Haggard Anthology

Vol 16

by

H. Rider Haggard

Book Index

Mary of Marion Isle (1929)

Belzshazzar (1930)

A Winter's Pilgrimage (1901)

Mary of Marion Isle

First Published 1929

Preparer's Note

This text was prepared from an undated edition published by Hutchinson & Co. Limited, 34-36 Paternoster Row, London, E.C., and printed in Great Britain at The Mayflower Press, Plymouth, by William Brendon & Son, Ltd.

Contents

I. Lord Atterton

II. Mrs. Josky

III. Rose

IV. Somerville Black

V. Arabella

VI. The Hospital

VII. Andrew's Farewell

VIII. The Station

IX. What Happened in Egypt

X. A Meeting

XI. Temptation

XII. Clara Goes Angling

XIII. The Holy Estate

XIV. His Excellency

XV. Disaster

XVI. Alone

XVII. Exploration

XVIII. Mary

XIX. Old Man Tom

XX. The Troglodytes

XXI. Flight

XXII. Return

XXIII. The Fatal Albatross

XXIV. What the Gale Gave

I. LORD ATTERTON

"I think, Clara, that your cousin Andrew is a damned young fool. You must excuse the language, but on the whole I consider him the damnedest young fool with whom I ever had to do."

Thus in cold and deliberate tones did Lord Atterton express himself concerning Andrew West, the only son of his deceased brother. Clara Maunsell, his sister's child who was also an orphan, studied her uncle for a while before she answered, which there was no need for her to do at once as he was busy lighting a cigar. An observant onlooker might have thought that she was thinking things out and making up her mind what line to take about the said Andrew West.

These two, uncle and niece, presented a somewhat curious contrast there on that September day in the richly furnished but yet uncomfortable library of Lord Atterton's great house in Cavendish Square. He was a medium-sized, stout man of about sixty-eight years of age. His big, well-shaped head resembled that of a tonsured monk, inasmuch as it was completely bald save for an encircling fringe of white hair. His face was clean-cut and able, with rather a long nose and a fierce, determined mouth remarkable for the thinness of the lips and absence of any curves. There was much character in that mouth; indeed, his whole aspect gave an impression of cold force. "Successful man" was written all over him.

The niece was a young lady of about four-and-twenty, of whom at first sight one would instinctively say, "How pretty she is, and how neat!"

In fact, she was both. Small in build but perfectly proportioned, fair in complexion with just the right amount of colour, with crisp auburn hair carefully dressed, and steady, innocent-looking blue eyes, a well-formed mouth and a straight little nose, she was the very embodiment of prettiness as distinguished from beauty, while in neatness none could surpass her. Her quiet-coloured dress suited her to perfection, no one had ever seen that auburn coiffure disordered even in a gale of wind, her boots and gloves were marvels of their sort, and even the pearl drops on the necklace she wore seemed to arrange themselves with a mathematical exactitude. "Little Tidy" they had called her in the nursery, and "Clever Clara" at school, and now that she was grown up these attributes continued to distinguish her.

In a way there was about her more than a hint of her uncle, Lord Atterton. Between a young lady and this old man, especially as the one might be said to represent decorated ice-cream and the other something very much on the boil, there could be no real resemblance. And yet the set of their mouths and the air of general ability common to both of them, did give them a certain similitude, due no doubt to affinity of blood.

Lord Atterton finished lighting his cigar, very much on one side, and Clara finished her reflections, which apparently urged her to a course of non-committal.

"Andrew," she said in her light, pleasant and evenly balanced voice, "is just Andrew and there is no one else quite like him."

"Why not say that an ass is just an ass and that there is no other ass quite so much an ass?" snapped her uncle, biting heavily at the end of the cigar.

"Because, Uncle, I do not consider that Andrew is an ass. I think, on the contrary, that he has in him the makings of a very clever man."

"Clever! Do you call it clever for an inexperienced young fellow to take up all these Radical, not to say Socialistic ideas which, if ever they are put into practice,—thank God, that will not be in my time!—would utterly destroy the class to which he belongs? Has it ever occurred to you, Clara, that your cousin Algernon is my only child and that his lungs are very delicate? If anything happened to him," he added with a twitch of the face, "Andrew must succeed to the title?"

She nodded her head.

"Naturally that has occurred to me, Uncle, but I see no reason to suppose that anything of the sort will happen. The doctors say they are sure this new treatment will succeed. Also, Algernon might marry and leave children."

"The doctors! I have no faith in doctors and I know our family weakness. Look at me, the last of five, all of them taken off with something to do with the lungs. As for marrying, Algernon will never marry. Also, if he did, he would have no children. I believe that one day that mad hatter of a fellow, Andrew, will be Lord Atterton," he said with emphasis, and, turning, threw the ruined cigar into the fire which burned upon the hearth although the day was mild.

"It's a hard thing," he went on with a kind of choke in the throat, "to be successful in everything else—make a large fortune, come into a title and the rest—and yet not to have a healthy son to inherit it all. And if Algernon goes—oh! if he goes——!"

Again Clara considered for a moment and appeared to come to the conclusion that the moment was one when it would be right and proper to exhibit sympathy, if possible without causing alarm, as ill-judged doses of that quality often do.

"Don't fret, Uncle," she said softly. "I know how you worry about all these things and it makes me worry too. Often I lie awake at night and think about it."

"So do I, and listen to Algernon coughing in the room above."

"Yes, but there is really no need for you to be anxious. He is ever so much better. Oh! my dear Uncle, I implore you—there, you know what I mean although I am not good at expressing myself," and furtively wiping her eyes with a very clean and beautifully embroidered handkerchief, she advanced to him and laid her cool lips upon his brow.

"Thank you, my dear, thank you," he said. "I know you have a good heart and feel for me, which is more than anyone else does. I only wish you had been——"

"Hush!" said Clara, stepping back lightly, "here they come."

As she spoke the door was thrown open somewhat violently and two young men entered the room. Except in age (they were both twenty-one) they differed strangely. The first, Andrew, who had outstepped his cousin, was tall and lanky and as yet comparatively unformed, with thin, delicate hands and small feet, although no one would have guessed this from the boots it pleased him to wear. He was not good-looking; for that his face was too irregular, but a singular charm pervaded him. It shone in the vivacity of his large dark eyes, which now were full of fire and now seemed to go to sleep, and was reflected from his whole countenance that was of a remarkable mobility and seemed to respond to every thought which flitted across his mind. For the rest his waving brown hair was over long and unkempt and his clothes were shocking. A dilapidated velveteen coat that might have come second-hand from the wardrobe of a deceased artist, and a red tie, frayed and faded, that had managed to slip up over one point of a limp calico collar, were peculiarities most likely to immediate attention, although there were others which would have paid for research, such as a rusty steel watch-chain from which hung some outlandish charms, and the absence of two waistcoat buttons. Yet with it all no one of any class could for a moment have mistaken his standing, since Andrew West was one of those men who would have looked a gentleman in a sack and nothing else.

His cousin Algernon was different indeed. To begin with, his attire was faultless, made by the best tailor in London and apparently put on new that moment. Within this perfect outer casing was a short, pale-eyed, lack-lustre young man with straight, sandy hair and no eyebrows, one whose hectic flush and moist hands betrayed the mortal ailment with which he was stricken, a poor, commonplace lad who, loving the world and thirsting for its pleasures, was yet doomed to bid it and them an early farewell.

The two were arguing as they came up the stairs, Andrew in clear, ringing tones, and Algernon in a husky voice to which low little coughs played the part of commas and full stops. So loudly did they talk that Lord Atterton and Clara could hear what they said, for the massive mahogany doors stood ajar.

"I tell you, Algy, and mind you, I am a medical man, or shall be next week, that you drink too much of the family whisky. It has poisoned thousands and is poisoning you, although I dare say yours comes out of the best vat, not that which has made millionaires of West & Co., and a peer of your grandfather——" (here that unwilling eavesdropper, Lord Atterton, snorted and muttered something that Clara could not catch). "Claret should be your tipple, and perhaps a couple of glasses of port after dinner, no more."

"Claret is poor stuff to lean on when one feels low, Andrew; besides, I am not fool enough to drink West's whisky; I know too much about it, for you see I'm in the business. Anyway, a short life and a merry one for me," replied Algernon with a husky chuckle.

Then they entered the room.

"Would you be so good as to shut that door, Andrew," said his uncle icily.

"If you wish, Uncle, though it should be left open for the room is far too hot,—Ah! I thought so," he added, glancing at a thermometer which hung upon the wall, "over seventy-two, and no wonder when you have a fire upon a mild September afternoon, and everything shut."

"I hate cold," interrupted Algernon.

"I dare say," replied Andrew. "Most of us do hate what does us good. As a matter of fact, you should live in a low temperature with all the windows open."

"Perhaps, Andrew," said Lord Atterton, puffing himself out like a turkey cock, "you will be so good as to allow me and Algernon to regulate our house in our own way?"

"Certainly, Uncle. It isn't my business, is it? Only I wouldn't if I were your medical adviser. Where there is a tendency to a pulmonary weakness," he added rather sententiously, "as in our family," and he glanced at Algernon, "fresh air is essential."

"Thank you for that information," replied his uncle with sarcasm, "but I have already sought advice upon the point from the heads of the profession to which I understand you intend to belong."

"Then why do you not follow it?" said Andrew coolly, whereon the discreet Clara, foreseeing trouble, intervened hurriedly with a question.

"Are you really going to be a doctor soon, Andrew?" she asked.

"Yes, I hope so, Clara. I have just gone through my final examination, which is why I'm able to come and look you up, for the first time in six months, I think."

"And for the last in six years, I hope," muttered Lord Atterton to himself.

If Andrew overheard him he took no notice, but went on gaily.

"I don't suppose that any of you know what it is to work for twelve or sometimes fourteen hours a day, but if you did, you would understand that it does not leave much time for paying visits. Such amusements are for the idle rich."

"Indeed," growled Lord Atterton. "Well, I think I have done as much as that in my time."

"I think you misunderstand me, Uncle," went on the imperturbable Andrew. "By work, I mean intellectual research in any branch of knowledge; I do not mean the mere pursuit of wealth in a business."

Algernon in the background chuckled hoarsely, a faint and swiftly repressed smile flittered over Clara's placid features like a shadow over a still lake, and Lord Atterton turned purple.

"What do you mean, young man?" he gasped.

"Oh! nothing personal," replied the gay Andrew in the intervals of lighting a cigarette, "but I think you will admit, Uncle, that there is a difference between, let us say, the skilful advertisement of patent medicines or alcoholic drinks with the assistance of a large office staff, and the mastering of a science by individual application."

"All that I am inclined to admit at present," ejaculated Lord Atterton, "is that you are a most offensive young prig."

"Do you think so?" answered Andrew with an airy smile. "Well, I dare say from your point of view you are right. Everything depends upon how one looks at things, doesn't it, Uncle? Now I hate trade and look upon the drink traffic as a crime against the community, at any rate where the manufacture of spirits is concerned, having seen too much of their effects, and I dare say that these convictions make me intolerant, as all young people are apt to be——"

"And I hate impertinent Pill-boxes, like yourself, Sir," shouted Lord Atterton.

"Which shows," replied Andrew calmly, "that intolerance is not peculiar to the young. By 'Pill-boxes' I suppose you symbolize the Medical Profession in general, of which I am informed you are a great supporter where your own ailments and those of your family are concerned. Now if hate, as it is fair to assume, implies disbelief, why do you employ them?"

Lord Atterton tried to answer, but only succeeded in gurgling.

"Such disparagement," went on Andrew, "seems peculiarly unjust in your case, Uncle, seeing that one of your grandfathers was an eminent 'Pill-box' of the old school whose monographs upon certain subjects are still studied, and, so far as I am able to judge, infinitely the most respectable and useful man that our family has produced."

Here Algernon, on a sofa in the background, burst into convulsive screams of laughter which he tried vainly to stifle with a cushion, while the infuriated Lord Atterton rushed from the room uttering language which need not be recorded.

"You've done it this time," said Algernon, removing the sofa cushion and sitting up. "If there's one thing his Lordship hates" (he always called his father his Lordship behind his back), "it is any allusion to his medical ancestor whose mother was a mill-hand and who dropped his h's."

"I expect that's where his vigour came from, and if he dropped h's, he picked up lives, hundreds of them; indeed, he was a most admirable person."

"Oh! Andrew," broke in Clara, "can't you stop fooling? Don't you see that you are ruining yourself?"

"Well, if you ask me, Clara, I don't. Besides, how am I ruining myself? I expect nothing from my uncle who has never given me anything, except an occasional luncheon and many lectures. I know that everybody goes about blacking his boots just because he is so rich, so it can't hurt him to hear a little of the truth by way of a change."

"But it may hurt you, Andrew. What are you going to do when you become a doctor?"

"Oh, that's all arranged. An excellent fellow called Watson, a really clever man though a bit of a Socialist, who might be anything but because of his opinions prefers a practice in Whitechapel, is going to take me as an assistant. He was one of the examiners and suggested it himself only this morning, from which I gather that I have passed all right. It is a splendid opening."

"Indeed," remarked Clara doubtfully, "and what is Doctor Watson going to pay you?"

"I don't know. Something pretty small, I expect, but that doesn't matter to me, for I've a couple of hundred a year of my own, you know, which is riches to most young doctors."

Clara looked him up and down with an air of genuine if tempered amazement on her face that was not entirely unmixed with admiration. Then she asked:

"Do you really mean to say, Andrew, that it is your intention to become the assistant of an unknown Socialistic practitioner in the East End who will pay you little or nothing?"

"That is my intention and desire, Clara," he answered in the intervals of lighting another cigarette. "What do you see against it?"

"Oh! nothing," she answered, shrugging her shoulders, "except the results which commonly follow from madness of any sort. To begin with, you will infuriate our uncle——"

"Strike that out," interrupted Andrew, "for I have done it already. Nothing can make him hate me more than he does."

"—who," went on Clara, taking no notice, "with all his enormous interest would otherwise have been able to help you to a career in almost any walk of life that offers rewards at the end of it—or earlier——"

"To those with relatives whose money gives them direct or indirect means of corruption and thereby of lifting the undeserving over the heads of the deserving," suggested Andrew.

Again she shrugged her shoulders, and went on:

"Next, you will starve. Your Socialist medical man won't pay you anything, and such an appointment will lead you nowhere."

"Don't alarm yourself, Clare. I haven't the slightest fear of suffering from the want of proper nutriment. Food is cheap in the East End, and a couple of pints of stout will furnish as much stimulant as is desirable in twenty-four hours. Also, if I pass in Surgery, as I think I shall, I have every hope that my hospital will not entirely cast me off. Perhaps you didn't know, Clara, that surgery is my only love, that I have a natural instinct that way and, if I may say so, a flair for diagnosis. For instance, there is a gland in your neck that I long to remove, although you may not be aware of the thing. It spoils the proportions and under certain circumstances may be dangerous some day."

"Please leave my glands alone," said Clara. "I don't know what glands are."

"Then why did you lift your hand and touch that to which I alluded, Clara, not knowing that I cultivate the art of observation? Any competent physician will tell you that it might become the seat of tubercle, to which all our family are prone."

"You won't frighten me with your talk of glands," replied Clara quite calmly, "or because one side of my neck swells when I have a cold. Well, if you give no weight to my arguments, what are yours? What you have to urge in favour of the course of life which you propose to follow?"

Andrew drew himself up and threw his cigarette into the fire. In a moment his whole aspect changed. From that of a somewhat annoying, assertive and egotistical youth, it became one of an earnest young man animated by a great purpose.

"I'll tell you if you will open your mind and are sufficiently interested to listen," he said. "I have this to urge: that our time here is short, and that whatever we understand by God Almighty lays upon us the duty of making of it the best use possible, not only for our own sakes, but for that of the world in which we live, according to the opportunities that may be given to us. Now mine, I know, are very humble. I am nobody and nothing, a person without prospects." (Here Clara opened her innocent-looking eyes and stared at him.) "But I believe that I have some ability in a certain line and I intend to use it to the best of my power in serving my fellow-men. An opportunity of doing so has come to me in a locality where my fellow-men, and women and children, are more numerous and probably more miserable than they are anywhere else upon the earth. In these circumstances I do not intend to allow my person advantage, or what seems to be my advantage as you see it, to weigh with me. That is my answer."

"And a jolly good one, too," exclaimed Algernon, suddenly sitting up amidst his sofa-cushions among which he had seemed to be somnolent, and breaking into the conversation.

"You're a real sport, Andrew, more power to your elbow! I'm no use, I know, and never shall be," here by accident or design he coughed, "but," he added with an outburst of genuine felling, "I respect you, old fellow, whatever Clara may think."

"Please leave my thoughts out of the question, Algernon," said Clara with severity. "Perhaps I also respect Andrew. But I try to look all round things and not to be carried away by sudden enthusiasms, and I think that in his own interests he is making a mistake. He would do better to fall in with his uncle's wishes, or prejudices if you choose to call them so."

"And I think that I shall do better to fall in with what I consider to be my duty, and to leave my interests to look after themselves, Clara. That, however, is no particular virtue on my part, since they do not excite me."

"Which means that you are going to be a slum doctor, Andrew."

"Yes, my dear, that's what it means, also that if you happen to meet me when you are driving in the Atterton carriage and pair, I shall not expect you to recognize your humble relative."

"Don't be silly, Andrew. You wouldn't if you only knew how ridiculous you become when you are on your high horse."

"High horse! A neat repartee for the carriage and pair, on which I congratulate you, Clara. But don't let's wrangle. Our lines are laid in different places, that is all, and I dare say we shan't see much of each other in the future, so we had best part friends. Good-bye, old girl," and stretching out his long arm, he took her round the waist, drew her to him and gave her a kiss.

Then he shook Algernon by the hand, bidding him come to a certain address if he wanted any gratis medical advice, and to look after himself in various ways, and departed at a run, nearly knocking over a stately menial who was bringing coffee and liqueurs.

"I think that Andrew is mad," remarked Clara, smoothing her hair which had been disarranged by the energy of his embrace.

"I dare say," said Algernon, as he tossed off a glass of cognac, "but I only wish I were half as mad. I tell you, Clara, that he is the best of the family, as you will come to see one day. Though when you do, I shan't be here."

"Perhaps," said Clara, "for no one knows what may happen in the future, and if he should succeed, it may alter my views."

"Succeed," ejaculated Algernon with a hoarse chuckle. "Do you mean to the title?"

"You know very well that I meant nothing of the sort, Algernon," she answered with a look of calm contempt, and left the room.

"All the same she did, although she may not have known it," reflected Algernon, as, after another half-glass of cognac, he settled himself down to snooze among the sofa cushions. "Clara thinks that no one sees through her, but I do. She's a deep one, is Clara, and, what's more, she'll always get her way. But when she has, what is the good of it?" Then he went off to sleep till tea-time.

II. MRS. JOSKY

Lord Atterton, who had been taking a little walk round the square to soothe his nerves, returned when he thought that Andrew had departed. In fact, he chose an unlucky moment, for just as he opened the front door of West House and stepped across the threshold, he came into violent and personal collision with that young gentleman who was rushing out at a great pace, thinking of something else and not looking where he was going.

"Confound you for an awkward fellow!" exclaimed his Lordship. "You've smashed my hat."

Andrew picked up the article which had served as a buffer between their two colliding bodies and now resembled a half-closed concertina.

"Very sorry," he said, surveying the topper critically. "It does seem rather the worse, doesn't it? But cheer up, Uncle, you can afford a new one, which will give employment. The hatting trade is rather depressed just now they tell me in Whitechapel."

"Cheer up!" gasped Lord Atterton. "I may as well tell you outright, Andrew, that your visits to this house are the last things to cheer me up. First you outrage my feelings and then you crush my hat which was new. Oh! hang it all," he added, hurling the wreck into the corner of the hall, "the less I see of you in the future the better I shall be pleased, and there you have it straight."

"I rather think your sentiment is reciprocated," remarked Andrew in a reflective voice. "Somehow we seem to get on each other's nerves, don't we?"

"Yes, nerves and toes," replied his Uncle wrathfully, lifting the foot upon which Andrew had trodden.

"If you wore a sensible soft hat as I do, instead of a tall one, it wouldn't have happened, Uncle, but it's no use crying over squashed chimney-pots, and for the rest, you need not fear that I shall put any strain upon your hospitality. I'm sorry about Algernon, though, as I'm fond of him and should like to see him sometimes. Uncle, I may as well take this opportunity to tell you that whatever your smart Harley Street men may say, you are treating him wrongly."

"Indeed, and how out of your great experience would you advise that the case should be dealt with, Andrew?" he asked with heavy sarcasm.

"Well, to begin with, Uncle, you should cut off his liquor. He drinks too much, as does everyone in this house except Clara. Then—open-air and perhaps a winter in Switzerland. I'll ask my man Watson what he thinks about that. Unless you change your methods and can persuade him to change his, it is my duty to say that the results may be very serious indeed."

"Oh!" ejaculated Lord Atterton, "confound you for a presuming young puppy, and confound Watson, whoever he may be, and confound everything!"

Then, without waiting for any possible answer, he rushed into the nearest room and slammed the door.

Andrew strolled into the street, crossing it to the square railings, lit a third cigarette, and while he did so contemplated the façade of his uncle's palatial mansion.

Looks like whisky, he mused; metaphorically stinks of whisky and ought to have a gigantic bottle of West's Best (Lord! Shall I ever live down that name?) with the famous advertisement of red-shirted Canadians refreshing themselves amidst golden sheaves with the same in the intervals of their noble toil, set upon the parapet among the chimney-pots.

In short, look at the whole infernal place, and then think of its presiding genius, my noble and opulent relative who sits within like a great bald-headed spider fat with the blood of a thousand victims, and therefore pre-eminent in the spider world.

He paused and laughed at his own metaphor, for when not depressed Andrew was a merry soul; then, continuing his reflections, he walked towards Oxford Street to take a bus for Whitechapel.

Anyway, I'm not wanted there. The old gentleman told me that pretty straight, as I meant that he should, for I can't bear the sight of him, purse-proud, vulgar man who calls himself noble. I like Algernon, though, if he is dissipating himself to death with his weak lungs, for he has good instincts, which will never develop in this world, poor old chap. And Clara isn't at all bad. She thinks herself deep as an ocean, and is as easy to see through as a plate-glass window. Her transparency is quite delightful; one sees her making her hand for every trick, and yet feels quite sure she will win the game, and at any rate she never makes rows; she fights with the rapier, not with the broadsword. Also at bottom she isn't unkind.

At this point he found a bus, and having clambered on to the top of it, still followed his train of thought.

Let's look at the other side of the picture. I criticize my uncle and Clara, and they criticize me. They look on me as a spoiled darling, ruined by an adoring mother, now happily departed, and they consider me vain because people think me clever; also opinionated because so far—well, I have done well in my small way. Further, they dislike my views of life and duty, which are opposed to the interests and instincts of their gilded, pinchbeck rank, and do not appreciate the connection with the common medical student who probably will never be heard of in the world. Nor can they understand that such an earth-worm may have ideas of his own and wish to make his private tunnel out of sight of the golden creatures who walk about in Cavendish Square. Well, Andrew, they are quite right as they see things; also, I dare say that you are offensive, though the patients in the hospital don't think so. And you are quite right as you see the things. So the upshot of it is, that you had better go your own way and leave them to go theirs towards the oblivion which will swallow you all. But all the same, you are sorry for Algernon, the noble inheritor of West's Whisky.

In due course Andrew reached his rooms in a little street that opened off the Whitechapel Road. It was, and probably still is, a rather squalid-looking street where dwelt small tradesmen, with a proportion of the humbler class of Jews. The houses were of stucco with basements but not tall, and the one in which Andrew lived was inhabited by the widow of a working tailor and her little daughter. Fortunately the tailor had insured his life for £1200 so that his relict was not left penniless, and being an inveterate Londoner, preferred to live on among the people whom she knew.

To occupy herself she had taken to dealing in second-hand clothes and furs in a small way and, more for company than for anything else, she took a lodger in her two upper rooms. Her name was Mrs. Josky, though from what country Josky the departed originally hailed Andrew never discovered. Probably he, or his father, was a Polish Jew. She herself was a plain, good-tempered, bustling and talkative little Cockney, full of a lively sympathy with everybody and everything. Like most of her class she was, however, somewhat superficial, except in one particular, her love for her daughter, a little girl of nine whose big dark eyes, premature development and Eastern style of budding beauty, revealed her Semitic blood. This child Mrs. Josky adored. She was her one passion in life (Josky, apparently, had produced no deep impression upon her during their brief association).

Therefore it came about that she also adored Andrew, for what reason will be seen.

After his mother's death Andrew gave up the little house in Campden Hill where they had lived so happily, and having stored the best of the furniture together with a few heirlooms, looked for lodgings near the hospital where he was studying, with the double object of being close to his work and of observing the people of the East End.

Casually walking down Justice Street, for so it was oddly called, as he presumed because some forgotten Daniel had once come to judgment there, he reached No. 13, and observed that over the little shop of which the window was filled with old coats and rather moth-eaten fur garments, was exhibited a placard inscribed, "Good rooms to let with meals." There were very similar placards in many other windows, but the unconventional Andrew was attracted to No. 13 by a desire to defy superstition.

So in due course he became Mrs. Josky's tenant, and very comfortable she made him from the first. A little later on, however, had he been living in a good house with a devoted mother and a staff of well-trained servants, he could not have been better looked after. It happened thus. Shortly after he took up his abode in Justice Street, the little girl, who was named Lauretta, or Laurie for short, contracted pneumonia very badly indeed. Although he was not yet a qualified practitioner, Andrew diagnosed the disease at once, with the result that implore as he would, Mrs. Josky absolutely refused to call in any doctor, declaring that young Mr. West was cleverer than all of them put together, and that he and no one else should attend Laurie. Nor would she have a nurse, not from motives of economy, but because of a kind of fierce maternal jealousy which prevented her from allowing any other woman to come near her child. The end of it was that Andrew had to double the part of physician and night-nurse, rather an exhausting business for a young man who worked all day, especially as, this being his first case, he was filled with doubts and anxieties.

Well, by good luck or good management, with the accompaniment of the most devoted care, he pulled the child through. When he was able to assure Mrs. Josky that she was quite out of danger, that good woman threw her arms round his neck, kissed him and said that she would die for him if need be, as no doubt she would have been quite willing to do.

After this Andrew was more comfortable than ever in those lodgings and lived like a fighting-cock. In time he slowly awoke to the fact that his bills were singularly small for the amount of food that he consumed, and on investigation, discovered that Mrs. Josky was practically supporting him. Then there was a row, also there were tears and he threatened to go away. He insisted that she should produce books to show the cost of what she bought for him. Mrs. Josky, whose leading characteristic was obstinacy, refused to do anything of the sort and even accused herself of theft in the sense of feeding herself and her child out of his provisions. At last they compromised. He paid more for his board; Mrs. Josky concealed the books and he lived even better than he had done before. Moreover, all his clothes were pressed and mended and, although he knew it not, some of his undergarments, such as shirts, were made for nothing. No wonder he had declared to Clara that £200 a year was wealth to an East End doctor!

Andrew arrived at Justice Street at about half-past four, the time at which he was accustomed to return from the hospital and have tea. The pretty little Laurie, who loved him almost as much as her mother did, was, as usual, looking out for him from the doorstep, and seeing him while yet a long way off, called out to her mother in the back regions, informing her of his advent. Mrs. Josky called back that all was ready, and proceeded to kill the fatted calf by breaking two fresh eggs, which were expensive just then, into the frying-pan. To be accurate, she broke three, for having conceived suspicions of Number Two, she put it aside for her own consumption, rather liking the taste of straw, as she explained to Laurie.

Andrew arrived, kissed Laurie according to the rule, searched for and found in his velveteen coat a little packet of chocolate creams of which she was extremely fond, and went up to his room to tidy himself for, as it happened, he had an engagement that afternoon. When he came into the sitting-room, after washing his hands and brushing his hair, he was met by Mrs. Josky bearing a spotless tray with a real china teapot that she had obtained from some one in temporary difficulties in exchange for a pair of second-hand boots, with a cup and muffin dish full of hot buttered toast to match, and followed by Laurie, who supported in her thin little hands the dish with the fried eggs.

"Good gracious! Mrs. Josky," he said, "I don't want all that. Besides, I am going out to tea."

"Then you should have said so earlier," she replied with firmness, adding, "not but what I guessed it when I saw that letter in a lady's writing this morning; also that you had bought a new toothbrush which you didn't want."

"Your intuition is wonderful, Mrs. Josky, but please take away those eggs. Laurie can eat them."

"I should like to see her do it," replied Mrs. Josky darkly, "teaching the child to steal my lodger's food, indeed. Look here, Mr. West, either you eat those eggs or they go straight into the dustbin, which you know would be a wicked waste. Come now," she added in soothing tones as though she were addressing an invalid off his feed, "you know you want them with all your hard work, passing examinations and such, and you, as I believe, still growing."

"I can't and I won't," said Andrew. "I've had a gigantic lunch."

"You can and you will," replied Mrs. Josky with decision as she drew a chair to the table.

Then Andrew sat down and ate the eggs under her stern eye, also the buttered toast, for his appetite was excellent, while she poured out the tea which cost more per pound than she would have cared to tell him. No wonder he always declared there was no tea like Mrs. Josky's.

"Where are you going to your next tea, Mr. West?" she inquired as she gathered up the plates.

"To Doctor Watson's," he answered, "whose assistant I shall be if I get through."

"Oh! to Miss Watson's, are you. I thought it was her writing on the letter. Well, there's no denying that she's a beautiful young woman, for I've seen her several times at church and treats and such like, of the sort that young gentlemen like to have tea with, not minding how it's made, though a bit of a fool I should think, if they do call her the Whitechapel Rose."

"Great Scot! what a name," said Andrew, "though as a matter of fact she is named Rose. But why do you say she is a bit of a fool, Mrs. Josky?"

"Just because one woman knows another," she replied with a mysterious shake of the head. "Also because God Almighty don't give everything all at once. If a girl is as lovely as all that outside, you mark my words she ain't got nothing inside. Look at me," she added, thrusting forward her angular and kindly little face with the brown eyes in which humour twinkled, "I ain't no beauty, am I? Whatever Josky, being after all a man, could see in me I never could guess—but I'm pretty good at cooking, and not so bad at a deal, either."

"There's something in the argument," reflected Andrew. "I've seen it exemplified in very handsome men. But, as regards Miss Watson, I had formed rather a different opinion. Well, well, we shall see."

"Yes, Mr. West, I dare say you will," remarked Mrs. Josky with emphasis, and departed carrying the tray.

When she had gone Andrew retired to his bedroom and tidied up again. Looking at his hair he recognized that it was long and regretted that recently he had found no time to have it cut. Now it was too late. Suddenly he remembered an ancient pot of pomade, at least he thought it was pomade, which, amongst other débris removed from his mother's house, stood in a cupboard in a corner. He found it. Inspection was not very satisfactory and it smelt. After all, was it pomade? At this stage in its career nothing short of analysis could tell. Still, in his anxiety to curb his rebellious locks he risked it, only to discover that it was decayed ointment which as a lad he had used upon his hands after they had been chafed by over-rowing on the Thames. That was when it was already on, and nothing short of prolonged shampooing would have removed it. Next, after reflection, he changed the red tie for a brown one that was somewhat less seedy, slipping over it a beautiful antique gem in an eighteenth-century setting that represented Venus rising from the sea, which had come to him from his father. About the velveteen coat he hesitated, but finally decided to leave it alone because he could not be bothered to hunt for another.

From all of which things it will be gathered that Andrew desired to look his best at the tea-party to which he was going, an impulse that had not overtaken him when departing to lunch with his grand relatives at Cavendish Square. Near the front door he met Mrs. Josky who eyed him with suspicion, remarked that he had on his Sunday tie, and sniffed.

"What's the matter?" asked Andrew.

"Well, Sir," she said, "I did think something might have gone wrong with those drains again, there was such a smell down that back yard, and now it seems to have come here too."

"Oh! I know," remarked Andrew guiltily. "I found some stuff that had gone bad and threw it away."

"Indeed, then it's a pity, Sir, that you threw it on to your hair first."

After this Andrew fled, leaving Mrs. Josky still sniffing on the door-step.

Holding his hat in his hand, for he knew the cause of Mrs. Josky's suspicions and wished to air his head, Andrew pursued his way through the devious streets of Whitechapel, till he came to a remote region in the neighbourhood of the river. Here in some bygone generation there had been houses of importance, occupied no doubt by prosperous tradesmen or merchants of the day. One of these, a red brick Georgian mansion of some pretensions, stood among a mass of mean dwellings that, as the value of land increased, had been built on what were once its extensive gardens, whereof nothing remained except a desolate little patch of ground in front of the house, upon which stood the foundation walls of a long-departed greenhouse. This dwelling, which was still known as Red Hall probably from its colour, was now the abode, private and professional, of Dr. Watson, a very eminent man in his way, but one whose career had been injured by his peculiarities and his open, often ill-timed, advocacy of extreme Socialistic views.

Mounting the dirty steps Andrew came to the front door, the massive dignity of which many successive layers of different coloured paints and graining could not conceal. Indeed, a splinter chipped off by the vagrant stone of some mischievous boy, showed that it was made of no humbler wood than old Honduras mahogany, while the tarnished brass knocker of twisted snakes also testified to the former standing of the house within.

As the bell was out of action he applied himself to this knocker for some time without result. At length the door was opened by a dilapidated, snuff-coloured little woman with watery eyes and hair that looked like faded tow, who appeared to be irritated at being summoned from the lower regions.

"Why couldn't you go round by the surgery, Brother West" (everybody at Red Hall called each other Brother or Sister), she asked in a high and squeaky voice which suggested an effort to smother tears. "Here I am with the tea to get ready, to say nothing of the supper to cook, and the kettle boiling over at this very moment into the gas stove, making enough smell to poison one, and you come hammering, hammering at the front door which Sister Rose is too proud to open, till I don't know the teapot from the saucers."

"I'm sorry, Sister Angelica, but I thought the Doctor might be busy in the surgery."

"Busy! Of course he's busy. He's always busy doing work for a pack of ragamuffins who never give him so much as a thank-you. What's more, he's got that Harley Street swell, the famous Somerville Black who looks after the Royalties and has three carriages and pairs, in there with him."

"Somerville Black!" said Andrew with respect. "What's he doing here? It's scarcely his beat."

"Oh! I don't know. Some case the Doctor's got hold of which interests him. A girl who's the daughter of a fish-hawker and thinks that she's three girls and acts as such."

"Three girls!"

"Yes, Brother, or rather two girls, one herself and the other a farmer's daughter, and a dead woman, I think it is Mary Queen of Scots, or Lady Jane Grey, or some one. When she's herself she talks fish and swears as might be expected with her bringing up. When she's the farmer's daughter she talks cows and pigs and lectures on agriculture, although she's never been out of Whitechapel or seen one of them alive; and when she's the party that was going to be beheaded she takes on wonderfully, just like Shakespeare, the Doctor says."

At this moment a dull explosion sounded from below.

"Heavens above! there's that gas stove blowing up," exclaimed Sister Angelica, and vanished away like a grey ghost, leaving Andrew to his own devices.

III. ROSE

Andrew, who knew the house, went down the long centre passage to a certain door and opening it, entered a very pleasing Early Georgian room whereof the walls were covered by large pine panels, once painted white no doubt, but now of a faded grey, and remarkable for a beautiful Adam mantelpiece, carved pine cornices, and a moulded ceiling of the period. It was well furnished, too, in its way, for furniture, when he could pick it up cheap, was Dr. Watson's one extravagance. Thus there were some good Queen Anne pieces; also a really fine Elizabethan refectory table, untouched and with the true bulbous legs (Sister Angelica hated that table because it took so much polishing). Lastly, there were a few excellent pictures also picked up by Dr. Watson, and over the whole place brooded a kind of peaceful charm as is sometimes observable in Queen Anne or Georgian rooms.

Noting to his disappointment that the place was empty, Andrew walked up and down casually examining the pictures and wondering whether Miss Rose had told him to come at five, or half-past. For ten minutes or more he continued to wonder, till at length that young lady appeared. Certainly she was a charming sight as she glided into the room wearing a white dress which, though simple, fitted her tall and rather stately figure well enough. Anywhere Rose Watson would have been reckoned a beautiful woman, one among ten thousand. She had all the points of beauty; an exquisitely tinted face, large blue eyes, a shapely head on which her plentiful golden hair was coiled like a crown, a sweet mouth, a well-cut nose not too sharp, and long, delicate hands and feet. Also her voice was low and gentle and her movements were full of native grace. In short, she was lovely, a perfect type of the Eternal Feminine.

"How do you do, Mr. West?" she said, colouring slightly, perhaps because of the evident admiration that was written in his eyes, or perhaps because it was her weakness, or her gift, so to do when she addressed a man. "Forgive me if I do not call you Brother after our silly fashion here, but really I can't."

"The last thing in the world I wish is that you should call me Brother," he answered in a rather shy way, adding, "About whatever others I may be indefinite, upon that point I am quite clear."

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting," she went on hurriedly, dropping the blue eyes, "but that silly old Angelica has made some frightful mess with the gas stove and nearly blew us all up. I found her covered with blacks and with a lock of her hair on fire."

"I dare say," replied Andrew. "Tow burns easily, doesn't it?"

She laughed a little and remarked good-naturedly:

"Well, it is rather like tow now you mention it. Then I hear that Dr. Somerville Black is coming into tea and I had to find the best things. I wish he wouldn't."

"So do I," murmured Andrew.

"Oh!" she continued with an outburst of genuine feeling, "how horrible it is to be poor and have only one servant, or rather none at all, for Angelica is a kind of cousin, you know, not a servant."

"I'm not sure," said Andrew. "Poverty has its advantages. You, I understand, would like to be rich."

"Of course I should. I will be quite honest about it. I should like to have carriages and jewels and proper dresses and a fine house with lots of people to wait on me. Then I should be quite happy," and she laughed again in her charming, rather childish fashion.

"Perhaps you wouldn't be happy after all, Miss Watson. I have just come from seeing some people who have all these things in abundance and they are not happy—except perhaps Clara," he mused aloud.

She looked up quickly as though she would like to ask who Clara was, but if so, she refrained and only said:

"Wouldn't you like to be rich, Mr. West? But perhaps you will one day."

"I don't think so," he answered, shrugging his shoulders, "unless I should become a successful man like Somerville Black, which is most improbable, and I don't know that I want to."

She considered him for a little while in an innocent way, playing with the red rose she wore in the bosom of her white dress, but said nothing.

"What's the use of riches?" he went on, suddenly taking fire. "At best they are only an addition. I'd rather have health, or happiness, or ability, or the power to do good to others, than any amount of riches. At the present moment," he added slowly, "to take a concrete example, I'd rather have that rose than a cheque for a thousand pounds."

Again she laughed gently, looking at him doubtfully, but not without a certain amount of admiration, as she answered:

"When it has faded, say by to-morrow morning, you may think that you would rather have had the thousand pounds. However, if you believe it worth so much, you can have it for nothing, because, because—I have a prettier one upstairs."

"I am content with that because you have worn it," he answered, stretching out his hand.

She began to unfasten the rose, which seemed to be an intricate and lengthy operation, and Andrew apparently thought it an act of common kindness to try to help her, with the result that he pricked his finger rather badly. However, it was out at last and in his hand. Then something happened to him. His heart began to beat violently, a mist swam before his eyes, he lost his reason, his judgment, everything that distinguished him in ordinary moments, as, in short, Nature for her own purposes decrees that most men and some women must occasionally do. The issue was that quite undesignedly and without the smallest premeditation he kissed that lovely girl full upon the lips.

"Oh!" she said, turning the exact colour of the red rose in his hand and looking first as though she were going to cry and then to laugh; for to tell the truth at that instant laughter was nearer to her than were tears. "Oh! you know you oughtn't to do that."

"I don't care," said Andrew defiantly. "I love you."

What else he would have said or done remains dark, for at that moment footsteps were heard in the passage and a big genial voice saying:

"In all my professional experience, which is fairly extended, I do not think I ever met such a case. Of course, we are aware that a woman is never what she seems to be, except when she is in a rage, but you don't often find one who announces herself to be three people and without any histrionic training plays all the parts so well."

"No," answered another rather dreamy voice, that of Dr. Watson. "It suggests all sorts of queer things, doesn't it? For example, reincarnation and the imprisonment of sundry entities in one corporeal shape."

"Ah! Doctor," said the big voice of Somerville Black, "there you are getting into mysticism, which personally I find it safer always to put out of court. To me, therefore, at present it suggests an unusual and most complicated case of nerves, resulting probably from suppressed instincts."

Then came a crash, followed by:

"Hullo! Ma'am, I didn't see you coming."

"Oh!" exclaimed Rose, "that idiot Angelica has run into him with the tea-tray in the dark passage," and promptly she sped like a swallow towards the door.

As she reached it, it opened, and behold! there was a second collision, this time between Rose and the large advancing shape of Dr. Somerville Black.

With another "Oh!" she recoiled, as a bird might that had unexpectedly come into contact with a bull, and would have fallen had not the advancing Andrew caught her.

"I begin to think," went on the big voice, "that I have been reincarnated as a shunting railway truck. However, young lady," he added, suddenly realizing the kind of person with whom he had to do, "if you like to come out of that friendly shelter and charge again, I am sure I don't mind."

Then followed explanations, in the midst of which Dr. Watson, who had stayed behind in the passage to assist with the overset crockery, arrived upon the scene. He was a tall, thin, nervous-looking man, with dark eyes and a clean-shaved, ascetic face that would have become a mediæval saint, on which from time to time appeared a smile of singular sweetness. Idealist was written all over him, especially in his eyes which had the dreaming look of the typical visionary. Curiously enough, there was a considerable resemblance between him and Andrew; indeed, they might easily have passed for father and son. Nor did this cease with their physical characteristics, since their mental fibre and attitude were very similar. Both of them were dreamers, both were somewhat impracticable, neither of them had in him the making of a successful man, as the world understands success. Of course, it was the lack of these qualities, as also the presence of others, that drew the two together. From the time that Andrew had appeared at the hospital, a shy, awkward, unusual kind of youth, Dr. Watson had taken a fancy to him which, as years went on, ripened into as much friendship as is possible between men of such different ages. He became his favourite pupil, and somehow it was always understood, without anything very definite being said on the matter, that when he was qualified he would join Dr. Watson in his Whitechapel practice.

Catching sight of him the Doctor's face brightened with one of his sweet smiles.

"How do you do, Brother Andrew?" he said. "Very glad to see you and to congratulate you."

Dr. Somerville Black, a man of quick perceptions, glanced quickly at all three of them and then said, addressing Rose:

"Ha-ha, young lady, now I see why you refuged where you did, in this young gentleman's arms, though to tell the truth, unless I had your father's word for it, and I suppose he ought to know, I should never have believed that you were brother and sister, even when he is so obviously your father's son."

Now Rose coloured in her usual fashion. Dr. Watson looked puzzled, and Andrew, with some irritation, for this term of Brother where Rose was concerned annoyed him, explained that there was a slight mistake as he was unconnected with anyone in the room.

"It is our habit," added Dr. Watson, "to give the fraternal salutation to friends in this house, as is customary among the community of Christian Socialists to which I and my family belong."

"Oh! is it?" said Black, with one of his loud, jolly laughs. "Personally I was never so fond of my relations as to wish to extend their number, especially in Whitechapel. However, Sister, to adopt the sororal style, as I think the other Sister in the passage has upset the tea all down my back, I shall be grateful if you can lend me a cloth. I have to go on to see a royal lady, and those infernal flunkeys might notice the stain."

The article was produced from somewhere and snatching it from Rose's hand, Andrew began to rub his back.

"I think, young gentleman," exclaimed Somerville Black, "that our joint Sister there could conduct this operation just as effectively with an expenditure of exactly one-fourth of the muscular force. Unless you are careful, you will wear a hole through my new frock-coat. But why is Brother, or Uncle, or Father Watson offering you his congratulations? Have you perhaps just entered upon some contract of a prenuptial character with our Sister? I seem to diagnose symptoms indicative of the complaint called Love."

If Rose had coloured before, now she turned positively scarlet. Faintly she murmured some denial and fled from the room, while Andrew commenced an involved contradiction.

"Don't waste words, young man. I think it highly probable that my diagnosis is correct, but that the disease is still in the suppressed form. The rash will appear later, say after fourteen days' incubation. If it is wrong, however, so much the better for some other fellow."

At this point Dr. Watson, who had been listening unconcernedly to his eminent colleague's jovial if unusual jesting, explained that he was congratulating Andrew on having done extremely well in his final examination, as from private sources of information he had just learned was the case. As a matter of fact being, as has been said, very fond of him, it would not have troubled him at all to learn that he and Rose were affianced. Indeed, in an indefinite way he had once or twice hoped that this might happen.

"Oh! that's it," said the jolly doctor. "So you are going to become a saw-bones like the rest of us. Well, I wish you luck and a fat practice among the Jews, and if ever you want a helping hand, don't you forget old Somerville Black, F.R.C.S., M.D., Honorary Physician to exactly twenty-three Royalties, whom he fondly hopes will pay his bill with a baronetcy shortly, since he thinks it probable that they will not do so in any other way. And now here comes our Sister to whom you are not engaged which, as an antique eligible myself who has only buried one wife, I am naturally glad to learn. Young lady, whenever you feel inclined to share a peculiarly hideous house in Harley Street with an old buffer of established income, just drop me a postcard, will you? Good gracious! What's the matter with the other Sister's head?" and he pointed to the tow-like chevelure of Angelica of which a considerable portion had been given to the flames.

"It was an accident to the gas stove," explained Rose, glad to have an opportunity of changing the subject, for Angelica seemed too overcome to speak.

"Ah! then if the scalp is burned I prescribe the application of some fatty ointment to keep away the air. Fee for consultation, two guineas. It would be three in Harley Street. And now for that tea."

All this while the bewildered Angelica was engaged in setting on the Elizabethan table at more or less irregular intervals, four stout pieces of crockery which looked like porridge-bowls or small slop basins. Then at the end of it she placed a large brown teapot, and in the middle a plate of thick bread and butter, with a handful of knives and another of teaspoons. Rose seized the teapot and began to pour into the porridge-bowls.

"Hullo!" said Somerville Black, "did we smash all the saucers?"

"No," explained Rose, tears of vexation springing to her eyes. "We have no saucers. Father does not consider them necessary, and I am sorry to say that the best set of bowls was smashed."

"Oh! I see. The simple life! Well, don't look vexed, young lady. These things are capital, or would be if only they had a handle. Just show me how you get hold of them, will you? With both hands, I suppose. By George, what a beautiful table this is!"

"Yes," said Dr. Watson, waking up, for as usual he had been paying no attention. "It is rather fine, isn't it? Real Elizabethan and, except for those initials cut on it, without blemish."

"Jolly," said Somerville Black. "I like oak; there's something solid about it. When you see another like it, just let me know will you, and Sister, this is the best tea I have tasted for many a day. No, take away that bread and butter, or I shall eat the lot. There, now I must be going. Haven't enjoyed myself so much for months, so don't you be surprised if I come back. Good-bye, Sister, what's your name?"

"Rose," she murmured.

"Then it is one that suits you very well. Good-bye, Sister Rose, and Brother, what's your name—oh! West, Brother West, and Father Watson, and Aunt, what do you say? Angelica? Aunt Angelica. I'll remember you all to the royal ladies."

So, still shouting chaff over his shoulder, he ran from the house and disappeared into the magnificent carriage and pair that was waiting at the gate.

"Thank heaven he is gone!" said Andrew, who for some time had been sunk in a gloomy silence.

"Why?" asked Rose.

"Because he is vulgar and overpowering and makes bad jokes, and goes on as if the whole place and everybody in it belonged to him."

"Well, at any rate, he is cheerful and I am sure he meant to be very kind, and there isn't too much cheerfulness and kindness about here."

"Good thing too," muttered Andrew, "if they are of his variety."

"It is a curious thing about Somerville Black," broke in Dr. Watson, evidently following the line of his own thoughts, "that being a man quite without real distinction in our profession he is yet in his own way one of the best and most successful doctors whom I ever knew. I suppose it is to be accounted for by his intense humanity, I mean his insight into the hearts of his fellow-creatures which springs from his wide sympathies. Now he had never met any of you before, but if you were taken with an obscure disease I am sure that he would diagnose it correctly before you had been three minutes in his consulting-room, because already he has added you up and weighed your respective strengths and weaknesses. Then, unless the case was very simple, he would leave the doctoring of you to some one else who is an expert in that particular line, for his power is almost purely one of diagnosis and his gift of healing lies in his magnetic personality."

"Sounds rather like faith-cure," said Andrew disparagingly. Then, prompted by the sense of justice that was so strong in him, he added, "At any rate, he must know something as well, as he is an F.R.C.S."

"Oh! when he became that they were not so particular as they are nowadays; also, I dare say he hypnotized the examiners and made them take a great deal for granted. Anyhow, he hasn't touched a knife for twenty years. Not but that he does know a great deal in his own way."

"I suppose that he is really very rich, Father?" said Rose.

"I believe about the richest man in the profession, though he did not make it all out of doctoring. They say that the Jews who come to consult him, give him information and opportunities of investing in all their best things on what is called the 'ground floor.' He cannot have inherited his wealth, as I believe his origin was quite humble, and he has no one to leave it to except one peevish daughter who suffers from hypochondria and is as unlike him as possible. She bores him so much that he told me some time ago he really thought of marrying again if only to get the comfort of a home."

Rose looked as though she would like to ask whether the lady had been selected, but if so, thought better of it and asked nothing. Then, glancing at his watch, the doctor rose and went away, leaving the two alone.

Rose murmured something about clearing away the tea things, but Andrew came and stood beside her and said:

"No, don't go away, I want to speak to you."

In his voice there was some note of command such as a man uses towards a woman whom he believes to be his, and Rose was of the class that is susceptible to such exercise of authority, whether justified or not. Also, she was curious, for her instinct told her what was coming and she wished to know whether this attractive young man was in love with her, and if so, how much. A proposal, if he meant to propose, had not come her way before, and it was only natural that she should not wish to nip it in the bud. Lastly, life at Whitechapel was dull and here was a new excitement. So she remained seated and looked up at him through the shadows of the gloaming, like an angel out of mist.

For a moment or two Andrew played with the rose in his buttonhole, and looked down at her with a strange fire in his dark eyes. At last he spoke in a broken, uncertain voice:

"Rose, just before that troublesome man came in I told you that I loved you. Then there was the crash, a rather ill-omened crash," he added with a little laugh as though uttering a thought aloud, and paused.

She made no answer, unless a sigh could be so described.

"Now I repeat it," he went on, "in case you should have forgotten in the interval."

Still she made no answer, being one of those women who feel that their greatest strength lies in silence and forget that it is generally taken to mean consent. Her tender beauty, the grace of her form, the scent that rose from her rippling hair, the loveliness of her eyes into which the twilight seemed to have crept, in their sum intoxicated him who for the first time had passed beneath the yoke of passion. He fell to his knees before her; he cast his arms about her slender waist; he kissed her dress, her hands and then, growing reckless or unknowing, drew her down towards him and pressed his lips upon her face, her eyes, her hair; yes, and on her lips also.

She did not resist him, she let him have his way, only she never kissed him back. While she refrained from that, according to her peculiar code, the rest did not matter. Gently she pushed him away from her and rose. He also rose and stood trembling, ashamed of what he had done.

"I love you! I love you!" he repeated. "You are my angel and my star."

She smiled a little. Somehow it had never occurred to her to think of herself as either an angel or as a star. Nor did she particularly wish to fill those parts however figuratively, who was quite content to remain just a beautiful young woman in the flesh.

"I know," she murmured indefinitely, then paused.

"Oh! say more than that," he went on with passion. "Say that you love me also."

"I don't know," she replied still more indefinitely.

"But you must; you must. It is impossible that I can love so much and not be loved back again. You must love me. You must marry me, Rose."

At these words she looked up quickly. So he was going all the way—he meant marriage.

"I have never thought much of love, Andrew, and you are very young to talk of marriage. Also, how could we marry when we have nothing to live on?"

"I have something," he answered, "a couple of hundred a year or so, and my profession."

"I'm afraid that won't be worth much to you for a long while, especially as you have made up your mind to work in Whitechapel where everybody expects to be doctored for nothing."

Now an idea occurred to Andrew, namely, to tell her that he had other prospects of a sort. He rejected it, however, first because they could not materialize except through the death of others, on which it seemed mean and unworthy to speculate, and secondly for the reason that he shared Dr. Watson's prejudices about rank—to a certain extent his contempt for it, and in short held the whole business sordid, not mete for discussion with this divine and adorable creature. Perhaps it was the greatest mistake of his life, or the wisest act. It depends in what light it is regarded in view of all that was to come. What could such things matter, he reflected, when love, holy, unalterable love and nothing less was at stake? So of those prospects he said nothing.

"Besides," went on Rose, who had employed the interval in marshalling her arguments, "there is my father to be considered. If I married, he would be quite alone, and I promised my mother that I would always look after him. I could never break that promise, Andrew, just to please myself."

"You might look after us both," he suggested.

She shook her delicate head, and said:

"Three in a house would never agree, especially when both had such claims. You would grow jealous and he would be sore, and what would a poor woman do between you?"

"Then do you refuse me?" he asked bluntly. "Oh! don't tell me that you refuse me."

"I never said so," she replied, looking down. "I must have time to think."

"Oh! take it then," he answered. "I can come back to-morrow."

"You silly, Andrew! I mean a long time, at least a year. So many things happen in a year and by then I should know—my own heart. In a year, too, you would know if you really cared about me. You must remember that in a way I am the first girl you have met, and doubtless you will see others whom you may think more suitable for many reasons and—better-looking."

"I shall see no others," he replied sternly.

"Well, even if you do not, surely you would not wish to take advantage of my weakness and inexperience to press me to an irrevocable decision. It would not be like you to do so, because you know that a girl who is openly engaged is always tarnished if after all it should come to nothing—whatever the reason."

As it happened no argument could have been used more likely to appeal to Andrew. He tarnish Rose? Perish the thought! Sooner would he die.

"I see," he said. "I never looked at it in that light. Take your year. At the end of it I shall claim you, and you will give me the answer that I want."

She smiled in a dazzling fashion and avoiding that issue, said:

"Very well, so it is agreed. Meanwhile we will be the dearest of friends and you will say nothing as to an engagement, and I will say nothing even to my father. And now, dear Andrew, good night. I hope you will always think of me as I think of you and come to see me whenever you can. Oh! I never said that you might kiss me again, but after all, one more makes no difference."

IV. SOMERVILLE BLACK

It is doubtful whether all London held a happier man than was Andrew that night. Of course he was not finally and openly engaged, but then how good were Rose's reasons against such a course. How noble and unselfish! She thought of her father as a loving daughter should; she thought of him, Andrew, believing—though what put such a mad idea into her head he could not conceive—that he might wish to change his mind; she thought of what he would feel if by any chance their open betrothal came to an end, and he knew that thereby he had caused her name to be breathed upon; she thought, too, of how he might be hampered if he married very young and without sufficient means. In short, she thought of everybody and everything but herself. Oh! indeed she was a pearl above price, a woman whom a king might be glad to marry, an angel, one almost too good for this world. And she had let him kiss her, not once but often, and he knew—oh! full surely—that never, never would she have allowed this unless her heart told her that he was the one man on earth to whom she wished to give that holy right.

He walked back to Justice Street treading so lightly that figuratively he seemed to float, a precious sensation which is granted occasionally to the young. Mrs. Josky saw him coming from her point of vantage on the doorstep and, like Dr. Somerville Black, at once diagnosed the case.

"He's been and gone and done it," she said to herself. "Poor young man!"

Then she fled to prepare the supper.

A little later she arrived with that meal to find Andrew gazing rapturously at the ceiling.

"Anything wrong with the plaster, Mr. West?" she asked, "or are you expecting an angel to come down into Justice Street, because if so, I fancy you will have to wait a long while."

"I was only thinking, Mrs. Josky."

"What of? Medicines and such-like?" Then her eye fell upon the rose. "You had better put it in water," she said, pointing to that flower, "for I think you've seen the best of it. Or perhaps you would like to press it, for then, being wired, it will hold together a long time, until you want to throw it away or get another."

"That's a good idea," said Andrew, and going to a shelf he took down a massive medical work (it chanced to be on diseases of the heart), and reverently deposited the rose between the pages.

"Better put some tissue-paper round it," suggested Mrs. Josky, "or it will stain the pretty picture" (which was one of the pectoral cavity cut open to reveal the organs within).

Again Andrew obeyed while Mrs. Josky watched him gloomily.

"Is that a very rare sort of rose, Mr. West," she asked while she pretended to arrange the plates, "that you take such particular care of it? Or is there some other reason?"

Andrew could resist no longer. He must communicate his joy, and here was an ideal confidante, one who would triumph with him, and understand.

"There is another reason, Mrs. Josky," he said solemnly. "This flower means a great deal to me; it is the gift of the lady whom I love."

"Is it, indeed, Mr. West? Well, it is pretty and it didn't cost her much, but does the lady love you?"

"Oh! yes, I think so. There are some things which young and innocent girls don't say right out, you know, Mrs. Josky. But in view of what passed——" and he paused.

"Ah! kisses and the rest, I suppose. I've heard of them before, I have indeed. But what did pass, Mr. West? If you feel moved to tell me, I'll tell you what I think."

So Andrew told her at great length and with an extraordinary wealth of detail, nor, although it agonized her to know that the chops were getting cold, did Mrs. Josky attempt to cut him short.

"I forgot," said Andrew, when at length the history came to an end. "I promised secrecy; however, as you don't know who the lady is, it doesn't matter."

"No, I don't know, so of course it doesn't matter. But I was trying to think this business out, Mr. West. You are kind of engaged to some one you met suddenlike, but she isn't engaged to you?"

"No, now you mention it, Mrs. Josky, not exactly engaged."

"In short, the hook's in your mouth, but not in hers, and a year hence you are to find out whether she likes the taste of the bait."

"I should never have thought of calling it a hook, Mrs. Josky."

"Of course not, nobody does who is the right side of thirty. But somehow I didn't treat Josky like that, all take and no give, so to speak; and what's more, I don't think he would have stood it, if I had, for he wasn't romantic, wasn't Josky. 'Now you make up your mind, Emma,' he said to me, 'for I've got five minutes to spare for this job and no longer.'"

"Perhaps," suggested Andrew, "the temperament of the late Mr. Josky and my own differ somewhat."

"There ain't no doubt about that, Mr. West. They differs a lot. Well, there it is, you've gone through the top and one day you'll come out at the bottom, and then you'll know how you like it. Everybody does that kind of thing; why, I did myself before I met Josky. And now I'll take those chops down and warm them up."

"I don't want any chops," murmured Andrew.

"But you'll eat them all the same to support you through the trials of this mortal life," and she departed, leaving him wondering.

Somehow the tale of his perfect romance had not been as enthusiastically received as he could have hoped. But then Mrs. Josky was—well, Mrs. Josky, and could hardly be expected to understand.

As a matter of fact that good woman understood with almost painful clearness.

"She's a baggage, is that Rose Watson," she said, addressing a vagrant black-beetle in the kitchen which she had failed to squash, "with no more heart than a dead heifer. She's keeping him hanging on, poor boy, while she looks round to see if she can't do better. Well, after all, her looks are her fortune, as the saying goes, and she mustn't be blamed if she takes them to the highest market. Still, I'm sorry for him, poor boy, for he thinks the world of her. It's just like the measles and he's got to get through with them, and that's all there is about it."

Three days later Andrew went to tea again at Red Hall, but somehow never got a word alone with Rose, for Sister Angelica and a friend were constantly in evidence, and however long he sat seemed determined to sit longer. On the famous Elizabethan table, however, he observed a new set-out of china which, being a young man of taste and having some knowledge of such things, he was well aware must have been as costly as it was beautiful.

"What a pretty tea-service," he remarked.

"Yes," replied Rose, colouring. "Isn't it kind of Doctor Somerville Black? He sent them to me with a charming note to make up for those which he broke in the passage."

"Oh!" said Andrew. "I thought Sister Angelica broke them by running the tray into his back."

"Yes, I did," said Angelica, "it was so dark with all the doors shut and no gas lit."

Then the subject dropped, but Andrew left the rest of his tea undrunk in the lovely Sèvres cup. Rose observed it as she observed everything, and took an opportunity to touch his hand and give him one of her most angelic glances. Also, when he went away, she pressed it and gave him another heavenly look, and once more he walked home on air, yet feeling as if there were something just a little wanting. Also, he wished that the opulent Somerville Black would keep his antique Sèvres tea-services to himself.

As time went on he wished it a great deal more, since Somerville Black always seemed to be about the place. His interest in the young woman with the three personalities was apparently insatiable; also, it spread to other of Dr. Watson's cases. As it happened, however, Andrew saw very little of him. Chance, or something else, so arranged matters that they did not come across each other. Once they met upon the doorstep of Red Hall when the jovial doctor favoured him with a jest or two, asking him which member of the "floral kingdom" attracted his attention in the house. At first Andrew could not understand the riddle, but afterwards remembered that there is a plant called Angelica and another named Rose. Occasionally he saw the fine carriage drawn by high-stepping horses speeding down the Whitechapel streets and inside of it caught sight of the doctor, looking more imposing and larger than ever in a resplendent fur-lined coat. One cold day, about this time too, he met Rose in the street, and noticed that she also was wearing a very beautiful long fur garment made of the finest sealskin with a collar and cuffs apparently of sable, which became her graceful figure very well indeed. He told her so, whereon she coloured and changed the subject. Afterwards he remembered that his cousin Clara had a somewhat similar coat which their uncle, Lord Atterton, had given to her and that she had told him it cost a hundred guineas. So he supposed that Rose's garment must be an imitation, or perhaps one that she had inherited from her mother, since he was sure that her father could never have afforded to pay so much for such an article.

He made some allusion to the matter to Sister Angelica, who acknowledged it with a watery and vacuous smile and, like Rose, changed the subject. After this, although he was the most innocent and unsuspecting of men, it must be confessed that Andrew did sometimes wonder whence had come those wondrous furs.

So perhaps did her own father, who once then they came from visiting a patient together, observed Rose passing them on the further side of the road, remarked in his distrait manner that she seemed to be very finely dressed, then coloured a little as though a thought had struck him, and looked down at the pavement.

For now, it should be explained, Andrew, being fully qualified, was acting as a kind of assistant to Dr. Watson. There was no agreement between them; they were not partners, nor was he paid. As he was so rarely paid himself, this detail appeared to escape the doctor's mind, nor, he being in funds, did it occur very vividly to that of Andrew. He had gravitated towards the Red Hall surgery and begun to work there, that was all. Moreover, soon this work became of a very engrossing character, for the doctor's practice, as is common with those of a more or less gratis nature in a populous neighbourhood, was very large indeed and absorbed all Andrew's time. In fact, soon he found himself working about twelve hours a day, to say nothing of night calls, and with little leisure left for anything else, no, not even to visit Rose.

At intervals, however, that charming young lady did ask him to tea, though generally this happened on days when he chanced to be exceptionally busy and could not possibly be spared. It is difficult to leave Whitechapel mothers under certain circumstances when they have no one else to look after them, even to partake of tea with one's adored.

It was in connection with some most unusual case of this character, that once more he came into contact with Dr. Somerville Black. The details do not in the least matter, but the upshot of it was that Andrew, confronted by frightful and imminent emergency and with no one at hand to consult, resorted to an heroic surgical treatment which he had once read of as possible, though there was no clear record of its ever having been followed with success. Having done all he could, he ran out from the place with the object of finding Dr. Watson, leaving some local midwife in charge of the patient. In the main street he met a carriage blocked by an accident to an omnibus, and standing by it, Dr. Somerville Black who had descended to see what had happened and, as a matter of fact, was returning after taking tea at Red Hall.

The doctor caught sight of him, and with his usual keenness guessed from his face that he was in trouble.

"What's wrong, Brother West?" he asked in his jovial tones.

Andrew stopped and remembering only that here was a famous physician, briefly detailed the circumstances.

"By Jove!" said the doctor, "that's interesting. I've given up that sort of work, but if you will allow me, I should like to have a look at the case, for I remember one like it when I was a medical student, and I have got half an hour to spare."

Andrew, of course, was delighted and they returned together to the mean tenement house.

"I'll tell you what," said Somerville Black when he had finished his examination, "this is a thing that Clinton ought to see. You know who I mean, Sir Claude Clinton, the great obstetrician. He's a friend of mine, and if you will wait here I'll drive off and see if I can find him. Your treatment has been tremendous, my friend; I've never known such a thing attempted, but I'm not sure that you haven't hit on the right line of action."

Then off he went, and within a little over an hour was back with Sir Claude Clinton, a quiet, brave-faced man.

Again there was an examination, at the end of which Sir Claude turned and said to Andrew, with a little bow:

"I congratulate you on your courage and skill. I should scarcely have dared to attempt such an operation myself, and that it should have been carried out at the right moment with only the assistance of a person like that," and he nodded towards the parish midwife, "is almost unprecedented. Unless complications supervene, as is of course possible and even probable, I think that the woman should live and be none the worse. Anyhow, it was a great achievement which so far has been successful. With your leave I will meet you in consultation over this case to-morrow, should the patient still live. If she dies, perhaps you will let me have a telegram. Here is my address."

Then he departed. A few minutes later, after giving some medical directions, Dr. Somerville Black and Andrew followed him from the house. In the street outside where his carriage stood, the former said suddenly:

"What are you doing now, West? Working for our friend, Brother Watson, in his extensive but unremunerative practice?"

"Yes," answered Andrew, "and I don't know which is the more remarkable, the extent or the unremunerativeness."

"Ah! just as I thought. Well, look here, my young friend, if you will allow me to say it, I've taken a fancy to you. Don't be mistaken, I'm some judge of character though little else, for my medical reputation, as Clinton there would tell you if you asked him, is more or less a sham—I mean, it is not founded on real attainments like Clinton's. Now I've added you up pretty thoroughly and I see your weak points, which are many. For instance, you are a dreamer and an idealist, both of which qualities are mistakes in our trade, also so nervous that you will probably wear yourself out and die before you have reached my age, which is fifty-eight, whereas I, who am neither of these, hope to live another twenty years at least. Now tell me, ain't I right?"

"As to the first part of your diagnosis, I should say yes," answered Andrew. "As to the rest, perhaps so. I neither know nor care."

"Also you are very inexperienced, for book learning with a certain amount of hospital work is not experience as I understand it. But you have the insight of a fine temperament and with it courage, otherwise you could never have conceived and carried out that operation on the good woman in there at the critical instant and without assistance, one from which, as he said, Clinton himself would have shrunk. Also you have youth on your side, to regain which I would give back all that I have won in life. The upshot of it is that I like you, West, especially as you are a gentleman which I ain't quite, and—are you open to an offer?"

"What sort of an offer?" asked Andrew astonished.

"Something of this kind. You come to me as an assistant, not as a partner, mind you, with a salary of, let us say, £500 a year to begin with. Then if you do as well as I expect you will, the partnership can follow, and in a few years' time when you are old enough and I die or grow tired of it, the whole bag of tricks, which means one of the finest businesses in London, £8000 a year, for that's what my books have averaged lately after deducting twenty per cent for expenses."

Andrew heard and, understanding the magnitude and unusual nature of the offer made by one of the great men of the profession to a complete novice like himself, flushed with pride and pleasure. Yet oddly enough, his first impulse was to refuse. Why? He did not know exactly. The opening offered was splendid and made bona fide: Dr. Watson could easily replace him with some other young man anxious to gain experience, and after all, however democratic one might be, the atmosphere of Park Lane was more agreeable than that of Whitechapel. No, it was none of these things; it was that there existed some antagonism between the offerer and himself, not a personal antagonism, for individually, within his limitations, he liked Somerville Black whose essential goodness he recognised, as much as Somerville Black liked him, but rather one of circumstance. It was the facts of life that antagonized them, their interests, he felt, were directly opposite upon some vital matter which at the moment his mind did not define. All he knew was that it existed and would continue to exist, and on account of it he wished to say No.

Then another idea came to him, namely, that if he said Yes, he might be able to marry Rose within a year. By that time he was sure that he would have established himself firmly with Somerville Black and, loving him as he was quite certain that she did, that his prospects would be such that she would no longer feel it her duty to postpone their union.

These reflections settled the matter.

"Thank you," he said. "It is awfully good of you, seeing what you are and what I am, and I'll come when it is convenient for Doctor Watson to let me go. Indeed, I am very much flattered."

"No, you ain't, young man," answered Black with one of his jolly laughs. "You think me a successful Society doctor, a kind of quack, not fit to hold a candle to men like Clinton, or even Watson, and in a way you are right. But I am not altogether a quack, as I think I could prove to you if I were to take the trouble to tell you all that has been passing through your mind during the last few minutes, which I think I can guess pretty well. Learn to control your features, West, it is one of the first duties of a doctor; and don't let your eyes advertise your thoughts. Just one more thing, don't think that I am a man to take advantage of my position and money to do another any wrong. Never, never. I have to see my road pretty clear before I set foot on it, and it must be a straight one. Now I am off. This afternoon's job has cost me more than ten guineas already. Drop me a line to say when you can come and we will settle the details in any way you like. Good-bye, give my love to the Flower-garden at Red Hall, if you are going that way, and tell Sister Rose—oh! well, never mind."

He bustled off to his carriage, leaving a stream of chaff behind him as was his fashion. At its door, however, he halted and calling Andrew to him, suddenly became professional.

"Look here," he said, "about that case of yours yonder. You've done everything possible, or so Clinton would say, but I tell you there is a great deal more to do. I believe you have saved the woman's life; now it remains for you to save her mind. The probability is, although Clinton would never think of it, that when she understands what has happened, she will go mad. If you can prevent that, I shall think even better of you than I do."

I am not certain that he is not a big doctor after all, although he is jealous of Clinton because of his European reputation, thought Andrew, as he watched Somerville Black's carriage disappear amidst the motley equipages of the squalid street.

V. ARABELLA

As it happened, Andrew did visit the "Flower-garden" at Red Hall that afternoon, because Rose, for him the queen of all flowers, had asked him to tea. Owing to circumstances that have been set out, he arrived a little late for which he was reproached by Rose, who opened the front door for him.

"Oh! Andrew," she said, "I did hope that you would have been in time for once, since then we might have had a few minutes together. Now that can't be, as Angelica and my father are waiting for their tea, and immediately afterwards my cousin Emma is coming for me and we are going to the theatre where we have a box."

"What theatre? I didn't know any of them began before eight o'clock, and who gave you the box?" asked Andrew rather heavily, for something about all these announcements chilled him.

"The Haymarket, which takes a long time to reach by bus; also we must be early because of the crowd, and Emma has the box."

"I see," replied Andrew without conviction, whereon she brushed his hand with her own and after a quick glance up the passage, bent her sweet face towards him. Then, when the inevitable had happened, with a little sigh of happiness, she flitted before him into the sitting-room.

Following more slowly, for he had paused to hang up his hat, Andrew met Dr. Watson who was coming from the surgery, and stopped to report to him all that had happened in connection with his remarkable case. Watson listened entranced.

"You did right, quite right," he said, "though I'm not certain that I should have dared. However, if Clinton has approved, all is well, for I think him the greatest authority in Europe. It was good of him to come, too, but those big men are often like that and will do for nothing what they would charge fifty guineas for if they were called in. Well, my boy, you must be tired, come and have some tea. We will talk about it afterwards."

So they went in and drank tea out of the porridge-bowls, the best china not being in evidence, and Andrew, who had eaten little that day, devoured sundry slices of the thick bread and butter, also some marrons glacés which Rose presented to him in an elegant and expensive-looking box, after all of which he felt much refreshed.

Presently, in a rather nervous kind of way, like one who feels it incumbent on her to show an active interest in the proceedings of some one else, she asked Andrew what he had been doing.

"Well," he answered gaily, "if you want to know, subject to your father's consent, I have been accepting an appointment, or rather a kind of partnership in the making."

"Indeed! Oh! do tell me about it. Will you be well paid?"

"Very well, much more than I am worth, five hundred pounds a year to begin with, which means a lot to me," and he glanced at her with meaning.

"Five hundred pounds a year!" she exclaimed, opening her big blue eyes, while Sister Angelica, in a thin voice like that of a far echo, repeated, "Five hundred pounds a year!" from the shadows at the end of the long Elizabethan table, and even Dr. Watson, awaking from his reveries, looked extremely interested. "Who offered you that?" and again Sister Angelica echoed, "Who offered you that?"

"You would never guess though. It was a friend of yours, Doctor Somerville Black."

Rose's face fell.

"Really," she said in a voice so quiet that it was almost stern, "and what are you to do? Go somewhere to look after the patients whom he sends away to that watering-place of which he is so fond?"

"No," answered Andrew, "I am to stop here to help him in London."

"Oh! that will be delightful for you," she said, smiling mechanically. "And now I must try on my new dress before Emma comes to fetch me, so good-bye, An—I mean Mr. West—I do congratulate you. I do indeed." Then for one moment she let her beautiful blue eyes rest on his, and turning, glided away.

As it happened, doubtless by the merest accident, Dr. Somerville Black found himself for a little while in the box that was occupied by Rose and her cousin Emma at the Haymarket that night. Being busy he did not stop long, which in a sense did not trouble him as he was no playgoer, and in fact had not been inside a theatre for years. Arriving in the middle of an act, he waited until its end and then asked what it was all about. Rose, with the very same sweet smile and the very same glance of the perfect eyes that had entranced Andrew in the afternoon, explained to the best of her ability, which was not very well, since she had no natural gift towards synopsis.

"Ah!" said the doctor with a yawn, "most thrilling, I have no doubt, but I find real life quite interesting enough for me. You see, I have just come here from a death-bed, that of a lady who was rather great in her quiet way and who has suffered from cancer for three years without a murmur. So the sham sufferings of that painted minx at so much a night don't move me very deeply, but I am glad that you young people like them, having none of your own. By the way, I know the lady; she's consulted me several times and never paid my bill, and I who have seen more of her than you have, can tell you that she is uncommonly plain and has an execrable figure which goes out wherever it ought to come in and goes in wherever it ought to come out."

"Oh! Doctor," said Rose, "how can you say such things of the beautiful Elfrida Verney?"

"Perhaps because she hasn't paid my bill, or perhaps because they happen to be true. It isn't easy to disentangle human motives even if they chance to be one's own. By the way, did you see young West before you left home? And if so, had he any more news of that case in Hozier's Lane?"

"I saw him," answered Rose, "but he said nothing to me about Hozier's Lane."

"No, of course he wouldn't. When a man sees you, young lady, he thinks of things different to Hozier's Lanes, and people hovering on the edge of death. I admit I do myself who am nearly forty years his senior," and he looked at her and sighed.

"He told me," went on Rose, hurriedly, blushing beneath those admiring eyes, "that you had asked him to come to help you in your work."

"Yes, I did. I have a high opinion of that young man, although he has weaknesses like the rest of us. Have you anything to say against it? By your voice I gather you don't approve."

"Oh! no, though of course my father will miss him, and I should have thought that more experience among the poor would have been useful to him before he went into a fashionable practice."

"Would you, indeed. Well, my dear, now that we have come to professional matters, perhaps you will allow me to form my own judgment. I'll listen to yours on actresses or fur coats, or china, or anything that is pretty and useless, but not upon whom I should choose to be my assistant in my work, which is ugly but I hope on the whole useful, even if well paid. Now I must be off if I want to catch that lady in time, for, you see, I promised to be with her when she died and I don't give her more than another hour or two. Here, young woman, bring a couple of boxes of those chocolates, the best you've got. Now good night to both of you. I hope you will enjoy the rest of the play. You'll find my small brougham waiting outside to take you home; I've told the door-porter about it. I'll come and see you soon at Red Hall; indeed, I may be down there to-morrow about that case of West's."

Then with a smile and a nod he was gone.

"What an interesting man the Doctor is," said Cousin Emma, a neutral-tinted person who had been observing everything from the corner of the box.

"Yes, very," answered Rose in the intervals of crunching up one of the chocolates with her pearl-like teeth. "But I wish he wouldn't come here and talk about death-beds; it spoils the play." Then taking another chocolate, she added, "Hush! the curtain is going up and we mustn't miss anything."

Having triumphantly pulled his case in Hozier's Lane out of the very jaws of death and generally wound up his medical affairs with Brother Watson by inducting another young man into his honourable but unpaid share in that extensive practice, Andrew departed from Red Hall and proceeded to Harley Street. To be accurate, he did not altogether proceed since he continued to reside at Justice Street. Dr. Somerville Black had suggested that he should take rooms in his neighbourhood and even half-offered to put him up on the top floor of the great Harley Street mansion, while at the same time suggesting that he might find himself more independent elsewhere. But when Andrew brought the subject to the notice of Mrs. Josky, there was such an explosion that he never even dared to allude to it again. Growing frigid, Mrs. Josky began by asking whether he thought that he had been cheated in her house, because, if so, she was willing to produce the accounts—if she could find them, though she rather believed that she had used the most of them for Laurie's curl-papers. However, doubtless the tradesmen would "come forward" to corroborate her statements.

When Andrew disclaimed any such idea with an almost agonized emphasis, she took another tack, or rather tacks. Was the cooking not to his taste? She knew that sometimes in Whitechapel one did not get quite the freshest fish. Herself, recently, she had been made very ill by a bad herring, but she thanked both her own God and that of the deceased Josky, who was of another sort though which she had never really understood, that the said herring, although she had bought it for him, inspired her with doubts, so that she determined to eat it herself.

Again Andrew waved his hands wildly and began to explain, till she cut him short.

Perhaps, she suggested, it was the distance that troubled him. If so she had a friend, a connection indeed, for he was a relative of Josky's, who happened to be under certain obligations to her and owned a really tip-top hansom cab. For a very moderate sum this person, his horses and his cab would be at Andrew's disposal day and night, "for," added Mrs. Josky darkly, "I'll see he don't cheat you. He'd know better than to try it on with me, would Amos, unless he wants to see them hosses and that cab at his uncle's, I mean, up the spout."

Andrew murmured something about trams and buses, but again she cut him short.

"I know what it is," she said. "It's the neighbourhood which you think low, having as it were gone up in the world. Well, I have been considering a move myself. Give me a fortnight and I'll see what I can do over Harley Street way. I'm told there's a good opening for my kind of trade round about Marylebone Road."

"But it isn't the neighbourhood," gasped Andrew.

"Then it must be that there dratted girl, what they call the Whitechapel Rose," ejaculated Mrs. Josky, "and Abraham and all the prophets, as Josky used to say, only know what I am to do against her. I'll make bold to say one thing, though, Mr. Andrew, and that is, you look out that you don't find her in Harley Street before you."

"Whatever do you mean?" asked Andrew amazed.

Mrs. Josky pulled herself up, fearing that she might have gone too far, and Andrew, recovering strength, gathered himself for another charge, when the Fates intervened in the shape of stifled sobs followed by a piercing howl, proceeding from the landing outside. Mrs. Josky heard and inspiration took her.

"Listen to that poor child, Mr. Andrew," she said, "what you dragged up from the bottom of the grave. She's been eavesdropping, having guessed what was in your heart, for which I'll smack her head afterwards, and that's why she's howling outside there, like a cat on the tiles, because she can't bear to think that you're so cruel as to go and leave her, which she never would have believed of you, nor for the matter of that, wouldn't I unless I had heard it with my own ears and on the right side of the door."

Then with frightful suddenness Mrs. Josky also burst into tears.

"Stop! Stop!" cried Andrew, "and I'll stop too—for all my life, if you like."

Instantly, Mrs. Josky's tears dried up, and at the same moment the howls from the landing died away.

"That's all right, Sir," she said in a matter-of-fact voice, "and I'm glad, since there won't be any need for me, who hate changes, to look for a new lodger. When one knows the weaknesses of a gentleman, however bad they may be to put up with, one doesn't wish to try those of another that might be worse. Now I've got a beautiful crab for you for supper, and a bottle of white wine to drink with it, that a friend of mine in the trade gave me. Shatter Squirm, I think he called it, which I hope it won't make you do, and a toasted cheese to follow. So I'll be off to dress it and to smack the head of that Laurie if I can catch her, to teach her not to listen at doors."

So she went with triumph in her eye, metaphorically flapping her wings, and leaving Andrew so prostrate that it took the best part of the bottle of Château Yquem to restore his equilibrium. Until circumstances separated them, never again did he venture to suggest that he should depart from the shelter of Mrs. Josky's hospitable roof.

While he was digesting the crab and toasted cheese with Château Yquem sauce, which did not prove altogether an easy process, Andrew reflected on many things. Amongst others his mind dwelt upon a single sentence he recalled, standing up like a rock above the foaming flood of Mrs. Josky's eloquence, that in which she had so rudely spoken of Rose as "a dratted girl," and requested him to beware lest he should find her "in Harley Street before him." What on earth did she mean by that? It suggested that affection for him might take Rose to Harley Street, which, though flattering, was absurd, seeing that there was no one there of whom she could be jealous and she could always meet him at her own home if she wished. Could she then be suffering from some illness of which Mrs. Josky was aware, that would cause her to consult Dr. Somerville Black? No, that, too, was absurd, for never had he known anyone so entirely healthy.

And, now that he came to think of it, why had Rose herself received the news of his appointment in the way she did? He would have expected her to be delighted, seeing that it meant that within less than the appointed year he ought, with ordinary fortune, to be in a position to support her comfortably as his wife. And yet, although she had of course congratulated him, there was something in her tone which did not suggest delight, but rather a hidden reserve of disapproval. Perhaps she thought that he should not have left her father, even to better his fortune for her sake, being the unselfish creature that she was. He could not say; all he knew was that Dr. Watson himself took an entirely different view. There was no doubt about his pleasure at such a chance having come in the way of his unpaid assistant. At length Andrew gave it up and went to bed where, in his uneasy slumbers, the crab and the toasted cheese seemed to take up the problem and argue it out in a fashion as grotesque as it was unpleasant.

Next morning he presented himself at Harley Street and began his career as a fashionable physician.

"Glad to see you," said Somerville Black in his jolly tones. "That will be your kennel," and he showed him a kind of ante-chamber to the consulting-room. "All the books here, you see"—with a sweep of his arm he indicated shelves of medical works—"I don't read them much myself, prefer to study the living subject. But you may get something out of them. The other kind of books are in those drawers, and it will be your job to keep them in future. By the way, would you like a cheque on account? No. Well, so much the better. They think me liberal, but if you only knew how I hate parting with money! Comes from associating so much with Jews, I suppose. Talking of Jews, there's an old woman of that ancient race coming to see me presently, but she must see you instead as I have to go off to something really important, a little girl who is supposed to have swallowed a latch-key. She—the old woman I mean—has nothing the matter with her, except stinginess which has congested her liver. Listen to what she has got to say and prescribe Epsom Salts morning and evening in double doses. Good-bye, the door doesn't fit very well, but that don't matter as you will be able to listen to all that goes on in here and pick up some wrinkles. I dare say a lot of people will turn up and I mayn't be back till lunch. There's a list of their names and appointments on that desk; I've put their most probable diseases underneath. Do the best you can with them, and take the fees if they offer any, which I don't suppose they will."

Then he swept off like a hurricane, leaving Andrew terrified and bewildered.

Three minutes later the butler, Tompkins, a venerable, white-whiskered individual who looked like a cross between a stage peer and a mute, ushered in the old Jewess, Mrs. Solomon Isaacs by name, who stared at him amazed.

At first their interview was tumultuous, as she began by telling him that she had come to see the doctor, not the under-footman. Andrew laughed and replied with some repartee which made the other laugh also. Then she set out her symptoms, glad of a new listener, and ended by saying that if he prescribed Epsom Salts for her, she would throw them at his head. He replied that he would never dream of doing such a thing, as her case was far too serious, and wrote out a prescription in which the despised Epsom Salts appeared under an enormous Latin name. This pleased her so much that she departed, saying that she hoped she would see him again next time she called and not the doctor, and actually left her two guineas on the table, an event which Somerville Black afterwards declared partook of the miraculous.

Others came also. Some of them refused to see him, while others consented, and with these on the whole he got on fairly well. Still, it was a tired young man who received Dr. Black upon his return and, retiring to his own compartment, joyfully left him to deal with the remaining appointments.

At length they were all worked through, and as they washed their hands together in the lavatory, Black congratulated Andrew on his modicum of success.

"You'll do all right," he said, "or would if you didn't look as if you had just come from school. I think a pair of glasses would help you, just window-glass in a frame, you know, and if you didn't mind, a little doctoring of your hair to give it a pepper-and-salt appearance; they would soon put up with the rest. But most of these old women can't stick a fellow who looks as though he has been sucking lollypops won in a bet on leap-frog."

Andrew, who felt nettled at these pointed allusions to the juvenility of his appearance, ignored the subject and asked what happened to the child who had swallowed the latch-key.

"Nothing at all," answered the doctor, "thanks to me. When I got there they had three of the big surgeons, to say nothing of an anæsthetist and two hospital nurses, and were just going to operate. 'Hold on a bit,' I said, 'for I am the family physician to this household.' Then I made a few investigations and, to cut the story short, I found the latch-key in the child's bed, where she had hidden it to tease the nurse who made use of it for her own purposes. After that she went to sleep and dreamed that she had swallowed it, and waking up of course simulated the symptoms, or they thought she did. My word! you never saw a crowd look sillier than did those learned members of our profession when I produced that key. One of them wanted to operate all the same, thinking that I had played a trick on them, but the patient has now gone for a walk in the park, while her parent is signing cheques for half-fees. But let us go to lunch, for I expect Arabella is waiting and nothing upsets her temper more than my being late for lunch. She's my daughter, you know, and I hope for your sake that she may take a liking for you, which is more than she has ever done to me. Or if she has, she conceals it very well. You be advised by me, and if she speaks of her health, shake your head and look sad. Above everything, don't tell her that she looks quite well, or is only suffering from too much money and nothing to do."

Then he led the way to the dining-room, Andrew following with some trepidation, for this description of Arabella frightened him.

From the doorway he caught sight of a tall and elegant-looking woman of about thirty years of age, very beautifully dressed, standing in front of a fire and staring at the clock.

"Hullo! my dear," said the Doctor with such boisterous geniality that Andrew suspected it of being forced, "are you here already?"

She looked round at him and Andrew saw that she was well-favoured enough, but with a thin-lipped, rather ill-tempered mouth and restless, discontented eyes, in almost every respect the exact opposite to her father, although oddly enough in her general appearance she resembled him.

"I have been here exactly forty-two minutes, Father," she said, pointing to the clock. "You may remember that our luncheon hour, fixed by yourself, is twenty minutes past one, which allows five minutes for accidental delay, and it is now twelve minutes past two, which means of course that all the food is spoiled and I shall have another attack of indigestion."

"Sorry, my love, but I was detained by another young lady——"

"Oh! don't trouble to explain, Father. I am quite aware that everybody comes before me. My health or convenience does not matter."

At this moment she caught sight of Andrew, who was hovering indeterminate in the doorway reflecting with affection on 13 Justice Street and Mrs. Josky, and her whole attitude changed.

"Is that Doctor West?" she asked with animation. "If so, you might introduce me. I should like to apologize to him for a spoiled luncheon."

Then Andrew rose to the occasion nobly.

"It is I, Miss Somerville Black, who have to apologize to you," he said humbly. "The truth is that owing to a stupid mistake I made, I am afraid that I delayed your father. You see, I am a novice here."

"Splendid," muttered Dr. Black.

"I quite understand," said Arabella, "but I am afraid that my wretched indigestion makes me peevish."

"No wonder," said Andrew. "Have you tried the new cure? We were very successful with it in Whitechapel."

"Oh! What is it?" she asked with intense interest, which evidently was shared by her father.

"Something very simple, so simple that I am almost afraid to mention it to you in your father's presence."

"Oh! don't mind me," broke in Dr. Black, "I'm always ready to learn."

"Well, then, it is hot water drunk before and after each meal, also on getting up and at bedtime with about six drops of lemon juice, not more, please, and not less, in each tumblerful. That's the first part of it. The second is not to become a slave to regularity. Doctor Watson, with whom I have been working and who originated this cure, is very strong on that point. He declares that it is our rigid system of meals at fixed hours which accounts for most of these troubles from which no other animal seems to suffer. For instance, himself he will sometimes breakfast at seven and sometimes at eleven, and dine at any hour of the day or night, with the result that he has a perfect digestion."

"I see," said Arabella, "I dare say there is a great deal in the idea. Tompkins, give me some boiling water and a lemon."

"And bring me some too, Tompkins," said the doctor, "with the whisky."

After this things went very well indeed. Andrew discoursed to Arabella about her ailments and afterwards of other matters, with the result that she was soon in the best of tempers, while the Doctor ate an excellent lunch in peace.

"Magnificent, my boy," he said, "magnificent," when at last she had departed beaming. "Splendid idea, that hot water, and the six drops of lemon were a perfect stroke of genius. Only I foresee that she will want me to take it also—without the whisky. You know," he added, changing his tone, "my daughter is a good girl enough, but she has this crank about her health. To tell you the truth, there was a little disappointment a few years ago. If she could only get married, she would be all right. But when a woman is always talking of her digestion—well, it makes a man think that it might interfere with his."

VI. THE HOSPITAL

Andrew's career as assistant to Dr. Somerville Black in his fashionable and lucrative practice may be summarized in very few words, especially as it was short. He was quite successful in his humble rôle of medical bottle-washer, but the whole business bored him to distraction, because in it, so far as he was concerned, there was absolutely nothing of any importance. Many serious cases came to Dr. Black and received the benefit of his singular gift of diagnosis and shrewd and valuable advice. But he did not deal with them himself; after indicating their nature, almost invariably he passed them on to the real experts in the various branches of medical lore. Still less of course did Andrew deal with them, whose function was simply to hold the stage when the doctor was not there, with any gag that might be convenient, often by calling on and chatting with patients suffering from nothing in particular, when Black had not time to visit them. Very soon, indeed, he came to understand that so far as essentials were concerned and at the bottom he cared for nothing else, he would learn more of his trade in a single month at Whitechapel than he could hope to do in a year in Park Lane, although his pecuniary earnings might be in an inverse ratio.

At first Andrew was amused and interested, but quickly grew weary and, being intensely zealous and thorough by nature, came to the conclusion that however much he might hope to make out of it ultimately, this Park Lane practice was no place for him, although for reasons of his own it was desirable that he should stay there for a while until he found another opening. Otherwise how was he to marry Rose Watson, as he hoped and expected to do, at the end of his year of probation? This was one of his troubles, but he was faced by another that was even worse than his daily struggle between professional conscience and personal advantage. Arabella, who was a good many years his senior, took a fancy to him which soon became very marked. On every possible occasion she consulted him about her imaginary symptoms, deferring to his advice in a fashion which he thought pathetic, since he knew it to be based on nothing.

Now Andrew, although he could play a part for a while and appreciate a joke, was at bottom an earnest and upright young man. Therefore at length the truth burst out of him, even where his master's daughter was concerned.

"It is absurd of you, Miss Black," he said, "to consult me, a mere novice, when you have at your command your father, who in his own way is one of the most skilled of our profession, and all its other members as well. But since you persist in doing so, I will tell you what I think. It is that you are a perfectly healthy woman; there is nothing at all the matter with you."

Thus quoth the exasperated Andrew, reflecting, not altogether with regret, that the speech would put a full stop to his practice as second fiddle to a fashionable physician. Arabella's pale but statuesque face flushed a little as she heard, but to his surprise she showed no anger, only great interest.

"How curious that you should tell me that," she said. "Nobody else has, not even my father. They all give me prescriptions."

"Because they are afraid of you and do not want to be worried," blurted out Andrew. "I could give you a prescription also and one which would prove a perfect cure for all your ailments, which are real enough in their way."

"Indeed, and what is it?"

"To cease thinking about yourself and begin to think about others. You have too much to your hand. Stop taking, and give."

In a nebulous fashion it came home to Arabella that his words embodied a fine idea.

"How?" she asked, then added with an outgush of truth, "I am a failure, Doctor West, and a very unhappy woman. My father and I do not get on. We bore each other and I am a disappointment to him. Of course we are very wealthy, but that does not seem to help matters since we have no society, except that of other doctors and rich, common people whom my father sometimes entertains for professional reasons. They do not care for me, and I," she added sighing, "have attracted no one outside because, you see, I am stupid and interest nobody, and am not good-looking enough to please them otherwise. Also I am a fidget, I know it, and so, between one thing and another, even the money does not seem to help me and I feel very lonely, having no relations. What is the use of driving out in beautiful clothes and a splendid carriage and pair, when everybody looks at your fur coat and the horses and not at you, and if they talk about you at all, only say that you will have a lot of money?" she ended pathetically with a kind of sob.

"I don't know," said Andrew who was touched. "None, I should think. But, dash it all! Miss Arabella, it is your own fault. Why are you eternally talking about your health and making fusses because people are late for luncheon, and so forth, till you get the reputation of being a crank, as I do myself for different reasons. Don't stop to answer, but since you have been so good as to consult me and as crank calls to crank, I'll give you my advice. Imagine that you have only two pounds a week to live on and stick to that limit, and take a boxful of your oldest clothes—if you have any old clothes—and go out to work."

She considered him a little and then asked:

"Would you think better of me if I did?"

"I don't quite see what I have to do with it, but of course I should."

"Then I'll try, if you will show me how."

Andrew ran his fingers through his wavy hair and studied her with his dark eyes. Suddenly an idea came to him and he said:

"Doctor Watson, with whom I worked before I came here, keeps a curious hospital of his own, a sort of home for irritating and indefinite cases, generally of elderly females whom the regular hospitals won't take and who are not mad enough to be sent to an asylum, broken-down ladies and that kind, with a few drug victims whom he treats mostly by suggestion. It is reported that he does this on the interest of a sum of money, thirty thousand pounds, which a grateful patient left him to apply as he thought best. He might have kept it for himself if he wished, but being the man he is, took a different view and never tried. So he runs this place, helping out the expenses with such voluntary contributions as he can get. His nurses are also voluntary and therefore hard to find. I believe he wants one now, and she need not be skilled but just ready to work. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I think so. But wouldn't money be more serviceable?"

"For him, but not for you," replied Andrew almost rudely.

"Where should I live? In the hospital?" she asked again.

"No, I think not, the patients would get upon your nerves at night, and perhaps you might get upon theirs. But I've no doubt that he would put you up at Red Hall, where there is lots of room, if you don't mind roughing it. And now I must be off. I've to meet your father about a case of an hysterical young woman. Her fit always takes her at five o'clock, and it's a quarter to now. Forgive me if I have made suggestions which I dare say you think foolish."

"I don't think them foolish," gasped Arabella. "I think them extremely wise, though I fear that I shall be very useless at first. Will you take me to see Doctor Watson?"

Andrew reflected. Here was a good excuse for another visit to Red Hall, or in other words, to see Rose.

"Yes," he answered, "that is, if you do not mind calling at 13 Justice Street where I live, at, say, twenty minutes to six. If I am not there by then, as I expect to be, my landlady, Mrs. Josky, will look after you till I come. Does that suit you? Very well. Now I must be off."

At twenty minutes to six accordingly, or rather before it, one of Dr. Black's smart broughams drew up at 13 Justice Street. Arabella, like many other idle and aimless women, having developed an idea, was anxious to act upon it in a hurry. Moreover, she desired greatly to please Andrew and to advance herself in his good opinion. At the bottom Arabella had something in her. Circumstances and environment had made her what she was, also youthful ailments which she could not believe she had outgrown. Had she been otherwise placed she might have been a useful woman enough, although perhaps one not altogether easy to live with in any intimate relation. Now she was determined that she would do something.

She never stopped to consult her father, since it had long been agreed between them that provided she did not trouble him, she was free to go her own way. Also she possessed a considerable fortune inherited from her mother, and therefore no financial question would arise between them. Lastly, they did not get on, and she was quite certain that he would not object to her temporary absence from his house. This indeed proved to be the case.

After he had left her it suddenly occurred to Andrew that he ought not to have made his suggestion to Arabella without first consulting her father. Therefore when he met him, he told him what he had done and of the surprising way in which she had welcomed his quite random and casual idea.

The doctor was not in the least disturbed, indeed he laughed.

"It's just one of her whimsies," he said; "she is as full of them as a pod is of peas. If she takes the business on I expect she will be back in a week. But I agree with you that what she wants is work and an occupation in life, for though she was delicate once, her only real weakness now is her temper. If only she could marry some decent fellow and have half a dozen children she would be as right as rain."

He reflected a little, then added:

"But I don't know how she would get on in that flower garden at Red Hall, that is if Watson is fool enough to have anything to do with her as a nurse for his softies. Yet perhaps it is as well that she should become acquainted with——" then he checked himself suddenly and turned the subject by saying, "But let us leave Arabella to manage her own affairs, which she is quite old enough to do, and attend to ours. I have no doubt I shall hear plenty about them in due course."

Laurie, an inquisitive and observant child, was fond of watching what went on in the street, which in summer she did from the doorstep, and in winter through the window of the room where Mrs. Josky carried on her somewhat mysterious commercial transactions. This habit of hers had a business side, since she kept the shop, noted the arrival of customers who often liked to call after dark, and if necessary, summoned her mother should she be cooking or otherwise employed. Presently from this coign of vantage she perceived the brougham with its fast, high-trotting horse which, after some hesitation and preliminary search by a footman, pulled up in front of their door, information that Laurie conveyed at the top of her voice to her mother in the kitchen below.

Mrs. Josky arrived in a hurry and peeped through the window just in time to see the tall and statuesque Arabella descend from the brougham of which the door was held open by the long-coated footman.

"My!" said Mrs. Josky, "I wonder what she is coming here for. To sell something on the sly, perhaps, but if it's them sables she's got on, they're beyond me."

Then she went to the door where a colloquy ensued, which resulted in her showing Arabella up to Andrew's sitting-room, where she lighted the gas with a box of matches which she produced from her pocket.

"I'll have the fire going in a minute, Ma'am, which in general I don't do before half-past six, since Mr. West doesn't ever eat before eight nowadays, and sometimes later, that's trying enough to one who has to cook his meals. I understood you to say you wished to see him, Ma'am," she added interrogatively, for curiosity burned within her like a fire.

"Yes," replied Arabella. "I am Miss Somerville Black, and Doctor West arranged to meet me here at twenty minutes to six."

"Then you will have ten minutes to wait, Miss, as it is only half-past five; or mayhap longer, as he isn't a very punctual gentleman, which is awkward if it is a case of sudden sickness."

"There is no sickness in the matter," replied Arabella shortly. "Doctor West is going to take me to Red Hall."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Josky, in the intervals of puffing at the fire, "to see Miss Rose, I suppose. But perhaps you know her already if you are Doctor Somerville Black's daughter, Miss, since he goes there often enough."

"Who is Miss Rose?" inquired Arabella, now as curious as Mrs. Josky herself.

"Why," replied Mrs. Josky between her puffs, "who should she be, except Rose Watson, the Whitechapel Rose they call her because she's such a beauty. It is a strange thing, Miss, if you haven't heard of her, being Doctor Black's daughter and Doctor West's friend, seeing that according to all accounts they both worship the ground she walks on. But there, men are men and like to keep things to themselves, and small blame to them."

"Do they?" answered Arabella rather vacuously, "and—is this young lady so very beautiful?"

"To be honest, Miss, there ain't no doubt about that, so far as face and figure go, which is what men look to, though for the rest, to my mind as empty as a tin can with a hole in it."

"You don't seem to like her," said Arabella.

"Who likes a young woman what leads a young gentleman that's been her lodger for long and dragged her child out of the grave, a fool's dance, meaning to shut the door in his face at the end of the room?" inquired Mrs. Josky enigmatically as she ceased from her fire-raising labours.

Arabella, more interested than she had been in anything for years, was about to ask what on earth she meant, when Mrs. Josky held up a warning finger and exclaimed in a stage whisper:

"Hush! he's coming. I hear his step in the street and I'd know it among a thousand, since he don't walk, he runs, being always in such a blooming hurry, and Laurie what loves him, will have the door open before he gets there. There, don't you hear her kissing him, which sometimes I should like to do myself. And to think of his wasting himself on that there Rose what will come to pieces presently leaving nothing but a stalk in his hand and that full enough of prickles. But mum's the word about her, Miss, of whom I've no doubt you'll get to know plenty before all's done," she added with ominous emphasis.

In another moment Andrew rushed into the room, freeing himself from Laurie who was clinging to his hand, and began apologies.

"No need to be humble, Mr. West," interposed Mrs. Josky severely. "Seeing that the young lady, your visitor, says you weren't due till twenty to, which leaves you with a minute to spare by the clock, which I keep exactly to church time, as did Josky before me. And now, you'll have your tea and an egg before you start wherever you may be going, since you won't get nothing there, except——"

"No, no, Mrs. Josky," broke in Andrew, "many thanks, but we must be getting on."

"Ah! I thought you would be in a hurry and I hope you will find yourself well paid. May I expect to see you back to-night, Mr. West, for dinner, I mean, and will this lady be with you?"

"Yes, of course, Mrs. Josky—I mean No; I mean I shall be alone. Time? Oh! the same as usual. Come one, Miss Black, the horse is getting cold."

"And so will the dinner be," murmured Mrs. Josky, "before I see you again. If only this one would take you off that one, it might be a good job. But she hasn't got the looks, at least of the right sort, and there ain't the stuffing in her."

"Mrs. Josky seems to be very fond of you, Doctor West," remarked Arabella in the brougham.

"Yes, now you mention it, I suppose she is. She's a dear soul, but she makes me eat too much," replied Andrew, absently, for his mind was fixed upon the sure and certain hope of seeing Rose.

As in common in such cases, he was destined to disappointment, for when they reached Red Hall, Sister Angelica who opened the door informed them that Rose was out, adding vaguely that she had not the least idea where she had gone or when she would be in again.

The information seemed to strike Andrew like a blow, for he stood quite still, as though at a loss what to do next, then murmured something about "another time."

"But," suggested Arabella, "I thought that we came to see Doctor Watson. You did not tell me that this young lady managed the hospital."

"Of course not, and of course we did—I mean, come to see Doctor Watson. Is he in, Sister Angelica?"

"Oh! yes," replied Angelica. "You'll find him having his tea about an hour late, as I know to my cost, having had to boil the water three times."

So saying, she melted away nebulously into the darkness of the passage, leaving them to their own devices.

"Come on," said Andrew to Arabella. "Perhaps you had better take my hand, as I know the steps and they haven't lit the gas."

Presently they found themselves in the sitting-room where Doctor Watson was seated at the Elizabethan table, a cup of cold tea before him, which his interest in the book he was reading had caused him to forget to drink. Looking up at the noise of their entry, he caught sight of a tall female form in the shadow, and concluded that it was that of his daughter.

"I'm glad you're back, Rose," he said, "for really this tea is undrinkable; I think it must have been made yesterday and stood ever since. Angelica's gifts do not lie in the way of tea-making; I meant to speak about it before, but I so seldom see you now, for you are never down to breakfast——"

"It is I, Doctor Watson," interrupted Andrew hurriedly, "and this lady is not Rose, but Miss Somerville Black, who has come to see you."

"Didn't know there was a Miss Somerville Black," muttered the doctor to himself, then added aloud,

"Ah! a patient, I suppose. Will you like to go into the surgery, Miss Black?"

Then ensued explanations, and the end of it was that Dr. Watson said that if Arabella cared to make a trial of the hospital, he would be pleased; also, that she was very welcome to lodge at Red Hall as a paying guest, since he was sorry to say that he could not afford to put her up for nothing, that is if she was not fastidious and if she did not mind poisonous tea and erratic meals. He suggested, however, that first she had better come and see the hospital which was almost next door, at once if it suited her, before the patients went to bed.

To Andrew's surprise Arabella answered firmly that it did suit her. Moreover, she proposed that he should return to Justice Street in the brougham, and send it back to take her home.

As Andrew saw no signs of Rose and, having had no lunch that day, suddenly began to think with affection of Mrs. Josky's dinner, he went, leaving Dr. Watson and Arabella to settle things as they pleased. He did not care how they settled them, for Rose being absent, the world was empty to him, and void of interest.

Here it may be stated that, conducted by Dr. Watson, Arabella went over the hospital. She saw the patients, a number of miserable old women belonging to the rag-tag and bobtail of a certain class of female who, most of them, had seen better days and fallen under the bondage of moral weaknesses connected with their bodily plight.

They did not interest her very much, though being good-hearted, she pitied their woes. But suddenly, in a kind of flash, it came home to her that if she lost her money, under certain quite conceivable circumstances she might become just like one of these aimless and futile women, a thought that gave her a shock and ultimately an inspriation.

Now she had one talent; she was an admirable housewife. No establishment was better run than that of her father, and although he never realized it, she managed everything and at a minimum of expense, considering its costly scale. At once she observed that this hospital was not well run, and pointed out sundry details to Dr. Watson which struck him very much. Also she asked if she might see the books, only to find that there was none that could be produced. In the end she said:

"Well, I do not know whether I should be useful here as a nurse, but I think that I could do the housekeeping, if only I was told how much there is to spend."

"Then for heaven's sake try," exclaimed the doctor, "for I am in despair about it and Rose gives me no help, although it is a woman's business."

They went back to Red Hall and there, subject to her father's consent, fixed up matters to their mutual satisfaction, the agreement being that Arabella was to fill the position of matron for a month on trial.

Just as she was going away Rose returned and for the first time the two women came face to face.

While Dr. Watson introduced them they studied each other with results that were pleasing to neither. Arabella admitted to herself that Rose really was beautiful, of that there could be no doubt, but concluded at once that she did not like her. Rose set down Arabella as plain, which she was not for her features were good. What she lacked was colour and any vivacity whereof her general boredom with life had robbed her. Also she reciprocated Arabella's distaste. In short, the two women felt that their attitude towards each other was one of antagonism. Meanwhile Arabella was wondering what Mrs. Josky had meant by saying that her father worshipped the ground that this girl walked on. As regarded Andrew she could understand. Though it made her jealous, since she had conceived so strong a liking for him herself, it was only natural that a young man should be attracted by such a face and form. But what could a man of her father's age find in her to worship?

In another minute they had parted, since after a few rather awkward words Arabella announced that she must hurry or she would be late for dinner. When she was gone Rose asked her father why she had come. He told her and she listened astonished.

"Do you believe all that, Father?" she said.

"Why not, Rose?"

"Do you think it likely that a lady who has thousands and thousands would want to come to work in that dreadful hospital among those horrid old women?"

"It seems that she does," answered her father in his musing voice. "After all, why not? Is it impossible that a woman, however rich, should be touched by a sense of the higher things? If so, what do you suggest is her reason?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Rose with unusual irritation, for hers was a placid nature, "to please Andrew—I mean Doctor West, probably, or——" and she paused.

"Or what, Rose?"

"To spy upon me," she answered and, turning, left the room.

Now what on earth did she mean by that? reflected her father. What conceivable reason could Miss Black have that would induce her to spy upon Rose? Then this good, easy man, whose mind was lost in those higher things of which he had never spoken to a daughter who understood nothing about them, shrugged his shoulders and gave up the problem, wondering as he did so what she would say when she learned that Miss Black was to live in the house. It occurred to him that she might object, also that, speaking generally, his home was uncomfortable. Whenever he mentioned it, always he was informed that this was because of his Socialistic cranks which led him to prefer teacups without saucers, and so forth, an argument that hitherto had reduced him to silence. Now, however, he began to doubt its force, remembering that saucers and tablecloths are not the whole of domestic life.

"Oh!" he muttered to himself as he felt his way towards the surgery down the dark passage where it had not occurred to anyone to light the gas, "the truth is that Rose and I cannot understand each other and don't get on. I wish she would marry, though if she did I am not sure that her husband would praise her in the end. Beauty isn't everything, especially when the heart inside of it is small," he added with as much bitterness as his gentle nature could conceive.

VII. ANDREW'S FAREWELL

Arabella went to the hospital, and, like Bottom, was translated. For the first time in her idle, aimless and luxurious life, she found herself with work to do and faced by real responsibility which called out innate qualities inherited from her vigorous and active-brained father. Soon she forget her own petty ailments in attending to the real illnesses of others, some of which, as it happened, were serious at the time. Also her natural talent for housewifery was given full scope and she used it to great advantage. Soon, like herself, that hospital was also transformed, so much so that it would have been difficult to recognise it as the same place. The meals were punctual and sufficient; the old women looked tidier and more cheerful, while the house by degrees attained to a perfect cleanliness. The only people who seemed dissatisfied with the change were the servants, two rather rough women who had acted as under-nurses. In course of time, however, even these became reconciled, since when once its back was broken, they found the work lighter than it had been before.

It must be admitted that there was another cause for this transformation, although of it Dr. Watson never knew. When Arabella took charge of the place she found the accounts in a sad state, also that expenditure had outrun income. Now Arabella was blessed with this world's goods and had a large balance at her bankers. So in some mysterious way that the doctor never quite mastered, very shortly income overtook expenditure and one of his great anxieties was removed.

Moreover, this paying guest made her influence felt in his own home. She became great friends with the amiable but vacuous Angelica, and in her spare time would assist her in the kitchen, for Arabella loved a kitchen. No longer did the gas stove prove a mystery measureless to woman; no longer was the tea an undrinkable essence or dinner a feast more movable than that of Easter. Only Rose, who viewed these changes with a kind of indolent disapproval, remained precisely the same, since she was one of those women who do not vary. She never had taken and never meant to take any trouble about anything, except her own comfort and personal appearance. To these she had always attended and to these she continued to attend. Between her and Arabella there was established a state of armed neutrality, superimposed upon a basis of cordial dislike. Each of them despised the other, but neither being warlike by nature, matters never proceeded to a state of open quarrel.

Soon Arabella came to understand that Andrew was the victim of a hopeless infatuation for Rose and notwithstanding her own secret tendresse for that young gentleman, accepted the situation with a sigh of pity for his fate. This partiality of hers did not escape Rose's acumen, with the result that her attitude to Andrew became more tender, since she desired to rivet his chains, and where he used to secure one kiss now often he was allowed three. Further, Rose did not attempt to conceal her intimacy with Andrew from Arabella, both because she knew this hurt her on a sore spot and also for a deeper reason. If Arabella thought her devoted to Andrew, she would not suspect her in any other direction.

As may be guessed, parental affection under these new circumstances induced Dr. Black to visit Red Hall much more frequently than he had done before it became the scene of Arabella's activities. In truth he was honestly delighted at the change in his daughter, which he looked on as little short of marvellous and indeed could not quite understand. Still, once having assured himself of this transfiguration, he was not selfish enough to wish to disturb her when she was engaged upon her duties at the hospital, as generally proved to be the case about tea-time, an hour at which the patients had to be prepared for bed and given their supper. Therefore he would take his tea at Red Hall and afterwards stop in for a few minutes' chat with his daughter at the hospital next door.

So, with the single exception of Rose, everyone was pleased, even Andrew, who now understood why Dr. Black continued to be so frequent a visitor at Red Hall, for had not Rose herself pointed this out to him?

Andrew's connection with the great Harley Street practice came to a sudden and unexpected end under the following circumstances. One morning when he was out seeing a patient who had been handed over to him as she had nothing the matter with her except nerves, Lord Atterton and his son Algernon were shown into Dr. Somerville Black's consulting-room. To him his Lordship explained that Algernon was suffering from a cough, so having heard the doctor highly spoken of, he had brought the young man to be prescribed for. Black, with veiled sarcasm, for his visitor's manner annoyed him, remarked that this was most kind of him. As a matter of fact he knew all about Algernon's case from Andrew, who had confided to him his fears of its issue and his grief at the manner in which it was being treated. However, this he kept to himself and proceeded to make an examination, engaging his patient meanwhile in shrewd general conversation calculated to reveal his habits and symptoms, although for the most part it seemed to be directed towards other subjects, till presently it was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing that seized Algernon, producing some blood from his lungs. When it was over, Dr. Black took him into another room and asked him to amuse himself for a few minutes with Punch and the Vie Parisienne while he made a few rough tests.

Algernon consented with a bad grace, for he was surly over the whole business and had been brought to the doctor against his will.

Then Black returned to the consulting-room where Lord Atterton addressed him before he could open his lips, saying:

"Of course I know that the boy has nothing serious the matter with him, although a conceited young fool of a nephew of mine, Andrew West, did try to frighten me about his state last autumn and gave unsolicited advice as to his treatment."

"Oh! Doctor West did that, did he? Well, although he is so young, I have some respect for his judgment and powers of diagnosis. He ought to be a big man in our trade one day."

"So you know him," said Lord Atterton somewhat surprised. "Anyway, it was pretty cool of him to set up his opinion against that of men like Smilie and Waite."

"Oh! yes, I know him pretty well; also I know Smilie and Waite very well, both of them. We doctors have a little rhyme about them, which I won't repeat to you. And now, my lord, since your time is even more precious than my own, do you want to hear what I believe to be the truth about your son, or do you want an opinion on the Smilie and Waite recipe, which, whatever else it does, will mean sundry more visits to this room and a considerable number of guineas into my pocket extracted in the best and most immaculate manner."

"I imagine that I pay you for the truth," said Lord Atterton stiffly.

"Very good. Then I grieve to have to tell you that I fear Doctor West was correct when he told you that your son's case is serious, exactly how serious I shall know in a day or two when certain investigations have been concluded. I can, however, state positively that he is in an advanced stage of what you would call consumption and that both his lungs are affected, also I think to some extent his throat. Further, I judge that his habits of life, I refer to the consumption of alcohol, are aggravating his complaint."

"How can you say that, Doctor, when both Smilie and Waite——"

"Forgive me, Lord Atterton, but if you want the opinions of those men, go to them and follow their advice, as I gather you have been doing. If you want mine, listen to it and be guided by it or not as you like. Or, if you have doubts on the matter of my competence, I will give you the names of several other men whose judgment is supposed to be the best in London where such cases are concerned, and you can check my verdict by theirs."

Now Lord Atterton's optimism began to fail him, for he felt that this big, uncompromising man was saying what he believed. His eyes blinked beneath the bushy eyebrows and his face fell in. For be it remembered that in his fashion he loved his son although he despised him, also that about him centred all the eager ambitions of, comparatively speaking, the newly rich and self-made man.

"What do you mean and what is to be done?" he asked fiercely.

"I mean," replied Black in a gentler tone, for his sympathy was stirred, "that unless your son changes his mode of life, especially with reference to alcohol, and gets out of this climate at once, say until June, he will, in my opinion, not live till June."

"Good God! And where is he to go? I sent him to the West of England, but he went out stag-hunting on Dartmoor, which he had promised not to do, and caught a chill."

"Perhaps South Africa would be best, but there is the Bay to cross where the winds are bitter just now. If he lives, and mind you I cannot guarantee that he will live, for the disease is very advanced and I understand there is a family history, ultimately he may have to live in that, or some similar climate. Meanwhile, I suggest that his best chance would be Egypt, which he can reach by Brindisi."

"How is he to go alone to South Africa or Egypt?" stormed Lord Atterton. "I cannot accompany him unless I sacrifice vital business interests and my duties in the House of Lords."

"It would be better than—going to heaven alone, Lord Atterton. But where money is no object, or a small one, surely that could be arranged. I suggest that we ask your son his own opinion on that point."

"I don't think he has any, but do what you like," replied Lord Atterton sinking into a chair, for he was overcome.

"Very good, but perhaps, if you don't mind, you will let me do the explanations."

So Algernon was called into the room and with wonderful gentleness, in a tone entirely different from that which he had adopted towards his father, Dr. Black explained to him as much of the position as he thought desirable. Now Algernon did not lack perception, or indeed courage of a sort.

"No need to wrap it up so nicely, Doctor," he said with a laugh, "for I quite understand. You mean that I drink too much, which I dare say I do, also that I shall die if I stop here, and very likely if I go away. Well, I don't care if I do die, for the world isn't a very pleasant place when you cough twelve hours out of the twenty-four and feel as weak as a cat until you get a bottle of champagne into you. However, I want to say this. If I have to go to Egypt, or any other damned hole, I won't do so alone. There's only one fellow I will go with, and—that's my cousin Andrew."

"Andrew!" burst out his father. "He is the very last person whom I should wish to be your companion. I dislike him extremely. Moreover," he added, forgetting himself in his anger, "he has a direct interest——"

Here Dr. Black looked at him and he stopped.

At this moment the door opened and Andrew himself walked into the room.

"Oh! I beg your pardon," he exclaimed, "I did not know that there was a consultation. The servant——"

"What is the meaning of this?" Lord Atterton asked acidly. "After all that has passed it looks like an arrangement."

"Please choose your words more carefully, Lord Atterton," said Dr. Black. "Doctor West is my assistant, and it was not I who introduced his name into this consultation."

"How do you do, Uncle?" broke in Andrew. "I didn't see who you were. And how are you, Algie, old fellow? Not very grand I am afraid from the look of you. But what's the matter?"

"I'll tell you, Andrew, as no one else seems inclined to do so," replied Algernon with a hoarse chuckle. "This is the position. The doctor there, I forget his name, says I am going to die unless I go to Egypt, at least that's what he means. I have answered that I won't go to Egypt unless you come with me. Otherwise I'll stop here and die, as being of full age I have a right to do, while my father doesn't want me to die, or you to go to Egypt with me. That's how it stands."

Andrew's face fell.

"Go to Egypt now," he said. "It wouldn't suit me at all. Besides," he added as a thought struck him, "I'm working here. I can't leave Doctor Black. It is out of the question."

"All right," said Algernon indifferently, "then I'll stop here and die, as I dare say I should do in Egypt and put you to the trouble of making a mummy of me," and again he chuckled.

"There are other doctors besides your cousin," interrupted Lord Atterton.

"I have no doubt there are, Father, lots of them. But I'm not taking any, and there's an end."

For a little while there was silence, for the impasse seemed to be complete. Black broke it, glancing at the clock.

"I haven't much time to spare," he said, "so I think we had better come to a decision about this business one way or another. It seems that we all have to give up something, except the patient, whose wishes must be respected, since otherwise he would derive no benefit from the change. Andrew West doesn't want to go to Egypt, I don't want to lose Andrew West whose services I find valuable. Lord Atterton does not wish him to be his son's companion for personal reasons of which I know nothing. Meanwhile, in the interests of the patient, which as I was always taught must be the first consideration, it is desirable, unless my judgment is at fault, that he should go and that his cousin should accompany him. Do I put the case fairly?"

"I suppose so," grunted Lord Atterton.

"Very well. Then for my part I will arrange to dispense with Doctor West's services for the necessary time of absence, say till the end of May, since it would be well that the journey home should be broken at Algeciras, or some such place, of course on a business basis which I could arrange with you, Lord Atterton, since I repeat I consider them valuable to myself, also to you and your son."

Lord Atterton grunted again, and Algernon, who could see a point, grinned visibly.

"Well," went on the doctor, "that's my share of the sacrifice. Now then, Andrew West, are you ready to make yours and go for a tour in the Near East for the sake of your cousin, although I gather that you do not wish to do so?"

Andrew hesitated, for the thought of the adored Rose pulled at his heart-strings. Then he glanced at poor Algernon's pinched face and noted that he was watching him with a kind of whimsical expectancy, or rather hope, and hesitated no longer. How could he set his private desires against the welfare of his cousin of whom he was really fond, when he knew that this cousin's life might hang upon his decision.

"Oh! yes, though I don't want to, I'll go, as it is Algernon's wish and your advice, Doctor," he said briefly.

Algernon smiled—he had a smile of singular sweetness—and remarked more to himself than to the company:

"I thought he would, but all the same it is good of old Andrew."

"Very well," went on Black. "Two stumbling-blocks are out of the way. Now, what do you say, Lord Atterton, for you're the paymaster, you know, and seem to have prejudices?"

"I—I——" exclaimed his Lordship, growing suddenly red in the face and even up to his bald head, for he was not accustomed to being cornered in this fashion. "Oh! confound it! Have your own way. I wash my hands of the business."

"Are you sure that you would not first like to consult Doctor Smilie, or Doctor Waite, or some other man?"

Lord Atterton shook his head, for he would not trust himself to speak.

"Very well then, my lord. If these two young gentlemen will leave the room and talk over their prospective journey, you and I will go into a few business details."

So Algernon and Andrew went, and presently through a window saw Lord Atterton strut into the waiting brougham, and heard him snap out the word "Home."

"Hullo," said Algernon, "he must be in a rage, for he don't even mean to give me a lift back. I expect your friend, the doctor, has stuck him pretty well for your valued services, old boy."

As a matter of fact he had, for shortly afterwards Black informed Andrew with one of his big laughs that he would be five hundred guineas the richer for that job, adding, "of course, I told him that the money went into my account, as you were working on a salary, and so it will. But it won't stick there. He called it extortion, for though that noble lord is said to be very comfy, he don't like parting with cash, even where his son is concerned. But all the same I got the cheque before he left, with three guineas for the consultation thrown in."

The following afternoon Andrew made a very melancholy pilgrimage of farewell. Evidently rumours of his departure, or rather knowledge thereof, had reached Red hall before him, since he found Rose awaiting him alone in the sitting-room.

"I was sure you would come," she said in a tearful voice, "so I gave up my engagement and did not go out."

"That is very sweet of you," said the adoring Andrew, embracing her.

She disengaged herself gently and went on:

"What is this I hear about your going abroad with some cousin who is ill? You know Angelica is friends with that funny landlady of yours, Mrs. Josky——"

Here Andrew started, for the information explained much which he had never been able to understand.

"She went this morning to buy something at her little shop where she gets most of her peculiar garments, and Mrs. Josky, who was almost in tears, told her that you were leaving England at once."

"Well, dear, it is true," answered Andrew. "I have a cousin whose lungs are shaky and must be got to Egypt until the summer comes. We used to see a good deal of each other when we were boys and he is rather fond of me" (here Rose managed to convey with a look that this did not surprise her), "and has taken it into his stupid head that he won't travel with anyone else. So you see I thought it my duty to go, although it breaks my heart to part from you."

"How noble of you!" murmured Rose.

"Nonsense, dear. Sometimes one must do things, that's all. Anyway, I have passed my word, and there's an end, for a person who breaks a promise deserves never to be spoken to again. Don't you agree with me?"

"Of course," exclaimed Rose with enthusiasm.

"If I broke my word to my cousin," continued Andrew in his most exalted manner, "although I confess I feel much tempted to do so, how could you ever trust me again, for instance? Why, you might think, and quite rightly, that perhaps I should do the same thing to you, whereas I want your confidence in me to be as boundless as mine is in yourself, darling."

"Of course you do," repeated Rose, wishing her heart that Andrew would descend from this high moral horse. It bored her when he talked like that, as he was too fond of doing. Such sentiments, she felt, should be reserved for servants, also she heard more than enough of them from her own father.

"Besides," proceeded Andrew, "I am only to be away for about three months, which, although you may think it so, as I do, isn't an eternity. And then, there is the money side of the matter to be considered, which is important to you and me."

"Indeed," said Rose, now really interested, "and what about the money side?"

"Well, this. My cousin has a rich father who is in trade, in the liquor line in fact, and Doctor Black has charged him a very heavy fee for my services. This he says he means to hand over to me, which is just like his generosity."

"Yes," said Rose, and involuntarily her hand went to her throat, where beneath her high dress was hidden a pearl necklace that she dared not wear openly. "How much is he going to pay you?"

"Five hundred guineas."

"That's a lot," said Rose, opening her eyes. "They must think a great deal of you."

"Too much," replied Andrew, "but I didn't make the bargain. If it had been left to me I shouldn't have asked anything. Still, it is fortunate, isn't it, dear? You see, when I come back, as the doctor is going to keep my place open, I shall be in a position to marry you."

Rose coloured most becomingly and whispered, "Yes."

"We might begin in a small way," went on Andrew, ecstatically. "Mrs. Josky has two more rooms at the top of the house, and she would make you very comfortable and soon grow as fond of you as she is of me."

Rose looked doubtful, she could not help it, and to change the subject asked:

"What is your cousin's name?"

"Oh! the same as my own, West," answered Andrew absently.

"Indeed? I thought all the Wests were gentlefolk."

He laughed as he replied:

"Then you are quite mistaken there, dear. Their origin was humble enough, and some of them have not forgotten the manners and customs of their forbears. Money can't make a gentleman, Rose."

"No, Andrew, but it can do a great deal, can it not?"

Ignoring her question, Andrew turned to more congenial topics. In poetic language and with a touching fervour, he assured her that he would think of her all day and most of the night, that he would never look at another woman, except to assure himself of the depths of difference between her and his adored, that he would count the minutes which lay between them and reunion, that he would write to her every day, although he gathered from the postal guide that the mails only left Egypt twice a week.

"Do you think that would be wise, dear, although it is so nice of you? You see, Sister Angelica is all the virtues rolled into one, but she is very prying and takes in the letters."

"Damn Sister Angelica!" exploded Andrew, adding, as he remembered Mrs. Josky's dark hints, "I believe she has made enough mischief already."

Rose wondered what he meant, but thinking it best not to probe the recesses of her adorer's simple mind, inquired instead of another matter.

"Do you think that Miss Black intends to stay at the hospital?"

"I expect so," answered Andrew indifferently. "It is doing her a lot of good and her old father is delighted with the change in her; also your father thinks her work excellent, and says he never knew what comfort was before—I mean in the hospital. But why do you ask?"

"My father does not live in the hospital," replied Rose with an admixture of sweetness and acerbity that somehow reminded Andrew of the taste of an acid drop, "and I ask because if so, it makes me still more certain that it would not be wise for you to write to me too often. She also is very curious, and—you silly Andrew—has it never occurred to you as possible that I am not the only woman who likes you a little?"

"What on earth do you mean? Oh! I see," he added, colouring, "though it is all bosh. Why, she's several years older. Well, I could send the letters to Mrs. Josky."

"Who would probably open them over the kettle and afterwards deliver them through Sister Angelica," commented Rose.

"Well, what do I care if she does?" expostulated Andrew who felt himself being enveloped in a kind of net of feminine wiles. "I have nothing to be ashamed of in my letters and I don't see the use of all this secrecy, or quite understand why you wish it. Why shouldn't I go to your father and tell him? Taking everything into consideration, although I know I am unworthy of you, I am in a position to ask a man for his daughter's hand."

"Of course you are, dear, but hush! there is somebody coming."

"Let them come," said Andrew heroically, but Rose only moved further away and turned up the gas.

Then the door opened and there entered Arabella and Dr. Watson, talking with evident interest about the affairs of the hospital.

"Fancy, Father," said Rose, ignoring Arabella's presence, "Doctor West has come to tell us that he is going at once to Egypt in charge of a patient."

"Is he?" replied Watson. "Then all I have to say is that it is another instance of the truth of the old axiom, that the gods favour the young, for I suppose that the patient will pay expenses. Here am I, who all my life have been longing to get to Egypt and never found a chance of doing so, while it drops into his mouth, who perhaps would just as soon stop at home. Anyway, I congratulate you, Andrew, and hope that you will make the best of your opportunities. Did you say that the tea was coming, Miss Black?"

"I will go to see," interrupted Rose.

"It is not necessary," said Arabella in her precise voice. "Sister Angelica is just bringing it up. Indeed, I made it myself while she cut the bread and butter."

"You are becoming the angel of the house," interposed Dr. Watson gallantly and smiling in his gentle fashion, "isn't she, Rose?"

"Angels are difficult to define; there are so many sorts of them," replied Rose, her wits quickened in an inward fire of indignation. She did not want to bother about the tea herself, but that this other woman should do so was, she felt, almost an insult. Then she glided from the room on a quite unnecessary journey concerning that meal.

It proved a short one, since she met Angelica in the narrow passage and had to return in front of her. During tea Arabella contrived entirely to monopolize Andrew, discoursing to him of Egypt and begging him to write to her and to tell her all about its wonders, and whenever she ceased speaking for a moment Dr. Watson took up his parable which had to do with ophthalmia and other Eastern diseases, so that Rose was left in the cold. At length the doctor bade him good-bye and good luck very warmly and went away.

But Arabella did not go away; on the contrary, whether by accident or design, she sat there like a rock and embarked upon an argument on Socialism, on which she was growing enthusiastic, the doctor evidently having infected her with his cult. Now Andrew also had leanings that way, but as at the moment he desired to practise another kind of Socialism à deux, very earnestly did he wish that Arabella would reserve her views for a more fitting occasion, especially as he must leave within a quarter of an hour to keep a professional appointment which could not possibly be neglected. First he tried answering in monosyllables and then took refuge in silence, but Arabella, who had not forgotten Rose's remarks as to the different angelic degrees, would not be put off. In an even, monotonous voice she favoured him with a summary of one of Dr. Watson's lectures on his favourite topic, and as Andrew had heard it and knew that it was long, he could only sit still and watch the hands of the clock.

Now at first Rose was grateful to Arabella who, unwittingly, was protecting her from demonstrations with which she found it a little difficult to deal. By degrees, however, her indignation awoke, as she came to understand the nature of the manoeuvre and that its real object was to rob her of her lover's farewell words. Yet, as she could not tell Arabella to leave the room, there was nothing to be done except to sit still also and hate her more heartily than usual.

At length came the inevitable moment when Andrew must go, since otherwise he would miss the consultation of which he had to make report to Dr. Black.

"I can't stay any longer," he said, springing up in despair. "Good-bye, Miss Black. I hope that when I return I shall have found that you have followed the scriptural injunction and divided all your goods among the poor. Do you mind coming outside a moment, Miss Rose? I have a private message which I want you to give to your father," an announcement at which Arabella smiled sarcastically.

Rose hesitated, then gave way, as in fact she always did when Andrew insisted upon anything, because it was easiest.

Andrew slammed the door behind them both and there followed some hurried and broken endearments in the passage which, although they did not know it, proved very interesting to Sister Angelica listening intently from the gloom of a landing upstairs.

As a matter of fact these demonstrations were somewhat one-sided, since Rose merely stood still, occasionally murmuring words that might have been spoken in Esperanto, for any meaning they possessed. Andrew thought that she was assenting with passion to all he said and promising to marry him immediately on his return, but on these points Rose's conscience was clear, for as she reflected afterwards, not without a certain virtuous satisfaction, she had really said nothing at all, or at any rate nothing that could be twisted into a compromising promise.

Indeed, as he rushed away shouting for a hansom cab, it even occurred to Andrew himself that he had no exact recollection of the language in which she had conveyed her deathless vows. However, he concluded that this was because of his own extreme agitation and that doubtless it was all right. How could it be otherwise, though he did wish that she had given him just one kiss in return for the many that he had showered upon her. Of course this was because her sweet modesty intervened, but still, although it was brutal of him, and even coarse, he did wish it very much.

His last words were to implore her to come to see him off at the train and to give her very definitely the name of the station and the hour, asking her if she had mastered them.

She answered, "Yes, yes," but whether these affirmatives conveyed that she would be there, or that she had committed these topographical and chronological details to her memory, he could not be sure.

Thus did Andrew, with an aching heart, part from his first love, the woman whom he adored with all the blind passion of an ardent nature and who was destined to deal him the deadliest blow a man can receive in his youth.

When he met her again she was differently circumstanced.

VIII. THE STATION

On the day following his farewell to Rose, Andrew lunched at West House in Cavendish Square. The arrangement was that he and Algernon were to proceed to Dover by an afternoon train and there spend the night, catching the Brindisi express boat the next morning. This was Clara's idea.

"You see," explained Algernon to Andrew, "she says it is to give me a rest and make a break in the journey, as though that little bit to Dover mattered one way or the other. What she means is that I might make a night of it if I didn't start till the next morning, forgetting that one can do that at Dover."

"No, you can't, old boy," answered Andrew firmly. "There will be no evenings out while you are in my charge, for I've got to earn that fee by faithful duty, which Clara knows."

"Oh! yes," chuckled Algernon, "there isn't much that Clara doesn't know. But what I don't understand is why she bothers about me at all. It isn't cousinly affection, for she has none for me, and whether I live or die will make no difference to her—perhaps, though, it would make a difference," he added reflectively.

"I think you judge Clara rather hardly," said Andrew. "She may be fonder of you than you think."

"She may, but I am quite certain that she is fond of herself and always has something up her sleeve. However, I have no doubt you'll learn who is right some day, so as my breath is short we won't waste any in argument."

That luncheon was not a cheerful feast. Over it there seemed to hang a kind of ominous shadow which the sparkling of the wines and the gleam of the silver dishes, handed round by perfectly trained and obsequious footmen, did nothing to dispel. Lord Atterton was surly and depressed; Algernon, who did not wish to leave England, was sullen and annoyed; Andrew, whose heart ached at the separation from his adored Rose, was silent and internally sentimental. Only Clara was just the same as usual; cool, collected, pretty, beautifully dressed, immaculate in manner; armed at all points against the chances and changes of this mortal life. She chatted away gaily about Egypt which Andrew gathered she must have been reading up in a guide-book, since she told him details of the orientation of the Great Pyramid, of the number of square yards that its base covered and of the millions of tons weight of stone which it contained, facts which she asked him to verify by local inquiry. To her uncle she was sympathetic, suggesting that he might travel with her to Spain to meet the pair on their return, an idea that did not seem to appeal to him, for he only grunted. To Algernon she offered her congratulations at his chance of making acquaintance with a lovely climate and of seeing the world, also of visiting the Cairo Museum and inspecting its mummies.

"Thank you," said Algernon, "but I prefer live people to dead ones; there will be lots of time for them afterwards," a remark that did not tend to lift the general depression.

At length the meal was over and Andrew was conducted by his uncle into the study where presently Clara joined them, leaving Algernon alone in company with the port. Then ensued a jobation. Lord Atterton dilated to Andrew on the greatness of his responsibilities, on the largeness of the sum which his services were costing him, on his general doubts as to his fitness for the office which he had undertaken, as to the way in which he should keep the accounts, and so forth, till at length that young man lost his temper.

"Look here, Uncle," he said, "if you think I want this billet, you never made a greater mistake in all your life. So far as I am concerned, I'd gladly give you the fee back again, with five per cent added out of my own pocket, to be rid of the job. I have reasons of my own for wishing not to leave England just now—" here Clara looked at him sharply—"and I want to get on with my medical work, instead of fooling about the world with a difficult young man who likes—well, to indulge himself. So, if you wish, I am quite willing to cry off."

"Don't get into a huff, Andrew," interposed Clara soothingly, "you must think of Algernon, not of yourself."

"Who else do you suppose I am thinking of, Clara? It's because I'm fond of old Algy and he won't travel without me, that I'm going at all. Do you consider it a pleasant business to have him on my hands in his state of health, especially as if anything did happen to him, as is quite possible, all sorts of things might be said," here he glanced wrathfully at his uncle. "I tell you that with me it is only a matter of duty."

"Don't talk so much about your duty," muttered Lord Atterton, "but do it, and I shall judge you according to the results. Most young men would not grumble about a duty of the sort at the figure which that Somerville Black has extorted from me."

"Then I know very well how I shall be judged, and that is, precious hardly, whatever happens," exclaimed Andrew indignantly. "Now I'm off to arrange things. I suppose you'll bring Algy to the station where I will meet you," and he left the room.

Clara followed him to the hall and, slipping her arm through his, said quite gently for her:

"Don't be vexed, Andrew. I know you don't want to go, if perhaps not all your reasons, although I may guess them. I know, too, how well you are getting on in your work and, though you mayn't believe me, I'm proud of it. As for our uncle, you shouldn't blame him too much, for you see how it is with him. He is half-mad with anxiety about Algernon, and that is what makes him so unpleasant."

"Then what will he be, Clara, if the complaint should take a bad turn, as I tell you it may? Why," he added bitterly, "I shouldn't wonder if he said that I had murdered him, for though I hardly ever think about the thing, I can't help remembering that I am the next heir to his confounded title."

"If such a thing should happen, Andrew, which God forbid, well, it would be His Will, that's all. And if you will forgive me for saying so, meanwhile, in all ways, especially in any arrangements that you make contemplate for your future," she added meaningly, "I wish that you would bear more in mind what are your real position and expectations in the world. Now you must be going."

Andrew was at the station early for reasons not entirely connected with the luggage. Indeed, he expected that Rose would be there earlier still, having taken the precaution to send her a postcard on the previous night, ante-timing the departure of the train by about forty minutes. Therefore he was disappointed when a hurried but careful search of the Charing Cross terminus revealed no sign of her. Suddenly his hopes revived, for in the distance he caught sight of the tall, ascetic form of Dr. Watson, peering about him amiably, and saw that he was followed by a lady. When a few seconds later he discovered that the lady was Arabella his mental temperature fell with a suddenness that was almost alarming. Collecting himself, however, he greeted them as cordially as possible and thanked them for coming to see him off. Then, as he was about to inquire for the missing one without whom all Charing Cross was but a howling and deserted wilderness, the doctor said:

"Rose must have made a mistake about the hour of the train, since a porter told me that it does not leave for nearly forty minutes."

"I think that the mistake was Doctor West's," interrupted Arabella in her precise way. "I saw his postcard on the floor where Rose had let it fall, and certainly it said 3.10, not 3.55."

Avoiding the matter of the postcard, which would have involved explanations, Andrew asked if Rose was there.

"I don't think so," answered the doctor. "I understood that she was coming, but that she might be a little late, as she wanted first to call at a shop in Regent Street. Didn't you, Miss Black?"

"She did not mention the matter to me one way or the other, and therefore I have no idea of what she intended," replied Arabella still more precisely, adding, "Hats sometimes take a long while to try on and make people forget appointments."

This started the doctor on a dissertation about woman's obsession for dress, which he began to illustrate by ancient and savage examples, remarking that he had no doubt that Eve was careful as to the cut of her skin garments. Andrew listened with a vacuous smile which he summoned up to conceal his inward agony, and was positively relieved when he saw Mrs. Josky bustling towards him, dragging Laurie by the hand, though he thought he had got over the pain of that voluminous farewell.

"Oh! there you are, Doctor West," she exclaimed. "I thought that I might be late, having lost that dratted Laurie in the crowd outside the bus. Well, all's well that ends well, and I have brought you your rug which you left behind, also a thick coat, since a Jew with whom I do business, who once lived in Egypt, said that it is sometimes very cold there" (in fact the rug and the thick coat were a subterfuge, for Mrs. Josky had deliberately secreted them in order to follow her adored Andrew to the railway station).

He thanked her and then found it necessary to devote his attention to Laurie, who had just realized for the first time the completeness of the impending separation, and showed signs of vociferous breakdown. So, while Dr. Watson continued his lecture on female vanity to Arabella, whom it seemed really to interest, Andrew set to work to console Laurie with promises of a present of Turkish Delight, the succulence of which he described in glowing terms.

"Stop talking to that snivelling kid, who has given trouble enough already," interrupted Mrs. Josky, who felt herself neglected, "and let's go through the list of your luggage again, since if there is anything else left, I can send it by the night train to Dover."

"We've done it four times——" expostulated Andrew, and broke off as he caught sight of the large form of Dr. Somerville Black surging towards him.

"Hullo! here you are, Andrew," said Black. "I thought I would drop round and give you an idea or two that occur to me about the treatment of that young man whom you are going to bear-lead. Why, there are Watson and Arabella, but I don't see the rest of the Flower-garden," and his face fell. "They seem very interested in each other, don't they? Too much so to notice a little one like me, so here goes," and he plunged into medical details about Algernon's case, making Andrew take down a certain prescription in his note-book.

This went on until Lord Atterton and Clara appeared convoying Algernon, who seemed to be in a somewhat festive mood.

"That young man has been drinking a stirrup-cup, unless I am much mistaken," remarked Black as his keen eye fell upon him. "You will have to guard against this tendency of his, since Egypt won't do him much good if he is always half-drunk."

Andrew groaned, overwhelmed by his accumulated woes, but had no time to answer, for just then the others reached them.

The details of that interminable farewell need not be described at length. Lord Atterton said little, but Andrew, whose dark eyes roaming round in continual search of Rose upon the crowded platform fell upon his face, noted that it was wrung with grief. His mouth twisted and although the day was cold, beads of perspiration appeared upon his bald head and forehead which he wiped away with a silk pocket-handkerchief, lifting his hat to do so; his small eyes that followed his son's every movement blinked continually, and from time to time he brushed his hand across them, evidently brushing away a tear. Moreover he noticed that notwithstanding her quiet, even talk to whoever happened to be next to her, Clara also observed these things and was watching her uncle anxiously. Only Algernon did not observe. His energies were absorbed in trying to obtain a copy of the Sporting Times which was not forthcoming, and in bribing porters with sixpences to get it for him.

Andrew, who was by nature sympathetic, understood that his uncle was suffering; more, that he was terribly afraid lest he was looking his last upon his only child who, whatever his failings, was all the world to him a lonely man; perhaps even that in his soul he had some premonition that this was so. Andrew did not like his uncle; their natures were antagonistic and he had never pretended otherwise. But now for the first time he felt drawn to him and remembered that after all the same blood ran in their veins, so much so that he freed himself from the rest of the party and went to where Lord Atterton stood looking strangely alone even in that populated place.

"I will do my best for him, Uncle, I will indeed," said Andrew, in answer to the thoughts which he knew were passing through the man's mind.

"I hope so," was the steely answer. "Under all the circumstances, if you didn't, you'd be a—well, never mind. And I tell you straight out, Andrew, that if anything happens to Algernon while he is in your charge I shall never forgive you."

"Then that means that you will be very unjust, Uncle."

"Perhaps, but it is true. I hate the whole business," he added with cold passion, "and wish that I had never gone into the house of that infernal, vulgar doctor there, more than I ever wished anything in my life. But it was fate, for otherwise why should I have found you there, of all men in the world? Don't answer, for there is nothing to be said. If you want money, draw on me to any extent. Your Letter of Credit is practically unlimited."

"Why don't you come too?" asked Andrew in despair.

"If you wish to know, I'll tell you. Not for any of the reasons that I have given, but because my son does not want me. He dislikes me as much as you do yourself, and my presence would retard or destroy his chance of recovery."

Then Andrew understood all the tragedy of the life of this most successful man.

Retiring overwhelmed, he met Dr. Black, who had strolled a little way up the platform as though he were looking for some one, and was now returning to speak to his daughter.

"The Flower-garden don't appear," said the doctor, "which is odd, since I understood that she was coming."

Andrew wondered vaguely how or why he understood anything of the sort, but only said:

"So did I and everybody else. I suppose she has not met with an accident?"

"Good God!" said the doctor, starting, "I hope not."

"So do I," replied Andrew, fervently.

Then the guard ordered him into the train and everybody began to say good-bye, though their words were lost in the piercing howls to which the emotional Laurie at length gave vent.

Algernon nearly missed it after all. He had vanished. Just as the whistle blew he appeared running and waving a copy of the Sporting Times in triumph.

"I've got it," he said with a triumphant chuckle that ended in a cough. "Good-bye, Father. Keep your pecker up and your temper down, and don't forget to post it to me every week."

Lord Atterton stretched out his arm, perhaps to take his son's hand, perhaps to embrace him. In either case he was too late, for the guard pushed Algernon through the door as the train began to move, and slammed it behind him. Then they were off and the last of them that Andrew saw was Clara waving the very cleanest and most delicate of pocket-handkerchiefs and Mrs. Josky kissing one hand to him, while with the other with great vigour she shook the howling Laurie.

After this, Algernon having remarked: "Thank Heaven! That infernal business is over," went to sleep in one corner of the carriage, while Andrew sat in the other, brooding over the cruelty of fate which had prevented him from seeing Rose and racked with fears lest something should have happened to her.

At Dover his anxieties on this point were relieved, for when he entered the hotel where they had taken rooms for the night, a telegram was put into his hands. He tore it open in a fever of apprehension, to find it was from Dr. Black and read:

"Flower-garden all right. Picked a late Rose in the Strand and drove it home to be put in water in a Red vase. Had been detained selecting appropriate foliage, but found colours difficult to match. Good luck, and don't fall in love with tropical blooms which this climate never suits. Black."

From all which ponderous and characteristic joke Andrew gathered that Arabella was not far wrong when she suggested that Rose had gone to try on hats. Still, he could have wished that she had selected some other opportunity for that feminine entertainment. A shiver of doubt went through him as he reflected on this matter. If Rose loved him as much as he knew she did, how could she become so engrossed with clothes that she had missed him at the station—especially when he had given her a margin of an extra forty minutes?

Although he was not over-punctual, had their positions been reversed he could never have made such a mistake. But then women were different to men; he must always remember that women were extremely different, and that bright butterfly, Rose, flitting in the sunshine and herself filled with sweetness and light, also perhaps with dreams of which the thought thrilled him, naturally took little reck of such a common everyday thing as time. It was lucky that Dr. Black had found her, doubtless wandering bewildered in the crowd and probably being stared at by brutal men, for the Strand was not a place for her to frequent alone, also that he had been able to drive her home.

On second thoughts, was it so fortune? Now he came to think of it, how did the doctor know she was coming to the station? And generally why did he know everything about her? Not through Arabella he was sure, since, although they were living in the same house, nobody seemed to be quite so unacquainted with whatever had to do with Rose.

It never occurred to him that the drab-coloured and insignificant Angelica who did everything for Rose, possessed eyes and ears which she might be willing to put at the service of anyone who treated her kindly and generously, and that kindness and generosity were outstanding characteristics in the nature of Dr. Black. If he had thought of the matter at all, he would have concluded that Angelica was too fond of Rose and too faithful to her interests to "give her away" in any particular.

He disliked Angelica, a person who did not appeal to him because he thought her one of petty mind, and he knew that she disliked him although she pretended otherwise. Still, with the blind confidence of youth in love that believes itself to be loved, he never dreamt that Angelica would wish Rose to marry anyone but himself, or that she could conceive her cousin's true advantage to lie in another direction. Nor could he have held it possible that she told certain stories to Mrs. Josky which she knew would filter through to him with added point, in the hope that they might cause him to doubt Rose.

Yet in fact all these things were so, and Dr. Black found Sister Angelica quite useful in her way.

Truly "where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."

IX. WHAT HAPPENED IN EGYPT

Andrew and Algernon had a prosperous journey to Egypt. In the train from Paris to Brindisi they, or rather Algernon for Andrew seemed to feel no further interest in the female sex, made the acquaintance of a handsome and vivacious young woman whose name was Fairley. She was travelling with an elderly aunt, a somnolent person with a stout figure and a squeaky voice who was also named Fairley. Andrew could not make out much about them, except that they were not ladies, and indeed did not take the trouble to do so, for the elder Miss Fairley, either from torpor or for other reasons, was uncommunicative, while the younger Miss Fairley, who soon came to be known as Florence as a kind of identification badge, talked little of her home or belongings, although she talked a great deal about everything else. All he gathered was that they were well-to-do and came from Manchester or its neighbourhood, also that they were supposed to be travelling for the benefit of the health of Miss Fairley senior, whom Algernon christened the Dormouse.

As a matter of fact the real object of their journeyings was different. Miss Fairley senior was the sister and Miss Fairley junior was the daughter of a deceased Manchester tradesman who had left the latter a certain fortune, but not nearly as much as she wanted. Indeed, being an active-minded and pushing young woman, she wanted a good deal, amongst other things to escape from her humble associations and to advance herself in the world by means of a satisfactory marriage, objects which she could not attain in Manchester where she was known. In pursuit of these perfectly laudable aims she was undertaking a trip to Egypt where, as she put it, "nice people go in winter," dragging the Dormouse with her as the most ideal of chaperones, since a person who sleeps eighteen hours out of the twenty-four and spends the remaining six in thinking about her liver and her food, sees little and hears less.

Luck favoured her from the start, since at the Paris gare she stumbled upon Algernon, who was immensely struck by her large and generous appearance and her flashing black eyes, and invoked his assistance as a friendly Englishman (Andrew was absent seeing about the luggage) to help her to retrieve her aunt who had gone to sleep in a waiting-room and could not be found.

Of course, after this adventure they travelled in the same carriage, talking incessantly, much to Andrew's annoyance, for in his soulful mood he found the Dormouse a more restful companion. By the time they reached Brindisi the fair and buoyant Florence knew all there was to learn about Algernon, and decided that, in vulgar language, he filled her bill. It is not every day that the daughter of a Manchester tradesman comes across the only son of one of the wealthiest peers in England who is clearly stricken with admiration for her at first sight. Her heart swelled at the thought of what might not happen as a result of this most fortunate rencontre.

"Why, within a year I might be a prospective peeress," she reflected to herself, and trembled at the glittering vision. Alas! poor Florence did not recall the wise and ancient proverb as to the number of slips there are between cups and lips.

Perhaps the Dormouse was not always quite as much asleep as she seemed to be. At any rate, in an interval of wakefulness induced by sea-sickness which afflicted them both during their first night on the boat, she asked her niece in hollow tones, what she was after with "that young Honourable."

"What is a woman generally after with a man?" replied Florence with acerbity from the upper bunk.

"All sorts of things; it depends upon what she can get," commented the Dormouse. "But I suppose marriage is your game. You'd like to be a peeress."

"Who wouldn't?" said Florence tartly.

"Then I'm thinking that you've got the wrong one by the boot. You should go for the doctor, for he comes next. I found that out in a book in the saloon, and he'll live longer. That Honourable is a crock."

"Well, women have lost their husbands before now," reflected Florence aloud.

"Oh, I see," said the Dormouse with brutal frankness. "You mean that if he lives long enough to marry you, you don't care what happens afterwards. Well, you'd better look sharp, for he isn't a laster. And now be quiet, for I want to be sick."

Florence did look sharp, and by the time they reached Port Said was secretly half-engaged to Algernon, who insisted that they should accompany the pair on their journey up Nile to the Second Cataract. This development filled Andrew with horror, especially as it was one that he was totally unable to prevent. When he remonstrated Algernon, who like most weak men could be very obstinate, told him straight out that he had come to look after his health, not his morals, and that he had nothing whatsoever to do with his matrimonial enterprises. In this attitude the vulgar and vigorous Florence encouraged him, twitting him about his "Nursey" as she called Andrew. So that unfortunate could only write to Clara, telling her in a kind of wail how things were tending and leaving it to her discretion to inform Lord Atterton or not, as she thought best. One consolation he had. Whether it was owing to the stimulus of his love affair, or to the change of climate, he was able to report that Algernon's health had improved remarkably and continued to do so from day to day.

They went up the Nile, a journey that interested Andrew very much indeed and opened his eyes to many things. Algernon and Miss Fairley, however, soon grew tired of temples and took to amusing themselves in other fashions, while the Dormouse, when she was awake, devoted her energies to avoiding donkey-boys and flies. In his leisure, which was ample, Andrew wrote long letters to Rose descriptive of sunsets and scenery and the wonders of the ancient world, which, to tell the truth, bored her extremely. Indeed, in the end she ceased from reading them, merely throwing her eyes over the pages to see if they contained anything personal. She did more, for presently there reached him a nice little note on scented paper, in which she hinted delicately that he had better not write so often as it put her in an awkward position, which she was sure he would not wish to do. Moreover, when he did write, would be please be careful to say nothing that she could not show to her father, who liked to see his letters as he seemed to be very interested in Egyptian history.

This epistle chilled Andrew even more than did the station episode, to which she made no allusion. On reflection, however, he came to see matters from Rose's point of view and to acknowledge to himself that she was, as usual, perfectly right. Until they were openly engaged, the conventions must be respected.

The rest of the story is short. After about six weeks spent upon the Nile the party returned to Cairo where they put up at Shepheard's Hotel. One day Algernon insisted upon accompanying Miss Fairley on a distant inspection which involved a visit to Sakhara and an inspection of the tombs there. Andrew begged him not to go as the long donkey-ride would, he thought, be too much for his strength. But Algernon persisted, telling Andrew that he could stop behind with the Dormouse if he liked. So the three started and carried out their programme, Andrew feeling rather desolate, since the other two indicated clearly enough that the less they saw of him the better they would be pleased.

It was one of those wretched days which sometimes occur at the beginning of the Egyptian summer. The sky was grey and a bitter wind blew which strengthened to a gale in the afternoon. Moreover, to his disgust, although he had brought it down for him, Andrew discovered that Algernon had sent his donkey-boy back with his overcoat, saying that he should not need it. He offered him his own, but although he was only clad in thin flannels, Algernon refused to wear it out of sheer obstinacy.

In due course they descended into the Tomb of the Bulls where the heat was stifling and bathed them in perspiration. Then came the dénouement. Andrew, who was entranced by the marvels of this wondrous sepulchre, lingered behind with one of the guides to see a little more of them, and when he emerged found that the pair had vanished. There was his donkey, but the other two were gone. When he inquired where to, the boy could only say:

"See other tomb. Say soon back."

So Andrew waited a long while, then mounted and searched for them, without avail. Returning to the entrance to the Serapeum again he waited till the light grew low, and at last concluding that they must have returned to the hotel, started for Cairo, cursing Algernon and the girl in his heart, for he guessed that they had played him some deliberate trick.

When after a long and bitterly cold ride, most of it in the dark, at length he reached Shepheard's, it was to find that they were still absent and that the aunt had seen or heard nothing of them. Thoroughly alarmed, he was about to organize search parties fearing lest some accident had overtaken them, when they appeared, the lady, notwithstanding the cold, looking flushed and triumphant. Algernon's case, however, was different, for evidently the icy blast had chilled him through. He was utterly exhausted, his teeth were chattering and his face had assumed a blueish tinge. Giving no explanation of his conduct he went to his room and asked for a bottle of brandy. When Andrew followed after paying the donkey-boys whose extortions he found it necessary to resist in a lengthy altercation, he discovered that he had already drunk about a third of the brandy and was helping himself to more. Taking away the bottle, he put him to bed and took the best steps he could in the circumstances. By now the spirits, drunk upon an empty stomach, had taken effect upon Algernon who became maudlin and burst into amorous rhapsodies from which Andrew gathered that he and Miss Fairley were going to be married at once, whatever Andrew or anyone else chose to say or do.

"Then you will have to be married in bed," he retorted grimly, "for you have nearly five degrees of fever and are on the way to be very ill."

These remarks, wrung from his cousin's exasperation, excited Algernon to a kind of drunken fury. He cursed and swore at Andrew, calling him a spy and other unpleasant names; he said that he was poisoning him with his medicine, adding with a sneer that doubtless it was to his advantage to do so. He shouted and became incoherent, until at length a terrible fit of coughing stopped his breath.

Then of a sudden he was covered with blood, having burst a vessel in his lungs.

Everything possible was done and he was kept alive for three days. Before the end he became sensible and quite calm. He asked to see Miss Fairley, but Andrew had to tell him that when they learned that he was so ill, she and her aunt had left the hotel and he did not know where they had gone.

"I see," said Algernon, with a return of his old shrewdness. "Knew that the game was up and didn't wish to be entangled with the obsequies, or talked about." He paused for breath, then went on. "I've been a damned fool, old fellow, but that girl made me mad and I didn't know what I was doing. Also I have behaved very badly to you the only creature I care for in the world, and I'm afraid the Governor will be angry, though, God knows, it wasn't your fault. Yes, and I forgot, you'll be the next Lord Atterton. Well, I hope it will bring you joy, though it don't seem much when one's dying. You had better marry Clara. Remember what I say, you had better marry Clara."

These were the last sensible words he spoke, for that night he burst another blood-vessel and died.

Andrew, who was almost crazed with misery and misfortune, cabled this sad news home. Next day, just before the funeral, which must take place quickly in Egypt, he received an answering cable from Clara, directing him to bring the body home, and adding: "This is the special wish of Uncle, who is ill." But it was too late, and indeed in any case, owing to the local regulations, the difficulties would have been almost insuperable, even after embalmment. So Andrew had to cable back to this effect.

Everything being finished, he started to return to England on a certain boat by which he had said in his cable that he might be expected. It should be added that in addition to the telegrams, already by the previous mail he had written to Lord Atterton an accurate and detailed account of everything connected with his son's illness and death.

Now again Andrew's ill-luck pursued him. The train he took from Cairo was timed to catch the mail steamer with an hour to spare. For some unexplained cause it was delayed in starting and broke down on the way. From a junction near to the Canal where the stoppage occurred, the passengers saw the great vessel, brilliantly lighted from stem to stern, glide past them to Port Said. When ultimately they reached that town it was to see the said vessel, which being a mail steamer could not be delayed, steaming slowly out to sea.

So in that horrible city Andrew was doomed to pass a whole week, waiting for the next boat. It was the longest week that he had ever experienced. There he sat upon the wooden balcony of a most indifferent hotel and stared at the busy port through which ships came and went like shadows, pausing a while to receive into their bowels vast quantities of coal, then departing on their endless journeyings. Or perhaps he walked upon the quays and up and down the main street where Oriental wares and curios are sold, and black touts proffer doubtful picture cards to travellers.

But all this time his mind was busy over the sorrowful story that he would have to tell at Cavendish Square. Only one thought came to relieve his depression. Soon, within three weeks at most, he would see Rose again. She would be waiting for him anxiously, for he had written to tell her of his return, on a postcard since she seemed to object to letters, a form of communication that had prevented him from explaining its causes. Of her sympathy at any rate he was sure, also of that of Mrs. Josky and of Somerville Black, who, being a doctor, would understand everything. With this thought, then, he consoled himself as best he could.

At last, the boat, a slow one, came in, and he sailed.

Reaching London in due course upon a beautiful May morning, Andrew left his own luggage at the Charing Cross cloak-room and drove straight to Cavendish Square with that which had belonged to his cousin. Although he would have liked to postpone it, he felt that this business was one to be done with. So he set his teeth and determined to face it out.

All too soon he reached his destination. Somehow there was that in the appearance of the great house which filled him with a chill of fear. To begin with, from the direction in which it faced, it still lay in shadow, while all around was sunlight. Then the blinds were only half-drawn. Moreover, certain melancholy-looking men with a ladder were engaged in fixing iron hooks into the façade as though on them to support a notice-board. This indeed was their purpose, but that notice-board was a hatchment bearing the arms of the Wests with a surprising number of quarterings. Also a particularly merry butcher's boy passing upon his rounds, as he observed, looked up at the house with a kind of awe and stopped his whistling as he went by.

More depressed than ever by these signs and tokens, Andrew rang the bell. The door was opened by a footman behind whom stood the butler, both of them clothed in deep mourning. The latter started when he saw him and motioned to the footman to get the luggage off the cab. Then with a bow but without a word he preceded Andrew to the study that opened out of the hall, and throwing wide the door, announced, "Lord Atterton."

Vaguely Andrew wondered what the man could mean, but concluded that by some slip he must be addressing his master. As the door shut behind him he saw a figure emerge from the shadows at the end of the room, in which he recognized that of Clara, clad all in black which, as was usual with her garments, became her extremely well.

"Oh! Andrew," she exclaimed with some show of genuine emotion, "you come to a sad house, Andrew."

"I know, dear," he answered, "but it wasn't my fault."

"Of course not, Andrew, but there is more than that. Our uncle——"

"Well, what of him, Clara?"

"Dead! he was buried yesterday."

"Good God!" said Andrew. "That is why the butler called me Lord Atterton?"

She nodded. "You are that now, you see. Algernon's death killed him," and she pointed to a chair, adding, "there is so much to tell you."

He sank into it and she began:

"After that terrible cable of yours he never was the same. A kind of fit of rage seized him, rage against Providence which had robbed him of his only child, and I am sorry to say rage against you who were with Algernon at the end, though for this he could give no definite reason."

"My uncle always disliked me and he was always unjust."

Clara nodded, and went on:

"Then arrived your letter written immediately after Algernon's death, which must just have caught a mail and come through very quickly. When he had read it his anger against you redoubled, because he said that on your own showing it was owing to your neglect of duty in leaving Algernon alone with that girl that he got chilled through which brought on the hæmorrhage that killed him. Indeed, I wish, Andrew, that you had not explained all that business so fully."

"I had to tell the exact truth," he replied coldly. "I explained that Algernon gave me the slip, as it is easy to do in such a place. If my uncle had any sense of justice, he must have understood this."

"Yes, dear, but you see he would not understand because he had become almost insane. Also the fact that you did not bring home the body inflamed him still more, because he said it was disobedience to his orders."

"It was impossible, Clara. There were reasons which prevented him from being embalmed. Further, it would not have been allowed by the authorities."

"I know and told uncle as much. But it was of no use. He raved away against you and even, I am sorry to add, made vile suggestions which I will not repeat. Perhaps you can guess them."

"Perfectly, Clara. That I had allowed Algernon to die, or perhaps had murdered him to forward my own interests?"

"That kind of thing," she replied evasively. "And now comes the worst."

"The worst! What worse can there be than accusations of murder?"

"This. Suddenly an idea struck him and he said that at any rate you should not benefit. Then he ordered the carriage and drove off to his lawyers where he spent a couple of hours. When on his return I asked him what he had been doing, he said that I should find out one day, and went on abusing you. Next morning he had an apoplectic stroke and in twenty-four hours was dead. He never spoke after the stroke. Yesterday afternoon when the funeral was over the lawyer stopped behind in this house and read me a copy of the will."

"Does it suggest that I am a murderer?" asked Andrew.

"No, it says nothing whatsoever about you. I expect the lawyer prevented that. But the sum and substance of it is—oh! I am almost ashamed to tell you—that he has left me everything he could, an enormous sum together with the distilleries, etc. I believe that the value of it all is between £20,000 and £30,000 a year, and that it will be more."

For the first time Andrew laughed as he answered:

"Has he? Well, that's lucky, for he might have done something ridiculous with the money. I congratulate you on being so rich and I only wish you could take the title into the bargain, though doubtless you will be able to get one for yourself."

"Thank you, Andrew," she answered with decision, "but I have not the slightest intention of marrying, at any rate at present. It is only right that I should tell you, however, that the lawyer said that in his opinion you would have very good grounds to contest this will."

"I!" exclaimed Andrew with indignation. "I contest that man's will in order to try to take what he did not wish me to have! What can you think of me, Clara: Do you suppose that I care anything at all about his dirty money, or that I want wealth?"

"Really you are a very strange man, Andrew," said Clara, opening her eyes wide. "Well, I am afraid that you do not altogether escape the contamination of property, since you must succeed to the entailed estates in Scotland which are worth several thousands a year, though I believe they are expensive to keep up; and to this house which is also entailed. And now, dear Andrew, I want to say something. I think that our uncle has treated you wickedly, chiefly because you never would humour him, as I confess that I always did, and made jokes about the peerage, which of course was distilled out of whisky, as was his fortune. Honestly I have felt for you very much, being fond of you in my own way, Andrew, and had great difficulty in keeping quiet while he reviled you as he did."

"Thank you, old girl," said Andrew. "It's very kind of you to talk like that I can tell you it's appreciated," and throwing his arm about her, he drew her to him and gave her a brotherly kiss upon the forehead.

She coloured a little and remarked as she disentangled herself:

"You are just a great baby, Andrew, and therefore must be treated as a baby. If you had wished to fight me for this fortune, as you have a perfect right to do, I should have fought you. But as you have taken the line you have, I feel that you must be protected against yourself, and therefore I propose to share it with you. I can get on quite nicely on £12,000 or £15,000 a year."

Andrew laughed again.

"No, you don't, old girl," he said. "Keep your money and don't smell whisky as you spend it. If I'm hard up, as I dare say I shall be, I'll borrow a tenner of you some time. For the rest I have every prospect of being able to earn my own living, even if those blessed estates cost as much as they bring in. As for this mausoleum of a house, it shall be sold if that can be done. And look here, don't think that I am not grateful to you for your kind offer, for I am, especially as it shows," he added more to himself than to her, "how wrong was old Algy's estimate of you. You know, Clara, when something happens that causes you to respect a person whom you have been persuaded not to respect—well, it is worth more than all the West distilleries."

"So Algy thought badly of me, did he?" she exclaimed, looking at him sharply. "If so, I am sorry, for he was shrewd."

"Oh! no, I didn't mean that. He thought that you looked after yourself, that's all."

"So I do," replied Clara, "and mean to go on doing; it is necessary in this world which we have to get through as comfortably as we can."

"Quite right too, old girl. That's my motto exactly, as you'd agree if only you knew what a schemer I am. Well, all this awful business is done with. Poor Algy is dead—by the way, I will send in a statement of accounts to the lawyers; and our uncle is dead and I hope has gone somewhere where his temper will improve and his sense of justice grow. So really I am beginning to feel quite light-hearted again. Or at least I should if it wasn't for this accursed title, which will stand in my way a lot. Do you think that I must really call myself Lord Atterton?"

"You may call yourself anything, Merry-andrew, if you like, but other people will call you Lord Atterton," remarked Clara severely.

"Oh! Well, at any rate it needn't begin at once. Mrs. Josky won't know, for instance."

"Mrs. Josky! Do you mean to say that you are going back to live in that place?"

"Of course. You seem to forget that I have my living to earn. That reminds me, there's an appointment I must keep, so I'll be going. I'll come to see you in a day or two, and perhaps shall bring you some news. Also I want my breakfast. Good-bye, dear. You can find me if you want me," and he turned to go.

"Stop," said Clara. "The resources of this establishment run to bacon and eggs."

"Oh! no, not—not as I like them cooked. Also I couldn't think of troubling these gorgeous menials of yours and the place smells of funerals. Good-bye," and he fled.

Now what is one to make of a man like that? reflected Clara as she heard the front door, opened by himself, slam behind him. On the whole I think him rather delightful and, yes, I like him better than I ever did anyone else. He is the only male creature who does not actively repel me, and very nice-looking too, in his way. Just fancy his refusing £10,000 a year which ought to be his own. Well, I suppose that I shall have to pay it secretly into his account, through the estate, or somehow; he'd never know the difference, or if he did, he would never find out where it came from, if the lawyers and agents were properly cautioned.

She paused for a while, then went on, still thinking to herself:

So Algy had a bad opinion of me; Andrew let that out in his silly way. Well, Algy was right as, when sober, he always was in such matters, for I have a bad opinion of myself. I did scheme for that inheritance. By hints I put the idea into uncle's mind, always meaning to share it with Andrew. And now that he won't take my bounty, I am ashamed of myself, because I know very well that had it been the other way about, I should have taken his.

Again she paused, and again went on:

Andrew is mixed up with some woman. I'm sure of it, for that's what he meant by his ridiculous talk about an appointment which he could have had no time to make. Who can it be? Not that frigid Miss Black whom I saw at the station, for she isn't a lady and looks like an animated statue and Andrew never liked marble, although I am sure she likes him, for I saw her looking at him. If it is only an intrigue with a married woman or someone, it doesn't matter. He'll wear that out. But if it is some girl whom he means to marry, I shall hate her, that's all, and him too. What's more, she added to herself with conviction, Andrew is the sort of man who would make a housemaid into Lady Atterton if he took a fancy to her, and apologize to her for the title. Oh! he's an idiot, that's what he is, and he wants looking after if he is not to be wasted to the world. I shouldn't wonder if he doesn't come near me again for weeks, unless I fetch him. Now I must go on with the inventory. I wonder whether anyone in the world ever bought as much bad silver as my uncle. Well, Andrew will get it, not I, or rather, it will go into the Bank and remain there, for he can't use it at Mrs. Josky's, which is his idea of a fitting abode for a member of the peerage.

X. A MEETING

When Andrew said that he wanted breakfast he told rather an awkward fib since some had been served on the train, enough for him at any rate, who was at no time a great eater. What he really wanted was to get away from Cavendish Square and the discussion of subjects that he found unpleasant.

Once outside the house he reflected as to what he should do next. Of course, his desire and impulse were to fly on the wings of the wind, or rather of a cab, to Red Hall, Whitechapel. Only he remembered that Rose was nearly always out in the morning, shopping he supposed, as was her father. Also it would be seemly to prepare her for his arrival, lest it should give her a shock and cause her to say something before others which afterwards she might regret.

There was a further reason. It was his duty—as may have been gathered, Andrew had a great idea of duty—to report himself at once to Somerville Black, which was easy, as he lived so near. First, however, he went to a telegraph office and despatched two wires, one addressed Watson, so that anyone could open it, and the other Josky. Their contents, with the alteration of a single word, were identical. The first ran: "Back from Egypt. Coming to tea." The second: "Back from Egypt. Coming to dinner." Both of them were signed "Andrew West" although he remembered with irritation that no longer was this his designation. Also each was exactly twelve words long, and therefore, as he reflected with satisfaction, would go for sixpence. For Andrew had already made up his mind that he would get nothing out of his inheritance and therefore must practise economy for Rose's sake. Then he walked on to Harley Street where, as it was now past eleven, he expected to find Black ready to receive his fashionable patients, who generally began to arrive to consult him at that hour.

As it happened, the butler, Tomkins, being absent for some reason, the door was opened by a maid who knew Andrew, although of her he had very vague recollections.

"Doctor in?" he asked.

"No, Sir," was the answer. "Having only returned last night he has no appointments till after lunch. He has gone out to see some special case, but I expect he will be back soon."

"All right," said Andrew, "I will wait for him," and walked straight into the consulting-room, closing the door behind him.

Here, for lack of anything better to do, he sat down at Black's desk and began to examine the case-book which lay upon the table, trying to pick up details concerning various patients with whom he had been connected before he left for Egypt. Soon he became absorbed in this research, tracing them forward from page to page, and sighing when he found entered on a certain date against the name of a young lady who had interested him—"Died. Heart failure."

So absorbed was he that he never heard the door open, or a woman enter softly. Now this room faced east and the May sun being very strong early that morning, the blinds had been drawn and not yet pulled up again, although by now the sun was off the windows. Therefore to anyone coming in from the bright light without, the place was for a little while almost dark. Thus it happened that Rose, for it was she, seeing a man seated in Dr. Black's chair engaged in the study of Dr. Black's manuscript book, concluded not unnaturally that it was Dr. Black.

"Oh! my dear," she exclaimed, "are you back already. How delightful!"

Andrew, hearing the voice which had been echoing through his dreams for months and ravished by this affectionate greeting, forgetting also that it was odd it should have been offered to him in this house and room, sprang from the chair. In the enthusiasm and rapture of the moment he did more, for seeing before him a particularly lovely and fragrant Rose, arrayed in charming summer apparel, without a word he swept her into his arms and kissed her passionately.

At what exact period in these proceedings Rose became aware of her mistake he never learned. At any rate, probably through surprise, she allowed them to go on without interruption, till he released her indeed in order to use his lips for their more common purpose of speech. Then she said, with a kind of gasp and trembling all over:

"Oh! you mustn't. Andrew, you must never do that again."

"Why—why not?" he asked blankly.

"Oh!—didn't you know? I wrote a letter to Justice Street to tell you—because—because I am married."

"Married!" he said, sinking back into the chair, which was one of the variety that wheels round. "Married! Oh, I am mad or dreaming—or in hell. What do you mean? To whom are you married?"

"To—to—Doctor Black," she gasped.

"Then you are a devil," he replied, "and a——" Here a word came to his lips which he did not utter, although she guessed it quickly enough.

"Don't, don't!" she exclaimed. "Can't you understand?"

"No," replied Andrew, "I can't. I understand nothing except that I wish I were dead."

She put her hands before her face as though to shut out the sight of his burning and indignant eyes. Thus she did not see, who from her position in the room alone could do so, the door, which was not latched, swing open and that Dr. Black, who had let himself into the house immediately after her, was standing in the doorway like a picture in a frame. Nor did she hear him, since on the thick carpet his feet were noiseless. Andrew, too, neither heard nor saw anything, for his senses seemed to be shrivelled in a flame of agony.

"You are a traitress," he went on in a heavy voice; "you have betrayed me. You have broken my heart and ruined my life, and never again shall I be able to believe in any woman. Tell me before we part, why did you do it? Did you fall in love with him, or were you forced into it? Oh! say that you were forced."

"It was such a good match for me," she murmured confusedly, "as I was unhappy at home where Arabella seems to have taken possession of my father and the whole place, and I—I confess it—I am fond of nice things such as you could never have afforded to give me, and liked to be a great lady with a position."

Andrew smiled grimly and went on:

"Thank you. I understand that. Now one other question and I will trouble you no more—for ever. Did you never care for me at all? Did your kisses and the lock of hair you gave me and all the talk of our getting married at the end of a year mean nothing? Were you all the time fonder of Doctor Black than of me? Was I just the second string to your bow?"

"No, no! You are the only man I ever had any feeling for, and oh! I have it still. I thought it would go away after I was married, but it doesn't and—I—I—hate marriage. Don't reproach me, for I can't bear it, Andrew. You see, he was so fond of me; he doted on me, as they say old men sometimes do on girls, and I thought that he had love enough for both of us. And I have told you, it was such a good match that I didn't seem able to give it up to become the wife of a struggling young doctor, who wasn't even a man of family, as you told me yourself before you went to Egypt. There, I shouldn't say these things to you, but I can't help it because I know, dear Andrew, that we shall never see each other again and it is my last chance of speaking. Don't be bitter against me and don't think I didn't care for you in my way, if you remember me at all in after life."

Andrew laughed drearily, and answered:

"It seems that we are both of us on the rocks, so it is of no use now to blame the steering. You poor girl! I wonder which of us is more to blame, I for believing, or you for deceiving. I suppose we shall know one day. Meanwhile, with ordinary luck life is a longish road and in the course of it I hope that one forgets many things. Still, it seems hard that this should have happened at its beginning, since God and I alone know how I loved you, Rose. You could never understand; you are not of that sort, if it exists. Well, I'm glad we kissed again before I found out that you were a married woman. It will be something to remember, for at any rate I shan't forget that. Good-bye, again," and he began to grope round rather blindly for his hat, for his eyes were full of tears.

Then it was that the picture came out of its frame, or in other words Dr. Black walked into the room.

"Hullo!" he said with a kind of ghastly echo of his usual joviality. "So you are back from Egypt, Lord Atterton, and looking very well, though a bit tired. Have you congratulated our friend Andrew upon his accession to rank and fortune, Rose?"

She sank into a chair, ejaculating feebly:

"I don't understand what you mean."

"Don't you, my dear? Then I'll explain. It is very simple. Andrew's cousin is dead and his uncle, the millionaire, was buried yesterday—if you read the papers you would have seen. Therefore our mutual friend, the struggling young doctor, is now Lord Atterton. So you really should congratulate him."

Rose burst into subdued weeping and began to search for a pocket-handkerchief, which she could not find.

"Hullo! what's the matter?" went on the doctor. "Take this," and he dragged from the tail pocket of his professional frock-coat, where it was mixed up with a stethoscope, an enormous yellow silk bandana with a black border, which he handed to her politely. "Look here," he went on, "I'm not given to eavesdropping as a rule; it is out of my line, who have always been a straightforward sort of party, a mere common man of no family and therefore rather primitive. But I have been fortunate enough, quite accidentally, to overhear what passed between you two."

"Oh!" ejaculated Rose, while Andrew muttered something else.

"I say fortunate enough," went on the doctor, "because it is always well to have things cleared up and to know where you are. I never could bear fogs, in which one is so apt to take wrong turnings."

"Please!" said Rose, but her husband continued remorselessly:

"First of all, allow me to express my heartfelt sympathy with you young people, and, Andrew my boy, or rather my lord, accept from me the most earnest apologies of an honest man who quite unwittingly has done you a dreadful wrong."

"I suppose you didn't know," said Andrew.

"To think that I knew, Lord Atterton, would be to offer me an insult that I should neither forget nor forgive, although as an old man of the world and a Christian, at any rate in theory, I can forgive most things. No, I did not know. Once I suspected, however, from a hint that our tow-headed friend, Sister Angelica, gave me, that there was something between you two. So I went, as I always do, to the source and asked the young lady here who, unless my ears deceived me, assured me that I was quite mistaken."

Here Rose buried her face in the yellow bandana with the appropriate black border.

"After that," proceeded Black, "being too easily persuaded, as we are all apt to be under certain circumstances, things went on as they do between doting old men who are fools enough to set their hearts upon beautiful young women, for psychological reasons with which you, Andrew, being a doctor, will be well acquainted. You see, I never expected to be loved, but it occurred to me also that I might have enough of that commodity to serve for two with careful use and suitable trimmings, nice things, you know, like jewels, and carriages and the rest."

"Don't be hard," interrupted Andrew, his face twisting for the pain he knew Rose must feel.

"No, I don't want to be. A doctor who has studied human weaknesses for thirty-five years learns to make allowances and is surprised at nothing. But there it is. And now, my dear, suppose that you go and compose yourself. Don't think that I am going to come the heavy husband over you, although I admit that the mess is one which will take a little mopping up. I have too many frailties of my own to be severe on those of others, and I think that the greatest saying ever uttered was, 'Judge not that ye be not judged!'"

Rose got up and looked wildly, first at her husband and then at Andrew.

"You must both despise me," she gasped.

Andrew shook his head and Black answered:

"Oh no, no one despises a young woman for being weak, especially if she is very pretty. Only it should be a warning to you not to try to sit on two stools at once—much better to choose one of them and plant yourself firmly in the middle, especially if the legs are fairly sound. And now I think we have had enough of this conversation, although it has its humorous side. By the way, my dear, would you kindly have my things moved back into that room in which I used to sleep before I was remarried? If you don't know which it is, the housemaid will."

"Oh!" exclaimed Rose again, and fled wringing her hands.

"Poor girl," said the doctor, as he closed the door behind her. "She has brewed a nice pot of tea for the three of us; senna instead of tea-leaves, jalap instead of sugar and the water of jealousy for milk. We are all to be pitied, but she the most of us, I think."

"I suppose so," commented Andrew.

"Now look here, my boy," went on the doctor, "what are you going to do, about her, I mean? I gather that you are much attached to her, or were."

"Yes, she was all the world to me. I fell in love with her the first time I saw her, and so I suppose I must remain. I wish that I had died instead of my cousin."

"I shouldn't take it like that if I were you. There are lots of women in the world and not so much difference between them as one imagines. Now the question is, how much does she care for you?"

"Precious little, I imagine, or she wouldn't have done what she did."

"I am not certain. Girls are queer things and to some of them an immediate temptation, like that of easily gained wealth, may divert feelings which it by no means destroys. On the whole, however, I incline to agree that Rose is not a person of deep affections. I formed that opinion during our week's honeymoon, and what I have learned to-day tends to make me believe that it is true. I hope, too, that the converse also applies and that neither is she a person of deep dislikes."

"Anyway, there is nothing to be done," said Andrew.

"Oh! yes there is, if you have the pluck and can get over scruples. I am sorry to say I am fairly healthy for my age, so it is not likely that I shall oblige you both by dying, as the superfluous husband does in a novel. But if you can get over your scruples, and hers, if she has any, and have the courage to face the business, you might take her away. Most scandals can be lived down; in fact, this one would make you both rather interesting. They'd call it a romance, and in course of time you might marry."

"No, no," said Andrew. "Leaving you and myself out of the question, I could not tarnish Rose."

"Tarnish! Ah! that suggests all sorts of questions as to the real nature of virtue, doesn't it? Also as to whether marriage is really the philosopher's stone that turns other qualities, such as love of money, into gold. However, I respect you for the sentiment and advise you, under those circumstances, to keep as clear of her as possible, since there come moments with the best of men when they don't know what they are doing and their good resolutions burn up like a bit of paper."

"I agree," said Andrew. "I shall try never to see her again. It's a pity for quite different reasons, since I hoped that we might continue our professional association, which is now made impossible."

"Yes, and so did I, that is, if a lord can remain a struggling doctor. My word! what a lot of mischief women make with their ambitions and their fancies and their passions and their jealousies. If I had the ordering of the world, I'd blot them out of it altogether, or else leave them to live in it alone and take it out of one another."

"So would I," said Andrew, with conviction.

"Yes, just at present, but who knows—one of these days you may take different views, though after all they may end in the same conclusion. There was something to be said for those old hermits, though the life must have been trying, and even they couldn't get rid of their thoughts. If the truth were known I think there is more sin in thoughts than ever there is in deeds, for in thoughts we do everything we want. No man is really good until he has conquered his thoughts, and no woman either. Something like that has been pointed out on high authority, hasn't it?"

"Which means that goodness does not exist, since no one ever conquered his thoughts."

"Quite so. That's what we are taught in the Bible, isn't it—that all men are sinners? It doesn't mention women, doubtless because that goes without saying—a foregone conclusion. Lord! how bitter we are getting—an old fool and a young one, both of us fish landed by the same fair hand."

"That wanted neither of us, but only the half-shekel in the mouth of the second, which she didn't find in the first."

"Yes, Andrew, that's about it. But you see she lacked insight and perseverance. If she had cut Number One open, she'd have found a whole shekel inside him, stamped with a coronet. It's amazing she never knew. I wonder why the others didn't tell her. Perhaps they didn't know either, though I should have thought Arabella did. However, she is an odd bird, is Arabella, who has a way of keeping information to herself and—dash it! what does it all matter? The thing's finished. Both fish are on the plate—a hot one."

For a few seconds the two men stood opposite to each other and laughed drearily at this sardonic joke. Then Andrew said:

"Well, good-bye, I feel as though I wanted something to eat—or to drink."

"Exactly. Sorry that under the circumstances I can't ask you to stop to lunch. Indeed I think I am going out myself, to give things time to settle down a bit. What are you going to do? See about your inheritance, I suppose—register the title, or whatever happens upon those occasions."

"Curse my inheritance," said Andrew with vigour, "and for the matter of that, my cousin Clara has got most of it. The old man hated me like poison and thought that I had murdered his son to get his shoes."

"Did he? Did he indeed? Well, he was an unreasonable old beast; he ought to have been a woman. But what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Work with Watson, I think, if he will have me."

"Then you will have to settle that with Arabella, for she's top-dog there now; at least, I believe so. I don't know much about her myself, for she's in such a rage with me that I daren't go near her. She wouldn't come to the church and declines to have anything to do with those whom God has joined together. Look here, my boy, to tell you the truth, I've grown fond of you and I hope we shall meet again sometimes, although we may remind each other of what we would rather forget."

"So do I," answered Andrew, whose respect and liking for Dr. Black had somehow come to bloom in this strange atmosphere of tragi-comic events. Perhaps a sense of mutual misfortune drew them together.

"I was thinking of starting a branch practice out Bayswater way, where I have a lot of wealthy patients. Perhaps you might take charge. There'd be lots of money in it. I will let you know about it later on. Anyway, you have been elected to that little club for which I put you down, and we might meet there and dine together sometimes, for they have a strict rule against the admission of women beyond the door-mat."

"Thanks," said Andrew vaguely, for just then a new wave of wretchedness and despair seemed to blot out his intelligence. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye," said Black, wringing his hand. "Oh! what an accursed fool I was not to ask you yourself instead of that poor girl!"

Then Andrew went.

When the front door had shut behind him the burly, good-hearted doctor sat down in the chair, pretending to study the case-book which Andrew had left open on the desk. Had there been any to watch him, they would have seen his face suddenly grow old, as though all in a minute age had seized upon his health and vigour.

"I should like to make an entry in this book, of a fresh patient. James Somerville Black, aged fifty-eight. Temperament sanguine. Nature rather too human for his years. Remarks. An infernal old fool who tried to play the part of a young man, and got what he deserved."

He ceased with the ghost of one of his hearty laughs, and presently, flop, flop, there fell two drops of water upon the white page of that book.

Such was the end of Dr. Black's little romance undertaken rather late in life.

XI. TEMPTATION

By a kind of natural gravitation, for he never could remember how he got there, Andrew arrived at his old lodgings in Justice Street. Laurie, from her point of observation in the doorway, whence (during the summer months) she seemed to keep a watch as assiduous as that of Sister Anne in Bluebeard's tower, espied him while yet a long way off, and having screamed the glad news to her mother in the back premises, rushed down the road and cast herself panting into his arms.

"Oh! Mr. West, oh! Mr. West!" she exclaimed, "you've come back and it's—it's really summer-time."

She said this, not because the remark was particularly appropriate, but for the reason that joy bubbled up in her little heart, and in her short experience she associated joy and summer. Moreover, Andrew's quick and sympathetic nature appreciated her feelings and the manner of their expression and, what is more, reflected them. For some reason this common little girl's evident delight at his return touched him deeply. He had been through so much misery that morning. He had made acquaintance with the concentrated hate of a dead man, who had died doing his best to work him injury, and with the piercing treachery of a living woman. For the first he cared little, although it pained him because of its injustice. But the second had dealt him a mortal blow.

For in a way it was mortal, as such thrusts of Fate are apt to be when they pierce our hearts in youth. It is very common and very easy to laugh at the love-affairs of the young, but after all few others are real. Then it is that budding men and women give all they have, emptying the springs of faith and trust and affection, pouring them out as an offering upon the feet of mocking Aphrodite. And if it is but to see them swallowed in the sands of disillusion, oh! here is disaster irredeemable. Although they do not believe it, the spring will fill up again and there will be fresh outpourings. But the water of the offerings will be different, as the mocking Aphrodite knows well enough, salt, or bitter, or turbid, or whatever the added quality may be. Where is the beautiful faith? Where, where the lost ideals as to the infinitely superior nature of woman, and to what purpose was all that half-divine devotion? If death were the cause of the loss, or stern necessity, or self-sacrifice, or some sense of duty, it might be borne.

But when the theft is deliberate, above all, when it is venal—love and honour and physical purity, and the joy of life and the hope of eternal union sold for money, oh! then has disaster any deeper depths, at any rate to such a nature as that of Andrew?

Something of all this, although at the moment he did not express it to himself in so many words, burst upon the heart of that unfortunate young man, as the eager, loving, half-Eastern child leapt into his arms. Perhaps it was the contrast of her spontaneous, oriental adoration for the man who had saved her life and whom she worshipped as a father and a brother rolled into one, with the attitude of the guilty Rose trembling before him in the shadowed consulting-room, and thinking, not so much of the blackness of her own deliberate sin, which had no excuse in love or sudden passion, as of her shame at its discovery and her fear of the reproaches of him whom she had betrayed. Or it may have been because he felt that here was one who truly loved him, although she was but a Whitechapel Jewess, and remembered that he could not say as much of anyone else in the world, unless it chanced to be that child's cockney mother.

He kissed her and as he did so tears came to his eyes and he stifled a sob. Indeed, he was overcome, so much so that he dared not let the child see his emotion.

"Run to your mother, Laurie," he said somewhat huskily, "and tell her I want some lunch. I forgot to buy a pipe."

"There are six in your room, besides the broken one," ejaculated Laurie with painful accuracy.

"Never mind, dear. I want another of a new sort," answered Andrew, wishing that he had said he needed tobacco.

Laurie departed, evidently unconvinced, while turning, Andrew wandered for half an hour amidst the busy crowds of Whitechapel suffering like the damned, for all his loneliness had got a hold on him and now he understood the full measure of his disaster.

Recovering himself at length, he returned to Justice Street, having entirely forgotten to buy any sort of pipe.

This time Mrs. Josky was waiting for him as well as Laurie, and with a perfect torrent of words.

"So here you are at last, good lord—I mean, my lord!" she exclaimed, for the knowledge of his accession to rank though it escaped Rose, had reached Mrs. Josky, possibly through Sister Angelica. Or she may have read it in the weekly paper of which she was a student. "To think that I should have a real lord in this house, and one who has been to Egypt too! Why, it's enough to bring Josky back from the dead, for he did always love a title."

"Then it's more than I do, Mrs. Josky. What I should love is some lunch, for I hadn't much breakfast."

"It is ready," she answered. "Laurie, go and fetch the fried sole, and bring the chop five minutes later, and if you upset anything, I'll smack you."

So, convoyed by Mrs. Josky, he went upstairs to the familiar room and sank into a chair.

"Where's your luggage?" she asked. "You don't mean to say you've been and lost it?"

"I forget," answered Andrew. "Oh! I know. In the cloak-room at Charing Cross. I'll fetch it afterwards."

"No, I'll do that. But whatever is the matter with you?"

Then an idea striking her, she added:

"It isn't that false-hearted hussy, is it? Oh! I've known all about it from the beginning, though you never guessed," and setting her arms akimbo she stared at him inquiringly.

Andrew groaned, because he could not help it, and she went on:

"I was in the church, I was, and when I saw her smiling there like a pretty dressed-up doll and fingering those big pearls, why, for sixpence I could have torn them off her neck, although that fat old doctor was staring at her as though he would like to eat her, the silly fool."

"Don't!" said Andrew. "Please don't, here's Laurie and I want my lunch. Go away, please, and let me eat."

So Mrs. Josky went, looking unutterable things, and somehow Andrew got through that meal. Afterwards, to escape from his landlady's overwhelming kindness, he went to Charing Cross to fetch his luggage which, Mrs. Josky being out marketing for his dinner, he unpacked himself. In it were some presents that he had brought for Rose, costly gold and silver embroideries such as are sold in the bazaar in Cairo, on which he had spent quite as much as he could afford; also an Egyptian necklace. He looked at these things and at an envelope containing such notes as she had written to him, and that pressed rose which she gave him on the day when he had kissed her first, the same day on which she met Dr. Black.

What was he to do with these things? Give them to some one else? He could not. A kind of rage seized him. A small fire burned in the grate of his sitting-room, for it had come on to rain and the afternoon was chilly. He made it up. Then, with an exclamation, or rather a curse, he cast those valuable articles to the flames. When it came to the letters he paused a while and looked at them, till his eye fell upon a sentence which ran: "Dear Andrew, I am looking forward to your return, and I think about you such a lot that I am afraid I forget other things."

After this he crumpled up the letters and threw them on to the fire with the rest; also another envelope containing the cherished lock of golden hair, which first he kissed wildly. They caught, and the draught being strong, floated, still burning, up the chimney as foreign paper will. Andrew laughed when he saw it and reflected to himself that there were his illusions gone back to their home in heaven withered in a flame of agony. Over the rose, that same rose which had been crushed in a medical work just where appeared the heart of a dissected "subject," he hesitated a little. Who does not, when it comes to cutting the last link? In the end, however, convoyed by a still bitterer curse, it followed the rest into the fire, and all was done. Only the lock of hair, when at length it felt the heat, came out of the burning envelope and withered and twisted like a thing alive, till it, too, shrivelled in the flame. Also it gave out a strong and acrid smell, as human hair does even when it has been cut off for many years, an odour which Andrew never forgot.

During the next few weeks Andrew was a supremely unhappy man. So unhappy was he that he even contemplated the possibility of suicide. At least it is a fact that one night, being unable to sleep, he slipped from the house and making his way to a bridge over the Thames, looked down at the darkling waters beneath and thought how good it would be to end his pain amidst their swirling eddies, where perhaps oblivion might be found. As it happened an observant policeman put a period to this dangerous contemplation as to the advantages of oblivion over memory, if such were to be won which remained doubtful, and in an effectual fashion, as very politely he saw him off the bridge. But that even the idea should have occurred to a person of religious tendencies, for in his way Andrew was religious, suffices to show how keenly he suffered at this period of his life.

In the end, recognizing an interposition of Providence on his behalf, he presented the worthy policeman with half a sovereign as a kind of thank-offering, and went back to bed. Fortunately, next day he found himself involved in a great deal of business connected with his succession to the title which, although it bored him, served to occupy his mind. In the issue he discovered that in addition to that titular ornament, he might count on a clear income of about £1500 a year, or say £2000 if the London house were sold satisfactorily, which was quite as much or more than he wanted.

For the rest, he did not know what to do with his life. It was suggested to him that he should take his seat in the House of Lords, but for Andrew the House of Lords had no attractions. Indeed hitherto one of his chief objects had been to secure its total abolition; that is to say, he had attended Socialistic meetings where this was urged and even made fiery speeches in favour of such a change in the Constitution. So it happened that only once did he appear there to take the accustomed oath, after which he shook its gilded dust from off his feet for quite a long while, although Clara, whom he saw occasionally, was very indignant on the subject.

In truth, Andrew's only real ambition was to continue the practice of medicine and he made several attempts in this direction by entering into negotiations for partnerships. On each occasion, however, so soon as his identity was disclosed, those concerned treated the matter as a joke and with much politeness and many "my lord's," bowed him off the premises. Evidently a practising peer was considered impossible.

At length, in despair, he determined to find out whether his old friend, Dr. Watson, would not take him back under an alias, say as Brother West, and one evening about half-past six when, knowing the doctor's habits, he thought that he would find him disengaged, he went to Red Hall to discuss the matter. Receiving no answer to his ring, as the door was open he entered and walked into the sitting-room to await the doctor's arrival. At this time of day the room, of which the windows were not large, was in shadow, so much so indeed that Andrew thought that it was empty. Not until he had closed the door behind him and advanced half of its length towards the windows, did he observe that it had an occupant. Then he saw a lady seated upon one of the doctor's principle treasures, a beautiful, double-ended couch of the Jacobean period, which stood against the wall opposite to the famous Elizabethan table. The lady did not see him, for the reason that her face was buried in her hands, and she did not hear him either because his step was very light, or her own thoughts absorbed her.

There she sat and there was an air of pathos, even of desolation, in her attitude, all alone in that large, dusky room which struck him at once, although he could see so little of her. He paused in his advance and in so doing knocked the stick he carried against the side of the table, making a noise which caused the lady to drop her hands from her face and glance up. Then he saw that it was Rose, looking, as he thought, more beautiful than she had ever done before.

His first thought was of flight; indeed, he turned to go. But it was too late, she had recognized him.

"Am I so dreadful, Lord Atterton," she said sadly in her soft voice, "that you wish to run away from me? Once—once——" and with a catch of the breath she stopped.

He stood irresolute, hesitating, and while he hesitated this fair woman's mastery of him reasserted itself. His heart began to beat, the blood rushed through his veins and made him giddy. He remembered that often he had kissed her on that couch, and now he longed to kiss her again. Everything else was forgotten except this overmastering impulse of nature which told him that she was his and that he should kiss her again. Yes, even her sin and treachery were forgotten; only the madness of his burning love remained. How beautiful she looked there, seated with bent head, like to a drooping lily, her delicate hands pressed together as though in prayer.

By instinct, as it were, she read what was passing in his mind. Although she might be shallow, Rose had all a woman's faculties and insight. With a quick little motion she pointed to the sofa beside her and, accepting the invitation, he sat down, but at a distance from her.

"I know that I have behaved badly to you," she went on in that soft voice which always thrilled his nerves like music, "but I am not—not a leper that you should avoid me. For whatever I have done, I have paid, and am paying. Perhaps you won't believe me, but I did not really understand what I was doing. Young girls don't always, you know. I was tempted and flattered and I did so long to be rich, who had been poor all my life."

"I suppose that if you had known that I had what are called prospects, it might have made a difference," he said bitterly.

"I dare say; at any rate it was foolish of you not to tell me, and as for the others who knew and held their tongues, I will never forgive them. I don't try to make out any case for myself, Andrew; I have none. I have been a wicked and foolish girl, and the worst of it is that I who thought that I should not mind, mind horribly. No, there is a worse behind the worst. I believed that you were only flirting with me, as you would with any pretty girl who came your way, that you would get over it in a month or so. But now it seems that you really cared and that I have done you a great injury—and oh! it breaks my heart."

"Then there are two broken hearts," replied Andrew in the same bitter voice, "for I shall never get over it—quite. You have not only robbed me of what I desired more than anything on the earth, you have destroyed my belief in woman. I do not suppose that I shall ever again quite believe in any woman. If you had fallen in love with another man, I should not have minded so much, I should have lost the race, that is all. But, as it is, according to your own story—well, things are very dreadful."

He paused, and she sat looking at him, twisting those beautiful hands of hers one over the other, until suddenly she caught sight of her wedding-ring and ceased, hiding it from view. Andrew too, saw that wedding-ring and it warned him, causing him to remember.

"However," he went on, "it is all done with now and you have your husband to think of, who is a very good fellow, a man I respect and do not wish to harm."

"My husband," she broke in. "Oh! yes, he is good, though sometimes I think otherwise. He is hard in his way, you know. He has cut himself off from me entirely. I don't mind that, indeed I am glad, but I have to bear his jokes, each of them with a sting in it—even his laughter has a sting. Then in a fashion he mocks me. He knows that I like fine dresses and jewels and there is scarcely a day passes but he brings me something fresh, not to give me pleasure, but to hurt me. I have more necklaces and bracelets and rings than I know what to do with—and I tell you, Andrew, I hate the sight of them. I would like to throw them out of the window. Only to-day, when he gave me the last thing, a ruby heart with a diamond arrow through it, he told me some dreadful story about a king called Croesus who loved gold and whose enemies when they caught him gave him gold to eat and drink. I know it was to torment me in some way, although I am not clever. I tell you, Andrew," she went on with gathering passion, "that I should value a broken sixpence that you had given me, more than all these jewels that are worth thousands."

"I brought you some presents from Egypt," said Andrew confusedly, for he felt his head swimming, "but I burned them that day after we met—with your letters and the lock of hair." Then he stopped, shuddering at the memory of that writhing hair of which the odour rose suddenly in his nostrils.

"You burned them all? Is there nothing left which I can keep in memory of you? What is that ring upon your finger? The blue thing, shaped like a beetle. Unless it was a present from some one else, will you not give it to me? Don't be afraid, I shouldn't wear it except perhaps when I am asleep and no one sees."

"It is a scarabæus," he said, "and it came off a mummy. I bought it in Egypt with a piece of a dead lady's finger in it. Well," he added grimly, "in a way I am a mummy too, so you may as well have it," and drawing it from his finger he threw it into her lap, whence it rolled on to the floor. Stopping, she picked it up humbly enough and hid it away somewhere in the bosom of her dress.

"Thank you," she said. "I cannot tell you how much I shall value something that reminds me of happier days. They are done with, you know," she added in another little outburst which he felt to be very genuine. "Oh! Andrew, Andrew, I am so wretched that sometimes I feel as though I should like to make away with myself. Indeed, I think I would if I wasn't afraid, not only of dying, but of all the dreadful things which they say may happen to one afterwards."

"Yes," interrupted Andrew hastily. "I have thought of that too, but it is almost as bad to murder oneself as to murder anyone else, and murder is a horrible crime."

"You! Why should you dream of such a thing? You are not—stained as I am. You are a man with rank and fortune, and all the world before you. There's hardly a woman in London who wouldn't give you her love if you asked her for it. Oh! whatever you may feel, remember that I suffer a hundred times more."

"Your bargain does not seem to have come off," remarked Andrew, speaking more to himself than to her.

Then Rose broke down, honestly enough, poor girl. She looked at him with her big pathetic eyes and by degrees he saw them fill with tears. They filled till they seemed like blue flowers brimming with dew, and at last began to overflow. It was too much for him. It would have been too much for any man so situated. His head went entirely. He lost himself in a mist of unreason, all he knew was that there before him sat the lovely woman whom he had loved and still loved, notwithstanding the woes she had brought upon his head. These he forgave since love forgives everything, and for the rest—there she sat!

There is a Paulian saying, not always confirmed by experience, to the effect that we are never tempted beyond our strength of resistance, though doubtless this is true when we are normal and have the opportunity of weighing matters. Probably, indeed, the axiom refers to such conditions and not to those which are abnormal, when the reason is in abeyance. Now, at the moment, Andrew's case fell within this second category; in short, he no more knew what he was doing than a madman does. So, very deliberately, he bent towards Rose and stretched out his arms with the object of embracing her, while for her part she sighed and sat quite still.

It was at this moment, most fortunately for both of them, that they heard voices in the passage, and into the room walked Dr. Watson and Arabella.

Even in his own confusion, with a kind of sixth sense Andrew noticed at once that the pair seemed rather disturbed, or at any rate elated. Obviously, too, they were thinking so much about something else, that it did not strike them as in the least odd that they should find him and Rose seated there upon the couch, if indeed either of them observed that they were so seated before he rose to greet them.

"How do you do, Brother Andrew, or Brother Atterton, I ought to say," said the doctor when he recognized him. "Come to tea, I suppose. How do you do, Rose, my dear? Looking prettier than ever, I see. Marriage has certainly agreed with her, hasn't it, Arabella?"

"I don't know," answered Arabella, as she shook hands with Rose rather stiffly, "but it hasn't agreed with my father. I think he looks ten years older."

"At all events," interrupted Andrew, nervously anxious to change the subject, "the doctor here looks ten years younger, and so do you—oh! I shouldn't say that to you. But what has happened to him?"

"I think I may as well tell you," replied Dr. Watson, looking shy as a schoolgirl. "It is a good opportunity, isn't it, Arabella?"

That classical-looking young woman turned her head away as though to avoid the sight of Rose who, forgetting her own griefs, sat mildly expectant on the sofa, as with a furtive hand she rubbed a tear-drop from the front of her dress.

"Well, my dear," went on the doctor effusively, as is the manner of nervous men who desire to get something off their minds, "you know since you determined to get married in that sudden fashion——" here he looked at Andrew and some idea seemed to strike him which caused his thoughts to wander for a moment. Recovering, he continued, "Since that event, which surprised me very much, naturally this house has been very lonesome. So—well, to cut it short, I have determined to follow your excellent example and been fortunate enough to find a lady who—shares my views on the subject," and with a quite youthful playfulness, he patted Arabella on the head, adding, "don't you, Arabella my love?"

"Yes, I suppose so," replied that lady frigidly, "but please be careful of my hair."

Then followed a silence, in the midst of which Rose uttered one of her long-drawn "oh's." As for Andrew, his nerves, already screwed almost to breaking-point, he now gave way entirely, with the result that he burst into a fit of unseemly giggling.

"What do you find so amusing, Lord Atterton?" asked Arabella, with cold yet rather anxious interest.

"Nothing, nothing," he said, trying to stifle his paroxysm, "but it is rather funny, isn't it? The doctor's daughter marries your father, and her father is going to marry his daughter—a kind of Cox and Box arrangement. Well, I am sure I hope you will all be very happy and Mrs. Black will have something to tell her husband when she gets home."

"Thank you," said Arabella, "but I think that I will inform my father myself of a matter that concerns me more than anyone else."

"Of course," ejaculated Andrew, "that's most natural. I wonder what he will say? Well, good-bye. I have an appointment with a lawyer—no, I mean I have to go down to the House of Lords to pay some fees. Good-bye, Brother Watson. Good-bye, Miss Black. Good-bye, Mrs. Black," and he was gone.

Next morning Andrew started suddenly for the North to visit his estates and stopped there for three months, fishing and making the acquaintance of the tenantry and neighbourhood.

XII. CLARA GOES ANGLING

When at length Andrew returned to town, just as everyone else was leaving it for the autumn holiday, he went to see Clara, whom he found still resident in Cavendish Square.

"Hullo! my dear," he said, "what are you doing here? The lawyers wrote to me that they had sold this family mausoleum, and extremely well, although they did not mention the figure."

"Yes, Andrew," replied Clara, who, he noted, was looking quite attractive, "I bought it for the sake of its associations."

"Did you! That's a queer taste of yours. Well, I imagine that you might have got it cheaper."

"Thank you, Andrew, but I paid what I thought the place worth to me, as I can well afford to do."

She did not add that she had given about four times its market value, being desirous of adding to Andrew's resources in a way which would not excite his suspicions. Here it may be said that this manoeuvre was quite successful, since he never took the trouble to inquire further about the matter. Nor need too much credit be given to Clara over this transaction. She was a keen business woman, but in a way she had a conscience. She knew that she had acquired at least nine-tenths of Andrew's inheritance and that nothing she could say or do would ever induce him to receive one farthing of it back again by way of charity, although she had pointed out, as did his lawyers, that he had good grounds for contesting his uncle's will at law.

She knew moreover that she had done this wittingly. Had she taken a different line with the late Lord Atterton when he was mad with grief over the loss of his son and blindly enraged with Andrew, this injustice might have been prevented, or at the least mitigated. But she had done nothing of the sort, although she was sure that this great fortune hung in the balance. Also she was aware that the issue lay between Andrew and herself, since her uncle had no other relations and was not a man who would wish to benefit charities.

Yet when he vilified Andrew, swearing that he would cut him off with a shilling, or rather without the shilling, with nothing but what he must have, she had merely put in a pro forma defence of her absent cousin, whom she knew to be totally innocent. In short, she had let judgment go by default and instead of sending for the doctor, which was what he needed, had allowed her uncle to visit the lawyer and change his will in her own favour, as she was certain that he would.

All of these things Clara, who had a singularly pellucid and judicial mind, saw clearly enough. To say that they troubled her conscience would be too much, for the reason that, to use an Americanism, she did not bank on conscience. Religion and its trimmings were to Clara matters for decent, outward observance, parts of the conventions that made up the modern code in certain sections of society, something to be put on with her Sunday clothes, and to be stretched or clipped in accordance with the company in which she found herself. She was a woman of her world and never did she pretend to be more or less. Even into this little act of reparation, which she carried through by giving much more than its value for the freehold of a London house, entered other motives. She did not wish Andrew to be an out-of-elbows peer. That would reflect on her as well as on him, especially as some one in the lawyer's office seemed to have been talking, or perhaps it may have been the doctor.

At any rate, the story of her uncle's dementia, for to this it amounted, in the course of which she supplanted his lawful heir, had become the subject of comment even in society papers of the lower class. She was quite willing to make over a large sum to her cousin, as indeed she had offered to do. But here his peculiarities barred the way for which she was sorry, especially as she would have been left with as much as she could spend, and the income from the spirit business was increasing every year. So she did what she could on the quiet, and purposed to do more by similar methods.

Also this cool and very level-headed young lady had other ends in view. Something in one of Andrew's careless notes had given her a clue which she had followed up with patience and industry. Thus she went to Justice Street, ostensibly to obtain his address which was not forthcoming at the House of Lords, and there fell into conversation with Mrs. Josky, from whom she extracted more than that good woman could have imagined. Further, she went to consult Dr. Black about some trifling ailment of her own, and with him she had more conversation. She was even so fortunate as to meet Mrs. Black and, taking an opportunity, suddenly to spring Andrew's name upon her as that of one whom she knew to be an old friend of her own, and watch the result.

A second visit to Mrs. Josky, this time about a lustre tea-pot she had seen in her little shop, filled in the details.

In short, she had the whole story at her finger-ends, and it came to this: That Andrew had been jilted by a pretty fool who did not in the least understand what she was doing, but who, happily for him, was now safely married and out of the way.

Clara was so pleased that in acknowledgment she would gladly have done Rose any good turn in her power, and did in fact take the trouble to introduce her to a most talented and exclusive dressmaker who only worked for a few very distinguished people at equally distinguished prices.

As may have guessed, it was Clara's intention to marry Andrew. That had always been her intention ever since she knew that Algernon could not live. Hitherto, however, there had been some obstacle in her path which, as she now discovered, was the well-favoured but second-rate young person called Rose, who through some curious folly had lost her chance. Now the coast was clear and all was plain sailing, since in such a matter Andrew himself scarcely counted. It was merely a question of how he was handled.

Still, Clara did make a few preparations. For instance, although they bored her extremely, she read certain works on Socialism; she even joined a famous society that advocated some form of this cult, and attended a few of the lectures, where she became acquainted with Dr. Watson and his wife Arabella. Also she worked up interest in medical science and research, on which she perused more text-books. Thus when Andrew finally reappeared from the North she was, as it were, triply armed for the forthcoming encounter.

After all, she reflected, one must marry some one, and he was infinitely the least disagreeable man she knew. Also undoubtedly he had great abilities, which, if well directed, might take him a long way, and with him herself.

Andrew stopped to lunch at Cavendish Square. Although there was no other guest it was a particularly charming lunch, simple, but exquisitely served and cooked. The wine, too, was of the very best, and Andrew, who had been living in an inn and was an abstemious person, drank several glasses. When the meal was finished they went to take coffee in a delightful room that Clara had furnished with great taste as her boudoir, since, having privately given orders that she was not at home, here she knew that they would not be disturbed.

"Andrew," she said presently, after a little pause in the conversation which she feared might herald his departure, "what makes you so sad? Is it the loss of our uncle's fortune, which, of course, you ought to have had?"

"Good gracious! no," he answered. "I have never thought twice about it, and why should I? I've got all I want, and a great deal more than I deserve."

"Still, you are sad and I wish you would tell me why. After all, you and I are cousins who have no other relatives, and we have always been friends and trusted each other. You see, I might be able to help you. Forgive me and don't answer unless you like, but is it anything about a woman?"

"Wouldn't you be sad, Clara, if you found your career suddenly brought to an end through no fault of your own, just because you had the misfortune to become a peer?"

"But why should it come to an end?" she inquired, opening her innocent blue eyes, "for I suppose you mean your doctoring? Why should you not go on working with Dr. Black, even though you have the misfortune to be a peer?" she added, with a faint tinge of sarcasm.

"With Black! It is impossible," he exclaimed, colouring.

Clara opened her eyes still wider and looked bewildered, but said nothing.

"There are circumstances," went on Andrew awkwardly—and stopped.

"Of course I have no idea to what you allude, Andrew, but I have observed that, where a man is concerned, 'circumstances' generally means something to do with a lady."

"Your power of observation was always good, Clara," blurted out Andrew, "and if you want to know the truth, I am no exception to the rule. My 'circumstances' have to do with Mrs. Black."

"Oh! Mrs. Black! I was introduced to her the other day when I went to see the doctor about my glands. She is a very pretty young woman and dresses well, almost a beauty indeed, if she had more animation. Have you been following the fashion, Andrew, and falling in love with your neighbour's wife?"

"No, my neighbour fell in love with my wife, or rather with the woman who should have been my wife. I was engaged to Rose Watson, and while I was away she married Black. That's all the story."

"Indeed! What wonderful escapes some men have; it makes one believe in a watching Providence."

"What on earth do you mean, Clara?"

"What I say, that you have had a wonderful escape. When I think of you with all your ability and prospects married to a pretty, empty-headed doll who is not even a lady—for you know she isn't quite—well, it makes me shiver."

"Don't abuse her, Clara. I loved her.

"I have no doubt you did. It is the sort of thing you would have done. But how did this come about? Was she forced into marriage with that old doctor?"

"No. He was rich and I was poor, that's all. You see, she never understood I had any kind of prospects."

"And you never told her, I suppose. Just like you again. Well, you ought to go down on to your knees and thank Heaven for your deliverance. Oh! it makes me angry that a man should waste another thought upon a woman who played him a trick like that—for money. Why, except that she is infinitely worse, what is the difference between her and, well—never mind? I can only say that if I had done such a thing from so base a motive I should never dare to look any honest person in the face again, and goodness knows I don't set up for any particular virtue. Can't you see it yourself?"

"Yes, only I try not to judge hardly. We all have our weak points, even you may have some somewhere, and might give way if we chance to be tempted on them. Indeed I dare say we have, or shall. You see, hers happened to be money and jewels."

Almost imperceptibly Clara winced, though this Andrew never saw. Then she said in a rather gentler voice:

"I agree, and if it were anything else, love, or even passion, or to help others, oh! anything, I should not dare to condemn. But to sell herself body and soul for money to a man almost old enough to be her grandfather, when she had promised herself to you——"

"Well, Clara, did you never do anything for money?" (Here she winced, and again he did not notice.) "I have. I took Algernon abroad for money, thinking it would help me with Rose. So I can make excuses."

"Andrew, that isn't true. You took Algernon to Egypt because he would go with no one else, and you thought it might save his life. By accusing yourself falsely, you only make her conduct the blacker by contrast. Anyway, it is all done with. You are not going to run after her now she is married, are you, though I dare say she wouldn't mind, having found out who you are? You haven't been seeing her, have you?"

"I have met her twice, by accident both times."

"Then I beg of you as one who is your true friend, and who has no one else to—be interested in, not to allow any more such accidents to happen. Pray, pray keep out of scandals. They are so vulgar and degrading."

"I mean to, Clara. That's why I went up North, and have neither seen nor heard of her since. But I tell you straight out that she hit me very hard; everything one believed in and the rest—all gone at a swoop."

"Of course she did, you poor dear Andrew, and oh! I am so sorry for you" (here the blue eyes filled with tears), "so sorry that I will not try to say how much, lest I should make a fool of myself."

"It is awfully good of you to care so much about me and my follies, and I tell you I shan't forget it, Clara," said Andrew, who was touched as any young man would have been under the circumstances.

"Of course I care, dear," she went on. "Who wouldn't have where a—a cousin was concerned? And I am sorry for that poor girl, too, knowing—what she has lost."

"Oh! you mean the title. Well, I would make her a present of it if I could, for it is no use to me. In fact, it is a hindrance. Now I must be going."

History does not reveal what Clara felt within at such remarks as these. Undoubtedly, however, it was something definite and strong. To hear a young man mock at the possession of a peerage, especially an inherited peerage for which everybody knew he had not paid a sixpence, directly or indirectly, was to her little short of blasphemy. Indeed, sooner could she have forgiven blasphemy itself, since in the tolerant world to which she belonged all have a right to their opinions on religious matters. These are far away, but peerages are extremely near.

Still, to her credit she concealed her feelings, and answered:

"I can quite understand your indifference to rank and money. Indeed, sometimes I feel like that myself, for after all, where do they lead?"

"I shouldn't wonder if our uncle is thinking something of that sort to-day," mused Andrew, who had religious convictions of a sort.

"Our uncle is dead, so let him rest in his grave," said Clara, looking rather shocked.

"Quite so. I'm sure I didn't want to bring him out of it, who, as I hope, has been transported to the Isles of the Blest across an ocean of whisky. Well, good-bye."

"Wait one minute, Andrew, for you know you are only going to a museum or something of that sort. I want to give you a lecture. Sit down and take another cigarette."

"Fire away," said Andrew, obeying.

"I think," remarked Clara, standing over him and shaking a slim finger above his curly head, "I think that you are a reprehensible and even a wicked young man."

"Hear hear," said Andrew. "Agreed, if that is all you have to say. I could tell you about things I have done which would make that neat hair of yours come down."

Clara smiled, having perfect confidence in her coiffure and powers of resisting shock. Then she continued:

"Now I'll show you why. You have great opportunities in the world, if you wish to use them. With your position everything is open to you to which most men only attain thirty or forty years later in life, when they have grown old and their chances have gone by."

Andrew became interested, and asked:

"What can I do? If you will show me anything I can do that is worth the doing, I'll bless you and call you my guardian angel."

"The question is, what can't you do with your brains? You can govern this country, if you like, or take a large share in its government. You can advance the cause of the People and help to establish a true democracy. You can make thousands happy who are now wretched. You can leave the nation stronger than you found it, and purer and better, and with it a name that will shine for generations. All these things are in your hands, and many more, such as the furthering of the science which you love."

"You talk like a book, Clara, but if you will show me how to do these things, or any of them, by the help of a small smattering of knowledge, extremely moderate abilities, a title floated on whisky and about £1500 a year on which to keep it up, I shall be much obliged to you."

"I will, Andrew. If you have no engagement, come to dinner to-morrow night, and we will begin, as we have talked enough for to-day."

"All right. As I have no friends, except a few medical people who are busy men, of course I have no engagements, so I'll come, and you shall expound your plans for my regeneration and that of the country. By Jove, Clara, I never knew you thought of such things—imagined that you gave your mind to dresses and dinner-parties and society, and all that empty bosh. You are coming out in a new light with a vengeance."

"You mean that you are beginning to see my humble light, such as it is, Andrew. Hitherto you have been dazzled by another which has led you into a nice trouble, and then gone out," and she nodded her little head at him gravely, adding, "Well, good-bye, dear, till to-morrow night at eight, and don't walk to the British Museum or wherever you are going, via Harley Street, for the sake of the family as well as your own."

"Clara has a deal more in her than ever I imagined," reflected Andrew to himself, as he strolled away aimlessly, "and what's more, she was awfully good to me, although she did say some hard things about Rose. Oh! Rose, Rose, to think that you should have put it into the power of others to say hard things of you, and with justice!"

Andrew dined at Cavendish Square on the following night as he, or rather Clara, had arranged, and that young lady delivered her promised lecture. It cost her a good deal of thought during the intervening hours, also some reference to text-books with which she refreshed her memory. The results, however, were satisfactory, for really she filled the rôle of fair monitress very well indeed. At times she was shy and appealed to his superior knowledge and male judgment, while once or twice she gave way to bursts of enthusiasm for which afterwards she apologized. Although somehow he seemed to have heard it all before, Andrew was much impressed and even dazzled, especially by a last coruscating effort in which she shadowed forth all that might be worked in this imperfect world by one (or two) earnest, devoted souls who chanced to be blest with health, youth, station, and financial advantages.

Andrew went home reflective and touched with a new enthusiasm. For the first time during a whole year or so he did not think of Rose throughout several consecutive hours, and when he did she only filled a bit of his mind instead of overflowing it on every side into space as was customary.

This mental attitude of his grew and gathered during several other tête-à-tête dinners, to say nothing of a course of lectures on the higher Socialism which they attended together, whereat Clara made careful notes of the best points. Truth compels this chronicler to add that when at last she reached the privacy of her chamber, Clara hurled those notes into the paper-basket and, to relieve her soul, delivered herself of the following monologue:

"I can't stand much more of this, I can't indeed! That long-haired donkey who lectures about things he does not in the least understand to a pack of vain idiots full of their own self-importance, is rapidly driving me mad. Cannot they see that if his doctrines were put in practice, within ten years civilization would cease to exist, and the world would become a lunatic asylum in which the stronger maniacs would prey upon the weaker imbeciles until all were destroyed, or some sane people rose up to rule them? How can Andrew swallow such stuff? If he does really swallow it, which I doubt. Well, if so, it is only a phase. Still, this business must come to a head, one way or another, since not for him or anyone else can I endure more of those lectures. Once I am married the word Socialism shall be taboo in my house, or I will know the reason why."

The long-suffering Clara, as it happened, was not called upon to take further notes about the regeneration of mankind by help of the newest nostrums which involved, incidentally, the seizure of everybody's property for the benefit of everybody else. For it came about that as Andrew walked towards Justice Street after his very next dinner at Cavendish Square, he was aware, it might almost be said painfully aware, that in some strange and nebulous way he had become engaged to Clara.

He tried to recall exactly how it happened. There had been the usual dissertation on what might be done in the world, and it was agreed that money would be necessary to make a beginning. He had remarked that so far as he was concerned the filthy lucre was lacking, and Clara answered with a sigh that she had more than she knew what to do with. Thereon he had suggested that she should take the field, to which the reply was that one weak and lonely woman could not attempt this great adventure, though if he were with her (there he remembered that she had sighed and looked down) it might be different.

"Then we had better get married," he said, by way of a joke.

"Do you mean it, Andrew? No, that's impertinent, for you would not have said it if you did not. You are not a man who would jest with a woman on such a solemn matter."

"Of course not," he had replied feebly. "I hadn't really considered the business much, but since it has been mooted, do you think you could take me as a husband, Clara? You know my unhappy story, and it is my duty to beg you to bear it in mind before you answer."

"Yes, I know, Andrew, and I give it weight. But mutual trust and strong affection based upon esteem and a common purpose in life will outwear any passion for one who, you must forgive me for saying, has proved herself not to be worthy. I do not fear to put myself in competition with such a woman, whatever advantages she may have over me," and she held out her hands.

After this there was nothing to be done except take them and imprint a timid embrace upon Clara's cool forehead.

Then it was all over, and having returned the embrace, she had told him that he had better go away and give her time to compose herself, returning to lunch upon the morrow. So he went—to tell the truth, with no great reluctance, doubtless because he also needed to compose himself. Why, when his mind should be so very differently occupied, oh! why could he think of nothing save the faithless and passionate Rose (for such to him she was, or seemed to be) seated on the sofa at Red Hall with eyes that said, "Take me, for I am thine"?

XIII. THE HOLY ESTATE

Andrew's engagement followed a perfectly normal course. When once she had seen to its accurate publication in the proper quarters, and had supplied the society papers with a few paragraphs suitable to the social importance of the persons concerned, Clara, dreading more Socialistic lectures, also the return of Mrs. Black who was, she had ascertained, on a holiday, remarked that town was hot, and that she could no longer repress her longings for sylvan shades.

"Literally," she said, "I dream of the country and green leaves and dew upon the grass and the gold of the ripening crops. You see, I was born there."

"Yes," answered Andrew, "but I didn't know you had ever lived there since. Where are you going to?"

Clara, who had not made up her mind on this point, reflected for a moment and then suggested Scarborough.

"Scarborough! You don't call that country, do you, dear? Why, it is a fashionable watering-place with miles of sea front."

"I remember a green hill and some gardens, Andrew. But if you don't like Scarborough, what other place would you prefer? I am quite willing to fall in with your tastes."

"My tastes, dear! Why, I'm not going to the country. I've just come back from it. I'm going to do some work at my hospital, where, as the big men are away, they are quite willing to take me on for a bit—you see, I was one of their house surgeons for a few weeks. But why don't you try Atterton itself? The north of Yorkshire is rural enough for anybody."

"Really, Andrew, you are foolish. How can I possibly go to Atterton, which is your place, without you, or with you either, for the matter of that, before we are married? And as for working at a hospital, I hoped that you would accompany me somewhere, living in a different part of the town or village, so that I might be able to see something of you, as is usual in our circumstances."

"Oh!" answered Andrew, without any particular enthusiasm, for he had set his heart upon that hospital work. "I had forgotten the engagement business, and I suppose you can't go to Atterton alone. Also, as the nearest neighbour is five miles off, you might be rather dull. It almost seems as though the best thing to do would be for us to get married first. Then I suppose we could go together."

Upon hearing this, Clara's first impulse was to exclaim "Absurd!" Quickly, however, she reflected that Andrew's idea, or rather random suggestion, had points. To begin with, it would finally rule out Mrs. Black, of whom she lived in some dread. Also so hurried a marriage would have a romantic air. A few hints in suitable directions would suffice to circulate an attractive story of a lifelong attachment that had begun when first their cradles were set side by side, now made possible of fulfilment by the death of an obstructive relative. Of this opportunity, naturally enough, immediate advantage had been taken by two ardent lovers. Then the whole thing would be so unusual; a quiet but carefully advertised autumn marriage when people were out of town (for, after all, reporters never went out of town). No lists of wedding presents (because probably these would not be forthcoming in sufficient numbers at such short notice)—altogether something quite new for people in their position.

"Of course, love," she said, looking down shyly, "that would be delightful, and though I see great inconveniences and it is usual to wait longer, as you are set on it and I know that men hate being engaged, well, dearest, I should like to give you your wish and myself with it, because, as you know, it is you I think of in everything."

"That's awfully good of you. Really, Clara, you are a perfect angel to sacrifice yourself on the altar in this way, or rather at it," replied Andrew with high-sounding, if hollow enthusiasm. "Well, if you will arrange the business and tell me what day you fix, I'll be ready."

"To share in the sacrifice at the altar," suggested Clara with gentle sarcasm, for after all she was a woman and felt in her heart that something was lacking. Indeed, although her imagination was not active, at the moment she did wonder whether, if the second-rate Rose Black had been concerned and it were a question of his sudden marriage to her, Andrew might not have been more demonstrative in language, or otherwise. However, having made up her mind to this step, she must take him as he was and make the best of things. After all, as a woman of the world she was well aware that the holy state of matrimony was one that has imperfections, since if marriages are made in heaven, they have to be carried through on earth.

After a brief interchange of modified endearments, Andrew departed to attend some particular operation at the hospital, to which the great surgeon Clinton, who it may be remembered had approved of an heroic effort of his own in the same line, had especially invited his attendance.

"Very well, dear," he said, as he vanished, "I leave everything to you, as you are so much more competent than I am, and I'll order a new frock-coat to-morrow, for that is the thing to be married in, isn't it? And now I must be off to see that poor woman operated on. I expect to learn a great deal from her case."

If Andrew would attend a little more to women's hearts and a little less to the rest of their interior economy, it might be better for us both in the long run, reflected Clara rather bitterly as the door closed behind him. Really, if he had been hiring a new housemaid, he could not take things more coolly.

Still, being a lady of determination, having once, after ample thought, put her hand to the plough, any such deficiencies on the part of the steed she had to steer did not give her pause. After all, she remembered, they were more apparent than real, and once she had him in the traces she would know how to drive a straight furrow.

So it came about that in due course this wealthy and distinguished pair were united in the bond that is so easy to tie and so extremely difficult to loose. After all, although town was rather empty, the event proved fashionable and as there was little else at the moment with which to fill them, the notices in the papers were full and long. Also, quite a number of presents arrived, most of them sent by people of whom Andrew had never even heard, an the church was filled with sightseers, while Clara's bridesmaids were young ladies of the most aristocratic birth. (Andrew's best man, it may be remarked, was a fellow-student from the hospital, whose birth was not aristocratic.)

As they were walking down the aisle after the conclusion of the ceremony, Andrew's glance, wandering vaguely over the sea of unfamiliar faces, suddenly fell upon one that was familiar enough, namely, that of Rose. She smiled and nodded to him as though to convey good wishes, but he noted that she was white and that her features were drawn as though with pain; also that she looked as though she had been crying. This fleeting vision upset him very much; indeed, he closed his eyes to be rid of the sight of it, with the result that he blundered into his bride and trod upon her lovely dress which was torn, much to her annoyance.

Such was his last meeting with Rose. That chapter in his life was closed. It seemed an empty, aimless chapter; yet it was not so, because of its effects on him, to whom it gave so much pain and was the cause of such bitter disillusionment.

Here it may be added that immediately after Andrew's return to London, subsequent to their honeymoon in the north, on the placard of an evening paper he saw printed as a minor item of news, "Sudden death of well-known physician." Something made him buy the paper and search until he found a paragraph headed: "Inquest on Dr. Somerville Black. Verdict of death by misadventure from overdose of veronal."

The paragraph told the rest of the story. According to the evidence of Mrs. Black, her husband slept very badly and, as she believed, took narcotics. One morning she was called to his room, which was in a different part of the house to her own, and found him dead with a bottle of veronal tablets beside him. That was all she had to say about the occurrence, except that they lived on affectionate terms and that under his will she was left joint heiress with his daughter, Mrs. Watson, to his large estate. Then came the verdict, and so this "fashionable consultant" vanished from the world and was forgotten.

Andrew was staggered both by the death of Black, to whom he was attached, and at the thought that if he had waited a little he might after all have married Rose. And yet, did he wish to marry Rose? He could not tell; all he knew was that if they had both been free he would have married her, because, well, just because she was Rose, that Rose whom he had trusted and who had wrecked his life for money. For after all, what creature is there quite so forgiving as a man, especially if the first affections of his youth are involved?

For the rest, to finish the tale of Rose, within a year she married again, choosing as her second husband a large, fresh-faced and peculiarly bucolic person of almost inconceivable stupidity, a baronet who shot two days a week and hunted three, and possessed great estates in the south of England. By this excellent man she became the mother of a considerable family, and so ends the Book of Rose.

If either of them could have been induced to tell the truth upon the matter, both Andrew and Clara would have confessed that the honeymoon at Atterton did not attain even to their separate modest expectations. To begin with, the house was huge and gorgeous, at least £100,000 of the profits of West's whisky had been spent upon its evolution from a quiet country gentleman's residence into a palace not in the best of taste. Then there were few neighbours, and Clara, always anxious to do the right thing, felt that she ought not to ask a party to assist at the first flowering of her nuptial joys. Therefore she preferred that these should blush unseen. Also, it rained persistently for a whole month, which made the river unfishable and for shooting Andrew did not care.

So he wandered about through those gilded chambers, which included a great library almost without books, reflecting that if he could, he would burn the place down, and at any rate that he never wanted to see it again. Also he purchased a pair of tame rabbits and some pigeons, but just as these became interesting it was time to return to town and he had to give them away to an under-gardener. In fact, there was nothing left to do except converse with Clara, which soon proved a somewhat unexhilirating employment, since her enthusiasm for those subjects that attracted him, first lessened, and then evaporated. Now it is difficult to sit opposite to a lady whom you are expected to call "dearest" at every third sentence, and talk mostly of the weather, especially when this remains of a continual badness, in the intervals of pretending to consume elaborate and wonderfully cooked meals which you do not want.

Somehow he never seemed to get any nearer to Clara, and after her first efforts, which involved the study of Socialistic works which she had now burned because she hated them so much, she never tried to get any nearer to him. Andrew was Andrew and she was Clara, just as the North Pole and the Equator are different places, and there was an end of it, though on the whole she was glad that she had made the marriage, since he was quite an amenable person, always willing to let her do what she wanted, so long as he was not bothered.

So it came about that though Andrew lamented the rabbits, which he had named Dr. Watson and Arabella, neither of them wept when the time came to depart from those stately halls in the company of twelve servants. The only trouble was that Andrew hated the mausoleum in Cavendish Square even more than he did Atterton, where at least there were trees and flowers and all the other sights and sounds of Nature. Still, with some astuteness he managed to mitigate the terrors of the former establishment by keeping on his rooms in Justice Street upon the plea that they were handy to his hospital, where he had arranged to work upon bacteriological research. At Justice Street accordingly he lunched, or at any rate took tea most days in the congenial company of Mrs. Josky, and sometimes of certain medical friends.

Once Clara, who had conceived doubts about this arrangement, descended upon one of these tea-parties, but when she found three earnest young men engaged in examining a particularly unpleasant-looking preparation from the human body and all talking at the same time, with Mrs. Josky and Laurie playing the part of admiring audience in the background, she retreated in haste and never repeated the experiment. Andrew, she reflected, was mad and there was an end of it, since his insanity took a harmless form. Even after she discovered that on certain occasions, when she was on visits to fashionable friends whither he excused himself from accompanying her, he was in the habit of sleeping at Justice Street, she did not remonstrate. If he liked to spend his week-ends in that fashion, what was there to say?

Soon after their marriage a great opportunity arose for the betterment of the Whitechapel slum population, by the building of an enormous block of up-to-date workmen's dwellings upon an excellent site of which an option had been secured. Needless to say this scheme was introduced to Andrew's notice by his old friends, Dr. Watson and Arabella, the latter having become even more enthusiastic on such matters than her husband. Indeed, her enthusiasm had a very practical side, since she proposed to subscribe £20,000 towards its expense out of the private fortune which she had just inherited from her father.

Andrew was much interested for here seemed a chance of doing some real good, only unfortunately he was not in a position to find the £100,000 which was absolutely necessary to set the enterprise upon its feet. He bethought him of Clara and of their pre-nuptial conversations on such matters. Now she had an opportunity of putting her views into practice, which doubtless she would be glad to take. That very night he expounded the business to her with an animation that had become unusual in him, keeping her up, to her great annoyance, for an hour after her usual bedtime in order that she might listen to him and examine the plans. Also he pointed out to her that really it would not matter to her if she had £100,000 more or less, a statement at which she opened her eyes very wide indeed. In the end she rose, saying that she was tired but would make inquiries and tell him what she thought.

Clara did make inquiries through her lawyers and house-agent, and two days later informed Andrew very plainly that nothing would induce her to touch the business.

"I am advised," she said, "that the whole affair is visionary and totally uneconomic. The £100,000 you wish me to invest would probably be lost, or at the least would earn no income. Further, the people who have conceived the idea are Socialistic cranks with whom no sensible person would have dealings."

There was something in her tone that annoyed Andrew, who in his open fashion did not attempt to conceal his irritation.

"You disappoint me, Clara," he said. "I had hoped that you would not look at the thing from the point of pounds, shillings and pence, but rather from that of raising and bettering your fellow-creatures, as with your great resources it is a duty to do. West's whisky has done them so much harm, that some reparation seems to be owing to them," he added sarcastically.

Now Clara grew cross in her turn, for if there was one thing that angered her, it was Andrew's constant allusions to the fiery source of the family fortunes.

"Then, my dear Andrew," she said bitterly, "may I suggest that you should make what contribution you like to this wild-cat venture out of your private resources, which, I may add, you also owe to West's whisky, as indirectly you do your rank."

He was deeply hurt and left the room, but the nett result of the affair was that never again did he ask Clara to subscribe a single farthing to any philanthropic object. He gave what he could out of his own pocket, often leaving himself with barely enough money for his personal needs, but from his wife he would take nothing, even if she offered to contribute, which she did sometimes as a matter of policy. The result was that although he seemed to live in splendour, Andrew was really a poor man, although Clara charged herself with the upkeep of their costly establishments. Heartily did he wish that he were poorer still and allowed to earn a modest livelihood by the practice of his profession. But this Clara would not suffer, because she considered it derogatory to his rank and an indirect reflection upon herself.

Soon she became very outspoken on all these points, telling him that it was his duty to make the most of his position. When he replied that he did not care about his position, which neither he nor anyone else had done anything to earn, she answered that at least she did care and that if he would do nothing for his own sake, at least he might do something for hers.

"What?" he inquired.

"Attend the House of Lords regularly, of course, and make yourself an authority on some subject, which, it does not matter. Heaven knows it should be easy enough, for you have brains and powers of memory while most peers are very stupid people and as idle as they are stupid. You have a chance to your hand, Andrew, which thousands would be glad to buy at the price of ten years of life, and it makes me wild to see you letting it slip through your fingers."

"All right," he said, "I'll try, though I hate the place which I don't approve of in theory, who think that there shouldn't be any lords. Nor do I know anyone there."

So he did try, taking his seat on an Opposition bench, since a Unionist Government was in power and he imagined himself to be a Radical. As it chanced, at about his third attendance a debate arose upon Egyptian matters, in an almost empty House. Now, when he was in Egypt, Andrew had done his best to study the conditions of the country; also he had kept up and improved his knowledge by subsequent reading. Therefore the spirit moved him to correct sundry mistakes which had been made in the course of the debate, and to deliver a strongly imperialistic speech, for it never occurred to him that in doing so he was flying straight in the face of his Party who, for their own ends, were responsible for the said misstatements. At its conclusion he was loudly cheered by the Unionists, delighted at the appearance of this Daniel come to judgment, while his remarks were received in glum silence by those about him.

As a matter of fact it was quite a good speech, since although he had never practised the art of oratory outside the walls of a hospital debating society, Andrew had some gifts that way, to which were added a sympathetic voice and appearance and a power of getting at the truth of things. At any rate, it made a considerable impression and was fully reported in the Press, where he was spoken of as a young peer of great promise. Moreover, although on this occasion he had gone against them, it was noted by the leaders of his own Party, who came to the conclusion that he was worth roping in and cultivating, lest he should stray to the other fold. The upshot of it was that in addition to those which had to do with medicine and public health, Andrew made a speciality of Empire and Colonial affairs, on which by dint of study and reading he soon became an authority, with the result that when, a while later, his Party came into power, he was offered the post of Under-Secretary for the Colonies.

Of course he wished to refuse, but here Clara put her foot down, so that in the end he found himself in office. There he did very well indeed, till a few years later an incident occurred which ended his career as a Party politician.

Its details do not in the least matter, but in their sum they amounted to this. Andrew, being authorized thereto, had passed the word of the Government upon a point connected with Labour in a certain Dependency. This decision unexpectedly caused agitation in the ranks of Labour at home and threatened the loss of many votes. Thereupon the spokesman of the Government in the other House "gave him away" in the interests of the Party, suggesting that what he had said was of his own mere motion and not a Government view. Andrew at once resigned and, although pressure was brought to bear upon him, together with hints of immediate promotion, persisted in that course. His proposed action came, or rather was brought to the ears of Clara, who intervened with all her strength. But here he was adamant, for the reserve of character which lay beneath his rather casual and nonchalant manner came into play.

He told her straight out that he would have nothing to do with people who, by making it appear that he had said the thing which was not, had cast a reflection upon his honour.

She was furious in a kind of icy fashion, for she saw her ambitions baulked by his absurd scruples, jut when they were at the point of harvest. For the first time they came to a really serious quarrel, but all the same Andrew stuck to his guns and resigned, at the same time refusing the proffer of another office and, what is more, gave his reasons in a personal statement which did his Party no good.

From this time forward his relations with Clara became somewhat strained, at any rate for a while.

For this, too, there was a further reason of an intimate and personal sort. When they had been married about eighteen months a daughter was born to them. Clara was not particularly attracted to this infant, whose appearance in the world was connected in her mind with much physical discomfort. Also she was angry because it was not a boy who could inherit the title. Andrew, on the other hand, adored the child, upon whom he poured out all the secret wealth of his starved and pent-up nature. From its first babyhood it was his joy, and when it began to speak and walk it became an obsession with him. What this little golden-haired Janet, so named after his mother, did and said and thought was the chief topic of his domestic conversation and interested him a great deal more than all the affairs of all the Empire. Again he would spend most of his spare time in her company and, when she was asleep at night, would sit at her cot-side and read by a shaded lamp. He had even been known to excuse himself from attending a great official dinner; yes, and one that was not official, that he might indulge this strange fancy.

"What do you do it for?" asked the indignant Clara, returning from some festivity alone and finding him so employed. "Is there not a nurse?"

"She likes to get off duty sometimes," replied Andrew hazily.

"And if she does, hasn't she got an under-nurse, to say nothing of all the rest of the idle creatures? I repeat—what do you do it for, especially when the child is quite well?"

"Oh! I don't know. Perhaps because it pleases me. Perhaps because in her sleep her soul talks to mine and I want to make the most of it while she is near," he replied, with a curious flash of his dark eyes.

"Really, Andrew, I think that you are going mad. Anyway, that settles me. I'll have no more children for you to make a fool of yourself over; not even to get an heir to the peerage will I go through all that suffering again."

"I never thought you would, Clara, and as for the peerage, what does it matter? West's whisky will continue."

The climax came, however, one Sunday when, walking with some very distinguished friends in the Park, suddenly Clara came upon Andrew wheeling the perambulator with not the ghost of a nurse in sight. With one hand he wheeled and with the other waved a flower in front of Janet which, crowing delightedly, she tried to catch. Clara cut him dead, nor did Andrew attempt any sign of recognition.

Unhappy, however, a motherly old Duchess who was of the company, recognized him and rushed up, calling out at the top of her high voice:

"Oh! Lord Atterton, how early Christian and delightful!"

"I don't know about its being early Christian, but it is certainly delightful, Duchess," replied Andrew in a reflective voice, as he wheeled his perambulator off down a side path, adding over his shoulder, "If you meet that nurse, tell her not to trouble. You'll know her by her red nose. Two's company, you see, and three's none."

Her Grace departed, roaring with laughter, and told the tale all over London, with the result that under the heading of "A Pretty Story about a Political Peer," presently it appeared in various journals and was even cabled to America.

After this the relations between Clara and her husband grew even more formal than before.

Here it may be well to add the sad sequel to this pure romance of parental love.

When Janet was five, and so sweet a child that Andrew could never look at her without terror, since instinct warned him that "of such are the kingdom of Heaven," he was called away for a week on some pressing matter at Atterton, to which Clara insisted he must attend in person. On his return, after a night journey, the first question he asked was as to the whereabouts of Janet, for he did not see her in her downstair playroom and the hour was earlier than that at which generally she went out.

"Oh!" said Clara, "she's in bed. Nurse said she thought she had better keep her there, as she has been a little flushed and husky for the last day or two."

"Have you had the doctor?" asked Andrew, with a sudden change of face.

"No, Nurse said she didn't think it worth while, and she is very experienced."

"Damn Nurse and her experience!" exclaimed Andrew, as thrusting past her he went upstairs.

The child heard him coming, and rose in her bed, stretching out her little arms towards him, and saying, "Dad, Dad, so glad you're back, Dad darling," in a thick voice.

He kissed her and made a rapid examination; then fetching a thermometer from his own room next door, took her temperature.

Just then Clara strolled in, saying:

"Well, she's all right, isn't she?"

"Oh! yes," he answered in a quiet voice, "or soon will be, I expect. She has diphtheria."

"Diphtheria! For goodness' sake be careful——"

"Yes, diphtheria. She caught it in those mews where one of your precious women took her when she went to see some one there, and left her to play with the children outside. Now clear out of this."

Everything possible was done, but too late. A few days later the child died. Just before she passed her mind seemed to clear, and she whispered a few words.

"I am going away, Dad darling. Somebody's fetching me. You'll come soon, won't you?"

"Yes, dearest. Promise you will wait for me."

She smiled very sweetly:

"For ever and ever, Dad. For ever and ever, Amen."

Then she died.

XIV. HIS EXCELLENCY

This terrible blow of the loss of all he loved fell on Andrew while he was still in office. What he suffered was known to God and himself alone, for of it he said no word to any human creature, and least of all to Clara. For a while he felt weak and ill and even hoped that he had contracted Janet's disease, against which he would take no precaution whatsoever. But that was not to be his fortune, since doctors rarely catch such ailments to which they seem to become inured. So the period of incubation went by and left him scatheless.

Andrew imagined that he had made acquaintance with grief when Rose betrayed him and even when his mother died, but now for the first time in his life he learned what sorrow can mean to man. Indeed, it was not sorrow he suffered, but mental agony of a sort which only those who are of a like nature and have endured it can appreciate. The thing was terrible to him; it was as though the heart had been torn out of his breast, leaving a void peopled by all the devils of torture. His mother's loss was one that after all must befall everyone in the course of time, and therefore of a sort that Nature knows how to assuage. His betrayal by a woman, bitter though it might be, was mingled with the passion of sex, and passion dies. Only the unworthiness of her that caused it remained in remembrance, with perchance some jealousy and wounded pride. But this anguish was different, far surpassing both. Not only was he the physical father of that child; he was also, as he believed with some mystic sense, the appointed means of drawing down its soul from heaven to the earth, and now heaven had taken it again and he was left desolate.

Always he had felt that it would be so: that this treasure was but lent to him for a little while. From day to day he had rejoiced that it still remained to him; yet looked forward from the sunlight of that presence into the advancing darkness of its loss, he who knew well that such communion was too holy and too perfect to endure upon the earth. And now, now the sword of Damocles had fallen, and what was left to him? He was sure, moreover, that this torment was not of a character that could pass away, or even become dim with the passage of time, which is so falsely said to heal all such hurts. He knew that it would but grow with the growing years; that never a day of his life could dawn in which his wound would not bleed afresh; hardly ever an hour would pass unhaunted by those sweet memories.

And yet, although all this was true enough, he did not foresee the balm which would be poured upon that wound. It never occurred to him to imagine that a time could come when he would rejoice that this sweet flower had been plucked from the gross soil of earth to grow and bloom eternally elsewhere in a realm of peace, even if this were named the Garden of Sleep. Nor did he foresee that far-of development, when night by night he would find himself in closer communion with this departed spirit which had left his arms unstained by any earthly vileness, than could possibly have chanced had it remained in this world. For then it would have grown up and grown away, and in the course of Nature have acquired an atmosphere and interests of its own. But now it was his and his only, or rather God's and his, and so must eternally remain. Yes, until the stars crumbled and grew again a thousand times, God and he were sole partners in its ownership, God from whom it came, and he to whom it had been given for a little while. No, he did not foresee these things, who as yet wandered only in the dark night of suffering, and wherever his blind eyes stared caught no hint of distant dawn.

For the rest, Andrew went on with his work, to all appearance unaltered, except that perhaps he was a little more distrait than he had been. He never spoke of the child; indeed, unless he was driven to it, her name never crossed his lips, although his heart repeated it with every beat. Least of all did he speak of her to Clara, the mother who bore her, though sometimes she would talk of their "lost darling" with a gentle and becoming sigh, and take the opportunity to add that never again could she face another trial of the sort. Then he would shrug his shoulders and say any banal thing that came to his lips about a play, or a picture, or a jewel, or whatever it might be. For of a truth he did not care. He wanted no more children. He desired that all the love of whatever kind he was capable should be concentrated in one tremendous and powerful ray, such as he hoped might pierce our surrounding darkness and find its object in the abysses of the Infinite. Afterwards he came to think differently on this matter under conditions that shall be told, but then it is one of the mercies of life that in it absolute consistency is scarcely possible. Moreover, for aught we know, these very seeming inconsistencies may be necessary to the building up of the perfect whole.

After Andrew left office his only resource was scientific research at his hospital and elsewhere. This he pursued with ardour and very considerable success, living in order to do so at greater convenience, much more at Justice Street than he did at Cavendish Square. Indeed, his name became well-known as that of a rising scientist, so much so that he was elected to a Fellowship of the Royal Society. Then, as usual, something happened to rob him of the fruits of his labour.

Clara saw no advantage, at any rate to herself, in such a career as that into which her husband seemed to be drifting. Andrew might be a clever man and a considerable authority upon germs and bacteriological problems, etc., but there were greater authorities than he whose names already filled the ears of a world that is not wildly interested in such matters. Of course, if he could make some startling discovery, such as an infallible cure for cancer, to take an example, it might be different, for then she would shine with a reflected light and assume a wonderful interest in cancer—at a distance. But as such an event seemed very problematical, really it was scarcely worth the attention of a practical person.

So she set her clever little brain to work in other directions. What could Andrew do which would bring him (and her) prominently before the world? As a politician he was a dead failure. If he started again in that walk of life, the end would be the same. Something would happen to offend his absurd susceptibilities, and he would throw it up and return to his horrible hospital and what were called "bugs."

One day she read in the paper that the Governor-Generalship of a great Dominion was falling vacant. This gave her an idea. Andrew, with her to help him and undertake the social side, would make an ideal Governor-General. A peer of undoubted ability with any amount of money at his back, who had been Under-Secretary for the Colonies—what could be more suitable? Of course he was indolent about things that did not attract him, but then one never knew, he might become interested in the country to which he was sent. And if he did not, it would matter little, since what the Home Government wanted was a figurehead who would not give them trouble or involve them in an awkward questions. Everything else could be managed by herself and a suitable staff.

Clara thought the business over; she always thought everything over very carefully indeed, having had frequent occasion to observe the bad results of giving way to impulse. What is more, she kept her inspiration strictly to herself; not one word did she breathe to anybody, least of all to Andrew, who, as she knew, would probably raise every sort of obstruction, or perhaps adopt some obstinate and mulish attitude. There was only one way to deal with Andrew, to rush him by means of a fait accompli. So she just went on thinking while she awaited an opportunity.

Very soon it came. They were bidden to a certain feast of the very elect, not a large feast, but one of the first water. At the last moment Andrew, in his provoking fashion, refused to go. He said that he had dined out three times that week, and had been so progressively bored that nothing would induce him to do so again. He said that it was absolutely necessary for him to be at his hospital at that particular hour, or at any rate at Justice Street. He said that he had an objection to parties in Lent which, being that way inclined, was perfectly true. Finally he said he was unwell, and that if this dinner were insisted upon, he should go to bed and stop there, at Justice Street for choice, whence he would telegraph a doctor's certificate. In short, on at least four different grounds he flatly refused to go, his real reason being that he knew a certain elevated lady was to be present, who once "when he had taken her in" at his own house had disgusted him by eating too much and becoming mildly inebriated and sentimental.

Clara was furious, but knowing when remonstrance was useless, gave way and telephoned excuse number three, namely, that Lord Atterton was too ill to come. Their prospective host, a genial person, expressed sorrow but said it didn't really matter as a lady had failed them also, that is if she would come as he hoped, since otherwise they would be thirteen at dinner. So Clara went to the party and Andrew, recovered from his ailments, passed a very pleasant and improving evening at Justice Street in the company of Mrs. Josky, Laurie, now grown into a young woman, and several bottles of germs, a trio that Clara icily described as "low company."

At dinner Clara sat next to a Distinguished Person who had much to do with Government patronage, and turned the conversation on to the subject of Andrew. Assuming the part of the anxious wife, she lamented his withdrawal from politics.

"Why," asked the Distinguished Person, "when he has got everything he wants, including——" and he glanced at Clara. "For my part I think he is jolly well right."

"I hate to see abilities wasted which ought to be employed in the service of the country," said Clara.

"Do you, my dear lady? Well, the country can get on without the abilities of most of us, of which I find that it needs continually to be reminded. But what do you want Atterton to do?"

"Well, if the House of Lords doesn't suit him, and I admit that he is no politician, he might serve the Empire abroad. For instance, as I speak it occurs to me that I have heard the Governor-Generalship of Oceania is falling vacant, and with his experience of Colonial affairs——" here she paused.

"Never mind his experience of Colonial affairs," replied the Distinguished Person, "what is wanted in Oceania are rank and money. Well, you have got plenty of both between you. But has anything of the sort occurred to him?"

"Of course not. Nothing ever does; he is quite content to drift."

"Sensible fellow! So would I be in his place. Besides, now I remember that it won't do. The P.M. wouldn't have it. You see, Garton must be provided for."

"Why is it necessary to provide for Lord Garton, who, I thought, had been making himself disagreeable to you of late?"

"For that very reason, my dear lady, because he must be got rid of. If Atterton wants to be Governor-General of Oceania, he had better make himself more disagreeable than Garton," and with a laugh the Distinguished Person turned to talk to his other neighbour.

"There's many a true word spoken in jest," reflected Clara to herself, as she did likewise.

More, she acted on the reflection. She was aware that within two days there would be a full-dress debate in the House of Lords upon one of the multifarious phases of the Irish Question. Also she knew that Andrew was bitterly opposed to the line of action the Government, of which he had been a junior member, proposed to take; in fact that he felt very strongly about it indeed, which was not usual for him on any public subject. So on the following day she drew attention to this topic, and affecting virtuous wrath said that she thought that now when his tongue was no longer tied, it was his duty to speak out upon the matter. Since the question was one of principle, for once Andrew agreed with her and replied that he would think the thing out and see what he could do.

He did think it out to some purpose, and what is more wrote down his reflections and committed them to his excellent memory. As a result, when the time came he delivered a most telling and incisive speech upon the Government proposals, which was commented on throughout the Empire, and very largely increased the adverse majority against them in the Lords. During the same debate, Garton, the man with whom he was in unconscious competition, thinking to advance his chances, uttered a feeble harangue on the Government side that was not even reported and made no sort of impression.

The Distinguished Person, who was also a peer and what is called a practical politician, listened to both speeches, and afterwards had a talk with his still more distinguished Chief.

"Garton has given himself away," he said, "and in face of his remarks, which are recorded in Hansard, if nowhere else, can't do us much harm for some time. Atterton, on the other hand, may become very dangerous. He is indolent, but he has lots of ability and what is more, people who count believe in him. They think him honest who resigned on a point of principle, and there is nothing against him."

"Two great assets," commented the other most Distinguished Person. "I am not sure that we allow enough weight to principle and honesty in politics. You know they tell in the long run with the voting public. But what's the point?"

"Only that on the whole I believe that it would be wise to give the Governor-Generalship of Oceania, not to Garton, but to Atterton, and so get rid of him out of the country. Once he was in the public service, there would be nothing more to fear from him. He has all the qualifications and lots of money; indeed, the only question is whether he might not be too able. A stupid man is safest, you know."

"Yes, that's true. And—does he want it?"

"I don't know, but his wife does, which is the same thing, for she sounded me. Also she is a very clever woman who would fill the bill."

"I think that's good enough," remarked the most Distinguished Person, and passed on to more important topics.

As a result of this conversation a few days later Andrew, to his great astonishment, received a personal communication so flattering in its terms that, metaphorically, it might have been soaked in melted butter, offering him the Governor-Generalship of Oceania, which it was hoped he would see his way to accept in the interests of the Empire.

"What's the matter?" asked Clara, who had wind of what was coming, and was consequently on the look out.

"Everything," he answered, and threw the letter across to her.

Clara picked it out of the cup of coffee into which it had fallen, and after wiping the paper perused its contents carefully.

"Well," she said, "of all the upsetting nuisances! Andrew, my dear, I am sorry for you, and for myself too for that matter."

"Why? One needn't go."

"That's the worst of it. I mean, Andrew, I am afraid that you must. You see, it is a matter of duty. You can guess where this command comes from, or at any rate I can if you are too innocent. Besides, the Empire wants you; you are so evidently the man."

"Confound the Empire!" said Andrew. "It would mean my giving up my work at the hospital to be a figurehead at the other end of the earth, which anyone can do," and he rose to go from the room, leaving his breakfast unfinished.

Clara, who was watching and had been prepared for this, slipped between him and the door, asking, "What are you going to do?"

"Write and decline, of course. Do you suppose I want to be called Your Excellency by a lot of scraping secretaries, and to have people get up whenever I come into a room, though it might appeal to you?"

"It would not appeal to me at all, Andrew, seeing that I should have to get up also. But for once in your life I beg you to listen to me. You have made a mess of politics, and there is your last chance of doing something useful in the world. For these offers are not repeated."

"I am doing something useful in my own way."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"If the public side of the matter does not appeal to you, Andrew, perhaps you will listen to a word on my own behalf. You will forgive me for saying that I feel myself to be a somewhat neglected woman. I know your thoughts are elsewhere than with your wife, directed towards those you have lost, living or dead. Of me you take little account. Yet I have perhaps some claim to consideration, and, since the rest has gone and I must be content with small things, it would please me, I confess, to be the property of a man who is of some account in his day. I have nothing more to say. Do what you choose, and be sure that you have no reproaches to fear from me."

Andrew returned to the table and made pretence to finish his breakfast. Then he went to the study and without another word of argument, wrote a brief acceptance of the high position with the offer of which he had been honoured. Bringing it to the conquering Clara, who was still breakfasting with a good appetite for, knowing Andrew, she knew also what would happen, he gave it to her to read, saying:

"There you are. Have your own way and let's cry quits for anything I've done, or left undone. But all the same," he added with conviction, "I believe this business will end badly for both of us, so if it does, don't blame me."

"Certainly I shall not; that's a bargain, Andrew, and I always keep bargains."

Then she read the letter with her usual care and though she would have liked to alter it, seeing that it contained all that was essential, thought it wisest not to suggest anything of the sort lest it should be rewritten in another sense.

"That will do very well, I think," she said. "I am driving past Downing Street presently on my way to the Stores, and I'll leave it. I suppose you are going to the hospital."

"Yes," he answered, "I must make the most of my time, like a man who is to be executed," and he went.

"Phew!" said Clara to herself, "that was a tough fight, but I have won it. It is quite easy to deal with Andrew if you only know how to appeal to his sense of duty and his better feelings, leaving out any allusion to his interest."

The consequences of this morning's work may be dealt with very briefly. In due course Andrew's appointment was announced and quite well received, since no one at home really cares who governs a great Dependency which, as is well known, in fact governs itself. Notices of him with portraits appeared in the illustrated and other papers; he "kissed hands" on his appointment, and was everywhere congratulated as a successful man. Also, in view of the dignity of his office, he was created a G.C.M.G. straight off the reel, an enormous honour which he did not in the least appreciate, and in short everything went as smoothly as it generally does upon these occasions.

Such real business as was necessary Clara attended to herself. She appointed the large and brilliant Staff who were to accompany them, selecting secretaries, chamberlains and A.D.C.'s from among those of her acquaintance who had titles or the prospect of them, and who, she thought, were likely to amuse her during her banishment. Money being no object, all these matters were handled on a most liberal scale, while His Excellency's domestic establishment swelled to a formidable total.

Andrew, it is true, interviewed the high-born secretaries, and asked them if they could spell or do anything useful. Not being at all satisfied with their answers, he then proceeded to make an appointment of his own. At his hospital there was a scrubby little clerk who could do shorthand and typewrite, and whom he employed in his spare hours in connection with scientific research, in which Jacks, for that was his name, took the keenest interest. This person, to Clara's disgust, Andrew nominated assistant-secretary. What is more, to him and him alone would he so much as dictate a letter, and he it was who coached him upon all official subjects, producing those Blue Books that he should read, etc.; and even making a précis of their contents. With the elevated Staff he talked merely of the weather, of matters connected with their health in which he took a professional interest, and occasionally of fishing; all of which drove them so mad, and Clara also, that if they could have murdered that tallow-faced and stubbly-haired Jacks, gladly would they have done so. As it was they pursued him with insults and froze him with neglect. But Jacks, taking not the slightest notice, just went about his business and when necessary, sent them about theirs, since for Andrew he had a blind devotion.

So at last the time came for them to depart, and many were the farewells. That is to say those of Clara were many, but Andrew's were strictly limited in number. He strolled into the Colonial Office, saw his nominal chief and informed him that he was sailing on the morrow.

"All right," was the answer. "I hope you will have a fairly good time, though I am afraid you won't. Instructions? No, we have none to give you, except to do and say as little as you possibly can. The great thing is to avoid giving offence to anybody. You know the office is more social than administrative as in a Crown Colony, and Lady Atterton may be trusted to see to all that. You have just got to do the polite and in case of any difficulty, cable to us. But don't write more despatches than are necessary, since nobody has the time to read them. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly," answered Andrew. "Good-bye. I believe there are some very interesting diseases in Oceania, of which I propose to make a special study."

"Excellent! First-rate idea. It will strike quite a distinctive note, only please talk of their beastly diseases with respect in public. Well, good-bye and good luck. I hope you will have a pleasant voyage. You are going by the Cape, ain't you?"

"Yes, it takes longer; also I want to see Table Mountain, and there is a scientific man out there whom I have never managed to meet. Good-bye again," and Andrew strolled out of the room as he had strolled in.

Queer fish that, reflected the Secretary of State, as the door closed behind him. But I expect he will do very well indeed. Lazy sort of fellow who will let things slide, which is what we want, but quite capable of coming out in an emergency.

From the Colonial Office Andrew went to take a tender farewell of Mrs. Josky and Laurie, who was consoled for his departure by the fact that she had become engaged to be married to a Greek in the currant and olive line. Having received Mrs. Josky's fervent blessing and promised to write to her once a month, he adjourned at nightfall to a certain cemetery, whence he returned to find that Clara and most of the brilliant staff with some select friends had been waiting more than half an hour for dinner. Just for the sake of practice, all rose when his prospective Excellency came into the room, whereon he asked them what was the matter.

Such was the manner of Andrew's farewell to his native shores.

XV. DISASTER

The ship in which Andrew and his party sailed, by name Neptune, was a fine one which ran direct to Oceania via the Cape, and the accommodation reserved and especially decorated for his Lordship, as may be guessed, was of the best possible. Only for some reason which he did not explain, Andrew rejected the splendid suite which had been placed at his disposal, saying that it was much more suited to his Staff, and sent Jacks on a voyage of discovery. The end of it was that he took up his abode in some roomy and isolated cabins upon the third deck that, when the steamer carried mails, which she did no longer, had served as a sorting-room and for the sleeping places of the officials. The sorting-room he fitted up as an office, while he slept in one of the cabins and Jacks in the other. When Clara made a fuss about the matter, he said that he found these quarters quiet and had decided to stop there. So in them he remained, to the advantage of the Staff, who inherited his newly gilded staterooms in which they made as much noise as they liked.

For the rest, the voyage to the Cape was very pleasant. Andrew appeared on deck at certain hours and talked to all and sundry; also he was most careful to be early at meals, when he attended them at all, so that nobody should have any possible excuse for rising as he entered the saloon. Further, he gave away the prizes at the ship's sports, and did such other things as a Governor should. At the Cape they all stayed at Government House in state and met the local celebrities. Most of these four days, however, he managed to spend with his scientific friend, filling in the rest of the time with a journey up Table Mountain, a visit to Robben Island to see the lepers, whither Clara did not accompany him, and in an inspection of the hospitals.

Departing at length with a send-off suitable to his official dignity, they began their long voyage to Oceania, of which nothing need be told, except the end thereof. As they steamed towards the South Pole the weather grew colder and colder, till Clara wore her thickest and most costly furs even in the saloon, and the highly connected Staff appeared in garments suited to the Arctic regions. The old captain told them that the temperature was far below the normal for those latitudes, from seven to ten degrees, or so he said, but Clara remarked sarcastically that this was the kind of tale one always heard to account for unusual weather.

"To what do you attribute it, Captain?" asked Andrew, taking no notice of her interruption.

"Ice, my lord. One does not usually meet with it here at this time of year, but I expect that some big bergs have got caught up against the coasts of Prince Edward and Marion Islands, which we shall pass to-night a couple of hundred miles or so to the south of them."

"What are the islands like?" asked Andrew idly.

"I don't know, my lord, for I never saw them and don't want to. But once I had a seaman on board who was shipwrecked there in his youth. He told me that they are desolate, mountainous places with a lot of snow on them; the home of seals and penguins and every other kind of seabird by the thousand. Sealers visit them sometimes for water or for what they can catch, though perhaps not once in a score of years."

"How did the man live?" asked Andrew.

"Oh! quite well, my lord. They found a hut on the island—I forget which of them it was—built, I suppose, by a shipwrecked crew, and provisions in it, left by some passing vessel. Also they killed wild goats and ate them, and as the Kerguelen cabbage grows there, they had plenty of green stuff. So, as it chanced that they were rescued within three months, they did not suffer at all, though of course they might just as well have been there for thirty years."

"It would be a queer life to spend thirty years in a place like that. Better be dead at once," remarked the first A.D.C., who was a very exquisite young man indeed.

"I don't know," said Andrew, "if one had a sufficiency of essential things. At least it would give time for thought, which some of us need very much."

"Supposing the clothes to be available, I wonder whether one would go on dressing for dinner," reflected the A.D.C.

"That, I expect, would depend on whether any ladies were there, Captain de Ferney," interpolated Clara. "I am sure that if the position were reversed——"

At this moment a junior officer appeared in the saloon and whispered something to the captain, in which Andrew, whose hearing was acute, caught the word "ice."

The captain rose quickly, saying as he left the saloon:

"Will your Excellencies excuse me?"

"I hope there's nothing wrong," exclaimed Clara anxiously.

"Oh! dear no," said Andrew, stifling a yawn. "No such luck. I imagine that we are rather safer than we should be in St. Paul's Cathedral, of which the foundations are said to have sunk. When you have finished your wine, Mr. Jacks, would you kindly come to my cabin and bring that small encyclopædia with you? I want to read up Kerguelen cabbage and some other things. Also I am frozen in this ice-house. Goodnight, Clara, my dear. Good night, gentlemen, please do not move."

So Andrew departed to his quarters down below, which, notwithstanding the electric radiator that had been fitted up for him, he found so cold that he put on first a wool waistcoat, then a thick jersey, and last of all a dressing-gown. Here presently Mr. Jacks, very similarly attired, joined him with the encyclopædia, in which Andrew failed to find anything about Kerguelen cabbage. Throwing it aside, also sundry Blue Books which the industrious Jacks offered to him, Andrew, with his assistance and that of a microscope, continued certain bacteriological researches on which he spent his leisure hours.

Whilst he was thus occupied an officer arrived with the captain's compliments and a message to the effect that they had been passing through some ice, but there was no need for him to be disturbed, since they appeared to be out of it.

Andrew replied that he should not have thought so from the temperature, and offered the officer some whisky, which he declined and departed.

Then the pair continued their researches, which proved very absorbing. At last Andrew looked at his watch and said:

"By George! it is past twelve o'clock. Time to go to bed. I wonder whether we shall get any quiet times to ourselves in Oceania, Jacks."

"I doubt it, my lord. Too many petticoats and politics there, I think, to allow of anything useful and serious."

As the words left his lips something happened. There was a soft grinding noise and the ship, which had been running on a perfectly even keel, seemed to heel over, so much so that the whisky bottle and glasses slid along the table and would have fallen had not Andrew caught them.

"Hullo! What's that?" he said.

"Don't know, my lord. Perhaps we have struck a whale. Shall I go and see?"

"No, it is too dark. If there's anything wrong, they will come to tell us. Help me to put away these preparations."

As they were thus engaged, faintly enough through the various decks, they heard sounds of commotion. Then came other sounds as of heavy masses of iron falling, or being pressed into their places. Also the siren blew loud blasts.

"I believe, my lord," said Jacks imperturbably, but with unusual distinctness, "that they are shutting the watertight doors."

Andrew laughed a little, and answered:

"Then it is rather a bad look out for us, my friend. And the worst of it is I cannot blame anyone, for they warned me that that was the danger of these cabins. There is a way up, though, for they showed it to me. But I can't remember where it is. It didn't interest me at the time."

"It is interesting now, my lord," remarked Jacks.

"The thing to do on these occasions," said Andrew, "if there is any occasion, is to keep one's head. First let us ascertain if the watertight doors are really shut."

They went out of the cabin and turned to the right, to find themselves confronted by a wall of iron that appeared across the passage way.

"That one is shut right enough," remarked Andrew quietly. "Let's try forward."

So they did, only to be similarly confronted by another wall of iron.

"Now one appreciates the feelings of the proverbial rat in the trap," remarked Andrew, as they returned to the cabin.

"Yes, my lord," said Jacks, "but what's the use of being a Governor-General if your Staff leave you to drown like the rat?"

"None whatsoever, Jacks, but probably the Staff are engaged in looking after themselves. The officers and crew remain, however, and I am quite certain they will not desert us if it can be helped. My word! it is cold here. Give me that fur coat, will you, and take the other yourself."

Scarcely had they put on these garments than the electric light went out.

"Something has happened," said Andrew, "and it is pretty serious too."

"Yes, my lord," replied Jacks through the darkness. "I think we have struck an iceberg and are sinking."

"Then soon we shall learn many things, or—nothing at all. Well, it had to come one day, so what does it matter?" mused Andrew aloud.

Now, except for certain distant noises that sounded like the lowering of boats, though of this, being so deep down in the ship they could not be sure, there followed silence. They also were silent, being engaged with their own earnest reflections.

"Jacks," exclaimed Andrew suddenly, "I remember now how one gets to the upper deck, by the escape stair, also that there is an electric lamp in that corner on the shelf. I used it last night to examine something. Here it is. Now follow me. Stop. Put that bottle of whisky in your pocket, it might be useful. Also the packet of matches."

Jacks obeyed, and leaving the cabin Andrew led the way down a little transverse passage which ended in a bathroom, originally fitted up for the convenience of the post office officials. At the end of this bathroom was a door which looked like that of a cupboard. This door, set there for the sake of privacy when the bathroom was made, opened on to a narrow stair which ran to the upper deck, terminating in a little hooded hatchway.

As they approached the head of the stair the light of the electric torch showed them a terrible thing.

The three-inch teak of the hatchway hood had been swept away, and the opening which it covered was blocked by a mass of green ice of unknown dimensions.

"Now you see why they have not come to rescue us, Jacks," said Andrew quietly. "They dared not open the watertight doors again, or perhaps the machinery wouldn't work, and the hatchway is sealed by a bit of iceberg that has fallen upon the deck and cannot be moved."

"That appears to be so, my lord," assented Jacks, in a faint voice, "so there is nothing to do save say our prayers."

"Quite so," replied Andrew, after which they sat down on the stairs and again were silent.

Thus they remained for a long while, having abandoned hope, how long they never knew, since on such occasions time passes slowly. They heard strange noises as of water moving in the bowels of the great ship, and felt that she was sinking under them, but nothing else, for the screws had ceased to turn. Then came a muffled explosion.

"A boiler blowing up," said Andrew, "or perhaps a bulkhead has gone."

Probably the latter was the true explanation, since from that moment the Neptune began to heel over to starboard. Further and further she heeled, till they thought that she must capsize. Then, when she reached a certain angle this chanced. Suddenly the huge block of ice at the head of the stair slid away; they heard it crash through the bulwarks and fall with a mighty splash into the sea. The hatchway was clear.

"At any rate we shall die in the open! Come along," said Andrew, and they crawled on to the deck.

By this time the electric torch had given out after the fashion of those wretched articles. The stars, however, and a fragment of dying moon showing between clouds, furnished some light, sufficient to show them that the ship seemed to be quite deserted, as indeed the silence told.

"Well, they are all off safely, thank God!" said Andrew.

"Yes, my lord," replied the practical Jacks, "but they have left us behind. Perhaps they are hanging about in boats, and would hear us if we shouted."

So shout they did, but without any result. Here it may be explained that this was not wonderful, since at the moment a huge iceberg half a mile long or more lay to the south between the ship, which was believed to have foundered, and the boats which had been obliged to get away from her in order to avoid destruction. In short, no one was to blame for their seeming desertion, which was brought about by the sudden appearance of this second berg in the darkness of the night.

For a little while the pair crouched there desolate, not knowing what to do. Out of the murk just above their heads suddenly appeared something white and ghost-like floating by them in complete silence.

"What's that?" asked Jacks in a startled voice.

"The big albatross which follows the ship night and day," answered Andrew, looking at it idly.

It vanished, then appeared again, and watching it subconsciously, Andrew noted that it seemed to be circling round a dark object in the water beneath them. Just then a cloud passed and the dying moon shone out faintly, revealing the object.

"It's a boat," exclaimed Andrew. "If only we could get into it; and it must be tied to the ship, or it would have drifted away."

They crept along the bulwarks that were gradually sinking closer to the level of the sea as the ship filled, till they were opposite to the boat. As Andrew had suspected, it was made fast to the ship by one of the falls that for some reason or other had never been unhooked from its prow.

"Now," Andrew said here, "shall we stop here, or shall we try to get into that boat? Which do you say?"

"I say the boat, my lord, for the ship is going. I'll go down the fall first, and see if it is safe."

"Why should you take the risk?" asked Andrew, but before the words were out of his mouth Jacks was sliding awkwardly down the fall.

It was not safe, for beneath his weight the rope ran out of the block, so that Jacks, who was clinging to it, fell for the last few feet, but fortunately into the boat. Scrambling up, he called out:

"Jump, my lord, jump, and I'll catch you. Jump, for by God! she's going."

As he spoke another bulkhead gave with a hollow boom, and the Neptune lurched deeper to starboard. Then Andrew sprang through about twelve feet of space straight at the boat which was beginning to float away. Jacks stood up manfully to receive him, which he did with a vengeance, for Andrew landed full upon the poor little man and together they rolled into the bottom of the boat. Andrew picked himself up practically unharmed. Jacks lay still awhile and groaned.

"Are you hurt, my dear fellow?" asked Andrew.

"No, no, my lord, only knocked breathless," he replied faintly. "If your lordship could get that whisky bottle out of my pocket and give me a little, if it is not broken, I think it would do me good."

By some chance the bottle was not broken, and Andrew managed to uncork it. Then Jacks drank, and he followed his example.

"That's better," said Andrew, after a pull. "I never thought that West's Best would do me a good turn one day," and he laughed in the reaction of their escape from the most immediate peril.

By now the wind or the seas, or both, had caught them, and they were drifting rapidly clear of the stern of the ship. When they had passed it by only a few yards, suddenly the Neptune turned right over and lay thus for a while with her great screws showing in the faint light and water running from her plates. Then came more explosions, and lo, she was not!

"Hang tight," said Andrew, for the boat was oscillating violently and there was evident danger of its being sucked down.

Fortunately, however, it was what is known as a lifeboat of the so-called unsinkable variety, so this did not happen. Indeed, in a little more than a minute all peril had gone by. The great sea had swallowed the Neptune, and save for some floating wreckage over which the wide-winged albatross wheeled, all was as before.

XVI. ALONE

Andrew and Jacks floated on the ocean in a solitude about which there was something awful. For a while they shouted at intervals in the hope of attracting the notice of other boats, but no answer came. Once, some miles away, against the light of the faint and sinking moon they caught sight of a towering mass which they guessed must be an iceberg, but soon it vanished into the gloom. Not knowing what else to do they let the boat drift, only keeping her straight before such wind as there was, in the hope that when dawn came they would be discovered and rescued. But before that happened, although they did not know it, they had travelled many miles and when at length the sun rose, it showed them nothing save a vast expanse of sea, for even the iceberg had disappeared amidst the clouds on the horizon.

For an hour or two they still drifted aimlessly, employing the time in overhauling the boat which, to their joy, they found was well provisioned with biscuits, tinned meat, water and a jar of rum. So they ate with gratitude. Indeed, their chief enemy was the Arctic cold which, had they been wet, would probably have killed them. Even this they were able to guard against to some extent by putting on over the warm clothes which they were wearing, tarpaulin overalls that, together with blankets, they found in the boat's lockers among other miscellaneous stores, such as tobacco.

"What are we to do now?" asked Andrew suddenly of his companion, adding, as he observed that Jacks was leaning against the thwarts and looking distressed, "Are you ill?"

"No, my lord, only a little indigestion where I got that knock last night," and vaguely he indicated the middle of his body.

"Indigestion!" said Andrew. "That may mean anything or nothing. The fact is that, like a good fellow, you tried to catch me and were knocked down and hurt. However, it is no use attempting examinations here and in this cold. So I repeat, what are we to do?"

"Die, my lord, I suppose."

"The idea would have many attractions if one had not been brought up in a certain fashion. Has it ever struck you, Jacks, how great are the disadvantages of religious beliefs and instincts?"

Jacks shook his head. Evidently the subject was one on which he had not reflected.

"Also," went on Andrew, "our end would be lingering and of a nature that I prefer to avoid if possible. How extraordinarily tame that albatross is. I think it must know me again, as I have been throwing it food for the last ten days. There! Did you see it take that bit of biscuit?"

"There have been lots of them about the ship, my lord."

"Yes, but I recognise this one; it is half as big again as any of the others, and has blacker wings; also two of the feathers are missing from the right pinion."

"Perhaps it is waiting to pick out our eyes," said Jacks, "after we are dead, I mean."

"I dare say it is filled with some intelligent anticipation of the sort, but meanwhile it is an interesting and companionable fowl and, as I remarked, so tame that one might almost think that it had been brought up by hand. I wonder why it has stuck to us instead of going after the other boats?"

Jacks shook his head and abandoned the problem, for to tell truth, the motives of albatrosses did not interest him much at this juncture in his private affairs.

Then ensued a silence, during which Andrew idly watched the huge seafowl that swept over their little craft, then sailed some hundred yards ahead and returned, repeating the journey again and again.

"Well," said Andrew at length, "since no help seems to be forthcoming and the sea is getting up, since also neither you nor I have any suggestions to make, I think that we had better take that albatross for a pilot. Maybe it will lead us to land. At any rate, the captain said last night that there are some islands about two hundred miles to the north where cabbages grew, and perhaps it will head for them. So help me to get up this mast."

"And perhaps it won't," said Jacks, as he obeyed. "A few thousand miles round is nothing to an albatross."

With some difficulty they raised the heavy mast, for the lifeboat was a large one, and set some canvas. Fortunately, as it happened, Andrew when a lad had learned how to sail a boat on the Scottish firths where he used to stay with his mother's people, and this knowledge now served him in good stead. So presently they were bowling away over the water at seven or eight knots an hour before a steady wind from the south, while, except for a periodic tour of their boat, the great albatross with unwavering wing floated ahead of them. There was a compass in the boat, and watching it, Andrew observed that this bird kept the same direction without change, heading always about one point to the east of north. Evidently, therefore, it was not flying in a circle, and this being so he was content to follow it for lack of a better guide.

Hour after hour they sailed on thus over that illimitable and most lonely sea where, save for the albatross, a spouting whale was the only living creature that they saw. They talked little, since Jacks was too depressed for conversation and Andrew was lost in his own thoughts. He wondered whether, as seemed probable, this was the end of his life's journey. If so, it was in a way a fitting epitome of the business of existence—a long voyage over an icy and lonesome sea in the frail bark of being, whither he knew not. Perhaps at the finish he must sink beneath the sea and vanish as the great ship had done, or perhaps he would reach, either before or after that disappearance, some unimagined harbour of rest. He did not know, and at length abandoned consideration of the subject, he who was helpless in the hands of Fate.

Next he wondered what had become of the others. He remembered that they might all be drowned, and tried to feel as agonized as he should have done at this probability. But shocking as it was, he could not grieve as he ought. In such circumstances conventions and all the polite imaginings of life are torn away, and men come face to face with realities.

What were they in his case? He was fond of his wife in a fashion, but his feeling for her went no deeper. And as for the rest, the brilliant Staff and the others—well, they were acquaintances, no more, and if they departed from his reach for ever, he would grieve for them, but for himself he could not grieve. In addition to his mother he had loved but two creatures in his life, the woman who had betrayed him and the child who had been taken away from him. The second of these was lost to him for ever in any state of existence which he could imagine, whilst the first and third had trodden that black gate through which all life must pass. Therefore his main interests lay beyond its portal, if there was a beyond as he believed. If not, they lay in an eternal Darkness, and why should he fear to share it, since in deep sleep is rest?

Yet life was strong in him, and he still hoped that there was happiness for man in the world—if it could be found. But if found would it endure? Was man, at any rate man of the higher sort, meant to be happy here? Did not every advance upwards from the level of the animal, imply a lessening of the possibilities of happiness as we know it, which after all is chiefly a product of animal conditions? That sweeping albatross was happy, bit then it never thought of using its wings in any other air than that of earth; its rejoicing was in food and flight and mating and the boundless sea. The savage, too, was happy because his wants were akin to those of the albatross. But for such a creature as himself, still animal, but gifted with aspiring thought or soul, or whatever it might be, was there such a thing as happiness? And if not, might it not be better that all should end, now, at once? Only then might come a hereafter in which all would begin again.

The cold was very great, so great that notwithstanding their many coverings, Andrew wondered whether soon it would not solve this and every other problem so far as they were concerned. Well, if so, it would matter nothing at all to the world. There were plenty of abler men and greater scientists than himself, and dozens who would be glad of his post as Governor-General and fill it better. His loss would really affect no one except himself—not even Clara if she lived.

At length the night closed in and through its long hours, as the wind remained steady behind them and did not rise, they sailed on and on. Once more the day broke, and found them almost frozen, as indeed they would have been save for the plenitude of their garments and of the food in the boat. During those endless hours of the dark, Andrew, who must steer and watch the sail, leaving poor Jacks, who seemed exhausted, to sleep as best he could, felt rather than saw the albatross sailing round them in its unwearying journey. Indeed, once he thought that the tip of its wing touched his face, as might have happened, since although these birds never wet their pinions even when skimming on the surface of the roughest sea, to every wave of which they rise and fall in their magic flight, of human beings they have not a like experience. At least when the dawn came, there it was floating just ahead of, or sometimes behind the boat, with its beady eyes searching for food upon the rough waters, and as before, steering a steady course towards the east of north. Noting this, Andrew made an experiment by turning the boat's head more to the west. For a while the albatross kept on its own course, namely, about one point to the east of north, till it vanished indeed. Then suddenly it reappeared, floated for a while above the boat, and once more headed towards the north. Andrew followed it, since evidently it knew where it was going and he did not. Perhaps it would lead him to land, perhaps to another ship which it had found during the night, perhaps nowhere except over endless leagues of ocean until he perished.

At any rate it was a guide of a sort, and it seemed better to follow something than nothing at all.

So all that day they sailed on before the steady wind at about the same rate of, say, seven knots an hour. It was towards evening that Jacks, who was crouched in the bow because it was higher than the rest of the boat and he found some shelter there, called out:

"There's something ahead, my lord. I think it must be land."

Bidding him hold the tiller, Andrew went forward to look, for in the stern the sail obscured his view. Yes, sure enough, it was land, mountainous land rising out of a bank of mist, and not so very far away, since hitherto it had been hidden by this mist. It seemed a dangerous coast also, for now he could see the breakers falling on its shores. The question was, how to escape shipwreck, since the line of them appeared to be continuous.

Leaving Jacks in the bow Andrew went back to the tiller, keeping a brave face but wondering what on earth he was to do. Perhaps it would be wisest to put about and beat out to sea again. But what could be the use of that? They must try to make the land some time, and if he waited perhaps the weather would change; indeed, he thought that already it was changing. If it came on to blow, certainly they would be lost, whereas now there was—a chance of safety.

While he was pondering this problem and had almost made up his mind to put about, for those breakers looked very perilous, the albatross, which had vanished some time before Jacks first sighted land, suddenly reappeared accompanied by others of its kind and a great company of different seafowl. Andrew knew it at once, because of its large size, its tameness and the gap in its wing feathers. In his perplexity he came to a decision. He would do whatever that albatross did. If it turned out to sea, he would follow it; if it headed for the shore he would still follow it.

"Jacks," he called, "are you superstitious?"

"Not particularly, my lord, except about throwing salt over my shoulder, as my old mother taught me."

"Well, do you believe in luck?"

"No, my lord, for I never had any, that is until I met you. But why?"

"You have a strange idea of luck, though I suppose I should feel flattered," said Andrew. "But as for why I asked it is because I am banking ours upon that albatross. Look here, my friend, it's neck or nothing for us. If we get among those breakers, we shall be drowned, and I see no gap in them. Well, as there is nothing else to follow, I am steering by the albatross."

"Great Heavens!" moaned Jacks. "What does the bird care about breakers when it flies over the top of them?"

"Nothing at all, I imagine. Still, Jacks, if you give your faith to anything, whether it is a woman, or a fowl, or whatever it may be, you must give it wholly. In any event disaster will probably result, but half measures will certainly bring it on your head."

"I prefer to trust to God Almighty," protested Jacks.

"Quite so, but He has been known to work through birds—doubtless you remember the story in Roman history of the geese in the Capitol, and even through women."

"So has the Devil," commented Jacks.

But Andrew was not listening to him, for destruction seemed very near. Indeed he had only jested thus to try to relieve the terrible strain on his mind. There, straight ahead of him, foamed the angry line of surge in which he knew well their boat could not live, and in it he could see no break. What was he to do? Put about for the open sea, for which perhaps there was still time if he and Jacks had the skill and strength, which he doubted? If he succeeded, it meant another night in that cold which they might not survive, and should they do so, the search for some possible harbour when the light returned. Moreover, there was a gale coming up; he was sure of it from the kind of moan in the rising wind, also because the glass in the boat was dropping steadily, and it would certainly either blow them straight out to sea or on to the rocks. Lastly, he was weary of the struggle and did not care what happened, for his physical forces were ebbing, though it was true that he must consider Jacks, who seemed to be ill, rather than himself. So on the whole, perhaps he had better try to put about instead of following that confounded albatross to certain death amidst those broken waters.

Already he was leaning his weight upon the tiller when as though it divined his intention, the albatross, which was sailing very slowly ahead of the boat much as a frigate-bird does in other seas, put about itself in a very sudden fashion. For instead of flying north, it turned to the west into the eye of the sinking sun. Since it did not matter which way he went, almost instinctively Andrew followed it, with the more readiness because the wind, which was chopping, served him best upon that tack.

The boat came round well and sailed along parallel with the land not more than five or six hundred yards from the first line of breakers. When they had covered half a mile or so of water in this fashion, with a single curve the albatross put about again and once more headed due north. For the second time Andrew followed it, more from habit than for any other reason, with the result that the glare of the sun no longer blinded him. Then it was he saw that they were in the mouth of a narrow bay which had hitherto been hidden from him, owing to the configuration of the coast; further, that the water at its entrance seemed to be deep, since here were no foaming breakers.

Into that bay he sailed, slowly enough because the wind had almost ceased to serve, but with a grateful heart. For the water was deep and the harbour was sheltered by tall surrounding hills, at the foot of which appeared a stretch of rocky beach tenanted by seals and great sea-lions, to say nothing of countless multitudes of birds. Lastly, Jacks, who was watching in the prow, called out of a sudden in an agitated voice:

"My lord, there's a hut, or something like it, about a quarter of a mile away there to the left."

Andrew looked, and sure enough at the head of a little cove in the bay, perceived a dilapidated structure that evidently had been built by man. As his eyes fell on it the albatross, ceasing to fly in front of them, rose in its wondrous fashion without any apparent movement of the wings, and vanished towards the east over the crest of the frowning hills. As Andrew thought afterwards, it left them as a pilot leaves the ship when his work is done.

With great difficulty, because in this sheltered place the wind, although it moaned above their heads, no longer helped them at all, the two by the aid of oars worked the boat out of the harbour into the little cove, to the astonishment and indignation of a company of seals that were lying on its rocks. Somehow they beached it and climbed to the shore, making it fast to a sharp-pointed fragment of rock. Then very stiffly, they walked to the hut which was on higher ground, not more than thirty yards away. It proved to be a tumbledown place built apparently of wreckage, roofed with old boards and part of the bottom of a boat that had been covered with tarpaulin, now rotted. From many signs it was evident that this delectable habitation had not sheltered men for many a long year, though to judge from its smell other creatures had used it as a refuge. Still, to their delight they found piled in a corner of it certain casks and boxes which appeared to contain stores, and were carefully protected from the weather by means of planks and flat slabs of stone.

"The men who did that years ago had good hearts," said Jacks, "and they knew what it meant to be shipwrecked. God bless them, wherever they are."

Andrew nodded, then bade him help to carry the things from the boat before it grew dark. So, weary as they were, for the next half-hour they worked in the gathering gloom, and before night set in succeeded in removing everything of value into the shelter of the hut. Then tired out, they ate some biscuits, washed down with rum and water, wrapped themselves up in blankets, and choosing the cleanest spot they could find, slept the sleep of exhaustion.

At some time during the night Andrew was awakened by the sound of raving wind. Never had he heard such wind. It moaned upon the sea, dulling the roar of the breakers that furnished a constant undertone. It wailed like a whole family of banshees among the surrounding rocks, and it roared in fullest note between the crests of encircling hills, giving forth in its sum a perfect fantasy of tremendous sounds, such as might be produced by a thousand organs played upon by madmen.

"Great Heavens! what a gale," he said to himself, then shivered as he reflected upon what would have happened to them had they still been at sea in their frail boat; also that save for the albatross which he elected to follow, such would have been their fate. He marvelled also at the practical skill of the sailormen unknown who had chosen such a position for their roughly built hut, that it remained standing through these hurricanes. Then being thoroughly outworn he drew the blankets round him more tightly and went to sleep again.

When he awoke in the morning the gale was still blowing from the north if with somewhat lessened fierceness, and from an eminence above their hut the sea presented a tremendous spectacle, for the wind meeting the rollers that appeared to press in eternally from the south, caused them to spout in sheets of foam towards the heavens.

"We shouldn't have had much chance in that," he shouted to Jacks who had joined him, looking a miserable little object with his pale hair flying and his frail form enveloped in blankets.

"No more than a hailstone in hell fire, as an American friend of mine used to say, my lord," replied Jacks sadly. "However, we are out of it, thanks to your belief in that albatross, though there are more ways of dying than by being drowned."

"Let us go and see if the boat is all right," said Andrew, to change the subject.

So they went, to find that it was anything but all right. To be brief, the waves, or the wind, or both together, had dashed it against the rocks and shattered it to bits. The bow remained still tied by the chain to the point of stone; the rest had vanished or was scattered in fragments on the shore. Jacks wrung his hands when he saw it, and exclaimed:

"However shall we get away from this place now?"

"How should we have got away in any case?" answered Andrew. "Here we must stay until we are rescued, and let us thank our stars that we got the things out of the boat."

"Yes, my lord, but who is going to rescue us? This place isn't Hastings beach where I always spent my summer holiday. Well," he added, with a touch of grim imagination, "those two mountain-tops covered with snow will make first-rate tombstones, the big one for you and the little one for me."

"Perhaps," replied Andrew, with his usual shrug of the shoulders, "for probably Prince Edward's Islands, if we are on them, are not a favourite port of call. But meanwhile I am hungry, so let us breakfast."

So they ate and then made investigations. First they cleaned out the hut and examined it contents. Here they met with a blessed surprise, for the packages within it were full of food. There were tin-lined cases of biscuit, several barrels of salted meat that in this cold climate appeared to be still good, and a couple of small casks of spirits. Further, in other packages were some Snider rifles and shot guns with a large number of cartridges, hatchets, knives, and what were as valuable as anything, a variety of fishing lines with a great supply of hooks, and a well-fitted medicine chest. Also there was tobacco in quantity, and amongst many other sundries were garden implements and packages of vegetable seeds.

"Some cruiser must have been here and left these things; look, there is the broad arrow on them," said Andrew, "and all the rope has the red twist in it; also the tobacco is of the navy brand. But I think it was a great many years ago—perhaps twenty or more, as Snider rifles have been out of fashion for a long while, and the cartridges look antique."

"I don't know," answered Jacks, "but thank God it did leave them, for now we shan't starve for quite a long while, though I have no experience of shooting and fishing."

All that day went by quite happily for them, engaged as they were in arranging their possessions. They cleaned the hut more thoroughly than they had at first, which it needed after being the haunt of seabirds, also apparently of rabbits, for many a year, and mended it up as best they could, for the roof was leaky and one of the stone walls bulged. For this purpose they made use of slabs of stone and of planks from the broken boat that they were able to saw and nail, as among the stores left by the unknown ship were carpenter's tools and requisites.

When night came they had not finished their task; indeed, it occupied them for several days.

During all this time, in some vague fashion they expected to be rescued. At morning, and at evening, also occasionally during the day, one of them would climb the tallest of the two hills at the back of the hut, and search the sea for smoke or sail, of course without the slightest result. At last Andrew blurted out the truth.

"We are a pair of fools, Jacks," he said. "There is not one chance in ten thousand that anyone will come here during the next twenty years."

"Surely they will search for us, my lord?"

"Why should they search, Jacks? Think of the circumstances. When the passengers and crew left the Neptune, she was expected to founder instantly, for otherwise the captain would not have gone. They could not get at us because the watertight doors were closed and in all probability could not be reopened, as the steam and electricity having been cut off, it was impossible to work the machinery. Also our only exit was closed by an immovable mass of ice. Also it was probably believed that we were already drowned down below."

"Perhaps they got the wireless to work," suggested Jacks.

"Probably they did, and sent out S.O.S. messages before they left the ship. If this happened, these may have been caught by other ships, with the result that the boats which would have hung about in the neighbourhood, perhaps under the lee of that iceberg, were picked up before the gale burst on them. There is no chance for us unless they were all lost. If that happened, of course when it is ascertained that the ship has gone, as you may remember the Waratah went, a search will be organized and within a couple of months or so some man-of-war may visit these islands on the chance of finding survivors from the Neptune. But if any of them are saved this will not happen, as we shall be amply accounted for."

"I see," said Jacks. "And to think that within a week or two of this your lordship expected to be His Excellency at Government House in Oceania with all the Staff going full steam."

"Well," answered Andrew with a laugh, "now I am His Excellency here, very much so, since what is more excellent than oneself? And you are the Prime Minister of my Government, and there is the Staff and Household," and he pointed to some fat seals lying on the rocks, also to some extremely foolish-looking penguins which stood in a line along the shore of the bay, resembling caricatures of white-tied flunkeys. "For the rest, I suppose that God is above us and the sea is certainly around, and as yet we are alive."

"It won't be for very long, I think," replied Jacks with a groan which caused Andrew to look at him anxiously.

From that day forward the poor little man began to fail. As Andrew had guessed, he received some internal injury when he fell upon him in the boat, but not one of the sort with which, skilled doctor though he was, he could hope to deal in such surroundings and without anæsthetics. As a result Jacks began to spit blood, to refuse food of the rough and plenteous sort that was available, and to waste away.

Exactly one month after their arrival on the island, he died. His last words were, "Your lordship has been very kind to me, like my own mother. I pray God that your lordship may get out of this and become Governor of Oceania, where I had hoped to serve you faithfully."

"I am not sure that I do," thought Andrew to himself, as he watched the end. "I am not sure that I do not wish I were where you have gone, my poor, true-hearted friend."

Then he closed the sightless eyes and understood what it is to be alone.

XVII. EXPLORATION

By the help of a spade and a pick-axe that were among the various stores, Andrew with much labour dug a grave between two rocks on the top of a knoll not far from the hut. He could not finish it in a day as he hoped to do, because of the great stones mixed with the earth, which must be levered out one by one. So when night came on he was obliged to return to the hut and spend the hours of darkness in the cold company of poor Jacks.

The fellowship was not cheerful. Jacks alive had been a good but commonplace little man not calculated to excite emotion in anyone; but Jacks dead was very different. Somehow, lying beneath that blanket his stillness and smallness as revealed by the light of the candle (for of these, too, as of matches, there was a stock in tin boxes) oppressed him, accustomed though he was as a doctor to the sight of the dead.

All the old problems rose in his mind, those simple, elementary problems which we thrust aside in the busy course of life, that yet have a way of asserting themselves on such an occasion. There lay what had been Jacks, but where was the real Jacks? Had he gone far away and entered on the heritage of some new, unimaginable state, or was he perhaps still here, watching and wondering, but unable to communicate his thoughts because of the wall of mental death that had been built between them?

Or perhaps was this little lump of clay all that was left of Jacks; was his story told, his part in existence finished? Andrew did not know. As a scientist the last seemed to be the most probable solution; for any other he must rely upon faith in religion and miracle. Religion, and to some extent instinct, told him that this miracle happens, that the dead do live again, but in what fashion and where there was no proof. Certainly if they did not, the lot of man was very cruel, doomed as he was to know much trouble and little joy, to be haunted by fears and griefs and at last to suffer the fate which the law decrees for the worst of criminals—to be executed, and often with the complication of prolonged torture. No, no, Jacks must still be living somewhere among the multitudes who had also lived. Perhaps he would meet those whom he, Andrew, had lost, his mother and the beloved child, and be able to tell them all about him. No, that could not be, since with what distress they would listen to such a tale, unless they had reached a state in which feeling had disappeared with every other human attribute. Perhaps they were all asleep and would sleep until everyone whom they had loved had joined them in their sleep. This at least would be more merciful than knowledge. All he could hope was that under new conditions Jacks was happy. If so, he who was left behind did not share that state.

His nerves became affected. He thought of dragging the body outside the hut, but refrained because he felt sure that it was just the kind of thing that Jacks would have resented. Then, being very anxious to ascertain the exact cause of his death, he thought of performing a post-mortem on him which would have been a congenial, professional occupation. Suddenly he remembered, however, that once at the hospital he had heard Jacks say, when some such business was going on, that he hoped no one would ever cut him up and leave bits of his inside about. So Andrew abandoned that idea also and, the society of Jacks becoming intolerable, he left the hut.

Outside it was sleeting and blowing, also sea-elephants, or seals, or both, were roaring, so that altogether the noises were weird and melancholy. Yet they were better than the silence of Jacks, and since it was too cold to keep still, he walked up and down there for hours, listening to them, until the dawn came indeed. Then for a while he stood lost in contemplation of the wild glory of the sea; the dark and limitless ocean, the white lines of ceaseless breakers, the red rays of the sun striking across them or on to the hilly heath-land of the island, the countless flocks of birds screaming upon the rocks or sailing out to sea in wedges and triangles to seek their food from God.

After this he returned to the hut where he noted with a primitive and childlike feeling of surprise that Jacks was exactly as he had left him, found some food which he ate outside, and proceeded to the grave to resume his labours.

It was afternoon before these were finished, which mattered little as he had plenty of time upon his hands. Indeed, but that he did not wish to spend another night in the company of Jacks, he would have prolonged them till the morrow and dug the grave to the orthodox depth. As it was he stopped at about four feet; then having washed himself in a stream of fresh water that ran down the rocks near by, went to fetch the body. His purpose was to bury it clothed as it was, but feeling that there were articles in the pockets, he searched these and extracted from them quite a collection of Jacks' personal belongings.

There were his purse containing twenty-six pounds in gold, his white-handled pocket-knife with which he continually cleaned his nails, his fountain-pens—two of them—and a pencil, his gold chain and watch which had stopped, the keys of the private despatch-boxes and of his—Andrew's—own desk that now lay at the bottom of the sea, and some other sundries. Also in the breast-pocket there was a handsomely bound Church-service printed in small but clear type on India paper, so that it was not bulky, which from the worn state of the morocco binding he concluded Jacks must always have carried about with him, although he had never or seldom spoken of religious matters.

Andrew opened it idly and saw inscribed on the title-page, "To dear Samuel from Jane," while underneath was written in a rather schoolgirlish hand, "I hope, dear, we shall read our prayers out of this book together for all the years of our life. J." There was no date, but in the pocket of the cover was an envelope, and in the envelope a photograph of a young woman with a pretty, rather pathetic little face and fluffy hair, who wore a large locket on her breast, doubtless the picture of Jane.

So Jacks had a romance, although of this, too, he had never said anything. With a strange curiosity Andrew fell to wondering who Jane might be, also whether she were alive or dead. Was Jacks perchance a widower, or had he mayhap been jilted—like himself? He did not know and he never would know, since Jacks lay there so silent and incapable of answering queries in any voice audible to the world. This was the beginning and the end of something that had been, or still was of intense importance to two insignificant inhabitants of this great earth, living or dead, or living and dead. It was pathetic, but then to those who can feel and see, an infinite minority be it admitted, everything is pathetic, since when it is not merely comic, the world is the home of pathos rounded off by tragedy.

Only the beasts escape, reflected Andrew, since they cannot feel grief and are unaware of the impending tragedy. At this moment a most mournful bellowing close by caused him to look out of the hut. There on a neighbouring rock he saw a sea-lion cow that appeared to be weeping, since he thought he perceived tears running down its cheeks, and was certainly wailing. By its side lay a dead calf that had come to its end he knew not how. Nor was this all, for a little further off a sea-lion bull was engaged in the deliberate and delighted slaughter of another bull, a grey animal that, owing to age and the loss of one tusk, was unable to stand up against its younger adversary. So the beasts also knew the pathos and the pain of life, and as is suggested by their fear of all that is strange and may hurt them, probably are acquainted with its ultimate tragedy.

Filled with such thoughts as these, which came home to him with added force in those sad circumstances and in that solitude, Andrew slowly and with great toil half-dragged and half-carried the body of Jacks up the mound, and by help of a rope let it down into the grave that he had dug.

Then, by an afterthought, he went back and fetched the Prayer Book that he had found in the dead man's pocket, and from it read the Burial Service over him from the first words to the last, throwing earth upon the body at the appropriate moment. He had a good voice and read well and with feeling to an audience of king-penguins which, with their usual tameness and curiosity in a place where they were never disturbed by the cruelties of man, had waddled up to the grave, round which they stood like a circle of white-robed choristers. Very curious was the scene, and very strange sounded the solemn words as to the resurrection and the life and the inspired periods of St. Paul, uttered in that fearful solitude over the dead, unseeing face of his friend, and beneath the enormous arch of the desolate heavens.

At length it was done, and in the dying light, with the wind-driven clouds fired by the sunset drifting over him, he filled in the grave—first a bit of torn sail over the body, then earth, then stones, then more earth, and after it more stones arranged to the accustomed churchyard shape, as well as he could fit them in that gloom.

At last all was done and Andrew went back to the hut, hung up the great-coat in which Jacks had died that he had removed from his body as too valuable to be lost, and by the light of his candle ate some food. After this was finished, utterly exhausted in body and mind, he flung himself down to sleep.

Such was the beginning of Andrew's very strange life upon that desert isle. Of the first two months of it little need be said. He lived, that is all, and indeed in the end became more or less accustomed to his circumstances. To supplement his stores he caught fish, using a kind of mussel for bait. At first he went out to a rock to do this, but there the fish were so big that they carried away his hooks or broke his line and rarely could he land one of them. After this experience, for economy's sake he contented himself with the smaller fry that inhabited the shallower, inshore pools, which after all furnished all he wanted for his food. Also he shot some rabbits with one of the guns from the stores, and occasionally a kid, for there were wild goats upon the island, doubtless the progeny of some that had been left there by a ship perhaps generations before.

On one of these goat-hunting expeditions, to his surprise among some rocks he put up a large cat, which rushed away carrying a kitten in its mouth. Going to the spot he found another kitten, coal-black in hue, that appeared to be about a month old, and caught it with some difficulty. This kitten he carried home in his pocket. At first it refused food and was wild, but ultimately hunger drove it to take some fish, after which Andrew fed it regularly with this and shredded rabbit's flesh. In the end the creature grew very fond of him and became his great companion, its ancestors doubtless having been domesticated. Indeed, it slept on his bed at night and ran about after him like a dog. Having no other society, this cat was soon very dear to him.

Thus week added itself to week and to his surprise Andrew, who had always been a delicate man, found himself growing quite strong and putting on weight. The pure, germless air of that cold place and the simple, natural life he led agreed with him thoroughly. Nor did he suffer so much from the solitude as might have been expected. He had always wanted leisure to think, and here he had time and to spare. He reflected on many things; at first principally on those that had to do with politics and social problems, or on scientific theories that had interested him in the past. By degrees, however, all matters connected with the world from which he was cut off began to lose their interest for him, so that he could only bring his mind to bear on them with difficulty. After all, what did they matter to a kind of Robinson Crusoe cast away upon a desert island? Soon to him what may be called the eternal verities became the only subjects worthy of consideration. He thought of life and death, of God and the ultimate destiny of man. The only book he had was poor Jack's Church-service, but as in addition to the prayers this contained all the Lessons and, above everything, the Psalms, he found it enough to satisfy his mind in the intervals of his work, musings, and sleep. For here he slept long and soundly, which he had never done before.

In short, on the whole Andrew was not unhappy. At first, in the early morning and at sunset, also at intervals during the day, he would climb the tall hill behind the hut and search the horizon for any sign of a ship. Also he fixed a piece of canvas to an oar and set it up upon the highest point as a signal of distress, till in a fierce gale it was blown away, after which he never troubled to replace it. Indeed, his visits to the hilltop became rarer by degrees, until at length they ceased altogether.

It was a waste of time to look for non-existent ships when he always seemed to be busy; moreover, he began to cease to care about being rescued at all. In that great loneliness he learned how little the world concerned him, and even thought with a shudder of his Governorship and his Staff, yes, and of his daily efforts to make himself agreeable to Clara and to talk to her about matters that did not attract him. Of course he could not say if Clara still existed, or the Staff either, but somehow he thought that this was so. To begin with, it was impossible to imagine her as dead; also, if they had all perished in the shipwreck, he felt sure that search vessels would have visited the island, whereas had they been rescued, as was in fact the case, Jacks and himself being accounted for, no one would have troubled.

The sub-Arctic winter wore away and the spring came. It was a very cold spring, only now rain fell instead of snow, also the screaming sea-birds began to mate and a great herd of seals arrived from somewhere, apparently to produce their young. The brown tussocks of coarse grass too turned green, and in certain spots appeared a fleshy-leaved plant which, from the description the captain had given of it, he recognized as the Kerguelen cabbage. Some of this he took home and boiled, to find that it was excellent, if rather strong in taste. As no ill results followed, he ate largely of this cabbage, which gave a healthy variety to his food of flesh and fish.

One day, when for a marvel it was quite fine, restlessness overcame him, begetting a desire to explore the island. So he started early, carrying his gun which would shoot either ball or shot, and a certain number of cartridges; also he took a bag of food in case he should be benighted, and since he did not like to leave it alone, put the cat into the big inner pocket of his coat, where in fact it was accustomed to travel when he went far afield. Thus laden, guided by his compass, he set out towards the north-east with a view of reaching the other side of the island, if that were possible.

As soon as he gained the higher land Andrew found the going very rough indeed. Either he had to struggle through matted tufts of a shrub-like growth, or he got on to patches of sharp stones and what seemed to be lava rocks, or he came across swamps full of duck and a kind of snipe, which must be skirted round. Indeed, it was midday before he reached the highest point, which was marked by a tall hill with precipitous sides, and then he had travelled but a few miles. Forcing a path along the base of this hill, suddenly he perceived the ocean on the other side of the island and in it, at a distance of twelve or fifteen miles from the shore, other rocky and forbidding-looking land. This made him almost certain that he must be on the Prince Edward Islands, since the captain of the Neptune had spoken of two of them.

At first he was minded to be content with this discovery and to return, but ultimately determined to push right across the island and to come back on the morrow. So having rested a while and fed himself and the cat, which he had named Josky after his landlady in Justice Street, Andrew struggled on, encountering the same obstacles, only of an even worse character.

About four in the afternoon he reached the edge of a plateau whence the ground fell steeply for several hundred feet, terminating in cliffs that enclosed a large, protected, and by comparison, tranquil-looking bay that was bordered by a belt of flat soil of fertile appearance. Beyond this bay was a foaming Race caused, apparently, by the tide rushing between the two islands.

Looking at this prospect Andrew suddenly became aware of a strange thing, namely that a little line of smoke was mounting upwards from this flat land bordered by the rocky beach. The curl of smoke floating on still air is so common a sight that at first it excited no wonder in him, who had come from a land of smoke. Then suddenly he remembered and started so violently that the cat, Josky, mewed in protest in his pocket.

How could there be smoke upon this island? Seals and sea-lions do not make fires; only men make fires, therefore where there are fires there must be men. In short, the place must be inhabited by other human beings besides himself. He felt like Robinson Crusoe when he discovered the footprints upon the sand; indeed, the idea occurred to him, also that the circumstances were not dissimilar, except that Crusoe had been wrecked upon a warm island and he upon one that was cold.

So after all he was not alone; down there by the smoke there would be company. His heart beat with joy at the thought—for a few moments. But then he began to wonder what company, and it stilled again. Probably some rude and brutalized sailors were dwelling there, horrible, coarse-mouthed men. It would be better to continue to live alone than to mix with such as they must be, since once they met he would scarcely be able to escape their society. Retreat was the wisest policy, and he turned to go before he was discovered. And yet he hesitated. After all, he was human, and those who had made that fire must be human, too, and in his circumstances he said with the ancients that nothing human was far from him. At any rate, he would creep down and look since, because of the overhanging nature of the cliff, he could not see the fire itself; only the smoke was visible.

Andrew found a path down the steep declivity in front of him. It was a difficult path, for in places the weather-worn rocks were almost sheer and there were several hundred feet to go. At length he reached their base in safety and found himself standing amidst bushes which grew high in the rich soil washed down from above, as a result of the decomposition of the lava rocks. To his right was a great projecting elbow of boulders seventy feet long or more, which cut him off from the place whence the smoke rose. He crept to the end of these boulders and peeped round them.

The first thing that he saw was what appeared to be a field of springing corn roughly fenced about with stones. Advancing himself a little, he perceived upon the land side of the corn several goats wandering, one of which seemed to have a stone clog tied to its leg, also a number of penguins sitting solemnly and quite at their ease, and lastly a great black-winged albatross supporting itself awkwardly upon its webbed feet and engaged in preening its feathers with its fierce-looking, hooked beak. It reminded him forcibly of that very sea-fowl which had guided him to the island, especially when it stretched out its wings and he saw that certain of its feathers were missing, although now these seemed to be growing again.

Again he advanced a few steps so as to get a better view, and came to a sudden halt. For there, in front of what seemed to be the mouth of a cave, was the fire, made, he guessed, of dried seaweed which burned brightly with a bluish flame. Nor was this all. By the fire, which here in the gathering gloom of night, for now the sun was setting, shone strongly upon her, knelt a woman clad in skins and apparently engaged in prayer. At any rate, she was speaking in a rich, low voice and her large eyes were lifted towards heaven, like those of one who prayed. Keeping in the shadow of the boulders, he crept nearer with a beating heart, and listened. She was praying, for he caught the words, "Our Father" and "temptation" and "deliver us from evil" spoken in curious, broken English, mixed with certain elementary sounds, as though the speaker were using a language half-forgotten, or with which she was imperfectly acquainted.

The thing was amazing, so much so that he forgot himself and advanced out of the shadow. Soft as were his footsteps upon the damp soil, the woman heard them more quickly than any civilized person would have done, and looked towards him. Now he saw her every feature, and indeed, all the rest of her in the strong light of the seaweed fire, and became aware that she was beautiful exceedingly, quite young also, perhaps one or two-and-twenty years of age. She was a fair woman, although the weather had tanned her face to a rich and healthy brown, through which shone the colour on her cheeks, much as it does on a russet apple. Also her lips were intensely red. The face itself was rather oval but most feminine, and all about it hung long locks of chestnut-coloured hair. Her eyes were large and very blue and her skin was white as milk, for this he could see between the edges of her fur garment, which was fastened with a thong that had come untied. Her head was small but shapely and the chestnut hair, parted in the middle, grew low down upon her forehead. For the rest she was a tall and finely made woman, though somewhat slender, and straight as an arrow, while about her was an unmistakable air of breeding; for instance, her hands and feet which were bare were delicate and long, though rough from hard use.

In that first glance two other things about her caught his attention. The first of these was that on her rounded neck lay a string of medium-sized but somewhat discoloured pearls, while attached to her robe was a little bunch of flowers, apparently of the geranium tribe. Even then it struck Andrew as strange and touching that in her desolate circumstances this castaway, for such she must be, should still adorn herself with flowers.

Now she saw him clearly and searched him all over with a quick glance of her large eyes, which wore a look like to that of a frightened animal. Then she gave a little scream, as though something about him had alarmed her, and turning swiftly, fled into a cave of which the mouth was behind her, and there vanished.

Andrew stood for a while, not knowing what to do.

"I seem to have intruded here," he said aloud, having contracted the habit of speaking to himself during his long weeks of solitude, "but heavens! what an adventure. I wonder if Lady Crusoe lives alone, or if Robinson will presently appear and attack me. I don't see any sign of him yet, or of the family either."

Then he grew silent and again reflected for a while, till at length he became aware that he was hungry, also growing cold, and that the seaweed fire was very attractive.

"Perhaps she won't mind if I warm myself and eat something," he thought, and in a gingerly and deprecating manner drew near the fire and seated himself upon a flat stone with his back to the cave.

This place he chose with deliberation because he did not want to seem to spy upon its occupant, although it had occurred to him that if Robinson were in that cave, he might have him at a disadvantage. Then he took some food from his bag and began to eat without noticing the taste of it, since his mind was occupied otherwise than with his creature wants. The cat, Josky, in his pocket, being more self-centred, woke up and, smelling the meat, began to mew, whereon he abstracted it and gave it its portion. Also several of the solemn-looking birds that were seated about, regarding him with an idle but piercing curiosity, drew near as though they too expected to be fed.

"Lady Crusoe seems to keep a menagerie," murmured Andrew to himself.

Just at that moment he heard a sound behind him, a rushing sound of swift feet.

"Robinson, I expect!" he ejaculated.

Before he could do anything, however, he saw a hand thrust past him a round, polished, flat platter of stone on which lay a large baked fish wrapped in rushes. Also two boiled penguin's eggs rolled to his feet. He rose to make his acknowledgments of this delicate and timely attention, but before he could turn round, with another rush the giver had vanished into the blackness of the cave. So he sat down again and, helped by Josky, ate some of the fish, also one of the eggs.

By now the darkness had begun to gather; so that there might be more light, Andrew took the liberty of throwing seaweed on to the fire from a pile which was at hand. Then he filled and lit his pipe, sat down again and waited, his nerves all tingling with excitement.

Would Lady Crusoe come out again, he wondered, or had she perhaps packed herself up for the night, with or without Robinson. If she did not come, upon one point he was clear, he would not go. J'y suis j'y reste should be his motto. There he would stop till the morning—till any number of following mornings if need were—since surely she must emerge at last, unless, indeed, that cave had a back door.

In fact, it was necessary for him to find out about this beauteous young creature clad in skins. Hitherto he had never been a curious man. People and things bored him too much, but now, perhaps for the first time in his life, he felt himself devoured by an insatiable desire for information. Nothing in the world had ever excited him so much, except perhaps to know what happened to us when we went out of the world. Even the problem of the fate of his fellow-passengers on the Neptune, which had haunted him day and night, paled in his mind before this new and attractive riddle.

Yes, whatever chanced, however bad the weather might be, there he would remain, or at least in the immediate neighbourhood, until an answer to it was forthcoming.

XVIII. MARY

As it chanced no great strain was put upon a patience which Andrew had determined should be infinite, since about ten minutes later he became aware that he was no longer alone—although he heard nothing. For this time there was no rushing, from which he concluded that the approach of Lady Crusoe (if it were she and not Robinson) must have been very stealthy, a fact which suggested that it might be Robinson upon evil purposes intent.

To settle this point he wheeled round swiftly upon his stone, to discover to his relief that his visitor was not of the male sex. For there between him and the cave mouth, standing in the full light of the fire, was the mysterious lady—somehow he never thought of her for a moment as otherwise than a lady—a little changed indeed, since she now wore a more tightly-fitting and closer buttoned, or rather tied, fur coat made from the whitish pelts of young seals. Also her thick chestnut hair had been combed and hung almost to her knees, in great tresses fastened at the ends of with little bows of grass fibre.

"Lady Crusoe in her Sunday best!" thought Andrew, who in his lighter moments had a flippant mind, then sat still admiring the general effect which, in that blue firelight with a background of black rocks, was in its way superb. Finally he rose, took off his hat, always an Englishman's first and last resource when embarrassed by the sudden appearance of a lady, and not knowing what to say, stood still. Indeed, it was she who began the conversation by pointing to Josky sleeping luxuriously before the fire and saying, with a triumphant nod of the head:

"Pussy-cat. Oh! yes, 'member ship, pussy-cat!"

Then she paused as though exhausted by the effort.

Andrew assented to the accuracy of this statement, then feeling that he must say something, added:

"What is your name?"

"What ees your name?" she repeated after him with a curious accent on each word and especially on "name," which she said with a very broad "a." Then, after profound thought, a kind of inspiration seemed to seize her, and flinging up her rounded arms, she exclaimed with a rapturous smile:

"Ma-ary."

Looking at her as she did these things, Andrew was thrilled all through his being and thought to himself that he had never seen so beautiful a creature. Of what did she put him in mind? He could not say, but wild roses and the first light of dawn and the last dying trill of a thrush's song at eve came into his thoughts as instances of things which were supremely pure and sweet and natural.

So overpowered was he that beyond repeating the word "Mary" after her to show that he understood, he said nothing. She, however, delighted with her success, made a further effort.

"You," she said, pointing an accusing finger at him, "name—what?"

"Andrew," he replied.

"Andrew, Andrew," she murmured several times. Then as though to make sure, began to spell—A n—An, d r u—dru."

"d r e w," he corrected.

"e w," she said, shaking her head. "No 'member 'w.'" Then added, "Old man, he name Tom."

"Indeed," answered Andrew, overcome by this piece of information, "I thought it must be Robinson." Then rising to the occasion and adapting himself to her limited vocabulary, he asked:

"Old man Tom, no see. Where he?" and he looked about him vaguely, then pointed to the cave.

Again she repeated his words to herself and again became filled with angelic inspiration, at least on her beautiful face it looked angelic, as she replied:

"Old man Tom, he——" Here words failed her, and she had recourse to pantomime, "he," and she pointed to the ground, then by an afterthought, up towards the sky.

"Dead," suggested Andrew.

"D e d," she spelt out, "ded! Yes, yes, he ded," and she clapped her hands delightedly. Then, as though realizing that this action might be misinterpreted, she sighed from her deep bosom, shook her head sadly and made a movement with her hand as though wiping tears from her eyes.

"I am jolly well glad of it," commented the unfeeling Andrew with a sympathetic sadness of countenance, for somehow he did not seem to wish for the society of "Old man Tom" whoever he might be, or have been.

Here their conversation came to a full stop, hers because language seemed to have exhausted its possibilities, his because he had so much to say and did not know how much she would understand.

As though some instinct told her that the situation was awkward, she proceeded to relieve it by action. First she collected the remains of the fish which he had been eating, holding them delicately in the rushes, and threw them away towards where the great birds still sat ghost-like in the gloom. Then she picked up the uneaten egg and, as though to show that it must not be wasted, with a movement of extraordinary grace flitted to the mouth of the cave and laid it down. Atalanta could not have lifted the golden apples with more charm, thought Andrew.

Returning, she stooped and stroked Josky, listening with pleasure to its purring and saying:

"An-drew, pussy-cat! Pussy-cat, Andrew!" Then suddenly she became solemn, almost mysteriously solemn.

"Night," she said, "night," pointing with raised hands to the darkness above them in which bright stars appeared. "Night. God in night, say prayer," and down she went upon her knees, motioning to Andrew to do likewise.

"Our Father," she began, and stopped, looking at him.

"Which art in Heaven," he added.

She nodded in her childish delight. Evidently she had forgotten these words which she repeated after him, and wanted him to help her out. So they went through the Lord's Prayer, she pausing wherever her memory failed her and he supplying the omission. It was a most curious and in a way a touching scene. She ended her petition with these words:

"God bless Mary, God bless Old man Tom," then as though by an afterthought she added, "God bless Andrew, God bless pussy-cat."

Really he could have wept when he heard this poor girl saying these things, so sweet did they seem both in their thought and in the broken prattle of her language. Also the simple piety of this lost one, preserved through heaven knew what circumstances, appealed to him.

Her orisons finished, Mary rose and yawned ostentatiously, revealing a most beautiful set of teeth in the firelight.

"Mary sleep," she said doubtfully, looking towards the cave. "Andrew sleep, and pussy-cat sleep," and she looked about her with a vague, interrogative air, obviously inviting suggestions.

Before he could make any, however, for the situation confused him, also he was wondering hard whether Old man Tom was or was not in that cave as her prayer seemed to indicate, she added with a look which was in itself a question:

"Andrew 'fraid bones?"

"Not at all," he replied, shaking his head.

Then once more inspiration seemed to seize her. Running back to the cave she returned presently with some torches made of the stems of dry grass neatly twisted together. Lighting one of them at the fire, she gave him another and beckoned to him to follow. Passing round another corner of rock about twenty yards away, they came to a second cave at the mouth of which she paused and uttered some words in a low voice that he could not understand; they sounded like an invocation or speech made to some one he was unable to see. Then she entered the cave, again beckoning him to follow.

It proved to be of moderate dimensions with a floor of sand which appeared to have been placed there, and at its end were two arms like to those of a cross; clearly like the rest of the place these were hollowed out by the action of water working on strata which were softer than the main rock of the cliff. One of these arms or recesses was closed in with a carefully constructed little fence of dried grass. She conducted him to this fence and pointed, holding down the torch so that he might see. There, lying very grim and solemn, he perceived the skeleton of a man whose grey hair still clung to his skull and whose arms were still clad in a tattered coat with brass naval buttons.

"Old man Tom!" she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

Andrew started back, then recovered himself, reflecting with an unholy joy that he was glad Old man Tom reposed once and for all in Cave No. 2 and not in No. 1, where he had imagined him as crippled with rheumatism, or possibly drunk.

"Andrew sleep there?" she queried, pointing to the opposite arm of the cave.

"Oh! with pleasure," he answered, again nodding his head, and gathering his assent from this action, she turned and with a swallow-like motion sailed from the cave.

"Good night," he called after her.

She heard, and at its entrance wheeled round.

"Oh yes, 'member now. Good night. Good night, Andrew, good night, pussy-cat." Then, as he could see by the light of the torch which she held up, she smiled in the most heavenly fashion and broke into low, melodious laughter, the happiest he thought that he had ever heard, the sound of which accompanied her as she fled away, till at last it died in the silence like the echo of distant silver bells.

"Well, I'm bothered!" said Andrew. "Whoever would have thought that desert islands had such possibilities? Now I will go to sleep."

So, having disposed Josky by his side, he lay down on the sand and tried to fulfil this sensible intention. The effort proved quite futile; sleep was far from him. What was near to him was the thought of this wonderful woman whom he had discovered, this mysterious Mary, this beautiful wild rose of a creature, who apparently had lived here so long alone that she had almost forgotten how to speak, and yet remained a lady, refined in her thoughts and manners, English, too, he judged by the words she could utter. How did she come here? he wondered.

Well, the answer to that was clear. Doubtless in the same way that he had himself, as a survivor of a shipwreck. She was an ocean waif. Probably her companion in misfortune had been that Old man Tom who lay in his fenced grave but a few feet away from him. He wished that this girl did not interest him so strangely, since if the interest continued he felt that, circumstanced as they were, it might become awkward for him. He was obliged to confess to himself that had she been old and ugly, or coarse and horrible, or even young, uncomely and commonplace, he would not have felt towards her as he did, even if she proved to be the most estimable of persons.

A terrible idea took him. Supposing that he should fall in love with her—such a thing might chance on a desert island—what would happen then? Well, luckily that was impossible; Rose had made it impossible, since he was sure that no one falls in love twice. Also he was married, that is if Clara still survived, a point on which he had no information, and that made the thing doubly impossible. Therefore, so far as he was concerned, this contingency might be ruled out. Another occurred to him, however; suppose that in her general lack of experience she should chance to develop feelings for him that were warmer than those of mere casual fellowship?

Well, fortunately that too was practically impossible. No one had ever fallen in love with him and he did not suppose that anyone would, even on a desert island. Also on the first occasion, that is as soon as he could teach her to understand him, he would take an opportunity to tell her all about Clara, which would settle the business. And if he were wrong in any of these suppositions, he could go back to his hut and leave her in her cave.

Oh! he would think no more about her and her wonderful eyes and grace and smile. What could he think of? Old man Tom seemed the most imminent subject, much too imminent indeed. Why was he destined to be companioned by the dead in this place? At the hut yonder he had Jacks for a fellow, and here it was Old man Tom, who was not even decently buried, and really a skeleton was not an agreeable bed partner. The cave was not large enough for both of them, and then and there he made up his mind that on the morrow either Tom should go out of it, or he would. He became absurdly nervous, being by nature of that temperament. He thought that he heard Tom rattling his bones on the further side of the fence, and was not consoled when his agitation spread to Josky which woke up and mewed, and finally insisted upon creeping into his pocket, where however it continued to mew.

As he could not sleep he determined to smoke, reflecting that he could do so without extravagance, since there was a great quantity of tobacco among the stores at the hut, enough for twenty men for a year or more. So he lit his pipe, turning his head towards the cave wall as he did so, for fear, as his conscience told him, although he found other reasons for the act, lest the flare of the match should reveal Tom looking at him over his grass fence. Such thoughts were shameful in a doctor, but what between weariness and emotion his nerves had been upset and there they were. Moreover, the experiment was useless, since he could not taste the tobacco in the dark.

At length he felt that he could bear no more of Tom's society, and rising, by the help of the light of another match, he crept down the cave till he came to its entrance. Here, sheltered by some stones and rough bushes that grew there, he lay down again where he could see the brilliant stars and in the end fell asleep, to dream that the skeleton of Old man Tom arrayed in the tattered naval uniform, was standing over him, while from the bony jaws issued a lecture upon his duty towards this young woman whom chance had brought into his life.

He woke very cold, just as the sun was rising, for its first rays struck upon the snow-tipped peak of the other island which he had noted upon the previous evening. As a matter of fact, it was Prince Edward Island and the one on which they were was Marion Isle, though this he did not know. Walking to the crest of the little ridge that screened the mouth of the cave he found that thence he had a magnificent view of the sea. As the sun rose higher the mist on its surface cleared, and he saw that near to the beach immediately in front of the cave, was a kind of natural harbour protected by a ring of rocks with an entrance in them through which the tide flowed in and out. The water was deep in the centre of this harbour, but appeared to shallow at the edge of the rocks, for there other rocks appeared above its surface.

While he was studying these things, he saw something swimming at a distance of about two hundred yards from where he was standing, which he took to be a seal. Just then, however, a sunbeam struck it, and he perceived that it was no seal but the auburn-haired Mary taking a morning bathe. At first he was frightened for her safety, but remembering that the water was too cold for sharks, also that probably she knew its dangers, he stood still and watched her.

With swift, strong strokes she swam to a certain point in the rocks where, from the motions of her white arms, she appeared to be untying ropes. Then holding these in one hand, she turned and headed shorewards, till presently she disappeared behind an intervening boulder.

Following her example, Andrew went to the edge of the sea and washed as well as he was able, though to swim he did not attempt because it was too cold. How strong this girl must be, he reflected, that she could immerse herself for so long a time in that icy water at the break of day. Then he went back to the cave mouth and waited a while, till presently he heard the sound of running feet—she always seemed to move at a run—and aglow with health and beauty, Mary appeared round the corner of the rock.

"Morning!" she cried with a little outburst of bubbling, silvery laughter. "Yes, yes, 'member. Morning," and to his dismay she ran to him, halted, and held up her face to be kissed!

For a moment he stood helpless. Then, as she did not move and really explanations were impossible, he took what seemed the only way out of the difficulty, and kissed her lightly on the raised cheek, reflecting confusedly that doubtless such was the habit of Old man Tom.

"Thank you!" she exclaimed in her childlike way; indeed all her innocent actions and prattle were those of a little child. Then she picked up Josky, which was watching these proceedings with a kind of sullen indifference, kissed it, and beckoning to him to follow her, ran off again with Josky in her arms, Andrew trotting behind.

She led him down to the shore of the bay at a point opposite the mouth of her cave but at some distance from it, for between the water and the cave lay the flat stretch of rich land formed by the decomposition of the lava rocks above, which, it would seem, she cultivated. Just here a brook of fresh water ran into the bay, and at its mouth was a deep pool.

Putting down Josky she seized a grass rope which was fastened to a stone, and began to pull, Andrew helping her, till presently on the surface of the water appeared the edge of an undoubted lobster-pot made of the peeled stalks of bushes, which they dragged ashore. In it were three great creatures of the lobster tribe, also two large crabs, at seeing which Mary clapped her hands. Leaving the pot on the shore, again she beckoned him to follow her and went to some more cords tied to a stone. Pulling at these she drew in a net, and in the net a lot of fine fish. It was this net that she had swum out to fetch, it having been set at a certain spot in the bay where fish always travelled and were to be caught.

Andrew had noticed that when they saw her going down to the shore, several penguins waddled after her. Also came the great albatross, which he was sure was the same that had guided him to the island. To these birds, which were quite tame, although some of them did not seem to like the look of Josky, she threw the smaller of the fish, also a larger one to the albatross.

Then, carrying their spoils in a big basket, made like the net, of grass fibre, they returned to the cave. Here Mary, having cleaned one of the fish by help of a sharp stone, much as the cave-dwellers must have done tens of thousands of years ago, went to a trench filled with hot ashes in which she raked a hollow with a stick. Then she took clay, whereof a heap ready damped lay to hand, plastered it over the fish which, when it was prepared, she set in the trench, piling the hot ashes over it.

This done, she visited the cave and returned with an enamelled tin vessel that looked as if it might have been the baler of a boat, which she washed very carefully in the stream, for evidently the article was precious to her. Next she went to that corner of rock round which Andrew had come when first he saw her, and called in a crooning voice, whereon a number of goats appeared. One of these, which like everything else seemed to be perfectly tame, she proceeded to milk into the tin vessel, Andrew, in obedience to her directions which she made by signs, holding its kid which tried to get its head into the bowl.

When she had sufficient milk they returned to the cave mouth and made ready to breakfast. Out of the cave she fetched two flat platters of lava that had been laboriously chipped round the edge to the shape of plates; also a larger platter of the same material that served as a dish, and four roasted penguins' eggs. Then going to the hole she glanced at the sun, presumably to see if she had allowed sufficient time for the cooking of the fish, also at where its rays fell upon the face of the cliff, which, as he discovered afterwards, served her as a clock, and nodding wisely, extracted the fish with the help of the stick and a stone, and proceeded to break away the clay envelope. There inside it lay the fish most wonderfully cooked; indeed, never did Andrew eat anything more delicious than that fish fresh from the sea, washed down with goat's milk. Moreover, Mary made another journey to the cave and reappeared carrying oatcakes. They were rather thick and coarse, but still, to a man who had not tasted anything of the sort for a long while, most excellent.

Their meal finished, she washed up and cleared away. Both processes were elementary, consisting of dipping the platters into the stream and throwing the fragments of the meal, after Josky had partaken, to the expectant birds which sat about like a row of chaperones against a ballroom wall.

Still, reflected Andrew, here were the beginnings of all domesticity. The difference between Mary's establishment on her desert isle and that of a duchess in Park Lane, or, let us say, his own in Cavendish Square, was merely a matter of degree. The same principles pervaded both, except that here the housekeeper was also the cultivator and the catcher of the food. Personally he preferred the simpler form.

Then began the day's busy round. With some broken words and occasional bubblings of laughter, Mary showed him everything. First there was her field of oats, fenced about with a stone wall that must have been built by degrees and with infinite labour, and had bushes set upon its top to break the winds and keep out the goats. This measured about an acre and a half, and in the rich lava soil which, as he learned afterwards, she manured with guano, the oats were springing wonderfully well (later in the day and often afterwards he had the pleasure of assisting to weed them). Attached to this enclosure was another that contained a garden wherein she cultivated the Kerguelen cabbage, which in that soil and situation grew magnificently, as did a large patch of beans, together with some herbs. The most sheltered part of it also was devoted to flowers and ferns, which evidently she had collected from the moors and crannies.

Then came what might be called her farmyard, which consisted of a herd of goats, ten or twelve in number. These had a kraal of their own where they slept during the winter, when they were fed with hay that she made in the summer months, also with dried fish-heads, whereof she showed him a large pile covered over with stones to protect them from sea-birds. At this season of the year, however, they were grazing about on the moor above the cliff. There was a place on a bare rock where she dried fish to make her winter food, cutting them open and leaving them to cure in the sun. This was close to the cave-mouth and ingeniously protected with bushes to keep the sea-birds from stealing the fish. Also there was a pit in which she laid down penguins' eggs together with those of gulls, covering them with sea sand mixed with evaporated brine to serve as salt that she gathered from certain spots. These too were for winter food, and the process of collecting the eggs was now going on.

Thus the morning went by and for Andrew it was full of wonder. About midday they rested a while and for the first time tried to talk. With difficulty he made her understand that he did not care for the society of Old man Tom at night.

She nodded her head sagaciously and went through a kind of pantomime, covering her face with a corner of her robe and uttering blood-curdling groans. Suddenly it struck Andrew that she was trying to convey to him that she supposed him to have seen Tom's ghost, or at least was asking him if this were so. He nodded vaguely in assent, although in fact he had done nothing of the sort, whereon she put her hand to her head and thought for a while. Presently she came to a decision and, pointing first towards his cave and then to the sea, fetched the basket in which she carried fish, together with some of her grass torches, and signed to him to follow her.

Off she ran to the cave, Andrew being under the impression that she meant to collect earth and buy Old Tom therein. This, however, was not her idea, for when they reached its mouth she indicated that he must light the torches, pointing to his pocket whence she had observed him take matches when he wished to smoke. He did so, she watching the process with delight, and they went into the cave. Arriving at the niche, she pulled away the grass fence and kneeling down solemnly kissed Old Tom's skull. Then she put it in her basket, also his leg and arm bones. The rest of him, namely, his ribs and backbone which the basket would not hold, she made it clear to Andrew that he must carry in the remnants of the coat.

He obeyed though without enthusiasm, and when she had seen that not one scrap of bone was left behind, they went out of the cave carrying their ghastly burden. She led him for some way to a spot where the sea water had eaten into the cliff face, making a shadowed pool which was very deep and still, since the channel connecting it with the bay was quite narrow. Here she emptied her basket of remains on to the rock and made Andrew put down his bundle. This done, with her strong fingers she twisted the gilt buttons with an anchor on them off the rotten garment and placed them in a sealskin pouch she had, whence a few days later they reappeared on a new fur coat of her own. Then, while Andrew watched amazed, she rearranged Old Tom's skeleton very nicely upon a flat piece of rock, making sure that every bone was in its place and smiling at her own cleverness. This completed, once more she knelt down and kissed the dead man's skull, then suddenly threw it into the pool, and after it with great swiftness and accuracy, all the rest of him, finishing up with the decayed coat which floated a little before it sank.

When it had vanished she remarked, as a child does that has finished its food:

"All done! Say prayer," and plumped down on to her knees.

Here, however, Andrew came in. In his pocket was poor Jacks' Church-service. This he produced and, dimly hoping that it might conciliate Old Tom, who after all, being a sailor, should be glad to rest in the deep, for the second time on that island he read the Burial Office over a dead man.

Mary watched and listened, enormously impressed, especially when he collected some dust, and threw it on to the water. This action seemed to puzzle her, but it was clear that she quite understood the rest, since she nodded her head at intervals and from time to time murmured, "Our Father, 'liver us from evil. Amen."

When all was finished, first she sighed, then clapped her hands and laughed as though glad to be rid of an unpleasant business, and trotted off back to Andrew's cave. On her way, however, she took from her store a great double armful of the dried seaweed, making Andrew do likewise. Arriving at the cave she signed to him to relight the torches, and entered. Then she lifted the skins, or what remained of them, upon which Old Tom had lain, putting dried seaweed underneath and above them, and throwing the grass fence on to the top. When everything was arranged to her satisfaction, she fired the pile and led Andrew from the cave.

About an hour later she returned there with a brush made of rushes and her basket, and by their aid collected the ashes which she threw away outside. Also, with much vigour she brushed out the cave and especially that niche of it where Andrew slept, sprinkling water to keep down the dust. Finally, she ran off and reappeared with a big bundle of sealskins mixed with a few taken from goats, all of which had been in some way brayed soft. These she arranged upon a mattress of dried seaweed into a very comfortable bed, saying triumphantly when she had finished:

"Andrew sleep. Old man Tom, no."

All of which things Andrew watched with amazement that amounted wellnigh to stupefaction.

There too he slept in due course, and very snugly indeed, nor did Tom ever return to trouble him.

XIX. OLD MAN TOM

Now it may be well to tell Mary's story, as by degrees Andrew extracted it from her when she began to recover the use of her tongue and her half-forgotten knowledge of the English language.

It began, so far as her great adventure was concerned, fifteen years before, as he was able to fix by the date of a Whitaker's Almanack which she proudly produced to show that he was not the only person who possessed a book. Also she showed him fifteen notches cut upon a piece of driftwood that she kept in her cave, each of which she made him understand represented a year that she had been on the island. Her years, by the way, she reckoned by the season when her corn began to grow and the gulls laid their eggs. Also from observation and from what Old Tom had taught her, she had some knowledge of the position of the sun at the various periods of the world's annual journey.

It appeared that she had lived in a large town in England, probably London, for she remembered the streets and the houses. There, when she was about six, she said good-bye to an old lady who cried at parting with her and fastened round her neck the string of pearls which she still wore. After this she was driven in a carriage, together with a woman who would seem to have been a servant, to a big ship, doubtless in the London Docks, where a man dressed in uniform, probably Old Tom himself, in fact she was sure it was Old Tom, met her and patted her upon the head.

Of the voyage she remembered very little, except that she saw a shark caught in some hot place which Andrew could not quite identify. Her next recollection was of great shouting and confusion, of being wrapped in blankets and carried by Old Tom, who was called Captain, down a rope ladder into a boat at night time. After this all became vague except for an impression of prolonged misery and cold, till at length as in a dream she had a vision of the boat in which were Old Tom, three sailors and herself, approaching the headlands that were at the entrance of the bay, past which ran the Race. Here there was a quarrel between the men, she thought it must have been about the island on which they should land. The end of it was that Old Tom sprang up and hit one of the men over the head with a piece of wood so that he fell into the sea and vanished. Then the other two became quiet and did what he told them.

They came to the shore and found the caves. In that which was now hers she slept with Old Tom, the two sailors occupying the other. She remembered that at first they had very little to eat, but afterwards, when the spring came, they got plenty of eggs and fish.

Again a quarrel arose because the two men wanted to go across the Race to the other island twelve or fourteen miles away, which Old Tom would not do, whereon they threatened to kill him and take her away with them. The end of it was that they stole the boat and went away by themselves. At dawn Old Tom found that it had gone, and hurried with her to a high point, whence in the light of the risen sun they saw the boat rowing out into the Race which rushed fiercely between the islands. Old Tom cried out that they would drown, and presently the boat turned over, and that was the end of it and them.

Then began their life together upon the island. All that had been in the boat was in their cave and left to them. Amongst many useful articles, most of which she still had, such as some knives, tin pannikins, a water-barrel, ropes and the sails, was a bag of oats mixed with barley, beans and peas, some of that which had been used to feed horses that were on the ship. Part of this forage Old Tom sowed. The oats and the beans grew well. The barley and the peas did not flourish. For the rest they caught some kids of the wild goats, for of these there were many on the island, and tamed them, till they too produced young and gave them milk. Also they netted numbers of fish, of which they dried a quantity for winter food, and generally arranged their troglodytic household as Andrew found it in after years.

At first their life was hard, but by degrees, as they grew to understand the peculiarities of the rigorous climate in which they lived, and how to guard against its difficulties and to keep themselves fed and warmed, it came, by comparison, to be quite comfortable. Happily for themselves, when they landed on the island they had some matches, also a tinder-lighter which Old Tom used for his pipe upon the ship. Being a clever and experienced seaman, he understood that during the long, sub-Arctic winter, and indeed all the year round, their first necessity would be fire.

At the beginning this was fed with driftwood and bushes. Then he made the lucky discovery that a certain kind of seaweed which lay in endless plenty on the shore, if dried, made an excellent fuel, also one that with proper management it was easy to leave at night, and indeed for a great number of hours, without attention. So of this seaweed he and the child collected tons which, when dry, they piled into stacks and from it fed their fire, or rather fires, for another burnt in the cave. Never was a sacred lamp before a shrine watched with more continuous care than were those fires, especially that within the cave which was out of the reach of wind and could not be extinguished by snow or rain. As a last resource there was the flint and tinder arrangement to fall back upon, should it be needed, and this Mary still cherished hidden in a dry spot beneath the stones, though as yet during all those years, save once, she had never been obliged to put it to use. That was after the death of Old Tom, who for some thirty hours before he breathed his last would not allow her to leave his side.

For about six years, till she was a girl of twelve years of age or so, they lived together. At first they made a habit of climbing the cliff behind them morning and evening to look out for ships; also, as Andrew had done, they rigged up a distress signal with the help of the boat's mast and a sail that served as a flag, but as in his own case it blew down in a gale and was never replaced. As he had done they grew tired of searching for vessels which never came.

Nor did they attempt to explore the island, for Old Tom being lame could not walk very far on its rough surface, and refused to allow Mary to make such expeditions alone. Indeed, she had never been more than a mile from the caves on her search for grasses and flowers, or reeds and bushes of which they made their nets, ropes, and baskets, for as it chanced all these grew in plenty within that radius, as did the Kerguelen cabbage and other edible herbs which they domesticated in the garden. They had no gun, and therefore never killed anything except fish, which, with eggs, was their staple food.

For their garments and other purposes, they skinned seals that had been slain in combat with their fellows, especially the young of that species which had perished from one cause or another. Indeed, although at the time she never was sure how they came by their end, a number of these Old Tom used to knock upon the head with a club, saying that he had found them dead. This he confessed to her when he was sick. Thus it came about that before his own decease, he had accumulated a great store of pelts of which she had still many in stock. These skins they tanned by scraping them with sharp stones, after drying them pegged out in the sun, and then rubbing them with the ashes of seaweed and between their hands till they were quite soft. In these arts Mary was an expert, also in sewing them together into rugs with sinews by help of needles made from the ivory of the sea-lion, of which they split the tusks by burying them in hot ashes.

Thus employed the years went by swiftly enough and, for Mary at any rate, very happily indeed. Nor did she grow up altogether savage as might have been expected, since Tom—she never knew him by any other name—educated her to the best of his ability. They had one book with them, the Whitaker's Almanack which has been mentioned, which was either in his pocket or in that of one of the men at the time of the shipwreck, whereof by the way she never learned the cause, or had been lying in the boat. Out of this during the dark winter days or when it stormed, or after sunset by the help of candles and lamps which they fashioned from the fat and oil of seals, with rushes for wicks, she learned to read and acquired incidentally an enormous amount of miscellaneous information about the countries of the world and other matters which are summarized in those valuable pages. Also, with a sharpened stone of the agate kind, he taught her to write upon thin slabs of soft slate-like rock, of which they secured plenty at a certain place. Further, he instructed her as to the movements of the heavenly bodies of which, as a sailorman, he knew a good deal.

Lastly, she possessed a talent of her own, though for the most part this developed after his death; that of modelling in clay taken from the brook. All the wild life about her gave her plenty of subjects from which to study, such as the seals and sea-lions, the birds and the goats. These models, when they were finished, she would bake in the hot ashes taken from the seaweed fire, thus turning them into a kind of terra-cotta. Although, of course, many broke in the ashes, she had great numbers of them set about in her cave which, when he saw them, Andrew found full of life and spirit. Some of them, indeed, were quite remarkable, and showed that she had a natural gift for sculpture.

Old Tom was, it appeared, a very religious man, and something of a mystic to boot. He told Mary of God and taught her to pray, though the Lord's Prayer was the only one she could remember, and that imperfectly. Further, he discoursed to her much of angels and spirits which, he said, were all about them. In fact it was his habit to communicate with these spirits, which he did seated by himself with his hands upon a piece of wood, and, as he believed, to receive messages from them. Another device of his was to make Mary "scry," as it is called, in a large mother-of-pearl shell filled with pure water, and tell him what she saw there. This gift, real or imaginary, soon she developed to a considerable degree, though of it, for a long while, she would speak little to Andrew.

When she was about eleven Old Tom ceased to sleep in the same place with her, and took up his abode at night in the other cave. At first she felt very lonely during the long hours of darkness, and told him so. He answered that she must learn to accustom herself to solitude because the Spirits had informed him that soon he would die and join them. She cried when she heard this, but he said that she must not do so, as although he was sorry to leave her, it would be much happier for him. He added that the Spirits had told him also that in the end she too would be happy, for she would not always be left alone upon the island, and that meanwhile they and he would watch over her.

Perhaps the prophecy as to his coming death worked upon Old Tom's mind, and in the end brought about its own fulfilment. At any rate, shortly after he began to occupy the other cave, illness of some kind overtook him, which caused him to grow weak and thin and to complain of pains in his inside. The result was that within a few months, he ceased to be able to bear exertion, so that she carried out all the work of the place under his directions. This, he declared, was good for her, since she must learn to do all these things without assistance. Fortunately her open-air, hardy life had made her stronger, even at that age, than are most full-grown women, so that she tilled their land, caught the fish, collected all that was needful to their simple wants, and in addition to nursing Old Tom, carried on the household work, if so it may be called, without undue fatigue, although she was growing rapidly at the time.

During the ensuing winter Old Tom became very ill, although until within a few days of his death he managed to get out a little every day. At last his strength failed him and he took to his bed, after which she was obliged to sleep in his cave to the end. He died in the spring nine years before her meeting with Andrew.

On the night before his death his mind, which had been clouded, grew quite clear and he spoke to her.

"Dearie," he said, for so he always called her, "I have to go away and leave you, because, you see, my time is up. I've prayed God it might be otherwise, but it is no use. Now you will be alone upon this desert place, and that's a sad fate for one so young, and a girl at that, just living with beasts and birds and as it would seem, none to help you if you should fall sick or meet with accidents. But there, I have comfort for you. You won't fall sick and you won't come to harm in other ways. You'll wonder how I know this. Well, although you mayn't believe me either now or when you grow older, the Spirits told me—for whatever the wise folk may say, there are spirits, Guardian Angels they call them in the Bible, who watch over and try to help us poor creatures, with whom sometimes we can get in touch. If it had not been for them and for the need of looking after you, I should have died long ago in this dreadful place, dearie, as now, when you can fend for yourself, I have got to die, of which, were it not for you, I should be very glad, although, like others, I have plenty of sins to answer for. For instance, I don't think I need have killed that man in the boat because he wanted to disobey me when we were coming to land, but my violent temper got the better of me, who was a captain was not accustomed to be crossed when I gave orders. And there are many other worse things in my tally-book. Still, were it not for you, I should be glad to go who am as a dead man out of mind in the world, trusting to the mercy of God Who knows whereof we are made.

"And now I want to tell you something sad. I don't know who you are. I have racked my old brain for memory but it won't come. All I can call to mind about you is that you were one of several passengers put in my charge on that last voyage, and that I had to deliver you to some one who would meet you at Sydney in Australia—I think it was your father. Of course, I had his name and yours written down in my private log-book, but that went with the ship. For the rest you were brought aboard by a maid, a pretty girl, who carried on with the second officer, a silly fellow and a poor sailor, who was responsible for our trouble. When disaster came she trusted to him and not to me, and so was drowned with the rest. All I knew about you was that you were a sweet child named Mary whom everybody in the ship loved. I loved you, too, and when we were sinking I sent a bo'sun for you and kept you with me till the end, so that I might take you into my own boat.

"Well, as you know, we got to shore, and after those fools went away and were drowned, as I was sure they would be in the Race, though what they expected to find on that other island I could never understand, here we've lived together these six years, waiting for rescue that never came. And not so badly off either, since God has sent us food and shelter. And now I go to make the longest of all journeys, and you, dearie, must be left alone to do the best you can. But you won't always be alone. When you have grown into a woman some one will come to be with you, a good man in his way, though I am afraid there will be trouble over that as well as joy, for this is a mixed world, and there are all sorts of things in it that you cannot understand. Still, at the blackest, remember this: Everything will come right in the end. I know it because the Spirits have told me. Now, good-bye and God bless you. Keep in mind all I have told you about planting and reaping and fishing, and, above all, don't let the fires go out. Don't get slovenly and idle, either, or let yourself rust, and always say your prayers. For be sure if you do these things you will come to no harm, but grow into a noble woman, although you are alone till that other comes. All these things are written in God's Book, dearie, and good and evil together there's nothing happens in the world without a purpose, although perhaps we can't see what it is until we are out of it. I should like to be buried in the sea, but you won't be able to do that yet awhile. You will need help. So let me lie till then. And now, good night and good-bye, dearie, till we meet again elsewhere. Be sure, although you don't see me, I'll always be watching over you, I and others."

Then he became insensible, and at dawn he died.

Mary told Andrew that to her the shock of his loss was terrible. Except when the sailor was knocked into the sea, this was her first experience of death, and to a quick and sensitive child it seemed a fearful thing. The utter stillness of that form frightened her, yet, and this shows her high spirit, as she had not strength to drag the body to the sea, she found courage by the light of her rude lamps to build up the grass fence about him, working at the task for many hours. Moreover, and this made matters worse, she loved the old sailor as a father; indeed, he was the only father she had ever known, and her loneliness without him could not be described.

Fortunately the warmer season was coming on and during all those summer months, if so they might be called, she must labour incessantly at her endless tasks lest she should starve in the cold, dark winter. The oats must be guarded, weeded and, when the time came, harvested and stored. The fish must be caught and dried, the eggs must be pickled, the oatstraw and other fodder must be laid up as winter food for the goats; these must be milked and herded, and so forth, all of which kept her busy from dawn to sunset. Then when night came she was too tired to think or do anything, except creep to her bed and sleep heavily, till the clamour of the wildfowl without told her that daybreak was at hand and her tasks began again.

It was not until winter returned with its snows and gales and darkness, when by comparison there was little to be done except prepare the land with her rude instruments of driftwood and carry guano on to it in bags to keep it fertile, and feed the goats, that everything came home to her. That first winter, she said to Andrew, was very awful, so much so that she wished that she might die. Only in the blackest trials of her soul always there arose the memory of Old Tom's prophecy that everything would come right in the end, and, believing it implicitly, this gave her the heart to struggle on, till at length once more there was the spring and she forgot her thoughts in endless work.

Thus she grew up full of extraordinary health and strength, so that even the coming of womanhood did not affect her body. Her mind, however, it did affect, and in a very curious fashion. Her intense sense of loneliness first lessened and then to a great extent departed, for the reason that she found companions, and these of very diverse sorts. First, there were the beasts and the birds with which she became wonderfully intimate, so that they felt no more fear of her than once they had of sweet St. Francis of Assisi. She knew them and they knew her, and when she went among them, the shy sea-fowl, as well as a few species that lived upon the land, would wheel about her head and settle on her shoulders. The very seals and sea-lions knew her and would not stir when she passed by them on the rocks, while her difficulty was to prevent the goats and rabbits from following her into her cave.

Her other associates were those of the imagination. This poor child believed that the spirit of Old Tom visited her at night, and that she made report to him of all that she was doing and took his counsel on this and that. Nor, as she imagined, did he come alone, for at times others accompanied him, one of them a shining form that she thought to be her mother, only she said these never spoke to her or she to them.

To her sight also even the elemental forces of the place took visible form. For instance, she averred that there was a dark and towering shape which appeared before the coming of great tempests, not to harm but to warn her. Thrice in her life, she said, she had seen that shape sweep past her. Once this happened when she was wandering on the moorland far from the cave, looking for a lost kid, or on some such errand. Suddenly the shape swept up and seemed to stand in front of her pointing towards the shore, while something told her that she must hurry home, and at this moment she saw the kid lying on a rock. She picked it up and fled not too soon, for as she reached the cave there came on a great darkness and the most fearful hurricane of wind that she had ever known upon the island, against which it would have been impossible for her to stand up on the moorland. The same thing happened to her once when she was gathering shellfish to make a change in her winter diet, and then the portent was followed by blinding snow which fell for thirty hours without stopping. On the third occasion she was out among the rocks seeing to her nets in calm, still weather, when suddenly she saw the dark shape standing before her, took warning and fled. Before ever she reached refuge she heard a sound, and looking over her shoulder, perceived an enormous wave flowing in towards the land and burying the rocks where she had been fathoms deep in foam. Doubtless, though this she did not know, it was a tidal wave caused by some volcanic disturbance at the bottom of the sea.

Again, there was another shape of misty outline and gentler in its aspect which, she said, appeared at the times when it was best for her to sow her corn, and also to gather it without wet. She declared to Andrew that she never did either until she had seen this shape, and that therefore her little crop and her harvest had always been good. Lastly, there was something tremendous and without form, but with light inside of it, which she would see at times enthroned on the edge of a great precipice of rock. This she worshipped, for she thought that it was God Who had come to show that He had not forgotten her. She added that none of these apparitions frightened her, because she knew that all of them meant her well.

Such from year to year was Mary's life upon the island, while she grew into her perfect and splendid womanhood. Soon all trouble and fear left her, and she became merry-hearted as the wild birds around her, like them seeking her food from God, and alive with beauty though this she did not know.

Still, although she had long ago given up any hope of rescue, always she awaited the fulfilment of the prophecy uttered by Old Tom's dying lips, of the coming of one to be her companion. As to that matter, indeed, she did not tell Andrew all the truth at first.

But one thing weighed upon her. She knew that she was losing the use of speech and her knowledge of the English tongue. Even her thoughts went on in some queer language of her own, and when she tried to talk aloud, often she found herself uttering the cries of the various birds which she could imitate to perfection, or sometimes making noises like the beasts. When she sang, too, it was the song of the land-thrushes or whatever they were, and the larks, that came most easily to her lips. This distressed her, and she tried to counteract it by continually reading the Whitaker's Almanack and writing upon her slates, though even then she found herself putting down words that were not English, although to her they had a meaning.

Such was the story of Mary of Marion Isle, for that was the real name of the place, during the long years of her solitude and waiting.

XX. THE TROGLODYTES

On the afternoon of the day following that of his arrival, when for a little while her many tasks seemed to be finished, Mary showed Andrew the wonders of her cave. It was much larger than his own, three times the size indeed, with sundry smaller caves opening out of it which she used as storehouses. Near to its mouth, but round a corner so that it could not be seen from outside, burned the second fire in a kind of pit. Like the other it was fed with the dried seaweed that gave off aromatic fumes with great heat and little smoke.

In the storehouse caves, some of which were large, she kept her hay and oat straw, also tanned sealskins, grain, the candles which she made, a great pile of dried stockfish, her few tin vessels that had come originally from the boat, grass nets, fishing lines made of seal sinews with rude hooks on them laboriously cut and rubbed out of the ivory of sea-lion tusks, a tin bucket taken from the boat, a cauldron that with much trouble Old Tom had fashioned out of a block of soapstone, which she used when melting blubber into oil, and lastly, among other articles, the water-cask, also from the boat, in which the oil was stored.

In other places were her piles of slates covered with writing, some of which Andrew found of interest in after days; her stock of skin rugs and sealskin robes beautifully sewn with sinew (poor Mary had no other garments save some skin petticoats which she used when it was very cold or she was fishing or at work upon the land in summer); and large shells in which she kept water and goat's milk, also a kind of cheese which she made, and her little store of oatcake.

The main cave was adorned with her baked clay models, arranged tastefully enough upon the floor, singly or in groups according to the subject. Also standing on a block of stone by her bed, together with a lamp and the cherished Whitaker's Almanack, there was a rough pot made by herself from baked clay, in which vessel were some sprays of blossoming heath from the moor mixed with ferns and wild geraniums. Set in that place by this untaught girl, Andrew thought those flowers very touching; indeed, the sight of them brought the tears to his eyes. How, he wondered, in the midst of such wild surroundings, had she managed to retain such instinctive love of beauty?

All these things she showed him with a pride which she could not conceal, and occasional outbursts of her charming childish laughter. Then suddenly she grew solemn, and with a portentous effort and an air of interrogation, emphasized by the lifting of her arched eyebrows, she said:

"Andrew sleep here?"

With many gestures he disclaimed any such intention.

"Mary sleep Old man Tom. Mary love Old Tom," she went on by way of explanation.

Again he declined, trying to make it clear that he also loved Old Tom now that this worthy was at the bottom of the pool, and they left the cave.

That evening went by much as the one before, except that Andrew began to make studied efforts at conversation, to find that Mary understood a great deal better than she could speak. Thus he was able to explain to her that like herself he was a shipwrecked person; also that he lived upon the other side of the island.

"Come live here?" said Mary.

He looked doubtful, whereupon she made another suggestion.

"Mary come live you?"

He pointed to her garden and cave and shook his head. So the matter rested for that night which, as has been said, he passed peaceably enough in Old Tom's sepulchre, as he hoped Old Tom himself did in his new abode at the bottom of the sea. Mary escorted him to bed as before, but to his relief did not ask to be kissed. He hoped she had abandoned this dangerous habit, but next morning was undeceived. Evidently it had been Old Tom's habit only to kiss her in the morning, and she was keeping up the tradition.

What on earth was he to do, he wondered. Really the position with only Josky for a chaperon was most difficult. Yet he could not leave her here alone, nor, with such charming society only a few miles off, could he return to dwell in solitude at the hut. That sacrifice to the proprieties was too great. The only way out that he could see was to adopt the rôle of Old Tom and become a second father to her, and this, not without many inward qualms, he determined to try.

At any rate it was necessary that he should revisit the hut since his tobacco had given out; also there were many things in it which would be most useful at the caves. All this he tried to tell her after the matutinal embrace on the following morning, but at first the only idea he succeeded in conveying to her mind was that he proposed to desert her, whereon, to his horror, she burst into tears. These could only be quelled by patting her hand affectionately, together with a very pantomime of demonstration in which the sun played a great part, to indicate to her that before it set he would return. So after a hurried breakfast off he went, accompanied for a while by the doubting Mary, who in turn was followed by her goats and a large assortment of her friends the seafowl. At a certain spot on the moor she halted (afterwards he discovered that Old Tom had forbidden her to go beyond that limit) and once more showed signs of bursting into tears. Then a thought struck her, and suddenly she snatched up Josky which had walked after them.

"Mary keep pussy-cat," she said. "Andrew love pussy-cat, Andrew come back pussy-cat!"

"Yes, yes," he answered, and departed at a run for fear he should do or say something foolish, while she stood watching him, beautiful and forlorn, like a second Dido, till he vanished over the brow of the moor.

Knowing his road he reached the hut in half the time that it had taken him to travel to the caves. So much seemed to have happened since he left that somehow he was quite surprised to see it looking exactly as it had done; the sole difference that he could find anywhere was that a little moor flower had come into bloom on some turf which he had put over Jacks's grave. Then he set to work to collect his stores, only to find that it was utterly impossible for him to carry half the things he needed. So he made a selection, thinking that he could come for the rest another time, and started back again.

The return was a very different business to the outward journey, slung round as he was with household articles like the White Knight in Alice through the Looking-Glass, but with no horse save his own legs, between which dangled a spade that he had tied round his neck, together with a rake that poked him in the back. Taken altogether he calculated that he must be carrying sixty or seventy pounds weight in addition to his clothes, which to a tired man was no small burden over such terrible ground. Indeed, he would have stopped and slept upon the moor had not the thought of Mary watching and waiting and convinced that she was deserted, prevented him. So he struggled on manfully, and just at sunset reached the neighbourhood of the caves.

Yes, there she was standing on the brow of the hill, the red light flaming on her auburn hair. She saw him and sped forward at such a pace that her train of goats was forced to gallop to keep up with her. She arrived with open arms, reminding him forcibly of Leighton's picture of Eurydice welcoming Orpheus to the Shades, and as he felt sure, was about to embrace him, garden implements, bags and bulging pockets and all. To avoid this development he had recourse to artifice, and taking advantage of a weariness which was not feigned, sank with a clatter to the ground in front of her. Her distress knew no bounds, she uttered moans and little inarticulate cries, and the next thing he knew was what she was plucking him of his gear as a fowl is plucked of its feathers. In a trice the spade and the rake and the axe and the garden-fork that he had artistically arranged on a collar of rope, were over her own head. The medicine chest was on her arm, various well-filled bags hung from her shapely shoulders; she had a great parcel in each hand, and even carried another of considerable weight, for it contained cartridges, on her head, holding the band of the bag in her teeth, while she looked regretfully at his bursting pockets, as though wondering if she could not manage to stow their contents about her person. Then she put her arms about him and helped him up, and thus affectionately supported and wondering how a woman could possibly be so strong, he descended the cliff to the caves.

What a meal they had afterwards! No dinner at Claridge's or the best of clubs could equal its delights. But then the comparative merits of meals depend very much upon the company, that is, to some diners.

Now that she had some one to talk to Mary's English came back to her with a rush, especially as in every spare moment she read Whitaker's Almanack with renewed vigour, also poor Jacks's Church-service, that was in itself an education. Very soon she could talk quite well, which was a relief to her, for having been silent for so long she had a great deal to say. What conversation was hers! It resembled the bubbling of a brook, thought Andrew, and was as sweet and pure and natural. Also, at any rate for a long while, it had the same continuous flow. She talked mostly of herself, giving him a diary of the life that might very truly have been called simple, which she had led ever since she arrived upon the island.

Her memory, he noted, was perfectly marvellous. She could tell him the details of the weather for each of those fifteen years, what she had sown, what she had reaped; the history of the catching of the wild kids, of their taming and rearing and of the progeny of each of them when they came to maturity. In the same way she remembered all Old Tom's sayings and repeated them at length with veneration, till at last Andrew came to the conclusion that Old Tom must have been a kind of nautical Dr. Johnson, and almost as big a bore.

The truth was, although he did not admit this to himself, that he was jealous of Old Tom whom Mary still held to be much wiser than himself. The fact that she believed herself to have some peculiar communion with the shade of this departed and most worthy person rather accentuated his feeling upon the matter. As Old Tom was dead Andrew wished that he would recognize the fact that he had had his day, and remain dead. It annoyed him when any project was mooted to see Mary shake her beautiful head and to hear her remark that she would find out what Old Tom thought about the matter, especially as Old Tom's ideas, according to her, often proved to differ from his own.

Secretly he concluded that Mary was obstinate, and took this method of getting her own way.

Then she would tell him the individual history of many of the beasts which lived about them, of fights that sea-elephants and seals had together, of which she had been witness, and of how she knew them again by their scars; of when the seals left the islands for unknown places and when they returned again; yes, the same seals, for many of them she had marked while they were babies. It was the same story with quite a number of the penguins and other wildfowl, round whose legs she tied bands of sinew when they were young, so that she might recognize them.

"See that big bird," she said one day, pointing to the great black-winged albatross, which was always hanging about the cave during the nesting season to receive fish refuse that Mary gave it, or floating on the water near at hand, "I its mother, yes, I its mother."

"Really?" said Andrew, "I don't see any family resemblance either physical or moral," a remark which she did not in the least understand.

"I say, I its mother," she repeated with emphasis, as she suspected him of laughing at her. "That old he-goat, him with the white beard, go near nest of its real mother, and she bite him on nose. Then he, who have wicked temper like Satan, put down his head and jump in air and hit her with his horns, so that she die. But first she pick out his eye. Look, he only got one, and when he see big—what you call him—albatross, he 'member and always run away now. Well, she leave two young and I take them. One die, but other—that fellow—grow up eight year ago, and always know me for his mother. He go away for month on month, but come back again in spring when he want wife. His nest over there, but he care little about wife, always sit here and ask for fish because he is lazy and not want trouble to catch them. Also he love Mary. He come back this year, let me see, yes, one hundred and twenty-two days before I find Andrew. I write it down on my slate."

"You mean before Andrew found you."

"I mean before I find Andrew, only you not understand what I mean," she replied, with her most obstinate air.

Then he told her all the story of that albatross, of how it had followed the ship he was in for a vast distance and of how, after the vessel was sunk, it had guided his boat to the island; also why he knew it for the same. Mary nodded her head wisely and did not seem in the least astonished.

"Very clever bird that," she said. "He know Mary 'lone and want one live with, because Mary often tell him. So he go look and when he find you, he bring you here."

"He might have brought some one else," suggested Andrew.

"Oh! no, no. He know who bring. Mary tell him."

Then, as though it occurred to her that she had said too much, she sprang up and departed at her usual run on some errand which she did not explain.

Andrew looked at her retreating form, which was so full of power mingled with an extraordinary grace, and reflected that it was high time she should have found a companion of some sort, since clearly her loneliness was beginning to affect her brain. It was not possible that she could talk to beasts and birds, or at least that they should be able to understand what she said, though it was true that he had never known or heard of anyone whose communion with the animal creation was so close. Also, what did she mean about having told the albatross whom it was to find and bring, and by sundry other dark sayings of the sort? He had not the slightest idea and she did not appear inclined to enlighten him, but evidently she seemed to be satisfied with that ferocious old bird's selection.

What was to be the end of it all? She was growing very intimate with him; except over certain agricultural matters, he was beginning to take the place of Old Tom in her regard and mind. And, after all, he was not Old Tom, but a man only approaching middle life; one, too, who seemed to have grown younger as well as infinitely stronger since he reached the island. He felt sure that it would pain her very much if he left her now. And—this was a new idea—what would he feel about that matter himself? Would it not pain him also? Now that he came to think of it, he was sure it would. He was extremely happy with Mary, happier than he could remember ever having been with any human being, except perhaps with his mother as a boy.

Although her mind was only reawakening, somehow it seemed to be in complete accord with his own, while its freshness was full of an infinite variety and charm. Also she was beautiful to look on clad though she was in rough skin garments; never had he seen any woman quite so beautiful, no, not even Rose. Rose was lovely in her way, but hers was, so to speak, a shallow, surface loveliness that drew nothing from within. Much of Mary's feminine splendour, for no other word can describe it, came, he felt, from a fire of soul which shone through her great, dark blue eyes and expressed itself in every movement of her noble countenance. Rose was the product of civilization, as Clara was the product of fashion, and out of both of them all that was elemental had been winnowed; but Mary might have been the young Eve as she appeared in glory to the enraptured eyes of Adam, full of the potentialities of passion and of motherhood, and yet sweet as the wild flower and pure as the snow upon the mountain peaks.

He understood with a pang that the thought of leaving her was already horrible to him. And yet, how could he stay with her, he who was married—at least, he supposed that he was married. It depended upon whether Clara still survived. If not—oh! he would not pursue that line of thought; it was too dangerous.

The best thing that could happen to them both was that they should be rescued. But how were they to be rescued from an island which apparently no big ship sighted more than once in a generation? He looked at the great albatross preening its powerful black wings which, as he knew, could bear it over thousands of miles of sea without stay or weariness. There was a messenger, if only he knew how to give it the message. As to this, no inspiration came to him, and of it he was glad. He might as well face it at once; the truth was that he was very happy on this island and did not in the least wish to go away now that he had found a friend—no, not to be Governor-General of Oceania, or for the matter of that, King of the whole earth.

This strange pair had a wonderful summer together, if such the season could be called in that wintry climate. As it chanced, the months were warm for that latitude so that the oats and beans throve and having now after many years become acclimatized, yielded plentifully; also Andrew, on one of his visits, for he made several, brought from the hut some garden seeds there were in a box among the stores, of which some, such as cabbage and turnips, grew so well that they had a fine supply of vegetables. It is only under such circumstances, he reflected, that one learns to appreciate the fundamental value of a garden.

Fish, too, were plentiful that year, so that they had an ample diet and dried more than they could possibly want during the winter. They laid up great numbers of eggs, made hay for the goats, and cheeses from their milk that were not a bad imitation of Gruyère. This was Andrew's idea, for he had once stopped on a Swiss farm where they produced this kind of cheese, and remembered something of the method of its manufacture.

Thus it came about that they lacked for nothing, nor were likely to do so, while, owing to the saucepans and other tin vessels which Andrew procured from the hut, Mary was able to vary her cooking, and consequently their meals also. For example, now they ate their eggs boiled as well as roasted, and very excellent were those of the plover which swarmed upon the island.

At length harvest was over. Their skin sacks full of oats and beans were safely stored, undamaged by frost or wet; their seaweed for fuel was stacked; their dried fish was set away in piles, and everything was made ready for the winter. Most of the seals and sea-lions vanished mysteriously, whither they knew not; but this did not matter to them, since combats between those animals had been frequent that year and they had been able to skin as many as they wanted, also to obtain a sufficient quantity of oil and blubber. The birds, too, were going, except some sorts which wintered there.

Among the last to leave was the great black-winged albatross, which for some mornings in succession wheeled about the cave mouth.

"He always does that before he goes," said Mary. "He come to say good-bye to me his mother. Perhaps he have other friends far away in the world, or perhaps he sail about the sea till spring."

"Perhaps," said Andrew. Then idly enough he told her how it had occurred to him that this bird might be used as a messenger, if only there were something on which the message could be conveyed.

Mary thought, and pointed to a piece of tin, it was the lid of a biscuit box, and said:

"Might write on that."

"Great idea," said Andrew, and with the punch at the back of his knife he perforated the following words upon the tin:

"Lord Atterton, survivor Neptune, cast away on one of two islands some hundreds of miles north where Neptune sank. Atterton."

To this he added the date. Then he cut off all the superfluous tin so that only a piece remained about three inches square, or less, and bored two holes through the top, turning in the tin on both these and all round, so that its edges should not cut. Through these holes he passed twisted strings of strong knotted seal sinews, and all was ready.

Next, Mary went to the albatross, which to her was as tame as a fowl, and fed it with fish, while Andrew, creeping up behind, slipped a skin bag over its head, whereon it became quite quiet, not struggling at all. After this, everything was easy. Between them, they tied the tin disk about the great bird's neck, for extra security knotting the sinew cord over its back behind the wings, and doing all in such fashion that the tin could not impede it in flight, or in feeding, or be torn off by the great hooked beak, or, so far as they could judge, cause the bird inconvenience in any way. Then Andrew pulled the bag from its head and they both stepped back.

With an indignant scream, the albatross waddled along till its wings could get a bite of the air. It rose, wheeled once angrily about Mary's head, then sailed away to the south and vanished.

Mary laughed.

"He very cross and would bite us if he dare. But that writing stop on him till he come back next spring."

"Perhaps he will never come back," said Andrew. "Perhaps some one will see the tin and shoot him."

"Oh!" replied Mary, "I never think of that."

"It seems to me," said Andrew with perturbation, "that there are several things we did not think of. For instance, the message may be read and some interfering people may send a ship and find us."

"Yes, Andrew," and she looked at him doubtfully, awaiting explanation.

"Well," he went on, "I don't want to be found. Do you?"

"No," answered Mary, in a very thoughtful voice, "for then p'raps they wish take you away."

"Then they would certainly take us both away."

"No, no," she exclaimed, "this Mary's home. Who feed goats, who grow corn? We both stop here, always."

At this point all the horrible possibilities that might result from what they had done came home to her, and she began to look very disturbed indeed.

"Mary," said Andrew, "we have been fools. I thought that I ought to do this for your sake, at least I thought it once, and now I am not sure."

Then of a sudden she grew angry.

"For me, Andrew. Do I want to go away from here? Never, never. Here I live, here I die. I help you for your sake, because I see you want to go away and leave Mary, who tire you—what you call it—big bore, stupid, wild girl, wear nothing under skin coat 'cause got nothing to wear. Talk to birds and beasts and see ghosts. Oh! yes, mad, quite mad, only good swim, catch fish and cook for Andrew."

"I say, Mary," he broke in, "supposing you stop."

"Why stop? Plenty more say, all same sort."

"Because I don't like it; because it isn't true; because such words make me unhappy."

"Mary make Andrew unhappy? Then glad make him unhappy—like that."

Next she looked up with a sudden radiance of the eyes that reminded him of sunlight breaking through a cloud, and asked innocently, "Andrew not want leave Mary? Andrew love Mary as much, as much as—pussy-cat Josky?"

"Of course, and a great deal more. Josky is a selfish little beast," he added by way of explanation.

She nodded, though whether in acceptance of the first or second statement did not appear. Then she advanced her inquiries.

"Andrew love Mary as much as Mary love Andrew?" she asked, her with head on one side like a bird and looking at him.

"Of course, but that wouldn't be much, would it?"

"Don't know. P'raps Andrew know best. P'raps Andrew not understand what he say."

Again she returned to the charge in her insatiable search for information as to the exact extent of Andrew's affection.

"Andrew love Mary as much as he love Mrs. Andrew, if she dead?"

"Oh! yes. You see, one can't compare such things."

"Compare," she repeated after him, then nodded, having caught his sense, and went on, "Andrew love Mary as much as he love Mrs. Andrew, if she not dead?"

"I say, you mustn't ask such questions," he gasped, turning scarlet through his tan.

She watched him narrowly, to all appearance not without some satisfaction.

"All right," she said, bursting into one of her merry fits of laughing, "Mary not ask any more. What good ask when Mary know. Mary not cross now, see," and promptly in her childish fashion she held up her face to be kissed.

Andrew nearly burst in two, or so it seemed to him, and it was with very great physical difficulty that he kept his arms straight down by his side, for they seemed to have a natural tendency towards Mary's gracious form. But to his credit, be it said, he did it somehow and then rushed off and indulged in an hour's hard manual labour, which Mary told him afterwards was quite unnecessary, since he had only done things that he should have left undone. When he returned, she said:

"If the albatross come back, I catch him and cut that plate off his neck."

"So will I," said Andrew, "but it is too much to hope."

"Long time before he get anywhere, perhaps he pull off plate, or perhaps no one see it. Yes, yes, long time, make most of time," she said by way of consolation.

"It can't be too long," groaned Andrew. "I hope that blessed bird will eat the tin and choke itself."

"That not kind. Andrew and Mary ought to eat tin, half each, because they both silly and do what they no want do. Why Andrew write his name At—ter-ton on plate?"

"Oh! because people call me that."

"Why call Andrew that?" she pursued remorselessly.

"Oh! because I am a peer."

"Peer? What a peer?"

"Peers," said Andrew, "are people who, or whose relations, have acquired or inherited something that makes silly fools think them bigger than other men; because they are called 'my lord' and are richer than most of them. You will find lots of them in Whitaker's Almanack."

Mary considered all this, then asked:

"Are you rich, my lord?"

"No, I don't think so, not very, but my wife is, or was, and she may have left property, though I don't think that either."

"What is riches, Andrew?"

He pointed to the oats stored in their skin sacks and to the piles of dried fish and to the seaweed fuel, and answered:

"These are riches. These and health and love and children. All the rest is nothing at all."

XXI. FLIGHT

The winter came, a terrible winter with dark and rushing clouds, and gales and snow, with little sun. Still, this pair took little account of it. The main difference to them was that they sat by the fire inside the cave instead of by the fire outside, with a curtain they had made of the sailcloth from Andrew's boat, eked out with skins, drawn across the entrance to the recess in which this inner fire burned. Out of doors in that weather there was little to be done, though on fine days certain great penguins which Mary had reared, that never seemed to leave the island, flew out to sea to fish. Moreover, they did not always fish for themselves, since Mary tied bands of sinew round their throats so that they could not swallow their prey. Therefore they brought it home to her, knowing that they would be rewarded with the heads and offal. Thus fresh fish was seldom lacking to them, and with their porridge, oatcake, preserved eggs, etc., and a certain amount of milk, they got on very well indeed and kept in splendid health.

Still, the season with so much ice about, for the sea was full of floes and great bergs floated down the Race between the islands, was long, cold and dreary. What then, reflected Andrew, must it have been during past years for this girl in her utter loneliness? No wonder that she saw ghosts and thought that she conversed with spirits. The marvel was that she had not gone mad.

Mary, however, was anything but mad, as Andrew soon discovered when, taking advantage of their ample leisure, he began her education in earnest. Never was there so apt a pupil. With the help of the old Whitaker's Almanack and the Church-service that had belonged to Jacks, soon he taught her to read perfectly; also to write. Then with the Whitaker for a text-book, he lectured to her upon all the countries of the earth, so far as his information went, especially upon the few that he had visited, such as Egypt and South Africa, which interested her very much indeed, particularly Egypt, with its history of ancient things.

There she would sit by the fire, wrapped in her skin cloak down which her long hair fell in glittering streaks, her arms about her knees and her great intelligent eyes fixed earnestly upon his face, while he talked and talked, and occasionally she interrupted with her shrewd questions. There was scarcely a subject in the sky above or the earth beneath or the waters under the earth of which he did not discourse during those long months, nor did Mary ever grow tired of listening to him as he sat there upon a stone, his back resting against the wall of the cave and a pipe, generally out, in his hand, and held forth to his class of one with Josky curled up asleep between them.

On medicine he was particularly eloquent, since that and scientific research were his trade, although his remarks induced her to ask at length why people were ill.

"Mary," she exclaimed, "never ill!"

"Nor would the rest of the world be if they lived like Mary," answered Andrew, "and their ancestors before them had done the same. I have never been ill since I came to this island although the climate is so horrid."

"Why does God make people ill?" asked Mary, a question to which he could return no satisfactory answer.

Thus they drifted off to the matter of religion, also into social questions. The subject of matrimony attracted Mary's attention, and proved difficult to deal with.

Why did people marry? Why did men have only one wife now when in the Bible they had so many, and why did the Turks have more than one wife, were some of the posers she put to him with which he fenced as best he could, drawing analogies from the wild life about them.

So the winter months wore away and before they were gone Mary could talk perfectly well, although she still used queer idioms and abbreviations, and for a long while retained the habit of speaking of herself and Andrew by name in the third person. It was always "Mary will do so and so." Further, she had learned a great deal and was now quite as well-informed as are the majority of young women, except, of course, on current topics which did not exist for them who lived in a little world of their own. History repeated itself, too, for like Eve before her, with the advent of knowledge she became dissatisfied with her garments and tried to manufacture herself some underclothing, a matter on which, to his intense embarrassment, she insisted upon consulting Andrew. These articles she put together out of the softest skins; also she cut down some sailors' trousers that Andrew found among the stores, to wear beneath her sealskin robe. The results were not satisfactory, since these new vestments irritated her skin and in the end she gave them up.

"Mary is a wild girl and Mary must stop wild," she said with decision, pointing to a little heap of discarded apparel.

"All right," answered Andrew, "you are very nice as you are."

"Is Mary nice?" she asked.

"Yes, beautiful."

"Is Mary beautiful?"

"If you want to know—yes, the most beautiful woman I ever saw."

She laughed happily and exclaimed:

"Mary so glad, because Andrew like her better."

"Who told you that I should like you better because you are beautiful?"

"No one," she answered, "Andrew not say so and no one else to tell." Then she reflected and added, "Perhaps God tell Mary; perhaps her heart tell her."

"That's about it, I expect," said Andrew, and laughed the matter off.

Although the underclothing proved such a failure, from that time forward Mary took to adorning herself in various ways. She made bracelets of beautiful iridescent sea-shells, which with infinite pains she bored and strung together on sinews. She found feathers from the wings of a kind of sea-eagle, white feathers tipped with black, and fashioned of them a sort of crown with imitations of wings on each side, something like a Norse helmet, which she set upon her head and appeared in suddenly, for all this she had done in secret.

The effect was really magnificent since this glossy crown, shaped with wondrous natural taste, added to her considerable height and made her look very stately, so much so that Andrew gasped when he saw her standing thus arrayed in the blue light of the burning seaweed fire.

"You look like a queen of men," he said.

She was very pleased and replied:

"Mary does not want to be a queen of men; Mary only wants to be queen of Andrew."

"Well, you are that already," he answered, "and of all this island, too, and of the beasts and birds and of everything you can see. Now let us get on with our work."

Encouraged by this experiment Mary made others. She tried new ways of dressing her hair which, for the most part, hitherto had flowed loose about her, only combed with the spiny shell of a sort of sea-urchin, and brushed with a kind of sponge. She arranged its abundance in massive plaits and looped these up round her ears, or gathered it in coils upon her head. Moreover, on the island flourished a certain bulbous plant which when the year began to turn, produced little waxy flowers, in colour of the most brilliant blue, which flowers appeared in sheltered places among the melting snows. As soon as their season came, she went out to collect them. Then she wove them into garlands or coronals which she set about her neck or on her brow.

Thus did Mary try to make herself attractive by such means as lay to her hand, with a success that would have startled her had she known all the truth. Lastly, that she might learn the effect, she took to examining her reflection after the fashion of Narcissus, in a certain still and limpid pool of water which served her as a looking-glass, for twice Andrew came on her thus engaged.

The inner meaning of these developments was not hard to divine. The full tide of Nature was swelling in her young heart, and it set straight and strong towards a single object. Utterly innocent though she was, instinct showed her the path and led her feet to a goal that she did not see or understand. She adored the man whom Fate had brought to her with all the intensity of a deep heart that had never found anything upon which to lavish its affections, neither mother nor father, nor sister nor brother, nothing except Old Tom, who now had been dead for years.

Her passion went through the usual course. Thus, although this would seem impossible under the circumstances, she even managed to become jealous of Andrew. By degrees she wormed out of him the story of his relationships with other women of whom he had been fond. About his mother she did not mind. Of Mrs. Josky and her child Laurie she disapproved but let them pass. Rose Watson, however, was another matter. By slow but certain steps she possessed herself of every detail concerning this young lady and hated her with remarkable vigour, as she said because she had deceived Andrew, but really because Andrew had put himself in a position to be deceived by her.

"Mary would like to kill Rose," she said one evening with a fierce directness that was amazing in one of such a gentle nature.

"Good gracious! Why?" he asked.

"Because she cheat Andrew, and he think too much about her."

He burst out laughing and answered:

"You little savage! Well, there's no need to kill her, for to me she is dead already, dead as that," and he pointed to a fish which had been washed up by the waves, for they were walking on the seashore.

She searched his face to learn whether he were speaking the truth, and coming to the conclusion that he was, said:

"Yes, but the fish still smell. Well, Mary glad; Mary think no more of Rose, like Andrew."

Of Clara, however, she was not jealous. She accepted her existence, if she still existed, that was all, thus unconsciously reflecting Andrew's own mind in the matter. Nor was she jealous of his dead child, Janet. Indeed, of this departed little one she grew intensely fond. Oddly enough, Andrew, who since the death of his beloved had seldom mentioned her name to anyone else, would talk of her freely to Mary, recalling her every word and trait and describing all that he had suffered on her account, and still suffered. Mary would listen intently, remembering every word and, as it were, rebuilding the child in her own mind.

"Don't be sad, Andrew," she said to him once, "perhaps Janet come back one day. Mary think Janet come back."

"What on earth do you mean?" he asked, but she would give no answer.

Only she would borrow the miniature of the child painted on ivory which Andrew wore in a gold locket, and study it intently until she knew her every feature.

Here in the island itself there was nothing of which Mary could be jealous except the cat Josky. This animal was greatly attached to Andrew, as he was to it, but for Mary it did not particularly care. Perhaps Josky also suffered from the passion of jealousy. At any rate, the relations between them were strained, so much so that unless it were very hungry Josky would not take its food from her, while Mary thought Andrew's attachment to the creature much exaggerated, and would tell him so when she considered that she had been neglected that he might attend upon the wants, or whims, of Josky.

Yet all this while Mary was quite ignorant of the cause of these emotions. She did not know that she was in love with Andrew in the general acceptance of the phrase, nor whither that love was leading her. But her inner consciousness, or instinct, knew well enough, and soon her body knew also, since for the first time in her life she began to pine and fall sick. Andrew's medical eye noted the change at once and, with a man's desire to avoid the real issue which concerned himself, set to work to find some physical cause.

Finally, he concluded Mary needed a change of diet after the long winter, and that if she could be taught to eat meat she would soon be well again. So one day he took his gun and went on to that part of the moor where he knew the wild goats fed in a sheltered spot. Here, after some stalking, he shot a young goat, scarcely more than a kid, which he thought would be tender to eat and make good soup. Having opened and cleaned this animal, he carried and dragged it down the cliffside to the caves where he proposed that it should be cooked. As he passed round the point of rock he met Mary who in fact had heard the shot, to her a new sound, and as he did not return, fearing that it meant some evil to Andrew, was setting out to search for him. She uttered an exclamation of delight at seeing him safe, and was beginning to ask the cause of the noise when she caught sight of the carcase of the goat that naturally was disagreeable to look on.

She seemed to freeze and her eyes filled with horror.

"What that?" she asked.

"A kid that I shot for you to eat," replied Andrew, "as I think you live too much on fish."

"You murder that poor goat which I know well, for Mary to eat?" she said slowly in grieving accents. "You wicked and cruel and Mary hate you."

Then she uttered a loud scream, went into hysterics or something very like them, and turning, fled into the cave.

Andrew, deeply distressed at this unexpected result of his well-meant efforts, did not know what to do. Collecting his wits he dragged the goat back behind the point and left it in a place where he knew the gulls and sea-eagles would soon devour it, since he was certain that Mary would never partake of soup made from its flesh. Then he washed himself very carefully and even changed his outer garment lest the blood or perhaps the small of the creature should cling to it, and went back to the cave, for by now it was time for their evening meal.

There was no Mary to be seen. He peeped into the cave, and after a pause and calling without result, even went up it and glanced at her bed. It was unoccupied. She had gone. Andrew grew terrified, for what might not an hysterical woman do? To such in his medical career he had known strange things happen. He cursed the goat, he cursed himself and his own stupidity, he cursed female susceptibilities, and then he went out to look for her.

Fortunately the full moon was rising which made the place like day, and in its light he ran up and down those desolate shores, shouting "Mary" till he was hoarse. At length he made up his mind that she must have taken to the moorland above, if indeed she had not gone into the sea from the cliff-edge, a thought at which he shuddered and turned sick. So to the moor he must make his way.

As, in order to do so, Andrew, who now was quite as distracted as Mary could be, passed for the third time that little bay in the cliff where was the pool into which they had cast the bones of Old Tom, he thought that in the silence he heard a faint sound of sobbing. Following this sound he went along the narrow gut at the bottom of which the sea-water flowed into the pool, and there, by the edge of the pool, seated on a stone with her hair flowing all about her and weeping, he perceived Mary. Now, in his intense relief, he flew into a rage as nine out of ten men would have done, and scolded her soundly.

"You must have heard me calling," he said.

"Yes," she replied between her sobs, "Mary hear; all island hear, and other island, too, I think. Birds fly away and not come back any more if Andrew make such ugly noise."

"Then why in Heaven's name didn't you answer when you knew I was so frightened about you?"

"Because Andrew wicked murderer, like Cain, and Mary no want to speak to him. Andrew frighten poor goat much worse than Mary frighten Andrew, and p'raps he want kill Mary next."

Now the unfortunate Andrew became almost inarticulate with indignation. He argued, he explained, he demonstrated that there was no difference between killing a kid and killing fish. At this point Mary intervened:

"The Lord He catch fish and eat them too; He no shoot goat. Mary not like murderers and come sit here with Old Tom."

"Damn Old Tom," said Andrew. "I understand that he killed seals."

"He did not shoot them," said Mary.

Before such argument as this Andrew collapsed. Then suddenly he became aware of the overmastering beauty of this woman seated there upright and still upon that stone by the silent pool, with the moonlight glinting on her hair and on her snowy arms and breast, and filling with mystery her big blue eyes from which the slow tears trickled. His anger left him, everything left him except this sense of beauty that had smitten him like a magic wand. In an instant she felt the change and looked at him with a dreamy smile.

"Andrew sorry," she said, "and commit no more murder?" As he made no answer, taking silence for consent, she went on, "Then Mary sorry too. Andrew come kiss Mary and make friend."

He tried to say No; he tried to go away, but he could not. On the contrary he came and kneeling down before her, kissed her uplifted cheek. Nor this time did he stop there, because he could not. Throwing his arms about her he drew her to his breast, he kissed her everywhere; hair and eyes and lips, he kissed them all. And she, catching his fire, kissed him back, then lay in his arms crooning happily.

"Mary forget all about goat now," she said at length, "and not angry any more. Time for Andrew come to supper."

So they went to supper, but of it Andrew could not eat much because of the flame that burned within him, though Mary seemed to be quite happy and for the while satisfied. Only her eyes looked larger than before and in them was a new light.

Saying that he was tired Andrew went to bed early and without any further demonstration of affection. When he reached his cave he lit his rude lamp and sat down to think. What was to be done? The position had become impossible, as in a dim way he had always foreseen that it must. He could not go on living with this lovely, loving creature on their present footing. Human nature has its breaking strain and this he had reached, or rather they both had reached it, although one of them did not know that it was so. Therefore he was face to face with an alternative. Either he must stay and take the natural consequences, to do which the temptation was almost overwhelming, or he must go. Now he knew well that were Mary in his sight he could never find the strength to leave her. Therefore if he went at all, it must be when she was absent, which meant immediately. Yet why should he go when there was so much against such a course? For one reason only—from a sense of duty.

Andrew was a man of upright and indeed rather puritanical mind, not one who would ever set out deliberately to gratify an impulse however human. If he did so it would be when his reason was overborne by the primary forces of nature—when he was no longer master of himself. Now, sitting alone, he knew that he loved Mary devotedly, and that there was nothing that he desired more, or indeed one-tenth so much in the whole world, as that they should belong to each other. What was there against it? Just this one thing—that he did not know whether his wife were alive or dead. If she were dead a marriage ceremony could be dispensed with, since under the circumstances it was impossible. But if she were alive, to say nothing of the consequences to himself, what would such a course make of this innocent Mary, who did not know what she was doing?

The risk seemed too great to take. Therefore he must face the alternative and go away. It would grieve Mary, of course, but that was better than bringing her to ruin. And he must go at once, before he saw her any more. He loved her so well that he must leave her.

In his cave Andrew had some of the slates which they manufactured, that he used to make notes upon and to keep a kind of diary. Taking one of these, with pain and grief he wrote the following letter:

"Dear, dear Mary,

"I must leave you for your own sake" (had he but known it this was the worst possible argument he could have used to her. If he had said that he must leave her for his own sake, the remark would have had more weight). "You do not understand what I mean and it is quite impossible for me to explain it to you. The only hint I can give to you is to remind you that perhaps I am still a married man. But the truth is that I have grown too fond of you and perhaps you have grown too fond of me, as may be natural since you have seen no other men. At any rate, we cannot go on living side by side as we have done for nearly a year and not be more to each other than we are. Even if you do not understand, you must accept what I say as the truth, since I say it for your sake. Do not seek for me. I shall be able to get on quite well alone, as I know you can, especially as you have plenty of everything you need. Therefore, unless you should fall really ill, do not seek for me. Indeed, it would be useless for you to do so for I am going to hide away. Best love and good-bye. Thanks, too, for all your goodness. God bless you, dearest Mary.

"Andrew."

When he had finished this epistle, of which on re-reading it he felt rather proud, Andrew collected a few articles almost at hazard, and left the cave with more pangs of regret than he had felt on departing from the finest home he had ever inhabited, or even from his lodgings in Justice Street to be married. Taking the cat Josky with him he crept to the mouth of Mary's cave. There he tied Josky to a stone, wishing to leave it to be a companion to Mary, and set the slate with the letter in a position where she could not fail to see it.

After this he fled away, like a fugitive running from justice, and by the bright moonlight soon gained the moor.

XXII. RETURN

When Andrew had walked some little distance upon the moor, suddenly it occurred to him that he did not know whither he was going. In the urgency of his present predicament he had found no time to make plans for the future. All that he had realized was the necessity of immediate flight; therefore he, the sinner, had fled, pursued by the policeman, Love, upon whom as yet he could not gain a single yard.

Now the question arose—whither away? To which there seemed to be only one possible answer—the place whence he had come, namely, the hut.

So to the hut he made his path, arriving there extremely tired rather late on the following morning, since when the moon grew low he had lost his road among those terrible hills and marshes, and had moreover fallen into a bog that was concealed by a crust of snow. On the edge of this bog, wet through, chilled to the bone and without shelter from the bitter wind, he had been obliged to sit till dawn, after which, getting his bearings in the light, he slowly floundered onwards to the hut.

It proved to be a desolate abode enough, for by this time he had removed the most of its contents to the caves, and, worse still, all the matches. Moreover, in his agitation he had forgotten to bring any with him, so there he was fireless and with nothing to eat save some dry biscuits. He had his gun, indeed, and might have shot a seal or a goat, but if he did, he could not devour raw flesh, and the same applied for fish. Therefore all that day he lived upon biscuits, and not many of these, for his stomach turned against them. That night he developed a feverish chill. The chill came probably from his immersion and the fever from his state of mind; at any rate, there they were, and he had no medicine with him and could do nothing except try, without success, to keep himself warm.

Towards morning he felt very bad indeed, and it occurred to him that unless he got better soon, probably he would die in this lonely place. Well, perhaps that was the best way out of his difficulties, only then poor Mary would once more be left utterly alone on the island, which distressed him terribly. All his thought went out to her. He wondered what she was doing and how she had borne his desertion. Was she angry with him, or was she lost in grief? Perhaps he ought to have stayed. Had he been a stronger man he should have stayed and overcome temptation, as a hero in a book would have done, but his nature was too weak and human and therefore they must both pay the penalty.

Thus he thought and thought till with the light the fever took him again, but more violently, till at length his mind left him. The last thing he could remember before he sank into unconsciousness or delirium was an intense desire to see Mary again, if it were only once before he died.

Andrew's senses returned and the first thing that occurred to him was that he must be dead and in heaven. For this reason: there, close to him, was Mary on her knees watching him, while coiled up on his bed was the cat Josky, and where Mary was, there was heaven for him. Only it seemed improbable that this very dilapidated hut would also have removed itself to the celestial regions where of all the many mansions it would certainly have been the most disreputable. Perhaps, then, he was in the other place! No, that was impossible, since Mary was there, Mary who was certainly good, and Josky also, an upright cat in its way. It came to this, then—he was still on earth and with him was Mary, or a vision of her.

He moved his head. Instantly she saw and bent forward to examine his face, for it was dark in that hut, although he perceived that now the fire burned outside the door just as it used to do when he lived here alone. Her long hair fell all over him and he felt her breath upon his brow. Then their eyes met, and he saw the doubt and gloom fade out of hers to be replaced by the light of a great joy. She slipped away from him, silently as a fish through water, and he began to think that he had dreamed. But no, for in a minute she was back and holding to his lips milk in a large shell. He drank it thankfully, and with the draught strength seemed to return to him, after which he dozed a while.

When he woke again there still was Mary, and this time she gave him baked fish to eat, which now that his fever had left him he did with appetite, although as he was yet very weak. He wished to speak, but she would not allow him to do so, laying her cool fingers on his lips in token that he must be silent. Then again he fell into a natural sleep which must have lasted all the night, as he knew by the position of the sun when he awoke. But still there was Mary with more food ready for him to eat.

After this, his recovery from the pneumonia, or whatever it may have been, was rapid, but it was not until he was comparatively strong and had risen from his bed that she would let him talk of what was nearest to his mind.

"How did you find me? Tell me the story," he said at last.

Then she told him this tale.

"That bad night," she said, "Mary thought she heard some one move outside her cave, since she not sleep well, but believe it only one of the birds, or perhaps the ghost of Old Tom come to watch over her, so do nothing. Just before daybreak she hear Josky crying and go to look. Then she see Josky tied up and by him Andrew's letter on the stone, which she read, but not quite understand, though she guess something. Now she feel very ill, as though something break in her here," and she touched her breast, "and wonder what to do. She think she go to look for Andrew, then she read letter again and see that Andrew not want her, and that she must not trouble him. So she do her work and think, and think, and think, but Josky she keep tied up because she knew that if she let him loose, he run away after Andrew.

"That night Mary begin to feel that Andrew in trouble and want her, and next day she seem to hear him call her in a new voice, 'Mary! Where are you, Mary? Come to me, Mary.' Then she get some things, matches, oats for porridge, dried fish, but 'member that she not know where Andrew go. So she think and think, and while she think, Josky cry again. Then she take a string and tie it to Josky and get two goats what give milk with their kids, and drive them before her for a little way, till they follow her of themselves. She go up the cliff to where she meet Andrew when first he come back from the hut, and there she set Josky on the ground. Josky began to run and to pull with his nose towards the setting sun, and where Josky go, she follow, and the goats they come after her.

"So, at last," she ended in a matter-of-fact way, "Mary find Andrew in the hut, because Josky know where he go."

"You clever woman!" gasped Andrew, when he had heard this amazing tale.

"No, Mary not clever, Josky clever. Mary only use Josky, because she know he go straight home, while perhaps she walk for days and days. Josky hate Mary and love Andrew and want to go after Andrew—like Mary. Also sometimes Mary see Andrew's footsteps and so know that Josky right."

"Well," said Andrew, trying to swallow down a lump which seemed suddenly to arise in his throat, "and what then?"

"Not much. Mary find Andrew very sick indeed. Red like lobster fish after it boiled, and shaking his arms and talking much of lady called Rose, and—other woman, forget her name; no fire in hut, no food except biscuit hard as stone, nothing. If Mary not come, Andrew going to die just like Old Tom. Andrew should thank Josky very much."

"Andrew does," he murmured, and thrust Josky down off the bed which it was monopolizing.

"Mary find wood and other stuff and make big fire; also she give Andrew milk to drink, and do what she can. Then when he get quiet and fall asleep, she run back to caves, fetch things and drive goats here, because if not milked, they burst—those two of them whose kids die."

"Run back to caves!" gasped Andrew.

"Yes, she do it in six hours both ways. Those goats never go so fast before. They get here their mouths open and can't say baa; also give very little milk that night. Mary find Andrew just waking up, so no harm done. After that she stop here and nurse him, two weeks and three days, but not know if he live or die, and when she can, go catch fish for food. At end he live, that all. Now Mary must go milk goats."

And she went before he could say a word, though afterwards she added that she had even thought of carrying him back to the cave, but gave up the idea because she knew that it was beyond her strength, and that she would let him fall.

Andrew's reflections upon all this history can, in the hackneyed phrase, be better imagined than described. He pictured to himself all that she had told him; her hesitation to inflict her presence on him, her mysterious sense that he was in trouble; the use which she made of the instinct of the half-wild animal that loved him, which no one would have done who had not watched the ways of beasts and birds. Her arrival at the hut just in time with the goats, whose milk saved his life; her patient nursing of him through his dangerous sickness and delirium; her swift journey back to the caves to fetch necessaries, running like a trained athlete through wild weather and over that terrible ground; her return with the exhausted goats; her ceaseless vigil, notwithstanding the weariness which must have afflicted even her splendid physique; her desperate scheme of carrying him back to the caves, abandoned only for fear of the consequences to him, should her strength fail her; her thought for everything, and the rest. Whence came the almost divine power which had enabled this girl to conceive and do these things, and to speak of them afterwards as a mere matter of course? An answer arose in his heart which caused his pale face to blush. The power came from Love and the love was for him, unworthy. Then and there he swore within himself that come what might he would devote the rest of his life to Mary living, or to her memory if she died. That was his plain duty, even if it involved his earthly ruin and retribution in states unknown. But of all this, as yet, he said nothing to her.

When, by comparison, Andrew was quite strong again, of a sudden Mary, who had been somewhat silent for several days, spoke to him thus:

"Andrew quite well now, so Mary go back to cave. What Andrew wish to do? Stay here or come back live cave? Mary must go," she added by way of explanation, "see after oats and everything."

Andrew looked about him despairingly, his heart fluttering in his breast. Then he looked at Mary's great steady eyes.

"I don't know what to answer," he said. "If I leave you harm might come to you."

"That not matter," interrupted Mary.

"Or harm might come to me living here alone," he went on.

"Yes, you not very strong yet; silly also, take no thought for morrow like child, and not able look after yourself. That matter much," and again she waited.

"See here, Mary," he said in desperation, "I can't explain things to you, but it is impossible that we should go on living together as we have done, so near and yet so far from each other. It is not good for you, or for me either. That is," he added, dropping his eyes, "if I am right in supposing that you care about me."

"Care about you?" replied Mary. "Not know what 'care-about' means. Is 'care-about' other word for love?"

He nodded.

"Then," she continued quite quietly, "Mary 'care-about' very much. Let her see how much!" She looked around her and went on, "There sea all made up drops of water, and there shore, all made up little grains sand, and there sky all full stars. Well, Andrew count them every one, and then he learn how many 'care-abouts' Mary have for Andrew."

"You dear!" he muttered to himself, "what have I done to earn this?" and perhaps she heard him, for she coloured a little.

"If only you understood," he added aloud.

"Mary great fool," she answered, "but think she understand something. No one tell her, so perhaps God teach her. Something like this. Perhaps Andrew married, if wife not drowned. First part of Bible say man may have many wives as he like, second part seem say he may only have one unless he quite sure other drowned. So if Andrew come back caves and Mary his wife, he think that sin and God angry with him."

"I am thinking more of you than of myself," blurted out Andrew. "If I am still married and we ever went off this island, you would be despised; people would not speak to you."

"Mary understand, but why go off island? Island very nice place, plenty to eat, quite happy here. Oh! she see, perhaps Andrew want to. Andrew what called rich peer."

"No, I don't," he answered, "but all sorts of things might happen. You remember that albatross and the tin plate?"

"Yes, and he not come back yet."

Then there was silence between them for a while, which she broke at length, saying:

"Think Mary better go away now, want reach cave before dark. P'raps if Andrew let her she come see him sometimes, once every moon, or p'raps better not. Mary bring him things and put them on stone," and as she spoke her big eyes filled with tears.

"Stop," said Andrew hoarsely, "I want to tell you something. I love you with as much love as there is water in the sea and sand on the shore and light in the sky," he went on, adopting her similes.

"Then Mary very happy, who only hope for quite a little."

"Loving you so much," he continued, "I who am but a man, cannot go on living with you as we have done. It is weak and wrong of me, but I cannot do it."

"Mary weak and wrong too, both sick together."

"Therefore, Mary, either we must stop apart, which seems unnatural and also wrong, or we must go back to the caves—together."

"Yes, that what we talk about all this time."

"Mary," he went on wildly, "I cannot leave you."

"No leave me, only stop here. I leave, and quick before I cry. Only want say this. If Andrew come and get tired of Mary, or want to go away in ship or something, she never say No. Mary not wish to be trouble, she only Andrew's here, and always easy die."

That was the end, he could bear no more. That day they went back to the caves together, he leaning on her strong arm.

Then began the happy, happy life of these poor sinners, if such they were. There in their caves they lived together, a perfectly mated pair in body and mind and spirit. They rose with the sun and carried through their daily toil, laughing the hours away, and when the sun sank they went back to their cave and slept thankful and rejoicing until he came again.

The summer passed, the winter returned, but for them it had no terrors who were both strong and healthy. Spring drew on once more, and with the spring came Mary's child.

Andrew had been much perturbed about the arrival of this in fact, which must take place in the absence of the ordinary conveniences, although as a doctor, of course, he knew all that should be done. He was an anxious-minded man, especially where those he loved were concerned, and carefully enough he thought out every contingency and made preparation for every danger, so far as the means at his disposal allowed. As it turned out he might have spared himself the trouble. Mary went on doing her work just as usual to the very day of the occurrence, which caused him to think that the date had been miscalculated. So it happened that he departed on some daily round, it was connected with skinning a seal that lay dead at a distance, and returned to find that there was no supper cooked. While he was wondering over the cause of this omission, he heard Mary calling him from the cave. Entering he found her lying on her bed, looking a little pale, but smiling. Presently she threw back the skin rug and showed him a babe, a most beautiful and perfect girl.

"Janet come back," she said. "I always tell you Janet come back!"

In a week she was perfectly well again and wished to get up, even showing temper when he would not allow her to do so. In fact, to her who from childhood had led a primitive and natural life, this business was nothing, as it is nothing to a savage woman. Nor was there any trouble about the child or any necessity of supplementing its natural food. The mother bloomed and grew even more beautiful than before, and the child was strong and healthy as a young seal. Also he observed with a kind of wonder that daily it became more like his lost Janet.

So now there were three at the caves instead of two, and that was all the difference. Mary did her work as before, only with her babe, which by her wish Andrew had christened Janet, slung in a skin upon her back, as an Esquimaux woman does, the sole change being that Andrew must swim out and attend to the nets, which she declared he did very badly.

So the time went on. Janet was a strong and forward child who soon found her sturdy little feet; indeed, at a year old she could toddle about, gurgling in a jolly fashion, and a few months later could say "Dad and Mum" and other words. Ailments she had absolutely none, since there were no germs to infect her, and she cut her teeth with ease.

So, as has been said, they were absolutely happy, or would have been were it not for the fact that there are always flies in every human pot of ointment, and theirs was no exception, since in it buzzed and struggled two veritable bluebottles. The larger of these, which particularly affected Andrew's side of the pot, was a moral insect. In his way he was a strict sort of man who might do wrong, but whose conscience always called upon him to pay the price full measure, pressed down and running over. Now that conscience told him that his conduct in the matter of Mary was of a questionable order. He knew that if he had acted in any other way, not only would it have been contrary to the earnest desires and most natural impulses of both of them, but that the issue in all probability would have been their deaths, since it was scarcely possible, fretting as they would have done, that they could have continued to live solitary and separated on that narrow island. Accidents would have happened, and one of them would have given up the struggle, and then, broken-hearted, the other would have followed. Still, there was the strict letter of the law, the potent law which had been inculcated in him since childhood, which says that a man may not marry again unless he is absolutely sure that his wife is dead. And of this Andrew was by no means sure. Simply he could not tell, nor indeed did he wish her to be dead. Only if she were alive, what then was his position and that of Mary; also that of their beloved child?

While they remained undiscovered upon that island all these things, it was true, mattered little, since he felt quite sure that the world believed him to be dead, and no doubt by this time had forgotten him altogether. Probably, if she were still alive, Clara, who was not a person of deep affections or one likely to waste time mourning over any husband, had also forgotten him. Indeed, she might have married again if any quite suitable alliance came her way, as he devoutly hoped she had, especially as she would have done so in perfect innocence.

But, and here was the second fly, a very Beelzebub of a fly: suppose that she had not, and suppose that accursed albatross to which in his folly he had tied the tin plate, had fallen into the hands of men in some part of the civilized world. Then the whole earth would buzz with the romance of the business, and as he was a peer and worse still, a big officer of the State at the time of his disappearance, the Government would send a man-of-war to look for him. Or if it did not, some enterprising newspaper in search of advertisement and good copy would organize a relief expedition. Some one or other would surely come. And then—the shame of it all, and what was almost as bad, the ridicule, of which it made him cold even to think. Well, on one thing he was determined, nothing would induce him to abandon Mary. He would tell Clara that he was sorry and that she must take her remedy, looking upon him as one dead.

For her part Mary did not trouble so much about these dangers. It seemed to her right and natural that she and Andrew who loved each other so devotedly, should live together as man and wife. On that point her conscience did not prick her. But she who could read him like a book, knew what was passing in his mind, although of it he said little or nothing, and this in turn affected hers, since what Andrew suffered, she must also suffer. So it came about that notwithstanding their mutual joy in each other, they lived in great dread; the wide wings of that fatal albatross overshadowed them, even while they kissed and thanked God for the child whom they both adored, as they adored each other. For in fact, they never doubted but that this bird would fulfil its ill-omened mission. The chances against it might be a thousand to one, and yet they were sure that the evil lot would fall out of all that were in the sack.

When for the fourth time the pale spring came since the sending off of the albatross—making Andrew's fifth upon the island, although there was no sign of it among the hosts of migratory fowl which came there to nest, it is true that hope grew strong in them, and they took comfort. But still in their hearts they knew that the hope was vain and that though Fate might delay its stroke, surely it would fall. Here it may be well to state what happened to this bird.

It flew away for thousands of miles and, probably irked to death by the tin plate tied about its neck of which it could not be rid, ultimately perished upon a wild part of the shore of Western Australia. There it lay and rotted till, by a strange chance, a man engaged in prospecting for minerals walked along this beach which was rarely trodden, seeking for outcrops among the cliffs. While he was thus engaged his trained eye caught the glitter of something in the midst of a pile of bones and feathers. Thinking that this might indicate the presence of mineral he walked to the spot and there found the plate, much rusted but still quite legible. Ultimately he carried it to Perth and showed it to a newspaper man who, fearful of a hoax, submitted it to the Authorities. Within forty-eight hours the strange news, made more romantic still by the rank of the castaway and the manner of its discovery, was printed in almost every paper of the earth, and for a few hours Andrew was the most talked of among living men.

XXIII. THE FATAL ALBATROSS

For once in her life Lady Atterton met with a piece of bad luck and, what afflicted her still more, was put into a ridiculous position. As Andrew had guessed, she escaped from the shipwreck, for be it known that no one had come to harm when the ship was lost. Within a few hours of the foundering of the Neptune, a sister ship of the same line which had received her S.O.S. message found the boats and picked up everybody, except Andrew and Jacks, who, for very good reasons, were believed to be drowned.

On her return to London, Clara, dressed in most becoming widow's weeds, received many condolences on the loss of a high official position and also on that of her husband. The only person who did not condole was Mrs. Josky with whom she had a tumultuous interview.

That good lady, seconded by Laurie, "made bold" to tell her outright that she had not done what she might to rescue Andrew, or to search for him after he was supposed to be drowned. In vain did Clara assume the cold and haughty peeress for their benefit. Mrs. Josky in her indignation alleged in vulgar, Whitechapel language that she did not "care a damn for peeresses," adding that all women were the same under their clothes, with this difference, that some had a heart and some had a dried walnut where that organ ought to be. Clara, still imperturbably calm, rang the bell and requested the footman to show these persons out. So they went, but at the door Laurie, who had brought her baby with her, fired a parting shot in an interval of her mother's invectives. It was to this effect:

"If his lordship's dead, there's this comfort for him, that he's well rid of you, who never cared a brass halfpenny about him like mother and I did."

They departed, leaving Clara, who objected to the primary emotions in action, somewhat perturbed. The worst of it was that they seemed to have generated a certain antagonistic atmosphere in that lordly mansion. Perhaps they conversed then, or afterwards, with the footman and the butler, who had also been shipwrecked on the Neptune. At any rate Clara observed a coldness in the demeanour of these and other menials which the passage of time did not efface, or even lessen. The truth was that everyone in West House loved Andrew, whereas their sentiments for Clara were of a different order.

By degrees Clara shed her widow's weeds and once more bloomed into the brilliant Society lady, as her rank, wealth, and cleverness gave her a right to do. But now, as before, her ambitions being unquenched, she found that she needed a man to help her in her climbing. So, having persuaded the Court of Probate to "presume" Andrew's death, she set to work to find another husband. In due course a perfectly suitable person presented himself, a dried-up and childless widower whose rank was superior to that of Andrew, who was also a member of the Government and one who thought that her great fortune would be very helpful in his career.

Now came the bad luck. This engagement in high life was announced, with suitable prominence and polite allusions to the lady's former tragic bereavement, in The Times, Morning Post, and other papers upon a certain morning. In those that appeared in the afternoon was printed the sensational cable from Australia which told of the finding of the tin plate amongst the bones of an albatross upon an antipodean beach. Naturally Clara, chancing to read the paragraph in an early edition of the Westminster Gazette, was much disturbed.

"Really," she said to herself, "this is just like Andrew. If he meant to turn up, in common decency he might have done so before—or at least on any other day."

Then she sat down to think a while and as a result determined, like a wise woman, to do nothing without consulting her lawyer. So having caused a telephone message to be sent to that eminent solicitor to tell him to expect her, she dressed and started.

But here again bad luck pursued her, for when she reached her door, in front of which quite a little crowd had gathered, since many had read the news or seen the headings on the placards, whom should she meet rushing up but Mrs. Josky and Laurie, each of them waving a halfpenny paper.

"What did I tell you, my lady," screamed Mrs. Josky. "He's living after all!"

"And you going to be married again," vociferated Laurie, always an uncontrolled person. "Well, I'd have waited a while, I would."

"Even if I hadn't stopped to look for him," added Mrs. Josky.

Then Clara drove off, leaving the pair explaining everything to an interested and ever-increasing crowd.

The end of it was that, with the assistance of her lawyer, Clara wrote a most discreet letter to the noble Viscount to which she had promised herself en secondes noces, saying that under the circumstances, painful as they were unexpected, everything must rest in abeyance until the facts were ascertained. She added that, as he would understand, her "poor woman's heart" was "torn in two."

His lordship answered by special messenger that he quite agreed with her, since bigamy, even if accidental, was an awkward business.

About her poor woman's heart he said nothing at all, contenting himself with the dubious finale of "Yours in mingled hope and fear."

"The wretch!" ejaculated Clara. "Within three months he will be married to that odious Lady Atkins." And he was!

On further reflection Clara saw that in order to obliterate this ridiculous interlude in her career from the public mind, it was necessary that she should do something interesting which would awaken sympathy for herself. To explain her woes on any and every occasion and to demonstrate the raptures of her hope were not enough. No, she herself must head the relief expedition to search for Andrew, and be careful that the fact was well advertised in the Press. She did not in the least wish to undertake any such adventure, having had quite enough of the sea, especially in the neighbourhood of those horrible islands. Andrew was a past episode in her life. Long ago she had written him off her account. As a husband he had disappointed her, and it was probable that if he reappeared, he would continue to do so. The truth was that she felt as much annoyed with that albatross as, had she but known it, Andrew did himself, and devoutly wished that the tin plate had never been found.

Of course the chances were that after all this fuss no Andrew would be discovered. For the message seemed to have been sent off some years ago, and it was most unlikely that he could have lived so long upon a desert island in an extremely inclement climate. At least no one else would have done so, but of Andrew she was not so sure, since he was a man who had a way of achieving the unexpected, of doing those things which he ought not to do, and of leaving those things which he ought to do, undone.

Who else, for instance, would have managed to get himself bottled up below in that inaccessible part of the ship which he insisted upon inhabiting and thus giving everybody the impression that he was finally and romantically drowned? Who else, being thus bottled up, would have managed to emerge and to reach an uninhabited island? Who else would have bethought him of tying a tin plate to the neck of an albatross?—a most unexampled expedient. If he could do these things, it was quite possible that he would manage to exist in circumstances under which anybody else would have died, and to reappear after he had been officially declared deceased. Also—this was a new and dreadful thought—if that should be so, what would he be like after four years alone on an iceberg? He was peculiar enough before, now he would be positively mad. Still, as a philosopher Clara recognized that in life the rough must be taken with the smooth, and that therefore she must go to look for him, leaving the issue to Providence. Perhaps she would find his bones and be able to bring them home for burial, a ceremony that must attract much attention.

So she communicated with the Admiralty and found "my Lords" most kind. Indeed, they promised to place a small cruiser which was attached to the Cape station at her disposal, with orders to give her a passage and to search any and every uninhabited island within a thousand miles radius of the spot where the Neptune had gone down. Also she communicated with the Government, and from it obtained a half-promise that when the man who had been appointed to the Governorship of Oceania upon the supposed death of her husband, resigned, as it was expected that he would do very shortly, the post should again be offered to Andrew.

There was foresight in this move of hers, since she had made up her mind that if he should chance to be rescued and to prove too impossible, she could always allege ill-health and allow him to go to Oceania alone. Then, with indignation in her breast and a wistful look of hope deferred carefully stamped upon her attractive countenance, Clara, suitably attended by servants, took the mail steamer to the Cape, and there in due course embarked upon the cruiser which she found abominably uncomfortable, especially as there was no one on the ship who was in touch with her world, or who interested her at all.

Once more on Marion Isle the long winter was merging into spring. As usual it had been a happy winter for the three inhabitants of that desolate place, except that during it the fear, which he always felt, seemed to grip Andrew's heart more closely than it had ever done before, and from him had spread to that of Mary. Still, of this they said little to each other and now were engaged upon their usual task of making ready their land for sowing.

One morning early, Mary, leaving little Janet in Andrew's charge, went out to see to her fish-nets, and in due course returned with the fish but looking very disturbed.

"What is the matter, dear?" asked Andrew, who saw at once that something was wrong. "Has the new net been carried away?"

"I don't quite know, Andrew," she answered gravely. (By now she had lost the habit of speaking in the third person.) "Last night I dreamed that Old Tom came to me and told me that something very bad was about to happen, he would not say what. He did say, however, that I must 'keep a stiff upper lip'—he always used those funny words about meeting trouble—since if I did so everything might come right at last, as he had always told me it would."

"Well, there isn't much in dreams," said Andrew cheerfully, "and at any rate this one had a good ending. Is that all?"

"No, Andrew. When I was on the rocks yonder a squall came up and covered me. Then suddenly in the mist and drift I saw the Shape——"

"What shape?"

"That I told you about which three times warned me of danger and saved my life before you came. Since then I have never seen it till this morning."

"Well," said Andrew, "what did it look like?"

"It looked very terrible, Andrew. It looked like Death. It came upon me suddenly and passed away against the wind out on to the Race between the islands, pointing to the Race where it vanished. Andrew, some one is going to die there in that Race."

"Then pray God it may be me," he answered in words that were startled out of him, "though I don't see how I should get into the Race where no man can swim and live for long."

"No," she answered, "pray God it may be Mary."

"Don't say that, don't say that!" he cried and kissed her.

"Why not?" she asked. "We have been very happy, haven't we? And I do not fear death since my heart tells me that in death we really find all we think we lose."

"Look here, Mary," said Andrew. "Rightly or wrongly you believe in this shape which, you say, has three times saved your life. Why then should it come a fourth time to take away your life, or to tell you that it will be taken away?"

"I don't know, Andrew. Perhaps it did not. But some one is going to die, and there are only us three and of the three—oh! I pray God to let me die."

Then she set about her tasks and said not another word of the matter.

The day was calm and fine, and the weather being suitable to their purpose, they put damp seaweed on to the fire to make smoke in which they hung fresh fish to cure lightly. In the afternoon they both went into the cave to store some of the fish which they had kippered, leaving Janet by the fire, where she was playing contently with the cat, Josky, of which she was very fond. Presently they heard the child calling to them.

"Oh! Dad, Mum. Oh! Mum, Dad, come look, something big upon the sea."

They ran out of the cave, and there, a mile or more from them, anchored just where the Race ran into the open ocean, they perceived a British man-of-war, for she flew the Ensign. Even as they watched amazed, a boat left her side and rowed swiftly for the mouth of their little bay.

The pair looked at each other with horror in their eyes.

"This is the work of the albatross," gasped Andrew.

Mary nodded and, in her agitation, answered in the old childish language:

"Yes, that bird pay us back because we tie things to its neck. What do now? Run away?"

"No, dear, for it is useless. They would hunt the island till they found us. The smoke has betrayed us. Let us stop here and go on with what we are doing."

So they did, mechanically, Andrew cleaning more fish and throwing the insides to the watching penguins, while Mary fixed them to a string in the smoke.

"There is a woman in that boat," said Mary presently in a cold voice, for her eyes were those of a hawk and she had seen her. "She too wears a coat of skin."

The boat, skilfully steered, came to the shore, but Andrew and Mary went on working with their backs to it.

"Mary," said Andrew, "I want you to understand something. If by any chance that woman should be—my wife—I am not going to leave you for her, because you are more to me than everything else in the world. And unless they take us by force, I am not going to leave this island."

She gave him a look of her beautiful eyes and said:

"Thank you." Then she was silent.

Now they heard voices behind them and were forced to turn round. There they stood against a background of the smoke, Andrew to the right, Mary to the left, and between them the lovely child. Perhaps a stranger-looking trio could not be imagined. They were all clad in skins, for Andrew's clothes, except a suit which he sometimes put on for Sundays, or what they believed to be Sundays, were worn out. On their feet, too, were skin mocassins which they made themselves. Andrew's curling hair was long and hung down upon his shoulders; as it protected his neck from the cold winds he left it thus. Now, too, he had a really fine beard which also curled. Finally, his sealskin robe was stained with the work upon which he was engaged and his hands were red with fish's blood. For the rest he was a splendid-looking man, tall, handsome and much broader and bigger than he used to be.

Mary also was clothed in skins down which flowed her glorious hair, a young matron of startling beauty who moved with the grace of a deer; and the child, as has been said, was lovely, with dark eyes like to those of her father, and her mother's milk-white skin.

Three people were coming towards them—the others had stopped with the boat—a young officer whose eyes were nearly starting out of his head, a person in civilian dress who appeared to be a manservant, and the lady. Even at a little distance Andrew knew her at once; it was Clara, richly clothed in furs and, so far as he could see, not in the slightest degree changed from what she was when he had last seen her on board the Neptune. The advancing party halted at a distance of about five paces, whereon the young officer, suddenly recovering himself and becoming aware of a great opportunity, lifted a hand camera which he was carrying and snapped the three with the fire and the cave mouth for a background.

The click of the camera and perhaps the thought of the resulting picture in the English papers, seemed to sting Clara into action.

"Are you Andrew?" she asked. "There seems to be a resemblance——" and she paused.

"I was so christened," he replied, and also paused.

"And who is that woman?" she asked again.

"Her name is Mary."

"Mary! Mary what?"

"I do not know, nor does she. Like myself she is a castaway. She came to this island with a man who is dead."

"Oh!" exclaimed Clara, "that explains a great deal. And what is the name of the little girl?"

"Janet. If you are Clara, it is one that you will remember."

She winced at this, then replied:

"If I am Clara? Have you any doubt upon the point?"

"Not much," he answered, "but you know that we all change; time tells upon us."

"Certainly it or something else has told upon you, Andrew. But—could we have a word apart? What we have to say to each other would scarcely interest this—young woman, even if she happens to understand English. I am sorry I cannot offer to shake hands with you," she added, "or to greet you in any way, since you seem to be all over blood."

"Yes, Clara, I have been cleaning fish. It is part of my daily round. You who eat the fish, may not be aware that they must first be cleaned."

"Then perhaps your cook can continue the operation for a little while. If necessary, the manservant will help her, although it is not his business."

Then they walked aside round the point of the rock, Mary watching them with wondering eyes. Janet tried to run after her father, but Mary caught her and drew her back.

"Now, Andrew," said Clara, when they were out of sight, "tell me the meaning of all this. What is that woman to you?"

"She is the mother of my child."

"I guessed as much and—let us clear the air at once. I am not straitlaced and I do not blame you in the least, especially as she seems to be a rather beautiful savage. But you will understand that this episode must end, which can be done without difficulty. The woman must go somewhere else, and as there was another man upon the island, it will be easy to account for the child who can be provided for in a suitable manner."

"I too want to clear the air, Clara," he replied. "What you call an episode is not going to come to an end, if I can help it. I love that lady who, amongst other things, saved my life, and we mean to spend the rest of our days together. Your claim upon me ended when you left me upon the sinking ship."

"I did not leave you, Andrew, until I was assured that you were lost, but perhaps I had better tell you exactly what happened," and she did, putting her own colouring upon that story and all the following events. She even mentioned in a fearless fashion what she knew must soon certainly reach his ears, that she was about to marry again when the news that he had escaped reached her.

"Thank you for telling me that," said Andrew, "for it makes matters easier. We can now discuss things on a business basis. But perhaps first you would like to hear briefly what happened to me."

Then he told his tale.

"It would all be very interesting in a novel," she said when he had finished, "but we have to do with the facts of real life, have we not, and wise people avoid scandals. You must remember, although in your present costume and after your recent experiences it may naturally be difficult to you, that you are Lord Atterton, and I may add, the Governor-General designate of Oceania, since the man who succeeded you is resigning and I have the promise of the appointment for you, should you still survive."

"This is the only island of which I shall ever be Governor-General," replied Andrew with a little laugh. "Now, Clara, let us strike a bargain. I am dead, and I mean to remain dead."

"Then why on earth did you go tying tin plates to albatrosses?" she inquired with irritation.

"For the sake of the lady yonder, if you want to know. The position was growing difficult."

"So I gather—overwhelmingly difficult. By the way, that child is painfully like you, and some one else," she added with another little wince. "It would have been far better to face the inevitable at once, but you were always foolishly fond of half-measures, Andrew."

"At any rate I have conquered the weakness now, Clara. Go away and lead your own life and leave me to lead mine."

"It is impossible, Andrew. There are too many witnesses, the whole shipload of them, for these people have tongues in their heads, to say nothing of the camera which that donkey of a naval officer carries about with him. Look here, by all means let us make a bargain. The child is not years, but the other man's, as to the exact date of whose decease no inquiries need be made. You befriended the helpless people whom you found starving on an island, that is all. But subsequently the husband died. Well, we all go to England and the pretty savage vanishes—where to I shall not trouble myself to inquire, for, as I have said, I am not straitlaced. West House is large enough for both of us and if you care to keep on your rooms in Justice Street as well, that is no affair of mine," she added with emphasis.

"I think that Mary would soon die in Justice Street, and the child also. The change would be too drastic. Also the idea of leading a double life does not appeal to me."

"Am I to understand that it is your intention to stay in this God-forsaken place, Andrew?"

"Certainly. I like it better than London."

"You mean that you like your savage woman better than you do me? At any rate it is not complimentary of you to say so so plainly."

"I never said anything of the sort, but as politeness is in question it is not complimentary of you to call that lady a savage woman. Look here, Clara, since our child's death we have practically lived apart and I propose that we should continue to do so, especially now when I have another child. My fate does not seem to have disturbed you until the matter got into the papers; indeed, you tell me that you were on the point of marrying again. This you can still do if you wish, since, as you know well, you can take your remedy against me."

For a while they looked at each other and, after her fashion, Clara coolly summed up the situation in her mind. Evidently Andrew was much altered. Hitherto she had always been able to get her own way with him, but now this seemed more difficult. Something, or some one, had brought about a change in him. However, she did not despair; perhaps in a day or two he would see matters differently.

"You are mad, Andrew," she said, "but I make allowances for you, because such a life as you have been leading during all these years does not tend to sanity. To-morrow, or soon, you may take another point of view, so let us drop this very unpleasant conversation for the present. It can always be resumed. Meanwhile, don't you think you had better wash your hands, that is if you do wash in this place? As I am here I shall take a little walk and study your interesting surroundings," and without waiting for an answer she went back to the caves.

Andrew, overcome with misery, stopped where he was, lost in thought and wondering what would be the end of it all. Then he looked at his stained hands, hardened with toil, and reflected that he would take Clara's advice and wash before he confronted that naval officer and the others. So he went to a certain sheltered spot on the shore of the bay and more to consume time than for any other reason, stripped himself, after all a simple process, and swam in the pool, after which he set to work to clean the spots off his sealskin robe, rubbing them with sand and seaweed.

Meanwhile Clara had reached the caves, where she found Mary still going about her tasks in a dazed way, the little girl Janet clinging to her robe, while the manservant studied the penguins and the young naval officer studied Mary with the most evident admiration. Clara went to Mary and said:

"Can you speak English?"

"Yes," answered Mary. "Where is Andrew? I must go to him."

"I think that he is washing and will be here presently. Can you give me some water to drink? I am thirsty."

"I have milk in the cave," said Mary, and went for it, followed by Clara, who was curious to see the place that was inhabited by this beautiful person clad in sealskins and a discoloured pearl necklace. Also she wished to study Mary, who, she noted at once, was no common woman; indeed, had she been so she knew well that Andrew would never have cared for her. Her whole bearing, to say nothing of that pearl necklace, told another tale.

Inside the cave Mary gave her goat's milk in a fine shell, while Clara, seated on a stone near the fire, looked about her curiously.

"May I talk with you a little?" she said presently in her most winning voice, "It seems best that we should understand each other."

Mary, standing before her, bowed her head.

"You are fond of my husband," Clara went on.

Again Mary bowed her head and answered:

"Yes. Does not this show it?" and she touched Janet.

Clara shrugged her shoulders, and went on, "I do not wish to be hard, but you know you are living with him in sin, do you not?"

"No," answered Mary, "my heart does not tell me that. My heart tells me that it is right to live with him. You left him to drown upon the ship, but I saved him when he was dying and God gave him to me."

"Let us leave God out of it and all the rest, too. Do you know that you are ruining him?"

"Ruining. What is that?"

"This. Although he may never have told you so, he is a great man. His name is Lord Atterton. He is very wealthy, that is to say he commands large fortunes. Also he is, or would be, the Governor, I mean the head officer under the Crown, of an important part of the British Empire. He was going out to take up that office when he was wrecked, and it is now waiting for him again. Well, in England we are what is called moral people, that is to say there must be no open talk about any man living with a woman to whom he has not been married in church. If there is such talk, then he is ruined. I mean that no one would speak to him, and that he can hold no public office. He is finished. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, I think that I understand. You mean that if Andrew and I and Janet go on living together, then people will spit at him, and he will be what you call ruined."

"Yes, I mean that. You must make him separate from you, though perhaps," Clara added, watching her, "you might sometimes see him afterwards."

"Separate—that is leave me, is it not? Well, Andrew, he will never do that. You see, there is this strange thing, that he love this poor wild Mary. Yes, I who lose everything have this that he love me to-day, to-morrow, always," here her breast heaved and her eyes flashed, "that he love me for ever and ever, much while I live and more when I dead, that he love me as he never love anything else, or any other woman, not even one called Rose, except perhaps a little Janet who is gone and a little Janet here who is part of me."

"I dare say all this may or may not be true," began Clara, with a chilly smile, but waving her hand imperiously, Mary stopped her.

"There is only one bigger thing than Andrew's love for Mary, and that is Mary's love for Andrew. She love him so well that never, never will she ruin him, she who can wait wherever she go, till he come to find her, which will not be very long."

Now Clara looked at Mary and Mary looked at Clara, who of a sudden understood.

This woman means to kill herself, she reflected. Shall I stop it? No, what affair is it of mine? She must form her own judgment on such a matter. I am not responsible, and if she does vanish it will simplify things. Also I dare say she is merely acting.

Such were the thoughts that flashed through Clara's brain, but she only said with a tired sigh:

"Well, I suppose that this sad trouble will settle itself somehow. I hope I have said nothing to pain you, but believe me, I can quite understand your position and indeed am very sorry for you. Such things happen to ignorant girls when they come in contact with men who are not too scrupulous. I grieve that my husband should have wronged you and I wish to make you any amends in my power, but still you must remember that he is my husband, not yours, and that he has wronged me more than he has wronged you."

Then for the first time Mary grew angry.

"What that you say?" she asked. "Andrew do me wrong? Never, never. He run away from me, I—I go find him and bring him back. If any wrong, I do it, and if any sin, I pay. What more, I sorrier for you than you for me, since he mine, mine, not yours; mine for ever and ever. But what that matter to you who have no heart, nothing but bone and flesh with stain on it" (Clara rouged), "and fine things such as I never see on flesh. Now we talk no more together, but you think on what I say always when alive and when dead," and sweeping the child to her breast with a kind of royal gesture, she went from the cave, whence presently Clara followed her with such dignity as she might.

Outside they found the officer who had been talking to Andrew and telling him some of the news of the world in which he seemed to take no more than a polite interest.

"Lady Atterton," said the officer, "it is time that we went back to the ship, as it will be dark in half an hour and these waters are treacherous for a rowing boat. Do—do—this lady and gentleman and the child accompany us?"

"Really I cannot say," she answered with a shrug, "they must tell you themselves."

The officer looked at Andrew who exclaimed:

"No, we stay here."

"Of course," said Clara, "you have much to see to, things to pack up, I dare say; and you could scarcely appear in that costume, could you? To-morrow morning I will come back and bring you some clothes, also what I can collect for Mrs.—I am sorry, I forget the name—and her child. Come, let us go, I am afraid of the sea in an open boat when it is dark."

"Perhaps you would like to stop here for the night," said the officer doubtfully.

"No, no. I have no sleeping things and I detest caves and raw fish. Good night, Andrew, mind that you have everything ready by the morning. Good-night, Mrs.—Mrs. Smith. Good night, little one," and without waiting for any answer she led the way towards the boat.

"Well, they are gone at last," said Andrew as the oars began to splash in the water.

"Yes," answered Mary, "but they will come back. Only if they are wise they will do so early, since to-morrow there will be a great gale. Look at that cloud over the other island, it only comes before a great wind following on a still night in spring."

XXIV. WHAT THE GALE GAVE

"What are we going to do?" said Andrew presently in rather a hopeless voice. "As you say, they will be back to-morrow and if we refuse to leave they may declare that we are mad and take us by force. To hide is useless, since they would hunt the island for us."

"In the Bible it is said, Andrew, that its evil is enough for the day," she answered, looking him in the face with brave eyes; "also that the morrow must look after itself. To-night we are going to be happier than we ever were before, and to-morrow will look after itself. That man who was with your wife has left a basket behind; he said that in it were things you might like to eat and drink. Let us see them."

So they opened the basket. It contained two bottles of champagne, also some bread, tinned meats, sardines and packets of tea and sugar. Andrew explained the use of these comestibles to Mary; it relieved his mind to talk of such matters, and he proceeded to make her some tea which she had never tasted, at any rate since she was a tiny child. Mary did not like it much, or perhaps she would not drink anything that seemed to be a gift from Clara, though as a matter of fact it was nothing of the sort; the food and drink had been brought by the manservant on his own account in case they should have to picnic on the island, for he was a well-trained and provident person. At any rate, she just touched it with her lips to please Andrew, then put it aside and drank water. Janet, however, ate a lump of sugar with glee and cried when at last she was refused any more.

Andrew, too, opened one of the bottles of champagne and drank most of it with their meal. He had never cared much for wine, but on this night of trouble he seemed to need its stimulus and was thankful that it was there. After so long an abstinence from any sort of alcoholic drink, the champagne made him talkative. He spoke of the great happiness which they had enjoyed together and which he proposed they should continue to enjoy. He unfolded to Mary a scheme which he had conceived.

"If they take us to England," he said, "or anywhere else, we are free people and they cannot keep us there. We will go away to the backwoods of Canada which are beautiful, for I have heard all about them, and there we will build a house far from anyone in some lovely place, and live our lives. You will like the climate, too, since it is cold in winter as it is here, only brighter and much less stormy."

Then he went on to tell her all he knew about Canada, while she listened attentively and said that it seemed to be a very nice place indeed. After this once more he began to talk of their love and to explain to her his views upon the eternity of all true love in a way that he rarely spoke. Now she hearkened with real and vivid interest, drinking in every word.

"Do you think, Andrew," she asked, "that when those who have loved each other, oh! with all their hearts full, are dead, they will still go on loving each other somewhere in the stars, even if they have been sinners?"

"Yes, I do think so, dear, since love is the mightiest thing in the universe and as I believe the only true thing that has life. It cannot die, or if it dies, then all dies and there is nothing left but darkness."

"I am glad," she said, "for so I believe also."

After this he grew sleepy, for the champagne took effect on him and he had gone through much that day. So they went to bed and soon he was lost in slumber. When she saw that he was fast, Mary unlocked her arms from about him and slipped from the bed, stepping over the child that lay on its pile of skins alongside. Then going to the recess near the entrance of the cave where the second fire burned, she lit a lamp and wrote a letter on some slates which she had made ready. This letter gave her a great deal of trouble and took her several hours, for twice or thrice she put aside those slates which she had written and re-wrote it on fresh ones. At last it was finished, and at the end of it there fell a great tear by way of a full stop. Now she crept up the cave again and finding that Andrew was still sleeping very soundly, placed the slates upon his bed where she knew he must see them when he awoke, and kneeling down, prayed awhile. After this she kissed first him and then the child very gently. Then she unfastened the pearl necklace she always wore and laid it upon Janet's bed. This done she held out her hands in blessing over them both, and fled from the cave weeping bitterly.

It was very dark, for there was no moon and though the night was still, all the stars were clouded over. So dark was it indeed that in spite of knowing every rock of the place, soon Mary was obliged to sit down and wait for the coming of the light. There she sat thinking and sobbing softly, for in this darkness her courage left her, and oh! what lay before her was awful.

"For his sake!" she kept murmuring to herself. "For his sake, I must, I must. Never shall that woman say that I ruined him and brought shame upon his head. And if I do not leave him he will never leave me."

At length the dawn came, a strange and ominous dawn. The sun did not show in the east, yet a red light glowed throughout the sky. As yet there was no wind, still the air seemed to be full of unnatural sounds. Moreover, as she knew long before she reached its shore, the Race between the islands was running with unusual violence, the result, perhaps, of disturbances further south which pressed the weight of water before them as a herald of their coming.

Now Mary was on the shore and that which was to be done must be done quickly. Once more she knelt down and prayed, but all she could remember was the Lord's Prayer and much in the same broken language that Andrew had heard her use when first his eyes fell upon her. Twice or thrice she repeated it, dwelling upon the words, "Forgive us our trespasses."

Then she rose, threw off her sealskin robe so that she was only clad in the short skirt about her middle, and waded out into the deep water.

For this was her terrible object—to swim to the heart of the Race, and there die fighting against the furious tide, for so she thought the end would come more easily.

Now the sky was light above, for suddenly the wind had begun to blow in fierce gusts that tore up from the south, but as yet the murk lay on the face of the water, since these gusts seemed to fly high in an abnormal fashion. So deep was that murk that she could not see the ship anchored on the edge of the Race, half a mile or more to the south of her, and still less a boat putting off rapidly from its side. As she reached the deep water, of a sudden the gale began to blow in earnest, driving waves in front of it which foamed and curved as they met the rush of the Race tearing from north to south.

Andrew slept till the first light that morning, and then it was the child who awakened him, saying:

"Where Mummy? Where Mummy? Janet want Mummy give her milk."

"Outside, dearie, I expect," he said sleepily. "Go and look for her." Then as he moved in the bed the pieces of slate rattled together, and by the light that crept up the cave he saw them. Taking them up he perceived that they were written on in Mary's large and rather childish hand. He leapt from the bed, threw on his thick sealskin robe and drew his skin buskins on to his feet. Then he ran to the mouth of the cave where there was more light, and read the writing. It ran:

"Andrew, dearest Andrew,

"Your wife has told me that if we go on living together it will bring you, who are a great lord, to shame and ruin. But while we both live it must be together, since nothing could keep us apart. Therefore, that you may be saved I must die. This, I know, will shock and grieve your heart, but I am sure it is best for both of us, since if I hid away from you I should still die, if more slowly. Our darling I know that you will care for, and you need not tell her that you are her father. Give to her the necklace that I always wore, and let her also always wear it. If I have done wrong, I hope that God in heaven, Who made us men and women as we are, will forgive me. If I go on living anywhere outside the world and can do so, I will be near you till you die, and then I will be with you always, for like you I believe that nothing can keep those who love each other apart, and I know that you will always go on loving me. And now I go to swim into the Race and make an end, and you can say that I have fallen by accident into the sea, and go on to the great ship and sail to England, or to rule the country of which your wife spoke to me. But you will often think of our life upon the island, will you not? Also, you will care for and love our little Janet who will grow into a beautiful woman of whom you need not be ashamed, and who will soon forget all about her poor mother. Good-bye, dearest Andrew. You will never find anyone to love you better than this wild Mary who, you see, never loved anyone else except Old Tom, whom she will see presently, and our child, though both of them in another way. I will try to die bravely, swimming, as a wild woman should.

"I wish to tell you now that when first we met I knew you at once, since often I had looked at your face in the water in which I used to see things, also in dreams. So although I did not know it, I loved you, oh! much, much, long before you loved me.

"Your Mary."

Andrew finished this terrible epistle and put it down. Then, choking the horror in his heart, he began to think swiftly as a man does in an emergency.

"Baby," he said to Janet, for so he still called her, "Dad go to find Mum. There Baby's milk, she sit here by fire and drink it and not move. If Baby move, fire go out. She promise?"

"Yes, Dad, Baby talk to big penguin and pussy. Daddy come back soon."

He nodded, walked till he passed a rock which hid him, and then ran as he never ran before. In writing of the Race, Mary had given him a clue, since he knew that there was but one spot near by whence she could swim into it, and for that he headed. What passed through his tortured heart as he ran cannot be told, since it is beyond the power of language to describe. It was an agony unutterable. He feared that he must be too late, and if so, what then? To swim out after her into the Race and find her dead if not living, the divine creature who was sacrificing herself for him—that seemed the only way. But then there was the child. Well, they would come from the ship and discover her and in common mercy she would be looked after. And yet—oh! God help him! he knew not what to do. No hell could have torments equal to those that he suffered.

He became aware that a great gale had risen all at once, as though at the waving of a magician's wand. It blew from the south-east right into his face and was so fierce that once or twice it almost stopped him in his stride. In great leaps he reached the shore at the point he sought, certain rocks which stretched out into the bay, lying between low cliffs. He was right in his guess, for there on a stone lay Mary's skin robe.

He looked about him for one short moment. Yonder was the cruiser. She was blowing her steam-whistle as though signalling, and appeared to be getting up her anchors, perhaps because she feared that the gale would drive her ashore. Nor was this all, for on the sea was a boat; he could see it from time to time as the rising waves tossed it aloft. Apparently it headed for the beach. No, it turned, or tried to turn, and a man stood up in it, waving his arms and pointing. Something had happened on that boat, but what it was he could not see because of the spume of the waves and the flying spindrift.

Oh Heaven! it was overturned, the seas had caught it broadside on and it had overturned. Men were climbing on to its bottom, and it drove in shore before the gale.

A ray of red light which appeared between the torn clouds caught the crest of a great sea, and on it he saw something that glinted as did nothing else but Mary's hair. Three hundred yards away or more that hair glinted. He rushed into the water and began to swim. Again a great wave far away and on it the glinting hair, and near it another form tossed up suddenly. The two seemed to come together and grow confused. From time to time he saw them both as the seas threw them up. Then he saw only one swimming shoreward with the gale and the waves behind, but on that one was the glint as of Mary's hair.

He swam outwards and onwards, breasting the waters as best he might. Again a great wave, and not thirty yards away from him the glinting hair, and underneath it seen in the clear water another shape. Now through a thin veil of water he saw the face beneath the hair. It was that of Mary, white and strained and set, swimming doggedly shorewards with one hand—the other seemed to be gripping that which was beneath the water.

She saw him also and through the scream of the gale that gathered moment by moment, he heard her voice cry faintly, "Help her!"

Oh, thank God! it was Mary, and Mary alive. Now if she drowned, he could drown with her!

With frantic efforts he drove himself forward against the sea and wind, and at last amidst the crest foam of a great comber they met. Then he saw that Mary had her left hand twisted in the hair of another woman, a senseless woman whom she was dragging with her through the water. She was almost spent, but still she did not leave go, but struggled forward with slow strokes. Their bodies knocked together. He ranged himself alongside of her and with his left hand gripped the arm of the senseless woman. As he did so, she turned over and he saw her face. It was that of Clara still clad in her heavy furs.

Had it not been that the seas and the ever-growing gale were behind them, driving them onwards, never could they have come to the shore, but as it was, more dead than living, they reached it at last and staggered through the shallowing water, dragging Clara between them and clinging to rocks to save themselves from being swept seawards again by the backwash of the waves. They reached the little spit of sand where was the stone on which lay Andrew's skin robe with Mary's. They pulled Clara from the water and then fell in a heap exhausted, spitting foam from their mouths. Presently Andrew raised himself upon his knees and looked at Clara as a doctor does. She was still and white with her mouth and eyes open.

"I think that she is dead," he gasped.

"I tried to save her," said Mary in a kind of choking wail. "I went to lose myself and found her, washed from the boat."

Then Mary rose also and made as though she would re-enter the sea. With a spring he was upon her, flinging his arms about her body.

"No!" he cried. "If you move I will stun you."

Now muttering, "I did my best, I did my best to save her!" she sank down in a heap upon the sand.

"Swear that you will not," and he pointed to the sea. "Swear by God Who has given you back your life."

"I swear," said Mary, and her head fell upon her breast.

Then he brought the robe into which she slowly thrust her arms, while he also clothed himself, for the wind was bitter. They tottered to Clara, and he did all that his skill taught him should be done to those who seemed to be dead from drowning, at least all that he could there, pressing the water from her lungs.

Still she did not stir.

"We must get her to the caves," said Andrew. "Help me if you can."

So with frightful efforts, between them they dragged and carried her over that rocky road, and at last laid her down by the fire. Here Andrew renewed his attempts to revive her. For two hours he worked although the blood from a cut in his head almost blinded him, but without avail.

Clara's tale was told. She was dead. Towards the end of the time they saw men standing before them, the survivors of the boat's crew, for only one had been drowned; the rest had clung to it and, being a lifeboat, it did not sink, but at last was washed ashore. They helped as best they could, and from them Andrew learned the story.

During the night the glass had begun to fall so rapidly that before dawn the captain had said that if Lady Atterton wished to fetch the people from the island, she must do so as soon as it was light, as he feared a gale was coming up which would force him to put out to the open sea within a few hours. Clara consented unwillingly, as Andrew guessed, because she knew that no one except herself could persuade him to leave that place, and that if the sailors were told to bring him by force, a course of which perhaps she thought, that he would run away and hide with the woman and child, or fight them. So she went, thinking doubtless, as the captain did, that there was plenty of time before the gale came. As it happened this rose with startling suddenness when the boat, with Clara on board, had only been a few minutes in the water. With her siren the ship signalled to them to return. As they were putting about Clara grew frightened and stood up in the boat. At this moment a big sea struck them and washed her overboard. Again they turned and tried to follow her, with the result that the boat was overset. Soon afterwards they saw that a woman was trying to save her. Then they saw no more, for they and the boat were blown far away from the pair and great seas rose between them. That was all, except that in their confusion and emergency they believed that Mary had swum out to rescue Clara and for no other purpose. Nor did anyone undeceive them.

To these men Andrew gave what food and clothes he had, and sent them to live in the other cave until such time as the cruiser, that had beat out to sea to escape shipwreck, should return again.

The gale was hellish, though fortunately it was but beginning when Mary in her holy madness had met it in the Race. Even so she must have perished, weighted as she was with the senseless Clara, had not her native strength and daily practice for many years enabled her to swim like a seal and to dive through breaking waves. It blew and blew with hurricane strength, turning over great rocks and, for the first time since it had been lit, carrying away the fire in front of the cave, to the last glowing ash.

There in the shelter of that cave and with their child, the two lay exhausted, listening to its raging. At length, when the wind abated somewhat, Andrew went out and with the assistance of the seamen dug a deep grave at that very spot round the protecting corner of rock where he and his wife had talked together on the previous day. In this grave he laid Clara, and there for the third time read the Burial Service on Marion Isle, as now he learned that it was called.

Then Andrew returned to the cave and spoke alone with Mary, for night was falling, and the child had been put to sleep.

"I suppose that we are both sinners," he said, "but if so, I hope and believe that the agony which we have passed has paid the price. When you tried to take your life this morning, Mary, you did a thing as wrong as it was noble, not understanding that if you had succeeded, the penalty would have fallen on me for whose sake it was done, as well as on you, since then I believe that I also should have died, and our darling would have been orphaned. Even as it is I feel as though what I have endured and what I know you have suffered, had made an old man of me. Well, whatever Power rules us intervened and, as it chanced, in attempting to save the life of another, you preserved your own and mine, and therefore our days are left to us to spend together in uprightness and atonement, for which, let us thank God, as I think God for His gift to me in you."

She listened with bowed head, then crept to him and kissed him.

"All Mary did," she whispered in her old childish talk, "Mary did because she loves Andrew, and God Who is good knew that and saved Mary in the Race—though," she added doubtfully, "God took Clara."

Now suddenly she dropped upon her knees and began to repeat the Lord's Prayer, just as she said it when first he saw her, a lonely waif upon the desert isle; just as she said it before for love's sake she committed her body to the deep and her soul to its Creator.

"Forgive us our trespasses," she murmured, "as we forgive them that trespass against us, and keep us from the evil, Amen."

Then once more Mary kissed him and he kissed her, after which she took the pearl necklace and tied it about Janet's neck. Herself she would wear it no more, because of all the agony of which it reminded her.

THE END

Belshazzar

First Published 1930

"In that night was Belshazzar the

King of the Chaldeans slain."

Dedication

Dear Cowan Guthrie,

You, a student of that age, persuaded me to write this tale of Belshazzar and Babylon. Therefore I offer it to you.

Sincerely yours,

H. Rider Haggard.

A. Cowan Guthrie, Esq., M.B.

Contents

I. Ramose and His Mother

II. The Cup of Hathor

III. The Counsel of Belus

IV. The Fall of Ramose

V. The Flight to Amasis

VI. The Gift of God

VII. Ramose Seeks Refuge in Cyprus

VIII. At Memphis

IX. Pharaoh Comes to Memphis

X. The Happy House

XI. The Burial of Apis

XII. Gone!

XIII. Babylon

XIV. The Prophet and the Prince

XV. Ramose Finds Friends

XVI. Ramose is Tempted

XVII. At the Western Gate

XVIII. The Letter

XIX. The Lady of the Litter

XX. The End of Obil

XXI. The Writing on the Wall

I. RAMOSE AND HIS MOTHER

Now when by the favour of the most high God, Him whom I worship, to whom every man is gathered at last, now, I say, when I am old, many have urged upon me that I, Ramose, should set down certain of those things that I have seen in the days of my life, and particularly the tale of the fall of Babylon, the mighty city, before Cyrus the Persian, which chanced when he whom the Greeks called Nabonidus being newly dead, Belshazzar his son was king.

Therefore, having ever been a lover of letters, this I do in the Grecian tongue here in my house at Memphis, the great city of the Nile, whereof to-day I am the governor under Darius the Persian, for it has pleased God after many adversities to bring me to this peace and dignity at last. Whether any will read this book when it is written, or whether it will perish with me, I do not know, nor indeed does it trouble me much, since none can tell the end of anything good or ill, and all must happen as it is decreed. Man makes a beginning, but the rest is in the hands of fate; indeed his life itself is but a beginning of which the end is hid.

Now to-day when he is almost forgotten, I can say without fear that I am a king's son, for my father was none other than the Pharaoh Uah-ab- Ra, whom the Greeks called Apries and the Hebrews Hophra. Nor is my blood all royal, seeing that I was not the son of the wife of Pharaoh, but of one of his women, a Grecian lady named Chloe, the daughter of Chion, an Athenian by birth, of whom the less said the better for my mother told me that being a spendthrift and in want of money, he turned her beauty to account by giving her to Apries in exchange for a great present. I know no more of the matter because she would seldom speak of it, saying that it was shameful, adding only that her father was well-born; that her mother had died when she was an infant, and that before she came to the court at Sais, they saw many changes of fortune, living sometimes in wealth, but for the most part humbly and in great poverty which in after years bred in her a love of rank and riches.

Here in the palace of Sais during the little time that my mother was in favour with Pharaoh, I was born, and here I lived till I was a young man grown, being brought up with the sons of the great nobles and taught all things that one of my station should know, especially the art of war and how to ride and handle weapons. Further I got learning because always from the first I loved it, being taught many things by Greek masters who were about the court, as well as by Egyptians; also by a certain Babylonian named Belus, a doctor who was versed in strange lore concerning the stars. Of this Belus, my master and friend but for whom I should long ago be dead, I shall have much to tell.

Thus it came about that in the end I could read and speak Greek as well as I could Egyptian, which was not to be wondered at, seeing that I learned it at my mother's breast. Also I mastered the Babylonian or Chaldean tongue, though not so well, and with it the curious writing of that people.

Of my father, the Pharaoh, I saw little for he had so many children such as I, born of different mothers, that he took small heed of us, he upon whom lay this hard fortune, that from those who were his queens according to the law of Egypt, he had no offspring save one daughter only, while from those who were not his queens he had many. This was a heavy grief to the Pharaoh my father, who saw in it the hands of the gods to whom he made great sacrifices, especially to Ptah-Khepera the Creator and Father of Life, building up his temple at Memphis, and praying of him a son of the pure blood. But no son came and an oracle told him that he who loved the Greeks so much must to the Greeks for offspring, which was true, for all his sons were born of Grecian women, as perhaps the oracle knew already.

On a certain day I and other lads of my age were running races after the Grecian fashion. In the long race I outran all the rest, and fell panting and exhausted into the arms of one who, followed by three companions, stood wrapped in a dark cloak, (for the time was winter,) just by a wand that we had set in the ground to serve us as a winning- post.

"Well run and well won!" said a voice which I knew for that of Apries. "How are you named and who begot you?"

Now I rose from the ground upon which I had sunk, and pretending that he was a stranger to me, gasped out,

"Ramose is my name, and as for that of my begetter, go ask his of Pharaoh."

"I thought it," muttered Apries, considering me. Then he turned to the first of his councillors and said,

"You know of what we were talking just now; this lad is straight and strong and has a noble air; moreover I have a good report of him from his instructors who say that he loves learning. Why should he not fill a throne as well as another? The double crown would look well upon his brow."

"Because his skin is too white, Pharaoh," answered that councillor. "If the Egyptians learned that you purposed to set a Greek to rule them after you, they would cut his throat and perhaps tumble you into the Nile."

I remember these words very well, because although spoken at hazard, they must have been inspired, for they were in fact a prophecy, seeing that in the after years Apries was tumbled into the Nile whence Amasis who had usurped his throne, rescued his body and gave it royal burial.

After this Pharaoh spoke to me for a while, but not until he had bidden one of his councillors to lift the cloak from his shoulders and throw it round me, lest I, who was hot with the racing, should take cold. So there I stood, wrapped in the royal cloak of Tyrian purple, while those King's Companions muttered together, thinking that this was an omen and that one day I should sit upon the throne. Yet it was none, for it was not fated that any of the blood of Uah-ab-Ra, or Apries, should reign after him. That cloak I have to this day, though I do not wear it because of its royal clasp, for Pharaoh does not take back his gifts, or even that which he has lent for an hour. Yes, I have the cloak but not the crown, though this in truth I never sought.

Well, he searched me with his shrewd eyes that at times could look so fierce, and asked me questions as to my studies; also what I wished to be, a priest or a scribe or a soldier.

"What Pharaoh pleases," I answered, "though if I had my will, I would be all three, a priest because he draws nigh to the gods; a scribe because he gathers learning which is strength, and a soldier because he defends his country and wins glory. Yet most of all I would be a soldier."

"Well spoken," said Pharaoh, like one who was astonished at my answer. "You shall have your way if I can give it to you."

Then he held out his hand to me to kiss and left me, muttering,

"Would that his mother had been Egyptian and not Greek."

Here I must tell that before this time my mother, Chloe, who long ago had been succeeded by others in Pharaoh's favour, no longer dwelt at the court in Sais. For Apries, wishing to do well by her, had given her in marriage to a wealthy Egyptian named Tapert, who was one of his officers at Memphis where he filled the place of a judge and overseer of revenues. This Tapert, a kindly-faced, grizzled little man, had fallen in love with my mother's beauty while he was at court making report to Pharaoh on matters at Memphis, and especially as to the rebuilding of the temple of Ptah in that city, with which he had to do. Noting this, as he noted all, when the time came for Tapert to return to Memphis, Apries asked him if he desired any gift of Pharaoh whom he had served well. Tapert made no answer but let his eyes rest upon my mother who, with other women of the royal household, sat at a distance broidering linen with Grecian patterns, as she loved to do.

Apries thought a while, then said,

"Take her, if she will go. For you are a good man, if ugly, and as your wife she may be happier than here—as nothing. Ask her. You have my leave."

So he asked as it was made easy for him to do, and in the end, although she loved the pomp and pleasures of the court, my mother listened to him, knowing him for a very rich and honest man of good blood and station, one, too, whom she could rule. So it came about that while she was still a young and beautiful woman, for the Greeks do not wither as early as do the Egyptians, by the permission of Pharaoh my mother was married according to the full custom to the Count Tapert, a man of many offices and titles who settled wealth upon her should he die. Thus it happened that she went to live with him at Memphis, while I stayed behind at Sais.

Our parting was sad, although after my childhood we had met but little, because the laws of the court kept us apart.

"Hearken, my son," she said to me. "I make this marriage for a double reason. When I was but a child I was delivered into the hands of Pharaoh, who soon forgot me in favour of others who came after, but because I had borne him a son, treated me honourably. Now while I am still fair I have opportunity to leave this cage with golden bars, and to become a free woman as the wife of a rich and honest man who loves me, one by whom I shall be cherished, and I take it thankfully who, if I stayed here, might one day find myself thrown into the street. Yet not altogether for my own sake, because it means that we must be parted; also, if I am loved, I do not love. Know, my son, that what I do, I do for you more even than for myself. Here in the palace you are highly placed; the Pharaoh looks upon you with favour; there are some who think that in the end he will make a prince of you and, having no lawful heirs of the royal blood, name you to follow after him. It may be that this is in his mind. But if so I am sure that it could never come about while your mother, the Grecian slave, remained at court to remind the great ones of Egypt that you are base-born of a woman whose people the Egyptians hate, whereas if I go away this may be forgotten, though I fear that your skin will always tell its own story.

"Nor is this all. As Tapert has whispered to me, Pharaoh is rich; Pharaoh is powerful and under him the people have prosperity, the arts flourish and their gods are better served than they have been for many an age, all of which comes about because Egypt is guarded by the Greeks whom Pharaoh hires. Yet he says that they hate those guardians, they who will not protect themselves, and it may well happen that from this hatred trouble will come, bringing with it the fall of Pharaoh and of those of his House. Therefore, should that chance, I would make ready a refuge for you, my son.

"Tapert is very rich, as he has told me, one of the richest men in Egypt, although few know it, and henceforth all he has is mine, and what is mine is yours, for I do not think that I shall ever bear him children. Therefore, in the hour of trouble remember always that there is a place where you can lay your head, my son of the royal blood of Egypt, whose throne you still may win by help of the wealth that I can give you, and thereby make me, a Grecian slave bought for her beauty, the mother of a king."

Thus she spoke and as she did so I read her heart, who although I was so young had knowledge of the court ladies and their ways. She went because she thought it no longer safe to stay near to Pharaoh who was weary of the sight of her and of her importunities for gifts and honours, and might at any time cast her out. Still I was sad, for I who had no one else to love, loved my mother however vain and foolish she might be.

So she departed and became the wife of Tapert, Pharaoh making many gifts to her. But I stayed on at court and grew in strength and stature, also in favour with Pharaoh. Hence it came about that I was advanced beyond my station and made a Count of Egypt and a Companion of the King with other offices and titles, seeing which all men bowed down to me, thinking that in days to come, although I was base-born and half a Greek, I still might sit where Pharaoh sat. And so it might have chanced had it not been decreed otherwise and had not Hathor, whom the Greeks call Aphrodite, lit a flame of love within my heart that burned me up and wellnigh brought me to my death.

It happened thus. The King of Babylon had attacked certain peoples in Syria of whom the chief king was named Abibal, an old man. Now in the fighting the Babylonians were driven back, or rather had retired purposing to return at their own season with a larger army—it might be next year, or the year after, or the year after that, as it suited them, to burn the cities of Abibal and his allies and to slay their peoples or take them captive.

Now in this fighting the old king Abibal was wounded with an arrow in the thigh, which wound festered so that in the end he died. Before he died he determined to seek the aid of Apries, the Pharaoh of Egypt, against the Babylonians. Therefore since he trusted no one else, he left command that a young wife of his named Atyra, whom he had married in his age, the daughter of another Syrian king, should go in person to the court of Egypt and lay the cause of her country before Pharaoh, so that he might send an army to defend it from the Babylonians. For this old king cared nothing of what might happen to his young wife after he was dead, or who should take her, but for his people, and the other peoples who were his allies, he cared much.

So he bound the Queen Atyra by a solemn oath to do his bidding, calling down the curse of his spirit and that of his gods upon her if she failed therein, and she who was youthful and desired to see new lands, and above all Egypt, swore all that he wished readily enough, after which he died and was buried. When he had been sealed up in his tomb Queen Atyra, a woman of great beauty who had been brought up in statecraft, with a voice so sweet and a mind so subtle that she could win any man to her will, started upon her journey in much pomp and bearing many gifts, leaving her dead lord's successor seated upon his throne.

At length having passed all dangers and escaped from a troop of the Babylonians that was sent out to capture her, she came safely to Egypt and encamping at a little distance from Sais, despatched messengers to Pharaoh to announce her and ask his safeguard for herself and her companions. As it chanced I, Ramose, now a young man in my twentieth year, was the captain of the guard that day; therefore it fell to me to receive these messengers and bring them before Pharaoh and his officers.

He listened to their tale of which already he knew something from his spies and those who served him in Syria. Then, having consulted with his councillors and scribes, he beckoned to me and when I came and bowed before him, said,

"Ramose, take an escort with you and ride out to the camp of this lady Atyra, and say to her that it is too late for me to answer her prayer to-day when the sun is already near to setting, but that I will consider of it to-morrow. Talk with her yourself, if you can, for she will suspect no guile in one so young, but at least spend the night at her camp learning all that you are able concerning her and her business, and to-morrow at the dawn return to make report to me."

So I went clad in the Grecian armour that Apries had commanded the guard to wear, thereby giving much offence to the Egyptian generals and soldiers, taking my newest cloak and mounted on a fine horse of the Arab breed. Indeed, having heard through the messengers that this lady was young and beautiful, I desired to look my best, for to tell the truth, like many youths of my age I was somewhat vain and wished to please the eyes of women. Moreover this was not altogether strange, seeing that all thought me comely, who was tall and well-shaped, having clear-cut Grecian features that I inherited from my mother, brown hair that curled upon my head and large dark eyes, the gift of my Egyptian blood. Further, I was ready of speech and could talk of anything, though in truth as yet I knew little, all of which I do not shame to write now when I am old. Lastly I must add this, though it is not to my credit; that I was too fond of women and made love to them when the chance came my way, which was often at the court of Sais. Or perhaps they made love to me—I do not know; at least none of them had really touched my heart, or I theirs.

Thus, full of youth and goodliness and the lust of life and all the gifts that the gods give us when we are young, of which we think so little until we have grown old and they are gone, followed by my escort I galloped forth proud of my mission and hoping for adventure. For little did I know that I rode into the arms of terror and of sorrow.

II. THE CUP OF HATHOR

An hour later, guided by the messengers, one of whom had gone on ahead to warn this lady Atyra of my coming, I caught sight of her camp set upon the sand at the edge of the cultivated land, and noted that it was large. The tents were many, dark in colour, most of them, for they were woven of camel hair after the Arab fashion, but in their midst was a great white pavilion dyed with stripes of blue and red, over which fluttered a strange, three-pointed flag which seemed to be blazoned with stars of gold.

This banner, I guessed, must mark the resting-place of the lady Atyra who called herself a queen. What sort of a queen was she, I wondered. Thick-made and black probably, though these Syrians whom in my ignorance I believed to be swarthy folk, thought her fair, as indeed all queens are fair according to those who serve them.

Whilst I was musing thus we came to the camp and must pass between two lines of camels, many of which were lying down chewing their food. Now like most horses, mine, a spirited beast, hated the sight and smell of camels and growing restive, took the bit between its teeth in such fashion that I could not hold it. Rushing forward it headed straight for the great pavilion with the coloured stripes. Soldiers or servants sprang forward to stay the beast, but without avail, for it overthrew one of them, causing the rest to fly. On we went, till at the very door of the tent my horse caught its feet in a rope and fell, hurling me straight through the open entrance. Over and over I rolled and though my bones were unharmed, for the sand was covered with thick carpets, the breath was shaken out of me, so that for a while I sat gasping with my helmet all awry like to that of a drunken soldier.

The sound of laughter reached me, very gentle laughter that reminded me of water rippling over stones. Also there was other coarser laughter such as might come from the throats of slaves or eunuchs or of serving-girls. It made me very angry, so much so that being half- stunned, with what breath I had left I said words I should not have uttered, adding that I was Pharaoh's envoy.

"And if so, Sir, is this the fashion in which Pharaoh's envoys enter the presence of those whom it pleases Pharaoh to honour?" asked a silvery voice, speaking in the Grecian tongue though with a soft and foreign accent.

"Yes," I answered, "if they set stinking camels to frighten their horses and lay ropes to snare their feet."

Then the blood went to my head and I suppose that I fainted for a while.

When my sense returned I found myself stretched upon a couch and heard that same voice giving orders both in Greek and in the Babylonian or Chaldean tongue of which I knew something through the teaching of my tutor, Belus, also in others that I did not know, all of which talk concerned myself.

"Take that helm from his head," said the soft voice, though not softly. "O daughter of a fool, can you not see that you are pressing the edge of it upon the bruise? Away with you! Let me do it. So. Now remove the breastplate—that is easy for the straps have burst—and open the tunic to give him air. What a white skin he has for an Egyptian. Any woman would be proud of it. By the gods he is a noble- looking youth and if he dies, as he may for I think his neck is twisted, those who tied the camels there and left the ropes lying shall pay for it. Now, wine. Where is the wine? Lift him gently and pour some down his throat. Nay, not so. Would you drown the man? Hand me the cup. Has that old leech been found? If not, bid him get himself back to Syria as best he may——"

Just then I opened my eyes to the lids of which leaden weights seemed to have been tied. They met the glance of other eyes above me, very beautiful eyes that were neither blue nor black, but something between the two. Also I became aware that a white arm was supporting my head and that the fair and rounded breast of a very beautiful woman who was kneeling beside me, touched my own.

"I am the envoy of the Pharaoh Apries, King of the two Lands and of the countries beyond the sea. The Pharaoh says——" I began in feeble tones, repeating the lesson that I had learned.

"Never mind what the Pharaoh says," answered she who leant over me in a rich, low voice. "Like most of his messages of which I have had many, I doubt not that it will serve as well to-morrow as to-day. Drink this wine and lie quiet for a while—that is, if your neck is not broken."

So I drank and lay still, thankful enough to do so for I had fallen on my head and been much shaken, having clung with my hands to the reins of my horse as I had been taught to do in the military school, instead of stretching them out to protect myself. The wine was good and warmed me; also it seemed to clear my brain, so that soon I was able to look about me and take note.

I saw that the pavilion in which I lay was finer than any that I had ever known, being hung all round with beautiful mats or carpets that shone like silk wherever the light fell upon them. Also there was a table at its end set with vessels of gold and silver, and round it folding stools made of ebony inlaid with ivory and piled with cushions, and a brazier that stood upon a tripod, for the desert air was chill, wherein burnt wood that gave out sweet odours. Moreover there were hanging lamps of silver that presently were lit by a swarthy eunuch, for now night was closing in, which burned with a clear white flame and like the fire gave out scents.

The eunuch, clad in his rich apparel and head-dress of twisted silk, glanced at me out of his oblong eyes and went away, leaving me alone in that perfumed place. Lying thus upon my soft, cushioned bed, a strange mood took hold of me, as it does at times of those whose brains reel under the weight of some heavy blow. I seemed to lose all sense of time and place; I seemed to be floating on a cloud above the earth, looking backwards and forwards. Far away behind me was a wall or mass of blackness out of which I crawled, a tiny, naked child, into the light of day. Then came visions of my infancy, little matters in my life that I had long forgotten, words that my mother had murmured into my baby ears, her caresses when I was sick; the softness of her cheek as she pressed it against my fevered brow, and I know not what besides. And all this while I, the infant in her arms, seemed to be asking this question of her,

"Mother, whence came I and why am I here?"

To which she answered, "I do not know, my child. The gods will tell you—when you are dead."

The stream of time flowed on. Yes, it was a stream, for I saw it flowing, and on it I floated, clutching day by day at sticks and straws wherewith I built me a house of life, as a bird builds its nest, till at last I saw myself falling from the horse and for a moment all grew dark. Then out of the darkness there appeared shadowy shapes, some beautiful, some terrible, and I knew that these were the spirits of the future showing me their gifts. They passed by and once more before me was a black wall such as that whence I had seemed to come in the beginning, which wall I knew was Death. I searched to find some opening but could discover none. I sank down, outworn and terrified, and lo! as I sank there appeared a glorious gateway, and beyond it a city of many palaces and temples in whose courts walked gods, or men who looked like gods.

My vision passed and I awoke, wondering where that city might be and if within it I should find any habitation.

It was a foolish dream, yet I set it down because I think it told me something of the mystery of birth and death. Or rather it set out these mysteries, revealing nothing, for who knows what lies beyond those black walls that are our Alpha and Omega and between which we spell out the alphabet of Life. Also it was not altogether foolish, for even then I knew that the shapes of terror which seemed to wait upon my path were portents of advancing woe—and trembled. . . .

It must have been the dead of night when I awoke thus out of my swoon, for now there was no sound in the camp, save the tramping of the sentries and the howling of distant dogs or jackals smitten of the moon. In the pavilion the scented lamps burned low or had been shaded, so that the place was filled with a soft gloom, in which shadows seemed to move, caused no doubt by the swinging of the lamps in the draught of the night air. Yet one of these shadows, the most palpable of them all, did not move; indeed it seemed to stand over me like a ghost that waits the passing of one whom it has loved. I grew afraid and stirred, thinking to speak, whereon the shadow turned its head so that the light of the lamp fell upon the beautiful face of a woman.

"Who are you?" I asked in a whisper, for I seemed to fear to speak aloud.

A sweet voice answered,

"O Ramose, Pharaoh's son and envoy, I am your hostess Atyra, once a queen."

"And what do you here, Queen Atyra?"

"I watch you, my guest, in your swoon."

"A poor task, Lady, more fitting to a leech or slave."

"I think not, Ramose, son of the king, as I have been told that you are by your escort and others. There is much to be learned from those who sleep by one who has the gift of reading souls."

"Is it your gift, Lady?"

"I have been taught it by wise men in Syria, magi the Persians call them, and as I think not quite in vain. At least I have read your soul."

"Then, Lady, you have read that which is worth nothing, for what is written upon so short a scroll?"

"Much, Count Ramose, for our life is like the chapters of a book, and already at our birth Fate has stamped the titles of those chapters upon its clay, leaving it to Time to write the rest. Your story, I think, will be long, if sad in part. Yet it was not to talk of such things that I have come here alone at night."

"Why, then, did you come, Lady?"

"First to see how you fared, for your fall was heavy, and secondly, if you were well enough, to hear your message."

"It is short, Lady. Pharaoh bids me say that he will answer your requests to-morrow, since to-day it is too late."

"Yet it was not too late for him to send you, Count Ramose, charged with words that mean nothing. I will tell you why he sent you; it was to spy upon me and make report to him."

Thus she said, resting her chin upon her hand and looking at me with her great dark eyes which shone in the lamplight like to those of a night-bird, but I remained silent.

"You do not answer, O Ramose, because you cannot. Well, your office is easy, for I will tell you all there is to learn. The old king, Abibal, whose wife I was in name, is dead, and dying left a charge upon me—to save his country from the Babylonians, calling down the curse of all the gods upon my head in life and on my soul in death, should I fail by my own fault to fulfil his dying prayer. Therefore I have come to Egypt, although the oracles warned me against this journey, for the case of these Syrians is very hard and desperate, and in Egypt lies their only hope who alone cannot stand against the might of Babylon. Tell me, Son of the king, will Apries help us?"

"I do not know, Lady," I answered, "but I do know that least of all things does he, or Egypt, desire a war against Babylon. You must plead your own cause with him; I cannot answer your question."

"How can I plead my cause, Count Ramose? I bring great gifts of gold and silks and spices, but what are these to him who holds the wealth of Egypt? I can promise allegiance and service, but my people are far away and Egypt seeks no war in which they can be used."

Again I answered that I did not know, then added,

"Yet your nation could have found no better envoy, for Pharaoh loves a beautiful woman."

"Do you think me beautiful?" she asked softly. "Well, to tell truth, so have others, though as yet such favour as I have, has brought me little joy——" and she sighed, adding slowly, "Of what use is beauty to her who has found none to love?"

"I know little of such things, Lady. Yet, perhaps for you the search is not finished."

She looked at me a while before she answered,

"My heart tells me that you are right, O Ramose. The search is not finished."

Then she rose and taking a cup of wine gave me to drink of it, afterwards drinking a little herself as though to pledge me.

This done, she poured the rest of the wine upon the ground, like to one who makes an offering before some god, bent down so close that her scented breath beat upon my brow, whispered to me to sleep well, and glided away.

I think there must have been some medicine in that wine, for presently all the pain left my head and neck and I fell fast asleep, yet not so fast but that through the long hours I seemed to dream of the loveliness of this Syrian queen, until at length I was awakened by the sunlight shining in my eyes.

A servant who must have been watching me, noted this and went away as though to call some one. Then an old man came, one with a white beard who wore a strange-shaped cap.

"Greeting, Sir," he said in bad Greek. "As you may guess, I am the court physician. Most unhappily I was absent last night, seeking for certain plants that are said to grow in Egypt, which must be gathered by the light of the moon, since otherwise they lose their virtue; indeed, I returned but an hour ago."

"Is it so, Physician?" I answered. "Well, I trust that you found your herbs."

"Yes, young sir, I found them in plenty and gathered them with the appropriate spells. Yet I would I had never learned their name, for I hear that my mistress is very wrath with me because I was not present when you chanced to roll into the tent like a stone thrown from a catapult, and may the gods help him with whom she is wrath! Still I see that you live who, I was told, had a broken neck. Now let me see what harm you have taken, if any."

Then he called to the eunuch to come within the screens that had been set round me, and strip me naked. When this was done, he examined me with care, setting his ear against my breast and back, and feeling me all over with his hands.

"By Bel, or whatever god you worship," he said, "you have a fine shape, young lord, one well fitted for war—or love. Nor can I find that there is aught amiss with you, save a bruise upon your shoulder and a lump at the back of your head. No bone is broken, that I will swear. Stand up now and let me treat you with my ointments."

I stood up, to find myself little the worse save for a dizziness which soon passed away, and was rubbed with his aromatics, and afterwards washed and clothed. Then I was led out of the pavilion to where my men were camped, who rejoiced to see me living and sound, for a rumour had reached them that I was dead. With them I ate and a while later was summoned to the presence of the Queen Atyra.

So once more I entered the pavilion, to find this royal lady seated in a chair made of sycamore wood inlaid with ivory. I bowed to her and she bowed back to me, giving no sign that she had ever seen me before. Indeed she looked at me with her large eyes as though I were a stranger to her, and I looked at her clad in her rich robes over which flowed her black abundant hair, and marvelled at her beauty, for it was great and moved me.

I will not set out all our talk; indeed after these many years much of it is forgotten, though that which we held at midnight I remember well, when we were but man and woman together, and not as now, an envoy and a foreign queen discussing formal matters of state. The sum of it was that she grieved to hear of my mischance, and prayed me to accept a stallion of the Syrian breed in place of my own which had been lamed through the carelessness of her servants, but rejoiced to know from her physician that beyond a blow which stunned me for a while, I had taken little harm.

I thanked her and delivered Pharaoh's message, at which she smiled and said that it told her nothing, except that she must wait where she was, until it pleased him to send another. Meanwhile she hoped that I would be her guest as the physician told her I was not yet fit to ride.

Now as this plan pleased me well, for to tell truth I longed for more of the company of that most lovely woman, I summoned the scribe who was amongst those who rode with me, and wrote a letter to Pharaoh, telling him of what had chanced, which letter I despatched in charge of two of my guard. They departed, and at evening returned again, bringing an answer signed by Pharaoh's private scribe, which bade me stay till I was able to travel, and then accompany the Queen Atyra to the court.

So there I remained that night, being given a tent to sleep in near to the pavilion. In the evening also I was bidden to eat with the queen and certain of her councillors, when, as she alone knew the Grecian tongue, the talk lay between her and me. Indeed as soon as the meal was finished she made some sign whereat these men rose and went away, leaving us alone.

The night was very hot, so hot that presently she said,

"Come, my young guest, if it pleases you, let us leave this tented oven, and walk a while beneath the moon, breathing the desert air. No need to call your guard, for here you are as safe as though you sat in Pharaoh's palace."

I answered that it pleased me well, and calling for two of her women to accompany us, we set forth, the queen wearing a hooded, silken cloak that the women brought to her, which covered her white shape and glittering jewels like a veil. I too was wrapped in a cloak, since I wore no armour, and thus, we thought, the pair of us passed unnoted through the camp.

At a distance on the crest of a sandy hill, stood the ruin of some old temple overlooking the cultivated land and the broad waters of the Nile. Thither we wended followed by the two women; at least at first we were followed by them, but later when I looked I could not see them any more. Still of this I said nothing who was well content to be alone with this gracious and beautiful lady. We came to the temple and entered its hoary courts whence a jackal fled away, as did a night-bird perched upon a cornice, telling me that here there was no man. At the far end of the court there remained a statue of Hathor, one of a pair, for the other had fallen. That it was Hathor might easily be known for she wore the vulture cap and above it horns between which rested the disc of the moon. Near to the feet of this statue in the shadow of a wall, Atyra sat herself down upon a broken block of alabaster, motioning to me to place myself at her side.

"What goddess is this," she asked, "who carries the horns of a beast upon the brow of a fair woman?"

"Hathor, goddess of Love," I answered, "whom some call Mistress of the gods."

"Is it so? Well, by this title or by that she is known in every land, and well is she named Mistress of the gods and men. Strange that amidst all this ruin she alone should have stood through the long centuries, an emblem of love that does not die. How beautiful is the night! See the great moon riding in yonder cloudless sky. Look at her rays glittering on the river's face and hark to the breeze whispering among the palms beneath. Truly such a night should be dear to Hathor, so dear that——"

Here she broke off her dreamy talk, then said suddenly,

"Tell me of yourself, Prince Ramose."

"Do not give me that title," I exclaimed. "If it were heard it might bring trouble on me who am but a Count of Egypt by Pharaoh's grace!"

"Yet it is yours, Ramose," she answered, "and in this place there is none to hear save Hathor and the moon. Now speak."

So I told her my short tale, to which she listened as though it had been that of the deeds of a king; then said,

"But you have left out the half of it all. You have left out Hathor."

"I do not understand," I answered, looking down to hide my blushes.

"I mean that you have left out love. Tell me of those whom you have loved. Do you not know that it is of love that all women wish most to hear?"

"I cannot, Lady, for I have—never loved."

"If that be true, how deep a cup of love is left for you to drink, whose lips have not yet sipped its wine, Ramose. So here in the shadow of Hathor sit a pair of us, for to give you truth for truth, I tell you that though I am your elder, I too have never loved."

"Yet you are a widow," I said astonished.

"Aye, the widow of an aged man who married me because of my birth, my wit, my wealth, and the great friends I brought him, and whom I married to serve my people that were threatened, as his are to-day, by the giant might of Babylon. Abibal was to me a father and no more, if a beloved father whose commands I will execute to the death, which commands bring me upon a long and perilous journey to seek help from mighty Pharaoh who desires to give me none."

Now I glanced at her sideways, and said,

"You are very beauteous, Lady. You have the eyes of a dove, the step of a deer, the wisdom of a man and the grace of a palm. Were there then none who pleased your eyes about your court in Syria?"

"While my lord lived I was blind, as became a loyal wife," she answered.

"And now that he is dead, Lady?"

"Oh! now I cannot say. No more do I seek a husband who am a queen and would remain free, the slave of no one, for what slavery is there like to that of marriage? Yet it is true that I desire love, if I may choose that love. Come; let us be going, for yonder Egyptian Hathor of yours casts her spell over me and brings thoughts that for long I have forbidden in my heart. I think that this is an evil-omened place; its goddess tells of love, but its hoar ruins tell of death. Doubtless did we but know it, here we sit above the shrouded dead who, staring at us from their sepulchres, mock our beating hearts which soon will be as still as theirs. Come; let us be going, who yet are young and free from the webs of Hathor and of death. Death, I defy thee while I may. Hathor, I make a mock of thee and thy calm, compelling gaze. Dost thou not also make a mock of Hathor, Ramose?" and turning, she looked at me with her great eyes that seemed to glow in the shadows like to those of an owl.

"I do not know," I answered faintly, for those eyes drew the strength out of me. "Yet it is dangerous to mock at any goddess, and most of all at Hathor. Still, let us go, I think it very wise that we should go; the scent of your hair overwhelms me who have been ill. My brain rocks like a boat upon the sea. Hathor has me by the hand."

"Yes, I think that Hathor has us both by the heart," she answered in her low rich voice, a voice of honey.

Then our lips met, for there in her temple we had drunk of Hathor's cup.

III. THE COUNSEL OF BELUS

We rose; her face was like the dawn, her eyes were dewy, but I trembled like a leaf, I whose heart for the first time love had gripped with cruel hands.

I thought I saw a shadow flit across a pool of moonlight that lay within the temple's broken pylon, the shadow of a man.

"What frightens you?" she asked.

I told her in a whisper.

"Perchance it was a spirit of which this place must be full, for such, they say, look like shadows. Or perchance it was thrown from the broad wings of some fowl of the night," she answered lightly. "At least if it be otherwise, that watcher was too far away to have seen us here, seated side by side in gloom. Certainly he could not have heard our words. Yet, Ramose, Hathor's gift to me, I would warn you. Among those who sat with us at the board to-night, did you take note of one, a bearded man of middle age, hook-nosed, with flashing eyes like to those of a hawk?"

"Yes, Lady Atyra, and I thought that he looked askance at me."

"It may be so. Listen. That man was a councillor of Abibal's, a priest of his god also, and as such one of great power in the land. Always he has pursued me with his love, and now he would wed me. But I hate him, as hitherto I have hated all men, and will have none of him. Moreover," here her voice grew hard and cold, "when I am strong enough I will be rid of him, but that is not yet. If I can win Pharaoh's friendship and bring it to pass that he names me to succeed to the throne of Abibal, as his subject queen, then and not till then shall I be strong enough, for this Ninari has a large following and the half of my escort are sworn to him. Meanwhile, have no fear and be sure that in this, our first kiss, I pledged my heart to you and to no other man."

"I thank you, O most Beautiful," I answered. "Yet tell me, Lady, how can this matter end? You have been a queen and will be one again, while I am but Pharaoh's base-born son, one of many, though I think that he loves me best of all of them. Also I am young and unproved. What then can there be between us?"

"Everything before all is done, I think, Ramose, if you will but trust to me who am wise and strong in my fashion, and being alas! older than you are, have seen and learned more. Already I have a plan. I will persuade Pharaoh to send you with me to Syria, there to be his eyes and envoy, and once back in my own country I will be rid of this Ninari and will take you as my husband, saying that such is Pharaoh's will."

"May that day come soon!" I muttered, who already was as full of love of this royal woman, as a drunkard is with wine.

Meanwhile we had left the temple, and were walking side by side but not too near, down the slope of sand towards the camp. As we went, from a clump of stunted sycamores appeared the two waiting-ladies whom Atyra chided because they had not followed her more closely.

They answered that they had seen a man who looked like a thief of the desert, watching them and being afraid, had taken refuge among the trees till he went away down towards the river. Then they had come out but could not find us, and therefore returned to the trees and waited, not knowing what else to do.

"You should have run back to the camp and fetched a guard," she answered angrily. "For is it meet that the Lady Atyra should wander unaccompanied in the night?"

Then she dismissed them and they fell behind us, but although I was young and knew little of women's tricks, the only thing I believed about that tale, was that they had seen a man, perchance the same whose shadow flitted across the moonlight within the broken pylon.

When we reached the camp and had passed the sentries in front of the pavilion, we met the councillor and priest Ninari, who seemed to be waiting there, doubtless for our return. He bowed low and spoke to the queen in a Syrian tongue which I did not understand, and in that tongue she answered him, somewhat sharply, as I thought. Again he bowed low, almost to the ground indeed, but all the while I felt that his fierce eyes were fixed upon me. Then with some courteous words to myself, thanking me for my company, she passed into the pavilion.

I, too, turned to go to my own quarters where my escort awaited me, when this Ninari stepped in front of me and said in bad and guttural Greek,

"Young lord from the Pharaoh's court, your pardon, but I would have you know that whatever may be the fashions of Egypt, it is not our custom for strangers to walk alone with a great lady at night, especially if she chances to be our queen."

Now there was something in the man's voice and manner which stirred my blood, and I answered, holding my head high,

"Sir, I am a guest here and Pharaoh's envoy, and I go where my hostess asks me to go, whatever may be your Syrian customs."

"You are strangely favoured," he said sneering. "Your horse which you cannot manage, hurls you like a sack stuffed with barley into the presence of our mistress. She doctors your bruised poll, and now takes you out walking in the moonlight. Well, well, I should remember that you are but a forward, cross-bred Egyptian boy, well-looking enough as bastards of your kind often are in their youth, just such a one as it pleases grown women to play with for an hour and then cast aside."

I listened to this string of insults welling like venom from the black heart of the jealous Syrian. At first they amazed me to whom no such words had ever been used before. Then as the meaning of his coarse taunts, hissed out in broken Greek, came home to me, being no coward I grew enraged.

"Dog!" I said, "beast of a Syrian, do you dare to talk thus to Pharaoh's envoy, a Count of Egypt?" and lifting my arm I, who was a trained boxer, doubled my fist and smote him in the face with all my strength, so that he went headlong to the ground.

At the sound of my raised voice men ran together from here and there— some of them those of my own escort whose tents were near at hand, some of them Syrians—and stood staring as this Ninari went backward to the earth. In a moment he was up again, blood pouring from his hooked nose, and came at me, a curved and naked blade in his hand, which I suppose he had drawn as he rose. Seeing this, I too drew my short Grecian sword and faced him, though there was this difference between us, that whereas I had no armour, being clothed only in a festal dress of linen, he wore a coat of Syrian mail. My men, noting this, would have thrown themselves between us, but I shouted to them to stand aside. The Syrians would have done likewise, but at some command that I did not hear, they also fell back. Thus we were left facing each other in the full moonlight which was almost as clear as that of day.

Ninari smote at me with his broad, curved blade. I bent almost to my knee and the blow went over my head. Rising, I thrust back. My sword- point struck him full beneath the breast but could not pierce his good armour, though it caused him to reel and stumble. Again he came at me, smiting lower to catch me on the body which he knew was unprotected, and this time I must leap far backwards, so that the point of his blade did no more than cut through my linen garment and just scratch the skin beneath.

Yet that scratch stung me, more perhaps than a deeper wound would have done, and made me mad. Uttering some old Greek war-cry, as I think one my mother had taught me as that of her father's House, I flew at the man and smote him full upon his helm, shearing off one side of it and causing him to stagger. Before he could recover himself I smote again and though the steel glanced from the edge of his severed helm, yet passing downwards, it cut off his right ear and sank deep into his neck and shoulder.

He fell and lay there, as it was thought, dead. The Syrians began to murmur for they did not love to see a noted warrior of their race thus defeated by an unarmoured youth. My men, fearing trouble, ringed me round, muttering such words as:

"Well done, young Ramose!" "You have lopped that cur's ear, Count, although he wore a collar when you had none." "Now if any other Syrian would like a turn——" and so forth, for this escort of mine, some of them Greek and some Egyptian, were all picked fighters of Pharaoh's guard, and rejoiced that their boy officer should have won in so uneven a fray.

The business grew dangerous; the friends of Ninari drew their weapons and waved spears. My escort made a ring about me in the Grecian fashion, their swords stretched out in front of them. Then I heard a woman's voice cry,

"Have done! Fools, would you bring Pharaoh's wrath upon us and cause our country's prayer to him to be refused? If this young Egyptian lord has done ill, let Pharaoh judge him."

"Queen," I broke in, panting between my words, "I have done no ill. This follower of yours," and I pointed to Ninari who lay upon the sand groaning, "for no cause bespattered me with the vile mud of insults, till at length unable to bear more, I felled him with my hand. He rose and although I wear no mail, sprang at me to slay me with his sword. So I must defend myself as best I might. There are many here who can bear witness that I speak the truth."

"It is needless, Count Ramose," she answered in a clear voice, "for know that I heard and saw something of this business and hold that you were scarcely to blame, save that you should have taken no heed of mad or wine-bred talk. Yet, lest harm should come to you and I and my people be put to shame, I pray you leave this camp now at once and return to Sais whither I will follow you to-morrow to seek audience of Pharaoh and ask his pardon. Let the horses of Pharaoh's envoy be made ready."

Men ran to do her bidding, but my guard who looked doubtfully at the Syrians, remained about me, save two of them who went to my tent and thence brought my armour which they helped me to gird on.

Meanwhile that same old leech who had tended me, had been busy with Ninari whom he ordered to be carried to his tent. Now he rose and made his report to Atyra.

"The Lord Ninari henceforth must go one-eared," he said. "Also the Egyptian's sword has cut through his mail and sunk into the flesh of his shoulder, for the blow was mighty. Yet by chance it seemed to have missed the big vein of the neck, so unless his hurts corrupt I think that he will live."

"I pray the gods it may be so," answered Atyra in a cold voice, "and that henceforth his tongue may remember what has chanced to his ear. Hear me all! If any lifts a hand against Pharaoh's envoy or his company because of this matter, he dies. Farewell, Count Ramose, till we meet again at Sais," and with one flashing glance of her great eyes, she turned and went, followed by her women.

A while later I and my guard rode out of the camp, I mounted upon the desert-bred stallion that the queen had given me in place of my own beast which was lamed. The Syrians watched us go in silence, except one fellow who cried out,

"You won that fight, young cock of Egypt, but it will bring you no good luck who have cropped the ear of the priest Ninari and earned the curse of his god."

I made no answer, but presently when we were clear of the camp and riding alone in the moonlight, I began to think to myself that this visit of mine had been strange and ill-omened. It began with the fall of my horse, which hurled me, as Ninari had said, like a sack of barley into the presence of her to whom I was sent, a mischance which even to this day I cannot remember without shame. Then came those hours when I lay half-swooning and in pain, and woke to find that most beautiful queen watching me alone, which in Egypt we should have thought strange, though mayhap the Syrians and the desert-dwellers had easier customs. At last she spoke and told me that she had come thus to read my soul while I slept. Why should she wish to read the soul of one who was unknown to her until that day?

Now I bethought me of what had passed between us afterwards in the ruined temple, and an answer rose in my mind. It must be because at first sight of my face this lady had been smitten with love of me, as I had heard sometimes chances to women and to men also. Could I doubt it with her kiss still burning on my lips? And yet who knew—it might be that she did but play a part to serve her secret ends, which caused her to put out her woman's strength and make me her slave. Why not?

This love of hers, if love it were, had been most swift. Was it to be believed that she, my elder by some years, would suddenly become enamoured of a lad? Was it not easy (as indeed I knew) for a woman to feign passion? Was it not done every day on the street or elsewhere? What did a few kisses matter to such a one? Was I more than a young fool beguiled, and for this beguilement was there not good reason? I was Pharaoh's son whom he was known to favour in his fashion because I was well-looking, quick, and, in a way, learned. Also I was his envoy, one whose report he would accept. Further, this great Syrian lady desired Pharaoh's help. What more natural, then, than that she should strive to win that favoured son and envoy to her interests, and how could she bind him better to her than with her lips and wanton hair?

So this was the sum of it, that I knew not whether I were but a painted plaything or the jewel on her breast. All I knew, alas! was that she had taken my heart into those soft white hands of hers and that passion for her burned me up.

Truly it was an evil business and to make it worse I had quarrelled with and hewn off the ear of that jealous-hearted, foul-tongued priest-minister of hers, who doubtless hoped to wed her and thus win a throne. Oh! truly this had been an accursed journey from which no good could come, as that shouter of a Syrian had foretold. And yet—and yet, I was glad to have made it, for Atyra's kisses burned upon my lips and I longed for more of them when she came to Sais.

We reached the palace before the dawn and I went to my chamber and slept, for after all that had chanced to me this night I was very weary. Also there was time, since none might appear before Pharaoh until within two hours of midday, after he had made his offerings to the god and rested. When at length I awoke, the first thing that my eyes fell upon was the brown, wrinkled face of my master and friend, the learned Babylonian, Belus.

"Greeting, Ramose," he said. "I heard that you were returned and as you did not come to me, I have come to you. They are telling strange stories in the courtyards of your adventures yonder in the desert, stories that are little to your credit as an envoy, although they praise you as a man. At least I hear that your escort speak well of your swordsmanship. Now out with these tales, for they will go no further than my ears, and for the rest, perhaps I can give you good counsel."

So because we loved each other, I told him everything from the beginning to the end. He listened, then said,

"When I entered this chamber, Ramose, I smelt two things, the scent of a woman's hair and the reek of a man's blood; which was natural as you have neither bathed your face nor cleaned your sword. Or perhaps the spirit that is in me did this; it does not matter. Now what has chanced to you was to be expected, seeing that you are young and well- favoured, one of a kind that women will seek out, as butterflies seek the nectar that they love in the throats of certain infrequent flowers; one, too, whose hand is shaped to a sword-hilt. So the woman has come and the sword has swung aloft and now follows the trouble."

He paused a while in thought, then went on,

"As you know, Ramose, in the time that I have to spare from the writing of letters to Babylon and work or learning of the useful sort, I follow after divination according to our Babylonian methods by the help of stars and the shadows that these throw in crystals or in water, a foolish and uncertain art, yet one through which now and again peeps the cold eye of Truth. Last night at least it told me something, namely that you would do well to take a journey by Pharaoh's leave, say to Memphis to see your mother, until this half- queen, Atyra, has finished her business at the court and returned to Syria."

"I do not wish to leave the court at present, Belus," I answered awkwardly.

"Ah! I guessed as much. They say that though past her youth, this Syrian woman is very fair and doubtless those experienced eyes of hers have pierced to your heart and set it afire. Yet I pray you to go till she has departed back to Syria."

"You speak earnestly, Belus. Tell me, what else did the starlight show you in your crystal?"

"That which I liked little, Son—much, and yet nothing. That light turned to blood—whose blood I do not know, yet in the red mist I saw shapes moving and one of them was—yours, Ramose."

Now I grew afraid and that I might find time to think, bade him speak on.

"Hearken, Son. You have tasted a wine that some men desire more than any other and you would drain the cup. Yet the dregs of this passionate drink from nature's ancient cup are always bitter and often deadly or charged with shame. You would make that woman yours and perchance if she does not play with you, you may succeed, for I think that she too found the potion sweet. Yet I say that if so it will be to your sorrow and hers."

"Why should I not love her?" I broke in. "She is beautiful and wise, she is unwed. Though she be older than I am I would make her my wife and share her fortunes. May not a man take a wife who pleases him and whom he pleases?"

"A man may if he is foolish," answered Belus with his quiet smile, "but what is mere unwisdom for a man, for a lad is often madness. Moreover this lady lies like a bait in a snare-net full of policies, high policies that you do not understand. To meddle with her may bring about a war with Babylon, or perchance may throw the peoples whose cause she is here to plead, into the arms of Babylon and thus open Egypt's flank to Egypt's foes. If either of these troubles happened, do you think you would earn Pharaoh's thanks? I say that he would curse you and cast you forth, perhaps over the edge of the world into death's darkness.

"Indeed already one of them has begun. Because of her you have fought with a priest of her gods that are not your gods or those of Egypt, or even of the Greeks, black gods and bloody. You have cut him down and maimed him, even if he is not slain. Do you hold that this priest and counsellor will suffer those gods or their worshippers to forget such an outrage against their minister? Will he not lay that severed ear of his upon their altar and cry to them for vengeance. Already it seems the Syrians muttered curses on you as you rode away, and if they come to learn that you, an alien of another faith, are the favoured lover of their lady, the widow of their king, through whom since he has left no children, perchance one of them hopes to win his throne, what then?

"Lastly, I warn you that this business may end in terrors, or rather I pass on the warning that my spirit gives me. I pray you, Ramose, to heed my counsel. Let me go to Pharaoh and ask of him to send you hence till this embassy is finished. Indeed I would that I had gone already, as soon as I learned your tale."

Thus he spoke and watching him I noted that he was much in earnest, for his face had flushed and his hands quivered. Now, although my flesh rebelled, for I yearned to see Atyra again more than ever I had yearned for anything, my reason bent itself before the will of this master of mine, whom I loved and who, as I knew, loved me. I would accept his decree as though it were that of an oracle; if Pharaoh permitted, I would go to Memphis or elsewhere and if I must find a sweetheart, she should be one of a humbler sort upon whose favours hung no great matters of the state. Yet, having as it seemed, made conquest of so lovely and high-placed a lady, a victory of which I was proud indeed, it was very hard to leave her without reason given or farewell. Still it should be done—presently.

"Belus," I said, "wait a little while I bathe myself and change my garments, and eat a mouthful of food. I think that I will do as you wish, but you ask much of me and I would have a space in which to think. Be pleased, therefore, dear Belus, to grant it to me."

He studied me with his bright and kindly eyes, then answered,

"Take what you wish, for well I know the vanity of youth and that if I deny your will, it may turn you against my counsel. I will wait, though in this matter I hold that delay is folly. Be swift now, for with every minute that passes, danger draws more near.

So I withdrew and the black slaves who were my servants, for in all ways at the palace I was treated as a great lord and even as a prince, bathed me and clothed me in fresh garments and dressed my hair. While they did so I ate a little and drank a cup of wine that was brought to me. These things done I went into the anteroom where Belus walked to and fro with bowed head.

"What word?" he asked.

"Master," I answered, "I have taken counsel with myself and though it costs me dear, I bow to your will, knowing that you are wise, while I am but a lad and full of folly. Go to Pharaoh, lay all this matter before him, giving it your own colour. Then, if having heard, he thinks it well that I should depart, I will do so at once and see the Queen Atyra no more, though thus I earn her scorn, or even her hate."

"Well spoken, Son!" he answered, "though I would that you had been less stubborn and had found those words an hour ago. Still, such sacrifice is hard to the young and I forgive you. Now bide you here while I wait on Pharaoh in his private chamber to which I have entry as one whom he consults upon many secret matters, also on those of his health. Presently I will return with his commands."

As the words left his lips the curtains at the far end of the chamber opened and through them came a messenger, clad in the royal livery, who bowed to me and said,

"King's Son and Count Ramose, Pharaoh commands your presence, now, at once."

"I obey," I answered but Belus at my side groaned and muttered,

"All is spoilt! Too late! Too late!"

IV. THE FALL OF RAMOSE

I was led to Pharaoh's private chamber, Belus coming with me. Here I found him in a troubled and a wrathful mood, and guessed from his face and those of certain who waited on him, among them Amasis the General, he who was afterwards destined to become Pharaoh, that there was evil tidings in the wind. Here I should write that this Amasis, a fine- looking man though of no high birth, and a great soldier, was a friend to me to whom he had taken a fancy while I was still quite a boy. It was under his command that I had learned all I knew of matters which have to do with war, the handling of weapons and the leading of men.

"How shall we act?" Pharaoh was saying to Amasis. "There can be no doubt that the King of Babylon intends to threaten, if not to attack Egypt now that he has finished with those Hebrews. Moreover it is the matter of the Syrian tribes over whom Abibal was king that has brought the business to a head. Nebuchadnezzar, or whoever holds the real power in Babylon now that he is sunk in age, has heard of the embassy of the Queen Atyra to me, and purposes to be beforehand with us, fearing lest we should aid the Syrians. That is why he sends an army against Egypt."

"I hold that it is but a feint, Pharaoh," answered Amasis, "for as yet the Babylonians have not strength upon the frontier for so vast an enterprise. The best plan is to be bold. Do you send me with another army to guard our borders, and meanwhile speak this queen fair, lest suddenly she, or her Syrians, should turn round, make peace with Babylon and join in the onslaught. Then the danger would be great because those Syrian tribes are countless."

"Good counsel, or so I think," said Pharaoh. "Do you set about gathering troops, friend Amasis, and make all things ready, but as quietly as may be."

At this moment his eye fell upon me, and he said,

"So you are back, son Ramose. Now tell me what is all this tale I hear about you? First it seems you tumble off your horse and make yourself a laughing-stock to the Syrians, and next you quarrel with one of them, a dangerous fellow and a priest called Ninari of whom I have heard before, and crop him of an ear. I am angry with you. What have you to say?"

"Only this, Pharaoh," I answered. "It was my horse that tumbled over a rope, not I, and for the rest the Syrian insulted me, using words that you would not have wished your son to suffer; no, nor any gentleman of Egypt."

"Why did he insult you, Ramose? Had you perchance drunk too much of that strong Syrian wine?"

"Not so, Pharaoh. It was because at her own request I had led the Queen Atyra to the ruined temple above her camp, that thence she might look on the river by moonlight. This I did because Pharaoh bade me to win the friendship of the queen and learn all I could of her mind."

"Indeed, Ramose. And did you perchance learn anything else of her—let us say, that her eyes were bright or her lips soft?"

Now the blood came to my face while Amasis laughed in his rough fashion, and even Pharaoh smiled a little as he went on,

"Well, if you did, you will not tell me, so to ask is useless. Listen. I know this—for when I sent you on that business, I sent others to keep a watch on you—I say I know that this lady found you to her taste, or made pretence to do so for her own ends. Therefore I overlook your foolishness and purpose to make use of you. Presently she will be at the palace. I appoint you the officer in attendance on her with command to draw from her all you can and report what you learn to me. For now that I do not trust this woman who perchance is after all but a spy of Babylon. Do you hear me?"

"I hear, Pharaoh," I answered bowing low to hide the doubt and trouble in my eyes.

"Then understand this also: That I put a great trust upon you, Ramose. Play the lover if you like, but remember that your first duty is to play the spy. Above all, no more quarrels with Ninari or any other. Do nothing foolish. Speak warm words, but let your heart stay cold. Now opportunity is in your hand and if you fail me, it will be for the last time; aye, your life may hang on it."

"Spare me this task, Pharaoh," I muttered, "for it is one that may prove too hard for me. Give it to another, an older man like—like Belus."

Pharaoh looked at Belus who although not very old, already was bald and withered like to an ancient papyrus that for centuries has been buried in the sand. He was cold-eyed also and one who shrank away from women as though they were smitten by a plague, a man from whom wisdom and learning seemed to ooze, but whose history, heart and ends were hidden; somewhat sinister withal, save to the few he loved, perhaps from long acquaintance with dark secrets whispered by spirits in the night. Yes, Pharaoh looked at him and laughed.

"The learned Belus has his uses," he said, "as all know when they are smitten in body or in soul, but I do not think that the cozening of fair women is one of them. Each to his trade and part. But, Ramose, beware lest you betray the one and overdo the other. Take, but give nothing, and above everything be friends with all, even with this Ninari if he lives, praying his pardon and salving his hurt with gifts."

Then he waved his hand to dismiss me and once more fell into talk with the General Amasis.

I prostrated myself and went, followed by Belus, my tutor, who, when we had reached my quarters, sat himself down upon the floor like a mourner and wiped his brow, saying,

"Unless you are wiser than I think, son Ramose, all is finished and you are lost."

I stared at him in question and he went on,

"Do you not understand that Pharaoh has set you a terrible task? You, the hungry bee, must hover over the open flower but not taste its nectar; you, the dazzled moth, must wheel round the flame but not scorch your wings. You, the young and ardent, must play the part of the aged and the cold. Moreover, this he has done of deep purpose, to try your quality and to learn whether duty can conquer passion. I think that if you prevail in this matter, he means to lift you high, even to the footsteps of the throne. But if you fail, why then, farewell to you."

"I shall not fail," I answered wearily, "for my honour is on it. Now let me rest a while. I have been hurt, I have gone through much and for two nights I have had little sleep; also I have fought for my life."

Then without more words I threw myself down upon my bed and soon forgot all things, even Atyra.

When I awoke it was already late afternoon, so late that scarcely was there time before night fell for me to visit the chambers of the palace where the Queen Atyra and her servants were to lodge, and give orders for their preparation, as now I had authority to do. These chambers as it chanced, whether by design or by accident, adjoined my own, for I dwelt in some small rooms of that wing of the great palace that was used to house Pharaoh's guests. Therefore I had not far to go, only the length of a short passage indeed, and through a door of which I held the key.

Until it was dark and next morning from the sunrise, aided by chamberlains and other palace servants, I laboured at this making ready. All was clean, all was garnished, everywhere flowers were set. Beautiful curtains were hung up, vessels of gold and silver fit for a queen's use were provided; the garden ground that lay in the centre of this wing of the palace, having in it a little lake filled with lotus flowers, was tended so that if she pleased, the Queen Atyra might sit there beneath the shadow of palms and flowering trees, the eunuchs were furnished with fresh robes, and I know not what besides.

At length when all was prepared, I looked out from an upper window and saw the cavalcade of the Syrians drawing near to the palace. In its centre, preceded and followed by white-robed, turbaned men mounted upon camels, was a splendid litter which doubtless held the queen for it was surrounded by a guard of horsemen. Also there were other litters for her women, while last of all came one like that on which the sick are borne, whereof the bearers stepped very carefully, that I guessed hid none other than the priest Ninari, who to tell truth I hoped had gone to the bosom of Osiris, or of whatever god he worshipped. Belus who was by me, read as much in my eyes and shook his head, saying,

"Snakes are very hard to kill, my son, as I who have hunted one for years, know as well as any man and better than most. Be careful lest this one should live to bite you."

Then I hurried away to be arrayed in the festal robes of a Count of Egypt and to put about my neck the gold chain that marked my rank as the son of a king. Scarcely was I prepared when a messenger summoned me to the great hall of audience. Thither I went to find Pharaoh gloriously attired, wearing the double crown, with the gold ear-rings and other ornaments of state, and holding in his hand a sceptre. Round about him were the great officers of the court, at his feet crouched scribes, while just behind the fan-bearers stood his generals, some Egyptian and some Greek, all clad in armour, amongst whom I noted Amasis.

I advanced, followed by Belus my tutor, and prostrated myself before the throne. Pharaoh bade me rise and with his sceptre pointed to where I should stand among, or rather a little in front of, the nobles and king's sons, of whom there were several, my half-brothers born of different ladies, though I was the eldest of them. As I went, stepping backwards and bowing at each step, Pharaoh turned and spoke to Amasis and I think his words were that I was a young man of whom any king might be proud to be the father.

"Yes," answered Amasis in a hoarse whisper that reached me, "yet it is pity that he is so like to one of those statues that the Greeks of whom you are so fond, fashion of their gods. His mother has too much share in him, Pharaoh. Look at his curly head."

Then they both laughed and I nearly fell in my confusion.

At this moment trumpets blew, heralds cried aloud, and preceded by officers with white wands, the Queen Atyra appeared between the pillars at the end of the hall of audience. On her head she wore a glittering crown, jewels shone upon her breast, pearls were twisted in her looped and raven locks and round her white wrists, while her silken train was borne by fair waiting-women. Oh! seen thus, she was beautiful, so beautiful that as I watched her tall, imperial shape glide up that hall like a sunbeam through its shadows, my heart stood still and my lips burned with the memory of her kiss. A little sigh of wonder went up from the courtiers and through it I heard the jesting Amasis whisper once more,

"I wish that you had given me Ramose's office, Pharaoh," to which Apries answered,

"Nay, you are too rough, you would frighten this Syrian dove, whereas he will stroke her feathers."

"Dove! Dove!" muttered Amasis.

Then Pharaoh lifted his sceptre and there was silence.

Atyra drew near in all her scented beauty, with bent head and downcast eyes. Yet for one instant those dark eyes were lifted and I felt rather than saw them flash a look upon me, saw also the red lips tremble as though with a little smile. I think that Belus saw also, for I heard a groan come from where he stood near by in attendance on me. The queen mounted the royal dais and curtseyed low, though prostrate herself she did not because she was a majesty greeting a majesty. Pharaoh descended from his throne and taking her hand, led her to a seat that was placed near though slightly lower than this throne.

Then she spoke—in Greek which by now had become the courtly language among many nations that did not know each other's speech. An interpreter began to render her words, but Apries, waving him aside, answered her in the same tongue which he knew as well as he did his own, having learned it from my mother and others. This caused many of the Egyptians round him to frown, especially those that were old or wedded to ancient ways which had come down to them through thousands of years, who hated the Greeks with their new fashions, their language and all that had to do with them. Indeed I noted that even Amasis frowned and shrugged his shoulders and that the other Egyptian generals looked on him with approval as he did so.

As for the talk between Atyra and Pharaoh, it need not be set out. She made a formal prayer to him, reminding him of the ancient friendship between the Syrians and Egypt that more than once during the generations which had gone by, had been their over-lord, yes, from the time of the great Thotmes onward, though sometimes they had quarrelled "as a wife will, even with the husband whom she loves." Now she, the widow of Abibal who had been the head king of the Syrian peoples and who had died leaving his mantle upon her shoulders, came to seek renewal of that alliance, even though Syria must thus once more become the wife of Egypt and serve as a wife serves.

Here Pharaoh asked shrewdly if this wife sought to shun the arms of some other lover, whereon she answered with boldness, "yes," that this was so and that the name of that lover was Babylon, Egypt's ancient enemy and the one from whom she had most to fear.

Now Pharaoh grew grave, saying that this was a very great matter of which he must consider with himself and his councillors, after private talk with her. Then dismissing all such affairs of state, he asked her how it had fared with her during her long journey, from which he hoped that she would rest a while here in his palace at Sais, treating it as her own. She answered that she desired nothing better, who all her life had hoped to visit Egypt and acquaint herself with its wonders and its wisdom.

So this prepared and balanced talk went on, reminding me of a heavy weight swinging to and fro, and never going further or less far, till at length Pharaoh bade her to a banquet that night. Then, as though by an afterthought, he added,

"O Queen Atyra, the other day I sent Ramose, a young Count of Egypt in whom runs no mean blood, to your camp to welcome you in Egypt's name. I grieve to hear that while he was there a quarrel arose between him and one of your followers, and for this I ask your pardon."

"There is no need, Pharaoh," she answered smiling, "seeing that in every quarrel there is something to be said on either side."

"Then, Queen Atyra, if you can forgive him, would it please you that while you are here I should appoint this Ramose who stands yonder, to be your chamberlain to attend upon your wants and bear your wishes to me? Or would you prefer that I should choose some older man to fill this office?"

"I think that it would please me well," she answered indifferently, "seeing that I found the Count Ramose a pleasant companion and one with whom I could talk in Greek; also one who can instruct me in the customs and history of Egypt and in its tongue, all of which I desire to learn. Yet let it be as the Pharaoh wills. Whoever Pharaoh chooses will be welcome to me."

So saying, she turned her head to speak to one of her servants in her own language, as though the matter troubled her not at all.

"Count Ramose," said Pharaoh, addressing me, "for the days of her stay at our court we give this royal lady into your keeping. Let it be your duty to wait upon her and to attend to her every want, making report to us from time to time of how she fares. Know, Ramose, that we shall hold you to strict account for her safety and her welfare and that if aught of ill befalls her while she is in your keeping, you shall make answer for it to us."

Thus in formal, stately words was the lady Atyra set in my charge. I heard and bowed, while the other courtiers looked on me with envy, for this was a great duty and one that should bring with it advancement and rewards. Yet it is true that as I bowed my heart, which should have leapt for joy, seemed to sink and fail so that I could scarcely feel it beat. It was as though some icy hand of fear had gripped it by the roots. A great terror took hold of me, a shadow of woe to come fell upon me. Almost I determined to prostrate myself and pray Pharaoh to confer this honour on some other man, one with more knowledge and older. I even turned to advance to the steps of the throne and do so, although I knew that such a prayer would cause me to be mocked by all the court. It was too late, Pharaoh had risen; his decree was written on the rolls, the audience was at an end.

Now I will press on with the terrible story of Atyra which was to turn the current of my life and for aught I know, robbed me of the throne of Egypt. At least so Belus held, as did some others, though if so, that is a loss over which I do not grieve.

For a while all went well. I waited on the queen; with her officers I was her companion at her table; I instructed her as best I might in all she wished to learn, for to me alone she would listen and not to Belus or another. When she visited Pharaoh and his councillors I accompanied her, standing back so that I might not overhear their secrets. In short I did all those things I had been instructed to do, even to make report of everything I learned from the queen as I had been bidden.

One day she turned on me laughing and said,

"I thought you were my friend, Ramose, but I find that you are nothing but a spy who repeats to Pharaoh all I say. I know it because he used to me some of my very words, thinking that they were his own, which words could only have come to him through you."

Now I turned aside and hung my head, whereon she leant over me, whispering,

"Foolish boy, do not think I am angry with you, who know well that you must do your duty and therefore tell you nothing that you may not cry out from every pylon top. These matters of policy are between me and Pharaoh, or rather between Syria and Egypt. I and you have others to discuss that Pharaoh would think dull. Now tell me of your boyhood and of the woman that you first thought fair."

So it went on and ever as I drew back, so she came forward. At first I think that she was puzzled who could not understand why I resisted her and made search to find some other woman who had built a wall between us. Soon she discovered that there was none; indeed she drew this out of me. At last in a flash she guessed the truth—that I was under an oath, to my own heart or another, which, mattered not, to treat her as a queen who was Egypt's guest, and no more.

Then Atyra did what she should not have done, as doubtless she knows to-day. She set herself to make me break that oath. For nothing else do I blame her who, I know, loved me truly, boy though I was. But for this, how can she escape from blame? She knew that her witchery was on me, she knew that she had made me mad—indeed in those days of resistance I went near to madness, I who worshipped her as a thing divine, and yet she put out all her woman's strength to break my will and cause me to forswear myself.

At last the matter came to a head, as such do always. The feast was over, the guests had departed, I presented myself, as I must, to take my farewell of her for the night, and found that I was alone with her in the little ante-chamber where a single lamp burned dimly. She was standing at a window-place cut in the thickness of the wall, watching the rising of the moon, a figure clad all in white, but for some scarlet pomegranate blooms fastened upon her breast, for her maids had relieved her of her royal ornaments, save a girdle of gold about her waist.

Discovering her at length I advanced to inquire her commands for the morrow, bow and be gone.

"How quietly you walk, Ramose," she said. "I heard you not, yet I knew that you were coming. Yes, I felt your presence, as we do that of those whom we love—or hate. My orders? Oh! I have none to give you at the moment, young chamberlain. Why think of the morrow on such a night as this. Look at that great moon rising yonder out of the desert. No wonder that you Egyptians set your Isis in the moon, for it is a lovely throne fit for any goddess. Now of what does this one put me in mind? Ah! I remember—of that which rose over the waters of the Nile when you and I sat together in a ruined temple of the desert. Do you not remember it?"

I muttered some answer, I know not what it was, and half-turned to go, when with a swift and sudden motion she flung herself against me. Yes, from her foot to her shoulder I felt all the weight of her beautiful body leaning against me.

I never stirred, I did nothing, and yet I know not how, presently her lips were on my own.

She drew away, laughing low and happily, and asked,

"Now, Ramose, do you remember that night in the ruined temple when we looked together at the moon rising over the Nile?"

I fled away, and as I fled, still she laughed.

It was after this that for the first time I saw the priest Ninari among the other servitors of the queen, recovered of his wounds but wearing a cap with lappets that hung down over his ears. He greeted me courteously enough, but in his eyes was a fierce look that I could not misunderstand.

"We quarrelled once, young lord," he said, "but now that you are the appointed guardian of my queen, we are friends, are we not?"

"Surely," I answered.

"Then all is well between us, young lord, while you guard her faithfully, who otherwise may quarrel once more and with a different ending." And again he smiled upon me with those fierce eyes and was gone.

On the evening of my meeting with Ninari, I was in waiting on Queen Atyra in the garden of which I have written, and noted that she was troubled. Presently she led me to a seat beneath the palms in front of which lay the little pool where flowered the blue lotus lilies. It was a pleasant, secluded seat hidden from the rest of the garden and from the palace windows by a bank of flowering shrubs and of tall reed-like plants with feathery heads.

"What ails you?" I asked.

"Everything, Ramose," she answered. "All goes awry and I would that I were dead. My mission to Pharaoh is ended, and not so ill. To-morrow at the dawn the Egyptian general Amasis, with a great force most of which has gone on before, advances to attack the Babylonians on the borders of Egypt. To-morrow also I leave Sais to journey back to my own country. It was decided but an hour ago. Do you understand that I leave Sais?"

"I understand, Queen, though this sudden plan amazes me. Why do you go so swiftly?"

"I will tell you. Ninari has been with Pharaoh and has told him that news has come from my country that those who are left in power there, urged on by the people who are afraid, threaten to make peace with Babylon, and that one of the terms of that peace will be that we Syrians should join the Babylonians in the attack on Egypt. He has told him also that there is but one hope of defeating this treachery, namely, that I should return at once bearing Pharaoh's offers of alliance, and as the wife of Ninari who alone can control the priesthood, which is the real power in the land, and overthrow this plot."

"As the wife of Ninari," I gasped. "May the gods avert it!"

"The gods make no sign, Ramose. If there be any gods, these ask of men that they should carve their own fate upon the cliffs of Time. In this matter Ninari is the god."

For a little while we sat silent staring at the lotus blooms. Then she spoke again.

"Do you love me, Ramose?"

"You know that I love you," I answered.

"Yes, yet your love is to my love but as a dewdrop to the waters in that lake. Ramose, a madness has taken hold of me. I will tell you the truth. You are very young and as yet of small account in the world, while I am a queen who perchance will become the sovereign of a great country, if with Egypt's help we can overthrow Babylon, as may happen now that Nebuchadnezzar grows old and feeble and there is none to take his place. Still I say to you that you, the son of Pharaoh's woman, are more to me than all earth's thrones and glory. Here fate thrusts me on, not folly or passion, but fate itself with an iron hand. I will have none of Ninari. Rather than that accursed priestly hound should creep into my chamber, I will die, or better still, he shall die who knows not with whom he has to deal. Yes, here and now I pronounce his doom."

Thus she spoke in slow, cold words that yet were full of fearful menace, then suddenly went on in a soft, changed voice.

"Let us talk no more of this foul Ninari. Hearken! If you will play the man I have plans that shall make of you a great king and give to you one of earth's fairest and most loving women as a wife. But I, who perhaps have said too much already, dare not speak them here. Always I am watched, the very air seems to play the spy upon me, and even now I feel——" and she shivered. "Moreover my women wait to tire me for Pharaoh's farewell feast and I must be gone. Ramose, you have the key of the door that leads to my chambers. In the first of them I sleep quite alone, for I will have no one near me in my slumbers and the guards and eunuchs are set far away beyond. Come to me at midnight and I will tell you all. Will you come, knowing that if aught miscarries, your life hangs in it?"

"My life," I answered sadly. "What is my life? Something of which I think I should be well rid could I say good-bye to it with honour. I have not been happy of late, Queen Atyra. Pharaoh laid a charge upon me and, forgive me for saying it, it seems that always you have put out your strength to cause me to break my trust. By Amen I have fought my best, but alas! I am weak with love of you. When your eyes shine upon me I grow dizzy and at your touch my purpose melts like wax in the midday sun. What you command, that I must do and if death waits at the end of your road, may Thoth, the Weigher of hearts, be merciful and give me sleep that I may forget my shame."

She looked at me and there was pity in her eyes. Then the pity passed and they burned with the light of passion.

"I grieve for you as I grieve for myself, whose danger is greater than your own," she said. "Yet for me the choice lies between you and madness. Know, Ramose, that without you I shall go mad, and ere I die work woes at which the world will shudder. Think! is such a love as mine a gift to be lightly cast away?"

"I will come, I have said it," I answered.

Then she rose and went.

Pharaoh's feast that night was very glorious and at it none was merrier than the Queen Atyra. Indeed she was so beautiful in her royal apparel that she drew all eyes to her and every man bent forward to watch her and hear her words, yes, even Pharaoh's self. Yet to me it seemed a feast of death and even the scented cup I bore to her wherein she pledged her country's future fellowship with Egypt, smelt of the tomb.

At length it was over. The dancers ended their dancing, the music faded away. The lovely queen bent before Pharaoh and he kissed her hand. She departed with her company. The lamps died out.

It was midnight. I unlocked the passage door; I crept to her chamber like a thief, for now all my doubts were gone and I was aflame. Its door was ajar. I entered, closing it behind me. In the chamber burned a hanging lamp of which the flame wavered in the hot night-wind that came through the open window-place. There upon a couch she lay clothed all in white, a thing of beauty, her black locks flowing about her. I went to her, I knelt down to kiss her lips, but she did not stir, she said nothing. I touched her brow and lo! although her shape stayed still, her head rolled towards me.

Then I saw that her neck was severed through and through. She was dead!

I rose from my knees, smitten with a silent madness. From behind a curtain appeared Ninari, a red sword in his hand.

"Young Count of Egypt," he said in a soft voice, "know that I heard all your talk with this traitress, for I was hidden in the bushes behind you in the garden. Now, that our queen might not be shamed, I have executed the decree of my god upon her, and go to make report of what has been done to the people over who she ruled. I bid you farewell, Count Ramose, trusting that you who are young and were sorely tempted, will have learned a lesson which cannot be forgotten."

My strength came back to me. I said no word. I sprang at him as a lion springs. He struck; I caught his arm with such a grip that the sword fell from his hand. I closed with him and in the might of my madness I broke him like a stick. At least suddenly he sank together in my hands and his head fell backwards.

Then I hurled him through the window-place. I took his sword and set its hilt upon the pavement, purposing to fall upon it. Already I bent over its point when it was struck away. I looked up. There by me, white, wide-eyed, stood Belus.

"Come!" he said hoarsely, "come swiftly, for your life's sake!"

V. THE FLIGHT TO AMASIS

In the doorway of the chamber I glanced back. By the wavering light of the lamp I saw the white shape of her who had been the Queen Atyra and my love, lying still and dreadful on the couch, her head turned strangely as though to watch me go. On the floor from beneath a rug and a splendid garment which she had worn at the feast, crept the red stream that told of murder, and near by it lay the sword of Ninari. Some jewels glittered upon a stool and among them was a flower, one which that afternoon I had given to her—yes, she had taken it from my hand, kissed it and set it in her girdle. The moon shone through the open window-place out of which I had hurled Ninari. Such was the picture, a terrible picture that in every detail must haunt me till I die.

I wished to turn back to recover that flower, but Belus thrust me before him and closed the door. We passed down the passage to my apartment. This door also Belus closed and locked. We stood face to face in my chamber.

"What now?" I said drearily. "Give me one of those drugs of yours, Belus, that which kills so swiftly, for all is done."

"Nay," he answered, "all is but begun. Be a man and hearken. The woman is dead; by her lies the sword of Ninari. Who save I knows that you entered her chamber? Ninari is dead also; he lies broken at the foot of the palace wall for I saw you cast him from the window-place whence it will be believed he flung himself after doing murder, since he is untouched by knife or sword."

"I know, Belus, I know; and my face will tell the tale or I shall go mad and babble it."

He nodded his wise head.

"Perchance, Ramose. At least Pharaoh will kill you because she was in your charge. Or, if he does not, those Syrians will, guessing the truth. By this hand or by that, death awaits you here, sure death, and with it shame."

"I seek to die," I answered.

"You cannot, for it is written otherwise. Have I not read it in your stars? Listen. The General Amasis has departed to join the army that goes to fight the Babylonians on the frontiers of Egypt. Pharaoh does not trust this Amasis whom the soldiers love too well. He sends me to be his counsellor and to spy upon him, and I depart within an hour for the command is urgent. Disguised as my scribe you will accompany me. Forseeing trouble already I have ordered all. To-morrow you will be missed and perhaps it may be thought that some ill has befallen you. Do not young men wander out at night and meet with adventures that have been known to end evilly? Has not the Nile borne the bodies of many such towards the sea? Or may not the Syrians have murdered you, as they murdered the queen who was known to look on you so kindly? At best there will be much talk and Pharaoh will be wrath, but as you have vanished away the matter will be forgotten. If afterwards it is learned that, seeking adventure, you went to join Amasis, you may be forgiven—that is unless those Syrians know all and plotted this murder. Answer not, but come, bringing your sword and what gold you have."

A while later, it may have been one hour, or two, I forget, whose memory of that night is dimmed by a fog of wretchedness, two figures might have been seen leaving that part of the palace which was called Dream House because there always dwelt the royal astrologer. They left it by a small gate guarded by a single soldier who challenged them. Belus gave some password; also he showed a ring and spoke in the guard's ear.

"Right enough. All in order," said the man. "Belus the Babylonian and a scribe we were commanded to pass. Well, here is Belus the Babylonian whom we all know, for he tells our fortunes by the stars, and there's the scribe in a dark cloak with a hood to it. A very fine young man, too, for a scribe who generally are short and round-stomached, or sometimes, quite small and very like a girl, for many are named scribes who never served apprenticeship in a temple or a school. Magician Belus, I fear that I cannot let this scribe pass until I have called the officer to have a look at him—or her."

"What do you mean, man?" asked Belus coldly. "Is not Pharaoh's ring enough?"

"Not to-night, Master. Although you may not have heard it, there is trouble yonder in the palace. Something terrible has happened there. Some great one has been murdered. Who it is I know not. Still word has come that all gateways are to be watched and none allowed to pass whose faces are covered or who are not known, even under Pharaoh's seal. Therefore I pray you stay a minute until the officer and his guard pass upon their round."

"As you will," said Belus, "and while we wait, friend, tell me, how is that little daughter of yours whom I visited two days ago in her fever?"

"Master," answered the man in another voice, a trembling voice, "she hangs between life and death. When I left to come on guard at length she had fallen asleep and the wise women said that either it is the beginning of the sleep of death or she will wake free of the fever and recover. Tell me, Master, you who are wise and can read the stars, which she will do. For know, I love this child, my only one, and my heart is racked."

With the staff he bore Belus made a drawing in the sand. Then he looked up at certain stars and added dots to the drawing, which done, he said,

"Events are strangely linked with one another in this world, my friend, nor can we understand who or what it is that ties them thus together. Who for instance would have dreamed that your daughter's fate hangs upon whether I and this scribe of mine, whom perchance you guessed rightly to be a woman, though a tall one such as are loved by small men like myself, pass at once upon our business, or wait until it pleases some officer to wander this way upon his rounds. If we pass, the stars say that your daughter will live; if we wait, while we are waiting she will die—yes, before the moonlight creeps to that mark, she will die. But if my departing footstep stamps upon it, she will live."

"Pass, Magician Belus, with the girl disguised as a scribe," said the man, "for such I see now she is, though at first the moonlight deceived me. Pass."

"Good night, friend," said Belus, "the blessing of the gods be upon you, and upon that daughter of yours who will live to comfort your old age."

Then with his foot he stamped out the pattern on the sand and we went on.

"Will the child live?" I asked idly, for this sight of the grief of another seemed to dull my own.

"Yes," answered Belus. "My medicines have worked well and that sleep is a presage of her recovery. Surely she will live, but what will happen to her father when it is learned that he has suffered some veiled traveller to pass out, I do not know."

"Perchance he will keep silence upon that matter."

"Aye, but when the light comes our footprints on the sand will tell their own tale, that is, unless a wind rises. Still by that time we shall be far away. Run, Scribe, run. The horses and the escort, men who are sworn to me, await us in yonder grove."

Eight days later we came to the camp of Amasis upon the borders of Egypt. An officer led us to the tent of Amasis whom we found in jovial mood, for he had dined and drunk well, as was his custom.

"Greeting, learned Belus," said Amasis. "Now tell me on what business Pharaoh sends you?"

Belus drew out a roll, laid it to his forehead and handed it to Amasis, saying,

"It is written here, General."

He undid the roll, glanced at it and cast it down.

"It is written in Greek," he exclaimed, "and I, an Egyptian, will not read Greek. Repeat its contents. Nay, it is needless, for I have heard them already by another messenger who has outstripped you, one of my own captains whom Pharaoh did not send. The writing orders that I must make report daily, or as often as may be, of all that passes in this army, through you, Belus the Babylonian. Is it not so?"

"Yes," answered Belus calmly, "that is the sum of it."

"Which means," went on Amasis, "that you are sent here to spy upon me and all that I do."

"Yes, General," replied Belus in the same quiet voice. "Pharaoh, as you know, is jealous and fears you."

"Why, Belus?"

"Because the Egyptians love you, especially the soldiers, and do not love Pharaoh who they think, favours the Greeks too much, and in all but blood is himself a Greek."

"That I know. Is there no other reason?"

"Yes, General. As you may have heard, like other Babylonians I have some skill in divination and in the casting of horoscopes. Pharaoh caused me to cast his, and yours also, General."

"And what did they say, Belus?" asked Amasis leaning forward.

Belus dropped his voice and answered,

"They said that the star of Apries wanes, while that of Amasis grows bright. They said that ere long where shone the star of Apries, will shine the star of Amasis alone, though first for a time those two stars will ride in the heavens side by side. That is what they said though I told Apries another tale."

"Do you mean the throne?" asked Amasis in a whisper.

"Aye, the throne and a certain general wearing Pharaoh's crown."

For a while there was silence, then Amasis asked,

"Does Pharaoh send you to poison me, as doubtless you can do, you strange and fateful Belus, who like a night-bird, have flitted from Babylon to Egypt for your own dark and secret purpose?"

"Nay, and if he did, I, their servant, am not one to fight against the stars. Fear nothing from me who am your friend, though there are others whom you will do well to watch. Now, General, here in this camp I am in your power. You can kill me if you will, but that would be foolish, for I have not told you all the horoscope."

"Your meaning?"

"It is that if you kill me, as I think you had it in your mind to do but now, me or another, that star of yours will never shine alone, because my blood will call for yours. Am I safe with you and if I need it, will you protect me when you grow great?"

"You are safe and I will protect you now and always. I swear it by Amen and by Maat, Goddess of Truth. Yet, why do you turn from Pharaoh who has sheltered you ever since you escaped from Babylon?—for I have heard that you did escape on account of some crime."

"Because Pharaoh turns from me and presently will seek my life; indeed I think that he seeks it already. For the rest, the crime of which you have heard was not mine, but that of another—upon whom I wait to be avenged in some far-off appointed hour," he added and as he spoke the words, his face grew fierce and even terrible.

"Be plain, Belus, but tell me first, who is this with you who listens to our most secret thoughts? How comes it that I never noted him?"

"Perchance because I willed that you should not, General, or perchance because wine dims the eyes. But look on him, and answer your own question."

As he spoke, very swiftly Belus bent forward and unclasped the long cloak which I wore, revealing me clad as a soldier with an armoured cap upon my head. Amasis stared at me.

"By the gods!" he said, "this is none other than Ramose, Pharaoh's bastard and my pupil in arms whom I love well. Now what does this young cock here? Is he another of Pharaoh's spies whom you have brought to be your witness?"

"A poor spy, I think, General. Nay, like me he flies from Pharaoh's wrath. There has been trouble in the palace. A certain Syrian queen whom you will remember, for in truth she sent you here, has come to her end—a swift and bloody end—as has her minister."

"I have heard as much, for rumour of the death of great ones flies more swiftly than a dove, but what has that to do with Ramose? Did he perchance stifle her with kisses, as I would have done at his age?"

"Nothing, nothing at all, General. But Ramose was her guardian and chamberlain, and Pharaoh demands his life in payment for hers, so do her Syrians, or will ere long. Therefore he seeks refuge under the shield of Amasis, his captain."

"And shall have it, by the gods. Am I a man to give up one who has served under me, over the matter of a woman, even to Pharaoh's self? Not so, and yet I must remember that this youngster is Pharaoh's son and half a Greek and has heard words that would set a noose about my neck. Do you vouch for him, Belus?"

"Aye, Amasis. Listen. From boyhood this lad has been as one born to me and I, who now am—childless—love him. He has been drawn into trouble, and thereby, as I fear, embroiled Syria and Egypt. Therefore his life is forfeit, as is mine who have befriended him and aided his escape. Therefore, too, both of us have fled to you, and henceforward swear ourselves to your service, looking to you to shield us. Tell us, may we sleep in peace, or must we seek it elsewhere?"

"Yes, you may sleep easy, even from Pharaoh, for here in this camp I am Pharaoh," answered Amasis proudly. "Have I not sworn it already and am I a troth-breaker?" he added.

Scarce had the words passed his lips when from without came a sound of sentries challenging, followed by a cry of "Pass on, Messenger of Pharaoh." The tent opened and there appeared a travel-stained man clad in Pharaoh's uniform, who bowed, handed a roll to Amasis and at a sign, retired.

"Pharaoh sends me many letters," he said, as he cut the silk and undid the roll. Then he read, looked up and laughed.

"Your guardian spirit must be good, Belus. At least you two were wise to take that oath of me upon the instant. Hearken to what is written here," and he read aloud,

"Pharaoh to the General Amasis,

"The Syrians who came hither with the Queen Atyra who is dead, as the price of the friendship of their nation to Egypt, demand the life of the Count Ramose who was her chamberlain, because he failed in his duty and did not keep her safe; also because as they allege he murdered one Ninari. If he has fled to your camp disguised as a scribe, as is reported, put him to death and send his head to Sais that it may be shown to them. With it send Belus the Babylonian, that the truth of all this matter may be wrung from him.

"Sealed with the seals of Pharaoh and his Vizier."

"Now, Belus," went on Amasis, "tell me, you who are wise in counsel, what shall I do? Obey Pharaoh or my oath?"

I listened like to one in a dream, but Belus answered quietly,

"Which you will, Amasis. Obey Pharaoh, cause this lad to be murdered and send me to the torturers at Sais, and see your star set—as I promised you. Obey your oath, and see that star shine out above all storms, royally and alone. Yet, is it needful to urge Amasis to honesty by revealing what Thoth has written concerning him in the Book of Fate?"

"I think not," answered Amasis with his great laugh. "Do they not say of me in Egypt that never yet did I break troth with friend or foe, and shall I do so now? Young man, I see that you have scribe's tools about you; therefore be seated and write these words:

"From Amasis the General, to Pharaoh,

"The letter of Pharaoh has been received. Know, O divine Pharaoh, that it is not the custom of Amasis to kill those who are serving under him in war, save for cowardice or other military offence. If the Syrians have aught against the Count Ramose, let them come hither and set out their case before me and my captains. For the rest, Belus the Babylonian, whom the good god Pharaoh sent hither to watch me, is too weary to travel. Moreover, I keep him at my side that I may watch him."

When I had finished writing, Amasis read the roll, sealed it and summoning an officer, bade him to give it to the messenger to be delivered to Pharaoh at Sais. When the officer had gone he thought a while, and said in his open fashion,

"The quarrel between me and Pharaoh or rather between the Egyptians and his friends the Greeks, has long been brewing. It is strange that it should have boiled over upon the little matter of this young Count and his love affairs, yet doubtless so it was decreed. Have no fear, Ramose, Pharaoh is cowardly for otherwise he would not seek the life of his own son for such a trifle from dread born of Syrian threats; a tyrant also and when tyrants are taken by the beard, they grow afraid. Yet my counsel to both of you is, to keep out of the reach of Pharaoh's arm till this business is forgotten. If ever he speaks of it to me again, I will tell him to his face that he should thank me who have saved him from the crime of murdering his son, whose blood would have brought the curse of the gods upon him. Now drink a cup of wine, both of you, and let me hear this tale of the death of Atyra, if she be dead in truth."

So I told it to him, keeping nothing back. When it was done, he said,

"I am glad that you threw that Syrian rat through the window-place, sending him to settle his account with Atyra in the underworld. Grieve not, young man. There are more women left upon the earth who will teach you to forget your trouble, and for the rest this ill-fated lady was one hard to be resisted. Now, go rest. To-morrow I will find you a place in my bodyguard and we shall see whether you are luckier in war than you have been in love."

Thus he spoke though in the after years, when he had ceased to be a bluff general and had become a wily Pharaoh steeped in statecraft, he forgot, or pretended to forget all this story and asserted that Atyra had borne me a child before her death. But of this in its season.

That night ere I slept, for the first time I opened all my heart to Belus, showing him how great was its bitterness and woe. Moreover I told him that if I escaped the wrath of Pharaoh and the accidents of war, I had sworn an oath before the gods to have no more to do with women.

"I rejoice to hear it, Son," answered Belus, with his strange wise smile, "and I pray that the memory of the gods of Egypt is not too long. You say that you have done with women, but mayhap women have not done with such a man as you, nor because one has brought you sorrow, is it certain that another may not bring you joy. Now grieve no more over what cannot be mended nor for her who is dead because of you, but follow after Fortune with a brave heart, for such she loves. Only one thing I hope of you, that you will suffer me, your master, to stay at your side through bad weather and through good, until perhaps I am drawn away to fulfil the purpose of my life."

Then without telling me what was that purpose, he kissed me on the brow and I laid me down and slept.

VI. THE GIFT OF GOD

Next day the march began. I saw and knew all, for Amasis, a man of his word in those days, appointed me to be an officer of his guard, also, because I was a scholar, one of his private scribes. Further he kept Belus in attendance on him, so that between us we learned all there was to know. Thus I came to understand how great was the power of Amasis, the beloved of the soldiers.

About him was none of the ceremonial of Pharaoh's court. His captains were his fellows; also he drank, jested and bandied stories, some of them coarse enough, with the common soldiers round their fires. A man of the people himself, he talked to them of their fathers, yes, and mothers too. He asked no great reverence from them, nor that any man should bow to the dust when he passed by and to many a fault he was blind. If one off duty drank too much, or broke camp to seek some girl who had looked at him kindly, he said nothing; but if such a one did these things when he was on duty, then let him beware, for he would be flogged, or even hanged. No man was promoted for lip-service or because his birth was high, but to those who were brave and loyal every door was open. Therefore the army loved him, so much indeed that he dared to defy Pharaoh in such a letter as he had written concerning Belus and myself, and yet fear nothing.

Some thirty or forty thousand strong not counting the camp-followers, we marched against the Babylonians, a great host of them under the command of Merodach, said to be a son of Nebuchadnezzar, who awaited us beyond the borders of Egypt. Or rather they did not await us for as we came on, they retreated. Then we discovered that we were being led into a trap, for Syrians by the ten thousand, were hanging on our flank waiting to cut us off. Belus learned this from spies whom we had taken, but who, it seemed, belonged to some secret brotherhood of which he was a chief.

For although Belus was willing to fight against his own people, I found that among them he still had many friends. This at the time I could not understand, for not until many years had gone by did I come to know that the Babylonians were divided among themselves, numbers of them hating the kings who ruled over them and all their cruelties and wars.

So Amasis separated his army. Half of it he left entrenched upon a range of little hills that encircled an oasis where there was water in plenty, beyond which hills the Babylonians had retreated, thinking to draw us into the desert on their further side. The rest, among whom were nearly all the horsemen and chariots, he sent to swoop down on the Syrians. Making a long night march we caught them at the dawn just as they were breaking camp. Until we fell upon them they did not know that we were near. Therefore, although they outnumbered us by three to one, our victory was great. Hemming them round in the gloom, we attacked at daybreak and slew thousands of them before they could form their ranks. Also we made prisoners of thousands more and took a great booty of horses and camels.

This done we returned to the low hills in a fortunate moment, for discovering that the half of our army was gone, at length the Babylonians had determined to attack. Night was falling when we reached the camp and therefore they did not see us advancing under cover of the hills. Some of us, I among them, pushed on and made report to Amasis of how it had gone between us and the Syrians, a tale that pleased him greatly. Moreover, having heard me well spoken of by those under whom I served for the part I played in that fray, he promoted me to be captain of a company of which the officer had been killed by an arrow. This company was part of what was called the General's Legion, appointed to surround him in battle and to fight under his own command. I knew it already, since from it was drawn his bodyguard, of whom I had been one until I was sent out against the Syrians.

Next morning at the dawn from the crest of our hills, far away upon the plain and half hidden by clouds of dust, we saw the Babylonians approaching, a mighty host of them. Indeed so countless were they and so vast was their array, that at sight of it my heart sank for it seemed as though for every man of ours they could count ten. While I stood staring at them, suddenly I found Amasis himself at my side wrapped in a common soldier's cloak.

"You are afraid, young man," he said. "Your face shows it. Well, I think none the worse of you for that. Yet take courage, since it is not numbers that make an army terrible, but discipline and the will to conquer. Look now at this great host. As its standards show, it is made up of many peoples all mixed together. See, it keeps no good line, for its left wing is far advanced and its right straggles. Also its centre, where is Merodach, the king's son, with his chosen guards, is cumbered with many waggons and litters. In those waggons are not food or water, but women, for these soft Babylonians soaked in luxury, will not move without their women even in war, and they must be protected. Therefore I say to you, and to all, be not afraid."

Then he departed to talk to others.

All that morning the Babylonian multitude came on slowly, till by noon they were within a mile of us. During the heat of the day they rested for some two hours or more, then once more they advanced, as we thought to the attack. But it was not so, for when they had covered another three furlongs again they halted as though bewildered, perhaps because they could see so few of us, for the most of our army was hidden behind the crest of a hill. At length officers rode forward, five or six of them, carrying a white flag, and reined up almost at the foot of the hills.

Amasis sent some forward to speak with them, among whom was Belus whose tongue was their own, disguised as an Egyptian captain, a garb that became him ill. They talked a long while. Then Belus and the others returned and reported that the Prince and General, Merodach, gave us leave to retire unmolested, also that he offered a great present of gold to Amasis and his captains, if this were done. Then, he said, he would retire to Babylon and make it known to the King Nebuchadnezzar that he had gained a victory over the Egyptians, who had fled at the sight of his army.

When Amasis heard this, he laughed. Nevertheless he sent back Belus and the others to ask how much gold Babylon would pay as a tribute to Pharaoh, and so it went on all the afternoon, till at length Amasis knew that it was too late for the Babylonians to attack, for night drew near. Then he sent a last message, demanding that the Babylonians should surrender and give hostages; also the gold that they had offered. This was the end of it.

Later Belus came and told me the meaning of this play. "Those Babylonians have no water," he said, "save what they carry with them. To-morrow they will be thirsty and drink all, leaving nothing for the horses and the elephants, that they thought would drink at the springs of the oasis to-night. Truly Amasis is a good general."

All that night we watched, thought with little fear for there was no moon and we knew that in such darkness the Babylonians would not dare to attack. Now I thought that Amasis would fall on them at the dawn, as we had done on the Syrians. But he did not, who said that thirst was the greatest of captains and he would leave him in command. Still when he had seen that all our army was well fed and all our horses were well watered, he sent out a body of cavalry, five thousand of them perhaps, with orders to charge at the centre of the Babylonians as they began to muster their array, and then suddenly to retire as though seized with panic.

This was done. When they saw the horsemen coming the Babylonians formed up with great shoutings, and the elephants were advanced. As if frightened at the sight of these elephants, our men wheeled about and fled back towards the hills, though not too fast. Now happened that which Amasis had hoped.

The enemy broke his ranks and pursued the Egyptians. Elephants, chariots and clouds of horse pursued them all mingled together, while after them came the bulk of the host. The word went down our lines to stand firm behind the crest of the hill. We opened and let our horsemen through, to re-form behind us, which they did, having scarce lost a man. Then we closed again and waited.

The hordes were upon us; chariots, horse and elephants toiled up the sandy slopes of the hills, slipping back one step for every two forward. At a signal our bowmen rose and loosed their arrows, cloud after cloud of arrows. Soon the heads and trunks of the elephants were full of them. Maddened with pain the great brutes turned and rushed down the hill, crushing all they met. The horses also, those of them that were not killed, did likewise, while the sand was strewn with dead or wounded men. The charge turned to a rout and few that took part in it reached the great army unharmed. Still, so vast was it that those who had fallen with their beasts were but a tithe of its numbers, though now few of the elephants were fit for service and the chariots and the horsemen had suffered much.

At this repulse rage seized the Babylonians or their generals. Trumpets blew, banners waved, words of command were shouted. Then suddenly the whole host, countless thousands of them whose front stretched over a league of land, began their advance against our little line of hills that measured scarcely more than four furlongs from end to end.

Amasis saw their plan, which was to encircle and closing in from behind, to overwhelm us with the weight of their number. He divided our horse into two bodies and weary as they still were from their journey against the Syrians, commanded them to charge round the ends of the hills and to cut through those wings, leaving the breast of the great host like a bull with severed horns. This they did well enough, charging forward, and back again through and through those Babylonians, or their allies, till between the horns and the head there were great gaps; after which they changed their tactics and charged at the tips of the horns, crumpling them up, till from ordered companies they became a mob.

Meanwhile the breast advanced, leaving a reserve to guard the waggons and the stores and the plain below.

Wave upon wave of the picked troops of Babylon, they dashed up at us, like breakers against a reef, and the real fight began.

We raked them with our arrows, killing hundreds, but always more poured on, till they came to the crest of the hills and met the Egyptians sword to sword and spear to spear.

I had no part in that fight who stood behind in reserve, with the General's Legion that guarded Amasis and Egypt's banners. Yet I saw it all and noted that many of those who attacked, were wasted with thirst, for their mouths were open and their tongues hung out, while the hot sun beat down upon their helms and armour.

Amasis saw it also, for I heard him say, "I thank the gods that they have given me no Babylonian prince to be the captain of my life. Now, on them, Egyptians!"

We rose, we charged, we drove them before us in a tumbled mass, down those blood-stained slopes we drove them; yes, there they died by the hundred and the thousand. At the foot of the hill we re-formed, for many of us had been killed or wounded in the great fray. Then we charged at the heart of the Babylonian host where flew the banners of their general, the Prince Merodach, a dense array of fifteen or twenty thousand of the best of their troops, set to guard the general, the women and the baggage. We fell on them like a flood, but were rolled back from their triple line as a flood is from a wall of rock. We hung doubtful whose force after all was small, when suddenly at the head of about a thousand of his guards, whom he had kept in reserve, Amasis himself charged past us. We, the rest of that legion, would not be left behind. Leaving our dead and wounded we charged with him. How it happened I do not know, but we broke the triple line, we went into it as a wedge goes into wood, and it split in two.

Suddenly I saw the inmost body of horsemen that surrounded the Babylonian standards, wheel about and gallop off. A soldier cried into my ear,

"Merodach flies! Yes, he flies. Babylon is beaten!"

So it was indeed, for when the host saw that their general had deserted them with his guard of chariots and horsemen, the heart went out of them. No longer were they battalions of brave men, nay, they became but as sheep driven by wolves or dogs. They packed together, they fled this way and that, trampling one upon the other. They fought no more, they flung down their arms, each man seeking to save his own life. The Egyptians slew and slew until they were weary. Then the trumpets called them back, save the horsemen that for a while followed the wings of the army which, seeing what had happened, abandoned hope and joined in the rout.

What happened to that host? I do not know. Thousands of them died, but thousands more wandered off into the desert seeking safety and water, but above all water at the wells in their rear. I can see them now, a motley crowd, elephants, camels, chariots, horse and footmen, all mingled together, till at length they vanished in the distance, except those who fell by the way. Doubtless many of them reached Babylon and told their tale of disaster into the ears of Nebuchadnezzar the Great King. But he was aged and it was said distraught, almost on his deathbed indeed, and had heard many such before. Always his hosts gathered from the myriads of the East, were going forth to battle. Sometimes they conquered, sometimes they were defeated. It mattered little, seeing that there were always more myriads out of which new hosts could be formed. In Babylon and Assyria and the lands around life was plentiful and cheap, for there men bred like flies in the mud and sun, and wealth was great, and when the king commanded they must go out to die.

The victory was won! Now came its fruits, the hour of plunder was at hand. There were the great parks of waggons filled with stores and women; there were the pavilions of the royal prince, the generals and the officers. Amasis himself, riding down our lines his helmet in his hand, laughing as ever, shouted to us to go and take, but to be careful to keep him his share.

We rushed forward without rank or order, for now there was nothing to fear. All the enemy were fled save those who lay dead or wounded, swart, black-bearded men. I, being young and swift of foot, outran my fellows. We came to the pavilion of the prince over which the banners of Babylon hung limply in the still air. The soldiers swarmed into it seeking treasure, but I who cared nothing for golden cups or jewels, ran round to another pavilion in its rear which I guessed would be that of the women. Why I did this I was not sure, for I wanted women even less than the other spoil; but I think it must have been because I was curious and desired to see what these ladies were like and how they were housed.

Thus it came about that I entered this place alone and letting fall the flap of the tent, which was magnificent and lined with silk and embroideries, stared round me till my eyes grew accustomed to the shadowed light and I saw that it was empty. No, not empty, for at its end, seated on a couch was a glittering figure, clad it seemed in silver mail, and beside it something over which a veil was thrown. Thinking that this was a man, I drew my sword which I had sheathed, and advanced cautiously.

Now I was near and the figure of which the head was bowed, looked up and stared at me. Then I saw that the face beneath the silver helm was that of a woman, a very beautiful woman, with features such as the Greeks cut upon their gems, and large dark eyes. I gazed at her and she gazed at me. Then she spoke, first in a tongue which I did not understand, and when I shook my head, in Greek.

"Egyptian, if so you be," she said, "seek elsewhere after the others who are fled. I am no prize for you."

She threw aside a broidered cape that hung over her mail, and I saw that piercing the mail was an Egyptian arrow of which the feathered shaft was broken off, also that blood ran to her knees, staining the armour.

I muttered words of pity, saying that I would bring a physician, for suddenly I bethought me of Belus.

"It is useless," she said, "the hurt is mortal; already I die."

Not knowing what to do, I made as though to leave her, then stood still, and all the while she watched me.

"You are young and have a kindly face," said she, "high born too, or so I judge. Look," and with a swift motion she cast off the veil from that which rested against her.

Behold! it was a child of three or four years of age, a lovely child, beautifully attired.

"My daughter, my only one," she said. "Save her, O Egyptian Captain."

I stepped forward and bent down to look at the child. At this moment some soldiers burst into the tent and saw us. Wheeling round I perceived that they were men of my own company.

"Begone!" I cried, whereon one of them called out,

"Why, it is our young captain, the Count Ramose, who woos a captive. Away, comrades, she is his, not ours, by the laws of war. Away! and tell the rest to seek elsewhere."

Then laughing in their coarse soldier fashion, they departed and presently I heard them shouting that this tent must be left alone.

"Save her, Count Ramose, if such be your name," repeated the woman. "Hearken. She is no mean child, for I am a daughter of him who once was King of Israel. Now at the last I grow clear-sighted and a voice tells me to trust you whom my God has sent to me to be my friend. Swear to me by him you worship that you will guard this child, yours by spoil of war; that you will not sell her on the market, that you will keep her safe and clean, and when she comes to womanhood, suffer her to wed where she will. Swear this and I, Mysia, of the royal House of Israel, will call down the blessing of Jehovah on you and yours and all your work, as should you fail me, I will call down His curse."

"A great oath," I exclaimed hesitating, "to be taken by one who is no oath breaker."

"Aye, great, great! Yet, hearken. She is not dowerless."

She glanced about her wildly to make sure that we were alone, then from her side, or perhaps from some hiding-place in the couch, she drew a broidered bag, and thrust it into my hands.

"Hide it," she said. "These royal jewels are her heritage; among them are pearls without price."

I thrust the bag into the pouch I carried, throwing from it the water bottle and the food which it had contained. Then I answered,

"I swear; yet, believe me, Lady, not for the gems' sake."

"I know it, Count Ramose, for such eyes as yours were never given to a robber of the helpless."

Then, as I knew by the motion of her hands, she blessed me in a strange tongue, Hebrew I suppose, and blessed her daughter also.

"Take her," she said presently in Greek, "for I die."

She bent down and kissed the child, then tried to lift her but could not, being too weak to bear her weight. I took her in my arms, asking,

"How is she named and who was her father?"

"Myra is her name," she gasped in a faint voice. Then her eyes closed, she fell sideways on the couch, groaned and presently was dead.

Lifting the veil with which it had been covered when first I entered the tent, I threw it over the child which seemed to be drugged, or mayhap had swooned with fear, cast one last glance at the pale beauty of her dead mother, who looked indeed as though she sprang from the blood of kings, and departed from that tent which presently the soldiers plundered and burned.

Here I will say that of this lady's history I heard no more for many years. She declared herself to be a daughter of a king of Jerusalem, and I half believed the story thinking that at the moment of death she would not lie to me. Certainly such a captive when she grew to womanhood might well have been taken by a king's son as one of his household. Also the jewels which the lady Mysia gave to me, were splendid and priceless, such as kings might own, being for the most part necklaces of great pearls. Among these also was an emerald cylinder on which were graven signs and writing that I could not read, a talisman of power as I learned afterwards. But of this in its place.

Departing from the tent and skirting the great pavilion of Merodach, I passed through groups of soldiers, counting or quarrelling over their spoils. As night fell, I climbed the slopes of the little hills that were thick with dead, for by now after the cruel fashion of war, all the enemy's wounded had been slain. At length I came to the tent which I shared with Belus, laughed at on the way by one or two because of the great bundle of spoil which I carried in my arms.

Here I found that philosopher, who had put off the armour which became him so ill, clad in his own garments and engaged in eating a simple meal of bread and sun-dried fruits. When he had greeted me, which he did heartily rejoicing to see me come safe from the battle, for the first time in the dusk of the tent he noted the bundle in my arms.

"It is strange how the wisest of us may be deceived. I have watched you from boyhood and thought that I knew your mind, Ramose. Indeed I would have sworn that whatever your faults, you were one who cared little for spoil. Yet I see that you have been plundering like the commonest."

"Aye, Belus, I have been plundering and found a rich treasure, yet I think one of which no one will wish to rob me. Lift the veil and look."

He did so, while I turned to the door of the tent so that the last of the daylight fell upon me and my burden. Belus stared at the child who still slept or swooned. Then he stared at me, saying,

"Now I wonder what god is at work in this business, and to what end."

"The god of mercy, I think, if there be such a one which I find it hard to believe just now," I answered. Then I told him all the story.

"There are certain oaths that may be broken and yet leave the soul of him who swore them but little stained, and there are others of which even the stretching calls down Heaven's vengeance. Such a one, Ramose, is that which you took before the dying mother of this child, who by now doubtless has registered it in the Recorder's book beyond the earth. Henceforth for good or evil, she is your charge."

"I know it, Belus."

"Yet what is to be done?" he went on. "How can you remain a soldier who have a babe tied to your girdle?"

"I do not wish to remain a soldier, who have seen enough of slaughter, Belus."

"If you marry, your wife will look askance at this little maiden and perchance maltreat her, Ramose; for what woman would believe a tale of a babe found upon the battlefield?"

"I do not wish to marry, Belus. Have I not told you that I have done with women?"

"Yes, but——" Here a thought seemed to strike him for he grew silent and at that moment the child awoke and began to wail.

We quieted her as best we could and fed her with bread soaked in the milk of goats, or camels, I forget which, for of all these Belus had a store in the tent, till at last she fell asleep in my arms. Then I laid her on my bed and gave Belus the jewels. These he hid away among his charms and medicines where none would dare to search for them lest some spell should be loosed upon them. For all the Egyptians held Belus to be a great magician.

"They are the child's and holy," he said, "and therefore we need give no account of them to the tellers of the spoil."

To which I answered that this was so, and turned to gaze upon the gift that God had sent to me. As I gazed a great love of that sweet child entered my heart where it still lives to-day.

VII. RAMOSE SEEKS REFUGE IN CYPRUS

When I woke on the following morning the sun was up and save for the child Myra, I found myself alone in the tent. She was seated by me upon the rugs which, spread upon the sand, made my soldier's couch, looking at me with her large, dark eyes. When she saw that I was awake, she asked for her mother, speaking in the Babylonian tongue of which I knew much even in those days, having learned it from Belus. I told her that her mother had gone away, leaving me to watch her, and I think she understood for she began to weep. Then I took her in my arms and kissed her, till presently she ceased weeping and kissed me back, at which my heart went out to her who was an orphan in the power of strangers.

Presently Belus returned, bringing with him a woman called Metep, the widow of a soldier who had been killed by a fall from his horse at the beginning of our march. This Metep was the daughter of a peasant of the Delta, not well-favoured but kind-hearted, one, too, who had loved her husband and would have naught to do with the trollops of the camp, where she must stay earning her living as she could do till the army returned to Egypt. As it chanced she, who counted some thirty years, was childless; yet she loved children, as those often do who have none. Therefore we hired her to be the nurse of little Myra whom she tended well and watched as though she were her own, preparing her food and making her garments of stuffs that came from the spoils of the Babylonian camp.

Belus told me that he had visited this camp at the break of day, hoping to learn something of the lady Mysia, who while she was dying, had told me that she was the daughter of a Jewish king. In this he failed, for drunken soldiers had fired the tent after plundering it and though he saw a body lying among the ashes, it was so charred that he could not tell whether it were that of man or woman, also it wore no armour such as I had seen, of which perhaps it had been stripped by some marauder who, if it was silver, broke it up for melting.

Also both then and afterwards he questioned certain prisoners, but could learn nothing of this lady Mysia, who perhaps among the Babylonians went by some other name. Merodach, they said, had women in his train as had other princes and lords, but who these were they did not know, for after the Eastern fashion they were kept apart and when the host marched, travelled on camels in covered panniers, or sometimes in closed litters. But now death had taken those who led the beasts or bore the litters, and with them the most of the lords who owned the women, the slaughter having been very great. Therefore none was left to tell their tale, even if it were known.

So the beauteous lady Mysia and her history were lost in the darkness of the past, which even the eyes of Belus the diviner could not pierce.

Amasis summoned the army and made an oration. He praised it. He showed that its victory had been very marked over a mighty host that outnumbered it many times; that it had been won by discipline and courage, (of his own skill in generalship he said nothing) and this without the aid of Greeks, (here the thousands of his hearers shouted in their joy) those Greeks whom Pharaoh leant upon and thought necessary in war, holding as he did that they outpassed the Egyptians in all qualities that make a soldier.

When he had given time for these cunning words of his to sink into the hearts of his hearers, where as he guessed, they would bear fruit in the future among Egyptians who hated and were jealous of the Greeks that Pharaoh favoured, Amasis spoke of other matters.

He said that after taking thought and counsel with his captains, he had determined not to follow the Babylonians into their own country.

"That host," he declared, "is utterly destroyed. Few of them will live to behold the walls of the Great City, for thirst and the desert men will cut off many of those who escaped the battle. But the King of Babylon has other armies to fight us who are few and war-worn after two victories, and whose horses are wearied with heat and work. Lastly, friends, I have no command from Pharaoh, the good god our master, to pursue the Babylonians across the deserts but only that I should beat them back from the borders of Egypt and because of your valour this has been done. Now, therefore, with your leave, we will return to Sais and make our report to Pharaoh."

Once more the army shouted applause, for nothing did they desire less than to march into the burning waterless deserts, there to fight new battles against the countless hosts of Babylon, they who wished to return to their wives and children, having earned the plots of watered land that Pharaoh promised to his victorious soldiers.

This matter finished Amasis spoke of that of the booty which was very great, for the Babylonian camp had been full of riches, also thousands of horses and beasts of burden had been captured during and after the battle. This spoil he commanded all men to bring in, that his officers might divide it among them according to their rank. Next morning this was done, though not without many quarrels, for all who had captured anything, wished to keep it for themselves. Amongst others I appeared carrying the child, Myra, in whose garments were hidden the jewels that her mother had given to me. This I did, because the punishment of those who withheld anything, was death, also because I felt that my honour was at stake although this wealth was not mine, but the child's.

When I appeared before the officers bearing Myra in my arms, a great laugh went up. One cried out, "How shall this plunder be divided?" Another answered, "Let the little one be taken and sold in the slave- market." To which a third replied, "Who then will carry her to Sais?"

But the officer who acted as judge, behind whom stood Amasis watching all, asked of me,

"Do you demand this child as your share of the loot, Count Ramose?"

"Yes," I answered. "I saved her from the battlefield and I demand her and all that she wears upon her body."

"Strip her!" cried one. "Her shift may be of gold."

The officer hesitated, but Amasis said,

"By the gods, are we babe-searchers? If the Captain Ramose wishes for a child who he says that he has found upon the battlefield, let him take her and welcome, with all that is on her. Who knows? Perhaps he found her before he left Egypt!" he added laughing, as did the others. So that danger passed with a soldier's jest, and bowing, I went on.

On the second day from this of the dividing of the spoil, our return march began. The army being heavy laden and weary and having nothing more to fear, travelled slowly and in no close array. One of the reasons why Amasis was so beloved of the soldiers that afterwards they made him Pharaoh, was that he never oppressed them or forced them to hard tasks that were not needed, such as the fortifying of camps in an empty land. Hence each man went much as he would though none was allowed to straggle or to leave the host, and I was able to keep the child Myra close to me and often riding on my horse. Thus it happened that from the first she grew to love me and if we were separated for long, would weep and refuse her food.

So at last we came to Pelusium where to reach Sais the army must cross the mouths of the Nile. Here Amasis sent for me and Belus.

"I have bad news for you," he said. "Apries your father is in an evil mood; even our great victory over the Babylonians does not rejoice him overmuch; almost might one think that he would have been better pleased had we been driven back, perhaps because he thinks that a certain general is more talked of in Egypt to-day, than is Pharaoh's self. Nor is this all. As he can find fault with little else he is angry because I did not obey his order to send to him your head, Ramose, and with it Belus still carrying his upon his shoulders; for his spies have told him that you are with the army and have been promoted by me in reward of your deeds. Again he bids me fulfil his commands, saying that the Syrians have given him much trouble concerning you and demand your life continually."

Now I looked at him in question, but Belus asked outright,

"Is such your purpose, General?"

"I do not know," he answered. "A man must think of himself sometimes and I cannot always be troubled by Pharaoh about a young Count and a certain physician and diviner. Such a matter would be a small cause over which to quarrel with Pharaoh, though it well may be that we shall quarrel ere all is done, as I think you read in your stars, Belus. Hearken. This war is finished and your service is over. There are many boats sailing down the Nile, some of them large ships bound for Cyprus and elsewhere, taking with them soldiers whose service is ended or who have been wounded and seek their homes; also merchants. Now here I set few guards and if to-morrow when I make public search for the Count Ramose and Belus the Babylonian, that I may deliver them to Pharaoh, they cannot be found, am I to blame? I have spoken."

"And we have heard," answered Belus.

Then Amasis shook us by the hand in his friendly fashion and thanked me for my small share in the war, saying that he had watched me and that I might make a good general one day, if I gave my mind to arms and ceased from dreaming like a lovesick girl. "Or," he added with meaning, "perhaps something higher than a general, you who have old blood in you."

To Belus also he said that time alone would show whether he were a true diviner, but that certainly he was the best of physicians, as many a sick and wounded man in the army knew that day. Nor was this all. As we were leaving the chamber, for we spoke together in a house, Amasis called me back and thrust into my hand a bag, saying that it was my share of the spoil which I might find useful in my wanderings, which bag I found afterwards was filled with Babylonian gold. The sight of that gold, I remember, made me feel ashamed when I thought of the priceless pearls that had been hidden from him, till I recalled that these were not mine, but little Myra's inheritance.

Thus I bade farewell to the great captain Amasis whom I was to see no more for years. Indeed I bade farewell for ever to the Amasis I knew, for when we met again and he had exchanged a general's staff for Pharaoh's sceptre, in many ways he was a very different man.

Next morning at the dawn a merchant and his assistant, for as such we were disguised, with their servant, a peasant woman and her child, having hired passages, sailed amidst a motley crowd upon a ship bound for certain ports along the coast and afterwards for the isle of Cyprus. To Cyprus in the end we came in safety and as I think, unknown of any, for all were intent upon their own affairs, moreover the sea being rough, in no mood for watching others. Also the most of them left the ship at the coast ports.

Reaching Salamis, the greatest and most beautiful city of Cyprus, we hired a lodging there in a humble street, giving out that we were strangers who had escaped from Tyre which was beleaguered by the Babylonians, and taking new names.

Here at Salamis we dwelt for many years, Belus, whom I called my uncle, the brother of my mother, practising as a physician, also in secret as a diviner, under the name of Azar, and I as a merchant who dealt in corn and copper and was known as Ptahmes. Nor did we labour in vain, for although we made no show during those years we grew rich.

The mean street in which we dwelt, one running down towards the sea at a point where the ships anchored, once had been a great thoroughfare inhabited by rich merchants. Now these had deserted it for other quarters where the high-born dwelt around the palace of their chieftain who was called King of Salamis, for in Cyprus there were many kings who, at this time, owned the Pharaoh of Egypt as their over-lord. Yet their stone and marble palaces remained, turned to seamen's lodges, marts where every kind of merchandize was sold to mariners, thieves' quarters, or even brothels.

The house to which we had come by chance, had been perhaps the greatest of these palaces. Built of white stone or marble, it contained many fine chambers surrounding a courtyard, and behind it was a large garden with a fountain fed from a spring, where grew some fig trees and an ancient olive, but for the rest covered with nettles and rank growth. This house, or rather palace, wherein at first we had hired but a few rooms, by degrees we bought for no great price, so that at length it was all our own. Leaving the front unkempt and dirty as of old, also those spaces and the portico where I bought and sold, thus to deceive curious eyes, and with them an outer lodge that once had been a shrine dedicated to the worship of some Cyprian god, in which Belus dispensed medicine or, in a back chamber, made divinations, I set myself to repair the rest of that great building.

By degrees with thought and care, by help of skilled artists of Cyprus and of Greece, I made it beautiful as it had been in the day of its splendour when it was the home of merchant princes. I scraped its marble halls and columns, I mended the broken statues that stood around them, or procured others of a like sort and perhaps by the same sculptors, to stand upon their pedestals; I dug the dirt from the mosaics on the floor and hired good workmen to relay what was lacking; to clean out the marble baths that had been filled with rubbish and set the furnaces in order; to repaint the walls whence the frescoes had faded, and I know not what besides. Lastly I restored all the great garden that had become a refuse heap, rebuilding the high wall about it, making paths and flower-beds and setting a summer-house under the ancient fig and olive trees that happily none had troubled to cut down.

Thus it came about that, although no one would have so believed who looked at it from the dirty street where drunkards roamed at night, slatterns screamed and fought and children played or begged of the passer-by, within the discoloured front like to that of the temple of some forgotten god, lay a mansion well-ordered, white and beautiful, filled with willing servants sworn to us under the oaths of some order of which Belus was a chief; a home worthy to be inhabited by the great ones of the earth.

Why did I do all these things and why did Belus help in the work? For sundry reasons. First because then as now I loved all that is beautiful, all that lights the soul through the windows of the eyes; and secondly because I, who was a scholar when I ceased to be a merchant, needed calm and quiet and fit places in which to store my manuscripts, where I could study them in peace. Yet behind all this lay a deeper reason. I was a celibate, one who because of a terror that had struck me in my boyhood, had forsworn woman and determined to fill her place with philosophy and learning, also with the study of religion and of the nature of the gods and of men, and of how these may draw near to the Divine.

The arts of magic and divination, however, I left alone, having always held these to be unlawful, though Belus who practised them after the fashion of the Babylonians, the great masters of star-lore and of sorcery, thought otherwise. Yet when we reasoned about the matter, he confessed to me that these were two-edged weapons which often cut those who wielded them, also that the answers which spirits gave, for the most part might be read in more ways than one. Still at times he was a good prophet. For example when he foresaw that trouble would be brought upon me by the beauteous queen Atyra, and that the general Amasis would rise to Pharaoh's throne which then no one else so much as guessed, except perhaps Amasis himself, in whose mind Belus may have read it.

For the rest, these gifts of Belus were of great service to us, inasmuch as they brought us into the councils of the highest in the land, for these of Cyprus were very superstitious and would pay great sums for oracles and horoscopes, protecting those who furnished them from all harm, since such foreseeing men were looked upon as prophets favoured of Heaven.

Thus drawing gain from all these sources, trade, medicine, and divination, living under our false names, we grew both wealthy and powerful, though with politics and plottings we would have naught to do, and outwardly remained humble and of no account.

To tell all the truth, there was a further reason why I made that old palace which to the passer-by seemed a mere relic of past greatness, so beautiful within, filling it with everything that was perfect and lovely. Myra was that reason. From the beginning, as I have said, this child loved me as a father, aye, and more, seeing that even in early youth a maid will favour other men besides her own father, because Nature so teaches her. With Myra it was otherwise. She clung to me alone, though Belus she liked well enough, also she loved her nurse, Metep, in a fashion. And as she loved me, so I loved her; indeed she was my all, the eyes of my head and the heart within my breast. Had she died, swept off of some sickness, of which there were many in Cyprus especially in the hot season, I think that I should have died also, or perhaps have slain myself that I might follow her to the Shades.

Therefore my desire was that those sweet innocent eyes of hers should never look save upon what was gracious and uplifting, and that on the tablets of her mind should be written nothing that was not pure and holy. I was her tutor also; in the mornings and after my trafficking was done in the evening, we studied together, reading the Grecian poets when she was old enough, or sometimes the hieroglyphics of Egypt, of which I expounded the hidden lore.

Belus took a hand in this game also, teaching her the wisdom of Babylon, its writing and its tongue; showing her the motions of the stars and how the world moved among them; telling her, too, the history of Israel and other nations, and instructing her in figures. So this child grew learned beyond her years, for her mind was quick and bright, though at times she had her thoughtful moods. In body she grew also, tall and straight and very fair to see, dark-eyed yet with hair the brown colour of ripe corn which told, perhaps, of the inter- mingling of her Hebrew blood with some more western stock. Thus at last in that hot land, she came near to womanhood and her mind growing ever, ripened till, although more wayward, it was the equal of my own and in certain ways its master.

One day Belus came upon us seated side by side studying an old manuscript with the lamplight shining on our faces, and stood contemplating us with that strange, secret smile of his playing round his withered lips. Our work done Myra rose and went upon a household errand. When she was gone Belus said,

"You two make a handsome pair and look so much of an age, that some might think that you were not father and daughter, as it is given out you are."

"Nor are we," I answered with a start, "at least in blood."

Then I was silent, for the thought troubled me.

"Has not the time come," went on Belus, "when this maiden should be told how she fell into your keeping?"

"Perhaps," I answered. "Do you tell her, Belus, for I cannot."

Tell her he did, in what words or when I do not know. At least on the following evening at the hour when we were wont to work, Myra came and sat opposite to me, her chin resting on her hand, looking at me with her large eyes from which I think tears had flowed, for her face was troubled.

"So, Father," she said at length, "you are not my father. I am no one's child and all that Metep has said to me about my mother who died when I was born is false."

"Has Belus been speaking with you, Myra?"

"Yes. He has told me all, saying you thought I ought to know, now when I am no more a little girl. I wish he had been silent," she added passionately.

"Why, Myra?"

"Because if I am not your daughter you will cease to love me, while I cannot cease to love you."

"Certainly I shall never cease to love you while I live, Myra, nor after perhaps."

Her face brightened.

"Then all is not black as I feared, for if you ceased to love me—oh! what shall I call you?"

"Ramose, when we are alone, but Father as of old before others."

"—if you ceased to love me—Ramose—I think that I should die. So it is and so it will ever be."

Now I grew frightened, although my heart leapt with joy at those sweet words.

"Perchance a day may come, Myra, when you will learn to love someone better than you do me."

"Never!" she answered fiercely—"Never!" and she struck the table with her little hand. "I know what you mean. Do we not read of marriage in books and was not Metep once married? Do not say that you wish me to marry, for I will never marry. I hate all men, save you and Belus."

"They will not hate you, I fear."

"What does it matter what they do? I have seen them; it is enough. Tell me quickly that you do not wish me to marry."

"No, no, Myra, I wish that we should go on as we are—always."

"Ah! I am glad. That makes me happy."

Here a new and dreadful thought struck her, for she added with a gasp,

"But you might marry, you whom all must love; and that I could not bear."

"Be silent, foolish one," I broke in. "I shall never marry. On that matter I have sworn an oath."

"Oh! that is good tidings. Yet," she added slowly, "Belus says that it is not wise to swear oaths when we are young, since we seldom keep them when we are old."

"Let Belus be and by the gods I pray you to talk no more of marriage, for the word does not please me, nor as yet is it fitting for your lips. Come, Myra, we waste time. Let us to the deciphering of this old poem that tells us of dead days and beautiful forgotten folk."

"I come, Ramose. Yet first I would say that I do remember something of the past of which Belus spoke. The shape of a tall and lovely lady with dark hair and eyes often haunts my sleep. Was my mother thus and did she ride among hosts of men clad in silver?"

"I saw her but once, Myra, and then for a very little while in an hour of death and tumult, but so she seemed to me. Perhaps now at times she visits you from the underworld to watch and bless you. Dream on of her, Myra, and for the rest let it lie. The gods have sent you here to rejoice the world, how they sent you is of no account. Take what the gods give you and be thankful."

"I am thankful," she said humbly and yet with pride, "for whatever they have taken away, have they not given me you who saved me from death and are not ashamed to love a poor maid who is no one's child."

Then we began our reading of the Grecian poet, nor did we talk again of this matter for a long while. Yet from that day life was a little different for both of us, and became more so as Myra grew to full and fairest womanhood. She was innocent if ever a maiden was, yet Nature taught her certain things, as perchance did her nurse Metep, pitying her motherless state. Therefore no longer would she throw her arm about me as we worked, or press her cheek against my own. But from that day also in some subtle fashion we became more intimate, though this new intimacy was one of the spirit. Our thoughts leapt together towards an unknown end. Soon Myra discovered that I sought for more than learning; that I sought after Truth, or rather after God who is Truth, and could not find him. Here it was that she came to my aid, perhaps because of the blood that was in her, that of the Hebrews.

For months we had been studying the gods of sundry nations, those of the Egyptians, those of the Greeks, those of the Babylonians, and others, a search in which Belus helped us much, for though I think he believed in none of them, he knew the attributes of all and their forms of worship.

At last the task was done. There written on a roll were all the gods and goddesses that we could count, and against each name its qualities and powers, as its worshippers conceived these to be. It was a great list that caused the mind to reel. Myra gazed at it, winding up upon a rod the roll which she had written in her neat letters, so that god after god departed into darkness as though Time had taken them from the eyes of men.

"What of all these?" I asked wearily at length.

She made no answer but taking me by the hand, led me to a window-place whence she drew the curtain. The night was very fine and clear and the blue of the great sky was spangled with a thousand thousand stars.

"You see those stars?" she said. "Well, Belus, who is a great astronomer as the Babylonians have been from the beginning, tells me that everyone of them is a world, or perhaps a sun like our own, with worlds about it. Now, Ramose, you wise philosopher, tell me. Do all those worlds worship our multitude of gods, most of them made like men or women, only stronger and more evil, and named gods by this little land or that, or even by this city or by that?"

"I think not," I answered.

"Then, Ramose, must there not be one God, King of the Heavens, King of the Earth, whom we ought to worship, taking no count of all the rest?"

"That is what the Hebrews say, Myra."

"My mother told you that she was a Hebrew, and no mean one. Perhaps, Ramose, this is what she teaches when she visits me in my sleep."

"Perhaps," I answered.

Then we passed on to other lighter matters, and doubtless before she left me Myra had forgotten all this debate which sprang suddenly from her heart, and as suddenly passed away. But if she forgot, I remembered and considered and accepted, till in the end, rejecting all else, though as yet I knew him not, in my heart I became a worshipper of that one unknown God of whom she had spoken, whereof all the other gods were rays in so far as they were good, or perchance ministering spirits.

Thus then did the maid Myra find the answer to my questionings and first outline the faith that I hold to-day.

Often I discussed these great matters with Belus. That wise man who had sifted the truth so often that at last he came to believe in nothing, only smiled, shook his head and answered,

"What is this one new god that you have found, but he who is named Fate, whose decrees I read written in the stars, unchangeable from the beginning of the world?"

"Does that make him less a god?" I asked.

"No," he answered, "it only gives him another name. But what is God? What is God?"

"Perchance that which we search for in the heavens and at length find in our own hearts," I answered. . . .

News came to Cyprus and reached us very swiftly through its great ones who were our clients. Thus we heard how Adikran the Libyan, being oppressed of the Cyrenians had prayed Apries my father, the Pharaoh, to help him against these Greeks. Thereon it seemed, the Egyptian party at Pharaoh's court forced him against his will to despatch an army to destroy those of Cyrene. As it happened, however, these defeated that army with heavy loss, whereon there was a great outcry in Egypt, the people thinking that Apries who was known to love the Greeks, had made a plot that the Egyptian troops should be destroyed by them. Then, so went the tale, Pharaoh in his trouble turned to Amasis, the general under whom I had fought against the Babylonians, and sent him to the army which was in rebellion, to take command of it, thinking that he, whom the Egyptians loved, would bring it to obedience. Yet the result was otherwise, for the Egyptian troops, seizing Amasis, set a crown upon his head and declared him Pharaoh, thus fulfilling the prophecy of Belus.

Now Apries my father raised another great army of thirty thousand Greeks to fight Amasis. But in this as in all battles, Amasis proved himself the better general, defeating the Greeks and taking Apries my father prisoner. So he remained a prisoner for some years, being well treated by Amasis who was kind-hearted and indeed kept him to rule with him over Egypt. In the end Apries rebelled, and departing from Sais, began to raid Egypt with his Greeks. There followed more fighting and at last Apries was killed, some said by the Egyptians, and some by his own soldiers. At least he was killed in a boat upon the Nile, and Amasis, taking his body, embalmed it and gave it royal burial.

This then was the fate of Pharaoh my father whom I had seen last at that farewell feast which he gave to Atyra the Syrian queen. Yes, this was the end of all his greatness and his glory—to be butchered like a sheep in a boat upon the Nile, after Amasis, who had saved me from death at his hands, had cast him from his throne.

Such was the news that came to us from Egypt while, under our feigned names, we lay hid in the city of Salamis in Cyprus.

When we were sure that the Pharaoh Apries, who begot me, was dead and that Amasis filled his throne, Belus spoke to me, saying,

"Is it your wish, Ramose, to dwell here at Salamis as a merchant for all your days? Bethink you, you have no longer anything to fear from the wrath of him who was Pharaoh, for Amasis sits in his place, and Amasis is, or was, your friend and mine."

"Nay," I answered, "I would return to Egypt to learn whether my mother still lives."

For though we had been parted these many years I still loved my mother. Yet I had not dared to write to her, because I feared her busy tongue and lest she should whisper of my whereabouts and thus set Pharaoh's dogs upon my scent. Therefore I thought it wisest to leave her believing that I was dead.

"If so, let us return, Ramose. Where you and Myra go, thither I will go also who grow too old to seek new friends. We have wealth in plenty and can live together where we will—until my call comes."

I opened my lips to ask him of what call he spoke, then bethinking me that he must mean that of death, closed them again. Yet this was not so, as I learned afterwards.

Thus in few words we agreed upon this great matter, which I did the more willingly because it came to my ears that a certain high one in Cyprus whom it would have been hard to resist, had learned of the wonderful beauty of the maid Myra and was plotting to take her. Very quietly we sold all that belonged to us in Cyprus and transferred our wealth to those with whom we dealt in Egypt, honourable men who, we knew, would keep it safe until we came to claim it in the trade name of our Cyprian firm, though it is true that when I saw how great it had grown, I was afraid.

At length all was ready and the ship in which we must sail on the morrow, lay at anchor at the mole. We three sat, somewhat desolate, in our desolate home that was no longer ours, for we had sold it with the rest. The statues, the vases, the gems and all the priceless treasures that piece by piece I had gathered to please our eyes and to make the place beautiful were on board the vessel, together with the most of such of the household as had chosen to follow us, so that the chambers looked naked and unfriendly. Myra noted it and wept a little, saying,

"I have been very happy here in Salamis, Ramose, and I would that we were not going away. My heart tells me that trouble awaits us yonder in Egypt."

Now I was distressed and knew not what to answer, save that regrets came too late, for I could not tell her about the peril from that high lord. But Belus replied,

"It is natural that you should grieve, Myra, who have grown from infancy to the verge of womanhood in this place. Yet hearken. My heart or rather the stars tell me another tale. I seem to see it written on the book of Fate that whatever ills we may find in Egypt, those that are worse would overtake us if we lived on here. I tell you," he added solemnly, "that a curse and great desolation hang over Salamis. What it is I do not know. Mayhap it will be burned by the Babylonians, or other foes, but unless my wisdom is at fault, soon Salamis the beautiful will be no more."

Thus he spoke nor did we question him about the matter, for like all seers, when Belus had uttered his oracle he would not speak of it again.

The next morning before the light we embarked secretly upon our ship, which we had given out was sailing on a trading venture, and departed from the shores of Cyprus. Before ever we set foot upon the quays of Memphis, we learned that a great earthquake had shaken much of Salamis to the ground, burying hundreds of her citizens, and that among the streets destroyed was that in which we had dwelt, for a mighty wave following the earthquake had flowed over it, washing it into the deep.

When we heard this tale, Belus looked at us and smiled, but we said nothing, whatever we might think.

VIII. AT MEMPHIS

At length we came safe to Memphis, for Apries being dead and the Grecian mercenaries and marauders who clung to him, slain, or scattered, or driven away, there was peace throughout Egypt under the rule of the new Pharaoh, Amasis the Egyptian. The gates of the cities stood open, the Nile was free to all who sailed upon it, the husbandman ploughed his field and none robbed him of its fruits. In those years, before the Persians fell upon her, Egypt rested unafraid, rich and happy beneath the strong hand of Amasis.

As soon as we came ashore in the early morn I made inquiry of a port captain whether Tapert the high officer still dwelt there, and learned that he had been some years dead. Then with secret fear, but as it seemed carelessly, saying that I had known him when I was a lad, I asked if any of his household remained and waited with a beating heart.

"Nay," was the answer, "he left no children, but the Grecian lady lives on, she whom he married and who once, as she declares, was the love of Apries the Pharaoh. Indeed she remains a fair and gracious lady, one of much wealth also, for Tapert left her all he had, which was not a little. She dwells alone in a great house in a garden, not far from the temple of Ptah, and is famous for her hospitality, for she spends the most of her substance on feasts and costly raiment, saying that she has none for whom to save."

Now when I heard that my mother lived I was glad, for though the man's words showed me that she was still vain and foolish, after all she was my mother who had given me life.

Leaving the ship and its cargo in the charge of the officers appointed to watch the goods of traders, and of our servants, I hired asses, also a guide. Mounting these beasts, the three of us, Belus and I and Myra, who wore a veil in the Eastern fashion to hide her face, rode through the mean suburb that lay without the wall between the banks of Nile and the city, to the gate, through which we passed unquestioned. The guide led us up a broad street on either side of which dwelt the richest of the citizens, till, not far from the enclosure of the great temple of Ptah, we came to a walled garden. Being admitted we rode on through this beautiful garden to the door of a large white house built round a courtyard, which he said was that of the widow of Tapert. Here servants in fine garments such as are worn in palaces, ran out asking our business, to whom I answered that we were strangers newly arrived at Memphis who wished to have speech with their mistress about a matter that would be of interest to her, and when, unsatisfied, they desired to learn our names, I gave those of Ptahmes and Azar by which we had been known in Cyprus.

A man departed with this message and presently there came an old fellow who carried a wand which showed me that much state was kept in this house. Moreover, although he knew me not, I knew him, for when I was a child he had been one of the servants appointed to my mother at Pharaoh's court.

"Follow me," he said, bowing in the fashion that he had learnt there in his youth.

"We follow," I answered and I saw him start at the sound of my voice and look at me curiously, like one who searches his mind for something forgotten.

We crossed the courtyard and a narrow, pillared gallery by which it was surrounded, and entered a large chamber with open window-places that looked towards the Nile. Near to one of these, seated in a beautiful carved chair inlaid with ivory, sat a tall woman clad in white Grecian robes, engaged in stringing a necklace of gold and gems.

From far off I knew her for my mother. Although now her hair was darker and her features thinner than they used to be, there remained the same gracious form, the same quick movement of the delicate hands and the same large grey eyes with which she glanced at us, as always was her wont to do at strangers. That glance first fell upon me and so dwelt awhile; then as though she were puzzled, with a shake of the head it passed on to Belus of whom she made nothing for he wore an Eastern robe with a hood to it. Lastly it rested upon the maiden Myra who had thrown back her veil, while astonishment grew upon her face, doubtless because of the beauty that she saw. It passed and she motioned to us to be seated upon stools that had been set for us, then asked in her pleasant voice,

"What is your pleasure, strangers, with Chloe, who once was great in Egypt, but now is known as the widow of Tapert? Can she be of any help to you?"

I whispered to Belus to speak, because I was confused.

"Lady," he said, "for a certain reason we have come here, travelling from far, to ask you if you know what has chanced to a young man named Ramose, who was said to be the son of Pharaoh now gathered to Osiris, as you were said to be his mother."

She turned pale and let fall the necklace.

"Who are you?" she asked in a cold voice, "that you come hither to stir up bitter memories? Ramose my son is dead. Trouble came upon him through a high-placed Syrian harlot who bewitched him, handling him as such women do the young who take their fancy, and whose death was laid at his door, as though a lad would have wished to slay his lover. So, as I was told, he fled away with a Babylonian knave and sorcerer called Belus, who was his tutor and used to draw horoscopes and doctor the sick at Pharaoh's court—indeed be it admitted—whatever his horoscopes may have been, his doctoring was good for I have profited by it. They fled to Amasis, now Pharaoh, who at that time was general of an army which fought and defeated the Babylonians, and there, as I have heard, my son played a man's part in war. Then he vanished away, for though the battle spared him, Pharaoh sought his life because of the high-placed Syrian strumpet whose death had brought trouble upon Egypt, and all know what happens to those of whom Pharaoh seeks the life?"

Now Belus threw back his hood and looking at my mother, asked,

"Does the great lady Chloe find the medicine that the knave and sorcerer Belus gave to her amongst others, for the pain which used to strike her in the head above the eyes, still of service in the autumn of the year?"

My mother sprang from her chair, staring at him.

"By Zeus!" she cried, "you are Belus, and little changed, as would chance with a sorcerer. Oh! Belus, tell me of my son. What befell my son for whom I had such high hopes? If he died, why are you, who shared his sin, alive?"

"Because sorcerers do not die, Lady," replied Belus drily. "Others die, but they live on, else of what use is it to be a sorcerer?"

My mother made no answer to his mockeries, but still stared at him.

"One thing is certain," continued Belus, "that if I am a sorcerer and a knave, you are no witch, but only—forgive me—a fool."

"A fool!" she answered angrily. "Why so?"

"Because a wise woman would have made certain that he whom she loved was truly dead before she put on the veil of mourning."

"Your meaning?" she said haughtily.

"I have talked too much," said Belus. "Ask it of these others. Am I your only visitor, Lady Chloe?"

Now for the first time my mother looked fixedly at me, who was dressed in a plain merchant's robe and seated in the shadow beyond the shaft of light that flowed through the window place.

"Sir," she said in a hesitating voice, "do you know aught of this business of the death of my son who, had he lived, might now perhaps have been a man of your age, though not, I think, a merchant, for I will not hide that he had royal blood in him."

Now I drew my stool forward out of the shadow so that the light fell full upon my face, and lifted the merchant's cap from my head, revealing the brown hair that curled beneath.

She stared at me; oh! how she stared!—then muttered as though to herself,

"Can this be Ramose whom last I saw as a lad? Nay, it is not possible, for had he lived Ramose who loved me as a child and for whose sake I tore myself away from the sight of him, would never have left me desolate all these long years, believing that he was dead. Yet—those eyes—that hair, yes, and the fashion of locking his fingers——! Oh, torment me no more. Are you Ramose, or another?"

"I am Ramose, your son," I said, and was silent, for words choked in my throat.

She uttered a little cry, then rose and threw herself upon my breast and lay there speechless. In the stillness that followed I heard Belus whisper, I suppose to Myra, who all this while had sat like a statue, or perchance to himself,

"A fool I called her, and rightly. For what else is a woman who does not know her own son?"

"Be quiet," answered Myra, "or I shall call you hard names, Belus."

And he obeyed her, for with him Myra could do what she would.

"Listen, my mother," I said gently, "and reproach me no more because I hid from you that I was alive. I did this knowing that if you learned the truth, others would learn it too, and soon I should cease to be alive, for the ears of Pharaoh are long. Also I was not sure till an hour ago whether you still dwelt in Memphis or anywhere upon the earth. Therefore, under a false name, I lay hid in another land until I knew that Pharaoh my father was dead, and that I could return to Egypt to seek you fearing nothing, for he who now is Pharaoh was my friend and saved me from doom."

"Who is this before whom you tell all your secrets?" asked my mother, pointing at Myra. "Is she your wife? Nay, she is too young. Your daughter then?"

"Aye, the daughter of my heart, one whom Heaven sent to me who am still unwed."

"Then let this daughter of your heart be welcome," said my mother, "and be sure that I shall ask no questions concerning her that you do not wish to answer. Yes, and Belus also."

Of that day of reunion after many years I need write no more. Before we sat down to eat at noon our tale was told, though whether my mother believed that part of it which had to do with the finding of Myra upon the battlefield, I do not know. Moreover, I had promised that the three of us would take up our abode in my mother's house which was large and stately, for she would not suffer that we should go elsewhere, though from the first Myra wished to do so.

Thus began our life at Memphis. It was a very happy life, yet it had its troubles, as have all lives. First, I who had been so busy a man, occupied for many hours of the day with my trading, now must be idle, which I found wearisome. To remedy it, having wealth at my command, I bought lands near to the city, and farmed them. I bred cattle and horses, the finest beasts, perhaps, that had been seen in Egypt; I tamed deer and wild animals and raised every kind of grain. Yet as this was not enough, with Belus and Myra I followed after all learning, till at last I was almost as wise as Belus himself and Myra lagged not far behind me.

At all this my mother stared, saying that poring over scrolls and calculations was no task for a lovely maiden, or for the matter of that, for a man still young who should be busy with great affairs. Even my breeding of beasts did not please her, for this, she said, was the business of farmers and such humble folk. At length I grew vexed and asked her what she would have me do, who already possessed more riches than I needed, not counting her own which were great.

"Do!" she answered. "Why, rise. Be a man, show yourself as a high lord in Egypt, become famous. Wage wars and win them, as your noble Grecian forefathers would have done. Are you Pharaoh's son, of the true royal blood of Egypt upon the father's side; indeed as I believe, his only son left living, for Amasis or his party, has blotted out all the rest? Are you not by rank a Count of Egypt; have you not wealth at your command as great perhaps as that of any prince or noble of Egypt? Have you not a mother who knows the ways of courts and can help you? Yet you spend your days tramping amongst swamps to watch the corn spring, or counting calves and foals, and your nights with a maiden and a philosopher, studying strange, ancient books or staring at the stars. So the precious years slip through your hands like water and soon you will be old, not leaving so much as one lawful child behind you because of some silly vow you have taken that divorces you from woman."

Thus my mother taunted me, for she was very ambitious and as I could see, desired that I should wipe out the stain upon my birth by rising to great station where she could glitter at my side. Aye, she desired more, though she never said as much in words, namely, that I should become Pharaoh of Egypt in place of one whom she called "the usurper" and the "murderer" of Apries who had been her lord and my begetter.

For she forgot that this father of mine had sought earnestly to put me to death because of the trouble about a Syrian queen, which had disappointed him in his policies, and that Amasis had saved me from his anger. But I did not forget these things and therefore would have nothing to do with such plots, who indeed had no desire to become Pharaoh, but sought only to lead a quiet, learned life, such as befitted a man of fortune who knew that our days are short and who looked onward to all that might lie beyond it.

Still, to please my mother who would not let me be in peace, I entered into the public business of the city, taking this office and that, and rising always to the leadership of men. For now—I think through her— it became known who I was, none less in fact than the only living son of the dead Pharaoh, also that I was one of the richest men in Egypt; for which reasons I was courted, not only by the common people, but by the nobles and even by the high priests of the temples of the gods. For, after her vanity and ambition, this was my mother's greatest fault—she could not keep silent.

Now if these things were bad, another was worse, namely, the jealousy which sprang up between my mother and Myra.

Since I had returned to her I was everything to my mother, who would never leave me if she had her way. But before I returned I had been everything to Myra who was the constant companion of my leisure hours and who, as I have said, from the beginning would look upon no other man with favour, except at times, on Belus. Thus these two crossed each other's path continually till at length if I were sitting with the one, the other would not enter, but departed saying she saw that I did not wish to be disturbed, or some such words. All of which vexed me much and caused Belus to smile.

Meanwhile, month by month Myra became more learned and sweet in mind and more beautiful in face and form, till at last she was the fairest maiden that ever I beheld.

One day Belus asked me,

"Why do you not marry Myra, Ramose?"

I started at his words, and answered,

"Have I not told you that, like a priest of Isis, I am sworn to remain celibate? Also Myra is very young and before she turns her thoughts to marriage, she should see other men, young men of her own age, one of whom perhaps she might desire as a husband."

"And do you desire to give her to some such stranger?"

At this a sudden change took place in me and a pain shot through my heart. It was as though it had been gripped by a cold hand. It was as though I had come face to face with death.

"I desire Myra's happiness," I answered, looking down, "I who stand in the place of her father, and mother too."

"Would it not be well to ask her what she herself desires?"

"I do not know. Perhaps, when she is older—say in a year or two. Meanwhile she is happy in her state; let her remain so for a while."

"Many things happen in a year or two," said Belus drily.

Now it would seem that this same matter of marriage was troubling my mother's mind, only in another sense, for having found me after many years of separation, and being by nature somewhat jealous, she did not desire that I should marry and thus, as she thought, be taken away from her again, at any rate, not yet. Least of all did she desire that Myra should become my wife although she was so lovely and so learned, because she was sure that then one roof would not cover the three of us, however large it might be. In truth it was Myra whom she wished to see wed, but not to me, if indeed it were lawful that I should marry her. For she thought or tried to think that we who were as father and daughter, would never be happy as husband and wife. Also, although she had taunted me on the matter, in her heart she believed that having remained single so long, it would be best that I should continue so, satisfying myself with her love and company, with no other woman to come between us.

Therefore she began to talk to her friends of the great charm and favour of this ward of mine in such a way that many came to think that she was not my ward, but my daughter, as perhaps at times she did herself who wished that it might be so. Further, she gave feasts to the noblest of Memphis, at which feasts Myra was present and was made known to the guests as my adopted daughter. Soon that happened which she had foreseen.

Within a month young Counts and others were seeking after Myra, and within two, one of them, a very fine gallant, had asked her hand through my mother, who at once told Myra what had chanced.

Myra, it seemed, making no answer, rose and departed with angry eyes. That afternoon I was away from home, checking the cattle on my farm with my overseers. The business was long and the moon was up before I returned, entering the garden of the house by a side gate, as was my custom. Following a winding path I came to a clump of palms, the most secret place in all that large garden, where stood seats and a table which Myra and I often used when we worked together in the heat of the day, because there a breeze always blew beneath the roof of palm leaves.

Suddenly a figure appeared stopping my path and I sprang back, fearing thieves. Then the tall figure threw off its hood and the sweet voice of Myra said,

"Ramose, forgive me, Ramose, but I would speak with you alone."

"What is it, child? Cannot you always speak with me alone?"

"Nay, Ramose, not of late, for in this way or in that, it seems that the lady your mother hears all I have to say. In Memphis we are not as we were at Salamis the happy."

"Well, speak on, most dear," I said, seating myself upon the bench and pointing to her accustomed place.

She took it, and said presently,

"Ramose, I am wretched. Your mother does not love me. I think that she is very jealous of me because you—do love me, or did in past days. Therefore she makes plots against me."

"What plots?" I asked astonished.

"Plots to be rid of me that she may keep you to herself. Ramose, in secret she gives it out that I am your daughter, which you tell me is not true, and that it would rejoice you to see me wed to some man of station."

"Hush!" I said. "Child, you dream. It is possible that my mother may have thought that you were too lonely here and like other maidens, desired to be courted, but for the rest, I say you dream."

"Aye, Ramose, I dream so well that——" here she named one of the greatest in Memphis——"has asked me in marriage through her."

"What of it, child?" I said lightly. "He is a man well spoken of, wealthy and in the way of advancement, if somewhat loud-voiced and boastful to my fancy."

"Perchance, Ramose. Yet to me he is as a crocodile or a toad."

Now I laughed and answered,

"Then say him nay and have done."

"Aye, that I will, Ramose, but cannot you understand that there are others behind him, and that to me they are all—crocodiles and toads?"

"Then say them all nay, Myra, and remain as you are. Do you think that I wish to force you into marriage?"

"No, Ramose. If I did I should kill you, or rather I should kill myself. Swear to me that you will protect me against marriage, and against all men; unless you desire to see me dead."

"Aye, Myra, with my life if need be. Yet yours is a strange mood for one who is young and beautiful."

"Then let it be strange, but so it is. You have sworn and it is enough, for when did you ever break your word, O most beloved Ramose? Now I would ask something else of you, but having received so great a gift, this is not the time."

"What would you ask, Myra?"

"Oh! that we might go out of this fine house to that cottage near the river, you and I and old Belus, and be rid of all these great folk, the women in their silks and perfumes, and the lords in their chariots or on their prancing horses, with their mincing talk and false eyes, and there, with Belus, look upon the stars and hear his Babylonian wisdom and his tales of the past, and his prophecies of things to come, and be quite at peace, forgetting and forgotten by the world."

"I will think of it," I answered, "but my lady mother would be angry."

"Your lady mother is always angry—with me. But you are not angry, Ramose, and you have promised to protect me from those men. So what does it matter? Good night, Ramose. I told your lady mother, who has made a liar of me, that I was ailing and sought my bed, so thither I must go. Good night, good night, dearest Ramose," and she lifted her fact that I might kiss it, then kissed me back and fled away.

I think it was at this moment that first I began to understand that I loved Myra, not as a father loves his child, but otherwise. Oh! if only I had told her so and taken her then, how many terrors should we have missed!

IX. PHARAOH COMES TO MEMPHIS

On the morning following my meeting with Myra in the garden, I was awakened early by a servant who said that the head overseer of my farm desired to see me at once. I commanded that he should be brought to my chamber. There the man, who was so moved that he could scarcely stand still, told me that a prodigy had happened during the night, namely that one of the finest of my cows had borne a splendid calf, in giving birth to which it died. Here he stopped as though overcome, and I answered that I grieved at the death of this cow, but that the news of it might have waited, nor did I see that there was any prodigy about the matter.

"Lord, that is not all," he went on in an awed voice, "the calf, which is male, seems to have upon it every mark of the holy Apis bull, or so says a priest of the temple who chanced to spend the night with me, and has seen it. Indeed already he has returned to Memphis to tell all the other priests the glad and wonderful news which by to-morrow or the next day will be known throughout Egypt."

Now I bethought me that I wished that priest had slept anywhere save in my overseer's house, for something warned me that this beast, in which I had no faith, having sought a higher worship than that of animals, whatever god the vulgar might believe them to incarnate, would bring trouble upon me. But as such heresies must be hidden, I asked him what the calf was like. He replied that it was black as ebony with a square spot of white upon its forehead and the figure of a white hawk with outstretched wings upon its back. Also on its pink tongue—wonder of wonders—was the figure of a scarabaeus in black.

Now I affected to be much surprised and said that I would come to see this holy calf, which in my heart I hoped, being so holy, would soon follow its dam to the underworld, or be gored to death of its foster- mother. But this was not to happen, for whenever it took milk the legs of that cow were tied together until it became accustomed to the changeling; also its horns were held.

Presently I met Belus and noting that he looked weary, asked him how he fared.

"Not too well," he answered. "Last night I consulted the stars, especially those that rule the destinies of us three, and until the dawn I have been at work upon their message."

"What was it?" I asked idly.

"This, Ramose: That because of some prodigy, trouble awaits us. Those stars enter an evil combination that foreshadows danger to all of us— great danger. Yet be not cast down, for in the end they emerge from this house of perils, or so my calculations tell me, and ride on into that good fortune which will endure until the end."

Now, though it is true that some of his prophecies seemed to have fulfilled themselves, perhaps because these came, not from stars, but from out of the hidden wisdom of his own soul, I did not believe overmuch in the divinations of Belus, I who always held that the great planets, sweeping ever on their eternal journey through the skies, could scarcely trouble themselves with the petty fate of men and women, or even influence them. Yet I was disturbed when he spoke of a prodigy, for suddenly I remembered the birth of this Apis calf and my own fears. So I told Belus what had chanced yonder at the farm while he watched the heavens.

Now it was his turn to be startled, for he answered,

"I put little faith in Apis, who is but a priest-made symbol. Yet, Ramose, all the Egyptians think otherwise, for to them he is a god incarnate upon earth in the flesh of a bull."

"Then may this god soon be disincarnate in heaven or elsewhere," I exclaimed, which was not to happen, for, as I have said, the brute lived and throve like any common calf.

When we had eaten Belus and I, Myra also for she would not be left behind, whether because she wished to behold this wonder or for other reasons, mounted our asses and rode to the farm to look upon the new- born calf. As soon as we were clear of the city I beheld a strange sight, for the road was black with people all talking and gesticulating, who, too, were travelling to behold the new god, or the place where it had appeared.

Avoiding these as much as might be, we came at length to the farm where a great crowd was gathered, who were being thrust back by priests and soldiers from the shed in which the calf lay. These people recognised me, and one cried out,

"Behold Ramose, the blessed of Heaven, upon whose beast the spirit of the gods has fallen in lightning. Behold Ramose and his beautiful daughter," (for the most of them believed Myra to be my daughter).

Another answered,

"Aye, behold him, Pharaoh's seed who one day may himself be Pharaoh."

"Aye," called yet another, "for otherwise how comes it that Apis is born in his house? It is a sign! It is a sign!"

So these fools clamoured till I wished that the earth would open and swallow them; yes, and Apis too.

After this we were admitted to the shed and saw the calf, which, save for its markings, was as are other calves. But the markings were there, and not painted, and when it opened its mouth to bellow, we perceived the black scarabaeus upon its tongue. Moreover round the shed were priests of Ptah upon their knees, praying and making oblations of flowers.

Myra wished to go in and stroke the beast, but one of these priests sprang up and dragged her back with threatening looks, muttering that it was not lawful for a woman to enter there, and that if she had escaped a curse she would be fortunate.

So we went home as quickly as we could, and afterwards these priests removed the calf whither I knew not, without so much as paying me its price, to keep it until such time as it should take the place of the old Apis, which was so near to death that its sarcophagus was already fashioned and in its niche at the burying-place of bulls some leagues away.

When my mother heard the news she was much rejoiced.

"When I learned that you had become a farmer, my son," she said, "it grieved me more even than when you told me that you had been a merchant, for both these trades are those of common people and unworthy of your blood, which on one side is that of kings and on the other that of warriors. Yet now I see that in all these matters Zeus, or Athene, has directed you, seeing that out of the trade you have won much wealth, while through the husbandry it has come about that the great god of the Egyptians has manifested himself in your house, so that because of this you and I, your mother, will grow famous throughout Egypt."

Thus spoke my mother who since she had left Pharaoh's household, where for a while she was a great power, had never been able to fit herself into the narrow bounds of private life, which, although she was rich, were all that remained to her after the death of her husband, the judge and officer, Tapert. Continually she looked back to the pomp and ceremony of Pharaoh's court, the martial guards, the blowing of trumpets, the heralds, the golden furnitures, the thrones and the garments woven with the royal symbols. Yes, and in her heart she dreamed and hoped that a day would come when through me once more she would move amidst all this glory, no longer as the mistress of the king, but as his mother.

It was for this reason, amongst others I have set out, that she desired to separate me from Myra, hoping that if once she were gone I might find a wife, however ancient or ill-favoured, in whom ran some drops of the true blood of the Pharaohs of Egypt. Therefore she set herself to make known far and wide the sign of favour which the gods of Egypt had given me in the birth of an Apis among my herd, and, as I learned afterwards, even wrote or sent messages to old friends of hers about the court, who had been servants of Apries, to tell them what had come to pass and to vaunt my wealth and favour among the people.

Soon all this reached the ears of Amasis who now was Pharaoh, and caused him to think that it would be well if he journeyed to Memphis to make an offering to the new Apis, or rather to the temple in which the beast was being reared and to the priests who guarded it; also to make sure who the man might be that was spoken of as a king's son and concerning whom the soothsayers made prophecies. For Amasis never forgot that he was a usurper who had won his throne by force of arms and had put his old master, the rightful Pharaoh, to death, or allowed him to be slain. Therefore he was afraid of any one who could claim that the true royal blood ran in his veins and, knowing this, I had not presented myself to him on my return to Egypt.

So in the end Amasis the Pharaoh came to Memphis, sailing up Nile with royal pomp and ceremony, and was received in state by the nobles, officers and people of the great city.

I was amongst those who watched him land, and noted that he was much changed from Amasis the general under whom I had served and who had saved my life from the anger of Apries years ago. For time, the cares of state and as some said, the love of wine, had whitened his hair and carved deep lines upon his rugged face, though still his eyes were pleasant, if now somewhat shifty and fear-haunted, as those of usurpers who have won their thrones through blood must ever be. Putting aside all ceremony, as of old he greeted us in his bluff, soldier fashion, speaking to us, not as a master or a god, but as an Egyptian to Egyptians, and calling us "Friends," and "Brothers," saying too how glad he was again to visit Memphis after many years and to meet its lords and people.

Then he mounted in a chariot and was conducted to the old palace of the Pharaohs that had hastily been made ready to receive him. Here, later, he held a court, at which we of the Council of the City were made known to him, one by one. When my turn came, for I thought it best to appear before him boldly, and he heard my name, he glanced at me sharply, also at Belus who followed me, and started.

"Surely, Count Ramose, and you, Belus the Physician, we have met before," he said.

"Yes, Pharaoh," I answered, "though long years have passed since then."

"Is it true, Count Ramose, that Apis has appeared among your herds?" he asked.

I answered it was true that I had been so honoured of the gods.

Again he looked at me as though he would search my heart, and inquired where I lived.

I told him that being unwed I had made my home in the house of my mother, the widow of the King's Companion, Tapert, who once was governor of Memphis.

"Is it so, Count?" he said. "Then at sunset Pharaoh will visit you there without ceremony, and perhaps the lady your mother and you will give him a bite of food and a cup of wine, also without ceremony, asking none to meet him save those of the household."

I bowed, muttering that the honour was too great, whereon he waved me and Belus aside and began to talk to others.

As soon as we might I escaped from that court with Belus, and returned home in my chariot which I drove myself, Belus riding with me. At the door I sprang out and called to the running footmen to lead away the horses.

"Belus," I said, "I am troubled. Why does Pharaoh wish to visit me thus?"

"I do not know, Ramose," he answered, looking down. "Perhaps to talk about Apis, or perhaps to speak with us of what happened when we were younger and the wars of long ago when he was but a general, for they say that although his memory has grown weak, those days are still dear to him. Who can tell? We shall learn in time."

"Yes, Belus, and I pray that it may not be more than we wish to know."

Then I went in to tell my mother what had chanced. She heard and broke into rejoicings which vexed me.

"Pharaoh coming to this house!" she said. "Truly the honour is great. Every high lady in Memphis will envy me. I must make ready."

"You forget, Mother," I said, "that he who comes killed him who was my father and your lord."

"My lord, yes, who soon wearied of me—one light love among many—and gave me in marriage to another man. And your father, yes, who sought to put you to death for small cause, from which end you were saved by this Amasis, wherefore I forgive him all. Moreover, it is said that he had naught to do with the slaying of Apries whom the Egyptians killed without his knowledge. But I must be gone; the time is short, the time is very short and there is much to make ready," and turning, she fled away.

Such is woman, thought I to myself. One comes who seized the throne of her lord and her son's father and brought him to his end. Yet because he is Pharaoh she rejoices as though she were about to be visited by a god—and Belus who had been watching, nodded his head and smiled as though he read what was passing in my mind, which no doubt he did.

Then I retired to my own chamber and stayed there for the rest of that day, discussing problems with Belus, or reading histories, for the house was in a tumult, and when I sought her to continue our studies, even Myra was not to be found.

Servants flew here and there, messengers went out and returned laden with goods in baskets, the cooks gathered to themselves other cooks and worked at their business as though their lives hung on it, the steward of the household ran to and fro cursing at all he met by the names of evil gods, the butler drew ancient wines from the cellars and tasted them until his eye grew dim and his voice thick, gardeners brought in plants and flowers that they had grown or purchased, and set them about the rooms. All of these things I saw through my window- place, or the half-drawn curtains of my doorway, and grew more and more vexed and troubled. At length when I was no longer able to bear the noise and confusion and the sound of my mother's voice grown shrill and angry as she scolded the servants, telling them first one thing and then another, I fled away to that large upper chamber of the house where Belus slept and worked.

Here I found him calm as ever, studying a map he had made upon a papyrus sheet, of the stars, or of certain of them, and turning balls hung upon wires round a larger ball, which he said figured the sun and the planets.

"You seem disturbed, Ramose," he said as he checked the motion of these swinging balls.

"And you seem calm," I answered angrily.

"Yes, Ramose, because I study the stars which are very far away and very quiet, while you study the earth, which is very near, and to-day more noisy than is common. If you wish for quiet, fix your heart upon the stars and leave the earth alone."

"And what do your stars tell you, Belus?"

"Much that as yet I have found no time to interpret fully, but above all this—that soon you and I will make a long journey. I believe it is one which I have awaited many years," he added slowly and in a cold voice.

"Over the edge of the world?" I asked, staring at him.

"No—not yet, I think, but——"

Here the chamberlain rushed into the room and from below I heard my mother's voice,

"My lord!" he said, "my lord Count, the lady Chloe says that you must attire yourself in your best, not forgetting to put on the gold chain that the late good god who was Pharaoh, gave to you, and all your other marks of rank."

"The late good god!" I muttered. "The late good god whose throat was cut by butchers in a boat upon the Nile."

"But who afterwards was embalmed in the best fashion, wrapped in gold, and buried with great glory and all his household wealth by the present good god, which should console him for his many woes," interrupted Belus mockingly.

Then my mother's voice rose shrilly from the foot of the stairs, calling to the chamberlain who fled, as presently I did also to do her bidding and array myself. But as I went I said,

"Belus, hearken. Search out another house for you and me and Myra, for here I can dwell no more. And let it be far away."

"I do not think there is any need," answered Belus. "I think that we should not dwell there long because the stars have appointed one for us that is very far away. Still I will do your bidding."

As the sun began to set I went to the portico of the house, followed by Belus who was clad in the robes of a physician and wore the cap of an astrologer. Scarcely were we come there when the sound of chariot wheels and of trampling horses told us that Pharaoh was at hand. Then he appeared surrounded by a mounted guard. He was arrayed as a general, and wore no emblem of royalty save a small golden uraeus upon his helm.

Leaping from the chariot he ordered the officer in charge of the escort to depart with his men, and return at a certain hour. Then quite unattended he walked up the steps of the portico and greeted me who stood bowing before him, in his old jovial fashion. And yet there was something lacking; his voice did not ring true as once it did; I felt a change.

"See, Ramose, how well I trust you," he said. "Better indeed than I would most men who might hold that they had a blood quarrel with me. That is because we are old comrades in war and therefore there is a bond of fellowship between us. Rise, man, rise, for here we are not Pharaoh and subject, but two soldiers met to drink a cup of wine together."

As he spoke my mother appeared, still looking fair enough, though the wonderful grace and slightness of form which once were hers had departed from her.

"The lady Chloe!" he cried, catching her hand as she curtseyed low, and kissing it. "Surely, after all these years I know her again. Tell me, Lady, have you made a bargain with your own Aphrodite that defying time, you remain so fair and young, you whom I used to worship from afar at the court of Sais, wishing, to speak truth, that for your sake I stood in Pharaoh's sandals?"

Thus he went on, bantering in his bluff fashion, for never did Amasis lose his manners of the camp, while my mother reddened to the brow, muttering I know not what, till of a sudden he ceased and stared past her.

Turning to discover at what he gazed so fixedly, I saw that Myra had followed my mother, as no doubt she had been bidden to do. There she stood uncertain, swaying a little like a palm in the wind; Myra, yet a new Myra. For she was apparelled, as to my knowledge she had never been before, in beautiful silken robes, while round her throat and arms were fine jewels of gold and gems, with necklets of large pearls, those same priceless ornaments which were the heritage that her dying mother had given to me in the tent upon the battlefield. On her brow, too, was a circlet of gold set with pearls and rising to a point, while ropes of pearls were twined among the waving tresses of her brown hair, which was spread like a cloud about her shoulders and almost to her waist. Most beautiful she looked thus in her young loveliness, yet most splendid, like to a queen indeed. Never before did I know how beautiful she was. So it seemed Amasis thought also, which was why he stared at her, then asked,

"Who is this fair maiden, lady Chloe?"

"Myra," answered my mother, "known as the daughter of my son Ramose."

"And therefore a granddaughter of Apries and of the royal blood of Egypt," said Amasis aloud, but as one who thinks to himself. "Well, she is very fair, so fair that were I a younger man I think that I should ask her to draw near to the throne of Egypt, which as it is I shall not do. Worthy of a king, she is. Yes, worthy of a king!"

Now I bowed purposing to show Amasis that Myra was not my daughter, and to repeat to him the tale of her finding upon the battlefield, which doubtless he had forgotten, but as the first words passed my lips the curtains to the right were drawn and the chamberlain, appearing between them, cried out that all was ready.

"Good," said Amasis, "let us eat, for know, I starve, whose lips have touched nothing all this day of ceremony," and taking my mother by the hand he led her into the large chamber now seldom used, where Tapert, her husband, feasted the nobles when he was a high officer of Memphis.

Here a table was spread, made fair with flowers and cups of gold and silver, for it had pleased Tapert to collect such vessels. At the centre of this table was Tapert's chair of state, a gilded, cushioned seat that my mother had prepared for Amasis. In it he sat himself while the rest of us stood, behind him.

"What!" he cried, "am I to eat alone like a prisoner in his cell? Not so. Forget, I pray you, my hosts, that for an hour I fill Pharaoh's throne, and come, sit at my side and let us be friendly."

So we placed ourselves at the curved board, my mother on his right, Myra on his left, and I beyond my mother with Belus beyond Myra.

The feast began, a wonderful feast, since it seemed to me that from it was missing no luxury known in Egypt. Indeed, I wondered much how in a few short hours my mother had made so rich a preparation.

Amasis was hungry and ate heartily, praising each dish, as well he might, for he could have tasted no better at his own table. Also he drank without stint, of the strong old wine of Cyprus with which Tapert had stored his cellars, and grew merry.

"Where have you been all these years, Ramose?" he asked. "I remember that we parted at Pelusium after we had defeated Evil-Merodach—ah! that was a battle and one that went the right way for us. It seems a long while ago, and so it is, for since then Merodach sat for a little hour upon the throne of Nebuchadnezzar at Babylon and is gone wherever the Babylonians go when they are dead, and two more after him, the last of them but a boy who reigned three months and then I think was murdered. Now Nabonidus is king there, chosen by the people of Babylon to be their ruler, they say, because he hates the sight of a sword as they have come to do."

"What is known of this Nabonidus, Pharaoh?" I asked.

"To me little enough, Ramose, except that by birth he is not royal— like some other kings," he added laughing and pointing to himself.

"May it please Pharaoh, I know something of him," said Belus speaking for the first time, "for when we both were younger I was his friend. He comes of a great House that has grown wealthy by trade. His nature is, or was, kindly and gentle. He was very fond of learning also and especially of all that has to do with bygone kings and times, and written records and ancient temples. Lately I have heard from Babylon where there are still some who write to me, that he spends his days in studying such matters and in rebuilding the old shrines of the gods, leaving most of the business of the State to be dealt with by his son, the Prince Belshazzar."

"Belshazzar!" exclaimed Amasis. "I have heard much of this man, more than I wish indeed. What of him, Astrologer? Is he, too, learned and gentle?"

"Nay, Pharaoh. I knew him also in his youth when he dealt very wickedly with—a friend of mine. He is a fierce and cruel man, ambitious and violent, but one of ability when he can turn from his pleasures and his wine."

"So I have heard also, and further that being an old fool, Nabonidus trusts all to him, signing whatever his son Belshazzar puts before him. Yes, he does this even at a time when Babylon is threatened by Cyrus the Persian. Therefore through his councillors and in the name of Nabonidus the King, Belshazzar seeks an alliance with Egypt upon whom Nebuchadnezzar was wont to war, as we know. In earnest of it he offers his sister in marriage to me, and asks that a princess of the royal House of Egypt should be given to his father Nabonidus who is lately widowed, that she may be Queen of Babylon and all its empire, and take with her as a dowry the friendship of Egypt."

Here he paused to drink wine, then added more as though he were speaking to himself than to us,

"But I have no princess to send to him, and Apries who went before me, left no daughters save one who is already married, old and childless, for whom even the ancient Nabonidus would not thank me."

Then again he paused, looking about him. His eyes fell upon Myra who was seated by him leaning forward so that she might hear all.

"Beautiful," he muttered, "most beautiful."

A thought seemed to strike him for he started, then began to talk to Myra, asking her of her life at Memphis, and whether it would not please her to shine in a king's court.

"Nay, O Pharaoh," she answered, "I am very happy here where I follow after learning with Belus for my teacher, and for the rest occupy myself with simple things."

"What do you learn, maiden?" asked Amasis "The languages of other lands?"

"Yes," replied Myra with pride, "I know Greek and the tongues of Cyprus, that of Babylon also, and can write them all."

"Thoth, god of letters, led by the hand of Hathor and Bes, gods of love and beauty, must have attended at your birth, maiden," exclaimed Amasis in the voice of one who had drunk too much, as leaning forward, he patted her on the hand.

Now I looked at my mother who, fearing some folly on the part of Pharaoh and understanding that I wished her to be gone, rose from her seat, bowed and departed, taking Myra with her. Amasis waited till the curtains had swung to behind them. Then he looked round the room and seeing that we were alone, for at a sign from me the servants had left us, of a sudden he seemed to grow sober, as I remembered he could always do if he wished.

"Ramose," he said, "now that the women have left us I would have a word with you, which was why I came here. Nay, Belus, do not go; it is always well to have a water-drinker for a witness."

I bowed and waited.

"Ramose," he went on, "if I were wise, I think that I should cause you to be killed."

"That Pharaoh cannot do," I said, "having eaten of my bread. Yet why should he cause me to be killed whom in the past he saved from death?"

"Because times have changed and we change with them, Ramose. Because without doubt you are of the old royal blood of Egypt, if on one side only, whereas not a drop of it flows in my veins, and but little in those of my sons, for those wives of mine who are called royal were made so by decree rather than by birth. Because, too, this is known among the people who, as my spies have told me, treat you like a prince and in their private talk speak of you as one who in a day to come may sit in Pharaoh's seat. Lastly because an Apis has been born among your cattle which the vulgar take for a sign, yes, and the priests who are the real power in Egypt. Certainly therefore it would be wiser that you should die, or so I think, who desire to be the forefather of a great dynasty that shall rule for hundreds of years."

"I am in Pharaoh's hands," I answered coldly. "He has thousands at his command to do his will, whereas I am defenceless. If Pharaoh desires to mingle my blood with my wine, what more is there to say? Let him who slew the father, slay the son and make an end."

Now, whether by design or because it was so, again suddenly Amasis seemed to grow drunken and answered,

"Aye, why not? It would save many doubts and troubles. Belus here will bear witness that we quarrelled and that I killed you in self- defence," and rising he half-drew the sword which he wore with his general's armour.

Belus sprang up and slipping behind Amasis, began to talk into his ear. Although he spoke so low all he said, or the meaning of it, came to my sense made keen by danger. It went thus:

"Pharaoh forgets that in this quiet place his armies avail him nothing. Here he can die like other men. Let him look."

Amasis glanced over his shoulder, to see that there was a knife in the hand of Belus and that its point was very near his throat.

"If Pharaoh died," went on Belus, "would it not be easy to hide him away while some went out and declared that he had been gathered to Osiris and that the gods who had caused Apis to be born in his house, had appointed Ramose, the son of Apries, to fill his throne? And if this were done, would not Memphis listen, and what Memphis says, would not all Egypt say, and would not the army welcome Ramose with a shout?"

"Perhaps you are right," said Amasis, again sobered of a sudden. "Ramose, know that I do not wish to kill you if only I can be sure that you will not plot against me. Believe me, neither did I wish to kill your father. After the army had made me king, yonder in Cyrenia and against my will, I kept him to rule with me, but he plotted against me and at last came the end. They tell me that you are doing likewise, and now Apis has been born amongst your herds which Egypt will take for a sign. If I spare you, how can I be certain that you will spare me?"

"Because I have no wish to sit upon any throne, Pharaoh, I who having enough to satisfy my every want, desire only to lead a peaceful, learned life. Is it my fault that an Apis is born amongst my herd?"

"No, Ramose, but it is a sign sent by the gods; at least the people will so interpret it and therefore you must bear the blame. For the rest, you may change your mind. I had no wish to be a king, yet a crown was thrust upon me, which could not have happened if Apries had killed me first, as, had he been wise, he would have done. Still as a lad you were ever honest; so, asking no oaths I believe you, for what are oaths when it comes to grips? Indeed, what I said was but to try you, so let it be forgotten. Yet Belus has threatened me with a knife, why then should he not die, he, the threatener of Pharaoh, who, as any priest will tell you, is a god—no less?"

Now Belus, showing no fear, answered boldly,

"I think that I answered that question long ago, Pharaoh, in a certain general's tent upon the borders of Egypt, before a great battle against the Babylonians."

"I remember," said Amasis. "You said the stars appointed me to be king which has come true, though at the time the words seemed folly," and he looked at him not without awe.

"I said more than that, Pharaoh. As my life seemed to be in danger then, as it does now, I told you that those stars declared also that if you killed me, my blood would call for your blood and that you too would die. I repeat those words, for the stars do not change their story. If you are weary of life and rule, strive to bring death upon me who never harmed you."

Amasis stared at him and his ruddy face grew pale.

"I think that you have power, Babylonian," he said, "if of a different sort from mine. Fear nothing. You shall go safe from me, and your master also, so long as he does not try to plot against me, or to take my place."

"Pharaoh is very wise," answered Belus in the same cold voice, "so wise that I will tell him something that I wished to keep secret. Already by his threats he has earned much evil at the hand of fate."

"What evil, man?"

"This—that though he live out his life in peace and splendour, yet it shall not be so with him who comes after, the son of his body. Storm- clouds are gathering in the east, O Pharaoh."

"Have done, Babylonian," broke in Amasis. "I would hear no more of your evil-opened talk. Our pact is made—it is enough."

"As Pharaoh pleases," said Belus bowing, while with quick eyes he searched his face.

Then Amasis turned to me and asked,

"What happened to you after we parted years ago, Ramose? I remember that you went away with a little child about whom you told some idle tale, but who in truth was your daughter, that same maiden who dwells with you to-day."

"She was not my daughter, Pharaoh——"

Thus I began, but he stopped me with a wave of his hand and his rough, soldier's laugh, saying,

"Oh! deny it not, Ramose. Have we not all heard of you and that beautiful Syrian queen, a very flower of love whose favour you had the luck to win as a lad, though you brought her none? Did not the whole camp believe that the child was your daughter born of this queen or another woman perchance, whom you carried with you from Egypt to save her from the Syrians, and is she not proclaimed here as your daughter by your own mother and all in Memphis, yes, your daughter and the grandchild of Apries, as indeed may be read in her royal air? So anger me no more with your denials, as though I were a priest to whom you must plead purity, for I will not listen to them, who hate liars. Tell me, what chanced to you after you escaped from the wrath of Apries your father?"

Then thinking it wiser not to cross his wild, uncertain mood, which I set down to the wine that he had drunk, over this matter, small as I held it, I told Amasis how I had journeyed to Cyprus and made my home there and grown rich by trade.

"And why did you not stay in Cyprus, Ramose?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because I desired to see my mother from whom I had been parted for many years, and being Egyptian born, to dwell in Egypt where I believed that now I should be safe as Pharaoh's friend. Also Belus warned me that disaster was about to fall upon the city where we dwelt, which indeed happened, for after I had left it, Salamis was shaken to the ground by earthquake and those who dwelt in the house that had been mine, were crushed."

"Belus again!" exclaimed Amasis. "By the gods I would take him for my soothsayer, were I not sure that of me he would always prophesy more ill than good, and being a physician also, could bring it to pass, if so he chose. Therefore I leave you Belus, praying you to guard him well, who swears, or so I understand, that his death and mine will not be far apart. To tell the truth I have no fancy to see Osiris out of his wrappings before I must, or to chat with Apries and others at his table. No, no, keep Belus and live at ease, Ramose, even if your cows bear an Apis once a year, and be sure of Pharaoh's favour and all that he can give you, so long as you leave Pharaoh in peace. And now that we have settled these matters, let us drink a last cup together in pledge of them, Ramose, of whom I purpose to make a viceroy in Kush or elsewhere, or perchance to send upon an embassy. For you are one who should be great in war and council, and not spend your life in breeding beasts and growing grain, like any mud-born thickhead who calls himself a noble and to prove it, flogs his slaves; yes, one who should serve Pharaoh and prop up his throne, to his vantage and your own."

Then having drunk, as Belus and I pretended to do also, he set down his cup and walked with us, somewhat unsteadily, to the chamber where my mother sat. Here at the doorway he bade Belus and myself discover whether his escort was in attendance, and if not, to wait till it came and then advise him, who meanwhile would talk with my mother and bid her farewell.

So we went because we must, for in such matters Pharaoh must not be disobeyed, and for a long while tarried in the porch. At length the escort came, and with it the chariot of Pharaoh.

We returned to make report. The curtains were drawn over the entrance of my mother's sitting chamber. Thrusting them apart I saw her seated on a couch with Amasis at her side. He was leaning forward talking into her ear, while from time to time she nodded her head, as though in ascent. Perceiving me between the curtains she laid her fingers on her lips, as though to teach him silence, then rose, calling to me to enter. I did so and bowing to Pharaoh, told him that his guard and chariot waited on his pleasure.

"So much the worse," he grumbled, "seeing that now after some happy hours in the fellowship of old comrades and fair ladies, like an ox harnessed to a water-mill I must get me to my work again. See, now what it is. There is the matter of the repair or rebuilding of these temples of Memphis to be considered, for it must be done cost what it may, to please the priests—I mean the gods with whom no Pharaoh dare be out of favour. I am minded to put you in charge of that business, Ramose, because having been a merchant as well as a learned man and a lover of what is beautiful, you would save me from being cheated by roguish architects and craftsmen. Next I must up Nile to Abydos to tend the ruined shrines of Osiris, and thence to Thebes on a like errand; also to make offerings at the sepulchres of the ancient kings, though where their mummies may be to-day none knows, for thieves have been at work with all of them. Then back here again, perchance to bury Apis that they say is dying, with fitting pomp yonder in the desert where those gods lie. After that away to Sais to deal with matters of state and to face the eternal Babylonian trouble, to say nothing of that of the Persians, as best I can, as well as the quarrels of the women of my own household which will pursue me, as I think, to the underworld.

"Oh! who would be a Pharaoh? Ramose, be guided by me, I pray you, and never seek to be a Pharaoh, even should a mother urge it in your ears, though, this I am sure the lady Chloe, being wise, would never do. Now farewell to all of you, and not least, my hostess, to that fair grandchild of yours, Ramose's daughter, whose beauty, were it seen, would set the world aflame and lift her to a throne. Farewell, my hosts, and farewell, too, Belus, shepherd of the stars, or by them shepherded—I know not which. Belus the far-sighted, to whom the gods unveil and who handles wisdom as a soldier does his knife,—or rather who handles both wisdom—and a knife. Farewell, all. Ho! slaves, summon the officers to conduct Pharaoh to his chariot."

Thus Amasis came, and thus, bewildering us and hiding his purposes with this long, rambling speech, as dust obscures a chariot, he went from my mother's house at Memphis. When he had staggered down the steps and departed, Belus and I looked at each other, saying nothing. Then I turned to seek my mother, but she too had gone.

X. THE HAPPY HOUSE

With pomp and ceremony Pharaoh Amasis departed up Nile to Thebes. Yet ere he went he laid various offices on me as one marked for his especial favour; high offices not to be refused, to fill which I must take public oaths, swearing by the gods to be faithful to him and his House under pain of death and the curse of heaven. Also he appointed me as overseer of the architects employed upon the rebuilding of sundry temples, and especially of the great shrine of Ptah in Memphis.

Thus it came about that soon I must work from dawn till dark as never I had worked before, scarcely finding leisure to eat, much less to read with Myra or even to talk with her, of whom now I saw but little. When I met my mother, however, which was not often for I was out before she rose, and for the most part returned only after she had sought her bed, I noted a change in her. She seemed to be full of mystery and to follow more than ever after foolish pomps, seating herself in a chair that was like to a throne, with servants who held fans standing behind her, and even wearing marks of royalty when there were no strangers there to see, such as a circlet of gold upon her head from which rose the uraeus snake.

The sight of this angered me, so much that at last I asked her sharply what it meant and if she wished to bring trouble on me, by aping a rank that was not hers.

"Not so," she answered smiling. "Yet may not she who has borne a son to him who was Pharaoh bear the mark of royalty, that is, when she has special leave so to do, from him who is Pharaoh?"

"I do not know what you mean, my mother, but I do know that if this were the law, there would be many women in Egypt wearing the royal uraeus," I answered bluntly, adding, "I pray you therefore to lay that ornament aside lest my head should pay the price of what you set upon your own."

Then growing angry, she rose and left me as one who might answer but who would not, nor did she appear again before me adorned like Pharaoh's queen or daughter. Indeed I saw her but seldom and when we met she would rarely speak to me.

On a certain feast day, that appointed to some god when none laboured, Belus said,

"You bade me buy you a house and I have done so out of your moneys in my hands," (for I trusted all my wealth to Belus). "Also with the help of Myra I have furnished it. Come now, and look upon your new home."

"Does my mother know of this?" I asked astonished.

"I have not told her," he answered. "Yet I think she guesses. At least she said to me but yesterday that perhaps it was as well that you should live apart because you no longer agreed together; moreover she held it that it would be more fitting to your new dignities that you should have a dwelling of your own."

So I went to see this new abode and found it very beautiful. It was an old palace outside the great wall of the city, and therefore surrounded by a large garden, of which, because of the narrow space, there were few within the wall. In the ancient days when the Pharaohs lived at Memphis, this palace, it was said, had been that of the heir of the king. In later times, however, it had become a private dwelling, also a home of priests; but now for a generation, save for caretakers, it had been deserted though still used as a store-house so that the roof and walls were saved from decay. Further, the gardens had been hired to a husbandman who grew in them fruit and vegetables for sale in the city, also beneath the palm trees green barley for fodder.

Now all this had passed by purchase to me and already Belus, having all my revenues at his command, had set numbers of the best artificers and artists in Memphis to work to make the place beautiful, and once more a fitting home for a great noble or a prince. Moreover Myra was in the secret and throwing her heart into the business, laboured joyously that our new home—for never for a moment did she doubt that it would be hers as well as mine—should be made even fairer than that at Salamis, one of the most perfect indeed in all Egypt.

To this end all the furnishings which I had brought from Cyprus, the statues, the inlaid and enamelled chests, the chairs and beds, the vessels of gold and silver, and I know not what besides, which for years it had been my pleasure to collect as the choicest wares and examples of ancient art from Syria, Cyprus and Egypt, were gathered from the places where they had been stored because my mother's house would not contain them. Here and there Myra said they should stand, even before the rooms were ready to receive them, so that they must be covered up with cloths for fear of damage by the artists and the plasterers.

Also through Belus, who was foolish where she was concerned and, like her old nurse, Metep, unable to withstand her smallest fancy, Myra bought in Memphis the loveliest that it had to sell of hangings and carpets and couches and silver swinging lamps, all of which she set about the chambers, especially in those that were to be allotted to me. Yet when I entered her own I found it with bare walls and but plainly furnished; a low bed of white wood, some stools and chairs with feet shaped like to those of antelopes, also of white wood and hide-seated, and three chests to hold her garments, painted with scenes of wild-fowl disporting themselves among lotus plants, or rushing in alarm through papyrus reeds.

"How is this?" I asked. "My chamber is as that of Pharaoh, while yours might be the sleeping-place of the daughter of a village sheik."

"Because I would have it so," she answered, tossing her head. "Moreover in time to come the walls shall be painted, when I have finished the design and Belus can find an artist who is not a fool."

"I have found one," said Belus.

"Who is that artist?" she asked.

"Yourself," Belus answered, laughing drily, then turned and fled before she could scold him.

Indeed I was the only one who did not laugh over all this business when in the end I found that it had cost me the quarter of my fortune, no less.

"What does it matter?" said Belus in reply to my complaining. "What does anything matter, especially when there is plenty left which gathers day by day; that is, if it pleases Myra?"

"You are right," I said, "nothing matters if it pleases Myra. Now she will have little left for which to wish."

"I am not so sure," said Belus, and went away before I could ask him what he meant.

At length we took up our abode in this fine new home, although as yet it was far from finished. My mother came to view it, borne in a chair such as was used by a wife of Pharaoh when she went abroad, and when she discovered that all had been planned by Myra, found much fault with every thing, saying that I should have done better to be guided by her own purer Grecian tastes.

"Still," she added, "the place is fine and the furnishings and decorations are of small account, for when your daughter Myra leaves it to become the consort of some mighty man, they can be changed."

"I do not understand you, my mother," I answered. "Myra does not wish to change her state; also, she is not my daughter."

"Then, Ramose, if she is not your daughter, why is she not your wife? Surely you would make nothing less of her."

Having shot this bitter arrow, she went away without waiting for an answer.

"What does she mean?" I asked of Belus, who had heard these words.

"What she says, or so I think. Hearken, Ramose. There is some plot afoot. I know not what it is, but it has to do with Myra. If you would keep her at your side, Ramose, let it be as your wife. Remember that your mother is right. If you give it out that she is not your daughter and she continues to dwell in your house with no other woman save an old nurse, although you forget it because she has lived with you from a babe, you will cast a slur upon her name."

Now hearing this I was much disturbed.

"Are you mad, Belus?" I asked. "Have we three not always lived together? And for the rest, is it fitting that I who am almost old enough to be her father and who for years have forsworn women, should wed this young maid?"

"Would it then grieve you so much to take her was a wife, Ramose?" asked Belus in his quiet fashion.

Now I felt the blood come to my face, as I answered,

"It would not grieve me at all; to tell the truth it would delight me more than anything on earth. It was not of myself that I thought, but of the poor child who, if I spoke to her of marriage with me, would take it as a command and obey because she held it to be her duty, for that reason abandoning all hope of a husband of her own years."

"I thought that not so long ago she might have pleased herself in this matter, and would not, Ramose."

"It is true, but because a woman turns from one man it does not follow that she turns from all. After all that count was an empty-headed coxcomb; there are better than he in Memphis."

"It is a strange thing, Ramose, that those who are wise in nine matters, are often foolish in the tenth, and those whose sight is so keen that it can note a lizard on a housetop, often cannot discern the pitfall that yawns before their feet, or the sharp stone that will lame them. Such, I hold, is your case, Ramose. Now I pray you, if you have any faith in what you call my foresight and my vision, put this matter to the proof and show me that I am wrong."

"How, Belus?"

"By asking Myra whether or not it would please her to become your wife. Ask her, and soon. To-morrow Pharaoh returns from Thebes to bury the Apis that is dead, and then passes on at once to Sais."

"What has that to do with Myra and myself?" I asked angrily, because, to tell the truth, I knew that Belus never spoke without reason. Words that from another would signify little or nothing, on his lips were full of meaning.

"More than you think, perhaps, Ramose," he replied, adding,

"Do you promise to prove that I am wrong, if you can, not next year, or next moon, but this very day?"

"Yes. That is, how can I who must go at once to attend to matters in the city that cannot be postponed?"

"You return to supper, I believe, and after supper it is customary for Myra and you to read together. Do you promise?"

"To please you I promise, though I do not know why you should force me to give Myra pain and to bring shame upon myself."

"Perhaps ere long you will find out. However you have promised and it is enough, for when did you ever break your word, Ramose?"

Then he went, leaving me wondering where I had heard those words before. Ah! it came back to me—from the lips of Myra herself after that boastful fop had asked her in marriage, and she had made me swear that I would protect her from all men. How came it then that these two spoke as with one voice? Had they agreed together to ply me with the same flattery? Nay, that was not in the nature of either of them; they did but say what they believed. They had set me, a man full of weakness and of failings, like a statue upon a pylon or a pyramid, one to be admired as higher than others; one to be loved more than others. This I could understand in the case of Belus who with all his learning and gifts from heaven was but a fond philosopher who, being childless and with few friends in his exile, had cherished me from my boyhood.

But what of Myra who knew all my faults and follies and must suffer from my moods? Could it be that there was something in her heart which caused her to forgive these many imperfections and to gild my clay with the gold of love? I did not know, but as I had promised Belus, I would discover the truth before I slept that night. Oh! if it should prove that this sweetest of all maidens loved me, not as a child loves her father, but as a woman loves a man, then how blessed would be my lot. Nay, it was too much to hope and I must be on my guard; I must watch lest her kind heart, duty and a desire to please, should put on the mask of love.

I went about my business which was very urgent, for much must be made ready before Pharaoh returned upon the morrow, asking account of my labours under his royal commission. All day I worked in the heat of the sun, much vexed with those that had failed me and with the foolishness of a self-willed architect, and at last as it sank, wearied out, was borne to my new home.

Here I bathed and clad myself in clean garments of linen. Then led by a servant I went to the eating-chamber, a very fine room where once the royal princes of old Egypt had banqueted with their friends and women, that now cleaned and repaired, we used for the first time. This apartment, of which the walls were painted with scenes of feasting and of gay sports, somewhat faded perhaps, seeing that the artist who limned them had been dead for hundreds upon hundreds of years, opened on to a gallery that looked over the gardens and the intervening lands down upon the distant Nile. From this gallery or portico the room was separated by painted columns formed of heads of Hathor, goddess of love, between which columns hung rich curtains that the furnishers had placed there only that day, those that Pharaoh's sons had used having rotted many generations gone.

In the centre of this beautiful room, illumined by hanging lamps that we had brought with us from Cyprus, Myra had set a table of black wood inlaid with electrum, and on it cups of gold and silver taken from my store, and alabaster vases filled with flowers. Here at this fair table I ate my first meal in that house, Belus sitting at one side of it and I at its head. At its foot, in the place of the Lady of the House, was Myra who in honour of this event had been pleased to array herself in her richest garments and ornaments, such as she had worn at the feast my mother had given to Pharaoh. Thus with the lamplight falling on her she looked beautiful indeed, I think the most beautiful woman that ever I saw, except perhaps Atyra whose loveliness was of a richer order and more matured. It was strange to see that this Atyra's memory should rise up and refuse to leave me on that night when I did not desire its fellowship. Yet it was so; had her spirit been standing at my side, like the Double watching in a tomb, she could not have been more present.

Myra was in her merriest mood. She laughed and talked and jested, till at length I asked what made her so joyous.

"Oh! many things, Ramose," she answered, "but chiefly because to-night I am like a slave whose fetters have been struck off and whose lord has granted her freedom."

"When did you wear fetters, Myra?"

"Till yesterday, Ramose, yonder in your mother's house, where, though you knew it not, I was always watched. Here I am free—free! Belus, first of prophets, be kind. Use your skill, Belus, and tell me my fortune. Here is water into which you may gaze; without are stars— that is, unless the moon has devoured them; here is my hand covered with a hundred tiny lines. Gaze into the water, read the stars and the birth-writings stamped upon my flesh, and tell me my fortune. Tell me that I shall have many years of joy in this place. Do you know what was its ancient name? I have discovered it from an old man who works in the garden who had it from his grandfather. It was called the Happy House in the byegone days when it was the home of princes and great lords. Tell me that it will be the Happy House for me and for Ramose and for you too, dear Belus."

Now Belus shook his head, saying that his arts were needless because her words had already fulfilled her wish. Still she would not let him be, but went on teasing him till at length he said,

"Give me that little lily you wear upon your breast, O foolish maid, who cannot be content with the hour and its joys."

She obeyed. He took the fair white lily, warm from her bosom, and cast it into a bowl of rich-hued glass that was filled with water for the dipping of hands when the meals were done, muttered some words that I could not understand, and breathed upon it; after which he watched it for a long while. Now, growing uneasy for I shrank from this jest who doubted whether Belus could play the conjurer even when he tried, he who was filled with so strange and true a wisdom, I rose and looked over his shoulder into the bowl.

There was the lily floating, but as I watched it seemed to lose its shape as though it had been grasped and crumpled; its whiteness also. The water, too, though this may have been fancy or because of the colour of the red Eastern glass, to my sight grew first to the hue of wine, and then to that of blood, so that suddenly I remembered the blood of murdered Atyra that lay beneath the robe upon the floor of her chamber at Sais, and shivered.

I glanced at the face of Belus and noted that it was not that of one who played a trick to please a girl. Nay, it was strained and anxious and on his brow appeared beads of sudden sweat. I was about to speak, or overthrow the bowl, but divining it although I stood behind him, he held up a finger and checked me. For a minute or more he went on watching, covering the most of the bowl with his hands, so that I could no longer see within it. Then his face changed and once more became quiet and impenetrable, also he sighed, a sigh of relief, such as is uttered when a great danger has passed by ourselves or one we love.

Removing his hands from the edge of the bowl, he said,

"Look."

I did so and behold! there floated the little lily as white as it had been when it was gathered, in water as pure as when it was drawn from the well. He took the flower and gave it back to Myra, saying,

"Press it in a book, child, and cherish it all your life; nay, set it between two plates of crystal as a talisman."

"Oh! my lily," she cried, "how fair you are and how sweet you smell; although so small your fragrance perfumes the room. Ramose, you shall make me a present. You shall order the jeweller to enclose this little lily in a tiny shrine of crystal, hung upon a golden chain, such as I can always wear. That is, you shall do this to-morrow, to-night I will keep it for myself. But I forget! What did my magic flower tell you, Belus? Nay, do not shake your head. Speak, I command you, and truly. In the name of the Truth we worship, speak truly."

"Being thus adjured, it seems that I must obey," said Belus slowly. "Your magic lily told me that your wish will be fulfilled and that in this abode which is named the Happy House you will spend many years of such joy as is given to those who wander upon earth."

She clapped her hands rejoicing.

"Those are good words," she laughed; "those are most fortunate words."

"Yes, Myra, they are good and fortunate, wherefore forget them not when good fortune seems far away. You have not heard the end of them, Myra, which since you commanded me to speak all the truth, I must declare to you. Between this night of joy and those years of joy to come lies a space of fear and black doubt, such as crushes the hearts of mortals. Steel yourself to bear them, Myra, as others must who love you, as I did but now when I saw the white lily blacken in the cup and the water on which it floated turn to a pool of blood. Remember always, even when hope seems gone, that the lily will once more grow white and fragrant, and the water once more be pure."

"I will remember," she answered quietly and very gravely, who suddenly understood that this was no child's game, but something that the strength of Belus had wrung out of the clenched hand of Fate, something she could not understand, and perhaps that he himself did not altogether understand.

Belus rose and went; the servants came and did their office swiftly enough who were well trained, having been with me in Cyprus, leaving us alone.

"The place is hot," I said, "nor can we go to the chamber chosen for our studies, for it is not prepared, all is in confusion there. Come, Myra, let us sit without and watch the moon rise up on the Nile."

"Yes," she said, and led the way between the curtains to the portico or colonnade that was built along that front of the old palace which faced towards the Nile. Here were ancient marble seats and on one of these, that nearest to the corner of the house where a wall was built across the roofed-in colonnade, we sat ourselves down in the shadow.

"What did Belus mean, Ramose?" she asked, awaking from her silence. "Do you believe in these prophecies of his?"

"I am not sure, Myra. Sometimes I believe and sometimes I do not. Certainly some of them seem to have come true; but this may be by chance, for a wise physician who watches all things and has great knowledge of the hearts of men, cannot always read the future wrong, whether or not the stars reveal it to him. At least this last oracle of his is one of good omen, so let us accept it and be content."

"I am content, Ramose, now that we three are alone together as we were in Cyprus. Yonder I was not, for it seemed to me there, in your mother's house, I was like a bird in a cage or one about whom a net was being drawn."

"Why should my mother wish to play the spider to you?" I asked disturbed.

"I do not know, Ramose. Perhaps because she is jealous of me; perhaps because she wishes to use me who am called your daughter—always of late she speaks of me as your daughter when there are any to listen, as she did to Pharaoh—to advance your fortunes and her own. I say I do not know, but believe me, so it was; also that at the last she would have prevented me from coming here, aye and might have done so had it not been for Metep who outwitted her, how I will not tell you now for the tale is long. It is enough that to-night at last I am free and once more with you and Belus as we were at Salamis. Yet I pray you, Ramose, set a guard about this house that free I may remain, and near to you."

"Do you then desire always to remain near to me, Myra?"

"Aye, Ramose."

"You know that you are not my daughter, Myra, and indeed no kin of mine, whatever my mother or others may say."

"Aye, Ramose, I know it."

"Do you know, also, Myra, that it is hard for a man to dwell with such a one as you are who is not his daughter, and not to wish that she were even more than his daughter? Yes, that it is very hard, though it may chance that in years he might almost be her father?"

Myra sat up upon the seat, gripping the edge of it with her hands and glancing at me sideways, which things I could see in the twilight.

"Why is it hard? What do you mean, Ramose?" she asked in a low voice.

As she spoke the great moon appeared from a bank of cloud, her rays making a path of silver across the broad waters of the Nile and the cultivated land, flooding the pillared portico and striking upon the beautiful girl who sat at my side, her beast heaving, her lips parted. I gazed at her and of a sudden passion took hold of me. Yes, passion in its strength, and I knew that above all earthly things I desired her no longer as a daughter and a friend, but as my wife; yes, to be all my own.

"I mean, Myra," I answered, "I mean that I love you."

"This you have always done, Ramose."

"Aye, but now I love you in another fashion. Do you not understand?"

"I think I understand, Ramose."

"I suppose that it has been so for long, Myra. But to be plain I have been ashamed to tell you so, who was a man grown when you were but a babe. I have feared, Myra, lest if I did, you should hold it to be your duty to give yourself to me, not because of the hunger of your heart, but because it was I who asked it of you, to me, a man whose hair begins to grow grey upon his temples."

She smiled a little; the moonlight showed it; a somewhat mysterious smile such as is to be seen upon the carven faces of sphinxes, which told of secret thoughts hidden behind her eyes.

"You who are so wise, in some ways were ever foolish, Ramose," she answered and once more was silent, words that left me wondering, though in substance they did but repeat what Belus had said that morning.

Thrice I tried to speak, and thrice I failed, while still she watched me with that dreaming smile upon her face. At last in poor, bald syllables the common question broke from my lips.

"Myra, though I have seen some eight and thirty summers, can you love me as your husband?"

Very slowly she turned her head and now I saw that her cheeks glowed and that her wonderful dark eyes swam with tears. She strove to answer and in turn, failed. Then she took another road, sinking upon my heart and lifting her lips towards my own.

It was done. My arms were about her, her head rested on my shoulder.

"Oh! Ramose," she sobbed, "for all these years since I became woman, how could you be so blind?"

XI. THE BURIAL OF APIS

Of the rest of what passed between Myra and myself upon that night of joy nothing need be told. By degrees, stripped of all the trappings with which we mortals veil the truth, our love stood revealed in perfect beauty. It seemed that ever since she had come to womanhood Myra had desired to be to me all that woman can to man, and yet had so hid her secret that I guessed it not. It seemed, too, that as she loved me, so I had loved her and yet had buried that love beneath a hill of forms and self-deceiving falsehoods, pretending that I looked upon her only as a daughter and a ward given to me of heaven. But now the screens were down and behind them, pure and beautiful, appeared the naked truth.

At last we parted, but not before it was agreed between us that we would be wed at once; on the morrow if it might be, though this was doubtful, because for such a marriage formalities were needed, especially in the case of a man like myself upon whom many eyes were set, a man in whose veins royal blood was known to run. Moreover she who was to be my bride had been commonly reputed to be my daughter and as to this the truth must be registered by all of us before certain public officers, and in particular by myself, by Belus and by the old nurse, Metep, which matters would take time.

In truth they took longer than I thought, for stir as I would in the business three days went by before all was completed, because those who had to deal with them deemed it necessary to obtain the seal of a certain officer acknowledging that Myra was my ward, which officer was absent from Memphis.

I have named that night of betrothal and revelation a night of joy; yet it was not altogether so for the reason that nothing can be quite perfect on the earth. At length all was finished. We had told our tales, our last kiss was given and Myra had glided away to her chamber, turning again and again to look upon me. I stood alone in the portico leaning against a column and gazing upon the glory of the full moon shining over Nile. Of what did it remind me? Suddenly I remembered. It reminded me of just such a night as this when, long years ago, I and another woman seated amid ruined columns, had looked upon the moon shining over Nile and beneath her beams had kissed and clung. A shadow passed before me and to my strained sense almost it seemed as though it were the wraith of Atyra considering me with reproachful eyes.

If so, why should she reproach me who for all these years because of her had stood apart from woman, she who drew me into trouble when I was but a lad, and perished through the fierce jealousy of her ministers?

Oh! this was foolishness, yet the folly wore a cloak of fear. What if the new love told beneath the moon looking down on Nile, should also end in blood and terror, as did the old love told beneath the moon looking down on that same Nile? Nay, Belus had prophesied that it would not be so, and I put faith in Belus. Yet there the shadow moved, not beyond the columns, but in my heart, a shadow shaped of memories.

The forms were filled, the priest-lawyer from the temple of Thoth had written the marriage contract whereunder I settled the half of all I had on Myra, everything was prepared and Myra had left me. As she had no parents or other relatives from whom I could come to claim her as a bride, according to custom in case of maidens of high birth, she had been conducted with her woman, Metep the old nurse, to the temple of Hathor where she would spend the night in the care of priestesses. Here it was agreed, I must present myself at sunrise upon the following morning to name her my wife before the altar of Hathor and in the presence of the servants of the goddess.

She parted from me somewhat disturbed, reminding me that since she was an infant she had never slept away from the shelter of my roof, save when we were together upon a ship or in my mother's house, which was also my own, and that it seemed to her an evil thing that she should do so now.

I laughed away her fears, answering that on the morrow she would return and that thenceforward we should be together until death.

When Myra had gone I bethought me that I must ask my mother to be present at our marriage. Indeed it had been my wish to speak to her of this matter before, but when I said as much to Myra, she prayed me not to do so in such an earnest fashion that I let the business be. For the same reason I dismissed the thought which had come to me that instead of sleeping at the temple of Hathor, Myra should pass the night before our marriage at my mother's house. Yet now when she had gone to the temple in charge of the priestesses, to that house I went, knowing that it would seem strange if my mother were not present at the ceremony, also that she would be angry if she were not asked and think that Myra had wished to affront her.

Coming to the house, I entered, for the door was open, and went straight to the large chamber where my mother always sat. It was empty, nor could I find her in any other room. Thinking that she must be in the garden, I set out to search for her there, and on my way met an old woman who had been her servant for many years, from the time indeed when she dwelt at the court of Pharaoh Apries, my father.

"Where is the lady Chloe and where is everybody?" I asked.

"Oh! my lord Ramose," she answered, "I do not know where they are now, but some days ago the lady Chloe and the most of the household went away up Nile in a big boat, or perhaps they went in two boats."

"Up Nile! When, and what for?"

"I can't quite remember when, lord Ramose, for now that I am old my memory grows weak, but it may have been two days, or three; no, I think that it was four. As to why they went I am not certain, but it must have been for a great reason because they were all so finely dressed, the lady Chloe, my mistress, in beautiful clothes, such as she used to wear at the court of Sais; also the jewels and chains that Pharaoh Apries gave to her. Oh! she looked fine, lord Ramose, so fine that it rejoiced my heart to see her and made me think of the good days when she was the loveliest lady of the court and Pharaoh used to kiss her hand; yes, and her lips also."

"Have done," I said angrily. "Why did my mother go up Nile? Tell me, old fool, or it shall be the worse for you."

"Be not wrath, lord," she said, shrinking from me as though she feared that I might strike her. "I am but a slave who must do the bidding of my mistress and keep her secrets, lest it should be the worse for me."

"Nay, woman, you must do my bidding. The truth now, or you go to those who know how to wring it from you."

"Lord," she said in a great fright, "I will tell all I know; it is but little. Two mornings ago the lady Chloe and her servants sailed up Nile to meet Pharaoh who had summoned her and sent barges to convey her to him. Why she went to meet Pharaoh, I could not tell you, though you were to beat me with rods till I died."

When I saw that she knew no more, I left her and sought out other servants of my mother's on whom I wasted much time in useless questionings, for these seemed to know even less than did the old woman. So at last, weary and perplexed, I returned home and finding Belus, told him all I had learned, asking him if he could understand its meaning.

"It seems plain," he answered. "Your mother has gone to meet Pharaoh by appointment and to discuss certain private matters, but what these may be is known to the gods alone."

"Still, can you guess them, Belus?"

"Yes, I can guess that they have to do with Myra. Remember, Ramose, that it still pleases both your mother and Pharaoh to talk of Myra as your daughter."

"If so, what of it?"

"Only this: that then she is one who can be given in marriage."

"Not so, Belus; at least if she were my daughter I alone could give her in marriage."

"Pharaoh is the father of all and can give any in marriage to whom he will," answered Belus darkly.

Then he thought a while and added, "Save those who are already married, as Myra will be to-morrow. I would that it had been to-day, or better still a year gone, so that she held an infant in her arms. In this matter, Ramose, you have been too slow and lost time cannot be found again. Still, fret not, for to-morrow all will be righted."

Then upon some pretext or other he left me, as I felt sure because he did not wish to talk more of this matter. Often since that day I have wondered how much Belus knew or guessed of the calamity that overhung us.

I slept but ill that night, for the shadow of this unknown calamity lay dark upon my soul. Evil dreams came to me, in many shapes, yet the purport of each was the same—namely that I woke to find myself quite alone in the world. To and fro I walked in a desolate valley, stopping now and again to call on the name of Myra for whom I sought, but always from the cliffs which shut that valley in, echo repeated—Myra, Myra, Myra—and that was all.

Before the dawn I rose and dressed myself finely for the marriage. Then, accompanied by Belus and two running footmen, I entered my chariot and drove to the temple of Hathor. Leaving the chariot at the gate in charge of the footmen, we were admitted by priests who waited to lead us to the inner shrine. Here we stood a while, till presently we heard the sound of singing. Then from a side chapel appeared priestesses, eight or ten of them, accompanied by choristers and musicians who played upon harps and other instruments. In the centre of this throng, a veil thrown over her head and carrying flowers in her hand, was Myra, at the sight of whom my heart leapt.

She came, she stood at my side. The high-priest asked certain questions. Then at his bidding I took her hand and set upon her finger a piece of golden ring-money in token that I endowed her with my goods, announcing also that I took her to be my wife, as she too announced that she took me to be her husband. This done the high- priest blessed us in the name of Hathor and other gods, while a priestess was sent to the top of the temple pylon to call out to the heavens that we were wed.

Now all was finished and Metep, her old nurse, led Myra to the door of the sanctuary there to await my coming. I stayed a while to thank the priests and priestesses, and the musicians, also to direct Belus to double the customary fees, and make a special offering to the temple.

These things he did, taking the weighed gold from a bag which he had brought with him, slowly enough, as I thought. Then the treasurer of the temple, an aged, formal fool, must needs detain us while he re-weighed the gold and wrote an acknowledgement of my gift upon sheepskin.

At last when all was done, we parted from the priests with farewells and bowings and hurried to join Myra. At the gateway of the temple we found her waiting with Metep. She greeted me with a sweet smile, for now her veil was gone and she wore a long cloak over her bridal robes.

Yet there was that on her face which caused me to ask if aught were amiss.

"Nothing, husband," she said, hesitating at the word. "Yet, let us depart, for I see officers of Pharaoh's guard waiting beyond the outer gates and the doorkeeper has told Metep that they seek you."

"Well, what of it?" I said. "I have had much business with Pharaoh of late and doubtless he would learn something of me, though indeed I did not know that he had returned to Memphis."

So Myra and I entered the chariot, Belus walking by its side, and crossed the courtyard to the pylon gates which were opened for us. On the further side of them we were stopped by an officer of Pharaoh's guard, a man whom I knew. He saluted, saying,

"Well found, Count Ramose! I sought you at your home and was told that you were gone with your daughter to worship in the temple of Hathor at this early hour——" here he glanced at Myra who had hidden her face in her hood, and smiled.

I was about to answer that Myra was not my daughter, but my wife, when he stopped me, waving his hand.

"Your pardon, Count, but my errand permits of no delay. Pharaoh has returned to Memphis and being much pressed for time because of business that awaits him at Sais, has gone on at once to attend the ceremony of the burial of the Apis god at the tomb of the bulls, three leagues away, whence he departs this very night for Sais. Meanwhile he must see you and the learned Belus also, to hear your report concerning the works in your charge at Memphis, to give you certain instructions, and to consult with you upon other matters. I have horses here upon which you can mount, both of you."

"But I cannot come," I said angrily. "I have business that keeps me here."

Now that officer from some hiding-place about his person drew a gold ring and held it before my eyes.

"You are learned, Count Ramose," he said, "and can read the old Egyptian writing. Tell me, whose name and title are on this ring?"

I glanced at it. It was a signet of Amasis, the same, I think, that he wore himself, for I had noted it upon his hand.

"That of Pharaoh," I answered.

"Yes, Count, and how comes it that I, who am but an officer of the guard, bear Pharaoh's seal? I will tell you. It has been given to me to teach you that I speak with Pharaoh's voice. You must come with me and at once, likewise the learned Belus."

I stared at the man whom I knew to be no liar, and thought a while. The matter must be great and urgent that caused Pharaoh to summon me in this fashion. Doubtless he needed my counsel and that of Belus, upon some high business. Or it might have to do with the accursed Apis calf which had been born amongst my herd, that now would take the place of the old bull god they buried this day in the tomb of bulls. Or it might be something else.

With a pang of fear I remembered certain words which Amasis had spoken when he was, or feigned to be drunk at my mother's feast, threatening to make an end of me because in me ran the true royal blood of Egypt. What if he were decoying me into the desert purposing that thence I should return no more? A while ago the risk would not have moved me over much, a man who from year to year and from day to day strove to prepare himself to leave the world and enter some unknown house of Life, or if there were none, to dwell for ever in the abodes of Sleep.

But now, how could I dare it whose new-made bride stood by me clothed in love and beauty, making death terrible? I would not go. Surely I could escape from this man and flee with Myra. My chariot stood yonder drawn by horses as swift as any known in Egypt. We would leap into it and flee away to hiding-places I knew of, and thence pass to foreign lands beyond the sea.

Thus seized with panic, the shadow perchance of evils to come, I thought rapidly, but as I suppose, something of what passed within my mind wrote itself upon my face. At least that officer smiled and said,

"Look not at your sword, Count, nor at your chariot. You may kill me, but my men wait without; or you may flee, but you will be hunted down. Know that my orders are to bring you to Pharaoh alive or dead, and Belus the physician with you."

Now Myra, who all this while had been listening intently with a frozen face, broke in saying,

"Go, Ramose, lest a worse thing befall us. I will await your return in our home."

"Captain," I said, "we obey the command of Pharaoh, bringing this lady with us."

"My commands were to escort you and Belus to the presence of the king, but no other," he answered coldly.

Then Belus spoke for the first time, saying,

"None can fight against fate and what are Pharaoh's orders but the voice of fate? Also often we must reach our end by long and crooked paths."

Here he turned to Myra and added, "Be not afraid. That end will be reached. Remember what I saw some nights gone in the water of the bowl, and the words which my spirit then set between my lips, for I think that they are in the way of fulfilment. Look, the lily which once turned black beneath the spell, now lies white upon your breast embalmed in crystal. White it shall remain, Myra, white as your body and your soul. Do you understand?"

"I understand," she answered faintly in a voice that was full of tears.

I went to her, I kissed her, whispered that we should meet again unharmed, for God was good and Belus could not lie. Then I bade Metep her nurse to lead her to the chariot and bide with her day and night till I returned. They went and when they were gone I accompanied the officer like a man in a swoon, seeing nothing but the last glance of mingled love and fear that Myra gave me as the chariot vanished behind the temple pylon.

We mounted on horses and surrounded by an escort, rode through the gardens of Memphis and across the sands beyond, to the great necropolis where for thousands of years the nobles and gentlefolk of Egypt had been buried in the consecrated land. Passing through streets of their holy tombs we came at last to a temple that stood near to the mouth of the great caverns wherein are hid away the bones of the Apis bulls, outside of which temple flew the banner of Pharaoh surrounded by a guard of soldiers. We were led into this temple where a ceremony was in progress conducted by the priests of the god Ptah. It was very long, made up of rites which however gorgeous, to me were but mummeries, ending in a kind of sacramental feast whereat all of us from Pharaoh down, must touch with our lips a broth compounded from the flesh of the dead Apis, the smell of which broth—for taste it I did not—revolted me.

At last this rite was over and I thought that now I should be able to have speech with Pharaoh and be gone. Not so, however, for immediately a procession was formed in which a place was assigned to me as one specially favoured of the gods, because the new Apis had been found among my cattle. Accompanied by Belus I marched in it, preceded by Pharaoh, his great officers and the high-priests of Ptah and of Osiris, and surrounded by singers with other priests and nobles.

We entered the mouth of a mighty cavern and descended into the bowels of the earth, marching through stifling heat down lamplit passages hewn in the solid rock. Passing many walled-up chapels we came at length to one which was open. Here stood a huge sarcophagus that contained the mummied bones of the dead Apis. Now began more ceremonies which to me seemed to be without end, though what they were I cannot say, because from where I stood in the passage little could be seen of them; also the horrible heat of the place overcame me in such fashion that I could take note of nothing.

When all was finished Pharaoh, weighed down with royal and priestly robes and ornaments, marched past me, or rather was carried in a chair looking like a man asleep, and we followed him as best we might, till at length we struggled from that hole into the light and once more breathed the blessed air.

Now I asked to be led to the royal presence, but was told that this was impossible because Pharaoh was resting. Later I was told that Pharaoh was eating and later still that he was asleep, being overcome with fatigue and wine. Then we were taken to a pavilion where food, that I could scarcely touch, was given to us, and afterwards night having fallen, to a tent where we must sleep. Here we lay down because there was nothing else to do and guards who tramped up and down without, made escape impossible. Thus, tossing to and fro, bewailing my fortune and unable so much as to close my eyes, did I pass what should have been my bridal night, racked with doubts and fears and, in my heart, cursing Apis as never god was cursed before.

The sun rose at length but even then we were not allowed to leave the tent, why I could not discover. At last came a herald who told me that Pharaoh had departed long before dawn, almost alone that he might avoid the heat and dust made by a great company, and that he bade me and Belus to follow after him.

Then I understood that for some unknown reason I was a prisoner.

We followed because we must, but it was not until we reached Sais after long days of journeying, that we were allowed to overtake Pharaoh. There on the following morning he received us in a private apartment of the palace, in which it seemed that he was wont to hide himself away when wearied with matters of the state, or with quarrels in his household.

We were led to this apartment and at its door I shrank back in horror, for it was the same in which years before I had seen the Queen Atyra lying dead upon her couch. Yes, although the furnishings were different, without doubt it was the same. There was the spot where her cloak had lain upon the floor hiding the bloodstain; there was the window-place out of which with the strength of madness I had cast that murderer, the priest Ninari.

My heart stood still, my limbs tottered so that I was like to fall. Why had I been brought to this place of evil omen? Was it a trick of Pharaoh's who knew what memories it held for me? Or was I led by the hand of fate that here, where had died the lover of my youth, I too must give up my breath? My mind reeled; visions appeared before me. I could have sworn that I saw Atyra in all her loveliness standing yonder waiting to receive me in her outstretched arms. Then I heard Belus whispering in my ear,

"Be a man! Out of this chamber once you passed from peril to freedom and happiness, and so you shall again. Come, Pharaoh waits us."

I found strength and comfort in these words, qualities that have ever flowed to me from the strong soul of Belus. My mind cleared, I was myself again. By the window-place looking out on the peaceful garden, sat Pharaoh Amasis with a table before him upon which were writings, a jug of wine with drinking goblets, and his sword which he had unbuckled, for as usual he wore the dress of a general. For the rest he seemed to be quite alone, though doubtless guards and others were waiting within call in the chamber through which Ninari had entered to wreak his vengeance.

Pharaoh looked up and saw us.

"Enter, Count, and physician—or magician—Belus," he cried in his hearty voice. "Enter; be seated without ceremony, and drink a cup of wine with me, for if I may judge by myself, you must be thirsty after toiling northwards in the summer sun."

We bowed and obeyed, seating ourselves upon two stools that had been placed for us, as I noted at a distance from the table. Then Pharaoh filled three of the goblets with wine and signed to Belus to take two of them, while he kept the third and drank a little from it, as though to show us that the wine was not poisoned. Yet, as I thought, this told us nothing, seeing that the venom might have been placed in our cups which after the Grecian fashion, were made of gold.

"Now," he said, "let us drink to better times, for know that these are bad indeed for Egypt."

So we drank who had no choice, I wondering whether presently I should feel my vitals twisting in agony. But this did not happen. Indeed the wine was of the best and heartened me.

"Ramose," went on Pharaoh setting down his cup, "I fear that you will be angry with me who have dragged you after me upon this long journey. Well, I did it because I must, who wished to speak to you privately and to Belus also, after I had returned to Sais and heard what the tidings were from the lands beyond Egypt. By all the gods they are dark enough. Cyrus the Persian has conquered Lydia and threatens Babylon where rules that old fool, Nabonidus, who thinks of nothing but the repairing of temples and the statues of ancient gods, which he drags from the cities that worship them to set them up in Babylon where he can see and prate about them. Still he is powerful, for there is his son, Belshazzar, that fierce man, and Babylon is yet mighty and a high wall built between Cyrus and his Persians and Egypt. Therefore it is necessary to make a friend of Nabonidus as he desires to make a friend of us, to which end I have made an offering that I think will please him."

He paused and Belus, eyeing him sharply, asked,

"Will Pharaoh be so gracious as to tell us what offering he has made?"

"Let the matter be," said Amasis waving his hand. "In this high business it is scarcely worth mentioning further than to say that dotards like Nabonidus are pleased with trifles. Now I turn to a bigger business, that of Cyrus who it may be in the end will conquer Babylon and become a mighty monarch whom Egypt must fear, lest he should seek to seize her also. Therefore it is necessary that I should learn the mind of this Persian. Do you not understand that it is most necessary, Ramose?" he added, staring at me.

I bowed, answering that I did.

"I am glad," exclaimed Amasis, "for know that it is my purpose to send you to the court of Cyrus to make inquiry into all these matters and report to me?"

"Must I go as your envoy, Pharaoh? Or if not, in what condition?" I asked, seeking to gain time while I weighed this command in my mind.

"I think not as my envoy, Ramose, for then Cyrus would suspect you; also is not Ramose too well known as one of the royal blood of Egypt openly to play this part? Nay, under some false name you might travel as a great merchant trafficking between Cyprus and Egypt, as indeed you have been, to make complaint to Cyrus of losses that you have sustained through the conquest of Cyprus by Egypt, and to sound his mind as to its seizure by the Persians after the conquest of Babylon; yes, and that of Egypt also. But all this would be for his secret ear. Publicly you would pretend that you were sent by me, Pharaoh, to open trade between Egypt and Persian, or rather by my vizier from whom you would hold letters of commendation which you must use to cover your secret plottings against Egypt. Thus Cyrus may be led into revealing secrets which having learned, you will return and tell to me. Do you understand, Ramose?"

"I understand," I said, "who am no fool, but one acquainted with the languages and the trade customs of the East. Yet pardon me, Pharaoh. For my own private reasons I do not wish to undertake this mission. Least of all do I wish to do so, not as an ambassador but in the guise of a spy."

Pharaoh rose from his chair and stared at me.

"Count Ramose," he said, "you told me just now that you are no fool, but I begin to think that in this you are mistaken, who do not seem to know when you have received an order, or what is the penalty of defying the command of Pharaoh. I hear that you have bought a beautiful palace in Memphis, one which in the old days was inhabited by princes of the royal blood. Do you wish to dwell in it, Ramose, after a certain mission has been accomplished, or would you choose to remain here and sleep at Sais—till the day of resurrection?"

Now understanding that I must submit or die, I made obeisance and said,

"Pharaoh's will is mine. What Pharaoh commands, that I do. But first I ask leave to travel to Memphis to settle my affairs and to bid farewell to my mother."

"It is granted," said Pharaoh, yawning as though he were weary of this talk. "For the rest my vizier and officers will instruct you in your mission and make provision. Remember, Ramose, that if you serve me well in this matter, after you return there will be few greater men in Egypt. Yes, you shall sit upon the steps of the throne."

We reached the door when a thought struck me. I turned and said,

"And what of Belus, O Pharaoh?"

"I spoke to both of you," answered Amasis, "knowing well that for these many years you have never been apart, that one of you completes the other. Also when two go forth upon a mission one may die and the other live to carry on the work; whereas if but one goes, all is finished with his passing breath. Farewell."

XII. GONE!

Twelve days had gone by when travelling in one of Pharaoh's ships, Belus and I drew near to Memphis which we hoped to reach that afternoon. For seven of those days we had been detained at Sais, though we saw Pharaoh no more. Indeed, perhaps that we might not do so, he quitted the city upon business or pleasure of his own, but commands reached us to await the visits of his vizier and other high officers, and from them to receive instructions with secret letters for Cyrus, the King of the Persians. Also preparations must be made for a long journey across the desert to the city of Susa where it was said that Cyrus dwelt when he rested from his wars.

Now although Belus and I pressed all these matters forward, they could not be accomplished quickly; almost it seemed to us as though Pharaoh's officers had orders to hasten slowly, so that only a little was accomplished each day or sometimes nothing at all. At length, however, when I was driven almost to madness, we were allowed to depart for Memphis where it was settled that all which was necessary should be prepared for our mission. For I must tell that during those days in Sais in truth though not in name, we were prisoners, confined to our quarters in the palace and visited only by the servants of Pharaoh.

But at last we drew near to the great city and within a few hours I hoped to clasp Myra my bride in my arms. Yet I was troubled, I knew not why. Dark fears took hold of me, of I knew not what, nor could I win any comfort from Belus who also seemed oppressed with gloom or forebodings. The journey which we had been forced to make to Sais was strange. Why could not Pharaoh have issued his commands to me here at Memphis, instead of drawing me after him for so many weary days that he might speak to me once in his palace at Sais? And why had he asked me nothing of the work that he had bidden me carry out upon the temple of Ptah? Were those works but a pretext to keep me where he could lay his hand upon me?

In the end, when I could contain myself no longer, I put these and other questions to Belus.

"Ramose," he said, "I cannot answer you. Yet I will tell you what is in my mind. I think that Pharaoh is afraid of you and for some reason of his own desires to be rid of you, which is why he sends you upon this distant and dangerous embassy."

"Then he might have caused me to be killed here in Egypt, Belus."

"Nay, that he could not do, for you have served with him and he has eaten your bread. On these matters Amasis may still have the conscience of a soldier and a guest. Moreover, your blood is known and if you were murdered, your death would look very evil and would bring trouble on him. For would it not be said that he had made away with you because you stood too near the throne? But on such journeys as that which lies before us many accidents happen, and if under a false name you died far away from Egypt who would trouble? Also consider this business. You are to go to Cyrus and play a double part, pretending to be an envoy from Egypt loyal to its king, and yet working against Egypt and its king, because of some private merchant's grudge which has to do with her conquest of Cyprus. Now when Cyrus discovers this, or it is revealed to him by other messengers, may he not grow suspicious and bring you to death or throw you into prison, especially if he learns that Pharaoh would not grieve if you returned no more?"

"It is so and I mistrust this embassy," I answered with a groan.

"Aye, Ramose, it is so. Yet I say to you, have no fear, for I am sure you will come safely through these troubles, as you have through others."

"That is good news, Belus. But what of Myra? How can I leave her at Memphis alone and unprotected?"

"You cannot, Ramose, she must accompany you, disguised if need be. Once out of Egypt there are other lands where we might shelter."

I remember no more of this talk, for just then we drew near to the quay and my burning desire to see Myra caused me to forget all else.

We landed and hiring a chariot drove swiftly to the Happy House where surely she would be awaiting me.

Now we were passing its gates and it seemed to me that there was something strange and unfriendly about the aspect of the place. There was the roofed and columned terrace where Myra and I had kissed as lovers, but it was empty. There were the large doors of sycamore wood, but they were shut, not open as they had been in the daytime since I owned that house. I knocked on them and presently heard them being unbolted by someone within. They opened and there appeared a man, a faithful Cypriote steward who had served me at Salamis.

"Where is the lady Myra?" I asked. "Bring me to her."

"I cannot, lord," he answered awkwardly, staring at me as though I were a ghost. "She has gone."

"Gone!" I gasped. "Whither has she gone? Speak, man, or by Amen I'll make you silent for ever."

"I do not know, lord. On that day when you went out at dawn, she returned early to the house with the woman Metep, saying that you had been summoned away and that she awaited you. Towards midday came the lady Chloe, your mother, and with her a number of men who wore Pharaoh's badge, also some women very finely dressed. The lady your mother and the men talked with the lady Myra apart, but what passed between them I do not know. The end of it was that she left the house with them, much against her will, I think, for she was weeping, and was driven away in a chariot accompanied by Metep. We, your servants, were angry and disturbed, and would have kept her by force, had she not said hurriedly that a command had reached her from you that she must obey your lady mother in all things, and therefore she went, though she liked the business little and of it could understand nothing. So she went, lord, and that is all, except that we heard afterwards that she had departed down Nile in great state upon one of Pharaoh's ship. No, not quite all, lord, for a lad whom I do not know, brought a letter which, he said, a woman called Metep had given him to be delivered to you if you returned to the house. Here it is," and from his robe he drew out a roll roughly tied up with a piece of palm fibre.

Like a man in a dream I undid the roll, saw that the writing within was in Greek and short and quickly penned. It ran thus:—

"To Ramose, my husband most beloved,

"I am being taken away down Nile, and as I understand to some distant country, by Pharaoh's officers. Your mother swears to me that this is by your wish and for my own good; also that you await me oversea, but I do not believe her. I would kill myself, were it not that Belus foretold to me that whatever troubles overtook me, all would be well at last. Fear nothing, for know that I will surely die rather than break my vows to you, because in death we shall meet again. Follow me, Ramose; the wisdom of Belus will teach you how, and find me, or my bones. I write this on the ship as we sail. Metep has found a messenger. Farewell, beloved Ramose; there is no time for more. Farewell.

"Myra."

I finished reading and gave the writing to Belus. Then in a cold voice that did not sound like my own, I said to the man,

"You are steward here, guard this place well, for it may be that I shall have to go upon a long journey. You have moneys of mine in your hands and more will be paid to you by my debtors and tenants as they fall due. Use them on my behalf. I trust all to you, but be sure that if you fail me, it shall go ill with you."

"I will not fail you, lord," he answered, the tears springing to his eyes, for he was a most honest and faithful man, "but oh! leave us not alone."

"That I must do for a while," I answered, and went.

"Where to?" said Belus as we entered the chariot which still stood at the door.

"My mother's house," I replied.

Soon, too soon, we were there.

"Would you not wish to see the lady Chloe alone?" asked Belus, who, I think, feared what I might say or do.

"No," I answered. "It seems that the lady Chloe cannot be trusted; therefore it is well that a witness should be present."

So he came with me unwillingly enough. We found my mother alone in her large chamber seated in a throne-like chair and very finely dressed. Indeed, she wore upon her beautiful head the little circlet of gold from which rose an ornament that might well have been an uraeus, that mark of royalty which she said Amasis had given her leave to bear, all of which showed me that she was expecting a visit from someone, though who it might be I never learned. Certainly it was not from me.

"Greetings, dear Ramose," she said confusedly. "I did not hope to see you. I—I understood that, that you had gone upon a journey on Pharaoh's business."

As she spoke she came forward as though to embrace me, but something in my face caused her to change her mind, for she shrank back and sat herself down again in the chair. I looked at her for a little while, thinking to myself that her words revealed that she knew the mind of Amasis as to my mission, which perhaps she had herself inspired.

"Why do you look at me so strangely?" she faltered.

"Where is my wife?" I asked slowly.

"Your wife! Have you a wife, Ramose? Surely you have not wed without telling me, your mother?"

"Where is my wife, Myra?" I repeated. "What have you done with her?"

"Oh! you mean your daughter, Myra, though you call her your wife in error. Why, as I thought you knew, she has left Egypt to become a queen. You must be very proud, Ramose, that your daughter should become a queen, as of course I am."

"Whose queen?" I asked.

"The queen of a very great king, perhaps the greatest in the world after Pharaoh—Nabonidus, Lord of Babylon."

"How comes it, Mother, that you have stolen away her whom you call my daughter, though you know well that she is not my daughter but my wife, to be forced into marriage with this old dotard of Babylon? Answer me and swiftly."

"I tell you that I thought you knew, Son. Also it was Pharaoh's will. The great king Nabonidus has sent one of his daughters to be wed to Pharaoh, as you will have heard, demanding in return a royal princess of Egypt to be his wife, the old queen of Babylon being dead, and Pharaoh wishes to make a close alliance with Nabonidus, so that Babylon and Egypt may stand shoulder to shoulder against Cyrus the Persian, should he threaten either of them."

Now in a flash all became clear to me, for I remembered the words of Amasis at Sais as to making a gift to Nabonidus, also how he had eyed Myra at the feast my mother made to him and asked her if she would not like to shine in a royal court. Lastly I remembered how my mother had slipped away up Nile to meet Pharaoh upon secret business. With a wave of my hand I stopped her talk, saying:

"Hearken while I set out this matter more clearly, I think, than you can do, Lady. Afterwards you can tell me if I have done so well. Does it not stand thus? Amasis, wishing to please Nabonidus and bind Babylon to Egypt, desired to send to him a royal princess to be his wife or woman. You may remember that he spoke of it at your table, grieving that there was no such princess who could be sent. Thereafter you and Amasis made a plot to rape away Myra, pretending that she was my daughter and that in her therefore ran some of the royal blood of the Pharaohs, although you knew well that she was not my daughter."

"I did not know, Ramose. I thought that you—lied to me on that matter, wishing to hide some sin of your youth."

"Who as you knew well was not my daughter," I repeated, "for often I told you so, as you knew that I took her to wife on that same day when owing to your plottings, Pharaoh dragged me after him to Sais, so that this woman-theft might be carried out in my absence."

My mother muttered something and began to wipe her eyes, while I went on,

"As soon as Belus and I were trapped after the marriage in the temple of Hathor, you loosed Pharaoh's dogs upon this defenceless girl, new made a wife; yes, you tore her, whom you hate, away and set her on Pharaoh's ship alone save for her old nurse."

"I deny it," she cried.

"Deny it if you will, but know that your spies did not watch her close enough. Here is the story in her own writing," and I held out the open roll.

Then my mother crouched down upon the seat, her elbows on her knees, her head upon her hands and listened, hiding her face from me.

"So she has gone," I said, "she, my wife whom I have reared from childhood, she whom I love better than all the world, better than my life, better than my soul; she has gone to become the plaything of an Eastern king—nay, to death, for that she will never be, it is written here," and I tapped the roll. "You have murdered her, as you, my mother, have murdered me, for be sure that if I find her dead, swiftly I shall follow after her to where there is justice, or sleep."

"Spare me, Ramose," my mother cried. "Whatever I did was for the best, for the glory of this proud girl who will be a queen—yes, a queen, and for your sake whom Pharaoh will advance and indeed already has advanced. Aye, and—for I will tell the truth—because I would be rid of her who has stolen your love from me. Did she not make you leave my house that you might live alone with her, and has she not built a high wall betwixt us over which we cannot climb, so that you, my only child, whom for years I thought dead, are now lost to me again?"

"If so," I answered, "in your hatred and vanity you have added to that wall till now it reaches from earth to heaven. For the rest, what you did was for your own sake and not for mine. What Amasis has paid you for this treason I do not know, or wish to learn. Perchance he has given you high rank such as pertains to the widows of kings who do not happen to be royal" (here she started, for this arrow had gone home), "or he has endowed you with great wealth and many titles. Let that matter be. Whatever you have gained, learn that you have lost a son. Were you not my mother, I think that I should kill you. As it is I leave you to be eaten up with your own shame. I do not curse you, because no man may curse the flesh that bore him; it is unholy. Nay, I do but leave you.

"Farewell, my mother, upon whose face I hope never to look again. When as Pharaoh's concubine you caused me to be born, you did me wrong though mayhap that was decreed. But when you stole from me all I love, oh! what a crime was that! Perhaps, blinded by a greed for pomp and vanities, you do not understand, yet one day you will. I go to seek her of whom you have robbed me, and to find her or to die. Whichever it may be, for you already I am dead. In this life, or any other, we are for ever separate."

I turned to leave her with these awful words, now in my old age I know how awful, echoing in her ears. Suddenly she seemed to awake from her lethargy. Rising from her seat she sprang upon me, she cast her arms about me. Sinking upon her knees she dragged me down to her. She kissed my garments, she babbled words of remorse and woe, she called me her babe, her darling. I thrust her from me and went. At the door I looked round to see her lying senseless upon the floor. I wonder did ever mother and son bid farewell in such a fashion and for such a cause, or have ever a woman's jealousy and love of empty pomp done a more evil work. Thus we parted, little guessing where we should meet again.

That night in a place where we lodged, for to my own house I would not return, Belus and I debated long and earnestly as to what we should do. Already he had been at work and learned through secret channels that were always open to him, who had many bound to him by ties I did not understand, that Myra had gone down Nile and with Metep had left Egypt in charge of that same splendid embassy of Babylonian lords and ladies who had brought the daughter or grand-daughter of Nabonidus to be a wife to Pharaoh. It seemed that no Egyptians went with her for a reason that could be guessed. Had they done so they might have talked and given the Babylonians cause to doubt whether Myra were really a princess of the blood of Pharaoh, though she was beautiful, wore royal robes and ornaments and had a regal air.

"Yes," I said to Belus, "but Metep can talk and so can Myra herself."

"Who would pay heed to a serving-woman whose throat can be cut if need be?" he asked. "As for Myra, doubtless all these plotters think that pride and desire of royal place will keep her silent; also fear lest should she be discovered, she would be put to death or made a shame of as a lying cheat."

"Yet she will speak, Belus."

"Aye, without doubt she will speak and prove all she says. Therein lies her peril, or mayhap the peril of Amasis against whom Nabonidus will be enraged, or the peril of both of them."

I wrung my hands who saw many pictures in my mind. Myra doing herself to death rather than be shamed: Myra being butchered or tortured or cast to soldiers by a furious Eastern despot: Myra escaping from all but to fall into the hands of Amasis who would certainly kill her in his rage, if only to hide his fraud. Yes, and others.

"Truly the gods have set a snare for us," I said.

"That which the gods tie the gods can loose, Ramose. Have faith, for there is no other crutch upon which to lean. My spirit is silent; having spoken to me once on that night when the lily that Myra wore seemed to rot, then grew white again in the water of the bowl, it speaks no more. Yet then it said that all should end well. Have faith therefore in my spirit, as I have, lest you should go mad. Come now, let us make our plans."

Taking such comfort as I could from these high words, I gathered up my strength that I might think with a clear brain. For long we talked, seeking light. This was the end of it. There was but one hope of saving Myra—to follow her whither she had gone. That, as it chanced, we could do, having wealth at our command and holding Pharaoh's commission, though in it I was spoken of not by name but only as "the bearer of these letters."

Under this, it is true, we were ordered to proceed to the court of Cyrus wherever it might be, but Susa, his capital, could be reached by way of Babylon, though this was not the shortest road. Therefore, making no complaint to Amasis as to the fate of Myra, for who can reproach a king and live? and leaving it to Heaven to avenge that sin upon him, we determined to proceed at once upon our mission, or so to pretend.

To be short, this we did. In a few days all was made ready. My wealth was great and we took with us not only a large sum in gold in addition to that which Pharaoh provided for the costs of the mission, but also written letters from my agents which would enable us to obtain money in the cities of the East. For the rest, discarding an escort we travelled unattended in the character of merchants desirous of opening up trade with Persia and other Eastern lands, but having hidden about us letters from the vizier of Pharaoh to all his agents and officers throughout the East, commanding these to give us help as it might be needed; also the secret despatch for Cyrus of which I have spoken, offering him the friendship of Egypt. Lastly we took other names, I calling myself Ptahmes, that by which I had been known in Cyprus, for none guessed that the merchant of Salamis and the Count Ramose were one man, while Belus once more became Azar, a buyer of Eastern goods.

Thus armed we started upon our search, determined if we lived to follow Myra wheresoever she might have gone. The question was—whither had she gone? We learned that the Babylonian embassy to which she had been given over, had departed to Damascus because it was said that Nabonidus the King was in that city, making a study of its antiquities and religion, having left his son Belshazzar to rule in Babylon. So joining a company of merchants at Pelusium we set out for Damascus.

Here I must tell how I noted at this time that Belus seemed filled with a strange joy which in such an evil hour I thought almost unholy.

"How comes it that you are glad, when my heart breaks, Belus?" I asked of him as we left Pelusium.

"Would you know?" he answered. "Then I will tell you; it is because that call is come of which I spoke to you in past days. In Babylon I have an enemy who has wrought me worse wrong than any that you suffer. Now after many years of waiting God gives him into my hand; now at length I go to be avenged upon him. I know not how, I know only that I go to be avenged. Ask me no more, Ramose."

I looked at him marvelling, and there was that in his eyes which counselled me to be silent.

XIII. BABYLON

Behold us at length in Damascus after weeks of weary travelling delayed by many accidents, and of suspense that ate up my soul, only to find that Nabonidus had left this city more than a month before. As secretly as we might we inquired whether a royal wife from Egypt had been brought to him while he dwelt there, and by some were told one thing, and by some another. It seemed certain that an embassy of his, returned from Egypt, had waited on him in Damascus, for so we were assured by Pharaoh's agent, a subtle half-bred Syrian, but whether they brought with them any lady to become one of his household was not certain. At least on this matter none would speak—least of all the agent who, we could see, suspected us notwithstanding our letters, for the Babylonians and their subject peoples held it a kind of sacrilege even to talk of women appointed to the king. Indeed our inquiries, veiled though they were, brought suspicion on us and after we had left Damascus, disaster.

Now having heard that Nabonidus had departed for Seleucia and that the embassy which came from Egypt had either accompanied, or followed him, to Seleucia we determined to go, sending a false report to Amasis of our reasons for so doing. Yet we never reached that place, for when we were five days journey from Damascus, of a sudden our caravan was attacked by men who seemed to be Arabs. In the darkness before the dawn they rushed upon us so that resistance was impossible. In the confusion Belus and I were separated. I was seized, being felled by a blow on the head as I was about to draw my sword.

"Bind him!" I heard a voice cry in the Babylonian tongue. "Harm him not, he is the Egyptian spy who pretends to be a merchant."

So bound I was and lay there among my captors, thankful that my life had been spared.

The light came and showed the Arabs, if such they were, going off with their spoil. The merchants with whom we had been travelling were also departing in a great hurry with what goods had been left to them. Looking about me I could see no dead, which caused me to think that the attack had been made either for plunder only, or for some other hidden purpose. Everywhere I searched for Belus with my eyes, but could see nothing of him. Certainly he was not among the fleeing merchants. I was taken to a tent that had been pitched, led by two men who when they reached it, threw off their Arab robes and revealed themselves dressed as Babylonian soldiers. In the tent were officers also of Babylon, and a man whom from his attire I took to be a scribe or priest. There, too, was my baggage already being examined, though not that of Belus, here known as Azar.

The officers bowed to me courteously. Then the chief of them said in the Accadian tongue,

"You take much wealth with you, traveller," and he pointed to the bags of gold that they had found.

I answered haltingly in the same language, which I pretended to speak but ill, that I was a merchant journeying to Iran to buy goods from the Persians.

"Yes," he replied with a grave smile, "we know that you go to deal with the Persians." Then he nodded to the soldiers who began to remove my garments.

"It is not needful," I said with dignity, "I admit that I am more than a merchant. I am also an ambassador from the Pharaoh of Egypt to Cyrus the great King."

"Indeed," answered the officer. "If that is so, what were you doing in Damascus making inquiry concerning offerings from Pharaoh to Nabonidus, king of Babylon? Did Pharaoh, whose ambassador you say you are, order you to travel to Susa by way of Damascus and Seleucia? Seeing that Babylon is at war with Persia, it seems a strange road."

Now I pretended not to understand, whereon the officer said sternly,

"Will you deliver up your letters to Cyrus, if you have any, or will you choose to be killed as a spy? Here is the rope from about your baggage and outside stands a tree that will serve to hang you on, seeing that according to our law it is not allowed to shed the blood of an envoy such as you say you are."

Now I thought for a moment. If I refused they would either hang me at once or take me to Babylon to be tormented, as was the barbarous fashion of these people. Also they would search my clothes and belongings piece by piece, and find the letters. Further, I did not wish to die who sought Myra, and lastly, I had little scruple in betraying the secrets of Amasis which indeed I could not hide, who began to believe that Amasis was for the second time betraying me. So without more ado I told them where the writings were, since my hands being tied, I could not produce them—the letter to Cyrus written in the Persian language sewn up in my undergarment and the letters to Egyptian agents cunningly hidden elsewhere, how I will not stay to describe.

"You speak our tongue better than you did at first, Ptahmes the Egyptian," said the officer as he handed the writings to the priest or scribe.

This man scanned them swiftly, and said,

"The letters to the agents of Egypt throughout the East are the same as that which this Ptahmes delivered to Pharaoh's officer in Damascus which we have seen. The letter to Cyrus the king seems to be written in a kind of secret script that I cannot decipher easily. It must go to Babylon with the prisoner who perhaps may be willing to read it to us himself."

I shook my head, saying,

"I am not able to do so, for I have not studied it; it was given to me to deliver—no more. But if you will find my travelling companion, Azar, who is learned in all these secret writings, perhaps he can help you."

This I said hoping to discover what had chanced to Belus.

The scribe looked at the officer as though in question and in obedience to some sign, answered,

"If you mean the Babylonian who was travelling with you, know, Egyptian, that when he was seized and in danger of his life, by tokens which we could not doubt, he revealed himself to be one of high rank among our people although he has been absent for long from Babylon, a priest and a magician also whom it was not lawful for us to detain. Therefore we let him go lest he should bring the curse of Marduk upon us. Whither he went we do not know, but being a magician perhaps he vanished away."

Now I understood that these people would tell me nothing of the fate of Belus, but whether this was because they were afraid of him, or because he had been murdered, I could not guess. So I remained silent. After this an inventory of all my goods, and especially of the gold, was made by the scribe, a copy of it being handed to me. Then my garments were returned to me, but the gold and the letters were set in a chest which was sealed by the scribe and by three of the officers, each of whom rolled upon the clay an engraved cylinder whereon were cut the images of his gods.

Afterwards my arms were loosed although my feet remained shackled, and I was given food. When I had eaten a camel was brought, upon the back of which were fastened two large baskets of woven willow twigs, hanging down on either side. In one of these baskets were placed all my goods, and in the other I was laid, the lid being tied down over me.

Thus I started upon my journey to Babylon, for thither the officer told me I must be taken to be examined by the king or his servants who, he added grimly, would know how to find out my true name and business. Three days did I pass in that basket, being lifted out of it only at night and to eat food, the most wretched days, I think, that I can remember.

Not only was I cramped and shaken, but my heart was as sore as my limbs. Everything had gone wrong. Myra was snatched away; Belus had vanished, leaving me alone, and, as I was sure and grew more so hour by hour, Amasis had betrayed me. Oh! now I understood. He had warned, or ordered his agents to warn the Babylonians of my mission to Cyrus, and given me letters to carry which would be certain to make them wrath with me and perhaps cause them to put me to death as a spy. Moreover I could not complain, seeing that instead of travelling straight to Susa, I had followed Myra into Babylonian territory as doubtless he guessed that I should do, and there was snared. Therefore I must suffer whatever befell me in silence and had no refuge save to trust in God. For always I have believed that there is a God who watches over those who put faith in him, though he be not named Ammon or Marduk.

On the fourth day of our journey, when I was almost overcome by the heat in my basket and misery of body and of mind, the officers took me out of it and set me upon a horse. At first I thought they did this from friendliness, or perhaps because they feared lest I should die upon their hands, but, having grown suspicious of all men, afterwards I came to believe that they had another motive. They hoped, I thought, that I should try to run away, when they would be free to kill me, for which reason two spearmen and two mounted archers always rode on each side of me. Whether or not this was their purpose I cannot tell, but certainly I had no mind to fly who knew not where to go. Moreover I wished to reach Babylon whither, as I gathered from the talk of the officers, Nabonidus the king had repaired, knowing that if so Myra would be there also.

At last one day shortly after dawn the walls of the mighty city arose before us out of the mists of the morning that the sun drew from its encircling river. Wonderful was the sight, most wonderful as the light fell upon those towering walls and upon the huge stepped mound where stood the temples of the gods, and upon the thousands of houses that stretched around. Never had I seen such a city. Compared to it Memphis and Thebes were but as little towns, and at any other time the vision of it would have rejoiced me who have always loved such prospects. But now when the officers asked me what I thought of Babylon, I could only answer that the trapped bird cares nothing for the glories of its cage, words at which they laughed.

All that day, save for a long halt during the hours of noon, we travelled slowly towards Babylon through cultivated gardens where thousands were at work. After these were passed we crossed the great river in a flat-bottomed boat which held both us and our horses, for here the baggage camels were left behind, and with them the brute upon which I had travelled in my basket for so many weary hours. Then we rode through more gardens till we came to a mighty gateway in the enormous outer walls that towered over us like a precipice of bricks. Beyond these was another wall with another gateway, and here we were delayed for some time till gorgeously apparelled, black-bearded men whom I supposed to be servants of the king, arrived to escort us.

These men who stared at me curiously, led us through league after league of streets crowded with people who hurried to and fro, taking heed of nothing save the business on which they were bent. So it went on till darkness fell, through which we were guided by men with torches. At length in the gloom I saw before me some vast building upon whose walls and roof burnt cressets of fire, and guessed that it must be a temple or a palace. In fact it was the latter, for presently we reached its door, or one of its doors, where I and all my goods were handed over to a guard and to certain men whom I took to be palace eunuchs. By these I was led down many passages to a chamber, not over large but well furnished with a bed and all that was necessary. Here food and wine were brought to me by one who locked the door behind him when he went away, leaving me alone save for the guard whom I heard pacing the corridor without.

That night passed but ill for me who after the air of the desert felt stifled in this hot chamber, which was in fact a prison as I judged by the small window-place barred with rods of copper and cut high in the wall where it could not be reached. Also I was very troubled. At length I had come to Babylon but oh! what had fate in store for me at Babylon?

In the morning more food was brought to me and clean garments, some of my own taken from my baggage together with a long white robe of soft material beautifully woven. When I asked the jailer what it was, he replied curtly that all who appeared in the presence of the king must wear this robe, but would say no more. So now I knew that I was to go before the king, which perhaps meant that after I had been questioned I should be executed as a spy. Well, if so, soon my sorrows would be done.

A little later the door opened again and with a guard there appeared a barber who set to work upon my hair, which had grown long during the journey, curling and scenting it. Next he cut my beard square in the Babylonian fashion, one that I much disliked who always wore it pointed. Then he washed me carefully and trimmed my nails, till at last I asked if I were going to a feast. The answer was, no, but that all who appeared before the king must be purified, also that this was a day of festival at the court when they must be made even purer than usual.

Scarcely had he finished rubbing me with his scented unguents till I smelt like some perfumed court darling, when a fat eunuch, richly apparelled, appeared at the head of an escort and having examined me as though I were a calf being led to sacrifice, commented that although an Egyptian, I was a fine-looking man fit to take a lady's fancy, and bade me follow him. This I did wondering whether some court woman of high degree had chanced to cast her eyes on me, and groaning at the thought. It was not so, however, for after passing through many passages and across courtyards we came to a curious doorway with stone gods or demons standing on either side, and going up some steps, entered an enormous pillared hall. All the lower part of this hall was empty, but at its far end a man sat upon a throne while about him, though at a distance, were gathered many court officers, also great princes and nobles, and behind him was a guard of soldiers.

The eunuch and those with him, even while they were still a long way off, bent down till they looked like monkeys climbing along a bough, and thinking it wise, I did the same. Thus we advanced up the great hall till we came to that part where the court was gathered. Now I found opportunity to examine the king who sat upon the throne, for he had taken no heed of our approach, but was engaged in studying a stone statue set upon a table near the foot of the throne, and in talking about it eagerly to a thin, tall, noble-featured and quick-eyed old man clad in a black robe, whom I took to be a doctor or priest, though by blood neither Babylonian nor Greek, nor Egyptian.

As for the king himself, he was a little, withered man of about seventy years of age with sharp, bead-like eyes that reminded me of those of a mouse, and a wrinkled, but shrewd and kindly face. He was clad in royal robes and ornaments which I noted became him very ill and seemed to trouble him, for the head-dress with the crown on it was twisted all awry and his golden, jewel-encrusted cloak had slipped from his shoulders; also the false, ceremonial beard he wore had become detached from his chin and hung loose round his neck.

"Behold the King of kings and be abased," whispered the eunuch in my ears, in a voice in which I thought I detected mockery.

"I behold him," I whispered back, and went on bowing.

"I tell you, holy Hebrew," said Nabonidus shrilly, "that you may be a very good prophet; but you understand nothing about gods."

"True, O King," answered the black-robed man in a deep and solemn voice, "I understand one god only. About these idols," and he looked contemptuously at the stone image on the table, "I know nothing and care less. Now I would speak to your Majesty of a pressing and important——"

"That is just where you are mistaken, Prophet Belteshazzar or Daniel, for that is your real name, is it not?" interrupted the king petulantly. "These idols, as you call them, are extremely powerful. Why, I dug up that one there under the foundations of an ancient temple that I am repairing, and have brought it to Babylon to add to my collection of the gods of my empire.

"Well, what has happened? The whole province whence it came is almost in revolt; indeed it threatens to make common cause with Cyrus the Persian, my enemy, or rather the enemy of Babylon, for personally we are on quite friendly terms and write to each other about antiquities. All this, if you please, because I have brought away the image of a god that none of their forefathers can have seen for generations, since the tablets buried with it, written in old Accadian, show that it was set beneath the angle of the temple, probably in a time of danger at least a thousand years ago. Yes, although they do not know the name of the god and have only a tradition that it was buried there in the day of some forgotten king or other, they are all up in arms because I have removed it. Yet you speak contemptuously of what you call idols and want to begin to talk of some other matter, I forget what. It would be more to the point, Prophet, if your familiar spirit would tell us the name of this one which I burn to discover."

The prophet called Belteshazzar or Daniel glanced at the stone image and shrugged his shoulders.

"Can no one tell me its name?" went on Nabonidus. "What is the use of a crowd of magicians who know nothing? If it is revealed to anyone here, upon my royal word he shall not lack a reward."

Now I who had been studying the statue, was moved to speak.

"May the king live for ever!" I said. "If it pleases the King to hear me, I say that this holy image is one of Ptah, a great god of Egypt; or perhaps of Bes, a Syrian god whose worship in Egypt began in the time of Amenophis III nearly a thousand years ago, or even earlier. Without examination I cannot say whether it be Ptah or Bes. But I know that both of these gods have been sent from Egypt at one time or another, to work miracles of healing at the request of the kings and princes of the East."

"Here at last we have one with wisdom," cried Nabonidus, clapping his hands. "But who is this man? A handsome one enough as I note, with the eyes and hair of a Greek."

The scribe advanced, bent the knee and whispered in the king's ear.

"Oh!" said Nabonidus, "I remember, that Egyptian spy about whom we were warned in a letter from——" and he checked himself. "Let me think. He purports and represents himself to be an envoy from our brother the Pharaoh of Egypt to Cyrus the Persian, our enemy. At least a commission was found on him and has been deciphered, which says so, though the name of the bearer is not mentioned, but probably it is forged. Indeed it must be forged in face of what we learn about the record of the man from Egypt. Also, if he had really been travelling to Susa, or wherever that dangerous Cyrus may be living at the moment, he would not have been found in Damascus, making secret inquiries about me, journeying not as an ambassador should with an escort, but disguised as a merchant. Lastly we were told that he is one of the greatest liars in Egypt, a man who cannot be believed upon his oath, and half a Greek, as indeed he looks."

Here the king brought his long soliloquy to an end and calling to a robed man whom from his ornamented head-dress and splendid broideries, I took to be a councillor or vizier, he said,

"What was it you told me ought to be done with this captive?"

"Spies are best dead, O King," replied the vizier coldly.

"True. Quite true. He ought to be sent to spy in the land of the gods where doubtless there is a great deal to find out. Yet it seems a pity to kill so goodly a fellow who is also no fool, especially as thanks to the warning, he was caught with his forged letters before he got away to Cyrus to report what he had learned in our empire, and therefore has not done us any harm. No, Vizier, I cannot be troubled to listen again to those wearisome documents and reports, especially as we have heard all about this evil-doer from Egypt. Is the Prince Belshazzar here? Oh! yes, I see he is. Come hither, Son, and give us your opinion. You are the real ruler of Babylon, are you not, which gives me leisure to attend to more interesting and important matters," and he glanced at the stone image on the table. "Therefore you should bear your share of the burden, such as deciding about executions, a business that I hate."

As he spoke, from the centre of a group of nobles who stood to the right of the throne, with whom he had been conversing carelessly while Nabonidus talked with the prophet about the image, appeared a splendid figure who wore upon his head something like a crown. He was middle- aged, for the hair upon his temples was turning grey, tall and broad, black bearded and eyed, hook-nosed and cruel-faced, with the thick moist lips of one who is led by his appetites. He came forward, bowed slightly to the king and looked me up and down, then full in the face. Our eyes met and at once I felt that this man was my enemy, one who hated me at first sight as I hated him, and was destined to work me evil. Yet I paid him back glance for glance till at length he turned his head, understanding, as I was sure, that I was no common fellow whom he could despise, and that if I had spied, it was for no mean reason.

"As you ask me, O King," he said in a thick, loud voice, "I agree with the vizier. This knave should be killed at once, or rather, tortured to death, for doubtless out of his agonies may come some truth that will be of service and value to us, also his real name, which for some unknown reason has not been revealed to us. Had I chanced to fill the judgment seat to-day, as it was settled that I should, if another matter had not brought you here, O King, such at least would have been my sentence."

My blood froze at these words, yet in some strange, calm fashion as though I were considering another's case and not my own, I was able to take note of all. Thus I saw the face of the prophet who was called Belteshazzar flush and his lips move as though he were uttering a prayer; I saw Nabonidus shake his head uneasily like one who hears counsel that is not to his taste; I saw the vizier smile in a cold fashion and the officer of the guard look towards the soldiers as though he were about to order them to hale me away, while the others glanced at me curiously to learn how I bore this hammer-blow of fate. Another instant and the king was speaking,

"You have heard, Egyptian," he said. "The prince yonder, who is really the judge of such matters, has spoken and it only remains for me to confirm his doom, as being in the judgment seat I must do according to the law before it can be carried out, for here in Babylon even the king is the humble servant of the law. Have you anything to urge upon your own behalf?"

"A great deal, O King," I answered; "more perhaps than you would have patience to hear. It is true that I am an envoy to Cyrus, sent to him upon business by the Pharaoh of Egypt, against my will, because Amasis wishes to make friends with all the rulers of the East. But that I am a spy is not true——"

Here Nabonidus held up his hand to silence me.

"Why waste your words," he said, "when you were found spying on behalf of Cyrus, and bearing forged letters which do not give your name; when, too, we have been assured from Egypt that you are the greatest of all liars? If you have nothing more to say I fear that I must bring this business to an end, as the vizier reminds me that another of more importance waits which also has to do with Egypt. So be brief, I pray you."

Now a fury entered into me that struck me dumb so that I could only answer mockingly,

"Then, O King, I grieve that I shall find no opportunity to examine yonder image," and I pointed to the statue on the table, "and to tell your Majesty whether it be that of Ptah or Bes."

"True," said Nabonidus, "and you understand about gods, do you not?"

"Yes, O King. I who am a philosopher and a student, understand about the gods of Egypt and their attributes; also about those of the East and those of Persia and of the farther lands beyond, as I could show you were the time given me."

"Is it so? Peace, Vizier, I know the lady waits. Let her wait. Am I of an age or taste to be in haste to marry again? Hearken, I will not be hurried. You need not frown at me, Belshazzar, for I do not heed you or anyone. I am still King of Babylon, the first Servant of Heaven with power of life and death. I refuse to condemn the man called—what is he called? Oh! Ptahmes, in this fashion. Take him aside to yonder gallery and keep him there, treating him well as a learned stranger. When the other business is finished I will speak with him again. Obey, lest some of you be shortened by a head. I bid you obey instantly," and he struck the arm of the throne with his sceptre.

Now his servants who knew well how these sudden furies of the weak but passionate old king could end if he were thwarted, namely, in the loss of their own lives or offices, sprang forward in a great hurry and led me away. We went through swinging doors and along a passage until we came to a stair hollowed in the thickness of the brick wall of the palace. Up this stair we climbed and at length reached a gallery set very high, near to the lofty roof indeed, and enclosed with a kind of wood lattice such as is common in Egypt, through which one could see without being seen.

The eunuch who accompanied me with the guard, wishing to please me lest by some sudden turn of the wheel of fortune, of a sort that often happens at the courts of these Eastern kings, I who a moment ago was about to be condemned to a lingering death, should become powerful and able to repay injuries, hastened to inform me that this was the place whence the ladies of the royal House were sometimes allowed to look down on ceremonies of state. He added that, whether by accident or skill, he did not know, it was so contrived that those who sat in it could hear all that was said below, whereas even if they were to shout, their voices would never reach those gathered in the hall.

I thanked him and seated myself upon a carved stool which he brought to me, in such fashion that through peepholes I could see everything that passed. As it chanced there was much worthy of note. The doors of the great hall had been thrown open and through them flowed a gaily dressed multitude of guests. Beyond these at the end of the hall, in that place where I had been judged, immediately beneath my gallery, many courtiers and officers were assembling before the throne, at the head of whom I noted the prince Belshazzar, he who had counselled that I should be tormented to death.

At first this throne was empty, for Nabonidus had left it for a while. When he reappeared I saw the reason, for now he was gorgeously apparelled and his head-dress and beard which had been disarrayed, were straightened, so that in his jewelled robes he wore the aspect of a great king.

XIV. THE PROPHET AND THE PRINCE

For a while from this high place I watched the scene wondering idly what it might portend, as a man does who knows not whether he has another hour to live. Indeed it was not till afterwards that the chatter of Nabonidus as to marrying again came back to my mind, which at the time was full of all that I had heard as to the hideous methods by which Eastern kings did their enemies, or those who were condemned as malefactors, to death, with fire and water and hooked instruments that slowly tore the vitals out of them in a fashion that was not known in Egypt. Also it was full of rage against Amasis who, as now I saw clearly, although he did not guess that it would bring me to Babylon, had sent me on this mission that it might be my last. For had he not betrayed me to these Babylonians, naming me a spy to make sure, as he thought, of the death of one of whom for his own reasons he would be rid by the hands of others, thus leaving his own unstained?

But when there arose a cry of, "The bride comes! The royal Lady comes!" every word of that talk as to taking another bride came back to me and I felt my heart stand still.

What if this bride, this royal lady should chance to be my own wife— Myra? What if I should be forced to witness the giving of her to that crowned dotard whose foolishness had just saved me from death, if only for an hour?

I turned to the eunuch and asked him what was the meaning of this ceremony, but either he did not understand my question or thought it unlawful to answer. At least he remained silent.

Now through the open doors came a number of fair women singing and dancing. Then followed musicians playing upon flutes and other instruments, and after them heralds who bore gifts upon cushions. Next appeared a litter surrounded by a guard of soldiers. The litter was set down, the guard withdrew to right and left. Waiting ladies of the royal household advanced and drawing the curtains of the litter, helped her who was within it to descend. She came forward and followed by a woman of short stature dressed in a plain robe, walked to an open space in front of the litter. Now I could see her well for the light from a high window fell upon her.

It was Myra herself and her attendant was the old nurse, Metep! Yes, thus again I saw Myra from whom I had parted months before outside the temple of Hathor at Memphis.

She was royally arrayed and wore, as I noted, all the wonderful jewels that were her heritage, also the crystal pendant containing the little pressed lily that I had given her after Belus had seen visions in the bowl at the Happy House in Memphis. Upon her breast too was the emerald cylinder covered with strange writing which was among the gems in the bag her mother had thrust upon me in the tent on the battlefield; for all these, and others, had been sent with her from Memphis. Further, upon her brow holding her hair in place, was a little golden circlet from the centre of which sprang the royal uraeus of Egypt; even at this distance I could catch the flashing of its jewelled eyes. Thus adorned she glided up the great hall, staring about her like one bewildered who knew not where she was or what she did, a vision of such wondrous beauty that a murmur of amazement arose from the lips of the assembled company.

She reached the space before the throne where but a few minutes before I had stood, a captive condemned to death, and halted there. In the pause that followed I could see the courtiers and the nobles bend forward to study her loveliness, and especially the bold eyes of the Prince Belshazzar fixed upon her face. Next, stiffly enough, the old king Nabonidus descended from the throne and coming to her, parted the thin transparent veil that covered her from head to foot, and kissed her on the brow. Thereon all cried,

"The great King accepts the royal Lady of Egypt. May the King live for ever! May the royal Lady, his wife, live for ever."

The echoes of this formal shout of welcome which announced that Nabonidus had taken another wife in the presence of his people, died away and suddenly Myra seemed to awake and began to speak. She spoke low, yet, as the eunuch had told me, that hall was so built that every syllable reached me in the high-set, secret gallery.

"Touch me not, O great King," she said in a voice of music and using the Babylonian tongue which she knew well, "for I am not worthy."

"What do you mean, Lady?" asked Nabonidus astonished. "It seems to me that both in beauty and by rank you are worthy of any king who ever sat upon the throne of Babylon."

"I have no rank, O King," she answered, "who was not born of the royal House of Egypt. Nay, I am but a foundling taken from my dying mother's breast upon the field of battle in the time of Merodach. Amasis, the Pharaoh of Egypt, for his own purposes has deceived you, O King. He stole me away from my home because I am well-favoured, and palmed me off upon your envoys as a princess of the line of Pharaoh. This coronet I wear is not mine, O King," and with a sudden motion she tore the uraeus circlet from her brow and flung it away, so that her abundant hair was loosed and fell down about her.

From all who heard these bold words came mutterings and gasps of astonishment, for that such an affront should be put upon the majesty of the King of Babylon seemed to them impossible.

Nabonidus lifted his hand and they were silent. Then he said,

"If what you say is true, Lady, the Pharaoh of Egypt has done me a great wrong and one which many would seek to wash away in blood. But is it true? And even if it be true, well, I have accepted you and your mien is fair and royal if your blood be not. Though indeed," he added as if to himself, "to me who am so old, fair women royal or other now are naught."

He thought for a moment, then continued, "This is a tangled coil, but if you can prove what you allege, it still seems best and would do you least dishonour that you should enter the palace as one of the ladies of my household."

"It cannot be, O King," said Myra in a strained voice and I saw the pearls upon her breast quiver as she spoke.

"Cannot be! Why cannot it be?" he asked sternly, adding, "Great kings do not listen to such words."

"Because, O King, I am already wed and therefore unmeet for the royal household. Spare me, O King," and she sank to her knees, stretching out her arms in supplication.

"Already wed!" he exclaimed shrinking back from her, while some of those present in tones of horror echoed the words, "Already wed!"

For as I learned afterwards, for ages no such sacrilege had been known as that one who was married should be given to the Great King as a wife or as a member of his household.

"Let the woman be taken away," said a voice, I think it was that of the vizier who had interpreted the king's motion as an order of death.

"Nay," exclaimed Nabonidus, "I did not speak. If her story be true, namely that she was torn from her home and sent hither to me disguised as a royal princess of Egypt in return for my daughter given to Pharaoh, then the blame is Pharaoh's and not hers, and with Pharaoh we must settle our account. But I repeat—is it true? Though that a woman should lie upon such a matter, thus throwing away the place of Queen of Babylon, seems strange, unless love drives her. Lady, have you any evidence to your tale?"

Myra, still upon her knees, looked over her shoulder and said in the Egyptian tongue,

"Come hither, Nurse, and tell the king who I am and how I came here."

So Metep stood forward staring about her in a bewildered fashion, for she had understood no word of all this talk in the Babylonian tongue. Soon it was seen that she could only speak through an interpreter. After some search an officer was found who knew Egyptian, though not too well for he spoke it haltingly and with a foreign accent. At length he asked her whether it was true that her mistress was married.

Metep answered, "Yes, she is married, unless the priests of Hathor are all liars," and then began a rambling story of how Myra had been taken away from the Happy House by the servants of Pharaoh with whom came the great lady, Chloe, and how she had clung to the doorway pillars till they dragged her arms apart, a tale that caused me to grind my teeth with rage. Still it was one of which the king soon wearied, especially as the officer interpreted but ill.

"This old woman is a babbling fool," he said. "Let her be silent. Is there no other here who can speak of this matter? If not the lady had best be removed to the women's court and set among those to whom the King has bidden farewell, until our pleasure concerning her is known."

Then suddenly there stepped forward a man clad in the robe of a Babylonian astrologer, for on it and on his pointed cap were painted stars and other strange emblems. By the gods, it was Belus! Yes, Belus himself and no other, and oh! my heart leapt at the sight of him.

"Who is this?" asked Nabonidus.

"May it please the King," answered Belus, "I am one whom the King once knew well, before he was called to the throne of Babylon. Yes, I sprang from one who sat upon that throne before him. I was scribe and astrologer in the royal household; a priest also of Marduk and of Ishtar, the Queen of Heaven. In those days I, who am now known as Belus, or as Azar, had another name which the King may remember. If not I will whisper it in his ear," and stepping forward he bent his head and said something that caused Nabonidus to start. Then retiring, he went on,

"The King will recall my story. I was married but had not lost my wife who left me with a daughter. That maiden was exceedingly fair. She was stolen from me, it matters not by whom"—here I thought that he glanced at Belshazzar who I saw was listening intently. "The maid was one of spirit and because she fought against fate, she was murdered. Her body was thrown into the river and found with a letter in her robe that told all the tale. If the King would see that letter, I have it here. I sought redress but found none. Therefore I left Babylon and went to dwell at the court of the Pharaoh of Egypt, leaving behind me my curse on those by whom I have been wronged."

Here again I thought that he glanced towards Belshazzar.

"Never have I returned to Babylon although I still have friends here to whom I write from time to time. These can testify of me, as can the masters of magic and the readers of the stars with whom I am ever in communion. Yet fate has brought me back to Babylon, as soon or late, I knew well that it would do. Now is the King satisfied that I am a true man, to prove which I have told him all this story?"

"I am satisfied and I accept the story which to my sorrow, I have heard before, O friend of my youth," answered Nabonidus.

"Then if the King will be pleased to listen, I will witness concerning this lady whom I have known from childhood. As she has said, she was taken from the arms of her dying mother when an infant after the great battle between the Egyptians and the Babylonians, in which the Prince Merodach commanded the forces of Babylon, for I saw her brought to his tent by the Egyptian captain who found her, and with her those jewels which she wears to-day. That captain who was my friend and with whom I dwelt, nurtured her to womanhood, all supposing that she was his daughter, till at length, but a little while ago, he took her to wife. Immediately afterwards she was stolen away by the Pharaoh of Egypt and, because of her great beauty and royal bearing, was sent in the character of a princess of Egypt to be a wife to your Majesty."

"A trick for which Pharaoh shall pay dear, especially as I have touched her with my lips and therefore accepted her as my wife," explained Nabonidus. "Yes, and my wife she must remain until I die, for is it not an ancient law that what the King of Babylon does in council before the people can never be undone?"

Now when I heard these words in my watching-place, hope left me, as I think it did Myra, for I saw her tremble and rest her hand on the shoulder of Metep as though she were about to fall. Still I set my teeth and listened on.

"What is the name of the man to whom this lady is wed, and what his station, O friend of my youth now known as Belus and travelling under that of Azar?" asked the king.

"His name is Ramose, O King, one who in my company follows after learning and holds high office in Memphis in Egypt. By birth he is a son of Apries, late Pharaoh of Egypt, having a Grecian lady called Chloe for his mother."

Now the vizier whispered something in the ear of the king, who nodded and said,

"Therefore one of whom the present Pharaoh, the slayer of Apries, would wish to be rid. Oh, now I see all the plan. The husband who sheltered the child as his daughter and afterwards made her his wife, is the bastard of a Pharaoh of the true descent and thus has royal blood in his veins. Hence she, the supposed daughter, is called a royal princess and as such declared to be a fit wife for the Majesty of Babylon. Truly a plot well worthy of the base-born venturer who sits upon the throne of Egypt."

He paused, his old hands shaking with wrath, then turned to Myra and asked,

"Much wronged Lady, what am I to do with you?"

"O King, I pray you give me back to my husband whom I love and who loves me."

"Where is your husband?"

"O King, I do not know. When I left Egypt in charge of your officers I heard that Pharaoh detained him at his court. Perchance Belus there knows, for never have they been separated for many years."

"If so, Belus may be wise to keep silent, lest Pharaoh should learn his answer," said the king warningly. "Listen, Lady, according to our law you are now my wife. The past matters not, I have touched you with my lips and you are the wife of the King of Babylon. Is that not the law, Vizier?"

"It is, O King," he replied, bowing. "Henceforward if any man ventures to look upon this woman, yea, even though he were once her husband, he must die, and if she shares his guilt she must die with him."

"You hear, Lady," said the king.

"I hear," she whispered.

"Yet," he went on, "be sure that you have naught to fear from me who do not wish to anger the gods by such a sin, and therefore lest you should be troubled on this matter, you shall not enter into my household. Nor can you be sent back to Egypt for many reasons, and above all for your own sake, for then Pharaoh Amasis would be avenged upon you who have betrayed his villainy. Where then must you go?"

"To the tomb, I think," she answered in a faint voice. "There alone are rest and safety."

"Nay," answered the old king looking on her with kind eyes, "you are too fair and over-young to die. Who knows what the gods may have in store for you? Yet what am I do to with you?"

Now I saw that black-robed, thin-faced, dreamy-eyed old man who was called Daniel or Belteshazzar and a prophet, step forward out of the crowd of courtiers. He came to Myra and studied her face. Next he dropped his eyes and stared fixedly at the emerald amulet which hung beneath the pearls and other ornaments upon her bosom. Then he turned to the king and said,

"May the King live for ever! It is revealed to me, O King, that this lady is by blood one of a captive people who dwell in this kingdom, that of the Hebrews, to which I too belong. Never before have I beheld her, still I say it is revealed to me. O King, it has pleased you and some who sat upon your throne before you to show me favour and to make me a ruler in your land."

"We know your story, O Prophet Belteshazzar," answered Nabonidus in a voice that was touched with awe, "and that you are favoured and protected by your God with whom you commune day and night. It is needless to repeat it before those who have seen your miracles. If you have any petition to make concerning this woman, speak on, remembering that having been accepted by me, under our law which may not be changed, she can be given to no other man who lives."

"I have a petition to make, O King," answered the prophet. "The King knows what I am and my manner of life. Let this lady and her servant be given into my charge till the will of God concerning her is known. Meanwhile I swear that during the King's lifetime she shall be visited or spoken to by no other man, and thus the law of Babylon as to those who have been accepted by the King, shall not be broken. Let officers be set about my house to watch the fulfilment of my oath."

Nabonidus thought a while; then he said wearily,

"I tire of this business. Scribes, write down my decree. I command that the woman named Myra, whom I accepted believing her to be a royal princess of Egypt given to me in exchange for that royal lady of Babylon whom I have sent as a wife to Pharaoh, but who it seems is already wed to another man and therefore unfit to enter my household, shall be placed in the charge of Belteshazzar, my servant, a prophet of the people of Judah, to hold in ward until my pleasure concerning her is known. I command that a guard be set by day and night about the dwelling of the prophet Belteshazzar, to make sure that this woman has no converse with any other man. If she is found in company or speech with any man save the prophet, let her and that man be slain. Now touch my sceptre, both of you, O Prophet, and Woman Myra, in token that you acknowledge my decree."

So saying he stretched out a little golden rod that all this while he had held in his hand, first to one of them and then to the other, thereby assuring them of safety and making his word unchangeable.

They touched the sceptre; the stern-faced, black-robed prophet bowed to the king and beckoned to Myra to follow him. A guard formed round them and they departed from the hall of audience by a side entrance. Myra, who seemed crushed with grief, leaning on the shoulder of Metep, for she tottered as she walked. Her path led her past the spot where the Prince Belshazzar, governor and vice-king of Babylon, stood surrounded by his courtiers. He bent forward and stared at her in a fashion of which none could mistake the meaning, then uttered some jest to the lords that caused them to laugh and the prophet to turn his head and look at him as though in rebuke. Next this Belshazzar advanced to the throne and said something to the king in a low voice which I could not catch. Whatever it may have been it angered Nabonidus, for he flushed and replied wrathfully,

"What I have said, I have said, who am still king in Babylon, and it shall go ill with any who defy me, yes, even with you, Prince."

In the silence that followed these threatening words, he waved his sceptre, thereby declaring the court at an end, left the throne and departed attended by his officers.

Belshazzar watched him go, then he shrugged and said in a loud and angry voice to his attendants,

"Even kings do not live for ever and their decrees die with them. Soon I will find yonder lovely one a gayer home than the cell of that black Hebrew wizard," a speech at which some laughed and others looked afraid, for it was treasonable.

The great hall emptied, the glittering crowd pouring through the doorways like a stream of gold and jewels. Soon they were all gone. For a while I sat on in the secret gallery so overwhelmed with what I had endured that I could scarcely think. At last a messenger came who whispered to the watching eunuch. Thereon he touched me on the shoulder and led me away surrounded by the guard. I went, wondering whether I was being taken to my death. But it was not so, for presently once more I found myself in my prison where they left me alone.

XV. RAMOSE FINDS FRIENDS

They brought me food but I could not touch it, though of their strong wine I drank a goblet or two which gave me back what I seemed to have lost, the power to think.

Strange and dreadful was my case! I had found Myra but to lose her again for ever, although for the present she had escaped violence and was left alive in what seemed to be safe hands, those of the Hebrew prophet about whom such marvellous tales were told and who was feared of all.

I who was a student of the customs of foreign nations, well knew those of Assyria and Babylon, and indeed of all the monarchs of the East, namely that women were their chattels and that any who once had passed their doors and entered their presence, were sealed to them for ever and under pain of death might henceforward be seen only by other women and by eunuchs. The man who spoke to them was doomed, even though he were a brother; they were dead to the world. Such was the lot of Myra which perhaps she might have escaped, had she but spoken earlier before, moved by her beauty, the old king accepted her. Yet how could she speak who did not know or understand?

Stay! Belus whom I thought lost, had appeared again clothed with power and as a friend of the king, who it seemed had been a companion of his youth. In Belus there was hope. Yet what could Belus do? He might so work that my life would be spared, for which if Myra were lost to me, I should not thank him—no more. And that beetle-browed, fierce-eyed Belshazzar, that prince of evil fame, the real king in Babylon, who but for some chance, if there be any chances in the world, would have sat that day upon the seat of judgment—what of him? He had cast eyes of longing upon Myra, and what he desired soon or late he would surely take, as he had declared but now, unless indeed she escaped him by the gate of death. Oh! my strait was sore and I had naught on which to lean, save trust in God, if there were any god who paid heed to the miseries of us poor mortals and stretched over them the shield of justice.

Yet life still remained to us and while we lived all might be retrieved, for the last throw had not been cast. In my agony I prayed, not knowing to whom or to what to pray,

"O Power that made the world," I cried in my heart, "O Strength unseen, unknowable, that drew us out of darkness and set us on this gaudy, changeful stage, whence presently we must fall into Death's deeper darkness. O vast Intelligence that deviseth all, O Beginning and End that is no end; O Point of Time and Circle of Eternity, hear me, the mote of dust blown by thy breath. Help me and her thou gavest me who has been made the sport of vanity and statecraft. Save her from shame and of thy mercy give us who love each other, our little hour of light before we are borne back into blackness. Rob us not of the common gift that is poured upon beast and bird and flower—the joy they know beneath the glory of the sun. Or if this may not be, let us pass hence swiftly and hand in hand go to seek that which lies beyond the sun."

In some such words I prayed and as the last of them passed my lips, the door opened and a messenger appeared.

"Rise up," he said. "The Great King commands your presence."

A guard following me, I went with him to the private apartments of the palace. We passed through many that were gorgeous to a large plain chamber, well lit from the roof. Here upon a chair set against a table, sat a man whom at first I did not know, a little withered old man dressed in such a robe as workmen wear. Looking at him again I perceived that it was none other than Nabonidus the king stripped of all his finery and engaged in eating a meal. The food was simple. On the bare table were a jug of wine and a goblet or two, all of them, as I knew who collect such things, dating from ancient days. Then there was bread, and with it a bird cut up upon a platter, cheese made of goat's milk and a handful of onions. Such was the fare of this monarch of the earth.

I prostrated myself, but he called to me to rise, saying,

"We are not at court here. You are the Egyptian who understands about gods, are you not? Well, have you eaten after all that wearisome ceremony?"

I replied that I had not, whereon he added,

"Then come sit down and take some of this duck, if you can get your teeth through it, which I can't. And if not, the bread and the cheese are good and soft, and the country wine not bad. Don't stare at me, you fool of a eunuch! Of course I know he can kill me if he likes, but he won't, for learned men, and I take it he is one of them, who study and seek out the secrets of the past never kill each other—except with their tongues. Also if he did, I am not certain that I should be sorry. There is so much that I cannot learn in this world, that I rather look forward to another where if there are thrones, may it please the gods I shall not fill one of them. Out you go, Eunuch, and take that guard with you. I hate to see them watching me, and the shining of their swords, and to listen to the clatter of their armour. Swords to stab and armour to turn them, and war, war, war, these are the world into which an evil fate has cast me, and I weary of them all. Don't stand there stammering. Out you go! If he kills me, you can kill him afterwards, and we will continue our discussion elsewhere. But I tell you he won't."

So the eunuch and the guard went, unwillingly enough, staring first at Nabonidus and then at me.

"Now come and sit down," said the king. "There isn't another stool, or at least they all have things on them, but that old pottery coffin will do as well. I often use it myself."

"O King, I am unworthy," I began.

"By Marduk, or by Ishtar, or by Ammon of Egypt, whichever you prefer, that is for me to judge, not for you. Don't waste time, man. Look at all the relics I want to talk to you about," and he pointed to long tables on which stood a number of stone gods, among them those that I had seen in the hall of audience and trays full of inscriptions graved upon clay or marble tablets and cylinders.

So I sat myself upon the old pottery coffin which, I observed, still had bones inside it, and began to eat. For now, I know not why, my appetite had returned to me; perhaps hope was working in my heart.

"I did you a favour just now, Egyptian," said the king, with a chuckle. "When I told them to fetch you, they answered that they feared it was too late, as my son Belshazzar had issued an order for your execution in my name, perhaps because he thought I meant you to die after all, or because he wished to be rid of you, I don't know which. However, he won't do that again, for I commanded that his people whom he was sending on the business, should be seized and beaten on the feet until they can only crawl away upon their hands and knees. Really," he added reflectively, "it is Belshazzar who should suffer, not his servants. Only you see he is almost as much a king as I am. That's the way of the world, isn't it? One offends and others pay for it. I daresay it works well in the end, as it teaches them and the rest not to have to do with those who do offend."

"I thank the King," I said, thinking to myself that it was not strange that my heart had been so heavy in my cell.

"Don't thank me for I owe you a good deal—take a cup of wine, won't you, and look at the carving on that goblet before you drink, for it is beautiful, of the third dynasty of Ur. See the lion. We can't do such work nowadays. Fill mine first that I may drink to show you it isn't poisoned. I have never poisoned a man yet, which is more than most kings can say."

I did as he bade me and we both drank.

"Now listen," he went on as he set down his cup. "Your real name is not Ptahmes but Ramose of whom, before you appeared here as a spy, I have heard as a scholar and a collector in Cyprus, for I know the names of all the really learned men. Don't deny it for I have just had a private talk with my old friend Belus. Of course I know that you are not a spy. You are a son of Apries, are you not, one of whom that dog, Amasis, wishes to be rid because of the blood in you which he and his son have not got; also for other reasons?"

"It is so, O King, yet of old days this Amasis showed himself a good friend to me because I pleased him as a soldier, though once since he became Pharaoh, when in his cups, he did threaten my life at my own table. Now if he would have me killed I think it is for another reason."

"Perhaps, Ramose. Who knows the reasons of such a low-bred man? They are as hidden as his parents. But this I can tell you. Through those who serve him in this kingdom he caused me to be warned that you were a dangerous fellow, believed to be the bearer of forged writings purporting to appoint you an envoy from Egypt to Cyrus the Persian, whereas really you were in the pay of the said Cyrus."

"It is false, O King. Let the writings that have been taken from me, be carefully examined and it will be seen that they are not forged. Also I was forced to this embassy; why I have learned to-day."

"Which if you had carried out you would have found an evil one, for doubtless Cyrus is also warned against you. Oh! your Amasis is a rat! He is afraid of Babylon and he is also afraid of the Persians, with more reason perhaps for I think their star rises in the East. Therefore he tries to play off one against the other and to pretend himself the friend of both. But tell me, Ramose. If you thought yourself an ambassador to Cyrus, what were you doing making secret inquiries in Damascus?"

"I sought one whom I had lost, O King."

"So I have learned. You and no other are the same Ramose who is the husband of that most beauteous lady who to-day was delivered to me as a wife, to bribe me to a friendship with Egypt, but who it seems was stolen from you by Amasis, pretending that he believed her to be your daughter and therefore with royal blood in her. Had I seen Belus first and known all the story, never would I have accepted her. But I did not until it was too late and she was so exceedingly fair that for a flash of time I thought myself young again, as old men do at moments, and received her in the ancient, accepted fashion, which perchance you saw."

"Yes, I saw it all," I answered with a groan.

"Therefore, Ramose, it is finished," he went on. "For even a king of Babylon with all his power cannot hand over to any other man a woman whom once he has publicly acknowledged as his wife, because if he did so, he would earn the curse of the gods—or of their priests—and bring contempt and mockery upon his name. Yet I have done what I could for you and her. I have placed her in the keeping of the holy saint who confounded one that went before me, and who is feared and honoured throughout my kingdom as a mighty magician; a half-god; not of it, but dwelling on the earth. With him she will be safe, for there are no men in his house where even the boldest dare not molest her, no, not Belshazzar himself—while I live," he added slowly as though to warn me.

"Still our case is evil, O King, who are wed and love each other, and yet under pain of death must always be separate."

For a while the old man went on munching the brown barley bread with his toothless gums and gazing at me. Then he said,

"Perhaps not quite so evil as you think, friend Ramose. Listen. I will tell you what I hide even from my physicians and astrologers. From the physicians because they cannot help me; from the astrologers because it will save them and their stars the trouble of providing favourable omens and interpretations that will never be fulfilled. I shall not be here long, friend Ramose, at least above the ground. At times my heart seems to stop, especially if I am hurried or angered, and I descend into a pit of blackness and walk upon the edge of death. It did so when I learned of the trick of Amasis and again now for an instant, when I grew wrath because Belshazzar for some dark reason of his own had commanded that you should be killed against my will. Well, soon I think I shall walk over that edge and there will be an end."

"May the gods forbid it! May the King live for ever!" I said earnestly, for forgetting its own troubles my heart went out towards this kindly old man to whom majesty brought so little joy.

"May the gods do nothing of the sort, Egyptian, for I think a fate is falling upon Babylon which I do not wish to live to see. While I have strength I cling to the throne that, if I can, I may shield her from the folly of those who refuse to make peace with this upstart Persian, Cyrus, who is yet a great man. When I am gone let Belshazzar and his young counsellors follow their own road to ruin. I read in your eyes that you are honest, also Belus has made report to me of you; were it otherwise I should not speak thus with a stranger, but it seems that after all you are only a flatterer like the rest with your—'May the King live for ever!' Being wise, you know that kings do not live for ever, unless indeed that is the lot of all elsewhere. Still I forgive you who being much shaken and afraid seek to speak smooth things."

"It is true, pardon me, O King."

"Let it be and hearken. When a king of Babylon dies the ancient and inviolable law is loosed and, within a year, the women of his household, save the mother of the new king, may marry and go where they will. Then will be your opportunity as regards this lady Myra, if you can win her out of the grasp of any who would hold her fast in Babylon, and especially of one whom I will not name who desires her and, as I hear, already has sworn to take her. Therefore you must stay on here in this city where your goods shall be restored to you with my pardon for all that you may have done. It is in the hands of the gods. May they give you strength and wisdom. Meanwhile keep to your false name of Ptahmes and, if you would live, let none guess that you are Ramose, the husband of Myra. I have spoken. Now let us talk about other things."

Then, dismissing my private business to which he had given so much thought in the goodness of his kind heart, he began to speak wisely enough of the old gods whose images stood about in this chamber, of their history and worshippers, of the cities where he had found them, of the temples that he had built or restored, and I know not what besides.

As it chanced of many of these matters I knew a great deal, having studied the attributes of the gods of many lands, comparing them one with another and tracing their rise and fall with that of the countries or cities which worshipped them, or how they changed their characters and names as it might suit their priests to make them do. So it came to pass that we talked on, as learned man to learned man, until at length the dusk began to gather and I saw that the old king grew weary, for he leaned back in his chair, put his hand upon his heart, closed his eyes and sighed. I watched him anxiously and especially a blue tinge which appeared upon his lips, not knowing what to do, who was sure that if he died when I was alone with him, it would be laid to my door and my life would pay the price.

Presently, however, he recovered and ordered me to strike upon a bell which stood near by. Instantly attendants and guards appeared who all this while had been gathered without, and with them one of his private scribes.

To this man the king dictated words which he wrote down. They were an order of pardon to me, Ptahmes the Egyptian, or rather a declaration of my innocence of all that was laid to my charge. Also a decree that I should be set at liberty, furnished with apartments in the palace and sustenance as the king's guest, and have right of access to the king at all times that he could receive me. This writing he sealed in duplicate with his own seal, and gave one copy of it to me, commanding that the other should be made known to all the officers and governors of the palace and of Babylon, and then filed in the temple of Marduk, that thenceforward I might be safe in my going out and my coming in and that everyone might do me reverence as the king's friend.

These things done he waved his hand, thus bidding me farewell and I was led away, no longer as a prisoner but with every honour, the soldiers saluting and eunuchs and chamberlains bowing down before me.

Such were the changes of fortune that I experienced on this, my first day in Babylon, and such were the strange happenings that befell me.

They led me to beautiful apartments high up in the old part of the palace that, as I was told, in the days of dead kings had served as the lodgings of envoys from foreign courts. Here I found all my goods, and with them the gold that had been taken from me, yes, to the last piece, and even the letters of Amasis and his officers, that should have brought about my death, though these were given to me later. Having been acquitted and honoured by the king, everything against me was forgotten; I was as another man. Palace servants waited on me, bringing delicate food and wine, palace minstrels played upon many strange instruments while I ate; even palace dancing girls appeared in light attire, but these I sent away being in no mood for their blandishments.

I ate, or pretended to eat, because I was ashamed to refuse the food with so many eyes watching me. I drank as much as I should drink, or perhaps more, because I needed the comfort of wine, and afterwards sat and brooded alone at an open window-place. Thence I could see much of the mighty city of Babylon over which shone the full moon, the towering temples, the gleaming river, the vast encircling walls, the palaces, the gardens, the populous streets whence rose the hum of a million voices, the flaring signal fires and cressets upon pinnacles and pillars, and a thousand other spectacles that were new to me.

But these moved me not, for always my eyes wandered over the sea of roofs, wondering beneath which of them dwelt that piercing-eyed old man, the Prophet Daniel, or Belteshazzar, of whom such marvellous tales were told, and with him, Myra, my heart's desire.

Now that I thought of it, Belus had spoken to me of this magician long ago, saying that he had interpreted the dreams of Nebuchadnezzar. Yes, even when the king had forgotten what they were, and thereby had saved the lives of all the wise men and seers whom, in his fury, the king purposed to put to death. Also, interpreting another dream, he had told him that because he thought himself greater than God, God would make him as a beast in the field, so that he would run about naked in his garden and eat herbs like a beast. This indeed came to pass, since before his end Nebuchadnezzar was smitten with madness. Yet he greatly honoured Daniel or Belteshazzar as he was named in Babylon, worshipping him as one divine, and promoted him to be the ruler of Babylon after the king, a rank that it seemed he still retained at least in name. Therefore Myra was more safe with him than any other. Yet was she safe? Remembering the devouring glance and the words of the fierce-eyed Belshazzar, the real king of Babylon, I asked myself— Oh! was she safe?

Why not—if this Daniel were the servant and minister of the true God and could throw his mantle over her? But was there any true god who had power in a world where dwelt so many devils? Alas! I did not know who for all my seeking, had never found him, though at times, it is true, I thought that I had kissed his feet.

There came a challenge at my door where it seemed a guard was set, a word spoken, the rattle of a sheathed sword and the clank of bolts. A man entered looking about him. As he moved his head the lamplight fell upon his face, and I saw that it was Belus! I remember that I ran and threw my arms around him, and that he kissed me on the brow as a father might do, for indeed he was the only true father I had ever known. Then, having made sure that we were alone, we sat down and talked.

"Fortune has not gone so ill with us, Ramose, or rather Ptahmes, for that name is safer here," he said. "When a while ago we were parted on that journey to Seleucia I scarcely thought to see you again living. They seized me and to save myself from death, I declared to the king's scribe who accompanied them, what I have hid even from you—my true lineage which is high enough, seeing that through my mother, the king Nabonidus and his son Belshazzar are my kinsmen. Also I showed my rank as a priest of Ishtar and one of the first of the College of Astrologers, and proved what I said by a certain writing and by tokens that I carry hidden about me.

"They bowed before those holy tokens and instantly I was hurried away in a chariot, that I might be brought into the presence of the king and my tale confirmed by the Councils of the priests and the astrologers at Babylon. I prayed earnestly that you might come with me but it was not allowed, which, had not my spirit told me otherwise, would have caused me to believe that you were dead, for of your fate they would say nothing.

"I reached Babylon before you, travelling very swiftly by the king's posts and though I could not see Nabonidus my cousin, because he was sick and might not be disturbed, I appeared before the Councils, among whom were men who had known me well in my youth. I was given back my rank among the companies of the priests and the watchers of the stars, which indeed I had never forfeited as the records showed, who had left the land by the leave of Nebuchadnezzar, to gather learning in other countries which I might share with my companions in Babylon, as I have done year by year. So very swiftly, as though it had been decreed, all went well with me and now once more I am a man of high rank and station in the great city, also as it chances, a relative by blood of that King of kings who to-day sits upon the throne."

"And how did you learn what had happened to me, and to Myra, Belus?"

"I made inquiry, but having so little time, could discover nothing because your fate after you were taken prisoner was not yet known, and of Myra who came to be wife to the king, if any knew they would not speak because of the strange laws of Babylon as to the women of the royal household. Not till early this same morning was I sure that you were in Babylon and, because the matter was urgent, would at once be brought before the king for judgment, also that afterwards the royal lady, as they thought her, who had been sent from Egypt to be wife to the king, would be presented to him in the presence of the councillors and nobles, that the friendship between Babylon and Egypt might be thus publicly proclaimed. I strove to see you and to send a letter to Myra, but it was impossible, for both of you were too closely guarded. I strove to see the king, but this also was impossible for, having been sick, he was still asleep and would not rise from his bed till the hour came for him to attend the court, as by good fortune he had suddenly determined to do at the time of the uttering of judgments, to settle some matters concerning a holy statue about which there was trouble because it had been brought to Babylon. Do you know the rest?"

"Yes, Belus, for after my trial I was hidden away high up in a secret gallery of the women where I could see all and hear every word that passed. I tell you when I beheld Myra standing beneath me in her beauty, and saw that old king so moved by it that he forgot his years and weakness and, descending from his throne, embraced her, thereby receiving her as a wife according to the ancient customs, I thought that my heart would burst. Oh! why did she not speak sooner, for then, being good-hearted, he might have spared her?"

"Doubtless because it was so fated, Ramose, for her good—and your own. If the king had rejected her as some common cheat trapped out to ape a royal lady, she would have been driven from the Presence to fall into the hands of the first who chose to take her. Whose would they have been, Ramose?"

"Do you mean those of the Prince Belshazzar?" I asked.

"Yes, I do. Ramose, I have known him from his boyhood and I tell you he is not a man, but a tiger who loves to prey upon fair women; in particular upon those who hate and fly from him. You heard the tale I told the king. Ramose, it was Belshazzar who stole my daughter and afterwards murdered her, no other man."

For a while he paused and there was silence, for I knew not what to say. Then his withered face and quiet eyes seemed to take fire and he went on,

"Ramose, as you know, I am by nature gentle, one who can forgive and find excuse for almost every sin because I understand the hearts of men. But this prince I never can forgive who, as it chances, knows all the horror of his crime and what he caused that poor maid of mine to suffer before he butchered her. Towards him I am a minister of vengeance appointed by God. Aye, through all these years, while I dwelt so peacefully with you, I have awaited my hour, sure that it would come, and now I think it is at hand, though still I know not how. Doubtless he will try to kill me because he fears me whom he has so deeply wronged, but he will not succeed."

He paused again, then said,

"Let my troubles be a while; we will speak of yours, or rather of ours. As he dealt with my daughter, so will Belshazzar deal with Myra if he can. Having seen her beauty of which he had been told, he will surely try to take her; indeed at the court I read it in his eyes and heard him say as much after the king had gone."

"As I did," I broke in with a groan.

"Now," went on Belus, "when I learned these things from those who had been friends to me in the days of my youth, also that it was impossible that I could speak or write you or Myra before the sitting of the court, I went back to my chamber and prayed for help to the Spirit of Wisdom whom I worship. So earnestly did I pray that a faintness came over me and all grew dark to my eyes; then on the blackness, or so it seemed to me, appeared one word in the Chaldean writing, namely 'Daniel.' My mind returned to me and I wondered who or what was Daniel, till presently I remembered that Daniel was the name of a certain high-born captain of the people of Judah, he whom Nebuchadnezzar advanced to great honour, giving him the new name of Belteshazzar, by which thenceforth he was known in Babylon. Also I was sure that this man was brought to my mind because from him there might come help in my trouble.

"I went out and having inquired where dwelt the lord and prophet Belteshazzar, I ran as never I have run before, to his house which is near to the southern gate. As I reached it Daniel himself came out from the courtyard riding on a mule, for after all these years I knew him again. I craved speech of him and at first he answered,

"'Friend, I go to my garden without the wall, there to rest and pray. If you have business with me I beg you to come at another time.'

"'Lord and Prophet,' I answered, 'the business is most urgent.' Then seeing that he was still minded to go on, I added, 'It has to do with one of the blood of Judah.'"

"Why did you say that?" I asked of Belus. "Was it only because you thought he would listen to nothing else?"

"Nay, Ramose, it was because Myra, as I have long been sure, is of that race. Did not her dying mother tell you so? Is not her name that of a woman of Israel? Are not Hebrew characters, of which the meaning is hid from me, engraved upon the emerald amulet she wears, which her mother gave to you with the jewels? Is not her appearance that of a noble and beautiful lady of the Children of Judah, as you say was that of her mother before her? At least I did say it and the prophet hearkened. Dismounting from his mule he led me into the house and there in a small room where stood many written rolls upon shelves, I brought myself to his mind and told him all our story."

"'What would you have me do, Belus?' he asked when it was finished. 'It is true that I am still named Governor of Babylon, but my word does not run against the king's, and it is Belshazzar, the king's son, not Belteshazzar the prophet, who to-day has power in this evil city.'

"'I do not know,' I answered. 'Who am I that I should instruct the greatest seer in Babylon?'

"'You tell me that you prayed—to what god I am not sure—and that my name came to your mind, O Belus. Well, the example is good and I will follow it, asking for light. Wait here a while and be silent.'

"Then he went to a window-place that jutted from the wall of the room, and knelt down by the open window to pray, and watching his face from where I sat, I saw that it shone as it were with light from within. Yes, it shone like a lamp, so that I grew sure that his god was speaking to him. If this were so he did not tell me what he had learned, for when he rose from his knees all he said was,

"'I will not ride to my garden this day, though that is a sorrow to me who longed for its peace. Nay, I will attend the court and there abide what may happen.'

"'Cannot you see the king at once, O Prophet?' I asked.

"'No, it is impossible unless I am summoned. Moreover, no such counsel has come to me. You are an astrologer and a priest of Marduk, are you not? If so, go, dress yourself in the robes of your office or of your false god and, as you have a right to do, attend at the court where I think you will be needed.'

"'My false god,' I answered. 'Well at least he led me to you, O Prophet. Tell me then who is the true God. For Him I have sought all my life.'

"'Mayhap to find him at last to whom you draw near, for otherwise your prayer would not have been answered. But of these matters we will speak afterwards. Go now and do those things which your heart teaches you. Go, and swiftly, for time presses.'

"So I went and what happened afterwards, you know, Ramose."

XVI. RAMOSE IS TEMPTED

Now for a while in this story of mine little happened that is worth the telling. Belus and I dwelt together in the palace as we were allowed to do by the decree of the king. Of Myra we saw nothing for it was impossible to come at her. In this business the Prophet Daniel, or Belteshazzar, was as a rock that cannot be moved or pierced. By the help of Belus I saw and talked with him, though not in his own house, showing him how hard was our case, and praying him at least to carry a letter from me to Myra. He listened with a courteous patience, then answered,

"Noble Egyptian, Ramose, hear my counsel. First of all, forget for a while that you are an Egyptian; that your real name is Ramose and not Ptahmes, and most of all, that you have had anything to do with a lady called Myra, who chances to be in my charge as titular Governor of Babylon and a prophet beloved by the king. At present all this is not known, or has been forgotten, and you are thought of only as a stranger suspected in error, and one admitted to the friendship of the king because you are very learned in ancient histories and religions which it pleases him to study. At least they are not known to Belshazzar the prince and the king to be, who believes that the man said to have married the lady Myra before the Pharaoh tried to palm her upon Nabonidus, as a maiden of the royal House, is some noble of Egypt who still dwells in that country. Were it otherwise, I think that you would not live long, Ramose, for Belshazzar has many servants in whose hands are daggers and no longer does he cause his victims to be thrown into the great river unweighted with stones" (here he glanced at Belus who was with me).

"All these things may be so, Prophet," I said. "Yet why should I not see my wife in private, or at the least write to her?"

"Has not the king told you?" he answered sternly. "Then once and for all I will. Because I have passed my word that no man should do so while the king lives, O Ramose, and the word of Belteshazzar, still known as the Governor of Babylon, may not be broken. Well is it for you that this is so, and for the lady Myra also. Twice already has the royal prince, Belshazzar, sent his commands to me under seal, demanding that I should suffer him to capture this lady, by allowing her to walk abroad beyond the shelter of my walls which are sacred to the Babylonians, aye, more sacred than the sanctuaries of their own temples, or at the least that I should give him access to her. Both these commands I defied, thereby earning his added hate and threats of vengeance. Can I then grant to you what I have refused the heir to Babylon? Can I even allow writings to pass between you which, if they were found, would mean the death of both and my dishonour?"

"At least tell me of her, Prophet, for that is not against your vow," I said humbly.

He thought a while; then answered,

"I may say this—she is well and after a fashion happy, who has escaped great danger if only for a while; also for other reasons."

"What other reasons?"

"One of them is that she has learned with certainty of what blood she comes through her mother. It is high, for this mother, as she told you at her death, was truly the daughter of Zedekiah, the last king of Judah, who when he fled from Jerusalem towards Jordan, took her with him, a little maid. He was captured and brought to Riblah with a great number of the people of Israel. Here Nebuchadnezzar in his rage because he had rebelled against him, caused his sons to be slain before his face. Then he blinded him and brought him as a slave to Babylon, where for years he lay a prisoner in the dungeons of yonder temple till at length his misery was ended in death. But the girl was spared for she showed promise of beauty, and was afterwards given to the Prince Merodach. You know the end of that story, Ramose, for you saw her die in blood as her brothers died, and took away her babe and reared it."

"How do you know these things, Prophet?" I asked eagerly.

"In sundry ways, Ramose. When I was young I knew her mother and that she was killed in the battle between Merodach and the Egyptians in which you took part. Also I know the emerald seal she wears, that has cut on it the name of God in ancient Hebrew characters which I can read. It is an old seal and has a long history. I remember it when it hung about the neck of Myra's mother, as it did on that of her mother before her. Moreover the truth of all this matter has been revealed to me. Without doubt this lady Myra is descended from Zedekiah the weak and the accursed and, as I think, is the last of his race left living."

"It seems that I have a wife of high lineage," I said. "Well, I heard as much before from the lips of the dying Mysia, but scarcely believed it who thought that perhaps her mind wandered."

"Aye, Ramose, too high for safety, who on both sides is of the race of kings. Still it has made her happy to learn the truth, because she thinks that this will please you who have wed one of whom you need not be ashamed. She is happy also because now I am leading her to worship the God of her fathers Whom I serve, and lastly because she knows that you live in this same city and believes that He will throw His shield over you and her and keep you safe. For, Ramose, day and night she thinks of you and prays to God for you."

Now when I heard this my heart melted in me with love and longing, so that almost with tears I implored the prophet that even if I might not speak or write to her, he would suffer me to look on Myra with my eyes. At length he yielded.

"Hearken," he said. "Behind my house there is a little garden through which runs a channel of water planted on its banks with willow trees. Beneath these willows Myra sits in the cool of the afternoon, reading or doing such tasks as please her. Now overlooking this garden is another house that the king gave to me together with that in which I dwell, where at times I shelter those of my race who need it. To-day it is empty. Belus shall lead you there and from its upper window, hidden yourself behind the shutter, you may look on Myra, although she will not know that your eyes behold her. This you may do on one day in every seven, that which is our Sabbath, and no more, swearing to me that you will not attempt to call to her or show yourself, and this for your sake as well as hers, also for the sake of me and of my oath. Babylon is full of spies, O Ramose, and were it known that a man was so much as gazing upon a lady of the king's household who is in my charge, it would bring death to him and perhaps to her, with much trouble upon me. Swear now and leave me."

So I swore and went.

The fourth day from that of my meeting with the prophet who was called Belteshazzar, was that of the Sabbath of the worshippers of Jehovah, and until it came it is true that I scarcely ate or slept, because the desire to behold Myra burned me up. At noon on that day, when men rested in the fierce heat and few were in the streets save beggars and others who slept in such shade as they could find, Belus and I, wrapped in the cloaks worn by the poorer class of traders in Babylon, made our way to the house of which the prophet had spoken.

Passing to the back of this house which was set almost against the wall of an old and deserted building, once occupied by priests and therefore, for some superstitious reason, no longer dwelt in by others, Belus led me to a secret entrance that could only be reached through the wall and doubtless was used by the priests for their own purposes when they owned this house in ancient days. At least there was the narrow, hidden door that he unlocked with a strange key, and beyond it a dark and twisting passage leading to the cellars of the house whence a stair, or rather a ladder, ran to the floor above. Locking the door behind us we climbed this ladder and came to a stairway of brick that led to the upper rooms, for like many of the houses of Babylon where land was precious, this was built in several storeys.

Entering a room that was well but plainly furnished, we found in it a window-place projecting from the wall of the house, around which were fixed wooden shutters whereof the bars that were many, opened upon hinges to admit air and to enable those in the room to look out whilst they remained unseen from below.

Belus went to this window-place and tilting up one of the shutter bars, showed me that beneath us at a distance of not more than ten or twelve paces, lay an enclosed garden such as the prophet had described, of which the house formed a boundary wall. There was the stream, or rather ditch of water, planted with flowering lilies that floated on its surface; there were the willow trees with their weeping branches in which birds were nesting, and there beneath them were low cushioned seats and a rough table of wood.

Here in this chamber we waited a long while, till at length the great sun turned towards the west and the city around us, awakening from its midday sleep, began to hum with life. Then at last we saw white hands part the willow branches and a tall figure glide across a little bridge of planks and enter the green arbour, as we could do easily because the branches did not grow thickly towards the blank wall of our house where there was little light and no sun. It was Myra—Myra herself clad in simple white robes on which hung a single ornament, the lily-bloom enclosed in crystal, but looking more beauteous in them even than she had done when arrayed in jewels and glorious apparel, she was brought into the palace halls of Babylon to be presented to its king.

For a space she stood motionless gazing at the lilies floating upon the water. Almost was I tempted to call to her; indeed I think I should have done so, had not Belus, guessing my purpose, whispered in my ear——

"Remember your oath."

I bit my lips and kept silence.

She sighed—I could hear her sigh; then sinking down upon the cushions she bent forward and drew one of the floating lily blooms towards her as though to pluck it. If so, she changed her mind for she loosed it and taken by the current, it swung back to its place. Then she lifted the crystal from her breast, studied the flower within, pressed it to her lips and letting it fall, began to weep very softly, a sight that I could scarcely bear.

At length she paused and wiping away her tears, sank to her knees upon a cushion and prayed aloud but in so low a voice that I could hear little of what she said. Still I caught some words, such as—"God of my fathers. God above all gods, Thou that hast power even in mighty Babylon and over the hearts of its princes." . . .

Then came murmurings not to be distinguished, and after them, these words, spoken more clearly as though the weight of sorrow pressed them from her heart:

". . . Ramose my most beloved, he from whom I have been stolen, my husband whom my arms ache to hold. Oh! bring me to him or let me die. Let me not be defiled by the touch of this vile prince who seeks me. Nay, rather let me die clean and wait till Ramose comes to join me in the grave."

She ceased her pitiful prayer, pressed the crystal case passionately against her lips once more and drawing a roll from a satchel that she had with her, began to read.

Not for long did she read, for presently she threw down the roll, pressed her hands upon her heart as though to still its beating, and glanced about her wide-eyed, while the colour came and went upon her cheeks.

Then I knew that she felt me near to her. Yes, that love opened some door in her breast through which had entered a knowledge that her senses could not seize. In her agitation she spoke to herself in a low and thrilling whisper that floating on the still air, reached me faintly in the window-place.

"I feel Ramose near me," she said. "Is he dead? Does his loosed spirit speak with mine yet captive in the flesh? Nay, it is his living love that beats upon me, wave after wave of it filling the cup of my heart. I dream! I dream! Oh! would that the dream might last for ever, for in it his lips touch mine that hunger for them. Oh! Ramose my love, Ramose my own, come to me, Ramose, and not in dreams."

Such words as these she murmured and others that I could not catch.

Now I was gripped by mad temptation. A strong creeping plant from whose woody stems hung masses of blue flowers, climbed up the wall and past our window-place, by aid of which it would not be difficult to descend into that garden. In the fury of my great desire, honour and all else was forgotten. I would descend. I would be with her; if only for a breath I would hold her in my arms though my life should pay the forfeit. Might I not take my own? Already, staggering like a drunken man, I was at the shutter, purposing to push it back, when I heard the voice of Belus whisper:

"Remember your oath, Ramose. Shall it be written that you are a liar?"

"By the gods, no!" I answered huskily. "Let us go before I fall."

With one last glance at the passionate loveliness of Myra, who seemed to have taken fire from the power of her living dream and now stood glancing about her with parted lips and heaving breast, I turned, cursing my fate, and reeled towards the doorway. Behold! in it stood a man, the prophet himself! He gazed at me sternly, yet with a little smile playing about the corners of his thin mouth.

"You have fought well, Ramose, and gained a victory that one day should not lack for its reward."

"Not I, but Belus," I muttered.

"Nay, Belus did but give tongue to your own conscience. Learn that had you yielded, what you sought would never have been yours. Though none can hear her words, eyes other than your own, the eyes of women and of eunuchs, watch that lady always from a hidden place when she is unguarded in the garden, and had a man been seen to join her, she would have been dragged away to suffer the fate of those who are faithless to the king. Yes, to die by fire or water—or if his officers were very merciful, to be mutilated and made hideous, and thus cast upon the streets where you would never find her, for you would be dead."

I shivered, for Myra not for myself, because at that moment I thought death would be better than so much suffering. Then words came to me and I said,

"I have gone near to great evil. I pray your pardon for being but a man. Prophet, unless you bid me, I will come to this place no more, lest once again passion should lead me whither I would not go. If you may, tell Myra that I have seen her and aught else that you think wise, for it is not in the heart of woman to think the worse of one who has done wrong because he loves her overmuch."

"So be it," he answered, still smiling faintly, and thus we parted.

Thus it came about that until fate drove me there, I came to that house no more.

Now I have to tell of the death of Nabonidus. For many weeks I dwelt on in the palace and almost every day this kindly old king, save when he was too ill or too troubled with the affairs of state, sent for me, and sometimes for Belus his cousin also, to talk with him about such matters as the learned love. It was strange to see him, still one of the mighty monarchs of the world, caring for none of its glories, hating them even; turning his back upon high officers and lovely women; upon the pomp, jewels and worship which in the East are offered to the king, to give all his time and thought to the study of ancient writings or forgotten temples, and to the history and attributes of a thousand gods. Yet such was the pleasure of this shrewd but innocent mind, and to it I was a minister. Indeed had I chosen, I might have become great in Babylon, for he would have heaped on me any wealth and offices that I desired. But I did not choose who sought above all things to remain humble and unknown.

So under the name of Ptahmes, by which I had passed since I entered Babylonia, I remained in the palace, as did scores of others to whom it pleased the king to give hospitality in that vast building, which covered almost as much ground as does the Great Pyramid near Memphis.

Here I gave out that I was an Egyptian born of a Cyprian mother at Naukratis in the Delta, a man of independent means who followed after learning and in its pursuit wandered from land to land, desiring to see them and to study their customs and peoples that I might write of them in a book. This tale was accepted readily enough for since I had been acquitted by the king and admitted to his friendship, the accusation against me of being a spy in the pay of Egypt or of Persia was forgotten, as soon most things were in the vast metropolis of Babylon, a city where memories were very short, especially concerning those whom it pleased the king to favour. So I dwelt in peace, consorting only with a few other learned men, to whom Belus made me known as a friend of his with whom he had studied at Naukratis in Egypt. For now Belus had recovered the lost ties of his youth and was accepted everywhere as a noble of Babylon, a blood relation of the king, a priest of the gods and an astrologer of high degree.

Here I should say that shortly after I had seen Myra in the prophet's garden Belshazzar, the king's son and heir, left Babylon at the head of a great army to wage war against Cyrus the Persian who was threatening the empire, and while his enemy was away Belus was safer than he had been before. Therefore he too remained at peace in the city. Why he did so I was not sure, seeing that the place was still perilous for him. When I asked him, he said that he would not leave me and Myra with whom his lot was intertwined, and when I pressed him further, that he was commanded to bide here by the stars which he consulted after the fashion of the great astrologers of Babylon.

Yet all the while I knew that he was hiding his true reason. In those days there was something fateful, even terrible about Belus. Often I watched the old man pretending to read or to consult mysterious signs written upon skins or tablets and noted that his mind was far away. There he sat like a sphinx, his lips pressed together, his eyes, cold and fixed, staring out at nothingness and his face grown fierce as that of a lion which scents its prey.

At such times if I spoke to him all this would fall from him like a mask; the eyes twinkled, the face grew friendly and a smile appeared around the lips where it was wont to be, so that I wondered which was the real appearance and which the mask. Little did I know of the great schemes that seethed in the heart of Belus; of the mighty plots he wove in his cunning brain and of the terrible revenge he planned, or why at night he met many of the great ones of Babylon now here and now there, and talked with them secretly.

When I asked him of these meetings he answered that those great lords and priests came together to consult their stars, as indeed in a sense they did. To this I said nothing though I thought it very strange that men, however gifted, should be able to consult stars on nights of full moon when the sky was almost as bright as day, or as I knew sometimes was the case, in vaults beneath the piled-up mass of temples.

In the beginning I was vexed who felt that for the first time for many years Belus had drawn a veil between us, hiding his secrets from me, but after thought, I grew sure that this must be for some good reason. So it was in truth, for as I learned later, he held that there was much passing in Babylon which it would be dangerous for me to know, because those who knew might suddenly find themselves face to face with death.

On a certain day when, as was common, I had been summoned by one of his chamberlains to wait upon Nabonidus in the private chamber where he studied, surrounded by the statues of gods and other relics of antiquity, I found the old king much changed. In body he seemed weaker than I had ever known him. He could scarcely rise from his chair without my help, and to do so left him almost breathless for a while. I asked if he were ill and if so why he did not summon his physician.

"No, not ill, Friend," (for so he often called me now) "but only burning out. Physicians cannot help me and I will have no more of them. Indeed for the matter of that, I have seen Belus, my cousin and your companion, who having studied in Egypt among the Greeks, knows more than do most of those in Babylon, who doctor men according to their reading of the stars or the divinations of those who consult omens."

"What did Belus tell you, O King?"

"Nothing, Friend. He bade me open my robe and set his ear against my naked breast and listened to my heart. Then he shook his head and was silent and I knew that the day of my fate was upon me."

"May the King live for ever!" I murmured in the accustomed form, not knowing what else to say.

"Aye," he answered smiling, "so long as it is not in another Babylon beyond the Gates of Darkness. Friend, I must go as all these have gone," and he pointed to the statues of dead monarchs that stood about the room and to the writings sealed with their seals. "I will tell you the truth. I am glad to go, though I must be stripped of all my pomp and power and pass naked to whence I came."

He paused a while, then went on,

"Egyptian, they say that dying eyes see far, and certainly I see much woe coming upon Babylon, or at the least upon her kings. Have you not heard of Cyrus the Persian?"

I bent my head.

"And have you heard that this great man, for he is great, has but now defeated Belshazzar my son at Opis and threatens Zippar?"

"I have not heard it, O King."

"Yet it is so, for swift posts have brought the news. Doubtless soon his armies will threaten Babylon, aye, and as I think, take it, for both the people and the army hate the Prince, my son, and will fight for him but feebly, making an end of my House and its rule, and perchance of the ancient city, queen of the world, also."

Again he paused, and presently continued,

"If so, she has brought it on her own head, for I tell you, Egyptian, that Babylon is evil; aye, she is a bladder filled with sin and the blood of peoples, a bladder waiting to be pricked. Belshazzar, too," he added with passion, "my son who already rules the empire in all but name, is an evil man. From his boyhood up he has been turbulent, lustful, cruel and bloody, one who wades through death to his desires, a tyrant, a betrayer of his friends. Moreover it is too late for him to change who is past his fiftieth year. How long will the gods bear with such a man? Against our foes he might fight, for the empire still is mighty, but can he fight the enemies in his own house? I tell you the people murmur against him and the nobles plot to overthrow him when I am gone. So let me go where, being innocent, I hope for peace. Blessed are the dead for they sleep, or if they wake, of earth and its troubles they know no more."

Thus he spoke in a voice that grew faint and yet fainter till it ended in a kind of wail and died into silence, so that I thought he was about to swoon. But it was not so, for presently he recovered his strength and said,

"I talk much of myself as is the fashion of the aged, and of what I fear or feel, forgetting that others also have evils to bear and face. You for example, Friend. Let me think, what were they? Oh! I remember. That beauteous woman whom the dog Amasis tried to palm off on me as a princess of Egypt, but who, it seems, is a private lady and your wife, or so you and Belus swear. I hear she swears it also, but in such matters none can believe what comes out of a woman's mouth. The business is unhappy. Could I have my will, you might take her at once and welcome, but here I face a rock which even the king cannot move, namely the law concerning the ladies of the royal household on which one might think that the whole empire of Babylon was built. Moreover someone is at work in this matter, for when on your behalf and hers, that old prophet of Judah put it into my mind to try to find a way round this rock, all paths were blocked, I know not by whom."

"Perhaps by the Prince Belshazzar," I hazarded.

"It may be so; indeed it is very likely, for Belshazzar is always coveting this one or that, even though they be of his father's household, at any rate in name. Well, I say that the way is blocked and if I tried to force a path, the priests would stir as though an insult had been done to their gods. Yes, there would be scandals and talk of impiety by an unbelieving king, that would serve the purpose of the plotters against my House among the vulgar, and I know not what besides. So nothing can be done."

"That is sad for me and my wife," I said sighing.

"Yes, of course, though it it strange that it should be so. There are so many women in the world that it seems foolish for a man to break his heart over any one of them, when doubtless a fairer awaits him in the next street. Also there is hope in the case. Much trouble has arisen about this lady with Egypt against whom, because of her, Babylon has threatened war. Now Amasis the Pharaoh pretending to be insulted and believing you, the husband, to be dead,—I thought it well for your own sake to tell him that the man who bore forged letters to Cyrus of whom he warned us, had been caught and executed as a spy—demands that his daughter, as he calls her, should be sent back to him with a great present of gold. Yet this cannot be done for the reason I have told you, namely that she has been taken into the royal household."

"Then it seems there is an end, O King."

"Not so, for have I not told you, Friend, that even in Babylon kings do not live for ever. When I die my household is dissolved, at least after a time, and I shall die soon. Therefore because you are a brother scholar who has solaced my last months I have made a plan to serve you. As this lady and I have never met but once and that in open court, I have issued a royal decree that immediately upon my death she shall be set at liberty and sent back to Egypt with all her belongings and a gift. Moreover I have appointed that you, under the name of Ptahmes by which you are called here, for none know you to be her husband, and Belus shall accompany her, as you also wish to return to Egypt in safety, though if you are wise neither of you will set foot in that land while Amasis reigns. No, when you have crossed the borders of this country and are free, you will turn and fly whither you will, out of reach of Amasis and of Belshazzar.

"There, that is all. I am weary. The decree has been registered in due form, sealed with my own seal, and you will find a copy of it in your lodgings, for it was given to Belus only to-day that it might not miscarry. Farewell, Friend. Your theory of the beginning of the gods is most wise and pregnant; soon I shall learn whether it be true. Farewell and may all good fortune be yours. When you are as old as I am, think sometimes of Nabonidus whom they called a king, but who knew himself to be a ruler of nothing, no, not even of his own heart. Ho! chamberlain, take me hence, I would sleep."

XVII. AT THE WESTERN GATE

What Nabonidus promised me, he performed. In my lodgings I found Belus waiting with the writings under the royal seal, whereby he and I were given safe conduct to leave Babylon when we would and go whither we would, which writings all the officers of the empire were commanded to obey. In them, however, nothing was said concerning Myra. I asked Belus what this meant and whether I had been tricked. He answered no, for other writings had been sent to the prophet Daniel or Belteshazzar, as he knew from his own lips, commanding him so soon as the news of the death of the king should reach him, to hand over Myra, with her woman named Metep, to an escort charged to conduct her to the frontiers of the land and there leave her to await the coming of another escort from Egypt.

I listened and answered that I liked the plan little.

Where, I asked, must we meet Myra and how were we to know when she left the prophet's house? Also, even if all should go well, what would happen when we came to the frontiers of the empire, where perhaps she would fall into the power of Egyptians waiting to receive her, and I with her. If so, our case would be even worse than it was before.

"Ramose," answered Belus, "we wander in the darkness of night and must follow the only star that we can see. Like you, neither the prophet nor I think well of this plan. Yet if we do not act upon it, which way can we turn? It is certain that while the king lives, not even he can command that Myra should be sent from Babylon."

"Why not?" I asked angrily.

"I think that he has told you himself, namely, because he whose duty it is to administer the law, must not break the law. Moreover, if he gave the order it would not be obeyed, because under these same ancient statutes any man who touches or holds converse with a lady of the royal household, is criminal, an outcast to be slain by whoever can or will. Once the king is dead it is otherwise, for the edicts which he has signed must be fulfilled, unless indeed they are revoked by other edicts of the new king."

"Which will surely happen, Belus."

"Aye, it will happen—if there is time. For as I have heard from a sure source, Belshazzar when in his cups gave out that so soon as he had power he would certainly take this Egyptian Myra whom it was the pleasure of the king his father to keep from him, and whom therefore he desired more than any woman in the world. Indeed he is foolish about the matter, having been smitten by the sight of her beauty when she appeared at the court as though by a sword, and, as he says, wounded through the heart. Certainly had it not been for the law as to the King's wives, and still more because of his fear of the prophet in whose holy charge she is, already he would have seized and smuggled her away."

"Then this he will surely do as soon as the king is dead, Belus."

"Aye—I repeat, if he has time. But should Nabonidus die soon, Belshazzar is not in Babylon. With the remainder of his great army he is in Zippar that Cyrus besieges. There perhaps he may be killed or made prisoner, or many things may happen. Also Nabonidus is not yet dead. He may pass at any minute, or he may live for months, as men suffering from the heart sometimes do. Everything is dark and doubtful. Still we must be prepared to act at any moment. Therefore let us forget our fears and go straightforward, though for my part," he added darkly, "I do not believe that fate will take me from Babylon till a certain doom has been accomplished."

This then we did who could find no better counsel, putting our faith in the goodness of God, and trusting that we should find help in our need.

Having wealth at our command we bought swift horses and hired servants, faithful men of Israelite descent and free citizens who could go where they would and who desired to leave Babylon, which men and horses we kept at hand in a safe place near to the western gate whence we must start for Egypt. Also Belus devised a scheme which provided that Metep should hang a cloth from a window of the prophet's house, telling us when her mistress was about to leave so that we might be ready to start to join her. And many other things we did that need not be told.

At length Nabonidus died very suddenly. From the time that I had last seen him he had kept his bed, sleeping a great deal and paying no heed to anybody or anything that passed, till on a certain afternoon he rose, saying that he felt quite well again, and went to his favourite chamber, that in which I was wont to visit him. Here while he was walking up and down, some message was brought to him by one of the great officers, of which all we could learn was that it had to do with Belshazzar and the Persian war. Whether the news was good or ill I do not know, but this is certain, that Nabonidus said aloud,

"It is the will of God. My day of fate has come."

Then he set his hand upon his heart, fell down, groaned once, and died.

Such was the end of this weak but honest and kindly man, a scholar of whom to his sorrow destiny had made a king over a doomed empire. In one thing at least Heaven was good to him, he did not live to see it fall.

Having bribed certain eunuchs and a scribe, Belus and I were among the first, if not the very first, to know that all was over, that is, save the prophet who learned it in his spirit as he learned many things. Instantly we rushed to the appointed place where our horses and goods awaited us, whence we could see the house of Daniel and watch. Presently at a window appeared a white cloth showing us that there too all was known and that Myra was about to start with her escort.

This was the plan—that we should stand to one side till she had passed the gate, and follow with our men to the first camping place, where we could discover ourselves to the captain of the escort who had been warned that we should join him. Having authority under the seal of the late king and his vizier that we could show, if there were need, this, we thought, would be easy, especially as the death of Nabonidus was not known in the city and perhaps might be kept from the people for hours—or days.

We came to the gate as the sun began to sink, and waited as though for some friend or other merchants to join us there, for we were disguised as traders. At length through the gloom, which gathered very quickly that night, because after some days of terrible heat the sky was full of thunderclouds which were about to burst, with beating hearts we saw a company coming down the street towards the gate that pierced the mighty wall of Babylon. A captain rode ahead of it, then came soldiers, a dozen or more of them, and in their midst mounted upon white mules two veiled women, one tall and graceful as a reed, the other short and thick in body, at the sight of whom my heart leapt for I knew them to be Myra and old Metep. After these followed other mules and asses laden with baggage, tents and so forth, and accompanied by servants. As they passed us I saw the tall lady turn as though to stare at me through her veil. Then I was sure that Myra had seen and knew me, and bent my head a little, which she answered by bending hers.

To-night, I thought to myself with joy, we may speak together in some camp, if no more. To-night our troubles may be over and our long separation ended.

At that moment, while my heart was filled with this happy dream, came the first flash of the storm. Like a sword of fire it seemed to strike the watch towers set upon the crest of the wall high above us, and in a line of blinding light passed down the pillar of one of the inner brazen gates into the earth, with a noise and a shock that caused the horses of the officer and some of the soldiers to wheel round and charge back among those that followed. Confusion came, and shoutings, for all believed that men had been killed by the flame from heaven, whereas in fact one or two had been unhorsed—no more. Then the clamour was covered and lost by the crash of thunder pealing overhead. It died away and for a little while there was silence, through which I heard the officer rallying his men with words of command; no easy matter, for they were entangled with the baggage animals whose drivers were frightened and knew not what to do.

Then I heard something else, namely, the sound of a horse galloping. The lightning flashed again piercing the gloom. It shone upon the gilded armour of a captain of the royal bodyguard riding at full speed who, as he passed me, cried,

"The King is dead. Ho! Warden, shut the gates that none may make it known to the enemies of Babylon!"

The officer in charge of the escort heard and strove to press forward through the long archway of the wall before he was cut off. Too late! With a great clashing, worked by their engines, the outer gates of bronze swung home in front of him. He called for the warden of the gates and showed him a writing which it was too dark to read. They wrangled together as Belus and I, who with our people had followed them into the archway, could hear. There was great disorder. Some pressed forward and some pressed back, for all who could had rushed into the tunnel to escape the lightnings and the heavy rain that began to fall. Men thrust, horses neighed and trampled, moving to and fro and mingled together. Presently I found myself by the side of a figure clad in white which jostled against me.

"Your pardon," said a gentle voice, and I knew it for that of Myra!

"Myra," I whispered, "it is I—Ramose!"

"Oh! my love, my love," she whispered back, and next moment I had bent down and was kissing her upon the lips, cursing the veil that lay between us. Yes, and she was kissing me. But one kiss and it was done, for we were thrust apart again.

The tumult and wrangling increased. The officer in charge of Myra's escort demanded that the gates should be opened and threatened the wardens. A loud voice cried,

"In the name of Belshazzar, King of Babylon, it is commanded that none leave Babylon."

Between the bellowings of the thunder I heard the clattering of horses' hoofs and chariot wheels. Again a voice cried,

"A woman of the royal household escapes. Seize her!" words at which my blood ran cold.

Another voice answered,

"They are here—two of them!"

Armed men rushed upon the mob. The escort gathered round Myra and Metep, whose white dresses could be seen dimly through the gloom and more clearly when the lightning flashed. I and my people did likewise. Swords were drawn; there was confused fighting. A huge black man in brazen armour seized Myra's mule by the bridle and began to drag it back towards the street; Metep screamed; soldiers cursed. I attacked the black man. He smote at me and missed, I thrust my sword through his throat and he fell, dead or dying. Others seized the woman; the scene in that narrow place as the lightning showed it, was terrible. All shouted, all smote scarcely knowing at whom they smote, while Metep still screamed long and loud. My horse was thrust back against the bars of the gate, plunging and kicking. Someone struck me on the head, I think with a club, causing me to drop my sword and almost stunning me. When my wits came again I was outside the archway in the narrow street whither my horse had borne me, following others.

The storm raged more fiercely than before and the rain poured down. Far up the street I saw soldiers retreating and in the midst of them two figures in white. The lightning showed them clearly, also many men in flight. In the darkness that followed the flash someone approached and a voice spoke. It was that of Belus.

"All is finished, Ramose," he said. "The guards of the household of Belshazzar have snatched away Myra. Come now quickly before we are known to have taken part in this tumult, else we shall be seized and slain. I have told our servants where they may find us."

Still dazed by the blow I followed him, who knowing the city from boyhood, led me through a maze of streets where none was stirring because of the great storm and the darkness of the falling night. After us came our servants, or most of them, and the laden beasts.

"Where have they taken Myra?" I asked with a groan.

"Doubtless to Belshazzar's palace," he answered. "Yet be comforted. He is not in Babylon. She has been seized because of commands which he left with his great officers who have watched the prophet's house day and night lest she should escape."

"A curse is on us," I muttered. "We are dogged by evil. Another hour and we had been free. Could not your spells have protected us for one hour, Belus?"

"The tale is not yet finished," he answered quietly. "Mayhap this evil has protected us from greater that we do not see. Mayhap it is appointed that we still have work to do in Babylon, whither I at least must have returned even if we had escaped to-night, though this I hid from you."

"Have done!" I exclaimed fiercely. "Myra is in the house of Belshazzar and who can save her now?"

"God," he answered and was silent.

"Whither go we—to our lodgings?" I asked presently.

"Nay, it would not be safe. We go to that house whence once you looked upon a garden. It is the prophet's and holy ground which none dares violate, not even Belshazzar, because he believes that to do so would bring a curse and perhaps death upon him. Had it been otherwise Myra would have been seized long ago."

So, broken in spirit for all seemed lost, once again I entered that Hebrew guest-house by the secret way, not caring whether or no I were dragged from it to my death. Indeed I was as a little child and did what Belus bade me, asking no questions. He managed all, finding lodging for the men in the outbuildings of the house, bringing food and I know not what besides.

That night the prophet came to us. I looked up from the stool on which I was seated, my head resting on my hand and saw him standing before me, tall, black-robed, thin-faced, dark-eyed, white-haired; more like a ghost than a man. I would have risen to bow to him, but he stayed me with his hand.

"You are weary," he said, "and smitten to the heart. Rest where you are and listen. All seems to have gone awry. The lady Myra, my ward, has been snatched away and now, as I have sure tidings, is a prisoner among the women of Belshazzar, and in his own palace which once was that of Nebuchadnezzar the great king. Nor, good old Nabonidus being dead, can I take her hence, for none so much as reads the edicts of departed kings. Who prays to the sun that is set?"

"How did it happen, Prophet?" I asked wearily.

"This house was watched," he answered. "From the beginning Belshazzar, the woman-hunter, having once seen her beauty, determined to possess himself of Myra if ever she passed my doors which all Babylonians hold inviolate. When she went forth spies reported it to his officers, or perhaps the hour of her going was already known through some traitor. If so, here and now I call down upon him the wrath of God," and he lifted his hand to heaven, then bowed his head, muttering some words.

"At least she was taken, as you saw, for as is common the tidings of the death of a king, the guardians closed the gates, which they must do. Nor would it have helped if she had passed them, for she would have been followed and seized, and you with her. As it is, both you and Belus have escaped because you were not noted in the darkness of the archway as having fought against the guards of Belshazzar, aye, and slew their captain. Therefore you are safe here and in sanctuary where none dares to set a foot lest the curse of Jehovah should fall upon him, and here you must bide till all is accomplished."

"What will happen to Myra?" I asked.

"At present—nothing, save that she will be fed on sweet-meats, perfumed with scents and purified, according to the custom of these Babylonian hogs with women who are dedicate to the king. Then, at such time as he shall appoint, she will be offered to him, as a lamb is offered upon an altar, and if she pleases him, be set high in his household, perhaps upon the throne itself."

Hearing these horrible words I went mad. I raved; I cursed; yes, I reviled this Daniel or Belteshazzar.

"You are reported a great prophet," I said, "one who worships a just and mighty god that even the Babylonians revere, although he be but the lord of a conquered, captive people. Yet you tell me that such a crime will be worked upon an innocent woman because she is accursed with great loveliness, by a king who is but a brute in human shape. If your god and hers be a true god, as they say Nebuchadnezzar held he was, let him manifest himself and save her, his servant. Then I will worship him whom otherwise I name but another idol."

The prophet looked at me and smiled, a strange and quiet smile.

"Poor man!" he said. "What do you know of God and of His ways? This day by the gate you slew a gallant soldier who did but obey his orders to capture certain persons. He had committed no sin. He knew nothing of this business, yet God suffered that you should drive your sword through His throat and bring him down to death unavenged, for in that darkness none saw who smote him."

"Did you see?" I asked angrily.

"Perhaps, with the eyes of my spirit. Or perhaps I learned it otherwise. It matters nothing. At least God commanded that he should be slain, we know not why. So God has commanded that this woman of my people who is your wife, should be captured, we know not why. Yet it may please Him to save her at the last, or it may not please Him. Let the scroll of fate unroll itself at the appointed time and bow your head before what is written there."

Then he lifted his hand as though in blessing and departed.

So it came about that I took up my abode with those servants whom we had hired, citizens of Babylon but all of them of the Israelite faith, who, after what had happened at the gateway, thought that they would be safest here until they could leave the city with me, or otherwise. But although he often came to visit me at night, Belus dwelt elsewhere with friends of his own, now in one place, now in another. When I asked him why, all he would say was that it must be so, adding darkly that he was a marked man with many enemies, and now that Nabonidus was dead, if we consorted together I should be marked also.

For my part I was but little known and so long as I remained under the shelter of the prophet's roof, one who would not be harmed, unless by evil fortune the King's Council heard that it was I who had killed the officer of the guard while attempting to aid the escape of the beautiful Egyptian.

So guessing that Belus had other reasons as well as those which he set out, I let the matter be, though in truth my life in this place was very sad and lonely with no companion save my own thoughts which were black enough. I did not dare to go abroad for the prophet forbade it, and of the few learned men and royal servants whom I had met in Babylon while I waited on Nabonidus, none came to visit me. Indeed either I was forgotten, or believed to be dead, or to have departed.

In Babylon not many strangers were remembered even for a month among the thousands from all countries who came and went on the business of their trades, or to visit the temples, or study the wonders of the mightiest city of the earth. Also, now that Nabonidus was dead, his court was dispersed and his great palace in which alone my face had been seen, stood empty, for that of Belshazzar, the new king, was in another quarter of the city. Therefore I was quite unknown, for as Belus told me, the company that had captured us on our road from Damascus had, it chanced, been sent upon duty to a distant part of the empire.

From time to time the prophet visited me and we talked together. I told him the history of my life and in his grave and gentle voice he instructed me in many matters, especially in the faith and nature of the God he worshipped. Through His strength, he said, he interpreted dreams and worked marvels, which caused him to be feared of the Babylonians from the days of Nebuchadnezzar and, although they were jealous of his magic as they held it to be, bowed down to by the magicians and interpreters of dreams as one greater than they. So earnestly did he instruct me and with such power, that at length I, who all my life had searched for a true God and been able to find none, came to accept Him of Daniel, as indeed I think it was in his mind that I should do. Thus it came about that in the presence of certain of the captive Israelites I, although of another race, was admitted to the company of the worshippers of Jehovah. To that faith, rejecting all the multitude of the gods of Greece and Egypt, I hold to-day.

For the rest, thenceforward that holy prophet treated me as one dear to him, one to whom he could open some if not all of the doors of his secret heart. He gave me sacred books to read and expounded their mysteries. Filled with fire from Heaven he repeated prophecies, whether his own or those of other seers I do not know, that foretold the fall of Babylon, Queen of the world.

"Behold all this," he said, pointing to the glittering city that on every side stretched further than the eye could see, to its towering temples and its vast encircling walls. "I say, Ramose, that of it not one brick shall remain upon another; it shall be a wilderness where shepherds feed their flocks by day and the lions prowl at night; an abode of death for ever. The curse of God hangs over Babylon."

Once more I became a recluse as I had been at Cyprus, more so indeed, for then I heard the voice of the infant Myra prattling about the house and busied myself with my trade. Now I studied alone, or walked in the garden where once I had seen Myra and been tempted to break my oath, thinking and dreaming till, had it not been for a certain comfort which flowed to me from that quiet prophet and from the new faith he had taught me, I believe my heart would have broken. Even so I grew pale and thin, as he noted, for often I saw him watching me, after which he would speak hopeful words, bidding me to take heart because all that is hidden is not lost.

From Myra no whisper reached me. She had vanished into the secret courts of the frowning palace of Belshazzar where, when he was in Babylon, he held his orgies, and the world saw her no more. If the prophet knew aught of her fate he hid it from me. From Egypt, too, no news came, though much I wondered what had passed there and what had chanced to the mother who had treated me so ill, and to the plotting Pharaoh who had made a tool of me hoping that I should return no more.

So except for the rare visits of Belus, who to me appeared changed and bent down beneath the weight of hidden business of which he would not speak, and for the converse of the prophet who seemed more of an angel than a man, from day to day I dwelt quite alone, feeding my heart on hope that grew ever fainter and strengthening my soul as best I might with prayer.

XVIII. THE LETTER

One night when I sat brooding in my chamber at the guest-house of the prophet, playing with food that I could not eat, a servant opened the door and through it came Belus. With much joy I rose to greet him whom I had not seen for many days, for always I longed for his company in my loneliness, but without taking the hand I offered him, he sank upon a couch, saying,

"If you have wine, give it me."

I filled him a cup unmixed with water. He swallowed it and asked for more which he drank also. As he did so his dark cloak fell open and I saw that beneath it his tunic was stained with blood and that a short sword thrust through his girdle, for its scabbard seemed to have been lost, was likewise still wet with blood.

"Whence do you come?" I asked.

"Out of the jaws of death," he answered. "Certain of my friends and I were supping together when the door burst open—doubtless it was some traitor's work—and a number of soldiers rushed into the room. An officer summoned us to surrender in the name of Belshazzar the King, calling out the names of most there present, and mine among them.

"'Would you work sacrilege against the gods and their priests?' cried one of us, for we were supping in chamber of the temple where none but the ordained might enter.

"'The King of the God of gods. Obey the King or die!' shouted the officer.

"He spoke no more, for a man of our company, I know not who, hurled a knife, or a sword, with such strength and so true an aim that it pierced that captain from breast to back and he fell down dead. Then began the fight. We were well armed and wore corselets beneath our robes, for we knew that we went in peril; also we were desperate who did not desire to die by torment.

"We cast the flagons and the stools in their faces, aye, and the burning lamps. We leapt upon them like lions. We slew them, though of us, too, some were slain. We hurled them, living or dead, from the window-places to fall a hundred cubits and be crushed at the foot of the temple towers to make food for jackals. Then we scattered and fled and here I am, bloody but unhurt."

"And what now, Belus?" I asked. "Do you seek sanctuary with the prophet?"

"Nay, I seek horses and men to ride with me, also a bag of gold, for my lodgings will be watched and I dare not return to them."

"These you can have, Belus, for they are here. But whither go you? Back towards Egypt?"

"Not so. I go——" here he bent forward and whispered in my ear—"I go to Cyrus the Persian who advances upon Babylon the accursed. I go to tell him that her gates will open to him and that if he will but purge her of her rulers and punish their iniquities, the millions of the people will welcome him. Do not stare, Ramose. What I say is true. Not in vain have I worked for all these moons to fulfil the decrees of God upon Belshazzar the murderer, and his evil counsellors."

"Oh! that I might go with you," I said.

"Nay, you must bide here where none knows what may happen. They say that Zippar is about to fall, but I hear also that Belshazzar purposes to desert his army and slipping away like a snake, to return to Babylon which he believes impregnable, hoping for help from Egypt and thinking that before its walls Cyrus and his Persians will certainly be destroyed. Therefore if Belshazzar comes to Babylon you must be here, for then who knows what will chance to Myra who is captive in his palace?"

"Who knows indeed?" I moaned, "and alas! how can I help her?"

"I cannot say, but doubtless there is a road. I read of it in the stars, though God alone can point it out. Now I go to speak with the prophet. Do you bid them make the horses ready—four horses and three men."

"How will you pass the gates?" I asked.

"The gates of Babylon are open to me," he said darkly and glided from the room.

Belus went out of my sight and knowledge. Day followed day, moons waxed and waned and I heard no more of him, nor whether he were dead or living, or had fled to some other land. Now I was quite alone and save my servants and sometimes the prophet, I saw no man. Of him I asked, what had become of Belus and if he had heard aught of the fray in the temple of which I have spoken. He answered that he did not know where Belus was, but he believed him to be still alive, for he thought that if he were dead some voice which have told him so in his sleep, a saying which comforted me who knew that this prophet was not as are other men, but one who communed with Heaven and to whom from time to time, Heaven gave tidings.

"As regards the fray in the temple," he went on, "I have naught to say, if I know anything. To all tales of conspiracies I shut my ears. Why should I heed them? Men think that they do this or that, but it is God Who works through them. Therefore I await the decrees of God and watch for the falling of His sword. What He reveals to me I know, to all else my ears are shut."

I bowed my head, being sure that to dispute with him was useless; as soon would I have attempted to reason with a spirit. Then I inquired of him whether I might now go abroad, seeing that all must have forgotten me.

He answered somewhat sternly,

"Did I not tell you, Ramose, that here and nowhere else you are safe. Here then bide and be patient."

So I obeyed him; only I did this, knowing that if it were not lawful he would forbid me. Finding that a steep and narrow stair led to the roof of the tall house, I went up it and often sat there, crouching behind the parapet in the daytime and leaning over it at night when I could not be seen from below. This house stood very high, being built upon a mound where once, perhaps, was a palace or a temple now long fallen except for some walls of which I have written. Therefore from its roof I could see much of Babylon; its great buildings, its open places, its gardens, its soaring towers, its embracing walls, Nimitti- Bel, the outer wall like to which there is no other in the world, and Ingue-Bel the inner wall, both of them held to be impregnable, its citadel rising from an enormous platform of dried bricks between the two; its temples of Enurta, Marduk and Ishtar with its lovely gate; its thousand streets where all day multitudes moved up and down, the great river Euphrates to the west and among its many royal dwellings, the vast palace of Nebuchadnezzar where Belshazzar had made his home.

It was on this palace that always I fixed my eyes, for I knew that up its steps guarded by statues of gods and demons, Myra had been borne and that somewhere in its courts she dwelt, lonelier and perchance more afraid, if that were possible, than even I, her husband. Night by night I would watch the cressets flaring upon its walls, wondering what passed there and throwing out my heart to the captive whom they hid. But alas! no answer came. Had she been in Egypt, had she been in Hades, she could not have seemed further from me, or more lost.

In the daytime, too, I stared at the streets and places where people gathered, and noted, or so I thought, a change in the demeanour of these people. They seemed more hurried than they were wont to be; they stopped and spoke to each other, head close to head, like folk who tell each other tidings that must not be overheard; or they gathered into knots and crowds in the squares and open places and were addressed by officers. Then troops would come and disperse them and they fled sullenly, sometimes leaving certain of their number on the ground dead or wounded, whom slaves or watchmen bore away on stretchers. Certainly all was not well in Babylon.

Among the servants who were left to me after the departure of Belus, was a man called Obil, an Israelite by descent, though a citizen of Babylon, a quiet man who seldom spoke unless he was spoken to, but one to whom I took a liking and learned to trust, as indeed the prophet had told me I might do, for he was of his faith, that had become mine also. This Obil often went abroad in Babylon, especially at night, and having friends there, gathered much tidings.

When I discovered this I began to speak with him apart and learned many things. He told me that great fear had come upon Babylon, partly because of the war with Persia which, it was rumoured, went very ill, and partly because of the dark sayings of the magicians and astrologers who prophesied evil at hand—much evil, and the wrath of God about to fall upon the ancient city.

Listening to these tales I wondered to myself whether Belus had been one of the astrologers who spread abroad this prophecy. Then I asked what of Belshazzar and whether the people loved him as they did Nabonidus the Peaceful, although him the priests did not love because he meddled with their gods.

"Of Belshazzar, Master," said Obil, "the news is that he is still with the army at Zippar, yet not so closely invested by the Persians that he cannot send messages daily, sometimes by word of mouth and sometimes in writing, to his officers in Babylon; yes, even about small matters," he added with meaning. "I know it, for the sister of one of the messengers is a friend of mine."

"What kind of small matters?" I asked as carelessly as I could.

"Well, for example, Master, such as that which has to do with the lady who came from Egypt to be of the late king's household, and who afterwards was sent to the prophet's house by the royal command; the same with whom we were to travel when the gates were shut upon us on that night of storm and there was fighting in the gateway."

Now my blood ran cold, but turning my head to hide my face I asked again,

"And why does Belshazzar send messages about this lady, Obil? Did your friend's sister tell you that?"

"Yes, Master, she did and the reason is very strange, though I who in my time have served in the households of the great lords of the earth and watched their ways, know that it is true. Kings and princes and others of their kind, Master, have everything at their command; power which some desire; wealth which most desire, and especially women whom all desire if they be really men. Therefore having all, they become sated like gorged brutes, and of the fair women that are offered to them continually few catch their fancy. Now and again, however, they see one for whom they would give half their kingdom, especially if it be not lawful that they should take her, or if they know that for this reason or for that she turns from them.

"Such it seems is what has happened in the case of Belshazzar and the lady from Egypt who is named Myra. He saw her at the court when old Nabonidus, the late king, being moved by her wondrous beauty, descended from his throne and publicly received her to himself. That was before this lady told Nabonidus, as I heard with my own ears being then a servant of the court, that she was no princess of Egypt; also that she was already married to a man from whom she had been stolen. Perhaps you have been told the story, Master."

"Yes, Obil, and I have learned that thereon Nabonidus committed her to the charge of our great prophet whose sanctuary none dares to violate, and we know the rest."

"That is so. Still, part of this story may be new to you, if my friend's sister tells it truly. Not even Belshazzar dares to violate the sanctuary of the holy prophet of Israel whom he fears above any man that lives, because like Nebuchadnezzar before him, he believes him to be almost a god. Yet he caused it to be watched by many spies and gave strict command to his officers, for which they must answer with their lives, that if the lady came out of that sanctuary, even by order of the king his father, she should be seized and carried to his palace, there to be given to him when he returns. This, Master, as you know, was done."

"Is this all that your friend's sister told you, Obil?"

"No, Master. It appears that Belshazzar who now is king, has been smitten with a madness concerning this fair woman, so that he thinks more of her than he does of the war with the Persians or any other matter, which madness has increased greatly since a rumour has reached him that the man to whom she was married, is not in Egypt but hidden in Babylon. This is his desire—to find that man and cause him to be tormented to death before her very eyes and while he lies dying, to appear and drag her away. For such, Master, are the royal pleasures of great kings."

"Does he know this man's name, Obil?"

"According to my friend's sister who seems to hear all secrets, he is not sure of the name, but he believes the man to be Belus, also known as Azar, an enemy of his own to whom he worked some injury in the past, and by birth a great lord of Babylon; he who appeared before Nabonidus and told a tale as to this lady being wed to a noble of Egypt. At the last, although he is not sure whether he be the man, he seeks everywhere for Belus, that he may capture him and put him to the question, or failing that, kill him outright."

"As nearly chanced the other day," I said.

"Yes, Master, but Belus escaped him and now has left Babylon with some of our people, upon a mission of his own."

"Why did you not go with him, seeing that it was Belus who hired you and not I?" I asked sharply.

"Perhaps because I was otherwise commanded, or because I thought I might be of more service elsewhere," he replied, bowing his head.

I thought a moment, then I turned and spoke words that seemed to be put into my mind.

"Obil," I said, "you know more than you pretend; you know that I am the husband of the lady Myra, not Belus, and all my case."

"Yes, Master, I know these things, for I have been told them under an oath that may not be broken if I would avoid death in this world and save my soul in any that is to come. We worship the same God and therefore he who betrays his brother, betrays his God."

"Who told you?" I asked.

"Belus told me. In his youth he was my father's friend, therefore he trusts me and hired me to go upon that journey which has not been accomplished. Afterwards, knowing that he might be called away, he told me all, bidding me to serve you and another to the death."

Now I bethought me that this Obil whom it pleased to play the part of a servant, was more than he seemed and that doubtless he had his share in the dark conspiracies of Belus, but of this matter I said nothing.

"Does the prophet know that you have my secret?" I asked.

"The prophet knows all, for God tells him."

I thought a while. For good or ill I was in this man's power no matter what I did or left undone. He had learned my secret from Belus or another, and if it pleased him, could betray me, or leave me unbetrayed. My crime was that I had married Myra whom the mighty king of Babylon desired, and for that, if I were caught, I must die; it could not be added to by aught that I did, or lessened by aught that I left undone. Therefore I would be bold.

"Can you help me, Obil?"

"How, Master."

"By causing it to come to the ears of a certain lady that a certain man still waits in Babylon hoping for the best, and by bringing tidings to me of her, under her own hand if may be, that I may know that they are true."

"It is dangerous, Master, and yet I have friends in the palace, aye, even among the eunuchs, and if you desire it I will try who am bidden to serve you in all things. Yet blame me not if aught goes wrong."

"I shall not blame you," I answered, "and—oh! no longer can I endure this silence. I must hear, I must learn, or I think that I shall die."

"I will do what I may," said Obil, and turned to go.

"Do so, Friend, and whether you succeed or fail, be sure that if ever I come safe out of this accursed city I will make you rich. Meanwhile take what gold you want. You know where it is."

"I thank you, Master, who desire to rest in some far land, at Jerusalem if it may be, and whose substance has been stolen by Babylonians because I am of a race they hate."

Then he went.

Four nights later Obil appeared as I finished my evening meal and slipped a clay tablet into my hand. I glanced at it who could read the Babylonian writing as well as I could the Egyptian or the Greek, and saw at once that it was but an ancient table of accounts, sealed by some priest, a note indeed of the delivery of a number of measures of corn into the store-house of a certain temple.

"What jest is this?" I asked.

"Let the Master press the tablet between his finger and his thumb, and he may learn," answered Obil in a dry voice.

I did so and it flew to pieces, being in truth but a hollow cylinder of clay that had been broken and cunningly joined together with an invisible cement. Within was a tightly rolled papyrus covered with tiny writing in the Grecian character, at the sight of which my heart stood still.

"There is your letter, Master," said Obil, "which I came by at great risk, how is best left unsaid, and at the cost of all the gold you gave me, aye, and more of my own."

"Recompense yourself with as much as you will, I will thank you later, Friend," I answered hurriedly, who burned to study the letter.

He went and standing under the hanging lamp, I undid the roll. On it were written these words:

"O most Beloved,

"The message has reached me, it matters not how, and I rejoice. Yea, I thank God, for thereby I learn that you are safe and well. Know, Beloved, that I feared, aye, and had it not been for my faith in God and my memory of a certain prophecy made by a true seer far away, I should have believed that you were dead. Immediately after that kiss in the archway, which in dreams still burns my lips, I thought that I saw you fall pierced by a sword. Now I know that it was another man and that the gloom, or the dazzle of the lightning deceived me. I was dragged away. I am a prisoner—you will know where—an appointed prey to a certain great one when he returns. For in an accursed hour—may it be blotted out of the Book of Time!—he looked upon me unveiled and found me to his fancy. Indeed it seems that although absent, he remembers me and rejoices that I am taken, as he planned that I should be. He has even written to me, vile things, to which his servants force me to listen, dragging away my hands when I would stop my ears. All his fair women whom I hate, praise my beauty. They scent me, they comb my hair with golden combs, they paint my eyes and lips, feeding me with sweetmeats, and if I struggle, they laugh, naming me a cat of Egypt and calling to the eunuchs to come to hold me while they appraise me inch by inch. All these and other things I suffer because I hope that God will be good to us and bring us together again, how I know not who am a bird in a golden cage. Learn this, my heart's desire, that the worst shall never fall upon me, for when all hope is gone I will die, as I have the means to do. Never shall that royal brute so much as defile me with his finger tip. I dare write no more, for I think that I am watched; here the very walls have eyes and ears. Beloved husband, I trust in God, do thou the same, for He is just. Aye, even if He does not help us here, yet I am persuaded that He is just and good, and in some other land far from Babylon and the cruel earth, He will unite us for ever. Yes, when Babylon is dust and quite forgotten, that lips to lips and heart to heart we shall look down upon the sands that shroud its palaces and the bones of its accursed kings."

Such was the letter that was unsigned. Indeed from the writing I judged that for some reason or other it was never finished. Still it was hers. This I knew from some of the Greek phrases more ancient and purer than was the common use, of a style indeed that I, who was half a Greek, myself had taught to Myra. Also those high thoughts and that vision of peace beyond the earth and every joy for those who had suffered on the earth, were all her own; indeed once when fears of the future took her, she had spoken to me in like words.

Oh! the letter was Myra's. Her hand had pressed it, her breath had breathed upon it, her eyes, perhaps, had wept upon it as certain marks seemed to show, and therefore to me it was a thing more precious than all the treasure of the world. And yet how dreadful was the tale it told. Myra a prisoner; pampered, petted, fattened, scented, that she might be made more acceptable to the jaded appetite of this filthy king, this royal ravisher who preyed on women as a rat preys upon cooped birds, seizing them, sucking their blood, casting them aside to die, and rushing at another. My soul sickened at the thought, my blood ran cold when I pictured her, my own, my peculiar treasure, my love whom I had always loved from her childhood and yet for long had never quite known that I loved in that full fashion, helpless in the hands of this crowned brute.

What a fool and madman had I been! Why had I not married her when first she came to womanhood? Then before ever these kings set their leering eyes upon her beauty, she would have been the mother of children and therefore one whom they did not desire. Then we should have passed our lives together in peace. But I thought to give her liberty, to let her choose some younger man, if so she willed, not guessing that with body and with soul, from the hour that she knew I was not her father, she had turned to me, and me alone. Therefore, because of my mother's pride and common vanity, all these evils had come upon us, and what was done could not be undone. Myra lay in her gorgeous den, panting and beating its bars of gold whilst she waited the coming of the wolf that would tear her for his pleasure, and I, far away and powerless, could stretch out no hand to save her, although her cry echoed in my ears.

She said that first she would die, and doubtless it was so, unless in their cunning way they robbed her of the means of death. Well, if she died, surely I should know it, surely her spirit would touch me in its passing, so that I might make haste to follow. Yet, what an end! One that was forbid also by the law which said that all torments must be endured for the pleasure of the gods. Yet if need were it should be faced.

I lifted the letter to my lips and kissed it; then I pressed it to my heart and wept. Yes, I, a man of full age and a captain of men, wept like a girl!

I felt a hand upon my shoulder and looked up. By me stood the prophet, the holy one of the People of Judah.

"Why do you weep, Ramose?" he asked gently.

I told him all and even gave him the letter to read, though in truth he scarcely looked at it but set it down as though already he knew what was written there.

"You have done foolishly and for the second time, Ramose," he said, "you who lack faith and patience. Have I not told you to wait and be content? And now, who knows? It is not easy for women of the king's household to send out letters unobserved, and if this one has been seen, what then? Well, it is too late to question. Let the matter be. Yet I pray you to promise me that you will send no more such messages and seek no more letters from a certain lady who lies hid in yonder palace."

"I ask pardon and I promise," I answered humbly. "Be not wrath with me, O Prophet. I feared lest she were dead, as you see she feared that I was dead, and the temptation was too great."

"Had she been dead, I should have told you, Ramose. Do you think that for no purpose I desire to keep you here in Babylon where you go in great peril day by day? If she were dead or lost to you beyond all hope, long ago I should have sent you hence. For the last time I say— be warned, and unless I bid you, do nothing in this matter save bide here and wait."

Thus he spoke, more sternly than he had ever done to me, and, seeking no answer, departed, leaving me afraid. What did he mean when he spoke of my going in danger day by day? I thought that here in his house I lay hid and safe from every peril, also that none knew that the Egyptian, Ramose, was in Babylon, or even that a certain Ptahmes dwelt on there. Yet if these things were not known, why did I go in danger? I say that I grew afraid, not for myself who have never been a coward, but for Myra. If evil overtook me, what would chance to Myra who then, save for Belus if he still lived, would be alone in the world?

Oh! I was afraid of this prophet about whom there was something unearthly, and even terrible. He seemed to walk the earth like a spirit or a god, knowing all, perchance directing all, yet holding his lips sealed and hiding his countenance. And he was wrath with me because I did not trust to him more utterly, forgetting that it is hard for men who are sinners to put all their faith and hopes in the hands of saints and prophets, seeing that to their knowledge such often deceive themselves and lead others to their ruin.

In what troubles was I snared and wrapped like a gnat in a spider's web! When the royal Atyra was murdered because of me, I had sworn that never again would I look in love on woman and holding down the flesh, for many years I had kept that oath and been happy. Then Myra the snow-maiden, of a sudden turned to flame and set me afire also, so that we burned upon one pyre which was like to be such as the old Greeks used to consume the dead. Well for me and well for her if we had gone different ways and our lips had never met in love!

Nay, it was not so, for even if we died, separate or together, still our lips had met, still that holy fire had been lit which must burn eternally. Oh! better to suffer and to love, than to live out fat, unanxious years in such peace as oxen know. For then what harvest can the spirit hope to bear with it from the earth to sow again beyond the earth?

XIX. THE LADY OF THE LITTER

The weary days went on. As I had promised, I attempted to send no more messages, and indeed told Obil that I sought no further letters, for these were too dangerous. This saying, I noted, seemed to please him, who although he made no complaint and expressed no fear, to me now always appeared to walk like one who is straining his ears to listen, while continually he glances over his shoulder to see if he is followed.

Had Obil some secret cause for dread, I wondered uneasily, and if so, was I to blame? This doubt took a hold of me, so that more than once almost I spoke to him on the matter, purposing to ask him whether he would not do well to leave my service and hide himself. Yet in the end I did not, who in the words of the Egyptian proverb, though it wiser not to kick the sleeping jackal lest it should yap and call the lion. Also I believed that the prophet would protect him.

At last came a day when Obil brought some news and it was dreadful. Belshazzar the King had returned to Babylon that morning shortly after dawn. Obil, who had gone early to the market to buy our food, saw him come, driving furiously in a chariot and accompanied by other chariots and horsemen who seemed weary as though they had galloped through the livelong night. I asked him of this king and he answered that he looked fierce yet frightened, like to one who had an evil spirit sitting on his shoulder and calling disaster in his ear. His eye flashed, his long hair flew out behind him, and when an old woman carrying fish in a basket on her back, stumbled and fell, blocking the narrow road, with a curse he bade the charioteer drive over her. This was done, leaving her crushed and shrieking, with blood running from her, a sight that angered the people, for they muttered and some shook their fists after the king. Yet none of them dared to touch the woman whom he had chosen to destroy and who lay there till she died.

"It seems that the people of Babylon do not love this king of theirs," I said.

"No, Master, they hate him, who is the most cruel of whom history tells. Yet they fear him for he never forgets and his vengeance is very terrible. While Nabonidus lived they could appeal to him sometimes, but now that he is dead they can only appeal to their gods who do not listen."

"What news of the Persian war?" I asked him.

"None that is certain; indeed few talk of it because it is forbidden, but those who do shake their heads and mutter of defeat and captured cities. They say, too, that Belshazzar has escaped from Zippar or some other beleaguered place, and fled to Babylon because he believes it impregnable and hopes to hold it until he can win succour from other countries. It is even reported that an embassy has come from Egypt to treat with him on this matter. For so hardly is he pressed that he has offered to Pharaoh lordship over all the Syrian lands that Babylon still holds, and a great sum in gold, if only he will send an army to his succour."

Now when I heard this I marvelled. Only a little while ago Nabonidus was quarrelling with Pharaoh over the matter of Myra, and that Belshazzar should now be imploring help from him showed me that he must indeed be pressed. Still I said no more, thinking to myself that I would ask the prophet of the truth of this story. But when I inquired whether he would be pleased to see me I received a message which he had left for me, saying that he had gone to some hidden place to pray and would not return till after sunset, or perhaps not until the morrow.

So I sat alone in my chamber, consumed with such fears as may not be written, for were not Myra and Belshazzar the king now beneath the same roof? Aye, was she not as a bird in the very hand of the snarer.

Later in the day I sent again for Obil, thinking that I might gather more tidings. But a servant called Nabel came in his stead, much disturbed. He said that he and Obil had been walking in the street when suddenly guards pounced on them, seized Obil and dragged him away. Thereon he fled, fearing lest they should take him also, which they made no attempt to do.

"Where then is Obil?" I asked.

"Where the lamb is after it wandered and met the eagle, Master," answered the man grimly, "for those guards bore the royal badge."

"The motherless lamb is good to the eagle, but what is Obil to a certain bird that has a beak but no wings?" I asked.

"Doubtless food also, of one sort or another, or may be his entrails will furnish auguries," he answered in a cold voice that frightened me.

For now I was sure that Obil had been seized because he had to do with a certain message and a certain letter, and could say who sent the message and who received the letter. Still, all was well; Obil was an upright man, like myself a worshipper of Jehovah who would break no oaths.

Then I remembered that tyrants and kings have dreadful ways of dragging out the truth from the most secret soul, and shivered.

Later in that terrible day, between two and three hours before sunset, this same man Nabel entered the chamber where I sat brooding, bearing a covered basket of woven rushes.

"What is this?" I asked.

"A love-gift, as I think, Master; at least the women of Babylon, when they are smitten with desire for some man who has caught their eye, are wont to send such baskets adorned like this with the rich colours of love."

"Then it cannot be for me, upon whose countenance no lady has looked for months," I answered smiling.

"Yet it is always well to learn what is hidden in any covered basket," said Nabel meaningly.

Thereon I undid the silken string and threw back the lid, revealing ripe figs, each of them wrapped in a vine leaf.

"Take out the figs—but do not eat them," said Nabel and I did so, lifting the purple fruit one by one and setting them on the table.

At length I came to a package wrapped in linen. I undid this package, and behold! there appeared just such a clay cylinder as that which had covered Myra's letter. I took it, I pressed, it fell to pieces, and within was a little papyrus roll inscribed with tiny writing in the Grecian character.

Eagerly I read. It ran thus:

"Beloved,

"I am in a sore straight, but I have found a certain road of escape for both of us; what it is I dare not write. There is a feast to-night in the great hall of the palace, which feast you must attend. Array yourself in a dress of honour and come hither guided by one whom I send who is a friend to me. I dare write no more, but all will be made clear at the time appointed. Oh! fail me not. If ever you would clasp me in your arms and look again upon a happy house, fail me not now. Cast aside all doubts and fear. Be bold and come, lest we be parted for ever. Choose then between joy and death. For learn, Beloved, that if you come not, this very day I must die to save myself from a more evil fate."

Twice I read this letter through from the first word to the last. Then I laid it down and thought, as perhaps I had never done before. Swiftly, fiercely I weighed and pondered all. Taking the first letter from where it was hidden, I compared the two. The encasing tablets were of the same sort, though the writing on them was different, for this second tablet purported to deal with the sale of a field in the reign of some earlier Babylonian king, reserving the trees in the field to the seller and his heirs, as is often done in the East. Moreover the broken fragments of the tablet had been joined together with the same sort of invisible cement. The papyrus on which both letters were written, also seemed to be the same, of an Egyptian make, as I who had used so much of it, knew well, and scented with a like scent; in the Greek character further I could find no difference though the ink of the second letter varied a little in colour from the first, being darker in hue.

Still, seeing that Grecian characters written by a good scribe are hard to know apart, I could not be sure that this Greek was written by Myra, though as in the case of the first letter, from its style I believed it to be hers. Lastly in both letters the writer spoke of ending her life rather than suffer shame, and in the second she called our house at Memphis by its name, which surely no one else would know. Oh! I could not doubt. Myra had penned this second letter as she had penned the first.

Then why did I not prepare to do her bidding, putting aside all doubts and fears, as she bade me? For one reason only—because of my promise to the prophet. Yet what was that promise? That I should attempt no more to send her messages and draw answers from her; one that I had kept to the full. For the rest, he had only bidden me to bide here in this house. But if he saw that letter, doubtless he would recall his words. Alas! that I could not show it to him! Alas! that now when I needed him so sorely, he was far away, where I knew not.

So it stood thus. On the one hand was Myra's letter which, if obeyed, meant escape and joy, and if not obeyed, meant her death that must soon be followed by my own. On the other, the bidding of the prophet that I should not leave his house, because if I did so I might come into peril. But could I hesitate for such a reason when Myra stood in perils a hundred times as great? I could not; I would put on the robe of honour that Nabonidus had given me to wear when I walked from my apartments to the royal presence, and go. Yet how was I to go?

She spoke of one whom she sent to guide me, who was a friend to her. Where then was this guide? I called the man Nabel who had brought me the basket and inquired how it had come into his hands. He answered that an old beggar-woman had given it to him as he stood in the street outside the door, and that she was now crouched in the shadow of a broken wall near by, as he thought asleep. I asked him if she had said anything.

"Yes, Master," he replied. "She said that she was commanded to lead the lord to whom the basket must be delivered, to where he would go and that she would wait until he was ready, which he must be by sunset."

I glanced at the sky and saw that there was yet an hour before the sun vanished. This was well, for in an hour much might happen. The prophet might return; the old woman might depart, in which case I could not accompany her and the problem would solve itself. Meanwhile I would make ready.

I washed myself, I trimmed my long hair and the square beard that I now wore after the Babylonian fashion, wondering foolishly whether Myra would prefer it thus or whether she would bid me shape it as of old when at last we were far away and safe; wondering also with what looks and words she would greet me, and many other such vain things as come into the minds of lovers. Then I put on the robe of honour, a rich garment embroidered with silver and having a deep collar that could be turned up to hide the face; such a robe as the Babylonians wore over their linen dress when they attended feasts, or at night when they went where they did not wish to be known, for then they raised this collar till almost it met the head-dress of folded silk.

By the time that all was done the sun's red rim made a path of fire over the broad bosom of the Euphrates and I knew that very soon it would be gone. I sent once more to learn if the prophet had returned, but there was no sign of him. Then torn this way and that by hopes and fears, I knelt down and prayed to God to guide me, as I knew the prophet was wont to do. I was not warned against this enterprise by sign or token or symbol, or by the stirring of my heart. Therefore I felt encouraged in it, who did not understand that already the first warning and the last had been given to me through the mouth of the great prophet who, as always, spoke with the voice of God.

The sun having vanished I gathered up my courage and called to Nabel who had brought the basket. In his charge I left the letter I had received with a message to the prophet, should he return, saying that I had obeyed what was written in the letter, having no choice for otherwise I must have gone mad. He learned the message by heart and said that it should be delivered with the writing, which I knew he could not read who had no Greek.

Then Nabel led me out through the secret door by which first I had entered this house, and along an old, broken wall of the building which was here before it, to a niche in the wall where perhaps once stood the statue of some king or god. In this niche wrapped in a tattered garment, crouched an old woman who seemed to be asleep. If so, she slumbered warily, for at the sound of our steps she scrambled to her feet, hobbled forward and stared at me by such light as remained.

"La!" she said, "so this is he to whom I bore the love-basket. A likely man enough, though no youth. But there, when I was in my flower and beautiful, always I turned to one of middle-age, perhaps because, being no fool myself, I sought wisdom as well as kisses. Come on, lover, and may the goddess of Love who, mind you, by whatever name they call her, is the greatest in the whole world, be your friend to-night."

Thus she babbled on, as I guessed to stop my mouth, so that I could not question her, all the while leading me by quick turns from side street to side street, till at length we reached a quiet, grass-grown place surrounded by tall houses in whose windows no lamps burned, either because it was too early for them to be lit, or because the houses were deserted.

In this place as the faint light showed, for that night was one of full moon, was a large litter resting on the ground and standing at its poles twelve black men dressed in uniform who neither stirred nor spoke; Ethiopian slaves they seemed to be. The old woman led me to the litter, whispering,

"Enter, lover. Nay, stop not to fee me who am already well paid and whose joy it is to bring together those who waste away apart. Enter and when you are happy, remember me."

So through the curtains which she opened, I stumbled into that dark litter, to find myself caught in a woman's arms and resting on a woman's breast. I thought—who would not?—that it must be she I sought, she of whom my heart was full, and no other. Therefore I threw my answering arms about her and drawing her to me kissed her on eyes and lips. Nor did she say me nay. At length she laughed a little and the laugh seemed strange to me. Then she said in the Babylonian tongue and in a voice that though pleasant, was stranger still,

"I have always heard, Friend, that you men of Egypt were warm-hearted and forward to attack, but never till now did I understand how faithful was the tale. Kiss on, Friend, if it pleases you, for kisses are cheerful and they leave no scars."

Now I shrank back gasping and amazed, not far it is true, for the litter would not allow of it, whereon my companion continued her mockery.

"Are you tired of love-making," she answered, "and so soon? Or do you fear that Ishtar has not blessed me? It is not so, I swear. Look now, I will draw the curtain a little and you will see that I am well- favoured enough to please most men, even if they be high-born Egyptians."

Thereon she leant forward, pressing her face against my own, and did so. At first I could see nothing both because I could scarcely move my head, and secondly for the reason that the moonlight was cut off either by a cloud or by some house. Presently, however, the litter swung round a corner, for all this while we were being carried forward, and for a few moments the light shone on her, showing that in her fashion she was very fair, round-faced, red-lipped and with dark alluring eyes. Also she was young and most shapely.

"So!" she said, letting the curtain fall again, "not so ill, am I, at any rate in this gloom where one might well pass for another? You, too, are better to look at than I thought, handsome indeed— therefore——" and again she pressed herself against me.

"Lady," I murmured, "I may not. I go to meet one to whom I am sworn and—I may not."

"Well, even so there is no reason to tremble like a leaf, or as though you found yourself companioned by a snake. You would not greet the lady by telling her how you came to her and with whom, would you? If Ishtar keeps her eyes shut need you open hers? Moreover," she added and now I caught a note of warning in her voice, "how do you know that you will find that lady, who perhaps also travels in a litter with another? Have you no proverb in Egypt, Friend, that says: 'Take what the gods give while their hands are open, for none know what they will withhold when they are shut.'"

"Oh! Lady, mock me not. I am in a sore strait."

She laughed a little, musically enough, and answered,

"So I can guess; indeed I am sure of it and therefore I forgive you, which, being vain, I should not do if I thought that you shrank from me because I was unpleasing to you. Poor man, be at peace! See, here is a cushion, will you not use it to cover your face? The warmest kisses cannot burn it through. Moreover it was you who began them, not I. I did but take fire from your torch."

Then she leant back and continued laughing, and there was something about her voice which told me that however bold she might be, she was also kind-hearted.

We travelled on in silence for a while, then she said,

"I will tell you something lest you should misjudge me. You can guess that I am girl whose eyes are not always fixed upon the ground, but I am nothing worse. I was sent to bring you as one from whom a man would not flee as he might do from another man. But by Marduk I do not know why I am sent who earn my fee and ask no questions. Believe me, Egyptian, I am not the bait upon any trap."

"Who sent you?" I asked.

"A eunuch as usual where such palace errands are concerned, and therefore I smell a love affair."

"Is it so? I thought perhaps that it was a lady."

"Without doubt, for there is always a lady behind the eunuch," she answered in the voice of one who wished to leave this matter undiscussed.

Then I remembered the words of Myra's letter, that she was sending one who was a friend of hers to lead me to her, and marvelled a little, for this fair wanton seemed a strange friend for Myra to have chosen. Only I remembered also that she was dwelling in a court and, it was probable, could not choose her friends, but must take any that would serve her turn, a dangerous one enough. Therefore I let that doubt trouble my mind no more. Presently the litter halted for a moment and a challenge was given which was answered by one of the bearers in words that I could not catch. Thereon he who had challenged laughed and we went forward again, from which I guessed that we had passed some gate. The lady leant forward and whispered in a new voice,

"Friend, we have passed the outer wall of the palace and are about to go down into—hell, for the palace of Belshazzar is hell indeed, as I know who dwell there with others of my kind. You are bold who being free, enter such a place where from hour to hour none knows what may chance to him. But doubtless you have your reasons which it does not become me to ask. Now I am going to make a request to you, to grant or to refuse as you will. It is that you will kiss me once more, upon the brow this time, not as a lover but as a brother might, and tell me that you forgive me my mockeries. For I would fain be kissed once by an honest man as I feel you to be."

Now I thought a moment. I did not wish to touch this woman again yet some voice speaking in my heart urged me to do as she desired. So I listened to that voice and kissed her, for which she thanked me very humbly. As the end will show well was it for me that I did so, thereby making her my friend.

Again we were challenged and this time the word of the bearers was not accepted.

"Lean back," said my companion.

Then she opened the curtains a little and spoke between them, at the same time thrusting out her hand on which there was some ring.

"Go on," cried a voice. "It is only Adna with one of her gallants, who carries warrant on her finger to pass where she will with whom she will on this night of festival when Ishtar reigns. Say, Adna, may I not share that litter with you three nights hence when my leave begins?"

"Aye," she answered mockingly, "if between now and then you will change yourself from a vulgar fellow into a gentleman of breeding who can tell the name of his grandfather, which is impossible," a bitter saying that caused the officer's companions to laugh.

We went on again through sundry courts, as I gathered by the cutting off of the moonlight, and at length halted in some silent place.

Adna, as I had now learned the woman with me was called, sprang from the litter that had been set down upon the ground, and running up some steps to a little door, tapped upon it three times, and after a pause twice more quickly. The door opened and for a while she talked with some one in a whisper, after which she returned to the litter and said,

"My task is done. Yours, whatever it may be, begins. Descend."

Now some cold hand of fear seemed to grip my heart, some sense that this place was unfriendly and dangerous to me, so that of all things in the world that which I wished the least was to enter there. A sweat burst out upon my brow; I became a coward eaten up of doubts.

"Can you not take me back by the road we came, Lady?" I asked.

"Nay," she answered. "You have entered by your own will and here you must stay, as the fish-god said to the eel in the trap when it learned that it was about to be skinned alive. Oh! why will men run so fast to catch women who are not worth it after all? Good-bye and may all the gods of all the lands befriend you, just for the sake of that one honest kiss."

Then servants, four of them all armed, appeared and handed me from the litter, bowing as though to a great lord. At the head of the steps I glanced back and saw the light of the torch they bore, shining on the beautiful face of the white-robed Adna as she stood by the litter watching me depart. Moreover, unless some trick of the shadows deceived me, I could have sworn that tears were running down that face.

Why and for whom did Adna shed those tears? I wondered.

XX. THE END OF OBIL

The little door clanged to behind me and with a fluttering of my heart I heard the bronze bolts rattle as they went home in their marble sockets. Then I was led down narrow passages, many of them that turned and forked and turned again till I lost all count of how they ran. At length I reached cedar doors before which stood guards. The doors opened and out came other servants who took me from those by whom I had been brought thus far, and led me into a lofty room that was separated from an inner chamber by broidered curtains.

Here I stood for a space while, passing between the curtains, one of the servants made some report that seemed to cause a man within to laugh loudly. Then he returned and I was led, or rather pushed through the curtains, on the farther side of which I halted bewildered, being dazzled by the multitude and brightness of the lights. A voice said in my ear,

"Down! Be prostrate before the King of kings!" but still I stood bewildered, seeing no king.

When presently my eyes grew accustomed to the blaze of light I perceived that I was in a large chamber, cedar-roofed and adorned with gold-worked hangings. At the end of this chamber, seated in a gilded and jewelled chair, was a large, hook-nosed, bearded man with unwinking eyes that reminded me of those of a vulture, whom I knew to be Belshazzar the King.

He stared at me with those bold, fixed eyes, then said in a voice as soft as though his throat had been soaked in oil,

"Let him alone. These barbarian foreign lords do not understand the customs of our court. If he does not prostrate himself of his own courtesy, I say—let him alone who may ere long learn to mend his manners. Bring him here. I would speak with him."

So I was led forward and stood before the king.

"How are you named?" he asked, eyeing me up and down with his vulture stare.

"I am called Ptahmes, O King," I answered who did not dare to give my own name, and I noted that a scribe who stood by, wrote down the words.

"Is it so? I think that I have heard otherwise. What are you doing in Babylon and what are you?"

"I am a man of learning, O King, of whom the late king, your father, was pleased to make a friend when we discussed the attributes of the gods. He gave me this robe in which I stand."

"Did he? Then a fool made presents to a knave," he replied coarsely, and the courtiers laughed. "Where are you living?" he went on.

"I am the guest of the prophet Belteshazzar, O King, he whom the late king Nebuchadnezzar made governor of Babylon."

"Indeed. Then as I suspected, that old Hebrew dream-doctor keeps bad company. By Marduk! he shall answer for it to me who do not fear his spells as did Nebuchadnezzar the Madman. Are you also one of the men of Judah?"

"I am a worshipper of the God of Judah, O King."

"And therefore an enemy of the gods of Babylon. Well, let the gods fight their own battles. I mock them all who have served me ill of late and chiefly this cheat of Judah, whose temple we have plundered and whose golden vessels are my wash-pots. He has cursed me, so say his priests, but as he has no statue to be defiled, I spit upon his name and will show him that the King of Babylon is greater than the Heavenly Cheat of Judah, as did the kings who went before me. What say you, man?"

Now when I heard these blasphemies I shivered, nor, as I think, were they pleasing to the ears of the courtiers, for I saw some of them turn their heads and make the sign that Babylonians use to avert evil.

"Is it for me to reason with the King, or to revile Him Whom I worship? As the King said, let the gods fight their own battles, which doubtless they will do," I answered slowly.

"So in veiled words you threaten me with this god of yours, do you? Yet I think that before long you will revile his name, and loudly, in all our ears. How came you here and for what purpose, O Ptahmes?"

"A woman brought me, O King."

"Her name?"

"I am not sure of it, but one of the guards called her Adna."

All those present smiled and Belshazzar answered with a brutal laugh,

"Oh! Adna. We all know the beautiful Adna. Did you then propose to use my palace as a house of ill fame?"

"Not so, O King. I was told that I was among those bidden to a feast because the late king Nabonidus had favoured me."

"Were you? Then learn that I do not pick my feasters from among my father's toadies tricked out in his old clothes," and he pointed to my cloak which I now noticed was of a different make and stuff from those worn by the officers around him.

I was silent, not knowing what to say. For a while he sat staring at me, his face alive with hate as though I were his bitterest foe. Then he spoke again, changing his soft voice, as he had the power to do, for one like to the roar of a lion.

"Let us have done with all these lies," he said, "for I weary of the play and time grows short. Captain, bring in the man Obil, that we may refresh ourselves with a breath of truth."

Now the officer addressed hesitated, seeing which the king struck the arm of the chair with his sceptre and shouted again,

"Do you not hear me? Bring in the spy Obil."

So sharply did he strike that the ivory sceptre snapped in two and the golden head in which was set a great emerald, rolled along the floor till it lay still between my feet. A gasp of fear at this most evil omen rose from those who saw it, and even the king's wine-flushed face paled for a moment. Recovering himself, he turned on them snarling and asked,

"Are you afraid? Do you think that the cheat Jehovah answers me by a sign worked upon this rod of power that all the gods of Babylon have blessed? I tell you that with half a sceptre I will hunt him out of heaven, yes, and shatter Cyrus, whom the men of Judah call his Sword. Aye, I will thrust it down the Persian's throat and watch it choke him."

"May the King live for ever!" said the courtiers bowing. "The King is greater than all the conquered gods of all the peoples!"

I saw, I heard, and for the first time some comfort crept into my scared soul as I set my foot upon that sceptre-head beneath the hem of my robe where it lay hidden, and spurned it. For well I knew that this beast king was but as dust before the breath of Jehovah the Holy One of Judah. Then I stepped back and showed the great jewel flashing on the ground like to a tiger's evil eye.

A door at the side of the chamber was opened and through it came four bloodstained black men, naked save for loin cloths, who bore a stretcher covered with a cloth.

"May it please the King, Obil is here as the King commanded," said the captain.

At a sign from the king he threw back the cloth revealing a hideous sight, from which even those cruel Babylonians shrank back. For there lay Obil, mutilated, torn to pieces, scarred with fire and bathed in blood. More I will not write; it is enough.

"Bid the dog speak, if he would not taste of a worse torment, and tell me what he knows of this man who bribed him to corrupt my servants and carry letters from a lady of my household," said Belshazzar.

"May it please the King," said the captain in a trembling voice, "Obil cannot speak. He is dead!"

"Dead!" roared Belshazzar. "How comes it that he is dead when I commanded that he should be kept alive?" and he glared at the black slaves who shook in their terror.

"May it please the King," went on the captain, "the scribe here whose office it is to be present at tormentings and take down the words uttered by the victims—I mean by the wicked sentenced to punishment, says that this obstinate man of Judah, Obil, snatched a heated knife from the hand of one of the slaves and drove it into his own heart. See, it stands there in his breast."

"And what said the fellow before he died?" asked Belshazzar of the scribe, who answered,

"May it please the King, he said nothing save that he believed this man here was an Egyptian of royal blood and that the King could never harm him as he was protected by the spirit of Belteshazzar, the great prophet of Judah. Naught else could be wrung from him by any torment that is known. Indeed with his last words he denied all the little he had uttered."

"Did he tell you naught of Belus or Azar, my enemy in whose pay he was, and whither he has gone?"

"Naught, O King."

"Take that carrion away and let those clumsy slaves await my punishment under guard, for I think that presently they shall taste of their own medicine," said the king, glaring again at the black men.

So the body of the steadfast Obil was carried off and as it went I prostrated my heart before him whom unwittingly I had brought to death, and blessed his spirit, praying its pardon and that of God. When it was gone and slaves had scattered perfume over the spot where the tormentors and the litter had stood, the king spoke again, saying,

"We have learned little of this man from that dead Hebrew, save that he is an Egyptian of royal blood, and even this he denied again before his end. Nor is it of any use to ask the fellow himself, except under torment, for doubtless he will lie as all Egyptians do. Yet if, as is reported, he be really of the blood of Amasis we must go softly, for at this moment Babylon does not wish to make a foe of Pharaoh. Now I have heard rumours concerning the man and I would put them to the proof, as happily I have the means to do. What say you, my counsellors?"

"The King is wise. May the King live for ever!" answered these reptiles, bowing like snakes before the rod of their charmer.

Then Belshazzar turned to a chamberlain who stood upon his right with a wand in his hand, and said,

"Admit those ladies who await an audience of my Majesty, and be silent everyone while I talk with them. Remember all, also you, Egyptian, that whoever speaks before I open his mouth, dies," and without moving his head he turned his flashing eyes towards the door through which the torturers had departed with their horrible burden, then fixed them threateningly upon me.

Presently the curtains that hung over another of the entrances to that great chamber were drawn and from between them appeared two ladies draped in long veils, of whom because of these veils little could be seen, except that they were tall and walked gracefully. After them came other women whom I took to be attendants because their heads were bowed. Also I noted that the pair who came first seemed to be strangers or enemies, for they exchanged no word and edged away from each other. Having made their obeisance to the king, they were halted by the chamberlain at a little distance from where I stood. Then they looked at me and I perceived that both of them began to sway and tremble like papyrus reeds beneath the weight of a breath of wind, seeing which I grew suddenly afraid. Indeed from the moment that they entered I had been afraid, because there was something which came from them to me that stirred my spirit and awoke memories of I knew not what.

"Be pleased, Ladies, as this is no public court, to put off ceremony and to unveil yourselves," said Belshazzar in his softest voice.

Thereon the waiting women sprang forward and loosed the wrappings from the heads of the two ladies whom I watched intently, wondering whether I should know them.

The veils fell and were snatched away and next moment I too nearly fell down. For before me stood Myra and my mother! Both of them were wonderfully arrayed and, as a man sees in a dream, I noted that on my mother's head was a royal ornament, at least from it, fashioned in gems, rose something that resembled the uraeus snake of Egypt, that only might be worn by kings, their spouses and their children of the true blood.

Myra bent forward as though to speak but in a stern voice Belshazzar bade her to be silent. Then addressing my mother, he said,

"Royal Lady, for so from our brother Pharaoh's letters I understand you are, who for your own reasons have been pleased to favour me by accompanying Egypt's embassy to Babylon, as, if you were so minded, I prayed that you would do; tell me, I pray, whether you know this man who stands before me, and if so, who and what he is."

These words the king spoke in his own language, but an interpreter who must have been waiting there for the purpose, rendered them in Greek.

"Know him!" she answered with a cry, using that same tongue, for indeed she had never learned any other very well. "Can a mother forget the child she bore? Great King, he is my own and only son begotten by the good god, Pharaoh Apries, when I was his wife. Yes, my son of the royal blood, a Count of Egypt and a governor of Memphis, whom having lost, by Pharaoh's leave I have travelled so far to seek, as you invited me to do through your envoy, O King of kings. Amasis, the present divine Pharaoh, sent him as an ambassador to Cyrus the Persian, after which he vanished, O King; wherefore, hearing from your envoy that he was rumoured to be still in Babylon hidden away, I came to seek him and—am here."

"Is he named Ptahmes, Lady?"

"Nay, O King, his name is Ramose," she exclaimed astonished.

"I thank you, Lady, for this makes certain what we had heard elsewhere, that Ptahmes is a false name under which it has pleased the noble but modest Ramose to hide himself in Babylon. Now, royal Chloe, as I believe that you are called, be pleased to tell me whether you know the lady who stands near to you?"

"Yes, O King, though I have not seen her since she left Egypt to be wed to the King Nabonidus, a marriage, I am told, that did not take place because of some falsehood that was published concerning her, although now she is to become your queen, O King, a glorious destiny indeed. Yes, the wife of the greatest monarch in all the world!" and she lifted her eyes as though in adoration of a god.

"You are right, Lady, and it is for this reason that we have petitioned of you to honour us with your presence here in Babylon if only for a while, that we may bestow upon you such gifts and titles as become one who is said to be the grandmother of a lady whom its king takes as wife. We beg you, therefore, to tell us here and now whether this is so, as in his letters Amasis, the Pharaoh of Egypt declares, because if I may say it, in your person you are still so young and beautiful, that doubts have arisen as to this matter."

Now I fell into an agony, or rather into a deeper agony, who knew not what words would come from the mouth of this foolish mother of mine in the madness of her vanity. I who remembering Belshazzar's terrible threat, dared not speak, fixed my eyes upon her face, as I saw Myra did also, striving to send a message from my heart to hers, warning her of my peril. But she took no heed. Indeed she only blushed and bowed, then answered in a pleased voice,

"O King, my son Ramose was born when I was still very young, nor is he himself so far advanced in years as might be thought from his face, that has grown lined with study of deep things I do not understand."

Now Belshazzar leaned forward and said in a measured voice,

"Then this lady is the daughter of your son, Ramose?"

"So I believe, O King, although I never knew her mother, as I told Pharaoh Amasis in the past. Years ago a queen named Atyra came from Syria on an embassy to Apries my lord, a beautiful woman who, I heard, fell in love with my son and—the King will spare me, for we in Egypt are modest and it is not our custom to talk of such matters to men."

Now able to bear no more I was about to cry out that she lied, when a eunuch who had drawn near to me, gripped my arm and handling his dagger, whispered in my ear,

"Unless you seek instant death, be silent."

Then I refrained my lips, bethinking me that while I lived there was still hope. In death there could be none.

"All of us understand, royal Chloe," said the king with a false smile; "indeed I remember hearing of this Queen Atyra, a very fair woman who went to stir up Egypt against us of Babylon and returned no more. So enough of her. Now one more question, my royal guest, and I will cease to trouble you. A man called Belus, an evil-doer who fled from Babylon when I was young because of some crime he had committed, appeared here not long ago and was pardoned through the foolishness of the late king, my father, to whom he was a cousin. This man having been reinstalled in his offices, for by trade he is a priest and a necromancer, stated to the king in my presence that the lady Myra yonder was not a princess of the royal blood of Egypt as Pharaoh Amasis had declared, but the low-born wife of an Egyptian named Ramose, a son of Pharaoh Apries and the lady Chloe, believing which, my father publicly put away the lady Myra and from that day till his death never looked upon her face again. Is this tale true or false, royal Chloe?"

"How can it be other than false, O King?" cried my mother in a high and rapid voice, "seeing that for years Myra dwelt with my son as his acknowledged daughter, first in Cyprus and afterwards in Egypt, where she herself often spoke to me of him as her father and where he suffered suitors to ask her hand as that of his daughter? Moreover did they not live in my house at Memphis as father and daughter? Lastly, if this were not so, should I have told Pharaoh Amasis that she was my son's daughter when he sought for a lady of the royal blood to be sent as a wife to the King Nabonidus? Further, if they were wed, how comes it that I, his mother, was never asked to be present when he took her as his bride?"

Thus she spoke in a torrent of words until she ceased from want of breath.

"It is enough," said Belshazzar, when the interpreter had rendered them all. "I thank you who with the wind of truth have blown away certain mists of falsehood which perplexed me, who purpose both for reasons of policy and of love," here he devoured Myra with his fierce and greedy eyes, "to repair the wrong done in error to your son's daughter by my father Nabonidus, one ever easy to deceive, by taking her to wife, thus wiping away that insult with the highest honour I can bestow. Be pleased to withdraw, royal Chloe, till we meet again presently at my feast when these nuptials will be declared. In your chamber you will find certain gifts not unworthy of her from whom sprang a queen of Babylon, with which I trust you will adorn your beauty at the feast; also the decrees conferring upon you titles of nobility which in Chaldea we think high."

When these words had been translated, Belshazzar rose and bowed to my mother, and she—poor besotted creature, prostrated herself before him as in her youth she was wont to do before Pharaoh whose woman she had been. Then muttering thanks, she withdrew with her following, forgetting in her joy and triumph even so much as to look at me, her son, who, although she guessed it not, she had condemned to death.

When she was gone Belshazzar dismissed most of those who stood about him, so that there remained only a scribe, a captain and four soldiers, three eunuchs, big, fat fellows with villainous, wrinkled countenances who, as I heard afterwards, were the chosen ministers of his pleasures; and some veiled women attending upon Myra, who from the way in which they moved, to me appeared to be jailers rather than waiting-maids. They went and there followed a space of heavy silence like to that which precedes the bursting of a tempest. All there felt, I think, that something terrible was about to happen, for even the soldiers and the hard-faced eunuchs looked moved and expectant.

Belshazzar descended from his high chair and stood in front of me, glowering, his evil face full of hate and jealous rage.

"You have heard," he said in that horrible soft voice of his. "Now what have you to say, half-bred dog of an Egyptian whose mother was a Grecian strumpet, you who came to Babylon upon a vile errand? Before you speak, learn that all this while you have been known and watched, aye, even while I was absent. After you were taken spying for Cyrus under a false name, the king my father protected you because you have some smatterings of learning and flattered him. He died and you and the traitor who is known as Belus, strove to escape with yonder lady under an order that you had cheated from him. But my officers outwitted you. The lady was taken in the gate, though owing to a storm bred of the wizardry of Belus, you and he vanished, as I think after killing my officer. Then you took shelter under the robe of the Hebrew prophet who is called Belteshazzar, knowing that none dare touch you there because of the superstitions of the Babylonians who believe that his house is fenced by spirits from the underworld. There, perhaps, you might have stayed safe enough, had it not pleased you to make use of that poor wretch whose corpse you saw but now, as a go-between with the lady Myra.

"In answer to your messages she wrote you a letter which was seized, copied and then delivered by your tool, Obil. To-day, another letter was forged and given to you to serve as bait to draw the jackal from his hole. You came out of your lair and were met by a woman, because to have sent soldiers to take you would have been dangerous in a city that is full of treachery, thanks to your friend Belus and others, though that woman, the wanton Adna, knew not why she was sent, thinking only that she played a part in some love business from which she would draw gold. So through your own blind folly at last you came into my hands, where there is no prophet to protect you with the magic of the devil that he worships."

He paused a while, glaring and gnashing his teeth. Then he went on,

"And now from the lips of that vain painted hag, your mother, lured here for this purpose, we have learned the truth, or what will serve as well, for who can doubt a mother's testimony concerning the son she bore? The lady whom you pretend to be your wife, is certified by your mother to be your own daughter and you are a wretch unfit to live, as all here and in Egypt will acknowledge, yes, even Amasis himself. Therefore I doom you to die, who on the head of your private crimes, have piled that of making trouble between Babylon and Egypt at a time when Babylon needs Egypt's help. Do you hear that you are condemned to die?"

"I hear, O King, that like every man—even the King himself—I am condemned to die," I answered slowly, for these words came to me. "Yet before I die I would say to you what you know already, that all this tale is false. Whatever my mother may have told you in her vanity and delusion, yonder woman is not my daughter but my wife."

"Dog!" he answered, smiting me in the face, "will you also defile your own mother? Well, soon we shall hear another story from you. Doubtless you think to pass hence swiftly and without pain. It is not so. You shall perish very slowly, as a monster who would take his own daughter for a wife and who slanders his mother is doomed to do under our ancient law. There is much that I would learn from you ere you yield your breath, concerning the doings of your familiar Belus who is reported to have gone hence to plot against me and Babylon with Cyrus the accursed Persian. Soldiers, away with him to the torment!" and he clapped his hands.

Then Myra who all this while had listened immovable, sprang forward and threw herself into my arms.

"He is my husband, not my father. If he must die, let me die with him," she cried.

"Drag her away," said the king, and they obeyed him.

Yet as she was torn from me, she thrust something into my hand which swiftly I hid in my robe, guessing that it was poison.

"Farewell, beloved wife," I said. "Soon we shall meet before God's judgment seat, we and this king."

As the soldiers haled me towards the curtains the captain who had departed to give orders returned.

"O King," he said, "the King's command cannot be carried out on the instant."

"Why not?" shouted Belshazzar.

"O King, the tormentors, fearing the just vengeance of the King that he had promised to them because of the death of Obil, are themselves all dead. Yes, there they lie dead, the four of them, having, as I think, swallowed their own tongues after the Ethiopian fashion."

"Send for others instantly," said the king.

Then the private scribe prostrated himself, saying,

"O King, the business will be long, for such instructed, devilish folk live by themselves at a distance and it is almost the hour of the great feast. Shall we not behead this man at once and make an end?"

"Nay," Belshazzar answered, "for I would court this daughter of his to the music of his groans. It will be sweet!"

He thought a while, then added,

"Bring him to the feast and guard him well, placing him under my own eye that I may be sure of him, who perhaps is also a magician and can vanish away like Belus. When the feast is over lead him here again where I and my new-made wife will talk with him. Bid more tormentors await us here with their instruments and see to it that they are the masters of their filthy company. On your heads be it!"

XXI. THE WRITING ON THE WALL

It was the great feast of King Belshazzar, given to celebrate his coming to the throne of Babylon, to attend which had been summoned all the satraps, high officers and nobles throughout the empire. From east and west and north and south, in obedience to the royal command, they had gathered together in Babylon like vultures to the carcase, and waited there until the king returned from war to hold this coronation feast. The enormous central hall of the palace was filled with their glittering multitude, seated at scores of tables all down its length and even between the towering side columns that bore up the roof. In the centre there were no columns because this roof did not stretch from wall to wall and here the hall was open to the sky. Nor was one needed at this season of the year when no rain fell.

The night was hot and the air so still that the thousands of lamps and torches burned without a flicker; even the flame of the candles in the golden candlesticks that had been taken from the sanctuary of the House of God at Jerusalem, pointed straight to heaven like fingers of fire.

The king's seat was at the high table, and behind him, at a distance, was the white wall at the end of the great chamber. All down this table on either side of the throne were placed his noblest lords, his queens and his concubines, flashing in jewelled robes. Among these women on one side sat Myra, tall, pale, beautiful, adorned as a bride; and on the other side my mother Chloe, wearing the royal uraeus of Egypt to which she had no right, and covered with gems, among them, upon her heart, those that Belshazzar had promised to her as his royal gift. Below this table stood another occupied by officers of the royal household, and at this board I, Ramose, was given a place looking up towards the king, so that I might be in the king's eye as he had commanded. At my back stood armed guards, and on either side of me were chief eunuchs of the household who wore daggers in their belts.

When the countless company was gathered, a trumpet blew, heralds cried for silence, and the king entered. All rose from their seats and prostrated themselves before his majesty, lying on the floor like to dead men. He waved his sceptre, not that broken sceptre I had spurned, but another which a eunuch told me had belonged to a dead king. Thereon they stood up again and the feast began.

I watched it like one in a dream, touching nothing of that rich food which to my sight was viler than carrion, although with cruel courtesy the eunuchs pressed it on me, saying that as this would be my last meal, it was wise that I should eat, drink and be merry. Then, after their beastly fashion, the chief of them who had been present that night at the audience given to my mother, described to me how horribly I should be made to die; also what Myra must suffer if she turned from the king, all too hideous to be written.

Much wine was drunk and soon it became evident to me, watching and listening to what, as I believed, were the last voices I should hear on earth, that there were two parties in that hall which hated each other. For here and there quarrels flared up suddenly, even blows were given, until the guards who were everywhere, put an end to them with heavier blows.

At length the king rose and spoke, and I who sat not far from him, could hear every word he said. He told of the war with the Persians, boasting much and saying that Cyrus and his generals were already as dead men, for though at first they had met with some small success, their armies had now fallen into a trap and would beat vainly against the mighty walls of Babylon, like little waves against a mountain side. Some applauded these sayings, whereas others received them with mutterings, especially those whose sons and brothers had fallen in the battles or been taken prisoners and sold as slaves.

"I have good news for you, lords, rulers, captains and people of Babylon," went on the king. "There has been trouble between us and Egypt, brought about by spies, mischief-makers and liars"—here, as I thought, he glared at me. "That trouble is at end. Pharaoh is our ally again and will support us with his armies in our struggle against the Persian dogs. To seal our pact this very night I take to wife a lady of the royal blood of Egypt," and he pointed to Myra who sat still as a woman carved in stone, whereon all who could hear him rose and stared at her, appraising her beauty.

"Fear not," he went on, boasting madly, "I will lead Babylon to such glory as she has never known; guided by our ancient gods, again I will make of her the queen of the world. There are no gods like to the gods of Babylon who have smitten those of all the peoples. Some talk of Jehovah of the Hebrews. Where is this Jehovah? Behold! we have pulled him down from heaven. Babylon has sacked his sanctuaries, slaughtered his priests upon his altars of sacrifice, and taken his treasures as spoil. Ho! bring in the vessels from his house, those glorious vessels that were holy in the sight of this fallen cheat Jehovah."

Thereon men who were waiting bore in the golden vessels; the cups, the ewers and the basins, the receptacles of sacrifice and the lavers that had been sacked from the temple at Jerusalem. They bore them in with ribald shouts and lo! in each of them decked with flowers, was set some image of a god of the empire of Chaldea; gods of stone and ivory and wood, grinning and triumphant idols. They set the vessels down on the high-table while half-naked women jeered and mocked at them and into one of the most splendid Belshazzar cast the dregs of his wine, crying,

"Accept this drink-offering, O Jehovah, conquered demon of Judah!"

It was done and he fell back upon his throne panting and rolling his fierce eyes, while he waited for the shouts of acclamation that were to follow upon his vile words.

But no shouts came, at first I knew not why till it seemed to me, while I wondered, as though some shadow was passing down the length of that hall, yes, a winged shadow that could be felt rather than seen. Then I understood. After the passing of the shadow followed a heavy silence, for all were afraid. All knew that Death was of their company.

The silence lasted while one might count a hundred. Then over against me, at the far end of the hall, the shadow reappeared and thickened. Yes, against the white wall that towered high at the back of the king's seat, it began to take form and the form it took was that of a great hand which held a pen of fire. Such at least was its fashion to my eyes.

More—that hand began to write upon the lofty wall. Slowly it wrote with the pen of fire, tracing strange characters that I could not read, letters of flame which burned more brightly than iron at its whitest heat and were, each of them, of the height of a tall man.

Those of the feasters who sat far off were the first to see this dreadful writing, which the king and those about him saw not because it was behind them. They stared astonished and terrified; in utter silence they sat still and stared. Heavy was that unnatural stillness and dreadful was the gloom which gathered over the lower part of the chamber, as though some mighty shape floated there, cutting off the light of the moon and stars. Yet the lamps shone on beneath and by them could be seen the white, up-turned faces and the staring eyes of all that multitude of watchers.

"What ails our guests?" asked Belshazzar, gazing at those white faces and those terror-stricken eyes, and his voice sounded loud in the quiet.

Now for the first time I noted that Myra had risen. Alone among the women she had risen from her seat and stood with her back towards me looking at the wall behind her. Yes, it was she who answered the king which no other dared to do.

"Behold! O King," she cried and pointed to the wall.

He rose. He turned. He saw the huge black hand that held the pen of fire and slowly, very slowly, drew letters of flame upon the whited plaster of the wall, where they shone and sparkled like to the coals of a furnace heated manifold. Then he sank down in a huddled heap upon the edge of the table, crying such words as these:

"What witchcraft have we here? Come forward, appear, all ye my soothsayers and magicians, and show me the interpretation of this writing. To him who can read it I will give a great reward, aye, and set him up as a ruler in Babylon."

Presently from this place and that among the seats allotted to their Fellowships and Colleges and elsewhere, gathered the soothsayers, the magicians and all who were reckoned the wisest among the Chaldeans in the arts of divination. They advanced to the dais; they studied the characters of flame which one by one continued to start forth upon the plaster on the wall. But of them they could read nothing.

Appeared a lady who wore a crown upon her white hair. She came to the king whose body shook and whose face was ashen with fear.

"O King my son, live for ever!" she cried. "Let Daniel, the prophet of Judah, be summoned, he who among the Chaldeans is named Belteshazzar, for in him is the spirit of the holy gods. He will interpret this writing, as he interpreted many dark visions to Nebuchadnezzar the king who went before thee."

So in his terror the king commanded that Daniel known as Belteshazzar, should be brought before him. Tall, thin, solemn-faced, black-robed, white-haired, he was led through the feasters to the dais. As he passed the table where I sat, he turned and looked at me with his quiet eyes as though in reproach and wonderment. Then he looked at the eunuchs and armed guards around me; also at Myra in her bridal robes upon the dais, and seemed to understand. He climbed the dais and stood before the king, making no obeisance.

Belshazzar lifted his face from the cloth in which he had hidden it, and spoke with Daniel in a low voice, as I think offering him gifts, but what he said and what Daniel answered I could not hear. At length the prophet stepped back to the end of the dais and gazed upward at the letters which flamed upon the wall, for now the hand that wrote them with a pen of fire was seen no more.

"This is the meaning of the writing, O thou King that mockest the Most High God and defilest the vessels of His house," cried the prophet in so loud a voice that all in the hall could here. "Numbered, numbered, weighed and divided. Yea, thy days are numbered! Yea, thou art weighed upon the balances! Yea, thy kingdom is brought to an end! The Medes and the Persians take it!"

Now the king drew near to Daniel, imploring the prophet to take away this curse, or offering him gifts, I know not which, for the groans of fear that rose from all who heard, covered up his words. But the prophet waved him back and turning, departed from that hall, looking neither to right nor left.

In silence he went, in silence all watched him go; then, as though at a word of command, suddenly there was tumult. A madness fell upon the company and the rage of terror. Women screamed, men raved and shouted, the king flung himself face downward on the table, rolling his head from which the crown had fallen, from side to side; a fainting concubine caught at a tall light and overset it, firing her robes, and rushed shrieking to and fro. Here and there men drew swords from beneath their cloaks and struck at the lamps, extinguishing them. As though their use was ended and their message given, the fiery letters upon the wall faded and vanished, so that at last the only light left in the great place was that which came from the moon floating over head. Then voices cried,

"Down with Belshazzar! Away with the tyrant! Kill the cruel dog who tears us and brings maledictions upon us! Kill the blasphemer! Shut the doors! Stab the guards!" and I understood that there was rebellion here.

Those for the king and those against him began to fight and die. Groans echoed everywhere. Belshazzar sprang up and accompanied by his court lords and women, rushed towards the private entrance behind them, seeking to escape, for they knew that the curse had fallen and the hour of doom was near. Some of that glittering mob were overthrown and trampled, among them my mother. I heard her scream my name; I saw her fall and vanish beneath the stamping feet. Forgetting everything I rose to rush to her aid, for was she not still my mother! None hindered me, for hoping to save themselves, the eunuchs and the guards had gone I know not where. I snatched up a jewelled sword that had fallen from some prince's hand; I leapt on to the dais and ran to the spot where I had last seen my mother.

There she lay, her fair face crushed, her splendid robes red with blood. Already a thief had been at work upon her jewels, one of the black slaves, for I caught sight of him slinking away with the necklaces glittering in his hand. More, he had driven a knife into her throat to still her struggles while he robbed her. She was dead. Yes, poor, foolish woman, such was the end of her and all her vanities!

I bethought me of Myra and looked round. At that moment the moon that had been half hidden by a cloud, shone out fully. Lo! there she sat in her place at the high table whence she had never stirred, so still that I thought she must be dead, so beautiful that I wondered for a moment whether it were she herself or perhaps her spirit.

Leaping over the fallen who lay, some quiet, some yet struggling, I hastened to her. She saw me and whispered,

"I awaited you. Let us away from this hell."

"Aye, but whither?" I asked. "The doors are closed."

She sprang from her chair, saying,

"Follow me!"

A man appeared; it was the captain of those eunuchs who had sat by me at the feast and told me of the torments I must endure and of the shame that would be worked on Myra. He tried to seize her, shouting,

"She is the king's!" for in his mad bewilderment the poor wretch could only bethink him of his duty and that he must guard the royal women.

I ran him through with the sword. As he went down his long dark cloak fell from him. I caught it up and threw it over Myra's gorgeous bridal robe, drawing the hood over her head. Then heeding him no more, though it would have been wiser to make sure that he was dead, we ran on, following the wall. Myra came to a screen of cedar-wood behind which serving-men were wont to pass bearing dishes, as she remembered who knew the palace well. She peered down the little passage to learn whether it were empty, and I glanced back at the hall. As Myra had said, it was a hell in which everywhere men were murdering each other and thieves plied their business fiercely, there being much to steal. Many, however, were trying to escape, rushing madly from door to door to find them barred in obedience to the command of the conspirators, most of them doubtless in the pay of Cyrus the Persian, who had hoped thus to catch and kill the king.

Yelling, they ran to and fro while their enemies, coming after, hacked them down and, ere the breath had left them, thieves from among the palace servants and even soldiers, who having no pay lived by what they could seize, robbed them of their finery.

Such was the end, or at least the last I saw of Belshazzar's mighty coronation feast, the greatest that ever had been held in Babylon; yes, these terrors and towering above them, white in the moonlight, the wall whereon but now God's finger had written His decree.

We crept down the passage and came to the court of the scullions, off which opened the kitchens and the quarters of the cooks, a village in themselves. We fled across that court and found another that Myra did not know, for many a city was smaller than this palace. Here beneath awnings and columned porticoes men and women were revelling on this festal night, for as yet news of what had chanced in the great hall did not appear to have reached them. From the look of these women and all that passed around us, I guessed at once that this was the quarter of the players and dancers, also of the courtesans who were making merry with their gallants.

While we hesitated, hiding ourselves as best we could, the tidings came, whence I could not see. The men thrust away their darlings and sprang up, drawing their swords and gazing about them suspiciously. Discovering us, after demanding their password which we could not give, certain of them began to hunt us, shouting that we were spies who must be killed. We slipped away from them and hid in the deep shadows of a portico while they ran about like hounds that have lost the scent.

A woman glided up to us and peered into my face.

"Ah! I thought it!" she said. "Now, Friend, if you would save yourself and that beautiful companion of yours, follow me, for I tell you that wolves are on your trail."

"Who are you?" I gasped doubtfully.

"How soon men forget the voices of those they thought fair enough to hold close not a sunrise ago!" she said with a light laugh.

Then I knew that this was the lady of the litter, one whom I could trust, and whispered to Myra that she must come. Our guide passed on through many gloomy passages, and we followed, leaving the shouts behind us.

"Who is this woman?" asked Myra suspiciously, "and whither does she take us?"

"Her name is Adna," I answered, "one in whom I have faith. Oh! stay not to question. She is our only hope."

"A poor one, I think," murmured Myra. Yet she obeyed me and was silent.

At length we came to a little door which Adna opened with a key that hung to her girdle.

"Hearken, Friend," she said. "This door has no good name, yet it may serve your turn, for it leads from the palace wall to the street that is called Great. Descend those steps, there are twelve of them, and turn down the passage to the right where I think there is no guard, and you will be in that street where no one will note you. Farewell, Friend. Thus I pay you and someone else for a certain honest kiss. Farewell, and may the gods who have forgotten me, always remember you, as I shall."

Then the door shut behind us. We ran down the steps. We followed the passage at the end of which, used as a shelter from sun and rain by the sentry who watched this gate, was a niche in the wall that now was empty, as Adna had said it would be, why I do not know. Watching our moment, we slipped out into the street called Great where many people were afoot, although the hour grew late. All of these were disturbed as was shewn by their gestures and the way in which they chattered to each other; doubtless some rumour of the terrible happenings in the palace had reached them, or other news of which I knew nothing. Therefore, as it chanced, we were little observed, for when its inhabitants felt the cold shadow of the Arm of God stretched out over Babylon, they took no heed of one whom they held to be some court noble passing with a cloaked woman.

"Whither go we?" whispered Myra.

"Anywhere away from this accursed palace," I replied, as though at hazard, but all the while I was wondering where we could shelter? In one place only—the guest-house of Daniel—that was the answer. It was fortunate indeed that during the weary months that I had lain hidden in this house I had so often beguiled the time by studying the streets of Babylon from its high roof, for now the knowledge I had gained came to our aid. Following these as I saw them in my mind, I led Myra from one to another until at length before us was the mount crowded with dwellings, on the crest of which were the walls of the old temple that hid the secret entrance to the prophet's guest-house. To encourage Myra I pointed to them.

"Behold our refuge!" I whispered.

"Then may we gain it swiftly, for oh! Ramose, we are followed."

I glanced back; it was true! Two cloaked men were dogging us, spies I supposed, or watchers sent out when Myra was missed. Perhaps that captain of the eunuchs whom I had cut down gave the alarm before he died.

"Now run your best," I said, and clinging to my arm she did so, though all her finery and the heavy cloak weighed her down and cumbered her feet.

We reached the walls and rushed into them by the little twisting path. Now the men were not more than twenty paces from us and I must almost carry Myra. Yet in that dim uncertain light, for the moon was sinking low behind the city's great encircling wall, they lost sight of us, turning to the right whereas we had turned to the left into the mouth of the path. I stumbled on dragging Myra with me; we came to the hidden door. Then with horror I remembered that it was locked and that I had no key, also that at this hour of the night it would be hard to rouse the servants who slept far away. Oh! surely we were lost, for if we knocked or called, those men would hear us and return. I gazed at Myra and I think that even through that gloom she must have seen the agony on my face, for she panted,

"What now, Beloved?"

"Only this, Myra. If you still have that poison, make it ready, unless you would be borne back to yonder palace—where Belshazzar waits."

"Never!" she exclaimed and began to search in her robes, while I did likewise to find the bane which she had given me in the presence- chamber, that I might use it now, should the sword fail me.

Then when all seemed lost the God we worshipped spoke a word in heaven and saved us. Suddenly the door opened! We rushed through. It shut again and the bolts went home.

"Be silent," whispered a voice out of the darkness, "be silent and stir not," and I knew it for that of the man Nabel who on the afternoon of this very day had brought me the basket of figs which hid the forged letter.

We stood still as the dead and next moment heard footsteps outside the door.

"Perhaps they went in here," said a voice.

"Not so," answered a second voice. "Surely I saw them run the other way."

"Still ought we not to seek help and break down the door which we have no tools to do?" said the first voice, "It seems strong and is locked."

"Nay, let it be," came the reply, "for I have no mind to tramp back to that palace where all is drunken riot and fighting, perhaps to get a spear through the belly for my pains. Nay, I shall wait till dawn and make report to the captain of the inner gate, according to the established custom in the matter of palace fugitives. We have our clue; it is enough. Come, brother, I know a tavern not half a mile away where they don't quarrel with late comers and the mistress keeps good wine. We will go sleep there."

"So be it, for we have done our best, but be careful of that trinket," said the first voice. Then the pair of them tramped off wearily.

Nabel led us down the passage to a little chamber at the foot of the stairs, where a lamp burned, by the light of which he looked at us curiously.

"How came you to be at that door, Friend?" I asked.

"My lord, the prophet returned here a little while ago, Master, and bade me watch by it till daylight, and if I heard any without to open at once, and should it be you and a lady, to admit you and close swiftly. These things I did, and it seems at the right time, though how he knew that you were coming he did not say."

I stared at him who also wondered how he knew that we were coming. Then I asked,

"Where is the prophet? We would speak with him."

"You cannot, Master. He told me that he was leaving Babylon instantly and would not return before to-morrow, if then; after which he departed with some cloaked companions whom he met without. Will you not ascend? Food and wine are set in the eating-chamber, as the prophet commanded, and one waits you there. Oh! be not afraid. She is a woman and harmless."

Taking the lamp we crept up the stairs, I going first with my sword ready. On a couch in the eating-chamber sat a woman, moaning and rocking herself to and fro. She looked up and we saw that it was Metep!

"Oh! my fosterling," she cried in a thick voice, "my fosterling whom I thought dead, and your husband, the lord Ramose also, who those chamber-girls said had been taken to the torture-room. Alive—both of you alive! Oh, that holy man must be a god."

"What holy man?" I asked.

"The prophet. I was at the back of the hall when the fighting began and I fled screaming with other women—I know not where. Then suddenly the prophet appeared among us. He took me by the hand, he led me away, and I remember no more till I found myself in this place. Oh! without doubt that prophet is a god!"

We drank wine; we ate food. Aye, we ate and drank with appetite for never were meat and drink more needed. Then side by side we knelt down, returning thanks to Him we worshipped Who so far had saved us from such great perils. We rose and as we did so Myra, who had thrown off the eunuch's cloak, looked down at her glittering bridal robe and uttered a little cry of dismay.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Oh!" she answered, "my lily. I have lost my lily in the crystal case."

"Let it go," I said smiling, "for you have found him who gave it to you."

She looked at me and I looked at her, until the blood flowing to her pale face stained it red as roses. Then forgetting all, yes, even the dreadful end of my mother, I opened my arms.

Whispering, "Husband! Oh! my husband!" Myra sank into them.

It was morning. Metep called at our door awaking us from sleep.

"Arise," she cried. "Armed men are without. They break through the walls!"

We rose and clothed ourselves as best we could. I looked from the window-places. Soldiers were hacking at the door, four of them, while behind, urging them on with many oaths, stood one wrapped in a dark cloak whom from his shape and voice, I guessed to be the baulked Belshazzar himself, come hither mad for vengeance on me and Myra.

"What shall we do, Husband?" asked Myra faintly, for she too had seen.

"Fly to the roof," I answered, "and take your poison with you, Wife, to swallow if there be need. Or if it pleases you better, should the worst happen, leap from the parapet to the ground, after which no king will wish to look on you."

"And you, Husband?"

"I? I am a man who still have some strength and sword-skill, although my last years have been peaceful, and while I may I will hold the stair. Wait. Bid Metep call those two serving-men."

She obeyed and presently they came.

"Friends," I said, "this house, although it be the prophet's and holy, is attacked by a lord from the palace who desires to steal away my wife, the lady Myra, and with him are four soldiers, as you may see for yourselves. Now choose. Will you help me to hold it, or will you give yourselves up? Before you answer, learn what befell your companion, Obil. He was caught by the servants of the king, and yesterday I saw his body at the palace, torn to pieces by the torturers. Such will be your fate also, if you fall living into the hands of yonder men."

Now Nabel, he who had brought me the basket of figs and opened the door to us, a sturdy fellow with a dogged face, said,

"I stand by you, I who was a soldier in my youth and would sooner die fighting than on the rack. I go to find my shield and sword."

The other man, a tall, pale-eyed fellow whom I had never liked, slipped away, nor do I know what became of him. I trust that he escaped, though when the soldiers broke into the house I heard a cry that he may have uttered.

Metep fled to the roof and Myra, before she followed, stayed to kiss me, saying rapidly,

"Husband, now I am ready for aught. Fight your best without care for me, for if it comes to it, I, who am all your own, shall go hence happy, to await you elsewhere. Never will I fall living into the jaws of yonder dog."

Then looking prouder, I think, than ever I had seen her, she turned to climb the stair.

I too went to the foot of that stair where I found Nabel awaiting me, a sword in his hand and a shield of bull's hide of an old fashion upon his left arm.

"I thought that you had gone with the other," I said.

He laughed and answered,

"Not I! With this sword and shield my great-grandsire fought the Chaldeans, and I too used them in my youth. Now I would pay back my grandsire's death upon their accursed race. Better to die as a warrior than as a dish-bearer."

"Good," I answered. "If we live, you will be glad of those words, and at the worst they may prove no ill passport to peace. Now get you behind me, and if I fall, fight on."

This he did though being brave, he would have stood in front, and we waited, I winding the fine cloak that Nabonidus had given me round my arm to serve as a shield, for I had none. Soon the soldiers broke in the door and reaching the foot of the stair, rushed up at us boldly for they were brave fellows also; moreover the king watched from below. I drove my sword through the throat of the first, and he fell. The second cut at me over his body. I warded the blow with the cloak, but his sword shore through it and wounded me in the head, causing blood to run into my eyes.

"Back!" cried Nabel, and I staggered past him up the stair to the roof. Nabel fought with the third man and it seemed, slew him. Then he joined me on the roof where Myra and Metep were wiping the blood from my face with their garments.

The other two soldiers appeared. We sprang at them and that fight was desperate, but God gave us strength and we slew them. Then, sorely wounded both of us, we reeled back to the parapet and stood there in front of the women. Belshazzar came and mocked at us, but attack he dared not, being a coward in his heart; also we still had swords in our hands and were upright on our feet though we could scarcely stir. Nay, he stayed by the mouth of the stair, waiting for help or thinking that we should bleed to death or faint.

"I have sent for more men," he cried, "and presently they will be here to make an end of you, cursed Egyptian. You thought you had escaped me and so you might have done, had not that strumpet of yours dropped her trinket as she ran from the palace, telling my watchers which way she went," and he drew from his robe the lily talisman set in its case of crystal and waved it in front of us.

Now he seemed to go mad; indeed I think he was smitten with a sudden madness like Nebuchadnezzar before him. He raved at us in vile words. He cursed the God of Judah Who, he said, had sent a lying spirit to write spells on his palace wall, and the prophet who had interpreted those spells and changed the company at the feast into ravening wolves. With a working face and rolling eyes he blasphemed, he reviled, he uttered horrible threats against Myra, saying that he would throw her to the soldiers while I died in torment before her eyes. He defied Cyrus and the Persians, vowing that he would burn them living, hundred by hundred he would burn them all; he beat the air, gnashing his teeth, till at last, able to bear no more, I strove to spring at him, but being wounded in the thigh as well as on the head, could not, and fell down.

Belshazzar drew a knife, purposing to finish me, yet in the end dared not because Nabel still stood over me, sword in hand, though he might not move. So he began to mock again and talk of the manner in which we should perish.

"Hark!" he said, "my servants come. I hear footsteps on the stair. Now look your last upon the sun, accursed Egyptian!"

I too heard a footstep on the stair and whispered to Myra to be ready to die in such fashion as she chose.

"I am ready, Husband," she answered in a steady voice.

At the mouth of the stair appeared a man. Lo! it was no soldier of the king, but Belus carrying a sword. Yes, Belus, come from I knew not whence, haggard and travel-stained, but with the fire of vengeance burning in his eyes.

Belshazzar turned and saw him. His fat face paled, his cheeks fell in, his whole frame seemed to shrink. He staggered back.

"Do you know me again, Belshazzar the King?" cried Belus. "Aye, you know me well. I am he whose young daughter you wronged and murdered long ago. I swore vengeance on you then and through the years far away I have worked and woven, till now at last the destined hour is at hand and you are in my net. Look yonder," and he pointed to a wide street of the city beneath us. "What do you see? Soldiers marching, is it not? Behold their banners. They are not yours, O King of Chaldea. Nay, they are those of Cyrus. I, Belus, have corrupted your captains; I have opened the gates of unconquered Babylon; you and your House are fallen; God's curse is fulfilled and my vengeance is accomplished!"

Belshazzar looked. He saw, he began to whine for mercy. Then suddenly he stabbed at Belus with the knife he held. But Belus was watching and before it could fall he drove at him with his sword, piercing him through and through.

Belus stooped; lifting the lily talisman that had fallen from Belshazzar's hand, he gave it back to Myra. Yes, there, amongst the dead, he gave it back to her without a word.

Thus died Belshazzar, King of the Chaldeans, Lord of the Empire of Babylon, by the hand of one whom he had wronged, he to whom it was appointed that he should be slain on the night of the writing on the wall.

Here ends the history of Ramose the Egyptian, son of Apries, and of Myra his wife, a daughter of the royal race of Judah, written at the Happy House in Memphis, by this Ramose when he and his wife were old, that their children's children might be instructed and pass on the tale to those who come after them, of how God saved them out of the hand of Belshazzar, King of Babylon.

THE END

A Winter Pilgrimage

First Published 1901

Being an Account of Travels through Palestine, Italy, and the Island of Cyprus, accomplished in the Year 1900.

DEDICATION

I offer these Pages to Mr. & Mrs. Hart Bennett and all other Cyprian friends whose hospitalities and kindness have made my sojourn in the Island so pleasant to remember

Ditchingham, 1901.

Contents

I. Milan Cathedral

II. A Tuscan Wine-Farm

III. Fiesole and Florence

IV. Pompeii

V. Naples to Larnaca

VI. Colossi

VII. A Cypriote Wedding

VIII. Amathus

IX. Curium

X. Limasol to Acheritou

XI. Famagusta

XII. The Seige and Salamis

XIII. Nicosia and Kyrenia

XIV. Beyrout, Tyre, and Sidon

XV. Nazareth and Tiberias

XVI. The Sea of Galilee

XVII. Tabor, Carmel, and Acre

XVIII. Jaffa

XIX. The Noble Sanctuary, the Pools of Solomon and Bethlehem

XX. Jericho, The Dead Sea, Bethany, and Solomon's Quarries

XXI. Gordon's Tomb and Golgotha

XXII. The Church of the Sepulchre

XXIII. The Mount of Olives and the Wailing of the Jews

I. MILAN CATHEDRAL

Surely Solomon foresaw these days when he set down that famous saying as to the making of many books. The aphorism, I confess, is one which strikes me through with shame whenever I chance to be called upon to read it aloud in the parish church on Sunday. Indeed it suggests to me a tale which has a moral—or a parallel. Some months ago I tarried at Haifa, a place on the coast of Syria with an abominable port. It was at or about the hour of midnight that a crowd of miserable travellers, of whom I was one, might have been seen cowering in the wind and rain at the gates of this harbour. There the judge and the officer bullied and rent them, causing them to fumble with damp hands and discover their tezkerehs in inaccessible pockets, which they did that the account given in those documents of their objects, occupations, past history, and personal appearance might be verified by a drowsy Turk seated in a box upon the quay. Not until he was satisfied on all these points, indeed, would he allow them the privilege of risking death by drowning in an attempt to reach a steamer which rolled outside the harbour.

At length the ordeal was done with and we were informed that we might embark. That is to say, we were graciously permitted to leap five feet from an unlit pier—the steps of which had been washed away in the gale of the previous night, but will, I am informed, be repaired next season—trusting to Providence to cause us to fall into a dark object beneath believed to be a boat. Another Turkish officer watched our departure suspiciously, though what he imagined we could be carrying out of his barren land is beyond my guessing.

"Cook, Cook, Cook!" we croaked in deprecatory tones as one by one we crept past him cowed and cold, fearing that he might invent some pretext to detain us. Therefore it was indeed that we hurried to bring to his notice the only name which seems to have power in Syria; that famous name of the hydra-headed, the indispensable, the world-wide Cook.

"Cook, Cook, Cook!" we croaked.

"Oh! yes," answered the exasperated Turk in a tone not unlike that of a sleepy pigeon, "Coook, Coook, Coook! oh yes, all right! Coook, always Coook! Go to—Jericho—Coook!"

In the same way and with much the same feelings, thinking of the long line of works before me, I mutter to the reader now, "Book, Book, Book!"

Can he be so rude as to answer, after the example of the Haifa Turk—

"Oh! yes, all right! Boook, &c., &c." The thought is too painful: I leave it.

To be brief, I write for various reasons. Thus from the era of the "Bordeau Pilgrim" who wrote in the year 333, the very first of those who set on paper his impressions of the Holy Land, to this day, from time to time among those who have followed in his steps, some have left behind them accounts of what they saw and what befell them. The list is long. There are St. Sylvia, and the holy Paula; Arculfus and St. Wilibad, Mukadasi and Bernard the Wise; Saewulf and the Abbot Daniel; Phocàs the Cretan and Theodoric; Felix Fabri; Sir John Mandeville, de la Brocquière and Maundrell—and so on down to Chateaubriand and our own times. But one thing they had in common. They—or most of them—were driven on by the same desire. Obedient to a voice that calls in the heart of so many, they travelled by land and sea to look upon the place where Jesus Christ was born—where the Master of mankind hung upon His cross at Calvary.

I will confess that I have a fancy to be numbered among their honourable company. So it may chance—this is my hope—that when another thousand years or more have gone by advancing the Holy Land thus far upon its future, and the Moslem has ceased to occupy the sacred places, my name may appear with their names. Thus perhaps I also may be accounted a link in the chain of those who dedicated some of their uncertain days to visiting and describing that grey stretch of mountain land which is the cradle of man's hope in the darkness that draws near to every one of us.

My second reason is that I should like to say something about that neglected British possession, the fair island of Cyprus. To-day a Cinderella among our colonies, with a little more care—and capital—she might again become what she was of old, the Garden of the Mediterranean, a land of corn and wine, and in fact, as well as figuratively, a mine of wealth. Of Cyprus but few have written; travellers rarely think it worth the while to visit there, so in this particular at the least I trust that I may not be blamed.

There is, further, a last argument or excuse which I will venture to use, because it seems to me to have a very wide application, far wider, indeed, than is necessary to the instance of these humble pages. It is the fashion nowadays to say that everything is hackneyed; that the East itself, for instance, is practically exhausted; that the reader, who perchance has never travelled further than Ramsgate, can have little more to learn therefrom. "Give us some new things," cries the tired world, as the Athenians cried of old. They ask in vain, on this side of the grave there is no new thing. We must make the best of the old material or give up thinking and reading, and the seeing of sights. Yet what a fallacy underlies the surface meaning of these words. Is not everything new to the eyes that can see and the ears that can hear? Are there not joys and wonders about us by the thousand which, being so blind and deaf, we seldom seize or value?

Oh, jaded reader, go stand in a garden as I did to-night and watch the great cold moon creep up beyond the latticed trees, while the shadows grow before her feet. Listen to the last notes of the thrush that sways on the black bough of yonder beech, singing, with a heart touched by the breath of spring, such a song as God alone could teach her. And there, in the new-found light, look down at those pale flowers. Or if you prefer it, stand upon them, they are only primroses, that, as Lord Beaconsfield discovered, are very good in salad.

To drop the poetical—and the ultra-practical, which is worse—and take a safer middle way, I cannot for my part believe that this old world is so exhausted after all. I think that there is still plenty to be seen and more to be learned even at that Ramsgate of which I spoke just now. Therefore I will try to describe a few of the things I saw last winter as I saw them, and to chronicle their meanings as I caught and understood them, hoping that some will yet be found for whom they may have interest.

"Upon a certain foggy winter morning we stood at Charing Cross Station en route for Italy, Cyprus, and Syria, viâ the St. Gothard, &c."

This, surely, is how I should begin, for it is bold to break away from the accepted formula of books of travel consecrated by decades of publication.

Still let me do so, and before we leave it, look round the station. It is a horrible, reeking place, Heaven knows, on such a morning as this of which I write. The most common of all sights to the traveller also, and one of the most unnoticed. And yet how interesting. In a sense even it is majestic. The great arching roof, a very cave of the winds; the heavy pencils of shadow flung across its grey expanse; the grimy, pervading mist; the lumps of black smoke edged with white propelled laboriously upwards; the fierce, sharp jets of steam; the constant echo of the clanging noises; the sense of bitted force in those animate machines that move in and out, vanishing there into the wet mist, appearing here in the soot-streaked gloom. Then the population of this vast unfriendly place, the servants of the great engines, and those whom the engines bear on their way to many lands. They come, they go, those multitudinous forms; they are seen, they disappear, those various faces, each of them, if you watch, dominated by some individual note—grief, joy, expectancy, regret, ennui even, as may chance.

That train steams out, and those who clustered round it have melted like last night's snow. Some it has borne away; some, friends and spectators, having waved their last farewell, are departed upon their affairs. Now a new train arrives; other crowds appear, drawn from the vast reservoir of London, and with variations the scene repeats itself. This time we take an active part in the play, and presently steam out into the billows of black mist, and are lost behind the curtain of the swinging rain. There beneath us runs the inky Thames, sombre, mysterious-looking even, and to the eye, notwithstanding its creeping squalor—though why this should be so it is hard to say—endued with a grandeur that is not the property of many a nobler stream.

Next appear countless, sordid houses, the crowded, monotonous homes, if homes they can be called, for which tens of thousands of Englishmen abandon the wholesome country-side and the pure air of heaven, because—for those who can get it—here in London the wage is higher. They are done with. Now in their place is stretched the open English landscape, wet and wretched, its green fields showing almost grey beneath the embracing, ashen sky, the trees mere black dots, the roads yellow lines of mud. Yet in its own way it is beautiful, all of it, as the face of Nature is ever beautiful to those who love her, and knowing her moods, can sympathise with them and catch something of their meaning.

So through these familiar things onward to the sea.

"Moderate" was the report of the Channel weather at Charing Cross, which, as the Station-master explained mysteriously, might mean a good deal. In fact we find it blowing a gale, for the spray drives right over the train on to the unhappy passengers as they splash towards the boat quivering and livid, some of them, with anticipatory qualms. But the history of a bad crossing may well be spared. The boat did get out and it was accomplished—at a price—that is all.

If I were asked to devise a place of punishment for sinners of what I may chance to consider the direst decree, a first-class continental hotel is the purgatorial spot to which I would commit them—for a century at a time. Yes, and thither they should travel once a month (with family) in the waggon-lit of a train de luxe with all the steam-pipes turned on. And yet there are people who like hotels. I have known some wanderers even who inhabit them from choice. Americans, too, are very happy there. Strange it is that folk can be so differently constituted. Rather would I dwell—for a life choice—in a cottage in the country on a pound a week than free in those foreign, gorgeous hostelries, where every decoration strikes you like a blow, fed with messes such as the soul loathes, and quailing beneath the advancing shadow of a monstrous bill. The subject is a large one—it should be treated fitly in a book. "Hotel life and its influence on human character" would do for the title.

I think that I must have been somewhat unfortunate in my experience of continental travel—a kind of railway Jonah. The last time that I made this Italian journey, for instance, at two minutes' notice my fellow-voyagers and I, in the exact dead of night, were dragged from our sleeping-berths, and on the top of the Alps in the midst of the snows of winter, were transferred to an icy railway-carriage with such of our belongings as we could grasp. One lady, I remember, in her hurry, lost a valuable sable cloak. The reason alleged for this performance was that the wheels of our sleeping-car had become heated, but the conductor informed me that the real cause was a quarrel between the directors of two lines of railway. Thrice in succession, it would appear, and at this very spot had the wheels become "heated," and the travellers torn half-awakened from their berths.

On the present occasion we met with a somewhat similar experience. Leaving Basle in the hope and expectation of reaching Milan that night, at Lucerne we were informed that the St. Gothard was blocked by a train which had gone off the line. So in that beautiful but cold and expensive town we must remain for four-and-twenty hours.

Once I climbed the St. Gothard, now over thirty years ago, when a brother and I walked from Fluellen to the top of the pass with the purpose of bidding farewell to another brother who was travelling across it by coach upon his way to India. In those far-off days there was no railway, and the tunnel was not even completed. I recollect little of the trudge except that I grew footsore, and that my brother and senior by a year or two sang songs to me to keep up my spirits. About half-way up the pass we slept at some village on the road. Here the innkeeper had a pretty servant who—strange entertainment—took us to a charnel-house attached to the church, where amongst many others she pointed out a shining skull which she informed us was that of her own father. This skull and its polished appearance I remember well; also some other incidents connected with the arrival and departure of the coach upon the summit.

Of the scenery, however, I recall little or nothing—I do not think that views have great attractions for youth, at any rate they had few for me. When I was a "soaring human boy" my father took me up the Rhine by boat with the hope and expectation that my mind would be improved in contemplating its lovely and historic banks. Wearying of this feast, very soon I slipped down to the cabin to enjoy one more congenial, that of "Robinson Crusoe," in a Tauchnitz edition. But some family traitor betrayed me, and protesting, even with tears, that "I hated views," I was dragged to the deck again. "I have paid six thalers," shouted my justly indignant parent, as he hauled me up the steamer stairs, "for you to study the Rhine scenery, and whether you like it or not, young man, study it you shall!" That was—eheu fugaces labuntur anni!—in or about 1867.

To return to the year 1900, so it came about that to all intents and purposes, the St. Gothard was to me a new experience. Therefore I was the more disappointed when on steaming out of Lucerne station we found ourselves in the midst of a raging snowstorm, so fierce and thick indeed that I began to fear that for a second time we should be stopped in our attempt to cross the Alps.

Yet that snow had its compensations, for in it the observer understood, better perhaps than he might otherwise have done, the vastness of the panorama which lay outstretched beneath him. First, all seen through that veil of flying flakes, appear forests of firs growing tier above tier upon the face of a precipice so steep that almost it might be a titanic wall. Then the pines vanish and are replaced by thousands of delicate birch-trees, hanging like white hair about some bald, gigantic head, while beneath them roars a torrent, its waters cream-thick with snow. These vanish also as the white curtain grows too dense for the eye to pierce. Suddenly it thins and lifts, and there, far down below, appears a toy town with a toy wood-built church. Next an enormous gulf, and in its depths a torrent raging. And always a sense of mountains, invisible indeed but overhanging, impending, vast.

Now a little hut is seen and by it a blue-robed woman, signal-flag in hand. There, heedless of the bitter wind and weather she stands, like the wife of Lot, stone-still and white with snow. We rush past her into mile upon mile of tunnel, to pull up at last by some mountain station where the drifts lie deep.

Here I beheld an instance of true politeness. Two Italian gentlemen, one old, one young, were engaged at the useful task of clearing the rails with long-handled shovels and depositing the snow in barrows for removal. Presently the younger of the pair, giving way to some sudden sportive impulse, shot a whole spadeful of snow over his companion's head. Imagine how such an expected compliment would have been received by the average English navvy! Next morning the police-courts would have rung with it. As it was, remembering the fiery southern blood, I expected to see knives flash in the mountain air. But not so. The older person merely coughed, shook the snow from his grizzled locks, and with a deep bow and splendid sweeping gesture—pointed to the barrow. Could reproof have been more gentle or more effective?

Beyond the tunnels to our joy the snow is much thinner, mere patches indeed, lying in the hollows of enormous, bold-shouldered mountains whose steep flanks are streaked with white ropes of water, or here and there by the foam of some great fall. In the kloofs also cling lumps and lines of dense mist, like clouds that have sunk from heaven and rested there. Down in the valley where the railway runs, begin to appear evidences of a milder climate, for vines, grown upon a trellis-work of poles, are seen in plots, and by the stream bank flourish willows, alders, and poplars. So through changing scenes we run southwards into Italy and welcome a softer air.

I have visited many cathedrals in various parts of the world, but I cannot remember one that struck me more than the interior of that of Milan, which I now explored for the first time. I say the interior advisedly, since the exterior, with its unnumbered pinnacles and thousands of statues, does not particularly appeal to my taste in architecture, such as it may be. The grand proportions of the building as viewed from within, the tall fluted columns, the rich windows, the lace-worked roof of the marble dome—an effect produced by painting, as a loquacious and disturbing cicerone insisted upon informing us, with many other details which we did not seek—the noble cruciform design; all such beauties are familiar to many readers and doubtless may be equalled, if not surpassed, elsewhere. As it happened, however, we found more than these, or being fortunate in the time and circumstances of our visit, to me they suggested more.

Passing the ancient door from the busy piazza where electric cars glide up and down continually like misshapen boats with bells fixed in front of them, and pushing aside the heavy curtain of leather, of a sudden we stood in another world. Life and death could scarcely be more different. Vast spaces, very dim, for it was four o'clock on a winter's day, full of shadow and a certain majestic emptiness. Column upon column, more than the eye could number, and above, the scarce-seen, arching roof. In the far distance of the apse something white about the sanctuary, in fact a great veil of which I do not know the use or symbolical significance, but from where we saw it first, suggesting the appearance of the white wings of some angel cherishing the altar of his God. Then upon that altar itself twinkling sparks of light, and, swinging high in front of it, near to the towering roof indeed, like some sleepless eye watching from above, another starry lamp.

Along the vast nave, down the empty aisles creeps the stately, measured music of the organ. Now quite suddenly sweet voices take up their chant and the offering of song arises, falls to rise again, till slowly its echoes faint and die in the spaces of the dome. As we draw near through the cold and perfumed gloom, priests become visible, robed in white vestments and moving to and fro about the shrine. Others also, or may be they are acolytes, pass from time to time down through the sparse congregation into the body of the church and there vanish to right or left.

The invisible censers swing, we hear their clanking chains and perceive the clouds of incense which float upwards one by one, past the tall lights of the candles. The voices chant still more sweetly and the music of the organ sinks low as though it too were human, and knew that in such a hallowed dusk and silence it is well to whisper. The bright-robed priests, from time to time breaking in upon the ceremonial with utterances of their own that are scarcely less harmonious, move mysteriously, waving their hands like to the officers of some gorgeous, magic incantation, till at length—let him confess it—the mind of the observer softens and he understands, even sympathises with, much at which he has been wont to smile, and presently will smile again. Great is the Church of Rome, who knows so well how to touch our nature on its mystic side and through it reach the heart.

To all this solemn splendour there were but few spectators. The scanty audience of worshippers, or such of them as sat outside the choir and could be easily observed, consisted for the greater part of aged men. Among these one old gentleman—I should put his years at eighty—attracted my particular attention. His face was still handsome and sharply cut, his short hair snow-white, and his appearance that of one who had been a soldier. Most noticeable, however, was the extraordinary earnestness and devotion of his bearing. His presence there could be no perfunctory observance, this was easy to be seen. Easy was it to guess also that this man from whom, many as they had been, the sands of life were ebbing fast, appreciated the fateful truth only too keenly, and, while time remained to him, was endeavouring with a desperate vigour, through the avenues provided by his Church, to win the freedom of a more abiding city. The whole tragic story was written there, in those upturned tearful eyes, those clasped and trembling hands upon which even in that half light the blue veins showed, and on the worn features so purified by time, loss, and sorrow that no beauty of their youth could rival them to-day. A pathetic sight indeed, rightly studied and understood, suggesting many thoughts, but one frequent enough in such places.

So farewell to Milan cathedral, its music, priests, and mystery. Farewell also to that sad old worshipper whose face I shall not see again, and who for his part will never know that the Englishman standing by his side there upon a certain winter evening took note of him and wondered.

II. A TUSCAN WINE-FARM

For generations past, visitors to Italy have written about Florence. Therefore, mindful of a certain saying, I propose to leave that noble army unrecruited. Here the reader will find no account of the architecture of its cathedrals; no list of the best pictures, no raptures over the loveliness of Giotto's Campanile—a building, by the way, that grows very much upon the observer, or at least, upon this observer—whose charm also varies more with the conditions of the light than any other with which I am acquainted.

Still a few general remarks may be permitted; for instance on the climate, which is the common property of every traveller and requires no critical training to appreciate. What a climate it is—in the month of January—or can be, for with my common evil chance it appears that we "happened on," as they say in Norfolk, the worst winter experienced in Tuscany for many, many years. Such was ever my fortune! Once I went to Iceland to fish for salmon, a country where habitually it pours, but the summer proved the driest that had been known for decades. To the ordinary traveller this would have been a satisfactory circumstance, to the seeker after salmon, which love a swollen river, it was disastrous. Other notable instances occur to me but I pass them by, for, according to the accounts of all inhabitants of the places visited, these misfortunes are common to voyaging mankind.

Within the space of a single month we enjoyed at Florence piercing gales—tramontane is the local name, which reminded me of winds I have felt blowing straight off the pack ice in northern latitudes and nothing else—fogs that would have done no discredit to London in November, and rains whereof the tropics might be proud. When the tramontane in its glory leaps and howls along the dusky streets of Florence, then indeed does the traveller think with a repentant affection of the very bleakest spot he knows upon England's eastern shores, yes, even on the bitterest day of March.

Is there anything in the wind line quite so deadly cold, I wonder? At least clothes cannot prevail against it, for wrap yourself up till you look like a very Falstaff and still the temperature within is that of a snow-man. To the bones it pierces, to the very marrow. Yet for generations these extraordinary Florentines built their houses without fireplaces. I remember noting the same phenomenon in Mexico City, another frigid spot; there, indeed, they swore that fires were unwholesome. Here the sole concession of a vast majority of the inhabitants to our common human weakness, consists of a scaldino, that is, a little pot full of glowing wood ashes which is placed under the owner's chair, or carried in any convenient fashion. Men, I gather, have not even the comfort of this instrument of joy, which among its many uses in the event of sickness, or of damp sheets, makes an excellent warming-pan. In this case it is suspended in a kind of enlarged wooden mouse-cage and plunged boldly between the blankets. Of all the domestic institutions in Tuscany, I think that the scaldino is most to be desired. There are others which strike me as far from admirable.

I do not wish, however, to asperse this climate, against which I may have been more or less prejudiced by the prevalent influenza, which hit us rather hard. I am instructed indeed that except for certain, or uncertain, outbursts of cold, it is really beautiful in April and May, and even for the first part of June, after which it becomes too hot for the taste and comfort of most people. The autumns also are said to be fine.

Moreover, it is only Florence itself that is so severe. During the first few weeks of my stay there I visited some country villas, one "two mountains beyond Fiesole" (that was the local description and means very high indeed), and another on the lower slopes of the same ancient city, which is built among the hill-tops about three miles to the north-east of Florence. At each of these villas I found the most lovely satisfying sunshine, in which a man might bask like a lizard till at length the chill left his bones. There I was told that the crowning joy to the dwellers in these mansions of the blest, is to sit in golden light on their verandahs and for quite a considerable portion of the winter look at a damp, dark cloud far below, which cloud is Florence hid in icy fog. Decidedly a villa at Fiesole, where the mists cannot creep and because of its sheltered position the tramontane has no power, is a possession to be coveted—far above a palace on the Arno.

Yet when the winter voyager can forget the climate, what city has greater charm than Florence, if to some, its note seems one of melancholy? Here, so pervading is its presence, history seems to press upon the student with an actual sense of weight. The numberless churches, some of them still unfinished; the cold, stately palaces; the public buildings and piazzas; the statues, monuments, and pictures; all things distinguishing and distinguished belonging for the most part, as they do, to a single century, seem to bring the dead time and those who shaped it as it was, so near to us that in its shadow the present is made mean and dwarfed. All the intervening generations that the locust has eaten, those dim, quite forgotten generations which once in their hour furnished the daily bread of Time, appear to drop away. In our garish modernity, wearing no wedding garment of their art, we find ourselves unbidden guests at this banquet of the past—face to face with the age of Donatello and Fra Bartolommeo and Savonarola and the great Medici, and of the rest who lived when Florence was in flower. The effect is strange. Perhaps it does not strike the Italian thus, or even those foreigners who are constant residents. Perhaps in this case also, such as seek find, and the period which gave Florence her glory, is the period which oppresses us now that her sons are no longer mighty preachers, painters, or architects.

Why is it? Who can explain the mystery of the change? Why, when we look into a picture or sculpture shop on the Lung' Arno, for instance, do we see on the one side replicas of the famous and beautiful antique; and, on the other, marbles indeed, but what marbles! Simpering children in frilled dresses; young women with their nudity accentuated by means of bathing drawers; vulgar-looking busts of vulgar-looking men; coy creatures smirking at butterflies seated on their naked arms or bosoms, and other sculptured delights. But never a work that has a spark of the old Promethean fire, which elevates its student, or moves him—at any rate as art should move.

Of painting and buildings is it not the same? Where has the genius flown and will it ever return? I know the fashion is to decry our modern English art, and doubtless much of it is poor. Yet so far as my small experience goes, that art has, at any rate in some instances, more truth and spirit than any other of the day which I have found abroad.

I have said that I will not discourse upon the art treasures of Florence. Still I may be permitted to mention two, by no means of the best known, which perhaps impressed me most among them. Of these one is a certain life-sized Annunciation by Donatello, fashioned of a dark-coloured freestone, cut in high relief and set into a very gloomy wall of the church of Santa Croce. It was, I believe, one of the master's early works, but looking at it I wondered whether he ever fashioned anything more beautiful. The Virgin is of a somewhat modern type of face, with rippling hair parted in the middle; indeed I can remember a lady who might have sat for a model of that statue. As for the exquisite grace of her pose and shape, or that of the angel who bends the knee to her, to be understood they must be seen. Description here is hopeless; I can say only that in my case at any rate they affect the mind as does the sight of some perfect landscape, or of a lovely flower breaking into bloom.

What imagination also is comprised in the Virgin's pose. She has risen from her seat and her left hand clasps the book she reads. Her robe has caught upon a corner of the chair so that her mantle is strained tight. What under ordinary conditions would be a woman's first instinctive thought? Doubtless to free it with the hand that was disengaged. But no—the message has come to her—the Power has fallen upon her, and that hand is pressed upon the heart wherein It lies. There is much else that might be said of this true masterpiece, but let an artist say it, not one merely of art's most humble admirers.

The second work that struck me pre-eminently, although in a fashion totally different, is in the church of Certosa di Val d'Ema. It is by Francesco da Sangallo, and represents in white marble the body of the Cardinal Leonardo Buonafede, who died in 1545, as laid out for burial. Not an attractive subject it may be thought, this corpse of an old, old man. Yet with what power and truth is it treated; those full, somewhat coarse features are instinct with the very dignity of death. There before us is the man as his mourners laid him upon the bier centuries ago—every line of his wrinkled face, every fold of his flesh that after serving him so well has failed him now. It is a triumph of forceful portraiture.

The old monastery where this statue lies, and with it others almost as perfect, is a strange and lovely place. Inhabited by a few ancient monks who, under the Italian law abolishing the religious establishments, are, I believe, not allowed to recruit their numbers; a vast pile of rambling buildings fortified for defence, it stands supreme upon a cypress-covered hill. Its interior with the halls, chapels, crypts, and columned galleries need not be described. Indeed, quaint as they are, there is something better here—the view from certain windows and cloisters.

This prospect is quite unlike any that I have seen in other parts of the world. Perhaps some of the high uplands of Mexico, with their arid, aloe-clothed soil, go nearest to it in general character and colouring, though that is not so very near. The prevailing colour-note of Tuscany, in winter, is greyness. This tone it owes chiefly, though not altogether, to the sad-hued olives which clothe its slopes and plains, broken here and there by rows and clumps of tall and gracious cypresses, standing sometimes, and thus they are most beautiful, upon a mountain ridge clear-cut against the sky. Let the reader visit any good art-collection and study the backgrounds of old Florentine pictures. There he will find those same cypresses. So grey and hueless, though so strangely charming, is the scene indeed, that the eye falls almost with rapture upon the vivid patches furnished by a species of rosy-twigged sallow which grows in the damper bottoms. Considered from above these sallows look like no bush or tree; they are as little golden clouds that have fallen from heaven to melt upon the earth.

Other peculiarities of that wide stretch of plain and mountain-slope are its lifelessness and silence. Were this England, or even Africa, birds great and small, animals also, would be audible and moving. But here, nothing. Not a note, not a beating wing, not even the white scut of a rabbit. So far as small fowl are concerned the explanation is easy; they form one of the favourite articles of Florentine food. In every eating-shop, thrust through with a skewer, may be seen their tiny bodies separated from each other by squares of toast, or bacon.

I remember that a man in front of the cathedral offered to sell me a bundle of dead birds which I examined. They included robins, thrushes, blackbirds, goldfinches, and jays, taken, most of them, with bird-lime. Needless to add of these birds the jays, which I should have imagined uneatable, were the only ones which ought to have been killed. What is the result? In a long walk through wooded country in the neighbourhood of Fiesole, although I kept my eyes open, I saw but one small bird, which was so wild that it would not let me get near enough to distinguish its species. Just before that rare event I had met a sportsman with a double-barrelled gun and shortly afterwards I heard a shot. Probably this last little bird is now no more. No wonder that Browning was anxious to get back to England in April—

"Oh! to be in England now that April's here"—

living as he did in a country where scarcely a songster is left to greet the spring. How thankful should we be for our English birds, which add so much to the innocent happiness of our lives—the sparrow always excepted, and even he is welcome in a town. In the garden of the old and rambling house where I stayed in Florence lived some of these sparrows, and two cherished pairs of black-birds, which I used to contemplate from my window. Also there were sundry stray cats, and sometimes I wonder if those birds will ever see the autumn. May St. Francis (he of Assisi) protect them.

I think that it was on the day of our visit to Certosa, where by the way, as I have neglected to mention, the monks make excellent Chartreuse, that I became the proud possessor of a bronze crucifix and two hanging lamp-holders, which I discovered in a small curiosity-shop. These articles, with a bell which I did not purchase, were part of the furniture of the ancient chapel of a private family which has become extinct—that of the Cardinal Luperelli-Pitti in Cortona. Thus they found their way into the market. They are, I imagine, sixteenth century work, though here I may be mistaken, as I can judge only by such knowledge of Dutch brass as I possess. It is possible, indeed, that the raised medallions of the Father, the Virgin, St. John and St. Mary Magdalene, at the four extremities of the cross, may show a somewhat earlier date.

My reason for mentioning these articles, however, is because of the great elegance of the shape and workmanship of the lamp-holders, whereof unfortunately I can give no idea in words, and the quaintness of the little figures suggestive of embryonic angels to which are fixed the hanging chains. Why, I ask, cannot such antiques be taken as models for the church furniture of to-day in England? Any churchwarden or clergyman will know how extraordinarily difficult it is to procure lamps of really handsome and pleasing design.[1] Yet it rarely seems to occur to makers to copy those which were fashioned in times when even the manufacturer of useful brass-work was not ashamed to be an artist.

Unhappily it is not in the case of church-fittings only that such a state of affairs prevails, especially in this matter of lamps. A year or two back I remember searching the entire stock of a great London establishment before I could procure hanging lamps that were even simple, and, to my fancy, of a not unpleasing shape. When in Florence itself I looked through the contents of a shop where such articles were sold, with a like result. All were florid in execution and vulgar in design.

It is the same everywhere in the case of brass-work. Thus some of my readers may have noticed the beautiful seventeenth-century chandeliers which still hang in certain of the churches of Holland—kerk-kröne they are called—and have noticed too how pleasingly they attract the eye, making bright points whereby it can appreciate the dimensions of those great fanes. Yet when gas became common, in very many cases these kerk-kröne were pulled out of the churches to be sold as old brass and replaced by cast gun-metal brackets of the most atrocious patterns. Yes, and this was done although the ancient chandeliers are capable of easy adaptation to the use of gas. As a consequence they are now becoming very rare.

Why do not the Arts and Crafts add the education of the taste of the British lamp-maker to the list of their good works? Hundreds of artists complain that they cannot make a living. Let them do as men of their profession did a few centuries ago, and direct their talents to the design and manufacture at a moderate price of really beautiful articles for common use. So shall their generation rise up and call them blessed. Perhaps, however—I have heard as much suggested—the generation as a whole prefers things as they are.

One day I accepted the kind invitation of a gentleman who lives on the mountain about four hundred feet above Fiesole, the ancient Etruscan city that preceded Florence, to inspect his vineyard, where he manufactures wine for the English market. The view from this farm is very fine, including as it does Florence spread out like a map far below, and an enormous stretch of country dotted with villas, farmhouses, and even ancient castles that in past ages have been the scene of siege and sack. This expanse is divided into hundreds of vineyards and olive orchards, broken here and there on the slope of hills with patches of oak scrub which is used for firewood. My host's farm is approached up a steep and constant incline that winds through a large wood of cypress trees, sombre but graceful in appearance although in most instances disfigured by the local habit of trimming off the boughs as high as possible. This is done under the impression, which I believe to be erroneous, that it improves the timber. At any rate it does not improve its beauty.

The farmstead itself is very ancient, some parts of it dating back to the fourteenth century. Indeed everything here is ancient. It has a pretty little court or cortile with graceful arches round about it, adorned in the centre with an old effigy of a lion in stone, which was dug up somewhere in the neighbourhood. In front of this court is a well nearly a hundred feet deep—probably Etruscans drew their water here. Looking downwards I could see the ripple on the face of the pool which shows where the spring flows that has fed it for so many centuries. The well has this peculiarity also—that it can be approached for the drawing of water at two distinct levels, the lower having an arched entrance of its own which opens on to a terrace twenty feet or more below. Another remarkable feature of the house is a very massive wooden roof covering the apartments now used as sitting-rooms.

Few of these wine-farms seem to be large. My host's, I gathered, is of the common size, some twenty acres under vines and olives, excluding such portion as is still unreclaimed and as yet produces nothing but scrub and stray cypress trees. There is absolutely no live stock on the place beyond a horse and a cow for domestic use, such carting as may be necessary being done with hired ox-wains, picturesque in appearance, but slow and cumbersome in practice.

As I saw it, this is the process of preparing land for vines. A suitable area having been chosen on the steep slope of a hill facing south-east, which seems to be the aspect preferred, the shale soil, mixed with what looked to me like light loam covered with a good spit of turf, is trenched to a depth of a little over three feet. First a foot or so of broken rock is laid in the bottom of the trench for drainage before it is filled up with the soil and turf. This is the most important requisite. More than twenty years ago at Pretoria in the Transvaal I remember, by the way, making a little vineyard on a very similar soil and in a very similar fashion; only labour being scarce and inefficient, I did not trench nearly so thoroughly.

Our host is now planting vines of a Burgundy character, setting them as cuttings at a good distance from each other. These take from three to four years to come into full bearing. American vines are much sought after in this part of Tuscany because of their supposed quality of resistance to the attacks of phylloxera, which dread disease is the blackest cloud on the horizon of the Italian grape-grower. These, however, seem very difficult to obtain of good and true stock, owing apparently to the existence of Government regulations prohibiting the importation of foreign vines, trees, or flowers.

Not satisfied with the ample drainage provided at the roots and by the natural slope of the land, stone channels are laid upon the surface to carry off flood-water. Vines, it has been proved, are very fastidious as to their supply of moisture, although in some seasons of drought they are much helped by irrigation where this is practicable. What they dislike more than anything, however, is stagnant water at the roots. The other requisites to a successful cultivation of the grape in this part of Italy are that the soil should be dug annually between the rows, and artificial manures, such as nitrates and phosphates, applied in suitable quantity.

In the older vineyards below this house many olive trees grow among the vines, but my host informs me that they are unremunerative. A great number of these trees were destroyed during November in the following curious fashion. First fell a heavy rain, which was succeeded instantly by a severe frost that coated every bough with ice. The trees could not bear the weight, and in many instances snapped in two or lost their largest boughs, a mutilation which was often shared by the young firs. I noted this destruction on my walk up to the house, and ignorantly jumped to the conclusion that a tornado had visited the district. On this farm the olive trees which were slain thus are not to be replanted.

The actual vintage, which of course answers to our harvest, occupies a few days only, nearly one hundred hands being employed upon this small acreage, so that the grapes may be got off when they are exactly ripe. Here it is that the wine-farmer must show judgment and even courage. The grapes ought not to be gathered before they are ripe. But if wet weather chances to come on then so that they cannot be handled, they crack and great damage is done. Therefore the temptation to begin the vintage too soon is considerable.

Once plucked the grapes are brought up to the house in hired ox-waggons, there to go through the various processes of pressing. When this is completed the wine is stored for a while in huge vats holding I forget how many hundred gallons, but I think about a thousand. There it remains for a certain period. Then it is drawn off into other casks and kept for three years or so, after which the produce of this particular vineyard goes to the English market. My host informed me that it is quite a mistake to suppose that the red Italian Chianti will not travel and keep without undue alcoholic fortification. The new wine has this weakness, not so the old. That there are limits to its keeping qualities I can, however, testify. Long ago I remember my father producing from his cellar some flasks of Italian wine, which he had imported when on his wedding tour to Rome some forty years before. I never tasted better vinegar.

To return my host finds that he can make a fair profit on his Chianti by charging eighteen shillings a dozen for it delivered in London. At least this was so, but since Sir Michael Hicks-Beach has increased the duty on light drinking wines there is a different tale to tell. As regards the quality and character of the wine, although it cannot compete with high-class French clarets, it is very sound and agreeable to the palate. Above all, it is pure grape-juice and nothing else.

On the day of my visit some men, about four or five, were employed in the wine-cave washing the flasks with successive rinsings of soda, acid, and water hot and cold. This careful cleansing was preparatory to the wine being bottled for shipment, really bottled with corks, not with oil poured into the neck to exclude the air, and a piece of pink paper, according to the local custom. These flasks or fiaschi, which are very pretty, and half covered with reed netting, cost about a penny halfpenny apiece, but I noticed that a good percentage of them break in the washing. Hence the term "fiasco" used in our sense; or, to be quite accurate, it is derived from the breaking of a full wine-flask when lifted by the neck.

A supplementary product of the farm is olive oil, that is ground out by the help of an ox which walks round and round and drives a simple crushing-mill. The raw resulting oil is divided into three grades or qualities, of which the second is best for lamps, and the third mixed with water is used by the poor. This season the olive harvest was a very bad one, consequently oil is dear.

As regards the profit of such vineyards, my host seemed to be of opinion that a man of energy and intelligence, taking one year with another, in the absence of phylloxera, can make about ten per cent. upon the capital invested. Other experienced vine-growers, however, told me that they consider this estimate too high. Then comes the question of the capital itself. Even in the case of a vineyard of moderate size I gather that the amount required is considerable. The farmer may begin on less, but if he wishes to earn a living out of his labour, it seems that he ought to be able to command about £5000.

The item of labour in the neighbourhood of Florence is not heavy, the men, who are docile and willing, being paid only about eight shillings a week. They decline, however, to work in wet weather, nor are they very strong, living as they do upon poor and insufficient food, and at times in their fireless hovels suffering severely from the cold.

The result of my investigations into the prospects of the Tuscan wine industry is that, on the whole, I should not recommend it to young men seeking new lands in which to farm. The capital required seems too considerable and the margin of profit too small. Moreover there is always the possibility of phylloxera to be reckoned with. Still, for those to whom considerations of health or other private reasons may make residence in a sunny climate under a foreign flag desirable, who at the same time to do not wish or cannot afford to lead an idle life, the occupation would be excellent. To live beneath those sheltering hills, to feast the eyes upon that glorious view, to watch the vines put forth their tender leaves, to see the tiny clusters form and in autumn to gather the rich harvest all in the glow of a glorious sun—what more could be asked by the man of quiet, contemplative mind, who yet loves not to be idle? Or, at the least, what more is he likely to get in this hard world?

III. FIESOLE AND FLORENCE

One bitter night at moonrise I stood near to the highest point of the mountain of Fiesole and looked down upon the wide valley in whose lap lies Florence, far down across lines of solemn cypresses and grey groves of olives to the vast plain beneath. Cold and dead-coloured appeared old Fiesole, now that the sun had left it; cold, yet lovely, with a death-like loveliness, the vague and stretching landscape. And Florence herself, that great city, how small she seemed at this distance of some few miles! Her towering palaces of huge stones were but as huts, the vast dome of her cathedral as that of a village church. The landscape dominates and dwarfs her. The sweeping circle of black hills; that mighty mirror of the Arno flashing in the last ray of sunset—what is she compared to these? The ancient Etruscan studying that view from this very standpoint, can have felt no need of Florence to complete the scene, and were she rased now to the earth as in the middle days one of her rulers would have rased her, she would scarce be missed—from here. In fact it is the old story. These hills and plains have borne the yoke of man almost from the beginning, and yet how faint its scar! The scratches which we make on Nature's face are very shallow and soon heal. That there is nothing permanent about man and his labours, is a truism which the consideration of such a scene as this brings home. Those thousand lamps that are now beginning to shine in the streets and windows of Florence far below, will only burn—till at dawn the light of lights arises.

In the winter season, at the time of approaching night, there is something very mysterious and melancholy about this Tuscan landscape. It looks so coldly solemn, so lifeless, while one by one the stars spring out in the blue depths above.

One meets a great many funerals in Florence, all of them after nightfall. Perhaps this may be accounted for by the influenza prevailing at the time of my stay, but as a people the Florentines seem to me to have a strange fancy for parading their sick and dead in public. At the least I have not noticed so many of these melancholy sights in other cities. Very common is it, as the visitor walks down some narrow street, to hear a measured tread behind, and look round to see the brethren of the Misericordia at their work of mercy. These are they who, drawn from every rank of society, for more than five centuries have laid out the dead, or carried the sick of Florence to where they might be succoured. Their very appearance indeed is ominous of death and sorrow; when they come upon the sight thus swiftly it even shocks.

Their robes are black from head to foot, covering the wearer, all but his hands and feet, so that nothing of him can be seen save perhaps his eyes as they glitter through the little openings in the hood. Six of them go together, three in front and three behind, and between them is the stretcher, also arched over with black cloth. These stretchers are apt to excite a somewhat morbid curiosity in the mind of the passer-by. Watching many of them I learned at last to know, by the way the crossed straps pressed upon the shoulders of the bearers, and the fashion in which these stepped and set their feet upon the ground, whether or no they were empty or laden; also by any little movements of the cover, or the lack of them, whether the occupant, if there should be one, was alive or dead.

From time to time the bell of the church sounds the "misericordia," twice for an accident, thrice for a death. Thereon the brethren who are on duty, rise up at once wherever they may be, at dinner, at mass, in the theatre, or at their business, don their robes and go forth, not to come back until their task, whatever it proves, is done. As the first pair of them set their returning feet upon the threshold of the church they turn and give to those who follow, the ancient greeting, "May God reward you!" to receive back the salutation, "And you also!"

It is a worthy society and their work is holy, though perhaps the ambulances of a London hospital would do it better. Also here is no mere picturesque survival. One day while I stood for a few minutes near the Campanile I saw three parties of them come up to the door of the commonplace, green-shuttered house which is their habitation. Each company carried a stretcher, though whether these were empty or brought bodies thither to be coffined, I could not tell.

Who are the greatest men in the true sense that have lived since the day of our Lord? The question is difficult if not impossible to answer. Yet three names leap to my mind, all of them oddly enough connected with religion: Martin Luther, William the Silent, Savonarola. If these stars do not shine most bright among that heavenly host, I think that there are none more luminous, none at least that burn with a purer fire, none with one more immortal.

Of the three Savonarola has always fascinated me the most, perhaps because a man instinctively gives reverence to an abnegation and a nobility from which he feels that his own weakness would have locked him. We worship the crown of thorns we dare not wear. Savonarola was no pale-blooded monk, no mere shadow of a man, but one to whose ears the world had a siren voice. He could love and he could suffer, and finally take up his cross not because he had loved and suffered, not that its grinding weight might cause him to forget his worldly smarts, but for the high reason that the days were evil and he was called to deny himself and cure them.

Surely this man was almost a Christ without Christ's consolations and secret strength. He only saw through a glass darkly, he only knew in part. The Spirit spoke within him, but its accents were broken, imperfect and contradictory; he could not hear with any clearness; often he could not understand what he heard. At times he believed his own prophecies to be the very voice of God. At times he seems to have doubted whether they were not merely vapours arising from his harrowed soul, the fantastic smoke of his own fervid imagination fashioned to angel shapes to lead him through a gateway of the presumptuous sin. See him when the trial by fire brings him face to face with a more furious trial—that of his own faith. He had interpreted the promises literally; he taught that faith could move mountains. But had he not meant spiritual mountains? Did he really believe that the Powers of Heaven would alter the law of nature and keep the fire from peeling off the flesh and burning the hair and the garments of the Fra Domenico? He wavered, he hung between two opinions. Then faith conquered. The ordeal went on so far as it was allowed to go, till rain fell indeed and put out the untrodden fire, and the furious populace, baulked of a blood-feast, turning upon their prophet tortured and slew him by rope and flame.

The home of this man stands in Florence much as it was in his own day. There is the church of San Marco, an uninteresting building with the pulpit from which he used to preach, until his audiences grew so great that even the vast Duomo could not hold them. One day I attended this Duomo—that is, the cathedral—in order to witness a procession of the White Brethren. Except for the colour of their garment this order is clothed like the Brethren of the Misericordia, and indeed, as I believe, performs similar merciful offices outside the gates of Florence. The occasion was a great festival, and these White Brethren, preceded by priests and banners, carrying, each of them, a lighted taper, wound about the building, to gather at last in masses before the altar. This, however, at any rate to my eye, was not the real sight. That was to see the thousands upon thousands of spectators which crowded, not the dome only, but the whole cathedral to its utmost recesses, so densely indeed that it was difficult to move. "Thus," thought I to myself, "must this Duomo have appeared when its walls rang to the echoes of the voice of Savonarola as he rolled out his threats and warnings upon a sinful generation, as he told of the sword of God about to fall—Gladius Domini supra terram cito et velociter."

At first, however, it was in this church of San Marco that he preached, and surely the lessons of his life and death will echo from its walls down all the stream of Time.

Yet the convent moves one more. Here are the cloisters planted with roses where Savonarola used to walk; the chapter-house with its life-sized and dreadful crucifixes; the vaulted refectories where he ate his simple food among his brethren. Upstairs too is the library with its double row of supporting arches, quite plain and yet so beautiful, beneath whose centre the prophet stood to administer the Sacrament to his company while without, the furious mob of Florentine wolves clawed down the doors, snarling for his blood.

The day that we visited the place was very cold though bright, and for this reason, or some other, it was almost unoccupied. As I discovered afterwards in Palestine, it is thus that one should study such abodes. Foolish as it may be to think it, a crowd disturbs their associations and memories; sometimes even it seems to make them vulgar. So it happened that we went round San Marco alone, untroubled by guides or tourists.

The details of the convent are all known, and volumes have been written about the paintings of Fra Angelico, many of which are so beautiful and yet so simple, that they might well be visions of heaven and its inhabitants seen by some spiritual child. On the walls of many of the cells the patient Brother painted one of them, and had I been destined to dwell there I should have blessed his name. When a man has nothing else to look at save white walls, a picture in blue and red and gold by Fra Angelico would fill the mind with rapture. Only some times I should have wished to move on a little and study the next design.

Of all these narrow, white-washed apartments, however, that once were the home of passionate and earnest men, wrestling their way to heaven by a thorny, doubtful path, long-forgotten dust now, every one of them, those that most fix the mind and fascinate the imagination were the abode of Savonarola. From the cloisters without the visitor sees two little windows, each a few feet square. At the end of a long passage on the upper floor are the apartments, not larger than an ordinary dressing-room, to which those windows with their massive hanging shutters give light, a place to sleep and a place to sit. Here the pious visitor who is of that mind, through the mere fact of visiting them obtains—or obtained by the decree of Pope Leo X., who flourished at the beginning of the sixteenth century—"an indulgence of ten years," whatever that may mean. The inner cell contains a copy of an ancient picture of the hanging and burning of its greatest occupant upon the piazza. It is very much a work of fancy, representing in a stiff, conventional manner the three poor corpses hanging each to its cross while the fire curls around them, and little knots of spectators strolling about unconcernedly over the expanse of the great square. Very different, I imagine, was the real scene when the place was packed with thousands of excited onlookers. There they watched and shouted while the mighty martyr whose blood was indeed a seed of righteousness, with his disciples was stripped of his robes by the brutal Dominicans, traitors to their most famous brother, and with due pomp and form publicly degraded by the bishop of Vasons.

"I separate thee from the Church militant and triumphant," cried the bishop, exulting over his fallen foe.

"Not from the Church triumphant, that is beyond thy power," through all the ages rings the answer of the dying prophet.

Then the yells of the mob, the last dread scene of death prolonged to its uttermost, the crackling of the eager pyre, the flames blown out straight like a banner by a sudden gust of roaring wind, the shouts of "A miracle! a miracle!" and as the wind passes and the fire gets to its destroying work again, the sound of the sobbing of the Piagnoni and the sight of their tears which fall like dew.

Even this copied painting is old now, so old that the worms are busy, as the tiny holes and little piles of white dust upon the frame testify. I pointed this out to the custodian, and suggested that paraffin skilfully applied might prolong the life of the panel, but he only shrugged his shoulders. Doubtless he thought that it would last his lifetime—after that others could see to it.

The outer place is that where Savonarola sat and worked for years. Here he wrote his notes for the sermons which shook the world, his commentaries upon portions of the Bible in that tiny illegible handwriting, and his treatise against the trial by fire. Here hangs the robe in which he went to torture and execution, that same robe whereof the Dominican stripped him. Here too are kept his hair-shirt, the rosary which his long nervous fingers must so often have counted as he bent over it in prayer, and his Bibles. The curious chair in which he was wont to sit is here also, with an exact copy of his deal desk—the original has crumbled away—and beneath it a platform of some more enduring wood worn by the shuffling of his feet.

There on the wall is his portrait, the strong, large-nosed, thick-lipped face framed in a black hood, so ugly and yet so fascinating. One feels that the owner of this face might easily have become a sensuous brute, and yet by the grace that was given him he became one of the greatest of saints. The flesh was trodden down, the spirit triumphed. Yes, and in this spot it seems to live on. Something of the atmosphere which environed Savonarola, something of the essence that inhabited him, appears to occupy the place which he himself inhabited. His breath is about those ancient walls, his prayers, so strangely answered, yet echo round them. To some at least it is not hard to imagine that his ghost or its reflection still dwells there. It is a chamber to leave with a bowed head and a humble heart.

The palace of the Signoria is surmounted by a famous and beautiful tower of wondrous architecture that soars I forget how many hundred feet into the air. Quite near to the top of this tower the visitor, who has the breath to climb it, is shown a tiny prison with a stone seat and a single slit to furnish it with light and air, through which, looking down, he may see the church of Santa Croce. Here for some forty days Savonarola was incarcerated, and hence from time to time he was led down to the torture which his frail flesh could not bear. Here too, whenever his agonies were abated, he wrote some of his last commentaries. What a picture this monk must have presented as he dragged his crushed and twisted limbs from the torment-place of the Bargello, up those countless stairs to lay his poor head down upon the stone while the great bell of Florence boomed out the hours of the night above him.

Below in this same palace is that gorgeous apartment known as the Hall of the Five Hundred. When some years before Savonarola urged its enlargement to a size which would allow it to contain two thousand citizens, his spirit of prophecy did not tell him that here he would be tried and condemned, that here also he would pass some of the latest and most holy hours of his life. In this great chamber for the last time, or rather the last before the last, the master and his two disciples, Domenico and Sylvestro, met after their forty days of torment, each of them having been assured that the others had recanted and betrayed them. Here then Savonarola prayed with them, counselling them to submit to doom meekly but bravely; here he blest and bade them farewell. What a subject for the hand of an artist! But he should be a great artist.

One day I paid a visit to the kind and fortunate possessor of a certain most ancient and beautiful villa on the lower slope of the Fiesole mountain. It is a vast building with great cool rooms, on the walls of one of which is frescoed the portrait of some one's pet dog that died hundreds of years ago, and beneath it a touching epitaph. The building is old indeed, for its history can be traced since the year nine hundred and odd, and the family from whom the present owners bought it, held the property for over five centuries. In the garden, also, is the very well used by Boccaccio as the gathering-place where his gay party of gallants and their ladies, flying from the pest in Florence, wiled away the heat of a summer day by telling to each other stories. Were those Arcadian tales written and published in this year of grace almost might they earn their author six weeks in gaol and the opportunity of posing as a martyr to the zeal of Puritans. As it is they are classics; therefore, like the masterpieces of Queen Margaret of Navarre and of Rabelais, they may circulate unafraid.

Perhaps the most beautiful thing, however, about this beautiful house is the prospect which it commands, for from its verandahs in clear weather can be seen a stretch of no less than thirty leagues of hill, plain, and valley. On the whole, I think that my most pleasing recollection of Florence and its neighbourhood is this white and ancient villa and the marvellous landscape which lies beneath and around it for miles on miles.

IV. POMPEII

It is the fashion of Englishmen to decry their own customs and institutions. How common it is, for instance, to hear our system of railway travelling compared unfavourably with that of other countries; and yet in what foreign land does the traveller meet with half the comfort, assistance, and civility that he finds at home? Take the question of luggage. Theoretically the fashion of booking may be perfect; in practice, at any rate in Italy, it means that you lose your portmanteaus. Under our despised habit of labelling, on the other hand, during many years of travel I have never as yet lost a single article. Again, consider the much-vaunted warming of trains. All I can say is that for my part far, far rather would I travel in the coldest compartment than in the heated infernos with every air-hole hermetically sealed, that are fashionable in the continental corridor-carriages. Then the porters. Is there a more civil being than the average English porter, and one more contented with a very humble fee? Compare him with the gentleman of his profession across the Channel. Sometimes, moreover, these simply are not, the passenger must carry his own things or leave them behind; and seldom is one met with who does not grumble at his fee however ample.

As a specimen journey our own from Florence to Rome is one to be remembered. First, as usual, we were penned up like sheep. Then, by dint of bribery, as we were informed that the train would be full, my nephew was smuggled on to the platform to secure two seats. Having got their money those who accompanied him did not return. In the end indeed, no porter being available, a lady who had come to see me off and I were personally obliged to drag a considerable number of heavy articles for a distance of over a hundred yards just as the express was about to start. It was crowded, the habit upon most foreign railways being to run as few trains and furnish them with as few carriages as possible. In this one there was not a seat to spare, but the overcrowding was nothing in the scale of discomfort compared to the heat, which I should imagine cannot have registered much less than ninety degrees. We ventured to open a window in the corridor, whereon instantly a fellow-traveller sprang up, rushed and shut it with a slam. Yet these are the people whose houses throughout their bitter winter are innocent of fires. I can only conclude that here we discover a tribute to the frugal mind. The warmth in the railway carriages costs nothing, it is included in the fare. Therefore they absorb as much of it as possible.

The end of this particular journey was as wretched as the beginning. Half-way to Rome, in conformity with my common experience, a train went off the line in front of us, and so at some wayside place we were delayed for hours, the English among us marching up and down the platform in the biting cold to escape the airless heat within. Finally, instead of the scheduled time of eleven at night, we arrived in Rome at something past three in the morning—without on this occasion, I am proud to say, losing any of our luggage.

Rome! What is the chance visitor who sees it for the first time to say of the Imperial City? Silence is best. What struck you most there? people are fond of asking. Well, for my part, everything struck me, not forgetting the fearful weather which it was our fortune to encounter. During the first day that I was in Rome, it rained in torrents, snowed and thundered, while the atmosphere was that of an ice-house. No wonder that there were I forget how many tens of thousands of people down with the influenza, a company to which presently I added one more humble unit.

But what struck me most? Well, one or two little things, for in the words of Herodotus, of the great ones out of the scantiness of my experience I do not consider it "lawful to speak." In the Colosseum, opposite to the place where the Caesars sat on days of festival and slaughter, and if I remember right, in the neighbourhood of that occupied by the Vestals, is an avenue, or entrance, which was called, I think, the Triumphant Way. By it, we were told, the gladiators marched in before they crossed the arena to give their famous salutation to the emperor, that same salutation which, unconsciously perhaps, day by day from the beginning to the end of Time the whole creation renders to its Creator, "Those about to die, salute thee!" Their "triumphant" feet must have trod upon a long-vanished wooden flooring. Beneath this floor ran a dark passage—one can see it to-day—along which, within some few minutes of time, the bodies of many of them were dragged by iron hooks fixed in their flesh to certain vaults, where they lay till it was convenient to be rid of them.

That struck me—the contrast between the living men, splendid lusty animals, the muscles swelling on their limbs, the fire of fight in their keen eyes, the harness clanking as they walked, and the limp, gashed, senseless corpses which presently the slaves dragged thence to the last oblivion. Between the one and the other was but the thickness of a single plank. One wonders if they understood, if they foresaw. Perhaps, probably not, for if so they would have been unmanned, their steel nerves must have turned to water, they would not have given satisfaction to their patrons. No, as it is with us to-day, doubtless each of them hoped and believed that he would be the victor. That he would stand over the conquered enemy of the combat, who perhaps for years had been his own companion, watching, while eighty thousand voices roared their plaudits, for the movement of the Vestals' thumbs. Watching—for this hour—from above, not from below.

Then the catacombs. Who that has imagination and a heart can fail to be moved by these? The smell of that hot damp air clings long about the nostrils; I do not think that I shall ever be quite free of it. Those narrow, tortuous passages, whole furlongs of them, and on either side rising tier above tier, the loculi containing each a body, or what is left of it, of some early professor of our faith shut in behind three or four rough tiles. On some there is a symbol, on some an epitaph daubed in various-coloured paint, on some a name. I noted one particularly—Flora. Who was the girl Flora, I wonder, and what part did she play in that huge and blessed tragedy, what humble, quite forgotten part? What a life also must these poor innocents have led who crowded into those darksome burrows, to worship while they lived and to sleep when life had left them, often enough by the fangs of a wild beast, the sword of the gladiator, or the torment of the tarred skin and the slowly burning fire. Truly these were faithful unto death, and as we are taught and hope their reward is not lacking. Think of the scene in the catacombs of San Sebastian. It was, I believe, during the persecution of Diocletian that a vast mob of them were shut up here, men, women, and little children, to starve in the sweltering heat. They still show the staircase where at length the legionaries came down. The rest can be guessed. "Thy slaughtered saints, O Lord!"

A tile of one of these loculi was loose. I moved it surreptitiously, and thrusting my taper to the hollow, looked in. There was the Christian as he had been entombed, or rather his bones, sunk in a soft grey dust, the skull turned upon one side as a living person lays his head upon a pillow. Set with cement, as is very common, so that every passer-by could see, was a little glass vessel stained at the bottom with red pigment. This, said our guide, showed that it must be the grave of a martyr—the pigment was his blood. Traditions cling long but this is not so, it is but the sediment of the sacramental wine partaken of at the funeral. Yet martyrs are enough and to spare in these places. God alone knows to-day which of them died by the common sword death lifts against our race, which by the monstrous, fratricidal hand of man. Also, it no longer matters now that the slayers and the slain are at one, and judgment alone is left.

I will mention one thing more out of the multitudes that I studied and one only, and then farewell to Rome. In the sculpture galleries of the Vatican is a beautiful effigy of a woman seated in a kind of low nursing chair and suckling an infant at her breast. We were told that the model for this statue was Agrippina personifying motherhood, and the innocent-eyed baby at her breast became known to the world as Nero, the matricide. Even to-day, after all these centuries, what a hell's jest is this piece of carven stone.

At Naples the evil weather still pursued us. When we woke up on the morning after our arrival, the rain was falling in a steady torrent and thus it fell till night. Also the hotel was bitterly cold, and colder still was the Museum where we spent the day wrapped about with many cloaks. Yet it was a happy day although I coughed and shivered through its dark hours, for never before, as I think, have I seen so many beautiful things in one place.

Truly, since in any case their inhabitants would be long dead by now, we should be grateful to Vesuvius which buried up Herculaneum and Pompeii with all their wonderful treasures of art. The dwellers in those cities were in many ways uncivilised enough. For instance the system of house-drainage, as I myself observed at Pompeii, was of a most primitive and poisonous nature, consisting apparently of a cesspool under the floor of the sitting-room. Again their monstrous and open licentiousness, of which the walls and buildings bear such unmistakable evidence, their gladiatorial shows and other of their customs, are scarcely what we should associate with civilisation as it is understood by us. In this connection, however, it must be remembered that behind the very thinnest veil of decent seeming, in almost every one of these respects Naples is as bad to-day as was Pompeii in the year of our Lord 79.

Yet what artists were these Pompeians. All the talent of the world in our generation could not produce such statues and bronzes as have been found beneath the lava of Herculaneum and the ashes of Pompeii. Therefore it would seem that high civilisation does not favour the production of the finest art. On the other hand, neither does savagery. Nor can its appearances upon the earth as in the best Greek period, the very early Egyptian period, the period under discussion and that of the Renaissance, be accounted for as in the instance of the uprising of great writers such as Homer, Shakespeare, and others, in the occasional touching of the high-water mark of human intellect by a wave of individual genius. For at such epochs genius seems to have been a common gift. It fell like a sudden rain upon the heads of all. Then like the rain it ceased, to be followed by a long period of ineffective undewed sterility. The problem is too high for me, I abandon it.

Naples, in a domestic sense, is pre-eminently remarkable for two things, its beggars, and its method of driving horses by means of a band across the nose in place of the common bit. I have never elsewhere seen this habit of harnessing. As for the beggars, so far as the traveller is concerned, they include practically the entire population. Against him every man uplifts his hand, or rather he stretches it out. The right carriage fare for a course, that is, from any one point to another in the town, is 75 centimes; yet we saw ten francs extracted from a wretched American who still was followed with complaints and voluble abuse. One morning I sat at breakfast behind a massive window of plate glass which did not open. Nor was there any access to the street beyond under quite a moderate walk. Yet during the whole of that meal a sturdy youth stood without and begged of me. He knew that even if I was so minded I could not communicate to him the desired coin, because between us there was a great pane fixed, in short, that his was but labour wasted. And yet he begged, his nature prompting to the act. There sat an Englishman, and he must practise his trade if only in empty, unsatisfying pantomime. In Naples every one expects a fee, generally for doing nothing, and no one is satisfied with it when received. Perhaps the cabmen, some of whom are blackmailers and scoundrels of peculiar villainy, take the palm for impudent extortion. Or should it be given to the boatmen? Of them I anticipate to tell a story.

When we reached Naples on our return from Syria my nephew went ashore to see a tradesman about some statuettes which we had purchased on our first visit, that did not appear to have reached their destinations. This he did against my advice, for the vessel was only staying two hours and the man lived near the Museum. The two hours passed, the last tug came off, eight o'clock was striking. One officer after another asked me if my nephew was on board. I said that I could not see or hear him, and at last the captain announced firmly but regretfully that he had business at Marseilles and must be going. I shrugged my shoulders but inwardly I was anxious, as Naples is not a place for a young man to be left stranded without money, of which I knew he had little in his pocket. Also he wore my only ulster and I had lent him an umbrella! The time came to hoist the gangway and I gave him up. Just then through the gloom at a little distance from the ship I caught sight of my ulster struggling violently, and of my umbrella waving in the air. Now followed an indescribable hubbub. The figure of the lost one, with a Neapolitan hanging on to his leg, struggled from one boat into another boat whence, with a well-planted kick, he neatly floored the Neapolitan and, breathless but triumphant, reached the companion and the deck.

His tale was moving. It appears that he had been detained at the art-dealer's shop, and that the cabman who drove him to the quay, either by accident or very possibly on purpose, for one can never be quite certain of the designs of these men, took him a long way round. By the time he reached the embarking-place and had finished the usual altercation over his fare, the tug had gone, leaving him with something under fifteen minutes to reach the Oroya, which lay a mile or more away. Somehow, after being nearly torn to pieces, he made a bargain and got a boat, only to discover that his oarsmen either could not, or would not row at a speed needful in the situation. He coached them in the best Cambridge style, and when that proved ineffective, threatened by expressive pantomime to cast the elder of the two men into the deep, for the bellowing of the siren and the ringing of the bell on board the distant Oroya were sounds full of meaning to his ears.

Thus encouraged the rowers put on the pace and arrived at length within fifty yards of the steamer, whose donkey engines were now beginning to clank upon the anchor chains. But there they stopped and opened negotiations for blackmail. Whether he would have ever got on board the ship, or now be at the bottom of Naples Bay, or the hero of some other unpleasant predicament, had not an accident chanced, I know not. The accident was that while the altercation and mutual threats proceeded the boat drifted against another boat, into which, with commendable agility, he sprang, as I have described, the Italian hanging to his leg. Thence he gained the tug and from it the steamer.

The officers of the ship told me that these incidents are common at Naples. There it is quite customary for boatmen to bring off wretched passengers just before their vessel sails, and refuse to put them on board until they receive some exorbitant ransom. In Cyprus the traveller has no need of any defensive weapon; in most parts of Palestine he is not likely to regret its absence; but in Naples, for my part, I should in future always carry a pistol to show if necessary.

How blessed is the sun after long periods of cold and wet, especially in those lands where one expects sun and artificial heat is not embraced. The night before we visited Pompeii, for instance, was not a happy one for me. I was actually frozen out of the hotel smoking-room with its glass roof and a toy stove which did not burn. By way of consolation I manufactured myself some hot whisky and water with the help of a dreadful Etna that would not blow out, boiled over and took the vanish off the table (damage five francs at least, if it was discovered). Then I crept to bed and to such sleep as an incessant influenza cough would allow. It was not much, but towards morning I began to enjoy nightmares. One I remember particularly; it was to demonstrate on paper one hundred different methods of folding an india-rubber bath in five seconds of time, and fifty different methods of emptying the same without spilling a drop, under pain of being thrown living from the top of the Bargello tower in Florence. Another pleasing dream was that I was actually very ill in a dreadful hotel with no one to attend upon me except Italian waiters, who always demanded five francs before they would give you anything to drink, or ten if you were particularly thirsty. At length I woke up stiff and aching, and there, streaming through the window, was the sun, at last—the bright Italian sun of many a romance. I could have worshipped it.

To what the books on the subject, and their name is legion, say about Pompeii I shall attempt to add nothing. For many years I desired to see this place, and when I saw it, it did not disappoint me. It is wonderful. The houses as they were, only without their roofs—very small houses for the most part. The narrow streets down which in times of storm the water ran, with the raised stepping-stones across them. The wear of the chariot wheels upon the paving, of the children's feet at the doors of school-houses, of the merchants' feet at the entrances of shops and places of business, of the priests' feet upon the thresholds of temples. The scribblings of gladiators and even of Christian slaves upon the walls. The obscene pictures and places. The fountains in the middle of the way with holes hollowed in their solid stone by the pressure of the hands of those who for six or seven centuries had leant down to refresh themselves with their waters. The casts enclosing the actual skeletons of some of the poor creatures who were overtaken in the last catastrophe. The garden-courts still adorned with statues. All these and a hundred other things were wonderful.

But how should a man see them? From place to place he walks at the heels of an attentive guide who is full of information till he grows bewildered. Here are temples, here are baths, here a theatre, a forum, a wall, a circus, a private house with the statues still standing about the court, an abode not to be described, a baker's, a silver-smith's, an artist's shop, what not? All the wreckage of a city, none of the finest or most large, it is true, suddenly obliterated in the midst of its active life, a clock that has stopped, the case decayed but the works laid bare, sui generis—alone in the relics of the universe. It is overwhelming, to study it in detail would take weeks, and even then who would be very much the wiser?

No, I think it is best to slip away alone as I did, and seated upon some stone or wall in the soft shine of the sunlight, to let the general scene and the unique atmosphere that surrounds it, sink into the imagination. Then where no tourist disturbs, where no cicerone explains, the mind may strive to re-create. Its ears may hear the hum of voices in the populous pleasure-seeking town, its eyes may see the lost thousands in their strange attire crowding down the cramped ways, till at length something of the meaning and the pathos of it all will come home.

Yet why should this place move us so much? There are scores of dead cities strewn about the world, only more stripped by decay and man. I suppose it is because of the feebleness of our fancy, that cripple who finds it so hard to stir from the little plot of time upon which it is our chance to wander. Here it has crutches, here the evidences of the departed are plentiful. We see the bread that they baked, the trinkets which they purchased. The pleasures they pursued so fiercely, the sins that were their joy, the higher aspiration that touched them at times, the superstitions before which they cowered, are written of on every ruined stone. Therefore, thus aided by these helpful props of evidence they draw near to us and we to them.

Vesuvius towering there, Vesuvius which saw it all and so much before from the very beginnings of the world, and will see so much hereafter till the end of the world, ought to stir us more, but it does not. It is a wondrous, an awe-inspiring phenomenon of Nature, no more, something above her human sympathy. But the stone hollowed by the hands of the dead, ah! that stirs. We think that if we had lived then our palms would have helped to wear the edge of the solid water-trough, and comprehend, and are sorry. By the sign of this sharp example we remember that we too are making our faint marks upon such stones as we are fated to tread and handle. Other more imperceptible marks also upon things intangible and yet real which generations to come will look on with dull incomprehensive eyes, and though they know it not, in their own souls gather up the harvest. This knowledge makes us sympathetic, or at least I think so.

In Naples men learned in the English tongue write works on Pompeii (to them a mine of wealth) for the benefit of the traveller. One of these we purchased for half a franc at the railway station. It is infinitely more entertaining than most guide-books. Here are a few extracts:—

First of all our author is historical, and tells us "it is mentioned by Pliny: a M. Erinnius, duumvir, a Pompean who was thundered at Pompeii." One wonders whether by this the author means that the duumvir was applauded at a theatre, or that he came in sudden and unexpected contact with the electric current. If so, his fate was scarcely so bad as that of Drusus, son of Claudius.

"He was in Pompeii and took his pleasure to throw some pears in the air and then received them in his mouth, when one of those fruits strangled him, stopping up his throat."

What an occupation for the son of an emperor who had apparently but just become engaged, and what size can his mouth have been! Further on our author, who by the way is too modest to record his name, describes some of the corpses found in the ashes. Here, for instance, are Nos. 39 and 40:—

"39. A young woman fallen upon her face, her head is leaned upon her arm, the coat or shift which she was covered of was brought near her head in the act of defense or fright, and causes all her beautiful naked body to be seen. Her shoulder has some trace of dress. It is still seen a lock of hair tied on her occiput.

"40. A young woman having a ring to her finger, to her foot a buskin. Her leg is admirable."

Will some scholar kindly place the god or goddess described thus darkly as "another womanish divinity of an uncertain determination"? Perhaps the fact that Neptune "on foot" is said to be leaning upon her shoulder may assist the student.

I will pass over the account of "a xystus" adorned with porticoes which protect it from the "ardours of the sun," although curiously enough "in one of the columns is the augury that was made to a girl that she may sneeze, that is pleasingly." After this no wonder that many find the customs and manners of the ancients curious and hard to understand. But to proceed. Here is an extract in a style which may be commended to the notice of art critics. It has all the necessary obscurity and can scarcely fail to impress the unlearned. A bronze is under discussion. Our book describes it thus:—

"The counterpoise represents a nice womanish bust with a covering on its head, under which are ivy leaves; she has her hair curled on her deck. She leans softly on her cheek the index of her right hand, of which the pulse is adorned with a bracelet, and she turns her head on the right. A lamp and a beak; Jupiter, radiated on a disc, leaning on the sceptre and sitting between Minerva, armed with a lame, and the Abundance, with the cornucopea, both seated."

If it involves nothing incorrect, I confess that I should much like to learn what portion of the lady's frame is referred to as "her deck."

There is, however, information as well as amusement in these pages. Thus they call attention to a graffito scribbled on the wall of the theatre which announces that a certain Methe, a player of farce, "amat Chrestum corde sit utreisque"—loves Christ from the heart, and prays that a like fate may befall others. So within two generations of His death the Saviour had followers in heathen Pompeii even among actors.

Here is another curious inscription conceived in a very different spirit, and scratched upon the wall of the house of a certain Cecilius Jucundus: "Quis amat valeat. Pereat qui nescit amare. Bis tanto pereat, quisquis amare vetat," which I may render, "May the lover flourish! Bad luck to him who turns his back on love! But to him who bars the lover's path—damnation!"

Jucundus was a banker. It is not difficult to imagine that this vigorous screed was inscribed upon the wall by some poor aspirant for his daughter's hand, to whom he had shown the door.

The old tradition was that Pompeii perished during the summer months. As our guide-book points out, however, this theory is entirely refuted by one curious little circumstance. Near the Stabian Gate in December 1889 were discovered some human bodies and a tree, which in the words of the book "was poured there, as one habitually is used to do the liquid chalk," so that "besides the impress of its thick past remained as engraved on the ashes" the remains of the leaves and of the berries.

From the cast obtained thus obscurely (which we saw) botanists were enabled to identify the tree with its leaves and fruit as a variety of lauris nobilis, whereof the berries do not ripen until late autumn. As these particular berries were quite ripe when the ashes covered them, Pompeii, it is clear, must have perished in the winter months.

I will confess that I leave this place with a deep professional grudge against that admirable romancer, the late Lord Lytton. Who is there of our trade that would not like to write a novel about Pompeii? But Lytton bars the way. Not that it would be difficult to find another and quite different plot. It is his title which presages failure to all who would follow in his path. He had called his book "Glaucus," or "The Blind Girl," or "A Judgment from Heaven," or anything else it would not have mattered. But every one has heard of the novel named "The Last Days of Pompeii," and he who tried to treat of that city and event with the pen of fiction would certainly hear of it also. It is even possible that he might become involved in correspondence on the hoary theme of literary plagiarism.

V. NAPLES TO LARNACA

The morning of our departure from Naples came, and we departed, this time very early. Long before "the saffron-tinted dawn," as I remember when a boy at school I used to translate the Homeric phrase, had touched the red pillar of smoke above Vesuvius, I was up and doing my experienced best to arouse my companion, by arranging the electric lights in such an artistic fashion that their unveiled and concentrated rays struck full upon his "slumber-curtained eyes." But he is an excellent sleeper, and the effort was a failure. Therefore stronger measures had to be found.

At length we were off, the extreme earliness of the hour saving me something considerable in the matter of hotel tips. By the time we reached the station, however, every Italian connected with the place was wide-awake and quite ready to receive the largesse of the noble foreigner. I think that I had to fee about ten men at that station, at least eight of them for doing nothing. Gratuities were dispensed to the bus-conductor who introduced us to a porter; to the porter who led us three yards to the ticket office; to an official who inspected the tickets after we had taken them; to two other officials who showed us respectively the platform from which the train for Brindisi started and the place where the luggage must be booked; to a superior person who announced that he would see the luggage properly booked, and to various other inferior persons, each of whom prepared to carry some small article to the platform. Then being called upon suddenly to decide, and very much afraid that the said small articles would vanish in transit, I determined upon the spur of the moment to accompany them to the carriage, leaving my nephew to attend to the registration of the heavier baggage.

Even in that crowded tumultuous moment I had, it is true, my doubts of the wisdom of this arrangement, but remembering that on the last occasion when he performed this important office, the intelligent booking-clerk had managed to relieve my companion of half a napoleon, by the simple process of giving change to the amount of twenty centimes instead of ten francs twenty centimes, I was sure that experience would have made him very, very cautious. Presently he arrived radiant, having accomplished all decently and in order at the moderate expense of another few francs of tips.

"Have you got the luggage-ticket?" I asked with sombre suspicion.

"Rather," he answered; "do you suppose that I am green enough to come without it?" and he showed me the outside of a dirty piece of paper. The outside, remember, not the inside, for thereby hangs a very painful, moving tale.

Well, we started, this time in great comfort, since, except for an Italian sportsman arrayed in quaint attire, we had the carriage to ourselves. We steamed past Pompeii and Sorrento, thence for hours climbing over huge mountain ranges covered with snow, sometimes almost to the level of the railway line. After these came vast stretches of plain. Then in the afternoon we travelled for many miles along the seashore, a very lonely strand fringed with pines blown by the prevalent winds to curious, horizontal shapes, as though a gardener had trimmed them thus for years. Ultimately once more we headed inland across the foot of Italy, and at last, after a journey of about thirteen hours, to my great relief, for I feared lest another train off the line might make us lose our boat, ran into Brindisi.

Here to our joy the local Cook was in attendance, who put us into a cab, strictly charging us to "pay nothing to nobody." He announced further that he would follow presently to the mail steamer Isis with the heavy baggage, for which he took the ticket.

We reached the Isis, a narrow, rakish-looking boat, found our cabin, and began to arrange things. While we were getting rid of the dust of our long journey I heard a voice outside, the voice of Cook, though strangely changed and agitated.

"Mr. Haggard," said the voice, "Mr. Rider Haggard."

"Yes," I answered; "what's the matter? I've paid for the passages at the office."

"It isn't the passages, it's your luggage," he replied through the door; "it's gone!"

I sank upon my berth. "Gone?" I said feebly, "gone where?"

"To Reggio," replied the mournful voice, "Reggio on the other side of Italy, where you booked it to."

"It was booked to Brindisi," I shouted.

"Oh no, it wasn't," wailed the voice, "it was booked to Reggio; here's the ticket."

"Do you hear that?" I said to my nephew, who, with his dripping head lifted from the basin, was staring at vacancy as though he had seen a ghost; "do you hear that? He says you booked the luggage to Reggio."

"I didn't," he gasped; "I gave them the tickets for Brindisi."

A horrible thought struck me. "Did you examine the voucher?" I asked.

Then almost with tears he confessed that he had overlooked this formality.

"My friend," I went on, "do you understand what you have done? Has it occurred to you that this exceedingly thick and uncomfortable brown suit, with three flannel shirts, a leather medicine-case, and some wraps and sundries are all that we possess to travel with to Cyprus, where such is the hospitable nature of the inhabitants, we shall probably be asked out to dinner every night?"

"We've got some cigarettes and a revolver, and you can have my dinner-jacket, it is in the little bag," he answered with feeble inconsequence.

I took the dinner-jacket at once; it was several sizes too small for me, but better than nothing. Then I expressed my feelings in language as temperate as I could command. Considering the circumstances it was, I think, wonderfully temperate.

At this juncture the voice of the patient (and most excellent) representative of the world-wide majesty of Cook spoke as though in reverie through the door.

"It is a strange thing," he said, "these sad accidents always happen to you gentlemen with double names. The last time it was to the great artist gentleman—how did he call himself? Ah! I have it. Mr.—Mr.—Melton Prior. He went on with nothing, quite nothing. His luggage too travelled to Reggio."

Enough. Let oblivion take that dreadful hour. But the odd thing is that this is the second time in my life that the said "sad accident" has happened to me. Once before, bound to the East, did I arrive upon the mail-steamer at Brindisi only to find that by some petty caprice of the Italian railway officials my portmanteaus were at Milan, or elsewhere, and that I must travel to Egypt and sojourn there in what I stood up in, plus the contents of a hand-bag. I remember that on this occasion my sufferings were somewhat soothed by the melancholy state of an Australian family, who found themselves doomed to voyage to Sydney with an outfit that would not have cut up into an infant's layette. Their luggage also had gone to Reggio.

As a matter of curiosity I should like to know why the Italians play these tricks with the belongings of travellers, as is their common and undoubted habit. To take the present case, it is true that my nephew neglected to study the scrawl upon the voucher, but really he was not to blame, for he gave the clerk the tickets for Brindisi, by which that functionary was bound to register the luggage. Moreover, every official in the station knew that we were going to Brindisi—a fact upon the strength of which many of them, under this pretext or that, had managed to extract something from my pocket. Yet quite calmly, although there was no press of business for we were almost the only passengers, they sent the luggage to Reggio. My own belief is that sometimes this kind of thing is done as a bad practical joke, or possibly to annoy the foreigner within their gates, and sometimes for the purposes of pillage. If this be so, the effort is eminently successful, especially when the unfortunate victim has to catch a mail for the East and must leave his effects to take their chance.

The Isis is one of the swift boats which carry the mail from Brindisi to Port Said. The bags leave London at nine on Friday night. By seven or eight on Sunday night they should be at Brindisi, and by Wednesday night or Thursday morning at Port Said, where the big boat awaits them.

It is very curious to see these bags come on board. Somebody announces that the mail is in, and an officer takes his station opposite the gangway at a little table on which lies a great lined and printed form, while another officer stands by the gangway itself. Quartermasters and sailors also station themselves at convenient spots between it and the mail-room. Presently there is a rumble, and a covered van drawn by a wretched-looking horse appears in the strong ring of electric light upon the quay. Attending it are an extraordinary collection of ragamuffins, of whom the use now becomes apparent. The van is unlocked by some one in charge, and the first ragamuffin is given a sack and a tally-stick. Up the gangway he trots, delivers the tally-stick to the quartermaster at its head, who calls out the destination of each bag to the officer at the table, who in his turn checks and enters it upon the sheet. That carrier trots away to the right towards the mail-room, where he delivers his bag and descends by a second gangway to the quay for another.

Meanwhile his companions are following him like a stream of ants, each with a sack of letters on his shoulder and a tally-stick in his hand. When the tally-sticks come to the number of ten, they are placed in the section of a box that stands on the deck at the feet of the quartermaster. A hundred tally-sticks exactly fill this box, which is then replaced by another empty box. Thus an additional check is kept upon the number of the bags.

Now that van is empty and another arrives, and so on and on for hours, till at last all the mail is safely aboard, checked, and sorted. I believe that on this particular Sunday night the count amounted to something over two thousand bags, which is not very heavy. One of the officers told me that the letters, &c., in which Great Britain sent her last Christmas wishes to the East filled nearly four thousand bags. As may be imagined, the introduction of the penny Imperial post is not likely to lessen these totals.

Before the mail was all on board we were fast asleep, waking up the next morning to find the Isis tearing at about eighteen knots (she can run twenty-three) through a stormy sea and beneath a wet and sunless sky. By midday our course was taking us through the beautiful islands of the Greek Archipelago, to some of which we passed quite close. Here it was that we found most reason to mourn the lack of sunlight, which in this dripping weather caused even those green Ionian slopes to look cold and grey. Amongst other places we saw that Leucadian crag whence the Greek poetess Sappho leapt into the sea. Studying the spot I came to the conclusion that her nerve must have been almost as remarkable as her genius. Women very rarely commit suicide by jumping off a great height, especially into water. By the way, I wonder if Sappho was as beautiful as the bust in the Naples Museum, that was discovered at Pompeii or Herculaneum, I forget which, seems to suggest. Tradition describes her as small and dark, so perhaps the head is a fancy portrait by some great artist of a later age. So real and so full of life and intelligence is it, however, that whoever was its model must have been both a lovely and a clever woman. Indeed, genius seems to sit upon that brow of bronze and to look from those wide enamelled eyes.

Leaving Brindisi late on Sunday night, early on the Wednesday morning we sighted the low shores of Egypt. By eight we were steaming past the well-remembered breakwater at Port Said, very empty now on account of the war and the coal famine, and in another half-hour had cast anchor alongside the great liner which was ready to receive our mails.

Once I spent three or four days in Port Said waiting for my steamer, and may claim, therefore, to know it fairly well. Of all the places I have visited during many travels I can recall but one that strikes me as more dreary. It is a fever-stricken hole named Frontera at the mouth of the Usumacinto River in Tabasco, that can boast the largest and fiercest mosquitoes in the whole world.

However on this occasion we were destined to see but little of Port Said, since the vessel that was to take us on to Cyprus, named the Flora, would sail as soon as we had transhipped her mails. Accordingly, bidding farewell to the Isis and her kind commander, we took a boat and rowed across to the Flora, a small and ugly-looking vessel painted black, and belonging to the Austrian-Lloyd. On board of her I found no one who could speak any tongue I knew, and it was with some difficulty that at last, by the help of the steward's assistant, who understood a little French, I was able to explain that we wished to proceed to Larnaca.

At the time it struck me as so odd that the English Government mails should be carried in a vessel thus distinctly foreign, that afterwards in Cyprus I inquired into the reason. It seems that the Colonial Office, or rather the Treasury, are responsible. The Austrian-Lloyd line, being in the receipt of a subsidy from their Government, were able to make a lower tender for the transport of mails than another line, owned by a British company. So notwithstanding the manifest inconveniences of employing an alien bottom for this important purpose, which in certain political conditions might easily prove dangerous, the home authorities decreed that the contract should go to the foreigner. Perhaps they thought that the sacred principles of Free Trade, or rather of subsidised foreign competition, ought to prevail even in the matter of the conveyance of her Majesty's mails.

Another thing became evident, that Cyprus is not a place of popular resort, since my nephew and I were the only first-class passengers in the ship. Unless he be a Government official, or some friend or connection of one of the very few British residents, it is not often, I imagine, that the Flora takes a traveller to the island. Still she provides for them, by printing a set of rules in English and hanging them on the companion. They cover much ground; in them even politeness finds its place, since the reader is reminded that passengers being "persons of education, will pay a due regard to the fair sex." Reflection, however, seems to have suggested that this axiom might meet with too liberal a rendering. At any rate, farther down we are informed with grave sincerity that "gentlemen are not allowed to enter the cabins of the ladies."

After the dull weather we had experienced between Italy and Egypt, the twenty-four hours' run of our lonely voyage to Larnaca was very pleasant, for the sun shone brightly, the wind did not blow, and the sea was blue as only the Mediterranean in its best moods knows how to be. When we got up next morning—we were provided, each of us, with a whole four-berth cabin, but the Flora does not boast a bath—it was to find that Cyprus was already in sight: a long, grey land with occasional mountains appearing here and there.

Onward we steamed, watching a single white-sailed bark that slid towards us across the azure sea like some dove on outstretched wings, till at length we cast anchor in the roadstead off the little port of Larnaca, a pretty town lying along the seashore. Some miles away, and to our left as we face it, rises the mountain of the Holy Cross—I think that it is, or used to be called Oros Staveros by the Greeks, and by the Latins Monte Croce, at any rate in the time of Pocock.

Felix Fabri, the German monk who made two pilgrimages to Palestine in or about the year 1480, tells how he visited this monastery and saw its relics. It will be remembered that St. Helena, the mother of Constantine the Great, who when an old woman journeyed to the Holy Land in 325 of our era, was so fortunate as to discover beneath the alleged site of the Holy Sepulchre, the veritable cross of our Lord together with that of one or both of the thieves who suffered with Him. But of this more hereafter. The cross of the good thief who, why I know not, has been named Dysma, she is said to have brought to Cyprus and established upon this mountain. Whether anything of it remains there now I cannot say, as I made no visit to the place either on this occasion or on a former journey in the island some fourteen years ago. This is what old Felix says about it. I quote here and elsewhere from the most excellent and scholarly translation of his writings by Mr. Aubrey Stewart, M.A., which is unfortunately practically inaccessible to most readers, as it can only be obtained as part of the Library of the "Palestine Pilgrims' Text Society" at a minimum of ten guineas:—

"She"—i.e. St. Helena—"brought her own cross, that which had been Dysma's, entire from Jerusalem to this mount, and here she built a great convent for monks, and a church within which she placed this cross as an exceedingly holy relic. She ordered a chamber or closet to be built in the wall over against the altar, and placed the cross within it; and there it stands unmoved even to this day, albeit the monastery itself has long since been overthrown, even to the ground, by the Turks and Saracens, and the monks of the Order of St. Benedict who once dwelt therein have been scattered. The position and arrangement of this cross in its place is wonderful. The cross stands in a blind window, and both its arms are let into holes made in the walls, and its foot is let into a hole made in the floor. But the holes which contain the arms of the cross and the foot of the cross are large out of all proportion, and the cross nowhere touches the wall, but is free and clear from contact with the wall on every side. The miracle which is noised abroad about the cross is that it hangs in the air without any fastening, and withal stands as firm as though it were fixed with the strongest nails or built into the wall, which nevertheless it is not, because all the three holes are very great, so that a man can put his hand into them and perceive by touch that there is no fastening there, nor yet at the back or at the head of the cross. I might indeed have searched this thing more narrowly than I did, but I feared God, and had no right to do that which I had forbidden others to do. I climbed this mount to show honour to the cross, not to try whether there was a miracle or not, or to tempt God. That this cross may be more worthy of reverence, they have joined to it a piece of the true Cross of Christ."

Felix Fabri was easily satisfied, as a mediaeval monk should be. So much for the cross of Dysma.

Soon we were rowing ashore in the Government boat, a distance of three-quarters of a mile or so, for Larnaca is not a harbour, but an open roadstead—there are now no harbours worthy of the name in Cyprus. Landing at the pier we were at once conducted to the custom-house, and explained that we had nothing to declare.

"But have you a revolver?" asked the officer.

I answered that I had.

"Then I must trouble you to hand it over," he replied. "I will give you a receipt for it, and you can claim it when you leave the island."

I looked what I felt, astonished, but obeyed. On inquiry it appeared that the Cyprus Government has recently passed some legislation as to the importation of firearms. It would seem that murders had been somewhat frequent in the island, mostly carried out by shooting, hence the law. Whether it was intended to prevent respectable travellers who purpose journeying in the mountain districts from carrying a pistol for their own protection, is another matter. Doubtless in fact it was not; but in Cyprus they have a great respect for the letter of the law, and therefore put this somewhat unnecessary query. For instance, they have another regulation—aimed, I suppose, at the exclusion of phylloxera—against the importation of seeds or plants, which has been known to work in an unforeseen manner. Thus a year or two ago a foreign royalty, I think it was the Prince of Naples, visited the island wearing a carnation in his buttonhole. His Royal Highness must have been somewhat amazed when a custom-house official leant forward and gently but firmly removed the contraband flower.

I am told that this story is quite true, but it may be only a local satire upon the kindly providence of a patriarchal Government.

It is right to add, however, that there is not the slightest need for a traveller of the ordinary stamp to carry any defensive weapon in Cyprus. Since the English occupation of the island at any rate, now some twenty years ago, no place can be more safe. In the wildest parts of it he who behaves himself has nothing to fear from the natives, a kindly, gentle-hearted race, Turk or Christian, although, as I have said, not averse to murdering each other upon occasion. But of this also more hereafter.

Having delivered up the weapon of war and been given an elaborate receipt for the same, we proceeded to our hotel accompanied by a motley collection of various blood and colour, each of them bearing a small piece of our exiguous belongings, whereof the bulk, it will be remembered, had travelled to Reggio. These folk, however, are not exorbitant in their demands and do not grumble or ask for more. Tourists have not come to Cyprus to spoil it; I never heard of an American even setting foot on the island, therefore a shilling here goes as far as five elsewhere.

The hotel at Larnaca is now I believe the only one in Cyprus. It stands within a few feet of the shore—safely enough, for the sea is tideless—is comfortable, with large, cool rooms, and absurdly cheap. I grieve to add that its proprietor cannot make it pay. No travellers visit this lovely and most interesting isle, in ancient days the garden of the whole Mediterranean, therefore there are no hotels. Once there was one at Limasol, but it failed and converted itself into a hospital. He who would journey here must either rely upon tents, which are a poor shelter before the month of April, or upon the kind and freely offered hospitality of the Government officials. Naturally this lack of accommodation frightens away tourists, which for many reasons in a poor country like Cyprus is a vast pity. Yet until the tourist comes it is idle to expect that conveniences for his reception will be provided. So this matter stands.

Where Larnaca now lies was once the ancient Citium, of which the marsh near at hand is believed to have been the harbour. Quite half of the present town, indeed, is said to be built upon the necropolis of Citium, whence comes its name, Larnaca, derived, it is supposed, from Larnax, an urn or a sepulchre. The town is divided into two parts, Larnaca proper and the Marina along the seashore, which is reported to have been recovered within the last few centuries from the bed of the ocean.

After luncheon we went to a house whose owner deals occasionally in curiosities. Of these and all antiquities indeed the export is forbidden except to the British Museum, private digging having been put a stop to in the island, as its inhabitants aver, in the especial interest of that institution. Here we saw a few nice things, but the price asked was impossible, £12 being demanded for a set of little glass vases which I should have valued at 40s. So we left the place, richer only by an Egyptian or Phoenician spear-head of Cyprian copper, a very excellent specimen, and walked to the upper town about a mile away to take tea with Mr. Cobham, the Commissioner.

Mr. Cobham lives in a beautiful house which he has purchased. For generations it had been the abode of the British consuls at Larnaca, but was abandoned by them many years ago. Here in a noble room he has his unique collection of ancient books written by travellers during the last five or six centuries, and others dealing with, or touching on, Cyprus and its affairs. It is from these sources that its learned author has compiled the work known as Excerpta Cypria, which consists of translations from their pages, a book invaluable to students, but now unhappily out of print. I considered myself fortunate in being able to purchase a set of the sheets at an advanced price in the capital, Nicosia, where it was printed.

Set upon a wall of the saloon in this house and although newly painted, dating from a century and a half or more ago, is a fine, carved example of the royal arms of England. This very coat, as Mr. Cobham has ascertained, used to stand over the doors of the old British Consulate during the tenancy of his house by the consuls. When they left it was taken down and vanished, but within the last few years he found it in a stable in Larnaca, whence the carving was rescued, repainted by some craftsmen on board an English man-of-war which visited Cyprus, and after a hundred years or so of absence, returned in triumph to its old home.

Cyprus is fortunate in possessing in Mr. Cobham an official who takes so deep an interest in her history, and spares no expense or pains in attempting its record. On the occasion of my visit he spoke to me very sadly of the vandalism which the authorities threaten to commit by the throwing down of the seaward wall, curtain-wall I think it is called, of the ancient, fortified city of Famagusta, in order, principally, that the stone and area may be made use of for the purpose of the railway, which it is proposed to construct between Famagusta and Nicosia. Of this suggested, but as yet happily unaccomplished crime, I shall have something to say on a later page.

VI. COLOSSI

On the day following that of our arrival in Cyprus the Flora reappeared from Famagusta and about noon we went on board of her to proceed to Limasol, some forty or fifty miles away, where we were engaged to stay a week or ten days. The traveller indeed is lucky when he can find a chance of making this journey in the course of an afternoon by boat, instead of spending from ten to fifteen hours to cover it in a carriage. Although Cyprus in its total area is not much, if any, larger than the two counties of Norfolk and Suffolk, locomotion is still difficult owing to the impassable nature of the ways and the steepness and frequency of the mountains. When I visited it fourteen or fifteen years ago there were no roads to speak of in the island, except one of a very indifferent character between Larnaca and Nicosia. The Turks, its former masters, never seem to make a road; they only destroy any that may exist. Now in this respect matters are much improved. The English Government, out of the pitiful sums left at its command after the extraction from the colony of every possible farthing towards the payment of the Turkish tribute, has by slow degrees constructed excellent roads between all the principal towns, with bridges over the beds of the mountain torrents. But as yet in the country districts nothing of the sort has been attempted.

With us were embarked a number of lambs, little things no more than a week or two old, bought, I suppose, for the provisioning of the ship. At this season of the year everybody in Cyprus lives upon lamb. It was melancholy to see the tiny creatures, their legs tied together, heaped one upon another in the bottoms of large baskets, whence, bleating piteously for their mothers, they were handed up and thrown upon the deck. A more satisfactory sight to my mind were one or two cane creels half filled with beautiful brown-plumaged woodcock, shot or snared by native sportsmen upon the mountain slopes.

On board the steamer, a fellow-passenger to Limasol, whither he was travelling to negotiate for the land upon which to establish a botanical garden, was Mr. Gennadius, the Director of Agriculture for the island. He told me what I had already observed at Larnaca—that the orange and citron trees in Cyprus, which on the occasion of my former visit were beautiful to behold, are to-day in danger of absolute destruction, owing to the ravages of a horrible black scale which fouls and disfigures fruit and leaves alike. (Avnidia coceinea or Avnidia orantii.)

For the last dozen years or so this blight has been increasingly prevalent, the mandarin variety of fruit alone showing any power of resisting its attacks. The proper way to treat the pest is by a number of sprayings with a mixture of from twenty to twenty-five per cent. of soft soap to eighty or seventy-five per cent. of warm water. A dressing thus prepared destroys the scale by effecting a chemical union of the alkali of the soap with the fatty matter in the organism of the parasite, or failing this stifles it by glazing it over and excluding the air necessary to its existence. Mr. Gennadius believes that if this treatment could be universally adopted, scale would disappear from Cyprus within a few years.

But here comes the difficulty. For three centuries the Cypriote has been accustomed to Turkish rule with its great pervading principle of Kismet. If it pleases Allah to destroy the orange-trees (in the case of the Christian peasant, read God) so let it be, he says, and shrugs his shoulders. Who am I that I should interfere with the will of Heaven by syringing? Which being translated into Anglo-Saxon means, "I can't be bothered to take the trouble." If the Director of Agriculture in person or by proxy would appear three or four times a year in the sufferer's garden with the wash ready made and a squirt and proceed to apply it, the said sufferer would look on and smoke, making no objection. Beyond this he will rarely go.

Therefore unless the blight tires of attack it begins to look as though the orange is doomed in Cyprus. This is a pity, as that fruit does very well there, and the mildew which threatened it at one time was taken at its commencement and conquered by means of powdered sulphur puffed about the trees with bellows, Government distributing the sulphur at cost prices.

About three hours after leaving Larnaca the vessel passes a sloping sward clothed with young corn and carob-trees that, backed by lofty peaks of the Trooidos range, runs from a hill-top to the lip of the ocean. Here once stood Amathus, a great city of immemorial antiquity which flourished down to Roman times if not later, and ultimately, it is said, was destroyed by an earthquake. Now all that is left of it are acres of tumbled stone and a broken fragment of fortress, whether ancient or mediaeval I cannot say, against the walls of which the sea washes. It is told that here, or at some later town built upon the same site, Richard Coeur-de-Lion landed when he took Cyprus from the Emperor Isaac Comnenus.

Wonderful indeed is it for us, the children of this passing hour, to look at that grey time-worn coast and as we glide by to reflect upon the ships and men that it has seen, who from century to century came up out of the deep sea to shape its fortunes for a while. Who were the first? No one knows, but very early the fleets of Egypt were here. Then followed the Phoenicians, those English of the ancient world as they have been called, who like eagles to the carcase, gathered themselves wherever were mines to be worked or moneys to be made. They have left many tombs behind them and in the tombs works of art, some of them excellent enough. Thus before me as I write stands a bronze bull made by Phoenician hands from Cyprian copper, a well-modelled animal full of spirit, with a tail that wags pleasingly upon a balled joint.

After the Phoenicians, or with them perhaps, were Greeks of the Mycenian period. Their tombs also celebrate a glory that is departed, as the British Museum can bear witness. Next to the Greek the Persian; then the satraps of Alexander the Great; then the Ptolemies; then galleys that bore the Roman ensign which flew for many generations; then the Byzantine emperors—these for seven centuries.

After this a new flag appears, the lions of England flaunting from the ships of war of Richard the First. He took the place and sold it to Guy de Lusignan, King of Jerusalem so called, whose descendants ruled here for three centuries, till at length the island passed into the hands of the Venetians. These only held it eighty years, and after them came the most terrible fleet the Cyprian Sea has seen, that which flew the Crescent. For three centuries Cyprus groaned and withered under the dreadful rule of the Turk, till at last a few gentlemen arrived in a mail-steamer and for the second time in the history of the island ran up the flag of Britain. How long will it float there, I wonder?

It was very interesting to watch the beautiful gulls that followed the vessel off this coast, the wind blowing against them making not the slightest difference to the perfect ease of their motion. So near did they hang that I could see their quick, beady eyes glancing here and there, and the strong bills of a light pink hue. From time to time as I watched, one of them would catch sight of something eatable in the water. Then down he went and suddenly from the feathers of his underpart out shot his claws, also pink-coloured, just as though he were settling upon a tree or rock. Why, I wonder, does a gull do this when about to meet the water? To break his fall perhaps. At least I can suggest no other reason, unless in the dim past his progenitors were wont to settle upon trees and he is still unable to shake off an hereditary habit.

At length on the low mountain-hedged coast-line appeared the white houses, minarets and scattered palms of Limasol, with its jetty stretching out into the blue waters. The town looked somewhat grown, otherwise its aspect seems much the same as when first I saw it many years ago.

So we landed, and after more custom-house formalities, marched through the crowded streets of the little town, preceded by stalwart Cypriotes bearing our belongings, to dine (in borrowed garments) with the kind friends who were awaiting us upon the pier.

Our first occupation on the following morning was to retain the services of three mules and their coal-black muleteer, doubtless the offspring of slaves imported in the Turkish days, known to us thenceforth by a corruption of his native name or designation which we crystallised into "Cabbages." For a sum of about thirty shillings a week this excellent and intelligent person placed himself and his animals at our disposal, to go whither we would and when we would.

Our first expedition was to a massive tower, or rather keep, called Colossi, which stands at a distance of about six miles from Limasol, in the midst of very fertile fields upon the Paphos road. Off we went, my nephew and myself riding our hired mules and the rest of the party upon their smart ponies, which in Cyprus are very good and cheap to buy and feed.

I have now had considerable experience of the mule as an animal to ride, and I confess that I hate him. He has advantages no doubt. Over rough ground in the course of an eight or ten hours' day he will cover as great a distance as a horse, and in the course of a week or less he will wear most horses down. Also he will live somehow where the horse would starve. But what a brute he is! To begin with, his fore-quarters are invariably weak, and feel weaker than they are. The Cypriote knows this and rides him on a native saddle, a kind of thick padded quilt so cruppered that he is able to sit far back, almost on the animal's tail indeed, as, doubtless for the same reason, the costermonger rides a donkey. To the stranger, until he grows accustomed to it, this saddle is most uncomfortable, but old residents in the island generally prefer to use it upon a long journey. Also it is dangerous to the uninitiated, since the stirrups are very short. Not being fixed they slide from side to side suddenly lengthening themselves, let us say to the right, with any unguarded movement, which will produce a proportionate curtailment on the left and the unexpected consequence that the traveller finds himself face downwards on the ground. With a European saddle this particular accident cannot happen, also it is more comfortable for a short journey. As a set-off to this advantage, however, the rider's weight comes upon that portion of his steed which is least able to support it, namely the withers. The result is that the mule, especially if pushed out of its customary amble, sometimes falls as though it were shot, propelling him over its head.

It is a mistake to suppose, also, that these creatures are always sure-footed; many of them stumble abominably, although they do not often actually fall. Never shall I forget my first mule-ride in Cyprus in the days when there were no roads. It was from Nicosia to Kyrenia, a distance of about sixteen miles over a mountain path. The muleteer into whose charge I was given was a huge man weighing at least eighteen stone, and I thought to myself that where this monster could go, certainly I could follow.

In this I was right, I did follow, but at a very considerable distance. Mr. Muleteer perched himself upon his animal, doubtless one of the best in the island, looking in his long robes for all the world like a gigantic and half-filled sack, and off we ambled. Scarcely were we clear of the town when my mule, unaccustomed, I suppose, to the weight upon his withers and the European saddle, began to stumble. I do not exaggerate when I say that he stumbled all the way to Kyrenia, keeping me absolutely damp with apprehension of sudden dives on to my head down precipitous and unpleasant places. Meanwhile Mr. Muleteer, very possibly anticipating my difficulties, had been careful to place about five hundred yards between us, a distance which he maintained throughout the journey. I yelled for assistance—in fact I wished to persuade him to exchange mules—but either he would not or he could not hear; moreover he had no knowledge of my tongue, or I of his. So we accomplished that very disagreeable journey.

Once, however, I made one much more dangerous, this time over the rarely travelled mountains of Chiapas in Mexico. My companions, I remember, had excellent mules—they lived in the country; that given to me as the lighter weight was weak and poor, with no fore-legs worth mentioning. We scrambled up the mountains somehow, but when it came to descending, the fun began. A road in Tabasco, then at any rate, was made of three component parts. First, a deep and precipitous ditch worn out by the feet of generations of animals, covered at the bottom with from six inches to a foot of red butter, or clay quite as greasy as butter, down which one slowly slithered. Secondly, stretches, sometimes miles in length, of swamp land where the path consists of little ridges of hard clay about two feet apart, the space between each ridge into which the mule must step, filled with some three feet of liquid and tenacious mud that often reached to the saddle-flap. Thirdly, when the swamps were passed great tracts of the most grizzly precipices, which to my taste were worst of all. Along these steeps the path, never more than three to five feet in width, would run across boulder-strewn and sloping rock very slippery in nature. Below yawned chasms more or less sheer, of anything from two to fifteen hundred feet in depth.

Now a mule always chooses the extreme edge of a precipice. For this reason: its load is commonly bound on in large, far-protruding bales or bags. Were it therefore to walk on the inner side of the path, it would constantly strike its burden against the cliff, so, not being troubled with nerves, it clings to the outer edge. A common result is that in going round a corner it meets another mule proceeding from the opposite direction. Thereon in the attempt to struggle past one of the pair vanishes into space and with it the load, merchandise or man.

On this particular Mexican journey I very nearly came to a sudden and untimely end. The mule will not go your way, he always goes his own. At one point on the precipice path it forked, the lower fork being rough but safe and solid, the upper, which travelled round some twenty yards and then again joined the lower, smooth but exceedingly greasy. The mule insisted upon taking the top road, with the result that when we reached its apex he began to slide. Down we shot, ten or fifteen paces to the very edge of that awful cliff and, I confess it without shame, I have rarely been in such a fright in my life. Indeed I thought that I must be gone, there seemed no help for it, since to dismount was quite impossible. At the utter verge of the gulf, however, the animal put on a sort of vacuum brake of which a mule alone has the secret, and when its head was absolutely hanging over it, we stopped. That day also this same trusty creature fell with me in the midst of a flooded river, and in the evening I ended an entertaining journey by being slung across another roaring torrent some eighty yards wide in a loop of string attached to a very rotten rope, along which I was pulled in jerks. But of the varied experiences of that expedition I must not stop to tell. I lived through it, so let its memory be blessed.

Still I do not wish to asperse the mule, as upon a long journey a really good ambler is worth untold wealth. Such as a general rule, however, do not fall to the lot of the visitor, who has to take what he can get at the time; as frequently as not, pack animals, which have never carried a man before.

The mule is very cunning. I saw one in Cyprus, a noted creature which always looks to see whether the man who purposes to ride him is or is not wearing spurs. If he is he does not mount that day, or at least until the spurs are off. The next thing this mule looks at is the whip. Should it be a goad such as the natives use, he resigns himself to circumstances; if a mere useless walking-stick, well, he will not travel fast that trip.

One more thing about the mule; it is hopeless to try to ride him in the company of horses. The horse has his paces of walk, trot, and the canter, and the mule his, an amble, so that however close together their riders may find themselves at the end of a day's journey, during the course of it they will be widely separated.

Much of the land through which we rode to Colossi was under crops of wheat and barley, the latter now coming into ear. The cultivation struck me as generally very poor, but what can one expect in a country where they merely scratch the surface of the soil, and so far as I could see never use manure? So shallow is their ploughing that in most cases squills and other bulbous roots are not dislodged by it, but grow on among the corn, where, dotted about, also stand many carob-trees, of which the fruit, a bean, is the basis of Thorley's and other foods for cattle. On the patches of uncultivated land a great many very beautiful anemones, the harbingers of spring, were in flower, also large roots of asphodel with its stiff sword-shaped leaves. This was the flower of which the Greek poets were so fond of singing. Their wars and labours o'er, the heroes are to repose

"... in the shadowy field

Of asphodel."

In point of fact it is in my opinion an unpleasing plant, the flowers, which spring from a tall stem, being small individually and neutral-tinted. Also they have this peculiarity; if cut and set in a room, they cause the place to smell as though many cats had slept there.

A ride of about an hour brought us to Colossi. That the tower in its present shape was built or repaired in the Lusignan time is evident from the coats of arms—very beautifully cut—of the orders of the Knights Templars and St. John which still appear upon the east face of the fortress. On one of these shields, that below the other three, all the four quarters carry a fleur-de-lys and nothing else. Another, in the centre of the three in the upper line, immediately beneath the crown which seems to take the place of a crest, has four crosses in the dexter quartering, and a rampant lion on the rest. I say of the three coats, but as a matter of fact there are only two, the third, which has been removed, being represented by an ugly gaping hole. It seems that some cantankerous old person who still lives in the village had a lawsuit, which he lost, as to the ownership of this tower of Colossi. In order to reassert his rights, however, he wrenched out one of the coats-of-arms and took it off to his house, where it remains. In the interest of the archaeology of the island the Government ought to insist upon its being restored, or if necessary to replace it by force.[2]

The tower itself, according to my rough pacings, is a square of about fifty-seven feet internal measurement, and from sixty to seventy feet in height. It is a very massive building still in fair order, although I suppose that it has not been repaired for centuries. Now—so low are the mighty fallen—it serves only as a grain and chaff store for the surrounding farm. Its bottom storey, which is strongly vaulted, evidently was used for soldiers' quarters and dungeons. Above is a fine chamber now partitioned off, which occupies the whole square of the castle and is adorned with a noble, vaulted fireplace stamped on either side with a fleur-de-lys. The tradition is that Richard Coeur-de-Lion spent his honeymoon with Berengaria in this chamber after rescuing her vi et armis from the Emperor Isaac, whom he defeated in the plains below. There is another story which I have heard but am unable to trace, namely that Richard in his hurry to attack the forces of the Emperor outrode his companions, and reaching this tower of Colossi, shook his lance and galloped about it alone calling to Isaac, who was a poor creature and had not the slightest wish to accept the invitation, to come out and fight him.

A narrow winding stair of the usual Norman type, whereof the ends of the steps themselves form the central supporting column, leads to the cement roof, which is flat, as is common in Cyprus. Hence the view is very beautiful, for beneath lies a wide stretch of country, now looking its best in the green garment of springing crops, while to the right the eye is caught by a great salt lake, once a source of considerable revenue to the island. This it might be again indeed, were it not that with the peculiar ineptitude and want of foresight which distinguished the agreement concluded by the Government of this country as to the occupation of Cyprus, we have promised the Turks not to work it in competition with other salt lakes of their own on the mainland. Loveliest of all perhaps is the blue background of the measureless, smiling sea, dotted here and there with white-sailed ships.

Projecting from this roof upon one side is a curious grating of massive stone, of which presently I guessed the use. Immediately beneath hung the portcullis of the castle, whereof the wooden rollers or pulleys are still to be seen. Doubtless this grating was designed as a place of vantage whence the defenders could let fall stones or boiling oil and water upon the heads of those who attacked the drawbridge.

Some rich man ought to buy Colossi, sweep away the filthy farm-buildings about it, and restore the tower to its original grandeur. With suitable additions it would make a delightful country-house.

Night was falling before we came home to Limasol. The last glow of sunset still lingered on the white walls and red roofs of the scattered houses, while above them here a feathery palm, and there a graceful minaret stood out against the pale green sky in which the moon shone coldly.

VII. A CYPRIOTE WEDDING

On Sunday we attended church in the Sergeants' room, a congregation perhaps of twelve or fifteen people. Limasol has a chapel belonging to it which was once used for the troops, but as it seems that the War Office, or the Treasury, I am not sure which, lay claim to the altar rails and benches, no service is now held there. In Cyprus as elsewhere there is such a thing as Red Tape.

After luncheon I accompanied Mr. Michell, the Commissioner, to a grand Greek wedding to which he had kindly procured me an invitation. On arriving at the house we were conducted upstairs to a large central room, out of which opened other rooms. In one of these stood the bride dressed in white, a pretty, dark-eyed girl, to whom we were introduced. By her, arrayed in evening clothes, was the bridegroom, a Greek, who is registrar of the local court, and about them their respective parents and other relatives. In the main apartment were assembled a mixed crowd of friends, guests, and onlookers. Near its centre stood a marble-topped table arranged as an altar with two tall candlesticks wreathed in orange blossoms, a cup of sacramental wine, two cakes of sacramental bread, a silver basket holding two wreaths of orange blossom with long satin streamers attached, and a copy of the Gospels beautifully bound in embossed silver.

Presently a procession of six priests entered the room, attired all of them in magnificent robes of red and blue worked with silk, gold and silver. They wore tall Eastern-looking hats very much like those affected by Parsees and had their hair arranged in a pigtail, which in some instances hung down their backs and in others was tucked up beneath the head-dress. All of them were heavily bearded.

Most of these priests were striking in appearance, with faces by no means devoid of spirituality. Indeed, studying them, it struck me that some of the Apostles might have looked like those men. The modern idea of the disciples of our Lord is derived in the main, perhaps, from pictures by artists of the Renaissance school, of large-made, brawny individuals, with wild hair and very strongly-marked countenances, quite different from the type that is prevalent in the East to-day. It is probable that these fanciful portraits have no trustworthy basis to recommend them to our conviction; that in appearance indeed the chosen twelve did not differ very wildly from such men of the more intellectual stamp, as are now to be seen in Cyprus and Syria. But this is a question that could be argued indefinitely, one moreover not susceptible of proof.

Tradition, however, curiously unvarying in this instance, has assigned to the Saviour a certain type of face which, with differences and modifications, is not unlike that of at least two of the priests whom I saw at this ceremony. They looked good men, intellectual men, men who were capable of thought and work—very different, for example, in their general aspect and atmosphere to the vast majority of those priests whom the traveller sees in such a place as Florence. Still the reputation of these Greek clergy is not uncommonly malodorous. Critics say hard things of them, as the laity do of the priests in South America. Probably all these things are not true. In every land the clergyman is an individual set upon a pedestal at whom it is easy to throw dirt, and when the dirt strikes it sticks, so that all the world may see and pass by on the other side. Doubtless, however, here as elsewhere there are backsliders, and of these, after the fashion of the world, we hear more than of the good and quiet men who do their duty according to their lights and opportunities and are still.

When all the preliminaries were finished the bride and bridegroom took their places before the table-altar which I have described, and crossed themselves ceremoniously. Then the service began. It was long and impressive, consisting chiefly of prayers and passages of Scripture read or chanted by the different priests in turn, several men standing round them who were, I suppose, professionals, intoning the responses with considerable effect. At an appointed place in the ceremony a priest produced two rings with which he touched the foreheads and breasts of the contracting parties, making with them the sign of the cross. One of these rings was then put on by the bridegroom and the other, oddly enough over her glove, by the bride.

At later periods of the service the silver-covered book of the Gospels was given to the pair to kiss, and cotton-seed, emblematic apparently of fertility, like our rice, was thrown on to them from an adjoining room. Also, and this was the strangest part of the ceremony, the two wreaths that I have described were taken from the silver basket and set respectively upon the brow of the bridegroom and the veil, already wreath-crowned, of the bride, where it did not sit well at all, giving her, in fact, a somewhat bacchanalian air. The bridegroom also looked peculiar with this floral decoration perched above his spectacles, especially as its pendant satin tails were seized by six or eight of his groomsmen of all ages who, with their help—the bride being similarly escorted by her ladies—proceeded to drive the pair of them thrice round the altar-table. Indeed this part of the service, however deeply symbolical it may be, undoubtedly had a comic side. Another rite was that of the kissing by the priests of the wreaths when set upon the heads of the contracting parties, and the kissing of the hands of the priests by the bride and bridegroom.

After these wreaths had been removed the newly-married pair partook of the Communion in both kinds, biting thrice at the consecrated cake of bread that was held to their mouths, and drinking (I think) three sips of the wine. This done the elements were removed. The ceremony ended with a solemn blessing delivered by the head priest and the embracing of the bride and bridegroom by their respective relations. At this point the bride wept after the fashion of ladies in her situation throughout the world. Indeed she was moved to tears at several stages of the service.

After it was over, in company with other guests we offered our congratulations to the pair, drank wine to their healths and partook of sweetmeats. Also we inspected the nuptial chamber, which was adorned with satin pillows of a bright and beautiful blue. I am informed, but of this matter I have no personal knowledge, that the friends of the bride stuff her mattress with great ceremony, inserting into it pieces of money and other articles of value. So we bade them good-bye, and now as then I wish to both of them every excellent fortune in life.

It struck me as curious that with so many churches close at hand this rite should have been celebrated in a room. The last solemn ceremony connected with the fortunes of man at which I assisted in a private house was in Iceland amid the winter seas, far away from this southern home of Venus. At a stead where I was staying dwelt an aged man, a relative of the owners of the farm whom they were supporting out of charity. There is no poor-law in Iceland so relations are legally obliged to take its place, a state of affairs that must lead to curious complications.

While I was in the house—a lonely place far from any other stead—the old man died. They made him a coffin and laid him in it, and I was invited to be present at the ceremony which followed. It consisted chiefly of a long and most beautiful chant which, as I was told, had come down for many generations but has never been printed. All present in the room, perhaps a dozen people, intoned this solemn chant, standing round the coffin where the dead man lay with the light shining upon his snowy beard and calm majestic face. Then they prayed and the coffin was closed. Afterwards I saw a little party of rough, earnest men carry it over the rocks down to the head of the fiord where a boat was waiting. There they laid it and rowed away till they were swallowed up in the awesome loneliness of mountain, sky, and sea which seemed to sleep beneath the blue and ghostly shadows of the Iceland summer night.

To return to Cyprus; later in the afternoon of the wedding we went for a ride to the military camp, about three miles from Limasol. Once there was a regiment quartered here, but the garrison is now, I think, reduced to a single company. It would be difficult to find a healthier or more convenient site whereat to station soldiers, the place being high and the water excellent. Perhaps those empty huts will be filled again some day.

On our way back we passed through a grove of the most gigantic olive-trees that I ever saw. Those in the Garden of Gethsemane seem small compared to them. Having a rule in my pocket I dismounted and took the measure of one of these. It proved to be approximately fifty feet in circumference by sixteen in diameter at the ground, but of course was almost hollow. How old must that tree be? Taking into consideration the hard wood and slow-growing habits of the olive, I imagine that in the time of the Romans, and very possibly in those of the Ptolemies, it was already bearing fruit. Perhaps a Mycenian, or one of Alexander's legionaries, planted it, who can say? Probably, too, it will last for another three or four hundred years before, in the grip of slow decay, that end overtakes it which awaits everything earthly, not excepting the old earth herself.

One morning Mr. Mavrogordato, the Commandant of Police of the Limasol district, to whose kindness I owe many of the photographs of scenes in Cyprus which are reproduced in these pages, took us to see the ancient fortress of the town, now used as its prison. The road to this castle passes through a disused Turkish graveyard where Mr. Mavrogordato has had the happy thought to plant trees which, in that kindly air and soil, are now growing up into a welcome patch of greenery and shade. This castle is a massive building in stone belonging apparently to the Venetian period, that is, above ground, for the chapel and vaults below are Gothic. The interior is kept most scrupulously clean and whitewashed. Round the central well run galleries in two storeys, which galleries are divided into cells whereof the iron gates are secured with large and resplendent brass padlocks. I do not think that I ever saw padlocks which shone so bright. From side to side of the second story, stretched across the deep well beneath, is an ugly-looking black balk of timer, and screwed into it are two bolts and eyes of singularly uncompromising and suggestive appearance. This is the gallows beam, so placed and arranged that the prisoners in the cells have the advantage of a daily contemplation of the last bridge of evil footsteps. An execution from that beam, and there have been several, I believe, must create quite an excitement among the wrong-doers of Limasol.

It is curious, by the way, although I daresay that the thought may never have occurred to the reader, how singularly ugly are the instruments of judicial death and torment. Take a rack, for instance. Even those who had not the slightest idea of its sinister uses would exclaim—"What a hideous thing!" I have seen a certain rack in one of the old cities of North Holland, Alkmaar or Hoorn, I think, whereof the mere appearance is distressing; yet it has none of the superfluous complications of more highly finished instruments of its class. Indeed it is of a stern simplicity; a board, two rollers, two windlass handles and trestle legs bolted together, very stout and broad-footed. Yet the man who made it contrived to fill its every line with a horrible suggestiveness. Thus the plank, like the bottom of some old coffins, is cut in and out to the shape of the human body, and each other part has some separate quaintly-dreadful look. Again how ugly are a beheading-block and its companion axe. Even a pair of stocks is not ornamental, and I am told that the new electrical machine of death now used in the United States is a thing hideous to behold.

The subject is disagreeable, so I will not treat of it further, except to say generally that there seems to be some mysterious rapport between violent sufferings and deaths and the instruments which man has found most convenient to produce them. Here we have another exemplification of the old proverb—like to like—the cruel things to the cruel deeds. But this matter is too large to enter upon in the pages of a book of travel.

On the occasion of my visit, amongst other convicts there were in the Limasol prison, contemplating the gallows-beam aforesaid, four men who were accused of the murder of a fellow-villager suspected of having poisoned their cattle. Murder is a crime of not uncommon occurrence in Cyprus, where many of the inhabitants are very poor and desirous of earning money, even in reward of the destruction of a neighbour with whom they have no quarrel. It has been proved in the course of investigation of some of these cases that the fee paid was really absurdly small, so low as ten shillings indeed, or, as one of the judges informed me, in the instance of a particularly abominable slaughter, four shillings and no more. Some of the victims suffer on account of quarrels about women, as in Mexico, where in a single village street on a Sunday morning, after the orgies of a Saturday night, I have seen as many as three dead, or at least two dead and one dying. More frequently, however, in Cyprus the victim is a downright bad character of whom a community are determined to be rid, so that in fact the murder, as in the present example, partakes of the nature of lynch-law.

After the commission of the crime its perpetrators, if suspected, hide themselves in the mountains, where they must be hunted down like wild beasts. One party of these outlaws defied arrest for quite a number of months, during which time they took several shots at the pursuing Mr. Mavrogordato. Ultimately, however, they were themselves shot, or caught and hanged.

The view from the top of the castle was perhaps even more beautiful than that of Colossi. In front, the boundless sea whereon poor Berengaria of Navarre, rolling in the roads of Limasol, suffered such dire perplexities and exercised so wise a caution. Behind, the slopes of the grey mountains with Trooidos towering above them, white-capped just now with snow. To the right the salt lake, and immediately beneath, the town dotted here and there with palms.

Just at the foot of the fortress is the Turkish quarter, for the most part nothing better than a collection of mud hovels. The population of Cyprus, it may be explained, is divided into Turks and pure Cypriotes. These Turks, I suppose, are the descendants of those members of the invading Ottoman army under Mustafa which conquered Cyprus three centuries ago, who elected to remain in the island as settlers. The proportion is roughly—Turks one-third of the population, Cypriotes two-thirds. The Turks, who generally live in villages by themselves, are going down the hill rapidly, both in numbers and wealth, being poor, lazy, fatalistic, and quite unfitted to cope with their cleverer Christian compatriots. In many instances, however, they are respected and respectable members of the community, brave in person and upright in conduct. Few of them can afford more than one wife and as a rule their families seem small.

The richer and more successful class of Cypriotes have a habit of adopting Greek names, but in fact very few of them are Greeks except for so much of the Mycenian blood as may remain in their veins. Still some of them intrigue against the British Government and affect a patriotic desire for union with Greece, that even the disillusionment of the Turkish war has not quenched. These aspirations, which, in some instances at any rate, are said to be not uninfluenced by the hope of rewards and appointments when the blessed change occurs, are scarcely likely to be realised. If Cyprus is ever handed over to any one by Great Britain, it must be to its nominal suzerain the Sultan, to whom the reversion belongs. But surely, after the stories of the recent massacres of Christians, and other events connected with Turkish rule, British public opinion, exercised as it is profoundly by the existing if half-avowed alliance between this country and the evil system which the Sultan represents, could never allow of such a step. It would be monstrous to give back Christians into his keeping, and a crime to plunge Cyprus once more into the helpless, hopeless ruin, out of which under our just if sorely hampered government it is being slowly lifted.

After inspecting Mr. Mavrogordato's stud—if that be the correct expression—of homing pigeons which with characteristic energy—not too common a quality in Cyprus—he is breeding up from imported birds, we descended from the roof to the foundations of the castle. Here we visited a large vaulted place whereof the windows have been built up in some past age. Now, we see by the light of our lanterns, it is a rubbish room, and before that, as I imagine from several indications, under the Turkish régime, probably it served as a magazine for the storage of powder. In the old days, however, this place was a chapel and here it is said, upon what exact authority I know not, that Richard Coeur-de-Lion was married to Berengaria of Navarre. The only account of these nuptials that I can lay my hand on at this moment is from a contemporary chronicle of Geoffrey de Vinsauf or Vinosalvo. He, it will be observed, although writing of Limasol, or Limouzin as he calls the town, does not mention the church in which the wedding was solemnised. If there was more than one available, which is to be doubted, it seems most probable that the chapel of the fortress would have been chosen. This is what Geoffrey says:—

"On the morrow, namely on the Sunday, which was the festival of St. Pancras, the marriage of King Richard and Berengaria, the daughter of the King of Navarre, was solemnised at Limouzin: she was a damsel of the greatest prudence and most accomplished manners, and there she was crowned queen. There were present at the ceremony the Archbishop and the Bishop of Evreux and the Bishop of Banera, and many other chiefs and nobles. The king was glorious on this happy occasion, and cheerful to all, and showed himself joyous and affable."

How strange are the vicissitudes of walls! The fortunes of the short-lived generations that inhabit them are not so variable, for these stones last longer and see more. What a contrast between this place in its present state, lumber-strewn and lit only by a few dim lamps, to that which it must have presented in the year 1191 when the warrior king, Richard, one of the most remarkable and attractive characters who occupy the long page of our English history, took to himself a wife within their circuit. It is not difficult, even to the dullest and least imaginative of the few travellers who stray to this unvisited place, to reconstruct something of that pageant of the mighty dead. The splendid figure of the king himself, clad in shirt of mail and broidered tabard gay with the royal arms of England. The fair bride glittering in her beautiful silken garments and rich adornment of gems. The archbishop and bishops in their mitred pomp. The great lords and attendant knights arrayed in their various armour. The crowd of squires and servitors pressing about the door. The altar decked with flowers, the song of such choristers as could be found among the crews of the galleys—all the gathered splendour, rude but impressive, of perhaps the most picturesque age that is known to history.

Then these great folk, thousands of miles away from their northern home, who had laboriously travelled hither exposed to the most fearful dangers by land and sea, enduring such privations as few common soldiers would now consent to bear, not to possess themselves of gold-mines or for any other thinly-veiled purposes of gain, but in the fulfilment of a great idea! And that idea—what was it? To carry out a trust which they conceived, wisely or in foolishness, to be laid upon them—the rescue of the holy places from the befouling hand of the infidel. Well, they are gone and their cause is lost, and the Moslem, supported by the realm which once they ruled, still squats in the Holy Land. Such is the irony of fate, but for my part I think that these old crusaders, and especially our hot-headed Richard of England, cruel though he was at times, as we shall see at Acre, are worthy of more sympathy than a practical age seems inclined to waste upon them. Peace to their warlike, superstitious souls!

On leaving the castle we visited an inn, in the yard of which stood scores of mules. It was an odoriferous but interesting place. Under a shed at one side of it sat about a dozen smiths at work, men who hire their stands at a yearly or monthly rent. Fixed into the ground before each of them—it must be remembered that these people sit at their work, which is all done on the cold iron without the help of fire—was a tiny anvil. On these anvils the craftsmen were employed in fashioning the great horseshoe nails of the country, or in cutting out and hammering thin, flat, iron plates which are used in the East for the shoeing of mules and donkeys. These discs that are made with only one small hole in the centre, must in many ways be prejudicial to the comfort and health of the beast, or so we should think, since they cause its frog to grow foul and rot away. The teachings of practical experience, however—for which after some study of such things I have great respect—seem to prove this kind of shoe to be best suited for use upon the stony tracks of the country. These plates are secured to the animal's hoof by six of the huge-headed nails that I have mentioned, and if properly fixed will last for several months without renewal.

The instrument used to trim the hoof before the shoe is fastened, is a marvellous tool, almost of the size of a sickle with a flat knife attached to it as large as a child's spade. Probably all these implements, especially if connected in any way with agriculture, such as the wooden hook with an iron point which they call a plough, are essentially the same as those that were familiar to the Phoenicians and the Mycenian Greeks. In the Holy Land, at any rate, as we shall see later, they have not changed since the time of our Lord.

That this was so as regards the shoeing of horses in or about the year 1430 is proved by the following passage which I take from the travels of Bertrandon de la Brocquière of Guinne, who made a pilgrimage to Palestine in 1432. He says:—

"I bought a small horse that turned out very well. Before my departure I had him shod in Damascus; and thence as far as Bursa, which is fifty days' journey, so well do they shoe their horses that I had nothing to do with his feet, excepting one of the fore ones, which was pricked by a nail, and made him lame for three weeks. The shoes are light, thin, lengthened towards the heel, and thinner there than at the toe. They are not turned up, and have but four nail-holes, two on each side. The nails are square, with a thick and heavy head. When a shoe is wanted, and it is necessary to work it to make it fit the hoof, it is done cold, without ever putting it in the fire, which can readily be done because it is so thin. To pare the hoof they use a pruning knife, similar to what vine-dressers trim their vines with, both on this as well as on the other side of the sea."

This description might well apply to the shoeing of animals in Cyprus and Syria to-day.

From the inn we walked to the municipal market, where we found many strange vegetables for sale, including radishes large as a full-grown carrot. Nothing smaller in the radish line seems to flourish here, and I am informed that for some occult reason it is impossible to intercept them in an intermediate stage of their development. Perhaps, like mushrooms, they spring up in a single night. I am grateful to these vegetables, however, for the sight of them made clear to me the meaning of a passage by which I have long been worried. I remember reading, I forget where, in the accounts of one of the pyramid-building Pharaohs—Chufu, I believe—that he supplied tens of thousands of bunches of radishes daily to the hundred thousand labourers who were engaged upon the works.

What puzzled me was to know how Chufu provided so enormous and perennial a supply of this vegetable. The radishes of Cyprus solve the problem. One of these would be quite enough for any two pyramid-builders. I tasted them and they struck me as stringy and flavourless. Another old friend in a new form was celery tied in bunches, but such celery! Not an inch of crisp white root about it, nothing but green and leathery head. It appears in this form because it has been grown upon the top of the ground like a cabbage. Many people have tried to persuade the intelligent Cypriote to earth up his celery, but hitherto without result. "My father grew the herb thus," he answers, "and I grow it as my father did." Doubtless the Phoenicians, ignorant of the arsenic it was said to contain, liked their celery green, or perhaps it was the Persians.

Meat and game, the former marked—so advanced is Limasol—with the municipal stamp for octroi purposes, are also sold here. There on one stall next to a great pile of oranges, lie half-a-dozen woodcock, brown and beautiful, and by them a brace of French partridges now just going out of season, while further on is a fine hare. On the next, hanging to hooks, are poor little lambs with their throats cut, scarcely bigger than the hare, any of them; and full-grown sheep, some not so large as my fat black-faced lambs at Easter. A little further on we came to a cobbler's shop, where we inspected the native boots. These are made of goatskin and high to the knee, with soles composed of many thicknesses of leather that must measure an inch through. Cumbersome as they seem, the experience of centuries proves these boots to be the best wear possible for the inhabitants of the mountainous districts of this stony land. On the very day of which I write I saw a Cypriote arrayed in them running over the tumbled ruins of an ancient city and through the mud patches whereby it was intersected, with no more care or inconvenience than we should experience on a tennis lawn.

VIII. AMATHUS

Now I have to tell of Amathus, the place we passed on our journey down the coast, to-day a stone-strewn hill covered with springing corn. Even in the far past Amathus was so ancient that no one knew with certainty of its beginnings. It is said to have been founded by the Phoenicians; at any rate in it flourished a temple to the god Melkarth, and with it a famous shrine erected in honour of Venus. The mythical hero, Theseus, according to one account, is reported to have landed here with Ariadne, the daughter of Minos, who died in childbirth in the city, although the story more generally accepted says that he abandoned her on the island of Naxos. Whatever truth there may be in all these legends—and probably it is but little—this is certain, that in its day Amathus was a great town inhabited by a prosperous and powerful people. It lies about five or six miles from Limasol and is approached by a road which runs along the sea, whence it is separated by a stretch of curious black sand which blows a good deal in high winds. On the way Mr. Mavrogordato pointed out to me an ingenious method whereby he is attempting to turn that barren belt into profitable soil. He seems to have discovered that this sand, wherein one might imagine nothing would grow, is suitable to the needs of the black wattle. At any rate the trees of that species which he planted there, although scarcely more than a year old, are now large and flourishing shrubs.

As we drew near to Amathus I perceived curious holes by the roadside, covered in for the most part with rough slabs of stone. Once these holes were tombs, rifled long ago. Then we came to the site of the town stretching down to the sea-beach, where stand the remnants of a castle which we saw from the steamer. Now it is nothing but a hillside literally sown with stones that, no doubt, once formed the foundations of the dwellings of Amathus. I say the foundations, for I believe that the houses of these ancient cities, as in the villages of Cyprus to-day, were for the most part built of green brick, or what here in Norfolk we should call clay-lump, which in the course of centuries of sun and rain has melted away into the soil. The temple, public buildings and palaces must have been magnificent, and as I shall show presently, wonderful care was lavished upon the tombs; but the habitations of the great mass of the citizens were in all likelihood humble and temporary structures, or so I think. It is the same in Egypt, where the old inhabitants grudged neither wealth nor labour in the preparation of graves, their everlasting abode, but were content to fashion their earthly lodgings of the Nile mud that lay at hand.

Amathus must have been very strong, indeed it would be difficult to find a site better suited to defence. It is surrounded by steep natural ravines which served the purpose of moats, and surmounted by a towering rock with precipitous sides, along whose slopes the city lay. Upon this rock, says tradition, stood an impregnable citadel; indeed the site is still called "The Old Castle" by the peasants of the neighbouring village of Agia Tychenos. Now all these countless stones furnish their humble tillers with a seed-bed for wheat and barley. The inexperienced might imagine that no place could be more unsuitable for the growing of crops, but in fact this is not so, seeing that in the severe Cyprian droughts stones have the property of retaining moisture to nurture the roots which otherwise would perish.

On arriving at the foot of the hill we rode round it to visit the tombs which lie behind and beyond, taking with us a supply of candles and several peasants as guides. These sepulchres were, I believe, discovered and plundered more than twenty years ago by General Cesnola, the consul, whose splendid collection of antiquities is to be seen in America. The first we reached lay at the bottom of a deep pit now rapidly refilling with silt washed into it by the winter wet. In the surrounding rubbish we could still see traces of its violation, for here lay many fragments of ancient amphorae and of a shattered marble sarcophagus. After the rains that had fallen recently the path through the hole leading into the tomb was nothing but a pool of liquid mud through which, to win an entrance, the explorer must crawl upon his stomach, as the soil rises to within about eighteen inches of the top blocks of its square doorway. The task seemed dirty and in every way unpleasing, but I for one did not travel to Cyprus to be baffled by common, harmless mud. So I took off my coat, which in the scant state of our wardrobe I did not care to spoil, and went at it, on my hands and toes, that the rest of me might avoid the slush as much as possible.

It was a slimy and a darksome wriggle, but quite safe, in this respect differing somewhat from a journey of a like nature which I made a good many years ago. That was near Assouan in Egypt, where at the time certain new tombs had just been discovered which I was anxious to explore. These tombs were hollowed in the rock at the top of a steep slope of sand, which choked their doorways. Seeing that, as at Amathus, there was just sufficient space beneath the head of the doorway of one of them for a man of moderate size to creep through, I made the attempt alone. Writhing forward, serpent-wise, through the sand, presently I found myself in the very grimmest place that I have ever visited. It was a cave of the size of a large room, and when my eyes grew accustomed to the faint light which crept through the hole, I saw that it was literally full of dead, so full that their bodies must once have risen almost to the roof. Moreover these dead had not been embalmed, for round me lay their clean bones by hundreds and their skulls by scores. Yet once this sepulchre was at the service of older and more distinguished occupants, as under the skeletons I found a broken mummy-case of good workmanship, and in it the body of a woman whose wrappings had decayed. She died young, since at the time of her decease she was just cutting her wisdom teeth.

As I wondered over these jumbled relics of the departed, I remembered having read that about the time of Christ, Assouan was smitten with a fearful plague which slew its inhabitants by thousands. Doubtless, I thought, here are the inhabitants, or some of them, whose bodies in such a time of pestilence it would have been impossible to embalm. So they must have brought and piled them one on another in the caves that had served as sepulchres of the richer notables among their forefathers, till all were full. I remembered also that plague germs are said to be singularly long-lived and that these might be getting hungry. With that thought I brought my examination of this interesting place to a sudden end.

Just as I was beginning my outward crawl, foolishly enough I shouted loudly to my companion whom I had left at the entrance of another sepulchre, thinking that he might help to pull me through the hole. Almost immediately afterwards I felt something weighty begin to trickle on to my back with an ever-increasing stream and in a flash understood that the reverberations of my voice had loosened the over-hanging stones already shaken and shattered by earthquakes, and that the sand was pouring down upon me from between them. Heavens! how frightened I was. Luckily one does not argue under such circumstances where, indeed, he who hesitates is lost. If I had stopped to think whether it would be best to go back or to go forward, to go quick or to go slow, it is very probable that long since I should have added an alien cranium to those of that various pile. Instead I crawled forward more swiftly than ever I crawled before, notwithstanding the increasing weight upon my back, for the sand fell faster and faster, with the result that as no stone followed it to crush me, presently, somewhat exhausted, I was sitting fanning myself with a grateful heart in the dazzling sun without.

To return to Amathus and a still older tomb: this doorway beneath which we passed was also square and surmounted by four separate mouldings. Once through it, we lighted our candles to find ourselves standing in a kind of chapel, where I suppose the relatives of the dead assembled at funerals or to make offerings on the anniversaries of death. Out of this chapel opened four tombs, each of them large enough to contain several bodies. They are empty now, but their beautiful workmanship is left for us to admire. Thousands of years ago—though to look at them one might think it yesterday—the hard limestone blocks of which they are built were laid with a trueness and finish that is quite exquisite. Clearly no scamped work was allowed in old Phoenician tombs. In these graves and others close at hand, General Cesnola found many antiques of value. Indeed one of our guides, who was employed to dig for him, assisted at their ransack.

Some readers may remember a violent controversy which arose among the learned over the allegation that Cesnola unearthed the most of his more valuable antiquities in a single treasury at Curium. The said antiquities, however, being, so the critics declared, of many different styles and periods, it was found difficult to understand how they could have been discovered in one place, unless indeed Curium boasted a prehistoric British Museum with a gold-room attached. Here I may say that a few days later I visited Curium in the company of official gentlemen, who informed me that they were present when excavations were made with the object of investigating these statements. The statements, they said, were not proved.

Bearing this dispute in mind, I asked the Cypriote guide whether General Cesnola found his most important objects heaped in one place at Curium. He answered that antiquities were found here and there; that often Cesnola himself was not present when they were found, but that as they were dug up from the tombs they were collected by the workmen and taken care of, to be given over to him whenever he might come. I quote this bit of evidence for what it is worth, as in future generations, when all these burial-places have been thoroughly ransacked, the matter may become of interest because of the side-light which it throws upon ancient history.

Much of our knowledge of the remote past is derived from tombs, and yet to my mind our pleasing habit of violating the dead, whether for purposes of gain or in order to satisfy our thirst for information, is not altogether easy to justify. It is a very ancient habit. Because of it the mummies of Rameses, the Pharaoh of the Oppression, of the wondrous-faced Seti, his father, of the monarchs of, I think, the Her-hor dynasty, and a host of others, about the period of the Persian invasion were moved from their immemorial resting-places to the hiding hole of Deir-el-Bahari. Long before this indeed the rulers of Egypt, knowing the danger, were in the habit, at intervals of several hundred years, of despatching royal commissioners to inspect the bodies of the great departed and ascertain that they slept safe and undisturbed. I myself have seen writings upon the outer wrappings of the deceased which notified that such and such a commission inspected the corpse of such and such a divine king—he who lay within the wrappings—now "sleeping in Osiris," and found his coffins and corpse intact.

In this particular instance the efforts of the ancient Egyptians to preserve the earthly remnants of those who ruled over them thousands of years before, did but postpone the evil day. Tens of generations went by, and in a fashion interesting enough but too long to describe here, the hiding-place of Deir-el-Bahari was discovered. Modern savants hurried to the place—one of them told me not long afterwards that he nearly fainted with joy when by the light of candles held above his head, he discovered the richness of that hoard. Up the deep and narrow well were dragged the corpses of kings and queens as great in their own time as Victoria or Napoleon. As they were borne to the steamer the fellaheen women, inspired by some spirit of hereditary veneration, ran along the banks of Nile weeping, tearing their hair and throwing dust upon their heads because the ancient lords of their land were being taken away and none knew where they would lay them. Now rent from their wrappings, their half-naked bodies lie in the glass cases of a museum to be stared at by every tourist. The face before whose frown whole nations trembled and mayhap Joseph or Moses bowed the knee, is an object for the common jest of the vulgar, and so will remain until within a few decades or centuries it is burnt in a conflagration, or torn to pieces by a drunken rabble, or perchance—happier destiny—crumbled into dust as must happen soon or late, to be thrown out upon the dung-heap for hens to scratch at.

Is it right? I ask who have been a sinner. Myself in the neighbourhood of Abydos, to take one example out of several whereof the recollections to-day fill me with some remorse, I found the mummy of a child. She was a little girl, who, poor dear, had lived and died in the first centuries of the Christian era, of Greek parentage, probably, for her skin was exceeding white. She lay wrapped in coloured bandages, not unlike some of the cottons which are manufactured to-day, and on a piece of mummy cloth which covered them, her parents had drawn a cross in red pigment and scrawled beneath it in Greek characters the word "Christos."

I hold that holy rag in my hand as I write and it shames me that I do so, but if I had not taken it the Arabs who were with me and who showed me the hiding-place, would have sold it to the next traveller. I remember that on the same journey we unwrapped the head of a mummy purchased from some tomb-breaker for a few piastres. Oh! what a face appeared! That man who had lived four thousand years ago might have been a king, or a high-priest, so majestic were his withered features. Certainly his blood must have been noble and his place high. Yet his end was that a doctor sawed his skull open to see how it was embalmed. May he forgive me for the part I took in that business, who then was younger and more thoughtless.

At the time perhaps I did not understand quite as well as I do now—I mention this in my excuse—how sincere and solemn was the belief which among the old Egyptians led to this practice of embalming. Of all people who have ever lived, not even excluding those of our Christian faith, they held most firmly to the doctrine of the resurrection of the body. Therefore they preserved that body against the hour of its awakening, and the idea of its disturbance, or destruction, was to them horrible. It was a futile faith, as they themselves recognised, since knowing that no efforts of their own could guard against future events—such as the arrival of the Nile tourist—they multiplied images and pictures of the deceased, hoping that some one of them might survive for the Ka or Double to haunt, and the Khu, or Spirit, to reanimate at the appointed season. Piteous and idle plan, since dust must to dust, be it soon or late. Still their faith may fulfil itself in other ways, and we may venture to believe that at the last the Spirit they were so sure of will not be left without its tabernacle.

Yet is our offence as great, although with a strange and gross materialism we suppose, when we consider the matter at all, that the fact of these folk having died so long ago makes them fair prey for our greed or curiosity. But what is time to the dead? Ten million ages and a nap after dinner, unconsciousness can know no difference—to consciousness refound they must be one. On awakening in each case the recollections would be as vivid, the aspirations, the motives, the thoughts, the beliefs, the sorrows, hopes and terrors as firm and distinct. Once the senses are shut, time ceases to exist, if in truth it exists at all. Then is the offence of the violation of this hallowed dust so carefully hid away, any the less because it has slept five thousand years, than it would be in the case of a resurrection man who drags it from the grave it has occupied six hours, to sell it to the dissecting-table? We are so apt to judge of the dead by the standard of the possible feelings of the survivors, forgetting that they may have their own feelings. Also the survivors, or rather the departed contemporaries, may still be shocked.

These poor Phoenicians of Amathus had no such high hopes, although from time to time there were plenty in Cyprus who shared them. Yet they built their sepulchres with extraordinary expense and care, facing towards the sea as though they wished to watch the sun rise and set for ever. We break into them under the written order of the British Museum, or secretly by night, and drag their ear-rings from their ears, and their rings from their fingers, and set their staring skulls upon back shelves in dealers' dens in Limasol where once they ruled, to be sold for a shilling—skulls are cheap to-day—to the first relic-hunting traveller. Well, so it is and so it will ever be.

The next tomb we came to had a beautiful V-shaped doorway, though only the top of the inverted V was visible above the rubbish. I did not go in here, being already sufficiently plastered with mud, almost from head to foot indeed, but my companion, who is young and active, achieved the adventure. As it turned out it might very easily have been his last, for in climbing up the walls of the pit again, his foot slipped on a little piece of greasy earth and down he went backwards, dragging two Cypriotes with him in such fashion that all three of them lay in a tangled heap at the bottom of the hole. The sight was ludicrous enough, but as the older of the two guides explained to us, had it not been for his quickness and address my nephew would certainly have met with a serious accident. The man saw from the way he was falling that his head or neck must strike against a stone at the bottom of the pit, and managed to thrust his arm and thick sleeve between the two. Once my own life was saved in a very similar fashion, except that no human agency intervened. I was galloping a pony along an African road when suddenly it crossed its legs and went down as though it had been shot. In falling my head struck a stone on the road with great force, but by chance the thick cloth hat which I was wearing, being jerked from its place, interposed itself as a kind of doubled-up cushion between my temple and the stone, with the result that I escaped with slight concussion. I remember that the shock of the fall was so great that my stout buckskin braces were burst into four pieces.

That my nephew's danger was not exaggerated by the Cypriote is shown by the fact that, within the last few years, at the mouth of this or the very next tomb a German professor was killed in precisely the same way. Indeed, now that I think of it, I remember reading of his sad death in a paper. That poor gentleman, who was accompanied only by an old woman, having finished his inspection began to climb up the sides of the pit when a stone came out in his hand and he fell head first to the bottom. He only lived about five minutes and our friend, the protecting Cypriote, helped to carry away his body.

After this experience, having had enough of the interesting but dirty pursuit of "tombing," we mounted our mules and rode round the hill of the ancient city, a stone-strewn and somewhat awkward path. The streets there must have been very steep in their day and a walk up to the citadel on business, or to buy a slave or two kidnapped on the shores of Britain as a special line for the Cyprian market, excellent exercise for the fat old wine-bibbing merchants, whose scattered bones and broken drinking-cups we had just been handling yonder among the tombs.

Now the place is melancholy in its desolation. There is nothing left, nothing. It might have formed the text of one of Isaiah's prophecies, so swept of life is it and of all outward memorials of life. I could only find one remnant. On the face of a towering rock we discovered a short uncial Greek inscription which is beginning to feel the effects of weather. Our united scholarship pieced this much out of it: "Lucius Vitellius, the great conqueror, erected this from his own." Here the information comes to a full stop, for we could not make out any more. Perhaps some reader of this page may know with certainty which Lucius Vitellius is referred to and why he was engaged in conquering at Amathus. Is it perchance Lucius Vitellius, the father of the emperor who was governor in Syria, in A.D. 34? If so he might well have described himself as "the great humbug" instead of the great conqueror, as is proved by the famous story that is told of him concerning Caligula and the moon. According to Tacitus, however, he was a good governor. "I am not ignorant that he had a bad name in Rome and that many scandalous things were said of him, but in the administration of the provinces he showed the virtues of an earlier age."

I daresay that yonder crumbling screed may be the only actual monument that is left to-day of this Vitellius, his pomp, his cunning, and his flattery.

As we returned home the scene was very beautiful. In the west the sun sank gorgeously, his fan-like arrows breaking and reflecting themselves from the dense purple under-clouds that had gathered and lay low upon the horizon of the slumbering deep. High above in the fathomless blue spaces of the Cyprian heavens, rode the great moon, now rounding to her full, her bright face marked with mountain scars. And the lights that lay on sea, sky and land, on the plain of Limasol and the mount of ruined Amathus, who shall describe them—those changeful, many-coloured lights, so delicate, so various and so solemn?

On the day after our visit to Amathus I attended the Court-house to listen to the magisterial examination of the men (whose numbers had now increased to six) whom I had seen previously in jail awaiting their trial upon a charge of murder. The court was crowded with the relatives of the accused; zaptiehs, or policemen; a selection of idlers from among the general public; a goodly number of Greek advocates crowded together in the front bench, and the six prisoners themselves all squeezed into a dock which was much too small for them, where they stood in a double row listening to the evidence with an indifferent air, real or affected. For the rest Mr. Mavrogordato, as I am told a veritable terror to evildoers, conducted the case for the prosecution, bringing out his points with great clearness, while the district judge, Mr. Parker, sat as a magistrate's court. The judicial functions of the legal officials in Cyprus are by the way rather curiously mixed, the same individual being able, apparently, to sit in varying executory capacities.

The case was opened by the different advocates announcing for which of the prisoners they appeared. Then Mr. Mavrogordato took up his parable and began to examine the Greek doctor through an interpreter, whose somewhat lengthy translations made the proceedings rather slow. When, after a couple of hours, we had just got to the point where he turned the body over, growing weary I went home to lunch. To this hour I cannot say whether or no those reputed murderers, or if any, which of them, still adorn the land of life, or whether under Mr. Mavrogordato's guidance, they have passed beneath that black beam which spans the central well in the old castle at Limasol. I think very possibly, however, that they were all acquitted or reprieved, for although I am certain that they, or some of them, did the deed, from the opening of the case, out of the depths of a not inconsiderable experience of such inquiries, I am convinced that every ounce of the evidence in possession of the prosecution was absolutely and solely circumstantial. Moreover, although they had dug him up again and looked for it, the missing knife-point could not be found in the vitals of the late-lamented cattle-poisoning rascal whom somebody had slain. A broken and recovered knife-point goes a long way with a jury, and its absence is equally favourable to the prisoner.

One afternoon I attended some athletic sports at Limasol. It was a general feast-day, in honour of what or of whom I grieve to say I forget, but on that occasion there were festivities everywhere. Earlier in the day I went for a ride to a village some miles distant which also was celebrating sports, that is to say a few loungers were gathered together about an open place in the hamlet, and nobody was doing any work. This I noticed, however, both in the village aforesaid, on the ground at Limasol, and from the spires of all the churches that I could see, a flag was flying. As it was a public holiday one might have expected that this flag would be English, or perhaps here and there, in deference to ancient and long-established custom, Ottoman. It was neither, it was Greek. Everywhere that not very attractive banner flaunted in the wind. I asked the reason but nobody seemed to know an answer. They suggested, however, that it had something to do with the Greek churches, and added that the upper classes of the Cypriotes who call themselves, but are not, Greeks, always flew the Greek flag.

I submit that this is not a good thing. Throughout the world and at all periods of its history the flag flown is the symbol of the authority acknowledged, or that the population wish to acknowledge. In Cyprus of course the bulk of the inhabitants are not concerned in this matter. The villagers of the remote hills and plains care little about banners, but if they see continually that of Greece displayed on every church tower and high place, and never, or rarely, that of Great Britain which rules them, they may, not unnaturally, draw their own conclusions. It is a small affair, perhaps, but one, I believe, which might with advantage be attended to by the Government. Eastern peoples do not understand our system of laissez faire where the symbols of authority are concerned, and are apt to argue that we are afraid to show the colours which we do not fly. The Union Jack is not a banner that should be hidden away in British territory. Nor is this my own view only. It is shared by every unofficial Englishman in Cyprus, though these are few. Officials may have their opinions also, but it would not be fair to quote them.

After the sports were over I had an interesting conversation with a gentleman well acquainted with the customs of the country. He told me that few traces of the old Phoenician rites remain, except that which is still celebrated in some districts upon Whitsunday. Then, as did their forefathers thousands of years since, the villagers go down to the sea and bathe there, both sexes together. It is the ancient welcome given to Venus in the island fabled to be her chosen house, mixed up perhaps with some Christian ceremony of washing and regeneration. The bathers throw water over each other, but so far as outward appearances go, there is nothing incorrect in their conduct at these quaint and primitive celebrations.

My friend told me also, to return to another subject, of the vast benefit which the British Government has conferred upon the island by the practical extermination of the locust. All the ancient visitors to Cyprus, or at least many of them, speak of this curse, which twenty years ago, and even on the occasion of my last visit, was in full operation. An ingenious Greek gentleman devised the remedy. Roughly the system is this. Locusts, impelled thereto by one of those wondrous instincts that continually amaze the student of nature, at the appointed season select certain lands wherein to lay their eggs, which must not be too deep or too shallow, and when the pests begin to grow must furnish certain food on the surface of the sandy soil necessary to their support. Observation soon enables skilled persons to discover these spots. Then the system first invented by Mr. Mattei and perfected by my late friend, Mr. Samuel Brown, is brought into operation.

Briefly, it consists of the erection of screens of canvas many yards in length edged at the top with shiny American cloth, in front of which screens are dug deep trenches. About a fortnight after the locusts are hatched out of the egg, having exhausted the supply at the breeding-place, they begin their march across country in search of nutriment. Then it is that strange things happen to them, for climbing up the canvas screens which they find barring their path, their feet slip upon the leather and down they slide backwards into the ready-made grave beneath. Before they can crawl up again others tumble on the top of them, and so it goes on till the trench is full. Now observant human beings arrive, cover it in to prevent effluvium and move the screen a few yards further on to another trench that they have prepared, where this page of locust-history repeats itself. It might be thought that learning wisdom—from his fellows' fate—the locust would in time educate himself to go round the screen. But not so, for of all this insect's characteristics obstinacy is the most prominent. He means to travel a certain path; if it involves his death, so much the worse, at least he will travel till he dies. Doubtless it is this singleness of purpose, this incapability of changing his mind, that makes the locust so great and formidable.

And formidable he is, or was, as any one will know who has ever seen a stretch of growing corn, or a grove of fruit-trees, or any green thing that is of service to man, over which the locust has passed. Joel the prophet knew him long ago, before ever Messrs. Mattei and Brown had at last taught humanity how to beat him (i.e. in an island like Cyprus). "He hath laid my vine waste and barked my fig-tree: he hath made it clean bare, and cast it away; the branches thereof are made white. . . . How do the beasts groan! the herds of cattle are perplexed, because they have no pasture: yea, the flocks of sheep are made desolate." And again—here he describes them at their work. Could it be more vividly done, could any words give a more vivid picture of the overwhelming invasion of this bane and the waste it leaves behind?

"A fire devoureth before them and behind them a flame burneth: the land is as the garden of Eden before them, and behind them a desolate wilderness; yea, and nothing shall escape them. . . . Like the noise of chariots on the tops of mountains shall they leap, like the noise of a flame that devoureth the stubble."

Such indeed is the sound that has been heard to rise from the millions of their moving jaws.

However, as I have said, thanks to the continued exertions of the Government, locusts are now practically exterminated in Cyprus.

What their ravages have been in the island for ages past may be gathered from a single quotation which I take from the writings of Benedetto Bordone, the geographer, of Padua, whose work was published in 1528. It is only one example, but it will serve:—

"But among so much good, that there may be nothing in this world without its bitterness, the luck of the island has this one drawback, mingling with its blessings so heavy a curse that men can hardly bear up against it—that a vast multitude of cavalette or locusts appear with the young wheat: these as they pass from place to place are so many in number that like a thick cloud they hide the sun: and where they light they devour and consume not only the grain and grass, but even the roots below ground, so that one might say that fire had blasted everything. Yet they use all diligence to destroy these insects, and make a very great outlay to seek out the eggs while they are in the earth, and they do indeed in some years find of them thirty thousand bushels. Besides this they use yet another remedy of a strange kind; they send to Syria to fetch a certain water, with which they soak the ground, and where it is thus soaked the eggs burst and produce none of these insects."

What water was this, I wonder?

IX. CURIUM

Charming as is Cyprus in many ways, it is a place where the traveller, especially the English traveller, and still more the unofficial dweller in the land, has some reason to congratulate himself if he was born with the gifts of patience and humility. In practice the island is inhabited by two classes only, the Government officials and the native Cypriotes. Between these there is a great gulf fixed, in itself a bad thing as I think, since it is not good for any man, or body of men, to be continually surrounded by people whom they consider very much their inferiors. In Africa I have known weak folk driven crazy by this plethora of authority, and nine individuals out of ten it makes conceited. Only really large-minded men can bear the weight of unquestioned power and remain unspoiled, men big enough to know how frail and small the rest of us are.

To return—wide as that gulf may be, it is not altogether easy to float there. In other words, an inhabitant who is not an official has no "position" in Cyprus, and is collectively relegated to a class by himself, or so it seemed to me. It is, however, very much to be regretted that this class is not larger. In that event not only would life become less narrow in the island, for red tape in quantity does restrict the intellect; its rulers also would be exposed to the tonic and stimulus of competent and independent public opinion. At present of factious opposition to the Government from the Greek party and others there is plenty, of intelligent and suggestive criticism at the hands of equals and compatriots, little or none at all.

The questions of social status and precedence do not affect the traveller, however, though if he be of an observant mind they may amuse him. What does affect him are the hide-bound Cyprian regulations. One I have mentioned, and its inconveniences—that having to do with revolvers—but it is as nothing compared to those which overtake the individual who ventures to come to Cyprus armed with a fowling-piece in the hope of shooting duck or woodcock. I, unfortunate, had sent mine on, and finding it awaiting me at the custom-house at Limasol, suggested that I might take it away. Thereon I was informed very politely that I must comply with a few formalities. First, it proved imperative that I should obtain from the Government at Nicosia a certificate that I was a fit and proper person to be allowed to carry so dangerous a weapon as a shot-gun. Secondly, a value must be set upon the said gun which must be approved. Thirdly, the fourth part of the value thus ascertained must be paid over in cash to the custom-house officer, who, on the owner quitting the island within a certain period of time and satisfying him that he had not disposed of the gun, would repay three-quarters of the total amount so deposited, the Government retaining the rest for its trouble. Fourthly, a game-license must be taken out. This I think an excellent regulation.

It can easily be imagined that by the time I had written the necessary letters, signed the necessary documents, paid the necessary deposit and interviewed the necessary number of officers, I wished almost that I had thrown my gun into the sea before I was foolish enough to bring it to Cyprus. Even now when the trouble is done with, I venture to ask whether all these formalities are really needful in the case of a person known to be a bonâ-fide traveller who proposes to tarry for a few weeks only in the land? The same question might be asked of other Cyprian regulations and of their method of enforcement.

A more serious matter, as I myself experienced, for which indeed the Government is not responsible, although I think it might take action to prevent the inconvenience, is connected with the Turkish telegraph line which purports to deliver messages in Cyprus. What happens, and has happened perpetually for the last year or so since the cable was hopelessly broken, and intermittently before that time, is that a message taken by the Turkish line, without warning or other enlightenment to the sender in whatever part of the world he may be, passes over their wires to Port Said or Beyrout, where it is left to lie until a ship is sailing. Thence it is sent on by post and re-telegraphed from Larnaca to its address by the Eastern Telegraph Company, for which service is charged a fee of one and ninepence.

In my case I despatched a cable to Italy, by the Eastern Telegraph Company, to which I had previously arranged to receive an immediate reply. No answer came and I grew anxious. Days passed and finally the reply did come, a week late, having been forwarded by post from Port Said! My hostess informed me that within a single year the same thing had happened no less than thrice to people staying in her house. For a specimen result I quote an instance that occurred just before I arrived. The father of a lady who was staying with a friend in the island, died in England, and the sad news was at once telegraphed to her. This message was sent by the Turkish wires with the shocking result that the person concerned first learned of her bereavement through a casual perusal of the advertisement columns of the Times. The cable itself was delivered a day or so later than the newspaper.

It would seem that the Government might move to put a stop to this constant and intolerable scandal of a telegraph line accepting and being paid for messages which it has neither the intention nor the means of delivering. I am informed, however, that it does not do so because such action might raise "a political question" and give offence to the Turks. If I were in a position of authority I think that I should take the risk of that offence and of the use of a little plain language.

Still notwithstanding these and other drawbacks, unavoidable perhaps in a country soaked with oriental traditions, Cyprus is in many ways a most delightful spot, and it is remarkable that more English people do not live there, at least for the winter season. Actual residence in the island to all but those inured to heat, involves a three months' stay in summer under canvas or in huts on the mountain heights of Trooidos, whither the officials move annually from Nicosia. This is a sojourn that must become monotonous in spite of the delightful air and scenery of the pine forests, since lawn-tennis parties and picnics, where the guests are continually the same, will pall on all except the youngest and most enthusiastic. For the other nine months of the year, or most of them, the climate is pleasant and healthy.

I know that in the last respect, it has a different reputation; arising I believe from the fact that when it was first acquired from the Turks, some regiments of debilitated troops were sent from Egypt to recover in Cyprus. Those in authority proceeded to secure this object through the great heats of summer by setting them down in overcrowded tents upon an undrained marsh, where they sickened and died in considerable numbers. Also in old days the island's reputation for wholesomeness was of the most evil.

I have discovered many references to this in the course of my reading, but lack the time to search them out now; also to do so would be to overburden these pages. Here are one or two extracts, however, upon which I am able to lay hands, that will suffice to prove the point. They are taken, for the most part, from Excerpta Cypria. Felix Fabri writing in the fifteenth century says that on returning from a certain expedition inland in Cyprus:—

"When we reached the sea in our galley we found that two pilgrims were dead, one of whom was a priest of the Minorite order, a brave and learned man, and the other was a tailor from Picardy, and honest and good man. Several others were in the death agony. We, too, who had come from Nicosia, cast ourselves down on our beds very sick; and the number of the sick became so great, that there was now no one to wait upon them and furnish them with necessaries."

He goes on to tell how they put out to sea and met with sad adventures:—

"During this time one of the knights ended his days most piteously. We wound a sheet about him, weighted his body with stones, and with weeping cast him into the sea. On the third day from this another knight, who had gone out of his mind, expired in great pain and with terrible screams," and so forth.

Again Egidius van Egmont, and John Heyman, whose work was translated from the Dutch in London in 1759, say:—

"It is known by experience that the inhabitants of this island seldom attain to any great age, owing possibly to the badness of the air; malignant fevers being common here, especially towards the end of summer, and during our stay in the island, though it was in the spring, a contagious distemper swept away great numbers at Nicosia. But the air is most noxious at Famagusta and Lernaca owing to the vapours rising from the fens and saltpans in the neighbourhood. And at Lernaca, the air is most unhealthy when the sun is above the horizon."

Also Richard Pococke, whose well-known work was published in London in 1743, writes:—

"These mountains and the shallow soil, which is mostly on a white free-stone, make it excessively hot in summer and the island is very unhealthy especially to strangers, who often get fevers here, which either carry them off, or at least continue for a considerable time, the disorder lurking in the blood and occasioning frequent relapses."

To come to quite recent times Monsieur Delaroiére, whose book, Voyage en Orient, was published in 1836, talking of Larnaca says:—

"We went out to this shrine, which is charmingly situated near a great lake and wooded hills, but the air is very unwholesome. In a visit we paid to the sheik we saw the insalubrity of the place stamped on every face; the pale and leaden complexions testified to habitual fever."

These short quotations, which could be easily supplemented by others of like tenor, suffice to show that the healthiness of Cyprus has always been in bad repute. Why this is so I cannot say, for, given the most ordinary precautions, among warm countries it is certainly the most wholesome that I have visited. I have scarcely heard of a death that could in any way be attributed to climate among the European officials, and children of northern blood seem to flourish there. Probably its reputation may be set down to the lack of those ordinary precautions and the insanitary condition of the place in the past. Few people whose reading has not been more or less extensive know the extent of the mortality throughout all lands in bygone generations. A great proportion of the death rate everywhere was, I am convinced, due to typhoid which nobody knew how to treat or how to avoid. It had not even any specific name except the generic term of "feaver." For proof of this such works as the Verney Memoirs may be consulted. It is probable that a traveller from Cyprus visiting London about the year 1600 might have returned and described the city as most unwholesome.

Living in Cyprus is extraordinarily cheap. A family can flourish there and have many comforts, such as riding-horses, &c., who at home would be obliged to look twice at a bus fare and consider a visit to the pit of a theatre a great luxury. Servants also are inexpensive and, on the whole, might be a great deal worse. One in a house where I received hospitality was really a very good, all-round man. He went by the name of Cristo or Christ, an appellation common enough in Cyprus, though one from the use of which northern people would refrain. There was a boy also, an amusing young rascal, who when taken into service evidently was half starved. Then he made up for it, for to my own knowledge he could devour a large tin of bad potted lobster with appetite and without ill effects; nor did he shrink from swallowing at a draught a whole tureen of mint-sauce. On such diet he grew wondrous fat.

In Cyprus everybody depends upon the sun, which is presumed to be, but is not, always on show, at any rate in the winter months. Fireplaces in the dwelling-rooms are a luxury introduced by the English, pleasant enough and even needful in January and February. When the sun refuses to shine inconveniences ensue. Thus the washing generally comes home wet and I could discover but one means of airing it—to place the garments which it was proposed to wear on the following day in bed and sleep upon them. This receipt I frequently adopted. Old travellers will know the plan and young ones may note the same.

Fourteen years or so ago when I was there, Cyprus was a very happy hunting ground for the lovers of antiquities. Then many desirable things could still be purchased. For instance there were objects of silver that I suppose must be of mediaeval date, or a little later; worked buckles that were worn by the inhabitants on great occasions, round or shell-shaped and very beautiful, of which in those days I obtained several pairs. Also there were curious reliquaries to be worn about the neck, generally fashioned in the form of a hollow cross, inside of which was placed a bit of saint or some other sacred scrap. Now few such objects are to be found. Nearly all have vanished. I searched the bazaar at Nicosia and every likely place in other towns, without discovering even a single pair of buckles. I could find nothing except one small reliquary. Veritable antiquities are almost as rare to-day, owing largely to the prohibition that has been put upon private digging in the interests of the British Museum.

On my first visit I was rather fortunate. Thus in a village not far from Cyrenia I bought for a small sum from the man who dug it up, a beautifully worked oriental bowl of bronze, dating, I should think, from the fifteenth or sixteenth century. In this bowl the finder discovered coins which he sold for the sum of three hundred pounds, their value by weight. What coins they were I cannot say, for he had parted with every one and could give no clear description of them.

Also I obtained from him a piece of glass which he had found, that at once struck me as very curious. It is about six inches high, round, with a narrow neck, and its great peculiarity lies in the fact that it has five spirals of glass that spring from near the bottom of the bowl, clearing its arch to join the vessel again at the root of its neck. This vase I carried in my hand on horseback for many a weary mile, fearing accidents, and ultimately brought it safe to England. Here, as I saw that he was much struck with it, I gave it to my friend, Sir John Evans, who read a paper on the piece at the Society of Antiquaries, in whose records it is published.[3] It seems that the vessel is Roman and unique. Sir John Evans ingeniously discovered the method by which it was made, and even caused a replica to be manufactured, how, it would be too long and difficult to explain. This replica I still possess.

Another find was a marble head that once has worn a bronze helmet. It seems to be of a very good Greek style and period. At first I thought that it had adorned a statue of a goddess, but a well-known export tells me that after taking measurements, &c., he believes it to be a contemporaneous portrait of Faustina, of which lady of that name I am not certain, but I imagine, the elder. This head, the best thing of the sort that I can find in any Cyprian collection, either in the island or the British Museum, I discovered serving the gentleman who ploughed it up as a door-stop. But although he valued it so little it took me two years to reduce it into possession, as I think that the man who owned the land where it was found, claimed an interest in the marble. Another beautiful object that came my way was a corroded silver ring found in a tomb with an engraved scarabaeus bezel. This ring the late Mr. Samuel Brown, who gave me a whole collection of Cyprian pottery, offered to me for any price I chose to fix. But I had spent all my money, so I said that I would take it home and sell it for what I could get on his account. I disposed of the ring for ten guineas to a well-known dealer who passed it on to the British Museum for twenty guineas. Afterwards I felt sad when one of the great experts there informed me that it was the best thing of the sort they had secured for many a day, being, it would appear, an early and exceedingly good copy of some famous work of art by, I think, Praxiteles. And the moral of that is, as the Queen said to Alice, never be economical when you see what your instinct tells you is a good antique, or you will live to regret your virtuous impulse.

Also I procured one or two other objects which I submitted to the British Museum. They said they were worth keeping—and kept them, by way of exchange kindly presenting me with plaster casts edged round with blue paper. Perhaps they are better there. I like to think so.

Now it is otherwise. Except the spear-head already mentioned, one silver coin of Alexander is all my harvest, and of this I found a better example years ago. About Alexanders, my friend, Mr. Christian, an old resident in the island, told me a wondrous and authentic tale. Some peasants digging, found an earthenware pot and in it nearly a thousand gold coins, for the most part stamped with the head of that monarch. The peasants disposed of them for their weight in gold, and they were afterwards sold by the fortunate purchasers for seven or eight pounds each. Where are they now, I wonder? Imagine the feelings of the happy man who suddenly discovered a pot full of a thousand such coins as these.[4] By the way I remember that a lady once showed me a magnificent necklace made of gold coins of Alexander of different sizes, which had been given her as a wedding present. Perhaps part of that Cyprian find went to make this necklace. But of antiquities I must stop talking, since they may have more fascination for me than for my readers.

Our next expedition was to the site of ancient Curium, which is said by Herodotus to have been peopled by Argives. To reach this ruined city we passed the tower of Colossi and lunched in the police-station of the beautiful and fertile village of Episcopi, a pleasant place for picnics. Thence we rode on a mile or so to the waste that once was Curium, through whole rows of tombs, every one of which are said to have been plundered by the omnivorous Cesnola. In front of us rose a steep hill upon whose face could be seen more tombs or rock chapels. Up this mount we climbed and at the summit came to the ancient city. As usual it was nothing but a tumbled heap of stones, but here the anemones grew by thousands among them and made the place most beautiful. Presently we found ourselves on the site of a temple. The great columns prostrate and broken, the fragments of shattered frieze, and the bits of mosaic flooring revealed by tearing up the sod, all told the same unmistakable story of fallen greatness and a magnificence that time, man, and earthquake have combined to desolate. A little further on we reached a spot where the ground is literally strewn with fragments of broken statues, some of them almost life-size, but the greater number small. I picked up the lower parts of two of these stone statues and put them into my—or rather the zaptieh's pocket. As I anticipated, they make excellent letter-weights. What a falling off is here! The effigies of the gods of old—the feet that were bedewed with tears of amorous maidens and of young men anxious to succeed in piratical expeditions, serving as the humble necessary letter-weight! Well, perhaps it is more honourable than to be broken up to fill the shovel of a Cyprian roadmaker.

By this spot is a well or pit which is said to be quite full of these broken statues. Probably they were thrown here on some occasion when the temple was sacked. Picking our path on horseback through the countless stones for two-thirds of a mile or so, we came to another and a larger temple. This was the great fane dedicated to Apollo Hylatus. A wonderful place it must have been when it stood here in its glory, peopled by its attendant priests and the crowd of worshippers flocking to its courts with gifts. The situation on that bold highland brow is superb and must be most splendid of all at dawn when the first level rays of the sunrise sweep its expanse. Doubtless the ancients placed the temple of their sun-god here that it might catch his arrows while darkness yet veiled the crowded town below, the wide, fertile plain which we call Episcopi, and the fields about the Norman tower of Colossi—compared to these old columns but a mushroom of yesternight.

It is not possible, at any rate to the uninstructed traveller with scant time at his disposal, to follow the exact configuration of this temple of Apollo and its courts, nor indeed if he knew them, would these details be of any great assistance to the imagination. Everywhere are tumbled stones, shattered pillars, some of them elegantly wreathed, overthrown altars and cavernous holes, in the depths of which underground cisterns and passages become visible. In short the cult of the worship of Apollo and his brother and sister divinities—always excepting that of Venus who is immortal—is not more ruined, neglected, and forlorn than this unvisited place, once its splendid sanctuary. Apollo was a joyous god, but evidently he had his stern side. At any rate not far away a headland runs out into the sea, and from its precipitous bluff those who had offended against his majesty—or had differences of opinion with his priests—were hurled to expiate their crimes by a terrifying death. At least so says tradition.

Leaving the temple of the lost Apollo our animals scrambled on through the stones till at last these ceased and we came to a stretch of bush-clad country. This is now one of the Government reserves kept thus to enable the timber of which the Turks denuded the island to spring up again safe from the ravages of man and beast. In such reserves goats are not allowed to graze, for of all animals these do the most damage to young timber, which they gnaw persistently until it perishes. It is not too much to say that where there are many goats no forest can arise. Cyprus in bygone ages was a densely wooded land. Strabo, writing in the first year of the Christian era, says of it:—

"Such then is Cyprus in point of position. But in excellence it falls behind no one of the islands, for it is rich in wine and oil and uses home-grown wheat. There are mines of copper in plenty at Tamassos, in which are produced sulphate of copper and copper-rust, useful in the healing art. Eratosthenes talks of the plains as being formerly full of wood run to riot, choked in fact with undergrowth and uncultivated. The mines were here of some little service, the trees being cut down for the melting of copper and silver; and of further help was ship-building, when men sailed over the sea without fear and with large fleets. But when even so they were not got under, leave was given to those who would and could cut them down to keep the land they had cleared in full possession and free of taxes."

Alas! far different is the case to-day. The Turks suffered the timber to be destroyed in all save the most inaccessible places, and the wasteful habits of the peasants who, if allowed, will cut up a whole tree to make a single sheep-trough, completed the ruin. So it came about that at last the land which used to supply Egypt with all the wood necessary to build her fleets was almost denuded save on the mountain peaks of Trooidos, with the result that the rainfall lessened alarmingly. Since its advent, the British Government has done its best to remedy this state of affairs. As it has no money to spend in planting it has adopted another and perhaps on the whole a more effective method. Although the trees have vanished in Cyprus, by the wonderful preservative agency of nature their seeds remain in the soil, and if goats can be kept off the hills where forests stood, forests will again arise. Thus, although to speak of it anticipates my story a little, it was with a most real pleasure that in travelling from Nicosia to Cyrenia I saw the tops of great mountains which fourteen years ago I remembered naked as a plate, covered to-day with a thick growth of young firs that must now be fifteen or twenty feet in height. A generation hence and those mountain tops will once more bear a splendid forest. Care, however, is required which I do not think is always exercised. The new-formed forest should be thinned, as the wise woodman knows how to do, and the peasants allowed the use of the thinnings. This would prevent their destroying the trees by secretly firing the country, either from irritation and spite, or to get the benefit of the young grass which springs up afterwards.

In this particular reserve near Curium of which I speak, however, to my surprise I saw a flock of sheep and goats in the charge of a herd. On asking how this came about, Mr. Michell, the commissioner for the Limasol district, who kindly accompanied us and gave us the advantage of his knowledge and experience, told me that the owners of these animals claim ancient rights of which they cannot be dispossessed. These rights endure until the man dies, or sells his flock. They are however untransferable, nor may he add to the number of the animals which he grazes. Thus by degrees the matter mends itself.

In the midst of this bush-clad plain stands the ancient stadium of Curium, where according to tradition the old inhabitants of classic times celebrated their chariot races. In considering the place I was much puzzled by one detail. The course is about two hundred yards or six hundred feet long, but according to my rough pacings it never measured more than eighty-four feet at the end where the chariots must turn. I could not understand how three or four vehicles, harnessed with four horses abreast, could possibly manage to negotiate this awkward corner at full speed without more smashes than would tend to the success of the entertainment. On reflection I am convinced that chariot races were not run in this place. It has never, I think, been a hippodrome, but was intended solely for athletic games and foot-running. To this supposition its actual measurements give probability, as they tally very well with those which were common in old days.

This stadium is still singularly perfect; its walls being built of great blocks of stone which here and there, however, must have been shaken down by earthquakes, for nothing else could have disturbed masonry so solid. The visitor can see also where the spectators sat, and in the midst of that desolate scrub-covered plain it is curious to think of the shouting thousands gathered from Curium, Amathus, and perhaps Paphos, who in bygone generations hailed the victor in the games and hooted down the vanquished. Now the watching mountains above, the eternal sea beneath, and the stone-ringed area of their fierce contests remain—nothing more. All the rest is loneliness and silence. Dust they were, to dust they have returned, and only wondering memory broods about the place that knew them. These relics of a past which we can fashion forth but dimly, seem to come home with greater vividness to the mind when a traveller beholds them, as on this spot, in the heart of solitudes. Seen in the centre of cities that are still the busy haunts of men they do not impress us much.

So we turned back to Limasol, riding by another road along the headlands which overhang the ocean, and pausing, as I did now and again, to watch the wide-winged vultures sweep past us on their never-ending journeys. Very solemn they look hanging there upon outstretched pinions between the sky and sea, as they hung when the first Phoenician galley rowed to the Cyprian shores, as they will hang till the last human atom has ceased to breathe among its immemorial plains and mountains.

X. LIMASOL TO ACHERITOU

Hope, almost eclipsed off the Italian shores, rose again like a star at Limasol, for thither came post-cards from the Brindisi Cook saying that our lost luggage had actually been discovered and despatched to the care of the Alexandria Cook, who would forward it at once. Indeed it was time, for one feels, however generous-hearted may be the lender, that it is possible to wear out a welcome to a borrowed dress-suit. The Flora came in; we rushed to meet her, but nobody on board had even heard about our luggage. Then followed expensive cables and in due course a fateful answer from the deluded Alexandria Cook: "Cyprus quarantine restrictions forbid shipment."

I confess that at this point I nearly gave way, but recovering, commenced the study of the maritime regulations of Cyprus, to be rewarded by discovering that the importation of "rags and worn clothing was prohibited until further notice." The "worn clothing" referred to, I may explain, are the cast-off garments that have clad the pilgrims to Mecca, or the donkey boys of Cairo. Applied in any other sense no traveller or inhabitant could appear in a presentable condition on the island, since that which they carry on their backs would be "worn clothing." Yet, such is the inexorable stupidity of officials in the East, thus was the clause—none too clearly drafted, I admit—rendered by I know not whom in Alexandria.

Then followed more telegrams, letters of mingled threat and entreaty, and so forth, till many days afterwards at length the luggage reappeared and with it a very pretty bill. The matter seems small, even laughable when written down in after-days, but at the time it was troublesome enough, especially as the remote places of the earth are just where a visitor must dress most carefully.

On the termination of our stay at Limasol, our plan was to go by sea to Paphos, forty miles away, where our mules would meet us, thence to ride to Lymni where an enterprising English syndicate is attempting to reopen the old Phoenician copper mine, and lastly by Pyrga and Lefka to the capital, Nicosia; in all about five days' hard travelling, for the most part over mountains.

As the time of departure drew near, mighty and exhausting were the preparations. Packing is always a task as laborious to the mind as to the body. But when it means thinking out what is to go on the mules, what to go to Nicosia, what to the final port of departure, what to be thrown away as too cumbersome to carry, and what must be kept with the traveller at all hazards in the very probable event of these various parcels and belongings vanishing away to be seen no more, then positive genius and genius of a peculiar sort is required to deal with the emergencies of the situation. However at last Cabbages, that is the muleteer, departed with his animals on which were laden camp-beds, kettles, pounds of tea, candles, and I know not what besides, with instructions to await our arrival at Paphos. The day passed on and it was announced that the Flora was once more in sight.

We went to the office and it was suggested that I should take the tickets. Now Paphos is a harbour where the voyager can only land in fine weather, whence, too, if it be not fine he is carried on to Egypt, where he must wait until the unwearying Flora again begins her weekly round. As it happens, in the course of my life I have had some experience of remote places where one cannot land or embark. Indeed a mishap which once I met with at one of these in a far country entailed upon me a considerable risk of being drowned, a large expenditure of cash, some anxiety of mind, and a five days' journey in a railway train. But although it is rather interesting, I will not tell the tale in these pages.

"I suppose," I said to the agent, "that we shall be able to land at Paphos?"

"Oh! I think so," he replied casually, whereon I intimated that I would wait to take the tickets till the boat came in.

In time one learns to put a very exact value on the "I think so" of a shipping agent. In this instance it assured me that there was not a chance of our visiting the temple of Venus on the morrow.

The Flora came in and with her my friend, Mr. Charles Christian, who was kindly going to conduct us upon our tour.

"Shall we be able to land at Paphos?" I shouted.

He shook his head. "All the agents say we can," he said, "but the captain and the boatmen say we can't."

Then resignedly I suggested that we had better give it up, since I could not face the risk of making an involuntary trip back to Egypt. Mr. Christian agreed and it was given up, though with great regret, a message being despatched to Cabbages to travel with his mules to Nicosia.

It was a true disappointment to me thus on my second visit to the island, as on my first, to be prevented from visiting the very home of Aphrodite, the place that the goddess chose to set her foot when she rose from the foam of the sea. Not that there is, as I understand, much more to be seen at either Old or New Paphos—Paleopaphos and Neopaphos; they are six or eight miles apart—than among the ruins of other ancient cities in the island. Still I wished to look upon the place where St. Paul once reasoned with Sergius Paulus, the Deputy. What a spectacle even for those ancient shores of Chittim that have witnessed so many things—the mighty Apostle before the gates of the wanton shrine of Venus, thundering denunciations at the wizard Elymas and smiting him to darkness with the sword of the wrath of God! I desired to have stood upon that road which, as Strabo tells us, "was crowded year by year with men and women votaries who journeyed to this more ancient shrine" from all the towns of Cyprus, and indeed from every city of the known world. I desired also to have seen the tumbled wrecks of the temple, that "sacred enclosure" which Perrot and Chipiez recreate so vividly and well that, as I cannot better them, I will quote their words, where

"everything spoke to the senses; the air was full of perfume, of soft and caressing sounds, the murmur of falling water, the song of the nightingale, and the voluptuous cooing of the dove mingled with the rippling notes of the flute, the instrument which sounded the call to pleasure or led the bride and bridegroom to to the wedding feast. Under tents or light shelters built of branches skilfully interlaced, dwelt the slaves of the goddess, those who were called by Pindarus in the scoliast composed for Theoxenius of Corinth, the servants of the persuasion. These are Greek or Syrian girls, covered with jewels and dressed in rich stuffs with bright-coloured fringes. Their black and glossy tresses were twisted up in mitras, or scarves of brilliant colour, with

natural flowers such as pinks, roses, and pomegranate blossoms hung over their foreheads. Their eyes glittered under the arch of wide eyebrows made still wider by art; the freshness of their lips and cheeks was highlighted by carmine; necklaces of gold, amber and glass hung between their swelling breasts; with the pigeon, the emblem of fertility, in one hand, and a flower or myrtle-branch in the other, these women sat and waited."

But Aphrodite was against me who serve Thoth, a foreign Egyptian god with whom she had naught in common, and doubtless did not admire, since—except in Ladies' Colleges—learning does not consort with loveliness. So her shrine remains and will remain unvisited by me. I regretted also not being able to examine the copper-workings of the ancients at Lymni with the vast pit whence the ore was dug, the mountains of slag that lie around, and the tunnel hundreds of yards long which the genius and perseverance of the men of our generation have burrowed through the solid rock with a lake of water above their heads, in search of the lode which is waiting somewhere to make the fortune of those who find it.[5] Last of all and most of all perhaps, was I sorry not to see the beautiful stretch of mountain country which lies in this part of the island.

Yet it is well that we did not attempt the adventure travelling overland, as for a while we contemplated, for immediately thereafter it came on to rain and rained for days. Now a journey on muleback over the roadless Cyprian hills in rain is not a thing to be lightly undertaken. The paths are slippery and in places dangerous, but worst of all is the continual wet which, wrap himself as he will in macintoshes, soaks baggage and traveller. If he could dry himself and his belongings at the end of the day, this would matter little, but here comes the trouble. The fire made of wild thyme or what not that suffices to cook his food in a police-station or a tent, will not draw the moisture from his clothes or blankets. So he must sleep wet, and unless the sun shines, which in these seasons it often does not do for days together, start on wet next morning. In any country this is risky, in Cyprus it is dangerous, for here, as all residents in the land know, a soaking and a subsequent chill probably breed fever.

I may add that certain passengers, pooh-poohing doubts, went on by the Flora to Paphos, to find themselves in due course in Egypt, whence they returned ten days or so later. One gentlemen, Mr. Mavrogordato indeed, did succeed in landing, but from another steamer. When the Paphos boatmen learned by signal or otherwise that he was on board this ship, which as I understand, having cargo to discharge, rolled off the port for days, they clad themselves in lifebelts and made an effort, with the result that ultimately he was landed, also in a lifebelt and little else. The journey, I gather, was risky, but there comes a time when most of us would rather take the chance of being drowned than after a prolonged, involuntary tour return miserable and humiliated to the place of starting.

At length came the eve of our departure from Limasol, not for Paphos, but for Famagusta viâ Larnaca and Acheritou. In the afternoon we went for a walk and gathered many wild flowers, and as the sun set I betook myself to stroll upon the jetty. It was a calm evening and the solemn hush which pervaded the golden sky and the sea, still heaving with recent storm, made the place lovely. Some brutal boys were trying to drown a cat, but to my delight the poor creature escaped them and scrambled along the rough planks to the shore. They followed it into the town, and I was left alone there listening to the water lapping against the piers and watching an old fisherman in a fez sitting still as a statue, his line between his fingers. He did not seem to belong to the nineteenth century. He might have lived, and doubtless in the persons of his progenitors did live, one or two or three or four thousand years ago. I smoked my cigarette and contemplated him, half expecting that presently he would draw out a brass bottle, as was the fortune of fishermen in the "Arabian Nights," and thence unlock a Jinn. But the brass bottle would not bite, nor the fish either. Somehow it reminded me of another scene—a little pier that runs out into the icy waters of the North Sea at Reykiavik, whence on such an eve as this I remember seeing a boy angling for the flat fish that lie in the yellow sands. Only here in Cyprus were no eider-duck, and there in Iceland rose no minarets or palms.

I do not suppose that I shall see Limasol again, but thus while memory remains I wish ever to recall it, with its twilight stillness, its illimitable darkling ocean, its quaint eastern streets and buildings, and over all of them and the mountains beyond a glorious golden pall of sunset.

On a certain Sunday—everybody seems to travel upon the Sabbath in Cyprus—the three of us, my nephew, Mr. Christian, and myself, started in a rattle-trap carriage dragged by four scaffoldings of ponies, one of which was dead lame, for Larnaca, about forty-five miles away. There were many agitations about this departure. First of all arrived a sulky-looking Greek, who declared that the carriage could not take the luggage and refused to allow it to be loaded. This was rather gratuitous on his part, as it seems that he had no interest in the conveyance, except some possible unearned commission. Then it was doubtful whether the dead-lame horse could go at all; but after a nail had been extracted from his bleeding frog he was pronounced to be not only fit, but eager for the journey. At this season of the year it is customary in Cyprus to turn the horses and mules on to green barley for three weeks, whence they arrive fat and well-seeming. This is why all draught animals were then so hard to hire.

At length with many farewells we creaked off through the narrow streets and difficult turnings of Limasol, to find ourselves presently in the open country. Here among the springing corn I saw white thorns in bloom, though I think that their species differs slightly from our own; also many carob-trees, some of them in the warmer situations now beginning to form their pods.

Trees, by the way, do not as a rule belong to the owner of the soil. If you buy a piece of land in Cyprus, it will be to find that the timber on it is the lawful possession of somebody else, with all rights and easements thereto pertaining. These must be purchased separately, a fact that makes the possession of property under the prevailing Turkish law a somewhat complicated and vexatious affair.

I noticed that at the extremity of the boughs many of these carobs, especially in the case of old specimens, were disfigured by bunches of red and rusty leaves. On inquiring the reason Mr. Christian informed me that the harm is due to the ravages of rats which live in the hollow boles and gnaw the juicy bark of the young shoots. Sometimes they destroy the entire tree, but the Cypriotes are too idle to kill them out. They prefer to lose their crop. The goats too damage everything that they can reach, and show extraordinary ingenuity in their efforts to secure the food they love. Thus with my own eyes I saw a couple of these intelligent animals reared up upon their hind-legs, their fore-feet propped together in mid-air for mutual support, their bearded heads outstretched to pluck the succulent shoots above. The group thus formed would have furnished an admirable subject for a sculptor, but I have never seen it represented in any work of art, ancient or modern. Perhaps it is too difficult for easy treatment, or it may be of rare occurrence. One of the methods by which Cyprian peasants avenge injuries upon each other, is to attempt to destroy the olive-trees of an offending neighbour by cutting the bark with knives. Some of the olives which we passed upon this journey were disfigured with curious wart-like growths upon their ancient boles, which Mr. Christian informed me, as he believed, had been produced by such acts of petty malice practised perhaps hundreds of years ago. In these instances of course the trees had ultimately recovered.

The country through which we passed was on the whole very desolate. Although a good deal of the land seemed to be under cultivation of a kind, we saw few villages. These, I suppose, lay hidden behind the hills, but in truth the population is scant. Different indeed must it have been in the days of the Roman occupation. Then there were enough people in Cyprus to enable the Jews who had settled there to put two hundred and forty thousand to the sword in the course of a single revolt, that is, a hundred thousand more than the present population of the island.

After we had driven for nearly five hours and beguiled the tedium of the road by lunching in the carriage, we came to a half-way house or hovel, called Chiro-Kitia, i.e. Kitia of the Pigs. Although it looked somewhat dreary in the rain which fell from time to time, it was a prettily situated place, hill-surrounded, fronting a bold brown mountain which lay between it and the sea, and standing over a green and fertile bottom with olive-gardens and fig-trees through which a torrent brawled. The inn itself, if such it can be called, had a little verandah, reached by external steps, half ladder and half staircase. From this verandah we entered the guest-room, which was whitewashed and scribbled over with writings in English, Turkish, Greek, and French; with drawings also whereby long-departed travellers had solaced the weary hours of their stay. This room was stone-paved and furnished with a table, a bench, a bed, and some rush-bottomed chairs. Here the mistress of the rest-house, the mother of several pretty little girls, who were standing about in the mud ragged and bootless, presently arrived with refreshments, a sort of cream cheese that is eaten with sugar, and tiny cups of sweet Turkish coffee accompanied by glasses of water with which to wash it down.

Mr. Christian asked me how old I thought this good woman might be. I replied nearly sixty, and indeed she looked it. He said that she was about twenty-six, and that he remembered her not many years ago as a pretty girl. Since that time, however, she had presented the world with an infant regularly once a year, and her present weary, worn-out aspect was the result.

"You shouldn't have so many children," said Mr. Christian to her in Greek.

"God sends them," she answered with a sad little smile.

This poor woman, with another of her familiar troubles close at hand, was in the unhappy position of being separated from her husband, now doing "time" under the care of Mr. Mavrogordato. She told us that he had come into this misfortune on the false evidence of the keeper of a rival rest-house some few hundred yards away; the only other dwelling in the place, indeed. As to our house and the owner there was a sad, and if true, a cruel tale of how its host, he of the jail, seeking to better his fortunes had put up a mill upon a piece of land at the back of the dwelling; how the rival had waited until the mill was erected and then claimed the land, and various other oppressions and distresses which resulted in assaults, false evidence, and for one of them, a term of retirement. Mr. Christian told me that the story was accurate in the main, and added that out of such quarrels as these come most of the frequent Cyprian murders. It is quite likely that the injured man will emerge from jail only to lie up behind a wall with a loaded gun, thence in due course to return to the care of Mr. Mavrogordato steeped in the shadow of a graver charge.

The scene from the verandah, at least while it rained, was not much more cheerful than the story of our hostess. To the right lay a little patch of garden with nothing particular growing in it, surrounded by an untidy fence of dead thorns. Behind this were filthy sheds and stables, in one of which kneeled half-a-dozen angry-looking camels, great brown heaps, with legs doubled under them, showing their ugly hock-joints. The saddles were on their backs but the loads lay beside them, and resting against these reposed their drivers, smoking; motley-garbed men with coloured head-dresses, half-cap, half-turban, who stared at the wretched weather in silence. In front of the house a pair of geese were waddling in the mud, while a half-starved cat crouched against the wall and mewed incessantly. Presently we had a little welcome excitement, for along the road came a Turk mounted on a donkey. He was followed by three wives also mounted on donkeys, one or two of them bearing infants, and shrouded head to foot from the vulgar gaze of the infidel, in yashmaks and white robes that in such chilly weather must be somewhat cheerless wear. They passed chattering and arguing, their poor beasts piled up behind the saddles with what looked like, and I believe were, feather-beds, for whatever else these people leave behind, they like to take their mattresses. Then the prospect was empty again save for the groaning camels, the geese, the thin cat, and the pretty little ragged girls who stood about and stared at nothing.

Wearying of these delights after an hour and a half or so, as the rain had stopped at length, I went for a walk along the edge of the stream which looked as though trout would flourish there, did it not dry up in summer. Here, growing among the grasses I found several beautiful flowers, ranunculi, anemones, and others that were strange to me. Also I noted our English friends, chaffinches and sparrows, looking exactly as they do at home, only somewhat paler, as is the case with almost every other bird I saw. I suppose that the hot sun bleaches them. One sparrow that I saw flying about was pure white, and the larks of which there are two varieties, crested and common, are almost dust-coloured. By the way these larks never soar like their English cousins.

At length the poor screws being rested, or a little less tired, we resumed our journey travelling for some distance through hills. What a pity it is that it does not please the War Office to make Cyprus a half-way house for troops on their road to India, where they might grow accustomed to a warm climate without running any particular risk to health. Also there would be other advantages. The great lesson of the present war in Africa is the value of mounted infantry who can shoot, think for themselves, and ride over rough country. What a training-ground Cyprus would afford to such troops as these. There are horses and perhaps the best mules in the world in plenty; the country is wild and mountainous, and nothing would be hurt in manoeuvring men. Moreover every conceivable physical difficulty can be found here and dealt with for practice as occasion may require. There is heat, there is cold, there are droughts and rains, flooded torrents to be bridged and precipices to be climbed; forests to take cover in and plains to scout over; besides many more advantages such as would appeal to a commander anxious to educate his army to the art of war in rough countries.

Why then does not the Government always keep a garrison of say five or ten thousand mounted men manoeuvring through the length and breadth of Cyprus? This would assist the island and produce a force that ought to be absolutely invaluable in time of war. Also, the place being so cheap, the cost would be moderate. I give the suggestion for what it is worth.

It was past nine at night when at last we crawled into Larnaca, the journey having taken three hours longer than it should have done owing to the weakness of our miserable horses. Next morning we started for Acheritou near to Famagusta, where we were to be the guests of Messrs. Christian, who are now completing their contract for the great drainage works and reservoirs which have been undertaken by the Government of Cyprus with money advanced by the British Treasury. Of these I shall have something to say in their place.

Leaving Larnaca in a high wind, for the first few miles we passed through a very grey and desolate part of the island, having the sea on our right and flat swampy lands upon our left. Striking inland we halted for a few minutes to look at a curious stone tower of the Lusignan period, in appearance not unlike a small Colossi, which raises its frowning walls among the dirty mud dwellings of a dilapidated, poverty-stricken, Turkish village. There is nothing remarkable about the building which is now tenanted only by goats and pigeons, except its age. Doubtless it was once the stronghold of some petty noble, built for refuge in times of danger. Afterwards we came to a place, Pergamos, where stood some deserted-looking huts, out of one of which ran a large rough-haired dog.

"That dog is all that is left of the Dukobortzi," was Mr. Christian's cryptic remark.

I inquired who or what the Dukobortzi might be and learned that they are a sect of vegetarian Quakers from the Caucasus distinguished from their countrymen, and indeed the rest of mankind, by various peculiarities. Thus they have no marriage ceremony, all their earnings go into a common fund, and whole families of them sleep in a single room. One of the chief articles of their faith, however, is a horror of killing. This it was that brought them into conflict with the Russian Government, who persecuted them mercilessly because, being men of peace, they refused to serve in the army. In the end the English Society of Friends exported them, settling two thousand or so in Cyprus and another three thousand in Canada. A place less suited to this purpose than Pergamos could scarcely be found in the whole island. To begin with the Dukobortzi are vegetarians, and the land being here unirrigated will only grow vegetables for about half the year. Also the climate of the locality, which is very hot, was not at all congenial to emigrants from the Caucasus with a perfect passion for overcrowding at night. So the poor people sickened rapidly and a considerable number died. Some of them went to labour at the irrigation works, but were quite unable to bear the sun. Then they tried working at night and resting during the heat, but still it did not agree with them. In the end they were helped to join their co-religionists in Canada, and now all that remains of them is the rough-haired Russian dog, which must feel very lonely. They were it seems in most respects an estimable people, gentle and kindly, but clearly this was no Promised Land for them.

Cyprus seems to be a favourite dumping-ground for philanthropists who wish to better communities that cannot flourish elsewhere. I remember that when I was last in the island some well-intentioned persons had forwarded thither a motley assortment of Whitechapel Jews, who were expected to turn their old hats into shovels and become raisers of agricultural produce upon lands that had been provided for the purpose. Needless to say they entirely refused to cultivate the said lands. The unfortunate Commissioner of the district had been placed in charge of them and never shall I forget his tale of woe. He furnished them with implements, but they would not plough; with seeds, but they declined to sow. As the charitable society in England was endowing them with sixpence a head per diem, and food is cheap in Cyprus, things went on thus until the fund dried up. Then the Commissioner descended full of wrath and interviewed the head of the settlement, who met him, as he told me, clad in a tall black hat and adorned with lavender kid gloves. Much argument followed, till at last the exasperated Commissioner exclaimed—

"Well, you must either work or starve. Will you work?"

The kid-gloved representative shook his head and murmured, "No."

"Will you starve?" asked the Commissioner.

Again the answer was a gentle but decided "No."

"Then what the devil will you do?" shouted the enraged official.

"We will telegraph to the Lord Mayor of London," replied the representative suavely. "In fact, sir, we have already telegraphed."

The end of the matter was that the members of the community dispersed to the coasts of Syria, where, when last heard of, they were understood to be doing well in more congenial lines. The Whitechapel Jew has no agricultural leanings. He prefers to till some richer field.

Leaving Pergamos we crossed an enormous stony plain that is named after it. This tract of country, there is no doubt, would grow certain classes of timber very well, and within twenty years of its planting, produce a large revenue. Unfortunately, however, the Government has no money to devote to the experiment, and private capital is wanting.

Next we came to the pretty village of Kouklia and passed the recently finished dam enclosing an area of two square miles, now for the first time filling up with water. Then we began to travel round the great basin of the Acheritou reservoir, which when finished is to include forty square miles, most of which will be under water during the winter season. It is destined to irrigate the lower part of the Messaoria plain, which comprises league upon league of some of the most fertile soil in the world. On our way we came to a stony pass in the neck of two small hills, where I noticed that every rock was scored with rude crosses. It appears that some years ago frequent complaints were received by the ecclesiastical authorities to the effect that this place was badly and persistently haunted, the ghosts being of a violent and aggressive order, given to sallying forth at night with uncanny shouts and leapings, to the great disturbance of peaceable travellers on the highway. Feeling that this thing must be dealt with, every available priest and bishop assembled, and cursed and exorcised those ghosts by all lawful and efficient means; stamping them morally flat and abolishing them so that from that day to this not one of them has been heard or seen. To make their triumph sure and lasting the holy men cut and painted these crosses upon the rock, with the result that no real "troll" of dubious origin can now stop there for a moment.

At length we saw the house that the Messrs. Christian have built to live in while the works are in progress. It is splendidly placed upon a bluff overlooking the great plain, and from a distance, I know not why, has the appearance of a small ruined temple. Very glad were we to reach it about three o'clock in the afternoon, and partake of a lamb roasted whole in the Cyprian fashion, with other luxuries.

Just below this house start the six miles of massive dam that runs across the plain to form the retaining wall of the vast body of water which is to be held up. As yet this water is allowed to escape, but next winter, when the dam is completed, it will be saved and let out for purposes of irrigation. There is nothing new in the world. In the course of the building of the dam were discovered the remains of one more ancient, also running across the plain, but enclosing a smaller area; indeed its sluice is to be pressed into the service of the present generation. I examined it, and came to the conclusion that the masonry is of the Roman period. Mr. J. H. Medlicott of the Indian Irrigation Department, the very able engineer who has designed these great works and carried them out so successfully, is however of opinion that it is Venetian. Probably he is right. This at least is clear, that people in days long dead could plan and execute such enterprises as well as we do to-day. Roman or Venetian, the stone-work is admirably laid and bound together with some of the hardest and best cement that ever I saw.

The Messrs. Christian, who have contracted to complete this undertaking, employ about three thousand men and women, mostly on a system of piece-work. In the evening I walked along the great dam and saw them labouring like ants there and in the trenches which are to distribute the water. They were then engaged in facing the dam with stone which is fitted together but not mortared, carrying up great blocks upon their backs and laying them in place under the direction of overseers. At first the provision of this facing stone was difficult and expensive, as the stuff had to be carted six or seven miles; indeed its cost threatened to swallow up most of the contractors' profits. Then it was, that within half a mile of the place where the material was needed, very luckily Mr. Charles Christian in the course of an evening walk discovered an outcrop of excellent stone, soft to work but with the property of hardening in water. The cutters get it out by a simple but effective system, no doubt that which has been followed by their ancestors for thousands of years. A skilled man can loosen a great number of suitable blocks in a day, apparently with ease. When I tried it, however, I found the task somewhat beyond me.

From the strong resemblance of the material I believe that this was the very stone used by the builders of the ancient dam below the house. Doubtless they discovered the quarry as Mr. Christian did, although oddly enough the natives who had lived in the neighbourhood all their lives, declared that nothing of the sort existed for miles around. It was the old case of eyes and no eyes.

I said some pages back that living in Cyprus is cheap, and of this here I had an instance. The house put up by Messrs. Christian for their convenience while directing the works is spacious, two-storeyed, and capitally built of stone, with, if I remember right, a kind of mud roof laid upon rafters covered with split cane mats. Properly made and attended to, such roofs last for years. The whole cost of the building, which was quite large enough to accommodate with comfort seven or eight people and servants, was less than £300, including the large verandahs. In England it would cost at the very least a thousand, and probably a great deal more.

XI. FAMAGUSTA

That night a great gale blew roaring round the house as though we had been in Coll, or at Kessingland, instead of southern Cyprus. In the morning the wind had dropped but the sky was heavy with ominous-looking rain-clouds floating here and there in the blue deeps. After breakfast we mounted the ponies that had been provided for us, a blessed change from the familiar mule, and set out to explore the Messaoria plain and the Kouklia dam. This magnificent plain, which varies in breadth from ten to twenty miles, runs practically the whole length of the body of the island from Famagusta on the east to Morphu on the west, that is, a distance of about fifty-five miles. Once it was a dense forest, now it is open level country cultivated here and there, but for the most part barren. On either side of it, north and south, stretch the two ranges of Cyprian mountains, that of Kyrenia and that of Trooidos, and it is the decomposed, basic-igneous rock brought down from these mountains in the winter-floods by the river Pidias and other torrents that form the soil of the plain.

What a soil it is! Deep brown in colour, of an unknown thickness—it has been proved to fifty feet—and I suppose as rich and productive as any in the world. Hitherto, or at any rate since the Venetian days, two natural accidents however have made it comparatively valueless, that of drought and that of flooding. The greater part of this end of the plain which I am now describing, for instance, has been a swamp in winter and an arid wilderness in summer. It is to remedy this state of things that the irrigation dams have been constructed, to hold up the waters in winter and pour their life-giving streams forth again in summer.

In the future all of this vast area of land, or thousands of acres of it that will fall under their influence, ought to produce the most enormous crops. On this point I see only one fear; upon the top surface of the soil, and in places going a foot or two into it, are little veins of white salty substance, deposited, I suppose, from the floods. These may make the surface earth sour and, until they are evaporated, affect the health of crops. I know that the same thing happens in Coll in the Hebrides, where new-drained lands have to be treated, I think with lime, in order to sweeten them. It is my belief that here, however, one or two deep ploughings and the exposure of the earth to the scorching heat of a Cyprian summer would do this work effectively. I have suggested to Mr. Christian that he should cut out a block, or blocks of soil to the depth of three feet, enclose them as they stand in boxes with the natural vegetation growing on the top, and ship them to me. This he has promised to do, and I shall then submit them for analysis to the chemists of the Royal Agricultural Society, to which I belong, who will doubtless be able to advise as to the nature and power of the salts, and to say what method should be adopted to be rid of them.

Now when flooding is prevented and water will be available for irrigation, it seems to me that upon the Messaoria, if anywhere on the earth, farming ought to pay. I can imagine no more interesting and, as I believe, profitable experiment, than to take up let us say five thousand acres of this area upon easy terms such as no doubt the Government would grant, paying its price for example by a certain tithe of the profit of the produce terminable in a certain number of years. This land might then be farmed by the process, simple, where labour is so cheap, of making raised roadways to divide it into blocks with an irrigation ditch at the foot of each, along which roadways a pair of steam ploughs could travel, cultivating the expanse between.

Consider the advantages. An inexhaustible soil which the silt from the irrigation water would go far towards manuring, if indeed, with an occasional fallow, other manure is necessary. Fields that can, whenever needful, be absolutely cleansed of weeds and rubbish by ploughing and laying them dry for a few months in the fierce summer sun which kills every root and seed. A great variety of possible crops from cotton down, whereof very often two could be taken in succession in a single season. For instance wheat or barley to be harvested about May, followed by maize to be harvested in autumn. A port, Famagusta, within seven or eight miles, and a splendid market for most products at Port Said, and for the barley in England, where it is much in request among brewers on account of its saccharine and golden brightness. A district where the ordinary cattle and horse sicknesses seem to be unknown except for anthrax, which can be avoided with common care; where, moreover, oxen and sheep fatten marvellously upon grasses, lucerne, and the carob beans of the country, and meet with a ready sale at good prices in Egypt. Such are some of the most obvious merits of this neglected plain; added to which must be the ample supply of very inexpensive and fairly intelligent labour.

Of course there are drawbacks also, or the place would be a paradise. To begin with it is very hot in summer, when Europeans must be careful about exposing themselves to the sun, although this heat is generally tempered by the wind blowing up from the sea which is near at hand. Next the Messaoria plain has a reputation for fever. Personally I believe this to be exaggerated, as is shown by the fact that among the three thousand men, women, and children employed by the Messrs. Christian, the number of casualties from sickness has been very small indeed, and this although they frequently sleep in the trenches of newly-turned earth at all seasons of the year. The doctor, an Armenian, who from his appearance and speech I took to be a Scotchman, and a gentleman who seemed to understand his business very thoroughly, told me however that occasionally they had cases, resulting for the most part from the use of the swamp water, of a horrible and sometimes fatal ailment which he called "marbled" fever. This sickness is, I believe, known by the same name in parts of Central and South America. Sufferers from it feel icy cold with an exterior temperature that sinks a good deal below normal, whereas the interior temperature is 105° or 106°. The symptoms are those of congestion, I think of the blood-vessels, and indeed congestion is found on necropsy. Also there are other fevers, but the doctor said that they were not common and that the general health was good.

For a long while before their house was built the Messrs. Christian, Mr. Medlicott, and their various English assistants lived as best they could in native huts or tents. Yet I think I am right in saying that during the two years or so while the works have been in progress, none of them have suffered from serious illness, although the nature of their occupation prevented them from refuging from the summer heat for the accustomed three months on Trooidos. This fact speaks for itself, and on the whole I incline to the belief that with ordinary care and precautions, healthy residences and pure water—boiled for preference—adult Europeans of temperate habits would have little to fear from the climate of the Messaoria plain. There is, however, a danger I have mentioned before which cannot always be avoided, that of a soaking followed by a chill, producing fever. This must be risked. After all it is not uncommon in hot countries.

Another drawback is that to prove successful such farming must be under absolutely honest and intelligent supervision. The casual company manager despatched from England would in eight cases out of ten bring it to financial grief. The farmer should live on the spot, giving his own constant care to every operation. Otherwise those interested in the venture would be certain to hear from time to time that this or that crop had failed. What they would not hear is that the overseer had neglected to irrigate the cotton, or whatever the crop might be, and thus destroyed the prospects for the year, because he was away on a holiday at Nicosia, or perchance had taken a trip to Egypt, leaving a native in charge. But this necessity for the eye of the owner or faithful steward holds good of every business in all parts of the world. "The farmer's foot is the best manure" runs the old agricultural saw.

To sum the matter up, although, being a farmer and understanding something of the question, I should like to dwell upon it at greater length, I can only say that if I were a young man, owning, or with the command of £10,000 capital, nothing would please me better than to make such an experiment upon the irrigable portion of the Messaoria, near to the Kouklia dam for choice. I believe that, given health and strength, I should return thence in fifteen years or so with no need to farm anything except the fortune I had acquired.

Indeed it is sad to see so much wealth, agricultural and other, lying ungarnered in Cyprus while millions of pounds of English capital, as many of us know to our cost, are squandered in specious, wild-cat schemes at the very ends of the earth. Were the island in the heart of West Africa or China, for instance, companies would be formed to exploit it, and in due course lose their money and the lives of their managers. But as it is only a British possession close at hand nobody will trouble.

The great cry of Cyprus is for capital. Whatever may be the fate of the present copper-mining venture at Lymni, there is no doubt that with enough money the old lode could be discovered. The same thing applies to the other copper areas: the ancients could not mine deep, the metal must be there, and, now as of old, to the value of sums uncountable; yet nobody will even put down a bore-hole to look for the deposits. In conversation I ventured to suggest to the Governor, Sir William Haynes-Smith, that the Government should do this on their own account, since if once they proved the mines they could make handsome terms with the companies which would come forward to work them. The answer was, "We have no money, the Turkish tribute takes all our money."

This is true. Every year the British taxpayer is informed that a grant of £30,000 has been made in aid of the revenues of Cyprus. He is not informed that never a penny of that £30,000 comes to Cyprus; that, on the contrary, Cyprus has a surplus of revenue over expenditure, even in its present starved condition, of more than £60,000 a year. This £60,000 is taken, nominally, towards paying the tribute of £93,800 per annum, promised to the Turk when we took over the island. The £30,000 annually granted by Parliament, ostensibly in aid of the revenues of Cyprus, goes to make up the balance which cannot be wrung from the island. But—and here is the point—that money is never seen at Constantinople. It stops in the British Treasury. In 1855, a loan of I forget how much, raised by Turkey, was jointly guaranteed by France and England. Needless to say, under these circumstances Turkey does not trouble to pay the bondholders their interest. Neither does France pay as a joint-guarantor, why I know not, but probably because we are afraid to ask her. So John Bull pays. What is more, he was tricked. The revenue received by the Porte from Cyprus was assessed at double its actual amount. Also he pays four per cent., whereas at the present rates of money, on the credit of the British Empire, the loan could easily be converted to one or two and a half or three per cent. If this were done, practically it would ease Cyprus of its tribute and make it a most prosperous colony. But to do it does not please the Treasury—probably it would involve a good deal of trouble. So year by year we hear of a grant of £30,000 in aid of the revenues of a possession which has an annual surplus of £60,000, that might with assistance and forethought, as I believe firmly, within a single generation be multiplied into a surplus of £600,000. Further, the Turkish tribute might be capitalised; indeed to do our Government justice, I believe that efforts, hitherto unsuccessful, have been made in that direction. But as yet nothing happens.

Another possible source of wealth in Cyprus, as I suggested with reference to the Pergamos plain, lies in the judicious planting of valuable timbers which, as the history of the island shows, would grow here like weeds upon land that is practically useless for other purposes. I must instance one more, that of the wine industry. That Cyprus produced excellent vintages in the past is proved by history—the Ptolemies all got tipsy on them, especially, if I remember right, Ptolemy Auletes, Ptolemy the Piper. To this day indeed, although it is so ill prepared, the wine is good. Mavro is a strong, black, rather rough wine, but I prefer the lighter, white variety which we drank at Limasol. Then there is the vintage called Commanderia, famous in the Crusading times and produced upon certain mountains only. This is of the Madeira class, nutty in flavour and very sweet, more of a liqueur than anything else. Indeed when the Madeira vines were killed out by disease, that island was replanted, I believe, from the Commanderia stock, the original vines, it was said, having come from Cyprus. At Kyrenia, our kind host, Mr. Tyzer, the judge, gave us some Commandera to drink which an old woman had brought round in a wine-skin—she only made a few gallons from a patch of vines—and sold to him at a price of about twopence a bottle. To my fancy it was a wonderful wine, but perhaps I am no judge of such matters. Other specimens which I tasted struck me as heady and cloying to the palate. This is certain, however, that if the cultivation was carried out upon a proper system, a vintage could be produced that now, as of old, would command a high price. Here again is room for enterprise and capital.

To return to our expedition. We rode for miles across the great plain with the beautiful peaks of the mountains showing in bold outline against the sky to our right. All the way we followed wide dykes in course of being delved out of the rich soil to carry the waters that are to be stored behind the dam. In these dykes hundreds of Cypriotes were at work, most of them Christians, but some, if I remember right, Turkish. Men and women labour together here by the piece. Thus one might see a man and his wife, his sons and daughters, engaged in scooping out their allotted task, which had been already carefully measured and pegged. They all seemed very good-humoured and much chaff went on between them and their employer, Mr. Charles Christian, because of the non-arrival of the water-cart upon which they rely for refreshment at their thirsty toil. They were dying of drought, they declared, and he would have to send to bury them, whereupon he replied that it was for the good of their health to make them thinner, and so forth.

At length following the endless dykes and observing many things by the way, such as the character of the grasses, we came to the completed Kouklia dam, a splendid work, on the further side of which the waters are now gathering for the first time. It is curious to see how soon the wild duck have found out this new and excellent home, where whole flocks of these beautiful birds now swim peacefully, keeping themselves, however, well out of gunshot. Thence we turned homeward across the wide dreary plain that as I hope within the next ten years will be rich with luxuriant crops. Indeed this undertaking has already so greatly advantaged the peasants that, as I hear since I left the island, after their simple fashion they put up prayers in the churches imploring that every blessing may fall upon the heads of Messrs. Charles and Percy Christian. They ought also to pray for Mr. Chamberlain, who might, on occasion, be glad of such spiritual assistance. Whatever may be said against that statesman, this at least is true; he is the best Colonial Minister that we have had for many a long year. A business man himself, he understands more or less, and to a certain extent can sympathise with, the needs and aspirations of the undeveloped countries in his charge. To him and no one else it is due that the spell of consistent neglect has been broken and the small sum of £60,000 necessary for the carrying out of these works has been advanced to Cyprus.

On our return we were overtaken by a heavy thunder rain and soaked. Unfortunately, although the house was quite close to us, we could not gallop home since the downpour made the clay soil so slippery that to do so would have been to risk a fall. Therefore we were obliged to walk our horses and get wet. As a change was at hand, however, in this instance the ducking did not matter.

Towards evening we started on a sporting expedition, so at last the gun that I rescued from the Customs with such trouble was of use. We had hoped for some woodcock-shooting among the scrub on the hillsides, but it was so late in the season that enough birds were not left to make it worth while to go after them. The duck remained, however, and to these we devoted our attention.

The place where we were to station ourselves was three or four miles away, a ridge of rock between two lakes over which the wild-fowl flight at sunset. I was asked if I would walk or ride, and gaily declared in favour of walking. Before I got back I was sorry for my choice. We waded through swamps, we scrambled along an ancient causeway built of blocks of stone, many of them missing, and over a slope of rough ground to the appointed ridge where we took up our posts, four of us, at a distance of about two hundred yards from each other. It was a lonely and beautiful spot, set in the bow of the hills like the section of an amphitheatre, its vast open circus lying behind us. In front, looking towards the sea and another lake whence the duck were to come, lay a desert plain covered with low scrub across which the fresh wind whistled. Above was a stormy heaven, splendid to look at but not favourable for fowl-shooting, since the heavy clouds blotted out the light. What is wanted on these occasions is a clear sky marked with light fleecy clouds, for against these it is easy to see the birds as they sweep towards the guns.

I took my place, sitting on one rock and laying my cartridges ready upon another over which my head projected, wrapping myself up also in a coat which I had brought with me, for now the air felt very damp and cold, especially after our arduous trudge. For a long while nothing happened and I was left in the midst of the intense silence to examine the drear scenery, the ancient rocks worn and hollowed by aeons of weather, and the flowers and grasses which grew about me. The sun set, the sky darkened and darkened, the black masses of clouds seemed to dominate the earth. At last I heard a sound of whistling wings and about a hundred yards to my right I saw a flight of duck, their long necks extended, shoot past me like arrows and vanish. Then came another flight sixty yards off, or more, at which I ventured a useless shot that echoed strangely along the stony ridge. Now the night fell rapidly like something tangible. One little lot of fowl passed in front of me within forty yards, and of these I managed to see and bag the last, which fell with a heavy thud fifty yards or more from where it had died in air. After this it was hopeless; the duck had been disturbed too late by the beaters sent to flush them in the pass towards the sea.

On they came in thousands and tens of thousands; the air was full of the rush of their wings, and the earth echoed with their different cries—the deep note of geese, the unearthly call of curlew, and the whistling pipe of teal. Sometimes they seemed to pass so close to me that they nearly struck my head, but against the black clouds nothing was visible except a brown line that vanished almost before it was seen. I fired wildly and once or twice heard the thud of a falling bird far behind, but these I never retrieved. As sport our expedition was a failure; moonlight and a clear sky were needed, both of which were absent. But in its wildness, in the sense of infinite, winged life rushing past us in the last view of that desolate country as the darkness embraced it, it was a perfect and unique experience. I am old enough to be no longer very anxious for a bag, therefore I enjoyed that evening's expedition with its one resulting widgeon, more than many a day's pheasant-shooting when the slain, carefully raised for the occasion, might be counted by hundreds.

At length it grew pitch dark, so that it was difficult for us to find each other in the gloom. Still more difficult was our homeward journey, steering by the appropriate light of Venus which glowed before us, lying low upon the sky. First came the causeway. This relic of antiquity which shows how careful its inhabitants, now so long dead, once were about their roads in Cyprus, is some eight feet wide and built of large blocks of stone. On either side of it lie the waters of the swamp, several feet deep in places. Much of this massive raised roadway has been destroyed by floods or other accidents of time, so that here and there one must leap from block to block or subside into the pools between. Now "Stepping-Stones by Starlight" would make a good title for a novel but are in fact an awkward path, and very glad was I when with the assistance of a Cypriote, who seemed to be able to see in the dark, I had negotiated the last of them. After these stepping-stones we advanced over a mile or two of greasy mud about six inches deep. Then came some ploughed patches of ground with ditches in them, and another long stretch of mud, this time covered with water. Struggling to its edge we found ourselves on a path strewn with boulders, and fell down in deep but invisible ruts. Next followed a stroll through a large patch of standing barley which was reeking wet and reached almost to our middles, where we were exposed to the attentions of the "skilos" or homeless dogs, which in Cyprus are such a nuisance. At last, however, about nine o'clock we saw the welcome lights of home. I confess that I was glad to reach its shelter, thoroughly tired out as I was and absolutely wringing wet with perspiration, a fruit of the labours of that interminable walk. Little expeditions of this sort teach us that we are not so young as once we were. Still I enjoyed our abortive duck-hunt.

My nephew, fired by the sight or rather the sound of more wild-fowl than he had ever dreamt of, announced his intention of being back at the place by the first streak of dawn to catch the birds as they passed from the marshes out to sea. I congratulated him upon his superb energy, but declined to share the adventure, foreseeing in the depths of my experience as in a magic crystal exactly what would happen. It did happen. About an hour after we had finished breakfast on the following morning, two hot and weary young men appeared carrying guns and cartridges, but nothing else. They had risen a little too late, the duck were up before them and they reached the distant ridge just in time to see the last flock of geese vanishing seaward.

The rains had departed for the present and the day was lovely, with so clear an air that every little peak and pinnacle of the mountains seemed close at hand. It was with great regret that on so fair a morning we bade farewell to our hosts and started for Famagusta. I should have liked to stay longer at Acheritou. The place has many charms, not the least of which is its solitude.

The tower, where according to ancient tradition Desdemona was actually stifled by Othello, is an odd place for picnics, yet thither on our arrival we were escorted through the ancient gates of Famagusta. Indeed the feast was spread exactly where the poor victim lived and died, that is, if ever she existed beyond the echoes of romance.

In the Venetian days Famagusta, which is said to be built upon the site of the ancient Arsinoë, was a great commercial port. Now its harbour is choked and, principally because of the heat within the walls, such population as remains to the place lives about a mile away, in a new town called Varoshia. How am I to describe this beautiful mediaeval monument! An attempt to set out its details would fill chapters, so I must leave them to the fancy of the reader. The whole place is a ruin. Everywhere are the gaunt skeletons of churches, the foundation walls of long-fallen houses, and around, grim, solid, solemn, the vast circle of the rich-hued fortifications. What buildings are here! Millions of square yards of them, almost every stone, except where the Turks have cobbled, still bearing its Venetian mason's mark. Walls thirty feet thick; great citadels; sally ports, underground foundries still black with the smoke of Venetian smithies; fragments of broken armour lying about in the ancient ash-heaps; water-gates, ravelins, subterranean magazines; gun embrasures, straight and enfilading; enormous gathering-halls now used as grain-stores; tortuous, arched vaults of splendid masonry, the solid roof-stones cut upon the bend; piers running out to sea commanding the harbour mouth; every defence and work known to mediaeval warlike art. Then round them all, hewn in places through the solid rock, the mighty ditch sixty feet or more in depth. It was an impregnable stronghold this Famagusta, and in the end it fell to the power of the greatest of all generals, Hunger, and not through the batterings of Mustafa the Moslem, known as the Destroyer, and his vast army.

The Turk came and conquered, how I will describe presently, and from that hour the glory of Famagusta departed. To begin with, no Christian was allowed to live within the gates. Even the visitor of distinction must not ride or drive there, but walk humbly as became a representative of a conquered faith. "Where the Turk sets his foot, there the grass will not grow," but here the saying is reversed, the grass grows everywhere amid the empty walls. Indeed barley is sown where men dwelt in thousands, and the Christian churches, some of them, were turned into baths for the comfort of the Mussulman, while the rest rotted into ruin. One of the three hundred and sixty-five of these ruined fanes—it is said that there were this number—that of St. Peter and St. Paul, a very noble and beautiful building, is now a Government grain-store, a desecration which I do not think ought to be allowed under the rule of England.

The grand Gothic cathedral wherein lie the bones of many knights and noted men of the Lusignan period, whose wealth, intelligence, and labour reared it up, is now a mosque. I am not learned enough to describe its architecture in detail, this should be left to those who understand such matters. I can only say that it is lovely. In the front are three pointed, recessed arches, the centre pierced by the doorway surmounted with exquisite carved work. Above are three windows in similar style, all of them now walled up, and above them again two ruined towers. Fixed on to one of these, that to the left of the spectator as he faces the building, is a wretched and incongruous Moslem minaret, a veritable pepper-pot. Within the place is bare and empty, with here and there a carpet, or a tawdry pulpit.

Is it right, I ask, now that the country is again in the hands of a Christian power, that this ancient shrine dedicated in the beginning to the God we worship, should be left in the hands of the followers of Mahommed? I say, and the remark applies also to the cathedral at Nicosia, that in my humble judgment this is wrong. A matter of policy, that is the answer. But has policy no limits? Would it be so very hard and dangerous for this great empire to say to those Turks who are now its subjects: "This is a Christian place which your fathers snatched with every circumstance of atrocity and violence from Christians. Take your shrines elsewhere. The land is wide and you are at liberty to set your altars where you will." It is true that they might answer: "Does it lie in your mouth to protest when you turn other buildings equally sacred in your eyes into grain-stores, and clerks sit upon their altars to take count?"

For generations the Turks have used Famagusta as a quarry, exporting most of the stone in its old buildings to Egypt. Now, it is commonly said, our Government proposes to follow their evil example, since the present railway and harbour scheme involves the destruction of the beautiful curtain-wall abutting on the sea and the use of the material it contains in the projected works. I have been assured by a competent engineer and others who can judge, that such an act of vandalism is absolutely unnecessary; that this monstrous thing will be done, if it is done, principally for the sake of the shaped stone that lies to hand. Will nobody stop it? If the Colonial Office refuses to intervene, where are the Company of Antiquaries and where is Public Opinion? Where too is the Society for the Preservation of Ancient Monuments?

Famagusta is one of the most perfect specimens of mediaeval fortification left in the world. It can never be reproduced or reborn, since the time that bred it is dead. Now in our enlightened age, when we know the value of such relics, are the remains of the old city to be wantonly destroyed before our eyes? I trust that those in authority may answer with an emphatic "No."

In itself the scheme for clearing out the ancient harbour and making of Famagusta a port connected by railway with Nicosia is good. But the haven thus reconstructed, although old Sir John Mandeville, more regardless of the truth than usual even, declares that it was one of the first harbours of the sea in the world,[6] can never be of great importance or competent to shelter liners and men-of-war. Also I imagine that it will be incapable of defence except by sea-power. Now at Limasol it is different. There, owing to the natural configuration of the shore, a harbour where fleets might ride could be made with two entrances far apart, and having seven or eight miles of high land between it and the ocean, so that in practice nothing could touch the vessels that lay within. The necessary dredging would of course cost a good deal, although the bottom to be acted upon is soft and kindly. Perhaps the total expenditure might mount up to a million and a half, or even two millions, the price of a few battle-ships. Battle-ships are superseded in a score of years; the harbour, with proper care, would remain for centuries. We need such a place in this part of the Mediterranean. Is not the question worth the serious care of the Admiralty and the nation?

XII. THE SIEGE AND SALAMIS

I could see but few changes in Famagusta since I visited it fourteen years ago. Trees have grown up round the tombs where the execrable and bloody Mustafa and some of his generals lie buried; also the Commissioner, Mr. Travers, has planted other trees in portions of the moat where they do not flourish very well owing to the stony nature of the subsoil. Moreover, a large fig-tree which I remember growing in the said moat has vanished—I recall that I myself found a Cyprian woman engaged in trying to cut it down, and frightened her away. Probably when we had departed, she returned and completed the task. Lastly, when I was here before the iron cannon-balls fired into the city by the Turks three centuries since, still lay strewn about the place as they had fallen. Now they have been collected into heaps, or vanished in this way or in that. Otherwise all is the same, except that Time has thrust his finger a little deeper into the crevices of the ruined buildings.

What a tragedy was the siege of Famagusta! Probably few of my readers, and of the British public at large not one in every hundred thousand, have even heard of that event. Yet if it happened to-day the whole world would ring of its horror and its fame. The Boer war that at present fills the newspapers and the mouths of men has, to this day of writing, cost us at the outside six thousand dead. At the siege of Famagusta, taking no account of those in the city, if I remember right for I quote from memory, more than forty thousand of the attacking force alone perished beneath the walls.

This in brief was the tale as it is told by Fra Angelo Calepio of Cyprus, an eye-witness and a doctor in theology of the order of Preachers, and others. In the year 1570, according to Fra Angelo, the Sultan Selim was persuaded by his head mufti to undertake the enterprise of the conquest of Cyprus from the Venetians; "avarice, lust of fame, difference of religion, diabolic suggestion, divine permission, an unbounded appetite for new territory to be added to the Ottoman dominion, these were the remote causes for the conspiracy against Cyprus. A nearer cause was the wish of Selim, the Emperor of the Turks, to build a mosque and school." Cyprus was to furnish the revenues for this pious enterprise. Fra Angelo says also that the Sultan was influenced to the conquest of the island "from his fondness for its excellent wines and the beautiful falcons that are taken there."

A great army was collected and allowed, owing to the mismanagement of affairs by the Venetians and local authorities, to invest the inland capital of Nicosia. After a gallant defence by the untrained troops and inhabitants within, they took the town. It is curious to read to-day, that grim badinage such as has recently been practised by the Boers investing Ladysmith, was indulged in by the Turks at Nicosia. Thus they drove a donkey up the wrecked wall crying in mockery, "Don't hurt the poor ass, it can do you no harm," and shouted, "Surrender, for you are in a bad way."

The horrors that occurred when once the Turkish soldiers were inside Nicosia are too dreadful to dwell on. Here is a single example. Says Fra Angelo: "Among the slain were Lodovico Podochatoro and Lucretia Calepia, my mother, whose head they cut off on her serving-maid's lap. They tore infants in swaddling-clothes from their mothers' breasts, of whom I could baptize only one," and so forth. On the day following the sack the best-looking of the surviving lads and girls were sold by auction, "the buyers taking no thought or count of their noble birth, but only of the beauty of their faces." But these poor victims, or most of them, were not destined to serve as slaves in any Turkish harem. The great galleon of Muhamites and two other vessels were laden with them as a gift to the Sultan, to Mehmed Pasha, and Murad the Sultan's son. But some noble girl or woman, her name is not recorded, though surely her glory should live on for ever, thinking that the death of herself and her companions was preferable to so infamous a fate, contrived to creep the magazine and fire it, with the result that the galleon and two other ships with every living soul on board of them were blown into the air. The incident is in perfect keeping with the horrid history of that period throughout Europe.

Famagusta was invested by Mustafa and between one and two hundred thousand soldiers and adventurers upon September 18, 1570, the defence being under the charge of the immortal Mark Antonio Bragadino, the captain of the city. For nearly eleven months did the little garrison and townsfolk hold out, with but scant aid from Venice. They beat back assault after assault—there were six or eight of them; they mined and counter-mined; they made sallies and erected new defences as the old were battered down; in short they did everything that desperation could contrive or courage execute. At length when only five hundred Italian soldiers and a few Cyprian men and women were left sound within their gates, and many of their walls and towers had been blown into the air, it was want that conquered them, not the Turk.

"The position of the city was now desperate; within the walls everything was lacking except hope, the valour of the commanders, and the daring of the soldiers. The wine was exhausted, neither fresh nor salted meat nor cheese could be had except at extravagant prices. The horses, asses, and cats were consumed. There was nothing to eat but bread and beans, nothing to drink but vinegar and water, and this too soon failed!"

Then after between 140,000 and 170,000 cannon-balls, many of which I have seen lying about to this day, had been fired into the city, and the Turks had suffered a loss of from thirty to fifty thousand men, at length the brave Bragadino negotiated an honourable surrender under the terms of which the defenders were to be given their arms, lives, and goods, "a safe-conduct to Candia under an escort of galleys," and the townsfolk the grace of staying "in their houses to enjoy what was their own, living like Christians without any molestation therefor."

Upon these terms peace was signed and the soldiers began to embark in the vessels provided for them. The next evening, or at any rate upon that of August the 5th, the Signor Bragadino, accompanied by about a dozen officers and attended by guard of fifty men, according to Fra Angelo, and nearly two hundred according to Bishop Graziani, paid a visit to Mustafa who received him courteously and kindly, praising the valour of the defence. The visit concluded, they rose to take leave, whereupon Mustafa asked that the prisoners captured during the siege might be sent to him. Bragadino replied that he had no prisoners. Then the Turk, pretending to be astonished, shouted out, "They were then murdered during the truce," and bade his soldiers who stood ready to seize and bind the Christians.

Now it was that the brutal ruffian, Mustafa, showed himself in his true colours. The story is best told in the words of Mr. Cobham's translation of Fra Angelo Calepio, although Bishop Graziani's account as rendered by Midgley is almost as good.

"They were defenceless, for they were compelled to lay aside their arms before entering the tent, and thus bound were led one by one into the open square before the tent, and cut to pieces in Mustafa's presence. Then twice and thrice he made Signor Bragadino, who showed no sign of fear, stretch out his neck as though he would strike off his head, but spared his life and cut off his ears and nose, and as he lay on the ground Mustafa reviled him, cursing our Lord and saying, 'Where is now thy Christ that He doth not help thee?' The General made never an answer, but with lofty patience waited the end. Count Hercule Martinengo, one of the hostages, was also bound, but was hidden by one of Mustafa's eunuchs until his chief's fury was passed. He did not slay him, but doomed him, as long as his soul cleaved to his body, to continual death in life, making him his eunuch and slave, so that happy he had he died with the rest a martyr's death. There were three citizens in the tent, who were released, but the poor soldiers bound like so many lambs were hewed in pieces, with three hundred other Christians, who never dreamed of such gross perfidy, and impious savagery. The Christians who were already embarked were brutally robbed and thrown into chains.

"The second day after the murders, August 7th, Mustafa first entered the city. He caused Signor Tiepolo, Captain of Baffo, who was left in Signor Bragadino's room, to be hanged by the neck, as well as the commandant of the cavalry. On August 17th, a day of evil memory, being a Friday and their holiday, Signor Bragadino was led, full of wounds which had received no care, into the presence of Mustafa, on the batteries built against the city, and for all his weakness, was made to carry one basket full of earth up and another down, on each redoubt, and forced to kiss the ground when he passed before Mustafa. Then he was led to the shore, set in a slung seat, with a crown at his feet, and hoisted on the yard of the galley of the Captain of Rhodes, hung 'like a stork' in view of all the slaves and Christian soldiers of the port. Then this noble gentleman was led to the square, the drums beat, the trumpets sounded, and before a great crowd they stripped him, and made him sit amid every insult on the grating of the pillory. Then they stretched him on the ground and brutally flayed him alive. His saintly soul bore all with great firmness, patience, and faith; with never a sign of wavering he commended himself to his Saviour, and when their steel reached his navel he gave back to his Maker his truly happy and blessed spirit. His skin was taken and stuffed with straw, carried round the city, and then, hung on the yard of a galliot, was paraded along the coast of Syria with great rejoicings. The body was quartered, and a part set on each battery. The skin, after its parade, was placed in a box together with the head of the brave Captain Hestor Baglione, and those of S. Luigi Martinengo, G. A. Bragadino, and G. A. Querini, and all were carried to Constantinople and presented to the Gran Signor, who caused them to be put in his prison, and I who was a captain chained in that prison as spy of the Pope, on my liberation tried to steal that skin, but could not."

According to Johannes Cotovicus, or Johann van Kootwick, a Hollander whose work was published at Antwerp in 1619, this hideous execution of Bragadino was carried out by a Jewish hangman. The same author tells us that the martyr's skin was in the end purchased at a great price by his brother and sons, and, five-and-twenty years after the murder, buried in a marble urn in the church of SS. Giovanni e Paolo at Venice. Here is the inscription and a translation:—

D. O. P.

M. Anontii Bragadeni dum pro fide et patria

Bello Cyprio Salaminae contra Turcas constanter

Fortiterq. curam principem sustineret longa

Obsidione victi a perfida hostis manu ipso vivo ac

Intrepide sufferente detracta

Pellis

Ann. Sal. CIC[7]. IC. LXXI. XV. Kal. Sept. Anton. fratris

Opera et inpensa Byzantio huc

Advecta

Atque hic a Marco Hermolao Antonioque filiis

Pientissimis ad summi Dei patriae paternique nominis

Gloriam sempiternam

Posita

Ann. Sal. CIC[7]. IC. LXXXXVI. vixit ann. XLVI.

To God the Best and Mightiest The skin of Mark Antony Bragadino, torn from him while alive and suffering fearlessly, by the faithless hand of the enemy, on the eighteenth day of August, in the year of our Salvation 1571, when, in the Cyprian war waged against the Turks for faith and fatherland, he was overborne in the long siege of Salamis, where he commanded with constancy and valour, was brought hither from Byzantium by the care and at the cost of his brother Antony, and laid here by his devoted sons, Mark Hermolaus and Antony, to the eternal glory of God most High, of their country, and their father's name, in the year of our Salvation 1596. He lived forty-six years.

In this inscription it will be observed that the besieged town is spoken of as Salamis, that being the name of the ancient ruined city which stood a few miles from Famagusta.

Thus Famagusta and with it all Cyprus fell into the power of the Turk, who for three centuries ruled it as ill as only he can do. Now once more it has passed into the hands of England. Long may this fair and fruitful island abide there, to its own benefit and that of the empire.

One sad change I noticed on this my second visit to Famagusta. Fourteen years ago the gardens of Varoshia, as the present town is called, were full of the most lovely orange-trees. Even at this distance of time I can recall the pleasure with which I walked in one of them, smelling the scent of the flowers and considering the golden fruit and green, shiny leaves. Now they are all dead, or nearly so. The blight of which I have spoken upon a previous page, in the absence of remedies that their owners were too idle to apply, has slain them. Here and there stick up old stems with blackened foliage and some shrivelled fruit, sad mementoes of the past that would be better done away.

Often have I wished that I could paint but never more so, I think, than at Famagusta, especially one morning when I stood upon the lonely seashore looking out across the still more lonely ocean. Storm-clouds were gathering, and in their blackest shadow, old as the walls of Famagusta perhaps, stood a single giant fig-tree, its buds just bursting into points of crinkled, green-gold leaf. There was something very strange about the aspect of that tree. It looked as though it lived and suffered; it reminded me, fantastically enough, of the tortured Bragadino. Its natural bent was sideways and groundwards, but the straight branches, trained thus by centuries of wind, lay back from the sloping trunk like the out-blown hair of a frightened feeling woman. In colour it was ashen, the hue of death, only its roots were gold-tinted, for the shifting sand revealed them, gripping and strangling each other like hateful yellow snakes. It was such a tree as the Saviour might have cursed for barrenness, and the site seemed appropriate to its aspect. About it were the sand-dunes, behind it lay a swamp with dead and feathered grasses shivering in the wind. To the right more sands, in front the bitter sea, and to the left, showing stately against a background of gloom, the cathedral of Famagusta still royal in its ruins. As I stood a raven flew overhead, croaking, and a great fox darker than our own in colour, loped past me to vanish among the dunes.

Altogether it was a scene fitted to the brush of an artist, or so I thought.

Within three miles or so of Old Famagusta lie the ruins that were Salamis, formerly the famous port of the Messaoria plain, where once St. Paul and Barnabas "preached the word of God in the synagogues of the Jews." It was a town eight hundred years before Christ was born however, for a monument of Sargon the Assyrian tells of a certain king of Salamis, and until the reign of Constantine the Great when an earthquake destroyed it, it flourished more than any other Cyprian city. Now not even a house is to be found upon its vast site, and the harbour that was always full of ships, is quite silted up. Many of the stones also that made its palaces and temples, have been built into the walls and churches of Famagusta, to find often enough an ultimate home in Egypt, whither the Turks exported them.

One day we visited this place. On our left as we went our host, Mr. Percy Christian, pointed out to me a tumulus, in Cyprus a rare and notable thing. Some years ago he opened it, indeed the scar of that operation is still visible. Tunnelling through the outer earth the workmen came to a most beautiful tomb, built of huge monolithic stones fitted together with an accuracy which Mr. Christian describes as marvellous. As it proved impossible to pierce these stones, the visitors were obliged to burrow lower and force a passage through the floor. I could not, I confess, help laughing when Mr. Christian added that to his intense disgust he discovered that other antiquarians, in some past age, had attacked the sepulchre from the further side of the mound. They also had been beaten by the gigantic blocks. They also had burrowed and made their visit through the floor. Moreover, by way of souvenir they had taken with them whatever articles of value the tomb may have chanced to contain.

Even sepulchre-searching has its sorrows. I am afraid that if after those days and weeks of toil, it had been my fortune, full of glorious anticipation, to poke my head through that violated floor merely to discover in the opposite corner another hole whereby another head had once arisen, I should have said how vexed I was and with some emphasis. He who labours among the tombs should be very patient and gentle-natured—like Mr. Christian.

Almost opposite to this tumulus is a barrow-shaped building also composed of huge blocks of stone, set in an arch and enclosing a space beneath of the size of a small chapel out of which another little chamber opens. This is called the tomb of St. Katherine, why I do not know. From its general characteristics I should imagine that it is of the Mycenian period, if the Mycenians understood how to fashion an arch. The individual blocks are truly huge, and it is nothing short of marvellous that men of the primitive races were able to handle them. It seems probable that this sepulchre and that in the opposing tumulus date from the same age. Perhaps both the tombs were first built upon the level of the design of covering them in beneath mounds of earth. In this event we may conclude that the reputed burying-place of St. Katherine was never finished or occupied by any distinguished corpse. At least it is a curious and most durable monument of the past.

All this district is very rich in tombs. Near by is the village of Enkomi where Mr. Percy Christian, digging on behalf of the British Museum, recently found the Mycenian gold ornaments now to be seen in its Gold-room. These Enkomi tombs are not structurally remarkable and lie quite near the surface. Indeed they were first discovered by the accident of a plough-ox putting his hoof into one of them. At the period of their construction, however, evidently it was the habit of the people who used them as their last resting-places, to bury all his most valuable possessions with the deceased. Thus one of the graves appears to have been that of a jeweller, for in it were found solid lumps of gold sliced from cast bars of the metal, as well as fashioned trinkets.

In many instances they have been plundered in past days, although when this has happened the conscience of the ancient tomb-breakers, more sensitive than that of us moderns, generally forbade them to take everything. Thus in one tomb which Mr. Charles Christian entered, though this was not at Enkomi, he found a portion of a splendid beaker, worth £60 or £70 in weight of gold, which fragment very clearly had been wrenched from the vessel and thrown back into the grave. It is a common thing in such cases to find that all valuables have been removed except a single ear-ring, or one bead of a necklace, left among the mouldering bones to appease the spirit of the dead. Obviously these poor ghosts were not supposed to possess more intelligence than the domestic hen which, after all the rest have been removed, will continue solemnly to sit upon a single egg, even if it be of china.

In one of the Enkomi tombs Mr. Percy Christian discovered the unique ivory casket which is now in the British Museum and valued there, I understand, at thousands of pounds.

The story of its finding is curious, and shows how easily such precious treasures may be missed. The actual clearing of the tombs from loose earth and rubbish is of necessity generally left to experienced overseers. On a certain evening Mr. Christian came to the diggings and was informed by the head man that he had carefully excavated and sifted out this particular grave, finding nothing but a few bones. By an after-thought, just to satisfy himself, Mr. Christian went into the place with a light and searched. Seeing that it was as bare as the cupboard of Mother Hubbard, he was about to leave when by a second after-thought—a kind of enacted lady's postscript—he began to scrape among the stuff upon the floor. The point of his stick struck something hard and yellow which he took up idly, thinking that it was but a bit of the skull or other portion of the frame of a deceased Mycenian. As Mycenians, however, did not carve their skeletons, and as even in that light he could see that this object was carved, he continued his researches, to discover, lying just beneath the surface much disjointed by damp, the pieces of a splendid ivory casket. The method, extraordinarily ingenious, whereby he succeeded in removing all these fragments in situ and without injury, is too long to describe, even if I remembered its details. Suffice it to say that he poured plaster of Paris or some such composition over them, thereby recovering them in such perfect condition that the experts at home have been able to rebuild this valuable casket exactly as it was when, thousands of years ago, some Mycenian placed it in the resting-place of a beloved relative. Doubtless it was that relative's most treasured possession.

In some respects these ancients must have been curiously unselfish. Few heirs of to-day would consent to objects of enormous value—such as pictures by Titian or gold cups by Benvenuto Cellini—being interred with the bones of the progenitor or testator who had cherished them during life. Yet in the early ages this was done continually. Thus, to take one example, I saw not long ago, I think in the Naples Museum, a drinking-vase that even in its own period must have been absolutely without price, which was discovered in the tomb of one of the Roman emperors. More, a screw or nail hole has been pierced rudely through the bottom of the vase, whether to destroy its value or to fasten it to the breast-plate or furnitures of the corpse, I cannot say. In Cyprus such instances are very common.

Close by St. Katherine's tomb stands that grove which among the inhabitants of this neighbourhood is known as the "accursed trees." Those trees nobody will touch, since to carry away any portion of them for burning or other purposes, is supposed to entail sudden and terrible disaster. Indeed it is said that one bold spirit who, being short of firewood, dared to fly in the face of tradition, suffered not long ago many horrible things in consequence of his crime. Of these trees it is reported also that they have never put out any leaves in spring or summer for uncounted generations, and yet neither rot or die. Also that no other trees of the sort are known in Cyprus, which I do not believe. Certainly at first sight their appearance is very curious, for they are spectral-looking and seem to be quite dead. On careful examination, however, I solved the mystery. It is this, or so I think; the thorns grow upon very poor, shallow, and stony ground, perhaps over ruins. Nearly all their twigs are sere and brittle for they snap between the fingers, but if looked at closely it will be seen that upon the stems faint new growths can be found here and there, which at the period of our visit were just breaking into leaf like those of every other tree. Their vitality is sufficient to enable them to do this and no more, thereby saving them from actual decay. So much for the "accursed grove" and its attendant superstition.

All about this place among the ruins grow huge plants of fennel throwing up flower-stems six or eight feet high. With the roots of this herb is found a species of mushroom or fungus, which is much prized locally and considered very delicate eating. We saw a native searching for these mushrooms by the help of a long stick. As he wandered from bush to bush, his steadfast eyes fixed upon the ground, this man added a curiously lonesome and impressive note to that solemn and deserted landscape.

The walls of old Salamis, enclosing a great area of land, and even some of its gateways, can still be clearly traced. The sites of Amathus and Curium were desolate, but neither of them, to my fancy, so desolate as this, where not even a patch of barley is sown among the ruins that stretch on and on, tumbled heaps of stone, till they end in barren dunes, self-reclaimed from the sea, the place where flighting cranes pause to rest after their long journeys.

Since last I visited this dead city the Cyprus Exploration Fund has been at work here, revealing amongst other buried buildings the site of the great market, or forum, a vast place, at a guess six hundred yards or so in length by some two hundred broad. This mart was surrounded by columns of Egyptian granite; there they lie in every direction, shattered, doubtless, by the earthquake in the time of Constantine. What labour and money it must have cost to set them here. Along one side of this public ground, which in its day must have been magnificent indeed, probably beneath the shelter of the colonnade, there seems to have been a row of shops, whereof some of the name or broken advertisement boards carved on marble in Greek letters are still lying here and there. Perhaps this was the Burlington Arcade of Salamis, but oh! where are the Arcadians?

It is wonderful, in a sense it is almost terrifying, to look at this empty stone-strewn plain with its tall yellow-flowered weeds, its solitary fungus-hunter, its prostrate colonnades; its mounds that once were walls, its depressions which once were gates, its few scattered sheep and goats hungrily seeking for pasture among the coarse growth that in every clime springs up where mankind has had his home; its choked harbour, and then to close our living, physical eyes and command those of the mind to look backward through the generations.

Behold the great glittering sea alive with galleys, the hollow port filled with rude trading vessels from the coasts of Italy, Syria, Greece, and Egypt. Look down from this high spot upon the thousands of flat, cemented roofs, pierced by narrow streets roughly paved and crowded with wayfarers and citizens standing or seated about their doors. Yonder, a mile away upon the hill beyond the harbour, stands a lovely building supported and surrounded with columns of white marble, between which appear statues, also of white marble. It is the temple of Venus, and those gaily-decked folk advancing to its portals are pilgrims to her shrine. Turn, and here and here and here are other temples dedicated to other gods, all dead to-day, dead as their worshippers. And this market at our feet, it hums like a hive of bees. There law-courts are sitting; see the robed pleaders, each surrounded by a little following of anxious, eager clients. There to the south on the paved place clear of buildings, except the marble shelters for the auctioneers, two sales are in progress, one of human beings and one of beasts of burden. There again in the shadow of the colonnade is the provision mart where butlers, eunuchs, and housewives haggle loudly with peasants and fishermen. At yonder shop several young men of fashion and a white-robed woman or two with painted eyes inspect the marvellous necklaces wrought by the noted jeweller named—ah! his name escapes us. He neglected to write it in his tomb whence last year Mr. Christian took this golden collar that the artist would not part with save at a price which none of those gallants or their loves could pay. Hark now to the shouting! Why do those gorgeously attired runners, followed by outriders clad in uncouth mail, push a way through the crowd beating them with their wands of office? The king—the king himself drives down the street to pass along the market towards that temple at its head, where he will make an offering because of the victory of his arms over certain enemies in the mountains. He is a splendid-looking figure, shining with gold and gems, but very sick and weary, for this king loves the rich Cyprian wine.

But such pictures are endless, let us leave them buried every one beneath the dust of ages. Our lamp is out, only the blank dull sheet is there; about us are ruins, sky and sea, with the fungus-pickers, the yellow-flowered weeds and the wandering sheep—no more.

What a sight must that have been when great Salamis fell at last, shaken down, hurled into the sea, sunk to the bowels of the earth beneath the awful sudden shock of earthquake. Those mighty columns shattered like rods of glass tell us something of the story, compared to which the burying of Pompeii under its cloak of flaming stone was but a trivial woe. But each reader must fashion it for himself. My version might not please him.

Not far away from the forum or market are baths. One can still see portions of their mosaic floor, polished by the feet of many thousand bathers, and the flues that warmed the water. Further on is the site of the great reservoir with remains of the aqueduct that filled it. As one may still see to-day its waters must have been distributed along the streets by means of little marble channels at their sides, a poisonous practice that doubtless bred much sickness, since they were open to every contamination. It would be interesting to know what was the death-rate in these old places. I imagine that it would appal us.

The necropolis of Salamis, as Mr. Percy Christian informed me sadly, has never yet been discovered. He showed me, however, where he believed it to be, under certain drifted sand-heaps near the temple of Venus and the seashore, but outside the walls of the city. If so, there it will rest till the British Museum ransacks it, since private persons may dig no longer. Then what treasures will appear! The gathered wealth of forty or fifty generations of the citizens of one of the richest cities of the ancient world, or such portions of it as its owners took with them to their tombs—nothing less.

If only all the multitudes which once inhabited these walls could rise again before our eyes and in their company those of the other dead cities of Cyprus! The great Messaoria plain would be white with the sea of their faces and alive with the flash of their eyes. There would be no standing-room in Cyprus; the millions of them would overflow its shores and crowd the brow of ocean further than the sight could follow. What has become of them? Where can there be room for them—even for their ghosts? I suppose that we shall find out one day, but meanwhile the problem has a certain uncanny fascination. Perhaps the stock is really strictly limited and we are their ghosts. That would account for the great interest I found in Salamis, which most people, especially ladies, think a very dull place, duller even than Famagusta.

Perhaps the most interesting relic of all those at Salamis is that ruin of the fane of Cypris which is set upon a hill. There is, however, not much to be seen except broken columns of the purest white marble, and here and there the fragments of statues. But the shape of the temple can still be traced; its situation, overlooking the sea upon a rising mount where grow asphodel, anemones, and other sky-blue flowers of whose name I am ignorant, is beautiful, and the sighs of a million lovers who worshipped Venus at this altar still seem to linger in the soft and fragrant air.

When we reached home again a lady, our fellow-guest, described to me the ceremony of a Turkish wedding to which she had been invited that afternoon. I will not set down its details second-hand, but the bride, she said, was a poor little child of eleven who had to be lifted up that the company might see her in her nuptial robes and ornaments. The husband, a grown man, is reported to be an idiot. It seems strange that such iniquities, upon which I forbear to comment further, can still happen under the shadow of the British flag.

This reminds me of another Turkish ceremony. On the day that we left Famagusta, at the conclusion of our visit, for Nicosia, we halted a while to breathe our horses in the village of Kouklia, where, by the way, there is a beautiful leaking aqueduct that is covered with maidenhair fern. While I was admiring the ferns and the water that dripped among them, a Turkish funeral advanced out of the village, which at a respectful distance we took the liberty of following to the burial-ground. The corpse, accompanied by a motley crowd of mourners, relatives, sight-seers, and children, was laid uncoffined upon a rough bier that looked like a large mortar-board, and hidden from sight beneath a shroud ornamented with red and green scarves. Upon arrival at the graveyard, an unkempt place, with stones innocent of the mason's hammer marking the head and foot of each grave and serving as stands for pumpkins to dry on in the sun, the dead man was carried to a primitive bench or table made of two slabs set upright in the ground about seven feet apart, and a third laid on them crossways. Here, while a woman sitting on a little mound at a distance, set up a most wild and melancholy wail for the departed, a priest, I know not his proper appellation, stepping forward began to offer up prayers to which the audience made an occasional response. The brief service concluded, once more the body was lifted and borne round the cemetery to its grave, that seemed to be about three feet six inches in depth. Here it was robbed of its gay-coloured scarves, of which a little child took charge, and after a good deal of animated discussion, lowered into the hole in a sitting posture with the help of two linen bands that one of the company unwound from about his middle. Then while a sheet was held over the corpse, as I suppose to prevent its face from being seen, some of the mourners arranged planks and the top of an old door in the grave above it, perhaps to keep it from contact with the earth. At this point we were obliged to leave as the carriage waited, and I am therefore unable to say if there was any further ceremony before the soil was finally heaped over the mortal remains of this departed and, I trust, estimable Turk.

Then we drove on across a grey expanse relieved now and again with patches of rich green barley breaking into ear. On our right the rugged, towering points of the five-fingered mountain called Pentadactylon, stood out above the black clouds of a furious storm of wind and rain which overtook us. Still we struggled forward through its gloom, till at length the sun shone forth, and in the glow of evening we saw the walls, palms, and minarets of the ancient and beautiful city of Nicosia.

XIII. NICOSIA AND KYRENIA

Nicosia looks little changed since first I saw it many years ago. The trees that were planted in portions of the moat by the governor of that day, Sir Henry Bulwer, have grown into considerable timbers, though, by the way, those set upon the rocky soil round the wooden Government House have not flourished as I hoped they would. Also the narrow streets are somewhat cleaner and more wholesome, if any Eastern town where all household slops are thrown out into the gutters or gardens can be called wholesome; that is about all. No, not quite all, for sundry houses have arisen outside the new city, pretty dwellings with gardens round them, inhabited for the most part by officials, and the old Konak, or Turkish government office, after standing for some six hundred years, has been in great part pulled down, and is now a gaping ruin. This seems to me a very wanton and ill-judged act, for the building had many beauties which can never be seen again. Indeed on second thoughts the authorities appear to have shared this view, since when it was pressed upon them by some local antiquaries, they desisted from their destroying labours, leaving the unique gateway untouched, though, unless something is soon done to support it, not, I fear, for long. Now it is a sheltering place for wanderers, at least I found the blackest woman I ever saw, in bed there, who as I passed made earnest representations to me, in an unknown tongue, to what purpose I was unable to discover. It seemed odd to find so very black a person reposing thus in the middle of the day beneath that draughty antique portal. Otherwise all is the same; even many of the government officers remain, like myself grown somewhat older, although death and migrations to a better post have removed several familiar faces.

I think it was on the day after our arrival that we started with our hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Hart Bennett, on a visit to Kyrenia, the beautiful little seaport which lies across the northern mountains. Our plan was to drive to the foot of these mountains and thence to ride on mule-back to the wonderful old castle of Hilarion, set high upon its almost inaccessible crags. We never got there, however, for the rain stopped us. In my case this did not so much matter, for I had visited the place before, but to my nephew it was a great disappointment. The country between Nicosia and the mountains is very curious and desolate. Here the strata seem to have been tilted on edge by some fearful convulsion in the beginnings of the world, so that more than anything else they resemble long lines of military trenches of brown earth lying behind each other in numberless succession, and topped, each of them, with a parapet of rock.

On arriving at the police-station near the foot of the mountains, we halted to lunch in the company of friends who had ridden out from Kyrenia. Our meeting-place should have been Hilarion, but as I have said the rain stayed us. To climb up into the bosom of that black cloud seemed too forbidding, and had we done so the castle is sheltered by no roof beneath which we could have picnicked.

Nobody seems to know who built Hilarion or who lived there. Mr. Alexander Drummond, writing in 1754, tells us that it is said to have been fortified by one of the Lusignan queens, Charlotta, who was obliged to shelter there when a usurper called James the Bastard, as I think, her half-brother, had been established on the throne by the "Egyptian Power." Cesnola writes also that it was a stronghold of the Lusignans and used by them as a state prison. Lastly, I remember that when I was there in past years, a well-informed gentleman told me that it had once stood a siege and been captured, whereon three hundred persons, men, women, and children, were hurled from a particularly hideous height into a chasm of the mountains. I do not know if there is any foundation for this legend. At least the place, which still boasts some lovely windows and a huge cistern for the storage of soft water, is very wonderful, set as it is so high among those giddy peaks. With what infinite toil, cost, and pains must some old tyrant have reared its towers. Their style by the way is Gothic.

When the rain began to slacken I went for a walk, to look at a wood of young trees which some enterprising gentleman has planted here. They are doing well, and among them I was so fortunate as to find the bee orchis of our shores in flower. Also, as I think I have said upon a previous page, to my delight I observed that all the steep-flanked mountains round are becoming clothed again with forests of young fir.

In the afternoon, the weather now being fine, we started for Kyrenia on the mules, some of us taking a rough ride across country to visit Bella Pais—or De la Paix as it is called by Cornelius van Bruyn, who wrote about 1693, and other authors—the old Lusignan abbey which stands in the village of Lapais, to my mind the most beautiful spot in all Cyprus. I am not, however, certain that it was an abbey. Drummond (1745) questions this, saying that he supposes it to have been "the grand commanderie of the island owned by one of the knightly orders." He finds corroboration of his view in the name Della Pays, derived, he says, from the Italian Della Paese, though how this proves that the building was a commanderie I am at a loss to understand. I confess, however, to a certain curiosity as to the true designation of the ruin. De la Paix means, of the peace; de la Pays, of the country; Bella Pais, beautiful peace; Bella Paese, beautiful country. Whatever may have been the ancient form, the last and modern reading seems the most appropriate.

The building is as I remember it years ago, only somewhat more dilapidated. Certain cracks are wider, certain bits of wall have fallen, its end draws more near. This indeed must come within the next few generations unless the Government will find money to restore one of its most beautiful possessions. At present, as I assured myself by personal inquiry, it is not the will that is wanting, but the means. While the British Treasury grabs at every farthing of surplus revenue, Cyprus has no funds wherewith to preserve her ancient and mediaeval monuments.

The place cannot have changed much during the last two centuries. Indeed van Bruyn's description of it might almost pass to-day. One thing that struck him, I remember struck me also. Talking of the underground chamber or crypt, he says "one might fancy it all built five or six years ago." Even now, over two hundred years later, the masonry is extraordinarily fresh. Also he speaks of a certain very tall cypress. I think that tree, a monster of its kind, is still standing, at least it stood fourteen years ago. Owing to the circumstances under which we left the abbey, on this visit I had no time to seek out its gracious towering shape.

It is difficult to describe such a building as Bella Pais, for to give a string of measurements and architectural details serves little—out of a guide-book. In the solemn old refectory, a beauteous chamber, leading I think to the reader's pulpit, is a little stair in the seaward wall, and at the head of this stair a window, and out of that window a view. If I were asked to state what is the most lovely prospect of all the thousands I have studied in different parts of the world, I think I should answer—That from the little window of the refectory of the Abbey of Bella Pais in Cyprus.

Around are mountains, below lie woods and olive groves and bright patches of green corn. Beyond is the blue silent sea, and across it, far away but clearly outlined, the half-explored peaks and precipices of Karamania. I said it was difficult to describe an ancient building, but who can describe a view which so many things combine to perfect that can scarcely be defined in thought, much less in words? The thousand colours of the Eastern day drawing down to night, the bending of the cypress tops against the sky, the slow flash of the heaving ocean in the level rays of sunset, the shadows on the mighty mountain tops, the solemnity of the grey olives, the dizzy fall of the precipice, the very birds of prey that soar about it—all these are parts of that entrancing whole. But what worker in words can fit them into their proper place and proportion, giving to each its value and no more?

In this refectory they show rings in the wall where Turks stabled their horses when they took the island; also many holes at one end caused, the old native custodian swore, with bullets fired in sport by British soldiers who were quartered here at the time of the occupation. I like to think, however, that the Turk is responsible for these also, and not Mr. Atkins.

I went to look at the old chapel, not the building now used as a Greek church, which we also visited. This chapel is quite in ruins, and weeds grow rankly among the stones that doubtless hide the skeletons of the priests and Templars who once bent the knee upon them. The cloisters still remain with their charming pillared arcades and the marble sarcophagus of which all the old travellers talk. Now the quadrangle they enclose is a grove of oranges which have been planted since my last visit. In van Bruyn's day it was a garden, and some other voyager a century or so later talks of it as a barley patch. Perhaps the Templars used it as a court set out with flower-beds and fountains.

By the time that we had finished our inspection the rain set in again and night was near. For a while we waited under the shelter of the cloisters hoping that it would stop, but at length made up our minds to a soaking and started. We were not disappointed; it poured, and that is why in the gathering gloom I was unable to look out for my old friend the cypress tree. Moreover the road, or rather the track, was awful and my mule, a proud and high-stomached beast which had waxed fat on green barley, one of the laziest I ever rode. My belief is that he had been accustomed to carry baggage, not men, and baggage mules have their pace. At least being innocent of spurs I could not get him along, and to make matters worse, at every slippery or awkward place he stumbled out of sheer idleness, once very nearly falling in a mud-hole three feet deep. What between the mule, the rain, and the cold, it was, I confess, with joy that at last we dismounted at the door of our host Mr. Tyzer, the judge for the district of Kyrenia.

Before finally bidding farewell to Bella Pais there is one point which I will mention, in the hope that the matter may be looked into, that is, if I am not mistaken in my surmise. While riding through the village my companions and I observed the strangely unhealthy appearance of the children, indeed I am sure that several of these poor, hollow-eyed little creatures are, or were, not long for this world. Now as the site is so high and wholesome, I imagine that their ill looks must be accounted for in some other way. Perhaps the water is contaminated.

The sights at Kyrenia, now vastly improved from what it used to be, are the harbour and the old Venetian fortress. Also in former days there was a Phoenician rock-cut tomb with the skeleton of the occupant in situ and all its trimmings, such as lamps and jars of earthenware. But of this I can find no trace to-day. Everybody except myself seems to have forgotten all about him. Sic transit gloria—cadaveris. There are still, however, plenty of these Phoenician tombs left in the neighbourhood.

The castle is a fine building of the same type and period as the Famagusta fortifications and those of Nicosia. According to Drummond (1750) "probably the whole work was repaired by Savorniani, who in the year 1525 demolished the old works of these places and re-fortified them." I do not know if he is correct and am, I confess, ignorant of the fame of Savorniani, although I think I have read somewhere that he was a noted military engineer of the period. Now the place is used as a jail, a fortunate circumstance, since it makes some care of the ancient fabric necessary. Here I would suggest that at very small expense the old chapel could be restored. This is the more desirable as no church exists for the convenience of English residents.

As at Limasol the view from the flat roof of this interesting fortress is very fine, commanding as it does the rugged heights capped by the grey towers of Hilarion, the fertile plain at their foot, and the opposing coast of Asia Minor. Immediately beneath lies the little harbour upon which the Government out of its scanty resources has spent several thousand pounds. To my mind the money might have been better expended elsewhere, since this haven is exposed to the fury of the northern gales, and notwithstanding its protecting moles no vessel of more than two hundred tons can enter it, even in calm weather.

The acting Commissioner, Mr. Ongley, pointed out to me, at the base of one of the round towers against which the sea washes, a little window that to within the last year or two has been walled up. Access was gained to it by a ladder and the stones removed. Within, he said, was found a cell without visible communication with any other part of the castle, and in it the bones of a human being and those of a chicken. It is suggested that these remains belonged to some political prisoner, sent here, perhaps from Venice, to be walled up with the chicken. Of course under the circumstances he would eat the chicken, after which the rats ate him. I must add, however, that Major Chamberlayne, the Commissioner at Nicosia, who is perhaps the best authority in the island upon the mediaeval history of Cyprus, and who actually opened this dungeon, throws doubts upon the story. Myself, I do not quite believe it, for a reason which he did not mention but that appears to me to have weight. I am convinced that upon such an occasion the starving captive would not have left those bones. He would have crunched them up and swallowed them. Perhaps some corpse of which it was necessary to be rid in a time of siege was entombed here. Who can say? At least that cell possesses considerable speculative interest.

This fortress has known the shock of war, although I do not think it offered any notable resistance to the Turks after the fall of Nicosia and Famagusta. Here, in 1465, Charlotta was besieged for a whole year by her brother, James the Bastard, when she seems to have surrendered the place and fled with her husband, Louis, to Savoy.

The coasts of Karamania, which are so clearly visible from Kyrenia and lie at a distance of about thirty miles, are not often visited by travellers, whose throats the inhabitants are apt to cut. They are reported to be a paradise for sportsmen, as ibex and other large game live upon the mountain ranges. For a sum of three shillings I purchased an enormous pair of the horns of one of these wild goats which had found their way across the straits. Ibex, I am told, have a habit when alarmed of hurling themselves off precipices and landing unharmed upon their horns. In the course of some excursion of the sort the owner of my pair has snapped off the point of one of them. Nature, however, healed the fracture, but the symmetry of the horn is spoiled.

I did not enjoy this visit to Kyrenia so much as I expected, since, as is common in Cyprus, my wetting and chill on the previous day induced a touch of fever. It was mild, however, and yielded to a timely application of quinine.

So back across the mountains to Nicosia and—a Book-Tea—a form of festivity which has just reached the ancient home of Cypris. Myself, I confess, I could have spared it, since of all varieties of intellectual exercise this is the hardest that I know.

Nicosia is a place of many amusements. Thus they play golf there on a course of nine holes. It is odd to do the round with a gentleman in a round fez acting as your caddie, and to observe upon the greens—or the yellows, for they are made of sand—Turkish ladies veiled in yashmaks engaged in the useful tasks of brushing and weeding. What in their secret hearts do those denizens of the harem think of us, I wonder? Would not their verdict, if we could get at it, be "Mad, mad, my masters"? But English folk would celebrate book-teas and play golf or any other accustomed game upon the brink of Styx. Perhaps that is why they remain a ruling race, for to do this it is necessary to preserve the habits and traditions of the fatherland, refusing persistently to allow them to be overwhelmed by those of any surrounding people. Witness the triumphant survival of the Hebrew. But that subject is large.

The scene on this golf-course was quaint and picturesque. In front appeared the bold outline of the Kyrenia hills with rugged old Pentadactylon's five fingers pointing to a flaming, stormy sky, and behind rose the palms and minarets of eastern-looking Nicosia. Between the two lay the wide plain across whose spaces from time to time wended strings of solemn camels, the head of each tied to the tail of its brother in front, or little groups of asses laden with firewood and other goods, a Cypriote seated on the last of them in a posture to be acquired only by centuries of inherited experience. The links themselves are by no means bad, though somewhat limited and extemporary. Thus the bunkers are formed of artificial banks varied by an occasional stone wall, the other hazards consisting chiefly of breaks of asphodel and rocks cropping through the apology for turf. Upon one of these rocks alas! I broke my host's best cleek.

I had long been looking forward to playing a second visit to the museum at Nicosia, which consisted in past years of a few disorderly rooms crowded with miscellaneous antiquities. Having before I left England read reviews of an important new catalogue of the Cyprus Museum, I concluded that all this was changed. The deeper proved my disappointment.

To begin with there is no custodian, so I was dependent on the kind offices of Major Chamberlayne to show me round. After long hammering we were let into the house by a girl, who said she would go upstairs and open the shutters of the rooms. On the ground floor beneath the archway, and in a kind of court, altars, remains of marble horses and chariots, tombstones, busts, unpacked crates of antiquities, some of them marked as having been forwarded years ago, were mixed in great confusion. The more precious objects were in a little chamber opening out of this archway, but it was no easy task to discover the keys which fitted the cases from which the trays had to be taken one by one and then replaced. The Cyprus share of the famous Enkomi treasures of which I have spoken we could not find anywhere. It appears indeed that these objects are still locked up in some Government safe. Throughout the whole collection the story is the same. So far as the general public and Cyprus are concerned, it is practically valueless. For this sad state of affairs, however, the Government must not be blamed. They have not a single farthing to spend upon such things as relics of the island's past history, however important and interesting these may be.

In this Cyprus collection, to my astonishment I came face to face with an old friend. Many years ago, when first I visited Famagusta, I feloniously did steal a certain cannon-ball which lay about among the ruins just where three centuries ago it had fallen from some Turkish gun. The ladies of our party followed my evil example and stole another. Both of these mementoes we bore back to Government House and there, with the effrontery of hardened offenders, openly displayed them. Now it appeared that not long before a special Government edict had been issued against the removal of ancient cannon-balls, and it was pointed out that his Excellency could not suffer his own guests to do those very things which he had forbidden to the public. Bowing to the inevitable I thereupon surrendered my cannon-ball, but the ladies refusing to be influenced by this pure logic, managed to retain theirs, which they afterwards presented to me, so that at this moment I hold it in my hand.

What became of that cannon-ball—mine, I mean—I often wondered, and on this day so long, long afterwards I found out. There, yes, there neglected in a dusty corner on the floor, in company with the noseless head of a Greek child and the fragments of a Phoenician pot, unhonoured and uncared for, lay the heavy missile that with so much labour I had borne away from Famagusta. There was no doubt about it, I could swear to that lump of iron in any court of law; also it was the only one in the place, and evidently had been deposited here that the authorities might be rid of it. Moreover, by a strange coincidence the very gentleman whose official duty it had been to relieve me of the stolen property in the first instance, was now at my side.

Life is full of coincidences. Who would have thought that the three of us, Major Chamberlayne, Cannon-ball, and I, would live to meet again thus strangely after so long a lapse of time and in so far off a land? Sorely, I admit, was my virtue tempted, for while my guide was mourning over something out of place in a distant corner, I might easily have transferred the ball to my coat pocket, trusting to fortune and the strength of the stitching to get it away, and unobserved. But so greatly has my moral character strengthened and improved during the last decade and a half, that actually I left it where it was, and where doubtless it will remain until some one throws it on to the museum rubbish heap.

The island of Cyprus is one of the few countries in the world that I have felt sorry to leave. Often I have thought that it would be a delightful place to live in, not in the towns, a frequenter of book-teas, but in solitude as a hermit upon some haunted hill among the shattered pillars of old cities, with vineyard slopes beneath and the sea beyond. Only I should like to be a rich hermit—to the poor that profession must be irksome—and then I would restore Bella Pais and see what the land could grow. A friend of mine did in fact turn anchorite in Cyprus, but I noticed that he always seemed to find it necessary to come home for his militia training, and when I re-visited his hermitage the other day, lo! it was desolate.

Fortunately the road from Nicosia to Limasol by which the traveller departs runs through the very dreariest districts of the island, and thereby eases the farewell. For three hours' journey, or more, on either side of it stretch bare, barren hills, worn to the grey bone, as it were, by the wash of thousands of years of rain and bleached in the fiery Cyprian sun. I daresay, however, that with care even the most unpromising of this soil would nourish certain sorts of trees, as probably it did in past ages.

Then the denudation would cease, the earth grow green, the flood waters be held up and the former and the latter rain called down, until here too, as on the Kyrenia coast, the land became a paradise.

And so farewell to Cyprus the bounteous and the beautiful.

XIV. BEYROUT, TYRE, AND SIDON

Our journeyings in Cyprus finished, we sailed from Limasol at night. Next morning when I woke up early, our ship, a Messagerie boat, was already anchoring in the waters of St. George's Bay, and before us lay the busy city of Beyrout, the Berytus of the Phoenicians. Presently an emissary of the Beyrout branch of the house of Cook arrived on board and asked us if we had any revolvers, or cigarettes. We had both.

"Give them to me," he said, "and I'll see you through."

Then it transpired that in this matter of revolvers there is little difference between the Turkish and the Cyprian governments. In a country where every peasant goes about his business with a double-barrelled gun slung across his shoulders, the respectable traveller may not pass a pocket-pistol through the customs.

We left the ship with our belongings, and rowed to the landing-quay. Then the fun began. Such shouting, such gesticulating, such struggles! First we were marched through a room where sat an aged Turk who stared at us sleepily. To him we protested that we had nothing, nothing! with such vigour that the least experienced might have guessed that we prevaricated. Then a minor Cook and his myrmidons hustled us through passages and gateways into the open street, and whispering mysteriously, "There is something wrong," left us and vanished.

In due course it transpired the "something" was that our sleepy-eyed Turk, who was by no means so simple as he appeared, had caught sight of the large revolver projecting from between the folds of a coat gracefully arranged to hide it by the artifice of Cook. Further, he had impounded that revolver, but as Cook, with admirable promptitude and disregard of facts, informed him that we were sailing for Egypt in a day or two, he was so good as to promise that we could have it when we left. After this, thankful to escape so cheaply, we started for our hotel.

That afternoon I hired a carriage to drive out to a spot about ten miles away, called the Dog River, and by the ancient Greeks, Lykos, or Wolf River. Here, in the days of fable, a huge stone dog sat upon a rock and barked loudly whenever an enemy drew near. Perhaps—this is but a suggestion—the statue was so constructed that the wind rushing down his throat made a noise like to that of a hound which bays. At the least he did in truth sit there, since lying prone in shallow water I myself saw his gigantic, headless shape, large as that of an ox or a horse. Now he barks no longer, but whenever the sea rises its waves moan over him. Henry Maundrell saw him also in 1697, for he says:—

"In an hour or more, spent upon a very rugged way, close by the sea, we came to the river Lycus, called also, sometimes, Canis, and by the Turks, at this day, Nahr Kelp. It derives its name from an idol in the form of a dog or wolf, which was worshipped, and is said to have pronounced oracles, at this place. The image is pretended to be shown to strangers at this day, lying in the sea with its heels upward. I mean the body of it; for its oracular head is reported to have been broken off and carried to Venice, where (if fame be true) it may be seen at this day."

The first mile or so of our drive was through Beyrout, for the East, a very prosperous-looking town, where everybody seems busy at his trade—carpentering, copper-fashioning, weaving, or dyeing. Most of the inhabitants are Christian, which accounts for this strange activity; at any rate, their women, some of them may be called pretty while young, go unveiled. The roads, however, are fearful. I have never seen worse out of Central America. In places, indeed, it was as much as two good horses could do to pull our carriage through the mud, while the holes into which the wheels dropped continually were deep and distressing.

So soon, however, as Beyrout was left behind these same roads suddenly became excellent—no civilised turnpike could be better. The change puzzled me greatly, but afterwards I discovered the reason. We had passed into territory over which the Mussulman rules in name alone. After the fearful massacre of the Christians at Damascus and elsewhere by the Druses, encouraged thereto by the Turks, came the French expedition of 1861. This display of force, backed by the remonstrances of the Powers, obliged the unwilling Sultan to grant semi-independence to the Maronites, and to allow the establishment of an imperium in imperio, generally known as the Lebanon Government. Being Christian, affiliated to the Roman Church indeed, although they retain certain special privileges, since their priests have the right to read Mass in Syraic and to marry, these Maronites are industrious and progressive. Hence the good roads, the honest administration, and the suggestive fact that property which lies within the territories of the Lebanon Government fetches, if sold, about five times as much as that of similar extent and character which has the advantage of bordering on Beyrout, but the disadvantage of groaning under the rule of the Moslem.

Every inch of the rich land that lines this road is in high cultivation, a large proportion of it being planted with mulberry-trees, which are kept severely cut back, as the young shoots of two or three years' standing produce the richest crop of leaves. These mulberries are not grown for their fruit but only for the foliage, that feeds the silk-worms, which are perhaps the principal source of wealth in this district. Between these plantations lie patches of vines and other crops.

Here the road was crowded with transport animals; donkeys staggered along under the weight of two great planks; camels laden with mighty sacks of grain, and so forth. As we went I observed a farmer engaged in setting a number of young trees, to receive which the ground had been carefully trenched to a depth of over two feet. Finding it troublesome to throw up the soil from the bottom of the trench, labour doubtless being cheap in Syria, he overcame the difficulty in a very ingenious fashion. To the stem of his shovel were attached two thin ropes, each of them held by a man who stood upon the surface level. When the agriculturist below had piled the spade with earth, at a word the assistants above pulled, and, without any undue exertion on his part, up came the shovel and its contents. The plan is clever, yet it seemed to me somewhat wasteful to employ the muscles of three men to throw one spadeful of soil out of a hole not thirty inches deep. A Turk, however, would settle the question by planting the mulberries in untrenched land, or more probably by leaving them unplanted altogether.

For five or six miles our road ran on by the edge of the sea, till at length we reached our goal. Here a river or rather a wide torrent—that of the Dog—has in the course of unnumbered aeons cut for itself a path to the ocean between two bold, bare-shouldered mountains. This stream is, or was, crossed by a fine stone bridge, but the winter floods, coming down in their fury, have undermined its piers and swept away several of the spans. At present no attempt has been made to repair the wreck.

Above us, to be reached by a few minutes' scramble, ran the remains of the old Roman, or mayhap Phoenician, road, cut in the face of the precipice. Here, graven deep upon the flat surface of the rock, are curious tablets, each of which marks the passage of some conqueror at different periods of the world's history. Altogether there are about a dozen of these inscriptions. The latest in date records the names of the French generals who occupied the land so recently as 1860; the earliest that of the Egyptian Pharaoh, whose standards shone in the Syrian sun before Solomon sat upon the throne of Judah; the sign manual of great Rameses, no less, for whose pleasure the Israelites moulded their strawless bricks from the mud of Father Nile. The Assyrian was here also, Sennacherib the king who flourished when Rameses had been some seven centuries dead, and others great in their day, whereof nothing now remains except a name and such monuments as these. Each conqueror as he trod these shores thus stamped his seal upon their cliffs, so that men unborn might learn the prowess of his arms. It was a poor and primitive expedient to avoid the oblivion which dogs even those at whose high-sounding titles whole nations shook, yet not altogether ineffective. At least it brings their exploits home to the minds of some few travellers thousands of years after those who wrought them have mingled their dust with that of the peoples whom they slaughtered. Will our daily press and voluminous records do more, or as much, for the conquerors and conquests of to-day? When the world has rolled along the path of another three thousand years some traces of these tablets may still remain, and with them traditions of the men who set them there. But who will remember, let us say, the Boer war and the generals that fought its battles?

The flowers that sprang in the crevices of this old roadway were beautiful and various. Doubtless the legions of Rameses and of Sennacherib trod such beneath their feet. The frail lily of the field is more immortal than the mightiest conqueror of the world. It serves to weave his crown and to deck his feasts awhile, but the last triumph is not for him, for in his dust it flourishes eternally.

That evening we went for a walk through the streets and suburbs of Beyrout, amusing ourselves by watching the children of the city flying kites in the strong wind, a pastime for which in Palestine they have a passion. These kites, which are beautifully made, and decorated with dozens of bright streamers, the lads manage with great skill, contriving even to make their playthings fight in the air. Also we examined the fishing-boats in process of construction upon the seashore. They are built roughly, but very strongly, the uprights and knees being fashioned of rudely-shaped pines. I imagine that the Phoenicians of thousands of years ago must have sailed the ocean in such vessels, if of somewhat larger tonnage.

Beyrout is a land of flowers. Already I saw Banksia roses and Bougainvilleas in bloom, with many other creeping plants upon the houses round which the new-come martins dipped and wheeled.

On returning to the hotel, a fairly comfortable place, whereof the dining-room was decorated with the boughs and cones of the cedar of Lebanon, now, I am sorry to learn, a scarce tree, we found the cavass from the British Consulate waiting with our tezkerehs. These are documents of identification which the traveller in Syria is required to fill in, giving a full account of his personal appearance, age, height, parentage, and the rest, after which they must receive the official stamp of his consul. It is a curious fact, showing how little customs change in the East, that sundry of the earlier pilgrims mention the necessity of providing themselves with similar descriptive certificates.

Thus Wilibald, who visited the Holy Land in A.D. 724, says, "Nobody is allowed to pass this place (Libanus) without letters of safe conduct, those who are without such letters are seized and sent to Tyre."

Again, the monk Bernard the Wise, who travelled in 867, about 140 years later than Wilibald, mentions that at Bari "we obtained from the Prince of the city, called the Sultan, the necessary arrangements for our journey with two letters of safe conduct, describing our persons and the objects of our journey, to the Prince of Alexandria and to the Prince of Babylonia." Further on he says that on entering cities in the Holy Land the pilgrims were never allowed to leave them until they had "received a paper or impression of a seal."

The same habit obtains to-day, where the tourist's tezkereh has to be produced and stamped by the officials of each town he visits.

I do not think, however, that the English consuls have been much troubled in this matter during the present year, when, either because of the war, or for some other reason, but very few of their compatriots have visited the Holy Land. Of Americans, however, there are a good many.

The news of the relief of Ladysmith reached Beyrout upon the first day of our visit. By the French element, which is important there, it was ill received, but the rest of the population, both Christian and Moslem, seemed pleased. Thus as I was reading the telegram which was pinned upon a wall, an old Turk clapped me on the shoulder, and, pointing to the cable, expressed his delight by pantomime. Indeed the individual Turk is generally a friend to the English and a good fellow. Of the Pashas and the government so much cannot be said. The Maronites also appear to like us. When I was at the Dog River a young man, who could speak a little broken English, came up to me and asked for news of the war. I told him of the relief of Ladysmith, whereof I had already learned by private wire, at which tidings he seemed delighted. "Good people, English," he said, "good people! No make poor men soldiers." Evidently my friend preferred the paths of peace, and in this country would have voted against conscription.

That evening the sunset was beautiful. The sight of its colours falling and fading while the twilight deepened over the swelling snows of Lebanon, was one which I shall not easily forget.

Beyrout is a city of which the stranger, without local interests, is apt to tire after the first few days. Indeed, when he has driven round by the American seminary, inspected the pigeon rocks, where there are no pigeons, and purchased lengths of camel-hair cloth, which English tailors afterwards find almost impossible to make up, there is really little left for him to do. Therefore I was not sorry when very early one morning we rose, paid our bills, and under the care of the fostering Cook, who, wonderful to relate, succeeded in recovering the revolver, embarked upon the khedival steamer for Haifa, sixty or seventy miles away, whence we had arranged to commence our journey through the Holy Land. Fortunately the day was hot and fine, and Beyrout looked bright and beautiful in the rays of the morning sun as we steamed out of its harbour, although the Lebanon was half hidden in a haze.

The collection of passengers on board was one of the most motley that ever I saw. Forward were many pilgrims travelling to Mecca, of whom presently. Aft, standing or sitting on the quarter-deck, were a party of American maiden ladies; Levantines in fezes; Turkish officers in rather shabby uniform; a Maronite priest with a tall cap; and four Turkish women wrapped in black robes, and wearing various-coloured yashmaks. In the case of the youngest and best-looking of the quartet, this veil was of a perfectly diaphanous material; moreover she found it necessary to remove it from time to time in order to admire the view. The other ladies, who, to judge from their enormous size, must have been elderly, were more correct, and managed to study Lebanon through their yashmaks. But if they veiled their faces they showed not the slightest objection to the display of limbs which the female sex elsewhere conspires to hide. Thus the very stoutest of the family, for doubtless they shared the same harem, by the simple act of crossing them, revealed to the knee and higher the most gigantic pair of yellow-stockinged legs that it ever was my lot to contemplate. There she sat and mused, and there we stood and marvelled. Indeed my nephew, graceless youth, actually fetched a camera and photographed them. But, will it be believed, the modest instrument refused to act! Out of all the plates brought home this one alone proved absolutely blank.

At the invitation of the commander, Captain Peck, I went to sit upon the bridge, a coign of vantage whence I could study the pilgrims on the decks below. Among them was a party wearing astrakan caps, pious travellers from far Afghanistan. They were accompanied by a servant and seemed much cleaner in person than their fellow-passengers. Next to these a man was engaged in chanting his prayers in a monotone, and another in reading the Koran, also aloud. Further on sat a poet or story-teller repeating rhymes or tales to an audience that listened with more or less attention. Perhaps he publishes in Kandahar. On the other side of the deck, in charge of an old woman, were several ladies of doubtful pasts, or presents—one of them almost good-looking—pilgrims, to what shrine I know not. Number three, tried by the motion of the vessel, rests her head upon the knees of number two, while number four smokes a narghile, and regards the follower of the Prophet at his devotions opposite, with an air of philosophical amusement. Cooking-pots, prayer-rugs, chatties of water, baskets of food and oranges, all crowded together amid the prostrate forms lying on the dirty deck, appropriately completed this various scene.

About midday we ran past green-sloped hills, broken here and there by bays of yellow sand and stretches of orange gardens, where in bygone ages stood the altars of that Ashtoreth

"whom the Phoenicians called

Astarte, Queen of Heaven, with crescent horns;

To whose bright image nightly by the moon

Sidonian virgins paid their vows and songs."

Round this bay, doubtless, once rose the ancient Sidon, or its suburbs, backed by a spur of Lebanon, and in the hills behind lies its desecrated necropolis. The town, now a place without trade and of little importance since the Druse Emir Fakh-reddin filled up the southern harbour, like most of the forts and principal edifices of the Phoenicians, was built upon a promontory faced by a little island. From the northern end of this island runs a ridge or reef, protecting the north harbour. Doubtless the existence of this natural breakwater influenced the Phoenicians in choosing the site of the town, which in the fulness of time became so great a city. The ancient inhabitants of Sidon "Queen of Ships" were famous for their knowledge of the stars and powers of navigation after sunset. Even to-day it is not difficult to imagine her long trading galleys stealing out through the gap in the reef at night on their difficult and dangerous journey to the daughter colony of Carthage, and thence to Spain, Italy, Gaul, and Britain.

Several sheiks clad in their picturesque Bedouin apparel boarded us here to make the pilgrimage to Mecca. Among them was an old man evidently of high position, since those who came to bid him farewell kissed his hand and face with great respect and affection. At one o'clock he walked aft near to where I was sitting, spread a prayer-carpet, and began to sing and mutter his devotions, making many prostrations, and from time to time touching the deck with his forehead. Then he took up his beautiful rug, shook it, and departed, leaving the vacant space to be occupied by another devotee.

It was towards evening when Captain Peck, pointing to a spot which projected from a vast dim sweep of coast, said, "That is Tyre." Further, with a courtesy for which I hereby return him my thanks, he offered to take the vessel in as close as it was safe to do, that we might have a good view of this place of renown. I surveyed it with a curious and deep emotion. Behind the white houses lay long dusky-coloured hills, and as seen from that distance—although in fact it rises some miles to the south, for I imagine that this is the mountain marked upon the maps as Tell Habesh—immediately to its rear appeared a tumulus-like eminence. Beyond this again the coast-line trends out to a sharp chalk-cliffed headland, known as the White Cape.

Strangely dead and desolate in the fast-fading lights of a winter day, looked this fallen city backed by the far-off snows of Lebanon wrapping that barren and forsaken land in their gigantic winding-sheet. Lonesome, too, were the smooth dull sea whereon our own was the only sail and the monotonous shore upon which it broke. Behind the town, if so it can still be called, spreads a stretch of yellow sand. Once this was beneath the water, but Alexander the Great, when he besieged the city, built a causeway across the neck of sea out of the materials of the continental settlement known as Palaetyrus, that thereby he might come at the island forts. This causeway was 60 feet wide by over 400 yards long; but since the conqueror's age the sands have drifted over it, so that now island and coast are joined, and the ancient harbours have silted up.

What a history has this place that in the beginning as to-day, was called, not Tyre, but Sur, which means a rock. The Phoenicians built it, or perhaps a people who were before them; Hiram (the contemporary of Solomon) increased and adorned it, Shalmenezer, Nebuchadnezzar, Alexander the Great, and Antigonus besieged and took it. Cleopatra received it as a gift from the princely Anthony. St. Jerome celebrated it as the richest and most lively city of Phoenicia and the East. The Saracens occupied it, the Crusaders drove them out and held it for generations. Lastly, the Moslems retook it, and to this hour stamped it with their seal of ruin. It is sung of also by Isaiah and Ezekiel, who prophesied its woe.

"Is this your joyous city whose antiquity is of ancient days?" Well may the traveller ask that question of "the crowned city whose merchants are princes, whose traffickers are the honourable of the earth." In the old time, exalted by her pomp and wealth, Tyre said:—

"I am a god, I sit in the seat of God in the midst of the sea," and set her heart "as the heart of God." Therefore said the Lord God: "Behold I am against thee, O Tyrus, and will cause many nations to come up against thee, as the sea causes his waves to come up. And they shall destroy the walls of Tyrus and break down her towers: I will also scrape her dust from her, and make her like the top of a rock. It shall be a place for the spreading of nets in the midst of the sea: for I have spoken it, saith the Lord God: and it shall become a spoil for the nations. . . . And I will cause the voice of thy songs to cease; and the sound of thy harp shall be no more heard. And I will make thee like the top of a rock: thou shalt be a place to spread nets upon; thou shalt be built no more: for I the Lord hath spoken it, saith the Lord God. Thus said the Lord God to Tyrus: Shall not the isles shake at the sound of thy fall, when the wounded cry, when the slaughter is made in the midst of thee. . . . How art thou destroyed that wast inhabited of sea-faring men, the renowned city, which wast strong in the sea, she and her inhabitants. . . . !"

"A place for the spreading of nets!" Behold there on the rocks, where stood her foots and palaces, the nets lie spread, drying for the use of those humble fishermen, in whose veins runs the blood of the merchants who were princes, and the traffickers who were the honourable of the earth. What a town it must have been in those days of the gorgeous Tyrian purple, when the mercenaries of Persia, and of Lud, and of Phut were in her army, when "Syria was thy merchant by reason of the multitude of the wares of thy making; they occupied in thy fairs with emeralds, purple, and broidered work, and fine linen, and coral and agate." And what a place it is now when the curse of the Almighty is at work within its shattered walls.

The site of island Tyre, discrowned, dishonoured queen, fades into a low projection, a mere grey blot upon the eternal waters that once she ruled, and vanishes. Now before us lie the sands that Jesus trod, still shining yellow in the last low lights of evening. These were the sands also over which Paul passed when, after his sojourn in the city, the Spirit demanded of him "that he should not go up to Jerusalem." . . . "And they all brought us on our way, with wives and children, till we were out of the city; and we kneeled down on the shore and prayed. . . ."

Then down fell the swift curtain of Eastern night, and presently, watching from the lofty bridge, I saw the red lamp of Acre abreast of us, and to our right the lamp of Carmel, and to the left and ahead of us the hundred lights of Haifa. So to Haifa we came at last over the sleeping seas and dropped anchor in her harbour. Presently boats rowed out to greet us, and in one of them the cavass of the Consulate which had thoughtfully been warned by wire of our arrival by Mr. Drummond Hay, the British consul at Beyrout.

He was a gorgeous-looking man that cavass. Tyre in all its glory could not have produced more splendid robes than those he wore, and calm command sat throned upon his reflective brow. I worship no dignity or pomp of place; the sound of title does not move me greatly, who am content to be a humble unit floating with a million, million others down the great sea of Time towards the night of Time's oblivion, thankful that I am allowed to do my work and to earn my wage as well or as ill as I am able, according to the lights and the powers that are given me. Yet most of us are children at heart, and—I confess my weakness—I could wish to occupy some position in the world which would officially entitle me to retain the services of one or two—nay, let the truth out—of a whole half-dozen of Syrian cavasses. There is something about these magnificent creatures and their glorious and appropriate garments that excites my fancy and its desires. I should like to walk to and fro guarded by such splendid servitors, to awake them from the solemn and majestic idleness wherein they spend their sunny days, saying to this one "Go," and watching him as he goeth, and to the other "Come," making sure that he cometh with speed. It would give me pleasure to despatch them to lead the wondering and awestruck traveller within my gates, even though I knew that presently, when I was out of sight, they would relieve the said traveller of a trifling fee to the value of five shillings, made, in the corresponding number of piastres, to seem a sum magnificent and worthy the acceptance of the great.

The particular representative of this privileged class whose mien and appearance moved me to these reflections, at once took us under his wing, and in the most open fashion added our revolvers to the collection of weapons of war which were bound about his middle. Well he knew, indeed, that no mere port official would dare to interfere with him; no, not if he brought ashore a Maxim gun, pretending that it was for purposes of personal defence. So wide was that sheltering wing of his in truth that it covered quite a number of American ladies, who wisely tacked themselves on to our party, thereby avoiding all trouble with the Turkish customs.

At the hotel we found our dragoman awaiting us. A first interview with a person so very important to the traveller's comfort during the time that he is in his charge as a dragoman, is, in a small way, momentous, since on the mutual impression then produced a great deal may depend. On this occasion it was satisfactory.

The dragoman, David by name, was a Christian. Before he took to his present profession he had been a teacher in a school in Jerusalem, and after that, dresser to the British hospital at Tiberias, an occupation which he abandoned through inability to bear the smell of the anaesthetics that he was continually called upon to administer. Here it was that he learnt to speak English so well, a very necessary qualification for his present trade. For the rest, he was slight and dark, about thirty years of age, a teetotaller, and I should say of a somewhat melancholy temperament. Perhaps the task of conducting parties round the Holy Land for years on years induces depression even in the dragoman who profits by them.

With the help of David we settled finally upon our route. It was agreed that we should travel to Nazareth, from Nazareth to the Sea of Galilee, from the Sea of Galilee to Mount Tabor, thence across the Plain of Esdaelon to Jenin and Nablus, and so round to Jerusalem, whence we proposed to visit Jericho and the Dead Sea.

In arranging such a tour many things have to be considered—horses, weight of baggage, possible accommodation, endurance of the travellers, the time at their disposal, and, above all, the weather and the condition of the roads, or what in Syria are called roads. These matters being at length determined after much discussion, we parted for the night, David adjuring us to be up early on the following morning.

So to bed, as old Pepys says. I for one was by no means sorry to get there.

XV. NAZARETH AND TIBERIAS

On the following morning, after breakfast, which in hotels in the Holy Land consists of tea or coffee, two eggs, not much larger than those of bantams, and native jam, or honey from Lebanon, David arrived beautifully attired in a gold-laced garment, with a large revolver strapped on to him. He told us that the horses were come so we went out to look at them, and returned rather crestfallen. They were sorry brutes on which to ride for many days over rough and roadless country, although, like all entire horses, they held their heads well. In fact, the poor little animals, that under different treatment would have been serviceable, if second-class Arabs, had been starved and overworked. However, there were none others to be found. Haifa at any time is a bad place at which to obtain transport animals, but as it happened, the whole country had been swept of horses by a gigantic cheap American trip numbering over five hundred souls, with some of whom we were destined to become acquainted. Therefore our choice was that which tradition has ascribed to Mr. Hobson. It was these horses or none at all.

I was asked to choose mine, and, guided by my African experience of many years ago when I had a good deal to do with horses, I passed over the larger and stronger-looking brown animal and selected a little grey scaffolding of a nag. In this it seems that my judgment did not fail me, since the brown proved to be a veritable death-trap, and I was heartily glad when my nephew rode it into Nazareth without a bad fall or broken limb. My steed proved quite safe and stumbled not at all. Indeed the front half of him was excellent—a pretty little head that champed the bit and even tried to run away, an arched neck, a good shoulder, and a pair of sound and sure-footed fore-legs. But once past the line of the girths, oh! what a falling off was there; indeed he had no quarters to speak of, so wasted were they, and this hind pair of legs were very, very weak. Indeed it was by no means uncommon for him to drop so sharply on one or the other of them for five or six successive steps that at the end of a day's journey my spine felt as though it had been twisted. Especially did this happen going up or down steep hills. David's pony was smaller, and even more thin, but had the merit of being sure-footed and an excellent walker, a wonderful advantage in such a country where five-sixths of the road must be covered at a foot pace. Then there were two baggage animals, a horse and a mule, the former ridden by the muleteer who owned all the beasts, and the latter by his black assistant, both of them perched atop of the great piles of luggage and equipment.

It was ten o'clock or so before the baggage was packed and loaded up and we had departed under a raking and deadly fire from the kodaks of the American ladies. Strange customers shall we appear in the photographic albums of Pa. and Ma. and Kansas, U.S.A., or whatever other states our kindly acquaintances may adorn.

Our road took us through the town of Haifa, once called Sycaminum. This place is beautifully situated upon the south shore of the Bay of Acre, but to-day more notable perhaps for the pleasant-looking houses of the German colony who dwell there—their very box-like primness delights the eye full fed with Syrian squalor—than for anything else. Having stopped to pay a short call upon the consul, where I saw my friend the cavass looking quite civilian and domestic in his morning clothes, we cantered through the narrow streets on to the road to Nazareth.

This road is one of the few that exist in the Holy Land. Like the new pier at Haifa, which cost several thousand pounds, and is quite unserviceable, it was constructed for the especial use of the German Emperor on the occasion of his recent visit to Palestine. In fact his Majesty never used it as he abandoned the idea of a pilgrimage to Nazareth and the Sea of Galilee, preferring to toil along the coast to Jaffa and thence take the train to Jerusalem. When first completed, perhaps, it was a good road of a sort, but after two winters' rains it is—what may be imagined. Still carriages are dragged through its ruts and quagmires.

On our right as we rode out of Haifa rose Mount Carmel, where the prophets were hid by fifty in a cave, and on our left ran a piece of the railway to Damascus which somebody began and never finished. Travelling on we crossed the wide plain and the brook Kishon, where the prophets of Baal were brought down to be slaughtered, I suppose that its waters might take their accursed blood and bodies out to sea. This plain is very marshy and we found considerable difficulty in making our way through one of the mud-holes on the road; indeed the baggage animals had to go round up the side of a mountain. It was here that we met a number of mounted soldiers, sullen-looking, ill-clad fellows armed with rifles of a somewhat antiquated pattern. They were hastening into Haifa to attend the funeral of the Turkish governor, who had died suddenly during the night.

The slopes of the Carmel range above us were clothed with wild carobs which nobody takes the trouble to graft and turn to profit. In the deep kloofs of these mountains also many wild bears are to be found. Crossing Kishon we struggled against the wind that tore seawards along its course, through a stretch of marsh starred with yellow lilies and purple orchis such as I find here in Norfolk, up that gorge whence Sisera is said to have advanced with his army before he met his death at the hands of the patriotic but treacherous Jael. At length, riding over park-like hills covered with beautiful oaks of a species that I do not know, just then breaking into green and tender leaf, we came to a spot commanding a view of the highest part of Carmel whither after the great drought Elijah sent his servant seven times to look across the ocean for signs of the coming rain. Below it and about three miles away on a lesser hill marked by a tree, is the very spot where took place the fearful conflict between the prophet and the priests of Baal, while beneath rolled the wide plain of Jezreel, dull and endless to the eye in the dense shadow of a rain-cloud.

On the top of a ridge we stopped to lunch among the ancient oaks. The provision of this or any other meal caused us no anxiety; we had nothing to do with the matter, being so to speak "taken in" at so much a head. The finding of food, and indeed of everything except wine and mineral waters, is the dragoman's affair under the contract, and he produces the same out of sundry bags which are tied upon the various animals. The liquor department, however, must be attended to by his principal. I mention the fact in the interest of any future traveller who may happen to read this book, for the matter is important. Water in Palestine is always doubtful, and frequently poisonous. To drink it may mean typhoid fever or dysentery. Therefore, it is most needful that there should be a proper supply of wine and Apollinaris, or, at least, of boiled water. The same thing applies in hotels. In whatever direction the tourist economises, let it not be in what he drinks.

The spot where we picnicked was lovely. Amidst those primeval oaks and the water-worn rocks cropping from the soil around us the ground was carpeted, in fact, and not in name, with the most beauteous anemones, red and pure white in colour, that ever it was my lot to see, diversified on the more stony spots with clumps of flowering cyclamen. From all about, also, rose the curious chirping sound of grasshoppers, while above us, in the blue depths between the threatening clouds, hovered kites and falcons. To our right lay the road where, through the trees, strings of camels were passing, among them more soldiers hastening to the pasha's funeral, and unveiled women riding upon asses, or staggering along beneath titanic loads of firewood.

Presently, the restless David informed us that it was time to start. The horses, that had been tied to bushes without food to prevent them from rolling with their loads upon their backs, were bridled, and off we went along a fearful track of miles of mud sloughs (the German Emperor's new road), till at length we began to ascend the stony hills of Galilee. Sticking, floundering, and thrashing, we reached their crest, and far below us saw the village of Nazareth, a straggling Eastern township situated upon the lower slopes of rounded, rocky hills, which at this season of the year are literally sheeted with blue iris and with cyclamen.

Yes, there lay Nazareth, the holy spot, that like thousands of other pilgrims in every generation, for years I had desired to see. How is it possible for even the most cynical and faithless to look upon that place save with a heart of deepest reverence? Discard the war of sites, and that worse war of the quarrelling sects. Let the loud speech of arguing travellers pass from your ears, and remember only that this is Nazareth, the place where He lived who has influenced our world most profoundly of any of its sons. Surely we should consider it in this spirit, and in no other. Look, there in a hollow of the hills the ploughman drives his oxen; there the sower goes forth to sow; there a fig pushes its first leaves, showing that summer is nigh. Yonder in the wayside shop, also, the carpenter plies his trade, and at our feet bloom the painted lilies of the field. Every stone of these mountains, from which on many a day Christ must have watched the dawn begin to burn upon the plains of Jezreel, every fertile fold of those valleys were familiar to His eyes. He loved them, we may be sure, as even we common men love the natural objects that present themselves about the home where we were bred, only, doubtless, more intensely, more purely, with a deeper insight and a truer imagination. As a lad, perhaps like yonder child, the Saviour herded sheep and goats among these starting rocks, to while away the time, plucking the cyclamen and iris, and watching the flocks of finches seek their food among the thistles. As a man He may have worked those ancient ploughlands, taking His share of the simple labours of the family to which He belonged. In short, within this circle that the sight commands, for thirty years or more the Almighty dwelt on earth, acquiring in an humble incarnation one side of that wisdom which has changed the world. Here is the master fact that makes this perhaps the most holy ground in the entire universe, and, in its face, what does it matter which was the exact site of the Annunciation or of the shop of Joseph?

Nazareth lies in a basin, and its white houses run up the slopes of the surrounding hills. The soil in the sheltered valleys must be fertile, since here are groves of figs and olives hedged with great fences of prickly pear. Probably, omitting certain modern buildings in western style, the appearance of the little town looked at from a distance is not dissimilar to that which it presented in the time of our Lord. At least, the country must be absolutely the same, even down to the very rocks which lie by the wayside. The population, also, both in dress and person, perhaps may not have varied much, although some writers think that it has received a strong dash of white blood, I cannot say upon what evidence. Certainly, however, I saw some children that were quite fair in colouring, but, as St. Antoninus, writing at the beginning of the seventh century, mentions the beauty of the women of Nazareth, it is obvious that this, at any rate, is not due to an admixture of the stock of the Crusaders. To this day that beauty is remarkable, for I observed it myself, and it was curious to reflect that among the people whom the traveller meets in Nazareth are, very possibly, some of the descendants of the brethren of the Lord removed from them only by the stepping-stones of fifty or sixty short human generations. This seems the more likely, as I cannot discover that the inhabitants of the township were ever slaughtered out wholesale, or carried away into captivity.

Many sites are shown in Nazareth, among them two of the actual spot of the Annunciation and a cave or cistern said to have been the Virgin's kitchen. Then there is the workshop of Joseph, the stone table upon which our Lord is reported to have eaten with His disciples both before and after the Resurrection, whereof, however, nothing was heard before the seventeenth century, and the synagogue where He taught, a small building no longer in the hands of the Jews. Of the authenticity of any of these relics or localities nothing is to be said, except that obviously they cannot all be right. Nothing except this—that here was the home of Mary, and here the Saviour lived for thirty years. What more can be needed?

One spot there is, however, that He must often have visited as a child and man, for there is no other water in Nazareth—the spring called Mary's Well. This gushes out beneath an arch which, although ancient enough, has, I suppose, been built, or rebuilt, several times since the day of our Lord. Here in the morning and the evening come the women of Nazareth with their children to fetch the household supply of water in narrow-necked earthenware pitchers or chatties, which they bear upon their heads. Some, I am sorry to say, are beginning to replace these ancient and graceful vessels with square-shaped paraffin tins. Evidently this spring is the favourite gossiping-ground of the community, for while the children play about outside, or upon the roof of the arch, their mothers and sisters wash their feet in the overflow waters, and chatter away to each other of the news or scandal of the hour. So it would always have been. Hither day by day Mary must have come bearing the empty pitcher balanced sideways upon her head and leading the infant Jesus by the hand. Here, too, in manhood, when weary with toil in the summer heat, Christ may often have sat at even and perhaps have taught those who lingered round the fountain.

This well lies on the outskirts of Nazareth, so that a few minutes' walk from it takes the visitor into the country. The flowers that I noticed here were anemones, ranunculi just showing for bloom, a variety of wild orchis with which I am unacquainted, cyclamen, blue iris (in sheets), asphodel, and, about a mile out of Nazareth, a single patch of English daisies. The birds in addition to the usual crows and falcons were the new-come swallows, the common sparrow that here seems to build in crannies of the walls, and the beautiful goldfinches of which I saw flocks numbering as many as thirty or fifty. I have never seen the goldfinch pack like this in England, perhaps because it is comparatively rare.

On arrival we found our inn crowded with a portion of the countless American company who had absorbed all the horses in Palestine and were now on the way back to Haifa where their vessel lay. Their conductor who, as I suppose, to make himself more easily visible to the items of his vast troop, was clad in flowing Eastern robes, a kindly and very agreeable member of the American nation, told us a moving tale which suggests that such a post is no sinecure. He took his flock, or some of it, to inspect, I think, that ancient roll of the Samaritan law which is kept in the synagogue at Nablus. Here, when the kohen was not looking, one of them tore a corner off the manuscript. The theft was detected and complaint made. Thereupon my friend the conductor summoned the party and addressed them upon the iniquity of such an act in terms so moving that the conscience of the spoiler was worked upon with such effect that he restored the missing fragment.

"When, however," continued the conductor, "on the very next day I saw that same fellow sitting upon the capital of a fallen marble column and smashing the carvings off it with a hammer, well, sir, I assure you that I never felt more like knocking a man down in my life. And, sir, he was a minister!"

Let us hope, by the way, that it was the copy of the ancient Pentateuch, which is frequently shown to travellers as the original, that was mutilated by this pious person. Apropos of the above story an American lady told me at Jerusalem that she met the same party in Egypt and at one time saw a whole collection of them—I think she said eight or ten—seated upon the head of the sphinx and engaged, every one, in trying to knock fragments from it with stones. She added that she had never felt ashamed of her countrymen before.

This reminds me of a still more heinous story—I do not vouch for it—which in Cyprus I was told of a certain traveller. The traveller, a man of practical mind, visited a famous shrine where a holy lamp had been kept burning for five, and, as some said, for seven hundred years. An ancient monk showed him the lamp. "Yes, noble Pilgrim," he said, "I have watched it for sixty years and the good father who was before me, he tended it for seventy-one, so that the everlasting flame has had but two guardians in a hundred and thirty years."

"And before that?" asked the traveller.

"Before that, noble Pilgrim? Ah! we do not know. All we know, for the books show it, is that the everlasting flame has not been out for five hundred years; it is said indeed for eight hundred, but that is tradition. Here is a copy of the book—would his Excellency like to see it"—and the monk turned to reach down the volume.

"Never been out?" Puff. "Well," added the traveller reflectively, "any way I guess that it is out now!"

When this gentleman—I mean, not the practical traveller, but the manager of the American caravan—whose name I regret to say I cannot remember, heard of our plight about horses, kindly he promised to send two of the best he had to meet us several days later on the top of Mount Tabor. The animals, he said, were engaged to return to Jerusalem, and might as well carry us there as not. So we parted, but alas! as shall be told in its place, though through no fault of his, we never saw those horses.

As no other steeds were obtainable we started for Tiberias on our own, my nephew changing his brown nag, however, which on three or four occasions had nearly fallen with him, for a wretched but sure-footed little rat of a baggage pony, that if not walking could only travel at a jerky trot. The muleteer who owned him declared that the brown horse was perfectly right, only a little stiff, and having strapped the luggage on to its back, proceeded to show his faith by mounting on the top. At the first mud-hole I heard a scuffle behind me, and, looking round, to my secret joy, saw the poor brute on its nose and his owner in the mire. After this he dismounted, and drove it through all bad places.

Passing up and over the long hill beyond Nazareth, we saw Saffuriyeh below us, which is the Sepphoris of Josephus, once the capital of Galilee, and, after the destruction of Jerusalem, the seat of the great Sanhedrim. Leaving this village on our left we rode across more steep hills to the valley of Kafr Kenna, which is believed to be the Cana of that marriage feast where the water was turned to wine. Beneath us lay the mud-built hamlet, looking much as it must have done when our Lord walked down to it with His mother to be present at the wedding, and on the road thither the spring from which the water would have been drawn that was made wine. Here, as at Nazareth, we found a number of women and children engaged in carrying water from the well to the village.

Riding on between hedges of prickly pears we came to a Greek church, the traditional site of the miracle, although that is disputed by the Latins. Built into the walls of this church, which, when we entered it, was being used for the purposes of a school, were two stone measures, capable, I should say at a guess, of holding five or six gallons apiece. These are shown as some of the actual vessels that held the water which Christ turned into wine. Whether they are the same is more than doubtful, but at least they appear to be of the pattern and period, and have been exhibited for many generations.

Leaving Kenna we rode by execrable roads, towards what is alleged to be the Hill of the Beatitudes, where the Sermon on the Mount was delivered, although, of course, there is a rival, and, to my mind, more probable site, in the neighbourhood of the ruins of Capernaum. This mountain, which is named Karn Hattin, is a lonely hill standing in a great plain remarkable for the extraordinary beauty and variety of its wild flowers. In places, especially under olives on old cultivated ground, the earth was one pink flush, produced by thousands of a small, many-headed bloom, with which I am not acquainted. Elsewhere it was quite blue with a gorgeous giant vetch, or lupin, that grows among springing corn, while everywhere appeared iris and anemones, many in this place of a magenta hue mixed among the commoner whites and scarlets. Probably, on account of its size, this lupin is, I find, not included in the delightful and interesting little book, "Wild Flowers from Palestine," gathered and pressed by the Rev. Harvey Greene, B.D.

It was strange to look at that desolate and untenanted mountain, and reflect that here upon its slopes—for the question between this and the rival site a few miles away at Capernaum, is purely a matter of opinion—may have sat those multitudes to whom were spoken the words which will echo through the world for ever, concentrating as they do the whole body of the Christian law. I believe it is admitted that this immortal and transcendent sermon was preached in the spring-time, and whether or no its sentences were uttered among these rocks, certainly the flowers blooming in such profusion about the place seem to bring home to the mind with new force and vividness those sayings which begin: "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow." That other saying also, "Behold the fowls of the air, they sow not neither do they reap nor gather into barns," might well have been inspired by the sight of the flocks of storks which at this season visit the plains about Mount Tabor, and may perhaps have been wandering to and fro within sight of Jesus as He preached. The greatest genius that has adorned the world would naturally have pointed His morals with convincing similes taken from the life, animate and inanimate, which presented itself about Him and must therefore come home to the mind of every listener, however ignorant or obtuse. Indeed, in the case of either side, this reflection applies equally.

It was upon this flowery mead on July 4, 1187, that the great Saladin shattered the strength of the Crusaders. The Christians were fighting with the reputed true Cross itself set up to inspire them, around which, wrote Saladin, "the Franks flew like moths round light." Says the Mussulman writer: "It was then that the sons of Paradise and children of fire fought out their terrible quarrel; the arrows sounded in the air like the noisy flight of birds; the water of swords, the blood of arrows spouted out from the bosom of the mêlée and covered the earth like the waters of rain."

The Christians were driven back upon the hill of Hattin, and there, victims to burning thirst and the swords of the Saracens, they perished by thousands. "I saw," writes the secretary of Saladin, "the hills, the plains, the valleys covered with their dead bodies; I saw their colours abandoned and soiled with blood and dust; I saw their heads struck off, their members dispersed, and their carcases piled up like stones."

Next day the Templar knights and those of St. John who still lived, were brought before the Sultan, and to each of the Emirs and doctors of the Law he gave his royal permission to butcher an unarmed Christian.

Such is the story of the fall of the Cross and the triumph of the Crescent at this battle of Hattin, sad enough reading even to the Christian of to-day.

Before we reached the mountain we met, trailing across the plain for a mile or over, some two hundred of that band of American travellers with whom we had become acquainted at Nazareth. They were all mounted, and, as we approached, certain of them greeted us with facetious cries of Baksheesh, stretching out their hands in imitation of Arab beggars. In those surroundings to my taste the joke seemed out of place.

Their gathering was motley, including, as I noticed, a good many ministers of different denominations. Its most striking feature, however, was afforded by the ladies of the party. Nearly all of these, even those who were provided with women's saddles, rode straddle-legged, after the fashion of men, a sight which I do not remember to have seen before except among peasants in the far North. The general effect struck me as inelegant and even unseemly. Their attire also was in some instances peculiar; thus, one young lady was clothed in an ordinary skirt much rucked up and a pair of enormous Syrian top-boots. Another, although the day was warm and dry, wore a shiny macintosh which also had ascended in obedience to natural laws. One fine-looking girl, however, sat her pony, a spirited Arab, like a centaur. I never saw any one with a closer or a better grip of a horse, and I imagine that wherever she came from she must have broken many a colt. But perhaps these criticisms are born of the merest prejudice. In every department of life it is nowadays easy to grow old-fashioned.

The Americans vanished and the reputed Mount of Beatitudes receded, till at length, riding to the top of a ridge, we saw far beneath us the blue lake of Galilee, sparkling in the sunlight and surrounded by its immense circle of green hills.

"Look," said the dragoman, David, pointing to a white speck on the north shore of the sea, "there is Capernaum!"

That—Capernaum, the great and flourishing city that was "exalted unto Heaven," that white dot—a monastery, as they say inhabited, but by a single priest. And the others—Chorazin and Bethsaida? The same, a desolation. Not even a monastery here, nothing but stones and some Bedouin tents which at this distance we could not discern.

Then we began the descent. It reminded me of that which once I made to one of the most striking and desolate places in the world, the gloomy rift of Thring-Vellir, where a thousand years ago the aristocratic republic of Iceland held its stormy and blood-stained parliaments. Now, after a long scramble down steep slopes of turf, to cut corners in the abominable road, of a sudden the city came into view. Tiberias is a crowded town set upon the shores of the great lake, surrounded with a crumbling wall and commanded by a fort in the last stage of decadence. The very arch beneath which we entered now consists of a single span of tottering stone. Indeed, it is marvellous that these have not long ago fallen upon the head of some unlucky passenger.

We went to our hostelry, a tidy place kept as usual by Germans, and off-saddled there. After refreshing ourselves with tea and oranges, of which after our long hot ride we stood much in need, we set out to explore Tiberias, the abode, according to the natives, of the King of all the Fleas.

Heavens! what a filthy place was that. The king of all the stenches must dwell there also. The bazaars are narrow and foul beyond conception; along some of them I could only pass with a handkerchief held before my face. Down the centre of these pestilential streets flow gutters full of every beastly refuse; there too sit and wander the population of Tiberias. As I had been informed that this city was for the most part occupied by Jews, I was curious to see them, thinking that upon their native soil we should find representatives of the race more or less as it was when it defied the Roman eagles. I was destined to disappointment. Here were no hawk-eyed, stern-faced men such as I had pictured. Here even was no Hebrew as we know him, strenuous, eager, healthy, and cosmopolitan.

Far different are these Jews, for the most part of Russian or Polish origin, who dwell in Tiberias. At a little distance in their dressing-gown-like robe it is not easy to say whether individuals are men or women. Indeed, even when studied face to face their aspect is singularly sexless. Their complexions are curiously pallid and unwholesome, while the hair of the men, often of a burning red, is arranged in two thin curls, which hang down oilily on either side of the forehead in front of the ears, like spare ringlets from the chevelures of our great-aunts. I asked David, who had dwelt among them for years, what this curious-looking folk did for a living. He replied—

"Oh! they just sit about."

So far as I could learn this seems to describe the facts, but I understand that the means to sit about on are, for the most part, subscribed by charitable Hebrews in Europe and elsewhere. Many of the men are, however, engaged in a study of the Talmud, an occupation for which Tiberias is traditionally famous.

When I add that, whatever the season, they wear tall black hats and skin capes; that some of the female children look pretty, though not strong; and that the adults, or individuals among them, are not averse to driving a trade in doubtful antiquities, it is all that I have to say of the Jews of Tiberias and their noisome habitations.

First, David led us to a Greek monastery, in the yard of which stands a vaulted building used as a rubbish place, said to be part of that palace occupied by the Sanhedrim after it was driven from Sepphoris. Thence, passing down more dreadful alleys—what would happen if they got the plague in them?—we emerged to the south of the town and walked along the road which runs to the hot baths. Here, as the ruins that lie on every hand bear witness, was the site of Roman Tiberias, built by Herod just before the mission of our Lord. The Saviour seems, however, never to have entered it, perhaps because it was a purely foreign city. On the cave-pierced hill above, set there no doubt to catch the cool evening breeze, is said to have stood the palace of Herod, while jutting into the lake are the wrecks of ancient walls and towers. The road itself runs through some temple, for in its centre, worn to the level of the pathway, stands the base of a marble column, and all about are other such remains. Having inspected them, but stopping short of the hot springs, we returned to Tiberias. On this occasion we kept outside the walls to avoid the smells, and were followed to our lodging by Jews who wished to buy the photographic camera and to sell us glass dug from the Roman tombs.

I omitted to state that in one of the bazaars I saw a man hawking sparrows. He offered them for sale by twos, each brace tied to a string. I worked out the price asked as well as I was able, and, comparing it with the value of money in our Lord's time, found that it was about equivalent to the Roman farthing that was paid for two, or the two farthings for five, a bird being thrown in, doubtless, to the customer who took the full number. Truly, such things change but little in the East. Truly, also, the sight of them makes much clear to the mind which before it has failed to grasp. That is why a visit to the Holy Land is in itself an education to people who undertake it in the right spirit, and do not suffer themselves to be overwhelmed by discomforts and other annoyances. Without seeing the country itself there is much of the Old Testament which it is difficult to understand. The same may be said of the New, if in a less degree.

Thus, to take a very minor but still interesting illustration, the allusion in Matthew vi. to the "grass of the field which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven," always puzzled me, as I could not understand why grass should be used for the heating of ovens. Nor did commentaries help me much. Thus the International Teachers' Edition of the Bible, the best and most useful that I know, says that the grass of the field as spoken of here "indicates all herbs of the field." In Cyprus and the Holy Land, however, I observed donkeys and women laden with great bundles of a grey prickly growth, the stalks of wild thyme, I believe, though of this I am not certain, and inquired its purpose. Then I learned that this growth is invariably used by the bakers to heat their ovens. It has the property of burning with a clear, hot flame, but without smoke, and therefore leaves the interior of the oven, after the ashes have been withdrawn, clean and fit to receive the bread. Can any one doubt that this was the "grass of the field" that is "cast into the oven" to which the Saviour alluded, or that He drew His illustration from the still common sight of the passing women bearing it in bundles on their heads to be sold in the cities of the Lake?

XVI. THE SEA OF GALILEE

At night the Sea of Galilee is very beautiful. The crescent moon sinking to the horizon, the myriad stars reflected from the breast of the water, the soft distant line of the opposing hills—where of old dwelt the Gergezenes—the hush of the heavy air, the brooding calm broken only by barking pariah dogs; all these compose a picture and leave impressions that the mind cannot easily forget.

Tiberias is a hot town, so hot that, as the German hotel-keeper told me, it is impossible for many months of the year to sleep except upon the roof. Even now in the spring the thermometer must have stood at nearly eighty degrees in the shade, and the sun was so powerful that I was glad to wear a bath-towel as a puggaree. Also on the first night that we passed there we were favoured with another evidence of the genial nature of the climate. My bed was protected with gauze curtains, which I thought were drawn with care, but about two in the morning I awoke to find myself the centre of a hive of mosquitoes. The next hour we employed in somewhat ineffective hunting and in doctoring the lumps with native brandy. If, as science has demonstrated of late, the bit of a common swamp mosquito conveys malarial fever, what disease ought to follow that of those members of the family which have been nurtured on the filth-heaps of Tiberias? I confess that having recently read a good deal about the subject, the problem quite alarmed me. Leaving these possibilities aside, however, I never remember meeting mosquitoes more venomous, or that left larger lumps with a keener itch, then those of Tiberias, except, perhaps, some with which I made acquaintance on the rivers of Chiapas, in Central America.

When we rose on the following morning I was dismayed to find that although the wind was not really strong, the sea upon the lake was so considerable that it seemed doubtful whether we should be able to sail to the mouth of the Jordan. This is a voyage which the Tiberias boatmen absolutely refuse to make in bad or squally weather, knowing that now, as in the times of our Lord, it is easy to be drowned on the Lake of Galilee, where a very violent and dangerous sea gets up with extraordinary swiftness. However, at last our men made up their minds to try it, and off we started to that Greek monastery which we had visited on the previous afternoon, where the boat awaited us.

I was not quite prepared for what followed. Arriving at the landing-place we saw our boat pitching and rolling furiously about twenty yards from the beach, while between us and it, breakers, large enough to constitute a respectable sea upon the Norfolk coast, rushed shorewards in quick succession.

"Might I ask how——" I began, but before I got any further two stalwart Arabs, their garments tucked beneath their armpits, amid a chorus of frantic yells and objurgations from every one concerned, seized me, and, hoisting me most insecurely on to their shoulders, plunged into the foam. The moment was ill-chosen, for just then arrived a series of bigger waves than any that had gone before. We were brought to a standstill; we shook, we bowed, we rocked to and fro, while now my legs and now other portions of my frame dipped gently in the deep. I was certain that all was lost, and that presently, in company with these infernal boatmen, I should be wallowing at the bottom of the Sea of Galilee, spoiling my watch and my temper. Suddenly they made a last despairing rush, however, the waves surging round their very necks, and reached the boat, into which I scrambled and rolled I know not how. Afterwards, profiting by my experience, which taught them how to sit and what to sit on, also by the fact that they were lighter weights, my nephew and David followed me on board, I regret to state without the ducking their loud-voiced mockery of my woes deserved. However, before another hour was gone by I had the laugh of both of them.

When all were aboard we began our journey, heading for the mouth of Jordan, which, at a guess, lies eight or nine miles away. As there was no wind that would serve us, furling the sail, we depended on our oars. The sea was very rough, quite as rough as I cared for in this small boat, although she was staunch and good, having been brought here from Beyrout for the especial comfort of the Emperor of Germany, who, as it chanced, never visited the place. The continual tossing soon proved too much for David, who collapsed into the bottom of the boat, and lay there—a very dilapidated dragoman. My nephew, who had been an oar at college, volunteered to assist in the arduous and continual labour of rowing, but, to the joy of the boatmen, did not get on quite so well as he expected in those unaccustomed waters. The voyage was lonesome, for on all that great expanse of sea, once the home of fleets, I could see no other craft. Indeed, we were not sorry when at length the weather began to moderate, and occasional gusts of favouring wind enabled us to use our sails at times.

Still, the experience was interesting, for ploughing thus through the stormy waves it seemed easy to enter into the feelings of the Apostles—who also were heading for Capernaum—when about this spot they were struck at the fall of night by the squall that nearly swamped them. What a sight must these waters have witnessed in that hour, when suddenly as they struggled forward, doing their best after the fashion of the skilled boatmen of the lake, to keep head on to those hissing seas, they perceived the Divine figure gliding over their crests towards them. And again in that hour when upon another occasion "the ship was covered with the waves: but He was asleep, and His disciples came to Him and woke Him, saying, 'Lord, save us: we perish.' And He saith unto them, 'Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?' Then He arose and rebuked the winds and the sea, and there was a great calm. But the men marvelled, saying, 'What manner of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey him?'" To read these passages, as it was my good fortune to do, while tossing tempestuously upon the lake of Galilee, the exact site of the occurrences they describe, and under circumstances not dissimilar in kind, although different in degree, is to learn much. So sluggish is our imagination that to appreciate such matters rightly and in full, actual experience of their like is necessary. Here that befell us.

After some hours of rowing the sea went down in the sudden fashion which is common upon Galilee, and by the help of a favouring draught of wind we came at last to where the muddy waters of Jordan run with turbulence into the lake, bringing down much débris, and raising large, backward-curling waves. For a little while we sailed up the river, studying the black camel-hair tents of the Bedouin encampment upon its banks, and the Arabs, men, women, and children, who loitered round them. Then we put about and rowed through perfectly calm water past the stony desolate site that now goes by the name of Tel Hûm, where it is believed the ancient city stood. At any rate here was an ancient city, though whether this was Capernaum or Bethsaida is a matter of dispute. My own theory, which I suggest with all humility, is that both Bethsaida by its side and Chorazin above, may in practice have been suburbs of the main town of Capernaum. At least it is certain that in the old days all this country, now an utter waste, was very densely populated, and it must have been difficult to know exactly where one city ended and the next began.

Passing the spot called Heptapegon, or Seven Springs, which many authorities believe to be the place of the miraculous feeding of the five thousand recorded by St. Mark, we reached the monastery of the German Catholic Palestine Society, and went to lunch in the hospice, a neat and cool building with a pleasant garden. After we had finished our meal we had the pleasure of being introduced to the reverend father in charge, who I think lives here alone. His name is Zephyrin Biever, a fine-looking man advanced in life, of courteous manners and high intelligence. He complained bitterly of the treatment which he had suffered at the hands of those tourists whom we met riding from Tiberias to Nazareth, saying that they came in scores, took possession of the hospice, and ate there without taking the trouble to call upon him or return him thanks, direct or indirect. Further he declared that they lay about on his furniture with their dirty boots, soiling it so much that he had been obliged to send all the covers to be washed. Indeed, the reverend gentleman was truly angered in the matter, and as it seemed to me not without some reason. It is a pity that travellers should show such a lack of consideration towards their hosts, as it makes difficulties for those who follow them. Father Biever stated that he would admit no more tourists of this stamp, but I hope that in time his charity may overcome his wrath.

Our host most kindly took us to inspect some ground, which, after great difficulty with the Turkish authorities, has been purchased by his Society. Following the line of an old aqueduct, that in places is cut through solid rock, we came to the remains of baths and to a plain below upon the borders of the lake. This plain he believes to be the true site of Capernaum, quoting in support of his theory the fact that here met all the great caravan roads to Egypt, to Damascus, and to Akka. Another point in his favour is that this wide expanse of level land must have been a very suitable site for a city. Also here some city stood, as the foundation walls and other ruins prove; one, moreover, whereon has been fulfilled the prophecy of Jesus that it should be "brought down to hell," or Hades, according to the Revised Version, which may perhaps have been a figurative way of saying that its remains should be buried beneath the earth. Certain it is that neither here nor on the rival site do any of them remain above its surface. Most experts, however, seem to think that Capernaum lay a little to the eastward, nearer to the mouth of Jordan. The matter is one of purely academic interest, though naturally our host would wish to believe that the religious association to which he belongs possesses to-day the veritable spot of ground where our Lord lived and taught nineteen hundred years ago.

Father Biever showed us also what is said to be the site of Chorazin, now marked by a single tree growing on a hill above, and the plain where, according to the earliest traditions, after His resurrection the Saviour bade His disciples "to come and dine."

Here on this waterlogged swamp I found a tortoise basking in the sun after its winter sleep, and secured it, desiring to attempt the difficult experiment of bringing it home to England, a task which I achieved with many adventures. Indeed, not five minutes from this moment of writing, I saw that tortoise, which has now become quite tame, buried under the shelter of a carnation in my garden here in Norfolk. Poor Capernaum, for so is he named, does not entirely approve of our English climate, and at the first touch of cold or rain goes to ground in protest, until the air is dry and the sun shines once more. Then he comes up, devours the young lettuces, and makes wild endeavours to start in a bee-line back to the Sea of Galilee. Although active under suitable climatic conditions, in appearance he is distinctly antique. I wonder how many generations have gone by since he began to crawl about the edge of the Sea of Tiberias. Even in this country individuals of the species have been known to live for several centuries, but no one has yet discovered what is the life period of a healthy tortoise in its native clime. Perhaps this one basked in the sun and slept in the shade when Herod the Fox built Tiberias in honour of his master, the Roman Emperor. It is at least conceivable.

Having bidden farewell to Father Biever and thanked him for his kindness, we reached our boat on the backs of Arabs, and went a-fishing by the bank where once the Apostles shot their nets. Stripping himself almost naked, the fisherman waded into the sea, and cleverly cast his net towards the boat. Then, following its line, he advanced till the water was up to his armpits, drawing in the net as he came. Presently in its meshes appeared a great fish, which he extracted and threw into the boat. Next he went back to the bank, walked along it a few paces, and repeated the performance. This time there were two fish, of a different species. To me the scene was intensely interesting since, I suppose that in much the same fashion, and near this very place, Simon Peter and Andrew, his brother, were "casting a net into the sea" when their Master, who was walking upon the shore, saw them, and called them to be "fishers of men."

After we had made an end of fishing we rowed towards Tiberias, past the coasts of Magdala, where Mary Magdalene was born. The evening was now lovely, and the sea calm as glass. Beautiful, also, were the reed-fringed banks among which hid water-fowl, and, still more beautiful, a great green and gold halcyon that sat on the bending bough of an oleander, and at our approach fled away like a flash of coloured light. So by degrees we made our homeward course, the boatmen as they rowed singing a quaint and melodious love-chant, upon the old theme of an aged suitor who by successive gifts of ever-advancing value tries to persuade a young beauty to be his. From time to time, for the sun was still hot, they paused to refresh themselves with copious draughts of the lake water, drunk from out of an old meat-tin. This water the inhabitants of the district find healthy, but in strangers it induces dysentery.

On our way to the hotel after landing from this interesting expedition, one of the most interesting, indeed, that I ever made, we saw a curious sight. In front of the fort not far from the inn a mob of hideous Bedouin women with their children, rough camels that grumbled savagely, sheep, goats, and kids, one of which was being carried, advanced with a sullen air from the gates of the Turkish gaol. It appeared that a traveller—what traveller we never ascertained—had been robbed by Bedouins somewhere in the neighbourhood of Mount Tabor. Thereupon a party of soldiers surrounded the whole tribe concerned, and marched them into Tiberias. The men having been lodged in gaol—I wonder when they will get out again—the women and their belongings were being driven off into the wilderness to await the reappearance of their lords and masters. Justice as it is administered in Syria seems somewhat wholesale and indiscriminate, but of this particular example the European pilgrim is not likely to complain.

That evening we dined with Mr. Soutar, an able and experienced missionary of the Free Church of Scotland, which supports a hospital and mission station in Tiberias. The matron of this hospital was our fellow-guest, a refined and, if she will pardon its proclamation, a very beautiful Scottish lady. The destiny that appointed such a person to tend and care for savage Bedouins and Tiberias Jews seems strange indeed.

Mr. Soutar, whose energy and good works are known throughout these coasts, told me many amusing stories of the difficulties which confront a missionary in Ottoman dominions. Thus: he is a great reader and has a good library, but the customs authorities of Palestine are prejudiced on the subject of books. They even seize "Baedeker's Guide" when they see it, and may perhaps treat the present work in the same fashion. Indeed Mr. Soutar finds it almost impossible to import the most inoffensive volume except by the expensive method of registered parcel post, when they are sometimes delivered. On his arrival in Syria his library only escaped seizure because the officials, weary of examining luggage, passed the remainder, including his cases of books, on payment of a duty charge, which was assessed by weight. A brother missionary at Jerusalem, for whom he imported the "Encyclopaedia Brittanica," was not so fortunate, as that work was held to be revolutionary in tone and confiscated. Ultimately it was rescued by a third missionary, a man of business capacities, who paid baksheesh in the form of a fixed salary to a certain high officer. When next an instalment became due he intimated that before it could be touched the "Encyclopaedia" must be handed over to his friend. It arrived that very night.

The Turkish custom-house has a particular aversion to maps, considering them doubtful and dangerous inventions of the Frank. One of the mission societies, not long ago, tried to import some charts of Judaea, as it was in the time of Solomon. They were impounded. Thereupon a missionary attended and explained that this map showed the country as it had been when the kings of Israel ruled. The Turk listened and answered impassively—

"Your words cannot be true, for in those days they drew no maps, and therefore cannot have made these. For the rest, this land is ruled by the Sultan, and to speak of any other king who had dominion over it is treason. Let the picture writings be destroyed."

It seems to be the same with everything. Before any good work is carried out, a colossal ignorance and prejudice must be conquered. This can only be done in one way, by the scientific distribution of baksheesh. Thus, even to build a hospital necessitates a firman from the Sultan, and all dwellers in the East know the cost and infinite labour involved in procuring such a document. Nor must the officials, being what they are by blood, tradition, and upbringing, be too severely blamed, since, according to Mr. Soutar, they are all regularly discharged every two years, and by this simple method forced to repurchase their places at a great price. Sometimes, also, a decree is issued that they shall receive no pay for four months, and sometimes the post must support itself out of incidental and irregular profits; that is, by bribery and blackmail. With a family to feed, under such circumstances, most of us would become corrupt.

Turning to another subject, Mr. Soutar informed me that the Jews of Tiberias expect that their Messiah, a great and powerful king, will rise bodily out of the Sea of Galilee. I asked him also of his work, and he informed me that Jewish converts are very rare and much oppressed; indeed, their existence is made almost unbearable. He quoted a case in which his own father and relatives had utterly disowned a man who became a Christian, refusing to know him when they met. Happily, however, after some incident which I forget, in this instance, a reconciliation was effected.

The matron also told me of her hospital, which, unfortunately, I was unable to visit, as we were leaving Tiberias so early on the next morning. One of her chief difficulties lay in dealing with the Bedouins, a tribe which furnishes many patients. These people, until some desperate sickness brings them to the charitable Christian doors, have very frequently never slept under a roof. From year to year they wander according to the immemorial custom of their people, resting beneath the stars in summer and crowding into the black camel-hair tents in winter. The result is that any building stifles them, especially at night. This I can quite understand, for as a young man I remember similar experiences when, after camping on the African veld for weeks, I first returned to civilised abodes. One of their patients, the matron said, absolutely refused to climb the stairs. When at length he was persuaded to the attempt he ascended them upon his hands and knees, scrambling along as we might do in crossing some terrible and precipitous place. These Arabs, however, are very thankful for the skill and kindness that is lavished on them; indeed those who are cured show their gratitude in many touching and simple ways. Nor is this sentiment lacking in the relatives to whom they tell their wondrous tale of the compassion of the Frank.

At length, much edified and instructed, we bade farewell to our kind hosts, with whom in their merciful work be all good fortune, and returned to the inn. Here we found the tortoise, as uncomfortable as any wild Bedouin in a hospital ward, engaged in waddling round and round the room with an activity surprising in a creature so ungainly. My subsequent mosquito-haunted dreams of him and of his far-reaching past are, I regret to say, too fantastic to be set down in a sober chronicle of facts.

On the following morning we departed from Tiberias for Tabor. The day was dull, and a coverlet of mist hid the broad surface of the lake, while above, patches of cloud hung upon the mountain foreboding wet. Reaching the higher level we rode over a plain, where in places the road, that, like everything else, had been prepared for the disappointing German Emperor, was actually ploughed up by industrious husbandmen, who grudged the few feet of ground it covered. Further on, however, the turf became so sound and good that we could actually canter over it without fear of falling, a rare circumstance in Palestine.

On our way we met a procession of a hundred or more Russian Christians making a pilgrimage round the Holy Land. These people, collected from the vast interior of the Russian Empire, land at Jaffa, and for the rest of that long journey trust to their legs. They walked with tall staves mounted in real or imitation silver, were clad in rough frieze, and carried kettles and packs, their only baggage, strung about their bodies. Nearly all of them seemed elderly, grey-bearded men, and women who were past the age of child-bearing, although here and there I noticed a young woman, perhaps unmarried or a widow. I believe that these persons, who if they be fanatical certainly deserve the respect of all right-thinking people, belong for the most part to the peasant class, and by many years of self-denial save up enough money, some £10 or £15 a head, to enable them to make the desired pilgrimage. The women are very plain and short in stature, but somehow their lack of favour is redeemed by the kindliness of their faces. Their husbands and brothers also are homely in appearance, but in this respect seem to improve with age, for both here and in other places I saw old men among them who might be called handsome. At least their white hair and earnest eyes gave them dignity. They appeared to be fond of flowers; at any rate we noticed that, notwithstanding their oppressive burdens, many of them carried bunches of anemones in their hands. Moreover, they had decorated the horses of their mounted guides with wreaths and coronals. As we went by they greeted us with courteous gestures, and in words which we could not understand. I could not help contrasting the conduct of these simple, pious folk with that of the troop of tourists whom we had met a few days before, and comparing their bows and gentle salutations with the hands outstretched in imitation of Arab beggars and the jocose cries for baksheesh, which to my fancy, perhaps over-nice, amidst these hallowed scenes, seemed to strangely out of place.

I have spoken before of the flowers of Palestine, but never in any other spot did I see their equal for loveliness and frequency. It is scarcely too much to say that here for whole miles it would have been difficult to throw a shilling at hazard without its falling on some beauteous bloom. Everywhere the turf was carpeted with them, in a pattern of glorious colours such as no man could design or execute. Over this starry plain wandered flocks of hundreds of storks. David drew his revolver and fired a shot, whereupon they rose like thunder, making the air white with their wings, to wheel round and round in circles and settle again far away. Where they nest I know not, if they do nest here. Perhaps they pass northward for this purpose. Perhaps even they are the fowls that I have seen building upon the roof-tops in Holland. Who can tell? I wonder, by the way, why these birds confine themselves to the other side of the Channel. There is little difference in climate between the Netherlands and the flats of eastern England, and to them a few more miles of sea would be no matter. Yet Nature says to them—Thus far shalt thou go and no further.

We halted to lunch in a most imposing ruin of vast extent, called Kahn-el-Tujar. This building is said to have been constructed in 1487, and was a caravanserai for the accommodation of merchants journeying to Damascus and elsewhere. All about are the remains of the chambers where they slept, with eating-halls and open courts, perhaps for the picketing of their camels and other beasts of burden. A quarter of a mile away on an opposing hill is another ruin, that of a Saracen castle, whose garrison, I suppose, protected—or plundered—the caravanserai. I do not know when these places were deserted or destroyed, but until recently a fair was held here. Indeed it was the site of a cattle sale only two years ago.

Our meal finished we saddled up, and started somewhat hurriedly, hoping to reach the top of Tabor before the threatening rain came down in earnest. The mountain rose immediately above us, a round majestic mass, of old the landmark on the frontiers of Issachar and Zebulun. Here it was, too, that Deborah the prophetess commanded Barak to gather his host for the smiting of Sisera, saying, "Hath not the Lord God of Israel commanded, saying, Go and draw toward Mount Tabor, and take with thee ten thousand men of the children of Naphtali, and of the children of Zebulun." Here also, according to the earliest and best Christian tradition, confirmed by Origen little more than two centuries after the birth of Christ, and St. Jerome, who wrote in the fourth century, but questioned by Baedeker and by the Rev. John Lightfoot, the Hebrew scholar, who died in 1675, took place the Transfiguration of the Saviour in the presence of St. Peter, St. James, and St. John. On this point, however, I shall have more to say.

The slopes of the holy mountain are thickly clothed with oaks, other trees, and various kinds of scrub. Strangely enough, Tabor has always been considered holy; by the early Jews, the Christians of all ages, the Saracens, and the people of Palestine of to-day. This reputation, moreover, is quite independent of the circumstance of the Transfiguration, except of course in the case of Christians. As we rode upwards we passed the tents of an encampment of Bedouins, who have the reputation of being the most lawless of their turbulent race, but they did nothing more than stare at us. Scrambling along the steep zig-zag path, a ride of about an hour brought us to the summit of the mountain, which is said to be three kilometres in circumference. Passing beneath the ancient gateway we rode to the Latin monastery, known as Residence de la Transfiguration, now in charge of the learned Père Barnabé, O.F.M., Missionaire Apostolique, and an assistant brother. The Father had not returned from some expedition when we arrived, but, upon presenting our introduction, his subordinate entertained us kindly.

We inquired at once for the fresh horses that our American friend had so generally promised to send to meet us here. Our chagrin may be imagined when we learned that these horses arrived on the previous day, but, as we were not there, had returned to Nazareth, or, for aught we knew, to Jerusalem. Indeed this was nothing short of a blow to us, since to attempt the journey across the plain of Esdraelon and the mountains beyond upon our weary crocks would be a bold undertaking. What made the disappointment more tiresome also, was the certainty that it had not been brought about by chance since, to our knowledge, the dragoman in charge of the horses had received strict and full orders from his employer as to when and where he was to meet us. Unfortunately, however, the American gentleman, in his forethought and generosity, had impressed upon us that we were to pay nothing for these horses, an injunction which, of course, we intended to disregard. Without doubt he had told the dragoman, or owner, the same thing, whereon that astute Eastern, not knowing our intentions, fulfilled the letter of the law, but broke its spirit. That is to say, he came to meet us, but on the wrong day, and forthwith vanished, so far as we are concerned, for ever.

XVII. TABOR, CARMEL, AND ACRE

Lacking other consolations in our sad circumstances, we took such comfort as we could from tea and the old saying about tears and spilt milk, after which we set out to see the ruins. Both that afternoon and for three hours on the following morning in the company of Father Barnabé, I examined these various and fascinating relics very closely. I do not, however, propose to attempt any detailed description of them; first because it would occupy too much space, and secondly, for the reason that this has already been done in a fashion which I could not hope to rival, by Father Barnabé himself, in his work Le Mont Thabor (J. Mersch, Paris).

These ruins, that are surrounded first by the remains of the encircling and ancient wall built by Flavius Josephus, the Jewish historian of the Roman wars, which protected the whole top of the mountain, and, secondly, with the broken fortifications reared by the Saracens and destroyed by them also between 1211 and 1217, may for the present purpose be roughly divided into two parts, that lying to the west of the modern Latin monastery, and that which extends to the east. To the west, at the foot of the garden and beyond it, are caves which at some period probably served as tombs, but were afterwards, doubtless during the first few centuries of the Christian era, used as the habitations of hermits. In certain of these can still be seen benches hollowed in the rock, where year by year some long departed saint rested his weary bones, and other little hollows outside, which the rain filled to serve him with drinking water.

It is strange to look at these wretched places and reflect upon the passionate prayers, the nightly vigils, the pious but in my view mistaken purposes that hallow them. What a life it must have been which the old devotees endured for decades in those damp holes. There is something pitiable in that tale of useless sacrifice. Yet in their way, how good they were, these men who deserted the real, if fleeting and uncertain, pleasures that the world has to offer to its sons, in order to wear out their lives thus, like lichens withering upon an inhospitable wall, till at length some brother anchorite found them stiff in their self-appointed tombs. When they were dead others took their places, and so at intervals of ten, or twenty, or fifty years, others and yet others till the custom perished, and its scant memorials writ in stone were covered with the dust of generations, in due season to be reopened and read by us to-day. God rest them all, poor men, whom the bitterness of life, the fear of death, and a hope of some ultimate transcendent remedy drove to such spiritual, and physical, expedients.

Beyond, or rather between, these hermit cells lies an ancient cemetery whereof Father Barnabé has excavated many of the graves. These are very curious, and, as he believes, contain the remains of some of the 50,000 people who took refuge here from the Romans in the time of Josephus. They are dug out to about the depth of six feet, and lined with rough stones, among which have been found a few fragments of skeletons and some coins of the Roman period. Another very curious relic is a sloping cement slab in what evidently has been a chamber with conveniences for the heating of water, which the Père Barnabé surmises—and after examination I agree with him—was used for the ceremonial washing of corpses before they were consigned to earth. What sights and sorrows must this place have seen.

Then there are what appear to have been wine-presses, with hollows at a lower level for the collection of the must, and great cemented cisterns where rainwater was, and is still, gathered, dating, it is thought, from the time of the Saracens. Beyond all these lie the wrecks of a Levitical settlement.

So much for the western side.

Passing through a kind of gateway to the east the visitor finds himself among whole acres of tumbled ruins. Here was the fortress built by the Benedictines during the twelfth century—I think that Saladin massacred them all. Here, too, were the monasteries of various orders, with their refectories, kitchens, sleeping-rooms, and baths built on the Turkish plan. One can even see where they warmed the water; indeed it is on record that the frequent use of this luxurious form of bath by these monks caused something of a scandal. Especially noticeable are the remains of a great and lofty hall, believed to have been the chapter-room of the Benedictines, and a chapel which I suppose belonged to this order, found to be floored with beautiful mosaic. This, however, has been covered up again to prevent the Russian pilgrims, who are very troublesome in such respects, from carrying it away piecemeal.

Many are the far mementoes of the past which I omit, as I despair of describing them in a clear and satisfactory fashion. Let us go on to the great basilica, first built by order of the Empress Helena, with its sister but inferior chapels on either side, supposed to have been dedicated to Moses and Elias. It is a long building with a round apse, which has been disinterred in recent years. At the eastern extremity of this apse stands an altar built up again of the rough original stones and surmounted by a plain, iron cross. This altar, placed upon the extreme verge of the mountain, is by immemorial report believed to mark the spot where our Saviour stood during the occurrence of the ineffable event of the Transfiguration. Who can look at it unmoved? Anciently it was roofed in, now in its simple loneliness it stands open to the heavens, and thus, to my mind, gains in dignity and suggestiveness. The tendency in the Holy Land is to cover every sacred shrine with some tawdry dome. I prefer the infinite arc of the skies, and for decoration the wild flowers and creeping ferns and grasses which grow amid the mouldering stones. Once the southern walls of this basilica were heaped with Saracenic towers and fortifications. Now it and these have come to an equal ruin.

At the fall of night, through the midst of torrential rain driven in sheets by a violent gale of wind, I went out and stood alone upon the broken wall of one of these ancient towers, till darkness overtook me, and the gusts became so fierce that on that narrow, perilous place, I grew afraid to match my strength against their fury. Beneath me stretched the vast plain of Esdraelon looking extraordinarily grand and gloomy in the dull lights of that rushing storm. There to the right was the territory of Zebulun; to the left the land of Issachar; behind the country of Naphtali; yonder soared the point of little Hermon, and beyond all rose the crest of Mount Gilboa. Suddenly revealed in swift glimpses to be as suddenly lost to sight, it was indeed a majestic prospect, but nothing there moved me so much as that desolate altar and the iron cross which stood in the dim apse beneath. It would be hard for any man to set down the thoughts that strike him in such a scene and hour. I will not attempt the task further than to say that this one lonely experience repaid me for all the toil and difficulties of my visit to Syria.

Two falcons were nesting, or preparing to nest, among the stones of the tower. My advent disturbed them. With wild screams they swept around me, and the presence of these creatures seemed as it were to complete, even to accentuate, the solemn conditions of the place, as the great eagles that always hover about the crest of Tabor complete and accentuate its storied and eternal solitude. If ever there was a spot where God in His power might manifest Himself upon an earth He loved, and was pleased to redeem, surely this one is fitting. So at least I thought, who was happy in the occasion and circumstances of my visit. Seen in the glare of day, and crowded with hundreds of Russian pilgrims, perhaps it would have impressed me differently.

That evening also we went to the Greek church and monastery, lying on the north of the plateau. Some of the buildings here are very ancient, and include gigantic mediaeval cisterns. Baedeker states that the Greeks claim to possess the actual spot of the Transfiguration, but in this I think he must be mistaken. At any rate, when I questioned the monks, they denied any such pretensions. The spot of the Transfiguration, they told me, was where it is shown in the ground of the Latins; they only own the ancient churches built, as they said, in honour of Moses and Elias.

On returning to the hospice we found that the Père Barnabé had arrived and were introduced to him. He is a missionary priest of the best and most elevated stamp, one of those men, to be found among the votaries of every creed, from whom goodness and charity seem to flow. Before he was sent to Tabor he followed his sacred profession for many years in China and elsewhere, and being gifted with an intellect capable of drawing profit from the many experiences of a varied life, as I soon discovered, he has made the most of his opportunities for observation.

We came to Mount Tabor prepared to rough it, whereas the dinner served to us in the hospice was, I think, about the best we ate in Palestine. It only lacked one thing, the society of our host, but I imagine it to be against the rules of the order that he should eat with his guests, especially in Lent. After our meal the Père Barnabé joined us, however, and we spent the next three hours discussing in French and English Tabor and all that has to do therewith. The mountain, by the way, is still ravaged by hyenas, of which an enormous stuffed specimen is set upon the walls of the refectory. Indeed one of the fierce watch-dogs that are kept in the yard is partly paralysed by a bite in the back from the iron jaws of this ravening beast.

Most of our conversation, however, turned upon the identity of the mountain with the place of the Transfiguration of our Lord, to prove which the Père Barnabé has written his book, Le Mont Thabor. Against this identity various arguments have been urged, but the principal of them all—indeed, to my mind, the only one which seems to have much weight—is that advanced by Baedeker, that the Transfiguration could scarcely have taken place on Tabor, "as the top was covered with houses in the time of Christ." To this Father Barnabé answers, and proves what he says, that at the epoch of our Lord there was no town on the crest of Tabor. This, indeed, seems to be self-evident, seeing that to the present day the only water-supply is obtained from cisterns, which do not appear to be of very ancient construction.

Moreover, there is evidence on the point, that of Josephus (Wars of the Jews, Book IV. chap. i.). Speaking of Mount Tabor he says: "Now, Josephus erected this so long a wall in forty days' time, and furnished it with other materials and with water from below for the inhabitants only used rain water; as, therefore, there was a great number of people gotten together on this mountain, Vespasian sent Placidus with 600 horsemen thither." Afterwards he tells how "their water failed them, and so they delivered up the mountain and themselves to Placidus." Note, "the mountain," not the city.

Here is what Father Barnabé says upon the point of Baedeker's remarks:—

"L'auteur de cet artile n'indique pas la source où il a puisé ce detail et nouse le défions de la faire.

"En temps de guerre, le Thabor était souvent un lieu de refuge pour les habitants de la plaine et un camp naturel pour les gens armés. Mais, comme nous l'avons vu dans les premiers chapitres de cet ouvrage, il n'y eut jamais de ville sur le sommet du Thabor et personne ne pourra prouver qu'il y ait eu des habitants au temps de Notre Seigneur. Olympiodore dit expressément que 'le Thabor était désert avant le venue du Christ.'

"Mais admettons pour un instant qu'il y eut des maisons sur le Thabor au temps du Christ. Comment prouverait-on que sur cet immense dôme couvert d'arbres, Jésus n'aurait pas pu trouver un endroit pour prier et se transfigurer devant trois de ses disciples sans être vu? Nous ajoutons que, même dans cette hypothèse, la Transfiguration pouvait avoir lieu à l'extremité orientale du plateau, où fut élevé la première église et où une tradition secondaire localise la scène de ce glroieux événement. Du centre du plateau au mur d'enciente de Flavius Joséphe, vers l'occident, on voit beaucoup de ruines d'anciennes maisons, de construction assez miserable.

"Au centre du plateau on a découvert, il y a deux ans, un antique petit cimetière dont les tombes ont été voilées au temps des croisades. A l'orient de ce cimetière on a trouvé plusiers grottes sépulcrales. Dans Phypothèse que ce cimetière et ces maisons aient été antérieurs à Flavius Josephus, il est certain que les habitations ne dépassaient pas le cimetière du côté de l'orient, parce-qu'il était absolument défendu aux Juifs d'avoir des tombes au milieu de leurs habitations.

"La partie orientale du plateau ne pouvait pas être couverte de maisons, si maisons il y avait au temps de Notre Seigneur. Or, depuis le cimetière jusqu'à l'église construite anciennement sur l'endroit traditionnel de la Transfiguration, la distance est beaucoup plus grande que celle de Gethsémani à la ville de Jérusalem. Personne n'ignore que Jésus s'est réfugié dans ce jardin pour prier, pendant qu'on le cherchait pour le crucifier.

"Quelque hypothèse qu'on imagine, on ne prouvera jamais que le Sauveur n'ait pas pu se transfigurer sur le Thabor."

Let us turn for a moment to the evidence in favour of Tabor. First, there is the apocryphal gospel of the twelve apostles, which is also known as "The Gospel according to the Hebrews." Into the merits or demerits of that strange work, which seems to have been written towards the end of the first century of our era, this is not the place to enter. The only point with which we need concern ourselves is that the writer, or writers, who probably began to live within fifty years of the date of the Crucifixion, connected Tabor with the Saviour. In chapter xvii. v. 1, Jesus is made to say, "Now, my mother, the Holy Spirit, seized me by a lock of my hair, and carried me on to the mountain of Great Tabor."

Origen states positively that "Tabor is the mountain in Galilee on which Christ was transfigured." St. Cyril of Jerusalem, who lived in the fourth century, says, "They were witnesses of the transfiguration of Jesus on the Mount Tabor." St. Jerome says of St. Paula, "She scaled the Mount Tabor whereon the Lord was transfigured."

I might quote other authorities, but perhaps I have said enough on the matter. I will only add, therefore, that after visiting the place, hearing Father Barnabé's learned discourses, and reading his able and excellent book, for my part I am convinced that he is right, and not Baedeker; that here and nowhere else happened the divine occurrence which is recorded in the Gospels.

When we rose the next morning it was to find to our dismay that it had been pouring with rain all night, and that more wet threatened. Under ordinary circumstances this would have mattered little, but with the plain of Esdraelon to cross the affair was different. On these flats in dry weather riding is easy enough, but after prolonged rain, whole stretches of them are turned into sloughs of despond, through the worst of which a horse can scarcely pass. The lot of the traveller who finds himself foundered in these mud-holes and benighted on that inhospitable plain, or forced to take refuge in some filthy, vermin-haunted native habitation, is not by any means agreeable. With fresh, strong horses much may be ventured, but the condition of our poor animals has already been described, and we had been disappointed of our remounts. The question was—dared we attempt to force them through several days' journey over swamps and mountains? When asked Father Barnabé shook his head, while David was downright despondent.

"Of course," he said sadly, "for me it does not matter; I can take off my clothes and wade in the mud, but what I am wondering is how you gentlemen will like that?"

As his opinion was evidently very strong against our making the attempt upon such wretched horses, in the end, to our great disappointment, we were obliged to abandon the idea of attempting to reach Jerusalem by Nablus. This decision involved returning to Haifa and journeying thence to Jaffa by sea, and so on to Jerusalem. Such are the vexing accidents of Eastern travel, but as our plans would not allow of our waiting several days upon the chance of the weather clearing, and as, if we did, it seemed more than doubtful whether we could obtain fresh horses, there was no choice but to bow the head to fate. Also, there were compensations. Thus, the ruins of Samaria, Jacob's Well, and the old roll of the Samaritan law excepted, there is not very much to be seen upon this Nablus route, whereas, by returning we should have the opportunity of visiting Acre and Mount Carmel and making a second halt at Nazareth. Incidentally also, as it was now no longer necessary that we should leave the Mount that morning, we had the advantage of a more prolonged exploration of Tabor with Father Barnabé as cicerone.

By the way, to be the priest in charge of one of these hospices during the spring, when visitors arrive, must be a somewhat arduous task. The escorting of troops of Russian pilgrims—watching the while that they do not carry the place off stone by stone as relics—is in itself a labour for which, after a time, the contemplation of their piety can scarcely compensate. Worse still, to my mind, must be the daily round of conducting a certain class of tourists, many of them careless, indifferent, or ignorant, and some not even careful to avoid paining their guide by scoffing audibly at events, scenes, and traditions, which to him are of the holiest.

Just as we returned to the monastery, after three hours of industrious examination, Mr. Brocklebank, an English clergyman, arrived. Seeing that the Father was thoroughly tired, and that he had other things in hand, I ventured to offer to take his place and escort the new-comer to the best of my ability. For this I feel that I owe my apologies to Mr. Brocklebank, since I must have been but a poor substitute for Father Barnabé. However, I did my best, though I fear that I led my victim a desperate dance whilst searching in a chaos of walls, caves, and graves for the place where the ancient Jews washed the bodies of the dead, which I was determined that he should see. At last, I am proud to say, I found it.

After lunch our wretched steeds were brought round, and, having collected the tortoise, Capernaum, and restored him to his basket, I bade farewell to Father Barnabé with very real regret and started down the mountain, though not by the road we had wished to travel. Capernaum, by the way, had, I fear, passed an unhappy night. He is a creature which dislikes cold, and, so soon as I let him loose to take the air, he made furious attempts to bury himself in the rocky soil of Tabor. When he paused exhausted from these ineffective labours one of the monastery dogs seems to have discovered him. The interview that followed must have been of a nature very similar to that which, as history relates, occurred beneath the sofa between the monkey and the parrot. It was a dishevelled and dilapidated Capernaum that went into the basket among the baggage. Thanks, however, to his thick shell, his health did not suffer materially.

On our ride over swelling hills to Nazareth we found yet other flowers, gorgeous red tulips and a most splendid variety of iris, though of this, either here or elsewhere, I saw no further specimen. In the evening we went for a long walk about the Nazareth mountains, digging up cyclamen roots, studying the character of the agriculture, and trying to identify sites. That walk in the pleasant rain-washed air, and amongst those surroundings, is one of my most agreeable recollections of our journey. Finally we revisited "Mary's Spring," and so back down the steep streets of the town. On our way a little incident occurred which revealed the difference between the manners of East and West. One of the pretty Nazareth children, a girl of about thirteen, followed me for a long way with her persistent and worrying cry of "Baksheesh! Hadji," that is, Pilgrim. At length I turned and put into her outstretched hand a particularly beautiful anemone which I was carrying. How the joke would have been received by an English beggar may be imagined, but this girl took the flower, curtseyed, and went away smiling.

Next morning early we started back to Haifa. On our way we met a shepherd clothed in a robe of many colours, doubtless such as Jacob gave to Joseph, and bearing upon his shoulders a lost sheep. This illustration of the saying of St. Luke was really remarkable. "What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost until he find it? And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders rejoicing."

It shows once more how closely the Saviour clung to the use of natural examples around Him as a groundwork of His parables, and how little those examples have changed in the course of nineteen centuries.

On reaching the outskirts of Haifa we struck to the left, passing some of the neat houses of the German settlement. In a field attached to one of these I saw, to my delight, a colonist using a good European plough, and congratulated him upon his enterprise. Thence we rode to the flank of Carmel, which we began to climb. About half-an-hour's ride brought us to the monastery at the top. Here monks have lived since the twelfth century, when the hermits became the Carmelites, but twice they have been burnt out and massacred, and once their church was made a mosque. Once also it was a hospital when, in 1799, the great Napoleon laid siege to Acre. Ultimately he retreated, whereupon the Turks came and butchered his wounded men in this monastery on Mount Carmel. They are buried outside its gate.

The view of sea and land from this place is very fine. Within the church we were shown the cave where Elijah hid himself. It may be so, but there are many like it all about the mountain. Leaving the monastery we began to descend the further side of Carmel by a trail so steep that we were obliged to scramble along it, driving our horses before us. Indeed the way in which these active creatures managed to keep their footing upon slanting and slippery slabs of rock, was nothing short of marvellous. However, they came down without accident. All the slopes of Carmel are covered with the most beautiful flowers and sweet herbs nurtured by the dew for which it is famous. Here, amongst other plants and shrubs, the odorous thyme grows in masses, also white wild roses and various ground orchids.

Not far from the bottom of the mountain and facing the sea we reached the cave where, when "Jezebel cut off the prophets of the Lord, Obadiah took a hundred of them and hid them by fifty." I confess that what has always puzzled me about this passage, and not less now that I have seen the place of his righteous act, is—what became of the other fifty? I suppose, that as space was limited, they had to hide outside, and take their chance of being cut off by Jezebel.

This cave, which is acknowledged by the native Jews who occasionally hold some religious service here, has all the appearance of being genuine. With packing it would accommodate fifty prophets, and there is a supply of water in a cistern cut out of the solid rock.

The next day was Sunday, and we went to the English church, although, I am sorry to say, I forget by what mission or society it is maintained. It is an exceedingly neat building, and furnished in the most excellent taste. The service was attended by a good number of native Christians, some of whom wore the fez. This custom I cannot quite understand. I noticed that our dragoman, David, who is a Christian, frequently kept on his fez in places of worship, although sometimes he took it off, for instance, in the church of the Holy Sepulchre. I asked him to explain the matter, but could get no satisfactory answer. He said it was a question of custom, and shrugged his shoulders. Orientals, as we know, show respect by covering the head and baring the feet, so, I presume, that even when they adopt another faith they are still apt to obey an immemorial tradition. The subject is one worthy of investigation by the learned. Why, for instance, should the Apostle Paul speak so strongly on this point? In the eleventh chapter of Corinthians he says, "Every man praying or prophesying, having his head covered, dishonoureth his head. But every woman who prayeth or prophesieth with her head uncovered dishonoureth her head; for that is even all one as if she were shaven. . . . For a man, indeed, ought not to cover his head, forasmuch as he is the image and glory of God, but the woman is the glory of the man."

I admit that I do not understand these sayings, or what rooted conviction caused the great Apostle to deliver himself with such force upon the subject. It is difficult to comprehend why a woman dishonours her head by appearing in a place of worship without a covering, which, after all, is only designed as a protection against the weather. Or was the true origin of the habit in the East, in the case of woman, meant to be a protection against the unauthorised and inappropriate admiration of men? In other words, was the headpiece alluded to a veil or yashmak?

The whole matter is mysterious. For instance, why have Turks so deep a veneration for the turban? The traveller will often have noticed at the head of Ottoman graves a conical-shaped pillar, which, I am informed, is intended to symbolise the turban. I do not know if this is really the case, but I have seen in Cyprus tombs in ancient buildings that must themselves be centuries old, covering the remains of Moslem saints whose very names are forgotten, whereof the head pillar is still adorned with the actual turban of the departed. What seems the more curious is that as the cloth of this article of dress rots, fresh wrappings are, from generation to generation, wound about the decaying core by the hands of the faithful. Why is this done?

That Sunday afternoon, we made an expedition to Acre, to reach which town we crossed the Kishon by a bridge not easy to negotiate, and proceeded for about two hours on a sandy road that runs along the sea-coast. Near Acre another river must be forded, the ancient Belus, now called Nahr Namên. There is a bridge over this river also, but at present, like most things in Palestine, it is broken down, and only a few days before our visit some horses had been killed in attempting its passage. The result was that in order to cross we were obliged to wade out into the sea where the river joins it, through water which reached to our horses' bellies. Marching along the sands we met a band of Turkish conscripts, ragged and melancholy-looking peasants, who had been pressed into military service. These poor men, who must serve for five years, receive little or no pay; lucky are they if they get food and clothing. Christians are not impressed, not from any consideration of their faith or prejudices, but because the Turks, perhaps wisely, do not trust them. As the price of exemption they pay an annual tax of about 10s., which, looked at from their point of view, strikes me as an excellent bargain. Among these conscripts I noted one or two men who were quite old. David's explanation, I cannot say if it is correct, was that they had escaped conscription in past years, but, having at length fallen into the hands of the recruiting agents, were marched off to do duty as cooks or camp servants.

Acre, that we entered through a great gate, beyond which stands a fine but dilapidated house, now, we were told, occupied by soldiers, but once, as I judge, a palace, is a mass of broken fortifications, many of them dating from the crusading period. Everywhere in Acre are enormous meaningless walls, passages, and bastions. In the sea itself stands an old castle of the Crusaders; on the sea front a stretch of wall battered to ruins by shot and never rebuilt. Where once was a great Christian church now appears the yard of a caravanserai, filled, on the day of our visit, with camels and groups of Persian merchants. Round this court, formerly a place of worship, still run noble cloisters, carried upon pillars of Egyptian granite, taken, doubtless, by the Templars, or other knights, from the ruins of some pagan building, for all the capitals are of the mediaeval period and fashioned in a different stone. Above these cloisters, built over the supporting arches, stand rooms occupied by the merchants and other travellers.

Acre, which has a population of about 10,000 souls, is the most entirely Turkish town that I have visited. The inhabitants are said to be very fanatical, even more so than at Nablus. Indeed during Ramazan, the annual Mahommedan feast, I was told that it is not safe for Europeans to be seen walking about the streets, especially if they offend the prejudices of the pious sons of the Prophet by smoking. There seems to be a large garrison of Turkish soldiers in the place, and wretched-looking enough they were in their ragged and patched apology for uniform. Some of these mounted guard at the gaol. We looked through the bars of the iron gates, and saw the prisoners within, miserable wretches crowded together in a courtyard. I believe that for food they are obliged in most cases to rely upon what is given them by the charitable or their relations. If none is brought to them they starve, while from every dish the gaoler takes his toll. When they saw us they thrust skinny arms through the bars of the gate, offering for sale whips which they manufactured, the same, indeed, that are used on their own backs, only more ornamented. It would be interesting to know what is the death rate per thousand in these dens, and what happens when an epidemic strikes them. The same that befell at Newgate a century ago, perhaps. I left this inferno with pleasure.

Acre, then called Accho, was originally a Phoenician city. Subsequently one of the Ptolemies who captured it named the place Ptolemais, by which title it was known to St. Paul. The Arabs when they seized the town in 638 restored to it its name of Acre. In 1104 it fell into the hands of Baldwin, after which the various crusading forces used it as their principal port, and at times as their capital. Saladin took it after the battle of Hattin, of which I have written.

Guy de Lusignan besieged it in 1189, and in 1191 Coeur-de-Lion joined him and stormed the city. Exactly a hundred years later it was recaptured by the Sultan Melik-el-Ashraf. Such is the history of Acre, or so much of it as need concern us, put in the fewest possible words.

What sights those ancient stones have seen! One may sympathise with the objects of the Crusaders. I do myself, and even, I confess, should suffer no sorrow if any of the Christian powers were moved to take the Moslem by his turban and propel him out of the small district so sacred to all that section of mankind who believe that here lived and died the Saviour and the Hope of every individual among them. Only I should prefer that it was a Protestant power, since otherwise the quarrels would be many and the oppression great. If either the Latins or the Greeks were in a position of complete authority, things would go very hardly with other sections of the Christian family. Perhaps, indeed, they would fare better at the hands of the Jews.

To return to the Crusader. His method was not equal to his motives, or mayhap a disposition not originally strained of the quality of mercy was soured by such scenes as occurred at the battle of Hattin. Long before that event, however, at Jerusalem in July 1099, the first Crusaders, under the leadership of Godfrey de Bouillon and Tancred, celebrated the storming of the city by the slaughter of over 70,000 Moslems, regardless of sex or age. The Jews, by way of variation, they burnt alive in their synagogue, and the children they threw over the wall into the Valley of Jehoshaphat. After these merciless doings Godfrey, "clad in a robe of pure white," knelt at the reputed grave of Christ in the church of the Sepulchre, and on behalf of his victorious host returned thanks to the Prince of Peace, who had vouchsafed that Jerusalem should thus be cleansed of Infidel and Jew!

Richard of England, therefore, was but copying the most approved models of knightly grace when, after the fall of Acre, he revenged himself for some breach of faith, real or supposed, on the part of Saladin, by executing 2500 Turkish captives outside the town, while his royal brother of Burgundy put a period to the earthly troubles of an equal number within the walls. Says Geoffrey de Vinsauf in his "Itinerary of Richard I.":—

"He (that is Richard) called together a council of the chiefs of the people, by whom it was resolved that the hostages should all be hanged—[This is a mistake; their heads were cut off]—except a few nobles of a higher class, who might ransom themselves or be exchanged for some Christian captives. King Richard, aspiring to destroy the Turks root and branch and to punish their wanton arrogance, as well as to abolish the law of Mahomet and to vindicate the Christian religion, on the Friday after the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, ordered 2700 of the hostages to be led forth from the city and hanged. His soldiers marched forward with delight to fulfil his commands, and to retaliate, with the assent of the Divine Grace, by taking revenge upon those who had destroyed so many of the Christians with missiles from bows and arbalests."

James, in his "Life of Richard Coeur-de-Lion," adds that the horrid scene closed with an extended search for valuables inside the bodies of the murdered Saracens, and the careful preservation of parts of them for "medicinal uses."

When, as a lad, I inspected the original Bayeux tapestry at Bayeux, and came to understand the ideas of ornament and pictorial jest which suggested themselves to the minds of the very noblest ladies of that time, those for whose pure sakes knights endured so many discomforts and broke so many heads, my conception of the chivalry of the period, as portrayed in our popular romances, was rudely shaken. A careful study of the inner history of the Crusades does not tend to build it up again. Yet heroic things did happen in those days. Here is another story of Acre.

Full a hundred years have gone by: Richard and his army are dust like those poor captives whom he butchered, but perhaps some of their grandsons, or great-grandsons, once more fight on the walls of Acre for the last time, since the triumph of the Crescent is at hand. Leaders were traitorous, the Moslems swarmed in thousands, and inch by inch, through streets that were a shambles, the town was taken. There was a nunnery in it, where dwelt the Virgins of St. Clare. St. Antonine and the chronicler Wadin, in his Annales Minorum, tell the story of their end. I am sorry that I cannot quote Wadin's account in full, as some modern tastes might find it outspoken. Here, however, is a summary.

When the Abbess, who must have been a brave woman, knew that the enemy had entered the city, she caused the bell of the convent to be rung. The sisters having assembled, she told them what they must expect in very straightforward language.

"My dear daughters, my excellent sisters," said she, "we must, in this certain danger of life and modesty, show ourselves above our sex. . . . In this crisis we cannot hope to escape their fury by flight, but we can by a resolution, painful it is true, but sure." She then went on to point out that the sight of mutilated faces is revolting to humanity and to suggest such mutilation. Probably it was not fear but conscience which prevented her from advising a more thorough though, under the circumstances, easier and perfectly legitimate alternative—that of suicide. The Abbess ended, "I will set you the example. Let those who desire to meet their heavenly Spouse imitate their mistress." At these words she cut off her nose with a razor. "The others did the same and boldly disfigured themselves to present themselves the more beautiful before Jesus Christ."

The end of the story is simple: "For the Saracens on beholding their bleeding faces. . . . killed them all without sparing one." Thus these forgotten heroic women achieved their martyrdom. What a spectacle must they have presented as thus disfigured, their white robes stained with their own blood, they sat, each in her accustomed place within the chapel, telling their beads and mumbling prayers with mutilated lips, while the devilish Saracens burst in upon them.

And it happened. This is no fiction of the romancer. A few brief generations since thus did those noble women suffer, die, and pass to their own place.

The true blood and the false showed themselves on that day of fear. Says the French historian, Michaud: "John de Gresly and Oste de Granson . . . fled away at the very commencement of the battle. Many others who had taken the oath to die, at the aspect of this general destruction only thought of saving their lives, and threw away their arms to facilitate their flight."

But there were some of a different stamp. Thus the old Patriarch of Jerusalem was dragged to the Port by his friends, resisting separation from his flock in their last agony. Nor, indeed, was he separated, since he insisted upon receiving so many fugitives into his boat that it sank and all were drowned. Then across the dark oblivious years the face of William de Clement shines like a star. When the Templars had abandoned the gate of St. Anthony he returned to it, and thrice charged the Saracens alone. Alive he regained the centre of the city. But let the old chronicler of the time tell the rest—

"Quand il fut revenu au milieu de la cité, son dextrier fut molt las, et lui-même aussi; le dextrier resista en contre les esperons, et s'arresta dans la rue comme qui n'en peut plus. Les Sarrasins, à coups de flêches, ruerent à terre frère Guillaume; ainsi ce lyal champion de Jésus Christ rendit lâme a son Créateur."

The phrase in the mediaeval French, "Le dextrier resista en contre les esperons," which I may render, "The war-horse grew callous to the spurs," is very curious and expressive.

The end of the scene was terrible. I quote from Michaud. "The sea was tempestuous, the vessels could not approach close to land; the shore presented a heart-rending spectacle; here a mother called upon her son, there a son called the assistance of his father, many precipitated themselves into the waves in despair; the mass of the people endeavoured to gain the vessels by swimming, some were drowned in the attempt, others were beaten off with oars."

There is more and worse to follow, almost too dreadful for quotation, so here let us stop. The tragedies of the Holy Land have no number, and perhaps even now they are not done with. Perchance, too, it is the same tale everywhere in the record of this cruel, bloodstained world. Only here, in the Holy Land, as it happens, those among us—but few, I suppose—who delve in the annals of the past, know their history wherein, in this instance, the greatest interests of mankind chance to be concerned. The sun of the Crusaders rose in blood, and in blood it set. "I came to bring not peace but a sword." Truly in Palestine, the very place of His coming, more even than elsewhere, that saying has been fulfilled. Why, we ask, why? our hearts stirred with common human pity for all those tormented dead. There is no answer, or none that we can understand.

Also the subject is very painful, so we will leave it—and Acre.

XVIII. JAFFA

To leave Haifa is comparatively easy, since, owing to a certain amount of shelter which the harbour enjoys, it is only in really bad storms that the traveller cannot embark. Thus on the night of our departure the sea was still high, but we managed, with some discomfort it is true, to win on board the steamer. To disembark at Jaffa is quite another thing.

Now there are two ways of proceeding from Haifa to Jaffa—by sea, which, of course, is simple, in good weather; or to drive a matter of sixty miles over a hideous apology for a road, which runs along the sea-coast. This involves two full days' travelling, including a start at three or four in the morning on the second day, and a considerable expenditure, since such transport is not cheap. Long and anxiously did I ponder over the alternative. Look you, my reader, if the sea is rough at Jaffa, this happens. You go on to that singularly uninteresting place, Port Said, whence, after several days in an hotel at your own charges, you may, if lucky, take another boat back to Jaffa. Then, if the sea is still rough, you proceed to Beyrout, thence to return to Jaffa in a week or ten days' time. Then, if the sea is still rough, once more you visit Port Said, and so on ad nauseum.

This is no fancy picture. We had fellow-travellers to whom these things happened, as they happened to those bold voyagers who, in the face of my experienced advise, determined to try to land at Paphos, in Cyprus, an example that the reader may recall. Remembering past woes, indeed, some who tarried at Haifa went the length of hiring a carriage to tow them through the sands to Jaffa, but I reasoned with them.

"Luck," I said, "ought to change; it was cowardly to give in. The courage of man and the perseverance of woman ought not to be overcome by the billows that break on the rocks of Jaffa." They were stirred to enthusiasm. Also they bethought them of that two days' expensive drive through quick drifts and mud-holes, and the 3 A.M. awakening on the second morning.

"Listen," said a lady solemnly, "if we get off safe at Jaffa I shall bless you. If we don't, I never want to see or hear your name again."

I replied that in either event I feared she might come across it some time, and we started.

I hope that in her transatlantic home for the rest of her life that lady may remember me with regard, as I remember her. For as it chanced on this occasion, we landed in a fashion so prosperous—the sea having conveniently gone down during the night—that even then instinct told me Jaffa had a card up its sleeve to be played some day for my especial benefit.

This was the port most frequented by the old pilgrims, and concerning it their tales of woe are many. A pilgrimage in the Middle Ages was a very serious matter. No statistics are available, but a somewhat extensive inquiry into the subject, and the reading of many books, suggests to me that not more than about fifty per cent. of those enterprising voyagers returned to their respective homes, while the other half endured miseries that to-day we should consider overwhelming. Says the old monk, Felix Fabri, writing in the fifteenth century:—

"O, my God! what a hard and tedious excursion; with how many sufferings was it spoiled. During this excursion I saw many vigorous young noblemen perish, who once had thought in their own conceit that they could rule the waves of the sea and weigh the lofty mountains in scales; but who at last died by the just judgment of God, broken down by hardships and lamentably humbled in spirit. May God give those who call this pilgrimage an easy excursion the power of feeling its sorrows, that they may learn to have compassion for the pilgrims to the Holy Land which they deserve. It requires courage and audacity to attempt this pilgrimage. That many are tempted by sinful rashness and idle curiosity cannot be doubted; but to reach the holy places and to return to one's home alive and well is the especial gift of God."

Johann van Kootwyck, who made the pilgrimage about a century later than Felix Fabri, portions of whose work have been translated from the Latin by Cobham, has left advice as to the outfit necessary in his day to a trip through the Holy Land. It begins by recommending the pilgrim to make a will and arrange all his earthly affairs, which shows what was thought of the prospects of his return. Then it sets out the costs of the passage and board upon a galley. That these were considerable is proved by the fact that before the licence of the Papal legate could be obtained the pilgrim must show "that he can afford to spend at the very least one hundred gold pieces on the journey." Now in 1598 I suppose that one pound went as far as three to-day, if not a good deal further. Therefore it would seem that the pilgrim must have possessed at least £300 to spend upon this enterprise alone—that is, supposing the gold piece referred to having been approximately of the value of a sovereign. Also he must take with him a box containing a mattress, a pillow, and a pair of sheets (these last seem an unnecessary luxury), which box ought to measure six feet long by three feet wide, so that it could serve as a bed. It must have looked uncommonly like a coffin. Perhaps the pilgrim sometimes returned inside it, and—good, thoughtful man—had this contingency in view. Then he must be provided with half-a-dozen shirts, although collars were not considered a necessity (this is specified), a sailor's cap, towels, handkerchiefs, two pounds of soap (this, again, seems luxurious for a pilgrim), "twenty pounds of the best biscuit, some good wine, cinnamon, ginger, nutmegs and cloves, with pomegranates, oranges, and lemons, also sugar and laxative medicine." However, he was advised to carry no arms, to wear the roughest clothes only, so as to avoid being robbed, and, above all, carefully to conceal his cash. In many parts of Syria this counsel holds as good now as on the day that it was given.

Even when the expensive fare had been paid on the galley, according to friend Felix, the accommodation afforded would not now be considered passable by a steerage passenger on a liner.

"A pilgrim can hardly move about without touching his neighbour (that is, while sleeping); moreover, the place is enclosed, and exceeding hot and full of various foul vapours. Wherefore, one must needs sweat all night, which greatly mars one's rest. Fleas and lice swarm there at that time in countless numbers, also mice and rats. Oftentimes, I may say every night, I have risen silently and gone up into the open air, and felt as though I had been freed from some filthy prison."

Then he tells of the heat of the sun, of the darkness, foul air, and overcrowding of cabins, adding "that although the blowing of the wind is essential to those who sail in a ship, yet it is very unpleasant," after which follows a masterly picture of sea-sickness, clearly by one who had experience. Next we have more about fleas, flies, gnats (query mosquitoes), mice, and rats, which eat up "the private larders" and spoil the shoes, and other mysterious creatures. "Moreover, the damp on board ship breeds fat white worms, which crawl everywhere and come by stealth upon men's legs and faces; and when a man becomes aware of them and puts his finger to them, thinking them flies"—the rest is too nasty to quote. No wonder that Felix adds: "Unless Divine Providence had thus ordered it, no man could live on board of large old ships."

About the terrors of the deep he filled pages, for they impressed him much. Sometimes, however, although an acute observer and a man who loved the truth, Fabri was, I fear, imposed upon with travellers' tales. Listen:—

"Yet another peril is to be met with which is called Troyp, from the fish Trois, which, when it becomes aware of the ship, comes back from the depths and pierces the ship with his beak; for he has a beak fashioned like an augur, and unless he be driven away from the ship he bores through it. He cannot be forced away from the ship save by a fearless look, so that one should lean out of the ship over the water, and unflinchingly look into the eyes of the fish, while the fish meanwhile looks at him with a terrible gaze. If he who looks at the fish grows terrified and begins to turn his eyes away, the beast straightway rises, snatches him down beneath the water and devours him. Let this suffice about the perils of the sea."

Imagination fondly pictures the pious Felix and that fish trying to stare each other out of countenance. Perhaps "Trois" had something to do with the Jaffa legend that here Andromeda was bound and rescued from the dragon. Of this story Sir John Mandeville (1322) has made a most marvellous hash:—

"And you shall understand that it (Joppa) is one of the oldest towns of the world, for it was founded before Noah's flood. And there may still be seen in the rock there the place where the iron chains were fastened, wherewith Andromeda, a great giant (sic), was bound and put in prison before Noah's flood; a rib of whose side, which is forty feet long, is still shown."

This is a downright libel on Andromeda, that fair maid whom we see in every Academy, often three times over, attended by a pleasing variety of dragons. Still, if some artist would paint her, or him, according to Mandeville, the change would be refreshing.

Felix, a man of learning, has the legend much more correctly, but even he talks of "the virgin giantess, Andromeda." Evidently, also, there was something in Mandeville's story of the bone, since Felix says:—

"The bones of that sea monster which Perseus slew were of vast size, and used to be publicly on the beach over against the city, and were shown to all who visited Joppa; but afterwards they were removed from thence to Rome by Titus and Vespasian, and hung up in a public place for a marvel, for, indeed, they were worthy of admiration, for every one of its ribs were forty-one feet in length. But Saint Silvester, and the other saints who consecrated Rome to Christ, broke up those bones and all other marvels, lest pilgrims should come hither to see them, and likewise lest pilgrims who had come to Rome for the sake of honouring God and His Apostles should lose their time and waste hours which might be spent in prayer in viewing such strange sights. Some declare that these were the bones of the virgin giantess Andromeda, which seems impossible, because Perseus took Andromeda away with him into Persia, and ended his days there, and we nowhere read of his coming back to Joppa."

It will be observed that Felix does not question the authenticity of the bones because their dimensions are somewhat unusual, but because Perseus took his wife to live with him elsewhere and did not bring her back. The vision of a lady who measured eighty-two feet (not inches) round the waist does not seem to have struck his imagination as a thing particularly out of the common. Nor did he consider it from the point of view of her husband Perseus, or, indeed, of the poor dragon who was expected to eat her.

Josephus also mentions the matter, but in a very different style; his was not an age of fable. He says:—

"Here is the impression of Andromeda's chain, which is supposed to have been cut in the rock with a view to giving credibility to the ancient fable."

In truth these old chroniclers, whether for fact or fiction, are very fascinating to read. In their pages we are transported to a realm strangely real yet fanciful. There, like the figments of some dream, peoples and rulers long departed pass in shadowy procession before our eyes. The things they strove for, their ambitions, their rare virtues, their bloody crimes are matters to muse on in an idle hour—no more. They have gone, utterly; all their tumults and battlings are dust, for the most part unfruitful as that of their own bones. Their very names are forgotten, not one in a million is known, and of these how many are remembered even by students? Yet the sea of Jaffa which affrighted them still hisses by the vessel's side, the narrow Via Dolorosa upon the holy hill of Zion, that they trod—some of them with sighs and tears, or, some of them, "up to their horses' knees in blood"—still lies open to our feet. The pale olives of Gethsemane beneath which they knelt still flower and fruit upon the Mount. The stage is the same, only the actors have changed. That ancient frame does continual duty to new pictures which the showman Time throws upon his screen. here the series grows long, stretching from the day of Moses down. But how many more of them are there to come, those strange forth-shadowings of generations yet unborn, not to be born, perhaps, for thousands upon thousands of years, so deep in time that to them we may seem further off than Moses is to us? Well, such speculations lead nowhere, so let us return to our own particular pilgrimage experienced in our own individual hour.

The embarkation at Haifa was disagreeable, and the night on board was crowded, circumstances that added to our joy when we found the morning fine, and were therefore relieved of the terror of being carried on prematurely to Port Said. This was the second time in my life that I have passed through the grinning jaws of the Jaffa reefs. Once a good many years ago when I chanced to be off this port, I landed and spent a day there, just to be able to think that I had trodden the soil of the Holy Land. I remember on this occasion witnessing a furious quarrel between a custom-house guard in a boat and a washerwoman bringing off clean linen to a ship in another boat. The guard wanted to seize the linen, or probably to extort baksheesh, but the lady defended her goods with a shrill and voluble tongue, calling this representative of the Ottoman law unsavoury names, and reflecting upon his parents for several generations back. Indeed, as her boat bobbed up and down over the swell, she shook her fist beneath the watchman's martial nose till at length, thoroughly out-talked, he drew his pistol on her, and thus I left them. Now, oddly enough, no one seems able to tell me the end of the story.

Landing at Jaffa is a tumultuous affair even in the best of weather, but we accomplished it without so much as a wetting, and were marched to the hotel where we had six or eight hours to wait until the train started for Jerusalem.

Jaffa, the Joppa of the Bible, has much the same history as other coast towns in Palestine. It was taken by Pharaoh Thotmes III. and was the port of the Holy City whither in the days of Hiram came the cedar from Lebanon. "And we will cut wood out of Lebanon, as much as thou shalt need; and we will bring it thee in floats by sea to Joppa, and thou shalt carry it up to Jerusalem." And again in Ezra: "They gave money also unto the masons and to the carpenters; and meat and drink and oil unto them of Zion, and to them of Tyre, to bring cedar trees from Lebanon to the sea of Joppa, according to the grant that they had of Cyrus, king of Persia."

The Jews, the Greeks, and the Romans were its masters, all in turn; several times it has been razed—by Cestius, by Vespasian, by Melik-el-Adil twice, by Saladdin, by Richard of England, by Beibars, by Napoleon. In the time of Felix Fabri the place, of which he says, "I believe that there is hardly another such abominable harbour to be found in the whole circuit of the sea," seems to have been almost a total ruin. At any rate, the only lodging for the pilgrim was "a darksome and decayed dwelling beneath a ruinous vault, known as St. Peter's cellars, wherein the Saracens thrust him, even as men are wont to thrust a sheep into a stable to be milked." As the place was full of the most abominable filth, we learn with satisfaction that "in this cavern there is a seven years' indulgence, which the pilgrim obtains if he enters therein with a devout spirit."

There is very little to see in Jaffa, although the traveller is shown the roof upon which St. Peter slept when the vision of things clean and unclean came to him, as he "tarried many days in Joppa with one Simon a tanner." This site, as Baedeker points out, has been changed of late years; formerly it was at the Latin monastery, now it is over a little mosque. It seems probable that there is nothing to prove the authenticity of either spot. How can there be in a town which has been destroyed so many times? What is authentic and unchangeable, however, is the heap of dirt outside the door of the sacred building. After many years I knew the sight of it again; also its noisome scent floated into my nostrils like some sweet remembered odour of earliest childhood. There it lies, that miniature but ancestral midden, and there, doubtless, it will lie from generation to generation until the Turk departs from the coasts of Syria.

Thence we drove to the Greek church, where the visitor is shown what is said to be the tomb of Tabitha and the place where Peter "gave her his hand and lifted her up, and . . . presented her alive," so that "it was known throughout all Joppa, and many believed in the Lord." The tomb seems to be some ancient catacomb, but whether or no the bones of Tabitha reposed in it, who can tell?

When last I was here, as I have noted was the case at Famagusta, in Cyprus, the orange groves were beautiful to behold. Now ninety trees out of every hundred are diseased, though I am not sure that the pest which is destroying them is the same as has devastated Cyprus. I am inclined to think that they are more afflicted by some sickness of the root than with the brown and black scale. At least the results are identical—thousands of them are dying.

In the Armenian monastery there is a room, if any care to look at it, where a peculiarly dreadful tragedy is said to have occurred, that of a poisoning of a number of his own soldiers who were smitten with the plague, by order of Napoleon the Great, when he retreated from Jaffa in 1799. It seems probable, however, that this story is exaggerated. According to Batjin's "Napoleon 1er," the only history of the emperor which I have at hand, the men were not poisoned. But, as it was determined to leave them behind, to enable them to escape massacre at the hands of the Turks, poison was placed by their bedsides, which they could swallow if they thought fit.

Napoleon is represented as having said, "Je serais toujours disposé à faire pour mes soldats ce que je ferais pour mon propre fils," a sentiment which, considering the occasion, will make most people thankful that Providence did not do them the honour of appointing to them this distinguished parent. M. Batjin, we may gather, does not share that view, since the heading of the chapter under which he deals with this gruesome incident is "nouvel example de sa (Bonaparte's) sollicitude pour les pestiferés." One wonders if the poor "pestiferés," before partaking of the bane so thoughtfully provided in order to save their beloved general the trouble of their transport, defined his sympathetic foresight in exactly the same words.

Like many other men whom we call "great," Napoleon did not stick at trifles. Some pages back I talked of the performance of Richard Coeur-de-Lion, when he caused whole regiments of captive Saracens to be massacred outside Acre, and added, I think, that such acts tended to blight the reader's ideal of the vaunted chivalry of the period. At the moment I had forgotten that but one century ago the same thing happened outside Jaffa, Bonaparte, possibly inspired by his example, but with even less excuse, filling the rôle of Richard of England. There, on those shell-strewn sands, he marched out his captives and butchered them, "taking precautions to prevent any escaping." M. Batjin's sole comment upon the occurrence, so far as I can discover, is: "La ville fut prise d'assaut, le même jour a cinq heurs du soir, 4000 hommes de la garnison furent passé par les armes." Clearly our author thinks it well to be a little blind to such lapses of the national hero into mediaevalism.

If all the trains that leave Charing Cross in the course of a busy day were to start during one single hour, I do not suppose that the sum of the noise and confusion would equal that which occurs at the station at Jaffa when the daily tram—it is scarcely more—gets itself off for Jerusalem. Heavens! how those dusky, untamed sons of the desert fight and yell. How they stagger to and fro beneath the boxes, hurling them to earth here, there, and everywhere. How they clamour for baksheesh! How they rush to procure seats for their various patrons and demand more baksheesh! What life, what excitement, what turmoil, what arguments, what deadly feuds! What vociferations on the part of the officials! But we get off somehow in a very crowded carriage, and the various dragomen, clad in their best attire for the entry into Jerusalem, explain, as their command of English or French gives them grace, the wonders through which we are passing.

Here is the fertile plain of Sharon looking rather desolate beneath its cloak of windy wet. There is the place where the ark was set up in the temple of Dagon to the dire discomfiture of the Philistines, who suffered so sorely from its presence and found it so difficult to be rid of. Yonder, according to all traditions, Samson tied torches to the tails of a vast number of foxes—I think it was three hundred. This feat leaves the modern wondering how he managed to snare so many all at once, for in any time or country to catch a fox is not easy. There, too, in that village he was born, and there he died.

Old Testament history, studied from the windows of a railway carriage, becomes, it must be confessed, a little confusing. But without doubt this was the territory of the Philistines, and the fact brings home to the mind how very small is the area wherein were enacted the great events recorded in the Bible. Soon the plains are left behind, and we begin to climb the mountains that lie about Jerusalem like a wall. Barren hill succeeds barren hill. Perhaps once they were clothed with vineyards; now only flowering cyclamen grow in the crannies of the rocks.

At length, about six o'clock, the train pulls up, and once more fierce confusion begins to reign. We have reached Jerusalem. The mountain wind blows bitterly; the rain falls in torrents, and everywhere one steps in liquid mud. Sometimes it is two, sometimes four, sometimes six inches deep; the experienced choose the two-inch strata, the flurried wallow in the six-inch depths. The local Cook appears, drags us into a carriage, and off we flounder. Presently, what looks like a mediaeval tower rises before us. We are informed that it is the castle of David, now the Turkish citadel, which is believed to be, at any rate so far as its foundations are concerned, the Phasaël built by Herod, one of the few places that Titus did not destroy when he sacked the town and burned the temple. We pass through the Jaffa gate and the walls built by the Saracens, that still give to Jerusalem the appearance of a strongly-fortified, mediaeval city, and so, by streets which we cannot distinguish in the wet and gathering gloom, to our hotel.

Next morning we awoke to the sound of a roaring gale and of rain dashing against the window, such rain as, according to Bishop Arculf, who visited Jerusalem about the year 700, "exhibits God's peculiar attachment to this place" by washing out the streets after an annual fair. It was cold also, bitterly cold; almost might the traveller have fancied himself once more in Florence. I clad myself very warmly, topping up with a covert coat and a macintosh, but when David saw me as we prepared to start upon our expedition, he said it would not do at all, that I did not understand the climate of Jerusalem, and must put on my ulster also. I obeyed, and before I returned thanked him for his advice.

In places the narrow lanes of Jerusalem were running inches deep with water beneath the lashing of the torrents which, as Arculf remarks, provides them with their only washing. Indeed, they are filthy, almost as filthy as those of Tiberias, if such a thing be possible, especially in quarters inhabited by the Jews, where none should linger. We passed through the crowded bazaars, now reeking in a damp, cold mist that seemed to embalm the smells, accompanied by a cavass from the Consulate and a soldier, whose protection is supposed to be necessary to the visitor to the Harâm-esh-Sherif, the Noble Sanctuary, where once stood the temples and palaces of Solomon and Herod. It is approached, or, at least, we approached it, by a kind of covered-in alley of a filthiness so peculiar and surpassing that before it everything else of the kind which I have seen in the Holy Land sinks its ineffectual stench. Imagine a people who are content that so foul an avenue should lead to their great sanctuary.

We went up steps, and were within the sacred area. It is a great place covering many acres—I never heard their number—but much of it is overgrown with grass, amongst which were blooming blue flowers like those of borage. Just now, also, it was sodden with rain—very grey and desolate to the eye beneath the low, scudding clouds.

It was with curious feelings that at length I set my foot upon this hill-top, the womb, as it were, of the world's fate, where have been enacted so many of the most awful scenes of history, spiritual and human. Here the Ark stood. Here great Solomon built his fane without sound of saw or hammer, that fane which was to be destroyed and re-arise, again to be destroyed and again arise. Here at last dawned the light of that predestined day when the Roman eagles were borne across it, and the hallowed temple of Jehovah went up in sheets of fire to Heaven. Here the Veil was rent, and the Sanctuary desecrated, while the blood of its votaries ran ankle-deep into the vaults below. Men have worshipped here by millions. They have perished here by tens and twenties of thousands. The voice of Christ has echoed here. The shouts of the victors, the screams of the conquered, the moans of the dying, the solemn sounds of sacrifice, the blare of ceremonial trumpets, the daily whisper of a people's reverent prayer—it has heard them all in turn. Here stood Solomon in his glory, and all the congregation of Israel before the Ark of the Lord, in which was nothing "save the two tablets of stone which Moses put there at Horeb." Here "the cloud filled the House of the Lord," and Solomon said, "I have surely built thee a house to dwell in, a settled place for thee to abide in for ever." Here he prayed "that thine eyes may be opened towards this house night and day." Here, too, came the answer when Jehovah appeared to the king a second time, that his petition should be fulfilled while the men of Israel and their children remain faithful. But if not, "then will I cut off Israel out of the land which I have given them; and this house, which I have hallowed for my name, will I cast out of my sight; and Israel shall be a proverb and a by-word among all people: And at this house, which is high, every one that passeth by it shall be astonished, and shall hiss; and they shall say, Why hath the Lord done thus unto this land, and to this house?"

Are they not astonished, and do not the nations of the earth speak thus to-day when the high home of God has become a chief tabernacle of the false prophet, where the Christian is admitted under guard and on sufferance, and the Jew, whose heritage it is, may not so much as set his foot?

XIX. THE NOBLE SANCTUARY, THE POOLS OF SOLOMON AND BETHLEHEM

The Mosque of the Rock, known as the Noble Sanctuary, where once stood the Temple of the Jews, is a beautiful building, even to those who, like myself, do not particularly admire the oriental style of architecture; also it is already ancient. At its door a Mahommedan priest received us, and rough wrappings of sackcloth were bound about our feet, which, as they were wet through and cold, to me were comfortable. Then we entered the place, where we found ourselves quite alone. It is spacious with a great dome; its windows are full of lovely and ancient stained glass; its walls set with harmonious Eastern tiles; its floors covered with rich carpets. Underneath the dome, fifty feet or more in length, surrounded by an old iron screen and one of wood, stands the sacred rock, where Abraham is said to have made ready Isaac for slaughter, where, too, as seems to be generally admitted, stood the Jewish altar of Sacrifice for many generations. Indeed there is a hole pierced through its centre that received, it is thought, the blood of the victims, which was carried away by the drains beneath.

Some fine, natural instinct, or perhaps a priestly tradition, caused the Hebrews to leave that rock untouched. Except for the steps cut on it by the Crusaders it is much as Nature made it in the beginning, and doubtless so it will remain until the end. Millions of years ago it was heaved up in the first cataclysms of the universe. Thousands, or millions of years hence it will crumble and disappear in the last general catastrophe. The sacred associations that make it famous above every other stone in the world—even that of Mecca—will cling, as it were, to but one hour of the immeasurable aeons during which it is destined to endure. Through long, long epochs it must have been but a rock upon a mountain breast. Through other epochs yet to come again it may be but a rock upon a mountain breast. But for two thousand years or so it was the Altar of God, that atom of His wide creation from which His chosen people offered Him praise and incense, symbolised in their burnt sacrifices. This rugged mass of stone impressed me more than all the vaunted glories of the Noble Sanctuary. Also it is a true relic. The courts, the walls, the columns, they have vanished every one. No trace of them is left above the ground. Yet that rock of ages still remains, the only thing, as I suppose, connected with their worship which has witnessed the history of the Jews almost from the beginning, that still witnesses it, and will in some far age witness its end, whatever that end may be.

We saw many things in the mosque. For instance, there is the cavern beneath the rock, with places where David and Solomon used to pray, and a round hole above, made, we were solemnly assured, by the head of Mahomet as he went up to heaven like a cannon-ball. This hole, however, as I believe, has to do with the blood channels from the altar of Sacrifice. The Mussulmen say that at the last Judgment the Almighty will take His seat upon this rock, and that beneath the cavern is the Pit of Spirits, where on certain days in every week the deceased assemble to their devotions. Visitors to the Noble Sanctuary hear many such stories, most of them connected with the Prophet, all of which must be listened to with becoming gravity and reverence. For my part, I found the task trying, as, without indorsing friend Felix's vigorous views,[8] I chance to hold strong opinions upon the subject of this prophet, whose doctrines will, I believe, cause even more bloodshed and misery in the world in the future than they have brought upon it in the past. It is, however, a part of the experience.

Among other things we were shown a stone slab into which Mahomet, who, by the way, I believe was never here in the flesh, hammered nineteen golden nails. At the end of every century, or upon the occurrence of any very important event, the devil removes one of these nails. He has now got them all except three and a half, for the angel Gabriel just caught him in time and caused him to break one in his hurry. When he succeeds in abstracting the rest, the world will come to a sudden end, or thus say the Mahommedans. What a chance is here for that practically-minded traveller of whose dealings with an ancient lamp I have already told the tale. Picture the faces of the faithful when next morning they found those last nails gone, and the end of all things coming up like a torpedo-boat under a full head of steam. Only he might find these warlike Moslems more difficult to deal with than proved the poor old priest.

Our holy guide intimated to me that by placing money upon this nail-stone I should assure my eternal safety. Accordingly I purchased salvation to the value of ninepence in small change, which he pocketed. Then we went on and saw more wonders.

Leaving the Mosque of the Dome, we visited the Dome of the Chain, a beautiful little building which is called David's Judgment-seat, and also the Dome of the Ascension, a memorial of another of the miracles of Mahomet. Then we were shown the entrances to various cisterns, especially a vast reservoir which must have existed in the time of our Lord, that is known as "The Sea." This used to be supplied with water from Solomon's Pools, that lie at a distance of several miles from Jerusalem. Next we came to the Mosque el-Aksa, known, too, as the Mosque of Omar, because that Caliph defiled it, converting it from a Christian church into a place of worship according to the Prophet. It is still very beautiful, with a nave, aisles, and a basilica, which were built by the Emperor Justinian to serve as a shrine to the Virgin. Here we were regaled with more Mahommedan legends, a well being shown to us down which some good man went after a fallen bucket, contrary to every expectation to find himself in Paradise. Also, there are two columns set close together, and he who cannot squeeze between them has no hope of Heaven. It seems, however, that so many stout Moslems got set fast or injured themselves in their mad attempt to pass where natural curves would not permit, that now the practice is forbidden, and the space between the columns has been shut off with a railing.

Such follies were not always confined to Mahommedans, however, since Felix Fabri mentions that about the year 1480 there was a place between a pillar and a wall, I think, in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, through which pilgrims tried to squeeze. Those who succeeded received a considerable remission of their purgatorial pains, especially promised and guaranteed by those who had control of the matter.

The pulpit in this mosque is a rich miracle of good carving. It dates from 1168, and is said to have been presented by Saladin.

Leaving the Mosque of Omar we descended into vast crypt-like vaults, which are called Solomon's stables, though experts declare that they were rebuilt in Saracenic times. It is, however, quite possible that the horses of the Jewish kings once stood in these caverns. Indeed I have noticed how common it is in the East to use caves or underground places as a stable, probably because these are cooler in summer. Whoever built or rebuilt them, certainly the Crusaders made use of this sub-structure, for holes bored in angles of the columns can still be seen through which ran their halter ropes. In a passage leading to these vaults we were shown gigantic blocks of stone which, I suppose, were put in place by Phoenician workmen in the days of Solomon. That they could be moved at all without the aid of modern machinery is little short of wonderful.

Having inspected everything, at length we emerged by a narrow stairway into the open, and walked across a great expanse of the temple field to the eastern wall. It was soaked with rain, but as I went I could not help remembering that there were periods in its history when it has been as wet as this with blood. Here in one day fell 8500 men in a struggle between the Zealots and the party of John during the siege by Titus. Here too, at the conclusion of that siege, a motley multitude of 6000 were shrivelled up in the conflagration of the royal cloister, while 10,000 others were slaughtered without by the Roman soldiery.

Mounting the walls by steps built in them, we could see beneath us the Valley of Jehoshaphat, with its thousands of tombs covering the dust of Jews who have been brought hither for burial. A very ancient tradition among both Christians and Moslems tells that here will be the scene of the last Judgment. It is founded, I suppose, upon the verses in Joel: "Let the heathen be wakened (new version: Let the nations bestir themselves) and come up to the Valley of Jehoshaphat: for there will I sit to judge all the heathen (new version: All the nations) round about. . . . Multitudes, multitudes in the valley of decision: for the day of the Lord is near in the valley of decision. The sun and the moon shall be darkened, and the stars shall withdraw their shining. The Lord also shall roar out of Zion, and utter his voice from Jerusalem; and the heavens and the earth shall shake."

Then the prophet goes on to tell that thereafter Jerusalem shall be holy, "and there shall no strangers pass through her any more."

In the day of Felix Fabri the Saracens of Palestine already held this belief, though the Arabs placed the last Judgment at Mecca, and the Syrians selected Damascus. Those who put their faith in the Valley of Jehoshaphat said that there would be three Judges—the Almighty, the Christ, and Mahomet. The First Person was to be seated on the pinnacle of the temple, the Second Person on the top of the Mount of Olives, while the Prophet, present in the capacity of a councillor, would take his place upon a piece of broken column, which to this day still projects from the wall of the Haram. Another tradition is that Christ and Mahomet will be the judges, Mahomet occupying a place upon the Mount of Olives. Between the Mount and the column, spanning the Valley of Jehoshaphat, will stretch a rope, over which every soul must pass. The fate of the wicked may be guessed, but the righteous will go across with the ease of a Blondin.

About this broken pillar—I wonder, by the way, how it can possibly have come into its present position—Felix tells a curious story with which I do not remember meeting elsewhere. Not long before his time a certain Saracen prophet came to the Valley of Jehoshaphat, followed by all the people of the city, to whom he promised that he would show to them details hitherto unknown concerning the last Judgment. To that end "this child of the devil" climbed up to the broken pillar by help of ladders, and, seating himself astride upon it with his back to the wall, began to prophesy. Unfortunately for himself, evidently he was a preacher with action, and, forgetting the dangerous nature of his seat, yielded to the excitement of the moment, and began to fling about his arms. Now, this column, as we still may see, has been highly polished, and presently there happened to that unfortunate expounder of the last Judgment an accident such as is apt to chance to careless people who ride with loose girths. Suddenly he slipped, and, his seat being so smooth, was quite unable to recover himself. One frantic, ineffectual grasp, and where his head had been appeared his heels; then down he came, and was smashed like an egg in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, a catastrophe over which Felix does not seem to grieve. "The silly people," he remarks, "were confounded, and went back into the city, every man to his own home. Thus did the false prophet, contrary to his intention, show them the proof not by words but by deeds."

Felix mentions also, in another volume, that in his day there was a Moslem cemetery in the valley, opposite to the Golden Gate, to which he was not allowed to approach. Formerly, it seems, the Latins and Armenians celebrated an annual festival at this gate, through which our Lord is said to have passed on the first Palm Sunday, "until, at the instigation of the devil, the Saracens began to bury their damned dead here, after which they blocked up the gate."

"Multitudes, multitudes in the valley of decision." Standing on that lofty wall, and looking northwards, what a picture is called up! The wide white-tombed valley full of dead, the naked mountains beyond choked with dead standing rank above rank even in the empty air till their number joins earth to heaven; the myriad dead of every age and generation come hither unto judgment. From the countless graves below, from the way of the sea, from each acre of earth's surface, dead, dead, nothing but dead, rushing on to judgment in the gorge of Jehoshaphat. "Multitudes, multitudes in the valley of decision." And above, facing each other in the sick heaven, the black balls of the sun and moon discerned by the light of the flaring, shivering, dying stars!

Walking along the wall we came to the Golden Gate, which by some is believed to be the Beautiful Gate spoken of in the Acts. No man goes through it for it is built up. Here passed Christ, while the people cried Hosanna and threw palms upon His path. The Mahommedans have a belief that on a certain Friday, none know when, a Christian conqueror will enter by this gate and hunt them from Jerusalem for ever. Perhaps that is why they wall it up. In itself the building is striking, but I will not attempt its detailed description. Experts say that in its present form it dates from the Byzantine period.

At length we had visited everything we were allowed to look at, and turned for a while to contemplate the whole expanse of this great and sacred place that has seen so much, and for aught we know, has still so much to see. Then we parted from our guide and guard with mutual compliments, pointed in a manner best understood in the East, and returned to the city, following the tortuous line of the Via Dolorosa. Along this street the Saviour is supposed to have borne His cross—indeed, by tablets and otherwise, each "station" is recorded to an inch, upon what authority I have not been able to discover. Still millions have accepted and continue to accept the tradition.

Afterwards we visited what is now shown as the Pool of Bethesda. I cannot say if it is the true site which has been claimed for other springs. This is certain, however, that it agrees very closely with the conditions described in the Gospels. Many steps lead to this darksome pool—to be accurate, there are two pools. The steepness of these steps makes it evident that no maimed or impotent person could have climbed down them quickly without assistance. It is possible, however, that here were nothing but cisterns, fed by some underground fountain. Above are the remains of a chapel, discovered, I understand, in the course of recent excavations, and built apparently during the crusading period.

Our next expedition of importance was to the Pools of Solomon, about six miles from Jerusalem, which once they helped to supply with water. Now the aqueduct is broken, and practically the only water in the city is obtained from cisterns that are filled by the rains. So long as these cisterns remain clean their water is good, but they are not always clean. Also towards the end of summer the supply fails. Then there is much sickness.

It is said, I believe with truth, that some years ago the Baroness Burdett-Coutts offered to restore the broken aqueduct at a cost of about £20,000. Thereupon the Turkish authorities, wishing to profit by this strange folly of a Frank, asked for another £3000 baksheesh in return for the honour that must accrue to a stranger who, at her own expense, proposed to provide their city with a supply of pure water. I am glad to say that, according to the story, the Baroness refused to submit to this imposition. Subsequently, after the pause common in the East, it was intimated to her that her original offer would be accepted. To this she is reported to have replied that she had now spent the money in building or endowing a church in England. As a result, Jerusalem remains, and is likely to remain, without any constant supply of drinking water.

Here it is the same in every case. A gentleman who is resident in the city told me that he had applied for leave to mend at his own expense a hole in the road running past his house. The answer was that he must pay for the privilege. The Sultan, it was explained to him, could mend his own road if he liked, or, if it pleased his Imperial Wisdom, could leave it unmended. In the issue he left it unmended.

We drove out through the Jaffa Gate, past the Hill of Evil Council, where Caiaphas and his colleagues are said to have decided upon the destruction of the Saviour. On a ridge above stands a tortured-looking wind-bent tree, apparently an oak, to which Judas is reported to have hanged himself. In the account by Bishop Arculf, as taken down by Adamnan, the Abbot of the Isle of Iona, upon which he was shipwrecked on his return from the East in the days of the Northumbrian king Alfred—that is, at the end of the seventh century—the Judas tree was shown upon much the same spot. Arculf, however, describes it as a large fig-tree, and that it is not still a fig I am unable to assert with confidence, for we did not go close enough to verify its species. Mandeville, 600 years later, speaks of it as an elder-tree, but Sir John can scarcely be counted as an authority on this or any other matter.

Further on we came to the little building that is shown as the tomb of Rachel, of which the site at any rate appears to have been accepted for many centuries. Certainly she must have been buried very near by, for Jacob says in Genesis: "And as for me, when I came from Padan, Rachel died by me in the land of Canaan in the way, when yet there was but a little way to come unto Ephrath: and I buried her there in the way of Ephrath: the same is Bethlehem."

Leaving Bethlehem to be visited on our return, we drove to the Pools of Solomon. They are splendid reservoirs, three of them, lying one below the other, fed from the spring known as the Sealed Fountain and other sources. Of the three pools the first is the smallest, and the last, which is nearly two hundred yards long by fifty broad and sixteen deep, is the largest. I am ignorant who built them, Solomon or another, but Pontius Pilate is said to have restored them, and once they fed Jerusalem with water. Now, as I have told, the conduit is broken, so the water runs no further than Bethlehem. Also I noticed that, like everything else in this land, the pools themselves are falling into disrepair. Thus the sluices connecting the two of them, I think the first and second, are broken down, so that the water is forced to find its way by an overground channel of its own. Upon the day of our visit a furious gale was blowing which caused the waves to dash over the retaining wall of the pools, as though they had been born in the depths of a veritable sea. Studied from below the effect was very striking.

Near to the head of the first pool is a large castle-like building, as usual in ruins, said to have been created 300 or 400 years ago as a protection against Arab tribes. I pushed the rough door aside and entered. In the gateway an old goose was sitting which hissed at me, and beyond were the ruins of many walls and chambers mixed up with an attempt at a muddy garden. Except for this goose the place was quite deserted.

From Solomon's Pools we drove to Bethlehem, now a crowded, narrow-streeted little town, for the most part inhabited by Christians. In front of the church of St. Mary, which covers the traditional and, as I believe, the undisputed spot of the Nativity of our Lord, is a large flagged space, bordered by tombs. Once the atrium of the church stood here, but this has long been destroyed. At present the front looks like a blank wall erected by many builders at many ages in many different materials, and subsequently buttressed up. Were it not for the little iron cross standing at the apex of the gable, none would guess the sacred character of the building beyond.

We passed in by a humble door that seems to strive to hide itself away in the shadow, the original main entrances having been bricked up in past days, I suppose from fear of the Turks and Bedouins. Within is a majestic fane, reared by the Emperor Constantine in the year 330, and I believe in all essentials not greatly changed since his day, although amongst other restorations the roof was repaired in 1482, its materials being given by Edward IV. and Philip of Burgundy. The transept and apse of the basilica have been walled off during the last century, so that all the visitor sees as he comes in is the noble, naked nave and its aisles, supported by pillars each hewn from a single rock. This part of the building is remarkable for its disrepair and neglected aspect. None of the Christians seem to wish to beautify or preserve it, for the strange reason that it belongs to all the Christians. Latins, Greeks, Armenians, each have their share in it, and therefore individually will do nothing, lest they should benefit the property of their fellow-worshippers of another shade of faith. Such conduct and the constant bitter quarrels that break out between them here, in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and everywhere throughout Palestine—what an example do they give to the Moslem who stands by and mocks at the mutual hates of these "Christian dogs"?

A gentleman in Jerusalem told me that not long ago he found a Turkish soldier on guard in some part of this church, where it was not usual for a sentry to be, and inquired of him why he was there. He pointed to a nail in the wall and replied—

"It is my duty to watch that nail."

Asked why, he explained that the Latins, or the Greeks, I forget which, had driven in the nail with a view of hanging a picture; that the rival sect had furiously objected, saying that it was an interference with their property, and wanted to pull out the nail. That thereupon the Turkish Government had intervened and set him to watch the nail and see that no picture was hung upon it, and that it was not pulled out. To allow the picture to be hung would have been to admit the claims of those who drove in the nail; to allow it to be pulled out would have been to admit the claims of those who objected to the driving in of the nail. Therefore the nail must be preserved, and the picture must not be hung, and, to see that this was so, an armed sentry must watch day and night. For aught I know he may be watching still. At any rate the story is as instructive as it is true.

Very much the same state of affairs seems to have prevailed in the time of Felix Fabri, who tells us that the Greeks owned the choir, the Latins the cave of the Lord's Nativity, and the Armenians an altar at the place of the Three Kings' Offerings. Whether they all of them then owned the nave and aisles jointly, I do not know, although I gather that they did. This is what he says:—

"This church at Bethlehem is in its upper part profaned and desecrated, nor has it one single lamp in its upper part, neither in the choir nor in the nave nor in the chapels, but it stands like a barn without hay, an apothecary's shop without pots of drugs, or library without books; the precious pictures are dropping from the walls, and there is no one to restore them. Yet we are thankful that the body of the church is still standing."

Felix, who could be very credulous where Christian wonders are concerned, relates some strange and pleasing stories about this church. One of them is to the effect that the "Soldan" came to the Place of the Nativity to destroy it. The destruction commenced accordingly, but the Soldan, noting the excellence of the carved slabs, and of the columns, ordered that they should be removed to be put to other purposes. Then—"Oh! miracle and prodigy meet to be proclaimed among the faithful"—while the workmen were at the task under the eye of their master—

"Out of the unbroken, solid wall, which it seemed that even a needle could not pierce, there came forth a serpent of wondrous size, who bent his head back against the wall, and gave a bite to the first marble slab, and split it with his fiery tongue."

Vires acquirit eundo—for, put upon his mettle by the smashing of these slabs, the said serpent leapt next into the chapel of the Three Kings, "ran along that highly-polished wall whereon not even a spider could plant its feet, split forty-two slabs in two and disappeared."

After this the reader will not marvel that the Soldan was astounded, and abandoning his predatory purposes, got out of the church as fast as he could go. The tracks of the serpent, however, which looked as though "hot irons had been held against the stones"—possibly they had, but this does not seem to have occurred to honest Felix—remained in his day. Indeed he informs us that "I beheld the traces of this miracle with great pleasure, and often looked curiously upon them with inward wonderment."

To return from wandering with the fascinating Felix. After admiring the nave and aisles we passed into the transept and apse, where we saw the gorgeous altars of the various sects, and alongside the Latin Church of St. Catherine. Then we went down some steps into the chapel of the Nativity. It is lighted by many lamps, of a good size and marble-lined throughout. Beneath an altar, a plain silver star is let into the pavement, and with it the inscription Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus Christus natus est.

This, according to all traditions, is I believe the holy and undisputed spot of the birth of the Saviour upon earth. It is best not to attempt to record the reflections to which the sight of it gives rise; each reader can guess them for himself. Close at hand, at the foot of a few steps, is a kind of trench lined with marble, said to be the site of the manger in which the Lord was laid, the original (of course discovered by the Empress Helena) having been despatched to Rome. If the one spot is authentic, so doubtless is the other, but I could wish that both of them had been left with a little less of ornamentation and marble linings. This remark, however, applies to almost every holy site in Palestine, except that of which I have spoken, of the Transfiguration upon Mount Tabor, and one other place, not in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which I hope to describe presently, where, as I believe, Christ was crucified.

Afterwards we visited more underground caverns, such as the Chapel of the Innocents, where some of them are said to have been massacred or buried, I am not sure which, and the chapel cut in the rock where St. Jerome lived for many years and wrote his works. Then I returned alone to the Chapel of the Nativity, which I was so fortunate as to find quite empty, and stood there awhile, listening to the solemn, swelling sound of the chanting monks as they marched from shrine to shrine through the various caves and passages of the crypt.

Outside of this church a gang of mother-of-pearl vendors and other folk who desired to beg or to sell something, threw themselves upon us furiously, clamouring, beseeching, and pestering, till we were driven almost mad with their importunities. This is one of the most persistent troubles that the traveller must expect in the Holy Land. He visits some sacred spot which he has longed to see from childhood, and no sooner is he without its doors than a crowd of impudent scamps, to whom the traditions of that place are a daily revenue, fall upon him and disturb his mind and temper.

However, we got rid of all of them at last—except one little girl, who simply declined to be driven away—and walked to a high crest on the outskirts of the town, whence we saw the wide plain that runs to the Dead Sea, and is bounded by the mountains of Moab. Below us, enclosed by a wall, lay that olive garden where the angel is said to have visited the "shepherds abiding in the field keeping watch over their flock by night," and to have given them the "good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people," while above the Heavenly multitude gave "glory to God in the highest and on earth peace."

Thence breaking through the ranks of the mother-of-pearl sellers, who now made their last desperate attack, we drove to David's Well. It was from this well, when the Philistines held his city of Bethlehem, that David longed for water. "Oh! that one would give me drink of the water of Bethlehem which is by the gate." Then the three mighty men found a path through the hosts of the Philistines and drew water from the well and brought it to their prince. But David "poured it out unto the Lord," saying, "Shall I drink the blood of the men that went in jeopardy of their lives?"

I suppose that the well shown by the gate is the same, but, if so, I do not think, however thirsty he might be, that David would wish to drink of its water to-day, since all the surface drainage of the garden finds its way into it; as by kneeling and looking down the well I was able to discover. When questioned the priest in charge could give no explanation. He only said that it had always been so.

Leaving this mystery unsolved, we drove back to Jerusalem. On our way we passed the field that was bought to bury strangers in with the price of the thirty pieces of betrayal, and that grim and desolate valley—once the scene of the abomination of heathen worship—which during the last 1500 years has received the bones of so many of those travellers to whom Jerusalem has proved the place of their last pilgrimage.

XX. JERICHO, THE DEAD SEA, BETHANY, AND SOLOMON'S QUARRIES

The weather was still very cold and rainy on the morning that we started from Jerusalem to visit Jordan, Jericho, and the Dead Sea. Leaving at about eight o'clock, we crossed the head of the Valley of the Kedron and drove to the cave on the Mount of Olives, now an underground chapel, which is said to contain the tomb of the Virgin, the tomb of her parents, the tomb of Joseph, and the grotto where the last scene of the Agony is reported to have fallen upon our Lord while His disciples slept around. These different sacred spots are in the possession of the Greeks, the Armenians, and the Abyssinians, each of those sects having an altar here. Also there is a place of prayer reserved to the Mahommedans. It is needless to add that here, as elsewhere, the various Foundations indulge in their scandalous and discreditable rivalry. The church lies many feet underground, and is approached by a broad flight of marble steps, so ill-lighted that the visitor will do well if he proceeds like a blind man, tapping in front of him with a stick.

On this morning the crowd and the confusion were great, for up and down the steps poured two conflicting streams of hundreds of Russian pilgrims, perspiring and malodorous, amongst whom we struggled in the gloom. At their foot a somewhat mercenary monk provided us with tapers, by the light of which we inspected the tomb of the Virgin. It is covered with a marble slab, worn perfectly smooth by the lips of pilgrims. These good people, and especially the Russians, think it their duty to kiss every object of acknowledged or reputed sanctity. I have seen them kneeling on the road kissing the ground, standing against walls kissing the stones, and bowing themselves to kiss the thresholds or the doors of buildings.

Owing to the multitude which surged to and fro, the sound of the singing of the mass (I think, at two altars), the smoke of the burning tapers, and the thick atmosphere arising from the presence in that airless place of so many pious but unwashen persons, our visit was disturbed and unsatisfactory. Indeed I was glad when we had struggled up the steps again and found ourselves in the cold, refreshing air.

Next we walked to the Garden of Gethsemane, a spot the identity of which seems never to have been doubted. It is the property of the Franciscans, and enclosed by a wall rendered as hideous as may be with stucco and bad pictures, although, fortunately, the existence of the olives had made it impossible for any one to cover it with a roof. Within the wall is a garden, and within that garden the true wonder of the place—eight olive trunks, still living but of a vast antiquity, here and there built up with stones to support them. So ancient are these decaying trees that, taking into consideration the longevity of the olive, it seems to me possible, and even probable, that amongst them, or others which sprang from the same roots, the Saviour did indeed pray and suffer. Yet they still push their leaves in spring and bear their fruit in autumn.

Preceding and following us round the enclosure were many more Russian pilgrims. I observed them closely, and noted that none of them seemed to look at or pay attention to the sacred spot of ground, or to the gaunt and hollow olives that grow within. At intervals on the wall, however, are placed vile representations in plaster relief of various scenes connected with the Passion. These are covered with iron gratings, and the pilgrims as they went stopped before each grating and kissed its bars. It is impossible to watch these people without sympathy and respect; still it does appear almost piteous that they should pay so much attention to the outward and visible side of things, since this cannot but militate against a true appreciation of the inward and spiritual. Yet their motive is pure and good, and for the rest, who has a right to judge?

Shortly after leaving the Garden of Gethsemane we found our mounted Bedouin escort waiting for us by the roadside. Nothing that I saw in the demeanour of any of the inhabitants of the Dead Sea region, leads me to suppose that the presence of guards was a necessity. But there they are, and no traveller seems to be allowed to go to Jericho without them. Possibly this is to be explained by the fact that they are well paid for their services, and, in addition, receive a baksheesh from the object of their protective attentions. Possibly also, if they were no longer employed, as they themselves vigorously assert would be the case, accidents might overtake the pilgrim. Without being uncharitable, I can conceive even that they, or some of them, might be intimately concerned in those accidents. If a respectable Bedouin guard has his means of livelihood taken away from him, who could wonder if he should again relapse into the unregenerate state of a disreputable Bedouin thief?

A little further on, situated upon a hillside to our right, in the midst of several caverns that have, I suppose, served as tombs, we saw the slaughterhouse of Jerusalem, with the butchers at their horrid work in the full sight of passers-by, and the flocks of sheep and other animals waiting their turn. It was a most unpleasant spectacle.

Next we passed through Bethany, without stopping, as we were to visit it on our return, and at length came to the spot which is fabled to be the scene spoken of by our Lord in the parable of the Good Samaritan and the traveller who went down to Jericho and fell among thieves. Here we rested the horses awhile, as the road, which, for a wonder, had not been made for the German Emperor, was steep and slippery after the rain, although it is the best in Palestine, and, indeed, by no means bad, considering the engineering difficulties that must have been overcome in its construction.

After leaving the Khan Hadrur the landscape as we drove became even more lonesome and extraordinarily wild. It is impossible to describe it better than by saying that it reminded me of the mountains of the moon as seen through a telescope. White, arid, unpeopled, with towering cliffs and vast rain-cut gullies, covered with round and stunted bushes showing like green warts on the face of the hills, uncultivated and uncultivable, the home of hawks and ravens, and here and there of a few wandering goats, that make little beaten tracks upon the mountain sides, it is the very ideal of desolation, a wilderness of wildernesses. At the bottom of a precipitous, yawning gulf runs the brook Cherith. Here, built half-way up the towering cliff, to which it clings like a swallow's nest upon a wall, is a Greek monastery that, as I am informed, marks the site of the cave in which Elijah was fed by the ravens. Of this monastery, David, our dragoman, told me a curious tale. He said that once when he visited the place an old monk there took him out to the mountain-side, carrying in his hand a basket of crumbs and other food. Here, leaving David at a little distance, he stood still and whistled, whereon all sorts of birds, wild doves and many others, emerged from the cliffs and brushwood, and, after fluttering round, settled on the old man's head and shoulders while he fed them from his hand. Surely upon this monk must have fallen the mantle of sweet St. Francis of Assisi.

Now we began to descend precipitous slopes till the plain of Jericho lay before us, a great expanse sprinkled with thorn-scrub and backed by the mountains of Moab. Unfortunately for the most part it was draped in mist and clouds, which hid the Dead Sea and blurred the outline of the hills. Passing through Jericho, a horribly foul village, where the population are said to be all thieves and most of the children seemed diseased, we drove on to the mounds which are reported to mark the site of the ancient city, whose walls fell down at the sound of the trumpet. As these mounds are distinct and isolated, however, it seems quite possible that they cover the ruins of outlying towers and fortifications.

Then we visited a fine pool of fresh water, which we were informed is fed by the spring that from bitter was made sweet by the prophet Elisha. After this we drove back to the village and our hotel through flat level land, which evidently is very fertile wherever it is reached and irrigated by the waters of Elisha's pool.

We had left Jerusalem in bitter cold, but here, although it was still early in the season, the air was hot and sultry, hotter even than at Tiberias. It is easy to imagine that after their long wanderings amongst sand and rocky deserts, this valley of Jordan, probably then in a high state of cultivation, with the greater part of its rich soil irrigated from the river and other sources by the industrious heathen husbandmen, would have appeared to the Jews as a veritable Promised Land flowing with milk and honey. Personally, however, it is not a climate in which I should care to live; indeed, what between heat and mosquitoes, most Europeans find it impossible in summer.

The road, or rather track, from Jericho to the Dead Sea is bad in spots, especially at certain steep bits where it crosses streams, or nullahs. It is, however, wonderful what obstacles a Jerusalem rattle-trap will negotiate in safety. No English driver would dream of taking his carriage down such places. The trail runs across an arid plain impregnated with salt and bearing a scanty vegetation. Here and there among the bushes bloom ranunculi, while little risi of a peculiarly deep and lovely hue are common. Also many great, eagle-like birds—I imagine they are a kind of kite, though what they all find to live on I cannot quite understand—flit solemnly from thorn to thorn, while porcupines burrow in the sand.

Every one, at Sunday-school or elsewhere, has learnt what there is to learn about the Dead Sea. They know how it receives between six and seven million tons of water daily and evaporates as much or more; how it has no outlet, is over 1000 feet deep, and nearly 3000 feet below the level of the Mediterranean; how its waters are so salty that it is difficult to sink in them, and contain nothing that has life, except the bacillus of tetanus, a germ not easily defeated. All have heard also how it is full of asphalt such as is supposed to cover the remains of Sodom and Gomorrah, and how people who bathe in it must rush to the Jordan for a fresh-water dip lest their clothes should stick to their skins. I will, therefore, pass over these with other details, and attempt only to describe the Dead Sea, as I saw that wonderful lake.

Leaving my companions, I walked away alone past the only house upon these shores, a naked framework of poles that once had been covered with rushes to give shelter in bad weather to travellers from Jericho. This habitation and its surroundings seem singularly appropriate to each other. At a distance I stopped and sat down to look. Before me stretched miles and miles of sea, one great sheet of smooth grey water, breaking into little oily waves beneath the wind. On its margin, like a fringe of skeletons, lay a long unvarying line of dead, white trees, some with the broken boughs still on them, and fantastic, projecting roots mingled with masses of peeled brushwood, all of it débris brought down by Jordan in times of flood. On either side were spread the misty mountains; to the right Râs-el-Feshkha and Râs Mersed, ending in the wilderness of Engedi; to the left the Ravines of Zerkâ Mâ'in. There they towered, distorted, barren, desolate, finishing leagues away, far off, and faintly seen in two giant, embracing arms.

I rose and looked back. Behind me stretched the wide, arid plain, clothed with a scant and thorny vegetation, dying and ash-coloured, but tipped here and there with an unwholesome arsenic green. Bordering it were fortress-like sandy mounts, fashioned and denuded by aeons of sun and storm. Beyond those again a vast parapet of tortured hills that might have been scooped and pointed as they came white-hot from the womb of the world, where the furnace-blasts are hurricanes, to be thrown hissing into a bath of ice, and fixed to eternal stone. Then, yet further off for the last black background, a hanging veil of storm.

I turned again and looked up. A distant gull travelled across the foodless water where he might not stay, and a wild duck passed like an arrow towards Jordan. There was no other life. Above me spread a dull sky, broken by mountains of massed clouds, and between them little valley-rifts of blue through which the sun shone rarely. Then rain-bearing mist blotted the peaks of Moab, and hid from my sight Nebo, whence Moses once beheld this very scene.

The Jordan, or those pools of it which we visited, lies three or four miles from the banks of the Dead Sea. The track thither meanders over flats of half-dried mire through which the horses struggle as best they may, their drivers carrying with them logs of wood that they pick up upon the shores of the sea, to set beneath the wheels in the worst of the mud-holes.

At this season of the year, and in contrast to the desert round about, the banks of swift and muddy Jordan are lovely and refreshing to the eye, with their dense growth of willows, poplars, and tarfa trees clad in the vivid green of new-come foliage. Reed birds were to be seen also, and flashing past us one of those lovely halcyons that I noted on the Sea of Galilee.

We were told that a baptism was about to be celebrated in the waters of Jordan, the candidate being an American lady already past middle age. I doubted the story, but sure enough from the boat which I had hired in order to row up the stream we saw the party, consisting of a Greek priest in his tall hat, a native woman with a bath towel, or some garment that resembled it, and the candidate, all looking perplexedly at each other upon the reedy brink of Jordan. We then learned that the baptism was to be by immersion, so I thought it time to direct the boatman to move on.

We finished our row, and returned, but things did not seem to be much advanced. There was the perplexed-looking priest, there was the woman with the mysterious garment, and there the candidate sitting disconsolate on the ground in a kind of a reedy bower. We landed, and were informed that the ceremony was to be delayed till after our departure, whereupon, of course, we hurried away.

Next morning we heard the conclusion of the matter from David, who had it from a brother dragoman who remained. It appears that the candidate wished to be baptized by total immersion. The Greek priest who had been retained for the occasion declined this method, saying that he did not immerse, and knew nothing about that ceremony. He offered, however, to baptize in the ordinary fashion by the sign of the cross, but, so simple a rite being rejected as unsatisfactory, things came to a deadlock, which explained the perplexed air of all concerned when we left them. After our departure further argument ensued, but neither party could be moved.

Then it was when everything seemed hopeless that there happened what in past days would doubtless have been set down to miracle. Suddenly out of the reed and willow swamps of Jordan issued a Baptist minister, who, so we were informed, without warning of the proposed rite or acquaintance with the candidate, chanced to be on the spot, and, with a fine professional instinct, had hidden himself up to await developments. At the psychological moment he emerged and offered his services. The Greek priest was paid off and departed, the providential minister (all according to David) robed himself in the mat from the bottom of a carriage, and entered the river, where the lady joined him suitably arrayed, and, clinging to the side of the boat, for the current is swift and the water deep, everything was accomplished decently and in order.

I confess that to me this incident is full of mystery. First, how could it happen that a Christian lady of that age should not be already baptized? Can a person be baptized again whenever the spirit moves him? Further, is it permissible to an individual, presumably of the Baptist persuasion, to undergo this solemn rite as an incident in a tour to Jordan, and at the hands of a Greek priest as this lady had proposed to do? Lastly, there is the question of the substitute whom I saw, and—so deficient after much experience remains my judgment of men—did not recognise as a clergyman of any faith. Doubtless I was mistaken and he was a minister, possibly of high degree. Still, were I about to be baptized, I should like to make a few inquiries before I accepted that solemn office at the hands of a stranger appearing opportunely out of the reeds of Jordan. It is hardly necessary for me to add that I do not tell this story with the idea of jesting at the person concerned, who has a right like the rest of us to carry out her religious aspirations in such fashion as seems best to her, but rather as a curious example of enthusiasm triumphant in spite of obstacles.

Brother Felix has much to say about the Jordan, and, amongst other things, deals with this matter of baptism as it appeared to him over four hundred years ago. It seems that then a superstition existed, and for aught I know exists to this day, that those who are baptized in Jordan "will never thereafter grow old; and this is why they make such efforts to get to the Jordan and baptize one another." He instances the case of some ladies of his own party "who bathed among the reeds above us with modesty, silence, and devotion, and far more sedately than we. I could have wished," he adds, "in the case of these old women, that the common report might prove true; for the people say that whosoever bathes in Jordan does not grow any older, but that the longer he remains in the water, the younger he grows; for instance, if he bathes for one hour, he grows younger by one hour; if for two, he grows younger by two; if three, by three; if for a year, he grows younger by a year. But our women comrades would have needed a bath of sixty years to restore their youth; for they were women of eighty years and upwards."

It is something of a shock to the reader to find that Brother Felix had any eyes to see how old or young were the ladies in whose company he travelled, and should even allow himself to express a preference for the latter state in woman. But Felix was very much of a man after all, although, as I judge, an exceedingly good one according to his lights.

He tells also some curious stories about the sudden terror which, it appears, frequently overtook pilgrims who had swum across Jordan, when it became necessary for them to return. The task, I may observe, does not look difficult, and, if I had been acquainted with the pages of Felix before visiting the place, I should have liked to make trial of it notwithstanding the current. He mentions one of his companions, however, a strong swimmer, who was very nearly drowned here, and who alleged afterwards that when he was come to the middle of Jordan something beneath the water touched him, and "I was so much frightened by its touch that I lost all the strength of my limbs, and could not help myself either with my legs or my arms." Two of the company made a second attempt, supporting this man between them, whereon at the same place he began to sink, dragged them down with him, and was with difficulty rescued. Ultimately a Saracen, mounted on a strong horse, crossed Jordan at a ford a long way off and brought him back safe thereby. The pilgrim, we are informed, "gave him much gold for the price of his life." The adventure wrought a sad change in the poor man, however, since he who was handsome, "lusty, overbearing, and quarrelsome, and disliked by many of his fellows," became, after his return from Jordan, "pale-faced, timorous, humble, and slavish." Felix adds that he remained sorrowful and cast down, and, as he believed, died before long. He says also that he himself, when swimming in Jordan, was smitten with fear, but got back safely, and that a great friend of his suddenly lost all his strength in the middle of the river and was barely saved alive.

Afterwards he discusses the cause of this phenomenon, which he declares was the common experience of all pilgrims, whether it was brought about by "certain unnatural and hellish beasts who swim up from the Dead Sea to bring men to their deaths," or by strong imagination. Finally, he seems to favour a third interpretation—that it is a punishment from Heaven, "because swimming across is a sign of wantonness and dissoluteness," and the Jordan is a place "for weeping, not for laughing; for prayer, not for shouting; for kneeling, not for struggling; for repentance, not for wantonness."

To this day, so far as my observation goes, such must, properly no doubt, be the general thought with reference to the Holy Land. As a result, there the traveller sees little that is bright or joyous. I hardly remember noting a young and charming face, or even a pretty dress. Youth flees that land; it shrinks from wandering where are no daily common pleasures, nothing but solemn sights and painful memories, which call up meditations oppressive to the spring of life. Palestine above all other countries seems the place of pilgrimage of folk on the wrong side of middle age, whose interests and ambitions have ceased to be solely, or even in the main, occupied with the anticipation of what good fortunes may befall them during the unspent days of their earthly sojourning.

Be this as it may, the only sweet and cheerful things in the Holy Land, where even the native children for the most part appear so grave, are the lovely flowers which for a time smile upon its face, soon to be burnt up and vanish. Amid those sterile hills and rotting ruins these lilies of the field suggest to the mind the presence of a spirit of promise eternally renewed although fulfilment may be far, and of a hope that never dies, though it may wither almost to its root in the searing winds of doubt and the long, undewed season of the heart's thirst and trial.

Felix mentions another superstition of which it would be interesting to learn whether any traces remain to this day. Myself I have heard of none, although now, as of old, pilgrims bring jars to the Jordan and fill them with its water. It is that ships on board of which such water was carried were always unlucky. He tells from his own experience that whenever they were in any danger at sea, the pilots ran about the vessel searching all the belongings of the pilgrims for this water, threatening to throw overboard those who carried it with their baggage. He says, too, that he had endured much through being thus "insolently" searched, and adds that a papal bull was to be seen at Rome forbidding the importation of Jordan water "on pain of the curse of the Pope." This malediction Felix supposes to have been issued in order to put a stop to superstitions connected with the use of Jordan water for baptismal purposes. But were mediaeval popes wont thus to war against such superstitions?

In the immediate neighbourhood of the Dead Sea the mosquitoes were very troublesome; indeed, it was necessary to smoke with vigour, and keep a handkerchief moving about the head as a protection against their venomous attacks. They did not, however, attack us by night in Jericho, although, I believe, that here also, a little later in the year, they are a perfect scourge.

The morning that we left the valley of Jordan proved very hot. Unfortunately, also, the view from the heights above, as on the day of our arrival, was obscured by dense steaming mists that lay like a white veil upon the low lands and the opposing border line of mountains, although the point of the precipitous Quarantana soared above them. This hill, which I did not climb, is said, upon no ground that I can discover, to have been the scene of the Temptation, and because of the sanctity attached to it on this account, was for many generations inhabited by anchorites like those of Tabor who lived there in huts and caves.

At a place called the Apostle's Well we left our conveyance and walked by a steep mountain track to the village of Bethany. This path, I believe, follows the line of the old road, that which the Saviour must have travelled when He went down to Jordan to be baptized. Reaching Bethany we were shown the tomb of Lazarus, which is said to be the only cave in the place, that, notwithstanding its pretty site overlooking a little valley, and the fertility of its soil, seems to-day a very unpopulated village. At the least a great number of the houses are unroofed and ruined.

Entering by a low rock-cut door, we lit tapers and descended about twenty worn and broken steps which brought us to a kind of ante-chamber or chapel. Hence about five more steps, which appear at some time to have been covered in with a slab, brought us to the tomb itself. Supposing this to be the true site, whereof there is no proof, it would have been easy for the Saviour to stand in the ante-chamber, and after the stone had been moved, to call the words: "Lazarus, come forth!" down the remaining steps by which it is separated from the grave. But as to the exact locality none can speak with sureness, although it cannot have been far away.

We visited also the ruins of the house of Mary and Martha. From the remnants of carved marbles and the fine quality of the stone used in its walls, I imagine that this dwelling must have belonged to some one of wealth and importance. Whether Martha or Mary ever crossed its threshold is a different matter; probably it was built in an after generation.

Between Bethany and Jerusalem once more we passed the slaughter-place. At this hour of the day there were no butchers and no victims, but the aspect of the spot was horrible. Bloated-looking pariah-dogs slunk away from it to sleep in the shade, while on the dying olive-trees about sat scores of full-gorged kites. "Where the carcase is there shall the eagles be gathered together." As I gazed it was borne in upon my mind that thus must the courts of the Temple have appeared upon the morrow of the Roman massacre.

One of the most interesting of the many sights we saw after our return to Jerusalem was that of the ancient quarries, called of Solomon, whence he is said to have drawn the stone for the building of the Temple. I can well believe that this was so, and as the blocks were prepared in the bowels of the earth thus it came about that no sound of saw or hammer could be heard above. Probably Herod and others after his day made use of them also, drawing the hewn stone up into the Temple area, since, although the present entry to the caves is not far from the Damascus gate, they are reported to extend to beneath the Harem enclosure.

Few travellers, or comparatively few, visit that gloomy place. Perhaps it was on this account, and because he was determined not to miss one of the rare chances which came his way, that the Turk in charge of the quarries, hearing that we desired to see them, did not wait for us to arrive, but appeared at the hotel to fetch us. He was a very strange-looking person, who gave us the idea of having lived for years underground, although, of course, the connection between his appearance and his office may have been accidental. Tall, thin, bandy-legged, and cadaverous, he was clothed in a rusty European overcoat and a bright red fez, above which, although it did not rain and there was little sun, he held up an enormous white umbrella. With his back bent and his head thrust forward beneath the umbrella, notwithstanding his limp and crooked legs, our guide threaded the crowded bazaars at a pace which I found it difficult to equal. But as the white umbrella always floated ahead, like the famed helmet of Navarre, there was no fear of losing him; indeed, not having been paid in advance certainly he would have guarded against any such catastrophe.

Opening a rickety door in the face of the rocky slope, old Troglodytes, to whom now added themselves certain myrmidons, produced long tapers which we lit. Then off he went again down the steep stones with the activity of a great black beetle, and after him we followed, till at length the doorway behind us became but a star of light that soon vanished altogether.

It was a strange and awesome place in which we found ourselves, a vast, many-branching cavern, filled with darkness and with silence, whereof the ends and recesses have never been explored. The air clung thick and heavy, the heat was such as in the tropics precedes a hurricane; the only sounds came from the occasional dripping of water condensed upon the ragged roof and the echo of our footsteps, while in that breathless calm the tapers burnt steadily as stars. All about lay tumbled heaps of rock loosened centuries ago. Also there were many half-cut squares and rough-hewn masses, embryo pillars perhaps never moved from the spot where they had fallen. The extent of these caves, now so fearfully still, but that must once have resounded with the voices and hammers of thousands of workmen, seems to be enormous, and their ramifications are endless. How our friend Troglodytes found his way about them was to me a marvel; certainly I should have been hopelessly lost within five minutes. But he scrambled on, waving the white umbrella, a tiny figure in that dwarfing vastness, and we scrambled after over thousands of tons of débris. Above us as we went hung threatening blocks of stone that seemed to be suspended from the roof, for wherever it was possible the ancient workmen detached them in such fashion that they fell down from above.

At length, having gone as far as was safe and the air could be breathed with any comfort, we turned, although at the time I was not aware of the fact, and ten minutes later once more saw the star of light shining at the door. In fact, I was quite glad to reach it, being hot and tired, soaked, too, with perspiration induced by the stifling closeness of the place. Moreover, the candles softened with the heat, and bent over the hand in a way that made them very difficult and uncomfortable to hold.

I should like to know all the history of those vaults. What tragedies may they not have witnessed during the many terrible sieges and sacks through which Jerusalem has passed! Often fugitives must have refuged here; often doubtless they perished here. Perhaps they were starved; perhaps these rugged walls have echoed to the cries of massacre, and this darkness has been illumined with the red torches of the Romans, or of Saracens, seeking their helpless prey even in the bowels of the earth. Perhaps, also—let us hope it—some more fortunate hid here until the danger was done with, and thence escaped to light and life again.

XXI. GORDON'S TOMB AND GOLGOTHA

Another place in Jerusalem, of which, so far as I am aware, the guide-books take no notice, but that to me was fascinating and suggestive, is the sepulchre known as Gordon's Tomb, with the garden whereby it is surrounded. This name has been given to the spot because that great and single-minded man General Gordon, when he was in Jerusalem, made it his custom to come here for prayer and meditation. As for the tomb I do not understand that he ever asserted it to be that in which the body of our Lord was laid, although he was inclined to believe this might be so. My information on the point, however, is of a hearsay order, gathered only from what was told me in Jerusalem.

This, at least, is sure, that if the true Calvary was where many believe it to have been, among them myself, on the traditional site of the Place of Stoning, of which I shall speak presently, few resting-places could have been more convenient for the entombment of the divine Body. Also the resemblance between this garden with its grave and those described in the Gospels is remarkable. It may be, however, that the facts that the place is still a garden, and that the tomb is much what it must have been when it was hollowed out so many, many centuries ago, give more weight to this similarity than the circumstances warrant.

Yet it would not be too much to say that here the scriptural description seems entirely fulfilled. The tomb is rock-hewn. It appears never to have been finished, for some of the surfaces have not been smoothed. It was closed with a stone. When this stone was rolled away the disciples, Peter and John, by stooping down could have looked into the sepulchre and seen the linen clothes lie, perhaps upon the floor of the little ante-chamber. This tomb, too, was a family tomb, such as Joseph of Arimathea might well have made, with room in it for three bodies, one at the end as it were, and recessed, and two at right angles. Very well might these have served as seats, such as those on which Mary must have seen "two angels in white sitting, the one at the head and the other at the feet, where the body of Jesus had lain."

Who can tell whether or not it is the very spot? But, if the true Calvary was just without the wall on the borders of the Mahommedan cemetery, as think Otto Thenius, General Gordon, Colonel Conder, Doctor Merrill, and many more, that spot cannot have been very far away. At least, the sight of it is a great support to the imagination. Such a garden there must have been, and such a tomb, even as we see them to-day. In such a place, through the darkness before the daylight, must have shone the countenance that was "like lightning" and the raiment that was "white as snow," for fear of which "the keepers did shake and become as dead men." Through just such a garden, dim and dewy, must the two Marys have crept in terror of the Jews, or perhaps of the Roman guard, coming to the mouth of the sepulchre as the first golden rays of morning pierced it with their level shafts. On such a little terrace as that above, after, in answer to the query of the Messengers, she had uttered the immortal words echoed since her day by so many millions of doubting hearts, that she wept, "because they have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid Him," the Magdalene might have turned to behold Him whom in the shadow she supposed to be the gardener. Up such steps she may have hurried at His summons, to be met by the solemn and mysterious rebuke, "Touch Me not; for I am not yet ascended to My Father."

Who can say; but standing in that quiet garden with the rock-hewn sepulchre before me, it was easy to imagine that here and not elsewhere these dread mysteries were enacted. Also others have believed it in a past already distant. Over the centre niche, where would have lain the body of the Lord, some dead hand who lived in the crusading time, so said the custodian, has drawn a cross in red pigment, and on either side of it painted the Greek letters Alpha and Omega. This he would only have done, believing that here was the veritable tomb of Jesus. Of course, however, this circumstance proves nothing, and, although that cross is old, it may be later than the Crusaders.

I noted another curious and suggestive thing about this tomb. In the rock without, hollowed from its side, the Saracens or others cut mangers for the feeding of animals, some of which remain to this day. How strange if the manger which was connected with the place of the earthly birth of our Lord, should also thus have become connected with the place of His earthly burial. How strange, also, if here, neglected in this old garden, unvisited by the mass of pilgrims, undecked by any pompous shrine or monument, should be the true scene of the Resurrection, and not yonder beneath the dome on the gorgeous battleground of the warring sects.

From this garden, perhaps so holy, though probably the truth of that matter will never be known, we went outside the walls to the traditional Place of Stoning, which is on a knoll in a Mahommedan cemetery north of the Damascus gate, and almost above the old cave that is called the Grotto of Jeremiah. Here it is that St. Stephen is said to have been stoned, although of late the site of his martyrdom has been shifted. On the edge of the knoll rises a sheer cliff forty or fifty feet in depth. I am told, although I have been unable to trace the genesis of the statement, that it was the habit of the Jews to throw condemned persons off the brink of this cliff, and then if any life was left in them to batter it out with stones. Here as it chanced I myself was stoned, for in my hurry to look over the edge of the cliff, to me interesting for other reasons, inadvertently I stepped upon the pillar of an old Mahommedan tomb. Thereon a Moslem lady, one of a group who were seated in the sun basking and gossiping among the graves, hurled a lump of rock at me with considerable accuracy and force, helping it upon its flight with a volley of abuse. Instantly children appeared who also began to throw stones at the Christian "dogs"; but as we showed no concern, in time they ceased from their amusement.

Things in this respect seem to have changed little during five centuries. Felix Fabri cautions pilgrims to "beware of stepping over the sepulchres of the Saracens, because they are greatly vexed when they see this done, and pelt with stones any one who steps over them, because they believe that our passing over them torments and disturbs the dead."

The reason why I was so anxious to examine this place is that I believe it to be the actual site of the Crucifixion, and that here above the Damascus road, whence the passers-by looked up and mocked at the dying figure strained upon His cross, once the body of the Saviour hung through those hours of sun and darkness. What is more likely than that the Place of Stoning should also be the Place of Crucifixion, and what spot could be more suitable than this summit of a cliff, where all might see the sufferers of the death of shame?

It was outside of the city walls, yet near to the city. A man might bear his own cross there, since it seems no further from the Place of Judgment than is the Church of the Sepulchre. There is another point, to my mind one most suggestive. The Crucifixion ground, called Golgotha in the Hebrew and Calvaria in the Latin, whence comes our own Calvary, means in either language the Place of the Skull. All the evangelists give it this name. St. Matthew says, "a place called Golgotha, that is to say, the place of the skull." St. Mark says, "the place called Golgotha, which is, being interpreted, the place of the skull." St. Luke says, "the place which is called Calvary," in the Revised Version rendered "the place which is called the skull." St. John says, "a place called the place of the skull, which is called in the Hebrew Golgotha."

From such various testimony it may fairly be concluded that this execution-ground had something to do with a skull. It has been suggested that it was so called because skulls were left there, but then would it not have been called the Place of Skulls? Also is it not admitted that it was the Jewish habit to bury the bodies of malefactors, and not to leave them to rot upon the ground, as is the common custom of savages? If so, the skulls would not have remained in sight. Another suggestion is that the shape of the mound may have resembled that of a skull. But nowhere in the Bible is it stated that the Crucifixion took place upon a mount, although the idea that this was so has become general. All that is stated, all which is quite certain, is that it happened outside the walls of the city. Thus, to put aside other evidence, it is expressly said in the eleventh verse of the last chapter of St. Matthew that "some of the watch came into the city, and showed unto the chief priests all the things that were done."

Now, as it chances, on the cliff at this spot, believed to be the Place of Stoning, and by many that of the Crucifixion, the face of the rock, looking towards Jerusalem, has undoubtedly a fantastic, but, to my fancy, a very real resemblance to a rotting human skull. There is the low corroded forehead; there are two deep hollows that make the eyes; there is something which might be the remnant of a nose, and beneath, near to the ground level, a suggestion of twisted and decaying lips. I saw the likeness at once, but on the other hand my nephew who was with me could see nothing. In the same way three people out of every four catch the resemblance in a photograph of the place which I brought home, whereas to the fourth on an average it is invisible. If two thousand years ago the face of that cliff was approximately as it appears to-day, may not some fanciful-minded Jew have caught this likeness and designated it on that account "The Place of the Skull"? If so, in view of its traditions and horrible use, the name would have been likely to cling to the site from age to age.

But was it the same? Have weather or the hand of man altered the appearance of the cliff? Who can say? For my part I believe that save in the case of strata of exceptional softness, a trifle of two thousand years will not make any great difference in the appearance of rock, especially in such a climate as that of this part of Palestine, where no severe frost comes to corrode and split the air-hardened stone. There remains the question of extra-natural interference. Men might have hollowed out those eye-holes. It is, however, difficult to see why they should have done so. The face is steep and not easy to come at. Enormous quarries exist within a few yards—those which I have already described—whence they could more easily have obtained building material. At least no extensive cuttings have been made, since the road seems to run where presumably it must always have run, between the cliff and the city wall.

This is the case, put briefly, but as clearly as I can set it out. It is not for an amateur like myself upon the strength of only two examinations, although these were careful, to be dogmatic or express any positive opinion, and I express none on this or other disputed sites and matters connected with the Holy Land. How can I, who, lacking an extended experience of these problems, must rely mainly upon my powers of observation and deduction such as they may be, to guide me to the truth? I only venture to point out, not knowing whether or no this has been done in works already published, that, as I saw it in the year 1900, the surface of this cliff has a quaint and ghastly resemblance to a human skull. Taken in connection with the traditions of that place, with its undoubted suitability to the dread purposes of public death, and with the name by which the true spot was known, wherever it may have been, I submit that this resemblance is, to say the least, exceedingly suggestive.

If the inference is not a false one, if indeed the crosses of the Saviour and the thieves stood upon the summit of that little cliff, it would be a fact worthy of note that this patch of earth remains now just as it must have been in the long-dead Roman days. What a strange and bitter satire also would be involved in the circumstance that where the Christ gave up His soul is now a burying-place of the followers of the false prophet, in which the passing Christian of to-day is cursed and stoned. Here I leave the subject, adding only that on a subsequent study of this strange cliff from the roof of an opposing American school or mission within the walls, the skull-like likeness was, to my mind, even more apparent and striking than it had been when viewed from nearer points immediately beneath them.

Unless it be that which is to be seen from the platform of the Russian tower upon the Mount of Olives, I know of no better view of Jerusalem than can be had by climbing to the roof of the New Hotel, upon some night when the full moon clothes that ancient Holy City and its surrounding hills in a garment of shimmering silver. Studying it thence the traveller will understand how inconceivable it seems that the site of the present Church of the Sepulchre, by tradition the place of the Crucifixion, Entombment, and Resurrection, should ever have lain without the Roman walls. Even now the area enclosed within those of to-day is not much larger than that engirdled by the mediaeval fortifications of Famagusta, the provincial town in Cyprus which I have described in a previous chapter of this book. To cut away the portion which includes the Church of the Holy Sepulchre would reduce this small space by about a fourth, or even more. Now, allowing that the old town extended somewhat towards the south, as the excavations by Dr. Bliis and others on the foundations of the wall seem to prove, surely it would be impossible, if shorn of this section, that it could have contained anything like the numbers of people who are said to have found shelter within its gates. Whether it could have held them at all, indeed, whatever the exact line of the walls, seems more than doubtful. Josephus tells us ("Wars," book vii. chap. xvii., edition of 1785) that "in the war of which we are speaking, no less than 97,000 persons were made prisoners, and the number of those who lost their lives during its progress was 1,100,000."

In explanation of this vast total, he says that when Cestius caused a rough census of the Jews to be taken at the time of the Passover, it was reckoned that there were in Jerusalem "two million five hundred and fifty-six thousand persons, all of them in perfect health," which is a population nearly as great as that of Paris and its suburbs at the last census. No wonder he informs us that the multitude shut in by the siege was so immense "that the confined air occasioned a pestilence, and this calamity was soon followed by a famine." Yet he adds: "If the calculation of Cestius may be relied on, the city was quite large enough to have afforded accommodation to this amazing concourse of people." Was it? According to Colonel Conder, a great authority, the number of the inhabitants of Jerusalem in ordinary times cannot at this period of the siege have been more than 30,000 (it is now about 60,000, and very crowded). To add to this modest total over 2,000,000 souls, and to assert that such a seething mass of humanity, pent within those narrow walls, endured a siege of 143 days, is to strain the credulity of modern investigators to breaking point. Surely Josephus must have exaggerated. But if we divide his figures by five, supposing the ground on which is built the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to have been without the wall in his day (as must have been the case if the Crucifixion took place there), it seems quite impossible that even the total thus diminished could have found room to move and fight, or roofs to shelter them from sun and rain.

This fact appears to me to constitute the best and most complete argument against the authenticity of the Church of the Sepulchre site, since all admit that the Crucifixion took place without and not within the city walls. The experts, however, can furnish other arguments. Thus, Dr. Merrill, who has studied the matter closely, and, I believe, himself carried out excavations, very kindly showed me the plan he had made of the foundations of the ancient walls, according to which the Holy Sepulchre site would be distinctly included within them. I gathered from him also that he believes the Crucifixion to have taken place at the spot which I have described already, and I think that he has marked it thus upon his plan. In his opinion the Saviour carried His cross from the Hall of Judgment, not by the narrow and twisting Via Dolorosa, but along a broad military road that ran to the Damascus gate and thence to Caesarea.

On the other hand, for some fifteen centuries the Church of the Sepulchre has been accepted as the true site. Therefore, the vested interests, if I may call them so, in that site are considerable, and any attempt to dispute it is vigorously cold-shouldered by Greeks, Latins, Armenians, and Abyssinians alike. But when this tradition is examined it will be found a house without foundations. According to Eusebius, before the time of Constantine a temple of Venus, said to have been built by Hadrian, stood upon the site of the church. He appears to have thought also that the cave beneath was connected with the worship of this goddess. A vision induced the Empress Helena, the mother of Constantine, to undertake a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. There another vision prompted her to destroy the temple of Venus and dig, whereon, "contrary to all expectation," the Tomb of the Lord was found beneath. Also she discovered the crosses upon which the Saviour and the good thief were executed, carefully buried away against the hour of her search. As no further vision came to explain which of these was the True Cross, this had to be determined by experiment. A lady sick to death was brought to the place, and when she was laid upon the genuine relic instantly recovered her health. Such, put concisely, seems to be the sum of the evidence in favour of the accepted site. The reader will judge of its value for himself.

If he is critically minded, however, it may occur to him as possible that when the Empress arrived and asked to be shown the notable places in Jerusalem, the Pagan inhabitants of that day took her to the ruined temple of Venus. Then might have come the visions already characteristic of this good woman, the purport of which would have been noised abroad. For the rest, is it wonderful that if a wealthy empress wishes and expects to find crosses by digging at a certain spot, crosses should, sure enough, be found?

Probably in Jerusalem then, as to-day, there existed enterprising people who appreciated money, and were not overburdened with scruples as to the manner of its winning. It is hardly necessary to dwell on the curious circumstance (supposing that they were not placed there ready to St. Helena's hand) that these crosses of scantling—for they could have been little more if one man was to carry them—should have been thus carefully preserved and have withstood the damp of the earth for over three centuries. Oddly enough, however, as Colonel Conder points out in his article on Jerusalem in the "Dictionary of the Bible" that is edited by Dr. Hastings, "the legend of Helena's miraculous discovery of the Cross is unnoticed by contemporary writers, though in A.D. 326 the mother of Constantine visited Bethlehem and Olivet. The Cross itself is only noticed by St. Cyril twenty years after the great Basilica was built, and in A.D. 383 by Jerome. . . . The story of the finding of the Cross is first told by Rufinus in A.D. 410, and by Theodoret about A.D. 440."

Therefore it would seem possible that the whole of this marvellous tale may be a legend of a post-Constantine period. In such case nothing remains to guide us as to the reason of the building of the Basilica by Constantine at this particular spot. Possibly it was the discovery of the old rock graves, which since the sixteenth century have been asserted to have held the remains of Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus. This tomb of Nicodemus, by the way, Colonel Conder suggests, in the article from which I have already quoted, may have been hollowed for a very different purpose. "It is not impossible that this monument may be the real tomb of the kings, but it is also possible that all were buried near Siloam within the city walls; and future excavation may reveal 'the sepulchres of David' near Siloam."

Among the seas of uncertainty which surge round the sacred relics of Jerusalem it is refreshing to stand upon something that is beyond doubt, even if be clearly connected with the events of Bible history. We visited the establishment of the Sisters of Zion twice, and on the second occasion saw everything that the place has to show. The good nuns are Russians, but, fortunately, the lady who conducted us could speak French. This church and convent abuts on the Via Dolorosa or Sorrowful Street, which here is spanned by an arch called that of the Ecce Homo, where, by tradition, Pilate produced the Saviour before the crowd, saying to them all and to all the generations that were to follow, "Behold the man." Whether or no the event happened on this spot none can say, but Baedeker is of opinion that here are the remains of a Roman triumphal arch that has been remodelled since the days of the Romans. In the choir of the church of the Sisters of Zion, however, is a smaller arch, which joined that spanning the street, and must at any rate be very old.

What admits of no question is the ancient pavement which is to be seen in the basement of the convent. This must date from the Roman days, and in all probability was trodden by our Lord. It is laid in large blocks, and one part of it, which is comparatively unworn, seems to have formed part of the flooring of a courtyard or square. Upon three of the slabs are lines and patterns that were evidently made use of in games played by the soldiers. These struck me as very similar to those which have recently been uncovered in the Forum of Rome, where I saw them on my journey to Cyprus. One of the Jerusalem slabs has little cups cut in it, which may have served some purpose in a game not unlike that of our modern marbles, still favoured by school children. Doubtless the guard gambled on this court while they awaited the result of the trial of prisoners in the judgment hall, thus whiling away the interval between their hours of duty.

Evidently the court ended and the line of the street began at a certain limit within the precincts of the convent, since in curious contrast to the smooth blocks, polished only by the constant passage of human feet, those immediately beyond can be seen to be much worn by the hoofs of horses. The sister told me also that beneath the vaults of the convent, underground passages have been discovered recently which run towards the temple enclosure, forming, doubtless, part of the system of the ancient fortifications of the city. These tunnels I was unable to inspect as they have been closed up, she said, owing to the bad air and damp that emanate from them.

On leaving this most interesting house of the Sisters of Zion, we walked through the Jewish quarter of Jerusalem, examining it more thoroughly than we had found time to do before. The dirt of the place is truly wonderful, and it is strange that human beings should live there in health through the scorching months of an Eastern summer. Still they do live, which speaks well for their innate vitality. The stamp of the inhabitants is much the same as that of the Jews of Tiberias, although here they are somewhat more virile in appearance. Also, their dress is better; in certain instances, indeed, it gave evidence of wealth and a kind of incongruous taste. Many of these Hebrews, I am told, like their brethren of Tiberias, live upon the charity of co-religionists in other lands.

Next to the filth of the streets I think that the beggars are one of the greatest annoyances to be met with in Jerusalem. At certain spots, and notably near the Garden of Gethsemane, on the Mount of Olives, and outside the house of Caiaphas and the Gate of Zion, sit miserable creatures covered with sores, as Lazarus sat at the door of Dives, who utter without cease a low, unhappy wail. Now, too, as in the day of our Lord, lepers roll about the roadway, and exhibit their festering stumps. I saw none, however, with the skin "as white as snow" of the Bible, if indeed this form of the disease still exists. Their affliction seems to be of a kind which I have met with in South Africa, whereof one symptom is the dropping off of the fingers and toes at the joints.

Once I had a Kaffir servant who was a leper after this sort, an excellent man in every other way. But of that unfortunate this is not the place to write.

Another thorn in the flesh of the traveller, or rather other thorns, are the tradesfolk of Jerusalem. The moment that he emerges from his lodging these importunate persons rush at him as pike rush at a frog thrown into a pond, seeking to drag him into their shops, and there digest him, or his cash, at leisure. At times the excess of their servile annoyance makes the temper, even of him who is experienced in wandering, a thing very difficult to keep. It is rumoured that after a course of it even blameless and teetotal Deans have been known to express irritation in terms which would have vexed their Chapters.

XXII. THE CHURCH OF THE SEPULCHRE

The best time to examine the Church of the Sepulchre, which for ages past a vast majority of the pilgrims to Jerusalem have considered its greatest and most impressive sight, is so soon as the doors are open in the morning, before the swarms of Russians have begun to gather there. On the day of the visit which I am about to describe, fortunately for us, beyond a few isolated individuals, none of these appeared. Probably the rest of them were engaged en masse in travelling to Jordan or some other distant spot. Thus it came about that for a long while we were practically alone in the place, to us a great advantage.

This church, or rather the rotunda which preceded it, was built in the year 336. In 614—I cull the dates from Baedeker—the Persians destroyed it. About 620 it was rebuilt with additions. This was the church which Arculf saw in or about the year 700. He says of it in the course of a long description:—

"The church of the Holy Sepulchre is very large and round, encompassed with three walls, with a broad space between each, and containing three altars of wonderful workmanship in the middle wall, at three different points—on the south, on the north, on the west. It is supported by twelve stone columns of extraordinary magnitude; and it has eight doors or entrances through the three opposite walls, four fronting the north-east and four to the south-east. In the middle space of the inner circle is a round grotto cut in the solid rock, the interior of which is large enough to allow nine men to pray standing, and the roof of which is about a foot and a half higher than a man of ordinary stature. The entrance is from the east side, and the whole of the exterior is covered with choice marble to the very top of the roof, which is adorned with gold, and supports a large golden cross. Within, on the north side, is the tomb of our Lord, hewn out of the same rock, seven feet in length, and rising three palms above the floor."

More than two centuries later fire twice did the place much damage, and in the year 1010 it was destroyed by the Moslems, to be reconstructed in 1075, and afterwards greatly added to by the Crusaders. In 1187 and 1244 the church was damaged or destroyed by various unbelievers. In 1310 it was rebuilt. In 1808 it was burnt down, to be raised up again as we see it now, in 1810. Such is the stormy and chequered history of this remarkable fane.

Formerly it had double doors facing south, with a considerable open space in front, but now one of these has been walled up. Passing through the other, almost the first object to be seen is the Stone of Anointment, whereon the body of Christ is supposed to have lain. It is not reassuring to the reverent traveller, especially if he chances never to have studied the subject for himself, and to believe that here was the unquestioned scene of our Lord's death and resurrection, to consult his faithful Baedeker, and to read therein that "the stone has often been changed." Yet even as he reads he may lift his eyes to see, as I did, two devout pilgrims, a man and a woman well on in years, with heaving breasts and tear-stained eyes, kneel down and kiss the relic with the utmost passion—that relic which "has often been changed."

Near by is another stone, where it is announced that the women stood while the anointing of the holy Body was in progress. A few steps, and we come to the rotunda beneath the great dome, in the centre of which stands the sepulchre, the reputed burial-place of Christ, containing a split slab of marble, where His body is said to have lain. Evidently, therefore, it has changed since the days of Arculf, who told Adamnan that "This tomb is broad enough to hold one man lying on his back, and has a raised division in the stone to separate his legs." In the time of Felix Fabri, however, as now, it was "covered with a slab of polished white marble, on which mass can be celebrated." He says also:—

"This cave has no window, nor is there any light in it save what comes from nineteen lamps which burn in it, which lamps hang above the Lord's Sepulchre; and inasmuch as the cave is small, the fire of the lamps make a smoke and stench, which greatly troubles those who enter the place and remain therein."

Baedeker says that in the crusading days the Sepulchre sanctuary was round, with a round tower, but already separated into the Angels' Chapel and the actual burying-place as it is to-day. Afterwards it was polygonal, and in 1555 the nuisance which Felix notices was remedied by the piercing of holes in the roof to allow the smoke and smell to escape. To-day it is hexagonal in shape, and the pilgrim passes into the Sepulchre through the Angels' Chapel with its many lamps which belong to the different sects.

On one side of the Sepulchre, the north, if I remember right, is a curious opening in the marble not unlike that out of which the anchor chain runs in the bow of a steamer. Through this hole at the Feast of the Greek Easter is exhibited the miracle of the Holy Fire, which is said by the Greeks—the Latins refusing to participate in the fraud after the sixteenth century—to descend annually from heaven, for what exact purpose I have been unable to discover from any authority within my reach. However, when it has descended—or when the priest has struck a match inside the Sepulchre—he thrusts a lighted torch through the hole, from which some privileged person lights his lamp or candle. From this again others take the fire, fighting and screaming to be the first, and burning their breasts to show that these flames are harmless till at last the whole vast space is starred with the light of thousands of tapers.

The "miracle" is of old standing. Colonel Conder says of it in the article to which I have referred already: "The strange festival of the Holy Fire seems to have perpetuated the pagan fire-feasts of earlier days—perhaps once celebrated at the same spot." However this may be, when Bernard the Wise, who is, I think, the first to mention it, visited the Sepulchre in 867 the custom was already established. He says: "I must not, however, omit to state that on Holy Saturday, which is the eve of Easter, the office is begun in the morning in this church, and after it is ended the Kyrie Eleison is chanted, until an angel comes and lights the lamps which hang over the aforesaid Sepulchre, of which light the patriarch gives their share to the bishops and to the rest of the people, that each may illuminate his own house."

It was because of this "miracle" that the Caliph Hakim is said to have destroyed the church in 1010. The Jacobite writer, Gregory Abulfaragius, the author of the "Universal History from the Creation," who must have written about 1270, says:—

"The author of this persecution (that of 1010) was some enemy of the Christians, who told Hakim that, when the Christians assembled in their temple at Jerusalem to celebrate Easter, the chaplains of the church, making use of a pious fraud, greased the chain of iron that held the lamp over the tomb with oil of balsam, and that when the Arab officer sealed up the door which led to the tomb, they applied a match through the roof to the other extremity of the chain, and the fire descended immediately to the wick of the lamp and lighted it. Then the worshippers burst into tears, and cried 'Kyrie Eleison,' supposing that it was fire from heaven that fell upon the tomb; and they were thus strengthened in their faith."

Really when he learn the truth of the matter, it is not wonderful that in his turn the Caliph Hakim was strengthened in his indignation against the Christian religion and the anointed cheats who practised such a fraud.

In the day of Felix Fabri it appears that the head priest was shut by the Greeks "into the Lord's monument with an unlighted candle, which he brings forth lighted with a loud cry, and from which all the lamps are lighted." But Felix, although credulous at times, was too sensible a man to be thus imposed upon. He says: "But it is not lighted by a miracle but artificially; albeit the ignorant mob raises its cries to heaven, praising God as though a miracle had been wrought, and so they noise it abroad among the people, even among the Saracens." He goes on to tell how that the Saracens said that if this fire was really brought down from heaven and the Christians could prove it, they would be willing to be converted.

Felix narrates a fable, which he calls a "beautiful story," anent this fire. It is that when Narcissus, an ancient bishop of Jerusalem, was about to hold service on Easter eve his acolytes told him that there was no oil. But, being holy and believing and full of faith, he sent for water instead. When it came he blessed it, and filled the lamps. Then suddenly "by a wondrous power unheard of in any other age, the water took upon itself the fatness of oil, and being lighted from heaven, made the light of the lamp shine more brightly than it was wont to do."

This very curious event, which chanced under the Emperor Severus 211 years before the day of Constantine, was, it is suggested, the beginning of the miracle, which thereafter repeated itself annually.

As may be imagined, this yearly wonder happening in a crowded church—I believe that 6000 people can press into the space beneath the dome, although at the time of writing I am unable to find an authority for the statement—is not unattended with danger. In 1834, indeed, a fearful catastrophe occurred, of which, fortunately, we have an account in "Visits to Monasteries in the Levant." The late Hon. Robert Curzon, jun., the author of this interesting work, was travelling in the Holy Land, and chanced to be present in the church upon that dreadful occasion. He tells how "the patriarch was carried out of the Sepulchre in triumph, on the shoulders of the people he had deceived," and how, overcome by the smoke and smell, three unhappy wretches "fell from the upper range of galleries, and were dashed to pieces on the heads of the people below," an Armenian girl dying in her place merely of heat and fatigue.

Afterwards Mr. Curzon and his party set out to return to the convent where they were lodging, the soldiers of their escort making a way for them. When he reached the station traditionally occupied by the Virgin during the Crucifixion he saw a number of people lying on the floor of the church. At first he thought that they were resting, but at length coming to a great pile of them perceived that these were dead bodies. Now I must quote, since nothing can give a better idea of this fearful event than the words of the eye-witness who describes its details. Many of those whom he took to be peaceful sleepers were he found "quite black with suffocation, and farther on were others all bloody and covered with the brains and entrails of those who had been trodden to pieces by the crowd. At this time there was no crowd in this part of the church; but a little farther on, round the corner towards the great door, the people, who were quite panic-struck, continued to press forward, and every one was doing his utmost to escape. The guards, outside, frightened at the rush from within, thought that the Christians wished to attack them, and the confusion soon grew into a battle. The soldiers with their bayonets killed numbers of fainting wretches, and the walls were spattered with blood and brains of men who had been felled, like oxen, with the butt-ends of the soldiers' muskets. Every one struggled to defend himself or to get away, and in the mêlée all who fell were immediately trampled to death by the rest. So desperate and savage did the fight become that even the panic-struck and frightened pilgrims appear at last to have been more intent upon the destruction of each other than desirous to save themselves."

Mr. Curzon then tells of his own fight for life, and of his hideous struggle with one of the Pasha Ibrahim's colonels, whom in the end he overthrew. The officer died where he fell, but Mr. Curzon found his legs again, and succeeded in winning his way back to the sacristy of the Catholics, and thence to the room adjoining the church, which had been assigned to him by the monks. He says "the dead were lying in heaps, even upon the stone of unction; and I saw full 400 wretched people, dead and living, heaped promiscuously one upon another, in some places above five feet high."

The site of the church of the Holy Sepulchre has witnessed many tragedies during the last fifteen centuries, but few of them can have been more terrible than that of sixty-five years ago, which Mr. Curzon describes. Yet from Easter to Easter still "the miracle" goes on.

Here I must explain, for the benefit of those readers who may be unacquainted with the conditions which prevail at Jerusalem, that this church of the Sepulchre is the joint possession of various Christian sects, who have held their rites in it for many ages. In or about the year 1342 the traveller Bertrandon de la Brocquière, lord of Vieux-Château, writes: "In the church of the Holy Sepulchre reside also many other sorts of Christians, Jacobites, Armenians, Abyssinians, from the country of Prester-John, and Christians of the girdle."

To come to a later age, we have evidence on the point from the pen of the Rev. Henry Maundrell, who was elected chaplain of their Aleppo factory by the company of Levant merchants in 1695, and who died while still a young man at Aleppo in 1701. In the interval he visited Jerusalem and wrote an interesting and valuable account of what he saw. Speaking of the church of the Holy Sepulchre he says that "in these places almost every Christian nation anciently maintained a small society of monks, each society having its proper quarter assigned to it by appointment of the Turk, such as the Latins, Greeks, Syrians, Armenians, Abyssinians, Georgians, Nestorians, Coptites, Maronites, &c." In his age, however, most of these communities had been taxed out by the oppressions of the Turks, so that only the Latins, Greeks, Armenians and Coptites were left. As in our time, each of these fraternities had its own altars and sanctuaries, where they possessed the right of celebrating their services to the exclusion of all others. He continues:—

"But that which has always been the great prize contended for by the several sects is the command and appropriation of the Holy Sepulchre, a privilege contested with so much unchristian fury and animosity, especially between the Greeks and Latins, that, in disputing which party should go into it to celebrate their mass, they have sometimes proceeded to blows and wounds even at the very door of the sepulchre, mingling their own blood with the sacrifices, an evidence of which fury the father guardian showed us in a great scar upon his arm, which he told us was the mark of a wound given him by a sturdy Greek priest in one of these unholy wars. Who can expect ever to see these holy places rescued from the hands of infidels? Or, if they should be recovered, what deplorable contests might be expected to follow about them, seeing, even in their present state of captivity, they are made the occasion of such unchristian rage and animosity?"

If the actual conflicts described by Maundrell have ceased, the spirit of them remains, and well may we echo the questions which conclude his remarks. The quarrels of the Christian sects are the object of the continual wonderment and mockery of the Moslem masters of the holy places, whose business it is to criticise and control them.

I imagine that few visitors who care to take the trouble to think, even if they have never questioned the authenticity of the site, can return faith-whole from an inspection of the Holy Sepulchre. The monks of various persuasions and different periods have made the mistake of leaving nothing to the imagination. Thus, in addition to about a dozen chapels dedicated to sundry saints and supposed to be connected with them in this way and in that, and to the great Greek cathedral, the Catholicon—in itself a fine building, but to my taste much marred by its profuse and tawdry ornamentation—there are many other sacred spots, each of them fixed to a hair's breadth.

Thus we have the Centre of the World accurately, if unscientifically, determined, and the place of the burial of the skull of Adam, who was constructed of clay taken from this locality. Then we see the Mount of Calvary—the reader will remember, by the way, as I have pointed out, that nowhere in the Bible is it said that Calvary was on a mount—beneath which Adam was interred, until the Blood, flowing from the Cross, brought him to life again. Melchisedec, too, was buried here, and the socket made for the Cross in the rock has been carefully preserved, and is now lined with silver. Also the pilgrim is shown—and, if he is a Russian, kisses the place—where stood the crosses of the two thieves. Next there is an underground chapel called that of St. Helena, where the Cross was found. Near the altar, too, is a seat in which the Empress Helena sat while the Cross was unearthed. Unfortunately for the genuineness of this relic, as the cold-blooded Baedeker points out, an Armenian patriarch of the seventeenth century, complained in his day that he had frequently been obliged to renew this seat because the piety of pilgrims led them to bear it away piecemeal. He adds, does the sceptic Baedeker, "Some explorers regard this chapel as part of the ancient city moat."

To this day pilgrims play the same pranks as poor Father Barnabé told me of on Mount Tabor almost with tears; indeed, if left alone, they would carry off the whole place. In this chapel of St. Helena, and on the staircase leading to it, I saw names scribbled upon the walls. Greatly did such conduct scandalise Brother Fabri, a hater of self-advertisement, and, above all things, a gentleman. He tells how vanity led some noblemen to inscribe their names, with the tokens of their birth and rank, on the walls of the church, and even to paint their coats of arms and cut their initials with mallets and chisels on the pillars and marbles, thereby vexing and scandalising all men. He adds:—

"I have seen some vainglorious nobles, whose pride had brought them to such a pitch of folly, that when they went up into the Chapel of Mount Calvary and bowed themselves down upon the holy rock, wherein is the secret-hole of the Cross, they would pretend to be praying, and within the circle of their arms would secretly scratch with exceeding sharp tools their shields, with the marks—I cannot say of their noble birth, but rather of their silliness, for a perpetual memorial of their folly. But this they were forced to do secretly, for had the guardian of the holy rock, whose name is George, seen them doing so, he would have dragged them away by the hair of their head. The same madness moved some to inscribe their names, shields, and armorial bearings with sharp irons on the slab which covers the tomb on the most holy sepulchre of the Lord."

Felix goes on to describe in delightful language the feelings of the "devout and simple-minded pilgrim" like himself, when he came across the traces of all this industry. Apparently it induced him to curse and to swear, and to express angry hopes that the engraver would come to total grief, or, at least, lose his hand, and to petition the Almighty that He would be pleased to see to the matter. One is glad to learn, though elsewhere I have read otherwise, that German nobles alone followed this evil fashion, which often caused poor Fabri, their fellow-countryman, to blush for them, "both among Christians and Pagans," for as the proverb which he cites says neatly enough, "the hands of fools befoul the sides of the house." One "fool" in particular almost drove him mad, for he was as fond of writing his name as that monarch of whom it is told that, armed with a piece of chalk, he might be met rushing breathless from room to room of his palace, while after him struggled attendants whose business it was, for a sufficient reason, diligently to apply the sponge and blot out the royal compositions. One is glad to learn that he, the pilgrim, not the king, came to a bad end, so that his kinsmen and friends "would have given much gold could they have wiped out his name from the earth which he had been at such pains to paint up everywhere."

I fear, however, that he has left many descendants, and it has been my lot to study their signs-manual and works of religion, prose, poetry, and humour, not only at home, but in every distant land, and in every famous or sacred place which I have visited throughout the world. With Felix, I pray that writer's cramp of the most virulent nature may paralyse their scribbling fingers.

Besides those which I have enumerated, here are many other places to be seen; for instance, the Chapel of the Forty Martyrs, the Chapel of St. James, the Chapel of St. Thekla, the Chapel of the Archangel Michael, the Chapel of St. Mary of Egypt, and the Chapel of Mary Magdalene. In the church itself, too, are more sites, such as the spot where the Lord appeared to Mary Magdalene, the Column of Scourging, the Footprints of Christ, the Prison of Christ, the Chapel of the Crowning with Thorns, the Chapel of the Raising of the Cross, the Column of Derision, and the Chapel of St. Longinus.

Longinus by the way is fabled, by the monks of the sixth century and their successors, to be that Roman who pierced the side of the Saviour with his spear, and was recovered from the blindness of one eye by the blood which fell upon it. Afterwards he became a Christian and a saint. Near to this chapel is another of the Parting of the Raiment, and so forth.

I do not dwell in detail upon these various spots and their traditions because, to be plain, I have no faith in them. Even if it be admitted that the Church of the Holy Sepulchre does cover the place of the Crucifixion and its attendant events, which I believe to be most improbable, it is beyond credence that all these localities should be known with such exactitude. Moreover, many of them have been changed during the passage of the centuries. Their details, architectural and other, can be studied in any book of reference. As for the general effect produced upon a visitor by so much ornamentation, so many candles, and such a diversity of occurrences, miraculous and spiritual, said to be concentrated beneath these roofs, it is, I confess, bewildering. Days must be spent there before all the component parts become clear to the mind in their proper sequence, and those days many would prefer to devote to other objects, to them of greater interest.

What I was very glad to see, however, were the sword, spurs, and the cross worn by Godfrey de Bouillon, which are shown in the Latin Sacristy, especially the sword, a plain weapon of the ordinary Crusader form, wherewith he is said to have halved a giant Saracen as easily as a juggler severs a silk handkerchief. Godfrey, it will be remembered, was the hero of the first crusade, and after the capture of the city, was elected King of Jerusalem! This title he declined, saying that where the Saviour wore a crown of thorns he would have none of gold, and in place of it took that of Baron of the Holy Sepulchre. He died, or was poisoned, in the year 1100, aged only thirty-eight, and in this church his grave is shown. It is something of a shock to read in Baedeker, hard to be convinced, that these relics, which look old and authentic enough, are "antiquities of doubtful genuineness." But what is there in this church that is not doubtful?

Not one of the least interesting sights of this ancient place, hallowed by so much suffering, so many traditions faithfully believed in for fifteen centuries, and the prayers of tens of thousands of good and earnest Christians, is, from some retired nook beneath the rotunda, to watch the behaviour of the various visitors. There is the superior person who knows all about it, and says so in a loud voice, waving his guide-books at sundry architectural details which he explains for the benefit of the unlearned, sometimes by a trifling confusion tacking the wrong description on to the object under view. Yonder stands the glib dragoman, rattling off his tale with the unconvincing facility of a parrot. Next come Russian pilgrims, pious happy folk who know no doubt, whose faith is built upon a rock. If you were to suggest to these that this was not the real spot of the Crucifixion and the rising of the Saviour, probably they would look upon you as an emissary of the antichrist, or at the least, an infidel. With sighs and tears and beating of the breast such as those of the publican in the parable, they go by, genuflecting, kissing, prostrating themselves, while the learned person of whom they take no notice, points them out and discourses upon them as though they were wild animals.

Then appear another party—three ladies, two gentlemen, and a youth of about twelve, transatlantic in origin and beautifully dressed, all of them. Their hands in their pockets, they stroll down the church of the Crusaders chattering loudly—but every one chatters here, it is the pleasing habit of the place. What does surprise and make the observer in his corner wonder if he sees aright is the fact that the two gentlemen of the party wear their hats, the head of the youth being adorned with a brilliant fez. The middle-aged inhabitant of these islands who, do what he will, cannot altogether keep himself up to date, rubs his eyes, remembering that ever so many years ago he was taught to take off his hat, even in a tramp's lodging-house, if Mr. and Mrs. Tramp were at home, and that the same rule might à fortiori be supposed to hold in what is, after all, the oldest, and, by many, the most venerated fane dedicated to the Almighty in all Christendom. Even if these visitors to that place had no belief or reverence for its Master, it might still be supposed to hold.

Ultimately this particular party, still covered, advanced to the door of the Chapel of the Angels and the Holy Sepulchre. David, our dragoman, a man of mild and inoffensive manners, sprang from his seat, muttering something. It appears that as a native Christian of Jerusalem he has certain rights in the Holy Sepulchre.

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

"Knock their hats off," he answered; and, pushing through the little crowd of Russians, David placed himself at the low door of the Chapel of the Angels, quite prepared for action.

Whether it was that the gentlemen saw something threatening in his eye, or, as was also suggested, that the entrance being so low it proved more convenient to pass it uncovered, I know not. At least, they removed their hats, so David was not obliged to resort to a violence which I am sure is foreign to his nature. Anyhow, his determination to use it if necessary, sent him up, under all the circumstances, at least fifty per cent. in my estimation.

The Holy Sepulchre, apparently, did not interest them much, and the pilgrims emerged almost as quickly as they went in, replacing their headgear as they came. Then a really good idea struck them. The ladies, one gentleman, and the hopeful in the fez, arranged themselves in an artistic group over against the sacred building, with the wall of the dome for a background; while the other gentleman, with much preparation, unslung his kodak, focussed and photographed them. Oh! that Felix Fabri had been there to see, and could have bequeathed us his impressions of that inimitable scene. As for myself, feeling my temper getting the better of me, and not wishing to be involved in an unseemly dispute, I left the church.

XXIII. THE MOUNT OF OLIVES AND THE WAILING OF THE JEWS

We visited many other places in Jerusalem, but few of these impressed themselves much upon me, principally because I could not bring myself to believe that there was even a probability that they had to do with the events which are reported to have happened in them. Thus, there is a fine Armenian church, which as a church is worth looking at, where St. James is said to have been beheaded. He may have been, but I can discover no sufficient evidence of the fact. All that the Bible, a much-neglected book of reference, says about it is that when Herod the king stretched forth his hand to vex certain of the Church "he killed James the brother of John with the sword." Well, it may have happened here. In this church there are old porcelain picture-tiles, which are really very curious.

Then there is the house of Caiaphas, now an Armenian monastery, where we saw an altar, said to be made of the stone which closed the entrance to the sepulchre of Christ. This same stone is also to be seen in the Chapel of the Angels in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, a difficulty which Fabri gets over by stating that the faithful cut it into two. By the way, in his time, pilgrims stole fragments of that stone almost more greedily than anything else. A companion of Fabri's bribed one of the Armenian guardians with two ducats to break a piece from it, which the pair of them did by stealth in the darkness. This knight died at sea—surely the Armenian guardian should also have died, but perhaps he did—and Felix, evidently much to his delight, inherited the fragment, which he took home with him to Ulm. In this monastery also we were shown a little cell where the Saviour is said to have been imprisoned before his trial, also the place where Peter denied his Master, and the tombs of many Armenian patriarchs. The last are undoubtedly genuine; for the other sites there seems to be no real authority, although, much as they are to-day, they were all of them shown to pilgrims in the time of Fabri. In a few brief lines Baedeker disposes of their claims.

Another noted building is the Coenaculum or the Chamber of the Last Supper, now a mosque, but evidently from the style of the architecture formerly used by Christians of the Crusader period, probably as a church. We know that every building in Jerusalem has been destroyed once, if not more often, since the time of our Lord, and this fact is fatal to any illusion connected with an upper chamber standing in the year 1900, and exhibiting even a stone upon which the Saviour is reported to have sat at the last Supper. The place, however, has many traditions. For instance, the Virgin is said to have died there: also it is the reputed scene of the descent of the Holy Ghost upon the Apostles. Lastly, in an adjoining room is a coffer covered with embroidered cloth, alleged to be a copy of the sarcophagus of David, who, as the Moslems declare, is buried in the vaults beneath. All authorities report that it is comparatively modern, nor was I sufficiently interested to attempt to see it, to do which its Moslem guardians must be rather heavily "insulted" by the travelling Christian.

All we know is that somewhere in the City of David, David was buried; somewhere stood that upper chamber where were uttered the immortal and immortalising words recorded by St. John; somewhere rose the palace of Caiaphas where Jesus Christ was mocked, scourged, and crowned with those thorns that symbolise the lot of all humanity. Whether it was here or 100 yards or 500 yards distant, what does it matter? It matters nothing at all.

A more interesting expedition to my mind is to hire horses and ride to the Mount of Olives by way of the Valley of Hinnom. This is a desolate, waterless place, associated with many an ancient, evil memory, whereof it was prophesied "that this place shall no more be called Tophet, nor the Valley of the son of Hinnom, but the Valley of slaughter." Here is that Tophet "which is the Valley of the children of Hinnom," which Josiah destroyed when "he brake in pieces the images, and cut down the groves, and filled their places with the bones of men . . . that no man might make his son or his daughter to pass through the fire to Molech."

From this valley Hinnom we get the name Gehenna, a synonym of hell, and near to it is the Aceldama, or House of the Field of Blood, where for generations pilgrims have been buried. Hence it is easy to see how, as Dr. Bliss informed me he had proved by his excavations, the ancient Jerusalem must have stretched much further in this direction than does the modern town. The natural lie of the land, and the defences provided by the position and fall of the valley, make it almost imperative that this area should have been included in the walls. Following round it we came to the Pool of Siloam, now an evil-smelling mud-hole, from which, holding a handkerchief to my face, I was glad to escape as fast as my horse could carry me.

After riding for some distance along the Valley of Jehoshaphat, we began the ascent of the Mount of Olives, and, following a steep and narrow path, came to the Russian church and hospice which stand upon the summit. Buildings belonging to the Russians are numerous in the Holy Land. When looking at them it has more than once occurred to me that in the case of new troubles in that region, their stout walls and towers would form very serviceable coigns of vantage to a power which for religious, if for no other reasons, would not be averse to establishing itself on the coasts of Palestine. Indeed, although I have little to go on beyond the results of my own observations, I believe that the erection of so many hospices and kindred establishments has a steady political purpose quite distinct from any present pious and charitable use of these edifices. Those who live may see its development before they are older by twenty years.

Close to the church stands a belvidere tower, which must be quite a hundred and fifty feet high, and is built in six storeys. To its top where, if I remember right, bells are hung, those whose heads are strong enough may climb by a circular winding stair of iron, protected with a singularly low and inefficient handrail, over which it would be easy to pitch in a fit of vertigo. I contented myself with stopping at one of the lower platforms, whence the view was magnificent.

Below were stretched the valley of Jehoshaphat, Mount Moriah crowned with its mosques, and the Hill of Zion; every detail, indeed, of walled Jerusalem, with the rugged mountains and valleys that lie about her. Still more wonderful is the prospect to the east, for there, four thousand feet below gleam the misty waters of the Dead Sea, encircled with stony hills, and separated from Jerusalem by leagues of the most desolate country to be found in all the earth. There, too, a green streak, drawn as it were across a drab-coloured piece of paper, runs the river Jordan, and beyond it rise dim mysterious mountains, where Moses once stood to gaze upon the Promised Land. Altogether the scene was worth the climb up that uncomfortable and insufficient stair. From the top, whence poor David returned exceeding dizzy, it must be even more impressive.

Leaving the Russian buildings we rode to the Chapel of the Ascension. Since the seventeenth century this has been in the possession of the Mahommedans, although the various sects of Christians have prayer recesses within its walls, and on great occasions are permitted to hold services according to their respective rites. A Moslem custodian showed us the place, pointing out the footprint of Christ, said to have been impressed upon the rock as He rose heavenward, which, says Baedeker, "must have been frequently renewed." By the footprint is a small round hole, and as our guide seemed thoroughly conversant with all the circumstances surrounding the Ascension, I asked him what it was and how it came there. Not in the least abashed he replied that when the "Hadji" went up to heaven He had His walking-stick in His hand, with which He struck the rock as He sprang from it, leaving the mark we see to-day. I thanked him very much for this interesting information, and we parted with mutual regret.

In this connection the reader may remember that the site shown from the earliest days on the Mount of Olives does not tally with what we are told in Scripture. St. Luke says: "And he led them out as far as to Bethany; and he lifted up his hands and blessed them. And it came to pass, while he blessed them, he was parted from them, and carried up into heaven." Now Bethany lies some way beyond the Mount of Olives, at a greater distance from Jerusalem, whither it is especially stated the disciples returned "with great joy."

From the Chapel of the Ascension we went to the Church of the Lord's Prayer, that it is said, the Saviour repeated to the Apostles on this spot. The buildings consist of a chapel and a quadrangle, enclosing an open space and surrounded by covered cloisters, on the walls of which are marble slabs with the Lord's Prayer engraved upon them in over thirty different languages. This graceful and original building was set here in 1868 at the expense of a certain Princess Latour d'Auvergne, who has now been some few years dead. Long before her day, however, indeed before that of Saewulf, who lived about 1100, a church stood here, which he describes by tradition as having been very beautiful, until it was entirely destroyed by the Pagans. In the centre of the south cloister is a life-sized marble of great artistic merit, representing the Princess herself as she imagined that she would be after death. Her body, however, does not lie beneath. Near by to this monument is an urn containing the heart of her father and a slab with a long passage concerning him, transcribed from some historian.

Leaving the cloisters, we were guided by the sister in charge, one of the little community of nuns who live here, to the chapel, which was built also by the Princess Latour. Observing wide and dangerous cracks in the walls, I asked why they were not mended, whereupon, almost with tears, the good sister told me a sad story. It seems that the Princess, who was a woman of large wealth, after she had built the church and court, contributed from year to year sufficient for their upkeep and for the necessities of the nuns. Further, she announced her intention of endowing the establishment. But death came upon her very suddenly, before she had time even to make a will, and those who inherited her possessions seem to have recognised no responsibilities in connection with what they may have considered a freak of the departed.

The result is that the few sisters who remain in the convent are quite penniless, and live on charity and what they can earn by the making of butter to sell in Jerusalem. So deep is their poverty, indeed, that they are truly grateful for any trifle which the pilgrim chooses to bestow upon them. Worse still, if anything can be worse, the Princess was cheated by her builders, and the walls of the church are cracking very badly, owing to the insufficiency of their foundations, so that unless funds are forthcoming to carry out extensive and necessary repairs, the whole place must ere long fall into ruins. If by chance these lines should come under the eye of any co-religionist of these good sisters who has the wealth and the will to help them in a distress which is none of their own making, I can assure him or her that the work will be as good as it is needful.

This story is a poignant example of the common folly of procrastination where the welfare of others is at stake. The poor Princess should have studied her Montaigne, and learned wisdom from him. "Whatsoever I have to doe before death, all leasure to end the same seemeth short unto me, yea, were it but of one hour. Somebody not long since, turning over my writing-table, found by chance a memorial of something I would have done after my death. I told him (as, indeed, was true) that, being but a mile from my house, and in perfect health and lustie, I had made haste to write it, because I could not assure myself I should ever come home in safety. . . . A man should ever, as much as in him lieth, be ready booted to take his journey, and, above all things, looke he hath then nothing to doe but with himselfe."

Truly words of sense, which all of us would do well to learn by heart.

Descending the Mount of Olives, we went for a ride round a great part of the walls of Jerusalem, so far as the Damascus gate and back again to the neighbourhood of that of Jaffa. Here we dismissed our horses, and, as it chanced to be Friday, walked through a new set of even filthier lanes than any with which I had made acquaintance, to the Place of Wailing of the Jews. It is a strait place in front of a fragment of the ancient wall, which measures between fifty and sixty feet in height. The lower courses of this wall are here built up of vast stones, laid (with what unheard-of labour no man will ever know), as I suppose, in the time of Solomon.

Facing the wall about a score of Jews, men and women of all ages, were engaged in "wailing." The women really wept with intervals for repose, but the men, as strange a collection of human beings as ever I saw, did not give way to their feelings to that extent. They rubbed their faces against the huge blocks, which occasionally they kissed, or read from the Scriptures, or muttered prayers. One tall, pale man attracted my particular attention. He was clad in what looked like a dirty night-garment, surmounted by a very greasy fur cap. Thrusting his nose literally into a crack in the wall, he rocked his body backwards and forwards, pecking at the cavity like a nut-hatch at the bark of a tree, while he repeated prayers with the utmost fervour. When we arrived he was thus employed, nor had he ceased from his devotions as we departed. Even when a visitor walked up, held a camera to his head as though it were a pistol, touched the button and returned, remarking "Got him!" he showed neither surprise nor anger.

This scene is often described as touching. Personally I found it grotesque, even to sadness. In looking at these Jews, many of whom, I am told, live upon charity, there arose in my practical Western mind the words of the old saying: "God helps those who help themselves." If it pleases them to say their prayers in public, although, as I think, the practice must be comparatively recent, for I do not remember any allusion to it in the writings of the earlier pilgrims, by all means let them do so. But surely they might add to them other more practical attempts to recover the heritage of their race. For instance, they might persuade their wealthier brethren to buy out the Turk. There are a dozen gentlemen on the London Stock Exchange who could do this without much individual inconvenience. Why do not the Hebrew family put to this purpose a portion of the riches which certain of them possess in such abundance? Surely it is only a question of price, and in such a cause mere money should not count. Are they held back by indifference and apathy—or, perchance, by the mysterious chain of some divine decree? Or they might drill, buy arms, and make an insurrection. I am informed, however, that they prefer to await the advent of their Messiah, a man of blood and power, a Jewish Napoleon, who when he appears will bring about the glory and temporal advancement of the race.

To return: if this ceremony of wailing is imperative, why is it not celebrated at night? It is inconceivable to me that people so earnest as these poor Jews doubtless are can carry on their devotions with a mind undisturbed by such surroundings as I saw. All about the principal actors, and mixed up with them, was a motley crowd—beggars, halt, maimed, and disease-stricken; boys, who drew down their eyelids within six inches of your face to reveal the shrivelled balls beneath; men with tins the size of a half-gallon pot, which they shook before you, howling and vociferating for baksheesh, and hoc genus omne. Then, to complete the picture, in the background a small crowd of European and American sightseers, with their dragomen, some seated on boxes or rough benches, others standing in groups, laughing, smoking, and photographing the more noteworthy characters. Imagine men who will submit to it all! Imagine, also, what those fierce old heroes who held that wall for so long against the might of Rome would think and say of these descendants if they could see them thus mocked and humiliated at its foot! To one who, like the writer, in many ways admires and respects the Jew, who, moreover, has the deepest sympathy with him in the cruel sufferings and obloquy which for ages have been and are still heaped upon his ancient, chosen race, such a sight is nothing short of painful. For my part, were I born to this heritage I had rather make my petition in some rat-haunted cellar such as must be open even to the poorest.

Yet their final chants, which I did not wait to hear, for the sights, sounds, and smells of the place were too much for me, must be rather fine. Here is the translation of one of them according to Baedeker:—

Leader. For the palace that lies desolate,

Response. We sit in solitude and mourn.

L. For the palace that is destroyed,

R. We sit in solitude, &c.

L. For the walls that are overthrown,

R. We sit, etc.

L. For our Majesty that is departed,

R. We sit, etc.

L. For our great men who lie dead,

R. We sit, etc.

L. For the precious stones that are burned,

R. We sit, etc.

L. For the priests who have stumbled,

R. We sit, etc.

L. For our kings who have despised Him,

R. We sit in solitude and mourn.

This wailing of the Jews is the last sight that I saw at Jerusalem, since at a desperately early hour on the following morning we bid farewell to the City of David, also very regretfully to David the dragoman, with whom we had a tender parting at the station. I can recommend him most confidently to any traveller in the Holy Land, who, I am sure, would find in him an intelligent and, what is more, a strictly honest guide.

It is not probable that I shall look upon Jerusalem again, but I am glad exceedingly to have visited this ancient and most sacred town. "Were you not disappointed with the Holy Land?" is a question which the returning traveller is often called upon to answer. For my part I was not in the least disappointed; indeed its living and perpetual interest came home to me more closely than I had dared to hope.

I know that many travellers are wont to give a different answer, but I submit respectfully that this is because they do not dig deep enough with the trowel of the imagination. They suffer their minds, also, to be disturbed by the crop of petty annoyances and disillusionments which dog the feet of the pilgrim. The beggars, the extortions, the playful ways of the Turkish authorities, the difficulties of Eastern travel, all these distract and worry them, till at last they begin to lose grip of the root of the matter, which sends its fibres through every verse of the Old and New Testaments and bears fruit in the scheme of our Christian faith. Also in many instances the country and its associations depress them. A daily consideration of sites and scenes connected with the mighty career of Jesus Christ, and with His divine and fathomless sorrows upon earth, in itself tends to overwhelm the spirit, if the spirit is of that order which strives to understand, to appreciate, or to reconstruct. Many abandon the task, others have not the qualities necessary to its attempt. Still for those who can overcome these obstacles, who, above all, can sweep away doubt's strangling web; who can lift the curtain of the generations and see afar the lamp of eternal truth burning, however dimly, a sojourn in the Holy Land is one of the highest and most excellent of educations.

I repeat, therefore, I am thankful that it should have fallen within the strangely varied experiences of my life. No man, as I suppose, can say that he understands the whole mystery of our religion. The veiled face of Truth, the secret meaning of things spiritual, are hidden from his purblind eyes. Stare and study how he will, at the best still he sees as in a glass darkly. Yet such study, if entered upon with a reverent and searching heart, does serve to kindle there an inner light and thus to illumine this glass, so that for him the shadows which move across it thenceforth acquire a somewhat sharper outline. At times even he becomes able, or thinks that he is able, to interpret more clearly the meaning of those fateful messages that are written there which in the future, as in the past, must constitute one of the most earnest and important studies of mankind. The land we leave behind us, but, if we have travelled it aright, its immortal lessons will endure.

When, after six hours' crawl through stormy weather, the traveller from Jerusalem finally arrives at the Jaffa terminus, his first eager question is, "What of the sea, O Cook; what of the sea?" Months before I had put the same question to the station-master at Charing Cross, and here in this far place the answer was much the same. "Moderate" was the dispiriting reply, and now, as then, I knew that trouble was ahead of us.

Nor was I mistaken. There, a mile or more from land, rolled the Russian steamer that was to convoy us to Port Said; and there, too, lay none other than the familiar Flora which bore us from Egypt to the shores of Cyprus. Thinking to earn a little extra profit, the agents of the Austrian Lloyd had collected a party of Cyprian pilgrims, purposing to dump them ashore at Jaffa, and proceed to Alexandria in time to ship the outward mails. But Jaffa is not a port to be treated in so cavalier a fashion, and thus it happened, as it has happened ten thousand times before, that the sea got up, and the pilgrims could not get off.

The Flora, anxious to proceed upon her voyage, and always conscious of awaiting mails, kept up an incessant bellow with her siren. But no one took the slightest notice of these passionate appeals; not a boat dared to attempt the eye of stormy water which foamed through the iron reef. Either the Flora must wait till the sea fell, or take her pilgrims on a gratis trip to Port Said, whence they would claim to be returned at the Company's expense. In the end, after steaming about disconsolately till nightfall, putting to sea and returning again just to fill in the time, she chose the latter alternative and departed with a swan's song of farewell hoots, that probably echoed with some accuracy the state of the temper of all on board. One consolation we had, however; our ship could not depart, since she carried five hundred Russian pilgrims whom she was bound to land, even if she rolled her topmasts out off Jaffa for a week on end.

The few sights that I have described in a previous chapter once seen, Jaffa, from a traveller's point of view, becomes a hopeless place. Recognising this, we proceeded to spend the day in doing nothing as comfortably as possible by walking out of the din and smells of the town to the lonely beach above. Here we sat down upon a bed of lovely cockle-shells tinted to every possible shade of pink and brown, and contemplated the roaring sea. In front of us, jutting through the foam and vanishing from time to time beneath the rushing combers, lay the massive boilers and other works torn from the hold of some wrecked steamer. The sight was suggestive enough, but perhaps there is no shore in the world where the sea has taken a greater toll of lives. What scenes of terror has this beach witnessed! Here is one of them. Josephus, who says of the harbour "that a more dangerous situation to shipping cannot be imagined," relates it of the drowning of certain Jews not long before the fall of Jerusalem.

"At break of day the wind called by the people of the country the black north wind arose, and caused the most terrible tempest that had been known. The vessels of those who had escaped from Joppa, by being thrown against the rocks or dashed against each other, were broken to pieces. Some, who by dint of rowing endeavoured to escape being foundered by keeping the open sea, were tossed upon the mountainous billows, and then precipitated into the profound abyss of waters, and a great number of the vessels sunk. During this violent contention of the elements, the noise occasioned by the dashing of the vessels, and the lamentations and outcries of the miserable sufferers, were terrifying beyond description. Many of the people were washed overboard by the waves, and either drowned or dashed to pieces against the rocks; others fell upon their swords; and numbers otherwise perished on board the wrecks. The water was coloured with the blood of the deceased whose carcases were dispersed upon the coast. During this shocking scene the Roman soldiers waited to destroy those who should be driven on shore alive. It is computed that the number of bodies driven on shore was 4200."

Truly the mercies of ancient war were tender.

The Anglo-Saxon merchant Saewulf in the year 1102 here witnessed another disaster almost as awful. When they were eight days out from Cyprus—now it is a night's run—his vessel made Joppa, whereat he was filled "with an unexpected and extraordinary joy." On arrival at the port some one said to him, as he believed by "divine inspiration," what some one commonly says to the traveller who would disembark at Jaffa, "Sir, go on shore to-day lest a storm come on in the night, which will render it impossible to land to-morrow."

Thereupon Saewulf, sensible man, was suddenly seized with a great desire of landing, and, in fact, did land without difficulty, and went to bed. Next morning on coming out of church he found great confusion raging in the place, and was carried along with the crowd to the shore—

"When we saw the waves swelling higher than mountains, and innumerable bodies of drowned persons of both sexes scattered over the beach, while the fragments of ships were floating on every side. Nothing was to be heard but the roaring of the sea and the dashing together of the ships, which drowned entirely the shouts and the clamour of the people. Our own ship, which was a very large and strong one, and many others laden with corn and merchandise, as well as with pilgrims coming and returning, still held by their anchors, but how they were tossed by the waves! how their crews were filled with terror! how they cast overboard their merchandise! what eye of those who were looking on could be so hard and stony as to refrain from tears? We had not looked at them long before the ships were driven from their anchors by the violence of the waves, which threw them now up aloft, and now down, until they were run aground or upon the rocks, and there they were beaten backwards and forwards until they were crushed to pieces. For the violence of the wind would not allow them to put out to sea, and the character of the coast would not allow them to put in to shore with safety. Of the sailors and pilgrims who had lost all hope of escape, some remained on the ships, others laid hold of the masts or beams of wood; many remained in a state of stupor, and were drowned in that condition, without any attempts to save themselves; some (although it may appear incredible) had in my sight their heads knocked off by the very timbers of the ships to which they had attached themselves for safety; others were carried out to sea on the beams, instead of being brought to land; even those who knew how to swim had not the strength to struggle with the waves, and very few thus trusting to their own strength reached the shore alive. Thus, out of thirty very large ships, of which some were what are commonly called dromunds, some gulafres, and others cats, all laden with palmers and merchandise, scarcely seven remained safe when we left the shore. Of persons of both sexes there perished more than a thousand that day. Indeed, no eye ever beheld a greater misfortune in the space of a single day, from all of which God snatched us by His grace, to Whom be honour and glory for ever. Amen."

Such are two of the sea tragedies recorded of that cruel reef of rocks and the shell-strewn shore on which we sat. Doubtless it has seen others almost as bad; indeed I have, I think, read of some in various writings, and many must have met with no historian. But although the words of Josephus, that a "more dangerous situation to shipping cannot be imagined," are nearly as true to-day as they were when he wrote them, the Turk does nothing to improve the port. It has struck me that he may have a reason for this beyond those which are customary throughout the Ottoman dominions. He may not wish that it should be made too convenient for the landing either of tourists—or of troops.

Next morning, to my intense relief, broke calm and fine, with a rapidly falling sea. Had it been otherwise we must have abandoned all hope of catching the P. and O. steamer Caledonian, by which our passages were booked at Port Said. Now this risk seemed done with. As we were not to go aboard till the afternoon I attended the Sunday morning service, which in Jaffa is held in the room of the Mission to Jews. The congregation was not large, still two or three were gathered together. Afterwards came the last, and not the best, of our many meals in the hostelries of Palestine, washed down with a stirrup cup of the sweet wine of the country, whereof by now I was heartily tired. Then, having carefully collected the tortoise Capernaum from the garden where he strayed and restored him to his basket, we marched off, and, reaching the landing-stage, were, without mishap, taken aboard the Russian ship by Cook's boatmen. These are as fine a set of black-skinned sailermen as ever I had to do with in any clime. Doubtless at this dangerous port they are picked with especial care. At any rate their stalwart appearance, skill with oars and tiller, and the wild, inspiring song with which they drive the large boat through the gap in the reef and over the wide-arched billows, suggested confidence even to the fearful, and, for once, made parting with baksheesh a pleasure.

About two o'clock we got aboard the clean-looking vessel, which was engined by an English firm, and did not smell half so badly of pilgrims as I was warned that she would. As she was not to sail till five, however, I amused myself by sitting on the poop and watching the humours of the deck. They were various. First of all, a bag of beans, which was being shipped, burst, and on those Russian sailors was imposed the Psyche-like task of collecting each wandering seed. Then I became aware of a great commotion near the funnel, and was informed by my stalwart friend, the captain of Cook's boatmen, who still lingered on board, that it was caused by Jews wailing, a public ceremony, I had imagined, which they reserved for the wall of Jerusalem. I went to inspect, and found a family of Persian Hebrews in a very parlous state.

They were all squatted on the deck, the woman alternately weeping loudly and blowing her nose with her fingers, the husband sitting by wrapped in depression, a son of about ten now uttering loud and sympathetic yells and now playing with little bits of wood at some game upon the deck, and other offspring, all more or less excited and vociferous. This was their hard case. Actuated by religious impulse they had travelled from Persia, or elsewhere, with a view of being, in due course, buried at Jerusalem—and now the port officials declined to allow them even to disembark. There is a Turkish law that no Jew may set foot in the Holy Land, although, in fact, Jews there are as plentiful as blackberries upon an autumn hedge. The explanation of this discrepancy between rule and fact is, of course, baksheesh. For about five pounds a head, judiciously distributed, any number of Jews may proceed unmolested to Jerusalem and spend the rest of their days there. These particular unfortunates, however, had neglected to provide themselves with the necessary cash, and as the case was beyond the reach of promiscuous and private charity, nothing remained for them except to return to Persia, or some other distance place of origin. And return they did, at any rate to Port Said, where, on the following morning, I saw them being bundled off the ship with little ceremony.

Another more amusing sight, for the Jew comedy had its tragic side, was afforded by a Mussulman who, at a certain hour, was moved to make his devotions. Accordingly, having selected a nice clean spot upon the deck, and made sure that it faced towards Mecca, he went off and fetched his prayer carpet. Meanwhile, gradually the ship swung round with the tide or current. Back came the Faithful, spread his carpet and began the accustomed prayers and prostrations. In the midst of one of the latter his eye caught the ball of the westering sun. I do not know what happens to the Moslem who prays with his face in the wrong direction, some such results, perhaps, as in the Middle Ages were fabled to follow the repetition of the Lord's Prayer backwards by witches and warlocks. At any rate I cannot often remember seeing a follower of the prophet so visibly upset. With a bound he snatched up his carpet and, rushing to the other side of the ship, spread it and began again in the greatest of hurries.

Now a furious quarrel which had sprung up between the boatmen who lie about the steamer's sides forces our attention. Two of them rave at each other; they gesticulate, they lift oars and boathooks, and threaten sudden death. Anticipating murder, I inquire the reason of the feud, and am informed that it is about three half-pence. When I look again—lo, these maddened ruffians, seated comfortably cheek by jowl in the same boat and full of mutual good feeling, are engaged in helping another craft to reach the companion.

This boat is laden with a fat and frightened-looking Turk, accompanied by his harem, their progeny, a huge basket of oranges, a wardrobe done up in sacks and blue handkerchiefs, several feather-beds—one for each lady, I suppose—and a fine selection of jars and other pottery. The children, who are dumb with terror, having probably never seen the sea before, are passed up the ship's side by the leg or arm as may happen, exactly as though they were so many porkers. Then come the fat wives. Many are the false attempts which they make, always at the wrong time, to reach the grating from the tossing boat. At length the exasperated sailors, clutching them with unhallowed hands, drag them thither by main force, and with a rush and a gasp they waddle to the deck and sink down, mere dishevelled heaps of palpitating flesh. Next comes their lord, somehow, his turban all awry, a very different person, doubtless, to the stately-looking Moslem we may have met walking the streets of Jerusalem and glancing round him with the eye of a master. After the man the feather-beds and the oranges, which get spilt; then a shrill whistle, a hoot from the siren, and the engine begins to bite at the clanking anchor-chain.

The screw turns, the vessel swings round to forge ahead; the great blue jelly-fish, fringed about with a purple more glorious than that of Tyre, begin to float past hurriedly and be crumpled up in the churning waters; the farewell shouts of the boatmen die away, and presently we are in the silence of the sea running towards the falling night. Thirty minutes more and the sandy coast of Palestine, with its long background of grey and desolate hills, fades slowly to a line behind us, that grows ever thinner and fainter till at length it seems to sink into the deep and vanishes.

Here this humble record of a journey, which to him who sets it down at any rate was of interest, ought by rights to end. Yet as it is but human to smile at the misfortunes of our fellows, the reader may wish to learn what befell us at Port Said.

The caviar on board the Russian boat was excellent, though as there was something of a sea, I alone could eat it, but it is impossible to say as much of the sleeping accommodation. At the first streak of dawn I rose and went on deck, for we were near Port Said. Presently out of the grey mists of the morning I saw a majestic steamer appear upon our bow, running westward at about fifteen knots. Evidently she had cleared from Port Said so soon as daylight made it safe for her to round the breakwater.

"That's the Caledonian," said a voice at my side.

"What?" I gasped, "the Caledonian? Why, I have booked passages in her, and she doesn't sail till noon to-day."

"That's her all the same. I have shipped in her too often to be mistaken," answered the voice with calm conviction.

The Caledonian it was sure enough, who with a lack of principle unworthy of so fine a ship, had calmly departed from Port Said six hours before her time, leaving her wretched passengers from the Holy Land to find their way home as best they might. As the Jaffa boat was one day late she might be two days late; nobody ever dreams of waiting for a boat that has to do business with Jaffa.

Very, very sadly did I return to that crowded cabin to impart the news to my still slumbering companion. At this time of the year all the liners from the far East pass the Canal full to the last berth. Moreover, to a man in a hurry to get home, the prospect of a long sojourn at a Port Said hotel, while waiting for a ship, is not pleasant. I knew it, for, as I have said, once in past years that experience had been mine. No wonder, then, that we were depressed. As we dropped past the breakwater, however, we perceived that the Orient liner Oroya was finishing taking in her coal, and hope rose in our breasts. Perhaps on her we could find a berth, though, evidently, there was no time to lose, for these mail steamers do not wait. As the last basket of coal comes on board, before it comes indeed, up goes the anchor and they forge ahead to sea.

We anchored, and then followed about as tumultuous a two hours as I have ever spent. With my eye on the rapidly emptying coal barges of the Oroya, I was anxious to disembark, but this was just what I found it impossible to do. No local Cook appeared, for it was still early, but his dragoman, a cross-eyed son of Ham, of whom I have no pleasing recollection, put me off with soft words as to getting ashore. At length we managed it, without his assistance, and then came troubles innumerable. The luggage was carted off to the custom-house, I know not why, and leaving it there my nephew and I cantered—on our own legs—to and fro along the hot and sandy streets of Port Said. There was a British India steamer in, and under the guidance of a black youth whom we had picked up, as it was nearest, I visited the office of this line, only to find that she was a cargo boat, though willing by special arrangement to take passengers with time upon their hands. Then we started off for the Orient Office more than a mile away, and there, by the courtesy and kindness of the agent, Mr. Stapledon, succeeded in securing an empty second-class cabin, for the ship which came from Australia was crowded.

The rest is too mixed and in a sense too trivial to describe, but the end of it was that perspiring and utterly worn-out we did get aboard of the Oroya just before she sailed. So we departed from Port Said, leaving behind us an unrecoverable portmanteau, various other packages, and last, but not least, the unhappy Capernaum, who in the mad scurry had been abandoned in his yellow basket in a secluded corner of the Russian steamer.

As the great liner got under weigh, above the clanking of cables, the roaring of steam, and the shouting of the coalboys pushing off their empty floats, I screamed the details of my loss to the kindly Mr. Stapledon in the boat beneath, imploring him to rescue poor Capernaum, who I feared would starve to death, and to forward him by the first opportunity. A month or so later I attended at Ditchingham station, and there in the same yellow basket, carefully covered with canvas, was Capernaum, depressed by his long, cramped wanderings, but still hearty. Now, as I have said, he inhabits the garden, but disliking our climate, which forces him to spend so much of his time underground, continually attempts to return to the Sea of Galilee via the stableyard and the orchard.

So after days of swift steaming through quiet seas we came to Marseilles. Thence I travelled by train to Paris, where the bookstalls were laded with caricatures of her Majesty of a nature offensive to her subjects,[9] and the railway officials had employed their leisure by inscribing on the iron girders legends in honour of our enemies, such as "A bas les Anglais!" and "Gloire au Général Cronjé!"

Thus ended this Winter Pilgrimage in the year of our Lord 1900. Now when it is over—one more of life's turned leaves—I am very glad that it was undertaken and accomplished.

THE END

Footnotes

[1]: In the church at Heacham in Norfolk may be seen a set of hanging lamps presented to it by Mr. Neville Rolfe, the British Consul at Naples. These beautiful pierced holders are reproduced from one that hangs in the sanctuary of St. Mark's Cathedral at Venice. Their design is well worthy of the attention of any who desire to follow Mr. Rolfe's excellent example, and provide an English church with lamps that are as serviceable as they are satisfactory to the eye and taste.

[2]: Since the above passage was written, I hear that on the death of the individual spoken of, a search was made for the missing shield. It has vanished quite away—probably by secret burial!—H. R. H.

[3]: Proceedings, March 13, 1890.

[4]: I see that Mr. Hamilton Lang in his book "Cyprus," published in 1878, gives a more detailed account of the finding of this treasure.

[5]: Although the main lode is not yet discovered, since the above was written extensive deposits of copper ore have been struck at Lymni.

[6]: In the same passage this king of travellers—and their tales—tells us that in Cyprus they "hunt with papyons," which are

"somewhat larger than lions." The "papyons" are not quite imaginary, since cheetahs were used for sporting purposes in mediaeval Cyprus. When Sir John goes on to add, however, that the inhabitants of Cyprus in search of coolness "make trenches in the earth about in the halls, deep to the knee, and pave them and when they will eat they go therein and sit there," we wonder if he was well informed. The preceding passage also, which unhappily cannot be quoted, makes us marvel even more.

[7]: The second C is rotated 180° in the book.—JB.

[8]: At this time Mahomet, the devil incarnate, the first-born of Asmodeus, the son of Belial, the messenger of Satan, the deceiver of the world, the confusion of mankind, the destroyer of the Church of God, the false prophet, the forerunner of Antichrist, yea, Antichrist himself, the fulfilment of heresies, the corrupter of the divine laws, the persecutor of the faithful, and the miracle of all that is false, began to display his madness, that the lamentable prophecy set forth in Revelations xiii. about him might be fulfilled, because he was that horrible and detestable beast whom John saw rising out of the earth, having two horns—and so forth.—The Book of the Wanderings of Brother Felix Fabri.

[9]: Alas! that I must now write—of her late Majesty.