only forms and visages were distorted and voices piercing. he drew himself up, calm, grave, for the moment master of himself, but very drunk. he knew he was drunk, and was as guarded and alert, as keenly suspicious of himself as he would have been of a thief at his elbow. his self-command enabled clifford to hold his head safely under some running water, and repair to the street considerably the worse for wear, but never suspecting that his companion was drunk. for a time he kept his self-command. his face was only a bit paler, a bit tighter than usual; he was only a trifle slower and more fastidious in his speech. it was midnight when he left clifford peacefully slumbering in somebody's arm-chair, with a long suede glove dangling in his hand and a plumy boa twisted about his neck to protect his throat from drafts. he walked through the hall and down the stairs, and found himself on the sidewalk in a quarter he did not know. mechanically he looked up at the name of the street. the name was not familiar. he turned and steered his course toward some lights clustered at the end of the street. they proved farther away than he had anticipated, and after a long quest he came to the conclusion that his eyes had been mysteriously removed from their proper places and had been reset on either side of his head like those of a bird. it grieved him to think of the inconvenience this transformation might occasion him, and he attempted to cock up his head, hen-like, to test the mobility of his neck. then an immense despair stole over him,--tears gathered in the tear-ducts, his heart melted, and he collided with a tree. this shocked him into comprehension; he stifled the violent tenderness in his breast, picked up his hat and moved on more briskly. his mouth was white and drawn, his teeth tightly clinched. he held his course pretty well and strayed but little, and after an apparently interminable length of time found himself passing a line of cabs. the brilliant lamps, red, yellow, and green annoyed him, and he felt it might be pleasant to demolish them with his cane, but mastering this impulse he passed on. later an idea struck him that it would save fatigue to take a cab, and he started back with that intention, but the cabs seemed already so far away and the lanterns were so bright and confusing that he gave it up, and pulling himself together looked around. a shadow, a mass, huge, undefined, rose to his right. he recognized the arc de triomphe and gravely shook his cane at it. its size annoyed him. he felt it was too big. then he heard something fall clattering to the pavement and thought probably it was his cane but it didn't much matter. when he had mastered himself and regained control of his right leg, which betrayed symptoms of insubordination, he found himself traversing the place de la concorde at a pace which threatened to land him at the madeleine. this would never do. he turned sharply to the right and crossing the bridge passed the palais bourbon at a trot and wheeled into the boulevard st. germain. he got on well enough although the size of the war office struck him as a personal insult, and he missed his cane, which it would have been pleasant to drag along the iron railings as he passed. it occurred to him, however, to substitute his hat, but when he found it he forgot what he wanted it for and replaced it upon his head with gravity. then he was obliged to battle with a violent inclination to sit down and weep. this lasted until he came to the rue de rennes, but there he became absorbed in contemplating the dragon on the balcony overhanging the cour du dragon, and time slipped away until he remembered vaguely that he had no business there, and marched off again. it was slow work. the inclination to sit down and weep had given place to a desire for solitary and deep reflection. here his right leg forgot its obedience and attacking the left, outflanked it and brought him up against a wooden board which seemed to bar his path. he tried to walk around it, but found the street closed. he tried to push it over, and found he couldn't. then he noticed a red lantern standing on a pile of paving-stones inside the barrier. this was pleasant. how was he to get home if the boulevard was blocked? but he was not on the boulevard. his treacherous right leg had beguiled him into a detour, for there, behind him lay the boulevard with its endless line of lamps,--and here, what was this narrow dilapidated street piled up with earth and mortar and heaps of stone? he looked up. written in staring black letters on the barrier was rue barrée. he sat down. two policemen whom he knew came by and advised him to get up, but he argued the question from a standpoint of personal taste, and they passed on, laughing. for he was at that moment absorbed in a problem. it was, how to see rue barrée. she was somewhere or other in that big house with the iron balconies, and the door was locked, but what of that? the simple idea struck him to shout until she came. this idea was replaced by another equally lucid,--to hammer on the door until she came; but finally rejecting both of these as too uncertain, he decided to climb into the balcony, and opening a window politely inquire for rue barrée. there was but one lighted window in the house that he could see. it was on the second floor, and toward this he cast his eyes. then mounting the wooden barrier and clambering over the piles of stones, he reached the sidewalk and looked up at the façade for a foothold. it seemed impossible. but a sudden fury seized him, a blind, drunken obstinacy, and the blood rushed to his head, leaping, beating in his ears like the dull thunder of an ocean. he set his teeth, and springing at a window-sill, dragged himself up and hung to the iron bars. then reason fled; there surged in his brain the sound of many voices, his heart leaped up beating a mad tattoo, and gripping at cornice and ledge he worked his way along the façade, clung to pipes and shutters, and dragged himself up, over and into the balcony by the lighted window. his hat fell off and rolled against the pane. for a moment he leaned breathless against the railing--then the window was slowly opened from within. they stared at each other for some time. presently the girl took two unsteady steps back into the room. he saw her face,--all crimsoned now,--he saw her sink into a chair by the lamplit table, and without a word he followed her into the room, closing the big door-like panes behind him. then they looked at each other in silence. the room was small and white; everything was white about it,--the curtained bed, the little wash-stand in the corner, the bare walls, the china lamp,--and his own face,--had he known it, but the face and neck of rue were surging in the colour that dyed the blossoming rose-tree there on the hearth beside her. it did not occur to him to speak. she seemed not to expect it. his mind was struggling with the impressions of the room. the whiteness, the extreme purity of everything occupied him--began to trouble him. as his eye became accustomed to the light, other objects grew from the surroundings and took their places in the circle of lamplight. there was a piano and a coal-scuttle and a little iron trunk and a bath-tub. then there was a row of wooden pegs against the door, with a white chintz curtain covering the clothes underneath. on the bed lay an umbrella and a big straw hat, and on the table, a music-roll unfurled, an ink-stand, and sheets of ruled paper. behind him stood a wardrobe faced with a mirror, but somehow he did not care to see his own face just then. he was sobering. the girl sat looking at him without a word. her face was expressionless, yet the lips at times trembled almost imperceptibly. her eyes, so wonderfully blue in the daylight, seemed dark and soft as velvet, and the colour on her neck deepened and whitened with every breath. she seemed smaller and more slender than when he had seen her in the street, and there was now something in the curve of her cheek almost infantine. when at last he turned and caught his own reflection in the mirror behind him, a shock passed through him as though he had seen a shameful thing, and his clouded mind and his clouded thoughts grew clearer. for a moment their eyes met then his sought the floor, his lips tightened, and the struggle within him bowed his head and strained every nerve to the breaking. and now it was over, for the voice within had spoken. he listened, dully interested but already knowing the end,--indeed it little mattered;--the end would always be the same for him;--he understood now--always the same for him, and he listened, dully interested, to a voice which grew within him. after a while he stood up, and she rose at once, one small hand resting on the table. presently he opened the window, picked up his hat, and shut it again. then he went over to the rosebush and touched the blossoms with his face. one was standing in a glass of water on the table and mechanically the girl drew it out, pressed it with her lips and laid it on the table beside him. he took it without a word and crossing the room, opened the door. the landing was dark and silent, but the girl lifted the lamp and gliding past him slipped down the polished stairs to the hallway. then unchaining the bolts, she drew open the iron wicket. through this he passed with his rose. the collected works of ambrose bierce volume ii in the midst of life tales of soldiers and civilians originally published 1909 preface to the first edition denied existence by the chief publishing houses of the country, this book owes itself to mr. e.l.g. steele, merchant, of this city. in attesting mr. steele's faith in his judgment and his friend, it will serve its author's main and best ambition. a.b. san francisco, sept. 4, 1891. contents a horseman in the sky 15 an occurrence at owl creek bridge 27 chickamauga 46 a son of the gods 58 one of the missing 71 killed at resaca 93 the affair at coulter's notch 105 the coup de grâce 122 parker adderson, philosopher 133 an affair of outposts 146 the story of a conscience 165 one kind of officer 178 one officer, one man 197 george thurston 209 the mocking-bird 218 civilians the man out of the nose 233 an adventure at brownville 247 the famous gilson bequest 266 the applicant 281 a watcher by the dead 290 the man and the snake 311 a holy terror 324 the suitable surroundings 350 the boarded window 364 a lady from red horse 373 the eyes of the panther 385 soldiers a horseman in the sky i one sunny afternoon in the autumn of the year 1861 a soldier lay in a clump of laurel by the side of a road in western virginia. he lay at full length upon his stomach, his feet resting upon the toes, his head upon the left forearm. his extended right hand loosely grasped his rifle. but for the somewhat methodical disposition of his limbs and a slight rhythmic movement of the cartridge-box at the back of his belt he might have been thought to be dead. he was asleep at his post of duty. but if detected he would be dead shortly afterward, death being the just and legal penalty of his crime. the clump of laurel in which the criminal lay was in the angle of a road which after ascending southward a steep acclivity to that point turned sharply to the west, running along the summit for perhaps one hundred yards. there it turned southward again and went zigzagging downward through the forest. at the salient of that second angle was a large flat rock, jutting out northward, overlooking the deep valley from which the road ascended. the rock capped a high cliff; a stone dropped from its outer edge would have fallen sheer downward one thousand feet to the tops of the pines. the angle where the soldier lay was on another spur of the same cliff. had he been awake he would have commanded a view, not only of the short arm of the road and the jutting rock, but of the entire profile of the cliff below it. it might well have made him giddy to look. the country was wooded everywhere except at the bottom of the valley to the northward, where there was a small natural meadow, through which flowed a stream scarcely visible from the valley's rim. this open ground looked hardly larger than an ordinary door-yard, but was really several acres in extent. its green was more vivid than that of the inclosing forest. away beyond it rose a line of giant cliffs similar to those upon which we are supposed to stand in our survey of the savage scene, and through which the road had somehow made its climb to the summit. the configuration of the valley, indeed, was such that from this point of observation it seemed entirely shut in, and one could but have wondered how the road which found a way out of it had found a way into it, and whence came and whither went the waters of the stream that parted the meadow more than a thousand feet below. no country is so wild and difficult but men will make it a theatre of war; concealed in the forest at the bottom of that military rat-trap, in which half a hundred men in possession of the exits might have starved an army to submission, lay five regiments of federal infantry. they had marched all the previous day and night and were resting. at nightfall they would take to the road again, climb to the place where their unfaithful sentinel now slept, and descending the other slope of the ridge fall upon a camp of the enemy at about midnight. their hope was to surprise it, for the road led to the rear of it. in case of failure, their position would be perilous in the extreme; and fail they surely would should accident or vigilance apprise the enemy of the movement. ii the sleeping sentinel in the clump of laurel was a young virginian named carter druse. he was the son of wealthy parents, an only child, and had known such ease and cultivation and high living as wealth and taste were able to command in the mountain country of western virginia. his home was but a few miles from where he now lay. one morning he had risen from the breakfast-table and said, quietly but gravely: "father, a union regiment has arrived at grafton. i am going to join it." the father lifted his leonine head, looked at the son a moment in silence, and replied: "well, go, sir, and whatever may occur do what you conceive to be your duty. virginia, to which you are a traitor, must get on without you. should we both live to the end of the war, we will speak further of the matter. your mother, as the physician has informed you, is in a most critical condition; at the best she cannot be with us longer than a few weeks, but that time is precious. it would be better not to disturb her." so carter druse, bowing reverently to his father, who returned the salute with a stately courtesy that masked a breaking heart, left the home of his childhood to go soldiering. by conscience and courage, by deeds of devotion and daring, he soon commended himself to his fellows and his officers; and it was to these qualities and to some knowledge of the country that he owed his selection for his present perilous duty at the extreme outpost. nevertheless, fatigue had been stronger than resolution and he had fallen asleep. what good or bad angel came in a dream to rouse him from his state of crime, who shall say? without a movement, without a sound, in the profound silence and the languor of the late afternoon, some invisible messenger of fate touched with unsealing finger the eyes of his consciousness--whispered into the ear of his spirit the mysterious awakening word which no human lips ever have spoken, no human memory ever has recalled. he quietly raised his forehead from his arm and looked between the masking stems of the laurels, instinctively closing his right hand about the stock of his rifle. his first feeling was a keen artistic delight. on a colossal pedestal, the cliff,--motionless at the extreme edge of the capping rock and sharply outlined against the sky,--was an equestrian statue of impressive dignity. the figure of the man sat the figure of the horse, straight and soldierly, but with the repose of a grecian god carved in the marble which limits the suggestion of activity. the gray costume harmonized with its aërial background; the metal of accoutrement and caparison was softened and subdued by the shadow; the animal's skin had no points of high light. a carbine strikingly foreshortened lay across the pommel of the saddle, kept in place by the right hand grasping it at the "grip"; the left hand, holding the bridle rein, was invisible. in silhouette against the sky the profile of the horse was cut with the sharpness of a cameo; it looked across the heights of air to the confronting cliffs beyond. the face of the rider, turned slightly away, showed only an outline of temple and beard; he was looking downward to the bottom of the valley. magnified by its lift against the sky and by the soldier's testifying sense of the formidableness of a near enemy the group appeared of heroic, almost colossal, size. for an instant druse had a strange, half-defined feeling that he had slept to the end of the war and was looking upon a noble work of art reared upon that eminence to commemorate the deeds of an heroic past of which he had been an inglorious part. the feeling was dispelled by a slight movement of the group: the horse, without moving its feet, had drawn its body slightly backward from the verge; the man remained immobile as before. broad awake and keenly alive to the significance of the situation, druse now brought the butt of his rifle against his cheek by cautiously pushing the barrel forward through the bushes, cocked the piece, and glancing through the sights covered a vital spot of the horseman's breast. a touch upon the trigger and all would have been well with carter druse. at that instant the horseman turned his head and looked in the direction of his concealed foeman--seemed to look into his very face, into his eyes, into his brave, compassionate heart. is it then so terrible to kill an enemy in war--an enemy who has surprised a secret vital to the safety of one's self and comrades--an enemy more formidable for his knowledge than all his army for its numbers? carter druse grew pale; he shook in every limb, turned faint, and saw the statuesque group before him as black figures, rising, falling, moving unsteadily in arcs of circles in a fiery sky. his hand fell away from his weapon, his head slowly dropped until his face rested on the leaves in which he lay. this courageous gentleman and hardy soldier was near swooning from intensity of emotion. it was not for long; in another moment his face was raised from earth, his hands resumed their places on the rifle, his forefinger sought the trigger; mind, heart, and eyes were clear, conscience and reason sound. he could not hope to capture that enemy; to alarm him would but send him dashing to his camp with his fatal news. the duty of the soldier was plain: the man must be shot dead from ambush--without warning, without a moment's spiritual preparation, with never so much as an unspoken prayer, he must be sent to his account. but no--there is a hope; he may have discovered nothing--perhaps he is but admiring the sublimity of the landscape. if permitted, he may turn and ride carelessly away in the direction whence he came. surely it will be possible to judge at the instant of his withdrawing whether he knows. it may well be that his fixity of attention--druse turned his head and looked through the deeps of air downward, as from the surface to the bottom of a translucent sea. he saw creeping across the green meadow a sinuous line of figures of men and horses--some foolish commander was permitting the soldiers of his escort to water their beasts in the open, in plain view from a dozen summits! druse withdrew his eyes from the valley and fixed them again upon the group of man and horse in the sky, and again it was through the sights of his rifle. but this time his aim was at the horse. in his memory, as if they were a divine mandate, rang the words of his father at their parting: "whatever may occur, do what you conceive to be your duty." he was calm now. his teeth were firmly but not rigidly closed; his nerves were as tranquil as a sleeping babe's--not a tremor affected any muscle of his body; his breathing, until suspended in the act of taking aim, was regular and slow. duty had conquered; the spirit had said to the body: "peace, be still." he fired. iii an officer of the federal force, who in a spirit of adventure or in quest of knowledge had left the hidden _bivouac_ in the valley, and with aimless feet had made his way to the lower edge of a small open space near the foot of the cliff, was considering what he had to gain by pushing his exploration further. at a distance of a quarter-mile before him, but apparently at a stone's throw, rose from its fringe of pines the gigantic face of rock, towering to so great a height above him that it made him giddy to look up to where its edge cut a sharp, rugged line against the sky. it presented a clean, vertical profile against a background of blue sky to a point half the way down, and of distant hills, hardly less blue, thence to the tops of the trees at its base. lifting his eyes to the dizzy altitude of its summit the officer saw an astonishing sight--a man on horseback riding down into the valley through the air! straight upright sat the rider, in military fashion, with a firm seat in the saddle, a strong clutch upon the rein to hold his charger from too impetuous a plunge. from his bare head his long hair streamed upward, waving like a plume. his hands were concealed in the cloud of the horse's lifted mane. the animal's body was as level as if every hoof-stroke encountered the resistant earth. its motions were those of a wild gallop, but even as the officer looked they ceased, with all the legs thrown sharply forward as in the act of alighting from a leap. but this was a flight! filled with amazement and terror by this apparition of a horseman in the sky--half believing himself the chosen scribe of some new apocalypse, the officer was overcome by the intensity of his emotions; his legs failed him and he fell. almost at the same instant he heard a crashing sound in the trees--a sound that died without an echo--and all was still. the officer rose to his feet, trembling. the familiar sensation of an abraded shin recalled his dazed faculties. pulling himself together he ran rapidly obliquely away from the cliff to a point distant from its foot; thereabout he expected to find his man; and thereabout he naturally failed. in the fleeting instant of his vision his imagination had been so wrought upon by the apparent grace and ease and intention of the marvelous performance that it did not occur to him that the line of march of aërial cavalry is directly downward, and that he could find the objects of his search at the very foot of the cliff. a half-hour later he returned to camp. this officer was a wise man; he knew better than to tell an incredible truth. he said nothing of what he had seen. but when the commander asked him if in his scout he had learned anything of advantage to the expedition he answered: "yes, sir; there is no road leading down into this valley from the southward." the commander, knowing better, smiled. iv after firing his shot, private carter druse reloaded his rifle and resumed his watch. ten minutes had hardly passed when a federal sergeant crept cautiously to him on hands and knees. druse neither turned his head nor looked at him, but lay without motion or sign of recognition. "did you fire?" the sergeant whispered. "yes." "at what?" "a horse. it was standing on yonder rock--pretty far out. you see it is no longer there. it went over the cliff." the man's face was white, but he showed no other sign of emotion. having answered, he turned away his eyes and said no more. the sergeant did not understand. "see here, druse," he said, after a moment's silence, "it's no use making a mystery. i order you to report. was there anybody on the horse?" "yes." "well?" "my father." the sergeant rose to his feet and walked away. "good god!" he said. an occurrence at owl creek bridge i a man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. the man's hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord. a rope closely encircled his neck. it was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack fell to the level of his knees. some loose boards laid upon the sleepers supporting the metals of the railway supplied a footing for him and his executioners--two private soldiers of the federal army, directed by a sergeant who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. at a short remove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform of his rank, armed. he was a captain. a sentinel at each end of the bridge stood with his rifle in the position known as "support," that is to say, vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the forearm thrown straight across the chest--a formal and unnatural position, enforcing an erect carriage of the body. it did not appear to be the duty of these two men to know what was occurring at the centre of the bridge; they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot planking that traversed it. beyond one of the sentinels nobody was in sight; the railroad ran straight away into a forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was lost to view. doubtless there was an outpost farther along. the other bank of the stream was open ground--a gentle acclivity topped with a stockade of vertical tree trunks, loop-holed for rifles, with a single embrasure through which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the bridge. mid-way of the slope between bridge and fort were the spectators--a single company of infantry in line, at "parade rest," the butts of the rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly backward against the right shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. a lieutenant stood at the right of the line, the point of his sword upon the ground, his left hand resting upon his right. excepting the group of four at the centre of the bridge, not a man moved. the company faced the bridge, staring stonily, motionless. the sentinels, facing the banks of the stream, might have been statues to adorn the bridge. the captain stood with folded arms, silent, observing the work of his subordinates, but making no sign. death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is to be received with formal manifestations of respect, even by those most familiar with him. in the code of military etiquette silence and fixity are forms of deference. the man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five years of age. he was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit, which was that of a planter. his features were good--a straight nose, firm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well-fitting frock-coat. he wore a mustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one would hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. evidently this was no vulgar assassin. the liberal military code makes provision for hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded. the preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside and each drew away the plank upon which he had been standing. the sergeant turned to the captain, saluted and placed himself immediately behind that officer, who in turn moved apart one pace. these movements left the condemned man and the sergeant standing on the two ends of the same plank, which spanned three of the cross-ties of the bridge. the end upon which the civilian stood almost, but not quite, reached a fourth. this plank had been held in place by the weight of the captain; it was now held by that of the sergeant. at a signal from the former the latter would step aside, the plank would tilt and the condemned man go down between two ties. the arrangement commended itself to his judgment as simple and effective. his face had not been covered nor his eyes bandaged. he looked a moment at his "unsteadfast footing," then let his gaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his feet. a piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes followed it down the current. how slowly it appeared to move! what a sluggish stream! he closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and children. the water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding mists under the banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the soldiers, the piece of drift--all had distracted him. and now he became conscious of a new disturbance. striking through the thought of his dear ones was a sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil; it had the same ringing quality. he wondered what it was, and whether immeasurably distant or near by--it seemed both. its recurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death knell. he awaited each stroke with impatience and--he knew not why--apprehension. the intervals of silence grew progressively longer; the delays became maddening. with their greater infrequency the sounds increased in strength and sharpness. they hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife; he feared he would shriek. what he heard was the ticking of his watch. he unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. "if i could free my hands," he thought, "i might throw off the noose and spring into the stream. by diving i could evade the bullets and, swimming vigorously, reach the bank, take to the woods and get away home. my home, thank god, is as yet outside their lines; my wife and little ones are still beyond the invader's farthest advance." as these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed into the doomed man's brain rather than evolved from it the captain nodded to the sergeant. the sergeant stepped aside. ii peyton farquhar was a well-to-do planter, of an old and highly respected alabama family. being a slave owner and like other slave owners a politician he was naturally an original secessionist and ardently devoted to the southern cause. circumstances of an imperious nature, which it is unnecessary to relate here, had prevented him from taking service with the gallant army that had fought the disastrous campaigns ending with the fall of corinth, and he chafed under the inglorious restraint, longing for the release of his energies, the larger life of the soldier, the opportunity for distinction. that opportunity, he felt, would come, as it comes to all in war time. meanwhile he did what he could. no service was too humble for him to perform in aid of the south, no adventure too perilous for him to undertake if consistent with the character of a civilian who was at heart a soldier, and who in good faith and without too much qualification assented to at least a part of the frankly villainous dictum that all is fair in love and war. one evening while farquhar and his wife were sitting on a rustic bench near the entrance to his grounds, a gray-clad soldier rode up to the gate and asked for a drink of water. mrs. farquhar was only too happy to serve him with her own white hands. while she was fetching the water her husband approached the dusty horseman and inquired eagerly for news from the front. "the yanks are repairing the railroads," said the man, "and are getting ready for another advance. they have reached the owl creek bridge, put it in order and built a stockade on the north bank. the commandant has issued an order, which is posted everywhere, declaring that any civilian caught interfering with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels or trains will be summarily hanged. i saw the order." "how far is it to the owl creek bridge?" farquhar asked. "about thirty miles." "is there no force on this side the creek?" "only a picket post half a mile out, on the railroad, and a single sentinel at this end of the bridge." "suppose a man--a civilian and student of hanging--should elude the picket post and perhaps get the better of the sentinel," said farquhar, smiling, "what could he accomplish?" the soldier reflected. "i was there a month ago," he replied. "i observed that the flood of last winter had lodged a great quantity of driftwood against the wooden pier at this end of the bridge. it is now dry and would burn like tow." the lady had now brought the water, which the soldier drank. he thanked her ceremoniously, bowed to her husband and rode away. an hour later, after nightfall, he repassed the plantation, going northward in the direction from which he had come. he was a federal scout. iii as peyton farquhar fell straight downward through the bridge he lost consciousness and was as one already dead. from this state he was awakened--ages later, it seemed to him--by the pain of a sharp pressure upon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. keen, poignant agonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward through every fibre of his body and limbs. these pains appeared to flash along well-defined lines of ramification and to beat with an inconceivably rapid periodicity. they seemed like streams of pulsating fire heating him to an intolerable temperature. as to his head, he was conscious of nothing but a feeling of fulness--of congestion. these sensations were unaccompanied by thought. the intellectual part of his nature was already effaced; he had power only to feel, and feeling was torment. he was conscious of motion. encompassed in a luminous cloud, of which he was now merely the fiery heart, without material substance, he swung through unthinkable arcs of oscillation, like a vast pendulum. then all at once, with terrible suddenness, the light about him shot upward with the noise of a loud plash; a frightful roaring was in his ears, and all was cold and dark. the power of thought was restored; he knew that the rope had broken and he had fallen into the stream. there was no additional strangulation; the noose about his neck was already suffocating him and kept the water from his lungs. to die of hanging at the bottom of a river!--the idea seemed to him ludicrous. he opened his eyes in the darkness and saw above him a gleam of light, but how distant, how inaccessible! he was still sinking, for the light became fainter and fainter until it was a mere glimmer. then it began to grow and brighten, and he knew that he was rising toward the surface--knew it with reluctance, for he was now very comfortable. "to be hanged and drowned," he thought, "that is not so bad; but i do not wish to be shot. no; i will not be shot; that is not fair." he was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his wrist apprised him that he was trying to free his hands. he gave the struggle his attention, as an idler might observe the feat of a juggler, without interest in the outcome. what splendid effort!--what magnificent, what superhuman strength! ah, that was a fine endeavor! bravo! the cord fell away; his arms parted and floated upward, the hands dimly seen on each side in the growing light. he watched them with a new interest as first one and then the other pounced upon the noose at his neck. they tore it away and thrust it fiercely aside, its undulations resembling those of a water-snake. "put it back, put it back!" he thought he shouted these words to his hands, for the undoing of the noose had been succeeded by the direst pang that he had yet experienced. his neck ached horribly; his brain was on fire; his heart, which had been fluttering faintly, gave a great leap, trying to force itself out at his mouth. his whole body was racked and wrenched with an insupportable anguish! but his disobedient hands gave no heed to the command. they beat the water vigorously with quick, downward strokes, forcing him to the surface. he felt his head emerge; his eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest expanded convulsively, and with a supreme and crowning agony his lungs engulfed a great draught of air, which instantly he expelled in a shriek! he was now in full possession of his physical senses. they were, indeed, preternaturally keen and alert. something in the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record of things never before perceived. he felt the ripples upon his face and heard their separate sounds as they struck. he looked at the forest on the bank of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the veining of each leaf--saw the very insects upon them: the locusts, the brilliant-bodied flies, the gray spiders stretching their webs from twig to twig. he noted the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million blades of grass. the humming of the gnats that danced above the eddies of the stream, the beating of the dragon-flies' wings, the strokes of the water-spiders' legs, like oars which had lifted their boat--all these made audible music. a fish slid along beneath his eyes and he heard the rush of its body parting the water. he had come to the surface facing down the stream; in a moment the visible world seemed to wheel slowly round, himself the pivotal point, and he saw the bridge, the fort, the soldiers upon the bridge, the captain, the sergeant, the two privates, his executioners. they were in silhouette against the blue sky. they shouted and gesticulated, pointing at him. the captain had drawn his pistol, but did not fire; the others were unarmed. their movements were grotesque and horrible, their forms gigantic. suddenly he heard a sharp report and something struck the water smartly within a few inches of his head, spattering his face with spray. he heard a second report, and saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at his shoulder, a light cloud of blue smoke rising from the muzzle. the man in the water saw the eye of the man on the bridge gazing into his own through the sights of the rifle. he observed that it was a gray eye and remembered having read that gray eyes were keenest, and that all famous markmen had them. nevertheless, this one had missed. a counter-swirl had caught farquhar and turned him half round; he was again looking into the forest on the bank opposite the fort. the sound of a clear, high voice in a monotonous singsong now rang out behind him and came across the water with a distinctness that pierced and subdued all other sounds, even the beating of the ripples in his ears. although no soldier, he had frequented camps enough to know the dread significance of that deliberate, drawling, aspirated chant; the lieutenant on shore was taking a part in the morning's work. how coldly and pitilessly--with what an even, calm intonation, presaging, and enforcing tranquillity in the men--with what accurately measured intervals fell those cruel words: "attention, company!... shoulder arms!... ready!... aim!... fire!" farquhar dived--dived as deeply as he could. the water roared in his ears like the voice of niagara, yet he heard the dulled thunder of the volley and, rising again toward the surface, met shining bits of metal, singularly flattened, oscillating slowly downward. some of them touched him on the face and hands, then fell away, continuing their descent. one lodged between his collar and neck; it was uncomfortably warm and he snatched it out. as he rose to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that he had been a long time under water; he was perceptibly farther down stream--nearer to safety. the soldiers had almost finished reloading; the metal ramrods flashed all at once in the sunshine as they were drawn from the barrels, turned in the air, and thrust into their sockets. the two sentinels fired again, independently and ineffectually. the hunted man saw all this over his shoulder; he was now swimming vigorously with the current. his brain was as energetic as his arms and legs; he thought with the rapidity of lightning. "the officer," he reasoned, "will not make that martinet's error a second time. it is as easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. he has probably already given the command to fire at will. god help me, i cannot dodge them all!" an appalling plash within two yards of him was followed by a loud, rushing sound, _diminuendo_, which seemed to travel back through the air to the fort and died in an explosion which stirred the very river to its deeps! a rising sheet of water curved over him, fell down upon him, blinded him, strangled him! the cannon had taken a hand in the game. as he shook his head free from the commotion of the smitten water he heard the deflected shot humming through the air ahead, and in an instant it was cracking and smashing the branches in the forest beyond. "they will not do that again," he thought; "the next time they will use a charge of grape. i must keep my eye upon the gun; the smoke will apprise me--the report arrives too late; it lags behind the missile. that is a good gun." suddenly he felt himself whirled round and round--spinning like a top. the water, the banks, the forests, the now distant bridge, fort and men --all were commingled and blurred. objects were represented by their colors only; circular horizontal streaks of color--that was all he saw. he had been caught in a vortex and was being whirled on with a velocity of advance and gyration that made him giddy and sick. in a few moments he was flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of the stream --the southern bank--and behind a projecting point which concealed him from his enemies. the sudden arrest of his motion, the abrasion of one of his hands on the gravel, restored him, and he wept with delight. he dug his fingers into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls and audibly blessed it. it looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; he could think of nothing beautiful which it did not resemble. the trees upon the bank were giant garden plants; he noted a definite order in their arrangement, inhaled the fragrance of their blooms. a strange, roseate light shone through the spaces among their trunks and the wind made in their branches the music of æolian harps. he had no wish to perfect his escape--was content to remain in that enchanting spot until retaken. a whiz and rattle of grapeshot among the branches high above his head roused him from his dream. the baffled cannoneer had fired him a random farewell. he sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and plunged into the forest. all that day he traveled, laying his course by the rounding sun. the forest seemed interminable; nowhere did he discover a break in it, not even a woodman's road. he had not known that he lived in so wild a region. there was something uncanny in the revelation. by nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famishing. the thought of his wife and children urged him on. at last he found a road which led him in what he knew to be the right direction. it was as wide and straight as a city street, yet it seemed untraveled. no fields bordered it, no dwelling anywhere. not so much as the barking of a dog suggested human habitation. the black bodies of the trees formed a straight wall on both sides, terminating on the horizon in a point, like a diagram in a lesson in perspective. over-head, as he looked up through this rift in the wood, shone great golden stars looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange constellations. he was sure they were arranged in some order which had a secret and malign significance. the wood on either side was full of singular noises, among which--once, twice, and again--he distinctly heard whispers in an unknown tongue. his neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it he found it horribly swollen. he knew that it had a circle of black where the rope had bruised it. his eyes felt congested; he could no longer close them. his tongue was swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting it forward from between his teeth into the cold air. how softly the turf had carpeted the untraveled avenue--he could no longer feel the roadway beneath his feet! doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking, for now he sees another scene--perhaps he has merely recovered from a delirium. he stands at the gate of his own home. all is as he left it, and all bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine. he must have traveled the entire night. as he pushes open the gate and passes up the wide white walk, he sees a flutter of female garments; his wife, looking fresh and cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to meet him. at the bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with a smile of ineffable joy, an attitude of matchless grace and dignity. ah, how beautiful she is! he springs forward with extended arms. as he is about to clasp her he feels a stunning blow upon the back of the neck; a blinding white light blazes all about him with a sound like the shock of a cannon--then all is darkness and silence! peyton farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently from side to side beneath the timbers of the owl creek bridge. chickamauga one sunny autumn afternoon a child strayed away from its rude home in a small field and entered a forest unobserved. it was happy in a new sense of freedom from control, happy in the opportunity of exploration and adventure; for this child's spirit, in bodies of its ancestors, had for thousands of years been trained to memorable feats of discovery and conquest--victories in battles whose critical moments were centuries, whose victors' camps were cities of hewn stone. from the cradle of its race it had conquered its way through two continents and passing a great sea had penetrated a third, there to be born to war and dominion as a heritage. the child was a boy aged about six years, the son of a poor planter. in his younger manhood the father had been a soldier, had fought against naked savages and followed the flag of his country into the capital of a civilized race to the far south. in the peaceful life of a planter the warrior-fire survived; once kindled, it is never extinguished. the man loved military books and pictures and the boy had understood enough to make himself a wooden sword, though even the eye of his father would hardly have known it for what it was. this weapon he now bore bravely, as became the son of an heroic race, and pausing now and again in the sunny space of the forest assumed, with some exaggeration, the postures of aggression and defense that he had been taught by the engraver's art. made reckless by the ease with which he overcame invisible foes attempting to stay his advance, he committed the common enough military error of pushing the pursuit to a dangerous extreme, until he found himself upon the margin of a wide but shallow brook, whose rapid waters barred his direct advance against the flying foe that had crossed with illogical ease. but the intrepid victor was not to be baffled; the spirit of the race which had passed the great sea burned unconquerable in that small breast and would not be denied. finding a place where some bowlders in the bed of the stream lay but a step or a leap apart, he made his way across and fell again upon the rear-guard of his imaginary foe, putting all to the sword. now that the battle had been won, prudence required that he withdraw to his base of operations. alas; like many a mightier conqueror, and like one, the mightiest, he could not curb the lust for war, nor learn that tempted fate will leave the loftiest star. advancing from the bank of the creek he suddenly found himself confronted with a new and more formidable enemy: in the path that he was following, sat, bolt upright, with ears erect and paws suspended before it, a rabbit! with a startled cry the child turned and fled, he knew not in what direction, calling with inarticulate cries for his mother, weeping, stumbling, his tender skin cruelly torn by brambles, his little heart beating hard with terror--breathless, blind with tears--lost in the forest! then, for more than an hour, he wandered with erring feet through the tangled undergrowth, till at last, overcome by fatigue, he lay down in a narrow space between two rocks, within a few yards of the stream and still grasping his toy sword, no longer a weapon but a companion, sobbed himself to sleep. the wood birds sang merrily above his head; the squirrels, whisking their bravery of tail, ran barking from tree to tree, unconscious of the pity of it, and somewhere far away was a strange, muffled thunder, as if the partridges were drumming in celebration of nature's victory over the son of her immemorial enslavers. and back at the little plantation, where white men and black were hastily searching the fields and hedges in alarm, a mother's heart was breaking for her missing child. hours passed, and then the little sleeper rose to his feet. the chill of the evening was in his limbs, the fear of the gloom in his heart. but he had rested, and he no longer wept. with some blind instinct which impelled to action he struggled through the undergrowth about him and came to a more open ground--on his right the brook, to the left a gentle acclivity studded with infrequent trees; over all, the gathering gloom of twilight. a thin, ghostly mist rose along the water. it frightened and repelled him; instead of recrossing, in the direction whence he had come, he turned his back upon it, and went forward toward the dark inclosing wood. suddenly he saw before him a strange moving object which he took to be some large animal--a dog, a pig--he could not name it; perhaps it was a bear. he had seen pictures of bears, but knew of nothing to their discredit and had vaguely wished to meet one. but something in form or movement of this object--something in the awkwardness of its approach--told him that it was not a bear, and curiosity was stayed by fear. he stood still and as it came slowly on gained courage every moment, for he saw that at least it had not the long, menacing ears of the rabbit. possibly his impressionable mind was half conscious of something familiar in its shambling, awkward gait. before it had approached near enough to resolve his doubts he saw that it was followed by another and another. to right and to left were many more; the whole open space about him was alive with them--all moving toward the brook. they were men. they crept upon their hands and knees. they used their hands only, dragging their legs. they used their knees only, their arms hanging idle at their sides. they strove to rise to their feet, but fell prone in the attempt. they did nothing naturally, and nothing alike, save only to advance foot by foot in the same direction. singly, in pairs and in little groups, they came on through the gloom, some halting now and again while others crept slowly past them, then resuming their movement. they came by dozens and by hundreds; as far on either hand as one could see in the deepening gloom they extended and the black wood behind them appeared to be inexhaustible. the very ground seemed in motion toward the creek. occasionally one who had paused did not again go on, but lay motionless. he was dead. some, pausing, made strange gestures with their hands, erected their arms and lowered them again, clasped their heads; spread their palms upward, as men are sometimes seen to do in public prayer. not all of this did the child note; it is what would have been noted by an elder observer; he saw little but that these were men, yet crept like babes. being men, they were not terrible, though unfamiliarly clad. he moved among them freely, going from one to another and peering into their faces with childish curiosity. all their faces were singularly white and many were streaked and gouted with red. something in this-something too, perhaps, in their grotesque attitudes and movements-reminded him of the painted clown whom he had seen last summer in the circus, and he laughed as he watched them. but on and ever on they crept, these maimed and bleeding men, as heedless as he of the dramatic contrast between his laughter and their own ghastly gravity. to him it was a merry spectacle. he had seen his father's negroes creep upon their hands and knees for his amusement--had ridden them so, "making believe" they were his horses. he now approached one of these crawling figures from behind and with an agile movement mounted it astride. the man sank upon his breast, recovered, flung the small boy fiercely to the ground as an unbroken colt might have done, then turned upon him a face that lacked a lower jaw--from the upper teeth to the throat was a great red gap fringed with hanging shreds of flesh and splinters of bone. the unnatural prominence of nose, the absence of chin, the fierce eyes, gave this man the appearance of a great bird of prey crimsoned in throat and breast by the blood of its quarry. the man rose to his knees, the child to his feet. the man shook his fist at the child; the child, terrified at last, ran to a tree near by, got upon the farther side of it and took a more serious view of the situation. and so the clumsy multitude dragged itself slowly and painfully along in hideous pantomime--moved forward down the slope like a swarm of great black beetles, with never a sound of going--in silence profound, absolute. instead of darkening, the haunted landscape began to brighten. through the belt of trees beyond the brook shone a strange red light, the trunks and branches of the trees making a black lacework against it. it struck the creeping figures and gave them monstrous shadows, which caricatured their movements on the lit grass. it fell upon their faces, touching their whiteness with a ruddy tinge, accentuating the stains with which so many of them were freaked and maculated. it sparkled on buttons and bits of metal in their clothing. instinctively the child turned toward the growing splendor and moved down the slope with his horrible companions; in a few moments had passed the foremost of the throng--not much of a feat, considering his advantages. he placed himself in the lead, his wooden sword still in hand, and solemnly directed the march, conforming his pace to theirs and occasionally turning as if to see that his forces did not straggle. surely such a leader never before had such a following. scattered about upon the ground now slowly narrowing by the encroachment of this awful march to water, were certain articles to which, in the leader's mind, were coupled no significant associations: an occasional blanket, tightly rolled lengthwise, doubled and the ends bound together with a string; a heavy knapsack here, and there a broken rifle--such things, in short, as are found in the rear of retreating troops, the "spoor" of men flying from their hunters. everywhere near the creek, which here had a margin of lowland, the earth was trodden into mud by the feet of men and horses. an observer of better experience in the use of his eyes would have noticed that these footprints pointed in both directions; the ground had been twice passed over--in advance and in retreat. a few hours before, these desperate, stricken men, with their more fortunate and now distant comrades, had penetrated the forest in thousands. their successive battalions, breaking into swarms and re-forming in lines, had passed the child on every side--had almost trodden on him as he slept. the rustle and murmur of their march had not awakened him. almost within a stone's throw of where he lay they had fought a battle; but all unheard by him were the roar of the musketry, the shock of the cannon, "the thunder of the captains and the shouting." he had slept through it all, grasping his little wooden sword with perhaps a tighter clutch in unconscious sympathy with his martial environment, but as heedless of the grandeur of the struggle as the dead who had died to make the glory. the fire beyond the belt of woods on the farther side of the creek, reflected to earth from the canopy of its own smoke, was now suffusing the whole landscape. it transformed the sinuous line of mist to the vapor of gold. the water gleamed with dashes of red, and red, too, were many of the stones protruding above the surface. but that was blood; the less desperately wounded had stained them in crossing. on them, too, the child now crossed with eager steps; he was going to the fire. as he stood upon the farther bank he turned about to look at the companions of his march. the advance was arriving at the creek. the stronger had already drawn themselves to the brink and plunged their faces into the flood. three or four who lay without motion appeared to have no heads. at this the child's eyes expanded with wonder; even his hospitable understanding could not accept a phenomenon implying such vitality as that. after slaking their thirst these men had not had the strength to back away from the water, nor to keep their heads above it. they were drowned. in rear of these, the open spaces of the forest showed the leader as many formless figures of his grim command as at first; but not nearly so many were in motion. he waved his cap for their encouragement and smilingly pointed with his weapon in the direction of the guiding light--a pillar of fire to this strange exodus. confident of the fidelity of his forces, he now entered the belt of woods, passed through it easily in the red illumination, climbed a fence, ran across a field, turning now and again to coquet with his responsive shadow, and so approached the blazing ruin of a dwelling. desolation everywhere! in all the wide glare not a living thing was visible. he cared nothing for that; the spectacle pleased, and he danced with glee in imitation of the wavering flames. he ran about, collecting fuel, but every object that he found was too heavy for him to cast in from the distance to which the heat limited his approach. in despair he flung in his sword--a surrender to the superior forces of nature. his military career was at an end. shifting his position, his eyes fell upon some outbuildings which had an oddly familiar appearance, as if he had dreamed of them. he stood considering them with wonder, when suddenly the entire plantation, with its inclosing forest, seemed to turn as if upon a pivot. his little world swung half around; the points of the compass were reversed. he recognized the blazing building as his own home! for a moment he stood stupefied by the power of the revelation, then ran with stumbling feet, making a half-circuit of the ruin. there, conspicuous in the light of the conflagration, lay the dead body of a woman--the white face turned upward, the hands thrown out and clutched full of grass, the clothing deranged, the long dark hair in tangles and full of clotted blood. the greater part of the forehead was torn away, and from the jagged hole the brain protruded, overflowing the temple, a frothy mass of gray, crowned with clusters of crimson bubbles--the work of a shell. the child moved his little hands, making wild, uncertain gestures. he uttered a series of inarticulate and indescribable cries--something between the chattering of an ape and the gobbling of a turkey--a startling, soulless, unholy sound, the language of a devil. the child was a deaf mute. then he stood motionless, with quivering lips, looking down upon the wreck. a son of the gods a study in the present tense a breezy day and a sunny landscape. an open country to right and left and forward; behind, a wood. in the edge of this wood, facing the open but not venturing into it, long lines of troops, halted. the wood is alive with them, and full of confused noises--the occasional rattle of wheels as a battery of artillery goes into position to cover the advance; the hum and murmur of the soldiers talking; a sound of innumerable feet in the dry leaves that strew the interspaces among the trees; hoarse commands of officers. detached groups of horsemen are well in front--not altogether exposed--many of them intently regarding the crest of a hill a mile away in the direction of the interrupted advance. for this powerful army, moving in battle order through a forest, has met with a formidable obstacle--the open country. the crest of that gentle hill a mile away has a sinister look; it says, beware! along it runs a stone wall extending to left and right a great distance. behind the wall is a hedge; behind the hedge are seen the tops of trees in rather straggling order. among the trees--what? it is necessary to know. yesterday, and for many days and nights previously, we were fighting somewhere; always there was cannonading, with occasional keen rattlings of musketry, mingled with cheers, our own or the enemy's, we seldom knew, attesting some temporary advantage. this morning at daybreak the enemy was gone. we have moved forward across his earthworks, across which we have so often vainly attempted to move before, through the debris of his abandoned camps, among the graves of his fallen, into the woods beyond. how curiously we had regarded everything! how odd it all had seemed! nothing had appeared quite familiar; the most commonplace objects--an old saddle, a splintered wheel, a forgotten canteen--everything had related something of the mysterious personality of those strange men who had been killing us. the soldier never becomes wholly familiar with the conception of his foes as men like himself; he cannot divest himself of the feeling that they are another order of beings, differently conditioned, in an environment not altogether of the earth. the smallest vestiges of them rivet his attention and engage his interest. he thinks of them as inaccessible; and, catching an unexpected glimpse of them, they appear farther away, and therefore larger, than they really are-like objects in a fog. he is somewhat in awe of them. from the edge of the wood leading up the acclivity are the tracks of horses and wheels--the wheels of cannon. the yellow grass is beaten down by the feet of infantry. clearly they have passed this way in thousands; they have not withdrawn by the country roads. this is significant--it is the difference between retiring and retreating. that group of horsemen is our commander, his staff and escort. he is facing the distant crest, holding his field-glass against his eyes with both hands, his elbows needlessly elevated. it is a fashion; it seems to dignify the act; we are all addicted to it. suddenly he lowers the glass and says a few words to those about him. two or three aides detach themselves from the group and canter away into the woods, along the lines in each direction. we did not hear his words, but we know them: "tell general x. to send forward the skirmish line." those of us who have been out of place resume our positions; the men resting at ease straighten themselves and the ranks are re-formed without a command. some of us staff officers dismount and look at our saddle girths; those already on the ground remount. galloping rapidly along in the edge of the open ground comes a young officer on a snow-white horse. his saddle blanket is scarlet. what a fool! no one who has ever been in action but remembers how naturally every rifle turns toward the man on a white horse; no one but has observed how a bit of red enrages the bull of battle. that such colors are fashionable in military life must be accepted as the most astonishing of all the phenomena of human vanity. they would seem to have been devised to increase the death-rate. this young officer is in full uniform, as if on parade. he is all agleam with bullion--a blue-and-gold edition of the poetry of war. a wave of derisive laughter runs abreast of him all along the line. but how handsome he is!--with what careless grace he sits his horse! he reins up within a respectful distance of the corps commander and salutes. the old soldier nods familiarly; he evidently knows him. a brief colloquy between them is going on; the young man seems to be preferring some request which the elder one is indisposed to grant. let us ride a little nearer. ah! too late--it is ended. the young officer salutes again, wheels his horse, and rides straight toward the crest of the hill! a thin line of skirmishers, the men deployed at six paces or so apart, now pushes from the wood into the open. the commander speaks to his bugler, who claps his instrument to his lips. _tra-la-la! tra-la-la!_ the skirmishers halt in their tracks. meantime the young horseman has advanced a hundred yards. he is riding at a walk, straight up the long slope, with never a turn of the head. how glorious! gods! what would we not give to be in his place--with his soul! he does not draw his sabre; his right hand hangs easily at his side. the breeze catches the plume in his hat and flutters it smartly. the sunshine rests upon his shoulder-straps, lovingly, like a visible benediction. straight on he rides. ten thousand pairs of eyes are fixed upon him with an intensity that he can hardly fail to feel; ten thousand hearts keep quick time to the inaudible hoof-beats of his snowy steed. he is not alone--he draws all souls after him. but we remember that we laughed! on and on, straight for the hedge-lined wall, he rides. not a look backward. o, if he would but turn--if he could but see the love, the adoration, the atonement! not a word is spoken; the populous depths of the forest still murmur with their unseen and unseeing swarm, but all along the fringe is silence. the burly commander is an equestrian statue of himself. the mounted staff officers, their field glasses up, are motionless all. the line of battle in the edge of the wood stands at a new kind of "attention," each man in the attitude in which he was caught by the consciousness of what is going on. all these hardened and impenitent man-killers, to whom death in its awfulest forms is a fact familiar to their every-day observation; who sleep on hills trembling with the thunder of great guns, dine in the midst of streaming missiles, and play at cards among the dead faces of their dearest friends--all are watching with suspended breath and beating hearts the outcome of an act involving the life of one man. such is the magnetism of courage and devotion. if now you should turn your head you would see a simultaneous movement among the spectators--a start, as if they had received an electric shock--and looking forward again to the now distant horseman you would see that he has in that instant altered his direction and is riding at an angle to his former course. the spectators suppose the sudden deflection to be caused by a shot, perhaps a wound; but take this field-glass and you will observe that he is riding toward a break in the wall and hedge. he means, if not killed, to ride through and overlook the country beyond. you are not to forget the nature of this man's act; it is not permitted to you to think of it as an instance of bravado, nor, on the other hand, a needless sacrifice of self. if the enemy has not retreated he is in force on that ridge. the investigator will encounter nothing less than a line-of-battle; there is no need of pickets, videttes, skirmishers, to give warning of our approach; our attacking lines will be visible, conspicuous, exposed to an artillery fire that will shave the ground the moment they break from cover, and for half the distance to a sheet of rifle bullets in which nothing can live. in short, if the enemy is there, it would be madness to attack him in front; he must be manoeuvred out by the immemorial plan of threatening his line of communication, as necessary to his existence as to the diver at the bottom of the sea his air tube. but how ascertain if the enemy is there? there is but one way,--somebody must go and see. the natural and customary thing to do is to send forward a line of skirmishers. but in this case they will answer in the affirmative with all their lives; the enemy, crouching in double ranks behind the stone wall and in cover of the hedge, will wait until it is possible to count each assailant's teeth. at the first volley a half of the questioning line will fall, the other half before it can accomplish the predestined retreat. what a price to pay for gratified curiosity! at what a dear rate an army must sometimes purchase knowledge! "let me pay all," says this gallant man--this military christ! there is no hope except the hope against hope that the crest is clear. true, he might prefer capture to death. so long as he advances, the line will not fire--why should it? he can safely ride into the hostile ranks and become a prisoner of war. but this would defeat his object. it would not answer our question; it is necessary either that he return unharmed or be shot to death before our eyes. only so shall we know how to act. if captured--why, that might have been done by a half-dozen stragglers. now begins an extraordinary contest of intellect between a man and an army. our horseman, now within a quarter of a mile of the crest, suddenly wheels to the left and gallops in a direction parallel to it. he has caught sight of his antagonist; he knows all. some slight advantage of ground has enabled him to overlook a part of the line. if he were here he could tell us in words. but that is now hopeless; he must make the best use of the few minutes of life remaining to him, by compelling the enemy himself to tell us as much and as plainly as possible--which, naturally, that discreet power is reluctant to do. not a rifleman in those crouching ranks, not a cannoneer at those masked and shotted guns, but knows the needs of the situation, the imperative duty of forbearance. besides, there has been time enough to forbid them all to fire. true, a single rifle-shot might drop him and be no great disclosure. but firing is infectious--and see how rapidly he moves, with never a pause except as he whirls his horse about to take a new direction, never directly backward toward us, never directly forward toward his executioners. all this is visible through the glass; it seems occurring within pistol-shot; we see all but the enemy, whose presence, whose thoughts, whose motives we infer. to the unaided eye there is nothing but a black figure on a white horse, tracing slow zigzags against the slope of a distant hill--so slowly they seem almost to creep. now--the glass again--he has tired of his failure, or sees his error, or has gone mad; he is dashing directly forward at the wall, as if to take it at a leap, hedge and all! one moment only and he wheels right about and is speeding like the wind straight down the slope--toward his friends, toward his death! instantly the wall is topped with a fierce roll of smoke for a distance of hundreds of yards to right and left. this is as instantly dissipated by the wind, and before the rattle of the rifles reaches us he is down. no, he recovers his seat; he has but pulled his horse upon its haunches. they are up and away! a tremendous cheer bursts from our ranks, relieving the insupportable tension of our feelings. and the horse and its rider? yes, they are up and away. away, indeed--they are making directly to our left, parallel to the now steadily blazing and smoking wall. the rattle of the musketry is continuous, and every bullet's target is that courageous heart. suddenly a great bank of white smoke pushes upward from behind the wall. another and another--a dozen roll up before the thunder of the explosions and the humming of the missiles reach our ears and the missiles themselves come bounding through clouds of dust into our covert, knocking over here and there a man and causing a temporary distraction, a passing thought of self. the dust drifts away. incredible!--that enchanted horse and rider have passed a ravine and are climbing another slope to unveil another conspiracy of silence, to thwart the will of another armed host. another moment and that crest too is in eruption. the horse rears and strikes the air with its forefeet. they are down at last. but look again--the man has detached himself from the dead animal. he stands erect, motionless, holding his sabre in his right hand straight above his head. his face is toward us. now he lowers his hand to a level with his face and moves it outward, the blade of the sabre describing a downward curve. it is a sign to us, to the world, to posterity. it is a hero's salute to death and history. again the spell is broken; our men attempt to cheer; they are choking with emotion; they utter hoarse, discordant cries; they clutch their weapons and press tumultuously forward into the open. the skirmishers, without orders, against orders, are going forward at a keen run, like hounds unleashed. our cannon speak and the enemy's now open in full chorus; to right and left as far as we can see, the distant crest, seeming now so near, erects its towers of cloud and the great shot pitch roaring down among our moving masses. flag after flag of ours emerges from the wood, line after line sweeps forth, catching the sunlight on its burnished arms. the rear battalions alone are in obedience; they preserve their proper distance from the insurgent front. the commander has not moved. he now removes his field-glass from his eyes and glances to the right and left. he sees the human current flowing on either side of him and his huddled escort, like tide waves parted by a rock. not a sign of feeling in his face; he is thinking. again he directs his eyes forward; they slowly traverse that malign and awful crest. he addresses a calm word to his bugler. _tra-la-la! tra-la-la!_ the injunction has an imperiousness which enforces it. it is repeated by all the bugles of all the sub-ordinate commanders; the sharp metallic notes assert themselves above the hum of the advance and penetrate the sound of the cannon. to halt is to withdraw. the colors move slowly back; the lines face about and sullenly follow, bearing their wounded; the skirmishers return, gathering up the dead. ah, those many, many needless dead! that great soul whose beautiful body is lying over yonder, so conspicuous against the sere hillside--could it not have been spared the bitter consciousness of a vain devotion? would one exception have marred too much the pitiless perfection of the divine, eternal plan? one of the missing jerome searing, a private soldier of general sherman's army, then confronting the enemy at and about kennesaw mountain, georgia, turned his back upon a small group of officers with whom he had been talking in low tones, stepped across a light line of earthworks, and disappeared in a forest. none of the men in line behind the works had said a word to him, nor had he so much as nodded to them in passing, but all who saw understood that this brave man had been intrusted with some perilous duty. jerome searing, though a private, did not serve in the ranks; he was detailed for service at division headquarters, being borne upon the rolls as an orderly. "orderly" is a word covering a multitude of duties. an orderly may be a messenger, a clerk, an officer's servant--anything. he may perform services for which no provision is made in orders and army regulations. their nature may depend upon his aptitude, upon favor, upon accident. private searing, an incomparable marksman, young, hardy, intelligent and insensible to fear, was a scout. the general commanding his division was not content to obey orders blindly without knowing what was in his front, even when his command was not on detached service, but formed a fraction of the line of the army; nor was he satisfied to receive his knowledge of his _vis-à-vis_ through the customary channels; he wanted to know more than he was apprised of by the corps commander and the collisions of pickets and skirmishers. hence jerome searing, with his extraordinary daring, his woodcraft, his sharp eyes, and truthful tongue. on this occasion his instructions were simple: to get as near the enemy's lines as possible and learn all that he could. in a few moments he had arrived at the picket-line, the men on duty there lying in groups of two and four behind little banks of earth scooped out of the slight depression in which they lay, their rifles protruding from the green boughs with which they had masked their small defenses. the forest extended without a break toward the front, so solemn and silent that only by an effort of the imagination could it be conceived as populous with armed men, alert and vigilant--a forest formidable with possibilities of battle. pausing a moment in one of these rifle-pits to apprise the men of his intention searing crept stealthily forward on his hands and knees and was soon lost to view in a dense thicket of underbrush. "that is the last of him," said one of the men; "i wish i had his rifle; those fellows will hurt some of us with it." searing crept on, taking advantage of every accident of ground and growth to give himself better cover. his eyes penetrated everywhere, his ears took note of every sound. he stilled his breathing, and at the cracking of a twig beneath his knee stopped his progress and hugged the earth. it was slow work, but not tedious; the danger made it exciting, but by no physical signs was the excitement manifest. his pulse was as regular, his nerves were as steady as if he were trying to trap a sparrow. "it seems a long time," he thought, "but i cannot have come very far; i am still alive." he smiled at his own method of estimating distance, and crept forward. a moment later he suddenly flattened himself upon the earth and lay motionless, minute after minute. through a narrow opening in the bushes he had caught sight of a small mound of yellow clay--one of the enemy's rifle-pits. after some little time he cautiously raised his head, inch by inch, then his body upon his hands, spread out on each side of him, all the while intently regarding the hillock of clay. in another moment he was upon his feet, rifle in hand, striding rapidly forward with little attempt at concealment. he had rightly interpreted the signs, whatever they were; the enemy was gone. to assure himself beyond a doubt before going back to report upon so important a matter, searing pushed forward across the line of abandoned pits, running from cover to cover in the more open forest, his eyes vigilant to discover possible stragglers. he came to the edge of a plantation--one of those forlorn, deserted homesteads of the last years of the war, upgrown with brambles, ugly with broken fences and desolate with vacant buildings having blank apertures in place of doors and windows. after a keen reconnoissance from the safe seclusion of a clump of young pines searing ran lightly across a field and through an orchard to a small structure which stood apart from the other farm buildings, on a slight elevation. this he thought would enable him to overlook a large scope of country in the direction that he supposed the enemy to have taken in withdrawing. this building, which had originally consisted of a single room elevated upon four posts about ten feet high, was now little more than a roof; the floor had fallen away, the joists and planks loosely piled on the ground below or resting on end at various angles, not wholly torn from their fastenings above. the supporting posts were themselves no longer vertical. it looked as if the whole edifice would go down at the touch of a finger. concealing himself in the debris of joists and flooring searing looked across the open ground between his point of view and a spur of kennesaw mountain, a half-mile away. a road leading up and across this spur was crowded with troops--the rear-guard of the retiring enemy, their gun-barrels gleaming in the morning sunlight. searing had now learned all that he could hope to know. it was his duty to return to his own command with all possible speed and report his discovery. but the gray column of confederates toiling up the mountain road was singularly tempting. his rifle--an ordinary "springfield," but fitted with a globe sight and hair-trigger--would easily send its ounce and a quarter of lead hissing into their midst. that would probably not affect the duration and result of the war, but it is the business of a soldier to kill. it is also his habit if he is a good soldier. searing cocked his rifle and "set" the trigger. but it was decreed from the beginning of time that private searing was not to murder anybody that bright summer morning, nor was the confederate retreat to be announced by him. for countless ages events had been so matching themselves together in that wondrous mosaic to some parts of which, dimly discernible, we give the name of history, that the acts which he had in will would have marred the harmony of the pattern. some twenty-five years previously the power charged with the execution of the work according to the design had provided against that mischance by causing the birth of a certain male child in a little village at the foot of the carpathian mountains, had carefully reared it, supervised its education, directed its desires into a military channel, and in due time made it an officer of artillery. by the concurrence of an infinite number of favoring influences and their preponderance over an infinite number of opposing ones, this officer of artillery had been made to commit a breach of discipline and flee from his native country to avoid punishment. he had been directed to new orleans (instead of new york), where a recruiting officer awaited him on the wharf. he was enlisted and promoted, and things were so ordered that he now commanded a confederate battery some two miles along the line from where jerome searing, the federal scout, stood cocking his rifle. nothing had been neglected--at every step in the progress of both these men's lives, and in the lives of their contemporaries and ancestors, and in the lives of the contemporaries of their ancestors, the right thing had been done to bring about the desired result. had anything in all this vast concatenation been overlooked private searing might have fired on the retreating confederates that morning, and would perhaps have missed. as it fell out, a confederate captain of artillery, having nothing better to do while awaiting his turn to pull out and be off, amused himself by sighting a field-piece obliquely to his right at what he mistook for some federal officers on the crest of a hill, and discharged it. the shot flew high of its mark. as jerome searing drew back the hammer of his rifle and with his eyes upon the distant confederates considered where he could plant his shot with the best hope of making a widow or an orphan or a childless mother,--perhaps all three, for private searing, although he had repeatedly refused promotion, was not without a certain kind of ambition,--he heard a rushing sound in the air, like that made by the wings of a great bird swooping down upon its prey. more quickly than he could apprehend the gradation, it increased to a hoarse and horrible roar, as the missile that made it sprang at him out of the sky, striking with a deafening impact one of the posts supporting the confusion of timbers above him, smashing it into matchwood, and bringing down the crazy edifice with a loud clatter, in clouds of blinding dust! when jerome searing recovered consciousness he did not at once understand what had occurred. it was, indeed, some time before he opened his eyes. for a while he believed that he had died and been buried, and he tried to recall some portions of the burial service. he thought that his wife was kneeling upon his grave, adding her weight to that of the earth upon his breast. the two of them, widow and earth, had crushed his coffin. unless the children should persuade her to go home he would not much longer be able to breathe. he felt a sense of wrong. "i cannot speak to her," he thought; "the dead have no voice; and if i open my eyes i shall get them full of earth." he opened his eyes. a great expanse of blue sky, rising from a fringe of the tops of trees. in the foreground, shutting out some of the trees, a high, dun mound, angular in outline and crossed by an intricate, patternless system of straight lines; the whole an immeasurable distance away--a distance so inconceivably great that it fatigued him, and he closed his eyes. the moment that he did so he was conscious of an insufferable light. a sound was in his ears like the low, rhythmic thunder of a distant sea breaking in successive waves upon the beach, and out of this noise, seeming a part of it, or possibly coming from beyond it, and intermingled with its ceaseless undertone, came the articulate words: "jerome searing, you are caught like a rat in a trap-in a trap, trap, trap." suddenly there fell a great silence, a black darkness, an infinite tranquillity, and jerome searing, perfectly conscious of his rathood, and well assured of the trap that he was in, remembering all and nowise alarmed, again opened his eyes to reconnoitre, to note the strength of his enemy, to plan his defense. he was caught in a reclining posture, his back firmly supported by a solid beam. another lay across his breast, but he had been able to shrink a little away from it so that it no longer oppressed him, though it was immovable. a brace joining it at an angle had wedged him against a pile of boards on his left, fastening the arm on that side. his legs, slightly parted and straight along the ground, were covered upward to the knees with a mass of debris which towered above his narrow horizon. his head was as rigidly fixed as in a vise; he could move his eyes, his chin--no more. only his right arm was partly free. "you must help us out of this," he said to it. but he could not get it from under the heavy timber athwart his chest, nor move it outward more than six inches at the elbow. searing was not seriously injured, nor did he suffer pain. a smart rap on the head from a flying fragment of the splintered post, incurred simultaneously with the frightfully sudden shock to the nervous system, had momentarily dazed him. his term of unconsciousness, including the period of recovery, during which he had had the strange fancies, had probably not exceeded a few seconds, for the dust of the wreck had not wholly cleared away as he began an intelligent survey of the situation. with his partly free right hand he now tried to get hold of the beam that lay across, but not quite against, his breast. in no way could he do so. he was unable to depress the shoulder so as to push the elbow beyond that edge of the timber which was nearest his knees; failing in that, he could not raise the forearm and hand to grasp the beam. the brace that made an angle with it downward and backward prevented him from doing anything in that direction, and between it and his body the space was not half so wide as the length of his forearm. obviously he could not get his hand under the beam nor over it; the hand could not, in fact, touch it at all. having demonstrated his inability, he desisted, and began to think whether he could reach any of the débris piled upon his legs. in surveying the mass with a view to determining that point, his attention was arrested by what seemed to be a ring of shining metal immediately in front of his eyes. it appeared to him at first to surround some perfectly black substance, and it was somewhat more than a half-inch in diameter. it suddenly occurred to his mind that the blackness was simply shadow and that the ring was in fact the muzzle of his rifle protruding from the pile of débris. he was not long in satisfying himself that this was so--if it was a satisfaction. by closing either eye he could look a little way along the barrel--to the point where it was hidden by the rubbish that held it. he could see the one side, with the corresponding eye, at apparently the same angle as the other side with the other eye. looking with the right eye, the weapon seemed to be directed at a point to the left of his head, and _vice-versa._ he was unable to see the upper surface of the barrel, but could see the under surface of the stock at a slight angle. the piece was, in fact, aimed at the exact centre of his forehead. in the perception of this circumstance, in the recollection that just previously to the mischance of which this uncomfortable situation was the result he had cocked the rifle and set the trigger so that a touch would discharge it, private searing was affected with a feeling of uneasiness. but that was as far as possible from fear; he was a brave man, somewhat familiar with the aspect of rifles from that point of view, and of cannon too. and now he recalled, with something like amusement, an incident of his experience at the storming of missionary ridge, where, walking up to one of the enemy's embrasures from which he had seen a heavy gun throw charge after charge of grape among the assailants he had thought for a moment that the piece had been withdrawn; he could see nothing in the opening but a brazen circle. what that was he had understood just in time to step aside as it pitched another peck of iron down that swarming slope. to face firearms is one of the commonest incidents in a soldier's life--firearms, too, with malevolent eyes blazing behind them. that is what a soldier is for. still, private searing did not altogether relish the situation, and turned away his eyes. after groping, aimless, with his right hand for a time he made an ineffectual attempt to release his left. then he tried to disengage his head, the fixity of which was the more annoying from his ignorance of what held it. next he tried to free his feet, but while exerting the powerful muscles of his legs for that purpose it occurred to him that a disturbance of the rubbish which held them might discharge the rifle; how it could have endured what had already befallen it he could not understand, although memory assisted him with several instances in point. one in particular he recalled, in which in a moment of mental abstraction he had clubbed his rifle and beaten out another gentleman's brains, observing afterward that the weapon which he had been diligently swinging by the muzzle was loaded, capped, and at full cock--knowledge of which circumstance would doubtless have cheered his antagonist to longer endurance. he had always smiled in recalling that blunder of his "green and salad days" as a soldier, but now he did not smile. he turned his eyes again to the muzzle of the rifle and for a moment fancied that it had moved; it seemed somewhat nearer. again he looked away. the tops of the distant trees beyond the bounds of the plantation interested him: he had not before observed how light and feathery they were, nor how darkly blue the sky was, even among their branches, where they somewhat paled it with their green; above him it appeared almost black. "it will be uncomfortably hot here," he thought, "as the day advances. i wonder which way i am looking." judging by such shadows as he could see, he decided that his face was due north; he would at least not have the sun in his eyes, and north-well, that was toward his wife and children. "bah!" he exclaimed aloud, "what have they to do with it?" he closed his eyes. "as i can't get out i may as well go to sleep. the rebels are gone and some of our fellows are sure to stray out here foraging. they'll find me." but he did not sleep. gradually he became sensible of a pain in his forehead--a dull ache, hardly perceptible at first, but growing more and more uncomfortable. he opened his eyes and it was gone--closed them and it returned. "the devil!" he said, irrelevantly, and stared again at the sky. he heard the singing of birds, the strange metallic note of the meadow lark, suggesting the clash of vibrant blades. he fell into pleasant memories of his childhood, played again with his brother and sister, raced across the fields, shouting to alarm the sedentary larks, entered the sombre forest beyond and with timid steps followed the faint path to ghost rock, standing at last with audible heart-throbs before the dead man's cave and seeking to penetrate its awful mystery. for the first time he observed that the opening of the haunted cavern was encircled by a ring of metal. then all else vanished and left him gazing into the barrel of his rifle as before. but whereas before it had seemed nearer, it now seemed an inconceivable distance away, and all the more sinister for that. he cried out and, startled by something in his own voice--the note of fear--lied to himself in denial: "if i don't sing out i may stay here till i die." he now made no further attempt to evade the menacing stare of the gun barrel. if he turned away his eyes an instant it was to look for assistance (although he could not see the ground on either side the ruin), and he permitted them to return, obedient to the imperative fascination. if he closed them it was from weariness, and instantly the poignant pain in his forehead--the prophecy and menace of the bullet-forced him to reopen them. the tension of nerve and brain was too severe; nature came to his relief with intervals of unconsciousness. reviving from one of these he became sensible of a sharp, smarting pain in his right hand, and when he worked his fingers together, or rubbed his palm with them, he could feel that they were wet and slippery. he could not see the hand, but he knew the sensation; it was running blood. in his delirium he had beaten it against the jagged fragments of the wreck, had clutched it full of splinters. he resolved that he would meet his fate more manly. he was a plain, common soldier, had no religion and not much philosophy; he could not die like a hero, with great and wise last words, even if there had been some one to hear them, but he could die "game," and he would. but if he could only know when to expect the shot! some rats which had probably inhabited the shed came sneaking and scampering about. one of them mounted the pile of débris that held the rifle; another followed and another. searing regarded them at first with indifference, then with friendly interest; then, as the thought flashed into his bewildered mind that they might touch the trigger of his rifle, he cursed them and ordered them to go away. "it is no business of yours," he cried. the creatures went away; they would return later, attack his face, gnaw away his nose, cut his throat--he knew that, but he hoped by that time to be dead. nothing could now unfix his gaze from the little ring of metal with its black interior. the pain in his forehead was fierce and incessant. he felt it gradually penetrating the brain more and more deeply, until at last its progress was arrested by the wood at the back of his head. it grew momentarily more insufferable: he began wantonly beating his lacerated hand against the splinters again to counteract that horrible ache. it seemed to throb with a slow, regular recurrence, each pulsation sharper than the preceding, and sometimes he cried out, thinking he felt the fatal bullet. no thoughts of home, of wife and children, of country, of glory. the whole record of memory was effaced. the world had passed away--not a vestige remained. here in this confusion of timbers and boards is the sole universe. here is immortality in time--each pain an everlasting life. the throbs tick off eternities. jerome searing, the man of courage, the formidable enemy, the strong, resolute warrior, was as pale as a ghost. his jaw was fallen; his eyes protruded; he trembled in every fibre; a cold sweat bathed his entire body; he screamed with fear. he was not insane--he was terrified. in groping about with his torn and bleeding hand he seized at last a strip of board, and, pulling, felt it give way. it lay parallel with his body, and by bending his elbow as much as the contracted space would permit, he could draw it a few inches at a time. finally it was altogether loosened from the wreckage covering his legs; he could lift it clear of the ground its whole length. a great hope came into his mind: perhaps he could work it upward, that is to say backward, far enough to lift the end and push aside the rifle; or, if that were too tightly wedged, so place the strip of board as to deflect the bullet. with this object he passed it backward inch by inch, hardly daring to breathe lest that act somehow defeat his intent, and more than ever unable to remove his eyes from the rifle, which might perhaps now hasten to improve its waning opportunity. something at least had been gained: in the occupation of his mind in this attempt at self-defense he was less sensible of the pain in his head and had ceased to wince. but he was still dreadfully frightened and his teeth rattled like castanets. the strip of board ceased to move to the suasion of his hand. he tugged at it with all his strength, changed the direction of its length all he could, but it had met some extended obstruction behind him and the end in front was still too far away to clear the pile of débris and reach the muzzle of the gun. it extended, indeed, nearly as far as the trigger guard, which, uncovered by the rubbish, he could imperfectly see with his right eye. he tried to break the strip with his hand, but had no leverage. in his defeat, all his terror returned, augmented tenfold. the black aperture of the rifle appeared to threaten a sharper and more imminent death in punishment of his rebellion. the track of the bullet through his head ached with an intenser anguish. he began to tremble again. suddenly he became composed. his tremor subsided. he clenched his teeth and drew down his eyebrows. he had not exhausted his means of defense; a new design had shaped itself in his mind--another plan of battle. raising the front end of the strip of board, he carefully pushed it forward through the wreckage at the side of the rifle until it pressed against the trigger guard. then he moved the end slowly outward until he could feel that it had cleared it, then, closing his eyes, thrust it against the trigger with all his strength! there was no explosion; the rifle had been discharged as it dropped from his hand when the building fell. but it did its work. * * * * * lieutenant adrian searing, in command of the picket-guard on that part of the line through which his brother jerome had passed on his mission, sat with attentive ears in his breastwork behind the line. not the faintest sound escaped him; the cry of a bird, the barking of a squirrel, the noise of the wind among the pines--all were anxiously noted by his overstrained sense. suddenly, directly in front of his line, he heard a faint, confused rumble, like the clatter of a falling building translated by distance. the lieutenant mechanically looked at his watch. six o'clock and eighteen minutes. at the same moment an officer approached him on foot from the rear and saluted. "lieutenant," said the officer, "the colonel directs you to move forward your line and feel the enemy if you find him. if not, continue the advance until directed to halt. there is reason to think that the enemy has retreated." the lieutenant nodded and said nothing; the other officer retired. in a moment the men, apprised of their duty by the non-commissioned officers in low tones, had deployed from their rifle-pits and were moving forward in skirmishing order, with set teeth and beating hearts. this line of skirmishers sweeps across the plantation toward the mountain. they pass on both sides of the wrecked building, observing nothing. at a short distance in their rear their commander comes. he casts his eyes curiously upon the ruin and sees a dead body half buried in boards and timbers. it is so covered with dust that its clothing is confederate gray. its face is yellowish white; the cheeks are fallen in, the temples sunken, too, with sharp ridges about them, making the forehead forbiddingly narrow; the upper lip, slightly lifted, shows the white teeth, rigidly clenched. the hair is heavy with moisture, the face as wet as the dewy grass all about. from his point of view the officer does not observe the rifle; the man was apparently killed by the fall of the building. "dead a week," said the officer curtly, moving on and absently pulling out his watch as if to verify his estimate of time. six o'clock and forty minutes. killed at resaca the best soldier of our staff was lieutenant herman brayle, one of the two aides-de-camp. i don't remember where the general picked him up; from some ohio regiment, i think; none of us had previously known him, and it would have been strange if we had, for no two of us came from the same state, nor even from adjoining states. the general seemed to think that a position on his staff was a distinction that should be so judiciously conferred as not to beget any sectional jealousies and imperil the integrity of that part of the country which was still an integer. he would not even choose officers from his own command, but by some jugglery at department headquarters obtained them from other brigades. under such circumstances, a man's services had to be very distinguished indeed to be heard of by his family and the friends of his youth; and "the speaking trump of fame" was a trifle hoarse from loquacity, anyhow. lieutenant brayle was more than six feet in height and of splendid proportions, with the light hair and gray-blue eyes which men so gifted usually find associated with a high order of courage. as he was commonly in full uniform, especially in action, when most officers are content to be less flamboyantly attired, he was a very striking and conspicuous figure. as to the rest, he had a gentleman's manners, a scholar's head, and a lion's heart. his age was about thirty. we all soon came to like brayle as much as we admired him, and it was with sincere concern that in the engagement at stone's river--our first action after he joined us--we observed that he had one most objectionable and unsoldierly quality: he was vain of his courage. during all the vicissitudes and mutations of that hideous encounter, whether our troops were fighting in the open cotton fields, in the cedar thickets, or behind the railway embankment, he did not once take cover, except when sternly commanded to do so by the general, who usually had other things to think of than the lives of his staff officers--or those of his men, for that matter. in every later engagement while brayle was with us it was the same way. he would sit his horse like an equestrian statue, in a storm of bullets and grape, in the most exposed places--wherever, in fact, duty, requiring him to go, permitted him to remain--when, without trouble and with distinct advantage to his reputation for common sense, he might have been in such security as is possible on a battlefield in the brief intervals of personal inaction. on foot, from necessity or in deference to his dismounted commander or associates, his conduct was the same. he would stand like a rock in the open when officers and men alike had taken to cover; while men older in service and years, higher in rank and of unquestionable intrepidity, were loyally preserving behind the crest of a hill lives infinitely precious to their country, this fellow would stand, equally idle, on the ridge, facing in the direction of the sharpest fire. when battles are going on in open ground it frequently occurs that the opposing lines, confronting each other within a stone's throw for hours, hug the earth as closely as if they loved it. the line officers in their proper places flatten themselves no less, and the field officers, their horses all killed or sent to the rear, crouch beneath the infernal canopy of hissing lead and screaming iron without a thought of personal dignity. in such circumstances the life of a staff officer of a brigade is distinctly "not a happy one," mainly because of its precarious tenure and the unnerving alternations of emotion to which he is exposed. from a position of that comparative security from which a civilian would ascribe his escape to a "miracle," he may be despatched with an order to some commander of a prone regiment in the front line--a person for the moment inconspicuous and not always easy to find without a deal of search among men somewhat preoccupied, and in a din in which question and answer alike must be imparted in the sign language. it is customary in such cases to duck the head and scuttle away on a keen run, an object of lively interest to some thousands of admiring marksmen. in returning --well, it is not customary to return. brayle's practice was different. he would consign his horse to the care of an orderly,--he loved his horse,--and walk quietly away on his perilous errand with never a stoop of the back, his splendid figure, accentuated by his uniform, holding the eye with a strange fascination. we watched him with suspended breath, our hearts in our mouths. on one occasion of this kind, indeed, one of our number, an impetuous stammerer, was so possessed by his emotion that he shouted at me: "i'll b-b-bet you t-two d-d-dollars they d-drop him b-b-before he g-gets to that d-d-ditch!" i did not accept the brutal wager; i thought they would. let me do justice to a brave man's memory; in all these needless exposures of life there was no visible bravado nor subsequent narration. in the few instances when some of us had ventured to remonstrate, brayle had smiled pleasantly and made some light reply, which, however, had not encouraged a further pursuit of the subject. once he said: "captain, if ever i come to grief by forgetting your advice, i hope my last moments will be cheered by the sound of your beloved voice breathing into my ear the blessed words, 'i told you so.'" we laughed at the captain--just why we could probably not have explained--and that afternoon when he was shot to rags from an ambuscade brayle remained by the body for some time, adjusting the limbs with needless care--there in the middle of a road swept by gusts of grape and canister! it is easy to condemn this kind of thing, and not very difficult to refrain from imitation, but it is impossible not to respect, and brayle was liked none the less for the weakness which had so heroic an expression. we wished he were not a fool, but he went on that way to the end, sometimes hard hit, but always returning to duty about as good as new. of course, it came at last; he who ignores the law of probabilities challenges an adversary that is seldom beaten. it was at resaca, in georgia, during the movement that resulted in the taking of atlanta. in front of our brigade the enemy's line of earthworks ran through open fields along a slight crest. at each end of this open ground we were close up to him in the woods, but the clear ground we could not hope to occupy until night, when darkness would enable us to burrow like moles and throw up earth. at this point our line was a quarter-mile away in the edge of a wood. roughly, we formed a semicircle, the enemy's fortified line being the chord of the arc. "lieutenant, go tell colonel ward to work up as close as he can get cover, and not to waste much ammunition in unnecessary firing. you may leave your horse." when the general gave this direction we were in the fringe of the forest, near the right extremity of the arc. colonel ward was at the left. the suggestion to leave the horse obviously enough meant that brayle was to take the longer line, through the woods and among the men. indeed, the suggestion was needless; to go by the short route meant absolutely certain failure to deliver the message. before anybody could interpose, brayle had cantered lightly into the field and the enemy's works were in crackling conflagration. "stop that damned fool!" shouted the general. a private of the escort, with more ambition than brains, spurred forward to obey, and within ten yards left himself and his horse dead on the field of honor. brayle was beyond recall, galloping easily along, parallel to the enemy and less than two hundred yards distant. he was a picture to see! his hat had been blown or shot from his head, and his long, blond hair rose and fell with the motion of his horse. he sat erect in the saddle, holding the reins lightly in his left hand, his right hanging carelessly at his side. an occasional glimpse of his handsome profile as he turned his head one way or the other proved that the interest which he took in what was going on was natural and without affectation. the picture was intensely dramatic, but in no degree theatrical. successive scores of rifles spat at him viciously as he came within range, and our own line in the edge of the timber broke out in visible and audible defense. no longer regardful of themselves or their orders, our fellows sprang to their feet, and swarming into the open sent broad sheets of bullets against the blazing crest of the offending works, which poured an answering fire into their unprotected groups with deadly effect. the artillery on both sides joined the battle, punctuating the rattle and roar with deep, earth-shaking explosions and tearing the air with storms of screaming grape, which from the enemy's side splintered the trees and spattered them with blood, and from ours defiled the smoke of his arms with banks and clouds of dust from his parapet. my attention had been for a moment drawn to the general combat, but now, glancing down the unobscured avenue between these two thunderclouds, i saw brayle, the cause of the carnage. invisible now from either side, and equally doomed by friend and foe, he stood in the shot-swept space, motionless, his face toward the enemy. at some little distance lay his horse. i instantly saw what had stopped him. as topographical engineer i had, early in the day, made a hasty examination of the ground, and now remembered that at that point was a deep and sinuous gully, crossing half the field from the enemy's line, its general course at right angles to it. from where we now were it was invisible, and brayle had evidently not known about it. clearly, it was impassable. its salient angles would have afforded him absolute security if he had chosen to be satisfied with the miracle already wrought in his favor and leapt into it. he could not go forward, he would not turn back; he stood awaiting death. it did not keep him long waiting. by some mysterious coincidence, almost instantaneously as he fell, the firing ceased, a few desultory shots at long intervals serving rather to accentuate than break the silence. it was as if both sides had suddenly repented of their profitless crime. four stretcher-bearers of ours, following a sergeant with a white flag, soon afterward moved unmolested into the field, and made straight for brayle's body. several confederate officers and men came out to meet them, and with uncovered heads assisted them to take up their sacred burden. as it was borne toward us we heard beyond the hostile works fifes and a muffled drum--a dirge. a generous enemy honored the fallen brave. amongst the dead man's effects was a soiled russia-leather pocketbook. in the distribution of mementoes of our friend, which the general, as administrator, decreed, this fell to me. a year after the close of the war, on my way to california, i opened and idly inspected it. out of an overlooked compartment fell a letter without envelope or address. it was in a woman's handwriting, and began with words of endearment, but no name. it had the following date line: "san francisco, cal., july 9, 1862." the signature was "darling," in marks of quotation. incidentally, in the body of the text, the writer's full name was given--marian mendenhall. the letter showed evidence of cultivation and good breeding, but it was an ordinary love letter, if a love letter can be ordinary. there was not much in it, but there was something. it was this: "mr. winters, whom i shall always hate for it, has been telling that at some battle in virginia, where he got his hurt, you were seen crouching behind a tree. i think he wants to injure you in my regard, which he knows the story would do if i believed it. i could bear to hear of my soldier lover's death, but not of his cowardice." these were the words which on that sunny afternoon, in a distant region, had slain a hundred men. is woman weak? one evening i called on miss mendenhall to return the letter to her. i intended, also, to tell her what she had done--but not that she did it. i found her in a handsome dwelling on rincon hill. she was beautiful, well bred--in a word, charming. "you knew lieutenant herman brayle," i said, rather abruptly. "you know, doubtless, that he fell in battle. among his effects was found this letter from you. my errand here is to place it in your hands." she mechanically took the letter, glanced through it with deepening color, and then, looking at me with a smile, said: "it is very good of you, though i am sure it was hardly worth while." she started suddenly and changed color. "this stain," she said, "is it-surely it is not--" "madam," i said, "pardon me, but that is the blood of the truest and bravest heart that ever beat." she hastily flung the letter on the blazing coals. "uh! i cannot bear the sight of blood!" she said. "how did he die?" i had involuntarily risen to rescue that scrap of paper, sacred even to me, and now stood partly behind her. as she asked the question she turned her face about and slightly upward. the light of the burning letter was reflected in her eyes and touched her cheek with a tinge of crimson like the stain upon its page. i had never seen anything so beautiful as this detestable creature. "he was bitten by a snake," i replied. the affair at coulter's notch "do you think, colonel, that your brave coulter would like to put one of his guns in here?" the general asked. he was apparently not altogether serious; it certainly did not seem a place where any artillerist, however brave, would like to put a gun. the colonel thought that possibly his division commander meant good-humoredly to intimate that in a recent conversation between them captain coulter's courage had been too highly extolled. "general," he replied warmly, "coulter would like to put a gun anywhere within reach of those people," with a motion of his hand in the direction of the enemy. "it is the only place," said the general. he was serious, then. the place was a depression, a "notch," in the sharp crest of a hill. it was a pass, and through it ran a turnpike, which reaching this highest point in its course by a sinuous ascent through a thin forest made a similar, though less steep, descent toward the enemy. for a mile to the left and a mile to the right, the ridge, though occupied by federal infantry lying close behind the sharp crest and appearing as if held in place by atmospheric pressure, was inaccessible to artillery. there was no place but the bottom of the notch, and that was barely wide enough for the roadbed. from the confederate side this point was commanded by two batteries posted on a slightly lower elevation beyond a creek, and a half-mile away. all the guns but one were masked by the trees of an orchard; that one--it seemed a bit of impudence--was on an open lawn directly in front of a rather grandiose building, the planter's dwelling. the gun was safe enough in its exposure--but only because the federal infantry had been forbidden to fire. coulter's notch--it came to be called so--was not, that pleasant summer afternoon, a place where one would "like to put a gun." three or four dead horses lay there sprawling in the road, three or four dead men in a trim row at one side of it, and a little back, down the hill. all but one were cavalrymen belonging to the federal advance. one was a quartermaster. the general commanding the division and the colonel commanding the brigade, with their staffs and escorts, had ridden into the notch to have a look at the enemy's guns--which had straightway obscured themselves in towering clouds of smoke. it was hardly profitable to be curious about guns which had the trick of the cuttle-fish, and the season of observation had been brief. at its conclusion--a short remove backward from where it began--occurred the conversation already partly reported. "it is the only place," the general repeated thoughtfully, "to get at them." the colonel looked at him gravely. "there is room for only one gun, general--one against twelve." "that is true--for only one at a time," said the commander with something like, yet not altogether like, a smile. "but then, your brave coulter--a whole battery in himself." the tone of irony was now unmistakable. it angered the colonel, but he did not know what to say. the spirit of military subordination is not favorable to retort, nor even to deprecation. at this moment a young officer of artillery came riding slowly up the road attended by his bugler. it was captain coulter. he could not have been more than twenty-three years of age. he was of medium height, but very slender and lithe, and sat his horse with something of the air of a civilian. in face he was of a type singularly unlike the men about him; thin, high-nosed, gray-eyed, with a slight blond mustache, and long, rather straggling hair of the same color. there was an apparent negligence in his attire. his cap was worn with the visor a trifle askew; his coat was buttoned only at the sword-belt, showing a considerable expanse of white shirt, tolerably clean for that stage of the campaign. but the negligence was all in his dress and bearing; in his face was a look of intense interest in his surroundings. his gray eyes, which seemed occasionally to strike right and left across the landscape, like search-lights, were for the most part fixed upon the sky beyond the notch; until he should arrive at the summit of the road there was nothing else in that direction to see. as he came opposite his division and brigade commanders at the road-side he saluted mechanically and was about to pass on. the colonel signed to him to halt. "captain coulter," he said, "the enemy has twelve pieces over there on the next ridge. if i rightly understand the general, he directs that you bring up a gun and engage them." there was a blank silence; the general looked stolidly at a distant regiment swarming slowly up the hill through rough undergrowth, like a torn and draggled cloud of blue smoke; the captain appeared not to have observed him. presently the captain spoke, slowly and with apparent effort: "on the next ridge, did you say, sir? are the guns near the house?" "ah, you have been over this road before. directly at the house." "and it is--necessary--to engage them? the order is imperative?" his voice was husky and broken. he was visibly paler. the colonel was astonished and mortified. he stole a glance at the commander. in that set, immobile face was no sign; it was as hard as bronze. a moment later the general rode away, followed by his staff and escort. the colonel, humiliated and indignant, was about to order captain coulter in arrest, when the latter spoke a few words in a low tone to his bugler, saluted, and rode straight forward into the notch, where, presently, at the summit of the road, his field-glass at his eyes, he showed against the sky, he and his horse, sharply defined and statuesque. the bugler had dashed down the speed and disappeared behind a wood. presently his bugle was heard singing in the cedars, and in an incredibly short time a single gun with its caisson, each drawn by six horses and manned by its full complement of gunners, came bounding and banging up the grade in a storm of dust, unlimbered under cover, and was run forward by hand to the fatal crest among the dead horses. a gesture of the captain's arm, some strangely agile movements of the men in loading, and almost before the troops along the way had ceased to hear the rattle of the wheels, a great white cloud sprang forward down the slope, and with a deafening report the affair at coulter's notch had begun. it is not intended to relate in detail the progress and incidents of that ghastly contest--a contest without vicissitudes, its alternations only different degrees of despair. almost at the instant when captain coulter's gun blew its challenging cloud twelve answering clouds rolled upward from among the trees about the plantation house, a deep multiple report roared back like a broken echo, and thenceforth to the end the federal cannoneers fought their hopeless battle in an atmosphere of living iron whose thoughts were lightnings and whose deeds were death. unwilling to see the efforts which he could not aid and the slaughter which he could not stay, the colonel ascended the ridge at a point a quarter of a mile to the left, whence the notch, itself invisible, but pushing up successive masses of smoke, seemed the crater of a volcano in thundering eruption. with his glass he watched the enemy's guns, noting as he could the effects of coulter's fire--if coulter still lived to direct it. he saw that the federal gunners, ignoring those of the enemy's pieces whose positions could be determined by their smoke only, gave their whole attention to the one that maintained its place in the open--the lawn in front of the house. over and about that hardy piece the shells exploded at intervals of a few seconds. some exploded in the house, as could be seen by thin ascensions of smoke from the breached roof. figures of prostrate men and horses were plainly visible. "if our fellows are doing so good work with a single gun," said the colonel to an aide who happened to be nearest, "they must be suffering like the devil from twelve. go down and present the commander of that piece with my congratulations on the accuracy of his fire." turning to his adjutant-general he said, "did you observe coulter's damned reluctance to obey orders?" "yes, sir, i did." "well, say nothing about it, please. i don't think the general will care to make any accusations. he will probably have enough to do in explaining his own connection with this uncommon way of amusing the rear-guard of a retreating enemy." a young officer approached from below, climbing breathless up the acclivity. almost before he had saluted, he gasped out: "colonel, i am directed by colonel harmon to say that the enemy's guns are within easy reach of our rifles, and most of them visible from several points along the ridge." the brigade commander looked at him without a trace of interest in his expression. "i know it," he said quietly. the young adjutant was visibly embarrassed. "colonel harmon would like to have permission to silence those guns," he stammered. "so should i," the colonel said in the same tone. "present my compliments to colonel harmon and say to him that the general's orders for the infantry not to fire are still in force." the adjutant saluted and retired. the colonel ground his heel into the earth and turned to look again at the enemy's guns. "colonel," said the adjutant-general, "i don't know that i ought to say anything, but there is something wrong in all this. do you happen to know that captain coulter is from the south?" "no; _was_ he, indeed?" "i heard that last summer the division which the general then commanded was in the vicinity of coulter's home--camped there for weeks, and--" "listen!" said the colonel, interrupting with an upward gesture. "do you hear _that_?" "that" was the silence of the federal gun. the staff, the orderlies, the lines of infantry behind the crest--all had "heard," and were looking curiously in the direction of the crater, whence no smoke now ascended except desultory cloudlets from the enemy's shells. then came the blare of a bugle, a faint rattle of wheels; a minute later the sharp reports recommenced with double activity. the demolished gun had been replaced with a sound one. "yes," said the adjutant-general, resuming his narrative, "the general made the acquaintance of coulter's family. there was trouble--i don't know the exact nature of it--something about coulter's wife. she is a red-hot secessionist, as they all are, except coulter himself, but she is a good wife and high-bred lady. there was a complaint to army headquarters. the general was transferred to this division. it is odd that coulter's battery should afterward have been assigned to it." the colonel had risen from the rock upon which they had been sitting. his eyes were blazing with a generous indignation. "see here, morrison," said he, looking his gossiping staff officer straight in the face, "did you get that story from a gentleman or a liar?" "i don't want to say how i got it, colonel, unless it is necessary"--he was blushing a trifle--"but i'll stake my life upon its truth in the main." the colonel turned toward a small knot of officers some distance away. "lieutenant williams!" he shouted. one of the officers detached himself from the group and coming forward saluted, saying: "pardon me, colonel, i thought you had been informed. williams is dead down there by the gun. what can i do, sir?" lieutenant williams was the aide who had had the pleasure of conveying to the officer in charge of the gun his brigade commander's congratulations. "go," said the colonel, "and direct the withdrawal of that gun instantly. no--i'll go myself." he strode down the declivity toward the rear of the notch at a break-neck pace, over rocks and through brambles, followed by his little retinue in tumultuous disorder. at the foot of the declivity they mounted their waiting animals and took to the road at a lively trot, round a bend and into the notch. the spectacle which they encountered there was appalling! within that defile, barely broad enough for a single gun, were piled the wrecks of no fewer than four. they had noted the silencing of only the last one disabled--there had been a lack of men to replace it quickly with another. the débris lay on both sides of the road; the men had managed to keep an open way between, through which the fifth piece was now firing. the men?--they looked like demons of the pit! all were hatless, all stripped to the waist, their reeking skins black with blotches of powder and spattered with gouts of blood. they worked like madmen, with rammer and cartridge, lever and lanyard. they set their swollen shoulders and bleeding hands against the wheels at each recoil and heaved the heavy gun back to its place. there were no commands; in that awful environment of whooping shot, exploding shells, shrieking fragments of iron, and flying splinters of wood, none could have been heard. officers, if officers there were, were indistinguishable; all worked together--each while he lasted--governed by the eye. when the gun was sponged, it was loaded; when loaded, aimed and fired. the colonel observed something new to his military experience--something horrible and unnatural: the gun was bleeding at the mouth! in temporary default of water, the man sponging had dipped his sponge into a pool of comrade's blood. in all this work there was no clashing; the duty of the instant was obvious. when one fell, another, looking a trifle cleaner, seemed to rise from the earth in the dead man's tracks, to fall in his turn. with the ruined guns lay the ruined men--alongside the wreckage, under it and atop of it; and back down the road--a ghastly procession!--crept on hands and knees such of the wounded as were able to move. the colonel--he had compassionately sent his cavalcade to the right about-had to ride over those who were entirely dead in order not to crush those who were partly alive. into that hell he tranquilly held his way, rode up alongside the gun, and, in the obscurity of the last discharge, tapped upon the cheek the man holding the rammer--who straightway fell, thinking himself killed. a fiend seven times damned sprang out of the smoke to take his place, but paused and gazed up at the mounted officer with an unearthly regard, his teeth flashing between his black lips, his eyes, fierce and expanded, burning like coals beneath his bloody brow. the colonel made an authoritative gesture and pointed to the rear. the fiend bowed in token of obedience. it was captain coulter. simultaneously with the colonel's arresting sign, silence fell upon the whole field of action. the procession of missiles no longer streamed into that defile of death, for the enemy also had ceased firing. his army had been gone for hours, and the commander of his rear-guard, who had held his position perilously long in hope to silence the federal fire, at that strange moment had silenced his own. "i was not aware of the breadth of my authority," said the colonel to anybody, riding forward to the crest to see what had really happened. an hour later his brigade was in bivouac on the enemy's ground, and its idlers were examining, with something of awe, as the faithful inspect a saint's relics, a score of straddling dead horses and three disabled guns, all spiked. the fallen men had been carried away; their torn and broken bodies would have given too great satisfaction. naturally, the colonel established himself and his military family in the plantation house. it was somewhat shattered, but it was better than the open air. the furniture was greatly deranged and broken. walls and ceilings were knocked away here and there, and a lingering odor of powder smoke was everywhere. the beds, the closets of women's clothing, the cupboards were not greatly damaged. the new tenants for a night made themselves comfortable, and the virtual effacement of coulter's battery supplied them with an interesting topic. during supper an orderly of the escort showed himself into the dining-room and asked permission to speak to the colonel. "what is it, barbour?" said that officer pleasantly, having overheard the request. "colonel, there is something wrong in the cellar; i don't know what-somebody there. i was down there rummaging about." "i will go down and see," said a staff officer, rising. "so will i," the colonel said; "let the others remain. lead on, orderly." they took a candle from the table and descended the cellar stairs, the orderly in visible trepidation. the candle made but a feeble light, but presently, as they advanced, its narrow circle of illumination revealed a human figure seated on the ground against the black stone wall which they were skirting, its knees elevated, its head bowed sharply forward. the face, which should have been seen in profile, was invisible, for the man was bent so far forward that his long hair concealed it; and, strange to relate, the beard, of a much darker hue, fell in a great tangled mass and lay along the ground at his side. they involuntarily paused; then the colonel, taking the candle from the orderly's shaking hand, approached the man and attentively considered him. the long dark beard was the hair of a woman--dead. the dead woman clasped in her arms a dead babe. both were clasped in the arms of the man, pressed against his breast, against his lips. there was blood in the hair of the woman; there was blood in the hair of the man. a yard away, near an irregular depression in the beaten earth which formed the cellar's floor--fresh excavation with a convex bit of iron, having jagged edges, visible in one of the sides--lay an infant's foot. the colonel held the light as high as he could. the floor of the room above was broken through, the splinters pointing at all angles downward. "this casemate is not bomb-proof," said the colonel gravely. it did not occur to him that his summing up of the matter had any levity in it. they stood about the group awhile in silence; the staff officer was thinking of his unfinished supper, the orderly of what might possibly be in one of the casks on the other side of the cellar. suddenly the man whom they had thought dead raised his head and gazed tranquilly into their faces. his complexion was coal black; the cheeks were apparently tattooed in irregular sinuous lines from the eyes downward. the lips, too, were white, like those of a stage negro. there was blood upon his forehead. the staff officer drew back a pace, the orderly two paces. "what are you doing here, my man?" said the colonel, unmoved. "this house belongs to me, sir," was the reply, civilly delivered. "to you? ah, i see! and these?" "my wife and child. i am captain coulter." the coup de grâce the fighting had been hard and continuous; that was attested by all the senses. the very taste of battle was in the air. all was now over; it remained only to succor the wounded and bury the dead--to "tidy up a bit," as the humorist of a burial squad put it. a good deal of "tidying up" was required. as far as one could see through the forests, among the splintered trees, lay wrecks of men and horses. among them moved the stretcher-bearers, gathering and carrying away the few who showed signs of life. most of the wounded had died of neglect while the right to minister to their wants was in dispute. it is an army regulation that the wounded must wait; the best way to care for them is to win the battle. it must be confessed that victory is a distinct advantage to a man requiring attention, but many do not live to avail themselves of it. the dead were collected in groups of a dozen or a score and laid side by side in rows while the trenches were dug to receive them. some, found at too great a distance from these rallying points, were buried where they lay. there was little attempt at identification, though in most cases, the burial parties being detailed to glean the same ground which they had assisted to reap, the names of the victorious dead were known and listed. the enemy's fallen had to be content with counting. but of that they got enough: many of them were counted several times, and the total, as given afterward in the official report of the victorious commander, denoted rather a hope than a result. at some little distance from the spot where one of the burial parties had established its "bivouac of the dead," a man in the uniform of a federal officer stood leaning against a tree. from his feet upward to his neck his attitude was that of weariness reposing; but he turned his head uneasily from side to side; his mind was apparently not at rest. he was perhaps uncertain in which direction to go; he was not likely to remain long where he was, for already the level rays of the setting sun straggled redly through the open spaces of the wood and the weary soldiers were quitting their task for the day. he would hardly make a night of it alone there among the dead. nine men in ten whom you meet after a battle inquire the way to some fraction of the army--as if any one could know. doubtless this officer was lost. after resting himself a moment he would presumably follow one of the retiring burial squads. when all were gone he walked straight away into the forest toward the red west, its light staining his face like blood. the air of confidence with which he now strode along showed that he was on familiar ground; he had recovered his bearings. the dead on his right and on his left were unregarded as he passed. an occasional low moan from some sorely-stricken wretch whom the relief-parties had not reached, and who would have to pass a comfortless night beneath the stars with his thirst to keep him company, was equally unheeded. what, indeed, could the officer have done, being no surgeon and having no water? at the head of a shallow ravine, a mere depression of the ground, lay a small group of bodies. he saw, and swerving suddenly from his course walked rapidly toward them. scanning each one sharply as he passed, he stopped at last above one which lay at a slight remove from the others, near a clump of small trees. he looked at it narrowly. it seemed to stir. he stooped and laid his hand upon its face. it screamed. * * * * * the officer was captain downing madwell, of a massachusetts regiment of infantry, a daring and intelligent soldier, an honorable man. in the regiment were two brothers named halcrow--caffal and creede halcrow. caffal halcrow was a sergeant in captain madwell's company, and these two men, the sergeant and the captain, were devoted friends. in so far as disparity of rank, difference in duties and considerations of military discipline would permit they were commonly together. they had, indeed, grown up together from childhood. a habit of the heart is not easily broken off. caffal halcrow had nothing military in his taste nor disposition, but the thought of separation from his friend was disagreeable; he enlisted in the company in which madwell was second-lieutenant. each had taken two steps upward in rank, but between the highest non-commissioned and the lowest commissioned officer the gulf is deep and wide and the old relation was maintained with difficulty and a difference. creede halcrow, the brother of caffal, was the major of the regiment--a cynical, saturnine man, between whom and captain madwell there was a natural antipathy which circumstances had nourished and strengthened to an active animosity. but for the restraining influence of their mutual relation to caffal these two patriots would doubtless have endeavored to deprive their country of each other's services. at the opening of the battle that morning the regiment was performing outpost duty a mile away from the main army. it was attacked and nearly surrounded in the forest, but stubbornly held its ground. during a lull in the fighting, major halcrow came to captain madwell. the two exchanged formal salutes, and the major said: "captain, the colonel directs that you push your company to the head of this ravine and hold your place there until recalled. i need hardly apprise you of the dangerous character of the movement, but if you wish, you can, i suppose, turn over the command to your first-lieutenant. i was not, however, directed to authorize the substitution; it is merely a suggestion of my own, unofficially made." to this deadly insult captain madwell coolly replied: "sir, i invite you to accompany the movement. a mounted officer would be a conspicuous mark, and i have long held the opinion that it would be better if you were dead." the art of repartee was cultivated in military circles as early as 1862. a half-hour later captain madwell's company was driven from its position at the head of the ravine, with a loss of one-third its number. among the fallen was sergeant halcrow. the regiment was soon afterward forced back to the main line, and at the close of the battle was miles away. the captain was now standing at the side of his subordinate and friend. sergeant halcrow was mortally hurt. his clothing was deranged; it seemed to have been violently torn apart, exposing the abdomen. some of the buttons of his jacket had been pulled off and lay on the ground beside him and fragments of his other garments were strewn about. his leather belt was parted and had apparently been dragged from beneath him as he lay. there had been no great effusion of blood. the only visible wound was a wide, ragged opening in the abdomen. it was defiled with earth and dead leaves. protruding from it was a loop of small intestine. in all his experience captain madwell had not seen a wound like this. he could neither conjecture how it was made nor explain the attendant circumstances--the strangely torn clothing, the parted belt, the besmirching of the white skin. he knelt and made a closer examination. when he rose to his feet, he turned his eyes in different directions as if looking for an enemy. fifty yards away, on the crest of a low, thinly wooded hill, he saw several dark objects moving about among the fallen men--a herd of swine. one stood with its back to him, its shoulders sharply elevated. its forefeet were upon a human body, its head was depressed and invisible. the bristly ridge of its chine showed black against the red west. captain madwell drew away his eyes and fixed them again upon the thing which had been his friend. the man who had suffered these monstrous mutilations was alive. at intervals he moved his limbs; he moaned at every breath. he stared blankly into the face of his friend and if touched screamed. in his giant agony he had torn up the ground on which he lay; his clenched hands were full of leaves and twigs and earth. articulate speech was beyond his power; it was impossible to know if he were sensible to anything but pain. the expression of his face was an appeal; his eyes were full of prayer. for what? there was no misreading that look; the captain had too frequently seen it in eyes of those whose lips had still the power to formulate it by an entreaty for death. consciously or unconsciously, this writhing fragment of humanity, this type and example of acute sensation, this handiwork of man and beast, this humble, unheroic prometheus, was imploring everything, all, the whole non-ego, for the boon of oblivion. to the earth and the sky alike, to the trees, to the man, to whatever took form in sense or consciousness, this incarnate suffering addressed that silent plea. for what, indeed? for that which we accord to even the meanest creature without sense to demand it, denying it only to the wretched of our own race: for the blessed release, the rite of uttermost compassion, the _coup de grâce_. captain madwell spoke the name of his friend. he repeated it over and over without effect until emotion choked his utterance. his tears plashed upon the livid face beneath his own and blinded himself. he saw nothing but a blurred and moving object, but the moans were more distinct than ever, interrupted at briefer intervals by sharper shrieks. he turned away, struck his hand upon his forehead, and strode from the spot. the swine, catching sight of him, threw up their crimson muzzles, regarding him suspiciously a second, and then with a gruff, concerted grunt, raced away out of sight. a horse, its foreleg splintered by a cannon-shot, lifted its head sidewise from the ground and neighed piteously. madwell stepped forward, drew his revolver and shot the poor beast between the eyes, narrowly observing its death-struggle, which, contrary to his expectation, was violent and long; but at last it lay still. the tense muscles of its lips, which had uncovered the teeth in a horrible grin, relaxed; the sharp, clean-cut profile took on a look of profound peace and rest. along the distant, thinly wooded crest to westward the fringe of sunset fire had now nearly burned itself out. the light upon the trunks of the trees had faded to a tender gray; shadows were in their tops, like great dark birds aperch. night was coming and there were miles of haunted forest between captain madwell and camp. yet he stood there at the side of the dead animal, apparently lost to all sense of his surroundings. his eyes were bent upon the earth at his feet; his left hand hung loosely at his side, his right still held the pistol. presently he lifted his face, turned it toward his dying friend and walked rapidly back to his side. he knelt upon one knee, cocked the weapon, placed the muzzle against the man's forehead, and turning away his eyes pulled the trigger. there was no report. he had used his last cartridge for the horse. the sufferer moaned and his lips moved convulsively. the froth that ran from them had a tinge of blood. captain madwell rose to his feet and drew his sword from the scabbard. he passed the fingers of his left hand along the edge from hilt to point. he held it out straight before him, as if to test his nerves. there was no visible tremor of the blade; the ray of bleak skylight that it reflected was steady and true. he stooped and with his left hand tore away the dying man's shirt, rose and placed the point of the sword just over the heart. this time he did not withdraw his eyes. grasping the hilt with both hands, he thrust downward with all his strength and weight. the blade sank into the man's body--through his body into the earth; captain madwell came near falling forward upon his work. the dying man drew up his knees and at the same time threw his right arm across his breast and grasped the steel so tightly that the knuckles of the hand visibly whitened. by a violent but vain effort to withdraw the blade the wound was enlarged; a rill of blood escaped, running sinuously down into the deranged clothing. at that moment three men stepped silently forward from behind the clump of young trees which had concealed their approach. two were hospital attendants and carried a stretcher. the third was major creede halcrow. parker adderson, philosopher "prisoner, what is your name?" "as i am to lose it at daylight to-morrow morning it is hardly worth while concealing it. parker adderson." "your rank?" "a somewhat humble one; commissioned officers are too precious to be risked in the perilous business of a spy. i am a sergeant." "of what regiment?" "you must excuse me; my answer might, for anything i know, give you an idea of whose forces are in your front. such knowledge as that is what i came into your lines to obtain, not to impart." "you are not without wit." "if you have the patience to wait you will find me dull enough to-morrow." "how do you know that you are to die to-morrow morning?" "among spies captured by night that is the custom. it is one of the nice observances of the profession." the general so far laid aside the dignity appropriate to a confederate officer of high rank and wide renown as to smile. but no one in his power and out of his favor would have drawn any happy augury from that outward and visible sign of approval. it was neither genial nor infectious; it did not communicate itself to the other persons exposed to it--the caught spy who had provoked it and the armed guard who had brought him into the tent and now stood a little apart, watching his prisoner in the yellow candle-light. it was no part of that warrior's duty to smile; he had been detailed for another purpose. the conversation was resumed; it was in character a trial for a capital offense. "you admit, then, that you are a spy--that you came into my camp, disguised as you are in the uniform of a confederate soldier, to obtain information secretly regarding the numbers and disposition of my troops." "regarding, particularly, their numbers. their disposition i already knew. it is morose." the general brightened again; the guard, with a severer sense of his responsibility, accentuated the austerity of his expression and stood a trifle more erect than before. twirling his gray slouch hat round and round upon his forefinger, the spy took a leisurely survey of his surroundings. they were simple enough. the tent was a common "wall tent," about eight feet by ten in dimensions, lighted by a single tallow candle stuck into the haft of a bayonet, which was itself stuck into a pine table at which the general sat, now busily writing and apparently forgetful of his unwilling guest. an old rag carpet covered the earthen floor; an older leather trunk, a second chair and a roll of blankets were about all else that the tent contained; in general clavering's command confederate simplicity and penury of "pomp and circumstance" had attained their highest development. on a large nail driven into the tent pole at the entrance was suspended a sword-belt supporting a long sabre, a pistol in its holster and, absurdly enough, a bowie-knife. of that most unmilitary weapon it was the general's habit to explain that it was a souvenir of the peaceful days when he was a civilian. it was a stormy night. the rain cascaded upon the canvas in torrents, with the dull, drum-like sound familiar to dwellers in tents. as the whooping blasts charged upon it the frail structure shook and swayed and strained at its confining stakes and ropes. the general finished writing, folded the half-sheet of paper and spoke to the soldier guarding adderson: "here, tassman, take that to the adjutant-general; then return." "and the prisoner, general?" said the soldier, saluting, with an inquiring glance in the direction of that unfortunate. "do as i said," replied the officer, curtly. the soldier took the note and ducked himself out of the tent. general clavering turned his handsome face toward the federal spy, looked him in the eyes, not unkindly, and said: "it is a bad night, my man." "for me, yes." "do you guess what i have written?" "something worth reading, i dare say. and--perhaps it is my vanity--i venture to suppose that i am mentioned in it." "yes; it is a memorandum for an order to be read to the troops at _reveille_ concerning your execution. also some notes for the guidance of the provost-marshal in arranging the details of that event." "i hope, general, the spectacle will be intelligently arranged, for i shall attend it myself." "have you any arrangements of your own that you wish to make? do you wish to see a chaplain, for example?" "i could hardly secure a longer rest for myself by depriving him of some of his." "good god, man! do you mean to go to your death with nothing but jokes upon your lips? do you know that this is a serious matter?" "how can i know that? i have never been dead in all my life. i have heard that death is a serious matter, but never from any of those who have experienced it." the general was silent for a moment; the man interested, perhaps amused him--a type not previously encountered. "death," he said, "is at least a loss--a loss of such happiness as we have, and of opportunities for more." "a loss of which we shall never be conscious can be borne with composure and therefore expected without apprehension. you must have observed, general, that of all the dead men with whom it is your soldierly pleasure to strew your path none shows signs of regret." "if the being dead is not a regrettable condition, yet the becoming so-the act of dying--appears to be distinctly disagreeable to one who has not lost the power to feel." "pain is disagreeable, no doubt. i never suffer it without more or less discomfort. but he who lives longest is most exposed to it. what you call dying is simply the last pain--there is really no such thing as dying. suppose, for illustration, that i attempt to escape. you lift the revolver that you are courteously concealing in your lap, and--" the general blushed like a girl, then laughed softly, disclosing his brilliant teeth, made a slight inclination of his handsome head and said nothing. the spy continued: "you fire, and i have in my stomach what i did not swallow. i fall, but am not dead. after a half-hour of agony i am dead. but at any given instant of that half-hour i was either alive or dead. there is no transition period. "when i am hanged to-morrow morning it will be quite the same; while conscious i shall be living; when dead, unconscious. nature appears to have ordered the matter quite in my interest--the way that i should have ordered it myself. it is so simple," he added with a smile, "that it seems hardly worth while to be hanged at all." at the finish of his remarks there was a long silence. the general sat impassive, looking into the man's face, but apparently not attentive to what had been said. it was as if his eyes had mounted guard over the prisoner while his mind concerned itself with other matters. presently he drew a long, deep breath, shuddered, as one awakened from a dreadful dream, and exclaimed almost inaudibly: "death is horrible!"--this man of death. "it was horrible to our savage ancestors," said the spy, gravely, "because they had not enough intelligence to dissociate the idea of consciousness from the idea of the physical forms in which it is manifested--as an even lower order of intelligence, that of the monkey, for example, may be unable to imagine a house without inhabitants, and seeing a ruined hut fancies a suffering occupant. to us it is horrible because we have inherited the tendency to think it so, accounting for the notion by wild and fanciful theories of another world--as names of places give rise to legends explaining them and reasonless conduct to philosophies in justification. you can hang me, general, but there your power of evil ends; you cannot condemn me to heaven." the general appeared not to have heard; the spy's talk had merely turned his thoughts into an unfamiliar channel, but there they pursued their will independently to conclusions of their own. the storm had ceased, and something of the solemn spirit of the night had imparted itself to his reflections, giving them the sombre tinge of a supernatural dread. perhaps there was an element of prescience in it. "i should not like to die," he said--"not to-night." he was interrupted--if, indeed, he had intended to speak further--by the entrance of an officer of his staff, captain hasterlick, the provost-marshal. this recalled him to himself; the absent look passed away from his face. "captain," he said, acknowledging the officer's salute, "this man is a yankee spy captured inside our lines with incriminating papers on him. he has confessed. how is the weather?" "the storm is over, sir, and the moon shining." "good; take a file of men, conduct him at once to the parade ground, and shoot him." a sharp cry broke from the spy's lips. he threw himself forward, thrust out his neck, expanded his eyes, clenched his hands. "good god!" he cried hoarsely, almost inarticulately; "you do not mean that! you forget--i am not to die until morning." "i have said nothing of morning," replied the general, coldly; "that was an assumption of your own. you die now." "but, general, i beg--i implore you to remember; i am to hang! it will take some time to erect the gallows--two hours--an hour. spies are hanged; i have rights under military law. for heaven's sake, general, consider how short--" "captain, observe my directions." the officer drew his sword and fixing his eyes upon the prisoner pointed silently to the opening of the tent. the prisoner hesitated; the officer grasped him by the collar and pushed him gently forward. as he approached the tent pole the frantic man sprang to it and with cat-like agility seized the handle of the bowie-knife, plucked the weapon from the scabbard and thrusting the captain aside leaped upon the general with the fury of a madman, hurling him to the ground and falling headlong upon him as he lay. the table was overturned, the candle extinguished and they fought blindly in the darkness. the provost-marshal sprang to the assistance of his superior officer and was himself prostrated upon the struggling forms. curses and inarticulate cries of rage and pain came from the welter of limbs and bodies; the tent came down upon them and beneath its hampering and enveloping folds the struggle went on. private tassman, returning from his errand and dimly conjecturing the situation, threw down his rifle and laying hold of the flouncing canvas at random vainly tried to drag it off the men under it; and the sentinel who paced up and down in front, not daring to leave his beat though the skies should fall, discharged his rifle. the report alarmed the camp; drums beat the long roll and bugles sounded the assembly, bringing swarms of half-clad men into the moonlight, dressing as they ran, and falling into line at the sharp commands of their officers. this was well; being in line the men were under control; they stood at arms while the general's staff and the men of his escort brought order out of confusion by lifting off the fallen tent and pulling apart the breathless and bleeding actors in that strange contention. breathless, indeed, was one: the captain was dead; the handle of the bowie-knife, protruding from his throat, was pressed back beneath his chin until the end had caught in the angle of the jaw and the hand that delivered the blow had been unable to remove the weapon. in the dead man's hand was his sword, clenched with a grip that defied the strength of the living. its blade was streaked with red to the hilt. lifted to his feet, the general sank back to the earth with a moan and fainted. besides his bruises he had two sword-thrusts--one through the thigh, the other through the shoulder. the spy had suffered the least damage. apart from a broken right arm, his wounds were such only as might have been incurred in an ordinary combat with nature's weapons. but he was dazed and seemed hardly to know what had occurred. he shrank away from those attending him, cowered upon the ground and uttered unintelligible remonstrances. his face, swollen by blows and stained with gouts of blood, nevertheless showed white beneath his disheveled hair--as white as that of a corpse. "the man is not insane," said the surgeon, preparing bandages and replying to a question; "he is suffering from fright. who and what is he?" private tassman began to explain. it was the opportunity of his life; he omitted nothing that could in any way accentuate the importance of his own relation to the night's events. when he had finished his story and was ready to begin it again nobody gave him any attention. the general had now recovered consciousness. he raised himself upon his elbow, looked about him, and, seeing the spy crouching by a camp-fire, guarded, said simply: "take that man to the parade ground and shoot him." "the general's mind wanders," said an officer standing near. "his mind does _not_ wander," the adjutant-general said. "i have a memorandum from him about this business; he had given that same order to hasterlick"--with a motion of the hand toward the dead provost-marshal-"and, by god! it shall be executed." ten minutes later sergeant parker adderson, of the federal army, philosopher and wit, kneeling in the moonlight and begging incoherently for his life, was shot to death by twenty men. as the volley rang out upon the keen air of the midnight, general clavering, lying white and still in the red glow of the camp-fire, opened his big blue eyes, looked pleasantly upon those about him and said: "how silent it all is!" the surgeon looked at the adjutant-general, gravely and significantly. the patient's eyes slowly closed, and thus he lay for a few moments; then, his face suffused with a smile of ineffable sweetness, he said, faintly: "i suppose this must be death," and so passed away. an affair of outposts i concerning the wish to be dead two men sat in conversation. one was the governor of the state. the year was 1861; the war was on and the governor already famous for the intelligence and zeal with which he directed all the powers and resources of his state to the service of the union. "what! _you_?" the governor was saying in evident surprise--"you too want a military commission? really, the fifing and drumming must have effected a profound alteration in your convictions. in my character of recruiting sergeant i suppose i ought not to be fastidious, but"--there was a touch of irony in his manner--"well, have you forgotten that an oath of allegiance is required?" "i have altered neither my convictions nor my sympathies," said the other, tranquilly. "while my sympathies are with the south, as you do me the honor to recollect, i have never doubted that the north was in the right. i am a southerner in fact and in feeling, but it is my habit in matters of importance to act as i think, not as i feel." the governor was absently tapping his desk with a pencil; he did not immediately reply. after a while he said: "i have heard that there are all kinds of men in the world, so i suppose there are some like that, and doubtless you think yourself one. i've known you a long time and-pardon me--i don't think so." "then i am to understand that my application is denied?" "unless you can remove my belief that your southern sympathies are in some degree a disqualification, yes. i do not doubt your good faith, and i know you to be abundantly fitted by intelligence and special training for the duties of an officer. your convictions, you say, favor the union cause, but i prefer a man with his heart in it. the heart is what men fight with." "look here, governor," said the younger man, with a smile that had more light than warmth: "i have something up my sleeve--a qualification which i had hoped it would not be necessary to mention. a great military authority has given a simple recipe for being a good soldier: 'try always to get yourself killed.' it is with that purpose that i wish to enter the service. i am not, perhaps, much of a patriot, but i wish to be dead." the governor looked at him rather sharply, then a little coldly. "there is a simpler and franker way," he said. "in my family, sir," was the reply, "we do not do that--no armisted has ever done that." a long silence ensued and neither man looked at the other. presently the governor lifted his eyes from the pencil, which had resumed its tapping, and said: "who is she?" "my wife." the governor tossed the pencil into the desk, rose and walked two or three times across the room. then he turned to armisted, who also had risen, looked at him more coldly than before and said: "but the man-would it not be better that he--could not the country spare him better than it can spare you? or are the armisteds opposed to 'the unwritten law'?" the armisteds, apparently, could feel an insult: the face of the younger man flushed, then paled, but he subdued himself to the service of his purpose. "the man's identity is unknown to me," he said, calmly enough. "pardon me," said the governor, with even less of visible contrition than commonly underlies those words. after a moment's reflection he added: "i shall send you to-morrow a captain's commission in the tenth infantry, now at nashville, tennessee. good night." "good night, sir. i thank you." left alone, the governor remained for a time motionless, leaning against his desk. presently he shrugged his shoulders as if throwing off a burden. "this is a bad business," he said. seating himself at a reading-table before the fire, he took up the book nearest his hand, absently opening it. his eyes fell upon this sentence: "when god made it necessary for an unfaithful wife to lie about her husband in justification of her own sins he had the tenderness to endow men with the folly to believe her." he looked at the title of the book; it was, _his excellency the fool_. he flung the volume into the fire. ii how to say what is worth hearing the enemy, defeated in two days of battle at pittsburg landing, had sullenly retired to corinth, whence he had come. for manifest incompetence grant, whose beaten army had been saved from destruction and capture by buell's soldierly activity and skill, had been relieved of his command, which nevertheless had not been given to buell, but to halleck, a man of unproved powers, a theorist, sluggish, irresolute. foot by foot his troops, always deployed in line-of-battle to resist the enemy's bickering skirmishers, always entrenching against the columns that never came, advanced across the thirty miles of forest and swamp toward an antagonist prepared to vanish at contact, like a ghost at cock-crow. it was a campaign of "excursions and alarums," of reconnoissances and counter-marches, of cross-purposes and countermanded orders. for weeks the solemn farce held attention, luring distinguished civilians from fields of political ambition to see what they safely could of the horrors of war. among these was our friend the governor. at the headquarters of the army and in the camps of the troops from his state he was a familiar figure, attended by the several members of his personal staff, showily horsed, faultlessly betailored and bravely silk-hatted. things of charm they were, rich in suggestions of peaceful lands beyond a sea of strife. the bedraggled soldier looked up from his trench as they passed, leaned upon his spade and audibly damned them to signify his sense of their ornamental irrelevance to the austerities of his trade. "i think, governor," said general masterson one day, going into informal session atop of his horse and throwing one leg across the pommel of his saddle, his favorite posture--"i think i would not ride any farther in that direction if i were you. we've nothing out there but a line of skirmishers. that, i presume, is why i was directed to put these siege guns here: if the skirmishers are driven in the enemy will die of dejection at being unable to haul them away--they're a trifle heavy." there is reason to fear that the unstrained quality of this military humor dropped not as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath the civilian's silk hat. anyhow he abated none of his dignity in recognition. "i understand," he said, gravely, "that some of my men are out there--a company of the tenth, commanded by captain armisted. i should like to meet him if you do not mind." "he is worth meeting. but there's a bad bit of jungle out there, and i should advise that you leave your horse and"--with a look at the governor's retinue--"your other impedimenta." the governor went forward alone and on foot. in a half-hour he had pushed through a tangled undergrowth covering a boggy soil and entered upon firm and more open ground. here he found a half-company of infantry lounging behind a line of stacked rifles. the men wore their accoutrements--their belts, cartridge-boxes, haversacks and canteens. some lying at full length on the dry leaves were fast asleep: others in small groups gossiped idly of this and that; a few played at cards; none was far from the line of stacked arms. to the civilian's eye the scene was one of carelessness, confusion, indifference; a soldier would have observed expectancy and readiness. at a little distance apart an officer in fatigue uniform, armed, sat on a fallen tree noting the approach of the visitor, to whom a sergeant, rising from one of the groups, now came forward. "i wish to see captain armisted," said the governor. the sergeant eyed him narrowly, saying nothing, pointed to the officer, and taking a rifle from one of the stacks, accompanied him. "this man wants to see you, sir," said the sergeant, saluting. the officer rose. it would have been a sharp eye that would have recognized him. his hair, which but a few months before had been brown, was streaked with gray. his face, tanned by exposure, was seamed as with age. a long livid scar across the forehead marked the stroke of a sabre; one cheek was drawn and puckered by the work of a bullet. only a woman of the loyal north would have thought the man handsome. "armisted--captain," said the governor, extending his hand, "do you not know me?" "i know you, sir, and i salute you--as the governor of my state." lifting his right hand to the level of his eyes he threw it outward and downward. in the code of military etiquette there is no provision for shaking hands. that of the civilian was withdrawn. if he felt either surprise or chagrin his face did not betray it. "it is the hand that signed your commission," he said. "and it is the hand--" the sentence remains unfinished. the sharp report of a rifle came from the front, followed by another and another. a bullet hissed through the forest and struck a tree near by. the men sprang from the ground and even before the captain's high, clear voice was done intoning the command "at-ten-tion!" had fallen into line in rear of the stacked arms. again--and now through the din of a crackling fusillade--sounded the strong, deliberate sing-song of authority: "take... arms!" followed by the rattle of unlocking bayonets. bullets from the unseen enemy were now flying thick and fast, though mostly well spent and emitting the humming sound which signified interference by twigs and rotation in the plane of flight. two or three of the men in the line were already struck and down. a few wounded men came limping awkwardly out of the undergrowth from the skirmish line in front; most of them did not pause, but held their way with white faces and set teeth to the rear. suddenly there was a deep, jarring report in front, followed by the startling rush of a shell, which passing overhead exploded in the edge of a thicket, setting afire the fallen leaves. penetrating the din-seeming to float above it like the melody of a soaring bird--rang the slow, aspirated monotones of the captain's several commands, without emphasis, without accent, musical and restful as an evensong under the harvest moon. familiar with this tranquilizing chant in moments of imminent peril, these raw soldiers of less than a year's training yielded themselves to the spell, executing its mandates with the composure and precision of veterans. even the distinguished civilian behind his tree, hesitating between pride and terror, was accessible to its charm and suasion. he was conscious of a fortified resolution and ran away only when the skirmishers, under orders to rally on the reserve, came out of the woods like hunted hares and formed on the left of the stiff little line, breathing hard and thankful for the boon of breath. iii the fighting of one whose heart was not in the quarrel guided in his retreat by that of the fugitive wounded, the governor struggled bravely to the rear through the "bad bit of jungle." he was well winded and a trifle confused. excepting a single rifle-shot now and again, there was no sound of strife behind him; the enemy was pulling himself together for a new onset against an antagonist of whose numbers and tactical disposition he was in doubt. the fugitive felt that he would probably be spared to his country, and only commended the arrangements of providence to that end, but in leaping a small brook in more open ground one of the arrangements incurred the mischance of a disabling sprain at the ankle. he was unable to continue his flight, for he was too fat to hop, and after several vain attempts, causing intolerable pain, seated himself on the earth to nurse his ignoble disability and deprecate the military situation. a brisk renewal of the firing broke out and stray bullets came flitting and droning by. then came the crash of two clean, definite volleys, followed by a continuous rattle, through which he heard the yells and cheers of the combatants, punctuated by thunderclaps of cannon. all this told him that armisted's little command was bitterly beset and fighting at close quarters. the wounded men whom he had distanced began to straggle by on either hand, their numbers visibly augmented by new levies from the line. singly and by twos and threes, some supporting comrades more desperately hurt than themselves, but all deaf to his appeals for assistance, they sifted through the underbrush and disappeared. the firing was increasingly louder and more distinct, and presently the ailing fugitives were succeeded by men who strode with a firmer tread, occasionally facing about and discharging their pieces, then doggedly resuming their retreat, reloading as they walked. two or three fell as he looked, and lay motionless. one had enough of life left in him to make a pitiful attempt to drag himself to cover. a passing comrade paused beside him long enough to fire, appraised the poor devil's disability with a look and moved sullenly on, inserting a cartridge in his weapon. in all this was none of the pomp of war--no hint of glory. even in his distress and peril the helpless civilian could not forbear to contrast it with the gorgeous parades and reviews held in honor of himself--with the brilliant uniforms, the music, the banners, and the marching. it was an ugly and sickening business: to all that was artistic in his nature, revolting, brutal, in bad taste. "ugh!" he grunted, shuddering--"this is beastly! where is the charm of it all? where are the elevated sentiments, the devotion, the heroism, the--" from a point somewhere near, in the direction of the pursuing enemy, rose the clear, deliberate sing-song of captain armisted. "stead-y, men--stead-y. halt! com-mence fir-ing." the rattle of fewer than a score of rifles could be distinguished through the general uproar, and again that penetrating falsetto: "cease fir-ing. in re-treat... maaarch!" in a few moments this remnant had drifted slowly past the governor, all to the right of him as they faced in retiring, the men deployed at intervals of a half-dozen paces. at the extreme left and a few yards behind came the captain. the civilian called out his name, but he did not hear. a swarm of men in gray now broke out of cover in pursuit, making directly for the spot where the governor lay--some accident of the ground had caused them to converge upon that point: their line had become a crowd. in a last struggle for life and liberty the governor attempted to rise, and looking back the captain saw him. promptly, but with the same slow precision as before, he sang his commands: "skirm-ish-ers, halt!" the men stopped and according to rule turned to face the enemy. "ral-ly on the right!"--and they came in at a run, fixing bayonets and forming loosely on the man at that end of the line. "forward... to save the gov-ern-or of your state... doub-le quick... maaarch!" only one man disobeyed this astonishing command! he was dead. with a cheer they sprang forward over the twenty or thirty paces between them and their task. the captain having a shorter distance to go arrived first--simultaneously with the enemy. a half-dozen hasty shots were fired at him, and the foremost man--a fellow of heroic stature, hatless and bare-breasted--made a vicious sweep at his head with a clubbed rifle. the officer parried the blow at the cost of a broken arm and drove his sword to the hilt into the giant's breast. as the body fell the weapon was wrenched from his hand and before he could pluck his revolver from the scabbard at his belt another man leaped upon him like a tiger, fastening both hands upon his throat and bearing him backward upon the prostrate governor, still struggling to rise. this man was promptly spitted upon the bayonet of a federal sergeant and his death-gripe on the captain's throat loosened by a kick upon each wrist. when the captain had risen he was at the rear of his men, who had all passed over and around him and were thrusting fiercely at their more numerous but less coherent antagonists. nearly all the rifles on both sides were empty and in the crush there was neither time nor room to reload. the confederates were at a disadvantage in that most of them lacked bayonets; they fought by bludgeoning--and a clubbed rifle is a formidable arm. the sound of the conflict was a clatter like that of the interlocking horns of battling bulls--now and then the pash of a crushed skull, an oath, or a grunt caused by the impact of a rifle's muzzle against the abdomen transfixed by its bayonet. through an opening made by the fall of one of his men captain armisted sprang, with his dangling left arm; in his right hand a full-charged revolver, which he fired with rapidity and terrible effect into the thick of the gray crowd: but across the bodies of the slain the survivors in the front were pushed forward by their comrades in the rear till again they breasted the tireless bayonets. there were fewer bayonets now to breast--a beggarly half-dozen, all told. a few minutes more of this rough work--a little fighting back to back--and all would be over. suddenly a lively firing was heard on the right and the left: a fresh line of federal skirmishers came forward at a run, driving before them those parts of the confederate line that had been separated by staying the advance of the centre. and behind these new and noisy combatants, at a distance of two or three hundred yards, could be seen, indistinct among the trees a line-of-battle! instinctively before retiring, the crowd in gray made a tremendous rush upon its handful of antagonists, overwhelming them by mere momentum and, unable to use weapons in the crush, trampled them, stamped savagely on their limbs, their bodies, their necks, their faces; then retiring with bloody feet across its own dead it joined the general rout and the incident was at an end. iv the great honor the great the governor, who had been unconscious, opened his eyes and stared about him, slowly recalling the day's events. a man in the uniform of a major was kneeling beside him; he was a surgeon. grouped about were the civilian members of the governor's staff, their faces expressing a natural solicitude regarding their offices. a little apart stood general masterson addressing another officer and gesticulating with a cigar. he was saying: "it was the beautifulest fight ever made--by god, sir, it was great!" the beauty and greatness were attested by a row of dead, trimly disposed, and another of wounded, less formally placed, restless, half-naked, but bravely bebandaged. "how do you feel, sir?" said the surgeon. "i find no wound." "i think i am all right," the patient replied, sitting up. "it is that ankle." the surgeon transferred his attention to the ankle, cutting away the boot. all eyes followed the knife. in moving the leg a folded paper was uncovered. the patient picked it up and carelessly opened it. it was a letter three months old, signed "julia." catching sight of his name in it he read it. it was nothing very remarkable--merely a weak woman's confession of unprofitable sin-the penitence of a faithless wife deserted by her betrayer. the letter had fallen from the pocket of captain armisted; the reader quietly transferred it to his own. an aide-de-camp rode up and dismounted. advancing to the governor he saluted. "sir," he said, "i am sorry to find you wounded--the commanding general has not been informed. he presents his compliments and i am directed to say that he has ordered for to-morrow a grand review of the reserve corps in your honor. i venture to add that the general's carriage is at your service if you are able to attend." "be pleased to say to the commanding general that i am deeply touched by his kindness. if you have the patience to wait a few moments you shall convey a more definite reply." he smiled brightly and glancing at the surgeon and his assistants added: "at present--if you will permit an allusion to the horrors of peace--i am 'in the hands of my friends.'" the humor of the great is infectious; all laughed who heard. "where is captain armisted?" the governor asked, not altogether carelessly. the surgeon looked up from his work, pointing silently to the nearest body in the row of dead, the features discreetly covered with a handkerchief. it was so near that the great man could have laid his hand upon it, but he did not. he may have feared that it would bleed. the story of a conscience i captain parrol hartroy stood at the advanced post of his picket-guard, talking in low tones with the sentinel. this post was on a turnpike which bisected the captain's camp, a half-mile in rear, though the camp was not in sight from that point. the officer was apparently giving the soldier certain instructions--was perhaps merely inquiring if all were quiet in front. as the two stood talking a man approached them from the direction of the camp, carelessly whistling, and was promptly halted by the soldier. he was evidently a civilian--a tall person, coarsely clad in the home-made stuff of yellow gray, called "butternut," which was men's only wear in the latter days of the confederacy. on his head was a slouch felt hat, once white, from beneath which hung masses of uneven hair, seemingly unacquainted with either scissors or comb. the man's face was rather striking; a broad forehead, high nose, and thin cheeks, the mouth invisible in the full dark beard, which seemed as neglected as the hair. the eyes were large and had that steadiness and fixity of attention which so frequently mark a considering intelligence and a will not easily turned from its purpose--so say those physiognomists who have that kind of eyes. on the whole, this was a man whom one would be likely to observe and be observed by. he carried a walking-stick freshly cut from the forest and his ailing cowskin boots were white with dust. "show your pass," said the federal soldier, a trifle more imperiously perhaps than he would have thought necessary if he had not been under the eye of his commander, who with folded arms looked on from the roadside. "'lowed you'd rec'lect me, gineral," said the wayfarer tranquilly, while producing the paper from the pocket of his coat. there was something in his tone--perhaps a faint suggestion of irony--which made his elevation of his obstructor to exalted rank less agreeable to that worthy warrior than promotion is commonly found to be. "you-all have to be purty pertickler, i reckon," he added, in a more conciliatory tone, as if in half-apology for being halted. having read the pass, with his rifle resting on the ground, the soldier handed the document back without a word, shouldered his weapon, and returned to his commander. the civilian passed on in the middle of the road, and when he had penetrated the circumjacent confederacy a few yards resumed his whistling and was soon out of sight beyond an angle in the road, which at that point entered a thin forest. suddenly the officer undid his arms from his breast, drew a revolver from his belt and sprang forward at a run in the same direction, leaving his sentinel in gaping astonishment at his post. after making to the various visible forms of nature a solemn promise to be damned, that gentleman resumed the air of stolidity which is supposed to be appropriate to a state of alert military attention. ii captain hartroy held an independent command. his force consisted of a company of infantry, a squadron of cavalry, and a section of artillery, detached from the army to which they belonged, to defend an important defile in the cumberland mountains in tennessee. it was a field officer's command held by a line officer promoted from the ranks, where he had quietly served until "discovered." his post was one of exceptional peril; its defense entailed a heavy responsibility and he had wisely been given corresponding discretionary powers, all the more necessary because of his distance from the main army, the precarious nature of his communications and the lawless character of the enemy's irregular troops infesting that region. he had strongly fortified his little camp, which embraced a village of a half-dozen dwellings and a country store, and had collected a considerable quantity of supplies. to a few resident civilians of known loyalty, with whom it was desirable to trade, and of whose services in various ways he sometimes availed himself, he had given written passes admitting them within his lines. it is easy to understand that an abuse of this privilege in the interest of the enemy might entail serious consequences. captain hartroy had made an order to the effect that any one so abusing it would be summarily shot. while the sentinel had been examining the civilian's pass the captain had eyed the latter narrowly. he thought his appearance familiar and had at first no doubt of having given him the pass which had satisfied the sentinel. it was not until the man had got out of sight and hearing that his identity was disclosed by a revealing light from memory. with soldierly promptness of decision the officer had acted on the revelation. iii to any but a singularly self-possessed man the apparition of an officer of the military forces, formidably clad, bearing in one hand a sheathed sword and in the other a cocked revolver, and rushing in furious pursuit, is no doubt disquieting to a high degree; upon the man to whom the pursuit was in this instance directed it appeared to have no other effect than somewhat to intensify his tranquillity. he might easily enough have escaped into the forest to the right or the left, but chose another course of action--turned and quietly faced the captain, saying as he came up: "i reckon ye must have something to say to me, which ye disremembered. what mout it be, neighbor?" but the "neighbor" did not answer, being engaged in the unneighborly act of covering him with a cocked pistol. "surrender," said the captain as calmly as a slight breathlessness from exertion would permit, "or you die." there was no menace in the manner of this demand; that was all in the matter and in the means of enforcing it. there was, too, something not altogether reassuring in the cold gray eyes that glanced along the barrel of the weapon. for a moment the two men stood looking at each other in silence; then the civilian, with no appearance of fear--with as great apparent unconcern as when complying with the less austere demand of the sentinel--slowly pulled from his pocket the paper which had satisfied that humble functionary and held it out, saying: "i reckon this 'ere parss from mister hartroy is--" "the pass is a forgery," the officer said, interrupting. "i am captain hartroy--and you are dramer brune." it would have required a sharp eye to observe the slight pallor of the civilian's face at these words, and the only other manifestation attesting their significance was a voluntary relaxation of the thumb and fingers holding the dishonored paper, which, falling to the road, unheeded, was rolled by a gentle wind and then lay still, with a coating of dust, as in humiliation for the lie that it bore. a moment later the civilian, still looking unmoved into the barrel of the pistol, said: "yes, i am dramer brune, a confederate spy, and your prisoner. i have on my person, as you will soon discover, a plan of your fort and its armament, a statement of the distribution of your men and their number, a map of the approaches, showing the positions of all your outposts. my life is fairly yours, but if you wish it taken in a more formal way than by your own hand, and if you are willing to spare me the indignity of marching into camp at the muzzle of your pistol, i promise you that i will neither resist, escape, nor remonstrate, but will submit to whatever penalty may be imposed." the officer lowered his pistol, uncocked it, and thrust it into its place in his belt. brune advanced a step, extending his right hand. "it is the hand of a traitor and a spy," said the officer coldly, and did not take it. the other bowed. "come," said the captain, "let us go to camp; you shall not die until to-morrow morning." he turned his back upon his prisoner, and these two enigmatical men retraced their steps and soon passed the sentinel, who expressed his general sense of things by a needless and exaggerated salute to his commander. iv early on the morning after these events the two men, captor and captive, sat in the tent of the former. a table was between them on which lay, among a number of letters, official and private, which the captain had written during the night, the incriminating papers found upon the spy. that gentleman had slept through the night in an adjoining tent, unguarded. both, having breakfasted, were now smoking. "mr. brune," said captain hartroy, "you probably do not understand why i recognized you in your disguise, nor how i was aware of your name." "i have not sought to learn, captain," the prisoner said with quiet dignity. "nevertheless i should like you to know--if the story will not offend. you will perceive that my knowledge of you goes back to the autumn of 1861. at that time you were a private in an ohio regiment--a brave and trusted soldier. to the surprise and grief of your officers and comrades you deserted and went over to the enemy. soon afterward you were captured in a skirmish, recognized, tried by court-martial and sentenced to be shot. awaiting the execution of the sentence you were confined, unfettered, in a freight car standing on a side track of a railway." "at grafton, virginia," said brune, pushing the ashes from his cigar with the little finger of the hand holding it, and without looking up. "at grafton, virginia," the captain repeated. "one dark and stormy night a soldier who had just returned from a long, fatiguing march was put on guard over you. he sat on a cracker box inside the car, near the door, his rifle loaded and the bayonet fixed. you sat in a corner and his orders were to kill you if you attempted to rise." "but if i _asked_ to rise he might call the corporal of the guard." "yes. as the long silent hours wore away the soldier yielded to the demands of nature: he himself incurred the death penalty by sleeping at his post of duty." "you did." "what! you recognize me? you have known me all along?" the captain had risen and was walking the floor of his tent, visibly excited. his face was flushed, the gray eyes had lost the cold, pitiless look which they had shown when brune had seen them over the pistol barrel; they had softened wonderfully. "i knew you," said the spy, with his customary tranquillity, "the moment you faced me, demanding my surrender. in the circumstances it would have been hardly becoming in me to recall these matters. i am perhaps a traitor, certainly a spy; but i should not wish to seem a suppliant." the captain had paused in his walk and was facing his prisoner. there was a singular huskiness in his voice as he spoke again. "mr. brune, whatever your conscience may permit you to be, you saved my life at what you must have believed the cost of your own. until i saw you yesterday when halted by my sentinel i believed you dead--thought that you had suffered the fate which through my own crime you might easily have escaped. you had only to step from the car and leave me to take your place before the firing-squad. you had a divine compassion. you pitied my fatigue. you let me sleep, watched over me, and as the time drew near for the relief-guard to come and detect me in my crime, you gently waked me. ah, brune, brune, that was well done--that was great--that--" the captain's voice failed him; the tears were running down his face and sparkled upon his beard and his breast. resuming his seat at the table, he buried his face in his arms and sobbed. all else was silence. suddenly the clear warble of a bugle was heard sounding the "assembly." the captain started and raised his wet face from his arms; it had turned ghastly pale. outside, in the sunlight, were heard the stir of the men falling into line; the voices of the sergeants calling the roll; the tapping of the drummers as they braced their drums. the captain spoke again: "i ought to have confessed my fault in order to relate the story of your magnanimity; it might have procured you a pardon. a hundred times i resolved to do so, but shame prevented. besides, your sentence was just and righteous. well, heaven forgive me! i said nothing, and my regiment was soon afterward ordered to tennessee and i never heard about you." "it was all right, sir," said brune, without visible emotion; "i escaped and returned to my colors--the confederate colors. i should like to add that before deserting from the federal service i had earnestly asked a discharge, on the ground of altered convictions. i was answered by punishment." "ah, but if i had suffered the penalty of my crime--if you had not generously given me the life that i accepted without gratitude you would not be again in the shadow and imminence of death." the prisoner started slightly and a look of anxiety came into his face. one would have said, too, that he was surprised. at that moment a lieutenant, the adjutant, appeared at the opening of the tent and saluted. "captain," he said, "the battalion is formed." captain hartroy had recovered his composure. he turned to the officer and said: "lieutenant, go to captain graham and say that i direct him to assume command of the battalion and parade it outside the parapet. this gentleman is a deserter and a spy; he is to be shot to death in the presence of the troops. he will accompany you, unbound and unguarded." while the adjutant waited at the door the two men inside the tent rose and exchanged ceremonious bows, brune immediately retiring. half an hour later an old negro cook, the only person left in camp except the commander, was so startled by the sound of a volley of musketry that he dropped the kettle that he was lifting from a fire. but for his consternation and the hissing which the contents of the kettle made among the embers, he might also have heard, nearer at hand, the single pistol shot with which captain hartroy renounced the life which in conscience he could no longer keep. in compliance with the terms of a note that he left for the officer who succeeded him in command, he was buried, like the deserter and spy, without military honors; and in the solemn shadow of the mountain which knows no more of war the two sleep well in long-forgotten graves. one kind of officer i of the uses of civility "captain ransome, it is not permitted to you to know _anything_. it is sufficient that you obey my order--which permit me to repeat. if you perceive any movement of troops in your front you are to open fire, and if attacked hold this position as long as you can. do i make myself understood, sir?" "nothing could be plainer. lieutenant price,"--this to an officer of his own battery, who had ridden up in time to hear the order--"the general's meaning is clear, is it not?" "perfectly." the lieutenant passed on to his post. for a moment general cameron and the commander of the battery sat in their saddles, looking at each other in silence. there was no more to say; apparently too much had already been said. then the superior officer nodded coldly and turned his horse to ride away. the artillerist saluted slowly, gravely, and with extreme formality. one acquainted with the niceties of military etiquette would have said that by his manner he attested a sense of the rebuke that he had incurred. it is one of the important uses of civility to signify resentment. when the general had joined his staff and escort, awaiting him at a little distance, the whole cavalcade moved off toward the right of the guns and vanished in the fog. captain ransome was alone, silent, motionless as an equestrian statue. the gray fog, thickening every moment, closed in about him like a visible doom. ii under what circumstances men do not wish to be shot the fighting of the day before had been desultory and indecisive. at the points of collision the smoke of battle had hung in blue sheets among the branches of the trees till beaten into nothing by the falling rain. in the softened earth the wheels of cannon and ammunition wagons cut deep, ragged furrows, and movements of infantry seemed impeded by the mud that clung to the soldiers' feet as, with soaken garments and rifles imperfectly protected by capes of overcoats they went dragging in sinuous lines hither and thither through dripping forest and flooded field. mounted officers, their heads protruding from rubber ponchos that glittered like black armor, picked their way, singly and in loose groups, among the men, coming and going with apparent aimlessness and commanding attention from nobody but one another. here and there a dead man, his clothing defiled with earth, his face covered with a blanket or showing yellow and claylike in the rain, added his dispiriting influence to that of the other dismal features of the scene and augmented the general discomfort with a particular dejection. very repulsive these wrecks looked--not at all heroic, and nobody was accessible to the infection of their patriotic example. dead upon the field of honor, yes; but the field of honor was so very wet! it makes a difference. the general engagement that all expected did not occur, none of the small advantages accruing, now to this side and now to that, in isolated and accidental collisions being followed up. half-hearted attacks provoked a sullen resistance which was satisfied with mere repulse. orders were obeyed with mechanical fidelity; no one did any more than his duty. "the army is cowardly to-day," said general cameron, the commander of a federal brigade, to his adjutant-general. "the army is cold," replied the officer addressed, "and--yes, it doesn't wish to be like that." he pointed to one of the dead bodies, lying in a thin pool of yellow water, its face and clothing bespattered with mud from hoof and wheel. the army's weapons seemed to share its military delinquency. the rattle of rifles sounded flat and contemptible. it had no meaning and scarcely roused to attention and expectancy the unengaged parts of the line-of-battle and the waiting reserves. heard at a little distance, the reports of cannon were feeble in volume and _timbre_: they lacked sting and resonance. the guns seemed to be fired with light charges, unshotted. and so the futile day wore on to its dreary close, and then to a night of discomfort succeeded a day of apprehension. an army has a personality. beneath the individual thoughts and emotions of its component parts it thinks and feels as a unit. and in this large, inclusive sense of things lies a wiser wisdom than the mere sum of all that it knows. on that dismal morning this great brute force, groping at the bottom of a white ocean of fog among trees that seemed as sea weeds, had a dumb consciousness that all was not well; that a day's manoeuvring had resulted in a faulty disposition of its parts, a blind diffusion of its strength. the men felt insecure and talked among themselves of such tactical errors as with their meager military vocabulary they were able to name. field and line officers gathered in groups and spoke more learnedly of what they apprehended with no greater clearness. commanders of brigades and divisions looked anxiously to their connections on the right and on the left, sent staff officers on errands of inquiry and pushed skirmish lines silently and cautiously forward into the dubious region between the known and the unknown. at some points on the line the troops, apparently of their own volition, constructed such defenses as they could without the silent spade and the noisy ax. one of these points was held by captain ransome's battery of six guns. provided always with intrenching tools, his men had labored with diligence during the night, and now his guns thrust their black muzzles through the embrasures of a really formidable earthwork. it crowned a slight acclivity devoid of undergrowth and providing an unobstructed fire that would sweep the ground for an unknown distance in front. the position could hardly have been better chosen. it had this peculiarity, which captain ransome, who was greatly addicted to the use of the compass, had not failed to observe: it faced northward, whereas he knew that the general line of the army must face eastward. in fact, that part of the line was "refused"--that is to say, bent backward, away from the enemy. this implied that captain ransome's battery was somewhere near the left flank of the army; for an army in line of battle retires its flanks if the nature of the ground will permit, they being its vulnerable points. actually, captain ransome appeared to hold the extreme left of the line, no troops being visible in that direction beyond his own. immediately in rear of his guns occurred that conversation between him and his brigade commander, the concluding and more picturesque part of which is reported above. iii how to play the cannon without notes captain ransome sat motionless and silent on horseback. a few yards away his men were standing at their guns. somewhere--everywhere within a few miles--were a hundred thousand men, friends and enemies. yet he was alone. the mist had isolated him as completely as if he had been in the heart of a desert. his world was a few square yards of wet and trampled earth about the feet of his horse. his comrades in that ghostly domain were invisible and inaudible. these were conditions favorable to thought, and he was thinking. of the nature of his thoughts his clear-cut handsome features yielded no attesting sign. his face was as inscrutable as that of the sphinx. why should it have made a record which there was none to observe? at the sound of a footstep he merely turned his eyes in the direction whence it came; one of his sergeants, looking a giant in stature in the false perspective of the fog, approached, and when clearly defined and reduced to his true dimensions by propinquity, saluted and stood at attention. "well, morris," said the officer, returning his subordinate's salute. "lieutenant price directed me to tell you, sir, that most of the infantry has been withdrawn. we have not sufficient support." "yes, i know." "i am to say that some of our men have been out over the works a hundred yards and report that our front is not picketed." "yes." "they were so far forward that they heard the enemy." "yes." "they heard the rattle of the wheels of artillery and the commands of officers." "yes." "the enemy is moving toward our works." captain ransome, who had been facing to the rear of his line--toward the point where the brigade commander and his cavalcade had been swallowed up by the fog--reined his horse about and faced the other way. then he sat motionless as before. "who are the men who made that statement?" he inquired, without looking at the sergeant; his eyes were directed straight into the fog over the head of his horse. "corporal hassman and gunner manning." captain ransome was a moment silent. a slight pallor came into his face, a slight compression affected the lines of his lips, but it would have required a closer observer than sergeant morris to note the change. there was none in the voice. "sergeant, present my compliments to lieutenant price and direct him to open fire with all the guns. grape." the sergeant saluted and vanished in the fog. iv. to introduce general masterson searching for his division commander, general cameron and his escort had followed the line of battle for nearly a mile to the right of ransome's battery, and there learned that the division commander had gone in search of the corps commander. it seemed that everybody was looking for his immediate superior--an ominous circumstance. it meant that nobody was quite at ease. so general cameron rode on for another half-mile, where by good luck he met general masterson, the division commander, returning. "ah, cameron," said the higher officer, reining up, and throwing his right leg across the pommel of his saddle in a most unmilitary way-"anything up? found a good position for your battery, i hope--if one place is better than another in a fog." "yes, general," said the other, with the greater dignity appropriate to his less exalted rank, "my battery is very well placed. i wish i could say that it is as well commanded." "eh, what's that? ransome? i think him a fine fellow. in the army we should be proud of him." it was customary for officers of the regular army to speak of it as "the army." as the greatest cities are most provincial, so the self-complacency of aristocracies is most frankly plebeian. "he is too fond of his opinion. by the way, in order to occupy the hill that he holds i had to extend my line dangerously. the hill is on my left--that is to say the left flank of the army." "oh, no, hart's brigade is beyond. it was ordered up from drytown during the night and directed to hook on to you. better go and--" the sentence was unfinished: a lively cannonade had broken out on the left, and both officers, followed by their retinues of aides and orderlies making a great jingle and clank, rode rapidly toward the spot. but they were soon impeded, for they were compelled by the fog to keep within sight of the line-of-battle, behind which were swarms of men, all in motion across their way. everywhere the line was assuming a sharper and harder definition, as the men sprang to arms and the officers, with drawn swords, "dressed" the ranks. color-bearers unfurled the flags, buglers blew the "assembly," hospital attendants appeared with stretchers. field officers mounted and sent their impedimenta to the rear in care of negro servants. back in the ghostly spaces of the forest could be heard the rustle and murmur of the reserves, pulling themselves together. nor was all this preparation vain, for scarcely five minutes had passed since captain ransome's guns had broken the truce of doubt before the whole region was aroar: the enemy had attacked nearly everywhere. v how sounds can fight shadows captain ransome walked up and down behind his guns, which were firing rapidly but with steadiness. the gunners worked alertly, but without haste or apparent excitement. there was really no reason for excitement; it is not much to point a cannon into a fog and fire it. anybody can do as much as that. the men smiled at their noisy work, performing it with a lessening alacrity. they cast curious regards upon their captain, who had now mounted the banquette of the fortification and was looking across the parapet as if observing the effect of his fire. but the only visible effect was the substitution of wide, low-lying sheets of smoke for their bulk of fog. suddenly out of the obscurity burst a great sound of cheering, which filled the intervals between the reports of the guns with startling distinctness! to the few with leisure and opportunity to observe, the sound was inexpressibly strange--so loud, so near, so menacing, yet nothing seen! the men who had smiled at their work smiled no more, but performed it with a serious and feverish activity. from his station at the parapet captain ransome now saw a great multitude of dim gray figures taking shape in the mist below him and swarming up the slope. but the work of the guns was now fast and furious. they swept the populous declivity with gusts of grape and canister, the whirring of which could be heard through the thunder of the explosions. in this awful tempest of iron the assailants struggled forward foot by foot across their dead, firing into the embrasures, reloading, firing again, and at last falling in their turn, a little in advance of those who had fallen before. soon the smoke was dense enough to cover all. it settled down upon the attack and, drifting back, involved the defense. the gunners could hardly see to serve their pieces, and when occasional figures of the enemy appeared upon the parapet--having had the good luck to get near enough to it, between two embrasures, to be protected from the guns--they looked so unsubstantial that it seemed hardly worth while for the few infantrymen to go to work upon them with the bayonet and tumble them back into the ditch. as the commander of a battery in action can find something better to do than cracking individual skulls, captain ransome had retired from the parapet to his proper post in rear of his guns, where he stood with folded arms, his bugler beside him. here, during the hottest of the fight, he was approached by lieutenant price, who had just sabred a daring assailant inside the work. a spirited colloquy ensued between the two officers--spirited, at least, on the part of the lieutenant, who gesticulated with energy and shouted again and again into his commander's ear in the attempt to make himself heard above the infernal din of the guns. his gestures, if coolly noted by an actor, would have been pronounced to be those of protestation: one would have said that he was opposed to the proceedings. did he wish to surrender? captain ransome listened without a change of countenance or attitude, and when the other man had finished his harangue, looked him coldly in the eyes and during a seasonable abatement of the uproar said: "lieutenant price, it is not permitted to you to know _anything_. it is sufficient that you obey my orders." the lieutenant went to his post, and the parapet being now apparently clear captain ransome returned to it to have a look over. as he mounted the banquette a man sprang upon the crest, waving a great brilliant flag. the captain drew a pistol from his belt and shot him dead. the body, pitching forward, hung over the inner edge of the embankment, the arms straight downward, both hands still grasping the flag. the man's few followers turned and fled down the slope. looking over the parapet, the captain saw no living thing. he observed also that no bullets were coming into the work. he made a sign to the bugler, who sounded the command to cease firing. at all other points the action had already ended with a repulse of the confederate attack; with the cessation of this cannonade the silence was absolute. vi why, being affronted by a, it is not best to affront b general masterson rode into the redoubt. the men, gathered in groups, were talking loudly and gesticulating. they pointed at the dead, running from one body to another. they neglected their foul and heated guns and forgot to resume their outer clothing. they ran to the parapet and looked over, some of them leaping down into the ditch. a score were gathered about a flag rigidly held by a dead man. "well, my men," said the general cheerily, "you have had a pretty fight of it." they stared; nobody replied; the presence of the great man seemed to embarrass and alarm. getting no response to his pleasant condescension, the easy-mannered officer whistled a bar or two of a popular air, and riding forward to the parapet, looked over at the dead. in an instant he had whirled his horse about and was spurring along in rear of the guns, his eyes everywhere at once. an officer sat on the trail of one of the guns, smoking a cigar. as the general dashed up he rose and tranquilly saluted. "captain ransome!"--the words fell sharp and harsh, like the clash of steel blades--"you have been fighting our own men--our own men, sir; do you hear? hart's brigade!" "general, i know that." "you know it--you know that, and you sit here smoking? oh, damn it, hamilton, i'm losing my temper,"--this to his provost-marshal. "sir-captain ransome, be good enough to say--to say why you fought our own men." "that i am unable to say. in my orders that information was withheld." apparently the general did not comprehend. "who was the aggressor in this affair, you or general hart?" he asked. "i was." "and could you not have known--could you not see, sir, that you were attacking our own men?" the reply was astounding! "i knew that, general. it appeared to be none of my business." then, breaking the dead silence that followed his answer, he said: "i must refer you to general cameron." "general cameron is dead, sir--as dead as he can be--as dead as any man in this army. he lies back yonder under a tree. do you mean to say that he had anything to do with this horrible business?" captain ransome did not reply. observing the altercation his men had gathered about to watch the outcome. they were greatly excited. the fog, which had been partly dissipated by the firing, had again closed in so darkly about them that they drew more closely together till the judge on horseback and the accused standing calmly before him had but a narrow space free from intrusion. it was the most informal of courts-martial, but all felt that the formal one to follow would but affirm its judgment. it had no jurisdiction, but it had the significance of prophecy. "captain ransome," the general cried impetuously, but with something in his voice that was almost entreaty, "if you can say anything to put a better light upon your incomprehensible conduct i beg you will do so." having recovered his temper this generous soldier sought for something to justify his naturally sympathetic attitude toward a brave man in the imminence of a dishonorable death. "where is lieutenant price?" the captain said. that officer stood forward, his dark saturnine face looking somewhat forbidding under a bloody handkerchief bound about his brow. he understood the summons and needed no invitation to speak. he did not look at the captain, but addressed the general: "during the engagement i discovered the state of affairs, and apprised the commander of the battery. i ventured to urge that the firing cease. i was insulted and ordered to my post." "do you know anything of the orders under which i was acting?" asked the captain. "of any orders under which the commander of the battery was acting," the lieutenant continued, still addressing the general, "i know nothing." captain ransome felt his world sink away from his feet. in those cruel words he heard the murmur of the centuries breaking upon the shore of eternity. he heard the voice of doom; it said, in cold, mechanical, and measured tones: "ready, aim, fire!" and he felt the bullets tear his heart to shreds. he heard the sound of the earth upon his coffin and (if the good god was so merciful) the song of a bird above his forgotten grave. quietly detaching his sabre from its supports, he handed it up to the provost-marshal. one officer, one man captain graffenreid stood at the head of his company. the regiment was not engaged. it formed a part of the front line-of-battle, which stretched away to the right with a visible length of nearly two miles through the open ground. the left flank was veiled by woods; to the right also the line was lost to sight, but it extended many miles. a hundred yards in rear was a second line; behind this, the reserve brigades and divisions in column. batteries of artillery occupied the spaces between and crowned the low hills. groups of horsemen--generals with their staffs and escorts, and field officers of regiments behind the colors--broke the regularity of the lines and columns. numbers of these figures of interest had field-glasses at their eyes and sat motionless, stolidly scanning the country in front; others came and went at a slow canter, bearing orders. there were squads of stretcher-bearers, ambulances, wagon-trains with ammunition, and officers' servants in rear of all--of all that was visible--for still in rear of these, along the roads, extended for many miles all that vast multitude of non-combatants who with their various _impedimenta_ are assigned to the inglorious but important duty of supplying the fighters' many needs. an army in line-of-battle awaiting attack, or prepared to deliver it, presents strange contrasts. at the front are precision, formality, fixity, and silence. toward the rear these characteristics are less and less conspicuous, and finally, in point of space, are lost altogether in confusion, motion and noise. the homogeneous becomes heterogeneous. definition is lacking; repose is replaced by an apparently purposeless activity; harmony vanishes in hubbub, form in disorder. commotion everywhere and ceaseless unrest. the men who do not fight are never ready. from his position at the right of his company in the front rank, captain graffenreid had an unobstructed outlook toward the enemy. a half-mile of open and nearly level ground lay before him, and beyond it an irregular wood, covering a slight acclivity; not a human being anywhere visible. he could imagine nothing more peaceful than the appearance of that pleasant landscape with its long stretches of brown fields over which the atmosphere was beginning to quiver in the heat of the morning sun. not a sound came from forest or field--not even the barking of a dog or the crowing of a cock at the half-seen plantation house on the crest among the trees. yet every man in those miles of men knew that he and death were face to face. captain graffenreid had never in his life seen an armed enemy, and the war in which his regiment was one of the first to take the field was two years old. he had had the rare advantage of a military education, and when his comrades had marched to the front he had been detached for administrative service at the capital of his state, where it was thought that he could be most useful. like a bad soldier he protested, and like a good one obeyed. in close official and personal relations with the governor of his state, and enjoying his confidence and favor, he had firmly refused promotion and seen his juniors elevated above him. death had been busy in his distant regiment; vacancies among the field officers had occurred again and again; but from a chivalrous feeling that war's rewards belonged of right to those who bore the storm and stress of battle he had held his humble rank and generously advanced the fortunes of others. his silent devotion to principle had conquered at last: he had been relieved of his hateful duties and ordered to the front, and now, untried by fire, stood in the van of battle in command of a company of hardy veterans, to whom he had been only a name, and that name a by-word. by none--not even by those of his brother officers in whose favor he had waived his rights--was his devotion to duty understood. they were too busy to be just; he was looked upon as one who had shirked his duty, until forced unwillingly into the field. too proud to explain, yet not too insensible to feel, he could only endure and hope. of all the federal army on that summer morning none had accepted battle more joyously than anderton graffenreid. his spirit was buoyant, his faculties were riotous. he was in a state of mental exaltation and scarcely could endure the enemy's tardiness in advancing to the attack. to him this was opportunity--for the result he cared nothing. victory or defeat, as god might will; in one or in the other he should prove himself a soldier and a hero; he should vindicate his right to the respect of his men and the companionship of his brother officers--to the consideration of his superiors. how his heart leaped in his breast as the bugle sounded the stirring notes of the "assembly"! with what a light tread, scarcely conscious of the earth beneath his feet, he strode forward at the head of his company, and how exultingly he noted the tactical dispositions which placed his regiment in the front line! and if perchance some memory came to him of a pair of dark eyes that might take on a tenderer light in reading the account of that day's doings, who shall blame him for the unmartial thought or count it a debasement of soldierly ardor? suddenly, from the forest a half-mile in front--apparently from among the upper branches of the trees, but really from the ridge beyond--rose a tall column of white smoke. a moment later came a deep, jarring explosion, followed--almost attended--by a hideous rushing sound that seemed to leap forward across the intervening space with inconceivable rapidity, rising from whisper to roar with too quick a gradation for attention to note the successive stages of its horrible progression! a visible tremor ran along the lines of men; all were startled into motion. captain graffenreid dodged and threw up his hands to one side of his head, palms outward. as he did so he heard a keen, ringing report, and saw on a hillside behind the line a fierce roll of smoke and dust--the shell's explosion. it had passed a hundred feet to his left! he heard, or fancied he heard, a low, mocking laugh and turning in the direction whence it came saw the eyes of his first lieutenant fixed upon him with an unmistakable look of amusement. he looked along the line of faces in the front ranks. the men were laughing. at him? the thought restored the color to his bloodless face--restored too much of it. his cheeks burned with a fever of shame. the enemy's shot was not answered: the officer in command at that exposed part of the line had evidently no desire to provoke a cannonade. for the forbearance captain graffenreid was conscious of a sense of gratitude. he had not known that the flight of a projectile was a phenomenon of so appalling character. his conception of war had already undergone a profound change, and he was conscious that his new feeling was manifesting itself in visible perturbation. his blood was boiling in his veins; he had a choking sensation and felt that if he had a command to give it would be inaudible, or at least unintelligible. the hand in which he held his sword trembled; the other moved automatically, clutching at various parts of his clothing. he found a difficulty in standing still and fancied that his men observed it. was it fear? he feared it was. from somewhere away to the right came, as the wind served, a low, intermittent murmur like that of ocean in a storm--like that of a distant railway train--like that of wind among the pines--three sounds so nearly alike that the ear, unaided by the judgment, cannot distinguish them one from another. the eyes of the troops were drawn in that direction; the mounted officers turned their field-glasses that way. mingled with the sound was an irregular throbbing. he thought it, at first, the beating of his fevered blood in his ears; next, the distant tapping of a bass drum. "the ball is opened on the right flank," said an officer. captain graffenreid understood: the sounds were musketry and artillery. he nodded and tried to smile. there was apparently nothing infectious in the smile. presently a light line of blue smoke-puffs broke out along the edge of the wood in front, succeeded by a crackle of rifles. there were keen, sharp hissings in the air, terminating abruptly with a thump near by. the man at captain graffenreid's side dropped his rifle; his knees gave way and he pitched awkwardly forward, falling upon his face. somebody shouted "lie down!" and the dead man was hardly distinguishable from the living. it looked as if those few rifle-shots had slain ten thousand men. only the field officers remained erect; their concession to the emergency consisted in dismounting and sending their horses to the shelter of the low hills immediately in rear. captain graffenreid lay alongside the dead man, from beneath whose breast flowed a little rill of blood. it had a faint, sweetish odor that sickened him. the face was crushed into the earth and flattened. it looked yellow already, and was repulsive. nothing suggested the glory of a soldier's death nor mitigated the loathsomeness of the incident. he could not turn his back upon the body without facing away from his company. he fixed his eyes upon the forest, where all again was silent. he tried to imagine what was going on there--the lines of troops forming to attack, the guns being pushed forward by hand to the edge of the open. he fancied he could see their black muzzles protruding from the undergrowth, ready to deliver their storm of missiles--such missiles as the one whose shriek had so unsettled his nerves. the distension of his eyes became painful; a mist seemed to gather before them; he could no longer see across the field, yet would not withdraw his gaze lest he see the dead man at his side. the fire of battle was not now burning very brightly in this warrior's soul. from inaction had come introspection. he sought rather to analyze his feelings than distinguish himself by courage and devotion. the result was profoundly disappointing. he covered his face with his hands and groaned aloud. the hoarse murmur of battle grew more and more distinct upon the right; the murmur had, indeed, become a roar, the throbbing, a thunder. the sounds had worked round obliquely to the front; evidently the enemy's left was being driven back, and the propitious moment to move against the salient angle of his line would soon arrive. the silence and mystery in front were ominous; all felt that they boded evil to the assailants. behind the prostrate lines sounded the hoofbeats of galloping horses; the men turned to look. a dozen staff officers were riding to the various brigade and regimental commanders, who had remounted. a moment more and there was a chorus of voices, all uttering out of time the same words--"attention, battalion!" the men sprang to their feet and were aligned by the company commanders. they awaited the word "forward"-awaited, too, with beating hearts and set teeth the gusts of lead and iron that were to smite them at their first movement in obedience to that word. the word was not given; the tempest did not break out. the delay was hideous, maddening! it unnerved like a respite at the guillotine. captain graffenreid stood at the head of his company, the dead man at his feet. he heard the battle on the right--rattle and crash of musketry, ceaseless thunder of cannon, desultory cheers of invisible combatants. he marked ascending clouds of smoke from distant forests. he noted the sinister silence of the forest in front. these contrasting extremes affected the whole range of his sensibilities. the strain upon his nervous organization was insupportable. he grew hot and cold by turns. he panted like a dog, and then forgot to breathe until reminded by vertigo. suddenly he grew calm. glancing downward, his eyes had fallen upon his naked sword, as he held it, point to earth. foreshortened to his view, it resembled somewhat, he thought, the short heavy blade of the ancient roman. the fancy was full of suggestion, malign, fateful, heroic! the sergeant in the rear rank, immediately behind captain graffenreid, now observed a strange sight. his attention drawn by an uncommon movement made by the captain--a sudden reaching forward of the hands and their energetic withdrawal, throwing the elbows out, as in pulling an oar--he saw spring from between the officer's shoulders a bright point of metal which prolonged itself outward, nearly a half-arm's length--a blade! it was faintly streaked with crimson, and its point approached so near to the sergeant's breast, and with so quick a movement, that he shrank backward in alarm. that moment captain graffenreid pitched heavily forward upon the dead man and died. a week later the major-general commanding the left corps of the federal army submitted the following official report: "sir: i have the honor to report, with regard to the action of the 19th inst, that owing to the enemy's withdrawal from my front to reinforce his beaten left, my command was not seriously engaged. my loss was as follows: killed, one officer, one man." george thurston three incidents in the life of a man george thurston was a first lieutenant and aide-de-camp on the staff of colonel brough, commanding a federal brigade. colonel brough was only temporarily in command, as senior colonel, the brigadier-general having been severely wounded and granted a leave of absence to recover. lieutenant thurston was, i believe, of colonel brough's regiment, to which, with his chief, he would naturally have been relegated had he lived till our brigade commander's recovery. the aide whose place thurston took had been killed in battle; thurston's advent among us was the only change in the _personnel_ of our staff consequent upon the change in commanders. we did not like him; he was unsocial. this, however, was more observed by others than by me. whether in camp or on the march, in barracks, in tents, or _en bivouac_, my duties as topographical engineer kept me working like a beaver--all day in the saddle and half the night at my drawing-table, platting my surveys. it was hazardous work; the nearer to the enemy's lines i could penetrate, the more valuable were my field notes and the resulting maps. it was a business in which the lives of men counted as nothing against the chance of defining a road or sketching a bridge. whole squadrons of cavalry escort had sometimes to be sent thundering against a powerful infantry outpost in order that the brief time between the charge and the inevitable retreat might be utilized in sounding a ford or determining the point of intersection of two roads. in some of the dark corners of england and wales they have an immemorial custom of "beating the bounds" of the parish. on a certain day of the year the whole population turns out and travels in procession from one landmark to another on the boundary line. at the most important points lads are soundly beaten with rods to make them remember the place in after life. they become authorities. our frequent engagements with the confederate outposts, patrols, and scouting parties had, incidentally, the same educating value; they fixed in my memory a vivid and apparently imperishable picture of the locality--a picture serving instead of accurate field notes, which, indeed, it was not always convenient to take, with carbines cracking, sabers clashing, and horses plunging all about. these spirited encounters were observations entered in red. one morning as i set out at the head of my escort on an expedition of more than the usual hazard lieutenant thurston rode up alongside and asked if i had any objection to his accompanying me, the colonel commanding having given him permission. "none whatever," i replied rather gruffly; "but in what capacity will you go? you are not a topographical engineer, and captain burling commands my escort." "i will go as a spectator," he said. removing his sword-belt and taking the pistols from his holsters he handed them to his servant, who took them back to headquarters. i realized the brutality of my remark, but not clearly seeing my way to an apology, said nothing. that afternoon we encountered a whole regiment of the enemy's cavalry in line and a field-piece that dominated a straight mile of the turnpike by which we had approached. my escort fought deployed in the woods on both sides, but thurston remained in the center of the road, which at intervals of a few seconds was swept by gusts of grape and canister that tore the air wide open as they passed. he had dropped the rein on the neck of his horse and sat bolt upright in the saddle, with folded arms. soon he was down, his horse torn to pieces. from the side of the road, my pencil and field book idle, my duty forgotten, i watched him slowly disengaging himself from the wreck and rising. at that instant, the cannon having ceased firing, a burly confederate trooper on a spirited horse dashed like a thunderbolt down the road with drawn saber. thurston saw him coming, drew himself up to his full height, and again folded his arms. he was too brave to retreat before the word, and my uncivil words had disarmed him. he was a spectator. another moment and he would have been split like a mackerel, but a blessed bullet tumbled his assailant into the dusty road so near that the impetus sent the body rolling to thurston's feet. that evening, while platting my hasty survey, i found time to frame an apology, which i think took the rude, primitive form of a confession that i had spoken like a malicious idiot. a few weeks later a part of our army made an assault upon the enemy's left. the attack, which was made upon an unknown position and across unfamiliar ground, was led by our brigade. the ground was so broken and the underbrush so thick that all mounted officers and men were compelled to fight on foot--the brigade commander and his staff included. in the _mêlée_ thurston was parted from the rest of us, and we found him, horribly wounded, only when we had taken the enemy's last defense. he was some months in hospital at nashville, tennessee, but finally rejoined us. he said little about his misadventure, except that he had been bewildered and had strayed into the enemy's lines and been shot down; but from one of his captors, whom we in turn had captured, we learned the particulars. "he came walking right upon us as we lay in line," said this man. "a whole company of us instantly sprang up and leveled our rifles at his breast, some of them almost touching him. 'throw down that sword and surrender, you damned yank!' shouted some one in authority. the fellow ran his eyes along the line of rifle barrels, folded his arms across his breast, his right hand still clutching his sword, and deliberately replied, 'i will not.' if we had all fired he would have been torn to shreds. some of us didn't. i didn't, for one; nothing could have induced me." when one is tranquilly looking death in the eye and refusing him any concession one naturally has a good opinion of one's self. i don't know if it was this feeling that in thurston found expression in a stiffish attitude and folded arms; at the mess table one day, in his absence, another explanation was suggested by our quartermaster, an irreclaimable stammerer when the wine was in: "it's h--is w--ay of m-m-mastering a c-c-consti-t-tu-tional t-tendency to r--un aw--ay." "what!" i flamed out, indignantly rising; "you intimate that thurston is a coward--and in his absence?" "if he w--ere a cow--wow-ard h--e w--wouldn't t-try to m-m-master it; and if he w--ere p-present i w--wouldn't d-d-dare to d-d-discuss it," was the mollifying reply. this intrepid man, george thurston, died an ignoble death. the brigade was in camp, with headquarters in a grove of immense trees. to an upper branch of one of these a venturesome climber had attached the two ends of a long rope and made a swing with a length of not less than one hundred feet. plunging downward from a height of fifty feet, along the arc of a circle with such a radius, soaring to an equal altitude, pausing for one breathless instant, then sweeping dizzily backward--no one who has not tried it can conceive the terrors of such sport to the novice. thurston came out of his tent one day and asked for instruction in the mystery of propelling the swing--the art of rising and sitting, which every boy has mastered. in a few moments he had acquired the trick and was swinging higher than the most experienced of us had dared. we shuddered to look at his fearful flights. "st-t-top him," said the quartermaster, snailing lazily along from the mess-tent, where he had been lunching; "h--e d-doesn't know that if h--e g-g-goes c-clear over h--e'll w--ind up the sw--ing." with such energy was that strong man cannonading himself through the air that at each extremity of his increasing arc his body, standing in the swing, was almost horizontal. should he once pass above the level of the rope's attachment he would be lost; the rope would slacken and he would fall vertically to a point as far below as he had gone above, and then the sudden tension of the rope would wrest it from his hands. all saw the peril--all cried out to him to desist, and gesticulated at him as, indistinct and with a noise like the rush of a cannon shot in flight, he swept past us through the lower reaches of his hideous oscillation. a woman standing at a little distance away fainted and fell unobserved. men from the camp of a regiment near by ran in crowds to see, all shouting. suddenly, as thurston was on his upward curve, the shouts all ceased. thurston and the swing had parted--that is all that can be known; both hands at once had released the rope. the impetus of the light swing exhausted, it was falling back; the man's momentum was carrying him, almost erect, upward and forward, no longer in his arc, but with an outward curve. it could have been but an instant, yet it seemed an age. i cried out, or thought i cried out: "my god! will he never stop going up?" he passed close to the branch of a tree. i remember a feeling of delight as i thought he would clutch it and save himself. i speculated on the possibility of it sustaining his weight. he passed above it, and from my point of view was sharply outlined against the blue. at this distance of many years i can distinctly recall that image of a man in the sky, its head erect, its feet close together, its hands--i do not see its hands. all at once, with astonishing suddenness and rapidity, it turns clear over and pitches downward. there is another cry from the crowd, which has rushed instinctively forward. the man has become merely a whirling object, mostly legs. then there is an indescribable sound-the sound of an impact that shakes the earth, and these men, familiar with death in its most awful aspects, turn sick. many walk unsteadily away from the spot; others support themselves against the trunks of trees or sit at the roots. death has taken an unfair advantage; he has struck with an unfamiliar weapon; he has executed a new and disquieting stratagem. we did not know that he had so ghastly resources, possibilities of terror so dismal. thurston's body lay on its back. one leg, bent beneath, was broken above the knee and the bone driven into the earth. the abdomen had burst; the bowels protruded. the neck was broken. the arms were folded tightly across the breast. the mocking-bird the time, a pleasant sunday afternoon in the early autumn of 1861. the place, a forest's heart in the mountain region of southwestern virginia. private grayrock of the federal army is discovered seated comfortably at the root of a great pine tree, against which he leans, his legs extended straight along the ground, his rifle lying across his thighs, his hands (clasped in order that they may not fall away to his sides) resting upon the barrel of the weapon. the contact of the back of his head with the tree has pushed his cap downward over his eyes, almost concealing them; one seeing him would say that he slept. private grayrock did not sleep; to have done so would have imperiled the interests of the united states, for he was a long way outside the lines and subject to capture or death at the hands of the enemy. moreover, he was in a frame of mind unfavorable to repose. the cause of his perturbation of spirit was this: during the previous night he had served on the picket-guard, and had been posted as a sentinel in this very forest. the night was clear, though moonless, but in the gloom of the wood the darkness was deep. grayrock's post was at a considerable distance from those to right and left, for the pickets had been thrown out a needless distance from the camp, making the line too long for the force detailed to occupy it. the war was young, and military camps entertained the error that while sleeping they were better protected by thin lines a long way out toward the enemy than by thicker ones close in. and surely they needed as long notice as possible of an enemy's approach, for they were at that time addicted to the practice of undressing--than which nothing could be more unsoldierly. on the morning of the memorable 6th of april, at shiloh, many of grant's men when spitted on confederate bayonets were as naked as civilians; but it should be allowed that this was not because of any defect in their picket line. their error was of another sort: they had no pickets. this is perhaps a vain digression. i should not care to undertake to interest the reader in the fate of an army; what we have here to consider is that of private grayrock. for two hours after he had been left at his lonely post that saturday night he stood stock-still, leaning against the trunk of a large tree, staring into the darkness in his front and trying to recognize known objects; for he had been posted at the same spot during the day. but all was now different; he saw nothing in detail, but only groups of things, whose shapes, not observed when there was something more of them to observe, were now unfamiliar. they seemed not to have been there before. a landscape that is all trees and undergrowth, moreover, lacks definition, is confused and without accentuated points upon which attention can gain a foothold. add the gloom of a moonless night, and something more than great natural intelligence and a city education is required to preserve one's knowledge of direction. and that is how it occurred that private grayrock, after vigilantly watching the spaces in his front and then imprudently executing a circumspection of his whole dimly visible environment (silently walking around his tree to accomplish it) lost his bearings and seriously impaired his usefulness as a sentinel. lost at his post--unable to say in which direction to look for an enemy's approach, and in which lay the sleeping camp for whose security he was accountable with his life--conscious, too, of many another awkward feature of the situation and of considerations affecting his own safety, private grayrock was profoundly disquieted. nor was he given time to recover his tranquillity, for almost at the moment that he realized his awkward predicament he heard a stir of leaves and a snap of fallen twigs, and turning with a stilled heart in the direction whence it came, saw in the gloom the indistinct outlines of a human figure. "halt!" shouted private grayrock, peremptorily as in duty bound, backing up the command with the sharp metallic snap of his cocking rifle--"who goes there?" there was no answer; at least there was an instant's hesitation, and the answer, if it came, was lost in the report of the sentinel's rifle. in the silence of the night and the forest the sound was deafening, and hardly had it died away when it was repeated by the pieces of the pickets to right and left, a sympathetic fusillade. for two hours every unconverted civilian of them had been evolving enemies from his imagination, and peopling the woods in his front with them, and grayrock's shot had started the whole encroaching host into visible existence. having fired, all retreated, breathless, to the reserves--all but grayrock, who did not know in what direction to retreat. when, no enemy appearing, the roused camp two miles away had undressed and got itself into bed again, and the picket line was cautiously re-established, he was discovered bravely holding his ground, and was complimented by the officer of the guard as the one soldier of that devoted band who could rightly be considered the moral equivalent of that uncommon unit of value, "a whoop in hell." in the mean time, however, grayrock had made a close but unavailing search for the mortal part of the intruder at whom he had fired, and whom he had a marksman's intuitive sense of having hit; for he was one of those born experts who shoot without aim by an instinctive sense of direction, and are nearly as dangerous by night as by day. during a full half of his twenty-four years he had been a terror to the targets of all the shooting-galleries in three cities. unable now to produce his dead game he had the discretion to hold his tongue, and was glad to observe in his officer and comrades the natural assumption that not having run away he had seen nothing hostile. his "honorable mention" had been earned by not running away anyhow. nevertheless, private grayrock was far from satisfied with the night's adventure, and when the next day he made some fair enough pretext to apply for a pass to go outside the lines, and the general commanding promptly granted it in recognition of his bravery the night before, he passed out at the point where that had been displayed. telling the sentinel then on duty there that he had lost something,--which was true enough--he renewed the search for the person whom he supposed himself to have shot, and whom if only wounded he hoped to trail by the blood. he was no more successful by daylight than he had been in the darkness, and after covering a wide area and boldly penetrating a long distance into "the confederacy" he gave up the search, somewhat fatigued, seated himself at the root of the great pine tree, where we have seen him, and indulged his disappointment. it is not to be inferred that grayrock's was the chagrin of a cruel nature balked of its bloody deed. in the clear large eyes, finely wrought lips, and broad forehead of that young man one could read quite another story, and in point of fact his character was a singularly felicitous compound of boldness and sensibility, courage and conscience. "i find myself disappointed," he said to himself, sitting there at the bottom of the golden haze submerging the forest like a subtler sea-"disappointed in failing to discover a fellow-man dead by my hand! do i then really wish that i had taken life in the performance of a duty as well performed without? what more could i wish? if any danger threatened, my shot averted it; that is what i was there to do. no, i am glad indeed if no human life was needlessly extinguished by me. but i am in a false position. i have suffered myself to be complimented by my officers and envied by my comrades. the camp is ringing with praise of my courage. that is not just; i know myself courageous, but this praise is for specific acts which i did not perform, or performed--otherwise. it is believed that i remained at my post bravely, without firing, whereas it was i who began the fusillade, and i did not retreat in the general alarm because bewildered. what, then, shall i do? explain that i saw an enemy and fired? they have all said that of themselves, yet none believes it. shall i tell a truth which, discrediting my courage, will have the effect of a lie? ugh! it is an ugly business altogether. i wish to god i could find my man!" and so wishing, private grayrock, overcome at last by the languor of the afternoon and lulled by the stilly sounds of insects droning and prosing in certain fragrant shrubs, so far forgot the interests of the united states as to fall asleep and expose himself to capture. and sleeping he dreamed. he thought himself a boy, living in a far, fair land by the border of a great river upon which the tall steamboats moved grandly up and down beneath their towering evolutions of black smoke, which announced them long before they had rounded the bends and marked their movements when miles out of sight. with him always, at his side as he watched them, was one to whom he gave his heart and soul in love--a twin brother. together they strolled along the banks of the stream; together explored the fields lying farther away from it, and gathered pungent mints and sticks of fragrant sassafras in the hills overlooking all--beyond which lay the realm of conjecture, and from which, looking southward across the great river, they caught glimpses of the enchanted land. hand in hand and heart in heart they two, the only children of a widowed mother, walked in paths of light through valleys of peace, seeing new things under a new sun. and through all the golden days floated one unceasing sound-the rich, thrilling melody of a mocking-bird in a cage by the cottage door. it pervaded and possessed all the spiritual intervals of the dream, like a musical benediction. the joyous bird was always in song; its infinitely various notes seemed to flow from its throat, effortless, in bubbles and rills at each heart-beat, like the waters of a pulsing spring. that fresh, clear melody seemed, indeed, the spirit of the scene, the meaning and interpretation to sense of the mysteries of life and love. but there came a time when the days of the dream grew dark with sorrow in a rain of tears. the good mother was dead, the meadowside home by the great river was broken up, and the brothers were parted between two of their kinsmen. william (the dreamer) went to live in a populous city in the realm of conjecture, and john, crossing the river into the enchanted land, was taken to a distant region whose people in their lives and ways were said to be strange and wicked. to him, in the distribution of the dead mother's estate, had fallen all that they deemed of value--the mocking-bird. they could be divided, but it could not, so it was carried away into the strange country, and the world of william knew it no more forever. yet still through the aftertime of his loneliness its song filled all the dream, and seemed always sounding in his ear and in his heart. the kinsmen who had adopted the boys were enemies, holding no communication. for a time letters full of boyish bravado and boastful narratives of the new and larger experience--grotesque descriptions of their widening lives and the new worlds they had conquered--passed between them; but these gradually became less frequent, and with william's removal to another and greater city ceased altogether. but ever through it all ran the song of the mocking-bird, and when the dreamer opened his eyes and stared through the vistas of the pine forest the cessation of its music first apprised him that he was awake. the sun was low and red in the west; the level rays projected from the trunk of each giant pine a wall of shadow traversing the golden haze to eastward until light and shade were blended in undistinguishable blue. private grayrock rose to his feet, looked cautiously about him, shouldered his rifle and set off toward camp. he had gone perhaps a half-mile, and was passing a thicket of laurel, when a bird rose from the midst of it and perching on the branch of a tree above, poured from its joyous breast so inexhaustible floods of song as but one of all god's creatures can utter in his praise. there was little in that--it was only to open the bill and breathe; yet the man stopped as if struck --stopped and let fall his rifle, looked upward at the bird, covered his eyes with his hands and wept like a child! for the moment he was, indeed, a child, in spirit and in memory, dwelling again by the great river, over-against the enchanted land! then with an effort of the will he pulled himself together, picked up his weapon and audibly damning himself for an idiot strode on. passing an opening that reached into the heart of the little thicket he looked in, and there, supine upon the earth, its arms all abroad, its gray uniform stained with a single spot of blood upon the breast, its white face turned sharply upward and backward, lay the image of himself!--the body of john grayrock, dead of a gunshot wound, and still warm! he had found his man. as the unfortunate soldier knelt beside that masterwork of civil war the shrilling bird upon the bough overhead stilled her song and, flushed with sunset's crimson glory, glided silently away through the solemn spaces of the wood. at roll-call that evening in the federal camp the name william grayrock brought no response, nor ever again there-after. civilians the man out of the nose at the intersection of two certain streets in that part of san francisco known by the rather loosely applied name of north beach, is a vacant lot, which is rather more nearly level than is usually the case with lots, vacant or otherwise, in that region. immediately at the back of it, to the south, however, the ground slopes steeply upward, the acclivity broken by three terraces cut into the soft rock. it is a place for goats and poor persons, several families of each class having occupied it jointly and amicably "from the foundation of the city." one of the humble habitations of the lowest terrace is noticeable for its rude resemblance to the human face, or rather to such a simulacrum of it as a boy might cut out of a hollowed pumpkin, meaning no offense to his race. the eyes are two circular windows, the nose is a door, the mouth an aperture caused by removal of a board below. there are no doorsteps. as a face, this house is too large; as a dwelling, too small. the blank, unmeaning stare of its lidless and browless eyes is uncanny. sometimes a man steps out of the nose, turns, passes the place where the right ear should be and making his way through the throng of children and goats obstructing the narrow walk between his neighbors' doors and the edge of the terrace gains the street by descending a flight of rickety stairs. here he pauses to consult his watch and the stranger who happens to pass wonders why such a man as that can care what is the hour. longer observations would show that the time of day is an important element in the man's movements, for it is at precisely two o'clock in the afternoon that he comes forth 365 times in every year. having satisfied himself that he has made no mistake in the hour he replaces the watch and walks rapidly southward up the street two squares, turns to the right and as he approaches the next corner fixes his eyes on an upper window in a three-story building across the way. this is a somewhat dingy structure, originally of red brick and now gray. it shows the touch of age and dust. built for a dwelling, it is now a factory. i do not know what is made there; the things that are commonly made in a factory, i suppose. i only know that at two o'clock in the afternoon of every day but sunday it is full of activity and clatter; pulsations of some great engine shake it and there are recurrent screams of wood tormented by the saw. at the window on which the man fixes an intensely expectant gaze nothing ever appears; the glass, in truth, has such a coating of dust that it has long ceased to be transparent. the man looks at it without stopping; he merely keeps turning his head more and more backward as he leaves the building behind. passing along to the next corner, he turns to the left, goes round the block, and comes back till he reaches the point diagonally across the street from the factory--point on his former course, which he then retraces, looking frequently backward over his right shoulder at the window while it is in sight. for many years he has not been known to vary his route nor to introduce a single innovation into his action. in a quarter of an hour he is again at the mouth of his dwelling, and a woman, who has for some time been standing in the nose, assists him to enter. he is seen no more until two o'clock the next day. the woman is his wife. she supports herself and him by washing for the poor people among whom they live, at rates which destroy chinese and domestic competition. this man is about fifty-seven years of age, though he looks greatly older. his hair is dead white. he wears no beard, and is always newly shaven. his hands are clean, his nails well kept. in the matter of dress he is distinctly superior to his position, as indicated by his surroundings and the business of his wife. he is, indeed, very neatly, if not quite fashionably, clad. his silk hat has a date no earlier than the year before the last, and his boots, scrupulously polished, are innocent of patches. i am told that the suit which he wears during his daily excursions of fifteen minutes is not the one that he wears at home. like everything else that he has, this is provided and kept in repair by the wife, and is renewed as frequently as her scanty means permit. thirty years ago john hardshaw and his wife lived on rincon hill in one of the finest residences of that once aristocratic quarter. he had once been a physician, but having inherited a considerable estate from his father concerned himself no more about the ailments of his fellow-creatures and found as much work as he cared for in managing his own affairs. both he and his wife were highly cultivated persons, and their house was frequented by a small set of such men and women as persons of their tastes would think worth knowing. so far as these knew, mr. and mrs. hardshaw lived happily together; certainly the wife was devoted to her handsome and accomplished husband and exceedingly proud of him. among their acquaintances were the barwells--man, wife and two young children--of sacramento. mr. barwell was a civil and mining engineer, whose duties took him much from home and frequently to san francisco. on these occasions his wife commonly accompanied him and passed much of her time at the house of her friend, mrs. hardshaw, always with her two children, of whom mrs. hardshaw, childless herself, grew fond. unluckily, her husband grew equally fond of their mother--a good deal fonder. still more unluckily, that attractive lady was less wise than weak. at about three o'clock one autumn morning officer no. 13 of the sacramento police saw a man stealthily leaving the rear entrance of a gentleman's residence and promptly arrested him. the man--who wore a slouch hat and shaggy overcoat--offered the policeman one hundred, then five hundred, then one thousand dollars to be released. as he had less than the first mentioned sum on his person the officer treated his proposal with virtuous contempt. before reaching the station the prisoner agreed to give him a check for ten thousand dollars and remain ironed in the willows along the river bank until it should be paid. as this only provoked new derision he would say no more, merely giving an obviously fictitious name. when he was searched at the station nothing of value was found on him but a miniature portrait of mrs. barwell--the lady of the house at which he was caught. the case was set with costly diamonds; and something in the quality of the man's linen sent a pang of unavailing regret through the severely incorruptible bosom of officer no. 13. there was nothing about the prisoner's clothing nor person to identify him and he was booked for burglary under the name that he had given, the honorable name of john k. smith. the k. was an inspiration upon which, doubtless, he greatly prided himself. in the mean time the mysterious disappearance of john hardshaw was agitating the gossips of rincon hill in san francisco, and was even mentioned in one of the newspapers. it did not occur to the lady whom that journal considerately described as his "widow," to look for him in the city prison at sacramento--a town which he was not known ever to have visited. as john k. smith he was arraigned and, waiving examination, committed for trial. about two weeks before the trial, mrs. hardshaw, accidentally learning that her husband was held in sacramento under an assumed name on a charge of burglary, hastened to that city without daring to mention the matter to any one and presented herself at the prison, asking for an interview with her husband, john k. smith. haggard and ill with anxiety, wearing a plain traveling wrap which covered her from neck to foot, and in which she had passed the night on the steamboat, too anxious to sleep, she hardly showed for what she was, but her manner pleaded for her more strongly than anything that she chose to say in evidence of her right to admittance. she was permitted to see him alone. what occurred during that distressing interview has never transpired; but later events prove that hardshaw had found means to subdue her will to his own. she left the prison, a broken-hearted woman, refusing to answer a single question, and returning to her desolate home renewed, in a half-hearted way, her inquiries for her missing husband. a week later she was herself missing: she had "gone back to the states"--nobody knew any more than that. on his trial the prisoner pleaded guilty--"by advice of his counsel," so his counsel said. nevertheless, the judge, in whose mind several unusual circumstances had created a doubt, insisted on the district attorney placing officer no. 13 on the stand, and the deposition of mrs. barwell, who was too ill to attend, was read to the jury. it was very brief: she knew nothing of the matter except that the likeness of herself was her property, and had, she thought, been left on the parlor table when she had retired on the night of the arrest. she had intended it as a present to her husband, then and still absent in europe on business for a mining company. this witness's manner when making the deposition at her residence was afterward described by the district attorney as most extraordinary. twice she had refused to testify, and once, when the deposition lacked nothing but her signature, she had caught it from the clerk's hands and torn it in pieces. she had called her children to the bedside and embraced them with streaming eyes, then suddenly sending them from the room, she verified her statement by oath and signature, and fainted-"slick away," said the district attorney. it was at that time that her physician, arriving upon the scene, took in the situation at a glance and grasping the representative of the law by the collar chucked him into the street and kicked his assistant after him. the insulted majesty of the law was not vindicated; the victim of the indignity did not even mention anything of all this in court. he was ambitious to win his case, and the circumstances of the taking of that deposition were not such as would give it weight if related; and after all, the man on trial had committed an offense against the law's majesty only less heinous than that of the irascible physician. by suggestion of the judge the jury rendered a verdict of guilty; there was nothing else to do, and the prisoner was sentenced to the penitentiary for three years. his counsel, who had objected to nothing and had made no plea for lenity--had, in fact, hardly said a word--wrung his client's hand and left the room. it was obvious to the whole bar that he had been engaged only to prevent the court from appointing counsel who might possibly insist on making a defense. john hardshaw served out his term at san quentin, and when discharged was met at the prison gates by his wife, who had returned from "the states" to receive him. it is thought they went straight to europe; anyhow, a general power-of-attorney to a lawyer still living among us-from whom i have many of the facts of this simple history--was executed in paris. this lawyer in a short time sold everything that hardshaw owned in california, and for years nothing was heard of the unfortunate couple; though many to whose ears had come vague and inaccurate intimations of their strange story, and who had known them, recalled their personality with tenderness and their misfortunes with compassion. some years later they returned, both broken in fortune and spirits and he in health. the purpose of their return i have not been able to ascertain. for some time they lived, under the name of johnson, in a respectable enough quarter south of market street, pretty well put, and were never seen away from the vicinity of their dwelling. they must have had a little money left, for it is not known that the man had any occupation, the state of his health probably not permitting. the woman's devotion to her invalid husband was matter of remark among their neighbors; she seemed never absent from his side and always supporting and cheering him. they would sit for hours on one of the benches in a little public park, she reading to him, his hand in hers, her light touch occasionally visiting his pale brow, her still beautiful eyes frequently lifted from the book to look into his as she made some comment on the text, or closed the volume to beguile his mood with talk of--what? nobody ever overheard a conversation between these two. the reader who has had the patience to follow their history to this point may possibly find a pleasure in conjecture: there was probably something to be avoided. the bearing of the man was one of profound dejection; indeed, the unsympathetic youth of the neighborhood, with that keen sense for visible characteristics which ever distinguishes the young male of our species, sometimes mentioned him among themselves by the name of spoony glum. it occurred one day that john hardshaw was possessed by the spirit of unrest. god knows what led him whither he went, but he crossed market street and held his way northward over the hills, and downward into the region known as north beach. turning aimlessly to the left he followed his toes along an unfamiliar street until he was opposite what for that period was a rather grand dwelling, and for this is a rather shabby factory. casting his eyes casually upward he saw at an open window what it had been better that he had not seen--the face and figure of elvira barwell. their eyes met. with a sharp exclamation, like the cry of a startled bird, the lady sprang to her feet and thrust her body half out of the window, clutching the casing on each side. arrested by the cry, the people in the street below looked up. hardshaw stood motionless, speechless, his eyes two flames. "take care!" shouted some one in the crowd, as the woman strained further and further forward, defying the silent, implacable law of gravitation, as once she had defied that other law which god thundered from sinai. the suddenness of her movements had tumbled a torrent of dark hair down her shoulders, and now it was blown about her cheeks, almost concealing her face. a moment so, and then--! a fearful cry rang through the street, as, losing her balance, she pitched headlong from the window, a confused and whirling mass of skirts, limbs, hair, and white face, and struck the pavement with a horrible sound and a force of impact that was felt a hundred feet away. for a moment all eyes refused their office and turned from the sickening spectacle on the sidewalk. drawn again to that horror, they saw it strangely augmented. a man, hatless, seated flat upon the paving stones, held the broken, bleeding body against his breast, kissing the mangled cheeks and streaming mouth through tangles of wet hair, his own features indistinguishably crimson with the blood that half-strangled him and ran in rills from his soaken beard. the reporter's task is nearly finished. the barwells had that very morning returned from a two years' absence in peru. a week later the widower, now doubly desolate, since there could be no missing the significance of hardshaw's horrible demonstration, had sailed for i know not what distant port; he has never come back to stay. hardshaw--as johnson no longer--passed a year in the stockton asylum for the insane, where also, through the influence of pitying friends, his wife was admitted to care for him. when he was discharged, not cured but harmless, they returned to the city; it would seem ever to have had some dreadful fascination for them. for a time they lived near the mission dolores, in poverty only less abject than that which is their present lot; but it was too far away from the objective point of the man's daily pilgrimage. they could not afford car fare. so that poor devil of an angel from heaven--wife to this convict and lunatic--obtained, at a fair enough rental, the blank-faced shanty on the lower terrace of goat hill. thence to the structure that was a dwelling and is a factory the distance is not so great; it is, in fact, an agreeable walk, judging from the man's eager and cheerful look as he takes it. the return journey appears to be a trifle wearisome. an adventure at brownville[1] [1] this story was written in collaboration with miss ina lillian peterson, to whom is rightly due the credit for whatever merit it may have. i taught a little country school near brownville, which, as every one knows who has had the good luck to live there, is the capital of a considerable expanse of the finest scenery in california. the town is somewhat frequented in summer by a class of persons whom it is the habit of the local journal to call "pleasure seekers," but who by a juster classification would be known as "the sick and those in adversity." brownville itself might rightly enough be described, indeed, as a summer place of last resort. it is fairly well endowed with boarding-houses, at the least pernicious of which i performed twice a day (lunching at the schoolhouse) the humble rite of cementing the alliance between soul and body. from this "hostelry" (as the local journal preferred to call it when it did not call it a "caravanserai") to the schoolhouse the distance by the wagon road was about a mile and a half; but there was a trail, very little used, which led over an intervening range of low, heavily wooded hills, considerably shortening the distance. by this trail i was returning one evening later than usual. it was the last day of the term and i had been detained at the schoolhouse until almost dark, preparing an account of my stewardship for the trustees--two of whom, i proudly reflected, would be able to read it, and the third (an instance of the dominion of mind over matter) would be overruled in his customary antagonism to the schoolmaster of his own creation. i had gone not more than a quarter of the way when, finding an interest in the antics of a family of lizards which dwelt thereabout and seemed full of reptilian joy for their immunity from the ills incident to life at the brownville house, i sat upon a fallen tree to observe them. as i leaned wearily against a branch of the gnarled old trunk the twilight deepened in the somber woods and the faint new moon began casting visible shadows and gilding the leaves of the trees with a tender but ghostly light. i heard the sound of voices--a woman's, angry, impetuous, rising against deep masculine tones, rich and musical. i strained my eyes, peering through the dusky shadows of the wood, hoping to get a view of the intruders on my solitude, but could see no one. for some yards in each direction i had an uninterrupted view of the trail, and knowing of no other within a half mile thought the persons heard must be approaching from the wood at one side. there was no sound but that of the voices, which were now so distinct that i could catch the words. that of the man gave me an impression of anger, abundantly confirmed by the matter spoken. "i will have no threats; you are powerless, as you very well know. let things remain as they are or, by god! you shall both suffer for it." "what do you mean?"--this was the voice of the woman, a cultivated voice, the voice of a lady. "you would not--murder us." there was no reply, at least none that was audible to me. during the silence i peered into the wood in hope to get a glimpse of the speakers, for i felt sure that this was an affair of gravity in which ordinary scruples ought not to count. it seemed to me that the woman was in peril; at any rate the man had not disavowed a willingness to murder. when a man is enacting the rôle of potential assassin he has not the right to choose his audience. after some little time i saw them, indistinct in the moonlight among the trees. the man, tall and slender, seemed clothed in black; the woman wore, as nearly as i could make out, a gown of gray stuff. evidently they were still unaware of my presence in the shadow, though for some reason when they renewed their conversation they spoke in lower tones and i could no longer understand. as i looked the woman seemed to sink to the ground and raise her hands in supplication, as is frequently done on the stage and never, so far as i knew, anywhere else, and i am now not altogether sure that it was done in this instance. the man fixed his eyes upon her; they seemed to glitter bleakly in the moonlight with an expression that made me apprehensive that he would turn them upon me. i do not know by what impulse i was moved, but i sprang to my feet out of the shadow. at that instant the figures vanished. i peered in vain through the spaces among the trees and clumps of undergrowth. the night wind rustled the leaves; the lizards had retired early, reptiles of exemplary habits. the little moon was already slipping behind a black hill in the west. i went home, somewhat disturbed in mind, half doubting that i had heard or seen any living thing excepting the lizards. it all seemed a trifle odd and uncanny. it was as if among the several phenomena, objective and subjective, that made the sum total of the incident there had been an uncertain element which had diffused its dubious character over all--had leavened the whole mass with unreality. i did not like it. at the breakfast table the next morning there was a new face; opposite me sat a young woman at whom i merely glanced as i took my seat. in speaking to the high and mighty female personage who condescended to seem to wait upon us, this girl soon invited my attention by the sound of her voice, which was like, yet not altogether like, the one still murmuring in my memory of the previous evening's adventure. a moment later another girl, a few years older, entered the room and sat at the left of the other, speaking to her a gentle "good morning." by _her_ voice i was startled: it was without doubt the one of which the first girl's had reminded me. here was the lady of the sylvan incident sitting bodily before me, "in her habit as she lived." evidently enough the two were sisters. with a nebulous kind of apprehension that i might be recognized as the mute inglorious hero of an adventure which had in my consciousness and conscience something of the character of eavesdropping, i allowed myself only a hasty cup of the lukewarm coffee thoughtfully provided by the prescient waitress for the emergency, and left the table. as i passed out of the house into the grounds i heard a rich, strong male voice singing an aria from "rigoletto." i am bound to say that it was exquisitely sung, too, but there was something in the performance that displeased me, i could say neither what nor why, and i walked rapidly away. returning later in the day i saw the elder of the two young women standing on the porch and near her a tall man in black clothing--the man whom i had expected to see. all day the desire to know something of these persons had been uppermost in my mind and i now resolved to learn what i could of them in any way that was neither dishonorable nor low. the man was talking easily and affably to his companion, but at the sound of my footsteps on the gravel walk he ceased, and turning about looked me full in the face. he was apparently of middle age, dark and uncommonly handsome. his attire was faultless, his bearing easy and graceful, the look which he turned upon me open, free, and devoid of any suggestion of rudeness. nevertheless it affected me with a distinct emotion which on subsequent analysis in memory appeared to be compounded of hatred and dread--i am unwilling to call it fear. a second later the man and woman had disappeared. they seemed to have a trick of disappearing. on entering the house, however, i saw them through the open doorway of the parlor as i passed; they had merely stepped through a window which opened down to the floor. cautiously "approached" on the subject of her new guests my landlady proved not ungracious. restated with, i hope, some small reverence for english grammar the facts were these: the two girls were pauline and eva maynard of san francisco; the elder was pauline. the man was richard benning, their guardian, who had been the most intimate friend of their father, now deceased. mr. benning had brought them to brownville in the hope that the mountain climate might benefit eva, who was thought to be in danger of consumption. upon these short and simple annals the landlady wrought an embroidery of eulogium which abundantly attested her faith in mr. benning's will and ability to pay for the best that her house afforded. that he had a good heart was evident to her from his devotion to his two beautiful wards and his really touching solicitude for their comfort. the evidence impressed me as insufficient and i silently found the scotch verdict, "not proven." certainly mr. benning was most attentive to his wards. in my strolls about the country i frequently encountered them--sometimes in company with other guests of the hotel--exploring the gulches, fishing, rifle shooting, and otherwise wiling away the monotony of country life; and although i watched them as closely as good manners would permit i saw nothing that would in any way explain the strange words that i had overheard in the wood. i had grown tolerably well acquainted with the young ladies and could exchange looks and even greetings with their guardian without actual repugnance. a month went by and i had almost ceased to interest myself in their affairs when one night our entire little community was thrown into excitement by an event which vividly recalled my experience in the forest. this was the death of the elder girl, pauline. the sisters had occupied the same bedroom on the third floor of the house. waking in the gray of the morning eva had found pauline dead beside her. later, when the poor girl was weeping beside the body amid a throng of sympathetic if not very considerate persons, mr. benning entered the room and appeared to be about to take her hand. she drew away from the side of the dead and moved slowly toward the door. "it is you," she said--"you who have done this. you--you--you!" "she is raving," he said in a low voice. he followed her, step by step, as she retreated, his eyes fixed upon hers with a steady gaze in which there was nothing of tenderness nor of compassion. she stopped; the hand that she had raised in accusation fell to her side, her dilated eyes contracted visibly, the lids slowly dropped over them, veiling their strange wild beauty, and she stood motionless and almost as white as the dead girl lying near. the man took her hand and put his arm gently about her shoulders, as if to support her. suddenly she burst into a passion of tears and clung to him as a child to its mother. he smiled with a smile that affected me most disagreeably--perhaps any kind of smile would have done so--and led her silently out of the room. there was an inquest--and the customary verdict: the deceased, it appeared, came to her death through "heart disease." it was before the invention of heart _failure_, though the heart of poor pauline had indubitably failed. the body was embalmed and taken to san francisco by some one summoned thence for the purpose, neither eva nor benning accompanying it. some of the hotel gossips ventured to think that very strange, and a few hardy spirits went so far as to think it very strange indeed; but the good landlady generously threw herself into the breach, saying it was owing to the precarious nature of the girl's health. it is not of record that either of the two persons most affected and apparently least concerned made any explanation. one evening about a week after the death i went out upon the veranda of the hotel to get a book that i had left there. under some vines shutting out the moonlight from a part of the space i saw richard benning, for whose apparition i was prepared by having previously heard the low, sweet voice of eva maynard, whom also i now discerned, standing before him with one hand raised to his shoulder and her eyes, as nearly as i could judge, gazing upward into his. he held her disengaged hand and his head was bent with a singular dignity and grace. their attitude was that of lovers, and as i stood in deep shadow to observe i felt even guiltier than on that memorable night in the wood. i was about to retire, when the girl spoke, and the contrast between her words and her attitude was so surprising that i remained, because i had merely forgotten to go away. "you will take my life," she said, "as you did pauline's. i know your intention as well as i know your power, and i ask nothing, only that you finish your work without needless delay and let me be at peace." he made no reply--merely let go the hand that he was holding, removed the other from his shoulder, and turning away descended the steps leading to the garden and disappeared in the shrubbery. but a moment later i heard, seemingly from a great distance, his fine clear voice in a barbaric chant, which as i listened brought before some inner spiritual sense a consciousness of some far, strange land peopled with beings having forbidden powers. the song held me in a kind of spell, but when it had died away i recovered and instantly perceived what i thought an opportunity. i walked out of my shadow to where the girl stood. she turned and stared at me with something of the look, it seemed to me, of a hunted hare. possibly my intrusion had frightened her. "miss maynard," i said, "i beg you to tell me who that man is and the nature of his power over you. perhaps this is rude in me, but it is not a matter for idle civilities. when a woman is in danger any man has a right to act." she listened without visible emotion--almost i thought without interest, and when i had finished she closed her big blue eyes as if unspeakably weary. "you can do nothing," she said. i took hold of her arm, gently shaking her as one shakes a person falling into a dangerous sleep. "you must rouse yourself," i said; "something must be done and you must give me leave to act. you have said that that man killed your sister, and i believe it--that he will kill you, and i believe that." she merely raised her eyes to mine. "will you not tell me all?" i added. "there is nothing to be done, i tell you--nothing. and if i could do anything i would not. it does not matter in the least. we shall be here only two days more; we go away then, oh, so far! if you have observed anything, i beg you to be silent." "but this is madness, girl." i was trying by rough speech to break the deadly repose of her manner. "you have accused him of murder. unless you explain these things to me i shall lay the matter before the authorities." this roused her, but in a way that i did not like. she lifted her head proudly and said: "do not meddle, sir, in what does not concern you. this is my affair, mr. moran, not yours." "it concerns every person in the country--in the world," i answered, with equal coldness. "if you had no love for your sister i, at least, am concerned for you." "listen," she interrupted, leaning toward me. "i loved her, yes, god knows! but more than that--beyond all, beyond expression, i love _him_. you have overheard a secret, but you shall not make use of it to harm him. i shall deny all. your word against mine--it will be that. do you think your 'authorities' will believe you?" she was now smiling like an angel and, god help me! i was heels over head in love with her! did she, by some of the many methods of divination known to her sex, read my feelings? her whole manner had altered. "come," she said, almost coaxingly, "promise that you will not be impolite again." she took my arm in the most friendly way. "come, i will walk with you. he will not know--he will remain away all night." up and down the veranda we paced in the moonlight, she seemingly forgetting her recent bereavement, cooing and murmuring girl-wise of every kind of nothing in all brownville; i silent, consciously awkward and with something of the feeling of being concerned in an intrigue. it was a revelation--this most charming and apparently blameless creature coolly and confessedly deceiving the man for whom a moment before she had acknowledged and shown the supreme love which finds even death an acceptable endearment. "truly," i thought in my inexperience, "here is something new under the moon." and the moon must have smiled. before we parted i had exacted a promise that she would walk with me the next afternoon--before going away forever--to the old mill, one of brownville's revered antiquities, erected in 1860. "if he is not about," she added gravely, as i let go the hand she had given me at parting, and of which, may the good saints forgive me, i strove vainly to repossess myself when she had said it--so charming, as the wise frenchman has pointed out, do we find woman's infidelity when we are its objects, not its victims. in apportioning his benefactions that night the angel of sleep overlooked me. the brownville house dined early, and after dinner the next day miss maynard, who had not been at table, came to me on the veranda, attired in the demurest of walking costumes, saying not a word. "he" was evidently "not about." we went slowly up the road that led to the old mill. she was apparently not strong and at times took my arm, relinquishing it and taking it again rather capriciously, i thought. her mood, or rather her succession of moods, was as mutable as skylight in a rippling sea. she jested as if she had never heard of such a thing as death, and laughed on the lightest incitement, and directly afterward would sing a few bars of some grave melody with such tenderness of expression that i had to turn away my eyes lest she should see the evidence of her success in art, if art it was, not artlessness, as then i was compelled to think it. and she said the oddest things in the most unconventional way, skirting sometimes unfathomable abysms of thought, where i had hardly the courage to set foot. in short, she was fascinating in a thousand and fifty different ways, and at every step i executed a new and profounder emotional folly, a hardier spiritual indiscretion, incurring fresh liability to arrest by the constabulary of conscience for infractions of my own peace. arriving at the mill, she made no pretense of stopping, but turned into a trail leading through a field of stubble toward a creek. crossing by a rustic bridge we continued on the trail, which now led uphill to one of the most picturesque spots in the country. the eagle's nest, it was called--the summit of a cliff that rose sheer into the air to a height of hundreds of feet above the forest at its base. from this elevated point we had a noble view of another valley and of the opposite hills flushed with the last rays of the setting sun. as we watched the light escaping to higher and higher planes from the encroaching flood of shadow filling the valley we heard footsteps, and in another moment were joined by richard benning. "i saw you from the road," he said carelessly; "so i came up." being a fool, i neglected to take him by the throat and pitch him into the treetops below, but muttered some polite lie instead. on the girl the effect of his coming was immediate and unmistakable. her face was suffused with the glory of love's transfiguration: the red light of the sunset had not been more obvious in her eyes than was now the lovelight that replaced it. "i am so glad you came!" she said, giving him both her hands; and, god help me! it was manifestly true. seating himself upon the ground he began a lively dissertation upon the wild flowers of the region, a number of which he had with him. in the middle of a facetious sentence he suddenly ceased speaking and fixed his eyes upon eva, who leaned against the stump of a tree, absently plaiting grasses. she lifted her eyes in a startled way to his, as if she had _felt_ his look. she then rose, cast away her grasses, and moved slowly away from him. he also rose, continuing to look at her. he had still in his hand the bunch of flowers. the girl turned, as if to speak, but said nothing. i recall clearly now something of which i was but half-conscious then--the dreadful contrast between the smile upon her lips and the terrified expression in her eyes as she met his steady and imperative gaze. i know nothing of how it happened, nor how it was that i did not sooner understand; i only know that with the smile of an angel upon her lips and that look of terror in her beautiful eyes eva maynard sprang from the cliff and shot crashing into the tops of the pines below! how and how long afterward i reached the place i cannot say, but richard benning was already there, kneeling beside the dreadful thing that had been a woman. "she is dead--quite dead," he said coldly. "i will go to town for assistance. please do me the favor to remain." he rose to his feet and moved away, but in a moment had stopped and turned about. "you have doubtless observed, my friend," he said, "that this was entirely her own act. i did not rise in time to prevent it, and you, not knowing her mental condition--you could not, of course, have suspected." his manner maddened me. "you are as much her assassin," i said, "as if your damnable hands had cut her throat." he shrugged his shoulders without reply and, turning, walked away. a moment later i heard, through the deepening shadows of the wood into which he had disappeared, a rich, strong, baritone voice singing "_la donna e mobile_," from "rigoletto." the famous gilson bequest it was rough on gilson. such was the terse, cold, but not altogether unsympathetic judgment of the better public opinion at mammon hill--the dictum of respectability. the verdict of the opposite, or rather the opposing, element--the element that lurked red-eyed and restless about moll gurney's "deadfall," while respectability took it with sugar at mr. jo. bentley's gorgeous "saloon"--was to pretty much the same general effect, though somewhat more ornately expressed by the use of picturesque expletives, which it is needless to quote. virtually, mammon hill was a unit on the gilson question. and it must be confessed that in a merely temporal sense all was not well with mr. gilson. he had that morning been led into town by mr. brentshaw and publicly charged with horse stealing; the sheriff meantime busying himself about the tree with a new manila rope and carpenter pete being actively employed between drinks upon a pine box about the length and breadth of mr. gilson. society having rendered its verdict, there remained between gilson and eternity only the decent formality of a trial. these are the short and simple annals of the prisoner: he had recently been a resident of new jerusalem, on the north fork of the little stony, but had come to the newly discovered placers of mammon hill immediately before the "rush" by which the former place was depopulated. the discovery of the new diggings had occurred opportunely for mr. gilson, for it had only just before been intimated to him by a new jerusalem vigilance committee that it would better his prospects in, and for, life to go somewhere; and the list of places to which he could safely go did not include any of the older camps; so he naturally established himself at mammon hill. being eventually followed thither by all his judges, he ordered his conduct with considerable circumspection, but as he had never been known to do an honest day's work at any industry sanctioned by the stern local code of morality except draw poker he was still an object of suspicion. indeed, it was conjectured that he was the author of the many daring depredations that had recently been committed with pan and brush on the sluice boxes. prominent among those in whom this suspicion had ripened into a steadfast conviction was mr. brentshaw. at all seasonable and unseasonable times mr. brentshaw avowed his belief in mr. gilson's connection with these unholy midnight enterprises, and his own willingness to prepare a way for the solar beams through the body of any one who might think it expedient to utter a different opinion--which, in his presence, no one was more careful not to do than the peace-loving person most concerned. whatever may have been the truth of the matter, it is certain that gilson frequently lost more "clean dust" at jo. bentley's faro table than it was recorded in local history that he had ever honestly earned at draw poker in all the days of the camp's existence. but at last mr. bentley--fearing, it may be, to lose the more profitable patronage of mr. brentshaw--peremptorily refused to let gilson copper the queen, intimating at the same time, in his frank, forthright way, that the privilege of losing money at "this bank" was a blessing appertaining to, proceeding logically from, and coterminous with, a condition of notorious commercial righteousness and social good repute. the hill thought it high time to look after a person whom its most honored citizen had felt it his duty to rebuke at a considerable personal sacrifice. the new jerusalem contingent, particularly, began to abate something of the toleration begotten of amusement at their own blunder in exiling an objectionable neighbor from the place which they had left to the place whither they had come. mammon hill was at last of one mind. not much was said, but that gilson must hang was "in the air." but at this critical juncture in his affairs he showed signs of an altered life if not a changed heart. perhaps it was only that "the bank" being closed against him he had no further use for gold dust. anyhow the sluice boxes were molested no more forever. but it was impossible to repress the abounding energies of such a nature as his, and he continued, possibly from habit, the tortuous courses which he had pursued for profit of mr. bentley. after a few tentative and resultless undertakings in the way of highway robbery--if one may venture to designate road-agency by so harsh a name--he made one or two modest essays in horse-herding, and it was in the midst of a promising enterprise of this character, and just as he had taken the tide in his affairs at its flood, that he made shipwreck. for on a misty, moonlight night mr. brentshaw rode up alongside a person who was evidently leaving that part of the country, laid a hand upon the halter connecting mr. gilson's wrist with mr. harper's bay mare, tapped him familiarly on the cheek with the barrel of a navy revolver and requested the pleasure of his company in a direction opposite to that in which he was traveling. it was indeed rough on gilson. on the morning after his arrest he was tried, convicted, and sentenced. it only remains, so far as concerns his earthly career, to hang him, reserving for more particular mention his last will and testament, which, with great labor, he contrived in prison, and in which, probably from some confused and imperfect notion of the rights of captors, he bequeathed everything he owned to his "lawfle execketer," mr. brentshaw. the bequest, however, was made conditional on the legatee taking the testator's body from the tree and "planting it white." so mr. gilson was--i was about to say "swung off," but i fear there has been already something too much of slang in this straightforward statement of facts; besides, the manner in which the law took its course is more accurately described in the terms employed by the judge in passing sentence: mr. gilson was "strung up." in due season mr. brentshaw, somewhat touched, it may well be, by the empty compliment of the bequest, repaired to the tree to pluck the fruit thereof. when taken down the body was found to have in its waistcoat pocket a duly attested codicil to the will already noted. the nature of its provisions accounted for the manner in which it had been withheld, for had mr. brentshaw previously been made aware of the conditions under which he was to succeed to the gilson estate he would indubitably have declined the responsibility. briefly stated, the purport of the codicil was as follows: whereas, at divers times and in sundry places, certain persons had asserted that during his life the testator had robbed their sluice boxes; therefore, if during the five years next succeeding the date of this instrument any one should make proof of such assertion before a court of law, such person was to receive as reparation the entire personal and real estate of which the testator died seized and possessed, minus the expenses of court and a stated compensation to the executor, henry clay brentshaw; provided, that if more than one person made such proof the estate was to be equally divided between or among them. but in case none should succeed in so establishing the testator's guilt, then the whole property, minus court expenses, as aforesaid, should go to the said henry clay brentshaw for his own use, as stated in the will. the syntax of this remarkable document was perhaps open to critical objection, but that was clearly enough the meaning of it. the orthography conformed to no recognized system, but being mainly phonetic it was not ambiguous. as the probate judge remarked, it would take five aces to beat it. mr. brentshaw smiled good-humoredly, and after performing the last sad rites with amusing ostentation, had himself duly sworn as executor and conditional legatee under the provisions of a law hastily passed (at the instance of the member from the mammon hill district) by a facetious legislature; which law was afterward discovered to have created also three or four lucrative offices and authorized the expenditure of a considerable sum of public money for the construction of a certain railway bridge that with greater advantage might perhaps have been erected on the line of some actual railway. of course mr. brentshaw expected neither profit from the will nor litigation in consequence of its unusual provisions; gilson, although frequently "flush," had been a man whom assessors and tax collectors were well satisfied to lose no money by. but a careless and merely formal search among his papers revealed title deeds to valuable estates in the east and certificates of deposit for incredible sums in banks less severely scrupulous than that of mr. jo. bentley. the astounding news got abroad directly, throwing the hill into a fever of excitement. the mammon hill _patriot_, whose editor had been a leading spirit in the proceedings that resulted in gilson's departure from new jerusalem, published a most complimentary obituary notice of the deceased, and was good enough to call attention to the fact that his degraded contemporary, the squaw gulch _clarion_, was bringing virtue into contempt by beslavering with flattery the memory of one who in life had spurned the vile sheet as a nuisance from his door. undeterred by the press, however, claimants under the will were not slow in presenting themselves with their evidence; and great as was the gilson estate it appeared conspicuously paltry considering the vast number of sluice boxes from which it was averred to have been obtained. the country rose as one man! mr. brentshaw was equal to the emergency. with a shrewd application of humble auxiliary devices, he at once erected above the bones of his benefactor a costly monument, overtopping every rough headboard in the cemetery, and on this he judiciously caused to be inscribed an epitaph of his own composing, eulogizing the honesty, public spirit and cognate virtues of him who slept beneath, "a victim to the unjust aspersions of slander's viper brood." moreover, he employed the best legal talent in the territory to defend the memory of his departed friend, and for five long years the territorial courts were occupied with litigation growing out of the gilson bequest. to fine forensic abilities mr. brentshaw opposed abilities more finely forensic; in bidding for purchasable favors he offered prices which utterly deranged the market; the judges found at his hospitable board entertainment for man and beast, the like of which had never been spread in the territory; with mendacious witnesses he confronted witnesses of superior mendacity. nor was the battle confined to the temple of the blind goddess--it invaded the press, the pulpit, the drawing-room. it raged in the mart, the exchange, the school; in the gulches, and on the street corners. and upon the last day of the memorable period to which legal action under the gilson will was limited, the sun went down upon a region in which the moral sense was dead, the social conscience callous, the intellectual capacity dwarfed, enfeebled, and confused! but mr. brentshaw was victorious all along the line. on that night it so happened that the cemetery in one corner of which lay the now honored ashes of the late milton gilson, esq., was partly under water. swollen by incessant rains, cat creek had spilled over its banks an angry flood which, after scooping out unsightly hollows wherever the soil had been disturbed, had partly subsided, as if ashamed of the sacrilege, leaving exposed much that had been piously concealed. even the famous gilson monument, the pride and glory of mammon hill, was no longer a standing rebuke to the "viper brood"; succumbing to the sapping current it had toppled prone to earth. the ghoulish flood had exhumed the poor, decayed pine coffin, which now lay half-exposed, in pitiful contrast to the pompous monolith which, like a giant note of admiration, emphasized the disclosure. to this depressing spot, drawn by some subtle influence he had sought neither to resist nor analyze, came mr. brentshaw. an altered man was mr. brentshaw. five years of toil, anxiety, and wakefulness had dashed his black locks with streaks and patches of gray, bowed his fine figure, drawn sharp and angular his face, and debased his walk to a doddering shuffle. nor had this lustrum of fierce contention wrought less upon his heart and intellect. the careless good humor that had prompted him to accept the trust of the dead man had given place to a fixed habit of melancholy. the firm, vigorous intellect had overripened into the mental mellowness of second childhood. his broad understanding had narrowed to the accommodation of a single idea; and in place of the quiet, cynical incredulity of former days, there was in him a haunting faith in the supernatural, that flitted and fluttered about his soul, shadowy, batlike, ominous of insanity. unsettled in all else, his understanding clung to one conviction with the tenacity of a wrecked intellect. that was an unshaken belief in the entire blamelessness of the dead gilson. he had so often sworn to this in court and asserted it in private conversation--had so frequently and so triumphantly established it by testimony that had come expensive to him (for that very day he had paid the last dollar of the gilson estate to mr. jo. bentley, the last witness to the gilson good character)--that it had become to him a sort of religious faith. it seemed to him the one great central and basic truth of life--the sole serene verity in a world of lies. on that night, as he seated himself pensively upon the prostrate monument, trying by the uncertain moonlight to spell out the epitaph which five years before he had composed with a chuckle that memory had not recorded, tears of remorse came into his eyes as he remembered that he had been mainly instrumental in compassing by a false accusation this good man's death; for during some of the legal proceedings, mr. harper, for a consideration (forgotten) had come forward and sworn that in the little transaction with his bay mare the deceased had acted in strict accordance with the harperian wishes, confidentially communicated to the deceased and by him faithfully concealed at the cost of his life. all that mr. brentshaw had since done for the dead man's memory seemed pitifully inadequate--most mean, paltry, and debased with selfishness! as he sat there, torturing himself with futile regrets, a faint shadow fell across his eyes. looking toward the moon, hanging low in the west, he saw what seemed a vague, watery cloud obscuring her; but as it moved so that her beams lit up one side of it he perceived the clear, sharp outline of a human figure. the apparition became momentarily more distinct, and grew, visibly; it was drawing near. dazed as were his senses, half locked up with terror and confounded with dreadful imaginings, mr. brentshaw yet could but perceive, or think he perceived, in this unearthly shape a strange similitude to the mortal part of the late milton gilson, as that person had looked when taken from the tree five years before. the likeness was indeed complete, even to the full, stony eyes, and a certain shadowy circle about the neck. it was without coat or hat, precisely as gilson had been when laid in his poor, cheap casket by the not ungentle hands of carpenter pete--for whom some one had long since performed the same neighborly office. the spectre, if such it was, seemed to bear something in its hands which mr. brentshaw could not clearly make out. it drew nearer, and paused at last beside the coffin containing the ashes of the late mr. gilson, the lid of which was awry, half disclosing the uncertain interior. bending over this, the phantom seemed to shake into it from a basin some dark substance of dubious consistency, then glided stealthily back to the lowest part of the cemetery. here the retiring flood had stranded a number of open coffins, about and among which it gurgled with low sobbings and stilly whispers. stooping over one of these, the apparition carefully brushed its contents into the basin, then returning to its own casket, emptied the vessel into that, as before. this mysterious operation was repeated at every exposed coffin, the ghost sometimes dipping its laden basin into the running water, and gently agitating it to free it of the baser clay, always hoarding the residuum in its own private box. in short, the immortal part of the late milton gilson was cleaning up the dust of its neighbors and providently adding the same to its own. perhaps it was a phantasm of a disordered mind in a fevered body. perhaps it was a solemn farce enacted by pranking existences that throng the shadows lying along the border of another world. god knows; to us is permitted only the knowledge that when the sun of another day touched with a grace of gold the ruined cemetery of mammon hill his kindliest beam fell upon the white, still face of henry brentshaw, dead among the dead. the applicant pushing his adventurous shins through the deep snow that had fallen overnight, and encouraged by the glee of his little sister, following in the open way that he made, a sturdy small boy, the son of grayville's most distinguished citizen, struck his foot against something of which there was no visible sign on the surface of the snow. it is the purpose of this narrative to explain how it came to be there. no one who has had the advantage of passing through grayville by day can have failed to observe the large stone building crowning the low hill to the north of the railway station--that is to say, to the right in going toward great mowbray. it is a somewhat dull-looking edifice, of the early comatose order, and appears to have been designed by an architect who shrank from publicity, and although unable to conceal his work--even compelled, in this instance, to set it on an eminence in the sight of men--did what he honestly could to insure it against a second look. so far as concerns its outer and visible aspect, the abersush home for old men is unquestionably inhospitable to human attention. but it is a building of great magnitude, and cost its benevolent founder the profit of many a cargo of the teas and silks and spices that his ships brought up from the under-world when he was in trade in boston; though the main expense was its endowment. altogether, this reckless person had robbed his heirs-at-law of no less a sum than half a million dollars and flung it away in riotous giving. possibly it was with a view to get out of sight of the silent big witness to his extravagance that he shortly afterward disposed of all his grayville property that remained to him, turned his back upon the scene of his prodigality and went off across the sea in one of his own ships. but the gossips who got their inspiration most directly from heaven declared that he went in search of a wife--a theory not easily reconciled with that of the village humorist, who solemnly averred that the bachelor philanthropist had departed this life (left grayville, to wit) because the marriageable maidens had made it too hot to hold him. however this may have been, he had not returned, and although at long intervals there had come to grayville, in a desultory way, vague rumors of his wanderings in strange lands, no one seemed certainly to know about him, and to the new generation he was no more than a name. but from above the portal of the home for old men the name shouted in stone. despite its unpromising exterior, the home is a fairly commodious place of retreat from the ills that its inmates have incurred by being poor and old and men. at the time embraced in this brief chronicle they were in number about a score, but in acerbity, querulousness, and general ingratitude they could hardly be reckoned at fewer than a hundred; at least that was the estimate of the superintendent, mr. silas tilbody. it was mr. tilbody's steadfast conviction that always, in admitting new old men to replace those who had gone to another and a better home, the trustees had distinctly in will the infraction of his peace, and the trial of his patience. in truth, the longer the institution was connected with him, the stronger was his feeling that the founder's scheme of benevolence was sadly impaired by providing any inmates at all. he had not much imagination, but with what he had he was addicted to the reconstruction of the home for old men into a kind of "castle in spain," with himself as castellan, hospitably entertaining about a score of sleek and prosperous middle-aged gentlemen, consummately good-humored and civilly willing to pay for their board and lodging. in this revised project of philanthropy the trustees, to whom he was indebted for his office and responsible for his conduct, had not the happiness to appear. as to them, it was held by the village humorist aforementioned that in their management of the great charity providence had thoughtfully supplied an incentive to thrift. with the inference which he expected to be drawn from that view we have nothing to do; it had neither support nor denial from the inmates, who certainly were most concerned. they lived out their little remnant of life, crept into graves neatly numbered, and were succeeded by other old men as like them as could be desired by the adversary of peace. if the home was a place of punishment for the sin of unthrift the veteran offenders sought justice with a persistence that attested the sincerity of their penitence. it is to one of these that the reader's attention is now invited. in the matter of attire this person was not altogether engaging. but for this season, which was midwinter, a careless observer might have looked upon him as a clever device of the husbandman indisposed to share the fruits of his toil with the crows that toil not, neither spin--an error that might not have been dispelled without longer and closer observation than he seemed to court; for his progress up abersush street, toward the home in the gloom of the winter evening, was not visibly faster than what might have been expected of a scarecrow blessed with youth, health, and discontent. the man was indisputably ill-clad, yet not without a certain fitness and good taste, withal; for he was obviously an applicant for admittance to the home, where poverty was a qualification. in the army of indigence the uniform is rags; they serve to distinguish the rank and file from the recruiting officers. as the old man, entering the gate of the grounds, shuffled up the broad walk, already white with the fast-falling snow, which from time to time he feebly shook from its various coigns of vantage on his person, he came under inspection of the large globe lamp that burned always by night over the great door of the building. as if unwilling to incur its revealing beams, he turned to the left and, passing a considerable distance along the face of the building, rang at a smaller door emitting a dimmer ray that came from within, through the fanlight, and expended itself incuriously overhead. the door was opened by no less a personage than the great mr. tilbody himself. observing his visitor, who at once uncovered, and somewhat shortened the radius of the permanent curvature of his back, the great man gave visible token of neither surprise nor displeasure. mr. tilbody was, indeed, in an uncommonly good humor, a phenomenon ascribable doubtless to the cheerful influence of the season; for this was christmas eve, and the morrow would be that blessed 365th part of the year that all christian souls set apart for mighty feats of goodness and joy. mr. tilbody was so full of the spirit of the season that his fat face and pale blue eyes, whose ineffectual fire served to distinguish it from an untimely summer squash, effused so genial a glow that it seemed a pity that he could not have lain down in it, basking in the consciousness of his own identity. he was hatted, booted, overcoated, and umbrellaed, as became a person who was about to expose himself to the night and the storm on an errand of charity; for mr. tilbody had just parted from his wife and children to go "down town" and purchase the wherewithal to confirm the annual falsehood about the hunch-bellied saint who frequents the chimneys to reward little boys and girls who are good, and especially truthful. so he did not invite the old man in, but saluted him cheerily: "hello! just in time; a moment later and you would have missed me. come, i have no time to waste; we'll walk a little way together." "thank you," said the old man, upon whose thin and white but not ignoble face the light from the open door showed an expression that was perhaps disappointment; "but if the trustees--if my application--" "the trustees," mr. tilbody said, closing more doors than one, and cutting off two kinds of light, "have agreed that your application disagrees with them." certain sentiments are inappropriate to christmastide, but humor, like death, has all seasons for his own. "oh, my god!" cried the old man, in so thin and husky a tone that the invocation was anything but impressive, and to at least one of his two auditors sounded, indeed, somewhat ludicrous. to the other--but that is a matter which laymen are devoid of the light to expound. "yes," continued mr. tilbody, accommodating his gait to that of his companion, who was mechanically, and not very successfully, retracing the track that he had made through the snow; "they have decided that, under the circumstances--under the very peculiar circumstances, you understand--it would be inexpedient to admit you. as superintendent and _ex officio_ secretary of the honorable board"--as mr. tilbody "read his title clear" the magnitude of the big building, seen through its veil of falling snow, appeared to suffer somewhat in comparison--"it is my duty to inform you that, in the words of deacon byram, the chairman, your presence in the home would--under the circumstances--be peculiarly embarrassing. i felt it my duty to submit to the honorable board the statement that you made to me yesterday of your needs, your physical condition, and the trials which it has pleased providence to send upon you in your very proper effort to present your claims in person; but, after careful, and i may say prayerful, consideration of your case--with something too, i trust, of the large charitableness appropriate to the season--it was decided that we would not be justified in doing anything likely to impair the usefulness of the institution intrusted (under providence) to our care." they had now passed out of the grounds; the street lamp opposite the gate was dimly visible through the snow. already the old man's former track was obliterated, and he seemed uncertain as to which way he should go. mr. tilbody had drawn a little away from him, but paused and turned half toward him, apparently reluctant to forego the continuing opportunity. "under the circumstances," he resumed, "the decision--" but the old man was inaccessible to the suasion of his verbosity; he had crossed the street into a vacant lot and was going forward, rather deviously toward nowhere in particular--which, he having nowhere in particular to go to, was not so reasonless a proceeding as it looked. and that is how it happened that the next morning, when the church bells of all grayville were ringing with an added unction appropriate to the day, the sturdy little son of deacon byram, breaking a way through the snow to the place of worship, struck his foot against the body of amasa abersush, philanthropist. a watcher by the dead i in an upper room of an unoccupied dwelling in the part of san francisco known as north beach lay the body of a man, under a sheet. the hour was near nine in the evening; the room was dimly lighted by a single candle. although the weather was warm, the two windows, contrary to the custom which gives the dead plenty of air, were closed and the blinds drawn down. the furniture of the room consisted of but three pieces--an arm-chair, a small reading-stand supporting the candle, and a long kitchen table, supporting the body of the man. all these, as also the corpse, seemed to have been recently brought in, for an observer, had there been one, would have seen that all were free from dust, whereas everything else in the room was pretty thickly coated with it, and there were cobwebs in the angles of the walls. under the sheet the outlines of the body could be traced, even the features, these having that unnaturally sharp definition which seems to belong to faces of the dead, but is really characteristic of those only that have been wasted by disease. from the silence of the room one would rightly have inferred that it was not in the front of the house, facing a street. it really faced nothing but a high breast of rock, the rear of the building being set into a hill. as a neighboring church clock was striking nine with an indolence which seemed to imply such an indifference to the flight of time that one could hardly help wondering why it took the trouble to strike at all, the single door of the room was opened and a man entered, advancing toward the body. as he did so the door closed, apparently of its own volition; there was a grating, as of a key turned with difficulty, and the snap of the lock bolt as it shot into its socket. a sound of retiring footsteps in the passage outside ensued, and the man was to all appearance a prisoner. advancing to the table, he stood a moment looking down at the body; then with a slight shrug of the shoulders walked over to one of the windows and hoisted the blind. the darkness outside was absolute, the panes were covered with dust, but by wiping this away he could see that the window was fortified with strong iron bars crossing it within a few inches of the glass and imbedded in the masonry on each side. he examined the other window. it was the same. he manifested no great curiosity in the matter, did not even so much as raise the sash. if he was a prisoner he was apparently a tractable one. having completed his examination of the room, he seated himself in the arm-chair, took a book from his pocket, drew the stand with its candle alongside and began to read. the man was young--not more than thirty--dark in complexion, smooth-shaven, with brown hair. his face was thin and high-nosed, with a broad forehead and a "firmness" of the chin and jaw which is said by those having it to denote resolution. the eyes were gray and steadfast, not moving except with definitive purpose. they were now for the greater part of the time fixed upon his book, but he occasionally withdrew them and turned them to the body on the table, not, apparently, from any dismal fascination which under such circumstances it might be supposed to exercise upon even a courageous person, nor with a conscious rebellion against the contrary influence which might dominate a timid one. he looked at it as if in his reading he had come upon something recalling him to a sense of his surroundings. clearly this watcher by the dead was discharging his trust with intelligence and composure, as became him. after reading for perhaps a half-hour he seemed to come to the end of a chapter and quietly laid away the book. he then rose and taking the reading-stand from the floor carried it into a corner of the room near one of the windows, lifted the candle from it and returned to the empty fireplace before which he had been sitting. a moment later he walked over to the body on the table, lifted the sheet and turned it back from the head, exposing a mass of dark hair and a thin face-cloth, beneath which the features showed with even sharper definition than before. shading his eyes by interposing his free hand between them and the candle, he stood looking at his motionless companion with a serious and tranquil regard. satisfied with his inspection, he pulled the sheet over the face again and returning to the chair, took some matches off the candlestick, put them in the side pocket of his sack-coat and sat down. he then lifted the candle from its socket and looked at it critically, as if calculating how long it would last. it was barely two inches long; in another hour he would be in darkness. he replaced it in the candlestick and blew it out. ii in a physician's office in kearny street three men sat about a table, drinking punch and smoking. it was late in the evening, almost midnight, indeed, and there had been no lack of punch. the gravest of the three, dr. helberson, was the host--it was in his rooms they sat. he was about thirty years of age; the others were even younger; all were physicians. "the superstitious awe with which the living regard the dead," said dr. helberson, "is hereditary and incurable. one needs no more be ashamed of it than of the fact that he inherits, for example, an incapacity for mathematics, or a tendency to lie." the others laughed. "oughtn't a man to be ashamed to lie?" asked the youngest of the three, who was in fact a medical student not yet graduated. "my dear harper, i said nothing about that. the tendency to lie is one thing; lying is another." "but do you think," said the third man, "that this superstitious feeling, this fear of the dead, reasonless as we know it to be, is universal? i am myself not conscious of it." "oh, but it is 'in your system' for all that," replied helberson; "it needs only the right conditions--what shakespeare calls the 'confederate season'--to manifest itself in some very disagreeable way that will open your eyes. physicians and soldiers are of course more nearly free from it than others." "physicians and soldiers!--why don't you add hangmen and headsmen? let us have in all the assassin classes." "no, my dear mancher; the juries will not let the public executioners acquire sufficient familiarity with death to be altogether unmoved by it." young harper, who had been helping himself to a fresh cigar at the sideboard, resumed his seat. "what would you consider conditions under which any man of woman born would become insupportably conscious of his share of our common weakness in this regard?" he asked, rather verbosely. "well, i should say that if a man were locked up all night with a corpse--alone--in a dark room--of a vacant house--with no bed covers to pull over his head--and lived through it without going altogether mad, he might justly boast himself not of woman born, nor yet, like macduff, a product of cæsarean section." "i thought you never would finish piling up conditions," said harper, "but i know a man who is neither a physician nor a soldier who will accept them all, for any stake you like to name." "who is he?" "his name is jarette--a stranger here; comes from my town in new york. i have no money to back him, but he will back himself with loads of it." "how do you know that?" "he would rather bet than eat. as for fear--i dare say he thinks it some cutaneous disorder, or possibly a particular kind of religious heresy." "what does he look like?" helberson was evidently becoming interested. "like mancher, here--might be his twin brother." "i accept the challenge," said helberson, promptly. "awfully obliged to you for the compliment, i'm sure," drawled mancher, who was growing sleepy. "can't i get into this?" "not against me," helberson said. "i don't want _your_ money." "all right," said mancher; "i'll be the corpse." the others laughed. the outcome of this crazy conversation we have seen. iii in extinguishing his meagre allowance of candle mr. jarette's object was to preserve it against some unforeseen need. he may have thought, too, or half thought, that the darkness would be no worse at one time than another, and if the situation became insupportable it would be better to have a means of relief, or even release. at any rate it was wise to have a little reserve of light, even if only to enable him to look at his watch. no sooner had he blown out the candle and set it on the floor at his side than he settled himself comfortably in the arm-chair, leaned back and closed his eyes, hoping and expecting to sleep. in this he was disappointed; he had never in his life felt less sleepy, and in a few minutes he gave up the attempt. but what could he do? he could not go groping about in absolute darkness at the risk of bruising himself--at the risk, too, of blundering against the table and rudely disturbing the dead. we all recognize their right to lie at rest, with immunity from all that is harsh and violent. jarette almost succeeded in making himself believe that considerations of this kind restrained him from risking the collision and fixed him to the chair. while thinking of this matter he fancied that he heard a faint sound in the direction of the table--what kind of sound he could hardly have explained. he did not turn his head. why should he--in the darkness? but he listened--why should he not? and listening he grew giddy and grasped the arms of the chair for support. there was a strange ringing in his ears; his head seemed bursting; his chest was oppressed by the constriction of his clothing. he wondered why it was so, and whether these were symptoms of fear. then, with a long and strong expiration, his chest appeared to collapse, and with the great gasp with which he refilled his exhausted lungs the vertigo left him and he knew that so intently had he listened that he had held his breath almost to suffocation. the revelation was vexatious; he arose, pushed away the chair with his foot and strode to the centre of the room. but one does not stride far in darkness; he began to grope, and finding the wall followed it to an angle, turned, followed it past the two windows and there in another corner came into violent contact with the reading-stand, overturning it. it made a clatter that startled him. he was annoyed. "how the devil could i have forgotten where it was?" he muttered, and groped his way along the third wall to the fireplace. "i must put things to rights," said he, feeling the floor for the candle. having recovered that, he lighted it and instantly turned his eyes to the table, where, naturally, nothing had undergone any change. the reading-stand lay unobserved upon the floor: he had forgotten to "put it to rights." he looked all about the room, dispersing the deeper shadows by movements of the candle in his hand, and crossing over to the door tested it by turning and pulling the knob with all his strength. it did not yield and this seemed to afford him a certain satisfaction; indeed, he secured it more firmly by a bolt which he had not before observed. returning to his chair, he looked at his watch; it was half-past nine. with a start of surprise he held the watch at his ear. it had not stopped. the candle was now visibly shorter. he again extinguished it, placing it on the floor at his side as before. mr. jarette was not at his ease; he was distinctly dissatisfied with his surroundings, and with himself for being so. "what have i to fear?" he thought. "this is ridiculous and disgraceful; i will not be so great a fool." but courage does not come of saying, "i will be courageous," nor of recognizing its appropriateness to the occasion. the more jarette condemned himself, the more reason he gave himself for condemnation; the greater the number of variations which he played upon the simple theme of the harmlessness of the dead, the more insupportable grew the discord of his emotions. "what!" he cried aloud in the anguish of his spirit, "what! shall i, who have not a shade of superstition in my nature--i, who have no belief in immortality--i, who know (and never more clearly than now) that the after-life is the dream of a desire--shall i lose at once my bet, my honor and my self-respect, perhaps my reason, because certain savage ancestors dwelling in caves and burrows conceived the monstrous notion that the dead walk by night?--that--" distinctly, unmistakably, mr. jarette heard behind him a light, soft sound of footfalls, deliberate, regular, successively nearer! iv just before daybreak the next morning dr. helberson and his young friend harper were driving slowly through the streets of north beach in the doctor's coupé. "have you still the confidence of youth in the courage or stolidity of your friend?" said the elder man. "do you believe that i have lost this wager?" "i _know_ you have," replied the other, with enfeebling emphasis. "well, upon my soul, i hope so." it was spoken earnestly, almost solemnly. there was a silence for a few moments. "harper," the doctor resumed, looking very serious in the shifting half-lights that entered the carriage as they passed the street lamps, "i don't feel altogether comfortable about this business. if your friend had not irritated me by the contemptuous manner in which he treated my doubt of his endurance--a purely physical quality--and by the cool incivility of his suggestion that the corpse be that of a physician, i should not have gone on with it. if anything should happen we are ruined, as i fear we deserve to be." "what can happen? even if the matter should be taking a serious turn, of which i am not at all afraid, mancher has only to 'resurrect' himself and explain matters. with a genuine 'subject' from the dissecting-room, or one of your late patients, it might be different." dr. mancher, then, had been as good as his promise; he was the "corpse." dr. helberson was silent for a long time, as the carriage, at a snail's pace, crept along the same street it had traveled two or three times already. presently he spoke: "well, let us hope that mancher, if he has had to rise from the dead, has been discreet about it. a mistake in that might make matters worse instead of better." "yes," said harper, "jarette would kill him. but, doctor"--looking at his watch as the carriage passed a gas lamp--"it is nearly four o'clock at last." a moment later the two had quitted the vehicle and were walking briskly toward the long-unoccupied house belonging to the doctor in which they had immured mr. jarette in accordance with the terms of the mad wager. as they neared it they met a man running. "can you tell me," he cried, suddenly checking his speed, "where i can find a doctor?" "what's the matter?" helberson asked, non-committal. "go and see for yourself," said the man, resuming his running. they hastened on. arrived at the house, they saw several persons entering in haste and excitement. in some of the dwellings near by and across the way the chamber windows were thrown up, showing a protrusion of heads. all heads were asking questions, none heeding the questions of the others. a few of the windows with closed blinds were illuminated; the inmates of those rooms were dressing to come down. exactly opposite the door of the house that they sought a street lamp threw a yellow, insufficient light upon the scene, seeming to say that it could disclose a good deal more if it wished. harper paused at the door and laid a hand upon his companion's arm. "it is all up with us, doctor," he said in extreme agitation, which contrasted strangely with his free-and-easy words; "the game has gone against us all. let's not go in there; i'm for lying low." "i'm a physician," said dr. helberson, calmly; "there may be need of one." they mounted the doorsteps and were about to enter. the door was open; the street lamp opposite lighted the passage into which it opened. it was full of men. some had ascended the stairs at the farther end, and, denied admittance above, waited for better fortune. all were talking, none listening. suddenly, on the upper landing there was a great commotion; a man had sprung out of a door and was breaking away from those endeavoring to detain him. down through the mass of affrighted idlers he came, pushing them aside, flattening them against the wall on one side, or compelling them to cling to the rail on the other, clutching them by the throat, striking them savagely, thrusting them back down the stairs and walking over the fallen. his clothing was in disorder, he was without a hat. his eyes, wild and restless, had in them something more terrifying than his apparently superhuman strength. his face, smooth-shaven, was bloodless, his hair frost-white. as the crowd at the foot of the stairs, having more freedom, fell away to let him pass harper sprang forward. "jarette! jarette!" he cried. dr. helberson seized harper by the collar and dragged him back. the man looked into their faces without seeming to see them and sprang through the door, down the steps, into the street, and away. a stout policeman, who had had inferior success in conquering his way down the stairway, followed a moment later and started in pursuit, all the heads in the windows--those of women and children now--screaming in guidance. the stairway being now partly cleared, most of the crowd having rushed down to the street to observe the flight and pursuit, dr. helberson mounted to the landing, followed by harper. at a door in the upper passage an officer denied them admittance. "we are physicians," said the doctor, and they passed in. the room was full of men, dimly seen, crowded about a table. the newcomers edged their way forward and looked over the shoulders of those in the front rank. upon the table, the lower limbs covered with a sheet, lay the body of a man, brilliantly illuminated by the beam of a bull's-eye lantern held by a policeman standing at the feet. the others, excepting those near the head--the officer himself--all were in darkness. the face of the body showed yellow, repulsive, horrible! the eyes were partly open and upturned and the jaw fallen; traces of froth defiled the lips, the chin, the cheeks. a tall man, evidently a doctor, bent over the body with his hand thrust under the shirt front. he withdrew it and placed two fingers in the open mouth. "this man has been about six hours dead," said he. "it is a case for the coroner." he drew a card from his pocket, handed it to the officer and made his way toward the door. "clear the room--out, all!" said the officer, sharply, and the body disappeared as if it had been snatched away, as shifting the lantern he flashed its beam of light here and there against the faces of the crowd. the effect was amazing! the men, blinded, confused, almost terrified, made a tumultuous rush for the door, pushing, crowding, and tumbling over one another as they fled, like the hosts of night before the shafts of apollo. upon the struggling, trampling mass the officer poured his light without pity and without cessation. caught in the current, helberson and harper were swept out of the room and cascaded down the stairs into the street. "good god, doctor! did i not tell you that jarette would kill him?" said harper, as soon as they were clear of the crowd. "i believe you did," replied the other, without apparent emotion. they walked on in silence, block after block. against the graying east the dwellings of the hill tribes showed in silhouette. the familiar milk wagon was already astir in the streets; the baker's man would soon come upon the scene; the newspaper carrier was abroad in the land. "it strikes me, youngster," said helberson, "that you and i have been having too much of the morning air lately. it is unwholesome; we need a change. what do you say to a tour in europe?" "when?" "i'm not particular. i should suppose that four o'clock this afternoon would be early enough." "i'll meet you at the boat," said harper. seven years afterward these two men sat upon a bench in madison square, new york, in familiar conversation. another man, who had been observing them for some time, himself unobserved, approached and, courteously lifting his hat from locks as white as frost, said: "i beg your pardon, gentlemen, but when you have killed a man by coming to life, it is best to change clothes with him, and at the first opportunity make a break for liberty." helberson and harper exchanged significant glances. they were obviously amused. the former then looked the stranger kindly in the eye and replied: "that has always been my plan. i entirely agree with you as to its advant--" he stopped suddenly, rose and went white. he stared at the man, open-mouthed; he trembled visibly. "ah!" said the stranger, "i see that you are indisposed, doctor. if you cannot treat yourself dr. harper can do something for you, i am sure." "who the devil are you?" said harper, bluntly. the stranger came nearer and, bending toward them, said in a whisper: "i call myself jarette sometimes, but i don't mind telling you, for old friendship, that i am dr. william mancher." the revelation brought harper to his feet. "mancher!" he cried; and helberson added: "it is true, by god!" "yes," said the stranger, smiling vaguely, "it is true enough, no doubt." he hesitated and seemed to be trying to recall something, then began humming a popular air. he had apparently forgotten their presence. "look here, mancher," said the elder of the two, "tell us just what occurred that night--to jarette, you know." "oh, yes, about jarette," said the other. "it's odd i should have neglected to tell you--i tell it so often. you see i knew, by over-hearing him talking to himself, that he was pretty badly frightened. so i couldn't resist the temptation to come to life and have a bit of fun out of him--i couldn't really. that was all right, though certainly i did not think he would take it so seriously; i did not, truly. and afterward--well, it was a tough job changing places with him, and then--damn you! you didn't let me out!" nothing could exceed the ferocity with which these last words were delivered. both men stepped back in alarm. "we?--why--why," helberson stammered, losing his self-possession utterly, "we had nothing to do with it." "didn't i say you were drs. hell-born and sharper?" inquired the man, laughing. "my name is helberson, yes; and this gentleman is mr. harper," replied the former, reassured by the laugh. "but we are not physicians now; we are--well, hang it, old man, we are gamblers." and that was the truth. "a very good profession--very good, indeed; and, by the way, i hope sharper here paid over jarette's money like an honest stakeholder. a very good and honorable profession," he repeated, thoughtfully, moving carelessly away; "but i stick to the old one. i am high supreme medical officer of the bloomingdale asylum; it is my duty to cure the superintendent." the man and the snake it is of veritabyll report, and attested of so many that there be nowe of wyse and learned none to gaynsaye it, that y'e serpente hys eye hath a magnetick propertie that whosoe falleth into its svasion is drawn forwards in despyte of his wille, and perisheth miserabyll by y'e creature hys byte. stretched at ease upon a sofa, in gown and slippers, harker brayton smiled as he read the foregoing sentence in old morryster's _marvells of science._ "the only marvel in the matter," he said to himself, "is that the wise and learned in morryster's day should have believed such nonsense as is rejected by most of even the ignorant in ours." a train of reflection followed--for brayton was a man of thought--and he unconsciously lowered his book without altering the direction of his eyes. as soon as the volume had gone below the line of sight, something in an obscure corner of the room recalled his attention to his surroundings. what he saw, in the shadow under his bed, was two small points of light, apparently about an inch apart. they might have been reflections of the gas jet above him, in metal nail heads; he gave them but little thought and resumed his reading. a moment later something-some impulse which it did not occur to him to analyze--impelled him to lower the book again and seek for what he saw before. the points of light were still there. they seemed to have become brighter than before, shining with a greenish lustre that he had not at first observed. he thought, too, that they might have moved a trifle--were somewhat nearer. they were still too much in shadow, however, to reveal their nature and origin to an indolent attention, and again he resumed his reading. suddenly something in the text suggested a thought that made him start and drop the book for the third time to the side of the sofa, whence, escaping from his hand, it fell sprawling to the floor, back upward. brayton, half-risen, was staring intently into the obscurity beneath the bed, where the points of light shone with, it seemed to him, an added fire. his attention was now fully aroused, his gaze eager and imperative. it disclosed, almost directly under the foot-rail of the bed, the coils of a large serpent--the points of light were its eyes! its horrible head, thrust flatly forth from the innermost coil and resting upon the outermost, was directed straight toward him, the definition of the wide, brutal jaw and the idiot-like forehead serving to show the direction of its malevolent gaze. the eyes were no longer merely luminous points; they looked into his own with a meaning, a malign significance. ii a snake in a bedroom of a modern city dwelling of the better sort is, happily, not so common a phenomenon as to make explanation altogether needless. harker brayton, a bachelor of thirty-five, a scholar, idler and something of an athlete, rich, popular and of sound health, had returned to san francisco from all manner of remote and unfamiliar countries. his tastes, always a trifle luxurious, had taken on an added exuberance from long privation; and the resources of even the castle hotel being inadequate to their perfect gratification, he had gladly accepted the hospitality of his friend, dr. druring, the distinguished scientist. dr. druring's house, a large, old-fashioned one in what is now an obscure quarter of the city, had an outer and visible aspect of proud reserve. it plainly would not associate with the contiguous elements of its altered environment, and appeared to have developed some of the eccentricities which come of isolation. one of these was a "wing," conspicuously irrelevant in point of architecture, and no less rebellious in matter of purpose; for it was a combination of laboratory, menagerie and museum. it was here that the doctor indulged the scientific side of his nature in the study of such forms of animal life as engaged his interest and comforted his taste--which, it must be confessed, ran rather to the lower types. for one of the higher nimbly and sweetly to recommend itself unto his gentle senses it had at least to retain certain rudimentary characteristics allying it to such "dragons of the prime" as toads and snakes. his scientific sympathies were distinctly reptilian; he loved nature's vulgarians and described himself as the zola of zoölogy. his wife and daughters not having the advantage to share his enlightened curiosity regarding the works and ways of our ill-starred fellow-creatures, were with needless austerity excluded from what he called the snakery and doomed to companionship with their own kind, though to soften the rigors of their lot he had permitted them out of his great wealth to outdo the reptiles in the gorgeousness of their surroundings and to shine with a superior splendor. architecturally and in point of "furnishing" the snakery had a severe simplicity befitting the humble circumstances of its occupants, many of whom, indeed, could not safely have been intrusted with the liberty that is necessary to the full enjoyment of luxury, for they had the troublesome peculiarity of being alive. in their own apartments, however, they were under as little personal restraint as was compatible with their protection from the baneful habit of swallowing one another; and, as brayton had thoughtfully been apprised, it was more than a tradition that some of them had at divers times been found in parts of the premises where it would have embarrassed them to explain their presence. despite the snakery and its uncanny associations--to which, indeed, he gave little attention--brayton found life at the druring mansion very much to his mind. iii beyond a smart shock of surprise and a shudder of mere loathing mr. brayton was not greatly affected. his first thought was to ring the call bell and bring a servant; but although the bell cord dangled within easy reach he made no movement toward it; it had occurred to his mind that the act might subject him to the suspicion of fear, which he certainly did not feel. he was more keenly conscious of the incongruous nature of the situation than affected by its perils; it was revolting, but absurd. the reptile was of a species with which brayton was unfamiliar. its length he could only conjecture; the body at the largest visible part seemed about as thick as his forearm. in what way was it dangerous, if in any way? was it venomous? was it a constrictor? his knowledge of nature's danger signals did not enable him to say; he had never deciphered the code. if not dangerous the creature was at least offensive. it was _de trop_-"matter out of place"--an impertinence. the gem was unworthy of the setting. even the barbarous taste of our time and country, which had loaded the walls of the room with pictures, the floor with furniture and the furniture with bric-a-brac, had not quite fitted the place for this bit of the savage life of the jungle. besides--insupportable thought!-the exhalations of its breath mingled with the atmosphere which he himself was breathing. these thoughts shaped themselves with greater or less definition in brayton's mind and begot action. the process is what we call consideration and decision. it is thus that we are wise and unwise. it is thus that the withered leaf in an autumn breeze shows greater or less intelligence than its fellows, falling upon the land or upon the lake. the secret of human action is an open one: something contracts our muscles. does it matter if we give to the preparatory molecular changes the name of will? brayton rose to his feet and prepared to back softly away from the snake, without disturbing it if possible, and through the door. men retire so from the presence of the great, for greatness is power and power is a menace. he knew that he could walk backward without error. should the monster follow, the taste which had plastered the walls with paintings had consistently supplied a rack of murderous oriental weapons from which he could snatch one to suit the occasion. in the mean time the snake's eyes burned with a more pitiless malevolence than before. brayton lifted his right foot free of the floor to step backward. that moment he felt a strong aversion to doing so. "i am accounted brave," he thought; "is bravery, then, no more than pride? because there are none to witness the shame shall i retreat?" he was steadying himself with his right hand upon the back of a chair, his foot suspended. "nonsense!" he said aloud; "i am not so great a coward as to fear to seem to myself afraid." he lifted the foot a little higher by slightly bending the knee and thrust it sharply to the floor--an inch in front of the other! he could not think how that occurred. a trial with the left foot had the same result; it was again in advance of the right. the hand upon the chair back was grasping it; the arm was straight, reaching somewhat backward. one might have said that he was reluctant to lose his hold. the snake's malignant head was still thrust forth from the inner coil as before, the neck level. it had not moved, but its eyes were now electric sparks, radiating an infinity of luminous needles. the man had an ashy pallor. again he took a step forward, and another, partly dragging the chair, which when finally released fell upon the floor with a crash. the man groaned; the snake made neither sound nor motion, but its eyes were two dazzling suns. the reptile itself was wholly concealed by them. they gave off enlarging rings of rich and vivid colors, which at their greatest expansion successively vanished like soap-bubbles; they seemed to approach his very face, and anon were an immeasurable distance away. he heard, somewhere, the continuous throbbing of a great drum, with desultory bursts of far music, inconceivably sweet, like the tones of an æolian harp. he knew it for the sunrise melody of memnon's statue, and thought he stood in the nileside reeds hearing with exalted sense that immortal anthem through the silence of the centuries. the music ceased; rather, it became by insensible degrees the distant roll of a retreating thunder-storm. a landscape, glittering with sun and rain, stretched before him, arched with a vivid rainbow framing in its giant curve a hundred visible cities. in the middle distance a vast serpent, wearing a crown, reared its head out of its voluminous convolutions and looked at him with his dead mother's eyes. suddenly this enchanting landscape seemed to rise swiftly upward like the drop scene at a theatre, and vanished in a blank. something struck him a hard blow upon the face and breast. he had fallen to the floor; the blood ran from his broken nose and his bruised lips. for a time he was dazed and stunned, and lay with closed eyes, his face against the floor. in a few moments he had recovered, and then knew that this fall, by withdrawing his eyes, had broken the spell that held him. he felt that now, by keeping his gaze averted, he would be able to retreat. but the thought of the serpent within a few feet of his head, yet unseen--perhaps in the very act of springing upon him and throwing its coils about his throat-was too horrible! he lifted his head, stared again into those baleful eyes and was again in bondage. the snake had not moved and appeared somewhat to have lost its power upon the imagination; the gorgeous illusions of a few moments before were not repeated. beneath that flat and brainless brow its black, beady eyes simply glittered as at first with an expression unspeakably malignant. it was as if the creature, assured of its triumph, had determined to practise no more alluring wiles. now ensued a fearful scene. the man, prone upon the floor, within a yard of his enemy, raised the upper part of his body upon his elbows, his head thrown back, his legs extended to their full length. his face was white between its stains of blood; his eyes were strained open to their uttermost expansion. there was froth upon his lips; it dropped off in flakes. strong convulsions ran through his body, making almost serpentile undulations. he bent himself at the waist, shifting his legs from side to side. and every movement left him a little nearer to the snake. he thrust his hands forward to brace himself back, yet constantly advanced upon his elbows. iv dr. druring and his wife sat in the library. the scientist was in rare good humor. "i have just obtained by exchange with another collector," he said, "a splendid specimen of the _ophiophagus_." "and what may that be?" the lady inquired with a somewhat languid interest. "why, bless my soul, what profound ignorance! my dear, a man who ascertains after marriage that his wife does not know greek is entitled to a divorce. the _ophiophagus_ is a snake that eats other snakes." "i hope it will eat all yours," she said, absently shifting the lamp. "but how does it get the other snakes? by charming them, i suppose." "that is just like you, dear," said the doctor, with an affectation of petulance. "you know how irritating to me is any allusion to that vulgar superstition about a snake's power of fascination." the conversation was interrupted by a mighty cry, which rang through the silent house like the voice of a demon shouting in a tomb! again and yet again it sounded, with terrible distinctness. they sprang to their feet, the man confused, the lady pale and speechless with fright. almost before the echoes of the last cry had died away the doctor was out of the room, springing up the stairs two steps at a time. in the corridor in front of brayton's chamber he met some servants who had come from the upper floor. together they rushed at the door without knocking. it was unfastened and gave way. brayton lay upon his stomach on the floor, dead. his head and arms were partly concealed under the foot rail of the bed. they pulled the body away, turning it upon the back. the face was daubed with blood and froth, the eyes were wide open, staring--a dreadful sight! "died in a fit," said the scientist, bending his knee and placing his hand upon the heart. while in that position, he chanced to look under the bed. "good god!" he added, "how did this thing get in here?" he reached under the bed, pulled out the snake and flung it, still coiled, to the center of the room, whence with a harsh, shuffling sound it slid across the polished floor till stopped by the wall, where it lay without motion. it was a stuffed snake; its eyes were two shoe buttons. a holy terror i there was an entire lack of interest in the latest arrival at hurdy-gurdy. he was not even christened with the picturesquely descriptive nick-name which is so frequently a mining camp's word of welcome to the newcomer. in almost any other camp thereabout this circumstance would of itself have secured him some such appellation as "the white-headed conundrum," or "no sarvey"--an expression naively supposed to suggest to quick intelligences the spanish _quien sabe_. he came without provoking a ripple of concern upon the social surface of hurdy-gurdy--a place which to the general californian contempt of men's personal history superadded a local indifference of its own. the time was long past when it was of any importance who came there, or if anybody came. no one was living at hurdy-gurdy. two years before, the camp had boasted a stirring population of two or three thousand males and not fewer than a dozen females. a majority of the former had done a few weeks' earnest work in demonstrating, to the disgust of the latter, the singularly mendacious character of the person whose ingenious tales of rich gold deposits had lured them thither-work, by the way, in which there was as little mental satisfaction as pecuniary profit; for a bullet from the pistol of a public-spirited citizen had put that imaginative gentleman beyond the reach of aspersion on the third day of the camp's existence. still, his fiction had a certain foundation in fact, and many had lingered a considerable time in and about hurdy-gurdy, though now all had been long gone. but they had left ample evidence of their sojourn. from the point where injun creek falls into the rio san juan smith, up along both banks of the former into the cañon whence it emerges, extended a double row of forlorn shanties that seemed about to fall upon one another's neck to bewail their desolation; while about an equal number appeared to have straggled up the slope on either hand and perched themselves upon commanding eminences, whence they craned forward to get a good view of the affecting scene. most of these habitations were emaciated as by famine to the condition of mere skeletons, about which clung unlovely tatters of what might have been skin, but was really canvas. the little valley itself, torn and gashed by pick and shovel, was unhandsome with long, bending lines of decaying flume resting here and there upon the summits of sharp ridges, and stilting awkwardly across the intervals upon unhewn poles. the whole place presented that raw and forbidding aspect of arrested development which is a new country's substitute for the solemn grace of ruin wrought by time. wherever there remained a patch of the original soil a rank overgrowth of weeds and brambles had spread upon the scene, and from its dank, unwholesome shades the visitor curious in such matters might have obtained numberless souvenirs of the camp's former glory--fellowless boots mantled with green mould and plethoric of rotting leaves; an occasional old felt hat; desultory remnants of a flannel shirt; sardine boxes inhumanly mutilated and a surprising profusion of black bottles distributed with a truly catholic impartiality, everywhere. ii the man who had now rediscovered hurdy-gurdy was evidently not curious as to its archæology. nor, as he looked about him upon the dismal evidences of wasted work and broken hopes, their dispiriting significance accentuated by the ironical pomp of a cheap gilding by the rising sun, did he supplement his sigh of weariness by one of sensibility. he simply removed from the back of his tired burro a miner's outfit a trifle larger than the animal itself, picketed that creature and selecting a hatchet from his kit moved off at once across the dry bed of injun creek to the top of a low, gravelly hill beyond. stepping across a prostrate fence of brush and boards he picked up one of the latter, split it into five parts and sharpened them at one end. he then began a kind of search, occasionally stooping to examine something with close attention. at last his patient scrutiny appeared to be rewarded with success, for he suddenly erected his figure to its full height, made a gesture of satisfaction, pronounced the word "scarry" and at once strode away with long, equal steps, which he counted. then he stopped and drove one of his stakes into the earth. he then looked carefully about him, measured off a number of paces over a singularly uneven ground and hammered in another. pacing off twice the distance at a right angle to his former course he drove down a third, and repeating the process sank home the fourth, and then a fifth. this he split at the top and in the cleft inserted an old letter envelope covered with an intricate system of pencil tracks. in short, he staked off a hill claim in strict accordance with the local mining laws of hurdy-gurdy and put up the customary notice. it is necessary to explain that one of the adjuncts to hurdy-gurdy--one to which that metropolis became afterward itself an adjunct--was a cemetery. in the first week of the camp's existence this had been thoughtfully laid out by a committee of citizens. the day after had been signalized by a debate between two members of the committee, with reference to a more eligible site, and on the third day the necropolis was inaugurated by a double funeral. as the camp had waned the cemetery had waxed; and long before the ultimate inhabitant, victorious alike over the insidious malaria and the forthright revolver, had turned the tail of his pack-ass upon injun creek the outlying settlement had become a populous if not popular suburb. and now, when the town was fallen into the sere and yellow leaf of an unlovely senility, the graveyard--though somewhat marred by time and circumstance, and not altogether exempt from innovations in grammar and experiments in orthography, to say nothing of the devastating coyote--answered the humble needs of its denizens with reasonable completeness. it comprised a generous two acres of ground, which with commendable thrift but needless care had been selected for its mineral unworth, contained two or three skeleton trees (one of which had a stout lateral branch from which a weather-wasted rope still significantly dangled), half a hundred gravelly mounds, a score of rude headboards displaying the literary peculiarities above mentioned and a struggling colony of prickly pears. altogether, god's location, as with characteristic reverence it had been called, could justly boast of an indubitably superior quality of desolation. it was in the most thickly settled part of this interesting demesne that mr. jefferson doman staked off his claim. if in the prosecution of his design he should deem it expedient to remove any of the dead they would have the right to be suitably reinterred. iii this mr. jefferson doman was from elizabethtown, new jersey, where six years before he had left his heart in the keeping of a golden-haired, demure-mannered young woman named mary matthews, as collateral security for his return to claim her hand. "i just _know_ you'll never get back alive--you never do succeed in anything," was the remark which illustrated miss matthews's notion of what constituted success and, inferentially, her view of the nature of encouragement. she added: "if you don't i'll go to california too. i can put the coins in little bags as you dig them out." this characteristically feminine theory of auriferous deposits did not commend itself to the masculine intelligence: it was mr. doman's belief that gold was found in a liquid state. he deprecated her intent with considerable enthusiasm, suppressed her sobs with a light hand upon her mouth, laughed in her eyes as he kissed away her tears, and with a cheerful "ta-ta" went to california to labor for her through the long, loveless years, with a strong heart, an alert hope and a steadfast fidelity that never for a moment forgot what it was about. in the mean time, miss matthews had granted a monopoly of her humble talent for sacking up coins to mr. jo. seeman, of new york, gambler, by whom it was better appreciated than her commanding genius for unsacking and bestowing them upon his local rivals. of this latter aptitude, indeed, he manifested his disapproval by an act which secured him the position of clerk of the laundry in the state prison, and for her the _sobriquet_ of "split-faced moll." at about this time she wrote to mr. doman a touching letter of renunciation, inclosing her photograph to prove that she had no longer had a right to indulge the dream of becoming mrs. doman, and recounting so graphically her fall from a horse that the staid "plug" upon which mr. doman had ridden into red dog to get the letter made vicarious atonement under the spur all the way back to camp. the letter failed in a signal way to accomplish its object; the fidelity which had before been to mr. doman a matter of love and duty was thenceforth a matter of honor also; and the photograph, showing the once pretty face sadly disfigured as by the slash of a knife, was duly instated in his affections and its more comely predecessor treated with contumelious neglect. on being informed of this, miss matthews, it is only fair to say, appeared less surprised than from the apparently low estimate of mr. doman's generosity which the tone of her former letter attested one would naturally have expected her to be. soon after, however, her letters grew infrequent, and then ceased altogether. but mr. doman had another correspondent, mr. barney bree, of hurdy-gurdy, formerly of red dog. this gentleman, although a notable figure among miners, was not a miner. his knowledge of mining consisted mainly in a marvelous command of its slang, to which he made copious contributions, enriching its vocabulary with a wealth of uncommon phrases more remarkable for their aptness than their refinement, and which impressed the unlearned "tenderfoot" with a lively sense of the profundity of their inventor's acquirements. when not entertaining a circle of admiring auditors from san francisco or the east he could commonly be found pursuing the comparatively obscure industry of sweeping out the various dance houses and purifying the cuspidors. barney had apparently but two passions in life--love of jefferson doman, who had once been of some service to him, and love of whisky, which certainly had not. he had been among the first in the rush to hurdy-gurdy, but had not prospered, and had sunk by degrees to the position of grave digger. this was not a vocation, but barney in a desultory way turned his trembling hand to it whenever some local misunderstanding at the card table and his own partial recovery from a prolonged debauch occurred coincidently in point of time. one day mr. doman received, at red dog, a letter with the simple postmark, "hurdy, cal.," and being occupied with another matter, carelessly thrust it into a chink of his cabin for future perusal. some two years later it was accidentally dislodged and he read it. it ran as follows:- hurdy, june 6. friend jeff: i've hit her hard in the boneyard. she's blind and lousy. i'm on the divvy--that's me, and mum's my lay till you toot. yours, barney. p.s.--i've clayed her with scarry. with some knowledge of the general mining camp _argot_ and of mr. bree's private system for the communication of ideas mr. doman had no difficulty in understanding by this uncommon epistle that barney while performing his duty as grave digger had uncovered a quartz ledge with no outcroppings; that it was visibly rich in free gold; that, moved by considerations of friendship, he was willing to accept mr. doman as a partner and awaiting that gentleman's declaration of his will in the matter would discreetly keep the discovery a secret. from the postscript it was plainly inferable that in order to conceal the treasure he had buried above it the mortal part of a person named scarry. from subsequent events, as related to mr. doman at red dog, it would appear that before taking this precaution mr. bree must have had the thrift to remove a modest competency of the gold; at any rate, it was at about that time that he entered upon that memorable series of potations and treatings which is still one of the cherished traditions of the san juan smith country, and is spoken of with respect as far away as ghost rock and lone hand. at its conclusion some former citizens of hurdy-gurdy, for whom he had performed the last kindly office at the cemetery, made room for him among them, and he rested well. iv having finished staking off his claim mr. doman walked back to the centre of it and stood again at the spot where his search among the graves had expired in the exclamation, "scarry." he bent again over the headboard that bore that name and as if to reinforce the senses of sight and hearing ran his forefinger along the rudely carved letters. re-erecting himself he appended orally to the simple inscription the shockingly forthright epitaph, "she was a holy terror!" had mr. doman been required to make these words good with proof--as, considering their somewhat censorious character, he doubtless should have been--he would have found himself embarrassed by the absence of reputable witnesses, and hearsay evidence would have been the best he could command. at the time when scarry had been prevalent in the mining camps thereabout--when, as the editor of the _hurdy herald_ would have phrased it, she was "in the plenitude of her power"--mr. doman's fortunes had been at a low ebb, and he had led the vagrantly laborious life of a prospector. his time had been mostly spent in the mountains, now with one companion, now with another. it was from the admiring recitals of these casual partners, fresh from the various camps, that his judgment of scarry had been made up; he himself had never had the doubtful advantage of her acquaintance and the precarious distinction of her favor. and when, finally, on the termination of her perverse career at hurdy-gurdy he had read in a chance copy of the _herald_ her column-long obituary (written by the local humorist of that lively sheet in the highest style of his art) doman had paid to her memory and to her historiographer's genius the tribute of a smile and chivalrously forgotten her. standing now at the grave-side of this mountain messalina he recalled the leading events of her turbulent career, as he had heard them celebrated at his several campfires, and perhaps with an unconscious attempt at self-justification repeated that she was a holy terror, and sank his pick into her grave up to the handle. at that moment a raven, which had silently settled upon a branch of the blasted tree above his head, solemnly snapped its beak and uttered its mind about the matter with an approving croak. pursuing his discovery of free gold with great zeal, which he probably credited to his conscience as a grave digger, mr. barney bree had made an unusually deep sepulcher, and it was near sunset before mr. doman, laboring with the leisurely deliberation of one who has "a dead sure thing" and no fear of an adverse claimant's enforcement of a prior right, reached the coffin and uncovered it. when he had done so he was confronted by a difficulty for which he had made no provision; the coffin--a mere flat shell of not very well-preserved redwood boards, apparently--had no handles, and it filled the entire bottom of the excavation. the best he could do without violating the decent sanctities of the situation was to make the excavation sufficiently longer to enable him to stand at the head of the casket and getting his powerful hands underneath erect it upon its narrower end; and this he proceeded to do. the approach of night quickened his efforts. he had no thought of abandoning his task at this stage to resume it on the morrow under more advantageous conditions. the feverish stimulation of cupidity and the fascination of terror held him to his dismal work with an iron authority. he no longer idled, but wrought with a terrible zeal. his head uncovered, his outer garments discarded, his shirt opened at the neck and thrown back from his breast, down which ran sinuous rills of perspiration, this hardy and impenitent gold-getter and grave-robber toiled with a giant energy that almost dignified the character of his horrible purpose; and when the sun fringes had burned themselves out along the crest line of the western hills, and the full moon had climbed out of the shadows that lay along the purple plain, he had erected the coffin upon its foot, where it stood propped against the end of the open grave. then, standing up to his neck in the earth at the opposite extreme of the excavation, as he looked at the coffin upon which the moonlight now fell with a full illumination he was thrilled with a sudden terror to observe upon it the startling apparition of a dark human head--the shadow of his own. for a moment this simple and natural circumstance unnerved him. the noise of his labored breathing frightened him, and he tried to still it, but his bursting lungs would not be denied. then, laughing half-audibly and wholly without spirit, he began making movements of his head from side to side, in order to compel the apparition to repeat them. he found a comforting reassurance in asserting his command over his own shadow. he was temporizing, making, with unconscious prudence, a dilatory opposition to an impending catastrophe. he felt that invisible forces of evil were closing in upon him, and he parleyed for time with the inevitable. he now observed in succession several unusual circumstances. the surface of the coffin upon which his eyes were fastened was not flat; it presented two distinct ridges, one longitudinal and the other transverse. where these intersected at the widest part there was a corroded metallic plate that reflected the moonlight with a dismal lustre. along the outer edges of the coffin, at long intervals, were rust-eaten heads of nails. this frail product of the carpenter's art had been put into the grave the wrong side up! perhaps it was one of the humors of the camp--a practical manifestation of the facetious spirit that had found literary expression in the topsy-turvy obituary notice from the pen of hurdy-gurdy's great humorist. perhaps it had some occult personal signification impenetrable to understandings uninstructed in local traditions. a more charitable hypothesis is that it was owing to a misadventure on the part of mr. barney bree, who, making the interment unassisted (either by choice for the conservation of his golden secret, or through public apathy), had committed a blunder which he was afterward unable or unconcerned to rectify. however it had come about, poor scarry had indubitably been put into the earth face downward. when terror and absurdity make alliance, the effect is frightful. this strong-hearted and daring man, this hardy night worker among the dead, this defiant antagonist of darkness and desolation, succumbed to a ridiculous surprise. he was smitten with a thrilling chill--shivered, and shook his massive shoulders as if to throw off an icy hand. he no longer breathed, and the blood in his veins, unable to abate its impetus, surged hotly beneath his cold skin. unleavened with oxygen, it mounted to his head and congested his brain. his physical functions had gone over to the enemy; his very heart was arrayed against him. he did not move; he could not have cried out. he needed but a coffin to be dead--as dead as the death that confronted him with only the length of an open grave and the thickness of a rotting plank between. then, one by one, his senses returned; the tide of terror that had overwhelmed his faculties began to recede. but with the return of his senses he became singularly unconscious of the object of his fear. he saw the moonlight gilding the coffin, but no longer the coffin that it gilded. raising his eyes and turning his head, he noted, curiously and with surprise, the black branches of the dead tree, and tried to estimate the length of the weather-worn rope that dangled from its ghostly hand. the monotonous barking of distant coyotes affected him as something he had heard years ago in a dream. an owl flapped awkwardly above him on noiseless wings, and he tried to forecast the direction of its flight when it should encounter the cliff that reared its illuminated front a mile away. his hearing took account of a gopher's stealthy tread in the shadow of the cactus. he was intensely observant; his senses were all alert; but he saw not the coffin. as one can gaze at the sun until it looks black and then vanishes, so his mind, having exhausted its capacities of dread, was no longer conscious of the separate existence of anything dreadful. the assassin was cloaking the sword. it was during this lull in the battle that he became sensible of a faint, sickening odor. at first he thought it was that of a rattle-snake, and involuntarily tried to look about his feet. they were nearly invisible in the gloom of the grave. a hoarse, gurgling sound, like the death-rattle in a human throat, seemed to come out of the sky, and a moment later a great, black, angular shadow, like the same sound made visible, dropped curving from the topmost branch of the spectral tree, fluttered for an instant before his face and sailed fiercely away into the mist along the creek. it was the raven. the incident recalled him to a sense of the situation, and again his eyes sought the upright coffin, now illuminated by the moon for half its length. he saw the gleam of the metallic plate and tried without moving to decipher the inscription. then he fell to speculating upon what was behind it. his creative imagination presented him a vivid picture. the planks no longer seemed an obstacle to his vision and he saw the livid corpse of the dead woman, standing in grave-clothes, and staring vacantly at him, with lidless, shrunken eyes. the lower jaw was fallen, the upper lip drawn away from the uncovered teeth. he could make out a mottled pattern on the hollow cheeks--the maculations of decay. by some mysterious process his mind reverted for the first time that day to the photograph of mary matthews. he contrasted its blonde beauty with the forbidding aspect of this dead face--the most beloved object that he knew with the most hideous that he could conceive. the assassin now advanced and displaying the blade laid it against the victim's throat. that is to say, the man became at first dimly, then definitely, aware of an impressive coincidence--a relation--a parallel between the face on the card and the name on the headboard. the one was disfigured, the other described a disfiguration. the thought took hold of him and shook him. it transformed the face that his imagination had created behind the coffin lid; the contrast became a resemblance; the resemblance grew to identity. remembering the many descriptions of scarry's personal appearance that he had heard from the gossips of his camp-fire he tried with imperfect success to recall the exact nature of the disfiguration that had given the woman her ugly name; and what was lacking in his memory fancy supplied, stamping it with the validity of conviction. in the maddening attempt to recall such scraps of the woman's history as he had heard, the muscles of his arms and hands were strained to a painful tension, as by an effort to lift a great weight. his body writhed and twisted with the exertion. the tendons of his neck stood out as tense as whip-cords, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps. the catastrophe could not be much longer delayed, or the agony of anticipation would leave nothing to be done by the _coup de grâce_ of verification. the scarred face behind the lid would slay him through the wood. a movement of the coffin diverted his thought. it came forward to within a foot of his face, growing visibly larger as it approached. the rusted metallic plate, with an inscription illegible in the moonlight, looked him steadily in the eye. determined not to shrink, he tried to brace his shoulders more firmly against the end of the excavation, and nearly fell backward in the attempt. there was nothing to support him; he had unconsciously moved upon his enemy, clutching the heavy knife that he had drawn from his belt. the coffin had not advanced and he smiled to think it could not retreat. lifting his knife he struck the heavy hilt against the metal plate with all his power. there was a sharp, ringing percussion, and with a dull clatter the whole decayed coffin lid broke in pieces and came away, falling about his feet. the quick and the dead were face to face--the frenzied, shrieking man--the woman standing tranquil in her silences. she was a holy terror! v some months later a party of men and women belonging to the highest social circles of san francisco passed through hurdy-gurdy on their way to the yosemite valley by a new trail. they halted for dinner and during its preparation explored the desolate camp. one of the party had been at hurdy-gurdy in the days of its glory. he had, indeed, been one of its prominent citizens; and it used to be said that more money passed over his faro table in any one night than over those of all his competitors in a week; but being now a millionaire engaged in greater enterprises, he did not deem these early successes of sufficient importance to merit the distinction of remark. his invalid wife, a lady famous in san francisco for the costly nature of her entertainments and her exacting rigor with regard to the social position and "antecedents" of those who attended them, accompanied the expedition. during a stroll among the shanties of the abandoned camp mr. porfer directed the attention of his wife and friends to a dead tree on a low hill beyond injun creek. "as i told you," he said, "i passed through this camp in 1852, and was told that no fewer than five men had been hanged here by vigilantes at different times, and all on that tree. if i am not mistaken, a rope is dangling from it yet. let us go over and see the place." mr. porfer did not add that the rope in question was perhaps the very one from whose fatal embrace his own neck had once had an escape so narrow that an hour's delay in taking himself out of that region would have spanned it. proceeding leisurely down the creek to a convenient crossing, the party came upon the cleanly picked skeleton of an animal which mr. porfer after due examination pronounced to be that of an ass. the distinguishing ears were gone, but much of the inedible head had been spared by the beasts and birds, and the stout bridle of horsehair was intact, as was the riata, of similar material, connecting it with a picket pin still firmly sunken in the earth. the wooden and metallic elements of a miner's kit lay near by. the customary remarks were made, cynical on the part of the men, sentimental and refined by the lady. a little later they stood by the tree in the cemetery and mr. porfer sufficiently unbent from his dignity to place himself beneath the rotten rope and confidently lay a coil of it about his neck, somewhat, it appeared, to his own satisfaction, but greatly to the horror of his wife, to whose sensibilities the performance gave a smart shock. an exclamation from one of the party gathered them all about an open grave, at the bottom of which they saw a confused mass of human bones and the broken remnants of a coffin. coyotes and buzzards had performed the last sad rites for pretty much all else. two skulls were visible and in order to investigate this somewhat unusual redundancy one of the younger men had the hardihood to spring into the grave and hand them up to another before mrs. porfer could indicate her marked disapproval of so shocking an act, which, nevertheless, she did with considerable feeling and in very choice words. pursuing his search among the dismal debris at the bottom of the grave the young man next handed up a rusted coffin plate, with a rudely cut inscription, which with difficulty mr. porfer deciphered and read aloud with an earnest and not altogether unsuccessful attempt at the dramatic effect which he deemed befitting to the occasion and his rhetorical abilities: manuelita murphy. born at the mission san pedro--died in hurdy-gurdy, aged 47. hell's full of such. in deference to the piety of the reader and the nerves of mrs. porfer's fastidious sisterhood of both sexes let us not touch upon the painful impression produced by this uncommon inscription, further than to say that the elocutionary powers of mr. porfer had never before met with so spontaneous and overwhelming recognition. the next morsel that rewarded the ghoul in the grave was a long tangle of black hair defiled with clay: but this was such an anti-climax that it received little attention. suddenly, with a short exclamation and a gesture of excitement, the young man unearthed a fragment of grayish rock, and after a hurried inspection handed it up to mr. porfer. as the sunlight fell upon it it glittered with a yellow luster--it was thickly studded with gleaming points. mr. porfer snatched it, bent his head over it a moment and threw it lightly away with the simple remark: "iron pyrites--fool's gold." the young man in the discovery shaft was a trifle disconcerted, apparently. meanwhile, mrs. porfer, unable longer to endure the disagreeable business, had walked back to the tree and seated herself at its root. while rearranging a tress of golden hair which had slipped from its confinement she was attracted by what appeared to be and really was the fragment of an old coat. looking about to assure herself that so unladylike an act was not observed, she thrust her jeweled hand into the exposed breast pocket and drew out a mouldy pocket-book. its contents were as follows: one bundle of letters, postmarked "elizabethtown, new jersey." one circle of blonde hair tied with a ribbon. one photograph of a beautiful girl. one ditto of same, singularly disfigured. one name on back of photograph--"jefferson doman." a few moments later a group of anxious gentlemen surrounded mrs. porfer as she sat motionless at the foot of the tree, her head dropped forward, her fingers clutching a crushed photograph. her husband raised her head, exposing a face ghastly white, except the long, deforming cicatrice, familiar to all her friends, which no art could ever hide, and which now traversed the pallor of her countenance like a visible curse. mary matthews porfer had the bad luck to be dead. the suitable surroundings the night one midsummer night a farmer's boy living about ten miles from the city of cincinnati was following a bridle path through a dense and dark forest. he had lost himself while searching for some missing cows, and near midnight was a long way from home, in a part of the country with which he was unfamiliar. but he was a stout-hearted lad, and knowing his general direction from his home, he plunged into the forest without hesitation, guided by the stars. coming into the bridle path, and observing that it ran in the right direction, he followed it. the night was clear, but in the woods it was exceedingly dark. it was more by the sense of touch than by that of sight that the lad kept the path. he could not, indeed, very easily go astray; the undergrowth on both sides was so thick as to be almost impenetrable. he had gone into the forest a mile or more when he was surprised to see a feeble gleam of light shining through the foliage skirting the path on his left. the sight of it startled him and set his heart beating audibly. "the old breede house is somewhere about here," he said to himself. "this must be the other end of the path which we reach it by from our side. ugh! what should a light be doing there?" nevertheless, he pushed on. a moment later he had emerged from the forest into a small, open space, mostly upgrown to brambles. there were remnants of a rotting fence. a few yards from the trail, in the middle of the "clearing," was the house from which the light came, through an unglazed window. the window had once contained glass, but that and its supporting frame had long ago yielded to missiles flung by hands of venturesome boys to attest alike their courage and their hostility to the supernatural; for the breede house bore the evil reputation of being haunted. possibly it was not, but even the hardiest sceptic could not deny that it was deserted--which in rural regions is much the same thing. looking at the mysterious dim light shining from the ruined window the boy remembered with apprehension that his own hand had assisted at the destruction. his penitence was of course poignant in proportion to its tardiness and inefficacy. he half expected to be set upon by all the unworldly and bodiless malevolences whom he had outraged by assisting to break alike their windows and their peace. yet this stubborn lad, shaking in every limb, would not retreat. the blood in his veins was strong and rich with the iron of the frontiersman. he was but two removes from the generation that had subdued the indian. he started to pass the house. as he was going by he looked in at the blank window space and saw a strange and terrifying sight,--the figure of a man seated in the centre of the room, at a table upon which lay some loose sheets of paper. the elbows rested on the table, the hands supporting the head, which was uncovered. on each side the fingers were pushed into the hair. the face showed dead-yellow in the light of a single candle a little to one side. the flame illuminated that side of the face, the other was in deep shadow. the man's eyes were fixed upon the blank window space with a stare in which an older and cooler observer might have discerned something of apprehension, but which seemed to the lad altogether soulless. he believed the man to be dead. the situation was horrible, but not with out its fascination. the boy stopped to note it all. he was weak, faint and trembling; he could feel the blood forsaking his face. nevertheless, he set his teeth and resolutely advanced to the house. he had no conscious intention--it was the mere courage of terror. he thrust his white face forward into the illuminated opening. at that instant a strange, harsh cry, a shriek, broke upon the silence of the night--the note of a screech-owl. the man sprang to his feet, overturning the table and extinguishing the candle. the boy took to his heels. the day before "good-morning, colston. i am in luck, it seems. you have often said that my commendation of your literary work was mere civility, and here you find me absorbed--actually merged--in your latest story in the _messenger_. nothing less shocking than your touch upon my shoulder would have roused me to consciousness." "the proof is stronger than you seem to know," replied the man addressed: "so keen is your eagerness to read my story that you are willing to renounce selfish considerations and forego all the pleasure that you could get from it." "i don't understand you," said the other, folding the newspaper that he held and putting it into his pocket. "you writers are a queer lot, anyhow. come, tell me what i have done or omitted in this matter. in what way does the pleasure that i get, or might get, from your work depend on me?" "in many ways. let me ask you how you would enjoy your breakfast if you took it in this street car. suppose the phonograph so perfected as to be able to give you an entire opera,--singing, orchestration, and all; do you think you would get much pleasure out of it if you turned it on at your office during business hours? do you really care for a serenade by schubert when you hear it fiddled by an untimely italian on a morning ferryboat? are you always cocked and primed for enjoyment? do you keep every mood on tap, ready to any demand? let me remind you, sir, that the story which you have done me the honor to begin as a means of becoming oblivious to the discomfort of this car is a ghost story!" "well?" "well! has the reader no duties corresponding to his privileges? you have paid five cents for that newspaper. it is yours. you have the right to read it when and where you will. much of what is in it is neither helped nor harmed by time and place and mood; some of it actually requires to be read at once--while it is fizzing. but my story is not of that character. it is not 'the very latest advices' from ghostland. you are not expected to keep yourself _au courant_ with what is going on in the realm of spooks. the stuff will keep until you have leisure to put yourself into the frame of mind appropriate to the sentiment of the piece--which i respectfully submit that you cannot do in a street car, even if you are the only passenger. the solitude is not of the right sort. an author has rights which the reader is bound to respect." "for specific example?" "the right to the reader's undivided attention. to deny him this is immoral. to make him share your attention with the rattle of a street car, the moving panorama of the crowds on the sidewalks, and the buildings beyond--with any of the thousands of distractions which make our customary environment--is to treat him with gross injustice. by god, it is infamous!" the speaker had risen to his feet and was steadying himself by one of the straps hanging from the roof of the car. the other man looked up at him in sudden astonishment, wondering how so trivial a grievance could seem to justify so strong language. he saw that his friend's face was uncommonly pale and that his eyes glowed like living coals. "you know what i mean," continued the writer, impetuously crowding his words--"you know what i mean, marsh. my stuff in this morning's _messenger_ is plainly sub-headed 'a ghost story.' that is ample notice to all. every honorable reader will understand it as prescribing by implication the conditions under which the work is to be read." the man addressed as marsh winced a trifle, then asked with a smile: "what conditions? you know that i am only a plain business man who cannot be supposed to understand such things. how, when, where should i read your ghost story?" "in solitude--at night--by the light of a candle. there are certain emotions which a writer can easily enough excite--such as compassion or merriment. i can move you to tears or laughter under almost any circumstances. but for my ghost story to be effective you must be made to feel fear--at least a strong sense of the supernatural--and that is a difficult matter. i have a right to expect that if you read me at all you will give me a chance; that you will make yourself accessible to the emotion that i try to inspire." the car had now arrived at its terminus and stopped. the trip just completed was its first for the day and the conversation of the two early passengers had not been interrupted. the streets were yet silent and desolate; the house tops were just touched by the rising sun. as they stepped from the car and walked away together marsh narrowly eyed his companion, who was reported, like most men of uncommon literary ability, to be addicted to various destructive vices. that is the revenge which dull minds take upon bright ones in resentment of their superiority. mr. colston was known as a man of genius. there are honest souls who believe that genius is a mode of excess. it was known that colston did not drink liquor, but many said that he ate opium. something in his appearance that morning--a certain wildness of the eyes, an unusual pallor, a thickness and rapidity of speech--were taken by mr. marsh to confirm the report. nevertheless, he had not the self-denial to abandon a subject which he found interesting, however it might excite his friend. "do you mean to say," he began, "that if i take the trouble to observe your directions--place myself in the conditions that you demand: solitude, night and a tallow candle--you can with your ghostly work give me an uncomfortable sense of the supernatural, as you call it? can you accelerate my pulse, make me start at sudden noises, send a nervous chill along my spine and cause my hair to rise?" colston turned suddenly and looked him squarely in the eyes as they walked. "you would not dare--you have not the courage," he said. he emphasized the words with a contemptuous gesture. "you are brave enough to read me in a street car, but--in a deserted house--alone--in the forest--at night! bah! i have a manuscript in my pocket that would kill you." marsh was angry. he knew himself courageous, and the words stung him. "if you know such a place," he said, "take me there to-night and leave me your story and a candle. call for me when i've had time enough to read it and i'll tell you the entire plot and--kick you out of the place." that is how it occurred that the farmer's boy, looking in at an unglazed window of the breede house, saw a man sitting in the light of a candle. the day after late in the afternoon of the next day three men and a boy approached the breede house from that point of the compass toward which the boy had fled the preceding night. the men were in high spirits; they talked very loudly and laughed. they made facetious and good-humored ironical remarks to the boy about his adventure, which evidently they did not believe in. the boy accepted their raillery with seriousness, making no reply. he had a sense of the fitness of things and knew that one who professes to have seen a dead man rise from his seat and blow out a candle is not a credible witness. arriving at the house and finding the door unlocked, the party of investigators entered without ceremony. leading out of the passage into which this door opened was another on the right and one on the left. they entered the room on the left--the one which had the blank front window. here was the dead body of a man. it lay partly on one side, with the forearm beneath it, the cheek on the floor. the eyes were wide open; the stare was not an agreeable thing to encounter. the lower jaw had fallen; a little pool of saliva had collected beneath the mouth. an overthrown table, a partly burned candle, a chair and some paper with writing on it were all else that the room contained. the men looked at the body, touching the face in turn. the boy gravely stood at the head, assuming a look of ownership. it was the proudest moment of his life. one of the men said to him, "you're a good 'un"--a remark which was received by the two others with nods of acquiescence. it was scepticism apologizing to truth. then one of the men took from the floor the sheet of manuscript and stepped to the window, for already the evening shadows were glooming the forest. the song of the whip-poor-will was heard in the distance and a monstrous beetle sped by the window on roaring wings and thundered away out of hearing. the man read: the manuscript "before committing the act which, rightly or wrongly, i have resolved on and appearing before my maker for judgment, i, james r. colston, deem it my duty as a journalist to make a statement to the public. my name is, i believe, tolerably well known to the people as a writer of tragic tales, but the somberest imagination never conceived anything so tragic as my own life and history. not in incident: my life has been destitute of adventure and action. but my mental career has been lurid with experiences such as kill and damn. i shall not recount them here--some of them are written and ready for publication elsewhere. the object of these lines is to explain to whomsoever may be interested that my death is voluntary--my own act. i shall die at twelve o'clock on the night of the 15th of july--a significant anniversary to me, for it was on that day, and at that hour, that my friend in time and eternity, charles breede, performed his vow to me by the same act which his fidelity to our pledge now entails upon me. he took his life in his little house in the copeton woods. there was the customary verdict of 'temporary insanity.' had i testified at that inquest--had i told all i knew, they would have called _me_ mad!" here followed an evidently long passage which the man reading read to himself only. the rest he read aloud. "i have still a week of life in which to arrange my worldly affairs and prepare for the great change. it is enough, for i have but few affairs and it is now four years since death became an imperative obligation. "i shall bear this writing on my body; the finder will please hand it to the coroner. "james r. colston. "p.s.--willard marsh, on this the fatal fifteenth day of july i hand you this manuscript, to be opened and read under the conditions agreed upon, and at the place which i designated. i forego my intention to keep it on my body to explain the manner of my death, which is not important. it will serve to explain the manner of yours. i am to call for you during the night to receive assurance that you have read the manuscript. you know me well enough to expect me. but, my friend, it _will be after twelve o'clock._ may god have mercy on our souls! "j.r.c." before the man who was reading this manuscript had finished, the candle had been picked up and lighted. when the reader had done, he quietly thrust the paper against the flame and despite the protestations of the others held it until it was burnt to ashes. the man who did this, and who afterward placidly endured a severe reprimand from the coroner, was a son-in-law of the late charles breede. at the inquest nothing could elicit an intelligent account of what the paper had contained. from "the times" "yesterday the commissioners of lunacy committed to the asylum mr. james r. colston, a writer of some local reputation, connected with the _messenger_. it will be remembered that on the evening of the 15th inst. mr. colston was given into custody by one of his fellow-lodgers in the baine house, who had observed him acting very suspiciously, baring his throat and whetting a razor--occasionally trying its edge by actually cutting through the skin of his arm, etc. on being handed over to the police, the unfortunate man made a desperate resistance, and has ever since been so violent that it has been necessary to keep him in a strait-jacket. most of our esteemed contemporary's other writers are still at large." the boarded window in 1830, only a few miles away from what is now the great city of cincinnati, lay an immense and almost unbroken forest. the whole region was sparsely settled by people of the frontier--restless souls who no sooner had hewn fairly habitable homes out of the wilderness and attained to that degree of prosperity which to-day we should call indigence than impelled by some mysterious impulse of their nature they abandoned all and pushed farther westward, to encounter new perils and privations in the effort to regain the meagre comforts which they had voluntarily renounced. many of them had already forsaken that region for the remoter settlements, but among those remaining was one who had been of those first arriving. he lived alone in a house of logs surrounded on all sides by the great forest, of whose gloom and silence he seemed a part, for no one had ever known him to smile nor speak a needless word. his simple wants were supplied by the sale or barter of skins of wild animals in the river town, for not a thing did he grow upon the land which, if needful, he might have claimed by right of undisturbed possession. there were evidences of "improvement"--a few acres of ground immediately about the house had once been cleared of its trees, the decayed stumps of which were half concealed by the new growth that had been suffered to repair the ravage wrought by the ax. apparently the man's zeal for agriculture had burned with a failing flame, expiring in penitential ashes. the little log house, with its chimney of sticks, its roof of warping clapboards weighted with traversing poles and its "chinking" of clay, had a single door and, directly opposite, a window. the latter, however, was boarded up--nobody could remember a time when it was not. and none knew why it was so closed; certainly not because of the occupant's dislike of light and air, for on those rare occasions when a hunter had passed that lonely spot the recluse had commonly been seen sunning himself on his doorstep if heaven had provided sunshine for his need. i fancy there are few persons living to-day who ever knew the secret of that window, but i am one, as you shall see. the man's name was said to be murlock. he was apparently seventy years old, actually about fifty. something besides years had had a hand in his aging. his hair and long, full beard were white, his gray, lustreless eyes sunken, his face singularly seamed with wrinkles which appeared to belong to two intersecting systems. in figure he was tall and spare, with a stoop of the shoulders--a burden bearer. i never saw him; these particulars i learned from my grandfather, from whom also i got the man's story when i was a lad. he had known him when living near by in that early day. one day murlock was found in his cabin, dead. it was not a time and place for coroners and newspapers, and i suppose it was agreed that he had died from natural causes or i should have been told, and should remember. i know only that with what was probably a sense of the fitness of things the body was buried near the cabin, alongside the grave of his wife, who had preceded him by so many years that local tradition had retained hardly a hint of her existence. that closes the final chapter of this true story--excepting, indeed, the circumstance that many years afterward, in company with an equally intrepid spirit, i penetrated to the place and ventured near enough to the ruined cabin to throw a stone against it, and ran away to avoid the ghost which every well-informed boy thereabout knew haunted the spot. but there is an earlier chapter-that supplied by my grandfather. when murlock built his cabin and began laying sturdily about with his ax to hew out a farm--the rifle, meanwhile, his means of support--he was young, strong and full of hope. in that eastern country whence he came he had married, as was the fashion, a young woman in all ways worthy of his honest devotion, who shared the dangers and privations of his lot with a willing spirit and light heart. there is no known record of her name; of her charms of mind and person tradition is silent and the doubter is at liberty to entertain his doubt; but god forbid that i should share it! of their affection and happiness there is abundant assurance in every added day of the man's widowed life; for what but the magnetism of a blessed memory could have chained that venturesome spirit to a lot like that? one day murlock returned from gunning in a distant part of the forest to find his wife prostrate with fever, and delirious. there was no physician within miles, no neighbor; nor was she in a condition to be left, to summon help. so he set about the task of nursing her back to health, but at the end of the third day she fell into unconsciousness and so passed away, apparently, with never a gleam of returning reason. from what we know of a nature like his we may venture to sketch in some of the details of the outline picture drawn by my grandfather. when convinced that she was dead, murlock had sense enough to remember that the dead must be prepared for burial. in performance of this sacred duty he blundered now and again, did certain things incorrectly, and others which he did correctly were done over and over. his occasional failures to accomplish some simple and ordinary act filled him with astonishment, like that of a drunken man who wonders at the suspension of familiar natural laws. he was surprised, too, that he did not weep--surprised and a little ashamed; surely it is unkind not to weep for the dead. "to-morrow," he said aloud, "i shall have to make the coffin and dig the grave; and then i shall miss her, when she is no longer in sight; but now--she is dead, of course, but it is all right--it _must_ be all right, somehow. things cannot be so bad as they seem." he stood over the body in the fading light, adjusting the hair and putting the finishing touches to the simple toilet, doing all mechanically, with soulless care. and still through his consciousness ran an undersense of conviction that all was right--that he should have her again as before, and everything explained. he had had no experience in grief; his capacity had not been enlarged by use. his heart could not contain it all, nor his imagination rightly conceive it. he did not know he was so hard struck; _that_ knowledge would come later, and never go. grief is an artist of powers as various as the instruments upon which he plays his dirges for the dead, evoking from some the sharpest, shrillest notes, from others the low, grave chords that throb recurrent like the slow beating of a distant drum. some natures it startles; some it stupefies. to one it comes like the stroke of an arrow, stinging all the sensibilities to a keener life; to another as the blow of a bludgeon, which in crushing benumbs. we may conceive murlock to have been that way affected, for (and here we are upon surer ground than that of conjecture) no sooner had he finished his pious work than, sinking into a chair by the side of the table upon which the body lay, and noting how white the profile showed in the deepening gloom, he laid his arms upon the table's edge, and dropped his face into them, tearless yet and unutterably weary. at that moment came in through the open window a long, wailing sound like the cry of a lost child in the far deeps of the darkening wood! but the man did not move. again, and nearer than before, sounded that unearthly cry upon his failing sense. perhaps it was a wild beast; perhaps it was a dream. for murlock was asleep. some hours later, as it afterward appeared, this unfaithful watcher awoke and lifting his head from his arms intently listened--he knew not why. there in the black darkness by the side of the dead, recalling all without a shock, he strained his eyes to see--he knew not what. his senses were all alert, his breath was suspended, his blood had stilled its tides as if to assist the silence. who--what had waked him, and where was it? suddenly the table shook beneath his arms, and at the same moment he heard, or fancied that he heard, a light, soft step--another--sounds as of bare feet upon the floor! he was terrified beyond the power to cry out or move. perforce he waited--waited there in the darkness through seeming centuries of such dread as one may know, yet live to tell. he tried vainly to speak the dead woman's name, vainly to stretch forth his hand across the table to learn if she were there. his throat was powerless, his arms and hands were like lead. then occurred something most frightful. some heavy body seemed hurled against the table with an impetus that pushed it against his breast so sharply as nearly to overthrow him, and at the same instant he heard and felt the fall of something upon the floor with so violent a thump that the whole house was shaken by the impact. a scuffling ensued, and a confusion of sounds impossible to describe. murlock had risen to his feet. fear had by excess forfeited control of his faculties. he flung his hands upon the table. nothing was there! there is a point at which terror may turn to madness; and madness incites to action. with no definite intent, from no motive but the wayward impulse of a madman, murlock sprang to the wall, with a little groping seized his loaded rifle, and without aim discharged it. by the flash which lit up the room with a vivid illumination, he saw an enormous panther dragging the dead woman toward the window, its teeth fixed in her throat! then there were darkness blacker than before, and silence; and when he returned to consciousness the sun was high and the wood vocal with songs of birds. the body lay near the window, where the beast had left it when frightened away by the flash and report of the rifle. the clothing was deranged, the long hair in disorder, the limbs lay anyhow. from the throat, dreadfully lacerated, had issued a pool of blood not yet entirely coagulated. the ribbon with which he had bound the wrists was broken; the hands were tightly clenched. between the teeth was a fragment of the animal's ear. a lady from redhorse coronado, june 20. i find myself more and more interested in him. it is not, i am sure, his--do you know any good noun corresponding to the adjective "handsome"? one does not like to say "beauty" when speaking of a man. he is beautiful enough, heaven knows; i should not even care to trust you with him--faithfulest of all possible wives that you are--when he looks his best, as he always does. nor do i think the fascination of his manner has much to do with it. you recollect that the charm of art inheres in that which is undefinable, and to you and me, my dear irene, i fancy there is rather less of that in the branch of art under consideration than to girls in their first season. i fancy i know how my fine gentleman produces many of his effects and could perhaps give him a pointer on heightening them. nevertheless, his manner is something truly delightful. i suppose what interests me chiefly is the man's brains. his conversation is the best i have ever heard and altogether unlike any one else's. he seems to know everything, as indeed he ought, for he has been everywhere, read everything, seen all there is to see--sometimes i think rather more than is good for him--and had acquaintance with the _queerest_ people. and then his voice--irene, when i hear it i actually feel as if i ought to have paid at the door, though of course it is my own door. july 3. i fear my remarks about dr. barritz must have been, being thoughtless, very silly, or you would not have written of him with such levity, not to say disrespect. believe me, dearest, he has more dignity and seriousness (of the kind, i mean, which is not inconsistent with a manner sometimes playful and always charming) than any of the men that you and i ever met. and young raynor--you knew raynor at monterey--tells me that the men all like him and that he is treated with something like deference everywhere. there is a mystery, too--something about his connection with the blavatsky people in northern india. raynor either would not or could not tell me the particulars. i infer that dr. barritz is thought--don't you dare to laugh!--a magician. could anything be finer than that? an ordinary mystery is not, of course, so good as a scandal, but when it relates to dark and dreadful practices--to the exercise of unearthly powers--could anything be more piquant? it explains, too, the singular influence the man has upon me. it is the undefinable in his art--black art. seriously, dear, i quite tremble when he looks me full in the eyes with those unfathomable orbs of his, which i have already vainly attempted to describe to you. how dreadful if he has the power to make one fall in love! do you know if the blavatsky crowd have that power-outside of sepoy? july 16. the strangest thing! last evening while auntie was attending one of the hotel hops (i hate them) dr. barritz called. it was scandalously late--i actually believe that he had talked with auntie in the ballroom and learned from her that i was alone. i had been all the evening contriving how to worm out of him the truth about his connection with the thugs in sepoy, and all of that black business, but the moment he fixed his eyes on me (for i admitted him, i'm ashamed to say) i was helpless. i trembled, i blushed, i--o irene, irene, i love the man beyond expression and you know how it is yourself. fancy! i, an ugly duckling from redhorse--daughter (they say) of old calamity jim--certainly his heiress, with no living relation but an absurd old aunt who spoils me a thousand and fifty ways--absolutely destitute of everything but a million dollars and a hope in paris,--i daring to love a god like him! my dear, if i had you here i could tear your hair out with mortification. i am convinced that he is aware of my feeling, for he stayed but a few moments, said nothing but what another man might have said half as well, and pretending that he had an engagement went away. i learned to-day (a little bird told me--the bell-bird) that he went straight to bed. how does that strike you as evidence of exemplary habits? july 17. that little wretch, raynor, called yesterday and his babble set me almost wild. he never runs down--that is to say, when he exterminates a score of reputations, more or less, he does not pause between one reputation and the next. (by the way, he inquired about you, and his manifestations of interest in you had, i confess, a good deal of _vraisemblance._.) mr. raynor observes no game laws; like death (which he would inflict if slander were fatal) he has all seasons for his own. but i like him, for we knew each other at redhorse when we were young. he was known in those days as "giggles," and i--o irene, can you ever forgive me?--i was called "gunny." god knows why; perhaps in allusion to the material of my pinafores; perhaps because the name is in alliteration with "giggles," for gig and i were inseparable playmates, and the miners may have thought it a delicate civility to recognize some kind of relationship between us. later, we took in a third--another of adversity's brood, who, like garrick between tragedy and comedy, had a chronic inability to adjudicate the rival claims of frost and famine. between him and misery there was seldom anything more than a single suspender and the hope of a meal which would at the same time support life and make it insupportable. he literally picked up a precarious living for himself and an aged mother by "chloriding the dumps," that is to say, the miners permitted him to search the heaps of waste rock for such pieces of "pay ore" as had been overlooked; and these he sacked up and sold at the syndicate mill. he became a member of our firm--"gunny, giggles, and dumps" thenceforth--through my favor; for i could not then, nor can i now, be indifferent to his courage and prowess in defending against giggles the immemorial right of his sex to insult a strange and unprotected female--myself. after old jim struck it in the calamity and i began to wear shoes and go to school, and in emulation giggles took to washing his face and became jack raynor, of wells, fargo & co., and old mrs. barts was herself chlorided to her fathers, dumps drifted over to san juan smith and turned stage driver, and was killed by road agents, and so forth. why do i tell you all this, dear? because it is heavy on my heart. because i walk the valley of humility. because i am subduing myself to permanent consciousness of my unworthiness to unloose the latchet of dr. barritz's shoe. because, oh dear, oh dear, there's a cousin of dumps at this hotel! i haven't spoken to him. i never had much acquaintance with him,--but do you suppose he has recognized me? do, please give me in your next your candid, sure-enough opinion about it, and say you don't think so. do you suppose he knows about me already, and that that is why he left me last evening when he saw that i blushed and trembled like a fool under his eyes? you know i can't bribe _all_ the newspapers, and i can't go back on anybody who was civil to gunny at redhorse--not if i'm pitched out of society into the sea. so the skeleton sometimes rattles behind the door. i never cared much before, as you know, but now--_now_ it is not the same. jack raynor i am sure of--he will not tell him. he seems, indeed, to hold him in such respect as hardly to dare speak to him at all, and i'm a good deal that way myself. dear, dear! i wish i had something besides a million dollars! if jack were three inches taller i'd marry him alive and go back to redhorse and wear sackcloth again to the end of my miserable days. july 25. we had a perfectly splendid sunset last evening and i must tell you all about it. i ran away from auntie and everybody and was walking alone on the beach. i expect you to believe, you infidel! that i had not looked out of my window on the seaward side of the hotel and seen him walking alone on the beach. if you are not lost to every feeling of womanly delicacy you will accept my statement without question. i soon established myself under my sunshade and had for some time been gazing out dreamily over the sea, when he approached, walking close to the edge of the water--it was ebb tide. i assure you the wet sand actually brightened about his feet! as he approached me he lifted his hat, saying, "miss dement, may i sit with you?--or will you walk with me?" the possibility that neither might be agreeable seems not to have occurred to him. did you ever know such assurance? assurance? my dear, it was gall, downright _gall!_ well, i didn't find it wormwood, and replied, with my untutored redhorse heart in my throat, "i--i shall be pleased to do _anything_." could words have been more stupid? there are depths of fatuity in me, friend o' my soul, that are simply bottomless! he extended his hand, smiling, and i delivered mine into it without a moment's hesitation, and when his fingers closed about it to assist me to my feet the consciousness that it trembled made me blush worse than the red west. i got up, however, and after a while, observing that he had not let go my hand i pulled on it a little, but unsuccessfully. he simply held on, saying nothing, but looking down into my face with some kind of smile--i didn't know--how could i?--whether it was affectionate, derisive, or what, for i did not look at him. how beautiful he was!-with the red fires of the sunset burning in the depths of his eyes. do you know, dear, if the thugs and experts of the blavatsky region have any special kind of eyes? ah, you should have seen his superb attitude, the god-like inclination of his head as he stood over me after i had got upon my feet! it was a noble picture, but i soon destroyed it, for i began at once to sink again to the earth. there was only one thing for him to do, and he did it; he supported me with an arm about my waist. "miss dement, are you ill?" he said. it was not an exclamation; there was neither alarm nor solicitude in it. if he had added: "i suppose that is about what i am expected to say," he would hardly have expressed his sense of the situation more clearly. his manner filled me with shame and indignation, for i was suffering acutely. i wrenched my hand out of his, grasped the arm supporting me and pushing myself free, fell plump into the sand and sat helpless. my hat had fallen off in the struggle and my hair tumbled about my face and shoulders in the most mortifying way. "go away from me," i cried, half choking. "o _please_ go away, you--you thug! how dare you think _that_ when my leg is asleep?" i actually said those identical words! and then i broke down and sobbed. irene, i _blubbered_! his manner altered in an instant--i could see that much through my fingers and hair. he dropped on one knee beside me, parted the tangle of hair and said in the tenderest way: "my poor girl, god knows i have not intended to pain you. how should i?--i who love you--i who have loved you for--for years and years!" he had pulled my wet hands away from my face and was covering them with kisses. my cheeks were like two coals, my whole face was flaming and, i think, steaming. what could i do? i hid it on his shoulder--there was no other place. and, o my dear friend, how my leg tingled and thrilled, and how i wanted to kick! we sat so for a long time. he had released one of my hands to pass his arm about me again and i possessed myself of my handkerchief and was drying my eyes and my nose. i would not look up until that was done; he tried in vain to push me a little away and gaze into my face. presently, when all was right, and it had grown a bit dark, i lifted my head, looked him straight in the eyes and smiled my best--my level best, dear. "what do you mean," i said, "by 'years and years'?" "dearest," he replied, very gravely, very earnestly, "in the absence of the sunken cheeks, the hollow eyes, the lank hair, the slouching gait, the rags, dirt, and youth, can you not--will you not understand? gunny, i'm dumps!" in a moment i was upon my feet and he upon his. i seized him by the lapels of his coat and peered into his handsome face in the deepening darkness. i was breathless with excitement. "and you are not dead?" i asked, hardly knowing what i said. "only dead in love, dear. i recovered from the road agent's bullet, but this, i fear, is fatal." "but about jack--mr. raynor? don't you know--" "i am ashamed to say, darling, that it was through that unworthy person's suggestion that i came here from vienna." irene, they have roped in your affectionate friend, mary jane dement. p.s.--the worst of it is that there is no mystery; that was the invention of jack raynor, to arouse my curiosity. james is not a thug. he solemnly assures me that in all his wanderings he has never set foot in sepoy. the eyes of the panther i one does not always marry when insane a man and a woman--nature had done the grouping--sat on a rustic seat, in the late afternoon. the man was middle-aged, slender, swarthy, with the expression of a poet and the complexion of a pirate--a man at whom one would look again. the woman was young, blonde, graceful, with something in her figure and movements suggesting the word "lithe." she was habited in a gray gown with odd brown markings in the texture. she may have been beautiful; one could not readily say, for her eyes denied attention to all else. they were gray-green, long and narrow, with an expression defying analysis. one could only know that they were disquieting. cleopatra may have had such eyes. the man and the woman talked. "yes," said the woman, "i love you, god knows! but marry you, no. i cannot, will not." "irene, you have said that many times, yet always have denied me a reason. i've a right to know, to understand, to feel and prove my fortitude if i have it. give me a reason." "for loving you?" the woman was smiling through her tears and her pallor. that did not stir any sense of humor in the man. "no; there is no reason for that. a reason for not marrying me. i've a right to know. i must know. i will know!" he had risen and was standing before her with clenched hands, on his face a frown--it might have been called a scowl. he looked as if he might attempt to learn by strangling her. she smiled no more--merely sat looking up into his face with a fixed, set regard that was utterly without emotion or sentiment. yet it had something in it that tamed his resentment and made him shiver. "you are determined to have my reason?" she asked in a tone that was entirely mechanical--a tone that might have been her look made audible. "if you please--if i'm not asking too much." apparently this lord of creation was yielding some part of his dominion over his co-creature. "very well, you shall know: i am insane." the man started, then looked incredulous and was conscious that he ought to be amused. but, again, the sense of humor failed him in his need and despite his disbelief he was profoundly disturbed by that which he did not believe. between our convictions and our feelings there is no good understanding. "that is what the physicians would say," the woman continued--"if they knew. i might myself prefer to call it a case of 'possession.' sit down and hear what i have to say." the man silently resumed his seat beside her on the rustic bench by the wayside. over-against them on the eastern side of the valley the hills were already sunset-flushed and the stillness all about was of that peculiar quality that foretells the twilight. something of its mysterious and significant solemnity had imparted itself to the man's mood. in the spiritual, as in the material world, are signs and presages of night. rarely meeting her look, and whenever he did so conscious of the indefinable dread with which, despite their feline beauty, her eyes always affected him, jenner brading listened in silence to the story told by irene marlowe. in deference to the reader's possible prejudice against the artless method of an unpractised historian the author ventures to substitute his own version for hers. ii a room may be too narrow for three, though one is outside in a little log house containing a single room sparely and rudely furnished, crouching on the floor against one of the walls, was a woman, clasping to her breast a child. outside, a dense unbroken forest extended for many miles in every direction. this was at night and the room was black dark: no human eye could have discerned the woman and the child. yet they were observed, narrowly, vigilantly, with never even a momentary slackening of attention; and that is the pivotal fact upon which this narrative turns. charles marlowe was of the class, now extinct in this country, of woodmen pioneers--men who found their most acceptable surroundings in sylvan solitudes that stretched along the eastern slope of the mississippi valley, from the great lakes to the gulf of mexico. for more than a hundred years these men pushed ever westward, generation after generation, with rifle and ax, reclaiming from nature and her savage children here and there an isolated acreage for the plow, no sooner reclaimed than surrendered to their less venturesome but more thrifty successors. at last they burst through the edge of the forest into the open country and vanished as if they had fallen over a cliff. the woodman pioneer is no more; the pioneer of the plains--he whose easy task it was to subdue for occupancy two-thirds of the country in a single generation--is another and inferior creation. with charles marlowe in the wilderness, sharing the dangers, hardships and privations of that strange, unprofitable life, were his wife and child, to whom, in the manner of his class, in which the domestic virtues were a religion, he was passionately attached. the woman was still young enough to be comely, new enough to the awful isolation of her lot to be cheerful. by withholding the large capacity for happiness which the simple satisfactions of the forest life could not have filled, heaven had dealt honorably with her. in her light household tasks, her child, her husband and her few foolish books, she found abundant provision for her needs. one morning in midsummer marlowe took down his rifle from the wooden hooks on the wall and signified his intention of getting game. "we've meat enough," said the wife; "please don't go out to-day. i dreamed last night, o, such a dreadful thing! i cannot recollect it, but i'm almost sure that it will come to pass if you go out." it is painful to confess that marlowe received this solemn statement with less of gravity than was due to the mysterious nature of the calamity foreshadowed. in truth, he laughed. "try to remember," he said. "maybe you dreamed that baby had lost the power of speech." the conjecture was obviously suggested by the fact that baby, clinging to the fringe of his hunting-coat with all her ten pudgy thumbs was at that moment uttering her sense of the situation in a series of exultant goo-goos inspired by sight of her father's raccoon-skin cap. the woman yielded: lacking the gift of humor she could not hold out against his kindly badinage. so, with a kiss for the mother and a kiss for the child, he left the house and closed the door upon his happiness forever. at nightfall he had not returned. the woman prepared supper and waited. then she put baby to bed and sang softly to her until she slept. by this time the fire on the hearth, at which she had cooked supper, had burned out and the room was lighted by a single candle. this she afterward placed in the open window as a sign and welcome to the hunter if he should approach from that side. she had thoughtfully closed and barred the door against such wild animals as might prefer it to an open window --of the habits of beasts of prey in entering a house uninvited she was not advised, though with true female prevision she may have considered the possibility of their entrance by way of the chimney. as the night wore on she became not less anxious, but more drowsy, and at last rested her arms upon the bed by the child and her head upon the arms. the candle in the window burned down to the socket, sputtered and flared a moment and went out unobserved; for the woman slept and dreamed. in her dreams she sat beside the cradle of a second child. the first one was dead. the father was dead. the home in the forest was lost and the dwelling in which she lived was unfamiliar. there were heavy oaken doors, always closed, and outside the windows, fastened into the thick stone walls, were iron bars, obviously (so she thought) a provision against indians. all this she noted with an infinite self-pity, but without surprise--an emotion unknown in dreams. the child in the cradle was invisible under its coverlet which something impelled her to remove. she did so, disclosing the face of a wild animal! in the shock of this dreadful revelation the dreamer awoke, trembling in the darkness of her cabin in the wood. as a sense of her actual surroundings came slowly back to her she felt for the child that was not a dream, and assured herself by its breathing that all was well with it; nor could she forbear to pass a hand lightly across its face. then, moved by some impulse for which she probably could not have accounted, she rose and took the sleeping babe in her arms, holding it close against her breast. the head of the child's cot was against the wall to which the woman now turned her back as she stood. lifting her eyes she saw two bright objects starring the darkness with a reddish-green glow. she took them to be two coals on the hearth, but with her returning sense of direction came the disquieting consciousness that they were not in that quarter of the room, moreover were too high, being nearly at the level of the eyes--of her own eyes. for these were the eyes of a panther. the beast was at the open window directly opposite and not five paces away. nothing but those terrible eyes was visible, but in the dreadful tumult of her feelings as the situation disclosed itself to her understanding she somehow knew that the animal was standing on its hinder feet, supporting itself with its paws on the window-ledge. that signified a malign interest--not the mere gratification of an indolent curiosity. the consciousness of the attitude was an added horror, accentuating the menace of those awful eyes, in whose steadfast fire her strength and courage were alike consumed. under their silent questioning she shuddered and turned sick. her knees failed her, and by degrees, instinctively striving to avoid a sudden movement that might bring the beast upon her, she sank to the floor, crouched against the wall and tried to shield the babe with her trembling body without withdrawing her gaze from the luminous orbs that were killing her. no thought of her husband came to her in her agony--no hope nor suggestion of rescue or escape. her capacity for thought and feeling had narrowed to the dimensions of a single emotion--fear of the animal's spring, of the impact of its body, the buffeting of its great arms, the feel of its teeth in her throat, the mangling of her babe. motionless now and in absolute silence, she awaited her doom, the moments growing to hours, to years, to ages; and still those devilish eyes maintained their watch. returning to his cabin late at night with a deer on his shoulders charles marlowe tried the door. it did not yield. he knocked; there was no answer. he laid down his deer and went round to the window. as he turned the angle of the building he fancied he heard a sound as of stealthy footfalls and a rustling in the undergrowth of the forest, but they were too slight for certainty, even to his practised ear. approaching the window, and to his surprise finding it open, he threw his leg over the sill and entered. all was darkness and silence. he groped his way to the fire-place, struck a match and lit a candle. then he looked about. cowering on the floor against a wall was his wife, clasping his child. as he sprang toward her she rose and broke into laughter, long, loud, and mechanical, devoid of gladness and devoid of sense--the laughter that is not out of keeping with the clanking of a chain. hardly knowing what he did he extended his arms. she laid the babe in them. it was dead--pressed to death in its mother's embrace. iii the theory of the defense that is what occurred during a night in a forest, but not all of it did irene marlowe relate to jenner brading; not all of it was known to her. when she had concluded the sun was below the horizon and the long summer twilight had begun to deepen in the hollows of the land. for some moments brading was silent, expecting the narrative to be carried forward to some definite connection with the conversation introducing it; but the narrator was as silent as he, her face averted, her hands clasping and unclasping themselves as they lay in her lap, with a singular suggestion of an activity independent of her will. "it is a sad, a terrible story," said brading at last, "but i do not understand. you call charles marlowe father; that i know. that he is old before his time, broken by some great sorrow, i have seen, or thought i saw. but, pardon me, you said that you--that you--" "that i am insane," said the girl, without a movement of head or body. "but, irene, you say--please, dear, do not look away from me--you say that the child was dead, not demented." "yes, that one--i am the second. i was born three months after that night, my mother being mercifully permitted to lay down her life in giving me mine." brading was again silent; he was a trifle dazed and could not at once think of the right thing to say. her face was still turned away. in his embarrassment he reached impulsively toward the hands that lay closing and unclosing in her lap, but something--he could not have said what-restrained him. he then remembered, vaguely, that he had never altogether cared to take her hand. "is it likely," she resumed, "that a person born under such circumstances is like others--is what you call sane?" brading did not reply; he was preoccupied with a new thought that was taking shape in his mind--what a scientist would have called an hypothesis; a detective, a theory. it might throw an added light, albeit a lurid one, upon such doubt of her sanity as her own assertion had not dispelled. the country was still new and, outside the villages, sparsely populated. the professional hunter was still a familiar figure, and among his trophies were heads and pelts of the larger kinds of game. tales variously credible of nocturnal meetings with savage animals in lonely roads were sometimes current, passed through the customary stages of growth and decay, and were forgotten. a recent addition to these popular apocrypha, originating, apparently, by spontaneous generation in several households, was of a panther which had frightened some of their members by looking in at windows by night. the yarn had caused its little ripple of excitement--had even attained to the distinction of a place in the local newspaper; but brading had given it no attention. its likeness to the story to which he had just listened now impressed him as perhaps more than accidental. was it not possible that the one story had suggested the other--that finding congenial conditions in a morbid mind and a fertile fancy, it had grown to the tragic tale that he had heard? brading recalled certain circumstances of the girl's history and disposition, of which, with love's incuriosity, he had hitherto been heedless--such as her solitary life with her father, at whose house no one, apparently, was an acceptable visitor and her strange fear of the night, by which those who knew her best accounted for her never being seen after dark. surely in such a mind imagination once kindled might burn with a lawless flame, penetrating and enveloping the entire structure. that she was mad, though the conviction gave him the acutest pain, he could no longer doubt; she had only mistaken an effect of her mental disorder for its cause, bringing into imaginary relation with her own personality the vagaries of the local myth-makers. with some vague intention of testing his new "theory," and no very definite notion of how to set about it he said, gravely, but with hesitation: "irene, dear, tell me--i beg you will not take offence, but tell me--" "i have told you," she interrupted, speaking with a passionate earnestness that he had not known her to show--"i have already told you that we cannot marry; is anything else worth saying?" before he could stop her she had sprung from her seat and without another word or look was gliding away among the trees toward her father's house. brading had risen to detain her; he stood watching her in silence until she had vanished in the gloom. suddenly he started as if he had been shot; his face took on an expression of amazement and alarm: in one of the black shadows into which she had disappeared he had caught a quick, brief glimpse of shining eyes! for an instant he was dazed and irresolute; then he dashed into the wood after her, shouting: "irene, irene, look out! the panther! the panther!" in a moment he had passed through the fringe of forest into open ground and saw the girl's gray skirt vanishing into her father's door. no panther was visible. iv an appeal to the conscience of god jenner brading, attorney-at-law, lived in a cottage at the edge of the town. directly behind the dwelling was the forest. being a bachelor, and therefore, by the draconian moral code of the time and place denied the services of the only species of domestic servant known thereabout, the "hired girl," he boarded at the village hotel, where also was his office. the woodside cottage was merely a lodging maintained--at no great cost, to be sure--as an evidence of prosperity and respectability. it would hardly do for one to whom the local newspaper had pointed with pride as "the foremost jurist of his time" to be "homeless," albeit he may sometimes have suspected that the words "home" and "house" were not strictly synonymous. indeed, his consciousness of the disparity and his will to harmonize it were matters of logical inference, for it was generally reported that soon after the cottage was built its owner had made a futile venture in the direction of marriage--had, in truth, gone so far as to be rejected by the beautiful but eccentric daughter of old man marlowe, the recluse. this was publicly believed because he had told it himself and she had not--a reversal of the usual order of things which could hardly fail to carry conviction. brading's bedroom was at the rear of the house, with a single window facing the forest. one night he was awakened by a noise at that window; he could hardly have said what it was like. with a little thrill of the nerves he sat up in bed and laid hold of the revolver which, with a forethought most commendable in one addicted to the habit of sleeping on the ground floor with an open window, he had put under his pillow. the room was in absolute darkness, but being unterrified he knew where to direct his eyes, and there he held them, awaiting in silence what further might occur. he could now dimly discern the aperture--a square of lighter black. presently there appeared at its lower edge two gleaming eyes that burned with a malignant lustre inexpressibly terrible! brading's heart gave a great jump, then seemed to stand still. a chill passed along his spine and through his hair; he felt the blood forsake his cheeks. he could not have cried out--not to save his life; but being a man of courage he would not, to save his life, have done so if he had been able. some trepidation his coward body might feel, but his spirit was of sterner stuff. slowly the shining eyes rose with a steady motion that seemed an approach, and slowly rose brading's right hand, holding the pistol. he fired! blinded by the flash and stunned by the report, brading nevertheless heard, or fancied that he heard, the wild, high scream of the panther, so human in sound, so devilish in suggestion. leaping from the bed he hastily clothed himself and, pistol in hand, sprang from the door, meeting two or three men who came running up from the road. a brief explanation was followed by a cautious search of the house. the grass was wet with dew; beneath the window it had been trodden and partly leveled for a wide space, from which a devious trail, visible in the light of a lantern, led away into the bushes. one of the men stumbled and fell upon his hands, which as he rose and rubbed them together were slippery. on examination they were seen to be red with blood. an encounter, unarmed, with a wounded panther was not agreeable to their taste; all but brading turned back. he, with lantern and pistol, pushed courageously forward into the wood. passing through a difficult undergrowth he came into a small opening, and there his courage had its reward, for there he found the body of his victim. but it was no panther. what it was is told, even to this day, upon a weather-worn headstone in the village churchyard, and for many years was attested daily at the graveside by the bent figure and sorrow-seamed face of old man marlowe, to whose soul, and to the soul of his strange, unhappy child, peace. peace and reparation. 